#we waited for so long to get nothing in return

[dirtyvulture]

The Maid - Part 6

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 4043

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: I've been waiting a long time to write this chapter...Enjoy!

Read part 5 here.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

It feels strangely normal to be living out of Natasha’s apartment. You still go to work, shutting yourself in your office and avoiding any unnecessary contact with your colleagues. Everyone knows what you’ve been accused of by now and you won’t feed in to any of their speculations. 

Natasha gives you her spare key so you can let yourself in when she’s out at her own job. You don’t like the idea of her being around your neighbors, most of whom have blindly taken Wanda’s side, but they’re not the ones you need to convince of your innocence. 

Wanda is still in a coma, and every day she doesn’t wake up chips away at your sanity. If she doesn’t survive, you will have to face a jury tasked with determining what degree of murder you committed. Most of Wanda’s abuse and manipulation happened behind closed doors. You were the only witness to them, but also the only victim, and now the only suspect. No matter what happened, you would not let Natasha take the fall for this. 

You return home early and prepare a casserole for the oven while you wait for Natasha to finish her last shift of the day. You don’t mind taking care of the household for once–Wanda had done virtually nothing despite her lack of employment anyway. And you like being able to help Natasha. 

The front door creaks open.

“Y/N?”

“In the kitchen! Dinner’s almost ready,” you say, grabbing a pair of plates from the dishrack and setting them on the table. Natasha drops her bucket of cleaning supplies by the front door and trudges in. She looks more exhausted than you feel, but she brightens up when she sees you doting over the oven.

“We could’ve ordered takeout. You didn’t have to cook,” she says.

You shrug, not used to being praised for the bare minimum. “It’s just a casserole. I got the recipe from my mom.”

“It smells great. Give me five minutes to freshen up and I’ll join you.”

You finish setting the table and cut two heaping servings from the casserole. Natasha emerges from the bathroom, dressed in an old sweatshirt, her face pink from washing. Even when she clearly isn’t trying to impress, you think she still looks so beautiful it almost takes your breath away. How had you stayed with someone like Wanda when someone like Natasha existed at the same time?

“How was work today?” Natasha asks, scooping food into her mouth.

You shrug. “You’d think with my personal life falling apart, I could at least get it together professionally. Apparently they are not mutually exclusive.” Natasha chuckles. “I hope your day was better than mine.”

She mirrors your shrug. “The whole neighborhood is infatuated with you and Wanda,” she says. “It’s the only topic of conversation that seems to exist there.”

“Yeah.” It’s not entirely surprising to you, given the close-knit community and Wanda’s involvement with practically every person. 

“Any…updates?” Natasha asks. You shake your head and she lets out a pained sigh. “If I had known this would happen–”

“Stop,” you say. It makes you uncomfortable to see her guilt. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad if she knew that the gun was never intended to be used for violence until you switched the bullets. Only Wanda was supposed to pull the trigger and face the consequences alone. Now, three of you were involved. You’ve considered telling Natasha the truth, but you decided it’s better if she doesn’t know.

“You protected me that night,” you say. “And you made me realize what I was missing out on by staying with her.”

Natasha puts her fork down. “But if Wanda dies…”

“I’ll be charged with murder.” A thought that is constantly in the forefront of your mind.

“And if she lives…”

“She’ll tell everyone I wasn’t the one who shot her.”

***********************************************************************

Natasha can hardly sleep. Not because she knows you’re in the other room, crashed out on her couch, but because of the whirlwind of emotions and scenarios that invade her mind at any given second. She loathes the thought that your life is at the mercy of her actions. Part of her considers marching down to the police department and announcing her involvement, but she knows that’ll only make things worse.

Wanda is out of the picture (for now), you have basically declared your love for her, yet it all feels completely wrong. She knows her seemingly-perfect world could crumble at any moment, entirely due to variables not in her control. This is not the first time she wished she could run away from it all, but maybe this time she didn’t have to run alone.

She keeps her normal work schedule, although she comes to loathe every client (besides the Rogers) in your neighborhood. The beliefs spread by Agatha and her gang have only ramped up into the most outlandish rumors, like you being involved with the mafia and trying to kill off Wanda to pay your debts, or even that you had hooked up with an old flame and Wanda had found out. Natasha does not want to draw attention to herself by defending you, but it never gets easier to hear the awful things spoken about you.

Nearly a week after the shooting, Natasha is at the Rogers’s house. She’s upstairs, vacuuming the master bedroom, and nearly jumps out of her skin when someone taps on her shoulder.

“It’s just me!” Steve says, backing away as she turns the vacuum on him.

“Oh, hi Steve. You startled me,” Natasha says.

“I know, I’m sorry, I should’ve waited for a break.” 

“That’s okay.” She flicks the power off so she can hear him better. 

“Have you seen Y/N lately?” he asks.

She pauses for a moment, debating on telling the truth or not. While Steve was her most-trusted client, she thinks housing you is still something she wants to keep a secret. “No,” she answers. “Ever since…the whole thing with Wanda, I haven’t been to the house.”

“If you get asked back, will you go?” His question catches her off-guard.

Natasha debates her answer. If Wanda was there, she might as well remove your whole family from her clientele. But if it was just you…

“I’m not sure,” she says, proud she can be honest of one thing. 

“Is it because of the shooting?”

The shooting I committed? she wants to say, but holds her tongue. “Well, we still don’t really know what happened,” she says. 

“I think you know exactly what happened,” Steve replies, and Natasha’s blood runs cold. Did you somehow confide in him of her involvement that night? Or did he catch a glimpse of her jumping neighbors’ fences at midnight? 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Natasha whispers. 

“You worked for both of them,” Steve explains. “You had a front row view of how different they were. Peggy and I always said they were the most extreme polar opposites we’d ever seen. Not like night and day. Like…good and bad.” Natasha sees a shadow of emotion pass over his face. “But, after what happened, maybe the difference between them isn’t as obvious as we thought.”

“I trust Y/N,” Natasha declares. She might stay silent while the neighborhood ladies gossip about you, but she won’t let Steve tarnish your name. “I did before all this happened, and I still do now.”

Steve stares at her and Natasha prepares to further defend you, but instead of questioning her, he nods slowly, as if this was the answer he wanted to hear. 

“Thanks for coming to the house today. I left your check on the kitchen table.” It’s a sudden, strange turn of topic, but he leaves before she can ask anything else. Natasha’s head is full of confusion and concern, but she goes through the motions of vacuuming and mopping without interruption. She snags her check and leaves the Rogers’ house without seeing Steve again.

Back in the safety of her car, Natasha lets out an enormous sigh of frustration. She doesn’t know who she can trust anymore (besides you, of course). If even someone like Steve was beginning to have doubts, she wouldn’t survive in this neighborhood much longer. Someone might find out what she had done–if someone didn’t already know. 

Panic overtakes her and she calls Clint. Perhaps she was acting irrationally now, but this neighborhood was no place for sanity. 

“Hi, Nat,” he answers on the third ring. 

“Can you find me someone in New York who can sell me a gun?” she asks, ignoring all formalities. “Immediately. I’m not going back to my apartment until I have one in hand.”

Clint is silent for a moment. “Is everything okay? Did Y/N–”

“No, I’m fine. There’s just…a lot going on, Clint.” Natasha bites her lip while she comes up with a convincing cover. “Every time I come to this neighborhood, it feels like I’m being judged. Someone might approach me for the wrong reason one day and I need to be ready–”

“If you get caught carrying a gun, Nat–”

“I won’t,” she promises. “Wanda could wake up any day, and if she sends someone after me–”

“Jesus, Nat.”

“I won’t use it on anyone unless it’s an emergency. You know that,” she says.

“I know, I know, but…someone with a background like yourself, it doesn’t matter why you’re carrying or why you shot. You could end up in a position where even I can’t save you,” he says.

Clint isn’t the only one who can save me, Natasha thinks, but she doesn’t comment. “I’ll be fine.”

Clint sighs. “Okay. Let me make some calls, and I’ll get back to you in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says. “If they have a Smith & Wesson Model 686, that’d be even better.”

Clint doesn’t ask why. “You got it.” 

***********************************************************************

Even after her little detour, Natasha still makes it home before you. She hides her new weapon in her underwear drawer, then goes to order takeout for dinner. Just as she’s finished setting the table, the door unlocks and you step in, holding your work briefcase and a handful of mail, looking very tired from your day, but your face lights up the second you see her. 

“Hi, Nat,” you say, hurrying over and greeting her with a hug and a kiss. Wasn’t this what she had always dreamed about? Having a partner who came home to her and filled her with love and affection. And yet…it doesn’t feel entirely right, with Wanda still lurking in the picture. But Natasha tries to forget about her. Wanda would be eating out of a tube tonight, while she got to spend her evening with you. 

Dinner is uneventful but peaceful. Natasha doesn’t talk much, still thinking about what Steve said to her and the gun in her bedroom. While you go off to shower, she tidies up and rests in front of the television to unwind. You come out in your pajamas (which are just a pair of sweatpants and a thin white T-shirt that clings to your skin and emphasizes the muscles of your torso) and join her on the couch without speaking, slinging your arm casually over her shoulder and Natasha snuggles towards you. 

She hardly thinks about how easy it is being around you, how you already feel like hers. She thinks about the future the two of you could finally have now that Wanda’s gone–but not really. You were forever chained to her whether or not she woke up, and at this point Natasha isn’t even sure if she wants Wanda to pull through or not. 

She still had nightmares about that night, sometimes with Wanda stealing the gun out of her hands and shooting you and then Natasha. And then one time, after you confessed you knew about Natasha’s background, Wanda shot up from the floor, blood flying from her mouth, as she screamed that she would have Natasha put in prison for–

It suddenly clicks to her. You had never elaborated how you knew her background, and she hadn’t found the right time to ask yet. Now would be as good of a time as any.

“Hey, Y/N?” she says, sounding as small as she feels. “Can I ask you something about…that night?”

You hesitate, but say, “Sure.”

“You said you knew…my background.” Natasha looks up at you. “What did you mean by that?”

You shift on the couch, removing your arm from her shoulders and she fears she’s said the wrong thing. “Wanda wanted it done,” you start, and it takes Natasha a moment to understand, but when she does, she feels faint. Wanda too knows what she’s done? Maybe she should’ve aimed the gun a little higher. “I told her it was entirely unnecessary but…you know my wife.”

Natasha clutches onto your bicep, willing the room around her to stop spinning. 

“You’re from Russia,” you continue. “You worked for a man known as Dreykov.” Natasha shivers at the mention of her former boss’s name. “He was killed by an employee identified as Natalia Romanova. However, she escaped prison shortly after her conviction and was believed to have fled overseas.”

“You have to understand, it wasn’t exactly like that,” Natasha says, not even realizing she’s admitting to murder right in front of you. “It was self-defense. He was a horrible, abusive man, and I was just trying to protect myself–” She stops talking. It dawns on her what she must look like to you: an escaped convict wanted for murdering her former boss, now responsible for shooting her current boss. 

“Like you were trying to protect me from Wanda?” you ask. 

“Yes,” she says, her fingers brushing your cheek. “I couldn’t stand seeing her hurt you like that. I know it wasn’t right to shoot her either, but I had no choice–”

“Are you going to kill me too?” you ask suddenly. 

“No. No!” she repeats for emphasis. “I would never hurt you, Y/N.” She scoots closer to you. “You believe me when I say that, right?”

“I do,” you say, kissing her. Natasha grabs onto your shirt, pressing her lips against yours harder. 

“I love you, Y/N,” she whispers, swinging one of her legs over your waist. “I love that you treated me with respect and like I was an equal, not your slave.” Her weight rests on your legs and she rocks forward, purposely brushing the bulge in your sweatpants. “I love how you always showed kindness to everyone–even if they didn’t deserve it.” She won’t name your wife, afraid it’ll take away from the moment. 

“Nat,” you whisper, and she smiles when she feels you start to harden. 

“I love you, and I’ll wait as long as I need for us to be properly together.” Easier said than done, of course, but Natasha was determined to show you how much she cared by being as patient as she needed to.

Your hands close around her hips, guiding her forward until she’s practically sitting on top of your clothed dick. “I don’t think you need to wait much longer,” you say. “Guess what came in my mail today.” Natasha tilts her head, not following. You lean up until your lips graze the shell of her ear. “Doctor says I came back clean.”

“Oh?” Natasha feels the flame of arousal spark in her belly. 

“So you don’t have to wait much longer unless you want to,” you hum, kissing her neck as your hands slip under her shirt. Natasha’s skin burns where you touch her. She can’t believe this is finally happening.

“But what about…” Again, she cannot bring herself to say your wife’s name out loud.

You pull back to look into her eyes. “Forget about her. Tonight is about us,” you say, and Natasha’s heart soars. She grabs your face, smashing her lips to yours, igniting the fire inside of her. She can’t even describe how badly she’s wanted you, how many hours she’s spent thinking about your body under hers or on top of hers. She wants to make you moan and cum and feel your cock properly stretch her out. And now it’s about to be a reality.

You slip your arms under her thighs and lift her up like she’s made of glass (but Natasha hopes you won’t be afraid to throw her around), carrying her into the bedroom and setting her on the edge. Natasha’s embarrassed her bedroom is in a constant state of disarray; she could never find the energy to tidy up after cleaning master bedrooms all day. She wishes the two of you could have your first time in a more romantic environment, but she has a feeling all she’s going to remember of this night is you.

She grabs onto your collar, pulling you down on top of her as you kiss her neck and wrap your hands around her hips. Your grip is tight but not painful, and Natasha senses your desperation as you push her legs apart and lay in between them. The emptiness of her core intensifies at you being so close to where she needs you. 

“Y/N,” she whimpers, clawing at your sweatpants. 

“I bet you taste so good,” you murmur into her ear, and Natasha nearly faints at the thought of having your head between her legs. “Can I have a taste, baby?”

Natasha practically rips off her clothes, thrusting her hips up as if you’ve forgotten where she wants you. Your muscular arms circle her thighs, spreading them apart and Natasha wishes she could take a picture of this moment because she never wants to forget it. She’s practically shaking with excitement when you dip your head down and your mouth makes contact with her center.

She moans and arches her back when your tongue presses against her slit, moving up and down. You repeat the motion longer than Natasha prefers, and she humps against your mouth to encourage you to enter her. Her walls clench around your tongue and she keens in pleasure, as you kiss and lick at her with increasing enthusiasm. Your fingertips dig into the plushness of her thighs and she gropes her own breasts, trying to stop herself from yanking on your hair. 

“Y/N,” she pants, tipping her head into the mattress with another drawn-out moan when your lips wrap around her clit and suck. “Shit, that feels so good.” You mumble something that she can’t hear, but she does feel the vibrations it causes and she almost finishes right there. Not that she expected you to be bad at giving head, but it was clear you had likely not been with anyone but Wanda and needed a little bit of guidance to please someone different.

Natasha rocks harder against your face, eager for your tongue to reach deeper into her (but she knows she’ll soon get something else that will stretch her out properly). Your left hand trails up her stomach, closing around her breast and pinching her nipple. Natasha squirms and moans until the stimulation is too much for her. She floods into your mouth, and you eagerly lap up every drop, nipping the insides of her thighs and crawling up her body.

“Delicious,” you pant, kissing her and Natasha pushes her tongue into your mouth to taste herself. She feels your hardness pressing against her leg and cups it, relishing in the groan you let out.

“I need this,” she begs. “And I think you need me, too.” 

“I need you so badly,” you admit, sitting back to quickly pull off your clothes. Natasha watches you undress and practically drools at the sight of your broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and the creases along your pelvis that disappear behind your sweatpants. You remove your sweatpants next, and Natasha has to hold her breath when you finally drag down your boxers and kick them off. 

Your cock is huge and hard, the head glistening with pre-cum already. Natasha can’t stop herself from reaching out for it, closing her fingers around your thick shaft and stroking it until you moan. 

“Fuck, Natasha,” you say and your voice cracks, clearly on the edge of losing control like she is for the second time. “I can’t believe I finally get to have you like this.”

Natasha hums, rubbing her thumb along the pulsing vein on your cock and your hips twitch. She tugs on your cock to guide it towards her soaking entrance. “I’m all ready for you,” she declares, gasping when the head of your cock makes contact with her opening. 

“This pussy is all mine,” you say, leaning back to ready yourself. “And I’m all yours, Nat.”

“Hurry,” she whines and you thrust your hips forward, sliding your cock through her tight heat that barely parts to let you in. Natasha moans so loud she fears the neighbors will complain, but she doesn’t care, losing her train of thought as you keep pushing forward until your entire length is buried inside her. 

“Ugh, fuck,” you moan, adjusting to the tightness around you before rolling your hips in short bursts. You’re afraid you’ll cum too early, but you don’t want to pull out, so you move slowly and deliberately, angling your hips as you try to find the spot that will make her moan.

Natasha runs her hands up your carved abs and you lean into her touch, reaching for her breasts again and massaging them roughly. 

“Come here, baby,” she says, looping her hand around the back of your neck and drawing you down on top of her. You kiss her in sync with your thrusts, your bare chest rubbing against hers. Natasha’s hands skate down your back and stop on your muscular butt, squeezing the flesh there until her nails bite into your skin. You grunt and quicken your pace, losing all reign of control as you ram into her hard enough to send her moving across the bed. 

“Finish in me,” Natasha begs, her pussy clenching around you so tightly it takes your breath away. “Fill me up with your cum.” Wanda was the only other person you ever slept with, but there was no chance you’d go back to her now. Being with Natasha–being in her–makes you feel so complete. You trust her and love her and want to do this with her the rest of your life. 

“Natasha,” you groan into her ear, your hips faltering in their steady rhythm. Your cock is throbbing for release as it slides through her tight heat. “I love you,” you proclaim, kissing below her ear, trying to focus on her smooth body beneath you rather than the borderline painful ache between your legs.

She clutches onto the back of your head, pressing it to her chest. “I love you, too.”

You can’t hold back anymore. Your muscles flex as you finish, cum shooting deep into her womb. You collapse on top of Natasha, a little embarrassed you couldn’t last longer, but maybe with a few minutes’ rest you would regain some energy to continue. She strokes your back, and in her arms you feel like you’re finally with someone who truly loves you.

***********************************************************************

Your phone ringing wakes the both of you. Natasha stirs next to you and you kiss her on the forehead as you reach over her to snag your buzzing phone off the nightstand.

Murdock is calling.

You sit up immediately, the blankets sliding off your body. “Hi Matt.”

“Hey. Sorry to bother you so early, hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

“Uh…” You look down at Natasha, naked and beautiful next to you after a long but satisfying night. “No, of course not. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a big development.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Wanda just woke up.” Your heart punches against your chest and you practically gasp for air. Natasha rolls over and looks at you. “She’s causing a huge ruckus in the hospital, but she says she only wants to talk to you. How fast can you get over here?”

Natasha shakes your arm. “What’s wrong?” she mouths. “Wanda,” you mouth back, and her eyes grow wide. To Murdock, you say, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Almost forgot Wanda still existed for a second there. 😭 Only a few more parts to go now...

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[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ IT HAD TO BE YOU

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

summary: Bucky turns into a clutz when he realises he’s not the only one with eyes for the 107th’s new nurse

warnings: mentions of minor injuries

word count: 2.4k

a/n: an absolute cliche but i finally watched thunderbolts* and have fallen back into a marvel phase!! enjoy

The first time it happened, it was an accident.

Bucky had been stationed at his post for almost four months and he always, made sure to avoid an injury.

Of course, you might say that any sane man would but everyone in the 107th knew the nurses were a total nightmare, even if your leg was hanging off.

They’re weren’t motherly, nor sweet. Just mean, worn-out old women who’d patched up more men than they could count and didn’t have an ounce of sympathy left in them.

The boys joked that you came out of the nurse’s tent worse than you came in.

So, when Bucky took a fist to the face during a scuffle with one of the guys, he went in expecting a scolding, a rag soaked in antiseptic that burnt like hell and a half-hour long guilt trip about wasting supplies.

He was dreading it.

Until he saw you.

You couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. Fresh out of nursing school and too clean for a place like this. Hell, this was probably your first posting.

Your hands were gloved and steady, but your voice was soft and crisp like a toffee apple, as you tended to one of the men in the beds.

He was missing a good portion of his leg but you were smiling and laughing as you spoke to him like all was well.

It was shocking to see you so attentive to what Bucky knew was a pretty grim sight. The other nurses wouldn’t have been so kind about it, that was sure.

Bucky blinked.

You gave a gentle squeeze to the man’s forearm, before getting up from his side.

As you walked back to your station, your eyes met Bucky and your lips parted softly, “Oh! Hello there, I didn’t see you. Are you alright?”

Bucky had been caught staring.

He cleared his throat, laughing awkwardly as he gestured to his shining bruise around his eye, “Uh, yeah, hi, sorry, I needed some help.”

You clicked your tongue softly, walking over. You cupped his face, looking it over with a small sigh, “Nothing much we can do for a black eye, but we’ll get some ice on it.”

Then, with a gentle nudge to his arm, you added, “Come sit.”

Bucky obeyed without thinking, sinking down into the nearest cot.

He watched you move around the tent with practised precision, your apron was stained from the last guy but your sleeves were still white and clean.

Your hair was pinned up and curled, like most of the girls he knew back home, and your nails were painted a beautiful baby pink.

That was a luxury.

Which meant one of two things: either you had no one waiting back home and liked to treat yourself or you had a husband somewhere footing the bill.

You were pretty, really pretty. He hoped it wasn’t the latter.

You weren’t wearing a ring - most of the other nurses wore them on string around their necks, but you didn’t have one anywhere he could see. That was a good sign.

Just then, you returned to his side, a bundle of ice wrapped in cloth in your hands.

“Close your eyes for me,” you said softly, pressing it against his cheek.

He shut his eyes, rolling his shoulders as he tried to settle himself. He was suddenly all too aware of your eyes on him.

“How’d you do this anyhow?”

He cracked one eye open to look at you, the corner of his mouth twitching, “Would you believe me if I said I tripped over a rock?”

You raised a brow, letting out an amused snort, “I would not, no.”

Bucky chuckled, “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

He let out a breath and leaned back against the cot frame. You gently adjusted the ice on his cheek as he added, “Got into it with one of the guys. Things got… not so friendly.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, reaching for some gauze to dab at the scrape above his eyebrow, “And who started it?”

He hesitated.

“…Probably him.”

You laughed and it lit him up from the inside out. Your presence had a warmth he knew better than to depend on, and yet, he could already feel himself doing so.

“Well,” you mused, cupping his face and giving the cut one last swipe, “next time, try to keep your face out of the way, would you?”

He smirked, “Can’t make any promises, doll.”

You sat back, amused, tossing the bloody cotton pad into the bin, “Why am I not surprised?”

You reached for the ice again, then pressed it lightly to his eye. With your other hand, you took his and guided it into place, “Hold this for me…”

Your eyes flicked down to the name stitched into his uniform, “Sergeant Barnes.”

His heart did something stupid at the way you said it - a giddy grin spreading over his face before he could stop it.

“Yes, ma’am. And you?” he asked hurriedly, eyebrows raised, “I mean, do I, uh… get to know your name?”

You smiled to yourself as you scribbled something down on your clipboard, “Lieutenant Y/N L/N.”

His brows shot up, “Lieutenant?”

“It’s standard rank for nurses,” you said with a small laugh, setting the clipboard down again.

“Really?” Bucky leaned back with a whistle, “I should’ve gone into nursing.”

“Mhm,” you smiled coyly, standing up again, “Alright, Sergeant. Hang tight and let me know when you’re feeling alright to head back out.”

“I will, doll,” he promised, grinning as he settled back into the cot.

You only shook your head with a faint smile before heading off to check on your other patients.

Bucky stayed that way - nursing his injury and watching you go about your business for an hour or so. And the longer he stayed, the more smitten he became.

He’d known you not even a day and he could already see what a sweet soul you were.

And when he finally stepped out of the nurse’s tent later that evening, it was clear he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

Camp was buzzing. Word had spread fast of a new nurse on base, kind and pretty in a way that none of the 107th’s soldiers had seen in a long time.

A strangely possessive shiver ran down Bucky’s spine.

He’d have to do something about that chatter.

Sooner, rather than later.

The next morning had started out quiet.

There were drills, same as always but something quickly caught Bucky’s attention.

Injuries. A lot of them. And they were springing up out of nowhere.

They were running laps when Miller suddenly rolled his ankle.

During push-ups, Jones, who was notorious for doing a hundred without breaking a sweat, collapsed face-first into the dirt and split his chin.

By lunch, it was Simmons’ turn.

In the middle of the dining hall, he tripped over a bench with Oscar-worthy theatrics, clutching his arm like it had been torn clean from the socket.

“Doc!” he shouted, gritting his teeth like he was about to lose the limb, “I think I’ve broken it… it’s real bad.”

Bucky looked up from his seat on a crate, narrowing his eyes.

Simmons was a lot of things: loud, clumsy, a bit of a show-off and, it turned out, a terrible actor. He hadn’t started clutching his arm until he’d spotted someone watching from the medical tent.

You.

Nonetheless, you emerged from the flap a moment later, brows furrowed with concern.

“Alright, Sergeant,” you gushed, hurrying over to meet Simmons halfway, “That looks pretty painful, let’s get you looked at. Come on.”

Bucky watched as the guy practically melted under your touch, slinging himself over your front with dramatic flair.

You didn’t flinch, just steadied him and nodded along as he rattled off a long, unruly list of symptoms that weren’t even half-true.

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“You alright there, Buck?” Steve asked, catching his scowl, “You’re crushing that spoon.”

Bucky looked down. The handle was bent right in half between his fingers.

“Damn,” Bucky muttered, tossing it aside. Those things were useless, made of tin anyways.

Steve raised a brow, following his line of sight. Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, drawing the word out as he nodded, “I get it.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants.

It was time he found himself another bruise. Something small. Believable.

But enough to earn himself another few minutes in that tent, with you.

Before someone like Simmons beat him to it.

He quickly devised a plan, ruling out anything that would get him sent home. That meant minor injuries only.

After lunch, the boys were always ordered to clean up their gear. After all, taking care of your weapon was half the job and pride of being a soldier.

With bayonets on the end of their guns, it was almost too easy for him to injure himself.

Bucky joined in like normal, bantering with the other guys as he polished his gun. Then, with one theatrically clumsy swipe, he managed to slice open the palm of his hand.

He let out a low hiss, glancing down at it like he hadn’t just pressed his palm a little harder into the blade on purpose seconds ago.

It stung like hell, much more than he’d anticipated.

It was perfect.

Wrapping the wound in a makeshift bandage, he made a beeline for the medical tent, already rehearsing the look he’d have on his face: sheepish, stoic but brave.

The kind of look that made women swoon.

Bucky pushed through the tent’s flap, hand held up carefully, as if it were a trophy of his misfortune.

You were knelt down beside a cabinet of medicines, quietly counting stock. You would intermittently mark something down on the clipboard that seemed permanently attached to your hands, as the other nurses worked around you.

Bucky cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels to look casual.

You looked up at the sound, a dry smile tugging at your lips, “Sergeant Barnes? Back so soon?”

He held out his bleeding palm to you, “Afraid so, ma’am.”

“Looks fresh,” you hummed, tracing the edges of the cut, “How’d you do this one?”

“Bayonet slipped while I was cleanin’ her,” he admitted gruffly, running his good hand through his hair.

You tutted softly, “Come sit down, Sergeant. You’re beginning to gather quite the collection of little injuries, you ought to take better care of yourself.”

Bucky laughed, sliding into the cot, just as he had done yesterday, “No idea what you mean, Lieutenant.”

“Mhm,” you replied, clearly not convinced. Pressing a cloth into his palm, you applied a gentle pressure to stop the bleeding.

You were silent for a moment, holding the cloth firmly against his palm before giving him a knowing look, voice soft but teasing, “I have a feeling this wasn’t an accident.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Need me to send a welfare check on you? Make sure you’re holding up alright?” you added jokingly with a sly smile.

He chuckled, shaking his head, “No need, Lieutenant. I got it.”

“Good,” you hummed, tapping his wrist gently as you let it go. You rolled across the floor on your stool and tore open a fresh dressing.

“If you’re trying to get my attention, you’ve already done it,” you said simply, applying the dressing to his palm.

Bucky’s heart soared.

“That gift you left me this morning was more than enough to do so.”

And then it plummeted right back down.

“Gift? I didn’t leave you any gift, doll.” Bucky blinked, caught slightly off guard.

“You didn’t?” a smirk crept across your face as you smoothed the corners of the dressing on his hand.

“Huh. Well, then it seems like you have some competition, Sarge.” you nodded towards a collection of wildflowers sitting atop one of the cabinets in a thin vase.

Bucky had nearly screamed.

He didn’t, at least not out loud.

But inside? He was fuming.

Wildflowers. A whole damn bouquet of them. Where’d that idiot even find wildflowers out here? It wasn’t like they were growing beside the mess hall. Someone had gone looking. That meant planning. That meant intention.

It meant competition.

The idea that you could be smiling at someone else the way you smiled at him, come next week, lit a fire under his skin that burned well into the night.

By morning, he was running on no sleep and pure resolve. He’d fake one more injury. Nothing major. Just enough to get him back into your orbit.

So when the transport trucks rolled in with the weekly supplies at 11, Bucky seized the opportunity.

He picked up a heavy crate, made a show of wobbling under its weight and then let it drop directly onto the arch of his boot.

He dropped to the ground with a perfectly-timed curse, clutching his ankle.

“Jesus, Buck… you alright?” Steve asked, looking over him anxiously.

Despite the throbbing pain developing in his ankle, all Bucky could do was nod through gritted teeth, “Yeah, I’m all good, no problem.”

“I better head to the med tent though, just to be on the safe side of things.”

He was up before anyone could question it.

As he pulled back the tent’s curtain, you looked up from the supplies you were sorting, already smirking, “Again?”

He winced, “Crate jumped me.”

“Uh-huh,” you smiled, setting your pen down and already on your feet, “Let’s get that boot off, Sergeant.”

Bucky shuffled toward the cot like a wounded hero, groaning for good measure, “You’re starting to recognise my footsteps, huh?”

“I’m starting to wonder if you’re doing this for attention,” you teased, crouching down and unlacing his boot for him to examine his red, swollen ankle.

“Would it be a crime if I was?”

You wrapped some ice up and pressed it against the bruising skin, “That depends. Attention from me or from the other nurses?”

He didn’t even hesitate, “Just you.”

Your hands paused for a moment on his ankle.

“Alright then,” you said quietly, voice growing shy, “I think I can forgive you this once.”

A slow smile spread across Bucky’s face, “You know,” he said, sitting up straighter as he watched you work, “all jokes aside, I‘ve been wondering…”

You raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully.

“If I promised not to fake any more injuries,” he continued, “would you let me take you to dinner sometime? After the war, of course.”

You blinked, surprised, then smiled, that warm smile he was already falling for.

“I’d like that very much, Sergeant Barnes.”

He felt like he was walking on air as you carefully wrapped his ankle up, “You would?”

“Mhm,” you said, patting his calf and smiling coyly, “Just keep looking out for this country and you’ll find a date waiting for you when you come home, Sergeant.”

That was all the motivation that he needed.

[ds-angel1]

THURSDAY AT THE ORCHARD

big macintosh!rafe x sugar belle!reader

cw: sex (first time), crying, Rafe being an asshole, but happy ending (pls tell me if there’s more, this seems so little??)

wc: 7.1k

a/n: where are my mlp fans at? :)

You’d heard about the orchard from an old lady at the market, her voice cracked and warm like aged whiskey, eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. She clutched a crumpled paper bag of fresh produce, tapping it thoughtfully.

“I used to get my apples from there, back when I still had teeth,” she joked, but there was a softness beneath the teasing, like a memory she was fond of but couldn’t quite reach.

"Boy doesn’t talk much," she warned, lowering her voice to a whisper as if sharing a secret. "But the apples, they speak plenty for him."

You’d laughed politely, thought it a folksy kind of exaggeration, the sort of rural charm tourists loved. But something in her tone stuck with you, that quiet weight behind her words.

Pulling your car onto the gravel road that wound through fields and wildflowers, the world seemed to hush. No dogs barked in welcome. No voices called out across the open air. No signs marked the way. Just the orchard stretching endlessly, a green sea crowned with red and gold.

You slowed, eyes scanning the rows of apple trees heavy with fruit, branches bent like they carried the weight of summer’s promise. Bees droned lazily from blossom to blossom, the warm hum mingling with the rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze.

Halfway down the path, a figure stood, tall, broad, still as a statue. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing thick arms dusted faintly with dirt. One hand rested on the side of a rusty green pickup truck that looked like it belonged to the earth itself.

He saw you before you fully stopped. No wave. No smile. It was just a slow, deliberate nod, solid as a rock.

You opened your door and stepped out, clipboard tucked firmly under one arm, shoes crunching on gravel. You cleared your throat.

“Hi,” you said, voice steady despite the sudden flutter in your chest. You introduced yourself. "I run the Sugar Springs bakery in town. I called yesterday about maybe setting up a delivery?”

He looked at you, a long, measured glance that felt like a quiet weighing of you and your intentions. Then he nodded again. Said simply, “Rafe.”

You waited, expecting something more.

But that was all he gave.

“...Okay. Rafe,” you repeated, glancing past him at the endless rows behind. “This your orchard?”

His eyes flicked to the trees, then back, expression unchanged.

“Mhm. Me and my family."

You took a breath, loosening your grip on the clipboard. “I’m looking for a regular supplier. Nothing huge, I bake everything myself, so just a few crates a week. Mostly Honeycrisps or Pink Ladies, depending on what’s good.”

His gaze drifted downward, landing on your hands, dusted with flour even today when you were supposed to be off. When your eyes met his again, he looked away quickly, as if caught doing something private.

“We can do that,” he said finally. “Bring ’em Thursday.”

“That’d be great.” You smiled, hopeful, but he didn’t return it. His face was unreadable, stoic, like a mountain carved from silence.

“Cash okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He gave a single nod, turned without another word, and walked back toward the trees. You watched until his figure slipped between the trunks and vanished, as though he was part of the orchard itself, rooted, steady, and distant.

...

Thursday morning dawned crisp and clear.

You arrived early at the bakery like you always did, the sky still soft with morning light. Before you’d even unlocked the door, there he was, waiting. His shirt damp with dew, the sleeves of his flannel still rolled. Two wooden crates rested at his feet, gleaming with apples that caught the sun like jewels.

You fumbled with your keys, heart beating faster than usual. “Wow- you’re… punctual.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. Lifted the crates with ease, like they weighed nothing, and followed you inside without needing directions.

His boots scuffed softly against the tile floor as he set the apples down gently on the prep counter. The rich, earthy smell of fresh fruit filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla still lingering from your last batch of pies.

You handed him the cash. He tucked it away, pocketing it without a word.

Before he left, he lingered in the doorway, watching as you picked up an apple, running your thumb over its glossy skin, checking for softness, bruises, and that perfect rosy blush.

“They’re good,” he said, voice low and sure.

You looked up, surprised at the rare softness in his tone. “I can tell.”

A pause stretched between you, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable.

“You’ll… turn ’em into something real nice,” he added quietly.

Your breath caught.

He nodded once more, then walked away, boots crunching on gravel, swallowed by the rows of trees.

And that was how it started.

Every Thursday, like clockwork, apples appeared on your counter.

His quiet presence became a steady rhythm in your life, a soft, almost warm comfort that didn’t need words.

Something unspoken took root between you two. Something sweet.

The first week you decide to leave him something, it wasn't much, just a small, simple gesture, but it feels huge to you, like offering a piece of yourself wrapped up in flour and warmth.

You take a piece of parchment from the drawer and fold it carefully around a warm apple turnover fresh from the morning batch. The pastry is golden-brown, the edges perfectly crimped, a delicate dusting of sugar sparkling on top like frost. The scent of cinnamon and brown butter still lingers in the air, rich and comforting.

You tie the package with a thin length of twine, looping it into a neat bow.

The early sun paints long shadows across the bakery floor, soft gold and pale blue mixing in the morning haze.

You slide the turnover onto the counter next to the crates, your fingers lingering on the parchment a moment before you step back.

“Extra from the morning batch,” you say softly, not quite meeting his eyes. “Figured you’d want to taste what your apples turn into.”

He stands still, blinking at the little package like it’s something fragile, maybe too precious to touch. Like it’s a surprise gift that might shatter if handled wrong.

Your heart thunders in your chest, uneven and fast, and you pretend to busy yourself with the cash drawer, fingering the worn bills like they’re lifelines.

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t even smile.

But when he reaches out, his hands are gentle, both of them cupping the package as if it’s the most fragile thing on planet earth. His thumbs brush over the twine, slow and deliberate.

Then he looks up at you. Really looks.

His eyes darken, catch the pale light of morning, and in that quiet gaze, something flickers, something tender, almost uncertain, like a flame dancing behind a pane of glass.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You shrug, cheeks warm. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

Another long beat passes, heavy with things unspoken, and then his jaw tightens, nodding once, a sharper, more purposeful nod than before.

And just like that, he turns, boots scraping softly on the tiled floor, and walks back out into the dawn.

The next week, you discover what that small gift meant. He comes earlier this time.

Earlier than ever, just past sunrise, when the sky is still a wash of pale lavender and pink, and the world feels soft and secret.

You’re still rubbing sleep from your eyes when the back door creaks open.

There he stands, hat low on his brow, sleeves rolled tight, the familiar wooden crates set neatly on the ground.

But there’s something else with them this morning. A mason jar. Glass gleamed faintly in the growing light.

Inside, smooth, golden apple butter, thick and glossy, flecked with bits of clove and cinnamon that swirl like tiny stars trapped beneath the surface. No label. No note.

You pick it up carefully, cold against your fingers, and glance up at him.

“Did you make this?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like it’s just another day.

“My ma’s recipe,” he says quietly.

The words hit low in your chest, settling with unexpected weight.

“She’d be proud,” you whisper, voice soft, almost reverent.

His jaw shifts, a small, almost imperceptible movement, and then he looks away, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Instead of answering, he steps back, tipping his head toward the jar like it’s a promise.

“You’ll turn it into something better.”

And then he’s gone again, swallowed up by the morning mist, leaving behind only the scent of dew, ripe apples, and something else, something warmer, quieter, and new.

...

The door jingles open before you even hear the truck pull in, that familiar sound slicing through the warm hum of the bakery.

You’re elbow-deep in dough, flour dusting your apron and smudging your cheeks pink from the oven’s heat.

The rich scent of fresh bread and sweet dough curls in the air like morning fog, wrapping around you like a comforting cloak. Your hands press and fold, coaxing the dough into life beneath your fingers.

Glancing up, your lips curl into an easy smile before you even think to speak.

“You’re early.”

Rafe stands framed in the doorway, the crates balanced carefully at his feet. His broad frame blocks the sunlight, casting long shadows across the worn tiles. There’s a hesitation in his stance as if stepping fully inside this warm, fragrant space feels different this time.

You wipe your hands on your apron and nod toward the back table, voice casual but welcoming.

“Just leave ’em there.”

He doesn’t say a word, but he lingers. Your eyes flick to him briefly before you return to your work, rolling the dough into tight spirals, brushing each one with the golden apple butter he brought last week. The way it glistens in the light makes your mouth water.

“You ever make cinnamon rolls?” you ask, lifting your head.

His brows crease slightly, the slow furrow of a man trying to understand something unfamiliar.

“No.” “They’re a little messy, but they’re fun.”

You hold up your sticky hands, sugar granules clinging stubbornly to your fingertips like tiny crystals catching the sun.

Rafe watches you for a moment longer than expected, eyes dark and unreadable.

Then, surprisingly, he steps forward. Slowly. Tentatively. “What do I do?”

You hand him a bowl, light but firm. “Mix it first. Then roll it out. Then knead it.”

His hands close around the bowl, large and calloused, the skin roughened by work and weather. When he kneads, it’s precise, careful, strong but patient. You watch the muscles in his forearms flex, the way his breath grows heavier each time your fingers accidentally brush against his.

You can see the sharp focus in his eyes as he watches your mouth taste the filling, savoring it silently.

Impulsively, you flick a little flour at him, just a sprinkle, a tease.

He blinks. Doesn’t flinch. Then, unexpectedly, he reaches out, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek, wiping away a stray speck of sugar.

His hand lingers there, just a second too long.

You stop breathing.

Something shifts, softly, quietly, like the first warm breeze after a long winter.

Your heart stutters, the air between you charged with something unspoken but undeniable.

You laugh under your breath, flustered but thrilled.

“Not bad for a rookie,” you say, voice light.

His gaze holds yours, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. His brow knits as if trying to solve a puzzle, to find the right words trapped behind the quiet.

You feel the moment stretching, heavy with possibilities. The rightness of it, the domestic closeness, the gentle intimacy, as if this was meant to be all along, quietly waiting for you both to notice.

And then... He steps back. Fast. Like he’s just touched something too hot to hold. Like the air around you suddenly burned.

You blink, startled. “Rafe?”

But he’s already grabbing a towel, wiping his hands with nervous haste, avoiding your eyes like they might reveal too much. He’s breathing hard, like he just remembered a weight he can’t carry here, not now.

“I- I gotta go,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper.

You frown, wanting to ask more, to reach out, but the door clicks shut before you can finish. The dough sits half-rolled on the counter between you, still soft and warm.

You stare at it. Then at the bowl, he left behind, your fingers brushing the rim, still warm from his hands, a faint scent of earth and sweat mingling with the sweet cinnamon.

...

He comes the next week. Late.

You’re already halfway through your second batch, the scent of warm cupcakes and chocolate swirling around you, when the soft crunch of gravel under tires reaches your ears. It’s a familiar sound, but today it feels different, like a quiet knock on a door you’re afraid to open.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t call out. The door jingles open and closed before you even have a chance to step away from the mixer.

Rafe is there in the doorway, crates balanced easily at his feet, broad frame silhouetted against the soft morning light. He sets the boxes down with practiced care, but there’s no hesitation, no glance your way, like it’s just another Thursday to him.

But you don’t want it to be just another Thursday.

“Rafe,” you call softly, flour dusting your lips and palms, the edges of your voice trembling just a little.

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

You wipe your hands on your apron, heart tightening painfully in your chest, but you force your voice gently. “You want coffee?”

He hesitates, a flicker of something caught behind his eyes for a fraction of a second.

Then, with a sharp breath, he shakes his head. “I should get back.” You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, forcing lightness into your words.

“Sure. Thanks for the apples.”

His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles white, but he still won’t meet your eyes. The ache that blooms inside you stings sharper than you expected.

After he leaves, silence stretches across the kitchen like a cold draft. You stand still for a moment, fingers trailing over a perfect apple in the crate. Its skin is flawless, glossy under the fluorescent light, but your throat feels raw.

You wonder, again and again, what you did wrong.

He doesn’t stop coming.

But the warmth you’d begun to find in him, the quiet comfort of his presence, buries itself deep, locked away behind a wall you can’t yet see past. His words are fewer now, clipped and distant. He no longer lingers by the counter or catches your gaze like he used to.

Yet, sometimes his hands hesitate when they brush against yours.

And one morning, when you’re struggling with a sack of flour far too heavy for your slight frame, he steps in without a word, lifting it from your arms with effortless strength, his fingers brushing yours just a moment longer than necessary.

You try hard not to remember the laughter you shared the week before.

How he’d loosened up, cracking a rare smile when he clumsily dropped a spoon into the mixer.

How he’d wiped a stray sugar crystal from your cheek and looked at you with something unspoken like he wanted to stay.

You had never felt anything like that before.

Truthfully, you’ve never felt anything like that. With anyone.

Baking had always been your world, your safe place since you were a little girl. Boys, and relationships, were distractions you never needed.

Until him.

And maybe that’s why it hurts so much, the silence this week is heavier than any oven’s heat.

...

Next Thursday, you hear the truck pulling in just as you finish wiping down the counters.

He’s already halfway out the door when your voice catches him. “Rafe.”

He freezes, shoulders tight and tense, but he doesn’t leave.

You hold out a small box, fingers trembling slightly. Inside is a mini apple tart you baked the night before, delicate and sweet. The lattice crust is woven with care, and sugared petals crown the top like tiny blossoms. On the lid, you wrote his name, simple, just: Rafe.

He takes the box from you, fingers brushing yours again, warm, hesitant. He doesn’t open it. Doesn’t look up. But this time, his voice is different. Rough, quiet, but not cold. “I ain’t mad at you.”

You blink, surprised. “I didn’t think you were.”

A long pause.

Then, finally, he lifts his eyes to meet yours, really meet them, with a softness that almost breaks your heart.

“I just didn’t know how to stay.”

And then he’s gone again, swallowed by the morning light.

But this time… something’s left behind. Something fragile, but real. A quiet hope waiting to grow.

...

The sun hung low and lazy over the Cameron Orchard, painting the sky in soft hues of peach and rose that blended seamlessly into the thick green of the trees. The late afternoon air smelled of crushed grass and ripe apples, mingling with the faint smoke of a distant bonfire.

Strings of small, flickering lights, white and warm, were strung between branches, swaying gently in the summer breeze. Wooden stalls lined the dirt paths, draped in burlap and laden with jars of honey, baskets of wildflowers, and piles of freshly baked pies, their crusts golden and flaky, steam rising faintly in the cooling air.

You pulled the sleeves of your apron a little tighter around your wrists, feeling the faint grit of flour still clinging to the fabric. Your fingers tingled slightly from the cool air after hours spent in your warm kitchen, hands busy folding and mixing, the familiar rhythm of baking settling deep into your bones.

A shadow fell beside you, broad and steady. Rafe.

His presence was quiet but undeniable, like the steady heartbeat beneath a calm surface. He wore his usual, well-worn jeans, boots dusted with orchard soil, and a faded flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal thick forearms speckled with tiny scars. His dark hair was tousled, curling slightly at the nape of his neck where the collar fell open.

He didn’t say anything right away, just shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze fixed on the orchard stretching out behind him, endless rows of trees heavy with rosy fruit, glowing softly in the evening light.

After a few moments, he looked at you, really looked, like you weren’t just a face in the crowd or a customer with flour on her cheeks, but something worth paying attention to.

“You wanna help with the cider press?” His voice was low and steady, but there was a quiet invitation woven into it.

You smiled, the nervous flutter in your chest blossoming into warmth. “I’d like that.”

The cider press stood near the edge of the orchard, an old wooden machine scarred by years of use but still strong and reliable. You both moved closer, the smell of crushed apples heavy in the air. The first bite of autumn sweetness, tart and rich.

Rafe handed you a basket brimming with freshly picked apples. They were cool and smooth in your hands, their skin taut and shiny, mottled with flecks of red and gold.

You rolled up your sleeves and began slicing, the sharp knife whispering through flesh and peel. The sticky juice dripped down your fingers, warm and fragrant, leaving a faint sheen on your skin.

Rafe’s hands were steady beside you as he helped feed the apples into the press. His fingers brushed yours once or twice, accidentally, you told yourself, but the warmth from his touch lingered longer than expected.

A sudden splash of juice landed on your cheek, and you reached up, surprised. Rafe’s eyes caught yours, a spark of something almost shy and amused lighting them.

“Watch it,” he said quietly, brushing the juice off your face with a thumb that was rough but gentle.

You laughed, a soft, breathy sound that made his mouth twitch at the corners.

As the press ground the apples into sweet, fragrant cider, you leaned back against a bale of hay, sticky and warm, savoring the moment. The orchard around you felt alive, the rustling leaves, the distant laughter of children chasing each other beneath the trees, the low murmur of conversation blending with the strum of a guitar.

Rafe settled beside you, shoulders broad and relaxed in a way you’d never seen before. He started telling you stories, about his mama, who’d loved the orchard with a fierce, quiet devotion, about the long days spent learning the rhythm of the land, about how the orchard was more than just trees and fruit.

It was a piece of his heart.

You listened, captivated by the rare openness in his voice, the way his guarded eyes softened when he spoke of things he cherished.

The sky deepened into dusk, the first stars beginning to twinkle above. The bonfire was lit, sending sparks and warm orange light into the cooling night.

Around you, the town gathered, folk tapping their feet to the music, couples swaying under the glow of lanterns, laughter rising like a gentle tide.

Rafe stayed close to your side, but neither of you said much. Instead, you shared the quiet, the small sounds of the night, the steady beating of your hearts.

When you spoke about your bakery, your dreams of crafting the perfect pie, the way the orchard’s apples inspired your recipes. His gaze locked with yours.

Slowly, hesitantly, his large hand reached out.

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed yours, tentative and trembling.

For a moment, time held its breath.

Then, with a gentle tilt of his head, he leaned in.

Your lips met, soft, uncertain, electric with all the things neither of you had said aloud.

It was a kiss full of firsts: first warmth, first trust, first promise.

The orchard around you faded, leaving only the quiet beating of two hearts finding their way home.

...

Thursday evening had settled over the bakery like a soft sigh. The sun had long since slipped behind the orchard’s dense rows, leaving the sky bruised and gold, the fading light pooling across the wooden counters and glinting off jars of preserves stacked on shelves. The warm scent of apples, cinnamon, and vanilla lingered in the air, thick and sweet, wrapped in the fading heat of the day.

You’d just finished locking the front door, wiping powdered sugar and flour from your wrists with the edge of your apron when the back door creaked open behind you.

He stepped in, backlit by the dimming twilight, his frame broad and steady, flannel rolled up to his elbows, forearms dusted with dirt and the lingering warmth of the orchard. His hair was damp, either from the work in the field or the long drive back, but it curled softly at the nape of his neck, wild and familiar, like a quiet signature you recognized without thinking.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

He crossed the room in two long, certain strides, and you didn’t move. Your breath caught, sharp, unsteady, as his hand came up, rough fingers sliding beneath your jaw to tilt your face gently toward his.

It was like he was checking if you were real.

Then his mouth was on yours.

Rafe kissed the way he touched, solid and quiet, never rushed but always intense. There was hunger in the press of his lips, the way he pulled you closer like he’d been starving all week for this moment, for you, for a taste of the life he’d been holding back.

You whimpered softly, lips parting as his hands slid down your sides and curled around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“You taste like sugar,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low and gravel-thick.

You smiled shakily, breath hitching. “I’ve been baking.”

He grunted a sound that might have been a laugh, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw and neck. His hands moved slowly, reverent and sure, pressing you backward until your thighs bumped the edge of the marble counter.

Your breath hitched again.

Without hesitation, he lifted you onto the cool surface, skirt bunched around your hips. His palms were rough where they slid beneath the backs of your thighs, steady and warm. Your fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt, clutching like a lifeline.

But you weren’t afraid. You’d never felt steadier.

Rafe settled between your knees, tilting your face toward his with a softness that belied the strength in his hands.

His eyes were dark and heavy, unreadable beneath thick lashes.

“You sure?” His voice was rough but quiet, almost hesitant.

You nodded, voice barely more than a whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again, deeper, slower, his tongue tracing the edges of your mouth, tasting the sweetness left from your baking, the heat blooming beneath your skin like rising dough.

You didn’t tell him it was your first time. You didn’t even know how to say it.

You only knew you didn’t want him to stop.

His hands slid beneath your thighs again, lifting you just enough to pull you closer, legs curling around his hips. The cold marble was nothing compared to the fire building between you. His mouth never left yours for long, as if trying to pour all the words he couldn’t say into that one connection.

He moved with careful reverence, slow and steady, memorizing every inch of you, the soft gasp that escaped your lips when he pressed inside, the way your hands gripped his shoulders like you were afraid to fall, the way you leaned into him as if you’d never been held this way before.

Because you hadn’t.

When he finally moved fully inside you, it was overwhelming, tight, burning, new, and you bit your lip to stifle the small sound that caught in your throat.

He stilled immediately, searching your face.

His hand cupped the back of your neck.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice suddenly softer, fragile even. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly, blinking up at him, breath shaky.

“Good,” he whispered. “Breathe for me.”

His movements slowed, careful, rocking with the rhythm of your breath. And once the initial burn softened, it was just, full. Right. Close.

You wrapped your arms around him, head tucked beneath his chin, breathing in the scent of apples, woodsmoke, and the undeniable warmth of him. It filled your lungs and settled deep in your chest like something you’d been waiting for without knowing it.

Rafe made soft, broken sounds in your ear, whispers of your name, murmurs of sweet and soft.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours.

And you, quiet, wide-eyed, unraveling, held onto him like he was the only thing in the world that made sense.

When it was over, he didn’t move.

His arms stayed wrapped around you. Your legs still curled tight around his waist. He kissed your temple once, twice, again, and again, each one softer than the last. Then he pulled back, eyes warmer and softer than you’d ever seen them.

He didn’t know. Didn’t realize the ache between your thighs was new. Didn’t realize your trembling had more than one meaning. Didn’t realize your body was still learning what it meant to be wanted. And you didn’t say it.

You only held onto him, still full, still warm, hoping he’d stay a little longer.

...

Rafe came to the bakery that Monday morning, arms folded, shirt damp from the orchard, his eyes tired but soft when he saw you. He didn’t say much. Just leaned across the counter, voice low and shy.

“You wanna… go somewhere?”

Your heart had leaped. “Like… a date?”

He nodded once. Didn’t even look at you when he said it. “Yeah. Like that.”

You’d smiled for the rest of the day.

The date wasn’t fancy. Just dinner at the old roadside diner, the one with cracked red booths and a jukebox that only played sad country songs. But he cleaned up for it. Combed his hair. Wore a button-down instead of a flannel. His hands were still calloused and still smelled faintly of applewood, but his thumb brushed over your knuckles like he was afraid of breaking you.

He didn’t talk much. Just watched you when you weren’t looking. Drove slow. Walked on the outside of the sidewalk.

You sat across from him in that diner, your milkshake half-melted between you, and felt your stomach twist, not from nerves, but from something deeper. Something real.

“I really like you,” you whispered, looking down at your hands. Rafe didn’t say anything at first. But he squeezed your fingers under the table. And that was enough.

...

You didn’t see it coming.

The next Thursday came, and the apples showed up, on time, perfect, and crisp, but it wasn’t Rafe who brought them. It was his sister.

She smiled and shrugged. “He asked me to drop ‘em off this week.”

You blinked. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Just busy.”

The next week? Same thing.

And the one after that.

No text. No call. No kiss. No explanation.

You waited at the back door of your bakery until dusk, hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles ached. The apples sat untouched in their crates. You didn’t use them. You couldn’t.

You saw him once. At the market. He looked through you. Didn’t even flinch. You couldn’t take it anymore.

...

It was almost a month later when you showed up at the orchard, still in your apron, flour on your skirt, hands shaking as you knocked on the side door of the barn.

He opened it with his usual slow drawl but froze when he saw you.

He didn’t look like the man who kissed you that night. He looked like a stranger wearing Rafe’s face. Guarded. Cold.

“Why?” you asked, your voice shaking.

He didn’t answer.

You stepped forward. “Did I do something wrong? Is this- are you- what is happening, Rafe?”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

“It’s done,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked past you like he couldn’t stand to meet your eyes. “It was just a quick fuck. Nothin’ serious.”

The words hit like a slap. Your breath caught, sharp, cold, shattering.

You stared at him. Waiting. Hoping. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t take it back.

You felt the bottom drop out of your chest. Felt your heart fold in on itself like something bruised and overripe.

“It was my first time,” you whispered.

His eyes finally snapped to yours.

“I’d never- I’ve never even held hands with anyone before you. I thought—” Your voice cracked, your whole body shaking. “I thought it meant something."

Rafe’s mouth opened like he was going to say something, but no sound came out.

So you shook your head, eyes burning, and turned away before you broke in half right there in front of him.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

...

He stood there, shoulders heavy and jaw clenched like every word he wanted to say was a weight he was terrified to drop. The silence stretched between you, thick and aching, the kind of silence that held everything you both feared.

Finally, he broke it. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Rafe said, his voice low and rough, trembling with something close to regret, like a man carrying a burden too big for his own heart.

You stared at him, eyes sharp, burning with a mix of anger and hurt. “Then why did you say it?” Your voice cracked, the question cutting the quiet like a shard of glass. “Why’d you say I was just a quick fuck?”

He swallowed hard, a tight knot twisting in his throat as he ran a hand through his hair, the motion frantic but helpless, as if trying to shove the guilt deeper inside where it couldn’t claw its way out.

“Because...” he began, voice breaking like brittle glass, “I was scared. Scared ‘cause I've never done this before either. I didn’t know how to be... how to be with you. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Your breath hitched, chest tightening painfully. “You still said I was just a quick fuck! You can’t change your mind now that you know I was a virgin.” The words spilled out, sharp and raw, years of bruised pride and secret trembling all rolled into one confession.

His eyes flicked away, ashamed and burdened. “I know I fucked up. I didn’t mean it like that, not really.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “But I didn’t know how to handle it. You were... so open with me. So vulnerable. And I- I just froze.”

Tears welled in your eyes, your voice trembling with all the hurt you’d locked inside for too long. “I don’t care if it’s hard for you to be vulnerable. You used me at my most vulnerable.”

He closed his eyes tightly, swallowing those words as if they burned his throat. The pain was written across his face, raw and unguarded for once.

“I thought if I kept it casual, kept my distance, I could protect myself. Protect us,” he said slowly, voice thick with regret. “But I see now I just pushed you away.”

You shook your head, slow and steady, tears blurring your vision, but your voice was steady and fierce. “You didn’t protect me. You left me in the dark. Alone.”

Rafe took a step forward, vulnerability flickering through the tough exterior like sunlight through cracked glass. His voice softened, desperate to make you understand, “I’m sorry. More than I can say. I was scared of losing you, but instead... I lost you.”

You met his gaze, voice low but unwavering, full of the strength it took to speak through the pain. “If you want me back, you have to want more than quick kisses and half-truths. You have to want me, all of me. Every messy, broken, beautiful part.”

He nodded, swallowing hard like he was trying to swallow the entire weight of what you’d said. “I want that. I want you.”

For the first time, the cracks in his walls showed through, the real man beneath the guarded silence, raw and aching. Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something that could be whole.

...

He didn’t say sorry with flowers.

No grand gesture. No carefully rehearsed speech. No letter tied with a ribbon, left on your doorstep for you to find. That wasn’t him. That wasn’t the way he knew how to show anything.

Rafe didn’t trust words much anymore, didn’t believe in them the way you once did, or the way you wanted to. He’d learned to keep things quiet, steady, and real in the only way he knew: by showing up.

It was a Tuesday morning, just before dawn, when you heard the knock on the back door. The bakery was still dark, save for the soft orange glow of the oven working its magic. You’d just finished braiding a loaf of sweet bread, your fingers sticky with dough and cinnamon, when the sound startled you.

Frowning, you opened the door.

There he was. Hands full. Not with flowers. Not with apologies. But with apples. Crates and crates of them.

Honeycrisps with sun-kissed skin and Pink Ladies blushed deep red. Some were flawless, shiny enough to catch the early light like jewels; others bore the soft bruises of a hard day’s work. Dew still clung stubbornly to the stems, and the faint smell of orchard earth lingered in the air around him.

Three whole boxes were lined up behind him, heavy with fruit, like he’d been harvesting since before the world woke up.

You stared, caught somewhere between surprise and something like hope.

Rafe cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably under your gaze. His eyes never met yours.

“These’re yours,” he said quietly, voice rough from disuse or nerves. “Thought maybe you could… use ’em.”

You said nothing. Just closed the door slowly, the soft click echoing in the quiet morning.

But that was just the beginning.

The next day, just as the sun stretched its first lazy fingers across the sky, a small jar appeared on your back step.

Cinnamon apple butter, smooth and golden, flecked with tiny bits of clove and spice.

Beside it, a folded note.

Home-made recipe from my meemaw.

No signature. No flourish. Just those words, trembling on the page.

Thursday came around again, and the crates returned, only this time, not through Wheezie or anyone else.

Just Rafe. Alone. On time. Quiet.

Sometimes, he stayed outside, the fading light painting his silhouette long and thin against the back door. Other times, he lingered awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, like he was wrestling with a thousand words he couldn’t quite say.

Then one morning, he surprised you.

“Made somethin’,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. You turned.

In his hands, a pie.

Ugly and uneven. The crust slashed too wide, the filling bubbling over like it had tried to escape the heat of the oven.

You blinked. “You baked this?”

“Sorta,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Watched a video. Burned the first two.”

You took it from him.

Not because you were ready to forgive. But because no one had ever burned two pies just trying to apologize to you.

Later, you slice into the pie carefully.

The bottom was raw.

But you ate a slice anyway, the sweetness and warmth a fragile bridge back to him.

Words stayed few after that.

But small things began to happen.

You started leaving quiet little offerings on the back step where he left his crates, a cinnamon bun, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of fresh milk.

No notes. No open doors.

Just trust, folded in flour and sugar.

He took every single one.

One morning, you opened the door before he could knock.

He froze, halfway up the steps, clutching a box of apples like a shield.

Your voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper.

“Why are you still coming?”

His eyes fell to the ground. Jaw tight as a clenched fist.

“Because I ain’t done trying yet.”

You didn’t answer.

But you let him inside.

Then he started showing up for other things.

A busted pipe in the pantry? Fixed.

An old shelf you couldn’t reach? Rebuilt, sanded smooth, varnished with something that smelled of applewood and pine.

Once, he showed up with an old recipe book, worn at the edges and stained with years of kitchen messes. His mother’s handwriting curled across the pages like a secret.

He placed it on your counter like an offering.

Weeks passed.

Silent mornings.

Slow, careful rebuilding.

Learning the shape of your grief. Learning the weight of his.

Then one evening, the oven cooled, and the world outside softened in dusky twilight.

He knocked again. You opened the door.

Rafe stood there, breathing like he’d run the whole way.

“I didn’t just fuck up,” he said, voice hoarse. You blinked. “I was scared. Not of you. Not of loving you.” He hesitated, voice barely steady. “Scared of being seen by you. You looked at me like I was something good. And I ain’t used to that. I didn’t know how to live up to it.”

You stared at him, the ache in your chest pressing hard against your ribs.

“I know I can’t undo what I said. And I ain’t askin’ for anything you don’t wanna give.” His voice cracked like dry wood. “But I want to be better. For you.”

Silence settled between you.

Then, very softly, you said: “You broke my heart.”

His head dropped. “I know.”

You took a breath, chest rising with the weight of it.

He looked up, eyes dark but clear. “I’ll keep doin’ it,” he promised. “Even if you never forgive me. I’ll keep showing up.”

You watched him for a long time.

And finally, slowly, trembling, you stepped forward, closing the space between you until it was just a breath.

He didn’t reach for you.

But when your hand found his, small and uncertain, he held it like it was holy.

The bakery was bathed in the soft, amber glow of late afternoon, shadows stretching long across the worn wooden floors. The only sounds were the steady tick of the old clock hanging crooked on the wall, and the faint hum of the oven cooling down, its warmth lingering like a gentle embrace.

You and Rafe stood close, closer than you had in weeks, but still, a careful distance from the past hurts that hovered between you like fragile glass.

Your fingers moved tentatively, reaching out, brushing against each other like two people learning how to touch again after a long absence. The contact was light, almost shy, but electric, sending a slow warmth crawling up your arms.

His breath caught. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, in the quick blink of his heavy-lidded eyes. Then, without a word, he swallowed, and his large hand, rough from days in the orchard but steady, rose to cover yours. The heat of his skin seeped into yours, grounding you both.

There was no need for words. No need to unravel the tangled threads of what had come before. Instead, his eyes locked on yours with a quiet intensity that said everything: I’m here now. I’m really here.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head, his lashes brushing his cheek as his lips met yours.

This kiss was nothing like the last desperate, hungry rush.

It was patient. Tender. Careful.

A soft confession. An unspoken vow.

You felt yourself dissolve into it, the ache, the regret, the hope, all folding into that quiet, steady moment.

Your heart swelled with everything you’d lost, everything you’d feared was gone forever, and everything you quietly prayed to find again.

When he finally pulled back, his breath mingling with yours, his forehead came to rest gently against yours.

His voice was a husky whisper, raw and sure: “I’m here.”

You smiled, feeling the old ache ease, replaced by something fragile and fierce all at once.

“And I’m not going anywhere,” you breathed back.

For the first time in a long while, the space between you wasn’t empty.

It was full, full of forgiveness, full of promise, full of the slow rebuilding of something real.

[zomquette]

Dunno 'er (Part 1)

Daryl Dixon x Wife!Reader

Summary: What was supposed to be just another hunting trip turns sideways when you cross paths with a group of armed, bald creeps who seem more cult than crew. Captured and dragged into their cold, clinical regime, you and Daryl are forced to pretend you’re strangers—just two more bodies in their machine. With your daughter back home, waiting for your return, survival isn’t just about making it out alive—it’s about holding onto what’s yours. You've got to fake it till you make it baby.

Era: Post-six-year time jump.

Genre: Post-apocalyptic angst, some fluff, slow-burn psychological tension, undercover drama, emotional hurt/comfort, dark humour, cult dystopia, established relationship, survival thriller

Warnings: Graphic violence, kidnapping, psychological manipulation, captivity, cult themes (indoctrination/assimilation), sexual harrassment, emotional distress, weapon use, reference to childbirth trauma and motherhood, forced separation, mention of infant loss (as a lie), emotional manipulation, strong language, suggestive dialogue, unhinged banter, mentions of torture, and oppressive regime ideology.

Auther's note: Nothing much to say really if you like this you're gonna love part 2 (it has smut hehehe 😈). Why don't I just write stupid short fluffy stuff so you don't lose your mind tryiing to ptoofread your long ass fics? Oh idk cause i hate myself 😃 Anyway enjoy and lemme know what ya think🙈

The woods were quiet in that honeyed, late-afternoon kind of way—the hour when the light poured down through the pines in long golden shafts and everything seemed suspended, like the earth itself was holding its breath. Somewhere off to the left, a bird called out low and slow, and the trees rustled with the lazy hush of wind threading through branches. It was peaceful in that deceptive, makes-you-forget-you’re-still-in-the-apocalypse kind of way.

Dog was in a world of his own, padding soundlessly through the underbrush with his nose low and ears alert, every inch of him the seasoned scout, weaving between the trees in wide, lazy arcs like he’d done a thousand times. Daryl walked slightly ahead of you, crossbow slung across his back, grumbling to himself like some kind of backwoods thundercloud in a leather vest. Every time his boot hit a stick or his elbow bumped a branch, he muttered louder.

“Y’know,” you called after him, smiling like a fox, "for someone of your supposed stealth caliber, you sure sound like a one-man marching band.'

He glanced over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes. “Ain’t the one who’s soundin’ like they need an inhaler.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you huffed, tossing your arms in theatrical exasperation. “If I knew we were doin’ cardio, I’da worn my good bra. I thought this was gonna be quality time with my husband—not a vivid reminder that breastfeeding ruined my center of gravity.”

That pulled a twitch from the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. "This is quality time," he retorted. "You bitchin', me enjoyin' the view.'

You attempted a scowl his way but faltered completely, just grinning like an idiot. Teasing aside, he would never get used to you calling him your ‘husband,’ and he would never admit to it, but it made his chest flutter slightly every time.

You trotted forward a little until you were close enough to bump his shoulder with yours. “Dani said you looked like a Sasquatch when you dropped her off this. Dunno where the hell she is learning those words from but she told me to tell you that you need ‘less scowl and more sparkle.’ Her words.”

“Told her she was lucky to even get a walk to school. Sulkin in the morning cause we were headin’ out later.”

“You love it,” you said, looping your arm through his as you walked. “You let her ride on your shoulders the whole way there and gave her your bandana so she could ‘look tough like Daddy.’”

“She’s five,” he muttered. “Don’t need to be lookin’ tough.”

“She made you wear her pink backpack the whole way home.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Said it was heavy and her legs were tired.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She rode on your shoulders the entire walk.”

“She said her arms were tired, too.”

You grinned. “Ya know she drew a picture of it in her journal and told her teacher, quote, ‘My daddy’s real strong ‘cause he can carry me and my stuff and he only complains a little.’”

That one cracked him, just a little. His mouth tipped into a slow, reluctant smile and he shook his head. “She’s too damn smart for her own good.”

“Gee, wonder where she gets that from,” you said sweetly, leaning into his side. “Not from you, that’s all I’m gonna say.”

“Oh yeah?” he raised his eyebrows in question; “What did she get from me then?”

“The patented Dixon brand of sulking in silence until someone guesses what’s wrong. She does it when I don’t cut her sandwich right.”

Daryl made a face like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Not when it was true. Not when you were looking at him like that.

“She’s a drama queen,” he replied, wiping a smudge of dirt from your face to get a reaction from you, which of course worked, with you swiping his hand away to do it yourself. “Gets it from you,” he finished with a smirk.

“She gets it from me?” you echoed, all mock-offended. “You’re the one who gets all worked up when someone goes near your bike.”

He shrugged, noncommittal—but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smirk he was trying to swallow.

“You mean to tell me,” you went on, walking backwards so you were facing him, “that you, Daryl Dixon, most dramatic man in the tri-county area, think I’m the diva?”

In two long strides he caught up to you, now toe-to-toe, his hands found your waist like second nature—fingers curling around your hips, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of your shirt like he’d been waiting for an excuse. 

He dipped his head, murmuring low, close to your mouth. “I think you talk too much.”

“Jokes on you - you married me.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said—gruff, teasing—then kissed the corner of your smirk just to shut you up.

You laughed into it, hand fisting in the front of his shirt. “You’re obsessed with me.”

He huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes fixed on you like he hadn’t heard anything more true. “Mhmm.”

You smiled at him, leaning in slowly, lips brushing his—soft, smug, almost taunting. He caught your bottom lip gently between his teeth, tugged just enough to make you gasp, then kissed you proper—slow and greedy, like it was his favorite habit.

You lingered, lips still brushing his; “hey, y’know, I was thinking—it’s pretty quiet out here—”

“Don’t,” he said immediately, sidestepping you.

You gasped, mock-offended. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

He gave you a look—half fond, half warning. “Always know what you’re gonna say. You get that look in your eyes when you’re about to start somethin’.” He pointed lazily at your face. “That one. Right there.”

“Oh, but it’s already started,” you said, catching up to him with a wicked little smirk.

You slung your bow off your shoulder, circling him with that slow, swaggering walk he always pretended not to watch. “Tell you what - first one to drop dinner wins,” you said, all innocent-like. “Loser’s gotta go down tonight.”

Daryl blinked, once. Then narrowed his eyes. “You serious? What is it with you n’ that?”

You gave a dramatic little shrug, like it didn’t mean anything at all. “Because it usually works out pretty well for me - that’s why.” 

By ‘pretty' well you mean 'mind-blowing-level' well but that goes without saying.

“I mean, unless you’re scared,” you said, drawing out the word like it was a dare. “S’fine if you don’t think you can perform under pressure.”

He snorted, shaking his head, but you didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched—trying not to smile.

“Aww,” you teased, leaning in just enough to crowd his space. “What’s the matter, babe? You chicken? C’mon. Rules are simple; win, and I’ll make you see stars. Lose, and I get to sit on your face. Sound fair?”

He rolled his eyes like you were exhausting, but his hand was already going to his crossbow. “…You’re on. Ten says you scare everything off with your talkin’ before you even get a shot off.”

You were already stepping backward into the trees, walking in reverse with a wink. “Mmhm. Go ahead - put your money where your mouth’s gonna be—literally.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared you down like he was already fucking you with his eyes. He walked over to you, stopping when you were face to face with him, his hand going to your ass and delivering a playful squeeze.

“When I win,” he said, voice low and rough, bringing up his finger to point at your mouth; “I’m gonna sit back and letcha prove just how smart that mouth of yours really is.”

"Hmmm," you hummed, stutting further into the underbrush with a sway of your hips before calling back to him; “better shoot straight then, baby.”

——

Your arrow cracked through the trees like a knife —clean, sharp, final. You didn’t even need to check. You already knew you’d hit it.

Daryl exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like a man holding back a lot of things: irritation, pride, arousal, maybe all three.

You turned on your heel with a grin so smug it could power a small city. “Ha! Well, well, well. Looks like I win.”

He didn’t say anything. Just gave you a look. To anyone else, that look would’ve read like a death glare—sharp, lethal, the kind of stare that promised blood and followed through—but you knew better, knew the twitch in his jaw wasn’t rage but restraint, the low simmer of a man three seconds from calculating whether the tree line offered enough privacy to absolutely rail you into the moss without a single goddamn witness. You ignored his stare; for the most part.

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” you said, slinging your bow over your shoulder with a victorious little sway. “Last time you looked at me like that, we ended up with Dani—so unless you’re prepared to give her a sibling, I suggest you remember the deal. I won fair and square, Dixon.”

Still nothing from him. Just that tight-lipped, jaw-flexing silence that always meant he was trying real hard not to rise to your bait.

You clicked your tongue, triumphant, and started backing away toward the fallen squirrel with a grin that was all teeth. “Better start hydrating now, baby,” you called over your shoulder. “I don’t wanna hear a single complaint when you’re down there fulfilling your husbandly duties later.”

That got you a grunt. Low. Muted. Real damn close to a groan. Which meant you were winning twice.

“You know,” you added, voice sing-song, “I’m starting to think you let me win. Missed your favorite meal, huh?”

“Get your damn squirrel, woman, and let’s go,” he snapped—but his voice cracked just enough to tell you exactly where his head was at.

You smirked, stepping into the trees with a little extra sway in your hips. “Eager,” you murmured. “I like that.”

You turned with a victorious little strut, weaving through the brush toward the base of the tree where your prize had dropped. The woods were quiet, still golden with afternoon light, the kind of peace that made you feel safe in a way you knew better than to trust.

You bent to withdraw your arrow and scooped up the squirrel by the tail, turning it over to check the shot placement—clean, right through the chest—when a sharp rustle hit your ears. Not the kind made by an animal. Not random.

The sound that cracked through the hush was sharp and calculated, a deliberate misstep masked as accident, but you knew better than to believe in coincidences this far from the walls. 

You didn’t make a noise Because just up ahead, Daryl was standing still—not stiff, not frozen by fear or surprise, but loose in that heavy, deliberate way he only moved when his senses were screaming louder than his words ever could, the kind of stillness that meant something had gone very wrong and his body was already three steps into the fight before the threat even had time to finish blinking.

Your eyes scanned the clearing, carefully, patiently, reading the space the way others might read a prayer—quiet, reverent, alert—and it didn’t take long to count them.

There were five of them, strangers in dark clothes with cruel faces, positioned like they’d done this sort of thing before—two flanking, two circling, one front and center like a stage actor performing for an audience he didn’t think could fight back.

One of them held Dog by the collar, gripping so tightly the poor mutt was practically vibrating with restrained fury, his snarl pulled taut like a bowstring and his teeth bared in a promise that would’ve made most men hesitate, though this one clearly wasn’t most men, because he didn’t seem to care.

Three more stood behind Daryl, their stances loose but not casual, one of them spinning a knife in lazy loops that didn’t look practiced so much as ritualistic, the rhythm hypnotic in its disregard for the tension winding the air between all of you.

But it was the man in front—the one who made your stomach coil and your fingers press just a little harder against the bowstring—who really mattered.

He stood tall and unmasked, built like a man who knew how to make his body a weapon, the kind of posture that said he didn’t need backup to be a threat. A jagged scar curved down the side of his face like a branding iron pressed into bone, catching the light with every tilt of his head — not the kind of wound that happened by accident, but one someone chose to wear like a name. His skin was pale, almost waxy in the half-light, but his features were all bite: sharp cheekbones, cruel mouth, and eyes the color of shattered ice. He had that look — the kind that made people cross the street, that made authority hesitate, that said he’d hurt things for fun and walked away clean every time. Al Pacino’s Scarface looked like a knockoff toy version of him. This guy was the real deal.

“Well, shit,” he drawled, voice smooth and slow, like he was savoring every syllable as he gave Daryl a long, sweeping once-over, his eyes dragging across him not with curiosity, but with the kind of sick appraisal that made your skin itch. “Ain’t this a surprise.”

Daryl didn’t react - just stared him down as if that would be enough to make them go away. The man stepped closer, boots soft on the mossy forest floor, hands swinging loose at his sides in a mockery of casual calm, the kind of predator confidence that didn’t need to raise a weapon to make a threat known.

“Didn’t think we’d find anyone worth our time this far out,” he continued, words syrupy with false friendliness, though the blade underneath it was unmistakable, “usually it’s just loners, runners, half-starved little roaches crawlin’ through the woods hoping not to be noticed.”

Still, Daryl said nothing. His eyes flicked—barely—past the man’s shoulder. Toward you. His gaze was quick, tense. Go.

You stayed exactly where you were, crouched in the shadows, the bowstring already kissed and humming beneath your fingers, your breath ghosting slow against your lip as you waited—not with fear, not with panic, but with the bone-deep patience of someone who had done this before and would do it again.

The man didn’t step forward. Didn’t need to. He just stood there, squared in the clearing like he’d already laid claim to it, his hands at his sides and his voice calm enough to scrape the nerves raw.

“My name is Marshal,” he said, not bothering with flair or warmth, the syllables crisp and almost bureaucratic, like he was introducing himself at a staff meeting instead of standing over a bloodstained forest floor. He didn’t wait for a handshake. Didn’t expect one. The name was a statement, not a courtesy.

Daryl said nothing. Not even a twitch of his jaw.

But Marshal, to his credit, didn’t seem offended. If anything, the silence appeared to amuse him, like he’d been hoping for it. He let his gaze wander lazily over Daryl’s frame, not in assessment, but with the idle confidence of someone who always assumed they held the upper hand.

“You know,” he said eventually, his tone lighter now, but no less pointed, “the quiet ones are always the ones with the best secrets.” He tilted his head just slightly, the edge of a smirk curling one side of his mouth like a reflex more than an expression. “So I’ll ask nicely—only once. You out here alone?”

Nothing. Daryl’s jaw ticked. Without realising, you pulled back harder on the string.

“That a yes?” the man pressed, voice light but sharpening at the edges. “Or you just don’t like my face?”

The silence that followed was heavier than any answer.

Daryl’s jaw ticked—just once, sharp and hard—and the tension pulled so tight inside your chest you thought it might snap.

“Yeah I’m alone. Just me and the Dog out here.” The lie rolled naturally off his tongue, however it didn’t seem to do the trick.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement—Knife Guy shifting behind Daryl, like he was about to pat him down or worse. That was the moment. That was it.

The itch in your fingers was too much. You let go.

The arrow sang through the clearing, slicing the air in a single, unbroken line that barely rustled the leaves it passed, and in that fraction of a breath between release and impact, the world stood still in the way it always did just before violence made itself known.

It struck the man in the chest with a dull, wet crack—not a scream, not a roar, just a sudden and final exhale as his body recoiled, legs buckling beneath him like a marionette with its strings severed, the momentum of the shot folding him backwards onto the earth as though the ground had opened up to reclaim him.

The silence that followed was not shock but calculation, the space between impact and response stretched just wide enough for one heartbeat—yours—and then it all rushed forward at once.

The nearest man spun toward you with a shout tearing from his throat, his feet thundering over the forest floor as he charged with his weapon raised, but you were already moving, already rising, already meeting him head-on with the kind of brutal, practiced grace that turned instinct into muscle memory.

You caught his arm before the swing could land, your fingers locking around his wrist as you turned with the motion and brought your knee hard into the bend of his leg, using his own speed against him, driving him down into the earth with a thud that forced the breath from his chest and the balance from his bones.

Before he could recover, before anyone else could reach you, your knee was braced against his back, your handgun was out, and the cold metal of the barrel was pressed flush against the side of his skull.

Click.

The sound of the safety disengaging cut louder than any shout, and in that moment the clearing froze again, every movement suspended in an uneasy stillness, the tension folding in on itself as weapons hovered half-raised, as Dog growled low and furious in his captor’s grip, as Daryl’s eyes flicked between you and the men like he was already choosing which one he’d drop first.

The man beneath you stayed very still.

“Easy there little lady,” the man said, but still not lowering his weapon “no one else has gotta die here… not unless you make it so.”

“Sounds pretty tempting,” you said, gun pressing harder into the man’s temple.  Dog let out a whine, as if begging you not to make things worse; but that was kinda out of character for you.

“So you aren’t alone,” The guy said to Daryl, voice slightly rising in volume. 

“I am… dunno her,” he replied, eyes darting between you and scarface.

You arched a brow, not breaking focus, but somewhere behind the tension you appreciated the quick thinking, the way he slipped into the lie without hesitation, the way it played into your hands like you’d planned it together.

“Yep,” you said, your tone breezy despite the gun still pressed to the stranger’s temple, “figured I’d be a good Samaritan and step in to save the poor guy and his dog. Y’know, just doing my civic duty. You boys believe in that sort of thing, right?”

The sarcasm slid off your tongue like silk, but the truth was already shifting beneath the surface of the moment, something you could feel in your stomach before your mind could name it.

You spoke again, this time with more stern;  “Listen here Mr Clean; you’re gonna let this guy and his dog go, and we can all go on our merry way.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat; something told you that these guys wouldn’t go for the bait.

“Or what?” Marshal asked, his voice low and almost amused, like the whole exchange was nothing more than a curiosity, a story he’d tell later. “You gonna shoot him, then kill all of us?”

He looked you over from head to toe—not with fear, not with caution, but with the kind of condescending smirk that said he didn’t believe you had it in you.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he said this;

“Do it.”

For the first time since your arrow flew, your grip wavered—not with fear, not with doubt, but with confusion, because there was no tremble in his voice, no hint of bluster or false courage, just calm, almost bored resolve.

You studied his face, searching for a crack, a flicker of guilt, something—anything—that would mark him as human, but there was nothing there beyond ice and conviction.

“What, getting nervous now?” he asked, cocking his head as he gestured wide to the men around him, to the man you were pinning, to the man holding Dog, to Daryl, to the still body behind him cooling in the leaves. “See, there are plenty more where he came from. He’s replaceable. We all are”

Your stomach turned slowly, something cold creeping along the edge of your spine, and when you looked to Daryl, his expression mirrored your own—no longer tense with violence, but with something deeper, something stranger, a knowing that this wasn’t just another ragtag ambush in the woods.

You looked down to the man beneath you, expecting resistance, maybe a flicker of fear, but instead you found him staring back up with calm, hollow eyes, and when he spoke, it wasn’t to plead or protest.

“To serve The Creed is to survive.”

You blinked once.

The words didn’t register at first, not fully, not with the weight they carried.

They sounded rehearsed. Like a motto. Like something he’d said a hundred times before.

You looked around the clearing again, to the others, to their expressions—unmoving, unwavering, untouched by the death or the danger or the very real threat of violence.

Either they were the best bluffers you’d ever seen…

…or they were completely unhinged.

You drew a long breath, slow and deep, and exhaled it like you were shedding something heavy.

Then, with a soft mutter beneath your breath—“I’m not gonna shoot ya”—you eased the gun back from the man’s head and stood slowly, offering him your hand like a peace gesture carved from something sharp and ironic.

He hesitated, just briefly,  perplexed, then accepted it nonetheless .

You helped him to his feet with a small, polite smile, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders as he looked at you, clearly confused, clearly unarmed, clearly wrong to assume anything.

From the edge of the clearing, one of the armed men let out a low, amused chuckle — the kind that reeked of dismissal and cheap bravado. His gaze dragged lazily down the length of you, then flicked back to his companions with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Knew she didn’t have it in her,” he muttered, like he was doing them the favor of stating the obvious.

You met his gaze without blinking, something colder curling behind your eyes — not fire, not fury, but that hollow kind of calm that came just before something terrible.

“Right.” SNAP.

The motion was fast, practised, fluid—nothing about it hasty or messy. Blink and you missed it.

You stepped forward, reached around the man you had just pulled up from the dirt, and without a single wasted moment, you braced your hand at the back of his head and twisted sharply to the side.

The sound that followed was quiet but final—a soft, vile crack that echoed louder in the silence than any gunshot.

The body dropped like dead weight.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t look down.

You just stood over him, breathing slow and steady. The rest of them stood stunned, as if the script had suddenly changed and no one had passed them the new lines.

Except for him.

Except for the one who had been watching you the whole time like he had been waiting for this exact moment, like he’d known what you would do before you did it.

He turned to face you fully, his head tilting slightly, and the grin on his face never once slipped.

“Now you’re definitely coming with me bitch.” His voice was almost reverent, almost amused, eyes glittering with something dark and pleased. “You just cost me two of my brothers. ”

You stepped into the clearing with your bow now drawn, arrow notched, your posture calm, steady, lethal.

The third arrow rested against the string like a promise.

“Three if you keep talkin’.l”

The scarred man laughed—full-bodied, amused, like you’d just entertained him far better than he’d expected to be today.

“Oh, I like this,” he said. “This is fun. This is real fun.”

Then his voice changed. It was subtle. But you heard the shift. A coldness bleeding in around the edges.

“Bag ‘em both,” he said.

Before you could let your arrow fly—before you could even fully shift your weight—something slammed into your ribs from behind, a hard, focused jab from the butt of a rifle or a boot or maybe just someone’s elbow delivered with military precision.

Your knees gave out before you even realized they’d locked. The ground came up hard and unyielding, slamming into your shoulder and hip, bark and grit grinding into your skin, your cheek mashed into the loamy earth that smelled like rot and pine sap. Your lungs stuttered against the weight of it, each breath arriving late, shallow and wrong, your limbs jerking in spasms that looked more like refusal than resistance. You weren’t out, not fully, Dog's erratic barking was still very much echoing through all of Virginia, but whatever was coursing through you had hijacked your body, pulled the strings loose and left you twitching, scrambling, powerless.

Daryl moved before he thought. “Hey—” The word cracked out sharp and rough, more breath than voice, but it carried. It punched through the silence like a warning shot, a reflex yanked from the gut, unfiltered and fast.

And then he stepped.

He didn’t lunge, not fully. Didn’t throw the first punch. But the second your body hit the dirt, he surged toward you, a single pace, like muscle memory alone had yanked him forward. He didn’t even realise he’d done it until the barrel of a rifle knocked sideways into his ribs and a hand shoved hard against his chest.

“Don’t try it,” someone snapped, the safety click loud and deliberate, like punctuation on a threat.

“I told you,” Daryl said through clenched teeth, “I don’t fuckin’ know her.”

“Mhm,” you muttered into the dirt, “and yet you’re still talkin’.”

You were halfway upright, already shifting your weight to stand—ready to hold your ground, to meet whatever came next with teeth bared and spine straight—but something struck the side of your head—not with the full intent to kill, but with enough weight behind it to scatter your thoughts like broken teeth in the dark.

You barely heard the crunch of leaves before Daryl’s voice cracked through the static one last time.

Then nothing.

———-

You woke to the sound of your own breath—shallow, uneven, catching in your throat like it had been fleeing something long before your eyes opened. The cold wasn’t the natural chill of the woods —it was the kind that clung to poured concrete, lifeless and stale, a chill that sank into your bones and made your skin feel thinner.

The light overhead was a jaundiced white, flickering just enough to make the silence feel haunted. A low electrical whine buzzed at the edges of your ears, almost imperceptible but persistent, like a mosquito in the dark.

When you moved, you felt the rope first. Not coarse, not kind—just tight enough to rub skin raw if you tested it. Your arms were cinched behind the back of a metal chair, your ankles fastened to its legs. A pulsing ache had settled into your shoulders.

Across the room—bare, concrete, windowless—Daryl sat slouched in a matching chair. His posture was deceptively slack, but you knew better. His fingers twitched faintly behind the ropes, already reading the bindings like a map, already planning. His eyes flicked up to meet yours.

Blood streaked down his temple, painting a line along the crease of his jaw, and his hair hung damp against his face, but none of it masked the panic beneath his scowl. His chest rose too fast, too shallow, like his lungs hadn’t caught up with the sight of you still standing.

His gaze scoured your face first—your pupils, your mouth, the side of your head where the blood had dried—then dropped down, darting across every inch of you like he was counting injuries. Like he was checking for anything you weren’t showing. His eyes burned into the rope at your wrists. Your knees. Your posture. Your breathing. Every tiny thing you didn’t say.

You good? he mouthed, jaw tight, eyes wide and wild with restraint.

You gave the smallest nod, not because it was true, but because it was the only answer you had. Survival wasn’t pretty—it didn’t leave much room for poetry. Your lips were split. Your head throbbed. But your spine was still holding, so that was something.

His jaw twitched. He looked back at the door behind him, then back to you.

Then—barely a whisper, rough as gravel and sharp with hope—“Think you can slip outta them ropes?”

"workin' on it,' you whispered back. You can worry about your rope burns getting infected later if you managed to get free. You couldn't do that if you were dead.

The door opened with a groan of metal dragged against metal, loud and long and intentional. Marshal stepped in, wearing a grin too wide to be real, accompanied by two other foot soldiers who stood guard by the door. The man's familiar scar ran from temple to jaw on one side of his face, cutting through the smile like a wound that never healed right.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. Just let the silence stretch thin and mean between the three of you, like he was waiting for the atmosphere to sweat.

Finally, Marshal stepped forward, boots echoing on the floor, his hands loose at his sides like he had all the time in the world to get what he wanted.

“So,” he murmured, circling the space between you. “Still sticking to the story? You two don’t know each other?”

You kept your eyes steady on his face, refusing to glance at Daryl. Any slip, any twitch, could give you both away.

The man’s boots tapped a steady rhythm across the floor, the kind of pacing meant to unnerve, each step heavy with intention, like he was winding something up inside the room. “I’ve seen a lot of liars,” he began, dragging the words out with lazy confidence, his voice pitched just low enough to make your skin crawl. “I’ve been lied to by the best—hell, I’ve trained people to lie. But even the good ones crack when someone they care about’s in the room.”

He came to a slow stop in front of Daryl, studying him the way someone might examine a mutt at a shelter—curious, condescending, waiting for signs of obedience. “She’s awful protective of you,” he continued, and though his tone hovered on the edge of admiration, the smile curling at the corner of his mouth was anything but kind. “Kinda sweet. Funny, too. For a stranger.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his head, just kept the man’s gaze. But the cords in his neck stood out beneath the dirt and sweat, tight as drawn wire, and though his body stayed still, the tension radiating from him was loud enough to be deafening.

The man turned to you, slowly, like he was savouring the moment, dragging it out just to see how much discomfort he could pull from the air. “And you,” he said, eyes glinting, “I gotta say, I like your style. All that mouth. All those arrows. Righteous little bitch, huh?”

“Actually, that’s 'Little Miss Righteous Bitch' to you, Marshal Microdick.” You gave him your sweetest smile, the kind that usually came right before bloodshed Daryl exhaled through his nose, low and sharp, shooting you a look that said plain as day: You just had to make it worse, didn’t you?

Marshal's smile grew wider, his eyes never leaving your face as he moved to crouch in front of you. This guy had a PhD in being creepy; looking up at you now, his eyes bore into yours, it made you feel so irrevocably exposed. His stare didn’t undress you; it dissected you — like you were the frog in a middle school science class, and he was the kid who smiled too much while holding the scalpel. “Tell me something,” he said, his voice falling softer now, almost curious. “You got any kids?”

The question landed wrong, jarring in its shift, as if someone had skipped a page in a story. There's deflection and then there's deflection. You just called his dick tiny and now he wants to know about your family status? You looked to Daryl, to see if you had misheard the question, only to see that he was staring back at you, face slighty pale. Yep, you heard the man right. Your breath caught for the smallest of moments before you answered, a beat too fast to be smooth. “No.”

It wasn’t believable. You knew it as soon as it left your lips. And from the way his eyes narrowed, the slow smirk that pulled at his face, he knew it too. The knife appeared in his hand with unsettling ease, as if he hadn’t drawn it so much as conjured it from the very bones of the room.

His presence was so close now that you could taste the rot on his breath, could feel the heat of his body where the cold had ruled before. The blade teased the fabric of your shirt where it dipped over the valley of your breast, and you went still—not out of fear, but out of instinct, knowing that any twitch, any tremble, would only feed him. If he simply pushed forward, that was it. You were dead. Behind your back, your fingers curled against the rope.

Daryl surged forward in his chair, the scrape of the legs loud and jarring, his growl nearly animal. “The fuck you doin'?”

Marshal didn’t acknowledge him. He dragged the blade through your shirt with a kind of methodical cruelty, not rushed or frenzied, but deliberate — like he’d done it before and wanted you to know it. The fabric didn’t tear so much as it surrendered, parting inch by inch beneath the tip, splitting with a sound too soft to match the violation of it. First your bra came into view, then the smooth plane of your abdomen, the curve of your navel, the soft rise of your lower belly — until your shirt was no more than a pathetic flap clinging to your spine, the flimsy remains of modesty hanging on by a thread. The light betrayed, the sweat that covered your upper body apparent.. From behimd you heard footsteps shuffling closer. The 'guards' apparently needed to keep a closer eye on you now that your shirt was no more.

Daryl’s shoulders shifted with a sudden, barely-contained jerk, his wrists twisting hard against the restraints like he could brute-force them apart on willpower alone. His breathing was shallow, nostrils flared, eyes fixed on you with a rising panic he couldn’t mask anymore—like every inch of his body was screaming to move, to reach you, to stop whatever the hell was about to happen.

You forced yourself to breathe, slowly, deliberately, as the chill hit your skin, and when his fingers reached for the button of your jeans, you flinched despite yourself. He peeled back the waistband, just enough. Enough to see.

Your scar. Pale and unforgiving. A line etched by love, by pain, by survival.

He sat back slightly, something sharp and curious glittering in his eyes now, as if the final piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. “Interesting,” he murmured, dragging the point of his knife along the edge of the scar. “Saw this earlier—back in the woods. Just a flash. But up close? That’s a birth scar. Can’t be more than a couple of years old tops.

You closed your eyes, expecting to feel the white hot slicing of your flesh, but it never came. The chill that swept through you then was not from the room. Daryl’s voice cracked the air in response, not loud, but deep and fierce, a line drawn in blood. “Stop.”

That single word seemed to please the man more than any scream would have. He turned to Daryl with something wicked behind his eyes, something giddy, like he’d finally peeled back the last layer of a game he’d been playing alone. “Didn’t take much to get you talkin’, huh?”

Still, Daryl didn’t rise to it. He looked at your defeated face, then at your abdomen; “she’s someone’s mom.”

There it was—truth spoken like a prayer, low and reverent and shaking beneath the weight of restraint. His eyes flashed to yours, then to that familiar scar on your abdomen that he had traced, kissed, caressed a million times, only now it hurt to look at, because it meant leverage for those who wanted to hurt his family.

“The baby,” you said, and the words caught sharp behind your teeth like barbed wire, dragging as they came out. “She didn’t make it.”

You kept your eyes pinned to the floor, as if looking up might shatter the last fragile thread holding your composure together. The lie burned on your tongue, every syllable tasting like grief you didn’t want to imagine. But your voice didn’t crack from pretending — it cracked from the truth underneath it, from the unbearable thought of her not surviving, even in fiction. Your chest ached with the pressure of it, tears welling in your eyes, hot and honest. You didn’t look at Daryl. You couldn’t. One glance and whatever was left of your control would splinter to pieces.

You sat motionless, the remains of your shirt clinging to your ribs, the scar exposed, your skin aching with shame and fury and the deep, gut-level fear of being seen in a way that had nothing to do with nakedness. You finally met Daryl’s gaze just for a heartbeat, and the grief that passed between you was heavy and wordless—because he was pretending not to know you to protect you, and that lie was a noose around both your throats.

The man stepped back at last, brushing off his hands like your body was something he was done dissecting. “You got pretty lies,” he said, too calm now. "Cry pretty too."

You glared at him with a glassy stare. Usually now you would make some bitchy remark about his bald head, but you couldn't fimd the words.

Before Daryl could protest, before you could brace yourself, the two men who were standing idly by were on you—grabbing, lifting, and dragging you.

You didn’t fight. Not then. Not because you were afraid, but because your fight was still calculating. Still waiting. You turned your head just enough to catch one last look at Daryl, whose eyes were burning with fear.

The door slammed shut with a finality that stole the air from your lungs, and the cold rushed in again, swallowing you whole.

——-

They didn’t simply shove you through the doorway—they dragged you like something unwanted and inconvenient, a burdensome weight rather than a person, their hands impersonal and rough as they gripped your upper arms and forced you forward until your boots scraped against the concrete with resistance. One of them, the taller one with the dead eyes, pressed the cold muzzle of a rifle against your spine with just enough pressure to remind you who held control, and when the rusted door finally groaned open on hinges that screeched like an animal in pain, they didn’t hesitate—they tossed you inside like you were nothing more than trash at the end of their shift.

You hit the ground hard, the collision knocking the breath from your lungs and sending a jolt of agony up your shoulder as it took the full brunt of the fall. Your hip followed, then your knees, scraping raw against the grit of the floor as dust and gravel scattered beneath you, clinging to your torn clothes and skin as if eager to mark you further. Your hand landed on something sharp—metal maybe, or broken plastic—and you hissed through your teeth, curling your palm protectively while trying to gather what little dignity you had left.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the slow settling of your breath and the final clunk of the door as it slammed behind you, sealing in the cold and sealing out any remaining illusion that you were still in control of your fate.

You stayed on your knees longer than you should have, arms shaking from the tension you’d been holding since they first separated you from Daryl. The silence was thick, suffocating, broken only by the fading echo of footsteps and the distant hum of something electrical—a light perhaps, or a fan that hadn’t worked in years but still emitted that nauseating buzz. The air smelled of mildew and rust, thick with the sour scent of old sweat and something that reminded you of dried blood, and though you hadn’t yet looked around, you already knew what kind of place this was.

When you finally lifted your head, blinking the grit from your eyes, you took in your surroundings with the caution of someone half expecting to see bones. The cell was narrow and windowless, the walls poured concrete, cracked and flaking in places where time had eaten through the paint. Old graffiti—names, tallies, desperate phrases carved with fingernails or knives—clung to the back wall like ghosts, and in the far corner, a cot sagged with the weight of neglect, its mattress stained, its frame bent inwards like it had given up the effort to hold weight long ago. Near the center of the room, a small drain was embedded in the floor, surrounded by a ring of dark discoloration that your brain refused to label, and scrawled into the concrete above it, deep and angry, was a single phrase that made your stomach tighten.

TO SERVE THE CREED IS TO SURVIVE.

The words from earlier - that man's final words

You closed your eyes, heart pounding, the words branding themselves into your brain. You wanted to laugh, maybe, or scream, but your throat was too dry for either, so instead you leaned your head back against the wall and let the ache in your bones settle while you clutched at the fabric of your torn shirt, trying to warm yourself, trying to feel something other than helpless. But the silence didn’t last.

Somewhere beyond the wall, muffled but close enough to bleed through the cracks, you heard the sound of voices—low at first, then louder, angrier, the kind of cadence that made your body stiffen instinctively. You held your breath and shifted toward the source, pressing your ear to the chill of the wall as you tried to decipher what was being said.

Then you heard it—a grunt, unmistakable, raw with defiance and pain—and your heart stopped mid-beat.

Daryl.

You froze, every muscle going rigid, and then a second sound cut through the tension like a blade—something sharp, like a fist against flesh, followed by the low scrape of a chair dragging across concrete and the dull thud of boots shifting unevenly beneath weight.

You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening.

You could picture it clearly—the way he would sit with his chin low, his shoulders coiled like a spring, his hands curling into fists even though they couldn’t swing, the look in his eyes daring them to try harder. Your breath hitched as you imagined his face—the blood, the stubborn set of his mouth—and when the door creaked open again somewhere down the hall and another voice joined the fray, colder, more practiced, you knew without a doubt that this was the man in charge.

You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening—didn’t need to watch the blows land or hear the chair legs screech to feel the echo of it vibrating in your ribs like a warning. You knew Daryl’s body like your own. You could hear the way he held pain in his breath, could imagine the stubborn set of his jaw as his fists curled against rope and frustration, knew he’d be taking hits with that same quiet defiance that made people hate him or fear him or both. And you knew—without a shred of doubt—that he hadn’t said a word.

Not until they made him.

Not until they started looking for cracks.

There was a lull in the rhythm now. You heard the scrape of something heavy being dragged, the low murmur of voices you couldn’t quite catch. Then came the familiar cadence of boots on concrete, slower this time, almost casual in the way only true danger could be.

Marshal.

His voice cut through the corridor like a blade dulled by disuse—still sharp, but serrated around the edges. “Y’know, the thing about people,” he said, tone light with that salesman swagger you remembered too well, “is they’ll tell you everything you need to know without ever opening their mouths. You just gotta know where to look.”

Silence followed.

You leaned closer to the wall, breath held tight in your chest, every nerve alive with the kind of tension that left you aching.

“I found somethin’ on her,” the man continued. “Thought it was cute at first. Real sentimental.” You could hear fabric shifting, something small and metallic being fished from a pocket, and the pause that followed was deliberate, practiced, designed for maximum effect.

Another voice stirred behind the silence—one you would’ve missed if you didn’t know it like muscle memory. Daryl exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that came with effort, like he was trying to swallow something back before it could escape.

The man chuckled softly. “See, I thought maybe it was just a trinket. She looks the type, doesn’t she? Nostalgic. Soft around the edges, even with all that bark.” His voice dropped a little, laced with something colder now. “But then I took a closer look.”

You pressed yourself tighter to the wall, fingers curling against the concrete as you waited for the hammer to drop, because you didn’t know what he was holding—but Daryl did.

“Know what this is?” the man asked, his voice eager and chirpy. “She was wearin’ this on her ring finger. It’s a wedding ring.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Custom made, even. Not bad work. Bet it was handmade. I’ve seen one like it before—twisted copper, that rough-welded join. Real pretty.”

Daryl said nothing.

But the air shifted. Your breath hitched in your throat before you even knew why, some muscle memory reacting faster than thought, and without meaning to, your thumb brushed across the skin where the ring should’ve been—an automatic, unconscious gesture born from countless mornings waking up beside him, from years of grounding yourself on the familiar twist of copper wrapped around your finger. But this time, there was nothing. Just skin. Bare and foreign. The absence was so stark, so wrong, it made your stomach twist, your heart lurching in your chest like it couldn’t find its rhythm. That ring had never left you—not through blizzards or ambushes or illness or childbirth. You had clutched it through nightmares, twisted it when words failed, kissed it during times you needed Daryl with you but he couldn't be there, and now it was gone, ripped from you without you even knowing, and held by the same bastard who had tried to peel you open with a knife. Daryl had made that ring for you, and asked you to be his forever. That ring means more to you can words can comprehend.

The man hummed as if savouring the discomfort. “I reckon she never takes it off. Women like that… they don’t take things like this off unless they have to.”

Still no response.

But that silence—it deepened. Got denser. Tighter.

And then came Daryl’s voice, low and flat, the kind of tone he only used when the restraint was about to crack. “You oughta give that back.”

The man didn’t laugh. He just tilted into the quiet again, dragging it out like he wanted to catch something—anything—in the stillness.

“Why?” he asked, but the word was laced with interest, not confusion. “Why would I give it back?”

Another pause.

And then Daryl answered, too slow, too cautious, like he was measuring every syllable against a cliff’s edge. “’Cause it’s hers.”

Nothing else. Just that.

You couldn’t see his face, but you knew the look in his eyes—that storm of fury behind the ice, that helpless rage masked as indifference. You imagined him still bound to the chair, bleeding from the mouth, hands flexing behind his back with the kind of restraint that tore muscle from bone, and yet somehow still managing to sound like he didn’t care.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not quite.

Because Marshal let out a sound—low, curious, not convinced but not dismissive either. “Hers, huh?” he repeated.

There was a moment there, so fragile it barely held, where you could feel the man teetering between suspicion and satisfaction, like he wanted to push a little harder but couldn’t quite figure out where to press. The silence stretched again, elastic and dangerous.

And then the crack came.

Not in the lie but in the man’s patience.

The first punch landed, so harsh you swore you felt it, like it was you who had just been hit and not Daryll. You heard the dull smack of fist against flesh, followed by the scrape of a chair leg as Daryl’s body recoiled but didn’t fall. Then another—harder, this time—and a wet sound that meant blood.

“You're gonna break. Just a matter of time,” the man said, colder now, less amused.

Daryl spat—on the floor, maybe at his feet, maybe just to get the taste out. “You asked a question. I answered.”

Another hit followed.

Then footsteps retreated, not rushed, just done for now.

You backed away from the wall as silence crept in again, this time different—heavier. It sat in your chest like stone.

It felt like hours before they opened your door again.

When they finally dragged him in, his boots dragged behind him and his shirt was soaked with blood, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—they found you instantly. He said nothing, didn’t reach for you, didn’t flinch when they threw him into the opposite cell and slammed the bars shut with a sound like a gavel.

But that ring, the one you didn’t realize was gone until just now, that small, sacred thing—they still had it. And Daryl knew it.

And that was almost enough to break him. Almost.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

There was no breath left for it, no courage or comfort that words could offer now—not when the distance between your cells felt like a chasm, not when the only thing separating you from him was a strip of concrete and an iron silence too wide to cross.

He sat where they left him, slumped against the wall like gravity had finally caught up to him, one leg crooked, one arm trembling just slightly at the elbow where he tried to shift his weight and failed. Blood was drying at his temple, smeared across the side of his face like paint, and there was a bruise blooming over his jaw, so dark it swallowed the shadow. But his eyes stayed on you, steady, hollowed, wild. It hurt to even look at him now, in that state.

It reminded you of that time he came home late, muttered something about a long day and being tired, barely even looked at you as he slipped through the door. That in itself wasn’t strange—Daryl had always been quiet when he needed space—but what threw you was how he didn’t even spare you a glance, didn’t give you the usual kiss hello, that soft, wordless way the two of you always reconnected after time apart. You’d racked your brain trying to figure out what you’d done wrong, replayed every moment from earlier that day and came up empty. Eventually, you chalked it up to a mood and let him have his space, curling up on the couch with Dog for the night.

The next morning, you found out why. He’d tried to sneak out early to head to Denise’s, hoping to get patched up without you knowing. What he didn’t count on was you lying there wide awake—because of course you hadn’t slept. And when he turned toward the door, you saw it: the black eye, the swollen jaw, the way his knuckles looked like they’d been through a grinder. You’d flipped, right there in the doorway. Turns out he’d run into a couple of less-than-neighborly types. He gave the usual “you should see the other guy” deflection, but he hated that look you got when you saw him like that—wide-eyed, sick with worry, on the verge of tears or homicide, maybe both.

That’s why he’d avoided you altogether.

You’d made him promise not to do that again. To stop shielding you from the aftermath like you weren’t part of it. But you both knew he would, if it meant sparing you the worry.

But not today - he knew that you heard what went down just momemt sago, and it was useless to pretend not to.

You curled in tighter, hands pressing against your knees, clutching the torn fabric of your shirt as if it could still hide the places that had been exposed, the places that still burned. Your skin felt cold where the scarred man’s fingers had lingered, colder still where your ring used to rest.

Daryl’s gaze dropped. Not away from you—but down. Down to your hands. Your bare fingers.

His breath caught. He didn’t mean it to. It was too small to be a gasp and too soft to be a curse, but you saw it, felt it across the space like a tremor underfoot. And then his jaw locked. His hands, still bound in front of him, curled into fists so tight his knuckles whitened beneath the dried blood. Not because of pain. Not even because of anger. But because the truth had landed now, fully. Your ring—his ring—was gone, and not by your choice.

You saw it, the realization settle into the lines of his face like dust. He didn’t ask where it was. He didn’t need to. He knew. He always knew.

“He must have taken it off me when I was out,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath, brittle and breaking in your throat. “It feels wrong not wearing it, like—” Your voice cracked before you could finish. “ Like I'm missing a limb."

He didn’t answer right away.

Just sat there, staring at your hand, his brow furrowed like he was trying to rewrite time itself, like maybe if he looked hard enough, it would just reappear on your finger, copper catching the light the way it always had when you fidgeted with it during long watches or sleepless nights.

His voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse. Not sharp. Not angry. Just tired.

“I know.”

And you did.

You knew he believed you. You knew it without question.

But there was still something in his face—something fragile and dangerous and flickering behind his eyes like a fuse that had been lit but hadn’t yet reached its end. Not rage. Not yet. Just fear wearing the mask of restraint.

He shifted, dragging himself up with visible effort until he could lean back against the wall properly. The movement sent a wince through his features, and his left hand went instinctively to his side where the bruises were darkest. But his gaze never left yours.

“They touch you?” he asked, voice rougher this time, like the words tasted like blood on the way out.

You hesitated, and that pause alone was enough.

He turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that you saw the cords in his neck tighten again, that silent storm building. But then he breathed in, slow and jagged, like he was wrestling with the need to stay grounded—for you. For her.

“I’m okay,” you said, which wasn’t true, not even a little, but it was the only thing you could give him right now.

He closed his eyes at that, not like he believed you, but like he needed to pretend he did. For just a second. For the sake of sanity.

Across the floor between your cells, the silence stretched long and heavy, like a third body laid out between you. You looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, it wasn’t the pain or the bruises or the blood that made your chest tighten—it was the way he looked at you like you were still whole. Like even here, even now, you were still the girl he slipped that copper ring onto by moonlight, with hands that shook like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

He didn’t move for a long time, not even to sit up straighter, just let his head tilt against the back wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright, his gaze flickering to your face and then away again like he couldn’t quite hold it without cracking. The blood on his shirt had started to dry in heavy patches, and every shallow breath he took looked like it cost him something he didn’t have to spare. And still, he hadn’t said a word. Not yet.

You wanted to reach through the bars. Crawl to him. Stitch your hands into the bruises on his ribs and tell them to give him back. But your body stayed locked to the wall, knees drawn up, arms crossed tight over your torn shirt, and your fingers—gods, your fingers—wouldn’t stop tracing that empty groove on your hand where your ring should’ve been. You’d touched it a hundred times a day without noticing, the curve of it like punctuation to every thought. Now it was gone, and the hollow space it left burned.

“…I ain’t ever wanted to kill someone that bad.”

The words rasped out of him like sand dragged across stone, slow and sharp, and they hung there between you, suspended in the cold with nowhere to settle. His eyes were already on you, half-lidded and rimmed in purple shadows, but now he turned fully, jaw clenched against pain, and the look he gave you wasn’t just fury—it was grief, raw and unravelled.

“Not since the Sanctuary,” he said, and the way he said it, like he was reaching through memory to some long-buried rage, made your stomach twist with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying aloud.

You didn’t answer him. You just looked back, open and hollow, the silence between you not cutting this time, just bearing down slow like fog in the woods.

“When he grabbed your shirt,” he murmured, and already you could hear the break coming in his voice, that thin edge he tried so hard to sand down, “I thought he was gonna—” He stopped, swallowed, shook his head like he could throw the image off if he just tried hard enough. “Didn’t matter why. Didn’t matter what he was tryin’ to prove. All I could think about was gettin’ my hands around his neck.”

You pressed your forehead to the bars. Your knuckles had gone bloodless.

He exhaled harshly, stared down at his lap, and for a moment you thought he might stop there, might wall himself back up like he always did when something hurt too much. But then he spoke again, and his voice was quieter now, almost unsure.

“And then I saw it. Your scar.”

You didn’t mean to flinch. But the words hit like cold water, and your spine curled in instinctive defense.

“Never really got why ya didn't like it,” he went on, a little steadier now, “Guess it puts it into perspective...How close I came to losin’ you. How close we came to losin’ her.”

You clenched your jaw and said nothing. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.

“He made it ugly,” you whispered finally, and it wasn’t even the words—it was what they meant. What they’d twisted inside you. That something sacred could be used as a threat.

“Nah,” Daryl said, and it was the first time in hours his voice didn’t sound broken. “He tried. That’s all. He tried. But he don’t get it.”

Your eyes flicked to him through the dark, heart caught in your throat, waiting.

“I remember when she was just shy of 2 years old,” he said, and something in his expression softened, like memory was the only comfort left to him. “You were sleepin’. Out cold. Couldn’t blame you—you hadn’t slept for shit in weeks. She was wide awake though. Just starin’. Fussin’, but not cryin’. Just lookin’ at you like you were the moon and the stars n'... somethin’ else she didn’t have a words for yet.”

Your breath caught, chest rising in a silent hiccup.

“She kept pokin’ your stomach,” he went on, and there was a warmth now, like even here, even in hell, he could conjure the glow of your home. “Kept touchin’ that scar. Over and over, real careful, like she was tryin’ to figure out what it was. I asked her what she was doin’, and she looked up at me, so serious, and said, ‘Mama’s got a zipper.’”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It was cracked and watery and half-swallowed by a sob, but it was real.

“I told her that's how she got here”, he said, rubbing at his jaw like he could still feel her small hand in his. “Like we unzipped you and there she was—all red and mad and louder than a goddamn siren.”

You buried your face against your arm to muffle the sound you made.

“She thought it was magic,” Daryl said softly, smiling. “Still does. Says it’s her magic door.”

You tried to breathe around the ache in your chest. “And now he used it like a weapon.”

“He can’t touch that,” Daryl said. “Not really. Not where it counts.”

You didn’t reply, didn’t need to. Your silence was agreement, was gratitude, was a desperate tether to him across the cold and the dark.

You stayed quiet for a long time after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say—there was too much, in fact—but because your throat felt thick and raw, like you’d swallowed a scream and hadn’t managed to keep all of it down. You held your knees tight to your chest, fingers digging crescents into your arms, the cold from the concrete floor bleeding up through your spine, but that wasn’t what was making you shake. It wasn’t the chill. It was the memory.

You were still trying to scrub it from beneath your skin—the way his hands moved with that awful, clinical deliberation, like he’d done it before, like peeling you open wasn’t an act of violence but one of strategy. Fingers curled beneath your shirt like they were reading a map, like your body was just terrain to him. You hadn’t felt fear for yourself, not at first. Not until he saw it. Not until he stopped smiling.

That scar—your scar—the one you barely remembered unless Dani asked about it, the one that lived in the blurry corners of mirrors—had never once made you feel ashamed. Sure, you occasionally cringed at it, how it contrasted so heavily with your skin, but it was a shallow insecurity. That meant nothing in comparison to how you got it. Your scar had meant survival. It had meant sacrifice. It had meant her. But tonight, when his eyes landed on it as if it was something he could exploit, something he could weaponise, you felt it shift inside you—like he’d tried to rewrite what it meant without your permission. He’d looked at it and seen leverage. He’d seen life.

And you’d lied, again and again, your voice breaking under the strain of trying not to name her. You’d bitten your tongue so hard it had bled, afraid that if you said it—if her name slipped, if the wrong syllable cracked in your voice—they’d know. They’d take her from you in some unthinkable way, even from miles away. You hadn’t even let yourself imagine her face. You were too afraid it might disappear.

But now it was full dark.

And Dani was alone.

You let out a breath that wasn’t steady, rested your forehead against the bars, and felt the cold press against your skin like punishment. The ring finger on your left hand ached with phantom weight, and you rubbed at the empty space instinctively, even though it made you feel worse.

“I’ve never—” The words caught on the raw edge of your voice, so you swallowed hard and tried again. “I’ve never spent a night away from her before.”

Across the dark, Daryl stirred. He lifted his head, humming in quiet acknowledgment, but didn’t speak — didn’t push. He hated being away from you and Dani, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Runs happened. Patrols needed bodies. And when it came down to it, both of you knew how to handle yourselves out there. You weren’t some stay-behind-the-walls housewife — hell, you were one of the best shots in Alexandria — but even so, your time away from her was always measured in hours, not nights. You could stomach a day trip, a supply loop, even a walker-clearing route that ran long, but you’d always made it home by nightfall. That was the unspoken rule. The line you didn’t cross. Because when the sun set, Dani would be tucked in between the two of you — warm and safe and dreaming in her corner of the bed. And now that line had been shattered. For Daryl, being away hurt. But for you, sitting in this cold cell with no idea if she was scared, crying, alone — it wasn’t just pain. It was unbearable.

“She never falls asleep where she’s supposed to,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice low and fragile, like you were afraid saying it too loud might shatter the memory. “Even when she starts in her own bed, she always finds her way back to ours. Tiptoes in like she’s some kinda thief, all quiet and sneaky, even though she always brings Spaghetti with her and he rattles — you know that damn giraffe has the loudest little bell stitched in his neck.”

A breath of something close to a laugh passed through your nose, but it caught in your throat halfway. You pressed your cheek against the cold bar and closed your eyes, trying to picture it — the creak of the floorboards, the soft pad of her feet, the way the blanket lifted and that tiny furnace of a child wedged herself between you and Daryl like she was born to belong there.

“She always curls into me first,” you said, the ache blooming sharp in your chest now. “Little arms around my waist, nose tucked against my stomach, just like how it was when I was pregnant. She says it makes the monsters go away. And I stroke her hair real slow until she settles and falls asleep.”

You paused, voice nearly trembling with the memory.

“She always hums. Not a song — just this little noise, like a sleepy cat. You can feel it through her ribs.”

There was a silence after that, heavy with feeling, and then Daryl’s voice cut through it — quieter than before, like it was meant only for you. “She never stays on your side, though.”

A faint smile touched your lips. “No. She doesn’t.”

“She always ends up rolled over on me,” he said, and there was something so painfully tender in the way he said it — like it physically hurt to remember. “Uses me like a goddamn jungle gym. Then she falls asleep with her arm across my throat like she’s tryin’ to choke me out.”

You let out a wet laugh, burying your face in your arms.

“And then if I move,” he added, “even a little — I mean, just tryin’ to breathe — she gets all huffy and dramatic. Throws that little arm over her eyes like I’ve wronged her somehow. Then flips back over to your side and acts like I don’t exist.”

“She’s a mama’s girl,” you said softly, chin trembling.

“She’s a damn traitor,” he muttered, voice rough but curling at the edges with that rare kind of smile that lived somewhere behind the gravel. “Wakes up a daddy’s girl every single time—no matter what.”

Then, softer, like it slipped out without thinkin’: “It’s alright though. I’ll take the mornings, and you can be her favourite the rest of the time.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “Best part of my day,” you whispered. “Waking up like that. With both of you. Her all tangled up between us, snoring like a piglet.”

He didn’t say anything right away, but when he did, his voice was softer than ever. “It's the best part of my day, too.”

Your hand curled against the cold floor, aching with the absence of her weight, the way her little fingers always found yours without looking, the way her whole body seemed to relax the second it touched skin — yours or Daryl’s, didn’t matter, just so long as it was home.

“She’s gonna wake up,” you said, barely audible now. “And we won’t be there.”

There was nothing in the world more awful than that thought. Not pain. Not captivity. Not even death. You pressed your cheek to your arm and blinked hard against the tears that clung to your lashes. “She’s gonna wake up scared,” you whispered. “She’s gonna look around and—”

“She’s gonna be fine.”

Daryl’s voice wasn’t loud, wasn’t soothing, wasn’t even certain—but it was solid. It cut through the dark like a root finding earth.

You looked over at him slowly, heart tight.

“I promise,” he said, the syllables uneven but anchored. “We’re gettin’ outta here. You’re gonna hold her again. Gonna tuck her in. Gonna... tell her some dumbass bedtime story about how Mama and Daddy escaped a bunch of bald freaks and came runnin’ through the woods like some forrest trolls.”

A laugh pushed out of you before you could stop it—wet and shaking, the kind that hurt your chest. “That the bedtime version?”

He shrugged faintly, wincing again. “Gotta leave out the part where you snapped a guy’s neck with your bare hands. Might give her ideas.”

“She’s your kid,” you muttered into your arm, letting the tears fall without apology. “She already has ideas.”

He gave a quiet huff, something close to a laugh. “Last week she told me she’s gonna be a monster-catcher. Said she needs a big stick and a helmet with spikes on it.”

Your chest ached with something warmer than pain. “Spelled her name on the stick with a backwards N, didn’t she?”

“Mhmm. Wrote it twice,” Daryl said, his voice soft with pride. “Said if the first one rubbed off, the monsters would still know it was hers.”

“She said you helped her paint it,” you whispered, that bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

He nodded once. “Told her I’d make it glitter-proof. Said you’d be mad if it ended up in Dog’s fur again.”

You exhaled slowly, like trying to fold yourself around the sound of her voice in your memory. “I don’t want her to think we left her.”

“She won’t,” Daryl said immediately, like the idea offended him. “You didn’t. We didn’t. We’re comin’ back. That’s it.”

There was no poetry in his tone, no sentiment. Just truth. Hard and clean.

You didn’t answer right away. Just let the quiet hold you both, not in silence, but in something steadier. Something shared.

Eventually, your voice found its way back, worn thin but clearer than before. “They’re gonna watch us closer now. We’re not gonna be able to fake it forever.”

“No,” Daryl said, adjusting his position with a grunt, one arm braced along the wall behind him. “Just till we get outta here.”

You nodded faintly, already feeling the gears in your brain shift into something sharper, colder.

“We figure out the shifts. How often they switch guards. Which ones carry blades and which ones don’t. Who blinks first. Who watches the gates. We act useful until it makes them lazy.”

Daryl tilted his head, eyes glinting in the low light. “You really up for playin’ nice with these assholes?”

Your mouth twitched. “Nice is flexible. I’ll be civil. Until I don’t need to be.”

“Attagirl.”

You leaned back against the wall, not for comfort, but to look at him properly again—at the weight of him across from you, bruised and bloodied and still yours. That thin stretch of space between your cells felt narrower now, less like a canyon and more like a line in the dirt that both of you already knew how to cross when the time came.

“We’ll get back to her,” he said again. “No matter what it takes.”

And this time, when the words reached you, they didn’t land like a promise. They landed like a vow.

_____

At some point in the endless dark, your body gave out—curled stiff against the wall, head tipped sideways, sleep dragging you under like a tide. But your dreams were shallow and feverish, half-shaped memories tangled in terror, and every sound outside your cell pulled you half back to the surface, heart pumping in your throat, ears straining for a voice that never came.

Now, morning—if it could be called that—bleeds in through the cracks of artificial light. The overhead fluorescents hum back to life with an electrical sigh, flooding the corridor in a washed-out white that burns the back of your eyes. There’s no sunrise here. Just power. Control. Permission to wake.

You were already awake.

Opposite you, Daryl shifted with a wince, jaw clenched tight against a groan as he rolled his shoulder. You watched the stiffness in his body, the way he flexed his fingers like they didn’t want to obey. His gaze found you in the quiet, and you held it for a second too long before the sound of boots marching snapped it.

But then the footsteps came.

They moved too efficient for you to stay seated. No slamming doors. No barks or shouts. Just the faint, synchronised drag of boots against the floor outside, followed by the mechanical hiss of the cell locks disengaging. You and Daryl were already on your feet before they opened the doors.

He didn’t look at you, not directly. But you felt the twitch in his jaw, the unspoken question that passed between you in silence. You gave the smallest nod back. Ready.

They led you out of your cells and through a different corridor this time—no graffiti, no rust, just bare, bland walls that hummed with faint electricity. You couldn’t here anything other than the artificial hush of a place designed to swallow sound.

When they finally brought you to the room, you thought at first it might be another cell.

He was stood at the center of the concrete chamber with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, spine ramrod straight, not a wrinkle in sight. He was younger than you expected. Mid-forties maybe, sharp-featured, clean-shaven. Everything about him looked deliberately scrubbed of history—like he had burned his past away to make room for something purer.

Marshal stood motionless by the doorway, his usual sneer absent, the silence around him sharp enough to draw blood. It was the first time you’d seen him quiet, and somehow that unsettled you more than any of his smirks or taunts. Something about his stillness spoke of obedience, of a hierarchy so firmly entrenched that even his cruelty bowed to it.

The guards guided you and Daryl into the centre of the room with practised precision, keeping just enough distance between your bodies to make the separation deliberate. No contact. No whispers. No comfort. When Daryl was moved into place, his shoulder brushed briefly against yours—a single, accidental point of contact. Or perhaps it wasn't accidental, and the two of you were losing all sanity by not being able to touch each other - it was anyone's guess. He kept his face forward, locked in a mask of unreadable resolve.

The man at the center of the room—unassuming in build, dressed in uniform so plain it could have been borrowed from any one of the men beside him—did not speak immediately. He simply regarded you both in silence, his eyes cold and analytical, his head angled with a quiet sort of curiosity, like a man observing the structural integrity of something already cracked. He wasn’t asking if you would break. He was calculating when.

And then, with all the ceremony of someone setting a glass down on a table, he spoke.

“There is an infection that lives in the world.”

The words left his mouth with a measured calm, each syllable laced with precision rather than urgency. His tone was not raised, not even slightly, but something in the quiet demanded attention, made your ears strain for every word. There was no theatrics, no raised voice or dramatic flourish—just the steady cadence of a man who knew he never needed to shout to be heard.

“It festers in communities. In settlements. In families.”

He moved slowly as he spoke, not pacing—but measuring distance. The way a surgeon might measure an incision.

“It takes the form of attachment. Affection. Mercy. And when allowed to grow unchecked, it spreads through the body like rot.”

He stopped in front of Daryl, but didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to.

“The Creed,” he announced, “removes infection. Before it kills the host.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“We are not here to offer comfort,” he continued. “We are here to build something that will not die. That will not bend. That will not be weakened by nostalgia or grief or love.”

He finally turned, his gaze landing on you.

“If we are to rebuild, we do it clean. Cold. Absolute. Every cell of the body must serve the same function. To serve The Creed is to survive. To waver is to contaminate.”

Still no raised voice. Still no need.

Behind him, mounted on the wall in scorched iron, the symbol loomed—an unbroken chain of identical hands, each gripping the next. No variation. No faces. Just function.

“Commander,” Marshal called out, stepping forward with a measured gait, his arm lifting slowly, deliberately. His fist was clenched tight around something unseen, knuckles pale from pressure. And then — without flourish, without even turning — the Commander held out his hand. And of course, Marshal dropped something into the man's hand immediately upon being beckoned, like the obedient Marshal he was.

“Hey Marshal,” you said sweetly, tilting your head like you were asking about the weather, “blink twice if he’s pegging you under duress.”

A snort broke the silence—one of the Creed men on the left, a younger guy who looked like he hadn’t fully grown into his rifle yet. He tried to smother it into his sleeve, but it was too late.

Marshal didn’t move. Just turned his head—slow as a cocked rifle—toward the offender. That single, glassy-eyed glare was enough to choke the air out of the room. The younger man stiffened like he’d been slapped, spine ramrod straight, the color draining from his face.

You leaned back a little, grinning. “What?” you said innocently, eyes still locked on Marshal. “Your safe word get revoked?”

Still nothing. Not a flinch. Not a word. He just stared at you with that carved-from-ice face, something unreadable and venomous glittering behind his eyes. You heard a grumpy redneck mutter 'Jesus Christ' under his breath from beside you.

The smirk faded from your lips—just a little.

Because suddenly, you got the feeling he was quiet, not out of rage, but satisfaction. He knew something you didn’t. And that was never a good sign.

The Commander regarded the object he had just been handed with clinical detachment, rolling it once between his fingers, not like a sentimental object, but like a contaminant. A defect in the system.

He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look at Daryl.

Instead, he walked—slowly, with eerie precision—toward the hearth at the center of the room, where a small controlled flame crackled low in a steel brazier. The fire wasn’t for warmth. It was too precise for that. It burned like part of the architecture, like something ritualistic.

He held something out between two fingers like it was nothing more than a scrap of trash. But you saw it. The shape. The glint. Your ring.

Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like your body forgot how to hold itself up. Every thought in your head screamed at you to reach for it, to snatch it from his hand, to put it back where it belonged before it got any colder—but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Not unless you were ready to take a bullet to the skull for lunging at a glorified cult leader with a loaded entourage.

“A symbol,” he said calmly, almost conversationally. “Of choice. Of devotion. Of weakness.”

The word settled like ash. Only then did his gaze lift, sweeping from you to Daryl. Not accusatory. Not cruel. Simply final.

“There is no place for it here.”

And with no ceremony, no smirk, no grand display, he flicked the ring into the flames like it was nothing. Just a gesture. Just punctuation.

You couldn't breathe.

The copper glinted once as it spun through the air, and then it was gone. Swallowed by fire without a sound, as if it had never been at all.

A small, strangled gasp caught in your throat, but you bit it down hard, like you could crush the sound before it gave you away. Tears surged behind your eyes with such force it made your vision blur, but you didn’t let them fall. You couldn’t. Your throat had closed up too tightly to speak, too tightly to breathe, and your fingers twitched at your sides with the phantom impulse to lunge—grab it, save it, stop this.

But you didn’t move.

You stood your ground, even as something in your chest caved inward. Even as your ribcage became a coffin for what that ring meant—the promise, the history, the busload of bullsshit the both of you had survived to be married at all.

You could still feel the weight of it on your hand. Could still feel Daryl’s fingers slipping it on, rough and reverent, back when forever was something you fought for with teeth and blood and hope. And now it was gone.

And you just stood there. Because you had to.

Because this performance—the pretending, the restraint—was the only thing keeping you alive. And if that meant swallowing your scream and letting the ashes cling to your skin like grief, so be it.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t move. But your body reacted like you’d been struck—something inside you recoiling so sharply your knees locked, your breath caught high in your throat, and the air left your lungs without permission.

Daryl’s eyes never left the fire. His face didn’t change. Not to them.

But you saw it. The flicker of something dangerous curling in his expression like smoke off a fuse.

The Commander turned without waiting for a response.

“Begin their assimilation.”

The words were dull, mechanical.

A switch flipped. A process resumed.

As they pulled you out of the room, your body remembered movement before your mind did, and the silence followed like a second shadow. If this was just the start of assimilation, then great — things were already going to shit. They’d taken your ring. You just had to hope you could last long enough and come out the same person.

[bakugoushotwife]

𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖑 𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 // 𝖔𝖓𝖊: 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

↳ cw: minors dni, dark content. proceed at your own risk. nothing major this chapter actually. sukuna is himself but a simp. reader is severely confused but is lowkey down for this bc she's me af. dead body warning i guess? ↳ a/n: i am back on my bullshit folks. sorry for the long long wait, my personal life has been a rollercoaster as always so i just haven't had the motivation to do my thang. this chapter is mostly re-establishing the bond so to speak so isn't very juicy aside from the yearning! please enjoy and stay tuned for the last two chapters! ↳ jjk masterlist ↳ series masterlist ↳ previous part

uraume was the only one left standing. they had taken the captured man into the cellars–to be dealt with once sukuna returned—only for the walls around them to collapse seconds later. they could hear his yelling–screaming. they knew it to be pain, and nothing of the physical variety could elicit such a deep response. uraume knew in their heart of hearts that the bandits had succeeded. you were gone. 

and now, so was king sukuna. 

they gasp softly at the sight, a shaky hand covering their mouth. sukuna can’t find it in himself to speak–to move, still clutching the remains of his wife and unborn baby close to him, face slick with his own tears and drying blood. he wants to kill uraume. he doesn’t want anyone that isn’t you. he doesn’t want to see uraume’s own grief and guilt, nor feel their empathies. he doesn’t want the pity–and just as the anger swells in him again–and he thinks he might be able to summon his voice–uraume’s gentle tone shakily speaks.

“we can make sure she comes back.” they said, glimmering tears welling up in their eyes as they survey the damage. their eyes fall on the way sukuna shivers, the new wave of intensity that coats his already terrifying presence and cursed energy. uraume realizes that sukuna is not exactly human anymore—that died with you. “i know of someone. they can tamper with these things. she will return, sukuna-sama.”

sukuna can’t look away from your face. one hand rests on your cheek, spreading the endless pool of your blood to your own silky skin. he strokes under your bottom lashes, the agony mounting in his heart stills a bit at the sentence. there could be a chance to get you back? now…he is no fool, but he would exhaust every option. if there was even a one percent chance, he would roll those dice–risk those odds. or else this world will turn into a carnal bloodbath. there would be no stopping him. if someone as lovely and perfect as you could not live a happy life—no one should. uraume would not lie to soothe his spirits either. his best servant was quite fond of you, and knows even a fraction of the sorrow weighing down their master’s bones. 

“bring them.” he mutters, red gaze still fixed upon your paling flesh. he could not bear to leave you. if this person does exist, then uraume must find them and bring them to him. uraume nods, bowing their head. two tears slip from their cheeks and hit the fractured flooring below them. the castle is in such disrepair it will likely never be liveable—that much was out of his control. or better put, out of his perspective to consider in the moment. the house was full of memories with you, all of your design inputs and floral arrangements you so loved to make. the castle had a wing dedicated to the little ayame, forever his precious baby daughter. the castle still held your very soul, and now– his own remains it seems—the castle is destroyed. the room that you’re in creaks—the walls and ceiling and floor crumbling in on itself. but uraume knows that sukuna will not budge until they return. 

“right away, sukuna-sama.” their voice pitches up a bit, the grief thick in the air. but as quickly as they had come, uraume departs to find this sorcerer they speak of. uraume meets a host of intriguing individuals on their business travels—some become more useful down the line, and some just serve as favors for later. this individual has an incredibly powerful technique—but needs even stronger alliances. uraume knows this can be risky—but they cannot sit idly by and watch this torture. 

they travel for the better part of a day, but make it to the location. they had shared ale in this inn with a fellow weary soul before—and they could only hope that he would be here now. they barge into the bar area, scanning the room for familiar cursed energies and faces. their desperation must have been clear. for the very man that they were searching for approaches them.

“uraume, you look quite panicked!” the soft and feminine voice says, and uraume immediately folds their arms over their chest. 

“kenjaku. i see you’ve selected a new vestige for yourself.” they comment neutrally, though silently wondering what kenjaku had in store from a new sorcerer’s flesh. “this one suits you.”

kenjaku chuckles. “ah, why thank you. that is the highest of praises. you seemed in a hurry—or better yet, looking for someone?” the woman smirks up at uraume, a beautiful young lady fallen victim to the brain inside. 

“i am. king sukuna is in need of your help.” uraume stifles the smirk that tugs at their cheek, knowing that kenjaku longed to ally themselves with the great and feared sorcerer that is ryomen sukuna. 

the faceclaim of kenjaku’s eyes widen three sizes. “oh? is that so? what can i do for the incredible king?” 

uraume looks to the side. “just follow me. it will be easier to explain then.” 

so kenjaku does, suspicion not lost on him entirely. uraume leads the way back to the castle, a chipped silhouette on top of a high hill. 

“something horrible has happened.” uraume says in a way of warning, to get kenjaku to mentally prepare for the sight he is soon to see. it took their journey many hours, but as uraume leads kenjaku back to the room you used to share with your husband, their fears are confirmed. sukuna hasn’t moved an inch, hasn’t relaxed a muscle—they can’t be sure he’s even breathed since they left. kenjaku takes a quick look at the destruction—the body in sukuna’s arms, the emotion thick in the air between them all, and sighs. something horrible truly has happened, and the earth can surely die for it. he knows he has to do something—anything–to save the planet from sukuna himself. he is a powerful ally—the most powerful, to be sure, but that makes him the most dangerous enemy…or threat to anyone, even kenjaku himself. he has to play this the long way.

“master, this is kenjaku, a sorcerer i met a few moons ago. he has experience in these matters.” uraume says as gently as humanly possible. sukuna still flinches somewhat—more of a heavy blink if anything. he begrudgingly turns his head, surveying the traditionally dressed high class woman that uraume addressed as kenjaku. he’s heard the name before—and heard several distasteful rumors to go along with it. 

kenjaku hums. “your wife. when uraume and i met, they spoke of her most highly. what a tragedy…”

“bring her back.” sukuna commands, just before a growl. he doesn’t want a strangers pity. he doesn’t want a stranger assuming how tragic this is–they have no idea what he’s feeling right now. 

“it is not without great cost. and it won’t be immediate. i can only ensure she reincarnates in her original form, with original memories. they would have to be locked away of course, but we can sort out the—”

“what is the cost?” sukuna interrupts, uraume eagerly watching the volley between the powerful sorcerers. he doesn’t care what he has to do. you will return. he will find you and bring you back to him, you will come back home. the gods must laugh at him now, at their cruel jokes. he has never known an emotion as pure and powerful as your love—only his grief could perhaps match it. the gods gave you to him, and they have taken you away. they must forget who he is. he will fight gods. he will fight time and space. he will die a million deaths if it earns him a second of your touch. 

“you must be captured until then. until the woman connects with you again, but do not fret. i can ensure that you are split and protected. you are powerful enough to fragment into one hundred pieces—if you desired.” kenjaku smiles knowingly as he explains, but uraume is the one that feels the most unease. 

“do it.” sukuna says unflinchingly. he would much rather be some soulless emotionless object for the duration of your absence anyhow. this was a win-win as far as he could consider. 

“wait, one hundred is far too many. how could she interact with all of them?” uraume asks, turning their attention to kenjaku. 

“well, she needn’t interact with every piece, just one. but fine…let us do twenty. one for each of the king’s fingers. i think that would be rather fitting!” 

the feared king only nods, his madness and grief making his cold calm even scarier than before. now he has the thin thread of hope that this is not his last time holding his bride. the hope burns in his gut, like cool fire. “enough. stop blabbering.” he murmurs again, lowering his lips to your forehead, now icy. 

“excellent. you won’t feel a thing…” 

and in truth, he does not. he is only aware of his existence—lying in wait of the time he truly desires. your return, and his incarnation reuniting you again. there is nothing but darkness and void of black, his thoughts and cravings for you—until that day. 

“oh shiiiii—did he really eat that thing?” you ask, looking over at megumi fushiguro incredulously. “he just–does things–before he really thinks about it–i’m sorry about him, really!” your sweet voice nervously apologizes for your friend yuuji itadori, your fingers wrapped around his face in hopes you can pry that creepy withered finger out of his throat. 

megumi groans, running a hand through midnight locks of hair. “it’s no use, he’s going to die. no one is supposed to consume that cursed object. it’s the finger of ryomen sukuna.” 

at the sound of the name, something within you pangs. it’s like it has a hint of familiarity, though you’re sure you know nothing of cursed objects and their consumption. you’re no stranger to the creepy—in fact you’re sort of drawn to them. as an avid participant in the occult club alongside yuuji, you found yourself obsessed with the idea of there being more to life than meets the eye. you have a special intrigue with heian era japan—yuuji and you meant to tour some tourist attractions and museums this weekend. that’s it! the name, you’ve seen it in books before. he’s a cursed god, they say—no man, just monster. a feral beast with four arms and eyes that terrorized clans and villages with his ruthless bloodlust and carnal cruelties. some say he is legend, some defend the stance he was a real man–at least he was man at one point, and evolved into the king of curses. but those are books. it’s a fun debate meant to be a fairytale of the past—and here this stoic looking boy is saying that yuuji is gonna die because of this…mythological creature? you glare at megumi, hands still cradling yuuji’s jaw. you go to spit something back at him—how incredulous it was to say such a thing—when yuuji stirs.

his fists ball at his sides, he’s realizing he is in fact alive. his chaos can reign free on the world again until his queen is replaced by his side. then he hears it—the familiar tone, the lilt. never in all of his life could he forget such a song. his beloved. and your hands, so warm and soft against his face. his eyes flutter open, and you still haven’t quite realized it’s not yuuji looking back at you. the look in his eyes tugs at your heart, you can’t quite name the emotion in them, but he can. centuries of longing, grief, and insufferable pain. he smiles though, all cursed and pointed fangs spreading yuuji’s face into an evil grin. he is in a delirious state of mortified joy. here you are. after all of his crying and longing, for all of his challenges shouted up to the gods—here you stand; just as beautiful as the day he lost you, whole and the personification of sunshine. and he would be trapped. sealed, tucked away behind this little boy clawing at his soul to regain control—panicking about sukuna touching his best friend. but nothing could steal this moment from him, his eyes drinking you in with a thirst he can’t yet quench. “my bride…the threads of fate have woven us together once more.”

his voice takes you aback, shock coating your features as you recoil from him. he catches your wrists though, chuckling at the confusion on your face. that was notably not yuuji’s voice. perhaps this way too serious guy had the right idea. but it’s the words he speaks that truly capture you. his bride. that fate has restored you back to each other—but you have only heard of him through passed down history books and special occult club projects—you weren’t even convinced he was real until about right now. what is this about his bride? you tug uselessly, trying to claim your arms back, “i–i don’t know what the hell you’re talking about-” 

“feisty as always~” he smirks, pulling you closer to him. you stumble off balance thanks to his shameless manhandling, crashing against his—yuuji’s—chest. megumi shifts closer, even he is aghast and at a loss on what to do, but he knows gojo-sensei will arrive soon. sukuna presses his face to your hair, inhaling deep, arms locked around your waist, “you don’t remember now, little queen. but you will…” he hums, sniffing at your neck, grinning wider as you squirm.

it’s almost amusing that you don’t recall him right away. that the gods even now have more jokes left to play upon him, his beloved bride obscured behind a blocked path. but ryomen sukuna would move the planets and stars into a new alignment to bring you back to him, now he is just one step closer. he is balmed by the sight of you, alive and so brilliant even now he can hardly stand the sight of your glow. none of these maggots should even breathe near you, the queen of curses. you are too righteous for them all. you will see. and you will bring him back in all of his true glory—then nothing will ever take you from him again. the earth can explode and you will still be in his arms. 

something does awaken. it is not a memory—but it’s tied to one. webs slide around his hands, his wrists, forcing him to turn loose of you. he laughs maniacally, “yes, my little spider—there she is!” you manage to pull yourself back, megumi grasping the hood of your sweatshirt amongst the ruin of the building and now the chaos of sukuna’s return. 

“i didn’t know you were a sorcerer.” megumi states plainly. 

“i don’t know what that means.” you blink at him, heart still racing in your chest. there’s so much going on your brain can hardly process it all at once. sorcerer, sukuna, cursed object—yuuji’s somehow under the boot of all of it. you just shot webs out of your hands for the first time in your life and this once-thought myth of a monster is regarding you with familiarity. more than familiarity, really. before you can react further, a tall man shows up with shopping bags, a blindfold around his eyes. he seems amused by the scene, laughing at a bloodied megumi and snapping pictures of the action. he looks at you with that same amusement, eyebrows raising as megumi explains loosely what’s happened and the remarks sukuna’s made—your own spider-like abilities that seemingly woke from a deep slumber. 

“your cursed energy. it’s linked. to his.” the tall man snickers, shaking his head slightly. “what a case!” 

“of course it is linked to mine. she is my bride reborn. if any of you maggots touch her i will be dining on your bone marrow by noon.” sukuna snarls, already sizing this gojo sensei man up. you don’t know what to make of the situation by the time they’re sparring, only looking at megumi with the hope he may offer some clarification. your hope is for naught.

new terms, cursed energy–apparently you have some. and it is tied to the ancient demon king you thought was meant as a scary bedtime story to make children listen to their parents. 

your life has changed in the course of mere minutes. yuuji reclaims use of his body, and gojo loosely explains what’s going on. he’s very casual about it, which puts you at ease. but now yuuji is landed in their hands as the “vessel” for ryomen sukuna—and you have to come in tow as the soul connection tied to him. 

by the next morning, you find yourself in another realm. almost literally. the campus isunlike  something you have ever seen before—a new uniform and dorm room waiting with your name on it. yuuji and you are to be kept separated for now, until gojo-sensei returns from his meeting at the very least. the head-spinning sensation hasn’t let up, and sleep can’t claim you through your drive of anxiousness. being separated from yuuji truly is the worst case scenario. he’s all you have here. even if…he now comes with a demon that’s obsessed with you. you sit on your bed, looking at the new uniform that would signify your enrollment here at jujutsu tech. gojo’s wish for you to get some rest bounces around your head as you sink down onto your bed. it’s been a brutal eight hours—and your mind is a mess. sleep can’t come soon enough. maybe if you just lay down and close your eyes…

when you wake, it’s not the same room you went to sleep in. no, this is a far more lush bedroom—obsidian walls and gilded archways, marble flooring and windows that seem bigger than normal. you sit up in the bed, lilac silk spilling off your shoulders, black satin blankets and thick furs spread around you. a red sheer fabric billows in the wind of the open window, the smell of burning wood and perfumed oils drifting through the room. you rub your face, heart spiking again at the unfamiliar surroundings—and his voice comes again. 

“this was our room…our marriage bed.” his deep, gravelly tone caresses your body where it lay in the bed. it fills you with a certain longing, a warmth you recognize but also aren’t used to. you whip your head side to side, trying to locate the source. but he isn’t physically there—despite the heat breathing down your neck and his voice purring in your ear. “you look so much better here…right where you belong…”

“what’s happening—where am i?” you narrow your eyes suspiciously. you feel the pressure of a hand brush your cheek. 

“i told you. our room. our home…it is a dream of the past.” he hums, his voice dripping with sorrow. something within you is inclined to trust it. 

“i don’t understand this…past you’re talking about.” you admit, shaking your head. 

“not yet. i will bring you here…i will show you it all until it comes back to you…and you come back to me.” he says, thick voice laced with his undying determination and desire. “i have waited lifetimes just to hear your voice. i will wait as long as it takes for my queen’s return.”

you stare ahead at the ornate mirror, studying yourself in the heian era styled robes, the style of your hair. is this why you have always felt inclined to study it? was your soul always longing for this connection? your brow sets as you ponder this, even your fascination with the occult seems to allude to your previous lifetime on this earth. 

he chuckles, and it is a rich and comforting sound, surely only to you. “you’re thinking hard, little queen. sleep, instead. let me gaze over my beloved soulmate once more.” your face burns with his proclamation of romance, and you tell yourself it’s with embarrassment, not genuine fluster. his voice commands a certain degree of obedience, though you can’t convince yourself he is a threat, despite your best efforts. you lie back, and though you cannot see him, you feel him smile. “good girl. sleep well.” 

and…really…you do. his omnipotent presence seemingly soothes your brain into a deep sleep, buried in the dreamscape of your former bedroom. sukuna watches as promised, utterly intoxicated. he has wondered once or twice if this is reality at all. if this is truly his wife before him, simply waiting on her memories. he remembers kenjaku’s words–that your memories will be sealed. but if your power is showing through already, surely that means your memories will follow. he just has to keep pushing. keep fighting himself and anyone else that may dare corrupt you, defend his wife from any outside threat until she can be properly restored. but for now, he is contented by the sight of your sleeping face, the steady rise and fall of your chest, and the sound of your heart echoing in his ears. it has all been worth it. every moment spent in agony, wishing upon every deity and god that you would find him once more. it has been worth it, just to hear your voice speaking to him, seeing you safe in his domain. it isn’t real…he knows, but your connection to his soul is. he can always keep you safe here, warm and cared for like you were all the way back then. surely it means something, that you haven’t pushed back. you’ve only asked questions, and obeyed his wishes. perhaps it is implicit in you, perhaps deep down you recognize him as safety. either way, you will know you are his. 

and as gojo makes his way back after his meeting with the higher ups with such a grim expression, sukuna knows he will have to go to lengths far beyond to ensure that fate works out in his favor this time.

tags: @neon-crow @skypperlegacy @gis4greenandgreenisgre4t  @alastors-radio  @alltimenogoaway-blog  @tragedyofabrokensoul @gojosukuna2268  @hannas16  @alwaysfreakingout @thepurpleempath @pelicanpizza  @aenishas @satsuk-jjk @catobsessedlady @gucci-basura @eiaaasamantha @asukahiriko @t4naiis @thejujvtsupost @mymelx @maskedpacific @berranurates @enchantingartisanwitch @celena-alanze @shuujin @nikki-demi @ankitavminkook @katthekat1234 @ezpressocookie @elita1 @sc3n3g0re

[totallynotslothhh]

DAMN DISTANCE

pairing: joost klein x fem!reader

word count: 4,370

warning: smut, dominant!male, oral!male receiving, tongue piercing, spit in mouth, unprotected sex, cum inside, face slapping, slapping in general, dirty talk, rough sex, hand around throat, choking, i think you get the idea.

description: Two months of waiting, a long-distance argument, an unrevealed piercing and sky-high tension create the perfect setting for raw, intense intimacy.

author’s note: The filthiest, horniest smut I’ve ever written and I’m proud of it (i think). Nothing more to say except I’m working on the first part of a long fanfic full of angst and sex WITH ANGST and probably more angst, maybe angst????.

you love me, i know that. Enjoy the reading, gooners.

big kisses!

(sorry if there are grammatical errors, I tried my best, English is not my first language!!!🙏)

——————————————————————

Two months of tour? Absolutely heartbreaking. Not being able to see, touch, kiss, hug, tease and cuddle my boyfriend for that long had been incredibly hard to bear. We had never been apart like this in our four years together.

I always tried to be present at his concerts, his travels around the country, around the world; even the festivals he attended at. That’s because he wanted me by his side and honestly, I always had fun.

It made me feel close to him, showed him my support, helped him before he stepped on stage… and also let me experience post-performance Joost, buzzing with adrenaline and excitement. Excited in every sense of the word.

Sex after concerts was amazing: it gave a spark to our sex life. Maybe that’s also why I loved going to every event. It was a moment of union.

Sure, it was driven by raw physical attraction, but it was mostly a way to feel like one soul. To know, without a doubt, that we belonged to each other. To look into his eyes, reflect his desire, to feel his hands gripping my body, to feel his breath, his teeth, his tongue, his lips on my neck; to be shoved against the wall of his dressing room, or the tiny bathroom behind the stage, or the backseat of a car, or literally any surface in our home; to feel his cock sink deep inside me while his filthy mouth moaned those lazy, sloppy sounds and my chest ached with pure love for him; love I felt was fully returned, made me feel like I could touch the sky.

He was always so into it, so hungry, so unpredictable. He could go from being the most aggressive: pinning me down with my face smashed to the sticky dressing room table, hands behind my back and legs trembling, to letting me ride him at my own pace, letting me decide how the moment would unfold.

The problem was… this time, I couldn’t join him. Work had buried me alive and I couldn’t even think about being gone for two months.

So I accepted it. So did he.

…Or almost.

We fought after nearly three weeks. The tension had built up and despite trying to avoid it, we couldn’t escape the misunderstandings.

I’ll admit it - I probably overreacted, but waking up and not seeing any message from my boyfriend since the night before, before yet another concert… only to see a notification that he’d started an Instagram live? That sent my nerves straight to my brain.

Had he forgotten me? Was he ignoring me?

I called him the second the live ended. I had watched the whole thing. I saw how he interacted with his friend, saw him lying back on the tour bus shirtless, of course leaving plenty for the fans to fantasize about. With every passing minute, the tight knot in my chest grew stronger.

Was I jealous? Maybe.

Insecure? Definitely.

“Baby, good morning-” I didn’t even let him finish. I snapped. The phone was gripped tight in one hand, my other arm pressed against my chest.

“Did you have fun ignoring me?” My voice was sharp, accusing. My heart thundered in my chest and my brows were furrowed like he was standing right in front of me.

A sigh came through the speaker, followed by a line so robotic, so obviously fake, that it lit a fuse under all the frustration I’d bottled up.

“I was gonna call you in five minutes. I wasn’t ignoring you.”

Was that a joke?

He hadn’t texted me all day, even though he’d had the chance. I didn’t want to feel pushed aside. I didn’t want to come second. I knew he was busy but so was I, and yet I always carved out time for him.

Did he want distance? Was he happy being away from me? Then fine, he could stay away.

After ten minutes of arguing, intense arguing where we tried to out-blame each other, I hung up on him, yelling: “Since I don’t exist to you anymore, go fuck yourself!”

Yeah.

We didn’t text for a solid week, and for the rest of the month we barely sent each other a few messages just to confirm we were alive.

Saying I didn’t miss him would’ve been a straight-up lie. I watched his concert videos and got jealous, frustrated. I tried to be happy for him but I couldn’t.

He was acting like an asshole, even worse than me. He didn’t text at all. Maybe that’s why we were together - because we were both stubborn.

That day came. He was finally coming home from that never ending tour.

I found myself bouncing my leg anxiously, fiddling with the new tongue piercing I hadn’t told him about, checking our chat again: his last message had been “coming home” and I had replied half an hour ago.

I hadn’t really cleaned the house, just the living room. I was anxious to see him, desperate to hold him again, but at the same time, I knew things between us were tense.

I felt guilty. I was scared I’d ruined the tour for him, that I’d ruined us, that I’d pushed him into thinking about ending things.

I wanted to talk, to apologize, to hear what he had to say. I wanted to show him the piercing I’d gotten the day after he left, to see his reaction.

I wanted to feel close to him again, to kiss him until I was drunk on his taste.

The click of the front door echoed down the hallway. The light from the ceiling glowed over the quiet corridor as my bare feet brushed the cold floor, carrying me cautiously toward the sound. I left my phone on the kitchen counter, which opened onto the living room, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and laid eyes on Joost.

He walked in dragging his big suitcase behind him. He had those black boots on, which he kicked off near the shoe rack.

A tight wool beanie hugged his head, hiding his forehead and leaving just a few bleached strands visible at his nape. Earbuds still in. One of the thickest jackets I’d ever seen him wear, definitely new.

I pressed my lips together and clutched the hem of the hoodie I was wearing, one that usually felt warm and comforting but now just made my skin itch.

He didn’t look up when he took off the black coat. Didn’t meet my gaze, even as I sighed loudly, trying to catch his attention as he headed down the main hallway.

Was he really giving me the silent treatment?

I followed him with my eyes but didn’t move, just stood frozen in the middle of the room.

I felt embarrassed to even approach him.

I didn’t expect him to be this cold.

I glanced at the suitcase next to his shoes, then turned toward the hallway when I heard the sound of running water. He was in the bathroom. Without thinking too much, I decided to go to him.

Sooner or later, we’d have to face everything.

I peeked in, gripping the wooden doorframe with both hands. And there he was, standing in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. My stomach instantly turned into a black hole, pulling every sensation into one tight point, my upper teeth catching my lower lip on instinct.

“I need to take a shower, I’m really tired.” He shifted his weight onto his right leg, and his voice hit me like a warning. I suddenly felt as small as an ant.

I hadn’t heard his voice in over a month, hadn’t touched him for even longer, and yet, despite everything, the sight of him half-naked, the annoyed look on his face and that tired tone in his voice… hit me with undeniable force.

My eyes lingered a second too long before I gathered my courage, shoulders tight, and stepped into the room, reaching over to turn off the running shower.

No. He wasn’t getting in. Not before clearing the air with me.

“y/n” His thick eyebrows lifted slightly and his hands landed on his hips as his gaze quickly ran down my body, only to settle on my face, creased with guilt.

“You’re not even going to say hi?” I spoke with feigned offense as I walked up to him and wrapped my arms around his torso, letting my hands rest on his back and my cheek on his collarbone.

He could deny it all he wanted, but I felt the shiver run across his exposed skin, heard the subtle breath leave his lips.

“I’m sorry…” My voice got even smaller, as my body instinctively sought the warmth I hadn’t felt from him in so long.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

So naturally, I lifted my head to meet his eyes.

They were already on me and now that cold, icy stare had softened. He looked at me with something unfamiliar, something cautious, almost like he didn’t believe I was really there. My expression gave me away completely: lips curled downward, wide eyes, and slightly puffed cheeks: like a scolded puppy.

“Are we making up?” I murmured, hugging him tighter, desperately wanting to feel that he was still mine.

He furrowed his brows, narrowing his eyes as if trying to read something hidden. Then, with his tattooed hand, he took my chin and gently tilted my head upward. His thumb rested softly on my cheek, his index finger outlining my jaw.

“Stick out your tongue.” His deep, smooth voice sent a sudden jolt straight to my lower stomach. He had seen the piercing and now he just wanted confirmation. The anticipation crawled under my skin, nearly unbearable.

I smiled before obeying him, catching the way his gaze sharpened slightly, how he wasn’t about to back down without getting what he wanted.

I parted my lips and slowly let my tongue slide out, revealing the titanium piercing and silver bead that caught the artificial bathroom light. His stare locked on my mouth, his thumb brushing down to my bottom lip and gently pressing it. I stuck my tongue out a little further, letting him fully take in the view.

His expression softened. A dry chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His eyes lifted from my mouth to my gaze again, a playful curiosity dancing in his expression.

“I wanted to show you in person. And mostly… let you feel it.” The guilty tone quickly turned into something falsely innocent - like I wasn’t implying anything dirty. Like there was nothing to be misunderstood.

He looked at me for a few seconds, then took a slow breath, exhaling through his nose. His hand dropped to rest gently around my neck: not squeezing, just enough to let me feel the weight of his presence and the fact that my words had definitely had an effect on him.

“Yeah? And why should I indulge you?” His voice turned teasing, his lips curled with mischief as his eyes flicked back to my mouth.

I stuck out my tongue again and playfully rolled the piercing across both lips, letting the beads trace my upper then lower lip.

“Because… why not?” I said shamelessly.

His fingers tightened slightly around my neck. Then his lips crashed into mine with a primal hunger that left no room for hesitation. A muffled hum slipped from my nose as my hands dug into the cold skin of his back, while my tongue slid naturally into his mouth, and he welcomed it without resistance.

Our tongues moved in sync, the piercing dancing against Joost’s wet muscle as he took in the new sensation with visible pleasure. It was obvious. He wanted me. As much as I wanted him. His hips unconsciously pushed into mine and a deep moan vibrated from his throat, muffled by the heat between us.

He pulled back, still gripping my neck, eyes locked with mine, breath heavy and ragged in the small bathroom.

Then came the pressure of his thumb sliding into my mouth, no words needed. He wanted me to suck it.

“Still my little slut” He said calmly, voice low enough to draw a gasp from deep within me,“Doesn’t matter how much you scream at me on the phone, how much shit you throw at me… you’ll always be right here.”

The heat shot down my spine, landing directly in the soaked center of my panties.

We had made up. And we’d talk about everything after we fucked. The mood had shifted completely. And honestly? This was the best possible turn things could have taken.

I released his thumb with a wet pop and gave it one last lick, letting the silver bead clash against his skin. Our eyes locked again but I broke eye contact first. A sharp slap landed on my cheek, firm but not cruel. My eyes shut and a breathy moan escaped my lips, more out of reflex than pain.

“Did I tell you to stop sucking?” His voice reached my ears like a command. His hand grabbed my jaw, tilting my face back to him, forcing me to answer.

I shook my head in a silent no.

Then he pulled me in again, dragging me into another deep, messy kiss.

We kissed for what felt like minutes. His hand moved to tangle in my hair, while mine, previously resting at the base of his spine, snuck shamelessly into his boxers. I wasn’t the only one getting off fast. He was already hard and had been for at least five minutes.

I wrapped my hand around him and moved slowly, teasingly, while his breath grew heavier, until he finally broke away from my lips now swollen and slick with spit.

“I missed you…” The soft, warm breath hit his skin, and his face welcomed it with a genuine smile that cracked open the thick atmosphere of pent-up sexual tension that had been simmering for over two months.

I didn’t stop moving my hand inside his boxers. I was being sweet, almost romantic, I ignored the reason for the guttural moans slipping from his lips with such ease.

“How much?” He whispered, licking his lips, which curved into an expression of bliss as my hand tightened slightly around his cock, stroking his sensitive tip with the flat of my palm.

“A lot. Only God knows how many times I touched myself thinking about you.” My voice turned delicate again, feigning innocence, wide eyes full of desire. That was all it took for his hand to silently guide me downward until I found myself kneeling between his legs.

I didn’t resist. I wanted to. And I knew my legs would ache later, but I didn’t care.

After slipping my hand out of his boxers, I pulled them down, then brought both hands to his cock, letting him guide my face toward his length.

I started licking, savoring the salty, slick taste of his precum that had dripped down the length of his shaft. The contact with my tongue piercing made him twitch, the titanium bead pressing softly along the thick, pulsing vein.

“Fuck-“ The curse fell from his throat, his hand tangling in my hair, forcing my face down closer to his groin. I closed my eyes for a second and let my tongue swirl around his base, ending with soft, teasing nibbles on the skin of his lower abdomen.

His head tilted back, exposing his throat, and from where I was, I could only see his heaving chest, his tensed neck, and the faint bulging of veins in his tattooed arms. His grip was tight in my hair, but it still felt like I had complete control. I could lick, suck, bite, do whatever I wanted to every inch of skin I desired.

I dragged my tongue slowly along his entire shaft, letting the piercing glide across every delicate part, especially the swollen head, which made him shudder and flex his muscles. I moved my hands to his thighs, gripping them softly, as my lips began to close around his tip and I slowly sank down on him.

I could taste him again. Feel him at the back of my throat. Choke around his thrusts. Look up into his eyes while he lost himself inside my mouth.

That was all I needed to realize nothing had really changed between us. All my overthinking had been for nothing.

Tears welled up in my eyes not from pain or frustration, but simply as a natural reflex.

And once I started to suck him properly, it didn’t take long before his hips began to move with me. Both his hands gripped my head now, and I could feel the pressure increase as his cock filled my mouth to the brim. The piercing rubbed harder and harder against his skin, and I could tell - he loved it.

I could see it in the raw, uncontrollable sounds he made, in the way his hips snapped forward, in how his eyes glazed over with pure lust.

“Fuck- best decision you’ve ever made” He murmured through groans, sweat now coating his body, as his thrusts grew faster, more erratic.

I couldn’t take it anymore. My nails dug into his thighs so hard I was sure I’d leave marks. My eyes were shut tight, and the sounds I was making against his cock said everything except control.

But he didn’t come. He refused to finish in my mouth.

He yanked me off with a sharp pull, and my legs, numb from kneeling, nearly gave out as I stumbled backward onto the cold bathroom floor. I gasped for air, wiping away the tears on my cheeks as a coughing fit hit me, throat raw and burning from how deep he’d been inside me.

He leaned in just slightly, only to gently cup my face in his hands, lifting it toward him. That simple gesture made me immediately straighten up: first on my knees, then standing, eager to grant his silent wish to taste himself from my lips.

He was soft, but commanding. I let him win the battle for control between our mouths, and his hands slowly slid from my cheeks to my hips, quietly asking me to take off the sweatshirt I still had on.

I pulled back from his body, only detaching my lips from his when absolutely necessary, just long enough to slip off the warm layer still covering my bare skin underneath. I let it fall to the floor and immediately brought our mouths back together, barely giving him time to look at the round curves of my breasts, the softness of my stomach.

My fingers wove into his hair and I let him pull me into his warmth, his arms wrapping around my bare torso. My breasts pressed firmly against his chest, and my nipples reacted almost instantly to the contact.

We pulled apart one last time, and he looked at me, really looked.

He took in my glossy eyes, my blushing cheeks, my swollen lips, the way my skin shivered under every one of his touches.

It was like his eyes were made to read me: half-lidded, heavy with desire, perfectly reflecting how he felt inside. They gave soul to his tired face, to the dark circles under his eyes, to his messy hair and lips still stained with filthy, honest words; words that somehow still dripped with sweetness, even though I knew he’d fuck me against the sink like an animal in just a few minutes.

And he did.

After playing with my breasts, covering them with attention, teasing them with the rough bristles of his mustache, biting until red patches bloomed across the plane of my chest. After making me believe, even for a moment, that he’d gone soft: his gaze focused on my pleasure, his cock grinding desperately against my side, begging for attention, for release. After caressing the curves of my hips and hearing me moan his name, he grabbed me and turned me around, pressing me up against the cold marble of the sink.

His hand returned to my throat, sliding upward from the marks he’d left across my chest. He leaned his head against mine and looked into the mirror, taking in the sight of my body from its reflection.

“Look at yourself. Remember who gives you these marks. Remember who makes you moan like that. Remember who you ache for.” He whispered it right into my ear, just before closing his eyes and brushing his kiss-bruised lips down the sensitive skin of my neck. He tilted my face gently and trailed a line of kisses from just behind my ear to my shoulder, lifting his gaze to meet mine in the mirror.

“You’re mine, and I’m yours. No unsent message will ever change that.”

Those words collided with the shivers already running through me, making me arch my back, pushing my ass against his bare cock without even realizing it. My hands gripped the marble, and without me noticing, his hands were already tugging down my soft pants and underwear in one swift motion, exposing me to the cool air that rushed across my pulsing, wet entrance.

I didn’t have the courage to keep my eyes open. I shut them tightly until a sharp, deliberate slap landed on my bare ass and a moan tore from my throat before I even had time to think.

“Look at yourself while I fuck you. You need to see the way you fall apart because of me. Got it?” I opened my eyes obediently, biting down on my lower lip, chaining my gaze to my reflection and finally seeing myself.

Even if only for a few seconds.

God, how much I loved melting in his arms. It was one of my favorite things in the world.

He entered me with a single, deep thrust, making the first wet slap echo between us as our bodies collided. My back arched even more, my eyes searching for his, and my unprepared walls clenched immediately around his length.

He gripped my hips tightly and pushed me harder against the material of the sink, creating a rough friction between my skin and the cold surface. I didn’t even have time to focus on that stinging pain, because he started moving right away.

He didn’t give me a break, didn’t give me a second to adjust, he just began thrusting into me with a relentless, aggressive rhythm.

His hands dug into my skin like I was the only thing keeping him afloat. He slapped my already reddened cheek again and immediately after, one hand wrapped around my throat. He brought his chest close to my back without slowing down, fucking me just as hard, making sure I could hear every breath, every word of praise whispered into my ear.

I whimpered, feeling his fingers truly sinking into my flesh, making me instinctively wrap one hand around his wrist while the other stayed braced on the edge of the sink.

The sight in the mirror was obscenely arousing, so much so that it alone could’ve made me come: my breasts bouncing with each thrust, his head next to mine, his sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead.

The overwhelming awareness that the next morning, I’d see every mark he left on me, including the one that was currently stealing the breath from my lungs.

I came just after he did. Right after I felt him fill me - his cum, his cock - every inch of him pressing deeper. Right after his weight settled over my back and his hand finally loosened from around my throat, though it still lingered gently there.

I was exhausted, sore, my back aching, completely spent… yet, I ached to cling to Joost, to stay wrapped in his body like a lifeline.

The thought of our fight still echoed in the back of my mind, even after that wild, frenzied fuck.

He cupped my face and turned it just enough to bring it close to his.

Still panting, he motioned for me to part my lips. I did. And looked into his eyes, first to admire how flushed his face had become.

He forced me to hold eye contact as he let a thin line of spit fall into my mouth, landing right on the piercing he still wasn’t used to. Then he kissed me. Softly, slowly, once I’d closed my lips and swallowed his spit.

The feeling of his cum dripping out of me. His tongue now tender, stroking mine. His hands, moving slowly, back to hold my waist… It was enough to make love bloom through every pore of my skin.

“I’m sorry I acted immature and didn’t reach out to you” He murmured against my lips, barely audible, after pulling away from that last kiss.

He buried his face in the crook of my neck and breathed me in deeply, the scent of my skin, something he’d clearly missed, judging by the way he clung to me. The way he stayed connected to my body, the way he mumbled quietly, like he never wanted to let me go again.

A smile broke across my lips, and a soft laugh echoed in the bathroom at his next words: “Let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”

We hadn’t talked about it at all. But maybe that was fine. Maybe our bodies had said enough. Maybe our souls had kissed the way they needed to.

“That piercing looks really fucking good on you” he added, finally lifting his head and letting his lazy gaze rest on my softened expression.

“Looks good, or you just liked it for… other reasons?” I raised an eyebrow, my smile shifting from sincere to teasing.

“Both” he muttered after pretending to think for a moment, planting a quick kiss on the lips he’d been biting just minutes earlier.

I turned in his arms and held onto his shoulders tightly, while his hands - his gentle, skilled fingers - traced my sides with care and reverence.

That touch alone was enough to remind me: He was home.

[ladsaplenty]

At Last: A Missive on Caleb and MC's Slow Burn (AKA how No Return Night broke me 💀)

Here's the thing. I'm still not over No Return Night. And I may never be over it. It's insane to me how they crafted this intense, decades-long epic between these two characters, condensed it into what, maybe 8-12 hours of gameplay? Stretched out over 6 months perhaps, but still. And then they totally stuck the landing. For me, No Return Night came together beautifully and devastatingly, and my feelings require that I talk about how they did it because WHAT THE HELL INFOLD YOU CAN'T JUST BE OUT HERE RUINING PEOPLE LIKE THIS. (But also I appreciate it so much, thank you.)

[As per all my LaDS commentary posts, a disclaimer that this is JUST MY OPINION. Other interpretations of Caleb and MC's relationship are equally valid, but this is the internet and I get to yell things just like everyone else. Spoilers for No Return Night, but honestly, how could you not have seen it already?? TREAT YOURSELF.]

Part 1) They picked an amazing set up by grounding Caleb and MC's love story in real-life experiences.

Of all the LIs, Caleb's romantic trope is arguably the most down-to-earth and that works very strongly in its favor. Whether you choose to interpret Caleb as a childhood best friend or as a kind of foster-sibling (my Americanized, not-nearly-as-good version of "gege"), the overall feeling of deep familiarity and care that comes with those roles is something a lot of people experience or want to experience. Maybe some folks have lovers from their past lives return to them again and again, we can't be sure, but it's a truth universally acknowledged that most people have had (or at least wanted to have) childhood best friends, forbidden or unrequited loves, or just someone who cared for them deeply growing up, who made them feel safe. Therefore that connection with Caleb when he's introduced is immediate in many players, myself included. He's always been there for you and taken care of you and there's nothing else to explain about it, like how you met him on a beach as a child or made a soul bond in a past life. Not that I don't love those backstories (I adore them), but their foundation is mostly fictional. With Caleb, for lots of players, the foundation is not just our imagination but our actual life experience, and that carries a lot of weight. Weight that InFold writers then use to emotionally beat us to death.

Part 2) The intersecting storytelling that built up to No Return Night was both heavy-handed AND nuanced, and somehow it worked.

When Caleb's birthday event debuted, I'd been playing LADS for a little over two months, and had been watching Caleb and MC's romance even less than that, considering he gets unlocked later in the story. And yet when I first saw the trailer, it felt like I had been waiting literal years for that kiss, for THE Kiss, to happen.

(Pictured: The last thing I saw moments before blacking out from FEELING TOO MANY FEELINGS.)

It wasn't until after I stopped screaming and my brain rebooted that I fully appreciated the work the writers put in to make a few months worth of tension feel like the lifetime it was in game.

Many of Caleb's Tender Moments are set in or about the past, moreso than any of the other LIs, but at first I just chalked that up to it being Caleb's narrative "theme." I even started to get annoyed with the constant references to his and MC's past in like ALL of their dialogue (Me: "I swear if he says 'back then' or 'when we were kids' ONE MORE TIME 😤"), though I eventually got over it. But after his birthday card, I understood the vision.

From every angle, at all times, the writers persistently made you feel that history between Caleb and MC. Those memories from the past were there to complement and emphasize what was set in the present, which smarter people than I probably realized right away. While I was all "YES, I GET IT, THEY GREW UP TOGETHER," part of my brain was bolstering the connections between those past memories and Caleb's present day behavior: his facial expressions (the way his eyes fly open when MC kisses his eyebrow in Farspace Deprivation), body language (the way he folds in on himself after wanting to kiss her SO BAD in Hidden Waves 🫠😭), and tone of voice (literally any time Caleb opens his mouth, like every word he says to MC is dripping with that longing). Combined with even more references and scenes from their past in other memories, phone calls, posts, and texts (how they used to skip class together, how they played pranks on each other, how Caleb, uh, took pictures of her... while she was sleeping... 👀), all of it was consciously and unconsciously building that tension. Even when I thought I knew how invested I was, it wasn't until I saw the culmination of all that yearning that I understood how much the writers had gotten me in my feelings about these two, more than I ever realized until I watched No Return Night's trailer and had a full-on, certified, bonafide breakdown.

(Pictured: My first attempt at watching the No Return Night trailer. I had to stop halfway through to force myself to breathe properly.)

Part 3) The writers absolutely understood the assignment when it came to showing the release of that earth-shattering tension.

Let the record show that my breakdown was fully consensual. I wanted that kiss to destroy my psyche and leave me catatonic with joy, as did many others. I'm active on the official subreddit where there were some less-mentally-unwell players who thought it was fine if Floating Floraletter was the first kiss between Caleb and MC. And then there was me, who was ready to throw metaphorical hands if that turned out to be the case.

To be fair, I can respect the opinion that the kiss didn't have to be monumental, even if I disagree. Caleb is a more disciplined man than most, a soldier and a colonel, and realistically (I could be wrong, hard to tell, I only date virtual men) I don't think this level of intensity happens very often among adults...

However, THIS IS A MOBILE GAME AND REALISM IS FOR SUCKERS.

Caleb is constantly grabbing MC, pulling her to him, borderline stalking her, begging her not to leave and to stay with him for literally one hundred years, wanting to be her goddamn toothbrush, and at the time of the No Return Night, he had been running on those fumes for over a DECADE. Brief, tree-obscured smooches were not going to cut it. I needed to FEEL that shit. Yes, theoretically, that first kiss could be some sweet, relatively chaste moment in a boat somewhere, but the more likely scenario imho is kissing so hard that you fall off the sofa and then you """make out""" (🙄) on the floor for FIVE HOURS STRAIGHT.

(Pictured: A man who definitely wasn't getting his fuck on mere moments ago.)

For me, emotionally, No Return Night was near perfect. You could see from the trailer that the devs knew what they were doing: referencing all the waist grabs and longing looks from previous memories. That part where Caleb grabs MC's wrist, pauses, and then he pulls her and you just KNOW that right then that he's finally decided. There's no more guilt, no more hesitation, that man pulls her into his lap. There's no more longing in those eyes, only determination. Things WILL be different, starting tonight.

While I do have small critiques about the translation and MC's execution, I have none whatsoever about the buildup and framing of that moment. Unrequited love can be extraordinarily painful. If you're playing self-insert or even if you're just someone who feels things in that deep way, you recognize what that would be like to finally connect with that person for whom you have been starving for SO long. It might be slow, it might be tender, but it would HURT. In a good way though. And I love that the writers leaned into that fantasy and took it seriously.

(Pictured: "And here we are in Heaven, for you are mine. At last.")

TL;DR: No Return Night was a great ending to a masterful piece of interconnected storytelling that created years worth of depth in a short amount of time. The writers showed so much commitment to and respect for depicting a complex relationship, and their willingness to let those emotions culminate with the intensity they deserved was incredible. I'm going to continue to unpack SO MANY FEELINGS rewatching this card while regularly running back to Zayne for emotional stability (I still love you the most, my secure attachment king.)

I'm not interested in getting married (FINALLY a banner to skip), but after Floating Floraletter teasing us and No Return Night finally making it official, I cannot wait to see more cards of Caleb and MC together in an actual romantic relationship. I look forward to seeing how they're going to interact now that the longing is finally at an end... well, that version of the longing. I'm sure Caleb will find other ways to pine for MC, that man is BUILT TO YEARN.

Also he's just built, jfc.

Credit: Flat-Seaweed757

[razorblade180-heated]

Trapped ch2

[smut! Look away!]

Whoever said lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice is in fact a liar. Blake Belladonna found herself opening her eyes from her old Beacon bed once again. She was unclear how long it has been since her first appearance in this pseudo familiar world, but memories came flooding back.

“Oh, this again.” She was quick on the uptake. Not only was she back in her pajamas, but felt strangely more comfortable than the last time. Whatever happened last time didn’t cause any problems after her and Jaune left. That was a plus in her book.

Speaking of Jaune, Blake looked around to see if the boy had returned like she did. She found no knight waiting this time. Instead, a reaper sat on her bed in pajamas while double fisting two sandwiches.

“Ruby?” Blake blinked twice, genuinely surprised to see her leader.

“Hey, sleepy head…” Ruby said slowly, dragging out each word. “So uh, this place is weird. Kinda reminds me of Jinn.”

“Oh yeah. Never really thought of that. How long have you been hanging around?”

“Not long. Maybe five minutes. Tried to wake you but it wasn’t happening. Now I’m eating.”

Blake could see the girl’s hands trembling from where she sat. “Were you freaking out in those five minutes?”

“That may have happened.” She inhaled the sandwich in her left hand. “There’s an interesting sign on the door.”

Blake turned her head and once again read it aloud. “Requirements unfulfilled. Achieve Ruby’s satisfaction and calmness.” How interesting. The objective had nothing to do with Blake specifically this time.

“Weird sign, right?” Ruby chuckled awkwardly. “Hehe, it's almost like this place is like those spaces found in naughty manga.”

“That’s exactly what this is.”

Blake watched her leader go nonverbal as her nostrils flared from a deep breath. Ruby slowly inhaled the second sandwich. It was clear to Blake the girl was stress eating from refusing what she knew to be the truth.

“Cool.” Ruby finally said after a couple minutes. “Why not? The rest of my life should make this feel normal.”

“So I can see you still need a second.”

“How are you so calm about this!?” Ruby blurted out. “I get you’re cool, but this cool!?”

“It’s my second time here.”

“You’re what!!? Who was here last time!?”

“I…don’t think that’s my business to tell.” No need to make the rabbit hole deeper than it was getting. “From what I can tell, you lose your memories after leaving, but gain it all back if you return. You definitely would’ve known about this place otherwise.”

“Because I would’ve remembered, or because you would’ve told me?”

“Yes and probably. I don’t see it staying a secret.” Jaune definitely would’ve acted off and frankly, Blake knew she wouldn’t be better. “And before you ask, there’s no other way out.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ruby jumped down to the floor.” I was kicking and yanking the door like a psycho. You’re a very heavy sleeper.”

“Or the room thought you should get that all out of your system in private? I wouldn’t be surprised. What kind of sandwich were those?”

“I don’t know. A mix of beef and turkey I think? The cheese was definitely cheddar.”

“I didn’t eat one last time but I definitely smelled tuna before.”

“So what? We want for nothing here? Ya know, except for escaping?” Ruby tapped her foot anxiously.

Blake was starting to sense a pattern. “First Jaune, and now Ruby. It could’ve been any combination of our group, but I’m here again for another first time experience. If this room considers who’s in it, am I the best choice to help them get used to this?”

Thinking about it, Blake couldn’t see anyone else taking this well enough while handling two of the most anxious people in the group. Anyone else might come off too strong or out of their depth.

“Ruby, it’s okay. We’re gonna get through this. I promise. Take a breath, then take a seat right next to me.

The silver eyed warrior does exactly that. After a slow and measured breath that raises her shoulder, Ruby exhales like a deflating balloon before taking a seat to Blake’s right.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. You’re nervous. I take it Yang’s never really talked to you about this stuff, has she?”

“Nope. Not that she wouldn’t. It uhh, always felt embarrassing for me. I’ve read some intriguing books.” Ruby blushed deeply. “I’ve even done some self exploration whenever I could find the time. Not as much as I would’ve liked though.”

“Yeah, finding privacy isn’t the easiest. You could’ve told me. I will cover for you.”

“R-Really?”

Blake smiled and gave a nod. “Of course! Everyone needs to take the edge off from time to time. Trust me, you wouldn’t be the only one. So, I take it you like girls if I’m here?”

“To be honest, I’m a little surprised to see you.”

“Oh?” Blake’s head tilted.

“Not that you aren’t beautiful or anything! You definitely are! I actually really don’t care, all things considered. It’s more about a vibe for me. If that makes any sort of sense.”

“Hahaha! Ruby, that makes total sense.” Blake wished they were having this conversation outside of this place. “You have yourself figured out more than you know. That’s good.”

“Ya think so?” Hearing that took a little weight off Ruby's shoulders. “Thanks. It never stressed me out but I definitely haven’t put in the time to sort it all out. Maybe that’s why I’m so anxious? Feels like I'm going in the deep end.”

Her hands were still fidgeting. The warm and soft feeling of Blake’s hand rested on top of her knuckles, gently rubbing them for comfort.

“Don’t worry. We aren’t going as deep as you might fear. Can you get fully on the bed for me?”

Ruby nodded, scooting backwards until her legs and feet were completely on the mattress. Blake moved behind her and put one leg on each side of the girl’s body. Both arms hugged Ruby’s waist while Blake rested her chin on Ruby’s shoulder. Findings cautiously pulled up the cute night shirt on the reaper to feel her stomach directly, earning a jolt.

“Ticklish?” Blake whispered.

“A little.” Ruby squeaked. She turned her head to see her teammate looking calm and caringly into her eyes. “Can I…kiss you?” Why was her heart racing already!?

Blake leaned in and pressed her lips against Ruby’s. A certain tension must’ve subsided, because Ruby’s body trembled a little less than before. The leader had the courage to kiss Blake back. The Faunus kept her own intensity well within reason. Ruby was always an ambitious person, much like Jaune. The difference being Ruby often did find herself in the deeper end of things before realizing. It was what made her the leader after all. Her boldness was always inspiring and a guiding light, but it had its drawbacks. Not this time. Not if Blake could help it.

She pressed her tongue lightly against Ruby’s lips, seeking an initiation inside. Ruby welcomed it by opening her mouth more and greeting it with her own. She didn’t try to take the lead and instead mimicked the way Blake traced the tip of her tongue, sliding it side to side as if to inspect the area. Ruby found it interesting; pleasant even. Her body sunk more into Blake’s embrace and once again she found the courage to kiss deeper.

“Mmmm.” She moaned softly, happy when Blake matched the same effort. Like smacking happens each time their lips briefly separated before reuniting. Kissing must’ve been a spell. Ruby found herself in a light trance, slipping more and more into the state of mind. A warmth trailed up her ribs and cuffed her left breast. One squeeze was all it took to make the girl quiver and take a breath. “Aaa~”

Blake’s eyes widened. Ruby’s face was so flushed already. A pretty strong reaction from the start. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah.” Her voice cracked. “My… nipples are really sensitive. They’ve always kinda been that way.”

Understatement of the century. Blake watched Ruby fidget, going as far to rub her thighs together after another gentle squeeze. “How have you survived wearing bras? I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Sports bras.” Ruby sighed with pleasure. “The fabric isn’t so bad. Depending on the corset, I can get away with no bra or just use pasties.”

“Huh, the more you know.” Blake placed two of her fingers between Ruby’s nipples and closed them gently. Blake was rewarded with another moan and the sight of Ruby’s back arching slowly.

“Blake~” Ruby whimpered, her hands reaching up to hold the girl behind her.

Now Blake couldn’t help but blush. She wasn’t expecting such strong reactions. Her hands gave Ruby a quick break as they left to pull up the girl’s shirt. Ruby’s boobs weren’t only soft, but perfect for her body. Looks like she is somewhere in the C range. The nipples that caused so much pleasure were pale pink in color. Not to mention stiff as of now. Blake traced Ruby’s areolas to see the response. More whimpers dribbled out from quivering lips as Ruby did her best to keep still.

“You said you’ve done some self exploring before?”

“Y-Yes.” Even talking was challenging. “This didn’t feel as crazy with my own hands though.”

“Is that right? So, you’ve never had an orgasm from doing this?” Blake’s question was meant with loud silence and red ears. All the confirmation she needed. Without a second thought, she held Ruby’s boobs fully in her hands to massage. The reaction was immediate.

The red haired girl acted like someone quickly tased her. Fingers left an impression against her skin as they pressed and separated her chest. Her legs clenched again as Blake lightly pinched both nipples. Not only that, but her mouth became infatuated with the crook of Ruby’s neck.

“Blake!” Ruby whined. The feeling of a wet and meticulous tongue running across her skin made her swoon. Blake wasn’t afraid to add a little pressure either with small bites as her nails dared to flick her nipples. “Ghaah!”

She didn’t let out. Blake kept this pace and watched Ruby melt. Each flick brought a yelp while a squeeze caused restless fidgeting. The hold Ruby had around her neck grew tighter with each passing second as Blake left marks on the girl’s pale neck. The idea came to pull on Ruby’s nipples just enough for them to bounce when Blake let go. Again and again, she pulled, watching the poor girl’s toes curl up. Blake whispered in her ears again.

“Are you close~” Blake teased.

“Y-Yes.” Ruby had never felt this hot before. “I’m really close, Blake.”

“Close to what?”

“Cumming.” Even the word brought its own pleasure. “I’m gonna cum.” Her voice was cracking again.

Blake kissed Ruby’s ear. “That’s good. I wanna see that. Let it aaallll out.”

She twisted Ruby’s nipples suddenly. The reaper’s nails dug into Blake’s clothes while her body became stunned with pleasure. Ruby could feel something in her squeeze tightly like never before, trapping her legs together and actively ruining her cotton panties. How long has she been trembling? Better yet, when would it stop? Ruby’s head couldn’t find these answers. She only knew that eventually her voice came back in the form of heavy breathing as her body rested against Blake who gently rubbed one of Ruby’s cheeks.

“Good job. You did wonderfully.”

The praise felt good, but it was third compared to the tingling between her thighs and buzzing sensation from her nipples. Ruby bit her lip. “Are we done?” She asked hesitantly.

Her body was probably laid down on Blake’s bed while the girl in question stood up to reach under her bed and pull out a box. Ruby’s eyes turned to the size of dinner plates as she saw various dildos. Some blue, others pink. One looked rather smooth and generic while another had deep grooves in a spiraling shape.

“Has that always been there?”

“I took a gamble. Looks like this place knew what I was hiding. Plus a few extra. I told you we all need to take the edge off. Don’t worry though. I meant it when I say we aren’t diving off the deep end”

Blake found what she was looking for. A small dark purple toy no longer than her own hand, and some lube for it.

“What’s that do?” Ruby asked, gaining an immediate answer when Black pressed the button of the base. The entire thing let out a low buzz as it vibrated. “Oh…”

“It’s on the lowest setting. No different than one of those cheap massage devices for shoulders. Now then, are you up for trying this? It’s okay to say no.”

A real funny thing to say while already holding a vibrating toy. She could tell Blake was being genuine though. She didn’t even seem like she wanted to use it personally.

“We’ve gone this far. I trust you. Plus… I am still pretty in the mood.” Ruby blushed.

With that said, Blake returned to bed. Only now she was at the end of it. Ruby watched bashfully as her friend removed her robe before focusing on Ruby’s pants. Her hips raised to help Blake, who had no problems removing them and slipping up pink, damp underwear. Ruby chose to ignore the smirk on Blake’s face.

“Gotta admit, I’m jealous. Wish my nipples were that sensitive.”

“I promise you don’t.” Ruby deadpanned. She watched as Blake lathered up the toy in lube. “Umm, please don’t go too deep. I’ve never actually…”

“I promise.” Blake finished. “Wasn’t planning on it. Okay, I need you to spread your legs for me; also bend your right knee.”

Despite her embarrassment, Ruby silently did what was asked of her, revealing herself completely. Flushed pink lips leaked of Ruby’s arousal. Blake also spotted just how swollen the girl’s clit had become. Her body was more than ready. A small patch or red hair rested on top of her mound. Looks like Ruby actually kept herself well groomed. Blake just noticed there wasn’t even hair on Ruby’s legs. Maybe it was genetics? As someone with a hairy father, Blake really hoped it wasn’t Ruby’s genetics. Sensitive nipples and less shaving would be so unfair.

“Umm, you’re staring a lot.” Ruby chirped.

“Hmm? Oh, my bad.” Blake smiled sheepishly. She refocused her attention.

Ruby couldn’t see Blake’s movements perfectly, but she could watch a hand move closer. Vibrations on the bed grew closer and closer until the toy pressed against her slit. Another gasp faintly left Ruby’s lips. Slowly, the toy slid up and along her, barely touching her clit but making its presence known before hanging around the entrance of her body. No more than an inch was put in to let Ruby feel its power; the constant movement that alerted her senses and caused her eyes to flicker. The focus on Blake’s face was captivating. Their eyes locked as Blake laid down with her head between Ruby’s thighs. Not a word was spoken. Blake’s left arm snuck under Ruby’s bent knee before her hand held a hip for leverage. That same tongue that asked for an invitation and caused a red mark on Ruby’s neck, now took the pleasure in exploring another new area as Blake kissed another pair of lips.

Ruby’s jaw went slack. Only gasps flew out as she felt her clit become captured in bliss. The toy pushed in a little again before leaving, maintaining its position right at the entrance as it drew out more desire for Blake to taste. Fingers held onto the sheets for dear life. Ruby couldn’t look away from the alluring sight of Blake’s eyes staring back as she dined. The pleasure would’ve made Ruby’s hips pull away, but they are trapped in place now, leaving Ruby to endure every tongue lash of the girl who made sure to slurp up every drop.

“Bl-ake. This is…wow.” Her chest was rising high and falling low.

She felt her clit get sucked harder, making her teeth sink into her bottom lip. Ruby had to close her eyes for her own sanity, but that made the experience feel so much more intense. Where would Blake strike next? Ruby was always wrong, and she was happy about it every time “Aaa~ Aaaaagnh!”

Blake knew she could hold this position well past Ruby’s breaking point, but that wouldn’t be fun. The toy was nice and she genuinely believed Ruby could handle an extra inch; yet that didn’t interest Blake much. What did draw her in was Ruby herself. The taste her leader had might as well be nectar. Not only was there a subtle sweetness thanks to her natural scent, but also a creaminess that coated Blake’s tongue and felt right when it went down her throat. A little self indulgence is fine, right? Ruby didn’t seem to mind going with the flow.

Succumbing to her own ideas, Blake pulled the dildo out of Ruby. Now that her right hand gained its freedom again, it mimicked the left in bending Ruby’s left leg before slipping under the girl’s knee and grabbing her waist.

Ruby couldn’t form a thought quick enough as she felt her waist get lifted off the bed slightly. The vibrations she had been powering through was replaced by the ravenous tongue she was quickly becoming fond of. It dared to borrow deeper than the toy and be twice as unruly.

“AAAAAAAHHHHH!”

Yeah, Ruby didn’t mind at all. Blake happily indulged in the stronger, more addictive taste. She didn’t care at all how tightly the walls around her squeezed. She wasn’t giving up this flavor until it was spilling out. Dripping down her chin wasn’t enough.

“So much for impulse control.” Blake chastised herself. Not enough to feel bad about it though. She turned her gaze upward to check on Ruby. Poor girl was redder than her favorite cloak and had her eyes shut tightly. One hand remained an anchor of stability by clutching the sheets while the other gave into stimulation by playing with her left tit. “Hehehe~”

Blake let her mind wander off. No Bneed to change positions anymore. She wanted Ruby cumming just like this; deep in the throes of pleasure and excitement. It wasn’t gonna take long at all.

Ruby panted as if she was Ty on the final stretch of a marathon. The pressure underneath her navel grew more intensely while inside became so hot she could feel the warmth spread. It was impossible not to know exactly where Blake’s tongue was. Its motions became frustratingly slow and more dramatic. It pushed up on the roof before dragging itself in a dreadfully long circle around its surroundings. Tears began welling up in Ruby’s eyes as the tip returned to the starting point, pushing up again as it took its time curling its way out; maintaining the pressure all the way until it found a nice, evil little spot where it could disturb her clit from the inside. Just like that, Ruby found and lost her voice all at once.

“BLAKE!!” She howled. The tongue finally left, flicking her clit abruptly on the way out.

The older woman watched Ruby’s spoiled flower convulse, its nectar squirting out onto the sheets and Blake’s body while the girl shook like she was possessed. She couldn’t hide her personal satisfaction in watching her work bear fruit. It might be vain to think, but in her opinion, she couldn’t think of a time Ruby looked prettier than right now. Blake got on all fours right over Ruby and gently kissed her flushed face all over while she went through the waves of the orgasm. Ruby tried to hide her face but it was no use.

“You okay?” Blake hummed

“Th- ungh.” She stammered repeatedly. “I- that was….crazy. Really crazy.” Ruby finally said after finding her voice again. Her body was still trembling uncontrollably.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you're freezing.”

“Shut uuuup!” Ruby groaned, attempting to hide a smile from Blake’s smug face. “I didn’t know orgasms could get that intense!”

“I did give you plenty of foreplay. Not to mention you were sensitive already. Let’s not forget, lots of new experiences for you today.”

“Trying to downplay your achievements now?”

“Nope. Giving you notes is all.” Blake was riding a wonderful high right now. Something about giving that kind of pleasure was deeply gratifying.

“It’s not like I’m taking that advice out of here. Although- wait, nah. I don’t wanna think about what could happen if I show up here again!”

Neither said it, but the likelihood of returning felt very real. Blake wasn’t going to worry about that right now though. She turned her attention to the exit. Blake would be lying if she said she wasn’t expecting a bright green light. To her surprise, once again, it was only half green!

“What the-” Her head turned back to her still recovering leader. Flushed skin, damp thighs, and ruined sheets. How was this not calm and satisfied!? The requirements said nothing about her personality, so what was going on!?

“Ruby? Would you say you’re pretty calm and satisfied right about now?”

“I am pretty sure I have experienced three moments of immense clarity here, yes.”

“Well I need you to keep that clarity as I tell you the door isn’t unlocked.”

“Why would it be?” Ruby said lazily. “You have had a single orgasm this entire time.”

“I know, but the requirements didn’t say anything about me.”

Finding the willpower, Ruby sat up and looked her dumbfounded friend in the face. “Blake, I like to think we know each other incredibly well.”

“I…do too?” Blake said. She could feel the judgment coming from Ruby.

“Okay, so do I look like the type of person who would walk out of here without you feeling good?”

In hindsight, this was Blake’s fault. She had forgotten who she was dealing with. Deep end or not, Ruby was always going to try her best in all aspects. Blake was almost speechless.

“The love of your life is gonna be one lucky person.” Blake said with utter amazement.

“Huh? Not exactly the response I was expecting. Thank you though!” Ruby grinned. “Soooo, I’ll follow your lead. What are you up for?”

“Frankly I didn’t think this far in advance.” Blake admitted. As willing as Ruby was, it was easy to see the exhaustion her body had. No way her legs were moving any time soon. “Lay down. I have an idea.”

“Roger that!” Ruby flopped back down on the pillow.

“Hehe, we can take a break.”

“Nah, I’m good. I really can’t believe you didn’t want a turn. You even took off your clothes.”

“It’s not like I didn't. It just wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. I opened my eyes to you freaking out. I know my priorities.” She slipped off her underwear.

“Okay, fair enough.” Ruby had mildly forgotten about her stress eating earlier. “I’m better now! This has been fun. I might not be as good as you but I’d like to try and-”

Her view of the bed above them became blocked by toned abs and boobs that might as well be mountains from this perspective. Blake’s knees rested on each side of Ruby’s head, and if the reaper dared to let her eyes drift down, she’d be faced with lush pink lips surrounded by short silky black hair. Slender fingers ran through Ruby’s hair, tugging gently to pull her head back to see Blake staring down at her. To say Blake looked gorgeous from this angle would be an understatement. Ruby was in awe.

“I don’t think it’s said enough how pretty you are.” Ruby said, blushing wildly again.

Blake let out a soft giggle. Honestly, sometimes Ruby was so adorable without even trying. “Thanks. Now then, tap my leg three times if you need air. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Her words drifted. Ruby already brought her hands up to hold Blake’s hips, eagerly pulling the woman down until she properly sat down.

Blake’s cat ears twitched. She didn’t expect Ruby to immediately get work. Her tongue was ambitious yet careful. Blake felt it trace the outline of her folds before slithering down the middle. She used her grip on Ruby’s hair to hold both of them steady as Blake began to ride her leader’s face properly to help. Blake was making sure to be extra careful but Ruby seemed to have other plans. Cat ears twitched again thanks to Ruby pulling Blake’s body further down, really allowing Ruby’s tongue to bury itself.

Even Blake couldn’t help but sigh blissfully. She could tell the girl was trying to imitate a few moves. Ruby wasn’t half bad. Blake continued rocking her hips.

“I can’t help but feel like you’re trying to get a little revenge on me.” Blake teased. Her body was slowly but surely getting into it. “Go counter clockwise. I like that.”

Ruby did as she was told, switching directions and paying close attention to how the walls around her flinched. There were brief moments Blake’s grip on her hair tightened, or thighs tensed. Ruby recalled silly little tips about spelling letters with your tongue could help find weak spots. Might as well give it a shot. A pity victory from Blake was out of the question.

“A, B, C, D, E, F, G-”

“Nngh~” Blake hunched forward.

“And we have a winner!” Ruby repeats the letter slowly, feeling Blake’s body respond with a stronger taste to drink. She wasn’t kidding about going counter clockwise. Ruby reaffirmed her grip on Blake’s hips. Good thing too. Blake started being active in her riding. “Looks like she likes it. That’s a relief.”

Blake braced herself with her right hand pressing against the wall as she leaned forward to ride faster. Fingers dragged down her hips and moved to hold her ass tightly. This was so much better than that toy she grabbed earlier. With the way Ruby’s tongue nearly slips out before sliding back in with each arch of Blake’s back, Blake might as well have been riding a dick. She allowed herself to shut her eyes and just enjoy the feeling of getting eaten so eagerly. Ruby wasn’t tapping out, so Blake wasn’t going to think twice about this ride.

“You’re doing such a good job.” She panted, grinding Ruby’s tongue in a specific spot until the girl actively played with it. “Uunngh, yeah. Right there, Ruby~”

It was so strange hearing her name with such desire. Ruby never thought too hard about her future love life, but between this and Blake’s comment earlier, it was hard not to think about it! There were a few people that came to mind, and the idea that they might moan her name like this was a danger to her own heart.

“Maybe I do want to come back here?”

Her internal conflict continued, but it never distracted her enough to leave Blake unsatisfied. Probably because she was doing part of the work by moving her own hips. Ruby wasn’t sure how long she’s been underneath Blake, but she really didn’t care. She found time to breathe through her nose each time she licked upwards, and the weight on her felt calming. The taste of the Belladonna freedom fighter was rather subtle and not that different from filtered water going down Ruby’s throat. In truth, if Blake wanted to sit here for a while, Ruby couldn’t find a reason to complain yet. Her tongue might get tired, but that’s a pretty fair trade off for this stunning view.

“Ruby, just a little longer. Okay?” Blake’s heads up was responded with hands pulling her down again. “Haha, oh you’re so cute~”

The sultriness in Blake’s voice might as well be honey for the ears. Ruby continued using her winning strategy. Each G that was carved with her tongue brought Blake’s ass sitting with a little more pressure after every buck of her hips until it remained planted, now squirming side to side. A twinge of pain came from Ruby’s scalp as Blake’s grip on her hair started matching the intensity of her walls, but it was okay. Ruby focused on her friend’s pleasure all the way until thighs squished the sides of her head and her mouth finally had Blake dripping down the corners of it.

“Fuck! Ruby~” Blake gasped, feeling her orgasm take her at least. “Ruby!!!!”

Yeah, she would definitely be interested in hearing her name like this a few more times. Ruby watched Blake’s climax closely. Her stomach was tensing up a lot along with her triceps. She didn’t look nearly as wrecked as when Ruby felt her own orgasm. As expected, and probably for the best. While it would be awesome to be a natural at this, Ruby feared her head would be in jeopardy if she pulled off that miracle. Blake still had the strength to remove herself, giving Ruby back the ability to breathe normally. Never has fresh air felt so good yet so disappointing. She didn’t even realize how heavy her own breathing was at first. Ruby looked over to see Blake’s flushed, glowing face as she let her body recover.

“S-So…a passing grade?” Ruby asked genuinely. Blake only rolled her eyes and smiled before bending down and giving a kiss that wasn’t shy at all about getting a taste of itself. As if Ruby didn’t have more reasons to blush.

Blake sat back up, poking the girl in the forehead. “Solid B+ with an A for effort.”

“Hell yeah. Honor Roll.” Ruby let her body go limp in satisfaction.

“Haha! Ruby, never change.” Blake looked over to see a fully green sign, then joined Ruby in laying down. “Final lesson, after care. I have a feeling you’ll be great at it.”

Ruby didn’t even get to ask what Blake meant before an arm was placed over her body to pull her in to cuddle. Ruby grinned at the resting face on her shoulder before closing her own eyes. Blake was absolutely correct. She was a pro at this part! Tried and true!

[cassiebones]

Where's the Mother's Day/Father's Day story?

I guess, since the archive is down, I can do it here...

It Takes a Coven

by Cassie Bones

Agatha felt like falling face-first onto the foyer floor the second they entered the house. Her groan echoed through the first floor as she stepped through the door, flinging the heels off of her feet and sighing in relief when she felt the soft texture of the front hallway runner under her heels.

"That was torture," she groaned, tossing her keys onto the hall table.

"Don't be so dramatic," Rio snorted, entering behind her with Nicky on her hip, practically comatose against her shoulder from all the finger sandwiches and chocolate-dipped strawberries he'd eaten at the Mother's Day Brunch at his school. "It wasn't that bad. And at least they had some good food." She pulled a strawberry from her pocket and popped it into her mouth.

"Rio," Agatha huffed, wrinkling her nose, "that's gross."

Rio shrugged, jostling their six-year-old slightly, but Nicky slept like the dead (no pun on his parentage intended) so he didn't even stir.

"Sweetheart, I eat rocks; this is nothing."

"Yeah, and I've told you to stop doing that as well," Agatha retorted.

"Party pooper," Rio snorted. "Okay, let me go put this guy down for his nap."

"I think he's already beat you there," Agatha laughed, walking over to them to press a kiss to their son's cheek. His little nose wrinkled in a way that was very reminiscent of his Mama, and she felt a surge of affection for the boy.

It had taken them so long to settle down with a child, and Agatha couldn't even remember why they had waited so long. Nicky was perfect.

She pressed a kiss to Rio's lips, too, before letting her heft their son up the steps to his bedroom.

With Rio's powers, she could have easily snapped her fingers and just transported him to his bed, in his pajamas, tucked in with his favorite stuffed bunny and all, but she liked doing the physical labor of carrying her boy to his bed, of taking off his sneakers and tucking him under the covers. She liked kissing his forehead, telling him she loved him, and tucking his bunny under his chin until he wrapped his little arms around it.

She liked witnessing all the little moments that made him human. She didn't want to miss a singular moment of his life, no matter how long or short it might be (long, she knew, because she knew these things).

When she returned downstairs, Agatha was curled up on the couch, wine glass in hand, rubbing her calves as flexing her toes. Rio grabbed one of the glasses and joined her, pulling Agatha's feet into her lap. She used one hand to start massaging her aching toes while the other tipped the wine into her mouth.

Humans had done a lot of stupid shit, but wine was ingenious, as was chocolate. And rocks. Rio fucking loved rocks.

Soon, she was done with her first glass.

With a snap of her fingers, Agatha filled it up again and Rio squeezed her ankle in gratitude as she took another sip.

They sat in companionable silence, sipping wine and enjoying the silence of the afternoon.

"Mama? Mami?"

Rio let out a yelp as Nicky seemed to materialize out of thin air behind the couch.

Agatha frowned at Rio. "He gets that from you," she said, unimpressed. Then she turned a soft smile toward their child. "What's up, baby?" She cooed, placing her wine glass down and opening her arms for him to crawl into her lap. "I thought you were taking a nap."

"I was," Nicky confirmed with a curt nod. "Now I'm not." He curled up against Agatha's chest, his little body relaxing against hers. She ran her fingers through his shaggy brown hair while Rio continued to massage her feet. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Agatha said. "Anything."

"Where did I come from?"

"Mama's belly," Rio answered. "Like we told you before."

"But how did I get there?" Nicky asked, furrowing his brow as he looked between his two mothers.

Rio's eyes widened and she made her wine glass fill for a third time, taking a long sip as she avoided Nicky's gaze and Agatha's glare.

Nicky turned his attention toward Agatha.

"Through magic," she said, which wasn't entirely a lie. "Mami and I did a spell and that put you in my belly, where you grew -- looking exactly like her, I might add, even though I spent nine months growing you."

"I don't control genetics!" Rio defended.

"So then Mami is my dad?" Nicky asked, looking at Rio.

Rio shrugged. "Sorta?" she said. "Except I'm Mami and not Papi. So I'm really your mom."

"But why don't I have a dad?" Nicky practically whined. Nicky never whined -- not anymore. This was definitely a big deal to him.

"Because you have two moms," Agatha said, gently. "I know that's not a satisfying answer," she said, interrupting him before he could protest, "but it's the only one I've got for you right now."

"But what about the Father's Day Barbecue?" Nicky asked, tears filling his eyes. He furiously swiped at them, refusing to cry. He was stubborn like Agatha in that way. "Who's gonna take me to that? I don't have a dad."

His chin quivered and his nose started to run. Agatha magicked a handkerchief into existence and wiped his tears as she held him. Rio let go of her foot and scooted closer to wrap her arms around her family, pressing her lips to his temple as he struggled to catch his breath in his effort not to cry.

"You want me to put on a mustache and go with you?" Rio offered.

"No," Nicky muttered. "Everyone will know it's you, Mami!"

"I can put on a glamour," Rio protested, changing her face to look more masculine, squinting her eyes and pouting her lips.

"Ew, no," Agatha huffed, when Rio tried to kiss her. "Gross."

Nicky giggled between them. Rio's face reverted back to her classic look.

"Well," she said, "then what would you suggest?"

Agatha reached for her phone, pulling up a familiar number and pressing on it as she placed the phone against her ear. "I have a couple of ideas," she said.

"I look like Steve Harvey."

Jen frowned as she looked in the rearview mirror, frowning at the bushy mustache that Rio had magicked there less than twenty minutes ago. It really didn't go with her winged eyeliner and the hot pink power suit that she'd chosen to wear for Nicky's Father's Day Barbecue.

"You're much hotter than Steve Harvey," her wife laughed, walking around the car to help Nicky out of his booster seat in the back. Alice was wearing an orange Hawaiian shirt and a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts. And socks with sandals. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders and it went weirdly well with the pencil thin mustache that Rio had given her.

She easily lifted Nicky out of the car, careful of his own cargo.

Señor Scratchy was also wearing a mustache under his twitchy little nose. And he wore a blue bowtie and a faux dress shirt collar. He was content in Nicky's arms as Nicky cuddled him.

"I can't wait until everybody sees all my dads!" Nicky exclaimed, happily.

Jen couldn't help but smile at that, reaching out to run her hand through his hair. She tugged gently at the low ponytail Agatha had put it in and chuckled when he swatted her hand away.

"They're going to be so jealous, bud," Alice said, putting her arm around his shoulders. "You'll be the talk of the town."

"What does that mean?" Nicky asked.

"It's just something dorky dads say," Jen explained, guiding them toward the field behind the school where the bbq would be held.

"Oh," Nicky said, adjusting Scratchy against his shoulder. "What else do dads say?

[thewiickedones]

Caroline's   eyes   flicked   down   to   their   joined   hands,   then   up   to   Klaus's   face,   searching   for   irony   or   some   hidden   trick.   She   found   nothing   but   intent--   whatever   his   deeper   game,   for   now   he   was   letting   her   lead.   It   should   have   reassured   her,   but   instead   it   made   her   pulse   trip   in   her   throat,   a   wisp   of   the   girl   she   used   to   be   straining   at   her   own   leash.   They   cut   across   the   lawns,   the   bluegrass   crunching   under   expensive   shoes,   the   night   loud   with   crickets   and   the   pulse   of   Caroline’s   anticipation.   She   could   see   the   guests   already   streaming   through   the   double   front   doors,   clutching   flutes   of   champagne,   cramming   years   of   petty   status   games   into   a   single   evening.   Light   spilled   out   in   gold   rectangles   across   the   porch,   casting   long   shadows   as   people   posed   for   the   town   Gazette’s   photographer.

❝   Now   why   would   we   get   all   dressed   up   just   to   stand   on   the   fringes   ?   ❞   Caroline   purred,   her   voice   soft   as   silk   but   barbed   at   the   center.   ❝   Let’s   make   an   entrance.   ❞   She   let   go   of   his   hand   and   strode   up   the   steps   alone,   her   walk   measured   and   queenly,   every   inch   the   center   of   attention   before   she   even   hit   the   threshold.   She   paused   on   the   porch,   glanced   at   her   reflection   in   the   lacquered   glass,   and   rolled   her   lipstick   deeper   onto   her   mouth,   crafting   a   blood-red   smile.   Inside,   the   rooms   glowed   with   the   sickly   warmth   of   too   many   lamps   and   the   sharp   blend   of   floral   arrangements.   Half   the   town   was   already   there,   crammed   into   borrowed   tuxes   and   gowns,   all   radiating   the   desperate,   collective   need   to   impress.   Caroline   drifted   through   them   like   a   prism   splitting   the   light.   Heads   turned;   conversations   snagged   and   fell   silent   as   she   made   her   way   down   the   stairwell.   It   took   less   than   a   minute   for   the   news   to   spread--   Caroline   Forbes   had   returned,   and   she   wasn’t   alone.   Walking   to   the   center   of   the   dance   floor   Caroline   held   her   hand   out   waiting   for   Klaus   to   join   her.   She   slid   a   hand   along   Klaus’s   forearm,   feeling   the   old   power   dynamic   tilt   ever-so-slightly   in   her   favor,   and   led   him   in   a   waltz   as   the   string   quartet   stuttered   into   a   familiar   tune.   ❝   Do   you   feel   that   ?   ❞   she   murmured,   spinning   lightly   under   his   hand.   ❝   They’re   terrified,   Klaus.   But   they’re   also   dying   to   know   what’s   next.   In   this   town,   scandal   is   the   only   thing   that   keeps   anyone   awake.   ❞   Caroline   could   almost   hear   the   ripple   of   shocked   whispers   fluttering   around   them.   "   She’s   with   him   ?   ”   “   Is   that   Klaus   Mikaelson   ?   ”   “   Did   you   see   her   dress…   ”   The   eyes,   the   envy,   the   judgment--   it   was   intoxicating,   more   heady   than   blood.

[  ....  ]              a  cool,  collected  smirk  stretches  klaus's  lips  as  their  eyes  meet  and  catch  each  other's  gazes.  the  feeling  of  her  skin  beneath  his  fingertips  set  a  fire  ablaze  within  him,  a  desire  that  was  hungry  for  more  of  her.  although,  his  main  focus  was  to  bring  back  the  old  caroline  tonight.  as  fun  as  this  was  with  her,  her  unpredictability  and  craving  for  danger,  he  knew  this  was  just  a  facade  to  hide  the  fact  that  she  was  deeply  grieving  underneath  it  all.  a  mask  @thewiickedones  felt  she  needed  to  wear  in  efforts  to  bury  her  fragile  emotions  so  they  wouldn't  come  bursting  at  the  seams.  but,  klaus  knew  who  the  true  caroline  was.  he  just  needed  to  find  the  one  thing  that  would  force  her  into  facing  her  humanity;  the  humanity  that  made  her  her.  a  soft  chuckle  leaves  his  lips  at  her  words,  ❝  radiant  does  not  mean  you  can't  be  dangerous  as  well.  you  wear  both  as  if  those  words  were  made  to  define  you,  caroline  ❞  he  complimented,  feeling  her  body  press  up  against  his  once  she  turned  to  face  him.  her  scent  was  intoxicating.  as  she  fixed  his  tie,  his  eyes  never  strayed  from  her  face,  memorizing  every  line  that  defined  her  face.  ❝  you're  just  now  realizing  that,  luv  ?  ❞  he  replied,  smirking.  ❝  sounds  like  you  have  a  plan  for  each  of  them.  care  to  clue  me  in  as  to  what  that  is  ?  ❞  he  asked,  curious  what  her  little  mind  was  cooking  up.

he  watched  her  move  away  from  him  and  slip  on  the  heels  she  deemed  fit  to  decorate  her  feet.  he  could  feel  the  icy  tone  of  her  words  and  her  hollow  laughter,  hoping  inside  there  was  still  a  chance  to  bring  back  the  old  caroline.  he  understood  the  pain  she  was  going  through,  the  exhaustion  of  constantly  being  the  voice  of  reason.  her  eyes  continued  to  watch  her  graceful  yet  deadly  movements,  mesmerized  by  who  she  is,  despite  this  not  being  her  real  self.  he  chuckled  slightly,  ❝  let's  not  make  this  night  'bout  them,  caroline.  they've  betrayed  you,  but  i  have  not.  i  will  follow  you  into  the  depths  of  hell  if  that's  what  it  takes  ❞  he  told  her.  he  wanted  to  disagree  with  her,  but  he  knew  if  he  were  to,  she'd  know  that  he  had  been  faking  every  word  he's  been  saying  and  every  movement  he  made.  he  had  to  pretend  so  he  could  draw  out  her  old  self.  he  nodded  and  followed  her  out  the  door,  looping  her  arm  with  his  as  he  led  her  to  the  lockwood  mansion,  the  lights  of  the  party  shining  into  the  night  sky,  lighting  their  path.  his  other  hand  comes  to  grip  hers,  holding  her  close  into  his  side,  ❝  once  we  arrive,  we  should  keep  our  presence  under  wraps  'till  the  moment  is  right.  then  we  shall  cause  this  chaos  you  seem  so  obsessed  with  making.  ❞

[letsplaythermalnuclearwar]

Homer!Odysseus and Epic!Odysseus would try to kill each other if they ever met

[wheucto]

on that note, in IDFB it's said that it's day 1127 of their video diary, and BFDIA 6 is when they started the video diary, so between BFDIA 6 and IDFB is 3 years and 1 month

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[siennasfantasies]

Bakugou Katsuki is completely wrapped around his girlfriend’s finger.

Sure, he tries to act all cool and indifferent in front of his friends, pulling off that tough, angry, and mean guy routine. But deep down, this man would melt in a second for his girlfriend. He’d fall to his knees just to see her smile.

Today, Bakugou Katsuki is out with his friend Kirishima, shopping for Kirishima’s girlfriend’s birthday party. Why did Katsuki agree to come? Because you were away traveling, and he was utterly bored and lonely without you by his side.

"Hey, have we met before?"

The question didn’t even register in his mind. In fact, Katsuki didn’t hear it at all. His mind assumed the question was meant for someone else nearby. He was genuinely surprised when, out of nowhere, a woman stepped in front of him with a soft, shy smile.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to say hi while I had the chance."

Katsuki quickly looked to the side, hoping to spot his friend, but to his dismay, he realized he was completely alone in this awkward moment.

"Uh, right," he muttered, cringing inwardly. What the hell? Why am I even talking to her right now?

The woman giggled, her fingers reaching out to place a hand on his chest while she leaned in a little too close, invading his personal space.

Instinctively, Katsuki stepped back, his heart immediately sinking. Oh hell nah.

"Okay, back up." He shot her a sharp glance and turned to walk away. But just as he did, he heard a voice from behind him.

"Oh, come on. She ain’t that pretty for you to turn me, this, down, is she?"

“She is that pretty, you—” Katsuki grumbled under his breath, shaking his head. He didn’t dare say it out loud—after all, his mom could be lurking nearby—but he couldn’t help but mutter the insult as he walked away, his heart set on getting back to the one person who mattered.

Three days later, you returned home. The second Katsuki saw you walking toward him at the airport, his whole demeanor softened. The tightness in his shoulders melted away, and a smile so wide spread across his face that it made his heart flutter. Without a second thought, he opened his arms wide, waiting for you to run into them.

"Hi, mama," he whispered, his voice thick with longing.

You rushed into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms clinging to his shoulders as if you never wanted to let go. You giggled when you felt Katsuki bury his face in your neck, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

"You okay, Kats?" You pulled back slightly to look at his face, your heart fluttering at the lovesick gaze in his eyes. He nodded silently, his usual grumpy nature nowhere to be found. Instead, he gently lowered you back to the ground, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, as if to reassure you that everything was right with the world again.

Kirishima stood a few feet away, laughing quietly at the sight of his best friend. The contrast between the Katsuki who’d been grumpy and distant while you were gone and the Katsuki who now held you in his arms—radiating nothing but joy—was impossible to miss. He smiled softly, realizing that there was no one else who could make Katsuki shine like that.

Everyone knew that Bakugou Katsuki was absolutely smitten—utterly, hopelessly in love with you.

[uppersidedreaminnn]

DAISUKI ★ N.RK

SYNOPSIS: in which you surprise your boyfriend by speaking japanese.

PAIRING: nishimura riki x fem! reader

GENRE: fluff, established relationship, humor

WORD COUNT: 1.0k

likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated. let me know your thoughts!

“kuso.” riki mutters under his breath, causing you to turn your head toward him.

the two of you are sprawled comfortably on the couch, riki focused on his game, clicking rapidly at the buttons of his controller, completely immersed. while you scroll mindlessly on your phone, both of you exist in your own little bubble.

“what does that mean?” you ask, curiosity piqued at the word you've heard riki mutter multiple times. though you already have a vague guess.

riki glances at you briefly before slowing down his movements on the controller. “nothing,” he brushes off, returning his gaze to the screen. you hum not don’t pushing it further.

the night drags on, and soon, the two of you decide to watch an anime together—a movie you’ve both been waiting to release for some time now. nestled comfortably in each other’s arms, you watch as the story unfolds. before you know it, the credits roll. the two of you done for the night, you both get ready for bed.

waiting for riki to finish up in the bathroom, you lie alone in bed and remember the moment earlier. ever so curious, you grab your phone and search for the word riki often mutters under his breath. no doubt it was in his mother tongue, japanese.

the search results make you chuckle, confirming your suspicion—the words he often whispers are curse words. falling into a rabbit hole of japanese vocabulary, you practice the words that show up silently.

“daisuki?” your eyes scan the screen as you scroll down a beginner’s guide. “'daisuki' is a japanese word and expression that means to like or love something a great amount.” your gaze lingers on the next line.

“it's often used to say you love someone.”

hmm. these words might come in handy. 

the following days with riki are chaotic, to say the least. your boyfriend always keeps you on your toes, constantly teasing you, play-fighting with you (seriously, are we ten?), and worst of all, stealing your food. after a long day of dealing with his hyper energy, you sigh, in desperate need of a time-out.

your eyes trail to the couch and the controller left unattended on the coffee table, practically calling your name. you plop down, turning on the game, controller in hand. before long, you’re fully immersed, fingers gripping the buttons tightly as gunfire and other game sound effects echo in the room. the victory chime rings, and a smug grin spreads across your face. clicking start, you prepare for another round—

until a hand swiftly snatches the controller away.

“riki,” you whine, standing from your spot to reclaim it. agile and a lot taller than you, he swiftly dodges your movements.

“nu-uh,” he tuts, shaking his head in amusement as he moves further away. rounding back to the couch, he plops down. “it’s my turn now.”

you roll your eyes, huffing in annoyance at having been cut off short of your game.

“uzai.” you mutter the japanese word foreign on your tongue, sending a death glare in riki’s way, sitting comfortably in your spot.

you knew the word would elicit some sort of reaction, and you were right.

“what?” riki looks at you immediately, his expression unreadable, though amusement flickers in his eyes.

you take a few steps forward, arms crossed. “i said,” you repeat slowly, “uzai.” you try to sound confident in your pronunciation, though you barely remember the proper way to say it from the japanese guide you read.

riki chuckles, his confusion morphing into pure amusement. “hontou ni?” he replies, clicking start on his game. his response making you annoyed at yet another phrase you had no idea the meaning to.

“where’d you learn that word?” he asks as he begins his round, eyes still locked onto the screen.

“google. where else?” you shrug, plopping down beside him, watching intently as the game unfolds.

riki doesn’t respond to your sarcasm, too focused on his game. you smirk, seizing the opportunity and snatching the controller from his grasp.

“hey!” he exclaims, frowning at you, lips tugging into a pout as he watches you start playing.

you only chuckle. “you started it.”

things wind down as the night progresses, the two of you tangled on the couch, exhaustion finally settling in. an anime plays softly on the screen, but neither of you pay much attention. you snuggle closer to riki, sighing in contentment at the much more peaceful atmosphere.

just as you feel yourself slipping into sleep, riki speaks.

“since when did you start speaking japanese?” his voice is low, curious.

you hesitate, suddenly feeling shy. “uhm…” you start, trying to find the words. “you say things i don’t understand all the time.” you explain. “so, naturally, i got curious and looked them up.” you shift slightly. “i guess i just picked some up. don’t blame me.” you finish off your explanation.

riki lets out a soft laugh, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. “that really caught me off guard, baby.” he tilts his head down to look at you. another thought crosses his mind. “what other words did you learn?” he asks, interest piqued. secretly, just wanting to hear you speak japanese again. even, if it’s just to tell him off.

you hum, feigning sleepiness. “there is this one word,” you murmur, a smirk ghosting your lips as you remember its meaning.

riki watches you, anticipation clear in his eyes.

you pause for a second, recalling the pronunciation as best as you can.

“daisuki?” your voice is soft, hesitant.

riki freezes. did he hear that right?

“again?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. the atmosphere shifts, the teasing laced with something more intimate.

this time, you say it firmly. “daisuki.” you lift yourself from his chest to meet his gaze, a soft smile playing on your lips.

riki groans, heat rising to his cheeks. “such a menace.” he mutters, looking down at you fondly.

finding the effect of the word on him amusing, you tease further. “daisuki, riki.” you say clearer. 

his breath hitches. he drags a hand through his hair before shaking his head, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.

“daisuki.” he says back to you. this time it was his time to make you flustered as he pulled you even closer.

“guess i should learn more words now,” you muse, laughing softly against his chest.

[himasntgod]

HEAR ME OUT. Sebek/Malleus/Silver bring the girl home/dormitory. Lilia: *draws out a huge photo album with the most embarrassing pictures* so when he was 3 he accidentally knocked over his potty.... *long paternal recounting of the boy's childhood*.

DIASOMNIA X READER

Where Lilia shows you embarrasing photos of the boys as children

Where Silver, Malleus and Sebek invite you to Lilia's house to formally introduce you as his partner… but Lilia is faster at taking out the photo album

You’re honored (and slightly terrified) to be invited to Malleus’s castle. It’s all cal until a familiar giggle echoes down the corridor.

“Oh~ what’s this? Malleus brought someone special~?”

Malleus doesn’t even flinch. He smiles, polite as ever. “Yes. I hoped you would meet her, Lilia.”

“Excellent!” Lilia spins into the lounge, dragging a wheeled cart stacked with five albums. “Let me share the legend of Briar Valley's Heir: Baby Dragon Malleus.”

Malleus sighs softly. “Do we need to—”

“Oh hush. This is important heritage. Now, look here, lady—this was Malleus when he got curious about human inventions. He once tried to sit in a refrigerator because he thought it was a portal to a cold realm. He was twenty. Just a toddler in fae's age. And his little horns were growing and he was getting stuck in a lot of places, so…”

You stare at the photo. Malleus is curled up inside a fridge like an overgrown cat, the door unable to shut.

“I was… investigating dimensional storage,” he explains calmly.

"He once asked some frogs if they would crown him. Some frogs! He told me "If I am the future king of these lands, all the animals will be under my rule." SOME FROGS!! In the end, we gave him a coronation with toy frogs. He got so angry that the real frogs were struck by lightning-"

You cover your mouth, snorting.

Malleus looks at you, utterly unbothered. “I have always embraced whimsy.”

Lilia beams. “Best boy.”

You barely make it through the front door before you hear it.

“Oh~ Sebek, my boy! You brought someone home~?”

Sebek instantly stiffens beside you. “Master Lilia!”

Lilia floats into view with the speed of someone who’s been waiting for this moment since forever. He claps gleefully, disappearing into a side room and returning with a massive album covered in glittery frog stickers.

“Oh, you’re gonna love this,” he says sweetly, flipping it open.

“This one’s Sebek when he was five. He was trying to prove how brave he was—stood on the edge of the pond in the backyard and shouted, ‘I fear NOTHING!’ and then fell straight in. Cried for twenty minutes because his favorite boots got soggy.”

Sebek looks like he’s going to combust. “L-lilia, PLEASE!”

“Oh, and here’s one where he’s yelling at a squirrel for ‘mocking the young heir Lord Malleus’!”

You try not to laugh, really, you do.

But Sebek’s bright red face and Lilia’s absolute joy at recounting every high-volume disaster of his childhood?

Impossible.

“I think it’s sweet,” you say, smiling at Sebek.

Sebek hides behind his hands. “Please… don’t listen to any more of his lies…”

Lilia smirked searching for another photo “I never lie. I only... embellish lovingly.”

Silver brings you with that serene air of a man who thinks everything will go peacefully.

He is wrong.

The moment the door opens, Lilia peeks around the corner, eyes gleaming.

“Oh my~ you brought a guest, Silver~?”

Silver nods. “I wanted you to meet her.”

“WONDERFUL!” Lilia yells. “SIT DOWN. I HAVE STORIES.”

Silver gives you a look that says, you can still run.

But you sit.

He sighs and accepts his fate.

Lilia slams a pink binder onto the table.

“This boy—this sweet baby—once slept through his own birthday party. We made a lovely picnic in the woods. He woke up the next morning and asked why there were balloons.”

Silver groans quietly. “You said you wouldn’t tell people that…”

“And here’s a photo of him as a toddler hugging a tree because he thought it was a ‘very patient person’.”

You gasp. “That’s… kind of adorable.”

Silver: 🧍🏻‍♂️“…”

“And this one—he was ten, and he fell asleep mid-sentence. He said, ‘Father, I wish to go out and explore the wooorrr—’” Lilia pantomimes a faceplant. “Straight into the soup bowl.”

You’re cackling by this point, while Silver tries not to die of secondhand embarrassment.

“He still does that sometimes,” Lilia says fondly.

Silver mumbles, “I can hear you.”