#// five asking the hard hitting questions over coffee

[thechaosjunkie]

time to forgive yourself, kid. you got a future. you gotta see that now. (From Hazel!)

@the-commissions-deadliest (Hazel) // Random Sentence Prompts: Accepting

"Yeah, actually...yeah, I get it," Five replied, concealing his surprise at seeing Hazel alive, the image of the rogue agent being shot up by the Swedes still burned into his mind. "But you know," he continued, coffee in hand as he leaned against the bar, "in my case, I'm suddenly a kid again. Doesn't quite seem fair, you know? I've practically been handed another 50 years to live. What do you do with that? What would YOU do with that? You've already had a lifetime--and you've had Agnes. Pretty fulfilling, wasn't it? I mean, what would you do if your body was suddenly young again? What's immortality look like to you?"

[luludeluluramblings]

Oh my God, Oh my God. Who wrote this? - Part Seven

Neglected!Reader x Yandere!Batfam

You finally manage to tackle some of the Red Robin fics. However, it's mostly smut. And, taking a rooftop break while your bestie finally does her job leads to another unexpected run in.

Warnings: Yandere themes, GN!Reader, Pesudo-Incest (Reader does NOT see themselves as part of the family), Reader’s age is ambiguous, CRACK, NSFW themes, Gets a little dark, Tim's a certified freak, and Jason has his moment.

Prologue - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve - Part Thirteen

Platonic Route

“Look, I’m gonna be honest here. I need a break from Nightwing for a bit.”

And, you really did. This all was messing with you. A lot. A whole lot. First the Red Hood thing, which was living in your head rent free. Now the complicated situation with Dick that you had no idea how to handle. And, the fact that the internet was using you for their breeding kink?

It really was a lot to handle and there was still more to deal with.

“Aww…” Your dearest friend pouts, but you are unphased. Instead, crossing your arms and giving her a look. Which makes her roll her eyes before her suggestion next spills from her mouth without an ounce of shame.

“We can try the Batman one!”

“NO! GOD, NO! Anything but that!” Your voice practically cracks as you scream. “I have daddy issues, but they’re not THAT bad.”

“Red Robin smut it is!" She grins manically and you hit your head on the coffee table.

"I have been bamboozled…"

"Oh, hush. There's some really good stuff. This guy has been posting stuff about since my fic got traction. And, I won't lie it's hot." You whimper. Just what you need, more words about you getting railed. Only you pause when the thought hits you.

"How much smut has he been posting of me?" You ask with bafflement, crawling over the table to look at the laptop scree. You fiend had pulled up the writer's page and it was surprising plain, but filled with links to commissioned fanart and a lot of fics. A whole lot of fics.

"Holy shit, this dude has problems. Are you sure this isn't some rapid teen girly pop using me as a stand-in for all her Red Robin fantasies?"

"No, I've read the author's notes. He's just a little obsessed with you." That makes you press you lips together in a thin line.

"And, that doesn't spark any red flags for you?" You question your friend, and her sanity. And, maybe her situational awareness.

"It's fine!" You have to rub your temples at the way she dismisses it so easily. She was already a lost cause even if you did adore her.

Instead, you stole the computer and started to scroll through this author's list of written works.

"Porn without plot."

"Porn without plot…"

"Porn without plot…. Multi chapter edition."

"Kink-tober."

"Porn with some plot."

“More porn without plot.”

“Porn with… no plot.”

Jesus, how repressed was this guy? This much porn creation was insane and very concerning. This guy's dick had to be chaffed from either how much he gooned or from how much he was edging himself all the time writing this shit. One or the other.

For giggles, you even clicked on one of the shorter ones to read. Containing hard, fast, and dirty rooftop sex with hardly any premise. But, you being contorted into positions that you were pretty sure you couldn't do while Tim, or Red Robin for the fic and your sanity's sake, was slamming into you with way more aggression that you expected.

"I don't think this is very realistic… I'm not that flexible." You comment instead of acknowledging how hot your face feels.

"Try it!" You're dumbass best friend suggests, making you look at her with exasperation.

"There is no way in hell I can do-" You start to say, moving into that said position only to realize you could move like that.

Which makes you question everything. Because, what the fuck? You didn't even know you could do that. How the fuck did this guy know you could do that?

"Don't you say say a damn word, you cunt." You quickly grumble to your friend before going back to the Author's page and scrolling through the fics again with an annoyed look on your face. She just cackles to herself while you digital shovel through all the erotica.

Honestly, the smut isn't the most problematic. Until you find something buried in it. Something that made your eyebrows raise very high and caused you to gasp loud enough to draw your friend’s attention back to you.

"Uh, babes…"

"Yeah? Find something good?" Your much too excited friend asks. Bouncing her shoulders to some imaginary beat while your mind is left reeling at your recent discovery.

"I found a Porn with Plot by this guy."

"Oooo, lemme see-" She starts to say before you quickly interrupt her by holding up a single trembling finger. You expression a bit grim now.

"There's a Dead Dove tag on it though…"

For once, your freak of a friend decided to be useful. Volunteering to read the fic first before reporting back to you. Sparing you from whatever the contents were.

Instead of lingering in the apartment, you had decided to go up on the rooftop. Needing some fresh air after that little discovery. Or, as fresh as Gotham allowed the air to be.

Thinking about it, this was one the few times you'd been in this part of Gotham outside at night. Usually you stayed in the higher end part of the city. Or, just headed back to the manor.

The sounds of the mild chaos that was Gotham, made for some interesting white noise for your thoughts. Mostly, you were using it to empty you mind. Not even trying to be meditative, but to fight the budding anxiety in your chest about that fanfic.

Dead Dove. Dead Dove.

You had been mildly reassured when you learned that there were no fics up involving you dying, but a Dead Dove and with Tim of all people? It was a lot to process.

You tried to tell yourself it was just some delusional incel that was writing those fics and you were just a stand in for his deeper fantasies. But, you felt like you needed to actually read the fic before feeling any semblance of relief.

"You seem deep in thought there, princess."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" You nearly jump three feet in the air with a scream at the sound to the slightly metallic voice behind you. You voice blending in seamlessly with the noisy Gotham night sounds.

You're heart is still racing as you spin and stumble in the direction of the voice. Only to suddenly be caught by some very strong arms that feel way warmer than the night air that's brushing you skin.

Oh, fuck me, you think to yourself when you look up and see the owner of said arms.

Jason fucking Todd in his Red Hood attire and armor for the evening.

You did NOT need this right now.

"Stanger danger!" You say, pushing on his chest. Bad idea. That armor was perfectly molded to his muscles and you felt your ears start to heat up. Quickly, you looked away to the rooftop gravel beneath your feet to hide the widening of your eyes.

Instead of letting you go right away, there's a soft squeeze and a chuckle from him. And, it fucking startles you the way both seem to linger on your skin and on your mind. Echoing for a moment.

"Sorry, princess. Didn't mean to startle you." He holds up his gloved hands while stepping back. You reward him with a weary look and a click of your tongue.

"Princess, really?" You dryly snap, a bit peeved by the nickname. "Trying to be my knight in red armor?"

Dumbass! You aren't supposed to flirt with him you stupid disaster of a human being! What are you doing? God help you-

"Depends. Do you need one?" Oh, no. He was flirting back. Mayday. Mayday. Blood pressure sinking. Heart rate rising. Conclusion: You are screwed.

"No." That's right, you shut that shit down. So what if your voice squeaked a bit. You could handle this.

"This is Gotham, sweetheart. I think you need me." Red Hood replies and you can hear the humor in his voice as you feel your insides turn into mush. Why the fuck was he being so suave?

The fuck?

"Excuse me, sir. I don't need anyone." You huff, playing the arrogant snooty card and turning from him. Only to roll your ankle on a pebble that you were sure was a paid actor. Because why the hell was a pebble on a roof in Gotham?

Does Jason catch you? Oh, yes. Does he hold your waist like glass? … Also, yes… Ah!

"Are you gonna let me go?"

"I really don't want to. And, I'm starting to think that's a bad idea, princess." And, he has the audacity to chuckle again.

Sure, you've had Jason laugh at you and your bullshit antics multiple times over the years. But, this felt different. Or, made you feel different.

"I'm getting sick of the princess shit. Why don't you call me by my real name?" You quip at him to hide the shivers running down your spine.

"Not unless you give it to me." And, your breath catches. Not from the almost seductive tone. But, because you realize that he's using his vigilante identity to flirt with you. Just like Dick had previously done.

Which pissed you off because you weren't as stupid as they all thought you were!

"If I tell you, you have to let me go." You glare back at him. Hardly intimidating to a man like him, and you can tell by the way he laughs. But, you'll play this game.

"Alright, but you need to get back inside after. It's dangerous for pretty little things like you out here." He said that with way too much concern in his robotic altered voice

Way way too much concern.

Taglist:

@ocean-mochi @cupid73 @vanessa-boo @ashtheweird @theall-seeingone @bbmgirll @nervousalpacalady @rovcarmen @rues-lovely-memoir @cgmajor @ruikeremi @themostdelusionalgirl @mazixxss @bellethesleepypotato @bad4amficideas @cruzerforce4256 @galaxypurplerose @wizzerreblogs @kkocho @d-aezy @frogwizard13 @badluckinfrench @farsketch @cruzerforce4256 @00hellohello00 @pigeonl0rd @hunter-hears-all @eyeless-kun @ee-1ovelifedownthedrain @awawage @minimari415 @hon3ydewcaram3l @caught-the-feels @calicocat-ina-tuxedo @darktrashpoetry @wisefuncherryblossom @shqyou

A/N: Don't panic about that Dead Dove. It's just Tim being a little lovable weirdo. Also, I think reader technically roasting him is great. Jason flirting is cute, but lets face, internally he is screaming at himself not to fuck this up. I don't even know if I'm writing him right. Also, he calls Reader princess regardless of their gender!

A/N: I'm happy y'all are liking this! But, holy hell am I going hard on this shit. I really really got to write for my other stuff, but I'm spiraling. Hehehe.

[firelilyfox]

Some girls think it's cute

Thunderbolts: Bob x Female Reader

Summary: Bob has a HUGE crush on you and no talent in talking (shy king)

Warnings: none really. sfw. fluff overload. passionate kissing.

Words: 2k

Like always: leave a heart if you like or a comment or ideas :) all is welcome!

_____________________________

The sun rises over the skyline bringing New York to life again. 

Bob is already standing in the kitchen making coffee to survive the upcoming challenges for today: don’t break anything while training with Bucky, staying awake through the boring lectures by Yelena and most importantly… not having a stroke as soon as he sees Y/N. 

Multiple times this week Bob had severe problems to even breathe when you would enter the room or - god help him - standing within an arm length away. Every time you laid eyes on his nervous face he was already looking at you and the way you smiled because of it … he felt his heart skipped a beat. Or five. 

Worst of all: the others noticed. 

„Mornin’ Bob“, Bucky grumbles from across the huge kitchen slash dining hall. 

Bob looked up and sighted in relief (or disappointment). „Good Morning.“ 

„I bet you wish I had lovely curves and longer hair. Don’t ya?“ He said mockingly. And the pale skin in Bobs face turned instantly red. Bucky barks out a laugh. 

„Jesus this is too easy.“ He grabs himself a cup with his metal hand and poured some coffee in it. „You seriously have to work on your pokerface if you plan to keep this a secret.“ 

„I don’t know what you’re talking about“, Bob mumbles ashamed. 

Before Bucky could say anything else the elevator makes a soft ping sound and Yelena stepped inside the kitchen. One step behind her … there where you. 

„Hey Boys what’s up!“, Yelena shouts with a big smile. „Ready for some training with your favorite sparringpartners?“ 

„C´mon Yelena give me at least five minutes to enjoy my coffee before I’m going to kick your ass off the mat“, Bucky mocks. 

Bob couldn’t even hear the half of the conversation the two soldiers were having because he was way to focused on you standing there right in front of him. And now he sucked up every move you body was making while coming over to him. 

„Good morning Bob“, you said with a little rasp in your voice wich made it obviously that Yelena had just pulled you out of bed. „I’m so tired. No clue how they have so much energy at this time of the day.“ 

Bob swallows hard. Your hand lays right next to his while resting on the kitchen counter. „I-I… Yeah no clue.“ He wants to sink into the ground. 

For a second you just look at him, trying to figure him out, then you hit him with a shy smile. „You look good this morning … I mean you uhm - you look well rested.“ 

Bob froze solid in place to stare at you. He wasn’t able to move at all but his powers were totally going nuts. Heat sizzled beneath his skin and without noticing he mirrored it to Buckys full cup of coffee. Wich was bubbling now. He put the cup down, smiling knowingly and gave Bob a brotherly pat on his shoulder. 

„We will be down in a minute. You girls go ahead and we will meet you at the sparring halls.“ With a meaningful look Bucky gives Yelena a sign to not ask anymore questions. She smirked and grabs Y/N by the elbow to drag her away from Bob. 

After the girls had left the room Bob blinks multiple times to make sure he didn’t just dreamed that. 

„Well, I know for sure that you didn’t cook my coffee because of Yelena so … yeah. Work on that pokerface or tell her that you like her.“ 

Bob runs his hand through his hair. No point in denying it any longer. „I tried but every time I- I just … i go tongue-tied.“ 

„Some girls think it’s cute.“ 

Bob sighs. „I don’t want her to think I’m cute.“ 

**Downstairs**

It was even harder for Bob to focus while he is being forced to sparr against you. The rule is to not use any powers (especially for him because … well he could blow this entire building up within a heartbeat) so his only chance not to completely collapse as soon as he blocks some of your kicks was pure self control. 

After hours of hard training Yelena and Bucky decided that it’s enough for one day and made their way up to the quarters again. You and Bob stayed. 

„You are getting better and better each day Bob. Hard for me to keep up.“ The amusement in your voice sends a warm feeling right in his heart and fills his stomach with butterflies. 

„I just copy what I see. You have … you are … uhm I mean“, Bob stutters. Cursing himself for sounding like a damn toddler not being able to form a whole damn sentence. „You are amazing.“ The words escaped is mouth before he could think twice. 

You give him a thankful smile. „That is very sweet of you to say.“ 

Bob doesn't know how to respond to that so he stays silent. Wrenching his fingers nervously, trying to make eye contact without starring at you. 

„I - uhm“, Y/N starts. „I should go up and take a shower. But would you like to watch a movie later?“ 

A wide smile appears on his face. „Yes! I mean uh yeah sure. The others wanted to watch this uhm historic drama I think … I dunno how its called … but yeah if you want we can sit there together. I mean …“ His tongue gets all tied up again while trying to sound not to exited. 

Y/N giggles. „No that’s not what I meant. I don’t want to watch this historic thingy with the others. I wanted to ask if you would like to watch a different movie with me.“ 

Maybe the coffee were never able to stop a stroke from happening. Did he really just hear what he think you said? You wanted to watch a movie with him … alone? 

„But … there is only one home theater?“ 

„Yeah. But we could watch it in my quarters … if you like to come over?“ Your voice gets a silent as if you weren’t sure if Bob would like the idea. 

He swallows. Blinks. Then swallows again. „Y-Yeah. I would like that.“ 

**Later that day**

He flexed both of his hands before he finds the strength to knock at your door. With one last quick look at the corner of his eye he sees the entire Thunderbolts standing at the end of the long hallway pointing their thumbs up and smiling. Bob gestures to make them go away but that’s when the door swung open and suddenly he forgets about the nosy roommates. 

You were wearing a oversized shirt of a band he never heard of and one of your shoulders was showing. Your legs were covered in a tight black leggings, wich does not leave much for the imagination. With your hair tied up in a wild bun you looked very comfy.

„You look stunning“, he said with a scratchy voice. Bob could see that Yelena clutches a hand over her mouth and Bucky modding in approval. Ava and Walker trying everything in their power to keep Alexei from making any sound and he wanted to disappear in thin air. It was like having you parents watch you talking to a girl for the first time. 

Basically its exactly what was happening right now. He was thankful that you couldn’t see them from your position. That would make this even more awkward. 

A soft pink appears on your cheeks. „Thank you. Come in.“ 

Bob follows you inside and scans the room with one long look. It felt cozy and warm. In every corner was a plant and books were lying around on the different surfaces. The Tv were the only source of light wich made it even more … private. 

He catches you looking at him. „I like it. It looks like you.“ 

„I look like a room?“, you ask in confusion. 

„Pretty.“ He says, surprised by his own confidence. Never had he felt so brave talking to you but standing here in the middle of the room, that belongs to the girl he adores … makes him feel safer than ever. 

The two of you decide to watch a movie about something funny. Then you choose to watch another movie about something with much action scenes and fast cars. After that you decide to watch another movie wich you totally forgot what it was about because while being all cuddled up on the bed, you are getting closer with each passing minute. By the time the third movie was playing, your legs were laying across his lap and Bob has managed to almost naturally lay his arm around your shoulder, touching the small of your back softly. 

„I think that you are pretty too“, you whisper so silent that he almost missed it. 

„What?“ 

You raise your head from his shoulder to look at him. „You called me pretty earlier. And I think you are pretty too.“ 

„You were thinking of this for the last couple of hours?“ Bob asks in disbelieve. 

You nod. „I think about you quiet often.“ Your eyes dart down to his lips when they part in surprise. Bob notices not sure what it means. 

„Why?“, he finally whispers. „Why would you do that?“ 

You look away while clearing your throat. „Oh uhm - I - ignore what I just said. Sometimes I just say weird stuff.“ A nervous chuckle escaping your mouth, trying to cover up the embarrassment. 

Bob wants to slap himself across the face. Why couldn’t he have said something more ... well something more intelligent maybe? For fucks sake he were lying in a bed with the girl he was into head over heals and she told him hat she thinks about him and all he had to say to that was; Why?!  

Work on your pokerface or tell her that you like her. Buckys voice ringing in his ears with what he said earlier that day. He had to choose between them. 

But Bob didn't choose, because there is only one right answer. 

And he never wanted to have a pokerface. 

He gathers all his courage and hooks one finger under your chin. Gently forcing you to look at him. „I think … about you too. Quiet often Y/N.“ 

His thumb brushes over the soft skin of your bottom lip. „You do?“ Your voice was nothing more than a whisper asking him that. And he nods. 

Painfully slow his palm cups your cheek, long fingers touching the spot right beneath your ear, pulling you closer. „I have trouble to think about anything else.“ His lips brushes yours soft like a feather as if he was asking for permission. You lean into the kiss to deepen it and all of the hesitation falls of Bobs shoulders. His hand on your back holding you close to him and the other on find its way to your throat. Not to squeeze it, but to worship the sensitive skin. His lips calming yours. Your hands wander over his chest into his hair. 

The kiss wasn’t wild. It felt soft and gentle and passionate. You felt like falling and flying all at the same time. And he felt like he could finally breath again without trouble. Like you were the air he needs to stay alive. 

A sudden crack interrupts the intimate kissing. The window to your left is now having a huge dark line wich stretches all from the bottom left to the top right corner. 

„Was that …?“, you ask a little breathless. Bobs head falls back and he closes his eyes shut out of embarrassment. This cannot be happening. „Robert Reynolds, did you just crack my window?“ The amusement in your voice was unmistakable. 

„I’m afraid so.“ He sighs. „I’m sorry.“ 

You shake your head. „I think its cute.“ 

His eyes fly open in disbelieve. „You think I’m cute?“ 

„It’s not a bad thing“, you say and kiss him again. „I think it’s cute that I can make you loose control a little bit.“ 

He never saw it this way. He thought that being seen as cute meant to be weak and that he would never had a chance to get out of the friend zone. But apparently being cute is not at all a bad thing. So if the girl in his arms - and out of his dreams- thinks he is cute… then he wants to be cute for her. 

[calebslittlecrow]

How To Assume

(stop being an overly anxious potato over manifesting)

Sometimes I see shifters asking “Oh, what should I do? Nothing is working :(“ and they get hit with the good ol “just assume��� stamp and send on their way. And then, barely 10 steps later, they turn around and whisper “... the fuck do I even assume?”. Before I chew your ear off: assuming isn’t hard. Well, not really, but people tend to make it hard. We as humans just love acting like we need to turn ourselves into a pretzel every time we want something “big”. We actually assume every day - when we decide we suck, when we tell ourselves we’ll never shift anyway, when we confidently declare we are stuck in our 3D and shifting is just too good to be true and all those people in the reddit community saying it’s just astral projecting or deep lucid dreaming are right (what is even going on over there atm?). Guess what your 3D is doing with those assumptions? It grabs them, says “bet!” and starts running like it’s a race. Congrats ^-^ But hey, the good news: if you can assume all of that shit, you can also assume that you have shifted. Yeay! In the spirit of keeping it simple, I turned the way I see assuming into a neat little list. Enjoy, or not: 1. Just Decide That’s it. Thanks for coming to my TED talk, exit is to the right. Okay, it sounds suspiciously simple and I know some brains will twitch a bit right now with “That can’t be it”. But it is. You sit down, breathe and say “I have shifted”. No begging, no pleading, no howling at the moon. You just decide, and that is where a lot of people crumble already by pleading for it to happen instead of deciding it has happened. You don’t need an approval stamp, you are the CEO of your own reality, not the intern grabbing coffee. Act like it. Deciding isn’t hoping or praying, it’s simply knowing. No matter if shit catches up immediately, tomorrow or next week. Doesn’t matter, let go of the need for it to happen right now. 2. Stop checking You said you shifted and now you are still checking your reality every 2 seconds like a teenager waiting for a message from their crush. Stop it. You’re rereading your script, watching shifting TikTok like the answer to all your problems will jump at you, poking your subconscious like “are we there yet?”. That’s not assuming, that is panic dressed up as productivity (or something like that). You are basically saying “I don’t actually believe this is done and decided”. Cut it out. Just go live your life. Play some games, touch grass with two hands and one face (beware of bees), breathe some fresh air. Your desire won’t implode because you stopped choking it out and stopped micromanaging everything. Obsessing doesn’t equal manifesting. Just let it cook. 3. You commit or you quit Assuming means you have to kinda commit to it. You’re not almost there, or halfway shifted. You are there. You have shifted, no more ifs and whens and buts and any other kind of spiraling. Take five minutes out of your day, relax into that knowing (or deciding). Feel your DR bed, hear your DR friends be loud as fuck for no reason, smell the DR air. Let your imagination drown out this reality like unwanted background noise. Similar to the fake arguments you rehearsed in the shower. You never needed help with those, did ya? 4. Yell at your doubts Maybe do this one internally, unless you are really feeling bold today. Every time your doubts creep in and whisper “What if it is not real?”, you turn around, embrace your inner main character energy and yell back “Shut the fuck up Brenda (sorry to all the Brendas out there), get back into the backseat. You’re not driving, I am.” Your doubts don’t get a say in what you want. They are not invited. You think your DR self is out there wondering if they are real or not? No, they are living the life you are telling yourself is unreachable.

5. Feeling ready is overrated, just do it Stop waiting to feel ready and questioning if your script is perfect or not. Your brain will rarely send you the green light you think you need to go ahead. You will feel silly, you will feel delusional. And you might feel like a clown. Embrace it, be the clown. Insist on what you decided until your 3D gets nervous and bends over in existential fear. You don’t wait to feel certain, you decide you are certain. And then go and act like it’s done.

TL;DR (how dare you, but fine T-T) Assuming you have shifted is like assuming the sun will rise tomorrow. You don’t argue with your friend about it. You don’t beg the sun to rise again. You just know and walk with the confidence that it’s happened, and with shifting you do so because you said so. That’s it. Stop overthinking. Assume and now go, I need to do some drawing stuff.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Future Fest | b. f. | 2

Bob Floyd x teacher!reader

She briefly considers that if he asked her, she’d go anywhere he wanted. 

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff

Author's Note: My hand slipped

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | Coffee?

Bob is sitting to the side with Phoenix, anxiously shaking his leg. He’s been checking his phone every five minutes it feels like, waiting for a text from her. They’ve been at the Hard Deck for an hour or so. He’s pretty sure the school let out at four, but he wasn’t positive. Maybe she’d forgotten; he’s kicking himself for not getting her number instead. 

“I can’t believe we go to a school thing and Baby on Board here manages to snag a teacher,” Hangman complains, hitting the cue ball across the table. He stands up straight, motioning to him. “C’mon. Look at him. No offense, I mean.”

“You really gotta stop saying ‘no offense’ when you say shitty things, Bagman,” Phoenix comments, rolling her eyes.

“She’s got a point,” Bob finally offers, looking up from his phone. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, keeping them in place. But he knows he has a shit eating grin on his face. “You’re the one that went out to lunch –I just happened to have stayed back. Right time, right place.”

“Don’t get cocky on us, Bobby,” Hangman warns, pointing the pool stick at him. “She hasn’t even texted you yet, has she?”

Bob deflates some, nodding sheepishly. Then, as if the universe wanted him to have a win, his phone buzzes.

Hey! It’s your new favorite teacher :) 

He grins at the text, unable to help himself. Hangman groans in the background, but Bob isn’t paying any attention to him now as he focuses on what to say. Then he decides to be honest –it only made sense.

Glad you texted me. I was starting to kick myself for not getting your number lol.

There’s a beat, and he stares at the screen and the little bubble that pops up as she’s typing. 

I’m pretty sure if I didn’t text you, my kids would have found out and murdered me. They’re so nosey lol

“You gonna play, Bob, or you gonna sit there and make eyes at your phone?” Fanboy teases, coming around to throw his arm around his shoulders. “Let’s see what your new friend is saying –,”

But Bob moves out of reach, holding his phone away from his friend as he stands up. “Knock it off –I’ll shoot later. I’ll be back in a sec.”

They all holler after him as he moves his way through the crowd and out the back doors. He considers, for a moment, if he should just call her. Would that be weird? He doesn’t really like texting; there could only be so much behind the words and it’s easy to misunderstand. And truthfully, he wants to hear her voice again.

He caves, and she picks up the first ring.

“I think you must have been able to read my mind,” she says from the other end of the call, and he can just see the pretty smile on her face. “I was just thinking I wanted to hear your voice.”

He blushes, running a hand over his jaw as he grins to himself. Then he sits on one of the chairs outside the bar, kicking his feet out. “I’m glad I’m not the only one, then,” he admits with a small chuckle. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Chaotic,” she admits with a laugh of her own. And Bob swears he’s never heard anything so sweet. “Once you left, the kids lost their damn minds on me. They’re so nosey –I couldn’t get them to focus at all.”

“I got the impression they’re a bit nosey,” he agrees, leaning back in the chair. “Are they always following you around, or was today a special sort of day?”

She sighs in a wistful sort of way, and he imagines her sitting in her living room. Maybe she’s relaxed after a long day, maybe she’s winding down. “Today was a special sort of day, but I do usually have a group that eats lunch with me every day. They were especially mad that I kicked them out.”

“I’ll have to make it up to them,” he offers without a second thought, sitting up again as Rooster comes outside. The pilot gives him a questioning thumbs up and Bob returns it with a smile. “I can bring lunch for them sometime, if you’d like.”

“Lieutenant Floyd, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to earn brownie points by being so nice to my students.”

He chuckles again, shaking his head. “Is it working?”

“It is,” she admits, and he covers his mouth because he knows he’s smiling like a damn fool. Even if she’s not here to see it, he can’t help it. “Let’s have that date before we start bribing my students to like you though.”

“I can make that happen,” he concedes, leaning forward now to rest his arms on the tops of his knees. “How’s Friday sound? I can pick you at six –there’s a nice little place on the water. The sunset’s always real pretty there.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” she agrees. “I’ll text you my address. What should I wear?”

“Anything you want.”

She hums at this, and he wonders what she’s thinking. But the thought is banished when she speaks again. “Well, I’ll see you on Friday, Lieutenant Floyd. I have to finish grading these essays before then, or our date will consist of you helping me grade.”

“I can do that too,” he offers without missing a beat. 

“I…really believe you would do that,” she admits with a soft laugh. “Text me, though. Seriously. I can’t chat on the phone, but I…I would like to keep talking to you.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says confidently. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

He hangs up the phone and stares at the screen with what’s probably the dopiest grin possible. Bob stays there for a little while longer, texting back and forth with her until Fanboy comes out and forces him back inside.

I want to say duty calls, but all that really means is that they need me to drive them home –have a goodnight. I’ll see you soon

There’s not a beat missed when she replies back,

I can’t wait, Lt. Floyd. Goodnight.

There’s a little blue heart at the end of the text, and Bob swears that it makes his heart lurch in his chest. He’s already a smitten fool for a girl he just met; the team is going to give him so much shit.

*****

She’s not pacing exactly, but she’s definitely not standing still as she waits for Bob. 

She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous; they’ve been texting back and forth all week and she called him at least twice after the initial chat. But she is, and so she’s finding things to do so she doesn’t sit and stew in her nerves. Touching up her lipstick, switching out the jewelry she’s wearing, changing her shoes…until there’s a soft knock on the front door and she takes a quick breath in.

“I got this,” she reassures herself, slipping her sandals back on, then opening the door. 

Bob is standing there with a bouquet of flowers. He’s not in his uniform today; just a light blue flannel shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows and a pair of jeans. But she can’t help but think he’s just as handsome as the first time she saw him. 

She’s distracted, and he clears his throat, but there’s a sheepish smile on his face as he speaks. “I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked, so I got probably one of everything.”

“These are beautiful,” she finally manages to say, taking them in her hands. “You can come in –I’ll put these in a vase then we can go.”

He follows her to the kitchen, where she fumbles around for a moment until she finds a vase big enough. She can feel his eyes on her for a moment but when she turns around, he’s looking at the photos on the wall just outside the kitchen. She comes up behind him, pointing at one of her as a little girl, with bright pink hair, and a younger boy with a green mohawk.

“That’s my little brother and I when we went back to Seattle for the first time since moving here,” she explains with a fond smile. “We weren’t supposed to be going anywhere, so my mom let us dye our hair and cut it up for the summer. My grandma got sick though and we had to go up there to help…My mom got the nastiest looks in the airport.” 

“You miss it up there?” He asks, looking down at her.

“Sometimes, but it’s too cold for me now.”

He nods in agreement as she motions for him to follow again, grabbing her purse. “I was stationed briefly up in Bremerton, at Naval Base Kitsap. It rains…a lot.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she laughs, shutting the door behind them. “Cold and wet. If it wasn’t so pretty, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live here.”

He opens the passenger door of his truck without hesitation, holding out his hand to help her in. She blushes at the motion, smiling to herself as she settles into the seat. 

The drive isn’t long, and when they arrive, they’re seated out on the deck, right on the beach. The sun is just setting, and she thinks it’s the most magical thing she’s seen in years. Then, he pulls out her chair for her there as well. She wants to thank his mother for raising a proper gentleman, because she can’t remember the last time anyone pulled out her chair for her or helped her get into the car. 

“Where are you from, Lieutenant?” She asks after the waiter takes their drink order.

“Montana,” he offers with a grin. “And you can just call me Bob.”

“Bob from Montana,” she repeats, nodding as if she suddenly understood a lot about him. “That does explain the accent –that midwestern chivalry too. Were you a cowboy before you were an officer, Bobby?”

He leans back in his seat a bit, watching her with that same grin he gave her at lunch the other day. “I did work on my family farm –can’t say I was a cowboy, though.”

“Shame, I bet you’d look cute in a cowboy hat.”

He blushes at that, and she laughs as she lifts her wine glass to her lips. “What made you wanna join the Navy? Isn’t Montana landlocked?”

He nods in confirmation, looking over at the water for a moment. “My dad, and his dad, and his dad before him –they were all military. It wasn’t even a second thought to join. But I wanted to work with planes, so the Navy had my best chance at that.”

“How often do you deploy?” She asks, and it’s a question she doesn’t really want an answer to, but she knows she needs to get it out of the way now before she’s hooked. Though, it might be too late.

“I just recently got back from deployment,” he explains, leaning his elbows on the table to look at her. His tone has shifted some, a bit more serious than before. “I’ll be here for a while, I think –they’re having our squad train a few teams of pilots on a new weapons system.”

“So that bodes well for a second date,” she offers, trying to ease any tension or concern he might have.

His smile says it all as he nods. “I think it does, yeah.”

The rest of the evening goes just as smoothly, conversation flowing easily between the two of them. They talk and eat, sharing a variety of things about themselves. She tells him about her favorite books, both personally and the ones she likes to teach. He tells her about his favorite movies and what he did before he moved to California. They don’t have a lot of things in common, but she tells him she’s interested in the things he talks about and is open to trying new things –but he has to be the one introducing them to her. He shares the sentiment, a grin on his face.

By the time the check comes, neither of them want the night to end.

“C’mon,” he suggests, taking her hand in his.

She follows without question, distracted by how large his hand is compared to hers. How calloused it is, which she knows is because of his work. There’s a brief moment where she considers how they would feel on other parts of her body, and the thought makes her flush as he pulls her down the boardwalk to the beach.

They slip off their shoes, leaving them up on the boardwalk in hopes they’re there when they get back. Feeling a little more bold, she pulls herself close to his side as they walk, other hand moving to hold onto his arm. Bob looks down at her, and even in the dark, she can see the blush creeping up his cheeks. 

“I’m having a great time tonight, Bob,” she sighs when they stop, sitting down in the sand. She rests her head on his shoulder, still holding his hand, and looks out over the water. “Thank you for this.”

He squeezes her hand gently, and she can feel him looking down at her. “Thank you for saying yes. I’m not…usually one to ask a pretty girl out the moment I meet her. But I’m glad I did.”

She looks up at him, and they lock eyes for a second. A fondness is in his eyes —more than just a passing date or two, but actual care —and she smiles. There’s a charge between them; a tension that they both know all too well. It’s just up to them now to decide who's going to give into it first. 

“I’d like to kiss you,” he admits, and she can’t help but let out a laugh. Because of course he’d ask; he’s too sweet not to. 

“I’d like it if you did too,” she promises. 

And that’s all it takes for Bob to lean in and close the gap between them. He’s soft, but a bit urgent, like he’s afraid if he stops, he’ll never get to kiss her again. But when she reaches up and touches his cheek, deepening the kiss, he slows down just enough to let her enjoy the feeling of his mouth on hers. 

He tastes sweet —and a little salty, though that could be the ocean sticking to their skin. His hands find her waist, and he’s pushing her back into the sand. Her tongue traces along his bottom lip, a silent question of more. And he accepts, half on top of her, as she tangles her tongue with his.

She thinks she’s definitely hooked now. There’s no way she’s not; his weight against her, his hands on her hips. He tastes like honeysuckle and vanilla, and she briefly considers that if he asked her, she’d go anywhere he wanted. 

When they finally pull apart —half because they need to breath and half because neither of them want to push this any further in the sand —he rests his forehead against hers. That boyish grin is plastered on his face, and her lips are swollen from kissing. They’re staring at each other like they think they both hold the stars in their eyes. 

“Can we skip to the part where you ask me to be your girlfriend?” She asks, voice soft as they sit up slowly. 

“After one date?” He points out, but not because he doesn’t want to. But because he’s surprised she does. “I…yeah. Absolutely.” She stares at him expectantly, grinning at him until he catches on. Then he nods quickly, fixing his glasses like it’s a nervous habit. “Sorry, yeah —I’d…I’d kill for you to be my girl, if you’d want that?”

“I do like the sound of being called your girl,” she admits, leaning over to kiss his cheek gently. “I definitely want that, Bobby.”

He nods again, unable to help the smile that’s spreading across his face. Then he’s kissing her again, like his life depends on it. But she’s laughing into the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“My girl,” he whispers against her lips when he pulls away. 

“Your girl.” 

[sempiternalmuze]

Running Through the Halls of Your Haunted Home

Jack Abbott x doctor!Reader who has some problems being loved

tags: dr. jack abbott x female!reader, hurt comfort, reader runs away for a bit (story takes place when shes back), Robby being Jacks best friend, age/jobs not really established, implied not great childhood for reader, jack loves her ohmygod??, jack would never leave her tbh, a bit more flowery than i'm used to writing so let me know, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 2.3k

Five months. That was the timeframe Robby had laid out for you when you'd came to him a few days after Christmas, explaining that you needed a break, need time away from the Pitt, the city, the state. He'd been kind enough to not ask too many questions, but you knew he'd hear it sooner than later directly from Jack during one of their therapy sessions.

So three days after Christmas you packed your bag, grabbed your passport, and changed your number. From one day to the next you had gone from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center to Portel, Brazil with Doctors Without Borders.

And you lived. You took the time you needed to find your peace again, to pick up the pieces that you had left behind in the dusty apartment Jack and you had shared.

But now it was May-- and Robbie was calling your number every few days. And today when you answered he'd sounded at about wit's end.

"Time's up kid, we need you back here." He sighed, and you could almost see his hand running over his face, tired and no doubt thinking about a fourth—fifth—coffee.

You had stayed silent for a moment, playing with the sheet of your hammock. You glanced at the tents set up by the river, kids running around in a game of tag, parents watching from the sides as they spoke to the other doctors on your crew.

"What if I told you I liked it here more? Then what?" You said, glancing back at the water.

Robby lets out a throaty laugh, one that pulls you away and forces you back to the shuffle of the Pitt. "Because if you did, you would've just said that."

It's a valid point— and true. You wouldn't be asking, wouldn't be hoping he'd tell you any different. You probably would have blocked him, sent an email to Gloria and moved on with your life.

"And I also know what you've got waiting." He whispered. And he was right. You wouldn't just leave like that and not tell Jack. The only reason you had been able to do it the first time was because you knew it was temporary, and small fold in the story you two shared.

"How is he?" The weight was heavy on your shoulders, an invisible force that only left in the depths of night and that was if you were tired enough to fall asleep as soon as your head hit your pillow. Jack was strong, and smart. He'd been through so much worse than a girl who was afraid.

"Well...he visits the roof a lot more now. The first few weeks were...well they were real bad kid." He pauses, like considering what would be too much to tell you. "I offered him to come stay with me, get away from the apartment, but he said he liked it. It gave him a reason to hold on."

Reasons to hold, how very Jack Abbott of him. To want to have hope, to find the reasons even though he wasn't sure where any of it would lead.

"He'd doing better now, I don't have to act like a hostage negotiator too much these days. He comes out to the park with us after work and he makes jokes with the new med students. But he misses you, a lot."

You nodded with a hum into the phone. The sun was so peaceful this time of day, it bounced off the water and on to your skin. You let your eyes close and let your mind drift back to those months ago, from even before the fight, to when things were still solid between the two of you.

Walks in the park after a long shift, hands intertwined as he poked fun at you for your decisions during a shift. The nights spent in bed, room slightly too cold because otherwise you'd burn up with his body heat. Even on the days when it was hard, when his active duty days caught up to him, there was still something to have, because he'd let you hold him, let himself talk and talk about the people and the days of roughing it, of the bad things he saw, of the pain of a leg that was no longer attached to his physical being.

"Kid, I gotta let Gloria know by tonight. Are you back?" Robby's voice broke through the speaker with a crack of static.

"Of course I am Robby."

Now you were running through the airport, hair a mess, sanity hardly in tact. Cassie had been kind enough to come grab you after dropping off Harrison with Chad for the weekend. Today and tomorrow would be your days to get settled, then straight back to it on Monday.

"I've missed you so much!" She squealed, arms wrapped around your center tightly. "You have no idea how much it sucks to have to take on that waiting room with myself and Javadi." She laughs.

"Oh I bet, what would you ever do without me?" You laughed. You held her tight before you both crawled into the car. She started the engine, waving off some security yelling at her and took off.

"How was it?" She asks, face covered in excitement.

"It was amazing Cassie. The people, the pace, the location, all of it was just-perfect." You sigh and throw your head back. "I think it was exactly what I needed."

"That's great." She says. Her tone tells you that there's something else, something on her mind that she isn't saying out loud.

It takes about three minutes of uncomfortable silence and a red traffic light for her to turn to you. "Have you talked to him?"

Cassie was one of about four people who definitely knew what was going on between you and Jack, one of a few who knew lengths you'd go for one another. Her tone is soft, prodding but not overstepping.

"No, Cass I...I didn't want to do anything that might...I don't know, hurt more than it already would?" You sighed. You covered your face with your hands. "I felt horrible, for taking off on him the way I did. But I just...I knew that he'd make me stay."

Cass nods along, listening. She takes your hands in hers, holding it softly over the center console. She doesn't push or try to interject her own thoughts about the whole thing into your mind. She knows you well enough to know that no decision you made came lightly, that it took hours and hours of thought and careful planning.

The light turns green and the car starts moving again. "You don't have to go back so soon. You can stay with Harrison and I if you want to." Cass offers, a small glint in her eyes.

You take a moment to consider before looking out the window. "I need to go back Cass. To my home, to my stuff. I need to go back to him. I ran once but I'm ready. I finally feel ready to face what we left behind." You smile, hands gripping the door handle a bit too tight.

Cass nods and hums. "Just know I'm there. If you need me."

And that's what the conversation is left at. Fifteen minutes later your left staring at your building. Cass offered to go upstairs with you, but you'd elected to face it all yourself.

There were two options that stood in front of you. One, Jack was home, asleep, getting ready to head to bed and face another grueling night shift. The blackout curtains would be drawn and the apartment quiet. Would the floorboards remember your steps or creak under the unfamiliar weight of your long lost body? Maybe they would, and then they'd wake him, and you'd have to explain the last five months of your life to him while he was half asleep.

The other option was simple, he wasn't home, maybe getting groceries before he inevitably came home to crash out on the couch. It had irked you so much when you first started dating. The way he'd get off a few hours before you and offer to do the shopping, just for you to come home and find him asleep in the most neck sore position possible, jacket barely off, jeans twisted too tightly across his legs. But eventually it became a comfort, the way you could rouse him and make him follow you to bed, where you'd help him take off his prosthetic, rip off his scrubs in return for a clean shirt and pj pants. Or sometimes when you were both so tired after a rough day you could snuggle yourself between his arms, him hardly waking up, but still opening his strong arms so you could press against his chest.

And you find yourself hoping it can be like those distant couch sleeps. That he'll be there, asleep on the couch, and you can just lay with him, head pressed against his chest, snuggled right below his chin as his fingers splay over the middle of your back, gripping you as to not let you disappear again.

So when you turn your key into the lock, you take a deep breath. With the click sounding, you push the door open. You roll your suitcase in first, setting it to the side. Then you pause, listening. There's silence, and for a moment you think you're safe. The buzz of the AC when it clicks on startles you, but not as much as the man standing before you.

Jack stands near the couch, hand holding on to it, like he might fall over. He wears a tight black tee, some washed jeans and his tennis shoes. When you finally meet his eyes you see something, a glint of pain? Maybe sadness, maybe shock. His hair is slightly longer along the sides, his facial hair a bit more clean shaven than the stubble you had last seen him in. He doesn't move, neither do you. Its like the saddest cowboy stand off you've ever witnessed.

The click of the door behind you finally breaks the silence. You take a step forward, placing your keys down on the entry table. You can't tear your eyes from his. You wish you could read his face, know where to start on the long list of apologies and begging of forgiveness.

"I know you probably hate me. I know you maybe wish I would have never come back. And I know when I left we were in a bad position, a position that I never wanted to be at with you." Jack opens his mouth to say something, but you're quick to silence him with a raise of your hand.

"But I'm here. I'm here because I love you. Because I never wanted to leave in the first place. And you are the first stable thing I've had in my life since med school." A sudden hiccup burst from you, followed by tears. You couldn't stop it. In an instant your face was crumpled, warm, tears spilling from your eyes.

"Sweetheart..." Jack mutters, marching towards you until his arms swaddled your frame, arms pressing tight around your ribs, fingers grasping at your hair. His face pressed deeply against the crown of your head, and his chest pressed perfectly against your ear until you could hear the thumping of his heart.

"Jack Abbott you— God you fucking took my life and put it back together in ways I didnt think possible. You showed me that I could be loved. I was worthy of love and attention."

You pulled away, Jack's arms still resting across your waist, fingers digging in, as though fully releasing you would mean you walking out the front door forever this time.

"And I ran. I ran because I was so fucking scared that you'd wake up and decide that I wasn't worthy, that you didn't need to be here. And I wouldn't be able to handle that." You glanced at him, and while your vision remained slightly blurred, you found that he was already looking back at you. For a moment you thought pity might be the thing coursing through his dark eyes, but you realized it wasn't even close. It was more like concern, fear.

"I picked that fight because I thought it was the only way to get you to leave. But you didn't. You refused to leave, to give in. And that made me mad." You laugh, wiping your face. Jack cracks a smile, followed by a small chuckle of his own.

"You made me mad because instead of doing what everyone else has done, you planted your feet. And that made me the most scared." You said, staring down at the ground. Jack gave you a moment to collect yourself, and when it seemed your breathing had finally calmed a bit, he took your hands in his, fingers intertwining with his own, his calloused palms pushing against yours.

"I planted my feet because I knew exactly what you were doing." He says, soft, speaking more into your hair than into the open space around you two.

"It was a stupid battle, and you're not stupid, so of course I knew what you were doing. Because I know you, sweetheart." he chuckles a little, the sound vibrating in his throat. "And more importantly, I planted my feet because I wanted to stay. You have never ever been anything short of the most beautiful, loving, smartest, strongest woman in my life. You are the best thing I've had in years." He sighed, his hand lefts yours as it moved up your arm, until it fell onto your jaw, guiding your eyes to his.

"And you put me back together. And I love you for that." He finishes. Neither of you two move, letting each others words swell around your embrace.

Your eyes drop to his lips, soft and kind. He doesn't hesitate, pulling you against him, letting your lips grace each others for the first time in months. You sigh, pressing your body against his. He holds you close as you two drink each other in.

Eventually he pulls away, rests his forehead against yours.

"I've missed you."

ϟ.·:¨༺ ♡ ༻¨:·.ϟ

[azzifudd10]

Spring Into Summer

A/N one shot based off of spring into summer by Lizzy McAlpine

Warning contains mature content

It starts again in May.

That sticky part of spring where the rain has stopped and everything is blooming too fast — tulips dying before you even notice them, skin sticking to tank tops, laughter carrying too far down dormitory hallways.

Paige doesn’t like May.

Because May means finals and pressure and the end of things. Because last May, Azzi kissed her like she meant it and still walked away.

Now, a year later, Paige is standing barefoot in the kitchen of their shared off-campus house, eating a spoonful of peanut butter at midnight. She’s wearing a hoodie that isn’t hers, and the front door creaks just enough to make her pulse kick.

Azzi walks in like she’s done this a thousand times before — because she has.

They haven’t been “together” since last spring.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered. But somehow, Azzi still has a toothbrush in Paige’s bathroom drawer and Paige still knows exactly where Azzi likes to be kissed when she can’t sleep.

“Hey,” Azzi says, dropping her duffel bag by the door. Her voice is hoarse from the gym. “You’re up.”

Paige shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.” A beat. “You ran late.”

Azzi walks closer, sweat still slick at her temples. Paige hates how much she likes the smell of her after practice. Clean, tired, real.

“Coach made us run drills twice. Shot clock was a mess.”

Paige licks the spoon again and leans on the counter. “You look like hell.”

Azzi grins. “Thanks. I’ll shower.”

But she doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, she steps between Paige’s knees, close enough that the air shifts, and plucks the spoon from her hand.

“You always eat peanut butter like this?”

Paige shrugs, letting her legs open wider, just enough for Azzi to stand between them.

“I don’t know. You always show up like this?”

Azzi doesn’t answer — not out loud.

Instead, she cups Paige’s jaw, slow and careful like she’s asking a question she already knows the answer to.

And Paige — even though she tells herself not again, not this time — leans in anyway.

The sex isn’t desperate.

Not tonight.

It’s slower. Sleepier. The kind that tastes like something old and warm, like they’ve done it forever. Like it means something. Like it’s allowed to mean something.

Azzi runs her hands down Paige’s thighs as she whispers into her shoulder, “You’re mine tonight,” and Paige wants to believe it. Wants to believe the way Azzi kisses her neck and folds her into the sheets is a promise.

But the sun always comes up, and the silence after is never sweet.

Paige wakes to the sound of Azzi in the kitchen, pouring coffee like none of it happened.

Two weeks earlier, they’d sworn they were over.

It was Azzi who had said it. Clean, final. “We’re better like this,” she’d said on the quad, breeze in her curls, arms folded over her chest. “It’s just… easier.”

Paige had nodded, even as something in her chest cracked open.

“Yeah,” she’d echoed. “Totally.”

And it had been easier. For a while. They passed in hallways, high-fived during pickup, joked around in group texts. Azzi even dated someone else for two months. Some med student named Lauren with straight teeth and the emotional depth of a wet sponge. Paige never said a word, just watched it unravel and waited.

Then finals hit, and stress ran high. And one night, Azzi showed up at Paige’s door, breathing hard and eyes too soft. And Paige let her in.

That was two weeks ago.

They haven’t stopped since.

It’s a game they’re playing now.

Exes who sleep together.

Friends who kiss too long.

Teammates who touch in the dark and pretend it doesn’t matter.

Paige convinces herself she’s okay with it. She makes jokes. Rolls her eyes when Azzi stays over. Pretends she doesn’t notice how Azzi’s thumb always strokes the inside of her wrist after.

But she notices.

Of course she notices.

It’s the Fourth of July party that undoes her.

Their off-season crew throws a cookout behind the men’s gym. There’s cheap beer, music, sweaty games of spikeball. Paige is sitting in a folding chair wearing ripped shorts and oversized sunglasses when she sees it — Azzi. Laughing. Holding someone else’s hand.

It’s not Lauren this time. Just a girl from the soccer team with golden skin and a tattoo of a dove on her collarbone. Paige watches her tuck Azzi’s curls behind her ear and whisper something into her mouth.

Azzi doesn’t pull away.

Paige stands up, stomach flipping.

She doesn’t leave, though. She drinks. She flirts. She smiles so wide her cheeks hurt.

And then later that night, Azzi knocks on her bedroom door again.

“You’re drunk,” Azzi whispers as Paige pulls her shirt over her head.

“Not really.”

“You are.”

Paige kisses her anyway. “So? You’re here.”

Azzi’s hands tremble a little when she undresses her. Like she knows this is wrong. Like she can’t help herself.

Paige lets herself cry into Azzi’s mouth. Quiet. Just a little. Just enough.

Azzi kisses her harder. “Don’t,” she murmurs. “Don’t cry.”

But Paige isn’t crying because she’s sad. She’s crying because she knows she won’t be able to let Azzi go this time.

Summer bleeds into August.

Azzi sleeps over more. Not every night, but often enough that Paige starts leaving the window cracked. She doesn’t say I love you. She doesn’t say anything at all.

Neither of them do.

But the touches get slower. The kisses more tender. Azzi starts brushing her fingers through Paige’s hair when they lie in bed. Paige starts cooking for her. Azzi buys Paige a necklace and doesn’t even pretend it’s casual.

Still, no one says the word.

Until the night Paige almost says it — and Azzi stops her.

They’re in Paige’s room, curled up after, sweaty and breathless. Paige presses her forehead to Azzi’s and murmurs, “I…”

Azzi pulls away.

Just a little. But it’s enough.

Paige stops. Swallows.

Azzi doesn’t say anything, just traces shapes on Paige’s hipbone like nothing happened.

Paige doesn’t bring it up again.

September comes with classes and pressure.

Basketball starts again. Media. Interviews.

Paige is sharper on the court, but off it, she’s unraveling.

Azzi still comes over. Still kisses her like she belongs to her. But Paige can feel the distance growing again.

She doesn’t know why.

One night, they fight.

It’s stupid. A joke Paige makes about how Azzi never stays the whole night anymore. Azzi tenses. Says something about needing space. Paige snaps.

“What are we doing, Azzi?”

Azzi freezes. “What?”

“This. Us. You can’t keep acting like you love me and then running away every morning.”

“I don’t love you,” Azzi says.

It’s quiet. Mean. A lie.

Paige laughs, bitter and hollow. “Right. Of course not.”

Azzi opens her mouth. Closes it. Then leaves.

This time, she doesn’t come back the next day. Or the day after.

Paige doesn’t sleep.

She plays harder. Studies more. Runs until her legs shake.

Her teammates notice. They don’t ask.

Three weeks later, Azzi shows up again.

It’s pouring rain. Midnight.

Paige is in bed watching Bridesmaids and pretending she’s not waiting.

Azzi stands in the doorway soaked and shaking.

“I lied,” she says.

Paige sits up.

Azzi walks in, eyes shining. “That night. I lied.”

Paige’s voice cracks. “I know.”

Azzi crosses the room slowly. “I love you.”

Paige swallows. “Say it again.”

Azzi kneels by the bed. “I love you. I’ve loved you since I was a  freshman. Since the first time you passed me the ball in practice and winked.”

Paige laughs, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Azzi kisses her. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to be with you without losing myself.”

“You never had to be anything but you,” Paige whispers. “I just wanted… you.”

Azzi climbs into bed, curling into her side.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Paige kisses her temple. “Just stay this time.”

Azzi nods. “I will.”

They don’t have sex that night.

They just hold each other.

Paige falls asleep with Azzi’s fingers tangled in hers and her heart full for the first time in months.

But the next morning, they do.

It’s slow. Careful. Like they’re relearning each other.

Paige presses Azzi into the mattress and kisses her everywhere. Azzi wraps her legs around her and cries when Paige touches her like she’s made of glass.

“Mine,” Paige whispers.

Azzi nods, gasping. “Yours.”

They come together, fingers interlocked, eyes locked. It’s not just sex — not anymore. It’s home.

In October, Azzi moves in.

Officially.

She brings her favorite hoodie, her lucky game socks, a box of records.

They fight about the dishes. About Paige leaving socks everywhere. About Azzi hogging the covers.

They make up every time.

Azzi tells Paige I love you on the court, off the court, in front of teammates, in texts, in notes left on the fridge. Paige writes her a song once and sings it off-key while Azzi laughs so hard she cries.

They’re not perfect.

But they’re real.

And they’re in love.

Paige still doesn’t like May.

But this May?

This May, Azzi kisses her under blooming trees and says, “Let’s never break again.”

Paige nods. “Deal

[rafeandonlyrafe]

stress relief

words: 1.1k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, male receiving handjob and oral, semi dub con (mainly power dynamics), bimbo!reader, ceo!rafe

“hey y/n.” rafes secretary says as you quickly make your way past her desk with a quick wave and into your bosses office, knowing you're a few minutes late.

“hi, bossman.” you smile wide as you enter, placing his iced coffee down on the coaster that stays sat out and ready.

“y/n, thank god you're here.” rafe groans, pushing himself away from his laptop, needing a break from staring at the screen.

“im only like five minutes late.” you pout, already feeling tears well up in your eyes. “it's just because your coffee was taking a long time and-”

“no, i don't care about that.” rafe shakes his head quickly. the second he saw you in the lobby, among the line of girls waiting to interview for his assistant position, he knew you'd be chosen.

tight pink shirt showing off your cleavage and a skirt that was clearly bought just for the interview, twice the length of what rafe guessed was your average skirt length, and quickly figured out he was right when you reverted back to your mini skirts.

“oh, okay.” all the negative emotions you were feeling are gone as you shrug.

“but i do need you for something. come here.” rafe beckons you over and you move quickly to the other side of the desk.

“what is it ya need?” you ask, quirking your head to the side.

“need some stress relief.” rafe grunts, adjusting the front of his pants from where he's painfully pressing against the zipper.

“okay, like a massage?” you question. you're not sure what the normal functions of an assistant to a ceo entails, but for how much you're getting paid, you're willing to do pretty much anything.

“yes, a massage.” rafe nods enthusiastically. “exactly. and i have one place that really needs to be massaged.”

“mmkay.” you nod, figuring it's his shoulders or something, when rafe tugs at his zipper and pulls his painfully hard cock out.

“oh my god!” you squeal, covering your face quickly, palms smacking against your cheeks.

“no, no.” rafe says calmly. “this is just part of the job, okay?”

“i… are you sure?” 

“yes. now come give me a massage so i can get back to work.”

“okay…” you take a better look at his dick, hard and long with a decent size to it that makes you imagine something you definitely shouldn't about your boss. you shake the thoughts out of your head and grab your desk chair from the corner of the room and drag it towards rafe.

you sit down next to him, glancing again between his eyes and his exposed privates. rafe gives you an encouraging nod, and there's no way your boss would lie to you, right? 

your hand reaches out to grasp rafes cock, swallowing thickly to ignore the urge to wrap your lips around it as you begin to stroke him.

“is that good?” you question.

“yeah, real good, just keep going.” rafe relaxes into his chair, plush and comfortable for the long hours he spends in the office, always arriving before you and leaving long after you've called it quits for the day.

you reach your other hand forward as well, working his length with both hands. you tug your lower lip between your teeth, focusing on his pleasure as you jack him off.

rafe keeps mostly quiet, just a slight increase in the noise of his exhales, but not quite yet a sigh. you leave one hand moving up and down his length and bring the other to the head of his cock, moving in teasing swirls before swiping the pad of your thumb right over his tip.

“oh, that's good.” rafe mutters, his eyes blinking hard to stay open, wanting to remember exactly what it's like to have you leaning forward, breasts almost spilling out as your hands work on his cock.

“anything for you boss.” you smile. you do love working for rafe. being his assistant is mostly just running errands for him, but even that doesn't take up enough of your time, so you end up online shopping and picking at your nails until 5pm hits.

“you are really good at massages.” rafe smirks, and you don't catch his implication. that you're experienced and not in literal massages.

“thanks.” you feel your cheeks blush, face heating. it's hard to get a compliment out of rafe. the nicest thing you think he's ever done is when you caught him staring at your ass as you walked away.

“keep doing that.” rafe says when you cup your hand over the head of his cock, rubbing your palm against his leaky tip.

“mmkay.” you hum again, your usual response to any of rafes demands. your other hand keeps stroking over his length, squeezing just tight enough to have rafes lower jaw dropping in pleasure.

you both jump when the phone begins to ring. rafe reaches over to quickly end the call when he sees who it is.

“stop, it's tokyo.” rafe whispers as your hands continue to move. even though you keep yourself out of the business side, you know how big of a deal the companies japanese partners are.

“answer it!” you squeal, but your hands continue to move.

rafe know he can't keep them waiting so he quickly accepts the call, trying to fix his voice while you stare at him, still stroking almost absentmindedly up and down his cock.

rafe answers the question the representative on the other end has as you drop one hand down to fondle his balls, squeezing your hand into the opening in his pants to touch them.

rafe pulls the phone receiver away from his mouth as he lets out a quiet curse, eyes pleading for you to stop, but you can't make yourself, and rafe certainly won't push your hands away when he's longed to have them on him for so long.

rafes voice is shaky as he answers questions, his cock pulsing in your hand, tip turning pink as you realize what is about to happen.

you look around for something to catch his cum as his cock pulses in your hand but you come up with nothing, so you drop your head and wrap your mouth around the head of his cock just as he begins to cum, sucking gently to empty him as you obediently swallow.

your hands fall away as you look up at rafe, lips locked around his cock. you give one final suck that has him gasping before covering it up with a cough before you pull off with a pop.

you don't even need to be asked as you tuck rafe back into his pants as he finishes up his call, tossing the phone down the second he says sayonara.

“shit.” rafe groans.

“is your stress relieved now?” you ask, somehow still looking the perfect mix of innocent and sluty even though your lipgloss is smeared from rafes cock.

“yeah.” rafe nods. “and next time i want a massage with your mouth.”

[ccupcakqs]

— rainy day movies ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: cuddles, teasing, domestic softness pairing: alex albon x reader a/n: i may or may not have once fallen asleep on my long-time crush’s shoulder during a movie too🫣

you hadn’t planned on staying in all day.

the morning had started off clear enough. soft sunlight through the curtains, coffee in matching mugs, alex’s hair sticking out in five different directions while he blinked at you from across the kitchen island. you had laughed, told him he looked like a dazed bird. he’d squinted at you, mumbled something about disrespect before padding over in socks and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“you like it,” he’d whispered, voice still sleepy.

you did. you always did.

but somewhere around midmorning, the clouds rolled in thick and heavy. the kind of gray that blurs the skyline and makes everything feel a little slower, a little quieter. the first drops of rain tapped gently at the windows, and within twenty minutes, the sky had opened up completely. it poured.

you watched it from the couch, tucked into the corner with a blanket around your legs, your laptop balanced on one knee. alex had disappeared into the kitchen again, raiding the cabinets with the focus of someone preparing for a minor emergency.

“we need snacks,” he’d declared, popping his head out dramatically. “movie day rules.”

you had raised an eyebrow. “you don’t even know what movie we’re watching yet.”

“doesn’t matter. popcorn is non-negotiable. we’re doing this properly.”

now you’re sitting side by side on the couch, legs tangled, a giant bowl of popcorn between you and at least four blankets layered over your laps. the rain is steady outside, soft and rhythmic, the kind that turns the whole apartment into a cocoon.

you scroll aimlessly through the streaming queue while alex frowns at the options like you’re choosing a stock to invest in instead of a romcom.

“we could watch something funny,” you suggest.

“we always watch something funny.”

“because life is depressing enough?”

“fair.”

you keep scrolling. he shifts, the couch creaking slightly under his weight, and his thigh presses against yours a little more.

“what about something old?” he asks.

“how old are we talking?”

“like early 2000s. bad outfits. better soundtracks.”

you grin. “iconic. i’m in.”

you settle on something with a ridiculous title and a poster that looks like it was made in powerpoint. alex pumps a fist like you’ve just agreed to a team strategy call.

“i love when you support the classics.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

the movie starts. the opening credits roll. alex steals the popcorn bowl and props it on his chest, looking far too smug about it. you curl further into the couch, legs brushing his.

it’s comfortable in the way that only comes with time. not just the physical closeness, but the way you don’t have to think too hard about what to say or do. the silence is easy. his presence is familiar.

he tosses a piece of popcorn at your face without warning. it bounces off your cheek and lands in your lap.

“rude,” you say, turning to look at him.

“precision aim,” he replies, clearly proud.

you reach into the bowl and flick one back at him. it lands in his hair.

“direct hit,” you say.

he mock gasps and sets the bowl down, shaking his head like he can’t believe you’ve escalated this so quickly. then he shifts closer and drapes his arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly.

“you’re lucky i like you,” he murmurs.

your chest tightens in that quiet, happy way it always does when he says things like that. simple. casual. real.

“i’m very lucky,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder.

the movie plays on, mostly ignored. you both throw occasional commentary at the screen — bad acting, questionable hairstyles, plot holes wide enough to drive a team bus through. you laugh, and he laughs with you, and somewhere in the middle of a slow montage set to an early 2000s indie ballad, his hand finds yours under the blanket.

his thumb rubs soft circles against your knuckles. your breath catches a little.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t look at you.

just holds your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

the movie plays on, long forgotten in favor of soft glances and lazy comfort.

your head is still on alex’s shoulder, and he hasn’t moved in minutes. not that you mind. he’s warm. steady. he smells like the fabric softener you both always forget to replace and the faintest trace of his aftershave from earlier that morning.

you shift slightly to get more comfortable, and he adjusts without a word, guiding you to lean more fully against him.

“you good?” he murmurs.

“mmhmm,” you hum, eyes fluttering closed. “too good.”

he smiles. you don’t see it, but you can hear it in his voice.

“don’t fall asleep on me.”

“can’t make promises like that.”

he wraps his arm more snugly around your shoulders, fingers brushing your arm through the blanket.

you let yourself sink into him, the weight of the day slowly leaving your limbs. the rain outside is still falling in gentle waves, the kind of rhythm that makes your body slow down whether you want it to or not.

the dialogue on screen fades into background noise. the popcorn bowl sits forgotten on the floor. your breathing deepens, one soft inhale after the next, and soon enough, you’re still.

alex glances down. your head’s tucked into his collarbone now, your lashes brushing your cheeks, hand still loosely curled into his sweatshirt.

his smile softens.

“hey,” he whispers. no response.

he shifts carefully, brushing your hair away from your face. you’re definitely asleep now.

he stays there for a moment longer, letting the stillness settle over both of you like another blanket.

then, as gently as possible, he slides one arm beneath your knees and the other under your back.

you stir just a little, murmuring something unintelligible as he lifts you off the couch.

“shhh,” he soothes, voice low and warm near your ear. “i’ve got you.”

you don’t wake.

he carries you slowly through the apartment, your body limp and trusting in his arms. he nudges open the bedroom door with his foot, carefully pulls back the covers, and lowers you onto the bed like you’re made of porcelain.

you curl automatically toward the center, one hand reaching out like you’re still searching for him.

he doesn’t leave you hanging.

he tugs off his hoodie and climbs in beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. as soon as he settles, you find him again — arm around his waist, face tucked into his chest.

he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“you’re the best part of any rainy day,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear him.

and with the storm still humming gently outside, he lets his eyes close too.

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

[oncasette]

FANGTASIA. send in a character from my guide + one of the prompts below for a drabble!

OK LAST ONE I PROMISE. but you know I had to send in a theseus request so … theseus + "You think I like being like this? Every time someone fucking touches you I want to rip their hands off!" teehee 😋

'𝗖𝗔𝗨𝗦���� 𝗬𝗢𝗨'𝗥𝗘 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗔 𝗠𝗔𝗡 (𝗜𝗧'𝗦 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗗𝗢)

theseus scamander x fem!reader

summary: 1.7k

“I can hear you sulking over there. C’mon,” you urge as you watch him out of your periphery. He closed his eyes before he exhaled slowly. Deeply, forcing all of the air out of his lungs in the hopes that his foul mood would exit with it. He didn’t want to be like this. He didn’t want to hate your secretary, to be the possessive guy that never let his partner speak to another man, but it was starting to eat away at him. It was a lot easier to lose you when he didn’t fully have you, yet.

or the one where theseus can't stand your secretary.

warnings: none that i can think of, semi-possessive theseus?

masterlist 

He was just your secretary. That’s what you keep telling yourself. And Theseus. All he does is your filing and allow people entry into your office. And bring you your morning coffee without you needing to ask for it, with the exact amount of cream and sugar you take without you ever having told him in the past. 

Of course, this was just him being excellent at his job, it was why you’d kept him on for so long. There was a quick turnover rate for secretaries at the ministry. A year or two, at most, before they were either fired by their respective bosses or they left to pursue a field they were actually passionate about. But not Richard. No, you’d been working with Richard for the better part of five years. Long before you’d ever met your now boyfriend–if you could even call him that, only having been on a dozen or so dates at this point. Not that the question hadn’t been on the tip of his tongue since the first time you batted your eyelashes at him. 

That didn’t stop Theseus from clenching his jaw every morning when he stopped by to say hello only to find your secretary to have abandoned his post outside your office in favor of holing up in your loveseat and carrying on with whatever annoyingly dull topic of conversation he’d chosen to occupy your time with. It didn’t stop him from rolling his eyes at the way his hand lingered over yours as he dropped off the accounts you needed that afternoon during your lunch break, little more than a glance cast askew at him as he sat beside you. It didn’t stop him from biting his tongue so hard it bled each time you brought Richard up in the evenings when he walked you out of the building.

No, it didn’t matter how long you’d worked with the man. Theseus knew a crush when he saw one. 

“What’s wrong, love? You’ve been tense all day,” you say, gently placing a hand onto his shoulder. He’d been sitting in your office for a little over an hour, his work day having already drawn to a close but you’d had to finish up a last minute assignment your boss had thrown on your desk fifteen minutes before you were supposed to leave. Theseus hadn’t minded waiting.

“Nothing,” he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Richard had been especially irritating that day. He’d barely had five minutes alone with you before you’d forced your secretary to go home once the clock hit six. 

“I can hear you sulking over there. C’mon,” you urge as you watch him out of your periphery. He closed his eyes before he exhaled slowly. Deeply, forcing all of the air out of his lungs in the hopes that his foul mood would exit with it. He didn’t want to be like this. He didn’t want to hate your secretary, to be the possessive guy that never let his partner speak to another man, but it was starting to eat away at him. It was a lot easier to lose you when he didn’t fully have you, yet.

“It’s nothing, lovely. Promise,” he says. At the very least, having this time with you was beginning to dull the headache that had formed earlier in the day. He thinks it started when Richard had once again waltzed into your office during your lunch hour with the hopes of taking you out to the bakery a couple blocks away. 

“Okay,” you drawl, eyebrows drawn together. 

It’s then that Theseus notices the parchment stuck to your desk lamp. It was a charmed doodle, one that poorly illustrated a man with smoke shooting out of his ears sitting at a desk played on a loop. To keep you company while you work - Rich. Of course.

“You ready?” you ask, shuffling around documents and files on your desk to deal with on Monday when you return before grabbing your bag off the ground and slipping your coat on. You circle around the furniture in your office to stand in front of Theseus. He ran a firm hand across his brow bone as he stood to meet you. He leans forward to place a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth as he nods. 

It’s hard to ignore how stiff he’s become.

“Are we still good for dinner at yours tonight?” you ask. 

“Of course,” he hums. He wasn’t going to let this ruin the one of the few evenings a week he got to spend with you. Or, at least, he was going to try to not let it ruin it. 

Once he was sure you’d both collected the remainders of your belongings, he takes your hand in his to apparate the two of you to his flat. Since you weren’t going back to your place, he didn’t feel the need to walk the two of you all the way across the ministry just to disapparate from there. He only did that to spend a couple extra minutes with you, anyway. 

It’s only the second time you’ve been to his place, but the short wave of nausea prevents you from feeling too overwhelmingly nervous about it. You set your bag beside the door before you move to the kitchen to sit and let the urge to vomit begin to dissipate. Theseus smooths a palm over down your arm as he slides up behind you. 

He leans down to whisper in your ear. His nose brushes against your cheek. “Can I get you anything?”

“Maybe a penny…” you trail off.

“A penny?” he huffs amused.

“For your thoughts,” you say.

“I told you it was nothing.”

“Darling, I know something’s wrong. I want to help if I can,” you say, tilting your head back enough to look at his face. He bends again to kiss your forehead. It’s tender, sweet. Nearly domestic. 

“It’s just work stress, I guess,” he says. He wasn’t technically lying. 

“I’m sorry,” you hum, bringing a hand up to smooth across his cheek for a second. “Do you want to talk about it? It might help if you get some of it off your chest.”

“I wouldn’t want to burden you, love,” he says as he begins to move away from your chair. He meanders around the small kitchen as he starts to gather the things he needs to cook dinner. You hardly notice as he charms the cutting board to dice vegetables for him. 

“It wouldn’t be a burden. Richie’s always telling me about the kinds of things that bother him at the office,” you say. Theseus’ jaw clenches. With his suit coat already having been slung across the couch in the living room, he’s quick to roll his button-down sleeves up to his elbows. 

“Fucking Richard,” he mutters. It’s so quiet you almost miss it. Your brows raise. He runs a palm over his jaw, resisting the urge to bite down on one of his fingers. 

“This is about him?”

“What?” he asks as he turns away from you to grab noodles from his pantry. The first time he’d asked about Richard had been harmless. A one-off question at the end of your evening when he’d been walking you back to your flat. A question you’d answered simply. He’s just your secretary. Then he’d asked again. A second and a third time. 

“This. Your… mood. It’s about him, isn’t it?” you ask. You’re attempting to sound understanding, but you know there’s an edge to your tone. He doesn’t elicit an answer. “I thought I told you he wasn’t anything to worry about. He works for me.”

“I know,” he grumbles. 

“Then what’s this about, hm?” you ask, standing from your chair and moving into his space. 

“It’s just.” He’s cracking, slightly. He hates that he’s allowed himself to get affected by something so trivial. “He’s always there.”

“You’ve got yourself in a fit because my secretary comes into my office during work hours?”

“It’s the way he is around you, you know? He’s always around, always touching or trying to touch. You should see the way he looks at you,” he huffs. The box in his hand drops onto the counter suddenly, his hands following as he pushes his weight against them. 

“Thes-” you start. 

“You think I like being like this? You think it’s something I want? To be so angry and aggravated about something that I can’t control? That you can’t control?” he asks. “Everytime he touches you I want to rip his fucking hands off.”

You step behind him, winding your arms around his middle until he’s stood straight again. His hands find yours and interweave between your fingers. 

“It’s not you,” he sighs. “Well, I mean, it is you. I don’t see how there isn’t a single man left in the world not wrapped tight around your finger.”

You press a kiss between his collarbones. He relaxes into your hold. 

“I don’t want Richard,” you say.

“I know.”

“I want you.”

“I want you, too, darling.”

“But I also want you to talk to me,” you say as you urge him to turn to face you with a tap of your fingers against his torso. “I’ll talk to him. I can’t say I haven’t noticed him being a little closer to me than some of the other secretaries have been with their bosses, because I have. So, I’ll talk to him. But, I need you to talk to me, too.”

His forehead falls forward until it’s pressed against yours. 

You continue, “I need you to tell me when stuff like this bothers you. You can’t just be all angry at the world and do nothing about it and expect it all to change. Okay?”

“I can do that,” he hums. 

“Good,” you nod. 

“Good.”

“You also need to remember that I’m a grown-up and I can handle myself, too, right? Just because another man may or may not have his eyes on me doesn’t mean I’m going to go running off into the sunset with him,” you say. A soft laugh rumbles in his chest, his eyes crinkling with a soft smile at the sides. 

“Alright,” he says. 

“Now,” you say. “What’s for dinner?”

[mrs-delaney]

Then Ask Me Sometime

📩 request: joe and reader are exes who keep hooking up. one night he’s like “i miss knowing how you’re doing” and she’s like “then ask me sometime.” heartbreak! tension! yearning! 🔥💔

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 2.5k words

🥲 this one got me good, not gonna lie. joe really said “i miss knowing how you're doing” and i haven’t known peace since. hope it hits you in the chest too 💌

🪷 read my masterlist here — full of feelings & joe burrow brainrot 💌

🎤 read hide here — music, mistakes, and a quarterback who falls hard 💌

📬 join my tag list — be the first to know when i post 💌

Joe sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand, staring at the message he'd sent twenty minutes ago.

You up?

Three dots had appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. Then appeared again. He'd watched that dance play out for five minutes before her response finally came through.

On my way.

No questions. No small talk. Just acknowledgment of what they both knew this was.

He set the phone on the nightstand and ran his hands through his hair, the familiar weight of anticipation and guilt settling in his chest. It had been a long day—meetings with coaches, film review, the kind of grueling preparation that usually left him satisfied. But tonight, sitting alone in the house as evening turned to dark, the accomplishment had felt hollow. The silence had gotten to him first, then the empty kitchen where he'd eaten takeout standing at the counter instead of sitting at the table they'd picked out together.

That's when he'd reached for his phone.

This had become their routine over the past four months—late-night texts that led to her showing up at the house they used to share, the house that was supposed to be theirs but now felt too big and too quiet with just him in it. It started three weeks after the breakup, when she'd texted him about picking up some clothes she'd forgotten. One thing led to another, and suddenly they had this arrangement that neither of them had ever explicitly discussed the rules for.

The living room still had her touch everywhere. The throw pillows she'd insisted on were arranged just so on the couch. The coffee table books about art and photography that she'd collected were still fanned out the way she liked them. He'd told himself he kept them because moving them felt like too much effort, but the truth was simpler and more pathetic: they made the house feel less empty.

The kitchen was worse. She'd organized every cabinet, labeled the spice rack, and insisted on keeping fresh flowers on the counter even though he'd argued it was a waste of money. The flowers were long gone now, but her coffee mug still sat in the cabinet, untouched because he couldn't bring himself to use it. Sometimes he'd catch himself reaching for two plates instead of one before remembering.

They'd bought this place together eight months before everything fell apart. Spent weekends walking through furniture stores, arguing about thread counts and whether they needed a dining room table that seated eight people. She'd won most of those arguments, and now Joe was grateful for it. At least the house had personality, even if it wasn't entirely his.

The worst part was how right she'd been about everything. The couch was comfortable for watching film. The kitchen layout made sense when he was cooking for the team gatherings she'd insisted they host. Even the paint colors she'd chosen—warm grays and soft blues that he'd thought were too feminine—somehow made the house feel like a home instead of just a place to sleep.

Joe stood and walked to the window, looking out at the circular driveway where her car would appear soon. The security lights cast long shadows across the property, and he found himself wondering what she told herself on the drive over. Did she hesitate before texting back? Would she sit in her car for a few minutes before walking to the door, the way she used to near the end, when coming home felt more like walking into a minefield than a sanctuary?

He remembered the last few weeks before the breakup, how every conversation felt like walking through a minefield. His schedule was getting more demanding as the season approached. Her growing frustration with always coming second to football. The way they'd started sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, even when they were technically touching.

The fight that ended it had been about something stupid—him missing dinner with her parents because of a last-minute team meeting. But really, it had been about everything else. About how she felt like she was building a life around someone who wasn't fully present for it. About how he felt like he was failing at everything that mattered off the field.

"I can't do this anymore," she'd said, standing in this same bedroom, her voice quiet but certain. "I can't keep pretending that this is working when we both know it isn't."

He'd wanted to fight for her, to promise he'd do better, but the truth was he didn't know how. Football was everything he'd worked for his entire life, and the demands weren't going to get smaller. She deserved someone who could give her more than the leftover pieces of himself.

So they'd had the breakup conversation like adults. Divided up their things, figured out who would take the house. She'd moved out over a weekend while he was at training camp, leaving behind only the furniture they'd bought together and a note thanking him for everything.

For three weeks, Joe had convinced himself he was fine. The house was quieter, sure, but he could focus better. No more scheduling his life around someone else's needs. No more guilt about missing dinners or working late.

Then she'd texted about the clothes.

She'd shown up on a Tuesday evening, professional and polite, gathering the handful of items she'd forgotten. But when she was done, instead of leaving, she lingered by the door. They'd started talking for the first time since the breakup. And when talking turned into touching, and touching turned into them tangled together on the couch they'd picked out, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"This doesn't change anything," she'd said afterward, already reaching for her clothes.

"I know," he'd replied, even though some part of him had hoped it might.

That was four months ago. Since then, they'd developed this careful dance of late-night texts, brief encounters, no talk of feelings or the future. She seemed to have this whole thing figured out in a way that he didn't. Clean boundaries. No complications. Just two people who were good together in bed and smart enough not to confuse that with anything else.

Except he was starting to confuse it with something else.

He started noticing little things. The way she still kicked her shoes off by the door in the exact same spot, muscle memory from when this was her home, too. How she'd absently reach for the lamp on the bedside table that she'd picked out and placed there. The way she still moved through his kitchen like she knew where everything was, because she did—she'd organized those cabinets herself.

These weren't the observations of someone who was just hooking up with his ex. These were the observations of someone who missed her in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

Joe heard the soft hum of an engine in the driveway and felt his pulse pick up. Fifteen minutes. She'd made good time from wherever she was. He stepped back from the window, not wanting to look too eager.

The front door opened with her key; he'd never asked for it back, and she'd never offered, and he heard her familiar footsteps on the hardwood. She still moved through this house as if she belonged there, and maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe that was why he kept texting her.

"Upstairs," he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.

Her footsteps paused for just a moment, and he wondered what had caught her attention. Maybe she was checking her phone, or maybe she'd noticed something different about the house. It was a brief pause, the kind that wouldn't mean anything to anyone else, but he found himself cataloging it anyway.

Then her feet were on the stairs, and Joe felt that familiar tightness in his chest that came with wanting something he'd already lost.

* * *

She appeared in the doorway, and Joe's breath caught. Still beautiful. Still looking at him like she was deciding something.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Hey."

The silence stretched between them, not awkward exactly, but loaded with the weight of everything they weren't saying. She was wearing an oversized sweater and jeans, nothing special, but Joe found himself looking at her like he was trying to memorize something.

She pushed off from the doorframe and walked toward him, her eyes doing that thing they always did, taking inventory. When her gaze lingered on his shoulders, then dropped to his chest, he saw the moment she registered the difference.

"You've been spending more time in the gym," she said, not quite a question.

Joe shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Offseason training's been more intense."

She was close enough now that he could smell her perfume, the same one she'd always worn. Her hand came up to rest against his chest, fingers spreading over the muscle there, and he felt his breath catch.

"I can tell," she murmured, and there was something in her voice that made his pulse spike.

He caught her hand in his, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You like it?"

Instead of answering, she rose up on her toes and kissed him. Soft at first, testing, then deeper when he responded. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she made that quiet sound in the back of her throat that he remembered too well.

They broke apart just enough to breathe, foreheads touching.

They moved toward the bed without breaking the kiss, her fingers tracing the new muscle definition she'd noticed.

"Jesus, Joe," she breathed, her hands tracing the new definition in his shoulders, his arms.

He wanted to say something, but she was kissing him again, and then they were falling back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and familiar desire. Her jeans hit the floor, followed by his pants, and then there was just skin against skin and the sound of their breathing in the quiet room.

Joe took his time, the way he always did with her. His mouth on her neck, her collarbone, mapping territory he knew by heart but somehow felt different now under his hands. She was responsive, arching into his touch, her fingers digging into the muscle of his back in a way that made him groan.

When she rolled him over and straddled him, her hair falling around her face, he found himself staring. She looked down at him with an expression he couldn't quite read, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

"What?" she asked, noticing him staring.

"Nothing," he said, his hands settling on her hips. "Just... you."

Something flickered across her face, too quick for him to catch, before she leaned down to kiss him again. And then they were moving together, finding that rhythm they'd never lost, the connection that had always been easy between them, even when everything else was complicated.

Afterward, they lay without touching, still breathing hard. The silence felt thick, full of things Joe didn't want to think about too hard.

She was the first to move, sitting up and reaching for her clothes, which were scattered across the floor. Joe watched her, noting the careful way she avoided his eyes, the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this dance before.

"You don't have to rush off," he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.

She paused, bra halfway on. "Don't I?"

There was a challenge in her voice, and Joe felt something shift in his chest. This was the part where one of them would usually make an excuse, pretending it was simple and meaningless. But tonight felt different. Tonight, the silence felt like it was asking questions he wasn't sure he was ready to answer.

* * *

She was already reaching for her sweater when Joe found himself speaking.

"I miss knowing how your day went."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud. Her hands stilled on the fabric, and for a moment, the only sound was their breathing still evening out.

She turned to look at him, something unreadable flickering across her face. "What?"

Joe sat up against the headboard, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being naked. "I said I miss knowing how your day went."

She pulled the sweater over her head, the motion sharp and deliberate. "Why do you care?"

The question stung. He watched her stand and reach for her jeans—the familiar routine of her getting dressed to leave—and felt something crack open in his chest.

"I'm serious." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by how hard this was to say. "I miss knowing if you had a good day at work, or if that thing with your sister worked out, or whether you're sleeping okay."

"You can't do this," she said, shaking her head as she buttoned her jeans. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because this isn't what this is." She gestured between them, her voice taking on an edge he recognized, the one she got when she was protecting herself. "This is physical. It's simple. It works because we don't do... this."

Joe felt something desperate rise in his chest. "But what if I want to know? What if I want this to be more than just—"

"Then ask me sometime," she cut him off, reaching for her shoes. "Out of this bedroom."

The words landed like a challenge, and Joe felt his mouth open to respond, but she was already moving toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

She paused in the doorway, not turning around. "Home, Joe. I'm going home."

"This used to be your home, too."

The silence that followed was deafening. When she finally turned to look at him, there was something in her expression that made his chest tighten.

"Used to be," she said softly. "See you around, Joe."

And then she was gone, and he was back to being alone in a bed that felt empty without her, the sound of her leaving echoing through the house.

Joe stared at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in his head. The way she'd looked at him when he said he missed knowing about her day. The careful distance she'd put between them with her words. The challenge in her voice: Then ask me sometime out of this bedroom.

The next morning, Joe found himself staring at a blank text message for twenty minutes, typing and deleting words until his thumbs were tired. Finally, he settled on something simple:

How's your day going? Can we meet up soon, not to hook up, but to hang out? It can be in public

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Her response came an hour later, and despite everything, Joe found himself smiling as he read it:

Give me a week of consistent communication that's not you trying to hook up with me, and I'll consider it.

Joe read the message three times, something warm and terrifying unfurling in his chest. A week. She was giving him a week to prove he wanted more than just her body in his bed.

He could do a week.

[angel06babysworld]

I Blame the 6 Year Old

singledad!rafe x babysitter!reader

Chapter Three

⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆:･

She showed up before her shift started. Not by much, maybe fifteen minutes early, but enough that Rafe noticed.

The sky had cracked open sometime around four. Real rain, loud and cold, falling hard enough to blur out the trees. She was soaked when she stepped inside, hoodie clinging to her arms, wet hair curling near her jaw, drops falling from the strings of her backpack.

“You walked in that?” he asked from the hallway, brows lifting.

She kicked off her shoes near the door. “Power’s out at my place. Figured this was a better option.”

“You could’ve called. I would’ve picked you up.”

She shrugged like she hadn’t even considered it, like asking for help wasn’t something that crossed her mind often. “It’s fine. I don’t melt.”

She wasn’t smiling, not really, but there was something soft in her voice. A hint of comfort. Like walking into his house, even drenched and cold, was better than sitting in the dark somewhere alone.

He didn’t ask her any more questions. Just nodded toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s on.”

That got a real reaction. She followed him without hesitation, familiar with the steps now. Her backpack hit the corner of the counter like it always did, water spotting the tile. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and wrapped them around the mug he handed her.

It was quiet for a while. Ellie’s movie was playing low in the background, rain steady against the windows, the kind of noise that made it easier not to talk.

She was the one who finally broke it.

“I didn’t really come for the coffee.”

Rafe glanced over. She didn’t look at him, just stared into the steam curling up from her mug.

“I mean, I did,” she added quickly. “But also… I just didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching her tuck her knees up onto the stool like she was trying to disappear into herself.

“You’re not alone here,” he said simply.

She looked over then. Not surprised, but something near it. Like she hadn’t expected him to make it sound so easy.

Before either of them could say anything else, Ellie came skidding into the kitchen, socks slipping on the floor, holding a crumpled Barbie dress in one hand and glitter glue in the other.

“I need help!” she announced. “An emergency happened.”

She was already laughing when she stood up to meet her halfway. “What kind of emergency?”

“The fancy dress ripped. It was the wedding one.”

Rafe made a face. “Another wedding?”

“She’s getting remarried.”

“To the same guy?”

“No,” Ellie said, exasperated. “To a better one.”

That earned a grin as she crouched down to inspect the damage. “Give me five minutes.”

“It’s in the drawer!” Ellie yelled, already running off again. “You know the one!”

Rafe blinked. “What drawer?”

She pulled open the second drawer by the stove without thinking. Needle kit. Tiny sewing scissors. A little box of thread. It had been there for weeks, apparently.

“You brought that?” he asked.

“You didn’t have one.”

“You just… decided to stock my kitchen?”

“You needed it,” she said simply. “And Ellie likes when things get fixed.”

He stared at her then. Not in a way that made her uncomfortable—just long enough to make her pause, needle halfway threaded.

“You keep doing that,” he said quietly.

She didn’t look up. “Doing what?”

“Taking care of things.”

The silence that followed was a little heavier. She bent over the Barbie dress, stitching the ripped hem with careful fingers.

“I don’t mind fixing things,” she said after a minute. “Sometimes it feels like the only thing I’m good at.”

Rafe pushed off the counter and came to sit beside her. Close, but not too close.

“That’s not true,” he said. “You’re good at a lot of things. But you don’t have to earn your place here by being useful.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just kept sewing. But her hands slowed down, her shoulders loosened.

He didn’t press it. Just let the rain speak for a while.

After the dress was done, she didn’t rush off. She stayed for dinner—long after her shift ended. Helped Ellie glue rhinestones to a cereal box castle. Made Rafe’s kitchen smell like garlic bread and tomato soup.

It felt like a Tuesday, and also something else entirely.

And when she fell asleep curled up at the end of the couch, a blanket pulled to her chin, Rafe didn’t wake her. Just stood in the hallway, arms crossed, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest while Ellie slept beside her.

She didn’t mean to stay that long.

But he didn’t want her to leave either.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @matthewswifeyy

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-six: distance

word count: 3.3k

warnings: this chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-five | twenty-six | twenty-seven

Lando didn’t need to think.

What he needed was movement.

Work—harder than ever, more ruthless, more efficient, and god help anyone who stood in his way. The weight of her arms around him, that moment of weakness—it couldn’t linger. Not in this world.

Because whatever that had been—whatever she was starting to mean to him—it was a weakness, a slow bleed in his armor. And in this world, a slow bleed was fatal.

So he compensated, overcorrected.

Within two days of returning from Brazil, he had doubled his hours at the warehouse, demanding updates from his suppliers and chemists with a level of scrutiny that bordered on manic. He started showing up to every quality control check himself, watching the men sweat under his gaze. Some of them cracked. Some of them bled.

He picked more fights. Took on riskier shipments. Approved operations that even Verstappen raised an eyebrow at.

When Carlos knocked on his office door late one night to ask if he was going home, Lando didn’t even look up from his screen. “Didn’t realize I paid you to ask stupid questions,” he said coolly. 

Carlos didn’t ask again.

The next morning, Lando was in the ring by six.

The gym was still dark when he unlocked the door himself. No music, no trainers, no echo of voices. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the steady thump of his own heartbeat, already too fast for how early it was.

He didn’t wrap his hands. Didn’t warm up.

He just went for the bag—let his knuckles split open on the leather, again and again and again. Raw, purpled arcs blooming beneath the skin—split open in one place where the wrap had come loose, the tape sticky with half-dried blood. It stung when he flexed his hand, but Lando welcomed it. 

Pain was clean. Simple. Honest in a way people never were.

It had been three days since the coffee, three days since her arms wrapped around his neck and made him feel like something other than a weapon.

He hadn't seen her since.

Instead, he buried himself in the only thing he knew how to trust: work. There were meetings now—double what he used to take. Late-night negotiations with men whose eyes darted too fast and hands trembled as they signed. More territory, more leverage. Deals struck with hard eyes and a gun under the table. Lando sat through it all like a statue, cold and unreadable, like the chair beneath him was a throne carved from bone.

Fewtrell was the first to notice, of course.

“You haven’t slept,” he muttered, after one particularly brutal morning, watching Lando wipe blood off his hands like it was nothing more than smudged ink. “And you’re bleeding again.”

Lando didn’t even look up. “It’s handled.”

Max didn’t argue. He knew better.

Because if Lando got like this—tight-lipped, volatile, spiraling inward like a storm—it meant someone had gotten too close. And Max had seen what happened to people who got too close.

The fights came next.

They existed with no purpose, no rules. There was just the sharp, metallic taste of adrenaline and the sound of fists meeting flesh in the underground ring he rarely visited these days—until now. There, under flickering fluorescent lights, sweat mixing with blood, Lando could forget and slip into something primitive. A machine of bone and instinct and rage.

He stopped pulling punches.

He didn’t stop until the man he fought stopped moving. Even then, it took two of his own men to pull him back, their voices distant over the ringing in his ears. His breath came in harsh, wet gasps, his shirt soaked through.

“Thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Max muttered after Lando took a particularly ugly hit to the jaw and spit blood into the sink like it owed him something.

“I am,” Lando said, jaw tight. “I’m just done pretending to be soft.”

And when he looked in the mirror in the locker room after—blood on his cheekbone, lip split open, eyes dark and hollow—he saw a ghost staring back.

Not her ghost. His own.

The boy who had slept in gutters and stolen fruit from markets. Who’d gone cold inside long before he learned how to make others afraid of him. Who once told himself he’d never need anyone again.

So why did it feel like something had gone missing the moment he walked away from her?

He’d spent too long feeling the afterburn of her hug—the way her arms had felt around his neck, the clean warmth of her skin, the easy trust in her body language that made something in him splinter. He hated that part. That human part. He thought he’d killed it off years ago, buried it beneath piles of money, blood, and the reputation he’d built out of nothing but brute force and raw intelligence.

But she had reached it. Worse—she had awakened it.

So now he had to kill it all over again.

One night, after leaving the ring with bloody hands and a bruise already blooming across his ribcage, he sat in the back seat of his car, staring out the window. The city was loud—horns, shouting, flashing neon light against the rain-slicked pavement—but all of it felt muted.

He thought of her again.

Of course he did.

He thought of her – not the hug, not the coffee, not the smile. No – what haunted him was the look in her eyes right after he said no.

That flicker of confusion, followed by the quick mask of understanding. The way she shrank back—not physically, not dramatically, but just enough. Like she realized she’d overstepped. Like she’d made a mistake thinking he was someone warm. Someone she could reach for.

She’s better off, he told himself, dragging a dark red smudge across his cheek. She’s better off bein’ away, better off not knowin’ what I really am.

Because the truth was, if she knew—if she saw him like this—she’d never look at him the same again. 

And maybe that was the point. If he couldn’t be touched, he couldn’t be hurt. If he kept himself cold, kept the world afraid, then nothing could break through again.

He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes, letting the ache settle into his bones.

At night, he didn’t sleep.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how it felt to have her fix his collar absentmindedly, to have her scold him for eating pastries before lunch, to hear her say she’d miss him.

He hadn’t even responded properly. Hadn’t said he’d miss her too, because he wasn’t supposed to.

She was light. He was built from soot and steel and ruin.

So he leaned into the ruin. Drowned in it. Let it take him under like it always had before. Let it remind him what he was made of.

Because if he let softness rot in his chest any longer, it would only get worse. And he couldn’t afford worse. Not in this line of work, not with this name. Not when people were always waiting to find his weakness—and use it to end him.

So he burned the part of himself that missed her.

Or at least, he tried. But the bracelet was still around his wrist, tight and handmade. And no matter how many times he tried to untie it, he never quite could.

He boxed until his knuckles split and his ribs ached, until his fists were slick with sweat and someone else’s blood. Until he couldn’t feel anything except the burn in his lungs and the pounding in his ears. Until he remembered who the fuck he was.

Lando took the pain like he deserved it.

He was colder, crueler. Faster to bark orders, slower to forgive mistakes. The men around him started noticing. They stopped making jokes around him, stopped asking if he’d eaten. Even Daniel, loyal and annoyingly perceptive, had gone quiet.

"You're running yourself into the ground, mate," Daniel finally muttered one night, leaning against the ropes of the ring as Lando stripped off his gloves, hands raw and red.

Lando didn’t even look at him. Just said, flatly, “Ground’s not deep enough.”

It wasn’t about her. He told himself that often. It wasn’t about missing the way she grinned at him when he brought her coffee, or how she’d made studying feel less like drowning. It wasn’t about the way she said his name like it wasn’t something to fear.

It was about control. About reminding himself that he didn’t need softness to survive.

But alone in the dark, shirt clinging to his back, jaw clenched so tight it ached—he wondered. If he wasn’t careful, would he even remember how to come back from this?

Would she still recognize him when he did?

Or worse—what if he didn’t come back at all?

Somewhere in the middle of all of it—between a broken tooth and a dislocated thumb—Daniel cornered him again in the backroom, fists clenched and voice low.

“You think this makes you stronger?” he growled. “You think turning yourself into a fuckin’ animal is gonna fix whatever’s wrong?”

Lando didn’t answer, just stared at himself in the cracked mirror. His face bruised, blood caked on his jaw, eyes gone hollow and dark. 

He looked like something dangerous. Something empty.

Good.

Daniel tried again. “You were doing better. A week ago, you—”

“Drop it.” Lando’s voice was a knife. Sharp, final.

And for once, Daniel did. 

Because it wasn’t grief they were dealing with, it wasn’t heartbreak. It was a man tearing out the piece of himself that could have one day known love—before it got him killed.

So Lando kept going – more jobs, more blood, more shadows.

Until the boy who’d smiled at fresh lemon biscuits didn’t exist anymore.

Monday morning came with a faint chill in the air, the kind that clung to her sleeves and nipped at her skin as she locked the apartment door behind her. Her boots hit the pavement with their usual rhythm, but her eyes—almost by reflex—glanced toward the curb.

His car wasn’t there.

The spot where Liam usually parked was… empty.

She hesitated, just for a second. Long enough for a frown to twitch at her mouth. Long enough to consider that perhaps she’d been looking forward to seeing him—though she hadn’t let herself think of it that way until now.

It was objectively a stupid thing to be upset about, she told herself. It wasn’t like they had a schedule. He didn’t owe her anything. She knew that.

There was no real schedule per say – no routine set in stone. But still… it had been there last Monday. And the one before that. And—if she was honest—most days she hadn’t even realized how much she’d started expecting him.

She shook it off and kept walking, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

It doesn’t mean anything.

He had a life. A busy one. She knew that. Important meetings, complicated logistics, probably jet lag from Brazil. Maybe the trip hadn’t gone well. Maybe something came up. Maybe he had the flu. Maybe he just—

Still, her footsteps felt slower as she walked past the spot. Still, she checked her phone—nothing. No text. No update.

Maybe he just forgot.

No. That didn’t sound like him. For all his strange hours and sharp edges, Liam didn’t forget things. He remembered tiny details she only mentioned once. He got her the exact brand of coffee she liked, for god’s sake. He noticed when she was too quiet, brought her pastries when she didn’t ask, made sure she always had a way home—even when she said she didn’t need one.

Maybe he’s just tired. Brazil was a long trip. Maybe he slept through his alarm. Maybe he’s busy, or catching up on work, or—

The list of maybes was longer than it should’ve been.

She forced herself to keep walking, ignoring the twist in her stomach that had no business being there. It was just a ride. Just coffee. Just a guy doing a favor.

That’s all it had ever been.

She sat through her morning classes, half-present, highlighting case law she’d have to re-read later. Her thoughts kept drifting—uninvited, unrelenting—back to him.

This whole drop-off and pickup thing had started months ago, after the string of weird feelings that she hadn’t quite been able to shake. Like someone was watching her, following her. Nothing solid, nothing provable, but just enough to put her on edge.

Back then, she’d been jumpy. Paranoid, maybe. She couldn’t explain it, not exactly—just that lingering feeling that someone had been watching her. Following her from across the street, lingering too long near her building. It was probably nothing, she’d told herself.

And then, things changed. Liam would just show up, leaning against the hood of his car like it was the most natural thing in the world, coffee in hand, eyes already on her. He would say something casual about “sketchy corners” and “shit lighting.” He would lie and say he was heading that way anyway.

And the funny thing? She hadn’t felt unsafe since.

She hadn’t asked questions. Something about his tone had made them unnecessary.

Since then, he’d been a steady, if unpredictable, presence. Not every morning—but enough. Enough that she noticed the difference today. Enough that she’d started associating his voice with the beginning of her day. His car, parked just slightly crooked. The quiet calm of his presence beside her, never demanding, never pushy—just there.

And now he… wasn’t.

She tried not to overthink it, but she did. Of course she did.

It could have been any of a thousand different things, right?

Maybe Brazil didn’t go well. Maybe the time zone shift was hitting him hard. Maybe he caught something on the flight back. Maybe he was swamped with work. Or maybe— 

Maybe she had crossed a line.

The thought crept in slowly, but it stuck, solid and uncomfortable.

She’d hugged him, without thinking and without asking.

Her stomach turned.

God, what if that was too much?

He hadn’t exactly pushed her away, but he hadn’t welcomed it either. He’d gone stiff in her arms, like he didn’t know what to do with the contact. And then he left. Fast, like he couldn’t get away quick enough.

She shouldn’t have assumed. Just because he bought her coffee. Just because he remembered the brand and hunted it down in a foreign country. Just because he stood in her doorway like he wanted to be there.

Liam was...busy. He was a businessman. He moved through life with detachment, calm and unreadable. He probably did this for lots of people. She was just another name on a long list of good intentions.

Still, the quiet this morning had felt louder than it should’ve. His absence clung to the edges of her day like smoke. It trailed her through campus, followed her into the library, haunted the space in the corner that night when she closed up at Books & Brews.

She hated how much she noticed.

They didn’t text much. Instead of making any real conversation, she’d just send him little things. 

A picture of a dog in a tiny raincoat on her walk to class. A blurry photo of latte art she’d been practicing, captioned don’t laugh. A random quote from a book she thought he’d like, even though she knew he’d probably roll his eyes and skim it at best.

Nothing heavy, and certainly nothing that demanded an answer. Just enough to keep a line between them—thin but steady.

But then, she saw him.

She was on her lunch break, standing in line at the corner market by the office, when she glanced through the fogged-up window and caught a familiar profile by the far register. She knew that posture. Even from a distance, she could recognize the casual indifference, the way he held himself like nothing in the world could touch him.

Liam.

There he was, dressed in a sharp coat, collar turned up, half a scowl pressed into his jaw like it had been carved there.

Her eyes dropped to the cup in his hand. Paper, stamped with the logo of his old café. Not the familiar emblem of Books & Brews. Not the little tucked-away place with the fresh cinnamon buns he had pretended not to like and then ordered three days in a row. Back to the place he used to swear tasted like “burnt incompetence.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But god, it did.

He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t explained this new distance, hadn’t replied to her last few messages except for a thumbs-up and a vague “lol.” No more wry comments or late-night one-liners. No more smirking emojis that didn’t match his tone but always somehow made her smile anyway.

And now—he was back at the café he’d once claimed to hate. Like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t happened.

She stepped out of line and left the store without buying anything.

She stopped texting after that.

Not all at once. It was a slow fade, the kind that almost didn’t hurt until you realized it had already disappeared.

No more pictures of dogs. No more awkward selfies with whipped cream on her nose. No more texts saying, this book made me think of you, don’t ask why. 

Just... silence.

Lando’s mornings got quieter. His phone stayed dry, empty but for meeting reminders and business alerts. No dumb memes at 2AM. No pink hearts next to her name lighting up his lock screen like it meant something.

It pissed him off more than it should’ve.

Wasn’t this what he fucking wanted?

He’d made the choice. He’d stepped back. He’d pulled the plug before it could get messy—before she could start expecting things from him that he didn’t know how to give.

So why the hell did his car still smell like her perfume?

“She ghost you?” Fewtrell asked casually, leaning against the doorframe of Lando’s office, sipping on a drink he hadn’t paid for.

Carlos looked up from the couch where he was half-asleep. “Did you finally scare her off?” “‘Bout time,” Daniel added from the armchair, flipping a stress ball in one hand. “We were beginning to think you had a soft spot.”

Lando didn’t look up from his laptop, jaw tight. “I’m busy.”

“Busy being miserable?” Verstappen quipped. “Mate, your car still smells like a goddamn rose garden. Not exactly inconspicuous.”

“Seriously,” Carlos chimed in. “You used to smell like leather and rage. What happened?”

“Shut up.”

“Come on,” Daniel said, pushing. “You think we haven’t noticed? You vanish for hours at a time. You smile at your phone like a bloody idiot. And then all of a sudden you’re picking fights with everyone. Even your punching bag looks scared.”

Lando’s eyes flicked up, cold. “Drop. it.”

“Look, I don’t care who she is,” Max said, his tone softening slightly, “but if she made you less of a dick, I kinda liked her.”

That got a muscle ticking in Lando’s jaw. He stood up, abruptly enough that the chair screeched. 

“She’s not your business!” he bellowed, heading for the door. “None of this is.”

“Then why’re you acting like you lost something?” Daniel mumbled after him.

The room was empty by then, but Daniel said what everyone was thinking anyway.

“You’re the one who let go.”

Logan’s voice cut through the radio later that week, giving an update on her security detail. Something about her late-night shift. The building entrance. A guy lingering too long near the stairwell.

Lando snapped the button to put the call through.

"She doesn’t need you anymore," he said flatly.

Logan paused. "...Sir?"

“She’s off the list. Effective immediately.”

And just like that, he cut the thread.

But sometimes, late at night, he still felt it—tight in his chest, like something he couldn’t un-pull. Something he’d let go of, only to realize too late that it might have been the very thing holding him together.

a/n: this one is my offering, especially dedicated to @oscobabe and @eclipsedcherry, whose every comment and ask makes me excited to post each chapter.

i hope u like it :)

and as always, please lmk what you think! i love hearing what y'all have to say

[starlemons]

Coffee and Crime ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ PART FIVE

Pairing ✦ mafia!bucky x reader

Word Count ✦ 1.6K

Warnings ✦ overall story has a 18+ content warning, MDNI, cussing, weapon caused injury (non-fatal), panic attack, pretty fluffy

A/N ✦ thank you to everyone who has been leaving kind comments, it means a lot <3

PART FOUR »»» Series Masterlist

I will update the series every 1-4 days depending on my schedule

Bucky stared back into your eyes, his phone pressed against his ear.

“Hey Buc-”, Tony started from the other end of the line.

“I’ll call you right back.”, Bucky cut off his friend, hitting end call on his screen, and tossing his phone to the side. 

“Y/N…”, Bucky started, “I need you to take some deep breaths for me sweetheart. I’ll explain everything.”

He studied your expression, the look of panic that swept your features was like that of a caged wild animal. 

You could feel your heart beating in your ears, sweat dripped down your temple, and the car suddenly felt like it was caving in on you. Before you even realized what you were doing, you peeled your high heels off your feet, threw open the car door, and took off sprinting into the wilderness that surrounded the car.

Bucky sat in stunned shock. Of all the possible things he thought you would do, this wasn’t one of the higher ones up on the list.

“Shit.”, he cursed, scrambling out of the car and running after you, “Shit, shit, shit.”

Small sticks stabbed into your feet as you ran through the trees. Your panic filled brain instructing you to run for your life, ask questions later. 

“Y/N!”, Bucky called from behind you.

You looked back over your shoulder for just a moment, and next thing you knew you were face down on the forest floor, having lost your footing when you glanced behind you. Footsteps crunched through the foliage, getting louder as they neared you. 

“Y/N, shit, are you okay?”, Bucky knelt down next to you.

You were most definitely not okay. Fear and anxiety overtook any other emotions, your body was not handling your near death experience well at all. You slowly sat up, wiping mud off of your face, looking into Bucky’s worried eyes.

“I’m sorry.”, you whispered, “I don’t-I don’t…”

Your heart started racing quicker, another wave of panic rising. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.”, Bucky reached out with his good arm, going to grab one of your hands but stopping just short of touching it, “Can I touch you?”

You nodded your head yes.

Bucky's fingers closed around yours, his thumb rubbing light circles on the back of your hand. 

“Y/N I want you to copy how I breathe okay? 

He lightly squeezed your hand as he took a deep breath in and blew the air back out, you mimicked him. The two of you sat on the woodland ground, in near silence, the only sound cutting through the air was the soft sounds of your breathing. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed but the panic that overtook you, slowly dissipated. Glancing up, you looked at Bucky, him giving you a soft smile. You blushed and turned your eyes, accidentally staring at his shoulder injury. This man had just chased you through the woods to try and calm you down, even though he had been shot.

The realization of it made you burst into tears.

“What’s wrong sweetheart?", Bucky's voice was filled with worry.

You squeezed his hand tightly.

“I was just so scared that I ran, and you didn’t have to follow me or even check on me, but you did. You literally got shot and still ran through the woods after me to make sure I was okay.”, you sobbed out.

Tears and wails came out of you even harder. Bucky’s heart tightened, he released your hand, and reached up wiping tears off of your cheeks. 

“Sweetheart…”, he cooed, “You’re gonna make yourself sick, cryin that hard. And of course I followed you, I can't say I’m sorry enough for what just happened but I’m always going to try to do my best to make sure you’re safe.”

He pulled your head to his chest, your arms wrapped around his midsection, and you sobbed into his chest.

“Shhh”, Bucky whispered, smoothing down your hair, “It’s okay doll.”

You wept for awhile, eventually stopping once you had cried everything out. 

“Thank you.”, you spoke into Bucky’s chest, the vibrations radiating through him.

“Always.”

The two of you stood to your feet.

“Let’s go back to the car, okay? I need to get my phone and get ahold of Tony and Steve.”, Bucky reached back out to hold your hand.

You nodded. 

As you walked, you limped with every step, your feet having been torn up by all of the foliage you had run through. Bucky noticed you slowly falling behind. He looked down to your feet.

“How bad do they hurt?”, he asked.

“Pretty bad”, you sighed, “Running through the woods without shoes wasn’t my best idea.”

Bucky chuckled at you.

“Get on my back, I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

You blinked at him.

“Bucky you literally just got shot.”

“So? I can’t carry you just because I got shot? Get on my back I’ll be fine.”

You realized the man in front of you wasn’t budging and you jumped up onto his back. The two of you finally made it through the clearing of trees, heading back up the small slope of grass back up to the car. Steve and Tony stood near the Mustang, two black SUVs parked near them. 

“Holy shit.”, Steve said, spotting the two of you.

Both men rushed to you.

“We found the shooter's car abandoned with the tire shot out. Sam and some other guys are trying to locate them right now.”, Tony informed Bucky, “Also what the hell happened to the two of you, no offense you look like shit.”

“Well, I got shot.”, he said nonchalantly, setting you back down, purposefully leaving it up to you if you wanted to mention what had just occurred in the woods.

“Where at?”, Tony asked.

Bucky shrugged himself out of his suit jacket, a small hole in his shoulder oozed blood, staining his dress shirt. Steve let a low whistle.

“Well the good news is, it’s not going to kill you.”, Steve started, “But healing from it is going to be a bitch.”

“Yeah no shit, Steve.”, Bucky laughed at his friend.

The three men discussed how they were going to meet back at Bucky’s home. 

“Once we get back, I want Bruce to look at Y/N’s feet first, then he can check up on me.”

Tony and Steve nodded, knowing it was going to be pointless to try to convince him he should get seen first, Bucky wasn’t going to change his mind. 

You, Steve, Bucky all headed towards Steve’s SUV, Tony walking to his own car. 

“I’ll get Scott to get the Mustang towed to your house.”, Tony called to Bucky before he jumped into his vehicle. 

Steve went ahead and got into the driver's seat, starting his car. Bucky opened the door behind him, helping you up into the backseat. 

“I’m going to be right back, I’m grabbing our stuff out of my car.”, he squeezed your hand, “And I promise, as soon as my doctor gets us fixed up, I will explain everything to you.”

“Okay.”, you replied softly.

Bucky closed the door as he headed back to his car. He picked up all of your belongings and turned back to Steve’s vehicle. Opening the passenger side backdoor, he jumped into the backseat with you.

The drive to Bucky’s house was calm. The two men in the car talked back and forth as you stared out the window, blocking out their conversation. You had locked your pinky with Bucky’s, needing to have something to ground yourself, keeping you calm. 

A half-hour later and the two black SUV’s pulled up to a large gate. There was a small guard shack in front of the entrance and a young man sat inside of it. As Steve rolled up to the booth, the guard nodded his head at him, pressing a button, rolling the gate open.

The house wasn’t a massive mansion as you had expected for someone with Bucky's wealth, but instead a large beautiful farm house. A covered porch wrapped around the front of the house, there were pots with large blooming mums decorating the steps leading up to the door, and big windows covered most of the home. 

“I'll let Bruce know what’s going on,” Steve said as he threw the car into park, exiting the car and hurrying inside.

Bucky got out of the car as well, coming around to where you sat, and opening your door.

“I’m going to carry you inside okay?”

You nodded your head. 

Once you got out of the car, Bucky situated you on his back once again, lifting you easily. He moved towards the front door of the house. Tony had exited his car and ran up the stairs before the two of you, opening the door.

“Thanks Tony.”, Bucky said. 

As he stepped inside with you in tow, you looked around your surroundings. The interior of the home was immaculately decorated, almost looking like a page out of Homes & Gardens magazine. Before you really got a chance to take it all in, Bucky moved down a hallway to your right. He walked past several doors, before entering one. 

Inside the room sat Steve and another man you hadn’t met you, who you assumed must be Bruce. A medical kit sat in front of him. 

“Bruce this is Y/N, Y/N this is Bruce.”, Bucky introduced the two of you.

“Nice to meet you.”, Bruce directed to you.

“Nice to meet you too.”, you smiled at him. 

You were in an office currently, bookshelves lined the walls, a few small couches sat opposite one another with a glass table in between them, and in front of one of the large windows sat a massive dark wooden desk, paperwork covering it. 

Bucky sat you down carefully. Bruce instructed you to sit down on the couch across from him, having you put your feet up on the table, giving him easier access to disinfect and wrap them.

Bruce smiled at you, reaching for a bottle sitting on the table, “Let’s get the two of you fixed up.”

PART SIX

TAGLIST IS OPEN!! LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT ADDED!

TAGLIST ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ @danzer8705 @sebastians-love @mrsnikstan @mgchaser @singsosworld @moviegurl2002 @akiyhara @multifandom-boss-bitch @dopewerewolfdaze @jules-and-gems @scott-loki-barnes @baebank @calicoootalks @dumblani @watarmelon212 @haven-in-writing @barnesxstan @alilstressyandlotdepressy

[misshoneyimhome]

What's up, buttercups 🌶️

We’re getting so close to the end—and this chapter delivers exactly what many of us have been waiting for. Or at least one very satisfying moment… let’s just say a certain someone finally meets a well-deserved fist 😏 Did someone order an angry!Ice King? Because he’s here, bruised knuckles and all ♥️

No smut this time (sorry, friends), but I hope the drama and emotional tension make up for it 💕 Enjoy!

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, angry!Auston

Word count: 7.5k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven; Chapter twelve; Chapter thirteen ; Chapter fourteen; Chapter fifteen ; Chapter sixteen

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo @emsdevs

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter seventeen: When a Tower Falls, It Falls Hard

::

 “Dearest Toronto reader,

The weekend was soft, wasn’t it?

A Queen in borrowed flannel. A King nursing bruises not from battle, but from the quiet vulnerability of letting someone in. And around them, a family—his family—opening the door without asking questions, as if she’d always belonged there. They cooked together. Laughed. Shared stories. Morning coffee tasted sweeter when sipped between knowing glances.

But fairy tales, as we know, have chapters. And not all of them are tender.

Because just beneath the surface of tamales and spa days, of silk robes and slow kisses, something else began to stir. Truth, perhaps. Or worse—feelings.

She let herself sink into it. He didn’t pull away. And for a heartbeat, the performance became something dangerously close to real.

But this isn’t a love story without consequences.

Now, the Tower moves. Not quietly. Not with strategy. No, his is a game of exposure. Of leverage. And his arrival threatens not only the illusion—but the fragile, unspoken thing taking root beneath it.

The weekend was warm.

But Monday?

Monday, Toronto, comes with teeth.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

_

Monday -

The alarm buzzed softly against the nightstand, insistent but not unkind; just the kind of sound designed to nudge rather than startle. You groaned, your hand fumbling blindly in the dark for your phone as the screen lit up with the time. Too early. Too cold. 

You considered ignoring it, but the day ahead was already ticking into motion. Auston didn’t stir behind you, still warm and heavy, on his back his chest was moving steadily. His breath was slow and warm and for a moment, you didn’t move. Just lay there, tucked under the duvet, memorising the weight of him, the way his leg hooked over yours like he was holding you in place even in sleep.

Then it hit you—the smell of coffee. Rich and full-bodied, curling through the condo like an invitation. You smiled to yourself as you peeled carefully out from under the sheets, easing out of bed with the grace of someone who’d learned to do this without waking the one she didn’t want to leave.

Felix barely twitched at the foot of the bed, lifting his head with a sleepy huff before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort and curling back into his warm little donut of fur. You padded across the floor, tugging Auston’s hoodie over your tank top and pulling yesterday’s jeans on without turning on the light. The hoodie still smelled like him, and you tugged it tighter around your frame as you slipped into the en suite to splash cold water on your face.

The house was still dim, the windows holding back the late November dark, city lights casting long, gold reflections on the floorboards. You followed the scent of coffee into the kitchen, your socked feet quiet on the hardwood, the familiar hum of the fridge and the distant whir of traffic the only soundtrack. At the island, Ema and Brian were already settled in like they belonged there, like they always had. She had one foot tucked under her, a mug steaming in her hand; he was scrolling through his phone, glasses perched low on his nose.

Ema looked up first, her face lighting with that warm, steady glow you were beginning to realise was her default. “Buenos días, corazón,” she greeted, already rising from her stool to pour a third cup. “You want coffee?”

“Please, A bucket would be great,” you said, dragging a hand through your hair. “I’ve got a full day of meetings ahead of me. Might need an IV drip, actually.”

She chuckled, reaching for the milk. “You like just a splash, yes?”

You nodded, settling onto the stool across from Brian. “Just a splash,” you confirmed, wrapping your hands gratefully around the warm mug she handed you a moment later.

“You sleep okay?” she asked, watching you over the rim of her cup.

You smiled softly. “Really well.”

Brian looked up from his phone long enough to offer you a nod. “Hope we didn’t wake you—time zones still messin’ with us.”

“Not at all,” you said. “The coffee got there first.”

Ema beamed. “He always says I make it too strong, but he still drinks two cups.”

Brian chuckled lightly. “I’ve learned not to argue.”

Conversation flowed easily from there. Ema asked about your work week, about the spa day you’d mentioned the night before. Brian made a dry joke about the Leafs needing to spend less time in the box and more time in the offensive zone. You were mid-laugh when footsteps suddenly padded softly into the room, and Auston appeared in all his sleep-rumpled glory—shirtless, in flannel joggers, his curls a tousled mess, eyes still puffy with sleep.

He came over and gently leaned down to kiss your cheek, then your lips—a lazy, unhurried press of warmth that lingered a moment too long for breakfast with the parents, but not long enough to be private. “Mmm. Morning,” he rasped, squinting at the light.

“Morning,” you murmured, smiling despite yourself.

Ema passed him a cup of coffee without asking, and he accepted it with a muttered thank-you, sinking into the stool beside you. His shoulder brushed yours. His knee bumped your thigh once. Then again. Like he couldn’t help the contact. Like his body still hadn’t realised it wasn’t wrapped around yours anymore.

The clock on the oven ticked louder than before. Your day was already creeping up behind you. So, with a soft sigh, you rose and set your empty mug in the sink before turning back toward the hallway.

“I should go. Monday chaos awaits.”

“You’ll come back soon?” Ema asked, hopeful in a way that made your chest tug.

“If you’ll have me,” you replied.

“Always,” she said, no hesitation at all.

You hugged them both, warm and familiar now—a firm squeeze from Brian, a soft, slightly longer embrace from Ema—and then grabbed your bag. Auston followed you to the door, barefoot, his mug still in one hand, the other brushing your back as you zipped up your coat. He leaned against the doorframe as you pulled on your shoes, watching you in that quiet way that made your stomach twist and your heart feel too close to the surface.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked, low.

You shook your head. “I’ve got a train coming.”

He nodded but didn’t move, didn’t say anything for a beat. Then he turned, rummaged through the bowl on the console table, and handed you a protein bar.

“Here,” he said, pushing it into your hand. “In case you forget to eat again.”

You arched a brow. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but a smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “It’s peanut butter, your favourite.”

“You remember that?”

He shrugged, then simply looked at you. “Of course I do.”

Something caught between you just then—a pause, a breath, a feeling too big for the moment. You waited, wondering if he’d say something else. But he didn’t. He just stepped forward and brushed his thumb across your jaw, kissed your temple softly, and murmured, “Have a good day, boss. Text me?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

And then he watched you walk away, his hand still resting on the doorframe long after it had closed.

However, back inside, Ema was clearing dishes, and she didn’t even turn around when Auston entered the kitchen again - but she didn’t need to.

“You haven’t made it official yet?” she asked, voice light but pointed.

He gave a half-smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Think the media already did it for us.”

Ema glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised. “That’s not what I meant, mijo.”

He sighed, dropping into a stool. “I know.”

She turned then, drying her hands slowly. “You like her. Why are you waiting?”

But Auston just looked down at his mug, spinning it gently between his palms. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it?” she asked softly. “Because it doesn’t look complicated.”

He hesitated, guilt tightening his throat. “We just… need a bit more time. She’s amazing, and yes, I like her… but… we’re still just seeing where it’s all going.”

“You mean, none of you have said the words,” she said gently.

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Not right away.

But then Ema moved closer, rested a hand on his arm. “Remember when you were six, and you tried to do that school play? You were so nervous about getting the lines wrong that you almost didn’t show up. But you did. And when you walked out on stage, I saw it—the second you saw the lights, heard the applause—you forgot you were acting. You became the part.”

He looked up at her then.

“Don’t let this be like that,” she said. “Don’t let fear keep you from showing up for the role that’s already yours.”

Auston didn’t speak. Just looked back toward the door, where you’d stood moments ago. And in that quiet pause, something inside him shifted.

He still didn’t know how to tell them the truth about you. About the deal. But he knew this—he didn’t want to let you go.

Not now. Not like this. _

You didn’t go straight to the office.

Instead, you managed to make a pit stop at your apartment—a new skill you’d obtained. It was simply a rare moment to catch your breath, swap yesterday’s mascara for something fresh, and reassemble the version of yourself the world expected to see. You stood in the mirror for a long beat, adjusting your blouse, smoothing your hair, fixing the faint smudge of lipstick clinging to your top lip. Your eyes were a little too tired, your thoughts a little too loud, but you whispered something under your breath anyway.

“You’ve got this.”

You weren’t entirely sure you believed it. But belief wasn’t necessary. Conviction was.

The office was already buzzing when you arrived, a low hum of phones ringing, keys clacking, voices overlapping in bursts of caffeinated energy. You slipped into the rhythm like usual, nodding greetings, keeping your pace brisk. But the moment you turned the corner into the breakroom, your steps faltered.

Chase was there.

Leaning casually against the counter like he had nothing better to do than sip his overpriced cold brew and lurk. His smile tightened when he saw you, predatory and smug.

“Good morning,” he said, far too brightly. “Got a second?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just walked past him to the fridge, pulling out your yoghurt with careful disinterest. “Bit busy. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing much,” he replied, still smiling. “Just thought I’d congratulate you. Great weekend. Cute photos. You and Matthews… looked pretty into it.”

Your spine stiffened, but your face didn’t flinch. You turned slowly, lifting your spoon with a slight shrug. “Well, you know the internet—loves a good love story.”

“Sure,” he said. “But I don’t think this one ends with a ring, does it?”

Silence cracked through your chest like ice.

Chase tilted his head, watching you closely now. “Look, I get it. Big fish. Big name. Can’t blame you for milking it. But let’s not pretend you’re not playing the long game. This whole PR stunt? It’s smart. Ballsy, even.”

You forced a laugh. “Not this again Chase.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, low now, the performance gone. “You think I didn’t notice how fast things moved? From mystery plus-one at the gala to public girlfriend overnight? You think the timing of that announcement was a coincidence?”

The word gala hit like a slap. You blinked, and for a split second, you were back there—standing in too-high heels, pulse hammering in your ears as Auston slid an arm around your waist for the first time. His lips brushing your temple. The camera flashes. The pact you made.

It had been harmless then. Strategic. Mutually beneficial.

Now it was something else entirely—and Chase had seen it.

“I don’t know what you think you know,” you said, voice tight. “But it’s not your business.”

“Oh, but it is,” he countered, stepping closer, his smile slipping into something nastier. “See, I work in media. Reputation is currency. And if someone’s faking a relationship with a franchise player to climb the ladder? That’s juicy. That’s career-ending.”

You stared at him, heart racing, trying to calculate the best move. He wasn’t bluffing. Not entirely.

“You want to expose me?” you asked quietly.

Chase laughed. “Expose you? No. That’d be a waste. I’m not here to ruin you, sweetheart. I’m here to… collaborate.”

You felt your stomach twist.

“I want access,” he continued. “Contacts. Introductions. Maybe a heads-up when you’ve got a scoop. You’re close to the team now, right? Matthews, Nylander, Marner. Hell, I’d settle for Knies.”

You swallowed hard. “You want me to feed you stories.”

“I want you to return the favour,” he said simply. “I keep your little secret, you make sure I stay in the loop. Easy. Win-win.”

You were quiet for a long moment. The yoghurt in your hand was still unopened, but your appetite was gone.

“I need time to think,” you said finally.

He stepped back with a satisfied smile, like he’d already won. “Of course. Just don’t take too long. Stories have a shelf life.”

And then he tossed his cup in the bin and strolled out like it had been any other casual conversation, like he hadn’t just set a bomb ticking under your desk.

You sat down heavily at the breakroom table, breath catching in your throat, fingers trembling just slightly.

What had started as a fake relationship to buy you a little breathing room had turned into something dangerously real—and now it was a liability. You closed your eyes for a second, hand tightening around the cold edge of the yoghurt cup.

You tried to focus, to make your way to your desk. But the nausea came fast, a wave rising from the pit of your stomach that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. The hallway swayed imperceptibly beneath your feet, not with motion but with the crushing weight of something undeniable settling into your bones. You reached for the wall without thinking, bracing your palm against it, your forehead leaning lightly into your knuckles like it might anchor you—like anything could.

Because the worst part wasn’t what Chase had said. It was that he wasn’t wrong.

Not completely.

You had gained something from all of this. You’d borrowed Auston’s name, his presence, the silent power that came from being seen at his side—and it had worked. Doors opened. Faces softened. Respect came faster, trust followed without question. You hadn’t planned on it, not exactly. But it had happened. You’d taken the deal and let it grow teeth.

And yet—none of that was what made your throat close now. None of it was what sent heat crawling up the back of your neck in something that felt suspiciously like shame.

Because what you wanted to protect wasn’t your job or your reputation anymore. It was him.

It was Auston. His steady hand at the small of your back. The way he said your name like it meant something more. The quiet way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like you were already part of whatever future he hadn’t dared to say aloud.

You closed your eyes and let the moment stretch. Breathe in. Breathe out. Fail.

How had you let this become so tangled?

And then, like a name whispered at the wrong moment in a dream—Jess.

Her absence had been quieter than Chase’s voice, but sharper. Colder. The guilt of it pressed against your chest like a bruise from the inside out. Because if Auston had become your secret, Jess had been your soul. The one who knew the shape of your heart even when you didn’t.

And you’d lied to her.

Not just by omission. You’d pushed her out. For what? A strategy? A false front? A story you no longer recognised but couldn’t seem to stop telling?

You didn’t even know what you were defending anymore. Your pride? Your career? 

Your fingers moved numbly as you reached for your phone, the weight of it suddenly disproportionate in your hand. You stared at the screen for longer than made sense, your thumb hovering, waiting for clarity that never came.

What could you say?

That you were sorry? That it had started as a trick and turned into something real before you knew how to stop it? That every line you’d drawn had blurred until there was no performance left—only him, and the way he made you feel?

Eventually, your fingers moved of their own accord.

You: Can we talk? Please. After work. I want to tell you everything.

You slipped the phone back into your pocket with fingers that didn’t feel quite like yours, your pulse still stuttering in your throat. The hallway felt brighter now. Too bright. Like someone had turned the contrast up on a photo and left you exposed.

You pushed away from the wall and started walking. Slowly. Deliberately. Every step an attempt to reclaim control of a story that had long since slipped from your grasp.

And then—your phone buzzed.

Jess: We can meet after work.

A pause. Then another buzz.

Jess: Usual spot. Don’t be late.

Your lungs unlocked. Not quite relief. But something close. Something like hope wrapped in tension.

_

The café was dimly lit, the way it always was in the early evening—a soft hum of amber light catching in the glassware and casting long shadows across the tiled floor. You’d chosen a booth in the back, your favourite, the one that felt like a corner tucked away from the rest of the world. You sat there with your hands wrapped around a too-hot mug, the tea inside untouched, barely registering the steam curling against your fingers.

The door jingled. You looked up.

Jess.

She scanned the café quickly, eyes catching on you almost instantly. There was no smile, no wave—just a silent, steady walk toward the booth. When she slid into the seat across from you, you saw the tension in her shoulders, the press of her lips. But she’d come. That counted for something.

"Hey," you said softly.

Jess didn’t answer right away. She shrugged out of her coat, laid it beside her, and looked at you with a tired sort of clarity. "Alright. Talk."

So you did.

You started with the gala—the coincidence of the moment Auston had pulled you in, the camera flashes, the heat of it all. You walked her through the pact, the reasons, the opportunities it offered. How convenient it had been, how harmless it had seemed. She said nothing as you spoke, just listened, her hands folded on the table like she was holding something back.

Then you got to the rest.

How it changed. The sex. The interviews. The photos. The games. The nights. The moment it all tipped over the edge into something else.

"We didn’t plan for that," you admitted. "We were just trying to get through it. But things kept… happening. And then one day I woke up and I wasn’t sure what was really going on anymore."

Jess exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath. "And you didn’t think to tell me."

"I didn’t know how," you said, voice low. "I guess… I was embarrassed. That I’d agreed to it. With someone like… him,” you let out a deep breath. “And then… it all just got so complicated. Like… it stopped being a strategy and started being… a feeling, and I didn’t know where the line was anymore. I still don’t."

She looked at you then, really looked—eyes scanning your face like she was trying to measure the truth of you. "You should’ve trusted me."

You nodded. "I know."

For a long moment, there was just the clink of mugs behind the counter, the low murmur of another conversation drifting from across the café. Jess’s fingers tapped once against the wood of the table.

“You like him?”

The question came quiet—no edge, no judgement. Just real.

You hesitated, the words teetering, then landing soft as breath. “I think I might.”

Jess leaned back, arms folding across her chest. Her face didn’t give much away, but her voice stayed steady. “You’re lucky I’m not the kind of person who runs to the WAGs with this.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

She rolled her eyes, lips tugging into a smirk. “Please. I’d rather watch you squirm.”

A laugh slipped out, small and surprised, catching in your throat like something unfastened. Relief came with it. The kind that wrapped around your ribs and let you breathe again.

Jess sipped from her drink, eyes skimming the rim. “Alright. I’ll keep your secret. But I’ll also say this—whatever it started as, it doesn’t look fake anymore. Not to me. Not to anyone with eyes and more than two brain cells who’s seen the way he looks at you.”

Your brows lifted. “He does?”

“Like he’d fight God and lose just to keep you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was something else. Gentle. Rebuilding.

Jess reached across the table and nudged your mug with a finger. “Your tea’s cold.”

“I know.”

“Order another. I’m not done being mad yet. And I want details—every last bit of how this man somehow got you to take your guard down and let yourself actually feel something. Honestly, I’m a little impressed.”

You smiled. And this time, it reached your eyes.

“Wow, Auston Matthews, impressing you?”

“Oh shut it, just because I’m not Maya who’s secretly always been crushing on him,” Jess laughed, rolling her eyes.

You instinctively laughed along, but something about the comment caught in your chest for half a second—strange and fleeting. Still, you headed to the counter to order another tea, the warmth of your friendship wrapping around the sharp edges of the evening.

_

Your phone buzzed sometime after nine, just as you were settling into the quiet hum of the evening. The name on the screen made your stomach flip, bile rising like instinct.

Fucktard (Chase): VIP for tomorrow’s game? You can make that happen, right.

No question mark. No “please.” Just that same smug entitlement, confident you’d roll over.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering, pulse spiking. For a long beat, you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The audacity of it—after everything—made your fingers tighten around the phone.

You thought about playing along. Thought about forwarding his name, keeping the peace, staying small. But the very idea curdled in your chest. No more bending. No more owing.

So you opened a new message. Short. Final.

You: No.

And then you hit send. No explanation. No soft landing.

Just the truth, sharp and overdue.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—but it was yours. And this time, you weren’t playing anyone’s game but your own.

_

“Well, well, Toronto.

We do love a picture-perfect morning.

The Queen rose early. The King kissed her like no one was watching—even though his mother was. And wasn’t that the sweetest part? A kitchen full of quiet approvals, of strong coffee and stronger implications. Even the King’s mother saw it: the way he looked at her. The way he didn’t look away.

But fairytales are fragile, aren’t they?

Because outside that sunlit house, the Tower is stirring. Not fallen yet, but leaning, loud, and laced with jealousy. And at the office—well, the shadows stretch longer under fluorescent lights. Deals unravel. Smiles crack. And someone who knows too much has started asking for favours.

They say pressure makes diamonds. But it also reveals cracks.

So sip your lattes. Play nice. Smile through the tension.

But know this, Toronto: a story built on performance can only hold for so long before the truth takes the stage. - The Benchwarmer.”

_

Tuesday -

The Scotiabank Arena pulsed with energy before you’d even stepped through security.

The hallway outside the lounge hummed with quiet anticipation, the kind unique to Scotiabank on a game night. You and Jess moved together through the controlled chaos—team staff weaving in and out of secured doors, kids darting past in miniature jerseys, someone’s laughter echoing from down the corridor. Jess walked beside you with her hands deep in her coat pockets, her mouth set in a neutral line that gave little away, but her eyes flicked around, observant as ever.

“Okay,” you said under your breath as you reached the door. “They’re not as terrifying as they seem. Just lean into the banter. They’ll love you.”

Jess raised one brow. “As long as none of them quiz me on power play strategy, I’ll survive.”

Inside, the lounge was warm and plush, all soft lighting and luxury finishes, screens broadcasting pre-game commentary in every direction. The partners were already gathered—Stephanie perched like a queen with her heels tucked under a velvet loveseat, Tessa with her child in hand, Sanna adjusting her baby’s blanket in a carrier.

As soon as they spotted you, Estelle’s face lit up. “Look who finally remembered us!”

You rolled your eyes with affection. “Had to bring backup. Hope that’s allowed.”

All heads turned toward Jess, who gave a smooth, cool smile and a polite wave.

“This is Jess,” you said. “She’s… family.”

That earned a chorus of approving noises. Arynne made a little hmm of intrigue and scooted over to make space beside her.

“Well, family is our favourite kind of guest,” she said. “Come sit. Tell us everything about her. Embarrassing stories preferred.”

“She’s not a puppy,” Tessa said, though her grin betrayed zero commitment to that defence. “But yeah—how do you two know each other?”

Jess took the offered seat, crossing her legs with ease. “She and I survived everything together. Study sessions. Terrible wine. One regrettable karaoke night.”

“She still does karaoke,” you muttered into your cup, and Jess elbowed you lightly.

It was smoother than you’d expected—Jess navigating the group with a sharp wit and dry charm that clearly won them over. Sanna offered her a snack from the spread, Tessa asked for her opinion on a bridesmaid dress, and before you knew it, Jess was throwing out chirps about penalties like she’d been there all season.

But the real test came when Auston’s family arrived.

You stood to greet them—Ema radiant in a smart jacket, Brian offering a polite smile, Alexandria and Breyana buzzing with quiet energy as they entered the suite. Jess rose with you, immediately more cautious, but grounded.

“Ema, this is Jess—my best friend,” you said. “Jess, this is Auston’s mum, his dad Brian, and his sisters, Alex and Bree.”

Ema’s warmth extended instantly, a hand offered, eyes soft. “So nice to meet you. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Jess, to her credit, didn’t miss a beat. “Good things, I hope.”

Ema gave a little laugh. “Of course. And if not, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear.”

You caught the way Auston’s sisters eyed Jess with a mix of curiosity and quiet approval. It wasn’t the same kind of probing the WAGs did—it was gentler, but somehow more weighty.

And as the puck dropped, the room quieted, the tension of game night settling in like static in the air. The first period was all adrenaline—fast, physical, high-stakes. The Utah Hockey Club came in hard, with tight forechecking and more hits than necessary. Auston took a solid check against the boards in the second, sending a flicker of panic through your chest, but he was back on his skates fast, jaw set, eyes sharper than before.

Jess leaned in. “You okay?”

You nodded, forcing a breath. “Just not great at watching him get knocked around.”

“You and me both,” Ema said softly beside you.

The third period had your heart in your throat—Woll let one in with just under five minutes left, and you thought the tension might snap you in half. But then, in the final minute, with the crowd on their feet and the suite collectively holding its breath, Järnkrok made a surgical pass to Lorentz who tucked it home with barely a second to spare.

The arena erupted.

Jess turned to you, both of you breathless and wide-eyed, and for a second it felt like something realigned in the noise—the weight of Auston’s family around you, the families cheering, Jess at your side.

You weren’t sure if it was safety you felt… but no matter what, it felt good.

_

The tunnel beneath Scotiabank Arena buzzed with subdued energy—a stark contrast to the roaring crowd above. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow on the concrete walls, flickering slightly as if the building itself was catching its breath. The scent of sweat, rubber, and melted ice lingered in the air, sharp and familiar. Trainers and security staff moved with quiet urgency, voices low, radios crackling. You stood just beyond the locker room doors, your hands clenched at your sides, heart thudding a steady, anxious rhythm against your ribs.

Then you heard the footsteps.

Auston emerged, still in partial gear, his jersey hanging loose, shoulder pads framing him like armour left too long in battle. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and a towel draped loosely around his neck, catching the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. Bruises bloomed dark along his jawline, and a shallow cut sat just below his cheekbone, still flushed pink with blood the trainers hadn’t gotten to yet. But his eyes—tired, glassy, wide—lit up the moment they found yours.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

You simply closed the distance like gravity demanded it, arms sliding around his torso carefully. His body was still warm from exertion, muscles twitching beneath your touch. He winced slightly, but his arms came around you just the same, one hand curling behind your neck, the other settling at your waist.

Your lips found his first. The kiss wasn’t showy or sweet. It was breathless. Almost desperate. A long, slow exhale of everything you hadn’t been able to say during the game.

“You scared me out there,” you whispered against his mouth, the words barely audible over the hum of the distant locker room chatter.

“I’m okay,” he murmured, lips brushing the corner of yours as he leaned in again. His thumb moved in slow, unconscious circles against your hip. “I promise.”

But then a soft cough cut through the moment, too pointed to be accidental. And you both turned.

Jess stood a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her lipstick was still perfect, her expression perfectly neutral—but her eyes flicked between the two of you with surgical precision.

“Well, if that wasn’t a scene straight out of a romance novel,” she teased, voice dry as dust.

Auston didn’t drop his arm. He just smiled slightly, the kind that only deepened the bruise blooming along his cheek. “We’ve had practice.”

Jess cocked her head, parroting the word back with just enough sarcasm to sting. “Right… practice.”

Before either of you could respond, a voice echoed from farther down the tunnel—your name, urgent and echoing off concrete.

You glanced toward it, then back at them, laughing softly as you stepped away. “I think I need to check something with security. Be right back.” You looked at Jess. “Please don’t kill each other.”

Auston gave your waist a final squeeze before letting go, your fingers brushing briefly as you turned and disappeared down the corridor, the sound of your heels tapping against the floor slowly fading.

Once you were gone, silence fell like a dropped curtain.

Jess shifted her weight and studied Auston for a long moment, the way one might study a complicated equation—one that had no clean answer, only implications.

“So,” she said flatly.

Auston’s jaw twitched. “So.”

Jess sighed and finally dropped her arms, letting them hang at her sides. Her tone didn’t soften. But it didn’t harden either. “You’re not stupid. So I’m not going to treat you like you are.”

Auston didn’t move. Just stood there in the flickering half-light of the tunnel, still bleeding slightly and looking like a man halfway between confession and collapse. He scrubbed a hand over his face, over the wet ends of his hair, then let it fall.

“That’s a relief,” he muttered.

Jess folded her lips in tightly, then opened them again. “Listen, I  don’t care what kind of deal you two had in the beginning. Whatever fake setup, mutual agreement, whatever—it doesn’t matter anymore.” Her voice dropped. “What matters is that she’s in it now. Whether or not she meant to be.”

Auston’s face shifted, something flickering behind his eyes—guilt, maybe. Or maybe just the weight of knowing someone else had seen it, too.

Jess stepped closer. “She might walk around like she’s invincible, like she’s bulletproof. But she’s not. She’s vulnerable when it comes to you. And if you let her believe this is something it’s not—if you let her fall any further without catching her—you will break her.”

Auston shook his head slowly. “I didn’t plan on this.”

“Yeah,” Jess said. “You keep saying that. Doesn’t make it any better.”

“It’s not an excuse,” he said, quieter now. “It’s just the truth. I didn’t see it coming. She got under my skin. She still does.” He paused, voice dropping to a near whisper. “She’s got more of me than she knows.”

Jess blinked at that. Her mouth parted slightly, like she hadn’t expected the honesty—hadn’t been prepared for the softness behind it.

And for a beat, she didn’t say anything, before she nodded. Once. Measured.

“Good,” she said. “Then act like it. Because if you hurt her—really hurt her—I don’t care how big of a hockey star you are.”

Auston gave the faintest smile, something tired and a little bruised around the edges. “Fair enough.”

“And don’t get cocky,” Jess added as she turned, already hearing your return down the hall. “I still haven’t  approved of you.”

He laughed—just a breath. “Noted.”

Then you reappeared, cheeks pink from the brisk walk, eyes bouncing between them like you’d missed something.

“Everything alright?” you asked lightly, stepping back to Auston’s side.

Jess glanced at you, then at Auston. “Peachy.”

Auston’s hand found yours again without needing to look. “All good.”

Moments later, voices echoed from the far end of the tunnel—Ema, Brian, and the girls approaching in a bubble of post-win warmth and teasing laughter.

But in the space between just the three of you, something had shifted.

And Jess, for all her sharp edges, let it go.

—for now.

The hallway continued to buzz with end-of-game energy. Families chatted in clusters, partners lingered with half-empty cups. Players trickled out in waves of damp hair and aftershave, trading sticks for duffel bags, tension for relief. In his post shower outfit Auston stood near you, one arm loosely around your waist, his body relaxed but his gaze still sharp, watchful. Jess hovered nearby, chatting lightly with Breyana.

Then—like a shadow cutting across stage lights—he appeared.

Chase.

He strolled in with the entitled ease of someone who’d never been told no. His coat hung open, his tie loosened, and the gleam in his eyes was all theatre. Smug. Performed. Calculated. You saw it before he even opened his mouth.

"Well, well," he said, voice pitched to carry, his gaze sweeping over the gathering before settling squarely on you. "If it isn’t the queen of Scotiabank."

You stiffened. Auston’s grip subtly tightened.

"Chase," you said, cool and measured. “I told them not to let him in here…” you whispered to Auston.

"No need to sound so cold," he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "I’m just here to congratulate you. Public image, social sway, upgraded press pass—and all it took was one well-timed romance with a franchise face."

A few heads turned. The room, once murmuring, began to still.

"You should leave," Auston said, voice low but firm.

But Chase simply offered him a stern expression. "Oh come on, Matthews. Let’s not pretend. Everyone here loves a good story. All I’m doing is pulling back the curtain."

Ema turned from where she’d been speaking to Tessa. Brian took a slow step forward. You could feel Jess shifting beside you.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about," you said, keeping your voice even.

"Don’t I?" he laughed, wide and theatrical. "You really think no one would notice? The timing, the coverage, the way your entire narrative shifted overnight? It’s been a masterclass in manipulation."

The air grew heavier.

"You should walk away now," Auston said again, his tone colder.

Chase turned to face him again, a smirk twitching at his mouth. "Or what?"

"Or well have you removed. Before you say something you’ll regret."

“Regret?” Chase chuckled darkly, eyebrows raised. “Oh no, I think regret belongs to the one using a guy like you as a stepping stone. And the idiot who let her.”

The words hit like a slap to the chest.

Auston’s jaw flexed, his shoulders squaring as the heat rose behind his eyes. His fingers curled slowly at his sides, knuckles whitening with restraint.

Chase didn’t stop. He never knew when to stop.

“She’s good, I’ll give her that. Played the long game. PR stunts, locker room charm, now she’s got her name in every article next to yours. Bet she’s already drafting the memoir.”

Someone behind you gasped.

Auston took a step forward.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about her,” he said, voice low, vibrating with control that was about to snap.

“I know opportunists when I see one,” Chase sneered. “And I know when a man’s being played—”

Another step.

“And you? Matthews? You’re not a star. You’re just a headline. A trophy in her career highlight reel. A real good fuck.  And when she’s done with you—”

Auston moved.

And then his fist connected with Chase’s jaw.

The sound—flesh against bone—was sickening. Sharp. Final.

Gasps erupted. Jess shouted something. Estelle yelped. Someone dropped their drink. Chase stumbled backward, hand at his face, eyes wide in disbelief.

Security was there in an instant, pushing through the crowd, separating them. Auston’s chest heaved, his hand already reddening. You were frozen, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

"Back it up," one of the guards barked, pushing Chase toward the exit.

"She used you!" Chase yelled, spitting blood, pointing in your direction. "And you’re too fucking dumb to see it."

"Get him out," Tavares snapped.

Security dragged Chase back, his curses trailing like smoke.

And then… Silence.

Dozens of eyes were on you and Auston. The bruised tension in the air thick enough to choke on.

The hallway rang with echoes. The kind of energy that lingered after a blow had been thrown—a charge in the air that didn’t know how to settle.

Auston stood at the centre of it, shoulders tight, chest still rising and falling fast. His hand—the one that had made contact with Chase’s jaw—was clenched at his side, already beginning to swell.

You moved without thinking. He saw you coming, but didn’t say anything. Just let your hand slide gently over his wrist and lift his fist to the light.

His knuckles were red, bruised, beginning to purple at the edge.

You cradled it like something sacred.

“Thanks for punching him,” you whispered, voice low.

Auston huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Or maybe it was disbelief. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No,” you said. “But I’m glad you did.”

“Me too,” he smiled softly.

Jess came up beside you, sharp-eyed and still riding the adrenaline. Her gaze swept over the two of you, then landed on his hand.

“Hope you hadn’t practiced that part,” she sai with a light chuckle.

Neither of you answered. Just smiled and nodded in agreement.

People began to move again, slowly, like the spell was breaking. The players filtered out one by one—some glancing your way with lifted brows or subtle nods. Mitch offered a tight-lipped smile. John gave Auston a look that said more than words, then touched your arm lightly in passing.

The partners drifted by, whispering behind their hands. Someone clapped Jess on the shoulder. A trainer passed with ice packs. The moment resumed its momentum, the tension dissolving into the noise of normalcy.

Then Auston’s family came over.

Alex was first, sweeping in with a mock scandalised gasp. “God, you really decked him, huh?”

Auston gave her a tired look. “Not really the moment, Alex.”

She just grinned. “Whatever. He deserved it.”

Brian was more measured, standing back with a furrowed brow, while Bree hovered at his side with wide, curious eyes. But it was Ema who moved forward, her face drawn with concern.

She took Auston’s hand from yours and inspected it with a soft touch, shaking her head.

“Oh, Auston,” she murmured. “What were you thinking?”

He didn’t answer.

She looked up at him, and something passed between them—something private and maternal.

And Auston’s eyes flicked to you. But he didn’t look away.

Within a few more minutes the arena had quieted to a hush that didn’t belong to victory. Most of the families had left, the players slipping into black cars and private exits, the overhead fluorescents humming in their place.

After saying goodbye to Auston and leaving him with his family, you walked with Jess down the long corridor toward the loading dock, the echo of your footsteps softened by the weight of everything left unsaid.

She didn’t speak at first, just walked beside you, hands in her coat pockets, eyes forward like she was watching the ending play out in her head.

At the far end of the hall, just before the double doors that led to the private exit, she slowed—then stopped completely. You followed her lead, unsure of what she was going to say.

Then Jess turned to you, her voice low and clear. “You’re in love with him.”

You blinked, your lips parting to deny it, to say something—anything—but nothing came.

She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing like she could see all the truths you hadn’t spoken. “And he’s in love with you. You’re both just too scared to say it.”

The words hit gently. Not an accusation. Just a mirror.

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. You just looked at her, breath catching in your throat, and gave the smallest of nods.

Jess let out a slow exhale, then bumped her shoulder into yours. “Took you long enough.”

You both stepped through the exit doors into the cold night air, your breath fogging faintly in front of you. The car park was mostly empty—security lights buzzing overhead, a few staffers chatting quietly near the gates.

You glanced back one last time, eyes sweeping the corridor behind you.

But Auston was gone.

And somehow, that hurt more than you’d expected.

Jess touched your arm. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

You nodded, following her toward the car, the night pressing close around you, heavy with everything that hadn’t yet been said. _

The city outside your window was quiet, the glow of streetlights bleeding softly into your room. Your body still hummed with leftover adrenaline, your mind replaying every sharp word, every look, every blow. But more than that, it replayed him—Auston, standing between you and Chase, fists clenched, eyes dark.

You reached for your phone without thinking.

You: hope you’re doing ok 

Auston: Yeah just chilling with the fam 

You stared at the message for a moment, thumb hovering, heart stubborn. And then—

You: Thanks again for punching Chase

There was a beat of silence. 

Auston: My pleasure ;) he had it coming

You smiled, the curve of it small but real. And somehow, that made your chest ache even more.

You: Still. Thank you. Wouldn’t have been as hard if I’d done it myself ;) 

The typing bubble blinked back almost instantly.

Auston: Don’t worry about it ;) I’ve got you, boss. I always do. Good night and sweet dreams

You sat with the weight of those words for a long time, the quiet thrum of them echoing in your chest.

You didn’t reply.

But your fingers brushed the screen like they could reach him through it. And in that moment, you let yourself believe it.

That maybe—just maybe—he really felt it too.

_

“Dearest Toronto readers,

Well, the Tower fell. Loudly. Messily. Just as we knew it would.

But the Queen? She didn’t flinch. She didn’t falter. She stood tall—chin lifted, eyes steady—as the rubble settled around her.

There were accusations, oh yes—sharp, public, and just close enough to the truth to sting. Whispers we’ve all heard before… only now, they rang a little louder. A little clearer.

And yet—when the moment came, the King did not hesitate. He stepped forward and defended her. Not with words alone, but with something far older. Something instinctual.

A fist. 

So was it all pretend, then? Or has the performance become something more?

Hard to say. But I’ve been watching the way he looks at her. And that doesn’t look like fiction.

So what’s next, Toronto?

Checkmate again black or white?

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer.”

[anon-188]

Could you write something like really angst with aj where like he went on a heist and she thought he was dead and like he apologises on his knees and then some like soft slow smut where he just keeps kissing her and apologises???? Thx

pairing: AJ x f!reader | genre: angst ❤️‍🩹 | wc: 2.3k

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), strong language, emotional hurt/comfort, implied (but false) character death, panic attack symptoms, bruised!AJ (light), heavy angst, crying, soft!AJ, unprotected sex, heist/robbery mention, gun violence (briefly mentioned).

a/n: if you were trying to emotionally ruin me, congrats—you succeeded. but seriously, thank you so much for requesting this!! i hope you like it <3

also… wrote this while listening to code blue by the-dream. yes, i cried 😭

It was a typical Tuesday morning.

You had your shift at the diner—the one just a few blocks from the apartment you shared with AJ. Same regulars, same buzz of the overhead lights, same smell of burnt coffee and old grease that clung to your clothes no matter how many times you washed them.

And AJ, well… he had a heist planned. Bank job. No details. There never were. That was part of the deal. 

He just kissed you—a little longer than usual. Told you he’d be careful and that he’d see you later. No real goodbye. He didn’t believe in those.

And of course, you didn’t love what he did—hated that it was unpredictable, that it came with too many unknowns and too many risks. But AJ had never given you a reason to doubt him.

He always promised to come home—and he did. Every time.

By now, it was midday. The diner was packed, lunch rush in full swing. Plates clattered in the kitchen, silverware scraped across plates, and someone at the counter was complaining about their toast being cold. You were in the middle of pouring a fresh round of coffee when the flicker of movement on the mounted TV caught your eye.

You glanced up—just for a second.

Breaking News flashed across the screen in bold red. You almost looked away, used to the noise of it by now. But then you saw it.

Outside of a bank. Police cars. Barricades.

A robbery.

Your stomach dropped.

You grabbed a rag and started clearing a nearby table, trying to play it cool as you leaned toward one of your coworkers. “Can you turn that up?” you asked, your voice low, like you were just curious.

She didn’t question it. Just grabbed the remote and nudged the volume up.

The anchor’s voice filled the room, crisp and too calm.

“We’re following a developing situation in downtown LA, where a five-man crew has attempted to rob First National Bank. Law enforcement has confirmed that the suspects are still inside, currently refusing to surrender. There are reports of multiple hostages. No demands have been made.”

Five.

Your heart gave a painful thud. AJ. Gordon. John. Jesse. Jake.

No. No. It wasn’t them. Couldn’t be. 

There were a lot of five-man crews. A lot of banks. You clung to that logic like it could hold back the panic rising in your throat.

You stacked dishes with shaking hands.

“Coming in now… it appears shots have been fired. Officers are returning fire. We’ve just received confirmation—open exchange between the suspects and police.”

The footage shifted. Camera zoomed on gunfire erupting from the bank entrance, officers ducking behind vehicles, smoke and shouts and flashing lights in the distance.

Your movements slowed, heart hammering, as the anchor continued.

“We’re hearing now that the crew has been taken down. All five suspects have been neutralized. We repeat—all five suspects are down. No hostages harmed.”

The stack of dishes slipped from your hands and hit the floor hard, porcelain shattering into jagged pieces that rang throughout the diner. The sound turned heads, but you hardly noticed. You stood there for a second, frozen, until your coworker rushed over to help.

“I’ve got it,” they said gently, crouching down with a towel, but their voice felt far away.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, though the word hardly formed on your tongue.

Your body was already moving before you registered the decision. You pushed through the swinging door to the back, grabbed your phone with fumbling hands, and bolted through the alley exit. The warm air hit you in a suffocating way, but you didn’t stop. You dialed his number with shaking fingers.

Once. No answer.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

By the third call, the tears came—hot, blinding, unstoppable. You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, willing it to connect, trying to hold yourself together in the space between each ring. But the signs weren’t looking good. Not this time.

A few hours had gone by, and with each passing minute, your heart broke a little more. You sat on the couch, eyes flicking between your phone and the TV, trying to focus on the news, hoping for something—anything—but nothing new had come in. Just recycled footage. The same looping clips of the scene. The same headlines. 

He would’ve called by now.

You knew that like you knew your own name. He always did, even when he couldn’t say much. Even when he knew he shouldn’t. He always found a way to let you know he was okay.

But this time… nothing.

It felt like your body had finally caved under the weight of it all. You doubled over where you sat, arms wrapping around your middle like you could hold yourself together. But the sobs still came, raw and heaving, until your whole frame shook. You pressed a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, but it barely helped. You didn’t want to fall apart, but it didn’t feel like a choice anymore.

And it was like that for hours. One minute, your tears came soft and silent, slipping down your cheeks in slow surrender. The next, you were gripping a pillow and gasping through it, the ache rising too fast, too sharp. Sometimes you’d pace the apartment, aimless and angry. Other times you’d just stare at the door, wishing it would open.

The sun eventually dipped below the skyline, the light shifting. Outside, the world kept going, headlights flashing past, voices trailing down the street, but inside—your world had stopped. 

Just like that. 

Hours later, somewhere, somehow, you’d found the strength to take a shower—an attempt at a distraction, at pretending things were okay for just a few minutes. But nothing could quiet the ache lodged in your chest. Nothing could stop your mind from spinning.

And then—

A noise. Loud. Something clattering.

You stilled, water streaming down your back, breath caught.

Another sound followed. Something heavier.

Without thinking, you twisted the knob off and stepped out, water dripping from your skin as you grabbed the nearest towel. You barely dried off, too focused on the pounding in your ears. Your hands trembled as you pulled your clothes on, movements fast and uneven.

You opened the bathroom door slowly, careful not to make a sound. The space was quiet. Eerily so. You crossed the room, heart thudding in your chest as you reached for the bedroom door.

Just as you opened it, you were met with a figure on the other side.

AJ.

You let out a soft yelp, startled by how suddenly he appeared.

His hands came up instantly, breathless. “It’s me—hey, it’s me,” he said, voice low, urgent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He was drenched in sweat and dirt. Clothes disheveled, shirt clinging to him. His jaw was bruised. There was blood on his knuckles.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Then the tears hit.

Your shoulders shook before you could stop them, and your knees almost buckled as the relief finally broke through. You didn’t even realize how hard you were crying until AJ’s hands reached for you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, murmuring apologies over and over between shallow breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You clung to him for a beat, the shock keeping your limbs stiff before your hands pushed at his chest, not to shove him away—just to breathe, to see him.

“Where were you? What happened?” you asked, voice breaking mid-sentence.

AJ pulled back slightly, eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight. “The job went south. Another crew showed up. Same bank.”

You blinked, confusion crashing into you. “But the news… they said five. I thought—”

“It wasn’t us,” he cut in, shaking his head hard. “It wasn’t us.”

Tears kept falling, faster now, sharp and wet across your cheeks. You hit his chest once—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.

“Why didn’t you call?” Your voice cracked. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I lost my phone, baby.” His voice dropped, rough and hoarse. “It was a fucking mess. I’ve been running for hours. The cops were everywhere—I just—I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, another wave of tears slipping free before you could stop them. “I… I thought you were dead,” you whispered, voice wavering as the words finally spilled out.

AJ’s brows furrowed, the pain in your voice hitting him like a punch. You saw it flash through his expression—tight, sharp, like he’d give anything to take the last few hours from you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Again. Like the words weren’t enough but they were all he had.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The tears kept coming, harder now, burning your cheeks as your body started to fold in on itself.

That’s when AJ dropped to his knees in front of you.

His hands found your hips gently, thumbs skimming over the hem of your shirt. He looked up at you, eyes dark with remorse.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he said again, more desperate now. “I swear—I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t crying. But it was written all over him—in the way his hands pressed into your sides as if he were anchoring himself to you.

The moment he saw another tear slide down your cheek, AJ reached for your wrist, pulling you gently toward him.

He drew you in until your body tilted forward, leaning into him, your hands braced lightly on his shoulders. He didn’t let go.

"Don't ever do that again," you said, the words catching in your throat as the tears finally began to slow.

“I mean it.” Your voice trembling with the leftover fear that hadn’t yet left your body. “I don’t want to—I can’t—I thought I lost you.”

AJ stood, cupping your face in his hands. “I’m here,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He pressed his forehead to yours as he murmured, “I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

You nodded, lightly.

“I’m here,” he said again, quieter this time. Like it had to be said twice to make it real.

You didn’t answer. You just leaned in, your lips meeting his in a kiss that said everything you couldn’t.

His lips moved slowly against yours, warm and weighted, thumb brushing along your jaw as the kiss deepened.

You pulled him closer, arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. Your body pressed into his like you were trying to make up for all the time you thought you’d lost.

He moved with you, guiding you back into the bedroom, never breaking the kiss for more than a breath.

There, in the soft light, you tugged at his shirt while his hands slipped beneath yours, fingertips gliding over your skin. Clothes came off between kisses, slow and tender. Each movement was careful, but full of urgency. Not rushed, just needed.

His shirt hit the floor. Yours followed. His fingers grazed your hips as he helped ease your pants down, and you reached for his belt, working it loose while he pressed his lips to your shoulder.

As you moved to the bed, he laid you down gently, your back sinking into the sheets like they had been waiting for you both. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as AJ climbed in after you, settling between your legs. 

He kissed you again, lips lingering before he trailed them down, warm and reverent. He dropped a line of kisses to your neck, your collarbone, the center of your chest. You felt his breath against your skin, felt the way he paused at your stomach, his hands smoothing over your sides with a touch that was apologetic.

When he moved lower, intent clear in the way he kissed just above your thigh, you stopped him, fingers threading into his hair.

He looked up at you, eyes soft, searching your face.

“I just want you,” you said, your voice quiet but sure.

He nodded, then began to crawl back up your body, never breaking eye contact.

His lips met yours again, deep and full, as he reached down between you, lining himself up.

He entered you slowly, letting your body take him inch by inch. Your hands slid over his ink-covered back, nails slightly digging in. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes closing as he sank into you, a shaky breath tumbling out of him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words barely brushing your skin as he hovered over you, voice rough with guilt.

You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders and pulled him closer, pressing your chest to his, your mouth to his neck. You didn’t need to speak. Your body said it for you.

Your back arched to meet him as he rolled into you with rhythm, dragging against every tender place inside you. 

He filled you completely with each pass, pulling out just enough to make you feel the loss before sliding back in, deeper, smoother, with a groan he buried into the side of your neck.

His hands never left you. One stayed on your waist, holding you. The other slid along your ribs, your breast, your neck—touches that soothed as much as they worshipped.

“I’m sorry,” he said again between thrusts, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry I scared you. I was—I was just trying to come back to you. I’m sorry.” 

His hand slid up, cradling your jaw as he kissed you between movements—sweet, aching kisses that landed on your lips, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

You felt the apology in every push of his body against yours. He was deep, slow, focused only on you. On making it up to you. On being here. Fully.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as his pace stayed steady, his breath catching every time you tightened around him.

Every thrust was a quiet plea. Every kiss, a promise.

He was here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

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