#Comfort rooms and locker rooms cleaning

[achillean-heartbeat]

good afternoon beautiful people i am going sick in the head thinking of Neil wearing his orange bandana. just neil and his bandana,,, yeah,,,

[em1i2a3]

Carry The Zero

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry (or The Void) x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess because Bob is in here. Other than that there is nothing too extreme happening in here, it’s a bit emotional, but there is fluff in here, I would kind of describe this as a Hurt/Comfort fic than anything. There are mentions of abuse and there is also some heavy petting maybe? I mean, I’ll put that in here to cover my booty lol.

Authors Note: My second viewing of Thunderbolts truly got my mind racing for what to write in regard to Bob. Thought I would put out this lil blurb and probably add more to it later in another segment or something! Anyways! Enjoy y’all and happy premiere weekend!!! :)

Word Count: 6,784

The room wasn’t built for two people, that’s what you knew for sure. It used to be a storage space, at least that is what you assumed judging by the various filing cabinets that lined the area, the dented lockers that were near the door, and the strewn papers that nobody decided to throw away in preparation for the move-in. The only thing that was the saving grace was the fact that the place had a window that let you look out onto the city. But it still didn’t truly make up for the cramped space, even though they were able to shove two twin sized beds inside it and call it a room–which showed how effective their planning was throughout all the chaos.

The Avengers Compound was still under renovations after a security breach took out part of the living space, meaning everyone needed to be shuffled like cards in a losing deck. Room assignments were given unwillingly to everyone, and you had been paired with Bob.

It was weird to be rooming with someone who had the power of a million exploding suns as people liked to say, because even though he carried that on his sleeve sheepishly, his personality certainly didn’t match that of a person who could take down the entire world. He was shy, quiet, and careful, tip-toeing around you like you were going to snap at him at any second–which was not the case at all.

Compared to the other options you had you actually preferred to be rooming with him.

The first few days had passed in near silence. You didn’t talk much, you’d only go into your room to sleep or change, and when you would do something outside of those two things Bob would rush out pretty quickly, apologizing nervously under his breath, like he thought you were obligated to time alone.

He’d go to bed early, and you’d catch him reading beneath the awful buzzing lamp that was left in the room from before the two of you moved in. You never really asked him what he was reading because the title was always changing, like he couldn’t finish anything, or he had so much time to himself he was finishing books like they were snacks.

Then there were little things you began to notice.

He’d pace a lot, wring his hands in his lap, or pick at the skin on his fingers. He was clean, he never left shoes in the middle of the room, and always lined them up neatly under his bed frame, even yours. He would flinch at loud noises, like if there was a childish argument happening in the communal kitchen and things got too high in volume he would get a little twitchy. He was observant, and paid attention to everything around him–sometimes you would hear him talking to himself, repeating fragments of conversations from earlier in the day, like it grounded him in some way.

He had his routine and you respected it as much as possible, but tonight was entirely different.

You were coming in late from training, and a med bay visit.

The scrape on your shoulder wasn’t serious, but it was bad enough to have Bucky send you down to get checked out. It was standard–some antiseptic, a lecture from one of the nurses about being more careful and aware of your surroundings, and then you were released with a warning, and a fresh bandage. You were exhausted, sore, and annoyed with yourself for not paying attention and letting your guard down during a simulation, especially because the past few nights had been like that.

By the time you reached your floor, the halls were quiet. There wasn’t any bickering or discussions happening in the kitchen, nobody was lingering in the living room with post-mission jitters, it was just peace, for once.

You stopped at the fridge to pick yourself up a bottle of electrolytes, then paused, eyeing the row of them. You bit your inner cheek, and after a second of hesitation you grabbed another one for Bob, tucking it against you.

You figured he would be awake like he always was when you were on your training nights. You weren’t sure if he was just waiting for you or if he was just incapable of resting when you weren’t accounted for, but you never asked.

Slowly, you moved down the hall, twisting the cap off your drink with a wince when you strained just a little too much, causing the bandage to sting beneath your shirt. You gritted your teeth and let out a frustrated grunt.

“Gotta take it easy on yourself.” You heard Bucky say from behind you. You turned on your heel, seeing he was still in his training gear, also holding a bottle of electrolytes as well, “You’re gonna burn out if you don’t take breaks.” You shifted under his gaze.

”I want to be better, that’s why I’m training. If you got your ass handed to you on the field you would be doing the same.” He shook his head.

”No. I would be resting and seeing what I could do better the next time. Don’t come to training for the rest of the week, just relax and recoup, we’ll revisit your regimen when you’re better.” Before you could say anything he typed his code in for his room, and was out of your sight. You could feel your body seething as you turned back around to continue making your way down the hall. You’d seen it coming from a mile away just by the way he was watching you during the simulation but you never thought he would say anything to you like that. It just added another layer of annoyance as you reached your room.

You pushed the door open gently, careful not to let the hinges creak too loudly. The room was dark, which was unexpected, Bob’s light wasn’t even on. The only thing that was illuminating the room was the shimmer of city lights, casting silver-blue shadows across the floor.

Bob was in bed, lying on his side facing you, with his blanket tugged up to his neck. His face was soft in the low light–features relaxed, eyes closed. Sleeping, or at least you thought he was. You lingered in the doorway for a moment, squinting in the dimness of the room to see him a bit better.

His light brown hair looked a little messy, like he’d been shifting around for a while before finally settling on the position he was in now. You wondered how long he was lying like that, or if he had been waiting for your return but fell asleep in the process, and now you felt even worse than before.

You let the door close softly behind you with a gentle click, removing your shoes slowly, one at a time. Every motion felt heavier than it should have–dull with fatigue, and edged in frustration. You padded across the narrow space, keeping your steps quiet, with the extra bottle of electrolytes tucked against you, the condensation seeping through your training jacket.

You crouched slowly beside Bob’s bed, biting back a wince as your muscles tensed in protest, while you placed the bottle down on the floor, angling it so he’d see it when he woke up. It was a small, quiet offering, just something kind, a consideration in a way. You took your next moves slowly as you stood up and turned to your own bed with a tired exhale, putting the cap back on your drink and throwing it onto your bed. One hand rose to the zipper of your training jacket, pulling it down in a swift movement, teeth grinding while you pushed the fabric off your shoulders, feeling pain erupt from your ribs and shoulder now, the muscles pulsing with burning heat.

The cool air of the room hit your skin instantly, and your tank top didn’t do much to hide any of your injuries from the environment. Your back arched with the grating sting that came through you, and one hand came up to press against the bandage, making sure it was still on properly and not tugging at your skin. The ache was sharp and pulsing, and when your fingers came away damp, you already knew there was blood seeping through the gauze. You grimaced but didn’t consider making another trip to the med bay. You were too tired to care at this point, and it wasn’t something that would cause you to bleed out, so it was a morning issue to deal with.

You turned toward your dresser, collecting a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized sweater that smelled faintly of sage, throwing both articles of clothing down onto your bed with a soft plop. You rolled your shoulder gently, testing the range of motion in it with a quiet wince before reaching for the hem of your tank top, peeling the rough fabric up your skin carefully, trying to avoid the worst of the sting, though even at your slowest pace you could feel the movement pulling at the wound.

The cotton clung briefly to the tape of the gauze and the dried sweat that coated your skin before finally giving way, and coming off completely. You let out a sigh of relief, as you let the fabric fall to the floor, reaching for your sweater next. The bandage on your shoulder throbbed with every shift you made, but it was the deeper bruises scattered across your body–ghosts of impacts from the past few days–that ached beneath your skin like an echoing thunder. You glanced down at yourself, taking in the way they bloomed across your ribs, stomach, and hips, at this point you could see more bruises than your actual flesh at this point, and they were tender, dark and swollen. Maybe Bucky was right, maybe you really did need a break…

Your fingers curled loosely into the hem of your sweater, but you didn’t think to pull it on yet, you just continued to look down at the wreck that was your body, and the longer you stared, the more numb you became. It was easy to take a break but it wasn’t deserved, you couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes during missions, and you knew you weren’t going to listen to Bucky, you would keep training until your body gave out.

You closed your eyes for a moment, before lifting the sweater towards you, ready to retreat into its softness, ready to disappear and call it a night, but then you heard it.

A breath. Sharp and quick. You froze in your spot.

Then came the sound of movement, the shuffling of the blanket, the mattress creaking under the shifting weight.

Your eyes darted toward Bob’s bed instantly, seeing that his back was now turned towards you. His blanket was pulled up around his shoulders, almost covering his whole head, but there was tension in his posture now, like he was more alert, and less relaxed.

Another breath was inhaled, only it was thinner this time, and wet, followed by a muffled sniffle. Your brows furrowed, and you worked quickly to throw your sweater on without hurting yourself so you were covered up completely, before making your way to his bed, crouching down on the floor, keeping your attention fixated on him. His shoulders were rising and falling now in uneven motions, and now you were piecing together that he was actually crying.

”…Bob?” You whispered, voice soft and low, like if you made it any louder than the volume you were at now it might shatter him. You could see the shuddering in his shoulders halt at the way you said his name, and he pulled the blanket higher over his head, like he was trying to shield himself from your eyes.

”I’m sorry…” Your brows pulled together in confusion as you leaned against the bed a little more, watching the outline of his frame beneath the covers, seeing the small tremors still running through his shoulders. You bit the inside of your cheek as you reached out, your hand hovering for a breath before resting gently against the curve of his back. He was radiating heat through the blanket, but he was stiff beneath your touch, like he didn’t know what to do with the comfort you were offering.

“Bob…Why are you apologizing?” You asked softly. He took in another shaky breath, but didn’t answer. You let out a sigh, rubbing your hand up and down his back like your mother used to when you cried, trying to soothe him, to calm him as much as you could.

”I…I saw the bruises.” He said, barely a whisper. Your hand on his back froze for a moment, “I-I didn’t mean to look, I swear, I just-“ His breath hitched, realizing that you were probably throwing daggers into his back with your eyes, “I just woke up…And saw them, and I couldn’t…Couldn’t stop remembering…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, it was just too much, as another set of sobs escaped his throat. You could feel your gaze soften at the noise, almost like a piece of your heart was breaking for him, continuing your movements along his back, pressing just a little harder into the muscle.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want some electrolytes or something?” He shook his head.

”No…P-Please just stay…” His voice was hoarse, cracking under the thickness that coated his throat from the tears. You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, staring at his shoulders as he continued to cry, curling in on himself beneath his blanket.

You continued rubbing his back, keeping a steady and consistent rhythm. The heat of him radiated through the blanket like a furnace on the verge of burning itself out. Every time your hand passed over his spine, his shoulders seemed to loosen by a fraction.

“C-Can I ask something…Kind of w-weird?” His voice broke through the quiet again, in such a timid whisper that you barely heard it.

“Sure.” You replied, hearing him sniffle again. There was a long pause, and you could feel the hesitation, like he was trying to put his words together properly so whatever he was going to say didn’t come off creepy. You continued to run your hand over his back, waiting patiently for him, watching his figure rising and falling beneath the blanket, still seeing it shaking. In your mind, you were worried, you hadn’t seen him like this before, and there was a moment where you considered calling Bucky or Yelena to come help you, but then his voice broke through the thoughts.

”…Could you…” He took another breath, “Could you…Please hold me?” The question came out strangled, like it had clawed its way out of his throat before he could second-guess it again. You blinked slowly at the request, not because you were unsure of your answer, but because the way he said it was so gentle, and embarrassed it caught you off guard in a way.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to say, you thought maybe he was going to ask you for a tissue, but this was something far more vulnerable, something you never thought would come from Bob of all people, even though you knew he was sensitive. Inside you hesitated only because you didn’t want to hurt him by possibly doing the wrong thing, yet your heart ached watching him break down beneath his blanket which at this point was drowning him because of how much he had curled up beneath it.

“Of course…Just let me change out of these training pants first okay? It’ll just take a second.” There was no response to that, just movement. He shifted towards the wall so he was giving you enough space to get in, still hunched over like he felt guilty for the area that he occupied. You quickly stood up, and made quick work of shimmying out of your training pants and putting on your cotton sleep shorts, which was probably the best idea since you felt him burning through the blanket he was wrapped in. You brought your attention back to him soon after, returning to the side of the bed, your eyes roaming over the lump that resembled his body.

With a gentle hand, you tugged the edge of the blanket down just enough to uncover the top of his head, revealing his light brown hair again which looked dampened with sweat beneath the illuminating city lights that shined through the window. He didn’t say anything, or protest being exposed to you, so you took that as a good sign to continue.

You slid into the space he made for you, careful not to jostle the cocoon he made for himself too much, and eased your bad arm underneath his pillow so your scraped shoulder could rest in a neutral position where your bandage wouldn’t rip off your skin completely. You pulled up the blanket slightly, getting in behind him, scooting closer until your chest met his damp back.

His navy blue t-shirt was soaked through completely, and it wasn’t helping that he was wearing long pants to bed either. There was a fear he was gonna pass out from heat stroke or something, but he had mentioned it several times that he ran hot in general, you just didn’t see it to this extreme. He smelled like a salty rain storm, or like ozone, it was something indescribable to you in those moments, but it was what he typically radiated, it was familiar.

Slowly, you brought your arm over his torso, placing your hand onto the hard plane of his sternum, the muscles beneath his shirt twitching against the unfamiliar touch that you introduced to him.

Neither of you spoke, you just laid against each other in pure silence, listening to each other's breathing–his trembling, yours steady. He could feel your hot breaths against his neck and tried to pay attention to it, as you pushed down the blanket a bit with your elbow to shed the makeshift shield from his body. It took him a while to compose himself enough to speak again, but when he did, you were hanging off of every word.

”…When I saw the bruises…” He rasped, “All I could think about was me. When I was a kid…” The mentioning of his childhood immediately felt like a blow to your stomach. He had said something about how he was raised in passing, but it was an off handed remark that nobody really paid attention to. You figured it was something he didn’t want to talk about, but hearing him say this only made you dread what he was going to continue with.

”After he’d hit me…I’d go over to the mirror, just to see how bad it was. I’d tell myself it didn’t hurt, even if it did, I’d just lie to myself, because I knew if I cried, he’d just get angrier. He was always in the mood to beat me up so when he had a reason I think it made him feel justified in some…Messed up way.” Your chest tightened at his words, thinking about how scary it must’ve been for him, and how terrified he must’ve felt not knowing when his own father would strike. You didn’t speak right away, but you did shift, sliding your hand up higher on his chest, so you could press your palm flat over his heart. His shirt was soaked there too, yet beneath it all you could feel the frantic fluttering of his pulse, like a bird rattling against its cage.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your breath tickling his neck again. He didn’t respond, though he didn’t recoil either.

“None of that should’ve ever happened to you,” You continued softly, brushing your thumb along the fabric against his heart, “You were a child, and you didn’t deserve that.” He let out a breath like he was trying not to begin sobbing again.

”You don’t have to say that.” You raised your head a bit, almost in disbelief that he truly thought that what happened to him was somehow okay or justified.

”I do, Bob.” You murmured, inching just a little closer, feeling your body screaming in protest as your injured shoulder moved the wrong way, causing you to hiss through your teeth. Bob noticed instantly.

”You’re hurting,” He said quietly with guilt sinking into every syllable.

”I really couldn’t give a crap about that right now Bob, trust me I’ve been through worse. You’re hurting right now too and I’m not going anywhere. Do you understand?” You replied back, your voice low, but lacking bite, not that you intended to have it sound stern or anything.

Bob shifted beneath your touch, slowly rolling onto his back like the weight of your words cracked something loose inside him. You adjusted carefully to give him space, keeping your injured shoulder angled away from the impact of his back pressing against your arm, even though the ache felt like white noise beneath the tension that was beginning to rise in the room. When he settled on his back you adjusted yourself so your chin rested against his chest, keeping your hand splayed in the same position over his heart.

His eyes didn’t find yours at first, they stared blankly at the ceiling, the soft glow of the city lights catching the shimmer of the tears that were still pooling in his eyes. Now that you could see him fully, you realized how bad things really were. His skin was blotchy, and flushed from how hot he was. His cheeks were stained with fresh tears, mixing with sweat that created this overall sheen on his skin in general, which made his hair cling to his forehead. A long, old kind of hurt settled over his face, the kind that hid quietly within the corners of a person.

He inhaled shakily, and every exhale got caught somewhere between exhaustion and restraint. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your chin, and it made you ache in a way that put a hole deep in your chest.

”Bob…” You murmured, barely louder than the sound of the city humming outside the window, “Look at me.” At first he didn’t move, keeping his eyes fixated on the ceiling, distant and confused, still taking in those short bursts of air. Your hand left his chest, bringing them up to his jaw, coaxing his attention with the lightest touch you could give him.

“Look at me Bob,” You whispered again.

Then slowly, his eyes shifted downward until they found yours. The moment his gaze landed on you, something cracked open between you both–it was quiet, and delicate, but present and grounded in the center of it all. His expression was drawn, and his lashes were clumpy and wet with tears, framing his shimmering blue irises.

The skin surrounding his eyes were raw, almost a blood red, like someone had scratched it and left their marks streaking down his flesh. You didn’t flinch away from it though, you just looked at him with such focus, like your gaze could settle the storm that was in him. You could see his lip tremble slightly under your gaze as he tried to hold himself still, tears brimming in his eyes again, threatening to spill.

”I hate remembering…I can’t stand it. I don’t want to remember this stuff…I don’t want to think about it anymore, and I don’t want you to associate me with being weak.” You raised your eyebrows, now raising your head up to you were looking at him a little better, resting your hand against his chin now.

”I don’t, ” You stated, watching a set of tears flow out of the corners of his eyes, swallowing loudly, “I don’t associate you with weakness.” You whispered, brushing your thumb along the smooth skin of his cheek.

”I associate you with patience…With overwhelming kindness, and with strength so deep it doesn’t even have to be displayed. You could burn the sky down…You could use all the pain inside you to destroy the planet…Yet you help, you listen, and you keep going. That’s not a weak person Bob.” You wiped one of the tears away with your thumb, feeling him hesitate before leaning into your touch.

“Y/N…I’m not right in the head…You don’t understand…You’ll never understand.” You shook your head, and sighed.

”I don’t have to understand everything to care about you,” Bob’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, like the words that you said hit him like a truck. You could feel the tension in his jaw, as he clenched it tightly, trying to contain himself a bit.

“I used to think that if I could just bury everything deep enough maybe it wouldn’t make me feel so contaminated…But then when I got the serum…And The Void came…And that awfulness manifested into something bigger…I realized that it just wouldn’t go away. I’m dangerous Y/N…I’m not someone that can be fixed. I know you care, but I can’t risk hurting you.” You shifted closer to him, moving up slowly, dragging your chest along his. His eyes followed your movements, turning his head when you settled near his shoulder, feeling your hand leave his cheek.

“You don’t scare me Bob. You’re just saying this stuff because you think it’ll make me give up on you, but I’m not that easy to sway.” You whispered, reaching down to touch one of his hands, which caused him to flinch. He was already bracing himself, preparing to be pulled into one of your memories, but it didn’t happen…It was like…Things were quiet. Just pure emptiness, and the only thing he could see was you. He stared at you as you wrapped your fingers around his hand, seeing his brows draw together.

“H-How are you…Doing this?” He asked quietly, like he was afraid he was going to disturb the peace and get thrown into your mind out of nowhere.

”I locked it out.” He shook his head at you quickly.

”That’s impossible…It always gets in…” A small smile came up on your lips, hearing the disbelief in his voice, the way he was almost entirely taken aback by what you had just said. You leaned in a little closer to him, like you were going to tell him a secret, feeling his breath fanning over your face.

“Before I was recruited, I was part of a different team. Black-ops, kind of like what the X-Men used to be, but very much under the radar. It was just…Constant missions, we were a clean up crew basically, picking up the scraps that nobody else wanted…” You smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth twitching with the memories of your team, how close you all were, how none of you took crap from anyone…Similar to what you had now, just a little better because of the tether you all had between each other.

“We ran into a lot of people with gifts. Telepaths. Empaths…Stuff like that. Some didn’t even know they were projecting until it was too late. Others weaponized it. Pulled secrets out like stitches and drove people insane without ever touching them.”

Bob was still staring at you, eyes wide and brimming with tears, his chest rising beneath you in short bursts.

“It was mandatory,” You continued. “To train in mental shielding. Neural control. The discipline to lock down your own mind so tight it’s like a vault. We trained until our thoughts didn’t even echo. You learn to breathe around psychic pressure, to mask trauma with static, to reroute memories into dead space. You learn to feel someone reaching for you…And then cut the line.”

Bob swallowed hard, hearing the way you explained everything to him step by step, while still holding his hand, running your thumb over the back of it.

“I wasn’t trained to stop the Void,” You said gently, “But I was trained to stop something similar to it. And apparently, it’s just close enough.” You watched his lashes flutter like he didn’t know whether he was going to cry again or if he was just going to sink into the mattress and disappear entirely.

“…That’s why the mental noise isn’t so loud when we're alone in a room together…” He whispered under his breath, almost like everything was clicking in his mind, as his hand began to tighten around yours now, matching the same hold you had, “…Mental shielding…Who knew that would be the thing that makes everything go quiet.” You smirked at his comment, already hearing the tension in his voice wavering, feeling his breath sticking to your cheeks, shifting in front of him so your noses bumped slightly.

“Technically it’s still quite an experimental thing, but…It works when needed I think.” You can see his lip twitch slightly, drawing into his mouth just a little bit, as if he wanted to get a taste of your breath that coated it.

“It’s…Amazing.” Was all he could muster up to say, continuing to hold onto your hand tightly, like it was anchoring him to this quiet space in his head that he had not been able to reach since taking the serum. “…All I hear, and all I feel…Is you and I had no clue until now…” The sound of his voice made your spine tingle, and goosebumps raise on your skin.

It was shocking that moments ago he was this wreck, then suddenly it was like he was on top of the world. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been touched like this in so long, or maybe it was because he finally had a break from all the noise that kept draining him, you had no clue…But what you did know is how soft his eyes had become, and how deep his breaths were now that he was a little calmer, and not being treated like a threat of some kind.

You shifted again, getting almost unbearably close to him now, the fabric of the blanket sliding down slowly, exposing your clothed bodies to the silvery-blue light just a little more. Bob didn’t move, but his eyes never left yours, he kept every ounce of attention on you, waiting for your next action, hanging on every moment. His breath hitched when your knees bumped gently against his thigh, as the warmth of your bodies radiated like twin heartbeats pressed just barely apart.

Your noses were brushing against one another, and if you tilted your chin up by just a little bit, you’d be kissing.

”I’m glad I’ve been able to make it go quiet for you…Even if it’s not permanent.” A faint smile slowly appeared on his face–crooked, and trembling, but so genuine.

“It’s more peace than I thought I’d ever get…So thank you.” He replied back, his hand squeezing yours, not in desperation, but with something closer to awe, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around the situation that was happening in front of him. His breath brushed across your face as he watched your eyes roaming over his. You couldn’t help but stare at him, to take him in now that he wasn’t crying, to admire the person who was in front of you. It was hard not to lose track of time studying his features, and how they were just…Him.

There was a long pause between the both of you, a snippet of time suspended into the universe where nothing else existed beyond the narrow bed and the hum of the city beyond the window. His chest rose slowly, puffing out warm shallow breaths against your lips, and for a second it felt like he was hesitating on something…But then, he leaned in.

It wasn’t fast, or sweeping like he was trying to catch you off guard. It was careful, like every little millimeter he closed between the both of you was an offer for you to pull back, but you didn’t take it.

When his lips met yours, it was a soft, trembling brush of mouths that lingered more in intent than execution. He kissed like he was afraid you were somehow going to disappear, but you could feel how much he truly wanted this. His lips were warm, and slightly parted, and you could taste the faintness of tears and salt, still hesitating to go the full mile.

There was a moment where he was about to pull back, and that’s when you took the opportunity to fully lean into the kiss and throw logic out the window, just for this one cut of time

Your lips moved against his, answering the softness of his approach with something more certain and grounded. The taste of him was still there, but now it was amplified tenfold from how much more pressure you were placing on the kiss now.

He was stiff at first, the tension in his jaw made it evident, like he was unsure of what he was allowed to do, what he was okay to give back, or like he was bracing himself for the possibility of you pulling back before he could even try to meet you where you were at. But then your hand let go of his, and slid up to cup the side of his face, and he let out the smallest gasp of disbelief against your mouth. Your thumb brushed gently beneath his eye as your lips molded to the shape of his mouth with a tenderness that shattered whatever restrain he’d been holding onto.

Your arm shifted beneath the pillow, bending just enough so you could lace your fingers into his damp hair, pulling him in more with such grace that it made him groan. His hand moved to your neck then–his shaky fingers pressing softly just below your ear, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw as he located your pulse instantly. His touch wasn’t possessive, it was filled with care, and curiosity. He wanted to feel the warmth of your skin, the steady–or not so steady–rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his fingers, he craved to be closer to you, and every moment that passed was giving him the signal that you wanted that too.

He shifted gently, slowly turning onto his side without breaking the kiss, being cautious not to put anymore unwanted pressure on your arm beneath him as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you in until your bodies were flush against one another. You could feel the dampness on your sweater from his shirt, and your bare legs brushing against the cotton of his sleep pants, which only overwhelmed you more, knowing it was going to be a challenge to stop this from going too far.

His hand splayed out on your back, twitching against the fabric that covered it as you parted your lips for him, allowing his tongue to brush against yours with the softest flicker of hesitation, tasting you like he was drinking something sacred. The breath he let out against your mouth made your skin prickle beneath your sweater, and it only encouraged your response.

You angled your mouth to his, encouraging him to continue, feeling him follow suit in an instant, matching your energy bit by bit, syncing with the way you moved against him. When your hand slid further into his hair, and curled within the damp strands, gently tugging, he let out the smallest, softest moan–it was so quiet and desperate it sounded like it had been buried within him for years. It made your head spin hearing it, and it only made you shift yourself towards him even more, feeling his thigh nudging between your legs so the both of you can completely mesh together. It was such a subtle move, but it lit up every nerve ending in your body like it was nothing.

Bob’s hand slid beneath the hem of your sweater, craving the feeling of your skin beneath his touch. His fingers traced the small of your spine, barely putting enough pressure on it, yet he still managed to send shivers through your body. He was getting bolder, but kept his awareness at the forefront, like he was cataloging every reaction you gave him, terrified that he might cross an invisible line and ruin the moment.

You felt the muscles in his arm shift as he pulled you even closer, putting more pressure between your bodies until you felt every rise and fall of his chest, and his heartbeat pulsed through you. His knee shifted again, nudging further between your thighs, pressing it gently into the thin cotton fabric that covered your most sensitive area, eliciting a gasp from you now. You could feel yourself falter control for a moment, moving your hips just a little to test the friction that you wanted, and that’s when you both realized just how far this could go–and how close you already were to getting there.

His hand tensed against your back, and the kiss slowed down, until he found the correct moment to pull back, just a few inches. His lips were still parted, only now they were swollen and wet with saliva. He was out of breath, and you mirrored the same sentiment, as the both of you tried to even your racing hearts before they exploded. His pupils were dilated, and in the dimmed lighting you could only see a faint glisten of blue that rimmed the darkness that took over, the burn was there, the want was there, but there was the looming fear that you both were going from zero to one hundred really quickly, and that’s when regrets could be made, and neither of you wanted that.

”…We can’t do this…” He whispered, his voice cracking from being the first one to speak. You nodded faintly, your fingers still toying with his hair, reluctant to let go completely, but understanding him.

”I know,” You murmured, “Not like this…Not tonight.” You clarified. He closed his eyes, a soft exhale brushing your lips as his fingers twitched against your pulse point on your neck again.

”It’s not that I don’t want to,” He added quietly, “God I do…You have no idea.”

“I know,” You said again, running your thumb along his cheek, soothing the skin there, “Me too…I want to as well…But we’re not ready. Especially after being in the headspace that you were in a few minutes ago.” He nodded slowly.

”I don’t want it to be something that will be confused for a moment of distraction.” You stared at him, hearing how serious he was about it, “And I don’t want to ruin anything.” He added softly, opening his eyes again to look at you.

”You’re not ruining anything, we’re just pressing pause…And that’s completely fine, and it’s the best decision to make for right now.” He gave a small, nervous smile at that and leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours, “We’ll talk more about it later…But for now how about we just relax hmm?” He let out a shaky breath, the heat from it hitting your lips and invading your mouth for just a split second.

”Yeah…I’d like that.” You smiled faintly, as your bodies untangled just a bit from one another, removing the both of you from the intimate position you had found yourself in moments before. His knee shifted out from between your legs, and rested against them instead, letting the tension unravel and disappear slowly.

He wrapped both arms around you now, carefully noting your injury, and you folded yourself into his chest, letting your hand rest on his ribs as he pulled the blanket up to shield the both of you.

You both stayed there, nose to nose, breath to breath, hearts beating unevenly against one another until sleep came over you like a harsh wave.

[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE!READER !  ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🩻 possible trigger warnings .' anxiety  ‧ 🥼 ‧ ━━ WC 1.5k

series masterlist || inbox || ggc request form ━━━ ao3 * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  COLD AND PREDICTABLE ━━ chapter one ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary in which you ( the reader ) are a overworked and under appreciated morgue tech for the pittsburg trauma medical center. you are solely responsible for clearing out the deceased patients from the emergency department. but when there is a delay and all your cold storage lockers are full, jack pays a visit to this morgue tech he's never heard of ( aka you ) and basically tells you to do your job better ; ' (

you liked the morgue.

that wasn’t something you could say out loud—not even to the handful of people who actually knew your name. but it was true. you liked the quiet hum of the refrigerated walls. the soft thunk of a drawer sliding into place. the hum of the vents. the artificial stillness that wrapped around you like a weighted blanket. it was the only place in the entire hospital that didn’t ask you to be anything other than quiet.

upstairs, the world buzzed. phones rang. radios barked. nurses called to each other across fluorescent hallways and doctors stomped past with clipboards in one hand and coffee in the other. everything moved too fast. everything was too loud.

but down here?

the dead didn’t rush you.

they didn’t care that you wore your scrubs one size too big to hide your hips. they didn’t care that your voice was soft and slow and hard to hear over the hum of machinery. they didn’t ask why you never wore makeup or styled your hair or joined in on break room gossip. they didn’t notice your anxiety. or if they did, they were too far gone to care.

the morgue was a constant. cold and predictable.

you liked that.

your shift started at 6:00 pm, but you always arrived by 5:40. early was better than noticed. being early gave you time to breathe, time to fall into your routine. you changed in the staff locker room, tied your hair back into a low bun, and slipped your badge onto your lanyard—backward. You always wore it backward. the sight of your name and staff photo made you flinch.

there was something about seeing it—your full name, government bold in black and white—that made you feel visible in the worst way. better to leave it unreadable. it feels safer that way.

the other morgue tech on rotation left at 6:15 with a nod and a yawn. you didn’t mind being alone. you preferred it. you’d already checked the autopsy schedule—two expected tonight, maybe three. the overflow drawer was full, but you had room. you always kept it clean, always organized. the medical examiner said you were the best at inventory, and he was old-school—stingy with praise.

it was 6:42 now.

your dinner sat beside you on the break room table: a thermos of reheated lentil soup, a single slice of soft bread, and the green stanley thermos you brought every night with coffee made just the way you liked it. the same thing. every shift. routine was comforting to you.

you weren’t much of a talker. small talk made your palms sweat. eye contact made your pulse spike. you’d been called shy, cold, quiet, even weird—usually by people who didn’t realize you were listening. you always listened. you heard everything. that was your job.

you noticed the smallest fractures in bone. the subtlest bruises beneath the skin. you labeled instruments with care and sketched anatomical details in your private notebook—not because anyone asked, but because it helped you focus. because it gave your hands something to do. because it made you feel useful.

useful was the closest thing to confident you’d ever been.

you stirred your soup, carefully. the fluorescent lights above flickered once, twice, then steadied.

you didn’t eat in the upstairs break room anymore. not since that nurse in green scrubs—jessica, maybe—had looked you up and down and laughed, 'don’t you work with the dead people? what, they let ghosts have lunch breaks now?'

you hadn’t replied. just packed your food and left. she hadn’t meant it cruelly, probably. but the words stuck. most words did.

your thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of heavy boots on tile. you glanced at the clock.

3:14 am. too early for the medical examiner’s rounds. too late for the janitorial staff. too heavy to be anyone but—

the door slammed open.

you jumped.

a man stormed in—tall, broad, shoulders tensed under navy scrub top and dark wash cargo pants ( different from the normal doctor attire you were used to, but man he could pull it off ).

his chest rose and fell with labored breath, his short sleeves stopped mid bicep, exposing thick meaty forearms. his id badge bounced off his chest with every step, and his eyes—sharp, dark, furious—scanned the room like he was ready to fight someone.

you froze halfway to your mouth with your spoon, soup forgotten. 'can . . . i help you?' the voice was so soft, he almost missed it. like the words had to squeeze through a locked throat.

jack stopped dead. not the sight he expected. not even close.

tiny thing. curled up on a rolling stool, eating a thermos of soup like she was afraid it might fall spill out of your hands. drowned in baggy scrubs. barely looked old enough to drive, let alone be the only morgue tech on duty.

he shook off the flicker of surprise.

'you can explain,' he barked, taking a step in. 'why there are three bodies still in my er taking up beds i don’t have.'

her hands immediately retreated to her lap, soup abandoned. she didn’t even flinch—just… deflated. like someone used to being spoken to like that.

you blinked but otherwise still didn't answer. he advanced two more steps, hands on his hips, jaw clenched. 'can someone explain that to me?;

'i—I know,' she said, not quite looking at him.

'you the tech on tonight?' he asked as if he didn't already know the answer. you nodded. he exhaled through his nose. loud. 'perfect.'

you swallowed hard. 'i’m sorry. 'didn’t mean—'

'don’t apologize,' he snapped. 'just do your job. i’ve got live patients bleeding out in hallway beds while corpses are parked in mine like they’re waiting for the fucking valet.'

you flinched.

'why the hell are they still upstairs?'

his voice was like gravel—low and hoarse and too loud in the cold quiet of the morgue. you looked down, pulse in your throat.

'i can’t bring anyone else down,' you said softly. 'the storage is full. every drawer. every overflow table. i’ve been waiting on the funeral home pickup since midnight. they said morning. i—i sent three emails. no one responded.'

'who’d you email?'

she hesitated, eyes flicking to the badge on clipped to his scrub top pocket, then back down.

'uh, you.'

a beat of silence. just turned on his heel and walked straight out.

didn’t say thank you.

didn’t say sorry.

didn’t even close the morgue door gently behind him.

the door swung shut behind him with a dull clack.

you stared at it. then stared at your soup. then back at the door.

your fingers were still curled around your spoon, but your hand had gone numb. a familiar prickle crawled across your scalp and down your spine—the start of the cold-sweat panic you knew too well. it always came after. after the confrontation. after the humiliation. after the worst-case-scenario played out in real time.

you hadn’t cried. not yet. but your eyes stung.

you pushed your soup away, the smell suddenly sour.

why did you apologize? he told you not to. and you still did.

you always did that.

and of course it had to be him.

of course the first person to raise their voice at you in six months had to be that doctor—the one everyone talked about like he was a war god with a scalpel. jack abbot. trauma attending. king of the fucking er.

you’d seen his name on postmortem charts before, but you’d never met him face-to-face. he was a phantom. a rumor. a string of growled curses through stairwell doors.

but now?

Now he was the man who yelled at you while you held a spoon and shook like a leaf.

your heart wouldn’t settle. it beat in your throat, heavy and wet and fast. you stood slowly, hands trembling as you carried your tray to the small break room sink. dumped the soup. rinsed the mug. mechanical movements. muscle memory.

you didn’t do confrontations. you just weren’t built for them. every sharp word echoed inside you like it was etched into bone. every second of that encounter—his voice, the way he looked at you, the rage on his face—played on repeat, looping again and again with increasing sharpness.

why are there four bodies still taking up beds in my er?

like you’d chosen it. like you wanted the drawers full. like you weren’t down here alone, managing twenty-two corpses in twelve hours with no help and no backup and no one reading your emails for you.

and when you’d finally explained?

he hadn’t even looked at you. just turned around and left.

did that mean he believed you?

or that he just didn’t care?

you stood in the middle of the break room with water dripping off your hands and your badge still flipped backward on your chest. you didn’t move. you couldn’t.

you tried to shake it off. to tell yourself that it didin't matter. that him and his words were nothing to you.

you’d had worse days. you’d heard worse things.

but somehow, this felt different.

because this wasn’t just any doctor. this was jack abbot.

and you hated—hated—that even now, with your pride in pieces and your chest still tight from holding back tears, part of you still cared what he thought of you.

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[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ lust for life ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ the masked officer x guard!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ the lights overhead were humming again, that low mechanical buzz that made your molars ache when it stretched too long without conversation. fluorescent vibrant everything in vivid, bright contrast, wooden tile floors smeared in burgundy, the dried half-moons of old blood layered under this round’s fresh streaks. the red uniform clung tight to your arms, stiff with grime and half-dried plasma, damp beneath the armpits and collar. it reeked like rot and copper. the kind of scent that sank under the skin and stayed, no matter how hard you scrubbed in the off hours.

˚ ༘♡ you were quiet, tired, kneeling beside the back wall of the uniform quarters, unzipping your combat vest one hook at a time. the others had already left, clomping out in groups of two or three, voices low and strained with that post-game lack of noise that followed the mingle match. there had been more deaths than expected. not the spectacular kind. not the ones the vip room panted for. messy, fast, accidental, too many players lunging for safety at once. the woman who fell onto a cracked floor panel and split her jaw in two. the boy who’d been caught between the metal door when it descended too soon. your boots had slid in the aftermath, soles catching in blood and shattered teeth. it had been your squad assigned to clean the edge zones.

˚ ༘♡ you hadn’t even unbuckled your belt when the static clicked in your ear. “guard 007. report to upper deck. the commanding officer’s quarters.”

˚ ༘♡ his voice, smooth and radio-flat, but you’d recognize the cadence anywhere. even when distorted through the earpiece, compressed, pitched down, filtered through two channels of interference, you always knew when it was him. the masked officer. the black square. your superior. the one most others feared like death itself, and yet, for reasons neither of you spoke aloud, you knew the steel of his posture softened, ever so slightly, when it was you.

˚ ༘♡ you swallowed. hard.

˚ ༘♡ there were protocols, strict ones. no guard ever questioned a summon, especially not from him. and yet your fingers hesitated at the belt buckle, half-undone, smeared with flecks of something dry and dark and definitely not yours. your stomach twisted. not with fear. not exactly. but not comfort either. you were used to being summoned after assignments. sometimes to review footage. sometimes to debrief. and sometimes…

˚ ༘♡ sometimes it was only silence. a closed door. a placid room. the mask off. your name—not your number, spoken in a voice quieter than he was allowed to be. not tenderness, not exactly, but the absence of cruelty. and in this dreadful place, that was almost the same thing.

˚ ༘♡ you moved on autopilot. adjusted your earpiece. zipped the vest up halfway again, despite the congealed wetness beneath it. boots echoing sharp against the floor as you left the quarter wing, back straight, eyes down, mouth shut. you didn’t ask why. didn’t dare.

˚ ༘♡ your heart thudded too loud.

˚ ༘♡ this wasn’t just a routine summons. you could feel it in your chest before you reached the lift. the tension that gathered in the hallways when he was watching. and he was watching, he always was. even when others claimed he wasn’t. even when the cameras blinked red in standby. even when the lights flickered. he didn’t miss a thing. and somehow, he always seemed to know when you were the one behind a mistake. and chose to look away.

˚ ༘♡ the day before, you’d miscalculated a firing line and nearly allowed a player to escape elimination. your rifle was half-raised, your mind caught on a blink. instead of punishment, there was a note in your locker. a folded slip of gray paper, no signature. a black square drawn with thick ink at the bottom.

˚ ༘♡ “focus. i won’t always look away.”

˚ ༘♡ and yet he had. every time.

˚ ༘♡ you remembered the first time you saw his face. not a grand unveiling. not a confession. a slip of time between the third and fourth game two two ago. he was changing his uniform behind the soundproof partition, thinking you were gone. you’d come back for your dropped radio. and there he was. sharp cheekbones. hollow eyes. older than you’d thought, but not old. not by the way men in this place aged.

˚ ༘♡ he hadn’t yelled. hadn’t threatened. hadn’t killed you on the spot like the rules demanded. he just looked at you, long, measured, unreadable, and said, voice hoarse, “then you’ve seen it. fine.”

˚ ༘♡ and from then on, something shifted.

˚ ༘♡ he assigned you to lower-risk patrols, even when it didn’t make sense. gave you easier zones during eliminations. allowed you to request partner swaps. once, when another guard cornered you after hours, he appeared in the hall before anything could escalate. didn’t speak. didn’t threaten. the other man backed off without a word.

˚ ༘♡ there were rules here, but some of them bent around him. and he bent around you. not enough for anyone else to see. but enough for you to feel.

˚ ༘♡ the lift shuddered as it rose. the numbers on the panel blinked past the regular levels, floor four, five, six, seven, until it reached the unmarked one. the level without a name. the level only few were allowed to step foot on. the space where he lived when he wasn’t standing sentinel in the viewing decks or behind the blackened glass of the control chambers.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers curled into fists as the doors creaked open. the hallway beyond was desolate, paneled in sleek dark metal, walls too clean, floors too smooth. everything sterile. cold.

˚ ༘♡ and at the end of the corridor… that door.

˚ ༘♡ plain. black. unmarked. but you knew it as his. the same one he’d opened before, once, with a nod. not a command. not even an invitation. merely… a nod.

˚ ༘♡ you stood there, the sound of your breathing thick in your ears, hand inches from the door, not ready to raise it. not yet.

˚ ༘♡ you could feel his presence through it. somehow. still as stone. waiting

˚ ༘♡ the door sealed behind you with a hiss akin to an exhale, mechanical and final. it wasn’t the slam of a warning, nor the hiss of threat. a steady, certain closure that locked the two of you inside. no hallway footsteps. no cameras you could see. the only sound was the soft hum of the light panels above and the low, rhythmic click of something electronic in the far wall. a surveillance monitor maybe. maybe something more. you’d only been inside this room once before, briefly, and it hadn’t looked like this then. the corners were dimmer now. less sterile. like the room, like him, had exhaled into itself.

˚ ༘♡ he stood by the console, dressed in full uniform save for the gloves. his posture was as upright as ever, not the kind of stiffness that came from nervousness but the sort that had been trained into his bones. that spine had never bent, not even when blood spattered the viewing glass. he didn’t move at first, letting the silence settle. waiting, always waiting, for you to speak, to trip, to tremble. but you knew better now. knew he waited not for weakness, but honesty.

˚ ༘♡ then, with one gloved hand, he reached up and pulled the black square mask from his face.

˚ ༘♡ you’d seen it before, yes, but it startled you. he didn’t have the face of someone who should be in charge of slaughter. sharp and pale, yes, but not cruel. not monstrous. simply… controlled. too human. and that was worse. because monsters you could hate. this was something else. something harder to place.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers trembled as you lifted your own mask, the inside of it slick against your cheeks. you peeled it off slowly, expecting reprimand, even now. your breath cooled in the open air, lips parting involuntarily as if expecting to be struck by the tension itself.

˚ ༘♡ he watched you. not like the others did. not like they stared at the uniform, the body, the rank. he watched you.

˚ ༘♡ “are you alright?” he asked quietly.

˚ ༘♡ it should have sounded clinical. detached. another guard might’ve barked it. might’ve followed it with a warning, a threat. but his tone landed low in your stomach. not soft. not warm. but steady. careful. as if your answer mattered in a way it wasn’t supposed to.

˚ ༘♡ you straightened your shoulders and forced the edge back into your voice. “of course. i’m fine… this is my job.”

˚ ༘♡ a flash passed through his expression. not disappointment, but something adjacent. he didn’t question it. he didn’t probe. he turned toward the corner table where a decanter sat, untouched, beside two low glasses.

˚ ༘♡ his hand moved methodically as he poured amber liquid into one of them, the clink of glass sharp in the stillness. he lifted it but didn’t drink right away. he turned back toward you with the glass poised at his side. “you didn’t take the shot.”

˚ ༘♡ you blinked. he didn’t clarify. he didn’t need to. the memory hit you instantly, the final minutes of the mingle game, where the losing cluster had been herded into the kill zone. one of them, a young man with a broken wrist and blood running down his temple, had hesitated. you’d raised your weapon. then paused. half a second too long. you pulled the trigger eventually, but not fast enough. he’d seen it. of course he’d seen it.

˚ ༘♡ “i got distracted in the chaos,” you said quickly, instinctively. “my radio was cutting out. i couldn’t…”

˚ ༘♡ “you hesitated.”

˚ ༘♡ the way he said it wasn’t cruel. it wasn’t cold. it was worse.

˚ ༘♡ you tensed. “i didn’t know him.”

˚ ༘♡he took a long sip of the whiskey, watching you over the rim of the glass. then he set it down, not beside the second glass, but near his hand. his fingers flexed once. a habitual motion. as if he was stopping himself from saying more.

˚ ༘♡ then he stood.

˚ ༘♡ your breath caught halfway in your throat.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t move fast, didn’t lunge or menace. he simply approached you with a foreboding command that made everything in your body react before your brain did. he stood in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint crease near his mouth, the exhaustion etched deep in the fine lines under his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “you’re certain?” he asked, voice lower. “you didn’t know him from the outside?”

˚ ༘♡ you shook your head slowly. “i’m certain.”

˚ ༘♡ he watched you. too long. longer than he should have.

˚ ༘♡ then, without a word, his hand reached up. gloved fingers brushed the side of your jaw. the touch was cautious, not forceful. not exploratory. as if he was confirming something. maybe that you were real. maybe that you weren’t lying. maybe that you were warm, alive and human.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t flinch.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t move at all.

˚ ༘♡ he looked down at you as if measuring the weight of his own questions.

˚ ༘♡ “when it’s over,” he said finally, “what do you plan to do?”

˚ ༘♡you looked at him, lips dry.

˚ ༘♡“i don’t know.”

˚ ༘♡ his fingers lingered, only barely.

˚ ༘♡ and neither of you spoke again for a long, quiet minute.

˚ ༘♡ his gaze stayed on you, unmoving, heavy in its burden. it wasn’t cruel, it never had been, but it was focused in a way that made your skin flush as if he could read through the layers of your uniform, through every word you hadn’t yet said. his eyes, dark and deep-set, didn’t dart or scan. they remained locked on you, studied you with the unnerving patience of a man who never acted without calculation. and yet, there was something softer buried under that discipline. something he tried to keep calm but didn’t always manage to hide.

˚ ༘♡ you looked away first. you had to. not out of fear, but out of instinct, shy and self-conscious beneath the unwavering way he stared. the tension between you thickened, but not in the way others might have feared. it wasn’t danger that prickled at the back of your neck. it was something closer to exposure. the ache of being seen too deeply, too precisely.

˚ ༘♡ he must’ve felt it, too. his hand, resting near your jaw, withdrew slowly. not in dismissal. not in regret but with an unspoken understanding.

˚ ༘♡ your voice came out more hushed than intended. “you know so much about me.”

˚ ༘♡ his head titled just slightly.

˚ ༘♡ “but i don’t know anything about you,” you continued. “not really. not who you are beyond thus place.”

˚ ༘♡ he was quiet at first, the smallest trace of something unreadable passing over his mouth. then, unexpectedly, he smiled. not fully. just a shadow of it. the kind of smile that never touched the eyes. but on him, it was striking.

˚ ༘♡ “it’s probably best that way,” he murmured, voice soft, unhurried. “maybe… maybe people like us are only meant to know each other like this. in places like this.”

˚ ༘♡ you turned to look at him again, the warmth of the whiskey pulsing gently under your ribs. “why?”

˚ ༘♡ he turned toward the decanter again and refilled his glass. he didn’t answer right away, as if the words were more troubled than he wanted to admit. finally, he spoke.

˚ ༘♡ “because maybe outside of this… you wouldn’t like who i am.”

˚ ༘♡ that silenced you. not out of fear, but because of the strange, unspoken ache threaded through his tone. not guilt, he was not a man to crumble under guilt. but regret, perhaps. a knowing kind of resignation. a man shaped by something so cold, even he wasn’t certain where it ended and he began.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t respond. instead, your eyes followed the way his fingers circled the lip of the second glass. for a moment, he simply looked at it. then he held it out to you.

˚ ༘♡ you thought twice, but only for a breath.

˚ ༘♡ you took it.

˚ ༘♡ the whiskey burned, but not unpleasantly. your throat heated, your stomach loosened. the solemnity didn’t feel as melancholy now.

˚ ༘♡ he watched you as you drank, the light catching faintly on the angles of his face. when your lips parted after the sip, he leaned against the edge of the table, one hand braced behind him.

˚ ༘♡ you gave a nervous sort of half-laugh. “why are you more lenient with me than the other guards?”

˚ ༘♡ he looked down, smiling lightly again, but this time the smile reached somewhere closer to truth. he took another sip of his own drink before replying.

˚ ༘♡ “how could i not be?” he said at last.

˚ ༘♡ your breath caught.

˚ ༘♡ “you’re not like the others,” he went on, and there was something more in his tone now, low, reflective, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “you don’t have that drive they do. the hunger. the… greed. they treat these games like a right. like it makes them more. but you…”

˚ ༘♡ his eyes met yours again, and you froze.

˚ ༘♡ “you don’t enjoy it. i’ve seen it in your hands. in your breathing. you don’t flinch from orders, but you don’t take pleasure in them either. and that…” he trailed off for a beat, studying you as if you were the question he couldn’t solve. “that makes you dangerous. interesting.”

˚ ༘♡ you weren’t sure what to say. the heat that flushed beneath your skin wasn’t from the drink. it was the way his voice lowered on those final words. how he looked at you, not as an officer assessing a subordinate, but as a man who had spent too long in solitude, suddenly seeing something unexpected in front of him.

˚ ༘♡ you shifted where you stood, subtly. aware now of how close you were to him. the smell of the whiskey. the static of his body heat merely a breath from yours.

˚ ༘♡ “interesting,” you repeated, the word almost an accusation.

˚ ༘♡ he looked at you. his gaze dropped once to your mouth. then returned to your eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “i don’t understand it,” he admitted. “but i think about it.”

˚ ༘♡ your heart was beating too hard. too fast.

˚ ༘♡ and you weren’t sure if you wanted him to step closer or farther away. but you didn’t move. neither of you did.

˚ ༘♡ the room pulsed with something unspoken. restrained. dangerous. but not like the games. not like violence. something else. something deeply human and long suppressed.

˚ ༘♡ his voice, when it came again, was barely above a whisper.

˚ ༘♡ “you make it hard to follow the rules.”

˚ ༘♡ and you, tipsy from the whiskey, breath unstable, throat warm with alcohol, could only look back at him and contemplate if that was a promise or a warning.

a/n: my first masked officer fanfiction! let me know if you have any thoughts or requests! 🤍

[thatnewweeb]

Bakugo Katsuki was always insecure about his hands, even if he’d never admit it.

At the start of your relationship, whenever you walked anywhere together, he’d shove his hands deep into his pockets, never giving you any chance to grab his hand.

They’re very rough, they have to be to withstand his Quirk, and he thinks you would hate it. They aren’t comfortable to hold, they might even hurt a little.

Even worse is his overactive sweat glands on his palms. The thought that you might grab his hand and be disgusted by what you felt scared him.

When you asked to hold hands, he told you he didn’t want to, that it was uncomfortable, that he didn’t like any kind of public affection, any excuse to get out of letting you touch his hands.

You always thought it was strange though. After all, he had no problem holding your hand on the way back to the locker rooms after training, even though that was just as public, and surely he would find that uncomfortable too. Sometimes he’d even hold your hand while on dates after coming back from the bathroom.

It took a while for you to realise that he would only hold your hand when he had just cleaned his hands, or if he was wearing thick gloves. When that realisation finally hit you, you figured out why he wouldn’t hold your hands often, even when it seemed clear he wanted to.

After that realisation, you quickly grabbed his hand before he had chance to stuff it into his pocket after class, on the walk back to your dorm building.

He immediately tried to pull his hand away, afraid of your reaction, but you just held on, smiling up at him, acting completely casual. When he realised you weren’t saying anything, he let himself relax a little, but he stays tense.

You talk just like normal on the way back to the dorms, making him relax even more, enjoying having your hand in his, like he’s been wanting since the start.

When he understands that you don’t care about his hands being the way they are, he relaxes completely.

From that day on, he’s constantly got your hand in his.

[yumyumcherryy]

yearned.

you were stretched out across the couch, one leg half-hanging off the edge, face buried in a pillow, phone loosely in hand as some low-volume playlist murmured through the speaker.

you weren’t expecting rin home so soon—training usually dragged, but maybe today had been a little more brutal than usual, because suddenly, the front door slammed shut.

hard.

you lifted your head sluggishly, barely getting the chance to call out his name before—

thump.

a weight crashed over your midsection, and you let out a soft “oomph” as itoshi rin collapsed on top of you, limbs heavy and sprawling like a tree felled by its own exhaustion. his head buried itself onto your stomach, his arms winding possessively around your waist like some clingy, brooding sea creature.

“...hi to you too,” you mumbled through a chuckle, free hand instinctively sinking into his hair, fingers finding the familiar soft tufts and green-streaked strands.

he grunted.

that was his version of “hello.”

you didn't say anything else—just let your fingers move gently, twisting and curling little locks of his hair around them, occasionally letting your nails scrape lightly against his scalp. it was grounding. comforting. for him, especially.

he sighed. deeply. the kind that made your shirt flutter a little where his cheek was pressed.

“i hate everyone,” he mumbled into the fabric, voice muffled and low.

you smiled. “oh?”

“mhm.” another sigh. “practice was a mess. bachira wouldn’t shut up, isagi kept doing this thing where he’d tell me to ‘relax more’—like i don’t know how to f*cking relax—and don’t even get me started on the drills. a bunch of barely functioning cones with legs. my passes were clean, mine, but apparently they can’t keep up. whose fault is that, really?”

“you sound very relaxed right now,” you teased softly, carding your fingers through the back of his hair.

“i am relaxed. that’s because i’m here.”

your heart fluttered, but you tried not to let it show. “oh? that’s all it takes?”

“no. you. just you.”

and then, like it was nothing, he buried his face further into your stomach and…inhaled.

you froze.

it wasn’t the first time. you’d noticed it before—this subtle pause whenever his face was pressed against your shirt. the way his lashes would lower, nose nudging just enough, like he was trying to pretend it was absentminded. but you knew better.

“…did you just sniff me?” you asked, amused, one brow arched.

“no,” he replied instantly, so quickly it became obvious. a dead giveaway.

“riiinn,” you sang, voice lilting with a knowing smirk.

he groaned. his grip on you tightened, face now actively burrowing into your shirt like an ostrich. “don’t make it weird.”

“you made it weird.”

“you just…you smell nice. like you. and home. and not that dumb locker room.”

you grinned. he always got a little more unfiltered when tired—edges softened, tongue looser, heart a little louder.

another pause.

“i missed you today,” he muttered.

your hand stilled, then resumed its slow strokes. “you saw me this morning.”

“still missed you.”

your stomach twisted—not from his weight, but from the way he said it. so quietly. like it was a secret he only allowed himself to admit when curled over you like this, when his armor had been wrung out of him by drills and teammates and expectations.

you leaned down just a little, lips brushing his temple. “i missed you too.”

his arms tensed around your waist at that—briefly, like a reflex—and then relaxed, like he’d just let go of some invisible tension. he turned his face to the side, resting it fully against you, ear pressed against your ribs like he wanted to listen to the way your body worked. the way your heart responded to him.

you could feel it thudding harder under his cheek.

“don’t go anywhere,” he mumbled.

“i’m not,” you said softly.

he hummed, satisfied. another deep breath—definitely another sniff, but you let it slide this time.

minutes passed. just the ambient music, the soft sighs, the occasional quiet grumble when he remembered something else irritating from practice.

“you know,” you mused lazily, “if you keep coming home like this, one of these days you’re gonna fall asleep on me and drool on my shirt.”

“i don’t drool.”

“you totally do.”

“i don’t.” his voice was a little sharper now, the embarrassment clear even through the exhaustion. but he didn’t move. just shifted slightly—head lower, face now angled almost against your lower stomach, lips barely grazing the hem of your shirt.

you felt his breath there. warm. too warm.

his fingers flexed slightly around your waist. you stilled.

“…rin?”

his voice dropped, low and sleep-rough and barely above a whisper. “you’re dangerous when you wear this shirt.”

“…what?”

he didn’t answer. instead, he tilted his face just enough to kiss your hipbone through the fabric. just a brush, soft and lazy and slow—but it sent heat creeping up your spine anyway.

you swallowed.

he chuckled—actually chuckled, and you felt the vibration of it against you.

“you think i didn’t notice you wearing my shirt?” he murmured, lifting his head just slightly so he could meet your eyes.

shit. you didn’t think he’d catch that.

“i—it was just comfy—!”

“and it smells like me. you like that, huh?”

he was smirking now. tired, sure—but smug. mischievous. his hand slid just a little up your side, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles against your ribs under the hem.

you cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice even. “you’re the one who just nuzzled me like a cat and sniffed me like a bouquet.”

“because you smell good.”

“because i smell like you.”

“exactly.”

you swatted at him gently, but he just caught your wrist and kissed your palm, dragging it back to his head.

“keep playing with my hair,” he said, voice thick and laced with heat now. “i’ll pass out if you stop.”

“you’re so demanding when you’re exhausted.”

“you like it.”

…yeah. you did.

you didn’t say anything—just let your fingers tangle through his green-tinted strands again, massaging his scalp, and watched as his eyes fluttered half-shut. the quiet stretched on, but not heavy—just warm. tangled limbs and pressed bodies and the shared knowledge that this moment was the safest place either of you had all day.

but then, just as you thought he was drifting—

“…you’re still wearing nothing underneath this shirt, right?”

“rin—”

he smirked again—barely, lazily, with one eye cracked open just enough to see the way your cheeks flushed.

“…told you. dangerous.”

p.s: HSHUSHUS MUHEHEHEHEHE 😉 hehe do u guys like the new pink? i might change my theme to pink idk but pink and red looks so cute as headers of font colors

@twijaxx

@cerb3ruxii since u like fluff ;p

[internetdaddy98]

The Beginning Of The End

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: A look into the evolution of Y/N’s relationship with Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch, over the course of her three years in residency as she begins her fourth year as a senior resident. Their unspoken connection has simmered under the surface, building tension over shared glances, subtle touches, and buried feelings,  with their emotional stalemate still unresolved, but undeniably present. 

Word Count: 1.8 K Content Warning: Mentions of child death, medical procedures, panic attacks, unresolved tension, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times. 

You have been doing this dance for three years now. You had met Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch on your first day of residency at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Fresh-faced and full of childish hope. Dr. Robinavitch had taken a stern approach when it came to your learning, and although it stung for a while, you understood it came with the territory. You knew what people assume when they saw you, you stood at just 4'11", but what you lacked in height, you more than made up for in quiet tenacity. Your brown eyes, large and observant, held a kind of quiet sorrow, like someone who had seen too much too young, but never stopped hoping for better. Your medium-toned skin often had a warm flush from running around the hospital, but you carried yourself with a kind of composed stillness, as if the chaos of the ER never quite penetrated the shield you'd learned to hold up.

You had a slight frame, graceful and almost delicate in your movements, what Dr. Robby once offhandedly described as “pretty, dainty little thing who believes in rainbows and butterflies.” But he’d also learned, sometimes the hard way, that beneath your soft voice and gentle manner, you could be immovable when it counted. You didn’t raise your voice often, but when you did, the entire room listened.

In scrubs, you often looked like a med student playing dress-up, but anyone who underestimated you regretted it fast. You weren’t the type to demand space; you simply claimed it with quiet skill and calm certainty.

Despite the barriers you put up, your compassion was obvious in the way you held a patient’s hand, the way you comforted families, and the way you never once treated anyone like just another chart. You loved deeply, especially your family, though you rarely talked about yourself. Whatever trauma shaped you, you carried it like a scar stitched into your core, quiet, but unignorable.

You had earned Robby’s respect fast once he saw past what you looked like and learned about who you were as a doctor. You had thought of Dr. Robby as a good mentor, but three years of learning about each other and learning from him had developed something between you that was unspoken, buried deep in its roots beneath the surface.

It had become never-ending game of chess where neither of the players was ready to admit defeat or their feelings. Stolen glances, small touches and unspoken truths that have been bouncing between you two for the past year, and although you both thought you were subtle, half the ER were waiting for the ticking time bomb to go off. Your relationship had shifted fast one day during your third year. It had been a brutal shift, twelve hours of back-to-back traumas, a code blue that ended with a mother screaming into her child’s chest, and the guilt of a missed diagnosis that wasn’t yours, but still felt like it belonged to you. The kind of shift that strips the bones clean.

You held it together until the locker room.

No one saw you slip inside. You were good at that, disappearing when your emotions started to boil too close to the surface. You perched on the bench, elbows on your knees, breath coming short and sharp like your lungs had shrunk.

Your vision tunneled.

Your chest ached.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to will it away, but the past had already caught up, flashes of too-bright lights, sirens, someone calling your name while your voice refused to work. You weren’t here anymore. You were there, small and helpless and bleeding on the inside.

You didn’t hear the door open.

“Sheri?”

You flinched hard, jerking upright. Robby froze when he saw your face, your eyes wide and unfocused, chest rising too fast.

He stepped in slowly, voice gentling. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s just me.”

You tried to speak. Nothing came out. Your hands were shaking. Damn it, you thought, not here. Not in front of him.

But he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. He crossed the room like he was walking toward a wounded animal, careful, steady.

“Can I come closer?”

You nodded, barely.

He crouched in front of you, not touching, just anchoring you with his presence. “You’re having a panic attack,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. You’re here at the hospital. It's over. Just breathe with me, okay? In through your nose.”

You mirrored him, trying to follow the rhythm of his breaths. His voice was low and grounding, like the rumble of a storm you trusted not to hit you.

“Out through your mouth.”

You did. Once. Twice. A third time. The air started to reach your lungs again.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Good. That’s good.”

Without thinking, you leaned forward, maybe just to stay tethered, maybe because the gravity between you pulled you there, and he caught you gently, his hand slipping behind your back. You felt his breath near your ear, his chest against yours.

Too close. Too much.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

The moment stretched, quiet and heavy. His hand didn’t leave your back. Your forehead nearly rested against his shoulder, and the smell of his cologne, faint, clean, familiar, hit you in a way it never had before.

You pulled back at the same time he did, eyes catching. Locked.

The air changed.

Not like before, not in the safe, platonic way. Something crackled between you. Something dangerous. New.

You could feel his breath on your lips. His eyes flicked there, just for a second. Just long enough to light your nerves on fire.

He blinked and stood up fast, breaking the contact like it had burned him. “You okay?”

You nodded, but your voice still didn’t work. Your heart was pounding for an entirely new reason now.

“Good,” he said, running a hand through his hair, suddenly all sharp edges and avoidance. “I’ll give you a minute.”

And then he was gone, leaving you in the silence, staring at the door and trying to convince yourself it hadn’t just happened. That your skin wasn’t buzzing. That his touch hadn’t been gentle in a way that meant something.

You had no idea what the hell had just shifted between you. And for a long time after, you sat there in the stillness, breathing finally even, hands steady, but your skin still tingled from where his fingers had touched you, and your thoughts refused to fall back into place.

Something had changed.

Something that neither of you could pretend hadn’t happened.

After the panic attack, things didn’t go back to normal.

At least, not completely.

The next shift, Robby didn’t mention it. He was the same as ever, brisk, dryly sarcastic, sharp-eyed. But something about the air between you had shifted. The way he looked at you lingered just a breath longer. The way he stood beside you now left less space. Not suffocating, never that, but close enough that you could feel it.

And you told yourself it was nothing. Just him being kind. Just the aftershock of a bad night. Just you, reading too much into a silence that stretched a little too long.

But then came the day he reached past you for a chart and his hand brushed yours, and he didn’t pull away fast enough.

The morning he handed you a coffee, your order without asking.

The way he touched your elbow when you moved past him in, like he had to, like it was muscle memory.

Small things. Nothing obvious. Nothing anyone would question, no one except you. Because you noticed. Because your body noticed before your mind could catch up.

You weren’t foolish. You knew what you were to him. A resident. A student. Another junior duckling trailing behind him. And yet, it didn’t feel that simple anymore. It hadn’t felt simple since that day in the locker room, when your panic broke through the surface and he held you together with nothing but steadiness and silence.

You were careful after that. He was, too.

But carefulness didn’t erase the tension. If anything, it sharpened it.

A glance across a the ER became something charged. A moment of eye contact during a case presentation lasted a fraction too long. When you laughed at one of his dry little jabs, his mouth would twitch like he regretted making you smile. When you succeeded, he praised you with words that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It became a game. A never-ending match between two people who refused to admit defeat. You were always one move behind him, then suddenly ahead. He’d say something biting, and you’d parry with soft defiance. You started calling him out more in rounds, in front of junior residents, even in front of attendings. Not disrespectfully, but with a kind of quiet precision he couldn’t ignore. And he didn’t shut you down. He liked it. You could tell.

Somewhere along the line, you stopped needing his approval. You had it. You knew that now. What you craved instead was something less nameable, something that sat beneath your skin and hummed at the base of your spine every time you were near him.

Late nights turned into long silences filled with everything neither of you would say.

There was the night he leaned against the nurses’ station at 3 a.m., watching you work a code from across the room with something close to pride in his eyes.

The time you stitched a laceration on a pediatric patient with trembling hands after a rough trauma, and he rested a hand on your shoulder when it was over, brief, but grounding.

The time you laughed too freely at something he said, and he looked away too fast, like it hurt him to hear it.

You thought maybe he was fighting it. Whatever it was between you. And you hated yourself for hoping he’d lose.

Because the truth was, somewhere between the mentorship and the medicine, the rivalry and the long hours, you had fallen in love with him. Not in the sweet, safe, storybook way. No. It was a quiet, painful kind of thing. The kind that lived in your chest like a secret, blooming and aching all at once.

You never told anyone. You didn’t need to.

Half the ER was watching the dance. Waiting for the moment someone slipped.

But he never did. And neither did you.

By the end of your third year, you had become known for your calm presence, your steady hands, and your ruthless efficiency. Your charts were tight. Your instincts were sharper. You could run a trauma code with one look at your team and a steady tone.

But behind all of it was that tension. That thread between you and Robby that neither of you had cut.

And as your final third-year shift wound to a close, the kind of rainy, unremarkable Thursday that smelled like bleach and burnt coffee, you caught him watching you across the break room, his gaze unreadable, jaw tight.

And by the time you walked into the ER for your first shift as a Senior resident with a new badge, and a team of interns trailing behind you, you felt the shift again.

This was your year now.

But it still started with him. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Your honor, I love my sad boi. Let me cook

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 13 - timeout]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Paige tries to keep her head down as the season heats up, but her teammates are paying closer attention than she’d like. Across the country, Azzi’s perfectly managed world begins to slip when an unexpected call changes everything.

Word Count: 5,438

Kate's apartment, Oakland. September 2025. 

The air carried traces of garlic and something sweet baking low in the oven. The table was cluttered with half-finished plates, a bowl of untouched greens wilting at the center, and mismatched cups filled with half-melted ice cubes.  

The apartment held the warmth of shared food and lived-in comfort. Music hummed faintly from the corner speaker. 

Paige sat across from Kiki, elbow resting against the edge of her plate. Her fork hovered over a piece of roasted sweet potato, never quite lifting it. The collar of her sweatshirt was stretched. Her posture looked comfortable, but only at a glance. Her shoulders carried something heavier than the week’s practice load. 

Kiki set down her glass and leaned in, voice gentle but insistent. “You’ve barely spoken since dinner started. Talk to us, P.” 

Paige’s gaze drifted to her plate, as if she could lose herself in its pattern. 

“I’m fine.” 

It didn’t sound convincing. 

Kate emerged from the kitchen with three dessert bowls, setting one in front of Paige. “You’re doing that thing where you say fine like it’s supposed to be a full sentence.” 

Aziaha spoke without looking up. “And you’ve been rearranging your food like it owes you an apology.” 

“I’m just tired.” 

Kiki let that settle before she asked, “Tired from what?” 

Paige hesitated.  

Kiki’s question echoed, but the answer caught somewhere in her chest.  

She could feel their attention now, the kind that wasn’t pushing, just waiting. Her teammates were giving her space, but not the kind that let her disappear. 

She thought about what it would mean to say it out loud. To give it shape. Azzi’s rules had been firm. Keep things separate. Keep it clean. Personal off the record. Professional always. But those terms had belonged to something that had already ended. 

That meant the rules didn’t matter anymore. 

So, what was she still protecting? 

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to guard what they had left of it, the quiet pieces. But she wasn’t sure there were any left to hold. 

“Was it Miss Fudd?” Kate asked. 

Paige shifted in her seat defensively, her back pulled straighter than before. The question grazed something still raw. She met Kate’s eyes briefly, then looked past her toward the window, searching for distance in the dark glass. 

“What about her?” 

The words came quieter than she intended. There was no real attempt to lie. Only the hollow rhythm of someone tired of guarding what had already been taken. 

Aziaha pushed her plate aside. “You two aren’t exactly hard to read. All those glances across the gym? Come on. Half the team had a bet going.” 

Kiki gave a half-smile. “It was never just glances. When she was in the room, you stopped paying attention to anything else. It was like watching two people speak an entire language without saying a word.” 

“I’m serious. Half the locker room clocked it before you did. I saw Kayla trying to film it during warmups once. Said it felt like watching a soap opera, except with sneakers.” Aziaha added. 

Kiki bit off a bite of garlic bread, speaking around it with no attempt to lower her voice. “It was so obvious. The whole you-looking-at-her-like-she-hung-the-stars energy? Please. We were taking bets on how long until you two made it official.” 

Kate just raised her eyebrows and sipped her tea, clearly in agreement. 

Paige’s hands came up to her face, hiding most of her expression. The tops of her ears were already bright pink. “You guys are trippin’ coz I have no idea what you guys are talking about.”    “You really thought no one noticed?” Kiki wiped her fingers on a napkin. “There was that time during film review. Coach was mid-sentence and you looked across the room like she was the only person that mattered.” 

Kate leaned her arms on the table, gaze steady. “It was in your body language. You’d shift the second Miss Fudd walked in. 

Paige rubbed the back of her neck. Her ears were warm. “We weren’t trying to be obvious.” 

“You weren’t trying hard enough,” Aziaha chimed in. “One time she walked by the gym with Miss Leslie and you stopped mid-drill just to look at her. Ball rolled right past you.” 

Kiki had her brows raised, teasing sharp and amused. “We started making a game out of it. Spot the Bueckers-Fudd moment. Loser buys postgame smoothies.” 

Paige dropped her head into her hands. “God.” 

“Relax,” Kate said, softer than the others, “we weren’t judging. Just… watching it happen.” 

Paige’s voice came out muffled through her palms. “We thought we were being smart. Like, discreet.” 

  “You were about as discreet as a halftime show.” Aziaha snorted. 

“Only with better lighting.” Kiki said. 

Paige let her hands fall to the table, palms open like she was too tired to keep anything hidden.  

Her voice was quiet, shaped by something heavier than embarrassment. “Well, whoever placed the bet on us falling apart… congratulations. You win.” 

The room pulled still for a moment, not frozen but shifting around the weight of her words.  

“She chose to stay professional,” Paige added. “Said we crossed lines. Said she couldn’t do both.” 

Her fingers traced the edge of the table, slow and restless.  

Aziaha tilted her head, her expression thoughtful for once. “You can still be professional and be with someone. People do it all the time.” 

“She’s the owner,” Paige said flatly. “I play for her team. It’s not the same as normal people with nine-to-fives.” 

“We’ve all seen you grind. Every single one of us knows you earned your spot. You think you’d still be on this roster if she didn’t believe in fairness? Nah. You being with her doesn’t cheapen your game. It just means you have someone in the stands who actually knows what she’s watching.” Kate said. 

“I don’t think the public is on the same train with you.” Paige glanced at Kate.    “You can’t live your life trying to outrun the rumor mill. Today it’s this. Tomorrow they’ll say you’re washed or injury-prone or a diva. But the people who matter? They know who you are. And they know your game.” Kiki raised her glasses in a mockup toast. 

Paige drew a breath, then released it slowly. Her gaze settled somewhere between the empty plates and the cooling tea. The air smelled faintly of basil from the leftover pasta, grounding her more than she expected. 

“I miss her,” she admitted. 

Aziaha smiled gently. “We kinda guessed.” 

“I think Miss Fudd knows how to keep her personal life off the record,” Kate said. “So do you. If this really matters, you both figure it out.” 

Aziaha nudged her with her foot under the table. “We’re still betting, by the way.” 

Paige glanced up. 

Kate smiled. “This time we’re betting you figure it out.” 

- 

Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. September 2025. 

The room held a low charge, the kind of contained energy that came after something monumental.  

The Valkyries sat around the long conference table. The blinds were half-closed, streaking the walls with soft daylight. Bottles of water and printed stat sheets sat untouched between them. 

Coach Nakase stood at the head of the room, hands braced on the edge of the table. Her voice was steady, low with pride. 

“This is your first season together,” she said. “An expansion year. Every analyst said we’d struggle to find our rhythm. That we’d need time to develop chemistry, build culture. They gave us low projections and short windows.” 

She paused, letting her eyes sweep across the room. 

“But you showed them what kind of team this is. You defended harder. You played smarter. You trusted each other.” 

The players leaned in, some with quiet smiles, others meeting her gaze with focused stillness. 

“We’ve made the playoffs. In our first year. Not scraping in. Dominating. Breaking records. Holding the best defensive efficiency in the league. Leading in team assists. You’ve set a standard that no one expected, and that means every team out there is studying us now. Trying to figure out how to beat the culture you’ve already built.” 

A few heads bowed slightly, the weight of her words landing. 

Coach Nakase’s voice softened but held its shape. “You earned this. Through every practice, every recovery session, every moment you played through doubt or fatigue. This is just the beginning. But it’s already history.” 

Applause came not in a burst but in a wave, genuine and hard-earned. Chairs shifted, laughter broke out in short bursts, some players clapped each other on the back or raised a brow across the table with the shared disbelief of it all. Their first season, and they were already carving space among the league’s elite. 

As the meeting began to dissolve, a few players filtered out toward the hallway, voices rising with new momentum. 

Paige stood slowly. 

Coach Nakase had begun gathering her notes, her focus still half on the whiteboard behind her. Paige stepped closer, her voice low but clear. 

“Coach. Do you have a minute?” 

- 

The St. Regis, Atlanta. September 2025. 

The city stretched beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows, a mosaic of lights blurring into soft gold and ink-black streets. Inside the penthouse, the air held a cool quiet broken only by the low hum of distant traffic and the occasional clink of glass against marble. Plush seating circled a glass-topped table scattered with documents and half-empty glasses. The scent of fresh orchids mingled with faint traces of expensive whiskey. 

Nika had claimed the corner armchair, legs crossed, eyes gleaming with the rush of victory. 

“You close a deal like that,” she said, settling in with the ease of someone who owned the night, “you celebrate like you meant to.” 

Azzi followed, the weight of the day settling into the sharp lines of her blouse and slacks. Her jacket hung over one arm, untouched. She hadn’t changed after the long hours in the developer’s office.  

The glow from the city reflected in her dark hair as she moved to the couch opposite Nika. 

“This,” Nika said, lifting her glass with a triumphant grin, “is the drink you owe me for locking down the entire block before Q3.” 

“We got lucky with zoning.” 

“We didn’t get lucky,” Nika said, voice low and certain. “You killed that final pitch. The broker was begging to sign by the time you left the room. You always get like this when you’re about to win something.” 

Azzi allowed the compliment to rest between them. Her face stayed composed, but something heavier lingered beneath her gaze—a reluctant satisfaction, or maybe something quieter. 

“You think you’ll build commercial first or start with the apartments?” Nika asked, watching her closely. 

Azzi took a slow sip. “We’ll need traffic reports. I want to see what the city pushes for along the east corridor before locking the program mix.” 

Nika chuckled softly. “You’re already ten steps ahead.” 

“It’s my job.” Azzi’s smile was subtle but genuine. 

They spoke again of timelines, city zoning, early contractor bids.  

Nika offered ideas on usage strategy. Azzi dismantled them calmly, methodically, her mind already plotting the next phases. Their conversation held the steady rhythm of long partnership, familiar from countless late nights across unfamiliar cities. 

Then Azzi’s phone rang. 

She had left it on the marble side table beside her glass. The screen lit up white and clean, casting a pale glow through the shadows. 

She caught the name in one quick look and answered without hesitation. 

“Lisa,” she said evenly. 

“I’m sorry to call so late,” Lisa’s voice was measured, weighted with the burden of what she had to say. “I wouldn’t if it wasn’t urgent.” 

Azzi stepped away from the table, allowing herself the space to focus. Her eyes settled on the distant skyline outside the penthouse window, deliberately avoiding Nika’s steady, unreadable gaze. “I’m with Nika. Should I move somewhere more private?” 

“There’s no need,” Lisa answered after a brief pause. “It’s better she’s there for this.” 

The room felt heavier in that moment. Azzi shifted her stance, her gaze flickering briefly to Nika, who said nothing but watched with quiet attentiveness. 

Azzi’s voice dropped to a steady cadence. “What is it?” 

Lisa hesitated, then spoke carefully. “I don’t have all the details yet. I haven’t had a chance to speak with Paige. Coach Nakase informed me that she has requested a trade once the season ends.” 

The news landed with an unexpected gravity. Azzi remained motionless, the phone pressing lightly against her palm as the weight settled. Her other hand found her hip, grounding her as thoughts spiraled in search of clarity. 

“She wants to leave?” Azzi asked, her tone even but taut. 

“Apparently, for some reason,” Lisa said. “Look, I know you’re in Atlanta for the next three days before you return. I already have a meeting scheduled with Paige soon. I’ll get as much clarity as possible and sort everything out before you get back.” 

Nika’s posture shifted subtly, her attention sharpening. 

Azzi regained control of her voice, steady despite the turmoil beneath. “Is this information confirmed?” 

Lisa’s response was unequivocal. “I wouldn’t share it otherwise. Coach was blindsided. Paige offered little explanation beyond her intent to finish the season before moving on.” 

Azzi turned her gaze back to the window, the sprawling city lights blurred by distance. She inhaled slowly, focusing on the rhythm of the evening below.  

“Does Paige know you told me?” Azzi asked quietly. 

“No,” Lisa admitted. “I wasn’t supposed to disclose it yet. But I couldn’t let you hear it from anyone else.” 

Azzi closed her eyes briefly before opening them again, voice steady. “Thanks for letting me know. Please keep me updated.” 

She ended the call with deliberate care, unwilling to let go just yet. 

Returning her attention to the table, her hands found the edge of the booth, fingers curling lightly. She remained standing, composed in appearance but hollowed inside. 

Nika’s eyes searched her face, waiting. 

Azzi inhaled, sensing the room shift beneath her feet, and spoke with measured calm. 

“Paige wants out.” 

- 

Paige’s apartment, Oakland. September 2025. 

The knocking on Paige’s door was relentless, pounding through the apartment like a warning. Paige hesitated before moving to open it, heart already racing with unease.  

When the door swung open, Azzi stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her presence filling the room with unspoken tension. 

Paige blinked, confusion clouding her features. “Uh, hi?” 

Azzi’s eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unforgiving. “Why are you requesting for a trade?” 

The sudden accusation left Paige struggling to find footing.  

“How do you know?”    “Are you seriously asking that?”    Paige swallowed hard, searching Azzi’s face for some sign of reason. “I just told Coach last night. Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta?” 

Azzi’s jaw tightened, frustration spilling through her controlled facade. “I was. Until you made me cancel everything and use my private jet just to get here on a moment’s notice. That’s how much I hate you right now.”    “Oh.” Paige’s eyes widened, lost in the swirl of emotions.  

She wasn’t sure if she should feel offended or something far more complicated as the weight of Azzi’s words settled between them. 

Azzi’s eyes narrowed, voice firm. “Don’t you ‘Oh’ me. Explain.” 

Paige faltered, caught in the sudden weight of Azzi’s demand. Her fingers brushed nervously against the edge of the counter, as if grounding herself might steady the swirl of confusion and unease tightening inside her.  

“I thought I was meeting Lisa tomorrow night to talk this through.” 

“Well, things escalated. Looks like you’re stuck talking to me now.” 

Paige shifted her weight as the sudden intrusion thickened the air between them. A flush crept up her cheeks, not from anger but from the raw vulnerability of being confronted so directly.  

“This is not on my calendar. You can’t just show up at your player’s home without so much as a Zoom invite.” 

Azzi’s lips twisted into a dry, almost mocking smile. “I was told you’re not directly under my supervision. So technically, this visit doesn’t warrant a Zoom invite.” 

Paige’s shoulders eased, just barely. A small, unguarded smile pulled at her lips, quiet and involuntary, like something slipped through before she could stop it. 

Azzi noticed. Her voice lost some of its sharpness. “What’s funny?” 

“So, if I’m not directly under your chain of command, then technically there’s no conflict of interest if we were to date.” 

Azzi’s expression shifted instantly. Her eyes widened, the weight of the moment catching her off guard.  

“We’re not going there. Forget what I said. I’m here about the trade.” 

Paige tilted her head, eyes glinting with something between mischief and disbelief. “You flew across the country on a private jet to tell me you hate me, and now you’re quoting HR guidelines. Are you sure we’re not going there?”    “You’re so annoying!”    Paige grinned, folding her arms as she leaned back against the counter. “You always fly across the country for people who annoy you?”    Azzi sighed.  

The air between them felt heavier now, less charged and more exposed. Her voice dropped low, stripped of sarcasm, stripped of defense. 

“Why did you ask for the trade?” 

Her gaze held steady, but something fragile threaded beneath it. The anger had drained, leaving only the ache of what she didn’t understand. Her hands rested at her sides, as if bracing for whatever answer might come. 

Paige looked at her. Really looked. 

The edge in Azzi’s expression had fallen away, leaving something unguarded beneath. Her eyes, always so sharp and composed, held none of their usual distance.  

Paige saw the strain written in the angles of her face. The dull ache beneath her eyes. The way her blouse sat looser than usual, like the days had been wearing her down one hour at a time. 

They hadn’t seen each other in weeks. And now, standing in her apartment with that one question hanging in the air, Paige finally saw it all. The weight Azzi had carried. The cost of whatever she had been trying to outrun. 

She looked like sleep hadn’t come easy. Like nothing had.    “I asked for a trade,” Paige started, “so I could be with the person I love. Without contracts and terms in the way.” 

Azzi stood still, as if the air had thickened around her. Her breath came slow, each inhale measured but heavy. She searched Paige’s eyes, the sharpness fading into something raw and uncertain. 

“You’re thinking about giving up your spot. Your team. Everything you’ve worked for.” Her voice trembled, edged with disbelief and something deeper. “All for me?” 

Paige’s lips curved into a sad, small smile. “Yes and I’d do it a thousand times over.”    “Are you insane?” 

Paige’s voice was steady. “Insane or not, I’ve never been more certain about anything.” 

“That kind of certainty doesn’t come without a price. Are you ready to pay it?” 

“I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I want it with you. Price or no price, I’m not walking away.” 

A breath escaped Azzi’s lips, shaky at first, then steadier. Her gaze lingered on Paige, vulnerable and fierce all at once. She reached out but stopped herself, her fingers curling into a loose fist at her side.    “Paige, I—” 

Before Azzi could finish, a loud bang echoed from Paige's bedroom. Both of them turned sharply toward the door, tension snapping taut in the air. 

Azzi’s eyes narrowed as she glanced back at Paige, voice low and sharp. “Do you have someone in your room?” 

There was a flicker of guilt flashing across Paige’s face. Her breath hitched as she stumbled over her words. 

“It’s not what it looks like.”  

She glanced nervously toward the door.    Azzi’s voice spilled out in a rapid, breathless rush. “It hasn’t even been two weeks since you said you loved me and we stopped seeing each other, and now you want to be traded so you can be with me, but you already have someone in your bedroom.”    Paige watched Azzi’s breathless rant with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.    A small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips as she shook her head gently, eyes sparkling. “You really do get worked up fast,” she said softly, the tension in the room easing just a little.    “No! I’m not doing this. it’s like I’m living in some twisted soap opera and I can’t keep up —”    “Paigey, hurry up! What’s the holdup?” 

The tension broke as the bedroom door burst open, revealing an eleven-year-old boy balancing a game controller. Unaware of the moment’s gravity. 

Azzi’s eyes widened as the boy stepped into the living room. She turned to Paige, clearly taken aback. 

Paige’s smile held a quiet amusement. “Azzi, this is my brother, Drew. My family is over visiting and I’m babysitting Drew tonight as my Dad and stepmom are out on a date.”    Drew’s eyes brightened as he looked at Azzi, taking her all in. 

She was standing in the middle of the room, composed, and impossibly polished. The slate-gray blouse hugged her shoulders just right, tucked neatly into high-waisted slacks that sharpened her frame. Her watch caught the overhead light as she moved, and the low heels she wore made her presence feel even taller than it already was. Her hair was pinned back cleanly, not a strand out of place.  

She looked like she had just walked out of a boardroom—flawless, unreadable, and somehow unreal. 

“Whoah! Will you marry me?” Drew asked, completely enchanted. 

Azzi let out a soft laugh, a warmth spreading through her expression. The tension in the room eased as a genuine smile appeared on her face for the first time that evening.    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Drew. That’s the sweetest offer I’ve had all day,” 

Paige chuckled, shaking her head with amusement. “Sorry, Drew. Azzi will only marry one Bueckers, and that’s definitely not you.” 

“Are you saying you’re the one she’s marrying?” Drew asked, arms crossed like he was preparing for a debate. 

“We’re kind of figuring that part out.” Paige gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of her neck.  

She could feel Azzi’s eyebrows rise without even looking. 

- 

Chase Center Arena, San Franscisco. September 2025. 

The arena roared under the weight of a near sellout crowd, the lower bowl packed with signs, camera flashes, and the sharp energy of a playoff run just within reach.  

The Valkyries led the series 1–0.  

A win tonight would push them through the first round, a historic start for an expansion team barely a year into existence. 

The scoreboard read 78–76. Four minutes left in the fourth quarter. 

Coach Nakase barked instructions from the sideline as Phoenix pressed full court. Paige caught the inbound clean, split the double team with a sharp crossover, and cut toward half-court. She had been the heartbeat all game, driving the offense with instinct and vision, legs running on sheer will. 

Kiki curled off a screen on the left wing. Paige threaded the pass between two defenders, clean and low. It should have been the moment, a perfect assist in transition.  

But as Paige slowed, contact came from behind. 

A forearm clipped her back, subtle but forceful. Her balance shifted mid-stride. Her right foot landed awkwardly on the edge of another shoe, and her ankle rolled hard. 

She went down with a sharp, ugly twist of motion. 

The crowd’s cheers snapped into a different pitch.  

On the bench, her teammates were already standing. The officials blew the whistle.  

Paige’s hand slammed the court once before she pulled it in. Her face contorted, jaw locked, both arms braced against the hardwood. 

Medical staff rushed in. 

Kiki hovered close until they waved her off. Coach Nakase knelt beside Paige as she sat up slowly, face pale and lips pressed tight.  

She tried to put weight on the ankle. Her leg buckled slightly. Trainers steadied her on either side. 

The whole arena seemed to hold its breath. 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Franscisco. September 2025.  

Azzi stood by the tall windows, one hand tucked into the pocket of her slacks, the other holding her phone against her ear. The city glittered below, all steel and blur, but her attention stayed sharp. 

“If you lose control at this gala, I’m walking. I’ll leave you mid-speech, mid-toast, whatever it is you think will make you the center of the room. And I won’t cover for you.” 

Trey’s laugh was light, too easy. “You act like I’m still a mess.” 

“I’m not acting. I’m warning you.” 

“I’ve been clean for months.” 

“You relapse every time a jazz quartet plays and the bourbon is top shelf.” Azzi sighed. 

“You don’t believe me? Ask James. Or Mom. Or Dad.” He sounded like he was smiling. “They’ll vouch.” 

Azzi said nothing. Her gaze stayed fixed on the reflection in the glass, the edges of her jaw tight with something heavier than doubt. 

“You’d know if you showed up once in a while,” Trey added. “If you came to mom and dad’s anniversary dinner like a normal person instead of hiding behind calendar holds and fake meetings.” 

“I was working.” 

“I know,” he said, and this time it was quieter. “I also know about your rookie star player.” 

Azzi remained still. The only sound on her end was the low hum of the city, filtered through triple-pane glass. 

Trey’s voice softened. “I’m sorry about that night at the bar. I didn’t mean to get in her face. I just saw someone unfamiliar screaming my little sister’s name like the end of the world and I just went big brother mode.”    Azzi groaned at the thought.     “I’ve never seen you like that before. That protective. You weren’t even that feral when someone put James in a neck brace in ninth grade.”    Azzi let out a short laugh, something dry and familiar. 

“I know I’ve been more chaos than comfort. But I love you, Az. Whatever it is you’re carrying, I’ve got your back.” 

“Thanks, Trey.” 

“Always,” he said, steady again. 

They stayed on the call another thirty minutes, going back and forth over logistics for the gala. Dates, venue capacity, their parents’ guest list. Azzi tapped through her calendar, matching windows with his until they had something workable. 

Then Trey cut her off mid-sentence. 

“Are you watching your team’s game right now?” 

Azzi glanced up, confused. “No. Why?” 

His voice dropped. “Turn it on.” 

She pushed off the couch, a beat of tension cutting straight through her chest. “Trey. What’s going on?” 

“Just turn on the TV,” he said. “And remember I’m here for you.” 

Azzi didn’t say anything more. She crossed the room and picked up the remote. The screen came alive in one motion. The broadcast jumped to a replay. Her breath caught in her throat. 

Paige, mid-drive, airborne. 

The awkward angle of her landing. 

The twist. 

The sound of the crowd reacting as trainers rushed the floor. Paige gripping her ankle, teeth clenched. The way she was carried off, one arm around the shoulders of staff, her other hand curled into a fist. 

A soft gasp broke from Azzi as the slow-motion replay looped again. 

“Trey,” she breathed. “I need to—I need to—” 

“Go,” Trey said. “I’ll have my associate handle hospital coordination and I’ll text you the updates. Just go, Az.” 

Azzi was already moving. She muttered something like thanks, phone still at her ear, then hung up and grabbed her keys. The condo door clicked shut behind her before the screen finished its next replay.    -    The Royal Medical Center, San Francisco. September 2025. 

The hospital room was dim, filled with the low hum of machines and the dull ache of fluorescent light. Paige stirred beneath the sheets, her limbs heavy from exhaustion and the lingering effect of painkillers.  

The fog in her head lifted slowly. When she moved, a sharp jolt ran up her leg. Her eyes fell to the gauze-wrapped ankle propped on a foam wedge, swollen and immobile. The pain throbbed deep. 

She let out a shallow breath, her expression tight as she adjusted slightly. Somewhere beyond the door, voices were rising. A woman’s voice, sharp and unmistakable. 

Paige was still trying to place it when a calm voice greeted her from the side. 

“Good morning, Miss Bueckers. Sorry you got yourself hurt.” 

She turned her head to the voice. 

A man with crisp black suit sat comfortably on the couch near the window, one ankle crossed over the other, hands folded neatly. 

“Tony?” 

He nodded, pleased she remembered. “Miss Fudd didn’t want you alone. She asked me to keep an eye on you while she took a call outside.” 

Through the door, Azzi’s voice lifted again, strained and clipped. Paige frowned toward the sound. 

Tony glanced toward it with a small shake of his head. “That’s her. Arguing with her brother, I think. Apparently, Mr. Fudd decided it was necessary to post fifteen people at your door.” 

Paige stared at him. “Fifteen?!” 

“Mr. Fudd doesn’t play around with security.” 

“Security for what? My ankle?” 

Tony stayed even. “The media, Miss Bueckers.” 

Paige turned her eyes to the ceiling, the weight of it all settling in again. She’d played through pain before. Played through noise. But the sound of Azzi’s voice carrying through the corridor pressed deeper than anything else. 

Azzi stepped into the hospital room, her shoulders tight with frustration that had not yet left her expression. Her phone was still in one hand, screen dark, jaw set in a way that told Paige the call had ended only moments before. 

Tony rose from his seat by the window, tucking his tablet under his arm.  

“I’ll go fetch brunch for both of you,” he said calmly, giving Azzi a brief nod. “Text me if you need anything sooner, Miss Fudd.” 

Azzi’s voice was low. “Thank you, Tony.” 

He exited without further word, and the door clicked softly behind him.  

Azzi’s gaze flicked to Paige’s face, then dropped to her wrapped ankle. 

Neither spoke. The weight of the everything that happened rested between them, heavy but not suffocating. It filled the space in a different way, quieting everything else. 

Paige sat up slightly, her back supported by the angled hospital bed. She studied Azzi, the way her hands curled in near fists, the way her expression pulled tight even as her eyes softened. 

“I’m okay,” Paige said, voice quiet but steady. 

Azzi’s shoulders shook with the first sound that escaped her throat. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She sniffed hard, brushing at her face with one hand, as if she could will herself into composure. 

Paige opened her arms. “Come here, baby.” 

Azzi didn’t hesitate. The phone was left on the chair, forgotten. She crossed the room in two long strides and curled into Paige’s side without pause, burying her face in the crook of her neck. Her body trembled against Paige’s chest, breath uneven, tears soaking through the hospital gown without either of them caring. 

Paige whispered something close to her ear, her hand moving in slow strokes up and down Azzi’s back. Then she shifted, scooting carefully over and tugging at the blanket until there was space. She guided Azzi beside her, fitting them together in the narrow bed. 

The machines beeped steadily. Outside the door, the world remained in motion. But inside the room, Azzi held on like Paige was her anchor and the tide had risen too fast. Paige held her tighter.    Azzi’s voice broke through the hush, strained and muffled against Paige’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” 

Paige’s hand found the back of her head, fingers threading through her curls in a slow, comforting rhythm.  

“Shhhh. We’ll talk later,” she murmured. 

Azzi’s breath hitched again, quieter this time. The sobs came softer, the way grief softened when it had nowhere left to go.  

She stayed pressed into Paige’s side, worn thin from the weeks of distance, of pretending, of burying things she had no words for. 

Her body gradually eased, the tension in her shoulders giving way to exhaustion. It settled into her limbs, heavy and unrelenting. The days of work without sleep, the hurt she had swallowed, the long flight, the sight of Paige on the floor—it all collided and began to dull her edges. 

Her breathing slowed. Her hand slid over Paige’s stomach in a loose hold. Then her lips brushed the hollow of Paige’s collarbone, voice barely audible. 

“I love you.” 

Paige stilled.  

Then she bent her head and pressed a kiss to Azzi’s temple.  "I know.” 

But Azzi had already drifted into sleep. 

[wosospacegirl]

fever - kika nazareth

Summary: Kika is sick, and Y/n is falling in love

Word count: 1.2k

Masterlist

a/n: This is a schedule post. I had this fic lying around, but I forgot in what doc it was 💀💀💀

..

It started at training.

Kika had shown up looking ridiculously good–her hair in a messy ponytail, flushed cheeks, sleeves pushed up, all effortless and pretty and… hot. Like, really hot.

Y/n had genuinely stopped in the middle of a rondo to stare. Pina even smacked the back of her head when she lost possession of the ball to the other team… but Y/n couldn’t help it. It had been four whole days since she’d last seen Kika.

Kika had gone on a trip back to Portugal to see her family. She got some time off and decided to enjoy it back in her homeland.

Unfortunately, Kika didn’t think about how much it would affect Y/n… poor girl was getting sadder and sadder each day.

“She looks so pretty,” Y/n whispered to Alexia during their water break, eyes fixed across the pitch as Kika talked with the manager.

“Um… no,” Alexia muttered back. “She looks like she’s about to pass out.”

Y/n blinked. “What?”

But before Y/n could make sense of that, Kika began coughing–a lot. Romeu even put a hand on her back, either for comfort or to actually help.

And then came the sneezes. Y/n counted seven, while Alexia counted eight.

When Kika was done, the tips of her ears were red and her forehead was shiny with sweat, as if coughing and sneezing had taken a toll on her body.

“Flu season,” Alexia said. “She’s probably burning up.”

Y/n, still in complete denial, shook her head. “Nah. She just has... allergies.”

“She just sneezed again,” Alexia said, deadpan, pointing to Kika, who’d just been handed a paper towel to clean her nose.

“I think it was more like a… new form of communication she’s trying.”

“Her neck is red.”

“She’s just—radiating energy.”

“Nena,” Alexia said, now more impatient. “She’s not radiating energy. She’s radiating a fever.”

Y/n gave one last look at Kika, and yeah… she looked bad. The assistant managers had just walked her off the pitch into the hallway that led to the locker room. Guess no training for Kikinha today.

The reason Y/n absolutely didn’t want to believe Kika was sick?

They were supposed to have a date today.

Not a romantic one–just… casual.

A friends-with-benefits-who-are-hungry-and-go-out-to-an-Italian-place kind of date.

But now that Kika seemed to have lost one of her lungs, it looked like those plans were about to change.

Y/n ended up volunteering–casually, definitely not suspiciously–to check in on Kika for the rest of the team.

Kika didn’t even argue when Y/n knocked on the door and let herself into the locker room.

She was slumped on the bench, hoodie pulled over her training kit, legs curled up under her like a sleepy cat.

Her nose was pink. Her eyes looked glassy. Her hair was still in that hot, messy ponytail.

“Hi,” Y/n said, trying to sound casual. Normal. Not worried. Not in love.

Kika sniffled. “Hi.” Her voice was so raspy it made Y/n wince.

“You dying?”

“No, I’m fine,” Kika mumbled, swaying a little as she stood in front of her locker. 

“You’re not,” Y/n said, one hand hovering behind her back in case she stumbled again. “And you’re, like, weirdly warm. I thought it was because you looked… good. But I think you’re just ill.”

Kika gave her a sleepy smile. “You thought I looked good?”

Y/n, tragically, had no comeback. Not a single sarcastic one. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s a little bit the point,” Kika teased, before groaning and pressing a hand to her head.

“You’ve been gone for four days,” Y/n mumbled, brushing a hand over Kika’s back. “I was gonna take you out tonight.”

“Ugh,” Kika groaned. “The pasta.”

“I know. I had my outfit picked and everything.”

Kika sniffled again, tugging Y/n’s sleeve and curling into her more. “I can still go.”

“You can’t even stand.”

“Carry me?”

“No.”

“Piggyback?”

“No.”

“Stretcher?”

Y/n laughed soflty. “You’re delirious.”

Kika turned her face into Y/n’s shoulder. “I’m touch-starved and flu-ridden.”

“I’m taking you home” Y/n finally said, helping her sit up. “No training. No pasta. Just meds, soup, and me bossing you around.”

“Hot,” Kika whispered.

“You are hot,” Y/n mumbled, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Let’s make a quick stop at the infirmary.”

The nurse confirmed it–Kika had a fever of 38.4°C and was sent home with strict instructions to rest.

Y/n, ever the idiot-in-love, offered to stay with her. You know… in case she fell or needed something.

..

That night, Kika was curled up on the sofa with a blanket over her legs, hair messy and cheeks pink, sniffling into a tissue and blinking up at Y/n like she’d never been more adorable.

“Still think I’m hot?” she croaked, voice all raspy.

Y/n handed her water with pink ears. “Honestly? You’re sweating and your nose is red and I think I’m even more into you.”

Kika smiled so softly it made Y/n’s chest ache. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Y/n said. “And you’re sick.”

Kika was not usually clingy.  At least, not like this.

Normally, she was composed and soft-spoken–the kind of affectionate that snuck up on you: gentle touches, shy smiles, casual thigh presses on the bench.

But whatever virus had taken over her body had apparently also overridden her emotional regulation.

Because now she was sprawled across Y/n’s lap like a cat, sniffly and half-asleep, one arm wrapped stubbornly around her waist.

“I don’t wanna move,” she mumbled, nuzzling into Y/n’s hoodie like it was a pillow. “You’re comfy.”

Y/n blinked at the wall, hands hovering awkwardly above her. “Okay but… I need to pee.”

“No,” Kika said firmly, burrowing closer. “Stay.”

“This isn’t fair,” Y/n muttered. “You’re burning up, you’re sweaty, and you still smell good. How is that even possible?”

Kika just made a sleepy little noise and tightened her grip.

Y/n had never taken care of a sick person before. She was the one who usually got looked after–stubborn and grumpy when ill, but quietly appreciating the attention.

This?

This clingy, feverish Kika who wanted nothing but popcorn–for some unknown reason–cuddles, and her presence at all times? She didn’t know what to do with it.

“Should I, like… make soup?” Y/n asked out loud.

Kika whined. “No, I don’t like soup.”

“I think sick people need soup, though.”

“Don’t go.”

“I have to get up and make something for you to eat, bebé–like real food.”

“No.”

Kika pulled the blanket up over both of them and held her tighter. “Soup later. You now.”

Y/n’s heart physically ached. “You’re so clingy,” she whispered, brushing sweaty hair off Kika’s forehead. “I didn’t know you got like this when you get sick.”

She ended up texting Alexia, after 30 minutes of staying perfectly still while Kika clung to her even more.

Y/n: what do i do when she’s sick and clingy and adorable and i think i might die

Alexia: You hold her and kiss her dumb forehead and accept your fate.

Y/n: I dont think i ever got to this part before

Alexia: welcome to being in love

Y/n stared at the screen, then at the girl drooling slightly on her hoodie. 

Yeah. She was doomed.

..

Hope you guys liked it!! <3

[spacemammal]

How About Breakfast in Bed?

Masterpost

This is my fist fanfic EVER sorry if its bad lol

I basically stole the entire idea for the inciting incident from a fanfic by Renee4567. Give it a read! here's the link:

Phantom's Hope

─ ✧ ─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─ ✧ ─

Part 1: Tired

Danny was so incredibly tired. The alarm blaring in his ears was giving him a piercing headache. Why did he even have to wake up? He reached to turn the damned thing off before his head exploded. His limbs ached and felt so incredibly heavy, he didn’t want to get out of bed. What was the point when it was just going to be the same as yesterday? He turned his head to look at the same grey walls he looked at every morning. He needed to clean his room but couldn’t find the energy. There were dirty cups everywhere that he hadn’t bothered to take back down to the kitchen. His clothes were in a scattered mess on the floor along with other junk. His homework was littered across his desk and room. None of it was complete. Why even bother doing it?

“DANNY!” his mom was calling him from downstairs. 

“COME DOWN FOR BREAKFAST!” 

He didn’t want to go. He wanted to skip breakfast, skip school, skip being shoved into his locker, and skip fighting ghosts. He just wanted to stay in bed and sleep the rest of his life away. He knew he had to leave the safety and comfort of his bed eventually. No matter how badly he didn’t want to. He dragged himself out from his warm, soft blankets and rifled through one of the shirt igloos on his floor for his binder. Getting dressed was the first step to the day ahead, so he dreaded it.

He gazed into the mirror, taking his reflection in. His hair was messy and slightly overgrown. His clothes were two sizes too big with the pants fraying at the bottoms. His under eyes were dark, accurately reflecting his tiredness. He wore long sleeves under his shirt to hide the constant injuries he got from ghost fighting. He looked like a mess, but he didn’t care enough to do anything about it.

He made himself go down the stairs and sit at the table. The food in front of him looked ok. He didn’t really have much of an appetite right now, but he knew he would suffer later if he didn’t eat right now. He wanted so badly to just go back upstairs and get back in bed. Instead, he looked around the kitchen and spotted the simplest thing to grab. A bagel.

“How did you sleep sweetheart?” his mom startled him with her question. 

“I slept fine.” he mumbled the words through his bites. The bread was dry and cold, but he didn’t feel like warming it up or anything. It was a miserable meal.

“I’m still really tired though”  as he said it, he looked up to see his mom already in a full on conversation with his dad about an ‘amazing idea’ to catch Phantom that she’d had. Great. Now he’d have to deal with that too. He didn’t even know why he bothered saying anything. Since Jazz left for college, this is basically how every morning went.

It was a typical day, getting shoved in a locker by dash, getting yelled at by his teachers, saving the school from another ghost, and trying not to notice how Sam and Tucker pointedly ignored him. They liked him before, hell, the teachers liked him before, but since Phantom, his grades have been dropping, his schedule’s been full. He’s learned pretty quickly that teachers only liked him if he had good grades, and his friends only liked him when he had time to actually be their friend without putting them in harm's way. So at school, he tried his best to stay out of his own head. Most of the time, that meant being on his phone. Even outside of school he was on his phone, it helped him not think so much. There were funny things that actually made him laugh. There was news that he wasn’t directly involved in. He liked to look at what the Justice League got up to, it made him feel a bit better about his decision to help. 

He was laying in his bed like usual, this time he was looking through people’s instagram stories. They were all pretty boring until one caught his eye. It was about the Justice League. It said that they were coming to Amity? He wondered why they would come to a random county in Pennsylvania, so he looked up what it was referencing. 

What. He sat straight up reading the JL’s official statement.

“We will be visiting Amity Park to investigate ‘Phantom’ as there have been multiple reports that the creature may be a potential harm to the residents.”

They were coming to investigate Phantom. Why did they need to investigate him? They should be able to tell that he’s trying to help. Those reports saying he’s a threat aren't true. He’s a hero just like them. He’s just… trying his best to help.

Well. There’s not really much he can do. He’ll just have to hope that they see past the reports. There’s no way he can handle dealing with THE Justice League on top of everything else.

─ ✧ ─

When the Justice League came, Phantom was busy. Way more busy than normal. He’d hoped to be able to catch them. If not to convince them he’s not actually evil, then to just get to see his heroes in person, but Vlad must’ve let out a ton of ghosts in hopes he wouldn’t catch a glance. So he was stuck fighting ghosts while people were telling the Justice League how much of a menace he is. They were recounting tales of how him causing property damage, injuries, and striking fear into the hearts of the innocent. All while he was fighting ghosts and trying his best to keep their town safe. 

It wasn’t helping that he had the Ghost Investigation Ward and his parents hot on his tail trying to capture him. They shot their ecto-rays right at him, even managing to hit him every once in a while. It’s like they weren’t even trying to get the other ghosts anymore, it was just him. Luckily, he was able to get most of the ghosts fairly quickly and without major injury. He was almost done capturing them all then he’d be done. Luckily the box ghost was the only one left, and he had an easy time putting him into the thermos. As he secured the thermos’s latch, he was relieved to be done. Now he just had to return them all back to the ghost zone-

There was a sudden shooting pain in his shoulder. He fell to the ground and his vision was going spotty. He pressed his hand to where it hurt and braced himself on the ground, breathing heavily. His arm was stinging with pain and could hear his heartbeat in his head. What had happened? He pulled his hand from his arm to look at it as his vision came back. It was covered in ectoplasm. Where’d that come from? He heard people yelling behind him, but couldn’t make out their words. There was another pain, this time it was more of a knick in his calf. He looked behind him to see where this all was coming from and there was his parents. He looked back at his hand as he realized, this was his ectoplasm. He was bleeding. He was bleeding really badly. His parents were getting closer, they looked like they were ready to shoot again. His head was pounding, he had to leave quickly. He pulled himself to his feet, and started to haul ass. He was tired, so he wasn’t moving fast enough to outrun them, but he was moving. He just needed to go invisible and intangible and he could escape them.

He’d finally lost his parents, so he floated his way back into his room and collapsed. As he fell to the ground, his ghost form fell with him. He took a few breaths, clutching the fenton thermos to his chest, thankful that he hadn’t lost it when he was shot. He took another second to himself before examining his injury. His wound was deep and if he didn’t patch it up soon, he’d bleed out. When did ghost tech get so painful? He took out the med kid Jazz had made for him. She always thought ahead. When she first suggested it, he’d said no, thinking he wouldn’t need it. But in times like this, he was glad she cared enough to threaten him into listening to her advice. He couldn’t do stitches or anything, but with his ghost healing, it would be ok if he managed to hold his wound together. After disinfecting the gash on his shoulder, he pinched it together and secured it closed with band-aids. He’d been pretty sure he’d seen something like that in a doctor’s video or something? Whatever. He’d finished bandaging his worst wounds when he heard a commotion outside. He slowly peeked out his window to try and see what was happening. To his surprise, there was the Justice League. They’d been trying to interview people but it looks like it turned into a meet-and-greet of sorts. He’d thought they would’ve left by now, but they were answering questions and signing autographs. Maybe he could still talk to them. He pulled on a shirt that hid his worst injuries and headed outside, not realizing he was still holding the thermos.

─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─

This was going on far longer than it should’ve. Bruce knew it was a bad idea to all come here, let alone announce it. Now they were being swarmed by people who wanted autographs or to ask them pointless questions. It was all getting out of hand. He knew that they should’ve gone undercover. If this Phantom is a threat, why let it know they’re coming? Batman wasn’t engaging with the crowd like the others were. He was here to help people, not be a celebrity. The crowd was a mix of people, but they were all here for different reasons. Some were just gathered to meet them. Some were complaining about the ‘ghosts’ that apparently haunt this town. As he scanned the crowd, his attention caught on a teenager approaching the group. He didn’t quite hold the same energy as the rest of them. Where other teens were enthusiastic and happy, he was hesitant, almost scared. But there was a glimmer of hope there. It was a strange mix. He was a skinny kid with black hair and blue eyes. Probably around 15 years old. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt that exposed the scrapes and bandages running along his arms. He looked tired, and he had a slight limp to his walk. In his hand he was clutching what looked like a thermos. The grip was tight, but the strangely high tech object looked comfortable in his hands. The boy opened his mouth, about to say something before he was interrupted. 

“ARE YOU GOING TO CATCH PHANTOM?!” The question came from the other side of the crowd.

They hadn’t been able to gather any real information on Phantom. Most of the people here simply didn’t like the ghoul. They had no evidence that the creature had any malintent at all.

Before Batman could answer, Superman replied  to the question with a  reassuring smile, 

“We’ll do our best.”

Why would he answer without discussing it first? They were going to have to have another meeting about this.

With Superman’s reply, the crowd around them began to cheer. There was only one among them who didn’t. The beat-up teenager he’d been observing. He looked stunned, broken even. He looked like they had just killed all of his hopes and dreams.

─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─

Danny felt like he was going to barf. Superman had really just said that they would capture him? They believed he was a threat? No. No no no no he couldn’t accept this was happening. There must be some mistake. He looks at the heroes, trying to find anything. They’re joking, they have to be. They can’t seriously believe he’s bad, right? He searches their faces trying to find any hint that he had heard them wrong, that they’re faking it, anything. He’s been trying his best, they can’t think he’s evil. They can’t. He searches each of their smiling faces and he doesn’t see any sign that what they said was anything but the truth.

They want to capture him too.

Danny feels his world crumble as he loses all of the little hope he’d had. He began to give up. What was the point? Why even bother doing this? It was volunteer work that only ever left him injured and friendless. He looked down at the thermos in his hand. The smooth metal in his hand felt so familiar. He’d worked so hard to keep these ghosts from hurting people. He’d given his blood to keep this town safe. They still hated him. He was just a highschooler who was hurt and tired and just wanted to go to bed. Yet they still hunted him. How had he ended up like this? He used to do well in school and have friends and not feel like shit all the fucking time. He used to want to live. Now he was just wishing he could go back to before he half-died. He wanted his friends back, but they all hated him now. They didn’t hate him at first, but Sam got tired of making excuses for him and constantly helping him fight ghosts. Tucker was more or less the same. They’d left him. They didn’t want to fight ghosts. They’d realized what he hadn’t. The pointlessness of his mission. All that came of him ‘being a hero’ was him getting hurt. He was in so much pain he could barely move right now. So far he’d been able to avoid the GIW and his parents and Val, but… could he avoid the Justice League? 

‘We’ll do our best.’ Superman’s words were echoing in his head. If they caught him, what would they do with him? Torture him? Kill him? He could feel his emotions bubbling up in his core. He was scared, but he felt a little more free. He wasn’t going to protect a town that didn’t want him anymore. Why had he been doing it for so long? To think that he’d fought for them, bled for them.

He laughs. It’s a hollow laugh. The crowd looked at him like he was crazy. Some people started backing away in disgust. On second thought, he didn’t think it was that funny. He was in so much pain and none of them cared. He found he was still staring at the thermos he held firmly in his hand. It was the thing he’d used over and over  and over again to save the people who were now praying for his downfall. 

“I guess I’m really not wanted here.” he said it quietly, almost a whisper, but it was still heard. He could feel his fangs peeking out from under his lips and his hair start to float as he started to lose control over his form. The sky, that was just moments before sunny and clear, was now dark and stormy. He tightened his hand on the thermos and before he’d even realized it, he pressed the button to release the ghosts. They were yelling and announcing themselves until they noticed Danny, stewing in his emotions. He stared up at the ghosts puzzling them out in his brain. He was so angry, and sad, and so many things he couldn’t sort it all. 

“Oh shit” he recognized it as Ember’s voice.

“This seems like a bad time” This one was skulker. 

Soon, all the ghosts fled, citing Danny as the reason. 

He stared blankly at the now empty thermos.

“I just… tried to help” his voice breaks as he says it. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes, but they don’t fall quite yet. Something shifted in Batman as he looked at Danny, picking his every movement apart. The rain started falling and soon you could see his red blood seeping through his bandages and his shirt, exposed by the sudden water that was now soaking him. It gave his hair and clothing back the weight that it had so recently lost. Batman took a gentle step towards Danny. He looked up at Batman, searching for something that told him that the man didn’t hate him. He found nothing. His mouth was a careful, neutral expression. The rest of his face was covered by an expressionless cowl, so he found comfort in looking at the rough pavement instead. He wished so badly to not be here. He ached for the comfort of his bed. 

“I’m just so tired.” as the words fell from his lips, he began crying. He couldn’t help it, just as he couldn’t stop himself from falling to his knees and transforming into Phantom. He heard a few gasps from the crowd that had backed far enough away to stay out of danger but still watch. His wound had reopened and it was bleeding again. He hated being so exposed and vulnerable. He was a spectacle for them all to gawk at. But he didn’t have the energy to hide anymore, so he simply sat there. Slowly, Batman swooped down towards him. Danny flinched, prepared for the worst. Instead of pain, or an attack, he felt warm, strong arms around him. He looked up and Batman, the vengeance of Gotham, had taken him into his warm cape.

“You did a good job” the deep voice that came from Batman wasn’t as cold as Danny had been expecting. His voice was compassionate and gentle. Before he had even realized it himself, Danny was sobbing uncontrollably into the rough fabric of the costume.

It was a while before he lost all energy and stopped crying. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” his voice was quiet and he still clung to the cape as he said it. 

“That’s alright.” Batman’s voice was reassuring. 

“Did I…” he paused. Ancients, he was tired. “Did I really do alright?” He was looking at the cloudy sky when he said it. Wishing he could see the stars.

BEEP BEEP BEEP! He gasped for air and sat up straight as his alarm clock pulled him from his sleep. Oh. It was a dream. 

─ ✧ ─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─ ✧ ─

This is just the first chapter! I promise it will get less angsty. Trust

Edit: I forgot to mention, danny's like 17 in this, he just looks younger (being trans'll do that to ya)

[hatsbuckets]

oh y'all thought that (this) was the only one?

Kyle Garrick who's unsettled after missions.

Kyle Garrick who heads for the locker room, shedding gear, heart still fluttering and pounding in his chest.

Kyle Garrick who can't shake the nerves, the jostle of the vehicle, the ache in his frame, even as he hits the showers.

Kyle Garrick whose ears pick up the light voice of a very talkative Scot and lets it fill his ear as they clean up, warm water relaxing tense muscle.

Kyle Garrick who teases, and talks, and banters with one John Mactavish.

Kyle Garrick who lets the words come easy, lets himself be dragged into conversation, lets himself laugh when Soap throws a wet towel at his head.

Kyle Garrick who fires back with a sharp quip, a roll of his eyes, a smirk that’s almost real. And the tension eases, just a bit, in the rhythm.

Kyle Garrick who doesn’t say anything when the conversation winds down, when Soap claps his shoulder, grin still in place, but softer now. Just a shared nod when Soap heads off.

Kyle Garrick who moves slower now, steadier now, toward the hangar for something he's sure he's forgotten, but by the time he enters it doesn't matter.

Kyle Garrick who finds a masked lieutenant, still stiff, still tense, still caught in whatever storm is brewing in his head.

Kyle Garrick who doesn’t touch at first, just sits next to him, near but not crowding. and he speaks, voice easy, steady, something grounding to pull one Simon Riley back down.

Kyle Garrick who watches Ghost breathe, watches the sharp edges smooth out, watches the tension give just a little. Eventually venturing to squeeze his shoulder once, brief but firm. and he doesn’t push when Ghost doesn’t answer.

Kyle Garrick who finds himself at his captain's office, where the door is cracked open.

Kyle Garrick who steps inside without a word and sees the couch—nearly too small for the captain that lies on it.

Kyle Garrick who accepts one John Price lying there and the knowing look Price gives, and he doesn’t ask, just leans in when Price opens his arms.

Kyle Garrick who tucks himself into the warmth, presses his face against familiar fabric, and breathes.

Kyle Garrick who feels the exhaustion settle in deep, but not heavy, not anymore.

Kyle Garrick who lets his eyes slip shut, knowing he won’t be the last to arrive.

Kyle Garrick who sleeps comfortably atop his captain.

Kyle Garrick who is unsettled after missions,

but never too unsettled to find ease in the boys.

Kyle Garrick who feels the rumble of Price's snores and just melts deeper, because he's undeniably comforted by the sound anyway.

price | soap | ghost

[genieswishes]

gotcha workin’ for it ft. Saxon Ratliff

MDNI 18+

pairing: Saxon Ratliff x Reader

cw: p in v (unprotected), pwp, mentions of breeding kink (no follow through), teasing, “baby” as a pet name, established relationship, random pop culture reference

a/n: this was supposed to be a Saxon and locker room talk, but the more I wrote, the more it divulged from its original plot… maybe I’ll revisit that idea when I can write a clear enough story for it.

“You’re always so whiny and pitchy.” SAXON RATLIFF mutters in your ear. He goes on to mimic your moans, exaggerating the way your breaths are stuttered. You punch at him hard to get him to shut up.

“What?” He grins at your response, taking advantage of the wide mirror in front of you two, lifting your chin so that you’re forced to face yourself. “Look, you’re literally heaving!”

He has your back arched enough that you can see how your chest is moving to his rhythm. Your hands are placed on his bed post as he’s got your hair in one hand and your chin in the other. He’s got his hips pummeling into you, his own body arching over yours so that he can rest his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re like…” He’s chuckling a bit. “Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh!”

Your words were about to form a snarky comeback when he hits a particular thrust that makes you choke on your spit a little.

“Hey,” This asshole has the audacity to snicker at you. “Breathe, baby, breathe.”

Thank god you don’t go into a coughing fit. But you also curse whatever reverence is out there as your boyfriend leans back and straightens himself, stopping when you’re so close to your climax.

“You’ll need air if you’re gonna be moving, right?” His voice raising an inflection towards the end of the question.

“Huh?” And your voice does come out quite pitchy.

“Well, I’m not doing all the work,” He slaps your ass. Hard. “So, come on, back and forth.”

“God, you’re seriously a grade A asshole.” Yet you find your hips are already slapping back to him, your back arching to his pelvis.

His hands find themselves steady on your waist, only there to hold on to some stability and guide you to some sort of pace. Soon, your bedroom is filled with nothing but your wet squelching and a speed comparable to that of Ariana Grande when it comes to switching races.

“Uhh, fuck,” Saxon has long abandoned his motive to stay still, rocking into you as he palms your tits and enjoys how your ass bounces back on him. “Fuck, fuck, you feel real good...”

You’re so close, and you know he is to with how he twitches inside of you. You got him whispering into your shoulder, your name repeated like a prayer.

He’s calling you pet names in between his moans. “Let me cum inside…”

In usual Saxon fashion, he’s not asking with a “please” or a “can I…?” but masking his demand to sound like a request.

“Nooo,” You’re telling him unconvincingly. “Pull out…”

“What? You scared I’m gonna baby trap you?” He’s got a lilt in his voice, still teasing you when you’re both so close to finishing.

“Yes, don’t fuck around!”

“Yeah, maybe I will…” Saxon’s got his arm snaked around your waist now, thrumming into you all harsh. “Have a tiny me go running around…”

You’re yelling “Saxon!” but he feels you clench him at that notion.

“Yeah, and you’re probably gonna be calling for me just like that too.” His fingers are working magic on your clit, circling your bud in quick motions. “You know me… I’m a family man.” And boy, is he.

You can’t even respond, too focused on finding your end of the bargain. Your boyfriend is also stuttering in his movements, rutting faster to get to his arrival.

You reach your release before him, Saxon cumming right after and painting your back in white.

He falls on top of you, warm to the touch. You bask in the comfortable silence, deciding to ignore the mess that’s gonna need to be cleaned. Better to enjoy this quiet before Saxon catches his breath, right?

[imaginespazzi]

Part 14: The End And The Beginning

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 15

Still a flicker of hope that you first gave to me that I wanna keep (please don't leave)

(In which an infrequently-updating writer finally didn't take a month to update)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Fluff and I guess a little bit of Hurt/Comfort

Words: 9.2K

TW: Swearing (and I believe that's it)

A/N: Hello my lovelies <3 It's a little past 2 AM but y'all wanted a chapter at an ungodly hour so here it is. It's insane to think that there will only be one more chapter of this fic. In all honestly I did have ways to drag it out for a little longer but ultimately, this felt like the right path to take. I feel like some of this chapter is a little OOC (though my lovely friends have said maybe I'm just being paranoid) but whelp it was for the plot so! Like I said, ungodly hour chapters means barely any editing for now but I will go over and fix things later. In the meantime if y'all wanna point things out in terms of grammar and typos, please feel free. As always, let me know what you liked, what you didn't and what you'd like to see as this story comes to an end. Have a lovely rest of your day (night?) my loves <3

June 2033 

Azzi thinks she might have every detail of her rather uninteresting bedroom ceiling memorized by now. After all -for almost 3 weeks now-  instead of sleeping, all she’s done is stared up at it, her mind wandering off to a thousand places, all plagued with the same face. Azzi hadn’t thought it was possible for her heart to ache as much as it had the morning after the proposal, when the regret had hit and she’d rushed into Paige’s room, only to be told by KK that the older girl was gone. The days following had been torture, like enduring a heart attack over and over again, the pain crescendoing until she’d gone numb from it. 

But last time there had been no false notions, no open-ended goodbyes, just a clean break and somehow that had been easier to live with. These last few days -filled with the unbearable waiting of maybe today she’ll come back to me- have been worse. Perhaps it’s because of the innate hope flickering like a candle within her. And even though the flame of it seems to get smaller and dimmer every time she sees Paige and the older woman still can’t quite make the promise to stay, Azzi knows that until that hope of hers is either completely shattered or fulfilled, there is no moving on from this hurt. 

Sighing to herself, Azzi grabs for her phone. The screen lights up to countless notifications and she bites her lip when she notices the one from Clémence. Dinner had been uncannily awkward last night in a way that it had never been before when the French woman had been a much more frequent presence in her and her daughter’s life. But in between Azzi being completely lost in thoughts of her and Paige’s conversation in the locker room and Stephie somehow managing to find a way to relate every little detail back to Miss Buecks and her face-falling a little every time she did, well it was suffice to say even Clémence’s attempts as making the dinner more cheerful hadn’t been enough to make the evening less of a disaster. Azzi had almost let out a sigh of relief when she’d finally dropped the other woman off at the hotel, trying to not to wince when Clémence had leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek. But cleary she hadn’t been inconspicuous enough -and neither had Stephie, who’s voice had been rather devoid of her normal Clémence related cheer when she’d wished the Frenchwoman a goodnight- and the guilt from the way the other woman’s smile had faltered, still lingers in Azzi’s stomach. 

Chewing at her bottom lip, she swipes the text open. It’s a simple “it was good to see you two again.” and perhaps it doesn’t mean much -maybe Azzi’s doing that overthinking thing again- but there’s something about the formality of it, about the full stop at the end of the sentence feels rather definite. Azzi almost feels like she should apologize for something, perhaps for being so aloof last night or maybe even more. She knows that Clémence had wanted something else from her, had patiently waited for her to turn their relationship into something beyond just casual, something Azzi had never been ready to give to her. But it almost feels too late for any of that and so all she says is “it was good to see you too.” and she hopes that Clémence knows that despite everything, she means it. 

Throwing her phone back on the dresser and now feeling perhaps even worse than she had a couple minutes ago, Azzi pulls her blanket above her head, almost pleading with her brain to just shut off. She’s about to give into the impulsive urge to scream into her pillows, when instead her door creaks open and she immediately throws the comforter off of herself, reaching over to turn on her bedside lamp as she sits up straight on her bed. 

Stephie stands in the doorway, a fluffy teddy bear cuddled to her chest as she stares up at Azzi with big doey eyes and the older woman’s heart constricts when she sees the hint of sadness sitting heavily within them. Her little girl had been quiet all day -really since dinner last night. With today being a rare off day, the two of them had spent most of it lounging on the couch watching movies. But Azzi could tell something was off about Stephie. Her daughter, normally ever the commentator, had been dead silent, cuddling into her mother’s side and barely even chuckling at the comedy scenes. Truthfully, Stephie hadn’t been quite the same ever since they’d left Paige’s that morning -and with the amount of nights she’d snuck into Azzi’s room since, her mother had almost been expecting it tonight- but it seemed like something else had shifted last night. 

“C’mere baby girl,” Azzi says softly as she holds her arms open and Stephie dutifully climbs into them, burrowing her head into her mother’s chest, “what’s up?”

“Can’t sleep,” comes the muffled response from her daughter as Azzi gently rubs the little girl’s back, “can I sleep here with you?”

Azzi smiles, pressing a gentle kiss against Stephie’s hair, “of course you can sweetheart,” she whispers, before falling back into her pillows with her daughter still securely wrapped in her arms. 

She continues to brush her hands through Stephie’s hair, listening to the sound of her little girl breathing as she hums a lullaby. 

“Mama,” Stephie says tentatively, after a while. 

“Yeah Stephie-bean?”

“Yes-er-day when we were at dinner-,” the little girl swallows nervously and Azzi’s squeezes her shoulders, hoping it conveys that she’s listening, ready to hear whatever it is that’s been bothering the little girl, “yes-er-day at one of the other tables, I saw- I saw a woman with gold hair and she- she had it in a bun like- like the one Miss Buecks usually has.”

Azzi’s breath hitches, “go on sweetheart.”

“And she- she was-,” Stephie drops her voice down to a whisper, “she was kissing someone who looked a lot like you Mama.”

“Oh,” Azzi manages to get out as she feels her lungs compress. 

“And there was a little girl too and they both gave her lots of kisses too,” Stephie’s voice is small as she says the fact and Azzi has to bite her lips hard to keep in the sob that’s threatening to escape her lips. And she remembers the exact people Stephie’s talking about, remembers the way her heart panged as she’d seen the way three of them -the two women and their little girl- were practically giddy around each other. They’d looked almost like an exact replica of Paige, Azzi and Stephie, not that long ago. Azzi had, had to tear her eyes away from the scene, not wanting to let the tears that were dangerously close to her waterline slip down her cheeks. She hadn’t looked in their direction again. But Azzi hadn’t even imagined that maybe Stephie would’ve noticed that too, that her daughter would’ve felt the sting of the happy picture the same way she had. 

“Oh sweetheart-”

“My friend Anya has a Mama and a Mommy,” Stephie rushes out before Azzi can console her any further, “and my other friend Lena didn’t understand how that was poss-ble cause she has a Mommy and a Daddy like most of my other friends but Anya said it’s poss-ble and that her Mama and Mommy love each other just like Lena’s Mommy and Daddy love each other.”

“Anya’s right,” Azzi says softly, smiling at how simple children make everything sound even though she’s not quite sure where Stephie’s getting at with this story, “I’m sure her Mama and Mommy love each other a lot.”

“Anya says they kiss on the lips- just like- just like the women at the restaurant and like Nana and Pops or like Uncle José and Aunty Tully,” Stephie scrunches her nose as she finally untucks herself from Azzi’s chest, “Anya says that’s what people in love do but I think it’s kinda gross cause kissing on the lips looks kinda yucky.”

Azzi laughs, booping the little girl’s nose, “it does look a little funny.”

“But Anya says her Mommy and Mama do other things too. Like her Mama takes care of her Mommy when she’s sick and when her Mama cries over a movie, her Mommy laughs but then gives her Mama a big hug. And Anya says that sometimes when Anya’s Mama isn’t looking, Anya sees her Mommy looking at her Mama with a big smile,” Stephie stretches out her arms for emphasis as she climbs off of Azzi’s lap to sit on the bed next to her. 

“That sounds sweet,” Azzi says wistfully, still a little confused why she’s being told everything about Anya’s two mothers. 

There’s a moment of silence before Stephie drags in a deep breath as she stares intently at her mother, “I never seen you and Miss Buecks kiss, Mama.”

Her words loom in the air as Azzi’s mouth falls open, everything suddenly beginning to click, “Steph-”

“But when Miss Buecks was sick, I saw you make her soup and make her eat her med-cines even though Miss Buecks said they tasted yucky. And when you cry over Mr. Olaf melting in Frozen, Miss Buecks always says ‘Az you’re so silly, you’ve seen this so many times. How can you still cry at it?’”Stephie recites, doing an almost perfect impression that has Azzi’s letting out something in between a sob and a laugh. 

“But then she gives you a big hug anyways. And Mama,” the little girl continues, “when you’re not looking, I see Miss Buecks looking at you with this big, big, big, smile all the time.” 

“Stephie,” Azzi chokes out, trying to hold herself together. 

Her daughter looks at her with something almost like wonder, “you and Miss Buecks- you were just- you were just like Anya’s Mama and Mommy?”

“Yeah,” Azzi whispers, as she grasps the little girl’s hands in her own, bracing herself for whatever Stephie might say next, “yeah I guess we were.”

But Stephie doesn’t say anything for a while, sitting all quiet and contemplative for a moment until she slowly climbs back into her mother’s arms, resting her head right against Azzi’s chest. 

“Mama,” her voice is small when she finally does speak, “I really miss Miss Buecks.”

Azzi feels her heart constrict, finally losing the battle against her tears as they drip down her cheeks, and she tightens her grip on her daughter, “I know baby. I really miss her too.”

*** 

April 2025

“What are you doing?” panic filters into Azzi’s tone as she watches Paige slowly get down on one knee, her heart pulsating as she slowly begins to understand why her girlfriend had set this whole thing up. Really she should’ve known as soon as KK and Ice had excitedly bound into her room, mischievous knowing smirks on their faces as they’d made her change into something nice before practically dragging her onto the roof. She should’ve known when she’d seen the candles and the pink roses and Paige just a little too dressed up in the midst of it all, that this was more than just one of the older girl’s lavishly planned date nights. 

Paige smiles up at her, either not hearing the distress in the brunette’s voice or perhaps not quite understanding the gravity of it. She reaches for Azzi’s hands, soft fingers entwining with the younger girl’s like their holding onto a lifeline. An unfamiliar sensation builds in Azzi’s stomach, one she doesn’t think she’s ever felt in Paige’s presence before.  

“Paige,” she whispers helplessly. 

“I’ve got you baby,” Paige squeezes her hands gently, mistaking whatever it is that Azzi’s feeling, for simple nerves. 

But it’s not that. Azzi knows this unsettling feeling that’s tornadoing around her isn’t just nerves or butterflies or whatever else it is that one normally feels before a proposal. It’s something much, much worse. Something almost like dread. And Azzi can feel all those suppressed emotions that have been building for the last couple of weeks-the whispers of thoughts that she’d brushed away as nothing serious- suddenly rushing through her body and settling like a large, immovable lump at the back of her throat. 

She remembers the first time she’d felt it, that unfamiliar twist in her stomach. It had been at a press conference after some easily won Big East game with UConn’s Big Three sitting diligently at the media-table. And it had suddenly occurred to Azzi, just as they’d finished their media availability, that she’d been asked exactly one question about her own performance -a respectable 24/4/3 statline- from the pool of reporters. Every other question of the four that had been directed her way, had been about Paige. She’d come to a stop outside the press room, letting herself sit with the thought for a second until her girlfriend -with her bright blue eyes and just-for-Azzi smile- had come bounding up to her. And suddenly, as it always seemed to be when it came to Paige, Azzi couldn’t think about anything else anymore. Not when the blonde was lacing their fingers together and putting her lips dangerously close to her ears, whispering all the sinful things they could get up to that night.

But then it happened again two games later. One question about her own performance followed by a cycle of questions about Paige during a presser where the blonde wasn’t even in attendance. This time Azzi had thought about it a little longer but then she’d chided herself for it, chalking it up to her brain doing that overthinking thing again. It was natural to be asked about teammates, especially superstar, generational, teammates who were likely to go #1 in the upcoming WNBA draft. 

And then it happened again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Until it was the Elite Eight and Azzi found herself, after a 28/5/4 statline and two clutch free throws to win it all, still somehow fielding more questions about Paige -and how the blonde had impacted Azzi’s game and recovery and their relationship as best friends- than about her own performance. 

That’s when she’d finally begun to understand what that twist in her stomach had been. She’d felt sick at the idea that it could be envy -how could she ever be jealous of her Paige’s success- but she’d understood then, almost gawking at the reporter who’d had the audacity to ask her, her fourth Paige-related question that night, that it wasn’t that. Maybe it would’ve been easier if it was. 

It was fear. 

The fear that her own identity in the basketball world was slowly withering away under the weight of her relationship. 

“Hey,” Paige’s voice feels like it’s coming from a distance even though she’s right in front of Azzi and the brunette swallows hard as she tries to pry herself away from her thoughts to focus on her girlfriend. 

“Paige,” she whispers back helplessly, as her eyes begin to water. 

Every time Azzi had imagined Paige proposing -the first time had been when she was 15 and she’d woken up from the dream, almost shaking but still filled with the serene calmness that came from knowing something was inevitable- she had always in fact pictured tears in her own eyes. 

But not like this. 

Because these little droplets cascading down her cheeks that Paige’s fingers diligently reach up to wipe away aren’t the tears of a girl whose dreams to marry her best friend -the love of her life- are coming true. They’re the tears of a girl who’s bracing herself for an inevitable fight when she puts her career before a relationship, when her head wins this fight against her heart. 

Blissfully unaware, Paige continues on, “I’ve um- I’ve thought of this a million times. Actually maybe a billion or a trillion or quadrillion. Point is I’ve been thinking about it pretty much ever since I met you.”

Stop, Azzi thinks but all that comes out is a whimper. 

“So you’d think, considering I’ve thought about it that many times, I’d have an actual speech prepared or something. And I did you know. I uh- I wrote one and then I hated it so I deleted it all and then I wrote another and then I deleted that one too,” Paige laughs and the sound of it, that had once felt like a warm blanket shrouding all of Azzi’s senses, now feels a lot like a wintry chill settling around her body. 

“And what I realized,” there’s moisture pooling in the blonde’s own eyes now, “is that I don’t need a speech. I don’t need hundreds of words. I just need three. I love you,” Paige presses a kiss against Azzi’s knuckles and the other girl shudders, “I love you so fucking much Azzi Fudd. And I’m gonna love you for the rest of my life.”

She lets go of the brunette’s hands to retrieve a black velvet box from her pockets and Azzi bites her lip so hard, the metallic taste of blood overwhelms her taste buds. 

“Azzi Jazlyn Fudd,” Paige says softly, flicking open the box to reveal a heart-cut diamond ring, “will you marry me?”

“No,” it comes out so soft, almost blending with the wind, that for a second even Azzi doubts she’d said it. 

“”What?”

Azzi clears her throat, “no.”

“No?” Paige repeats, blinking up at her with a mixture of confusion and anticipatory dread. 

“No,” Azzi says again, her voice much stronger now as she takes a step back, the tears freely falling from her cheeks. 

“I don’t- I don’t understand,” Paige, still on one knee, stumbles a little as she tries to formulate the right words, “you- you don’- no?,” her eyebrows furrow in confusion, “you don’t want to marry me?”

I do, Azzi wants to scream. 

“I can’t,” she says. 

Paige stares up at her, something akin to disbelief etched across her beautiful features, “what does that even fucking mean you can’t?”

“I just-” Azzi struggles against the jumble of thoughts in head as she tries to piece together a coherent sentence, “I can’t.”

“Bullshit,” Paige snarls. 

“Paige-”

“Do not Paige me,” the older girl seethes, her expression darkening, “you better fucking explain yourself.”

“I- I will,” Azzi stutters, trying to make herself small as she wraps her arms around herself, “can you- just,” she eyes Paige, who’s still kneeling one one knee, “can you please- please just stand up.”

Paige flinches, like Azzi has asked her to shoot an arrow into her own soul. And maybe she had. But she does as asked. The blonde’s movements are reluctant, almost like it pains her to stand up and when she does, the distance she puts between her and Azzi can’t be more than a few meters, but it feels like it stretches the length of an ocean. 

“Explain,” Paige says scathingly.

“I just-” Azzi takes in a deep breath, barely able to meet her girlfriend’s eyes as she forces out the next words, “I don’t want to be known as just your wife.”

Paige lets out an expected noise of protest, “you wouldn’t-”

“You don’t know that,” Azzi cuts her off with a pointed look, “because right now- right now sometimes it feels like all I am is just Paige Bueckers’ best friend. It doesn't matter how many points I score or how many defensive moves I make on the court or whatever else I do on the court, somehow it all leads back to you. And it makes me feel-,” she chokes on the next words, the acidity of them leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, “I feel invisible.”

“Azzi-”

The brunette holds up a hand, needing to finish what she’s saying before she fully succumbs to her emotions, “sometimes- sometimes my entire career at UConn so far feels like- like it’s just an extension of yours. Paige you- you get to be Paige. Just Paige. The superstar. You get to go to entire pressers not having to answer a single question about me or our friendship. You get to have entire articles written about you that have just a throwaway line about me and not have half of it be dedicated to how I’m the driving force behind your success. And that’s how it should be because- because as much as we rely on each other, your success is still yours. But sometimes it feels like mine isn’t mine.”

“I’m sor-”

“No!” Azzi cuts Paige off loudly when the older girl tries to apologize, guilt flashing in her eyes, “it’s not your fault Paige. You- you’re my biggest cheerleader. You always have been. But I just- I need to have my own identity. And that’s already been so hard being known as just your best friend. It’s only going to get worse if I-” she stops, unable to say the rest but even unspoken, it lingers in the air. 

If I become your fiancé. 

 “I need next year to be different,” Azzi says instead, “I need it to be my year. Just mine. Just for once, I just want to be known as Azzi.”

“It will be,” there’s a newfound conviction replacing the previous anger in the blonde’s voice as she takes a deliberate step towards Azzi. Bolstered when the other girl doesn’t instinctively move back, she takes another one and then another and another, until the seemingly never-ending distance between them disappears. 

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Paige says softly as she gently holds one of Azzi’s hands between her own, “and I hate- I hate that you feel this way. But it’ll be different next year when we’re not on the same team anymore right? Out of sight out of mind type shit? They won’t- they won’t ask you about me or make everything you do about me anymore-”

“You don’t know that-”

The older girl continues like she didn’t hear the interruption, “I just- I just don’t understand why you can be known as my girlfriend but not my-” she swallows, “but not my wife? Because Az- when we come out-,” the girl in questions flinches and Paige pauses, her expression falters at the movement. 

A deadly silence clouds the air and it’s April in Connecticut and the spring breeze is just the right temperature. But as Paige slowly lets go of her hands, realization dawning on her face, Azzi thinks she’s never felt colder in her life. 

“You- you don’t-” the blonde looks at her almost accusingly as she takes a step back, “you don’t want to come out?”

“Paige-”

“Answer the fucking question Azzi.”

Azzi casts her eyes downwards, digging her fingers as deeply into her palms as possible, “no, no I don’t.”

“I see,” Paige says slowly, her tone dangerously low, “and how long have you felt this way Az?”

“I-I-” the brunette stutters nervously, “I made- I made the decision after the Elite Eight.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Paige says calmly. 

“I don’t- I don’t understand-”

“How long Azzi?” the blonde sneers, “how long have you had all the fucking doubts about your identity and our relationship? How long have you been questioning everything about us? How long have you bee going through this whole fucking decision-making process about our future?”

“That’s not-”

“Oh no,” Paige interrupts harshly, “that’s exactly it. That’s exactly what you were doing. So tell me. How. Long?”

Azzi gulps nervously, “since the game at home versus Nova.”

Paige blinks at her, “three months? Three fucking months Azzi. You’ve been feeling this way for three months and you didn’t once think that maybe you should tell me? That maybe we should talk about it?”

“I didn’t know,” Azzi says helplessly, “I didn’t even understand it myself Paige. I didn’t know what I was feeling. I didn’t even know there was something to discuss.”

“But clearly you did figure it out, Azzi. Because I know you and I know you didn’t make this decision without figuring your emotions out, so why not come to me then? Why not tell me as soon as possible. God fucking hell Azzi- when even were you gonna tell me?” Paige yells, all pretence of calm gone from her body, “if I- if tonight hadn’t happened, when would you have even told me?”

Azzi doesn’t say anything and Paige shakes her head, starting to pace around the rooftop. 

“We had a plan Azzi. We’ve had a plan for four years. As soon as one or both of us was out of UConn, that was it. No more hiding. No more secrets. Just you and and me and we weren’t gonna care who the fuck knew about it,” the blonde pinches the bridge of her nose, “and you’re telling me that for three month- three fucking months- you’ve been questioning that whole fucking plan while I remained oblivious as fuck? Azzi all I’ve done these past few months is tell you how fucking excited I was about being able to call you my girl in front ov everyone. How excited I was to hold you in public and for us to just be us without giving a fuck who could see. And you just,” Paige’s voice breaks, “you let me. You let me do all of that- feel all of that. You let me be hopeful for a future that you weren’t even sure you could see for us.”

Azzi looks away, that rock of guilt settled in her stomach starting to get heavier and heavier with each word that leaves Paige’s mouth, “I’m just asking for a little bit more time Paige.”

“And what happens if that time doesn’t go the way you want it to Az?” Paige asks sadly, “what if we survive the next year but you decide that you can’t be attached to me to start your W career?”

“That won’t happen-”

“You don’t know that,” a sardonic smile appears on the blonde’s face, “I can’t keep hiding forever Azzi. All I’ve done is love you in secret. I can’t- I don’t- I won’t do that forever.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Azzi bursts out, her defensiveness suddenly translating into a burst of anger, “I am asking you for a little bit of time. Not even a whole year anymore. Just a little bit of time for me to establish my own identity and honestly Paige if you can’t even give me that- if you can’t understand why I need this time- then maybe-” she stops herself, eyes widening at the words -word she’d never even expected herself to think of - that are now sitting, like burning embers, on the tip of her tongue. 

“Then maybe what?” Paige asks slowly, but there’s an almost resigned tinge to her tone that suggests she already knows. 

“No,” Azzi shakes her head, turning away from the older girl’s piercing gaze. She looks down at the ground, still covered in rose petals. The wax of the glittering candles littered between them has melted onto them, causing their pink hue to turn into a darker shade of red. And it’s like there’s blood scattered on the remnants of Paige’s perfect proposal. 

“Say it Azzi-”

“No-”

“Say it.”

“I don’t want to,” Azzi covers her ears and she wishes this were a nightmare, wishes she could open her eyes and find herself waking up in Paige’s arms. Warm and soft and loved. 

“Godfuckingdammit Azzi,” Paige yells, “just say it. If I can’t understand why you need time then maybe we should what?” she repeats, waiting for the brunette to finish her own sentence. 

Azzi whimpers, continuing to shake her head, “Paige please.”

“Just. Fucking. Say. It.”

The younger girl swallows, “then maybe we should end it.”

Another beat of silence. 

“Maybe we should,” Paige’s voice is gravelly and Azzi doesn’t dare turn around, not ready to see the heartbroken expression -or worse, perhaps the nonchalant one- on the older girl’s face, “if after all we’ve been through, if it’s so easy for you to think those words. Then maybe we should- maybe we should end it.”

And Azzi thinks for the rest of her life she will wonder what she should have done next. If she should’ve said something or if -when she hears those retreating footsteps- if she should’ve run after her. She thinks, for the rest of her life, she will look back on this moment and dissect every single second of it, that she will wish for the time machine to go back and stop herself from doing and saying so many of the things she had on the rooftop that night. 

But Paige walks away. 

And Azzi doesn’t do anything to stop her. 

It isn’t until the morning after -when her head does finally catch up to her heart and all she can feel is that unfamiliar sting of regret- and she races into the apartment downstairs and Ice’s expression is filled with sadness and KK’s glare is filled with accusation, that she finds out just how far Paige had gone away from her and Azzi realizes, she’s just a little too late. 

*** 

June 2033 

There’s a redhead and a brunette, holding hands and chatting quietly as they wait outside the school. The two women are clearly entrenched in their own world -sharing those warm gazes and bright smiles that Azzi’s just a little too familiar with- blissfully unaware that they are currently being stared at. Actually, perhaps glared at is a more accurate statement because there’s a clear tinge of envy running down Azzi’s spine as her eyes remain laser-focused on the scene in front of her. She hadn’t meant to be doing this of course -nobody really plans to come to pick up their daughter from school and somehow end up stink-eying said daughter’s friends parents for being too in love. But as fate would have it, somehow from where she’s parked, Azzi has a perfect view of Anya, infamous Mommy and Mama. 

They’re sickeningly cute.

And Azzi fucking hates them.  

It’s unfair of her to feel this way; she knows that. But watching them lead the life she’d always imagined for herself, is more difficult now than it ever has been when Azzi had seen them before in passing. Back then, it was just a dull ache of something she craved but knew she’d turned away herself. But now- now she’s had a taste of that life; had gotten to live it out -even if just for a second- with the girl she’d always dreamed of living it with. Until one night and a series of revelations had snatched it all away, and now Azzi’s left with nothing but the bitter feeling of waiting to see if she’ll get that back forever or if it had really only ever been meant to be a fleeting moment in her life. 

A sigh of longing escapes her as she watches Anya go rushing into her mothers’ arms, the two of them catching her in perfect sync. She has the resentful urge to scoff at the scene. It’s all so goddamn dramatic for three people who see each other every day. Except Azzi’s mind is filled with memories that are almost exact replicas of the scene in front of her; just with different faces. 

“Hi Mama,” it isn’t until the backdoor opens and Stephie’s voice fills the car that Azzi finally tears her eyes away from Anya’s family. 

“Hey baby,” she choruses back, turning around in her seat to make sure her daughter is buckling herself in correctly, “how was your day?”

“It was okay,” Stephie shrugs and Azzi feels her heart plummet at how nonchalant the little girl sounds. She misses the sound of her daughter ranting about just how booooring school is, and thinks she wouldn’t even try to reprimand her if Stephie deemed school useless like she used to. Azzi just wants her ball of sunshine, talks-a-mile-per-minute child back because this meek, quiet little girl in the back feels like a shell of who Stephie used to be. 

“You excited for Mama’s game tonight?” Azzi presses as she starts to back out of the parking lot, almost relieved when it seems to cause Stephie to sit up a little straighter. 

“You’re- you’re playing the Liberty right?” the little girl asks quietly, “that’s- that’s where Miss Buecks wanna go? New York?”

Azzi freezes at the question, trying to keep her hands steady on the wheel as she hums in agreement. 

“They’re a good team right? Lots of champ-ships and stuff?” Stephie continues. 

“Yeah,” Azzi clears her throat, “it’s uh- it’s definitely gonna be a good game.”

“Anya’s Grammy and Grandpa live in New York. Not the city-city but close to it,” Stephie says after a moment, “Anya says New York’s really nice. She’s been there lots and lots of times to see her Grammy and Grandpa forChristmas. And she- she says when she went, it snowed lots and lots.”

Despite herself Azzi smiles as her mind drifts to memories of cold Northeast winters. For the most part, they had been filled with dreary chills and darky rainy days. But then amidst it all, there had been a couple rare days of snow and when she’d been at UConn, her teammates had taken full advantage. And just like most of her memories of those years, Paige is front and center of these ones too. The blonde had never been nearly as enamored with the snow as Azzi was, and she definitely wasn’t enamored by it at seven in the morning when the brunette would wake her up squealing that it had in fact snowed and the world around them was white. Despite her grumbling, Paige had still let Azzi bundle the both of them up in winter clothes and drag her outside. And her faux irritated expression hds slowly morphed into one of admiration as she’d flicked the snow off the younger girl’s eyelashes, pulling her closer by her scarf because Azzi I’m so cold, you have to kiss me to keep me warm baby. 

“We don’t get snow here,” Stephie says thoughtfully, unaware of the path down memory lane her mother had just taken.��

“No, no we don’t,” Azzi says, almost wistfully. 

“It would- it would be nice to live somewhere with lots of snow,” Stephie ponders out loud and her mother’s eyes widen as she starts to understand where this is going, “like- like in New York.”

“We could- we could have snowball fight and make snowmen like Mr. Olaf and snow angels and everything else you do in snow,” the little girl’s voice gets increasingly more and more high-pitched in excitement, “it would be so fun Mama.”

“Steph-”

“And Anya said that- that- that- she’d even visit me like she visits her Grammy and Grandpa. She promised Mama, she promised she’d come see me if I lived in New York-”

“Honey no,” Azzi cuts her daughter off heartbrokenly, “we are not going to live in New York. 

“But Mama, Miss Buecks-”

“Stephie stop-”

“No Mama listen,” Stephie protests indignantly, “Mama what if- what if Miss Buecks really needs to be in New York. What if it’s impo-tant. And that’s- that’s why she can’t stay here. With us. Not cause she doesn’t want to but cause she can’t. But Mama just because Miss Buecks can’t say doesn’t mean we can’t go Mama.”

“Sweetheart-”

“And you- you just said the Liberty is a good team and you’re such a good player Mama. I think you’d be good on their team too. And I- I really, really like the Valk-ries and I would really miss Aunty J and Aunty Tessie and Aunty Joy but if you- if you and Miss Buecks played for the Liberty- I know I’d like them too. And I’m sure Nana and Pops and Uncle Jon and Uncle Jose and Aunty Tully would come visit us lots and lots and I wouldn’t even miss them lots cause they’d visit so much. I just know it. It could work Mama- I know it could.”

“Stephanie,” Azzi's voice is louder than she’d meant it to be as she pulls onto their street, “sweetheart, we are not moving to New York.”

“But Mama-” the little girl whines. 

“No Stephie. That’s just-” Azzi swallows the sob stuck in her throat, “that’s now how the world works.”

“But what if I want it to work that way?” Stephie asks softly with all the innocence of a five-year old as she meets her mother’s eyes in the rearview mirror. 

“Oh baby,” Azzi’s so caught up in her daughter’s earnest wishful thinking that she doesn’t even notice there’s another oh-so-familiar car parked in her driveway until she almost crashes into it. 

“That’s Miss Buecks car,” Stephie whispers softly, craning her neck to get a better view. Her eyes widen in tandem with her mother’s as they both catch sight of the same thing at the same time. 

It’s Paige. 

Paige, whose eyes are sunken in and red-rimmed. Paige, whose hair is tossed back into a messy bun -looking like it’s been in that same one for days- with little loose strands falling out of it. Paige, whose entire body is hunched over as she sits on their front porch, holding a grey hoodie close to her chest. Paige, whose hands are fidgeting with themselves because she can never sit still, especially when she’s nervous. Paige, who looks up just as Azzi parks her car -whose staring at the both of them like they’re still her everything. Paige, who despite it all, still looks like the most beautiful woman in the world. 

Paige, who’s here. 

It’s Stephie who recovers from the shock of seeing Paige first, the click of her seatbelt being unclasped pulling Azzi out of her own trance. The little girl pushes her door open, getting out of her car seat with quickness as she stumbles out of the car. 

“Careful sweetheart,” Azzi calls out immediately but Stephie isn't listening, already rushing up the pathway as Paige -her expression hopeful- stands up at the sight of the child running towards. 

It isn’t until Stephie hesitates, coming to a halt just a couple of meters away from Paige, that Azzi draws in a deep breath and gets out of the car herself. Unlike her daughter, her steps are much slower, her movement hesitant and guarded. She knows this is it; knows that this is when all that waiting she’s done in the past few weeks will finally be over, that Paige is either here to fulfill a dream or to start a nightmare. 

Azzi walks up the pathway until she’s right behind Stephie, one of her hands instinctively reaching out to hold her daughter’s shoulder, conveying two messages. One to Stephie, a promise that no matter what happens now, she’ll still always have Azzi. The other to Paige is an unspoken message from a protective mother, silently begging her that if she is here to break their hearts, to break Stephie’s gently. 

“Hi,” Paige’s voice is croaky when she speaks, her eyes flickering nervously between the mother and daughter in front of her. 

Azzi clears her throat, willing herself to reply, “hey,” she pauses, continuing only when the older woman keeps her own mouth shut, shuffling her feet nervously, “do you- do you want to come in?”

“Yes,” Paige says, her cheeks reddening at how quickly the word leaves her mouth and that almost makes Azzi smile. 

She nods at the older woman, her hand travelling from Stephie’s shoulder to instead hold her hand as they walk up the steps together. Azzi’s shoulder brushes against Paige’s as she moves past the blonde to open her door and electricity courses through her veins. From the way Paige gasps, the brunette is sure she must’ve felt it too. It crackles in the air as Azzi unlocks the door, her brain feeling foggy at the mere feeling of having Paige so close after so long. 

The three of them walk quietly towards the living room, Stephie’s hands still clasped in Azzi’s and Paige following closely behind them. The little girl’s grip is tight and despite how young she is, Azzi knows just how perceptive Stephie is. She’s just as aware of this moment as the adults are, realizes it just as much as they do, that they’ve reached a crossroad and the path they take -a path determined by whatever Paige chooses- will shape their future together or apart. 

“I um- I- well- the thing is- I-,” Paige breaks the silence first, stuttering over her words before letting out a soft sigh She closes her eyes for a second and when she opens them, there are little droplets of water on the edges of her eyelashes. 

“I really missed you guys,” she confesses in a whisper, her voice breaking throughout. 

There’s a second of silence as her words linger in the air and Azzi feels Stephie’s hand slip away from her own and the little girl almost stumbles over her own feet as she races towards Paige, the older woman’s arms immediately opening to catch her and as she kneels down to pull Stephie into her her chest. It’s like the blonde’s confession had broken a dam, and the water that came rushing through it, had washed away the last little bit of pretence of nonchalance that Stephie had been holding onto. 

For the last few weeks, every time Azzi’s little girl had seen Paige, be it when she accompanied her mother to a practice or when she was on the sidelines at a game, Stephie had ignored the blonde, maintaining the same angry façade as the one she’d had the morning after that night. But Azzi had seen that resolve weaken over time; had seen Stephie’s eyes linger just a little bit longer on Miss Buecks with that familiar look of yearning. And Azzi had known that resolve was almost completely gone, in the car, when Stephie had all but begged her to consider moving to New York if that was the only way they were going to be able to keep Paige in their lives. 

She feels her own set of tears prickling in her eyes as she takes in the scene in front of her. Stephie’s face is pressed into Paige’s neck, the blonde has one arm wrapped around the little girl’s waist and the other other gently brushing through her hair. Their grip on each other is tight with barely any space for air between them, tears freely streaming down both of their faces. 

“I missed you too Miss Buecks,” Stephie sobs and Azzi notices the way Paige’s hold on her tightens at the familiar nickname, “missed you so much.”

“Me too Stephie-bean,” Paige affirms as she coaxes the little girl’s face out of her neck, cupping it in her hands, “I’m so sorry sweetheart. So, so, sorry. I missed you so, so, so, so much,” she says, punctuating each word with a kiss to Stephie’s face in between. 

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie looks down nervously, her fingers playing with the collar of Paige’s t-shirt, “can me and Mama come to New York with you?”

“Stephie!” Azzi exclaims as Paige’s eyes widen. 

“Wh-what?” the blonde asks softly as she searches the little girl’s face in confusion.

“I don’t want you to go,” Stephie says quietly, “but if you have to- then can we come with you?”

“Oh sweetheart,” there’s disbelief in Paige’s tone, something almost akin to awe as she tilts Stephie’s chin to make the little girl look back at her. 

“My friend Anya says New York’s nice,” Stephie rambles, repeating what she’d been telling her mother in the car, “and-and-and she says there’s lots and lots of snow and I told Mama that I think it will be nice to live in lots and lots of snow. Mama hasn’t said yest,” the little girl briefly looks back at Azzi with a sheepish look on her face before turning back to Paige, “but I know- I know we could cov-ince her because Miss Buecks, Mama’s missed you so, so, so much too.”

“Has she?” Paige asks, her eyes flickering to Azzi who’s trying desperately to keep her face neutral as she keeps her own gaze firmly fixated on a picture of her daughter on top of the mantle. 

“She has,” Stephie confirms, before using a finger against the older woman’s cheek to get her to return her attention back to her, “so can we come with you? Please.”

Paige slowly tucks a strand of hair behind the child’s ears as she shakes her head, “no.”

“N-no?” Stephie’s bottom lip trembles at the rejection, “why not? Why can’t we go to New York with you?”

“Because nobody’s going to New York, Stephie-bean,” Paige says firmly and Azzi’s eyes shoot towards the blonde, her lips parting slightly as she processes the meaning behind her words, her heart beginning to race with anticipation. 

“Nobody?” Stephie repeats as a question, her little voice filled with hope. 

Instead of answering, Paige grabs the grey hoodie she’d brought with her that had fallen to the ground. She gently un-scrunches it, holding out the sleeve of it for Stephie to look at. Azzi cranes her head curiously to get a better look of it, squinting her eyes when she notices something written in washed-out black ink. 

“You probably don’t remember this because you were a lot littler when it happened,” there’s a teasing smile of Paige’s face as she uses the incorrect word, “but the first time you ever spoke to me properly, you told me, that your Mama says that one day, you’re gonna be an even better basketball player than she is.”

Stephie beams, “Mama says I’m gonna be the best in the world today.”

Paige chuckles, “I believe it and I believed it then too. That’s why,” she points down at the hoodie, her fingers brushing over the material so delicately, like it’s one of her most treasured possessions, “that’s why I had you sign my hoodie.”

“You asked for my auto-graph?” Stephie’s eyes glint and perhaps she doesn’t quite remember what Paige is talking about exactly, but Azzi can tell that it’s stirred up recollections of something. 

“Yeah- yeah I did. And you said, ‘silly Miss Buecks, I’m not famous’ and I said, ‘but if you’re as good at basketball as you say you are, then one day, you will be. Just like me and your Mama.’ And I meant it. You’re gonna be so- so great one day sweetheart. I know you are,” Paige says with conviction as her thumbs lightly caressing Stephie’s cheeks, “and I- I wanna be right here every step of the way, I wanna be right here to watch you grow up and become the great player -the great woman- that you’re destined to be.”

“You mean it?” Stephie asks, her eyes shining with a fresh new set of tears.

Paige nods, delicately wiping her thumbs under the little girl’s lower eyelid, “I do. I wanna be here, with you and- and your Mama,” she raises her head toward Azzi, mustering a watery smile, “I want to stay. Forever. If you’ll have me.”

Azzi lets out a staggered breath she didn’t know she’d been holding as her eyes remain locked with Paige’s. And suddenly, after eight years spent feeling unfulfilled -eight years spent with this constant sense of being incomplete-, hearing Paige finally say she wants to stay forever, feels a little bit like as if that missing part of Azzi has finally returned back to where it rightfully belongs. 

A loud squeal echoes throughout the living room as Stephie leaps back into Paige’s arms, a large smile stretching the length of her whole face as she buries her face back into the crevice between the blonde’s shoulder and her neck. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” the little girl chirps excitedly, “of course we’ll have you. Of course, of course, of course,” Stephie says in delight before she turns herself slightly in Paige’s grasp, arms still around the other woman’s neck as she looks imploringly at Azzi, “right Mama?”

Azzi doesn’t say anything, pursing her lips as she tears her gaze away from the two people in front of her. 

“Mama?” Stephie presses. 

“Give me a second Stephie-bean,” Paige whispers to the little girl, bumping her head against her temple. 

From the corner of her eyes, Azzi watches as the blonde disentangles herself from Stephie, before slowly getting to her feet and walking towards the younger woman. 

“Az-”

“It’s been almost three weeks-”

“It’s been two weeks, six days, five hours and around fourteen minutes,” Paige shrugs, a hint of a smile playing on her face, “give or take a few minutes.

Azzi continues to look away from her, trying to keep her face devoid of emotion, “still took you a really long time to decide you were gonna stay.”

“Well I’m an idiot,” Paige says matter-of-factly and Stephie snickers behind her, “you know me Az. Sometimes these things- they take me a little while to understand.”

“I told you we wouldn’t wait forever,” Azzi says softly. 

“I didn’t make you wait forever,” Paige reaches out to gently grab her chin between her thumb and index, turning the brunette’s face towards her, “just needed a little bit of time.”

“You didn’t give me time,” Azzi accuses and the blonde flinches. 

“I know. I- I should’ve. Should’ve don’t a lot of things differently when it comes to us but I didn’t and I- I can’t change that but Azzi, I promise, I promise I’ll do everything right this time,” keeping one hand cupped around Azzi’s cheek, Paige uses the other to guide one of the brunette’s hands to rest against her chest, “I swear.”

Azzi swallows, feeling the quick rhythm of Paige’s heartbeat under her fingertips, “how do I know you won’t run away again?”

“Because I trust you,” the blonde whispers, “I trust you to stay and I trust you not to break my heart again. And that- that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared anymore- cause I am. Not a lot but definitely still a little bit. But someone once told me that, trusting is really scary but that maybe- maybe it would be a lot less scary, if we did together.”

“They sound like a really smart person,” Azzi bites her lip, “you should probably listen to them more often.”

Paige chuckles, “well if uh- if they give me the chance, I think I’d listen to them for the rest of my life.”

Azzi shudders and she doesn’t know if it’s from the earnestness of the words spoken or the strength of the emotions in the blonde’s gaze that’s still completely transfixed on her. 

“What about New York?” she asks finally. 

“I called the whole thing off,” Paige states nonchalantly, “I had Talia call Jonathan Kolb last night and I explained everything to Ohemaa this morning. Everyone’s on the same page. There is no deal anymore.”

“You-” Azzi gapes at the girl in front of her, “you- you already called the whole thing off?”

“I did,” Paige confirms, not a hint of regret in her voice, “I don’t need an escape plan.”

“You called it off before even talking to me?” Azzi asks, knitting her eyebrows together, “you didn’t even know how this was gonna go.”

“I already told you. I trust you,” Paige says simply, “I believe in us Az and I really hope you still believe in us too.”

The words are barely out of Paige’s mouth before Azzi’s crashing into her, the weight of her body sending the blonde staggering back a few steps before her hands steadily secure themselves around the younger woman’s waist. A slightly surprised gasp escapes Paige until the sound of it is stolen by Azzi pressing her lips against the older woman’s. Despite her initial surprise, Paige kisses Azzi back with equal fervor, both of them pouring the myriad of suppressed emotions between them the last few weeks into it. And it feels like a cliché, like coming home. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Paige breaks away first, eyes widening as she slowly turns around to look at Stephie who’s practically vibrating with happiness as she watches the two of them, “Stephie-”

“She already knows,” Azzi says with a slight grin, shaking her head fondly at just how joyful her little girl looks. 

 “You told her?” Paige looks between the mother and daughter. 

Stephie smirks triumphantly, “I figured it out myself Miss Buecks.”

“Of course you did smarty pants,” Paige smiles at the little girl but Azzi knows her well enough -is still so in tune with every little bit of Paige despite the time apart- to see the small hint of disappointment behind it. 

“I would’ve told her myself if she hadn’t,” Azzi says quietly and Paige turns back around to face her. 

“What?”

“I love you,” Azzi says and she swears no three words have ever sounded as right on her lips, as those three do, “I love you,” she repeats again and she can feel Paige’s hands shaking as they instinctively tighten their grip on her waist, “I love you so much Paige Madison Bueckers and I want everybody to know it. Stephie, our families, our friends, our teammates, the whole world. I love you and I never wanna hide that. I want everybody to know that you’re mine and I’m yours. Forever.”

A strangled sob escapes Paige’s mouth as she presses her forehead against Azzi’s, “I love you too. I love you, so, so, so much. I’ve loved you since the beginning and I’m gonna love you till the very end. Forever.”

Their lips meet in a searing kiss and it’s unclear if they’re both crying more or giggling more, as they hold each other as tightly as possible. And this isn’t their first kiss, far from it- far closer to being their millionth or so- but still it feels like a fresh new start, a brand new love story but with that same old special, all-consuming, forevermore love that has always connected them to each other. The one that had never gone away, no matter how long they’d been apart. 

“Ahem, ahem,” an exaggerated cough breaks them apart and the two of them turn their heads at the same time to see Stephie looking dramatically at them, her hands on her hips. 

  “So, Mama loves Miss Buecks and Miss Buecks loves Mama. What about Stephie?” she pouts, exaggeratedly stomping her foot. 

Paige and Azzi both laugh, removing themselves from each other just enough to crouch down and open their arms out for Stephie, beckoning for her to join their embrace. The little girl’s attempt at a sour expression is immediately replaced by a cheerful grin as she runs into their arms, tiny hands somehow managing to wrap around both of their necks. 

“You know we love you the most Stephie,” Paige whispers into the little girl’s hair, who lets out a content sigh as she burrows herself further into the two women’s arms. 

Azzi hums in agreement, closing her eyes as she leans her head against her daughter’s, feeling Paige’s fingers intertwine with her behind Stephie’s back. And then it’s quiet for a while, nothing but the sound of the three of them breathing and their hearts beating together in sync. Azzi feels at peace, her mind completely calm, no longer overthinking anything. 

Because now she finally has everything. 

Paige, Stephie, and the promise of a world the three of them can build together, it’s everything. 

[pomegranatkisses]

rin nsfw alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

he’s pretty quiet after everything but he’s gonna take care of you. he’ll bring you water and a snack. might run a bath for you as well if you want.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

he loves his hands. he’s not much of a talker duting sex so he’ll usually comfort and reassure you by holding your hand, rubbing your back or just keeping you steady.

he likes you hands just as much. he likes holding them and kissing them. he also loves having you jerk him off. he will pay for your nails because he thinks it just highlights how pretty they are.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

he likes pulling out and cumming on your stomach. when he does cum inside you, he’s gonna eat you out just to ‘clean you up.’

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

to tie in with the last part, he doesn’t actually do that to clean you up. he enjoys eating you out to watch you squirm and sometimes just wants to listen to your moans when you cum again.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he’s at least decently experienced. like he hasn’t done that much, considering he’s extremely focused on soccer, so the fact that you managed to get into a relationship with him was an impressive feat on its own. he’s maybe been with like two girls before you but didn’t actually go that far with them.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

either missionary or will sometimes want you to ride him. he likes being in control but he sometimes like watching you do the work until you get tired and beg him to take control.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

he’s pretty serious and doesn’t really joke. he’s kind of quiet so don't expect many jokes.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

very well groomed. he’s generally a pretty well groomed person, and he tends to keep it trimmed.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

very attentive but very quiet. foreplay king. also after everything he’s very caring and will take care of you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

doesn’t masturbate much, he actually didn’t really think about it much until he met you. he’s definitely the kind of persons to make recordings and take pictures so he can jack off to them later (he has a shoebox under his bed with pictures of you during sex, all of which were consensual)

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

not a very kinky person, but he definitely has an overstim kink. he’s loves overstimulating you and isnt very secretive about it.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

at home. i fell like he wouldn’t be super adventurous, but he definitely has had car sex with you. (he would 100% have sex with you in the locker room but is kinda possessive and would probably beat the shit out of one of his teammates if they saw you)

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

your reactions. like he absolutely loves hearing your moans, watching you squirm and how you react to things.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

anything that intense or like too out there. also would hate sharing, vouyerism, anything like that. hes so possessive, like not in a toxic way, but definitely hates other guys that talk to you. he wont make you cut them off but that doesnt mean he has to like them.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

usually doesn’t care that much for giving or receiving, but he will eat you out with the purpose of making you orgasm again because you have the cutest reactions.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

he is fast, but not rough. he will be attentive to weather or not his pace is comfortable for you but is generally on the faster side.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

hates quickies with a passion. will not at all. he likes taking his time and loves drawing multiple orgasms out of you. if an event is optional he will cancel it just so he doesn’t have to have one. if he tried to have a quickie, he’d probably just lose track of time and it wouldn’t even be a quickie anymore.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

not particularly interested in experimenting. he already feels like he knows what he likes and thinks experimenting if kind of a waste when he could just do what he already likes.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

has a lot of stamina but usually needs to wait a little between rounds.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

does not own toys. he doesn’t see the point in buying them for himself. he knows that anything toys can do he can get the same reaction from you by himself.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

doesn’t tease very much. he’s very direct with what he wants.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

not very loud and doesn’t talk much. it’s a bit different when he’s closer to cumming though. he’ll let out low groans and mumble praises into you skin as he gets close.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

takes pictures of you during and after sex. some are on his phone but he has a box of polaroids taken with a camera under his bed. has like a ton of them.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

big dick energy for real. he’s about 6 and a half inches and super thick.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

he doesn’t have a super high sex drive but he does get in the mood a lot more since he has you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

usually doesn’t get super tired but will hold and stay with you until you fall asleep. sometimes he might fall asleep with you.

© pomegranatkisses, please don’t copy, steal, or translate any of my work

taglist: @ideyou

[ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey]

Prompt: Borrowed T-Shirt

Beginning of DH, sometime before Bill and Fleur’s wedding . Harry walks into the Burrow‘s kitchen early in the morning, only to find Ginny there wearing his shirt he thought he had misplaced.

It was a hand-me-down of Dudley’s, some free t-shirt he’d gotten from a boxing competition that had been far too small for him to ever wear.   

It’s a cream, off-white. There’s a red coat of arms with three lions on the front. England Boxing. Seamus had asked about it once, when Harry’d worn it to bed one night, and Harry had made some joke about moonlighting as a boxer at the weekends.

“Reckon that’ll be what does in You-Know-Who, then?” Seamus had laughed. “A right hook?”

“Nah,” Harry had said. “It’s all about the footwork.”

It wasn’t anything particularly precious or prized, but it was comfortable. It was made of a soft cotton that wasn’t too stiff or starchy, and had been worn enough to be that perfect level of comfort. Plus, it was one of the few Muggle clothing items he possessed that actually fit him, and for that alone it ranked high enough, as old t-shirts went. 

He recognizes it instantly when he walks into the kitchen. 

It’s far too large on her. More of a dress really, skimming the tops of her freckled thighs as she reaches up to retrieve a mug from the cupboard. 

He stares at the expanse of skin of her legs. Wonders whether his old shirt is the only thing she’s wearing. Either alternative sounds like torture. 

She turns, and her eyes - still heavy with sleep - widen as she sees him. 

He swallows.

He remembers now.

It had been raining, a truly miserable practice. Ginny had just broken up with Dean, and Harry was evaluating various methods of incapacitating Ron so as to properly get Ginny alone. The entire Quidditch team had been loitering in the locker room, showering and changing, hoping for the rain to let up before they made the trek back up to the castle for dinner. 

“Bollocks,” Ginny had said, rifling through her bag. “Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.”

“Alright?” Harry had asked, smirking. 

“Yeah…” she’d said, still searching. “What d’you reckon is better to wear to dinner, my disgusting, sweaty Quidditch robes, or nothing?”

Harry had nearly choked. He’d glanced over to make sure Ron was still embroiled in a conversation with Katie Bell about the formation they’d been practicing, before he turned back to Ginny, heart hammering. 

“Depends,” Harry had said. “Can the Fat Friar die again?”

Ginny had snorted. “Good shout. Wouldn’t want him to have another heart attack, would we?”

“Is that how he died the first time?”

“Seeing a fit Chaser topless at dinner?” Ginny had asked, grinning evilly. “Don’t think so.”

It wasn’t fair. She was practically inviting him to picture her topless. Which, of course he had before, but she certainly didn’t know that. Harry felt his cheeks grow warm and hoped she ascribed it to general embarrassment at the topic. 

“I take it that you forgot to bring a change of clothes, then?” he asked, his voice slightly strangled as he batted away subconscious images of her without a shirt on. 

“Only forgot a shirt. The Auror department will be lucky to have you, with deductive reasoning skills like those.”

“Shut it,” Harry had said, laughing. “D’you want to borrow one, or not?”

Ginny had paused then, and Harry wondered whether he was showing his cards too obviously. Whether it would make more sense to ask Katie or Demelza whether they had a spare shirt Ginny could wear. But, he held her gaze, and she smiled. 

“Yeah alright. What’ve you got?”

Harry turned to his locker and pulled out the England Boxing shirt. It was clean, at least. He tossed it to her and she caught it.

She held it out and evaluated it. 

“You box?”

“Dudley does.”

“Ah.”

She smiled at him, and Harry’s heart stopped. 

“Thanks, captain. Maybe Zacharias Smith will see me wearing this and finally be appropriately afraid that I might punch him.”

“I think he fears you plenty.”

“Not enough,” she joked, and then she waltzed causally back into the stall and came back out wearing his shirt. 

He couldn’t stop staring at her at dinner. There was surely something awful and caveman-like in how much it pleased him to see her wearing his clothes, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. 

He supposed, thinking back on it, she’d never returned it. 

Couldn’t have. Because she’s wearing it now, in the early morning hours in the kitchen at the Burrow on the morning of Bill and Fleur's wedding, holding a mug in her hands like a lifeline. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Ginny says to him, and it sounds defensive. “Wedding nerves,” she adds, with a smirk. 

“It’s normal to get cold feet…,” Harry jokes, hoping he sounds more sane than he feels, “...when your brother is getting married.”

“Right,” Ginny smiles. “Want some tea?”

Harry nods, and he sits at the table, trying valiantly not to think about the fact that she’s almost definitely not wearing a bra. Tries not to think about his shirt touching her, the way he had before in hidden corners of the castle, when he’d belonged to her more than that shirt did. The way he can’t anymore. 

She finishes, and hands him the mug. Upon the first sip he can tell she’s made the tea just the way he likes it, but he wishes she hadn’t. Wishes she wasn’t wearing his shirt, looking beautiful, casually handing him a cup full of I know you. 

She sits across from him. The early morning light is creeping through the yellow curtains, casting a warm glow in the room. Harry can hear the sound of faint footsteps from the floors above, and he knows the time he has alone with her - today, ever - is rapidly disappearing. 

“This is yours, isn’t it?” Ginny says, glancing down at herself, pulling at the sleeve of the shirt, as though he needs any clarification about what she is referring to. 

“Oh,” Harry says. “Yeah.”

“D’you want it back?”

No, Harry thinks. I want you back.

“Keep it.” Harry says instead, because everything is shit, and he was stupid to think he could ever have had her in the way that shirt implies. “Looks better on you anyway.”

[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ JACK x MORGUE TECH!READER HEADCANONS !  ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🥼 possible trigger warnings .' general work anxiety  ‧ 💉 ‧ ━━ WC 1.6k

series masterlist || inbox ━━━ request here!!! * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato !!!

⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  requested!!! ( @everrep )

✧ ❪ PRE JACK ABBOT ❫ ✧

morgue tech!reader over-sanitizings everything. you wash your hands so many times a shift your knuckles crack. it’s not just hygiene—it’s control. clean hands = clean thoughts. you tell yourself that if you're sterile on the outside, maybe you won’t fall apart on the inside.

morgue tech!reader has obsessive routines. always the same locker. same hallway route. same vending machine snack. if something shifts out of order ( like someone using your favorite prep scalpel or a cart being in the wrong place ), it spirals you a little.

morgue tech!reader likes prepping your supplies like a soldier. you restock your body bags, suture thread, and formalin like it’s a lifeline. you organize toe tags alphabetically. it’s not about efficiency—it’s the one thing you can control.

morgue tech!reader uses the i’m fine default almost religiously. no matter how twisted and fucked up you are feeling on the inside, you say i’m fine like it’s a spell. even when your voice shakes. even when you're shaking. even when you have to excuse yourself to cry in the freezer for three minutes flat.

morgue tech!reader is one with the head down, mouth shut mentality. you avoid drawing attention to yourself. don’t talk in the elevator. don’t make friends in the break room. don’t linger by the trauma board. you walk like a ghost, hoping no one notices you falling apart quietly. the only person you are sorta friends with is your boss, dr. howell ( and that doesn't really count because he has to be nice to you because you do his prep ).

hyperfocus = morgue tech!reader's drug of choice. you throw yourself into work. prepping bodies, documenting findings, logging paperwork. you hyper focus until you forget to eat. until your back aches. until your hands go numb. it’s easier than feeling anything else.

morgue tech!reader has crippling reliance on stimulants. coffee? no. venti iced anxiety. you’re on cup three by eight pm ( your shift is six pm to six am ). it burns your stomach lining but gives you enough fake energy to mask the anxiety-shakes. you swear you’re gonna cut back. ( you won't. ) stolen graham crackers from the peds floor = your dinner. you forget meals when you’re anxious. the crackers feel safe. predictable. like if your blood sugar crashes at least it’ll be on your terms.

morgue tech!reader has weird little comfort rituals. humming under your breath while working. you do it without realizing. it keeps the panic at bay. if you’re humming, your body’s too busy to freak out. whispering you’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine like a mantra. sometimes under your breath. sometimes in the stairwell. sometimes right before you have to walk past shepherd or a full trauma bay. you keep one broken scalpel in your locker. it doesn’t work. it’s useless. but it was your first one, and for some reason, it makes you feel less invisible.

✧ ❪ DURING JACK ABBOT ❫ ✧

he learns your tells—fast. the first time jack sees you spiraling, it hits him like a gut punch. you're standing too still. not blinking enough. hands clenched, shoulders high, breathing shallow. you say you're fine. you’re so obviously not fine.

he doesn’t push. he just catalogues every little thing. the way you rub your thumb against your index finger. how you stand too close to the body fridge when you’re overwhelmed. the way your voice gets tight when someone asks for something extra.

“you didn’t answer me,” jack says once, gently. “you okay, or are you just pretending real good?”

his physical presence becomes your grounding point. jack starts showing up in your space more often—not to talk, just to be there. leaning in the doorway while you finish reports. popping in with a coffee he pretends is extra.

sitting beside you in the break room, legs brushing yours, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

“just breathe, morgue girl. i’m here. not goin’ anywhere.”

jack implements the talking rule.

you once admitted to jack ( through gritted teeth ) that talking while anxious made it worse. so now, when he finds you on edge, he just sits quietly next to you and holds out a pinky.

you link yours with his. no words. just a touch. he stays there until your breathing evens out. until the shaking stops. until you reach out for him.

“you don’t have to say a damn thing, pretty thing. i’ll sit with you in the quiet as long as you need.”

he makes you drink water. ( like, makes you. )

if you’ve had more caffeine than blood in your system, jack notices. he shows up with an obnoxiously large water bottle and goes : "don’t make me bribe you. drink half."

you glare. he grins. you drink it. ( then he hands you a stolen graham cracker with no comment. )

he watches your back—always.

if jack knows you’re teetering, he subtly covers for you. tells howell he needs you for something urgent and pulls you into the stairwell for air.

offers to handle a delivery himself when you're not in a state to face the trauma bay. lets gloria think he made the error when it was actually your anxiety-induced brain fog.

“i’m not letting this place chew you up, baby. you’re not alone in here anymore.”

jack also implements the hug deal.

you made a deal : you have to ask if you need a hug. jack won’t push. he won’t touch. not unless you say the magic words : “can i have one?”

when you do? he melts. wraps those strong arms around you like he could protect you from every scalpel, trauma, and panic attack on earth.

“you’re safe. i got you. you’re okay. just breathe, pretty thing.”

and sometimes? he just lets you fall apart.

when it’s bad—when it’s really bad—jack doesn’t fix it. he sits with you on the roof or in the back hall and lets you cry. lets you hide your face in his chest and sob until it’s gone.

he strokes your hair, kisses your temple, murmurs : “you’re doing your best. that’s all you gotta do. just be here with me. that’s enough.”

and when it’s over, jack still looks at you the same. like you hung the fucking moon.

and then there is how jack deal with other people concerning your anxieties.

first of all : jack sees it immediately. you don't even have to say anything. he knows your body language. knows when you go quiet on purpose. when your hands start shaking a little. when you nod too quickly because you're too overwhelmed to speak.

that subtle recoil when someone raises their voice? that too-sharp okay when you're clearly not?

jack clocks all of it.

he keeps it clinical—until he doesn’t.

at first, he approaches it like any other er conflict. calm. cool. controlled. “hey, dr. stein, maybe take the volume down a notch, yeah? not everyone has the hearing problems you do.”

but if the other person does it again? if they make a habit of being cruel or condescending to you when you're clearly struggling?

jack drops the friendly facade real fast.

there is exactly one warning. if someone raises their voice at you or talks down to you while you’re anxious, jack steps in immediately.

he positions himself between you and the other person. arms crossed. jaw clenched. voice low and cold.

“watch your tone.” "you think shouting at her’s gonna get the work done faster? go ahead. try it again. see what fuckin' happens.”

the moment someone makes you cry—jack fucking snaps.

if you’re forced to step away, if you excuse yourself to the supply closet or the roof or the locker room because someone pushed you too far—and jack finds out?

someone is getting flayed with words so sharp dana does a double take.

“you don't yell at people who are trying their best to hold it together in a system that’s designed to eat them alive. you got that?” "im not gonna ask again."

the aftermath is all about you. once the offender has been verbally flayed and left in a pile of ego dust, jack immediately comes to check on you.

he doesn’t say “are you okay?” he says :

“talk to me, baby. what do you need?” “wanna sit with me in the ambulance bay for a bit?” “you want me to go back down there and twist the scalpel a little harder?”

and if you apologize for being a burden? jack cuts that shit off immediately. kneels down in front of you if he has to. takes your hands, presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“you are not a burden. not on your worst day. not even close.” “anyone who can’t see how fucking brilliant you are doesn’t deserve to breathe in your morgue.”

and god forbid it happens again. jack files a formal complaint on your behalf. you don’t even know he does it at first.

but suddenly the neurosurgeon who used to sneer at you won’t meet your eyes. and shepherd keeps giving jack this scared, avoidant look.

“what’d you say to him?” “told him if he didn’t stop treating you like a disposable glove, i’d slash his fucking tires.”

( he also told him he’d be lucky to have half your patience and twice your spine. )

jack will not let this place break you. not the pressure. not the staff. not the voices in your own head.

he’s watching. always. he knows when you’re trying to hide how hard it’s getting. and he will never let anyone make it worse.

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