#Who’d she kill though?

[severussnapemylove]

Bellatrix; 🎶”Will you help me hide a body?"🎶

Y/N; "Huh???"

Bellatrix; 🎶”Come on we can't delay!"🎶

Y/N; "What did you do!?!?"

Bellatrix; 🎶”No one can see him on the floor.🎶 Get him out the door.🎶 Before he can decay!"🎶

Y/N; "Why would you call me of all people?!?! Now I'm gonna go to jail, oh my Merlin!"

[humanjarvis]

caught in a lie

synopsis: when you ignore caleb’s calls, he catches you trying to run from the consequences. you make a false promise to appease his anger, not expecting your lie to unravel. but almost immediately, it does.  

tags: based loosely on caleb's "hidden waves" memory, porn with plot, manipulative!caleb x manipulative!reader, brat!reader, mean(ish) dom!caleb, caleb makes out with your cunt for an hour, reader cries, belly bulge, 3 brother mentions but they’re done ironically/out of spite, humiliation, semi-public sex (caleb makes you call and cancel plans with that friend while he fucks you), lines lifted directly from hidden waves in bold pairing: caleb x fem!reader  word count: 3.9k

a/n: love the scene this is based on bc it reminds me of my favorite book from the wattpad era in 300 BC. also this is my first time writing full-on smut and omfg i don't know how people write like 10k of it u guys are wizards. but the response to this will determine how explicitly i write going forward, no pressure

As the Skyhaven nightscape twinkles around you, you can’t help but feel like you’re forgetting something. 

You’d had a great night: Simone had invited you to a cute café, the owners had given you a free muffin, and the raging storm from this afternoon had dwindled into a drizzle. But still, a sense of foreboding loomed over you, threatening to taint the precious memories you’d made tonight.

“...And next week we can go to this new bar downtown! I heard they have the best drinks, and there’s even a puppy mascot they let walk around and play with guests. Doesn’t that sound fun?” 

“Yeah, sure,” you agree absently, Simone’s words going in one ear and out the other. “I’ll be there.”

As you walk farther down the sidewalk, the vibrant city atmosphere melts away your worries. People of all ages were out splashing in leftover puddles, trying new food stalls, and window shopping in the strip of stores that lit your path. Gradually, you give up on trying to place your unease, surrendering fully to the comfort of the cool night air.

“Hey!” you exclaim, an idea popping into your head. “Do you want to find a photobooth and take some pictures? I want something to remember tonight by.”

“Oh my gosh, absolutely,” Simone responds. “There should be one not too far from here. I went with my brother a few months back! It was really fun.”

At her words, you stop in your tracks. Her enthusiasm is no match for the dread building in your chest. 

Caleb.

Caleb who’d told you to text him when you got to the café, when you were about to leave, and when you were almost home. 

Caleb was what—or who—you were forgetting.

Slowly, you reach your hand into your purse until you feel your phone, digging it out and staring as if it were a venomous animal. Taking a deep breath, you tap the screen awake and immediately lose the air you’d just inhaled. 

7 Unread messages

4 Missed calls

3 New voicemails

Fuck.

“Uh, actually,” you start, chucking the device back into your bag, “I just realized I didn’t bring a brush! There’s no way I can take pictures without fixing my hair—it’s like a bird’s nest up there,” you ramble, giggling nervously. “Can we end the night here?”

“O…kay?” Simone says, clearly confused by the sudden shift in your mood. “Yeah, we can go back now. Your hair looks fine, though.”

Thanking the universe for giving you such an agreeable friend, you walk back to her car, the quickness of your usually unhurried steps betraying your agitation.

He’s gonna kill me, he’s gonna kill me, he’s gonna kill me, you think. 

As the familiar outline of Simone’s car comes into view, she turns to face you. “Do you want a ride to the train station? I told my girlfriend I’d be home at 1:30—I have another hour.”

“Wait!” you cry, throwing your hands out in front of you. She looks at you as if the intensity in your voice is unnecessary. Which is true, because she’s standing a foot away. Quieter this time, you ask, “Would it be okay if I spent the night at your place? Just this once, I promise.” 

“...If you really need to,” she agrees warily. “As long as you don’t mind cat hair.”

When you reach her car, Simone gestures for you to wait as she walks around to the passenger’s side. “I just need to clean up real quick. The granola bar wrappers build up when you’re constantly called in early for emergencies.” 

But when Simone pulls on the door handle, it doesn’t open. “Weird,” she mutters, wiping raindrops onto her jeans. “I swear I unlocked it.” 

She clicks a button on her keys and tries again. Inexplicably, the door still doesn’t budge. “It’s like some force is holding it shut or something,” she says. At that, an alarm sounds in the back of your mind. But before it can reach your consciousness, she continues. “Well, I have a locksmith on speed dial anyway—I’m always losing my keys. But before I call, seriously, are you ok? The way you asked me to stay over….Is there something scary waiting for you at home? Why do you look so worried?”

"It’s probably because I’m home,” the all-too-familiar voice rings out behind you. 

In an instant, your entire body goes rigid. Your now-pounding heart screams at you to run, but you can’t obey without making a scene in front of your friend. 

Plastering a smile on your face, you turn around slowly, as if the longer you took to face him, the more likely he’d be to disappear.  

You had no such luck. Towering over you, umbrella in hand, was Caleb, his normally expressive face a wall of stone. 

Despite his obvious anger, he steps forward to shield you from the downpour and you refrain from taking a step back—against your better judgment.

“Caleb!” you remark, your voice shrill with unease. “What a surprise!”

Ignoring your greeting, Caleb turns his attention to Simone. “Skyhaven isn’t very safe tonight,” he says coolly. “You’d better get home.”

The finality in his words makes it clear: you won’t be joining her. 

“Um, sure,” Simone trails off, wary eyes searching yours. “Will you be alright?”

“...Yes, it’s okay.”

Though your words don’t seem to convince her, Caleb’s penetrating glare does. She quickly walks to the driver’s side and effortlessly pops the door open—surprise, surprise—before jumping in. Giving you one last look, your only chance at salvation drives into the night.

The ride back to Caleb’s house is silent. You scoot as close as you can to the window beside you, paying no mind to the intensifying patter of rain against the glass. All that you notice is how he grips the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. 

When you pull into his driveway and exit the car, he walks closely behind you, preventing any more last-minute escape attempts. His imposing presence follows you inside and all the way to his bedroom. 

When you both cross the threshold, the air thickens with tension as you stand in silence, unmoving. 

“Well, goodnight!” you call when you can’t take it anymore. But before you can take one step, Caleb swings the door shut with his Evol. Huh, you think. Doors must be his speciality tonight.

“Where do you think you could possibly be going after the night you gave me?” he asks, steely voice cutting through your thoughts.

“Listen—” you start, but he cuts you off. 

“You ordered coffee three times. Burst out into laughter I could hear from outside six times. And yet, you somehow managed to check your phone zero times.”

“If you’d just given me more time, I was going to—”

“You were going to what? Because here’s what I think would have happened: If I hadn’t picked you up, you would’ve gone to your friend’s place, right? Then, you’d message me with an apology. Oh, throw in a cute emoji as the cherry on top,” he snorts. 

“With that done, you’d put your phone away and curl up into a ball to sleep. You wouldn’t even dare to check my response. You’d wait it out and believe I wouldn’t be upset. And once I’m away on a mission or somethin’...you would sneak back into the house and pretend nothing happened. Tell me,” he challenges you. “Am I wrong?”

He wasn’t wrong. He was never wrong—not about your habits, at least. 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you snap. “I thought you said you were ‘done playing games’? You don't have to act so big brother-y all the time.”

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say. Caleb’s head rears back, his eyes going wide in incredulity before he scoffs. 

Alright, you sigh, time to turn on the waterworks. 

Taking a deep breath, you force tears into your eyes. “Caleb,” you begin, “I really didn’t mean to ignore you. I was just having so much fun. S-someone brought their puppy to the café and I got distracted.” The café hadn’t allowed pets, but you needed all the sympathy you could get. You’d have to thank Simone for telling you about that new bar later. “I won’t do it again. I won’t even go out at night anymore—promise.”

As he takes in your pitiful expression, you see Caleb’s resolve start to crack, the twitch in his right eye giving away how much he wants to console you. Maintaining your pout, you internally grin like a Cheshire cat. He could never say no to you. He could never le—

Your phone rings.

You thought you’d turned it off in the car, but your fucking phone rings. Right when you have him where you want him. 

The shrill tone sucks the air out of the room, and with it, any hope for your escape.

“Answer it. Speaker.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

Visibly shaken, you fish your phone out of your bag and accept the call. “H-hello?”

“Hey Y/N, it’s Simone. I’m calling to check on you—that guy who took you home was kinda scary. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t do anything. Are you okay?”

At the insinuation that he’d ever harm you, Caleb’s face turns thunderous, his jaw clenching so hard you’re afraid it’ll snap. 

“No, no, I’m fine,” you reassure her. “Thanks for worrying though, that’s really sweet,” you add, your eyes darting up and immediately back down after meeting Caleb’s glower. 

“That’s great, I really was worried,” she says, relief evident in her voice. “Well, before you hang up, are we still on for same time next week at the bar I mentio—”

You hang up as soon as she reveals your plans, throwing your phone so abruptly it bounces off the chair where your purse sits and onto the carpet. But it was too late. There was no sweet-talking the irate scowl off of Caleb’s face. You’d lied. 

Like a deer in headlights, you stand frozen and helpless as Caleb stalks toward you. 

“You almost had me,” he chuckles darkly, squishing your cheeks between one hand. “And I bet you knew it, too. Remind me to thank Simone for being such a good friend later.”

His grip tightens when you try to respond, and he pulls your face closer to his instead. “I think I’ve had enough of you talking for now. No point in hearing it if you’re just gonna lie to me again.”

With uncanny speed, he lifts you by your legs and tosses you onto the mattress. When you attempt to sit up, hoping to crawl away, he captures both of your wrists in his hand and claims your lips in a bruising kiss. 

“Don’t talk.” A kiss. “Don’t move.” Another. “Don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do, and I might not chain you to this bed.” You’re so distracted by his final kiss—the exclamation point—that you barely register when he yanks your loose pants down, baring your cotton panties to him. 

When he spots the wet patch spreading through the middle, he moans, shifting to push his nose into your center. The deep inhales he takes seem to calm him down, and his voice loses some of its earlier edge when he murmurs, “Can’t believe you were keepin’ her from me tonight. Look at how much she missed me.”

He demonstrates by pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your panties, tasting you as you leak harder under his tongue. The whimper you let out falls on deaf ears as you remember his command: Don’t talk. 

Licking a stripe up your clothed folds, Caleb sighs into you in contentment. “Gonna see her in a second,” he breathes. “Just can’t give her too much at once, or she’ll get greedy.” 

He’s too far gone, you think, closing your eyes in preparation of what’s to come. But nothing prepares you for the way the seemingly sedated Caleb rips your panties open at the seam, exposing your hot skin to the cool air. 

With no hesitation, he plants a long kiss onto your core, his lips smacking against the fat of your outer folds. Covering your skin with a flurry of pecks, he moans into you, his intermittent licks becoming sloppy, appreciative kisses. 

Caleb was making out with your cunt like your brain wasn't in the room, kissing it like he hadn’t seen it in years. The sensations and lewd squelches make your arousal unbearable, but when you try to grind into his mouth—to get him to do something more—he pushes your hips into the mattress. 

“Don’t interrupt us,” he mumbles, lips still latched onto your unspread cunt. Heat rushing to your cheeks, you flop your head back down, defeated as the man ignores you to have his heartfelt reunion with your core. 

An agonizing few minutes later, you feel him press a last hard kiss against your skin before finally spreading your soaked folds. “Can’t believe you ever thought you could hide from me,” he growls, eyes sparkling. “I’ll show you you can’t. Make you never want to again.”

Slowly, he licks up and down your wetness, teasing his tongue around your entrance. You try to relax during his ministrations, knowing he won’t give you what you want this early, but he catches you off guard when he buries his tongue into your weeping, sputtering hole. 

A strangled moan escapes you as he fucks you with his tongue, twisting, turning, and circling himself inside you. 

One pulse has your walls flexing with desperation, and Caleb pulls back slightly when he feels you tighten around him. “Look at that, I think she’s kissin’ me back,” he coos, a string of his saliva refusing to part from your quivering cunt. 

Spurred on by the whine you give him, he flashes you a wicked grin before diving back in, plunging his tongue in and out at a punishing pace.��

All the while, he studiously avoids where you need him most, licking and kissing everywhere but your twitching clit—neglecting it like you did him earlier in the night.

Suddenly, he lifts his head up, flashing you a quick smirk. “You know,” he starts, licking his glistening lips. “When you were givin’ me all those crocodile tears and cryin’ about puppies earlier, you never did say sorry for trying to run. How about now, hmm?” he asks, pressing a wet kiss to your center. “You sorry?”

You pant out an incoherent moan, and he nips at your clit—the first time he’s touched it all night. Ignoring your squeal, he gives you another kiss. “I don’t know what that means. Try again.” 

You go to speak again, but Caleb suddenly rubs his nose against your clit, your resulting gasp sending your back shooting off the bed. He swiftly slams you back down with his Evol, giving you another nip. “Just two words, baby. You can do that for me, yeah? Two words, loud and clear. Want to know you mean it.”

You don’t know what it is—the last strands of your pride clinging on for dear life, your stupor after being toyed with for almost an hour, or pure stubbornness—but you can’t bring yourself to say it. With a whimper, you clamp your mouth shut, staring at the ceiling in rebellion. 

“Hmmm,” he hums, looking up at you briefly. Before you can even process it, Caleb covers your clit with his mouth and sucks, simultaneously groaning into you. The combined sensations set your nerves on fire, and you come in his mouth with a prolonged cry. 

“I’m sorry!” you wail, the tears in your eyes genuine this time. As Caleb laps up your release, chants of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—oh—I’m sorry,” fall through your lips, your earlier defiance reduced to blubbering submission. “Should’ve checked my phone and called you back, I’m so sorry.” 

You’ve apologized ten times over, it feels, but he won’t let up. He suckles you until it aches, and there’s nothing you can do but lie there and sob as his Evol keeps you pinned down. When he’s finally had his fill, he presses a reverent thank-you kiss to your cunt before crawling up your body, nestling in between your thighs. 

“Aw, none of that, now,” he coos, wiping under your eyes. “I forgive you, alright? I forgive you for getting distracted, baby.” Still crying, you nod frantically, leaning into his gentle touch. “But if you ever run from me again, whoever you’re with won’t like what happens when I catch you,” he promises, pressing a kiss to your lips and then your forehead before plunging into you. 

Though his pace is relentless, your walls draw him in, his earlier date with your cunt letting you take his thick length with ease. 

When the pressure builds and you shy away from his brutal thrusts, he turns your chin toward him, pressing an ironically chaste kiss to your mouth. “No running, remember?” 

As you hurtle toward your release, he leans close, kissing you briefly before speaking into your lips. “The next time you wanna ignore me—next time you wanna hide from me and lie to me sayin’ you’ll be good from now on—I want you to think of this, to think of me right here,” he murmurs, palming his cock through your belly. You squeal at the foreign feeling, but he only adds more force, and you think you’re about to pass out.   

“My baby,” he chides. “Loves to act out but she can’t handle the consequences.” While he speaks, he folds your left leg up, pushing it to your chest so he can penetrate you deeper.

“Please, Caleb!” you beg, the new angle making stars float across your vision. As your body rocks with the force of his strokes, you cry, “I said I was sorry!” 

“Mm, you did,” he nods, absorbing a tear on your cheek with a kiss. “But I don’t think you really are. Not yet.”

Without warning, he pulls out of you and flips you onto your stomach before sliding back in. Resuming his thrusts, he uses his Evol to pick your forgotten phone up off the floor. “Call her back. Speaker,” he orders. 

At first, you're flustered into hesitation, but as he holds the phone ahead of you and taps through your history to do it himself, you pull yourself together. “Wait,” you wail. “Wait. I’ll do it.”

You do it.

When Simone picks up, Caleb shows you mercy by decreasing his pace so the sound of slick skin colliding doesn’t travel through the phone. 

“Hey Y/N, what’s up? Is it about earlier? …Did something happen?” she asks in concern.

Frantically, you twist your head to look up at Caleb, not knowing what to say. 

Leisurely, he folds forward over you, his chest flush with your spine so he can whisper in your ear. Throughout his dramatics, your time to respond without raising suspicion wanes, and you grow more desperate by the second.

“Hi Simone,” Caleb finally whispers, pressing kisses to your ear in time with his languid strokes.

“H-hi Simone,” you repeat louder, a slight tremble in your voice.

“I just wanted to say thanks again for checking in. That guy, the one from earlier—he can be so mean sometimes,” Caleb murmurs, pouting his lips in ridicule. 

“I just wanted…wanted to say thanks again for checking in. The guy from earlier—hah—can be so mean sometimes,” you echo, breathless from the impact of Caleb’s hips rocking into yours.

“Can we reschedule our plans for next week? My big brother’s,” he emphasizes, mocking your earlier jab with two deep thrusts, “coming home, and he really misses me.” As he feeds you lines, the taunts in his words break through the softness of his whispers. 

As softly as you dare to, you whimper for him, hoping it’s enough for him to end his torture.

But as the phone screen goes black from inactivity, you see his smirking reflection looming over your humiliated one. The only way out is by appeasing him. 

“C-can we reschedule our plans for next week? My…my friend—” 

As soon as the word leaves your mouth, Caleb lifts off of you slightly, landing a harsh smack on your ass.

“Y/N? What was that noise? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” you all but moan as he bites your neck, reprimanding you further for breaking his script. 

“My friend is visiting next week, and he really misses me,” you finish, waiting with bated breath for her—and Caleb’s—reactions. 

“Oh…sure, Y/N. That’s fine with me. That’s a lot better than I was expecting, you sounded like you were in trouble for a second.” Caleb smirks against your ear. “Just let me know when you want to reschedule.”

“Sounds good,” you breathe as Caleb’s thrusts return to a faster pace. “I-I gotta go, I’ll see you later!” you rush, almost squealing as you end the call. 

For the nth time that night, you want to burst into tears. “I can’t believe you just did that,” you whine, your voice mixing with the renewed slaps of skin on skin. 

Chuckling, Caleb lifts off of you, his sudden absence from your cunt making you shudder. In an instant, he flips you over so you’re face-to-face before entering you again. 

“Technically, you just did that,” he smirks, his thrusts now lazy and sporadic. “I don’t remember pressing ‘call.’” His matter-of-fact tone is teasing, but you knew that if you hadn’t canceled on Simone, he’d have made good on his earlier threat. He always does. 

As you open your mouth to retort, Caleb’s face grows serious, and all your neurons responsible for making witty comebacks seem to atrophy at once. 

Caleb leans down, light bites on your throat punctuating his confession. “I can’t stop at wanting you not to run from me anymore. I want you to stay with me. To choose to, for as long as we live, for the next hundred years.” 

“But what if…” you trail off, but he understands what you’d been implying. 

At that, his eyes darken. Rutting into you with renewed fervor, he grasps your chin tightly, holding you captive in his gaze. “You’ll be around for however many years I’m alive and kicking,” he growls. And you believe him. 

Nerves alight, mind numb, and core throbbing from your impending climax, you nod as much as his iron grip allows you to. “I’ll stay,” you whisper, kissing his thumb near your lip. “Wanna stay—with you.” 

Letting out a strangled huff, Caleb surges forward, his lips meeting yours in a searing kiss. He bites your bottom lip as he presses down on your stomach once again, and you careen over the edge, feeling the hot spurts of his release intensify the flood inside your cunt. 

With a shuttering groan, Caleb collapses to your left, immediately closing the space between you with a hug. You stay like that for a while, your sore body curled into his arms as you face each other on the bed. 

“You okay?” he asks quietly, rubbing circles into your hip. “I know it was a bit much.”

“Forgive you,” you mumble into his chest. “Felt good.”

He chuckles, tapping your nose twice. “You shouldn’t forgive me so easily. Or else I’ll want to keep testing your limits.” 

When you fall asleep in his warm embrace, Caleb looks down at you intently, trying to brand the visual into any part of his commandeered mind that’d take it. Daring to disrupt the image, he gently untangles your bodies, lifting you before laying you back down on top of him. 

At peace for the first time that night, Caleb looks out the window, smiling to himself. The rain has stopped.

[iydiamartinx]

STAKEOUT AT TABLE NINE

dick grayson x reader, ft. batfam

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto& @omi-resources word count: 1.8k synopsis: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life. a/n: Since you guys liked unexpected guests, I thought I'd might make something with a similar vibe

You were halfway through your glass of wine, basking in the warm candlelight of the nicest date night you’d had in weeks, when Dick froze, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing like a predator who’d spotted prey.

“…No.”

You paused, setting down your glass. “What now?”

His eyes narrowed. “We’re being watched.”

Your shoulders tensed. “Joker? Riddler? Ra’s?”

He leaned in, deadly serious. “Worse. My siblings.”

You’d never officially met them outside your masked persona, but Dick had told you enough stories to paint a vivid picture—and to mentally prepare yourself for chaos incarnate.

You turned slowly. And sure enough…

At a nearby table, Tim sat like a stockbroker on his lunch break—slicked-back hair, tailored blazer, a leather briefcase on one side, and a newspaper in front of him. A newspaper with actual eyeholes cut into it. He lowered it just long enough to snap a photo of you and Dick with his phone—flash still on. The sound of the shutter echoed across the room.

You blinked against the glare.

Two tables behind him sat Stephanie, Duke, and Cassandra—though only one of them looked remotely sane.

Steph wore a wide-brimmed floppy sunhat, oversized sunglasses, and clutched a fake martini glass with what looked like club soda and a floating plastic olive. She was scribbling furiously in a notebook every time you smiled.

Duke, hood pulled low and sunglasses slipping down his nose, scanned the restaurant with exaggerated caution, eyes darting like a man expecting an ambush from the breadsticks.

And Cass—bless her—was the only one not drawing attention, dressed in all black, seated in a dark corner with the stillness of someone who could vanish in a blink.

At the bar, Jason hunched in a hoodie, the world’s worst fake mustache clinging to his upper lip. He cradled a glass of whiskey like a noir detective, speaking quietly into the cuff of his sleeve.

“Target is laughing,” you overheard him mutter. “Suspect she’s under duress. Dickhead is not that charming. Something’s not right.”

And then there was Damian.

In a crisp waiter uniform and fake french moustache.

He was not employed at this restaurant.

Dick sucked in a breath, knuckles tightening around his fork. “I’m going to kill them.”

“He’s got a name tag,” you whispered, peeking at the small child approaching. “It says ‘Darian.’”

Damian arrived at your table with the poise of a cat about to pounce. “Your special tonight is betrayal with a side of poor judgment. Wine?”

“Hi, Damian,” you said sweetly.

He did not flinch. “Darian.”

Dick gave him a look full of daggers. “You don’t work here.”

“I do now,” Damian replied, already aggressively pouring wine you didn’t order. “You’re welcome.”

“Damian,” Dick warned, voice like steel under velvet.

“Darian,” Damian corrected with a touch more venom. He leaned closer, gaze flicking to you. “Also—if she hurts you, I know where she lives.”

You took a measured sip of your wine. “You do not.”

He offered a tight, terrifying smile. “You’d be surprised.”

With that, he straightened and stalked away with a grace that would’ve fooled anyone who wasn’t aware he was a miniature assassin in disguise. You watched, stunned, as he stopped at another table and casually placed a Caesar salad in front of a confused elderly man.

“…did he just bring someone a salad?” you whispered.

Dick blinked. “That better not be poisoned.”

You stared at the table. “Do we tell the manager?”

He reached for his phone, jaw set with dangerous calm. “No. We do something worse.”

It turned out Dick’s threat wasn’t empty, and that “something worse” wasn’t him dealing with the problem himself. It was calling Bruce.

Two minutes later, Damian stormed back to the table where Stephanie, Tim, and Jason had regrouped—his eyes burning with righteous fury, apron askew, name tag reading Darian slightly crooked.

“Grayson called Father,” he hissed, like the words tasted like acid in his mouth.

Tim slowly lowered his newspaper, concern flickering across his face.

The fallout had been immediate. The real waiter—confused but polite—had approached Damian mid-salad-delivery with the kind of corporate smile reserved for polite hostage situations.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the man had said, “but we’ve received a call from a Mr. Wayne regarding a… staffing issue.”

Damian hadn’t even gotten to argue before he was gently but firmly escorted from the dining floor like a misbehaving pageant child. Of course, Bruce had smoothed things over with the restaurant, offering a generous donation to the manager’s favorite charity along with a promise that the Wayne family would “handle it internally.”

To Damian’s credit, he had been shockingly efficient. No-nonsense, quick on his feet, and absolutely ruthless with customers who snapped their fingers or mispronounced “gnocchi.” In another life, he might’ve made an excellent maître d’.

“Abort?” Tim asked cautiously, glancing between his younger brother’s scowl and the still-blissfully-untouched couple across the room.

Duke, seated beside Steph, hesitated. “That’s probably a good idea.”

Steph scoffed, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses, the rim of her floppy hat flopping forward as she leaned in.

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “We need to know more about her.”

“Her name is Y/N,” Damian deadpanned. “She’s twenty-six, known as the vigilante Nightshade, she is a licensed EMT, allergic to strawberries, and owns three copies of Pride and Prejudice. She’s left-handed but shoots with her right. She—”

“I meant emotionally,” Steph cut in, wagging a finger. “Like… her vibe. Her soul. Her long-term intentions.”

Jason, sprawled sideways in his chair, tossed a peanut into the air and caught it in his mouth without missing a beat. “As long as I get to annoy Dick, I’m in.”

“You’re always in when it comes to annoying Dick,” Tim muttered.

Jason grinned. “Exactly.”

Cass, perched quietly at the end of the booth, looked up from her menu and gave a simple shrug. She hadn’t contributed much—hadn’t even bothered with a disguise—but she didn’t seem eager to leave either. Being around the family was enough for her.

Across the room, Dick brushed your hair behind your ear, leaned close, and murmured something that made you smile wide and laugh softly. It made Jason scowl like he’d bitten into something sour.

“They’re flirting,” he muttered. “Like, real flirting.”

Tim frowned. “Well, yeah. It’s a date.”

“I didn’t think he had that in him,” Jason said. “I mean—look at him. Who laughs like that? It’s so…bright.”

Duke arched a brow. “You mean… what happy people do?”

“Or people in love?” Tim added

Jason blinked. “Exactly. They’re disgusting.”

Stephanie snorted into her fake martini. “God forbid someone in this family finds healthy emotional connection.”

Jason pointed a finger at her. “Hey. I support him. I just don’t want to witness it.”

Cass, quietly perched beside Duke, leaned forward with her chin in her hand and spoke for the first time since returning to the booth. “It’s nice.”

The rest of them looked over at her.

She shrugged, eyes still on the couple across the restaurant. “He’s soft around her. Comfortable. That matters.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jason muttered, “I liked it better when he was brooding and depressed. At least that made sense.”

“You say that,” Steph quipped, “but we all know you’d cry if he got dumped.”

Jason scoffed. “Tch. As if.”

Cass tilted her head. “You hugged him when his goldfish died.”

“It was a very loyal goldfish,” Jason snapped.

Duke stifled a laugh behind his hand.

Tim was already typing on his phone again. “Logging that. Jason cried over the fish.”

“I did not cry—”

Back at your table, Dick dragged a hand down his face, groaning softly into his palm.

“This was supposed to be a normal date,” he muttered. “No suits. No masks. No siblings playing Mission: Impossible: Wayne Edition.”

You bit back a grin, reaching under the table to squeeze his hand. “You know what this means, right?”

He tilted his head toward you, wariness creasing the corners of his eyes. “That I’m not allowed to have a single nice thing?”

“No,” you said sweetly, lacing your fingers with his. “That they’re deeply invested in your love life.”

He groaned again.

You leaned in conspiratorially, your voice soft, dangerous with mischief. “Should we give them a show?”

There was a pause.

Then a slow smirk curved across his face. It started small—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth—but it bloomed fast, pulling dimples into his cheeks and lighting a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes.

“Oh,” he said, voice low and gleeful, “absolutely.”

His hand tightened around yours, and for a moment, you could almost feel the heat of retaliation rolling off him like sunbeams through stained glass.

“They wanna spy?” he murmured, already sliding his chair a little closer. “Let’s give them something worth watching.”

He looked over his shoulder—right at the table full of Bat-siblings, who immediately scrambled to look inconspicuous. Tim’s newspaper snapped, Jason dropped his toothpick, and Steph turned her martini glass upside down in panic.

Dick turned back to you, grinning like the devil himself. “You ready?”

You lifted your wine glass with a wink. “Always.”

The group didn’t even have time to formulate a new plan—no whispered code words, no exit strategies, not even a dramatic group huddle.

Because across the room, right there in full view of God and Gotham, you and Dick locked lips.

Heatedly.

With both hands cradling your jaw and your fingers curling into his shirt collar like a scene straight out of a romantic drama that was very much not PG-13.

A collective shriek erupted from the Bat-kid table.

“Gross!” Jason choked, nearly falling off his stool as he recoiled like he’d just witnessed a live-action horror movie.

“My eyes!” Tim wailed, throwing his newspaper into the air like it might serve as a spiritual shield. “I can’t unsee that!”

Duke scrambled upright, reaching out like a soldier diving into danger. “Damian, don’t look—!”

Too late.

Damian stood rigid, face twisted into a look of pure betrayal, eyes wide like someone who’d just witnessed a war crime.

“They have no shame,” he said hollowly.

“There are children present!” Duke hissed, pulling his hoodie over Damian’s head like a protective blindfold. “Actual children!”

Across the restaurant, a waiter paused mid-step to observe the scene at the booth. He blinked once, slowly, then turned and walked in the opposite direction without a word.

Stephanie gagged, shoving a napkin over her face. “I knew they were going to do something, but that—that was unholy!”

Cass, on the other hand, leaned forward with a pleased little smile, calmly sipping her water. “They’re cute.”

“No,” Jason said hoarsely. “They’re a menace.”

“They’re a power couple,” Cass countered.

At that moment, Dick finally pulled back, eyes sparkling with self-satisfaction as he rested his forehead gently against yours. You both laughed—softly, smugly—and he didn’t even need to look over his shoulder to know the carnage had taken hold.

“I think I broke Jason,” he whispered.

You grinned. “You definitely traumatized Tim.”

He sighed happily. “Best date night ever.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

A HELLO AND A KISS

pairing: aaron hotchner x lawyer!reader summary: aaron hotchner survives serial killers and endless paperwork—but apparently not you breezing past him without a hello, based on this request. (im so sorry, i got carried away and did not include the part of r meeting the team!!! pls dont hate me) warnings | an: jealous hotch, protective hotch, simp hotch, hotch is just down bad for his girl, one bj joke word count: 2.4k

✧ masterlist

You hadn’t come home last night.

Aaron had simply received a brief text: Don’t wait up. A case fell into my lap last minute. It wasn’t unusual—not in your line of work, and certainly not in his. You’d both sent that message before, more times than either of you could count. It came with the territory.

You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse.  It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was sitting right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the café Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

three times

a/n: some time ago i asked you guys on a poll what dude you wanted in this story and you all chose bucky, so here it is! also, i partly blame you all for how unhinged it turned out... like you get maybe 6,69% of the blame for the push you gave me... the rest is just me being a hoe

summary: a tale of the three times a nurse was kidnapped by new york’s most notorious gang. 

warnings: dark!mob boss!bucky barnes x nurse!reader x doctor!peter parker, smut, dark content, noncon/dubcon, mob au, mobsters!steve rogers, clint barton, tony stark, scott lang, bruce banner, the gang is called the avengers, doctor!kate bishop, enemies to lovers, kidnapping, violence, weapons, blood, being drugged, alcohol consumption, possessiveness, kissing, clothed x completely naked, panty sniffing, dirty talk, manhandling, size kink, gaping, belly bulge, oral, fingering, fisting, pussyjob, in bucky's mind it's brat taming, dumbification, impact play, squirting, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, somno, bondage, mild knife play, mild gunplay, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cumplay

word count: 11.574

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

You flinched jaggedly as the dark cloth bag was finally ripped off your head. Eyes immediately squinting, they still strained to take in the unfamiliar space you’d been dragged to. 

You were no longer in the hospital’s dark parking lot, nor were you in the black van you’d suddenly been tossed into, but instead, you found yourself in a dark living room. It was elegantly decorated, from the Persian rug to the dramatic, antique fireplace flicking behind the cluster of suit-clad criminals glaring down at you. 

“This her?” one of them grumbled. 

“Yep, one doctor as per your request,” the one who’d abducted you grinned, proudly planting a palm on his hip, “even choose a pretty one just for shits and giggles,” his starkly different mannerisms only made the others seem that much more intimidating. 

The broad-figured one with a shock of sandy hair then stepped closer to where you stood, “alright, here’s the thing, doc,” his head tilted slightly to get on your level as he spoke to you directly, “you’re gonna do exactly as we say and then everything will be alright, okay?” he stared in your eyes as you offered him a shaky nod, “okay,” he exhaled, “you got a name?”

“Y/n Y/l/n…” you uttered before hearing yourself try to correct, “but I–…”

“But what?” the same man croaked. 

“I-I’m not a doctor…”

“God damn it!” someone rumbled as everyone’s eyes flicked to the man who’d captured you, “we can’t fucking trust the new guy to do anything.”

“Well, she’s wearing scrubs,” he tried, frantically gesturing to your uniform, “I just thought–”

“You fucked up, Lang!” the first man who you’d heard speak barked loudly, “and now we’re not just gonna lose one of our brothers tonight, but also the head of the snake. Great fucking job,” a sharp click then caused your eyes to find the gun he yanked out, “and now she gotta die as well–”

“Wait!” you shrieked as both of your palms shot up in the air, “no! Please don’t kill me! I-I’m a nurse! I’m a nurse! I can help! Whoever’s hurt, I can help!”

Seemingly superior to the others present, the blonde one stared at you intensely for a while before exhaling a verdict, “shit… well, I guess it’s better than nothing…” his polished shoes then began to shuffle before he gestured to you, “come this way.” 

Hesitantly, you slowly shadowed him out of the living room, down a dim hallway, and into the chamber that bloomed at the bottom of the corridor. In the centre of the dark room, bathed by two glowing pendants, stood a large pool table, and upon the green felt, with colourful orbs haphazardly scatted all about, there laid a man, unconscious and bleeding. 

The brunette’s suit was sodden with crimson, though you couldn’t tell from here how much of it was his own. 

The gangster who was standing by the side and watching over the wounded individual glanced up at your arrival and asked his fellow men, “this the doctor?” 

“No, it’s a fucking stripper,” you twisted your neck at the sarcastic tone as the guy who’d only moments ago pulled a gun on you waltzed past you and entered the room as well, “yes, of course it is, Tony. How’s the boss?”

“Still alive,” he answered in a sigh and cast his glance back down upon the man on the pool table. 

Slowly stepping up, you carefully let your stare wash over the mobster, from the frazzled and blood-soaked attire to the metal-looking hand poking out one of the sleeves. 

“What happened?” you asked carefully. 

“Miss,” someone grumbled as they set a bag of supplies down beside you on the games table, “just fix him.” 

“If you wanna give your friend a better chance, then you give me as much information as possible about what happened to him,” you uttered as you found a pair of gloves and slipped them on. 

Letting out a sigh, the blonde fellow then said, “it was a shootout.”

Snatching up a pair of scissors, you began to snip in the man’s clothes, staring at the sleeve closest to you, “how many times was he shot?”

“I don’t know, he–… a lot of rounds went off,” he grunted, the events of the night weighting his broad shoulders down, “I wasn’t exactly counting.” 

Two bullets. That’s how many you found when his dress shirt was in tatters on the floor. One was lodged in his right arm four finger widths above his elbow, while the other had strayed a bit further north and buried itself in his bulky bicep. You also found other scrapes and scratches along his torso, assumingly from other bullets that hadn’t been as lucky as those two. 

The smallest of relieved sighs flowed from your lungs as you discovered that he wasn’t in a critical enough condition to be in need of a surgeon, at least not from what you could tell with the limited resources currently at your disposal. 

As you carefully set to work, first digging the bullets out before cleaning the wounds with saline, your lips slowly parted as you treaded a curved needle, “…so, not that I don’t love the change to my evening plans,” you didn’t dare shift your glance as you asked, “but don’t you have a regular guy for cleaning up these sorts of messes?” 

“We did… he died tonight, trying to stop that from happening,” the blonde man gestured to the injuries you began to stitch up. 

Blinking up to find his eye, you uttered sincerely, “I’m so sorry for your loss…” feeling yourself, even under such circumstances, uncontrollably slip into those compassionate parts of your profession. 

A slight scoff bubbled out of the gangster, taken aback by your unexpected gentleness, “yeah, me too. Banner was one hell of a guy…”

Once each of the wounds were sutured closed and you’d bandaged him up, you pushed yourself back from the pool table. 

“Alright,” you exhaled and glanced up at the criminals lurking in the shadows of the chamber, “I’m done.”

“Yeah?” one of them stepped up to get a better look, “he’s alright?”

“No, he’s not alright, he was shot multiple times and should be in a fucking hospital,” your eyes briefly fluttered shut as you heard yourself snap, “now, can I please go home?” 

Catching the eye of the blonde one, second in command, you watched as his jaw briefly clenched, the muscles dancing beneath his skin before he breathed, “no, you’re not done.”

“But I did exactly as you asked–”

“Like you said, he should be in a hospital right now, but we can’t have that happen, so instead, you’re gonna stay here till he’s out of the woods.” 

“What? I can’t–”

“You’re a nurse, right?” he croaked to shut you up, “so fucking do your job and nurse him back to health.”

Three whole days ended up passing by before Mr Barnes slowly began to regain consciousness. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” you snapped back into work mode, springing from your seat and leaning in over the bed which he’d previously been moved into. As the mobster instinctively began to sit up, his eyes barely open yet, you laid a soft palm upon his metal arm and uttered, “sir, please don’t move,” and watched as his clenched jaw almost silenced a groan, “one second, I’ll give you something for the pain,” before you shifted a moment to scavenge through the supplies you’d been given. Once the medicine was found, you exhaled slowly as you injected it, gently pressing down the plunger of the syringe, “there you go…” 

You let yourself suck in a deep breath before your sharp eyes washed over him, briefly assessing him as he woke, though as your gaze flickered up to meet his own, initially with the intent of checking his pupillary response, the manner he stared back at you caught you so of guard that a shiver trickled down your spine.  

“Sir, do you know what your name is?” you asked in a clear tone. 

“Mhm…” he hummed and continued to stare at you as if you were an angel, “Bucky…” 

“Bucky, great, that’s good,” you nodded, “and do you know where you are?”

His gaze didn’t shift away from your visage as he then murmured, “heaven…”

“No, I assure you, you’re not dead,” grasping the stethoscope draped around your neck, you shifted it into place to take a quick listen to his heart, “you almost were, a few times, but you aren’t.” 

As the steady thumping of his pulse filled your ears and seeped into your soul, his deep voice washed over you once again and layered atop the beat, “I’m guessing you had something to do with that?” 

Catching his unwavering eye a moment, you then averted yours and muttered, “I was just doing my job…” before retracting the stethoscope from his chest and casting your glance towards the door, “I should probably go tell the others that you’re awake.” 

TWO WEEKS LATER

“…and Mr Jensen in 401 is complaining of a headache, so you might wanna check that out as well.” 

“Alright, cool,” the doctor scribbled down the last of your words on the little notepad in his palm before his gaze flickered up to catch yours, “thank you so much, Y/n,” he flashed you a warm smile. 

Mirroring his expression, you hugged the charts in your grasp closer to your chest, “any time, Dr Parker.” 

“Peter, please,” his thumb extended to click the top of his blue pen before sliding it into the breast pocket of his white coat, “hey, I was gonna go grab a cup of coffee right now, do you wanna join?” he tried to keep his tone casual. 

Blinking back at him, your breath couldn’t help but get caught in your throat, “I–, uhm… I’d love to, but I get off in a little bit. Wednesdays are always just morning shifts for me.” 

“Oh, alright,” he nodded understandingly, though the gentle rejection still tainted his features slightly. 

“But another time,” you offered, successfully brightening his smile once more. 

“Yeah?” his elbow curled up to lean against the supportive railing that lined the hospital hallways. 

“Sure. I mean, I drink coffee, you drink coffee,” you awkwardly began to dig yourself into a hole, “the chances of us bumping into each other at the coffee cart are pretty high–” 

But your sentence was then cut short as Peter’s pager suddenly pinged in his pocket.

Fishing the small device out, his eyes flickered down to the small screen before he croaked, “oh, sorry. I gotta run.”

“Of course,” you swiftly waved a hand and watched as his feet began to shuffle into a run. 

“Talk later!” Peter called over his shoulder before he rounded a corner and disappeared into the maze of the hospital. 

Twisting around, your feet carried you the remaining distance towards the nurses’ station overlooking the ICU. As you laid the stack of files in your arms down on the counter, a familiar voice found your ears right before her visage popped into your periphery.

“Please tell me that that was what I think it was.” 

Your gaze stayed glued on the charts a moment longer as you ignored your friend’s prying, “hello to you too, Kate.”

When your head finally raised and you let her catch your eye, her wide ones questioned you before she expectantly poked once more, “well?”

“Well what?” you shrugged, though your feeble attempts at shutting the pending subject down failed as she shot you a glare, efficiently causing you to crumble with a sigh, “yes, he asked me out again–, or kinda. It was just coffee.”

“And you finally said yes?” she smiled keenly. 

Holding back your scoff, you simply uttered, “no,” before spinning on your heel. 

“Again?” she shuffled slightly to catch up to the pace you swiftly slipped into, “why not? He’s kind, he’s a doctor, he’s hot,” she listed off, counting on her fingers, “he’s literally perfect for you.”

“I know he is…” you tilted your head, almost with an air of shame, “he’s exactly the type of guy that I should be running after…” 

Though you liked him as a person and cared for him enough to call him your friend, those feelings you caught yourself forcing just hadn’t bubbled up yet. He was the kind of man that you deserved, that you should fall for, and certainly not the monster that still haunted you, that for some reason wouldn’t stop popping into your mind, especially at inappropriate times, like very late at night… 

“So then why aren’t you?” Kate asked as you entered the employee locker room.

And though thoughts of a gruff gangster caused your heart to swell, you still muttered, “I don’t know…” as an excuse before you popped open your locker and uttered, “hey… what do you know about mobsters here in the city?

“Other than the horror stories I’ve picked up in the ER, not too much,” she leaned against the row of cubbies beside your own as you dug out your bag and began to change out of your scrubs and back into the clothes you’d worn early this morning when the sun was still only a promise waiting to rise, “though I did grow up here, so I probably do know a bit more than you,” she acknowledged your move to the city only a few years prior, “why? Are you suddenly in the mood for a change in careers?”

Though the truth was on the tip of your tongue, you still found yourself obeying the commands the gangsters had sent you home with. Telling the cops was no use because they were all in their pockets, and confiding in a loved one also wasn’t a smart choice as that would only put them in danger. 

“Have you ever heard of someone called Bucky Barnes?” you asked, instinctively lowering your voice to a whisper. 

The ever light-hearted expression plastered upon Kate’s face fell at the recognition of that name, “yeah…”

“Really?” your brows rose, “what do you know about him?” 

“I mean, other than that he’s the supposed leader of the Avengers, not too much.”

“The Avengers?”

“Yeah, one of New York’s most notorious gangs,” she let out a breath, “from what little I know, they get up to a shit ton of stuff straight out of a De Niro movie or something, but their real money maker is cocaine… I mean, that’s why the head of the group is known as the winter soldier.” 

“How do you know about all this stuff?” you squinted back at her in slight amazement. 

“Went to med school with a few coke heads, might have dated one of them,” she blurted before shaking her head and getting back to the subject at hand, “anyways, Y/n, the point is, you don’t wanna mess with those types, trust me.” 

“I know,” you uttered quietly as you shrugged on your coat and pushed your locker closed, “I wasn’t planning on it, I was just curious…” 

As you dragged your foaming toothbrush over the last of your teeth, a loud knock suddenly rattled your front door, causing you to jump atop the pink bathmat in your tiny bathroom. 

Neck twisted out towards the entryway of your apartment, you briefly leaned over the sink to spit out the toothpaste slowly leaking out of your mouth, before your feet began to carry you towards the exit. 

One of your palms momentarily ran over the edge of your pyjama-clad arm as the night chill soaked through the cotton and made you yearn for the warmth of your bed. 

Though as you pulled on the handle, the haunting figures on the other side of the door caused your blood to freeze with recognition. Standing tall on the other side of the threshold, there stood two of the Avengers’ henchmen. 

“You need to come with us,” the one called Barton ordered coldly. Over the few days the gang had held you captive, you’d picked up on the names of many of the members, including the two that stood before you now. 

“What?” your chest rose and fell rapidly, “I–, please, I swear, I haven’t told a soul.”

Having them knock at your door was one thing, but even just the thought of criminals such as them knowing where you lived sent you into a spiral. 

“Yeah, we know you haven’t,” Scott put a hand on the doorframe, “that’s not why we’re here.” 

“What happened?” you murmured as you were led into one of the many sitting rooms in the mysterious manor they once again brought you to. In an armchair before you, half-empty glass of bourbon in metal hand and the sleeves rolled up on his blood-tainted shirt, there sat the big bad winter soldier himself, panting as he slowly sipped. 

Though when the sound of your voice filled the room, Bucky’s eyes only snapped up to yours for a moment before he shot a glare at his men.

“What is she doing here?” he grumbled lowly. 

“Boss, you busted your stitches,” Lang gestured tensely to the crimson slowly staining his crisp white shirt, “what else were we–”

Intersecting the conversation, the broad form of Steve stepped into the space between the gangsters and swiftly snuffed the pending argument out, “thank you, Barton, Lang,” he nodded to each of them, “you can go,” and you watched the pair that had brought you back exited the room. Shifting his weight, Bucky’s right hand man turned to you and offered you a polite smile, “Y/n, pleasure to see you again.”

“Yeah,” you exhaled, not masking your disdain of the situation you’d been dragged into yet again, “I wish I could say the same…” before you shifted your eyes to the man in the chair, though still directed your question at Steve, “what do you need me to do?” 

As you shifted closer to the intimidating leader, ever drinking, surely to dull the pain, Rogers murmured as you kneeled down to assess, “I think it’s just the one on his shoulder that’s–”

“Yeah, I see it,” you cut him off, then glanced back over your shoulder at him, “do you still have that medical bag?”

“Yeah, one second,” he swiftly disappeared to fetch it, leaving you all alone with the feared mob boss. 

With the crackling fireplace off to the side as your only source of light, you cautiously raised your hands and asked, “do you mind taking this off?” motioning to the shirt he wore. 

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky sighed and sat down his glass before shrugging the item off. Though you’d stared at his bare chest for hours on end before, soaking in his reveal once again for some reason caused your heartbeat to pick up, though you swiftly averted your gaze in an attempt at staying professional. 

Not long passed before Rogers had returned with the supplies, and you’d commenced redoing his stitches. 

“So,” you murmured though your concentration, weaving his skin back together, “do I even wanna know how this happened?”

Blinking down at you, your face close to your work and therefore his skin, Bucky breathed, “probably not...” and as his stare only intensified over the next few stitches, his low timbre once again washed over you as the corners of his lips tugged into the slightest of smirks, “cute PJs, by the way…”

“Yeah, I didn’t exactly get a chance to change,” you felt your cheeks heat up. 

“Oh, I'm not complaining,” his gaze shifted to take in the way the cool night air had caused your nipples to become visible like pebbles beneath the thin stripy fabric, the comment making you shift tensely on your knees. 

Once the last of the knots were tied off and you’d snipped the end of the thread, you wrapped the wounds back up with clean bandages before placing the roll of gauze back into the medical bag. 

“Alright, uhm,” you shifted back, “you’re good now,” a slight winch shot through you as you watched him briefly test out his arm’s mobility, “just be careful, try not to use it too much.”

Catching your eye, he uttered softly, “thank you,” before shifting his gaze to the gangster by the door, “Rogers?” 

“Yes, boss?”

“See to it that she gets home safe.”

ONE MONTH LATER

“I’ve heard the risotto here is really good,” Peter noted as you both skimmed the menus resting on the tablecloth before you, the crystal chandeliers illuminating the restaurant cast a soft glow down upon the choices.  

“Yeah?” you briefly glanced up to catch the doctor’s eye, “well, maybe I should get that then,” you shrugged before shifting slightly in your seat, “hey,” you captured his gaze once more, “could you maybe order for me? I just need to–…” you trailed off, letting the thumb you discreetly pointed over your shoulder in the direction of the bathrooms fill out the rest of the sentence. 

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he nodded. 

“Great, thank you,” you smiled as you rose. The long, cobalt-blue, velvet dress you wore briefly swooshed around your legs before the soft click of your heels against the polished floors carried you through the maze of tables. 

It was the third date you’d ventured on with the kind doctor. The third one and yet you still didn’t have any feelings towards him. 

Stubbornly trying as you might, you still couldn’t get the poison out of your system and do the right thing. 

Once you exited the ladies’ room, and big breath of courage in your lungs as you pushed open the door, it all seeped out as you walked through the small hallway that connected the lavatories with the dining space, and you accidentally bumped into two figures that waited in the space. 

Unsure of who was to blame for the collision, you immediately just muttered, “oh, sorry–,” before you glanced up at the pair and your apology crumbled from your lips, your frame immediately freezing up at the recognition. 

“Listen to me. You are going to quietly walk back to your little date, tell him that you’re not feeling well and need to go home,” Stark kept his voice hushed as both he and the other gangster slowly cornered you, the other one grasping your arm to keep you in place, “and then you’re gonna come with us.”

Sucking in a breath, you then tilted your chin slightly, “and if I don’t?” 

“Then we won’t hesitate to make a scene,” Barton shifted the edge of his jacket out of the way to flash you the gun strapped beneath, “so you can either walk with us and safe a life or you can not only have a dying gangster’s blood on your hands, but also everyone in this fucking restaurant.”

With the clench of your jaw, you glared up at them and murmured, “...fine,” before you ripped your arm free and began to walk back into the dining area and the table where Peter still sat. 

Flashing you a smile as you neared, the doctor swiftly said, “so, I ordered this chardonnay that the waiter said was good. You drink wine, right?”

“I–, uhm…” your fingers clutched the back of the chair as you tried to appear as you had before, even though now you felt as if your hammering heart might spring straight out of your ribcage, “Peter, I’m really sorry, but I gotta go,” you briefly scrambled your brain before adding, “the hospital paged me. There was a big accident downtown.”

“Really?” he fished out his own beeper from his pocket and furrowed down at it, “I didn’t get paged, so it probably can’t be that bad.”

“Yeah, but nurses shortage, you know?” 

“Right,” he nodded, disappointment slightly polluting his understanding expression. 

“I'm really sorry,” you uttered as you picked up your small purse from the chair.

“No, it’s fine,” he shook his head gently, “hey, I get it,” he shrugged before waving a hand, “go.”

“Thank you,” you stood there a moment longer, unsure of how you should depart, “uhm… bye,” before you awkwardly shifted closer to his seat and leaned down to press a brief kiss to his cheek as you offered him a half-hearted hug. 

“Who is it this time?” you sighed as you were led into an elegant space, surely intended for parties judging by the long bar that stretched along the back wall. Glaring at the only man seated on one of the barstools, you asked impatiently, “is it you? Did you hurt yourself again?”

Glancing over his shoulder as you halted your stride halfway down the short steps, a smile appeared on Bucky’s face as he leaned a forearm against the bar top and bellowed, “Y/n! Come, have a drink with me,” he waved a hand for you to take the seat beside him. 

Standing your ground, you squinted back at him in confusion, “no, I can’t, I–, where’s the patient?” 

“The patient?” he echoed as if you were speaking a foreign language. 

“Yes,” you huffed, your annoyance simmering into a full-on boil, “the person who’s on death’s door, the reason why I, a medical professional, is here,” you placed your hands on your hips and asked once again, “is it you?”

“No, I’m phenomenal,” he pursed his lips as he snatched up the stout glass waiting for him on the marble counter, “never been better.”

“Okay, so who is it?”

Tearing his gaze away from you, he then uttered, “no one,” before raising the drink up to his lips. As your mouth parted and your glare nearly burned straight through him, the mobster casually added, “you look stunning, by the way,” before twisting in his seat to face you more, “I didn’t know they changed scrubs out with gowns.” 

“No, I–, I was on a date–,” you muttered faintly through your confusion, slightly shaking your head in an attempt to clear it before you raised a hand, “wait, excuse me, no one’s injured?” 

“No,” Barnes shook his head, “no one’s hurt or dying,” then added as if your reaction was a tad bit too dramatic for his taste, “you can relax, it’s fine.”

But instead, the opposite emotions roiled inside of you as you slowly ascended a single one of the remaining steps, “so you mean to tell me that your men threatened me, my date and a whole restaurant of people, then dragged me all the way out here again, for nothing?” you fumed.

“No, it wasn’t for nothing,” he shrugged, “they brought you back here because I told them to,” he kept his ocean eyes upon you as he once again repeated, “now, come drink with me.” 

“No, I don’t want a fucking drink,” you roared. 

But then, just as swiftly as you had raised your voice, Bucky’s steely hand dipped beneath his suit jacket and pulled out a gun.  

“I asked you nicely,” his stern tone rolled off his tongue slowly as he aimed the weapon upon you, “now sit your ass down and share a drink with me.” 

Carefully, you finally followed his orders and sat down at the bar beside him. 

“Good girl. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” he uttered as he sat the gun down beside his drink. Raising up a hand to the silent shadow behind the bar, a glass was soon slid across the counter, one Bukcy pushed closer towards you, “here,” he said as you stared down at the orange peel floating at the top. As you lifted up the cocktail, the gangster beside you raised his own to click yours, “cheers.”

You briefly toyed with the thought of just taking a sip, though opted instead to down it all, both out of the desperate hope that the alcohol would aid the strange evening, but also in an attempt to fast forward a tad closer to your longed-for departure, ripping the bandage off instead of nursing it all night long. 

Though as you sat the glass back down on the bar, the bottom clanged against the marble much more forcefully than you’d intended as the fingers you clutched it with began to tingle. Blinking heavily a few times, your hand accidentally knocked over the empty drink as a numbing sensation began to bloom within your chest and spread throughout your body. 

Trying to get up from your seat, you mumbled foggily, “what the hell?” though quickly stumbled as your legs felt like jelly beneath your velvet gown.

“Whoa, careful now, angel,” Bucky’s calm gaze trailed you chillingly as you tried to steady yourself. 

“The fuck did you do?” you panted as your wide eyes watched him raise from his seat. 

“It's okay,” he uttered softly, “it’s all gonna be okay,” before your world turned to black and you passed out into his arms. 

When you finally stirred, you were no longer at the bar, nor any other room you’d been in before. You were in a bedroom, situated on a spacious mattress and alongside countless fluffy maroon pillows. 

As you sat up, a low rustling found your ears and drew your vision down towards the coldness clinging around your ankle. Strung between the bottom corner of the bedframe and your own foot, there shined a chain, one that, try as you instinctively did, you couldn’t snap out of. 

But then, as the door to the room creaked open and caused your body to flinch, a plea swiftly flowed out of you as you watched Rogers step inside, balancing a small tray with a glass and a tall decanter of clear water. 

“Steve!” you crawled to the bottom of the bed, “I–… help me, please,” you begged, hearing tears thicken up your voice as they rolled down your cheeks, “you’re a good man, deep down I know you don’t wanna stand by and let this happen. Can you unlock me? Please? Help me get out of here.”

But just as you waited for Steve’s lips to part, you instead heard, “shh, don’t waste your breath, honey,” as in strolled Bucky, causing you to swiftly scramble as far back on the bed as the chain would allow. 

Sitting down in a chair just out of your reach, the fireplace opposing the bed, directly behind where he sat, clacked and lit up his spine as he settled into the seat and directed his cold gaze upon you.

“Glad to see you awake,” he uttered calmly.

“Fuck you!” you swiftly spat as you hugged your knees tightly to your chest. 

“And with all of your charms still intact,” he tilted his head, a light smirk blooming on his lips as your vulgar language hadn’t fazed him one bit. 

“Let me go,” you demanded. 

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen, my angel,” his burly arms folded across his chest, “this is for your own protection,” he briefly gestured to the chain, “we wouldn’t want you to do anything stupid or rash now, would we?” one of his eyebrows twitched, “I can’t let anything happen to you,” he uttered as you continued to stare daggers at him, “you need to be kept as safe as possible so you can keep on helping me the way that you have.”

“What? You want me to be your gang’s personal nurse?” you scoffed, “is this your sick and twisted way of offering me a job, because if so, no thanks!”

“Yeah, no, this isn’t a job offering, I’m not interested in those talents of yours,” he leaned further back in the seat before he began to explain, “you see, for the past few years, I’ve had a serious string of bad luck. Deals have fallen through, rats have been found, the feds have been snipping at our heels and countless of my men have lost their lives,” he listed off, “but, then I met you,” his eyes flickered up to capture your own, “and it all turned around,” he uttered, “I tell you, when you’re here, it’s fate herself is on my side and nothing whatsoever could go wrong. Like having you has made me a fucking god or something, that’s the level of power you’ve bestowed in me,” a faint smile tugged at his lips as those words rolled off his tongue, “so no, you can not leave. You have to stay right here where I can make sure you’re safe and sound. Although, just because you get to be kept safe, that doesn’t mean you’re free of any consequences if you step out of line… it also doesn’t mean that I’ll deny anyone of your beauty if it pleases them… so, I guess it’s more along the lines of you just staying alive under my watch.” 

In the blind rage his words threw you into, your fingers wrapped around the bedside lamp before you chucked it across the room. Though just before it could strike the gangster’s head, he casually ducked out of the way, the lamp instead smashing on the floor behind him as a chuckle began to rumble within his chest. 

“That’s cute,” he laughed lowly, “you’ve got some bite. It’ll get you in trouble, but it’s adorable.” 

“I'm not interested in being your good luck charm, you superstitious fuck!” you yelled as he got up from his seat. 

Huffing out a condescending grin, “give it some time, angel,” he fastened the button on his dark suit jacket before smoothing a palm down over the front, “the human psyche is much more fragile than you’d think and can get used to some surprising conditions,” he ignored the scream that desperately tore from your lungs and instead turned to Steve standing by the door and asked him calming, “Rogers, would you mind cleaning that up?” gesturing to the broken lamp on the floor, and as he received a small nod in return, he murmured, “thank you,” before exiting the room and leaving you to your fate. 

“Seriously?” Steve let out a laugh when he finally coaxed the truth out as to why you hadn’t been touching any of the food they’d brought you, “and here I thought you were just a picky eater.” 

“Well, you’ve already drugged me once so what’s stopping you from doing it again,” you explained, glaring down at the plate before you as he attempted to stifle his laughter. 

“I swear, cross my heart, your pasta is not poisoned.”

Continuing to squint down at the food, you kissed your teeth, “prove it.”

“Really?” his brows floated up, “alright,” he sighed as he sat down across from you. Dragging your plate closer, he twirled some of the spaghetti onto the fork before slipping it into his mouth, “see?” he chewed, “I’m fine, and so will you be when you get some food in that belly of yours.”

Pushing it back towards you, hesitantly, you picked up the fork and slowly began to eat. It had only been little things you’d consumed the past couple of days being here, things you could be certain weren’t tainted, like the odd apple and such. 

Though as you chewed and finally began to settle your stomach’s nauseating rumbling, tears began to stream down your cheeks. 

No matter how hard you tried to beg, none of the mobsters would help you, as their loyalty was just too hard for you to crack. 

“Hey…” your bloodshot eyes then flickered up to Rogers as he noticed your weeping, “it’ll get easier, I promise,” he attempted in a soft tone. 

“How?” you blinked back at him hopelessly, “I am being locked up in a room by a maniac as if I’m just some trinket for him to own.” 

Throwing a brief glance over his shoulder, he then leaned in a bit closer to cautiously advise you, “…there might be some things you could do to change your situation…”

“What?” a spark suddenly flickered within you, “I’d do anything.”

“…you might consider trying to get closer to Barnes…” his words remained hesitant, “…if he begins to care for you, then he might treat you differently…”

“Like, he’d let me go?” 

“I don’t know,” he exhaled, “but maybe it could get that chain off your ankle,” he gestured to your foot, “baby steps.” 

ONE MONTH LATER

“Here,” Steve croaked as he suddenly burst through the doors to your room, a big flat box in his arms which he tossed on the bed beside you. Peeking inside, a folded-up bundle of black fabric met your eye, “put it on,” he ordered hastily, “make yourself presentable.”

“Why?” you blinked up at him, your brows knitting gently together. 

“Because the boss requested it,” he answered impatiently. 

“What, he wants to play dress up with me now? Treat me like a doll?”

Over the past month, you had gone from being scared out of your mind, barely sleeping at night, horrified of what they might do to you, till the paralysing fear slowly began to melt away as not much happened at all, in fact so little that you grew bored in your imprisonment, thinking that the big bad gangsters were just all bark and no bite. Perhaps that was a dangerous confidence to develop, growing cocky in your restlessness, but you couldn’t help it. 

Letting out a low sigh, “just put it on,” Rogers’ head tilted before he said, “I’ll be outside, yell when you’re done.”

Popping the lid off all the way, you then slipped into the black gown waiting within. It was long and simple in its beauty as it hugged all of your curves like a second skin. 

Right before you called out to the mobster in the hallway, you leaned in closer to the mirror on the left side of the room. The dark storm clouds visible out the gothic windows that filled up the wall behind you blossomed in the reflection alongside you as you momentarily fussed with your hair to make it match the elegant dress better. 

Once Steve had entered the room once again, the very last thing you expected was what he did next. 

Walking straight up to you, without a word, he bent down and unlocked the chain binding you to the bedpost. At first, a wave of hope washed over you till it was drowned out by the unsettling notion as to where he would take you and just what plans were on the horizon. 

Grabbing you by the arm, he dragged you out of the room and down the dark hallway you’d only seen glimpses of before. You tried to ask him what was going on, though he didn’t offer you any clue in return, only remained silent as he hauled you through the maze-like manor till a wide set of steps found you, leading you down into a garage where a group of the other gangsters already stood beside the black car rolled up by the base of the stairs. 

Standing in the middle with an arm resting against the roof of the vehicle, Bucky’s gaze swiftly landed upon you as you ascended the stone steps. 

“Well,” the mob boss’ eyes roamed your form, “don’t you look pretty.”

Biting your tongue, you greeted him politely, “Mr Barnes.”

“Shall we go?” he cracked open one of the car doors. 

“Where?” you tried, though your question only caused him to breathe out a smile as he ignored it and instead commanded softly. 

“Get in the car, angel,” his metal arm rested atop the door. 

Riding in a different vehicle than you, it was Clint who slipped in behind the wheel of your car and drove you the silent route towards the mysterious destination. 

Though once the car came to a stop, the door to your left cracked open from the outside and there to greet you was an outstretched metal hand to help you exit. 

You didn’t recognise the building that loomed before you, though it was grand and opulent with large steps leading you and all the other arrivals up to what sounded like a party already buzzing on.

“So, you needed a date,” you exhaled as Barnes took your arm and began to lead you up the stairs, a cluster of his men shadowing behind you both. 

“No,” he cocked his head, “I didn’t need it...”

Casting your glance around at the other guests that passed, you asked, “what kinda party is this anyway? Let me guess, human trafficking auction?” you were completely serious, though still managed to make the gangster laugh gently. 

“It’s a wedding,” his chuckle finished billowing out of his lungs, “or a funeral,” he tilted his head, “I'm not quite sure.”

“How could you not be sure?” you shot him a glance as you reached the top of the steps and he dragged you inside the marbled halls, “there’s a pretty significant difference.”

“They all just kinda melt together at this point,” he sighed, “I have at least one of these a week I gotta show my face at, just out of respect.” 

Taking a look around, you uttered, “well, do you at least know who this funeral wedding is for?”

“No fucking clue,” he exhaled before following the signs and leading you into the venue’s ballroom.

Turns out it was a wedding for some couple you hadn’t yet spotted, though you’d already read their names a thousand times with all the stuff they were plastered upon. 

You stayed quiet and lingered by Bucky’s side as he shook some people’s hands and made some small talk before the two of you found yourselves seated at one of the many round tables in the hall. 

Blinking up at the floral centrepiece, your fingers fiddled with the white tablecloth as the hours rolled by. Soon, not only the complementary glass of champagne you’d been handed back when you arrived was sloshing in your belly, but also quite a bit more alcohol as you decided that was a good tool to make the evening more bearable. 

It however also came with the hindrance of boosting your cockiness as you eventually found yourself poking the bear. 

“You know for a big bad gangster,” you stared over at him, leaned back in the seat next to yours, “you’re actually not that scary up close,” you pursed your lips, causing a chuckle to rumble within his chest because of just how untrue that statement was, “smiling at everyone, being polite. Are you sure you really are the big bad winter solider? The king of New York with no heart and only an imagination for torture…”

“Well…” he huffed out a short laugh as he met your gaze, “don’t you have me just all figured out.”

“Some of your guys may have filled me in a bit,” you tilted your head. 

“Have they now?” he continued to look amused. 

“Yeah, well, a bit at least,” you seized your glass and took another sip.

As you placed the flute back down on the table and rested your cheek in a propped-up palm, your stare only intensified into a squint as Bucky’s eyes flickered back around the room.

But as his gaze fluttered back to notice your gawking, he muttered, “what?”

“Why aren’t you mean tonight?” you uttered through the haze fuzzing up your mind. 

Tongue flicking out to wet his lips, his eyes briefly dipped before he uttered, “do you want me to be mean?” a playful smirk twitched at the corner of his lip in a threat to appear. 

“Is it all just a lie?” you asked, the subtext of his previous words flowing directly over your dizzy head. 

“What?”

Squinting back at him, you then breathed, “there’s always a part of me that’s still scared, imagining what you might do to me… but now,” you slowly drew out, “I don’t think you’re actually ever gonna do anything,” you blindly decided, “that’s not really who you are, they’re all just empty threats…” 

“Hm…” he hummed, a slight smile blooming upon his lips as he stared back at you, “okay…” before he leaned in closer to utter, “and just what makes you think that I haven’t already?” your face immediately dropped as his words caused your frame to freeze up, “tell me, Y/n,” his breath fanned across your cheeks, “did you sleep well last night? Or the night before for that matter, or–, well, just during the time you’ve spent here with me?”

As your shock not only showed in your expression but also in your complete lack of speech, he simply grinned back at your stunned features before grabbing you by the hand and breaking the moment. 

“Come on,” he dragged you with him as he then stood up himself, “let’s dance.”

With an argument on the tip of your tongue, the appendage, just as the rest of you, still remained too dumbfounded for it to come to fruition. You didn’t manage to gather your wits once again till he had you on the middle of the floor, wide hand on your waist as you swayed to the music. 

As his hold slowly tightened and he brought you closer to his broad frame, your breath suddenly hitched as you blinked up into his eyes, the air between you growing thick. The hand that grasped your own near swallowed your palm in a dizzying contrast. Goosebumps began to erupt across your skin as you felt your heartbeat thump not only in your chest, but also much further south, a mortifying clue to the dark truth you hoped he didn’t somehow notice. 

Gliding his palm up the length of your spine, it came to rest between your shoulder blades as he then drew you in closer and your gaze fell to the band strumming over his shoulder. 

“Does the thought of me playing with you at night turn you on?” he whispered in your ear and continued to gently sway you to the music, “because if you want me to wake you, all you have to do is ask. Though my attempts so far at rubbing your luck off on me have been rather eventful, I’m still sure it would be better if you gave me a bit of a hand…” 

Tilting your head back to blink up at him, you thought you were gonna spit him in the face for making such an accusation, till your stare acted of its own accord and fluttered down to fixate on his lips. 

It almost felt as if they were calling for you, begging you closer like a stubborn magnet. But before you could close the short distance that kept you two apart, Barton appeared in your periphery and tapped his boss on the shoulder. 

As he leaned in to whisper in his ear, you couldn’t pick up on the words over the music, though watched as Bucky’s face swiftly grew hard. 

“What’s going on?” you asked as the secretive message came to an end and the mobster’s wide hands faded from your frame. 

Ignoring your question, Bucky instead cast his glance over your head at one of the men behind you and ordered sternly, “Stark? Get her home, now.”

“What’s happening?” you tried again, though without success as Tony dragged you away and the remaining gathered to converse in hushed tones.

Perhaps it was because of the chaos of whatever was happening, perhaps just a simple mistake, but when you returned back to the manor, the shackle wasn’t reunited with your ankle. 

Not willing to let that gift slip through your fingers, you soon grasped that opportunity tight and made an attempt at your escape. 

Sneaking down the many hallways, you successfully hid from a handful of gruff-looking men before you realised you couldn’t remember the path to the garage or any other way out of the labyrinth of a building that kept you swallowed in the dark. 

However, your mission turned into a swiftly sinking ship as soon as you rounded the wrong corner and crossed the threshold of the last room you should have entered. 

In the centre of the space stood two chairs, both with individuals strapped to them, though only one of them was still alive. Before the seated pair and with his back turned to your frozen-up form, there stood Bucky. Returned from the party and with both his jacket and tie torn off, his sleeves were rolled up though still tainted in small crimson flecks of the deed he’d just done. 

“Come on, Vladimir…” Barnes uttered as he kneeled down in front of the battered man still breathing, neither he nor the other members in the room haven noticed you in the doorway, “just give me what I want and we can wrap this up.”

Wheezing painfully through his broken nose, the man met Bucky’s steely gaze before fulfilling his request, “…I’m sorry…”

“Hm?” he leaned in pettily, “what was that?”

“I’m sorry,” the tied-up man repeated with a laboured huff.

“Okay, getting there,” he nodded, “what are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry for killing Bruce…” the name rolled off Vladimir’s tongue like a crackle to a bonfire. 

“And?” Bucky fished. 

“For hurting you…” 

“See? That wasn’t so bad now,” Barnes straightened back up, “an apology, a life for the one you took from me, and now there’s just one last thing left to do, and then we’re even,” he then took one step back and conjured his gun. Aiming it at the Russian, barely a second passed before a shot deafened everyone’s ears and a bullet blasted through the tied-up man’s arm, mirroring the injuries Bucky himself had sustained. The loud blast and the bloodcurdling scream that tore from Vladimir, however, caught you so off guard that a shriek slipped from you as you flinched, revealing your presence as everybody’s eyes suddenly shifted to train on you. Glancing over his shoulder, Bucky grunted, “what are you doing out? What is she doing out?” he shot his glare in the direction of Steve off to the side, “Rogers? Get her back into bed.”

“Yes, boss,” his right-hand man swiftly nodded before catching up to you in two long steps and seizing your arm. 

And as you were dragged back to your doom, your eyes caught the tail end as Barnes let out a sigh and turned back around to face his victim, “now, where were we? Right! I believe the other one was right around here,” another gunshot echoed in the manor as he shot Vladimir’s arm once more, “and now, we can’t forget about the ones that only skimmed me, so get up and don’t fucking flinch, it’s on you if I hit your lung.”

The chain reunited with your ankle jingled as you twisted on the bed to cast your gaze out the window. Heavy rain hammered against the tall panes as the restless city twinkled through the darkness of the night. In the corner of the room, Steve watched up like a hawk as you continuously failed to find rest. 

But then, just as you thought you felt your heartbeat return to a normal rhythm, the double doors burst open and in paced Bucky. 

“Is she awake?” he huffed, though didn’t wait for an answer before he heatedly went on, “okay, great.”

As his rushed steps halted by the foot of your bed, the look in his eye caused your body to shudder.  

“Rogers?” he kept his cold stare glued on you as he uttered, “go wait outside.”

Though you silently pleaded with your eyes for the mobster to stay, it was no use as Steve swiftly shut the doors behind him. 

As the man before you then shifted, your wide eyes finally noticed the bundle of rope in his grasp as he began to unravel it. Scrambling back, you didn’t manage to crawl far away before Bucky caught the chain and yanked it hard enough to force your frame down towards him. Though your struggling finally fizzled out when the gangster pulled out his gun, the very gun he’d just ended a life with, and aimed it at your head to get you to comply. 

“You know,” he uttered gruffly like a pent-up bull, “I’ve been nice, I’ve been real well behaved, kept my manners intact, been a goddamn gentleman,” the heavy weapon in his hand tilted slightly to emphasise his words, “but evidently, that’s not what you need to learn your fucking place,” he fumed before letting out a low exhale, “that’s alright…”

“Bucky, please,” tears blurred your vision as you held up your palms, “I-I understand, I’m sorry, you don’t have to do this.” 

“Oh, but I do…” he sighed almost softly as he then kneeled down closer and let the tip of the cool barrel stroke your cheek, “…if you don’t break a horse, then she’ll never be tamed…” his eyes trailed after the line he drew before it flickered up to find your own, “now give me your hands,” he ordered and hesitantly, you shakily obeyed. 

Since you couldn’t stay in your place, he simply had to tie you down better. 

Unfurling the rope in his grasp, the mobster then fastened the cord around not only both of your wrists, but also your free ankle. After each of the tight knots were tied off, he yanked each appendage to the nearest corner of the bedframe, spreading your limbs till you looked like a starfish on the mattress. 

Taking a step back to admire his handiwork, his fingers then dipped down into his pocket before a slight furrow found his brow as his touch didn’t locate the item he fished for. Placing the heavy gun in his palm down on the fireplace mantel, he then closed the distance towards the exit and cracked open the door just a smidge. 

“Rogers?” he extended a hand through the sliver, “give me your knife,” to which a switchblade was swiftly placed in his palm, replacing his own which was still lodged deeply inside the corpse of the Russian in the other room. 

Slamming the door behind him, he then crossed the room and silently began to cut your clothes off. The black gown you still wore came off with only a few slices, though your underwear, that he took his time with, slowly grazing the blade over your goosebump-ridden flesh before nicking the cotton clinging tightly to your frame. 

Once you were bare before him, his feet shuffled back slightly as he let his stare soak up every millimetre of you. 

A hand floated up to tug on his tie and loosen it slightly from around the collar still dappled with the blood of his enemy. Folding closed the knife with a faint flourish, he then sank down into the armchair directly behind him. The tattered panties he’d sliced from you were still clutched tightly in his hand as his eyes stayed glued upon your frame. Bringing the fabric up to his nose, his blue eyes then fluttered closed for a second as he breathed deeply, letting the scent of you flood his senses. 

But as he stuffed the cotton down into his pocket and let his palm drift to somewhere else, your eyes grew even wider as you gasped, “what are you–”

“Just shut up, please,” he groaned, sounding like he was at his very last straw as he brashly began to rub himself through his pants, “just for one fucking second, don’t be a brat.”

Your jaw couldn’t help but hit the floor as he shamelessly pulled out his cock, letting the intimidating hardness spring free of its confines before he spit in his palm and enclosed his fist around the fat girth. You wanted to look away, you truly did, but you just couldn’t, a flaw he obviously noticed. 

“You’re unbelievable…” he chuckled as his fist silkily stroked up and down his cock, the mixture of his own spit and the precum beading at the tip caused a sloppy melody to fill the room at each and every twist, “I mean, me being into you, that’s one thing, that makes sense, you’re the closest thing to magic that I’ve ever experienced, so of course that’s enough to get me going, but you… you’re the very textbook definition of a good girl and here you are pining after–, how was it again you put it? A superstitious fuck?” 

Stunned at his accusation, you tried to tear your stare away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Really? Well, I didn’t take you for a fool, but hey,” he tilted his head, “some folks are just that disconnected to their own feelings.”

Blinking back at him, you scoffed faintly, “you’re crazy, I’m not–…” but you couldn’t even say it out loud as you, deep down, knew that it was a lie. 

“Oh yeah?” he cocked a brow, finding your flustered state amusing, “then why did you almost kiss me tonight?”

“I–…I was drunk.” 

Letting out a dark chuckle, “alright, sure,” he then rose from his seat and crawled up on the bed with you before he buried his face between your parted thighs, “if you despise me so much, then why are you so fucking wet?” his hot breath fanned across your core. 

“I’m not–,” you tried, though your attempt then fell short as he proved you wrong, reaching out his touch to tickle at your lightly and let the wet sounds of your arousal slosh into your soul. 

“Hm?” the broad pad of his thumb gently brushed over your glistening petals, making them part for him, “if this isn’t because deep down you want me, then why? I’d love to hear you try and explain your way out of this one…”

“I-I–…” your eyes fluttered as you tried to fight the feeling, “I don’t…” 

Laughing lightly through the scoff that then bubbled out of him, he averted his gaze and said, “okay, fine. You wanna play that game?” his eyes flickered back up to find yours, “if you need a bit of help in order to admit the truth, then that’s what you’ll get,” he uttered before suddenly stuffing two of his fingers inside of you. 

Craning his neck, he tilted down to catch a taste. You tried to hold back your moans as his digits caressed you, but the softness of his velvety tongue came as such a shock that a little squeak managed to slip out past your lips. 

“I mean, if it’s any consolation,” his stubbly chin glimmered with your essence as he retracted slightly to smirk, “I personally think it’s kinda cute that you have a crush on me like a little schoolgirl…” 

He then sent his palm down upon your pussy in a wet smack, before repeating the action a couple of times to echo the jolt it shot through your body. 

“Fuck…” he groaned in a low rumble, “you are so much more pretty awake…” he revealed casually, “sure, you make some cute noises in your sleep, but not like this,” you instinctually tried to stifle the uncontrollable whimpers that flowed from your lungs, “you should really be thanking me for all of the time and effort I’ve put into stretching this little hole of yours out,” his fingers continued to pump in and out of you, “if I hadn’t, well then you might just split in two when I finally get my cock in there.” 

And as he leaned down to lap you up once more, you curled your toes as you felt him push you closer to the edge. 

“Mr Barnes…” you attempted with an air of respect through your pants, “please don’t–…”

“Why? Because it makes you want to kiss me again?” he teasingly taunted you before continuing his persistent licks, bullying your clit into submission. 

And as he kept going, even as you gasped, “stop–, a-ah!” he still kept his lips locked around your puffy pearl long after a gush of squirt wept around his fingers, keeping his efforts up till your hips were bucking back in sensitivity. 

But when his kiss finally ceased, he let some of your juices, that had flooded into his mouth, trickle out past his lips and back down onto your pussy, “fuck…” his low groan nearly caused the whole room to rumble, “nasty little cunt…” before he slapped your throbbing core once more, watching as the last little trickle weakly leaked out and soaked the sheets below. 

Lifting himself up to hover above your constricted form, you then squirmed as you felt him nudge the bulbous tip of him against you. 

“Does the idea of liking, or even loving, someone like me scare you that much?” he uttered as he gathered up your slick and smeared it with his cock, “does it make you feel all wrong and icky inside that I of all people make you feel the way that you do?” 

All of the air in your lungs was then suddenly knocked clean out as he, with one long stroke, slipped all the way inside, before pulling right back out to tap the weight of him against your poor clit with the hold he had at his base. 

“You won’t spontaneously combust if you admit it out loud, you know…”

He repeated the motion, plugging you up completely before he denied your cunt the chance of getting used to the stretch. 

“I just wanna hear you say it…”

And on the next time he filled you up to the brim, this time his hips didn’t retract.

Reeling as you fought to comprehend the manner his girth split you open, you gasped weakly, “I can’t…”

“Hmm…” his eyes above you narrowed slightly before he pointed out, “that’s not a no,” and he began to move, “finally getting somewhere…”

The gangster was in no way gentle as he started to fuck your pussy, the selfish force of it caused your body to jostle every time his heavy balls tapped against your slick skin, thereby conducting a lewd beat each time he slammed into you. 

Lowing himself to get even closer to you, his nose ghosted against your own from the proximity. The gesture made you assume that he was about to press his lips to yours, though they never touched, even as your own instincts overwhelmed you and made you dizzily tilt up to try and close the gap, “nah-ah-ah,” he swiftly clicked his tongue and moved out of your reach, “admit the truth and then I’ll kiss you all you want.”

With his length still embedded deep within you, he sat back up. His fingers dented your hips as he grabbed onto them and then began to sink them harshly down against his own, lifting your frame entirely off of the mattress as he used you like a toy. 

“Oh god…” you whimpered as your eyes fluttered down to notice the faint bulge that appeared in your lower abdomen, the thrusting imprint of his size visibly showing just how deep he buried himself inside of you. 

Once he’d plopped your hips back down onto the bed, his hands then instead floated up to play with your tits, the rhythm he offered you causing them to jiggle in his palms. Though once he’d fiercely pinched your nipples and parted ways in a brief tap, his fingers then drifted further down south till his right hand found your puffy clit. 

Casting his glance down as he rubbed your pearl, a smirk appeared on his lip as he spotted the way your cream coated his girth. Sweeping down to smear his touch against it, what he did next caught you so off guard that you jostled wildly in your binds in an attempt to hit him for his audacity.

“Ahh!” you yelped as he stuffed two of his fingers in your pussy alongside his already overwhelming girth, “Buck, no, it’s too much!” 

But your squeak only caused him to chuckle as he stared down at the way your little hole struggled to take what he gave it, clinging around him so tightly that loud groans began to billow from him as he soon painted your insides white and pumped you full of his cum. 

With heavy breaths, he withdrew his dick, though let his digits stay inside your warmth. 

“Maybe in time you could become more than just my good luck charm…” he murmured as he flopped down to curl closer to your core, “would you like that?” he nipped at one of your thighs as his load slowly began to leak around his thick fingers, “does the idea of me falling down to my knees before you and declaring my undying love entice you, angel?” 

“You’ll just have to do better,” he continued as his digits began to twist within you, “let me mould you and make you perfect for me,” another one of his fingers was stuffed inside of you, causing your eyes to flutter, “just let go,” he breathed, “shut off your brain and let it become a leaky mess just like your pussy already is for me,” he worked another digit into your creamy cunt before grazing the last one against your stretched out opening, “you don’t need to think, you just need to do exactly as I tell you to and everything will be okay,” his tone was soft as his thumb curled close to the others and sank into your pussy with a pop, “just break for me, it’s okay,” your body was shaking beneath him as his entire fist slowly twisted within you, “you’ll be so much more perfect ruined…”

Tears were streaming down your face as you unravelled once more, trembling violently as your pussy clamped down around his wide hand so tightly that it was forced all the way out, a drizzle of your nectar once again spraying out at the intensity. 

“Alright!” you let out a sob, “alright… I–… I don’t understand it… but, I–…” you caught his eye and confessed, “ever since the moment I met you, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you… even when I fall asleep, it’s like you’re haunting me in my dreams…” a faint shake found your head as you blinked up at him through your blurry vision, “I don’t wanna feel this way. But–… I do.”

It seemed as though time stood still as Bucky stared down at you, an unreadable expression tinting his features before he finally shifted, slowly leaning down over you and inching closer before he finally pressed his lips to your own.

A faint whimper was muffled against his kiss as you felt the world crumble around you. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it now…” he breathed as he ended the soft peck, “say it again,” his hand slid over your jaw, “practice makes perfect.”

Blinking up into his eyes, you uttered from the bottom of your heart, “I am yours,” a single tear rolled down your cheek as you still trembled beneath him. 

“Damn right you are…” his lips tilted into a smile. 

Fishing out the borrowed switchblade that still rested within the gangster’s pocket, he then sliced through the ropes and constricted you. 

Tangling your arms around his neck as you sat up, you captured his lips once again and felt his touch slide down under your ass before he scooped you into his lap. Your sore pussy wept against his cock, once again throbbing and hard as a rock against your core. As your tongue danced against his own, you couldn’t help but scramble even closer, pressing your body impossibly close to his own as you grinded down against him. 

“You are mine,” he groaned as he manhandled your frame in his hold and sank you back down onto his fat dick, “you are my most prized possession,” your bodies met in sticky claps as the aftermath of the rough round moments before still oozed all over this one where passion crackled behind both of your own desperate efforts, “I will never let you go,” he blinked up into your eyes as you rode him, both of you clinging to each other as the end crept ever nearer, “always need you–,” his sentence was briefly broken up by a moan as you rolled your hips, your pussy gripping around him and squeezing him tightly, “need you by my side…” 

Once your synced-up orgasms had both shuddered your senses and you were sharing each other’s breath, your eyes remained locked as his throbbing cock stayed buried deep within you.

“So, what now?” your chest rose and fell as you whispered into the night, the pitter-patter of rain splashing against your windows once again catching your attention as it swept over and mingled with your laboured pants of breath.  

Not shifting his gaze, his eyes briefly scanned your own in search of any ounce of deception, before his fingers dipped down into his pocket and conjured a tiny key, “now,” and he stretched down to undo the chain at your ankle. The click of the lock felt like a gasp of real air was finally filling your depraved lungs, “I take you to my room,” and he manoeuvred you around to slink one arm in behind your knees while the other stayed fast at your spine. As he rose from the bed, he plucked you up with him as well, carrying you in his hold as he exited the bedroom. 

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[john-get-the-salt]

Rage (w/ Jack Abbott)

Imagine: An incident brings the rage out of Jack, but luckily you have the ability to calm him

Contains: Reader who works in the Pitt in unspecified role, angry/protective Jack

Warnings: brief violence towards reader

AN: you can’t convince me Jack wouldn’t BEAT someone’s ass for you. He totally would. And I would thank him

It all happened so fast you barely had time to comprehend what was going on.

One minute you were working in the Pitt, talking to a couple that came in with a DV related injury. You were trying to deescalate the situation and calm down the raging boyfriend-and the next minute you were on the ground, head pounding and vision swimming.

Had he just hit you? You could taste iron on your lips and your hands were stinging from catching yourself on the ground.

You heard someone yelling in the distance, or was that you? You couldn’t tell-and then someone very close to you was calling for security.

You blinked furiously, trying to clear the black spots and finally you focused as a face was coming into view. Robby.

“What-what happened?”

“Can you stand?”

You nodded, wincing when it made a spike of pain radiate through your skull.

Hands were on your forearms-Robby and Dana. They helped you up on wobbling knees, and with a few more blinks your vision was starting to improve again. But you did not like what you saw.

Jack had the man who had hit you pressed up against the wall with his hands pulled behind his back. Jack was hollering in his ear, threats that if he ever touched his girl again he-

“Jack!” You’d never heard Robby’s voice so loud and thundering before. It was enough to get Jack’s attention, and his eyes landed on you.

“Leave him,” Robby ordered. “I will stay with him until security gets here. She’s bleeding she needs you.”

That was enough to snap Jack out of it. He released the man and stalked over to you without another thought. As he reached for your arm your knees began to give out so instead he swept you up into his arms.

Your senses were all jumbled, sounds and sights and thoughts all messed up and nonlinear. You allowed your eyes to close as you were carried, the rocking motion soothing.

“Hey-don’t close your eyes. Not yet, just keep em open for me sweetheart, okay?”

You hummed in acknowledgment and managed to open them and keep them open as Jack finally set you down in a room. Dana closed the door behind you both, leaving it just the 3 of you. She turned the lights lower, which immediately helped with your head.

“I’m ok I just need-what-I’m all jumbled. What happened?”

“He fucking hit you,” Jack seethed as he roughly put on gloves. “I could kill him.”

You winced at the loud voice, causing him to pause and then slow down.

“I got this Dana, just make sure that…fucker stays put until the cops get here.”

Dana didn’t argue, shooting you a look before pulling the curtain shut and leaving.

“The cops? Jack I’m ok you don’t-”

“Don’t.” His voice was calmer now, and that may have fooled other people but it didn’t fool you. You could hear the restrained anger, see it in his set jaw.

He ran you through the usual work up and concluded you most likely had a concussion, though he insisted you’d be getting a head CT just to be safe. You didn’t argue.

“I still don’t really understand what happened,” you mumbled, rubbing at your eyes. Jack, who’d been carefully wiping the blood away from your busted lip, was quiet for a moment.

He then took his gloves off before taking your hands in his, and it was then you realized that he was shaking. You looked up at him and his eyes were glassy.

“Hey-baby, talk to me.”

“I coulda fucking killed him.”

“But you didn’t-

“I wanted too. If Robby hadn’t stopped me I probably would have pummeled him for touching you.”

“Baby-“

“I won’t apologize for that. I’m supposed to protect you-and I didn’t.”

“You can’t be at my side every second of every day. Things are going to happen.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You shook your head. There was no use arguing with the man when he was all worked up like this.

“I’m sorry I scared you. I hope Robby doesn’t give you too much shit.”

Jack scoffed. “Robby looked like he wanted to sucker punch him too. And I thought Dana was gonna kick him in the dick.”

You laughed and Jack visibly relaxed at the sound.

“You sure you feel ok?”

You nodded, pulling his hands up to your cheeks so he would hold your face.

“I’m sure. Thank you for taking care of me, i love you.”

“I love you too.” He leaned in and allowed himself to give you a few delicate kisses, still worried about your head.

“Now do you think the security cameras caught all of that?” You asked, a bit of playfulness back into your voice. “Cause I would like to see all angles of my hot boyfriend coming to my defense and kicking some ass.”

Jack smirked, helping you stand from the exam table.

“That can definitely be arranged.”

“We’re gonna be the talk of the town now,” you said with a sigh. You’d managed to keep your relationship on the down low for the most part, but that was going to be the case anymore.

“To be fair I would’ve gotten involved regardless of who got hurt.”

“Yeah, but that restraint was a bit much.”

“You liked it just fine the other night.”

You punched Jack’s shoulder while he gave you a cheeky grin.

“Shut up and take me to CT. I’m ready to go home.”

“Aye aye captain.”

[nathaslosthershit]

𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧

Clark Kent x Pregnant!reader Summary: She knew her husband meant well when he bought the insanely expensive microwave, but she couldn't help but curse his existence when crying on the floor at 11 pm while in her third trimester because she can't open the stupid thing. Warnings: Pregnancy hormones, Swearing, Mentions of battles, Suggestive (like barely implied), Unedited (I'll get to it) A/N: Thanks to everyone who voted, I will have the runner up out tomorrow! As always- requests open!

You loved Clark more than words could say. But actions could, and agreeing to grow his meta-human baby was proof enough of how much you loved him, how much you were willing to suffer for him. 

Truth be told, you had wanted to have kids with him, had even begged after he had come home from another attack on Metropolis.

You’d been worried sick, which wasn't unusual for the wife of Superman.

There really needed to be a support group for the spouses of heroes. 

After 3 years dating and 2 years married, you should have gotten used to it. The push and pull of being absolutely terrified for Clark while also more than a little turned on watching him sacrifice himself to save the city he loved simply because he could. 

This time though, it felt different. 

A school bus of children had been caught in the aftershocks of battle, and you watched as your husband led each and every child to safety, watched each child’s scared face turn into ones of pure adoration, trust, and happiness as they realized their favorite superhero had come to save them. 

Clark had come back battered but not broken, which meant you felt less bad about ogling him as he sprawled out on your balcony and soaked in the sun. 

Clark turned his head at the sound of his wife’s racing heart and hitched breath. He may have looked every bit the beautiful Kryptonian in the golden light, but Clark believed you looked every bit the natural beauty that could truly only be found on earth. 

He certainly couldn’t miss the way your eyes didn’t hold the concern and fear he usually saw in them after a fight, but instead held something more… heated.

7 months later you stood in your kitchen, cursing the beautiful alien you’d married, slamming your palm against the microwave door like it owed you money, hoping that the inanimate object would realize your patience had run out and you were not above destroying the damned thing. 

Having a meta-human baby was not for the weak, but Clark did everything he could to make things easier.

Hence, the new microwave. 

Your old one had been perfectly fine. It had come with the two bedroom you both had moved into 5 months prior and was relatively new but you had complained once about the lack of a mute button, how the beeps felt like judgement you every time you were using it in the middle of the night. 

Clark, who took any discomfort of yours as a personal failing, had spent far too much of his following workday trying to find a replacement. Which is how you ended up with the most advanced, and most expensive, microwave on the market. 

And now, two weeks into your third trimester, you were two seconds away from ripping the damn thing out of the wall. 

For twenty minutes you stood in the kitchen trying to open it. Your cold leftovers had become room temperature, your bed was killing you, and the microwave refused to yield even when you tried begging. 

“Fuck this stupid fucking thing, and fuck my sweet, dumb fucking husband.” you muttered, angrily slamming your phone on the counter as you looked through the entire online manual only to find nothing on how to open it. 

It wasn’t Clark’s fault, you knew that. If he’d been home, he would have flown across the world to get you whatever food you wanted as fresh as possible. But he was still finishing his front page article for the Planet and he wasn’t your keeper, he didn’t need to be there every second. 

Still. This was his fault. Somehow.

Despite being an alien who’d faced death a hundred times over, very few things terrified Clark Kent like his wife did. 

She wasn’t necessarily a scary person, but the intensity of his feelings for her, loving someone so… fragile compared to himself, haunted him. 

So when he came home to find her, in all her pregnant misery, red-eyed and sobbing on the floor, his heart just about fell out of his chest. 

“Honey, are you okay? What happened? Where are you hurt? Is it the baby?” He asked, dropping to his knees in front of her, cradling her face as he scanned her for visible ailments in a panic. 

Wrong move.

She sobbed even harder. 

“C-Clark- please it’s- fuck, Kent, give me a second!” She shoved his hands away, trying to catch her breath. 

Giving his wife a moment, Clark moved to sit next to her, his freakishly long legs (as she lovingly called them) bumping into hers. 

After a long moment, “T-the microwave.” she admitted, voice breaking. 

“I’m sorry?” Clark replied, unsurprisingly confused as he glanced up at the new appliance. 

“It doesn’t work.” 

He couldn’t stop the smile from his face, both in relief that both his wife and child were okay, and in amusement that it was the microwave that brought her such distress. 

“What do you mean? I’m sorry, Honey, if I knew it was defective I wouldn’t have gotten that one.”

She huffed, stretching out her arms and gesturing for him to help her up, “It doesn’t open.”

She usually enjoyed seeing the slight tilt of his head in confusion, but in that moment it only made her want to throw the damned thing at him. 

“I opened it earlier and didn't see any problems,” he offered.

Whatever the right response was, that was not it. 

“Well, I am sorry that not everyone is a fucking alien with superstrength, Kent, but your pregant and hungry wife can’t open the fucking piece of shit so I would really like some support instead of doubt.” She replied, turning away from him and crossing her arms, refusing to meet his eyes even when he moved to stand right in front of her. 

Refused to so much as look in his direction, even when he softly grabbed her chin and tilted it up, a gesture that usually melted her. 

Clark’s shoulders sagged, “You’re right. I am sorry. Can you show me the issue?” He asked, genuinely upset he had hurt her.

She rolled her eyes, walking over and pulling the handle. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t open.

What was surprising was the fit of laughter Clark fell into. 

“Are you serious, Clark? What’s funny about this?” 

“I-I’m sorry.” More laughter. “No really it’s not even funny.”

Despite this, he continued laughing. 

After a few breaths, Clark softly chuckled as he walked over to the appliance, opening it with absolutely no effort. 

“Honey, see this button on the handle? You need to be pressing it while you open it. It’s a child lock. I thought it would be good to have, in case… well, in case the baby starts flying early.” He hesitated, then added with a wince, “I didn’t realize when they said child-proof, it would also apply to pregnant women.”

There were few things that truly terrified Clark Kent after all he had been through. The way his wife looked at him in that moment, though, Clark didn’t see anything ever being scarier. 

[xoxolaw]

+ HOW TO WIN A HEART

in which her friends challenged her to make the scariest guy in school fall in love with her — and she said, “easy.”

GEUM SEONG-JE X READER

CH 1 , CH 2 , CH 3

RULE 1 - MAKE THE FIRST MOVE

Y/N wasn’t just popular.

She was the kind of girl who made popularity look effortless. She wasn’t top of the class or president of any club. She didn’t need to be.

Y/N had that intangible something—a charisma that couldn’t be taught, only envied. Her walk was lazy but commanding, every hallway her runway.

A resting smirk hinted at mischief, bold eyes daring you to keep looking—and most did.

Boys sat up straighter when she passed. Girls checked their hair, tugged their skirts, though the uniforms were identical.

Teachers? They’d learned it was easier to look the other way. She was too clever to get caught, too charming to scold.She texted in lectures without blinking.

Her Instagram stories were mini-dramas, high-stakes, with dangerously good lighting.

She knew everyone worth knowing—and everyone knew her.

Chaos wrapped in lip gloss.

The kind of girl who’d ruin your life and have you thanking her for it.

The It Girl of Kanghak High.

---

“Y/N-sunbae!” A junior half-jogged up, voice cracking with nerves and too much hope.

She didn’t look up from her banana milk. “Don’t say it.”“Say what?”“That you like me. That I’m different. That you’d treat me right.”

He froze, a deer in headlights. “Wait—how did you…”

She glanced up. Eyes sharp, bored, amused. Then, with the warmth of a mercy kill, she patted his shoulder.“You’re sweet,” she said. “Just not my type.”

Her friends dissolved into giggles behind her.“That’s five this month,” Bora muttered, flipping a page in her imaginary stat book.

“At this point, we should charge entry fees,” Jina snorted. Y/N stretched, feline and unbothered. “Honestly, where’s the challenge? You smile once, and they’re planning the wedding.”

“It’s the way you flirt,” Bora said. “That whole ‘I’ll ruin your life and look good doing it’ vibe.”

Y/N winked. “They should know I bite.”

They laughed, lounging in the lazy hour after the final bell on a Friday. Sunlight slanted through the windows, the halls half-empty but buzzing with leftover energy.

Y/N leaned against the wall, banana milk finished, head tilted back, soaking in the golden calm. Bora leaned in. “Oh, right! Someone left something in your desk.”

Y/N groaned. “If it’s another scented letter, I’m filing for harassment.”

“No, really. Pink envelope. The guy looked nervous.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Boys need better immunity. This is tragic.”

Bora grinned. “If you’re so unimpressed, how about a real challenge?”

Y/N perked up. “Go on.”

“Make the next guy who walks around that corner fall for you.”

Jina cackled. “Bora, you’re a menace.”

“Easy,” Y/N said without missing a beat.

But Bora’s smirk vanished.“Wait—no. Never mind—”

Too late. Y/N turned, lips parted in slow curiosity. And there he was.

Geum Seong-je.

The air shifted sideways. Tousled dark hair. Sharp jaw. Expression unreadable—a mix of lazy boredom and quiet threat. One hand in his blazer pocket, the other swinging carelessly.

Two minions trailed him like shadows. The hallway parted like waves, students stepping back by instinct. He didn’t walk. He prowled.

His gaze landed on Y/N, and something flickered—amusement, maybe, or the thrill of something unpredictable.

Bora’s voice cracked in panic. “Y/N—no. Pick someone else. That guy’s not normal—”

But Y/N was already striding forward.Every student in the hall went silent.

Click. Click. Click.

Her heels tapped the tile like punctuation in a rising melody.

She cut across the corridor, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the secondhand fear. She didn’t break pace.

And Seong-je didn’t move. Their eyes locked. A suspended breath—challenge, curiosity, chaos. She stopped inches from him.

Grabbed his collar.

And kissed him.

Not shy.

Not sweet.

A kiss with purpose—bold, deliberate, a spark to ignite a fire. Gasps rippled through the hall. A water bottle hit the floor. Her lips pressed deeper for a heartbeat, her grip tight on his blazer. His scent was sharp and trouble.

She pulled back — just a little breathless — and locked eyes with him.

“You’re cute,” she whispered.

Then turned like nothing happened.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

how's the setting?? 😋😋 This is going to be fun trust me hehehe

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ YOU REALLY GOT ME

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

pairing: spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you’re the newest member of the BAU and you can’t figure out why spencer hates your guts

warnings: SMUT - MDNI, switch!Spencer, p in v, handjob, no use of protection, hints to past!Spencelle

word count: 3.7k

a/n: this is absolutely filthy and was heavily inspired by the emily-spencer beef from season 2 but i think it’s fun! i hope you all enjoy! 😉

This fic was requested through the Ice Cream Parlour. Why not take a look at the menu for yourself?

He didn’t have to say anything.

It was written all over Spencer’s face from the moment that you’d first set foot into the BAU. He didn’t like you.

At first, you’d understood. Even felt a little sympathetic towards him. You were new and you were imposing on what was his work family, and you knew your predecessor hadn’t left under the nicest circumstances.

Word had long spread throughout the Bureau about the woman who’d gone off-book and killed a man who was only a suspect in a case. You could see why your arrival might’ve been a bitter pill to swallow..

But a year had passed since then. Everyone else had moved on and every member of the BAU had accepted you as one of their own now.

Everyone except the great Dr. Spencer Reid.

From him, you got nothing but short-tempered snapping and passive-aggressive quips.

He’d conveniently “forget” to let you know when new information dropped from Garcia. A feat that was incredibly impressive for someone with an eidetic memory.

Paperwork that you needed from him would only materialise days after its deadline, even though you’d seen him finishing it days earlier.

David Rossi, who’d previously worked for the BAU but had only came out of retirement a month ago, was receiving nothing but praise and excitement from Spencer, which only served to make you more frustrated. What did he have that you didn’t? A book?

Despite all of this, you’d been nothing but nice to him, which made the entire ordeal that much more confusing.

From where you were standing, it seemed like your very existence was what pissed him off. And there wasn’t much that you could do to change that.

The latest case had been dragging on. What was supposed to be a quick-and-easy one-day job was now anything but. There were too many leads and too many pieces that didn’t fit.

Which meant, the BAU were piled into two SUVs and sent towards the nearest motel for the night.

You were sat in the backseat, doing your best not to take notice of how Spencer had angled his body towards the window and away from you.

You wondered, sometimes, if it wasn’t really you that was the problem, but the woman you’d replaced.

You didn’t have to be a profiler, or a genius, to notice the way Spencer’s hackles went up whenever the name ‘Elle Greenaway’ was mentioned.

You didn’t know much about her and the look on Garcia’s face when you’d brought up Spencer’s behaviour told you that it wasn’t something to ask about.

She was a ghost of the BAU and as much as you wanted to get along with all of your team, you didn’t want to go around digging up the past.

It wasn’t much longer before your car pulled into the motel’s parking lot. Hotch was already out of the lead SUV by the time you got out, folder tucked under one arm as he strode towards the front office.

The rest of the team followed, bathed in the neon-pink ‘Vacancy’ sign’s light, and stretching out stiff limbs as they went, go-bags in hand.

When you pushed open the motel door and lugged your bag into the dimly lit foyer, Hotch was already handing out room keys.

He went down the line, pressing a key into each agent’s hand, “Prentiss and JJ, you’re in 3B. Morgan and Garcia, 4E. Reid, L/N, 4F.”

“What?” Spencer’s face snapped up towards Hotch in horror, like he’d just grown three heads.

Hotch continued, unfazed, “Agent Rossi and I will be in 3A, if any of you need anything.”

“Hotch, with all due respect-“

“This is not up for discussion,” Hotch cut in, raising a hand and silencing him with one fierce look, “We’re short on rooms and everyone has to share.”

“Yes, but-“

“No, Reid.” Hotch’s voice was firm and final, his stare hard. There’s be no getting out of this.

“Under no circumstances are any of you to switch rooms. You’ve been placed where you are so the Bureau knows your exact location should we need you. Do not meddle with that. Do I make myself clear?”

Spencer clenched his jaw, the keycard pressed between his fingers like he might snap it in half, “Crystal.”

But, saying that didn’t stop him from immediately veering towards the front desk the moment that Hotch disappeared down the corridor.

Unfortunately for you, it was one key per room, so you had to trail behind him.

“Good evening,” Spencer started, anxiously tapping the keycard on the counter, “I was wondering if there might be any possibility of switching rooms? There’s been some kind of a mix-up.”

The clerk shook his head slowly, “Sorry, sir, all our rooms are taken. Got a full house tonight with you ladies and gents joining us.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened as he glanced back at you. You’d barely taken one step forward when he stopped and pivoted, heading toward Morgan and Garcia who were sorting through their bags near the parking lot.

“Hey, Morgan, you think you could-“

Morgan’s smirk was immediate, “Nice try. Hotch told us not to, genius. You gonna take that up with him?”

“I doubt it. And, besides,” Garcia grinned salaciously, wrapping her arm around Derek’s, “I’m quite happy with my room as it is.”

Derek laughed, putting a hand over hers, “Easy there, tiger.”

“It’ll be good for you two to work things out.”

Spencer disagreed. The rejection hit him hard, his shoulders slumping like a deflated balloon as he grumbled, “Fine.”

“It’ll be good for us all.” you heard Morgan mutter under his breath as Spencer walked away. You’d weren’t sure you believed him. That’d only be true if you made it through the night.

You waited, expecting Spencer to resign himself to the inevitable and make his way over to you.

But, no. He was turning towards JJ and Prentiss.

“Uh-uh, Reid. Not a chance. Turn it around.” Prentiss shook her head, smiling.

“Emily, please-“

“Nope.” she said, popping the ‘p’ as she picked up her go-bag and walked deeper into the motel, JJ not far behind her.

Spencer groaned in frustration and dropped onto the foyer’s old, padded chair. You stood awkwardly beside him, twirling your bag in your hand, “Come on, it’s just for one night. It can’t be that awful.”

It turns out, it could be that awful.

When you finally got up to your room, you found that not only would you be sharing a room with Spencer Reid, you’d be sharing a bed with him too.

One double bed.

That was all the room had. No singles. No pullout. No uncomfortable couch. Just one bed.

Spencer’s eyes widened comically at the sight of it. His lips thinned into a line.

You dropped your bag onto the desk against the wall, “You look terrified, Reid.”

“There’s only one bed.” he said aloud, his voice thick with disbelief. You, the woman he’d been treating like the bane of his existence, were about to be cozied up to him under motel bed covers. He wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“Do you want me to sleep on the floor?” you raised your eyebrows at him, half-joking, half-please-don’t-say-yes-I-don’t-want-to-sleep-on-the-floor-but-I-feel-like-you-want-me-to.

Spencer looked between you and the bed that was fit for one, maybe a cuddly two, at the very best. You were no cuddly couple, but he couldn’t turn you away.

“No, that… won’t be necessary.” he shook his head, beginning to unpack his things - full-length, dark red pyjamas, his glasses, two books, his toothbrush and his clothes for tomorrow morning.

“Alright, then,” you nodded, pleasantly surprised, as you unpacked your own bag.

He wasn’t kicking you out. That was progress, if you ever saw it.

But the two of you still moved around the small room with measured steps, as if you were taking special care not to invade one other’s space.

He sat down on the left side of the bed, opening a book and skimming the pages in under five seconds, which you had to admit was incredibly impressive.

What you didn’t note, at first, were the spectacles now perched on his face and your lips parted into a soft ‘o’ before you could stop them.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“I don’t. Usually.” Spencer cleared his throat, eyes flitting over his pages, a little slower now, “I mostly wear contact lenses.”

Turning away from him, you changed into your pyjamas.

Spencer tried not to let himself become distracted from his book, pulling his knees up, blocking you from his view.

“Huh,” you mused when you were done, walking over and pulling back the covers to settle in beside him, “You should wear them more often. You suit them.”

Spencer swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as his finger faltered on his book, “Uh… thank you.”

You smirked to yourself, lying back against the pillows. It was a welcome change to see him flustered by you, rather than irritated.

Despite the invisible divide between you, you could feel the heat radiating from him.

Spencer cleared his throat again, eyes fixed firmly on his book, except he hadn’t turned the page in a while. He was just staring.

You shifted slightly, the sheets rustling and, as if on reflex, his grip on the book tightened.

“Are you actually reading that,” you teased, turning your head towards him, “or are you just staring at the same sentence to avoid looking at me?”

That earned you a quick side glance and a shake of his head, “I’m reading,” he said defensively, though the pink creeping up his ears told another story.

“Uh-huh,” you hummed, leaning back against the headboard.

A short silence settled over you both and you waited. Leaving space for him to speak up first.

And, just as you’d hoped, without looking up, Spencer did, “You make it… hard to concentrate.”

“How so?” Your gaze flickered over him - the flush on his cheeks, the white-knuckle grip on his book, the heavy rise and fall of his chest.

This wasn’t hatred.

There was a very fine line between love and hate, and it looked like Spencer Reid had been walking it, like a tightrope, all this time.

Your question hung between you, unanswered. Spencer finally closed his book over, “It’s… distracting,” he repeated.

“Me, lying here in my pyjamas, minding my own business, is distracting?” you tilted your head, raising your eyebrows at him.

His eyes finally flicked up from his book and met yours, pupils blow wide.

“Yes,” he said simply, the word almost a confession.

You shifted again, slow enough to make the mattress dip and force him to brace his hand between you. The space between you was growing smaller. You could see the faint twitch in his jaw now, the sweat at his brow.

“Really?” you challenged, “because you’ve been acting like you can’t stand me for months.”

He exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but not quite convinced, “It- This felt wrong. I thought if I pushed you away, maybe this feeling would go away.“

“And how’s that working out for you?” you asked, your knee brushing his under the thin blanket.

Spencer’s lips parted, and for a moment, you thought he might still retreat. Instead, his gaze flicked down to your mouth.

“Terribly,” he admitted.

“Hm,” you replied, your own eyes drifting over his face, “Well, suppressing emotions only serves to make them resurface stronger. You, of all people, should’ve known that.”

“Maybe, I should’ve,” he nodded, sitting up and pressing one hand into the mattress. His book slipped off of his lap.

“But, I didn’t want to mess this up. I’ve already done that once before, I really don’t want us to end like that.”

You knew who he was talking about. Elle.

So, it was fear, then. Fear of what could go wrong. He was self-sabotaging to the nth degree. Pushing you away, before you even had the chance to show him that things could be good.

“You don’t think that, maybe, pushing me away before we even get to try is what’s going wrong?” you asked, hand sliding beneath the covers.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he murmured, eyes following the outline of your hand beneath the covers.

Your hand edged closer to him, fingers brushing the back of his wrist, feeling the subtle pulse of his heartbeat.

“You never thought of giving us a try? That possibility never even crossed your mind?”

“No, never,” he said quietly, his fingers twitching nervously and knocking against your own.

“You can’t live in fear forever, Spencer,” you shook your head, pulling back the covers slightly as you moved closer to him, yet again.

“How about this?” you lowered your voice, brushing his leg to the side to settle between his legs.

He didn’t stop you.

“One kiss,” you whispered, “and if you hate it, and you can’t face it, we stop.”

He hesitated, eyes flickering over you, caught somewhere between doubt and desire.

He swallowed, hard. Here you were, one word away from being sat in his lap, after months of rejecting even the thought of entertaining something with you.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try, Reid.”

His fingers curled gently around yours, as if anchoring himself to the moment.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Spencer leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours. The room seemed to shrink, leaving only you and Reid.

Your heart stuttered. He moved in, his hands moving instantly to cup your face, the eager chase of his lips lighting a fire inside of you.

You deepened the kiss, tilting your head to give him better access, your fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck.

He groaned against your lips, taking it as an opportunity to do the same. His hands reached up and grabbed at your hair, desperately trying to be closer to you, any way he could.

You moved to pull back but his hands caught hold of your pyjama vest, tugging you back towards him, “No, I… I can handle it. I want to. Please.”

His eyes locked onto yours, wide and vulnerable, like some kind of tortured deer, pleading with you.

In that moment, you’d never been more attracted to Spencer in your life.

You were straddling his lap, before he could open his lips to beg for you again. A low groan escaped you the instant your body met his. Even through his pajama pants, you could feel the outline of him.

You were embarrassingly turned on from nothing more than a kiss.

Your hands slid up around his neck, pulling him into another desperate kiss. His fingers fell to your waist, slipping lower to cup the curve of your hips and then your ass.

Your eyelids fluttered shut as you began to grind against him, moaning between each heated kiss.

Your fingers reached up and swiftly pulled his glasses off his face. With his lenses out of the way, you only grew more feral.

Your nose smashed against his as you tried to push yourself as close to Spencer as was humanly possible, needing to feel him against you, in his entirety.

Spencer’s hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into your skin. His breath was shaky and you heard the softest, smallest whine escape his lips. You nearly came on the spot.

“Please,” he murmured against your mouth needily, “Please, I need you.”

His eyes searched yours, wide and desperate, like he was silently begging for more. You were going to give him all of it.

“God, Spence…” you sighed as you looked him over, breathless and just as needy as he was - though you hid it better.

You could feel his body trembling beneath yours, shaking with pure want. Your thighs twitched against him.

“Please, please, please,” he begged again, whimpering, fully aware of the effect his pleading had on you.

“I promise, I… Please. I’ve wanted you like this for so long, Y/N.”

“Yeah?” you asked, tilting your head to the side and cupping his face, brushing the corner of his mouth with your thumb.

His face arched into your palm as he nodded.

“You’re so cute.” you smiled softly, pecking his cheek. He shivered and you felt your resolve crumble, his whispered pleas destroying the last of your hesitation.

“I’m all yours,” you promised, hands moving to the elastic waistband of his pyjamas.

“Oh, God,” he breathed out, his head falling back against the headboard with a soft thump, lips quivering, “Thank you.”

Spencer’s fingers reached out to squeeze around your wrist as you slid his pajama bottoms down. He gasped, twitching beneath your touch, his length standing to attention, all for you.

“So pretty,” you cooed softly, sitting just back from where he wanted you most.

He swallowed hard, his hands pulling away briefly, running up and down his thighs as if trying to steady himself.

“Don’t hold back, Spence,” you said lowly, your fingers curling around his length and beginning to move up and down, torturously slowly.

His hands were everywhere then. Over his eyes, behind his head, back to his thighs, then onto your arms and shoulders.

He didn’t know where to put them, overwhelmed by the sensation. You were far too good at this.

Your touch had him unraveling fast.

“Faster, please,” he stammered, the plea no more audible than a breath. His hips twitched upward, chasing the rhythm you set, helplessly.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “You’re so sensitive, Spence… your poor thing. So worked up.”

He was painfully hard in your hand, pink and twitching with every small movement of your wrist.

“I am,” he whined, voice breaking halfway through his words, “God, I can’t even think straight.”

“That’s okay,” you soothed, your hand never slowing. You began to pepper kisses against his neck, “Let me do your thinking for you.”

He whined again, the sound muffled against his own shoulder as his free hand blindly sought yours, gripping it tightly. His thighs were shaking frighteningly now, his every breath coming faster.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” you murmured, feeling him twitch over and over again in your hand.

He nodded frantically, too far gone to form coherent words, his mouth hanging open as he tried to hold himself back.

His hips stuttered, his back arched off of the bed, his head hitting the headboard, “Oh God, Y/N, please-“

The rest of his plea dissolved into a broken gasp as he shuddered, thick ropes of his come spilling over your hand and hips. You gasped, your own body tightening in response.

He heaved a ragged breath against you, collapsing forward until his forehead rested on your shoulder.

“Not so fast, soldier,” you teased, guiding him upright again and pressing his back into the headboard, “What about me?”

“I- You-“ Spencer stuttered, eyes darting between your smug smile and the mess that you’d made of him, in his lap. His cheeks burned hot, still catching his breath.

He licked his lips, something in his eyes changing as he murmured, “Lie back for me.”

You obeyed without protest, watching him settle between your legs. His hands moved with meticulous precision. His fingers hooked into your waistband and tugged down.

You let your eyes fall shut as you melted into the pillow. Not even the lumpy, motel mattress could ruin the rush of heat as Spencer eased himself between your thighs.

He rubbed himself along the slick length of your cunt, brushing over the swell of your stomach, teasing you.

“Spence, don’t, just…”

“I know,” he hummed, fingers ghosting over your hips.

The pleading, babbling man from moments earlier had disappeared, replaced by someone darker and calmer. In control.

Spencer’s eyes never left yours as his hands slid from your hips to trace slow, deliberate circles along your sides. His touch was confident now, no hesitation, no doubt, only an intoxicating certainty that sent shivers down your spine.

He dipped his head, pressing a featherlight trail of kisses from your collarbone down to the swell of your breasts. His breath was hot against your skin.

“Tell me what it is that you want,” he whispered.

You groaned, heat pooling between your legs, “I want you, Spence.”

A slow smile spread across his lips, and he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss. His hands gripped your thighs, pressing you closer as his hips pressed firmly against yours.

His tongue traced your bottom lip before slipping inside. You moaned, struggling to sit up, with him pinning you down, your hands cupping his face to pull him closer.

Spencer understood your wordless message perfectly.

He shifted, his eyes locking with yours and pressed his length just barely inside of you.

“Spence…”

He pushed deeper, letting you take him fully, the remnants of his last orgasm smearing across your thighs.

You whined, reaching behind your head to clutch at your pillow as you did so.

Every one of his thrusts were measured and in perfect rhythm. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had studied how exactly to best get a girl going, because you were wetter than you’d ever been.

“Tell me, Y/N.” he prompted you, ridiculously proud of himself as he admired the cock-drunk look on your face.

“More… don’t stop, Spence. Fuck. Don’t fucking stop.”

He deepened his pace, every thrust hitting that spongey spot deep inside of you, without fail.

The room seemed to fade away until all that existed was Spencer and you and the unbelievable feeling of him inside of you.

The next morning, the two of you headed down to the lobby for 8:00, as Hotch had instructed.

“Well, howdy, lovebirds,” Garcia greeted with a grin as you entered, Spencer holding the door open for you.

Both of you froze.

“Excuse me?” you asked, glancing around at the rest of the BAU, who were all watching you with matching, knowing expressions.

Morgan smirked, “You two had quite the night. Should’ve warned us so we could’ve brought earplugs.”

Spencer’s cheeks burned crimson as he stumbled for words, “I- How did you-“

Garcia cut in, “The walls here? Incredibly thin, munchkin. We had entirely unwilling, front-row seats to that performance.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help laughing. There was no such thing as a secret in this unit.

“We’ll discuss this when we get back to D.C.,” Hotch sighed - though it sounded more like relief than his usual disappointment when it came to you and Reid.

“Let’s get this man a coffee,” Morgan clapped Spencer on the shoulder, “You’re gonna need it with the little sleep you got, man.”

tags: @xxfairyqueenxx @koreluvsspring @gaslightgatekeepgirlbossgasly @lover-of-books-and-tea @cynbx

[sillymommy6969]

𝓓𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝓑𝑬𝑻

♱ 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔; you had kira marked all over you ever since you started freshman year, now, another name is scribbled over it

♱ 𝒄𝒘; yumekira!sandwich, studentcouncil!r, possible series

𝑪𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆, 𝑩𝒆𝒕 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

𝖄𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈—𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔.

𝓚ira timurov was not slick. she was vindictive, she was calculated, but the last thing she was, was subtle with her intentions. as ominous and mysterious she wanted her image to be, to hoax the school into obeying with fear, she was much easier to read than she seemed to realize. at least to you.

securing your place on student council had to be one of the easier things st. dominic’s has offered you. gambling wasn’t a gift, it wasn’t an art to be mastered, it was innate--an instinct.

you didn’t need tricks, you didn’t need skills, it came to you like like a lioness sinking her teeth in the throat of her prey, despite not being taught how to hunt--to kill. it was to nobody’s surprise when you had rose the ranks in just weeks of arriving at st. dominic’s. now, you sat snugly in top three as a junior.

“i choose the game,” she barked, “you know that, y/n.”

of course, that didn’t keep the president from using everything at her disposal to knock you under the cut. she was desperate to see that badge leashed around you neck. and kira timurov always got what she wanted, even if her hands had to be dirty.

she never lost in her life, and she wasn’t going to start now.

“it won’t matter,” you purred, cocking your head to the side as you peered up at her through your lashes. your lips spread slowly. “whatever you choose, you know you’ll lose.”

kira’s jaw locked, her nostrils flaring. riri raised an eyebrow at her sister’s silence, tilting to check the tense expression on the older’s face. her public persona tore through, smiling from ear to ear as she took a step closer. her hand played with the heart pin on your tie, before toying with the ends of your hair.

“so arrogant. you’ll look so cute with that collar around your neck,” she whispered, dragging a finger down your jaw, patting your cheek lightly, “crawling around like my little house pet.”

“you have more house pets than they have debt. how much dirty laundry do you have, kira?” you taunted, “honestly, i’m almost surprised they haven’t made an alliance against you yet.” her smug expression soured for a moment, before her signature timurov poker face resurfaced. “but then again, you are st. dom’s best and brightest… who’d defy your wishes?”

“you, i presume.” she scoffed, “such a smartass.”

“and yet, you keep coming back,” you mocked, pouring. “but i am on your council. so, what game are we playing, president?”

she pondered for a second, before tilting her head. “poker.”

a chuckle escaped you. “poker? only idiots would be arrogant enough to challenge mozart to the piano.” you sighed, smiling. you stood to your feet, the downhearted expression sprawled across her sharp features. you laid a hand on her shoulder just before you struggled past her, she tensed at the contact, but didn’t pull away from your touch. “i’m only in third because i refuse to gamble against players like you, kira. amateurs who treat gambling like a political stunt leeches the fun from it.”

as your heels clicked away, you couldn’t help but throw one smug smirk back at the russian. she only stared, unsatisfied.

her sister stood wordless behind her, hands clasped behind her back, awaiting direction. kira loosened her clenched jaw, her nostrils flaring as she sighed deeply. “go get mary, i think it’s time her and i have a little chat about her… scandals.”

mary was hardly close to being your favourite on the council, but you respected the way she manipulated the hands she was dealt (pun intended). though it brought shame to the core concepts st. dom’s stood for, you weren’t exactly one to disregard another’s hustle. besides, she was a good laugh.

“and she chose poker?” mary asked. you twirled the pen between your fingers, nodding. she bursted into loud, hysteric laughter. “oh my god, what a fucking moron!”

you cocked your head backwards, deep in thought--you knew kira, she was easier to read than most. she was raised to conceal herself, only showing slivers of what she wanted the world to see. but players like kira, ones born into a mold of perfection, extort their opponent. they intimidate, they deter, and they ravenously devour everything standing between them and their thorned crown. but you couldn’t understand why she was so hung up on you, why she was so desperate to prove herself better than you. the more you resisted, the more she craved the taste of triumph at your will.

“hey!” mary’s bark snapped you from drowning in your own head. she thrusted her heel into ryan’s back, the boy jerked beneath her feet. “stop fidgeting, it’s annoying as hell.”

your ears perked at heels clicking against the floor, rhythmic thuds bled past the chatter and clamour of st. dom gamblers. your gaze flickered up, and following the brash strides was a familiar, masked woman. and her gaze… wasn’t fixed on you.

halting just before your couch, riri nodded her head at mary.

the shorter raised an eyebrow skeptically, eyeing you out the corner of her eye before pointing at herself. “me?”

st. dom’s second best gambler nodded once again, gesturing towards the door leading to the student council office. though she was hesitant, mary wasn’t one to piss off the silent but deadly type. she nudged ryan away, the boy propped himself up, dusting his hands off with a grimace. you shot him a small smile, enjoying the way it flustered him, watching him trudge behind his handler, who was being lead away by riri.

now, basking in st. dom’s tumult, you got lost in the chaos.

you felt the couch dip on the other end, a strong citrusy aroma wafted over, piercing your nose. alert, your gaze darted to the corner of your eye, catching glimpse of a tall, slender brunette taking a seat as she leant back into the cushions. you paid her no mind; though, her frame looked eerily foreign.

“a black blazer… i’m assuming it’s not just a fashion choice?”

you snapped your head towards her, breath caught in your throat at the beautiful woman sat cross-legged a few feet away from you. her glossy hazel eyes taunted your wonder, a small smirk played on her plump lips, punctuated with two tiny dimples just below the corners. she raised an eyebrow, disappearing into her clean-cut bangs.

you smiled, a tight, polite one you used most on adults. “you’d assume correct. black is a student council privilege.”

“student council?” she gasped, giggling. her hand hovered just over her mouth. “how prestigious. what qualified you?”

your pen lied still between your pointer and middle finger. you studied her carefully--her unfaltering kind facade, and the way she was analyzing your every move just as intently.

“the top ten gamblers of st. dom’s make up the council. the better you are at gambling, the higher you rank.” you glanced over at the leaderboard, her eyes followed. “you’ll find every student’s name in the standings over there, uh…?”

“yumeko kawamoto,” she introduced, “today’s my first day.”

“well, yumeko, looks like you’re starting at a humble…” you waved a hand at the screen from afar, the list swiftly browsed through, to just above the cut of debt. there her name was, flickering a shade of gold, ‘yumeko kawamoto - $0’. “75.”

“hm… well, ms. student council, what’s your rank?”

you grinned, watching the list fly back upwards:

#1. kira timurov - $520,300

#2. riri timurov - $480,100

#3. y/n l/n - $455,800

“oh, my.” she purred, cocking her head sideways. “you must be a big deal around here then?” you shrugged, holding her gaze. “as a student council member, i imagine you know this place intimately. care to show a newcomer around?”

you tucked your pen in your pocket. “i don’t see why not.”

kira’s favourite rig in the student council hub was the monitoring grid. she could see every acre the school owned on a single screen. though, at times she considered the privilege more of a burden than a blessing. right then, she watched as a new face inched its way closer to what was supposed to be hers. she was livid, and she could feel her authority slowly slip between her fingers--it was time to welcome the new girl.

the door creaked open, echoes rippled across the room. two pairs of footsteps neared kira from behind. and through the faint reflection on the tv screen, she caught sight of ryan peering through the slimming door crack. the doors slammed shut behind mary, who halted just as riri did.

“uhm, what the fuck is going on?” she piped, tone challenging, “what’s with the whole ‘men in black’ thing?”

“word on the street is your secret tactics aren’t so secret,” the president spoke, voice booming. she let out a breathy chuckle, glancing down. kira spun on her heel, turning to glare at the shorter. her arms were crossed, pointer finger tapping against her arm. “and honestly, i can’t have your dishonest little tricks soiling the student council name, mary.”

the latter swallowed thickly, lips quivering. still, she stood tall, feinting composure. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“playing dumb is for the guilty, davis. and the guilty deserve punishment.” she toyed with a loose strand of the shorter’s braids. her hands trailed down to mary’s bow, before harshly yanking the woman to her knees. she let out a sharp mewl of pain, looking up at a smirking kira, gritting her teeth. riri could only look away, her eyes fixed on the ground and her eyebrows furrowed. her hands trembled slightly behind her. kira grabbed her jaw harshly, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “if you don’t want to be 86ed, you’re gonna do exactly as i say.”

yumeko had heard murmurs about a legendary game to be played between the best gamblers at st. dom’s since she first stepped on campus. whispers of an almighty kira timurov recklessly taking on the one girl born bleeding chips. she just couldn’t resist meeting this infamous ‘child of hermes’--the greek god of luck, trickery, and games of chance.

and, god, was she so glad she caught you just sitting about.

of course she had figured out you were ranked third by then, and of course she had already gotten a tour from an eager ryan adebayo, but would it really be a fresh beginning for yumeko if she didn’t play pretend somehow? she had gotten an earful of sweet, but spicy, y/n from blake just minutes into moving in.

she could see the objective appeal straight away--suave, a mature, sensual aura with a sweet, gentle aftertaste. your eyes eradicated a poised sobriety, but the way they softened when you would smile washed the harsh edges away with charm. if what was buzzing through the st. dom hallways were true, your finesse on the felt may be just as breathtaking as you were.

your last name sounded awfully familiar. it intrigued her.

“--honestly, the last time i saw someone use the study room might’ve been in a yearbook from the 80s.” you chuckled.

it must’ve been, what? three? four wings, already? not a single word you’ve said about the dusty, old school was registered in her head. your voice dripped like nectar, the kind that drew bees in without thinking. it didn’t speak; it lured, and yumeko followed. she wasn’t listening, she was feeding.

“i’m sorry, your last name sounds very familiar.” she cut you off. taken aback, you froze, before looking off at students passing by the library. “l/n… is that french? italian?”

“latin (or wtv you want), actually.” you replied, “it means luck.”

“oh,” she purred, giggling. her finger tugged at her bottom lip. “how fitting for a gambler. does the blessing comes in handy?”

you chuckled lightly. “gambling isn’t about luck. it’s not about skill either. it’s about instinct, and enjoying the rush.”

yumeko beamed. “i absolutely couldn’t agree more.”

she followed you into lace hall, or the cafeteria, as normal high schoolers would call it, where everybody had gathered.

you waved, smiled, greeting acquaintances and house mates as you made your way through the hall. yumeko tailed closely behind, her hands behind her back as she watched you thrive in your element. eventually, you stopped, facing her. glancing past her glossy doe eyes, you caught sight of mary and ryan emerging through the grand doors. an unsettling feeling sunk in your chest when she only gave you a cool glare from afar.

“it’s just about lunch time. i’d invite you to join me, but the president’s pretty strict on house rules.” you tapped the crest on your blazer, looking past your own shoulder at a few of your fellow student council members taking their seat at the medieval table at the very end of the hall. the gaudy throne at its centre sat bare, its grandeur dimmed in the absence of its owner. “i wouldn’t want to get you in trouble on the first day.”

“now, y/n, don’t make me sound like such a tyrant.”

both your heads snapped towards the sisters striding towards you. per usual, kira just a foot ahead, mirroring their familial standings. she eyed you up and down, then glared at yumeko.

“i’m glad you’re getting yourself familiar with the newcomer. yumeko, right?” her voice was almost too darling to be genuine. she smiled from ear to ear at yumeko’s nod. “let me look at you.” she paused, eyes roaming all over the latter, as if noting any apparent flaws she could weaponize. “i’m kira, student council president. this is riri, my sister.” she gestured towards the latter, who dragged her thumb across her own neck. “welcome to st. dominic’s, yumeko kawamoto.”

yumeko tilted her head, unwilling to back down from kira’s challenging gaze. “i’ve felt plenty welcome, thank you.”

“if you wanted a tour guide, we could’ve arranged for a house pet to show you the ins and outs of the school. it isn’t exactly… customary for top tens like y/n here to do such low work.” the president drawled. she fixed the crooked collar of your blazer, tightening the tie around your neck. you let her fix your uniform however she wished, wordlessly submitting. just the way she liked it. “but ever tactful, you wouldn’t turn down a fellow student’s cry for help, would you now?”

you shook your head, flashing her a gracious smile. “no, kira.”

her hand rested on your chest, but she eyed yumeko, who just stood. if anything, she found it interesting, the way kira was so threatened by something as simple as a tour.

this was the pair about to gamble the wildest game in st. dom history? the girl and her president draped all over her?

“we don’t get a lot of midterm transfers. you’re not legacy either.” she announced. you shared a look with riri, who just stared back blankly. the younger timurov left her sister’s side, taking her own seat by the throne as suki scrambled out of her seat. kira cocked her head aside, her hand still possessive on you. “so, yumeko. what kinda games do you like?”

yumeko chortled awkwardly. “anything for fun, really.”

“ooh, i’d love a long round of ddr with this one.” dori announced, her eyes widening manically. she scraped the tip of her dagger against her tongue.

kira’s head could not have snapped towards her faster.

“you’re interrupting.” she sneered. one stern look her way was enough to shut the bigger girl up. even with an eye roll.

“i’d love a challenge sometime. but i heard you have a rather big match coming up?” yumeko queried, her gaze softening when it landed on you. you felt kira’s fingers tense against you. you could feel her nails through your dress shirt. “tomorrow?”

“you heard right,” kira replied, “i’ve been working to get this one to a challenge since she’s been here. she’s finally agreed.”

“you’ve never gambled each other before?” the japanese pressed, “hard to believe you haven’t played at least once.”

“if y/n challenges you, you’re literally cooked for life. it’s a dead end.” chad added, “she’s picky with her opponents, i can’t even remember the last time she’s played with little old me.”

“i certainly do, chadwick.” you giggled, a hand over your grin to contain your amusement, “you begged for a game of strip poker, so i indulged you. you couldn’t get me out of both shoes, but you looked so adorable sitting there in your boxers.” house pet chad. always insisted on being in just underwear whenever he was around you. it wasn’t until you couldn’t stand his relentless flirting did you offer to help charity gamble him just out of debt. now he managed to worm his way onto student council, still, with an insatiable thirst for you.

“yeah, and you quit just before you got to the good part.” he emphasized, pointing down to his crotch. “your loss, baby.”

kira promptly snarled at riri, who shot up. she yanked dori’s knife from her hand, stabbing it straight into chad’s sleeve, nailing it to the table. the boy squeaked, flinching at the thud.

“another word and it’s your hand, white.” she hissed.

“i’ve brought a little gift for you.” yumeko fished through the inner-pockets of her red blazer, pulling out a tiny wrapped box. a blue bow held it together. she held it out, bowing her head slightly. “student council president, kira-san.”

she took the box, examining it briefly. “i’ll be keeping my eye on you, new girl. and thanks for… whatever this is.”

her hand slid from your chest to her side. with a nod of her head, she ordered for your compliance as she circled the table.

yumeko’s hands found your arm, giving you a quick squeeze. she smiled. you mirrored her grin, holding her velvet gaze. she sighed softly, whispering, “thank you for the tour, y/n-san.”

you watched the girl pace towards michael, who seemed to be watching the ordeal intently. you could feel kira’s piercing grey eyes burn holes in the back of your skull. you made your way around the table, hearing kira scold dori for taking the seat beside the throne. when the left side of the table made way for you, you could only sit obediently by her side.

“for the game,” she began, not looking up from her food. “i say we play in the courtyard instead of the stuffy black box.”

you hummed. “wouldn’t make much of a difference.”

“still so cocky, hm?” she chuckled, passively slicing her steak. “at least when you’re demoted to house pet, you’ll get an actual excuse to tour new girls around the school.”

“heart’s house hospitality.” you insisted, “just helping out.”

“your help isn’t needed.” she snapped, “kawamoto has a history of juvenile rebellion. there’s something off about her and i need to figure out what” she titled her head, fidgeting with her fork. “don’t make my job harder, y/n.”

she was so hot and cold. one moment she was trying to bed you, the next she was yelling at you. three years, confusion and annoyance gradually converted to pure entertainment. you’ve made it your mission to really push all the buttons kira had on her sleeve. it grew to be one of your favourite pastimes.

“yes, ma’am.” you drawled, batting your lashes at her.

you were just quick enough to catch the way her eyes widened, but she cleared her throat. she was so easy to play with.

you watched mary out the corner of your eye, just before she whipped her head away. she pushed ryan’s head, scolding him for some silly reason as the boy rolled his eyes. she was avoiding you, just after she was dragged away by riri. you had no doubt kira had something to do with it, but you knew the ninth-ranked girl was going to put her own survival first.

when you found mary in the hearts house common room later on, she was alone. odd enough, ryan seemed to be getting himself acquainted with the new girl. yumeko. who seemed to have taken an interest in you. you felt her eyes on you when you emerged from your room, but you paid her no mind, on one track, and determined to talk to mary davis.

when she noticed you nearing her, she scrambled to close the magazine in her hands. she shot up from her place on the couch, but grimaced when you called out her name.

“don’t even think about it, davis.” you barked, “stay right here.”

she spun around, a fake smile hung high. “haven’t seen you since this morning. what can i do for you, y/n?”

you raised an eyebrow at her apparent act, crossing your arms. “you’re dodging me. skip the bs and get to the truth.”

she stiffened, fondling her braids. she exhaled slowly, buying herself time for a lame excuse to formulate in her head. the tension, the deception, which she should be so used to, curled her spine. “get over yourself, l/n, running house pets and staying in top ten isn’t a walk in the park, y’know.”

“that’s not an answer,” you stated firmly, “don’t waste my time. i’ll gamble you for the truth if that’s how you prefer to go.”

no. the last time she did that, it took her months to recover.

“you’re imagining things.” she insisted, “now get lost.”

you took a step closer, peering down at her. she glanced at the floor, visibly gulping as she rolled her eyes. you smiled softly, tilting your head. “for a cheater, you sure are a bad liar.”

mary laughed bitterly. “why do you even care?”

“you’re my friend.” you replied curtly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “so either tell me what i did wrong, or tell me who’s holding the gun to your head.”

you watched her shoulders tense. her gaze still averted. your determination suddenly made her too small for her anger.

“just stay away from kawamoto. she’s not who you think.”

“did kira tell you that?” she physically brushed off the discomfort at just the mention of her name. you’ve hit the right spot. “and you’ve agreed to help her, ‘cuz if you didn’t--”

“she’ll slit my throat, and then yours.” mary finished, “look, i can’t give less of a shit about whatever homoerotic shtick ya’ll got goin’ on, but i just want her off my ass.” mary’s breath hitched. she doesn’t wait for a reply, just turned and walked away with a warning glare at you. “if you know what’s good for you, don’t start a war you can’t finish, yeah?”

you let her words soak in, standing in place. since mary’s become unavailable, guess some other friend will have to do.

somewhere, not too far away, attentive ears were listening.

yumeko knew your last name sounded familiar. l/n, your name was practically engraved on every notable artifact in the school--your father was a st. dom legacy, one most wouldn’t cross twice in the pit. he was known for his ruthless gambling style, never a trick, never a charm, just pure love for the game. he’d slain his way to the top in just two days into his freshman year, and he stayed there until he graduated four years later. f/n l/n, the best the academy had ever fostered. and now, his daughter inherited the mantle of being the st. dom slayer.

“yeah, well y/n’s just as brutal as her dad... but, y’know, with the party spirit.” michael explained, sighing like even just saying your name gave him whiplash. “she’s straight trouble.”

yumeko silenced, absorbing what ryan had just told her: the st. dom slayer… perhaps she was looking forward to tomorrow’s game just as much as the rest of the school.

“she’s fucking satan is what she is,” ryan scoffed, shaking his head. he stood between the two, hands in his pockets, and the house pet chain dangled around his neck. he always had mixed feelings about you; on one hand, you were an absolute menace at gambling, on the other, you were cute, and always nice to him despite mary’s constant abuse. “she’s gambled so many people into debt, half her victims have been pets for years.”

“aren’t you like in love with her?” michael added.

ryan froze, his shoulders tensing. yumeko raised an eyebrow, suddenly finding the conversation quite interesting again.

“w-what?” his english accent tore through, “no, mate, what?”

“yeah, you’re the one who tried asking her to the gala last year, aren’t you? the one who got like publicly rejected, and suki had a three part docu-series about you having a crush on her.” the spade-house hacker added, to which ryan slapped a hand over his mouth quickly. he jerked away. “yeah, it was you!”

“shut up, bruv! i don’t need that getting brought up again!”

“that lives on suki’s tiktok page, you think im the only one talking about it still?” michael scowled, “get off me!”

“are kira and y/n dating?” yumeko suddenly spoke.

the boys paused, staring blankly at her like she had said the most ridiculous they had ever heard--because she did.

“what?” ryan chortled, “is that a serious question?”

she nodded, clueless. they shared a look, before michael clicked his tongue. “now, see, that’s an interesting thing.” he scrambled for words, his hands grasping at the air like it would spell his thoughts out. “kira is, how do i put this, hungry.”

“no, she ain’t hungry, mate, she’s thirsty.” ryan corrected.

michael shrugged. “have you ever seen kira lose composure?”

ryan shook his head. “nah. and she doesn’t. not for games, not for money. but for y/n?” he scoffed, “she absolutely spirals.”

the three of them all gazed over at you talking to mary, who seemed nervous. she refused to meet your eye, even when you titled your head to see her better. the corner of yumeko’s lips quirked at your effect on people, even when you were just standing in front of mary with your hands in your pockets.

“third-ranked, and never plays more than twice a week. no alliances, no tells, no side bets. most people would kill for kira’s attention.” michael whistled, “y/n won’t even look at her.”

“it drives her nuts. rulers like kira are used to being worshipped. crowned. y’know, the whole ‘gambling deity in heels’ thing.” ryan wiggled his fingers in air-quotes. he paused, watching you. he sighed, “and there she is. walking around like kira’s throne is just another chair. that kinda aura? that’s a power play even kira can’t ignore.”

“which just makes kira crave her victory more.” michael ended.

ryan grinned. one of the greater things he liked about you was the way you didn’t let kira intimidate you. she couldn’t ruin your momentum if she tried, and he loved that you of all people were sticking it to the student council president.

he shook his head, chuckling. “deadliest game kira’s ever wagered in. poor chap doesn’t even realize she’s losing.”

“is that right?” yumeko murmured, smirking to herself.

“oh, no,” michael shook her head, sensing the mischief in the girl’s demeanour. “don’t even think about it. if you try and go after that predator, you’re gonna get ripped from limb to limb.”

“oh, michael, i’m not here to hunt.” she stared over at you sitting on a couch, twirling your pen, just as you had the first time she laid eyes on you. “i’m just… curious, is all. fascinated, really. that kind of restraint is… delicious.”

ryan chuckled nervously, “you mean dangerous.”

“exactly,” yumeko’s smile widened into a sweet grin, her eyes creasing. “there’s something more to her i want to figure out.”

“that is a catastrophic idea,” the english boy scoffed, shaking his head. “you’re not understanding y/n isn’t human. she loves the devastation, the chaos destroying people gives her. it’s not just gambling to her, it’s--it’s like she feeds off of it.”

“oh, ryan,” yumeko hummed, caressing his cheek. “i appreciate your worry, but i can tame dragons just fine.” his attitude completely changed, softening even after her hand left his skin. she watched you with wandering eyes, smirking to herself. “players like that have victories, scars, and layers. i’m going to peel back every single one.”

michael grimaced, “you want to get in her head?”

the girl shrugged. “mmh, maybe. or her heart. whichever cracks first.” she squealed, clasping her hands together. “thanks for the help, boys. who’s up for a few games?”

as she spun around, she knocked into someone with a squeak.

“oh!” yumeko grinned, “well, hello. mary, was it?”

“that’s my name,” the latter clicked her tongue. “how about a game of skirmish with me, kawamoto? y’know, as a welcome.”

yumeko bit her lip. “well, isn’t that lovely.”

ryan scoffed, “it’s still her first day, mary, can you--!”

“was i talking to you, incel prince?” she snapped, then sighed softly, “come on. show me what you’re made of, new girl.”

how could she resist? “will you bring your friend?” she asked, head turning so she could look at you. your eyes were already on them, knowing there was no stopping mary’s plans.

mary raised an eyebrow. “is that the only way you’ll play?”

yumeko shrugged, but it was quite obvious what she meant.

“okay. if that’s what you want.” she grinned, eyes narrowing as yumeko beamed back at her. “gambling hall in ten?”

the last thing you wanted to end your day with was watching mary cheat another person into debt, much less the new, unsuspecting transfer. you weren’t one to meddle, not when kira had a knife to mary’s throat; nonetheless, you agreed to come upon your friend’s text message. you were curious to see what the president and her lap dog had up their sleeve, especially regarding yumeko kawamoto.

it had barely been a minute since mary’s challenge of the new girl was announced across the school and students were already crowing around the table ryan had set up upon his handler’s instructions. you already knew he had tampered with the cards, something mary usually did, when you entered the room. the english boy was awful at concealing his unease.

at the table, mary sat stiffly, her fingers wrapped around her chips tightly. across from her, yumeko radiated serenity, cards flicking between her fingers. her face lit up when she saw you settle beside ryan and michael. you mirrored her smile.

you casually leant against the column, arms crossed and eyes locked on the match. mary was reaching for anything she could manipulate in the new girl’s behaviour, which only seemed to encourage the dangerous glint in yumeko’s smile.

“this is gonna get ugly fast,” ryan murmured, fidgeting.

“yeah, half the school’s here,” michael muttered, glancing around the room. “kira’s plotting on something, i can feel it.”

as mary contemplated her bets, yumeko stared up at you. your eyes weren’t on her, nor were they on mary--you looked rather disinterested. and she was determined to give you a show.

“you’re so tense, new girl,” mary cooed, tilting her head in mockery. “is it me? or is it ‘cuz y’know everyone’s watching?”

yumeko doesn’t answer, her eyes flick down back to mary. but she couldn’t resist sneaking just one glance at you, who she could only describe as aloof. mary caught it.

“ahh… so it’s that,” she teased, she turned back to catch your eye for a moment, scanning you up and down. she spun back, now yumeko’s smile was much less prominent. “i wondered why you’d want her here for your first game. i mean, it would be pretty embarrassing if you, well, y’know, lose.”

their card hit the felt again. mary played aggressive--predictably so. she’s leaning on misdirection, pushing forward with faux confidence. but it’s forced. off rhythm. you didn’t have to look for her tells--they found you, as hairs standing tall on the back of your hand. you couldn’t wait to get out of there.

“do you have a boyfriend?” mary asked, organizing her deck.

yumeko giggled, as if the question was outrageous. “no.”

“girlfriend?” the council member added, raising an eyebrow.

“no.” yumeko’s smirk grew, her eyes landing on you. you cocked your head aside, holding her gaze. her attention fell back on mary, setting down. their first pair. yumeko wins, but the two weren’t as interested in the game.

“you could’ve tried making it less obvious,” you whispered.

ryan’s head whipped towards you, like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “what?”

“low-tier bait. an idiot’s going to sniff it out in seconds.”

on cue, yumeko’s eyes glint as she laid down her next card just as mary does--a control breaker. she’s caught onto mary’s lies, and she knew she had the right moment. mary panics.

“how about we up the stakes,” yumeko suggested, glancing at the 90k worth of chips sitting between them. she pulled a golden plated chip from under her dress shirt, toying with the token. the light bouncing off it caught your attention, just as the japanese wanted. “100k. whoever loses is a house pet.”

mary glances at her standing: 9th, with just shy of 100k.

she then met kira’s eye from atop the off-limits balcony. she knew she had no choice, she couldn’t risk shaming the council.

“okay,” she agreed, earning muffled whispers from the crowd.

“fun.” yumeko squealed, slamming both hands against the table. the chips rocked with her, some tumbled off its pile. a maniac smile crossed her quivering lips. “let’s do it!”

and in the shuffle, as they laid down one pair after another:

mary’s nine of clovers to yumeko’s king of clover’s. 0-1

mary’s six of spades to yumeko’s eight of spades. 0-2

yumeko giggled, taunting mary. she was antsy, desperate. the japanese couldn’t resist a bounce in her seat. mary looked like she was about to throw up, as they laid down their final pair:

mary’s five of spades to yumeko’s seven of hearts. 0-3

mary lets out a shrill scream, yanked from the deepest part of her spine. yumeko laughed hysterically at her reaction. “fuck!”

silence. then murmurs. accusations. eyes on mary, no longer impressed--now watching, circling her like vultures. michael moved in, verifying the cards. the match is forfeit. the penalty? debt she won’t be able to wring free from easily. before mary could run, the boy stepped between her and the path towards the door. he dangled the house pet badge he had ripped off ryan before her eyes. “i believe this belongs to you now.”

he handed it to yumeko, who refused to receive it. she smiled.

“oh, no. i’m not much of a pet person.” she stated, pushing away from the table to sway her way next to you. you still had an indifferent expression on your face. she then eyed the english boy beside you. “ryan? will you do the honours?”

mary’s loss had freed ryan from his house pet status.

“how’d i do for a first game, y/n?” she asked you, uninterested in the chaos unravelling feet away from you. “did you like it?”

you raised an eyebrow, flashing her a civil smile. “i’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. it was just unfortunate for mary.” you watched your friend hyperventilate, but you remained poised, unbothered by her devastating loss. you knew it was probably the least of her worries for the coming week. dropping from student council to house pet wasn’t exactly a normal occurrence--and knowing kira, a punishment was in store for disgracing her empire. “alas, she was trying too hard to win a game for two minds. not two faces.”

yumeko hummed, tilting her head, joining you in observing ryan collaring a fuming mary. “i’ll get to you eventually.” she giggled, “i’ll work my way up to you one, by one.”

how bold, you thought, perhaps kira’s paranoia was just.

up above, perched on the mezzanine balcony, kira’s knuckles whiten at how hard she gripped the railing. her eyes fluttered shut--she knew she shouldn’t have trusted a conwoman like mary davis. but now, she had a greater worry: if even cheating couldn’t take mary the win, what could she do?

kira turned her head slightly. she didn’t have to speak.

riri nodded, backing towards the door. just before mary could storm out the grand doors, the masked girl stood. she held an open hand out, her piercing blue eyes meeting her teary ones.

she shrugged her blazer off, yielding to her forced resignation.

“if you say, ‘i told you so’, i’ll ram this thing so far up your ass, you taste it for a week.” her threat, though harsh, was nothing short of benign. she held her house pet collar, before letting go of it like it burnt her fingers. you settled on the other end of the bench, hair stuck to your cheeks from the rain. you let the serene sounds of the downpour engulf you. “she knew.”

you sighed through your nose, glancing over. she was drenched, water dribbling from her hair. her streaming tears blurred into the rain. though, her red nose was hard to miss.

“i’m sorry,” was all you could utter, “it wouldn’t have mattered how you cheated. the cards were never in your favour.”

she knew it was true. yumeko’s luck was an undeniable force.

“and now i’m stuck being that virgin fuck’s house pet.” she hissed, burying her face in her palms. “i need to ask her for a rematch or something. at least gamble out of debt.”

“you’re digging yourself into a deeper hole,” you warned. she groaned in frustration, but she didn’t argue.

“then tell me, what am i supposed to do, hm?” she scoffed, “i’m sure as hell not gonna be that dickless sack of shit’s house pet forever.” she let out a scream. “fuck! what the fuck!”

“i have a plan.” you simply stated. she finally glanced over.

she slid over, body knocking into yours. she grabbed your hands. “well? what is it, don’t fuck with me right now.”

you gulped. “you have to trust me. this isn’t a game we can play in the short run.” she nodded frantically, eagerly ushering you to continue. “kira’s dead set on taking the new girl down, yeah?” she nodded once again. “tomorrow, i’ll give her what she wants.” mary’s eyes widened upon picking up on what you were implying. you remained stoic expression. she flinched before you could even utter, “i’ll lose, and be her house pet.”

“no,” mary scoffed, “your legacy, your reputation--!”

“doesn’t matter to me.” you finished. “my entire heritage was built off st. dom myths and written notoriety. what good does so much status do when i can’t take advantage of it?”

“y/n, no.” she insisted firmly, “you’re being fucking stupid.”

“i’m having fun,” you shrugged, “i’ve always wanted to see what being a house pet’s like. i mean, i’ve collared so many people, but has never known what it feels like.”

“doesn’t change the fact it’s a stupid fucking idea.” mary couldn’t even fathom ever wanting to be a house pet, considering the way she treated them, herself. “how is you being kira’s house pet getting me out of debt?”

“come on, mary, why do you think kira wants me as her house pet in the first place?” you asked, she fell silent in thought.

“okay, i get it, she wants you, but that’s not helping me.”

“hey,” you held a hand up, ceasing her protests. “when have i ever given you a reason to doubt me?” the girl didn’t answer. she couldn’t name one. “you can trust me and trust my game. i’ll keep kira away from yumeko, and you will slide in, get close with her bandwagon of friends and get yourself out of debt.” you had a good feeling yumeko wasn’t one to deny a chance at a thrill. “you just need to make sure she has something to gain from it, give her a reason to trust you, to help you. listen, i don’t know what she’s gonna do, but just watching her play today, you have to give her one hell of a ride, got it?”

she nodded wordlessly. you sighed, “good. we can’t talk once i become kira’s house pet. she’ll be watching and listening for sure. and once you get yourself back up to top ten, i’ll challenge her again… and i’ll get myself back on the council.”

“i don’t know, this is just…” she scoffed, “why?”

“y’know me, y’know how i play.” you smiled, an enticing grin. if you were anybody else, mary would consider getting you committed to a mental institution. “you say it best, ‘no winners without losers’. what’s the fun in wining if you never lose?”

“that’s the point. you never lose. why would you give up so much for what--for me? student council isn’t easy to get back on once you’ve indebted yourself, especially to kira.”

“i’ll be just fine.” you shrugged, “gambling isn’t that hard.”

it was almost mockery, taunting the cheater with a line like that. still, mary was desperate. and she was willing to put aside her pride just this once. she had nothing to lose.

a knock sounded through your room. you were thankful your roommate was away on some trip her house had arranged. when you swung your door open, a familiar japanese figure stood leant against your doorway, a hand pawing at the wooden frame, and the other behind her back. you furrowed your eyebrows, tilting your head in question at her appearance.

“i’m sorry to come knocking so late, but i figured i’d rather make some friends than sit in my room with blake.” she said. she glanced past your shoulder, “am i… bothering you?”

“no. just doing some work.” you answered skeptically, but gestured for her to come in anyway. “if you’re looking for ryan or michael’s room, the boy’s wing is just down the hall--”

“i came looking for you, actually.” yumeko giggled, strutting around your room, caressing your things. “i had an idea.”

you closed your door softly, leaning against it. you watched her pick up a picture of you and your father, one taken your first day of freshman year. the memory brunt fresh, the way everybody practically bowed to his feet with every step he took. he was the prince of st. dom, and you were now the princess the academy needed to really solidify their gambling title. you looked so young then, standing tall under your father’s arm. yumeko could see slivers of that child through the cracks of your smile, except, matured. better.

“and that is…?” you smiled, amused, crossing your arms.

“i want to play a little game with you.” she suggested, stepping back towards you. she cocked her head aside, smiling with her dimples. “since you’re playing such an important one against kira-san tomorrow, i wanted a taste of your hand first.”

you giggled, “your first win getting to your head already?”

she shrugged, “no, i wouldn’t cross you just yet. i promised i’d make my way up to you, remember?” she circled you, picking up a deck of cards sitting on your shelf. it was one your father had gifted you when you were old enough to pick up a deck. it was worn and flimsy. still, your favourite deck. “blackjack?”

you hissed, “if you’re open to your first loss, then sure.”

“are you as good as they say, ms. student council?” yumeko purred, kicking your chair towards you. you reluctantly took a seat, watching her grab your roommate’s chair.

“yes. and i’d recommend you take my word for it.”

yumeko loved the arrogance, it turned her on. “well.” she dragged your bedside table in between your chairs, taking the cards out of its box. “blackjack’s fast. honest in a way… poker, never is.” you had a hunch the comment had a double meaning. “simple. just like me, wouldn’t you say?”

what was she playing at? you thought, a girl you barely knew in your room, living out some manipulative fantasy.

“simple doesn’t exactly come to mind when i think of you.”

“so you think of me?” she bit her lip, nimble fingers working to shuffle the cards. your gaze locked, not on her hands, not on the cards, but on her. on the subtle quirk her lips made when she thought she had your attention. her smile curled too easy, and you made sure to really watch her performance. she dealt the cards, fanning them out before her. “i’m flattered, but i did hope we could get to know each other better.” she caught your eyes, they glimmered, like your interest ignited something in her. “you’re looking at me like you’re trying to figure out something--like if i’m playing with the cards… or with you.”

you grinned, tongue dragging across your teeth. you leant forward, resting your elbows against the ledge. you tilted your head, eyes wandering down to her growing smirk. “i’m trying to figure out which one matters more to you right now.”

she tidied the fanned out cards, sliding them across to you. slow, deliberate, letting her fingertips deliberately brush against yours. your eyes never left each other’s.

“isn’t it obvious? these cards are predictable. you’re not.”

you raised an eyebrow, tapping against your unplayed hand. “you flirt like it’s part of the game. you didn’t do it with mary. i’m checking if it’s a tell, or a trap.”

she grinned at you playing along. “mmh. guess i’ll just have to stay very unpredictable, hm?”

the cards hit the table, but you barely looked down. yumeko’s eyes land first, but yours stayed on her--every flick of her wrist, every twitch of her eye. she isn’t trying to win, but she’s here for something. she’s fishing, probing, testing your boundaries.

she leant in, voice dangerously sweet. “how about a wager?”

you hummed, “i’m always up for a risk or two.”

she giggled, sighing. “delicious. rummy feels so… personal, doesn’t it? like we’re trading in little pieces of ourselves one set at a time.” she picked a card from the stock pile, squealing when she sets down a new set--three sevens, one of diamonds, one of clovers, and one of spades. “if i win… i want you to agree to whatever i want at the end of this game.”

you picked up a card from the stock pile, picking out two others from the deck in your hand. you set them dow--an ace, a two, and a three of hearts. “and when i win?”

her nose scrunched. “you’re so confident, i love it.” she tapped her chin, humming. she picked another card, but it wasn’t one she needed. she set it down in the discarded pile. “if you win, i’ll give you a little surprise… a kiss, maybe?”

you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, grabbing a card. you put down a set: three fives, one of clovers, hearts, spades.

“isn’t that just another win for you?” you watched her contemplate her next move, as if you weren’t playing a game entirely up to fate. your stomach churned when her fingers grazed the stock pile, and down came a set of queens, one of diamonds, one of hearts, one of spades.

“ouch.” she pouted, “i won’t take that to heart, i suppose you don’t know me.” she drew her next card--an eight of spades. she doesn’t need it. she’s stalling. and the way a chill crept up the back of your neck when she let out a fake hum proved it. she nodded towards your dresser, where the framed picture of your dad holding you at st. dom’s gates laid comfortably. “that’s a cute picture over there. are you close to your dad?”

the mention of your father threw you off, but you managed to keep your poker face. you tilted your head, smirking. “i am.”

“you look very much like him,” she eyed the picture: your hair was different, your uniform worn properly. shirt tucked, buttons all done up and your ribbon strongly neatly around your neck. the two of you smiled the same, with the same crease in your eye. he hadn’t really spoken to you as much since you started boarding school, but you made sure every year ended with the two of you smiling and toasting parents and top tens at the meet. you were suddenly y/n l/n. “i’ve seen his name around school a lot. that is him, right? f/n l/n?”

you nodded, fishing for a new card. a throw, you put it down.

“was it his idea for you to come here?” she asked, picking out another set after a new draw—a four, a five, and a six of spades. “legacies have quite a place at this school, don’t you?”

“actually, it was mine. it was my dream to be here as a kid.”

yumeko gasped. “really? that’s quite the mold-breaker. legacies like chad couldn’t care less about where he went to school. but you, you’re so… controlled.”

you picked out another set, setting down three tens.

“control keeps you from being owned.” ranking third wasn’t what your father wanted, but he wasn’t one to listen. he made it so you thought it was because he knew you could do better, but really, he was frustrated you were willingly holding yourself behind timurov’s, of all people. you knew his history with ivan timurov was complicated. “sometimes it’s better to stay under your fort, then stand in a spotlight. it keeps you from setting an open target on your back.” her smile flickered, just for a heartbeat. she placed a set of three jacks, the flick in her wrist just a bit sharper than before. “but judging from your match against mary today, i’d say you don’t share the same thinking.”

you discarded a card, anticipating her next reaction. when she paused for a beat too long, you dove straight back in.

“do you flirt with everyone while digging through their childhood?” you asked, “or is this another reward for me?”

“only the ones who are worth the mess.” she held the last two of her cards up, flaunting them, mocking you. she reached for a card, a little too confident. your stomach didn’t churn, it didn’t hurt. you smirked to yourself at her letting her guard down. “too bad you’re so distractible. i was hoping for a more… exciting game against the st. dom slayer.”

when she pulled a discarded card, she sighed. the stock pile was still high, but you had more than three pairs sitting in your deck. she had nothing to worry about… logically.

you eyed the pile, and you knew when your heart raced.

“careful what you ask for, new girl.”

first draw, you laid down one set; three aces. yumeko inhaled sharply, but kept her smile. second draw, you laid down another set; three twos. her smile was fading slowly, inching its way back to the centre of her lips. third and final draw, you laid down your hand: a perfect run. you smiled softly. “rummy.”

yumeko stared at the cards, then her eyes flickered up at you. her persona stuttered, a fraction too long, before she laughed, pitched. “ohh…” she leant forward, hands gripping the table like she had a surge of adrenaline flush through her veins, “and here i thought i was playing you… bravo, ms. student council.”

she controlled the circumstances. she shuffled the cards, she stacked your hand, she was getting in your head. miraculously, you came out victorious. almost like you were clairvoyant.

“normal people just ask when they want to get to know someone, y’know.” you chuckled, standing. you walked past the pucture yumeko seemed oddly fixated on the entire game, and grabbed the mug sitting on your desk. you took a dragged sip, obviously amused at the girl’s stunned state.

yumeko shrugged. “where’s the fun in that?”

you took a peek at your phone, it was damn near midnight. “it’s getting late, is blake not worried about where you are?”

yumeko rised, the dim glow from your bedside lamp lighting her features just right. she stepped closer to you, until you could hear her soft breath. “blake’s probably snuck chad into our room. i doubt my whereabouts are her top priority.”

“give yourself a little credit, new girl. if you were my roommate, i’d notice if you weren’t around.” you murmured, tapping the tip of her nose. she was now leaning too close for comfort, but neither of you were ones to back away first. “but then again, you like the spotlight, so anyone would.”

yumeko tilted her head, blinking. she played coy, batting her lashes. “well, i guess i’ll have to keep standing there if it means you’ll notice me.” she let out a soft laugh, a genuine one of delight. then, without warning, she stepped into you space and pressed a soft kiss against you cheek. she doesn’t pull away, lips brushing against your ear to whisper, “thanks for the game, y/n-san. i’ll be watching tomorrow, play well for me.”

she pulled back with a wicked grin, leaving you with the dreadful silence that was just filled with a welcomed chaos.

who the hell was yumeko kawamoto?

see, kira wouldn’t consider herself a very jealous person. but if you were to ask her, ‘what would you do if i pet your dog?’ or ‘what would happen if i asked y/n to the dance?’ the answer would either be to suffer riri’s wrath, or have mary davis sent after you and become a house pet (probecito ryan). that’s the thing, kira isn’t a jealous person, until you tread on what’s hers. and yumeko--oh, yumeko--was on ground zero.

from her dorm balcony, she oversaw every crevice of st. dom’s campus, which stretched beyond acres of just the quad beneath. but kira doesn’t look at it. her arm rested against the marble railing, eyes narrowed downward, locked on the singular window peering into the room she needed to be in.

yumeko kawamoto. she’s only been here one day, and there she was, shamelessly moving in on you like you were free game. she drew your attention so easily, like it’s owed to her. like its effortless--as if it wasn’t something kira had to burn through blood and many house pets just for a brief taste.

riri stood just behind her, silent as usual. few words exchanged between the sisters, but the younger could always feel the anger seething from the older’s being.

“do you remember how long it took for y/n to speak more than one sentence to me?” kira asked. riri doesn’t answer.

she watched as the japanese transfer backed you into your desk. kira’s fingers dug under the curve of the railing, nails biting into stone. she leant too close, honeyed voice and tempting lips scrawled all over you like they belonged.

oh, kira wasn’t just angry. she was absolutely fucking livid.

“one day, one smile, one game.” kira scoffed, shaking her head. she loosened her grip on the balcony, adjusting her robe instead. “there’s something off about that girl.” she paused for a beat. “she’s looking for something… in y/n, and she’s too love drunk to notice.” she turned, but just when she was about to pass riri, she stopped, head turning towards her sister. “keep an eye on her. if she gets too comfortable--” riri knew it was code for, ‘if she got too close to y/n’. “--then break her before she thinks she belongs here. i don’t tolerate cheaters.”

she strolled back into her room, a single connected to riri’s through the bathroom.

she took her robe off, slipping into bed. her sister followed, closing the doors. riri stood by her bed obediently, waiting for kira to finish making herself comfortable.

“oh, and make sure everything’s ready for tomorrow. i don’t want another council mishap… father won’t be happy.”

riri nodded, retiring to her room. but not to sleep, not just yet.

“are you scared for your face-off later?” seemed to be the one question circulating you. since you woke up this morning, only one thing has been on everyone’s minds: the great game between st. domina and her godforsaken slayer. you answered every one with, “i feel how i do every game.”

when you got there, yumeko and her group greeted you by your chair. you and mary shared a look, but you could sense the hesitance in her eyes. michael agreed to be the dealer upon your request. and ryan… well, ryan’s just here to idolize you like he always does. still, they stood in your corner.

the japanese made sure to whisper a good mantra in your ear just before the president arrived, “it’s another kiss if you win, ms. student council. this time, wherever you like.”

the room falls quiet when the double doors creak open.

kira stepped in like a storm dressed in silk, and her sister a close thundering clap tailing behind. every head turned. every voice died. the air shifted. she doesn’t walk—she arrives. heels clicking on marble like a countdown. her gaze sweeping the hall as someone who owned more than just the room.

she walked straight toward the raised platform where the table waits. you were already watching. her eyes? only for one. you.

a slow, knowing smile curled on her lips. she doesn’t speak right away--no, she let the moment build, let the silence beg for her voice. her eyes trailed up and down you like you were steak dangling before a hungry tiger.

“well, don’t you look tense,” she smirked, “scared i might make you mine tonight?” you raised an eyebrow, unbothered. she leant just close enough to lower her voice. “you act cool now, but we both know you’ll melt just fine when you’re under me.” she pulled back, her eyes widening, silently mocking you for immediately jumping to impure thoughts. “in rank, of course.”

the crowd gasped. you don’t flinch at the humiliation.

because the game hasn’t started. and kira was already trying to win. she was overcompensating, you knew she was worried.

“if i melt, you’ll know, kira. you’ll be the one gasping for air.”

if she wanted to play this game, you could play it better.

“enough with the eye-fucking, will you take your seats?” michael interrupted. kira almost wrung his head off for the good moment he had ruined, but decided against it. he began shuffling. “you two know the drill. you each get two private cards, five community cards are dealt face up in stages. whoever makes the best hand wins.” he fanned out five cards, glancing between the two of you. “wager?”

you shared a glance. before kira spoke up, “521 thousand. whoever loses, is the other’s house pet.”

and so michael dealt. the room was silent, the gathered masses waited in bated breath, as the tension thickened. not a single utterance from the crowd could be heard, despite the entire student body coming to watch this legendary feat.

kira had her hair slicked back with a headband--her ‘game getup’, as she called it--and her cold, unwavering eyes stared at the hand she was just dealt. she drummed her finger against her mountain of chips, a twitch betraying what years of flawless victories never had: pressure. across from her, you slouched slightly, eyes half-lidded, and a small smile threatening to crack from your lips. you didn’t fidget with your chips, or your pen, you just sat still and watched her squirm--not calculated, not to study, but to savour the pure pleasure flushing into your body at the fact you nerved the president.

you didn’t spare your cards a second glance, they laid covered before you on the table. you don’t look at the cards, you looked at her, like you could read the game on her, not on the felt.

the flop hit: queen of hearts, six of spades, ace of diamonds.

your gut whispered in your ear, and the game became the last thing on your mind. first, of course, was telling yourself to have the memory of kira’s twitching expression etched in your mind.

she exhaled quietly through her nose. then she raised.

the turn: two of hearts. and you could see her eyes widen.

you wanted to giggle, but your teeth sunk into your bottom lip to hold it in instead. you knew exactly what she was thinking--this was the moment, she should have you. she always had them here. always. it was like her prayers were answered.

then you spoke, your voice low, velvet-smooth: “you’re sweating. i thought gods didn’t do that.” you taunted her.

she scoffed, but it was too quick. “oh, please. i’m beyond god.”

you smiled, slow and wolfish, relishing her defensive reflex. “mmh, maybe it’s the mortality finally catching up to you.” you leant in, pushing your stack in further, raising the gamble. “all thrones fall eventually, kira. you’re in my territory now.”

time doesn’t stop, but hers certainly does.

she couldn’t read you, and that’s what she had always prided herself on--what her father drilled into her since she could breathe. because, for the first time, she couldn’t read you. and that’s what terrified her most--she didn’t have the upper hand.

she knows; this just might be kira timurov’s time to lose.

she doesn’t fold. not yet. she stared at you like she was trying to pry you open with just her icy-blue eyes, to find the lie behind your unbothered face. but there’s nothing--no twitch, no pulse, no hesitation. just that infuriating l/n stillness.

a predator who doesn’t chase, knowing her prey comes to her.

she called. deciding there was no easier way she could walk out of this game. she was really regretting challenging you, but the reward was just that much sweeter than the consequences. the room exhaled as the river card hit the felt--king of clubs. final. irreversible. michael glanced between the two of you, his own heart drumming in his mouth.

“come on, president,” you smirked, blinking slowly. your sultry tone almost bringing her to her knees. riri’s head dropped behind her sister. she knew. “show me if the throne still fits.”

she glanced at the pile of chips sitting in the middle. then at the cards in front of michael. then back up at you.

with a forced sense of calmness, she set her cards down, the room so quite you heard her royal blue nails scratching the cards as they were revealed: a two pair. an ace and a king.

the stark difference between riri and kira’s expression sent you. kira’s ambition really held her back, and you could appreciate when riri could see through certain smoke screens.

whispers rippled through kira’s silence. solid. confident.

all eyes fell on you, fixated on every, tiny movement you made. you sighed softly, glancing down. it gave kira hope, was you accepting defeat? was this it? your eyes found hers, undoing every block she had built to reach her presidential pedestal. you hummed, and fanned your cards open with a simple flick:

queen of hearts. queen of diamonds. full house.

the room watched kira timurov crumble piece by piece.

#1. y/n l/n - $977,100

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BELOW THE CUT

#76. kira timurov - $-700

you smirked, grabbing the house pet chain from michael, swinging it around your finger. “well, isn’t this charming?”

you could feel mary seething in confusion behind you. but you just grinned in satisfaction at kira’s panic.

she slammed both fists against the table, her eyes wide in a desperate manner. she huffed shakily, her icy eyes meeting your unwavering ones. you could hear her next words before she even said them, and you were never one to turn down a challenge: “i raise a rematch. double or nothing!”

𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 ⇨

𝒂𝒏; ya’ll lmk what you want more to see from this cuz i had SUCH A RIDE writing this. i needed to scratch the bet itch and i am OPEN to any yumeko/kira solo reqs. and yes ill make it both yumekira for this fic for now.

𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒙𝒙

[beasangel]

the quiet between us

⤷ Joel Miller x youngerfem!reader | age gap

💭 “I ain’t gonna be good at this,” he said. “I’ve done a lot of bad. I don’t know how to be what you need.”

summary : he’s too old for her, too haunted by the past to let himself feel, but he does anyway. She’s too young to be carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, too stubborn to stay away from the one person who makes her feel safe.

warnings: injury (stabbed), light smut, age gap.

joel masterlist main masterlist

my first time writing smut so idk how i feel about it

You were twenty-six when you first met Joel Miller.

He was… not what you expected.

You’d heard his name whispered around town like a cautionary tale. Ellie’s guardian. Tommy’s brother. The man who walked across half the country with nothing but a gun, a girl, and a mission.

He was older. Weathered. Eyes like flint and a voice that could make people flinch. And when he looked at you for the first time, it was sharp assessing. Like he was trying to figure out if you were going to be a problem.

You weren’t. You didn’t want to be. You were just tired. You’d been on the road since you were nineteen—too young to have seen what you did, too old now to pretend you hadn’t.

Tommy offered you shelter. A bed. A patrol schedule.

Joel offered you silence.

You didn’t mean to care about him. But then you started getting paired up for patrols.

He didn’t like that at first. Said you were too green, even though you'd proven otherwise a dozen times over. You didn’t argue. Just kept showing up. Bleeding, bruised, breathing.

At first, he barely spoke to you outside of missions. “Watch your six.” “Stay low.” “You good?”

No softness. Just the rhythm of someone who’d been doing this too long to waste breath.

But you noticed things anyway.

How he always walked a half-step ahead. How he double-checked your ammo count when he thought you weren’t looking. How he’d never let you take the first watch on patrol nights. It wasn’t kindness exactly. It was… guilt. Protection. Like he’d decided that if you died on his watch, it would be one too many.

You were used to people brushing you off. Too young to be listened to. Too old to be coddled. But Joel? He didn’t brush you off. He watched you. He remembered things you said.

And when he let you patch a wound on his shoulder after a firefight, his eyes never left yours.

That was the first time you thought: he feels it too.

-

The age thing was always there.

Not in the way people stared—Jackson wasn’t like that—but in the way he held it. Quiet, heavy. Like a weight he carried between you.

You weren’t a kid. You were grown, capable, had seen more than anyone should. But still, when you laughed, Joel’s expression would twist—like it made him ache. Like it reminded him of a life he lost.

It happened after a patrol gone wrong. You and Joel had been paired together, again.

This time, it was a group of raiders on the road to the old hydro station. Too many, too fast. You both fought hard, but you took a knife to the side before Joel dragged you out of there, blood soaking through your shirt, your voice cracking with pain as you half-collapsed behind an abandoned truck.

He pressed down on the wound with his jacket, his hands surprisingly gentle. “Stay with me,” he said, voice rough. “Hey, hey. Look at me.”

You looked. Not because he told you to, but because you wanted to. His eyes were wild, scared, and that scared you more than the pain.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he muttered. “Just—fuck. Don’t do that again. Don’t get yourself killed.”

“I didn’t exactly plan on it,” you whispered, trying to laugh. You regretted it instantly.

“You think this is funny?” he snapped. Then softer, almost a whisper: “You can’t die. You hear me?”

You did hear him. And not just the words.

-

You woke up in the infirmary to find him still there, face drawn with days of sleepless worry.

When you tried to thank him, he just shook his head.

“You shouldn’t be this important,” he said quietly. “You’re too young. You’ve got time.”

You sat up, chest tight. “None of us have time, all this is just extra.”

He turned away. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.”

And Joel - strong, stubborn, selfless Joel - still couldn’t look at you. “You deserve more than a man who’s got one foot in the grave.”

You laughed, wet and bitter. “You think I don’t know what this world is? We all do, I don’t care about age. I care about you. You’re the only thing that’s made me feel safe in years.”

That made him pause. Then finally, finally, he sat beside you, hand curling around yours with a gentleness that nearly undid you.

“I ain’t gonna be good at this,” he said. “I’ve done a lot of bad. I don’t know how to be what you need.”

You leaned in, eyes searching his. “You already are.”

-

He was waiting by the door when the nurse cleared her to leave days later, arms crossed tight over his chest like he was trying to hold something in. She moved slower than usual, still sore, but he stepped forward before she could reach for her things.

“I’ll take you,” he said, quiet but firm. She didn’t argue.

Outside, the cold bit through her jacket, but Joel walked close, hand hovering at the small of her back like he wanted to touch her but didn’t quite let himself. Not here. Not yet. Not when every step toward her house felt like crossing some invisible line.

 She glanced up at him once, searching, but he kept his eyes ahead, like if he looked too long, she’d see everything he was trying not to say.

When they reached her door, he opened it for her, stood in the threshold like he didn’t know if he was supposed to go in or walk away. And she just looked at him, soft and tired and still a little wrecked, and said, “You can come in.”

 So he did.

The door had barely shut behind you when Joel pressed you back against it, slow, not rushed, like he needed to make sure this wasn’t a dream. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was memorizing the shape of you.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice low and rough.

“I’ve been sure,” you whispered back. “Just needed you to be.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, more urgent. His hands slid down to your waist, drawing you in, and when your fingers tugged his flannel open, he didn’t stop you. His breath hitched when your hands touched bare skin. Scarred, solid, warm.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered, tracing a long-healed mark on his ribs.

He shook his head like he didn’t believe you, but the way he looked at you said he wanted to.

You ended up in your bed, half-undressed, tangled in each other, lit only by the soft golden spill of the bedside lamp. Joel took his time. Like he didn’t know if he’d get another chance.

His fingers were careful on your skin, unbuttoning your shirt slowly, pausing only when you shivered. You weren’t nervous, just overwhelmed. His eyes never left yours, even as he leaned down to press warm, open-mouthed kisses to your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs.

“You tell me to stop,” he said, voice gravel and heat, “and I will.”

“I won’t,” you breathed. “I want you, Joel.”

His hands slid beneath the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down as his mouth followed. When his tongue slid between your folds, slow and deliberate, your hips bucked instinctively. He held you in place, groaning against you, and kept going, torturously slow, then faster when you whimpered his name.

He didn’t stop until you came against his mouth, panting, one hand fisted in his hair and the other gripping the sheets.

Joel crawled up your body and kissed you like he wanted you to taste yourself on his tongue.

“Still with me?” he rasped, thumb brushing your lip.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I need you. Please.”

He slid a condom on, your heart caught at the way his hands trembled slightly, and lined himself up, pausing just long enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“This okay?” he asked.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in. “Better than okay.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you just right. You gasped into his mouth, and Joel groaned low in his throat, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Fuck- you feel so good,” he murmured, “so tight, so warm…”

He moved carefully at first, like he was savouring every second. You moved with him, hips rolling, hands gripping his back. The drag of his body against yours, the quiet, desperate sounds slipping from both your lips, it was overwhelming in the best way.

“Joel,” you whimpered. “Please.”

“Please what, baby?”

“Harder. I can take it.”

He growled softly, thrusting deeper, slow and rough and just right. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, and he kissed your throat, your jaw, your mouth, whispering your name like it meant something holy.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t frenzied.

It was real.

When you came again, he followed, grinding deep inside you with a ragged groan, like the sound had been ripped out of him.

After, he held you.

Not out of obligation. Not because he didn’t know what else to do.

But because he wanted to.

His fingers traced lazy circles along your spine. Your face was tucked into the crook of his neck, his scent—sweat, smoke, skin—like something permanent.

“Was that okay?” he asked softly.

You laughed, a little breathless. “Yeah Joel. That was okay.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“Then I guess I gotta make sure it wasn’t the last time.”

[humaling]

We Kissed Like Drowning Things.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: they were each other's first love—soft, sacred, sun-warmed. then the capitol took him, and you learned that sometimes, survival means letting go of everything gentle. years later, bruised by the capitol and silence, they're trying again. but the sea doesn't always return what it takes.

warnings: the usual hunger games (death, violence, prostitutions, etc.), annie is traumatized, reader is depressed, finnick is traumatized and depressed, slowburn

word count: 14.5k

author's note: not proofread! i accidentally hit post instead of schedule🥲🥲🥲

When you were six, you met a boy with bronze curls and sea-green eyes. You were crouched by the shore, trying and failing to build a castle out of sand, only to have every small wave undo your work with careless indifference. Frustration simmered in your chest until the boy appeared beside you, his shadow cutting into the sunlight. He asked if he could help, promised that together you could build something bigger, something the tide wouldn’t dare destroy. You said yes. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, your mother’s voice was calling your name, and just before you turned to leave, the boy offered his name—Finnick Odair—and asked if you’d like to be friends. You said yes again. And somehow, that moment, all sun-warmed skin and saltwater air, set you both on a path that carried you fifteen years forward.

At eight, the two of you ran wild through the town square, sticky fingers swiping sweets from distracted vendors, mouths stained with chocolate as laughter rang through cobblestone alleys. You always ended up back at the beach, sand clinging to your skin as you talked about everything and nothing until the sky turned lavender. Sometimes it was your mother who’d call you home, and other times Finnick’s father would arrive, stern and tired from his son’s market ruckus again, dragging his son by the wrist. But he never included you in his scoldings. No—Finnick’s father looked at you like he might’ve looked at a daughter, gentle and kind. Finnick would sulk afterward, grumbling that you were definitely his dad’s favorite. You’d blow raspberries at him in response, which only made him roll his eyes harder.

When you were ten, Finnick showed up on your doorstep with a trembling smile, a box of chocolates in one hand and a single rose in the other. He was flushed and awkward and so very nervous when he stammered out the words—"Will you be my girlfriend?" Your father nearly had a heart attack, clutching his chest while your mother just laughed, amused and endlessly supportive, even though she said, "They’re children. It’ll pass." It took three nights to calm your dad down, reassure him that no, you and Finnick weren’t eloping anytime soon. Annie, your little sister, teased the both of you mercilessly. Whenever Finnick came by, she’d grin and say, “Dad’s gonna kill you if you ever make her cry.” Finnick always rolled his eyes and promised, “I could never.”

But that promise didn’t last long. You were twelve when you came home in tears over a ridiculous argument—something about sea animals and which one was the best. You lost, and your pride was bruised, and your father, loyal to a fault, nearly turned the entire district inside out looking for Finnick, who was hiding behind a fruit stall with his heart in his throat. That night, Finnick snuck through your window with your favorite lilies clutched in one hand and your favorite chocolates in the other. You forgave him before he even spoke. Giving him a kiss on the cheek as you hugged him.

By fourteen, the two of you had settled into something that felt eternal. Your relationship was soft and strong in the way only young love can be—full of promise and warmth and long walks along the beach with no need for words. He’d sleep over some nights, and you’d eat with his family just as often as he’d eat with yours. You had your own lives too, your own interests, your own spaces. You weren’t tied at the hip, but always tied at the heart. Arguments happened, sure. But they never lasted long. A few hours later, you'd be barefoot and breathless, laughing as he chased you across the shore like nothing had gone wrong at all.

But then came the 65th Hunger Games Reaping and it altered everything you once knew.

You heard his name called, and the world tilted. Time stopped. You watched him walk up to that stage, pale and shaking, and you felt your own heart fall from your chest and crack somewhere on the Justice Building’s stone steps. You wished you could scream. You wished you could run to him. You wished you could hide him away from the world. When the Peacekeepers finally let you in, led you through dim corridors to the room where Finnick waited, it felt like a dream unraveling into a nightmare. 

Because he was going, and you were staying, and neither of you knew how to live without the other.

Finnick made you promise not to wait for him—his voice thick with tears that tasted like the sea. One of his hands cupped your cheek gently, the other resting on your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. You shook your head, burying your face in his chest, your arms wrapped around him like letting go would make everything real.

“Please,” Finnick whispered, his voice barely holding together. “When you leave this building… just forget it. Forget what we were. Everything we said we’d do, everything we thought we’d have—just let it go.”

A single tear slipped down his cheek. He tilted your chin up, gently, like he couldn’t stand not seeing your face one last time, even if it was streaked with tears.

Your breath hitched as you looked up at him, his face already starting to blur through the tears in your eyes. You wanted to tell him no—that you wouldn’t forget, that you couldn’t. But your throat tightened too much to speak, so you just nodded, slowly, even though your heart was breaking with every second.

Finnick leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closed like he was trying to freeze time. “You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered, more like a hope than a promise. “You always were braver than me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, barely there. “That’s a lie,” you said quietly. “You were never scared of anything.”

“I’m scared now,” he admitted.

He kissed your forehead—soft, lingering, like a secret he didn’t know how to say out loud—and when he pulled back, his hands slid from your cheeks like he didn’t want to leave but knew he had to.

A knock on the door came too soon. A Peacekeeper's voice told you time was up.

You stepped back, arms falling to your sides, feeling colder already. Your fingers itched to grab him again, to hold on just one second longer, but you didn’t move.

“I’ll see you again,” you said, even though you didn’t know if you believed it.

Finnick gave you the smallest smile, eyes shining. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe somewhere without the Games. Just us.”

And then you turned, because if you waited another second, you’d never leave. The door closed behind you with a final, hollow sound. And just like that, the boy who had built sandcastles with you, who brought you chocolate and lilies, was gone.

~

For the rest of the month, you moved through your house like a ghost, pacing from room to room with nerves crackling just beneath your skin. The television was always on, no matter where you were—living room, kitchen, even the bathroom while you showered. You couldn’t bear to miss a moment. Even when you tried to sleep, the static hum and flicker of the screen followed you, casting shadows on your walls. You watched as the boy you loved, the boy who once helped you build sandcastles and brought you lilies, was slowly carved into something unrecognizable. The Games stripped him bare, piece by piece, and you watched it all happen in real time.

Your father tried to pull the plug—told you that no child should be watching something so violent, so vile. You screamed, and you ran, and you ended up at a friend’s house just to sit in front of their screen instead. Every night, you whispered prayers into your pillow, begged whatever gods might be listening to bring him home. Just bring him home.

And they did.

But God, how you wished they hadn’t.

Because the boy who returned wasn’t your Finnick. He looked the same—same bronze curls, same sea eyes—but his smile was gone, and the warmth in him had been buried somewhere you couldn’t reach. The boy who used to pull you into rib-cracking hugs now stood at a distance, a stranger wrapped in skin that used to feel like home. His eyes didn’t shine anymore. They just stared, empty and far away, like he was still in the arena, still trying to survive.

At first, you tried to understand. Of course he was different. Of course the Games had done something to him. How could they not? You told yourself he just needed time. You tried to talk to him, to remind him who he was, who you were together. You begged him to come outside, to walk with you down to the beach like old times. But all you got in return was silence, or worse—polite indifference, as if you were nothing more than another face in the crowd.

And then, one day, he broke your heart clean in two. No warning. No kindness. Just words as sharp as a blade and twice as cruel. He said it was over. That it had always been over. That you needed to forget.

You didn’t understand. You couldn’t. The Games were over. That nightmare—bloody and cruel and distant—should’ve ended the moment Finnick stepped back onto District 4 soil. So why was he still breaking your heart? Why was he pushing you away like your love had been part of the price he paid to win?

“I don’t understand...” you whispered, your voice trembling as your vision blurred with tears. “You’re alive. You’re here. So why won’t you come back to me?”

You cried. You begged. And if it would’ve changed anything, you would’ve dropped to your knees right then and there. But before you could, Finnick’s father gently pulled you back, his arms steady and warm in a way that almost made you crumble all over again. He told you Finnick just needed time. That trauma like his doesn’t fade, not quickly. Not easily.

You nodded, brushing the tears from your cheeks, trying to convince yourself it made sense. But when you turned back toward Finnick, he didn’t move. He stood completely still, his face a blank page. Nothing there. No flicker of the boy you loved.

But you caught it.

The twitch of his fingers, like he was holding himself back from reaching for you. The storm caught behind his eyes, screaming silently. The slight, almost invisible twitch at the corner of his mouth, like some part of him was dying to speak.

And so you waited. Days, then weeks. Months. Two years. You were patient. Gentle. You told yourself this was what love meant—loving someone through the dark, even if they couldn’t meet you halfway. You were there when he needed help after the fire that stole his parents, when the only thing left was a hollowed house and smoke. You stayed by his side as he moved into the empty victor’s mansion, a “gift” from President Snow that felt more like a cage than a home.

Sometimes, you’d find a window left open or a door that hadn’t been locked all the way, and you’d slip inside quietly, just to leave behind a flower, or a plate of food, or a note you didn’t sign. Sometimes, you just stood outside, staring at the doorknob, wondering if today would be the day he opened it for you.

Sometimes, Mags would catch you waiting. She never raised her voice. She just looked at you with soft, tired eyes and said, “Don’t come back.”

But she always let you in anyway.

You kept coming, and she kept letting you.

Until your sixteenth birthday.

Your house was full of people, of laughter and light and plates scraped clean—but none of it felt like yours. Your smile sat too neatly on your face. The laughter felt too hollow in your chest. Your father noticed. He watched you all evening like you were glass, just waiting for the moment you’d slip out the door.

And you did—right under his nose, with Annie’s help, while the dishes clattered and your friends cleaned up. You stepped out into the night barefoot, the hem of your dress brushing your calves, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out the world. There was only one place you wanted to be.

And maybe—just maybe—you hoped tonight would be different.

The walk to his house felt endless. The streets of District 4 were quiet, hushed under the weight of nightfall, the only sound the soft thud of your footsteps and the ocean sighing somewhere in the distance. When you reached his door, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even knock. The back window was cracked open like always, and your fingers pushed it up with ease, slipping through like you’d done so many times before.

But this time, Finnick was waiting for you.

He stood in the middle of the dimly lit living room, arms crossed, as if he’d heard your steps coming from a mile away. His face was unreadable, his eyes shadowed by something heavy and cold.

You froze from your spot. You weren’t expecting him to be there at all. “I-I just wanted to see you. It’s my birthday.”

“I know,” he said flatly.

Something in his voice made your stomach turn. Still, you stepped closer, like you had a hundred times before. “I thought maybe tonight we could just talk. Or sit. Like we used to—”

“We’re not anything anymore.”

The words landed sharp, like ice water poured over your chest. “Finnick, don’t—”

“I’m tired,” he said, voice sharp now, clipped and distant. “Tired of you sneaking in. Tired of you acting like this is still something it’s not. You need to stop.”

You stood still, your fingers curling into your palms. “I’ve been there for you—after everything. I never stopped caring. You can’t just throw that away.”

His laugh was hollow. “You think this is some story where love fixes everything? That you showing up like a stray dog will make me come running back? Grow up.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“I don’t want you here,” he said, voice like stone. “I don’t want you waiting for me. I don’t want you loving me.”

You stared at him, at this cold-eyed stranger wearing your first love’s face. The silence between you stretched taut and unbearable.

Then you nodded. Just once. It felt like your chest cracked in half.

“Fine,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “You win.”

And with that, you turned. You didn’t look back. You didn’t cry, not until you were past the gates of Victor’s Village and halfway down the empty road. 

You dropped to your knees, the cold mud soaking through your dress, clinging to your skin like grief itself. Your father found you there, his arms lifting you gently as if you might shatter. He carried you home without a word. You wailed into your mother’s chest, her hands cradling your head while your sister sat on the staircase above, silent, listening.

That night, something in you snapped clean.

No more waiting. No more hoping.

He killed it with his own hands.

And what took its place was colder. Not the kind of anger that burns fast and wild—but the kind that settles deep, simmering low and steady. The kind that lets you walk away without looking back, even when your heart is still bleeding.

~

The final year of eligibility came and went with a tension that clung to your lungs like smoke. Each reaping before had felt like a tightrope walk—every breath held, every step tentative. But this year, something shifted. Maybe it was acceptance. Maybe it was the exhaustion of bracing for something that never came. Either way, when they called two names that weren’t yours, the air returned to your lungs like a flood.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t cheer. You just stood there, heart pounding in your ears, staring at the stage until your friends tugged you back to reality. The weight you’d been carrying for years finally loosened, if only slightly.

Later that evening, you all gathered in the clearing just outside town—a quiet spot near the cliffs where the ocean breeze carried away the noise. There was music from a nearby radio, low and grainy, and someone had brought pastries from the market to celebrate. You laughed. You danced barefoot in the grass. You tilted your head back and screamed into the open sky just to hear yourself alive.

It felt like the first time in a long while that you were breathing without flinching.

But as the sun dipped lower, turning the ocean orange, something tugged at you. A ripple across your skin. A sixth sense you never could shake.

You turned toward the path that led back to town—and there he was.

Finnick stood at a distance, half-shadowed beneath the trees. His posture still, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He didn’t move. Just watched. The fading sunlight carved a line across his face, and for a moment, everything around you fell away—the music, the chatter, even the wind.

It was just him and you.

You couldn’t read his expression. Maybe he didn’t expect to be seen. Maybe he hoped you would. But your eyes met, and the moment hung heavy between you, suspended in that slow-burn ache you thought you'd long buried.

You blinked, and the world resumed its spin.

“I’ll be right back,” you told your friends, forcing a smile that didn’t quite fit. They nodded, distracted, too wrapped up in the freedom of not being chosen.

You slipped away from the crowd and into the cover of trees, your heart unsettled, like a drumbeat without rhythm. The ocean roared somewhere behind you, wild and alive, and you let the wind press against your skin, let it remind you that you were still here. Still untouched. Still standing yet still not free.

You leaned your weight against the trunk of the mango tree, pressing your temple to the rough bark. The rustling of leaves overhead mingled with the distant laughter of your friends, soft and far away, like a memory you were already starting to lose. A quiet ache bloomed in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your mind wandered to Finnick—because that could’ve been him. That should’ve been him, standing beside you, laughing with the rest of them. But pride had built walls between you both—his heavy with guilt, yours laced with bitterness. And neither of you had the nerve to climb over.

Even after everything he’d done. Even after he broke your heart. You still yearned for him.

The crunch of boots on grass cut through the stillness, pulling you from your thoughts. You didn’t move at first—just let your eyes flutter open, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt as your heart kicked up its pace. The footsteps were slow, hesitant. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could recognize him by his scent alone. More than that, you could feel him—like a change in the air, the way memory sometimes brushes too close to your skin.

Finnick stood a few feet behind you, and the silence between you thickened into something almost physical. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

You kept your eyes on the horizon, pretending you hadn’t noticed. But your body betrayed you. Your skin flushed with heat, your breath caught short, your jaw locked tight. Every part of you was aware of him—his presence like gravity, impossible to ignore.

Eventually, you couldn’t help it. You turned.

It had been years since you’d looked at him—really looked—and time had etched itself into his features. He wasn’t the boy who used to press wildflowers into your hands or kiss your forehead when no one was looking. His face was sharper now, his jaw more defined, his shoulders broader. He carried himself differently, like someone who had survived things he couldn’t speak of.

But it was his eyes that hit you hardest—those sea-green eyes, dulled now, as if salt and sorrow had washed the shine from them. You didn’t know what haunted him, but you knew something did. Maybe it was the Capitol. Maybe it was the cost of survival. Or maybe it was everything he never let himself say.

He looked older. Tired. Worn thin by something invisible but heavy.

You knew, deep down, that the version of him the Capitol adored—the flirt, the heartthrob, the enigma—wasn’t real. It was armor. A mask. Finnick had always been good at making people see what he wanted them to see. But underneath all of it, he was still just a boy trying to survive a world that never played fair.

And part of you—despite the ache, despite the bitterness—still believed that when he let you go all those years ago, it wasn’t out of cruelty. It was to protect you.

From what, you weren’t sure. But you had your suspicions. And that involved the Capitol.

Even now, with dark circles under his eyes, the slight sag at the corner of his mouth, the lines forming between his brows—he was still devastatingly, achingly beautiful. And that, too, made you angry.

The silence stretched, suspended by rustling leaves and the steady roar of waves in the distance. Finnick squinted at you, like he wasn’t quite sure where he was or why he’d come. There was something in his eyes when he looked at you—a flicker of recognition, but deeper than that. Not joy. Not even regret. It was as if his body remembered you before his mind did.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he might reach for you—or like he was stopping himself.

And you stood there, arms crossed over your chest, heart thudding against your ribs. Not angry. Not forgiving. Just exposed.

You didn’t know what to say. And he didn’t either.

So you both stood there in the shadow of what used to be, staring across a distance that time, pain, and silence had carved too wide to cross. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The wind picked up again, carrying the sharp scent of salt and something older—something lost. Memories. Promises. The ghosts of what could’ve been.

“It’s just us,” you said, the words scraping from your throat like they'd been dragged through sand. “You don’t need to look like you’re about to throw yourself in front of me to kill somebody.”

It wasn’t a great joke—barely a joke at all—but something in it eased the tension in his face. Finnick let out a breath he’d clearly been holding, like he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to exhale in your presence.

Then, slowly, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his shorts. You noticed the hesitation, the way his fingers twitched before they disappeared.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said, barely louder than the wind.

The words hung in the space between you, light and fragile. If you hadn’t been watching his face so closely—if you hadn’t been trying to memorize every line of him like this was the last time—you might’ve missed them entirely.

You blinked. Brows furrowing. Your shoulders drew inward before you could stop them, like your body was trying to shield something. That wasn’t what you expected. You thought he’d come armed with that Capitol grin, or that same cold indifference he wore the last time you spoke. Not this. Not the look in his eyes now—like he was unraveling in front of you, thread by thread, and didn’t care who saw.

He looked like he’d carved his heart out and held it in his hands, raw and bleeding, asking you to take it again. Asking you to break it all over if you needed to.

You took a small step back, instinctively. Your eyes narrowed, scanning his face as if you could spot a lie hiding behind the softness. And he saw it—that flicker of suspicion, of hurt, still sharp-edged and buried deep.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t defend himself. Just stood there, letting the silence wrap around both of you again.

You shook your head slightly, glancing away, grounding yourself in the crashing waves and the tree bark under your fingers.

“Why now?” you asked quietly. “After all this time?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you the way someone looks at something they lost and never expected to find again. And then, voice low and unsteady, he said, “Because it’s the first time I’ve seen you at peace in years.”

That silenced whatever you were going to say next. Your breath caught in your throat, a familiar burn rising behind your eyes—but you blinked it back.

You looked at him and for a moment, the years between you flickered. The memories. The pain. The boy who loved you. The boy who left. The man standing here now, trying too late to be brave.

You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But in that moment, you saw the wound behind the armor, and it mirrored your own.

So you nodded once. Quiet. Detached. And said, “I need to get back.”

You turned before he could reply, walking back toward the sound of laughter and life, where your friends waited and your future hadn’t yet been tangled up in his shadow again.

~

The 70th Hunger Games reaping arrived like a thundercloud—heavy, ominous, and buzzing with unspoken dread.

You stood at the edge of the square with your parents, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you scanned the crowd. Your eyes searched the eighteen-year-old girls’ section until they landed on a familiar head of auburn hair. Annie. It was her last year of eligibility, and your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since you woke up.

You’d noticed the pattern over the years—how the girl tributes were often eighteen, how the Capitol liked the illusion of a coming-of-age tragedy. Annie had barely lived her life. The thought made your heart lurch. She caught your gaze from across the square and gave you a small, nervous smile—brave in the way only Annie could manage.

From the corner of your eye, you caught a flicker of movement. Tousled blond hair. A strong jawline. Finnick. He stood on the stage near the other victors, his eyes trained on the crowd. You could feel his gaze grazing your skin, but you refused to meet it. Last year had already broken through walls you’d spent years building. You weren’t about to let him ruin your footing again—not now.

The escort began her rehearsed speech, cheerful and detached. Her voice blurred around the edges as your heartbeat thundered in your ears. You were nineteen. Safe. Annie wasn’t. This was her final year. One last time to tempt the odds.

And this year, the odds are not in your favor.

“Annie Cresta.”

The name cracked across the square like a whip.

The air stilled. Conversations stopped mid-word. Heads turned. Your breath caught, and the world seemed to tilt beneath you. All eyes were on you—because they remembered. They remembered the last time someone you loved was taken.

And just like that, you were fourteen again. Watching the boy you once dreamed of forever with get ripped from your life. Only now, it wasn’t love on the line. It was blood.

At first, you didn’t understand. Your brain scrambled, lips parting, but no sound came out. You felt the air leave your lungs and your knees nearly buckled. You turned to Annie, whose face had gone pale, eyes wide, mouth trembling.

The silence stretched unbearably long before a Peacekeeper gave a subtle nudge. That broke her paralysis. Annie stepped forward slowly, her legs wooden, like every step was a decision she didn’t want to make.

“No,” you whispered, a soundless protest as your heart slammed against your ribs. “No!” You cried out as you reached for her, but someone was already holding you back.

Your father wrapped his arms around your waist and shoulder. Your mother cupping your face and pressing you into her shoulder. You kicked, thrashed, sobbed against their hold as the reality of your situation dawned on you fully.

Annie was probably crying too now, trying not to fall apart in front of the whole district.

You didn’t have to look to know Finnick was watching.

But eventually, you twisted enough to catch a glimpse of her. Annie stood on the stage like a leaf in the wind. Her sea-green dress clung to her in the summer heat, hair stuck to her temples with sweat. She looked impossibly young. Fragile in a way that made your chest hurt.

You barely remember who the male tribute was. He didn’t matter.

Everything in your world zeroed in on the girl standing alone on the stage, blinking fast as she tried not to cry.

Then your gaze flickered to Finnick. He was standing by the Victor’s section, hands clenched into fists, jaw so tight you swore it might shatter. His eyes didn’t leave Annie. Not once. Not even when she was escorted away toward the Justice Building.

The crowd began to dissolve, families murmuring soft prayers and farewells, but you stood frozen. Your hands still trembled at your sides, and your sister’s name kept echoing in your mind like a wound that wouldn’t close.

That was the moment the Games became real in a new way. Not as a far-off threat. Not as something that might happen.

But as something that had taken someone you loved.

Your father said something about being allowed to visit her before she left. A short goodbye. A few minutes. But your legs moved before your mind could catch up, pulling yourself free from their weakened grip.

Because you weren’t heading for the Justice Building.

You were heading for Finnick.

You ran to the docks. You didn’t have to think. Your feet just knew. That’s where he always went after a reaping—where the sea could swallow the things he couldn’t say. You’d found him there before, year after year, always standing just past the last post, where the saltwater licked the edge of the wood and the wind carried the cries of gulls overhead.

Finnick stood with his back to you, shoulders drawn tight, head bowed slightly. The sea mist caught in his hair, and for a second, he didn’t look like the boy you once loved. He looked like a myth. A shipwreck still standing.

You slowed, breath catching as your gaze traced the outline of him. He was broader now, stronger, wearier. Time had carved him into something harsher—like a statue softened by storms, not age. He hadn’t heard you yet.

“Finnick?” you called, voice fragile as driftwood.

He turned. And in the space of a heartbeat, he was in front of you—arms wrapping around your waist, breath hitting your cheek, lips crashing against yours like a wave that had waited years to break.

There was no hesitation. No words. Just the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission, because it already knows the answer. A kiss made of everything you’d both tried to drown—grief, longing, rage, hope. His mouth tasted like salt and sorrow, and your tears slipped down between you, catching in the corners of the kiss, but neither of you stopped.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it almost hurt. But you didn’t pull away. You clung to him like he was a wound and you’d forgotten how to stop bleeding.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was teeth and tears and years of silence crumbling between you. It was desperate, broken, angry. It was everything you never got to say, poured out in gasps and shudders.

You kissed him like you hated him. Like you still loved him. Like you wished it didn’t still feel like this.

And when you finally pulled away, breathless and aching, it wasn’t relief that followed. It was the kind of silence that settled between people who knew they had no future—only history. Only ruin.

Finnick didn’t say anything. Neither did you. You just stared at each other, chest heaving, salt from the sea and your tears sticking to your lips.

This wasn’t forgiveness.

This was grief wearing love’s face.

“Promise me you’ll bring her back,” you whispered, the words trembling but edged with steel.

Finnick’s gaze flickered, sorrow rising like a tide behind his eyes. His grip on your waist faltered, and that alone was enough to send panic lurching in your chest. You reached up and cupped his face firmly, grounding him. Forcing him to look at you.

“Finnick,” you said louder, voice hoarse. “Swear to me you’ll bring my sister back.”

His lips parted, but nothing came out. Then soft and pained,“You know I can’t—”

“I’ll spend the rest of this life hating you,” you cut in, voice cracking like ice under pressure, “and the next one, too, if you don’t. I can’t lose her. Not after everything.”

He closed his eyes like it hurt to look at you, lashes brushing his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath warm and shaky.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered, broken open.

A hollow, bitter laugh escaped you. “You stopped playing fair the day you told me to forget you. The day they took you away.” Your thumb ghosted across his jaw. “This is me returning the favor.”

Finnick’s hands curled around your waist again, tighter now. “I don’t control the Games, sweetheart.”

“But you can influence them.” You met his eyes without flinching. “You have power in that hell, even if you pretend you don’t. Use it. Use whatever the Capitol gave you—your smile, your secrets, your body, I don’t care.”

Your voice wavered, a thread unraveling. “Just bring her back to me.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and Finnick caught it with the pad of his thumb—slow, reverent. His eyes searched yours like you were asking him to walk through fire. And you were.

He nodded once—slowly, solemnly—as if sealing something ancient and sacred. His thumb lingered against your cheek, then trailed down to your jaw, gentle as a prayer.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he murmured.

And then he kissed you again.

But this one was different—less fire, more ache. Like he was memorizing your mouth. Like he was afraid this would be the last time he’d taste something that reminded him what it meant to be alive. It was a promise, a confession, and a goodbye, all tangled in the same breath.

He pulled you closer, crushing you to him as though he could will the world to stop. As though this kiss could delay the storm waiting on the other side of the sunrise.

~

The rest of the month was a slow, merciless bleed. You paced the floors until the wood creaked in protest. Sleep became a stranger. Your meals went cold on untouched plates. Every second was haunted by the thought of Annie—of her dying alone in an arena designed to chew innocence to pieces.

You couldn’t bring yourself to watch the broadcasts. Every TV in the house remained dark, silent like a grave. You didn’t go outside. You didn’t speak to anyone who tried to console you. Because if you were going to lose her, if the Capitol was going to steal her the way it stole Finnick, then you wanted to be the last to know. You wanted to keep the illusion of hope alive for just a little longer.

You weren’t ready to grieve her yet.

The thought alone was unbearable—it felt like the same knife, twisted again, deeper. Losing Finnick once had shattered you. Losing Annie would be the final blow. You couldn’t come back from that.

So you prayed. Harder than you ever had. Not to any god you truly believed in, but to anything listening. You whispered promises to the sea, lit candles at dawn, begged the stars overhead.

Bring her back. Please, just bring her back.

It didn’t matter if she came home broken or silenced or strange. You’d take her in any form she returned. You’d rebuild her piece by piece, hold her hand through every nightmare. You’d trade your sanity, your soul, your future—anything. Just to see her again.

Because you knew her heart. You’d watched her grow from a bright-eyed child into a girl who still believed in kindness, even in a world that tried to kill it. You knew the sound of her laugh in a crowded room. The way she curled up in her sleep. The softness in her that didn’t belong anywhere near blood-soaked soil.

If you could’ve taken her place, you would’ve. Gladly. Because this time, unlike with Finnick, you had a choice to save her.

The announcement came on a quiet evening, when the clouds hung low like they, too, were bracing for something. You hadn’t planned to be near the screen. In fact, you’d been doing everything not to be.

But your father called your name with a voice that shook. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be.

You walked into the room like someone heading toward a noose. Each step dragged with the weight of too many memories, too many hopes stitched together by desperation.

The Capitol seal spun. The anthem played. You didn’t breathe.

And then, there she was. Her face is plastered on the screen as the gamemaker announces her win. But unlike a close-up shot of the victor they usually do, it’s a poster of her face.

You staggered back like you’d been hit. The world blurred as tears rushed forward with no warning, and all at once, the ache you’d been trying to smother cracked wide open. You fell to your knees in the middle of the room, sobbing so hard it tore something loose in you. She was alive. She’s alive. Not untouched—but breathing, standing. Still here.

You pressed your face to your hands, overcome by a grief that had been paused for weeks and was now finally allowed to finish its scream. Annie. Annie.

The sea carried her back to you days later.

You waited at the docks long before the train arrived. The sky was the same soft gray it had been the day Finnick kissed you goodbye. The waves lapped against the shore in a quiet rhythm. The gulls circled overhead like guardians, watchful and wide-winged.

You saw her before she saw you—standing in the doorway of the train car, framed by glass and metal and too much sorrow. She stepped out slowly, eyes scanning the crowd with a blankness that punched the breath right out of you.

She was thinner. Her lips pale. Her eyes—those green eyes—were distant, darting like she expected someone to leap at her from the shadows.

But she was here.

You didn’t call her name. You didn’t need to. Somehow, she found you.

Her eyes landed on yours like they were remembering how to be hers again. And that was it. You broke into a run and she did too, stumbling at first, then faster, until the two of you collided.

You wrapped your arms around her with a strength you didn’t know you had left, clutching her like she’d slip through your fingers if you let go for even a second. Annie buried her face in your shoulder and sobbed—not like the girl who’d survived, but like the one who finally knew she was safe.

“I’m here,” you whispered over and over, your voice cracking, your tears soaking her hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And behind the two of you, standing by the tracks, was Finnick.

He didn’t say a word nor did he try to interrupt, but his eyes met yours—and they said everything.

He kept his promise.

The outside of the train station was packed, a wall of faces blurring into one another—cheering, gawking, reaching for a glimpse of the girl who survived. Annie clutched your hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, her small fingers digging into your palm like she was afraid the moment she let go, she’d vanish back into that arena. You leaned down, whispering comfort against her temple, but your voice was lost in the roar of the crowd. The Capitol had announced her return, spun her survival into a tale of quiet victory, and now the whole of District 4 wanted to witness the aftermath of a miracle.

You should have seen it coming. The way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath started to hitch. Her gaze flitted wildly, like she was searching for a way out. The noise, the crush of people—it was too much. She stumbled, her body trembling. You turned to her, trying to anchor her, to bring her back into the safety of your voice, but it was already too late.

Annie screamed. A raw, guttural sound that split the air like a struck bell. Her hands lashed out—not in anger but in sheer terror. And one of them caught your face. You didn’t register the pain right away. All you knew was the copper taste of shock and the wet warmth blooming from your cheek. Then the crowd recoiled. Peacekeepers surged forward. You tried to shield her, to stop them, but a pair of arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you back.

Finnick.

He caught you just as your legs gave out, holding you against his chest while Annie was wrestled from the platform. Her cries echoed, high and frantic, as the Peacekeepers restrained her and led her toward a waiting black car. She thrashed like a wild thing, like a child in a nightmare that no one could shake her from. Your heart cracked wide open watching her disappear behind the metal doors.

The medical wing of District 4’s Justice Building smelled like antiseptic and ocean salt. A doctor patched up the gash on your cheek while your parents sat silent, pale and stiff, across the room. No one spoke until a Capitol official—your district’s escort, dressed in muted tones for once—arrived with a folder clutched tightly in her manicured hands. She didn’t sit. Just read off the facts like they were weather reports. Annie was experiencing acute post-traumatic psychosis. She’d had several episodes on the train ride back. Screaming in her sleep. Refusing to eat. Moments of complete dissociation. The Capitol had deemed her unstable, unfit for interviews or appearances. She would not be presented to the public. She would not have a victory tour. Her Games were to be erased, quietly shelved. She was to be kept out of sight—"for her own good," the escort added, eyes glossed with practiced sympathy.

You thanked her, numb and hollowed out.

It was strange, the way grief and relief could exist inside you at the same time. Annie was safe. She would never have to play the Capitol’s game the way Finnick had. She wouldn’t be dolled up in sequins, forced to smile while being showed off to people with power. She wouldn’t have to go through the same things Finnick did when he’s in the Capitol to survive. You should have felt victorious.

But you didn’t.

Because you’d lost her anyway. Not to a blade or a cannon, but to something slower, quieter. Annie had come back breathing, but not whole. The girl who whispered sea shanties in her sleep and laughed like sunlight on waves was gone. And in her place was someone the Capitol couldn’t use—so they discarded her, tucked her away like something broken.

You pressed your face into your hands, sitting in a sterile room that reeked of tragedy, and for the second time in your life, you felt the Games take someone you loved and twist them into something unrecognizable.

You took care of your sister. You quit your job at the front of your family’s fishery, turned your back on the small sliver of normalcy you'd managed to hold onto, and redirected everything into Annie. Because no one else could. Not in the way she needed. Your parents tried—your mother cooked more than she ever had, your father offered quiet gestures of comfort—but it was you Annie reached for when the nights grew long and the memories returned screaming. It was you who held her through every fractured moment, every disoriented stare, every time she forgot where she was.

You moved into the mansion President Snow generously allotted in the Victor’s Village. The place was too big, too white, too hollow. Your mother did what she could to make it feel like home—curtains with warm colors, potted herbs in the kitchen, family photos tucked into glass frames—but no matter how much she softened the corners, it never stopped feeling like a cage. Everything about the house was a monument to survival, but none of it felt alive. You tried to ignore the way the walls pressed in. You tried to ignore the silence. You tried, but it never left.

This wasn’t the life you imagined for yourself. You should’ve been outside right now, maybe stringing fish with the village girls, maybe letting some hopeful boy walk you home, someone who resembled Finnick in all the worst ways—pretty, careless, distant. You should’ve been pretending that heartbreak wasn’t a part of your story. That promises never made don’t hurt when they’re never kept. That the boy you built your world around hadn't become a stranger dressed in silk and scars.

But instead, you were here. In a mansion that echoed with old grief and new fear, in hallways where your parents’ voices ricocheted like sharp stones. Your mother shouting numbers. Your father sighing in exhaustion. Their arguments wove into the background like music, and you watched Annie flinch at each crescendo, her body curling in on itself as if trying to vanish into air. Then it would be you again—kneeling, soothing, holding her as her breathing turned erratic and her eyes lost focus.

You were tired. Tired of the weight. Tired of the pain. Tired of pretending that if you worked hard enough, loved hard enough, you could undo what had already been done.

Sometimes, when the house finally quieted and your bones ached with fatigue, you’d lie flat on the cold floor of your room, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers. You’d imagine other versions of your life—one where Finnick was never reaped, where his smile never carried secrets, where you were both just two kids in love, dreaming of something small and safe. Or maybe a life where he didn’t exist at all. Maybe then your heart wouldn’t feel like it was still waiting for him. Waiting for something that was never coming back.

Your gaze drifted to the form curled up on the bed across the room. Annie’s breathing had slowed. Her face, so soft in sleep, looked like it belonged to a child again. But even peace looked haunted on her. The Capitol hadn’t just taken her sanity—it had taken her time, her youth, her quietness. You swallowed hard and looked away.

And then you remembered that day. The first time Finnick stepped off the train after his Games. You remembered the way your lungs had locked up, the way you recognized him instantly and yet not at all. He looked older, like someone had drained the color from him. There was a shine in his eyes that had nothing to do with light and everything to do with damage. He had been gilded in gold and clothed in silk, but all you saw was the wreckage.

You rose carefully, checking Annie one last time, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek before slipping from the room. A quick, hot shower to wash off the stillness clinging to your skin, and then you dressed in something simple and clean. There was an hour left—maybe less—before Annie would wake from the nightmares again. You moved quickly. Slipped through the front door, past the silent garden your mother kept trying to coax to life, past the white fences that looked like bones.

The path to the beach wasn’t long. It never was. The sea had always been near, calling to you like a lullaby too old to forget.

You didn’t stop until your feet met the sand, until you stood before the great stretch of gray-blue water and let the salt sting your lungs. The ocean didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t explain itself. It just kept going—crashing, shifting, changing, surviving.

You closed your eyes and let it drown out everything else. For a moment, just a moment, you could breathe again.

You sank down into the sand, drawing your knees to your chest as the tide whispered its hush. The sky was heavy above you, smeared with clouds that looked like they’d forgotten how to rain. The wind was colder than it should’ve been, brushing your skin like a ghost you didn’t want to name. But you stayed, arms wrapped around your legs, head bowed like prayer, as the waves pushed and pulled at the shore like they were looking for something too.

It was always the quiet that made you think of him the most.

Finnick Odair.

Even now, the thought of his name hurt in a place words couldn’t reach. It throbbed somewhere beneath your ribs, like your heart had been split open and stitched back wrong. You remembered everything too vividly—how his laughter once wrapped around you like a safety net, how his eyes found yours in a crowd like magnets. You remembered the first time he kissed you by these very shores, sand in your hair and salt on your lips, his hands trembling just enough to tell you he was scared too.

You remembered the promises. Not the grand, theatrical kind—but the small ones, whispered under breath in the shadows between curfews and the seas. He’d promised to teach you how to dive deeper, to build you a little house on stilts by the rocks where no one could find you, to grow old with you in a place where the Capitol couldn’t reach.

None of those promises were kept.

It wasn’t his fault. You told yourself that more times than you could count. But it didn’t stop you from aching anyway.

Because the truth was, Finnick didn’t come back the same. The Games took the boy you loved and sent back someone who wore his face but none of his softness. The Capitol dressed him up like a prize and passed him around like he didn’t bleed the same way everyone else did. And you had to watch—helpless—as the light in him died out piece by piece, each interview, each appearance, each year that passed.

And what hurt the most—what broke something inside you—was that he let it happen. He let the Capitol turn him into something you barely recognized. He never fought to hold onto you. He just let go.

You tried to hate him for it.

You tried to bury every tender thing you ever felt and replace it with anger, but no matter how hard you tried, it never stuck. Because you knew. Deep down, you always knew.

He did it to protect you.

He gave you up like a gift, a final desperate offering to a world that only knew how to take. He loved you in silence because that was the only way he knew how to keep you safe. And in doing so, he shattered you.

So you sat there on the sand, choking on the memories, wishing you could hold him one last time. Not the version the Capitol claimed, not the Victor they paraded on screens. Just him. Just Finnick. Barefoot, sea-soaked, thirteen. Telling you he’d love you forever with a smile that didn’t know yet what it would cost.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and let the tide sing you something soft. There were no answers in the waves, only ache. And you carried enough of that to last a lifetime.

You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you. You were too lost in your thoughts to recognize the soft thud of feet meeting sand, too wrapped in the ache of what could’ve been to notice the shift in the air beside you. The tide kept humming, but something about it changed—like it suddenly had company. You only realized someone had sat next to you when the warmth of their presence brushed against your side, quiet and steady like a second heartbeat you forgot you missed.

You didn’t turn right away.

You couldn’t.

Because some part of you already knew who it was. The weight of him settled into the earth like it belonged there, like he had always been drawn to your orbit, and you to his. And you weren’t ready—not to see him, not to unravel beneath that face again. But then came his voice, quiet, unsteady, like he hadn’t spoken all day.

“I figured I’d find you here.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to keep the emotion at bay, to swallow the thousand things you wanted to scream and instead let silence stretch between you. You opened them only when you were sure you wouldn’t cry at the sound of him.

“Don’t tell me you’re here to apologize,” you said. Your voice didn’t sound like yours. It sounded older. Tired.

Finnick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he brought his knees up, forearms resting on them, head tilted slightly toward the sea. He looked like someone trying to memorize the horizon, maybe because the present was too hard to look at.

“I don’t think I have the right words to say sorry,” he admitted. “Not after everything.”

You studied him from the side. The light caught his face differently now. The angles were sharper, the shadows deeper. His beauty hadn’t faded, but there was something hollow behind it now, something bruised. It was the kind of face you ached to touch but knew it might burn you.

It had been months since you last saw him. The last time was when Annie broke down at the station, when the Peacekeepers tried to restrain her and you lunged forward like instinct. Finnick had caught you then, his grip strong and desperate, as if loosening it meant losing you too. He’d held you like you were the only steady thing left in the world. He accompanied you to the Justice Building, stood at the far end of the hallway with watchful eyes, quiet and protective. He helped your mother when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, helped your father when he stumbled trying to sit down, and when the doctors told you Annie could finally come home, he was still there—lingering, waiting. But after that day, you never really crossed paths again. Not truly.

Even though he lived just across the street in the Victor’s Village. Even though you caught glimpses of him now and then through curtained windows or the rustle of grocery bags left at your door. He visited sometimes, brought fruit, helped your father with the porch railings and fixed the roof when the wind tore shingles off. But you were too buried in Annie’s care—watching her every breath, terrified she'd be taken from you again. And so you both existed in proximity, orbiting the same grief but never touching. Busy in lives that revolved around a shared ruin.

You turned back toward the ocean, the sand shifting beneath your fingers.

“I used to think I’d never stop loving you,” you whispered, not meaning to say it out loud. “That no matter what happened, you’d always be the one.”

His breath caught, and that silence that stretched between you before now felt like a scream.

“I never stopped,” he said.

And god, how you hated him for saying it. Because he meant it. You could hear it in the way his voice cracked on the last word, how his knuckles whitened against his knees.

“But you left,” you said, still staring straight ahead. “You let them turn you into something I didn’t recognize. You didn’t fight for me. For us.”

“I was trying to keep you safe,” he murmured. “If they knew how much you meant to me... they would’ve used you. Like they used everything else.”

A bitter laugh slipped from your lips, tired and sharp. “And what difference did it make? I still lost everything.”

You felt his gaze on you then—heavy, full of everything he couldn’t say. Your breath hitched when his hand brushed against yours, hesitant, like asking for permission to hold something sacred.

“I miss you,” he said, the words so soft they barely reached over the waves.

You turned toward him, finally letting yourself look.

There he was. Not the Capitol’s toy. Not the Victor. Just Finnick. The boy you loved. The boy you still loved in all the ways that mattered.

“I miss who we were,” you whispered back.

The space between you closed before you could stop it. His hand slid into yours and you didn’t pull away. Not this time. His forehead came to rest against yours, and the moment held still—delicate, aching, reverent.

No kiss followed this time. Just breathing.

Just two broken people trying to remember how to hold on without shattering further.

Finnick slowly pulls away from you, as if that he had lingered any longer, he would have broken down. He plants his hands behind him and leans back on them, staring blankly at the dark horizon as the waves continue their endless crashing against the shore. You examine him in silence, drinking in the way his hair catches the breeze, how his features have sharpened with time—his jaw more prominent, his cheeks leaner, eyes more sunken, heavier. He looks like someone who’s been carried too far out to sea and barely crawled his way back.

Your eyes catch on something at the base of his neck. A bruise. Fading, but unmistakable. The sight of it knocks something loose in your chest.

You shift closer, your voice tentative as your fingers hover just near the discolored skin. “Where did you get that?”

Finnick doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t even flinch. He keeps staring out at the horizon like he’s searching for a way to disappear.

You draw back a little, heart beating faster, already fearing the answer but needing to hear it anyway. “Was it… from someone in the Capitol?” The words taste bitter in your mouth. You hate yourself for how jealous you sound. You expect him to confirm it, maybe shrug it off like he always used to when the topic came up—half a smile, a deflection, some comment about admirers with too many teeth.

But this time, he doesn’t lie.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not someone. Everyone.”

His voice is too hollow to be casual. Too cracked to be teasing. He finally turns to look at you, and what you see in his eyes isn’t embarrassment. It’s resignation.

Your stomach sinks. “Finnick…” you breathe, dread coiling in your throat.

“When you win,” he begins, slowly, like the words are costing him pieces of himself, “they let you think you’re free. You get your parade, your crown, the cheers. And then you find out that your real life—the one after the arena—is just another performance. Another prison.”

You don’t interrupt. You can’t. You’re barely breathing.

“Snow didn’t just want me to be a victor,” he continues. “He wanted me to be… presentable. Marketable. There’s a certain kind of entertainment the Capitol values more than blood. And they paid him well for me.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. You look away, eyes stinging, your breath caught in your throat. “He sold you,” you whisper.

Finnick nods. “Over and over again. To anyone who had enough money or enough power. Old men. Women. Senators. Sponsors. Some of them just wanted to say they had me. Some wanted more.”

You shake your head slowly, unable to stop the tears now falling freely down your cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because I couldn’t,” he says, his voice strained. “Because if I so much as hinted at it, they would’ve come after you. After your family. After anyone I cared about. I did everything I could to keep them from seeing how much you meant to me.”

You choke on a sob, your hand rising to cover your mouth. “God, I was so stupid. I thought you were just… sleeping around. I hated you for it. I thought you changed.”

“I wanted you to hate me,” he says quietly. “I needed you to. It was the only way I could keep you safe. If you thought I’d become just another Capitol puppet, maybe they’d think I saw you as nothing. Maybe they’d leave you alone.”

“She warned me,” he continued, eyes still locked on the sea. “Mags. The night I won. The Capitol hadn’t even let me sleep yet. They were already lining up people for me to meet. She pulled me into this quiet room, held my face like she used to when I was a kid, and said, ‘If you want her to live, you let her go.’ Just like that. No explanation. But I knew what she meant.”

Something cold twisted deep in your stomach. Mags—gentle, warm Mags—saying something so dire, so absolute. It made the back of your throat ache.

“They’d seen me with you,” Finnick said, his voice low and bitter. “Back home. Before the Games. They knew everything. They always know everything. And when a Victor becomes someone worth watching, the people around them do too. I thought maybe if I was careful… maybe if I kept just enough distance. But they made it very clear. You were a string they could pull if I ever misbehaved. So I cut it first.”

Your body trembles with the weight of it all. The months you spent hating him, envying his admirers, grieving the boy he used to be—all while he was being broken piece by piece behind closed doors. And you hadn’t seen it. You hadn’t wanted to see it. Because believing he’d become cruel was easier than imagining he was being hurt.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the night air suddenly colder, heavier, pressing down on your ribs. “You should’ve let me choose, Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve fought.”

He shakes his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. “That’s what scared me. You would’ve followed me into hell if I asked. And they would’ve made you suffer for it.”

The silence that follows is thick with things unsaid, with the ache of love long buried beneath fear and sacrifice. The waves keep rolling in, the only constant sound between the two of you.

You feel the tremor in his words more than you hear it. Something inside you cracks again, like glass under too much pressure. You press your palm over his heart, feeling how fast it’s racing, as if the truth itself is clawing to escape from where he buried it for too long. You try to memorize the moment, etch it into your mind the way you did back then—his scent, the soft tremble in his breath, the way he says your name like it’s the only word that ever meant anything.

“I wrote to you,” he says, and your eyes snap up to his, wide with confusion. “After that night. Letters. Every week.”

You blink at him, stunned. “You… you did?”

Finnick nods slowly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “At first, I thought maybe they weren’t getting through. But then I stopped getting anything back, and I started wondering if you just… couldn’t forgive me. And then your father came to see me.”

A cold chill spreads down your spine, dread pooling at the base of your stomach. “My father?”

Finnick leans back again, looking up at the stars like he’s searching for an answer he already knows won’t come. “He said I needed to stop. That it wasn’t right for me to keep reaching out. That you were better off not being tangled in something the Capitol was obsessed with. He told me I’d ruin you if I kept holding on. And he wasn’t wrong. So I stopped.”

You’re frozen for a moment. A long, bitter moment where your mind races to piece together all the holes in your memory—after your sixteenth birthday, the way Finnick kept looking at you like he’s expecting something from you, the silence that followed. You remember asking your father once, asking if Finnick had written or visited, and how he shook his head without meeting your eyes.

Your jaw tightens as heat stings behind your eyes. “He never told me,” you whisper, voice shaking. “He never told me anything.”

“I figured,” Finnick says quietly. “He was trying to protect you. I can’t even hate him for it.”

But you can. And you do, just a little.

The betrayal cuts sharper than you expected. Because while your father kept you safe, he also kept you in the dark. He let you believe you weren’t wanted. He let you think Finnick had changed into someone else—someone cold, someone selfish. And you let that belief root itself deep in your chest, never knowing it had all been a carefully constructed lie meant to keep you apart.

Tears prick at your eyes again, but this time they’re different. This time they burn. “I hated you,” you admit, voice trembling. “For so long, I hated you. I thought you threw me away.”

Finnick looks at you then, really looks at you, and you see all of it written in his face—regret, guilt, sorrow. But not once does he try to defend himself. “That was the point,” he says softly.

You can’t stop the sob that escapes you. You turn away, burying your face in your hands as your shoulders shake. All this time, you thought he’d chosen the Capitol. You thought he’d abandoned you, turned into someone else. But he had been breaking in silence, alone, while you grieved a version of him that never really died.

You feel him move beside you, the warmth of his hand ghosting over your back, not pushing, not pulling—just there. Just steady.

“I would’ve waited forever,” you whisper. “If I had known.”

The tears on your cheeks have dried, but your skin still feels tight with salt and grief. You sit beside him in the hush that follows, your fingers curled into the sand, knuckles white. The air is thick with everything—everything he said, everything he didn't, everything you finally understand. It presses down on you like the weight of the ocean, vast and cold and merciless.

“You don’t get to do that,” you whisper. Your voice is low, sharp-edged and unsteady, trembling with everything you’re trying not to say. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Finnick’s head turns slowly, brows drawing together, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“You don’t get to rip me apart for years, make me think I was never enough, and then tell me it was all for my protection,” you say. “You don’t get to martyr yourself and leave me in the dark. That wasn’t fair.”

He looks away again, jaw clenching. “I—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap, voice rising despite the quiver in it. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t have let me believe I was forgettable. Replaceable. You wouldn’t have looked me in the eyes and made me feel like nothing.”

Finnick’s hands are fists in the sand now, knuckles scraped raw. “You think I wanted to do that to you?” he says, his voice breaking. “You think I wanted to see you cry every time I passed your house and didn’t look up? You think I didn’t die every time Annie tells me about you?”

“Then why didn’t you fight?” you ask, hating how wrecked your voice sounds. “Why didn’t you trust me? We could’ve figured it out. Together.”

He finally turns to you fully, and the look on his face guts you. It’s not anger. It’s not defensiveness. It’s devastation. “Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because they used me up, over and over, until I didn’t know who I was anymore. And I couldn’t ask you to love what was left.”

You suck in a breath, and it feels like broken glass in your throat.

Finnick’s voice softens, like he’s afraid the truth might shatter you now that it’s out. “You were the only thing that felt real, and I thought if I held on to you, they’d destroy you just to prove they could. So I let them destroy me instead.”

The sob that escapes you is ugly and jagged. “I spent years hating you, Finnick. Years thinking you never cared. And now I don’t even know where to put all of this—this guilt, this love, this hurt.”

He reaches for you then, carefully, like you’re a wounded bird. His fingers curl around yours, gentle and trembling. “Put it here,” he whispers, bringing your joined hands to his chest. “Put it where I kept you all this time.”

You stare at him, tears blurring your vision, your heart aching in every direction at once. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“I don’t think we can fix it,” he says, quiet and steady. “But maybe we can carry it. Together, this time.”

You don’t respond. Not yet. The tide has gone still for now, but everything inside you is still churning. The world hasn’t shifted into clarity. If anything, it feels more uncertain than ever.

You draw your hand back slowly, fingertips brushing over the place where your palm had pressed to his chest. His heart still races beneath his ribs.

“I don’t know what to do, Finnick,” you admit. Your voice is soft, raw. “I don’t even know what to feel. It’s like I’ve been walking in the wrong direction for so long, and now I finally turned around, but everything behind me is on fire.”

Finnick doesn’t rush to comfort you. He doesn’t offer you promises he can’t keep. He just nods, eyes glassy, understanding exactly what that kind of lost feels like.

“Then we take it slow,” he says after a moment. “We wait. We try. One step at a time. That’s all we can do.”

You sit in silence after that, both of you listening to the waves breathing in and out. There’s nothing dramatic about how the night ends—no kiss, no dramatic embrace—just a quiet understanding, a fragile thread of something mending. When you finally stand, Finnick walks you home, his presence at your side solid and grounding. He doesn’t ask to come inside. He just watches you reach the porch, and when you glance back, he gives you a faint nod. No smile, no sadness. He’s just there.

Inside, the house is dark and still. But as you step into the kitchen, the lamp flicks on.

Your father sits at the table, a half-empty cup of tea cooling by his hand. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night, and judging by the silence, your mother must’ve taken care of Annie upstairs. The look on his face is hard to read—something between guilt and resolve.

You say nothing at first. You only walk past him, open the small drawer where loose keys and mail are sometimes left, and reach into the very back. You don’t even know what makes you check there. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s desperation. But your fingers brush something papery and old, bound by a fraying string.

You pull the bundle out slowly. Letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to you in Finnick’s handwriting.

Your hands tremble as you turn back to your father. “You kept them.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just exhales heavily, running a hand down his tired face. “I did.”

“Why?” The word is barely a whisper.

“Because he was already marked,” your father says. “We didn’t know how deep it went, but we knew enough. The Capitol had its eyes on him. And boys like that? They don’t get happy endings. They become warnings. Tools. Examples. I wasn’t going to let that destroy you too.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to blink them away. “You didn’t even let me decide.”

“It was for your own good,” he says. “I was trying to protect you. And if I had to do it all over again, I would.”

You clutch the letters tighter to your chest. There’s nothing more to say, not right now. The ache in your chest is too wide, too heavy. You turn and walk away, up the stairs, your father’s silence trailing behind you.

Later, in the quiet of your room, you sit on the edge of your bed, still holding the letters. You don’t open them—not yet. You’re not ready for that. But you press them against your heart, as if their weight alone can tell you everything you missed.

You lie back slowly, eyes unfocused as they settle on the ceiling. The wind outside shifts, brushing against your windowpane. You glance to the side.

Across the road, the light in Finnick’s bedroom is still on.

You don’t know what tomorrow will look like. You don’t know how much can be repaired. But tonight, you hold the truth against your chest and stare at the soft glow of his window, knowing—finally, fully—that you were never forgotten.

~

The year passes like the tide—slow in some places, quick in others, always shifting. At first, everything feels fragile. Annie flinches at the clink of cutlery, cries in her sleep, and stares blankly for hours. But you stay by her side through it all, arms always ready to catch her when she stumbles. You hold her through long nights, fill the silence with stories laced in childhood memories, and when words become too heavy, you sit with her quietly, just breathing beside her. You never ask for more than she can give. You’ve learned not to. You move at her pace, steady and gentle, letting her know with every small gesture: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And sometimes, as you lie beside her in bed, she’ll squeeze your hand before drifting off, and that squeeze says more than words ever could. It’s her way of thanking you—for staying. For drowning with her and never letting go.

You don’t mind if you’re going under too. As long as Annie’s with you, the rest doesn’t matter. You braid each other’s hair now, sit out on the porch with cold lemon iced tea, peeling fruit in the hush of late afternoons. It isn’t perfect. She still has days where she won’t speak, won’t move, where she wakes up screaming and thrashing. But she bathes herself now. She eats. She hums those ridiculous sea shanties she used to belt out as a kid.

Your father is another slow burn. At first, you barely speak. You leave the room when he enters, avoid his eyes, build a quiet wall between you made of resentment and pain. You hate him for hiding those letters, but deep down, you understand why he did it—he just didn’t want to see you hurt more than you already were. Still, understanding doesn’t make forgiveness easy. But time, as always, does its work. One quiet Thursday afternoon, you find yourself sitting with him on the porch, sharing coffee. You talk—not as father and daughter, not at first—but as two people who missed each other terribly and didn’t know how to begin again. You cry in his arms. He cries, too. It doesn’t fix everything, but it opens a door.

And through all this, Finnick is there—quietly, steadily, always showing up. He never asks for your forgiveness, never expects anything in return. He just helps. You wake up some mornings to find him in your mother’s garden, drawing water from the well or sweeping the steps clean. He shares easy laughter with your father as they work together in the yard. He reads to Annie with a voice that’s soft and careful. He never arrives empty-handed—sometimes it’s strawberries, ripe and sun-warmed, or slices of lemon cheesecake from the market. Sometimes it’s little seashell bracelets or small bundles of daisies tied with twine. Once, he brought you three lily buds—because he remembered how you like to watch them bloom.

There’s something between you. Not quite love—not yet—but the shape of it. The quiet promise of it.

When Mags' birthday comes, Finnick invites your whole family to her cottage. The house smells like salt and rosemary, the air thick with laughter and seafood boil. Mags glows with gentle pride, surrounded by the people she loves. There’s music playing from a battered old radio, someone’s whistling along out of tune. Even Annie sways to the beat, her fingers curled loosely around yours before she lets go, nudging you toward Finnick with the smallest smile.

He takes your hand gently, as if asking, Is this okay? And you nod, letting him lead you into the open space where the others have been dancing. The music is lazy and slow, something old and familiar. His palm is warm against your back. You haven’t danced in a long time—not like this. Not with someone who looks at you like you’re something soft and not already broken.

For a while, you just move, guided more by his steadiness than the music. And then, you look up.

Maybe it’s the glow of the hanging lights or the way his mouth twitches when he tries not to smile too wide. But something shifts.

You see him—not the Capitol’s golden boy, not the heartthrob everyone whispered about, not the Finnick who broke your heart by vanishing into a storm of war and secrets. You see the boy who never stopped coming back. Who brings you mangoes in the heat of summer and lilies just about to bloom. The boy who reads to your sister and laughs with your father and doesn’t try to fix you—only stand beside you.

You realize, with a jolt so quiet it feels like a breath, that you don’t hate him anymore. You hadn’t even noticed when the hatred left, only that now, in its place, there’s something else. Something tender. Curious.

Finnick says your name like a question, maybe because you’ve been staring too long, and your hand tightens just slightly in his.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, and this time, it’s true.

Finnick doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes stay on yours, searching for something—not doubt, not disbelief. Just making sure. Like he’s afraid the moment will slip if he breathes too hard.

Then, almost in a whisper, he says, “I’ve been hoping you'd be. Not rushing you—just... hoping.”

His voice is low, almost lost beneath the music. There’s no expectation in it, no pressure. Just that quiet kind of honesty that always catches you off guard with him.

You feel his thumb brush against your knuckles where your hands are still joined. It’s a small touch, one he could’ve made a hundred times before, but tonight it feels different. More grounded. Earned.

“I missed you,” he says, and though you’ve heard those words before—from him, in letters, in memories—tonight they feel new. Not the kind of missing that aches, but the kind that holds room for hope. The kind that says, I’m still here.

Your throat tightens a little. You want to say something back—something real—but the words catch on the edges of everything you’ve carried. So instead, you step a little closer, rest your cheek lightly against his shoulder. You let the music carry you both for a while, and listen to the quiet thrum of your heartbeat and the way Finnick holds you like you’re something sacred.

When the party winds down, people begin to drift out one by one, laughter fading into the night air. Your family lingers the longest. Just as your dad starts to gather his coat, Annie suddenly turns to you with an impish glint in her eyes.

“You said you’ll help clean up with Finnick, right?” she announces brightly, grabbing your parents by their sleeves and tugging them out the door before either of them can protest.

You’re left blinking at the doorway, stunned, as the door swings shut behind them. Beside you, Mags lets out a low chuckle, patting your arm before hobbling off toward her bedroom. “Don’t forget the pie tins,” she calls over her shoulder with amusement. And then it’s just you and Finnick.

You follow him back into the kitchen. He’s already at the sink, sleeves rolled up, methodically scrubbing at plates while the warm glow of the cottage lights frames him in soft gold. You grab a rag and start wiping down the counters, trying to keep yourself busy—anything to avoid standing there and letting the silence press down between you again.

It’s not awkward, exactly. The air between you feels like it’s waiting for something.

Finnick breaks it first.

“Sweetheart.”

Your head snaps toward him. His voice was soft, but it still catches you off guard.

He smirks gently, biting his inner cheek to hide a laugh. “Sorry,” he says, setting a plate in the drying rack. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” you mutter, grabbing a towel to dry the next plate.

“Mm, sure you weren’t,” he teases lightly.

You fall into a rhythm—he washes, you dry. Occasionally your hands brush, and each time, it makes your heart stutter in a way that’s both maddening and familiar. You glance at him once, just a glance, and catch him already looking at you. He doesn’t look away.

“I’ve missed this,” Finnick says suddenly, his voice low.

You pause, the plate in your hands halfway to the shelf. “What?”

“This,” he says again, softer this time. “You. Talking to you. Just being in the same room without feeling like I’ve already lost you.”

You set the plate down. You don’t say anything right away because there’s too much in your chest and not enough breath to say it.

“I didn’t know how to be around you anymore,” you admit. “It felt like… if I let myself be close to you again, I’d fall apart.”

Finnick’s hands are wet, and the dish rag is still hanging from his fingers, but he turns toward you anyway. “Then let me be the one you fall apart with,” he says, quiet and steady.

You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s you, maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s both of you at once, pulled forward by the weight of everything that’s gone unsaid between you, by the gravity of a love that never really left, only went quiet.

The space between you collapses all at once. Your hands reach for his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric like you’ve done in your dreams, like you did in another lifetime. His hands find your waist with a kind of desperation, like he’s afraid that if he touches too gently, you’ll disappear.

The first brush of his lips against yours is hesitant—testing the waters, asking a silent question. But you answer with your whole body. You rise on your toes, close the last inch of space, and press yourself to him fully, a quiet gasp slipping out as the kiss deepens.

It’s not gentle anymore.

It’s years of longing. Of silence. Of pretending. It’s the ache of missing someone who was standing right in front of you, and now you finally have him again. He tastes like sea salt and lemon and something so heartbreakingly familiar that it makes your knees weak.

You kiss him like you’re trying to memorize him all over again. Like you’re angry at yourself for waiting this long. Like you’ve just remembered what it feels like to be alive in someone else’s arms.

His hands slide up your back, anchor you to him, pull you even closer until there’s not an inch of space left. One hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb brushing just behind your ear in a way that makes you shiver. And when he pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel him trembling a little.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers, voice ragged.

“You didn’t,” you breathe back. “You never did.”

The air around you is thick with everything unspoken, humming like a live wire. His breath brushes over your lips again—barely there, teasing. And then he's kissing you once more, deeper this time, like he’s finally allowed to want you and he’s starved for it.

Your fingers slide up, over the line of his chest, curling behind his neck as if anchoring yourself to something solid. He sighs into your mouth, low and shaky, and you can feel the tension unraveling from his shoulders as he melts into you. Like he’s been holding himself together for too long and now, finally, he gets to fall apart in your arms.

His hands move restlessly—over your waist, your back, like he’s trying to map out every piece of you again, relearn what it means to hold you without guilt, without fear. There’s nothing rushed in the way he touches you. It’s reverent. Intentional. Like he’s afraid this moment might break if he moves too quickly.

You pull back, just slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide like he’s drunk on this, on you. His chest rises and falls with each unsteady breath and he’s staring at you like you hung the stars and he’s only now remembering how bright they shine.

“Tell me this is real,” he says, voice hoarse, almost pleading.

You nod, eyes never leaving his. “It’s real,” you whisper, and your voice trembles because suddenly you feel everything at once—years of grief and guilt and hope crashing together in your chest.

His lips part like he’s about to say something else, but no words come. Instead, he kisses you again—and this time it’s rougher. Not angry, but urgent. Needy. You respond with the same hunger, your hands fisting into his shirt as he walks you backwards until your hips bump the kitchen counter. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the feel of him, the warmth of his body pressed against yours like he’s trying to make up for all the time lost between you.

His hands cradle your jaw, tilting your face up as he kisses you slow and deep, like a vow. You feel dizzy with it—like you’ve waited your whole life to be kissed like this, to be wanted like this. And for the first time in what feels like forever, your heart isn’t heavy.

You’re here. With him. And he’s here with you.

You break apart again, just barely, breathing each other in. His fingers slide down to your sides, squeezing lightly like he can’t believe you’re really in front of him.

“I love you.” He breathes out. “I never stopped,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “Not once.”

And there it is again—that ache, that softness, that overwhelming truth between you. A beginning born from everything broken.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s with no hesitation. Just certainty.

Just him. Just you.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐀 𝐃𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃

Pairing: Trueform!Sukuna x f!Reader

Summary: Your husband usually calls for you to join him during his bath.

Warnings: MDNI, mentions of Sukuna killing people, rough pregnancy, Sukuna being fluffy (so slightly ooc), reader is mean to Sukuna

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Ever since you shared the news of your pregnancy with your husband, Sukuna has become more loving. The man who’d talk to you however he wanted, now makes sure to soften his voice when talking to you. He wants to see you every hour of the day, even when you don’t want to see him. Sukuna is seeing how you’re struggling with your pregnancy, and he wants to check up on you constantly.

You’re not too far along that you both know of, yet you’re huge. He grows worried that his selfish want of a child will cause you harm. There’s one person that Sukuna would die for, and it’s you. If something were to happen to you because of himself then he’d– He doesn’t want to think of it.

Lately he’s been asking to take baths with you. At the end of the day, a servant walks into your chambers and informs you, “Lord Sukuna requests for you to join him in his bath, mistress.”

She bows her head to not look at you, scared that she’ll end up like the last servant that dared to look you in the eye. It was Sukuna’s doing because how dare someone look his wife in the eye? You sigh before telling her, “I’ll be there in a second.” 

She stands in the entrance of your room, given orders to not leave without you. Sure, Sukuna requests to see you but it’s an order from him. You don’t have much of an option. 

You follow behind her, and she excuses herself when you’re finally with him. Sukuna lays comfortably in the water, patiently waiting for you to get undressed and join him in the water. He watches as you take off all your garments and walk over to him when you’re completely bare. 

“You need to start leaving me alone, you’re starting to annoy me.” You tell him as you get in the water. Sukuna chuckles, finding it amusing how you’ve completely stopped fearing him. One of his hands caresses you from your breasts to your bump, resting there.

“Now, why are you getting mad at me? I thought you wanted a loving husband?” Sukuna comments, kissing the top of your head. Your hand rests on top of his, lightly squeezing it.

“I wanted one before he got me pregnant. I swear I must be carrying twins– Or the baby also has four arms. I don’t know, I’m just miserable.” You confess, and Sukuna kisses the top of your head again. He really shouldn’t have expected it to be any different. Sukuna’s huge, why would his baby be any different?

“It’s just one and done then?” He asks, and you hum in response. Maybe your answer will be different in a few years, but for now it’s that. He feels a tug on his heartstrings, seeing how much you’re struggling. He’s worried. “Are you holding up okay, though?”

“Not like we could do anything if I wasn’t.” You answer. He’s definitely much softer than your usual husband, and you would’ve loved it if you weren’t carrying a monster child. His hand remains on your stomach, and he feels as his baby kicks while you moan in pain. Sukuna shushes you, feeling as his baby moves.

“I’m trying to feel him! Shut up, woman!” He raises his voice, and you slightly turn to glare at him. A look that would surely kill you if you were anyone else.

“How does me making noise correlate with you feeling the baby! Think, Sukuna! Use your fucking brain.” You’re definitely bolder than usual, which makes him laugh. 

“You’re so beautiful when you’re yelling at me.” He says, grabbing your hand and bringing it up to his lips so he can kiss it. “I love seeing you demanding and mean. It shows the effect I have on you.”

“Really?” You answer, and he hums in response. There’s no better time to bring up what’s been bugging you than now. “I hate that new servant you took in. Kick her out.”

“And why is that?” He asks. 

“She was looking at you funny.” You respond.

“In the sense?”

“She has the hots for you, and I don’t like it.”

“Hmm… What if I was looking for–” He begins and you glare at him. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, but he guesses that’s something that’s off limits when he tries to joke. “Don’t you want me to do more?”

“Like what?” You question, even though you should know your husband better than anyone.

“Kill her.” He answers. 

“Hmm… Up to you.” You reply. You lay comfortably on his chest, feeling as his finger traces lazy circles on your belly. You change the topic, “Why do you think it’s a boy?”

“I can’t see myself with a daughter.”

[quizzicalwriter]

Cola

Pairing: Ellie Williams x Fem!Reader

Summary: You were off for spring break, why not introduce yourself to your parent’s new next door neighbor?

Warnings: SMUT. MDNI. Infidelity, older Ellie, touching, kissing, fingering, squirting, strap usage (r!receiving)

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Part two / Part three

“Those two always argue.” Your mom huffed out, eyes flickering over to the open kitchen window, the sounds of a shouted confrontation pouring in through the screen. You turned your head away from your mom, squinting to see through the mess of trees and bushes that separated your parent’s house from their neighbors.

Whoever they were, they didn’t sound happy. Some of the words exchanged made you wince, eyes widening as you looked back to your mom with a faint and semi-embarrassed laugh, as though you’d heard too much from someone you didn’t even know the face of.

“Sounds like it.” You replied, hopping down from the kitchen counter to pad over to the island, leaning down on your elbows as your mom kneaded out the dough for her bread. The house smelled lovely, reminding you of your childhood when you’d bother your mom to bits because you wanted to ‘help,’ not realizing your help usually meant tripping your mom up or making her forget important steps in her cooking.

So for now you just watched, committing it all to memory in hopes you’d be able to accomplish something even the slightest bit similar once your break was over and you were forced back onto campus. As your mom placed the bread into the oven you padded upstairs, deciding on changing out of your pajamas, after all, it was nearly one in the afternoon and you had plans to go out not too much later.

You sorted through your dresser, humming to yourself as you stripped yourself of your clothing. You’d never given much thought to your bedroom windows, one faced the backyard and one faced your neighbor's house. You’d never worried about your neighbor before, or now, given the argument you just overheard not too long ago. As you pulled your sundress over your head you turned to your window, consequently locking eyes with your parent’s neighbor who stood dumbstruck in her backyard.

“Fuck-“ You cursed, immediately moving from the window's line of sight as you pulled your dress on. “Great, haven’t even been home for a day and I’ve already flashed the neighbor.”

The embarrassment was still ripe in your mind as you made your way back downstairs, hopeful that some homemade bread would soothe your mind. As you walked into the kitchen you noticed your mom wrapping the bread, her eyes casting over to you.

“There you are!” She stated, smiling brightly. “Can you take this over to the neighbors? Figured that poor girl can use some homemade bread with her wife yelling like that all the time.”

You feigned a smile, not one to turn your mom down for something so simple. So you took the bread, holding it close to your chest as you slipped your sandals on, padding down the front porch steps and over onto their lawn.

It was beautifully manicured, the nearby garden buzzing with birds and bees. You’d only ever seen such manicured lawns on the nicer side of town, where dads took utmost pride in ensuring their lawns looked picture-perfect. Maybe the neighbor was one of those people? You mulled the thought over as you walked up their front porch steps, ringing the doorbell with your elbow after.

You could hear the sound of sports blaring from inside the house, the sound suddenly muted, followed by the subtle sound of footsteps approaching the door. What you hadn’t expected, or at least hoped wouldn’t happen, was that the same woman who’d just seen you naked would be on the other side of the door.

You paled, as did she, her eyes flickering between yours and the bread you now appeared to be crushing in your grasp, the crackling of the crust sounding in the awkward silence shared between you two.

“You’re going to kill it.” She muttered, pointing down to the bread. You jumped, looking down at it, silently cursing at yourself as you loosened your grip.

“My mom-“ You started, clearing your throat as you shook your head. “She made you bread, wanted me to deliver it.”

You handed the bread over, feigning a smile as she took it from your hands, smiling down at it as she flipped it over in her grasp. For some godforsaken reason, you blurted out the one thing lingering on your mind, instead of being a normal human being and brushing past it.

“I’m sorry you saw my tits.”

The words hung heavy in the air, causing her to stiffen as she looked up at you, her face soon twisting into a smile as she broke out into laughter. She laughed for a bit, enough for you to calm yourself and laugh a fair bit yourself.

“Blunt, aren’t you?” She laughed out, wiping beneath her eyes as she caught her breath. “Jesus, kid. It’s not your fault, I shouldn’t have been looking. I’m- I’m Ellie.”

You smiled, extending out your hand which Ellie quickly took, giving it a slight shake, although you could tell she was holding herself back as she did. It made you wonder just how strong her hands were, especially since her arm muscles seemed to be made ever more apparent in the midday sun.

“Nice name.” You stated, dropping your hand back down to your side. “My parents are your neighbors, I’m just visiting because I’m on break.”

Ellie nodded, pursing her lips as her gaze flickered over to your parent’s house. “High school?” She asked, looking back at you.

“College.” You replied, rocking back onto your heels. “First year.”

Ellie’s fingers smoothed over the cellophane, the wrinkling of the plastic underneath her hands filling the silence once again. She exhaled then, turning halfway toward her front door before smiling back at you.

“Tell your mom I said thanks.”

You gave her a brief thumbs-up, walking back down the porch steps into your parent's yard, completely oblivious to the fact that Ellie watched you walk back the whole way, eyes fixated on your hips and ass.

Much to your chagrin, your parents were pinnacles of their neighborhood, knowing everyone and everything that went on within the little suburb. It was nice, in a way, the little neighborhood block parties and the way they always had friends to talk to. It certainly took the pressure off of you in some aspects, but what you hadn’t figured was that they’d throw a party during your break.

They swore it was for you and for you to catch up with everyone, you had been gone for a while at college, so in a way, you were thankful and found it cute. What you didn’t factor in was Ellie attending, her hair tied back in a half-bun, white shirt sleeves rolled up halfway, practically sex on legs. You’d hardly heard your mom asking you to cart out some drinks to the table in the middle of the cul-de-sac until she nudged you with your foot, to which you profusely apologized and made your way outside.

Ellie was conversing with your dad, a bright smile on her face, a drink in one hand as the other rested in her front pocket. Your dad noticed you approaching, smiling at you as he waved you over, you put on a brave face and placed the drinks down on the nearby table before making your way over to them.

“Ellie, this is my daughter.” He stated, pulling you close as he smiled over at Ellie. Ellie only nodded, taking a sip of her drink before replying.

“Met her yesterday, she dropped off some bread. Really good bread, by the way. I’ll have to thank your mom in person.”

Your dad laughed and nodded, about to say something further until a few of his friends from around the neighborhood called him over. He gave Ellie a brief apology, walking over in their direction after, leaving you and her alone.

“Nice dress.” She murmured, eyes flickering over the fabric, how it hugged your hips, the way your breasts strained against the top, it made her have to clear her throat.

“Thanks.” You replied, smiling up at her. You took a moment to look around the party, wondering where her wife was amongst all the other partygoers. “Where’s your wife? You have one, right?”

Ellie snickered at your question, nodding in response as she took another drink from her cup. “I do have a wife.” She stated, tone hinting toward a fair bit of irritation on the subject. “She’s with her parents for a while.”

Sensing the irritation on the subject, your eyes widened, looking to the table between you as you pursed your lips. You’d never been one for awkward situations, they always made your nervous laugh flare up. As if on cue, your lips quirked into a smile, one Ellie noticed right away.

“Am I missing out on a joke?” She asked, words sarcastic as she placed her now empty cup down on the table. Your smirk turned into laughter, your hand shooting up to cover your mouth as you shook your head.

“No, fuck-“ You started, laughter continuing as you squeezed your eyes shut. “I have a nervous laugh, your response made me laugh.”

Ellie’s shoulders seemed to drop then, a smile of her own making an appearance as she chuckled, breathing out a lungful of air as she looked over to you. “You’re weird.” She noted, although a hint of something warm lingered in her words.

“I’ve been told.” You replied, tilting your head as your laughter died down. “I’m sorry for asking about your wife, by the way. You seemed pissed at the mere mention of her.”

Ellie shrugged then, sighing quietly as she itched the back of her neck. “It’s no problem, I guess it’s a sore subject. She’s- well, I’m sure you’ve heard.”

You nodded, not wanting to pry on the subject. After all, you were fairly certain everyone in the neighborhood had heard Ellie and her wife arguing at the asscrack of dawn. You’d never been close enough to overhear specifically what it was about, but it was loud enough to startle you on more than one occasion.

“Why don’t you leave?” You asked, knowing the question was a bit loaded. “I mean, you guys argue a lot. I was just wondering.”

She waved off your concern. “I get it, I’ve heard my fair share of it. I’ve thought about it.”

A sigh passed her lips then, one she shook off as she reached for another drink, popping the top off with her thumb before drinking some. As she swallowed she looked back to you, faint worry lines evident against her skin. You wondered how much older than you she was, she had to be at least ten to fifteen years older. The thought aroused you, making you pull your gaze from hers as you tried to focus on the table.

“How old are you?” She asked, seemingly reading your mind. You looked back up at her, smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Nearly twenty.”

She laughed then, eyes widening as she looked away from you. “Would not have guessed that.”

You laughed in response, moving over to her side of the table, propping yourself up on it as you met her gaze. “Why?”

“Well, I’m twice your age, that’s why.” She responded, words soft as she looked down at you.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the ever-present ache in your lower stomach at the near condescending tone she used with you. Her age shouldn’t have made her hotter, but it did, it really did.

“You look good for your age.” You replied. “Really good.”

Ellie chuckled in her throat, eyebrows lifting for a moment as she shook her head, eyes fixated on the rim of her cup. “You’re bold.” She stated, words spoken with a sigh as she turned her head to look out at the amassed crowd. After a moment she turned back to you, a coy grin on her face. “You haven’t seen my house, have you?”

There was a hidden insinuation in her words, in the way her eyes hovered over your chest before flickering back up to your eyes. You’d be a fool to say anything other than ‘no.’ So you shook your head, the motion causing her smile to widen as she nodded to her house, inviting you to follow her. Part of you pulled, begged for you to go in the opposite direction, knowing exactly what’d happen once you were inside her house - she was married, for Christ’s sake, but you couldn’t. The way her hand flexed around her drink made your stomach twist, panties coated in your wetness already.

You felt thankful that everyone seemed too preoccupied with the huge pile of fireworks to notice you and Ellie ducking off, even more so once you were inside her house, wordlessly following her through the halls. There were pictures of who you could only assume were Ellie’s family, photos with her smiling brightly, in the middle of fits of laughter, it was precious. You couldn’t help but smile at them as she moved into her kitchen, placing the cup down on the island counter.

“I like your photos.” You stated, moving into the kitchen after her, your breath catching in your throat at the sight of her leaned back against the counter, muscles in her forearms evident.

“Take off your clothes.” She responded, tone nonchalant as though she were asking you to hand her a plate. You didn’t hesitate, eyes locked with hers as you reached behind yourself, unzipping your dress. The fabric slipped down your form, exposing your bare breasts to her eyes. She smiled, moving toward you, raising a hand to hold your hip as the other moved to your breasts, kneading the flesh in her palm as she took in your body. “No bra?”

You shook your head, breaths coming out shallow as her finger brushed over your hardening nipple. “Don’t like them.” You whispered, eyes flickering up to meet hers. “They wouldn’t go with the dress.”

Ellie nodded, smiling to herself as her other hand looped around the hem of your panties, bending down slightly to help you step out of them. You’d half expected her to toss them to the floor, but she balled them up, shoving them into her back pocket. The act was perverse, leaving you clenching around nothing as you watched her stand back up straight.

She traced the back of her hand along your curves, touch so gentle it almost didn’t register in your mind. It almost seemed as though she meant to commit every facet of your being to memory, the thought alone making your thighs clench together, an action that didn’t go unnoticed by her. Her green eyes flitted up to your face, brows quirking up in amusement as she trailed the back of her fingers along your inner thighs, fingertips barely brushing the outside of your cunt.

“Are you aching?” She asked, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear you admit to it. You nodded, wetting your lips. She tutted, turning her hand over to press her middle and ring finger to your folds, applying just enough pressure to gather your wetness on the pads of her fingers. Your legs practically buckled beneath you, a whine dying in the back of your throat as you held onto the counter behind you.

She pulled her hand away then, examining her fingertips under the warm hue of the kitchen lights, a smug smile on her face as her eyes flitted back up to meet yours. She held up her fingers then, pressing them to your lips, to which you eagerly opened your mouth. Her fingers pressed down on your tongue, the taste of your arousal coating your tastebuds as you sucked her fingers clean.

A soft moan passed her lips at the feeling of your tongue laving at her fingers, causing her to ache as well. You could see her pupils dilate, her breath coming out haggard as she removed her fingers from your mouth, brushing her thumb against your bottom lip after. You kept your gaze steady with hers, having to remind yourself to breathe every few seconds.

“Want me to fuck you?” She asked, the question so bold that you nearly forgot to respond until her eyes flicked up from your breasts to your eyes, her brow quirking in question. You nodded.

“Please.”

She bit back a smile, grabbing your wrist before leading you back through the house toward the staircase. The walls and furniture passed by your mind in a blur, only finding yourself able to focus on Ellie’s back and the occasional glance toward you she’d toss over her shoulder. Her being fully clothed while you’d been stripped of everything you’d worn was not lost on you, if anything it seemed to heighten your arousal.

Her bedroom was modest, with a nice king-sized mattress in the middle of the room and two big windows overlooking the backyard and the side of your parent's house - the view was partially skewed by some trees, but you could see your bedroom window. Ellie led you over to the bed, letting you sit down as she moved over to her bedside table. You watched in silent amazement as she removed her clothes, each layer removed exposing more and more of her toned skin to your eyes.

You’d hardly been paying attention to anything else besides her abdomen and arms, finding yourself surprised when she moved back in front of you, hand languidly pumping her strap. She looked at you expectantly, to which you moved from the bed and onto your knees, opening your mouth obediently. She hummed out a laugh, fingers brushing your hair back from your face as she used her other hand to slap the tip of her strap against your tongue.

You wrapped your lips around the silicone tip, relaxing your throat as you began bobbing your head, earning you an affectionate coo as she cradled your cheek, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. Her hips moved forward, pushing her strap farther down your throat, causing your eyes to water as you held back an involuntary gag. You could hear her holding back a grunt at the sight of you struggling to take her strap down your throat, spit coating your chin and dripping down to the top of your breasts.

“You look so good choking on my cock.” She whispered, tone full of pride as she smiled down at you. Her fingers grasped your hair, sharply pulling you back, a string of drool connecting you to the tip of her strap. You licked your lips clean, taking in several deep breaths as you looked up at her. She nodded her head toward the bed, helping you to your feet before guiding you onto the plush mattress, positioning you on your hands and knees.

You rested down on your elbows, arching your back, feeling the cold air against your bare cunt. Her hands smoothed up the back of your thighs, harshly grabbing at your ass, giving the skin there a sharp slap. You whined, leaning forward, only for her to grab your hips and pull you back. You bit into your bottom lip, feeling her drag the tip of her strap up and down along your folds, finally pushing in after you let out a particularly needy whine.

“Fuck-“ You cried out, resting your head on your forearms as you let her hoist your body up, fucking you hard enough for the bed frame to clatter against the wall. You could feel your cum dripping down your inner thighs, each push forward of her hips creating a sheen of your juices around the silicone.

She was hitting so deep within you, surely bruising your cervix, each thrust leaving you gasping into her bedsheets, fingers twisted into the maroon fabric. Her hands grasped harshly at your hips, nails digging into the plush flesh as she fucked her strap into you.

“Take it so good.” She murmured through grunts, voice breathless and strained. Her praise went straight to your cunt, causing you to squeeze around her strap. Her hands moved to your lower back, pushing down until your chest and stomach were flush with the bedding. “Arch that back, baby. Fuck-“

You could hear the lewd noise pooling from between your legs, cum slowly dripping down your skin. You were putty in her hands, wanting her to do everything she wanted with you - and she would.

Her right arm hooked around your waist, hand immediately moving to your cunt where she circled her fingers around your clit, slick noises emanating in the air between your near pathetic whines for her to fuck you harder, deeper - you couldn’t get enough of her. She pressed kisses down the back of your neck to the top of your spine, gently nipping at the skin as she continued rutting into you.

“Gonna cum on my cock, baby?” She all but purred into your shoulder, placing an open-mouthed kiss on your skin in between her words. “Go on, cum for me.”

You could hardly formulate words to reply, all you managed was a strangled cry of her name into the bedsheets, hips jerking in her hold. She didn’t slow down, still fucking her strap into you as she circled her fingers around your clit. Your hands pushed at hers, wordlessly telling her it was too much, all for her to use the hand she’d been using to circle your clit to hold your hands together by your wrists.

“Just stay like that, baby.” She grunted out, cursing under her breath as the base of the strap bumped into her clit over, and over again, bringing her to the cusp of her orgasm. You’d never been one for overstimulation, but the way she had you pinned to the mattress paired with the way her strap rutted against your g-spot left you teetering on the edge of another orgasm.

You were cumming around her strap before you’d even registered it, hips pathetically pushing back to meet her thrusts as you cried out her name into the bedsheets. Everything in your mind seemed to be muddled, finding yourself only able to focus on the sheer pleasure coursing through your veins paired with Ellie’s moans as she fucked you through her orgasm. It wasn't until after you were able to finally fill your lungs full of air that you realized your inner thighs were soaked.

“Holy fuck.” Ellie laughed out, eyes widened with amusement as she pulled out of you, strap dripping with your cum. “You soaked the sheets.”

You felt your face alight, nervous and breathless laughter leaving you as you brushed your hair from your face. “‘M sorry.”

She shook her head, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder, undoing the harness before tossing it to the other side of the room, her breaths coming out in shallow pants. “Fuck, don’t apologize for that. Here- wait here, okay?”

You gave her a weak nod, collapsing down onto the comfortable mattress, feeling your thigh muscles twitching beneath your skin. She returned moments later, your dress in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. She placed your dress beside you, seeming to hesitate in her movements before wiping down the inside of your thighs, the feeling pulling a tired whine from your chest.

After that was a bit of a blur, you’d managed to get yourself dressed and presentable. Ellie put on a different outfit, grumbling something about how her clothes had gotten soaked during the whole ordeal. She was far more gentle than she had been beforehand, seeming to not meet your gaze without a faint blush painted across her cheeks. As she moved with you down the staircase and toward the front door, you turned to her, a naive hopefulness in your eyes.

“Can I see you again?” You asked, giving her a small smile. She looked down at you, lips quirking at the sides. Although you could tell she was struggling with her moral quandary centered around her infidelity. You didn’t know if you’d get the truth from her, but you’d let yourself believe whatever she responded with.

“Sure.”

A/N: This one is so long, I’m so sorry. I have a thing for older Ellie. I ain’t apologizing for that. Anyway!!! If y’all have any requests for Ellie or Abby or anyone from TLOU2 let me know! I hope you guys enjoy this, and thank you for reading or skimming or whatever you do - I appreciate the interactions nonetheless. And you can find all my works over on my AO3 under the user, “Unscriptural.”

[bucketbueckers]

RECKLESS DRIVING

CHAPTER NINE

content: language, maga barbie (VERY derogatory), use of a homophobic slur, blood, violence, injury (holy shit is this a wbb fanfiction or the terminator), the inherent homoeroticism of applying kinesiology tape to each other's injuries, chris koclanes finally not sucking complete ass at his job, baby's second ejection and first fist fight 🥹, the girls are arguing!!! the girls are...oh, wow. what ARE the girls doing? 😏, colette roman (affectionate), NO MORE NON SEXUAL EDGING, paige pov is kinda short here 😞, not proofread bc im lazy and i wrote too much

wc: 14.0k

notes: happy belated bday to @intoblonde6ftwbbplayers and happy birthday to my goat @snoopybuckets89 😋 i wanted to get this out on friday but i was in the trenches so here we areeee. if there's anything you take from me, it should be the advice to never take three major requirement courses over the summer term, especially if they're sciences and math. you will want to kill yourself. choose peace. i am hoping to have a much more consistent upload schedule as i go into the fall term but until then i appreciate the patience and support and as always i hope y'all enjoy and lmk what you think 🫶

tags: @cowboybueckers @indigo491 @wnba-scotland @volleyballgirlsblog @sillystarv @middyprincess @intoblonde6ftwbbplayers @user1269 @fivest4rbuecks @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @lilpaigeyherbo @simp4panos @perksofbeingatrex @lilambrh

CAM

The Wings, strangely enough, win three out of their next four games.

Following their loss to Atlanta, they were scheduled to take on the Golden State Valkyries at home, Connecticut and Washington on the road, and return home for their game versus Atlanta. Cam was willing to put the loss to the Aces on the backburner, preferring to look forward, but the one thing that she just wasn’t able to ignore was the way Chris stared straight through her as though she wasn’t there at all and ignored every one of her pleas for a challenge.

It was the complete lack of trust – no, the complete lack of respect for her as a player and as a leader on the team, for him to watch her beg like that and do nothing about it. If the only response she got from him was a head shake, she probably would have been happier with that as compared to him behaving as if the issue wasn’t there at all.

That situation was one of the reasons why the Wings had sought to extend her contract after the 2024 season. They wanted a veteran, a seasoned leader, someone who would keep the players - old and new – together while they figured out their new identity in the league. The front office wanted her to return for the 2025 season not only because she was the kind of player who was dominant on both ends of the court, but also because she was going to be the one with the experience and capabilities to take a new, young team and keep them together throughout the season.

It worked a little too effectively, Cam thinks, because the players were unified. There was never going to be an issue with that. They quickly became amazing friends off the court and the locker room was always full of laughs or pregame pep talks to energize them. The issue was with Chris, who’d been losing the locker room steadily over the last few weeks.

It started with his silence – the way he’d linger on the sidelines during practices, never really saying much but expecting them to figure it out, anyways. It progressed in how he never seemed to know what he was game planning; Cam wholeheartedly believed that you could give a toddler a clipboard and they could draw up something better than he could. 

It all culminated in how he refused to pull Paige out of the game after she went down with her concussion. How he told Cam that she was abusing her power as a leader because she was the only one who knew Paige well enough to recognize that she wasn’t okay. How he stared straight through her when she was at risk of fouling out and the Wings were moments away from losing a game they should have won if they had a coach who trusted his players and knew how to close out fourth quarters.

It’s early in the season. Cam knows that. They have a lot of growing to do as a team but if Curt or anyone else in the organization opened their eyes and looked a little further, they would realize that Chris has no place coaching this team.

There was one bright side, though. With both Ty and Maddy set to miss huge chunks of the season due to knee injuries and Teaira’s contract being suspended due to EuroBasket, the Wings needed to sign people, and quickly.

Help came in the form of Li Yueru, a 6’7 Chinese center. The Wings traded a second and a third round pick for her and she was available in time for their game against the Valkyries. She was probably the sweetest person Cam has ever met in her life, and she was excited to play with her.

The icing on the cake? Signing Haley Jones on a hardship contract. Cam and Haley had played together at Stanford for a few years and aside from DiJonai, Haley was probably one of Cam’s favorite people. She was selected 6th overall in the 2023 draft to the Dream. Cam, obviously, attended that draft, and she was genuinely over the moon for Haley. Now that they’re reunited, even if for a short time, Cam is stoked to be playing with her again.

Even though both Haley and Li were signed at roughly the same time, only Li gets a few minutes during their game against the Valkyries. Cam has learned by now that questioning Chris is a pastime that causes brain bleeds, but they took a surprising win over the Valkyries, anyhow. It was clear that their scouting report had been aimed at shutting down Paige. They weren’t successful in shutting down Paige, but they were even less successful in managing the other players on their roster.

Cam had a quiet fifteen points that night, a few boards, and a handful of stocks, but the win was especially sweet after the Vegas game.

Following the home game win versus the Valkyries, they had two back to back road games: one against the Sun, and one against the Mystics. The Sun game was close – too close, and Tina Charles was electric the entire time. They managed to scrape by with the win and Cam had thirteen points. It wasn’t a lot by any means but she was efficient.

The game against the Mystics, though? That one was frustrating. Cam doesn’t think she’s ever seen so many fouls be called in her life. Somehow, the calls were both nonsensical and many went missed (shocking). Paige hit a clutch three pointer off of an assist from Cam to send the game into overtime, but they fell short in the last seconds because someone seemingly forgot that Sonia Citron had been hot from three all game and someone forgot to guard her.

As if losing to the Mystics in overtime like that wasn’t punishment enough, they were hosting the Dream at home. They were 10-5 and at the top of the league and should have been one of the harder teams they’d faced in the last week or two.

Except, somehow, they beat Atlanta. Arike had an efficient 21 points, Cam had a quiet 10, but Li had a legacy game. She was dominant in the paint and defensively, notching a 10 point, 15 rebound double double with a steal.

Morale was high after winning three of their last four games. They were hoping to carry that over as their next one, on June 27th, was a home game (in the Mavericks’ arena, so…as much of a home game as they could get) against the Fever.

Cam has nothing against the Fever. Not in a way she could adequately express without a man getting triggered in an Instagram comment section somewhere. They defended in a way that was borderline chaos and dangerous, easily fouled someone on every defensive possession (even if it was never called), and Cam just really, really hates their entire underdog gimmick and perpetual victim mentality.

More than that, Cam just really, really fucking hates Sophie Cunningham, too.

She’s not one predisposed for hate, especially not hate directed at another woman in the league, but there were just so many things Cam didn’t like about Cunningham. She hates her botched extensions, the way she evidently has no control over her elbows considering she’d once hit Cam hard enough in the ribs last season to leave her with a nasty bruise for three weeks, and she hates how Sophie and people like her in general quietly and “discreetly” feed into the disrespect and animosity that’s been slowly growing in the league.

But, either way, Cam isn’t a dirty player. She wouldn’t let her personal feelings get in the way of playing a good game, even if her personal feelings on the matter were objectively the correct feelings to have.

Her game day routine doesn’t change with a different game day arena: she goes on a light run in the morning, has a productive conversation with Bobby and Gatsby regarding treats and toys, and dutifully responds to the text messages from her mom, who’s still apologizing for what happened at dinner with her dad.

Truth be told, Cam’s over it. Not over it in the sense that she’s not unhappy about it, but over it in the sense that she’s just so fucking exhausted with all of it that she’s not dedicating any time or energy to thinking about it or losing sleep over whether or not her father actually loves her for more than her trophies or her accolades.

Watching him behave that way in front of not only her mother, but her sister, too, and Paige of all people kind of solidified that for her. She’s been chasing after his affection and pride for so many years of her life, and seeing that he truly felt no remorse for embarrassing her at dinner? It made her really question why she’s doing this. There may always be some part of her that wants and craves a relationship with her father like that, but she doesn’t want it if this is what she has to go through to be accepted. 

There were so many people who were proud of her and cared for her regardless. Who did so unconditionally. Paige and DiJonai tell her that constantly. Cam tells herself that constantly. 

Dinner was eye opening, though. And letting go – or getting more comfortable with the idea of letting go – of the lingering need and desire to be understood by her father feels more feasible as the days go by.

With her mother’s message taken care of, she glances once at her and her father’s text thread. She doesn’t click on, but his last message to her displays, then cuts off due to the character limit. Without thinking too hard about it, she holds down on the thread and promptly hits Delete.

She opens Coley’s message next, who apparently thrives off of attention like water. She’d texted Cam earlier in the week asking if she had the time and energy to host her so she could come watch their game against the Fever. Cam, obviously, said yes, because she can’t fathom the amount of times she’s found herself on Coley’s couch in Florida to be able to watch her play with her team. There’s three text messages waiting for her:

Colette: Thoughts on mom’s carbonara for dinner tonight??? Colette: You should invite your girlfriend btw. So I can do the whole “if you hurt her” thing Colette: I’ve always wanted to do that but you’re always too “busy” and “locked in” for love

Cam can’t help her smile, holding back an eye roll as she taps out her message.

Cam: Yes on carbonara. Get the good guanciale Cam: She is not my girlfriend but I will ask if she’s available Cam: You also don’t have a love life. Where’s your ring Coley???

Coley doesn’t bother with actual responses. She reacts to Cam’s first message with a thumbs up, the second with an aged Sure, Jan gif, and replies to the last message with a selfie of her, the trophy from her recent pro volleyball federation title, and the glinting ring on her finger.

Cam snickers, but has no true response, so she sends Coley a brief Have a safe flight, see you soon! message and grabs her duffel bag, leaving her apartment to drive to the arena for shootaround.

The least surprising thing all day is the iced chai latte that she finds waiting for her in the locker room as she dresses down for practice. On the court, the team is already knocking down warm up shots or stretching. She spots Paige immediately, who’s on the sidelines with the trainer as they work through targeted exercises to help with her knee.

Paige seems to sense that she’s walked in at the same time, too, as she looks up instantly, meeting Cam’s eyes. She lights up with a smile that only seems to soften when she spots the latte she’s holding.

But then the trainer is waving a hand in her face and Paige finally breaks eye contact to smile sheepishly, her cheeks a little red. Cam just rolls her eyes, unable to hide the fondness, and she locates a resistance band to work through her warm ups. Shootaround ends quickly, and the brief rest period they have before they have to be back at the arena for the tunnel and warmups passes in the blink of an eye.

Even though the spectators have not been allowed into the arena yet, the energy on the court is palpable. Cam can feel the bass of whatever Drake song is playing in her bones. She can feel the anxious, if not slightly anticipatory hum of adrenaline in the air.

After a few years of doing this, Cam doesn’t really feel the nerves anymore. She’s confident in her capabilities, in the work that she and her team have put in to get here, and slightly comforted in the knowledge that at 4-12, they’re probably not making a playoff push – not unless Chris suddenly realizes that he cares enough to genuinely coach.

The one thing that doesn’t disappear, no matter how long she’s been playing, is the anticipation. She’s not nervous to play in front of a crowd. She’s not nervous to play against a team that’s going to make every bucket difficult, not necessarily because they’re good defenders but because they’ve pushed their luck and know what less than legal contact they can get away with.

It’s more of a natural understanding that comes with playing the game. Cam was raised around the central principle that everything meant something. She never did anything halfway because if she wasn’t giving her all no matter what, then was there truly a point? It was the knowledge that they had a job to do, a game to win, and that this moment was everything they’d spent hours practicing for, even more hours watching film for, and all she could think about was getting the ball in her hands and letting the rhythm of the game take over.

Cam loses herself in warmups, alternating between her weakest spots on the floor and gingerly stretching out her wrist as she shoots. Her right wrist had been giving her a little bit of grief over the last few games. She figures it’s probably usage – her minutes overall are up significantly this year, even including the games where she played less because she was coming off the bench for DiJonai. She ices after games, does her stretches and old PT exercises before bed, but it’s an ache she won’t be able to get rid of unless she gets a break.

She’s not ignoring it. She’s not pushing herself to the point of failure or reinjury. She’s…in tune with herself and is trying to manage the situation without escalation. The Wings didn’t exactly have a lot of people to fall back on. DiJonai was out with a rib injury, Ty and Maddy with their knees, and Chris, for whatever reason, was being stingy with Haley’s minutes. They didn’t quite have the personnel to adjust if she needed a few games worth of rest, and she was fine. Really. Her wrist is just one of those aches that never goes away – much like Paige’s knee.

Just as she’s stepping back into her spot again, palming the ball between her hands, she feels a soft presence behind her. Cam turns to find Paige holding a roll of kinesiology tape with a sheepish smile. “Allison’s busy with Rike,” she says. “Can you help me with my tape?”

Cam smiles knowingly at her, already reaching for the material. Paige meanders over to one of the courtside seats and sits down gingerly. “You’re trusting me with this after what happened last time?” she jokes, referring to the first time she wrapped Paige’s knee and how the blonde had complained that it was too tight. She tries not to think too hard about how she’d also kissed Paige’s knee like she could make it hurt any less with some affection, but the thought rolls in uninvited, anyways.

Paige shrugs, rolling up the leg of her sweatpants. Her grin is teasing as she retorts, “Only one way for you to learn, right? Who else is gonna tape my knee when Allison’s not around?”

“Hmm,” Cam hums noncommittally, stretching out the tape until it’s the desired length, then she begins to gently stick it to Paige’s knee. She pays attention to the sensitive spots that Paige had pointed out to her last time, making sure it’s tight enough to offer her relief. “It is your knee, after all. Maybe you can put on those big girl pants of yours and start taping it yourself.”

“Hey!” Paige admonishes, nudging Cam with her foot. She swats it away with a laugh as she stretches out another piece of tape, pressing her fingers against Paige’s knee. “It’s your veteran duty.”

“Yeah?” Cam goads. “I’m contractually obligated to tape your knee like your personal physician?”

“Yes,” Paige deadpans, completely serious. “Very important business, you know.”

“I’m sure.”

“This knee is precious cargo,” Paige continues, her tone flippant. “Got me drafted.”

Cam has half a mind to tell her that she probably got drafted for a lot of other reasons that didn’t include a medically replaced ACL, but she decides to let Paige hold onto that delusion of hers if it makes her feel better.

She smooths her hand across Paige’s knee, making sure the tape is fully connected to her skin and nothing is sticking out. “Good?” Cam asks. “Tighter, looser?”

“Perfect,” Paige confirms, but when Cam looks up, Paige’s eyes haven’t left her face. She wills back her blush as she rises from her knees, joints cracking in relief. “How’s your wrist? Saw you’ve been touching it lately.”

“It’s…” Cam trails off, genuinely not knowing if she was planning on deflecting or telling the truth. She watches Paige’s brow raise in silent question and she sighs. “It’s a little sore,” she admits, and Paige’s features soften like she was expecting that answer. “Like I’m just constantly aware of it now. It’s probably just ‘cause my minutes are up.”

“You been icing?” Paige asks.

“Have you?” Cam retorts. Paige just smiles because she knows the both of them have been icing, that they’ve been taking care of their respective injuries. She also seems to know that the pain isn’t something you can control most of the time.

Paige reaches out tentatively, her fingers wrapping loosely around Cam’s healthy hand, gently tugging her towards the bench. “Lemme wrap your wrist,” she says softly. Her tone leaves no room for argument. “Return the favor and allat.”

Cam’s lips twitch into a smirk as she allows herself to be dragged. She settles onto the chair next to Paige, holding out her hand for her to cradle. “You ever taped someone’s wrist before?”

Paige shrugs, her tongue poking out in concentration as she stretches out a piece of tap carefully. “Nah. First time for everything, right?” Cam’s smirk softens, turning tender. She stares unwaveringly while Paige adjusts her fingers, forcing her to relax her hand, and she begins applying the kinesiology tape deliberately to her thumb and wrist area. Her fingers are warm against her skin. Cam tries really hard to ignore how nice it feels – the gentle touch that’s more out of care and fondness than it is out of clinical professionalism. 

She doesn’t say anything, not wanting to break the easy silence, but also because she can feel her voice trapped in her throat. Paige takes care of her in all facets of the word. She checks in on her during games and defies their coach to run a play with her to get her head back in the game. She never pushes Cam for anything more than she’s willing to give. Paige is steady, the kind of person she wasn’t expecting to ever meet, let alone fall so deeply for. 

It’s not that Cam doesn’t want her. That’s the furthest thing from the truth. There’s no faking or confusing what they have – what Cam feels for her, but the issue is it feels too good. Too right. Too much like something Cam would be devastated if she lost or couldn’t fully protect. She hates that her fear of losing Paige outweighs her want to ever try in the first place. 

She’s been trying her entire life. Cam wasn’t immediately good at basketball – it took her weeks of practice to even get the ball through the net, although that became an easier task after a few growth spurts. She wasn’t immediately good at being a leader. It took a lot of trial and error and even more hours worth of learning the different ways people respond to certain approaches.

Recently, she’s starting to think that she might not immediately be good at this. At letting Paige in, at letting her care for her in the way she wants to. She might not be a professional in knowing what she’s supposed to do or say next or even a professional in how to be a good girlfriend. She wouldn’t be good immediately, but the right person would be willing to stick around and try.

Cam glances at Paige, whose fingers are pressing into her skin with something akin to reverence, making sure the tape would stay on throughout the game. She makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, clearly pleased with her work, but the last thing on Cam’s mind is the tape. 

This is a terrible venue to have such earth shattering revelations – sitting courtside in the American Airlines Center while their teammates warm up around them, but it’s in that moment, in the uncomfortable chair, with the warmth of Paige’s body next to hers, that Cam realizes she wants to try. Like, she really, really does.

If she spent her entire life being afraid of losing then she’d never give her the chance to prove herself or anyone else otherwise. If she spent her entire life being scared of what would happen if she and Paige never worked out, then she would never know what it would be like to have her, even if it was just for a short time.

She wants Paige. She wants a relationship with Paige – a real one. The kind where she sets out a mug for Paige when she comes over to give Cam a ride to practice, when Paige doesn’t even use the mug because she’s not a big on coffee early in the morning and she’s content with stealing a few sips from Cam’s tea, even if she complains that it could use some more honey. The kind of relationship where Paige teaches herself to drive with her left hand just so she can hold onto Cam, always a little bit of a clinger, but that wouldn’t bother Cam because she would refuse to let go for the entire ride.

She wants her. And Cam is tired of pretending like all of the excuses she’d made, all of the reasons why she told Paige they couldn’t, weren’t just walls she’d put up to save herself the heartbreak. She has spent so many years of her life talking herself out of opportunities because she thought she could never be good enough for them, but now? This isn’t something she wants to talk herself out of. Paige isn’t something she wants to talk herself out of.

She’s enough for Paige. Not too much or too little. Paige wants her as she comes – for all of her flaws, her victories, every piece of her that makes her Cam Roman. Cam thinks that she and Paige may always be just a little of what the other needs.

Cam doesn’t fully register that Paige is speaking to her, asking about the tightness of the kinesiology tape. All she can think about is the weight of the confession pooling on her tongue like adrenaline. 

But before she can open her mouth to say it, Nola blows her whistle, summoning everyone to her for a quick pregame pep talk. Cam fights back an eye roll, more frustrated at her own poor timing than Nola just doing her job, and she stands. She makes sure to pat Paige’s hip first, murmuring a quick “Thank you,” and deciding not to embarrass her by mentioning how the flush rises to the tips of the ears.

Nola wraps her speech up quickly, reminding them to trust in their practice and preparation. Aliyah Boston was going to be a problem in the paint and Kelsey Mitchell was having one of her best years yet – they just needed to play clean defense, communicate with one another, and relax. The Wings play their best basketball when everyone is connected and no one is forcing bad shots too early in the shot clock.

Before she’s called over to the center of the court for the tip, Cam makes her way over to Coley, who’s sitting courtside and proudly wearing #7 across her chest. She gives her a quick hug and dutifully nods along to Coley’s overdramatic pregame hype speech. “You’re Cam Roman,” Coley says sagely. “Not Can’t Roman. By the way, I need four blocks for my parlay tonight. Can you–”

Cam doesn’t even dignify that with a response, tossing back a laugh over her shoulder while Coley yells something at her that sounds strangely like, “Make sure one of those blocks is on Sophie Cunningham!”

Cam just rolls her eyes, making her way to center court as the starters all circle up to await tipoff. She quickly adjusts her shorts, shaking hands with the Fever starters and giving Natasha a quick hug. Natasha was sorely missed – she was one of the Wings’ leading scorers and rebounders last season, and Cam is happy that she’s thriving elsewhere.

Aliyah and NaLyssa stand at the logo to receive the opening tip. Across their huddle, Cam makes brief eye contact with Paige, offering her a reassuring, I got you sort of nod. Paige returns it, cracking the slightest of smiles, and the ball is launched into the air. Aliyah tips it back to Natasha and the game is underway.

The energy in the arena is already electric. Cam’s usually good about tuning out the noise, especially when it’s a home game and the cheers are mostly for them, but there’s something different about the crowd. She can’t tell if it’s because they’ve changed venues, or because there’s as many Fever fans here as there are Wings fans. All she knows is that she can feel the pulse of the crowd, the weight that presses down when you realize the game is bigger than you were expecting it to be.

She doesn’t have the time to think about that right now. Cam’s defensive assignment is Kelsey Mitchell, who’s as quick as she is an amazing shooter. Embarrassingly, Cam gets caught on a screen from Aliyah and there’s not enough help defense to contest Kelsey’s shot. She gets a quick jumper off, notching the Fever’s first two points of the game.

Paige responds immediately – she brings the ball up court, passing it to NaLyssa who hands it right back, and Lexie sags off just enough that it gives Paige enough space to run to the basket and lay it in with ease.

On the other end, Aari sinks an effortless jumper, then Natasha steals the ball off of a bad pass from Li. Aari gets an easy transition bucket – where has Cam heard about awful transition defense before? – and Arike inbounds to Cam to bring the ball up. Cam dishes it out to NaLyssa in the low post and Cam makes the cut under the basket. NaLyssa passes it back to her and Cam lays the ball in with Lexie hot on her heels. She points to NaLyssa in thanks.

A foul by Li sends Kelsey to the free throw line on her and-one. With Indiana leading them 9-4, Lexie steals the ball from NaLyssa and the Wings miss their next six shot attempts before the next dead ball allows them to sub people in. Aziaha and Myisha come in for Arike and NaLyssa respectively, and Sophie Cunningham checks in for Lexie.

Paige is sent to the line for one free throw, raising the score to 16-5. They’re unable to get the ball to fall for the next few possessions until Aziaha stops the bleeding with a clean lay. Cam eventually gets switched onto Sophie, and she’s hot on her heels as she tries to find open space. Sophie manages to get enough separation for Aari to pass her the ball, but Cam recovers immediately. She’s still thinking about what Coley said to her as she rises to block Sophie’s three point attempt.

Cam connects cleanly with the ball, and it ricochets off of Sophie’s forearm. Paige manages to scoop it up before the Fever can and she takes off down the court with Cam just a few paces behind her. Natasha is close enough to intercept it, but Paige passes the ball behind her back and Cam finishes their transition take with a lay up.

Paige is grinning, patting her hip in a brief celebration, but Cam doesn’t have the time to dwell on it further. When she settles back into defense, hounding every move Sophie’s making, she can tell that there is a noticeable difference in how she’s playing, like she’s pissed about the block and the score.

Cam doesn’t make a habit of trash talking in games. Coach VanDerveer wasn’t a fan and Cam wasn’t that type of person, anyways. She preferred to let her game talk.

But when Sophie glances up at her, sweat beading at her hairline and a smirk a little too pointed to be anything less than personal, and says, “Guess that afterparty really brought you two together, huh?” Cam really feels like Sophie was inviting bad karma onto herself.

Cam doesn’t entertain it. She does get a hand in the passing lane when Aari tries to force the ball to Sophie, deflecting the ball out of bounds. Sophie’s less than subtle irritation is present when she steps out of bounds to inbound. Cam doesn’t plan on making the pass easy for her, and it seems that her teammates are playing amazing defense, too, as they eventually force a five second violation.

Cam has never felt so vindicated by a whistle and she tries really, really hard not to smile at Sophie as Paige jogs over to receive following the turnover. Part of her wants to say something back, but she just bites her tongue, reminding herself that the longer she doesn’t react to Sophie’s obvious chirping, then the more pissed she’ll get.

Cam passes the ball to Paige and jogs up court with her, listening as she calls the play and motions for their teammates. Sophie is guarding Paige, but Cam knows that the Fever’s defensive gameplan – much like any other team in the league – is to double Paige when she’s least expecting it and force the turnover. Paige circumvents the pressure easily as the Wings offense rotates around them, and Cam shakes her defender long enough to receive the pass from Paige.

Cam draws too much attention. The Fever bite on the pass, and Cam rises in the air for what looks like a quick jumper, but she just passes the ball to Myisha, who sinks the layup easily. With a little more momentum building for them, they manage to hold the Fever scoreless for their next three possessions, whereas the Wings score three, two, and three consecutively. Cam contributed to five of those points and nailed the shot from beyond the arc that caused Stephanie White to call for the timeout.

Having cleared the deficit, the Fever now only lead 19-17. Cam tries to catch her breath in the huddle while Chris talks defense, emphasizing that since the pressure is on, the Fever will likely go to Boston or Mitchell to extend their lead out of the timeout. The buzzer rings and they make their way back onto the court.

Cam is guarding Aari on the inbound, but she manages to squeeze the ball in and passes it to Kelsey. They bring the ball up and Cam is on Kelsey like glue and Li is effectively boxing out Aliyah. Aari passes to Sophie, who passes to Natasha once recognizing that Myisha has left too much space, and Natasha banks the shot in off of the backboard.

The last few minutes of the first quarter are back and forth with both the Wings and the Fever trading empty possessions and scores. Cam sinks another long shot from the perimeter, notching 12 points in the quarter and tacks on another block – surprisingly against Aliyah. Li was handling her under the basket and the Fever center hadn’t been expecting the block from behind.

Cam and Paige sit for the first few minutes of the second quarter, having played the entire first. When they’re not watching their team play, they’re listening intently to Nola as she discusses observations from the first quarter. With Clark out, a lot of the Fever’s offense flows through Aliyah and Kelsey, but they couldn’t allow Kelsey to get too hot. Kelsey is a shorter, quick guard, but Cam is fast for her height and position – she’d have to play closer and careful defense on her to make sure she couldn’t get a shot off.

Chris motions for them, along with JJ, to sub in when Aari, Kelsey, and Sophie make their way back to the scorer’s table after the media timeout five minutes into the second quarter. They’d managed to keep the game close with the score being 30-28 when they check in. JJ takes Arike’s spot on the court and once the ball is inbounded to Paige, she begins making her way up, her eyes scanning the court for any openings in the Fever defense.

Sophie is playing close defense, but Paige has incredibly skilled handles, so Sophie isn’t able to do much. Paige passes the ball to Cam on the right wing, then motions. They’d run this play countless times in practice before – Paige would pass to Cam, then rotate towards her. Cam would fake a handoff while Paige screens for her. The expectation is for the defense to bite on the fake and double Paige, expecting her to get the ball and not Cam, but this time, it blows up completely.

Sophie is still defending Paige closely. Aari is on Cam, leaving enough space in between them that Paige would have room to squeeze in and effectively screen, but during their rotation as Cam is faking the handoff, Sophie pushes Paige in the back. It’s subtle, but Sophie’s eyes aren’t on the ball at all or where Paige is rotating to, and the whistle doesn’t blow. Cam’s not really surprised, but Paige’s fall draws causes Aliyah and Myisha to hesitate in the paint and it gives Cam enough time to drive through the open lane and lay the ball in with her left hand.

By the time she’s backpedaling for defense, Paige is already on her feet again, looking more irritated than she looks hurt, which makes Cam relax slightly. She pats her once on the hip as she passes by and Paige nods at her, reassuring her that she’s okay. Cam glances back to Sophie, her eyes narrowing slightly.

It’s a close game. It’s heated. Cam has been playing long enough to understand accidental fouls in the heat of the moment, but nothing was accidental about the way Sophie pushed Paige from behind. It would have been an easy foul call if league referees weren’t deathly allergic to their yearly optometrist appointments. 

Cam would be lying if she said it wasn’t frustrating her. Paige is her rookie, her teammate, her friend, and probably the least problematic person in the league. For Sophie to behave so aggressively and carelessly…it bothers her. Especially since the foul calls never go both ways and Sophie gets away with a lot of dirty plays.

She doesn’t let the feeling consume her, though. They have a game to play. Cam needs to be smart, and racking up another ejection probably wouldn’t help her cause.

The rest of the time in the second quarter runs down with little issue. The Fever lead them 46-45 as they jog into the locker rooms. Chris preaches a very effective halftime speech (lie), but when he asks the assistant coaches if they have anything to add, the energy shifts as Nola starts discussing their performance. They were playing together and communicating, which is what they needed to keep doing in the second half. They needed to make sure to play disciplined – senseless fouls were one of their biggest points of growth as a team. 

Nola continues on with more player specific scouting, like how Kelsey is favoring one side of the court and how they need to be better in preventing her from getting to her spot. She notes that Aliyah is playing incredibly physically in the paint and reminds Myisha and Li to stay disciplined and to not let Aliyah draw them into foul trouble.

After halftime wraps up, Cam catches Paige’s eye from across the locker room, and they share a silent conversation. Paige, able to read the gentle concern in Cam’s gaze, nods reassuringly, and all Cam can truly make out in her expression is the stark determination, the unwillingness to lose this game after all the word they’d put in.

The third quarter tips off with a renewed spark. All of the starters are back in and it’s clear that whatever the Fever did or talked about during half was working. Aari is sharper on her passes, Kelsey lethal from the floor, and Aliyah’s paint dominance was continuing as the quarter went on.

The Wings were able to hold on though. They recovered and fought back defensively. Cam notched a steal and another block within the first four minutes, managing to turn both of those turnovers into positive points for the team. The Fever were unable to extend any sort of damning lead as the Wings were always quick to respond.

Tempers are rising. Cam can see Arike getting frustrated when Aari presses in close to her, absorbing a lot of contact that doesn’t get called by the refs. Despite that, she can see Arike’s clear attempt at trying to stay in the game and stay focused. Aliyah is dominant in the paint, but she’s physical and there’s a lot of uncalled elbow tossing that Li is doing her best to manage. Even Paige, who’s usually so calm and composed on the court unless she’s having genuine conversations with the referees, is starting to look beyond irritated by Lexie and Sophie. 

It’s loud in the arena. The game is physical, unreasonably close, and they’re not quite able to stay as consistent as they want to be between the lack of fair foul calls and play calls that end up collapsing before they can set their offense up.

And for whatever fucking reason, Sophie Cunningham is 0-5 when she’s guarded by Cam, but she’s still running her mouth like she’s prime Taurasi and not the kind of woman Republican senators have affairs with.

With Paige on the bench for a quick breather, Cam is Sophie’s defensive assignment, and she’s not letting up – verbally and physically. She’s applying full court pressure as Cam brings the ball up to facilitate the offense. Cam kicks the ball out to Arike on the wing, working on rotating and getting to her next spot, but Sophie’s got a hand fisted in her jersey, her voice only loud enough for Cam to hear: “Do you sleep with all of the rookies on your team or just the one you can get the most clout from?”

Cam doesn’t even respond to that – mostly because what the fuck? She just breathes deeply, finding her spot at the elbow and catching the ball as Arike passes it to her. She scores off of a clean fadeaway jumper, not even offering a glance back to Sophie.

On the Fever’s next offensive possession, Arike is guarding Sophie and Cam is back on Kelsey. Natasha steps forward to set a screen for Kelsey and Arike doesn’t even need to call for the switch – Cam reads her expression perfectly, both of them weaving around Natasha’s screen, and Kelsey passes the ball off to Sophie as their offense regroups to try and find a different way to score.

“I’m just saying,” Sophie speaks up again, trying for a concerned tone while she dribbles the ball. “A vet having a relationship with a rookie? Before she’d even signed the contract? Sounds like a front office scandal. No wonder y’all can’t win a game – you’re too worried about playing house with your teammates.”

The shot clock is winding down, hardly seconds left, and Sophie’s eyes just barely flick to her right as she looks for someone to dump the ball off to. Cam sees the pass before it happens. With a burst of speed she didn’t even know she was capable of, she intercepts the ball and barrels down the court. She knows Sophie is hot on her heels, so she switches to her left hand, bouncing the ball off of the backboard, but she wasn’t fully expecting the way Sophie slams into her from behind in an attempt to block the shot.

Cam hits the ground with a grunt of pain, although she sees the referee’s arms raise to signify she’d made the shot as their whistle blows, calling a shooting foul on Sophie. Arike is screaming something or the other, reaching down to help her up, and Cam can’t bite back the grin on her face as she stands.

Sophie has an expression of indignant innocence on her face like she hadn’t fouled at all. Cam is usually the bigger person, but she can’t resist shoulder checking the Fever player as she makes her way to the line for her and-one. “That foul’s the only thing on your statline right now,” she says softly, knowing that her casual tone of voice would only piss Sophie off more. “Fifteen minutes and a bunch of zeroes?” She tries for a mocking frown. “Worry about that.”

Sophie honest to God lunges at her, but Natasha holds her back, redirecting her away. Cam can’t stop herself from waving at her as if saying goodbye. Paige subs back in, taking JJ’s spot before Cam shoots (and makes) her free throw.

If Sophie wasn’t already on one before, she is now. Her defense has picked up significantly and Paige is unable to do much with the ball. She passes it to Cam, who subtly motions for her to move, and Paige loses Sophie and makes enough space to cut towards the bucket. Cam hits her with a bounce pass but Sophie recovers, getting under the bucket to contest the shot.

Except Sophie doesn’t stick her arms in the air to actually block it. She goes straight for a jump ball, holding onto the ball tightly. She and Paige are locked in a brief wrestling match for control until Sophie yanks it sharply, her elbow hitting Paige straight in the face, and Cam feels her blood run cold as Paige’s head shoots back and the referee closest blows the whistle, making the signal for a jump ball.

Cam jogs closer, concerned and furious all at once, and Sophie’s smug grin is enough to set her off. She pushes her out of the way – not hard enough to do anything but make a point, and comes face to face with Paige. The blonde is holding a hand over her nose, tears beading at her waterline. Her face is already red.

“Jesus,” she mutters, splaying a palm over Paige’s back, rubbing it soothingly. “You good, P?” Paige nods, coughing a little, and when she lowers her hand, there’s blood dripping from her nostrils and her hand is coated. Cam’s heart drops. “Fuck.” She keeps her voice steady, knowing that overreacting would just make Paige freak out, and she gingerly cups her hand under Paige’s chin to ensure the blood doesn’t splatter on her jersey. She turns to the ref, pleading, “That was a flagrant! She’s literally bleeding!”

The ref looks at her like her hands are tied, but she turns back to the Wings bench, pulling Paige along with her. Cam makes direct eye contact with Chris and Nola as she waves her finger, gesturing to Paige’s face. The bench rises in agreement, pointing and shouting, but Camille and Belle all motion for them to sit back down and be quiet.

If there’s one moment that Cam needs Chris to trust her on, it’s this one. An injury of this severity never just happens accidentally, especially when Sophie’s actions weren’t as much of a play on the ball as they were about harming someone.

But Chris gazes at her, something unreadable in his expression, and he finally makes the gesture to challenge the call, and Cam breathes a sigh of relief as she leads Paige to the bench. Allison is already standing with gauze and ointment.

Considering how the game has gone, Cam doesn’t have any hope in them calling it a flagrant 2 and ejecting Sophie, but she wants the free throws and the possession regardless. Paige takes a seat on the bench while Cam wipes her hands off with a towel. Every time Allison tries to get close enough to tend to her nose, Paige gently pushes her hand away, shaking her head like it hurts too much.

Cam hardly hesitates before she walks over, holding her hand out to Allison, and she wordlessly passes over the gauze and the ointment in surrender. “Sit up,” Cam says softly, drawing Paige’s attention. Her brows pinch together, looking like she wants to argue, but Cam beats her to the chase before she can say anything. “You just got your face beat in by a grown woman with a terrible hair stylist. Will you please let me clean your nose before you bleed all over your jersey? Neon green and red do not go together.”

Paige just stares at her for a long moment before sighing, straightening out her posture and relenting. “S’like Christmas,” she murmurs as Cam carefully pats the gauze around her nose, soaking up the blood leaking from her nostrils. She flinches a little when Cam’s knuckle brushes against the bridge of her nose. Cam smooths her hand across her cheek in apology, not thinking much of the cameras pointed at them. “Just need mistletoe.”

“Perfect,” Cam says dryly. “You’re concussed.”

Paige offers a small smile. “I’m rationalizing,” she responds. “I ain’t even make the shot and I gotta bleed too? S’not right.”

The corner of Cam’s lips twitch up in a smile. The bleeding has slowed, but Cam can already see the beginnings of a nasty bruise swelling on her nose. With one last gentle wipe, she’s cleared away most of the blood. “Will you let Allison make sure your nose isn’t broken or are you gonna keep being a baby?”

That makes Paige narrow her eyes at her, but she gives a slight nod, and Cam steps back to let Allison do her thing. For the most part, Paige keeps quiet as Allison pokes and prods at her face. Her displeasure and pain is evident, though, and the reminder that she got injured – like, serious blood and tears injury, makes an unwanted wave of anger swell in Cam’s chest.

The refs upgraded it to a fragrant 1. They weren’t getting the jump ball, but they were being awarded two free throws and then possession of the ball. Cam still thinks Sophie should have been ejected from the game since she wanted to throw elbows like she was in a boxing ring, but she digresses. Sophie would be paid back in full – Cam was going to make sure of it, although she hasn’t quite decided if her revenge is best served in the form of yet another ejection worthy altercation or blocking every single attempt she makes on the ball.

After Paige’s nose has been fully tended to and she was cleared to be back on court, she knocks down both free throws effortlessly. Cam inbounds to her and she positions her body in between Paige’s and Sophie’s as the Fever player attempts to play full court defense. Cam’s still holding onto that lingering anger, but she reminds herself to keep her cool, even if the sight of Sophie’s smug expression makes her want to punch the fake spray tan off of her.

The last few minutes of the third quarter wind down without further altercation, but Sophie spends most of it running her mouth, trying – and failing – to get much of a reaction out of Cam. She comments on how Cam had tended to her nose on the bench, speculating if Chris knew of the true nature of her and Paige’s relationship or whatever the fuck. She even asked if Cam intentionally signed back on with the Wings just so she could get closer to Paige, which was easily the most insane thing she’s ever heard in her entire life.

Sophie is subbed out for Lexie with two minutes left in the third quarter. The scores are still close. The Fever have maintained a steady four point lead, and going into the fourth quarter, it’s anyone’s game.

The first five minutes of the fourth are peaceful, if not hard fought. Paige went to the bench for a quick breather but both she and Sophie check back in at the same time. Paige doesn’t offer her a second glance, making her way straight to Cam and smacking their palms together as she adjusts her shorts.

From there, it all collapses – as it usually does in the fourth quarter. Sophie still has more fouls than she has points, but she hasn’t shut up the entire game. It’s starting to get a little pathetic and a little easier to ignore as the time goes on. The Fever and the Wings share a few empty possessions, a bucket here and there, but the scores are finally tied after the first media timeout of the quarter.

It happens during one of the Fever’s offensive possessions – Cam is guarding Sophie, and she manages to block her shot again, her fourth of the night and the second on Sophie. Cam managed to secure the loose ball before taking off down the court. There wasn’t a single Fever player in sight besides Sophie, who was directly behind Cam, and none of the Wings were close by either. Cam’s only choice was to score it, so she rises up to lay the ball in.

Except Sophie is not stopping. She crashes into Cam for the second time that night as she tries to block the shot and Cam hits the ground. Hard. Her hands had shot out to take the brunt of the fall, but when Cam feels a coursing pain flare up in her wrist, her heart stutters as she groans.

A whistle blows for the foul, but she’s not thinking about it at all. She rolls onto her back, clutching her right wrist, which is beginning to throb with pain. It was the same injury. The same way she’d injured it during the national championship so many years ago. Paige, Arike, Li, and NaLyssa all surround her, concern etched on their features, and Cam lets Paige pull her to her feet, still cradling her right hand gingerly to her chest.

But Paige notices immediately. She always does. She notices the pain, the slight tremor in her palm as she tries to breathe through the pain.

And then she turns on her heel, coming face to face with Sophie, who’s standing off to the side with some sort of sick, pleased expression on her face. Her team is saying something in their huddle but it’s clear she’s not really paying attention to it.

Paige does something that shocks Cam completely. She shoves Sophie roughly, a grim challenge and pure fucking anger in her words as she barks something like, “Put your hands on her again. I fuckin’ dare you.”

NaLyssa is quick to separate them before Sophie has the chance to retaliate, but Paige doesn’t break eye contact, only smirking like she’s won as NaLyssa drags them backwards. The refs are trying desperately to get the situation under control, but it’s a struggle, and Cam’s voice feels like it’s trapped in her throat.

She doesn’t want Paige to get a tech or ejected from the game. They were so close to the end and if both she and Paige are sent out – whether it’s for injury or for fighting on the court, then they’d probably have to kiss their entire chance of winning goodbye. She rests her left hand over Paige’s bicep, trying to steer her away, but as Natasha is dragging Sophie back, the Fever player can’t resist getting one last word in.

“Yeah, fucking walk away!” she calls, gesturing between Cam and Paige. “Run back to your dyke teammate like you always do–”

Sophie doesn’t get the chance to finish. Cam crosses the few feet in between them in a few quick strides and punches her clean in the jaw.

Pain flares instantly in her wrist, but it’s the last thing on her mind. She’s been fucking around all game – playing dirty, excessive fouls that could (and have) led to multiple injuries, and now, yelling slurs across the court? She’s in the finding out stage.

The court is immediately swept up into chaos. The refs blow their whistles as they try to separate Cam and Sophie, but Sophie swings back. She completely misses, although Cam can’t hold back her smile, knowing that they’re both at least getting ejected for throwing punches – only Cam was woman enough to actually mean it.

Paige’s arms wrap around her waist as she pulls her back, but Cam? She’s already won. Sophie is still screaming something or the other, but Cam doesn’t care. She doesn’t say anything else. The damage is already done, her point has been made, and the American Airlines Center is caught between cheers and boos. It’s like music to her ears. Her wrist still hurts, she’s definitely about to get ejected, and she’s going to have to pay another fine for this in the morning, but she thinks it’s all worth it.

Allison follows her to the locker room, saying something about her wrist, but it all falls on deaf ears. They wouldn’t know anything for sure until they run a few tests and get images, but Cam gets the feeling that she’s going to be out for a few games.

But she thinks about Sophie, about all of the chirping and petty things she’d done all game, and Cam can’t help but smile.

Yeah. Definitely worth it.

PAIGE

Paige is not smiling.

After Cam and Sophie went on to get ejected, the Wings ended up losing the game to the Fever 94-86. It was close, but Kelsey Mitchell hit a dagger three that just ended up snowballing as they had to send the Fever to the line to get a shot at possession or in hopes that they’d brick their free throws.

It wasn’t necessarily Cam’s fault. It’s not like she would have been able to play anyways. Paige watched her go down, saw how she cradled her wrist to her chest – the one she’d opened up about injuring in the national championship and the one that Paige herself had wrapped with kinesiology tape before the game started. And, well, Paige was also the one who initially shoved Sophie because she injured Cam and Paige wasn’t able to keep her feelings to herself about it.

She’s not upset that she lost. She’s mostly frustrated that the game played out the way that it did. The Fever did what they did best – they applied heavy, physical defense that was more like wrestling than it was about genuine plays on stopping them from scoring, and both she and Cam ended up swept in the chaos.

Paige could see the constant back and forth between Cam and Sophie. She wasn’t ever completely sure what was said. Between the distance and the cheers from the crowd, it was hard to hear, but she could see Sophie speaking and the subtle changes in Cam’s expression. Paige likes to think she’s skilled in being able to read Cam, and that barely concealed irritation spoke volumes.

She’s frustrated because her nose still hurts, because the bruising she’s sure she’ll wake up to tomorrow will mar her face and she’d have to field dumb questions from the reporters and give diplomatic answers about how basketball is a physical game. On the bright side, her nose isn’t broken. Sophie’s elbow just broke skin and part of her does have to admit that it was really nice for Cam to fret over her like that.

But that’s not the point.

The point is her vet just got ejected. Again. Her second career ejection in the same season, for the same person, and Paige can’t help but feel a little guilty about it. Maybe Cam wouldn’t have gotten ejected had she been able to control her feelings a little better, but Paige also heard what Sophie said to deserve a punch to the face. She’s not sure if Sophie wouldn’t have dug her own grave without intervention from Paige.

The new, more pressing issue is that Paige feels a little confused. Which is confusing in and of itself considering she knows where she and Cam stand. They want each other. They like each other. They’re waiting – or rather, she’s waiting, until Cam is a little more secure in her own skin and her personhood to feel comfortable enough to let her walls down and be with Paige. They’ve discussed that. And even if she’s content with waiting, there will always be a smaller, more selfish part of her that wants more.

Never more than Cam will be comfortable with giving her. There’s a difference. She wants to be with Cam. The entire situation is just complex and messy and truthfully, it makes her a little crazy, because Cam won’t let herself be with Paige yet she literally puts her career on the line to protect her or make a point about who she is to Paige.

She knows what they are. What they mean to each other – which is why Paige hates feeling confused over this, because she has no real reason to doubt Cam’s feelings for her. She just has to trust the timing, the process, the unwavering belief that Cam will want to be with her fully one day.

Paige knows it sounds stupid, that it makes her look stupid. She can wait, but she’s starting to need Cam like she’s a crucial component in her DNA makeup. She’s starting to want Cam like she’s a drug and Paige is the addict craving that first hit.

But there’s a smaller, more doubtful part of her that wonders if Cam will ever get there. Get comfortable enough to let the both of them be together in the way they both obviously want to be. It’s dumb, Paige knows that, but she can’t help but feel insecure over it sometimes, which makes her feel worse because for as much as she doesn’t expect things from Cam, she still wants to be chosen by her – even if Cam does choose her in a lot of ways.

She’s just confused. Her feelings are all over the place and she’s beginning to wonder if the both of them are making it worse by continuing to feed into this halfway-lovers thing they have going on, where they spend hours attached at the hip and they find their way into each other’s hotel rooms during road trips. There’s never anything inherently sexual about it – Cam lets Paige hold her and they go to sleep, but it’s the fact that Paige is allowed to be so close but she’s never close enough in the way that she wants to be close.

Paige is sure that she’s spiraling. She’s sure she has no real reason to be freaking out, but between the emotions of the game, her lingering feelings for Cam, and everything going on, she just can’t help it.

Which is why she finds herself standing outside of Cam’s door later that night, after the presser and after they sat through a miserable postgame speech from Chris about not letting their emotions get the better of them. He talked about togetherness and other things that Paige ended up tuning out because all she could think about was Cam, how her wrist was doing and what the diagnosis was, and whether or not she was allowed to feel distraught and torn yet weirdly vindicated by Cam punching a grown woman in the face for her. She’s just so hopeless.

She’s not even sure she knows what she wants to say to Cam. She’s not sure if she’s going to ask if her wrist is okay or if she’s in serious trouble with the league or some other word vomit form of, “I know we had this agreement to keep things clean but I literally cannot do this anymore. I want you so bad that it’s starting to become a genuine issue and if you’re not ready yet, I completely understand, but I’m starting to lose my mind because you don’t want me – okay, that was a bad choice of words, but you won’t let us be together even though we both do yet you do all these things to me and for me and it’s starting to get confusing and–”

Paige knocks on the door before her brain implodes. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants if only to have something to do with them, trying desperately to rack her brain for something to say or if it would be just as effective to stand in front of Cam’s door like a complete fucking idiot.

But then Cam’s opening the door, her face exhausted yet open and her curls spilling over her shoulders in loose waves, and anything Paige had been planning on saying dies on her tongue the moment their eyes meet. She’s seen Cam in varying states of dress over the course of their really complicated friendship – from a crop top and bomber jacket at the draft to as naked as the day she was born when draft night turned into something else, to her Wings uniform to the practice jersey, to an old Stanford t-shirt and sweats.

Cam’s literally just wearing a shirt with Victoria Monet’s signature jaguar on it and a comical pair of boxers with red hearts on it, but Paige’s brain flatlines either way. It’s starting to become a genuine issue. She doesn’t know why she’d ever agreed to clean in the first place. How she was ever supposed to uphold her end of the agreement when Camille fucking Roman was the other person in said agreement is beyond her, but she can’t take back her actions now.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Cam says coyly, trying for a teasing tone, but it’s clear she’s a little worn down by the events of the day.

Paige, unfortunately, seemed to have left her only functioning brain cells back at the American Airlines Center, or perhaps they’d just bled out of her nose when Sophie Cunningham knocked the shit out of her, because she just stares at Cam, and rather dumbly, she says, “What?”

Intentional or not, that makes Cam crack a smile as she opens her apartment door wider for Paige. She shuts it behind them with a soft click and Paige tries to not get too distracted by Bobby and Gatsby as they emerge from somewhere in the apartment and begin rubbing up against Paige’s calves. “Every time I get in trouble you show up at my door,” Cam explains. Then, she seems to reconsider. “Well, you show up at my door constantly, so I don’t think it’s as much of a coincidence as it is you being obsessed with me.”

“Don’t get a big head,” Paige mutters, but she cannot deny the allegations. She appraises Cam from head to toe, her eyes locking in on her wrist. She’s wearing a short-arm spica cast. It only covers her palm and wrist area. The fact she’s wearing a cast makes Paige’s heart fall out of her ass. She was going to be out for a few games, she’s sure. “How’s your wrist?”

Cam glances down at it minutely before shrugging. “Fractured my trapezium,” she responds. “Same bone. Same hand. Injured it the same way I injured it in college, actually, although I don’t think punching Sophie Cunningham helped matters any.”

Paige huffs, the sound between amusement and something else that might be edged with guilt. It makes Cam raise a brow in question, concern appearing in her features, but Paige starts speaking again. “Why do you keep getting ejected for me?” she asks softly. Something in Cam’s face shifts, clearly not expecting that question. “First, it was the Chicago game. You were screamin’ at Coach ‘cause he wouldn’t take me out after I went down. Then it was tonight ‘cause you literally punched somebody in the face for talkin’ shit, and I…” Paige trails off, her shoulders sagging a little hopelessly. “That’s not like you, Cam.”

Cam swallows thickly. She doesn’t respond for a few beats, her eyes searching Paige’s – Paige isn’t sure what she’s looking for, but she eventually breaks eye contact, looking away a little uncomfortably.

Paige steps closer to her. Desperation swells in her chest like gauze absorbing blood because all she wants to do is understand. Why Cam does this for her but won’t claim her, won’t let herself be taken care of, won’t trust herself enough to let the both of them finally take that next step.

“I just want to know if I’m looking for answers in the wrong place,” Paige confesses after a moment of silence. Her throat constricts tightly, tangible, physical proof that she’s not just psyching herself up mentally – that this is real and the way Cam is making her feel isn’t something she’s talked herself into a spiral over. “I want to know why I’m enough for you to want but not enough for you to need. I want to know why this–” Paige gestures to the space in between them, “–why this is something that we keep avoiding. We both know what this is, Camille. Why do we keep pretending like we can ever go back to normal?”

Cam stares at her wordlessly. Her throat bobs, something unreadable shining in her gaze. Paige can also make out something that looks strangely like guilt, or probably realization, or something damning, like finding out that her feelings ran so much deeper than she’d been expecting. Like realizing that this meant more to her than she thought it did, like suddenly understanding how much weight this carried.

“I didn’t get ejected for you,” Cam murmurs. Paige would probably be offended if it didn’t look like she was trying to convince herself that. Cam shakes her head like she’s facing some sort of personal exchange in her brain, and she takes a step backwards. Paige fills that space immediately, which makes Cam look up from where she’d been staring mindlessly at a spot on the rug.

“You didn’t?” Paige repeats, her head cocking to the side in question.

Cam’s eyes scan her features, pausing on her eyes, the dark bruise on the nose and the butterfly bandage splayed across the bridge of it, and lingering just a few seconds too long on her lips. Eventually, she shakes her head. “I would have done it for anyone else,” she whispers. “You’re my teammate. She spent the entire game talking crazy.”

Paige’s brain focuses on the teammate word for a few, indignant moments, but when the rest of Cam’s words settle in the air, she suddenly feels so stupid.

Paige realizes what Sophie must have spent all game talking shit about. It was always the same topic that Cam ever truly seemed to show emotion for on the court. Sophie was saying things about Paige to Cam, like her name and their relationship was something for her to weaponize. She spent forty minutes chirping about Paige and Cam, one of the main things that Cam’s always wanted to keep close to them, one of the things that Cam wants to protect the most.

Despite the realization, Paige takes another tentative step forward, although Cam takes one more back. She wants to hear it from Cam’s mouth – the confession. The undeniable proof that she’s not the only one losing her mind over this, that she’s not the only crazy one. “We both know we’re not just teammates, Cam,” she says, voice soft. “That’s bullshit. You don’t punch people for your teammates. You’ve never so much as pushed somebody before today. So what is it? Really?”

Another step. The distance between them lessens, and Cam is running out of places to go. Still, she’s silent, and Paige doesn’t raise her voice. “You know what I think?” she says quietly, not really looking for a response before she continues speaking. “I think you want me. You do. Not anyone else. I’m not something that’s been decided for you by your dad, your family, or the media. And this?” Paige gestures between them, at the space that’s slowly shrinking the closer Paige moves towards her. “This is real. It means something to you. As much as you might not have wanted this to be a thing, it is. It’s complicated and it’s difficult, but fuck, Cam, it’s ours. When are you gonna stop running from it? From us?”

Paige is a little breathless when she finishes, and Cam – cautious yet brash to a fault, bullheaded yet practical, beautiful and so fucking smart and witty and everything Paige had been searching for before she consciously realized she would scan crowded rooms for someone like her – Cam can’t find the words, even if it looks like the confession is about to burst from her like a balloon too ripe with air. Her eyes shine, something like understanding and something begging to be listened to reflected in the warm chestnut of her gaze. 

Paige steps closer. Cam steps backwards, her back now flush against the cream walls of her apartment, and Cam can’t help but gasp a little. But Paige doesn’t slow. She’s not thinking, not about anything besides the woman in front of her, the woman who she takes another step closer towards until their hips brush and she can smell something sweet on her breath. Peaches, probably – they’re Cam’s favorite fruit.

Their noses brush. Paige ignores the sting of pain. Her chest swells with desperation and temptation, the same feelings that she was sure Eve felt before she plucked the apple from the tree. And softly, tenderly, pleadingly, she murmurs, “Tell me the truth, Camille.”

Resolve hardens on Cam’s features. Without time to second guess herself, Cam fists the hood of Paige’s sweatshirt in her left hand, pulling her closer until their lips finally crash together.

It’s like submerging herself in an ice bath after hours of arduous practice. It’s like coming up for air after being underwater for so long. It’s like finally coming home after spending weeks on the road, like this moment in and of itself was something Paige had been unconsciously counting down towards.

Cam’s nose brushes against hers, which makes Paige hiss in pain, but she doesn’t care. Not when she has Cam this close after weeks of yearning for her, after spending weeks telling herself to be patient and that she needed time. Not when Paige had to lay in bed next to her, holding onto Cam like it could have been their last time.

Paige’s hands rest on her waist, her thumbs pressing into the skin just below her ribcage, pulling her closer and tighter and firmer against her. The kiss is hungry, desperate, a little insistent, and each and every slide of their lips makes Paige’s senses shudder and lyse from the pressure of how badly she’s wanted this. More than anything else it all but makes her crumble because she can tell that Cam’s wanted this, too, just as much as she has.

Cam hardly lets Paige suck in a breath of air before her free hand rises to tangle in the strands of hair at the back of Paige’s neck, pulling her back up to her. Slowly, without missing a beat, Paige tugs her closer until their hips meet, the warmth and weight of Cam making her ache, she begins walking the both of them backwards. The backs of her calves hit the cushions on Cam’s sofa and they separate only long enough for Paige to unceremoniously drop to the couch.

She glances up. The sight of Cam standing before her makes her burn. Her shirt has ridden up from how Paige clutched the fabric in between her fingers. Her lips are swollen, shining, and her pupils are blown out, and she looks like – because she is – the most beautiful woman Paige has ever seen in her life.

It’s obvious that Cam just wants to fucking kill her, because slowly she inches forward and settles in Paige’s lap, her knees bracketing her thighs, and all Paige can do is hold onto hips and pray for some restraint. Somehow, she manages to find it, pressing her forehead to Cam’s and stopping them from going any further. Cam’s breathing heavily against her, her perfume and the fruit on her lips and the general air of intoxication around her making it too difficult for Paige to think.

“Tell me to stop,” Paige whispers, meeting Cam’s eyes and really hoping that she doesn’t actually use this as an out. “Please. I don’t want this to be something you regret tomorrow.”

Cam’s features soften, something so impossibly tender in her gaze as she reaches up with her uninjured hand. She cups Paige’s cheek, her thumb brushing against the dimple there. Her tone is earnest when she swears, “You will never be something I regret.”

Vulnerably, Paige scans her features for any hint of deception, but she finds none. She holds onto Cam a little tighter. “I want this,” Cam says slowly, carefully, as if saying the wrong words could result in this being taken away from her. She turns Paige’s face towards hers, and Paige truly can’t help the way her heart slams against her ribcage as she stares longingly at her. “I want you, Paige. All of it. Everything. I don’t want to run from this anymore. I don’t want to hurt you – I don’t want to hurt me by pretending like I haven’t wanted this for weeks.”

Cam’s throat bobs, shifting on Paige’s lap, painfully honest despite how difficult it can be. “I’m not going to be perfect. I don’t know how to do this right. Not yet, at least.” She cracks the smallest of smiles and Paige can’t help but laugh softly. “But…you’re worth it. You always have been. I think I’ve just been scared of me not being worth it and being scared of what would happen if this wasn’t just ours. I don’t want to give up on us before we had the chance to try.”

A hint of a smile creeps onto Paige’s lips, the lower one wobbling. She tries to not get too excited, but judging by the fondness on Cam’s face, she figures she was unsuccessful. “You mean it?” she murmurs, her gaze hopeful. She hates how her voice cracks, but fuck, she’s not sure if she’s ever been happier before. “We’re doing this?”

Cam nods softly, her expression a little shy if not slightly enamored. “We are,” she confirms, her lips brushing against Paige’s. “And since we are both effectively out for the Mystics game tomorrow, you have one chance to impress me and I might let you take me out on a date.”

“Oh, really?” Paige asks, immediately picking up on Cam’s bullshit as she leans back into the couch, a lazy smile on her face. Cam follows her as she moves, pressing further into her body, and Paige thinks she could get used to this – Cam’s weight settled against her, the way her frame fits hers so perfectly. “It wasn’t impressive at all when I dropped 35 on Phoenix after spending a week on concussion protocol and two days unable to breathe out of my nose?”

Cam hums. “I think your illness was a little overdramatic.”

Paige nods sagely. “And you came over to my apartment and made me soup because that wasn’t dramatic, either?”

“I’m very committed to the bit,” Cam says seriously. “Like when a kid comes up to you and is like, look at my cartwheel, and they show you the most pathetic looking cartwheel ever, you have to pretend to be geeked about it. Your fake illness was the pathetic cartwheel, by the way.”

Paige makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, her fingers pressing firmer against Cam’s ribcage, itching to press her hands directly to her skin but figuring that’d be a little too forward. “You really wanna talk about cartwheels right now?” she rasps. “‘Cause you’ve kept me waiting for almost two months and I think I deserve something in apology.”

“Do you?”

“Cam,” Paige pleads, her bottom lip jutting out a little pathetically. She’s not sure how else to make it obvious that she’s about to burst at the seams – she literally has Cam sitting on her lap, after two months of ‘we have to keep this clean’ and ‘we can’t,’ and the only thing she wants to do is kiss the woman she’s been thinking about for days on end. She taps her nose, wincing dramatically for effect. “I’m injured. Are you really gonna do this to me? What happened to your humanity?”

Cam rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and yeah. Paige is so far gone, but she can’t even bring herself to be ashamed about it – not when Cam’s leaning forward, pressing the gentlest of kisses to the tip of her bruised nose, similar to how she’d kissed Paige’s temple when she was concussed.

Then, her hand drops to curl around the back of Paige’s neck, and she pulls her in gently. Paige sighs against her lips, melting into the couch completely. Their kiss is softer this time around, but no less meaningful. Paige has to bite back a giddy smile of her own when Cam presses a little further into her body, like the centimeters of space in between them is more like a chasm and she can’t get enough of the way Paige feels against her.

Paige’s hands smooth down Cam’s sides, not rushing or demanding anything, and Cam sighs when Paige’s fingers brush against the tanned skin exposed by her shirt riding up. Paige pulls back far enough to watch Cam nod, to listen to the soft, raspy hum in consent, and she glides her palms against Cam’s skin. They both sigh, and Cam leans in again, impossibly content.

There’s no heat behind her movements. Paige just wants to be close, always a bit of a clinger, and the warmth of Cam’s skin beneath her palms makes something in her brain quiet for once. It stills her restless nerves, soothes something inside of her that has been conditioned to constant speed. It’s here that she’s allowed to slow down, to just be Paige and not a brand.

They move slowly, softly, and far too lost in it that neither of them hear the turn of the doorknob – not until they’re both interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Cam flinches and bumps Paige’s nose, eliciting a half-whine half-hiss, and Paige immediately pulls her hands out from other Cam’s shirt to clutch her face.

“Well, I was worried you’d find more Fever players to fist-fight while I was at H-E-B, but I was not expecting to find you with your tongue down Paige’s throat.” Paige glances over Cam’s shoulder to find Coley standing in the doorway with grocery bags in her hands. She just looks unimpressed, and Cam has her face buried in her shoulder, so Paige hopes that she’s not really in trouble. “Hi, Paige! Did you come for dinner? I told Cam to invite you.”

“Hi, Coley,” Paige says, a little stiffly. Her cheeks are still burning. “I didn’t know I was invited for dinner.”

Coley just scoffs, finally shutting the door behind her, kicking her shoes off, and making her way into the kitchen to deposit the bags. “It slipped my mind,” Cam grumbles, her face still pressed into Paige’s shoulder out of sheer embarrassment. Paige has half a mind to extract her because if she, the one who Coley walked in on feeling up her younger sister, cannot hide, then Cam doesn’t deserve to hide, either. They were, like, a thing now. Embarrassment was supposed to be mutually shared – in sickness and health or whatever the fuck. “I was a little busy getting chewed out by my doctor for reinjuring my wrist.”

Paige brushes her fingers along the outside of Cam’s thigh before she slides out of Paige’s lap. She’s red, too. Under any other circumstances it would probably be humorous since Coley doesn’t seem to mind at all. Paige briefly wonders if this was a recurring thing – Coley having the worst timing ever and finding Cam in weird situations.

Paige immediately expels that thought from her mind, mostly because it means thinking about Cam with other people, and they definitely aren’t that much of a thing yet for her to be getting upset over whoever Cam saw before her. Still, she sneaks a glance at Cam, whose lips still shine from their kiss, and Paige really can’t resist a satisfied smirk because she did that.

“Usually the wining and the dining comes before the, uh–” Coley waves vaguely in their direction, “–before whatever that was. But, I mean. You’re grown. Just keep it away from young, impressionable minds. The PDA, not the homosexuality, by the way.”

Paige catches Cam’s eye roll as she leans her head back on the couch. “One, you are 28–”

“You don’t have to say it like that–”

“And two, you barged into my apartment,” Cam points out.

Coley huffs dramatically as she slices something on a cutting board. “Okay, touche. That one’s on me.”

There’s a natural lull in conversation, and Paige glances over at Cam, who’s already looking at her with a bit of fondness. But she knows that look. Paige just sighs. “Am I getting the shovel talk tonight?” she asks, a little forlorn.

“Definitely,” Cam confirms. She presses a chaste kiss to her cheek, which just makes Paige flush, and she stands up. Cam holds out her healthy hand to tug Paige to her feet. Her voice drops to a whisper, only loud enough for the blonde to hear. “Don’t worry. Coley already loves you. She’s just being dramatic and wants an excuse to stick her nose in my business.”

“I don’t need an excuse, Camille!” Coley calls from across the apartment, and her words make Cam grin. She intertwines her fingers fully with Paige’s as she drags her across the apartment. The ease in the motion makes any previously held worry dissipate from Paige’s shoulders.

With something like ease fluttering in her chest and inexplicable fondness for both the woman next to her and her older sister who hadn’t hesitated before welcoming Paige into their family like she knew that Paige was going to be something special, Paige feels like she could get used to this. The one thing she knew for absolute certain was that she wasn’t going to let this go.

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | extra

rafe buying reader a gift at the gas station

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- C H . 1 7 | C H . 1 8 ->

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive themes and implications, awkward!rafe, cougar behavior from an older woman (age appropriate but still gross), mention of alcohol consumption (flashback), one-sided flirting, kinda ptsd!rafe lol, rafe going insane (again)

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 2.8k+

✿ A / N ✿ thx @wefelldowntherabbithole13 for requesting this. hope you guys enjoy this little extra and lmk what you think <3

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// READ CHAPTER 17 BEFOREHAND IF YOU DON'T WANNA GET SPOILED

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W E E K O N E // S A T U R D A Y 2 : 5 5 P M

Rafe was so close to ripping off the fucking gas cap of his fucking Benz because why the fuck wouldn't it close, HUH?!

Or better yet: why the fuck did this stupid shit piss him off so goddamn bad in the first place?

OH RIGHT. Probably something to do with how he’d just dropped you off in the fucking Cut, at that rat-infested shithole where his stupid sister and her loser rat friends always hung out.

FUCKING GREAT.

No. No, you hadn't exactly told him who’d be waiting for you there besides your loud-ass friend and some dude she apparently needed help with. Seriously, Rafe still couldn’t wrap his head around how you of all people were supposed to help her. You could barely grasp the concept of flirting—how the hell were you supposed to be of any help besides driving everyone in a five-mile radius absolutely insane with your crazy head?

Rafe exhaled. Finally punched the damn gas cap shut with his fist.

Knuckles throbbing, he rubbed at them, though it hurt less than his damn head.

Like, Jesus fucking Christ, that stupid-ass conversation you two had just minutes ago? Rafe didn’t even know how the hell he’d managed not to crash the fuck out. He deserved a fucking gold medal or trophy for keeping his cool and actually calming your crazy ass down.

And the best part? Not even a whole fucking minute after he’d defused the ticking bomb that was your brain, you were already ready to ditch him.

Seriously, was Rafe just some fucking joke to you?

Sure, yeah, okay, your friend had indeed called, and apparently you’d promised to hang out with her anyway today. But that wasn’t exactly a solid reason to dip immediately. You could’ve stayed just a little longer and… yeah. Done what, exactly?

Under different circumstances, it would've been late evening, and Rafe would've gone to your place because no way in hell was he bringing a girl around his nosy-ass family. And of course, you'd have the house to yourself—Rafe had zero interest in dealing with a random girl's parents (except that yours actually were pretty chill). You'd have giggled at the door, walked in, one thing would've led to another, and he'd have you moaning into the sheets. Or well, not moaning, considering at this point he’d rather shut you up and feel you choke on his—

Fuck, he really didn’t need to get hard at a damn gas station.

And yeah, just like with his occasional (!!!) hookups (again, he wasn't a fuckboy, alright?), he’d either crash at your place, too lazy to drive back, or show up at Kelce’s or Top’s, do a line, and pass out on the couch.

That’s it.

But those hadn't been the circumstances. It had been the middle of the fucking day, and Rafe knew better than to expect some quick fun with you. Hell, he’d be out of his fucking mind if he even tried making a move. You’d probably lose it, that whole exhausting conversation would start all over again, and even more likely: You’d freak the fuck out, dip, and that’d be the end of whatever the hell this was between you two.

Oh right, now there actually was a label. Apparently you were aiming for a friendship, or rather you thought he wanted one.

Cute, really. You two had barely known each other for, what, a week? Not even? And you’d already pressured him into deciding where things were going after the project because apparently, your brain needed to "make space for new people if they decided to stay" otherwise your anxiety would eat you up.

Aight.

Like, dude. Chill the fuck out for once. Why couldn’t you just live in the fucking moment for a second? But no, you had to constantly leap a thousand steps ahead and dissect every possible outcome.

You were literally the least chill person Rafe had ever met, and somehow, he still couldn’t bring himself to dislike you. How? He didn’t fucking know. Probably better if he never figured it out, because unlike you, he didn’t need every single answer to every goddamn situation.

Jesus Christ.

But yeah, sure, why not. Rafe loved collecting annoying people as his friends for a living. One more wouldn’t kill him. Bonus points to you, though, because for some fucked up reason, he actually had fun with you. Sometimes more than with Kelce and Top. And well, he didn't have the option to flirt with those two. But with you? Shit, it was his new favorite activity.

Which brought him back to the original question: What the fuck was Rafe supposed to do with a female friend?

Like, with Topper and Kelce, he’d hit the country club, hang out at one of their places, smoke some hookah, hit some beach bar or the gym.

Wait. On second thought—dragging you into the gym, you wearing tight leggings, squatting in front of him, and—

Rafe rubbed the bridge of his nose. He seriously needed to think of some other shit.

Another reason he desperately needed a fucking line right now. This whole situation—he was actually going insane.

First things first: pay for the goddamn gas.

The Benz gave two clicking sounds as Rafe locked it and headed into the station.

Good thing he’d driven back to the north side of the island. No way in hell he was about to get robbed by some cracked-out junkie at a Cut gas station where they probably laundered money and sold kidneys on the side.

“Pump Three,” Rafe said as he stepped up to the counter, eyes on his wallet, fumbling to get that fucking credit card out of the sleeve. Seriously, his patience was really being tested today.

“Oh, honey, what happened to your face?”

Rafe looked up—and his heart dropped.

Fucking shit. Not her.

Agatha Woods. 44, widow, Pogue, and the fucking woman Rafe had almost hooked up with last year at a bonfire party.

She’d been working the bar (which—let's be real—grown woman hanging out at a teenager party? Fucked-up), and Rafe had been doing shots one after the other with Top. And then Topper—holy shit, that was the party the idiot almost hooked up with your friend—dipped, and Rafe got left behind. And for some goddamn fucked-up unexplainable reason, he'd stayed at the bar with cougar Agatha and let her keep pouring him drink after drink.

Fucking shit, he'd been so wasted and desperate anyway because he'd dropped Gracie a week before and then there had been fucking Agatha with her triple Ds, her purring at him and fuck, Jesus Christ, his whole body literally tensed at the memory. His horny, almost-blackout self had almost followed her to her truck if Kelce hadn’t intercepted him.

Actually no, Rafe's entire skin was covered in goosebumps right now.

Shitshitshitshit. Just ignore her. She won’t remember. She probably pulls this shit on every guy who'd just celebrated his 18th birthday.

He shook his head and shrugged like it was no big deal, avoiding her eyes. “Golf club accident.”

Now Rafe was forced to meet her eyes, only because he was trying so fucking hard not to look down at her way-too-exposed cleavage as she leaned forward on the counter.

“I’m off soon, want me to take a look at that?” she said, fluttering her lashes in that sweet—actually, no, raspy smoker’s voice of hers.

Rafe kind of wanted to go back to Barry’s and let the guy shoot his brains out, because what the actual fuck. Why was he getting hit on by a woman twice his age? For the second time.

He just shook his head, letting out a tight chuckle. “Nah, I’m good. So, uh ... Pump Three.”

“I heard you just fine the first time,” Agatha said with a smirk, leaning back. “Just thought maybe you’d wanna pick up where we left off last time.”

Please just let me fucking pay. Holy shit.

Rafe gave a strained smile. “How much?”

Agatha chuckled. “Oh, sweetie, this is a gas station, not a brothel.”

What the—fucking shit, what?

His neck and cheeks were suddenly burning, and for a second he genuinely considered walking out and setting the entire gas station on fire, himself included.

Jesus Christ. This day was just getting worse by the goddamn second.

“I’m well aware,” he replied but his fucking voice cracked, and FUCKING HELL.

The hunting knives on the counter suddenly looked way too inviting, even though they were sitting right next to a blindingly pink stand full of glittery, oversaturated plastic bags with little rainbow-colored horses printed on them.

Okay. Seriously. The fucking universe—or whatever sick fuck ran it—was messing with him, because guess what was printed in bold letters on that stand?

Friendship Bracelets: Pick Your Pony, Share The Sparkle.

What. The. Fuck.

This had to be some serious joke. Hadn't he just made fun of the idea of making you a friendship bracelet a few minutes ago, just to shut you up?

“Four bucks.”

Startled, Rafe snapped his eyes back to the cougar, blurting out, “Huh?”

She laughed. “Looking at that thing with that big eyes of yours. You got a friend you wanna share the magic with?”

“Girlfriend, actually.”

The words had left his mouth before his brain could even catch up.

Shit.

Even worse than calling you his girlfriend in front of the cougar trying to bag him: he seriously considered buying one of the dumb bracelets.

See? This was your fucking fault. Riling him up with your psycho brain, then bouncing to Sarah’s rathole where she was most likely also hanging out. And now, here he was, about to buy you some glittery-ass children’s bracelet just to… fuck, he didn’t even know. Just the idea of you owning something he got you, it made his blood rush in a way that genuinely concerned him.

Well. One upside to the sudden topic shift: Agatha was backing off, now that she thought he was taken. Just like he’d intended, of course.

Guess she has some standards, at least.

“All grown up now, got yourself a girl, huh?,” she said with a giggle. “You oughta invest in a real bracelet then. Ain’t no girlfriend gonna want some kids’ toy meant for little girlies.”

“Nah,” Rafe muttered with a frown, cheeks warm. “She’ll like it.”

You loved sending fucked-up, crazy-ass crackhead pics to express your emotions. You’d absolutely love some discolored, shitty plastic bracelet from some shitty-ass horse cartoon.

And the fact that Rafe even knew that fucking cartoon in the first place was reason enough to buy one of the hunting knives as well and end his misery right here. Wheezie used to watch that crap when she was younger. He remembered those smiley, ugly-ass horses now.

Nonetheless, Rafe stepped closer to the stand, scanning the different packages. Apparently, each bracelet was themed after one of those LSD-tripping ponies.

There—that one. The obnoxious blue one with rainbow hair. He hated that smug, loud, egotistical piece-of-shit horse. Friendship bracelet for the Rainbow Dash in your life.

Yeah, no thanks. He wasn’t putting that asshole on your wrist.

“You need help choosing?” Agatha asked with a chuckle. “Otherwise move that sweet little ass of yours. Got another customer waiting.”

Rafe furrowed his brows and moved to the side, trying his best to ignore the heat crawling up his chest. First thing he’d do once he got out of here was a fucking line in the car, because fuck this day.

Okay. So what shitty-ass horse should he even get you?

He remembered the purple one with the emo bangs and that dumb little dragon sidekick. Wheezie’s favorite. Twilight Sparkle the package read.

Jesus, how the fuck did they all have shitty names like that?

Then there was the pink one. Of fucking course, she was called fucking Pinkie Pie. Rafe remembered her being all over the place and screaming and bouncing and just... no. That bitch reminded him way too much of Kelce for some reason. Or your best friend. Which was basically the same thing. Hard pass.

The weird cowgirl-looking horse just looked straight-up ugly. No way he’d let you wear ugly shit like that. Plus, it gave off full-on Pogue energy, so yeah, fuck that too.

Which left him with two fuckers called Rarity and Fluttershy.

And for some reason, Fluttershy just... felt right. Rafe couldn’t explain it, but he knew that was the one. Soft colors, none of that oversaturated eyesore bullshit. And her smile on the packaging—kinda sweet, kinda shy (well duh, the bitch was called Fluttershy for a reason), and she just radiated your vibe. Quiet, soft, but like... deep (in thought about some unnecessary bullshit probably).

He even remembered her being eerily like you. Awkward, kind, and anxious.

Jesus Christ, why the fuck did he even remember that?

Rafe grabbed the package with a grimace. It read Friendship Bracelet for the Fluttershy in your life. He seriously questioned his fucking sanity as he dropped it on the counter.

“Oh, so you finally picked one,” Agatha said, scanning it in with a smirk and raising an eyebrow. “I’m just gonna assume your girlfriend’s of legal age.”

HUH WHA—FUCKING SHIT, EW.

The audacity of that woman to say that of all people.

Rafe smiled crookedly, holding up his card. “Listen, lady, I’m in a fucking hurry, alright?”

Agatha chuckled again, holding out the reader. “That’ll be 110.55 then.”

The moment the confirmation beep rang out, Rafe snatched the bracelet and bolted the hell out of that goddamn gas station slash cougar pit. Before he ever stepped foot in there again, he’d rather make out with a fucking Pogue or shoot himself in the face.

In the car, he dropped the plastic package along with his wallet and keys into the center console and slammed on the gas. He needed to get out of there before that cougar actually chased him down.

And then the overwhelming urge to just crash his car into the nearest wall or tree rose up because:

Did he seriously just buy a fucking horse bracelet for a girl who was driving him completely insane, which also had the most fucked-up brain he’d ever witnessed?

Oh, and the worst part? He knew damn well he wouldn’t get anything in return. No sex. No blowjob. Not even a basic makeout. Probably just some awkward little smile and a confused “Thanks". Worst case? Another fucking discussion about what this meant, what Rafe’s intentions were, whether he was just trying to get in your pants, blah blah blah.

And the most fucked-up, goddamn infuriating part? He didn’t even seem to mind.

Sure, if you'd show him your gratitude on your knees, he wouldn’t complain (shit, just the thought almost made him hard), but Rafe had pretty much (almost) accepted that nothing like that was ever gonna happen between you two.

And guess friends without benefits didn't do this kinda shit, right? Like, Top and Kelce basically fit into this category and he'd never in a million years...just fuck no, what. Then again, they didn't have tits and a cute ass like yours, so. And moreover, Rafe would never ever gift them a cringe-ass fucking friendship bracelet. And definitely not one week after getting to know them.

Shit. The bracelet wasn’t supposed to mean anything anyway. Rafe just felt like he needed to make his point clear one more time, once and for all because he had this gut feeling that words didn’t cut it with you. Two days from now, you’d be whining again because Rafe made some harmless flirty joke, and your fucked-up head would twist it into some manipulative scheme of him wanting to get in your pants.

So when he'd give you this dumbass bracelet, he’d make fucking sure you read what it said:

F-R-I-E-N-D-S-H-I-P Bracelet.

Unfortunately, the gas station didn’t offer a bracelet that read “For the girl I got stuck with in a school project, who I kinda wanna bend over but I'm also fine with not doing so, even though she’s batshit crazy and wants a label six days in for a FUCKING HANGOUT, and for reasons only God knows I’m still putting up with her shit and guess I'm her fucking friend now and buying her this crap just to shut her spiraling brain up AND to make it loud and clear I'm not toying with her crazy ass”.

Jesus Christ.

He was losing it. He was actually going insane.

And the only reason for it?

You.

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K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- C H . 1 7 | C H . 1 8 ->

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T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

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