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[maplewhims]

simlish magazines 2.0 by maplewhims

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[arkaiveofurown]

Almost Enough (Part I)

Pairing: Sabo x Strawhat Reader

Click here for the Part II

In the two years you spent with the Revolutionary Army, you found unexpected companionship and love—with Sabo. Now months into a secret relationship, cracks begin to form when you realize there’s a part of him you can’t seem to reach. Koala, his childhood friend, has known him far longer and deeper than you have. You can’t hate her—she’s kind, loyal, everything you wish you were for him. But when your insecurity turns into distance and Sabo turns a blind eye, the question becomes: how much of yourself can you give before you start to disappear?

Word Count: ~4,000 words

tags: angst, breakup, jealousy, during 2 year timeskip after sabaody arc

my masterlist here ♡

The sun beat down on Baltigo’s training grounds, and sweat rolled down your temple as you lunged forward, blade meeting a staff. You were stronger now—smarter, sharper—but today wasn’t about technique. Today, your sparring partner was Sabo.

“You’re overthinking your footwork again,” he said with a crooked smile, twisting out of your strike with maddening ease.

“And you’re underestimating me again,” you snapped back, trying not to stare too long at the glint in his eyes.

He laughed, the sound warm and disarming. “Fair enough. But I like watching you think.”

You faltered, and in that pause, he caught your wrist and spun you into a harmless lock. His voice dropped a little as he leaned close. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Your breath caught, heart thudding faster than your body could justify. “You promise?”

“I swear on my hat,” he murmured, tugging the brim of it playfully over your eyes.

It was stupid how fast you fell. But it was Sabo—loyal, brave, brilliant Sabo. How could you not?

⸻

Months later, you were still with the Revolutionary Army, your days filled with covert missions and letters sent back to the Sunny. But your nights… your nights were his.

You sat on the roof of HQ, legs tangled with his, head resting against his shoulder. Sabo’s gloved hand traced idle circles on your knee while the stars blinked overhead.

“Do you ever miss anything from your past?” you asked quietly, half-afraid of the answer.

He paused. “Sometimes. But it’s hard to miss something when what I want is right here.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Sabo…”

“I mean it,” he said, looking at you. “I never thought I’d feel… safe with someone again. But I do—with you.”

You smiled, but a soft ache pulsed in your chest. There were still things he wouldn’t say. Parts of himself he tucked away like classified files. But you told yourself it was enough.

It had to be.

⸻

Koala entered the training room with her usual energy, towel slung over her shoulder. “Sabo! You promised you’d go over the new intel drops with me.”

Sabo looked up from where he was seated beside you. “Right. I forgot.”

You gave him a smile, already pulling back. “Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

Koala glanced at you with a small smile. “You’re getting really good. Your form’s almost as clean as mine now.”

You forced a chuckle. “Almost?”

She grinned, oblivious. “I’ve been at this longer. It’s nothing personal.”

But that was just it—everything about her wasn’t personal. It was natural. Easy. Koala knew his favorite meals, the way he fidgeted when nervous, how to calm him after nightmares. She’d been there through it all—before you.

And lately… you couldn’t shake the feeling you were trying too hard to catch up.

⸻

The skies over Baltigo had turned a dull gray, the wind restless with oncoming rain. You sat on the rooftop ledge outside your dorm quarters, overlooking the cliffside where ocean waves churned in quiet rage. Below, the base pulsed with activity—soldiers training, officers reporting in, laughter echoing from the mess hall. It was the same as always.

But not for you.

You hugged your knees, the usual warmth you felt in this place now replaced with something colder. Lonelier.

Sabo hadn’t noticed that you’d been skipping meals. You doubted he noticed the way your conversations had shortened, the way your laugh didn’t reach your eyes anymore.

He hadn’t said anything about how you trained alone now, or how you stopped waiting for him after meetings. And if he had noticed… maybe he’d just assumed it was nothing. Maybe, to him, it really was.

You rested your chin on your knee, blinking hard as the wind tousled your hair.

The thing was—you liked Koala.

She wasn’t mean or smug or spiteful. She was kind. She smiled at you during meetings, gave you water during long missions, even complimented your form after training. She was smart, sharp, a born leader. Everything the Revolution stood for.

She just also happened to know Sabo’s soul like the back of her hand.

You’d caught moments—little ones. The way she’d nudge him when he was brooding too long, and he’d instantly soften. The way he touched her shoulder gently when she looked exhausted, with a familiarity that required no words.

They’d been through so much together. You knew that. You’d heard the stories. You’d even seen the scars.

But that didn’t make the ache in your chest any less real.

⸻

Two days later, you were walking past the war room when you heard them.

Sabo and Koala.

“I still remember that night at Minerva,” she was saying, laughing softly. “You were so high on painkillers, you thought I was a marine.”

“And you hit me with a clipboard,” Sabo said with mock offense.

“Because you groped me, you idiot!”

“That was an accident!”

You stood there for a second too long, frozen in the hallway. The kind of laugh Sabo let out… it was deep. Free. Like something from a time before he ever knew you.

You turned away before they noticed, footsteps retreating down the corridor.

That night, you didn’t go to your shared room. You slept in the empty archive library, curled up between dusty ledgers, where your name wasn���t next to his on a clipboard or etched into a memory of war.

⸻

You told yourself you weren’t pulling away—you were just giving him space. You were just keeping busy.

That’s why you trained past sundown, sparring dummies until your knuckles bled. That’s why you volunteered for every boring logistics run, every solo recon mission. That’s why you smiled when you passed him in the hallway, even if it felt like a knife each time he said, “You okay?” without really looking.

You were afraid to ask for more—afraid he’d say no.

Afraid he’d look at you like you were just being needy.

Pathetic, a voice in your head whispered. He chose you, didn’t he? Isn’t that enough?

But late at night, when the base was quiet, and you were alone under the stars again… it didn’t feel like enough.

It felt like you were slowly being erased from your own relationship.

⸻

It was nearly midnight when he finally found you.

You were sitting alone at the edge of the cliff near HQ, the same one where you and Sabo used to sneak away to talk, to kiss, to just be. Now it felt too big, too quiet—like the wind itself could swallow you whole.

You didn’t turn when you heard his footsteps behind you.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Sabo said, voice carefully neutral.

“I’ve been here,” you replied softly, your gaze fixed on the crashing waves below. “I always am.”

He paused behind you. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You gave a bitter little laugh. “You noticed.”

That made him frown. “Of course I did. I’m not—what’s going on with you?”

You finally looked at him. He looked tired. Concerned. But distant—like he didn’t quite get it. Like you were speaking in a language he never learned.

You swallowed. “This… this isn’t working.”

Sabo blinked. “What?”

“I feel like I’m drowning, Sabo,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you. “And you don’t even see it.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Where is this coming from?”

“From everything!” you snapped, standing up suddenly. “From the way you never talk to me unless I ask first. From the way you light up when Koala enters a room, and I—”

You caught yourself, but it was too late. The word had left your lips.

Sabo’s expression changed instantly. “This is about Koala?”

Your fists clenched. “No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s not about her—it’s about what she means to you.”

“She’s my friend.”

“I know,” you said, stepping back. “And I like her, Sabo. That’s the worst part. She’s everything I want to be for you. She’s strong. Loyal. She’s seen every version of you—your past, your pain, your scars. She knows you in a way I never will.”

Sabo looked stricken, as if you’d struck him. “Y/N… that’s not fair.”

You shook your head. “Isn’t it?”

“She’s like a sister to me—”

“And I’m not asking you to stop loving her like family!” you cried. “But you treat her like she’s part of your core. And me? I feel like a shadow sometimes. I’m just… something soft you hold when the world’s too loud. But never someone you really let in.”

He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”

You flinched.

“I’m not making up how I feel, Sabo.”

He sighed harshly. “Then what do you want from me? To erase Koala from my life? To give you every memory I’ve ever had?”

“No,” you whispered, throat tightening. “I just wanted to feel chosen.”

Silence fell. Sabo stared at you, eyes unreadable.

“I gave you everything I had,” you went on, voice cracking. “I gave you my loyalty, my heart, my time. And I get scraps. Half-answers. Smiles meant for someone else. I waited for you to meet me halfway. You never did.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re being unfair.”

You looked at him, really looked at him—and that was the moment you knew.

He didn’t understand.

He loved you, yes. But not in the way you needed to be loved. He loved you like a flame loves air—quietly, conditionally, consuming you only when it wanted to.

And you were done setting yourself on fire to keep the illusion of warmth alive.

You stepped back. “You don’t get it. And maybe you never will.”

Sabo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You turned away before he could see your tears fall.

Behind you, the cliff wind howled.

⸻

The world was burning.

Smoke coiled through the air as the Revolutionary Army clashed with marines at a remote outpost. You moved through the chaos with practiced precision, dodging bullets, parrying blades, your haki flickering with every movement.

Sabo was beside you, his pipe smashing down on an opponent with crushing force. You locked eyes, wordless but perfectly in sync—until a sudden tremor split the ground.

“Split up!” Sabo shouted.

You nodded and dashed toward the northern flank, fighting through the smoke. But the explosion came too fast.

A wall of debris erupted behind you, sending you crashing into the wreckage. Dust filled your lungs. You tried to stand—tried to call out—but your vision was swimming, blood trickling from your scalp.

“Sabo…” you croaked, searching the smoke.

You saw him, just ahead.

He was scanning the battlefield—then his gaze locked onto something.

Koala.

She was crumpled near the east wall, unconscious and bleeding.

He ran.

You raised a hand weakly, voice barely above a whisper. “Sabo—”

He didn’t look back.

You watched, chest tightening, as he knelt beside her, cupping her face, panic clear in his voice as he called for medics.

Your hand dropped to your side.

He didn’t even see you.

⸻

The med bay was quiet, save for the beeping machines and the soft shuffle of nurses. You stood by the doorway, arms crossed tightly, your body still aching from the battle.

Sabo was at Koala’s bedside, his hand resting on hers. She was stable, her breathing even, the color slowly returning to her cheeks.

You didn’t speak.

Not until he finally turned—and froze when he saw you.

“Y/N,” he said, standing quickly. “You’re here. I was going to come find you—I didn’t know you were hurt—”

“No,” you said flatly. “You didn’t.”

He stepped closer, hesitating. “I… Koala was down. I thought she might be—”

“And I wasn’t?”

He flinched.

“I called for you,” you said, voice cracking. “I was bleeding, buried under debris. I called your name. And you ran right past me.”

Sabo’s expression contorted with guilt. “I didn’t see you. I didn’t know. If I had—”

“But you did see her,” you cut in. “That’s the difference.”

He reached for you, desperate now. “She’s like my sister, Y/N—”

“I know,” you whispered. “And I don’t blame you for caring. But it wasn’t just about the battle, Sabo. It’s everything. Every time I try to reach you, you shut me out. Every time I needed you to choose me, you looked somewhere else.”

“That’s not true,” he said, stepping forward. “Y/N, please—you’re the one I come back to at night. You’re the one I think about when I’m out there risking my life. Don’t do this.”

“I don’t want to do this,” you said, tears blurring your vision. “But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with being second to someone you’ll always love more deeply.”

His voice cracked. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” You took a step back. “When I’m hurting, you don’t see it. When I’m afraid, you tell me I’m being dramatic. I can’t be the only one fighting to hold us together.”

Sabo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you.”

You let out a trembling breath. “Then why didn’t you choose me?”

Silence.

He looked at you, devastated.

“I would’ve,” he said finally. “If I’d known—if I could take it back—”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered. “And I can’t keep bleeding for someone who only notices after I’m already broken.”

Sabo closed the distance, his voice cracking. “Please. Don’t go. We can fix this. I’ll do better—I promise—”

You touched his hand gently, then pulled away. “I believe you mean that. But it’s too late.”

He stared at you, eyes wide, breath shaky. “Please… don’t leave like this.”

You looked into his eyes—those eyes you’d once trusted with your whole heart—and felt it splinter.

“I love you,” you said. “But I need to love myself more.”

You turned, walking out the door as the sound of his breath hitched behind you. He didn’t chase you.

This time, he knew better.

And this time… you weren’t coming back.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, prostitution

fem reader

You’re his favorite whore…

You’re not cheap, but you’re worth it. He thinks it’s because you don’t act or dress like one. No skanky fishnets or slutty PU leather dress or hot pink stripper heels—just a cute white top and a little pleated skirt like any other girl your age.

It makes him feel better—like a man with morals and standards even when he’s far from it.

You don’t talk like one, either. When you jump in the passenger seat, you’re all smiles and sweet greetings, leaning over and planting a chaste kiss on his cheek—as if he’s taking you to the movies.

As if he isn’t driving you to a love hotel, as if the suitcase in the backseat isn’t filled with toys he’s going to use on you, as if you don’t have a tramp stamp right above your ass between the smilies—a heart with angel wings.

But of course, you were no such thing.

“Put on your seatbelt and take off your panties.”

You giggle, all flirtatiously with fluttering lashes—innocent-like. But you listen. Snapping your seatbelt in place before reaching under your skirt to pull your little lace number off—placing it in his open palm for confiscation.

He put them in his pocket for later, then placed his hand on your thigh. Taking advantage of the fact that you were now pantyless, he traveled closer and closer until his fingers were intimately teasing your slit. Rubbing your clit with gritty fingerpads as you sat and shook, balling the edge of your skirt in little fists with a tiny slip of a moan.

“Make a mess in my car, and you’re cleaning it up,” he warned.

You whined at his strictness, stuttering weakly, “S-stop it then.” Voice adorably sweet in his ears, instantly pulling a smirk onto his face as he continued circling your pearl.

“Drivin' makes my fingers cold. Where else should I keep 'em warm?” he joked.

His grin dropped when you took his hand with both of yours, lifting and guiding his fingers up to your mouth.

And it’s things like that which drive him crazy about you.

With one hand on the wheel, he took his eyes off the quiet, undisturbed road to look at you—licking your own slick from his skin, bathing and lathering his fingers with your tongue. Eyes drunk on your lewd actions, he began playing with the soft wetness.

Yeah, you’re no angel.

He gave a groan, growling, “You’re begging for a face-fucking.” 

You gasped from the shock as he dug his fingers into your palate—wiggling down your jugular until you choked and gagged before he pulled them back to himself. Inspecting the translucent strings snap and cling as they dripped over his worn knuckles.

With a huff and a click of his tongue, he gripped the wheel and shifted in his seat—crotch uncomfortably tight. 

“Prepare your throat for a workout the minute we arrive.” 

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Dabi, Enji, Aizawa ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Toji, Higuruma ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Daichi, Kuro, Iwaizumi, Sakusa, Ukai ♡ AOT – Eren, Erwin, Zeke

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[velaenam]

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. you are a successful aerospace engineer, a girlboss, with terrible luck in romance. let's hope this strangers website brings you out of that rut! 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – NSFW topics! mature themes, swearing/foul language, slow burn, talks of depression/mental health, guilt tripping, manipulation, tba 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬– not proofread. erm, more domestic bliss!! stop expecting the worst (or do.. stay on your toes baby) 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 7 of many ! previous chapter | next chapter | playlist —reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

the sim drills went smoothly. too smoothly. caleb hit every mark, sharp and fluid like he was born to fly that frame. you’d caught yourself smiling halfway through the final sequence when he executed a near-impossible maneuver just to show off.

now, outside the sim bay, the group’s circled up. a handful of pilots, a few engineers, a tech or two from flight systems – all gathered around in a loose half-ring, laughing over debrief notes, tossing gentle jabs, and happily drinking and eating the catering you’d bought not too long ago.

caleb’s next to you, leaning against a column with his arms folded, sleeves rolled up again like he knows what he’s doing to everyone’s attention span. your shoulder brushes his every now and then as you speak. he’s still holding your coffee cup, but he won’t let you throw it out yet. “i swear you just barrel rolled for fun,” one of the pilots says to caleb, nudging him. “not protocol.” and caleb scratches the back of his head, laughing awkwardly, “i was following the sim’s response curve,” caleb replies, mock-offended, his laugh resonating afterwards “if that just happened to look cool, then hey… occupational hazard?”

you laugh, tilting your head toward him. “i think you’re just addicted to flair and being a show off.” – “coming from the one who reprogrammed the entire thermal loop in under six seconds mid-flight?” – “it was five.” the group laughs. there’s a lightness to the air. the kind that doesn’t happen often on base. everyone’s relaxed, orbiting the two of you, letting the ease ripple outward.

then there was a shuffle into the room 

“caleb.”

the voice cuts clean through the noise, and you turn first.

she’s standing just outside the ring of pilots–  boots spotless, uniform crisp, her hair tucked behind one ear, her pistols adorn her hips. you recognize her instantly. hunter hq. jenna’s office. her supposed star employee. that tight smile, the way she scanned you in aw with her friend as you debriefed them.

“caleb,” she says, all sugar and poise. he shifts beside you, and you feel it. not defensively but like he was on high alert, maybe tentative. “hey pipsqueak...” he says, voice quiet.

pipsqueak.

the group goes still, the laughter dying out. the silence says enough. you look between them. it clicks. she glances at you, recognition flickering behind her eyes. then she turns back to caleb, her voice light.

“i figured you wouldn’t answer my messages, so…i came here” her whined words hang there, and you don’t look at her. you look at caleb. “this is the friend you mentioned, right?” you ask, voice steady. he meets your gaze– surprised, then guilty, then it was honest. “yeah.”

you nod and she smiles at you. “we’ve met! hunter hq, right? miss jenna is your sister?” you nod, “that’s right,” you say calmly. “and you’re the one who told caleb to unadd me on whispr.” her expression changes into a shocked one–   “i didn’t tell him to do anything.”

you smile. it’s clean and polite– but full of edge. “right. just made the suggestion.” the group starts to drift, the moment crackling under the weight of the shift. caleb stays beside you, jaw tight, his silence heavy, really unsure how to handle this. you step forward just enough to close the space. “we’re dating,” you say clearly. “and i’m saying it out loud so there’s no confusion.” she blinks once. that’s it. “well,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “i just came to say congratulations.”

“you’ve said it,” you reply. she nods. turns. walks off without a second glance. the hallway quiets again. caleb exhales beside you. “i was going to tell you it was her. i just didn’t–”

“you don’t have to explain,” you say, cutting in gently. your stomach curdles into knots. you suddenly felt sick, like you were about to vomit, but you remain steadfast– swallowing back the feeling of dread as you walk off from caleb, “i need 5.” you mumble as you disappear into the corner.

caleb stands there, a mixture of surprise, and dread surging through him. his breath was shallow, his eyes darkened, as he continuously tries to blink away the odd moment. he had to snap out of it, because it was killing him just standing there, but he was confused. but just like that– the room was empty, and he had two objectives to complete.

the hallway is quiet now. the briefing room is behind him, but caleb’s walking fast—shoulders tense, jaw set. the base lights above flicker a little too bright as he rounds the corner near the hangar access. that’s where he sees her.

she stands near one of the side exits, arms folded, weight shifted onto one leg. like she knew he’d follow.

he slows to a stop a few paces from her, breath still uneven from the sharpness of everything that just unfolded.

“you shouldn’t have come like that,” he says.

she exhales a slow breath, not looking at him. “you haven’t been answering.. i had to...” a tinge of whininess in her voice as she trails off

“i’ve been busy.”

“busy,” she repeats, dry. then she turns toward him fully, eyes tired but still sharp. “you’ve been busy for months, caleb.” he doesn’t say anything. “and when you do answer,” she adds, voice quieter now, “you don’t sound like you.”

caleb runs a hand down his face. “things are just different now.”— “yeah,” she says, mouth twisting. “because of her?” he blinks. not defensive, confused again. “this isn’t about her.”

“really? because it feels like i’ve been watching you disappear piece by piece. and i know you—i know you better than anyone else. and this? shutting me out? that’s not you.” he swallows. presses his tongue to the back of his teeth before speaking. “look… i didn’t mean for it to happen like this. i’m not trying to push you out.”

“then what are you doing?” he doesn’t have an answer she’ll like. not yet. so instead, he says spontaneously, “come over later.”

she blinks. “what?” he sigh, inaudible, “just… come by. we’ll talk. i’ll explain everything. i owe you that much.”

she watches him for a long time, but her expression softens—just a split second “okay,” she says finally. “i’ll come by.”

he nods once. it’s not relief exactly, but it’s something. then she turns and walks away. and he stands there in the empty hallway, alone with the weight of everything he hasn’t said yet. he stares at her disappearing figure before he turns back to the hallway, finding you.

-

the lights are soft. the sun outside’s dipping lower, casting long shadows across your desk. your tablet hums quietly beside the flight logs you’ve been annotating all day. the silence is good. it’s clean. keeps you grounded.

then a knock before the door slides halfway open— you already know who it is. you don’t look up. “if it’s about the fighter diagnostics, you’ll have the final render in an hour.”

there’s a pause. then caleb steps fully into the room, letting the door close behind him. he’s still in uniform, jacket half-unzipped. if you weren’t so tense you would’ve had a witty remark about how handsome he was looking, but the atmosphere didn’t call for it.

you finally glance up. “let me guess,” you say. “it’s about her.” he doesn’t answer immediately. he stands there, like the words are heavier than they should be.

“she showed up,” he says.

“yeah,” you reply, returning your gaze to the tablet. “i was right there.” he shifts his weight like he wants to say more. explain. justify. but you don’t give him space to.

“listen,” you say calmly, setting the stylus down. “if you came here to talk about where you stand with her, you don’t need to.”

his brow furrows. “that’s not what i—” “it’s fine,” you cut in, voice even. “i’m not going to be one half of whatever triangle this is. i don’t have time to navigate nostalgia.”

he stiffens, not insulted — just caught. “it’s not like that.”

you nod once, quietly. “okay. but if it ever starts feeling like it is — if it ever becomes easier for you to go back to someone who knows the old you instead of learning who you’re becoming — then i’m not going to get in the way. you know where i stand, I told you before. i won’t be in these types of situations” ‘im too good to be humiliated’ you think as you purse your lips. that is the truth. you worked too hard to be humiliated by a man and what looked to be his tail. and that was the hard truth. 

his mouth opens slightly, like he wants to argue, but the words falter. you’re not angry. that’s what throws him. you’re not defensive. you’re just… clear.

“you’re not a child, caleb..”  you continue. “you get to decide who’s in your orbit. i just don’t want to waste my time when you’re busy trying to keep one in line..”

his shoulders drop. the weight of your words settling into his chest.

“you’re not a placeholder,” he says softly. you smile, sad and a little tired. “then don’t treat me like one.” there’s a beat of silence between you — full of everything neither of you wants to admit out loud.

then you turn back to your screen. “we’ve got an inspection tomorrow,” you say, dismissing him, more rudely than you'd like to be “don’t be late.”

he lingers for half a second longer. but you don’t look up. and eventually, the door closes behind him.

-

the corridors feel longer on the way out.

boots echo off metal floors. low base lights flicker past him in pulses of gold, red, blue emergency lights, even when there’s no emergency. it makes the walls feel colder than they are. his hands stay deep in his jacket pockets. shoulders hunched. eyes down. always moving forward because stopping makes the noise louder.

he shouldn’t have gone to your office. you were calm. too calm. not distant, not rude but you knew what you wanted..

he exhales, slow through his nose, as the security gate opens and the city lights spill in. the sky over skyhaven is deep blue, stars caught behind haze. his apartment isn’t far. it never is. but it always feels like a long way home.

he passes a storefront window and catches his reflection — uniform half-unzipped, eyes shadowed, jaw tight.

i look tired.

i always look tired..

but there’s no one to say it out loud. no one to hand him a plate or touch his back or tell him to rest. not since grandma started needing help getting down the stairs. not since he was seventeen and everyone decided he was the man now. the strong one. the dependable one. he’s good at it. at carrying. at being the solid wall for everyone else to lean on. but he doesn’t know how to be held. it was hurting him, and every single day he had to throw that feeling of pain away. he couldn’t afford to falter— not when there were two women who depended on him. that kept him going. 

and now there’s her again. familiar, yes. easy in the way old friendships are, with all the hard edges already worn down. she’s never asked him for more than what he gave. and part of him loves her. he hated to admit it, but he did love her. and this is what hurt him. caleb loved her more than life itself.

he knows that.

but it’s a careful kind of love — like putting your hands on glass, knowing it won’t cut you, but also knowing it’ll never bend with you either.

then there’s her. you.

the woman who took his breath away. at the gala. the engineer with the steady hands and ambitious fire and a heart that scares the hell out of him because it’s real. it sees him. pushes him. expects him to be more than a caretaker. to be whole. 

but… he doesn’t know if he can be that yet. he doesn’t know if he has it in him.

he swallows hard as he keys into his apartment. drops his jacket onto the couch. the light in the kitchen hums when he turns it on.

he doesn’t make dinner. he doesn’t turn on the tv. he just sits at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. and wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll ever know what it feels like to be chosen for who he is, not for what he holds together. if he’s being chosen for being caleb. not caleb the protector, caleb the best cook, caleb the best role model. 

-

the city hums outside your window. the lights of skyhaven pulse low against the glass, gold and distant. your tablet’s dim beside you, diagnostics forgotten. everything feels heavier at night.

you stare at your phone a moment longer before hitting call.

it rings once. twice. then his voice: “hey.” you breathe in before speaking. “hi. i… wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”

“me either,” he says quietly. not cold — just tired. worn at the edges, but his voice hinted of surprise. like he was relieved you called. 

you suck air in, as you don’t tiptoe around it.

“i wanted to apologize for earlier. for how i handled things in the office.” he doesn’t interrupt. “i’m still figuring this out,” you continue. “how to be in something real. how to let people close without expecting them to walk away. but i’m not stupid. and i’m not fragile…. i don’t want this — us — to fall apart over a moment.”

there’s a pause. his breathing is steady on the line.

“i know you’ve worked hard your whole life,” you say softly. “i know how much people expect from you. how you carry everyone like it’s second nature. i know how hard you’ve worked your whole life as the sole protector of your family.” you swallow, voice steadier now. “but you don’t have to do that with me. i don’t want anything from you but your peace. your rest. your quiet. your self. i want to be the one who takes the weight off your shoulders, caleb. if you let me.”

his silence isn’t rejection. it’s listening. full-bodied, heart-deep listening. he felt like he’d crack in any minute now. “you don’t have to worry anymore,” you add gently. “not with me. not ever.” another breath.

“i really like you,” you admit. “probably more than i should. and i want to see you — not the exhausted version you give to everyone else, but the best one. the version of you that gets to breathe. to laugh. to be caleb. i want to see you smile- like you deserve..”

you wait.

and finally, he speaks — voice rough, like it caught in his throat before it came out.

“you don’t know how much i needed to hear that.”

“then let me say it again tomorrow,” you whisper.

he exhales —  his tears made their way down his face quietly as he listened to you

“okay,” he says. “tomorrow.”

he hears the knock before he sees her. it’s sharp, followed by that little silence she always leaves like she expects the door to open itself.

caleb wipes his hands on a dish towel and opens it.

she stands in the hallway, hands in her pockets, shoulders squared like she’s trying not to look like she’s bracing for something.

“hey,” she says, neutral, “you came,” caleb answers, stepping aside to let her in.

she walks in and stops just past the threshold, scanning the place like it’s a museum exhibit. the skyline glows through the massive balcony window behind her. the whole place smells like clean linen and something faintly citrus. there’s a hint of… female perfume in the air. everything is warm, sharp-lined, and understated. elegant.

she whistles low. “wow.” he raises a brow, locking the door behind her. “what?”.. “this is…” she turns in a slow circle. “not what i was expecting. at all.”

“you don’t like it?” she shakes her head “oh, i like it just fine,” she says, tapping her nails lightly along the counter. “i’m just wondering when you got taste. and a fridge that probably costs more than your old ship. and… you also gave gran your check recently….”

caleb exhales through his nose, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “came with the apartment.”

she  freezes. then she turns to him, one brow arching. “bullshit.” — “what?”

she gestures around. “caleb, i’ve known you since you were stuffing power bars into your duffel because you didn’t want to buy overpriced food. don’t tell me this entire setup ‘came with the apartment.’ ” he leans against the counter, folding his arms. “why does it matter?”

“because this looks like someone lives here now. someone with money. and a life.” she tilts her head. “and last i checked, that wasn’t really your style.” he shrugs. doesn’t answer.

she walks slowly past the living room, fingers trailing over the back of the velvet couch — the one you picked out. her voice softens just slightly. “so who’s the decorator?”

caleb looks away. “was it her?” she asks. his silence is enough of an answer. she sighs, “she’s the reason you stop talking to me, too?” he runs a hand down his jaw, tired. “i didn’t mean for it to get this bad. i told you i was busy.”

“busy… with her?” she asks, looking back at him. he doesn’t answer and she doesn’t push.

the light over the kitchen island glows warm gold, casting long shadows across the navy cabinets and clean lines. she perches on the edge of one of the stools, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of water she poured herself without asking.

caleb stands a few feet away, leaning against the counter. his arms are crossed, body angled away.

she watches him, “you’ve been off,” she says finally. he exhales, slow. “i’ve had a lot going on.” — “no,” she says gently, “you’ve been different with me.” he doesn’t answer. she swirls the glass slowly in her hands. “i thought we didn’t do this. the whole… not-talking thing.”

“i’m not avoiding you.” — “you are, though.” her voice stays soft, but her eyes pin him in place. familiar. knowing. she’s done this before but with control masked as concern.

“you stopped answering right away,” she continues. “you never used to do that. and when you do text, it’s like… short. detached. like you’re measuring your words.” caleb sighs, shifting his weight. “i’ve been working nonstop. i’m training on a new system. i’m in and out of base 13 hours a day.”

“sure,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “but that never used to stop you.” he looks at her now “what do you want me to say?” this was starting to hurt him more than she could perceive. she smiles, faint. practiced. “i want you to tell me when everything changed.” he stays quiet.

she sets the glass down, stands, walks toward him slowly and careful. she reaches out and places a hand lightly on his chest, right over his collarbone. “you and me,” she says. “we’re not temporary. we’ve never been.”  his jaw tightens. her voice softens. “i know it feels easy to drift when things change. new people come in, they bring something exciting, but they don’t know you like i do.” he flinches — barely. but it’s enough. “they don’t remember what you were like when you broke your arm climbing out of that tree to save a cat i thought was cute,” she whispers, almost fond. “or how you couldn’t sleep without me next to your bed, how you couldn’t stand the thought of not sending me to class without snacks. ”

“people change.” he says, finally. “they do,” she agrees. “but the good ones don’t forget who they were before the world tried to split them into pieces.” this didn’t sit right with him.

she looks up at him, eyes soft. “i’m just trying to remind you.” he swallows and says nothing. because a part of him still doesn’t know where if she was right or not.

her hand is still resting on his chest, light like a memory she doesn’t want him to shake off. caleb lowers it gently. not harsh. just firm. “you think she’s genuine because she bought you all of this?”

“you can’t talk about her like that,” he says quietly. her smile falters. just slightly. “i didn’t say anything cruel.”— “you don’t have to,” he says. “it’s the way you talk about her. like she’s some… stranger passing through. like she doesn’t matter.”

“caleb—” 

“she does,” he cuts in. “she matters a lot.”

she steps back, folding her arms. the practiced softness starts to slip, something sharper forming at the edges. “you barely know her. you shouldn’t trust everybody so freely caleb..”

he shakes his head. “you don’t get to decide that.” she stares at him for a beat, then lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “wow.” he tilts his head. “what?”

“it’s just funny,” she says, voice light and brittle all at once. “how quickly someone can rewrite your orbit.” “it’s not about rewriting anything,” caleb says. “you and i have history. but she and i… we have something . we have something real, here and now. and i need you to learn to coexist with that.”

she blinks. her jaw works. offended. then she speaks again, slower. “you’re seriously asking me to share you?” — “i’m not a possession,” he says, visibly hurt. “i’m asking you to respect that more than one person can matter to me at the same time.”

“but there’s only one woman in your life who should get all of that attention,” she snaps — not loud, but sharp enough to cut. his brows furl into something more than hurt, “and it’s me. it’s always been me, caleb.” he breathes in deep through his nose, jaw tightening.

“that’s not your choice to make,” he says, voice steady. “not anymore.”

her shoulders rise like she’s bracing for something. but nothing comes next — not a slap, not a shout. just silence.

he steps back, running a hand through his hair. he looks at her, and it’s not cruel. it’s just tired. “i think you should go.”

she doesn’t move. after a minute she finally grabs her coat from the stool. shrugs it on. walks toward the door.

but before she opens it, she glances back. “she doesn’t know you like i do,” she says quietly. “you’ll see that eventually.”

he doesn’t respond. she leaves and this time, he doesn’t follow.

.

the door clicks shut behind her.

the sound lingers long after she’s gone. caleb stands in the middle of the room, coat still in his hand, chest tight with everything she didn’t say — and everything she did. he sinks down onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands laced behind his neck. the apartment feels too quiet now. too clean. too arranged. like someone else lives here and he’s just visiting.

he rubs his thumb along the edge of his palm as if it was a nervous tic.

“there’s only one woman in your life who should get all that attention — and it’s me.”

that isn’t fair. he hears it again. word for word.

it doesn’t feel like a threat. it feels like history. like something stitched into his skin that he never questioned. he feels like she was scared of him slipping away from her and the worst part? a piece of him still believes it.

she was his beginning. the soft familiarity of her hand on his shoulder in every childhood photo. the one who sat next to him on the roof of the house, whispering plans about running away. the girl he shared his dreams with. the girl who knew how he liked his food and when to pull him back when the anger got too close to the surface.

it wasn’t fireworks. it wasn’t chemistry. it was gravity. a love he’s been quietly feeding his whole life.

and yet. you.

you came into his life in a beautiful dress. you came in without needing him. you didn’t reach for his hand like you needed saving — you handed him a soft manicured hand and asked him to carry himself better. you didn’t baby him. you didn’t expect him to fix anything. you expected him to show up. with his smile that had you smitten. and when he did — when he was around you — he didn’t feel like a tired man holding the world together with duct tape and obligation.

he felt like a man. grown. happy. in love.

and maybe that’s what’s terrifying.

because with her, he was the boy who never stopped being needed. and with you, he was someone who got to rest. he closes his eyes. presses his palms into them until stars bloom in the dark. maybe it's his thoughts of not being needed. maybe you will envelope him and he'd become like... her.

he loves her. he really, truly does. but he doesn’t know if it’s the kind of love that moves forward — or the kind that keeps him standing still.

and you — god, you make him want to be someone different. someone better.

but what if he doesn’t know how to let go of who he was?

what if he can’t?

-

there’s a knock.

it’s not loud, not rushed. just steady. three soft taps, like he’s hoping you’re still awake but wouldn’t knock again if you weren’t.

you were plopped on your vanity when the knock came, and as you start you scream through the hallway, “I HAVE A DOORBELL YOU KNO-“

DING DONG

you flinch when the loud ass ring went through. it probably woke your neighbors up. that was not calibrated since it hasn’t been used in a minute.

you cursed yourself as you continue to the entrance with quickened pace.

you pull open the door, pajama shirt loose at the collar.

caleb stands in the hall.

hoodie pulled low. eyes glassy. jaw clenched. he doesn’t say anything right away — he just stares at you like he’s not sure if he made the right decision coming here, but also like he had nowhere else left to go.

“hey,” you say gently.

his mouth opens, closes. his throat works around the words before they come out. “can i…” his voice is rough, almost cracking. “can i talk to you?” you nod immediately. “of course.”

he steps in — slow, like his body is twenty pounds heavier than it should be. the moment you close the door behind him, he turns and he wraps his arms around you.

it’s not a quick hug. it was a plea. his hands grip the back of your shirt, his forehead presses to your shoulder. like holding you is the only thing keeping him standing.

you hold him back, quietly, palms gentle against his spine. he exhales against your neck. shaky. raw. “i feel like i’m slipping,” he whispers. “like every day it’s getting harder to pretend i’m okay.”

your chest tightens. he doesn’t lift his head. “everyone just… expects me to be fine. to carry it. be strong. be reliable. even when i want to scream. even when it hurts to get out of bed.”

you don’t say anything yet. you just stay there. holding him together for a moment while he falls apart in your arms. “i don’t know how to ask for help,” he adds, voice breaking in half. “i never did. but i think if i don’t say it out loud tonight i’ll drown.”

you shift slightly, brushing a hand through his hair. soft. steady. “then say it,” you whisper. “you don’t have to hold it alone anymore.”

he nods against you, slow and trembling and in that quiet, late-night space — he lets go. just a little, because you’re there. and for once, he’s not carrying it all by himself.

you lead him gently to the couch, your hand never leaving his. the lights are low, the only glow coming from the city outside your windows and the soft flicker of the screen you’d left on idle.

he sinks down like his bones are too heavy. and when you sit, he follows — resting his head in your lap without asking, like something inside him already knows he’s allowed to. your fingers find his hair, slow and careful, brushing through it like you’ve done it a thousand times.

he breathes out. “she came over,” he says quietly, like it’s a confession. you stay quiet. just keep your touch steady. “she looked around like she didn’t believe any of it. like i’d turned into someone else.” you hum softly, giving him space. “she kept asking what changed,” he murmurs. “like she couldn’t stand the idea that i didn’t revolve around her anymore.”

he laughs a little under his breath. it’s not a happy sound. “i didn’t even fight her. i just stood there and let her say it.” — “say what?” you ask, voice low. “that there’s only one woman who should get all my attention,” he says, eyes on the ceiling. “and it’s her.” your hand pauses for just a second — then keeps moving. through his hair. down the side of his head. over his temple — gently and slowly. your teeth grits as you allow him to continue. you’d have a word with her. 

“i didn’t know what to say,” he admits. “because part of me still… loves her. or thinks i do. because she’s been there since we were kids. she saw me when no one else did.”

you nod a slight pain rising through your chest. 

“but with her… i always had to be the strong one. the protector. the steady hand. and now that i’m different — now that i’m tired — she doesn’t know what to do with me.”

his eyes flutter closed, “but when i’m with you,” he says, softer now, “i don’t have to pretend i’m okay.”

your fingers slow for a moment, then curl lightly into his hair.

“you make me feel like it’s okay to just… exist.. be me— be caleb xia.”

you lean down just slightly, pressing your lips to his forehead. a kiss like a silent steady vow “you don’t have to explain yourself tonight,” you whisper.

he doesn’t speak again, but his breathing evens out in your lap, hand resting lightly against your thigh.

and for the first time in weeks, he sleeps peacefully.

his breathing has slowed, his shoulders finally relaxed, mouth parted slightly in the kind of sleep that only comes when the storm’s finally quiet for a little while. his head’s still resting in your lap, his arm draped along the cushion like he’d melted there. like this couch, your hands, your presence — were the only place he felt safe.

you don’t move— not yet.

your fingers linger in his hair, slow and absentminded. your heart’s steady, but your thoughts are anything but.

you feel for him, how could you not? he was a child forced to grow up fast. now he’s a man who is having a hard time catching up. you saw it in his eyes when he showed up at your door — the exhaustion he carries behind that charming smile, the pressure that’s been building inside him for years. and when he spoke about her it wasn’t anger or guilt he felt. it was dread. pain. the hint of possible betrayal. 

you felt for him, truly. but at the end of the day you’ve known yourself longer than you’ve known him. you felt weird about this.

because you’ve never been one to share. not when it comes to something real. you’re used to being the one people orbit around. the woman who never has to try too hard. men bend for you. they rewrite the rules. they chase. and when you’re done, they accept it, because you never promise what you won’t give.

but this? caleb? this is different. he was different.

you don’t want to chase him. don’t want to beg for space in a heart that might still belong to someone else. and for a second — just a second — you think about walking away. cutting it clean before it gets messier. before you start reaching for things you can’t have.

you’d still be kind. still be composed… but your heart doesn’t move.

it stays right here. with him.

you watch him sleep — lashes dark against his cheek, brows finally unknotted — and you feel that quiet, inconvenient truth settle into your bones:

you really, really like him.

not for how he looks in uniform. not for the way he says your name. but for the way he let you in tonight — when he had nothing left. and still came to you. and a piece of you might think that that felt the bare minimum, but a piece of you also felt that this has become deeply rooted into something else.

you reach over for the blanket draped over the side of the couch, unfold it carefully, and wrap it around him. tuck the corner near his shoulder. smooth it down like muscle memory.

you sit back, letting your fingers trail down the back of his head one last time. then you smile — small, fondly, full of something warm you don’t quite have a name for yet.

you’d be there for him. even if it scared you. especially if it scared you. because some things are worth staying for. even the hard ones.

you wake to the sound of the city blinking awake outside your window — traffic  humming down, distant voices below. the apartment is quiet, but the soft weight on your legs reminds you you’re not alone.

caleb’s still asleep, curled slightly into your side, the blanket tangled around his shoulders. your hand rests in his hair, and you realize you must’ve never moved after he drifted off.

you shift gently, trying not to wake him, but he stirs anyway.

he blinks up at you, eyes bleary, voice thick with sleep. “morning.” you smile enjoying the sight of him. “morning.” he sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes. then he looks at you really looks — and something in his face softens as if reality hit him in the head and he realizes that he just slept on you.

“hey,” he murmurs. “i’m sorry for showing up like that. for just… dropping it all on you.” you shake your head. “don’t apologize.”

“no, i mean it,” he says, brow furrowing. “you didn’t sign up to hold all that. i should’ve—” you cut him off gently, with a kiss on the forehead. he immediately stops talking as you pull away,. “caleb. you’re okay. you don’t have to carry that alone anymore.”

he watches you for a second, like he’s trying to memorize your face. then his lips twitch into something small. grateful.

“you mean that?”

you nod. “if you ever need me — really need me — come. even if it’s 2 a.m. even if you don’t have the words. just come home. ”

he exhales a slow breath, like your words physically untie something in his chest. then, without warning, he grabs your waist and pulls you forward. you yelp — softly, more startled than upset — as he lifts you into his lap, the blanket falling to the floor in a lazy heap. your hands press to his shoulders automatically, your face going warm.

“caleb—!”

he grins, eyes dark and fond. “what? too early for a kiss?”

“it’s not that,” you mutter, flustered. “you just— you grabbed me so suddenly—”

he leans in and kisses you — deep, slow, like he’s been waiting days to. his hands settle at your hips, and yours curl into his shirt despite yourself. when he pulls back, you’re flushed and quiet.

he laughs. not teasing, just genuinely delighted.

“you’re blushing,” he says, amazed. you shove lightly at his shoulder. “i’m not.”— “you are.”

“it’s not the kiss,” you grumble, flustered. “you just— threw me onto your lap.”

“oh, is that it?” he asks, clearly enjoying this. “yes!”

he laughs again, pulling you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re cute when you panic. who knew miss ‘i don’t get intimidated by anything’ melts from one kiss?”

“shut up,” you whisper, even as you smile into it. his voice drops, soft and sincere. “thank you. for last night. for this.” you kiss his cheek. “always.” and for once, there’s nothing left to explain. just warmth. just him. just you. and a quiet kind of morning that tastes like peace.

as you open your mouth to speak, your stomach rumbles. caleb stares at you, and you stare at him, blinks matching speed as a stupid smile creeps on his face. as it infects your face and you start to smile he nods toward the kitchen.

you: caleb and i wont be in today. let them know please. if they have any questions or issues have them call me directly secretary: will do ma’am

the kitchen smells like toasted bread and something vaguely sweet. sunlight spills through the window in long ribbons, casting warm light across the counter, the stovetop, the slight mess from cooking. his hoodie is slung lazily over the back of one of your chairs. he’s standing at the stove now, stirring something gently in a small pan, bare forearms visible under a rolled-up shirt. good lord almighty he was so fine. the slight flexed arm muscle. the side profile. the tall towering prince charming cooking you omelette or whatever. too busy drooling. 

you walk up behind him, slow, soft steps on the tile and without a word, you wrap your arms around his waist. your cheek finds the space between just below his shoulder blades as you lean into his back, your chest rising and falling with his breath.

he stills for half a second — just enough for you to feel it — then relaxes under your touch.

his hand moves off the spatula and rests lightly over yours. warm and steady. you close your eyes. the quiet is heavy, but not in a bad way.

“you’re not alone,” you whisper. “you never were. but you don’t have to pretend now, caleb. not with me.”

he doesn’t speak, but you feel his thumb rub lightly over your knuckles. “i’ll be here,” you say again, softer. “even when it gets heavy. even when it’s hard to ask.”

you press a small kiss to the space between his shoulder blades. “you don’t have to carry everything. not when i’ve got you.” his head drops slightly. like your words sink straight into his spine. you shift just a little closer your head resting on his bicep

“you’re so loved,” you murmur. “even when you don’t feel it. especially then.”

he turns his head — just enough to meet your eyes. and for a moment, he doesn’t have to say anything because you already know.

-

the two of you sit across from each other at the small table tucked near the window, plates half-full with the omelet and toasted bread and fruit you forgot you had. there’s the sound of a show, on low volume, serving as background noise. caleb picks up a strawberry with his fork and gestures across the table. “do you remember the night we messaged about that documentary of the first airplanes?”

you smirk. “you mean the one you said ‘aged like milk’?”

he laughs, nodding. “yeah. that one. but after that… you remember what you asked me?”

you tilt your head, thoughtful. “on whispr?” he nods and you glance down at your coffee, swirling it idly. “i think i asked if you believed in love.”

“you did.” you look up. “and you said yes.”

“i still do.” he says it so simply. like it’s not something that ever needed doubting.

you go quiet for a beat, then shift your plate aside a little, folding your hands around your mug.

“i don’t,” you say softly.

his eyes lift to meet yours not surprised, just listening as if egging you to continue.  you breathe in, steady. “i mean… i want to. part of me does. but love, for me, has always been tied to conditions. people want what i can offer. power, connections, money, the illusion of having it all.”

he doesn’t interrupt. “i’ve had partners look me in the face and pretend they wanted me, when really, they wanted my name on their grant. or the way my last name gets them past red tape. or the guest list i can get them on. cars. god— someone tried to get at me because they needed their rent paid.”

your voice doesn’t waver, but it’s clear this isn’t something you say out loud often. “i’m so used to being a prize — a power play,  i don’t even know what it feels like to be wanted for me. just… me.”

he sets his fork down slowly. leans forward a little, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “you don’t scare me,” he says gently. “none of that does. not your name. not your power. not your money. i’m not here because i think you can give me something.”

you swallow, throat tightening suddenly so shy, “then why are you?” he smiles, slow and soft. “because you’re the only person i’ve ever met who didn’t ask me to be a hero,” he says. “you don’t need saving. you don’t want rescuing. and that terrifies me in the best way.”

you stare at him, heart aching a little in your chest. your fingers tighten around your mug.

“you’re the strongest person i know,” he continues. “but even strong people need someone who sees them. really sees them. not the version other people try to build around them.”

his voice lowers. “so let me see you.” you don’t say anything for a long time.

then, finally, you slide your hand across the table and let your fingers tangle with his.

and caleb — bright, battered, golden-hearted, golden retriever caleb squeezes back, like a promise. just two people, plates of cooling food between them, learning how to love each other without armor.

.

the plates are mostly empty now. the coffee’s cooled. but neither of you have moved. your hand’s still resting in his, fingers lightly intertwined, your thumb brushing along the side of his. there’s a quiet stretch thats just… full. full of thoughts that haven’t been spoken yet.

“can i ask you something?” you say, voice a little quieter now. he tilts his head. “yeah.” there was one more pause before you continue, “i know we talked about it before but what kind of partner do you want?” he pauses now. not because he doesn’t know, but because no one’s ever asked him that in a way that felt real.

“someone i can protect,” he says eventually. “someone i can build something with. not just… a relationship. i want a life.” you nod slowly, gaze soft. “a future.”

“exactly,” he says. “i want to wake up beside someone who’s still there years from now. who knows the worst of me and doesn’t flinch. who will love me as much as i love them.” you glance down, smiling a little. “that’s surprisingly poetic for a guy who steals all the coffee creamer.” 

he laughs, “you have the fanciest coffee creamer i’ve seen. i kinda have to.”  then looks at you. “what about you?”

you inhale through your nose, thinking. “i want someone who loves me. fully. unshakably. someone who’s obsessed with me, even when i don’t feel like i deserve it. not in a suffocating way — just… someone who never lets me forget that i’m enough.”

he watches you closely. “i think i’ve always been the strong one. the polished one. people fall in love with the version of me they can show off. not the one that cries at night when it gets too quiet. not the one who has a mental breakdown because her job is so impossible to do. the one who can create a plane from ground up but can’t decode a crossword puzzle.”

he chuckles at your last sentence, but then his brow furrows, eyes soft. “you’re allowed to be both,” he says. “strong and soft.” you shrugs a tilted smile on your face, “i’m trying to believe that,” you murmur. he squeezes your hand again. then — almost like he’s thinking out loud — he says, “i’ve never been with anyone.”

you blink.

“sexually, i mean,” he adds. “or romantically. not really.” you stare at him for a second. then your lips twitch. “you’re serious?” he shrugs, sheepish. “i’ve been a little busy, you know… school, taking care of my family, working odd jobs.”

you snort. “and i thought i was the last virgin standing.” he looks at you, eyebrows raised. “wait — you?” you nod, biting back a grin. “yeah.” a beat of silence — then both of you burst out laughing. 

“oh my god,” you say between breaths. “we’re such liars. acting like we’ve got it all figured out.”

“we’re frauds,” caleb says, grinning. you smile, leaning your cheek into your palm as you look at him. “i kind of like that it’s you,” you say softly. “that we’re figuring this out together.”

he reaches across the table, brushing your hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “me too,” he says. “i wouldn’t want it with anyone else.” liar. 

you don’t kiss, not yet. but the look you share across the table is deeper than any first kiss could be. 

you’re still smiling from the shared laugh, legs curled up beneath you, coffee cooling untouched between you both. there’s a pause —  before you glance at him, head tilted just slightly.

“you know,” you murmur, “you once said you didn’t have time for romance. that it didn’t fit into your life.”

he shifts, leaning back in the chair, eyes still on you. “i did.”

“so…” your voice is quiet, almost teasing. “what changed?” he watches you for a second — and then something flickers behind his gaze. something warmer. deeper. “you did.”

you blink. a little caught off guard. your lips then curl into a smile, as if you were trying to stifle a laughter, “going to be honest caleb.. that was corny..”  he just laughs, rolling his eyes as he shakes his head at you. your laugh escapes your lips as you both enjoy another round of laughter. then it dies.

“you’re…” he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck with a lopsided smile. “you’re thrilling. you walk into a room and the air just shifts. but it’s not just that.”

his voice softens as he leans in a bit. “you make me feel comfortable in my own skin. like i don’t have to be performing strength every second just to be worth your time.”

you hold his gaze. “i don’t feel like i have to babysit you,” he adds, lips curving. “you’ve got your shit handled. you’re grounded. sharp. dangerous in the best way.”

you smirk. “so… competent?” he chuckles under his breath. “no. not just that.” his hand brushes yours on the table again. slower this time. “you’re a woman,” he says, voice low. “and i am so into that.”

your breath catches just slightly — it’s unexpected, it’s so clear he means every word.

“you walk like you don’t owe anyone your softness,” he says. “and you love like it still matters. you terrify me and calm me down at the same time. and it made me realize… romance isn’t the problem.”

his thumb strokes across your knuckles. “i just hadn’t met the right person yet.” your heart thuds once, low and warm in your chest. he grins again — that cocky, crooked one — but his eyes stay soft. “you made space for it in my life without even asking.”

you lean in a little, cheeks warm. “well,” you whisper, “glad i ruined your whole schedule.”

“best interruption of my life.”

the dishes are still in the sink. caleb’s now sitting cross-legged on your couch in a t-shirt and sweatpants you gave him, hair still a little mussed from sleep. your feet are in his lap. the curtains are drawn halfway open, city light pouring in like warm milk. everything feels slow, quiet, safe.

you glance over at him, head resting on the back of the couch.

“can i ask you something?”

he nods, lazy and comfortable. “yeah?”

“how important is sex to you?”

he blinks 

you watch his face carefully, not pressing. “it’s not that important to me,” you say softly. “not the act, i mean. it’s more about who i do it with. the feeling behind it. i don’t need it for connection. but if the connection’s already there…” you trail off, shrugging one shoulder. he’s quiet for a second. thoughtful.

“i don’t think i’ve ever really considered it,” he admits. “everyone around me always made it sound like a milestone. a checklist. but i never really…” he shrugs. “i guess i just wanted it to mean something..” 

you nod. “that makes sense.” there’s a pause. then, casually mutter just below a whisper: “you know we could fuck right now if you wanted.”

his head snaps toward you so fast you nearly choke on your own laugh, “w-what?” he sputters. you grin, tilting your head. “you heard me.” he blinks at you, eyes wide, ears instantly going pink. “i— you— are you serious?” you nod, “we’re alone,” you say, stretching your arms behind your head. “we both have the day off. you’re in my clothes. i’m feeling comfortable. you said you feel safe with me.” you raise a brow. “seems like the perfect setting.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. rubs his palm over the back of his neck and laughs under his breath. “is this a punishment...” you laugh, leaning in just enough to brush your foot along his thigh. “you’re blushing.” and caleb goes on the defense, “you said it like we were about to go do laundry.”

“just being practical.” he groans, hiding his face in his hands. “you’re going to kill me.”

you scoot closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “i’m just saying, if and when it happens… it’ll be because we want to. not because we feel like we’re supposed to.” he peeks out from between his fingers, lips twitching. “you’re dangerous.” you smile against his neck. “you like that.”

he doesn’t deny it.

and neither of you move — just staying there, wrapped in soft clothes and possibility. he’s still pink in the face, but that crooked smile is back now — the one he gets when he’s about to do something cocky, something dangerous and you’ve seen that smile before — during flight drills, when he pulls a move just to show off. but seeing it here, aimed at you, in your apartment where he just spent the night in your lap?

“you think you can fluster me,” he murmurs, voice low, leaning just a little closer, “but you forget—i learn fast.”

you narrow your eyes, grinning. “is that so?” – “mmhm.”

and then suddenly— his hands are on your thighs, and he lifts you with a smoothness that knocks the breath out of you it’s so unexpected. you gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as he rises to his feet in one fluid motion– your legs are around his waist before you can think.

“caleb,” you hiss, half-laughing, half-scandalized, “what are you—!” he raises a brow, smug. “what? we’re off today. we’re comfortable. i’m feeling very safe with you.” you stare at him, flustered in a way you haven’t felt in years — like someone just cracked your composure down the middle and peeked inside.

“this is wildly inappropriate,” you mumble, face hot. he shifts his grip slightly, hands snug at the curve of your thighs, holding you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “oh, i’m sorry—i thought we were being practical?” you glare at him, biting back a smile. “you’re mocking me.” – “you started it,” he says, laughing now, voice warm in your ear. “miss strong-independent-woman-who-doesn’t-get-flustered.”

“i’m not flustered.” he grins. “you’re flushed.” 

 “because you manhandled me.”

“you liked it.”

you smack his shoulder, and he stumbles backward playfully, still holding you like you weigh nothing. the two of you collapse back onto the couch, tangled in limbs and laughter, breathless in the best way. you land on top of him, hands braced on his chest, hair swaying forward. his eyes are right there — warm and focused, lips parted.

you’re both still smiling. still laughing. but the air’s shifted again.

you don’t kiss. not yet. but your forehead rests gently against his, and for a second, everything is quiet again. his voice, low: “i’m not rushing this. you know that, right?” you nod. “i know.”

he exhales, eyes flickering down to your lips. “but when you’re ready…” your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“it'll be worth the wait,” he finishes.

you smile softly, “ it already is.”

as you relish the moment, your phone vibrates and you roll your eyes, stepping off of him, and checking the notification. it was from stacia.

'double date on saturday night with my boyf and you and yours! dinner is on me, i got a raise! mwah'

"well... if you have plans on saturday night, considered it cancelled. we have a double date." you state to caleb as you read the message out loud.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @mcdepressed290, @young-adult-summer, @unstablemiss, @britishfailure, @caramelizedpopcirn, @velvtcherie, @lonelylandofan , @llamabois , @i-messed-up-big-time , @mysticcollectionvoid, @iamawkwardandshy, @auraficial, @mxkvlio, @mysticcollectionvoid, @rxelarailuj, @angelwhizpers, @p5ycholuv, @dysphxriaii, @loversobession, @lucifers-silhouette, @alayaaaahhhhhh, @dwuclvr, @unstablemiss, @miffysoo, @perqbeth,

[ihrtpaige]

DELICATE. teaser!

⠀☆ SYNOPSIS. pop sensation spencer mckenzie's life has long been flipped upside down when she finds herself in a mild internet beef with paige bueckers— but it's not like it's her fault. paige started it when she called her music "overrated" (like, who says that? about the daughter of a fellow uconn legend, no less.); she left spencer with no choice but to clap back. what she doesn’t expect is for paige to respond by tweeting an offer to take her on a date as her public "apology", or to run into her in–person at an event a week later, or to end up falling so damn hard. now spencer has to decide, fast: is she ready to let paige in and be in love again, or will she let the demons of her past take this away, too? after all, the whole world is watching.

warnings. mentions of past cheating, mentions of a past friendship breakup and betrayal

notes. not a prologue or anything like that! just a snippet from the first chapter. i have to proofread one more time and make a few revisions, and then i'll have the whole thing up asap! stay tuned!

taglist. @wosolipa, @syraxsbigfanfr ( tysm for the interest and support ♡ if you'd like to be added just comment or send an ask! )

word count. 553

los angeles, california.

this is utterly pathetic, spencer knows, but she can’t bring herself to care.

she digs her spoon further into her fudge brownie ice cream, scooping up a hefty chunk before shamelessly shoveling it into her mouth. she doesn’t care if any of it drips onto and stains this designer–italian–whatever sofa, either. after surviving what officially has been the worst year of her life— publicly humiliated, cheated on, and, surprise! the other woman is your best friend— she feels she’s earned the right to spend her couple days of downtime wallowing.

she’s halfway through the pint of ben & jerry’s and a few hours into a buffy the vampire slayer binge–watch when her phone buzzes against her leg.

leela 🫶 : sis have u seen this?? leela 🫶 : it’s about you 💀

the notification sound chimes again, followed by a link. spencer narrows her eyes, already prepared to see another brain–dead take on her personal life or completely made up blind item when she clicks on it.

it’s a tiktok, some promo thing the dallas wings did with their players ahead of the season. “this or that: music edition”, the colorful text on the screen reads. whoever’s behind the camera goes up to several of the players, asking them to choose between different artists— drake or kendrick, taylor or beyoncé, that kind of thing. spencer’s brain is already half–way checked out before she hears:

“okay, spencer mckenzie or taissa rey?”

because of course. just messy.

spencer told her self she wouldn’t engage with content comparing her and her former best friend anymore— it’s stupid, self–destructive, and just bad for her brain— but it’s honestly still vindicating to see so many of the players pick her. she actually feels her chest tighten, a little. sometimes, she gets so caught up in negative headlines and the drama of it all, she almost forgets that there are people that still like her. still choose her.

and then the video cuts to her.

paige bueckers.

national champion, uconn golden girl, dallas wings star, ridiculously hot paige bueckers. of course, spencer’s seen her before— years ago at her dad’s camps when she would tag along everywhere he went, at games when she still had the time to drop in and catch them in person, all over her for you page in what has to have been hundreds of unabashedly thirsty edits more recently. and if one or two of said edits happen to be saved in her favorites folder, that’s between her and tiktok hq.

she looks good in this video, too, with her hair pulled back into a low bun and blue eyes catching the lighting in the gym just right, lips already curved in a half–smirk before she hears the question. her toned arms are on full display in her wings practice jersey, biceps inadvertently flexing as her arms cross over her chest.

for some reason, spencer finds herself holding her breath as she awaits the blonde’s answer, hand suspended mid–air, still holding a spoonful of ice cream.

but paige doesn’t even hesitate before going: “taissa, easy.” she nods definitively. “that spencer song is lowkey overrated.”

the video is onto the next topic before spencer can even fully register it.

she stares at her phone screen, blinking dumbly. sits up. rewinds. watches it again.

and again.

“overrated?” she mutters aloud.

[cazhan]

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[ellenhghg]

I hope its alright to request something? But hear me out!! Reader has a secret pole in her room at the ShinRa HQ (she can be a SOLDIER, Ancient or whatever) and also a honeybee costume. Well one day she finds herself stuck to the pole with handcuffs behind her and calls either Cloud or Sephiroth (you choose who you like to write for) to help her. Like what would be their reaction to the call? Btw I really love how accurate you write all of them I am soooo starved for more!!!!!! <3333

Yess keep requesting away! I wrote one for Cloud and Sephiroth since this was really fun to write. I really hope you like it! Also everything between «» are thoughts, thought that would be a cute touch. And Pre Nibelheim Thank you soo much for your love!! ♥♥

♡‧₊˚ Cloud: Cloud blinks as his PHS buzzes insistently, the ringtone he chose for you blaring tinny and shrill in the locker room. He fumbles for the device, nearly dropping it in his haste.

«The hell…? Y/N never calls me unless it's an emergency… or she's tryin' to rope me into another one of her crazy schemes.»

Dread pooling in his gut, Cloud flips open the PHS, bracing himself for the worst.

"Hello? Y/N, what's—"

"CLOUD! THANK GAIA!"

Cloud winces, yanking the PHS away from his ear as your panicked shout nearly bursts his enhanced eardrums. His brow furrows, a spike of worry lancing through him at the barely-restrained hysteria in your voice.

"Y/N? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"NO I'M NOT OKAY!"

There's a scuffling sound, followed by a metallic clang and a string of muffled curses. Cloud's eyes widen, his mind immediately jumping to the worst case scenario.

"Are you under attack?! Where are you?! I swear to Shiva, if someone's hurt you, I'll—"

"What? NO! No no no, nothing like that!"

Your voice is strained, tinged with embarrassment and a hint of… is that laughter? Cloud blinks, confusion momentarily overriding his panic.

"…Okay, so what's with the screaming? You nearly gave me a heart attack, woman!"

"Sorry, sorry! I just… Gaia, this is so embarrassing…"

You take a deep breath, the sound crackling down the line. When you speak again, your voice is small, almost sheepish.

"I, uh… I might have gotten myself into a bit of a situation. With the, um… the pole in my room."

Cloud's brain stalls, trying to process this new information. Pole? What pole? Why would you have a—

Oh. OH.

Suddenly, the pieces click into place - the Honeybee Inn costume he'd glimpsed in your closet, the way you'd been humming those catchy burlesque tunes under your breath, the mysterious 'dance lessons' you'd been sneaking off to for weeks…

«Sweet Shiva on a stick. She's been learning to pole dance. POLE DANCE.»

Cloud's face flushes bright red, a strangled noise escaping his throat. He clears it hastily, trying to will away the sudden rush of blood to his… ahem, nether regions.

"You, uh… You got stuck? On the pole?"

He cringes at the way his voice cracks, high and thready with barely-restrained panic. Gaia, could this BE any more awkward?!

"…Maybe? I mean, definitely. Definitely stuck. Very stuck."

Your voice is a mortified whimper, muffled like you've got your face buried in your hands… or the crook of your elbow, if Cloud's mental image is accurate.

«Okay, Strife, keep it together. Y/N needs your help, not your horny teenage daydreams! Focus!»

Taking a deep, calming breath, Cloud forces himself to think past the haze of embarrassment and… other feelings he's not quite ready to examine.

"Alright, just… hang tight, okay? I'll be there in five. Don't move!"

A beat of silence, then a snort.

"…Really, Cloud? 'Don't move'? I'm literally stuck to a pole!"

"You know what I mean!"

Face burning, Cloud snaps the PHS shut, already moving towards the door. He pointedly ignores Zack's raised eyebrow and knowing grin, shouldering past his friend with a growled "Not a word, Fair. Not. A. Word."

He's out the door and halfway down the hall before Zack can even open his mouth, enhanced speed carrying him towards your room in record time.

«Hang on, Y/N. I'm comin'. Just… try not to do anything else stupid 'til I get there, alright?»

And if his mind happens to conjure up a few tantalizing images of the predicament he might find you in, well… he's only human, right? Er, SOLDIER. Whatever.

«Gaia help me, I am so screwed…»

♡‧₊˚ Sephiroth: The harsh buzzing of his PHS jolts Sephiroth out of his paperwork-induced trance. He frowns, glancing at the caller ID with a mix of annoyance and trepidation.

«Y/N? She never calls me directly unless it's an emergency…»

Suppressing a sigh, he flips open the device, bracing himself for whatever chaos you've managed to stir up this time.

"Y/N. To what do I owe the—"

"SEPH! THANK GAIA YOU PICKED UP!"

Sephiroth winces, pulling the PHS away from his ear as your panicked shout threatens to rupture his enhanced eardrums. His brow furrows, a spike of concern lancing through him at the barely-restrained hysteria in your voice.

"Y/N? What's wrong? Are you alright?"

"NO! No I'm not alright! I'm— Gaia, this is so embarrassing…"

You trail off, a muffled thump and clatter echoing down the line. Sephiroth's grip tightens on the PHS, his mind already conjuring worst-case scenarios.

"Are you in danger? Do you need backup? Give me your location and I'll—"

"What? NO! No no no, nothing like that! I just… ugh, I can't believe I'm about to say this…"

You take a deep breath, the sound crackling through the speaker. When you speak again, your voice is small, tinged with mortification.

"I'm stuck."

Sephiroth blinks, certain he must have misheard. "…Stuck."

"Yes! Stuck! As in, I physically cannot move from my current position!"

"…I see. And what, pray tell, is your current position?"

There's a long, telling silence. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

"…I'm handcuffed to my pole dancing pole. In my Honeybee Inn costume."

For a moment, Sephiroth's brain short-circuits, unable to process this new information. You… pole dancing… Honeybee Inn costume… handcuffs…

«…I don't get paid enough for this.»

Closing his eyes, he pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine coming on. Of all the ridiculous, irresponsible things to do…

"Let me get this straight," he says slowly, enunciating each word with careful precision. "You, in all your infinite wisdom, decided it would be a good idea to play dress-up as a Honeybee girl and practice your, ahem, 'dance moves'… and somehow managed to get yourself handcuffed to your own pole. Is that about right?"

"…Maybe?"

Sephiroth sighs, long and deep, the sound reverberating through the phone line. "…Dare I ask how you even acquired a pole dancing pole in the first place?"

"I thought it would be a fun workout!"

He can practically HEAR the pout in your voice, the unspoken plea for understanding. It takes every ounce of his SOLDIER discipline not to bang his head against the desk.

«Gaia grant me strength… and a bottle of Junon's finest whiskey.»

With a herculean effort, Sephiroth forces down the urge to lecture, keeping his voice carefully neutral as he speaks.

"I see. And the handcuffs?"

"…I thought they'd add a little extra challenge?"

«Of course you did. Why am I even surprised at this point?»

Sephiroth drags a hand down his face, silently counting backwards from ten in every language he knows. It's a technique Genesis taught him, back in their early days as SOLDIERs.

«One day, that man's questionable 'stress relief' methods might actually come in handy. Miracles do happen, I suppose.»

"Alright," he says at last, resigned to his fate as your perpetual rescuer. "I assume you called me because you need assistance extricating yourself from this… predicament?"

"Yes please! I tried calling Cloud but he's not picking up and I'm starting to lose feeling in my—"

"Y/N."

He cuts you off before you can finish that thought, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The absolute LAST mental image he needs right now is Strife ogling your half-naked form.

Shoving down the irrational surge of overprotectiveness (and the FAR more disturbing flicker of jealousy), Sephiroth forces his voice into some semblance of calm professionalism.

"I'll be there shortly. Just… try not to make the situation any worse in the meantime."

"…How could it POSSIBLY get any wor—"

"Don't. Tempt. Fate."

He snaps the PHS shut before you can respond, already rising from his desk with a bone-deep weariness. The stack of reports will have to wait. He has a certain someone to rescue… again.

«The things I do for you, I swear… You're going to be the death of me one day.»

But even as the thought crosses his mind, Sephiroth can't quite suppress the tiny, traitorous spark of warmth in his chest. Exasperating as you may be, you're still the closest thing he has to family.

«And family looks out for each other… even when one of them is an absolute disaster of a human being.»

With a rueful shake of his head, Sephiroth strides out of his office, already mentally cataloguing the fastest route to your quarters. With any luck, he can have you untangled and decent before anyone else catches wind of this latest misadventure.

But he'll weather it, like he always does. Because that's what you do for the people you love… even when they drive you absolutely insane.

For now, he has a damsel in (self-inflicted) distress to save

[haztory]

october 17th ♡

– ceo!kuroo tetsurou x assistant!reader; timeskip au, slow burn, mutual pining

– summary: It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season.

part one

a/n: i saw the hq movie and remembered my roots. it's kuroo time. love that man. (w.c.: 6.4k)

It’s October 17th, your desk calendar tells you. 

Marked in a quick circle in bold red pen for emphasis. Not like you could forget it, what with the building buzz that seems to escalate with every hour and the excited greetings bubbling in the office. And certainly you couldn’t forget the date with your boss reminding you of it every single chance he could get.

It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season. There’s a tally sheet in your mind that holds eight marks— one for every time he’s mentioned the damn day— and it’s not even time for your second cup of coffee. 

The most wonderful time of the year, according to Kuroo. 

There’s a pep in his step as he juggles his briefcase and files between hands and skips towards his third meeting of the day. His phone is tucked between his ear and shoulder, swarmed in the air of chaos and yet, there’s a wide smile on his face. Toothy and eager, almost maniacal. An exhilarated man, the ringmaster of madness, preparing a show for thousands with only coffee and sheer enthusiasm running through his veins. 

The tiles beneath his feet practically turn golden as he passes by. 

He stops before your desk on his way out, phone dutifully tucked yet ignored as he meets your gaze with burning excitement. The chatter on the other end of the line is audible, and he really should be listening to it, but instead his focus is maintained on you. You raise a brow in question, fingers hovering over the keyboard to your computer and e-mail to the finance department woefully on hold as your boss stares at you. 

Tufts of his hair are pulled in various ways, the standard for a busy morning, and the sleeves of his white button down are rolled up to his elbows displaying the veins that no doubt pulse excitedly; But the most revealing part of him, the most captivating part in his day of havoc, are his eyes. 

Honey auburn that burns alight in sheer joy— the kind of happiness that he wants you to revel in, hopes to convey in the intensity of his gaze. Sticky honey brown that coats the inside of your stomach and fills you with warmth. A gleam that can make flowers bloom with just his simple gaze.  

Slowly, he points his finger towards your calendar that’s displayed clearly for the regular passerby. Fingertip presses the red circle on the paper, emphasizing the words scribbled inside of it detailing the events of the day. 

1st Day of Volleyball Season!

His smile splits his face into two. You add another tally to the sheet.  

Indulging him with a grin would be encouraging juvenile behavior, so it takes everything in you to bite back the tugging of your lips and instead roll your eyes. It doesn’t deter him. He all but clicks his heels together as he prances out the door, throwing his fist holding his briefcase in the air with a silent cheer, and answering whatever question was posed to him on the other end of his line.

It’s October 17th, Kuroo’s favorite day of the year. 

Yours, too. 

Although, you would never tell him that.

-

The starting game of MSBY vs. Tachibana Red Falcons is a match predicted to be vicious and brutal. Considering Japan’s top players had more than proved themselves to be powerhouses during the Nations League Tournament over the summer, the star power and media attention given to the players has given the entrance game to the season an anticipation that could not be tamed— not that anyone in the marketing department would want it to be. 

The players this year have been nothing short of top tier athleticism— a detail that so graciously fell into the JVA’s hands and became their capitalized advertisement. 

An unmatched season! A trial of power and speed! Japan’s best players go head-to-head in the best playoffs Japan has ever seen!

Kuroo practically played the lottery every morning with luck like this. 

The Ariake Arena fills up like a lightning flood, waves of bodies decorated with black and red filling seats with heightened excitement. It vibrates throughout the stadium, transcends beyond the high beams and open space. It fills and suffocates until all that can be seen, heard, and felt is pure, unadulterated energy. It’s a straight shot of adrenaline to the heart. It’s the taste of a sweet memory. 

The sound of excitement from guests and vendors steadily rises and Kuroo buzzes in place. His shoes tap incessantly on the wooden floor, fingers flutter with anticipation as he adjusts, then readjusts, the now wrinkled tie across his neck. His cheeks ache from the endless smile that pushes on them. 

Carefully moved chess pieces, endless phone calls, and retina-burning contracts with sponsors have finally gotten him here: To the sweet smell of cool conditioned air and freshly waxed floors, to the sounds of chants and joy, to the sight of his successfully pitched logo printed beneath Miya Atsumu’s smug face on the large banner tacked on the left side of the arena. The veneration on his face is one that finds itself familiar to veterans. Standing on the shining hardwood of the court, his hands finally find rest on his hips, his gaze stilling at the sight of his months-long work. 

Pride doesn’t really do much justice to the feelings inside of him— but damn if it isn’t a close enough guess. His hard work finally actualized, but it’s only just really beginning. This is where his fun begins, the shining light, the gentle reminder of how much he loves his job.

October 17th, the best day of the year.

“We need to see the players before warm-ups begin.” Kuroo says after a moment, not even needing to spare a glance backwards to see if you’ve heard him. Such is the consequence of having a good assistant, one that, even with all the eye rolls and dragging sighs, is always a step ahead of him.

“Coach Foster said that he could spare us ten minutes before he gives his locker room speech. Coach Sato said the same.” You tell your boss, stepping beside him as his eyes follow the movements of staff members dragging carts of volleyballs to their respective places. An approving look settles on his face, a delightful perusal.

There's a tablet held in your arms as you notate on a timetable, presumably a schedule with detailed notes that Kuroo has to be on in order for the evening to go well. Probably one you've put a lot of time and effort into. Knowing you, it’s probably color coded. A schedule that he would do well by both you and the company in abiding by.

He shoves his hand between the tablet and your fixed stare, wiggling his fingers obnoxiously in front of the work that holds your dutiful attention. "Stop paying attention to that and look around you. Smell the air! What is it you smell?"

The excitement held so passionately in his eyes bore into your unimpressed ones. "Stale popcorn and lemon cleaner, Kuroo-san."

"So negative, I think the long work days are finally getting to you."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Not mine. You love me too much to quit." He grins. He gestures his hand outward, panning it across the stadium to the sight of guests filling the seats. "It's the smell of anticipation! The promise of a worthwhile game! How can you not be excited?”

A ping resounds on your tablet that draws your gaze back down to the schedule. It’s a message from the volunteer coordinator. You write a note in the margin—volunteers in break room at 8:45, give thanks and gifts at 9.

"It’s hard to be excited when you keep yapping in my ear about what day it is." You mutter distractedly.

"You're telling me," Suddenly his fingers are poking into the skin of your cheeks, lifting the skin upward in a manufactured smile, "You look frightening." 

You swat his hands away, your own palms connecting with his in a vicious slap. "If we don't get started now you're going to be late in meeting the President of the JVA at his box seats." 

Kuroo waves his hand nonchalantly. "Ah, he'll wait for me. I am the reason we’ve got a turnout like this. It's the least he could do."

You roll your eyes, formality lost as you address your boss. "It's about the principle of it, Tetsu. He'll be upset."

"Have you forgotten what day it is? How can anyone be upset on this day?"

You stare at him in violent silence clearly exposing the extent of your disdain for him at this moment. It’s a futile endeavor. Your stare only fuels the fire of his need for provocation tenfold. His smile widens, teeth bearing a shit-eating grin. With little remorse, you tell him, "You're very annoying when you're happy."

His head tilts backward in a laugh, lean and tall figure elongating with the motion as he, genuinely, finds himself amused. “And you're even meaner than usual when I am. C’mon, let’s pay the Jackals a visit.” Accompanying the turn of his body, he taps the tip of your nose with his slender finger and begins a trek towards the main entrance leading to the corridors of the arena.

“No.” Your quick retort is the popping of a balloon. He deflates, hands thrown upward in exasperation as he turns around to face you once more. You swear he stomps his feet. 

"God, what now?"

“Favoritism.”

He balks with a furrow on his brow, “Pardon?”

“Favoritism. It’s obvious to everyone in this building who you’re rooting for, so we need to minimize those details before someone catches wind and decides to tell the press that the games are rigged.”

“Now, that is an outrageous idea. No respectable reporter would use my words against me.” Kuroo smiles, annoyingly, confidently. To which your stare only digs further into him, the infamous memory of last year’s season playing quite clearly across your face in which his sarcastic comment about players salaries made headlines and resulted in a week of endless phone calls to your office.

“JVA DIRECTOR STATES DIV. ONE PLAYERS WILL NOT RECEIVE SPONSORSHIP BONUSES AFTER ASTOUNDING SEASON AS ‘WE DON’T PAY FOR MEDIOCRITY AND THESE PLAYERS SUCK, OBVIOUSLY’.”

It’s the conveyance of death in your eyes alone that really gets him going. Truly, there’s no one more impressive than you. 

“I said, respectable.” Kuroo emphasizes, hardly batting an eye as you walk past him. 

“C’mon. Coach Sato is waiting with the Falcons.”

“The favoritism allegation is ridiculous. Ask around the office, no one is able to tell that you’re my least favorite of them all.” He follows you into the hallway without prompting like the well-trained dog you’ve made him to be, “That’s how good I am.”

You turn back to look at him, “Oh, sure. So the names Bokuto and Hinata don’t mean anything to you?”

Biting back a smirk, he says, “I have no idea who you’re referring to.”

—

In the aftermath of a worthwhile game and an impressive start to the season, the stadium quickly finds itself abandoned. Scores of people taking to the street to celebrate their win or drink their sorrows away, their raucous din and lived delight exiting with them, leaving only a barren arena—save for the remaining staff who dutifully tidy the empty aisles and clean the floors. Yet, even with their humble presence, it’s quiet. Only the light echoing of shoes and brooms on the floor, the rolling of carts, the sounds of vacuums filling the space and providing life. 

And standing on the second floor of the arena, leaning his body against the railing overlooking the court, Kuroo finally gets a second to just look.

There are very few times in which Kuroo is quiet. Or rather, there are very few times where he gets the chance to be. 

It’s hard to walk the line between professional and man, not that he does a good job at it on a regular day. It's an all-consuming persona and his job demands the full devotion of mind, body, and spirit despite the relative nonurgency that comes with being a Marketing Director. And while he’s never been known for his outstanding polish as a young professional— particularly within the confines of his office— Kuroo has never not been one to commit. What is demanded of him is what he gives, and more. 

These days he’s finding it almost impossible to switch the hat of boss for the one of man. The lines between the two become even more blurred with each passing day that he spends another sleepless night in the office, attends another soul sucking meeting that could have truly just been an email, brown noses at people with titles and credentials that he cannot bear to remember for the sake of money. 

Humanity slowly depletes when met with the four walls of an office that never changes shades.  Moments like this are brief allowances. The empty stadium is conducive to the quick slip into a memory, the removal of the permanent hat for the other one. 

The game played not even an hour ago is replaced with that of what he remembers.  The once erratic beat of his heart before the blown whistle, the feel of burning muscles in his calves, and the sting of the ball on his skin; He can almost taste the salt of the disappointment of a lost match, and the sweetness of the joy the game gave him. If he tries, Kuroo can recall the last time that he was on a court just like the one before him and remember just how wonderful it once was.

The sweet memory of it all. A sliver of happiness that he keeps stowed away in the back of his mind, meant only to be pulled out in times of emergency. When life gets too loud and work becomes exactly what it is—work. It’s the needed reprieve, the gentle vice. But much like everything else these days, it lasts for only a lingering moment before it fades into the nothingness of everything else. 

There isn’t one particular thought that he can train on. He couldn’t even tell anyone what exactly it is that he thinks about, for it all blends together into the great variation of everything. A hectic whirlwind of things that fall over one another as they fight to take his attention. 

The game schedule for tomorrow, the invoices he needs to have approved, the mountain of unread emails relating to a media sponsorship that needs to be finalized by the end of the month, the leadership training that he needs to attend next week. Seeing Bokuto and Hinata before the game was a slip of the hat into the relative calm of youth that he remembers so fondly, he should probably try and hang out with them more. His social life is already pitiful. There’s also the fact that he has to go grocery shopping since he just ran out of instant noodles, unless he wants to have takeout again—but he’s already racked up quite the bill this month in takeout alone and he hasn’t been able to go to the gym enough to counteract those great decisions. He needs to return his sister’s phone call, something he keeps prolonging, not because he doesn’t care to know the details about his nephew’s birthday party next Sunday but rather because that will inevitably lead to the discussion about their father’s well-being and truthfully, that’s not a can of worms he’s willing to open just yet. And also—

“Hey.”

Kuroo’s head snaps towards the intrusion, towards the voice that cuts through the storm of flying thoughts and stills them in their rampage. 

You stand behind him, your blazer thrown over your purse and the sleeves of your dress shirt rolled up to your elbows. Your hair is no longer the neat style you had at the beginning of the event, but instead the reflection of a long work day. Your own work hat stowed somewhere deep in your purse, in favor of someone he’s rather fond of. 

“Hey.” He returns, surprised but pleased. He had figured at the end of the game you would have made haste with the exiting crowd. Your duties done for the day, the schedule you made him stick to like glue finished and completed. Any other person would have run for the doors and be home by now. 

But, here you are. Standing with a content smile on your face and a softening in your eyes as you meet his gaze. (Truthfully, he should know better. You’ve never been one to just leave without telling him, whether directly or through email, for home or for a date. Hell, you all but yell your plans in his face just to reduce the risk of confusion. But he assumes, still, that you’re smarter than him. That you know when to call it quits on a work day and head home. 

He conveniently forgets that, above all, you’re good at your job. You never listen, too stubborn and insistent on doing your duties even when he tells you to go home early; to not worry about the final details on a draft or a missed message; tells you that he can handle it. That’s never been you, because aside from being fantastic at being his assistant, you’ve been committed to your craft no matter what it is. You care too much about your job and the things it affects. 

Because that’s who you are. It’s who you’ve always been. It’s what he knows to be true and violent about you, and it's what he’s been able to see blossom since working with you. So, of course you’re here. Waiting for him, because that’s what you do. Commit to being there for him, through and through. 

Because you’re his assistant, of course. 

Just his assistant. That’s all.)

He stands straighter, manners not entirely drilled out of his subconscious, even if he was distracted. A beat passes, he looking at you and you looking at him, before he, finally, extends a hand— inviting you to join him. You do, settling next to him on the rail, and gazing over the object of his fixation. 

It’s a content silence. The inhale of the aftermath, the exhale of the preparation. One you both know the extent of, have shared too many late nights for. There’s great relief in being able to revel in the fruits of one’s labor, but there’s something all the more satisfying in knowing someone else was basking in that reward too. In not being entirely alone, despite the job often making him feel.

This is your moment just as much as it is his, something he’s never been more convinced of. 

Much of the success belonging to him would be nothing if not for your firm foundation, the depth of your support for not only him, but the game. The wondrous, joyous game. 

 It’s only a moment or two of the stillness between you two before you gently disturb it. 

“Today went well.” You tell him. 

He gives an affirmative hum, a small smile befalling on his face. Folding his arms across his chest, he tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “You don’t think the banner was too big?”

“It’s no bigger than it usually is.” You shrug and he hums again. 

Another beat, then he says, “Did you notice the photo?”

“On the banner?” You ask. 

“Yeah.”

“I did.”

“Good.” He says, resolutely, looking over the arena once more as two staff members begin folding up the commentators chairs on the sidelines of the court, “You chose it.”

“I know.” You say. He smiles again, a happy and content one; and you would tease him about it— (about the fact that he’s smiling as though this were a great victory fought between the marketing department and the photography studio, one that he emerged victorious in fighting tooth and nail for your input instead of the reality of the situation. 

It was a cloudlink sent to his email on a Tuesday afternoon, filled with prints of various D1 players that he was asked to provide input on. A task that he, then, delegated to you by calling you into his office on your lunch break and having you play eenie-meenie-miny-moe with him. With a sandwich held firmly in your hand and Kuroo pecking at his snack bag of trail mix, you point to the smug face of Miya Atsumu.

“It’s because of the smile, right?” He had asked, his eyes squinting and head tilted to the side as though that would give him better understanding of the man’s face. “He’s a great player. He just has the look of a winner.”

“I don’t know. I just think he’s hot.” You tell him simply.

Kuroo chokes on a peanut. You laugh. He sends your choice over to the graphic design team.)

—but you let him have the small win. Four years of working together has taught you which of the battles to fight, and truthfully, there aren’t that many that you don’t give to him. Admitting sucha  thing, however, would be a violation of everything you hold dear to your job so you obviously omit that. 

Kuroo speaks once more, his voice soft as he continues to regard the court. “You did a good job today.”

There’s no tease in him, no wry smile or setup for a joke that you’re clearly walking into. For all intents and purposes, Kuroo Testurou stands before you as a man with more than his guard down. He stands honestly, made soft and tender by the trials of a hard work day and the victory of his labor. 

The kind of man you know him to be, that you hold such deep admiration for. 

“Thank you, Tetsu.” For fear of disrupting the quiet that surrounds the arena or fear of shattering the genuineness of the moment, you respond in kind. Equally gentle when you tell him earnestly, honestly, “So did you, but that’s not new.”

You feel it before you can even see or hear it. The turning of the tide, the impending slant of his smile; The red alert alarm that you have built into your head for Tetsurou’s moments of snarkiness blaring loudly. 

The taunt is on its way and you begin a rebuttal before he even opens his mouth. Kuroo’s face contorts into an exaggerated look of disbelief.

“We were having—”

“I cannot believe it—” 

“—a nice moment!”

“—Is that a compliment I hear?”

Rolling your eyes, you turn your head away from him. “If you’re going to act like that—”

“No, no! Can’t take it back. You said it already.” 

“Nope. I formally recant my statement—”

“Ooh, big word—”

“—I forswear what I said—”

“—Forswear?! How do you even know what that means?”

“—You did an adequate job. Actually, you did exactly what was expected of you. Nothing more.”

“C’mon, give me some credit. You weren’t expecting me to land that invite for that GQ party next month. And how did I do that? Remind me one more time?” Kuroo leans his head towards you, tapping his ear repeatedly. 

“By doing your job.” You insist and he throws his head to the side in hurt.

“By being the best at my job.”

“They invited you because you were badgering them in the box seats. What did you bribe them with?”

He levels a steady smirk at you, “Sounds like someone doesn’t want to go.”

You gasp, eyes narrowing, “You wouldn’t.”

“Admit it, then.” He grins.

“Admit what! That I kept you on schedule for the day so that you could actually do your job and get us the invites? Then I will admit that I did my job excellently.” You poke your finger into his chest repeatedly and he laughs.

He agrees with a small nod of his head, smiling widely, knowingly. “You did.” 

“I did.” You affirm. “And with enough time to factor in potty breaks. Plural.”

Kuroo laughs again, incredulously, “Potty. Who even says that anymore?”

“Me. Your lovely, amazing assistant that you are definitely taking to the GQ party.”

Kuroo’s gaze fixes on yours, held firmly as the grin lingering so resolutely on his face reaches up to his eyes. The conversation peters out into another gentle silence, ambers meeting yours in a steady embrace, and voicing what remains to be said. Held tightly by the reciprocity of your own gaze.

It happens, then. The quiet kindling that has become so familiar between he and you. The settling of a warmth between the space that has been occurring more frequently; Found only in times like this. When laughter dissipates and ease takes over. When it becomes glaringly obvious that you enjoy your boss’s company a little more than you probably should, and that he doesn’t necessarily mind you all that much. There isn’t much to say about it even though your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and fiction dictates that this is the moment where someone should say something.

But what is there to say at this moment to the man who signs your paychecks? Who eggs you on in ways that no one would even bother to do? What could you express other than profound admiration and deep annoyances over his character? What could you tell him that he doesn’t already know? 

(Maybe the truth that is buried deep within you. One that you haven’t admitted to yourself because honestly, you aren’t even sure you believe it yourself.

There’s bound to be affections shared between two people who work in such close proximity as you two. Regard, appreciation, fondness— but not that. No, it couldn’t be that. That would be ridiculous.

Because he’s your boss, of course. 

Just your boss. That’s all.) 

“You should go home,” Tetsurou is the first to break the stare. Fortunately, too, lest you become too absorbed in your thoughts and do something stupid like risking getting lost in the eyes of amber. He turns his attention to his hands on the railing, his thumb tapping repeatedly on the metal. “Get some rest. You deserve it, keeping me in line and all.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. 

“Are you heading home soon?” You ask.

He shrugs, before looking to the court once more. “In a minute.  I’m going to stay for a little longer. Not ready to go home yet.”

You hum, “Then I’ll stay with you.”

There’s a beat of silence, one that, when you glance towards him you expect to see filled with amusement. Maybe a tease on his tongue once more about how hard you work, about how miserable you’ll be in the morning for staying up past your bedtime. Instead, you see only the calm stillness of his face, eyes fixed resolutely on the empty court before him. 

He leans forward onto the railing, bracing his elbows against its fixture, watching the scene below him as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. Four janitors taking a break from their waxing of the floor to play a quick, and sloppy, game of volleyball. Soft laughter echoes throughout the room, broken apart by low mutterings of commentary on their plays that sends the four older men into even further laughter. 

Then, “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I went pro.”

To learn of other people in the course of a years-long friendship is natural, rightfully expected— and while there is much of Kuroo that you do know and can recite off the top of your head, the willful admittance of intimate details, especially in quiet times like this, is always surprising. Especially when coupled with the contemplative silence that follows his words, the genuine wonder, the longing written on his face as the rose thoughts of a first love bloom in the cracks of a fallen smile. 

In the softening of his eyes and the deep sigh that he releases, you realize that there’s a Kuroo Tetsurou that you don’t know. 

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, you reach out to find him. You ask, softly. “Why did you stop playing?”

His eyes remain trained on the court, as though the answer were laid upon the hardwood floors. “It was time. I loved the game but, I don’t know. Just didn’t make sense for me to keep it going. There were other things I needed to do, and playing professionally would have taken up too much time.” 

You can almost see it, then. A younger Tetsurou, even more chaotic and rowdy than you know him to be, with hopes and dreams that exist somewhere in the great web of could have been’s, cast to the side because of the “other things”. You don’t pry, not when he’s already being so forthcoming as it is, but you make a note. Store it away in the folder lodged deep in your mind dedicated to the man.

“Would you be happier if you did?” You ask, albeit hesitantly. Not entirely sure what you would do with the answer.

He rolls his broad shoulders gently, like a tide rolling in under itself, swayed under its own pressure and maybe that should mean something. “Well, it’s not like I’m unhappy. I’ve got a good life, good job, good people. I’ve got it all.” 

He spares a quick glance to you. So quick you wouldn’t have caught it had he not already been the centerpoint of your fixed stare, but truthfully, when is he not? When is he not the center of your gaze, your life, your world? Everything in your routine seems to start and end with Kuroo Tetsurou.

“But I can’t deny how much I miss the game.”

—you don’t mind all that much. Especially not when he’s like this. Open, sensitive, and wanting to talk. When he actually takes the time to chew his thoughts out and speak them into existence rather than continue his sordid and pointed teases.

You lean forward onto the railing. “Do you think you would have made it far?” 

He adjusts his figure next to yours. His crooked elbow touches yours, but he makes no move to remove it. “Well… I hate to brag, but…” 

You scoff. “You do.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say.” He shrugs his shoulders wryly. “In another life, I’m still playing.” 

It sounds sadder than he intends it to be, but it’s the truth. And you get it; have your own could-have’s stored deep in the recesses of your mind, your own forgotten dreams about who you wanted to be that haunt and plague in the twilight of hard nights where sleep is elusive and quarter-life crises spring forth in the darkness—but it’s not all bad.

“Well, in this other life, if you’re playing and I just so happened to know you,” You tell him, “I would be your biggest fan.”

He huffs at that. Looking at you with a tilt of his head and a handsome smile on his face. “Oh yeah? And if you didn’t?”

“I’d be Miya Atsumu’s biggest fan.” You say simply.

“You already are.”

“Yeah, but I know you have jealousy issues so I just don’t say anything about it.”

Tetsurou nods his head. Amused. “Well I’m glad to know you, then.”

It happens here, again. 

The quiet kindling, the lingering warmth. With hopes and dreams laid out before you, and the brief allowance into the depths of his intimate details he holds tightly under the weight of himself, do you find the familiarity of the man again. The one you know, the one who laughed so hard at your banana costume that milk came out of his nose. The one who canceled all of his meetings for the day when you broke your pinky finger in the office and who stayed with you in the hospital until a cast was put on. 

The one who smiles at you so gently, as if you are someone important. The one you can’t help but smile right back at. Kuroo Tetsurou, your boss, a friend.

Movement in the corner of your eye draws your attention to the court. The janitors that were once playing amongst each other slowly begin to stray from the court, picking up their brooms and exiting towards the sidelines. Looking at Tetsurou, you find that he’s still looking at you.

“They’re not closing the stadium for another hour. And it looks like the janitors have had their fun.” You say, “Wanna play a quick game?”

His brows raise to his hairline, “You know how to play?”

“We had to choose a sport to play for gym class back in high school and it was either tennis or volleyball. So I guess you can say I know a thing or two.”

“Ah, a professional.”

“Mhm. I’m here to give you a run for your money.”

Tetsurou pushes himself off the railing, standing to his full height as he accepts the offer. Towering over you at his 6’5 height, he begins rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, cuffing the white material until it reaches the crook of his elbow. A quick glance to the revealed skin is only a firm reminder of what you had pointedly forgotten. Long slender fingers attached to a thick and veiny forearm, sculpted through years of volleyball practice and continued exercise.

If he wanted to, he definitely could have made it professionally. You almost choke on your spit.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Tetsurou gives you a smile that rivals the smugness of Miya Atsumu in that stupid banner and you know for a fact that in that other life, you would’ve been Kuroo Tetsurou’s biggest fan whether you knew him or not— and not because he was a good player. 

—

“You need to lock your elbows.”

“They’re locked!”

“No they’re not. Look at this,” Tetsurou steps underneath the net, approaching you in long strides before tapping his fingers against the elbows of your interlocked hands. He watches with little impression as your arms swing easily with his force, “Noodles. How are you supposed to receive with this?”

“I’m trying but it’s not comfortable!”

“So you’d rather suck?”

“Kinky.” You say with a waggle of your brows and he rolls his eyes.

“Stop it. Here, you need to—” Without a second thought, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso and fixing your hands. wrapping your right hand over your left and running the length of his warm touch down your forearms. Innocuous and gentle, but stiffening as you breathe in the musky scent of his cologne and the faded scent of his aftershave, and feel the hard planes of his chest press against your back. 

“Straighten your elbows,” He mutters, voice heavy beside your ear.  “And keep them locked. Helps you to have a steady receive for any kind of ball. If your form is perfect then you can always pass the ball using this part, here.” His right index finger touches the surface of your forearm, running between the length of your elbow and wrist to accentuate his point. 

It isn’t a matter of fireworks when he touches you, the exploding kind that has butterflies and goosebumps erupting over the expanse of your skin. It isn’t as though your eyes have suddenly been peeled open and the realization has struck you hard across the face like every romance story that preaches about the magic of the first touch, the electricity of meeting hands across the table, the sudden realization of knowing.

No, this is entirely different. A comforting touch, not uncommon, but intimate and while it doesn’t have you reeling in revolutionary realization, nor does it have you fanning yourself from the flames of sudden desire, his touch does, eerily, have you sinking in further. There’s no fluttering and flustering with the confusion of flooding feelings, but rather, it has you looking at his hands with a slight furrow. 

Wondering, when his hands suddenly got so soft, yet so firm. Wondering, in what part of the intertwining of his life with yours did his touch suddenly not only become okay, but felt as though it belonged? 

Were this any other man, you would have a harassment claim sent to HR before he could even get near you. But it’s Tetsurou; And when his slender fingers wrap gently around your wrist, turning them upward slightly, you don’t go rigid in his embrace, but instead fall into it. Settle into his grasp, entrust yourself in his hands. 

Because how could you not?

“Like this?” You ask, quietly. No need to exert volume considering he’s right next to you. In search of approval in how you’ve adjusted your hands, you turn your head to the side to look at him, only to realize how close he is to you. Eyes able to see the steady pulse of the clench in his jaw as he focuses on your form, the sharp angle of his jaw, the closely shaven hairs of his stubble.

“Yeah, just like that. Good.” He answers, before removing his hands and bracing them against your shoulders, straightening your posture for the receives that you are no longer focused on getting.

If Kuroo Tetsurou turned his head to you, there would be nothing stopping his nose from bumping into yours. You must be silent, too caught up in the overwhelming nature of it all because he’s suddenly stiffening from his position over you. Then, at a speed you’ve never seen him move before, he’s rescinding his body entirely from you. And it should sting. The speed at which your boss acted as though you physically burned him, his body essentially repulsed from touching you. 

He’s putting great space between you two as he ducks back under the net to his side of the court, yelling over his shoulder, “T-that should fix it. Try, uh, try now. Try serving.”

“I thought I was receiving?” You ask his retreating figure and he stills, considering for a moment, before waving his hand in the air— obviously embarrassed and confused at the fact that he’s just jeopardized everything and made his assistant uncomfortable. 

“Whatever, just give it back to me.” He says, frustratedly.

And you allow yourself, just for a brief moment, to store another could-have in the sanctity of your fantasies. One where he isn’t your boss, and you aren’t his assistant, and you are able to admit to the true and honest parts of yourself—

“Nice return! See? Better already.”

—you rather liked the way he touched you.  

a/n: HEEEEELP i love him your honor. sorry for always ghosting. i wish i could say i wont, but i know i will. lol

[pixelplayground]

SHOPPE THE LOOK — Kitchen Essentials

tumblr eats resolution for breakfast — click the image for HQ ♡

❤ recipe book by @eniosta (simfileshare)

❤ flowers by @sundays-sims (patreon-public)

❤ functional stanley cup by ledger atelier (patreon-public)

❤ pot, rolling pin, salt & pepper shakers by bambi (Patreon-paywalled)

** remember, anything perma-paywalled or paywalled for an excessive amount of time can be found via a google or reddit search on how to source paywalled sims cc — it's advised not to link these files direct on tumblr blogs because of DCMA takedown requests **

[drak3n]

TO ALL THE MEN YOU'VE LOVED BEFORE:

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`. choose your trope!

a ‘BEST FRIEND’, LOST LOVE, NEMESIS or FWB?

rest assured, we will make sure to reignite the spark you had ;)

click on one of the profiles below to continue your (love) story!

sena’s note: another series yay !! i wanted to feed not just my jjk babes, but also tokrev, hq, aot, mha and bllk this time. fyi, these will all contain good doses of angst, fluff and smut. warnings will be added in the respective parts! slow updates because it’s finals season for me soon. thanks for 300 everyone! 🤍

PROLOGUE.

———————————————————————————

THE LOST LOVE

✉︎ apparently, TOJI truly loved you. then why did he get away?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

THE ONE-NIGHT STAND

✉︎ HIROMI left your bed months ago, but always lingered in your mind.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

THE NEMESIS

✉︎ there was a feeling just as intense as love that connected ATSUMU and you.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

THE BEST FRIEND

✉︎ DRAKEN was nice to everyone, not just you.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS GONE WRONG

✉︎ it shouldn’t have been that hard not to fall for SHUJI… right?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

THE FORBIDDEN LOVE

✉︎ we don’t blame you for having crushed on coach LEVI.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

RIGHT PERSON, WRONG TIMING

✉︎ to this day, you still think that TOUYA used it as an excuse, don’t you?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

THE BOY NEXT DOOR

✉︎ SHOUEI was a lone wolf professionally and in private, but you two go way back.

———————————————————————————

let me know if you want to be tagged in any of these! :)

[maplewhims]

summer wardrobe with ˗ˏˋ madison beckett ´ˎ˗

ꕥ look one; dress, earrings, necklaces, sandals

ꕥ look two; top, capris, bracelets, necklace, bag, heels

ꕥ look three; top, skirt*, earrings, necklace, bag, heels

ꕥ look four; top, pants, earrings, bag, heels

* early access

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[kentuckyfriedmegumi]

hello there! i'm kfm ‎♡‧₊˚ she/her || INTJ ao3 || twitter || tiktok || bluesky || extra info

nah, i'd write || currently jjkpilled also pjo, ouran, link click, hq, and tshd enjoyer full-time writer, part-time artist, occasional yapper

CURRENT WIPS

Necessary Evil || rated: E || 3/10 chapters || post-canon, villain megumi, itfs/stsg parallels, angst with a happy ending

15 Minutes || rated: M || 4/? chapters || celebrity itfs au, adult references, toxicity of fame and parasocialism, inspired by '15 Minutes' by sabrina carpenter

Yuuji's Plan || rated: T || 1/10 chapters || itfs pre-shibuya/canon divergence, light angst, falling in love, rewrite of my first fic

AUTHOR'S PICKS

skinny dipping (water under the bridge) || rated: M || 5 chapters || college/post-college au, breakup and makeup, inspired by 'skinny dipping' by sabrina carpenter

don't you want me like i want you, baby? || rated: T || one-shot || post-canon, yuuji's birthday, lightest angst if you squint, inspired by 'APT' by rose and bruno mars

The Lazarus Effect || rated: T || one-shot || post-canon, itfs bathing together, non-sexual intimacy, religious metaphors, nudity = vulnerability

Hot Off the Press || rated: T || 20 chapters || journalist megumi/boxer yuuji, #puttingthatdegreetoWORK, no angst, crack treated seriously

NEXT IN LINE

link click 5+1 || shiguang fic || angst || canon-compliant || it WILL happen soon #trust

link click photographers au || fluff || no powers au || profesional photographer lu guang and hobbyist photographer cheng xiaoshi

[ihrtpaige]

DELICATE. chapter one

⠀☆ SYNOPSIS. pop sensation spencer mckenzie's life has long been flipped upside down when she finds herself in a mild internet beef with paige bueckers— but it's not like it's her fault. paige started it when she called her music "overrated" (like, who says that? about the daughter of a fellow uconn legend, no less.); she left spencer with no choice but to clap back. what she doesn’t expect is for paige to respond by tweeting an offer to take her on a date as her public "apology", or to run into her in–person at an event a week later, or to end up falling so damn hard. now spencer has to decide, fast: is she ready to let paige in and be in love again, or will she let the demons of her past take this away, too? after all, the whole world is watching.

contains. mentions of past cheating, a lot of pop culture references and just very meta, alcohol consumption, cat and mouse dynamic a little

notes. it's been 87 years... i actually did finish writing this chapter two months ago, but i really didn't like it so i tried to go at it a few different ways, and ultimately i've just decided to post it as is (kind of a mess). but im curious to know how y'all feel about it, i really hope y'all like it! it will get better from here i promise ^^ also, dw i am working on requests (and more) currently!

taglist. @wosolipa, @syraxsbigfanfr, @jieysiee, @enchantingesme, @faeriehwa, @cowboybueckers, @everyonewatchesuconnwbb ( tysm for the support ♡ if you'd like to be added comment or send an ask! )

word count. 3.45k

los angeles, california.

this is utterly pathetic, spencer knows, but she can’t bring herself to care.

she digs her spoon further into the fudge brownie ice cream, scooping up a hefty chunk before shamelessly shoveling it into her mouth. she doesn’t care if any of it drips onto and stains this designer–italian–whatever sofa, either. after surviving what officially has been the worst year of her life— publicly humiliated, cheated on, and, surprise! the other woman is your best friend— she feels she’s earned the right to spend her couple days of downtime wallowing.

she’s halfway through her pint of ben & jerry’s and a few hours into a buffy the vampire slayer binge–watch when her phone buzzes against her leg.

leela 🫶 : sis get up u gotta see this leela 🫶 : it’s about you 💀

the notification sound chimes again, followed by a link. spencer narrows her eyes, already prepared to see another brain–dead take on her personal life or completely made up blind item when she clicks on it.

it’s a tiktok, some promo thing the dallas wings did with their players ahead of the season. “this or that: music edition”, the colorful text on the screen reads. whoever’s behind the camera goes up to several of the players, asking them to choose between different artists— drake or kendrick, taylor or beyoncé, that kind of thing. spencer’s brain is already half–way checked out before she hears:

“okay, spencer mckenzie or taissa rey?”

because of course. just messy.

spencer told her self she wouldn’t engage with content comparing her and her former best friend anymore— it’s stupid, self–destructive, and just bad for her brain— but it’s honestly still vindicating to see so many of the players pick her. she actually feels her chest tighten, a little. she’d been so caught up in negative headlines and the drama of it all, she almost forgot that there are people that still like her. still choose her.

and then the video cuts to her.

paige bueckers.

national champion, recent uconn alum, dallas wings star, ridiculously hot paige bueckers. of course, spencer’s seen her before— years ago at her dad’s camps when she would tag along, at games when she still had the time to drop in and catch them in person, all over her for you page in what has to have been hundreds of unabashedly thirsty edits more recently. and if one or two of said edits happen to be saved in her favorites folder, that’s between her and tiktok hq.

she looks good in this video, too, with her hair pulled back into a low bun and blue eyes catching the lighting in the gym just right, lips already curved in a half–smirk before she hears the question. her toned arms are on full display in her wings practice jersey, biceps inadvertently flexing as her arms cross over her chest.

for some reason, spencer finds herself holding her breath as she awaits the blonde’s answer, hand suspended mid–air, still holding a spoonful of ice cream.

but paige doesn’t even hesitate before going: “taissa, easy.” she nods definitively. “that spencer song is lowkey overrated.”

the video is onto the next topic before spencer can even fully register it.

she stares at her phone screen, blinking dumbly. sits up. rewinds. watches it again.

and again.

“overrated?” she mutters aloud.

her phone buzzes again. leela, of course.

leela 🫶 : like ??? leela 🫶 : does she need that... leela 🫶 : why's she kinda fine tho 🤫

spencer snorts and taps on the little text bubble icon, opening the comment section. she’s curious, is all. she can’t be the only one sensing the shade in that answer.

most are from fangirls thirsting and keyboard–smashing over how good paige looks in the video, but there are a few in between those coming to spencer’s defense. flopissa over spencer is crazy, one says. paige’s taste in music is usually elite what happened here, reads another.

she keeps scrolling, further and further down, until she’s wading into the comment section abyssal zone. the ones that have barely and likes and poor grammar.

and then she gets a stupid idea.

spencer : would it be messy if i like said something leela 🫶 : girl yes leela 🫶 : do it 👀

that’s all the encouragement spencer needs to switch back to tiktok and start typing.

she doesn’t give herself the time to overthink it. her thumbs flit across the screen, writing out the first thing that comes to mind:

@spencermk_official ✓ : damn what happened to uconn solidarity :/

she hits send.

there’s a brief moment of silence— her show is still playing in the background, buffy’s in the middle of chasing down some vampire— before she lets out a groan and flops backwards into the cushions. that’s nearly eight months of counseling down the drain, for one measly comment.

she doesn’t know, yet, if she regrets it.

it even doesn’t matter, because within seconds, her phone is buzzing again. she flips it over, watching as a flurry of notifications begin to take up her lockscreen, hundreds of likes and replies already.

CLOCK IT.

“uconn solidarity” IM SCREAMINGGG

not paige getting a notice before azzi and caroline 😭😭

pls paige don't have internet...

oop! @paigebueckers

she can’t help it— the corners of her mouth twitch up into a little smile.

is this petty? absolutely. is she being messy for no reason? well, yes.

but it’s also really fun. and spencer can’t remember the last time she truly found anything fun.

dallas, texas.

the sun is doing the absolute most today.

paige yanks her car door open and tosses her duffel bag and sneakers into the back seat with a huff. sweat’s already beading on her skin, rendering her post–practice shower pointless.

of all the things she expected she’d miss about connecticut, she didn’t think the cold would be one of them. this texas heat is on a whole other level.

she swipes the back of her hand across her forehead and shuts the back door, sighing in relief when she slides into the driver’s seat and the air conditioning hits her skin. she can’t remember the last time a practice left her feeling this spent in college. she just sits there for a second, basking in the cool air, letting herself melt into the seat.

limbs still feeling like jelly, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, hoping that her friends back in storrs or drew, even if it’s just him bugging her about sending him money for v–bucks again, texted while she was in practice.

instead, the second she turns off do not disturb mode, she’s hit with what has to be hundreds of notifications from socials, all unfurling onto her screen at once— tags, replies, reposts. her eyebrows furrow, and she clicks on the first one she sees.

it’s one of the videos from media day, cropped to just her quick answer and posted by a women’s basketball update page on twitter. paige snorts. this is what’s blowing up? she scrolls a little further. a screenshot.

damn what happened to uconn solidarity :/

she stares at it for a second. then laughs— half–surprised, half–impressed.

okay. she got her there.

paige wasn’t really thinking about whether or not spencer’s music was actually good— or any of the tabloid drama that went down last summer, for that matter— when she gave her answer. just that azzi was obsessed with her album when it first dropped, and played it so much it drove paige crazy. it took her weeks to get that “i don’t want him anyway, girl, take him” hook out of her head.

maybe ‘overrated’ was a little harsh. and, okay— in the moment it may have slipped her mind that spencer’s dad is literally a husky legend. but in her defense, she didn’t think that she would even see the tiktok, let alone actually say something.

now, the internet’s in chaos. on twitter, her mentions are full of her own fans teasing her for getting “clocked” or accounts with display names like spencer’s cupcake telling her to “stay mad, jobless”. on tiktok, there’s already memes and edits being made. she opens safari, and fucking tmz has just posted an article with a crazy sensational headline about it.

paige just can’t go out like this.

her fingers are already moving, pressing the ‘+’ icon to draft a new tweet. spencer’s image is vivid in her mind— bronze skin, hazel eyes, long honey blonde hair, an insane body— as she types. it doesn’t take her long to come up with something at all.

@paigebueckers1 ✓: my bad @spencermckenzie. chick–fil–a on me and we call it even? 😌

tweet sent. a grin tugs at paige’s lips.

instantly, the replies come rolling in.

PLOT TWIST?!

oh she wants that cookie so effing bad 😭😭

can’t even judge bc if spencer’s fine ass acknowledged me i’d try to slide too

ur taste in women >>> ur taste in music

flirting on main with paul mckenzie’s daughter… if this works y’all gotta get married in gampel with geno officiating or smth

paige chuckles softly as she reads a few of them, before shaking her head and tossing her phone into the passenger seat.

there, she thinks, as she starts her car. solidarity restored.

spencer doesn’t even have twitter installed on her phone. it was the one app she felt she could live without after returning to social media from her months–long break last year, due to the overwhelming toxicity at the time. the thing about twitter, though, is that it’s toxic all the time; she was more than happy to continue paying someone else to deal with that.

however, she’s quick to re–download it after receiving texts from both leela and her manager at the exact same time, urging her to check the app immediately.

conveniently, the tweet is the first thing to pop up on her timeline right under the for you tab— literally, in this case.

my bad @spencermckenzie. chick–fil–a on me and we call it even? 😌

spencer’s been in the public eye since she was in diapers. she was only three when cameras were being shoved into her face while she sat courtside in her mother’s lap at heat games, sixteen when she signed her first record deal. she’s no stranger to drama— in fact, after last summer, she considers herself to be a well–versed expert on the matter.

but never has anyone responded by flirting.

she doesn’t like the way it’s making her feel. she’s supposed to be cooking up an instagram story with her riaa record plaques posed conveniently in the background, not smiling uncontrollably at her phone and blushing like an idiot.

what the hell does spencer even say to that? despite the persistent tingling in her stomach, she can’t just fold.

looking at the replies, though, the fans are obviously eating it up. the tweet is nearing fifty thousand likes, and they’re all tagging spencer, encouraging it. they’ve even started calling them ‘spaige’.

she’s not going on a date with paige bueckers, but it can’t hurt to play along.

bottom lip tugged between her teeth, she taps the quote retweet button, typing out her reply.

@spencermckenzie ✓: stream greedy and i’ll think abt it

it’s the first activity on her page that wasn’t obviously scheduled by pr since last august. the fans swarm it within seconds, racking up double the amount of likes on paige’s initial tweet in only a fraction of the time.

she refreshes the tweet a few times, reading the replies and giggling at the ones that are actually funny, but stops herself when she realizes that there’s a specific reply she’s waiting on.

ugh. she needs to get a grip.

she clicks her phone screen off and sits it face down on the countertop. what was she even doing before this— right. skincare. she was getting ready for bed, doing her nightly skincare routine in her master bathroom.

looking at herself in the large mirror now, her cheeks are annoyingly rosy. she runs the tap, hoping that splashing her face with cold water will make the flush subside quicker and snap her out of whatever this is. she distracts herself, taking extra time lathering her fingertips in her expensive korean moisturizer and massaging it into her skin.

as soon as she’s done, though, spencer’s mind is wandering right back to blonde hair and blue eyes and that voice saying her name, even if it was to be rude. her hands are still wet as she grabs her phone, checking that dastardly app.

⤷ @paigebueckers1 ✓: anything for you, ma ⤷ @paigebueckers1 ✓: what sides you like?

attached to the reply is a video: paige, with glasses on, sitting in her car. spencer’s vocals and the melody she wrote play from the speakers— “greedy”, loud and clear.

it’s less then a minute of paige dancing along, shoulders bouncing, flashing the camera a crooked little grin.

it’s so stupid. everything— the video, the dancing, the petname. yet, a giggle still bubbles up out of spencer. simply being hot is one thing, but funny and devastatingly cute, too? that’s just not fair.

spencer’s going to leave it at this, she swears. she absolutely has to, before she makes a horny fool of herself for the whole world to see.

⤷ @spencermckenzie ✓: hmmm… ⤷ @spencermckenzie ✓: surprise me

one week later.

“did you see spencer’s look tonight?”

“ugh, yes. too good. i need her stylist’s number, like, yesterday.”

“i need a pic with her, my followers would die.”

paige’s head turns before she can stop herself. she doesn’t even know the two girls talking a couple seats down from her at the bar— influencers or models, if she had to guess just by looking at them— but now, the drink she just ordered is the last thing on her mind.

spencer’s here?

“your drink,” the bartender says, sliding her a dirty shirley temple— her second of the night.

paige nods her thanks, still half–distracted, taking the drink and turning to scan the crowd. the venue is packed with all these famous l.a. people, practically thumping with the bass of the music coming from the dj booth. she almost didn’t stay for the afterparty of the event since her flight back to dallas is so early, but in the end couldn’t pass up the opportunity to go out. azzi would call her irresponsible, but thank god for her discernment now, right?

paige has been meaning to talk to spencer since their little twitter back–and–forth, but the girl is impossible to get in touch with. she’d tried dm–ing, but all of spencer’s socials are set to mutuals–only, and she’s yet to follow paige back anywhere (ouch). tonight might be her only chance to shoot her shot— for real, this time.

she sips slowly, eyes combing the room. no spencer.

so, she asks around. not directly, but enough. mentions her name casually in a conversation with a stylist, brings her up when greeting a fellow athlete. eventually, someone tips their head toward the back— “saw her out on the balcony a while ago, with that leela girl.”

paige doesn’t know who leela is, but she vaguely recognizes the name— one of those tiktok or instagram get–ready–with–me girls with an insane amount of followers, or maybe an actress?

drink still in hand, paige makes her way through the crowd, sidestepping photographers and pr people and models trying to get her attention. the balcony doors are open, letting in warm california night air, and when she steps out—

there spencer is. leaning against the railing, laughing softly at something a dark–haired girl— leela, paige realizes— just said, her profile sharp in the soft glow of the skyline behind her. hair styled in loose waves and flowing down her back, collarbones on display, so beautiful that it makes paige’s pulse jump just a little.

she clears her throat. “spencer?”

spencer turns around at the sound of her name, lips parting slightly in surprise. the wind toys with a few strands of her honey–blonde hair as her expression flickers— recognition, confusion, amusement— before she settles into something that looks like guarded curiosity.

“oh,” she says, drawing the word out ever so slightly. “paige. hey.”

leela gives paige a once–over, then glances over at spencer, eyebrows raised like she can already sense the tension between them. “oh my gosh, is that doechii?” she says, suddenly, leaning dramatically to look into the party through the doors. definitely an influencer, paige deduces— there’s no way this girl acts professionally. “i’m gonna go talk to doechii— bye, spence!”

she turns to mouth text me to spencer and then she’s gone, returning to the party before spencer can protest. left alone, there’s a pause where paige and spencer are just looking at each other, before they both crack up at the absurdity of her friend’s exit.

“you’re hard to find, y’know,” paige is still smiling as she speaks, taking leela’s empty place beside spencer, her drink resting against the iron railing.

“didn’t know i had a stalker on the loose looking,” spencer says, quizzical. “aren’t you in season? what the hell are you doing in l.a.?” she asks, tilting her head.

“stalker is crazy,” paige laughs. “but yeah. still in the pre–season, technically. the event fit into my schedule, though, so i thought why not?” she shrugs. really, paige knows as soon as the pictures from tonight hit the internet, the tweets are all going to be how she isn’t actually dedicated to the game, which is why such and such is the better player— blah, blah, blah.

spencer nods, like that makes sense to her. “i’m guessing you didn’t track me down just to tell me my music sucks to my face, then?” she teases.

“nahhh. ion wanna get boo���d out of here,” paige quips, unfazed. “what’re you doing out here, anyways? not feeling the party?”

spencer makes a soft sound, gaze drifting out over the balcony, at the cityscape. “yeah, you could put it like that,” she says. “not really my thing lately.”

“well, for what it’s worth, you look great.”

those girls from the bar weren’t exaggerating. spencer is unreal, wearing a body–hugging black satin and velvet mini–dress, chunky gold jewelry, her skin glowy and shimmering in the city lights. paige lets her eyes roam, especially slow over her breasts that are pushed up by the dress— because damn— before she stops, reminding herself that staring is rude.

paige had somewhat gone on a deep dive last week, skimming spencer’s wikipedia page and scrolling through her instagram, but she swears not even the highest quality pictures online do justice to how gorgeous this girl is in person.

spencer raises a perfectly manicured brow. “no ‘ma’ this time?”

paige is a taken slightly aback at the mention of her tweets, but quickly recovers. she leans in, lowering her voice, “you look great, ma.”

spencer seems satisfied with that, if the way her eyes glint is any proof. “thanks. you look…” she pauses, eyes flicking over paige’s face, taking in her sharp cheek bones and blue eyes, the subtle gloss on her lips, the way her top is only partly buttoned, showing a sliver of her chest and the silver chains adorning her neck. “alright.”

paige huffs a quiet laugh. “shit, i’ll take it.”

“okay, fine. you look really good.” spencer smiles back, voice soft.

paige can’t stop smiling, even though her cheeks are starting to hurt. there’s this soft, fuzzy warmth blooming in her chest, stupid and sweet and an entirely too much over an interaction with someone she’s only just met.

“so, your friend,” paige says, feigning nonchalance, leaning against the railing. “y’all close?”

“leela? yeah. we’ve been friends for years.”

paige nods, pretending to focus on her drink, swirling the pink–ish red liquid around the glass. “cool, cool.”

sipping her drink, spencer smirks. “why? you jealous?”

paige breaks out into a grin. “a little. hard not to be when she gets to have you out here all to herself, looking like this.” she’s unabashed in the way she lets her eyes take in spencer’s form this time.

spencer rolls her eyes, and even though she obviously tries to fight it, she can’t help but break into a smile, shaking her head. there’s a pause where paige can tell the girl is pondering something until she finally speaks, “you know… you still owe me chick–fil–a.”

“i do,” paige intones playfully. “you tryna ditch?”

“there’s one a few blocks away,” spencer says all too casually. “we could probably walk.”

paige’s eyebrows shoot up. “wait, you’re serious?”

“mm–hmm,” she hums. “unless you wanna stay and party. i’m heading out either way.”

paige doesn’t have to be told twice.

[cazhan]

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[miralure]

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃

click on previews for hq :)

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[lxverrings]

HIII ik u usually make Miguel Ohara fics but can you please please please make a fic abt spidernoir?? I don't care if its smut or smth just please 🙏🙏🙏🙏

Btw love ur Miggy fics 😋

20’s lovin

A/N: DAMMIT I wanted to get other requests in, but I finished playing Genesis Noir (Point and Click Adventure game! It’s so beautifully animated!) And it just reminds me so much of Noir over here and I just GOTTA 💳💥💳💥💳💥💳💥💳💥 THANKS for the request N♡nnie! Finally a good excuse to get my hashtag hashtag vision out !!!!

Summary: Jazz Singer Reader x Spiderman Noir/Peter Parker, set in the 20’s, obviously!!!! Not very good at 20’s slang, PLEASE be patient 😭

Warnings: P in V. . .at some point maybe in the near future, kind of poor plot, Noir being a wee bit desperate because I ❤ pathetic men!!! Um lowkey fem!reader but if anyone wants a masc! reader fic with Noir, let me know!

Another simple Friday night, faceless people trailing around muddy streets and murky skies, the cigarette barely flickering alive, much how he felt that very night. The skyscrapers touched the smog filled clouds as the dim golden lights reached around.

The hunger filled stomach he nursed was all that kept the man walking. Peter, for god’s sake.

He should have grabbed something at HQ, and damn he should have, The Hopper’s smells filled the area, and with the small coins he had, he trudged forth, and walked inside of the area, ignoring the posters for a Jazz concert tonight.

[ . . . ]

Some... Golden Boy on the Saxophone playing and only heard idly, once on the spotlight, still he stayed, playing til the sun gave way, yet alone and ignored the music would sway. Because no one here would give him the time of day.

[ . . . ]

He watched idly as he downed some whiskey in a few sips, something to numb the soul, something. Oh just something as the saxophone stopped and a mundane applause filled the area, done only for the sake of one person clapping and the rest following like sheep. And instead, the heels of a woman clasped the stage closer and closer, behind golden, shimmering curtains. And as they raised, the club went dark, faint piano serenading the ears of every lost soul, and a sultry voice spread the area.

“Everybody needs a little lovin’ this Friday night, don’t they?” the voice asked into the microphone, smooth and sweet. Like honeyed liquor dripping from his mouth. Peter finally looked up only to find himself eye to eye with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Eyes glowing, like stars and hair that seemed nothing but glorious to watch on stage. It practically swayed with her hips as she serenaded, and the stage was for her. Not just the lights. Not just the stage. But the audience as well, the simmering lights sparked and shone on her, contouring her beautifully. The shadows only brought out the most beautiful aspects of her as she sung softly, the lyrics seeping off of her throat like a melancholic grief leaving the soul, finally freeing the internal chains of agony.

[ . . . ]

You had never seen him around before. Not at all. The man in the black trenchcoat, after your little show, you slowly trailed off stage, and made your way over.

“... Hello! I don’t recall having seen you here.” you spoke softly, but to him? Oh... To him.

It felt like an angel had smiled down at him, as he slightly choked on his drink. Not a good look, Peter. Not a good look.

He looked a little silly, you had to admit, so suddenly flushed and perhaps a bit shy. You felt quite smitten, as you politely sat down.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“... Not at all.”

By the end of the night, he walked away with a napkin. That napkin had a lipstick mark and a couple of digits. ... Given after a night of attraction.

For anyone curious, this is what Genesis Noir looks like!!!! If anyone wants to, I’m willing to entertain this and write part 2!