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thecoochiefairy · 3 months ago

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74. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 14.5K word count. blackfem!original character, onyankopon, basketball player!onyankopon, sweet!onyakopon, dominant!onyankapon, arrogant!onyankopon, unprotected sex, creampie, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, creaming, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, kinda aggressive dirty talk, oral [f], nasty sex chile, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ i think i like this one. i’m not sure yet, hehe. inspired by one of my fav comfort movies, just wright. + i think of it won’t stop by sevyn streeter when i think of this fic. love you. bye.

(was having a hard time w/ nasty links this time w/ black couples so sorry for that. you get the point. visual. visual. visual. )

HEARTBREAK ANNIVERSARY PLAYED ON A LOOP WITHIN HER SPEAKERS. Being stuck under the covers was never the plan for today—but she was in a funk.

Her eyes peered over the olive green plush of her comforter, acrylic nail swiping across the screen of her phone as she mindlessly scrolled on social media. She refused to do what became a habit at this point—but damn, did she want to.

It’s unfortunate that she did it anyway.

Clicking on the previously searched profile, she goes onto the page to see a new picture had been uploaded. That familiar smile, arm wrapped around a faceless figure, dark hair spilling through his fingers as his hand sat on her lower back.

ALL MINE, it captioned.

Her vision locked along the screen, noticing that her sight began to blur. She hated crying. She felt like her tears weren’t deserved, yet she wanted to release them anyways—she felt weak.

When the phone suddenly buzzed, her eyes caught sight of a familiar number. She couldn’t keep ignoring calls. Parting out a sigh, she pressed the phone to her ear.

“Yeah?”

She tried to sound as normal as possible, wiping her eyes with a quiet sniffle. Allergies were her planned excuse if she was questioned.

“I know you’re not crying right now.”

That’s exactly how she expected her friend to respond. But she wasn’t going to give the satisfaction of admitting how embarrassed she was. So she replied with, “Allergies.”

A long, exasperated sigh echoed before the feminine voice replied, “You should know by now that I know when you’re lying”

Ama.

“You’ve been out of it for weeks—Cooped up in your apartment, calling into work. You’ hiding from that nigga or something?”

She rolls her glossy eyes, deepening herself within the covers as she mutters, “No.”

“You can’t stay in bed forever,” Ama sterns, “How long has it been since you ate? Look—I know you’ over there with that cornfed ass, but that doesn’t mean you can’t eat a lil’ more!”

That actually gets a weak laugh from her. She runs a palm along her cheek as she sighs, “I’m not too hungry, Ama.”

“So you’re really not finna’ come to my momma’s barbecue?”

“You want me to come to your momma’s barbecue all sad and shit? Yeah, no. I’m good on’ that.”

“You know my momma gon’ kill you if you don’t show up. So I suggest you get off your ass, fix your face and—don’t make me grow wings and fly into that window.“

She could hear Ama shuffling in the background, meaning she was on the way. Her friend was entirely serious about dragging her out of bed, and Ama’s mom would kill her for not showing up.

She adjusts her body to sit up against the bed, sighing as she replied, “So you tellin’ me I gotta get cute? Who gon’ be there—Lance Gross? Jalen Hurts?”

Ama sighs, “Unfortunately, no. You’d think Usher was coming with the way my momma set shit up. I think she’s all excited for Onyankopon to be back home.”

Onyankopon.

That wasn’t a name she heard too often. Ama made it a habit not to mention her brother, as she spent years behind his shadow, always being known as his sister and nothing more. He was the star of the family. It didn’t help that he was recently signed to New Orleans’ basketball team, and a well known face within the city. She was the only girl that didn’t squeal when Ama mentioned who her sibling was—but it might’ve helped that she also had never met Onyankopon.

She raises an eyebrow, “Your brothers back in town? I thought the Pelicans had a press run?”

Ama sighs, “Chile, they did. But he told me that they’re having playoffs down here in a couple weeks— he’s been craving to play a game in the boot. I’m sure he also can’t wait to tap some southern ass. Slut.”

She chuckles, “Don’t act like you ain’t excited to see yo’ brother, Ms. Fraternal Twin.”

“If I wasn’t driving, I would smack you. You’ always tryna use our bond against me. Point is, you better be standing outside your door in the next forty-five minutes or I will get violent.“

“That’s why I’m finna’ get back in bed.”

“Yeah, okay. Do that and see what happens.”

“Bye, Ama.”

“Bye!”

If one thing Ama was right about, she did need to get out of bed. The time rushed by as Ama yapped while she got dressed, talking all the way up until they made it back to her mom’s place. It was exactly how a family cookout would look—two story house, a baby blue color painted along the wooden roof and walls. The smell of hot dogs, burgers and fries wafted in her nose as she squinted from the sunlight, standing next to the bucket of drinks as she waited for it to be refilled with bottles of water. The longer she went without eating, her stomach growled.

Seeing her friend's family was different from her own—playing card games, from old jams to bounce remixes, to routined line dances—the energy was enjoyable, and she didn’t have the urge to check her phone again. She felt at ease.

“You still ain’t finna’ eat?” Ama questions, holding a plate up to her face as she stood beside her friend, nose deep into a plate of jambalaya.

She shakes her head, “I need water. It’s hot as hell,” she huffs, fanning a hand above her face.

“You’ so dramatic—“ Ama starts, halting as she follows the sound of tires screeching in front of the house, “—Oh, there he go’ with the water.”

Their eyes follow to the blacked out H2 Hummer, large wheels rumbling the ground as it leans atop of the curb. Two bodies step out of the car, her eyes familiar with one of Ama’s cousins, Shaun—but seeing her brother was a different story.

Neatly braided cornows to the back of his head was the first thing she noticed, his lineup as sharp as his jaw. Brown skin shined under the sun like iridescent honey, tattoos cascading across his muscular frame, all the way up to his cheekbones. Love was written in cursive above his eyebrow, full lips a dark pink beneath his goatee and facial hair. Rings cladded along his thick fingers, muscles flexing beneath the fitted white tee he wore with navy blue basketball shorts. 74 glittered around his neck, his number meaningful in every room he walked in—he was fine.

“Took you long enough,” Ama rolled her eyes, “Everybody finna’ die of dehydration!”

He’s already walking towards the cooler, effortlessly dropping bottles into the ice water. A slight smirk curls from his lips as he replied, “You’ aight. Me and Shaun’ was tryna’ roll up before we got back, you know momma don’t play that shit.”

His voice was deep, yet smooth—velvet almost.

“You ain’t supposed to be smoking anyways!” Ama reminds, “You’ got playoffs in a couple of weeks—they don’t drug test y’all?”

“Yeah,” He starts, plopping a few more bottles into the ice, “I got the next two weeks to do that, you act like I won’t be straight by then.”

He glances beside Ama, raising an eyebrow as he questions, “You don’t speak or sum’?”

She blinks in reply, realizing the question was for her. Her eyes travel down to the cooler before she points to herself—“Me?”

“Nah, the nigga standin’ by the tree—Yeah, you.”

His sister then scoffs, “She’s just not used to seeing big ass niggas like you.”

“Bro—stop talkin’ to me,” He warns. His glare stays in Ama’s direction before softening his gaze back onto her friend, “You got a name, you?”

“Nuh-Uh! Nope. She don’t! Don’t be tryna’ push up on my friend. You got bitches all over New Orleans for that,” Ama interrupts.

She scolds in reply, “Ama—lawd, I’m good. Chill.”

She then scans him up and down, noticing how big he was in comparison to her. She’d only seen him on TV, and only ever heard the amount of shit his sister talked about him. She honestly didn’t think she’d ever meet him, and maybe that’s why she suddenly felt so insecure.

But if only she could see herself.

Her bistre skin was like chocolate melting beneath the sun, midnight black hair slicked back into a low bun out of her face—edges styled along her forehead in perfection, small flyaways curled along the back of her neck. Feline eyes tilted above her full lips and freckles he could only notice as he observed her. But the star of the show was her eyes—a deep cobalt, giving her an almost villainous look. But nothing was more pure than her angelic face.

She gives a small wave, wanting to smack herself at the childish gesture as she softly introduces, “I’m Blue.”

Her voice was quiet, but sweet.

“Blue. I like that.”

Ama interrupts the moment, “Don’t be complimenting her, my friend know’ she's bad!”

The way her name rolled off his tongue made a chill run through her spine—she had to pull it together.

Onyankopon steps closer to the cooler, his eyes flickering back to hers as he questions,”You don’t drink?”

“Hm?” Blue raises an eyebrow, “Oh— No, I don’t. It’s easier to drink water. I mean, you should always drink water— If you’re dehydrated, of course. but if you’re hydrated you should be fine—“

She stops herself, realizing that she’s rambling.

Blue clears her throat, playing with a curl along the side of her face as she blows out a flushed smile, “…Yeah.”

God—she wanted to dig herself into the nearest hole.

Blue adjusts herself a bit, now feeling entirely naked under the snug white tee she wears, showing off her midriff and heart shaped nipple piercings, denim washed jeans that clung to the harsh curve of her ass, orchid sandals along her French tipped toes. She was pretty.

“Oh hell,” Ama groans, “I thought you said you wasn’t’ a fan?”

“I’m not—“

Ama shakes her head, “Anyways, Blue’s an athletic trainer—she be around you niggas all the time. So I don’t know why she even actin’ like this. You’ making my friend uncomfortable, Onyankopon!”

Her rambling was cute—refreshing, to say the least. He lets out a small chuckle, finding it a bit endearing as her brown cheeks went warm.

“Oh? You’ an athletic trainer?”

“I just work with college students,” Blue shakes her head, “I’m still working on my masters to move into professional athletes.”

“She used to play ball too,” Ama adds, “Better than yo’ ugly ass.”

He subtly flexes his jaw in annoyance of his sister, but the mention of her playing ball piqued his interest.

“What position?”

“Um—point guard. Like you,” she clears her throat, “It was back before I graduated,” she ends with a weak smile.

He raises an eyebrow, his fingers itching towards the silver piece around his neck.

“Why you’ all shy about it? Don’t be, I like that shit. You was nice onna’ court?”

It seems like the conversation becomes more intimate. As Ama gets distracted with her cousin that walks up, Onyankopon leans closer—Blue has to tilt her head up to get a good angle of him.

His body smells of a cocoa musk, and the scent clings along her senses, almost trying to coax her in. She was never this silent with anyone, her chest feeling heavier by the second.

Blue then replies, “Are you?”

His teeth flash a bit with the question. Her words were just a slight jab, but he appreciated it.

“I’m him, ain’t I?”

His fingers finally make their way to his necklace, pulling the silver up a bit, the numbers glistening in the sun as it reflected into her eyes.

“You tryna’ front like you ain’t never seen my games?”

“Ain’t nobody tryna’ front,” she confirms, “I watch more of the WNBA—you niggas get whatever y’all want even if you play around on the court.”

He shakes his head, a faint grin stretching from ear to ear, “You’ cute. You know that?”

His compliment makes her go stiff. Her lips part open a bit, but she doesn’t speak, unable to find any words to say back.

“You ain’t watching the right niggas,” He smacks his lips, “So what—a nigga gotta’ play for yo’ heart or sum’?”

Don’t get her wrong—Blue enjoyed a little flirting. But just in that millisecond, her mind trails back to someone else charming her with just their words, and that’s how she ended up with her first heartbreak.

She shakes her head, “I heard you got plenty to choose from—you should be fine getting benched by me.”

He narrows his lids, noticing that her expression grew more distant. There was a shift. An airy chuckle escapes his throat, glancing down at her with low eyes.

“You’ cold as hell. That’s cool.”

“I know it is. Can you back up off me now, 74?” she raises an eyebrow, azul vision flickering along his face.

He takes a second, staring at her facial features to memorize them. She was interesting to say the least.

Finally, he steps back, “My fault, Mama.”

Ama interrupts at the perfect time as she calls, “Yo’! Momma wants you to come carry the other grill outside, Ony!—And I told you leave my damn friend alone—fifty feet, nigga!”

“Damn—Fifty feet is crazy,” Onyankopon chuckles, glancing down at Blue, “We was’ just talkin’, huh?”

Blue tilts her head a bit, trying to push down the smile that wants to grow on her face as she replies, “…Mhm.”

“I’m finna’ start counting!” Ama threatens, her hands now on her hips.

“You gotta’ calm down,” Onyankopon groans to his sister, looking back once more, “Let me know when you tryna’ have me as yo’ point guard, Blue.”

Before she could respond, he was already walking away. She’s able to see his full frame—the muscles in his back flexing within his arms, leaving Blue just how she introduced herself—Quiet.

She tries to distract herself for the next hour. Her eyes glanced over to Onyankopon every few seconds, noticing something new about him each time. The open faced grills within his mouth, the stud within his nose, the lyrics and verses along his neck and arms. Fuck.

Her eyes couldn’t help but trail back to her screen, absentmindedly clicking onto social media. That was until her phone was snatched from her fingers.

“Ama!”

“I’m saving your mental, girl,” Ama replies, holding the phone up to her face as she types, “Don’t make me delete Instagram.”

Blue sighs, “You know that nigga is in a new relationship already?”

Ama sighs, tapping on the picture of him with a nameless figure wrapped around his arm.

“He never had loyalty, you know that. Stop fuckin’ with these ball players and find you a lawyer or some shit.”

Blue felt stupid. To have fallen for someone she knew had the reputation of careless acts—what else did she expect? But he made her feel like she was important. That she was different.

“I’d rather be by myself. A lawyer might lie even better than a ball player,” Blue murmurs, digging her fork into the piece of cake she’d had her attention on, Ama finalizing her words as she agreed, “That part.”

Everyone watches as the younger men make their way towards the basketball court within the driveway, Blue’s attention pulling back to that damn smile as Onyankopon’s silhouette moves past her.

He questions, “We finna’ hoop. You gon’ watch yo’ man?”

“Who?” She scrunches her nose.

“You heard me, girl. Quit playin’.”

Blue turns to Ama, “Why yo’ brother won’t get off me? Didn’t you say he got bitches to choose from?”

Ama shrugs, “He tryna’ be cute, and you blushing—I’m mindin’ my business.”

She then stands from the table, a mischievous smile across her face, “I gotta make sure my uncle doesn't break his hip on this court. You comin’?”

“Watchin’ yo’ uncle possibly fall and break all his ligaments? Lemme’ grab my cake,” Blue chuckles, standing with her food as she follows behind.

Everyone crowds around the court as the family game begins, but it’s unfortunate that Blue can’t stop watching Onyankopon—especially when he keeps howling each time he makes a shot.

This was her first time seeing him on the court, and to say that he played how he looked on TV was an understatement. To her dismay, he had bragging rights. The way he easily dodged and maneuvered around the court, his height gave him a slight advantage as he easily made shots to the rim.

“You see me? You like that?” he calls, his attractive face more threatening each time he calls out to her, “You gon’ have a seat right up in the boxes watchin’ me!”

Ama replies back, “She don’t’ see shit but yo’ hoe ass bullying your family on the court. Stop playing like this a championship, stupid!”

Onyankopon smacks his lips at his sister, catching the ball before dribbling up the court again. But the person he was up against this time, was not as easy—the cousin he always played with, who was just as good as him. He had quick reflexes, almost magic as he stole the ball out of Onyankopon’s palms, making his way towards the rim, dunking the ball against it.

“Oh—we playin’ forreal? Aight.”

They’re still playful with one another along the court, but that didn’t make the game any less serious. Both men were good at stealing the ball from each other. The family watched in entertainment, yelling and calling out moves as if it were a real game. Blue couldn’t help the small laugh she released. Damn, he was good.

Everything was going well—until it wasn’t. Onyankopon’s cousin shifted his body a little too quickly into him, harshly knocking his shoulder to where he tripped over his own legs, crashing into the ground before he could catch himself. Everyone knew something was wrong the moment he grabbed his knee, a pained look against his face.

It’s as if Blue sobered up in that moment, her eyes widening slightly as his cousin bent down in front of him with panic, “Yo—Ony, you good? Shit—I’m sorry.”

“Fuck—” Onyankopon groans, clenching his jaw as he attempts to sit up. He wanted to hide the immense burn he felt rushing through his entire leg, but he was in pain— His knee was locked.

The entire court was immobile. It’s as if no one wanted to panic, but panic all at the same time. A single voice called over the silence as Ama exclaimed, “Blue!”, rushing around the court towards her brother.

Blue was right behind her, dropping herself towards the ground as she immediately reached for his knee. He jerked at the touch as she softly whispered, “I’m sorry,” keeping her palms in place, even as he tried to push her away.

“You have to tell me what hurts, Onyankopon.”

“It’s—” He starts, hissing between his teeth as she kept her hand on the swollen part of his leg, “—Fuck, it’s my entire leg. From the top, to the ankle.”

Everyone around them grew nervous. She could hear the worry in Ama’s voice, and she could see tears forming in her eyes as she called for her father.

Blue didn’t need anyone to freak out. She turns towards her friend, “Ama—go inside with Shaun and grab an ice pack, okay?”

If Ama’s panic wasn’t helping the situation, a shriek coming from the front of the house makes it all

the more worse—Onyankopon’s mother tosses the pan of meatballs within her hands, nearly falling down the stairs as she rushes over to the court, “Oh my goodness, my baby! Oh lawd—What happened?—Who hurt my baby?!”

“I did something stupid, Ma’! Quit fussin’. Lawd, I’m fine,” He manages to groan out.

His body was sweating, the veins in his neck going rigid as he fought to keep his composure—each time Blue’s palm slid across his skin, he wanted to scream.

Blue places his arm on her shoulder, huffing as she lifts herself and his weight along her body. She manages to say at the same time, “Just lean on me, okay? Don’t put any weight on it.”

Onyankopon could hear the slight wheeze in Blue’s breath as his mother started to yell, “Get him on the bench! Where’s the ice pack—Where’s Ama?!”

“I can try to walk, Blue—ion’ need you hurting yourself tryna’ help me.”

“What happened to all that flirting you was’ doing earlier—You don’t wanna be close to me no’ more?” She questions, distracting him as she takes another step towards the house.

A painful chuckle pushes from his lips. He had been trying to show off—and look where that got him. It was almost pathetic.

“Your name really Blue, forreal’?”

Her lashes flick up to him, the sunlight cascading within the ocean of her pupils. She then raises an eyebrow, “You’ really injured yourself tryna’ impress a girl?”

It wasn’t supposed to happen—but it did. Onyankopon blushes, the warmth across his face growing with embarrassment as she calls him out.

Finally, he answers, “Yeah, aight. You got it.”

When they finally get him inside, the previous outburst of Onyankopon’s mother turns into an all out tantrum, up to the point where she kicks everyone out. Throughout the chaos, all Onyankopon could think about was the softness of Blue’s hand in his—the way each time he looked back at her, she squeezed his fingers, giving a soft smile. He thought about her as she sat across from him, and even at the hospital when she’d already left.

Why couldn’t he get this girl off his mind?

Standing in front of his condo the next day wasn’t in Blue’s original plans. When Ama told her that his condition wasn’t looking too good, regardless of how overly flirtatious he was—she felt bad. And being the empath she unfortunately was, she was now standing in front of his door, bifold glass seeing right into the tinted foyer of his home as she stepped in.

Sleek black interior accompanied paintings hung above the minimalist styled furniture. Her curiosity came to a halt as she heard a couple of voices at the end of the hall, making her way to where they followed, but slowing down when she heard the conversation.

Onyankopon sat along the bench of his indoor gym, frown locked down to his knee wrapped in gauze as the doctor continued to speak to him.

“It seems you’ve torn your PCL.”

“And what does that injury intel?” His father questions, “Is that the same as tearing your ACL?”

“Not as severe, but still just as bad. With rest and rehabilitation, you could be back playing within the next two months.”

Two months?

His father shakes his head, “Hollon’—He has playoffs in four weeks. He just signed a contract with the Pelicans, he can’t miss that. Two months isn’t plausible—Is there any way we can speed up the process?”

“Pops.”

Onyankopon’s voice is a warning, already frustrated with the news he receives. His father wasn’t helping that.

The doctor sighs, “Well, it’s not that easy. Onyankopon would need extensive physical therapy if he wants to be ready for the playoffs. If he doesn’t take the right precautions, he could risk tearing his ACL, and he’ll have to sit out for a lot longer—or in the worst case, have a career ending injury. If he listens—”

His father cuts him off.

“I’ll get him in the best goddamn rehab in Louisiana—We’ll make it work.”

That’s when they all hear a phone ringing. Blue curses, immediately cutting off the sound as she looks down to her screen. She blows out a breath as she peeks to the other side of the wall, seeing all three men looking over at her.

“Sorry,” she softly greets, “I um—was just bringing Ony something—I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You can come in. It’s aight,” He tells her, his gaze flickering over her form.

She notices a scowl along his face, seemingly irritated from this conversation. She couldn’t help but take account of his shirtless appearance, eyes wavering over the strength he holds in the broad frame of his back, muscles structured beneath his intricate tattoos.

The doctor looks away from his father, looking back to Onyankopon as he questions, “Do you want to take that risk?”

His jaw flexes at the question. He didn’t want to ruin his career by possibly hurting himself more, but he also had a family to be successful for. He didn’t have a choice.

“I’ll be ready by’ playoffs.”

The doctor sighs, unable to argue with his decision. He then says, “We’ll find the best athletic trainer for you. But if you feel your knee worsening—you’ll have to consider sitting out.”

That’s when Onyankopon catches sight of Blue again. She looks as if she’d just come from the gym— indigo baby tee and yoga pants hugging her curvy figure. Square glasses tip on her freckles nose, curls out her face from a matching headband.

That’s when he says, “I want her.”

Her eyebrows raise. Blue frowns, “What?”

Onyankopon looks at his father as he continues, “She used to hoop back in college. Now she works with athletes— I need to play shit safe and get someone good.”

Blue’s frown deepens, “Onyankopon—I can’t accept that. I’ve only worked with college athletes—I don’t even have my masters!—“

“I trust you.”

His voice holds no hesitation, his piercing gaze meeting her eyes as he promises, “I will do what I have to do. But I want you to be the one to get me there—can you do that?”

He can see the hesitance along her face, the baby pink box she holds tightening under her fingers.

Onyankopon looks towards his father as he dismisses, “Lemme’ talk to her, Pops.”

Both men exit, their footsteps growing quiet as they leave them in silence, Blue’s face nowhere near convinced on this idea. But instead of him immediately reeling back the conversation, he scoots off the bench as he questions, “What you’ got me?”

She looks down to the box, now feeling a little childish.

“Oh—um—I knew you were upset with everything that happened yesterday, so—I got you a lil’ cupcake at this bakery by my house. They put a basketball on it?”

She lifts the box towards him, “I just��wanted to make you feel better,” she nervously giggles, lifting the desert towards him.

A grin slowly curls onto his full lips. He chuckles for a second, “You only being nice to a nigga ‘cause he hurt—that’s cold,” He shakes his head, standing to his feet, the muscles in his arms flexing with each motion.

She notices that as he makes his way over to her, Onyankopon places his weight on one leg, limping on the other. He takes the box from her fingers, his hand grazing Blue’s in the exchange, catching the softness of her palm again. Warm. That usual blush appears along her face as he opens the box, staring down at the small cupcake topped with a basketball.

“You should be using your crutches,” she looks behind him, seeing as they lean along the bench.

“C’mon, Mama. I ain’t even hired you yet and you trippin’—quit all that,” he smacks his lips, “I’m tryna’ have you feed me.”

She looks around, “Feed who? The grown man standing across from me?”

“Lawd, here you go with that attitude. I liked when you was playin’ soft,” He murmurs, breaking the cupcake in half, reaching a piece out to her.

She looks down at his hand, sighing as she reluctantly takes the other half from him. Her lashes flutter as she blinks, “You’ serious about this? Me getting you ready for ‘playoffs?”

“Yeah.”

This close, Blue can smell his cologne again—the mixture of spice and cocoa. His cologne combined with his natural musk was intoxicating. He notices how she swallowed her nervousness, his lip tipping upwards for a moment before he asks, “I make you nervous or sum?’”

“Save that for your groupies,” she dismisses, “I’m not here to fuck around with you, Ony. You’re not gonna blame me for making your injury worse, meaning you need to be serious about wanting to be back on the court by playoffs.”

He hums at that, “I like when you tryna’ be all professional. It’s cute. What you’ need me to do? Beg? Get on my knees?”

“The knee you don’t have?” She fires back, “Yeah—aight. I’m gone,” she grabs for her bag, “You’re not taking this shit seriously.”

“Blue,” He calls, letting out a long sigh as she begins making her way out, “C’mon, girl. What I’ need to do?”

“Call your father and have him find you a rehab center.”

She disappears behind the wall—but the front door shutting is what really signifies that the conversation had ended.

“Blue—Yo!”

She was gone.

He groans, sucking his teeth as he grabs one of the crutches in the corner. This was gonna be a long four weeks.

𝓐ᥫ᭡

THE SUNLIGHT WAS PEACEFUL AS SHE SAT ON THE BLEACHERS. Blue was finishing off another week in her work schedule, ending a therapy session with one of her students who was now scattering across the court at practice with the rest of his team. Multiple men passed the ball, talked shit to each other, pushing and shoving along the court as they played an unserious game. Seeing the smile along their faces made her realize how important this sport was to someone like them—how important it was to her.

Her phone buzzes. Ama, as she expected. Blue sighs, pressing the phone to her ear as she greets, “I hope you ain’t calling to cuss me out ‘cause I didn’t take the job your brother offered.”

“I come in peace, promise. I know his big headed ass is hard to deal with,” her friend chuckles, “Are you at work?”

“Yeah. Just finished a session with one of my ball players. He’s doing really good— ecstatic to be back on the court,” a small smile comes to her face. She can’t help but ask, “How’s Ony doing?”

“He’s…okay? Off the crutches, been doing a lot of PT, even shuffled around the court this morning.”

“But?”

Blue could hear the uncertainty in her friend's voice, hearing a sigh come through the phone as Ama continues, “But—he’s not himself. Kinda hurts to see my twin moping around, y’know? Look, don’t get mad but…he really needs you, Blue.”

She sighed, “Don’t start, Ama.”

“I’m being serious!,” She exclaims, “I don’t know how, but…Blue—He’s different since you’ve been around. After you left his house, the nigga started PT that same day! I ain’t never seen him be so on top of something since his Nike had a sale,” She takes a breath, “Please? It’s just for the playoffs. Just three more weeks and then you’re done. My twin is all sad, and if he’s sad, I’m sad, and you don’t want me to be sad, right? ‘Cause you love me. Exactly.”

Blue rolls her eyes, giving a soft laugh in response. She’d never heard Ama be so adamant when it came to Onyankopon, meaning she was entirely serious. She hoped that their last interaction put a fire under his ass, and gave him the encouragement to get himself together in time for his next game. Being there for him wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

She finalizes, “I’ll go back over there tomorrow.”

And she did. Blue was up early the next morning, already pushing her way into the glass panel of his front door, two machas within a cup holder as she quietly entered the condo. It was more peaceful in the morning, the sunlight tilting into the windows—but she was distracted by the sound of a bear growling.

It in fact wasn’t a bear, but Onyankopon passed out along the sofa as he slept. Blue thought Ama was exaggerating when she said that her brother was in a funk—but when she saw the open box of pizza beside his head, his pillows fallen all over the ground, and his body wrapped up in a hoodie—she might’ve been right.

Blue glanced over to the TV that played cartoons, looking back down to him as she called, “Onyankopon.”

Nothing.

His snores nearly bounced off the walls, rumbling the bottom of her feet as if he were an animal. She rolled her eyes, leaning down as she shoved his shoulder, “Onyankopon.”

Still nothing.

Okay. She sat the matcha down, going into the kitchen as her eyes searched around his cabinets. Retrieving a bowl, she went over to his fridge as she filled it with cold water, adding ice within the mixture before making her way back into the living room. And without another thought—she tossed the contents on top of him.

“Nigga—”

His voice sounded like a low growl, his large body jolting as he felt the water on his skin. He blinked the moisture from his eyes, slowly becoming conscious as the room came into focus, “The fuck?!”

“Get up,” she demands, raising the bowl as if she were going to toss it, “You better—“

“Don’t you see me up?!”

“No! I see a nigga hibernating on the couch!”

“I was asleep!”

He grunts, shifting himself to sit up before the coldness settles onto his chest. His brows furrow, glaring at the bowl in her hand before he stood.

“You better back yo’ ass up before I come over there.”

“That’s if you could limp over here in time!”

She raises the bowl again, Onyankopon flinching as he says, “Aight! Damn. I’m up, I’m up.”

“You up?” she questions, bucking the bowl one more time.

"Blue—"

He groans, "Get yo' lil' ass out the way with that bowl, forreal. 'Cause if I get over there, imma’ have you runnin.’ Swear to god.”

Blue narrows her eyes, taking a step back as she lowers her hand. She then smiles, “Meet me in the gym after you shower—and drink your matcha!” She calls, disappearing into the hallway.

“This girl here, man.”

After Onyankopon cleans the living room, he quickly takes a shower, making his way towards the gym—music is already humming along the room, catching sight of Blue who stands in the middle of his miniature court. The architecture was a matte black, matching equipment with silver linings all across the floor. His eyes lower to Blue’s ass as she stretches, too distracted to hear him entering.

“You know what you’ doing, Ms. Trainer?”

She turns her head, looking across the entrance as she sees Onyankopon, Nike long sleeve hugging his muscles, his team's sweatpants matching the navy blue top he wears.

She pulls her eyes away from how big he was, reaching for a ball along the wall as she says, “C’mon.”

“C’mon, what?”

“We finna’ hoop.”

He doesn’t budge from his spot, raising an eyebrow.

“You think I’m joking?”

Blue locks her fingers at the edge of her sweatshirt, pulling the oversized material off her body and tossing it on the ground. She begins to clip her hair up in her orchid comb, “They’ told me you’re off the crutches— I wanna see how comfortable you are on the court.”

A smirk curves along his lips when she removes her shirt—the baby pink workout set she wore hugs her body perfectly.

“Yo’ mama know you got that ass?”

The moment he comes closer, she’s quick. She opens her palms, tossing the ball towards him with a tilt to her head, “Quit distracting. Show me why they made you’ point guard.”

Blue takes a step back, squatting herself down a bit. Her eyes watch as he steps forward, but she catches the light limp he does as he begins dribbling.

She points out, “You’ll have to put your weight on it eventually.”

“You gotta’ let a nigga warm up.”

He’s making his way towards the rim—but he was slower—he couldn’t use his speed to his advantage like he usually did.

The moment she’s close to him, Blue snatches the ball from his hands, hugging the object within her fingers. Onyankopon backs up.

She raises an eyebrow, “What are you doing?—I know you ain’t scared to hoop.”

He scoffs, “Nah, it’s just—you got that pretty face. Ion’ wanna’ bump you.”

“I play with niggas all the time,” she re-ties her hair, “C’mon. Play like you forreal’, pussy.”

It was like a switch went off in his body at the insult. Onyankopon gave her a warning, “Watch yo’ mouth, Blue.”

“Come take the ball from me then.”

“I heard you’ the first time.”

He was more focused this time around, hand swiping the ball from her fingers before she could blink. Blue let out a grunt as he easily moved around her, and that’s when he shoved her body to the side— Blue stumbling back, watching as he took long strides towards the basket—But before he could even attempt his shot, her hand interfered, breathlessly swatting the ball out his hand and taking it into her own.

“I thought we was’ playing forreal’?” He retorts.

As Blue begins sprinting, Onyankopon catches the back of her sweatpants, yanking her back as he grunts, “Where you goin’?”

Blue shrieks, dropping the ball as she smacks his hand away, “That’s a foul, dipshit!”

“You on my basketball court,” He replies, lifting his hand to snatch the ball before it touches the ground, “Foul my ass. I thought you wanted to see some real effort?”

He grips her forearm as he pulls her back beside him, turning her body as he places the ball within her palm, “Show me that college ball player shit. You’ wastin’ my time.”

“Oh?” She glares, “Okay—Guard me from shooting then.”

“Ion’ need to guard you,” He steps to the side, leaving the rim wide open, “Shoot. Gon’ head.”

And as soon as she did, he was quick in interfering with her motion, his long arm palming the basketball. She let out a small huff in defeat—but she could be faster. Blue manages to retrieve the ball in time and the moment she turns, her body slams into his.

His towering frame blocked her pathway to the rim as she tried to move in another direction, but her hands couldn't catch the ball—Onyankopon now had it back within his grasp. They both give each other a breathless laugh, and despite this moment being important—they were having fun.

As Onyankopon goes to take another step, he stops, sucking in a breath as he places a hand along his knee. A sharp pain shoots through his entire leg.

Blue immediately pauses, “You okay?”

At first, he wanted to deny, ignore the pain—but it was evident along his face. His voice lowers, “I’m good—I, damn—“

He’s unable to finish his sentence, gritting his teeth as he tries to move towards the bench—but he’s unable to. After another moment, Blue’s shoulder presses under his arm as she murmurs, “Lean on me, alright? We’re both done playing.”

“I’m good,” he brushes off, “I’m tryna’ do some training.”

She kept him leaning against her, even if he was trying to move away. Blue questions, “You sure? We can just play it safe—do a couple stretches, Ony.”

His head tilts down at her, his hand gripping the curve of her shoulder as he answers, “Play it safe for what? I was just runnin’ around with you on the court—I gotta’ be back up in three weeks, Blue. I can’t do safe,” his voice is harsh, “I’m good.”

Blue pulls away from him as she relents, “Okay.”

After a while, they began moving into a couple of exercises—one of them being where Onyankopon had to lay along a yoga mat as he raised his knee a couple inches off the ground, attempting to reach Blue’s finger tips. While that might’ve sounded easy, he was huffing through the tightness within his leg, trying to shove down the uncomfortable position.

Blue’s touch might’ve been a helpful factor to each movement. Her warm palms gripped along his ankle, guiding him in the correct angle.

“Three more,” she promises, “Just gimme’ those, and we’ll move on.”

Onyankopon is quiet during their session, his grunts sounding with each new exercise they’d done. It wasn’t until he was on his feet, doing a movement that called for a slow squat where his groans began.

At the same time, Blue stands across from him as she makes sure his form is correct. She had to stop him a couple times to show the proper stance, squatting herself down for demonstration. She could feel his eyes.

“You’ good at doing that.“

Blue’s sighs, “Focus, please. Let’s try this again—I’ll do it with you.”

There was one thing that Onyankopon hadn’t mentioned in this entire process. In between each set, Blue would glance at her phone. She wasn’t distracted to a point that interfered with her work, but her attention was …diverted.

It wasn’t until he was doing his final exercise that he said something. He sat upright along the floor as a towel wrapped around the base of his foot, both palms grasping the ends of the material as he slowly pulled his leg back and forth.

Blue’s gaze wavers against the screen of her phone, her attention being pulled away as she hears him say, “Who’s the nigga you over there so worried about?”

Her brows furrow at the question. She places her phone down, raising her palm over his, “You’re supposed to be pulling with your hands, your leg shouldn’t be doing the work.”

She then decides to respond, “Who said I was worried about a nigga?”

“You just seem distracted.”

He continues the movement, following her instructions as he grunts, “He must’ve done somethin’ to get all that attention I’m not gettin’. What if my knee shatters right now?”

“Ony,” she flinches, “Don’t say that. I’m sorry, okay? No more phone.”

“I didn’t say to blow off my question.”

Blue blinks at him, annoyed with his pressing. She then says, “You wanna hear that I’m stalking my ex and his new bitch?”

“There we go,” He answers, his leg returning down towards the floor as he begins the set again, “That’s what you should’ve been said.”

He looks up as he questions, “Why is he yo’ ex?”

She doesn’t expect him to be curious. Blue waits a couple moments, not entirely comfortable as she flatly says, “He played ball like you, was better at playing me.”

“I’m sure it’s more than that,” his brow quirks, “Keep talkin’. I’m tryna’ hear your mouth run.”

“And why do you care?” She adjusts the towel under his foot, “None of that matters. He’s in a relationship, and I can’t be mad at that.”

“But you’ mad cause he fucked you over.”

“Did I say all that or were you just listening too hard?”

“You don’t have to,” He counters, raising his leg back down for one final set, “I already know.”

His brows knit together as he grunts, his body tensing as he forces his knee back.

Once he’s done, he continues, “And what you talkin’ bout? He could be the President, don’t matter—the fact you can’t get over it tells me he must’ve hurt you.”

“People get hurt all the time, Onyankopon,” Blue reminds him, “I’m a big girl, I survived. I just—need to get over the situation like he did.”

“And how you gon’ do that?” he questions, sitting back up straight, his hand throwing the towel beside him.

He was looking at her. Studying the way each curl fell along her face, “By being on your phone at every break? Don’t sound like you’ tryna’ get over it to me.”

“Do I tell you how to handle the relationship aspect of your life?” She squints, “You and your groupies have a very close bond—I’m sure. Ain’t nobody tryna’ sit there and tell you how to stop fuckin’ around on multiple bitches.”

“Whoa,” He raises both palms, a soft chuckle coming from his lips as he says, “Aight, aight. Sensitive topic, I see.”

There’s a moment of silence as he stares down at his fingers, “My groupies ain’t the problem. Can’t compare that to your cheating ass nigga.”

“I think sometimes you just like to hear yourself talk,” Blue mutters, “Get in the crocodile stretch so I can massage your knee, please.”

“I like hearing you talk more.”

He scoots down along the floor, using his hands to slowly roll himself onto his chest. He grunts as he continues, reaching his arms above his head and hiding his face within both of them.

Onyankopon’s jaw tenses, his brows pinching together. But soon enough, a small sigh leaves his lips as he feels her fingers run along his knee. She takes her thumb as she digs it into the muscle, deeply knotting her bone into a specific spot on his leg.

Blue then admits, “…I didn’t mean to snap on you. I just—hate that I’m not over the situation. That’s all.”

Her touch was so gentle.

He let out a grunt of relief, lifting his head off his forearms to look back to her. His eyes narrow, a soft chuckle leaving his lips as he murmurs, “You gettin’ soft on me, Mama.”

She rolls her eyes, “Are you listening, or is this you just wanting to hear my voice again?”

“Both. Yo’ voice pretty as fuck.”

He sees the glimmer of freckles on her umber complexion, watching the way she nibbles along her lower lip, lowering her lashes. Shy. That’s the word he could think of.

“Are you ever gonna keep it professional with me?” She questions, glancing up to the TV that plays along the wall from across, the smallest smile along her face.

“Don’t wanna’. I can’t lie to you.”

He then catches her smile, and that’s when he says, “See. You know what it is.”

His tone lowers as he questions, “Why you gotta’ be so scared of a nigga trying to get to know you?”

“You beggin’ me now?” she raises an eyebrow, pulling herself back from his leg.

“Damn.”

He rolls over on his back, sitting up straight as he reaches for the towel beside him, wiping the sweat from his chest as he concludes, “Can’t do nothin’. You’ cold again.”

When she glances back up to the TV, she slows her movements as she sees a familiar face—his to be exact, different cuts from Onyankopon’s seasonal journey. He’s rushing across the court at one of his games, smiling ear to ear as he’s being interviewed.

”The star player was just signed to the Pelicans two months ago, and is already facing a career-threatening injury. Will he power through back in time for playoffs?

“I certainly hope so. Otherwise, he’ll be forgotten like anyone else just starting up.”

“Can you turn that off?”

His voice was stern, a glare on the screen as highlights continued playing. Every layup, every block, every dunk—it was a reel of everything he couldn’t do right now.

She reached for the remote as she shut it off, standing from the position she was in, “Earlier when we played—I could tell you were scared to move around the court. You can’t be afraid to do that.”

“Ain’t nobody scared.”

She crosses her arms at that, seeing that he’s growing irritated at her words.

“You can be mad. That’s fine.”

“Why you tryna’ make me mad?”

The frustration was evident in his tone, his eyes narrowing as he continued, “You think you got a nigga figured out when you just met me a week ago.”

“This coming from the same nigga that said he trusted me a day after meeting?” she reminds, “I’m not here to make you feel worse. I’m here because I know how you feel— Nobody is gonna believe in you if you don’t believe in you.”

And that made his expression falter.

He couldn’t speak. Onyankopon stares for a few moments until he lets out a heavy breath, his head shaking as he says, “I’m just mad.”

“I know that.”

Blue scans his face, seeing an uncomfortable sense within it. She then says, “Your progress is better than any patient I’ve had. You love the court, I can see that. You’ll be there by the playoffs.”

He stays silent at that, her words filling his head before he murmurs, “Yeah— Thank you.”

“You also need some milk,” she adds on, “Your bones feel brittle as hell.”

He lets out a low chuckle, staring down at her hands. His large palms could cover both of them. He then pushes back the vulnerable side that wants to come out, “You’ hungry?”

“I am,” she sighs, walking over to the court as she pulls her sweatshirt back on, “I was gonna eat once I got home. You did good today— we can start back up tomorrow.”

“Stay and eat, then.”

She looks back at him, her hand halting along her duffle bag. His smile grows, “Got shit in the kitchen, we just needa’ run to the store for a couple ingredients—I’m more than protein shakes and smoothies.”

“You need rest, Onyankopon. You ain’t finna’ sleep if we’ playing around in the grocery store,” she reminds, placing her duffle over her shoulder.

“C’mon,” He smacks his lips, taking long strides to stand in front of her. His broad shoulders blocked her path to the door, “Tell me you ain’t craving some food-food. What you’ want? Dirty rice, red beans? Let me know sum.’”

Blue looks up at him, the height gap so evident as he finalizes, “You’ll sleep good as fuck after. Promise.”

“This your way of tryna’ get me to stay?” She sighs, “You’ sure you can cook anything without burning the house down?”

He moves towards the double glass of his front doors, “It’s my way of apologizing to you, aight? I was kinda’ a dick head earlier, forreal’—my food’ good as hell, Mama. You gon’ be beggin’ for more.”

“Wrong. I don’t beg.”

They make it to the nearest Whole Foods, Onyankopon protesting as Blue forces him to push the cart, wanting him to have something to put his weight on. She walks slowly as she glances through the aisle, “What you’ in the mood for?”

“You.”

There’s a small smirk along his lips as she glares at him, his tone growing low again as he murmurs, “My bad, my bad. Whatever you want, I’m not trippin’.”

She keeps walking, now ending up towards the produce aisle. She scans the selections, “You’ got enough fruit for your smoothies? I may need to grab some for mine,” she mutters, leaning over as she scans the basket of bananas.

“Are you a banana?”

She turns her head, frowning at the question, “What?”

Onyankopon leans towards her, “‘Cause I find you real’ a—peel—ling.”

Blue’s entire expression drops, “Oh no—We’ve moved into bad pick up lines. Jesus Christ. Please don’t—“

“Ooh, girl. You must be a strawberry or sum’,” He interrupts, tossing the items within the basket, “‘Cause you’re berry beautiful to me!”

“Is this my personal hell? I’m walking away from you!”

“Chill! Chill! I have one more—”

He lets out a laugh as he follows behind her, still leaning against the cart’s edge as he looks over to the section of pineapples.

“If you were a fruit, you’d be a fine-apple!”

“How about you make like them’ bananas you was talking about earlier, and split?”

Onyankopon’s mouth drops open, watching as Blue waltz further away from the basket, playfully twisting her hips with each step she takes.

She turns back to him, “Oh you liked that one, huh? That was good?”

A man walks past the both of them, Onyankopon leaning towards him as he questions, “Nigga—you heard that? How she came back at me with my own puns? You hear them’ wedding bells? Do you?”

She giggles, seeing the man’s frown as she exclaims, “Please ignore him—I’m sorry!”

When they go into the aisle of pastries, a gasp falters Blue’s lips as she speeds around a table full of cupcakes, “You think they have—“

Her eyes search, her face dropping in disappointment, “Ugh—They don’t have them,” a pout almost comes to her lips, deciding to look along the other options of cakes and bread.

“What you’ lookin’ for, Mama?”

She sighs, “They usually have these red velvet cupcakes I like. They have frosting on the inside of them!—“

She halts, realizing she’s a little too excited, “Sorry. Yeah, they’re good.”

“Stop apologizin’. They don’t got’ them?”

“No,” she’s now pouting, genuinely disappointed.

“We can go to every Whole Foods in the city until we find em’. Quit allat’ pouting.”

She rolls her eyes, “You wouldn’t do that.”

“You think I’m playin’?” he questions, eyes narrowing at her, “I’ll take my ass to muhfuckin’ Mississippi if you need me to.”

She hates that her heart flutters. Blue then shakes her head, voice soft, “It’s fine—I’ll go look in another aisle, okay?”

She goes to the next area of snacks, trying to find a sweet substitute for her cravings. She ends up finding a pack of Oreos, seeing a red velvet flavor at the top of the aisle, unable to reach it due to her height.

“Hell,” she mutters.

“Need help?”

The voice is…familiar. It’s as if her entire body goes cold, and immediately recognizes the tone without him having to say anything else. When her face turns towards him—there he is.

Hazel brown eyes, only made of the devil if she had a comparison. Light brown skin, his dark hair in waves, as handsome as he wanted to be. Fuck, why were evil men so fine?

To make matters worse, that faceless body that was within the picture she constantly stared at now had a face—she was the complete opposite of Blue. Tan skin, close to an olive tone. Her hair was more wavy than curly, a smaller frame, as if she were able to slip in anything and look good. She was perfect.

“Trey—Uh—hey?”

“Wassup, Blue?”

Something in her body flinched at the sound of him saying her name.

A smirk grows along his lips as he looks down to the cookies in her hand, “I remember these were your favorite.”

His voice was the same, smooth.

His eyes linger on the length of her, “How you’ been?”

How have I been?

She wanted to smack him, get violent. Maybe even smack the woman next to him.

“I’m good,” she pushes out, “Who’s this?” She looks at the woman, giving her best attempt of a polite smile.

“This is Nia,” he introduces, his arm now circling around the woman as he pulls her close, “My fiancè.”

Nia smiles, “It’s really nice to meet you, Trey’s told me so much about you!”

Blue could have cried on the spot. Her face felt entirely warm, and something in her was starting to become extremely upset.

“It’s uh…nice to meet you too. I hope all good things were said.”

Onyankopon turns down the aisle in search of her, finding Blue interacting with two strangers—but just by the look on her face, he knew exactly who they were. You could say he had a flair for the dramatics.

“Yo’, baby, you found what you was’ looking for?”

Blue frowns, “Huh?”

He walks up to her, “Why you’ always tryna’ do shit by yoself’ when you know you got me? C’mon,” he reaches up for the sweet treat, tossing it in the basket.

“Who’s this?”

Trey’s question felt a little sharp. Nia on the other hand, looks entirely starstruck. A blush comes along her fair skin as she swats Trey’s arm, “Honey, this is the new player on the Pelicans—Onyankopon, right?”

Onyankopon nods, his arm now going to mirror Trey’s action of holding his girl by the waist. But instead of going for Blue’s hip, his palm latches onto her ass, squeezing the flesh under his fingers, tugging her closer to his large frame.

“You gon’ introduce me, huh?” Her murmurs, mouth hovering along hers, Blue able to feel the warmth of his breath.

Her cheeks feel detached from her face. She stutters, “U—Um, this is Onyankopon, my—“

“Her husband,” he finishes, “Baby always being shy on shit. She ‘real adamant on getting our rings cleaned every other week, so she can’t show off that rock that be’ on her finger right now.”

His face is centimeters from hers. Onyankopon’s voice is low as he questions, “You’ got everything you need?”

Blue’s lashes flutter, trying to hold her composure as she nods, “Yeah—“

And then, he kisses her.

Their lips smush together, a low groan coming from his throat as she lets him taste her.

Blue tries to pull back, but Onyankopon's hand wraps along the back of her neck, holding her in place as he keeps going. His tongue slides along her own, sinking in and out of her mouth. It sends a jolt all the way between her thighs, Blue lightly panting in a way she didn’t expect herself to.

When he pulls back, she exhales, pressing her hand against his chest as her face went from warm to entirely hot. Her face pulls back to the couple across from them, both her ex and his fiancè shocked at their affection towards each other. They’re almost bothered at the sight.

“Um—“ a nervous giggle releases from Blue’s lips, “It was nice seeing you, Trey. We um, we have to go. Yeah?” She turns her face back to Onyankopon.

He presses one last kiss to her lips, a look of irritation on Trey's face he glares daggers.

Blue was officially red, Onyankopon's arm going around her waist as he said, "I’m hungry as hell. Finna’ fuck around and eat you. C’mon."

She politely waved to the couple, tugging at Onyankopon's arm, dragging him around the corner towards the check-out lanes.

That’s when Blue finally released an actual giggle, the sound unfamiliar to Onyankopon as she whispered, “Why did you do that?!”

“To piss him off,” He answers, “And it worked. I hope that nigga’s jaw is clenched as hell right now.”

He slows down the cart as he then asks, “You aight, though? You look like you seen’ a ghost earlier.”

“I’m okay—I just didn’t expect to see him out of all’ people. Not to mention that he’s engaged,” she places the items atop of the lane, pushing them forward with a soft frown along her face.

“You thought I was gon’ let that nigga just embarrass you? Fuck allat.’”

“Why did you go as far as to say we were married?”

Onyankopon shrugs, “Manifestation?”

And once again, Blue laughs.

Two weeks had gone by. Intense Physical therapy, exercising, and training was the only thing filling Onyankopon’s schedule. His family was shocked to hear how miraculous his recovery was—and he had no one to thank except Blue.

It was now the night before playoffs, Blue coming over to drop off the new knee brace she’d bought for him. She closes the door behind herself softly as he’d told her that he’d be going to bed early, trying to tip toe towards his gym. But when she sees the kitchen lights on—she halts.

She looks along the marble counter, seeing different ingredients from flour, sugar, eggs, butter, and oil. A frown came along her face at the cupcake pans next to the supplies.

She slowly walks forward as she questions, “Ony?”

A figure appears from the bathroom. Her mouth immediately parts open, a palm going over her lips as she sees him shirtless, a chef's hat slanting on top of his head.

She giggles, “What are you doing?”

“You thought I was just bullshitting about finding you them’ red velvet cupcakes?” He questions, going to stand in front of the kitchen’s island, “Imma’ make them for you.”

Dammit. There goes her heart fluttering again. She rolls her eyes as she goes over to him, pulling the hat off his head while wiping the flour along his nose, “Maybe I can help with that. What do you need me to do, chef?”

Spending time with him outside of PT was different. Seeing him go as far as to make the dessert she’d wanted weeks ago, made her realize how much he’d actually been thinking about her.

Blue watched as he stood on the other side of the counter, rolling up a blunt they’d agreed on smoking together. Her eyes might’ve been…drifting at him doing such a simple task, palm slow in mixing the batter.

“You gon’ have to keep them’ pretty ass eyes off me, Blue. Unless you tryna’ have a nigga come over there.”

Onyankopon eyes are still down. His tongue rolls across the blunt, sealing the object.

A small smile comes along her face, placing her focus back along the batter as she replies, “Sorry.”

He chuckles, placing the end between his lips before igniting the blunt—taking a long drag, smoke wafting out his nose as he questioned, “Yo’ momma named you that ‘cause of them’ oceans you got for eyes?”

She softly laughs, “No. I was stuck in the hospital a couple weeks after she gave birth to me—premature, less than five pounds. My mom said I cried like hell in that incubator, and it made her cry. Gave her the blues. My eyes are on the account of my grandfather who had some syndrome, passed it down to me. I guess it just felt appropriate.”

Her voice was smooth. His eyes watched as she moved, trying to keep her composure as she poured her batter into the cupcake liners. It had to be the smoke, or the fact that he liked her, as his mind began to wander on how she’d sound moaning in his ear. He takes another hit, the blunt still between his fingers as he exhales, passing the object over to her.

She reaches over, pressing the brown bud in between her dark pink lips. She then questions, “Why you’ so interested in me? You ain’t got a bunch of bitches lined up to play basketball wife?”

“And I know you got a lot more niggas than me tryna’ talk to you, but who’s the only one making you them’ cupcakes?” He questions, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Still not you. I’m the one mixing the batter,” she points out.

She looks up to see the instant irritation on his face.

He eases up as he leans forward, “Pass that shit back, you blowin’ me. Throw a nigga a bone. Somethin’.”

Her eyes are still against the burgundy contents of the batter, thinking of his words. It was hard for her to open up at times—but she’d spent a lot of time with Onyankopon at this point, and she couldn’t deny the feelings developing for him. It was time to give him some vulnerability.

“I um—I tore my ACL back in college.”

Blue can see the frown that comes to his face. She hates that she can feel a heaviness within her chest, pushing herself to continue, “Had a girl off another team push me the wrong way, and my knee shattered when I stumbled. I mean—I still do something I love, but I loved playing ball more. I think that’s why I tend to be so hard on you about your recovery. You still have the opportunity to play—so play.”

He remains quiet as he digests what she tells him. Going from knowing nothing about this girl, to knowing all of the shit she’d been through—it made him want her more.

She notices his face, releasing her hands from the bowl as she apologizes, “I wasn’t tryna’ fuck up the mood.”

“You didn’t,” he says, his words a low murmur, “All that shit you went through made you who you are now. You tough as fuck, Blue. Selfless as hell, too. Nobody could take that shit from you.”

Her heart beats as he comes around the counter, distracting herself as she steals the blunt from his fingers, “You just sayin’ all that cause I got you ready for playoffs.”

“You hear me, right?”

He was so close, tilting his head down, keeping his face close to hers.

She blinks slowly, exhaling the smoke from her lips as she nods, “I hear you, Ony.”

“So why you actin’ like you don’t believe that a nigga got feelings for you?”

“Cause you’re sayin’ all this when you’re high.”

“I’m barely high,” his eyes wandered down to her lips, “Why you frontin’?”

Her high was now hitting her, creating a buzz along her body, her lids a little heavier than before. She turns towards the counter, grabbing for the frosting bag as she grins, “You ain’t finish making my cupcakes. I thought you said you liked me?” She tilts her head, eyes glowing a slight shade of red.

“I like you like hell,” he grunts, latching a kiss along her cheek, it makes her giggle and push at his chest. He notices the way she relaxes, “How’ you feelin’, Mama—you good?” His tone was sensual, but genuine, “You wanna’ lay down?”

“You think I can’t handle myself?” She frowns, “I’m good, boy. Want some frosting? I hope it’s buttercream!”

She wraps her arms around his neck, “Put me on the counter. My feet hurt.”

He chuckles, grabbing her by the waist as he sits her atop the island, sliding both her legs apart.

“Better?”

“Mhm,” she nods, beginning to rub her palms along the sides of his neck, “You’re so sweet.”

“You the sweetest thing on this island,” he counters, sliding her lower along the edge. He stands in between her legs, palms along her thighs.

“Sweeter than the frosting?” She questions, squeezing some along her finger, wrapping her lips along the tip of her index.

“You playin’.”

Onyankopon’s large hand wraps around her wrist, pulling her finger out of her mouth. He then takes her digits in between his own lips, tongue dragging along the frosting.

Blue takes more frosting along her free hand, plopping some on the edge of his chin. Her giggles aren’t something he’s used to yet. He could replay them over and over. Now seeing her like this—floaty, flirty, it might’ve had his mind elsewhere.

She blows out a breath, eyes boring into his as she pouts, “You gotta re-light the blunt, it went out.”

She was seated on the island, and yet his head was still level with her own. His voice was a low rumble as he continued, “Why you’ worried about that? Youn’ want my tongue instead?”

“On me?”

“All over you, girl,” his voice drops further, lips inches from her own, “Where ‘you want me?”

She searches around his face, lightly pressing her teeth along the plush of her lip. Squeezing out more frosting, Blue swipes it along the side of her neck, her voice soft as she sighs, “…Here.”

“On that pretty ass neck,” he murmurs against her skin, lips dragging as close as possible. His kiss was light, teasing as he slowly made his way back up. Her neck smelled of cinnamon.

She was within his grasp, tongue coating along her skin, the frosting smearing across her throat. Onyankopon could feel a shiver vibrating throughout her spine at the contact, Blue’s thighs squeezing together in response.

Her giggles lessen as his tongue drags all along the length of her neck, softening into breathy inhales. When she goes to pull her face down—his fingers dig into her curls, yanking her head back. Blue’s eyes roll back in response.

“It t—tickles, Ony…”

He chuckles against her neck, his tongue coiling around the inside of her ear. It goes down, gliding past her jawline, lightly rushing across her lips.

The moment she feels his mouth along her own, her entire body tenses, thinking back to the kiss he’d given her in the store. Her palm slides to the back of his neck, breath wafting along his mouth as her thighs repeated in squeezing together. It’s as if she’s anticipating his next move, more needy than she expected herself to be.

She lets it slip out as she whimpers, “Why won’t you kiss me…”

He pulls away, leaving only an inch of space between them, “Thought you didn’t believe a nigga liked you?”

The grip at the back of her curls loosen only slightly, his voice a husk as he grunts, “Open.”

A small giggle falls from her lips as she sticks out her tongue in response, rims of her eyes a dark azure. He lets out a low groan, tongue plunging deep within her mouth, twisting around her own. Their kiss makes her eyes feel heavier, her brain emptier, her thoughts—hornier. The frosting along her skin smudges everywhere as they move together, dropping along her thighs, sliding lower on her legs. Without another thought, Blue’s shriek echoes the walls as he locks her legs around his hips, carrying her onto the sofa.

Her back lays atop of the pillows, eyes flicking over to the mirror giving a perfect view of their bodies—The balls of her feet slide against his chest as she keeps her legs up, Onyankopon hovered above her, pressing the blunt back between his lips, swiping the lighter across his thumb.

Blue’s low eyes watch him. He pulls the bud from his mouth, pressing a kiss to the side of her foot, pecking his lips towards her French tipped toes.

“We were supposed to be baking,” she huffs in annoyance, but yet, she lightly rotates her hips at the sensation of his mouth.

When the blunt is lit, he drags his tongue along her calves.

He then questions, “What were we makin’ again? Tell me.”

Her legs shake as he snatches the skin going up her leg in between his lips, “T—Those cupcakes you promised to make me, Ony…”

“That’s what you want right now?”

She wanted to answer back—she really did. She just couldn’t.

Onyankopon hands her back the blunt, Blue watching how his lips went from the back of her knees, to now meeting at her thighs, tongue gliding across any part of her skin he could reach.

When he drags more upward, there’s a smack when his lips meet her own. He watches as she pulls smoke into her mouth, holding it there until he grunts, “Give it to me.”

She pushes the smoke out, silence between the two as their lips seal together cohesively.

His lips suck against hers, the kiss loud and sloppy. Blue softly whines. Her head nearly falls back to keep up with him, thighs opening, hung along the broad frame of his back. Onyankopon’s head was beginning to fuzz, which coaxed his head to duck down, tongue swirling, dancing along the inside of her thigh.

“Talk to me,” his voice mutters a seductive rasp against her skin, nose and mouth smushing against the warmth, “Whatchu’ thinkin’ about?”

She doesn’t wanna admit to what she’s actually thinking. But with his lips everywhere as he’d promised, smoking, and suppressing the tension she’d felt the moment she’d met this man—she couldn’t help it anymore.

“Want you in me, Ony.”

Her voice is pleading. Blue tugs the fabric of her panties to the side of her pelvic, too impatient to actually remove them, spreading her legs a bit wider.

He groans at the sight. His eyes drop down as he grunts, “Lemme’ see that pretty ass pussy.”

Blue snatches the material farther, showing off the glistening sight of her bubblegum pink core, delectable under the lights of his home.

Onyankopon places the blunt on his glass coffee table, lips moving back up her skin until he meets her own again. He was already tugging down his sweatpants, hand coming up to the back of her neck as he kept her lips locked against his own. His tone was lowered.

“You sure?”

She nods her head, using her own hand to swipe along her pussy. She’s twisting her lower half a bit, “C’mon, Ony.”

The sight of his tip was—not what she expected. It was a darkened pink, weighted, long as it smushed along her wet folds, kissing at the hidden part of her clit— Heavy, was all she could think.

His voice is a grunt while he speaks, “I’m not gon’ fit like that. Lemme’ eat you.”

“Make it fit,” she whimpers, splaying her fingers along the back of her thighs, spreading herself even more.

His jaw clenched at her words. Onyankopon was practically glaring down at her. He grunts into a soft kiss as he leans down, capturing their lips together. He takes her legs, pressing her knees beneath his chest, ankles against the sides of his head as he has her trapped.

The moment she feels herself within this position, she rethinks all of her pleading. But it’s too late—Blue’s eyes lock down to watch his tip sink between her folds, an ache throbbing against her entire lower half. Her hips tense, but as that discomfort wafts through her entire body in waves, another ocean arises— a sense of pleasure meeting with that. Her mouth lightly parts as Onyankopon keeps his face close, Blue quietly inhaling, a long exhale panting from her lips.

She places her hand to the back of his neck, a frown coming against her lips as she shudders, “O—oh shit…”

His mouth covers all of her own, muffling her whimpers as he holds himself by the base, pushing in farther. His words are a low rumble, “You know I wanna hear you. Get loud.”

Blue clutches the back of his head, eyes rolling back as he still hadn’t really moved, yet she felt everything. Their foreheads meet as she gives him another gasp, thighs trembling in response to his words.

“Ain’t no one ever took you this deep?” He grunts, his lips dragging to meet her neck, “Told you’ you wasn’t ready for allat.’”

He presses his mouth down to her throat, Blue’s bottom lip drooping even lower, her eyes screwing shut, feeling a rapture of pleasurable tears wanting to form. He still hadn’t moved.

“You gon’ take me, ain’t you?”

His tongue rolls along the skin closest to her shoulders.

Her legs vibrate in between their bodies, arousal creating a tiny puddle against the furniture, Blue knocking her head back along the sofa, trying to find words—she can’t.

“S—shit, Ony,” she trembles, “Wait…”

“Nah,” he grunts, his voice a low growl.

Deeper.

“You can,” His eyes burn into her own, tip kissing at her opening as he drags out, sopping the warm skin of her pussy.

His voice is taunting.

“This’ what you wanted, huh?”

“Ony.”

He gives a low groan when she says his name, pressing their lips together as hips sinks back in.

When their lips pull apart, his eyes lock on hers, “You so muhfuckin’ pretty, Mama.”

The compliment, his glare—it’s all too much. When she realizes she has no way out of this position, she raises her mouth up in the want of another kiss, her voice soft as she gives him a breathy whine, pouting along her mouth, moaning pitifully against Onyankopon’s lips.

His tongue coils along her own, sucking at each corner of her mouth, “Why you pouting’?”

She wraps an arm along the top of his back, pulling his face closer within her neck, allowing his nose to nudge against the warm flesh. His mouth is directly next to her ear, as hers is equally close to his own. She finds her words in a whine.

“Stretching me, baby…”

She clutches him closer in, her eyes fully rolling back as she hides her face within his shoulder, “So full…” she whimpers.

The sensation had her eyes watering, and it made her shake against his body. Onyankopon lets out a low snarl. Hearing her right beside his ear was driving him insane.

“Look how you takin’ allat’,” he murmurs, giving her a slow grind, lips dragging along her temple, “You’ hear allat’ noise?”

The noise she heard was wet—schluck, schluck, her walls bear hugging the stretch of his dick, practically sucking him farther in.

A moan. It was vulnerable, a pure sound of pleasure. She hides her face within his shoulder, opening her legs a little more, keeping his nose against her throat.

His hips now sling forward, a loud clap resounding as their thighs met. His hand grabs her thighs, pushing them upward, the new angle allowing him to go deeper inside.

“…Fuck,” she groans, placing the back of her palm against her mouth, her other fingers imbedded into his skin, “Ony, baby.”

“Ony nothin’,” he snatches a kiss from her mouth, tugging her face back to his, “Look at me.”

Her face is on fire, but she could care less. Blue’s mouth unlatched from its lock, moaning in repetitions, “Keep going. Fuck me, Fuck me, baby. F—fuck me.”

“You gon’ keep moanin’ for me like that?”

She nods, giving him a soft peck, one that made him lowly laugh along her mouth.

She pouts, “Don’t laugh.”

“Ain’t laughin’ at you, Mama. You’ just cute.”

He brings his hand up to clasp along her throat, keeping himself chest to chest with her, gyrating his hips— It makes Blue shudder, attempting to keep her eyes against his.

“Had all that fuckin’ attitude when you first met me.”

His hand clasped tighter with his words, making Blue clutch her fingers around his wrist that held her throat, whimpering, “Ony.”

“You ain’t believe a nigga when I said I liked you,” he grunts, tugging her face closer, “You got me showin’ that shit.”

“I’m sorry,” she whines, her eyes flicking back to the mirror, seeing her body folded beneath him. Her eyes are low as she’s in a pleasured haze, looking back at him as she says, “I like you so much, baby…”

“You just talkin’,” his abdomen bumps harshly with the back of her thighs, drenched in her own wetness, “We still gon’ have them’ problems when I’m done with you?”

The smack of skin against skin was soaked, Onyankopon going so deep it sent Blue’s eyes back. He could only chuckle at the sight of her, voice a low grunt against her ear, “What you gon’ say?”

He slides one arm beneath the back of her neck, the other hand going along the front of her throat. Their lips pressed together in a kiss as he murmured, “You gonna’ be my girl?” Blue’s lips trembling against his own, “You mine after this?”

It’s a particularly harsh thrust that has Blue gasp, gripping along the top of his back. Her mouth quivers, her legs mimicking as if she’d been tased.

She could only get out, “Y—yeah! Ony…”

His mouth slides down her jaw. He growls, “That nigga wasn’t doing all this to you, huh?”

Now he’s being petty. Her mind rushes to her ex, and she whimpers, “Stop it.”

The pressure from his hands has her mouth open. His low grunts were loud, a clack sounding as he pressed his forehead against her own.

Even deeper.

“You’ doing good, baby. That’s my fuckin’ big girl.”

She doesn’t know what’s happening—what she’s feeling. Her stomach coils within itself, lower body rapturing in a sense of pleasure she’s never felt before, almost to a point where it feels violent. The moan that comes from her lips is louder than she expects it to be, to a point where she grips onto him for dear life, trying to relax her body as she orgasms. Onyankopon leans himself down, capturing her clit within his mouth as he just couldn’t help himself—he eats away at her, letting the gush fall straight onto his tongue, shaking his head between the folds of her pussy to drown in the taste of her.

“Shit tastes better than that fuckin’ icing.”

Blue’s gasping.

But she doesn’t expect what he does next. Throughout her entire body responding to each touch, sound, affection he gives, Onyankopon flips her, to where she’s now on her stomach against the sofa, his chest against her back. He slaps his tip in between the parted space of her ass, nudging it between her folds all while sinking back in—When she feels her ass clap against his hips in the middle of her orgasm, Blue moans, desperately trying to pull away from him, curls falling along her face as he snatches her back.

It was an animalistic motion, his hand wrapping around the back of her neck, shoving her face into the corner of the couch.

“You runnin’ from me?”

He’s using his elbow to slam her down, her pussy squelching with each pull. Blue can see herself from the mirror, and it makes her pout, looking directly at Onyankopon, reaching her arm back as she whimpered, “N—no, B—baby…”

“You tryna’ take my pussy away?”

“No, Ony.”

His mouth goes back down to her skin, breath hot against her spine, “You want it slower?”

She adjusts her legs, arching her back as she turns her head to meet his. She begs, “Slower, yeah, need to feel it like that.”

The hand she places along his abdomen, he catches, using that as leverage to give her the slow pound she was looking for. His hips slowly pull back, rocking forward.

Blue hisses, going back to the mirror, “Just like that, baby...”

Onyankopon could feel Blue fluttering around him, he groaned against her ear, “Just like this?”

The question alone makes her nod, his groans making her stomach twist.

“You hear me, Mama?”

Her back arches more, her face shoving into the sofa’s material to release a loud moan that's muffled within the pillows. Her eyes screwed shut as he clutched her hair, tugging her face upwards.

His voice was low, “Look at us.”

Blue’s eyes come open, seeing their frames colliding together. She’s able to tug his upper half down, twisting her body to somewhat face him, wrapping her hand along the back of his neck as she pulls his face close to hers.

“Stay here,” she lightly gasps, “Here.”

One of his hands is tangled in her curls, the other hand clamping her face, lips a mere inch between each other. This way, he could watch her. Blue’s eyes looked over him, and she watched back.

“Spank me,” she whimpered, “Please.”

“I thought you ain’t beg?”

That question.

Her freckled cheeks return to warmth. She gives him a soft kiss, “Please, Ony. Please.”

His smirk grows, Onyankopon slamming his hand against the skin of her ass, shaking the ripping flesh, the sound reverberating against the walls. Blue sultrily giggles, her eyes narrowing, hips beginning to fuck him back, wanting him to receive the pleasure he’d been giving her. He was rocking along with her, hand gripping onto her ass with the other hand pushing against her back.

His voice was low when he spoke, “You know I love how you look at me, right?”

Blue’s eyes were a haze, a small breath coming out while swirling her hips, “So handsome, baby. Can’t help it,” her curls hang along her face, Blue mindlessly blowing them out the way.

“What’ I do to deserve you?”

That’s when he places a foot along the couch for a better grip, keeping Blue’s legs straight below him, once again having her stuck—His hips are dropping down, the sound of her ass applauding back on his dick so loud that it causes her mouth to completely part open. She’s unable to hold herself back, face twisted within the mirror as she released, “Ungh, fuck—baby, Ony…I’m cumming…”

“You ain’t gotta’ tell me,” he hushes, biting down on her shoulder, nearly sinking his entire bottom lip into her skin, “I know. Cum all on this muhfuckin’ dick.”

His palm clasps along her mouth, sounds still pushing out between his fingers, her face drenched with tears, eyes rolling back as she sobbed beneath him. She couldn’t stop looking within the mirror at him, pleasure, an admiration too full to hide.

He made her watch, his hand gripping under her chin, forcing her head upward to watch their bodies connect. It made him grip her hair tighter.

“You watchin’?”

“I’m watching.”

The mirror showed everything—Onyankopon had her in a complete lock.

His toned was breathless as he moaned, “Fuck, I’m finna’ bust.”

Their lips met, tongues tangling together, groans coming from deep within their throats.

Her scream swallows down his mouth, his deep moan hidden under the skin of her throat as he places his face there, the warmth of his cum spurting the tightness of her walls. It felt all the more real, the symphony of their bodies coming together like a song on loop—never ending.

The music humming along the room returns to her ears, the scent of icing all along her skin. Blue tries to control her breathing as she drags his palm to gently hang along her face, glancing around his chest as she sees the scratches against his skin.

“…Sorry.”

Her voice is breathless, wanting to pull him down for another kiss.

“What’chu apologizing for?” His voice is a low husk, eyes piercing into her own, “You got me good.”

Blue’s chest heaved, Onyankopon’s thumb pushing down against the swell of her bottom lip. He grunts, “You need a minute.”

“No,” She’s wiggling, “Wanna’ keep going.”

His eyebrows raise, “I ain’t do you in like I needed to?”

That’s when she gives a tired giggle. She might’ve lied, as her eyes feel extremely heavy. Her palm grazes his chin, “I’m not gonna’ admit to that.”

“Still stubborn as hell,” he murmurs, catching her lips within his.

He scans her eyes, seeing that they’ve become lighter now. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

He then says, “Ion’ think I ever said thank you for helping me out.”

Blue runs her thumb along his mouth, her voice soft, “It’s my job. You don’t have to thank me.”

He stares at her, “Nah.”

His fingers sink into her hair, “You had my back,” He continues, “You meant it when you said you was gon’ make sure I was good. I’d never had someone like that before,” His voice is a hushed whisper, “So thank you, forreal’.”

He leans down, pressing his lips along her own again, “Imma’ make sure to have yours, Blue.”

Instead of her heart fluttering this time, it explodes. To think she hadn’t taken this man seriously before, she had no reason to not to take her chance with him.

She gives a soft smile, “You’re such a lil’ sweetie. You wanna go finish baking?”

He shakes his head, “I’m comfortable,” he murmurs, “Just lemme’ be here like this. I’ll buy the whole muhfuckin’ Whole Foods for you when I wake up.”

Her giggle is like a lullaby, pretty, which makes him chuckle.

But of course, Onyankopon had to ruin the moment.

“So you my girl now, huh? I mean—you said it while I was in your shit. You was like ‘Yeah, Ony, Ugnh!’—“

“Onyankopon!”

“Imma’ love hearing that all the time,” he sighs, “Night, Mama.”

#ony x black reader #onyankopon x black reader smut #onyankopon fluff #ony smut #onyankopon x you #onyakapon #onyankapon #onyankopon x black y/n #onyankopon x reader #aot onyankopon #aot smut

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calypso-rt · 5 months ago

Text

road trip!

with the insufferable Rafe Cameron

-> Rafe x F!Reader

-> Pt. 2: lodge retreat!

You should’ve seen this coming.

I mean, first, your car broke down and had to be taken to the shop.

So, when your best friend called in a frantic apology about car trouble, food poisoning, and possibly a minor curse, you knew you were doomed. Flights were sold out, rental cars were booked, and every other friend headed to the wedding was somehow already out of town.

Which left you with one horrifying, soul crushing option.

Rafe Cameron.

You stare at his name on your phone screen like it personally offends you. Your thumb hovers over the call button as if pressing it might burn your skin.

There has to be another way. A bus? A miracle Uber? A very fast bicycle?

But deep down, you know the truth. If you don’t find a way to get there, you’ll be missing out on one of the biggest moments of your friend's life. And there’s no way in hell you’re going to let that happen.

You take a deep breath, swallow what’s left of your pride, and hit call.

It rings. Once. Twice.

Then...

“Wow.” Rafe’s voice is impossibly smug, like he already knows why you’re calling. “Didn’t expect to see your name pop up. What, did hell freeze over? Pigs start flying?”

You clench your jaw, already regretting this. “Don’t start.”

“I haven’t even said anything,” he says, which is a lie because his tone is practically dripping with amusement. “So? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You inhale sharply through your nose. Just say it. Rip off the Band-Aid.

“I need a ride.”

There’s a pause. Then, the unmistakable sound of him laughing.

It’s not just a small chuckle. It’s a full-bodied, downright delighted laugh. You swear you can hear him grinning.

“Oh, this is amazing.”

“Rafe—”

“No, no, let me enjoy this. You. You, of all people, need me?”

You press your fingers to your temples. “Do you want gas money or not?”

“Gas money? Sweetheart, I don’t need your gas money. What I need is for you to say it one more time. Just so I can fully appreciate the moment.”

You grit your teeth. “I. Need. A. Ride.”

Another pause. Then—

“Yeah, alright.” He says it so easily, like he wasn’t planning on saying no in the first place. Like he was always going to say yes. “I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all choked up about it. Just be ready.”

He hangs up before you can respond.

You stare at your phone, debating whether it’s too late to back out entirely. Maybe getting a bike wasn’t such a terrible idea.

But then, twenty minutes later, Rafe Cameron rolls up in his car, window down, smirk in place, and the smuggest glint in his eye as he calls out:

“Ready for the best road trip of your life?”

This is going to be a long ride.

...

The first hour is tense.

You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the endless stretch of road ahead. Rafe, for his part, lounges behind the wheel like he has all the time in the world, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other adjusting the radio.

“Jesus,” you mutter as he flips through stations again. “Can you just pick one?”

He clicks past another song. Then another.

“I could,” he says, like it’s a thoughtful decision. “But then how would I find the perfect song to fit our current mood?”

You scoff. “And what mood is that?”

He smirks. “Deep, unresolved sexual tension.”

You whip your head toward him so fast it’s a miracle you don’t get whiplash. “You’re insufferable.”

He laughs. “I mean, you did beg me for a ride, so...”

“Beg is a strong word.”

“Practically groveling.”

“Oh my God, Rafe.”

You sink lower into your seat, face burning in suppressed rage as he chuckles under his breath, clearly enjoying every second of this.

For a moment, there’s silence... until Rafe reaches for the GPS and completely ignores the route you mapped out earlier.

“Wait, what are you doing?” you demand.

“Taking the faster way.”

You frown. “That’s not the faster way.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t! I literally checked last night. My route is better.”

He glances at you like you’ve personally offended him. “I think I know how to read a damn GPS.”

“And I think you have the directional skills of a blindfolded himbo.”

Rafe scoffs, gripping the wheel. “That’s rich coming from someone who almost got lost inside a Target last week.”

Your jaw drops. “I did not—”

“You called me from the home goods aisle panicking.”

“It was a big Target!”

He grins, looking far too pleased with himself. “Sure, sweetheart.”

You glare daggers at him, but before you can fire back, the GPS’s robotic voice chimes in:

“Recalculating route…”

You turn to him slowly, a smirk curling at your lips.

“Oh?” you say, mocking surprise. “What’s this? The GPS thinks I was right?”

Rafe clenches his jaw, white knuckling the wheel.

“I hate you.”

You beam. “No, you don’t.”

He lets out a long suffering sigh. Then, before you can bask in your victory, he suddenly cranks up the radio obnoxiously loud, blasting some overplayed pop song.

You groan, sinking into your seat.

...

The gas station is a godsend.

After what feels like hours of bickering, you practically fling yourself out of the car the second Rafe pulls into the lot. The fresh air is a relief, or at least, it would be, if Rafe weren’t right behind you, stretching obnoxiously like he’s never known a single hardship in his life.

“God, I love road trips,” he says, grinning as he watches you roll your shoulders like you’re shaking off his entire existence.

You ignore him and push through the glass doors, the too-cold AC blasting you in the face. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, and the aisles are stocked with the usual: chips, questionable hot dogs, and enough sugar to give an elephant heart palpitations.

You head straight for the snack aisle, Rafe following too closely behind.

“I’m thinking—" you start, reaching for a bag of your favorite chips.

Rafe makes a disgusted noise.

“Oh, absolutely not.” He plucks the bag from your hands like it personally offends him. “We’re getting road trip snacks, not whatever this garbage is.”

You snatch it back. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at the bag. “That’s the worst possible choice.”

Your mouth drops open. “Are you insane? This is objectively the best snack in the entire store.”

“Objectively wrong.”

You glare. “Okay, genius, what’s your expert pick?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Beef jerky.”

You actually recoil. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’re one of those people?”

Rafe smirks. “One of what people?”

“The kind of people who sit in the car, chewing on some nasty, dried-up piece of cow like it’s fine dining?”

He scoffs. “It’s protein.”

“It’s disgusting.”

He places a bag of jerky in the basket anyway. You dramatically shove your chips in beside it, like it’s a battle of good versus evil.

“What else?” he asks, scanning the shelves.

You grab a candy bar. “This.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow. “That’s just straight sugar.”

“Exactly.”

He sighs, tossing in a pack of peanut butter crackers. “Balance.”

You wrinkle your nose. “What are you, my dad?”

Rafe ignores you, moving toward the drink coolers. You trail behind him, still fuming about the beef jerky situation.

He pulls open the glass door and grabs a bottle of water.

You squint. “Water? That’s your road trip drink?”

“Yeah?” He frowns at you. “What’s wrong with water?”

You shake your head in disappointment. “You’re so boring.”

Rafe glares. “Oh, I’m boring? What are you getting, then?”

You grab the brightest, most radioactive looking energy drink you can find and hold it up triumphantly.

Rafe looks deeply unimpressed. “That is going to take years off your life.”

“And?”

He just shakes his head, tossing his water into the basket. “If your heart gives out mid-drive, I’m not pulling over.”

You grin. “I knew you cared.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, marching toward the counter to pay. You follow, watching as the bored looking cashier scans your deeply incompatible snack selections.

When Rafe pulls out his wallet, you immediately reach for yours. “I can pay for mine.”

He tuts, shoving his card into the reader before you can argue. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says, smirking. “You can owe me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Owe you what?”

His smirk deepens. “Haven’t decided yet.”

You cross your arms, but he just grabs the bag of snacks and saunters out of the store, looking far too pleased with himself.

You sigh, trailing after him.

This road trip is going to kill you.

...

The rain starts suddenly.

One second, the road is dry and clear, then, out of nowhere, the sky splits open, unleashing a torrential downpour so intense that Rafe has to crank the wipers up to their highest setting. The world outside turns into a blurry mess of gray and streaking headlights, and even he slows down, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Great,” you mumble, pulling your hoodie tighter around you. “Just perfect.”

Rafe barely spares you a glance, both hands gripping the wheel. “Relax. It’s just rain.”

It is not just rain. It’s an apocalypse. The wind howls, trees sway dangerously, and the GPS chimes in, completely unhelpful:

“Rerouting… rerouting…”

Rafe exhales sharply. “Fantastic.”

You frown, glancing at the map. “Uh… I think we missed our turn.”

“We did not—”

Lightning flashes. The GPS glitches. And then, as if the universe itself wants to prove a point...

THUNK.

The car jerks. Rafe curses, fighting the wheel as he pulls over to the shoulder. The rain slams against the windshield, making it nearly impossible to see, but you already know what’s wrong.

Flat tire.

You both sit there for a second, staring at the dashboard like maybe, somehow, this is just a bad dream.

Then...

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rafe mutters.

You sigh, already unbuckling your seatbelt. “I’ll fix it.”

Rafe’s head whips toward you. “Excuse me?”

You shrug. “I know how to change a tire.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, okay.”

“I do!”

He gives you a deeply skeptical look. “Alright, fine. Let’s see it, then.”

You roll your eyes and push the door open, stepping into the absolute nightmare that is the current weather situation. Rain instantly soaks through your hoodie, the wind nearly knocking you off balance as you march around to the trunk.

Rafe follows, watching as you pull out the spare and drop to your knees to inspect the damage.

You try to focus, really, you do, but the rain is relentless, blinding and cold and miserable. Your fingers slip against the wet metal as you wrestle with the jack, struggling to get it in place.

And then, before you can stop him, Rafe crouches down beside you, scowling as he physically moves your hands out of the way.

“What the hell—”

“You should’ve let me handle it.” His voice is low, grumbly, but not in his usual mocking way. It’s different.

Protective.

You blink up at him, shivering slightly as he moves closer, blocking some of the rain with his body.

“I had it,” you argue, but it comes out softer than intended.

He doesn’t look at you. Just focuses on loosening the lug nuts, his jaw clenched like he’s irritated... but not at you. At the fact that you were out here, in the freezing rain, doing this yourself.

The rest of the job doesn’t take long, and when he finally lowers the jack, he stands, reaching down to haul you up without warning.

You stumble slightly. He catches you easily.

For a second, you just… stand there.

Close.

The rain drips from his hair, his hoodie completely soaked, but all you can focus on is the way his hands linger: one on your wrist, the other still at your waist, like he’s making sure you’re steady before he lets go.

It’s… unsettling.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a way that makes your stomach feel weird and your heart do something stupid.

But then he exhales sharply, like he’s snapping himself out of something, and steps back.

“Next time, just let me handle it,” he mutters. Then, before you can argue, he’s already moving, tossing the tools back into the trunk.

You watch him for a moment before shaking yourself off and climbing back into the car.

The ride after that is… different.

Quieter.

Not in a tense, waiting-for-the-next-argument kind of way, but in a way that feels oddly comfortable.

Rafe leans back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually behind your headrest.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel annoying.

It just feels… warm.

Familiar.

At some point, he reaches over to mess with the radio again. This time, when he flips through the stations, you don’t complain. You just glance at him, shaking your head, lips twitching slightly.

He catches you looking. Smirks.

And you don’t roll your eyes.

Not this time.

...

After the flat tire, the rainstorm, and the unfortunate realization that there were no motels nearby, you and Rafe had been forced to crash in the car overnight. Literally. Him in the driver’s seat, you curled up in the passenger seat, both of you grumbling about how much this sucked before eventually passing out.

Now, you wake up to the smell of coffee.

For a second, you’re disoriented, blinking against the golden light pouring through the windshield. Your neck is stiff, your hoodie is bunched in all the wrong places, and the leather seat sticks to your skin in the worst way.

And then...

A voice.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”

You groan, rubbing your eyes. Rafe leans against the open driver’s side door, arms crossed, a smug but noticeably softer smirk on his face.

“We’re at a diner,” he says, nodding toward the neon sign outside. “Figured you’d want real food instead of gas station snacks.”

You blink at him. Then at the diner. Then back at him.

And that’s when you see it.

In his other hand: a cup of coffee.

Your coffee.

You sit up straighter. “Wait, is that...?”

He shrugs. “You take it with two sugars, right?”

You stare at him, momentarily speechless.

Rafe Cameron, your mortal enemy just yesterday, remembers how you take your coffee. And brought you one before you even woke up.

“Uh.” You take the cup hesitantly, fingers brushing his for a split second. “Thanks?”

“Don’t make it weird,” he mutters, turning toward the diner. “Come on. I need real food before I lose my mind.”

You follow him inside, still thrown off by… whatever this is.

The place is quintessential roadside diner. Vinyl booths, checkered floors, an old jukebox in the corner playing a song that sounds straight out of a ‘90s romcom. A waitress with a pen tucked behind her ear waves you to a booth near the window.

Rafe slides in across from you, stretching his arms over the back of the seat. “So,” he says, smirking again, but there’s something different about it this time. “What’s the move? Classic pancakes? Or are you one of those avocado toast people?”

You scoff. “Avocado toast? What do I look like, a health influencer?”

He grins. “Hey, you give off the vibe.”

You kick him under the table. He chuckles.

The waitress reappears, flipping open her notepad. “What can I get y’all?”

You glance at the menu quickly before ordering the pancake combo. Rafe orders an omelet, then, as the waitress starts to walk away, he calls out:

“Oh, and... can we get extra syrup?”

You freeze.

You always ask for extra syrup. You were literally about to say it.

You narrow your eyes at him. “How do you...”

He just shrugs. “You like extra syrup. You always complain when there isn’t enough.”

Again, you’re momentarily speechless.

Rafe doesn’t just remember things about you. He notices them.

And now, in the warm morning light, with his hoodie slightly rumpled and his hair messier than usual, he looks…

Less like the cocky nightmare who laughed when you asked for a ride.

More like the guy who fixed a tire in the rain without hesitation.

Who made sure you had coffee before you even woke up.

Who just ordered extra syrup for you.

“Okay, who are you,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, “and what have you done with Rafe Cameron?”

Rafe tilts his head, considering. Then, lazily, he smirks. “Maybe you just bring out the best in me.”

You roll your eyes, but this time, it’s harder to ignore the way your stomach flips.

And when the food arrives, when he casually slides the syrup your way before you can even reach for it, you’re pretty sure you’re screwed.

...

By the time you finally pull up to the wedding venue, a sprawling lodge tucked into the mountains, the sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. It looks ridiculously picturesque, like something out of a movie.

You, on the other hand, look less picturesque.

“I swear to God,” you grumble, twisting around in the passenger seat to grab your overnight bag, “if my hair is permanently flattened from sleeping in the car, I’m blaming you.”

Rafe snorts, shifting the car into park. “Please. You’ve looked worse.”

You turn to glare at him, only to find him already looking at you. Except this time, there’s no evil Rafe smirk. Just… something else. Something softer.

It throws you off so badly that you almost forget to respond.

Almost.

“Thanks,” you deadpan. “That’s exactly what every girl wants to hear before walking into a wedding.”

Rafe chuckles, shaking his head before pushing his door open. You follow suit, stepping out into the cool mountain air.

Up ahead, the venue is already buzzing with activity: people unloading suitcases, music drifting from somewhere inside, laughter echoing across the lot. Your best friend is probably freaking out over last minute details.

And you?

You’re standing beside Rafe Cameron, staring up at the lodge like you haven’t just spent the past twenty four hours begrudgingly trapped in a car with him.

Like you haven’t spent the past two hours noticing little things you weren’t supposed to.

Rafe stretches, rolling his shoulders before glancing at you. “You good?”

You nod, but before you can take a step, he reaches over and tugs your hoodie into place.

It’s nothing. Just a small adjustment, fingers barely grazing your shoulder. But the second it happens, your breath catches.

It’s stupid, really. After everything, the bickering, the bad directions, the gas station argument, this is what gets you?

A two second fix?

But when you glance up at him, there’s something unreadable in his expression. Something that lingers for half a second too long before he clears his throat and steps back.

You swallow. “Uh. Thanks.”

“Yeah.” His voice is quieter than usual.

For the first time since this whole trip started, you have no idea what to say next.

So instead, you hoist your bag higher onto your shoulder and nod toward the lodge. “We should… probably go find everyone.”

Rafe nods once. “Yeah.”

Neither of you move right away.

And when you finally do, when you walk side by side toward the entrance, the glow of the venue lights spilling onto the gravel path, you can’t shake the feeling that something just shifted.

Like maybe, just maybe, this trip isn’t over yet.

Pt. 2: lodge retreat!

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction

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wordsofwhimsy · 30 days ago

Text

ᗷEᗩᑕᕼ ᗪᗩY ᗷᒪᑌEᔕ

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: It’s suggested that Mark’s got a boner at the end but that’s it lmao, also you kinda start to touch yourself but it’s literally only a sentence or two

Tags: Fluff, romcom, hero-friend-Mark coming to the rescue, slow burn, makeout sesh later on, Mark’s a dork who doesn’t know how to express his feelings (as usual)

Word Count: 5,314

Synopsis: A nice solo day at the beach turns sour when some creep of a man starts trying to follow you home. You manage to lose him but are now stranded on the other side of town. And the only person who’s available to come save you is the guy who does that for a living. Who would’ve figured?

a/n: this turned out sooo much longer than i intended lmao it do be like that sometimes tho

The sun is still warm on your skin as you leave the beach, flip-flops smacking softly against the pavement. Your hair’s damp with saltwater, strands still sticking to your forehead. Your tote bag—sandy, half-zipped, overflowing with a towel, a half-read book, and an empty soda can—swings against your hip as you head for the bus stop on the corner.

You’re smiling to yourself, pleasantly buzzed from sun and sea, when a voice behind you cuts rudely through the calm.

"Hey there, pretty thing. Where you headed?"

You don’t flinch, but your steps slow.

He’s maybe mid-thirties, wearing a faded tank top and gas station sunglasses. Too confident. Too close. He grins like you’re already in on some joke you never agreed to.

"Just headed home," you say, even and polite, eyes fixed straight ahead.

He steps closer. "This stop? What a coincidence, that’s where I’m going too."

Sure it is.

You shift your tote to the other shoulder, as if to put some kind of buffer between you. By some miracle the bus starts pulling into view.

He keeps talking—something about how wild it is that you’re both here, what are the odds, ha ha—but you’re already tuning him out. The second the doors hiss open, you climb on, flash your card, and slip into a window seat midway down.

He follows.

You feel him settle in a row behind you. Not next to you, but near. Close enough to talk. Close enough to make it weird.

Nope.

Just before the doors close, you stand up, walk past him without a word, and step right back off.

The bus pulls away with him on it, and you don’t bother to look back until you’re safely half a block down. When you do, he’s craning his neck to look through the window.

You don’t wave. You don’t smirk. You just turn the corner and duck behind a tree, pulling out your phone with fingers still trembling from the slow burn of adrenaline.

You scroll through your contacts.

First you try your roommate. Straight to voicemail.

Then your cousin. She picks up, but she’s out of town. You tell her it’s fine. Just a weird thing with a guy. No big deal.

You try your best friend. No answer.

With a frustrated sigh, you switch to your banking app. There’s a buffering wheel for a second, then your checking account balance loads: $4.82.

You feel a vein pulse in your head. Refresh the screen.

Still $4.82.

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. Looks like Uber wasn’t an option.

You close the app and rest your forehead against the tree trunk for a second, just… reevaluating your life choices.

Figures.

You go back to your contacts, scanning names. You scroll past his name once. Twice. Hover over it. Keep going.

You feel dumb. Guilty. Mark’s probably in the middle of saving a school bus full of kids or punching a kaiju or talking to that mysterious government shadow figure about interplanetary security… something serious. And you’re over here like, "Heeelp, I had to miss the bus."

Still.

You flick back to his name.

Mark 🚀

Your thumbs fly before you can overthink it:

You: hey, any chance ur free? got myself in a v dumb situation lol You: not an emergency, just mildly stranded and a lil freaked out 😅

You lock your phone. Wait.

Not even a minute passes before it buzzes.

Mark 🚀: where are you?

You smile.

He always answers.

You: Beachside Blvd near the old surf shop

You hesitate for half a second, then snap a picture of the little corner where you’re hiding—tree trunk, sand-crusted sidewalk, the closed-down surf rental shack in the background with its sun-bleached paint peeling in soft curls.

You add a caption: don’t judge me for this hiding spot. i panicked.

Then hit send.

Almost immediately you get a reply.

Mark 🚀: lol. on my way. five minutes tops.

You exhale, tension releasing in slow waves like the tide.

And yeah. Maybe your face is hot. Maybe your heart’s still thudding a little too hard in your chest. But it’s already starting to settle.

Mark’s coming.

You straighten up, brushing the bark dust off your thighs and stepping out into the fading sunlight. The sea breeze is gentler now, cooler, and you roll up your sleeves a bit higher on your white button-down—still damp from the beach, clinging a little in places. Your bikini’s peeking out underneath, lilac and tied at the sides. Not exactly full coverage. But hey, you weren’t planning to be stranded on the sidewalk when you put it on.

A guy walking his dog glances over, eyebrows briefly lifting before he looks away. You offer him a breezy, nonchalant smile.

“Don’t mind me,” you call out. “Just waiting on a friend.”

He nods slowly, clearly unconvinced, and keeps walking.

You check your phone. Two minutes.

You shift your weight to one foot, trying not to look too awkward. The heat from earlier was starting to fade off your skin, leaving a faint chill in the breeze. You hug your arms around yourself, half for warmth, half just to feel less exposed.

Then you hear it.

The soft whoosh of air pressure, the subtle thud of sneakers against pavement.

You glance behind you, and there he is.

Mark Grayson, a little windblown, a little flushed from the speed of getting here, standing there in all his superhero glory—minus the suit. Just joggers and a blue t-shirt, but still very much Invincible.

Relief crashes over you.

“God, thank you,” you exhale, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him. “I owe you big time.”

You feel him tense a little, and for a second, your heart drops.

Oh no. Is he annoyed? Did you really just pull him away from something important for... this?

You let your arms fall away from him, brows drawing together. “Hey, I’m sorry—this was so dumb, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not dumb,” he cuts in, quick and quiet. “Seriously. I’m glad you called me.”

His voice is warm, but his eyes are still everywhere but on you—off to the side, up at the sky, back toward the sidewalk.

And that’s when it clicks.

He’s avoiding looking at you.

Like, really avoiding.

You glance down and—yep. Cover up still unbuttoned. Still damp. Still clinging in places you’d really prefer it not be clinging. Your bikini bottoms peek out like they’re trying to steal the show, and your chest is just… there.

And now you’re the one going pink.

You don’t say anything. Just quietly start buttoning up the top, fingers fumbling a little as your eyes do a full tour of the sidewalk, the streetlamp, a very interesting patch of grass—anything that isn’t Mark.

Because okay. Maybe standing here like this wasn’t your finest moment.

He clears his throat and takes a step closer, flashing that crooked, boyish grin—the one that always seems to surface when he’s nervous and trying to look unaffected. "Okay," he says, a little too upbeat, rubbing the back of his neck, "guess I’m your ride today. You’ll have to remind me how to get to your place—I always mess up that last turn near the park."

He’s absolutely trying to play it cool.

And absolutely failing.

Not that you’re much better, your stare drifting up toward the rooftops as you squint like there’s something up there you just gotta see. "So... how exactly are we doing this?"

Mark glances down at you, then off to the side, then very obviously not at your bare legs or the way your damp shirt is hugging places that have him struggling to maintain eye contact. "I mean, I usually just—" he makes a vague scooping gesture. "—pick people up and go."

"Bridal style?" you deadpan.

He hesitates. "I mean, yeah. It’s kind of the classic."

You shift your weight to one leg, then the other. "Okay, I guess… Let's see it."

Mark nods, like he’s steeling himself for battle, then steps forward and slides one arm behind your back, the other under your knees. In one smooth motion, you’re weightless in his arms.

And also very much pressed into his chest.

His forearm is sturdy beneath your bare thighs, one of his fingers accidentally grazing the string of your bikini bottom. You shift slightly, trying to adjust how you're being held without actually... touching him more. Your knee bumps his hip. Your hand slides awkwardly off his shoulder and straight into the space between your bodies that really feels like a dead zone.

"Okay, is it just me," you mutter, your face all but buried in the valley of his chest, "or is this weirdly... a lot?"

Mark tilts his head, accidentally brushing his jaw against the top of your head. "I mean—no, it’s not just you. Definitely not just you."

There’s a beat as you both try to recalibrate.

He shifts his grip again. One of his hands ends up cradling the underside of your thigh in a way that feels far too close to romantic territory.

"Alright—abort. Abort mission," you say quickly, arms flailing a little as you try to push off him.

"Copy that," Mark replies, instantly lowering you to the ground with a delicacy that said he really was trying to be respectful.

He exhales, hands on his hips, staring into the middle distance. "Okay. Plan B."

"Which is?"

He perks up, like he just solved world peace. "Fireman carry. That’s how professionals do it, right? First responders and stuff. Feels efficient."

And yeah—you nod, starting to agree. "Honestly, yeah. That makes sense. Sturdy. Tactical."

You forget, for a crucial second, that a fireman carry involves being slung.

He moves without hesitation, grabbing your legs and hoisting you up onto his shoulder like he’s carrying a sandbag in a training montage.

Your stomach lurches.

"Mark—MARK—"

Too late.

Your thighs smack against his chest, your hips curve over his collarbone, and your entire lower half is just... present. Right in his face. Right there.

His movement stutters. One hand instinctively locks onto the back of your bare thigh—just to steady you, logically—but you feel his entire soul leave his body.

He wheezes. "Okay. Okay, nope. Bad idea. I can’t—this is not—"

"PUT ME DOWN," you screech, hair dangling in your mouth, boobs threatening to stage a full escape from your top.

He drops to his knee quick, letting you awkwardly slide down off his shoulder under your own power.

The moment your feet hit the ground, you turn away from him without a word, yanking your shirt forward and subtly readjusting where your boobs have clearly gone rogue.

Mark won’t even look at you. He rubs the back of his neck, muttering something that sounds like “that was a lot of ass.”

You clear your throat. "Okay, okay. What about... shoulders? Like when dads carry their kids at Disney?"

Mark looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. "You want to sit on my shoulders?"

You shrug. "Seems high up. Good visibility. Hands-free."

His brow twitches, and maybe there’s something itching at his lips too. "You do realize where your thighs will be."

"Yes, Mark. I'm not an idiot."

"Okay, just making sure, because—"

"Do it before I change my mind."

He crouches slightly and you climb on, settling your legs over his shoulders like you’re eight years old and waiting for the fireworks to start.

And that’s when you both realize: this might be the worst one yet.

Your thighs are clamped around the sides of his face. Your swimsuit bottoms are pressed to the back of his neck.

Mark’s hands hover just above your knees like he’s afraid to even think about where to hold.

"So this is a no?" you say weakly.

His voice is strangled. "Yeah. Gonna go ahead and call this a hard no."

He ducks, and you slide off him in a clumsy, tangled dismount, nearly tripping over your own feet as you land.

You both stand there, flushed and winded, like you just lost a round on a game show.

Finally, you sigh. "Just... gimme your back."

He doesn’t argue, turning around and kneeling slightly. You hop on, arms around his neck, legs around his waist. The regret is instantaneous.

Your chest squishes against his shoulder blades. Your entire front half is molded to his back. Your bikini bottoms felt like they were holding on for dear life—barely doing their only job.

You try not to breathe too deeply. Or move. Or exist.

"You good?" he asks, voice tight.

"I’ve never been less good."

He shifts slightly. Your boobs shift with him.

You groan. "Oh my god. This is still bad."

Then it hits you—a bright, stupid little lightbulb moment. "Wait," you say, sitting up straighter on his back. "What if I sit on your arm instead? Like a throne."

Mark turns just enough to give you a side-eye so dry it could start a brush fire. "You want to perch on my arm. Like royalty."

"Yes! Like a princess on a parade float," you say, already sliding down and gesturing enthusiastically. "You’re strong, right? Just hold me like—like I’m light and majestic."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, sighing like this is somehow the least weird idea you’ve had all day, he crouches and offers his arm.

You climb on carefully, settling along his bicep like it's a bench seat, one arm lazily looped around the back of his neck while your legs dangle off the front side. You wiggle into position until your balance feels right, then look at him expectantly.

Mark adjusts his hold—carefully, deliberately—his free hand braced under your knees like he’s steadying a priceless antique. "Good?"

You grin, already settling in like you really are royalty. "Honestly? This might be my best idea yet. I should travel like this more often."

Mark adjusts his grip with visible reluctance, his brow furrowing slightly. "Why do I feel like I’m being... used?" He muttered. Still, his arm stayed steady as he rose into the air.

The ground drops away, the wind picks up, and you lift one arm in a full pageant wave. "People of Earth! I bring good vibes and sunburns!"

"Please stop," Mark groans, voice tight. "Someone might actually see us."

"Let them! Let them witness my reign!"

"I'm serious," he says, suppressing a laugh with something heavy in his voice. "If anyone sees me flying around like this without the suit... it's kind of a problem. Secret identity and all."

You sigh with dramatic flair and lean sideways, resting your cheek against the top of his head like it’s the armrest of a throne. "Alright, alright," you murmur, voice muffled against his hair. "I’ll behave. Keep it lowkey for your secret superhero lifestyle." Your fingers flutter lazily in a final regal wave. "But just so you know, you’re absolutely wasting a peak aesthetic moment."

He doesn’t respond this time—just exhales through his nose and banks slightly west.

The flight is… longer than expected.

Turns out, giving aerial directions is kind of a nightmare. Everything looks different from up here. Your usual landmarks—corner stores, that one pizza place with the terrifying mascot, your neighbor’s weirdly aggressive lawn gnome—either vanish from view or blur together like a watercolor painting.

"Wait—go back. That might’ve been it," you call, pointing down at a clump of rooftops that look vaguely familiar.

Mark slows, glancing down. "That’s a hardware store."

You squint. "Oh. Right. Never mind."

He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw tics slightly as he adjusts altitude again. The sun’s lower now, bleeding soft gold and pink across the sky. Your hair is whipped every which way by the wind.

"Okay, that’s definitely the park," you announce suddenly. "We’re close. Like, actually close."

"That’s what you said twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, well, it felt true then."

By the time your house finally comes into view—weathered siding, cracked sidewalk, and all—the sun is just starting to dip below the rooftops. Mark begins his descent, slow and controlled.

You say nothing. But you do raise your hand in one final, dramatic wave to absolutely no one.

Mark sets you down with all the care you’ve come to know and expect from him. You wobble slightly, windblown and flushed, and smooth your hair out of your face with a laugh.

"Really," you say, more sincere now, "thank you. For coming to get me. And for not judging how stupid this all was."

He shrugs, smiling softly. "Didn’t seem stupid. You needed help."

There’s a pause. Then he glances over, just a hint if curiosity in his eyes. "Wait—you never told me what the dumb situation was. Don’t you normally take the bus around?"

You blink. "Oh. Right. Yeah, uh... just some creep. Guy at the stop wouldn’t back off. He said he was getting on the bus too, so I got off last minute. Didn’t want him following me."

Mark straightens a little. The easy look on his face vanishes.

"Was he touching you? Harassing you?"

"No, nothing like that," you say quickly, waving a hand. "Just... too much. Gave me a weird vibe."

Mark’s jaw tenses. He looks over his shoulder like he’s hoping the guy is still lurking somewhere within fighting distance.

You nudge his arm gently. "Hey. It’s fine. I got out of there, called my personal airlift, and survived to tell the tale."

He doesn’t quite relax, but he nods. "Still. Next time someone gives you a weird vibe, call me earlier."

You grin. "What, so you can launch them into low orbit?"

"Only if they deserve it," he says, and it’s barely a joke.

You just roll your eyes, and there’s a moment of quiet after that. You shift your weight a little and glance at him sideways, a smirk tugging at your mouth.

"I’d say goodbye with a hug," you murmur, brushing a wind-whipped strand of hair behind your ear, "but I feel like we already pushed the limits of physical contact today."

Mark lets out a breath that’s a half laugh as he scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, we might’ve hit the quota."

You flash him a peace sign instead, two fingers wiggling with lazy flair. "Night, Grayson."

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yeah, goodnight. Get inside safe."

You turn and head up the porch steps, the boards creaking softly under your feet. And even though your back’s to him now, you swear you can still feel him watching.

—

Later that night, long after the sun’s gone down and the neighborhood’s turned quiet, you lie awake in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning shadows across your walls.

You’d changed into pajamas hours ago. Washed off the salt. Pulled your hair up. Brushed your teeth. Did all the things that were supposed to settle your body down into rest.

And yet.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Not Mark-the-friend. Not Mark, the guy you send dumb memes to or banter with about pizza toppings.

No, this was Mark’s body.

His arms. His shoulders. The impossible way he held you like you weighed nothing. How your thighs had wrapped around his waist like it was muscle memory you didn’t know you had.

You’d never really thought about him like that before. Not seriously. Not in a way that stuck around longer than a fleeting joke.

But now? Now you couldn’t stop replaying how warm his body was. How big his hands were when he adjusted his grip. The unintentional intimacy of it all.

In the moment it just felt awkward, but now looking back on it? It felt electric.

Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts almost without thought. Just enough to feel the edge of sensation, the tension that’s been building in your stomach all evening. Your breath stutters. One gentle graze turns into another, your eyes fluttering almost shut, lips parting—

"M—Ma—aark?!"

It starts low, breathy, nearly reverent—but the moment your half-lidded eyes catch the silhouette outside your window, the tone snaps mid-name into something much higher and far less composed.

You jolt upright with a gasp, yanking your hand free and throwing the blanket over your lap like it’s a crime scene.

There he is.

Hovering.

Mark.

In daylight, you might’ve brushed it off as a joke, but at this hour, with the moon casting soft light over his hair and the way his eyes blink in surprise—it feels way too intimate.

He raises a hand and knocks lightly against the glass like maybe he really didn’t just witness the most unhinged thing imaginable.

You’re pretty sure your soul has left your body.

You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket, heart hammering as you fumble to unlock the window. Every molecule of your being is praying he didn’t hear anything. Didn’t see anything. You plaster on what you hope is a casual, non-horny smile as you shove the pane open.

"Hey," you whisper, breathless. "Uh. What are you doing here?"

Mark floats in a little closer, still hovering just outside the sill, arms crossed, looking vaguely sheepish. "I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about earlier. About you."

Your eyes went dry. That was... not the answer you were expecting.

He keeps going. "I don’t know, I just... didn’t like the idea of you almost having to walk home alone. That creep could’ve followed you, and the fact that you didn’t even feel comfortable calling me right away? I don’t like that."

Your throat tightens a little, but you try to keep the mood light. "Well, next time I’ll just hit up my personal superhero hotline immediately."

He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s something more serious under it. "I mean it. I’ve been thinking—and maybe it would just... make more sense if I was around more. For safety. Like, logistics."

"Logistics," you repeat, raising a brow.

"Yeah," he says, floundering now, rubbing the back of his neck. "Like, if we were together—not just like that, I mean, not just for that—but like, technically, it would be easier to make sure you’re okay. And it’d be easier for you to call me. And I wouldn’t have to hover outside your window at midnight like a weirdo."

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

"…Are you… proposing we date for security reasons?"

His throat bobs. "...Yes?"

Your lips twitch.

"That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

"I just mean—it’s not like it has to be a big thing. I already worry about you. You already call me for weird stuff. And if we were—y'know, together—it wouldn’t be weird for me to show up when you need me. It’d be normal. Expected. Practical."

You sigh, dragging your hands down your face. "Get in here before one of my neighbors calls the cops."

He climbs in through the window with the kind of silent grace that somehow makes it worse—like he does this all the time, like being in your bedroom in the middle of the night isn’t absolutely deranged. You close the window behind him, lock it, then turn around to find him standing awkwardly in the middle of your room, hands in the pockets of his joggers.

You cross your arms, still half-reeling. "Okay. Back up. Explain to me again how dating me is supposed to be a logical safety plan."

He doesn’t flinch, which is honestly impressive. "Because it is logical," he says. "If we were together, I wouldn’t have to wait for you to ask me for help. I’d just know to be there. I already worry about you. This just... cuts out the weird in-between."

You stare. "You’re talking about eliminating emotional bureaucracy."

Mark hesitates. "...Yeah?"

You groan and throw yourself backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling with what felt like dead eyes. "Wow. Incredible. I can really only get a guy to ask me out if it doubles as a protective services contract."

Mark looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t say anything.

You sit up halfway, shooting him a look. "We literally couldn’t even hug goodbye earlier without it being a thing. And now you think we should just be together? For efficiency? Like we’re a fuckin’ Excel spreadsheet or something?"

"Okay, no, not like a spreadsheet. And in my defense that hug got complicated really fast."

You level him with a flat, skeptical expression. "Complicated?"

He looks everywhere but at you again. "You were in a bikini. And a wet shirt. And you smelled good. And you looked—like—soft. I didn’t want to be weird."

You scoff, bringing one arm over your chest subconsciously. “Right. Because hugging your friend goodbye would’ve been weird—but showing up at her window at midnight to pitch a bodyguard boyfriend arrangement? Totally normal.”

Mark doesn’t even try to deny it. He shrugs helplessly, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay… maybe not totally normal. But at least it got me in the door.”

You give him a look, half-exasperated and half-amused. “That’s the bar now?”

He lets out a soft laugh, then finally moves to join you on the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as you move to sit up beside him at the edge, his knee bumping gently against yours. The room feels smaller now, quieter.

You glance sideways, noticing how his hands rest on his thighs, fingers twitching slightly like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know what.

Neither of you speaks right away.

After some time, you hear him say softly, “I wanted to hug you.” Something flutters in your stomach. He keeps his eyes ahead, voice low. “I didn’t want to leave like that. But you were the one who said we ‘already pushed the limits of physical contact’.”

You feel your ears warm. “Yeah, well. I was trying to keep it together. Not...” You trail off, not wanting to finish where that thought was going.

That makes him look at you, and suddenly the space between you feels thinner than air.

His voice is soft. Careful. “Do I get another chance?”

Your lips part, trembling, but no sound leaves your throat. Instead you just nod.

And then you’re leaning into him, and he’s leaning into you, and it’s not even a decision so much as a reaction. Like this was something the two of you were always going to do.

His lips brush yours. Soft. Testing. Then it deepens.

His hand slides up to the back of your neck, holding you steady as he tilts his head, kissing you fuller. His tongue slips past your lips, teasing and deliberate, coaxing you into something hot and slow. His tongue explores your mouth with languid, fluid strokes—a slick, pink muscle dragging against yours, tasting you like he’s been thinking about this for a while. He doesn’t rush. He lingers, savoring the way you open up for him, the way your breath catches when he slides his tongue along the roof of your mouth.

His other hand settles at your waist, fingers spreading possessively. He pulls you closer, his palm sliding beneath your shirt just enough to brush over your skin. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours, how his lips part and seal over and over again, mapping every curve of your mouth.

He nudges you gently, repositioning his legs and shifting you with him until you’re straddling his thighs. One arm slides fully around your waist, hugging you closer into the warmth of him, while the hand at your neck loosens just enough to drift up into your hair. He kisses you deeper, tongue curling just a little more greedily now, like he can’t get enough of the way you taste.

Your fingers flex against his chest, bracing yourself. The heat between you builds fast—sharp, undeniable. He groans into your mouth, a sound low and unfiltered that sends heat straight into your lower belly.

You’re the one who finally breaks the kiss, gasping a little as you pull back—because if you didn’t, you’re pretty sure he’d never stop. Mark chases you instinctively, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. He noses at your neck, presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

“This is not why I came here,” he murmurs against you, breath hot and trembling.

You laugh softly, breathless and flushed. “Yeah, sure. Midnight pop-ins are just your love language now, huh?”

He lifts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded but earnest. “I mean it. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what could’ve happened. About how weird you felt calling me. I hated that.”

You brushed your nose against his. “And kissing me senseless was the solution?”

He grins, and before he can answer, you pull him back in.

Your mouths crash together again, hotter now—messier. His hands are everywhere: one in your hair, one gripping your hip, sliding under your shirt for the second time like he needs to feel every inch of you. You roll your hips without thinking, and he groans once more into your mouth, the sound vibrating down your spine.

Then he pulls back, panting slightly. “Wait… what were you doing when I showed up, anyway?”

You freeze.

Your eyes dart away. “Nothing.”

His brow lifts. “Nothing?”

You chew your lip. “Just… thinking about stuff.”

He leans in, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Stuff like… me?”

Suddenly you’re jolting upright like you’ve been electrocuted. "Okay! Wow! Y’know what? It is definitely way too late for you to be in a girl’s bedroom. Like, aggressively past curfew. So! I think it’s time you go, Mr. Grayson. Please and thank you."

“What—?”

You stand up, gesturing toward the window with mock formality. “Thank you for your service, please fly responsibly. Goodnight.”

Mark just blinks at you, still sitting. You raise a brow. "Uh. That's your cue, flight boy."

He shifts, clears his throat—but makes no move to stand.

You squint. "Why aren't you getting up?"

He grimaces slightly, suddenly very interested in a speck of dust on your floor. "I'm working on it."

One of your brows quirk as your line-of-sight drops.

Oh.

Your eyes go wide.

“Oh my God—” You whip around sharply on the balls of your feet. “Never mind! Take your time! Or don’t! I-I don’t even know!”

Behind you, Mark clears his throat, shifting like he's just settling in more comfortably. "I just—uh—need a second to make sure your mattress isn’t… you know. Lopsided or anything. Structural integrity check. Nothing weird."

You nod rapidly, still facing away. "Right. Mattress stability is important."

You march over to the window and start fiddling with the lock like it suddenly needs adjusting. You give it two twists, then a shake, then check it again just to be safe.

Across the room, Mark continues to sit very still, facing the opposite wall like it's a meditation exercise. Neither of you speak.

The silence stretches.

This is fine. Totally normal.

Just a standard, extremely platonic, post-makeout building inspection.

No one's aroused. No one's flustered. No one is internally screaming into the void.

You clear your throat.

Mark clears his throat.

Another ten seconds pass.

"...Think it's safe for me to stand yet?" he mutters.

You nearly jump out of your skin. "Only if you're done verifying the mattress's—structural reliability."

"Almost there."

You nod like that makes perfect sense.

Absolutely perfect.

You both sit in silence for another thirty seconds.

You are never going to survive this night.

#invincible #invincible fanfic #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson fanfic #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x y/n #fem reader

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lily-bisque · 1 month ago

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suguru is all about exhibitionism.

the guy is a perverted, deranged degenerate but that same guy is also your boyfriend. you’d been dating for around a year now, and to be clear, you weren’t… unacquainted with his sexual desires, since he has tested quite a few of them out on you.

from bondage in his apartment where he’d tie you up until you were releasing hot, wet, real tears all over his sheets, to his collection of toys he had no issue slipping into your tight hole, to twisting your form like a pretzel in all sorts of interesting positions to see if he could get you to squirt from them [insert fan favorites: full nelson and a headlock.]

and now, as the two of you are perched in the back row of a movie theater, despite you complaining that the middle of the theater had the best sound quality, his hand found its way trailing up your skirt.

you didn’t think much of it, letting out a soft hum as you knew he liked to touch you and basically couldn’t keep his hands off of you for the life of him.

that was, until a digit began to run up and down your clothed cunt, poking and prodding, causing you to flinch and snap your thighs shut, caging his large hand between.

peering over at him, he had his eyes fixed on the screen, your boyfriend the perfect image of poise looking blissfully unaware of his curious hand like it had a mind of its own.

“sugu,” you quietly whined out over the scene where the killer finally appeared, knocking on the glass window of the victim aka final girl who was scrambling to lock it before he came in.

suguru glanced down to look at you, your flushed expression and startled face causing a tent growing in his pants. “yes, darling?”

he knew what he was doing and he was reveling in your reactions.

you let out a whimper only quiet enough for him to hear in hopes that he wouldn’t decide to tease you in a theater where everyone was practically holding their breaths in silence, but no. suguru never made anything easy for you.

a dexterous digit of his slid your panties to the side and sunk into your already dripping heat, making you clench around him immediately.

your teeth gritted hard, morals grinding against each other as your heart rate roared in your ears.

thankfully, the seats in your row besides your own and suguru’s were empty, but the rows before you had plenty of people that could be privy to the scandalous endeavor with just one glance behind their backs.

your hands found themselves across your boyfriends leather jacket, gripping to steady yourself and your already dizzying mind as his slender finger found that sweet spot, the rough pad of his finger leaving delicate strokes that had your squirming.

“n-not here,” you whispered out, eyes threatening to roll into your skull, hoping the elderly couple in front of you couldn’t catch on to the way your cunt was making obscene, quiet squelches sounding beneath the movie soundtrack.

suguru only let out a few unpleased tsk’s before his fingers curled deeper, causing your form to bow and bite into his leather jacket. “not here?” he mocked, tilting his head down to your ear and biting your lobe, sending a shiver down the column of your spine. “oh sweetheart, here is absolutely perfect.”

and that’s how you found yourself for the next few minutes or so, attempting to muffle your whimpers in your boyfriends bicep until you released all over his digits. your body wracked with your orgasm, eyes flying wide and dotting black as you realize that you’d just let your boyfriend finger you in a movie theater.

however, the image of excellent patience was getting… impatient.

by the time you’d calmed down from your high and the protagonist of the film finally escaped from the clutches of death, suguru grabbed your wrist and practically dragged you out of the theater, not even allowing the movie to come to a close.

his grip was firm, yet gentle, as he led you down the dim corridor of the cinema. you found yourself being dragged into the men’s room, your boyfriend pulling you into a stall and shutting the door behind you.

your lips quirked up into a faint smirk as he pinned you against the flimsy stall door, eyes undressing your still-flushed state and fiddling with your outfit.

“i couldn’t wait,” he rasped out with a hoarse chuckle, as if every moment he waited to feel you was paining him.

“then don’t.”

his lips connected with yours in an instant, a hungry and passionate kiss as if he needed to consume you right then and there. his assertiveness had you whining between his parted lips, a groan of pleasure rumbling in his chest and making your thighs rub against each other.

his large hands found purchase on your hips as he spun you around, practically tearing your panties to the floor and riding your skirt up.

he admired the globe of your ass, eyes blown wide with lust, as he fumbled with his zipper, adjusting all the annoying fabric around until his cock could spring free. the cold air made his red, leaking head all the more sensitive.

suguru didn’t even bother searching for the condom he’d brought along, wrapping a hand around his shaft and aligning it with your entrance.

it was in this moment that you wanted to facepalm yourself, not recalling your boyfriend locking the restroom door, nor checking the other stalls. “w-what if someone hears us?”

his tip brushed against your drooling folds, pushing right into your prepped hole and against that ring of resistance, the pressure making your body tense.

suguru wrapped a hand around your mouth, muffling any noise you could make, before purring in your ear.

“better keep quiet, then.”

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dollyfetti · 2 months ago

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“i can do the alphabet in sign language!” eri chirps to you one night, tugging at the bottom of your skirt as she gazes up at you with that sparkle in her eyes she gets when she's about to show you something important.

the city hums softly outside your window. cars in the distance, someone’s dog barking, the occasional clink of a bottle hitting pavement. you’re curled on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, fingers grazing the hem of the throw blanket, and eri’s settled close, knees bumping yours, her face lit by the soft blue flicker of the tv screen.

your mouth parts into a soft gasp, eyes going round with surprise, delight catching in your throat. “that’s so cool!” you grin, reaching for her instinctively, brushing a hand through her snowy hair. “you should show suki, he’d really like it.”

she nods, mouth stretched into a proud little beam, her arms winding around your leg in a hug, like she wants to melt into your side and stay there forever. “okay! where is he?”

you glance up, eyes flicking toward the hallway without much thought.

“i dunno,” you hum. “i think he’s getting your bedsheets.”

“i’m gonna go find him!” she cheers, letting go of you and running off without another word, small feet padding down the hallway before you can call out a reminder. to be gentle and cautious.

you sink back into the couch with a quiet wince, already imagining the startle that’s coming. katsuki doesn’t wear his hearing aids at home. he says they make him feel alienated, like he’s underwater in his own home. says he prefers the quiet, even when it means he misses footsteps behind him.

down the hall, eri’s palm skims the wall as she turns the corner.

“suki?” she calls out, forgetting he can't hear her.

she finds him with his back to the room, broad shoulders blocking the light from the closet as he reaches for the folded sheets on the top shelf.

she slowly steps over to his spot, tapping his bulgy arm and looking up at him with pride. he jumps, and almost blasts whatever it is coming near him. he knows it's not you, you make sure to knock on the wall or anything just to make yourself known before getting close to him.

it’s not dramatic, not loud, just a sharp inhale as his muscles twitch beneath his skin, the sheets nearly slipping from his hands, turning his head to look down at her in surprise.

“you scared me,” he mutters, voice low, words shaped more from breath than sound.

eri just grins up at him, undeterred. she lifts her right hand, fingers curling and tucking until they make a neat little H. katsuki raises a brow, the closet door creaking as it swings shut behind him.

immediately after, she forms an I with a soft grin

then she follows it with an I, fingers small and steady, her eyes never leaving his. her smile is proud. soft. expectant.

the moment reached him slower than it should have, but she keeps going.

her fingers move carefully, like she’s practiced this a hundred times in her room, mouthing the letters silently as she went. she starts spelling out the alphabet, grinning with pride.

by the time she gets to K, katsuki's kneeling, bringing himself to her level as he sits on his heels so they’re eye to eye. his expression softens in a way only a handful of people ever get to see.

his hand rises— not to stop her, not to fix her hands, not to take over. just to mirror her. to do it with her.

his lips are twitching, not into a smile yet, but close enough. something fond, folded under layers of gruffness and disbelief.

“you learn all that just for me?” he asks, low and rough.

eri nods, both hands flying up now, fingers tangling as she shows him N, then O, like she doesn’t want to waste time answering him out loud.

katsuki exhales like he’s been holding it in since she tapped him, then reaches forward and cups the back of her head gently, thumb brushing through her hair.

“your hair needs to be brushed." he murmurs, like he's trying to escape from the feeling inside of him. he's not even sure what it is, it just feels nice. to have her, this little girl, learn a language for him.

he reaches for the fallen sheets with a smile, a real smile. the kind that pushes up into his eyes and softens all the hard lines around his mouth.

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dollishmehrayan · 3 months ago

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# HOW DIFFERENT BATBOYS REACT TO BUGS && DEAL WITH THEM ── .✦ ( already written in title ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ )

dollish note ⋆౨ৎ: so I only wrote this because I find it interesting how different people react to spiders and stuff and as someone who has a deadly fear of them like genuinely I start throwing up thinking about them this was very brave of me to write but guys this is just crack fic to me so enjoy because it’s a saturday (tags: batboys )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Acts brave… until the bug flies. Then it’s over.

“Okay, it has wings. This is a different situation now!” , “Dick you were okay 5 seconds ago” and it’s WORSE if it’s a flying cockroach like no 🙂‍↔️.

Tries to be the responsible one but ends up calling you to “just keep an eye on it” while he gets something to catch it with and screams if it moves towards him or the kitchen.

Probably names the bug before evicting it. “His name is Greg. Greg the Beetle. He just lost his way.”

Will 100% take it outside and gently release it like he’s Snow White.

JASON TODD ── .✦

Kills it. No hesitation. Doesn’t matter what it is, Isn’t scared of them but just will kill them most effectively.

“It’s either me or the bug. I choose the bug.”

Uses a shoe, a bat, a magazine, or if he’s feeling dramatic a gun. (H/j…)

But if you want to save it, he’ll sigh dramatically and do it for you. “Only because you gave it a name and now I feel bad.”

Still mutters “disgusting little freaks” under his breath the whole time.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Doesn’t notice the bug until it’s already crawling across his laptop screen.

Just calmly gets a tissue and moves it without fanfare.

If he’s had too much stress and not enough energy for it, he might scream, flinch, and then immediately be embarrassed.

Once had a crisis over whether squashing a spider was morally wrong.

Will google “Are bugs sentient?” at 2am.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Is completely unfazed. He grew up in the League bugs are nothing.

Might let a spider crawl on his hand to “observe its movement.”

Gets genuinely offended if you try to kill it. “That is a living creature with a purpose.”

Probably has a pet bug. Or a terrarium of beetles he’s named after Shakespeare characters.

If it’s in your room, he’ll remove it like it’s a royal escort mission. “You’re safe now, beloved.”

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Doesn’t flinch. Sees a bug, handles it like a Mission Impossible agent.

He probably has some fancy WayneTech bug vacuum he designed just to keep Alfred from squishing silverfish.

“It’s just a moth.” Proceeds to turn off the lights, open the window, and gently shoo it out like a pro.

Somehow always knows where bugs come from. “There’s a gap in the vent cover. I’ll fix it.”

Alfred still ends up handling 90% of the Bat-bug drama in the manor.

(In summary they are all okay with bugs but some will die when they see a rat)

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screechingdefendorpuppy-blog · 2 months ago

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Streaming nightmare.

Streamer!vi x reader

Notes: established relationship, vi is streaming a horror game and is so focused she doesnt realize her gf’s presence till it’s too late.

Any mistakes are mine, not proofread.

Based off this tiktok.

“Are you sure about this hun?” You ask her as she downloads the game. “You don’t necessarily have the best track record with scary stuff.”

She tsk and turns to you “Come one babe, Powder lets Isha play this game im sure it will be fine!”

You look at her skeptically as you read the name of it “Resident evil village. Mmmm I don’t vi, I mean Isha is way better at the haunted houses we go to on Halloween than you.”

She dramatically gasp “Now thats rude! Plus everyone hates clowns!” Pouting at you.

“And plus Isha is just at a whole other level than most kids. You can tell she’s powders kid.” She finishes as she turns back to her equipment. You shake your head but let it go.

“Ok well here is some water and a few snacks.” You tell her as she is setting up her stream.

“Thank you baby.” She kisses your temple as she continues to fix the camera angle.

“I’m off to the store is there anything else you would like before I leave?” You stop at the doorframe waiting for an answer.

“Mmmm oh! Could you bring my usual from Jeriko’s? I’ve been craving it for weeks now.” She says big powder blue eyes looking at you. Even though she knows you would never deny her anything she likes to throw in her puppy eyes just in case.

Chuckling you say “Alright hun, I shouldn’t take long. Bye I love you”

“Love you more!” She shouts after you as you exit.

——————

You sigh as you push the door open balancing the take out and small grocery bags of things that you were running low on.

Your grey cat midnight comes over immediately to inspect the haul you bring. You push her gently to guide her forward down the hall way.

Finally in the kitchen you put all the bags on the counter top. You take a minute to properly greet your fur baby giving her the scritches she demands.

Once she leaves satisfied, you set to work on putting everything away. Once done you decide to check on vi.

It is very rare that you appear in her streams. You usually like to stay off camera. Making sure she has water and something to snack on. At times even to remind her that she is past her scheduled time to stream.

As you walk down towards her streaming room you notice the lack of lights. You shake your head, you and vi had made it a compromise to at least leave one light on while she played any scary games. Mostly to give her a sense of security once she is done. This time tho it seems your Gf has forgotten to do just that.

Slowly you enter the room that is only illuminated by her computer screen and lighting for the camera. You make you way over as she continues to talk to her viewers.

“I mean it is a bit spooky.” She says as she moves her character along the screen. I reach her side and notice she is yet to notice you. You wave at the camera saying hello to her subscribers.

The chat blows up with greetings to you but she doesn’t notice. You bend down to her level and look at her.

“Hello?” She says laser focused on her game. So you respond.

“Hello”

Immediately the most high pitched scream leaves her as she jumps clean out of her chair. Taking the headphones with her and controller flying out of her hands.

You jump at the reaction, hands flying towards your mouth. You look at her as a laugh bubbles up inside you. “Are you ok?” You ask through the laughter.

“YOU SCARED THE SHIT OUT ME!!!” She yells as she starts to sit up. She looks over at the screen and sees chat bubbles flying across the screen. Laughing at her predicament.

You start laughing even more when you look at the window that shows her in the stream. After the jump and fall the camera tilted a bit from the commotion.

On the screen you see yourself standing where she had been a few seconds ago. Vi on the other hand was on the bottom of the screen. Only the top of her head and eyes in view. Only thing her viewers see is her laughing Gf and her annoyed eyes with a skewed headset on her.

#arcane #vi x you #vi arcane #vi x reader #violet arcane #violet x reader #vi x y/n

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wdcbug · 7 months ago

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pancakes for dinner ⠀⠀⋆·˚ ༘ *⠀⠀lando norris.

pairing. lando norris x gn!reader.

word count. 4k.

summary. after siking yourself out on a long plane ride to london, you finally have the courage to confess your feelings to lando, even if it ruins your friendship. inspired by pancakes for dinner by lizzy mcalpine.

warnings. mentions of a possible plane crash, hurt + comfort.

ellis’ addition. i am sososo proud of this. since lizzy is my brand, i of course wanted to use one of her songs as inspiration for a fic, so here ya go. once again, inspired by pancakes for dinner by lizzy mcalpine. for the lovely @lechrts ♡

the hum of the airplane engines filled the cabin, steady and unchanging, but it felt louder than it should, pressing into your ears like static. you shifted in your seat, the vinyl sticking slightly to your bare legs as you glanced at the glowing seatbelt sign above you.

the plane was still climbing, the ground was long gone, and clouds had swallowed the view. all that was left was the pale blue light filtering in through the window and the uneasy flutter in your chest.

you weren’t afraid of flying. you told herself that again and again, even as your fingers tightened on the edge of the tray table. it wasn’t the height or the turbulence or the fact that the plane felt impossibly heavy for something that stayed in the air – it was something else.

no matter how hard you tried to claw the thought away, it stuck in the back of your mind, a looming idea that poisoned your brain. no, what scared you wasn’t the plane at all. it was the though of him.

you could see his face in your mind, as clear as if he were sitting beside you. the messy hair he never bothered to brush, the crooked smile that made you laugh at all the wrong times, and the teasing like it wasn’t a big deal that you had heard it in his voice and no one else’s.

you closed her eyes, trying to block it out, but it didn’t help. you could still see him leaning against the doorframe the last night you two had hung out, his hand in his pocket, his gaze holding yours for a little too long before he cracked a joke to break the tension.

lando was an enigma – sort of a fungus that clung onto you for dear life. through his teasing and his sarcasm, he was still your friend at the end of it all. yet barely at this point as you started to view him as more of a lover you pined for than a disease that would never leave.

your stomach twisted, and you opened your eyes again, fixing your focus on the napkin crumpled on your tray table. the airline’s logo was printed in cheap blue ink. you smoothed it out, your thumb tracing over the words, but your thoughts didn’t stop.

what if the plane went down? what if you never got to tell him? the question gripped you, sharp and sudden, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. your heart hammered in her chest as the idea rooted itself deeper, impossible to shake.

it wasn’t some grand declaration. you weren’t brave enough for that, not yet. but there were smaller things you wanted him to know. like how you had watched every single race no matter the timezone difference, how you had memorized the exact way he ordered coffee, or how you missed him when he wasn’t around, even when nothing in your life seemed to change.

you grabbed your phone, your fingers fumbling as you opened the notes app. the cursor blinked on the blank screen, waiting. you felt the need to type out your feelings if you could even somehow put them into words. you didn’t want to ruin your friendship with lando, ultimately resulting in him distancing himself if he didn’t feel the same way – you knew it’d happen. but you still couldn’t shake the looming thought as turbulence hit, causing you to quickly begin typing like you were shakespeare drafting his next play.

it was a dull confession compared to your grand feelings for him, and you knew you’d never even tell him these words as the pilot announced you’d be landing in london soon. the paragraph of word vomit information sat staring at you, and you let out a shaky sigh as you locked your phone and shoved it into your pocket.

the plane landed with a shudder that rattled your teeth. the sound of tires screeching against asphalt dragged you out of your spiral of thoughts, but it didn’t erase the tension sitting heavy in your chest.

you moved through the motions like an automaton, gathering your bag from under the seat, waiting for the line of passengers to shuffle toward the exit, stepping off the plane and into the chaos of the terminal. your head buzzed with exhaustion, but your thoughts refused to quiet. lando was there, waiting somewhere beyond the baggage claim, which only caused your head to spin even faster.

your heart thrummed as you approached the carousel, watching strangers reunite around you – families embraced, couples kissed, and friends called out in excitement. you scanned the crowd for lando, your palms clammy against the strap of your carry-on bag. and then you saw him.

lando was leaning against a column near the exit, his phone in one hand, his other shoved into his jacket pocket. his hair was messier than usual, like he hadn’t bothered to tame it before coming here, and his sneakers tapped against the floor in a distracted rhythm. when he looked up and saw you, his whole face lit up. his smile was lopsided, and he waved with his phone like an idiot. you wanted to laugh. you wanted to run. instead, you froze.

the car ride was quiet, quieter than usual. lando had turned the music on – some rap music with a fast rhythm – but you barely heard it over the thundering of your own heartbeat.

lando kept glancing at you. not obviously, just quick flicks of his eyes, like he could sense something, was off. normally, you’d make a joke, deflect, steer the conversation back into the usual rhythm. but now, you stayed quiet, staring out the window at the passing streetlights.

“you sure you’re okay?” lando asked finally, his voice gentle. the streetlights illuminated his face, showing every freckle and curve of his skin, causing you to grow sick all over again. he was perfect and it made your stomach reel, your heart doing backflips like some olympic gymnast.

you nodded quickly, too quickly, and tried to force a smile, “yeah, just tired. long flight – jet lag and all.” you forced out a laugh as if you were trying to pry back your friendly banter, but in the end, it was entirely useless.

lando didn’t press, but the furrow between his brows stayed. he knew something was wrong. lando could have his stupid moments, but he was far from dumb. you prided yourself on being a half opened booked, but lando had read the whole thing.

when you pulled into lando’s driveway, the motion of the car stopping felt like a jolt back to reality. the headlights illuminated the front of his flat, familiar and safe, but it felt different now, like the air had shifted.

“c’mon,” lando hummed softly, cutting the engine, “i’ll grab your bag.” you smiled softly at his kindess, but part of you knew he was doing it out of pity. lando knew something was up, and despite the fact he didn’t push for an answer, you knew he would as the night passed on.

you followed him up the steps to his flat door, your stomach twisting into knots. the closer you got, the more real it felt. you had been here a hundred times before, sprawled on lando’s couch or rummaging through his fridge, but this time was different. this time, you felt as if you were about to ruin everything.

lando unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside to let you in first. the smell of the flat was familiar, some stupid cashmere candle he had bought that was practically nearly out of wax, but it smelt like home.

“you want something to eat? i bet you’re hungry after snacking on plane peanuts. i told you i would have bought you first class, but noo, you’re too good for that,” lando teased, setting your bag by the door before advancing into the kitchen, “or maybe a drink? i think i’ve got—”

“can we talk?” you blurted out, leaning against the kitchen island for some sort of support as you felt dizzy. you didn’t mean to interrupt lando, burt your mind was swimming a mile a minute, your skin itching at the fact you needed to say something.

lando froze mid-step, his hand hovering over the light switch. the easy smile on his face faltered, replaced by something softer, more cautious, confused at the fact you didn’t rebuttal his words or even laugh. “yeah,” lando spoke slowly, “of course. what’s up?”

you glanced around the living room, at the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, at the coffee table littered with takeout containers and a half-empty mug. everything about lando’s place screamed him. familiar. safe. but your chest felt anything but safe now.

“can we sit?” you questioned, your voice quieter now as you already started to make your way to the couch without even a nod from lando. your hands shook at your side, immediately resting on your lap and fiddling with one another as you took a seat, the plushness of the couch consuming you.

lando nodded and followed behind you, a nervous chuckle falling from his lips, “sure. you’re kind of freaking me out, though. is everything okay?” his body sat down on the couch next to you, his knee inches away from yours as his eyes began to search your face for any idea of what was going on inside your head.

you hesitated, your feet rooted to the floor for just a second too long before you let out a soft sigh. lando’s body sank down onto the couch, one arm draped over the back, as his gaze never faltered.

you inhaled slightly. if you didn’t say it now, you’d never bring yourself to try to convey your emotions to lando’s face again. the idea of what would have occurred if the plane went down played over and over again in your head, snapping you back into reality.

lando shifted on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his gaze still locked on your nervous expresion. the concern in his eyes deepened, and you could see the wheels turning in his head.

“is something wrong?” lando questioned, his voice low and careful as his eyebrows furrowed, “are you okay? is it –” his jaw tightened softly, “is it your family?” his assumption shocked you at first, but it just came to remind you that lando cared despite what was about to happen.

you blinked, quickly collecting yourself, “what? no, it’s not –” “work, then?” lando cut in, his words coming quicker now, “did something happen at your job?” he tried to dig for answers, to push as hard as he could as if he was on track, and it barely gave you time to cool your mind.

“no! no, nothing like that!” you said quickly, your hands waving in front of you like you could physically push the idea away. lando exhaled a sharp breath and leaned back, his shoulders relaxing slightly, “okay, good. you were scaring me for a second there.” he let out a deep sigh, a chuckle interrupting his action.

you pressed your lips together, your stomach twisting. this wasn’t how you imagined this going – not that you had imagined it going smoothly, but still. “i’m fine,” you spoke softly, more to reassure yourself than anything else, “it’s not ... bad, exactly – it’s just hard to explain.”

lando tilted his head, studying you with that same careful expression he always wore when he was trying to figure something out, “alright, take your time, i guess. i’m listening.” the sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten. of course, he was listening, he always did. that was part of the problem.

you looked down at her hands, twisting your fingers together, your palms damp as if you were having a stroke. you felt lando’s eyes on you, steady and unrelenting, like he wouldn’t look away until he knew you were okay.

“you’re sure you’re okay?” lando asked again, softer this time – he was beginning to genuinely worry. you nodded, but the motion felt hollow. your heart was pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

“i just need a minute,” you murmured, and like he had in the car, he didn’t press on. instead, he leaned back into the couch, giving you space, but his gaze stayed fixed on your frame. the silence stretched between the two of you, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

finally, he let out a quiet laugh, breaking the tension just enough to make you glance up at him with a hint of confusion. “you know,” he spoke, his tone light but his smile nervous, “if this is you telling me you’re moving to antarctica or something, i might actually cry.”

your lips twitched into a smile despite yourself, “what?” “i’m serious,” lando spoke, raising a hand in mock solemnity, “you can’t just drop a we need to talk bomb on me and expect me not to assume the worst. if you’re planning to disappear or something, at least give me some notice.”

you shook your head, a small laugh escaping her before she could stop it, “i’m not moving to antarctica or running away or anything – at least not yet.” your second attempt to bring back the usual friendly banter had began to work as you let out another chuckle. “good,” lando hummed, his grin softening, “because i don’t think i’d survive that.”

your heart twisted at the words, even though you knew he didn’t mean them the way you wished he did. lando was feeding into your jokes, trying his hardest to pry the confession out of you slightly, and you found it working as you let out another nervous sigh.

your sigh faded, leaving the air thick again. lando was looking at you, the teasing edge in his expression softening into something warmer, more patient. he wasn’t going to let this go, and you knew it. he never did.

you took a deep breath, your fingers now curling into the fabric of your shirt. “it’s not about antarctica,” you spoke, your voice quieter now, “it’s about you.” lando’s brows furrowed slightly, the easy grin slipping from his face, “me?” confusion filled the air and you couldn’t tell if he was oblivious or plain stupid.

“yeah,” you spoke, your gaze nervously dropping to your lap. you couldn’t look at him, not yet. “i’ve been thinking a lot about us. about all the things i want to do. not just, like, big things, but .. little things too.” the room felt impossibly still, your words hanging between the two of you. you pressed on before your courage dissolved completely.

“like .. i want to watch dumb movies with you – the ones you always tell me about but i never get around to watching. and i want to sit on your couch and argue about whose turn it is to pick dinner, even though we both know we’re going to give in and order pizza anyway.”

your voice trembled, but you forced yourself to keep going, “i want to have pancakes for dinner, just because we can, even though you’ll probably put too much syrup on them and make a mess. i want to watch a tv show together and if we’re too exhausted, we can watch it in bed.”

you glanced up at lando, your breath catching at the way he was looking at you. his expression was unreadable, his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide like he didn’t dare blink as you began. “and i want ..” your voice wavered, but you didn’t stop, “i want all those things with you because they matter to me. you matter to me. more than i ever thought someone could.” the words felt like they had been wrenched out of you, leaving your chest hollow and aching. your hands gripped the couch cushion, waiting for lando to say something, anything.

for a long moment, he didn’t. lando just stared at you, his brows furrowed like he was trying to process what you had just said. “you want .. pancakes for dinner?” he asked finally, his voice so soft it made your heart ache.

you laughed, the sound weak and trembling, but it felt like a release. you couldn’t fathom that out of all of that, that’s what he was confused about. “yeah,” you spoke softly, “i want pancakes for dinner. with you, and everything else.”

lando’s lips twitched, and then, slowly, a smile broke across his face. a real one, not the teasing, lopsided grin you were so used to. this one was softer, warmer, like he was looking at you for the first time.

the smile on lando’s face lingered, but it quickly gave way to a softer, almost uncertain look. he took a breath, like he was trying to gather his thoughts, but he still didn’t break eye contact. “you have no idea how badly i want to say that sounds perfect,” lando spoke quietly, his voice carrying a weight of honesty you hadn’t expected. your heart skipped, but you swallowed the hope rising in your chest, unsure where this was going.

“but ..” lando hesitated, the hesitation enough to make your stomach drop, “but i’m not great at this kind of thing – saying my feelings and shit,” he continued, his gaze flickering away briefly, his hands fidgeting. “i’m a mess with timing, and i’m not always around, and, you know, i can’t be that guy who just shows up whenever, especially when we’re not always in the same place. it’s easier to say i want all those things, but actually ..” he trailed off, his words fading, and you saw the conflict in his eyes, the worry.

you bit your lip, your chest tightening. lando feels the same way, but he's scared. the realization hit you like a wave, pulling you under with the weight of it. you opened your mouth to respond, but lando beat you to it.

“i know it sounds like an excuse, and i don’t want to make it seem like i’m backing out of anything, but i’ve got this tendency to overthink everything,” lando spoke, his voice thick with vulnerability, “i don’t want to promise something i can’t follow through on, and i hate that i’m not better at being here – at being present. and i hate how much i want to say yes, but i’m scared.”

your heart clenched as lando looked at you, the rawness in his gaze making your heart ache for him. your heart was beating as fast as it possibly could as you tried to hide the overwhelming emotion on your face. you tangled your fingers together again, taking a deep breath.

“i just don’t want you to think that it’s you, or that i don’t care because i do – so much, too much,” lando reached out then, his hand hovering between the two of you for a moment before he placed it gently on yours. the contact felt like an anchor, grounding you in the storm of his words.

“i want all those things with you too,” lando whispered, his thumb brushing over your hand like he couldn’t help it,“pancakes for dinner. arguing over pizza. nights in – all of it, but i don’t want to let you down.”

you felt your breath catch in your throat, the mix of relief and uncertainty flooding you all at once. the long distance, the uncertainty, the timing – it all felt so complicated, yet here he was, laying it all out, just like you had.

you squeezed lando’s hand gently, your heart full of more than you had expected. “i don’t need you to be perfect,” you spoke softly, your voice steady now, as your confidence grew, “i don’t need every moment to be planned. i just need to know that you want it too – that you want me. even if it’s messy, even if we’re not always in the same place.”

for a moment, the two of you just sat there, the quiet between each other not awkward, but comfortable. your hand in lando’s, the soft weight of his fingers against yours grounding you, soothing the chaos you had been carrying.

“i want you,” lando spoke up, his voice so certain now it made your heart flutter, “more than anything. i just ..” he took a deep breath and squeezed your hand back, “i guess i was just scared you wouldn’t feel the same way.”

your breath caught, and you smiled, a soft, genuine smile that spread slowly across your face. “i do,” you hummed, your voice filled with the kind of certainty you hadn’t known you were capable of, “i feel the same way.”

the silence between both of you deepened, but this time, it wasn’t filled with uncertainty or hesitation. it was filled with the space where everything unspoken lived – the things you both knew, but hadn’t dared to say out loud until now. lando was still holding your hand, but now there was something more in the way as his fingers curled around yours. it wasn’t just comfort anymore. it was a promise.

“i don’t know how easy this is going to be,” lando spoke softly, his voice more vulnerable than you had ever heard it. “i don’t know how many times i’ll mess it up or how far apart we’ll be soemtimes, but,” lando paused, gathering his thoughts as if the weight of them were settling in, “but i know i don’t want to keep walking away from something that feels this real.”

your heart skipped once again. you didn’t realize how much you needed to hear him say that until the words were out. the words seemed all too poetically beautiful for lando, but you knew he was speaking his mind, even though his thoughts were complex.

“me neither,” you murmured, squeezing his hand tighter, “i don’t care how messy it gets, i just don’t want to keep pretending it’s not there.” lando’s smile was small but genuine, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “yeah,” he agreed quietly, “pretending just doesn’t work anymore, does it?” “no,” you spoke softly, “it doesn’t.”

the both of you sat there for a moment longer, both lost in the gravity of the decision you had just made – realizing that, despite the complications, despite the distance and uncertainty, you were choosing each other. even if it was hard, even if it didn’t make sense.

“you know,” you spoke up again, your voice hesitant but growing steadier with every word, “i think i’m okay with things not being perfect. in the end, nothing is really perfect, and i like it that way.” lando nodded slowly, a small smile christening his face, his hand still holding yours, “me too.”

you looked at lando, and for the first time, you didn’t see the nervous, unsure guy who’d been so cautious before. you saw someone who was ready to take that leap, even if it scared him, even if there would be highs and lows.

“i don’t want to waste any more time,” lando spoke, his voice breathy, “so, if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. no more second-guessing. no more running away. no more hiding our feelings.” your heart swelled at his words, the promise behind the two of you feeling like everything you had ever wanted, but thought you couldn’t have. “yeah,” you whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “no more running.”

lando leaned forward, gently brushing his lips against your forehead in a soft, slow kiss. it was simple, but it felt like everything. the weight of all your unspoken feelings was there, in that moment, and you knew it wasn’t just about what you had said, it was about the choice you were both making.

“i don’t know what comes next,” lando spoke after pulling back, his voice still soft, “but i know i don’t want to do it without you.” your chest tightened in that familiar way, the warmth spreading through you like sunshine, “me neither.”

#ellis' works #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando imagine #lando norris smau #ln4 x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula 1 #f1 smau #f1 imagine #f1 fanfiction #lando norris smut #ln4 #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic

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rvp32 · 11 months ago

Text

The Extents We Reach for Friendship

This is super messy. I honestly wrote this in between writing another series that I will upload soon but I really hope the person who put in an ask for this enjoys it. Sorry for the delay. As always any and all feedback is appreciated! No trigger warnings it is pretty chill.

You're in the dimly lit living room of your Seoul apartment, the soft glow of the cityscape through the window casting shadows on the walls. Sana sits next to you on the couch, her eyes fixed on the TV screen but her mind clearly elsewhere. Her hand rests gently on her lap, fingers occasionally tapping nervously.

"Honey," she begins softly, breaking the silence that had settled between you, "I've been thinking a lot about what we talked about last week."

Your heart skips a beat as you turn to face her, knowing exactly what she's referring to. The conversation was about starting a family, her inability to conceive, and the difficult decisions that followed. You nod, encouraging her to continue, your voice cautious when you reply, "I know, Sana. It's a lot to process."

She sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly, "I just... I want this so much, you know? A part of me feels like it's all slipping away, and I don't know how to hold onto it."

Reaching out, you take her hand in yours, squeezing gently, "We'll find a way, Sana. We always do."

Her gaze shifts towards the door, where a soft knock interrupts the moment. You both glance at each other, confusion etched on your faces before Sana stands up, smoothing out her dress as she walks towards the entrance. She opens the door to reveal Miyeon, her best friend, standing there with a hesitant smile.

"Hey, guys," Miyeon says, her voice soft as she steps inside, closing the door behind her. "Sana, you texted me earlier?"

Sana nods, her expression serious as she leads Miyeon to the couch, sitting down beside you again. "Yeah, I did. There's something important we need to talk about."

Miyeon's eyebrows furrow in concern, "What's going on?"

Taking a deep breath, Sana looks directly at Miyeon, her voice steady despite the weight of the topic, "It's about our situation. About us wanting a child, and... well, my doctor said it's nearly impossible for me to conceive naturally."

Miyeon's eyes widen, her hand flying to her mouth in surprise. "Oh, Sana, I had no idea. That's... that's really tough."

Sana nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, "It is. But there's another option we've been considering. Something... unconventional."

You watch as Miyeon processes this information, her gaze flickering between you and Sana, uncertainty clear in her expression. "What are you thinking?"

Sana takes another deep breath, her voice barely above a whisper, "We were wondering if... if you'd be willing to help us. To carry our baby."

The room falls silent, the weight of Sana's proposal hanging heavily in the air. Miyeon looks stunned, her lips parted as she struggles to find words. After what feels like an eternity, she finally speaks, her voice trembling, "You mean... like, surrogacy?"

Sana shakes her head, her eyes pleading, "No, not exactly. More like... well, we were thinking if you'd be open to... to being impregnated by Y/N. To have our baby together."

Miyeon gasps, her hand covering her mouth as she stares at Sana, then at you, her mind racing. "I... I don't know what to say. This is... it's a lot to take in."

Sana reaches out, taking Miyeon's hand in hers, "I know it is. And it's okay if you need time to think about it. But please, just consider it. For us, for the family, we want so badly."

Miyeon looks down, her fingers intertwining with Sana's as she contemplates the offer. The room is thick with tension, each second stretching out as they wait for her response. Finally, Miyeon lifts her head, her eyes meeting Sana's, "I... I need to think about this. Can I give you an answer later?"

Sana nods, relief washing over her features, "Of course, take all the time you need. Just... let us know when you're ready."

Miyeon stands up, her movements slow as she gathers her things. "I'll call you soon, okay? I just... I need some space right now."

You and Sana nod, watching as Miyeon heads towards the door, her footsteps heavy with contemplation. As the door closes behind her, Sana turns to you, her eyes filled with a mix of hope and anxiety.

"Do you think she'll agree?" she asks softly, her voice tinged with desperation.

You pull her into your arms, holding her close, "I don't know, love. But whatever happens, we'll face it together."

As you hold each other, the weight of the decision looms large, the future uncertain but hopeful. The night stretches on, each second filled with thoughts of what might come next, of the possibilities that lie ahead.

*****

The following day, the sun filters through the blinds of your apartment, casting a warm glow across the room. You're in the kitchen preparing breakfast when the doorbell rings. Sana, who's still in bed, sends you a sleepy glance as you head to the door. Opening it, you find Miyeon standing there, her expression a mix of determination and nervousness.

"Hey," she says softly, stepping inside. "Can we talk?"

You nod, leading her to the living room where Sana joins you a few minutes later, her hair tousled from sleep. The three of you sit down, the air thick with anticipation.

Miyeon clears her throat, meeting both of your eyes before speaking, "I've thought about what you asked, and... I want to help."

Sana's face lights up, her eyes glistening with tears of gratitude. "Are you sure? It's a big decision."

Miyeon nods, her voice firm, "I am. I care about both of you and if this is what you want, then I'm willing to do this for us."

You reach out, taking Miyeon's hand in yours, squeezing gently. "Thank you, Miyeon. We don't know how to thank you enough."

She smiles, her cheeks flushing slightly, "Let's just say it's for the sake of our friendship and creating something beautiful together."

The conversation shifts to practicalities, discussing medical procedures and timelines. But as the discussion winds down, the atmosphere changes, becoming charged with a different kind of energy. Sana looks at you and Miyeon, her eyes filled with a mix of desire and tenderness.

"Maybe... maybe we should start now?" she suggests, her voice barely above a whisper.

Miyeon glances at you, her eyes questioning, "Is that what you want?"

You nod, feeling your heart race as you stand up, extending your hand to Miyeon. She takes it, standing up as well, her body brushing against yours. Sana stands too, her hands reaching out to cup your faces, pulling you into a soft kiss.

The kiss deepens, fueled by the emotions swirling around the room. You wrap your arms around Sana, feeling Miyeon's hands on your back, her touch electric. The three of you move as one, heading towards the bedroom, each step a promise of shared intimacy.

In the bedroom, the lights are dimmed, casting shadows that dance along the walls. You lie down on the bed, Sana beside you, Miyeon between you. Her fingers trace patterns on your chest, her eyes locked onto yours. Sana kisses your neck, her tongue flicking lightly, sending shivers down your spine.

Miyeon leans in, her lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss. Her tongue explores your mouth, the taste of her sweet and intoxicating. You feel Sana's hands on your thighs, slowly moving upward, her touch gentle yet insistent.

You break the kiss with Miyeon, turning to Sana, and capturing her lips in another fiery exchange. Miyeon moves down, her hands sliding under your shirt, her fingertips grazing your skin. You gasp, the sensation overwhelming, your body responding to their combined touches.

Sana pulls away, her eyes dark with desire, "Take off your clothes, all of you."

You obey, shedding your clothes quickly, revealing your arousal. Sana and Miyeon follow suit, their bodies exposed, each curve highlighted by the soft light. You stare, your breath catching in your throat, the sight of them together more erotic than anything you've imagined.

Sana lies down, pulling Miyeon with her, their bodies intertwining. You kneel beside them, your hand reaching out to stroke Miyeon's thigh. She moans, arching into your touch, her eyes closing briefly in pleasure.

"Touch me," she whispers, her voice husky.

You do, your fingers finding her sensitive spots, eliciting gasps and moans from her. Sana watches, her hand moving between her own legs, her breathing quickening as she pleasures herself. The sounds of their breaths and moans fill the room, the air thick with the scent of their arousal.

Miyeon turns, her back to you, her hands reaching behind to guide you inside her. You enter her slowly, watching her face contort with pleasure. Sana moves closer, her lips meeting Miyeon's in a deep kiss, her hand stroking your arm, encouraging you.

You thrust deeper, the rhythm building and each movement met with a sigh or a moan from Miyeon. Sana reaches between you, her fingers finding Miyeon's clit, rubbing in circles. Miyeon cries out, her body tensing, her orgasm hitting her hard.

You continue, your pace increasing, the heat between you intense. Sana moves, kneeling behind you, her hands on your shoulders, her mouth on your neck. She bites gently, the sensation driving you wild, pushing you closer to your own release.

Miyeon recovers, her hands guiding you to change positions. You lie down, Sana straddling your face, her wetness right above you. You lick, tasting her, the flavor is intense. Miyeon lowers herself onto you, her warmth enveloping you completely.

The room fills with the sounds of your moans and sighs, the intensity building with each passing moment. Sana grinds against your face, her movements synced with Miyeon's on top of you. You feel the pressure coiling inside you, the climax approaching fast.

Miyeon senses it, her movements becoming erratic, her body trembling. Sana reaches down, her fingers joining your efforts, pleasuring herself faster. The sensations overwhelm you, your release hitting you like a wave, Miyeon following soon after, her body shuddering with her orgasm.

Exhausted, you lie there, the three of you entangled, the air still heavy with passion. Sana kisses your forehead, her voice soft, "Thank you, both of you."

Miyeon smiles, her eyes sleepy, "No, thank you. For everything."

You pull them closer, the night wrapping around you like a blanket, each heartbeat slowing down to match the other's. The future might be uncertain, but for now, in this moment, you're complete, surrounded by the ones you love, the possibilities are endless.

*******

As the morning light filters through the curtains, Miyeon wakes up with a start, she feels sick, she immediately goes to the washroom and pukes. After which she takes a pregnancy test. Her eyes scan the kit, her heart pounding in her chest as she reads the result of the pregnancy test. A smile slowly spreads across her face, her relief and joy palpable. She turns to you and Sana, who is still asleep, and gently shakes you both awake.

"I'm pregnant," she screams, her voice trembling with emotion.

You sit up immediately, your eyes wide with excitement, while Sana lets out a soft cry, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks. You pull Miyeon into a tight hug, the three of you embracing each other in a moment of pure joy.

Over breakfast, the conversation turns to celebration plans. "We should go somewhere special, just the three of us," Sana suggests, her eyes bright with anticipation.

"How about a weekend getaway? Somewhere secluded where we can relax and enjoy each other's company without any distractions?" you propose.

Miyeon nods enthusiastically, "I know just the place. It's a cabin by the lake, very private. We can even stargaze at night."

The plan is set, and within the week, you find yourselves driving along a winding road that leads to the secluded cabin. The air is crisp, filled with the scent of pine trees, and the silence is only broken by the occasional chirp of birds.

Upon arrival, the cabin exceeds your expectations—cozy, rustic, and perfectly equipped for a weekend of relaxation. The interior is warm and inviting, with a large window overlooking the serene lake.

As evening approaches, you prepare a simple yet delicious meal—grilled fish, fresh vegetables, and a bottle of wine. The dining area becomes a hub of laughter and storytelling, each memory shared deepening your bond.

After dinner, you decide to take a walk by the lake. The moon casts a silvery glow over the water, and the stars twinkle above like tiny beacons in the sky. Sana takes your hand, and Miyeon links arms with you, the three of you walking in comfortable silence, savoring the peacefulness of the night.

Back at the cabin, you build a fire in the outdoor fireplace, the flames dancing merrily as they chase away the chill. You settle onto a blanket spread on the ground, Sana nestled between you and Miyeon. The night sky stretches endlessly above you, a canvas of glittering stars.

Miyeon points out constellations, her voice soft and soothing in the quiet night. As she talks, you feel Sana's hand tracing small circles on your thigh, her touch sending shivers up your spine. You glance at her, catching her eye, and see the desire burning brightly in her gaze.

You shift closer to Sana, your lips meeting hers in a gentle kiss. The taste of her, sweet and familiar, sends a wave of heat through your body. Miyeon watches you, her eyes dark with passion, and leans in to join the kiss, her lips brushing against yours.

The world around you fades into insignificance as the three of you explore each other's mouths, the kisses growing deeper, more urgent. You reach out, your hands finding the hem of Miyeon's shirt, lifting it over her head. She helps you remove your clothes, the cool night air a stark contrast to the warmth of your skin.

Sana follows suit, her movements languid and sensual, her nakedness revealed under the starlight. Her body is a masterpiece, every curve highlighted by the flickering firelight. You admire her, your fingers trailing down her sides, eliciting a soft moan from her.

You lie down, the blanket beneath you soft and comforting. Sana lies between you and Miyeon, her back to you, your front pressed against her. Miyeon kneels beside you, her eyes locked onto yours, her hand reaching out to stroke your cheek.

"Make love to me," she whispers, her voice thick with desire.

You nod, your heart pounding as you position yourself above her. She guides you inside her, her warmth enveloping you completely. You move slowly at first, watching her face for signs of discomfort or pleasure. Her eyes close, her mouth forming a silent 'O', her hands gripping your arms tightly.

Sana turns, her lips finding Miyeon's in a deep kiss, her hand reaching between you to stroke Miyeon's clit. The sensation is overwhelming, Miyeon's moans filling the air, her body arching into your thrusts.

You increase your pace, the rhythm building, each movement met with a sigh or a moan from Miyeon. Sana reaches between you, her fingers finding Miyeon's sensitive spots, rubbing in circles. Miyeon cries out, her body tensing, her orgasm hitting her hard.

******

As the sun rises over the lake, casting a golden glow through the bedroom window, you awaken to the soft sounds of gentle moans and whispered words. Blinking away sleep, you see Sana and Miyeon entangled in each other's arms, their bodies moving together in a slow, sensual rhythm that fills the room with an erotic symphony.

Miyeon is on her back, her hair spread out like a dark halo on the pillow, while Sana hovers above her, her breasts swaying gently with each movement. Their eyes are locked, filled with a depth of emotion that speaks of shared secrets and unspoken desires. The air is thick with the scent of their arousal, a heady mix that mingles with the faint pine aroma from outside.

You watch, transfixed, as Sana lowers her head to kiss Miyeon, their lips meeting in a tender yet passionate exchange. The sound of their breathing, slightly ragged, fills your ears, stirring a deep longing within you. You reach out, your hand brushing against Sana's thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin under your touch.

Sana shifts slightly, making space for you, her eyes inviting you to join them. You move closer, your body fitting perfectly between Sana's legs as you lean in to kiss Miyeon, your tongue exploring her mouth with eager strokes. The taste of her, sweet and intoxicating, sends a surge of desire coursing through your veins.

Your hands roam over Miyeon's body, tracing the curves of her hips, the softness of her breasts, and the smoothness of her skin. Each touch elicits a soft moan from her, her fingers digging into the sheets beneath her. Sana watches you both, her hand moving down to stroke herself, her gaze hot with desire.

Encouraged by her response, you deepen the kiss, your tongue dancing with Miyeon's in a rhythm that mirrors the movements of your bodies. You feel the heat building between you, the tension coiling tighter with each passing moment.

Sana leans forward, her lips trailing down Miyeon's neck, leaving a trail of kisses that make Miyeon arch her back, her breath coming in short gasps. You take advantage of her momentary distraction, positioning yourself between her legs, your hardness pressing against her entrance.

Miyeon gasps as you enter her, her body welcoming you with a warmth that makes you shudder. You begin to move, slowly at first, watching her face for any sign of discomfort or pleasure. Her eyes close, her mouth forming a silent 'O', her hands gripping your arms tightly.

Sana moves around, her lips finding Miyeon's once more in a deep kiss, her hand reaching between you to stroke Miyeon's clit. The sensation is overwhelming, Miyeon's moans filling the air, her body arching into your thrusts.

Exhausted but content, you lay there, the three of you tangled in each other's arms, the afterglow of your passion wrapping around you like a warm blanket. The morning light filters through the window, illuminating your sweat-slick bodies, the room still filled with the echoes of your shared ecstasy.

"I love you both," Miyeon whispers, her voice hoarse with emotion.

"Forever," Sana adds, her fingers intertwining with yours.

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. The bond between you feels stronger than ever, a connection forged not just in passion but in love and trust. As you drift back to sleep, the world outside fades away, leaving only the three of you in your private paradise.

Sana's idea of filming this relationship sparks a mix of excitement and nervousness within you as she sets up the camera on a tripod near the bed. The room is bathed in the soft, natural light that filters through the curtains, creating a warm, intimate atmosphere. Miyeon watches her with a playful smile, her eyes twinkling with anticipation.

"Ready for this?" Sana asks, her voice a seductive whisper as she checks the camera angle.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest, while Miyeon bites her lip, her hands moving to adjust the straps of her lingerie. The click of the camera starting up echoes softly in the room, capturing the moment.

Sana joins you on the bed, her fingers gently brushing against your skin as she leans in to kiss you. The taste of her lips is electric, sending shivers down your spine. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her closer, your bodies melding together seamlessly.

Miyeon watches the two of you, her gaze heated, before she crawls towards you, her hands gliding over your thighs. You shift slightly, making space for her between you and Sana, the warmth of her body pressing against yours. She kisses your neck, her tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive skin there, causing you to gasp.

The camera captures every detail—the way Sana's hair falls across her face, the flush on Miyeon's cheeks, the intensity in your eyes. It's both voyeuristic and deeply personal, a private glimpse into your shared world.

Sana breaks the kiss, her breath hot against your ear as she whispers, "Let's make this unforgettable."

Her hands move down, undoing the buttons of your shirt, revealing your bare chest to the cool air. You shrug it off, letting it fall to the floor as Miyeon's hands take over, her fingertips tracing patterns on your skin that ignite a fire within you.

You reach for Sana, your hands cupping her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples until they harden under your touch. She moans, low and deep, her head tilting back as Miyeon continues her assault on your senses, her mouth now trailing down your chest, leaving a path of heat in its wake.

The camera records the scene, the lens capturing the flicker of desire in your eyes, the flush of arousal on Sana's skin, and the concentration in Miyeon's expression. It's raw, real, and incredibly erotic.

Miyeon looks up at you, her eyes dark with passion, and whispers, "I want you inside me."

Her words send a surge of urgency through you. You nod, shifting positions so that you're hovering above her, your hardness pressed against her entrance. She guides you in, her body welcoming you with a tight, hot embrace that makes you groan.

Sana moves to kneel beside Miyeon, her hand reaching out to stroke Miyeon's hair, her eyes locked on the scene unfolding before her. The camera pans, capturing the intimacy, the connection between the three of you.

You begin to move, slowly at first, watching Miyeon's face for any sign of discomfort or pleasure. Her eyes close, her mouth forming a silent 'O', her hands gripping your arms tightly. The sensation of being inside her, surrounded by her warmth, is overwhelming, each thrust met with a sigh or a moan from Miyeon.

Sana leans in, her lips finding Miyeon's once more in a deep kiss, her hand reaching between you to stroke Miyeon's clit. The added stimulation pushes Miyeon closer to the edge, her body arching into your thrusts.

You increase your pace, the rhythm building, each movement met with a sigh or a moan from Miyeon. The sound fills the room, mingling with the soft hum of the camera, creating a soundtrack to your passion.

Sana reaches between you, her fingers finding Miyeon's sensitive spots, rubbing in circles. Miyeon cries out, her body tensing, her orgasm hitting her hard. The sight of her climax sends you over the edge, your release hitting you like a wave, intense and all-consuming.

Exhausted but content, you lay there, the three of you tangled in each other's arms, the afterglow of your passion wrapping around you like a warm blanket. The camera continues to record, capturing the moment, and preserving the memory of this intense, intimate encounter.

Sana looks at the camera, a satisfied smile playing on her lips, and whispers, "Cut," her voice hoarse with emotion.

You turn to Miyeon, her eyes still closed, a serene smile on her face. You brush a strand of hair away from her face, your fingers lingering on her cheek. She opens her eyes, meeting your gaze, her smile widening.

"That was... incredible," she murmurs, her voice soft and dreamy.

Sana nods, her hand intertwining with yours, "A moment we'll never forget."

You agree silently, the weight of the experience settling over you. The camera, now silent, stands as a witness to your shared ecstasy, a testament to the bond between you. As you drift into a peaceful slumber, the room filled with the echoes of your shared passion, you know that this memory will stay with you forever, a cherished part of your journey together.

#minatozaki sana #sana smut #twice x reader #kpop smut #twice smut #pregnancy #miyeon smut #miyeon #gidle #gidle miyeon #asks

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mattscornerblinds · 2 years ago

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#ofixed fly screen window #fixed storm windows #insect shield for windows #fixed door fly screens

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shelovesosa · 3 days ago

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CTRL + ALT + LOVE

paring: Fictional!Satoru X F!Reader

art credits to scarlettismm on X!

sum!! After staying up late reading an emotional fanfic, a college student wakes to find the fictional love interest—Satoru Gojo—somehow real and lying beside her. Confused and out of place in the real world, Satoru begins to unravel. As they grow closer, they share laughter, secrets, and something deeper… even as time threatens to take him away. But sometimes, endings aren’t what they seem.

CW: MDNI, Romance,Contemporary Fantasy, Soft Sci-Fi, Magical Realism, Bittersweet, Angst with comfort, Temporary Love, Borrowed Time, Soft Smut, First Time Together, nerdjo cameo, soft dom, Memory Loss / Fading Reality Unexpected Second Chance. WC: 10.9k

It’s 1:41 a.m., your eyes are puffy, your nose is running, and you’ve just finished sobbing over a fictional man named Satoru who doesn’t even exist. And yet, somehow, he broke your heart like he did.

You’re curled up on your side in bed, blanket cocooned around you, the glow of your laptop screen still burning into your tired, emotional retinas. You knew what kind of fic it was going in—CEO AU, enemies-to-lovers, workplace drama. Classic. But nowhere in the tags did it say “character death.”

You sniffle loudly and scroll back to reread the last paragraph, as if torturing yourself again will somehow dull the pain.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered, blood soaking into the snow, eyes never leaving hers. “It was always you.”

The lights from the city faded behind him. And he didn’t blink again.

[End.]

You slam your hands on the keyboard.

“You’re kidding me,” you mutter out loud, nose stuffy and voice cracking. “You killed him? Seriously?! You made me sit through twenty chapters of slow-burn sexual tension, one shared bed trope, three almost-kisses and a forehead touch—just for this?”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face dramatically.

“God, I hate you, Satoru,” you whisper into your pillow. “I hate your stupid perfect face, and your ice-cold business demeanor, and your secretly soft heart, and the way you just died before you even got to live.”

You roll over, flinging a crumpled tissue at your desk.You sniff, dragging your fingers cross the keyboard to angrily type into the comments.

You:

@shelovesosa HOW DARE YOU. Fix it. Fix it right now or I’ll manifest this man into my bed myself.

“Stupid author,” you add bitterly. “Oh Sosa. May your coffee always be lukewarm and your favorite show get canceled on a cliffhanger.”

You slam the laptop shut and toss it aside.

With a final sniff, you curl deeper into your sheets. Your brain is spinning in post-fanfic grief. You mumble one last thing, more out of sleep-deprived delirium than real intent:

“…I wish he were real.” You fall asleep with the ache of unfinished stories in your chest.

The morning comes too fast. You’re groggy, head foggy from too many dreams and too little sleep. Your alarm bleats somewhere in the background as you reach to turn it off.

Except your hand doesn’t land on your phone.

It lands on something warm. And solid. And breathing. You freeze. Your eyes fly open.

There’s a shape beside you in bed. A weight. The blankets are shifted, your mattress slightly dipped like someone else is laying there. Slowly, you turn your head.

And the world tilts. There’s a man in your bed. White hair. Pale skin. Shirtless. Lean muscle. His face is turned toward the window, but even from this angle— It’s him. Your heart lurches.

Satoru. Not cosplay. Not a dream. Not just similar. It’s Satoru, exactly as he was in the fanfic. Down to the small scar above his brow the author described in chapter six.

Your lips part, no sound coming out. You're frozen. Shaking.

He stirs. Brows knit. Eyes flutter. And slowly, his lashes lift. Blue eyes. He sees you. And everything happens at once.

He jolts upright, sheets sliding off his bare chest. You scream. He flinches.

“Wh—what the hell?!” he chokes, eyes wild. “Where—what is this?! Who are you?!”

You scramble back, nearly falling out of bed. “Me?! Who are YOU?! This is my room!”

He stares at you, chest heaving. “No. No, this isn’t… This isn’t right.”

He looks around, dazed. Confused. His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.

“I was in Tokyo,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “It was snowing. I was bleeding. I was with—” He swallows, eyes darting toward you again. “Where is she?”

You blink. “Who?”

He stares. His voice breaks.

“…You’re not her.”

Something cold seeps into your spine. Because you know who he means. The her from the fanfic. The girl he loved before he died.

“But you’re not real,” you whisper. “You’re fictional. You died. I read it last night—I read your death—”

“I remember dying,” he snaps, voice shaking. “I felt it. I saw her crying. And then I woke up here.”

You both sit in stunned silence.

He presses a palm to his forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Or— Or I was rewritten. Or this is some kind of punishment—”

You crawl slowly to the edge of the bed, still watching him like he might vanish.

“I think I summoned you,” you say weakly. “I cursed the author. As a joke. I said I wished you were real.”

He glares at you like you’re insane. But underneath it all—his trembling fingers, the way he keeps glancing around the room, the panic in his breathing—you see it:

He’s terrified. And it makes your heart hurt.

“…I want to go back,” he finally says.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how.”

He stares at you like it’s your fault. Maybe it is.

You clutch your sheets and whisper, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

His voice is flat.

“You’re not supposed to be her.”

You’ve never wanted to faint so badly in your life. He’s still sitting in your bed—your stupid college dorm twin XL bed—with your blush-pink blanket slung over his lap like that’s the most offensive part of all this.

His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he’s still staring at the wall like it might open up and take him back to wherever he came from. Fiction. Paper. Imagination.

But now he's here. And he’s not pixelated or made of words. He’s real.

“I need to go back,” he mutters again. “She’s waiting.”

You chew your lip. “She’s not real.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I mean, she was real to you,” you add quickly. “But… she’s just words. I read her. She’s a reader-insert. She’s a blank space.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “She was real. I loved her.”

You fall quiet. What are you supposed to say? Sorry, she was just me with better confidence and no student loans?

You sit down slowly on the edge of the bed. Satoru tenses, but doesn’t move.

“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you start carefully, “but I think I pulled you out of your story. I was mad at the ending, I said I wished you were real, and then… this happened.”

He scoffs. “So I’m a pity project. Great.”

You frown. “No! You weren’t supposed to actually show up! I thought maybe I’d dream about you or something, not… wake up with you in my bed, very shirtless and very confused.”

You realize you’re staring at his chest. You immediately look away.

“This is a glitch,” he mutters. “Some kind of cruel rewrite. I shouldn’t be here.”

You glance at him. “Do you… remember everything?”

He nods. “Every scene. Every chapter. I remember dying.”

There’s a long pause.

“God,” you whisper. “That’s so messed up.”

He finally laughs—but it’s not a happy sound. It’s dry. Hollow. “Tell me about it.”

You rub your eyes. “Okay. Look. We have two problems.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”

“One,” you hold up a finger, “we don’t know how you got here. Two… you’re glitching.”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You were flickering,” you say, voice soft. “Just for a second. Like… your edges blurred. Like a dream.”

He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, like he felt it, too.

“…So I’m not stable.”

You say nothing. After a moment, he exhales and slumps back slightly.

“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “I was the most powerful man in the city. I could ruin a company with one phone call. I had private jets. Now I don’t even have pants.”

You try—try—not to laugh.

“I can get you pants,” you offer.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you,” you lie. “I just don’t think walking around shirtless in a college dorm is going to help your situation.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

You grab a pair of sweatpants from your drawer and toss them at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You’re gonna have to sneak.”

He catches them with ease and stands, still moving like he owns a twenty-story skyscraper. You try not to stare at his back as he walks to the door.

He turns the knob, then pauses.

“…What’s your name?” he asks, glancing back at you.

You blink. “Y/N.”

He stares for a beat.

Then says, quietly, “I don’t remember that being in the story.”

You smile a little. “That’s because I wasn’t in it.”

He hesitates. Then opens the door and vanishes into the hallway.

You spend the next fifteen minutes pacing your room like it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a fictional man in your dorm bathroom.

You summoned him. You broke something. Maybe the universe. Maybe yourself.

He’s glitching. You don’t know how long he has. And he’s desperate to get back to a girl who doesn’t exist. But for some reason, he’s still here. Still real. And you don’t know what that means yet.

You’re sitting on the edge of your twin bed, clutching a lukewarm cup of instant coffee and trying not to spiral. Because this is real.

It’s not a dream. Not some grief hallucination brought on by staying up too late reading slow-burn fanfiction and eating sour gummies. There’s no typo, no delete button, no author’s note to reverse what’s happened.

Satoru is here.

The fictional man you loved and mourned and cursed the night before is now somewhere in your dorm’s communal bathroom, wearing your ex’s old sweatpants and the expression of someone who’s been yanked out of death and dumped into a college campus like a tossed USB file.

You stare at the door until it creaks open.

He steps inside cautiously, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. His white hair is still damp, falling slightly in his eyes. He looks softer like this, like less of the towering CEO you met through carefully crafted prose and more like a very lost man who’s trying not to shatter.

You clear your throat. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you, nods stiffly, then glances around the room again like he still can’t quite believe where he is.

“I counted six women brushing their teeth in one bathroom,” he says, sitting on the desk chair like it offends him. “One of them offered me dry shampoo. I don’t know what that is.”

You snort into your cup. “Welcome to dorm life.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just studies you with unreadable eyes. Sharp and searching. Like you’re an answer he doesn’t want to need.

“This place…” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely to your walls cluttered with sticky notes and fairy lights, “this isn’t… scripted.”

You raise a brow. “No. That’s kind of how real life works.”

He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You said I’m not supposed to exist here. So what does that mean? Am I… fading? Am I going to just—stop?”

Your throat tightens. You’ve been wondering the same thing.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But you’re still here now. That has to mean something.”

He exhales, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.

You watch him in silence. His hands are resting on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. A phone. A pen. Her. You put your coffee down.

“Look,” you say softly, “I know I’m not her. And I didn’t mean for this to happen. But until we figure out what’s going on, maybe you should just… stay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “Just for now. You clearly have nowhere else to go. And I don’t think you're ready to navigate student housing or explain why you don’t have ID.”

Satoru stares at you like the concept of help is foreign. Which, based on the version of him you read about, it probably is.

Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you say gently. “It’s a blanket and some time to breathe.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. But he nods once.

You set up a sleeping bag on the floor that night. It’s the best you can offer in a room barely large enough to fit two people standing up. He lies stiffly on top of it, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like sleep is a stranger.

You lie in bed, eyes open.bYou think about how he held the love of his life while he died. And now he’s here. Not holding anyone.

“Do you miss her?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is soft.

“I think I miss the way she made me feel. Like I wasn’t just a weapon in a suit.”

You’re quiet.

He adds, a beat later, “But maybe that feeling wasn’t even mine. Maybe I only loved her because someone wrote me that way.”

You turn to look at him. But he’s already looking at you. Neither of you says anything after that.

You wake up to the smell of something burning. Your eyes shoot open, heart already sprinting.

You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on the sleeping bag where Satoru isn’t anymore. You hear the clatter of pans, the groan of the microwave, and a very muffled, very confused “Why is this machine yelling at me?”

You rush into the kitchenette area down the hall, still barefoot, to find Satoru standing in front of the microwave, poking at the buttons like they insulted his mother.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicked.

He points at the microwave indignantly. “It said ‘popcorn’ but there were sparks! Sparks, Y/N!”

You grab the bag—oh god, the foil kind—and toss it in the trash before it sets off the building alarm.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy, wearing your oversized hoodie and sweatpants like he’s a very lost, very pretty houseguest.

“Have you never used a microwave?”

“Why would I?” he asks, completely serious. “I had a private chef in Tokyo.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And then, maybe for the first time since he showed up… you both laugh.

Real laughter. Yours high-pitched and breathless, his deeper, more surprised. It crackles in the small space between you. And for just a second, he doesn't look like a man unraveling.

He looks like a boy. New. Unwritten.

Later, you’re sitting on the floor together, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair keeps falling in his eyes. You reach out without thinking and brush it back.

He freezes. So do you. His eyes meet yours. And for a second—just a second—there’s something like electricity in the air. Not sparks from microwaves. Not glitchy fiction magic.

Something real. You pull your hand back quickly. But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

“…I didn’t feel this way in the story,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Feel what way?”

He doesn’t answer. But his knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves.

That night, he glitches. You're the first to notice. It’s small, at first. You're talking about breakfast cereal—how you mix Frosted Flakes and granola together like a heathen—and he tilts his head, eyes clouding slightly.

“I’ve never had cereal,” he says.

You blink.

“Yes, you did. This morning. You ate like half the box.”

He frowns. “No, I didn’t. We went to that place. With the… tiny pancakes.”

“…Satoru,” you say softly, “that was from Chapter 11. Of the fanfic. The Paris trip.”

His expression blanks. And then something in his face glitches. Like static behind his eyes. It only lasts a moment—but it’s long enough.

He exhales, hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

You don’t know what to say.

He looks at you, voice quieter now. “I’m not built for this world. I’m already forgetting.”

You kneel in front of him, gently placing your hand on his. “Then we don’t waste time.”

His breath catches. You hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. And maybe it is.

You don’t go to class the next day. You don’t even pretend to.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re “monitoring the anomaly” or “preserving the fabric of reality.” But really, it’s because Satoru wakes up on the floor with the most lost look on his face and whispers, “Where am I again?” and it breaks your heart clean in half.

You sit with him until he remembers. Your name. The coffee spill. The dorm microwave. He laughs about the popcorn again, a little shakier this time. But it still counts. After that, you don’t leave his side.

The two of you walk the campus late at night when no one’s around. He keeps staring at trees like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I didn’t have these,” he murmurs. “Not like this. The ones in the fic were always perfectly sculpted. Background props.”

You smile softly. “These ones grow crooked. They drop leaves. Sometimes birds poop on you.”

He tilts his head. “I like them better.”

You take him to the library next. He walks the rows of books with reverent hands, trailing fingers across every spine like he’s scared they’ll vanish.

“I thought I knew words,” he says, voice low. “But this is different. These were made by people. Not an author playing God. Just… people.”

You nod. “People with lives. Mistakes. Ugly handwriting and messy endings.”

Satoru turns to you.

You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it’s enough to make him pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Expected from what? Fanfiction?”

He shakes his head. “No. From reality.”

You teach him how to use your phone. He FaceTimes the pizza place by accident and panics when someone picks up.

You try to explain memes, which leads to you both scrolling through TikToks on your bed for an hour straight. He becomes obsessed with cooking videos.

At one point, your head drops onto his shoulder. He doesn’t move. His breathing slows, steadies, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Neither of you says anything about it.

You stay up one night talking. Really talking. You're lying side by side on your bed, not touching, but so close your arms are brushing.

“I used to think I was in love with her,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling. “The version of me from the story.”

He nods. “But she didn’t challenge me. She didn’t argue. She was soft in all the ways the author needed her to be.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure how to feel.

He turns his head to look at you. “You’re not soft.”

You blink. “Gee, thanks.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmurs. “You’re… messy. Complicated. Real. You snore.”

You shove his arm lightly, and he grins.

But then his smile fades.

“I’m scared I won’t remember this,” he whispers.

You turn your head slowly. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing you.

“I’m scared I’ll forget you.”

Your chest tightens.

You whisper, “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”

Something shifts in the space between you. Like gravity pulling tighter.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But his hand inches closer to yours. And this time, when your fingers touch— You hold it tighter.

It starts small again. A pause mid-conversation.

A moment where Satoru tilts his head and says, “Remind me what this is again?” while pointing at something he’s already asked about twice.

You want to pretend it’s nothing. That he’s just distracted. But then you catch him standing by the window later that evening, staring out at the streetlight like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Do you remember this morning?” you ask quietly, stepping beside him.

He turns slowly. “…Was there cereal?”

You nod.

He gives you a sad smile. “I forgot the flavor.”

You don’t know what to say. So you walk over, wrap your arms around his torso, and press your cheek to his chest.

His breath catches. You feel his arms come up, slowly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush you. Like if he holds you too tightly, he might disappear completely.

His chin rests on top of your head. His heartbeat is loud beneath your ear. Neither of you moves for a long time.

That night, he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“I know I said I would,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the sleeping bag. “But I just… I don’t want to feel far from you right now.”

You nod. You move over. He climbs in beside you. He stays on his side at first. Doesn’t touch you. But eventually, in the dark, his fingers find yours beneath the covers.

He holds your hand like it’s the last thread connecting him to the world. And maybe it is.

You dream of water. A soft tide pulling you away. Something fading. When you wake, he’s already looking at you. His hand is on your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye.

“I had a dream,” he whispers.

You hum sleepily, not opening your eyes. “What about?”

“I was back,” he says. “In the story. She was there. The office. The desk. The skyline.”

You open your eyes. He’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “But I didn’t feel anything.”

You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her. But she didn’t look like you. She looked like a blank space. Like a fill-in. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t you.”

He reaches for your face again.

“This world is loud. Messy. Exhausting. And I still want to stay in it.”

Your throat burns. “You might not get that choice.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I know.”

Silence. Just your breath and his. Then he whispers:

“But if I’m going to vanish, I want to remember you.”

It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that hangs between words never spoken. Between goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.

You lie beside him, breath soft, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. His hand is still resting over yours beneath the blanket, fingers loosely entwined like a tether to reality. His thumb brushes gently along your knuckles.

“Satoru,” you whisper, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the room. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are already on you. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: “No.”

Your heart twists.

“I feel like I’m slipping,” he says, voice low, a little raw. “Like parts of me are coming undone. I try to remember the story, the office, the people... it’s all fog. But you—” His hand tightens around yours. “You’re the only thing I still feel.”

You swallow, throat thick. “Then hold on to me.”

His gaze drops to your lips.

“Can I?” he whispers. “Really hold you? Just once. Before I forget?”

You nod. The moment stretches. And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Uncertain at first, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish too. But when you sigh against his mouth, it deepens—his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you fully. Thoroughly.

He kisses you like he wants to taste your memory. Like he’s carving the shape of you into whatever part of him still exists beyond the glitch.

You shift closer, and his hand slips beneath your shirt, splaying across your waist. His palm is warm. Steady. You shiver at the contact.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You,” he says. “Slow. Real. I want to make it count.”

You sit up slightly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. His eyes trail over you, and something in them breaks. Reverence. Hunger. Grief.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t get to see you like this.”

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. His hoodie comes off next, followed by his shirt, and you press your lips to his skin—his collarbone, his sternum, the small scar just under his ribs like the one described in the story. But it’s different seeing it here. Seeing him here. Alive. Real. Yours, even if only for tonight.

He lies back and pulls you with him, hands exploring your body like you’re something precious—trailing down your sides, across your back, fingers gripping your thighs with quiet desperation.

When you grind against him slowly, feeling the thick press of him through his boxers, his breath catches hard in your ear.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so soft—so warm—I didn’t know this part of the world could feel so… good.”

You roll your hips again, and he groans deep in his throat, hands locking tight on your waist.

“Need to feel you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You shift your weight and reach down, guiding him free from his boxers, his cock hard and hot in your palm. His breath hitches as your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once—slow and curious.

His voice is ragged. “Please.”

You press a kiss to his lips, then rise just enough to line yourself up.

And when you sink down onto him, he gasps—eyes fluttering shut, head falling back against the pillow.

“Oh god—”

You’re both breathing heavy now.

You pause, adjusting to the stretch of him, the tightness between you. His hands slide up your thighs, then settle at your hips, holding you still as he tries not to lose control too soon.

“You feel… perfect,” he chokes. “Better than anything I’ve ever known.”

You begin to move, slow and careful, your bodies rocking together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. His hands roam—palming your breasts, sliding up your spine, gripping your hips as you roll against him with aching tenderness.

“Satoru,” you whisper, leaning over him, your forehead pressed to his.

He opens his eyes. And in them—desperation. Need. Love.

“I don’t want to forget this,” he says again, voice breaking.

“Then remember me like this,” you whisper. “Remember the way I feel. The way I look at you. The way you make me feel so full, like I was meant to hold you.”

He groans at your words, thrusting up into you with more force. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, meeting him with matching urgency.

It builds between you—need turning sharp, trembling, sacred.

You come first—tightening around him, breath catching as you moan his name through clenched teeth, nails digging into his back.

He follows you seconds later, holding you tight to him as he spills inside you, your names tangled in breathless gasps.

Afterward, you lie on his chest, both of you still shaking. His hand runs gently down your spine. You feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“You’re the best thing I never got written for,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You just hold him. Because you know what’s coming next. And he’s slipping again.

you lie with him for a long time. His body is warm, tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand rests lazily over your stomach, like he’s anchoring himself to your skin.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after something true.

But eventually, you feel his fingers twitch. Then still. Then again.

“Satoru?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, then furrows his brows like something's wrong.

“…What was your name again?”

Your heart drops.

You sit up, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice quiet. Distant. “I know you. I feel like I know you. But it’s slipping. Like I’m trying to hold water in my hands.”

You press your palm to his cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still with me.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. That’s when you realize—This is it. He won’t last much longer. Whatever brought him here—whatever magic, glitch, miracle—it’s running out.

And if he goes like this, half-glitched, half-lost, it’ll break both of you. So you do the only thing you can.

You get out of bed. Pull on a hoodie. And sit at your desk. The words don’t come easy at first. But then your fingers move. Not on your phone. Not in a fanfic comment thread. On paper.

With a real pen, real ink, real hands. You write him an ending. A soft one.

Where he’s not a CEO haunted by guilt. Not a tragic man doomed to die before he can fall in love. You write him waking up in a quiet home, sunlight through curtains, coffee in a chipped mug, a cat that curls on his lap. You write him laughing. You write him safe. You write him at peace.

And you write that he gets to say goodbye. When it’s done, you read it aloud to him. Your voice shakes.

He listens, seated on the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes full of something that doesn’t feel like a glitch anymore. It feels like gratitude.

When you finish, you look up. He’s smiling softly.

“You did it,” he whispers.

“I gave you an ending,” you say. “You deserved one.”

He stands. Walks to you. And kisses you again. This one is slower. Full of something final.

“Thank you for writing me something better,” he says against your lips.

Tears well in your eyes. “Thank you for being real. Even just for a little while.” His fingers linger on your cheek.

He vanishes in the morning. Not with fanfare. Not with light or thunder or spark.

Just… A flicker.

You’d gone to brush your teeth. You’d left him tangled in your sheets, watching you from the bed with sleep-soft eyes and a crooked smile.

You came back— And the sheets were cold. You say his name once. Then again, louder. But there’s no answer. No trace. No indent in the pillow. No warmth in the blankets.

Just a silence so sharp it cuts. You don’t cry at first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, blinking at the place he had been just hours ago. You try to replay his voice in your head, his laugh, the things he whispered against your skin. You press your face into your pillow and breathe deep, desperate to find even a trace of him.

But all you smell is fabric softener and loss. He’s gone. Like he never belonged here at all.

You grieve quietly. You carry his memory in the scribbled pages of your notebook, worn at the edges from being opened again and again. But you don’t write for him anymore. You write for yourself.

You don’t talk about it. How could you? You go back to class. You go back to microwaving leftovers. You scroll past fanfiction tags and never click again.

Some nights you still whisper his name in the dark, just in case he hears it. But he never answers. You begin to believe maybe he was just a dream after all. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Three months later, on the first warm day of spring, you’re sitting outside the library, notebook open, headphones in, sunlight catching in your lashes.

You almost don’t hear it.

“Excuse me—,” someone says.

You look up. And your heart stops.

A young man stands hesitantly before you, holding a crumpled campus map. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his hair tousled from the breeze.

He looks unfamiliar yet somehow familiar.

“Could you help me? I’m completely lost,” he says, voice gentle but uncertain.

“Do you know where the science building is?” he asks, sheepish. “I’ve been walking in a circle for like twenty minutes.”

You stare. He’s different. No polished arrogance. No CEO swagger. No tailored suit. But it’s still him. That face. Those eyes. That voice.

You slowly take out your earbuds.

“…What’s your name?” you manage, breath shallow.

He smiles at you—confused, but kind.

“Satoru,” he says. “Satoru Gojo.”

Your lips part. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment too long. Then—

“Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No, we haven’t met,” you whisper.

He chuckles, eyes bright.

“Maybe it’s a good thing. A new story.”

And as the sunlight pools around you both, you realize some endings are just beginnings in disguise.

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