#but then I just kept writing... and writing... and writing...

[infamous-if]

any cool facts about any of the characters before the final cut? did you change any of them significantly compared to how you initially envisioned them?

Good question!

The biggest one is that Seven was supposed to have Blake's personality. Their role in the story as an ex-bandmate remains the same but they were going to be super antagonistic and smug and smirky and just mean. As I was writing I realized it didn't feel right with their storyline so I kept the antagonistic part of it but I changed the ~flavor.~ I wanted them to be sensitive and……………*sympathetic. I know some people may not agree but I think this Seven is much easier to feel for than a Blake version of Seven.

G and Victoria weren't originally going to be married but I think the marriage makes the affair feel 10x worse/the relationship even more suffocating and like a prison and that's great (for me).

G was supposed to be a very typical asshole unapproachable celebrity who is super mean and while I still kinda wish i did that sometimes i really do like this version of G who is just generally pretty nice and hasn't been completely changed by the industry (seeing them get worse in real time is part of the tragedy imo)

Soft Violence (and Seven) were supposed to be much bigger as a little hehaha at MC and the band after Seven left but it didnt make sense to have them on BOTB if they were pretty big. Seven wouldn't see the point (you'll know why down the line).

Not character related but for a very split second I wondered whether it'd be better to do a Real World style reality show in which they all stayed in the same house together and did Challenges like that. Then I did the Brittany Broski meme and realized my original plan of a moving tour was better (and more unique).

Adding onto this, I thought the idea of a music camp would be cool until I realized I was just recreating Camp Rock™

Players were going to have a choice to "choose" their drummer. (There would be three types of characters and you'd choose and it'd be flavor text in). Each character would come with their own problems/traits and some would be harder to get along with than others. I didn't do it because I love August too much and it was too much work for my first IF (especially since Infamous has a lot anyway). I'm still keeping that idea in the back of my mind though for a future story though !

There was supposed to be a film crew/camera guy(gn) RO that I regret not doing (E is kinda the bridge as a tour photographer). Maya was originally another character that would be a hater turned RO. I kinda regret that one too but the great thing about it is that I've been keeping those in my back pocket for the future har har. (Those didn't come to fruition because they didn't fit the story and Maya's role now just suits what I had planned much better so when I say I regret it, I don't. I just regret not being able to play with those dynamics hahah)

[verstappenverse]

All This Time

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was your first everything, first friend, first heartbreak. Now years later he’s world champion, and you’re standing in front of him like no time has passed at all. (Requested)

3.1k words / Masterlist

You didn’t expect him to remember.

Not after all this time. Not after the years had passed like train cars speeding in the dark, loud, fast, and gone before you could even wave.

You’d stayed in motorsport, of course. Racing had been in your blood too once. You never fully pursued it like Max did, but you’d carved out a place for yourself behind the scenes, making a name for yourself in strategy, development, coaching, anything that kept you close to the world you loved. Anything but Formula 1. You avoided that part like a wound you never let scab, too afraid it might tear open the second you saw his name on a garage wall.

But today when you finally step into the Red Bull garage and your eyes meet his, those same ocean-blue eyes that once squinted against the sun as he begged you to race him down some dusty backroad the world doesn’t just pause. It stops entirely.

Max Verstappen freezes like he’s seen a ghost.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper. Because really, what else can you say after almost ten years, multiple countries, and the ache of being forgotten?

He blinks once. Then again. His jaw tightens.

“You came.”

You nod, nervous under the weight of his gaze. “Yeah. I mean, your mum invited me, and… it felt like time.”

Time. That strange, cruel thing that unraveled the knot you’d once tied so tightly between you, a knot built from scraped knees, shared dreams, and the kind of trust that only comes from growing up side by side.

Time turned summer sleepovers into unanswered texts. Turned secret handshakes into blank stares across a room you no longer shared. It turned “always” into “used to.” You had been inseparable. Velcro. Chaos in a two-person unit. Trouble, always in pairs and never quite as brave alone.

You’d kept up with his career of course. You knew his stats, his wins, the way the crowd chanted his name now. But the Max you remembered the one with grass stains on his knees and ice cream on his chin felt like someone else entirely.

You grew up in karting garages together, your laughter bouncing off concrete walls louder than the engines. You were twin shadows slipping between toolboxes and tyre stacks, dodging mechanics and stealing zip ties like they were gold. Oil-smudged fingers. Greasy fries in one hand, tyre pressure gauges in the other. Max taught you how to kick-start an engine before you’d even mastered telling the time. You taught him how to tie a tie, how to tape a blister, how to calm down after a bad lap.

You used to sneak snacks off each other’s trays and pretend neither of you noticed. You fell asleep shoulder to shoulder in the back of his dad’s van, watching old F1 races on a cracked iPad and whispering commentary until one of you snored. You had a notebook, battered and dog-eared, where you’d both sketch ridiculous helmet designs, all glitter paint and fire decals. He always said he’d wear yours if he ever made it. You still have that page, folded and faded.

After every race, whether he won or crashed out, he’d find you. Every time. He’d pull off his gloves and jog toward the barriers just to hear your opinion. When you raced his face would light up when you crossed the line whether first or last didn’t matter. You were his best friend. That was enough.

But then life did what life does. You moved. He kept racing. You said you’d write. He said he’d call. And you did at first, but life moves fast and somewhere along the way you stopped.

Now here you are standing in the Red Bull garage as if no time passed, as if the world hasn’t changed, as if you’re still those two sunburnt kids who thought karting trophies and fizzy drinks were all that mattered.

Max looks at you like you might disappear if he blinks again.

His gaze flicks over your face with an urgency he’s trying to hide, like he’s checking to see what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. Like he’s afraid to find too much of one or the other.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you around here again,” he says finally, voice low and rough-edged, like it’s scraped up from somewhere buried.

You swallow the lump that rises instantly in your throat. “Didn’t know if you’d even remember.”

His mouth tilts not a smile, exactly. More like the ghost of one, soft and haunted around the edges. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”

And just like that, something inside you, something carefully packed away for years, twists, sharp and sudden. An old ache, familiar and stupidly alive. He used to say things like that all the time, back when the only people in your world were each other.

Max shifts like he wants to say something else. Instead his eyes catch on your features again, and he frowns faintly.

“You look…” he starts, then trails off. His lips part like he might keep going, but nothing comes.

You don’t press him. You’re not sure you could handle it if you did.

So you offer a crooked smile. “Older?”

He snorts, a low, almost fond sound that slips past his defences. “Still short.”

You roll your eyes and shove at his arm. “Still rude.”

Then he laughs. Really laughs. It hits you in the ribs like a punch, that sound because it’s the same. Deeper now, with age and wear, but still the same boyish rasp that used to echo through paddocks and across bunk beds and over midnight walks when the world felt too big and all you had was each other.

For a second, it’s like no time passed at all.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring, locked into the space between who he was and who he is, until his voice drops lower, softer.

“I missed you.”

Three words, barely breathed.

They land like a stone in your chest.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first. Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for something that might no longer be yours.

“I missed you too,” you whisper finally, and the truth in it feels like something dangerous.

Because now you’re not just remembering him.

You’re feeling him.

The next morning, the paddock is alive with chaos, engineers buzzing, cameras swiveling, drivers darting past like comets. But all you can think about is the message from Max that was left at your hotel for you.

Come by the garage in the morning, before FP?

Your fingers tremble slightly as you enter the paddock. You’ve barely slept, head full of things you almost said and things he nearly did. It’s like a door opened yesterday, and now you can’t stop looking inside.

He’s waiting by the back of the garage, half in uniform, half in thought.

His face softens when he sees you.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

You nod, trying not to stare at the way his fire suit clings to his frame. “I figured if I didn’t you’d just track me down.”

He smirks. “Yeah probably. I know where you’re staying.”

You laugh, but there’s a tightness in your chest.

You watch as he fiddles with the velcro of his gloves, not quite meeting your eyes. “There’s something I want to show you. Maybe it’s stupid.”

He leads you to his driver room, past engineers, down the corridor with controlled chaos humming all around you, and when the door clicks shut, it’s just you and him.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

A photo.

Faded. Bent at the corners. But unmistakable.

You and him. Teenagers, around fifteen. Covered in dirt and grease and beaming like idiots. You’ve got a bottle of water in one hand and Max is mid-squint, arm slung over your shoulders.

“I’ve had it since that last race before you left,” he says, voice low. “I kept it in my wallet for years. Then it started to fall apart, so I moved it here.”

Your fingers graze the edge of the picture.

“We look ridiculous.”

“You look happy,” he corrects quietly.

You don’t ask how often he’s looked at it. You don’t have to.

Because you remember that day too.

The air had smelled like petrol and hot asphalt, and your heart was still pounding from the race. You were grinning, practically vibrating with adrenaline. Because for the first time ever you beat Max.

He pulled off his helmet slowly, curls a sweaty mess, and sulked like someone stole his dog.

You plopped beside him in the pit lane, holding out the fries you’d bought from the food truck near the gate. “Truce?”

He gave you the side-eye. “You cut me off on turn six.”

You shrugged. “You left the inside line open. Rookie mistake.”

“I hate you.”

You popped a fry into your mouth. “No you don’t.”

He didn’t say congrats, but the way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking that said enough.

You offered him the last fry without looking at him. “For your bruised ego.”

He took it, but didn’t eat it right away. “You’re gonna win a lot of races,” he said quietly.

“So will you.”

“But I’ll always remember this one.”

You turned to him, confused. “Why this one?”

His gaze met yours, and something in his expression shifted, a flicker of hesitation, like a thought stumbled too close to the surface.

He leaned in.

It wasn’t fast or sudden. It was slow, careful, uncertain.

Your breath hitched. The grease-stained paper bag slipped from your fingers onto the ground. You felt the sun on your skin and the heat of his body so close, his mouth a breath away from yours.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Your noses nearly brushed. His eyes flicked to your lips. You could count his freckles.

But then, footsteps. Loud. Sharp.

You both jolted back like the moment hadn’t happened at all.

His father walked past, barely glancing at either of you.

You looked down. Max rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in his shoelaces.

And just like that, it was over.

Not a kiss.

Just an almost.

An almost that would live quietly in the silence between you, never spoken about, never quite forgotten.

You didn’t expect to be invited to the RedBull motorhome for lunch. And you definitely didn’t expect Max to sit across from you the entire time, answering questions from media with one eye always flicking back to you.

After the interviews, he corners you in a quiet hallway.

"Come for a drive with me."

You blink. “Now?”

He nods. “Yeah. I need to clear my head. I think… I think we need to talk.”

You hesitate for only a moment before you follow him out into the sun.

The car is fast, obviously, and expensive, a blur of black and blue. But inside it everything slows.

“I tried calling once… recently, I mean” he says, not looking at you.

You swallow. “I changed my number.”

He nods. “I figured. I just, you were gone. One day you were there, and the next…”

“I didn’t want to leave Max, I was a teenager I didn’t get a say.”

Silence. Then, “I know, but I really didn’t want you to. I wished I could’ve done something.”

“You were just a kid too. It was no ones fault.” You take a deep breath and then add. “I waited for you that last night, you know. I kept thinking… maybe you’d come find me.”

You’d gotten the news on a late afternoon: your family was relocating. New country. New start. It felt like the world cracked open beneath your feet.

You’d ran to him heart pounding with the knowledge that your whole life was about to split in two.

“I need to tell you something,” you’d said, voice shaking.

He looked up instantly. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. Then forced the words out.

“I’m leaving.”

Max blinked. “What do you mean, leaving?”

“My dad got a job offer. We’re moving.”

He stared at you. Completely still. “When?”

You bit your lip. “Soon.”

His soda can crumpled slightly in his grip.

You hated the silence that followed. You wanted him to fight it. You wanted him to shout, to say no. Instead, he looked down.

“For how long?” he asked quietly.

You couldn’t lie. “I don’t know.”

He nodded once. Too slowly. Too carefully. Like the movement itself hurt.

You waited. You waited for him to reach for you, to say anything, that he’d miss you, that he was angry, that you meant something. But he just stood there, like his body had shut down and left only a shell behind.

So you swallowed your tears, your pride, and your heartache and whispered, “Guess I’ll see you around.”

You wanted to throw your arms around his neck and say you’d fight this, that you didn’t want to leave, but your throat burned and your eyes were wet and you couldn’t force the words out.

Then you turned and walked away.

“I should’ve said something,” Max says quietly. “Anything. I was a coward.”

You look at him.

You don’t say me too.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a decade.

It’s quiet after that. The kind of quiet that lives in the space between memory and regret.

He drives to a lookout over the sea. It reminds you of a place you used to sit together as kids, eating fries from a greasy paper cone and talking about what you’d do if you ever made it.

“You made it,” you say as you climb out of the car.

“So did you,” he replies.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Not in the same way.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans against the hood of the car and looks at you like he’s trying to memorise you.

“I thought about you,” he says quietly. “All the time.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“I kept waiting for you to come back. For years, I’d look for your face in the stands. I kept thinking maybe today.”

Your throat tightens. You remember all the times you wanted to reach out, to send a letter, an email, anything. But something always stopped you.

Fear. Pride. Guilt.

“I didn’t know if you’d care.”

He turns fully to you then, and his eyes, older, sharper, but still that same ocean blue burn into yours.

“Of course I’d care. You were everything to me. You still are.”

The air between you shifts.

“Max,” you whisper, and this time your voice trembles. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what it means anymore. It’s been years.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “But you’re still the only person I’ve ever felt like this about.”

You’re too stunned to speak.

He exhales, eyes flicking to your lips before dragging back up. “I don’t expect anything. I just… I needed you to know.”

For the first time in a decade, you let yourself touch him, your fingers brushing against his, slow and tentative.

“I still feel it too,” you whisper.

His hand closes around yours like he’s afraid to let go again.

That night, you sit on the edge of your hotel bed and stare at your phone.

A message from Max.

Come up. Roof bar. Just us.

Your heart is in your throat as you ride the lift.

When the doors open, he’s already there two drinks in hand, back turned to the city view. He turns as you approach, something soft and aching in his smile.

“You came.”

“You asked.”

He hands you a drink. “For old times?”

You take a sip. “Something like that.”

You stare at him. At the man he’s become. Stronger. Sharper. Quieter, somehow. But the boy you knew the one who always gave you the last bite of his sandwich, who held your hand during thunderstorms, who whispered secrets to you in the dark he’s still there.

“Do you think we can go back?” you ask, your voice barely audible over the city noise.

He steps close. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that you feel the pull in your chest like gravity.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says. “I want to start again.”

His next words crack something open.

“You know how often I used to write texts I never sent. Every race, every flight. I’d delete them before takeoff like an idiot.” His voice breaks, just slightly. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you again?”

You nod, because you do. Because every stupid highlight reel of his wins made your heart ache. Because you once screamed into your pillow after seeing him kiss someone else in the paddock and you thought you’d missed your chance for good.

He reaches out. Not touching you yet, just hovering. “I’m never losing you again.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“No. Don’t.” His fingers find yours. Threaded. Familiar. “Please. I’ve won everything I ever wanted. Except this.”

Your forehead presses to his chest before you can stop yourself, and he holds you like he remembers exactly how to. Like he’s angry at the space between you. Like if he squeezes tight enough, you’ll forget the wasted years and remember everything else.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper.

“Don’t ever leave again,” he mutters into your hair.

You don’t answer with words. You don’t even think you just act on instinct.

You kiss him.

Desperate but somehow gentle. A question.

He answers with a hand on your waist, the other on your cheek, anchoring you like he used to when the world spun too fast.

And just like that, you’re fifteen again. And twenty-two. And every version of yourself that ever loved him.

Later, when he walks you back to your room, he doesn’t try to come in.

He just stands there in the hallway, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

His eyes soften. “Stay. In Monaco. Just for a while.”

You bite your lip. “Max…”

“Not just for me,” he says quickly. “For you. For us. Let’s see where this goes.”

You look at him, this man who waited years, who still looks at you like you hung the stars and you know the answer, you’ve always known.

“Okay.”

And when he leans in, forehead resting against yours, everything feels still.

You were always meant to find your way back to him.

It was always Max.

Always you.

Even after all this time

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[abyssyby]

despite the world

— your union is a symphony of imperfection; as it begins with your sin, so it will last with his. and your song welcomes the new life you made.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: hi hi! this may be the dawn of a humble pregnancy series pre-twin babies, as many have requested and i have also been very excited to write. hope u enjoy this one! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | fluff, some angst/comfort, some dating stages hehe, pregnancy announcement!, mom/wife!reader, dad/husband!sylus, & mephisto! (˶◜ᵕ◝˶)

In all your years as a hunter— protecting the city, upholding peace, being a model citizen— you’d never thought your greatest betrayal, your greatest sin against your oath, would be to fall in love with the enemy.

And marry the enemy. 

It was manageable during the early stages of dating. When “Skye” would come by the association on his big, ominous motorcycle to come pick you up. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“What are you doing here?” you hissed, palms colliding with his strong shoulders to spin him around— face away from the association windows. Before he’s seen, before he’s known. 

“Can’t a man visit his partner?” he chuckled, large hands hovering over yours on his waist as you pushed him back to his vehicle. Content already just by the warmth you emitted through his clothes. “I missed your voice.” 

You strained, shoving. “Then call!”

“Then I’d have to wait for you to pick up.” He’s pouting, you can hear it through the cockiness of his tone. Knowing that fact scared you and invigorated you all at once. You pushed, pushed, pushed. 

“Sylus, they can’t see you.” You begged as you kept him from turning to face you, the association windows, your co-hunters beyond the glass. Him, the Hunters Association’s enemy number one with a kill-on-sight order, waltzing straight towards the main entrance. 

He grinned. He decided he liked seeing you all flustered because of him. “Then hide me.” 

He found a weakness in your hold, shifted his weight there, and broke past your restraints. Before you can react— reach for his face, push him back around, anything to save him— he gently slid his hands to your cheeks. He cups your jaw as if you were paper and fire, and leans down to scorch your lips in his flames. 

“I missed you.” He murmured the secret into your kiss, and would clearly not mind proclaiming it to the world should you wish. 

You softened, relenting in his embrace. Kiss him back. “Stubborn.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

 Or when he’d send flowers to your desk.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The cards held little information as to why the sender decided to gift them, but as to who… 

“How much fruit does this guy sell?” Andrew wonders, poking at the hydrangeas and sunflowers in bundles on your desk. Vases, baskets, and bouquets have made your little cubicle into a giant parade float. Your corner is single-handedly making the building smell a little sweeter. 

“Not much,” you murmur, fingers dancing over the stand-out vase of daturas closest to your monitor. A shy blush pairs with your dreamy little smile. 

Sometimes he’d appear at karaoke nights with coworkers under the guise that he’d been in the right place at the right time. There, you learned that Sylus prefers physical contact as much as it is possible. He doesn’t particularly force you into it, doesn’t keep you to his side like a magnet. But rather integrates it naturally into your system. 

He isn’t shy when it comes to mingling, proudly talking about his (very fake!) fruit business, his passion for bikes, and his night fishing. But as he speaks, his arm is curled around your waist. As you flip through the songbook, his chin rests on your shoulder, asking which song you feel like singing and if he can sing along. As you start to sing, he presses his lips to your head and hums the song with you. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

But as the years progressed, the relationship grew deeper. And with the undeniable call of your souls left you gasping for each other when apart— what you have has now turned into your greatest crime of all.

And here you are, buying a pack of diapers (since apparently you can’t have just one?), a pacifier, a bonnet, and a stuffed animal to confess to your husband your most notorious crime to date—

Having children with the enemy. 

“I’m not asking here,” your nose twitches when you pout like that. Mephisto registers it into his log to improve his artificial intelligence in reading human emotions under: annoyed. But he squawks still in disapproval. 

“Please, Mephie, it’s just a little bonnet.” The white piece of yarn and lace dangles from your fingers by the ribbons. Mephisto caws and flaps his wings, a clear no. 

You grit your teeth. He files that under: desperate. “C’mon, it would be so cute—“

“What would be so cute?” 

Figures. All the luck in the world siphoned from Sylus’s fortunes and placed into you, and yet when you’re together, he cancels it out anyway, depriving you both of any.

You’re able to stuff the props back into your coat pocket just as he engulfs you into an embrace from behind. He buries his nose into your hair affectionately and melts against you. 

As per routine, he undoes his cufflinks, unlatches his watch, and rubs at his wrists in this hold. Never once leaving your warmth as if the rest of the home was submerged in the most frigid of winters. “Fighting with Mephisto again?” 

“No, just conversing.” Your hand reaches up to caress his face, cloud fingers gliding against silken skin. Distracting him from your other one that pinches the bird’s beak shut to keep it from squawking things Sylus apparently understands.

“Mm.” You feel his warm palm on your belly before he curls it around your waist. Your breathing hitsches, the props rattle in your pockets, and you begin to wonder if he— 

“You’re hungry.” He points out, feeling your stomach grumble and growl beneath his touch. “Sweetie, have you had lunch?” 

You purse your lips in reply, and to him, it’s a telltale sign that you had some kind of beverage in place of a proper meal. He sighs, planting a kiss to your cheek before unlinking himself to move into the kitchen. 

Once he disappears behind a corner, you wrestle Mephisto into the little bonnet and pacifier, begging him to hold still, to please, please comply just for a second. At one point, he gives up.

He is a perfect statue when you tie the bonnet that makes him look like a soot spot in the middle of a sunflower, and he balances the pacifier between the two pointed tips of his beak. He earns a kiss on his head before he’s sent away.

Mephisto lurks somewhere in the shadows as the gourmet instant noodles are halved and served in two ceramic bowls. Before Sylus takes his seat on the barstool beside you, you tug him close with shaky hands.

In truth, you never gave yourself the time to overthink it— took a test as soon as the suspicion arose, hid its positive conclusion, brainstormed the cutest way to tell him, and ran to the store as fast as you could. Not once thinking of anything else aside from telling him as soon as possible.

It’s natural that you’re feeling queasy. Though… It’s too soon for hormones, right?

None of the dots connect because now you’re crying, and he has the most horrified look on his face. Which is exactly the opposite of what you wanted. No, no!

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” he’s looking over you like you’d just returned from a mission. Eyes wide and worried, he clasps your cold hands together to heat them, tugging down at your cheeks to check beneath your waterline. 

“Sylus, you like kids, right?” you hiccup, the words running from you before your tongue is able to catch them.

You know as a fact that he is kind beneath that hostile exterior, as warm as the hearth of a fire, and as giving as an unthanked tree, bearing fruits expecting nothing in return. 

But beyond the kindness he has extended to you, you’ve never seen him handle children other than Luke and Kieran, who barely count despite their childlike whimsy they insist is ‘charisma’ or whatev—

He blinks. Confusion and concern warring clear on his face. “What?” 

“A baby? We never—talked—about—it—“ your hand goes to your chest as you push through the sharp intakes of breath that come with the sobs. Suddenly, the world is spinning, and you’re maybe tilting sidewards. His hand catches your shoulder before you topple over.

Sylus looks like he’s watching you combust. “Beloved—“

“I’m pregnant.” you choke out, unable to map your way through the script you practiced thanks to the sudden storm wracking your chest. 

Mephisto flies out warily at the cue word, clad in his little baby get-up, and rests atop your head. He ruffles his feathers proudly despite his degrading appearance. “Caw!” 

Sylus is breathless. “What?” 

Your arms hang helplessly on your sides. Sightless and senseless. You’re floating through a space of uncertainty and discomfort, but certainly not because you don’t want this with him— but because you feel the dread of bringing a life into yours. One of dangerous missions, kill-orders, wanderers, and blood. 

And then wonder if he’d even want this life with you.

He stares at your face, the anguish and fear in your glistening eyes. He notices the loose pieces of ribbon slipping out of the pockets of your cardigan, the glitter on your sleeves, the bird in a baby bonnet on your head.

His heart races to an ungodly speed, and his silence betrays his one true thought on the matter. 

“Sylus?” There is fear in your whisper when moments pass and the only sound in the room is the gentle hum of static. “Please say something.” 

The look on his face is unreadable. He’s calculating a million equations to stop the end of the world. He’s trying to decipher illusion from reality in a fever-dreamt haze. He’s holding on to the last piece of sanity he has left as it dwindles away at the sound of your voice saying those words. 

I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. 

Your lip wobbles again. Frustration begins to build, seen in the way you tap your foot on the ground impatiently. You grit, “Sy—“

He engulfs you. Tightly, too tight. In an embrace that feels like it means more to him than just holding you. He is anchoring himself, making sure this is all real.

His one hand cradles the back of your head to his chest, his other arm wraps around your waist, firm and gentle all at once. His world is rupturing, but he welcomes it wholly, like there was no other end meant to be but this.  

You feel the wetness when he presses his face in the crook of your neck. Your heart pinches painfully. His tears trickle down to your collarbone as he silently gives you his response. 

“Yes,” he’s never sounded so raw, so honest until this moment. “Yes, I will love our children.” 

It takes moments before you both come down to earth. Tangled in each other’s arms, bathed in each other’s tears. But when you do, it is joyful and bright. 

Sylus has never smiled so widely and unabashedly in his life as he marvels at your beauty. You, who looks like you’d swallowed the sun and now emits its radiance. With your eyes of liquid starlight and your love-swollen lips. His heart, his soul, his life, his wife. 

The mother of his child. 

Never once had that realm of possibility been broached— being a father in any lifetime much less this one. The thought turns his insides into stone, his chest aches beneath the weight of a phantom spear. 

But he whispers, just as he pulls away. “You are the only one who can ever make me want this. She is from you— what else can I do?” 

Not because he dreads it, but he is helpless— built, existing only to love you. Everything you are. Everything you do. Everything of you. 

You sniffle, reaching up to hold his face, and reply, “You think she’s going to be a girl?” 

He looks at you, now— hopeful eyes shining, shaking fingers balancing the little stick that tells you your future, bashfully handing him a little dragon plush in a diaper (your failed initial announcement plan). 

He is thawed, whole, redeemed in ways he cannot begin to understand. 

He’ll do everything to deserve you, everything to deserve this family you’ve given him. He will curl his entire being around you; protect each beat from your hearts, hoard each breath drawn from your lungs. 

Despite the world, despite his fate— he will bend fortune to his will, rewrite all the stars in the sky— just to live this life. With his family. With his child.

In all his years as a monster, in this moment, he will give everything to anything for redemption. For you. That is his greatest sin of all. 

✧˚ ⋆｡ more pre-baby! (coming soon!)|| more little twins (the ones in mama's belly here) || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you for reading!

[randompiecesofwriting]

Your Side of the Bed

Summary: Robby finds himself in an arrangement of sharing the reader’s bed. Sleeping side by side in the most literal of senses. It was simply a way they could be there for one another, offer comfort on hard days. And yet he found himself wanting more.

Paring: Michael “Robinavitch” x reader

Word Count: 9k

Warnings: NO SMUT I don’t think it’s even joked about here lol so there’s no smut in here! Brief mention of suicide prevention measures in a joke. Reader gets a small cut and is freaked out by medical procedures.

A/N: Really this was born out of me just wanting to write some Robby fluff. I think I’m slowing down on my writing frenzy y’all so please don’t expect my previous schedule of nearly every other day story releases I’m sorry! All in all as always I just wrote what I thought I would want to read so I hope y’all enjoy it and as always let me know what you think!

You hadn’t expected the night to end the way it did when you left your job that evening.

And honestly there was no reason you should’ve, afterall you hardly knew the man.

Sure you’ve met Robby a few times before. Interacted with him enough to know what he did for a living but beyond basic elevator small talk you’ve never really spoken to the man.

So when you spotted him standing outside of his apartment, keys in hand, just staring down at them dejectedly you didn’t really have a plan when you opened your mouth. You just knew you recognized that look on his face, the way his hands shook, the way he stayed rooted in place even as the elevator dinged as you got out, and you wanted to help.

“Hey Robby” His head snapped up at the sound of his name, the way his eyes went wide at your voice telling you he truly hadn’t noticed your approach “just getting back?”

“Yeah” he sighed out the word, telling you more than you thought he really meant to, his gaze going back to his keys, reluctance on his face as his shoulders dropped slightly.

“Have you eaten yet?” The words basically tumbled out of you, the offer though made spontaneously was no less sincere “I’m just getting back too and was going to make something quick if you want to come in” and you could see the hesitance quickly building, the denial on every part of him but his lips “I was thinking pasta and I struggle to make anything less than four servings”

He seemed to pause at the joke, to take a second to reconsider. “It’s late I don’t want to impose”

You shook off the worry easily, moving past the man to your own door faking confidence he would follow “I promise you aren’t, besides I’ve kinda had a shit day so being alone doesn’t sound like a lot of fun right now”

It wasn’t a complete lie to be fair. Your day hadn’t been the best but more than anything you knew this man shouldn’t be alone right now and he wasn’t going to take help unless he could offer some in return.

“I should shower first” The implied acceptance had you smiling as he turned back to his door, you could practically see him hype himself up to go in.

“You can use mine” You offered, forcing a level of nonchalance you didn’t feel into your tone “no pressure obviously the dinner invitation stands either way  but since you’re going to be over anyways” you let the end of your sentence dangle purposefully as you shrugged “plus I don’t mean to brag but the landlord just fixed my plumbing so I have the best water pressure in the building”

Your attempt at a joke had him snorting as he cast one final look at his door before wordlessly turning away from it and heading in your direction, following you back to your place “If that’s true the landlord and I will be having words”

Trying to tamp down the odd mix of anxiety and excitement at having Robby listen to you, you kept your gaze ahead, focusing a bit too hard on getting your key into the lock as he stood behind you patiently “I had to threaten to sue and it still took months so good luck with that one, you’ll need it”

Opening your door you toed off your shoes and put them to the side in your entryway prompting him to do the same while you started turning on lights “Feel free to set your bag anywhere, kitchen tables covered in my work stuff so that may be your best bet” you instructed him as you set your own work bag down at one of the chairs at the table “in the meantime make yourself at home I’ll grab you a towel and some clothes you can use”

You rushed through the process of grabbing an extra pair of clothes you thought would fit him and a towel, knowing the longer you left him alone in your living room the more likely he was to back out entirely. Something that was quickly proved correct as you joined him with the stack back out in the living room, hesitation and awkwardness practically carved into his bones as he stood rigidly in the center of the room.

“These should fit but obviously let me know if you need anything else” you ignored the trepidation on his face as you handed him the stack, Robby blindly grabbing it as he already started to backtrack.

“You really don’t have to-“

“Please I want to” you interrupted him, walking back towards the kitchen forcing him to hold onto the stack as you got out a pot “besides I need someone to get wine drunk with. Can’t do it on my own, I think that’s when they call it alcoholism”

Still he stared at you silently, you could practically see him trying to think of a way to politely extract himself.

“Unless you don’t drink of course in which case I’ve got soda or water or-“

“No no” he chuckled though it sounded slightly strained, patting to top of the stack you had given softly “wine’s good”

“Good I’ll open the bottle then” you smiled warmly at him, gesturing with a nod back towards the hallway behind him “bathroom’s down on the left I’ll be out here if you need anything”

Still he just stared at you for a brief moment, silence stretching with words unsaid, before he finally accepted it and nodded, giving you one last thanks before he made his way to go shower, leaving you to start cooking and distract yourself from the death spiral of regret and anxiety your brain was trying to force you down.

You heard the shower start up just as you put the pot on the stove to boil, you’d honestly planned on doing as little as possible when it came to getting food in you tonight after work but with Robby here you figured you could at least put in a minimal amount of effort. All things considered though boxed pasta and jarred sauce was as far as you were willing to go tonight.

Deciding last minute to add at least a salad to the side you were chopping up vegetables by the time that Robby joined you once again, looking tired but clean and a little lighter at least.

“You weren’t kidding about the water pressure” he noted as he sat on the other side of the bar that separated living room from kitchen, watching you continue to chop.

“I know right” you grinned at him “I don’t know what they did but I’m considering letting all my other unanswered maintenance requests go as a thank you”

He chuckled at that, looking back out at your apartment appraisingly “do you need me to do anything cause I-“

“Sit down doc” you chided him harmlessly “have a glass of wine you look like you’ve had a long shift”

He took the glass you slid his way with a nod, a small huff escaping him as he shook his head “what about you what’s got you coming home this late?”

A part of you wondered if you should commend his effort to try and fix your shifty night in lieu of his own or condemn his clear avoidance of the conversation turning to him. For now you chose to do neither and instead just answer “parent teacher conferences”

He hummed at that, watching you carefully as you threw the salad together and checked on the noodles “they go that badly?”

“They didn’t but that’s kind of the problem” you shrugged as you stirred the boiling water.

He raised a brow at that, no question coming to his lips just a silent ask to continue.

“It’s always the parents of the kids I’m not worried about who show up” you shrugged, leaning your elbows on the counter in front of him as you spoke “The straight A students, or at least the students who are clearly putting in the effort and trying”

“Meaning the students who’s parent’s you want to speak to don’t come” he answered for you in understanding.

“Exactly” you nodded, grabbing out a colander to drain the pasta as you continued “Which I get it parents can be busy or can just not make the conference hours but given all the emails I’ve sent over the course of this semester that have gone unanswered…”

You trailed off with a shrug, dishing up two portions of pasta and salad without a thought and placing one in front of Robby before putting yours in front of the seat next to him.

He nodded in thanks, starting to eat as you did the same, a small silence passing over the two of you that felt infinitely more comfortable than the one shared earlier in the evening, before he broke it “do you know what you’re going to do about it yet?”

You nodded in answer, twirling your fork absentmindedly in your pasta as you thought “Yeah it’ll be another round of emails, maybe some printed notes sent home with kids offering to meet at other times, I’ll see if I can at least get some of them on a phone call or something”

He hummed in thought, studying you for a moment before his eyes cut back down to his plate “you’re a good teacher”

You snorted at that, furrowing your brow at the man beside you in response “what makes you say that”

“You care” he shrugged like it’s obvious “you’re going out of your way to try and set these kids up for success. That’s what a good teacher would do”

“Feels like the bare minimum” you chuckled slightly “it’s my job to make sure they leave my classroom set up for whatever comes ahead”

“The fact that you so clearly believe that proves my point” he smiled back at you “it’d be a lot easier to write it off, to say you tried and give up but you keep pushing, keep advocating for these kids. You’re a good teacher”

And truly you didn’t have anything to say to that, the words dying on your tongue as you looked up at him and saw the complete sincerity in his eyes. Instead you simply offered him a small smile that he mirrored back.

“What about you how was your day” the question was out of your mouth before you could think better of it, the action of asking him in return feeling too natural.

You could see him shut down at the question, could see his walls going up as his gaze cut back to his plate “Fine. It was fine”

And maybe you should’ve left it there but you were already in too deep to feel comfortable with letting it go “you’re a good doctor, you know that right?”

His gaze cut back up to you quickly with a furrowed brow, a shocked huff leaving him at your words “have I treated you before?”

“No” you assured him with a snort “but no matter what you claim I can see that you’re not fine” you watched him tense at your words, would’ve found it almost funny in any other circumstance “I just mean a good doctor wouldn’t have a day get to him like that. You clearly care about your patients. Like actually care not just pretend to care until you can shuffle them along to the next person, that’s what a good doctor would do”

He chuckled slightly at your words, a lopsided small smile tugging at his lips as he looked you over “Feels like the bare minimum””

“You throw my words back at me and my response will be the same as yours” you chided him good naturedly, relishing the sound of his laugh you got in response as he shook his head.

“touché”

You smiled at the concession, taking note of both of your empty plates and looking back out at your living room before making a decision “do you want to watch a movie?”

He raised a brow at you but you watched the corners of his mouth tick up in response making you smile back “Obviously you can tell me if you’re tired and would rather go to bed but I like a movie at the end of the day to wind down” you shrugged in response.

“Only if you let me do the dishes”

You tried desperately not to let it show how much his easy acceptance shocked you “Robby you can come over and do my dishes anytime”

He laughed easily at that as he took both of your plates and made his way over to the sink, collecting the various dishes you’d used to cook from around the kitchen.

“I hope you know this means I will be subjecting you to my objectively terrible taste in movies”

“I think I’ll live” and you tried to ignore exactly how it made you feel to see this man smirking at you from your kitchen as he handwashed your dishes. Instead you choose to make your way over to the couch and start looking at your options.

And that was how you found yourself seated comfortably next the neighbor you’d had maybe five conversations with before, watching a movie much too late into the night. And thus how you found yourself waking up the next morning to the light streaming in through your living room windows and a comfortable chest beneath your cheek, with an admittedly painful twinge in your neck but feeling more well rested than you had in months.

-

You didn’t see Robby for a few days after that. The morning after had been awkward enough you counted it as a blessing.

There’d been a brief moment of serenity, admittedly, right before you fully woke up where all you could notice was how warm you felt, how comfortable, how secure. You remember burying yourself further into the comfort, giving a soft wiggle as you pressed your face further into what you had assumed was your pillow, until you heard a chuckle.

Rather you had felt the chuckle first, could feel it ruminate up Robby’s chest beneath your head before it broke to the surface. You felt what you quickly surmised to be an arm thrown over your shoulder and wrapped around you pull you in tighter, hardly enough to notice but enough to send butterflies through your stomach, before you finally opened your eyes.

Robby had already been staring down at you, his eyes wide in clear surprise but still the corners of his mouth ticked up, you wondered if he noticed. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped you as you looked back up at him, neither of you moving for a moment, almost afraid to burst the bubble before you spoke “good morning”

His eyes got almost comically wider as his gaze cut to the nearest clock, a verification of the time seeming to fully solidify exactly what position the two of you were in for him as he quickly retracted his hands, open palms coming up by his head as if to placate you in the situation as a million apologies spilled from his lips.

You had just barely pulled yourself off of him before he was on his feet and grabbing his bag, all but running out of the door before you’d even finished stretching.

So naturally the first time you would see him in days would be when you were drunk off your ass after a night out with friends.

You all but stumbled out of the elevator, heels as always were a terrible choice for a night out but you couldn’t help but love the way your legs looked in them. So focused were you on keeping upright as you exited the elevator that you completely missed Robby standing in front of his door.

Looking up from your feet finally however you noticed the man frozen in place, keys in hand, lips slightly parted as his gaze made a slow climb from your feet up to your face. You couldn’t have stopped the grin from growing on your face if you had tried “Dr. Robinavitch we have got to stop meeting like this”

You speaking seemed to have snapped him out of whatever daze he was in, a startled huff escaping him as his posture relaxed “Well you look like you had a good night”

“I had a great night” you affirmed, taking a wobbly step forward that had him surging forward to brace you by the forearm, a slight chuckle escaping him as he helped you steady yourself.

“And how many drinks did we have tonight?”

“Not enough” you shook your head, griping his hand in yours happily as you took another step “ohhh we should do shots”

He laughed much more freely at that, shaking his head in response “we absolutely should not do shots we should do carbs. When was the last time you ate something?”

“Fuck I love carbs” you hummed letting him lead you back to his place without a thought, leaning up against the wall while he put his keys in the door “French fries, we should do French fries”

“I can manage French fries” he smiled at you, pushing open the door before extending a hand to you, helping you into his place with a hand on your hip.

You leaned into him happily as you more pawed at the buckle on your shoe than actually tried to get it off, this going on for just long enough Robby was getting ready to help you with it when it finally slipped off your ankle and you fled the shoes where they dropped, making your way to his kitchen and going right for his freezer.

“Make yourself at home” Robby teased as he carefully picked up your shoes and set them off to the side alongside his, making his way next to you in the kitchen to start preheating the oven as you dug around in his freezer for the fries.

“yes you got the good ones” you cheered as you unearthed the bag, handing it to him without a thought as you immediately dipping into his fridge “we should do cheese on top”

Smiling in amusement Robby took the fries without a word and got out a baking sheet, dumping a good amount onto it before fielding the block of cheese you tossed his way without even looking to see where he was.

“Now you don’t have salsa but you do have tomatoes and onions and I can make that work” finally you shut the door to the fridge and turned to face him with the required ingredients clutched in your hands.

“Salsa?” he asked with a raised brow, putting the fries in the preheated oven.

“We can’t have loaded fries without salsa” you answered as if it were obvious, eyes skating around his kitchen looking for something “now where do you keep your knives”

“Absolutely not” he chided immediately, making his way across the kitchen over to you and grabbing the produce from your arms.

“No I swear I can do it” you tried to assure him even as you let him push you out of the kitchen.

“Swear all you want but I’m chopping the vegetables”

“You chop the vegetables I’ll chop the fruit?” you asked hopefully, giving him your best charming smile that Robby couldn’t help but mirror.

“Nice try now will you please sit down at let me do it” he shook his head as he led you around the bar to the stool on the other side, hands on your waist to steady you as you stepped up into the chair and plopped yourself down.

“But I could help!” though you thankfully stayed put you still tried to get involved, swinging your legs energetically in the air as you watched Robby start to dice “I could be like that person who hands you the scalpel”

He furrowed his brow at you with a smirk, looking up at you from his slightly bent position as he worked “person who hands me the scalpel?”

“Yeah you know in the tv shows. You go scalpel and hold you hand up like this” you demonstrated the proper movement to him, choosing to ignore his grin as you talked “and someone puts it in your hand without saying anything that could be me”

“You do know I’m not a surgeon right?”

“All I’m hearing is you don’t have a scalpel person and it could be me”

He laughed at that, shaking his head as he gathered up all of your fry toppings “why don’t you sober up first then we’ll talk about your career options”

With a disgruntled huff you rolled your eyes, resting your head in your palm as you watched Robby finish off your loaded fries, dutifully instructing him on how much of each ingredient was required before happily digging into the plate he set in front of you, a myriad of content hums coming from you as you ate making Robby smile.

“You know I like this way better” you pointed out without looking at him, taking the time to pick the perfectly loaded fry.

“Like this better than what?”

“Better than you being weird” if you noticed the way the room went cold around Robby at your words you didn’t let it show, instead snacking happily as you stole a glance at him from the side of your eye.

“I’m weird?”

“You acted weird” you corrected him with a shrug “after we woke up on my couch you basically ran away from me”

A tense silence followed but you watched him unabashedly, waiting patiently for a response Robby wasn’t sure he wanted to give “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable”

“I wasn’t uncomfortable” again the words came out of you so easily, a part of Robby wished he could be drunk for this conversation too “in fact I was really comfortable until you moved”

A huff left him at that, a small smile growing on his face despite his inner turmoil “Really?”

You nodded in response, finishing off the last of your food and wiping off your fingers on a napkin, pushing the plate off to the side and finally turning your full attention to him “I mean the couch wasn’t the best but you make a comfortable pillow”

He couldn’t help but chuckle slightly at that, an anxious hand coming to rub at the back of his neck as he laughed it off “well I’m glad I could be of service”

“I don’t think I realized how bad I had been sleeping lately until that night” you revealed softly, the carbs and the late hour clearly kicking in as you seemed to sober slightly “stress of parent teacher night ya know? But I slept really well that night”

“I know what you mean” the words slipped out of him before he could think any better of it, the way they put a smile on your face making it hard for him to regret them though.

You studied him for a moment, a comfortable silence blanketing the two of you before you broke it softly “you wouldn’t admit it but you were having a bad day. Did I make it better?”

Now it was his turn to examine you, to watch the lazy way you kicked your feet out from the chair, the way your hair fell half hazardly around your face as you tilted your head slightly at him, the soft curve of your lips as you smiled absentmindedly at him “yeah. Yeah you did”

“Good” and now you were beaming at him, spreading a warmth through his chest he wasn’t prepared for “we should do it again sometime”

“Pass out on your couch?”

“I’d prefer the bed but beggers choosers” you shrugged through the idiom with a chuckle “but no I meant be there for one another. It’s nice to have someone there, even if it’s just to exist next to them in silence”

“yeah it is” the admission again left him without much thought, a smile growing on him as he watched you perk up slightly at the response “for now though you need to get to bed and work on sleeping this off, you good to head home now?”

You nodded happily at the question, pushing yourself off the stool with practiced ease as you did so “Just need to grab my purse and I’ll be good”

He frowned at that “what purse?”

“Black tiny bag” you described it to him, looking around his apartment lazily “got my keys in it”

“You didn’t come in with a purse”

“no” you shook off the statement without a thought “I remember packing it before I left, got all my stuff in it”

“No I mean you didn’t come into my place with a purse” he explained slowly, watching as the news seemed to hit you, your shoulders dropping in defeat “You didn’t have it with you when you got off the elevator”

With a heavy sigh you cursed under your breath, the palms of your hands coming up to dig harshly into your eyes as you swore softly, the last of your fun drunkenness abandoning you fully.

With a huff Robby couldn’t help but smile at the move, gesturing back to his room with a nod “Go take a shower I’ll call the bar you were at and see if they have it”

With a grumble you nodded “thank you”

“Don’t worry about it” he shook you off as he pulled out his phone “bottom left drawer of my dresser should have clothes you can wear, take whatever you want”

Nodding you slowly pulled yourself off towards his room, tossing the name of the bar you were at over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

Calling confirmed the bar did in fact have your purse and were willing to hold onto it until the morning so Robby made sure to inform Jack he would be running a little late the next day so he had time to go with you to pick it up. By the time he had finished his calls and cleaned up the kitchen you had joined him back out in the living room, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with dripping hair in sweatpants that were just slightly too long and a shirt you had no business looking that good in.

“I’m sorry I could’ve helped clean”

He shook you off again with a swipe of his hand, practically forcing his eyes away from you as he surveyed the space around him “don’t worry about it there wasn’t much to do” he assured you, offering you the glass of water he had gotten you earlier “drink all of that first but go ahead and go to bed, we can go pick up your purse tomorrow”

With a nod you took the glass with a small thank you, “will you-uh-“ you stuttered on the words, fidgeting slightly on the spot making Robby frown “do you think we can share the bed?”

His furrowed brow raised as he realized what you were getting at, already shaking his head “Oh don’t worry about it I was already going to insist you take the bed anyways, I’ll sleep on the couch”

You chuckled nervously at that, taping your fingers on the side of the glass as you shook your head in response “no I mean. Just it was really nice last time we-ya know-shared the couch. Would it be okay if we did it again?”

Robby was at a loss for words at the question, his entire mind going blank on the spot as you fidgeted beneath his gaze.

“The answer can of course be no” you quickly cut in with a small laugh “I just haven’t slept as well since so I figured”

“Yeah” the word all but slipped out of him without his head clearing it, Robby finding in the moment that he didn’t really want to walk it back anyways “yeah we can share the bed”

Finally your fidgeting broke as you smiled in relief, relaxing on the spot as you nodded “okay good”

“You go on ahead I’ll meet you in there” he instructed softly with a smile “just gotta lock up first”

Giving him a nod you heeded his instructions, slipping underneath his covers on one side of the bed and laying still, listening to Robby’s nighttime routine as he locked the door and brushed his teeth.

When he finally made it back to the bedroom you could practically feel the hesitance rolling off of him as he stood beside the bed for a moment, not moving an inch as he debated just taking the couch anyways, before he carefully peeled back one corner of the blanket and slowly lowered himself, careful not to jostle the bed too much in case you were sleeping, careful not to get too close to what he considered ‘your side’.

You, however, were having none of that. The minute he seemed to settle you turned around and moved yourself beside him, placing your head directly onto his shoulder with a soft hum.

A startled inhale sounded from Robby as you did so, the muscles in his arm all tensing beneath you the second you made contact.

“I warned you, you make a comfortable pillow” you whispered out into the room attempting to cut the tension in the air. Something you seemed to at least partially accomplish as he huffed out a laugh in response, his arm remaining tense nonetheless “unless you’re uncomfortable cause we don’t have to-“

“no no” he interrupted you softly before you could get too far, his voice slightly hoarse causing him to pause as he cleared it quietly before continuing “could you just lift your head for a second”

Complying quickly Robby slipped his arm beneath your head and wrapped it around you wordlessly, prompting you to drop your head back down onto his chest and wrap your arm around him in response, one leg naturally tangling with his as you buried yourself fully into Robby’s side with a content hum that made him chuckle.

Your mind stayed fixed on the soft patterns he was tracing on your arm with his finger, wondering if he was even aware he was doing it. “Thanks for saving me tonight Robby”

Another appreciative laugh escaped him, your head bobbing slightly as his chest rumbled with it “’saving’ is a strong word there, I just gave you a place to crash, basic human decency”

And you thought about arguing the point, pushing back on his refusal to properly accept your thanks, point out that he was doing a lot more than the ‘basic’ nice thing. But if you knew Robby, and you were starting to think maybe you did, that would just make things worse, would just push him further away, so you let it go, for now at least “and supplied the French fries. You can’t forget the French fries”

“You’re right I did save you didn’t I? Think they’ll knight me?”

“Pretty sure that only applies in England” you hummed back, enjoying the quietness of the moment, the simplicity of it, the lack of any expectation “maybe a key to the city?”

“Not nearly as cool”

“No. No it isn’t. We’ll get you something to make up for it” your next words left you in a sleepy whisper, your eyes already closed, your brain not conscious enough to fully recognize the weight of your words as they slipped out “you deserve nice things Robby”

His fingers stilled at the words, no sound escaping him as he went silent, staring at the ceiling above the bed, all while you finally succumbed to sleep.

-

Things changed after that.

It wasn’t quite as you hoped, you still went days without seeing one another but whenever you had a bad day you had someone to go to, someone you knew would be there for you without question, without comment if that’s what you preferred, and you knew Robby felt the same.

There was no dramatic change, you didn’t automatically start spending every night together but still you found your excuses to cuddle up every now and then.

Something that apparently wasn’t going unnoticed, at least on Robby’s end.

“You seem lighter lately. Happy almost” Dana’s comment came out of nowhere at the end of a fairly standard Thursday shift. As usual with the charge nurse there was no preamble, no beating around the push, no coddling of feelings, she went right to the issue. For the first time Robby found that he really wished she wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry?”

“No it’s good. It’s creeping out the med students, our number of charting errors have been cut in half” She smirked at him, a smile that foretold trouble he did not want to deal with.

“Ah then you’re welcome”

“So you gonna tell me about her?”

And there it was, the metaphorical shoe “her?”

“The woman who’s been making you happy” Each statement was said with such a level of confidence, of finality, it felt absurd to try and push back.

“There is no woman” And yet still he must.

“There has to be a woman”

An incredulous laugh left him at that as he finally lifted his gaze fully from the chart in front of him to look at her. “Is it so impossible to think I’m just feeling better lately” he knew how weak the argument would be before it even left his lips “Maybe I found inner peace”

And based on the glare Dana sent back at him she thought so too “Either there’s a woman or I’m asking Gloria to up suicide prevention measures on the roof”

“Ask her to hire more nurses while you’re at it”

Surely there had to be something else to do in the emergency department than badger him “Does she work here?”

Surely she had to accept his flat out denial eventually “There is no woman”

“There’s a woman” The two of them both tensed slightly at the emergence of a new voice, Purlah’s sudden arrival catching them both off guard.

Dana, however, recovered quickly with a wolfish grin “What do you know”

“I know a lot of things you’ll have to be specific” Purlah leaned on her forearms against the nurse’s desk as she settled eagerly into the conversation. Now was his time to escape.

“About the woman”

“The woman up front? Is there something to know?” The last question was directed to him as the two woman fixed him with their gaze, halting him mid tip-toe.

“I don’t even know who you’re talking about” Robby groaned softly, rubbing a tired hand over his face as he grabbed the first tablet he could see “now if you excuse me I think at least one of us should be doing thier job right now”

“Wait but the woman up front” Purlah stopped him before he could leave “She’s asking for you, says her name is Y/N Y/L/N”

A strange mix of panic and dejection filled Robby at the revelation, both feelings only growing as he watched Dana break out into a wolfish grin over Purlah’s shoulder as she watched his face drop before finally conceding “Yeah send her back”

Purlah nodded and took off and Robby knew news of your existence would be spread to every medical professional on the floor within the hour. So much for flat out denial.

“So there is a woman”

He refused to look at Dana as he switched out tablets “I promise it’s not what you think”

“Believe me I’m trying very hard not to think about it” she snorted, gaze pulling to the door to the ED as it opened and you scurried in behind Purlah, head ducked low and eyes planted firmly on the ground as you held a familiar looking kitchen towel to your hand “She’s cute”

“Not a word” Robby tossed the empty threat over his shoulder as he made his way to the room you were being placed in, choosing to ignore the cackle Dana let loose as he did so, instead putting all of his focus on your clearly panicked figure that sat up on the bed before him.

“Hey I’m really sorry”

“Don’t be sorry” he brushed you off easily, docking the tablet and pulling on a pair of gloves with practiced ease “What’s going on”

“I cut myself honestly a while ago and it hasn’t stopped bleeding” you held the towel wrapped hand out in front of you, offering it to him, speaking much faster than you normally did.

“Alright let’s take a look” he tried to slow down purposefully, to speak lowly and quietly, to put as much calm into his tone as he could.

“Again I’m so sorry to bother you at work and ask for you specifically I didn’t-“ Still you took off at double speed, not even making eye contact with him as you spoke.

“Hey you’re okay you should always come in with stuff like this” he cut you off with a reassurance, hand coming out to squeeze your knee in a small offer of comfort.

“Yeah I know I just feel like I used you to bypass the whole line and you guys probably have a whole system in place-“

“You’re rambling what’s going on” he cut you off again, a small frown as he watched you squirm on the spot, gaze never staying in one spot for long enough to be natural.

“I don’t really do hospitals well” you admitted shyly, the corners of Robby’s mouth ticking up slightly at your words as he shrugged.

“That’s okay me neither”

For the first time your eyes finally met him as you sent him a cold glare “you’re not helping”

He tried desperately to fight back his smile “Okay I’m sorry but listen, small cut, just a few stitches, we’ll have you out of here in no time”

“Right sure, few stitches” he let you all but talk to yourself as he gathered the suture supplies, tuning back in when he heard you voice raise slightly as you addressed him “I’m assuming that requires a needle”

“If you’d prefer I can hold the skin together myself until it starts to heal but I’ll warn you my hourly rate is incredibly expensive”

Another death glare was sent his way, he choked back a chuckle.

“Jokes’re really not helping got it.” He changed tactics with a warm smile, planting himself onto a backless stool a breath away from you, giving your knee a soft knock with his own “I’ve done a million of these it’ll be over before you know it”

Still you looked at him skeptically, a look that told him you were seriously considering his offer of simply holding your skin together himself.

“Hey you’re the one that told me I was a good doctor not that long ago, let me prove you right”

That finally got to you, a dramatic huff leaving you as you deflated slightly on the spot, a defeated “fine” slipping through your teeth Robby couldn’t help but chuckle at as he got the lidocaine ready.

“That’s the spirit. Now local anesthetic, small pinch and a burn” The words came out quickly, more one amalgamation of sound than individual words, his brain already starting to go through the motions when he paused “Imma need you to stop tensing, it’s just going to make it worse”

“Yeah I know I’m sorry” you sighed out the words, giving your shoulders a little shake to try and relax.

“You’re still tensing”

“I can’t help it I’m freaking out” the words exploded out of you as you tried to pull your hand back, Robby grabbing you by the wrist softly to try and direct you back into place.

“Hey hey look at me” he approached calming you down like dealing with a wild animal, entirely soft words and slow movement “sweetheart please I’ve got you. Do you trust me?”

With a huff you let him have you hand back, staring back at him blankly with an expression that told him the second he let go of you you were out the door.

“I’m going to pretend this hesitation doesn’t hurt”

With a roll of your eyes you sighed again, forcing a deep breath as you shook out the tension in your shoulders once more before refocusing your gaze, locking eyes with him and nodding softly “yeah I trust you”

Before you could even think of doing anything else he inserted the needle and depressed the plunger, pulling back quick enough to escape the way you dramatically snatched your hand back from him “Fuck did you just stab me with a needle without looking”

“I told you I’ve done a few of these” he shrugged with a smirk, already moving on to prepare the next step.

“Did you do each of them blind too?”

“The needle was already lined up” he motioned for you to give him your hand back, unable to keep the smile off his face as you glared at him.

“No I’m not listening I want a new doctor”

“What if I promised to look when I actually do the stitches”

“That should be a given?” The words came out in an incredulous shriek that had Robby fully laughing

"I'll give you a lollipop when we’re done”

You narrowed your eyes at him at the offer, hand on your injured wrist tightening slightly before you suddenly thrust it back at him with a huff “If I have a scar I’m suing”

“Deal” he conceded easily, threading his needle and inserting it before you could call it off again, the cut requiring just two quick stitches Robb had you done in minutes “See that wasn’t too bad”

Only when he had finished bandaging did you pull back your arm again, cradling it protectively into your chest as you sent him another glare “I want you to know I’m leaving this hospital with emotional pain as well as the physical pain I was already in”

“Oh that’s my specialty” Robby snorted as he started to clean up “Call it a two for one special”

“I’m demanding a red lollipop in recompense”

Robby looked surprisingly sheepish at that, hands tucked deep into his pockets as he swayed back on his heels “ah so about that we don’t actually have lollipops here. More of a family medicine thing”

You let the silence stretch uncomfortably as you glared at him, crossing your arms over your chest for an effect that pulled a small snort out of him.

“I can offer you a crisp five dollar bill for the vending machine though”

“And you lie to patients” you mused with an shake of your head and a condescending tsk “I’m adding this to my pile of evidence for the malpractice suit”

“My first name’s Michael just so you can make sure to get the right person on that”

You paused at that, cocking your head to the side slightly as you asked “is it really?”

“Yeah” he chuckled softly “you didn’t know that?”

“Always thought your parents just had a thing for alliteration” You shrugged it off with a smile, watching the corners of his tick up in response “seriously though thank you for this. I know I’m not the easiest patient”

“You didn’t get bodily fluids on me or try to hit me so that’s a win in my book”

“Damn so the bar’s low”

“Everytime I think we hit rock bottom someone shows up with a pickaxe to prove we can go deeper”

You let out an almost hollow chuckle, a sound more to fill the awkward silence following a statement you guessed held more truth than you could know.

“About what you said earlier” he hedged the words in, seemed almost hesitant to let them fall.

“I feel like I shouldn’t be held responsible for anything that comes out of my mouth for the duration of this visit”

He chuckled appreciatively at the break in tension, running his knuckles up and down across the palm of his other hand as he looked at you for a moment before physically shaking himself out of it “no I mean if you’re ever back here again, for any reason, tell the nurses to come find me okay? Don’t worry about messing up our system I promise it’s a myth anyways, just come find me”

You couldn’t help but smile back at him at that, the promise falling softly from your lips “I will”

“Good” he answered just a softly with a nod “now how are you getting home”

“Ah I walked” you answered sheepishly “Tried to delay the inevitable for as long as possible”

He shook his head at that but didn’t say anything to condemn it, reaching into his pockets to pull out his wallet “I get off in 45, here”

You furrowed your brow as he tried to thrust a few folded bills into your hand “oh you don’t have to”

“Please it was cruel of me to dangle candy in front of you without following through” he was brushing off your denial quickly, grabbing your hand to force the money into your fingers when you refused to grab it “Get yourself something from the vending machine and wait in the breakroom I’ll take you home”

“Its not that far” you tried again

“Let me anyways” and you could see the silent question in his eyes, the plea, it was a look not dissimilar to the one he wore when he showed up at your door late at night.

“Which way’s the breakroom”

He responded with a soft smile, making his way behind you and leading you forward with a hand at the small of your back, stopping just outside the door to point to a room across the way. “Just through there, I’ll come find you when I’m done”

With a nod you started to make your way to the room, not making it more than a step before he was calling back to you.

“Also if a blonde woman introduces herself as Dana you run in the opposite direction”

“You realize that just makes me want to talk to her more right?”

“It was worth a shot”

-

For perhaps the first time in his life Robby was ready to leave work on time, some may even say he was eager to do so. And if the smirk on her face was anything to go by Dana was certainly one of these people.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve checked your watch in the past five minutes”

Robby chose to ignore her teasing tone, bouncing on his feet lightly as he eyed the board with dread “My shift did end five minutes ago”

She snorted at that, shaking her head as she watched him avoid her gaze “I wasn’t aware you knew what time your shift ended”

Robby sent her a cutting glare “I don’t suppose you’re going to get on Jack’s case like this too for being five minutes late when he’s always twenty early”

She sent him a dangerous smirk and a shrug “Don’t have to Jack’s here already”

Robby furrowed his brow at that, casting his gaze over the bustling ED in search of the attending “He is? Since when?”

“Bout twenty minutes ago” there was a forced casualness to her tone that made him dread whatever she was going to say next “I sent him to the breakroom for coffee, weird he hasn’t come back yet”

Another sharp glare was sent her way she couldn’t help but grin under “You’re too invested in my personal life”

“What personal life” she snorted “thought you said ‘it’s not what you think’”

“I’m leaving” he declared with a nock on the desk “you should too”

“You going to offer to walk me home too” she called after him as he made his way to the bank of lockers, enjoying the pointed way he ignored the comment.

Grabbing his things quickly he threw his bag over his shoulder and made his way to the breakroom, barging through the door without a thought to see you and Jack sitting side by side, the corners of his mouth tipped up in as close to a smile as Jack got while your soft laugh rang through the air, your injured hand without any of the dressings he had so carefully applied half an hour ago cradled softly in one of his.

“Hey Robby” Your greeting snapped him out of his staring contest with your hands, his gaze meeting yours across the room as you offered him a soft smile.

“Hey” he greeted back, watching Jack slowly, deliberately, retract his hand from yours “is everything alright with your stitches?”

“Yeah they’re good” you affirmed happily “Jack just wanted to take a look at them”

Jack, not Dr. Abbot or even just Abbot, Jack.

“Can’t remember the last time you did stitches, gotta make sure you don’t horribly scar the poor girl” if the smirk on Jack’s face was anything to go by the man knew exactly what he was doing.

“And the verdict is?”

“I’ve seen worse”

He snorted humorous-lessly “high praise coming from a combat medic”

Jack sent him another smirk before turning back to you “let me get you another set of dressings and you’re good to go”

“I got it” Robby cut in before Jack could get up, not enjoying the amusement that danced in the man’s eyes as his gaze cut back to Robby still standing in the entryway.

“I don’t mind-“

“I said I got it” Robby forced a polite smile to his face, one he knew didn’t reach his eyes, a fact that only made Jack’s smirk deepen “Besides I heard you have a case of explosive diarrhea to take care of in south 7”

Jack chuckled as he leaned slightly closer to you, stage whispering while he kept his gaze on Robby “I think I’m in trouble”

You giggled back at him knocking your shoulder against his playfully as you stage whispered back “you better go before you get me in trouble too”

Standing up slowly Jack made his way out of the breakroom finally, sending Robby off with a mirth filled smile and a slightly too aggressive set of pats on the shoulder, finally leaving you and him alone in the breakroom.

“In my defense you told me to avoid Dana, nothing in there about Jack”

With a huff he shook his head, dropping his back next to you “My mistake clearly. Now lets get you some new bandages and get out of here before she has a chance to sink he claws into you”

“Ah you’re about thirty minutes too late for that” you giggled at the way he sighed dramatically at that, sitting down next to you to start applying a new set of bandages to your hand. “I like your coworkers though, they’re nice”

He chuckled at that with a shake of his head “nice is not the word I would go with there, try lacking any semblance of boundaries”

“The best of friends are” you shrugged with a grin, Robby unable to help himself from mimicking it as he finished off your bandage.

Finally free to leave the hospital the two of you made your way out, Robby doing his absolute best to avoid the gaze of everyone as he led you through the packed waiting room. Only when he was safely outside with you did he finally breathe easy.

The silence between the two of you as you walked stretched, blanketed the surrounding area, he couldn’t help but focus on it and yet it didn’t feel oppressive, didn’t feel awkward, he didn’t feel the need to try and break it.

This was the moment everything changed, there was a charge in the air you could feel, a weight to the moment that was palpable.

Robby looked down at you wordlessly, eyes dancing over your face as he just studied you for a moment, the corners of his mouth tipping up as you offered him a soft smile.

“Let me take you out” a simple offer, said on a shrug, followed by an endearing clarification “like on a date”

It wasn’t a grand declaration, wasn’t a cathartic clash, wasn��t a dramatic outpouring of emotion. It was quiet, casual, understated. A facsimile of that first time you spoke in the hallway. A simple hand held out, palm up. An offer for the taking.

“I’d like that”

You hadn’t known all that would result from that chance meeting late at night in the hallway. Hadn’t known all of the comfortable silences, awkward moments, and heartfelt conversations that would be shared in the weeks to come. And honestly you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[demie90s]

Vixen

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE | Part 2

Summary: Azzi and Paige are happily dating. Then you shows up—cool, chaotic, and bold in ways no one was prepared for.

Genre: Poly sapphic, tension-soaked seduction, possessive wooing, good girl gone feral, dom/sub undertones, study-date-gone-wrong

Warnings: SMUT. Explicit sensuality, lap grinding, thigh-touching, biting, neck grabbing, hand placement chaos, poly tension, reader being a menace

Word Count ~ 4.6k

Azzi thinks I’m being nice. She thinks I smile like that at everyone. She thinks the iced coffee with extra vanilla I left outside her locker was coincidence. Thought the new pen with the soft blue ink I “dropped” beside her notebook during film was just me being clumsy.

She doesn’t know I looked at four different brands before picking one with a grip soft enough not to mess with the callus on her middle finger. She doesn’t know I caught the way she presses too hard when she writes, that I watched her circle letters like she’s afraid they’ll disappear if she moves too fast. She doesn’t know—but she’s starting to feel it.

The first time I touched her was barely anything. My fingers brushed her shoulder as I passed her in the hallway, close enough to make her turn. She said hey. I said her name like it tasted sweet. Then I kept walking. You don’t hunt girls like Azzi with noise. You wait. You gift. You give. You watch them blink slow and wonder why your voice makes them breathe different. That’s how it starts.

By Tuesday I’ve made her laugh twice. I didn’t try. She laughed because I said her hoodie looked like a baby cloud trying to be tough. Then again when I told her my playlist had a song named after her.

It didn’t. Not yet. But if she asked, I’d make one. She started noticing me after that. Not just seeing—noticing. Her head turned faster when I spoke. She started standing near me when Paige talked to the team. Close enough to feel me even if we didn’t touch.

Paige watches, but not like Azzi. Paige looks like she’s solving something. She doesn’t like me. Not in the fight me way. In the why are you here way. I smile at her too. I don’t want her. Not yet. Not the way I want Azzi. Not with the sweetness. Paige would need something different. Rougher. Smarter. But that’s not now. Now is Azzi.

I gave her her favorite snack today. Didn’t say I knew it was her favorite. Just slid it over the table during team study and looked at her like I forgot I even had it. She said thank you. Ate it slow. Eyes kept coming back to me. I didn’t press. Didn’t smile too wide. Just kept my tone low. Kept my face soft. Told her I liked her handwriting. Watched her blush.

That night Paige cornered her in the hallway and asked if I was flirting. I wasn’t there. But I heard about it. Heard Azzi said she didn’t know. That maybe I was just being nice. That I hadn’t said anything really. I don’t need to. Not yet.

Thursday she wore her hair different and I complimented her like it wasn’t killing me. Like I hadn’t been imagining what it smelled like. I said she looked fresh. She smiled like it mattered.

By Friday she was looking for me. I caught her standing still at the edge of the gym, eyes scanning the floor until they found mine. When they did, she smiled. Came over without thinking. I asked how her day was. She said boring until now.

Later that night I heard her talking to Paige. Quiet. Frustrated. Azzi doesn’t get it. She told Paige she doesn’t think I like her. That maybe I’m just charming. Paige rolled her eyes. Said I’d buy her land if she asked. Said I look at her like she’s a song I’m trying to memorize. Azzi didn’t disagree.

And then she said it.

She said maybe Paige should get to know me. Said maybe we’d get along. That I’m not how she expected. That there’s something about me.

She said she wanted to set up a study date. She thinks she’s making a bridge. She doesn’t know she just opened the door. And I’ve already stepped inside.

Azzi invites me like it’s casual. Like it’s not a loaded gun dressed up as a Google Calendar event. She says, “You should come study with us. Paige could help with the econ midterm,” like I’ve ever needed help with anything. I don’t blink.

Don’t smile too fast. I just tilt my head and say, “Yeah. That’d be nice.” And when she smiles back, I know she feels it. The shift. The weight of the choice she just made. Paige watches her too long after that. Like she’s trying to read a text message that wasn’t meant for her.

We don’t meet at a library. Azzi’s apartment smells like clean linen and coconut conditioner. Paige opens the door. Doesn’t move aside right away. Just looks at me like she’s bracing for a storm she can already feel coming. I say thank you like I mean it. She doesn’t respond.

Azzi’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, notebooks open, pen between her fingers. Her hair’s up. Skin glowing. She looks up when she hears my voice and her whole face changes—softens, glows, stretches into something warm. “Hey,” she says, voice lifted like I made the room brighter. I walk toward her slow, not too dramatic, not too bold. But intentional. Always that. And then I do it. I hug her.

It’s not a quick hug. Not stiff. My arms wrap fully, body relaxed like I belong there. She hesitates for half a second—then melts. Leans into it like her bones remember me. I smile against her neck. Slow. Soft. Linger long enough to feel her exhale.

And when I pull back, I don’t look at her. I look at Paige. I don’t smirk like I’m being messy. I smirk like I already know what comes next. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just patient. Just wait. Paige blinks. Jaw tight. She doesn’t speak.

Azzi’s already turning, sitting back down like she doesn’t feel the static stretch between the three of us now. Like she didn’t notice the way my thumb brushed the back of her shoulder when I let go. But she did. They both did.

And I haven’t even opened my notebook yet.

Azzi’s trying to focus. She really is.

There’s a notebook in her lap, pen cap between her teeth, and your voice is steady, calm, low like warm honey pouring over numbers. You’re explaining something. Macroeconomics, maybe. Could be climate science. Neither of them’s hearing it. Paige pretends she’s reading. Azzi pretends she’s breathing.

You shift again. Wiggle your hips just enough to adjust your seat on the hardwood floor between Azzi’s legs. You sigh. “Sorry,” you say, soft, like a secret. “This is kind of uncomfortable. Do you mind if I…”

You don’t finish the sentence. You just slide up. Into Azzi’s lap.

Slow. Controlled. Back pressing into her chest. Her hands flinch like she’s not sure what to do. Then settle—one on your hip, one flat on the floor. You keep explaining. You don’t even look at her.

Paige does.

She’s watching with her mouth slightly parted, brow tense, hands still on her own notebook like she might remember how to study if she just keeps pretending. She’s never seen Azzi like this. Never seen her body tense like it’s bracing for impact. Never seen her hips twitch forward like she doesn’t trust her own restraint.

Your voice doesn’t change.

You just keep talking, your rhythm slow, matching the hum of a low Drake beat playing from someone’s speaker in the next room. You lean forward a little, pressing more firmly into Azzi’s lap, like it’s nothing. Like this is how you always study. Like you belong here.

Azzi breathes in too sharp.

You feel it in her chest against your back. Her fingers twitch. Then slide around your hips again. Lower. Gripping. Guiding. Her thighs tighten beneath you. And your body moves without effort, soft rolls of your hips against her, gentle pressure, just enough friction to tease.

At first she hums. A warning.

“Mmm… you gotta stop,” she whispers, voice strangled. You shift again. Slower.

“I forgot,” you whisper back. “Sorry.” But you’re not sorry. Not at all. And she knows it.

“Oh my god,” Azzi gasps behind you. “Mhmm. Keep—keep moving.”

You do. Your hips grind soft and patient, back rolling into her like a wave. She’s not focused anymore. Not on Paige. Not on studying. Not even on you. Just on the way your ass is pressing between her legs, on the pressure against her clit, on how fast she’s losing control. Her grip tightens. She uses you. Pulls your hips back into her like you belong to her, like you owe her something, like she’s chasing that high and nothing else matters.

You lean forward onto the desk like a gift. And she follows.

Hands braced on your hips, dragging you closer with every roll, breath stuttering against your shoulder. Then she bites your neck. Hard. Trying to quiet herself. You don’t flinch. Don’t move away. You just hum through it.

And your eyes? Locked on Paige. You’re watching her the whole time.

She’s frozen. Staring. Mouth parted. Hand slowly sliding off her pen like she forgot what fingers do. She’s never seen Azzi like this. Raw. Needy. Using someone. Begging in the form of breathless movements. Her face is flushed. Her thighs are trembling. She’s gone.

And you’re still calm. Still smirking.

Azzi gasps again—louder. Her hand moves to the back of your neck, gripping hard, pulling your spine into a curve as she buries her face deeper into your shoulder. You don’t stop moving. You don’t speak. She’s shaking now.

Grinding into you like the desk doesn’t exist. Like Paige doesn’t exist. Like nothing matters but the pressure building between her legs. The way your hips catch perfectly against hers. The way you don’t break character.

And when she cums—because she does—it’s with a whimper and a bite. Her forehead buried in your neck, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. Her hands trembling around your waist, holding on like she needs something to ground her.

You lean back just a little. Tilt your head. Let her breathe through it. And you still haven’t looked away from Paige. She’s breathing heavy. Flushed. Shocked. Turned on. You smile, soft. Tilt your head a little.

“Wanna switch seats?” you whisper. And she doesn’t say no.

Azzi’s still trembling.

Her breath is warm in the dip of your shoulder, her hands weak around your waist, and her thighs haven’t stopped twitching beneath you. You don’t say anything. You just breathe with her. Let her come down slow.

But your hand’s already moving. Lower. Backward.

She shudders when your fingers slide between her thighs again. You’re slow with it, sensual, like you’re testing a pool with your feet before stepping in. You feel how soaked she still is. How sensitive. She whimpers—high, sweet, overwhelmed.

“T-too much,” she whispers. You hum softly.

Still exploring her. Still dragging your fingers through the mess she left behind. Not for her. Not for you.

For Paige.

You bring your hand up slow, fingers glistening. Azzi watches, wide-eyed, breath caught in her chest. And you turn to Paige.

Paige, who hasn’t moved. Paige, who looks flushed and guilty and hypnotized. Your eyes lock with hers. And they don’t move.

You bring your fingers to her mouth like it’s nothing. Like it’s natural. Like this is part of the study plan. Her lips part, automatic. Reflex. But her breath catches.

You murmur, “You wanna taste her, baby?”

She flinches.

“W-wait—”

You press your fingers gently against her bottom lip. Slow. Rubbing the slick across it like gloss. Her eyes flutter.

“You don’t have to open up,” you whisper, voice soft, low, warm. “You just have to stop pretending you don’t want to.”

She doesn’t stop you. She doesn’t move. So you push your fingers past her lips. Slow.

Paige moans—quiet, surprised.

She closes her lips around your fingers and starts to suck. Tentative at first. Then deeper. Her eyes roll, just a little, before snapping back to you.

You don’t break eye contact. Not for a second.

You lean in, watching her tongue glide across your skin. Watching her lips wrap around what was just inside her girlfriend. Your breath is calm. Her hands are gripping the desk like she needs something to keep her anchored.

And then— You kiss her. Right there. Tongue slipping into her mouth while she’s still tasting Azzi. While she’s still wet from the kiss of your fingers. You moan into it. She gasps, but doesn’t pull away.

You take your time. Let her have it. Let her taste everything. The mess. The sweetness. The heat. Azzi’s still behind you. Watching. Breathing heavy. Face red.

You just smile into Paige’s mouth. Then pull back. Soft. Smug.

And whisper, “Study’s going real well, huh?”

Your lips are still wet when you pull back from Paige. Her eyes half-lidded, pupils blown, chest rising like she’s catching up to something her body already agreed to. You turn slowly. Look back at Azzi. She’s stunned.

Still breathless. Still trembling from what you already pulled from her. Glossy-eyed, mouth parted like she forgot how to close it. You crawl toward her on your knees—slow, predatory. Controlled.

She flinches when you reach for her, fingers ghosting over her waistband.

“I don’t think that was enough, Azzi,” you say, voice low, head tilted, tone soft like a lullaby with claws underneath. You slide your fingers up her stomach just under her hoodie, feel her tense. You pout. Faux sweet. “We need more of you.”

Azzi shakes her head. “It’s too much,” she whispers, already buckling.

You lean in close. Eyes on hers. “No, no, honey,” you breathe. “You can take it… right?”

She looks at you like she’s breaking open. Lips trembling. And then—your gaze shifts. To Paige. Who’s watching. Still flushed. Still quiet. But begging now.

“…Please,” she whispers. Voice cracked. “Please, Azzi.”

Azzi chokes on a whine. Her thighs press together and Paige is already crawling beside her. One hand brushes her shoulder. One brushes your back. Paige looks at you like she’s given in, like she’s not choosing sides—she’s just yours now too.

You smirk. Sinister. Slow.

Eyes locked with Azzi as your fingers slide back down. One hand holding her waist, the other slipping into the front of her shorts like you’ve done it a hundred times. She arches into you instantly, breath caught, legs spreading without command.

You’re laser-focused. Addicted to her expression.

She gasps when your fingers find her again—soaked, needy, hot. Paige watches. Breathless. Her eyes flick between Azzi’s face and your hand. She’s frozen and flushed and already gone.

Azzi moans, high-pitched, soft and ruined. “Please—”

You curl your fingers. Twist your wrist. Move slow and deep.

“Shhh, baby,” you whisper. “Let me.”

And she lets you. Her head drops. Her hips roll into your hand. Your mouth is at her throat, then her collarbone, then her stomach. You kiss her down. Bite where the waistband cuts into her skin. Then you stop.

“Take these off,” you murmur, tugging at her shorts.

She lifts her hips like she’s not in control of them anymore. You pull them down slowly. She’s glistening, thighs sticky, hips twitching. You glance at Paige.

She’s watching you with something close to awe. One hand already sliding behind your head, gently guiding you down.

Like she’s been waiting. You don’t say a word.

You bury your face between Azzi’s legs like it’s the only place your mouth belongs. You eat her like a need. Like you’re starved. Like her pleasure is a language only your tongue can translate.

Azzi sobs—one hand gripping her shirt, the other lost in your hair. Her legs shake, her back arches, and her voice is high and cracked and broken.

And Paige watches you work. Hand firm on the back of your head. Not rushing. Not controlling. Just feeling. Like she enjoys it more than either of you. You’re not even smirking now. You’re too busy devouring.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been down here. Knees aching. Jaw sore. But you don’t care. Your eyes are shut, nose pressed deep between Azzi’s thighs, the wood floor hard beneath you and completely forgotten. You lost time five orgasms ago. You only come up for air when you feel her legs trembling too hard to hold you steady.

Azzi’s moaning like she’s unraveling thread by thread. You don’t hear Paige moving at first. But you feel her.

A sharp tug yanks your head back by the roots—fingers buried in your hair with purpose. You gasp, mouth open, glossy lips slick with Azzi, panting like a woman possessed.

Then lips. Paige’s. Hot. Demanding. Grinning. She kisses you like she earned it. And you groan right into her mouth.

“Gonna make her pass out,” she murmurs against your lips, breath hot, tongue slipping past your teeth like she wants to taste what’s got you so lost. She does taste it.

Azzi’s still twitching on the bed behind you, somewhere between breathless and boneless, arm flung over her eyes, body glowing. She’s floating.

You’re not. You’re still hungry. You shimmy out of your ruined shorts—no shame, no pause—and reach for Paige’s waistband like you forgot what patience is. You kiss her again, harder this time, teeth dragging her bottom lip as your hand tugs hers down.

She pulls back with a smirk, panting slightly, brow raised. “You don’t want a break?”

Your eyes are wild. Your voice is wrecked. “No.”

She watches you for a beat. Then reaches down to yank her own shorts off like she’s been waiting for that answer all night. You don’t even give her time to settle—your mouth is already back on Azzi’s, slow and syrupy, like she’s the next fix.

Azzi melts into the kiss, soft little gasps falling from her lips as your fingers slide between her thighs again—gentle this time, slow and rhythmic, just enough to keep her open and needy.

Then— Another sharp pull to your hair. Paige again. You gasp, breaking from Azzi’s lips as Paige leans over your shoulder.

“Let her breathe,” she says, biting into your earlobe.

You whimper. Because you weren’t going to. Because you were going to kiss Azzi ‘til she cried again. Because you’re not done. And neither are they.

Azzi’s still trembling when Paige scoops her up off the floor. Arms looped around her like she weighs nothing. She’s boneless in Paige’s grip, lips kiss-swollen, thighs slick, eyes dazed. You reach up like you’re gonna drag her back down. Paige swats your hand mid-air.

“Don’t even think about it.” You pout. Slow. Lazy. Not sorry. At all. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.”

Your eyes drop to Azzi’s inner thighs, glistening in the low light. “She looked like she wanted more.”

“She always looks like that after you touch her,” Paige mutters, already walking out the room. “That don’t mean she’s surviving it.”

You stay planted for a second, panting, flushed, leaking need all over Paige’s floor. Then you scramble up, grabbing whatever’s left of your self-control—which, to be honest, is nothing—and follow them.

Paige lays Azzi down on the bed like something delicate. Like she’s protecting her. But her eyes are locked on you the whole time. Azzi blinks up at her, lips parted.

You crawl up onto the bed like hunger personified. Hair messy. Mouth wet. Your hands reach again, slow, gliding up Azzi’s thigh from the foot of the bed.

Paige grabs your wrist mid-reach. Tight.

“No.”

You look at her. Eyes low. “She’s right there.”

“I see her.”

You blink. Frustrated. Wild. “I can’t think.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Paige says, pinning your wrist to the sheets. You groan.

Paige climbs onto the bed behind you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and pulls your head back. Your mouth opens on instinct. Azzi gasps, watching it all from the pillows like she’s in a dream. Paige kisses you rough. Possessive. Like claiming you. When she pulls back, her voice is low, her hand still tangled in your hair.

“From now on,” she whispers, “I say when you get to eat.”

Your breath hitches. You’re throbbing. She looks down at you like she’s making a decision in real time. Then she shifts behind you, presses her body against yours, forces your legs apart with her knee.

“You wanted to taste her so bad?” she murmurs, pressing her fingers between your thighs. “You’ll get what I give you.” You nod. Shaking. Paige smirks against your neck.

“And you don’t come,” she says, voice sharp. “Not until Azzi says you can.” Azzi gasps again. You whimper. Your mind? Gone. Only one thought left. Pussy.

Paige. She’s in charge. Just how she likes it.

Your body’s shaking. You’re half on your knees, half collapsed against the mattress, face buried in the sheets, legs spread open with no fight left in them. Paige is behind you, hair pulled back, mouth and chin soaked from thirty straight minutes of ruining you. She’s not gentle—never was. She eats like she’s starving, bites like she wants you to feel it for days. Your thighs ache. Your throat’s raw. You’ve begged a hundred different ways and she’s still not satisfied.

You’ve been holding off. Obeying. Barely.

Azzi’s just been watching. Laid up on her side, eyes heavy, face glowing, still panting from earlier. Occasionally her fingers trace your ass, trail up your back, curl in your hair. She giggles when you whimper, calls you cute every time your hips twitch too hard from Paige’s tongue. She’s teasing. Relaxed. Cruel in a way you crave.

You moan something desperate, face twisted, legs trembling again. And then Azzi moves.

She sits up slow, legs swinging off the bed, the straps already in her hand before you even look up. Paige pulls back, lips wet, breath hot against your lower back as she laughs and slaps your ass once—hard. Your body jolts.

Azzi steps up behind Paige, dragging the harness up her thighs, locking eyes with you.

“You wanted it so bad, right?” she says, her voice low, firm, with just the slightest smile pulling at her lips. “You can take it.”

Paige nods, smug as hell. “She can take it.”

You open your mouth to say something—maybe plead, maybe protest—but all that comes out is a whine. Your face is flushed, lips swollen, eyes glossy. You’ve been used. You’ve been kissed. You’ve been denied.

Now they’re going to fuck you.

Azzi climbs onto the bed, standing behind you, the strap long, dark, curved perfect like it was made to destroy. She spits into her hand, strokes the length slow, leaning down until her chest is brushing your back.

She drags the tip between your folds. You gasp.

“You’re dripping,” she whispers against your ear. “All that attitude. All that talk. And now you’re shaking like a little bitch in heat.”

She pushes in slow. You scream into the bed. Not a yell—a sob. It’s too much. Your pussy’s raw, lips swollen, clit oversensitive from Paige’s mouth. But Azzi doesn’t care. She grabs your hips and sinks in deeper. You cry. She moans.

“You feel that?” she says. “Feel how deep I am?”

Paige climbs onto the bed in front of you, straddling your arms, pinning you down by the shoulders. Her mouth finds your throat, your cheek, your lips.

Azzi starts moving. Deep strokes. Heavy. Unforgiving. Your body jerks with every thrust. The sound of skin and slick is obscene. Paige keeps your head in place, kissing you through every scream, whispering filth into your mouth.

“Such a messy little thing,” she says. “Bet you’d let us keep you like this. All night.”

You can’t speak. Just moan. Azzi leans over your back, driving deeper, pace faster now.

“You begged for this pussy. Begged for me. And now look at you—so fucked out you can’t even form a sentence.”

Her hand snakes under you, pressing against your clit. You scream again, voice high, broken. Paige grabs your jaw, holds your face steady.

“Keep looking at me,” she growls. “Wanna see your face when she breaks you.”

Azzi slams in harder. You shake. Your knees slip on the sheets. Paige grabs a fistful of your hair, tilts your head back, kisses you rough—tongue deep, lips bruising.

You’re gone. Mindless. Pussy drunk all over again. She doesn’t stop. She keeps fucking into you like she’s got a point to prove. Her hand tightens on your hip, knuckles going white.

“You gon’ cum on this dick?” she pants, biting your shoulder. “You gon’ make a mess all over me?”

You whimper something that sounds like yes but it’s drowned out by the way your whole body seizes up. Paige grabs your neck, kisses your temple, holds you down as Azzi buries every inch inside you and stays there.

You cum. Hard. Silent at first—then a scream, raw and guttural. Your thighs twitch. Your body collapses. Azzi stays pressed to your back, breathing heavy, still inside you, hands stroking your waist like she’s proud of her work.

Paige kisses your mouth one more time. Licks her lips. Smiles.

“Next time,” she murmurs, “we start with the strap.”

And all you can do is moan.

The room smells like sweat, coconut lotion, and the kind of sex that leaves your legs numb and your voice hoarse. The sheets are twisted, the comforter’s halfway off the bed, and your thigh’s still twitching against Azzi’s. But it’s calm now. Mostly.

Paige is on the other side, blanket kicked off her foot, hair up, water bottle abandoned on the floor. Azzi’s curled into your side, her head against your shoulder, lips kiss-swollen and eyes half-lidded like she’s still floating. You? You’re grinning. Barely covered. Still warm. Still glowing.

“I don’t know how y’all do this,” you mutter, stretching slow, muscles sore, voice raspy but cocky. “Y’all built different ‘cause I ain’t nevvaaa—”

“You literally started all this,” Paige says without looking up, wiping sweat off her chest with the back of her hand.

“No that’s all you,” you say quickly, blinking wide and fake innocent. “I was corrupted. I was pure.”

Paige turns her head slowly, side-eye deadly. “So what happened then? ‘Cause I distinctly remember you sliding your ass into my girlfriend’s lap like it was a recliner.”

“I dropped my contact,” you say flat. “And the rest… is history.”

Paige throws the nearest pillow at you, missing on purpose, smiling. “You’re so full of shit.” Then she sits up, stretches like a cat, and steps off the bed. “I’m grabbing something. Don’t start more shit.”

You nod, sweet. “No shit. Just healing.” But the moment she’s gone, you turn to Azzi.

Your body shifts slightly—just enough to trap her leg between yours, just enough to let your fingers skim over her hip again. Your voice drops.

Dark eyes locked on her.

“…you know I still want you,” you murmur. “Like now.”

Azzi groans. “I’m tired.”

You kiss her before she finishes. Slow. Deep. Like you never stopped. Like you still taste her. Your hand drifts back to her thigh, your tongue slides along hers, and the sound you make in the back of your throat is pure hunger.

When Paige walks back in, she stops dead. “Seriously? Do you not take breaks?” You’re still kissing Azzi when you hum, soft and breathy into her mouth.

“I could eat you both for hours and still want more.” Paige blinks. Azzi moans.You smirk.

And no one’s sleeping tonight.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin

[shiftingtribemaster]

Ok, Story time.

When I was younger I was a bit of a social outcast as I was a very “Out of the Loop” person (since I didn’t have a phone or iPad or anything technology like that). I also moved to where I live now when I was 7, so I definitely had to be the new girl.

I am also neurodivergent, so often I ran into the problem of people pretending to be my friend only to prove they never were.

When I was in 8-9th grade, I was harassed by a guy in the same grade. He messed with my head, would never leave me in peace, and got all of his friends involved. This got bad enough for me that I talked to my school counselor, and to this day we are not allowed to interact on school grounds.

The point of the matter is that I kept getting told to “ignore him” by my parents, and didn’t even know that what we was doing constituted as harassment.

I’ll explain this as simply as I can, so know that while this is not entirely accurate this is the best I can explain it.

After how much he messed with my head I started having a kind of “Shit List”, where even nowadays when anyone (but particularly guys) act toward me in any way that reminds me of him, they instantly go on that list and o can never be friends with them no matter the circumstance. I have yet to willingly interact with any of the people who have made this list, and I have a really hard time making friends with guys because of it.

I haven’t really talked to anyone outside of people close to me about how much this affects me because I don’t have the words (nor do I think my parents will truly listen and understand), and all I know is that I struggle to make friendships with all but a few guys who’ve never done anything wrong to me or that I knew prior.

I hate it, so fucking much, when someone else or myself is told to just ignore the bullies and suck it up.

Because there are psychological consequences to this kind of treatment, and we’re expected to move on like it never even happened.

—————————

For anyone who might be wondering and/Or concerned about me:

I’m actually in a really good place mentally at the time of writing this, and while I crashed out quite a few times I never dipped into complete depression during that time or now.

I do have a therapist who knows all the history, and I’m trying to work towards rebuilding my ability to be more open to guys. (Although with the current climate of both my country and my schooling, it’s not getting better).

While this guy and I are unable to interact, I learned from a former friend of his that he did it just to fuck with me, and as of right now has minor consequences.

I got an apology letter from him once. He was forced to write it, and I almost find it humerus nowadays at how much of a non-apology it is. I don’t think he really cared then, or cared now.

There’s more to this story but this is already a bit much and long, so if you have questions feel free to send me an ask. I’m willing to talk about how I dealt with it and am dealing with it, and in some cases it even helps to do so.

I wish you all an even better day tomorrow than you’ve had today, and I hope that someday we can teach kids the real effects of bullying, and nip it in the bud once and for all.

Shifty out.

Crazy how bullying is not really acknowledged as a real trauma like you really have to endure years and years of lord of the flies and then just move on like it never happened

[webslinger-holland]

AAAA in love with your depictions of all the characters:3 could you write the thunderbolts* reacting to you calling them by their last name? tysm :3

Prompt: The Thunderbolts react to you calling them by their last name.

Warning: fluff, some angst, angry reader moments

Note: Threw in some Alexei just for good laughs. Hope you like it!

Yelena: The two of you were circling each other during another sparring session. You duck under her arm mid-swing and land a clean hit to her side. You circled back into stance, muscles coiled and ready again.

The air between you crackled with challenge—and maybe something a little more personal beneath the friendly fight.

“Come on, Belova. You’re slow today.”

Instantly, Yelena stands up straight and her entire fight stance goes back to normal. Her hands fall back down at her sides, her shoulders drop like she's no longer in the mood.

She narrowed her eyes at you instantly. “No. Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Belova? You trying to sound like Valentina?” she teased, clearly disgusted. “That’s gross.”

You laughed. “I didn't think you'd hate it so much."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "It's not the name. It's the way you said it. Felt a little degrading."

You grinned. “Maybe that was the point.”

She rolled her shoulders, cracking a smirk. “Well, if you want to keep playing that game, you better be ready to lose.”

You laughed, stepping back into your stance. “Bring it on.”

Bucky: The mission had gone sideways, not catastrophically per se. It was messy, chaotic, and just sloppy work. During the height of it all, Bucky went off script which made you more mad than anything. You refused to speak to him on the way back to the safe house.

You stormed through the front door first, tossing your gear onto the couch with more force than necessary. He followed, though slower and more casual—like nothing had just happened.

“We made it out, didn’t we?” Bucky called out. He began peeling off his gear.

You didn’t turn around. “Barely.”

He sighed. “Oh, come on—”

"I'm not talking with you about this," you quickly cut him off, giving him a warning glare. You were still fuming and frustrated with him. And he knew it. "I'm going to go shower."

He says something under his breath. You stop walking. You turn back to face him ever so slowly.

"What was that?" You were seething now.

“What? Don’t give me that look—” Bucky shakes his head.

"Barnes."

He knew exactly what that meant.

The name cut through the air like a warning shot. He straightens immediately, swallowing thick and realizing the severity of your seriousness. You never use that name — not unless he’s in big trouble.

He watched you for a moment, jaw ticking like he was deciding whether or not to push his luck. Eventually, Bucky took some quiet calculated steps towards you. He watched you carefully, waiting for any more warning signs.

"Oh...I know that tone," Bucky said cautiously. He kept his movements limited, but still few closer to you. "You're mad at me."

You crossed your arms over your chest and spun around on the heels of your feet so that your back was facing him. You didn't even want to look at him right now, still beyond annoyed and frustrated by his reckless behavior.

“I hate it when you’re mad at me,” Bucky admitted softly as if trying to win you back. “Especially when you call me that. You say it like I’m someone you don’t even like.”

You threw a brief glance over your shoulder, still keeping composure. "Well, right now, I don't."

He cracked a small, sad smile. “Fair.”

Another beat passed. The tension had softened, but it was still there just coiled tight between frustration and care.

Bucky took a step closer. “Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

Finally, you willed yourself to turn around in order to face him head on. His breath caught in the back of his throat as he awaited your reaction. You looked at him, really looked, and let out a slow breath.

“Stop acting like you have to handle everything on your own.” Your voice still laced with venom.

“I’m trying,” Bucky nodded. “Old habits die hard.”

You scoffed, a sound almost playful. Your tight demeanor slowly melting away because he always seemed to know just the right thing to say.

"Will you forgive me?" Bucky wondered, catching your gaze and sounding hopeful.

Though you sported a soft smile on your lips, you still weren't willing to just cave into him like your normally did. He needed some punishment; otherwise, he'd never learn his lesson.

You strode towards the bathroom without saying another word, leaving him to watch your retreating figure. You didn't give him an answer, but he knew what this meant for him.

"I take it that means I'm sleeping on the couch tonight?" Bucky called after you.

"Damn right."

John: It was one of the many moments when John simply wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on his phone, scrolling endlessly through messages, articles, and whatever had his face on it.

You needed help carrying a heavy box into your room. Struggling near the doorway, you carefully set it down and looked over at him expectantly. You wiped the sweat from your brow.

“John,” you called, but he didn’t look up. You tried again, a little sharper this time. “John.”

Nothing again. You placed your hands on your hips, clearly annoyed that he wasn't listening to you at the moment. It was time to bring out the big guns.

"Walker!" That got his attention real fast.

He looked up, confused. He put his phone down. “Yeah?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him with your arms crossed over your chest.

"Wait. Did I do something?” John observed, seeing the obvious look of annoyance in your eyes.

“You weren't listening to me," you explained to him blankly.

“Okay…” He frowned. “But very rarely do you ever call me by my last name. It almost sounded like I was in trouble."

You blinked, raised a brow at him. “Do you want to be in trouble?”

He shrugged, sending you a slight smirk. “I mean… not unless it’s the fun kind?”

Your shoulders slumped. “Walker.”

He grinned nervously. “There it is again! Is this a dominance thing? A flirting thing? Am I—am I supposed to salute you right now?”

You leaned closer. “I could make you.”

Alexei: Getting ready for another mission, Alexei was already decked out in his gear, but there were very few times where he wasn't wearing the suit anyways. He quickly fitted his helmet securely on his head when he heard his name being called loudly down the hallway.

“Shostakov!"

"Uh oh.” He said to himself.

Hearing his name like that made his blood run cold and the color drain from his face. He cautiously made his way to the door and stepped into the hallway to find you standing there with your hands on your hips. Giving him that look.

“Shostakov?" Alexei repeated, clearly confused because you rarely said his last name like that. "What is this, prison? You trying to sound like KGB agent or angry ex-wife?”

You snorted. “You don’t like it?”

“I hate it,” Alexei made sure to enunciate. “Call me Alexei. Or Red Guardian if you are feeling romantic.”

You raised a brow. “Romantic?”

He winked. “Well, you calling me Shostakov—I assume you’re mad at me. I cannot allow this. Come here.” He held out his arms exaggeratedly.

You laughed, dodging around him, but he followed anyway.

“You wound me. You treat me like I'm some careless brute.” Alexei was always one for the dramatics. You threw a glance over your shoulder.

“You are a brute,” you explained to him. “Especially with that whole tall, loud, intimidating thing going on.”

His eyes gleamed instantly. He snapped his fingers like he'd just discovered something remarkable. “Ahhh. Now I see. You are flirting poorly, but enthusiastically. This I admire.”

You stopped in your steps, spinning around to face him. He held his hands up in surrender, almost afraid you'd hit him or something. “I am not flirting poorly.”

He took your hand, placed it over his chest. “Feel this? This is the heart of a man falling for you because you called him Shostakov with sass in your eyes and sin in your voice.”

You drew your hand away and grumbled under your breath. "At least I got your attention."

Ava: The whole team was gathered in the conference room for the updates, logistics, and information collected for an upcoming mission they were planning. The team sat in their designated seats, growing bored of listening to Valentina talk for hours on end.

By the end of the meeting, Valentina ordered you to hand out the files to each member. You dutifully passed them out in order.

You pass her a file without looking up.

“This one’s yours, Starr. Try not to phase through the intel this time.” You mentioned offhandedly.

Ava’s fingers froze on the pages. Her head lifted slowly, eyes narrowing. “You said that like I’m already guilty.”

You smile faintly. “You usually are.”

She cleared her throat, a little too loudly, and pushed to her feet. You both started toward the door, footsteps echoing softly in the empty hallway.

"You used my last name," Ava mentioned. Her eyes straight ahead so not to draw attention to them.

"Mhmm. Did I?" You teased.

"You usually only call me that when you’re annoyed.” Ava added. You were a few steps ahead, but she watched you from the corner of her eye.

You shrugged, not bothering to turn around. “Or when I want your attention.”

That stopped her—not physically, but you could feel the pause in her silence, the way the air shifted behind you. You didn’t look back.

But you didn’t need to.

She was already watching you. And you knew she'd follow.

Bob: You spot Bob fiddling with some tech gear in the corner of the room, completely focused. You walk up behind him, pretending to look serious. But really just doing it to mess with him.

"Be careful, Reynolds." You warned.

His head snapped up so fast you thought he’d given himself whiplash. He dropped the gear immediately like a child being caught doing something he wasn't supposed to to.

"If I catch you breaking another one of my gadgets, you’re going to owe me more than just an apology.”

He breathed a nervous laugh once he realized you were just messing with him. He put some distance between him and the table in front of him. He looked nervous, avoiding eye contact with you.

You tilted your head, noticing his odd behavior. “What’s with the face?” You asked.

“Well, you never call me that unless something’s wrong.” Bob noticed, now messing with his sleeves.

“Maybe something is wrong.” You smiled, but he misinterpreted it.

He panicked instantly; his hands flying up in deference. “I knew it. You saw the footage. I—I didn’t mean to break your favorite mug. I—It just slipped out of my fingers—"

You stared at him, mouth agape. “You broke my favorite mug?”

This time, Bob really flinched.

"You—you didn't know." Bob realized slowly, like he was only now realizing the true depths of his betrayal.

“No, Reynolds. I didn’t know.” You crossed your arms and he hated the way you used his name with that tone. “But I do now.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, honestly!” he rushed out. “Let me buy you a new one. Or—or fifteen new ones. Whatever you like. It's on me. I’ll handcraft one. I’ll invent pottery. Just—please don’t hate me.”

Your originally upset expression started to ease away at his idea. Your mouth twitched. The part of you that wanted to be mad stood no chance against his pleading eyes.

“You’d really buy me fifteen mugs?” You batted your eyelashes at him and he only smiled back.

"Whatever it takes to make you happy," Bob confessed truthfully.

You bit your lip, trying hard not to laugh. Your arms slowly dropped from their crossed position.

"You're lucky I like you," you silently forgave him and he couldn't help the smile that grew on his face.

"I think I'm the lucky one."

[em1i2a3]

The Dark Side

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Mutant!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob is having a really bad depressive episode, and you have been unanimously voted to go and provide him with the comfort that he needs to pull him out.

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of like…Oddly Fluffy but not much? Bob is going through it, Mentions of a Depressive Episode (in which Bob kind of destroys his room), Mentions of Blood/Bruises (descriptions are given of the injuries…Caused by the destroying of his room), Reader has the ability of Power Negation (rendering them unable to be Voided or sent into a shame room) and Telekinesis, Reader and Bob are very close, The Void is…In a large portion of this, like a huge portion of this…I need to write more Void tbh lol….Hinting at a part 2 possibly? I don’t know yet tho

Author’s Note: Someone requested Bob being the little spoon, and I truly loved the idea, so I took it and expanded it as much as possible to give it some…Bite. Hope y’all enjoy :) (also I’ve been literally waiting to use this song for something…And it’s so fitting)

Word Count: 7,652

The compound kitchen was too quiet for this many people. The silence thrummed with something unsaid, stretched thin and humming like a wire pulled too tight.

Ava sat cross-legged on the counter, shoulders hunched, chewing at the fraying edge of her gloved thumb. Every few seconds came the faint, squelching sound of wet leather between her teeth, rhythmic and uneasy. She didn’t seem to notice the sound–or maybe she did, and just didn’t care anymore. Her eyes were trained on the far wall where a few frying pans hung, staring at the one that was crooked and on the brink of falling.

Walker leaned against the fridge like a fixture, arms crossed so tight it made his biceps strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt. His jaw twitched once. His expression–stone-cold and unreadable–was that same military-grade stillness he defaulted to in times like this. Moments where concern might as well be weakness. Where admitting you were worried meant that something had already gone wrong.

Across the table, Yelena was perched in a chair like she’d rather be standing–back stiff, boot planted against the rung of the seat, fingers drumming out a frantic little pattern against the metal tabletop. It wasn’t idle. It was tight, and sharp. Like she was trying to match the tempo of her heartbeat and couldn’t quite keep up because it just kept changing.

Bucky stood with his weight braced against the sink, one hand wrapped around a chipped Thunderbolts mug–faded red and gray–but he hadn’t taken a sip in the last twenty minutes. Steam had long since stopped curling from the lip. His knuckles were white where they gripped the handle, and every so often, his thumb would twitch like he might lift it to his lips, but he never did.

Alexei was in the chair beside you, the wood creaking with every restless shift of his weight. Normally the loudest in any room, he was unusually subdued now. His thick forearms were folded across his stomach, and his eyes–usually wild and reactive–were narrowed, watching Walker with something unreadable. His fingers tapped once against the edge of his knee, then stopped.

And you…You sat stillest of all.

Watching, listening and waiting. Because you already knew what this emergency team meeting was about. Knew it the second you got the text. The second you stepped into this room and counted the people present. There was only one person missing–and it wasn’t like him to be absent for anything.

”We need to talk about Bob.” Yelena muttered, breaking the silence. Her voice was low, but firm. There was a collective exhale of something heavy settling into the room, like everyone had been holding the thought behind their teeth and didn’t want to be the one to name it.

“He hasn’t come out in two days,” Bucky added, voice hoarse from not talking in a while, “Knocked last night…No answer. Door was locked too.”

“I phased through the wall this morning,” Ava said, voice clipped, jaw tense “Couldn’t even be in there for more than a few seconds. Got thrown into the door…Had to get the hell out pretty quickly.” Walker glanced over at Ava.

”Yeah, cause The Void’s in there, it’s not Bob.” He mumbled grimly. You felt the words before you heard them. That faint pressure behind your sternum. Like something whispering from the edge of a black hole. Bucky’s gaze found the floor.

”Last time it was like this, he didn’t eat for a week, he didn’t sleep, he just sat on the floor staring at the wall until we talked him out of it…This time I heard him breaking things in his room…I truly don’t think speaking to him is going to work this time.” He stated, shifting from one foot to the other.

”So we send someone in.” Alexei suggested, his gruff voice cutting through the tension in the room.

“And what?” Walker scoffed, pushing off the fridge just enough to gesture with one hand “Get them sent to a shame room? I’m not going through that again.” The words hung in the air. Heavy and acidic.

And then the silence came again–heavier than before, only this time there was this sort of feeling like everyone was waiting for something.

That’s when you felt it.

Eyes. Not all at once. Not direct. Just quick, darting glances. One after another. Like everyone had the same thought, but no one wanted to say it out loud. Not until–

“Y/N…” Yelena’s voice was quiet and measured, like she was testing the water of a pool, “Would you be willing to try?” You looked over at her slowly. Her brows were pinched, mouth set, but her gaze didn’t flinch. Not from you, and certainly not from what she was asking. Before you could answer, Walker jumped in.

”Nothing happened to you when he Voided New York, right?” Your lashes fluttered a bit, and you could feel your face heat up. Your fingers twitched where they rested against your thigh, and slowly your gaze dropped to your hands–open, resting palm-up.

“Well…No,” You replied softly, “But I don’t think it would be the best idea to send me in.” Walker opened his mouth, but you lifted your chin and cut him off, voice firmer now, “I think I make The Void angrier…Because he can’t…Y’know–“

”Go through every bad memory you have, and make you relive every single one like it just happened?” Bucky interrupted gently, now taking a loud sip from his mug. You turned your head toward him, and his eyes met yours. Steady and understanding of your point.

”Yeah…Pretty much.” You murmured. Another beat of silence passed.

Then Walker let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Then why the hell do we even have you on this team if you don’t want to use your powers for something as small as this?” Your eyes snapped back to him, eyebrows lifting as your expression flattened into something cool and sharp.

”Last time I checked, Walker,” You started, “I saved your ass from a bunch of mutants in Slovenia.” He opened his mouth to say something, but you went on, “Remember that? The underground lab. The one where they lured you in with fake hostages? The one where Bucky’s arm got fried while you were too busy playing Captain Knockoff to notice the tripwire?” Walker blinked at you, his gaze dropping to the ground.

”And if I wasn’t there to dampen and take away their powers, you’d still be in that goddamn hole,” You stated, voice deceptively calm now, “So–kindly?” You leaned forward in your seat, resting your elbows on your knees, “Sit on it…And rotate.” Bucky let out a sigh, stepping in before Walker could say anything back in retaliation.

”You’re the only one who can technically get close to him without setting him off…I mean, yeah, it pisses him off. But you nullify him, Y/N…He backs off when you’re around…It also has a lot to do with the fact you’re close with Bob too.”

Bucky was right.

If it wasn’t for the fact that you were already close with Bob–closer than most, maybe too close–this would be impossible. And it wasn’t just proximity or shared downtime or familiarity on missions. It was that quiet, tangled closeness. The kind that took root when two people didn’t have to speak to understand each other. When silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but necessary.

Still, that didn’t make any of this easier.

Because even with that closeness…The Void knew who you were. What you were. And it hated you for it.

You’d only interacted with it directly a handful of times. Each one branded into your memory like scars you didn’t wear on the outside.

Once during a medbay blackout–Bob had been unconscious and bleeding, a psychic wound ripping through the space around him, and you’d been the only one able to get close enough to touch him. The Void had flickered into the room with a voice like cold static, dripping something ancient and endless against your bones. It didn’t yell. It didn’t threaten.

It whispered, and challenged.

“You take him from me.”

“He’s safer without you.”

“I could make you feel every moment of your worst night in under a second–want to try?”

Another time, on a rooftop in London, when Bob had collapsed mid-mission, shaking, breathless, clutching his skull with both hands like he was trying to hold himself inside it, The Void had poured through his cracks and stared at you through his eyes. You had been taken off guard, and in the split second that you weren’t aware he had made you see your mother, the way she grabbed you by your hair and slammed you against a mirror–which was how you got the scar above your eyebrow.

You didn’t even flinch, and that made The Void angrier with you.

You bit the inside of your lip, eyes flicking over the room again. Every face trained on you now. Some guarded, some silently pleading, but all of them were waiting.

Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.

“…Fine. I’ll do it.”

A breath seemed to pass through the team like a wave, though no one dared say thank you. They knew better than to treat this like a favor. This wasn’t a volunteer mission. This was a gamble.

“But don’t hover around the door,” You added quickly, pressing your palms to your thighs as you stood, “I don’t need backup. It’ll just make things worse.”

They all nodded.

Bucky was the first to step back, giving you space. He dipped his chin once in acknowledgment, slow and solemn. Yelena gave you a tight nod, eyes shadowed with concern, but she didn’t argue. Ava dropped her hand from her mouth, the glove damp with spit, and looked at you like she wanted to say something–but didn’t.

Walker crossed his arms again and stayed quiet, which, for him, might’ve been the most meaningful gesture of all.

Alexei stood as well, hand coming to rest lightly on your shoulder as you moved past. His grip was steady. Warm. Protective in the way only he could be–loud without words.

You didn’t say anything else as you left the kitchen. Didn’t look back.

The hallway to Bob’s quarters felt longer than usual. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, the soft hum of the compound’s systems running like a heartbeat in the background. You could feel it–low and dull–the way his presence saturated the air even through the door. That pressure in the back of your head. The coil of unease in your ribs.

You paused outside the room.

No sound from within. No breathing. No shuffling. No glass breaking. Just…Stillness. Heavy and full, like a vacuum waiting to collapse in on itself.

You raised your fist slowly and knocked twice.

“Void…I’m coming in.”You announced, already knowing he probably sensed you from miles away. The lock clicked under the pressure of your mind–an old security latch giving a reluctant little snick as your telekinesis pried it loose with practiced ease. The door creaked open, just wide enough for you to slip inside.

And the second it sealed shut behind you, the weight of the room hit.

Not just silence.

Suffocation.

The darkness was thick–almost physical. It pooled in the corners like oil and clung to the walls, layered and unmoving. The blackout curtains were to blame for that–drawn tight, suffocating what little natural light might’ve softened the edges of the space.

But even the shadows weren’t still. They writhed.

You took a single step forward, and the crunch under your boot broke the silence.

Glass…There was so much glass.

Not just from a shattered mirror, but from everything else in the room–fragments of picture frames, broken mugs, shattered bulbs. Jagged teeth scattered across the floor like a warning. In the far corner, an old desk chair laid toppled on its side, two of its legs snapped clean through, the splinters of plastic jutting upward like a broken rib cage.

The dresser was no longer a dresser.

It was a carcass. Wood panels torn from their seams, drawers ripped apart like kindling. One drawer had clearly been thrown–there were impact marks on the opposite wall where the corner had struck and left a dent, now trailing with paint dust and something darker–blood or ink or both. The walls were pockmarked with fist-sized impressions. You counted at least six from where you stood, each one blooming out in spiderweb cracks.

The air smelled like sweat, iron, static, and something metallic. Burned electronics…The scent of a mind unraveling, and overtaken by something empty.

Though, through all the destruction, the bed–miraculously–remained intact.

Sort of.

The sheets were rumpled, tangled half way down the frame, one corner half-ripped from the mattress, but the structure itself held. Just barely. The headboard was dented. The mattress had dark stains near the middle, but you didn’t want to guess what they were.

But none of that truly drew your eyes…It was him…

The Void.

Curled like a gravitational wound at the center of the chaos. A black mass draped across the unmade bed in something that only resembled the fetal position. Shoulders hunched, limbs drawn in too tightly, like he was trying to curl into the concept of himself and erase what was left. The shadows rolled off his back in slow, deliberate tendrils–molasses-thick and ink-dark. They rose and fell in undulating pulses, brushing against the sheets, licking the edge of the mattress, curling through the air like they were tasting it. He was still, but not inert, like a storm brewing, but just beyond the horizon.

You took one careful breath and moved forward.

Crossing the room meant stepping around the wreckage–splintered furniture, broken glass, ceramics, and fractured memories from the Polaroids that were scattered on the floor from the broken frames. You moved with practiced precision, keeping your steps slow, measured, and balanced. No sudden movements, no sharp noises apart from the cracking and shattering beneath your feet, just you and your presence.

When you reached the far wall, you hesitated–just for a second–then reached for the curtain. Your fingers trembled slightly as it came into contact with the thick, light proof fabric.

You took a breath, and yanked it open.

Sunlight poured into the room like a floodgate breaking.

Warm and red and golden–the last gasp of a sunset bleeding across the compound horizon. It didn’t banish the dark, but it carved a space in it. Lit the motes of dust hanging heavy in the air. Made the wreckage shimmer like a battlefield caught in the golden hour.

And it lit him.

The Void didn’t move. Not fully. But you could feel the shift. The twitch of air. The smallest ripple in the fabric of the room.

When you turned back to him–

There he was.

The Void looked…Almost beautiful in the sunlight.

Not in the way people meant when they talked about beauty. This wasn’t gentle or graceful or soft. It wasn’t something that asked to be appreciated. It was arresting. Unnatural. Terrifying, yes–but stunning in a way that made your breath catch like it had stumbled into your throat and forgotten how to move.

The golden light cut a jagged angle across the wreckage–strewn room, carving past broken drawers and shattered glass and plastic, but it slowed when it hit him.

Not physically, but perceptibly. Like the light hesitated.

The Void’s form didn’t cast a shadow–he was the shadow. A humanoid silhouette, pitch-black and impossibly dark, draped in endless, shifting tendrils that shimmered faintly in the warm light. He wasn’t see-through, not exactly, but he wasn’t solid either. Looking at him felt like peering into the night sky from the bottom of the ocean–inky, infinite, and so far removed from the natural world that your eyes didn’t quite know where to land.

He looked like a silhouette made of star-drenched tar. The only consistent shape was his outline–vaguely human, impossibly still–and the shock of those eyes.

Pale white. Pupils like burning pinholes through reality itself.

And then there were the freckles. Not normal ones. They weren’t skin-deep or superficial, but scattered like constellations across his chest and shoulders and face, splattered in soft gradients of faint violet and ghost-light blue and shocking white. They moved. Barely. Like they weren’t actually part of him, but windows into something else. Into somewhere that didn’t obey the same laws of existence.

Like someone had cracked open the body of the universe and poured it into him until he took its shape.

You took another step closer, your boots crunching on a piece of ceramic that used to be a mug, and that’s when his head turned slightly–just enough for you to meet one pale, gleaming eye.

And then–he growled. Low and guttural. Less vocal, and more…Animalistic.

”…God.” The word rumbled through the air like it had teeth, “Not you.” You blinked, and then smiled. Not unkindly. Not smugly, either. Just…Knowingly.

You shifted your weight onto one leg, arms loosely crossed, letting your gaze roam over him again now that you were closer. It was always a strange thing, seeing him like this–in daylight. You’d only ever caught glimpses. In dreams. In flickers. In the strange reflections that warped when Bob was between states. But never like this. Never with the sunset warm on your face, and him laid out in the middle of it like a void-stained wound stitched into golden light.

It made him look unreal. Like something painted across the world and only half-belonging.

“I figured you knew I was coming,” You said lightly, voice quiet but firm as you took another careful step forward, your knees almost hitting the mattress. “I’m sure of it, actually…You’re all knowing are you not?” He didn’t respond. But he moved–barely. A twitch in his shoulder. A curl of fingers you hadn’t noticed pressed into the sheets. And then slowly, with the kind of irritated dramatism only a god-tier being could muster, he turned over.

Away from you.

It was such a petty, human gesture that you nearly laughed. He curled onto his other side like a sullen teenager pretending to be asleep, the tendrils of shadow snapping faintly around his limbs–like he was swatting the sunlight away.

You sat down on the edge of the bed slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, careful to keep your voice soft as you spoke again, “I’m not here to fight with you.” A pause. The air shifted again. Like the room was breathing for him.

“I’m just here for him,” You murmured. “You know that.”

No answer.

Just the shadows tightening around his form like a second skin. Flicking sharp toward the light, then recoiling. The silence didn’t just settle this time–it spread. Like a sickness. Like smoke crawling into your lungs, seeping under your skin, and clinging to the corners of your thoughts.

You stared at the pillow beneath his head, your brow slowly pulling into a tight line.

There–just beneath the crook of where his temple met the white cotton–were stains.

Tiny, deep red drops.

Not smeared, or splattered, but fallen and sunken into the fabric.

”…Are you bleeding?” You asked softly, the question curling through the air like the edge of a breeze that didn’t quite reach him. The Void paused for a moment.

And then–he laughed.

Short and dry. Low and splintered. It didn’t echo. It shook. Like the walls of the room didn’t want to carry the sound and were trying to drop it before it could reach too far.

“I do not bleed,” He said, the words scraping over the back of your mind like cold metal dragging across bone, “The shell does.” Your jaw flexed slightly, and your frown deepened.

“…Did he do all of this?” You asked, “The mess I mean…Or was it you?” At first, he didn’t say anything. There was not even the twitch of a shadow.

Then he curled in tighter into himself, the shadows drawing closer like blankets that didn’t warm.

”Mix of both,” He admitted, reluctantly, “I don’t understand why it matters to you.” You let the breath leave your nose in a quiet sigh and dropped your gaze.

“Well…” You murmured, reaching for the zipper of your hoodie, “First, we’re going to have to replace all of this stuff.” The hoodie came off in one fluid motion. You tossed it gently to the side of the bed and leaned forward to untie your boots, voice dropping just a little more casual as you added, “And second… I’d rather be ready when he comes back.” The last boot hit the floor with a soft thud. You stretched your socked toes slightly before curling them back under you and shifting onto the bed more fully, tucking one leg beneath you.

“Because I know I’ll have to bandage his hands now.” The Void shifted again. His back hunched tighter, shadows rippling sharp across his shoulders like hackles rising on an animal trying not to snarl.

“…He’s not coming back,” He replied, so quietly you almost missed it, “He’s in too deep.” You didn’t respond right away, you just tilted your head a bit, and let your eyes linger on the slope of his back, the way the light carved out the glinting star-patterns along his skin. You didn’t let your face harden. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t rush him. You just raised your brow slightly.

“Mm,” You hummed. “We’ll see about that.”

And then–slowly–you reached forward.

The tendrils noticed first. They snapped back from your approach like struck nerves. Sizzling faintly at the edges of your reach, shadows spiraling defensively around his form, curling between your hand and his body like they could block what was coming.

They knew what your touch would do.

But you didn’t stop.

You let your fingers slip through the whorls of shadow like they were ink in water–watching them coil and twitch as they tried, and failed, to recoil fast enough.

And then your palm met his shoulder.

Cold.

So cold your breath caught in your throat. Like placing your hand against dry ice, it was so cold it was…Hot in a way.

He flinched. Hard. The entire bed jostled with the sudden jerk of his muscles pulling tight.

“Ah–!”

The hiss tore out of him unbidden, guttural and strangled like it hurt. Because it did.

You could feel it the moment your skin met his–how the shadows shrank. How the hum of wrongness faltered in the walls. How the pressure around the room thinned slightly. You were draining him. Nullifying the divine static that clung to him like rot.

His body didn’t lurch away immediately, but his breath did. A sharp inhale. Like the pain was new. Like it surprised even him.

“…Don’t,” He rasped. “Don’t touch me.”

But you didn’t pull back.

Your hand pressed firmer to his shoulder.

The shadows hissed.

He jerked again, more violently this time, trying to pull himself away–but you didn’t let him. You didn’t even move. The only shift was in the air–your focus hardening, your mind expanding like a net, invisible but unshakable.

Telekinesis wasn’t always force. It wasn’t about slamming someone across a room or crushing metal with your thoughts.

Sometimes, it was about stillness. Weight. The kind of pressure that settled over bone and muscle like gravity, inescapable and patient.

And so when he tried to move again, the Void grunted–sharp, frustrated, restrained. The bedframe creaked beneath him with the effort of a god trying to disobey the very laws of physics you wove around him.

“I will kill you.” The words were low. Ragged. Meant to shake you.

But you…laughed.

Not loud. Not mocking. Just…Soft. A breathy, disbelieving thing that came from the hollow of your throat and made your shoulders twitch with the absurdity of it.

“If that’s what you truly wanted…” You murmured, your voice a ghost just above his ear as you leaned in close, “You would’ve done it already.”

There was a pause.

Heavy. Stagnant. Tense.

He tried again. You could feel it–his form straining against your hold, his shadows cracking through the air like whips, like rage incarnate, but they couldn’t touch you. Not really. Not with your powers blanketing the space between.

He growled. Animalistic. Teeth grinding, tendrils snapping.

You didn’t flinch.

You just moved.

Slowly, quietly, you climbed onto the bed fully. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, groaning with the shift, and he hissed again–but not from pain this time. From confusion.

And then…You laid behind him.

You felt it instantly. The temperature drop was jarring, biting into your skin through your shirt. It hit your chest first, then your bare arms as you wrapped them carefully around him, curling your body along the edge of his.

You let your arm drape over his side, your palm hovering at first, before pressing flat against his chest.

Gods shouldn’t feel like this.

Shouldn’t tremble. Shouldn’t shiver.

But he did.

His body didn’t accept the comfort–it reacted to it, violently at first. The moment your skin touched his chest, his muscles tensed, his breath caught, and then came the sound.

A broken, pained little gasp.

It wasn’t quite a growl. It wasn’t even a scream.

It was…A whimper.

Low. Raw. And filled with something deeper than pain.

The tendrils thrashed. A few brushed past your cheek, stinging cold, like frostbite in motion. One grazed your lips. Another flicked across your jaw, searching, tasting, confused.

But they didn’t strike.

They didn’t push you away.

In fact, slowly…They began to shift.

Curling, and looping, almost in a tender way. A hesitant winding around your arm. A slow crawl against your thigh. Brushing, nudging, and then stilling. Like they were learning you again. Like they remembered your signature and didn’t quite know what to do with it anymore.

“Just…” Your voice trembled slightly with the cold, but you didn’t stop, “Calm down, Void…Let him come back.” Your breath fogged against the back of his neck, warm in contrast to the chill that radiated off him like a dying sun.

He shuddered. Twitched. His hand moved to grab your wrist, but didn’t squeeze–just held it. Like an anchor. Or a warning.

Then he pushed against your arm once–sharp, desperate, useless.

And then…He sagged, letting out a frustrated, inhuman sound that didn’t belong in a throat. Something halfway between a hiss and a wounded sob. You felt it in his chest more than you heard it. A tremor under your palm. A ripple in your own ribs from how tightly you were pressed to him.

The tendrils wrapped tighter, and your cheek pressed gently to the back of his shoulder.

There was a long moment where neither of you moved.

Not a breath stirred the air between your bodies. Not a word passed your lips.

Your cheek stayed pressed to the curve of his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lashes brushing the cool shadowed skin. You let your senses drift, quietly reaching–searching–for something deeper. Something alive. You tried to listen again. Tried to find it. That faint rhythm. That human thread. That flicker of Bob.

But there was nothing.

No beat. No pulse.

Just silence.

Like pressing your ear against something ancient and hollow. Something that had forgotten it was ever meant to hold life.

And still…You stayed.

Your arm slowly shifted under the pillow, tucking more securely around the Void’s form, locking him in tighter, folding yourself to him like an anchor trying to hold a black hole still.

He grunted–louder this time–when your hand slipped across his chest again. The heatless cold biting up your wrist, down to the marrow, but you didn’t let go.

“You are hurting me.”

His voice was fractured now.

Still sharp. Still foreign. But softer around the edges. Like something was fraying. Like he wasn’t used to stating pain—only inflicting it.

You shook your head gently, your breath warm against the shell of his neck.

“You’re not used to this,” You murmured, voice steady despite the chill leeching into your skin. “But this is the only way I can get Bob back.”

Your fingers flexed slightly, your grip never relenting.

“You’re not going to go away on your own,” You added, more softly now, “I know you well enough…”

The second the words left your mouth, he moved.

Fast.

The Void jerked against you, his shadows spiking like claws as he tried to break free from your arms with all the force of a universe unraveling. Your powers flared instinctively–holding him, grounding him, caging him without violence.

And then he snapped–

“You don’t know me at all,” He hissed. “You have no fucking idea who I am.” The room trembled. The broken glass shivered on the floor. One of the remaining lightbulbs overhead gave a sick little buzz and blinked out.

But you…

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t let go.

And you didn’t raise your voice.

Your reply was almost gentle.

“I know the person you live inside,” you said. “I know him.”

You let your forehead rest against the top of his spine, your hand smoothing softly over the cold, trembling surface of his chest.

“And you may not believe it,” You continued, “But you’re a piece of him. Whether you hate it or not.”

He stilled–but not with calmness–with a kind of rigid tension. The kind that only came before collapse.

You pressed on.

“And he…” You said slowly, voice like a thread stitching through the dark, “He likes being touched. And held. And wanted.”

A beat.

“Deep down inside that hollowness, I think you do too.”

The shadows tightened around your arms–an instinct. A warning. But they didn’t pull you away.

“That’s my little key to get into your head,” You whispered, “And bring him back.”

And with that, you pulled him even closer.

You melted into him–your arm cinched tighter under his ribs, your hand splayed flat against the void of his chest, fingers brushing those starlit freckles like they might ignite under the contact. Your thighs curved around the bend of his body. Your breath warmed the space between his neck and shoulder.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t hiss.

Didn’t growl.

But you felt the change.

His grip tightened on your wrist. Not to crush. Not to command. But to hold. Like he was waiting. Waiting for you to falter. Waiting for your guard to drop. Waiting for you to flinch–so he could shove you away and snap the thread.

But you didn’t.

You just held on.

“You’re not going to scare me off,” You breathed. “So go ahead. Try.”

Your voice was calm. Unshaking. Your hand moved without thinking now.

Slow, gentle circles against his chest. Fingers brushing the raised curve of a freckle, then flattening again. Just enough pressure to remind him you were there. Just enough heat to keep the ice from creeping back in too fast. Your thumb traced the faint starlit constellation scattered near his collarbone, following one mark to the next as if mapping a sky only you could read.

You didn’t know how long it took. Time didn’t work right in rooms like this–where the air tasted like static and silence stretched so long it warped.

But eventually…

The rigidness began to leave him.

Not in one dramatic exhale.

Not with a sigh or a shudder.

Just a slow, quiet shift. One vertebrae at a time. One tendon unwinding. His shadows still clung to your wrist and thighs like anchors, but their hold was less…tense. Less venom. More hesitation.

And then–you felt it.

A small, deliberate movement.

His head tilted down. Chin dropped ever so slightly toward his chest, toward your hand. Not fast enough to be startled. Not deep enough to retreat. Just…searching. Studying. Like he was looking at something he hadn’t dared examine until now.

And then–

“…You have a lot of beauty marks on your hands.”

His voice was quieter now. Duller at the edges. Like something inside him had collapsed just enough to let the words out.

“Bob looks at them a lot.”

The admission settled in the air between you like a stone into water–gentle, but heavy with weight.

You stilled for just a breath. Then resumed your tracing, softer this time, almost like you didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“He pretends he’s not,” The Void added. “But he memorized them.”

A pause. “One by one.”

Your throat tightened. Just a little. But you didn’t speak. You waited.

He inhaled once, shallow.

“…Folklore says they represent where your soulmate from a past life used to kiss you.” Your brows furrowed, caught somewhere between surprise and something warmer, softer.

You tilted your head just a little against his shoulder, trying not to let him hear the quiet thrum picking up in your chest.

A moment passed.

And then you said, teasingly–light but careful–

“Seems like a lot of soulmates have kissed you everywhere…” You nudged gently at his side with your fingers. “You’ve got marks all over your body.”

There was a pause.

Then–

A sound.

It wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t a scoff either.

It was something between.

A sound from deep in his chest. Soft, strange. Like a hum unraveling. Like a thread pulled from a black tapestry and found to be made of silk. Not hostile. Not mocking. Just…Thoughtful.

“…It is not the same,” He murmured.

And the way he said it–

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t flippant. It was almost longing. Like he knew, with unsettling clarity, the difference between touch and intimacy. Between worship and warmth. You didn’t move your hand from his chest. Just kept brushing your thumb in slow arcs across the curve of one freckle, and then another, as your brow furrowed gently.

“How is it not the same?” You asked, feeling The Void shift beside you–not violently, but with something sharp in the tension of his shoulders, like the question had scraped a nerve. His chin dipped again, the shadows curling tighter along your spine.

“It’s just…” He muttered, clipped now, almost irritated, “…How it looks.” He rolled slightly, enough for the tendrils across his chest to shimmer faintly in the dying sunlight. The freckles pulsed there still–pale, slow-burning starlight in a galaxy of ink.

“You may interpret it as marks,” He added flatly, “But it is just…How it is. There’s nothing more to it.” His voice was distant again. Slipping back into that cold echo, like he was digging himself into a trench of denial. You hummed softly in response. Not convinced. Not arguing. Just…Thinking.

And then, after a beat–

“You’ve never felt love, or anything like that, hmm?” He stiffened entirely. Like you’d cracked a fault line that ran straight through him and threatened to split his chest open.

He didn’t reply.

So you continued–gently, but with a note of something more pointed.

”You just…Live behind Bob’s eyes, and whatever he goes through–whatever he feels–you get the little bites of it…Correct?” It was a truth you didn’t say to hurt him. But it landed that way anyway.

He groaned. Not out of pain. Not purely out of rage either. It was resentment. Pure and concentrated. Heavy in his chest and thick in his voice as he snapped–

“Listen…”

The tendrils twitched against your arms. Coiled with warning.

“I am already stuck in this position because you’re a succubus leech who drains me every time you breathe near me–” He spat, the words acidic and cutting, “I am not going to speak about what I experience through Bob. This is not a therapy session.” You bit the inside of your cheek, just barely, and sat with the sting of it. Let it pass.

“…Okay,” You said quietly, “Touchy subject. Sorry.”

Your voice didn’t waver. But it softened. Like you knew it was a wound. And not one you could cauterize tonight.

A pause fell over you both. He turned his face just slightly, half-hidden in the bend of his elbow, and the tension around him seemed to slow–not dissipate, not ease, but slow. A stalling breath caught in molasses.

And then, without even thinking about your next actions, you pressed your lips gently to his shoulder.

It was a soft kiss. Barely there. Just a whisper of heat against a body that didn’t carry it.

But the reaction was immediate.

The Void flinched–hard. But not away.

And just below where your lips touched his skin, you saw it.

A flicker.

A little fractal of a star.

Tiny. No bigger than your thumbnail. A fractured pinpoint of white-gold, like a nova caught mid-bloom. It shimmered once, flaring faint violet at the edges–like a nerve exposed. It appeared beneath the skin of shadow like light behind thin glass, and then…Stayed. Not fading. Not shrinking. Just there.

And the second your heart clenched–sharp and aching at the sight–he snapped.

“Don’t do that again.”

The voice was low. Cold, but not cruel. He sounded afraid.

You blinked. Sat up slightly behind him. Your hand still rested against his chest, but your expression shifted–watching the star pulsing softly.

”I knew you brought up that folklore stuff for a reason,” You murmured.

The Void twitched beneath your weight–tension returning, but not fury. Something more volatile in its vulnerability. He shifted, trying to roll, but the weight of your powers kept him still, your body pressed too closely against his for him to twist away.

“Jesus Christ,” he snapped, frustrated. “What are you? A rock? A boulder? I—I can’t even move.”

“Exactly,” you said lightly, settling your cheek back against his shoulder. “You’re trying to avoid the conversation… Maybe you should let Bob come back to handle this one.”

He growled low in his throat, shadows snapping once in protest, but nothing struck you.

“I’m not that easily swayed by a thing like you,” he bit out.

But there was hesitation in it now. Thinning resistance. A fracture in the spine of his anger.

You smiled against his skin.

And then—you started kissing him again.

Slow. Gentle. One after the other.

You placed a kiss at the dip of his spine.

Then at the base of his neck.

Then to the spot just beneath his jaw, where the darkness shimmered like ink floating over glass.

And each kiss—every single one—left another starlight bloom.

A pinpoint of white-gold.

A soft violet pulse.

A celestial wound that didn’t bleed—but glowed.

Tiny galaxies emerging under your mouth like his body had forgotten how to hide them.

“Are Bob and I soulmates?” you whispered against his skin, voice just playful enough to burn, “Is that what this is?”

Another kiss. Another nova. Another whimper. Not a growl this time.

He jerked again, but this time–not away.

Something loosened, and you felt it. The tension in the shadows began to stutter.

Their rhythm breaking.

Tendrils untangling.

The air around you shifted–less cold now. Less heavy. And then—you saw it.

Just a glimpse.

A slip.

A patch of pale, trembling skin where darkness used to writhe. Just beneath your hand, on the far side of his ribs, the black slid back like melting paint, retreating under your touch.

His breath hitched.

And then–suddenly–the shadows collapsed inward.

Like a tidal wave rushing in reverse.

Like the vacuum of space had just exhaled all at once.

They peeled off him in layers, the tendrils shriveling and snapping back like overstretched nerves, retreating into the floor, the walls, the bedframe. A vortex of absence pulling itself away from something it could no longer cling to.

And all that was left–was Bob.

He gasped like a man drowned. Choking on the air like it burned.

His whole body trembled–bare skin exposed now, sweat-slicked and shaking, his spine curved, arms drawn in like he was trying to hold himself together.

His fingers twisted into the sheets like he didn’t know where he was.

His eyes were wide. Unfocused.

And then–

They found you.

And the second they met yours, that glimmer of bright, beautiful blue–

You exhaled. All the weight in your chest collapsing inward with a relief so fierce it stung.

“Bob,” You breathed.

He didn’t answer.

His jaw clenched, shaking.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes–not falling yet, but close. His breath was coming too fast, too sharp.

You moved instantly.

Your hand came to his head–gently, reverently–fingers sliding into his sweaty hair, dragging softly over his scalp in long, grounding motions.

He flinched at first–then leaned into it, seeking the comfort that you had given him countless times before from outside of this context. You pulled him back toward you, tucking his head beneath your chin as your arms curled tighter around his chest.

“It’s okay,” You whispered, voice warm, threading through the cold air like gold wire. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.” His fingers clutched at your forearm with sudden, desperate strength.

A choked, broken sob tore out of him as his grip tightened like a vice—raw, panicked, trembling. He clung to you like the room might dissolve if he let go, like you might dissolve. And when you glanced down to where his hand gripped your arm, your breath caught in your throat.

“…Oh my god…Bob.”

His hands were ruined.

The skin across his knuckles was torn open–bloody and cracked like old leather stretched too far. Scabbed-over lacerations split in jagged lines across every joint, with dried blood crusted thick beneath his fingernails and ground into the creases of his palm. The bruising was almost violent in color–black and violet pooled beneath the skin in wide, uneven patches that traveled from the backs of his hands to the delicate tendons along the inside of his wrists.

His palms were the worst.

Torn in places. Split where skin had given out from striking too many hard surfaces–glass, wood, stone. Splinters embedded in the meat of his thumbs. Swollen pads bruised from impact after impact, the raw friction of knuckles dragging across floors and punching through walls. There was a fine tremor in every finger, shaking so subtly it made your chest ache.

You reached for him instinctively, your other hand hovering just under his wrist–

“Let me ge–”

But he cut you off.

“Pl–Please,” He gasped, voice wrecked with sobs, “Don’t–don’t leave me. I…I don’t wa–want to be alone.”

His fingers curled harder around your arm, pulling you in tighter, frantic and shaking. Your heart cracked clean in two.

You softened instantly, forehead resting against the back of his head.

“I can’t just leave your hands like this…” You whispered, barely able to get the words out through the thick knot forming in your throat.

But he whimpered again, voice splintering apart at the seams.

“Ye–Yes you can…I d-do—don’t want to be alone…”

The words hit like a blow.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just honest in the way only raw fear could be. His body was folded in on itself, back pressed to your chest, and you felt every tremble he couldn’t suppress. Every twitch of pain. Every fractured breath.

You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly, letting your brow knit tight, letting the helplessness crest over you–but only for a second.

Then–gently–you shifted back into place behind him.

Your arm curled across his torso once more, anchoring him against you, your legs folding in tighter like you could protect him from the air itself. You kissed the crown of his head–once, then again, softer this time–your lips trembling against the tangled mess of his damp curls.

Your voice came quieter now, steadier, like you were afraid speaking too loud might break him again.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand still clung to your arm, shaking, but you moved carefully–slowly–lifting one of his bruised fists with tender fingers. You brought it to your mouth, just above the worst of the dried blood, and kissed it.

One knuckle.

Then the next.

Then lower–across the cracked bend of his thumb.

Another kiss.

And another.

You didn’t flinch at the blood. You didn’t pull back at the bruises. You kissed through them like they were sacred. Like they were his and that made them worth kissing.

“I’m sorry,” He choked suddenly, the words tumbling out in gasps. “I–I’m sorry for the r-room, for everything–god, I ruined everything, I just–I–”

“Hey,” You whispered, cutting him off softly. You kissed his hand again. “It’s fine. Everyone will help you replace everything. You’re safe. You’re okay. Just breathe with me, alright?”

He hiccuped a sob, still trembling, still cradled in your arms.

“Just breathe,” You repeated, your voice like silk threading through the ache in his lungs.

And slowly–painfully–he tried.

You pressed your cheek to the side of his head and spoke quietly against his hair.

“In through your nose…”

You inhaled with him.

“Good. Now out through your mouth.”

You exhaled slow and steady.

Again.

“In…”

He followed, ragged but trying.

“…And out.”

You felt his shoulders shake–but this time, they weren’t recoiling. They were easing. Piece by broken piece.

“You’re okay, Bob,” You whispered. “Just keep breathing with me. I’ve got you.”

[dolcecherub]

off the record ‧͙⁺˚*･☾

♡ pairing: oscar piastri x media manager!reader

♡ tags: social media manager reader, lowkey tension, deadpan oscar, pining oscar, frustrated reader lol, happy ending, fluff

♡ yap: this was inspired by this fic here by the lovely @papayainsectorone, they wrote this dynamic so well and the smut is *chefs kiss* i was craving more build up so here's my take on it :) honestly wasn't expecting to have another fic out so soon but i'm in the writing mood, so expect maybe some smut soon lol

♡ word count: 4.6k

Being Oscar Piastri’s social media manager sounded a hell of a lot cooler on paper.

The reality? A full-time position in pure damage control and editing. 

It wasn’t that Oscar was a bad guy, quite the opposite actually. He was annoyingly likable. But in an industry of personalities so polished you could see your reflections in them, Oscar was… well, Oscar. Dry-humoured, mostly straight-faced, foreign with emojis aside from the simple smiley face. Not even a golden retriever puppy in a McLaren hoodie could crack a big smile from the man.

You had tried everything and it was quite easy to say that the last few months had been hell. 

You wrote him fun captions, you scheduled posts, and briefed him before interviews. And yet he would still deadpan his way through as many interactions as he possibly could, switching up your pre-written captions for three-word ones. If you were lucky, maybe he’d add a song to it. 

Once, in a fatal attempt, you had practically begged Oscar to do a TikTok trend. His response?

“I’d rather crash into a barrier and get stuck in a gravel trap.”

Still, you kept at it. You filtered photos, crafted witty tweets and captions, and edited videos for TikTok, so he at least looked 20% more charming and 100% engaged. But Oscar remained the same, calm, collected, and chronically unbothered. 

It drove you crazy, and some part of you was convinced Oscar found joy in riling you up, the tension spiralling between you two. 

Until one day, you just…stopped.

It was after an interview in which Oscar said, “Yeah, the car was good,” followed by a few simple remarks about the overall race and the car, even though you had specifically coached him on how to highlight the team’s efforts and the new upgrades. You sat there, watching the video on your laptop, the PR director sending you questioning looks. Something in you just gave up.

If Oscar didn’t care, why should you?

This time, instead of doubling down and trying harder to fix it, you shifted gears. 

You kept running the socials, kept building out the calendar, kept coordinating cross-posts with sponsors. You threw yourself into season promos for some rookies, drafted killer captions for Lando (who did, in fact, appreciate them, often adding his own flair as well). Hell, you even helped restructure the entire engagement strategy for McLaren’s YouTube account. Your inbox was still flooded, deadlines still to be met. You were still good at your job, just focusing your attention elsewhere rather than bending over backwards for Oscar. 

You still gave him the essentials. Posted his podium shots with a simple caption fit for him, uploaded interview clips without the usual fun editing. You stopped chasing him for quotes and thoughts, and generally stopped fighting for moments he didn’t want to give.

And weirdly enough, it all kept going. 

Oscar didn’t change, of course, the fans still adored him, his dry wit, his blank expressions, the accidental charisma of someone who didn’t try at all, or didn’t have to. People enjoyed his slightly sarcastic comments post-race, and so what if his metrics slightly dipped? It’s not like he necessarily noticed it. 

You still saw him every day, still worked around him, still made space for him on the schedule, but not in your head. Not in that quiet, careful way you used to. Perhaps you had gotten too close, you reeled. No more last-minute efforts to make him sound polished, no more staying late to re-edit his posts, not when you had better things to do for people who truly cared. 

And if he noticed the shift, the quiet space you left where your effort used to live, he didn’t say a word. Which, somehow, was more than enough. 

✧༺♥༻∞

It was a Thursday morning, and everything had been off.

You were running late, which, truthfully, rarely happened. A sponsor call had run longer than it should’ve, your usual transportation route taking a detour you were unaware of, and your badge wouldn’t scan at the main paddock gate. By the time you finally walked through the McLaren hospitality, your hair had been haphazardly clipped up, your phone was at 3%, and your brain was somewhere between caffeine withdrawal and a full-on system crash. 

You exhaled sharply, finally getting a moment to catch your breath. You pulled open the media schedule to hopefully catch up before the day truly began, your head slightly spinning as you barely noticed the figure leaning against the wall. 

Oscar.

He was dressed in team gear, the orange always sitting well with his skin tone as he had a basic black ball cap on and some shorts, his bag slung over his shoulder with a hand in his pocket. He looked casual, calm. 

As per usual. 

His other hand held out something to you as he walked closer. A coffee cup.

You looked up at him curiously, head tilting slightly as you lowered your tablet. “What’s this?” 

“Coffee,” he said simply. “Obviously.” 

You eyed it, seeing your name written on the side as your jaw twitched at his tone.

“...What kind of coffee?” You asked, his eyes roaming your face.

“Extra hot. Two sugars. Oat milk and a shot of caramel.” He said like it was nothing, as if he hadn’t just recited your exact order back to you, heart stammering against your chest. 

You brought your hand up, taking it from him, fingers brushing his slightly. Your jaw nearly dropped with shock. Why hadn’t he listened like this during pre-interview briefings? 

It was still warm to hold, still fresh. The lid was secured the way you always preferred, double cups, the lid pressed down tight with no drips at the seam.

You searched his face for expressions, “You got this for me?” You asked, albeit a silly question.

Oscar shrugged, arms crossing against his chest, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt, his eyes straying from yours. “You’re usually here earlier. Figured you didn’t have time to stop for one.” He said as if it meant nothing.

A beat passed, your heart skipping that exact beat. 

You swallowed. “I didn’t.”

Another pause, your face flushing slightly. 

“Thank you,” You said finally, voice far quieter than before. 

He nodded, not smug, just acknowledging, as if that was the end of it. As if he hadn’t just undone a week’s worth of you convincing yourself that he didn’t notice you slipping away. 

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and added, “I wasn’t sure if it was oat or almond. Figured it was oat, you seem like it.”

You blinked, brows furrowing slightly in confusion. “Why?”

He gave you the faintest smirk, “Almond milk people always have something to prove.” He joked. 

You huffed, surprised by the small, shaky breath of laughter it pulled out of you. Perhaps you did understand the population’s obsession with him. 

Oscar turned to leave, no further acknowledgement, no comment on your attire or the lack of polish to your appearance this morning, no follow-up. Just the quietest moment between you two, the coffee in your hand warming your palm cozily, his smirk setting your pulse to quicken. 

He didn’t look back. 

Although it didn’t matter, because you were already watching him go, heart quietly pounding.

So he did notice. 

Even when you thought he didn’t. 

✧༺♥༻∞

A few weeks had passed, and you were getting yourself ready for the following race weekend. The past few weeks had been the same, doing more for others to keep yourself while keeping Oscar entertained with the bare minimum. 

Now, it started with a headache.

Then came the chills, the sore throat, the kind of fatigue that sank into your bones like wet cement, weighing you down impossibly. You told yourself it was nothing, stress maybe, but by the time the race weekend rolled around, you couldn’t even sit up without your head spinning. 

You did what you had to. You called in sick, feeling bad, although you had not done so before while working with the team.

Just one day, you told yourself. Just one race day. The team could surely handle it, you had pre-scheduled most of the posts anyway, as well as sending over any notes and ideas you had to the rest of the team to follow. And it wasn’t like Oscar would notice. He barely spoke to you when you were there anyway. 

So you stayed in your hotel room, curtains drawn, laptop closed, and haphazardly thrown onto the armchair next to the bed. You had wrapped yourself in two blankets, your body settled with a chill that wouldn’t leave. You drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of your phone buzzing a few times, your body far too sleepy to pay attention, let alone respond. 

Around 6 p.m., there was a knock on the door. 

You blinked, trying to figure out if it was in your room or a distant noise in the hall. You felt your stomach clench, mostly empty aside from a few pieces of toast from earlier in the afternoon and water. 

Another knock sounded on the door. Firmer this time, followed by silence. 

You dragged yourself up, wincing as the floor spun. You brushed your hair down slightly and wiped away any sleep from your eyes, your body shivering from the sudden chill after emerging from your blankets. You cracked the door open slowly, expecting the hotel staff, perhaps with a message from the team or even room service. 

It was neither.

Oscar stood in front of you, simply dressed in a quarter zip and some jeans, his hair slightly tousled. He still looked calm, a medium sized brown paper bag in one hand and a plastic container in the other. You froze, so did he, though only for a second, just enough to make you think he hadn’t expected you to actually open the door. 

“Hi,” you croaked, your throat aching and sore, raw from not speaking all day. 

“You’ve sure seen better days, hm?,” he asked rhetorically, face deadpan.

You raised a brow, now feeling slightly embarrassed at the state he was seeing you in as you shamefully brushed your messy hair down as well as possible. “Thanks…”

“I meant it in a supportive way.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the doorway, suddenly feeling fairly light headed again, simply too tired to question what the hell was going on. “Why are you here?”

He shifted the bag in his hand, fixing his grip, eyes not meeting yours. “You didn’t show up today. You don’t not show up.”

You swallowed sorely, “I texted the team, told them I was sick.”

“Yeah,” he said, tone quiet, “but you didn’t text me.” 

That shut you up.

Oscar cleared his throat, holding out the plastic container filled with soup. “It’s the one you always get when it’s cold, the one from the random organic store down the street. You know, the one with the weird green logo.” 

Your chest tightened, his eyes trailing back up to yours. 

“And I brought some ginger tea bags. And the gummy vitamins you always hoard in the media van.” 

You stared at the bag in his hand, and then back up at him, his eyes dark, cheeks slightly pink, surely from being in the sun all day. “You walked across the paddock to get those?” 

“They deliver. I’m not that heroic.” He joked. You knew as a matter of fact that they didn’t deliver, you had most definitely asked more than once before, but you supposed Oscar didn’t want to admit that he had done that for you.

You exhaled a half-laugh, quiet, slightly painful and unsteady. 

Oscar looked at you, no smirk, no blank stare. Just something softer, eyes relaxed, something he could barely hold back. 

“Can I come in?” he asked after a pause, “Just to make sure you don’t choke on soup or something.” He teased.

You stepped aside, far too tired to joke and too tired to pretend like you didn’t want to be taken care of. 

He stepped in, toeing off his shoes, then settling the soup and the bag on the table tucked in the hotel corner. You crawled back into bed, body immediately collapsing into the fluffed sheets as you sniffled. 

He walked around filling the room’s small kettle with some water before putting it to boil and opening up the soup container before bringing it and a spoon to the bedside table. You sleepily watched him quietly move around the room with a sense of ease, your heart aching at his actions. Hearing the kettle click, he grabbed a mug, opened up the tea bag case and popped one in before pouring in some water. Settling that beside you on the table, too, he finally glanced at you. 

“Come on, sit up. At least eat some of the soup before you fall asleep,” Oscar spoke, voice soft and convincing as he settled down into the armchair next to the bed, making sure to move your laptop before sitting. 

Pushing yourself up, you sat against the headboard, head spinning again. He passed you the soup, simply watching you eat as much as you could without feeling sick. Neither of you said anything, Oscar simply ensuring you were okay, passing you a napkin whenever you needed it.

Placing the empty container down on the bedside table, you wiped your sleeve across your mouth before sliding back down into bed. Oscar stood up, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders when you shifted with a wince as your eyes fluttered shut. His fingers brushed over your arm as he did, then simply brushing a few hairs off your forehead, your body shivering, not from the chill this time but rather from his touch. 

“I’m fine,” you spoke, voice extremely rough but quiet. 

He didn’t say anything. Just sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, hands now folded in his lap, his eyes flickering between you and the headboard as if he was doing anything to stop himself from looking at you for too long. 

You were the one to break the silence, eyes still shut. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” he said. You felt your breath catch for a second, mind drifting slowly to sleep.

“Thank you, Osc.” You mumbled quietly, words slurring from fatigue. 

He hadn’t said anything after that. And so what if his gaze lingered a bit too long before he left that night? You would be none the wiser, head misty with sleep.

✧༺♥༻∞

Weeks later, at the start of a triple header, everything felt back to normal. Too normal. It grated your nerves more than ever.

Oscar was back to his usual self, low-effort captions, brushing off most interview questions with short answers, and ignoring half of your content ideas. After you had thought you’d made at least some progress, you found yourself rubbing your temple in frustration after he refused to film a “Pre-race ritual” TikTok a few sponsors had requested. 

You found him in the garage, talking to a mechanic, most likely about race strats. If only he spoke to the media with such enthusiasm. You walked towards him angrily, your tablet hanging at your fingertips, face flushed with anger. 

“Oscar, may I speak with you, please?” You asked, tone stern and straight to the point. 

His brows knitted together with confusion, the mechanic patting his arm twice before walking away. He tilted his head, following behind you as you led him to a meeting room. You closed the door, setting the tablet down on the desk before turning back to face Oscar, arms crossing angrily against your chest. You leaned back against the desk, staring him down momentarily before speaking.

“Why do you make this so hard?” You huffed, voice cracking slightly. You hate that it cracked.

“Make what hard?” He asked, mirroring your body language.

“This!” You said waving your arms around for emphasis. “Your image, your career. I bust my ass trying to make you look even remotely engaged in sponsorships and media day, and yet you act like you’re allergic to enthusiasm.” You ramble exasperatedly, catching your breath before you continue. “And then- then you go and do these little things, like buying me coffee or taking care of me when I’m sick. I’m not stupid Oscar, I know you’re not oblivious. You notice things, you care. But you pretend like you don’t and it’s… infuriating.”

He was quiet, not blinking, eyes still holding your gaze. He walked closer, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face before returning to his crossed-arm position, just now closer to you. Your heart pounded at his proximity. 

The silence between you was heavy, suffocating almost. 

“I don’t let people see it because once they do, they expect more. They expect a reaction every time a little blip happens. And I’m not good at more.”

You stared up at him, lips parted slightly. 

“I didn’t grow up under the impression of needing to be liked.” He spoke, eyes searching yours. “I wanted to drive. I wanted to win. But now, I’ve got people picking apart every expression, every quote, hell everything I don’t say. And you-you come into my life like this force to be reckoned with. You clean up my messes, making me look far better than I am. And it terrifies me.” He admitted truthfully.

He exhaled as though he hadn’t meant to say that last part, but it was too late now. 

“You make me want to try. Even though I don’t know how. And I hate that I let you do everything alone, I’m sorry I don’t cooperate more. I hate that I don’t say thank you when I should. I hate that I barely show what I feel because I’m scared that once I do, it’ll matter too much. That people will always want that, and I won’t be able to deliver.” Oscar spoke frantically.

Your breath caught, heart aching for being mean to him originally. “Oscar…” 

He continued, “I noticed when you stopped trying so hard,” He admitted, voice softer as he took a step closer. “And it scared the shit out of me because I thought that meant you were done. That I had pushed you too far. And if I lost you…I don’t know what I’d do.” 

And for the first time, you felt as though Oscar hadn’t just meant in terms of work. 

You stood still, heart hammering against your ribs. 

He stepped forward once more, practically caging you against the desk and himself. 

“I brought you coffee because I know you can barely function without it in the morning. I remember your order because you complained about the barista using a shot of vanilla instead of caramel once. I remember you like it extra hot because it keeps your hands warm while you’re out. I brought you soup because I know you hate being alone when you’re sick. I pay attention, even if I don’t always know what to say, but I do care, okay? Far more than I’ve let on.” He expressed, eyes fluttering across your face. “Maybe more than I should.” He confessed quietly, cheeks lightly flushing.

You stared at him, awestruck. The boy who never flinched on track, now looking completely exposed. 

You reached a hand towards him, pulling them away from his chest and placing them next to you on the desk, his body leaning slightly forward. 

And in a quiet, breaking voice, you said, “Then say it, tell me.” You plead.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. 

“I care about you,” his voice hoarse with emotion. “Not just because you make my life easier, even if I don’t make yours any easier,” he joked with a sarcastic huff before continuing. “Not just because you’re brilliant at your job. Because I care about you. And I think I’ve been falling for you since the day you yelled at me for skipping media day.” 

The silence returned, your body flushing at the confession and your breath hitched slightly. 

“You make me want to be better. Not just for the press. For you. Because when you’re around, I don’t feel like some machine for the media to chew up and spit out. I feel like maybe I’m someone worth showing up for.” He confessed, arms encaging you against the desk as his head leaned down slightly. 

Then quieter, “I know I’ve been difficult. I don’t say enough, but I’m saying it now. I care, I care about you. I want you here. Not because you fix things, but because I love having you around.” He reiterated, you felt as though you hadn’t spoken in ages, none of the right words coming to mind.

Your throat tightened. 

And suddenly, the frustration, the exhaustion, the weeks worth of wondering if he even noticed you slipping away, all cracked away and spilled into something else. 

A knock on the door interrupted your moment as you broke away. He took a step back, head whipping towards the door as your breath caught up to you. 

Work awaited you. 

✧༺♥༻∞

Days had passed, the paddock was winding down for the night.

You had migrated from your desk to one of the couches in the corner of the hospitality unit, half-heartedly editing clips from Oscar’s earlier media rounds to hopefully post the following morning. Your headphones sat around your neck, untouched. The screen glowed, but your eyes glazed over somewhere between the third and fourth timestamp. 

You hadn’t talked about the confession since it happened, but your mind kept drifting back to him. The look on his face and the way his voice sounded. 

You’d both gone back to work like professionals. He gave more thoughtful answers during interviews. You polished his media presence like always, job slightly easier nowadays. But under every interaction with him sat this new charged silence, one that said something happened and neither of you had figured out what it meant yet. 

Then came a quiet knock from the doorframe. 

Oscar.

He wasn’t in race gear anymore, not even team gear, just a hoodie, slightly damp at the sleeves, his hair tousled from his post-session shower. He looked…normal, cozy if you would. Not a headline, or a race statistic, or a social media puzzle for people to pick apart.

Just him. 

“You busy?” He asked, walking closer anyway.

“A little,” you blinked, watching him intently. 

He stepped closer, sitting on the couch across from you, silent for a moment, before wordlessly placing a bag on the table between you, sliding it towards you.

Your brows furrowed curiously, “What is this?”

“Some takeout, I figured you hadn’t eaten in a while since most places on the track are closed by now. It’s the fried rice you like and some of those weird seaweed chips you eat when you’re stressed.” He explained, cheeks flushing slightly pink.

You paused, still in awe of the fact that he noticed. “You remembered.” you spoke, leaning forward to untie the bag and pulling out the bag of chips, a soft smile crossing your face.

He didn’t look at you, eyes wandering the room. “It wasn’t hard.” 

Your chest tightened. 

You pushed your laptop aside, slowly looking at him. There was something in the way his shoulders tensed, the slight crease in his brow. As though he was trying to say something without saying it too fast, or too wrong. 

“Oscar-”

“I keep thinking about what you said. About how you care and how I didn’t give you anything back.” He swallowed thickly. Your breath caught but you stayed quiet. 

He looked up at you then, and for once he didn’t look guarded or sarcastic. He looked nervous. 

“I kept thinking if I acted like I didn’t need anyone, I couldn’t lose anything. But I think maybe I lost a little bit of you already, and fuck, I don’t want to keep doing that.” 

You felt your eyes sting unexpectedly as you blinked quickly. 

“I don’t expect you to fix me up or stay just because I suddenly decided to show up. But I meant it all. I care. About all of it, about you. I was worried if I said the wrong thing, I’d ruin the only good thing I actually gave a shit about.” 

“I’ve been trying to show it,” he went on, voice tighter now. “In the ways I can, but I don’t know if it’s enough. And it’s driving me fucking insane wondering if I’ve missed my chance” 

Your heart beat a little too loudly in your chest.

He ran a stressed hand through his hair, “I keep thinking about how close I could’ve been to losing you. It’s not just about work, it never has been.” His eyes met yours, raw and serious. “It’s you. I don’t want to go through another race weekend without knowing if you’re mine. If this thing between us is real or if I’ve just been imagining it.”

The room went still.

You stood slowly, every nerve in your body on fire, the air between you wound so tight it could snap. 

“You didn’t miss your chance,” you said, your voice barely a breath. You walked towards him, now standing next to him sat on the couch, within arm’s reach.

A pause, his jaw clenching as though something had finally broken. 

He reached for you, pulling you closer with a hand on your waist as he stood up. Oscar towered over you now, arms snaking around you comfortably as your hands came up to rest on his chest.

He leaned down, breath fanning your face as his nose nudged yours. Then, he kissed you. Lips landing on yours like they had waited months. 

Tension bled out of both of you like a flood. His mouth was warm and searching, far too much restraint pent up as his teeth gnashed teasingly against your bottom lip. You stood slightly on your tiptoes to reach him better, a hand sliding up from his chest into his hair, tugging lightly as he groaned. 

It was far from perfect, you stumbled slightly unbalanced as his hands shook against your hip, but it was real. Honest and a little desperate. You slid your tongue against Oscar’s lip, his own poking out to meet yours. He licked into your mouth, hand tightening against your hip as you whined. 

You pulled back slightly, nose still pressed against his breathlessly, his forehead resting against yours. 

“I’ve wanted to do that since my second week on the job,” You admitted, lips curling into a smile. 

He huffed a soft laugh. “Took me that long to stop pretending I didn’t”

You smiled, brushing your fingers along the curve of his neck, lightly scratching the hair at the nape of his neck as he shivered. “So what now?”

“Now I stop pretending, full stop.” He spoke, no hesitation. “And I get to flirt with my media manager.” He joked, a small smirk settling on his face. 

You giggled softly, feeling the weight of that promise, simple and sincere, You leaned into him, body warming at his words. 

“Let me take you home,” He spoke softly, mouth near your ear as he whispered as if trying to keep it a secret between you two. 

You shuddered at his words, biting your lip before facing him again. You nodded slowly at him, eyes lighting with excitement. He smiled at you sweetly, placing another small kiss on your lips before letting you go to pack up. 

Everything seemed to be exactly where it was meant to be, and you felt your heart settle happily at how the night turned out.

✧༺♥༻∞

[knightoflodis]

It felt more like boys are quiet about their interests and just into things on their own without telling anyone. It doesn’t feel like the parents don’t care, just that boys do things like this. Since I was a tame child I don’t really have any stories like this. But I went to an all boys high school and I could see boys just doing things like that without telling their parents or giving their parents any hint that they were doing that. Also. Boys in high school that have cars that have working parents that don’t have a strict curfew or anything could def do a lot of that stuff. I mean. I think when I had my summer job and stayed out late all I told my parents was that I was hanging out with my coworkers. Who knows what crazy stuff I could have gotten into if I was into getting into stuff.

Also. I think my parents might have been aware of my creative writing hobby before college because there was a club in high school, but I kept a lot of my writing to myself. Like. If I thought my writing was good enough I could see myself submitting it to a magazine and not telling my parents about it at all unless it actually got published.

these are KILLING me

[makeitworse]

BAD HABIT

your best friend who’s hopelessly devoted to you.

𝓬ontains: f!reader x jeongin. indented format. childhood friends to lovers. slowburn. fluff. jealousy. angst. miscommunication. smut. masturbation. 18+

𝓷otes: i wasn’t intending to write so much but the ideas just kept coming. i love this concept and i love my man

since your first playdate as kids, jeongin hasn’t stopped hearing about how you’ll get married some day.

your mothers worked at the same company, and whenever their shifts clashed, they’d swap babysitting duties— handing one kid off to the other like clockwork. it worked out better than they could’ve imagined, because from the moment you met, you and jeongin were inseparable. best friends before you knew what the word meant.

you were birds of a feather. chasing each other in the grass, drawing on the pavement with chalk. you’d always ask for sleepovers; confused and pouty when your mother would turn the idea down. jeongin would bawl his eyes out when it was time for you to go home, clinging to your sleeve like it’d change their minds. you’d share everything without thinking— snacks, utensils, sipping from the same juice box straw.

once, you were playing dress up with him, trying on boy clothes from his closet. the colour drained from his mother’s face when she saw you walking around in his shirt— she gave him an earful for it. that’s when you both learned about boys and girls needing boundaries. at the time, it didn’t make any sense to you. he wasn’t just any boy. he was your favourite person in the world.

when you and jeongin started school together, the other kids caught on quick. you always sat next to each other, shared snacks, held hands on the playground. it was like walking around with a target on your back. they’d sing about you both sitting in a tree, laughing as they’d shove you together during recess. the teasing always made jeongin bright red, ducking his head and mumbling that it wasn’t like that. but once your parents caught wind of it, playdates became scarce. jeongin started wondering if the other kids saw something you didn’t understand yet.

one day, in the shade of his backyard, you’d kissed him. clumsy, silly. just another part of play— the kind of thing kids do on a dare or because they saw it in a movie. nowadays, it’s a running joke between your families, a sweet little footnote in your shared history. you don’t count it as your real first kiss, the titleholder of that coming later in your teenage years, and jeongin never contests that. but for him, that fleeting moment counts. it always did.

once puberty hit, the shift was palpable. he doesn’t know when it started exactly, but jeongin started noticing things he once didn’t pay any mind. the curve of your smile, the way your head throws back when you laugh. how your back arches when you stretch, the way you nuzzle into his shoulder when you’re sleepy. you were his awakening, no doubt about it. but he knows he’s not the only boy to see you.

he tries not to be fixated; you’re his best friend, and his mother raised him better than that. but his once innocent affection for you had become something that embarrassed him to think about. suddenly, he was averting his gaze when you’d cross your arms, pulling away when you’d reach from his hand. afterschool walks became just a memory instead of routine. he thought he was shielding you from these feelings— distancing himself out of respect. he didn’t know you noticed, or rather cared.

jeongin tried to find an outlet for the urges simmering under his skin. hallway crushes, flirting with classmates, anything to distract him from the fact what he really craved was his best friend. and besides, you started getting busy: kissing boys at parties, telling him about the cute guy you gave your number. he had no shortage of suitors of his own, but he never has the courage to go through with any of them— to just say yes when he gets asked out. but one day, it dawns on him: any girl he found himself drawn to reminds him of you. they could be your twin if you squint. it’s no coincidence.

he starts releasing these feelings in the night— when the day’s got him pent up and his thoughts are louder than his morals. in the dark, with his hand around himself and shirt between his teeth, it’s your face he sees. your voice he hears. he really tries not to— not think about how he caught your shirt ride up earlier that day, or how you clutched onto his sleeve in the crowded hallway. it’s never as good when he doesn’t imagine it’s you. but afterward, when he’s calling your name as he coats his hand— reality sinks in when you don’t answer. the shame’s always twice as heavy as the brief pleasure. sometimes he can’t even look at you the next day.

jeongin’s halfway to insanity when you start hooking up with mutual friends. he never thought being so close could become a double-edged sword. it’s an effort to hide his disapproval— nodding with a tight lipped smile when you tell him about last weekend’s hookup. but you know him better than that. you reassure him that they’re nothing serious. short-lived sparks that’ll inevitably burn out. jeongin tells himself not to let it get to him. you’re not his, and you don’t owe him anything. he repeats it like a mantra, even when resentment starts to churn in his stomach.

he wants to be supportive, to be the one you can always count on. even with all these nights spent with other guys, jeongin’s door is always open for you when you need someone. but, every time one of those flings ends and you cut them off without a second thought, a quiet fear settles in him— would that be him, too, if he ever crossed the lines he drew in the sand? he can’t risk finding out the hard way. he locks his feelings in a box and tosses away the key. it’s safer this way. even if part of him is aching to find out what would happen if he put your friendship on the line.

he really tries to force himself to move on. you even set him up with a friend— sweet, pretty, even if she’s not what he’s looking for. they end up making out at some party, her lips warm on his as she presses her body closer— but none of it’s right. nothing about her is … well, you. only when he closes his eyes and your faces flashes behind his lids that arousal finally sparks— sudden, hot, unmistakable as it digs into her thigh and she giggles in his ear. he’s pushing your friend away from him in the next breath. he won’t disrespect her like that, and your gratitude by extension. he won’t put on a farce and lead this poor girl on, when all his body has ever wanted is his best friend.

after a particularly bad breakup, it’s jeongin that you run to. it’s late, too late to knock on the front door, so you climb through his window like you used to when you were kids— only now, you’re older, heavier with hurt, and you’d be in a hell of a lot more trouble if his parents saw. jeongin holds you as you cry, tears staining his shirt as he cradles you into his chest. you sob that you just want to feel wanted— to know you’re enough for someone to stay. and when you look up at him, eyes glassy and lips trembling, his resolve snaps. he kisses you— only gently, a small peck to prove you wrong, that you are enough. it can be just like when you were kids. even if the barely contained desire behind his actions isn’t.

that night was the last time your friendship was ever the same. what followed happened slowly— neither of you sure if you’ll stop now or keep going and find out. his hands trail up your back, hesitant at first, like touching you too much might make you have second thoughts. but you’re the one to pull him closer, threading your fingers in his hair, sliding into his lap. his breath stutters when your lips find his, deeper this time, more certain. your kisses turn frantic, like you’re eager to drown out the ache with something— someone— familiar.

jeongin doesn’t push. he hasn’t gone this far before with anyone. while he wasn’t exactly waiting, it feels like it was always meant to be with you. he’s tentative in how he touches you, memorising every spot that makes you shiver, every sweet noise he can pull from you. he keeps looking to you for reassurance, where you just smile and praise him for how good he’s making you feel. you tug your pants down for him, hands fumbling beneath the covers. you guide him through it all. it’s not rushed, not careless. he must’ve asked if you were sure fifty times over.

with a hand cradling your cheek, jeongin works himself in, and he can’t help how he moans when he fills you to the hilt. he’s messy with his thrusts. a little desperate. he’s wanted you for so long he almost forgets to breathe. he’s sure he must be the worst you’ve ever had until you’re muffling your own cries by wrapping your lips around his fingers. that sends him off the edge. and when you come undone shortly after, in his arms and calling his name like he’s done for your countless of nights before— jeongin realises he’ll never get over you. not now. not after this.

after that fateful night, things fall into a rhythm— casual, easy, like second nature. you keep bickering over what movie to watch, steal bites off each other’s plates, lie side by side talking about nothing until you both fall asleep. it’s almost like you’re kids again, still just playing. only now the games involve tangled sheets and stolen kisses, soft moans muffled into pillows and skin against skin. you’re both having fun. it’s light. no pressure. the same old friendship, just more physical and intense than before. that’s what jeongin tells himself, anyways. he’s happy to be this close to you— to finally have you in the ways he’s been too afraid to admit. but it’s still not everything. is it greedy to want all of you?

home alone one evening, you invited jeongin over for drinks, which usually meant fucking like rabbits before your family got back. though this time, he’s too eager with his liquor— properly wrecked within an hour. and that’s when the words come tumbling out. years of repression soaked in tequila. he’s crying, slurring through the truth like it’s been choking him all this time. telling you how much he loves you. just how long he has. since before he even knew what love really was. and you sat there, stunned, silent. because you’d felt it too.

you’d always wanted jeongin. but it was when he started pulling away— when the touches grew cautious and the looks turned unreadable— that you thought he’d never want you the same way. so you smothered those feelings with attention from other guys, all paling in comparison to how your best friend could make you feel. the shared confessions settle between you both. you sit in the weight of everything unsaid, everything that could’ve been if either of you had just known. and when jeongin’s reaching for you, pulling you into a hug against his chest, you both agree that it’s time to stop pretending.

when you finally start actually dating, it feels both natural and entirely new. the shift from just hanging out to real dates is subtle, but it changes everything. jeongin is clumsy with it, shy in a way he never was when things were undefined. he opens car doors too fast, stumbles over compliments, and keeps checking in like he still can’t believe this is real. the truth is, he never let himself hope he’d get this far. he spent so long loving you in silence, he never once let himself imagine what it would be like to be allowed to love you out loud. it’s something he's learning in real time, one adorable misstep at a time.

jeongin becomes the kind of boyfriend who listens, even if you’re not outright telling him what you want. if you mention something you’ve been craving in passing, he’s showing up with it fresh the next day. he memorises your takeout order, your work schedule, the way you like your hair played with and how to massage you when you’re stressed. he says good morning with a kiss before you even open your eyes, and goodnight after he makes sure you got home safe. he takes candids of you when you’re not even posing or looking. and it’s not because you asked— but because he swears up and down you look prettiest without even trying.

he’ll learn how to cook your favourite dish, even if it takes a few burnt attempts and near-misses of food poisoning. when you’re upset, he doesn’t try to fix it— just sits with you, holds you, lets you fall apart in his arms without judgment. sometimes you’ll catch him staring with a stupid grin on his face. even now, he still can’t believe that he gets to call himself your boyfriend. but despite it all, he’s the same jeongin. still, always, your best friend.

✉️: @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @loveesiren @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @pinkpunkdynamite @hydeonysus

[fic-girlie]

Hiii... I had a request... I don't know if it'll make sense but I'm kinda looking for some angst story... I search pedro and all i find is smut... I like it believe me I might even love it but I'm craving some angst with it too... I was thinking to go with the plot of materialists where reader is Harry's friend/colleague who's in love with him and has given him a lot of chances but everytime she's been rejected blatantly, him saying he loves her only as a friend and then lucy comes into picture making him ignore the reader more... He realises what you might be going through but he thinks this will help her move on but then lucy chooses john in the end leaving him heartbroken... And again reader's there & helping him but this time it's different... Her eyes are not looking at him the same way she used to look at him because of which this time her efforts doesn't feel personal. It actually for the first time feels to be taken care of by a FRIEND and he hates it. He wants the old you back. For the first time he sees you laughing with other men, blushing when you're flirted with and he realises how all this time you must be feeling but this time you're rigid in your head and he has to work a lot more than his usual charm to win you back.. to win your trust back. I really want to see the guy work for it... In every story I get the angst with readers perspective but i never see the main character suffer much... Again I'm only requesting no pressure but I'd be very grateful if you write it 👉👈

Messed up emotions

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader Summary: You loved him for years, but he never saw you—until you let go. Now he wants you back, but this time, you’re not so easy to reach. Warnings: angst, Harry being completely oblivious to your feelings

You've been in love with Harry for what feels like forever. Not in the giggly, obsessed, schoolgirl kind of way, but in the steady, soul-deep kind of way that just quietly grows. It seeps into the silences between his awful jokes and his thoughtful silences, into the way his hands move when he's focused on an assignment, into the moments when he lets you see the less polished versions of him. And every time he's brushed you off—every time he's said to you "You're my best friend, you know that. But I just don't feel that way"—you've sworn to yourself this would be the end. The end of wishing for more. The end of letting your heart beat just a fraction faster when his arm brushes against yours. The way you'd stay a little too long, hoping he would notice you in a different way.

But love makes a fool of all of us.

You kept showing up. Because you did not know how to shut off the love for someone who had not really done anything wrong. He never strung you along, not intentionally. He did not keep you on a string with half-promises or ambiguous touches. No, Harry was painfully straightforward: "I love you. Just… not like that." And yet, he still needed you. You were the first person he called after a bad meeting, the one he stood next to at every party, the one who always knew how to calm him down when his anxiety started to claw at his ribs. So you stayed. Because if you couldn't have him the way you wanted, at least you still had him.

And then Lucy came along.

She was beautiful in that effortlessly charismatic way, the kind of woman who walks into a room and makes the air get thinner, denser. Harry didn't stand a chance. You saw it happen in slow motion—how his smile eased around her, the excitement in his voice when he talked about her, the shift in his priorities that used to be yours. You tried happiness for him initially. You smiled, offered counsel when he asked, listened without flinching when he told you how wonderful she was. But you felt it—something unraveling inside of you, thread by thread, every time he chose her instead of you.

And soon, he stopped choosing you at all.

You became background noise. Your messages weren't returned as quickly, your calls weren't returned as urgently. He didn't notice anymore the things he used to—when your laugh wasn't coming from your heart, when your eyes were tired, when your voice contained the quiver. Lucy was his world now, and you were pushed to the sidelines, hoping not to disappear entirely.

What Harry never understood was that your love wasn't a switch you could turn off. It was in the way you recalled his coffee order, in the playlist you'd made for him when he was in a bad mood, in the way your heart always tilted toward him even when he wasn't looking at you. So you stuck around for Lucy. By means of the dinners you weren't exactly invited to, by the blank smiles and polite laughter, by the mute agony of watching him give her everything you once begged for in silence.

And when Lucy left—when she finally chose John, choosing steadiness over whatever tempest she and Harry shared—you were there.

You were, naturally.

You brought him takeout and a bottle of wine. Sat on his floor while he stared at the wall and said, "I thought she was it. I really thought…" And you nodded, your heart barely stirring anymore. You said the right things. You even held his hand.

But you didn't look at him the same.

Your eyes used to shine when he looked at you, even when you were faking a temper with him. There was always a softness there, something that made Harry feel like he was the only person in the world you saw quite so clearly. But now… now your eyes were tranquil, steady, unreadable. And for the first time, when you said "I'm here for you," it did not feel personal. It was something that would be said by a good friend.

And Harry hated it.

He didn't realize how much he had taken your love for granted until it was gone. You were still kind, still present, still gentle—but it didn't feel like he was special to you anymore. You didn't grasp at his words. You didn't ask him about his day like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You smiled, yes—but not just at him. You laughed, freely and unabashedly, at other men's humor. Men who looked at you as though they saw you. And, worse, men who made you blush.

He noticed that most of all.

The first time he saw you tuck your hair behind your ear and smile at something Dave, one of his work-partner had said—smile for real—Harry felt something plummet low in his gut. He told himself it was jealousy, but it was something sharper than that. It was regret. You were moving away from him, and this time it wasn't because of someone else. This time it was his own fault.

You had loved him so much, so freely, for so long. And he had behaved as though that love would always be there, that it was given, that you would always be waiting.

But now… now you were moving on.

And he was not ready.

He tried the old tricks at first. The late calls, the little inside jokes, the charm he used to rely on. But you did not fall for them this time. You still laughed, yes, but the sound did not linger longer like it used to. You did not lean in. You did not look at him as though he had your heart in his hands anymore.

You had hidden it away. And now, if he ever wanted it again, he'd have to earn it.

You don’t make it easy for him.

That’s the first thing he notices, and maybe the first thing that really scares him. Because it used to be so simple. He’d send a single late-night text—“still up? ”—and within minutes, you’d be at his door with that familiar softness in your eyes. You always came back, always let him hold you in his arms whenever it suited you, always gave more than he was able. And now… he sends messages, and you leave him on read. Not out of spite.

Just like a human who no longer lives and breathes at the sound of his name.

And that, more than anything else, makes Harry desperate. You still talk, of course. You're not distant. You're affectionate with everyone else, too—friendly, clever, funny—but that secret language the two of you share is gone now. He finds himself trying to reach for it, halfway through a sentence, halfway through a joke, expecting the familiar cadence of your smile, the small smile of understanding in your eyes… but it's not there. You nod instead. Or deflect.

Or make a few snorts and leave to refill your drink or check your phone or flirt some more, again, with that same account guy who clearly doesn't care that Harry has you under his eyes like a man dying of thirst.

You hardly notice.

And God, it hurts. It starts small. Harry makes excuses to visit your desk more frequently than he used to. Brings you coffee even though he has no idea how you take it anymore. Used to know, but now he's just guessing. That alone nearly knocks him off his feet. He wants to know how you spent your weekend and listen more than he ever has.

He notices your new coat, the cut of your hair, the earrings—things he never even noticed before other men did.

You thank him politely.

You smile.

But you don't glow.

You used to glow. The worst of it is that you're still everything he remembers. You're still smart and considerate and good. You're still the only one who can talk him down from the spin in his head. Still the one who made him feel like he could be better—if he just tried. But now you've quit waiting for him to try. You’ve stopped holding space for him in your heart like a place he could always come home to. And it’s only now—only now—that he realizes how much that meant. That love.

That safety.

He wants it back.

But for once, he doesn’t know how to ask for it. So he starts showing up. Quietly, consistently. Like he’s building something one brick at a time with bare hands. He remembers your go-to snack and leaves it on your desk with a Post-it reading "Thought of you." He walks you out to your car after work, even when it is not nightfall, even when you didn't ask. He insists on carrying your computer bag in the hallway, tells jokes he knows he will get, but even when you do laugh, there is something distant about it. As if your heart is behind a wall now.

As if your laugh doesn't belong to him anymore.

And perhaps the cruelest part?

He doesn't deserve for it.

Because he remembers every single time you came and he looked through you. Every time he came crying about Lucy and you wiped away his tears with hands that wanted to be held and weren't. Every time you begged in your silence—choose me—and he did not.

He sees it all now.

And it kills him.

One night, after too much wine celebrating a colleague's birthday dinner, he spots you leaning against the bar, head back in a laugh that doesn't even sound remotely headed his way. And there is someone's hand on your elbow. Light. Friendly. Harry's breathing stalls. It shouldn't be an issue. He hasn't a right. But it is. It is in the slow, descending, bone-deep way that makes him feel sick-in-himself.

When you turn back over, your expression shifts slightly. You say goodbye to the man—he resents that he doesn't know his name—and go over to Harry with your arms crossed over your chest, an arched brow.

"Are there any problems?"

He shakes his head. Fakes a grin. "I just wanted to tell you something."

You nod once. "Tell me."

But his voice gives him away.

Because now you're standing in front of him with a peaceful distance. With no suggestion of the hunger that used to hide behind your lashes. No pain, no tenderness. Just patience. The kind you save for strangers, colleagues. And Harry needs to shake you, needs to beg—please, look at me the way you used to. Please, love me the way I didn't. Please, don't be finished.

Instead, he utters something stupid. Something bland. "You look nice tonight."

You tilt your head. "Thanks."

That's all.

No flush. No shy smile. No playful inquiry about whether he finally saw. You just… thank him. Like it doesn't count. Like he doesn't count.

He gets ill.

He says your name so quietly, as if if he says it too loudly, you'll disappear. "Can I… Can I ask you something?"

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Sure."

"Did I… did I rupture something between us?

And for a moment—one moment—your expression shifts. Something old crosses your eyes, something weary and wounded, and he sees you are able to cut him wide open if you care to. You can tell him everything. How you loved him. How hard it was to see him fall in love with somebody else. How many nights you cried over somebody who never looked back. How humiliating it was to be on call constantly, second.

But you don't.

You just breathe, quietly.

"No. No, not really. You just… taught me to not hope anymore."

And that destroys him more than if you'd yelled at him.

Because your voice is quiet. Your words are honest. And they sound not angry, but tired. Like someone who gave too much for too long and finally, finally learned how to walk away.

You smile at him afterwards. Not wistfully. Not bitterly. Just like someone who has lost something.

"Good night, Harry."

And you walk away.

And for the first time in his life, he's the one you didn't turn around for.

[zoe535]

What We Never Said

Chapter 1

WC: 1.5k

"Azzi Fudd and Paige Bueckers' rivalry has been one of the most electric storylines in women's college basketball since 2021. Both are talented, they have tension, and something that no post-game stat sheet can measure. Whether it was the subtle shoulder bumps, the shade thrown, or the infamous eye rolls caught on camera, one thing was always clear, these two brought out something fierce in each other. And now, for the first time ever, they'll be on the same team." — WNBA Weekly, Draft Night 2026

The lights of The Shed hit harder when your stomach is in knots.

Azzi Fudd stood center stage, a fresh Dallas Wings jersey pressed into her arms, the crowd still cheering. She smiled, because that’s what you do on draft night. Cameras flashed. Reporters jotted down anything they could see and hear. Her name was plastered across screens nationwide and echoed from every mouth in the venue.

First overall pick. WNBA. Dallas.

She should’ve felt unstoppable.

Instead, all she could think about was Paige.

Paige Bueckers.

The Wings’ franchise player. Drafted #1 last year. Rookie of the Year. All-WNBA Second Team. Face of everything.

And now Azzi, after years of clashing jerseys and sharp words, was walking straight into her territory.

Onstage, she posed with the commissioner, smiled wide for the cameras, then turned and walked backstage with her agent. A half-dozen interviews waited. Azzi moved through them like muscle memory.

Nodding, answering, joking.

But her pulse never settled.

When a reporter asked what it meant to join the Wings and share the court with Paige, Azzi kept her voice even.

“I think we’ll bring out the best in each other,” she said. “We always have.”

Her agent gave her a subtle nod of approval. But Azzi could feel the headlines writing themselves.

Four nights later, the adrenaline was long gone.

Azzi sat in a quiet Dallas hotel room, her brand-new Wings gear laid across the back of a desk chair. The city skyline glittered through the window, bright and unfamiliar.

She stared at her phone. No missed calls. Just one unread text from an unknown number.

(xxx)-xxx-xxxx: Welcome to the Wings, rookie. – Paige

That was it. No emoji. No warmth.

Classic Paige.

Azzi read it three times, thumb hovering over the screen like it might burn her. She didn’t reply. What would she even say? Thanks? Can’t wait to relive four years of tension with you every day at practice?

She set the phone down face-first.

Their history went deeper than any headline could explain.

The 'rivalry' started in 2021. It was Azzi’s freshman year at Tennessee. Paige was already a household name, carrying UConn on her back with style, swagger and confidence. Their first meeting had been nationally televised, hyped for days.

Azzi had hit a jumper right over Paige’s outstretched hand and turned to smirk.

“You’re light work,” she muttered.

Paige’s response came moments later with a step-back three and a wink before trotting back on defense.

It was on from there.

Every season, their teams met. Every game? Heated. Personal. Clipped moments of side-eyes, shoulder bumps, and fiery soundbites became regular content for highlight reels and Twitter threads. Even when they didn’t speak, they spoke volumes. The rivalry had teeth.

Fans loved it.

The media fed on it.

Azzi hated it. How it mattered to her much more than she wanted to admit. How much Paige got to her.

Their last college game, the Elite Eight in 2025, had left scars.

Tennessee up two.

Ten seconds left.

UConn ball.

Paige had 23 points. Azzi had 24.

Timeout.

As the players walked past each other, Paige leaned in and whispered, “You ready to go home again?”

Azzi didn’t even look at her. “Make the shot this time.”

The play resumed.

Paige drove left, pulled up just beyond the arc, and let it fly.

Swish. Buzzer. Game.

Azzi froze.

Paige? Blew her a kiss and walked off like she’d done it a thousand times before.

That night, Azzi punched a locker door in the tunnel. No one saw. She told the press her hand was fine.

Funny thing was, it hadn’t always been this bad.

Before college, before all the cameras and noise, Azzi actually looked up to Paige. But she'd never admit that. She used to like every single highlight of her that came across her feed.

And now it was like she muted the words 'Paige Bueckers' from her phone.

before they knew each other, they’d been just two girls who loved the game.

But things changed. Pride got in the way. So did the spotlight. And now?

They were strangers.

Strangers who knew too much.

Her family was overjoyed on draft night.

Her mom was crying and repeating how proud she was. Her dad couldn’t stop sobbing. Her brothers, Jon and Jose, made jokes about being her bodyguards in Dallas. They took photos. Ordered room service. Popped cider.

Azzi smiled and laughed and answered every call. She hugged them tight and told herself to stay in the moment.

But when she was finally alone, everything crashed in.

She sat on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

She’d spent the last year trying not to think about Paige. Ignoring the Wings every time they popped up on her screen. Wishing someone else, anyone else, would go first.

But she’d gone #1. And that meant Dallas.

It meant Paige.

It meant walking into a locker room where the girl who once made her feel so much joy, even though she didn't know her, now made her feel nothing but pressure.

She thought about what it would be like to walk into training camp. Would Paige say anything in front of the others? Would she act like they were teammates, just teammates, and nothing more?

Would she acknowledge the years of rivalry?

Her hand hovered over her phone again. That message still sat there, taunting her.

Welcome to the Wings, rookie.

She didn’t write back.

She just turned off the light and crawled under the covers, heart racing.

She lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling. Memories played like highlight reels in her head—the smirk on Paige’s face after a dagger three, the clenched jaw when Azzi blocked her shot, the almost smile when they crossed paths in a tunnel and neither said a word.

Tomorrow was her first day as a professional.

And Paige Bueckers would be waiting.

The Dallas practice facility was sleek, sunlit, and humming with early morning energy. Rookies in crisp gear milled about with wide eyes and nervous chatter. Coaches barked greetings. Music thumped from a nearby speaker.

Azzi walked in with her duffel slung over one shoulder, headphones in, hoodie up.

She wasn’t here to make friends.

She was here to prove something.

An assistant coach pointed her toward the locker room. She nodded once and made her way through the corridor, heart pounding.

Her name was already printed on a nameplate above a stall: Fudd – #35

Next to it? Bueckers – #5

Of course.

Azzi sat down, took a breath, and began to lace her shoes.

She didn’t look up when she heard footsteps.

Didn’t flinch when the voice said, "Morning."

But she knew who it was.

Paige.

Azzi kept her eyes on her shoes. “Hey.”

“You settle in alright?”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then a zipper. A duffel hitting the floor.

“Cool.”

Silence stretched thin between them, taut like a worn net.

Azzi finally looked up.

Paige was tying her hair back, a band already looped around her wrist. Her expression unreadable.

Same Paige. Same cool exterior.

Different context.

Azzi forced a smile. “Guess we’re teammates now.”

Paige’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Guess we are.”

A few lockers down, one of the rookies glanced over, eyebrows raised. Whispered something to another girl. The tension didn’t go unnoticed.

“Everyone’s talking about us,” Paige said quietly.

Azzi leaned back against the wall. “They’ve been talking about us for years.”

Paige nodded once, then stood up and grabbed her practice jersey from the hook. “Let 'em talk.”

Azzi watched her go.

The air in the locker room buzzed with more than energy. It buzzed with tension, with everything they’d never said out loud.

She let out a slow breath, then pulled on her jersey.

It was going to be a long season.

[princesscolumbia]

Scenario: You are a MAGA voter

Last year I was desperately trying to get you to READ Project 2025 and then BELIEVE Trump and every Republican when they said the quiet part out loud and you told me and every other marginalized person that the price of eggs was too high and trannies were trying to corrupt our women and children. I pushed for UBI and free healthcare and ANY woman's right to choose and didn't put any sort of restrictions on my advocacy because when I learned the phrase "Freedom and Justice for All" my parents and teachers didn't put caveats and exemptions on the phrase.

This year I kept pointing out that the price of eggs is higher than ever and you kept asking why I kept bringing up the eggs and I reminded you that you voted to kill the "eggs" (closeted trans people) when you blindly swallowed Trump's lies and voted against your own best interest. I keep pushing for the price of EVERYTHING to drop and that will benefit you as well as me because we all have better things to do with our time than to police eggs. (Either definition of "egg")

Next year I will keep reminding you that we could have continued the trend we'd been following since the end of World War 2 of making Nazis uncomfortable whenever they opened their fucking stupid racist pie holes by reminding everyone that it's always morally correct to punch a Nazi and the only good Nazi is a dead one because being a racist, sexist, homophobic, elitist troglodyte is a choice and choices get to have consequences. I'm going to remind you of this regardless of whether your skin has less melanin than mine because, unlike the average Republican, I don't presume someone's level of worth based on the color of their skin but on the content of their character.

In five years I'm going to remind you that it wasn't the queers that shut down the VA or declared vaccines to be junk science or took food out of the hands of starving children or tried to deport legal citizens and residents based on the color of their skin, that was Trump and his cronies. I'm going to remind you every chance I get because you've proven that you forgot the lessons of history once, but I didn't and you clearly need reminding. I do this because the wheel of history will either propel us all to the future or grind us all under it and nobody is exempt.

In 10 years time I will be pushing 60 and will (hopefully) be known more for my book projects than my ramblings on the Internet and will likely be called to speak at some government hearing or other because I'm apologetically queer and enjoy writing difficult and complicated stuff because that's the kind of thing that forces people out of their comfort zones and gets them to think and grow and, oh, yeah, I wrote THAT fanfic and how dare I, a queer tranny dyke pervert, exist in public with good, decent, god-fearing folk and I'll remind you that Jesus hung out with the prostitutes of his day and declared that a queer foreigner couple showed greater faith than any of his disciples and he'd have cast out any who tried to persecute the already downtrodden. And then I'd rail against ANY form of censorship because if they can shut down my enemies they can shut down me and so we all must be able to speak our minds even if we're objectively wrong. I will do this because good people don't try to silence others just because they disagree.

In 20 years time I'll be an elder queer and (goddess willing) will be still writing and speaking out against fascist and reminding people that the first wave of Nazis went unchecked for too long and dragged the entire world into a war. I'll still be shouting from the rooftops about that time in the 2020s we let a bunch of selfish, bigoted homophobic dickheads set public policy with the promise that they'd make America great again by doing the exact opposite of everything that ever made America great in spite of its history, not because of its history. And I'll do this because the proof that there are segments of humanity that prefer to be sects of insular, evil fucktards that will fight knowledge with every fiber of their being and only by ensuring knowledge is freely available and taught to EVERYONE regardless of race, creed, color, religion, sexuality, gender, or any other identity (including income) will we ensure we never have to face the third wave of Nazis.

I'll do this until the day I die because, unlike the 51% of people who blindly followed the dumb, I remember that I need to stand up for ALL others before there is nobody there to stand up for ME.

I do actually care marginally about the guy in that reddit screenshot who voted for Trump and is now worried that he might lose his medicaid funding because I did not fucking stutter when I said healthcare is a human right but the people losing their internships and job offers to the hiring freeze are straight up hilarious.

[beaureveries]

Love your stuff! Keep them coming!

Here's my prompt (when the team was on board to Tampa)

Azzi was doing her homework while Paige was trying to sleep but couldn't and because she wanted to be held by Azzi.

Up to you how this would end, Azzi finishing her homework or both of them dozing off. 😅

ONE SHOT : PLANE RIDES & BAD (GOOD) PRIORITIES

paige x azzi

trigger : clingy p and soft az

hope this is what you meant by the prompt!

I’m sorry it’s super short, I don’t really know what else to add.

——————————————————————————

The plane hummed steady beneath them, that kind of dull, soothing roar that made everything feel like it was happening underwater. Low conversations. The occasional clink of ice in plastic cups. Overhead lights dimmed except for the random glow of a reading lamp here and there.

Paige had been trying to behave. Really, she had.

Noise-canceling headphones on. Hood pulled low. Watching the new season of The White Lotus on her iPad.

But by the time the credits rolled on episode three, she realized she hadn’t actually absorbed any of it. Blinking slow, fighting sleep, thinking okay cool, I’ll just knock out now…

…but she couldn’t.

Not with Azzi sitting there, warm and pretty, right there, ignoring her with academia like betrayal.

Azzi was two seats down, knees up, sleeves pushed to her elbows, typing on her laptop like she wasn’t already one of the busiest people on earth. AirPods in. Locked in. Focused.

Homework. On a plane.

It was, frankly, offensive.

Paige sighed dramatically, stretching her legs out like she might spontaneously pass out just to make a point. She lasted another full minute before caving.

With the precision of a sniper, she reached over and poked Azzi’s thigh. Once, twice.

“Az.”

Nothing.

“Az.”

Finally, Azzi slid one earbud out, slowly, like she was clocking in for a shift she hadn’t asked for. “What”

Paige squinted, eyes dramatic. “I’m literally fighting for my life over here.”

Azzi blinked. “Doing what.”

“Trying to sleep, but I can’t because someone’s over here pretending homework’s more important than my emotional well-being.”

Azzi closed her eyes like she was actively praying for strength. “P, you literally said, and I quote, ‘I’m gonna pass out watching White Lotus.’ I left you alone on purpose.”

“Yeah, well,” Paige muttered, arms crossed, “plans change.”

Azzi gave her the tiniest side-smirk but immediately schooled her face like nope, not gonna give her that satisfaction.

“Due tonight,” Azzi said plainly, turning back to the screen. “Discussion post. Not optional.”

“I’m not optional either.”

Azzi paused mid-keystroke. Like damn, she’s good.

Still—no full smile. Just back to typing like Paige wasn’t doing the neediest, slowest, most dramatic shoulder-lean in history until her whole head was resting against Azzi’s arm.

“I’ll help you. We’ll tag-team it. I’ll dictate, you type.”

“You’re gonna help me write about athlete sponsorships?”

“Babe,” Paige whispered, grinning like the devil, “I am an athlete sponsorship.”

That almost got her again. The corners of Azzi’s mouth curled, despite herself, as she looked at Paige slumped over dramatically like she was withering from lack of affection. She tried to keep typing, but Paige shifted, pressing her face to Azzi’s arm like a cat demanding warmth.

“This is emotional blackmail,” Azzi muttered.

“I prefer to call it survival.”

Another full beat of resistance passed before Azzi closed her eyes, sighing through her nose.

She could’ve kept going. She could’ve written the whole stupid post on NILs, cited sources, used big words, and hit submit like the responsible person she usually was.

But Paige was soft and warm and insistent, her whole body leaning into Azzi like she belonged there, and—god help her—Azzi loved her enough to let herself be ridiculous about it.

Forget it.

Azzi closed the laptop gently with one hand and finally gave in, curling her arm fully around Paige, tucking her closer.

“I’ll just grind when we land,” Azzi muttered, barely audible.

“You’ll pass,” Paige said smugly into her shoulder. “They wouldn’t fail Azzi Fudd. That’s bad for brand optics.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Azzi pressed a kiss to the top of her messy blonde hair, soft and resigned. “Unfortunately.”

Silence finally settled between them. Paige shifted once, sighing like a kid finally getting dessert, and melted completely into Azzi’s hold.

Azzi leaned back into the seat, exhaling slow, already picturing the coffee-fueled scramble she’d be forcing herself into at the terminal two hours before deadline.

She didn’t even care.

For Paige?

Worth it every time.

[barnesonly]

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Lust ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ──

professor!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

word count: 10k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, mutual desperation, age gap, dirty talk, praising kink, PiV, unprotected sex, breeding, masturbation.

Part 2 | Previous Part

The door had shut behind you with a soft click, and for a second, you just stood there in the hallway. Frozen.

The echo of your footsteps on the old academic tile had been the only thing grounding you—but even that had felt distant. Unreal. Like you were walking through someone else’s dream.

You could still feel him.

His mouth, his hands, his voice low in your ear.

“My good girl.”

Fuck.

Your legs had felt like they didn’t belong to you. You were half sure if someone brushed past you, you’d crumple on the spot. Somehow, you’d made it down the stairs, through the empty corridor, and out into the air.

It had been cold.

Not biting, not sharp—just… enough.

Enough to make you pull your coat tighter, enough to wake you up a little.

Enough to remind you that you weren’t still in that room, pressed up against his desk with his mouth between your legs.

Except—it was all still there. Burned into your skin. Your lips were still swollen from his kiss. Your thighs were damp, sensitive. And your heartbeat wouldn’t slow down, no matter how many deep breaths you took.

You kept walking. Past the library. Across the quad. Everything was quiet and still and ordinary—and it made you want to scream. How could the world keep turning after that? After him?

How were you supposed to be a normal person after James Barnes looked at you like you were holy, like you were his, and then kissed you like he meant it?

It wasn’t until you’d made it to your dorm room—key trembling slightly in your fingers, door clicking softly shut behind you—that the full-body spiral began.

You paced. You sat. You stood again. You wiped your hands over your face and nearly laughed out loud at your own reflection in the mirror.

You looked absolutely ruined.

Your hair was a mess. Your blouse was wrinkled. Your skirt was twisted at the waistband. Your skin was flushed, and you could still feel the phantom weight of his hands on your hips, his thumb stroking your cheek, his voice—

“You’re my favorite student. My brightest. My best.”

You collapsed onto your bed, face-down, and muffled a scream into your pillow.

What the fuck had just happened?

You knew what had happened. You had felt it. Every goddamn second of it. You’d wanted him for so long—fantasized, daydreamed, obsessed over every look, every word, every red pen note on your essays—and now…

Now it was real.

You could still taste him on your tongue.

You could still hear him when you closed your eyes.

And then your phone buzzed.

You froze, your heart stopped for a second.

You sat up slowly, like you were bracing for something catastrophic, and grabbed your phone off the nightstand.

A notification glowed on the screen:

New Grade Posted: ENG 304 — Modern Narrative Voice

Assignment: Personal Essay — “The Shape of Want”

Grade: A+

Feedback: Extra credit.

Your breath caught.

You stared at it. Unmoving. Unblinking.

You dropped the phone onto your chest and covered your mouth with your hand, trying to hold in the half-laugh, half-sob that punched out of you.

Oh god.

You were so fucked.

And this was really happening.

———

Professor James stood at the front of the room like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t had his face buried between your thighs three days ago. Like he hadn’t pulled your hips to the edge of his desk, looked up at you with his mouth wet and his voice wrecked, and said, “Next time you write… I want you to describe this.”

He wore a navy button-down today, sleeves rolled just past his forearms, and when he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, your stomach flipped like it had no loyalty to your brain. He was so composed. So poised. So utterly professional, it made you feel stupid for how hard your heart was pounding.

He didn’t look at you. Not once.

He spoke evenly about narrative tone, about voice and distance, his words smooth and practiced—but you could barely follow a thing. You sat with your legs crossed, pen gripped too tight in your hand, jaw clenched any time someone raised their hand to speak. You wanted everyone to shut up. You wanted him to look at you.

When class ended and the low hum of backpacks and chatter filled the room, you didn’t move. Not until his voice cut through it.

“Stay behind a moment.”

Your breath caught.

A few students glanced over at you curiously, but you just nodded, eyes fixed on your notebook. You waited until the last one shuffled out and the door clicked softly shut—just like it had many times before.

Now, it was just you and him again. The air shifted.

James leaned a hip against the desk and crossed his arms, watching you with that unreadable expression you hated and craved in equal measure.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said, voice low, “about your assignment.”

Your throat went dry. You managed a nod and stepped closer, hugging your notebook to your chest like it could protect you. “Right. The, uh… personal essay?”

He hummed. “The one about want.”

Your breath stuttered.

His eyes dropped, slow and deliberate, down to the skirt you were wearing. The same one you wore last time. His gaze lingered on your thighs—just long enough to make your pulse thunder in your ears—before it flicked back up.

“Wearing that again,” he said quietly. “You know what it does to me.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He pushed off the desk, closing the distance between you, and stopped just short of touching. His voice dipped, intimate now, meant only for you. “I’ve been thinking about your last piece. It was raw. Messy. Hungry.” His mouth twitched into something almost like a smirk. “Do you remember what I said to you when you came apart on my tongue?”

You nodded, barely.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I meant it.”

He reached out, slow and careful, and brushed a knuckle along your jaw.

“I want more,” he said. “More from you. Not just your essays. I want your want. In your words. On the page. I want you to write it out, while it’s still fresh. While your thighs still remember me.”

You felt dizzy.

He stepped back again before you could move toward him, before your hands could betray you.

He on the other hand looked perfectly calm.

“You can submit it when you’re ready,” he added. “Privately, of course.”

Your voice finally worked. Barely. “And… if I do?”

His eyes darkened just slightly.

“Then maybe next time,” he said, “you’ll get a different kind of feedback.”

———

You barely remembered walking back.

The lecture hall, the quad, the blur of bodies moving around you—it all dissolved into static. You couldn’t stop replaying it.

„Wearing that again.”

„Do you remember what I said to you when you came apart on my tongue?”

„I want more.”

Your fingers shook the whole way home. It felt like you’d swallowed fire and were trying to pretend your insides weren’t burning. He had touched your face so gently, spoken so calmly, so fucking composed—like he hadn’t reduced you to a gasping mess just days ago. Like he knew exactly what he did to you and wasn’t sorry about any of it.

And then he’d told you to write it.

Write about it. For him.

You locked the door to your dorm, kicked your shoes off blindly, and fell onto your bed without bothering to turn the lights on. Everything felt too loud. Your pulse. Your breath. Your thoughts.

But it didn’t matter. You still pulled your laptop into your lap.

Still opened the blank document.

Still stared at the blinking cursor like it had teeth.

What were you supposed to say?

Today, you told me you wanted my want. So here it is. I wanted to stay on my knees for you. I wanted your mouth again. I wanted your praise. I wanted to climb into your lap and cry because you remembered what skirt I wore. I wanted everything.

You couldn’t write that.

You couldn’t write any of it. Not without falling apart.

But still, your fingers moved.

[Untitled Draft]

for ENG 304 — personal narrative

I don’t know how to write this without unraveling. You said you wanted more. That I should give it to you honestly. So here it is. The truth of it. The shape of the hunger you asked for. I think of your mouth when the wind hits just right—sharp and soft all at once. I feel your voice between my legs when I sit too still for too long. You called me your favorite, and now I crave the gravity of your gaze to feel like I exist. You ruined me gently. With reverence. With your hands, your mouth, your praise. You said you wanted more. So I’m giving you this. Not just the memory of what you did to me, but the aftermath. The ache. The echo. The way my thighs still tremble when I remember how softly you said my name. If this is what you meant by personal then I hope you know I wrote it with shaking hands. And I hope you know I’d let you do it all over again.

You stopped there.

Hands trembling. Breath hitched.

You saved it to a hidden folder, then shut the laptop and tossed it across the bed like it had burned you. Because maybe it had. Because it didn’t help.

Not really. You were still soaked. Still aching.

Still replaying the sound of his voice saying, maybe next time you’ll get a different kind of feedback.

You buried your face in your hands and let out a quiet, strangled sound.

This wasn’t just obsession anymore. This was hunger.

And now that he’d fed it you didn’t think you could ever go back starving.

———

You barely heard a word of today’s lecture.

He stood there, as composed and unreadable as ever—buttoned-up shirt, sleeves rolled once, that low, deliberate cadence in his voice—but you couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe. Every time he turned toward the board, you stared at the way his shoulders moved beneath his shirt. Every time he paced the room, your stomach twisted in anticipation.

Like he had never touched you. Like he hadn’t made you sit on his desk and made you forget your own name.

And the whole time, you had the printed copy of your „assignment” tucked between the pages of your notebook. Your fingers twitching with the urge to hand it over.

You waited until the last student left. Your heart pounded as the door clicked shut behind them, sealing you both inside that quiet room again. The air felt heavier now, like it remembered what happened in here just as vividly as you did.

James didn’t look up right away. He finished gathering his things, methodical as ever—closing his laptop, straightening a few stray papers.

And then—finally—he turned to you.

“You wanted to talk about your assignment?” His voice was calm. Casual. But you saw the flicker in his eyes, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth.

You nodded and stepped closer, holding the paper out with both hands like it might burn you.

“I finished it,” you said quietly. “What you asked me to write.”

He took it from you gently, careful not to brush your fingers—but the air sparked anyway.

“I’ll read it tonight,” he said, sliding the pages into his leather satchel. “Every word.”

You felt your breath catch.

He didn’t look away from you. Didn’t blink. Just watched you, eyes dark, mouth soft but unreadable.

Then—he reached out. Slow. Certain.

His fingers found your jaw, then slid across your cheek, knuckles brushing your skin like he had all the time in the world. His thumb ghosted along the curve of your cheekbone.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

It wasn’t praise. It was possession. A promise. A reward wrapped in something far more dangerous.

Your pulse stuttered. Your knees wobbled.

And just like that, he stepped back—already turning toward the door, leaving you standing there with heat climbing your neck and your heartbeat in your throat.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” he said over his shoulder.

———

You told yourself you wouldn’t run to his office the second the clock hit the hour…

But you did.

You tried to be composed. To walk slow. To look like you hadn’t been waiting all days for this—for him to read it, for him to do something, say something, touch you again.

You knocked once.

The door opened almost instantly. He stood there like he had expected you the whole time. Like he’d been waiting, too.

“Come in,” he said quietly.

The office was dim again, blinds half-drawn, the door clicking shut behind you. He locked it this time. Again. Just like before.

Your heart stuttered.

He didn’t move right away. Just watched you. Let the silence stretch until your throat went dry and your fingers twitched at your sides.

Then he reached behind him and picked up your paper from his desk—the paper. The one you wrote for him. He held it between two fingers, carelessly, like it was lighter than air.

“I read this,” he said, voice like velvet and smoke. “More than once.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“I don’t think okay covers it,” he murmured.

He moved toward you. Not fast. Not threatening. Just slow, deliberate steps across the tile—his shoes silent, his gaze fixed to yours. And then his hand was at your waist, sliding beneath your coat, skimming your hip through the thin fabric of your skirt.

“You wrote this…” His fingers pressed in. “Thinking about what I’ll do next? Thinking how I’ll reward you?”

You nodded, breath trembling out.

“And all of that you wrote…” He brushed his mouth just behind your ear, low, dangerous. “All of that was for me?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

His hands slid lower, palms curving around you—holding, anchoring, claiming. He took of your coat gently, slowly.

James hummed, low in his chest. “You said you still feel me,” he murmured. “Is that true?”

You couldn’t speak. Could only nod.

He leaned down until his lips brushed your jaw. “Let me remind you,” he said. “Let me see how much you meant it.”

Then—slowly, carefully—he guided you back toward the desk.

The same desk.

“Face down,” he said, voice steady but thick now. “Hands flat.”

You obeyed before your brain could catch up. The wood was cool beneath your palms. You felt him behind you—close, looming, steady.

His hand slid up your back, pushing your hair aside.

“You’re my best student,” he murmured. “And this—this is just for me, isn’t it?”

Your breath shuddered out of you.

„Yes, Professor.”

He groaned and then he started to teach you all over again.

You kept your head turned towards him, watching him as you were slightly shaking from anticipation and adrenaline.

His belt clinked softly as he unfastened it, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Head down,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. He grabbed your hair and pulled you by it, dragging your head down so it was touching the desk.

You obeyed before your mind even caught up—not trying to lift it again—spine arching, your cheek pressed to the polished wood, breath catching when you heard the whisper of his zipper lowering.

Then silence. A still, charged pause.

You felt him step in behind you. Close enough to feel the heat of him—but not touching. Not yet.

A hand slid over the curve of your ass, thumb dragging over the hem of your skirt.

“This again,” he murmured, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “At this point I’m sure you’re wearing this on purpose.”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t—not when his hand slipped underneath, pushing the fabric up over your hips. You felt the cool air hit your thighs, the lace of your underwear doing nothing to hide how wet you were for him.

His knuckles brushed down the back of your thigh, slow, teasing.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, soft and reverent. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Then he was pulling your underwear down—inch by inch—letting it fall to your knees.

You heard him stroke himself behind you, the sound wet and shameless, and it made your entire body ache.

“You’re dripping,” he said, almost to himself. “Such a good fucking girl.”

And then the head of his cock pressed against your folds. Hot, heavy.

He didn’t push in. Just dragged it slowly through your slick, up and down, teasing your entrance with deliberate restraint that made you whimper.

“I should make you beg,” he muttered. “Should make you say exactly what you want.”

You couldn’t help the way your hips pushed back against him, your thighs trembling.

“Please,” you whispered.

“What was that?”

“Please, Professor—please, I need you.”

That did it. He gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, and in one slow, devastating thrust, he sank into you.

You gasped — forehead dropping to the desk — every nerve ending lighting up at once as he filled you, slow and thick and perfect.

“Goddamn,” he growled through his teeth. “You feel like heaven.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Just stayed there, deep inside, letting you feel all of him.

And then he started to fuck you.

Hard. Steady.

His hips slapped against your ass with every thrust, and the sound was obscene, echoing in the quiet office along with your soft moans and the ragged sound of his breathing.

You clawed at the desk, body arching as he hit that perfect spot over and over again.

“You’re mine,” he grunted, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing — just holding. Possessive. “You understand me?”

“Yes—” your voice broke into a cry. “Yes, Professor, I’m yours—”

“Good fucking girl.”

You came like that—legs shaking, vision white-hot, sobbing his name against the desk—and he wasn’t far behind.

He came with a low, guttural moan, spilling inside you with one final thrust, burying himself as deep as he could go.

For a long moment, the only sound was both of you breathing hard. Sweaty. Shaking.

And then his hand slid up your spine, tender now, soothing.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmured. “So perfect.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Not yet. Not while your heart was still thundering and his cum was still dripping down your thigh.

His breath was still hot on your neck as he slowly pulled out, the loss of him leaving you aching and open and ruined. You were trembling—wrung out, every nerve frayed, your cheek still pressed to the cool desk.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You could hear the faint tick of the clock on the wall, the whisper of wind against the old glass window, the low rustle of fabric as James—Professor Barnes—tucked himself away, zipped up, rebuckled his belt.

You stayed frozen.

Until you felt the warmth of his palm on your back—gentle this time. Almost reverent.

“Up, sweetheart,” he murmured, coaxing rather than commanding. “Let me see you.”

You rose slowly, legs weak, eyes not quite meeting his. Your skirt was still bunched at your waist, underwear still hanging pathetically at your knees. You felt wrecked—and so seen it made your throat close.

His hands were already on you. Fixing your skirt, tugging it back down over your hips with a quiet care that made your chest ache. Then he knelt, without a word, grabbed a tissue from his desk to clean you up and slid your underwear back into place—his knuckles grazing your thighs, movements soft.

Your breath caught. He didn’t say anything about the mess between your legs. He just looked up at you once from where he crouched—his dark eyes heavy, unreadable—and then stood.

He cupped your face. Leaned in, pressed a soft kiss on your neck and pulled back.

You blinked up at him, dazed. His thumb brushed your cheek. Your lip. His other hand stayed at your waist, anchoring you.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked softly, like it mattered more than anything else in the world.

You shook your head, still a little breathless.

“No,” you said. “You were… perfect.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Something else was there now. Something tender. Something complicated.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Of your work. Your writing.” he whispered, thumb still stroking your cheek. “You write so beautifully…”

He leaned in, close enough to kiss you—but didn’t. Just murmured it against your skin.

“Like you could peel your own ribs open and bleed for it.”

Your breath hitched.

„You told me to,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. His hand slid into your hair.

“I did,” he murmured. “And you listened so well.”

Then, finally, he kissed you slowly, deeply.

It was possessive yet kind.

When he pulled back, he was already smoothing your hair into place. Straightening your shirt. Glancing toward the door.

“You should go,” he said softly, regret in his voice. “Before anyone sees.”

Your stomach flipped. You nodded.

But before you could leave he caught your wrist and pressed something into your hand.

Folded paper.

You looked up at him, confused.

“Read it when you’re alone,” he said and managed a soft smile.

———

Your dorm room was quiet when you got back. Too quiet.

No music. No roommate. Just the sound of the door clicking shut behind you and the steady thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

You dropped your bag on the floor, kicked off your shoes, and stood there for a second—coat still on, body still tingling, his hands still all over you like a ghost you couldn’t shake.

You could feel it.

Him.

His mouth, his fingers, the way he looked at you like you were his.

Your phone buzzed.

New Grade Posted: ENG 304 — Modern Narrative Voice

Assignment: Extra Assignment — „Personal Narrative”

Grade: A+

Feedback: Good work.

Of course…

And in your palm, still crumpled from how tightly you’d held it the whole way back, was the note.

You moved on autopilot—locking the door, shrugging out of your coat, and curling up on the edge of your bed with the folded paper still warm in your hand.

You stared at it for a moment before opening like it might burn you.

His handwriting was neat, controlled. Familiar in the way your own name was, after so many essays.

You blinked at it twice before reading.

My good girl, you tasted like poetry, like fever and summer rain, like something I should never have touched and still—I drank you down like scripture. I watched you today. The way your thighs pressed together when I spoke. The way your breath caught when I said your name. You wear your guilt like perfume. And I would lick every drop from your skin. One day I’ll have you on your knees in my office, mouth open, hands behind your back. I’ll fuck your throat slow, make you take every inch like you’re earning it. I’ll bend you over my desk again—but not until you beg. Not until you tell me what you’re thinking when you touch yourself at night, when you come with your fingers and whisper my name like a prayer. I want your words. Every filthy thought you’ve ever had. Write them down for me. Every ache. Every want. Every trembling fantasy. Tell me in ink what your voice couldn’t say and I’ll make them real. —J.

Your breath caught halfway through.

By the end, you were trembling.

You read it again. And again.

You didn’t know what you were supposed to do with it—frame it, hide it, burn it—or press it between your legs and whisper thank you.

You stared at it for a long time. You weren’t even sure you were breathing. Just sitting there, cross-legged on your bed, hair still a mess from where his fingers had gripped it hours ago, jaw sore from how he kissed you—kissed you like he needed it. Like it would kill him not to.

Your thighs pressed together tight, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Your whole body was aching—sore between your legs, sure, still a little unsteady when you moved, but worse than that was the need. The way your skin burned under every line he’d written. The way your chest fluttered when your eyes landed on “One day I’ll have you on your knees…”

You swallowed hard. The edges of the page trembled in your hands.

You wanted him again.

God, already.

You should’ve been satisfied. Sated. Ruined, really—and you were, sort of—but somehow the ruin didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like a beginning.

He’d left marks on your hips. Scratches on your thighs— but none of that compared to the way this note carved you open from the inside out.

You could still feel the desk under your stomach. The press of his hips against your skin. His voice low in your ear, saying, “You’re so good for me.”

And then this.

A letter. A goddamn poem. About you. About what he wanted to do to you. About your thighs, your mouth, your fantasies.

Your fingers drifted down to your stomach. You pressed your palm flat against it like it might steady you, but it only made it worse.

He wanted more. He wanted you to write to him again. Filthy things. Fantasies.

You’d barely come down from the last time, and already you were aching for another.

You clutched the page to your chest and fell back against your bed, staring up at the ceiling, heart pounding.

You were so fucked, you were in so much trouble already but all you could think was—

I’ll bend you over my desk again.

You didn’t mean to.

Really. You didn’t.

You’d told yourself you’d just read it again—just once more, to try and understand how a man could write something like that about you. To you. Something so filthy it made your thighs clench and your breath catch in your throat, but so beautifully written it made your chest ache.

But then your hand slid lower, almost without thinking.

Still clutching the letter to your chest, your legs curled inward, toes digging into the mattress, and your fingers—your traitorous fingers—snuck under the waistband of your panties.

You weren’t even surprised to find how wet you already were.

How just the memory of his voice in your ear—“You’re mine.”—was enough to make you gasp.

But this—this was worse. Or better.

Because he hadn’t touched you this time. He’d written to you. No fingers. No tongue or his cock. No desk. Just ink and paper and his goddamn mind.

You read that line again. The one that made your stomach flip.

One day I’ll have you on your knees, mouth open, hands behind your back. I’ll fuck your throat slow.

You whimpered.

You were already halfway there.

You rubbed soft circles over your clit, slow, almost lazy, like you were pretending you had control. Like you weren’t falling apart all over again.

Every line of the letter flashed through your head as you moved—every brutal, poetic promise.

The way he described your skin. Your mouth. Your need.

The way he knew you.

It was like he’d already seen you like this. Spread out and desperate, fingers slick and slow, hips twitching as you imagined it was his hand instead.

James.

God. James.

You bit your lip, hard, trying to keep quiet.

Because it wasn’t just the memory of him that undid you. It was the fact that he knew what he was doing when he gave you that note. That he probably wanted this. Knew you’d break. Knew you’d read every line with your hand between your legs, trying to muffle the sounds of your own undoing.

Your free hand tightened around the edge of the page.

You were so close.

He’d made you fall apart over his desk, and now he’d done it again—without even touching you.

“I’ll make you write about this, too,” you imagined him saying, voice rough and low. “I want to read how you came for me. Alone in your dorm. Whispering my name.”

That did it. Your back arched, thighs tensed, and you came with a soft, broken cry—his name half-formed on your lips.

James.

You stayed like that for a long time after. Just breathing. Shaking. Staring at the ceiling like you’d never seen it before.

The letter still clutched in your hand.

You didn’t plan to write again.

Not so soon.

But the second the tremors in your thighs stopped and the air left your lungs in a shattered breath, you knew you would.

Because you were already reaching for your laptop. For your pen and notebook. For the same pages that still held his scent, his touch, his ghost.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, still half-naked, still flushed and aching, and began to write—quick, desperate, like if you waited too long the memory of it would vanish.

[„The Echo”]

for ENG 304 — Extra Assignment

I read your words and felt them on my skin. Your voice was in my head again—low, certain, cruel in the way only someone who knows can be. The kind of cruel that makes me ache. The kind that says, “I own this.” I touched myself, thinking of your hands. I came with your name in my mouth. I imagined you watching. I imagined you liking it. I imagined you punishing me for not waiting. My fingers weren’t enough. They never are. You’ve ruined me for anything less. I thought of what you wrote. The way you said you’d have me on my knees. The way you promised to make me beg. I think I would. I think I already am. I want your voice in my ear again. Your hand in my hair. Your belt undone. I want to write with your fingers inside me. I want to tell you how wet I am before you even touch me. I want you to ask me, “Did you do this for me?” And I want to say yes. Yes. Always yes. Tell me what you want next. I’ll give it to you. Word for word. Touch for touch.

You printed it. Folded it carefully, tucked it between two blank pages in your notebook.

———

You waited until the very last student left.

Watched the crowd thin, the shuffle of backpacks and papers and idle chatter fading into the hallway until the room fell quiet again. All that remained was the scent of chalk dust, old wood, and him—James—still seated behind the desk, meticulously packing up his notes.

He looked up once. Briefly. Just a glance that skimmed past you like it meant nothing—but your skin burned where it landed.

You waited by the edge of the aisle, pretending to fuss with your bag, heart knocking hard behind your ribs. You shouldn’t be nervous. Not after everything he’s done. But somehow, this felt more dangerous than being fucked over his desk. More intimate.

You walked down the steps slowly.

When you reached the front, you didn’t speak right away. You just stood there, notebook pressed to your chest like a secret you weren’t sure you should share. Your fingers were tense around the spiral. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Of course he did.

He looked up, slower this time. His gaze landed on you—and stayed.

“Yes?” he asked, voice quiet but firm. His brows lifted slightly, like he already knew. Like he was waiting for you to offer it up.

You swallowed. “I wrote…something.”

He said nothing, just held out his hand. Not impatient, not demanding. Just open. Expectant.

You opened your notebook and handed the folded pages over without a word. A careful offering, deliberate and hidden.

His fingers brushed yours as he took them from you.

Something in your breath caught.

His thumb slid over the edge of the sheets. He didn’t look down. Didn’t read. Just held it. Held you, in that moment.

“I’ll read it tonight,” he murmured, his voice softer now. Weighted.

You nodded once, tightly. A blush threatened to rise under your skin. You kept your eyes down.

But then—before you could step away—he leaned in. Slow. Certain.

One of his hands lifted—not to touch your cheek this time, not to grip your jaw or tilt your chin like he’s done before—but to rest lightly on the back of your neck. Just a moment. Warm. Anchoring.

And then—

He kissed your forehead.

Barely a breath. Barely a graze.

But it hollowed something deep in your chest. Carved it out and filled it with heat and something fragile and aching all at once.

His lips lingered just a second longer than they should have.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours. Quiet. Careful.

“You’re a very gifted writer,” he said softly.

You nodded again, afraid your voice would shake if you tried to answer.

And then you turned—walking fast, but not quite running—until you were out in the corridor, heart pounding, pulse fluttering like something caged.

———

It was almost midnight when the notification buzzed.

You’d been lying in bed, your desk lamp still glowing low beside your pillow. The room was quiet. No music, no phone calls, no roommate tonight— she was always busy, out with someone, somewhere. The exact opposite of you. There was just the hum of the radiator and the fading scent of his cologne on your coat, still hanging by the door.

You didn’t even realize you were waiting for it.

But when the buzz hit, your heart kicked up. You reached for your phone too fast—nearly dropped it—then flipped it over.

New Grade Posted: ENG 304 — Modern Narrative Voice

Assignment: Extra Assignment — „The Echo”

Grade: A+

Feedback: Stunning. Raw. You are becoming exactly the writer I always believed you could be.

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

You should’ve been happy. And part of you was. You stared at the words until they started to blur, pride blooming low in your belly.

He read it.

He liked it.

But… did he?

You sat up, back pressing to the headboard, phone cradled in your hands like it might shatter. The room felt colder now. Too big.

Because suddenly, you didn’t know if it was you—the writer, the student—he was praising.

Or if it was just the girl he bent over his desk. The one who handed him fantasies inked in her own trembling script, who offered herself in printed pages and bitten-lip metaphors.

You wanted to believe him.

You wanted to believe that he would’ve given you that grade even if he’d never touched you. That you were good. That your work meant something beyond the way you moaned his name.

But your chest tightened anyway.

What if it wasn’t about the writing?

What if none of it ever had been?

What if you were just… easy to read?

You blinked down at the screen again.

Exactly the writer I always believed you could be.

Your throat felt tight.

You wanted to believe it but belief was a fragile thing—and tonight, it didn’t feel like enough.

So you put the phone down gently, turned off the lamp, and curled onto your side as the A+ glowed in your memory like a warning.

———

You didn’t go to class the next day.

You weren’t sick. You weren’t swamped with work. You just… couldn’t. Not when everything felt like it was pressing too tightly against your ribs.

You loved him. Or maybe you were just dangerously close. But either way, it was too much.

You stayed in bed late, let the sun move across the wall without chasing it. Ate dry cereal from a chipped mug and tried to focus on anything else—your assignments, your laundry, your breathing—but none of it helped.

Because all you could think about was him.

His hands on you. His voice. The way he kissed your forehead like it meant something.

And the grade. The praise. The ache of wondering if it was earned.

You didn’t open the campus portal again. Not yet. You couldn’t.

Around three, your phone buzzed. You almost ignored it but then you saw the name.

Prof. J. Barnes.

Your stomach flipped. You opened it with your thumb, pulse thudding in your ears.

Subject: Lecture attendance

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

You weren’t in class today. Everything alright?

That was all. Just quiet, simple concern.

And God—it gutted you.

Because it shouldn’t mean so much. It was one line. But the way your heart twisted told you everything.

You stared at the screen for a long time and then you typed:

Yeah. Just needed a quiet day. I’m okay.

You hovered over send.

Deleted it.

Typed again:

I’m alright. Just a bit overwhelmed. I’ll catch up.

Still too much.

Backspaced.

Tried once more:

Yeah. I’m okay.

You hit send before you could overthink it again.

And then you sat there, holding your phone like it might answer everything you were too scared to say out loud.

The read receipt popped up almost immediately. He was waiting.

Your stomach flipped as the typing bubble blinked into life, paused, disappeared—then came back again. And then finally:

Subject: RE: Lecture attendance

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

Let me know if there’s anything you need. Take care of yourself.

Short. Measured. Clean.

You stared at it for a long moment.

It didn’t say much. Not really. Not anything that could get him in trouble. Not anything that made promises.

But still—

Your fingers tightened around your phone.

You knew that tone. The gentle precision. The care tucked inside the restraint. You could feel him in it, even now. Always so composed. Always so careful.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because it was suddenly hard to tell where the act ended and the truth began.

Did he write like that because he had to?

Or because that was all you were allowed to be—just another message. Another essay. Another secret.

You didn’t answer.

You just sat there, phone face-down on your desk, and told yourself not to feel disappointed. That it was good he was being cautious. That it meant he was protecting you.

———

You sat near the back this time.

Not your usual seat. Not where he could easily catch your eye with some quiet flick of expression. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you just wanted to be near the exit, but your body said otherwise—tucked smaller in your chair, arms crossed as if it could shield you.

He didn’t look at you once. Not during the lecture. Not when he paced slowly across the front of the room with his sleeves rolled up and his voice smooth and steady. Not when he made the class laugh at some dry, offhand comment. He was, as always, composed.

Unshaken.

Perfect.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about the message. About how distant it had felt. Like a door closed too gently.

So when the lecture ended and the soft shuffle of backpacks and chatter began to fade out around you, you stayed. You always stayed. You packed slowly, taking your time.

The last student left. The door swung shut. And silence settled over the room like dust. Then—you heard him step closer, approaching you.

Your heart kicked up, and you didn’t look up until you heard his voice, quiet and low.

“Are you alright?”

You blinked.

His tone wasn’t casual. It wasn’t his professor voice, not even his office-hours voice. It was careful. Threaded with concern.

When you looked up at him, his brows were slightly drawn, mouth soft. You expected restraint. You didn’t expect the worry in his eyes.

“You weren’t in class yesterday,” he said. “And I—” A pause. He looked at you like he was trying to read past the walls you’d built overnight. “I just want to make sure I didn’t do something wrong.”

Your gaze faltered.

And god, you hated how easily your chest cracked open under that. How easily you believed him when he looked at you like that—like he actually cared. Not just about the arrangement. Not just about what you gave him. But you.

“No,” you said, voice quiet. “You didn’t.”

He held your stare for another second, then nodded once, almost to himself. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. No frills, no header. Just lined notebook paper, creased once down the middle. He held it between two fingers and offered it to you without a word.

“Here,” he said. “If you ever need something.”

A breath. His voice dropped, just enough to make your pulse trip.

“Anything.”

You stared at it for a second before taking it, fingertips brushing his.

You didn’t unfold it. Not yet. Just looked at him, really looked at him—and saw the thing he wasn’t saying. The edge beneath his calm. The hesitation in his eyes. Like maybe he thought you wouldn’t take it.

Your throat felt tight. You nodded once, silent, and tucked the note carefully into the inside pocket of your bag. Close to you. Hidden.

He didn’t touch you again—not like he usually did. No hand on your waist. No brush of his knuckles against your skin. Just a glance that lingered for a breath too long and then he stepped back.

You left before you could say anything else. Before you could let it show that your pulse was loud in your ears, that your fingers itched to open the note, that part of you already knew it by heart even before reading it.

You made it down the hallway. Out the building. Across the quad.

And only when you were tucked back into the privacy of your dorm room—bag tossed on the bed, coat slipping off your shoulders—did you pull it out.

Two lines. Simple.

His number and smoothly written If you ever need something, I’m here.

Your breath caught. The room spun a little.

And slowly, you sat down on the edge of your bed, note clutched in your hands like something sacred.

Because for the first time since this whole thing began—it felt real.

Not just desire. Not just lust.

Something else.

Something you wanted more than anything.

You stared at the note for what felt like forever. Ran your thumb over the curve of his handwriting. Traced the numbers like they might burn you. You told yourself you weren’t going to use it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But then the sky outside started to darken. The quiet stretched too long. And the feeling in your chest—that ache of want and guilt and something too big to name—didn’t ease.

So you reached for your phone and added his number to your contacts.

Then you typed, then deleted. Typed again. Backspaced every word. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to say—only that you needed to say something.

Eventually, you sent this:

You | 8:29PM

Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry for not attending that class. I didn’t mean to worry you.

You hit send and then you stared at the screen.

One minute passed.

Then two.

Then three.

And just when your stomach twisted with regret—your phone buzzed.

James | 8:32PM

You don’t need to apologize. I just missed you.

Your heart clenched.

You reread it three times and then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you typed one more message.

You | 8:34PM

I missed you too.

You watched the read receipt blink into existence.

James | 8:35PM

Did something happen?

Not pushy. Not demanding. Just… there. Just him.

You bit your lip. Your fingers hovered for a moment before typing.

You | 8:36PM

No. I promise. I was just… tired. Really tired. That’s all.

The truth, or most of it. You didn’t know how to explain the mess in your head, the weight in your chest, the way your body still ached from the way he’d touched you and how your mind hadn’t quite caught up.

You waited. The reply came quickly.

James | 8:37PM

Okay. Thanks for telling me.

And then, after a beat—

James | 8:37PM

Are you resting now?

You smiled at your screen, heart stuttering.

You | 8:37PM

Trying. Thinking too much, probably.

You sent it and then typed another message.

You | 8:38PM

Should I still come to your office hours tomorrow?

This time, the dots didn’t appear right away. For a few seconds, you panicked—did you overstep? Were you being too eager?

Then he responded.

James | 8:40PM

Only if you want to. But I’d like to see you.

And there it was again—that warmth. That quiet, devastating softness that hit you harder than anything else.

You tucked your phone against your chest and smiled at the ceiling like an idiot.

———

You spent most of the day pretending you weren’t thinking about him. Pretending his message hadn’t melted you. Pretending you hadn’t reread it five times before finally dragging yourself out of bed.

But now, standing outside his office door, it was impossible to pretend.

Your knuckles hovered. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

You knocked. A soft pause—then the latch clicked, the door swung open, and there he was.

James.

Professor Barnes.

In his usual dark button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to show the cords of his forearms as always, tie loosened at the throat, hair still slightly mussed like he’d dragged his fingers through it one too many times today.

He stepped aside to let you in, eyes dragging over you once—quick, sharp, impossible to read.

You stepped in, the air of the office instantly warmer, denser. You heard the door close behind you. Felt it, more than heard it.

Automatically, your fingers reached for the lock—but he was already there.

Click.

Same as before. He locked it himself, again. Just like last time.

You turned slowly to face him. His gaze was already on you. Not cautious. Not nervous. Just intensely focused like he’d been waiting all day to look at you like this.

“Hi,” you said, voice barely more than a breath.

His mouth quirked in the faintest smile.

“Hi,” he echoed. Quiet. Careful. His gaze dipped for a moment, taking in the way your thighs pressed together beneath your skirt, the rise and fall of your breath.

“You came,” he said, softer now. Like it mattered.

“I wanted to,” you admitted.

He studied your face like he was still reading it, like you were another essay in his hands.

“Good,” he murmured. “Close the blinds for me, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched. You moved slowly, deliberately, crossing the room on legs that didn’t feel entirely steady. The heavy blinds fell into place with a rustle, sealing the office in that familiar dim gold light.

When you turned back around, he was still watching you.

His gaze had dropped again. Over your body. Over the way your chest rose and fell with every breath. Over the hem of your skirt.

He took a step forward. Then another. And another—until he was right in front of you.

Close enough that the heat of him licked at your skin. Close enough that you forgot how to breathe.

“Did you think about me yesterday?” he asked, voice like smoke curling around your throat.

You swallowed hard then nodded.

His gaze sharpened.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I did.”

His fingers ghosted along the inside of your wrist—just a whisper of a touch, enough to make your pulse leap.

“And when you touched yourself to what I wrote…” He leaned in, voice brushing the shell of your ear. “Did you think about me then, too?”

Your breath stuttered. A flush climbed up your neck like wildfire.

“Yes,” you breathed.

His hand lifted to your cheek—warm, steady, reverent—and tilted your face to his.

“Good girl,” he said.

Then he leaned in and kissed you. Hard. Devouring. Like he’d waited days to taste you again, grabbing your chin firmly.

His hand slid across your lower back as he guided you toward the desk—the one you’d been bent over before. But this time… he didn’t turn you around.

He pulled your coat off slow, reverent, like he was unwrapping something precious. Like every second he spent undressing you was something to be savored. And then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you up onto the edge of the desk, your knees falling open to cradle him between them.

His mouth was on yours again before you could even think.

Desperate. Possessive. Slow at first—lips brushing, dragging, tugging—until you moaned into him and he pushed deeper, teeth scraping, tongue stroking, kissing you like he was trying to burn the shape of your mouth into his memory.

You clutched at the front of his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric, unbuttoning it with one of your hands and he groaned—low in his throat—as if your touch alone was enough to wreck him.

“Been thinking about this all fucking week,” he murmured, mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, his voice thick with want. “Thinking about you sitting here… just like this.”

Your thighs tightened around his hips. He smiled against your skin.

“You look so beautiful, you know that?” he said. “So fucking pretty it hurts.”

He unbuckled his belt slowly — the soft slide of leather making your breath catch — and unzipped his pants just enough to pull himself out. Hard. Thick. His cock bumped against your inner thigh, already leaking, already ready for you.

He nudged you back slightly with a hand at your lower back, just enough so he could pull your underwear aside — fingers gliding through the wetness between your legs — and you gasped.

“Still so sensitive,” he murmured. „You’re so precious…”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

He ran the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, shallow and slow. Not quite inside.

Your hips bucked forward, needing him. “Please, Professor—”

He pushed in with one deep, fluid thrust.

You gasped—loud—and he kissed you again, swallowing it whole, groaning into your mouth as he bottomed out.

Face to face, chest to chest, breath tangled between kisses. You held onto his shoulders as he began to move, slow at first—like he wanted to feel every inch of you wrapped around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. “Better than the last time. Better than I remember. Better than I imagined.”

You whimpered, digging your nails into his back, and he kissed you hard—open-mouthed, tongue greedy—fucking you slow and deep.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice rough. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m—I’m yours—”

„That’s it, my girl… You’re doing so fucking good.” He thrust harder. Deeper. His mouth never left yours.

And when you finally came—thighs trembling, arms clinging around his neck—he held you through it, whispering praise against your lips like scripture as he reached his own peak.

He didn’t let go of you. His breathing was still ragged, chest rising and falling against yours, but his hands never faltered—one curled protectively around your waist, the other stroking slow up and down your back, anchoring you to him.

You felt the tremble in your thighs, the soreness blooming between your legs, the wetness dripping down your inner thighs—but more than that, you felt him. Still wrapped around you. Still inside you. Still holding you like he didn’t want to let go.

“Shh,” he murmured into your hair, his lips ghosting against your temple. “You did so well, sweetheart.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding—and it broke a little at the edges, ragged and unsteady.

“I’ve got you,” he said again. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

You buried your face into his chest.

His shirt was still slightly open. His skin was warm. His scent wrapped around you—sharp, clean, and familiar—and it was too much. Or not enough. You didn’t know which. You only knew you never wanted to move again.

“I meant every word,” he whispered, voice low, reverent. His hand slid up into your hair and cradled the back of your head, his thumb brushing soothingly along your nape. “You’re brilliant. You’re everything.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt. Clung.

You didn’t say anything — couldn’t. You were too wrecked, too full, too raw. Your whole body felt like it had been unraveled and rewoven with only him in mind.

He pulled back just a little, just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. Another to your temple. His nose brushed your cheek.

“You okay?”

You nodded against him.

“Need anything?”

You shook your head.

He exhaled—slow, steady—and just held you tighter. Then, after a long beat, he pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face. His fingers still traced lightly at your back, his other hand cupping your cheek with a care that almost undid you again.

“Is everything okay?” he asked softly, his brows drawn just slightly. “You seem… off lately. I’m worried about you.”

You blinked.

Something in his voice—gentle, honest, uncertain—made your throat tighten. You hadn’t meant to seem off. You hadn’t meant to let any of it bleed through. But of course he noticed. Of course he saw right through you. He always did.

Your gaze dropped for a moment.

Then you shook your head, slow and small, before meeting his eyes again. They were so blue up close, so open and searching it made your stomach twist.

“It’s not you,” you said quietly. “I just… I’ve been thinking.”

His thumb swept gently across your cheek. He didn’t speak—he waited.

You swallowed. “I’m scared, James.”

That stilled him. You felt it in his body—just the faintest hesitation. Not pulling away, not recoiling—just… listening.

“This,” you whispered. “Us. What we’re doing. It’s dangerous.”

His expression didn’t change, but you saw something shift in his eyes. Something darker. Protective. Maybe a little guilty.

“If someone finds out—” you continued, “if anyone even suspects, you could lose your job. And me—god, I don’t even know what would happen to me.”

The words sat between you, stark and real, echoing off the wood and quiet walls of his office.

“I wanted this,” you said quickly, fiercely. “I still do. But it scares me how much. It’s like… every time I’m with you, I forget to be careful. I forget that we’re not supposed to be—” You cut yourself off. “I don’t want to ruin you.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then his hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, his thumb settling just below your lip. His eyes didn’t waver.

“You’re not ruining anything,” he said softly. “I knew what I was doing the moment I touched you. I knew the risk. And I still wanted you.”

A pause.

“I still do.”

Your breath caught.

“But if this—” his voice dipped lower, rougher now, “if any of this feels wrong to you—if you want to stop, or slow down, or if you change your mind, I’ll listen. Always. But don’t protect me at your expense.”

You stared at him.

Your heart ached with the weight of it. The tenderness. The way he said it like he meant it, like this wasn’t just about desire but choice. Care.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. But your hand reached up slowly, fingers brushing his chest, his collarbone, until they curled into the fabric at his shoulder.

“I don’t want to stop,” you whispered.

And that was all he needed. His hand cradled the back of your neck again, and he kissed you—not hungrily, not desperately—but with the kind of reverence that made your knees weak all over again.

Like he was telling you something in the only language he trusted not to betray him.

You kissed him back like you meant it—because you did. But after a moment, you pulled away. Just enough to look at him. Your fingers stayed curled in the fabric of his shirt, like you needed the grounding. And maybe you did.

His forehead rested lightly against yours, eyes still closed, breath still warm and steady against your lips.

“James?” you said softly.

His eyes opened, slowly, and met yours.

“Do you…” You hesitated. The question felt fragile in your throat. You weren’t sure you wanted the answer—but the ache for it was louder than your fear. “Do you really think I’m a good writer?”

His expression didn’t shift. Not right away. But you felt something ripple behind his eyes—something careful. Measured. Like he knew exactly why you were asking. Still, he didn’t flinch.

“I wouldn’t lie about that,” he said gently. “Not to you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure what to do with the knot of emotion pressing at your ribs.

He leaned in a little closer.

“You’re gifted,” he said, lower now. “You always have been. Your essays are sharp. Emotional. Original. You see people in a way most don’t. You make it feel like it matters.”

His thumb brushed under your eye.

“You could’ve had me even if you weren’t good,” he added, with the faintest flicker of a smile. “But you are. You’re the best I’ve read in years.”

Something broke open in your chest. Not loudly. Not painfully. Just a soft undoing—like breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. You still didn’t feel sure about this—about his intensions—but god you wanted to believe him.

“Okay,” you whispered and you didn’t press it further.

He kissed you again, slower this time—his hands steady at your back, your fingers tangled in his collar. You closed your eyes and let yourself rest for a moment.

———

You didn’t even remember walking back to your dorm. Everything felt distant. Muted. Like you were stuck just a half step outside of yourself.

You weren’t sad. Not exactly.

But there was a strange hollowness curling around your ribs. The kind that made you want to lie on the floor in the dark and just—breathe. Or not.

You dropped your bag by your desk and sank down onto the edge of your bed, rubbing at your temples like it might help make sense of anything. It didn’t.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

And then—your phone buzzed. You reached for it without thinking, thumb unlocking the screen. A notification glowed at the top.

New Grade Posted: ENG 304 — Modern Narrative Voice

Assignment: Extra Assignment — „The echo.”

Grade: A+

You stared at it. Blinked twice.

Because… he already graded that one. That was the last thing you gave him.

He read it. He kissed you on the forehead. He told you he would read it that night. And now.

Now there was a new entry on the portal.

Another A+.

But it didn’t make sense. There was no new submission. No new document. Just the same title. The same piece.

Your heart sank—just a little.

He had already read it. He’d already praised you. Quietly. Intimately.

This—this wasn’t about the work.

And you knew that. You weren’t stupid.

You knew what this was.

Your stomach turned.

Because you wanted to believe he meant it—that he thought you were brilliant, that your writing moved him, that it mattered. But now… you weren’t sure. Not really.

Maybe he just liked fucking you. Maybe the A+ was just another way of saying good girl.

You swallowed. The room felt colder than before and even though nothing had changed… something in you had.

You put your phone down, slowly and stared at the ceiling.

Part 3 soon! 💋

tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @hiraethmae @im-feeling-blue-today @beforemdnight @just4w3irdo @bloodmocha @lovinqbella @its-in-the-woods @muchwita @iyskgd @harrietandcats @shortandb1tchy