#finally getting this one out of the drafts

[merrily-radiant]

This post isn't about writing but I think it shows very clearly the difference between art that is done by a person and AI generated content in a way that is difficult to grasp when it comes to writing.

Like, this:

This is the draft. You can see that hours have been spent on creating this. The architecture, the colors, the puppets, the size, the positioning, the lightning. You can see it's a lot of work and dedication. And you can see that not all of it appears on the final piece; multiple elements here have been constructed just to appear on a small portion of the background.

Nevertheless, they had to be created, modeled, so the art feels composed, structured, grounded on something. And it is that grounding that gets lost when you depend on AI to generate something for you.

With writing, we work with words. We either use our own or someone (something) else's. In the beginning, just like every other activity in life, it is new. You don't know what you're doing, you might feel some unpleasant feelings about your performance, and the action itself is truncate, awkward. There is always something missing and you don't know what that is. But when you write down your thoughts as they appear to you, you are doing just as the 3D artist does with their puppets. You are giving your thoughts space to stretch out in words; you are getting to know your thoughts (the good, the bad, the funny, the sad, the angry, the shameful). As you word them out (and that in itself requires time and effort) and you decide to write a story, you realize that much of what comes through speaks to you. My, who hasn't projected on their stories? Headcanons, OCs, fanon, ships, blorblos; there's a piece of you in every one of the things that you like and enjoy. So, when it comes to writing, you are what grounds your story; you story is grounded on you.

Still, there's margin for people who use AI to create to lay claim to being artists or craftsman. (It wasn't once or twice I heard the arguments that "it is I who enters the prompt", "entering the right prompt actually requires a lot of effort", and "you actually have to spend a lot of time to edit the prompt and generate another more-right thing"). So what I am going to say is this: when you generate something through AI, you can only see the "final form" of what you want to create. The words you choose for your prompt will not be used as you intend them to, because AI works through comparison, and not interpretation. That's why you only get the something that is close-enough, good-enough, and when you look at the text you generated, you only see this:

And never this:

[nottswitch]

꒰ the guys ask bassist!reader for help with some very important… measurements ꒱

cw: 18+ mdni, drug use (weed), measuring cocks, not-quite-a-blowjob, gagging, cursing

a/n: this one’s been sitting in my drafts for a while now, finally got inspo to finish it!

⋆˚꩜｡

jet lag is a bitch, enough said. even though you’re on tour for like a half of your life, you still have some trouble adjusting to different timezones whenever you fly overseas. and so, you end up doing the same exact thing as usual – getting high with your boys at the ass crack of dawn in a shared hotel room.

you’re on the bed, a joint snugly tucked between your fingers as you take a puff, head resting on theo’s lap. through the light mist, you watch enzo and mattheo check themselves out in the mirror hanging on the wall, standing next to each other and flexing their abs in a silent competition.

“this is bullshit,” lorenzo huffs out when it becomes clear that mattheo is far superior in the ‘ripped’ department. the latter looks at him with a lazy smirk, pleased by such an easy win, and weakly punches enzo’s arm as a small taunt.

“i’m serious,” lorenzo whines, returning the punch with a shove to mattheo’s ribs. “we aren’t talking about the real deal here.”

both you and theo simultaneously raise an eyebrow in curiosity, but seems as though mattheo instantly gets the hint, his smirk widening into a grin.

“and what’s the real deal?” you ask, passing the joint to theo. he holds the smoke in for a few moments before leaning down and pressing his mouth to yours. a small cloud billows out of the tiny gap between your lips, and momentarily, you get lost in the moment, mind turning off. the moment gets broken by two sets of footsteps approaching the bed.

“well, it’s damn obvious, mate.”

mattheo takes a pointed look at theo’s crotch. ah, that, you quickly realise, lifting your head from theo’s thighs and looking down. he’s semi-hard already, and you’ve been feeling it against your nape for a few minutes now.

"i mean, we never really compared, have we?” enzo’s hand moves to his cock, twitching in his boxers at the contact. mattheo mirrors the action, grabbing himself and squeezing, making his dick gradually harden.

you shake your head in amusement. “seventh grade, at most,” you pretend to scold, but the sight renders you somewhat endeared, and maybe a bit aroused as well. theo, on the other hand, looks intrigued. he puts the joint out in an ashtray and straightens up. he doesn’t really have to do anything to get himself hard – he’s halfway there already.

“we don’t have a ruler or anything, but, you know…” mattheo looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to understand what he’s getting at. your eyebrows knit together momentarily, but the other guys turn to look at you as well, and realisation slowly settles in your drugged up mind.

“you’re actual animals,” you scoff, but the thought of what’s about to happen makes your thighs squeeze together; you feel your panties dampen pretty rapidly. of course, theo notices; he leans in, his breath ghosting over your cheek.

“come on, dolcezza, it’s gonna be fun,” he murmurs in a kind of voice that makes you believe him. not that you doubted it in the first place – everything these three ever suggested always turned into some type of fun. “let’s see who really gags you.”

the sight of three hard cocks pointing at you isn’t new at this point. enzo is the first one to go. you grab his thighs for support, wrapping your lips around his tip, the salty taste of precum settling on your tongue.

“damn, you’re that horny?” you mumble as you ease onto his cock, but he just chuckles in return.

“can’t help it, baby. oh fuck–”

he gasps as you take him fully, the tip already hitting the back of your throat. you easily hold him there, glancing up to notice his eyelashes fluttering at the pleasure. theo and mattheo exchange a look, letting out equally amused laughs.

“damn, mate. no gagging there, that’s a bummer,” mattheo mutters through a fit of giggles, his hand lazily moving up and down his own slick length. “careful, you might just nut.”

“shut the fuck up.” enzo rolls his eyes, shoving him in the ribs again. “she just doesn’t have any gag reflex.”

“sure. if it helps you sleep at night,” theo chimes in, stroking himself to the sight of your lips wrapped around lorenzo’s dick. next moment, it pops out of your mouth, strings of saliva dropping from your mouth and starting to drip down to his balls. enzo huffs in frustration and takes a step back, still not ready to accept his obvious defeat.

“come on, baby. let’s get you some real food.” mattheo is awfully smug as the tip of his cock glides across your wet lips. your eyes roll playfully at his arrogance, but you eagerly take him in – maybe a bit too eagerly, since you do indeed gag the second his cock slides right into your throat. he’s always been thick, but fuck, you feel it pretty damn well now. tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you hold him in your mouth, and to your surprise, you find yourself unable to do it for too long. you push back, mattheo’s cock slipping out of you and slapping against his stomach with a sinfully wet sound.

“see? told ya.” mattheo pats lorenzo on the shoulder, offering him mocking condolences.

“yeah? wait until i shove my cock up your ass. let’s hear you talk shit then,” enzo retorts, and mattheo doesn’t protest. he just smirks, knowing this threat sound suspiciously like a promise.

by the time you get to theo, he’s fully dripping – watching you choke on mattheo does that to him. you waste no time sucking his cock in, and it slides smoothly along the walls of your throat, hitting its back in just the right way to make you gag instantly. you try to hold him in, you really do, but it just seems impossible – he’s too big for you to properly settle on his dick, and it doesn’t help that his hips buck up, pushing himself deeper into your throat. you squeeze his thighs, pulling back and slurping up the mess that is your drool and his precum. it’s dripping all over your chin anyway, mixing with the remnants of the other two.

theo grins triumphantly, looking up at enzo and mattheo, who seem genuinely baffled that theo did, in fact, turn out to be the biggest out of them all, judging by your incredibly accurate gag scale.

“you cheated, asshole!” enzo exclaims, gesturing absently towards theo’s throbbing cock and your face, which looks a bit too dazed for it to be a game anymore. “you pushed!”

“blah, blah, blah. you have to learn to accept defeat, amico.” theo leans back on the pillow, his smile wide and proud, hand clasped underneath the back of his head. “seems like i’m the real deal here.”

“but you saw how her lips stretched around my cock, right?!” mattheo huffs indignantly. “i’m the thickest, you gotta admit that.”

“sure, sure. i wholly believe that.” theo’s denial doesn’t seem too serious, though – after all, he’s no stranger to mattheo’s thickness, so he knows there’s a lot of truth to his assessment. “but she couldn’t even keep me in, so… i am the biggest.”

“well, i’m gonna test that right now,” mattheo almost growls with determination, already making his way to climb onto the bed. you glance at enzo, whose cock is practically weeping for attention at this point, and know that the actual real deal has just started.

au. more.

[goldfades]

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 ☆ BUECKERS⁵ (ev's 6k celly!)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

CELLY MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.6k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | dating paige means learning to share her — with fans, cameras, the league. you’re used to being in the background: her pregame text, her airport pickup, the face she looks for in the crowd. but when she finally has a bad game — one that leaves her jaw tight and chest guarded, you’re the one she lets fall apart.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst!! hurt to comfort, paige being a little mean, kinda stay at home vibe for reader but not really?? HAPPY ENDING!!

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yaya!! day 3 of celly, i hope yall are enjoying so far. here's the angsty, hurt to comfort paige fic yall were promised. also i feel like i needed to add that im not trying to hate on the wings at all, this fic is more about the emotional side of things than any real commentary on the team.

also obviously i have no idea what paige is actually feeling or going through (obviously LOL), this is all just fictional and for fun. just wanted to explore a softer, more personal side of what that transition might feel like for someone carrying that much pressure. no harm intended, just feelings & vibes & sapphic yearning <3

You meet her in a grocery store just off of campus, which feels fake even as it’s happening.

She’s in a hoodie too big for her, hood up, cart half-full of protein bars and Smartwater, reading the back of a box like it's a scouting report. You’re standing in front of the oat milk. That’s it. That’s the origin story.

She asks if the oat milk is good. You say it depends on what she’s doing with it. She raises an eyebrow and says, drinking it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world . You tell her it’s fine but the vanilla one is better. And when she reaches for it, your fingers graze. You don’t look away first.

It starts there — two people in the milk aisle, pretending they don’t know who the other is or maybe pretending it doesn’t matter.

It matters.

Now it’s almost two years later. You know which pair of socks she has to wear on game days, how she retapes her fingers during halftime even if the wrap is fine, the way she likes her smoothies: blended twice, don’t ask why and that when she’s tired she gets clingy but insists she’s not.

You also know how to stay out of the frame.

You're the person who picks up her dry cleaning, triple checks her call sheet, drives her to the airport at 5AM with a thermos of coffee you’ll never get thanked for. Not because she’s ungrateful, but because she doesn’t realize she needs to. She’s Paige Bueckers. She gives pieces of herself away all day — photos, autographs, interviews, sideline hugs for kids she’s never met and by the time she gets to you, there’s not always much left.

But she always finds your hand. That counts for something.

You get used to watching her light up arenas from the shadows. You like it, actually. The background is quiet. Safe. You can watch her without worrying about being watched back.

You know she’s yours even if everyone else thinks she belongs to the world. And lately, the world’s been getting greedy.

The apartment still smells like new paint.

Not strong, not offensive, just that faint, chalky scent that clings to the corners of the rooms, reminding you that the place isn’t quite lived-in yet. Boxes line the hallway in uneven stacks, some open, some sealed, all of them with your handwriting scrawled across the sides. Kitchen stuff. Shoes, maybe?? PAIGE DON’T TOUCH.

She did, obviously.

You find the proof in the form of an empty protein bar wrapper tucked into the top of a box marked winter clothes and you roll your eyes as you toss it in the trash.

It’s quiet in the apartment, which is rare lately. For the past few months, everything’s been loud. Not just the literal noise, although there’s been plenty of that: roaring student sections, confetti cannons, draft night applause that rang in your chest like a second heartbeat but the kind of loud that lives under your skin. Constant motion. Constant attention. Eyes on her, hands on her, reporters leaning too close with too many questions, and her answering all of it with that same polished smile that means I’m good, I’m fine, keep moving.

You know what it costs.

Winning the natty should’ve felt like a finish line but it only cracked open another beginning. Draft week came less than a week later. There was barely time to breathe, let alone plan a move to a new city, a new team, a new life. You booked the flights. You signed the lease. You made sure the sheets were washed before she got here.

You haven’t unpacked fully. Neither of you has had time.

Right now, she’s at shootaround — early preseason workouts, a light day, though deemed light by Paige Bueckers standards still means running through plays like it’s the Final Four. You’re not there. She asked if you wanted to come and you said no. She didn’t push. She never does.

You like seeing her on the court but today you needed the silence. Needed to breathe in a room that didn’t buzz with her future. Needed to sit in the kitchen she hasn’t cooked in yet and just be.

You wash two mugs, even though you only used one. You start putting away silverware and get distracted organizing the drawer — forks facing one way, spoons the other, knives stacked like soldiers. You don’t know how long you’re standing there when you hear the door unlock.

“Babe?”

Her voice is hoarse. You glance up, startled by the way your heart still flinches at the sound.

“In the kitchen,” you call back.

She appears a second later, already halfway out of her sneakers, gym bag sliding off her shoulder. Her hair’s tied up in a bun, messy, a few strands stuck to her forehead. She looks tired, which means she probably went too hard, again.

She smiles when she sees you. It’s not a big smile, barely there, really but it’s the one she only gives you. The one that softens all the edges.

“Hey,” she says.

You lift an eyebrow. “Don’t ‘hey’ me. You went for an hour and a half.”

“Sixty-five minutes,” she corrects, coming over to press a kiss to your cheek. Her hand finds your waist without thinking. “I’m being good.”

“You’re being reckless.”

“I’m being prepared.” She grins like she knows you’re already over it and you are. Mostly.

You turn into her, letting her rest her forehead against yours. Her skin is damp. You don’t mind. For a second, neither of you says anything.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

You hum. “You saw me this morning.”

“Still.”

This is how it’s always been. Paige flies too close to the sun, and you make sure there’s a place for her to land. You’ve never tried to stop her. You just make sure the lights are on when she comes home.

She pulls away slowly, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to memorize it, even though she’s already got it memorized a hundred times over.

“I know I haven’t been around much lately,” she says, quieter.

You could say I know, or It’s okay, or You don’t have to explain.

But you don’t.

Instead, you say, “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

She blinks, then smiles again — wider this time. “You love bossing me around.”

You shrug, moving toward the fridge. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

She sits. Watches you. You can feel her eyes on your back while you crack eggs into a pan and mumble about how she better not leave her sweaty socks on the kitchen chair again. She laughs.

For a second, the rest of it fades. The expectations, the cameras, the pressure. The whole world outside this apartment.

She’s here. And she’s yours.

The season starts badly.

Not technically — their opener is a loss, narrow but clean. The kind of win that looks okay in a box score even if you know, just by watching, that something’s off. Like the rhythm is a beat behind. Like Paige’s shot is just a little too flat. Like the whole team is waiting for someone else to wake them up.

After that, it’s four straight losses. One at home, three on the road. All of them ugly.

The headlines stay polite at first. Young team still finding chemistry. Bueckers adjusting to WNBA pace. But the subtext is everywhere. In the photos they run — Paige midair, Paige scowling, Paige with her hands on her knees. In the clips they replay: missed threes, turnovers, turnovers, turnovers. Even in the way the commentators say her name, like it used to mean something magical and now they’re not sure what it means anymore.

You try not to read the comments. You still do.

At home, she says she’s fine.

Fine when she’s up at 1:30 in the morning watching film with the volume so low you can barely hear it. Fine when she forgets to eat until noon. Fine when she gets back from practice with red-rimmed eyes and blames it on the wind even though it hasn’t been breezy in days.

You don’t press. Not directly.

You just hover. The way you always do. Fold her laundry. Wrap her knee even when she says it doesn’t hurt. Order in from her favorite Thai place and pretend you were craving it too. Make sure the lamp by her side of the bed is always turned on when she walks in.

You wait for her to let you in.

She doesn’t.

The apartment feels different now.

You don’t realize it until you’re halfway through cleaning out the fridge one day and it hits you: this is what distance feels like. Not loud. Not obvious. Just space. Gaps where the closeness used to live. Little things.

She doesn’t hum when she showers anymore. She texts you from the gym less. She doesn’t ask you to braid her hair before games. She doesn’t lose her phone and call out for you in a half-panic only to find it under a throw pillow. She just… moves quieter.

Sometimes she looks at you like she wants to say something. Like it’s sitting on her tongue, one syllable away from shattering the whole dam. But then she blinks and it’s gone, and she says something like “Did we run out of toothpaste?”

And you nod, and say “Yeah, I’ll grab some tomorrow” and pretend you weren’t holding your breath.

They lose again. Badly.

You watch from the tunnel, same place you always stand. You’ve watched her from this spot more times than you can count but this feels different. Wrong.

The buzzer sounds. 78–61. Another loss. Fifth in a row. You stand in the tunnel like always, heart clenched in that familiar way that used to mean nerves but now mostly means dread.

You watch her shake hands, high-five a couple fans who lean over the railing. The towel around her neck looks like a surrender flag. Her face is set, eyes sharp and far away. You recognize that look - it’s the one she wears when she’s trying not to feel anything. When the disappointment is too deep and too sharp to acknowledge in public.

She doesn’t look up at you.

Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t say your name like she usually does, even in passing maybe half a smile, quick reach for your hand if you’re close enough.

She walks straight past.

You wait for her anyway. You text her: I’m in the tunnel, I’ll be at the car.

No response.

She gets home almost an hour later. Drops her bag by the door and kicks her shoes off with more force than necessary. You’re curled up on the couch, pretending to watch a rerun of something, volume too low to actually follow.

You glance over. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter like she’s trying to miss on purpose. “God, what a night. I mean at least I only turned it over, what, six times? That’s practically an improvement.”

You pause. “Seven.”

“Oof.” She winces, exaggerated. “Even better.”

You don’t laugh.

She notices. She walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, stands there like it's a portal to another dimension.

“You hungry?” she asks. “I could burn some toast or reheat something and pretend I made it from scratch.”

“Paige.”

She doesn’t look over. “Or we could do popcorn and call it dinner. Real athlete shit.”

“Paige.”

That lands. She shuts the fridge, too loud and finally turns to face you.

“What?” she says. Light, teasing. Like she already knows what you’re about to say and wants to joke her way out of it. “Don’t tell me you’re mad at me for that disaster.”

You sit up. “I’m not mad at you for losing. I’m upset that you won’t talk to me.”

She blinks. “I am talking to you.”

“No, you’re deflecting. You’ve been doing it for days. You came home last night and made a joke about retiring to become a barista.”

“Hey, that’s a solid fallback plan.”

“Paige.”

She lifts her hands. “Okay. What do you want me to say? That I suck right now? That I’m letting everybody down? That I feel like I made a huge mistake coming here? Would that make you feel better?”

The words cut sharper than they should. Not because she means to hurt you -- Paige never means to hurt you but because you recognize the panic underneath them. The way her voice spikes, too high, too fast. The way she’s trying to outrun the truth before it catches up.

You step into the kitchen, across from her now. Arms folded. Quiet.

“I want you to be honest with me,” you say, low and even. “Not perfect. Not funny. Not brave. Just… honest.”

She leans back against the counter like it might hold her up better than you can. Her arms cross over her chest.

“I can’t do that right now,” she says.

You nod but it’s not agreement. More like acknowledgment.

“Okay.” You back away slowly. “Then I’m gonna go for a drive.”

She frowns. “What? Why?”

“Because if I stay, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.”

She doesn’t try to stop you. That hurts more than it should.

The silence stretches.

A day passes. Then another. The fight doesn’t explode: it simmers. You still talk, technically. You ask if she wants anything when you go to the store. She tells you she refilled your prescription when she picked up her own. You switch the laundry she started. She rewinds the show you missed.

But you don’t touch. You don’t look too long. And she doesn’t say your name like it’s a question anymore.

It feels like standing on a frozen lake, the ice too thin and the water too black and freezing underneath. And you're the only one hearing the cracks.

You find yourself spiraling in stupid ways.

You start overthinking texts that don’t need to be overthought. You stare at her Instagram comments longer than you should. You don’t mean to but you do. All the hearts, all the compliments, all the people who don’t know her but think they do. Who think they love her.

And maybe they do, in that empty, worshipful, social-media way.

But they don’t fold her socks. They don’t know how her voice sounds when she’s half-asleep. They don’t press a cold washcloth to her forehead when she’s sick. They don’t know she triple-knots her laces and tucks the ends in because she’s paranoid about tripping. They don’t know she cries at commercials but hides it by blaming dust.

You do.

And it’s not jealousy, not really. It’s more like… fear. Like maybe all this silence is the beginning of her forgetting that she needs you.

And the worst part? You get it.

You know what she’s feeling even if she won’t say it. You know she’s disappointed, overwhelmed. You know she thinks showing you that will make her seem weak. You know it’s not about you.

But it still feels like it is.

You lie awake beside her that night, staring at the ceiling. You can hear her breathing, slow and even. Either asleep or pretending to be. You don't reach for her. Not this time.

And she doesn't reach for you.

The arena feels different tonight. Not louder. Not quieter. Just heavier. Like even the air is bracing for something it can’t name.

You’re in the tunnel again, where you always are. That same spot, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves, the lanyard around your neck sticking to your skin with the sweat you won’t admit to. You watch the players file in, coaches in tow, heads bowed slightly in that ritual of unspoken hope.

Paige doesn’t look at you when she runs out for warmups. Hasn’t, not since the fight.

Her face is unreadable under the lights, jaw set and mouth tight in that way that means she’s focused, or maybe pretending to be. You’ve seen that look a hundred times before. In college stadiums, back at UConn. But never like this. Never this brittle.

You watch her miss three shots in a row during shootaround. Not by much but by enough. No one else seems to notice or maybe they’ve gotten used to it. You haven’t.

When the game starts, you try to focus on it like you usually do. Not in a fan way but in a quiet way. You keep your eyes on her. Always on her. Not the scoreboard. Not the other players. Just Paige.

She’s off. Again. And this time it’s not the usual, not just missed shots or a slow start or teammates who don’t read her cuts. It’s everything. Her rhythm is gone. Her body’s tight. Her passes are rushed. Her confidence, usually such a steady undercurrent in the way she moves is nowhere to be found.

She fouls early. A dumb reach-in that she wouldn’t normally commit. Then another, chasing a fast break she had no hope of catching. By halftime, she’s on the bench, staring at the floor with a towel over her head and a stat line you know she won’t be able to look at later.

2 points. 1 assist. 4 turnovers.

The team is down by 15.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. You keep rubbing your thumb over your ring finger, a nervous habit you picked up somewhere along the way and never broke. You watch her jog into the tunnel at the half, shoulders tense, mouth pressed into a thin line.

She doesn’t look up.

The second half is worse.

The game slips away before the fourth quarter even starts. Paige goes scoreless the entire third then gets pulled halfway through the fourth when it becomes clear the coaches are calling it. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just walks to the bench, plops down, elbows on her knees, eyes ahead like she’s watching something only she can see.

By the time the buzzer sounds, the final score doesn’t matter.

They lose by 22.

You wait for her in the same spot you always do. Tunnel. Left side. Just past the security guard who now knows your name.

The team walks by slowly. A few nods, a couple brief waves from familiar faces. But Paige isn’t with them.

She comes last.

No towel. No eye contact. Just her, walking like every step hurts.

She sees you — she has to, you’re right in her line of sight but she walks past without a word.

You follow.

The car ride is silent.

She doesn’t play music. Doesn’t reach for your hand at the red light like she usually does. Just keeps her eyes on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. She’s still in her jersey, sweats pulled over her shorts, hair damp from the shower and curled behind her ears.

You want to say something. Anything. But you’ve learned not to touch the wound while it’s still bleeding.

She unlocks the apartment, tosses her keys on the counter and moves straight to the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Closes it. Opens it again. Then just stands there with her hand on the handle, breathing like she’s trying to remember how.

You step inside, gently, quietly like someone trying not to startle a cornered animal.

“Paige,” you say.

She doesn’t move.

“Hey.” You reach out, touch her back lightly, right between the shoulder blades.

She flinches. Not from pain. From everything else.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

You don’t ask what she means.

Instead, you guide her hand off the fridge door and turn her to face you.

Her face crumples.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly. Like a wall finally giving way after weeks of rain. Her mouth twitches. Her eyes glass over. Her breath catches in her throat.

“I’m trying so hard,” she says, barely audible. “I’m doing everything I can and it’s still not enough.”

You move closer, carefully, and she doesn’t pull away this time.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know you are.”

She shakes her head, eyes rimmed red. “I’m not who they thought I’d be.”

You feel that like a knife. Because you know what she means. Not just the media. Not just the fans. She means everyone. The people who waited for her. The ones who wanted her to be a savior.

“They all thought I’d come in and just… fix it. Like I was some kind of answer.”

You reach up, thumb brushing under her eye. “You were never supposed to fix it all, P.”

She exhales and it sounds like a sob even though there are no tears yet.

“You don’t get it,” she says. “I used to love this. I used to be good at this. And now all I do is mess up and get benched and watch them lose and try not to cry in front of the cameras. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I don’t even feel like me anymore.”

That last part cracks something in you. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? She’s not afraid of losing. She’s afraid of losing herself.

You don’t say anything right away. You just take her face in your hands and hold her like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

“I miss you,” you say.

She blinks. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been somewhere else for weeks and I didn’t know how to reach you.” Your voice shakes a little. “But I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. You can fall apart with me. You have to fall apart with me. That’s the deal.”

And finally, finally, she breaks.

The tears come fast and silent, her body folding into yours like she’s collapsing under her own weight. You hold her through it, arms around her waist, her forehead pressed into your shoulder. You feel every tremble. Every shudder. Every breath she takes like she’s trying to relearn how.

“I don’t want to be strong right now,” she mumbles against your collarbone. “I’m so tired of being strong.”

“You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

So she lets go. And for the first time in weeks, so do you.

Later, when the storm inside her has quieted, when her eyes are puffy and red and her breathing has slowed to something human again, you lead her to the couch like you’ve done a hundred times before. Like it’s ritual.

She lets you.

Still silent. Still raw. But softer now, like the sharp edges have dulled. Her hand lingers in yours longer than it has in weeks. She curls into you without asking, tucks her knees up under her and presses her cheek to your chest like she did during last year at UConn, after that Final Four game where she swore she’d never play that badly again.

You’d found her in her dorm that night, still in her travel sweats, hoodie pulled up like armor. She hadn’t said anything, just climbed into your lap, quiet and bruised and seventeen kinds of exhausted.

You held her then like you’re holding her now. Careful, steady, for as long as she needed.

You grab the fuzzy blanket from the arm of the couch, the one she pretends she hates because it’s “obnoxiously pink” but always ends up buried under after tough nights. You drape it over the two of you, then kiss her hair once, gently, where it parts at her crown.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs after a long stretch of silence.

You shake your head. “Don’t be.”

“I’ve been such a dick.”

You smile faintly into her hair. “Maybe. But you’re my dick.”

That gets the tiniest huff of a laugh out of her, muffled against your collarbone. It’s the first real sound of her in days.

You reach for the remote and scroll mindlessly until you land on the dumb baking show you always used to put on after her bad games. She pretends to hate it: “They’re just cakes, babe, why are they all crying?” but you know it makes her feel safe. Like the world is a little slower and a little sweeter.

You set the volume low, just enough to fill the room with chatter and clinking bowls and the gentle pressure of lives that have nothing to do with yours.

“I forgot how good this show is,” she mumbles after a few minutes.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers drift through her hair, light and rhythmic. Her breathing evens out, one hand fisting lightly in your hoodie.

This is the version of her you’ve missed. Not perfect. Not polished. Just herself. Soft, sleepy, safe.

“You remember that night in Hartford,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “when you missed that game-winner and locked yourself in the locker room for an hour?”

She groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“You wouldn’t come out. I had to sneak in with that nasty gas station hot chocolate.”

She shifts a little, her smile pressing into your skin. “You bribed me.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

She hums. “Barely. I only opened the door ‘cause I thought you were gonna start sobbing outside it.”

You feign offense. “I was being dramatic for effect.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You let the silence settle again. It’s warm this time. Companionable.

“I used to think you only loved me when I was winning,” she says quietly, like it’s something she’s only just realized she believed.

You tilt your head down. “Do you still think that?”

She shrugs against you. “I don’t know. I think I forgot how to be loved when I wasn’t.”

You exhale slowly and tip her chin up with two fingers, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are tired, but clear.

“Paige,” you say, soft but sure, “you are loved when you lose. When you miss. When you fall apart. When you’re stubborn and snappy and full of doubt. There is no version of you I wouldn’t love.”

Her throat works around the lump there, eyes glistening again, but the tears don’t fall this time. She just nods.

Then she pulls you in and kisses you.

Not desperate. Not needy. Just real. Quiet and slow and full of apology and promise.

When she pulls back, she leans her forehead to yours.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not walking away.”

You shake your head. “I’ll always be here. Even when you’re not ready. Even when you push. I’ll wait. That’s the job.”

She smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes. It’s not big. Not flashy. But it’s real.

“You’re too good to me,” she says.

“Mm. Probably,” you tease, brushing your thumb across her cheek. “But I like the work.”

She laughs, and it bubbles out of her like it’s the first time she’s remembered how. The tension breaks. The ache loosens.

The couch holds you both.

Outside, Dallas hums on — noisier than it should be, traffic always loud and lights always spilling in through the windows. But the room you’re in is soft. Dim. Full of the kind of peace that only comes after a storm.

She nestles back into your chest, tugs the blanket up to her chin.

And you think; this is enough.

Not the win streak. Not the headlines. Not the perfect stat lines.

Just this.

Her body folded into yours. Her heart safe in your hands. Her breath warm on your neck. The worst of it behind you.

Finally, finally — home.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[freakmcnastyy]

Your only owner

Geum Seongjae x f!reader

Summary: The reader is saved from her miserable life by Seongjae—unaware that a much darker one awaits.

Warnings: Mentions of drugs, sexual innuendos, sadism, slave-master relationship, murder. (Characters are of legal age.)

Note: Hey! It’s been sitting in my drafts for ages, so I finally decided to clean it up. I’ll write your requests as soon as possible, promise!

⸻

One of those nights.

When even the streetlights seemed to shiver.

When the wind moved like a ghost between the cracked sidewalks.

When the noise of the city had already given up and all that was left was silence, sitting in some dark truce with the night.

The air was heavy—heavier than the damp walls that lined the alley.

And that alley—broken, crooked, like a scar the city knew existed but didn’t want to look at—twisted quietly away from the main street.

You were there.

Curled up at the corner of that narrow street. Knees pulled to your chest. Back pressed against a crumbling wall.

Your arms were thin. Too light for your body. Too tired.

You were wearing an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled all the way over your head—maybe to hide, maybe to disappear.

Maybe just because you were cold.

There was a cigarette between your fingers.

Unlit.

Just sitting there, resting on the edge of your lips, like anger sitting right on the edge of your pride.

You had a lighter. But you didn’t use it.

You were waiting.

Maybe for something to happen.

Maybe for nothing.

Maybe hoping someone would find you.

Or maybe hoping no one ever would again.

And then you heard footsteps.

That alley wasn’t the kind of place people walked through.

Too quiet. Too dark. Too forgotten.

But that night, a pair of heavy steps echoed through it.

They didn’t tear the silence. They just underlined it.

Someone walking slow. Steady.

Black sneakers. Hands stuffed in his pockets.

His hood was up too.

His head hung low, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp. Scanning. Calm in a way that didn’t match the night.

It was Seongjae.

No one knew what he was doing there. Maybe he just wanted to be alone.

Maybe walking helped him not think.

But his eyes—those cold, unreadable eyes—spotted a small silhouette curled up in the shadows.

Small.

Tense.

But familiar.

You went to the same school.

You were that girl. Always in the back row. Head down when the teacher asked something. The one who never quite blended into the noise at recess.

Maybe he’d heard your name once. Didn’t remember it. But he knew your face.

And now, that face was trying to hide in the dark.

But there was one thing it couldn’t hide—

A bruise.

Right under your eye. Faint, but deep.

The hood couldn’t cover it well enough. Not from him.

He stopped. Just for a second.

Then walked toward you.

Pulled one hand out of his pocket—smooth, almost casual. So effortless it felt… weirdly familiar.

He took out a cigarette. And spoke just one word:

“Got a lighter?”

His voice was flat. Not mocking. Not kind.

Just asking.

You didn’t even think.

You handed it over.

Your fingers trembled. His didn’t.

Seongjae took it, but didn’t light his cigarette.

He crouched slightly. Didn’t say anything to make you lift your head.

He was looking for your eyes. Trying to see your face.

And he did.

“What happened?” he asked. Low.

Not pushy. Not judging.

Just… wanted to know.

You didn’t answer.

You looked away. Swallowed. Stayed silent.

He narrowed his eyes.

Didn’t expect an answer.

Didn’t need one.

He saw it.

Violence.

He took a breath.

Straightened up a little, like something inside him shifted.

Put the cigarette away. Still unlit.

“I can get you out of here.”

It wasn’t a question.

Wasn’t a favor.

Whatever was behind it—intention, plan, trap, loyalty, betrayal—he didn’t say.

He just looked at you.

Steady.

Cold.

But somehow… magnetic.

He’d finally found someone he could drag into his messed-up world.

⸻

It’d only been two weeks since you got out of that hellhole you used to call home.

Fourteen days.

Felt like years.

Felt like you weren’t even the same person anymore.

Like your past was some half-remembered nightmare.

But maybe not.

Because the nightmare still clung to your skin.

The screams still snapped you awake at night.

The slaps still echoed in your ears.

And the weight of shattered furniture still sat heavy in your chest.

But at least you were in different four walls now.

And this time, no one was waiting behind the door.

At least… not yet.

That day, the sky was grey. Seongjae had found you a place.

An apartment. Quiet.

You hadn’t even drawn the curtains all the way.

The place wasn’t bad. Not for a restart.

You were sitting in silence when he came in.

Didn’t knock.

Just walked in like he owned the place.

Like he had a key.

Like he’d been living there for years.

He moved straight to the couch. Didn’t take his jacket off. Just dropped down and kicked his feet up on the table.

Pulled out his lighter. Took a cigarette. Lit it without saying a word.

Took a drag. Let the smoke spread through the room.

Still quiet.

You were sitting across from him.

Folded legs. Eyes fixed on him.

Waiting for something.

Anything.

Why was he here?

What did he want?

And as if he heard your thoughts, he finally spoke.

“Everything’s got a price. You know that, right?”

His voice was cold. Clear. Unapologetic.

You didn’t say anything. Your lips twitched. Eyes narrowed.

But no words came.

Because you knew.

No one—especially not someone like Seongjae—takes a girl off the streets out of kindness.

That place. That fake safety. That shelter that felt like it belonged to you…

It had a price tag.

He started talking.

Tilted the cigarette to the side. Flicked the ash off before it hit the carpet.

“There’s a crew. Union. More like… a system. We give people what they need. They keep their mouths shut.”

You dropped your gaze.

Listened, cautious.

He’d thrown his arm over the back of the couch now, like he was settling in.

“We steal bikes, phones, cars. Strip ���em. Flip ‘em. Sell ‘em.

Then we steal ‘em back.”

He laughed.

“But that’s not the part that concerns you.”

“We hit up pharmacies. Morphine mostly. Fake IDs. Fake scripts.”

He paused.

The tip of his cigarette glowed faintly.

Then he looked at you.

“You’re clean. No record. No one’s ever seen your name in a file. And even if they did, they wouldn’t care.”

You lifted your head. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open.

This… this was crime.

But he already knew you’d think that.

“If you’re scared, just say so.

But you owe me.

I saved your life.”

You didn’t answer.

You just nodded.

He looked away. Took one last drag. Then stood up.

“I’ll text you at 9 tomorrow. Be ready.”

And he left.

The door clicked shut.

And for the first time, the street outside felt brighter than the room you were in.

⸻

[09:00 AM]

S: Come downstairs.

You threw on a black oversized jacket. Gray sweats underneath.

Took your heart in your hand and walked down.

Every step felt like it peeled away a version of yourself.

You weren’t that girl from last night anymore.

He was already there.

Leaning against a wall.

Another one of his never-ending cigarettes in his hand.

Head slightly bowed, but his eyes found you the moment you opened the door.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, sarcastic and dry as ever, cut through the morning chill.

“Sleep well, princess?”

Like this wasn’t a crime.

Like he was just offering a friend some breakfast.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

He handed you an envelope.

Inside—papers. Lots of them.

Typed. Handwritten. Mixed.

But all fake.

“These are prescriptions,” he said.

“All for different pharmacies. Spread out.

We need to hit all of them today.”

Then he pulled something else out.

An ID. Looked real. Too real.

Your photo.

But the name, birthday, birthplace—none of it was yours.

“You know what to do.”

You nodded slowly.

Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the papers.

Your fingertips already sweating.

“Be done by six. I’ll send the location. Meet me there.”

He turned and walked away.

⸻

[06:14 PM]

It was evening. The sky had started to bleed red.

You’d hit the last four pharmacies. One by one.

Each one needed a different version of you.

Smile too much—suspicious.

Stay too quiet—suspicious again.

Today, you learned how to smile without using your face.

How to make eye contact without locking eyes.

And most importantly—

How to lie.

You made it to the location.

The metal door was already cracked open.

Seongjae was inside.

Sitting on a black leather couch like a throne.

He saw you the second you walked in.

Got up without a word.

You handed him the bag.

He checked everything.

Didn’t say a word.

No smile. No praise.

But he was clearly satisfied.

He took a step closer.

Raised his hand.

And ran his fingers through your hair.

But it wasn’t affection.

It was ownership.

The kind of touch that says good pet.

Like a master giving a trained animal its reward.

His hand pushed your hair back, palm resting lightly at the back of your head.

“Good girl… my little kitty. I knew I wouldn’t regret choosing you.”

His voice wasn’t warm or cold. But there was something in his tone that burned.

Maybe it was the absence of emotion.

Then he turned away. Placed the medicine next to the other documents.

And without looking back once, moved on to something else.

You thought you’d escaped.

But you’d just sunk deeper into the swamp.

⸻

The sidewalks were empty.

Aside from the soft rustle of fabric inside your coat, there was no sound with each step.

A grocery bag dangled from your hand — filled with discounted essentials, nothing more.

You were walking toward your tiny apartment. Your nose had turned red.

And when you turned the corner, you saw him.

His shirt was stained, jacket half open, eyes completely vacant.

He used to be the man you called “dad.”

But now even that word felt too noble for him.

Just a man. Just a curse.

His hand swung suddenly through the air.

“Ungrateful bitch!”

The slap cracked loud against your left cheek, jerking your head to the side.

A tin can dropped from the bag — its metal echoing as it hit the pavement.

Strands of hair fell over your cheek, hiding the burn,

but they couldn’t hide the fog in your eyes.

He was still yelling.

Disgusting alcohol stench laced his every word like vomit.

“I gave up everything for you! And you abandoned us? Walking around like you’re proud of it!?”

Then your mother appeared.

Hair a mess, eyes sunken deep.

She grabbed his arm — but when her gaze shifted to you, it carried a whole different kind of poison.

“You’re still alive?”

“How do you even make money like this?”

“What are you doing? Selling your body now?”

Those weren’t words.

They were bullets.

They lodged in your throat. Tied up your tongue.

You didn’t answer.

You just stood there.

Then turned away.

Grabbed the grocery bag again.

Didn’t even wipe the sauce on your fingers from the dropped can.

They were still screaming.

Still cursing you.

Your eyes were bloodshot.

⸻

When you opened the door, the lights inside were on.

The TV blared a loud action scene — someone hitting the ground, others shouting.

But what mattered most was this:

Seongjae was there.

Sprawled out on the couch.

Feet on the coffee table, black sweatshirt on.

One leg bent at the knee, the other stretched.

A cigarette in one hand. The remote in the other.

Even after seeing you, he didn’t look away from the screen.

You took off your shoes. Walked to the counter quietly.

Placed the bag down.

You walked over to Seongjae. Slowly. But with a hidden hunger.

Not for approval.

Just… for a place.

A place where you wouldn’t fall apart.

You stood there for a while.

Then he spoke — eyes still on the TV.

His voice was mocking, but low. Like he’d just woken up.

“Want me to kill them?”

“…What?”

He turned his head.

Looked straight at you.

“I saw how they treated you.

The slap.

That woman’s disgusting stare.

The filth that came out of her mouth.

I saw everything.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

He pulled his feet off the table.

Still seated, but more upright now.

“Come here.”

It sounded like a command. But he didn’t shout.

He didn’t need to.

He knew you’d come.

And you did.

You knelt before him.

Head lowered — not just downward, but toward him.

He lifted your chin. His hand at the back of your neck, gently guiding you to rest your head on his knee.

He started stroking your hair.

But it wasn’t a lover’s touch.

It was the way an owner pets their cat — not out of love, but control.

His fingers moved through your hair.

The tips of his nails occasionally pressed into your scalp.

Not to soothe — but to remind.

Of your place.

Your role.

After a while, his hand paused.

His fingers gripped your chin.

Lifted your face up to his.

Your eyes were brimming.

But he was unfazed.

In fact, he liked it.

“I’ll kill them.”

“…But in return…”

He didn’t finish.

His gaze roamed your face.

The line of your nose.

The curve of your lips.

The shadows beneath your eyes.

You were beautiful.

“…I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

Then stood up.

Headed for the door.

Leaving behind a cold night.

You were still on your knees.

His scent in your hair.

His fingerprint on the corner of your lip.

You didn't want him to go.

⸻

It was evening.

Pharmacy bags hung from your fingers — heavy not like plastic, but like weapons.

Each from a different store. Different clerk. Different barcode.

But the contents were all the same.

All for him.

Your steps were hesitant, but by now, you were used to it.

When you got off the bus, you saw it across the street — a bowling alley, its neon sign dim and flickering.

The glass door glowed with purple and red lights from inside.

The sound of pins and laughter spilled out into the night.

You pushed the door open.

The heat, the perfume, the sweat — all of it hit you in the face.

You flinched for a second.

Then erased it.

Because he was there.

Leaning against a column by the entrance.

Black T-shirt clinging to him.

Hair slightly tousled.

He wasn’t smoking this time.

But that smug smirk still clung to the edge of his mouth.

His eyes scanned you from head to toe.

He saw the bags.

Said nothing.

Just turned and nodded for you to follow.

You did.

Without asking anything.

You walked past the lanes.

A few teens laughed, bent to throw bowling balls.

At the back, he stopped at a nondescript door.

Pulled out a key.

Unlocked it.

An office.

Leather couch in the corner.

Desk with files stacked in the back.

And a safe.

He shut the door behind you.

You handed him the bags.

He took them.

Moved to the safe behind the desk.

Opened it.

Placed each item carefully inside.

Locked it.

When he turned around, you were still standing there, exactly the same.

He walked up.

Silently.

Stood right in front of you.

Placed his palms on either side of your face.

His fingertips brushed your cheeks.

Tilted your face up slightly.

He stared for a moment.

At the paleness.

The faint bruises underneath.

“Are the scars gone?”

His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried weight.

As if your answer might decide whether you lived or died.

You nodded.

Didn’t say a word.

Seongjae narrowed his gaze.

Suspicious.

Lowered his hand slowly — like he was disgusted.

“Take your top off.”

You flinched a little.

But didn’t step back.

Just stood there.

Tried to say something — but no sound came out.

He didn’t give you time.

Stepped in.

Closed the distance.

Lifted the hem of your sweatshirt.

You looked away.

Arms dropped to your sides.

Like resistance would only make it worse.

Once it was off, the cold bit deep.

His eyes scanned your body.

He walked around you.

When he saw your back, his brows furrowed.

The belt and smoke marks were still there.

Some red. Some yellowing.

But all visible.

He reached out.

Traced them with his fingers.

Pressed lightly.

You flinched.

Your shoulders tightened.

But you made no sound.

The pain… pleased him.

Seongjae stared a moment longer.

Then smiled.

“Even with all these scars… you’ve got a perfect body.”

It sounded like a compliment.

But it wasn’t.

It was a claim.

A filthy kind of ownership.

His eyes gleamed.

He paused.

Slid a hand around your waist.

Caressed it.

“Have you ever slept with anyone before?”

The air in the room thinned.

Your body froze.

You hadn’t expected that.

Your lips parted.

But your voice stuck in your throat.

And then—

The phone rang.

Unknown Caller.

Your hand trembled.

Eyes locked on the screen.

“Answer it.”

A command.

You hesitated.

But your fingers moved like they weren’t even yours.

You lifted the phone to your ear.

“Hello. Good evening,” said the voice — formal and cold.

“We’re contacting you for the identification of two recently recovered unidentified bodies. You have been scheduled for a viewing at the forensic center. Your appointment has been confirmed in the system.”

Your entire world stopped.

Your throat dried up.

Your eyes found Seongjae.

He stood there — hunched slightly, hands in his pockets.

And that familiar, wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Hang up.”

You did.

Hands still trembling.

He tossed your shirt back to you.

“I told you I’d kill them, didn’t I, kitty? I keep my promises.”

You stood still.

For a few seconds.

Right by the door.

Then you walked out.

He followed.

⸻

[Forensics Center]

An attendant checked your ID.

Just nodded.

Then gestured to the corridor.

“Identification room… third door. You’ll go in alone.”

You nodded.

Your steps dragged.

Each one heavier than the last.

When you reached the door, you took a deep breath.

Inside, the lights were dim.

Two bodies under white sheets rested on cold metal tables.

The attendant stood silently in the corner.

You approached.

Slowly.

The sheets were pulled back.

One.

Then the other.

The faces—

Familiar.

And yet now, forever strangers.

⸻

The cold door clicked shut behind you.

Your trembling fingers were still clenched around the phone in your pocket.

You kept trying to scrub what you saw out of your brain—

But it wouldn’t go.

Your eyes automatically found the black car waiting by the road.

A silhouette inside.

Hand resting out the open window—

Seongjae.

The engine was on.

Radio was off.

You walked.

Opened the door.

Slid in without a word.

Closed it softly.

Folded your hands in your lap—

But your fingers were still shaking.

The hum of the engine deepened.

The car began to move.

Seongjae didn’t speak at first.

But he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

You were shaking.

You were in pain.

And he didn’t care.

He liked you like this.

Minutes passed.

Streets changed.

Lights faded.

Finally, he was the one to break the silence—

On his own terms:

“You happy now?”

There was no curiosity in his tone.

No concern.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t turn your head.

Just kept staring out the window—

At the dark city.

The night.

Seongjae chuckled quietly.

“Just like I thought…” he said.

Then poured every drop of poison into his words:

“Do you know how easy it is to control someone like you?”

You turned your head toward him.

But he didn’t take his hands off the wheel.

He just kept talking.

“Alone… unloved… starving for touch… desperate for a kind word.”

He smiled.

But it wasn’t warm.

It was the kind of smile a kid gives when they’re playing with a broken toy—

And you were the toy.

“Maybe you call yourself ‘strong.’”

He shrugged.

“But when you do everything I ask…

when you clench your teeth just to stop from crying…

seeing how helpless you really are—

That’s when I love you the most.”

You lowered your head.

Held yourself together.

The car stopped.

Smoothly, without a jolt.

You lifted your eyes.

This place…

Your old home.

The house your parents used to live in.

The place you grew up.

Now empty.

Seongjae turned the key, killing the engine.

But before you could get out, he dropped one more line behind you.

Turned his head.

Looked you straight in the eye.

His lips curled into something almost tender—

But filled with venom.

“You’ve got no one left but me now… kitty~ Better watch your step.”

[astrae4]

A KISS GOODBYE myung jaehyun

pairings — boynextdoor’s myung jaehyun x reader

genre — highschool romance, fluff, slight angst

warnings — it’s a bit sad in the beginning bros, (wc. 850)

note — wrote this because I won’t be getting a graduation. Also if you’re wondering why I lowkey disappeared off the face of this app for 3/4 of a year it’s because an ex friend went through all my drafts and deleted EVERYTHING. I haven’t gotten the motivation to write since then and all my series are now discontinued thank you so much FAKE FRIEND 💔💔

more works — navigation | bnd!masterlist

17. An age that marks the end of a story—or the beginning of one. Caps on, certificates given, sweet goodbyes and teary eyes. Oh, youth—ah. youth. Everyone’s busy with goodbyes, and the fireworks set off as highschool ends. Yet, here you were. Walking towards a rooftop that holds more memories than it probably should.

You hadn’t seen him since you both got your certificate pictures. He seemed to rush off somewhere, and though your friends told you it was probably because he had somewhere off to go to since he was a trainee, you knew otherwise. More than anyone and more than the lightweight smile Jaehyun always gave everyone, you knew how much more of a sentimental person he truly is.

Click, clack—echoed the sound of your kitten heels as it made contact with the concrete floors and its soundwaves clash.

“Jae?” you called out before you stepped in the outdoor space.

There was a pause, and the shuffle of clothes that you knew were wiping tears off a certain someone’s face. Still, you did not comment nor did you step in. You waited till he was ready.

“[name],” He responded with a tiny crack at the end of your name.

You took that as permission and went inside, finding the boy almost immediately standing and overlooking your soccer-field-turned-graduation-event. Even with his puffy eyes and teary smile, you swear you could feel your stupid heart go badump.

Taking a breath and gathering your courage, you bring your hand to his face. He almost jolted in surprise as you wiped the remaining tear from his cheek. Your hand lingers a second too long on his face before it drops beside you awkwardly.

“Why’re you crying?” You asked softly—in a whisper that Jaehyun almost missed.

Jaehyun swears he almost cried again. But he can’t. Not in front of you. No, today at the very least, he wanted to look cool in your eyes. For once, he wanted to look as dependable as Sungho or as smooth as Riwoo. He didn’t want to be like his sensitive self—maybe that way he could finally gain courage to make a move. Maybe that’s why he’s crying pathetically. The thought of missing his chance and being too late eats him alive. Soon, he’ll be a trainee full time and you’ll be off on the other end of the world. Soon, he will have to be careful if he ever wants to meet you because idols can’t do that. But his mouth shuts—he can’t bring the words to meet reality; going over and over it in his head and only his head.

“Just sad that we won’t be seeing each other much now,” Jae says. It’s not exactly what he had in mind, but the implications are there. The water moves slightly; carefully, testing the truth behind it.

Your breath hitches, and you take courage. It’s now or never—your hand itches to his, taking it again. Time seems to stop, and your eyes feel too heavy to look up to his widened ones.

“Me too,” It’s not there, but the implications are just the same. Jaehyun’s heart beats so much faster, his ears tinged into a red rouge. The hand holding his seemed to burn ( a good burn, by the way! ) and adrenaline courses through his veins.

“Really?” He asked, as if unsure if he’s dreaming or in reality.

“Yeah..” You flushed deeper for having to say it again.

Jaehyun swears he’s the luckiest man right now.

”[name], look at me.”

You feel way too shy right now, but your head looks at his and you can just see the way his eyes bounce to every inch of your face, taking in every detail as if he couldn’t believe his reality.

His hand reaches to your face, and you freeze. You don’t know what to do in this situation, but is it normal to feel like you just ran a marathon?!

”Oh my goodness oh my goodness,” Jae says, and it’s almost like he’s bouncing with how excited he is at the revelation. His tears forgotten as if it never existed—

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers, his grin unstoppable and face so red you could practically see smoke coming out of his ears. He looked like a tomato, and you giggled a little bit though you probably looked the same.

You nodded and Jaehyun didn’t need a second longer. He leaned in and gave your forehead the shortest peck known to mankind.

For a second, you just looked at each other. You could feel your ears burning, and it isn’t long before you’re looking everywhere but at each other, giggling like maniacs and faces red.

You broke the silence first after a while, “Should…should we go back down to the others?”

Jaehyun, still flustered, nodded like a maniac—“Yeah, yes—yeah, let’s uh, let’s go down.”

You both went back to your graduating friends, trying to act casual. But let’s be real. Both his and your almost permanently red faces and unkillable smiles were so obvious. Your friends knew immediately, especially with your intertwined pinkies.

The future might be uncertain, but for now, excitement courses through your veins at the blank chapter awaiting you.

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @lonewolfjinji @teddywonss @taerae-verse

NETWORKS: @onedoornet @k-labels

© astrae4 2025 | please don’t copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[gumilac]

pairings. fushiguro megumi x gn! reader

genre. hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers

word count. 2.4k words 

aki's notes. this was in my drafts a long time ya’ll,, but i still think it's obvious how much romance novels i've read and how much i love the enemies to lovers trope 🧍‍♀️ buckle up, this is gonna be a long one,, i hope you enjoy!!! i certainly did writing this hehe

"they said yes to the movie date!! i'm gonna catch you later, okay?"

oh.

oh. 

"yes, sure! have fun." we were supposed to watch that movie…

your trail of thought snaps: get it together, they were never bound to be yours in the first place.

forcing a smile, you wave itadori-san off as he skips his way out of the grounds of jujutsu tech high. he looks so happy, and there's pep in each of his steps as itadori checks his phone. taking a deep breath, you turn around, head craned down as you start walking. then, something cold softly hits your head, and when you look up, it's the last person you wanted to see—fushiguro megumi.

he's holding out your favorite juice box, his face nonchalant as ever, and one hand in his pocket. for someone who's the bane of your existence, you don’t understand how he always seems to be there at the right time, all the time. what’s even worse is that you can't deny he looks attractive, no matter what he does.

"it's your favorite, no?" he waves the juice in front of your face, gesturing for you to grab it, "take it, i accidentally bought two."

scoffing, you grab the juice box—muttering a small thank you—and roll your eyes before taking a seat on the steps of the dorm building. ripping out the straw, you poke open the box.

"how does one even accidentally buy two juice boxes from a vending machine?" taking a sip, you stretch your legs and relax—again how can you hate him, yet security is always at reach whenever he’s around?

"well, maybe because i pressed the button twice and added more change than i was supposed to?" he sits beside you and opens his own, grabbing the remnants of your plastic that encases the straw and pocketing it. "it's not rocket science."

clicking your tongue, you look away. too tired to deal with his witty remarks or just dealing with him overall. it's quiet for a few moments as you stare at the trees that slowly dance with the crisp breeze that blows over the fields of your school.

"why are you always so nice?"

his voice pulls you back to reality, and you look at him. fushiguro's also staring at the scenery before him, eyebrows furrowed a little—maybe from the brightness of the sun, or maybe it's just second nature for him at this point with how he's always wears a scowl.

jerking your head and scrunching up your nose, you look at him, head tilting, "because i'm not an asshole?" 

"that's not what i meant," he scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"well, do tell fushiguro," you snap, taking a sip from the juice box, "because i genuinely don't know what you mean if you're going to beat around the bush."

fushiguro sighs and lowers his juice down, resting his arms just above his knees. you look at him expectantly, confused, maybe a little pissed. when he doesn't speak in the next minute, you roll your eyes and avert your gaze somewhere else, somewhere more pleasing to look at—not that you're implying he isn't a sight to look at. 

he is. 

that's the irritating part.

a few more minutes pass before he finally breaks the tense air surrounding you both,"why do you always give so much to people, when you know they won't reciprocate your feelings?"

you lower the juice box down, the sudden hit of reality settling over you. the impact of his words knocking the air out of you, literally. but you refuse to believe it, most especially if it comes from him.

 you should not be hearing this from megumi. for god’s sake of all the people!

"because everyone deserves kindness in their life," you casually say, "just because i'm nice to someone, doesn’t mean i immediately want them to reciprocate my feelings."

"not everyone," and there’s a slight jab in his tone. but for what it’s worth it it’s probably because he’s always so snappy—it almost comes naturally.

"so you're saying itadori does not deserve kindness? even after all he's been through? even if he doesn't like me bac—"

shit.

you just outed yourself.

megumi lowers his head, and you swear you saw him smirk, but you're not sure. he lifts his head and takes a sip of his own juice.

"forgive me for overstepping boundaries–" cutting him off, you snap, "since when did you not overstep my boundaries?"

megumi brushes you off with a sigh, crushing his juice box with one hand—he's finished. his cerulean hues look at you, his gaze steady, almost careful. like the unperturbed surface of water in a pond.

"but, why do you fall so easily?"

what?

your throat closes up, making it hard to speak. much to your own dismay, hot tears pool at the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall. but, you keep your resolve, despite the shakiness in your voice.

"e-excuse me?"

"i know, with the way you look at him."

scoffing, you look away, hiding your face from him. as you take deep subtle breaths to stop yourself from crying, you miss the way megumi watches you intently. he sees the slight trembling of your shoulders as you exhale, the subtle sighs you let out, and he wants nothing more than to hold you in his arms.

but... he knows you hate him. so he doesn't reach out to you.

"it's none of your business," swallowing hard, you look at him, brows furrowed, "and since when did we ever get close to talk about things like this?"

he shrugs, and scoots closer. nestling his chin at the palm of his hand as he rests his elbow on his knee. he grabs your finished juice box and sets it both beside him, and you watch as it disappears behind megumi—has he been practicing his shadow’s technique? show-off.

"i think it's because we're not close…” he says carefully, almost calculated; choosing his next words wisely, “that i'm bold enough to ask this."

rolling your eyes, you force out an irritated laugh before poking your cheek with your tongue and shaking your head, "makes no sense but, okay."

he stares at you intently, waiting for you to look at him during this whole conversation, "you haven't answered my question."

snapping your head to look at him, your eyes narrow, glaring at his irritatingly handsome face—seriously, it's not fair.

there’s venom laced in your tone, but megumi knows it's anything but, "i don't have to.”

his eyes mimic yours, and there's something about the look in his pretty dark, cerulean eyes that make you cave in. his eyes drown you, pulling you in like the rushing waves of oceans—the vulnerability of it all threatening to blow you wide open.

swallowing the lump in your throat, your voice trembled with every word you say. "because i've always given—" for someone you’ve sworn to hate, you have no feelings of doubt or reluctance towards him. 

"because i've always yearned." 

these are thoughts you’ve never spoken to anyone, never admitted to anyone else, even to yourself. but with megumi, everything seems to flow so easily. maybe he’s right, less strings attached makes it easier to open up. 

either that, or maybe it’s the way his presence always seems to be consistent—you can always weirdly count on him to be there. you were always careful around people, always made sure not to say too much. you're like a tightrope walker, balancing on your shoulders the weight of opening up, or keeping to yourself.

"because i was always the one pining, the one yearning. if you've lived your whole life as someone who chases something—or someone, for this matter—being given the smallest of attention starts to matter." 

tears start rolling down your face and you have no other choice than to cup your head in your hands. the silence becomes deafening, irritating almost; wasn’t he the one who started all this? and now he shuts the fuc–

a soft pat lands on your head. 

megumi wasn’t the best at comforting, but he did always find a way to provide solace. you slowly look up and take a peek through clouded eyes. he stares straight ahead, softly caressing your head. and there’s an expression you rarely—never, actually—see on his face.

vulnerability.

it takes him a while, a minute of just letting your words hang in the air before finally moving his hand down your back. his voice is low, yet sure. he always was certain of his words.

“i guess you could say i feel the same way.”

huh?

he finally looks at your blotchy, flushed face and pulls out a navy handkerchief from his pocket, offering it to you. gently taking it from him, you mutter a small thank you, highly aware that his hands have now moved down to your back, where he rubs soothing circles. as you wipe tears and snot off your face, you find yourself once again, drowning in his gaze.

“what do you mean?”

he cocks his head, a gentle tease in his voice as he says your name, “oh c’mon. you seriously can’t be that dense?”

irritation slowly replaces the sadness on your face once again. can he seriously cut the shit? 

“dense about what, fushiguro?”

he furrows his brows and megumi starts to slowly feel exasperated, “how does one actually even buy two juice boxes?” 

and at this point, it’s just the both of you mimicking each other’s expression, “i don’t know? you put too much change and press the button twice? what the fuck, man. you said it yourself.”

he takes a deep breath, slowly composing himself. the last thing he wants is for this to escalate further than it should—you two always did have the habit of blowing things out of proportion. 

his next words were cryptic, but again, certain, “why do you think we’re always paired together on missions?” 

confusion sets itself in your tone, “i don’t know? for you to show off?” 

okay, this is getting further and further away from his point. and to make matters worse, “i just saw you make our juice boxes disappear with your shadow’s technique.”

rolling your eyes, you instinctively turn your body away from him, “don’t think i didn’t see that. i did, fushiguro. you were always a show off and i hated it about you.”

“jesus christ,” he lifts his hand away from your back and gently shakes his fists. god this was infuriating. “i– wasn’t … i am not a show off.” 

“then do tell, fushiguro”

he sighs, “i tell gojo-san to pair us together.”

okay, old news? 

standing up, megumi takes a few paces away before coming back to tower over you. god he was tall. he puts his hands in his pocket and cranes his head down. and there’s a slight shake in his breath as he breathes—finally choosing to be the bigger person to say things outright as they are.

“it’s so i can protect you …” he shakes his head, keeping his gaze on his shoes as he crumbles the pebbles beneath his feet. 

“i have always been complacent about my capabilities but … ever since you came here i found myself wanting to perfect my technique. just so i can protect you when the time comes.”

missing the way you stood up, he finally met your gaze and he’s a little surprised that you were now at eye-level. tilting your head, you search the depth of his eyes for more answers and he wishes that you’d find it already because he’d rather get throttled by nue, than to have to confess all over again if this flew right over your head.

“you don’t … hate me?”

thank god he won’t get thrown off.

he scoffs and a frown sets itself on his features, “you hated me. not the other way around. you were always sure to make it known.”

the way he says it with so much conviction, as if he’d already convinced himself that you were always going to despise him forever, makes your heart break a little. you slowly reach out and gently pat his head, the action making megumi’s eyes go wide, “i don’t hate you, megumi…” 

and he waits, almost relishing in this small affectionate moment. 

“i hated the way i always found myself drawn to you,” pursing your lips, you continued. an epiphany hits you and it finally all makes sense, “i guess i was just lying to myself for liking itadori out of pity that i took it out on you.” 

megumi presses his lips in a thin line and was about to speak when you cut him off, “also, the show-off thing was real. i really thought you were always trying to outdo me since we have similar techniques … so, i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay.“ and teasingly, he adds, “i would be upset too if someone was better than me in everything.” gasping, you light pat his head a bit harder making him wince, but he takes no offense. in fact, he smiles a little bigger, relishing in your disbelief.

“not everything! i can do my domain expansion without passing out every time i cast it. thank you very much.”

“harsh of you to say that.”

megumi pushes your hand away, smirking, and begins walking up the steps to get away from you. in the pursuit of your defense you catch up to him, taking two strides for every one step he takes.

“i’m also really good at baseball,” you quip and he abruptly stops, making you almost trip over yourself—megumi swiftly catching you in time. he raises an inquiring brow, helping you get steady, “i wouldn’t bet on that.”

“oh– but we will, fushiguro.”

megumi smiles and starts walking again; this time, you keep up, continuing to pester him with all of the things you find yourself better at than him. and even though words may have not been exchanged about being civilized friends. 

there is a change of heart between you both.

maybe, just maybe fushiguro megumi found a way into yours. it’s almost like he has a key to your padded heart wherein he didn’t break your walls. he just quietly let himself in and you hate that you don't have it in yourself to kick him out.

[sometimeslwish]

'Bout It

As promised, part two is here.

Just like last time, honorable mention to this post by @luli-lads I was reminded of it while writing one of the scenes. It's not exactly like it, but it's got the jist of it.

There might be a spinoff fic about Xav and Tanya's first time, written with the reader as Tanya, but it's a big maybe; it's part of one of the many drafts that I lost when my old cellphone broke, so take this with a grain of salt.

Word count: 3890

Tags: Zayne x non-mc reader x Sylus, college au, gn!reader, there's no mc here, reader is addressed as she/her by general public but stays otherwise genderless (I forgot about that part while writing the scene), barely any angst in here, no beta reader we die like Grandma Josephine, pet names (sweetie, sweetheart, my love, darling), cursing, name calling (slut), kissing, sex, no genitalia mentioned, implied double penetration, happy ending, Xavier makes a cameo.

Tag yourselves in this, I'll go first; I'm Tanya near the end. Her ramble about Xavier was inspired by my stream of thoughts when it comes to him.

Part 1

Part 2

You lean in to kiss him. 

You didn't mean to, he just looked so hot using all those medical terms and speaking so confidently that you couldn't help it. You're in the library, to make matters worse, already leaning close to each other so you can whisper comfortably. 

So yeah, you kissed him. 

His lips were soft, sweet from the last treat he ate, and incredibly addictive.

You don't get to apologize because he pulls you back in for a second kiss. It's a bit awkward, so you take the lead by holding his chin and guiding his movements. 

It takes a while for both of you to stop. You separate only to see his blush and go back to kissing him because of the cuteness aggression, and then he grows more confident and decides to lean back in to kiss you like he needs you. You finally break apart when both of you need air, and still, you can't stop from pecking his lips over and over. 

You sigh through your nose, forehead resting against his with a hand you never remember moving at his nape, playing with the hairs at the back of his head. One of his hands comes up to caress your cheek before he kisses you again. It's the last one he gives because Sylus walks up to your table and sits across from you. 

“Oh no, don't stop on my behalf, you two were clearly having fun,” He says when you separate, and the knowing smirk on his face makes you feel like your face lit up in flames. 

“Oh, shut up.” you mutter before forcing yourself back into doing your assignment. 

You keep sneaking glances at either of them. Sylus catches you a few times and grins in that infuriating way of his; Zayne only stares back, eyes dropping to your lips before coming back to your eyes. 

You're the one that looks away first each time. 

You don't talk about it, even though you know you should.

It becomes a little thing that happened.

. . . . .

You’re being hot and cold with them. 

You can't even lie to yourself about it; you cancel some plans and show up to others, make up excuses that hold some truth but not all of it.

You're trying to distance yourself and failing horribly at it. 

It became too much. The shared glances with Zayne and the lingering touches from Sylus. All the flirting disguised as compliments and teasing. It was a joke, none of it was serious, just like it always is when you flirt with your friends.

But then you kissed Zayne and crossed a line you didn't know you were barreling towards, almost kissed Sylus at a later date– someone walked in and interrupted right after he had leaned in and told you to stop him, and you had stayed quiet– and got snapped back into place after being plunged into a pit filled with cold water and realization 

You wanted to kiss Sylus just as bad as you had wanted to kiss Zayne. Sought out their company with equal intensity and interest. Talked about Zayne with Sylus with the same fondness and exasperation you would talk about Sylus with when ranting to Zayne.

It wasn't just Zayne, like you had initially thought, it was also Sylus. 

You had clung to Zayne in the same way a stray cat clings to their new owner– a decision made in a split second because the moment you had seen his eyes you had known, you felt it in your soul, that you were going to be his and he was going to be yours no matter what. But Sylus, oh, Sylus had walked in behind him like he already owned your heart and you hadn't even noticed nor cared to stop him. 

You loved them. A lot more than you cared to admit. 

. . . . .

Rumors start running around.

That they don't know who's dating who, that maybe all three of you are together, or that someone is getting cheated on. Either way, you're the only one getting dragged through the mud.

How dare she come between them? She's such a slut.

They're best friends, does she have no shame?

She's so greedy, is Zayne not enough for her?

She should be grateful for Sylus, does she have to go after Zayne too? 

They're dating each other and she's trying to get in between, she should catch a hint and back off.

The whispers leave you more confused than hurt.

“Are you two dating?” The question goes around and around in your head until you can't keep it in and blurt it out the moment you find them. 

They're at the usual table in the library– not the one you first saw Zayne on, the one Sylus had guided you towards after you had grown close– hidden amidst shelves, a somewhat cozy quiet corner that allowed some privacy, even if a bit impractical because of the distance.

Sylus and Zayne exchange a look as you take a seat. You leave your bag on the seat next to you, pulling out your things.

“What brought you to that conclusion?” 

“I keep hearing rumors and well– I know it's not my business, I just– I couldn't stop thinking about it.” 

There's a mischievous tilt on Sylus's lips as he answers, “No, sweetie, we're not dating,” he looks back down at his book and adds, voice dry, “Doctor Sexy here is apparently much too dense to notice my advances.” 

You giggle as Zayne holds the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “Sylus, for the love of everything sweet–” He starts to say, only to get interrupted by Sylus snapping closed the book he was reading. Sylus carries on, undeterred, telling a story about how Zayne completely missed the point of one of his pick up lines and went on a tangent about the science behind it. Even goes as far as changing his posture to match Zayne’s and repeating the whole speech Zayne had given him while imitating his voice and speech patterns.

You snort and hide half of your face with your notebook, trying to laugh quietly while they continue bickering like a married couple. 

“You look great together– you're even acting like a married couple right now.” you admit in a low voice, interrupting their little stare standoff, “You would make a great couple, you should totally date.” Both of them turn to you, but you're too concentrated on the book in front of you to catch their confusion or surprise. 

You don't catch the way both of them falter. How Zayne goes beyond focused-quiet to thinking-quiet and Sylus's usually sharp, concentrated frown takes more of a duller, thoughtful edge. 

They share a look. 

Zayne is doubtful, Sylus is determined. 

This is gonna take a while.

. . . . .

The rumors die down. 

At least the worst parts of it, you still catch a few whispers here and there, but you're no longer being dragged through the mud.

Anyone who ever “whispered”– because let's be honest, they weren't really whispering, they wanted you to hear how they insulted you– while staring at you will not even look you in the eyes anymore. 

You don't notice the way they're more careful around you, how they make way and keep quiet when you pass by.

You're too lost in your troubled head to take notice.

. . . . .

“You keep zoning out,” Tanya states, “what happened?” Her stance doesn't hold space for you to lie, so you sigh and start airing the thoughts out. 

You're stressed– 

“As always, it's your default state at this point.”

“Yes, but not in that way, more in the ‘I don't know what the fuck to do about the men I love'”

“‘Men’?” She parrots, you nod nervously, “Plural?” She checks again, “Oh, we need snacks and shit for this, hold on–” she scrambles through the dorm, grabbing a lone bag of chips and two water bottles. (Life of a college student, everyone; broke and making due with what you’ve got.) 

She pulls you toward the couch so you can sit down and leaves, only to come back with blankets. She gives you yours, making you wrap yourself with it before doing the same and sitting down beside you.

“Okay, start talking.” 

You go into detail; tell her everything from the beginning, add in the details you omitted before and things you forgot to tell her about. 

She reacts, incapable of keeping her face blank and her thoughts to herself; gasps, smacks her hand to her mouth when you leave her speechless, ‘oh my god’s and ‘no, you/he didn't’s. 

“Damn,” she says– unhelpful but relatable ‘cause damn indeed, what a peculiar mess you got yourself into– when you run out of breath and all your worries have finally run free from your mind. 

“Do you have to choose?” she asks, and the emphasis on “have” makes you frown, “I mean– to me, it looks like you're all into each other, so maybe you could just tell them and talk about it. Who knows? Maybe they'd be into it.” 

“But–” you scratch your arm, “don't you think I'm being, I don't know, greedy? Selfish?” you stare down at your hands, “A whore?”

“Everyone has to be a bit selfish to be happy, you know? And it's not like you're cheating if both of them were to agree–” she pauses and squints at you, “do you plan on cheating if they don't?”

You blanch, “No! Of course not!” 

“Then you shouldn't worry about it,” she shrugs before popping a chip into her mouth, “go for it, get those dicks and have some fun, nasty, consensual sex.” 

She laughs when you smack her arm, teases you some more before the conversation centers on her.

. . . . .

You’re being sandwiched by them. 

Actually sandwiched. It's not a dream and you're not drunk. 

Sylus is on one side, Zayne on the other. The latter currently leaving kisses over your neck and shoulder while the former is kissing you like he wants to syphon your soul out of your body through your mouth.

You can't do much besides cling to them, breathless and out of it as they have their way with you. 

Their attention is overwhelming in a way you welcome. Compliments, encouragements, reassurances, it all turns you into mush in their dexterous hands.

You don't know who to call for as their hands roam your body. You moan and gasp and whimper as they litter kisses and marks over your body. 

The pleasure is a lot and you're addicted.

“Please,” you say, but you don't know what you're asking for. 

“Please what, my love?” Zayne whispers, and hearing that pet name from his lips is like seeing the pearly gates. You nearly roll your eyes when he nibbles your ear. 

“I don't know,” you whine, pulling at them to get closer, “Just– please.” 

Sylus chuckles, deep and rich and amused, “Need more of us, sweet thing?” 

You nod, looking up to him through your eyelashes, “Yes.”

“So greedy,” Zayne teases, you can hear his smirk on his voice, feel it against your neck as he nuzzles the skin there.

“Don't worry, we got you.” 

And oh boy, do they. 

They work in tandem. If you thought the beginning was overwhelming, you were in for a treat. 

They take turns undressing you and kissing the newly exposed skin. You get to cum in Sylus's mouth during that process, sitting on Zayne's lap with your legs kept open by him. Seeing them make out after re-lit the fire in your veins. 

Then it's their fingers. First Zayne’s, then Sylus’s as they stretch you out for them. You come again, lying between them with your legs held open. 

You're really close to begging when Zayne is finally inside you. Sylus’s fingers never leave you as you ride Zayne, working to keep stretching you until he finally relents and joins in. 

The stretch leaves you trembling like a leaf in the wind, but nothing compares to them moving together inside you. 

Internally, you know that you're ruined. Nothing else will measure up to this– to them, to their touch and their attention. Their love.

. . . . .

“You fucked them, didn't you?” 

Tanya's voice comes from the speaker of your phone. A second into the video call, and she's already clocked it.

“How the fuck did you know?”

She raises a finger, “One: you're glowing, you can only glow in that type of way after an orgasm– or a good fuck, in your case.” she wiggles her eyebrows while smirking. Your face feels hot at her statement, but she pays no mind to your flustered state and carries on. 

“Two: I don't recognize the background, that means you stayed at..”

“Zayne's” you fill in the gap.

“Zayne's instead of our dorm, wonderful. Three: you got a stupid smile on your face.” You splutter at that and she laughs, loud and unashamed. 

“Four: you got hickeys on your neck–” You cover your throat, but it's already far too late for that.– “And five– speak for me again…” 

“Uh… what do you want me to say?”

“Yeah, five: your voice sounds a bit rough.” She brings her phone closer to her face and smirks, “They made you scream, huh?” 

“Get the fuck out my face.” 

She giggles and pulls the phone away. You want to be mad at her, but that's your best friend right there. You stare at each other in silence before you start laughing and celebrating. 

“Ohhh, look at you go, you little minx. Did you talk before or after? Please, tell me you talked.” 

You nod before speaking, “Last night, actually.” You bite your lip and smile, “We're all dating now.” 

“Let's fucking gooooo!” The screen goes blurry, you guess she's either shaking the phone or jumping. Or both.

“It's gonna be just us and we'll be taking it slow, figure things out with each other.” You speak again once you can see her clearly again; she's lying down in bed, phone propped on the mattress.

“Aaww, that's so sweeet,” she sighs and looks up at the heavens, “god, when will it be my turn? I've seen what you've done for others, why not for me?...” 

You giggle at Tanya's antics and shift a little when Sylus comes into the room. He's decent, wearing some borrowed sweatpants from Zayne– scratch that, you don't think you could call that decent, he's not wearing boxers and there's a fucking out line of his dick. Not to mention the marks littered on his chest and neck, there's also a few scratches you don't remember leaving, but oh well.

His steps are quiet as he approaches you, crawling on the bed until he reaches you. 

“Is that Tanya?” The question comes in a low whisper. You nod with a soft smile, you can still hear her monologuing about romance and luck, but you're more focused on the man in front of you to properly listen to her. He settles between your legs, lying down to rest his head on your stomach. You can't help but combing your fingers through his hair.

“... Am I asking for too much? It's literally just one guy.” You tune back into her rambling after Sylus kisses your stomach and huff out a laugh once it clicks.

“Still no progress with Xavier?” 

She groans, “Dude, you don't get it. He's so fucking–” her hands grip the sheets like they're a life line and you nod solemnly.

“Of course.”

“Like, his eyes, oh my god, his eyes. How is it that a mere shade of blue has rendered me so fucking useless? I'm smarter than this, yet that man turns me into a fucking buffoon with just one look!” 

Oh, that intense. She only brings out the big words and elegant manner of speech when rambling about something she feels passionate about. A habit of hers you've always found adorable and funny.

“There's that thing he does where he looks surprised and his eyes get wider, it's the cutest fucking thing I've ever seen in my life; his puppy eyes would be killer if he ever chose to use them on me. Honestly, I'd give him my soul, I am not even joking...”

You don't judge her. The shade of red you would do anything for is currently in your arms, looking like a pleased cat as you play with his hair, and your shade of hazel…

“... I don't know how he does it, like, how can he be so adorable and hot at the same time?...”

“Where's Zayne?” You ask in a whisper, tilting your phone slightly so you can see him while still being on the frame.

“Went out to get some desserts and food, told him he could just order in, but there's a specific pastry he wanted and they don't do deliveries this far out.” 

You can guess which one it is, you're the one that introduced that place to him.

“...Oh! And his hair, dude, you gotta see his hair. It's so fucking fluffy!...” You smile at Tanya as she rambles. It's the liveliest you've seen her in weeks, you really hope it all works out.

“And you decided to stay behind.” 

“Didn’t want you to wake up alone and confused when no one was home.” 

Your smile grows bigger at that and you lean to kiss his forehead.

“My sweet baby.”

The soft moment gets ruined when Tanya stops rambling about Xavier. 

“... Sylus is there with you, isn't he?” you yelp at her accuracy and how much louder her voice sounds. You look back at the device to see only her forehead and top of her hair on the screen; as if getting closer to the phone might let her look into the room.

You laugh, parts embarrassed and parts amused. Sylus lifts up his head and you tilt your phone in his direction to make it easier for him. 

“Tanya.” he says, in lieu of a getting.

“Sylus.” she answers, in the same tone and everything, “I'll have you know that if either of you cross her, I know how to dispose of a body without leaving evidence behind.” 

Sylus laughs. Not mockingly or nervously, but amused, “Noted. But you won't have to worry about that, we plan on absolutely spoiling her.” 

There are hearts in his eyes when he looks at you, a soft smile grazing his features and the red in them gleaming like rubies. You wonder if he's always looked at you like this. You wonder how you missed it all this time. 

Tanya gags from behind the screen, “Okay, that's enough of that, I'll leave you to it. Have fun! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!” 

“But–” You don't get to say anything because she hangs up. You look at Sylus, a little lost, “But there's a lot of things she would do, how am I supposed to decide?” 

He chuckles and your phone gets forgotten on the bed as he rises up to tower above you, “Want some help?” he leans closer, his lips a hair away from yours, “Yes? No? Maybe so?” 

By the time Zayne comes back home, Sylus is thrusting deep into you while you add onto the scratches on his back. He joins in on the fun and you and Sylus get to torture him a little bit before it's time to eat. 

. . . . .

Neither Zayne or Sylus care about hiding their affection towards you, or each other. 

They kiss, hold your hand, pull you close.

They don't hold back in public at all, now that the relationship is officially established.

It takes you a while to get used to that new change. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Tanya asks when you reveal to her that they had been together before you met them.

You hadn't been surprised to learn they were friends with benefits before you came into the picture, right on their way to being lovers right as they got to know you. They had decided to wait for you to make anything official, because both of them knew the moment they met you. 

“Yeah, no, me neither. Had you been there with me, you would've been like ‘oh, they're fuckin’, for sure’” she hums and drinks from her smoothie.

“Look at you, having your destined love and everything, I'm proud of you.” 

She reaches over for your hand, squeezing before patting it and sighing.

“You lucky little fucker.” She mutters. The sudden switch up startles a laugh out of you. 

. . . . .

dude

(Media attached)

im gonna jump this motherfuckers bones

how fucking dare he look so hot

wish me luck

It's a picture of Xavier. He's wearing form fitting clothes in dark colors that makes his grey hair pop more. The angle is odd, like Tanya is hiding behind something while he looks somewhere out of frame.

Godspeed, soldier 🫡 

“What's so funny, my love?”

You look up at Zayne and smile. You don't think you'll ever get used to him calling you like that, no matter how many months pass. 

“Tanya's out on a date with Xav, she just sent a picture of him with the caption ‘I'm gonna jump this motherfucker’s bones’” 

Zayne raises a questioning eyebrow at the choice of words and you giggle while leaning close to him. 

“I see she finally made a move.” Is what he settles for saying, putting a hand on your back as you walk through the restaurant, following the waitress towards your table.

“Yes and no.” You grin, in on a secret he doesn't know, “Remember that downpour that happened about two weeks ago?” He hums in affirmation and pulls back your chair to help you take a seat, ever the gentleman when it comes to you, “Well, they might've gone back to his apartment…” you pause and stare at him as he takes the seat across from you. You see the moment it clicks for him, a simple, small twitch of an eyebrow and a knowing, barely there smirk. 

“They didn't.” 

You nod, your lips falling into a thin line, “They, in fact, did. Right on the couch too.” 

“And then?” Comes Sylus's voice from behind you. You didn't even notice he arrived.

“Sylus!” you scold in a whisper-yell, clutching your chest to contain your leaping heart. He chuckles and leans to kiss your forehead.

“Sorry, darling, I didn't mean to startle you.” He takes advantage of his position to give Zayne a quick peck before sitting down. The four seat table allows him to sit between the both of you. 

“You said you would be late.”

“Managed to get out early.” You know what that phrase means, but you hold back from scolding him; nothing you say will change his ways. You share a look with Zayne and shake your head.

“As I was saying…” 

You continue talking about Tanya and her adventures until it's time to order, and then the conversation goes through other topics as the sun sets and the night goes by. 

It's like everything and nothing changed at all.

The banter is still there, the jokes, the teasing, the flirting. But now, there's nothing holding you back from reaching for them and holding their hand or kissing them. Nothing holding you back from being bolder with your touches and words. 

It's liberating.

[idkwhylou]

Gone, again

Summary : You and Bob share an undefined relationship built on late nights and unspoken feelings. He wants more and one night, he finally, confronts you. But things don’t go as planned…

Bob Floyd x f!reader/pilot!reader

Warnings : sexual content, strangle (nothing to scary folks), lack of communication, angst, conflicted feelings, heavy past, secret relationship, toxic behaviour (?), emotional unavailability (reader is mean to Bob—how dare you), fling, use of y/n, reader has hair, too much italics

Words : 5,5K

A/N : I had this in my drafts for so long, didn’t really checked before posting so sorry for the mistakes. When I wrote it I thought of other parts, tell me if you want it.

+ your call sign is « Grumpy »

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

“Bob !” his name spilled from your mouth in a breathless moan, trembling with pleasure as it was now harder to control the loudness of your voice. Your nails dug lightly into his broad and muscular shoulders as you rubbed your hips frantically against his. His head fell back, exposing his throat, and your back arched instinctively, bringing your bodies even closer.

You let yourself get carried away completely, bouncing desperately on the pilot's lap beneath you. Letting go of everything but the overwhelming pulse of him inside you. The desire was getting out of control, you could feel yourself coming. He felt so deep inside you that it stole the breath from your lungs and made your thoughts blur.

You bit your lower lip, almost to the point of bleeding to contain your excitement. Bob’s voice rose beneath you, thick with strain. Your name came out of his mouth, “Don’t stop,” he groaned, almost choking on it, sensing that he couldn’t hold it much long neither. “Please, baby, don’t stop.”

You nodded, dazed. His grip on your hips tightened, rough palms guiding your rhythm even as his body trembled under yours. Those veiny hands, forcing your body down onto his, which made you feel his cock even deeper in you. You closed your eyes so tightly it almost hurt, and with a little difficulty you slid one of your hands down his chest, fingertips tracing the slick lines of his abs. You found his hand and quickly grabbed it, drew it to your throat as you lift your chin slightly as invitation.

Bob froze.

“No, y/n...” he dared to answer you almost in a whisper, voice caught between desire and dread, his gaze locking onto yours.

« Please… » you begged him almost on the verge of tears from all the sensations running through your body. He sighed slowly, then his fingers closed gently around your throat, the pressure careful, controlled, reverent.

You let out a little cry of surprise, not expecting him to give up so soon, which made the blond came undone beneath you. His body stilling, mouth open in a silent gasp as you rode him through it, relentless and shaking.

His hands slid back to your hips, grounding himself in the soft weight of your body. You collapsed forward, your damp skin sticking to his. Your head found the crook of his neck, the place where his pulse beat soft and sure. Bob didn’t speak. He just stroked your hair, tenderly, slowly, as if afraid you might disappear if he held you too tightly.

Eventually, you shifted beside him, still slick with sweat, and he leaned in to kiss the space just below your ear. Not lustful. Loving. The two of you remained there for a long and silent moment, entwined in each other's arms, nothing but your breaths and the creaking of the sofa as he lifted both your bodies to sit up could be heard in the room.

As you slowly came to your senses, he moved—lifting your body gently from his lap and laying you down on the sofa like something precious. He folded the blanket that had fallen to the floor over your still warm and wet body to cover you, then placed a second tender kiss on the top of your head. You tensed at his sign of affection which made his lips twitch. A flicker of something—uncertain, guilt, regret… but he didn’t ask why, he never asks why.

Instead, he turned toward the bathroom, rushing only for your sake. He didn’t want to leave you alone too long, even if you could navigate his apartment in the dark now, knowing it almost as well as his body. Under the hot water, he scrubbed the need off him, rinsed away the hope clinging to his skin. He dried himself quickly and stepped out with nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. A drop of water slipped from his hair and trailed down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it. He couldn’t.

His eyes lifted toward the sofa.

Empty.

No sound but the creak of the floorboards, the echo of your absence still hanging in the room like perfume.

You were gone.

Again.

He brought his hand to his face, preferring to hide his shame. How foolish, he thought, to still imagine you might stay. He let out a breath that sounded too much like surrender and dropped his arms to his sides, towel forgotten, shame blooming in the quiet.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

“Come on Bob,”fanboy nudged him with a grin, “don’t tell me you’ve got better things to do tonight ?”

Bob hesitated, just long enough for the question to start curdling in his chest. “Sorry fanboy but tonight I… I really can't. Next Friday ?” He offered shyly. His voice softer and more uncertain than it should have been, almost apologetic. 

The moment the lie left his mouth, it sat there, heavy and wrong. Like wet wool around his throat. Bob hated lying. He wasn’t built for it; he was a man of quiet integrity, someone who’d rather say too little than betray the truth. And yet here he was again, feeding excuses to the people who trusted him. Ducking out of a night at the Hard Deck with his squadron—his friends—because the idea of missing the tiny sliver of possibility that you might show up at his door made his chest ache.

He couldn’t tell them that, though. Frustration consumed him as he couldn’t explain you. Because, actually, there were no words for this thing you two had. No clear label. Nothing that would make sense if spoken aloud.

Unintentionally, almost instinctively, his gaze drifted across the room. You sat alone in a corner of the dining room, idly pushing your food around your plate, eyes low and unreadable—detached, as always. Bob clenched his jaw; he shouldn’t have looked. He pursed his lips as he remembered that you were the reason for his absence at the hard deck tonight and felt his cheeks flush. 

Since the last time you saw each other—a few days ago, maybe less, though time blurred when it came to you—you hadn't spoken again. Well, technically you two never really spoked. Your conversations existed in the hours between arrival and departure. Skin on skin, breathless urgency, heat and hands. A silence that only broke for gasps and groans. The rest of it, remained off-limits.

This saddened the blond a little, he was an attentive, romantic, gentle and passionate man. He was built for stillness and devotion, not chaos and ambiguity. He believed in commitment, in gestures that meant something. He opened doors, offered jackets in the cold, and made quiet, thoughtful observations he was too shy to speak aloud. He didn’t know how to exist in half-shadows. But with you, he was learning. He had to.

He didn’t understand why he agreed to it at first or how it really started, or even why it continued ? He’d never imagined himself in a casual fling. And yet, every time you knocked on his door, he let you in. Every time you pressed your body against his, he answered. Not because of desire alone, but because some stubborn part of him hoped that maybe this time would be different. That maybe you’d stay. That maybe you’d talk. That maybe this time, you’d let him in.

You'd been sleeping together recurrently for a few months now and Bob had agreed to a lot of things for you, without really knowing why. He tried to lie to himself about what this was. Told himself it was mutual. Equal. But deep down, Bob knew—he was the one losing pieces every time you left. Yet, Bob loved making love to you. Yes—making love. He refused to dilute it with any other phrase, even if everything between you begged him to call it something less fragile, less vulnerable.

Because that’s what it was to him. Not just sex. Not just release. You weren’t some passing stranger in his bed, or a notch in a belt he didn’t care to wear. You were you. The way you breathed against his neck when you got too close to breaking. The way your bodies felt against each other. The way once under him you would make the sweetest noises. The way your hand instinctively reached for his hair when he kissed you slowly, deeply, like he was trying to memorize the taste of your mouth. The way you called his name when you’re on the verge. And no matter how rushed you always seemed, how transactional the act often became, Bob still chose to take his time with you.

He liked taking his time. He loved the quiet reverence of undressing you. He loved the way your lashes fluttered when his lips brushed over your sternum, the way your body shifted closer to his when he whispered your name like a secret only he was allowed to keep. He loved holding you after, even if you never stayed long enough for the warmth to settle. But more than anything, he loved the illusion that—just maybe—in those few moments when your walls slipped and you let him in, there was something real there. Something delicate and unspoken, lingering in your gaze when you thought he wasn’t looking.

And yet… he didn’t know if you felt any of it. Because despite the softness he tried to give you, you always seemed to crave the opposite. Rougher. Harsher. Faster. You’d grab his wrist and whisper things into his ear that made him stiffen—not from arousal, but from hesitation. You wanted to be taken, devoured, dominated. And Bob, despite everything in him that ached for tenderness.

He never liked hurting you. Not even a little. Bob had never raised his voice at anyone, let alone his hand and even less in the bedroom. But when you asked him to squeeze your throat, or pull your hair, or slap your ass hard enough to sting, he found himself doing it anyway without really thinking. Because maybe if he gave you what you wanted in bed, you’d give him what he wanted after. Maybe if he made you come hard enough, fast enough, often enough, you’d stay.

But you never did.

He remembered the first time you asked him to spank you hard. He stopped dead in his tracks, your request pulling him out of the rhythm like a jolt of cold water. He just blinked at you, silent and stunned. He never had been against the idea of spicing things up a bit, be he didn’t want to treat you like you were just a thing he could manhandle under the sheets. You’d only looked at him—expression unreadable—and waited. And when he finally said no, softly but firmly, you nodded without a word and carried on like nothing had happened. You never asked again.

Until last week. 

You had your hand around his, lifting it gently to your throat. The request was clear. And this time, Bob didn’t freeze. He told himself it was different. He told himself it was okay, that it turned him on, that the way your eyes fluttered closed when he complied meant something more. That you trusted him, even if you’d never admit it. But afterward, as he laid there—heart thudding, mind racing—he hated himself for how quickly he’d said yes.

He hated that no matter how much care he gave you, you never let him return the favor. He could never soothe your hair back, or ask you how your day had gone, or even cook you breakfast. He was only allowed to make you come. Then you’d vanish again, like smoke between his fingers.

And he told himself, over and over, maybe it’s for the best. You had your own life, your own rules, your own barriers he was never meant to cross. Maybe this was all you’d ever wanted from him—an outlet, a body, a silence he wouldn’t break.

But God, it broke his heart.

Because he didn’t want to be just a fuck. Or a situationship. Or some pitiful guy who waited for a knock on his door like a dog waiting to be fed.

He wanted you. The version of you who existed in those soft, rare seconds when your guard slipped. He wanted to reach past the cold exterior and find the heart you kept hidden behind all that distance. And he wanted, desperately, for you to want him too—not just the sex, but the man beneath it.

But all he had were bruises on his neck, scratches on his back, and the aching suspicion that what you gave him was the only thing you were willing to give. And that maybe… that was all he’d ever get.

Hangman snapped him out of his reverie with a childlike comment. “Forget it baby on board, what that girl needs is a man, a real one.”

“Huh ?” Bob blinked, still half lost in the sight of you from across the room, your back rigid with the same tension he could still feel in his own chest.

“Don't play innocent, I saw you looking at Grumpy” once again he felt that wave of heat rush up his neck, the burn that settled somewhere between embarrassment and guilt. He reached for his water and sipped it just to avoid answering, but the pause only gave Hangman more reason to keep going.

“Oh no,” he gasped mockingly, leaning in with that infamous smirk stretched across his face, “don't tell me you've got a crush ?”

Bob's grip tightened on the bottle, fingers blanching slightly. He didn't know what burned more—the truth of it, or the fact that someone else could see it so easily, could put words to what he still struggled to admit to himself. But he said nothing. He couldn’t. Not when the reality of what they had—what he wanted it to be—was so fragile, so easily ridiculed. He wanted to throw a chair, or at the very least, throw Hangman across the room. But before he could retort or even form a coherent sentence, Phoenix swooped in like the blessed hurricane she always was.

“Wait a minute, why am I not invited to the hard deck ?” she interrupted, voice playfully wounded as she nudged Bob’s shoulder. “What, no girls allowed now ?”

She winked at him, and he managed to let out a short breath of laughter—more relief than amusement. The attention shifted away from him, just enough for him to retreat back into the safety of silence. Just enough to pretend everything was fine.

But nothing was fine.

Nobody knew about your relationship—not a soul in the squadron. And that’s how you wanted it. You’d made it very clear, from the very first night, that this was not something meant for daylight. Not for shared glances on base, or affectionate goodbyes in the hangar, or teasing from teammates. It was private. Locked behind doors and zipped up with uniforms. 

That should’ve been Bob’s first warning. The secrecy. The way you never stayed long enough to be vulnerable, never gave him a name to what you were. Never let him kiss you in the morning.

As he stared down at his sandwich, half-eaten and forgotten, the dull ache in his chest grew heavier. The teasing, the smirks, the laughter of his teammates—it all buzzed around him like white noise. He wasn’t really here. Not anymore. Not when you sat just across the room, eating alone like you always did, shoulders hunched, eyes glued to the tray in front of you like it might open up and swallow you whole.

Bob glanced up again. And once more, you were gone.

You were always gone.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

Bob had rushed home from work that evening, like he always did on the nights he knew you might come. He’d showered, changed twice because the first shirt had a stain on it, he lit a candle before making sure his apartment was as clean as possible, even though you never seemed to really care about that. He even found himself preparing a sauce, in the hope that at some point you'd settle down to eat together. Maybe tonight you would sit long enough. Anyway, Bob told himself not to except anything. He knew better and did all this, obviously expecting you to run away from him once you're satisfied, as usual.

And yet he waited.

He doesn't want to rush you, because he loves the time you two spend together. Sometimes, for just a moment, he looks at you and feels a warmth of comfort deep down inside. If only you knew how he felt, whether it's at night when it's just the two of you, or even at work. When you're alone in your corner, without anyone noticing, he likes to watch you attentively. Admiring your sweet face, your curves in your khakis, the way you behave... He likes to think that you too feel this unique feeling when you're together, that you too look at him discreetly at the base. Even sometimes at night when he's alone in his bed, sniffing the cushion next to him that still carries your scent and imagining that you're thinking of him at that very moment. He wishes that everything he imagines wasn't just an illusion and could become reality.

Finally, you showed up. Late, as usual. The doorbell ringed like a match struck against silence. 

“Hi-”

You didn’t even let him finish and kissed him, lips hard and urges, pushing him back into the apartment. The door slammed shut with the force of your foot. You peeled off your shirt without ceremony, your breath ragged. “Had a shit day,” you muttered before claiming his mouth again, your hands roaming over his body. 

“Grumps-” he tried but you swallowed the word with another kiss, already undoing the fly of his jeans. 

“I need you” you moaned, your voice low. “Fuck me... please” you almost begged as you looked at him for the first time since you barged in.

Bob, breathless and already hard beneath you, met your gaze. You tried to hold it, but your eyes slipped away. He didn’t stop you and let his body fall on the couch. You pushed down the waistband of his underwear, your hand wrapping around his cock like a demand, not a touch. He watched you use his body for your own needs. The way you were trying to hurry, as if you wanted to get rid of something. Your movements too fast, like you were trying to erase something with the friction.

But then he saw it—your eyes, glassy and slightly red.

“Stop.” His voice cut through the haze. You didn’t move. Or maybe you didn’t heard him. “Y/n,” he said firmer this time. His hands found yours and gently, but without yielding, pulled them away. You finally looked at him, lips parted in frustration, but not anger. Not really. 

“What’s going on ?” he asked quietly, still holding your hands in his.

You pulled away like his touch burned you. “I told you, I’ve had a shitty day. I just want to fuck.”

Detached. Mechanical. But your voice was a crack, not a wall.

“Have you been crying ?” he asked, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“What ? No. I have allergies,” you deflected, eyes shifting away.  

Bob’s didn’t waver, he tilted his head, searching for your face. “Allergies ?" he repeated, voice low. “Right. And I’m just the guy you fuck when it’s easier than telling the truth.”

You froze. Your head turned sharply toward him. He wasn’t supposed to say that. Bob never pushed. But there he was, holding your wrists like they were glass and he was tired of watching them shatter. And you ? You didn’t know if you wanted to kiss him or punch him. You just wanted to feel something that made sense.

Your voice came out sharper than you intended. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean ?”

Bob didn’t flinch. He didn’t let go either. “It means I’m tired,” His voice was low, but there was steel underneath. “I’m tired of pretending this is enough for me. Of acting like I don’t care when you disappear before I can even ask if you’re okay.”

You scoffed, suddenly needing to move, to breathe. You yanked your wrists free and stood up, pacing to the edge of the living room like the distance could protect you. “So now it’s my fault you caught feelings ?” the tone of your voice surprised you, normally you would never dare speak like that to anyone.

“No—” Bob sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, trying to keep calm. “It’s not your fault for being hurt. But you treat me like I’m a fucking stopgap.”

You laughed bitterly. “You think you know me ?”

“I think I want to !” He stood now too, matching your energy but not your distance. “But you won’t let me in. You use sex like armor and silence like a wall, and every time I try to climb over, you vanish.” He sighed, “I’m not that stupid y/n. You can’t pretend it doesn’t affect you neither.”

You turned away, suddenly feeling too bare. His words weren’t knives—they were mirrors. And you hated what they reflected. He waited for you to say something, but when you didn’t, he kept going—his voice quieter now, but not gentler. “I’m not asking for everything, Grumps. I’m not asking you to change overnight. I just need to know I’m not a fucking placeholder until the next time you spiral.”

You scoffed under your breath, arms folding around yourself like armor. “You think this is easy for me ?”

“No,” he admitted. “I think it’s killing you.”

You spun around, heat rushing to your face. “And what do you want me to do, Bob ? Cry in your arms ? Open up like it’s some rom-com bullshit ? What if I don’t know how to be the person you want me to be ?”

“I don’t want you to be anyone else !” he snapped, louder now. The frustration cracked through his voice. “I want you. But you won’t even give me that much. You want me to choke you, fuck you, whatever—fine. I’ll do it, because I’d do anything for you. I’m not just some guy you can fuck and then completely ignore, I have feelings too you know ?! I can fake a lot. But I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t kill me every time you leave like none of it meant anything.”

“It didn’t,” you lied, too fast, too harsh. You couldn’t even look at him anymore. 

Bob took a step back. He flinched like you had hit him. 

The silence after that was unbearable. You looked at your feet, chest rising and falling, your throat tight with everything you didn’t want to feel. You had always tried to flee as quickly as possible to avoid this discussion and yet, there you were, lost in the middle of his apartment. Bob stared at the you, jaw tight, like he was trying to hold himself together with pure will. You knew very well that Bob wasn't stupid. God he might’ve been the most perspective man you’d ever met. Quiet, observant, thoughtful to a fault. He never missed anything—not a glance, not a hesitation, not the way your voice trembled when you tried too hard to sound different. And that terrified you more than anything. 

You’d built yourself like a fortress—silence as mortar. People weren’t supposed to get in. That was the rule. You’d even promised yourself, promised in that quiet, shaking way people make desperate oaths—never again. Never another crack in the armor. Never another slip od truth. Not with anyone. Especially not him.

But, unfortunately for you, Bob had a way of seeing things. Not in the dramatic, spotlight kind of way. It was subtler. Like he’d been listening to your silence this whole time and was finally translating it back to you. And now, standing in front of him, your guard still bristling like a cornered animal, you could feel yourself unraveling. 

You hated it. 

You hated that he hadn’t lashed out at you before — that he’d held it all back, swallowing every one of your careless words, every cold exit, every time you used him as a comfort and then vanished before dawn. He could’ve exploded. He should have. But he didn’t. And that only made it worse. Because now you weren’t sure how to defend yourself.

You weren’t prepared for him to understand you. To see you. Really see you. Not for what you pretended to be, but for what you tried to hide. No one had ever done that before. No one had ever looked at your mess and said, I’m still here.And that… that was the most dangerous thing of all. You couldn’t let your guard fall now. Not after everything. Not after the damage you'd already done.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, wrecked.

“You’re not broken, Grumps. But you treat yourself like you are.”

“I never asked you to fix me.” You snapped harshly, waiting for him to tell you ‘go fuck yourself’ for good.

“I know.” He nodded slowly. “But you did ask me to love you with my hands and not my heart.”

That one landed. Deep.

You stood there for a second, the silence stretching taut between you, balancing on the edge of something you couldn’t name. Then you reached for your shirt—somehow colder than it had been before—grabbing it from the back of the chair with hands that weren’t steady. You pulled it over your head with mechanical precision, trying to keep your breath even, trying not to let it break. He didn’t move. He just watched. His stillness wasn’t passive—it was deliberate. Painfully deliberate. Like he’d trained himself not to reach for you anymore.

You didn’t know what you were feeling. It twisted in your chest like something uninvited, something foreign. Rage ? Shame ? You didn’t want to name it. You didn’t want to feel anything at all. That had always been your rule: don’t let things in. Don’t get used to comfort, or care, or the warmth in Bob Floyd’s voice when he whispered your name like it meant something. Because it didn’t. 

Not really. 

Not in the way that lasted.

You didn’t like this version of yourself—shaky, defensive, confused. You didn’t like the way your body ached to stay, even as your brain screamed to leave. It was cleaner this way. Less complicated. You’d told yourself that a hundred times. He was kind, sure, but kind people still leave, still break things, still choose someone else eventually. You were just getting ahead of the inevitable.

Still, as your trembling fingers closed around the door handle, you hesitated. You knew you were hurting him. But you also believed—deep down, even if it made you sick—that it was better this way. That your exit now would save him from worse later.

Your voice came out lower than expected, unsteady with restraint. “You don’t get to be angry at me for leaving,” you muttered, refusing to turn around. “Not when you knew I always would.”

Bob looked up at your back, eyes rimmed red, but his voice was even. “Maybe not. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

Before you could walk out, you paused—heart thudding in your chest—and spoke without looking back. “You don’t have to do this, Bob.”

He blinked. “Do what ?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely behind you without turning around. “Playing the hero. Like you’re going to be the one to fix me. You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not—” His voice was soft, still trying to understand you, still gentle. Too gentle.

But your blood was roaring now, hot and reckless. You had to say something sharp, something loud, something that would force him to stop looking at you like that—like you fucking mattered.

“But maybe that’s exactly what you’re doing !” You turned suddenly, arms crossed like a shield. “Maybe saving me makes you feel like you exist. Like someone finally gives a damn that you’re in the room.”

That landed. 

His face twitched, just for a second, like you’d pressed right on a bruise. 

You knew it wasn’t fair—and that was exactly why you said it. The shame crept in instantly, bitter and electric under your skin, but you pushed through it, pushing him further.

“You’re the quiet guy.” you bit out, every word tighter, unable to stop. Eyes narrowing, heat rising in your chest. “The one no one notices unless you’re flying or being polite.”

His brows knit slightly, lips parting like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out. And you hated how that made you feel—like you’d won some battle you never wanted to fight. So, you went further. You had to. Because if you didn’t, you might cave. You might stay. You might fall into him and forget why you built all these walls in the first place.

“So what,” you spat, “you find someone like me—messy, broken—and suddenly you matter ?”

Silence. Again.

Fuck you hated yourself, really hated yourself.

His jaw twitched this time, but he still didn’t respond. He looked at you like he was trying to see past the storm you were throwing, trying to reach the version of you that wasn’t lashing out. 

“You keep acting like you care, and maybe you do,” you continued, voice cracking just once, “but don’t pretend it’s not just another way to make yourself feel good. Because if you really cared, you’d stop making this harder.”

“I’m not trying to—”

But you cut him off. Not because his voice was harsh, but because it wasn’t. Because it was too soft, too patient, too kind. Because if he kept speaking like that, your legs might give out from under you. Because if he forgave you now, you wouldn’t deserve it.

“I don’t want your tenderness Bob !” you snapped, voice cracking with more frustration than pain. “I didn’t ask for it, and I sure as hell don’t know what to do with it.”

The silence was crushing him. He stared at you, stunned, like he wasn’t sure if he should be angry or just heartbroken but didn’t say anything at first. He never saw you like that. His brows pulled together, eyes wide with disbelief. He just looked at you, his eyes reflecting a thousand things he didn’t know how to say. He looked at you like you’d just undone something sacred between you with a single tug.

And you had.

His mouth opened, but no sound came. His face—usually a calm ocean—shifted. Confusion. Disappointment. Pain. He was trying to figure out if this was still you. The real you. Or just another version shaped by fear. And that made you furious. Not at him but at yourself. For letting him in. For giving him space in your head, your heart, and your goddamn body.

“Jesus,” you muttered, barely breathing. “You don’t love me. You love the idea of what I could be if I let you in. But I’m not someone’s chance to feel brave. I’m not your fucking spotlight.”

Bob’s breath hitched, and he stared at you like he’d been hit across the face. His throat worked around a response, but none came. He shook his head, slow, the way people do when they’re still holding out hope that they misheard you. That maybe you’d take it back.

“You really think that low of me ?” he asked quietly, like the answer would split something open in him either way. “After everything ?”

And right there—right in the middle of that moment—you saw it. The hurt in his eyes. The way he didn’t fight back. The way he let you throw punches without throwing any himself. The way he looked at you like you weren’t a burden, or a project, or some broken bird to fix—but like you were human. Messy. Complicated. Worth it anyway.

It should have made you feel powerful. But instead, it made your stomach sink. Because you knew you’d gone too far. You were always going too far.

You wanted him to walk away, but not like this. Not with that look. Not when part of you wanted so badly to stay. Yet, you said nothing. Because taking it back would mean exposing the part of yourself you’d spent years hiding. The part that needed him.

You didn’t answered because the answer wasn’t even real. It was just fear talking and he knew it. Bob’s jaw tightened, the smallest flicker of something steeling behind his gaze.

“You should go.” he said, his voice barely holding together. “I’ve heard enough.”

It shattered whatever part of you had been hoping he’d stop you. That he’d reach out and catch you the way he always had before. 

So you turned.

You stepped out into the hallway, leaving the door open just long enough for him to wonder if you'd turn around.

You didn’t.

Because you couldn’t.

Because if you did… you’d break.

[demie90s]

𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐃 𝐔𝐏 & 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ DIANA TAURASI X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

2/? Part 1 Part 3

MASTERLIST

⭑ pairing: Diana Taurasi x fem!rookie!reader

⭑ summary: Rookie of the Year, team favorite, and everybody’s newest obsession—you can’t keep your mouth shut during a live interview. Diana Taurasi’s sitting right next to you, and your talent for getting under her skin is almost as good as your game.

⭑ genre: humor, flirtation, slow-burn tension, public chaos

⭑ warnings: light language, suggestive flirting, press/fan reaction

⭑ word count: ~0.8k

The lights hit, the cameras roll, and the crowd’s already screaming before you touch the mic.

You flash a smile. The one that’s been on ESPN since draft night. The one that had people tweeting “that rookie’s got something dangerous in her eyes.” Rookie of the Year. A walking headline. And today? You’re mic’d up next to the Diana Taurasi.

She leans back like she doesn’t care. Like she hasn’t noticed you’ve been sitting with one leg over the other, relaxed and shining, making it your mission since preseason to get a reaction out of her.

You adjust the mic. “Thanks for having us. I was told I had to be professional, so I left the crop top at home.”

The audience laughs. You glance over.

Diana doesn’t blink.

“Probably for the best,” she mutters, straight-faced.

You grin, unbothered. “You say that, but I’ve seen how you look at me in practice. Don’t play.”

The team—seated in the front row like this is reality TV—loses it. Sophie slaps her knee. Skylar covers her mouth. Brianna pretends to be shocked for the camera.

Diana sighs. “Here we go.”

“C’mon,” you shrug. “I’m Rookie of the Year. Let me be annoying. It’s in my contract.”

“You’re doing great at it.”

The moderator, God bless her, tries to regain control. “So! How’s the dynamic been, with such a strong rookie presence on the team this year?”

“Strong is a word,” Diana says flatly.

You lean into the mic again. “Obsessed is another.”

“She’s been flirting with me since training camp,” Diana says, dry as desert air.

“And yet you never file a complaint,” you fire back, smirking.

“HR said no,” Sophie yells from the crowd.

Everyone’s dying. Twitter is probably already clipping it. You can see the phones held up. You’re trending again, and it’s not even noon.

“I just think she’s fine,” you say, waving your hand like you’re stating the weather. “It’s not my fault I got good taste and no filter.”

Diana finally looks at you—really looks. Her mouth tight, fighting a smile. “You should focus more on film and less on flirting.”

“I’m a multitasker, mama.”

“Oh my God,” Skylar groans behind her. “She called her mama.”

Diana rubs her temples.

You sit back, pleased. You’re killing it, as usual. The league loves you, the fans adore you, and your favorite hobby is cracking through the ice wall that is Diana Taurasi’s tolerance.

The moderator asks another question—something about your first season, about pressure, about your historic run—but you only half-hear it. Your eyes stay locked on the way Diana finally, finally cracks the smallest smile.

You live for that smile.

You answer clean, smooth, charismatic as hell. “Pressure makes diamonds. Or whatever Rihanna said.”

“Didn’t know she coached now,” Diana says.

“She could,” you shrug. “You’d listen if she did.”

“So would you,” she says, then instantly regrets it.

The room explodes.

You turn, all teeth. “So you admit I’m your type.”

She lifts her mic. “I admit nothing.”

The crowd is loud. The team is crying. And somewhere deep down—even if she’ll never admit it—you know you’ve cracked her just a little.

MASTERLIST

[loves1ckmoth]

My Muse

Jinx x Hairdresser!Reader

Warnings: fem!reader, petnames I think, jinx might be ooc idk it's been a while since I've written

“You aren’t gonna cut my hair, are you?” Jinx’s voice is nervous, and she is looking over her shoulder at your amazed face. Today she finally let you mess around with her hair. You’d been raving about it since you started dating but she was always worried about messing it up.

“No, of course not. At least not a full haircut. You’ve got some dead ends I'd like to care for, but I won’t do it unless you want me to.” Your voice is soft, just the way she likes it. Your lack of volume serves as a barrier to her more violent episodes, her hallucinations only being flashes of the good times. She’s much happier like this, with you.

“And if I don’t want you to?” She asks, pushing back on your statement slightly, just to see. “Then I won’t. I only wanna do what you’re comfortable with.” The tenseness in her shoulders goes away and she breathes in your perfume before speaking up again. “You can do it. Don’t want any dead ends.”

You hum a response, grabbing the good scissors you use off your belt, and knelt to be able to reach the bottom of her hair. “I can’t imagine Silco being the one to braid this every morning.” You say, watching her shoulders jump at the mention of him. “Guess the old man had deft hands.” She looks over her shoulder at you, studying your face.

“He could braid but couldn’t give himself medicine,” Jinx admits, smiling slightly. You giggle quietly, taking the first snip now that she’s calmer. She stretches and pops her fingers, wiggling the recently painted nails at you. You hum an acknowledgement and she grins.

“A lady Sevika knows did them. I didn’t ask where she met her though.” You perk up, looking at them again. “I think I know who you’re talking about. She used to work at a salon with me. She used to do my nails in exchange for a haircut.” Jinx’s fingers drift over to trail up your thigh, but it's a clumsy dance because of your positions.

“You can turn around, you know. Your hair is long enough.” She groans and you set her hair down for a moment so she can. Her legs stretch out as she waves her feet side to side, the fabric of her socks hitting your hips. She sticks her tongue out at you and giggles before looking back up to meet your amused expression.

“What’s so funny?” You ask her, watching her antsy movements. “Your face. You look funny whenever I mess with you.” She admits quietly as her hair returns to your hands. You smile at her words, raising an eyebrow. “Is that meant to be a compliment?” You ask, watching her expression turn coy. There’s a shine to her shimmer-stained eyes these days that’s hard to decipher. Hard to pinpoint. But you like it, and you’re sure she does too.

Hai everyone:3 finally writing again. This was a draft from before my computer basically blew up (rip). I'm planning on getting a new one here soon, so I'll be able to write better!! Likes and Reblogs are really appreciated ♡♡

[ramyrun]

the opposite of hate

Tags: Enemies to lovers, slow burn, unresolved tension, post-time skip AU, high school setting, mutual pining, sarcasm, emotionally repressed idiots

Word Count: ~3,700

You never really planned on hating Suna Rintarou.

It just sort of happened.

One moment you were minding your business in chemistry class, scribbling notes and adjusting your lab goggles. The next, he was leaning over, squinting at your paper with that deadpan face of his, and saying—

“You spelled ‘reaction’ wrong. Twice.”

You had not.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I mean… unless we’re in a parallel universe where vowels don’t matter, you definitely did.”

Your pencil snapped in half.

You’ve been at war ever since.

It didn’t help that he liked getting under your skin. He’d glance at you whenever he cracked a joke to see if you’d react. You always did. With eye rolls, muttered insults, and the occasional middle finger.

Suna found it hilarious. You found him intolerable.

It would’ve stayed that way if your homeroom teacher hadn’t announced a school-wide creative project and decided—through either sadism or cosmic misfortune—that you and Suna Rintarou should be paired up.

“No refunds, no swaps,” the teacher said cheerfully. “You two will be working together over the weekend. Make it good.”

You stared at Suna in horror. He smirked back.

“Can’t wait,” he said, voice flat as ever.

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Looking forward to our bonding experience.”

You briefly considered transferring schools.

The school provided a winter lodge for the project. Cozy. Isolated. A firepit in the common room. You figured you could survive it as long as Suna stayed on his side of the room.

He did not.

“You’re in my light,” you muttered as he leaned over your half-finished design board.

“I am the light,” he replied, not moving. “Also, this border is uneven.”

“It’s called asymmetry. It’s artistic.”

“It’s giving ‘failed attempt at balance.’”

“It’s giving ‘no one asked you.’”

“Aw, you do care what I think.”

You threw a glue stick at him. He ducked and laughed—actually laughed. You hated how warm it sounded.

You made it three hours before the snowstorm hit.

Thick, heavy flakes battered the windows, and the power cut out just before sundown. The Wi-Fi died with it. You stared at your dead phone. Suna stood beside the fireplace, inspecting the woodpile like he’d done this before.

“Well,” he said, dragging a blanket off the couch. “At least we’re not freezing.”

“Yet.”

“You worried?”

You gave him a look. He held your gaze.

“I’ve survived worse,” you said coolly.

“Same. I’ve worked with you, after all.”

You kicked a pillow at him.

By the firelight, everything softened. Even Suna.

He ditched his hoodie in favor of a plain t-shirt, hair sticking up in that lazy way it always did. You sat cross-legged on the floor, sketching final drafts. He sprawled next to you, one arm behind his head.

“You know,” he said eventually, “you’re not actually bad at this.”

You looked up, confused.

“The project,” he clarified. “Your design stuff. It’s cool. Even if your color choices are a hate crime.”

“Wow. A backhanded compliment. I’m touched.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t. I’ll treasure this moment forever.”

He let out a breath, almost like a laugh. Not quite.

“Why do you hate me, anyway?” he asked suddenly, not looking at you.

You blinked.

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. It’s obvious. You glare at me like I kicked your dog.”

“You act like I am your dog. That’s why.”

He looked at you then, eyes half-lidded, amused.

“You think I treat you like a dog?”

“You whistle at me. You called me ‘scrappy’ in front of the whole class.”

“It was a compliment.”

“How is that a compliment?”

“You fight. You don’t let people walk over you. I respect that.”

Silence.

You swallowed. Looked away.

“You could’ve just said that.”

“You’d have bitten my head off.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The storm didn’t let up.

You both fell asleep by the fire. You on the couch, Suna on the floor, arm tucked under his head. When you woke up, he was already watching you.

“Creepy,” you muttered.

“Comforting,” he replied.

“Debatable.”

“Admit it. You missed me.”

“I dreamed you got buried in an avalanche.”

“Romantic.”

You tried not to smile. Failed.

“We should finish the project,” you said instead.

“Mm. Or we could stare at each other a little longer.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse jumped.

You didn’t expect to like working with him. Not just tolerate it—like it. He was smart. Subtle. He noticed things you missed and challenged your ideas in a way that felt… motivated, not mocking.

You fought, but not in the usual way. Not to win. To sharpen each other.

You built a two-part portfolio: his half minimalistic and dry, yours vibrant and chaotic. The lines connected in the middle.

Contrast. Unity.

When it was finished, you both stood back and stared.

“Huh,” Suna said. “It’s not terrible.”

“Coming from you, that’s high praise.”

“We make a good team.”

You glanced sideways. He wasn’t smirking.

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “We kind of do.”

He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave you was… different. Less teasing. More real.

It made your heart stutter.

Back at school, people asked how it went. You shrugged. Suna said nothing.

But things changed.

He sat closer in class. Passed you notes with dry commentary. Gave you his pen when yours ran out. Nudged your shoulder in the hallway like it meant something.

And one afternoon, as you closed your locker, you found him leaning against the one beside it.

“Hey,” he said, hands in his pockets. “So.”

“So?”

“If I told you I don’t hate you,” he said, tone light but eyes serious, “would you laugh in my face?”

You stared.

“Probably,” you said.

“Good. Keeps me humble.”

You bit your lip. Smiled.

“I don’t hate you either,” you admitted. “Usually.”

“Usually?”

“Depends how annoying you are.”

He stepped closer.

“Right now?”

“Tolerable.”

Another step.

“And if I kissed you?”

You blinked.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He raised a brow.

“You want to test that?”

Your heart stammered against your ribs. But you didn’t move.

“Go ahead,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

He did.

It was slow, soft, infuriatingly gentle. The kind of kiss that said, I’ve been waiting.

When he pulled back, his hand was still on your cheek.

“Still think I’m the worst?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

He grinned.

“Good. Keeps you humble.”

END

Let me know if you want a continuation, bonus scenes (like a jealous moment or an “accidental sleepover” situation), or a version with a spicier rating!

[dronningreid]

The shadow that haunts our hallways

↪After the traumatic experience in prison, Spencer and Reader try to return to their lives, but the consequences torment both causing a disagreement between them; staying or leaving the BAU, something that could destroy their relationship.

who? Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader category: angst, fluff and hurt comfort. warnings/tags: Arguments, disagreements, post-prison reid, mention of dilaudid, mention of Cat Adams and Peter Lewis, multiple mentions of Reid's prison arc, special appearance by Emily Prentiss, mention of kidnapping and death. English isn't my first language. word count: 5.9K a/n: Hey! I hope you like this, I didn't realize I hadn't posted anything in so long and I'm truly sorry. I wanted to write something fluffy but it seems angst is my specialty and well this was my most advanced draft because when I finished this I was sick and I really wanted to post something in honor of Spencer's return (I AM SO HAPPY). Oh to write this I was inspired by 2x5 when Spencer goes to Elle's hotel room (I miss her) Finally I think this is the first time I've written post-prison Reid.

Three months.

You'd dare say those had been the worst three months of your life. The angst, the uncertainty, the fear... it was the worst cocktail of emotions you'd ever had to drink.

Especially waking up in a huge bed with imaginary discomforts, the ones that weren't there when Spencer placed a soft kiss on your forehead before whispering, "Goodnight, darling.”

But for three months, all you got in return were cold sheets and sleepless nights, wrapped in stormy unknowns like, would Spencer ever get the chance to see another sunrise? Or if, when you and the team managed to break the chains, would he be the same Spencer? who looked at you with that heartbreaking panic in those beautiful, innocent brown eyes before the police took him away to a federal prison. Of both unknowns, you were only sure of one. The Spencer Reid who entered Millburn wouldn't be the same one who left.

You and Penelope stood outside the correctional center, waiting for JJ, Luke, and Spencer to come out. It was the longest few minutes of your life, but it all ended when he walked out of that horrible place. He looked different, you didn't know exactly why, besides noticing the new length of his hair and his stubble. The only thing that anchored you to the comfortable past was the suit he was wearing, the same one he wore the last time you saw him.

Before greeting you, he approached Penelope. They hugged immediately, and when they finally separated, he approached slowly, stopping right in front of you. For a moment, you wanted to yell at him. You hated when Emily told you that Spencer didn't want you to visit him, you, the most important person in his life, maybe second only to Diana, but at least he wanted to see her.

But when you saw that lack of something you couldn't name in his eyes, you knew you couldn't stay angry with him, at least not forever, and much less now that you knew you could lose him at any moment.

You tentatively approached him, intending to hug him, though he took your action as consent that he could touch you. He placed his calloused hands on your cheeks, his thumbs caressing your soft skin as he gazed into your eyes for a few slow seconds before finally breaking down the barriers he'd built up and pressing his lips against yours. You sighed at the sweetness of his lips, your body relaxing almost immediately, and your eyes drifting closed at the familiarity you'd been missing.

Spencer was never the type to show affection in public, but after having absolutely nothing from you for three months, all he longed for was to have you as close as possible, and honestly, you too, so that you could protect him from anything that might hurt him.

Spencer finally broke the kiss to take a breath, which didn't bother you too much, since you had needed him so much that you would’ve been happy to drown in his kisses.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered meaninglessly, because you had truly forgiven him the moment you saw him in front of you, that’s how weak you were in Spencer Reid’s presence.

In response, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “I missed you.” You whispered against his neck.

Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around your waist and even pulled you closer, needing your closeness like he needed air. “And I missed you too…”

You would’ve liked to say that after the whole prison thing, Spencer got a decent meal and rest, but Mr. Scratch had other plans for the entire team.

At least the FBI gave them a break, but in your opinion you needed at least a year to recover from the recent events that had hit you like a tsunami (for lack of a better metaphor)

Spencer held the apartment door open for you to enter. “I didn't know Stephen very well, but he seemed like a good man.” Silence reigned; there wasn't much one could say in these situations anyway. “He visited me in prison. He probably had more important things to do, and yet he still took the time to be there for me even though he barely knew me.” He added after closing the door behind him. “How are you?”

You quickly wiped your tears away. At the slightest mention of Stephen, you could remember his wife; Monica, weeping inconsolably over his loss. You could've been her... "I only think about his family." You whispered weakly. "He didn't deserve that. He was a good person, a great profiler who ended up losing everything, even his life, for getting involved in the chaotic affairs of the BAU." Fresh tears trickled down your cheeks.

Spencer quickly approached, handing you a handkerchief to wipe your tears while rubbing slow circles on your back. “This is beyond Stephen, isn’t it?” He dared to ask.

Your eyes met his. “Until when?”

He frowned at your half question. “Until when what?”

“When will our learning end? Hotch lost Haley, Morgan almost lost Savannah.” <<I almost lost you>> “And don’t even get me started on the things you’ve lost or were about to lose because of this job.” Your voice was filled with a bitterness you hadn’t realized until now, a bitterness that grew day by day as an agent in the BAU.

Spencer had so many reasons to tell you why his job was worth it, but given recent events, it was only natural that the positive would be overshadowed by the thick, dark cloud hanging over you.

In the absence of a comment from your boyfriend, you decided to say what had been on your mind, no matter how controversial it might be. "Maybe it's time we tried our luck outside the BAU.”

Reid’s eyebrows rose at your suggestion, he couldn’t believe what had just come out of your mouth. “I don’t think you’re thinking this through clearly, sweetheart. We’ve been through a lot lately, which is why we can’t make any decisions now, not when all the emotions are running high.”

“This isn't an idea that came out of nowhere. I’ve been thinking about this for longer than I’d like to admit.” You confessed.

Spencer's expression began to harden. "How long? Why are you only telling me now?" His questions sounded almost like a complaint, and rightly so. He never believed you would keep something as big as that from him for who knows how long.

“I don't know exactly how long ago it was,” you exclaimed defensively before taking a deep breath. “Well, it's obvious why I'm telling you this now. You've been shot, you've been kidnapped, but this thing in prison was something completely different. I've never seen you like this before…” You stared into his eyes, emphasizing that special something that was conspicuously absent.

Spencer ran a hand over his face. “My love, listen, I don’t want to talk about that right now, and I don’t want to talk about quitting our jobs either.” His tone softened. “We just got back from a funeral, I’m exhausted, you’re exhausted. Can we just go to bed and talk tomorrow when we’re clear-headed?” You relented only when you saw the tiredness etched in his eyes.

But days passed, then weeks, and neither of you dared to broach the subject, at least not directly. You didn't, mainly because you were having such a good time with Spencer, and a difficult conversation like that would've its consequences. Plus, just thinking about it felt like someone was squeezing your heart.

Your days off were running out, your return to the BAU was imminent, and you still had the option of never returning. But for that, you'd have to sit down with Spencer and have a difficult conversation, because you couldn't sweep your problems under the rug forever.

Spencer wasn't home. Since he got out of prison, he'd tried to spend as much time with you as possible, but lately, and increasingly, he'd been going out alone, telling you he was going for a walk, getting coffee, or visiting Henry and Michael. His excuse today was that he was going to visit Diana, but his lies were about to crumble at your feet when the phone rang.

“Reid Residence.” You answered the phone as you had said so many times in the past. Perhaps it was silly, but saying Spencer’s last name gave you a certain comfort, especially during his stay in Millburn.

“I hope I'm not interrupting anything.” Emily added after saying your name.

“It’s not like that, I was just watching TV.” You replied, absentmindedly playing with the phone cord. Spencer was probably one of the few people in the world who still had a phone like that in his house or rather, it was your house, too. You still hadn’t gotten used to living with him, since you’d only been living together for a few days when he was arrested in Mexico.

“Oh, me too! I got obsessed with a show and-” Emily cut herself off and cleared her throat. “Anyway, could you please tell Reid the results of his psych evaluation are in?”

“Psychological evaluation?” Emily couldn't see it but your brow is furrowed.

“Yes, don't worry, I checked it myself. Everything's fine, considering everything that's happened.” You froze, Emily's words only served to confirm what your mind didn't want to fully accept, even though the suspicion was always there.

It was one thing to seek reassignment to the FBI, and another to lie to you,that had crossed the fragile line on which your patience hung.

“I brought blackberry pie.” Spencer exclaimed happily, announcing his return home.

You didn't bother to say goodbye properly to Emily; you just hung up the phone and stood there with your arms crossed, staring at him in annoyance.

Spencer's smile faded the instant he noticed your body language and your proximity to the phone, but he didn't say anything, waiting for you to break the growing tension in the air.

You didn't want to give in you needed him to say something, anything. But the silence was killing you, so you gave in, though not completely. "Emily called." Your words hung in the air.

You could see it in his eyes; he clearly knew what you were referring to, but from what he said next, it seemed like he just wanted to upset you. "Is that so?" He murmured casually. "What did she say to you?”

“Don't play dumb with me, Spencer Reid.” You exploded. He tended to be sassy at times, but this crossed every line for the man you shared a bed with.

Spencer sighed and took three steps in front of you, making sure to leave an appropriate distance. “I never meant for you to find out like this.”

“Your intention was to keep me from ever finding out.” You kept your tone high. “How did you expect to keep this from me? I’m a profiler, we work in the same unit.”

“There’s no need to scream.” He murmured in a controlled voice, perhaps too controlled. Perhaps he was afraid, afraid of exploding like he had in that interrogation room with Catherine Adams. No, he would never hurt you, at least not physically, because lying by omission was also harm.

“I’m not yelling!” Okay, that time you did it, so you forced yourself to take a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice took on a controlled tone.

“Why?” He spat out, almost as if it were a joke, a very bitter one. “For the past few weeks, you’ve been making insinuations and comments about leaving the BAU. Fine! Resign if that’s what you want, but don’t drag me down with you.” He said firmly.

Your expression gave way to surprise before it took on a tinge of anger. “I will! I will leave the damn BAU, which has done nothing but cause me pain.” Your words were filled with bitterness.

Reid's firmness wavered at your comment. “That's where you met me…” He whispered. “Am I pain to you too?” For the first time in weeks, he allowed you to see his vulnerability.

You quickly shook your head. “Of course not.” You sighed in frustration. “Listen, I didn’t realize I hated my job until you went to prison.” Your heart ached this was still a sensitive topic. “Tell me something, Spencer. Why would you want to go back to the FBI? Especially when they turned their backs on you.”

“You had your reasons for believing he was guil-” You didn’t let him finish his justification.

“Of course not!” Actually, yes, but love makes us blind. And they didn’t know Spencer well, not like you or Emily, JJ, Penelope, Dave… “If we’d had the FBI’s backing, you wouldn’t have spent three damn months in that horrible place, and you’d still be you…”

Spencer frowned, his expression darkening with anticipation of what might come out of your lips. “Still be me?” A trick question that would be difficult to dodge.

“You've changed.” You limited your response. The fish dies by the mouth, isn't that what they say?

“Well, after three months in federal prison, I'd be worried if that experience hadn't changed me.” He crossed his arms.

“Experience? Is that what you call it?” Your expression reflected your annoyance. “Of course, it would be stupid to expect you to be the same, but a lot of things have changed. You didn’t even let me visit you.” Your words sounded almost like a reproach, and maybe they were.

“Oh, wow.” Spencer threw his hands in the air. “It took you a while to bring that up.” His words were laced with venom.

“How did you expect me to react?” You raised your voice again, Reid’s jaw tightening. “Everyone else had the right to see you, except me, your girlfriend…” You hated when your voice broke.

Spencer's expression softened slightly. "I didn't want you to see me like that." He explained.

"Battered? Miserable? Different?" You blurted out, waiting for the answers that had been tormenting you.

“Why do you insist I’m different?” He raised his voice as well. “I’m the same man.” He insisted almost desperately, trying to make the idea fit not only your mind, but also in his own.

“Why are you!” You exclaimed firmly. “You carry a second gun holster.” You pointed.

“It’s a precaution.” He excused himself.

“No, that’s paranoia." You countered. “And that’s the least of it. I can no longer see that innocence in your eyes, the faith that this isn’t such a bad world.” You sighed. “On the surface, it’s not a huge change, but I notice it. I noticed it when that sweet, somewhat innocent man I fell in love with slammed a pregnant woman against a wall and muttered that he was going to kill her.”

Your words were a sentence, and for a long time they tormented you, as you replayed the scene over and over again.

An old friend settled in Spencer's eyes: guilt. "I'm sorry you had to see that. I shouldn't have…" His voice broke as he sank onto the couch. "I'm not like that. I was… I don't know…”

You wanted him to be aware of his change, but you regretted it when you saw the pain and guilt in his eyes, in his expression, radiating from his entire being. If that was the price, you weren't willing to pay it. You would never do anything that could hurt him, not even something that would cause the slightest scratch.

You followed him to the couch, resting your hand on his knee. “I know that’s not the kind of person you are, and I really want to believe it was just a one-time thing, caused by all the emotions you were going through, that you still go through every second.” He stared down at the carpet, but you knew he was listening. “I’ve known you for years, Spence. You’re so kind, too good for this world. You don’t usually resort to such extremes because that’s not you, and then comes the regret and eternal guilt.” From the expression in his eyes, you knew those two were already manifesting. “Seeing you there, like that, destroyed me in ways I never anticipated,” you whispered.

“I’m not so kind or a saint, I’m not as good as you think I am.” He said, his gaze still as lost as his. “What happens next? Will I actually kill someone? I… I’m afraid this is who I am now.” His voice broke, his curls covering his eyes, but you could bet tears were gathering at the corners.

You immediately wrapped him in a hug, and he clung to your arms. “No, no, no. You're still you, with a few changes, but you're still you…” You cling to that idea, not the despicable facts.

“But for how much longer?” He murmured against your shirt, this time you could feel the wet drops on the fabric of your shirt.

“I don't know,” you whispered. “But if you stay in that job, it'll probably keep taking pieces of you away, until what's left is little or nothing…” It wasn't the right time, but you had to say it, make him understand, a last ditch effort to keep from losing him…

Spencer pulled away from the hug. “You can’t know.” He still had tears on his cheeks.

"You joined the FBI very young, a different person than you are now. Have you ever wondered what your life would be like? Without gunshot wounds, without kidnappings, without Dilaudid, without deaths..." The answer to that question was many times, but he didn't say anything, preferring to ponder everything in silence.

“I won't force you to leave the BAU, but I will because I can't stand being there anymore, no matter how much I once loved it.” Your voice cracked. “And I really wish you would come with me because I can't lose you, Spencer. I couldn't bear it…”

Spencer stood up from the couch, dusted off his clothes, and hurried to wipe the evidence of his vulnerability off his face. “I’d love to give you what you want, but the BAU is all I’ve ever known, and I don’t think I can really leave it, no matter how many pieces of me it takes in the process.” And with that, he headed into the bedroom, not even waiting for a syllable to leave your lips.

The following days were filled with something different in the air, something that made everything more complicated and everything got even worse when Spencer was reassigned to the FBI, although not completely according to him and although he resented his days off you were secretly happy even though your relationship wasn't at its best.

You decided that once that case was over, you'd announce your departure from the FBI. Matt Simmons had joined the team, after all, which gave you some peace of mind. Although those were the kinds of decisions you made with Spencer, and doing it alone felt even more wrong…

You stopped by the Naples, Florida, police department. Honestly, you didn't know what to do with yourself. You knew you were supposedly working, but the status of your relationship with Spencer had you worried, to say the least.

You had to fix this no matter what, so you swallowed your pride and headed to where you knew Spencer and Emily were.

Along the way, you rehearsed how you would tell Spencer that you supported him, that if his decision was to stay at the BAU, you respected and supported him because that's what a couple does. You mentally rehearsed your speech, perhaps a bit too cheesy, so you limited everything you felt for him to just "I love you.”

The door was half closed, you were about to burst in but you were friends with Penelope Garcia so you stayed behind the door listening to the conversation between Emily and Spencer.

“Because I wanted to kill Scratch.” Reid's words caught you off guard, but honestly, everyone at the BAU has had that same thought at some point.

“Standing room only on that bus.” Emily replied.

“No, I mean it literally. After what he did to you, if I had found him, I would have killed him. And… I would have slept well.” His words were like having a glass of ice water thrown over your head in winter.

It was one thing to think about killing someone, with someone like Peter Lewis, there was a kind of justification, but you're supposed to be the embodiment of justice. You wouldn't have cared if someone had said that. But you knew Spencer or at least you thought you did, because your Spencer, the awkward boy who trembled when he asked you to be his girlfriend, that guy couldn't sleep well if there was blood on his hands, no matter the reasons, he'd be tormented by guilt until his last breath. This new man, on the other hand, admitted he was okay with it; it was more than you could bear.

You carefully turned around, discarding the reason you were there in the first place. You told yourself you weren't running away, but honestly, you were. But you weren't running away from your beloved; you were running away from what he had become.

Arriving at the hotel at night after a long day's work, you approached Emily, asking to be put in a different room from Reid. The hotel had enough rooms, but Emily looked at you with some confusion.

“Is everything okay?” Emily asked, only the two of you were in the lobby, the rest had gone to their rooms.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah, I just want the bed to myself.” The version of you from several months ago wouldn't have been able to stand being even two inches away from Spencer.

Emily was more respectful of privacy, so she gave you the space you needed without further questions. But she still got involved by giving you the key to the room across the hall from Spencer's.

Spencer was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. When he didn't see you walk through the door, he went out to look for you in the lobby. He didn't find you, so he asked at the hotel reception where they told him your room number. It wasn't the same as his, and you were just across the hall, but the distance felt like more than that. It had been feeling that way for a while, for both, actually.

Spencer sighed heavily, running his hands over his face. Part of him wanted to give you the space you forced upon him, but he'd been locked away for three months without anything from you… And finally, there was that proud part of him that refused to seek you out without you doing it first.

That's how it was lately, someone had to give in and neither of them was willing to do it.

But if no one did something soon, everything he had built would crumble at his feet… The mere thought of losing you made Spencer quickly get out of bed and head out the door.

You were lying in bed, tossing and turning, when your phone suddenly rang. You answered it without noticing who it was. “Can we talk?” You swore Spencer’s voice on the other end of the line made your heart skip a beat.

“It’s late, and I was about to fall asleep.” That’s what you wanted to come out of your lips, but instead it was… “Sure.” You hated the urgency evident in your tone.

Then the door rang. You pushed back the covers before getting out of bed and then opened it. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting in case you said yes.” Spencer still had the phone to his ear when you opened the door. His voice was so soft it almost made you forget everything that had been different about him lately.

You both put away your phones, and a smile inevitably formed on your lips. “Your room is across the hall.” Remembering the troubles surrounding you, your smile slowly faded, until only a ghost of what was left remained, just like you and him.

Spencer stared at you, as if your eyes could give him all the answers he was looking for. “Why aren't you sleeping with me?” He asked cautiously. “Is it because I kicked you the other night? Because I already apologized for that.”

His attempt to lighten the mood drew a small laugh from you, and for a moment you could see him again, your dear and beloved Spencer Reid. “No, it’s not that.” You shook your head.

He took your hands, his thumbs brushing your knuckles but his eyes fixed on you. “So tell me why, sweetheart, why aren't you next to me in bed?”

His eyes were so intense, so intense they triggered the truth. “Because I needed space.”

Spencer looked almost hurt. He stopped wiggling his thumbs but continued to hold your hands. “Do you want space now?” He asked tentatively, hoping the answer was no.

“I don’t know…” You whispered.

Spencer sighed and finally let go of your hands. “It’s been like this between us lately, hasn’t it? We let it build up and then you push me away like a bad habit. I honestly didn’t expect I’d have to sleep alone tonight, and the worst part is, I don’t even know why.”

You let out a frustrated sigh. “We’re in trouble, that’s obvious, but we’re still holding onto this, and I thought a better way to deal with it was to give me a break.” You explained.

“A break from me?” His expression said it all, that hard mask firmly covering the pain, the pain that what he had could end and he hadn’t even realized it.

You closed your eyes for a moment, regretting your choice of words and his interpretation of them. “A break from what you are now.” You corrected your words, but not for better.

He sighed in frustration, hating your constant reminder of what he was and what he is. “Oh, so now I'm some kind of monster you must escape?” His tone was filled with bitterness.

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” You clenched your jaw, keeping yourself from yelling and starting an argument in the hallway. “I would never refer to you as a monster.”

“So what do you mean?” He asked sharply. “Uhm? What word would you use to describe what I am now? What seem to despise to you.” After that, he said your name with a certain chilling undertone.

“A stranger.” You blurted out, and from the expression on his face, you knew the word stranger stung more than monster. “That’s how I see you, and excuse me, but it’s hard to see my sweet boyfriend as anything more than a stranger when I hear him say he would’ve killed a man without remorse and slept well afterward.”

Spencer looked up from the floor, realizing you'd overheard his conversation with Emily. “So that's why you've been avoiding me all day? That's why you sent me to the dog house?”

You frowned. “You seem to be downplaying it.”

Spencer sighed heavily. “It’s not like that, but it’s hard to believe my words affected you when Scratch doesn’t deserve any courtesy, not after what he did to our team, our family.” His words came out firmly.

“Peter Lewis is dead!” Maybe shouting the reminder would bring him to his senses. “We’re supposed to be on the side of justice, and beyond that, you’re not like that. When you first killed someone, you couldn’t sleep, the guilt ate at you, no matter how bad that man was.” You responded with the same firmness as him.

Spencer remained silent, you hit the nail on the head because he usually had a lot to say.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad, you’re going through a lot and honestly, I can see the resentment building up in your eyes. This is going to destroy you, Spencer, and I'm not willing to see it happen.” You whispered.

A flicker of fear crossed Spencer's eyes. "What are you trying to say?" He asked tentatively.

You swallowed, trying to ease the weight of your words that made a lump in your throat. “I’m trying to say that I need some time away from this, Spencer, away from you. And permanently some time away from the BAU. This is my last case.”

∗⋅✧⋅∗

You should admit. Spencer had done a great job on this case, even though his personal life was crumbling around him especially with the things you'd said to him.

The jet ride was silent, except for the small talk between Luke, JJ, and Spencer. Everything else was peaceful, normal…

Your initial plan was to announce your departure on the jet, but you decided to postpone it until you arrived at the BAU so you could say a more appropriate goodbye to Penelope. You couldn't give a half-hearted goodbye to the sweetest woman on earth.

You never liked goodbyes, and honestly, who does?

You could still feel a ghostly trace of the hugs you received from your friends and now ex colleagues. Their farewell speeches haunt your mind, and for a moment you wished that saying goodbye to something that was once a home didn't feel so bitter, like escaping through the emergency exit.

There were dried tears on your cheeks, the physical reminder of the goodbye that was rekindled when the cool night air hit your cheeks.

Meanwhile, Spencer chivalrously offered to drive you to the hotel where you were going to stay until you found a place or until you decided to come back to him, which would be unlikely if neither of you were willing to give in.

“So I guess this is goodbye, although I hope it won't.” He said honestly as he parked the car in front of the hotel.

“We’ll see where life leads us.” You replied, though you didn’t really want to go where the tide took you. You wanted to choose for yourself, but you didn’t have the strength to swim against the current.

Spencer handed you your bag, holding back the words. “I hope it leads you back to me.” He gave you what looked like the ghost of a smile before you opened the car door.

But before you could get out of the car, Spencer said your name in that way only he could make your heart skip a beat. You turned around almost immediately, searching for what he had to say. “What you said was true?” You frowned, needing more information, because you had said a lot, especially to him. “About how resentment is going to destroy me…” He finished it.

You nodded slowly before looking away. This was more difficult than either of you could have anticipated. “It's like drinking poison and waiting for someone else to die.”

Spencer just nodded silently, but you knew he was reflecting on your words, as you knew every one of his expressions perfectly, some of which you had even adopted.

“Goodbye, Spencer.” You mumbled before finally getting out of the car. A cowardly goodbye, because if you stayed any longer, you'd probably jump into his arms.

You headed to the hotel reception, you searched your bag for your wallet to pay for the room but then you found something else, Spencer's credentials in your bag, he was going to quit…

You ran out of the hotel, but Spencer and the car were no longer where you'd left them. So you frantically flagged down a taxi.

When you reached your old building, you ran up the stairs. You finally arrived in front of the door to the apartment you'd once shared with Spencer and knocked, knowing that using the keys you hadn't yet returned would be invasive.

When Spencer opened the door, you didn't expect to see the surprise etched on his face. You wanted to tell him so many things; your heart was racing, really racing, from him, or rather, from running. But then, before you could give a grand speech, you crushed your lips against his.

He didn't even hesitate for a second, his hands wrapped around your waist, his eyes closed and his soft sigh caressed your lips during the kiss.

After a few seconds, you pulled away, breathing as rapidly as he did. “I thought you might need more time.” Spencer was the first to break the silence, but his voice was barely above a whisper.

“I needed it, I did, but you left something in my bag. I don't know if it's a mistake or-” He interrupted you as you spoke hurriedly.

“I'm going to quit.” He replied with conviction.

You looked at him intently, still believing this was too unreal. “We have a lot of things to sort out, and I don’t want you to feel pressured. You shouldn’t leave your job just because of me. I know what I said before, but I love you, and if you love your job at the BAU, I accept it. Just please don’t become a stranger. I know it’s difficult, but hold on to the real Spencer Reid, the sweet, innocent, and clumsy man I fell in love with.” Your voice and your eyes were full of pleading.

Spencer took your face in his hands. “I promise I won’t become a stranger. I really don’t want to become someone I’m not. And if the price to pay is leaving the BAU, I’ll accept it because I can’t lose myself, and I can’t lose you.” He whispered, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You rested your face in his hands. “You really don’t have to quit your job. You don’t have to sacrifice anything to be with me. I would never ask that of you.” You had, but now it was different. You couldn’t do that to Spencer. You could never do anything that would hurt him, not him.

“I know.” He continued to caress your face. “We’ve had difficult times for this job, because it’s about sacrifice, and I don’t know how I was so blinded before. But I won’t let my job cost me my relationship with you, much less myself.” He replied with a hint of sadness.

“But I don’t want you to rush into a decision, so what if we make a pros and cons list or something?” You looked at him.

Spencer let out a soft laugh. “I already told Emily.” He placed a kiss on your forehead, one that wasn’t enough to ease your doubts. “Hey, it’s okay. I have three PhDs to fall back on, remember?”

“It’s not that… I just don’t want the years to go by and you blame me for forcing you to leave your job.”

Spencer stroked your hair. “Hey. I would never blame you, because this is only my decision.” His response put you at ease. “Besides, I'd been thinking about it for a while, but I didn't want to admit it because the BAU is all I've ever known.” He admitted.

You raised your head to look at him. “Surely in a few years you won’t hate me for that?” You asked quietly.

He shook his head. “Of course not, although it would be a good idea to attend couples therapy, maybe to strengthen communication.”

You nodded slowly; the idea actually sounded pretty good. For a moment that day, you'd felt like you'd lost everything, and now it seemed like everything was going to be resolved. That lifted a huge burden off your shoulders.

“You know I love you, right?” Spencer caressed your face again.

You leaned down to kiss his palm. “I love you, too.”

[elliespassagerprincess]

reader who’s in a girl group performing at an award show x guitarist ellie pleaseee

Headcannons: guitarist!ellie williams x girlgroup!reader

masterlist

☆ Ellie’s backstage at the Global Sound Awards, tuning her guitar for her artist’s closing set when she catches the end of your girl group’s performance.

☆ The lights hit you just right. You’re center stage, dancing and singing with this effortless confidence that knocks the air out of her lungs.

☆ Ellie doesn’t even realize her mouth’s open until the stagehand elbows her to focus.

☆ The moment you lock eyes briefly during a camera pan, she genuinely thinks you looked at her, and it sends her heart to her throat.

☆ After your set, Ellie immediately looks you up on Instagram—half from curiosity, half in a daze—because who the hell are you and how are you real?

☆ She finds your profile, your group’s page, the solo dance clips you repost. Her first like is accidental, and she panics and unlikes it before re-liking it again.

☆ She doesn't follow you yet—she thinks it’s too obvious.

☆ Later that night, she watches the televised performance on YouTube with headphones on and zooms in when the camera hits your face.

☆ Ellie tells her bandmate, Jesse, “That girl’s gonna ruin me,” before muttering, “God, she’s so cool,” for the tenth time.

☆ She screenshots your performance and sets it as her lock screen for “inspiration”—but it’s totally just because she misses your face.

☆ It takes Ellie three weeks to build up the courage to DM you.

☆ She drafts at least twelve messages in her Notes app. All deleted.

☆ The message she finally sends?

“Hey… I saw you at GSA. Your set was insane. Like, next level. Big fan.”

☆ Immediately regrets using the word “insane.” Starts pacing her hotel room like she just ruined everything.

☆ You reply within ten minutes. She drops her phone. Then picks it up and reads your reply over and over.

☆ Your reply: “No way YOU watched us?! I’m the one who’s a fan. You shred like a goddess”

☆ Ellie sits down. Stares at the ceiling. Says out loud, “She thinks I shred like a goddess.”

☆ She types a long reply. Deletes it. Sends just: “lol stopppp”

☆ Ellie’s too nervous to respond right away sometimes, and rereads your conversations like they’re poetry.

☆ You eventually ask for her number. She almost dies. Literally hands shaking.

☆ Texting becomes a nightly thing. Ellie learns you’re up late writing lyrics, and she starts matching your sleep schedule.

☆ You FaceTime after shows—her eyes always lighting up when your face appears.

☆ Ellie starts sending you guitar riffs she writes at 3 a.m. titled “for you.”

☆ You tease her about being awkward, and she texts back, “I’m only awkward because you’re too cool.”

☆ She starts watching old live performances of your group and hypes you up over every dance break.

☆ Ellie starts sneaking your group's merch into her own outfits—subtly. But the fans notice.

☆ Her pinned tweet becomes lyrics from your debut single.

☆ She sends you meme dumps like a teenage boy with a crush.

☆ Your groupmates start teasing you with “Where’s your little guitarist, huh?”

☆ Ellie refers to you as “her muse” on a livestream and immediately logs off from embarrassment.

☆ She starts wearing nicer flannels to FaceTime dates.

☆ She brings your favorite candy to rehearsals and keeps it in her guitar case.

☆ Ellie practices saying your name in different ways—under her breath, in lyrics, into her pillow.

☆ She tells Dina, “She’s just… I don’t know. She makes everything feel worth it.”

☆ Ellie writes a full song just about your smile and never shows anyone.

☆ She listens to your voice memos on repeat when she’s on tour.

☆ Ellie cries the first time you dedicate a line in your performance to her.

☆ Her guitar playing becomes softer, more emotional—Jesse asks if she’s okay and she shrugs: “I’m in love, man.”

☆ She doodles your initials into every notebook she owns.

☆ When you say “I miss you,” she gets so flustered she doesn’t sleep that night.

☆ When you finally meet in person, she’s stiff as a board—until you hug her and she melts instantly.

☆ She tucks her hands in her sleeves because she’s scared they’re sweating too much.

☆ Ellie trips over a chair trying to look casual walking into your greenroom.

☆ You catch her staring and she looks away so fast she nearly whiplashes.

☆ “You’re even prettier in person,” you say, and she just… shuts down.

☆ She says something dumb like, “Yeah, you too. No—wait. Not dumb. I mean, yes. You’re dumb. I mean no—shit.”

☆ You just kiss her cheek and say, “I got you,” and she looks like she saw god.

☆ Ellie can’t stop brushing your hand with hers as you walk, and each time she bites her lip like she’s holding back a scream.

☆ You take a selfie together and she makes it her phone background for the next 3 years.

☆ She wears the bracelet you gave her every single day.

☆ You write a love song together. It’s your group’s next single, and Ellie plays guitar on it.

☆ Fans go feral over your obvious chemistry in the music video.

☆ You and Ellie go on secret coffee dates disguised in hoodies and sunglasses. (The disguise never works.)

☆ Ellie buys you a tiny amp keychain with your initials carved in it.

☆ She kisses you for the first time in the rain behind the venue.

☆ You once kiss her fingertips before she goes on stage—she plays like a woman possessed.

☆ Ellie starts learning to dance a little just so she can keep up with you at parties.

☆ You call her “rockstar” and she gets shy every single time.

☆ Ellie starts bringing you flowers before your performances—always your favorite kind.

☆ She gets a small tattoo of a lyric you wrote on the inside of her wrist.

☆ Ellie plays you to sleep over FaceTime when you’re on tour.

☆ She starts calling you “baby” in this nervous whisper, like she’s scared you’ll take it away.

☆ When she wins her first guitar award, her speech includes, “To the girl who makes every note mean something.”

☆ You help her overcome stage anxiety by sneaking her good luck charms and whispering “You got this, rockstar.”

☆ You write her little love notes and hide them in her guitar case.

☆ Ellie tears up every time your fans ship you together and call her “the guitarist girlfriend.”

☆ She talks about building a studio together one day, half-joking, half-serious.

☆ You start sleeping in her flannels and post mirror pics in them—causing fan meltdowns.

☆ Ellie gives you her favorite pick—the one she’s used for years—and says, “It’s lucky now. Because of you.”

☆ You write a song about her awkward DM and perform it at your anniversary. She cries. A lot.

[leighlalouu]

Pick A Side —

Note: I can’t get enough of Congressman Barnes.

Summary

You are his loyal and hardworking assistant, covering up for him, answering all the calls, sending in all the papers and messages. But you just didn’t know how to pick a side, you leak information to the opposing party. But he finally found out.

Your table was an organized mess; papers scattered in most important to least, Post-it notes lined on your monitor, each one a reminder of what he needed before he even asked, files over files arranged alphabetically, and most importantly the steaming black coffee he prefers. Grabbing each item you could get your hand on; the papers that the legislative director kept requesting Mr. Barnes' signatures, the five page summary of the whole week that you always prepared for him in a color coordinated order with side comments and feedbacks written using a red pen.

As soon as you grabbed the mug filled with coffee, the phone begins to ring, leaving you to groan and shake your head. While holding everything on your left arm, balancing the coffee mug on your right and picking up the phone. “Good morning, this is Congressman Barnes’ office, you are calling regarding?”

It was a whole minute before the call ended, within ten seconds in you rushed the person on the other side of the phone talking about press releases and such, asking them to call another time. You took a hasted walk towards Mr. Barnes' office, balancing all the items you held stably. Opening the door using your free arm, peaking your head inside with a smile across your face.

Memos and newspapers about him were already fanned out across his desk. "Good Morning Mr. Barnes, here's the week's summary, the urgent papers that need your signatures, and your coffee," you hummed with your bubbly tone, walking over to his table and dropping off each article. "You have two meetings today, and just one tomorrow." You were acknowledged with a hum and a nod. It was all a routine for you, every single day.

Once the office lights were dimmed, dusk arrived, soft and secretive, only the faint hum of the air conditioning being heard, you stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a view of the city and thankfully the car of your boss pulling away from the curb. You stayed behind just a little longer every night.

Hidden underneath the stack of unfiled press releases and other requests was your one and only personal laptop, connected to the secure Wi-Fi you paid for in cash. No one asked questions about the assistant who always worked late. You were even praised for being so 'hard-working'.

Opening your private browser, the encrypted chat was unlocked with a light ping. It was one person, you had no clue at all who, but knowing that they wanted information against Congressman Barnes, it was quite obvious who it was. You barely typed, a few lines was what they needed; classified information from the meetings he joined in, private emails, and even his outside relations and personal whatnots. It was just enough to keep the opposing party on track. Not enough to put an end to his spot in politics.

It was for the greater good, wasn't it? Mr. Barnes was too slick, too dangerous, he isn't even supposed to be a politician, his history was not great at all: worked with HYDRA, killed off many people, even attacked our one and only Captain America. You weren't a traitor, you were doing the right thing, right? He shouldn't be allowed this much power, he was the infamous Winter Soldier for Christ's sake.

But you never did know him personally to know the real truth behind his past. So you kept sending these messages, your hands slightly shivering, while you breath hitched every time you hit send.

The week moved by quickly, Friday night the office was empty all you could hear was the typing sounds of the keyboard. You thought that you were the last one there like always, tidying up loose ends, filing each requests, drafting his next talking points, setting his morning summary on the edge of your desk. You were about to pack up and leave, stretching your arms as you stood up, until you heard the sound of the door leading to his office unlocking.

Mr. Barnes stepped outside his office, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and that firm look on his face. “Stay a little longer tonight,” he said, walking towards your desk, keeping his gaze straight at you. As soon as you looked towards his direction, he stopped moving, his stare was deafening. “We need to finish something.”

You played it cool, nodding before following him. He never usually asked for you to stay past midnight—-you just always did—-not unless it was urgent. You walked into his office along with him, the silence between you two was thick, broken by the quiet click of the door shutting behind you. As soon as you heard the door, he turned to face you, a smirk appeared on his lips. You weren’t quite certain if it was a sarcastic one or a smug one. “Someone’s feeding information to our rivals, my exact moves too.” He paused while you stiffened further. “The thing is it’s all too perfect and exact.”

Your breathing and heartbeat amplified and in the moment your eyes stare straight at him, attempting to steady yourself, you didn’t blink, you didn’t flinch. “Maybe your enemies are better than you think,” you mumbled, your voice was low. The silence between both of you broken with his steps moving closer towards you.

Once he got close, your senses heightened, you could smell his musk scent, your eyes were focused on him, and you could almost feel his touch you even if he was still inches away. “I know it’s you, the question is what will you do now?” his eyes dropped down towards your lips, then swiftly looking back up into your eyes. You were conflicted on what you should do, run away? Maybe pretend to have a stroke? Instead you stood there taking a deep breath and gazing into his eyes.

“Well what? Are you going to turn me in Mr. Barnes?” You stood your ground firmly, your voice was steady even though deep down you were trembling like a little child.

“Well then that depends doll,” he paused, you observed his actions, even the smallest ones because you were scared. Scared that he’ll turn you in.

“Were you ever on my side at all?”

You didn’t answer, you let a few seconds pass, until you noticed how close he was to you, it was a chance you were willing to take after all it might be the end of you. You didn’t answer with words, instead you closed the gap, locking your lips with his, kissing him to prove your loyalty. For you that kiss was the breaking point, it was a reckless choice, but you couldn't lie anymore. It confused you, he found himself pulling you in closer, grabbing your waist instead of pushing you away.

The kiss started forced and swift but then suddenly deepened into something slower, messier, as if no one wanted to admit how much both of you needed it. You pulled away to catch your breath, your forehead still leaning on his, your hands still tightly holding onto him while you hear his heavy breaths. "We shouldn't have done that," a low mumble left his lips before stepping away from you, leaving your hands to drop back down on your side. "No. but we did."

"Go home." He said.

"I never planned on staying." You answered.

By morning you were your table was cleared except for a file, a resignation letter, the monitor, and a yellow sticky note. ‘The summary of your week is inside the file, sorry couldn’t bring the coffee.’

[merrydock]

Some old art of my Owlk engineer, Eris, designing the Stranger's solar sails! Enjoy a big ramble about him and his job because I love this silly man:

Eris works on the design team for the Owlk space program, specialising in energy and propulsion technologies for the ships, satellites, and probes. Having a design philosophy of functionality and beauty, Eris enjoys going all-out with his work. He has received special recognition for his solar panel designs in particular, which borrowed from the unparalleled efficiency found in photosynthesizing plants.

When designing the Stranger's solar sails, Eris took inspiration from plants, but also the opening of insect elytra; the ballooning behaviours of silk-producing invertebrates, in which they sail from tree to tree using electric fields and air currents; and how flying creatures will use thermal updrafts to soar higher while expending less energy. Already familiar with how solar energy impacts technology from his work on solar panels, he proposed the use of this energy to propel the Stranger through space.

As travelling the distance between stars presented the major roadblock in the plan to reach the Eye (regarded as the Interstellar Propulsion Problem), Eris was lauded for his contributions, promoted to being one of the main engineers overseeing the Stranger's design.

More information about his general design process below!

When designing for a project, Eris uses all of the tools at his disposal. His first weapon of choice is always his pencil, and he will sketch out potential sources of inspiration on paper until the design concept begins to take form. Based on the initial project parameters he's been given, he drafts up a blueprint for his components.

Next, he must further conceptualise his designs. This is where the most valuable tool of the trade comes into play—the Vision Torch! Vision Torches serve many purposes for Owlks, from allowing them to nonverbally communicate to creating photographs from memory alone. Owlk engineers LOVE Vision Torches for how easy they make effectively communicating ideas. They allow concepts to be visualised in 3D, basic functionality to be shown through animations, and are even able to interface with computers. Eris might even 3D print a model using a Vision Torch to help him visualise his concepts as he works.

The space program is extremely collaborative, and Eris works on just a small part of the overall project, so being able to easily share ideas with others and see how all the individual components of a satellite or ship interact is vital. When discussing with more than a single other Owlk, Eris can use a Vision Torch linked to a holographic display to present concepts to a crowd. Concepts can also be tweaked in real time this way!

[Here's an example from the game of Owlks building the simulation with Vision Torches and a holographic display!]

With a Vision Torch, concepts can also be directly uploaded to a computer terminal. This is where a lot of the real work gets done - calculating weight, materials needed, stress testing in simulations, calculating trajectories, making precise tweaks to finalize the design, you name it. This also allows other Owlks working closely with Eris to access the most current design for their own tests.

This is an iterative process - as other Owlks finalize their components, as weight limitations are further restrained and material needs are calculated, Eris often has to go back to an earlier step and rework his concept. Fortunately, he thoroughly enjoys getting to be creative in his work (and doing math) and treats every project as a puzzle that needs to be solved! The only time when he's not excited to go back to the drawing board is when a last-minute adjustment from his peers means he needs to work long hours to get his work done in time for launch.

[lucabyte]

Psst. What's your process for Comics? I would like to Know (Because your ISAT comics make me a little bit feral and I would like to learn)

Okay so the cop out answer is: i basically wing it every time since im very very new to making comics and my method is still evolving. but that's not helpful and i like to yap so ill talk through My Method anyway

So first of all: Ideas.

All my ISAT shit is like. extremely dialogue heavy & mostly focused on the same like. 3 topics and philosophical concepts over and over lbr. So mostly when it comes to drafting that I'll just let my brain bash the dolls together until i notice either 1. a fucking banger line (this usually becomes a punchline i then work backwards from when writing it out) or 2. that i keep coming back to the same like 'scene' in my mind.

(I'd love to know. how to make this work for like. OCs??? But I haven't quite cracked that one yet sorry)

For the former though what usually happens there is I write things out on my phone (this happened with the bonnie-centric ones a lot?) or i'll leave a voice note for myself. Or, if i'm at my computer it goes straight into notepad, which is where everything goes before i draw it.

so these are just like. Disgustingly strewn about on my desktop. But this is how i type up the comic scripts, which I do before i put the dialogue in csp because csp's text tool sucks ass, but you can see how these end up having Some Semblance of the final formatting? Some more than others. But they don't have much consistency in how i'm tagging the dialogue LOL. (bonus: one of these i never ended up making. because i come back to the same wells SO FREQUENTLY that it gets embarrasing to retread sometimes) Then I just... screenshot the notepad file and paste it into a csp window LOL.

So I've pulled up three comics just because theyre like, recent ones? (Links to all 3 -> x, x, x) And oh yeah immediately they're rather inconsistent. But this is the level of detail i do in my thumbnails. (Hello Golf Ball Loop) MOST of my long ass comics look like the first one though, and all of them follow the same thought process.

I will take the dialogue, and then just draw a panel that i think works with it. Then move onto the next line, and the next. Basically thinking mostly in speech bubble placement rather than anything? But I'll just keep... going downwards until it is done. You can see the speech bubbles tend to include either nothing or the vaguest indicator of what's inside them.

(The third one here is an outlier because iirc I actually had this very visual idea while drawing something else and went to go quickly draw it out so the text actually went right into CSP bc there was so little of it. But it was still panelled really sequentially for what action I know I wanted in each panel.)

Overall this is probably because of my habits from learning animation? I thumbnail as if im storyboarding, if that makes any sense. Or is any different to how people usually do it, anyway.

My friends who actually read comic books have told me off already for my vile leaning-tower-of-pisa bullshit formatting. I understand their criticisms because genuinely what the fuck am I doing half of the time? I like it though lol. It's a reflection of how stream-of-conciousness my workflow tends to be, but fuck if it means the aspect ratios aren't the wooooorst LOLL

Then i resize the thumbnails to be roughly 1920px wide, aspect ratio be damned. And at this point I usually also have to draw a big grid so that i can align the comic and make it not on a weird tilt. The most thought that goes in here is that I try to avoid making panels too samey in layout from line to line, and try to keep vaguely to making panels the same-ish height but a width of the page either in halves or thirds. Making it so they aren't completely inconsistent sizes does a lot for making things not look too sloppy.

My first sketch over the thumbnail usually is neat enough to be The Final Lines because I'm impatient. EXCEPT when i realise its going to get Fucking Complicated at which point i pull out the CSP models and my beloved cubes. Then i take a billion years to pose a consistent scene (and often realise where I need to cheat angles. Like for loop reaching down to sif's face. That doesn't make sense in 3d space so I had to cheat). This is basically par for the course whenever I want to do a scene where there's Any consistency in character positioning and they aren't just Talking Heads.

THEN. After the sketch (which was done with speech bubble placements in mind back at the thumbnail stage) I will finally put in the speech bubbles. This usually means re-sketching them, then putting the text down and doing all the typesetting (VCR mono looks very ugly in CSP a lot of the time so I fuck with the spacing of individual letters a lot) and THEN redrawing the speech bubbles around them properly.

Sometimes I'll fuck myself over here and have to move stuff but ideally, if I weren't working like some kind of fucking barbarian, I'd do the speech bubbles before finalising the lineart. But I don't on account of going straight from thumbnail to final lines. You'd do this during the sketch stage if you were normal.

then it's finally panel border time. And then when I get to this stage I just make like. another few new layers above everything but the text where i just clean up. Everything that I had neglected while drawing. So any extra white lines or places where i just think things look bad and i want to redraw them entirely. I will also sometimes literally make a flattened copy of an entire panel to just move it around slightly. It's a deeply evil part of the workflow and i apologise for it. But also it's the major benefit to drawing in straight black-and-white with no tones. It means i can just overdraw anything that is unclear in the end.

(and reposting again Links to all 3 -> x, x, x for easy comparison if u want it)

ANYWAY for further reading. I know I've already stated these before somewhere on my blog but for ease of access... The major inspirations for how my comics Look are as follows:

1. tumblr user Floralmarsupial's homestuck comics found [HERE]. She did a LOT of straight up black and white comics that are ingrained deep in my brain at this point. These are always in the back of my head.

2. Leo Fox [LINK] regularly gets really strange and esoteric with overlapping panels and unorthodox layout. I stared at these a lot when i was starting to make the first couple ISAT comics even if i'm not going nearly as abstract as him

3. tumblr user the-hydroxian-artblog's comic Hangin' Out [LINK] has GORGEOUS typesetting and their art in general uses a lot of speech bubbles that convey some really funny shit by just resizing the text in funny ways. Gold standard for emotive typesetting and also their lin weight and b/w illustrations are gorgeous.

4. sonic the hedgehog idw keeps me humble and reminds me to make the speech bubbles fucking SMALLER. if im left to my own devices i make speech bubbles and fonts WAY too big so reading a cleanly formatted professional comic book for children reminds me what i should be aiming for in legibility.

anyway hope this helps? the answer really is "fuck it we ball" tho