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hyuneflix · 4 months ago

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THE CURE • Bang Chan

sex therapist!chan x client!reader after years of unhappy endings, your friend suggests a trip to sydney's most up and coming sex therapist. you hadn't expected much, least of all to discover the cure you'd been looking for all this time was your therapist himself.

word count: 11k << back to dash // next episode >>

CONTENT WARNINGS

𐙚 - female masturbation, mutual masturbation, vibrator use, phone sex, guided masturbation, dirty talk, use of "slut" and similar terms, chan is called sir, lowkey orgasm denial, sub!reader, soft dom!chan slightly possessive chan, some mentions of a corruption kink.

! - inappropriate relationship dynamic (chan is her sex therapist), reader is written to be neurodivergent though it isn't explicitly stated, mention of dissociation and depersonalisation, brief descriptions of a dissociative episode, non-descript mentions of trauma around sex, therapy talk/setting. everything is intentionally vague but be careful nonetheless.

episode one - a cure for unhappy endings

Never in a million years had you ever expected you’d be sat in the plush, sleek office of one of Sydney’s most esteemed sex therapists.

You weren’t quite sure how your close friend had managed to convince you to make an appointment, her perky voice insisting it would magic away all of your problems while sliding an equally polished business card toward you. Perhaps it had been the conviction and openness with which she told you it saved her marriage that had you contemplating it in earnest. Alternatively it could’ve been her manner of being–the cheery disposition which led her to float into every room with a wide smile–one that made you sure she was doing something right. Whatever the reason you were here.

The waiting room looked akin to a modern showroom, the walls a crisp white save for a wide strip of matte black that accented one side of the room. Lounge chairs dotted the sizable space, the light grey of the velvety fabric contrasting against the one black wall. The greyscale of the room’s aesthetic was broken up by pops of green and gold, present in the flourishing of tall house plants that scattered the room beside towering, pale yellow-lit lamps. The floor looked to be a marbled stone material, perhaps a dark porcelain sleet or purbeck, partially hidden beneath a single rug that housed the centre of the room. Atop the geometric carpet a glass coffee table sat littered with pamphlets and magazines, a bouquet of white lilies placed in the very middle. The dreary silence of the near-empty space was compromised by the whirl of the air conditioning accompanied only by the occasional taps of keys echoing from behind the receptionist's desk.

You tapped your foot soundlessly as you awaited your appointment, fingers curled tightly around a paper cup. The cardboard was hot beneath your already too-warm palms, the container half-filled with a surprisingly expensive tasting coffee. Perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised that Sydney’s most up and coming sex therapist spared no expense when it came to their guests, though knowing so little about the person you were due to meet, your expectations were caught in a chaotic flurry of uncertainty and nervousness. You tried to still your restless limbs, planting your foot firmly against the solid ground as if the feeling of the floor beneath your shoes would heighten your senses, stilling your mind. Attempting, instead, to focus solely on the white noise that exhaled from the AC vent. You couldn’t, though. You never could. That was why you were here after all. You were so entirely unable to relax–to calm your nerves and quiet your mind–that even a climax was too far from reach. Your leg bounced anxiously at this, a huff of air from your parted lips sending strands of hair catching in the soft breeze it created.

Your eyes lifted to the clock above the reception, brows scrunching as the hand ticked slowly passed 3:15pm. Fifteen minutes behind schedule. It wasn’t the lateness that had your eyebrows furrowing in slight annoyance, it was the minutes more you’d have to spend in the presence of your own nervous thoughts. Swallowing down some more of your coffee you placed the paper cup on the small side table beside you, freeing up your hands as you dug around the contents of your tote for your phone. The aged white fabric, its front decorated with a bright sun and array of technicoloured pastel flowers, rarely left your side. It was a comforting piece of familiarity in the otherwise chaotic and ever-changing ambience of Australia’s once largest city. The external screen of your mobile lit up the moment it was freed from the shadowed confines of the multi-coloured canvas, revealing a few messages from the very friend who had placed you here on this day.

[ from: Matilda ♥️]

2:32pm: don’t forget ur apt ik what ur like 😉

2:55pm: istg if ur still asleep ?? i juss knew going out last night was a mistake smh

3:01pm: k i see how it is ,, enjoy being pent up for the rest of ur life cunt ❤️

You snickered at her quick descent into petty remarks, fingers tugging at the folded screen until it opened. Tapping in your passcode you responded, letting her know you hadn’t missed your appointment despite the simmering of an ache in your temple. She wasn’t wrong, going out last night wasn’t the smartest idea but you’d insisted it would help you get out some of that nervous energy that threatened to spill over in instances like this one. You theorised that with a pounding head and an undercurrent of nausea your racing thoughts would have something else to fixate on. Imagine your surprise when you awoke in near good health. It was only natural that the one time you didn’t mind feeling a little worse for wear you felt on cloud nine. You were cursed, that was the only explanation; one that felt even more true given your current occupancy in the waiting room of a sex therapist.

The creek of a door drew your attention away from your phone, a deep voice calling your name despite the absence of other customers situated in the expanse he’d entered. Your gaze fixed on the figure half-hidden by the door frame, eyes widening when you took in the details of the person a few feet from you. It suddenly became abundantly clear why the man before you was so successful in his attempts to fix his clients sex lives; he was exceptionally handsome. Attractive in a quiet and unconventional way but undeniably so all the same. His dark gaze was soft despite the all-consuming black holes his deep brown eyes became. They sucked you in without warning, swallowing you whole the longer you held his stare. It wasn’t just his enthralling pair of aphotic orbs that had the breath catching in your throat, everything about him seemed crafted by an artist so proficient in their technique you failed to scrutinise a single flaw.

You managed a smile as you grabbed for your coffee, swallowing down the last of the cooling liquid to discard in the metallic bin on your journey toward the magnetic man; the muted thud when it hit the bottom going unacknowledged as you passed. Your tote hung from your shoulder lazily as you followed him into his office, watching the way his upper back and arms flexed beneath his too-tight charcoal dress shirt. The silk-cotton sleeves, despite the slightly ill fit, remained rolled up mid-way; veiny arms on full display as he directed you toward another set of lounge chairs. You’d hoped to feel better once your appointment began–you usually did–but having laid eyes upon the man you were expected to speak openly with regarding such intimate details, you only felt worse. His pink, plump lips widened in a large smile as he motioned you toward one of the chairs. You complied, bag slipping from your shoulder as you lowered yourself into the comfortable leather.

“Sorry for the late start; had a meeting overrun.” He spoke with emphatic sincerity, dimples pressing indentations against his pale cheeks. You could only nod, mind preoccupied by the tufts of dark curls caught in the artificial breeze that pulsed throughout the space. The office was a little larger than the last room, the aesthetics similar save the large windows on one side of it; their transparency enveloping the area in a warm glow of natural light. The beating sun against the crystal clear glass contradicted the chill of the aircon, balancing the room’s temperature to near perfection. Yet, despite this, you felt far too hot with your flushed cheeks and sweaty palms. A symptom, no doubt, of the man sat across from you.

“That’s okay, I get it.” You murmured back, fingers toying with the hem of your checkered summer dress, the soft cotton providing your anxious energy with some relief. The man in front of you seemed to take note of your nervous fussing, eyes falling to your bare thighs momentarily to fix on the opening and closing of your fists around the hem. His tongue darted across his bottom lip adding a glossy sheen to his already enticing smile; deep brown pools still drinking in your itching fingers with an unreadable expression.

“I know you must be feeling nervous–that’s normal–but you don’t have to worry about diverging anything until you’re ready.” His smile widened, reaching beside him to grab a large ipad from a short table, action in tandem with the raising of his gaze. “Why don’t we start with introductions and then we can go over some basics; try and set a baseline for what you’re comfortable discussing?” You nodded at this, words failing you for a moment.

“That works for me.” Your mouth caught up with your brain, offering him a smile of your own.

“Good, well I’m Chan; Bang Chan. My friends call me Chris though, so you’re welcome to call me that.” His disarming nature was impossible to ignore, the tone of his voice paired with his approachable expression relaxing your shoulders. It had been hard to imagine that a man with such stature and poise could be so easy-going, but the moment a smile tugged at his lips it was as if his entire being beamed with it.

“I’ve never heard the name Chan before, I like it.” You thought aloud, earning a wide-eyed grin from the man in front of you. It was hard not to allow yourself to stray when a sparkle lit up his gaze; the soft glimmer of something unknown swimming in its brown depths. Its mere presence making it near impossible to cling to your inhibitions, to remain anything but comfortable beneath his stare.

“Thank you, umm, that’s the first time anyone’s ever told me that.” He practically radiated with warmth–giving the sun beyond the glass a run for its money–now shy gaze lowering to the device in his lap. Your confidence grew at this, the power balance between you shifting in your favour for just a moment.

“Well, most people are dumb I've learned.” Chan stifled a laugh at this, looking up at you through his lashes in brief acknowledgment before the dull tap of his purposeful actions against his ipad screen stole his attention near instantaneously.

“Hopefully I can be an exception to that rule.” He quipped back, earning a soft chuckle from you. “So your name is y/f/n, right?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry, that’s me.” You exhaled a soft breath. Your newfound comfort was enough to simmer your busy brain, but your body had other ideas, hands fiddling with the decorative string of your pastel summer dress while the conversation flowed between you.

“No, that’s okay. Always better to make sure in case another y/n somehow wandered in.” It was his turn to offer a laugh, the contagious noise a chortle cut off by the push of air from his lungs. Breathy and short-lived, but genuine nonetheless.

“Now that would be a crazy twist of fate.” You humoured him, smile widening with every moment spent in his company. It was inexplicable the manner with which the air around you had changed–as if something magnetic and charged hung within its formless presence. You couldn’t see it, just as you couldn’t see the crisp air expelled from the AC, nor the humid warmth that radiated from the sun, but you could feel it.

“Truly, stranger things have happened though.” Chan looked up from his ipad, seemingly finished with whatever had occupied his attention. You figured it had been the documents you’d been asked to fill out before your session, pages upon pages of personal information and sexual history now ingrained in the confines of his mind. That was an odd thought to say the least.

“Ain’t that a fact–did you ever hear about that dude Mike Madman Marcum?” You distracted yourself from the rising discomfort, brain making leaps and bounds toward a vaguely relevant subject in its attempt to retreat.

“Mike Madman Marcum?” Another exhaled laugh from his nose followed his words, lips parted in a grin that showed his pearly teeth and a glimpse of pink gum. Again the craters grew in the soft dough of his cheeks, expression transformed from unreadable–nearly disinterested–to warm and inviting.

“Yeah, bro literally invented some sort of black hole, time travel portal shit and then mysteriously disappeared, like what?” You kept talking, brows raised in disbelief as if you hadn’t heard the story spilling from your lips until now.

“That sounds fake.” He shook his head, tipping it to the side afterward in interest.

“You’d think so but it's true.” You shrugged, ghost of a smile still present. It felt impossible not to have even a slight upturn of your lips around him; about as implausible as a rainy day during an Aus summer.

“How can you know that?” His laugh grew beyond the point of breathy displays of amusement to a noticeable chuckle.

“It’s a long story but there’s a police report about him and his time machine, bro got run out of his hometown and everything ‘cause of his antics. Then he makes the machine again somewhere else and ends up missing. It’s crazy, truly insane.” You filled him in, fingers still picking at the hem of your dress, out of habit more than nerves now.

“... You gotta send me that article ‘cause I’m curious not gonna lie.” His response had you tipping your head back in silent laughter, not expecting his genuine interest.

“Yeah? I’ll email you the podcast I listened to.” You nodded.

“You better ‘cause I'll lose sleep wondering about Mike Madman Marcum otherwise.” Sharing a laugh at his words, you couldn’t help but notice how melodic the different tones sounded together. Almost as if you were harmonising one another’s merriment. It charged the air with a new kind of unseen feeling, almost as if giving what had once been there more fuel.

“Oh, I will. First thing I’ll do when I get back home.” You promised, bottom lip enclosed by your teeth while you fought back your widest grin yet. Was it too much to call that sensibility between you chemistry? Were you the only one aware of the electric buzz that emanated through the air, feeling most active in the space that kept you from one another.

“Thanks, much appreciated. We should probably get back on track though, don’t wanna waste your money talking about time travel.” He maintained a smile, eyes leaving yours to trail across the brightly lit screen once more.

“Yeah, sorry, that’s my bad.” You apologised, fingers intertwining with one another to refrain from picking at the stray threads of your dress any longer.

“Don’t even mention it. Are wandering thoughts something that you get often?” He voiced aloud his observation, your shoulders rising slightly as the atmosphere around you changed again. Only, instead of the impalpable gravity that drew you to him, you felt something indiscernible push you backward.

“All the time.” You admitted, answer short.

“Do you feel that it encroaches on your sex life too?” He cut straight to the chase, your eyes blinking wide as your shoulders grew tense.

“Probably.” You retorted, shifting in your seat.

“Well, let me ask you this then–have you orgasmed before? Either from sex or masturbation?” He sounded so calm despite the words that left his plump lips, meanwhile your heart hammered in your chest, a contrast that felt improper, misplaced even.

“Oh boy, straight to the big questions… I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” You countered. You’d already given him a list of answers to these questions, and you’d hoped at the time you’d forgo the awkwardness of the current topic as a result. It was clear you weren’t that fortunate, but when had you ever been?

“What makes you uncertain?” The soft brevardo of his voice kissed the shells of your ears, so gentle and genuine in its delivery that it had you melting all over again.

“I wish I knew. I guess, when I’m having sex, at least, I don’t think I ever have. It’s like I automatically check out and leave my body. When it comes to… myself, I don’t know, that’s more of an unknown. It’s like I feel something but then right as the build comes I just can’t reach the end.” You said, as honest as you could be given the circumstances. Your cheeks were ablaze, heart nearly deafening in its antiphon.

“Okay, well there’s a couple of things to unpack there.” Chan nodded half heartedly, the thin apple pen pressed against the pout of his mouth in thought; eyes trained on the screen where a set of scribbles that made up his short-hand observations lay.

“Probably above your pay grade.” You joked, though a hint of sincerity simmered beneath the chime of your tone.

“Nothing is above my pay grade, don't you worry about that.” He offered you a reassuring smile, tongue darting out to wet his lips once more. It distracted you again, forcing you to once more confront the attractiveness of the man supposedly holding all the answers to your problems. “Let’s start with this, have you been to any form of therapy before?”

“Only when I was younger.” You blinked, willing your brain to focus on his words rather than the formation of his mouth as he spoke them.

“What was that for?” He queried, thick accent pulling at the syllables as they left his parted lips.

“My mental health among other things.” You retorted ambiguously, not wanting to ignite that storm within your consciousness.

“Okay, we don’t have to get into the specifics, that's fine; did you find it helpful?” Chan seemed to pick up on this, you weren’t surprised, of course he would.

“No, I’m not great with talking about my feelings–I don’t feel like it helps.” You admitted, shoulders slouching and rising in slight discomfort. You felt your foot shift restlessly, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement you made in the leather confines of your prison.

“So what was your motivation for coming here?” The curious man inquired, no amount of austerity present in his tone.

“My friend said I should try it, apparently you saved her marriage. She’s the most stubborn person I know so if she can do it I’m guessing I can too.” You were back to making light of the situation, hoping to pull another bright smile from the seriousness that clouded his expression.

“Glad to hear she found it so beneficial.” You’d been unsuccessful, managing only to ignite a momentary spark within his dark gaze before he was back to scrutinising you, gently still, but profoundly all the same. “So what I’m getting from this is that talking to you about the root cause of things isn’t going to be the most helpful approach for you?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Your voice came out sheepish, body almost crumpling in on itself. You wished you had the answers, wanted nothing more than to be the perfect patient just as he had been the perfect therapist thus far.

“Well we can always try and go from there? We take a holistic approach to therapy so if one thing isn’t working we’ll switch it up, okay?” The man kept his eyes trained on you, flickering from corner to corner, taking in every nook and cranny of your features until they settled back on your uncertain eyes.

“Sounds good.” You forced a smile, the room around you shrinking in size in anticipation of what was to come. You could feel your mind failing you, the interior of the room transforming into a twisted, swirling haze of unfamiliarity. Of course, you didn’t know the place well, but all at once it didn’t feel as if you knew it at all. Like you’d never been here, like you didn’t remember coming here. As if you weren’t really here at all.

“The other reason I asked about your history with therapy is that you mentioned leaving your body when you’re engaging in sex with someone–did you ever discuss dissociation or depersonalisation with a therapist in the past?” His voice felt foreign all of a sudden, as if he’d been replaced by someone who looked like him, felt like him, should be him, but wasn’t.

“I did not.” You murmured, blinking in the hopes you’d return to your prior state of being.

“This is a little more of a personal question: have you experienced a traumatic event associated with sex or intimacy?” His voice rang in your mind, sounding almost like a bell as it echoed within the confines of your skull. You’d heard what he’d said, but it hadn’t settled enough to register. Instead it kept repeating, your brain trying to make sense of the words strung together, just enough to elicit a response from your parted lips, but not enough to make you remember.

“Uhh.” You felt like you’d been gawking for an hour, mouth opening and closing as you felt yourself move further and further from you body.

“Are you okay?” His voice pulled your gaze from the floor to his own pointed stare, those all-consuming pools of dark brown just enough to settle your momentarily.

“Yeah sorry, this- this is why I don’t find talking very helpful. It's like my brain just shuts down when shit gets real.” You stumbled over your words, fingers pressing against your temple in an attempt to coax your soul–or whatever it was that was retreating in haste–back to your body.

“Don’t apologise for that, you’re okay to react whichever way you need to.” He assured you, your heart dancing to the melodic tune his soft affirmations took on. “It sounds like what you’re experiencing are episodes of dissociation, and, while I can’t diagnose anything, or say for certain that’s what it is, it certainly appears that way. It’s common for people who have difficulties in this area to have a dissociative disorder or experience episodes of dissociation when they’re faced with a trigger.”

“So my trigger is sex?” You queried, words coming a little easier now. It was as if this feeling, the one he’d named dissociation, came over you in waves. You’d felt choked up, near to the point of drowning, mere moments ago. Now it felt like ripples more than strong currents.

“Maybe, that’s what we’re going to get to the bottom of. It could also be intimacy, your attachment to others or your own body. There are so many reasons why people feel they can’t cope with a situation, and their brain instinctually shuts itself down.”

“Okay, I guess it's reassuring knowing my body isn’t broken.” You muttered back, feeling rather deflated by now. The air felt sucked from your lungs, replaced by the salt water of your apparently dissociative episode. It made it hard to breathe, only managing laboured, reluctant breaths as if expecting another wave.

“Absolutely not, nothing about you is broken, not your body or your brain. Dissociation is a fear, stress or anxiety response; the same as fight or flight. It’s perfectly normal, your brain is just trying to protect itself as it's designed to do.” His smile was back, eyes forming crescents that threatened to conceal his caliginous orbs all together.

“So, like self-preservation?” You attempted to piece together the sentiments that fell from his lips so easily. Perhaps he really did hold all the answers, and that gave you a sense of belief, or attachment, that suddenly wanted him nearer to you.

“Exactly!” He beamed, fingers tapping mindlessly atop his meaty thigh. “What I want to start out doing over the next few sessions, however, is to focus on you and your relationship with your body. You should be able to pleasure yourself and know your body well before you trust someone else with that task, right?”

“That seems okay.” You nodded.

“Right, well we won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, but we’ll start you right from the beginning and we can skip ahead if needs be.” He continued, shifting easily back into the pensive professionalism that hid away his affectionate smiles.

“Alrighty.” Your foot bounced.

“Do you know where the pleasure points are on your body?” His eyes flickered from the ipad in his lap toward your furrowed features.

“I think so.” Your leg joined in the restless dance.

“Go ahead.” He urged, eyes tracing your figure in what you could only assume was acknowledgement of your nervous mannerisms.

“Oh you want me to- okay- there’s the clit, umm, there’s the nipples and somewhere there’s a g-spot.” You tried to act like the mature, confident adult you surely should be when discussing this topic at your age.

“Yeah, those are the main one’s sure. There’s also your inner thighs, your neck, your lips; some people find the bottom of their feet to be pleasurable, their ears, lower back, armpits–”

“Armpits? That’s a new one.” You cut him off with a surprised laugh, hand coming to cover your mouth as if to emphasise your bewilderment.

“Yeah there’s a lot.” He chuckled, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek “I noticed you said ‘somewhere’ when mentioning your g-spot. Have you ever found it yourself?” Chan asked, eyes darkening as he did so, an outcome you didn’t think possible until now.

“No, umm, my fingers aren’t very good at all that.” You shifted in your seat, pulling the hem of your dress further down your bare thighs, nails grazing your clammy flesh.

“Okay, have you used toys?” His voice had dropped an octave, a sound that had the air instantaneously charged again. It was as if the pull was back, but not without the push; both worlds colliding in one disorientating, magnetic combustion.

“I don’t even know where to start with all that.” You shrugged dismissively.

“So how do you usually masturbate?” Your mouth grew dry at his words, the hypnotic buzz that seemed to exude from him almost impossible to ignore now. How were you supposed to take his words so lightly? So entirely void of all subtexts and implications when he was staring at you with such heated scrutiny.

“I just… you know… my clit.” It was a miracle he had heard you, you were almost sure you’d been whispering. In the back of your mind you could hear a white noise that sounded like the crashing of waves, almost as if threatening another trip beneath the surface of reality.

“Okay, and does that make you climax?” You focused carefully on his words, using the image of his mouth as it curled around each syllable to guide you from the deep end. That tongue of his, a threat in itself, traced the seam of his bottom lip once more, lingering for a moment too long.

“I get close but err, I don’t know, I can never get all the way my mind wanders.” Distracting yourself from his plump mouth, you moved your own until a riposte drew from it.

“Okay, have you tried watching porn to focus your mind?” His response was near immediate, chin balanced on an open palm now as he leaned back in his chair, legs parting, elbow pressing deeper into the armrest.

“No actually, I haven’t.” You retorted, watching him nod gently as if contemplating his next words, long, pretty fingers clutching the pen as it moved across the screen. His hand moved from his chin to his throat, the back and forth motion as his reflexive state persisted an image that would surely haunt you. You’d never noticed that a person’s hands held their own beauty until now, each digit perfect in length and adorned with ridged veins.

“Alright, well then I think you have your first piece of homework.” He concluded, snapping you out of your day dream and forcing you to draw your eyes away from the sight. You managed a smile, waiting for him to continue. “I’m going to give you a starter toy, then I want you to go home. If you get in the mood, open up a porn site and type in solo female. Find a video that you think is going to be the most relevant to you and then, using your fingers or the toy, follow what the actress is doing in the video.”

“Right, okay.” You nodded along, thankful that your first session was drawing to an end. However, the prospect of an at-home-assignment was one that brought a new wave of uncertainty.

“Don’t be nervous, it’s just you and the video. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work and that’s okay.” His smile was back, stature adjusting as he placed the ipad aside, both palms planting themselves atop his thighs.

“Uh huh.” You were distracted, but you’d heard him, contemplating his words with a degree of skepticism.

“What’s making you anxious?” He asked, and on one hand you wanted to blurt out ‘you’. It truly was a challenge all in itself to hear him speak about such a personal topic while he unconsciously made every action attractive and impassioned. From the flicker of his brow, to the rise and fall of his chest, you’d gone from hyper-aware of yourself to hopelessly unable to pull your eyes from his motions.

“I don’t know, guess I’m just not good at trying new things when it comes to this–I feel like I’m setting myself up for failure.” You admitted, the rise of his brows enough to have you wishing you’d kept it to yourself. That thought didn’t last though, not when the words that followed lulled your anxiety in a way never knew it could be.

“Failure doesn’t exist in this sphere, you cannot fail, only try and then if you want to, try again.” He leaned forward in his chair, less relaxed in his posture as he grinned at you encouragingly.

“Right, yeah. I don’t know. I feel like your positivity is so infectious but the moment I get home I’ll just be stuck overthinking again.” You chuckled, an undercurrent of nervousness pulling the whimsy from your tone.

“Well, why don’t I give you my work number and if you get nervous and need me to talk you down you can call me, yeah?” His assurances continued, palm reaching into the pocket of his cropped suit trousers.

“Are you sure?” You blinked at him, leaning down to pry at the strap of your trusty tote bag.

“Of course, whatever you need–I’m here.” He gleamed, and with the way he was looking at you so intently, you could tell he meant it.

The moment you’d gotten home you’d done as promised, sending the podcast via email before opening pornhub preemptively to get ahead of your ‘homework’. It was intimidating to say the least, even more so when the toy Chan had given you sat beside your laptop caught your gaze. The box called it a G-Spot Vibrator, at one time concealing the long, slightly curved pink device from view. Now the vibrator led there, taunting you with its unfamiliarity as your gaze shifted to and from the screen of the laptop. Eventually you chucked in your desk drawer defiantly, fixing your attention on the brightly lit screen to begin scrolling through the wealth of videos. You couldn’t decide on one, none of them seemed to match your skill level; their wrists expertly shiting fancy looking toys in a thrusting motion while their bodies shook and convulsed with over exaggerated pleasure. It was off putting, almost taunting the manner with which they played up every action and sound.

It didn’t take long for you to lose interest, opting to go about your evening as normal instead. Easily the events of the day became background noise as you took care of the needs you struggled with far less than. By the time you’d finished your skincare you were crashing down in front of the couch, mind wandering back to the soft spoken man who’d assigned you such vexatious and troublesome homework. A drama played on low volume in the backdrop of your thoughts, your mind's eye picturing the way your therapist's tongue had travelled across his plump bottom lip. It was miraculous how you’d so easily managed to commit every part of him to memory. You could see him as clearly as the ceiling above you, his veiny hands tightening around his thighs while his dark eyes both provoked and lulled your anxiety. You didn’t realise the extent of his intoxicating stare until you were without it, nor the heat with which it took in every detail of your face as you did his.

Before you knew what you were doing your fingers had begun shifting toward your already hard nipples, one hand covering your t-shirt clad breast. You squeezed softly, head falling further back against the sofa with your eyes now tightly shut. Your free hand skimmed lower, tugging the hem of your oversized shirt to cup your bare flesh. The action of your open palm squeezing against your clit and dampening hole was enough to have your thrusting gently upwards. What a dilemma that the very person who was supposed to be helping you pleasure yourself had become the object of it. The mere thought had you huffing in disbelief–just your luck.

Deciding to distract yourself you seized the opportunity to do the homework you’d been assigned. Getting up, you trudged the short distance to your desk, grabbing your laptop and the vibrator before returning to the sofa in haste. Your fingers continued tugging at your nipple, electric sparks travelling straight to your core. You kept the drone of the tv on as you clicked play on one of the videos, muting the sound to focus on the girl's actions. That earlier worked up feeling died down somewhat as you mimicked her movements. Taking the vibrator in your mouth you sucked on it stiffly, allowing your tongue to press against the base of it as you wet the velvet soft device. You should’ve known better though, then to think your mind could focus just because you willed it to. Instead, you began to wonder, deliberating whether Chan’s hard cock would feel this heavy between your lips; the thought drawing a hum from your stuffed mouth as you tried to concentrate on the video.

You felt yourself grow soaked at the image of your sex therapist pushing his member further past your lips, the tip of it entering your throat while he exhaled grunts. You thanked the heavens when the actress removed the toy from her mouth, switching the vibration on to press it against her clit. You did the same, body jolting at the unfamiliar feeling. You tried to keep up with her motions, alternating between teasing your soaked entrance with the toy and rubbing it against your clit. Your pleasure came and went as you did so, your clumsy movements trying to keep up with her own. You felt yourself grow frustrated as you did so, mind aching to return to the image of Chan using your mouth.

Your head lulled back at the thought of his hand clutching your hair with those big, veiny fingers, pushing your head down against his cock until your nose met his muscular flesh. Your eyes glazed over, the video no longer in focus as you fixated on the memory of his slender digits. They were so long and shaped in such a way that you were certain, in your imagination at least, they’d have no problem fucking you open. Neither an issue finding your g-spot; bringing you to a satisfying climax again and again until your body begged him to give you a moment to recover. You could picture it now: his large body hovering above you, one hand pushing you against the mattress to keep you still while the other pistoned his skilled fingers in and out of your gushing pussy. You knew you’d surely be convulsing like the girls in porn did, hips unable to keep still despite his heavy palm.

The movie playing behind your closed lids was enough to have you more worked up than you’d ever been before. You pressed the vibrator into your entrance letting it linger before you thrust it past your walls, leaving yourself no time to prep like the man in your imagination refused to. He touched you with an air of impatience, desperation even, as if he’d deprived himself of you for too long; torturing himself with the thought of how you’d feel constricting around his rock hard length. You marvelled at the way his cock would feel spreading you open deliciously. You imagined his member to be as veiny as his arms, the ridges pushing against your spongy walls sending a new type of wave throughout your body. No disconnection, no retreating. Just the crashing of ecstasy that was building up with every desperate push of the vibrator. Moans fell from your lips as you thrust the toy in and out, the length of it brushing blissfully against your clit every few motions. You pictured the push of his hips against yours, the feeling of his breath against your clammy skin and the melodic muse of his groans. You just knew your moans would sound perfect together; as harmonious as your chorused laughter.

It felt so fucking sinful fucking yourself with the toy he’d given you, imagining him in place of it. The revelation had your high approaching and your walls tightening as you tried to push yourself over the finish line. It felt like a knot, or a rubber band, constricting and pulling until it threatened to snap. You tried to imagine him circling your clit with his soaked fingers, his teeth latching at your throat as he painted plum coloured hues against your skin. You kept your frenzied motions up–thrusting and rubbing in desperation to cum–but the band never snapped. The knot coming undone as your stamina reached its limit. You felt overstimulated, but without the post-orgasm floods of pleasure that should surely be wracking your body. Instead, you just felt tired, defeated even.

You’d usually give up, the magic of the moment gone with the disappointment that overtook it. This time around, though, you were still endlessly frustrated. You wanted release so badly. Your hand pushed the toy back into your needy pussy as you let your mind wander back to the therapist clouding your mind with lust. This time, he coaxed you through it sweetly, whispering reassuring words in your ear as he took his time thrusting his fingers in and out of your hole. That dark gaze captivated you again. You imagined the way it would scrutinise you once more, peering up at your spent form as he trailed kisses down the valley of your plump breasts; close to where his busy fingers worked you open. Your imagination had you near sweet release again, the image of his plump lips latching at your clit was enough to have your back arching as you tried desperately to cum.

Cruelly, despite your best efforts, the blissful feeling died out like the embers of a long forgotten fire. The feeling becoming duller and duller till the pleasurable light flickered out for the last time. You let out a whine of defeat, chest heaving as you caught your breath before trying again. You tried, and you tried, but no matter how many times you thrust the vibrating device in and out of your puffy cunt you ended up exhausted and disappointed. Realising it wasn’t going to happen, you got up with glossy eyes, tears lining their brim as you wobbled over to the desk. You found your phone discarded by the vibrators packaging, the sudden igniting of the screen reminding you of its presence. Reminding you of your plan b.

You didn’t expect him to pick up, thumb between your lips as you chewed anxiously at your nail. By the third ring he did, though, your eyes widening not only at his quick response, but how real the situation suddenly felt. What were you doing? Had you actually called him? You had. That became abundantly clear the moment his voice filled the silence the call tone had left behind. “Hello?” The octave sounded a little rougher than it had during your appointment, leaving you suddenly panicked that you might’ve woken him up. Your eyes darted towards the time on your laptop’s screensaver 8:12pm visible in big letters.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?” You quickly blurted out, back straightening in anticipation of his response.

“Oh hey, no you didn’t don’t worry. I was just listening to that podcast actually.” The strain in his voice dissipated, replaced instead by an enthusiastic tone.

“Really?” Your hesitance was gone, the swirling of something close to affection beginning to churn in the pit of your stomach. It reminded you of that prior unseen tension between you, the kind that felt like a perfect storm; a destiny playing out in a beautiful collision.

“Yeah, shit’s insane…” He trailed off, the muted clattering of background noise leaving you no clues as to what he could be up to. You wondered briefly how he spent his time when he wasn’t cooped up in his office. Did he frequent a bar? Maybe the gym? Did he have a favourite takeout spot? Or did he have a book of recipes he flicked through every night? Maybe he spent his time much the same way you did, curled up on the sofa with a show you only half-paid attention to.

“I know right, it’s wild.” You agreed, pushing the far-too-domestic thoughts out of your mind.

“Right? He just disappeared off the face of the earth.” Chan exclaimed, the distant, indistinguishable noises fading to a settled silence. “So, are you okay? Did your homework go okay?”

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling.” You admitted, growing a little sheepish at the turn in conversation. You couldn’t tell if you were flustered because of the subject matter, or because your cunt still throbbed and ached in desperate anticipation of something that would seemingly never come.

“Sure, what’s the matter?” He spoke, voice level as always.

“I tried to do the porn thing but I don’t know, I just felt way too uncoordinated and ended up getting distracted. But, like, this time it was a good kind of distraction and I got close so many times but I just couldn’t cum.” The recollection of your disappointing evening had you shuffling in your seat, the friction of your bare clit against the couch setting your over-sensitive body alight. You got a bit more comfortable, squeezing your legs together in the hopes the pressure would lull the ache. It didn’t, it seemed nothing would. Nothing except an outcome that you couldn’t attain.

“Okay, well that’s a positive development, right? You tried something new, it didn’t work but you gave it a really good go, yeah? You should feel proud.” His positive disposition had once filled you with so much assurance, but right now, it did nothing but taunt you. No shit it didn’t work, you were practically throbbing with desire, desperate for release.

“Right, yeah, I guess so.” You muttered.

“Did you try the toy?” At the mention of the vibrator–still close to you on the sofa–you felt a knot form in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure how, in your frantic mind, you’d figured that having a sexually-charged conversation with your very attractive sex therapist was going to help your situation. Right now, it only worsened it tenfold.

“I did.” You retorted shortly.

“Did it feel good?” You felt like your ears were playing tricks on you. Could’ve sworn his usually balanced voice wavered with something unknown. You wanted to call it restraint, but you knew that was surely your desires playing out in your mind; your current disposition plaguing all reason. He was good at that–consuming every part of you–and you were starting to think that was exactly what you needed. To be consumed. To not be able to have a single sense focused on anything but him.

“Uh, umm, yeah.” You felt your situation growing exponentially worse, body shifting again in a fruitless attempt at distracting yourself from the heavy throb between your thighs. You hadn’t even realised you’d managed a response, not until he was talking again, offering that same assurance that still held little weight.

“That’s another positive step, maybe we can give you more toys to try out to see if there’s one that can help you finish.”

“Uh huh.” You hummed, head pressing against the sofa, free hand skimming your bare thighs. You knew you couldn’t do anything about your situation, not with Chan on the phone, but frustratingly, you knew you couldn’t do anything about it without him either. It was a cruel catch 22; sit here and squirm beneath the mundane distraction his sentiments provided, or try and get yourself off again and again to the image of him in your head.

“Are you okay?” He seemed to pick up on your absentminded demeanour, pitch raising in slight concern.

“Just… frustrated. I’m open to trying more things but, like, I’m just… what about now?” You admitted, perhaps if you were honest about his situation he’d know the right thing to say. The perfect affirmation that would finally have you climaxing after years of pent up frustration.

“Oh… right. So when you say frustrated…?” He attempted to connect the dots, your eyes squeezing shut as you released a huff.

“I’m really fucking desperate to cum.” You spoke bluntly, the hand that sat at your thigh itching to circle your clit. The thought alone had your hips rising in ecstasy, eyes rolling back as you imagined your fingers strumming your sensitive nub in a frenzied attempt to cum. You’d have to keep quiet, you wouldn’t want your sex therapist to know you were trying to orgasm to the sound of his perfectly innocent intimate questions “Chan?” You questioned, when silence followed.

“Yeah, sorry, umm, just thinking.” He seemed distant now, and you suddenly regretted being so honest. Had you crossed a line? Well of course you had, many in fact. You hated that justifications followed suit; so surely you can cross one more, right? To give your clit that attention it so desperately wanted.

“Am I hopeless? Is there nothing I can do right now?” You asked in defeat, the ache almost painful beneath your continued resistance.

“You’re not hopeless, no– okay…” He started to speak, still sounding much different than he had moments ago. “I don’t usually do this, I’m not supposed to do this, but, if you want I can, umm, I can help you?” There was hesitance in his tone, uncertainty wrapped up in every syllable; leaking through each word the same way your cunt gushed at the prospect of his statement.

“Help me?” You uttered, not daring to believe he could mean what you thought he did.

“Like guide you.” Oh, you thought. So he meant exactly that. The man of your prior fantasies wanted to talk you through your masturbation. If you thought your desperation had reached maximum capacity before, then you were certain you were at the breaking point now. Your pussy clenched around nothing, whole body suddenly heavy with thick hot lust as you managed a response.

“O-Okay.”

“Yeah, you want that?” He was back to sounding level again, and how he could be in this situation you didn’t know. You didn’t care, though, not when your deprived cunt was about to get abused once again.

“Yeah, so bad.” Your voice no longer hid your frantic state, hips rising from the sofa, hand reaching between your thighs to ghost over your sensitive clit in an attempt to feel any relief.

“Mm fuck, okay.” Whatever professionalism he’d mustered up had quickly faltered, something close to a groan falling from his lips. “We can stop whenever you want to, I only wanna help you with this if you’re comfortable with it.” Before you could register his new state, however, the collected therapist was back. You questioned your sanity, were you hearing things now? Your mind conjuring mirages of your hot therapist moaning in your ear as he got you off. Fuck you wanted to touch yourself so bad.

“I want your help, Chan.” You confirmed, gnawing at your bottom lip as you ran a finger through your soaked folds, digit quickly growing sticky, body jolting from the small amount of contact.

“You sound so strained, gonna help you okay?” His voice held promise, and your eyes practically rolled into the back of your head at the prospect of finally cumming.

“Please.” You begged, restraint completely vanished along with any shame you might’ve felt about sounding so unbelievably desperate.

“You still wearing that pretty little dress?” His voice dropped an octave, his ability to stay unphased broken up by bouts of what you could only surmise was his body betraying him.

“No, just a t-shirt” You responded, mewls falling from your lips at the prospect of him being affected by your insatiable lust.

“Nothing else?” Chan questioned.

“Just the shirt.” You confirmed, finger circling your gushing hole as you awaited your sign to begin pleasuring yourself properly.

“Take it off for me, drag the fabric against your skin nice and slow. You doing that for me?” To your dismay, he had other plans, his request to take your time sending every one of your nerves into overdrive. You did as you were told, though, too turned on by the current events playing out to rush through it.

“Yeah.”

“Good, give your breasts special attention; squeeze them together, let the rough part of the fabric stimulate your nipples.” You followed his commands, putting your phone on loud speaker by your head to squeeze your breasts together; the fabric against your sensitive nipples sending waves of pleasure straight to your desperate pussy.

“When your shirt is off, bring your fingers to your mouth and get them nice and wet. You doing it baby?” Behind closed lids your senses were heightened, the sound of his voice from the speaker–so close to your ear–jolting your forward. Leaving your breasts alone for the moment, you removed the thin clothing, the air of your cool apartment stimulating your bare skin in a way that had your head spinning.

“Mhm.” You moaned loudly at the nickname, mouth stuffed with your fingers as you sucked on them. You were reminded of your earlier imaginings, the thought of his cock between your lips instead of your fingers pulling another pitchy groan from you.

“You like it when I call you that?” He asked, not waiting for a response before he continued. “Good, such a good girl, so responsive. Suck on your fingers till they’re nice and coated then I want you to play with your nipples okay?” You were frustrated at the pace he’d set, brows furrowed as you let strings of spit coat your fingers, hips continuously jolting as if trying to beg for your attention.

You couldn’t help the moans that spilled from your lips at the state you were in, cool air stimulating your already needy clit as you rubbed your soaked digits over your nipples. You played with them harshly, almost annoyed at the pent up feeling that grew and grew. With each pinch your pussy clenched around nothing, the emptiness reminding you of what you wanted there most; his cock.

“You sound so good, fuck, doing so well.” His resolve crumbled again, a huff of air the only release he could manage. “Take your time with yourself, okay?” Chan sounded strained now, the level part of him gone, replaced only by a man pushing his patience to unseen limits.

“It’s too much, wanna touch myself properly.” You whined, wetting your fingers some more to continue playing with your breasts.

“You’ll get there baby, don’t worry, not gonna leave your pretty pussy neglected.” Another desperate moan fell from your lips, noises carelessly flowing from you with complete disregard for your neighbours let alone the man on the other end of the phone. “You like that? Like me calling your pussy pretty? Mmm, I bet it is. I know it is.”

“Hmpf, Chan, please.”

“Ohmygod.” His ability to maintain level-headedness was slipping with every sound that fell from your lips. You sounded incredible, mind racing with vivid images of your legs spread, pretty fingers prying feverishly at your swollen nipples. “How does it feel baby?” He questioned, feeding his own thoughts more than yours with this request.

“Good but not enough, want more.” Your hips rose and fell, so unable to continue just playing with your plump tits when your aching, needy cunt was pleading with you to touch it.

“Okay baby, go slow, leave one hand playing with your nipples and let the other one start trailing down your body. Make sure you give every part of yourself attention, squeeze at your thighs, graze your tummy with your nails; do whatever feels best.” You released a sigh of relief, glad to finally be moving on from your top half.

“I’m doing it.” You murmured, trying to follow his direction as best you could. However, your hand skimmed your flesh clumsily, hurriedly, squeezing at your thighs to keep them pressed against the couch.

“Good girl, brush over your clit when you get there, okay? use your finger to push through your folds and spread your juices over your clit.” You did exactly that, digits instantly drenched in the sticky, wet mess soaking the sofa beneath you. Your entire body moved in haste, pushing your fingers between your pussy lips and up to your clit over and over, hips thrusting with them.

“Ah, fuck, that feels so good Chan!” You couldn’t control yourself anymore, moan after moan spilling from your gaping mouth as you repeated the motion.

“Yeah? fucking hell– sound so pretty, darling. Start circling your clit when you’re nice and soaked and make sure to give your entrance some attention too, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, god so good.” You mewled when the tips of your fingers prodded teasingly at your clenching hole. With every tightening of your pussy a new stream of sticky cum would gush onto your fingers, coating them deliciously for your sensitive clit’s unquenchable thirst for more.

“You doing that?”

“I think so.” You whined, near sobbing by now.

“Describe it for me.” He insisted, tone low with a growing impatience.

“I’m rubbing my clit with two fingers, now I’m moving them down and pushing the tips in.” You recited your motions, repeating each step with a thrust of your hips and a squirm of your limbs.

“Good, that’s good. Keep doing that for me until you’re ready and then I want you to get the toy I gave you.” His commands continued, the only thing keeping you grounded in this moment of uncontrollable, desperation for release.

“Alright. I already f-feel close.” You moaned, that tight feeling growing expanding, filling the empty place you wanted Chan to most.

“Drag it out baby, take your time.” His words drew a frustrated sob from you, eyes screwing even tighter shut as you circled your clit furiously.

“I wanna cum so bad though.” You cried, tears streaking your cheeks as your hips moved at their own accord.

“You’re gonna cum, baby, i’m gonna make you cum– fuck.” At his promise, you reluctantly pulled your hand away, blindly reaching for the vibrator. The moan that punctuated his sentence had a wave of arousal washing over you again.

“Are you touching yourself too?” You asked, the mere thought causing your cunt to clench in a way it never had. You bet he looked incredible with his fist wrapped around his cock, fucking his closed hand with the same amount of disregard you showed your sensitive nub.

“No. This is about you.” He broke your illusion, a whine falling from you lips.

“I’m getting the toy, what should I do with it, sir?” You clutched the vibrator, pressing it against your clit in anticipation of his next request. “Chan?” You spoke after a beat in time.

“Uh huh, yeah, fuck, sorry I’m still here.” Whatever thread of resolve he’d been clinging onto desperately was audibly gone. He sounded like a man starved. As if he himself was beginning to understand the torture you must be feeling to be deprived of sweet release the way he currently was.

“You sound good when you moan, can you do it again?” You pleaded, using the toy to circle your clit as you waited for him to comply.

“Mhm, yeah like this baby?” Chan didn’t disappoint, the sounds spilling from his lips sending jolt after jolt of mind-numbing pleasure straight to your core. “You like that, huh?”

“Yeah so much.” You moaned, rubbing the toy up and down your soaked folds; punishing your neglected hole with the velvety tip.

“God, so fucking hot, bet you look so good right now.” Chan seemed on a not-so-slow descent into madness, his palms no doubt twitching in place as yours had earlier, wanting nothing more than to palm his hard cock through his clothes. “Turn the vibrator on and do the same as earlier; give your clit and your hole special attention.”

“I’m so close, sir” You moaned, fingers fumbling with the button until the default vibration setting turned on. “Please can I fuck myself with it? Feel so empty clenching around nothing.”

“Fucking hell, your tight little pussy wants to get fucked so bad, yeah?” He moaned, so loudly that it almost felt like he was right there in the room with you.

“More than anything, please.” You pleaded, hips back to moving at their own accord as you circled your entrance with the vibrating toy.

“You sound fucking incredible begging for me like this baby–such a good little slut–so obedient.” his growls filled the air around you, cunt clenching at the image of his gritted teeth and clenched jaw. Gone was the pretty smile and the dimpled cheeks, no doubt replaced by a solemn expression and distant stare as his own mind busied itself with visuals of your submissive form.

“If I keep being good will you touch yourself with me?” You pleaded, tone wavering beneath the chorus of moans that flew from your lips with every exhale of breath.

“A-are you sure?” He stuttered, caught off guard by your comment. If you’d asked him to do this at the start of your call, he’d give you a categorical no. Now, though, beneath the heavy haze of lust, and battling with the feeling of painfully stiff cock confined beneath his work clothes, he could only comply eagerly.

“Yeah, please, wanna hear you moan some more.” Your voice was starting to break now, tip of the vibrator pushing further and further past your walls with every flick of your hand. You pictured how he must look, strong hand clasping desperately at his poor neglected cock; not even bothering to remove his clothes entirely before he was circling the base with his first.

“Fuck this is so wrong. God if only you could see what you’re doing to me.” Chan sounded like heaven, puffs of air exhaling from his lips as small grunts filled the room. He was no longer moaning for your entertainment alone, no, instead the noises were accompanied by the wet sounds of his fist stroking his length feverishly.

“Mmm I wish, wish it was you fucking me right now.” Not a lie, either. Your head couldn’t settle on one script to stick to: him jerking off uncontrollably or you bouncing on his cock. The latter would be quite the scene, pussy gushing around his pulsing member as you rode him with haste. His hands planted firmly at your hips to spur you on. You imagined it must feel blissful to feel his palms clasping at your body, keeping you grounded, reminding you the best things weren’t hiding in the corners of your mind but right here in reality.

“Baby, fuck, don’t say that.” Chan grunted again, sounds broken up by moans and curse words. “You fucking yourself nice and slow, yeah?”

“Yeah, not enough.” You sobbed, drying tear tracks repainted with fresh salty tears.

“So greedy, such a spoiled little pussy, does it wanna be fucked hard and rough?” His voice couldn’t find an octave, one moment it was deep, controlling almost in its approach to commanding your every move. The next it reached new heights, pitchy moans interjecting each breathless word. You liked this, felt like you were adding new polaroid pictures to a scrapbook keep-sake. Finding new things to add to a growing collection of moments you’d replay over and over again in your mind. You were good at that, fixating on one situation good or bad, thinking about it from every angle until the edges of it became frayed and aged. Until it lost all meaning; all feeling.

“Want you to ruin it.” You could barely form words by now, you wanted nothing more than to quicken your pace. You wouldn’t though, not without his word. There was something so hot about doing what your therapist told you to, even if he couldn’t see you, nor hold you accountable if you misbehaved. You wanted to be his good girl, his favourite patient; the only one who could corrupt him into breaking every rule he swore he’d keep. Maybe it was the power in an otherwise powerless dynamic that had you so hot on bothered, but really, truly, that didn’t feel like the perfect fit.

There was something about him, you couldn’t describe it. You could only remember how electric the air around you had felt, how badly you wanted to let yourself be pulled into his orbit, to centre him in every aspect of your life until he was the only thing that remained. All consumed, entirely taken up by him. Every crack in your broken mind filled with him, and his voice, and his promises to fix you. It was so undeniably unethical, let alone wishful thinking. You knew you were latching onto him, your next fixation, your special interest.

“Shit, you know I can’t do that, gonna have to learn to do it yourself.” His words reminded you just how hopeless your new infatuation was. Lust and affection were two different things, not mutually exclusive, in fact rarely hand-in-hand. Chan was trying to help, he took pity on you, right? Sure, somewhere along the way his cock had ended up in his fist, moans spilling from him like a pot left to boil too far too long. But that was a happy accident, an inevitability when you were moaning like a pornstar in his ear.

You were losing focus again. God, who knew your distraction would become a distraction from himself. But just as you’d begun to run out of momentum, mind conjuring up anxious thoughts and momentary bouts of shame intermingled with embarrassment, his voice sliced through the noise. “Pick up the pace for me, keep going, keep fucking yourself like a slut if that’s what baby girl wants.”

“So close. I-I’m fuck, fuck, so close.” You clenched around the vibrating device, the loud groans emanating from your phone’s speaker pushing you closer and closer to the edge. An edge… now that was new. Usually you felt a tightening in the pit of your stomach, an indescribable pressure that wanted to be released. But this felt more like a building of something that was destined to end in you reaching an undiscovered depth; the deepest darkest part of an ocean you’d yet to explore.

“Yeah? You sound so fucking hot baby, you gonna cum for me? gonna cum for sir like an obedient little whore?” The filth that was spewing from his lips so easily had your mind racing in an entirely new way. You couldn’t keep up with your body anymore, vibrator plunging in and out of your abused hole as if running on a motor. The space around you smelled like sweat paired with the sweet scent of your cum; the sounds of your wet pussy battling to be heard above your shrill moans.

“Want you to cum with me, you gonna cum with me sir?” You spoke between pants.

“I’ll cum with you, yeah, that’s so hot– I can hear how soaked you are, bet you’re making such a mess baby.” His groans did indeed sound perfect in harmony with your own, you’d been right about that.

“Would feel so good creaming your cock with my cum.” you murmured, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from screaming.

“Ahhh, fuck, fucking hell I’m gonna cum.” He stammered and you could hear so clearly the sounds of skin slapping against skin. You could tell, even through the phone that his release was already leaking from the top of his angry head, every thrust of his fist wet. You could practically taste the salt of his cum on your tongue, the image of him dumping its entirety in your wide, eager mouth enough to have your hips spasming uncontrollably.

“Yeah? Me too, please, please.” You felt your body teeter so close to the edge you almost lost the ability to thrust the vibrator in and out of your desperate hole.

“That’s it, good girl– fuck– fuck yourself so good like you know I would.” It would appear that in his near-climax haze Chan had given up on the idea of not buying into your fantasy of fucking him. You liked to think he’d reached the point of complete inhibition, no longer able to keep up the facade. That perhaps he wanted your cunt just as badly as you wanted to feel his cock rammed deep inside you, tip prodding against your cervix with every well-timed thrust. “Would treat that pussy so well, yeah, would fuck you so well baby, fuck.” He was babbling now, barely indistinguishable beneath the sounds of wet fist fucking.

“Please, please.” Was all the words you could muster, so close now that you felt yourself being pushed from the edge you’d been almost afraid to fall from, vibrator hitting your spongy walls at just the right angle to have your toes curling and your body heaving.

“Keep going baby, keep going. Imagine it's me, yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Chan kept talking, seemingly unable to keep his desires pent up any longer as he too reached the edge. “Bet you’d love it, fuck such a good girl, taking my cock so well–you’d feel so good, tight cunt wrapped around me.” He was relentless now, words sending jolts of hot pleasure straight to your already overstimulated pussy.

“Be the only man to make you cum, you know I can.” He continued, barely able to get the words out between broken moans, each one louder than the next. “Gonna make your cunt mine baby, yeah, you want that don’t you? I’ll treat you so good don’t worry; i’ll take good care of your desperate little pussy.” The possessive growl he let out, paired with the absolutely sinful rambles he couldn’t seem to stop from spilling out of him, was more than enough to send you tumbling from the edge. You were rendered near immobile, white light breaking through the darkness behind your closed lids. Your hips shook, every limb twitching and seizing until all feeling returned.

You hadn’t even noticed you’d been moaning his name, over and over until your voice was hoarse and your throat felt raw. You could feel every part of you grow stiff, chest heaving as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. One second you were pushing the toy in and out of your clenching hole, the next you lost all control of your body. It was easy to see why they called it little death, that feeling of going into a place filled with light, a place that threatened no return. No way to flee back to the safety of normalcy. It was a contrast to his dark gaze, the one that consumed you in the same way. It was like fire and ice, light and dark, yin and yang. So entirely wrong but right.

“Ah, you came, fuck, yeah, you’re so– god, I’m cumming too, fuck.” You realised then, as you caught your breath, listening to the sounds of his own release play through the speaker, that you didn’t want to return to normalcy at all. You wanted the light, you wanted the dark, you wanted both of them at once. No, not want; need.

You needed the dark to find the light. You needed him.

<< back to dash // next episode >>

taglist: @mangojellyyy • @diekleinesuesse

A/N: this was made to celebrate the 100 followers milestone so thank you so much to everyone who has been a part of that. this one's for yous <3

hope you enjoyed my first written fic! this was semi-unedited so if there are any major errors let me know. haven't done smut in a long time so fingers crossed it was okay lmao. there will be another episode but not any time soon, please see "genre" for more details.

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 3 months ago

Text

Yearning

MDNI

Price's love is messy; it comes courting with grave dirt on its shoes.

CW: widow!reader, parent!reader, funerals, graves, hint of obsessive behavior

He watches the mourners file by, squeezing the new widow’s hands with feeling, then moving along, leaving her palms bare, baptized in everyone else’s clammy sweat. A beggar left to fill up on condolences and wrap her children in the warm embrace of near-strangers’ thoughts and prayers. Nothing a young mother can use. Nothing a woman who framed her life around her husband’s career can fall back against.

She needs the world and a table to lay it out on.

No one volunteers. No one steps up. Everyone respects her and her husband’s memory too much to offer the kind of help she and her little girls need.

Price can disrespect her just enough to save her.

Her girls sit in the front row wearing black sundresses – one in polka dots, one with butterflies. Those weren’t bought for funerals. The new widow’s black cotton skirt is a little too casual, at odds with her pressed blouse. They’re unprepared, and he already sees the way the woman is pulling their purse strings tight like she can rub pence together to make a pound. She’s magic, aye, but no alchemist. She’s made life, but she can’t bring back the dead.

When his turn comes, he can’t bring himself to take her hand. With everything in his heart, it would be profane, especially standing beside her husband’s closed coffin.

It had been a bad op. Rotten from the start, and though his taskforce wasn’t involved, grave murmurs of how light the body bags were upon their return echoed across base. He thinks she knows. It’s printed in dark crescents under her eyes, bloodshot despite her best efforts. Most of her makeup is on the balled-up tissue set behind the arrangement of white roses to her right, her efforts to appear collected and strong melted into faint streaks to reveal everything women paint themselves to hide.

She is too real to touch, so he folds his hands behind his back and nods respectfully. “He was a good man. A good soldier.”

Her smile is wan and polite to the point of pain. “Thank you, Captain Price. He always spoke highly of you. I’m sure he’d be glad to have left an impression.”

Nodding, pinching together his own weak smile, he glances at the girls. “How are they holding up?”

“They don’t understand it yet,” she says, taking the opportunity to check on her children around his shoulder. “But they’re upset and hurt. And because they don’t know why it makes it worse.”

He takes a deep breath. “Five-years-old last April, right?”

A little light returns to her flat expression, and he’s glad he asked.

“Yeah.”

They both watch the girls for another minute. They’re surrounded by coloring books, and their respective baby blankets sit to the side, neatly folded and ready for an emergency.

He’s glad he waited for the crowd to thin.

“And you?” He swivels, catching her eyes and angling his head to keep the connection when she reflexively drifts to the side. "Are you holding together?"

"As well as can be expected. I found one of his lost socks in the laundry yesterday and –" She pauses, and it must dawn on her that was a little too honest for polite society, and she backs away from it. “I’m fine, really.”

She’s clearly anything but. Nor should she be.

Still reluctant to reach out, he sidles a half step closer, ensuring his words are for her alone.

“Just worry about yourself. Take care of your girls. All this, all of them,” he gestures at the wreathes, and the guests, and the stiff funeral director lurking by the door, “they’ll take care of themselves. You don’t owe them anything. Do you understand?”

Her next breath shakes, and he flexes his hands to resist grabbing her, pulling her out of the limelight to a dark corner where she can cry and be a mess without worries or witnesses.

She blinks rapidly, and her hand finds his arm as she smiles through teary eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about us, Captain. Thank you.”

Still prioritizing the performance. Tending to his emotions over her own grief.

It isn’t the time or place, he knows, and he nods again with another flinching smile, stepping back so a new string of mourners can burden her with their razor-wire recollections and hollow words.

He aches to stop and speak to the girls, but they’re safely tucked away in their world of paper and crayons for the moment, and he doesn’t want to disturb them. No extended family babysit while the widow performs her duties, and the twins sit in a bubble of silence and pitying glances. He hopes they’ve had time to cry, that they’ll have space with their mother to figure out what they’ve lost.

Without permission or authority to play another role, Price finds a seat in the back of the hall, eye on the exits, arms folded. This is all he’s allowed for now, so he’ll keep watch until the time comes to speak. It’s his vigil to honor the fallen before he broaches dreams of the future.

-------

There’s no sense in this, not tactically, not practically. His entire plan is to make a selfish mistake. All his training can do is map inevitable risks and try to catch the matches before they strike, before they fall and catch on the dry fuel he’s gathering.

He looks up at the house and imagines it in flames. He’s the torch, standing at the threshold, begging for a soft place to land, even if it puts the whole structure at risk.

A whiskey sounds nice as he festers in his thoughts. But if he can’t do it sober, he shouldn’t be doing it at all. She deserves that much. They deserve that much.

It hasn’t stopped raining since the funeral. The graveside was so foul with mud the twins couldn’t get close enough to throw their flowers into the open pit. The white petals fell short, lying soggy and stained at the edge of the abyss. He’d watched their mother wipe their shoes clean as they sat with their feet dangling out the side of the car. She didn’t bother with her own, just kicking the heels off and slipping behind the wheel in stockinged feet.

She shouldn’t have had to drive herself home from her husband’s funeral. He was sure she cooked dinner when they returned, cleaned up the girls, and found herself too exhausted to mourn or sleep by the time the moon rose.

He waited three nights. He forced himself to, mocking his own rush to step into dead men’s shoes. But he never knew when he’d be called away, and without her anchor, she could be lost to the wind by the time he returned.

The rain drips from his nose and gathers in his eyebrows. His beanie is heavy with it, and as he finally lifts a hand to knock, he realizes just how he’ll enter her home: a fresh mess to clean up.

Too late to think of an umbrella now.

The porch light flicks on. Her shadow moves across the peephole, and he listens with approval as both a deadbolt and security chain clatter free.

The door opens. His breath catches.

She’s in a bathrobe, a thick fluffy thing that looks warm and soft. He can see the seam of a tank top, and her pajamas go all the way to her ankles, but the cozy intimacy is staggering. The kitchen light reflects off the hall mirror, haloing her mussed hair and weary, curious expression.

Beautiful. Effortlessly.

He isn’t here because he deserves her. The reminder barely keeps him from making his excuses and escaping into the night. He’s selfish, and she needs someone willing to selfish for her own sake.

“May I come in?”

“Of course.” She’s looking at the rain soaking his clothes, sizing up the problem she needs to manage.

As he steps through and peels off his soaked hat, she retreats to the guest bath to fetch a towel. He hangs his jacket next to a bomber jacket much too large for the woman of the house, and he unlaces his boots, leaving them beside a fleet of little sneakers and sandals in every color of the rainbow.

“Here you go.”

He accepts the towel, drying his face and neck as she leads him into the kitchen. At least he won’t leave a damp spot on her couch or the living room carpet. She pops on the kettle, and he takes a seat at the kitchen table. A tower of boxes looms in the corner, labeled but empty. A stack of flat containers wait to be assembled beside them.

She catches him looking as she drops tea bags into mugs, and says, “They gave us through the end of the month. It’s hard to pack when it feels like the girls need everything in the house at least once a day, though.”

A hum masks his displeasure. The military’s efficiency is downright criminal at times, especially when there’s an opportunity to trim the budget.

“Know where you’re going?”

“Not yet.”

The tension flows out of him. It disappears down the windows, caught in smeary raindrops that belong outside this little safe haven. He’s making the right decision. He knows it now.

Because he’s managed to wait three nights to approach – lurking at the end of her street, counting the hours like a fairytale creature making a bargain – he manages to wait for the kettle to sing, the water to burble over the tea, and the widow to come to the table with both cuppas in hand.

He accepts his with a smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She isn’t looking at him. She should look comfortable here, at her own table, but she’s diminished, crumbling in, and there’s no confidence left in her slumped posture. Her finger trails the lip of her mug in an infinite circle.

He waits for her to find her courage, and he’s ready when she finally meets his eyes and asks, “Why are you here, Captain Price?”

It’s his turn to adjust his seat, leaning in as they get to the heart of the matter. Hands clasped, resting on the table where she can see them.

He’s waited, and waited, and now –

“Marry me.”

It’s honest and blunt and hopefully romantic in retrospect, but this isn’t the right time for flowers and pretty gifts. Her survival instincts are in control, and he knows he’s the only ship for miles.

“What?” Her eyes flick over his face, bouncing between his eyes, looking for the joke, but it doesn’t come, and waits until the seed roots before explaining.

“I know… a little of your story,” he says, stepping carefully for fear of landmines. He wets his lips, buying a moment between thoughts. “Without a place to return to, life after the military is… challenging for widows. Especially with children.”

Even though they’re asleep upstairs, the twins’ presence lingers. Crumbs that escaped their mother’s eye on the table. A small plastic tiger under the chair to his right. Fingerprints low on the glass door to the back yard.

Their sippy cups sit on the drying rack, and magnetic letter spell their names on the fridge.

Anna and Nora.

He clears his throat, takes a sip of tea.

“I want to marry you,” he confesses. And it is a confession. Good men did not yearn for widows before grass grew on their husbands’ graves. “I don’t expect anything, but you’ll keep military benefits, and you can decide whether or not you want to stay on base.”

“You wouldn’t offer if you didn’t expect anything.”

Her knuckles strain around her mug, and she sits up straight, alert. He doesn’t move. Breathes slowly. Keeps his head and prays he hasn’t fucked everything up in his first few sentences.

“It would be nice,” he murmurs, “to come home to people. I’m deployed more often than not, and that doesn’t leave time to keep a place of my own. If you can keep a room for me – tolerate me when I’m off-duty – that’s all I ask.”

She’s still hesitating, but war widows understand loneliness. They practice long before they bury their partners. And he isn’t lying. He will never ask for more, no matter how much he hopes for it.

He only has to plant the seed tonight. There’s time yet for it to grow. It needs to see sunlight, and she hasn’t seen that since the funeral.

“I don’t know.” There’s a battle in her eyes he has no place in. He doubts she’ll be able to sleep at all. “It’s kind of you to offer, but…”

She trails off, but she doesn’t give him a hard no. It’s time to leave before she battles herself into a corner.

“Think it over. I’m happy to wait. I know this is sudden, but I wanted to ask face-to-face, and there’s no telling when I’ll be called in.”

Moving slowly, he grabs a sheet of construction paper the girls left on the counter and writes his number in army green Crayola.

“If you want to talk more about it, or talk about anything, just let me know.”

He stands and smiles, folding the towel she lent him and setting it by his half-empty mug. “It’s not much of a proposal, but I care about what happens to you and your girls. World isn’t always kind to those it should be, and I’d be honored to help. In any way I can.”

He leaves before he can say anything he’ll regret. In a moment, there’s nothing left of him in her home but the puddle from his boots and a wet streak on the bomber jacket from where it hung shoulder-to-shoulder with the captain’s.

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #captain price x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #marriage of convenience #fic: yearning

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hereforuconnwbb · 2 months ago

Text

The Study of Us - CHAPTER 4

paige x azzi (pazzi)

au fic!

word count: 7.2k

warning: language

HEY GUYSSSYSUYSY !!! im so so so sorry this took a while to come out 😭 i literally got bombarded with stuff and then ended up redoing the chapter because i wasnt really feeling how it turned out. i still dont love it tbh but i just wanted to finally post smth 😓 i didnt go over it properly so hopefully its alright as is. enjoyyyy !!! 🫶🏽

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gym buzzed with sharp squeaks of sneakers and echoing calls as the team ran through another scrimmage. It was lighter than usual, but focused, clean execution, talking on defense, full-court pressure sets. Geno paced the sideline, watching everything, arms folded as he was storing notes in his head.

“Cut early! Be ready!” he barked as they transitioned into another offensive set.

By now, sweat slicked every practice jersey. Paige adjusted the waistband of her shorts as she jogged back into position, chest rising and falling steadily. Her passes had been crisp, shots falling just enough to keep Geno quiet which she’d take as a win today. No one was dragging. Everyone had tomorrow’s game in their heads.

At the end of the scrimmage, Geno called for water and gave them 5.

Paige walked over to the sideline and grabbed a towel, dabbing her face and neck as she sank onto the bench beside Caroline. Aubrey followed right after, crouching next to Paige with a heavy breath and an exaggerated sigh.

“Ok,” Aubrey muttered, “he’s definitely trying to keep us sharp without blowing out our legs. That man knows what he’s doing, but damn.”

Caroline tilted her head. “At least he didn’t make us do suicides. You know he saves that for when he’s really pissed.”

“True,” Paige agreed, reaching for her bottle. “Could’ve been worse.”

They fell into an easy silence, sipping water, watching teammates move around and stretch.

After a moment, Caroline glanced sideways at Paige. “You still going tonight?”

Paige blinked at her. “Yeah.”

Aubrey squinted between them. “Wait… whats tonight?”

Caroline looked at her, amused. “Oh. You didn’t tell her?”

Paige exhaled quietly and stared straight ahead. “Guess not.”

“Tell me what?” Aubrey asked, raising a brow.

“Paige has a tutor session with Azzi tonight,” Caroline said casually, like she was commenting on the weather. “Round two.”

Aubrey’s head tilted like she was connecting dots. “Ohhh. At her dorm this time?”

Caroline smirked but didn’t push it.

“Yeah,” Paige mumbled, twisting the cap back on her bottle. “Just studying.”

Aubrey tried not to grin. “How come you didn’t say anything?”

Paige gave her a look. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Caroline leaned her elbows on her knees, eyes flicking to Paige with a bit of mischief now. “You should invite her to the game tomorrow.”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious,” Caroline said, sitting up straight. “I’ve been telling her to come forever. She always says she’s busy doing equations or, like, reading three books at once.”

Aubrey laughed. “Classic. But maybe she’ll say yes to you.”

Paige gave her a blank look. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it though?” Caroline asked, nudging her knee.

Paige looked away and ran a hand over her hair. “It’s tutoring.”

“Exactly,” Caroline said, drawing out the word. “You’re getting help. Maybe tomorrow, she watches you drop 20+ on and realizes she’s tutoring the goat.”

Aubrey leaned back, grinning. “Yea, give her the full Bueckers experience.”

Paige stared at the court. “You guys are annoying.”

Caroline smiled. “You still should invite her.”

The buzzer went off, signaling the break was over. Paige stood up without saying anything, and they made their way back to the court.

—------------------------------

Practice wrapped with a final team huddle, Geno giving a last bit of instruction about recovery, hydration, and focus for tomorrow.

“Lock in,” he said as they broke the huddle. “Mentally. That’s the difference.”

Players grabbed their gear, stretching or heading to the locker room. Paige lingered behind, tossing her towel into the bin and unscrewing her water again. Caroline and Aubrey flanked her, chatting about what time they’d get to the gym tomorrow.

Then Paige turned toward Caroline, kind of casual. “Hey carol, what takeaway does Azzi like?”

Caroline’s eyes widened slightly, like she saw right through her. “Why?”

Paige shrugged, too quickly. “Was thinking of grabbing her something before the session.”

A beat passed.

“You were thinking of grabbing her something,” Caroline repeated, her voice warm with teasing.

Aubrey choked on a laugh. “Oh, now she’s bringing gifts?”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was definitely fighting a smile.

Caroline laughed. “She likes pizza. Cheese. The plain kind. And some hot chips.”

“Got it,” Paige said, already typing it into her phone like it was mission.

Aubrey nudged her. “You’re such a lil cutie when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You kinda are,” Caroline said lightly. “But it’s okay. You’re being thoughtful.”

Paige sighed. “I just wanna be nice. She’s helping me out.”

“Mhm,” Caroline said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Let us know how it goes.”

“I’m not giving you a play-by-play.”

“That’s okay,” Aubrey said as they headed to the locker room, “we’ll just read it on your face.”

Paige rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything else. She was already thinking about the pizza place and how she was definitely gonna overthink what kind of chips to get.

—------------------------------

The walk back to the dorms was quieter than usual, that post-practice calm settling over everything. Paige and Aubrey moved in sync, both still a little sweaty, water bottles in hand, gear bags slung over shoulders. The late afternoon sun warmed the pavement, the kind of soft golden light that made everything feel slower, even though Paige’s brain was still spinning a little from scrimmage.

“Not bad today,” Aubrey said, pushing the door open for both of them as they entered the dorm building.

“Yeah,” Paige nodded, adjusting her bag. “Scrimmage had me tired, though.”

“That back cut you had was nasty,” Aubrey grinned. “Geno’s face ? Priceless.”

Paige laughed, barely. “Geno only smiles when we’re up 20. And even then, maybe.”

They stepped into the elevator, the hum and slight shake of it familiar by now. Paige leaned her head against the wall for a second, exhaling slowly.

“Wanna come over after your session?” Aubrey asked. “We can chill. Might make popcorn or something. I know we got the game tomorrow but yea still.”

“Maybe,” Paige said, rubbing at her eyes. “If I’m not dead.”

Aubrey smirked. “You getting nervous for tonight yet?”

“Shut up,” Paige mumbled.

Aubrey laughed. “I’m just asking.”

They stepped out and headed toward their room. Once inside, Paige dropped her bag immediately by the door and headed toward her side of the room, kicking off her shoes.

“I need a shower before I do anything,” she muttered.

“Don’t take 45 minutes this time,” Aubrey said, flopping down on her bed. “Last week I thought you drowned.”

Paige flipped her off over her shoulder as she grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom.

Hot water always helped her decompress. The shower was steamy, and Paige just stood under the spray for a minute, letting it hit the back of her neck. She wasn’t sore, exactly, but the weight of everything—classes, practice, tomorrow’s game had settled into her shoulders. And then there was tonight.

She wasn’t going to overthink it.

It was just a tutoring session.

Still, she found herself replaying Caroline’s voice in her head: She likes pizza. Cheese. The plain kind. And hot chips.

Simple. Easy.

Paige finished up, wrapped herself in a towel, and padded back to her side of the dorm. Aubrey was still scrolling on her phone, earbuds in. Paige grabbed her phone and pulled up her food app.

She placed the order: 2 plain cheese pizzas, 2 large hot chips and pickup for 6:30 PM

She double-checked the dorm address. It wasn’t far. She’d grab the food and head straight there. Shouldn’t take more than 10 minutes to walk it.

Order confirmed. Done.

She set her phone down and stretched out on her bed, pulling her blanket over her. It was now 4:20 pm. She still had time. Her eyes were heavy, the kind of heavy that came after practice and a hot shower, and she knew she wouldn’t make it through the next few hours without crashing a bit.

She set an alarm for 6 pm, then put her phone facedown and turned to her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Her eyes were already drifting.

—------------------------------

The sharp trill of her alarm dragged Paige out of sleep.

She blinked once, then twice, disoriented for a second as her eyes adjusted to the soft lighting in the room. It was still quiet. Aubrey had dipped out sometime while she was napping, and now it was just her, the muffled hum of the hallway outside, and the glow of her phone on the nightstand.

She reached out and silenced the alarm before it could go to its 2nd round.

Okay, she thought, stretching. 30 minutes. Time to move.

Still heavy with sleep, Paige swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a second, rubbing her face. The nap had helped, she didn’t feel as stiff, her brain didn’t feel like a tangled mess anymore, but there was still that edge of nerves curling in her chest.

It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything like that.

But she still didn’t want to look like she just rolled out of bed.

She moved slowly at first, pulling open her drawer and grabbing what she already knew she was gonna wear, her black Nike tech fleece set. It was her go-to. Comfortable, casual, still clean. She tossed it onto the bed and tugged off the oversized UConn tee she’d thrown on earlier. Underneath, she slipped into a plain white tank top and then pulled on the set's black tech fleece pants, the jacket following right after. She zipped it halfway with a glance at the mirror.

She reached for her white Crocs next, easy to walk in, chill enough for a quick food run and casual hang/session. She slid them on, then crossed to her desk.

There, she grabbed her hairbrush, a small styling gel, and a tie, working her hair into a clean, slicked-back bun. It took a few tries to get it how she wanted—no bumps, no loose strands. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone, well maybe, but she still wanted to look put together.

Once it was in place, she grabbed her glasses from her nightstand and slipped them on.

She glanced at the clock which was 6:15, mentally running through the plan again. Pick up at 6:30. Less than a 10 minute walk to Azzi’s dorm. She had time.

Paige slung her black backpack onto her bed and started packing it.

She threw in a notebook with some half-assed scribbles, a folder with printed notes from class, a few pens, because she never knew which would actually work, her laptop, her water bottle, her phone charger and a packet of gum.

She gave it a once-over, zipped it shut, then grabbed her phone and keys off the desk. Her phone buzzed once with the pickup reminder, and she slid it into her jacket pocket.

A quick look in the mirror confirmed she looked fine, comfortable, clean, the kind of cool casual that didn’t scream she was overthinking anything.

Even if she was.

“Alright,” she mumbled to herself, “let’s go.”

She stepped out into the hallway and started walking, air cool but not freezing. The sky was fading into a muted gray-blue, campus lights flickering on as she crossed through the pathways toward the street.

The pizza spot was a few blocks off campus small, nothing flashy, just the kind of spot you could count on. She liked it already for that.

As she walked, the food smell started hitting her early, garlic, crispy dough, something a little greasy in the best way. She picked up her pace a little.

Please be ready, she thought, already picturing the boxes in her hand, the chips warm and wrapped up on the side.

Everything about tonight was chill on paper.

As Paige pushed open the glass door of the pizza shop, the smell hit her instantly. Her stomach did a tiny flip, and not just from hunger.

A guy behind the counter glanced up and immediately nodded as he knew exactly who she was. “Pickup for Paige?” he asked, already turning towards the warmer behind him.

“Yeah,” she said, offering a polite smile.

He slid open the display window and grabbed two stacked pizza boxes, then added two paper bags next to them. “Two cheese, two large hot chips, all here,” he confirmed, setting everything carefully into a large handled takeout bag.

“Appreciate it,” Paige replied, taking the bag with both hands. The heat radiated through the paper, and she instinctively adjusted her grip so it didn’t burn her fingers.

She turned to leave, ready to head straight out but she barely made it to the door before a girl near the window turned around with a quiet gasp.

“Oh my God,” she said softly, nudging her friend. “That’s Paige Bueckers.”

Paige paused, hearing her name but trying not to make it a big thing. Still, when she glanced over and caught their wide-eyed stares, she offered a little smile.

“Hey,” she said casually.

“Can we get a picture?” one of them asked, already halfway pulling out her phone.

“Yeah, for sure,” Paige said, shifting the bag into one arm. She stepped toward them, letting the girl next to her snap a few quick shots. Another person behind them recognized her too, and before she knew it, she had two more people politely waiting their turn.

She didn’t mind though—not even a little.

The interactions were quick and sweet. No one got loud, no one acted weird. Just a couple of fans who were clearly excited, and Paige made sure to thank each of them before she left.

One of the girls even said, “You’re so nice,” like it surprised her.

Paige just laughed. “Thanks. Have a good night, alright?”

With that, she finally slipped out the door, bag still warm in her grip and cheeks a little pink from the attention. She ducked her head slightly under her hood and started walking fast, half to stay low-key, half because she was suddenly very aware of the food cooling by the second.

It was a short walk to Azzi’s dorm. Maybe 8 minutes, but she was already halfway there before she checked the time again. She hadn’t wanted to be early, but she figured showing up with hot food was better than being exactly on the dot with cold chips.

The bag bounced gently against her leg with each step, and the air had gotten a little cooler now. Streetlights buzzed on as she crossed through campus, phone tucked safely in her jacket pocket.

She didn’t know why she cared so much. Or maybe she did. But she wasn’t about to say it out loud.

Azzi didn’t even like her like that. They weren’t close. It was tutoring.

Just tutoring.

Still, Paige found herself slowing a little as she reached the front of Azzi’s dorm building, heart ticking a little faster than it had during the walk. She looked down at the food bag and adjusted the grip one more time, taking a quiet breath and quickly glancing at the time on her phone which displayed 6:42 pm.

“Alright,” she muttered to herself. “Let’s go.”

Paige stood in front of the door for a second longer than necessary, shifting the warm takeout bag in her arms. She was technically early, but not obnoxiously so. Still, she hesitated before finally knocking—3 soft taps.

She heard some shuffling inside, then the door creaked open.

Azzi blinked at her, eyes slightly wide, like she hadn’t expected her so soon. “Oh hey,” she said, her voice still warm but surprised. She glanced at the clock behind her. “You’re early.”

Paige rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand, a little sheepish. “Yeah… food was ready, so I figured I’d head over before it got cold.”

Azzi looked down at the big bag in her hands. Her brows lifted slightly. “Is that…?”

“Cheese pizzas and hot chips,” Paige said, holding it up like proof. “I asked Caroline. She said you like this kinda thing.”

Azzi blinked again, then smiled—genuine, a little amused. “You got this for me?”

“I mean, I’m eating too,” Paige added quickly, cheeks warming. “Unless you wanna kick me out after you take the food.”

Azzi laughed softly. “Nah, come in.”

Paige stepped inside, glancing around. The dorm was neat, with soft lighting, a couple of textbooks stacked on the desk, and a blanket folded at the edge of Azzi’s bed. It was cozy in a lived-in, peaceful kind of way. She liked it instantly.

Azzi closed the door behind her, then gestured to the little round table in the corner near the window. “We can eat first. Study after?”

“Perfect,” Paige said, grateful for the suggestion. Her stomach had already started growling in protest.

They sat across from each other at the table as Paige unpacked the food. The scent of melted cheese and salty fries filled the room instantly.

Azzi grabbed some paper towels from the counter and handed one to Paige. “You’re way too prepared for someone who said she needed help.”

Paige grinned a little. “I’m full of surprises.”

It was quiet for a few beats as they both took their first bites. The pizza was good, soft crust, still warm, and the chips had just the right amount of crunch.

“This is actually perfect,” Azzi said, after a minute. “Better than what I was gonna make.”

“You were gonna cook?” Paige asked, raising a brow.

Azzi shrugged. “Probably cereal.”

Paige laughed, relaxed by the normalcy of it. “Strong dinner choice.”

They kept eating, slowly, bites in between short bursts of conversation—mostly surface-level at first. Classes. Campus. The fact that their building’s elevators were always breaking down. Nothing heavy.

But then, the pauses got smaller. The silences less awkward.

And somewhere in the middle of their second slices, Azzi tilted her head slightly. “So… you’re, like, super famous here. What’s that like?”

Paige rolled her eyes, but there was a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I wouldn’t say super famous.”

Azzi just gave her a look.

“Okay,” Paige admitted, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “It’s weird sometimes. Like, I’ll be in line for coffee, and someone’s asking me how my knee feels. I don’t even know them but it’s sweet.”

“That’s so bizarre,” Azzi said, eyes a little wider. “But I guess it comes with the territory.”

Paige nodded slowly. “Yeah. I mean, I’m used to it now, but I still don’t love being the center of attention.”

Azzi looked thoughtful for a moment. “You don’t seem like the type who wants it.”

Paige glanced up at her, surprised. “What do I seem like?”

Azzi leaned back slightly in her chair, chewing thoughtfully. “I dunno. To me, quiet. Kinda reserved. Until you warm up.”

Paige blinked. “…You’re not wrong.”

Azzi grinned. “Didn’t think I was.”

Paige bit back a smile. “Okay, then. What about you? You’re not exactly loud either.”

Azzi raised her brows. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” Paige said quickly. “Not at all. Just… you’re hard to read.”

Azzi shrugged lightly. “People say that a lot. I just… I don’t really open up fast.”

Paige nodded slowly, watching her. “I get that.”

Another quiet moment passed between them, comfortable now.

Paige leaned back in her chair a little, finishing off the last of her chips. “Okay—random question,” she said. “What’s, like… your favorite thing to do when you’re not tutoring someone or doing math for fun?”

Azzi laughed softly at that. “For fun?”

Paige smiled. “Yeah. Don’t say ‘equations.’ I’ll walk out.”

Azzi rolled her eyes playfully. “I don’t do math for fun.”

“Caroline says otherwise.”

Azzi shook her head, grinning. “She exaggerates. But… I guess I like being outside. Long walks. Reading. Cooking sometimes.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Cooking? Didn’t you just say you were gonna eat cereal?”

“That was before the pizza showed up,” Azzi countered, sipping water from the bottle next to her. “What about you?”

Paige thought for a second. “Honestly? I like music. Being around my people. Playing ball clears my head. But when I’m off… I kinda just like being still. Watching shows. Reading. Laying low.”

“Same,” Azzi murmured. “I like quiet.”

“You’re in the right major then,” Paige joked, then added, more softly, “I like quiet too.”

Their eyes met for a second, and something passed between them—nothing big, just a flicker. A little more understanding.

The kind of thing that doesn’t need to be said out loud.

Azzi looked away first, clearing her throat lightly. “You ready to start soon? Or still digesting?”

Paige laughed. “Give me, like… 5 minutes.”

“Deal.”

They both sat back in their chairs, food wrappers scattered across the table, warm and full and just a little more at ease.

—------------------------------

Azzi was in the middle of wiping down the table with a napkin when Paige leaned back in her chair with an exaggerated sigh, arms crossed over her chest like she’d just eaten a five-course meal.

“Okay,” Paige mumbled, dramatic and full. “5 minutes was a bold lie. I need, like… 20.”

Azzi laughed, tossing the napkin into the empty pizza box. “Knew it.”

“You set me up,” Paige said, pointing at her like she was accusing her of a crime. “I was vulnerable. You smiled all innocently, like, ‘Let’s eat first,’ knowing damn well I was gonna finish half a pizza and chips like a gremlin.”

Azzi raised her eyebrows, clearly trying not to smile. “First of all, you didn’t eat half. You ate like… a responsible two-thirds. And second, I did say eat first. I didn’t say eat like you just ran a marathon.”

“Same thing,” Paige mumbled, arms now folded dramatically across her stomach.

Azzi shook her head, still grinning. “You’re way more dramatic than I thought.”

Paige gave her a smug look. “You’re just now realizing that?”

“Yeah,” Azzi admitted, playful now. “I thought you were quiet. A little shy.”

Paige shrugged, a sly smile creeping in. “Only around people I like.”

Azzi stilled for a second, just the faintest pause, and Paige caught it, eyes flickering away immediately. Shit. Did that sound too flirty?

But Azzi didn’t call her out for it. She just gave a small smile and said softly, “Guess I’m lucky, then.”

There was a pause, quiet but warm, lingering between them. Paige chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying not to let the heat rise to her face too obviously.

“So…” she started, needing to change the topic before she combusted. “You ever think about playing again?”

Azzi blinked. “Basketball?”

“Yeah.” Paige tilted her head, genuinely curious.

“I mean, I was good,” Azzi said confidently, then added with a smirk, “Still am.”

Paige raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

Azzi leaned forward a little, elbows resting on the edge of the table. “I’d smoke you in a one-on-one.”

Paige snorted. “Okay, relax.”

Azzi laughed, clearly enjoying herself now. “What? You think just because you’re a star player I’d be scared?”

“You should be,” Paige grinned. “I’m dangerous.”

Azzi gave her a skeptical look. “You talk a big game for someone who can barely stand up after a few slices of pizza.”

Paige held a hand to her heart, offended. “That’s a low blow.”

Azzi laughed again free, real and Paige felt her chest warm at the sound. It was still a little surreal how much more comfortable things felt now. Like they were finally past that weird almost-stranger phase and actually leaning into something more natural. Not quite friends. Not quite anything else. Just… something better.

“I’m serious though,” Paige said after a beat, her tone softer now. “You should come to the game tomorrow.”

Azzi blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” Paige nodded. “We play at 5pm. It’s at Gampel. I can leave your name at the gate, you won’t even have to wait in line.”

Azzi looked thoughtful for a moment. “You want me there?”

Paige hesitated for a second, then smiled, small and a little shy. “Yeah. I think it’d be cool if you came.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away, just looked at her—really looked at her like she was trying to read between the lines. And for a second, Paige wondered if she’d said too much again and if she shouldn't have listened to Caroline and Aubreys suggestion of bringing it up to her. She wasn’t used to wanting people to show up for her. Not like this.

But then Azzi nodded. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Paige felt a dumb little rush in her chest, and she had to glance away to hide it. “Cool. No pressure, though.”

Azzi smiled, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “You’re bad at pretending you don’t care.”

“I don’t care,” Paige argued, her voice going higher.

Azzi just looked amused. “Right.”

Paige threw a napkin at her.

They both laughed again, and it settled the air between them like a blanket. Easy. Playful. Comfortable in a way that felt new, but good.

Paige leaned forward a little, resting her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “So, if you’re not playing ball anymore, what do you do to stay competitive? Do you go full beast mode in uno or something?”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “First of all, I’m very competitive in uno. Second, yes.”

Paige chuckled. “That explains so much.”

“Like what?”

“You give ‘I throw down +4s with zero remorse’ energy.”

Azzi grinned, biting back a laugh. “I do. No shame.”

“Evil,” Paige said. “Absolutely evil.”

Azzi lifted a shoulder. “Only when it counts.”

There was a pause again, but it wasn’t awkward this time. It was just… calm.

Paige looked over at her, studying the soft curve of her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she was being playful, and the hint of something behind it that felt more private. Like there were layers Paige was just starting to peel back.

Azzi leaned back in her chair, still grinning, and then tilted her head slightly like she was debating something. Paige caught the look and raised a brow.

“What?”

Azzi stood up. “I’m grabbing the uno cards.”

Paige blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You wanted competition,” Azzi said, already walking toward her desk. “You got it.”

“No, no—hold on.” Paige stood up too, hands raised like she was surrendering. “I didn’t ask for this. I was just talking shit.”

Azzi turned around slowly, a box of uno cards in her hand, her face dead serious. “You talked shit, and now you play.”

Paige stared at her. “…This feels like a trap.”

Azzi cracked a smile. “Only if you’re scared.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Paige muttered, flopping onto the floor and crossing her legs. “Let’s go then. I’m about to humble you.”

Azzi sat across from her with way too much confidence. “You’re gonna cry.”

Paige scoffed. “It’s a card game.”

Azzi didn’t even blink. “It’s uno.”

They dealt the cards in a tense silence. Azzi’s brow furrowed in laser focus, Paige narrowing her eyes like she was reading the energy in the room. The first few turns were tame. A few reds, a couple yellows. Paige started to relax, thinking maybe this would be chill.

Then Azzi threw down a Draw 4.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Paige hissed.

Azzi smiled sweetly. “I did warn you.”

“You had, like, seven other cards you could’ve played. You chose violence.”

“I chose victory,” Azzi said, smug as hell.

Paige grumbled and drew her cards, now fanning them out like an angry gremlin. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”

Azzi laid down a skip card. “Ohhhh nooo, what a tragedy.”

Paige just stared at her in disbelief. “You are a psychopath.”

Azzi smiled. “You started this.”

Another few turns went by. Paige finally got back into the game, slapping down cards with flair. “Reverse,” she said, flicking the card onto the pile. “And reverse again. We’re going my way now, bitch.”

Azzi burst out laughing. “Okay, damn. That was aggressive.”

Paige held up a red seven like it was a championship trophy. “That’s right. I’m in my era.”

“I’m about to end that era.” Azzi calmly dropped a +2 on her.

Paige stared at the card like it personally betrayed her. “You whore.”

Azzi was wheezing now, covering her mouth.

“No, seriously,” Paige said, drawing her cards. “You told me I was dramatic but you’re sitting over there playing like this is the Olympics.”

Azzi wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “It is the Olympics.”

Paige stared at her, then grinned despite herself. “You’re a menace. I can’t believe I was nervous around you.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, amused. “You were nervous?”

Paige immediately looked away, ears turning pink. “Nope. Didn’t say that.”

“You literally just did.”

“That wasn’t me.”

Azzi laughed again, shaking her head. “You’re so full of shit.”

They kept playing, tossing insults and cards in equal measure. Paige leaned into the humor now, forgetting all about trying to keep it cool. She was in her element—witty, sarcastic, effortlessly hilarious.

At one point, Paige slapped down a reverse and locked eyes with Azzi. “I’m about to uno your ass back to the stone age.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. “I hope your next card is a Draw 4. And I hope it’s illegal.”

Paige gasped. “You wish card fraud on me?!”

“I wish you pain.”

They both cracked up again, the kind of laughter that made your stomach hurt and your eyes water. The game stretched on longer than it should’ve because of the constant shit talk and unnecessary drama but neither of them seemed to mind.

At one point, they were both just sitting there surrounded by a chaotic circle of cards, drinks half-finished, and Azzi was smiling in a way that was softer than before. Paige caught it, just for a second, and her heart did a stupid little jump.

She couldn’t tell if Azzi knew it, what kind of effect she had when she looked at her like that but she didn’t ask.

“No more reverses,” Paige muttered.

“Don’t tempt me,” Azzi said, already reaching for her next card.

—------------------------------

Cards were scattered everywhere now. Paige had ended the last round with a smug grin, having snuck her last card down while Azzi was mid-rant about how “stacking draw-2 should be illegal in civilized society.”

Azzi was shaking her head, arms crossed, muttering something about cheating under her breath, while Paige leaned back on her hands and stretched like she just won a medal.

“You’re not gonna let that go, huh?” Paige asked, watching her with an amused tilt to her head.

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “No, because you’re sketchy.”

“Sketchy? That’s bold coming from someone who pulled three skips in a row like it was personal.”

Azzi shrugged. “That wasn’t personal. That was strategy.”

“Mhm.” Paige checked her phone lazily, still grinning until her eyes flicked to the time. “Shit, it’s already 7:30.”

Azzi glanced over at the clock on her desk. “No way.”

Paige held the phone up. “Time flies when you’re being psychologically terrorized by uno.”

Azzi snorted. “Cry about it.”

Paige rolled her eyes, then sat up straighter, brushing some crumbs off her sweats. “Alright, alright. We should start our sesh now.”

Azzi let out a soft sigh like she didn’t want to agree, but she nodded anyway and began scooping cards back into the box. “Yeah, okay.”

Paige stood and stretched again, arms above her head, the bottom of her white tank peeking out from under her jacket. “Damn, I almost forgot I came here to actually learn something.”

Azzi shot her a look. “Shocking, I know.”

“Watch it,” Paige said, grinning.

Azzi set the uno box on the desk, then turned back to her with that casual, slightly crooked smile Paige was starting to get dangerously fond of. “Since I’m coming to your game tomorrow…” she started casually, and Paige blinked.

“You are?”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “You asked me, like, 4 times tonight. 3 times while playing uno.”

Paige blinked again, her lips twitching into a sheepish smile. “Okay, yeah. Just making sure you weren’t joking.”

“I wasn’t,” Azzi said, walking back toward her chair. “But now there’s a catch.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Oh no.”

“If I show up to that game,” Azzi said, plopping back into her seat, “and you don’t put on some kind of masterclass performance? I’m never tutoring you again.”

Paige’s mouth fell open. “That’s so unfair. What if I have an off day ?!”

Azzi shrugged, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Then I guess it’s been nice knowing you.”

“Damn.” Paige laughed as she sat back down across from her. “I didn’t know you were this ruthless.”

“You knew the moment I drew that first +4.”

Paige sighed dramatically. “Ok, ok. But what if I do put on a show?”

Azzi tilted her head. “Then… maybe I’ll consider hanging out after the game.”

That shut Paige up.

Not in a bad way, she didn’t freeze or panic or choke on air this time—but her eyes widened a bit, and that grin of hers softened, mellowed. She scratched the back of her neck and tried to play it cool.

“Oh,” she said, voice quieter, “like… hang out-hang out?”

Azzi smiled again, a little softer now too. “Yeah. I mean—you’ll probably be all sweaty and gross, but I can deal with it.”

Paige chuckled. “Wow. So generous of you. But bet.”

“I try.”

Paige picked up her notebook and opened it to the half-done page from their last session, while Azzi leaned forward to grab a pen, that teasing glint still in her eyes.

“You ready to suffer?” Azzi asked.

Paige grinned. “Not really.”

“Well, too bad.”

And just like that, the teasing faded into focused conversation—notes, examples, gentle corrections and questions. But underneath it, there was a new current, something warmer, lighter.

Paige wasn’t sure what tomorrow’s game would look like. But suddenly, she had a damn good reason to play like her life depended on it.

—------------------------------

The clock had been ticking in the background as the evening stretched on. The words and numbers on the page were starting to make more sense, the formulas not feeling as confusing as they had when they first started. Paige had actually gotten into a rhythm, though it was still a little awkward to not be in full-on basketball mode. She found herself leaning a bit closer to the desk, her pen hovering as she tried to process another point Azzi was explaining.

Azzi sat across from her, chin resting in her hand, her expression one of patient amusement as Paige scribbled down some notes. Her usual no-nonsense aura was softened a little now, more relaxed, like the teasing had melted into something… easier.

“So,” Paige said, looking at the problem one more time, then glancing up at Azzi, “I think I got it.” She met Azzi’s eyes with a shy, almost apologetic smile. “I might actually pass this class now. Can’t believe it.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair with a playful smirk. “Don’t get too cocky now. You still have a lot of work to do.”

Paige snorted softly. “Hey, I’m just saying. If I pass, you get all the credit.” She shifted, reaching to close her notebook. “You’re a damn good tutor.”

Azzi chuckled, glancing over at the clock. “It’s not me. It’s all you actually paying attention.” She grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she stood up. “I’m gonna hold you to that masterclass tomorrow, though. Don’t forget what I said.”

Paige stood as well, turning toward the door. She walked over with a few casual steps, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arm around Azzi’s shoulders. The movement was natural, like they’d done it before, even though they hadn’t. It wasn’t as stiff, and there was a kind of ease between them that hadn’t existed at the start of the session.

Azzi froze for a second, surprised at the gesture, but then relaxed, her body a little less tense. “You really need to put on a good show tomorrow, Paige,” she teased, looking over at her with that slightly playful, warm glint in her eyes.

Paige’s cheeks flushed a little, but she didn’t pull away. “I’ll make sure to impress you.” Her voice was a little more serious now, but there was still that hint of her usual humor under it.

They stood like that for a moment, neither of them wanting to break the quiet. Then, before Paige could second-guess herself, she gave Azzi’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, a silent thank you for the evening. She felt Azzi’s eyes on her, like there was something different about this moment.

Finally, Paige pulled her arm back, but before she could step away completely, Azzi did something unexpected. She reached out, wrapping her arms around Paige in a quick hug, a little awkward but sweet, like it had just felt right.

Paige blinked in surprise for a split second, then relaxed into the hug, her own arms wrapping around Azzi. It wasn’t one of those long, lingering hugs, they weren’t there yet, but it was enough.

“See you tomorrow,” Azzi said softly as they pulled apart. She gave Paige that knowing, slightly teasing smile. “Don’t forget what I said—play like it’s your last game.”

Paige’s heart skipped a beat at the words, the gentle challenge in them hitting her harder than she’d expected. “I won’t,” she replied, her voice steady despite the little thrum of excitement she felt in her chest.

She gave Azzi one last look, a little unsure but also feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. “Thanks again,” she added quietly. “For the tutoring, I mean.”

Azzi just waved it off, turning back to her desk. “Don’t sweat it. You actually did all the work tonight.”

Paige gave her a soft smile, then stepped out of the door, feeling a mix of nerves and anticipation building in her chest as she made her way back down the hallway.

She was looking forward to tomorrow more than she realized. Not just for the game, but because she’d gotten to see a different side of Azzi. A side that wasn’t closed off or completely guarded. And she definitely didn’t mind that.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Paige couldn’t help the flutter of excitement in her chest. Maybe things between them were starting to shift, even just a little bit.

—------------------------------

The dorm was quiet when Paige got back, quiet in that suspicious kind of way. She opened the door slowly, carefully holding the half empty pizza box and stepped inside.

Aubrey was waiting.

Like a pred.

She was sprawled on the couch, hoodie up, one leg over the armrest like she’d been there for hours, her phone in one hand, a knowing smirk stretched across her face. The second Paige closed the door behind her, Aubrey didn’t even look up. She just said, “It’s 9:03.”

Paige froze mid-step.

Aubrey finally looked over. “Wasn’t tutoring supposed to end at 8?”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “Why are you timing me like a parole officer?”

“I’m not timing you,” Aubrey said, dropping her phone onto her stomach. “I just noticed you left at like what? 6 something? And now it’s—” she fake checked her wrist, “9:03. That’s three hours. Of studying?”

Paige slid her crocs off, rolling her eyes as she made a beeline for the kitchen. “We played Uno.”

“Played Uno,” Aubrey repeated slowly, sitting up. “Uno. You brought pizza. You played Uno. Is this a study session or a date?”

Paige didn’t dignify that with a response. She opened the fridge, tossed the half-empty pizza box inside and shut the door with a sigh.

“So?” Aubrey said, now fully sitting up and clearly not letting this go. “What happened? Tell me everything. I need the tea. Was there flirting? Was there knee-touching? Did y’all at least sit on the same side of the table or were you giving business meeting energy?”

Paige groaned and flopped face-first onto the armchair. “We sat across from each other like normal human beings, bro.”

Aubrey gasped. “No proximity tension? Wow. Devastating.”

Paige pulled her head up slightly. “I literally cannot stand you.”

Aubrey just grinned. “You love me. Now tell me what happened. Like for real.”

Paige hesitated, her lips twitching into a smile despite herself. “It was… good. Like, actually good. We ate first ‘cause I got there early. She was surprised but not mad, and we talked for a while.”

Aubrey raised her brows. “Talked? Like actual convos?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, rubbing her hand over her bun. “Got to know her more. She’s kinda funny. Not like me-funny, obviously—”

Aubrey snorted. “Obviously.”

“But like… chill funny. And she got uno cards out and smoked me like, a few times, but i got her sometimes..”

Aubrey wheezed. “She beat you at uno? I’m never letting you live that down. Paige ‘competitive to the death’ Bueckers, taken down by colored numbers and a skip card.”

Paige laughed, tossing a pillow at her. “Bro, I swear she stacked like four draw twos on me and just sat there smiling like she didn’t commit a war crime.”

Aubrey caught the pillow, still laughing. “Alright, alright. But was it awkward?”

“Kind of at first,” Paige admitted, sitting up a little straighter. “But then it wasn’t. I dunno, we just got comfortable. She even made a joke about how she’d beat me in a 1v1.”

Aubrey leaned forward, grinning. “You challenged her to a 1v1?”

“No, she teased me ‘cause I asked about her playing,” Paige said, cheeks tinting slightly. “She’s still not trying to hoop again though. But then…” she trailed off.

Aubrey’s eyes widened. “Then?”

Paige bit her lip. “I asked if she wanted to come to the game tomorrow. Just said, you know, since we were talking about it before…”

Aubrey practically jumped up. “ANDDDD ??”

“She said yeah,” Paige said, trying to sound casual, but the way her foot was nervously tapping kind of betrayed her.

Aubrey gasped. “SHUT. UP. She’s actually coming?!”

Paige nodded. “She said she would. Said if I don’t play like a masterclass, she’s not tutoring me anymore.”

Aubrey howled. “Oh my God, she’s perfect.”

“Don’t say that,” Paige groaned.

“She is! She’s funny, smart, brutally honest, and she’s making you nervous as hell—”

“I am not nervous—”

“You are SOOO nervous. Look at you,” Aubrey pointed at her. “You wore your tech fleece. You brought pizzas and chips. You made her laugh. You played uno.”

“Can you shut up for like, 5 secs?”

Aubrey held up her hands, giggling. “I’m just saying. It’s not nothing.”

Paige sighed, trying to fight the stupid smile tugging at her lips. “It’s just tutoring, dude.”

“Uh huh,” Aubrey said, laying back dramatically. “Tutoring with food, laughter, intense uno games, and flirty death threats. Totally academic.”

“Shut up,” Paige mumbled, chucking another pillow at her.

But despite all her groaning, Paige couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off her face.

Because yea… maybe it wasn’t just tutoring anymore.

And tomorrow? Azzi would be watching.

So yeah.

She definitely had to put on a show.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #paige x azzi #pazzi #pazzi fics #uconn #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #uconn women’s basketball #wnba #ncaa wbb #wbb #dallas wings

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theantho1ogy · 5 months ago

Text

Bakugo x Fem!Reader

You were Bakugo's favorite pornstar. Every night after his exhaustingly long day of stopping villains and paperwork he'd get home and open his laptop.

Automatically logging into his account and clicking on your profile. Your pretty cleavage up close in those lacy pink lingerie, starring back at him everytime opened the website.

All your thumbnails were shots of your promiscuous body, posing for the camera in some type of lingerie you chose for the night. From babydoll bows littered all over you, to think black straps emphasizing your perky assets.

With Bakugo's erratic hours he was rarely able to watch your streams live. But tonight god must've been looking down at him because the little red dot signally you were on blessed his screen.

He unbuckled his belt with one hand as his other hurriedly clicked the stream. Gracing his sights was you, a pretty little thing that was smiling bash fully as you read the comments from chat. Today you opted for a white see through matching set, with crystals attached throughout the seams.

The set Bakugo sent to you right after he got his first big hero check.

His cock was already hard and throbbing in his palm as he watched you caress yourself. Acting like you weren't riling up him and all the other horny strangers watching you.

You grabbed your breasts through your top and gave a small moan, your breath coming out in small pants as you worked your hands down your body and into your pretty panties.

Bakugo's slow movement mirroring yours and you pulled the strip of fabric aside to reveal your glistening heat.

Slipping your fingers between your slit as you raised them to show the camera, your wet arousal clinging to your fingertips as you pulled them apart before tasting yourself.

What Bakugo would do to be able to taste you for just a second.

He spread his precum over his tip as you spread your pretty pussy lips, showing off the one place that made him think of as heaven.

You bit your lip as you slowly inserted one digit into yourself. The small noise you made, made his cock twitch as he slowly followed your movements.

His rhythm matching yours and you inserted another, both of you moaning together as your speeds picked up. The squelching of your wet pussy making him hot and bothered as he masterbated to you.

You spread your legs wider, giving the audience a nice view of yourself. Your head titled back as you worked your fingers in and out, your other hand fondling your nipples as you moaned out.

Bakugo's grunting and your moaning were the only noises coming from his room. The noise echoing in his head as he was buzzing with lust.

You moved your hand down to play with your clit, getting closer to your orgasm as your moans got louder and your breathing got heavier.

Bakugo's cock pulsing with the need to release as his eyes focused on your pretty pussy, how he wished he could feel you wrapped out him. Your warm cunt squeezing him as he stuffed you full.

The cute noises you'd made for him and him alone, how you'd moan his name as you got closer to your release. Your nails scraping down his back, leaving marks, claiming him as yours as he brought you over the edge.

Just the thought of you being his drove him insane.

His speed getting sloppy as he jerked himself off, getting close. You were too with how fast you were rubbing your clit.

Starring straight into the camera, dazed, and exhausted you uttered the words that made Bakugo finish.

"Fill me up sir"

Bakugo cummed right on your face, his screen splattering with his fluids as you finished with him.

Out of breath you smiled, like you saw what he did. Thanking him for pleasuring you as you slowly sat up, your tits coming closer to the camera.

Your shy smile made you seem innocent, like you didn't just cum infront of thousands of people. Reverting back to the angel you played as, saying your signature goodbye.

With a small wave and a "please play with me again" you cut the stream.

Bakugo sat there, labored breathing as he started at the black screen that just showed you getting off now even a few seconds ago.

The only thing pulling him from his mind was the ping from on incoming message.

"Did you enjoy the performance"

---

Next>>

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harbours-lighthouse · 2 months ago

Text

BLOOD TRACKS IN THE SNOW - PART ONE

— PAIRING: Joel Miller x F!Reader

— SUMMARY: Dying in the snow seems like a pretty poetic way to go, but it seems that's not your fate when a stranger finds you. Amidst the wariness of meeting someone for the first time, you're offered something warm and new: hope.

— AN: Lol, I wrote this on my phone before proof-reading and editing it on my computer. Unconventional but it works!

cw: post-outbreak setting, description of blood, mentioning of betrayal. wc: 2.3k

THE BLOOD on your face keeps you warm. You're trembling, curled into yourself like a bunny burrowing into the ground—you want to burrow. Bury yourself deep into the snow, dig at the frozen ground underneath until your nails are ripping. But all you can do is shake with sticky blood freckled along your cheeks, dripping from your temple and down your nose until it hits the snow. It doesn’t splash or splatter. It's simply soaked into the snow where it leaves a stain, blurred around the edges.

If you weren't so numb, maybe you'd scream—call out for help. It's a risky thing to do, but people are driven to do things that could get them killed when they're faced with death, which is ironic so to say. Maybe when the survival instinct locked away in your mind is given free reign, it knows what decision—what split second choice—will be more probable of welcoming your death with a metaphorical tip of your hat.

As you lay bent inward, spine pushing against the tattered remains of your jacket, your eyes begin to droop. Snowflakes fall on your lashes, but they don't melt along the swell of your cheeks like they should. You're too cold. The chill has settled into you, permeating your pores and coating your lips with frost.

But the cold doesn't affect your hearing as much as it does everything else. Falling deeper into the snow, hands flinching with tremors that run deeply through your whole body, the crunch of snow beneath heavy boots joins the wail of the wind. Shuffling. Hot breaths puffing into the air. You can hear it all, but you can't move. Can't think.

Can't fight back.

The thought brings along miniscule movement: a jerk of your bent legs, the sharp jolt of your heart against your aching ribs. Your lashes are frozen, and it feels like stones are weighing down your eyelids as you peer upward.

Through the grey haze of snow and wind, a broad-shouldered shadow stands in front of you. A whine in the back of your throat joins the howling wind. The rush of snow.

Is it a bear? A moose? An infected? A person?

You'd be happy with either option, as long as it meant that you're not alone right now. Isn't that what this world is good at now? Turning people into unmarked graves devoid of wooden crosses or tombstones? You don’t want that for yourself, and you've been fighting against that normality for the last ten years.

Crazy how one ill-timed blizzard could knock you off your a-game.

The shadow shifts. Snow crunches. Your vision is hazy at best, crowded with tears and black dots. There's something warm in front of you, that much you know, so even with the threat of being mauled to death or killed brutally, your fingers twitch for the heat—desperate to gather it up into your hands and smear it back into your skin. You'd paint yourself with sunlight if it meant that you never felt the cold again.

Through chattering teeth, you beg.

"H-Help me. Pl-Please."

The last thing you remember is something warm and heavy settling on your shoulder, and it felt like the shape of a hand.

—

Sound begins to filter in slowly, like water dripping from a tap—except that's exactly what you're hearing. The drip-drip-drip echoes inside your ears as it breaks through the milky film cast over your thoughts.

Then you feel the heat. It burns.

With the grace of a spooked deer flailing on the ground, your neck jerks upward to look down at your body, and pain spikes through your skull. A thick and fraying wool blanket covers you, draped over your body like a veil. After staring at the stiff fibres for a second too long, you flick your gaze upward to see what’s around you.

The first thing you notice is wood. Lots of it. Wooden rafters. Wooden walls. None of it smooth and sanded, instead rough and splintering along the edges. The drip-drip-drip is coming from a singular sink that's nearly completely detached from the wall, save for the yellow-stained pipe that keeps it there. There's a plastic table, the metal legs bent so it wobbles with each shake of the house.

Through the headache pounding inside your head, your thoughts start crashing into one another with the speed that they come to you.

Where am I? Where did this come from? How did I get here? The blizzard is gone? Why am I in pain? Where am I? What is this place? How did I get here—

The creak of wood sends them lurching to a halt, kick-starting your heart to thump against your sternum like a rabbit.

"Was startin' to think you wouldn't wake up."

The gruff, masculine voice has you flinching upright, hands pressing against the wooden floor beneath you. Pain skewers itself through your ribs and down your spine, and the headache pulses between your temples like a hammer slamming against your skull repeatedly.

A groan vibrates in your throat, which you now realise is painfully dry. Your lips aren't frozen anymore, but the parched flesh splits.

"Easy. Ain't gonna hurt you. Not yet, at least."

Your eyes snap to where the voice comes from, and hidden in a shadowed corner of the room, sits a man in a rickety chair with a rifle balanced between his legs like a cane, hands folded and resting on the stock.

Dark brown eyes meet yours. They remind you of the dark soil you'd find during the rainy season, when the rich scent of the earth hangs in the air. It would be comforting if it weren't for your vulnerable state and the fact that you don’t know this man.

You shrivel inwardly as those dark eyes bore into you, and you feel like an item being cataloged, stored away in some sort of file. What exactly is he noting? Your mangled hair? Flighty eyes? Blood stained face and fingers? Tattered clothes? The list goes on.

The man clears his throat. You watch his Adam's Apple bob.

"Couldn't find any wounds on you," he says. Silver and brown facial hair moves as he speaks, sticking to his jaw and along his upper lip like fine snow. His hair is fluffy, you notice. More like a cloud that's heavy with rain, streaked with muted brown light as a sun sets.

He lifts a finger, pointing at you. You only stare with half of your body ready to bolt to the door—which you noticed in a very quick, terrified glance to your right. The rest of your body feels numb. Shocked into stillness by the cold.

"So I wanna know why you've got blood all over you."

There's an edge to his tone, something that tells you that he's a man who will get answers regardless of what steps he has to take to get them.

You swallow, but the minimal saliva in your mouth barely does anything to soothe the aching dryness of your throat. Opening your mouth, you flounder for a moment, before making a bold move.

"D-Do you have any water?"

You don't think that's what he expected from you, because the man regards you for a moment with creased brows. Then he sighs heavily through his nose, and you watch with bated breath as he leans to the side, rifling with one hand through a backpack that's slumped on the ground beside the rickety chair. You didn't even notice it before.

"Here," he mutters as he tosses a plastic bottle your way. You catch it with a sloshy thud, fingers quivering along the ridged material. You unscrew the cap and gulp down generous sips, feeling the cool liquid soothe your throat like a cold balm.

The man's brows furrow even deeper (they must be like that permanently).

"Easy, you'll make yourself puke."

His words register—sounding more concerned than you think they should be—and you slow down before pulling the now half-empty water bottle away from your bleeding mouth. Inhaling sharply, you speak quietly.

"Thank you."

He doesn't say anything else, simply looks at you like he's gauging your character. Are you a threat? Is there something you're hiding?

"Listen," he shifts, broad shoulders hunching forward as his elbows lean against his knees. "I found you out there in the snow—nearly frozen to death. You're gonna tell me why."

Your chest shudders with a broken breath, feeling fear prick behind your eyes. Those dark eyes are piercing through you, but you wonder what they might look like if you prove that you're innocent. Harmless—to an extent.

"I..." you breathe out, fingers picking at the wool blanket. Around you, the house holds its breath. "My group turned on me."

The man straightens a touch.

"They, um—" you glance around, feeling exposed, "they thought I was sabotaging the camp. So they...tried to kill me."

"Were you?"

The question throws you off. Your eyes snap up to the stranger, and he's already watching you.

"Were you sabotaging the camp?" he elaborates, brows raising. The gravel in his voice should make you afraid, but indignation burns in your belly, and you frown at him. The same anger and betrayal you felt barely ten hours ago rears its head.

"No," you grit out, "I wasn’t. The camp was failing because no one else was doing what they were supposed to—I was the only one putting in the effort—"

The man lifts a placating hand, nodding his head.

"Okay, okay," he assures, "relax."

He pauses, eyes flitting along the blood that's caked along your face. He juts his chin up, gesturing to the dried crimson stains.

"So that's not your blood."

You shake your head slowly, swallowing.

"No. It's not."

"So you killed someone."

"...I had to."

He nods, brushing his hand against his arched nose. A question lingers on your tongue, fighting against your sealed lips before you finally give in.

“Why’d you bring me here?”

There’s a long pause as the man flicks his dark gaze your way, combing along your face. For a moment, you think he might brush off the question.

He shrugs his shoulders. ��It would’ve been like leaving behind a dying animal.”

“I’m sure you’ve done that before.”

“Yeah, I have.”

Silence stretches. The drip-drip-drip seems even louder than before, and your chest feels stiff with air that you've trapped in your lungs. Trepidation settles beneath your skin alongside the pain that continues to pulse through you.

The man breaks it with a gruff sigh. You watch with your heart throbbing against your ribs as he rubs his hand along his scratchy jaw. When he looks at you again, you see wariness etched into the fine lines along his eyes and forehead.

"Alright," he sighs, and you stiffen like a deer caught in headlights as he stands. He slings the rifle over one shoulder, before bending to pick up the backpack and haul it over the other.

He studies you, leaning more on his left leg than his right.

"I ain't gonna kill you. You seem like you're tellin' the truth, so I'm taking you back to Jackson."

"Jackson?"

"Yeah, it's a town up north. Protected, warm. Probably give you something better to do than die out in the cold."

Hope begins to brew inside your chest, but your hand moves to press against your sternum as if to smother it. Hope is a dangerous thing now. Often it leads to nothing.

“How can I trust you?” you ask, and you know that it's a dangerous question because his answer might not be what you want.

“I saved your ass.”

Yeah, okay. That works.

"C'mon. Get up. But listen," he points a finger at you, and the ruff edge of his voice has your skin prickling. "If you try anything, I won't hesitate to kill you myself. Understand?"

Fear trickles into your stomach, but so does determination. You know you're not going to do anything—you're not that kind of person. But there's a darkness in his eyes that only comes when you follow through on your word, and when you've put a bullet between someone's eyes before. You know that look. You've seen it in your own reflection.

Nodding your head, you shift onto your feet, holding back a whine at the ache that blooms along your ribs and behind your eyes. The room sways, but your vision doesn't go black and your stomach doesn't heave.

The man watches you steadily, before turning his back to swing open the door. Cold wind bursts into the house, so you make sure that the wool blanket remains cloaked around your shoulders. Your jacket barely does anything against the cold as it is.

You notice that the blizzard has calmed, though, but the snow rushes all the same. You follow behind the man, the first few steps slow and strained.

"What's your name?" you ask, feeling desperate to latch onto something that seems a little more normal—not that anything has been ‘normal’ in the last ten years.

The man turns, eyes squinting against the snow and the wind that digs into his cheeks like needles.

"Joel," he answers after a moment. “Joel Miller.”

It seems fitting, you think. A name meant for a man that seems rough around the edges, just like the wooden boards that make up the house—the one you’re leaving behind. It sends dread spinning inside your stomach.

Joel pulls up the collar of his jacket and glances at you. "Yours?"

You blink, pulled away from your racing thoughts that are only making your headache worse. You tug the wool blanket closer around your frame, and your name falls from your split lips. Joel nods and you don’t catch the way he says it quietly to himself, as if tasting it on his tongue.

"C'mon," he grumbles, before walking ahead into the snow. The blizzard tugs and pulls at his hair, painting it white with snow. The rifle along his back stares back at you and you swallow harshly. The wind pushes against you as you follow behind Joel, shoulders hunched against the chill. His footsteps leave behind deep holes in the snow, and you let your feet fall into them.

There's relief knowing that they're not stained with blood.

Thank you for reading, God bless <3

top divider credit: @/saradika-graphics © harbours-lighthouse 2025 / i do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, or fed into ai. all works belong to me unless stated otherwise.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #★ harbour's writing !

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playnextdoor · 6 months ago

Text

im sick

summary: vi helps you when your sick

cw: mentions and descriptions of throw/throwing up for my emetophobes, mentions of food that caused said sickeness lol, domestic (?) vi, she is very sweet yay, this is very short

You jolt awake, drenched in sweat, the taste of bile pooling in your mouth. For a moment, everything feels blurry until the sudden urgency hits you. You barely notice Vi sprawled out beside you as you clumsily crawl over her and bolt for the bathroom. The commotion stirs her instantly.

“Hey—wait, what’s wrong?” she calls out groggily, already moving to follow you.

By the time she reaches the bathroom, you’re hunched over the toilet, your hands gripping the porcelain as your body convulses. The sound of you retching echoes off the tiles.

“Shit,” Vi mutters, panic lacing her voice as she turns and rushes out of the room. She’s back in seconds with a towel and a glass of water, setting them on the counter before kneeling beside you. Her calloused hands are gentle as they push stray hairs away from your damp face. “Let it out, babe,” she murmurs, her other hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back. “You’re okay. Just let it out.”

Your body heaves one last time before the sickness leaves. Gasping for air, you shakily reach for her hand. She’s already there, steady and solid, helping you stand. Without a word, she dampens the towel and gently wipes your face, her touch so careful.

“I think it was that burger we had earlier,” you croak, wincing as you rinse your mouth out at the sink.

Vi watches you closely, her brows furrowed with concern. “Yeah… probably. You’ve been off all day.” Her voice is quieter now, as though speaking too loud might overwhelm you.

You stare into the mirror, water dripping down your face. Tiny red dots bloom under your eyes, blood vessels burst from the force of throwing up, a grim reminder of how your body puts so much force in this thing you would avoid any day.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this,” you whisper, voice shaky.

She shakes her head, stepping closer. “Don’t apologize. Drink some water.” Her hand cups your damp face as she raises the glass to your lips, her thumb brushing over the faint red freckles on your cheek. She watches you drink slowly, watches you wince as the bitter aftertaste of bile fades under the coolness of the water.

“I know you hate throwing up,” she says softly, her eyes never leaving yours.

You nod, managing a weak smile before your stomach churns again. “Too soon,” you mutter, and before you can stop yourself, you’re back at the toilet.

Vi is there in an instant, one arm wrapping around you to keep you steady as the other supports your weight. “it’s okay,” she whispers, even as your body shakes violently. “I got you.”

When it’s finally over, you slump against her, tears and snot streaking down your face. You’re a mess, and you know it. You hate when she sees you like this.

“I should’ve warned you…” you mumble through ragged breaths.

“Hey, stop that,” she cuts in, her voice firm but kind. She helps you to your feet again, guiding you back to the sink to rinse your mouth before coaxing more water down your throat. This time, she waits, watching you carefully to make sure you’re not about to hurl again.

When you finally make it back to bed, you collapse into the sheets, still trembling. “Stay with me,” you whisper, the words soft and desperate.

She grins, trying to lighten the mood. “Like I’d go anywhere.”

Before you can reply, she’s yanking the thick blanket from beneath you and tucking it snugly around your body, cocooning you in a makeshift burrito. Your head and feet poke out from the folds, and you pout up at her as she adjusts the edges.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she teases, pulling out a warm compress and placing it gently on your forehead. “You need to rest.”

“But I want to kiss you,” you whisper, your lips curling into a weak pout.

Vi smirks, leaning in close, her breath brushing against your cheek. “You’re cute, but also gross. I don’t need whatever you have.”

You groan, turning your head away, trapped in your blanket prison as she crawls into bed beside you. Her messy pink hair spills across the pillow, and the sight of her, so effortlessly beautiful even now, makes your chest ache.

“I’m sorry…” you murmur again, your voice soft as you glance at her.

She chuckles, leaning in to press a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose. “No more burgers,” she whispers, settling in beside you and pulling the blanket tighter around you.

“No more burgers,” you agree, letting your eyes flutter shut as her warmth seeps into you.

a/n: i wrote this to help me cope that i have no one taking care of while i threw up my insides last night. yeah.

#arcane vi #vi arcane #vi x reader #vi x reader fluff #arcane vi x reader #orion’s writing

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misswynters · 6 months ago

Text

Cookie Chaos

featuring. husband! sylus and wife! reader

There was a scent of cinnamon and nutmeg that filled the kitchen, mingling with the holiday music playing softly in the background. The twins, with their small aprons adorned with tiny snowflakes, stood on stools next to the counter, their eager hands reaching for flour and sugar. Their giggles echoed through the room, a sweet melody of joy as they worked under your supervision to bake cookies for the holiday party. You leaned against the kitchen island, watching the scene unfold, the corners of your mouth twitching as you fought to contain your laughter.

Sylus stood at the stove, his expression a mixture of exasperation and mild amusement as he stirred a pot of hot chocolate. “Sweetie,” he muttered, glancing at you with a pointed look, “are you sure this was a good idea?” His voice was low and gruff, but there was a tenderness beneath it that softened the scolding.

Before you could answer, one of the twins who were covered in a dusting of flour, grabbed the measuring cup with both hands and with their excitement, spilled half of it on the counter. Sylus pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled through his teeth. “Careful,” he said, his tone steady but firm. “We’re supposed to be making cookies, not a disaster zone.”

“They’re doing fine,” you said, biting back a laugh as the other twin grabbed a fistful of sprinkles and tossed it into the air like confetti. A rainbow of tiny sugar dots rained down, landing on the counter and the floor. With the chaotic mess of the baking, Sylus carefully cleaned stovetop. Patience running thin.

However before Sylus could protest, the sound of heavy boots echoed through the hallway. Kieran and Luke entered, their grins as mischievous as ever. “What’s this?” Kieran asked, leaning against the doorframe. “A baking party without us? That’s just rude.”

Luke’s sharp eyes scanned the scene, taking in the twins’ messy but enthusiastic efforts. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” he said dryly, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

Sylus groaned, setting the spoon down with a clatter. “No. Absolutely not. You two are not—”

“Too late!” Kieran interrupted, rolling up his sleeves as he strode toward the counter. “We’re already here, might as well help.”

“‘Help,’” Sylus repeated, his tone heavy with skepticism as he crossed his arms. “The last time you two ‘helped,’ the kitchen smelled like burnt sugar for a week.”

Luke shrugged, already picking up a rolling pin. “That’s what happens when you experiment with caramel,” he said matter-of-factly, ignoring Sylus’s glare.

The twins, thrilled by the new additions to their team, clapped their hands and cheered. “Uncle Kieran! Uncle Luke! Look, we’re making cookies!”

Kieran leaned down, his face level with theirs, and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “How about we make the biggest cookie ever? Like, one the size of a plate.”

Sylus’s brows knit together as he straightened his posture, a looming figure of disapproval. “Absolutely not. Stick to the recipe.”

But Kieran was already pouring extra chocolate chips into the batter, much to the twins’ delight. Luke, ever the quieter instigator, grabbed another mixing bowl and began preparing a second batch, muttering something about “adding some flair.”

You couldn’t help it anymore; a laugh escaped you, as you leaned back against the counter. Sylus shot you a look, one brow arched in mock indignation. “Sweetie, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” you said, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of your eye. “But you’ve got to admit, this is pretty entertaining.”

“Entertaining isn’t the word I’d use,” he muttered, his gaze shifting back to Kieran, who was now attempting to juggle eggs to impress the twins. One egg slipped from his grasp, landing with a splat on the floor.

Sylus inhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he grabbed a towel to clean up the mess. “Kieran,” he said, his voice calm but edged with warning, “if you don’t stop acting like a circus act, you’re banned from the kitchen. Permanently.”

Kieran grinned, unrepentant. “Relax, Sylus. It’s the holidays. Live a little.”

Luke, meanwhile, had somehow managed to get powdered sugar on his shirt, his usually impeccable demeanor slightly disheveled. “This is why I don’t cook,” he muttered under his breath, though there was a faint smile on his lips as one of the twins handed him a cookie cutter shaped like a star.

The kitchen became a flurry of activity, with the twins shouting out instructions, Kieran making exaggerated declarations about being the “best baker in the galaxy,” and Luke quietly fixing whatever chaos his brother caused. You watched it all with a full heart, your gaze drifting to Sylus, who was doing his best to keep everything from spiraling out of control.

Despite his grumbles and sighs, there was a softness to his movements as he leaned over to guide one of the twins’ hands while they rolled out dough. His large fingers enveloped their tiny ones, and his voice dropped to a gentle murmur as he explained how to press the cutter firmly into the dough.

“Like this,” he said, demonstrating with patience that belied his usual gruffness. The twin beamed up at him, their face glowing with pride as they successfully cut out a perfect snowman shape.

You caught his eye from across the room and smiled. “You’re a natural, you know.”

Sylus scoffed, though a faint blush crept up his neck. “Don’t start, sweetie.”

By the time the cookies were in the oven, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Flour dusted every surface, sprinkles crunched underfoot, and smudges of chocolate adorned everyone’s cheeks. Kieran had somehow managed to get frosting in his hair, and Luke was carefully peeling a sticky candy cane off his sleeve.

Sylus surveyed the chaos with a resigned sigh, his hands on his hips. “This is what happens when I let you two in here,” he said, his tone more tired than angry.

Kieran clapped him on the back. “Lighten up, Sylus. The kids had fun, didn’t they?”

The twins, now perched on stools, nodded vigorously. “It was the best day ever!” one of them declared, their face glowing with happiness.

Sylus’s expression softened as he looked at them, his annoyance melting away like snow under the sun. “Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “It was.”

As the cookies baked, the family gathered in the living room to wait. The twins, still buzzing with energy, sat on the rug and began sorting through cookie cutters, debating which ones were their favorites. Kieran sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, while Luke leaned against the armchair, his expression one of calm amusement.

You settled into the loveseat next to Sylus, leaning into his side. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “You’re too soft on them,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

“That’s because I know when to pick my battles,” you replied, smiling up at him.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that made your heart flutter. “I’ll never understand how you put up with all this chaos.”

“Because it’s our chaos,” you said, resting your head against his chest. “And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

When the timer dinged, signaling that the cookies were ready, the twins scrambled to the kitchen, dragging Kieran and Luke with them. Sylus followed at a slower pace, his hand resting on your lower back as you walked together.

The cookies, which were golden and abit deformed, was proof of the day’s chaotic and messy effort. As everyone gathered around to taste them, the twins’ laughter rang out, filling the room with warmth. Sylus took a bite and nodded approvingly. “Not bad,” he admitted, earning cheers from the twins.

As the evening wore on and the mess was slowly cleaned, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. And as Sylus wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close for a brief but tender kiss, you knew he felt the same. The cookies will definitely not be taken to the holiday party, maybe you would stop by the store to buy some.

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forsworned · 1 year ago

Text

SWEET NECTAR ft. PUSSYDRUNK!PRICE

𓈒༑•̩̩͙ 𝗌𝗒𝗉𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗌: 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎

𓈒༑•̩̩͙ 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖼𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗌, 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 (𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀), 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗆!𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖾

𓈒༑•̩̩͙ 𝖺/𝗇: 𝗂'𝗅𝗅 𝗃𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 (´꒳`)♡

⤷ links: masterlist rules buy me a coffee!!

Fatigue was submerging into his muscles as he unlocked the door to the shared flat, not bothering to kick off his boots but instead placing his fishing hat on the console before heading to the bedroom. The door slightly ajar and his eyes softened at your sleeping form, so pretty, so...

He sighed at his listless, perverse thoughts, but he couldn't help it when you were wearing that soft pink night slip that clung to you like a second skin. He found himself palming at his hardened member as he leaned against the doorway taking in the sight of you. Honestly, he felt a little drunk from the sleep deprivation, buzzy light headedness that his mission consigned his now weary body as his half lidded gaze set itself upon the peaks of your breasts that rose and fell.

Your body stirring awake, squinting at the familiar form in front of you. "John?" You murmured softly and oh your voice.

Your voice had sent him over the edge, sinking him down to his knees at the end of the bed. His stubble tickling at your inner thigh, lips dotting against the surface of your skin that sent a pleasant shudder up your spine.

Fingers immediately carding into his soft, chestnut hair as you sit up a bit to gaze down at his exhausted form splayed out over your lower half. You couldn't help but chuckle at the fact that he was still fully dressed in uniform.

"Missed you, ducky." He hummed against your inner thigh, millimeters away from your now throbbing core. You licked your lips and flashed him a sweet smile that made his insides go gooey; his eyes might as well have had hearts in them from the way he was gawking up at you adoringly.

A small sigh escaped you. "Yeah?"

He alternated from side to side, showering you with heated kisses, making it unbearably achy between your legs. "Yeah." He breathed out, fanning over your clothed pussy.

"How bad?" You wanted to challenge, but your voice breaks as easily as your resolve in a failed attempted at provocation.

He chuckled as he flickered his sapphire gaze up at you and a sly smile graced his lips. "S'bad, ducky."

And honestly he wasted no time removing your frilly knickers and carelessly tossed them to the side before he dove into your sopping, wet cunt. The way he spat on it before lasciviously devouring you, as his calloused hands caressed your sides and rested at your belly. Lewd noises echoed in your shared bedroom walls both from the squelching of his tongue and mouth against your pussy to the moans and whines that salaciously curled out of your lips.

The way your back arched against the sheets to the way your fingers grasped at his mussed hair and shamelessly grinded against this tongue, Price was fighting the urge to absolutely pound you into the mattress. But he'd settle for the way you obscenely inundated his name while you pathetically writhed beneath his grasp.

Incoherence spluttering from your lips as your chest heaved from the euphoria his tongue was bringing you while he eagerly lapped you up, not quite rough but hungrily. The undivided attention your dripping core was receiving had you whining out for him as your fingers scrambled.

"Missed this sweet pussy." He exhaled as he withdrew from you, admiring the ichorous, dewy sight of your folds reflecting in the dim light from the living room. He gave your cunt a long lick, "So good." Another gluttonous lick. "Fuck, angel." He whispered, before gathering his saliva on your pussy once more and he watched as it sank down your swollen and puffy petals. You involuntarily clenched and he shot you an impish grin. Azure hues fixated on you as he eagerly shunted his flattened tongue from your opening to suckling on your billowy clit, sending your back arching once more as he nestled himself between your legs.

At this point you're begging for release in the form of disjointed pleas and half crescents forming into his scalp. "John...john, please! Need...to cu..."

By way of acknowledging your request, he hummed against your pussy and gently prodded his fingers past your needy folds. He moaned again at the feeling of your tight, wet walls soliciting another whine from you.

"H-hah...John...!" You squeaked out as he curled his fingers barely brushing against your sweet spot that threw you in a fervent daze, causing you to sit up as your jaw went aslack and no words could find a place on your tongue. Just the syrupy sweet, impassioned whines that escaped you as your toes curled, reaching your peak.

He was so lost in you, drinking up all your enraptured gasps and divine honey, feeding his carnal desires. "Cum for me, ducky."

And your orgasm ripped through you, completely coming undone as you cried out in pure pleasure. Though he was still having his fill of you even after, sending you wriggling away from him to which he smiled against you and placed a sweet kiss against your mound before he clambered ontop of you. Giggles filled the room as he held you tight against him and peered down at you lovingly with your sweet nectar coating his pinkened lips.

"Missed you." He beamed. Such an infectious smile he had. It made you grin ear to ear as he leaned forward to tenderly kiss you, tasting yourself on his lips and withdrew a bit too quickly for your liking as he sucked on your bottom lip. The corners of his mouth turned up as he tugged on it ever so gently, bringing it between his teeth before unlatching.

You snickered at the naughty grin on his face. "Missed you too."

His lids were beginning to droop as he gazed down at you and he burrowed himself into the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling your saccharine scent. Your digits gently looped into his hair once more, as he left a little wake of kisses from your jaw to your collarbone.

Sleep began to envelop this unwavering soldier, and soon the sound of his snores were heard and you inwardly chuckled at his incredible timing. All that work just to end up nodding off, though you'd never complain when he was that good.

𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 ࣪ೀ ࣪ 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 © 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

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autumnscribbles · 2 months ago

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the black dog

ex!rafe x reader

summary: six weeks post breakup you check rafe’s location and make an impulsive decision

word count: 700

warnings: cocaine, and sadness

a/n: i tried something new with this one, not too much action and not much dialogue but I tried to be sad, let me know what yall think!!

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

You shouldn’t still have his location.

He just forgot to turn it off. You didn’t have it in you to remove it, either.

It’s not like you checked it. Well, not often anyway. Just when the silence gets too loud. When you’re alone at night with nothing but the sound of your own thoughts flooding your brain. The urge to call him, or text him, rises like bile in the back of your throat.

Mindlessly, you open the app, your eyes trailing to the blue dot signaling his location. It pulsed like a heartbeat you were still somehow connected to. You zoom in to see where he is. The Black Dog. Some bar you hadn’t heard of before. You close the app quickly, like somehow you can pretend you hadn’t seen it.

But it was too late.

All the thoughts came rushing in.

Who was he with? Was he with another girl? Was he out there laughing? Was he thinking about you at all? Did he miss you at all?

“Stop,” you whisper to yourself.

You knew you should put your phone down. Delete his contact, block him, whatever. You should try to forget about him. Unfortunately, despite it being 6 weeks of breathing clean air, you still missed the smoke.

The pain you felt made you want to leave everything behind. Sell your house, set fire to all your clothes, whatever you had to do to get him out of your head. Even if it killed you.

Instead, you picked up your keys, stepped out into the darkness, and drove to The Black Dog.

────୨ৎ────

You can still taste the night you left him, or rather the night he made you leave — bitter, metallic, like blood in your mouth.

It started with the coke. It always did.

You knew the signs by now — the jittery hands, the wildness sparking behind his eyes, the way he spoke too fast.

“Rafe,” you sighed. “This needs to stop. I can’t keep doing this day after day.”

You were trying to help him, and maybe that was the problem.

"You're overreacting," he said, his jagged and manic laugh filling the air between you.

“You’re gonna kill yourself if you don’t stop, Rafe,” you muttered, reaching for him across the marble island.

He laughed as he pulled his hand away from you.

A wild, hollow sound that didn't belong to the boy you loved. It made your skin crawl.

"Maybe I should," he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Might save you the trouble."

“Rafe, how could you even say that,” you started, before he cut you off sharply.

"Just get out."

His voice was sharp enough to cut. His jaw clenched.

You blinked at him, stunned, thinking you must have heard wrong.

"I said get the fuck out!"

The words echoed against the walls, louder than the crash. It made you flinch. This wasn’t the person you fell in love with. This wasn’t the boy that would do anything for you.

Your mouth opened, then closed. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to shake him, make him see what he was doing. He wasn’t in his right mind.

So you did the only thing you thought to do, which was to leave. You got the sense he wanted you to.

Maybe he just wanted to break something before it could break him.

So you turned around and walked out the door.

You waited, even as you yanked open the door, even as you stumbled into the night — you waited for him to chase you.

He didn’t.

Just the sound of the door slamming behind you, sharp and final, and the echo of your own heart breaking in your ears.

────୨ৎ────

You squeeze the steering wheel until your knuckles turned white. It was the only way to stop them from shaking. You stare at the sign, it’s light reflecting on the slightly wet pavement below.

People stumble in and out, laughing, shouting, stumbling — all of them spinning in a world that feels too bright and too loud.

You spot him immediately.

He’s leaning against the brick wall, cigarette dangling between his fingertips. He looks the same, but different somehow. Your heart quickens, fighting the urge to run up to him and spill your guts.

Old habits die hard. Or die screaming.

You didn’t know what you hoped to see. Maybe a sign of sadness, regret, even anger? A sign that he’s suffering as much as you are.

But he just stands there, beautiful and broken and utterly unreachable.

Like he always has.

He didn’t miss you. You just felt it.

You reach to shift the car into drive, but something stops you. Rafe lifts his head, and his eyes find yours across the street. Like he’s been waiting for you this whole time.

Your hand is on the door handle before you can think. You could run up to him, try to talk to him. You could let him potentially pull you back in if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. You knew the reality.

You could let him ruin you again, and part of you wanted to. A big part of you. You almost do it, until you see another girl run out of the bar, her bright smile lighting up as her eyes meet his.

He doesn’t care. He wasn’t waiting for you.

You close your eyes, count to ten, and start the miserable drive home.

The streetlights blur as you drive back home. What were you doing? He was never going to choose you. Never going to chase you.

It hits you again, all at once. You wished you could erase him. You wished you didn’t love him, didn’t miss him, didn’t care.

You feel like you’re drowning in your own tears, drunk on them.

You still ache for the Rafe you thought you knew. The Rafe you knew he could become, even when he made it clear he didn’t want to be saved by you.

You almost got out of the car.

Almost went to him.

Almost let him ruin you all over again.

Under the anger, heartbreak and pain, a quieter truth sent a shiver through your body.

You still, after everything, would have forgiven him.

That’s what scares you the most.

Old habits die screaming.

#rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #outer banks #imagine #obx #rafe cameron fic #drew starkey #drew starkey fic #drew starkey outer banks

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artficlly · 5 months ago

Text

smog & spirits: eye for an eye (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

mob!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, smut, p n v, unprotected sex, table sex, light fingering, hair pulling, begging, past wounds, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: hi!! i spent all of jan doing my 50k word challenge on the daughter of rotsál first draft, but i thought i'd take these first few days of feb to update this fic! i also released a smutty/fluffy oneshot called sweatpea you should check out! my birthday and uni is coming up soon so i'm gonna try squeeze in some more work on the daughter of rotsál draft before that and maybe one more update / another one-shot but i'll see how i go! anyway, enjoy this is a spicy one! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

main masterlist | series masterlist

The shipment warehouse was a vast, hollowed-out space. Shadows stretched long beneath the dim, hanging bulbs. The scent of aged wood, alcohol, and rust lingered in the air, the faint remnants of the whiskey that passed through here on its way to buyers. Though mostly empty, clusters of wooden crates were stacked against the far walls, some sealed, others pried open to reveal their glass cargo, bottles of dark amber liquid reflecting the weak light. Scattered metal production tables dotted the floor, their surfaces scratched and stained from years of work. These were the stations where workers packed the shipments, but now, the tables sat abandoned, save for one.

At the centre of the warehouse, in front of one of the tables, three men sat bound to chairs. Rope bit into their flesh, tight enough that their fingers were already turning an ugly shade of blue. The table before them had been repurposed for something far crueller than packaging liquor. A collection of weapons lay across its surface—blades, hammers, pliers, each one arranged with careful deliberation.

By the main entrance, Steve and Sam stood guard, their figures solid and unmoving, you eyed them cautiously as you passed through the threshold. They didn’t quite meet your eye, and you wondered if they could hear the deafening pulse that roared in your ears. The cold night air filtered in through the open doors behind them, a scattering of ash decorating the stone floor.

Bucky entered beside you, his steps slow and deliberate. But you could feel the unspoken tension rolling off him in waves. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his shoulders squared rigidly, his jaw tight. The walk over from the Sootline had been silent, even if you could practically feel the heat of rage radiating off him. He didn’t seem eager to talk to you, even if his gaze would occasionally flicker to you to make sure you still followed along behind him. Maybe he feared he would find judgment in your eyes because he never held them for long.

“Bucky—” You called out softly, but the gangster shied away from your touch, the fabric of his sleeve slipping through your fingers.

He strode forward, each step heavy, his boots striking against the stone with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound echoed through the warehouse, filling it like a countdown ticking. You knew him. You had to remind yourself of that. You knew this man—the sharp edges of his cruelty, the weight of his fury, the way violence coiled beneath his skin like a second nature. You knew him intimately; you had felt the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his hands, and the steel of his will.

And yet, in this moment, he felt distant. Unreachable.

Even if he was angry, even if he had been cold and dismissive, his rage was not aimed at you. This was because of you. Because of what happened. The thought should have been comforting, a reassurance that you were not in his path and that his wrath had a different target. And yet, the knowledge did little to ease the weight pressing against your bruised ribs; it didn’t stop the breath from hitching in your throat as you took in the scene before you.

You were safe. You knew that.

But safety did nothing to silence the unease creeping through your veins.

The Iron Rats reacted the moment Bucky neared them. Two of them shrank back, their chairs creaking as they futilely tried to recoil from him. Their eyes darted between Bucky and the weapons on the table, their breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. One of them had already begun to tremble, his lips forming silent prayers, his body betraying him as he shook against the restraints.

But the third man—the one at the end—was different. He didn’t cower, didn’t flinch. He simply stared ahead, eyes hollow, his expression unreadable. It was as if he had already accepted whatever was coming and made peace with the inevitable.

“Barnes.” You snapped louder this time, voice clipped. The gangster paused his movements, not even turning to look back as he raised his hand, silencing you with a raise of his index finger.

“I was considerin’ if the bird needed to see this.” He finally broke his silence, voice low with a dangerous edge. “But I think she needs’a understand, don’t ya think?”

His hand struck forward, grasping one of the cowering men’s chins, forcing his head to look in your direction. You could tell his grip was bruising, even from a distance, the skin around his thumb growing white at the pressure. “She needs’a understand what happens to dirty fuckin’ rats that come crawling into my territory.”

Bucky released the man with a sharp shove, and the Iron Rat nearly sobbed in relief, his chair rocking back violently from the force. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Bucky barely spared him a glance. Instead, he dragged his fingers down the front of his suit jacket in one broad stroke as if ridding himself of the filth he had just touched.

Then, without looking, he reached for the table, his fingers curling around the worn handle of a butcher’s knife. The blade was thick and heavy, meant to cleave through bone as quickly as meat. As he lifted it, it scraped against the metal tabletop, the sound sharp and grating—final.

Bucky turned to you, his fingers curling around the handle, weighing it in his grip like an executioner deliberating his next stroke. His gaze pinned you in place.

“Left or right, doll?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut.

“What?” You stammered back in response.

“Left or right?” His voice was eerily steady, too casual for the brutality hanging in the air. It was as if he were asking you to pick a wine for dinner, not deciding which limb would be lost. Your throat tightened. The Iron Rats were barely breathing, one whimpering, his chair creaking under his tremors.

You forced your voice to work. “Barnes, don’t you think we’ve caused enough damage?”

You knew you'd made a mistake the second the words left your lips.

Bucky’s head snapped towards you, his jaw ticking, something dark and dangerous flickering behind his eyes. The shift in him was immediate, electric. He abandoned the bound man without hesitation, closing the space between you in a few sharp strides. Your pulse stuttered.

He was on you in seconds, looming, his presence suffocating. You turned your head instinctively as his breath fanned hot across your cheek, but there was no escaping him.

“No.”

The single word was like a hammer shattering stone.

“We ‘aven’t caused nearly enough damage after what they did.” His voice, low and venomous, left no room for argument. His free hand clenched at his side, fingers twitching with barely contained rage. “You think I’m gonna let these filthy fuckin’ rats walk away after puttin’ their hands on you? Huh? After hurtin’ you right under my fuckin’ nose?”

Your breath caught, your ribs tightening under the weight of his fury. He leant in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed your ear. His words were a vow, a sentence carved in stone when he spoke next. “You’re under my protection. Mine. You’re mine. So fuckin’ choose, doll. Left or right?”

Your stomach twisted. The Iron Rats were silent, frozen, waiting for your answer as if it were their final prayer. You swallowed.

“…Right.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a razor-sharp thing, all teeth and no kindness. His eyes gleamed with something feverish, something manic.

“Good girl,” he purred. The praise was smooth, almost sweet, but his grip on the knife tightened, knuckles whitening around the handle. And then he turned. The Iron Rat barely had time to process what was happening before Bucky moved.

The butcher’s knife came down in a single, brutal arc.

A sickening crack filled the warehouse as steel met flesh and bone, followed by a scream so raw, so agonised, it turned your stomach. The man convulsed against his restraints, his bound arms jerking wildly, but there was nowhere to go.

Blood splattered across the metal tabletop, dark and glistening. It pooled. Dripped and painted the concrete floor beneath him. His severed hand tumbled to the ground with a dull thud, fingers twitching uselessly in the growing puddle of red.

Bucky barely spared the carnage a glance. “You touched her,” he said coldly, voice devoid of sympathy.

“So I took your fuckin’ hand.” He tilted his head, considering the sobbing, writhing man before him. “Consider it generous that I ain’t takin’ both.”

The Iron Rat howled, his body convulsing. Tears streamed down his face, his cries dissolving into choked, incoherent pleas for mercy. Bucky wasn’t listening. He wiped the blade clean against his sleeve, smearing crimson across the dark fabric like a war trophy. Then, slowly, he turned to the second man, pointing the stained blade at him.

“Your turn.”

The second Iron Rat thrashed in his chair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His eyes, wild with terror, darted between Bucky and the ruined stump of the first man. Blood still poured from the wound, pooling beneath the chair, seeping into the cracks of the warehouse floor. The stench of it—sharp, metallic, raw—hung thick in the air.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, I—I didn’t even—”

Bucky slammed a heavy hand down on his shoulder, silencing him with a violent jolt. The Iron Rat flinched, chest heaving, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. Bucky turned to you again, the knife glinting under the dim warehouse lights.

“Left or right?”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails digging deep enough to leave crescent moons in your skin, but the sting barely registered. Your mind screamed at you, an urgent, panicked voice clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Stop this. Say something. Tell him it’s enough.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew the truth now, Bucky wouldn’t listen. Any sense of cold calculation had snapped within him, as if his father himself had possessed his body. His blood was up, his fury ran red-hot and unchecked. Reason was a foreign concept to him in this moments, swallowed whole by vengeance and violence.

Your breath felt thin as you watched him, as you remembered what was left of Varlan Crey. The Rat King, so smug, so untouchable, had been brought to his knees. Felled not by magic or blades, but by the sheer, unrelenting wrath of Bucky Barnes. He had survived, maybe by the hand of a small mercy. Or maybe just dumb luck. Because you had seen it—the flicker of real, unguarded fear in Crey’s eyes. The raw understanding that, for the first time, he had stood at the very edge of death and only barely stepped back in time.

You swallowed, throat dry as dust. “Left.”

A shuddering breath left the Iron Rat, some final, pitiful sound before—

Bucky moved.

The blade came down hard.

The crack of severed bone and the wet, visceral tear of flesh split through the warehouse. The man’s scream ripped through the air, raw and broken, his body jerking violently against the chair. Blood sprayed across the table, warm and thick, dripping onto the floor. His severed hand landed with a sickening slap, fingers twitching before they went still.

Bucky tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders, keeping him from toppling the chair over as he convulsed in agony. He wiped the blade again, slow and deliberate, his gaze flicking to the last Iron Rat—the one who hadn’t made a sound.

The man met Bucky’s eyes with an eerie, empty calm.

No trembling. No pleading. Just quiet resignation.

A slight, bitter smile played at the edges of his lips as he tilted his head, gesturing to his left hand, which was secured against the arm of the chair. A soldier offering himself to the executioner.

Bucky exhaled sharply, amused. “Good choice.”

And then he brought the knife down.

The man grunted as the blade severed flesh and bone in one clean stroke, but he didn’t scream. His body twitched, stiffening against the pain, but he bit it down. His severed hand dropped onto the table this time, fingers curling inward, as if gripping something unseen. Blood seeped from the wound, a slow, steady stream.

Bucky studied him for a moment, almost impressed.

Then, satisfied, he tossed the knife onto the table with a dull clang. The first two Iron Rats were still crying, writhing, staring at their stumps like they could somehow undo what had been done. The third just slumped in his chair, pale and shaking, but silent.

“I think I should take an eye next, for even lookin’ at you. What’d you think, doll?” Exhaustion lay heavy in your bones as your eyes fluttered shut briefly. Bucky was upon you again, his gaze softer now, the fury still burning beneath the surface but tempered. He reached for you, his bloodied fingers grazing your arm in a touch that was meant to be comforting. “Eye for an eye, after all.”

“I don’t…” You stammered but leant into his touch by default. Steve and Sam had adverted their eyes, their expressions unreadable as they pressed their lips into a line.

“I’ll choose for ya, how’s that sound, doll?” He rubbed a bloodied thumb across your cheek. You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping something in your eyes could pull him away. But his eyes settled on the faded split in your lip, and his gaze hardened. “They have to pay.”

Bucky stalked off towards the array of weapons displayed along the table once more. The knife he chose gleamed under the dim light, and Bucky tested the edge against his thumb. A single bead of red welled up but he paid it no mind. His attention was elsewhere—on the trembling man before him, the one still staring at his bleeding stump, breath hitching in raw, animalistic terror.

“Please,” the Iron Rat sobbed, voice wet, desperate. “Please, Barnes, I can’t—I—”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like the weight of their begging was nothing more than an inconvenience. His hand was steady, practiced, as he tapped the knife tip against the man’s chin, tilting his face up.

“Didn’t fuckin’ ask for pleas,” he murmured, voice eerily even. “Left or right?”

The man shuddered violently. He turned slightly, eyes flicking to you as though you could save him as if you had any say. You swallowed, your tongue thick and useless, pinned in place by the weight of Bucky’s presence and the inevitability of what came next.

When no answer came, Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“Left it is.” The knife sank into the man’s left eye in a swift, brutal motion. A high and raw shriek tore through the room, sending a shudder through your bones.

You flinched, but only slightly. The movement barely registered.

You had seen Bucky covered in blood before, had seen him like this before—violent, efficient, merciless. Yet you had also seen him in moments far removed from this carnage.

You had watched him bleed and had pressed your hands to his wounds to keep him from slipping away. You had felt his warmth seeping between your fingers, his breath shallow but steady as he let you take care of him. He had trusted you then, let you see him vulnerable when he could have just as easily pushed you away.

He had defended you against the Rat King, standing between you and the man who had wanted to carve you apart. If it hadn’t been for him, would you have been at the mercy of the Iron Rats? Tied to a chair like the three men before you? There had been no hesitation in him then, just like there was none now. And it was all for you.

The thought made your stomach tighten, but not in fear. Not entirely.

Bucky wiped the knife clean on the Iron Rat’s pant leg, a simple, thoughtless movement, and turned to the last man. The final Iron Rat had been silent the entire time, watching the carnage with eerie detachment. Even now, as the scent of blood thickened the air and his fallen comrades moaned and sobbed, his expression barely shifted. He only blinked, slow and deliberate, as Bucky approached.

“Ya know what I’m gonna ask,” Bucky said, voice quieter this time.

A pause.

Then, a small sigh.

“Right,” the man murmured, resigned.

Something flickered in Bucky’s expression—curiosity, maybe. Approval. He didn’t make him wait. The blade sank deep, and though the Iron Rat tensed, his breath hitching sharply, he made no sound. Blood welled, thick and dark, spilling down his cheek, but he simply slumped against the restraints, his ruined eye weeping crimson.

Bucky lingered, staring at him, head tilted slightly. Considering. Perhaps even disappointed.

Bucky only clicked his tongue before turning back to you. The shift was subtle but immediate. The hardness in his expression softened, his eyes no longer carrying the cold fury he had wielded so effortlessly moments before. His hand, still warm despite the blood smeared across his fingers, reached for you, grazing your waist.

“See, doll?” he murmured. “Now they know.”

Your breath caught.

You should have felt horror. Revulsion. But instead, as you looked at him—his jaw speckled with blood, his chest rising and falling evenly, the fire still smouldering behind his eyes—you felt something else entirely. Something that made your fingers twitch, something that made your chest tighten.

Maybe, just maybe, this was more than just lust.

You weren’t sure whether that should’ve terrified you.

But at that moment, staring up at him, your heart still pounding, you weren’t sure you cared.

—

Bucky quickly issued his orders: everyone was to leave but you. Sam and Steve moved without hesitation, grabbing a bloodied, barely conscious Iron Rat by the scruff of their necks and dragging them towards the exit. The metallic scent of blood lingered in the cold warehouse air, thick and rich, settling into your lungs with each breath.

Bucky didn’t watch them leave.

He stood with his back turned, broad shoulders taut, tension coiling through his body like a predator still primed for the kill. His suit jacket lay discarded on the blood-splattered table. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled to his elbows, the fabric marred with streaks of red. His hands—still wet with it—hung at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if the violence hadn’t yet left his system.

You hesitated before moving, carefully stepping past the grotesque remnants of severed hands littering the floor. You focused on him instead, on the way his body seemed stretched too tight like he was waiting for another enemy to appear from the shadows.

Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, smoothing a hand over his forearm. The muscles beneath your fingers were rigid but warm, his pulse steady despite the chaos he’d unleashed.

“You showed them your hand,” you murmured, your voice soft and testing. “What will you do now?”

Your fingers traced a slow path up his arm, featherlight over the muscle, following the curve of his shoulder. When he didn’t pull away, you grew bolder, stepping around him until you stood before him. His face was speckled with blood; the scarlet splattered across his jaw and streaked along the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes, cold and unreadable just moments ago, stirred—just barely—as they settled on you.

“They needed to be taught a lesson,” he said simply, his voice still edged with the lingering embers of rage. A repetition of the words he’d spoken before.

You sighed through your nose, your hands splaying across his chest. His shirt was warm beneath your touch, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding you. You pressed yourself flush against him, seeking—what? Comfort? Reassurance? An answer you weren’t sure you wanted?

“Yes,” you conceded, your voice quieter now, steadier. “But you’ve shown ‘em your hand.”

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric, gripping him, holding him there with you. “You’ve told ‘em another woman is close to you—other than your sister. One that commands enough of your attention for you to do this.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Ya scared, doll?”

“No.” The answer was immediate, instinctive—but the certainty of it wavered, even in your own mind. Was that really the truth? “I just want to understand why you’d expose a weakness like that.”

He snorted softly, his bloodstained hands coiling around your waist, holding you there. His grip was firm and possessive but not forceful. There was no threat in his touch, only something else, something deeper, something that made your stomach twist.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe he would finally say something—something real. Something sweet. He always left you with vague declarations of ownership and lust.

Because he cared, he had to—right? No man would do what he had done tonight if he didn’t care. No man would make a spectacle of his violence, an open display of his wrath for the sake of a woman if she meant nothing? He had carved his rage into flesh and blood for you and left a message in the ruined bodies of those men. You mattered to him.

Didn’t you?

But when he finally spoke, his words weren’t what you wanted.

“You have your worth, spirit-raiser.”

A flicker of disappointment bloomed in your gut. You could have pulled away. Should have, maybe. But you didn’t because you needed something from him: reassurance, protection. Proof that he would stand between you and whatever enemies would inevitably come for you now that he had placed you in the centre of this war.

Perhaps tonight had been proof enough.

Conflict and confusion pressed heavily in your chest, warring with the heat between you.

Fuck Becca’s warnings.

There was something here, wasn’t there?

Your hand slid up, fingers ghosting over the rough stubble of his jaw. You cradled his face, pulling him closer. His breath was warm, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey and blood, and for a moment, you hesitated—just a moment—before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky responded instantly, like a man starved, his eager hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity as if grounding himself in your presence. A sharp wince pricked at your ribs, but the hunger in his kiss quickly drowned it out. His lips moved against yours with fervour, rough and consuming, parting only to let his tongue sweep into your mouth, claiming and demanding. You melted into him, your body yielding beneath his, heat pooling low in your stomach as his touch ignited something primal in you.

He moved with purpose, guiding you backwards. His hands were restless, roaming up your spine, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your blouse, searching, craving skin. The cool air kissed your exposed flesh as he fumbled with your buttons, the urgency in his touch making his movements clumsy. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss as your own hands wandered lower, gliding down the firm planes of his chest. The taut muscle beneath his white collared shirt flexed beneath your palms, solid and unyielding.

His breath hitched slightly as you dragged your nails over the crisp fabric, feeling the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath. You felt the shudder in his body as your fingers found the buttons of his vest, slipping them free with deliberate ease. Bucky’s hands found your breasts, moulding the soft flesh through your brassiere with a rough, needy grip, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks in slow, teasing circles. Your head tipped back, a breathy sigh escaping your lips as heat coursed through you.

The vest was discarded in a swift motion, tossed aside without care, and before you could fully react, Bucky’s strong hands lifted you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the cold metal of the production table. The chill of it sent a shiver through your body. Still, the heat between you and him was overwhelming, obliterating any thought. His body pressed between your legs, the hard line of him nestling against you through the fabric of your skirts.

His mouth devoured yours again, possessive and unrelenting, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a sharp, fleeting bite before his tongue soothed the sting. You whimpered quietly into his mouth. Clinging to him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan from deep within his chest. His thumb grazed over your nipple, teasing through the lace, and your breath hitched.

The world beyond this moment ceased to exist. There was only Bucky—his touch, his breath, his desire pressed into your skin like a brand. And you welcomed it. Welcomed him.

You could already feel the hard length of him, pressing insistently against your inner thigh through the layers of fabric. His heat was unmistakable, searing even through the barrier of clothing, and a shiver rolled through you. The anticipation was unbearable. You reached for his belt, fingers nimble and eager—

But Bucky chuckled, low and deep, knocking your hands away with an easy flick of his wrist. His pupils were blown wide, dark pools of hunger that drank you in as you leant back on your elbows, your body sprawled out before him. His lips were swollen, slick with the mingled taste of you both, his breath warm against your skin. Your chest heaved, one breast exposed where he had tugged it free from your brassiere, the cool air sending a shiver through you.

“Greedy, ain’t ya?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, but his touch was anything but teasing. His hand slid beneath the heavy fabric of your skirt, fingers dragging up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You barely had time to process the sensation before he grabbed the delicate waistband of your tap pants and tore them down your legs, the lace rasping against your skin as he wrenched them past your ankles and boots.

The discarded scrap of fabric landed somewhere on the warehouse floor, forgotten. His hands were already on you again, possessive, insatiable. You let out a low groan, head falling back as he trailed a digit through your wet slit, humming in delight as he found you already dripping with desire. “Don’t need an arousal potion for this, do we?”

You ignored his quip, instead wrapping your legs around his waist. He chuckled at you, rewarding your eagerness by pressing one of his digits into your cunt. You clenched around him with a whimper, hips rocking as you internally begged for more friction.

“Let me hear your noises, doll.” Bucky commanded, his spare hand trailing up your thigh. You whined softly, bucking your hips once more in a silent plea. The gangster smirked down at you, pressing a second digit into you as you squirmed beneath him.

“Please, Bucky.” You mewled, pulling him closer with the legs hooked around his back. He obliged, slowly pumping his fingers in and out. You could hear the squelching of your wetness, your body shuddering with impatience at the leisurely pace.

“You want more?” He purred, teasing you with a quick flick of your clit with his thumb. You clenched around him involuntarily, a breathy gasp leaving your mouth as pleasure rocked up your spine, a new wave of electricity flooding your gut.

You pushed yourself up, hands grasping his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his shirt as you pulled your bodies flush. The heat of him seeped into you, intoxicating, overwhelming. Your mouth found the column of his throat, breath hitching as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to his exposed skin. His pulse thrummed beneath your lips, quick and heavy, and you traced it with your tongue, savouring the salt of his skin.

Bucky let out a sharp exhale as you dragged your mouth along his adam’s apple, teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh before sucking a bruise into his neck. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, but you didn’t care. You wanted them. You wanted him to brand himself into your skin the way he had branded himself into your mind.

“Please,” you breathed against his ear, voice hushed, desperate. Your tongue flicked along the shell, teasing, before you nipped at his earlobe, letting your teeth catch just enough to make him groan. “I need you inside me.”

The words sent a shudder through him, a growl vibrating deep in his chest. “Turn around, bend over the table. Now.”

Your head tilted, temple resting against the firm plane of his shoulder as you gazed up at him, your breath uneven. His fingers twitched inside you, a steady rhythm still building, each pump igniting a slow, unbearable heat in your core. A sharp gasp left your lips as pleasure twisted through you, your body tensing in response.

“My ribs—” you managed to gasp, wincing as the dull ache reminded you of your bruises.

Bucky stilled for a moment, a flicker of something soft crossing his face, a rare moment of tenderness blooming between the two of you. His breath was warm against your cheek as he considered your words, his free hand smoothing over your hip as though grounding you.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured, low and reassuring, though the husk of his voice betrayed his restraint. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Gentle. A rare promise from a man like him.

Then, just as quickly as he had stilled, he withdrew. A wet heat lingered in the absence of his fingers, and you shuddered, your walls clenching around nothing. A soft whimper escaped before you could stop it, your body betraying the ache of emptiness. You unhooked your legs from around his waist, knees wobbling as you moved, turning yourself around atop the table.

The cold metal kissed your stomach as you laid your front flat against it, one breast still bare from where he had pulled the fabric away. A shuddering breath left you, anticipation thick in your veins as you braced yourself against the surface, your hips lining up with the edge.

Behind you, you heard the sharp metallic clink of his belt buckle, followed by the slow rasp of leather sliding free. The head of his cock pressed against your slick opening, teasing but not quite entering. You whined into the table as his large hands stroked up the back of your thighs, gripping the flesh.

“So wet,” he muttered. His voice was thick with hunger as he pushed your skirts up, bunching the fabric around your waist, leaving you utterly exposed to him. His hands trailed down, calloused palms smoothing over the curve of your ass before he spread you open, admiring the slick evidence of your need. “So good for me, huh, doll?”

A desperate whimper left you, your body shivering under his touch. You pressed your folded forearms beneath your chest, arching your back in an attempt to save your bruised ribs from the unforgiving metal table.

Then, at last, he pressed into you.

A gasp tore from your throat, your body instinctively tensing as he stretched you open. The intrusion was thick and slow, overwhelming at first, your cunt clenching down against the pressure of him. Your teeth sank into the flesh of your thumb, muffling the choked moan that threatened to spill free. Bucky cursed under his breath, withdrawing just enough before easing back in, working you open with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Ya like this, don’t ya?” His voice was low and strained, his grip tightening on your hips as he pinned you in place. The firm drag of him inside you sent sparks of heat flooding through your veins. “Like me claimin’ you? Like knowin’ I’d fuckin’ tear through them bastards just to keep ya safe?”

A broken moan left you, your body trembling against the metal. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms as he set a steady rhythm, each thrust pressing you further against the table. The slick, filthy sounds of your bodies moving together filled the empty warehouse, the echo of skin meeting skin mixing with your ragged breaths.

Bucky groaned, his hands wrapping around your hips as he rocked into you harder, deeper, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. Your mind swam, the bruising grip of his fingers the only thing tethering you to reality.

“Tell me, doll.” His voice was rough, a demand wrapped in silk and sin. His hips snapped forward, driving into you so deep it left you gasping. “Tell me how much you want this.”

“Please—” The word came out in a small, needy sob, your voice trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

Bucky growled, a deep, guttural sound. One of his hands abandoned your waist, sliding up the length of your back before tangling in your hair. His fingers twisted into the strands, yanking your head back with a sharp tug. A strangled moan burst from your lips, your back arching instinctively. Your nails scraped against the metal table, searching for purchase as he fucked into you harder, faster.

The steady, brutal rhythm of his hips grew relentless. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. A filthy symphony of desperate moans, ragged breathing, and the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into you echoed. Bucky groaned, the sound low and primal as he chased his release. His grip on your hip was vice-like, anchoring you in place as he pounded into you without mercy. You could only hope Sam and Steve weren’t lingering nearby to hear the sinful chorus of your pleasure.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as your body tensed, pleasure spiking hot and fast through your veins. Your legs trembled beneath you, knees nearly buckling as your orgasm coiled, threatening to snap.

Then he tugged your hair again, the sting mingling with the pleasure in a dizzying rush, and you came undone.

Your cunt clenched around his cock, a strangled moan ripping from your lips as your body spasmed beneath him. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure flooding through you in rolling waves. Wetness dripped down your inner thighs, evidence of your release slicking his length as he fucked you through the aftershocks.

Bucky let out a deep, shuddering moan, his hips stuttering as he followed you into bliss. His grip on you tightened, his cock pulsing as he spilt inside you, filling you with hot, thick ropes of cum. He kept thrusting, his movements growing erratic, chasing the last remnants of pleasure as he wrung out every drop of ecstasy.

His fingers slowly uncurled from your hair, his grip loosening as the tension drained from his body. You collapsed against the table, breathless and spent. You lay motionless beneath him, allowing him to use you as he rode out the final waves of his release, his heavy breaths mingling with yours.

Gods, you were going to need to take an anti-pregnancy potion after this.

PART EIGHT

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kingdom-of-peace · 2 months ago

Text

Spotlight. pt.3 | N.R

Older!News Anchor!Natasha x Younger!Female!Professor Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, one of the most recognized faces in television, finds herself under unexpected scrutiny when a young academic’s lecture on media ethics gains traction online — setting the stage for an unlikely rivalry that blurs the line between enemies and something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha laste 30s. reader 27ish), implied smut

Word Count: 5.3k+

A/N: Honestly, I struggled a bit with this chapter, but here it is. Also, university has started again, so I’m not sure how regularly I’ll be able to update. FYI English isn’t my first language.

As you step onto the stage, the applause still lingered in the air, a faint echo from Natasha’s introduction. Your nerves were frayed—your thoughts scattered. Though the applause had begun to fade, you were almost certain you hear a few excited cheers from the back. The lights hit you full force, momentarily blinding, but then you see her—already seated, composed, back straight and expression unreadable under the stage glow. Your eyes meet for a split second. It’s fleeting, but unmistakable: the glint of a challenge in her gaze, as she seems to look right into your soul.

In that moment, you’re fairly certain you forget how to breathe. You don’t even recall shaking Karen Page’s hand—somehow, you’re just suddenly seated between Carol and Wanda, heart pounding in your ears. Natasha remains at the far end of the panel, her gaze unwavering. You cast her a quick glance again and just as quickly look away.

The blonde moderator opened the talk with a few light questions, easing the panel into a comfortable rhythm. But for you, everything blurred into background noise. Your thoughts were spinning, your focus slipping. Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be her? Sitting there like she owned the space— back straight, composed, unreadable, Natasha Romanoff was the last person you wanted to see tonight.

Maybe she hadn’t seen the lecture. Maybe she didn’t connect the dots —just one more critic lost in the noise. But from the way she looked at you, calm and razor-edged, you already knew better. Then you remembered Wanda’s words from earlier—her oddly specific interest in your work, the way she lit up when talking about your thesis. It hit you like a punch. Wanda worked for the same network. Of course she did. And if Wanda knew... Natasha definitely knew. They could be colleagues. Friends, even.

Your stomach sinks.

Two full hours. Two hours of sharing a stage with a woman who might very well despise you. And if she didn’t before, she might by the time this is over. A soft nudge pulls you out of your thoughts. Wanda, seated beside you, gives you a subtle look—Karen had asked you something.

You blink, scrambling to re-enter the moment. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” you ask, offering a sheepish smile. The audience chuckles, the tension lightened for just a moment. But on the far end of the table, Natasha doesn’t laugh—she just watches. Still. Quiet. Waiting.

Natasha could hardly believe what she was seeing. You, sitting across from her, drawing laughter from the audience with that nervous charm and awkward humility—as if you belonged here. As if this wasn’t some elaborate stunt. Her jaw tightened. She would absolutely be having a word with the event manager and Pepper. Why hadn’t anyone warned her? A heads-up, even a vague mention, would have spared her the whiplash and she could have prepared, maybe even not attended at all.

Theories surged in her mind, each more irrational than the last but fuelled by the unmistakable sting of anger and betrayal. Had you tracked her? Dug up where she’d published, manipulated connections, pulled strings? Maybe you had gotten cozy with the right people—slept your way into a book deal just to ride the same wave she had. And now here you were, smugly seated across from her, like this panel was some twisted stage you’d orchestrated just to taunt her.

Well, if it was mind games you wanted, you were about to learn exactly how far Natasha Romanoff would go when someone tried to outmanoeuvre her.

Then your thesis comes up.

“Professor, in your recent paper, you argue that modern journalism blurs the line between information and branding. Some would say that’s a direct critique of network television—and perhaps even of our own Ms. Romanoff. Would you agree?”

You feel the bottom drop out. Of course, everybody on the damn planet had seen it.

Your voice is even, but inside, you're scrambling. “The argument wasn’t about individuals,” you begin carefully. “But about the system. News anchors—intentionally or not—can shape public perception through their tone, their language, their posture. That kind of influence comes with a responsibility we often overlook.”

Natasha leaned forward, her smile razor-thin. Just as Karen opened her mouth to speak, she cut in—calm, composed, but unmistakably firm. “That’s an interesting perspective,” she says smoothly. “Though it’s easy to critique the system when you’re not the one inside it. The pressure, the immediacy, the responsibility to tell the truth—those aren’t abstract ideas in a newsroom. They’re our job.”

You nod slowly. “I understand. But responsibility doesn’t vanish under pressure. If anything, it grows.”

Her eyes narrow. “So, visibility equals corruption? Or just when it applies to people like me?”

Wanda tried to defuse the tension with a diplomatic interjection. “I think what she’s getting at is institutional, not personal. We’ve all seen the shift—news turning into entertainment, anchors into personalities. It’s not about us. It’s about the landscape of media in general.”

You pick up the thread, grateful. “Exactly. I didn’t mean it personally. It’s about systemic trends.” Natasha chuckles, but there’s no humour in it.

“Funny. It felt personal yesterday evening, when my name was trending all over the internet. Or maybe just scrolling through hundreds of comments accusing me of selling out—after your lecture aired.”

The room stills. You open your mouth to respond, but Natasha cuts in.

“But I suppose someone barely old enough to rent a car wouldn’t understand the weight of public trust. The world isn’t a paper you can edit until it says what you want it to.” A few murmurs ripple through the audience.

The age jab lands harder than it should.

Your jaw clenches. Maybe you were young. Maybe you didn’t have two decades of newsroom experience. But you had fought for your place in the world—sleepless nights, self-doubt gnawing at your insides, deadlines you thought would break you. And you made it. On your own merit.

Karen tries to pivot, sensing the heat, but you find your voice again—clearer this time. Sharper. “Maybe you’re right,” you say, tone steady. “But critical distance gives people like me perspective. When you’re too deep inside a machine, it’s easy to stop questioning how it works. Or who it’s serving.”

A beat of silence. Karen blinks, searching for a lifeline. Wanda stiffens. Steven shifts uncomfortably. Carol looks longingly towards the exit. But Natasha leans in, voice low and lethal.

“So now I’m complicit? Part of a corrupt system? Tell me—do you think I enjoy lying to the public?”

You hold her gaze. “I think you stopped asking yourself if you were.” Gasps ripple through the audience.

Phones go up. Live streams start. Someone in the back mutters “Oh my god. It’s happening”

And that’s when it truly begins. Not a shouting match. Something colder. Sharper. Like duelling match but with two intelligent women at the forefront. You trade backhanded insults. Philosophical jabs. Ethically loaded hypotheticals. Every word is laced with meaning—some direct, some so subtle only the two of you could hear the real message.

Wanda watches like she’s witnessing the final round of a high-stakes tennis match. Stephen Strange throws in a joke or two to lighten the mood, but they don’t land.

Karen finally steps in, voice strained, redirecting the conversation with white-knuckle control. “Let’s shift gears for a moment. We’ll now open the floor for audience questions.”

Hands shot up.

The panel moderator silently hoped the audience questions might shift toward safer ground—perhaps touching on publishing trends or media literacy in schools—but of course, the spotlight remained locked on the two women. A few polite questions were tossed toward the other panellists, but it was clear where the room's tension—and attention—truly lay.

A woman in the third row stood. “This is for both the Professor and Ms. Romanoff. Do you think the rise of personal branding among journalists is helping or hurting public discourse?”

Natasha answered first. “It’s both. We live in an age where people expect authenticity. They don’t trust faceless institutions. A strong personal voice cuts through the noise.”

You replied a beat later. “And that’s true—but the danger is that sometimes that voice becomes the story. And when that happens, we lose the ability to separate opinion from fact.”

The audience member raised an eyebrow. “So, are you saying Ms. Romanoff is contributing to that confusion?”

You hesitated. “I’m saying the system rewards performance more than accuracy. And she’s a Master of Performance.”

There it was.

The crowd leaned in.

Natasha didn’t flinch. “Better a master of performance than a theorist who’s never seen the battlefield.”

The audience let out a collective gasp at both veiled insult, the tension now drawn tight like a wire stretched to its limit. Sensing the rising intensity—and with several more questions circling the same charged dynamic—Karen Page eventually cleared her throat and began steering the panel toward its closing remarks. “Thank you to our panellists for such a vivid discussion. We’ll end the formal portion here. Audience members are welcome to stay for a reception in the lobby, where you can meet the authors and speakers directly.”

You exhaled slowly, unsure if you had survived or ignited something irreversible.

The applause is cautious, like the audience isn’t sure if it should clap—or brace for the aftershocks. But even as the cameras shut off and the studio begins to clear, you can feel her watching you. Still. And this time, you don’t look away.

But then, without a word, she turns abruptly—shoulders stiff, pace brisk—and disappears behind the stage curtain. You hesitate for only a second before walking in the opposite direction, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the quiet hush of backstage.

You took a breath and stepped back into the corridor, where a few assistants were already guiding the panellists toward the reception area. Wanda gave you a soft pat on the shoulder as she passed—no words, just a knowing glance that said you survived, somehow. Carol offered a half-smile, but even she looked mildly shell-shocked.

You stood off to the side of the stage, applause still echoing faintly in your ears. The panel had ended—technically. But inside, you were still unravelling.

You weren’t sure what the crowd had seen. A debate? A spectacle? A duel?

What you did know was that her words were still humming in your chest, sharp-edged and carefully aimed. And your own—honest, maybe too honest—had landed too.

- - -

The reception hall was already filling with people—readers, students, faculty, media professionals, all buzzed from the evening’s tension like they'd just witnessed something barely contained. A few tables had been set with drinks and finger food, but no one was really eating. Too many eyes scanning the room. Too many whispered conversations.

You felt Darcy’s hand slip into yours from the side.

“Okay, I take it back,” she whispered. “That was not just a panel. That was academic Thunderdome.”

You tried to laugh. It came out as a weak exhale.

People started approaching. Some with wide eyes, offering praise about your “courage” and “sharpness,” others asking polite, half-veiled questions about whether the clash had been staged. A few people tried to steer the conversation toward the thesis itself, but inevitably, it circled back to Natasha.

“You really held your ground,” someone said, admiration mixed with morbid curiosity.

“I don’t know how you weren’t intimidated by her,” another added. “She’s like a myth.”

You smiled where appropriate, answered what you could, but your eyes kept drifting to the entrance. Natasha hadn’t come out to mingle yet. Either she’d slipped away entirely or she was somewhere behind closed doors, recalibrating. You couldn’t blame her. You were half considering doing the same.

At some point, a well-dressed man from the publisher approached you with a glass of wine and a proud smile. “You’ve stirred quite the conversation tonight,” he said. “You may want to prepare for a few interview requests this week.”

Great. Exactly what you wanted.

More cameras. More scrutiny. More chances for Natasha Romanoff to see your face and remember what you’d said.

Darcy leaned in again. “Please tell me we can go get pizza after this.”

You nodded faintly, your gaze still on the door. “If I make it out alive, first round’s on me.”

You were halfway through your third interview—this time with a podcast producer who introduced herself as “just here to amplify sharp women”—when it happened.

The energy in the room shifted. Not subtly. Not gently.

It was like someone flipped a switch and every head in the reception turned. The low murmur of conversation softened, then sharpened again—but now it was different, laced with excitement.

You didn’t need to look to know. Natasha Romanoff had entered the room.

You kept your focus on the question being asked—something about how your academic work translates to non-scholarly spaces—but your voice faltered for a beat as the sound of camera shutters, screams and faint enthusiastic greetings swept in like a wave. Since when where news anchors precepted like superstars, maybe you judgement of her influence was false, people seemed to worship her.

“Miss Romanoff, can we get a picture?”

“Could you sign this?”

“Your last broadcast was incredible—I never miss The Hour!”

Natasha’s voice rose softly above the rest, gracious and calm, expertly controlled like the rhythm of her show. You glanced up, just for a second.

She was glowing in the spotlight of attention. Not performatively—effortlessly. Every gesture efficient. Every smile precise. She signed autographs with ease, posed for a few selfies, exchanged short, perfectly worded compliments with admirers. A young journalism student nervously asked about her career path, and Natasha offered a few polished sentences that somehow sounded both spontaneous and quotable.

She never once looked your way.

But the smirk curled at the corner of her lips said enough.

She was enjoying herself—enjoying the control, the admiration, the way the audience moved to orbit her again, as they always did. You recognized it not as arrogance, but something sharper. Intentional.

She was reminding everyone—and you—why she was the face of network journalism.

Your interviewer, oblivious to the spiral tightening in your chest, leaned in again. “Sorry, what were you saying about bridging the gap between theory and practice?”

You blinked, tore your gaze away, and forced the academic answer back onto your tongue, even as the weight of her presence settled at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow stretching across the room.

Because whether she looked at you or not—she was there. And somehow, that felt louder than anything she’d said on stage.

Natasha hadn’t stormed off stage, but her exit had been swift—unapologetically so. Down the corridor, past the waiting crew, into the solitude of her dressing room. Her name was printed in gold lettering on a paper placard taped to the door. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality, shutting out the residual noise of applause and questions and commentary.

The lights above the mirror hummed as she stared at herself—flawless on the outside, but her mind was still echoing with your voice, your phrasing, your carefully veiled barbs.

She didn’t sit. She paced.

Pepper was already inside, arms crossed, phone in hand, the expression on her face far from pleased. “Well,” she said flatly, “that could’ve gone worse. But not by much.” Natasha didn’t respond. She took a bottle of water from the counter, twisting the cap without drinking. Her jaw was set.

Pepper’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, sighed audibly, then looked up. “ I’m not going to lie—you two are trending again. And this time with significantly more people live-commenting on your little sparring match.” Her tone was clipped, restrained but sharp. “I need to get back to the office and get ahead of it before someone runs a headline that says you started a live debate club.”

Natasha’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite regret.

Pepper went on. “And when you go out there please — don’t start another discussion with her. Your public image is the most important thing right now, and you already gave them enough content for the week.”

“She came for me first,” Natasha muttered, more to the mirror than to Pepper. “She knew exactly what she was doing.”.

“Doesn’t matter,” Pepper snapped. “You lost your cool, Natasha. You let it show. That’s not you.”

A knock came at the door—two quick taps. “Uh… hi, it’s Peter?” came the tentative voice from the other side. “Pepper said to check if—”.

“Now’s not the time, Peter,” Pepper cut in, not raising her voice, but making it final.

There was a short pause, followed by an awkward, “Got it. I’ll… just grab the equipment outside.” They listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall.

Pepper sighed again, rubbing her temples. “You’re walking into a reception room full of people who already think they witnessed the cold open of a scandal. Smile. Shake hands. Be charming. And whatever you do, keep your comments to small talk and selfies.”

Natasha finally sat down, tilting her head toward the mirror.“She wanted a fight,” she said quietly, more to her reflection than to Pepper. “So I gave her one.”

Pepper sighed, grabbing her clutch, adjusting her coat. “That doesn’t mean you have to back down—but you need to lead with your head, not your ego. That’s why people love you, Natasha. Just don’t give them a reason to stop.” A moment of silence passed between them. Then, with one last look, Pepper headed for the door. “You’re brilliant, Natasha, but reckless. I can’t keep cleaning up after both.”

And just like that, Natasha was alone again—just her, her reflection, and the simmering aftertaste of a public clash that had left her rattled in ways she wasn’t ready to admit.

She gave herself exactly thirty seconds. Then she stood, smoothed her suit, and walked toward the door—every step measured, every movement a reset.

Time to reclaim the room.

By the time she entered the reception hall, the shift was immediate. People turned, like they always did. Natasha gave no indication she’d just been dissected on stage by a woman ten years her junior in front of hundreds. Her smile was sharp, her posture relaxed, and her presence deliberate.

She posed for pictures, offered autographs, shook hands. A familiar rhythm. Performative, yes—but she knew how to make performance feel personal. A few compliments here. A dry joke there. She could see the tension melt in shoulders, the way admiration returned to eyes that had earlier been watching the clash like a sport.

And still, she did not look at you.

Not once.

But she felt your presence—like static at the edge of a broadcast. She could feel your gaze flickering her way in intervals, could hear your voice in conversation a few feet over.

She didn’t need to look.

She knew you were watching. And that was enough.

- - -

On the other side of the room, you had finally broken free from the string of interviews, now standing beside Darcy, who was doing her best to distract you from what had happened on stage barely thirty minutes earlier—with little success. Every few minutes, your gaze involuntarily drifted across the room toward the news anchor.

People moved past you in waves. Some offered sympathetic or quietly encouraging glances, the kind that said “you did your best” without saying anything at all. Others, however, looked at you as though you’d just set fire to a national monument. Those ones were easy to spot—their shirts bore Natasha’s face, or they clutched glossy photos of her with pens in hand, waiting for a signature like she was a headlining act, not a journalist.

Since when were news anchors treated like celebrities?

You couldn’t imagine anyone lining up for autographs from another host—not with that kind of devotion. Not with merch. But when you looked back in Natasha’s direction, she was thriving. Not smiling widely or basking in the spotlight in some cliché way—but entirely in control. Every word she spoke seemed to land with precision. People leaned in closer, laughed on cue, watched her like she was the only person in the room.

And that’s when it hit you.

Maybe she wasn’t just a well-known journalist. Maybe she wasn’t just the polished face of a primetime news slot. Maybe Natasha Romanoff had influence that ran far deeper—cultural, not just professional. And maybe you had underestimated that power far more than you’d care to admit.

Shortly after Natasha had left with Wanda, soon followed by Carol, only Stephen Strange remained, casually engaged in conversation with one of the senior editors. Most of the audience had dispersed after Natasha’s exit, and with no one approaching you or Darcy any longer, you took it as your cue to leave. After exchanging brief goodbyes with a few familiar faces, you made your way to the dressing room.

On the way home, the two of you grabbed a pizza from your usual spot. Once you reached your apartment building—conveniently located just across the street from Darcy’s—Darcy immediately kicked off her heels, having spent the entire walk back complaining about how badly her feet hurt, and made a beeline for your couch. You headed into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of drinks, ready to unwind and put the whole ordeal behind you. Naturally, however, Darcy had other plans.

She was already sprawled across the couch by the time you returned from the kitchen, two cold drinks in hand. Her heels had been unceremoniously abandoned by the door, and she had claimed the entirety of the sofa like a victorious general post-battle.

"You know," she began, accepting the drink you offered her without looking up, "for a panel supposedly about “Media’s Role in Modern Discourse”, that was an absolute circus."

You sank into the armchair across from her, letting out a long breath. "It derailed the moment Natasha answered that question about institutional accountability."

Darcy snorted, nearly choking on her drink. “She didn’t just respond—she unloaded. I swear, for a moment I thought Karen Page was going to dive under the table. And then she zeroed in on you like you were the main course.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers tracing idle circles through the condensation on your glass. “I knew it might get tense, but I didn’t expect her to go that hard. Or for it to get so personal.”

Darcy swung her legs down from the couch, sitting upright, her expression shifting from amusement to something more thoughtful. “She’s intense, yeah. But damn—Romanoff doesn’t back down. It’s kind of impressive, in a terrifying way.”

You glanced over at her. “You’re not wrong.”

“But you held your own,” she added quickly, pointing at you with a half-empty bottle. “You didn’t let her push you off balance, and you made her work for every comeback. Honestly, I think that’s why she went for the jugular. You didn’t play along.”

There was a pause—less charged, more reflective.

“I just wanted to talk about the media system,” you murmured. “Not become the evening’s main event.”

Darcy offered a dry smile. “Yeah, well, you challenged the queen on her home turf and didn’t get burned alive. That’s its own kind of win.”

You managed a quiet laugh, the weight of the night still hanging over you. The silence that followed was heavier this time, settling between you like dust after impact.

Then Darcy smirked faintly and raised her bottle in mock solemnity. "You know, I always thought she was an eleven out of ten—but as your friend, I can honestly say she’s dropped to a ten."

You let out a laugh, low and involuntary. Classic Darcy—an ill-timed joke right when the air got too thick.

Another pause stretched out, quieter now. Darcy lifted her bottle again, this time with less irony and more reverence. "To the red-headed storm."

You clinked bottles softly. But your eyes drifted to the window, toward the dark street outside. Across it, lights glowed softly in Darcy’s building. Beyond that, the city exhaled into the night. You hadn’t checked social media. Not yet. You knew it was out there—the clips, the discourse, the commentary. The moment Natasha leaned in and made it personal, the internet had probably exploded. You could feel it in the way people looked at you after at the reception. Curious. Charged. Entertained.

But for now, the silence of not knowing felt safer.

Still, any lingering guilt about how the panel unfolded had mostly faded. You hadn’t gone in with a grudge. You’d been nervous, thoughtful, maybe even hopeful. But she was the one who’d made it a battlefield. She was the one who turned critique into accusation, disagreement into insult.

If she wanted it to be a game of control, she should’ve known making it personal never sat well with you. And as the day settled behind you and the night drew in, you weren’t angry. Just tired. But you knew somewhere out there, Natasha was already ten steps ahead—again.

---

The car was quiet for the first few blocks, the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of passing headlights casting long shadows across the leather seats. Natasha sat with her arms folded, her posture as composed as ever, though her gaze remained fixed out the window.

After the evening’s events, Natasha felt a quiet sense of confirmation settle in her chest. Everything about you—the pointed phrasing, the subtle jabs cloaked in theory, the way you held the room’s attention with a calculated ease—only reinforced what she’d suspected from the start. You weren’t naïve or overwhelmed. You were deliberate. Strategic. Beneath the academic polish was someone who knew exactly where to press. And Natasha had seen that kind of ambition before. It rarely came without sharp edges.

Wanda was seated beside her, headed to the same destination—she lived just one floor below Natasha. The younger woman broke the silence first. "You didn’t have to go that hard," she said gently, her voice low but not reproachful. "She wasn’t ready for that public conversation, and you knew it."

Natasha didn’t turn her head. "Exactly."

Wanda exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh. "You think that makes it better?"

"It makes it honest." Natasha’s tone was clipped, but not cold. "I’m not interested in waiting for everyone to catch up. They invited me to speak. I did."

"You spoke," Wanda agreed, her eyes on the passing cityscape. "But she didn’t hear you. You didn’t want her to hear you. You wanted her to flinch."

Natasha didn’t reply immediately. The silence returned, heavy but not uncomfortable. She’d spent a lifetime sitting in silences much worse. Wanda had a way of always being plausible—never forceful, never wrong—like she saw through Natasha not with judgment, but with an unsettling kind of clarity that made evasion feel pointless.

After a moment, she said, "They build these panels to look like they’re welcoming hard questions, but they only want palatable truths. Sanitized, symbolic. I’m not going to wrap everything I know in polite euphemism just to make her feel enlightened."

Wanda nodded slowly. "You’ve always had a talent for cutting through the script."

Natasha turned toward her then, just slightly. "And you always try to soften the blow."

"Someone has to," Wanda said, not with judgment, but a hint of sadness. "Not because you're wrong. But because people shut down when they feel exposed."

"Maybe they should," Natasha said. "Maybe that's the only way anything changes—when they're uncomfortable enough to stop pretending."

The car slowed in front of the building. The driver didn’t ask questions; he knew better. Natasha stepped out first, Wanda following close behind. They entered the lobby without speaking, the muted elegance of the space doing nothing to diminish the weight of the evening.

Inside the elevator, Natasha pressed the button for the top floor. Wanda hit the one just below. The doors slid shut with a soft chime.

The elevator began to slow. Wanda turned toward her, searching her face for something—softness, regret, anything. But Natasha remained still, eyes forward, calm and unmoved.

"Don’t turn your clarity into isolation," Wanda finally said softly, as the doors opened on her floor. "You don’t have to be at war with everyone to be right."

Natasha gave the faintest of smiles, not bitter, but resolute. "I’m not at war, Wanda. I'm just done bending over backwards."

The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open. Wanda stepped out, pausing just before the doors closed. "Good night, Natasha."

"Good night," she replied, already watching the numbers shift as the elevator resumed its climb.

Alone now, Natasha let the stillness settle in again. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t shaken. She had said what needed to be said—without apology, without compromise. The city stretched beneath her feet, full of noise and noise masquerading as dialogue.

As Natasha stepped into her apartment, the first and only to greet her was Liho like every night, weaving figure-eights around her legs with a soft, insistent purr. The scent of something warm still lingered in the air. Dinner had been left out—neatly covered, precisely arranged. Her household assistant had already come and gone, as usual. No note, no conversation. Just the quiet presence of care left behind in the form of a rice and salmon dish kept warm on the stove.

Natasha sat at the kitchen island, picking at the rice dish. Liho, already well-fed, stationed himself at her feet with the air of a creature who hadn’t seen a meal in days. She rolled her eyes and flicked him a piece of salmon. He caught it mid-air like a practiced thief.

Her mind was far away, drifting back to the panel, to your voice, to the tension that had gripped the room like a wire strung tight between two opposing poles. She’d won, hadn’t she? Public perception was on her side. The photos, the compliments, the attention—they had reassured her of her position.

Then the buzzer broke the silence. She walked to the speaker and pressed the button. “Yes?”

“It’s downstairs, Miss Romanoff. There’s someone here to see you,” came the familiar voice of the Concierge.

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “Send her up.”

A couple of minutes later, a pretty blonde was standing in her doorway. A journalist she’d met briefly at the reception, to whom she’d slipped her address with a note scribbled in the margin of her business card: “Come by later if you want to talk off-record.”

It wasn’t about talking. Natasha didn’t need conversation. She needed distraction—something soft, something simple, something that didn’t ask questions. And the woman was all of that.

Later, when the apartment was dark and quiet, and the woman lay sleeping beside her, Natasha stared at the ceiling, wide awake. And her thoughts, traitorous as ever, circled back to you.

You—seated across from her on that stage, too composed for your age, too sharp for someone so new to the public eye. You, who had looked at her not like a myth, but like a problem to be dissected. You, whose words still echoed in her ears despite the champagne compliments that followed her all evening.

She had won the night. But somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t won the war. You were still there—lodged somewhere beneath her skin. And Natasha Romanoff didn’t like leaving things unresolved.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading and for all the feedback on the last part! The story will start picking up the coming chapter. Natasha will get whiplashed poor thing lol.

Tags: @nebthetautora @womenarehotsstuff @doddledoo @caramelcat123-blog @jassgunner

#nat x reader #natalia romanova #black widow #marvel #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha x reader #natasha x you #natasha x y/n #natalia romanoff

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kuttesandknives · 3 months ago

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warning(s): SMUT. jax in a fractured emotional state, parental death mention. 18+ readers ONLY. words: 2.3k a/n: set smack dab in the middle of season two, so spoilers are within. truthfully, this is my first x reader fic, so go easy on me with the reviews. 🥺✨

The clubhouse still smelled like stale beer when Jax stormed out, jaw tight, rings and fingers stained with blood, knuckles raw. The fight with Clay wasn’t just another blow up over miscommunication. It’d been building for months now, ever since Donna. Jax had been extra volatile lately, more so since Tara left Charming again. He saw that coming, as much as it rested bitterly on his tongue and ached in his chest. It was almost worse the second time around.

“You wanna lead, son? Start actin’ like it. Stop hiding behind your dead daddy’s words.”

That was the last thing Clay said before Jax swung. Now, those words echoed at the forefront of his mind, incapacitating any other possible thought to come to the forefront.

By the time he showed up at your place, it was well past midnight. You recognized the distant growl of his bike pulling into the parking space outside your apartment's patio–surely Patty next door would complain to the landlord about that. Not that you gave a damn.

“Can I come in?” Jax asked, his voice low and hoarse.

You stepped aside to let him inside, the porch light highlighting the raw knuckles and split lip, but you didn’t ask. Not yet. And just like that, you became the one person he could run to when shit got too damn chaotic.

The door clicked softly behind him. He was quiet for the first thirty seconds, removing his kutte and putting it on the back of your dining chair. You watched him cross the room again, taking in the blood dotted along the front of his white shirt. He plopped down on the couch and leaned back, closing his eyes as his head was facing upward.

Silence stretched between you two again as you walked into the kitchen, clicked on the dim light above the stove, and grabbed the ice pack you kept in the freezer. Part of you hated how automatic it had become, tending to Jax’s wounds like this. But tonight felt different. The fight had dug deeper.

You returned into the living room, crouching in front of him as he leaned forward now with his forearms resting on his knees, pressing the ice pack against his jaw and giving him a soft smile of reassurance. He flinched slightly, not from the cold but from the touch, like he wasn’t used to something so domestic such as this.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” You finally asked, holding the ice pack firmly against his jaw.

He didn’t look at you. Just past your shoulder, like if he’d meet your eyes, the dam would break.

“Clay.” One word. Heavy and unmistaken.

You nodded. “That bad?”

“Worse,” he muttered, finally sparing you a glance with that signature smirk for just a second.

You moved the ice pack a little, brushing his blond hair back with your free hand to get a better look at the cut on his brow. It had stopped bleeding, but it’d bruise considerably by morning. You could already see the purple blooming beneath his skin.

“Did he say something, or did you finally throw the first punch?”

A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. “Both.”

He went quiet after that. You knew better than to push. You just stayed close and allowed the silence to seep in between the two of you again. Your hand brushed against his knee as you adjusted your knelt position a fraction, your head cocking to the side ever so slightly.

He leaned back against the couch now, taking control of the ice pack with his own hand and holding it there. He looked at you–really looked. “He said I was weak. That if I wanted the goddamn gavel, I needed to grow some balls first.”

You could see his jaw tick, like he was holding something back on purpose. “Well… did you?”

Jax’s tongue darted over his split lip. “Yeah. I swung. First time in front of the table. I knocked him on his ass.”

You let out a slow breath. “Jesus…”

He shook his head, tossing the ice pack on the side table. “He deserved it. He’s been throwing his weight around, becoming so goddamn full of himself and his vision–” His jaw ticked once again, like he wanted to elaborate but knew he couldn’t, nor would he. “Greed. Power. Lies. Everything that SAMCRO is supposed to be against, he’s gunning for everything that’s in the wrong direction on purpose.” You took his hand and held it, noticing the smear of Clay’s blood under his fingernails. “I’m scared I’m gonna become him. Or worse. I feel like everything is falling apart and I can’t get a fuckin’ grip on any of it.”

You felt your chest tighten. “You won’t.” He looked at you like he wanted to believe you if just for a second. “Every time you’ve come here, Jax, bleeding or not, you’re still fighting to be something better.”

He let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, the hand that you were holding coming up to cup your face as he spoke, “This is the only place I can breathe.” Jax’s thumb grazed against your cheek a few times as he held it while your hand came up to gently brush his hair back.

“I don’t know who the hell I am anymore,” he admitted, and it came out like a confession. “I thought I did. I thought the manuscript, my dad’s vision, all that… thought it would show me the way, but every time I try to steer this thing differently, I end up right back where he was. Drowning in the same fuckin’ shit.”

You reached up, fingers brushing against the bruise above his eye, “He didn’t drown, Jax. He was pulled under. There’s a difference.”

One hand rested on your wrist now while the other cupped the back of your neck. His touch wasn’t rough, but it held a considerable amount of weight. The pad of his thumb traced your skin, like he was trying to ground himself and like your heartbeat was the only constant left. The only thing that grounded him, tethering him to reality.

“I didn’t come here for this.” Jax admitted, his forehead resting against yours now. “I just–I couldn’t go home, you know? Not right now.”

“I know.” You reassured him in a whisper. “You don’t have to elaborate if you don’t want to.”

“But I want to.” His voice cracked on the edge of it. “You’re the only person who doesn’t look at me like I’m supposed to have all the answers. Like I’m not already burning at both ends.”

You forced down the knot rising in your throat, your gaze undeniably locking with Jax’s, quietly pleading, quietly saying all the things you couldn’t put into words. He looked back, his eyes never moving from your face; they never did, even if he’d deny it.

He moved first, deliberate and slow as he leaned in, like he was expecting you to back out but you didn’t. His lips captured yours as your breath was caught, but not out of surprise but rather relief. The kiss started carefully, loaded with a question he wasn’t sure neither of you wanted answered.

Still, you answered without hesitation, returning the same urgency.

Jax kissed you like a man starved, like he was desperate to feel something that didn’t rip him apart. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss. Your mouth opened for him, lips parting, and he groaned low and guttural, like the sound had been stuck under lock and key for days.

You climbed into his lap without asking, straddling him where he sat on the couch. Your knees bracketed his hips as your fingers traced up under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest, tracing warm skin and hard muscle. Jax’s breath hitched when your hands rested against the top of his chest, fingers curling into soft fists.

“Jesus.” He murmured against your mouth, his forehead resting against yours, “You sure about this?”

“Yes.” You whispered faintly, “I want this.” A beat of silence filled the void and then, “I want you, Jax.”

That did it, snapping the lingering tension like a bowstring.

He surged up, wrapping your legs around his waist, carrying you toward the bedroom like he couldn’t bear to waste another second. Your fingers fumbled with his shirt the second the door shut, but he beat you to it. He set you down right in front of the side of your bed, removing his own shirt as you undid his belt and zipper, letting each item fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them as he kissed you and helped you out of your sleepwear, conveniently a pair of shorts and a threadbare t-shirt far too baggy.

He gently held you in his arms and guided you onto the bed, gently laying your back against the mattress like you were something sacred; like this wasn’t just about fucking anymore, no, this was about remember what it felt like to just be human.

When Jax’s body lowered onto yours, his left hand trailed against your sides while his right held your face. His lips found yours again, his teeth gently nipping at your bottom lip. Then he pulled away just enough to study you despite the darkness in the room, as the only light that was present was the streetlight outside your bedroom window.

“You always look at me like that.” He hissed out in a hushed tone, now lapping his tongue against your neck.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not me. Like… I’m worth a damn.” Like I’m not just another fuck, he thought.

“Because you are.” You declared once his eyes met yours seconds later.

He didn’t respond with words, but he did kiss you again. This time more urgent. Rougher, to the point where his scruff scraped against your skin with every pass. He cupped your breast, and his thumb brushed against your nipple, causing it to pebble underneath, and your back arched into him. You felt his cock against your thigh as he ground his hips into you, but he didn’t rush. He took his time, savoring the feel of your tongue against his.

Your hands explored him in return, grazing fingertips along his shoulders and cupping around his biceps with one hand while the other dipped low, gliding against the low dip of his spine.

Jax pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes soft, “I need you to see me tonight. Not the kutte. Not the club. Just… me, babe, can you do that for me?” God, the way he looked at you sent a shudder down your spine. He was the farthest thing from innocent, but that look could feed patrons for hundreds of years.

You reached up, cupping his jaw, “I already do, Jackson.”

He pressed his forehead against yours with a ragged breath. Then, slowly, he reached between you and guided himself to your entrance. He slid in with a quiet groan against your lips as your walls stretched to welcome him.

Fuck. You gasped at the feel of him; heavy, warm, perfect.

He didn’t move right away once he was fully sheathed. He bracketed both his forearms beside your head to hold himself up as your body fully adjusted. He made sure to study each subtle micro expression and leaned down to kiss you again, more meaningful and sweeter, a far cry from the first batch of kisses you’d shared tonight.

He started to move now, slow and steady, hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that was all need and reverence. Every thrust was deliberate, dragging across your walls and pushing you toward something deeper than just pleasure. You clung to him, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close and unambiguously inside.

“Fuck.” He cursed against your lips.

“Jax–,” you sighed in a whisper. He buried his face in your neck in almost a pathetic attempt to keep it together. You felt him tremble, his biceps twitching as you held him there and the unmistakably twitch of his jaw. He was close. “Jax, baby, you can fall apart here. It’s okay.”

That cracked something open.

His thrusts became uneven now, heavier, as if your permission had granted him the space to unravel. He held you tighter, his fingers digging into your hips and his breath turned ragged.

The build in your core grew hot and insistent. Each grind of his hips pulled a breathless moan from your lips. The weight of him, the way he moved inside you, the emotion… it was too much and not enough all at once.

Your climax crept in slowly, like a tide rising. Your body tensed under him, and he felt it, slipping a hand between your legs to circle your clit with practiced fingers. “Come for me.” He muttered against your ear, “Come while I’m inside you.”

Your mind protested for a moment before caving, your body obeying after the third pass of his cock following his request. Your walls clenched around him as your release hit. You cried out his name, fingers splaying his shoulder blades as you clung to him as he wrung out every bit of what you could give him.

“Shit,” he groaned, his hips sputtering. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

He came with a broken sound, burying himself deep one last time, his whole body going rigid for a few seconds before he slumped over you, chest heaving.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just held each other, hearts thudding in sync, sweat cooling on your skin. Eventually, he rolled onto his side, pulling you into him so you were tucked against his chest. He wrapped an arm around you, his thumb tracing circles on your back.

“I didn’t come here to do this.” Jax admitted, staring at the ceiling like he regretted what transpired. He didn’t, but he did at the same time.

“I know.” You said in a whisper.

Then… “But I’m glad I did.”

You tilted your head upward and smiled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Me too.”

He didn’t say anything else. He just held you closer, tightening his arms around your frame.

#jax teller x you #jax teller x reader #jax teller #sons of anarchy #soa #samcro #jax teller fic #jax teller fanfic #samcro fic #soa fic #jax teller smut #jackson teller #one shot #jax teller one shot #wrote this in less than 24 hours who is SHE???

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