#it's always there sometimes in passing sometimes not

[puppybei]

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Sukuna, Choso, Toji

Warnings: Insecure reader, hurt/no comfort, they’re being like really mean and they will hurt your feelings so yeah.. not proofread.. Geto will be added later on…

Wc: around 650 for each character (4.3k in total)

Satoru Gojo

You’ve always been kind of loud around the ones you held close to your heart. Even more with Gojo who’d always match your energy tenfold, it filled you with so much joy to be around someone who enjoyed your company as much as you did his.

Gojo’s sitting next to you, arm slung around your shoulders loosely as he nodded at whatever you were talking about. Your voice had become slightly higher in pitch, excitement evident with every word you let out, after all it was Gojo, he’d always be listening to you,

“So then the male lead said-”

Gojo sighed and you paused in between your rambling, tugging at his sleeve softly, like you were the little girl whose father never looked at her till she was begging him for his attention. Your Gojo pulled himself away, flipping out his phone and scrolling with a bored expression,

“You can be so loud sometimes, you know? It’s just crazy how much you can just keep talking”

Oh

You felt a stutter in your chest, your voice quietening down to nothing as you sat stiff next to him. You didn’t know what to do, let alone think. A million thoughts ran around in your head. Gojo thought you were loud, all this time when you thought that he genuinely enjoyed your company and wanted to listen to you. God you felt stupid, after all you’d never really changed from that loud, annoying kid from the fifth grade had you? Always too much, too loud, too talkative, never able to sit a moment still and that’s all you’ll amount to even if decades pass and you're older.

You wondered how long he had kept this information to himself, how many times he must’ve clenched his fist as he let you ramble on like some stupid school girl while internally he hated every word that came out of your mouth. He must’ve spent a thousand tired nights letting you talk about some irrelevant show just so you would be happy. Oh god, you felt like fucking shit, the self depricating thoughts multiplied one after another as you sat next to your boyfriend, feeling more like a burden he was putting up with than his lover with every passing second.

“Uh ‘toru?, I’m gonna go to bed, night baby,”

Your voice was quiet, so very quiet that Gojo barely made out the words that came out of your mouth. He nodded in response, untangling himself from you and letting you pull away from him.

The bed felt cold and you didn’t know if it was the bed or the hollowness of your own chest that made you feel so empty. The tears came shortly after and you felt like your heart was being squeezed, heavy weight on your rib cage as you tried to be as qiuet as humanely possible. The tears that fell on the silk lined pillows grew cold as you tossed and turned in the bed, trying everything the soften the growing pit of unease in your stomach.

By the time Gojo returned to the bed you had pulled the covers over your face, feeling the bed dip with his added weight. You had stopped crying an hour ago, though the pain settled deep in your bones and you felt like a five year old, tearing up by his mere presence. He pulled you onto his side, arm curled around your waist as you felt him snuggle affectionately into your hair. You let him, you dont know why, maybe the pathetic part of you still craved for him when things got too hard for you too handle. After you were sure his breathing had even out you slipped out of bed, entering the guest room without a word.

Suguru Geto

Mornings are always lazy with Suguru, he’ll whine into your neck about how he doesn’t want to leave and wrap his arms around you, jostling you around just for the fun of it. The twins will pad into your room not soon after, jumping onto the bed and annoying you both, till you wake up and made breakfast for them.

The routine is simple, it’s easy and it’s comforting. Suguru cooks breakfast while you slowly make the girls go through their morning routine. He takes a shower and you plate the food and prepare the lunch bentos while the twins sit politely at the dinner table. Finally, the entire family sits together and eats breakfast as Suguru hears about the twins' progress and all the pretend play they did the day before.

An hour later and everyone’s out of the house, bentos placed securely into their bags and chaste kisses placed onto the twins’ cheeks as Suguru pulls you in for a secret one behind their backs. You’ll smile into the kiss and he’ll murmur about how much he’s gonna miss you, acting like pulling away from the kiss was causing him third degree burns.

Today was like every other day, you shut the door behind you with a soft click. The house was enveloped in silence and you smiled to yourself, after the chaos of the morning faded away the house was all yours and it came with the sudden hit of drowsiness. You barely pushed yourself to the couch before promptly passing out, only awakening when the clock hit eleven.

By this time you’d start cleaning up a bit, the empty dishes on the tables, the clothes strewn across the bedroom of the twins and then a few minutes of gardening. You stopped when a flash of black caught your eye, it was Suguru’s lunchbox, something he should have taken with him to the office. He must’ve forgotten it when the twins tackled him to the ground earlier this morning.

You decided you’d bring it to him, he’d be so grateful if you did. So you got ready, a simple outfit and just the basic amount of makeup, you didn’t want his coworkers to think you were a slob.

His office had twenty floors and he was at the very top, a company he ran alongside Gojo. You hummed a tune in the elevator as you slowly ascended up, the receptionist was already aware of who you were, courtesy of Geto never shutting up about you apparently, it brought an embarrassed but giddy smile to your face.

The heavy metal doors finally opened and you were greeted by Geto’s and Gojo’s secretary, Ichiji who Gojo recruited at college, a man you quite honestly felt bad for with how much they were working him to the bone. He waved at you when he saw you, a tired smile on his face as he told you leave the box on his desk because Geto was on a call.

You wanted to peek at your boyfriend while he was working so you hid a giggle as you stood outside his door, stiffening when you heard your name through the small creak of the door,

“She’s not the twins’ mom, she’s doing too much,”

You don’t know how you made it back to the elevator in one peace, your feet carrying you all the way back home as your thoughts swallowed your time. Did Geto not want you to look after them? They’d even called you mom accidentally a few times and you felt like you had developed at the very least some kind of motherly affection for them.

You spent hours with them daily and they adored you, it was evident in the way they called out for you during their nightmares and clutched at your hand when they fell asleep in your arms. You felt oddly cold, like a wave had washed over you and you were still standing in the middle of the ocean waiting for something that was never going to be yours.

How could he think you were doing too much? You made sure to run every decision you made regarding the twins through him and he’d never showcased his displeasure. He probably didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but to know that he was going behind your back and telling others that you weren’t suited made you feel like shit.

You knew that you’ll never be the twins’s mother, you never expected to fill that role, just hoped that maybe Geto would appreciate the work and love you put into raising them. But it was clear to you that he’d never see you as any sort of mother figure to the twins and it hurt you, the twisted feeling in your heart caused you to start crying on the couch, rubbing at your blurry eyes as you tried to calm down.

Kento Nanami

You’ve always sort of been kind of clumsy, constantly bumping into the corners of tables, stubbing your toe, spilling water, burning yourself while trying to cook something. Nanami’s known about this and as a precaution for you (and himself if he’s being completely honest) he’s always taken care of the tasks that leave you a bit more injured than before.

Cooking for the both of you is a task he takes great pride in doing, but Nanami’s been coming home late from work. Exhaustion weighing heavy on his shoulders and even you can see it with the way his smile barely reaches his eyes. So you decided, for a change you’d cook and this time there wouldn’t be any unfortunate surprises.

The meal was simple, a favourite of Kento’s to welcome him home. A dish his mother used to make that he always held in high regard, singing praises about it to the point that even you would start drooling whenever he would talk about it. But the main thing is not only was it absolutely divine, it’s also his comfort food, one he made for himself and never asked for your help, always brushing you off with a gentle smile, telling you that he’d rather you not hurt yourself for him.

You’re almost half way done with, when you hear the familiar jingle of keys and in the process of rushing to greet your husband, you accidentally stub your toe against the door of the kitchen and in an attempt to keep yourself from falling you grab the marble counter, pushing a glassed dessert off and watching it shatter onto the floor and break into a million pieces.

You heard Kento’s voice before seeing him, he called out your name, immediately concerned for your safety as you sheepishly smiled at him. He stood on the threshold of the kitchen door, still dressed in his formal wear with one shoe haphazardly pulled off in his rush to get to you.

He sighed, dropping the suit blazer from the crook of his elbow as an almost stern expression came across his face,

“You don’t have to- I’ve told you multiple times that I’ll take care of the cooking right sweetheart? Why must you be so stubborn and do this when I’ve never-,”

He rubbed his palms over his face, breathing in deeply as you stood frozen in place, apologies spilling from your mouth as you tried to pick up the broken pieces of glasses,

“No stop! I’ll take care of it. Just please, go inside,”

He pulled you away from the kitchen, hand curled around your upper arm as he shut the kitchen door behind you. You felt like a five year old kid again, standing as still as physically possible so your parents wouldn’t get mad at you for messing something up.

You carefully sat down on the worn down cushions, playing with the ends of your fingernails as a million thought ran its course through your head. You knew it wasn’t his fault, Kento’s just been tired and on edge lately but it still hurt nonetheless, to be treated like you were a child incapable of any basic tasks. You knew Kento didn’t think of you like that but it doesn’t help when you’ve been treated like an overgrown child your entire life by the people around you just because you’re a little bit more clumsy than others.

Kento just wants you to be safe, you know that and yet it hurts, it hurts so much to not be able to do anything for the person you love so much because at the end of the day you’ll just be as incompetent as a child. You didn’t want the day to go like this, you wanted him to be surprised, to appreciate the fact that you could do something for him, take care of him like he did for you but in the end you’ve just burdened him more.

Wet, hot tears make it down the apples of your cheeks and you aggressively wipe them away, feeling like you didn’t deserve to cry, not with the way you’d fucked up everything tonight.

Choso

Choso’s sweet, he’s nice and kind and everything that you should want in a man. He holds doors open for you, pulls your chair back whenever you go to a restaurant, always lets you walk on the inner side of the sidewalk and he’s a gentleman overall. It’s just sometimes he can be really really obtuse.

He says things that can hurt though they only wound someone if they’re also insecure. You let the tiny comments slip by, always making sure to educate him whenever you can because he does mean his best. He's just unaware of how certain phrases can have different connotations or how they can mean something other than the literal meaning that the phrase is intended for.

You’re at a party with your boyfriend, recently you both had decided you wanted to go to gym, partly because you’re scared you’ll be sixty years old with chronic back pain and partly because you’ve been putting off getting into shape for a long time. So you both had been rigorously following a diet, making sure to count your macros and micros and following the diet plans you found online.

This party was the first one in a few months you’d felt free enough to let loose, you’d lost some weight gained some muscle and you felt confident enough to splurge a bit more on food, after all what’s the point of life if you’re just constantly restricting.

Choso came behind you as you scooped up another ladle of pasta, the rest of your mutual friends sat in the living room, lounging around as easy conversion filled up the space.

“Are you sure you really wanna get another serving?”

You stopped dead in your tracks, turning around to make eye contact with a confused Choso. A pit had already started to form in your stomach, the all too familiar feeling of insecurity and shame. Choso smiled at you when you put the pasta back in its bowl, suddenly hyper aware of the Aircon that left goosebumps on your skin, the party music that thrummed through the house, the feeling of fabric sticking to your skin and the humid air that wafted in through the open windows.

Choso said something else and pulled you with him towards the living room where a dance circle had formed, other couples swaying to the music as singles sat on the couch loudly booing. Choso had his hand on your waist and suddenly you felt sick to your stomach, like everything you had eaten was going to come back up and claw its way out your stomach.

You felt too full, like everyone’s eyes were on you and mocking, making fun of you like they did in high school, pointing out every insecurity for shits and giggles. You shook your head as Choso looked down at you, he didn’t mean it like that he just doesn’t know, but what if he did. What if he meant it with his entire heart.

Choso’s the perfect boyfriend and if you were going to lose him because you lacked some self control, you bit your lip, resting your head on Choso’s head and trying to ground yourself by listening to his heartbeat.

He didn’t mean it like that but the old anxiety started to itch at the seams, begging to be let out, to make you drown in self hatred and misery as it took control of your entire life. To poke and prod at your own skin and point it all out in front of a mirror to make you feel like a stupid teenager.

You pushed away from your boyfriend, disgust pooling in your stomach as you made up some stupid excuse and got into the car, looking out the window as Choso drove you home, worry evident in his face as he tried to figure out what was wrong. Once you reached, you said you wanted some alone time and slept in the guest room, tears falling down and staining the cotton pillowcase as you hugged the comforter around yourself, too far in hatred to want your boyfriends comfort anymore.

Toji Fushiguro

Toji’s quiet when he finally comes home, he’s texted you earlier, unusally curt and just slightly cold. He’d be coming home late, actually he’d been coming home late for the past few days, always stressed and pushing off your worries without a second word. Today, you’d decided that it would change, he’d have to talk to you, it’s been ages since you both had a proper conversation.

“Hi baby, how was work?”

You trailed behind him, watching him shrug off his blood stained jacket and plop it into your arms without a second thought. He merely grunted in response and you furrowed your eyebrows, usually you’d take this as a sign that he didn’t want to talk and back off but you really needed your husband back, you were itching at the seams for some cuddles and at the very least a bit of quality time spent together,

“Are you hungry? I made dinner, or do you wanna rest up first? I switched on the heater if you wanna take a bath,”

He walked into the living room now, ignoring your questions as he sunk down into the couch with a disgruntled sigh, turning his face away from you and burying it into the soft cushions on the couch as you stared at him from above, heart thumping irregularly as anxiety clawed at your skin,

“Toji? Baby-”

Toji’s green eyes snapped open and he shot up from the couch, his face twisting in anger and exhaustion as he cut off your words,

“What is it with you woman! It’s either one thing or the other! Can’t you take a fucking hint!? Always fucking yapping off in my ear like some incessant parrot!”

You don’t really remember when you stopped registering the man’s words, taking a step back as he inched closer and closer into your space until your back hit the wall with a soft thud. The weight of his coat felt heavy in your arms and you swallowed the saliva that pooled in your mouth out of fear.

You could almost feel your face twitching in fear, every minuscule movement that Toji made was being hyperanalyzed by your brain and at the same time you barely had any control over your emotions, let alone your feelings.

Everything felt methodical, at one point the man brushed past you and slammed the bedroom door shut. The anxiety and fear that was running hot in your veins felt cold, far too sudden and you felt sick, like you were going to throw up. Your mind was chanting at you, trying to bring you back to ground as the tears streamed down your face, crouched down next to the wall as you bit your lip harshly.

Toji had never yelled at you, and the apparent effect he had on you was obvious as you tried not to scratch at your own skin. Your heartbeat was the only thing you could hear, your mind was conjuring up images of the man you love, standing above you with a face you didn’t quite recognize. You shut your eyes close trying not to succumb to your own head.

It felt like hours had passed when you finally laid down in the couch, throw blanket pulled haphazardly over you as you rested your head on the old couch pillows, were you really that needy? That loud? had Toji finally gotten tired of you. As much as you tried to shut the self deprecating thoughts out, they only grew in number.

Sleep had found you well past midnight with red rimmed eyes and a stuffy nose. You shivered in the cold night and hugged your own body asleep in an effort to comfort yourself.

If Toji wanted space, then space you’d give him.

Ryoumen Sukuna

Sukuna has always been rough around the edges, formed by years of neglect by his own parents and then fighting for his rights at a place supposed to be his home. He had it all from the outside but if anyone cared to get to know him then they’d know that deep inside lies a little kid who just needs love. And so he tried to fill the hole in his heart with multiple women, girls who fell for his bad boy look, the ones who wanted a piece of him and lingered afterwards like an old coffee stain.

Then came you, too sweet for his own good. You first met him while working on a project together and Sukuna couldn’t help but be captivated by your charm, your kindness that was even able to break his stone cold heart, and somehow he grew on you.

Soon after you both started dating, your lease came to an end and he proposed you try living together. After all, it had been a year and half since you both started dating and it only seemed normal to move in with each other at this point, you agreed without much resistance and soon you both had moved in together.

The little cracks in your relationship had unknowingly started to show, to put it in the least offensive words, you were kind of a slob. It’s not like you didn’t clean up or look after yourself, it’s just that it took you some time to get it done. Dishes would be in the sink to be done at night and by then the entire kitchen would be spotless. You cleaned your room maybe once a week, considering half of the time you were lounging around in the living room with Sukuna.

The problems started to arise when Sukuna was forced to work from home after a nasty fall and a fracture. That’s when he started to notice your habits, he’s start tch-ing at you whenever you left something dirty lying around, cursing loudly when he’d try to get a cup of coffee just to find all the dirty cups in the sink. You’d offer to clean a cup up for him but he’d just push you away and do it himself.

It was day ten on his house arrest that the words slipped out as you were picking up a few clothes when Sukuna unfortunately tripped on them, catching himself on a table,

“She never fucking did this shit…”

It was a mumble, barely meant to be heard by you. Unfortunately for him you did, and unfortunately for yourself, once you started spiraling there really was no end to it. Later that day, after making the house was as clean as it could physically be, you were left alone with yours thoughts.

Usually for you, doing something productive and listening to music would be enough of a distraction to keep the voice in your head quiet, but there was literally nothing you could do and Sukuna was too busy with his back to back meetings for you to annoy him. You’re not sure how you’d even face him after the comment he made earlier.

A second later and you were scrolling through his instagram page, the women he dated in the past always tagged him, making it a point to show him off like some hard earned trophy they won. The last woman who’d tagged him was his ex, the longest one of six months and they had even moved in together.

You mindlessly scrolled through her page, she was pretty- like instagram model pretty. She had an immense amount of following and when you scrolled down enough you could see posts where she plastered all over Sukuna and suddenly all you could feel was the tightness of your chest that shook your entire body.

One rabbit hole led to another and suddenly you were scrolling through all of Sukuna’s exes, the tears fell with every swipe, your vision was blotchy and nose red. Your throat felt uncomfortable but you really couldn’t help but compare yourself, and with every passing minute you started to loathe yourself a bit more.

How could Sukuna not get tired staying with you, a disgusting mess at home who didn’t even try to impress him a bit. You felt like a failure, wondering why Sukuna would even choose you over the girls that he usually went for, chewing your lip and picking at the skin of your fingernails as you shut your eyes and tried to focus on anything else.

You stirred awake when you felt warm air tickle your ear, Sukuna had joined you in bed, tucking his head in between your shoulder and head as he drifted of to sleep. You could feel all your imperfections hit you like a train, could your boyfriend really even stand to be in the same bed as you? Were you even worthy of him considering he had girls lined up to date him after you were gone. You couldn’t do anything but stay stiffened up on the bed as he slept peacefully, unaware of your inner turmoil as you tried calm yourself.

A/n: Ignore Sukuna’s being like 200 words longer than everyone else’s I have a huge soft spot for him sorry for all the mistakes if yall could point it out I’d appreciate it thanks good night

[solastarr]

Both Ain’t Shit- Smoke vers.

Smoke Moore x Black Reader

Genre: Smut with plot

Word count: 6.2k+

Summary: You and Smoke have been having a little fling for a while now. But Smoke pushes you too far. And now it’s time to show him you can play the game just as well as him, and remind him who he’s dealing with.

Warnings: cheating if you squint, p in v, fem receiving oral, use of n word, banter, and cussing

Authors notes: i’m so sorry for making yall wait so long for this. This was very long so i think my next few pieces will be short. I have a lot more ideas to come tho! Enjoy!!

He is not my man.

I mean, yeah he be at my place more than his own. He got a designated space in my closet for his clothes, he sometimes gets packages sent to my address, and my neighbors think he’s my husband…

But Elijah Moore is not my man.

And I wasn’t his woman neither.

Or at least that's what we tell everyone…

Me and Smoke wasn’t nothing but a good time to each other at first. The risky nights, flirty texts, and playing house was fun and all at first. But then I fell too deep into our fake fantasy. 

Smoke has everything I want in a man–drive, ambition, quite confidence and he gave me sex that made me forget my own name. Everything I dreamed of, but he didn’t give me the security, honesty, and title of the relationship I wanted. 

I used to care, I used to ask, I used to cry about the women that approached us in public like I was some homewrecker, the days when he would leave and not talk to me, the late nights where he would up and go handle “business” without putting on proper clothes or packing his work bag. And I say this with my chest because I will never again fall for his games. 

He use to gaslight me so well I thought I was going crazy and made up the entire thing. And I tried to leave, put the mess of a relationship behind me but Smoke can make you feel like you the only one, even when you know for a fact you’re not. 

And I always knew, I always knew.

Between the late replies, dirty stares from women I don’t know in shops giving me dirty stares, and the way his phone magically stayed face down every time he came over.

I’d have to be stupid to not know. 

But now?

I play it cool. Smile in his face, moan in his ear, and act like I’m not being used. Because I know I can run game too. He wants to be a player? Bet you I can play dirty too if not dirtier.

Because even when he’s out chasing whatever new girl that caught his eye, he still ends up in my bed. He might go ghost for a day or two, but he always shows back up with that same sorry ass smirk like he ain’t been doing me wrong. But I know I mean something to him because I’m the one he slips up and calls when he’s drunk, the one he trusts with his silence, his stress, his secrets. I’m not stupid—I know I’m not the only one he touches, but I’m the only one that sees Elijah Moore. They might get Smoke, but I get both. And maybe that makes me just as dumb as them, but at least I’m the one he always runs back to. Even if he pretends like he’s just passing through.

 I don’t return the energy to the same extent—not 'cause I’m loyal, but 'cause none of them other dudes make me feel what Smoke do. They don’t got that pull on me. They don’t got that calm but dangerous aura that make your knees weak and pride nonexistent. And I hate that. I hate that I crave the same man that got me second-guessing my worth, but still got the power to fuck me like I’m the only woman in the world. They couldn’t handle me anyway—not like he can. So I let him think he winning… while I lose my damn mind behind closed doors.

But tonight he did something that was a new low.

I should have know something was off when he showed up to my door with flowers.  

Smoke ain’t ever gave me no fucking flowers. He do give orgasms and headaches. He do “You good?” texts at 2 in the morning. But flowers. Roses? Never .But there he was—standing in the doorway like a fever dream—holding roses like that alone could undo months of hurt. They were fresh too, like he’d actually cared enough to stop and pick the best ones for me. The red looked loud against the cool evening light, too loud for a man who whispered lies in a voice so calm it sounded like love.

That was guilt wrapped in a heart shaped box. With a weak ass smirk. 

“What’s this for?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe of my front door with my arms crossed. Staring at him with confusion and surprise in my voice.

He smirked. “ I can’t do something nice for you?” He says dressed in his typical grey suit with a blue tie, with a caring but deceitful look in his eyes.

He walked past me like he owned the place– even though some days he practically lived here. He dropped the roses in the middle of my dining room table like they meant something to me and then found his way back to me by sliding his arm around my waist. I let him. I always let him. Because I deserve some fun out of this too. 

The night started like our normal routine. Dinner. Jokes. Laying in his chest while telling him about my day. He even started talking to me about how he wants to take me on a getaway trip so he can show me the world. Which should have been red flag number two. But again I just wanted to get the most out of him being with me.

The third flag was what got me though. 

I was looking for one of my heels that I had recently broken on accident in hopes I could get a little money out of him for all the problems that come with him. But while I was looking I saw a little velvet box tucked in the bag he packed to spend the night. 

At first, my heart jumped–thinking that maybe something came over him and knocked him into his senses to commit to me. Thinking maybe it was a promise ring or something stupid like that.

But as I got closer I realized how familiar the box looked. When me and Smoke started messing around he gave me a gold anklet as a little keep me in mind gift. And I still wear it to this day because you cant see it under my clothes in public, it makes him pound me into the mattress when he sees while we fucking, and because I thought it was a genuine gift he was giving me because he cared.(you’re a dummy bitch)

Out of curiosity I kneeled down checking my surroundings to make sure he wasn’t about to come help me look for whatever I came in my room for. I opened the box to see the exact anklet that was on my leg. The box has a note attached to it that read, 

“To J.”

“J… Who the fuck is J?” I thought to myself. My blood immediately started to boil. Vision blurring. But I collected myself to steady my hands as I closed the box and zipped his bag right back up with a smirk on my face. This was my green light to start fucking with him.

I walked back into the living room. I didn’t ask no questions. Didn’t start a fight. Didn’t even make a petty remark. I gave him one more night, one last kiss, and last moan. Letting him think everything was sweet. Made it real good too, gave him my all.

Because tomorrow?

I’m getting my lick back.

Next day 

I woke up like I knew nothing.

Played the same role—sweet, soft, and familiar. I kissed him good morning, made him breakfast, even ironed the shirt he accidentally wrinkled from throwing it in his bag.

He was still in bed by the time I was done, shirtless in only his underwear, stretching like he ain’t just spent the whole night with his tongue in me. The sun crept in through the blinds, laying golden ribbons across his broad muscular back. He looked good—too damn good for someone who didn’t deserve me.

I walked past the bedroom doorway with my coffee in hand, making sure to get all his shit together so he could be on his way. I looked like a woman coming down from a long night—curls falling messily from the makeshift bun, nightgown straps slipping off my shoulders from running round the house. But the second I heard his voice, I paused.

“Damn, you just gon’ walk past me like that?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and fake concern.

“Didn’t know you were still here,” I replied over my shoulder, taking a slow sip from my mug. “Usually you’d be gone by now.”

He chuckled, that lazy one he does when he thinks he’s charming.

“That how we acting today?”

I kept moving, gathering his keys, wallet, phone charger—placing everything neatly by the door.

“I made breakfast. Even ironed your shirt. What else you want?”

“I thought maybe we could chill for a second.”

I glanced over at him, leaving my bed, half-dressed and stretching. Taking his sweet time like he ain’t planning to meet another girl in a few hours. “I’ve got stuff to do. You got places to be and people to see, don’t you?” I tilt my head, all sweet like honey over broken glass.

He raised an eyebrow, trying to read me.

“You good? I just wanted to make sure my girl was alright after last night.” He grinned—half pervert, half innocent—as if the memory of his mouth on me gave him the right to ask.

“I’m great,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Got what I needed, didn’t I?”

He laughed, low and amused like he thought I was playing. But I wasn’t.

I brushed past him, slow enough to feel his heat, fast enough to pretend it didn’t burn. Before I left the room, I paused.

“Your shirt’s on the couch, still warm. Coffee on the counter, take it to go.”

I walked toward the hallway mirror, pretending to fix a loose curl, but really, I was watching him through the reflection. Watching him fake like he wasn’t confused.

He moved slow, dragging himself out into the hall, “Damn, you rushing me out?”

I turned, still calm. “Not rushing,” I shrugged. “Just... reminding you that you do have somewhere else to be. I mean, don’t you have brunch plans? I know I’m not the only per—I mean, thing you tend to in your day-to-day.” I offered a soft, fake smile

He smirked. “Why you always doin’ that?” he asked, pulling his shirt over his head, voice dipped in charm and guilt like he didn’t know where he stood.

I turned back to the mirror. “Doing what?”

He walked into the hallway like he owned it—coffee in one hand, confusion in the other. “Throwing lil’ jabs like I ain’t been here every night this week.”

I tilted my head, slow. “And yet somehow, still not doing right.”

That shut him up for a second.

“If you got something to say—”

I cut him off with a soft laugh, eyes still on my reflection. “I don’t. Nothing to say. Nothing new, anyway.”

I walked to the door, held it open like a polite hostess.

“I don’t want to stand between you and your business. They seem to be getting impatient.” I nodded toward his phone lighting up again with a text he didn’t bother hiding.

He looked at it, then back at me. “You really on one today, huh?”

I shrugged. “Not really. Just on schedule.”

He stepped onto the porch, shirt tugged, ego bruised, still confused

“You good though?” he asked again, this time softer. Smaller.

I leaned against the doorframe, cool and casual. 

“Always,” I said.

And then I slammed the door in his face.

Later that day

The silence in the apartment after he left was thick. Like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for me to fall apart.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I ran a hot shower, scrubbed him off my skin, and let the steam cleanse every trace of him from my pores. Then I pulled open my closet and picked the one dress I knew would make someone stare too long and think too hard.

It was satin—deep red, the kind of red that doesn’t beg for attention but demands it. It clung in all the right places and slid over my thighs like water. I slipped on gold hoops, sprayed the perfume he used to compliment before he stopped noticing, and glossed my lips.

I needed to get back at Elijah in a way that would make his blood boil. Elijah used to have a friend named Darius that always showed me a little too much attention when me and Elijah would run into him. Compliments that were too attentive, gifts too expensive, and hugs that were intended to be more than friendly. 

Elijah hated it. Hated him.

Then my phone lit up:

Darius: I’m outside.

I smiled to myself, grabbed my bag, and walked to the door with the same grin smoke gives when he’s fucked me over. 

We walked into Club Eden like we’d done it before. Darius had one hand on the small of my back, the other in his pocket, grinning like we go together. I kept my chin high, every step deliberate, the red satin of my dress catching the lights just right. Heads turned, we looked good, and I knew it. But I wasn’t here for the stares. I was searching for one face in the crowd. Just smiling, slow and sweet, as Darius guided me deeper inside the club I knew too well.

Smoke wasn’t hard to spot.

Even in the low-lit haze of Club Eden, he stood out like sin dressed in success. Black slacks tailored to perfection, button-up open just enough to show that gold chain he never took off, and a gold watch to match catching flashes of light as he leaned back, calm and calculating.

And he wasn’t alone.

She sat next to him, legs crossed, laughing because she didn’t know about our twinning anklets. It shimmered around her ankle like a middle finger straight to my face.

I didn’t react. Couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I leaned back against Darius, legs draped over his lap like it was second nature. I smiled, slow and sweet, twirling my straw in my drink as if I wasn’t locked in a silent war with the man across the room.

Smoke’s eyes met mine—dark, unreadable, but I knew that look. His jaw was clenched. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. The girl next to him leaned in to whisper something, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Just kept his gaze on me like I had his whole night wrapped around my finger.

Good.

I tilted my head, let my curls fall over one shoulder, and whispered something in Darius’s ear. Didn’t matter what, I just needed to see Smoke look at me.

He did and I knew I had him right where I wanted him.

“Wanna dance?” I asked Darius, my voice soft but just loud enough. He grinned like he’d been waiting for the invite. “You know I do.”

The second I stood, I felt Elijah’s stare follow every step I took. I didn’t look back. Just led Darius to the dance floor like we owned it. The bass hit heavy, the colorful led lights spun soft, and I let my body move—slow, effortless, sensual. Darius tried to keep up, hands respectful but curious. I didn’t care. I wasn’t dancing with him for him. I was dancing for the man sitting in the corner pretending he didn’t care.

Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But when I twirled to catch his gaze again—he was gone.

Just like that.

I smirked, satisfied, even as my chest tightened.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Darius, brushing a kiss on his cheek before slipping toward the restroom.

The bathroom was cool and quiet. I touched up my lip gloss, adjusted my dress, and took a deep breath. The game was fun, but it was stressful. And I was starting to feel the heat of it rise to my skin.

I opened the door, and there he was.

Smoke.

Leaning against the wall like. His arms were crossed. His shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show the tattoos on his forearms, jaw tight, eyes darker than I remembered.

I blinked. “You lost?”

He didn’t smile. “Was about to ask you the same thing.”

I crossed my arms, mirroring him. “Bathroom’s not your usual hangout, is it?”

“I saw you dancing,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Looked like you were real comfortable.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Darius is sweet,” I said, letting the name linger to make sure it burns.

His jaw flexed. “He’s a clown.”

“He’s not you,” I shrugged. “That’s kind of the point.”I look at him with amusement because I know i’m getting under his skin.

“You really brought him here?” he asked, stepping closer. “To my spot?”

“Oh, my bad,” I said with mock concern. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to come to the club. Should I check in next time?”

His tongue dragged across his teeth like he was trying not to snap. “You knew I’d be here.”

I tilted my head. “Did I?”

He scoffed, stepping in just close enough that I could smell his cologne. “You doing all this for what? Huh? To make me jealous?”

I smiled. “Ain’t nobody checkin for you Smoke?”

His hand came up, not touching me—just hovering near my waist like muscle memory. As he towered looking down at me,  “You think I care about Darius? You think I give a fuck about that lame ass nigga?” 

I leaned in, just a breath from his lips. “Well… he was talking real good about having dessert back at my place. So maybe I will leave your “spot”.”I give him a menacing grin.

His whole body tensed.

“You lyin’,” he said, but his voice cracked just enough to expose the panic under the rage.

I laughed. “Am I?”

I stared up at him, not moving. “See, I think you care more than you wanna admit. But I think you should head back to your little date. I wouldn’t want her ankles to get sore waiting on you.”

He flinched. Just a flicker. But I saw it.

“Keep playin’ with me,” he warned, voice almost a whisper. “You forget, I know how to handle you.”

I laughed, low and bitter. “Yeah? If that’s what you want to call your lame ass stroke game.”

His mouth opened—but I started to walk away before he could respond. Because I was definitely lying about his stroke game unfortunately.

“Have fun tonight, Elijah,” I said, brushing past him, the scent of my perfume trailing between us like a dare.

And then I walked away—hips swaying, heels clicking, heart pounding—but head held high.

As the night continued I still felt the heat of Smoke and his date that hes not paying any attention to anymore on me. I continued to dance, flirt, and laugh with Darious to prove that I can play game too. I even let Darious’s hands explore my body a little. Rub my thighs, grip my ass a little while dancing, let his hands run up and down my curves. By the time the lights came on in the club and all the drunks were scrambling out to their rides. I let Darious drive me home. 

The car ride was actually nice. The moon was bright and full, soft R&B music was playing, and the conversation we had was amazing. Darious is a really sweet guy, but I know it would be wrong to drag him into me and Smoke’s mess. Plus I don’t want smoke to kill him…

We made it to my apartment and I knew I wouldn’t have much time until Smoke showed up at my door to interrogate me. Darious wanted to come up, but I knew if he did someone would end up in jail. So I said my goodbyes to Darious and promised him another night out soon as I walked back into my apartment. 

As soon as I walked through the door I took a quick shower, changed into a silk blue night gown with white lace trimming, fluffed my curls, removed my make up and prepped my skin for whatever is going to happen in the next few hours. Lastly I got myself a glass of wine and sat on my couch and read a book as I waited for him. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I needed to be ready nonetheless.

Not even twenty minutes late I hear a loud banging at my door. Three quick, violent knocks. Like the wood itself owed him an answer. I didn’t rush.

I took my time taking a last sip of wine, stood slowly, let my silk nightgown cling to my hips like it was made to tease. I walked barefoot to the door, cool and collected, like I hadn’t been waiting on this exact moment since I walked out of that damn club.

I opened the door just enough so he could see me. And there he was leaning against the door frame using one of arms for leverage.

Pupils dilated with nothing but anger. Jaw tight. Other hand clenched at his sides trying to contain himself.

“Where that nigga at?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play with me,” he snarled, stepping inside like this was his home. His head was on a swivel. “You let him fuck you?”

I shut the door. Walked right past his rage and sat on the edge of the couch, crossing my legs with purpose.

“Hello to you too Elijah, come one in?” I stated.

“Answer the question,” he snapped.

I smiled, slow and dangerous. “I don’t have to do shit.”

Smoke stepped closer, his whole body on fire with fury.

“You wasn’t gon’ fuck him.”He looked at me like he was challenging me to give him the wrong answer to send him over the edge. 

“Wanna bet?” I raise an eyebrow and give a deceitful smirk.

He snatched the glass from my hand, set it down with a rough thunk, and stepped between my knees. Boiling with anger waiting for me to say the wrong thing to make him explode.

“Say that shit again.”

I looked up at him, lips parted just slightly.

“I was gon’ let him taste every inch of me… then let him sleep right where you do.”

His hand wrapped around my throat in a flash—tight, hot, possessive.

“You gon’ let another man lay where I sleep?” he growled.

I smiled, the tension around my neck turning me on, breath hitching. “I was gon’ let him do more than that.”

He paused. That’s when I stood up. No fear. Just slow, deliberate grace as I walked past him and down the hall.

“You can keep lookin’ for him if you want,” I said over my shoulder, “but if you was really scared I let that man touch me, you’d be too late. He left already.”

I didn’t wait to see if he followed. I went straight to my bedroom, sat at the vanity, touched up my lip gloss with calm hands. Behind me, I heard heavy footsteps pause in the doorway.

His eyes were all over the room. Searching. Burning.

“You think this shit cute?” he asked, voice gravel-thick. His eyes looked me up and down almost in disgust and jealousy.

I met his gaze in the mirror. “No. I think it’s fair.”

He stepped inside, slower now. Confused. Angry. Hurt. “What the fuck mean by that?”

I turned on the stool and faced him, legs crossed again. My night gown starting to rise a bit up my thighs.

“It means I’ve been waiting on you to choose me, Elijah. Or at least grow a pair and tell me that this bullshit we got going on isn’t going nowhere. But you’d rather keep me close, fuck me, then go back to pretending I don’t exist.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His shoulders dropped like the weight of my words finally registered.

“I’ve given you space, time, silence. I’ve let you spin this thing however you wanted, and I stayed. Quiet. Loyal. Patient. But I’m done beggin’ a “grown-ass” man to act like one.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed. His hands were twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab me or punch a wall.

“So yeah,” I said softly. “I let him touch me. I let his hands roam a little. Not ‘cause I wanted him. But because I needed you to feel what it’s like to watch the person you believed was yours go play boyfriend to other bitches.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone.

I watched him. Calm on the outside. Heart thudding like a war drum on the inside.

“You really was thinking of letting that nigga touch you?” His voice was low now. Dangerous. “He don’t even know what to do with you.”

I stood up slow, walked toward him like prey that didn’t fear the predator. “He may not know how to handle me,” I said, standing chest to chest. “But at least he acts like he wanted me.”

That landed. Hard. He blinked once—tight, sharp—like the words had cut straight through his ribcage. His hand gripped the back of my neck, and whispered against the shell of my ear.

“I ain’t act like I wanted you, huh? Was that before or after I fucked you outside that club becuase you was letting niggas grind on you and I had you cryin’ and creamin’ on my dick?”

My breath caught.

“Or when I had you bent over your own counter, sayin’ you was mine with a mouth full of my name? Because you like flirting with dudes in front of me. That's not ‘wantin’ you’ either?”

My knees pressed together tight.

“You sayin’ he acted like he wanted you…” he scoffed. “Cool. But did he make you cum in under five minutes on your bedroom floor? Did he eat you ‘til your voice broke because you was hitting up the dudes in your DM’s?”

“Shut up,” I breathed, voice shaking.

“Say it,” he taunted, eyes on fire now. “Tell me he could have touched you like I did. Tell me he could have made you forget your own fuckin’ name. When you go out half naked with your girls and come back with ten new numbers in your phone”

“I—” My chest rose and fell too fast. “He didn’t.”

Smoke’s gaze burned through me.

“I didn’t lose you,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Even when you out here pretending like I’m the only one fucking up. You ain’t been right by me either.”

My mouth parted, but I didn’t respond.

“You mine,” he said. “Still mine.”

He stepped forward as I kept moving back, until the backs of my knees hit the bed. Still, he hadn’t laid a single hand on me—but I could feel every word on my skin.

“Say it.”

“Say what?”, I give him a confused but intrigued look. 

“You know what the fuck I’m askin’, ma.”

My mouth opened, but he didn’t wait.

He dropped to his knees and pushed me back on to the bed.

“I should make you beg,” he growled. “After that bullshit you pulled tonight.”

“But I missed this pussy…” he muttered, shoving me back onto the bed, hands pushing my nightgown up slow.

He paused. Smirked. “No panties?”

I smiled, real smug. “Why wear ‘em when I knew you was gonna end up on your knees anyway?”

His eyes darkened. Jaw clenched.

Then his mouth was on my clit immediately. Hot, angry, wild.

He licked me like he was punishing me, tongue stiff and fast, nose buried deep like he needed every drop. He groaned when I whimpered. Flattened his tongue against my clit, then flicked it until my hips jerked.

“Say who it belongs to,” he growled against me.

I gasped. “Fuck—”

He sucked my clit hard enough to pull the words out of me.

“Say it.”

“Fuck you Elija–”

He slapped the inside of my thigh. “Try again.” starting like and suck faster. 

I gave in, my climax was near and continued to build, “It’s yours! It’s your pussy!”

His eyes locked on mine, lips shiny and glistening with me. “Damn right.” He licked me slower now, dragging it out, two fingers slipping inside me, curling just right.

My back arched off the bed.

“Louder,” he whispered. “Let the whole fuckin’ building know who got you cryin’ like this.”I whimpered his name, high and cracked, as he tongue-fucked me like he needed it to breathe.

“Had me stressing bout you letting some other dude in here?” he muttered between licks. “In this pussy?”

“Wanted you to feel it,” I moaned. “Wanted you to know—what it felt like.”

“Never again,” he growled. “You mine. You hear me?”

“Then act like it,” I snapped, as I begin grinding against his face. “Act like I’m yours.” I say as I grab the back of his head to push him further in to me. 

He laughed low, filthy. “Oh I’m ‘bout to show you, baby.”

Then he dove back in, no mercy, dragging me through a climax so hard I shook, hands fisting the sheets, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all in one.

My thighs were still shaking when he stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just devoured something messy and rare.

He looked down at me—lips glistening, chest rising and falling, jaw tight with hunger.

“You talk too much,” he muttered.

“I was making a point.” I snap back, out of breath.

He grabbed my waist, flipped me over onto my stomach like I weighed nothing.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped. “Make it now.”

I didn’t have time to speak—he yanked my hips back, arching my ass high in the air, pressing my face down into the mattress with one heavy hand on the back of my neck.

“Say that shit again,” he hissed into my ear, breath hot. “Say how he acted like he wanted you.”

“Elijah—”

“Mm-mm.” He pressed harder on my neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know who was in control. “You wanted Daddy’s attention?”

He lined himself up, thick and heavy against my soaked entrance. His other hand gripped my ass, spreading me open.

“Well, you got it now.”

And then—he thrust inside me, deep and fast. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just raw, angry, need.

“Fuck!” I try to muffle my moan as I pushed my face into the mattress.

“Nah, don’t get shy now,” he growled, snapping his hips against me again, again. “You was runnin’ your mouth a minute ago. Where all that shit talk go?”

The slapping of skin echoed through the room, loud and wet. His hips slammed into mine, balls smacking against my clit with each brutal stroke. The bedframe creaked under the force, the mattress giving under the weight of his big, muscular body.

Smoke’s build was all lean muscle and hard edges—wide back, thick arms caging me in as he pounded into me from behind, I could feel the tension radiating off him.

“You wanted to make me jealous? You wanted me mad?” he breathed, chest pressing into my back. “Well, now you got me.”

He drove deeper, grunting, hips rolling in filthy rhythm. “This what you wanted, huh? Daddy stretchin’ you out like this? Say it.”

I whimpered, arching into him, my ass bouncing back against his thrusts.

“Say it.”

“It’s what I wanted,” I moaned into the pillow. “I wanted you—fuck—I needed you.”

He leaned in closer, biting the curve of my shoulder.

“You mine, baby. You don’t gotta play games for me to see you. You all I ever see.”

He fucked me harder then, no mercy. My pussy clenching around him, trying to keep him in with every stroke.

“Look at this pussy suckin’ me in,” he growled, voice thick with possessiveness. “You act up just to get it like this, don’t you?”

His palm came down on my ass, the sting making me cry out.

“You love it when I fuck you back into your place, huh?.”

I could barely respond, the way he was hitting made my thoughts scatter like dust. All I could do was moan and take it.

“You gon’ behave now?” he asked, yanking my hair so I lifted my face off the pillow. “Or you need another round?”

“Give it to me,” I panted. “I can take it.”

That did something to him. His next thrust knocked the wind outta me.

“You do all this talkin’, just to shut the fuck up when this dick in you. That’s your problem.”

The pace got even filthier—fast, relentless, dragging sounds out of both of us that had no place outside of a bedroom.

The air was thick with heat and sweat and desperation.

“Say you mine again,” he ordered, breath ragged. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m—fuck— i’m yours, Daddy.”

That sent him over. He slammed into me one last time, deep and hard, filling me up with a loud groan that vibrated against my spine.

I followed right after, walls pulsing around him, toes curling, throat raw from moaning his name.

We collapsed together, breathless and shaking, tangled in the mess we made.

He was still catching his breath, eyes fluttered shut, mouth open like he was trying to gather himself.

I sat there for a second, letting the weight of what just happened settle between us. Sweat slicked my skin, my curls wild and frizzy from all the grinding and grabbing and all that heat. My chest heaved. I watched his body twitch—sensitive, eyes closed, overwhelmed, but still so hard for me.

He didn’t even notice me move.

Until I straddled him again. Hovered over him, lined us up—

And slammed down on his dick.

“Shit—!” he yelped, eyes snapping open like I’d snatched his soul. “Wait—wait—baby—”

I bounce on him hard, grinning down at him like a beast that finally caught its prey.

“You good?” I asked sweetly, breathless.

He gasped barely able to make a sound. “Damn, girl—”

“Thought so.”

I started to move. Slow at first. Just enough to hit him right. His whole body tensed, trying to brace, but he couldn’t. He was too sensitive, and I was overriding his nerves.

“I’m tired of bullshit, Elijah. I want to settle down,” I reminded him, voice low, sultry, taunting. “You going to be better for me, baby?”

“I—I am,” he stammered, jaw tight. “I am, baby—I swear—”

I sped up.

That had him groaning, loud and full in his chest. His hands shot to my thighs, gripping, begging me to slow down—and I didn’t.

“You gon’ answer when I call?” I asked, breath hitching from how deep he was hitting. “No more games?”

“Yes! I got you, baby, just don’t—don’t stop—”

I moved faster.

“Say it again,” I demanded, hips rolling harder, rougher. “Louder.”

“I’m gon’ do right! I swear to God, I’m—fuck—”

He tried to hold my hips, tried to make it last, but he couldn’t keep up. He was shaking, whining, and I loved every second of it.

But so did I.

Every stroke had my moans cracking, turning breathy and sharp, like I was losing the same control I held over him. I started to tremble too, thighs quaking, chest heaving. He was hitting that spot, again and again—stretching me just right.

My hands landed on his chest to steady myself, nails digging in. “You better,” I gasped, voice splintering. “You better fucking do right by me.”

“I will—I swear—baby, please—”

I felt it creeping up on me—my legs tightening, the heat coiling in my belly. “Oh my God—Elijah—”

“Come for me,” he begged, hips bucking under me. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

That did it. I shattered around him with a loud, raw cry, my walls clenching hard, dragging his name out like a prayer. My body folded forward as I pulsed around him, riding every wave, every tremor, until my whole frame shook.

His voice broke under me, hands locking around my hips like he never wanted me to move again. “That’s it, baby… fuck, that’s it.”

Breathless, dazed, I slumped against his chest, heart pounding, sweat glistening on my skin.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned against his neck. “I know I ain’t been fair either.”

His hands slid up my back, holding me tighter.

“I ain’t mean to hurt you,” I whispered. “I just needed to feel wanted too.”

“You got me, ma,” he said hoarsely. “You been had me.”

“I don’t wanna fight no more,” I breathed. “But you gotta do better.”

“I will,” he promised, kissing the side of my face. “You got my word.”

We laid there tangled in silence, both of us wrecked and breathless

~ I hope you liked it! Also send me some asks if you have a request, question, or fic ideas!!

click here to send an ask!!

sola💫

Taglist: @bxunyx @keenkittyconnoisseur @yana3sworld @thefutureemmywinner @roughridah0 @iiiheartfayee @margepimpson @cocooned-butterfly @sajoi @jackierose902109 @wingedpeachjudgegiant @liloswayy @sharpaysbestfriend @cosmicautomatonshark @ivoryyythesimp @dezzy154 @christinabae @doradaexplorher @mikaelsonharem7

[pixiefelixie]

・❥・(ot8 headcannons) THE GIRLFRIEND EFFECT

summary: in which skz start to abandon their old habits after getting a girlfriend, and their fellow members can only watch in stunned horror as love turns these men soft. the girlfriend effect is real. nobody is safe. cw: profanity, just endless fluff and crack, use of she/her pronouns, pls take the humor with a grain of salt <3

chan - the insomniac king was dethroned

bang chan does not sleep. everyone knows that. 

he goes to bed into the next day—3am, 4am, sometimes not at all—and wakes up looking like he’s been in an emotionally toxic relationship with his pillow. it’s a thing. a legend, even. the morning game among the members is always:

“what time do you think chan slept last night?” “over or under 3am?”

so when he walks into morning dance practice looking… rested?

eyes clear. hoodie on straight. skin dewy. shoulders not hunched like a man carrying the weight of three unfinished tracks.

it’s suspicious.

no one’s said it yet, but the members are all thinking the same thing

seungmin narrows his eyes like he’s solving a mystery. then, slowly, he raises a finger and points directly at chan.

“what time,” he begins, voice slow and ominous, “did you sleep last night?”

it’s the sacred question. normally used to roast him. normally answered with some sleep-deprived groan and a “i don’t know, man.” but this time, it comes out… almost reverent. because the idea of bang chan getting a full night’s sleep is no longer a joke—it’s truth.

chan blinks. like he didn’t expect anyone to ask.

“uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, looking oddly sheepish. “y/n was tired. we kinda crashed around midnight.”

midnight.

midnight.

you could hear a pin drop on the dance floor.

jeongin just stares. mouth slightly open. brain buffering.

“you slept... at midnight?” he echoes.

chan shrugs, trying to play it off—but he can’t hide the way his lips twitch like he’s just a little too proud. “yeah, she knocked out so i didn’t want to wake her.”

“s-so you just… fell asleep? did she drug you or something?”

chan just laughs. “nah, i just like being next to her. it’s… easy to fall asleep.”

jeongin looks like he’s witnessing a crime scene. or maybe a miracle. it’s hard to tell.

“he’s broken,” he whispers, still staring. “she’s broken him.”

seungmin doesn’t even blink. he crosses his arms and says, deadpan, “no. she’s fixed him.”

and that day, for the first time in forever, chan doesn’t yawn once.

minho - “don’t touch my ass.”

minho is many things. dancer. cat dad. human embodiment of strange.

but above all?

he’s a butt hunter.

he will grope, slap, poke, and outright ambush the butts of any member foolish enough to turn their back on him. it's not even weird anymore—it's tradition. part of the culture. a stray kids rite of passage.

so when several days go by with no butt activity? suspicion brews.

jisung is the first to notice. obviously. he passes minho in the hallway and flinches out of habit, or trauma—but nothing. not even a threatening twitch.

it’s unsettling. so unsettling, in fact, that jisung decides to take matters into his own hands.

literally.

the next day, backstage at inkigayo, jisung makes his move.

minho’s facing the mirror, fixing his hair. perfect. jisung creeps up behind him like he’s in a nature documentary.

and then—pat. a clean, respectful grab. 

he waits. silence.

minho blinks at his reflection, then turns around slowly. calmly.

then: “don’t touch my ass.”

jisung chokes. “what?”

minho just stares at him. blank. serious. 

“don’t touch my ass,” he repeats, tone calm but final—like he’s scolding a cat for scratching the couch again.

“are you mad at me? jisung sputters. 

that finally gets minho’s full attention. he sighs, and looks up at jisung like he’s explaining something very simple to a very dumb squirrel.

“no. i’m not mad at you,” he says, voice calm. “it’s not about you.”

jisung blinks, confused and still braced for impact. “then what is it?”

minho shrugs, like it’s obvious. “it’s y/n.”

there’s a pause as jisung tries to keep up.

minho sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck. “like… i wouldn’t love it if other people were grabbing my partner’s ass all the time, even as a joke, you know? and yeah, it’s always been just us messing around, but still. she’s my girlfriend. i wanna be consistent.”

jisung stares. “so… you’re retiring from ass play.”

minho gives him a flat look. “don’t call it that.”

jisung holds up both hands, backing off. “okay, okay. sorry. just—wow. that’s actually kind of sweet. and disturbingly mature.”

“you had a good run. but i’m taken now. full package. including the rear.”

jisung almost falls to his knees.

“she’s corrupted you.”

changbin - “i hope you lose your pump.”

changbin is reliable.

rain or shine, comeback or chaos, he goes to the gym.

it’s not a suggestion. it’s not a routine. it’s a spiritual contract with his biceps. if he skips a day, he complains that he can “feel himself shrinking.” if his members skip leg day, he offers to carry them—and their guilt.

so when he’s not at the gym by 10am, it’s weird. when he’s not at the gym by noon? alarming. and when he’s not at the gym at all?

something is deeply wrong.

minho’s the first to text:

you alive or did you get hit by car 

no reply.

by 2pm, some have migrated to the dorms to check on him in person. they knock. no answer. chan tries the handle—unlocked.

and there he is.

changbin. on the couch. blanket over his legs. one arm around you, the other lazily flipping through netflix. a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on his lap.

he looks up. blinks.

“oh, hey,” he mumbles, clearly still half-asleep. “didn’t hear you come in.”

silence.

you offer a small wave from behind the couch. “hi.”

minho squints. 

“where were you?” chan asks, tone sharp like an accusation.

changbin blinks. “sorry?”

“the gym,” minho says, gesturing wildly. 

changbin furrows his brows. “i don’t remember telling you i was going.”

“you never have to tell us,” chan cuts in, clearly distressed. “you always go. we stopped asking you ages ago.”

“you’re the one who made a whole speech about how ‘discipline is showing up even when you don’t feel like it.’” minho scoffs.

you shift under the blanket slightly, sitting up a bit straighter, and speaking up for the first time since the interrogation began.

“i called him over,” you say simply, voice soft but teasing. “sorry none of you have girls asking to spend time with you.”

minho scoffs. 

changbin chuckles beside you, hand up for a high-five. you slap it, grab another handful of popcorn, and lean back with a smile.

chan shakes his head, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “can’t even be mad. you look happy.”

“you’ve changed,” minho says solemnly, but really, he’s proud. “i hope you lose your pump.”

changbin grins. “you’re just jealous.”

they probably are.

hyunjin - “she likes me when i'm low-effort.”

hyunjin doesn’t just get ready. he curates.

every outfit is a look. every look has a theme. necklaces. earrings. scarves. a gentle waft of expensive perfume that smells like whispered poetry.

so when he walks out of his room wearing—

sweatpants. a plain white t-shirt. no versace. no rings. no 12-step skincare glow. just lip balm.

his roommate, changbin, nearly drops his protein shake.

“hold still.” he steps in front of the door, arms spread like he’s blocking a crime scene. “are you really going out like that?”

hyunjin blinks. looks down at himself like he forgot what he put on. then shrugs. “yeah. brunch.”

“with who, your bed?”

“y/n.”

silence.

“you’re going out with your girlfriend, hyunjin.” he says slowly, 

hyunjin tilts his head. “she likes me just fine this way.”

changbin gestures wildly. “you’re wearing sweatpants.”

hyunjin shrugs again, utterly unbothered. “they're clean.”

“and the plain white tee?”

���she said i look cute when i’m low-effort.”

changbin groans like he’s being personally attacked. “do you know how hard i tried to look good the last time i saw a girl? i changed outfits four times and still ended up sweating through my shirt.”

hyunjin just smirks, grabbing his phone off the counter before opening the door. “maybe you should’ve tried less.” he adds casually, before stepping out. “bye.”

and all changbin can do is stand there, shaking his head, whispering.

“she’s changed him.” 

han - his ego took a sick day

jisung milks compliments. he churns them into butter. whips them into frosting. lives off the validation like it’s a multivitamin.

in interviews, when asked who's the funniest? “obviously me.”

best-looking? “me, but hyunjin’s close.”

most talented? “it’s me. i wrote this question.”

you’re at the jyp cafeteria, trays clinking, the hum of trainees and staff in the background as you sit shoulder to shoulder with jisung at a corner table, while hyunjin and felix are across from you.

jisung’s rambling about something—probably a dream, possibly a conspiracy—chopsticks waving as he talks through a mouthful of rice. that’s when you notice it.

a tiny scrap of seaweed. clinging to the edge of his lip.

you lean in just a bit, tapping the side of your own mouth. “right there.”

he pauses, tongue darting out instinctively to swipe the spot along with a flick of his eyes up at you like, did i get it?

and somehow… it’s stupidly attractive.

and it hits you—hard and fast and stupid:

“you’re so handsome,” you murmur.

hyunjin and felix immediately stop eating.

the air stills.

felix sets down his spoon with a slow, almost reverent motion.

hyunjin glances at felix. then at you. then at jisung. they both brace for it.

this is the moment where his ego explodes.

he’s about to say something cocky. something ridiculous like "thank you for the unnecessary comment—everyone already knows that."

but none of that happens.

instead?

jisung freezes.

his chopsticks stop mid-air. his lips part slightly, like the words never formed.

felix and hyunjin exchange a slow, stunned glance across the table, like they’re witnessing something rare and possibly mythical.

jisung clears his throat. forces a tiny smile. not his usual smug grin—something smaller. bashful.

you tilt your head, soft and sincere as you repeat. “you’re really handsome.”

he ducks his head slightly, mumbling, “stop,” but there’s no bite in it.

you grin.

that’s when hyunjin leans forward dramatically, hand cupping his mouth. “i didn’t know you were capable of being humble.”

jisung groans, shoving a spoonful of rice into his mouth just to avoid talking. “shut up.”

hyunjin smirks. “you’re blushing.”

“i am not.”

felix points. “then why are your ears the color of gochujang?”

jisung throws him a look, cheeks puffed full of rice like a chipmunk. he chews dramatically, swallows, and finally mutters—

“god forbid i get a little flustered when my girlfriend compliments me.”

hyunjin groans dramatically, flopping back in his chair. “she softened him. he’s fully simmered.”

felix sighs into his hands. “remember when he used to call himself ‘sex on legs’ and say we were lucky to know him?”

jisung shovels another spoonful of rice into his mouth. “still true,” he mumbles.

he then looks at you—blushing, with a small smile.

felix - "i’m keeping her on her toes.”

felix is a certified cuddle bug.

he initiates first, always. doesn’t matter the time, the place, or the number of witnesses. if you're standing still for more than five seconds? he’s already wrapped around you like a weighted blanket if it had freckles.

he hugs everyone. back hugs. side hugs. full-body collapse hugs. the man radiates affection like it’s photosynthesis—he needs it to live, and he makes sure everyone else gets a dose too.

but ever since he started dating you…you started playing this little game. felix has decided to become your greatest enemy.

you step into the recording studio with a bright smile, holding iced americanos.

only felix, chan, and jisung today. chan looks up from the mixing board, immediately grinning. “oh, legend. thank you.”

jisung’s in the booth, mid-bar, rapping like his life depends on it.

you walk over to felix, who’s perched on the couch, headphones around his neck, scribbling notes in a lyric sheet. you set the tray of drinks down on the little table beside him, lean down, and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

then, naturally, you slide your arms around him in a casual hug.

he doesn’t move.

no returning squeeze. no snuggle into your shoulder. no dramatic gasp and full koala-mode cling. just him—smiling, smug.

smiling, but not hugging back.

you pull back just enough to pout. “felix. not this again.”

chan glances up from his monitor, brows raised. “what are you doing?”

felix turns to him. “she always expects the hugs. i’m trying to keep her on her toes.”

you groan. “we live for the hugs, felix. there are rules.”

“i know.” he winks. “that’s why i break them.”

chan leans back in his chair, eyes wide like he’s seeing felix for the first time. “you’ve… developed self-control.”

you sigh dramatically, still half in his lap. “unfortunately.”

felix scoffs, poking your side. “don’t act like you’re some poor victim. you dodge me all the time!”

you narrow your eyes. “okay, fine. if you wanna play that game… how about neither of us do anything?”

felix leans back like he’s genuinely considering it. “alright. okay. deal.”

a beat passes. one whole second.

then—

he immediately lunges forward, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck. “too late.”

you squeal as he hugs you tight and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, smug and unrepentant.

“felix!” you gasp, laughing. “you lasted one second!”

he grins into your shoulder. “you looked too cute being all serious.”

chan shakes his head from across the room, muttering, “so much for self-control.”

felix shrugs, arms still locked around you. “self-control’s overrated.”

you could only change him so much.

seungmin - no one knows where the savage went

seungmin has the softest little voice. polite. gentle. that kind of light, effortless tone that sounds like it should be used to offer you tea or read bedtime stories. 

but then he opens his mouth and says something like,

“you look like someone who peaked in high school,” with the same tone you'd use to say, have a nice day.

and that’s the seungmin everyone knows—sharp-tongued, savage, and weirdly charming about it. naturally, everyone assumes he’d be the same with a partner. 

you’re sitting with felix and changbin in the practice room when seungmin walks in, sipping his iced tea. he plops down next to you and greets the group with his usual drawl.

as you start unwrapping a protein bar, he eyes it casually and goes, “is that your second one today?”

you nod with a muffled “mhm,” mid-bite.

across from you, changbin freezes—brows raised, lips already curling like he’s bracing for the roast. he’s heard this setup before. he knows seungmin’s usual follow-up. normally, it’s a deadpan jab about how someone eats like a vacuum, or a not-so-subtle fat joke about needing a second lunch just to function. he’s ready.

but instead?

seungmin leans his head slightly toward you, eyes soft. “you like those ones, right? i’ll grab you a couple more next time i’m at the store.”

you blink at him, surprised—but smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “really?”

he nods, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. then reaches over, gives your knee a light pat.

changbin looks offended. “okay, how come you never say stuff like that to me? i’m the one who put her on those protein bars.”

seungmin doesn’t even look up.

“because when you eat, it sounds like a construction site.”

felix loses it, nearly spilling his drink as he doubles over laughing.

changbin gapes, pointing at seungmin. “i chew normally!”

seungmin finally looks up, deadpan. “you breathe heavy before opening a snack.”

you’re gaping at seungmin, caught between shock and laughter. “seungmin.”

he finally cracks—a tiny, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he turns toward you. he opens his mouth just slightly, so, huffing a laugh, you lift the protein bar and hold it up to his mouth.

seungmin bites down on the protein bar, eyes locked on yours—soft, a little smug, but mostly just… fond. like the insult he threw five seconds ago didn’t exist. like you’re the only thing in the room.

felix watches the entire thing unfold from the corner of the couch, straw halfway to his mouth, forgotten.

“somehow,” he mutters to changbin, stunned. “she’s tamed him.”

jeongin - "she's normal"

jeongin is the maknae 💜. and he loves being the maknae.

gets away with things. never has to go first. everyone looks out for him.

but the second one of his members tries to baby him? it’s war.

if hyunjin tries to feed him a spoonful—he glares like he’s been betrayed. if anyone calls him “innie baby”? he files for emotional damages.

he secretly loves the attention, obviously. but he’ll never admit it. not to their faces. not in this lifetime.

so when he walks off stage after the main performance, sweat-damp and glowing, and heads backstage for a breather before the encore, it’s a complete shock when jeongin lets you be touchy. lets you baby him. cause they’ve all tried and failed.

“you did so well, baby,” you say, all soft and proud, hands reaching up to fix the little flyaways at his temple.

even just the pet name “baby” hits the room like a mic drop.

hyunjin physically recoils. 

jeongin just looks at you—shy smile pulling at the corner of his lips—and quietly asks, “you think so?”

you nod immediately. “i know so. you looked amazing out there.”

he blushes, eyes dropping, but he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he leans in a little—like your presence is the calm after the storm.

you cup his cheeks briefly, thumbs brushing just under his eyes. “i’m so proud of you.”

another pet name. another shockwave.

this time, hyunjin can’t help himself. he dramatically stumbles backward like he’s been shot. so of course hyunjin takes it as a challenge.

on his way past, he reaches out and ruffles jeongin’s hair exactly the way he knows jeongin hates—fingers scratchy, deliberately messing it up.

“great job, baby,” hyunjin mocks in a high-pitched voice, grinning.

jeongin flinches immediately.

you laugh, covering your mouth as you watch the chaos unfold.

but hyunjin’s already on a mission.

he swoops in again—arms outstretched for a dramatic hug, lips puckered exaggeratedly as he leans in with a loud, “come here, my innie baby—”

jeongin panics, pushing at his chest with both hands. “get off me!”

hyunjin stumbles back, hand on his heart like he’s been betrayed. “come on! what is this? what does she have that i don’t?”

jeongin doesn’t even hesitate.

“she’s normal,” he deadpans, fixing his hair.

hyunjin staggers like the words physically struck him, hand still pressed to his chest in mock pain.

but jeongin’s already turned back to you—his expression softening, that tiny amused smile curling at his lips. you smile back just as sweetly, eyes crinkling, and he swears his heart does a little somersault.

hyunjin stares, genuinely stunned now, voice low and almost reverent.

“i’m… envious,” he mutters. “you’ve surely done something to him.”

author's note: what if skz did something totally out of character and their members lost their minds over it? i love a man completely changing his personality for a woman. sue me. anyways, thank you for reading this. i really hope you enjoyed it! engagement is appreciated, and feel free to leave some feedback 🫶

[nineteenninety-six]

I hope I don’t send this 1000 times but tumblr glitched

Could you write with Jack abbot , like his neighbour (reader) knocks on his door and she’s like should I go to the er and he looks down and she’s managed to cut like her palm and he ends up stitching it himself (cause of course he has a kit) and like it would kinda be a plus if she was kinda scared of hospitals and stuff cause comforting jackkkkk

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Reader

TW: Medical inaccuracies. reader get injured. Jack stitches her up.

AN: I'm gonna reopen up my requests \O/

Hurried, rapid knocking on his door pulls Jack's attention away from the hockey game he was watching and he bites back a frustrated groan at the noise. He had a rare weekend off and that meant no disruption and he had warned all his friends and family about that, the only exception being emergencies.

The knocking quietened for a moment before it started back up, and then panic shot through him. He had his phone on DND and perhaps there was an actual emergency and no one could get through to him so they came to his apartment but a check through his phone showed no texts or missed calls.

Jack pondered for a few moments on whether or not he should return to watching the game or answer the door before he settled back into the couch, watching as Sidney Crosby dangle the puck through the Oilers defence and score a goal.

"Jack…? Please tell me you're in right now." 

Jack perks up at the familiar voice that comes through the door, it was his nextdoor neighbour. You guys weren't exceptionally close, friendly to each other, greeting each other as you passed by and sometimes you would drop off baked goods to him if you had extra or felt exceptionally neighbourly. He'd always thought you were attractive but he was a good couple of years older than you and he didn't want to misstep and make things awkward.

The panic and worry in your voice brings Jack to his feet and he hurries to his door hoping to catch you before you turn away. He swings the door open and finds you there with your right arm held above your head, hand wrapped in a tea towel that was darkened with your blood.

Relief bleeds into your expression at the sight of him, "Oh thank God, you're home."

"What happened?" Jack asks, hand automatically reaching for you injured one.

"Sorry to disturb you but I remembered you're a doctor and honestly, I'm not the biggest fan of hospitals." You wince. "I cut myself whilst cooking."

Jack ushers you further into his apartment, sitting you at the kitchen island before he collects the first aid kit he keeps underneath his kitchen sink.

"Let me take a look," Jack says as he settles into the seat beside you, gently resting your injured hand on the counter before he slips his glasses on to get a better look.

Your lips tug as you watch him slip his glasses on. You knew he was a bit older than you but the visual of him needing 'reading' glasses was a funny sight.

"Keep laughing and I'll send you over to the ED" Jack murmurs, eyes still on your hand, "I'll have you know that I'm a very capable doctor, glasses or not."

Your uninjured hand covers your mouth as you muffle the laughter that erupts at his words, "I would never judge your skills as a doctor, Jack."

Jack finally finishes analysing your hand as he straightens up and looks over at you, "Good because you absolutely need stitches."

You felt your stomach twist at his words and your lunch threatened to make an appearance. You hated hospitals and you always tried your best to avoid landing in one but it seemed like your luck had run out.

Jack watches your reaction, quickly figuring out why you reacted like you did.

"I have a suture pack, I can do it here if you'd prefer?"

"Oh Jack, I'll bake you a whole tray of muffins if you can do it here." 

Jack huffs a laugh at your words before he nods, "I'll go grab it. Stay here."

You look around his apartment whilst he's gone from the room. You can see his degrees hanging on the wall, along with pictures of friends and family, the ones where he's clearly deployed abroad sticking out to you. His place was comfy yet obviously showed the signs of its owner not being in it often, twelve hours shifts keeping him busy. 

"Snooped enough?" Jack asks as he returns to the kitchen with the suture pack.

"I didn't snoop," You deny, "I merely…looked. Analyzed."

Jack began to sanitize the counter, wiping it down, along with the chairs for good measure before he set up shop. 

"Okay, I'll rephrase my question." Jack says as he waves you towards the chair, "Analyzed enough?"

"Yeah, I learned a few things about you." You say as you settle down, setting your hand down on the table.

"Yeah?" Jack spared a glance at you before he put his glasses on and snapped gloves on. "This will hurt, I don't have anything that will numb the area and you'll have to survive off of ibuprofen or paracetamol."

You nod, you'd rather deal with the pain than go to the hospital and so to distract yourself you begin to talk.

"I didn't know you were in the military," You say as Jack flushes your wound.

You half expect Jack to give you a half answer or even not answer at all but he easily answers as he begins to stitch up.

"Yeah, joined straight after high school. Always wanted to go to college and become a doctor but the traditional route wasn't for me."

You pause before you ask your next question, "Do you think it was worth it?"

Jack paused what he was doing at your question, eyes fluttering up to yours before they flick back down to the instruments in his hands but he answers as he pierces your skin.

"I lost a lot. More than I ever imagined I would," Jack's words are gentle as he focuses on what he was doing, "But I don't regret it. I wouldn't be the man I am today if I didn't serve."

"Well I'll make sure I bake you your favourite dessert for veterans day. Just for you." You say through gritted teeth.

Jack pulls back with a smile which slowly erupts into laughter, "And what about Military Appreciation Month? What do I get for that?"

"Whilst I love that you believe in my skills and talents, I can't bake you something everyday for a month." You joke, "Were you thinking of something specific?"

Jack waits until he ties off the thread and snips the extra off before he answers.

"How about a date?"

You blink at Jack in slight confusion. Sure you thought your neighbour was attractive, his grey curls and light eyes made every woman in the apartment block swoon but in the years you had been neighbours, your interactions were minimal.

"A date?"

"You can say no, don't feel pressure just because I patched you up." Jack reassures you.

"No-no! I'd really like to go on a date with you," You reach over with your uninjured hand and rest it on his thigh, "Not pressured at all!"

"When are you free?" Jack asks.

"I feel like I should be asking you that instead considering your shift patterns," You say as you pull your hand back from his thigh and hold it out expectantly, "Pass me your phone and I'll give you my number."

Jack does as he's asked and you tap your number in, drop calling your phone so you also have his number before you return his phone to him.

"I'll text you." You smile at him.

"I'll look forward to it." Jack returns your smile, "Now let me wrap your hand before I send you back home."

[titaniasfairy]

heard you, saw you, felt you

summary: you hate working closing shifts, but when a strange man stops by for a drink, you have no choice but to say yes.

a/n: hi y'all! here's what i wrote for the waitress!reader prompt i posted a few days ago, this is the longest and filthiest thing i've written period. thank you so much @spikedfearn for beta reading this for me! mwah enjoy <3

18+ MDNI

pairing: remmick x female!reader

wc: 5.2k

cw: dub-con!! reader hates her job lowkey, remmick is a FREAK, obsession, manipulation, vampire stuff y'know, biting, blood sucking, cunnilingus, piv sex, creampie, reader blacks out.

closing shifts were the worst. you loved opening shift, spending your shift with the early birds who had fresh smiles and always greeted you with a grinning “good morning” was always your favorite way to start the day. you’d get out around 4:00 pm, leaving the diner to be handled by whatever poor soul was working the dinner shift. on a good day, you’d leave with a couple of dimes jingling in your apron and plenty of guest receipts that had little notes like “have a good day!” or “thank you for breakfast” written on them. you could still stop into town if you needed anything at home, the sun still shining high in the sky beaming down on the townsfolk in the streets. you’d get home at a reasonable hour, just in time to make supper for yourself. at most nice of all, you’d be in bed at a decent hour with plenty of time to sleep before the morning comes. 

you didn’t have those luxuries when you worked closing shifts. 

when you’d seen the weekly diner schedule shortly after it’d been posted, your lips had shifted from a upward grin to a complete scowl. despite having begged your manager to keep you on opening shifts, you had still been assigned a closing shift, on a saturday night, even better. closing shifts always began while the diner was jam-packed full of patrons. people slumped on barstools, people huddled around tables, people shoved in booths like sardines, and people loitering around outside with lit cigarettes hanging from their mouths. the smell was abhorrent and always made your clothes smell like burnt tobacco before you even punched the clock. when you’d arrive, someone would always greet you with a “thank god you’re here” or “where the hell have you been?” despite you being on time. your feet would end up aching around the second hour of your shift from the constant back and forth from the kitchen to the diner, your wrist would be throbbing from writing countless orders, and your ears would be ringing just from how loud everything was. 

it would only start to improve by the time the sun had long gone down, around 9 or 10 o’clock. by then, the kitchen would be closed and the only diners left would be just about finished with their meals. all the other waitresses would head home, leaving you to finish the closing tasks. you’d spend the rest of your shift wiping down tables, polishing silverware, and mopping the floors before you left and locked all the doors. though you originally hated cleaning the restaurant, you found it calming to end the night with such a silent task. sometimes you’d hum or sing to yourself just to pass the time while you swept the floors. the walk home was the worst part, your legs ached and your eyes struggling to stay open while you hobbled home. you’d rely on streetlights to illuminate your way until you made your way to the dirt roads where you’d use the fireflies as guidance. eventually, you’d finally get in your door just to pass out as soon as your back hit the mattress. god forbid you had an opening shift the next day.

tonight’s closing shift was no different than your expectations. 

you arrived around 6:00 pm after walking through the dense clouds of gray cigarette smoke, staining your clothes with the stench. you couldn’t even set your things down before another server approached you with the usual “finally, we’re swamped out there.” conversation. you punched your time card in and smoothed out your apron with your hands, making sure to get out any creases or wrinkles that anyone would notice. you checked inside the apron for your pencil and writing pad before going out into the dining room. and like always, you were swamped. diners lined the bar with their hunched over frames, chowing down on whatever special was available that night. people were stuffed in booths, their shoulders rubbing together each time they moved their fork. the section assigned to you was already filled with patrons eager to get their order taken, they’d already resorted to snapping at you to get your attention. during morning shifts, you were always called by a “excuse me miss” or “pardon me”, but when the sun went down it seemed people had forgotten about pleasantries. your night continued with you taking orders and running food, refilling drinks, handing out checks, and cleaning up the messes people left when they got their receipt and change back. your table’s must’ve been stingy, because you were only left with a nickel or two once everyone had staggered out. 

after what seemed like a never-ending rush, the diner was finally empty. your co-workers had left as soon as they could, abandoning any opportunity to help you with the side-work that needed to be done. you were completely worn out from the dinner rush. your hair, which was neatly tied up when you came in, had now fallen out of place and stuck out in places where it shouldn’t have. your uniform was colored in a myriad of stains ranging from food, drinks, and grease. sweat had dried on the back of your neck, your forehead, and various other places, leaving you to feel just plain gross. your feet felt as if you had just ran a marathon, aching from holding yourself up all shift. you didn’t even give yourself the blessing of a break since it was so busy throughout the diner, leaving for 15 minutes would have only made things worse. 

the sun had been replaced with a bright full moon, illuminating the outside and shining through the windows of the diner. you had finished polishing the silverware and sorting them in the back, leaving you with only sweeping and mopping to do. like usual, you broke the eerie silence throughout the restaurant by singing to yourself. you never sang too loud, just enough so you could hear yourself sing along to a familiar tune. you drowned out the sound of the mop squelching on the floor with a melody you learned from your mother long ago, back when she’d sing to herself when hanging up the laundry. those songs would always find a way to cheer you up, no matter how exhausting the night was. the crickets outside acted as your back-up singers, chirping along to a rhythm you couldn’t pick up on. 

before you knew it, the entire floor had been mopped. you put the mop back in the closet, then grabbed the bucket of dirty water to dump into the sink in the back. after ensuring that everything else was put in its right place and cleaned up properly in the kitchen, you grabbed your things and locked the back door before punching the clock. you made sure to shut the kitchen light off as you walked out into the diner. but as you scanned the restaurant one last time, something was off. the crickets had stopped chirping and the silence left in the room wasn’t something that could be remedied with a song. it wasn’t until you looked out the window that you saw him. 

a man, standing outside the diner with his back to the glass window that spanned across the dining room. his hands were tucked in his pockets with his head turned down to the ground, like he was praying for something. his clothes weren’t pristine and spotless, but they weren’t tattered and soiled either, they just looked worn. a set of suspenders crossed against his bag and held up a pair of dark trousers. the shirt on his back looked to be just a bit too large for him, definitely not tailored for the man. the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows on arms that looked to be a smidge too pale for the month of june, especially in the mississippi delta. you shrugged it off and told yourself it was just the moonlight playing tricks on you. you felt as if he was waiting on the door to open, his frame was leaning on the window and he kept looking to his side to see if anyone was there. you figured he was waiting on you, so you made your way across the diner to open the door, making the bells on it ring out. the man immediately turned to look at you, like it was reflex. a smile was spread across his face, revealing his not-so-perfect teeth. 

“can i help you, sir?” your voice was just low enough to hear. the man’s eyes flickered up and down, looking at the state of your stained apron and dress. he inhaled what sounded like a chuckled before replying, “that was a beautiful song you were singing in there.”. your brows furrowed in confusion. how could he hear you in there? perhaps you were louder than you thought. still, you were flattered, you could feel heat rising up to your cheeks. 

you weren’t able to get a good look at his face until you opened the door, you were delighted to find the man quite handsome. he looked to be about your age, if not older. his eyes were soft but his face looked like it’d seen years of hard labor, his features littered with small scars and marks from god knows what. shadows fell across his brow bone, leaving his eyes dark with no distinguishable color to his irises. his smile felt human, his teeth not aligned like someone wealthy, with a few overlapping each other. you were too busy admiring him to notice that you didn’t respond, making your entire face warm, now. 

“t-thank you! my mama used to sing it all the time.” you tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear like a enamored schoolgirl would, embarrassing yourself even more. the man turned his head to side, cocking it while he looked at you, making you stumble on your words. “can i help you with anything? it’s awfully late.” you looked up at him while you spoke, he wasn’t much taller than you. “well..” he looked at your name tag safety pinned to your uniform, the back up to you. his accent was thick but sweet like honey, it didn’t sound like he was from the delta, but he was certainly from somewhere down south. your name fell from his lips, hanging from them like vines. the air was stagnant until he opened his mouth again. “i just finished my shift at the construction site and i am mighty thirsty, sugar.” he licked his lips while he awaited a response from you. 

you looked back into the diner, still lit by the overhead lights hanging from the ceiling. technically you were closed, and you’d have to charge him for something like a sweet tea or lemonade, but you doubted he’d turn down water. you looked back outside to discover the man had moved closer, you gave him another look. “i ain’t ever seen you before.” you weren’t suspicious, just curious. you were used to the people who came around at night, the same people who carry flasks in their pockets and don’t tip unless you flirt. he didn’t seem like them, though. “i don’t come around much. i just want to sit down for a bit, is that too much to ask?” you considered saying no, that your manager would throw you through the ringer if you let someone in after hours, let alone a stranger. but he did look thirsty, you couldn’t count the amount of times his tongue ran across his lips. he stared at the diner like it was an oasis in the desert, like if he closed his eyes too long he’d find it gone when he opened them. “i don’t suppose why not. c'mon in, i’ll get you something.” his face was beaming before you could finish your sentence. he held the door for you as you walked in, you wondered to yourself if he was always such a gentleman. he found his way to the bar and sat down on one of the stools as you walked behind the bar. “i don’t usually do this, y’know.” you said while looking at him across from you. he had his elbows resting on the wood, his body leaning in towards you. on his neck sat an iron chain, slightly rusted from age. it caught the light when he moved, shining in one place then another when his neck turned. he kept that toothy grin of his as he responded, “well i’m certainly grateful,” he said your name again like he’d known you for awhile, not just for a few moments. “you know my name but i don’t know your’s.” his eyebrows were raised as you spoke, intently listening to whatever you had to say. 

“remmick” 

he spoke it like he wasn’t proud of it. his eyes shifted down to the wood, averting his gaze from your eyes. you titled your head a bit, you’d never heard that name before. it sounded almost ancient, foreign to you in a way. “i ain’t ever heard that name before, you from around here?” he chuckled at your confusion and looked back up at you, his blue eyes now clear as day in the diner’s bright lighting. “you sure do ask a lot of questions, darlin’” remmick’s hands were clasped in front of him, his interlaced fingers were thick and his nails were short and worn down. your cheeks warmed up again, making you smile in embarrassment. “well i don’t want to serve a stranger, you could be dangerous.” you grabbed a glass from behind the bar and polished it with a nearby rag. remmick licked his lips again, smirking at you. you couldn’t fight the butterflies flying in your stomach as his eyes raked over you once more, like he was eyeing a meal. “but you let one in?” 

he ran the back of his hand over his mouth after he said it, wiping a string of drool off his lips that you didn’t see. “there’s a first time for everything.” you looked around, then remembered the icebox was off. you’d have to wait at least 10 minutes if he wanted ice. “i don’t have any ice…” the sentence hung from your lips as your mind wandered off. “i don’t need it sweetheart, i’d just about drink anything right now.” you gave him a nod before walking to the nearby sink and turning on the tap. you filled the glass up before turning the handle and pouring out the excess water from the class. 

“i can’t thank you enough, sugar.” he told you as you made your way around the bar. you set the glass down on the wood before sitting yourself at the barstool next to remmick. his hand wrapped around the glass and raised it to his lips, taking one short sip. for someone who just said they were near death from dehydration, he wasn’t very eager to drink the water. you shrugged it off and took a closer look at his clothes. his dress shirt was opened up a few buttons, revealing a white wife-beater underneath. they looked aged, but not quite as worn down as you’d expect. 

“you never did tell me where you were from.” his eyes were trained on you, almost locked on your lips as you spoke. his other hand sat resting on his knee, his fingers tapping against it every now and then. “i’m from around.” he said, seemingly avoiding the question. his eye’s moved from your lips to somewhere below them, staring at what you assumed to be your necklace. you held the pearl hanging on your neck between two fingers, fiddling it in nervousness. the back of his hand wiped over his mouth again. 

your facial expression changed from curiosity to confusion, brows furrowed and eyes squinted. you looked back to the counter, where the water sat. remmick hadn’t touched the glass you gave him since he took the first sip. you wondered if the well had something to do with it. “that water no good or something?” you looked back at him and saw a new man, one who didn’t look like a man at all. his once blue irises were now a dark crimson, hiding beneath his black lashes. he gave you that toothy grin you’d noticed when opened the door, but his teeth had been replaced with jagged daggers, his canines now sharp like fangs. 

“i think we both know that’s not what i wanted.” 

your breath hitched, the air from your lungs suddenly disappeared and left you speechless. you tried to respond but were only able to let out a squeak. remmick rose from the barstool and stepped towards you, almost towering over you now. he brought a long clawed finger up to your mouth, shushing you. “aw, it’ll be alright, sweetheart. don’t cry.” his voice was rasped and low, the frequency vibrating through you. your vision began to blur with tears, making you squeeze your eyes shut in fear. he brought another finger to your cheeks to wipe the salty streams that had begun to fall from your eyes. 

“i knew i had to have you. from the moment i heard that pretty voice i knew what i had to do.” his lips were on your ear, his voice paralyzing you in place. he kept one hand cupping your cheek and one holding your waist, gripping the apron you’d had on all night along with your plump flesh. you found the courage to speak again, your voice only a weak whisper, “what are you?” remmick let out a low chuckle and you could feel his smile on your face.

 “your savior.” 

you gasped when his lips began to kiss your jaw, making their way down to your exposed neck. “i know just how miserable you are, sugar. you don’t do nothing but work all day and night just for a couple of dimes and nickels. nobody ever thanks you, either. you practically run this place yourself but you don’t have anything to show for it. isn’t that right, darlin’?” his breathing sent shivers down your spine, his words festering in your head. 

he was right. you work your ass off nearly everyday to keep the diner afloat but you hadn’t received a promotion in years. your co-workers rely on you to keep things steady but don’t have the decency to offer any help. 

“you go home miserable and lonely, no husband at home and no kids to feed. all the other girls your age are married off by now and got litters of young-ins, don’t they?” 

more tears fell from your eyes, you’d always dreamed of having a family just like you did growing up. but no man was ever willing to give you the time of day, not when you came home smelling like grease and coffee. your heart panged in your chest, still pumping fast from sheer adrenaline. you shook your head, but you knew there was no point in denying him. 

“i can take you away from all this pain. give you a life you always wanted, doesn’t that sound sweet, sugar?” 

you sobbed in remmick’s arms as he continued to kiss down your neck. you tried to ignore the way your thighs clenched each time his tongue touched your flesh, but it wasn’t worth trying. you leaned into his touch, back arching into each kiss and lick he laid on your skin. 

“i chose you to be mine, and i met you there, and you invited me in.” 

a small moan left your lips before you felt it. his lips enclosed on your neck and kissed the flesh before remmick widened his mouth and bit into you like a ripe georgia peach. you felt the pressure of it first, your head lolling back and screaming out in pain. after a few seconds you felt the fangs retract, allowing him to take from you what he wanted all along. he sucked in your gushing blood like a man starved, tongue flicking over the bite wound and making you squirm in his hold. you felt the rush of blood loss run through you, making your vision flood with black spots. you squeezed your eyes shut and anticipated the worst, but once remmick’s lips left your neck, you experienced euphoria. 

an invisible weight lifted from your aching shoulders, your lungs let out an exhale you didn’t know you were holding or how long you were keeping it in. after a few moments you opened your eyes and laid eyes on the monster you’d devoted yourself to. the lower half of his face was smeared with your blood, his nectar. you couldn’t deny the sudden pull he had on you, his gaze making your cunt quiver. 

remmick’s bloodied lips were on yours before you knew it, his kiss almost bruising. his hands cupped your face while yours tangled in his locks. your tongues slid over each other’s, interwoven in a soul binding kiss that felt like heaven on earth. your blood had smeared onto your face, marking you as forever his. as you leaned into the kiss, you could feel remmick’s hands slip behind your back and untie the apron you’d been wearing, discarding it to the floor once it fell into his grasp. his hands fell to you hips and pushed lightly, causing your back to hit the wood of the barstool, pinning you there. your chest heaved like a panting dog as his sharp claws played with the hem of your dress, his forehead pressed up against yours as he breathed life into your mouth. after a few moments, remmick’s fingers pushed your dress back to bunch it at your hips, revealing your plump thighs to him. 

before you knew it, he was on his knees below you. he took his time admiring your legs, holding one with both hands, leaving a trail of kisses starting from your calf and ending at the tops of your thighs, then switching to the other. it was hauntingly romantic. your mouth couldn’t stop the small whimpers that left you each time his lips found the places that left goosebumps on you when kissed, his eyes would shoot up to meet your’s with each sound that left you in a desperate need of approval. his lips left the top of your thigh and his hands landed under the backs of your knees, holding them to your chest. he gasped when he saw them, your cotton panties that had stuck to your heat and the darkened wet patch that sat just where your opening was. remmick’s nose pressed against the cloth, breathing you in and surrounding himself in nothing but you. it made your stomach flip and your cunt clench. in what could only be impatience, a razor sharp claw sawed its way through your panties, cutting them from your body and finding themselves somewhere on the floor along with your apron. you gasped in a strange mixture of arousal and fear, the sound coming out of you like a wanton moan. once your cunt had been revealed, his eyes were glued to watching it react to its new surroundings. he even blew a stream of air on it to watch you jump. he let out a dark chuckle, grinning to himself. 

“i heard you, i saw you, felt you. and now, i’m going to give you the gift of belonging.” 

you batted your lashes down at him, now holding your legs apart for him. remmick’s dark eyes stared back up at you, two dark voids filled with only god knows what, but you didn’t care anymore. god be damned if he’s a monster, he’s the most beautiful one you’d ever seen in your life. you nodded your head to tell him you were ready, even though remmick knew he didn’t need your permission anymore. he left a small kiss to the top of your clit before devouring you. his tongue ran its way over the seam of your cunt, then his lips began to suck. it was bliss you couldn’t have even imagined, your back arching off the seat and the butterflies in your stomach beginning to swarm. his tongue lapped up your arousal like it was his god-given right to, slurping up each drop you could possibly give to him. remmick moaned into your folds, the vibrations sending shockwaves throughout your body. his lips moved to suck your clit, flicking the bundle of nerves with his tongue every so often. while his mouth was occupied with the top of your heat, two fingers made their way to your opening, pressing into your entrance. 

“taste like heaven, sugar. i’m gonna have so much fun with you.” 

the quiet diner on the downtown street was suddenly filled with the most sinful of sounds, a filthy combination of moans and whimpers. remmick’s fingers had made their way inside you, thrusting at a slow, but moderate, pace. your own fingers were interlaced in the dark strands of his hair that had begun to mat from his own sweat. you ground your hips into his open mouth, making him groan out in satisfaction. you felt his fingers hitting the sweet spot you’d only felt with your own, the feeling even more intense along with his lips lapping over your folds. 

your cunt clenched tight, and remmick knew your orgasm with approaching, making him more ravenous than before. his movements became calculated, he was laser-focused on making you reach your climax. your breathing became labored, chest moving up and down with each breath. the coil in your stomach tightened, your body tensed up and awaited his approval. 

“now give me what i need, sweet girl.”

a flood of emotions washed over you, a wave of euphoria hit you like a strike of lightning and your cunt was gushing before you knew it. remmick discarded his fingers from your hole and used his tongue over your entrance as you rode out your orgasm. underneath the blissful wailing from your mouth, you could hear him moaning against your heat, breathing you in his lungs. when the flood had subsided, he came up for air and rose from his knees. remmick’s mouth that was previously covered in your blood was now wiped clean, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue. your chest throbbed with adoration, your head only filled with thoughts of him. his hands cupped your face again, noses touching and foreheads pressed against each other. you closed your eyes and brought yourself down to earth, his thumbs caressing the underside of your job. remmick kissed you softly, the kiss passionate but not hungry. his lips lingered over your’s for a moment before he spoke, “you’re so beautiful” your name leaving his mouth as your eyes closed. never in your life did you feel so wanted. 

you raised your lips to his as a thank you, hands clutching his face. your tongue ran over his lips, eliciting a moan from the man. your tongue slid into his mouth and explored, running it over the backs of his fangs and the roof of his mouth. he groaned into the kiss, hands sliding down to hold your waist. as the kiss began to heat up, remmick pulled away and flipped you around, bending you over the barstool. 

“fuck, babydoll.” his hands ran down the sides of your waist and across the mound of your ass, squeezing the flesh just for a moment. his claws ran over the sides of your hips, scratching lightly and sending goosebumps down your spine. you let out a sigh of relief when you felt his groin press against you, the hard bulge placed on your entrance. you pressed your hips against him, meeting him in the middle. you whined at the sudden loss of feeling, but your thighs clenched when you heard the clinking of a belt buckle from behind you. “i’m gonna make you really sing now, sugar. make sure the whole world knows my name, baby.” remmick slapped your ass light before pressing the tip of his cock to your opening. he gave you a few moments to adjust before sliding his whole length inside you, filling you until it felt like you were overflowing. 

his cock was thick, most certainly thicker than the two fingers he’d given you earlier. the sheer length of him was enough to make your eyes pop, head snug against your cervix once he bottomed out. you tried to let out a whine, but you were shushed before you could protest. “none of that now, sweetheart. this is what you wanted. i could smell it on you as soon as you opened that door.” when you tried squirming your hips, one large hand pushed them down while another gathered both your wrists and pulled hard, forcing your back to arch to the point where you were almost standing. remmick’s lips pressed against your ear, whispering low in a voice that shook your soul, 

“we are going to make beautiful music together, sugar.”

his hips pulled back and slammed into you, pushing you forward and causing you to wail. his cock bullied itself inside you, the tip hitting your sweet spot with each rough thrust. the angle remmick had you in allowed him to sink himself as deep as he could, sending shocks throughout you and making your head throw back in bliss. your head was empty, only filled with want and obsession. “there we go, use that pretty voice for me.” the hand pressing down on your hips wrapped around your neck, exposing the unbitten side to him. his hips continued to thrust into you with deep and rough strokes. each whimper and moan you let out was awarded with remmick’s own groans, his cock twitching inside you. his lips began to lick and suck on your neck, preparing you for the inevitable. his nose breathed your scent in once more, making your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure. 

“i can’t wait to spend eternity with you.” you could only remember the pressure of his fangs puncturing your flesh and the excruciating pain that came afterwards. it wasn’t pulling and intimate like the first bite, it was ravenous and animalistic. you felt remmick’s thrusts stop suddenly and felt warmth begin to fill your cunt before your vision went black.

the next morning, the owner came in to collect the time cards only to find the door wide open and the fresh pool of blood on the floor. it was smeared from the barstool down to the tile, no footprints or handprints to be found. he yelled out in horror and alerted the whole block of a murderer. the cops thought it was a robbery gone wrong, but the cash register was left untouched. once they found out who was closing that night, they came to your doorstep and searched for any sign of you, but you were nowhere to be found. days turned into weeks, and you were put on the “missing, presumed to be dead” list that had gotten longer with each week that passed. but you wouldn’t be dead for a long long time.

[himasgod]

How about butler floyd x maid reader?

BUTLER! FLOYD X MAID! READER

Where you both serve for the Ashengrotto Manor

Where you can't help but notice Floyd's presence whenever you're doing your tasks, following you like a shadow, trapping you in his game.

You clutched the basket tighter against your chest, the smell of lavender soap clinging to the pressed linens inside.

Mr. Ashengrotto had told you to deliver them to the west wing, and as far as you could tell, you hadn’t taken a wrong turn—

Until a movement caught your eye. A reflection in the ornate mirror at the far end of the hallway.

He was already behind you.

“Lost again, Shrimpy?”

The voice curled around your spine. You didn’t need to turn.

You knew that voice by now. The smooth drawl that could switch from lazy amusement to cold menace in a heartbeat.

You turned anyway slowly.

Floyd Leech stood just a few steps away, dressed in his perfectly tailored butler uniform—gloves pristine, cravat neatly tied, not a single wrinkle out of place… except for that gleam in his heterochromatic eyes.

“You always seem to end up where you shouldn’t be,” he said cocking his head.

“I’m not lost,” you replied. “Mr. Azul sent me.”

“Oh~? Then I guess I can’t eat you after all,” he pouted, stepping closer, the heels of his shoes clicking on the marble floor. “Boooring…”

“Eat—? Please don’t joke like that,” you said, backing up instinctively until your shoulders brushed the wall.

Floyd’s smirk widened, and he planted one hand beside your head, leaning in.

“I’m never joking, y’know.”

Your heart thudded in your ears.

It had been like this from the first day.

Every other servant at Ashengrotto Manor had warned you about him in whispers.

The tall twin. The unpredictable one. The reason half the maids quit within the month.

And yet… he never actually hurt anyone. Just hovered too close, teased too sharply.

Dangerous in the way fire was—fascinating and warm until you reached too close.

“I’ll be late,” you murmured, trying to sidestep him.

His arm shot out to block you, and he chuckled.

“What’s the rush? Scared of being alone with me, Shrimpy?”

“Maybe I just want to keep my job.”

“Oh?” His voice dropped, close to your ear. “Then don’t be so fun to chase.”

You shivered. Not from fear.

Over the next few weeks, it became a game.

One you didn’t know you were playing until you were knee-deep in it.

He’d appear at odd times. At dusk in the halls. At dawn by the kitchens. Sometimes leaning in a doorway like he had nowhere else to be. Sometimes watching you from the second-floor balcony, idly chewing a licorice stick with a smile.

Other maids avoided him like the plague. You didn’t have that luxury.

He found you.

He’d call you Shrimpy like it was a name no one else had earned.

Tug on your apron strings as he passed by.

Ask you questions that weren’t appropriate, and watch too closely when you struggled to answer.

But sometimes he was quiet.

Like the night you found him in the ballroom. Alone, sitting on the grand piano.

You hadn’t meant to interrupt.

But he looked up, and said, “Come here.”

You obeyed.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t leer. Just patted the bench beside him.

“You ever think,” Floyd said, “about what it’d be like to run away?”

You blinked.

“Run away?”

“From here. From rules. From all this boring stiff garbage. Would you do it?”

“...Only if I had someone to run with.”

That made him pause. And then he grinned.

“Careful, Shrimpy. Say stuff like that, and I might start getting attached.”

And he night everything changed, it was raining—of course it was.

You were delivering towels to the third-floor bath when you slipped on the wet stair and yelped, the basket crashing to the floor.

Floyd caught you before you hit the ground.

One hand wrapped tight around your wrist, the other pressed firmly to your waist. You stared up at him, breathless, soaking wet.

“What the hell were you doing alone up here? Soaked? With this rain?” he hissed, voice unlike anything you’d heard from him before.

“I—I was sent—”

“No one’s supposed to be up here. Azul knows that—!”

You’d never seen him angry like this. Not play-anger. Not teasing. Real, visceral emotion.

He pulled you upright with a jerk.

“You scared the hell outta me, y’know,” he muttered. “I heard the crash and thought—”

“Why do you care?”

For a second, Floyd was silent. No smirk. No sing-song tone.

Just the sound of rain and your heart beating.

“Because you’re not boring.”

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it—wet and broken and ridiculous.

“That’s your reason?”

Floyd leaned back just enough to look you in the eye. “It’s the only reason I need.”

You stared at each other. You shuddered a little. You couldn't say you liked him, or anything, or even that being around him gave you any positive feelings.

But it was like an escape from the repetitive life in that damned mansion. And you liked being in that game.

So you couldn't stop when he kissed you before you could reply—sloppy, and strangely sweet. Not demanding.

When he pulled away, you were both soaked and breathless and trembling.

“I’m gonna keep you. Even if I have to scare off every other butler and maid in this whole damn place.”

You stared.

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re stuck with me.”

You never did deliver those towels.

Mr. Azul scolded you the next day, but not too harshly.

You had a feeling he knew, how wet clothes ended up stripped off in his room and wet sheets tangled around you that night.

Floyd was unbearable after that—louder, clingier, more possessive than ever.

But every now and then, when the manor was quiet and the rain began again, he’d press his lips to your neck and whisper:

“Still wanna run away?”

And you’d whisper back.

“Only if you’re coming with me.”

[sp0o0kylights]

“Alienate.” Flo mutters, the first thing Phil Callahan hears when he enters the station. “No, that's eight letters. Darn.” 

“How’s the crossword, Miss Flo?” He asks, as he always asks, every morning. 

It’s part of a little routine he’s established with their doting receptionist, partly out of boredom, mostly because she sometimes asks him for help.  

If there’s one thing Phil enjoys doing, it’s helping.

(It’s why he became a cop, after all.)

“Hi, hun. I’m stuck.” Flo responds, staring down at the New York Times spread out before her. 

It’s a quiet Friday morning and a quick glance at the open and dark-empty office of the Chief says the man’s not in yet, and so Callahan rounds the big wooden desk to stare at the puzzle over Flo’s shoulder. 

“Which one?” He asks, seeing most of it’s already been filled out. 

Flo jabs a finger at the offending clue, her nails painted a light pastel blue. “Pushed away through inattention.” She reads dutifully, then traces her finger to the blank section of the crossword, tapping at it. “Nine letter word.” 

Phil cocks his head, thinks it through. 

“It wasn’t alienate.” Flo says, non-helpfully. 

“Ignored?” Phil tries.

“That’s seven letters.” 

They both stare down at the puzzle, the black and white squares taunting them. 

“Neglected.” Phil says suddenly, triumphant. “It has to be neglected--the word has to end with a D to make sense in the puzzle. See?” 

One of two words that crosses over with their missing piece is ‘abandoned’, which fits nicely with the apparently gloomy theme of today’s crossword. 

“Doesn’t work with the other word that goes through it though.” Flo points out, defeating the proud little glow that had been building in Phil’s head. 

The other bisecting word is ‘isolated’, making him wonder if the puzzlemaker is in the middle of a rough divorce. 

(Or maybe just a rough day, and he’s the one projecting…) 

“Well, hell.” Phil grumbles, staring down at it. 

“Try estranged!” Powell calls as he passes by with a mug full of coffee. 

Flo carefully pencils in ‘estranged’ and makes a pleased noise when it fits. 

“Thank you, hun!” She calls, and Phil huffs at himself for not seeing it, but also refuses to let Powell’s one upping ruin his day.

The man himself offers their receptionist a smile, before tossing a casual reprimand Phil’s way.  

“Callahan, get to work, would you?” 

“Yeah, yeah, smartypants.” He says, going to fetch his own cup of coffee. “Save the bitching for the Chief.” 

Powell rolls his eyes at him, and Callahan makes a face back, and the two of them go on to have a very boring, small town cop sort of day--right until a legitimate call finally comes in. 

Well.

Sort of. 

“The Harrington residence is having a too-loud party again.” Hopper says, having finally shown up sometime between nine and noon. “Drunk teenagers are throwing up in people’s lawns.” 

“It’s not even dark yet.” Powell mutters, staring at the clock as if he couldn’t imagine a party taking place before 8 pm. 

“Teenagers don’t care about that shit, that’s why they’re getting the cops called on them.” Hopper snips back. He’d been in a mood all day, and not the fun, jolly kind. 

“Come on Callahan, let’s go remind Harrington Jr. that it’s his daddy that owns this department, not him.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” Phil says as he follows Hopper out the door, waving goodbye to Flo as he goes. “People are going to think you’re serious.” 

(Sometimes, Phil thinks as he swings into the patrol truck, that Hopper is serious. 

That they are being paid to look the other way. 

Then he takes a sip of their god-awful coffee and hears Hopper’s ancient truck cough to life, and figures, if anyone was getting cash here, there would at least be evidence of it.) 

xXx 

Harrington Jr.’s party isn’t quite the chaotic disaster it was made out to be, though there are a handful of tipsy teenagers stumbling around the lawn.

“One of these idiots is going to drown in that damn pool someday.”  Hopper complains through gritted teeth as he storms up the driveway, kids scrambling into action the second they spot him. 

One loudly screams; “Cops!” and the rest of them scatter, running in so many directions it makes Phil’s head spin. He briefly moves as if to give chase before deciding there’s simply too many to bother. 

(Knows that it’s unlikely they’ll arrest anyone but Harrington tonight, anyway.)

“If the right kid bites it, Dick Harrington might even have to come deal with it personally.” Over his shoulder Hopper tosses Phil a shark’s smile, barging up the porch to bang hard on one of the two front doors. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?” 

“No, not really.” Phil says, because he’s thinking about dead teenagers in pools. 

“Also I don’t think Richard likes to be called Dick.” He adds cautiously, just in case the man himself happens to be home. 

It’s unlikely, doubly so given all the drunk minors, but that just means Phil isn’t surprised when it’s not the Vice President of Indiana Corporate Consulting, LLC that opens the door but his son, Steve. 

“Officers.” The kid drawls, shirtless in swim trunks, not a single strand of his perfectly styled hair out of place. “What can I do for you?”

He leans casually in the doorway, as another kid screams out a warning inside. 

“You can cut the shit.” Hopper says. “You know the drill. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” 

Harrington does neither of those things, instead tilting his head and making a face like he just smelled something foul. 

“I’m not drunk. And anyone who is drunk brought it without telling me. You should go arrest them.” Steve  jams a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the rapidly emptying house. 

Then he smirks at both of them, every inch the newly crowned King the kids insist on calling him. 

“You think your old man is gonna believe that?” Hopper snarls, infuriated. He never was one that dealt well with teenagers. Or at least, these kinds (and that damn Munson kid, who just loved stealing everybodies lawn flamingos.) 

“I think you’ll find ‘my old man’,” Steve mockinly mimics, “doesn’t care.”

“He will when the neighbors start calling.” Hopper tosses back as Phil pushes past Harrrington Jr. to begin the process of trying to wrangle drunk teenages. “That’s Janet Wilkinson’s prized hydrangeas Hagan’s been throwing up in. You wanna see what happens when she talks to your mother?” 

“She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.” Steves snarks, instead of pulling out his usual charm. “Why do you think she called you instead?” 

This isn’t Phil’s first call to the house, but it is the first time Harrington Jr. has been this combative. It’s new, but not exactly unexpected. 

Not when Steve Harrington has been hurtling towards this ever since he started hosting parties. 

“You think your parents won’t care when I call them?”

“Well they haven’t before, so--” 

Phil rolls his eyes as the kid and Hopper trade more barbs, the adult’s growing sharper and sharper as Steve makes a couple of arguments about being held accountable for other people’s actions (and something else about unreasonably high standards and making his own bail.) 

Let's them argue it out as he quickly realizes he will definitely not be catching teenagers, and pivots to scanning for too-drunk stragglers in need of help. 

“Keep running your mouth, Harrington, and I’ll let you cool your heels overnight in a jail cell. That what you want?”

“You already did that, remember? Swore you’d never do it again because I was too annoying.”

“You can’t annoy me if I’m not the one there watching you--” 

Phil tunes out the rising voices, his attention snagging on something else.

The Harringtons’ entryway was sparse, and the rooms beyond weren’t much better. The whole house had the sterile feel of a museum;  untouched and unlived in. 

Not even a swarm of teenagers had managed to leave much of a mark. Or at least, not in these few rooms, anyway. 

Which is what makes the scraggly note stand out.

It’s taped to the wall right above the phone, but slightly askew, like it’d been thought of last-minute. A little crumpled, like someone half-heartedly tried to peel it off before giving up and pressing it back down.

‘Who puts a phone in the entryway?’ Phil wonders, but then, it is the Harrington’s. 

Maybe they need it to find each other in this huge fucking house. 

He leans in to read the note, spotting the bold letters at the bottom informing everyone the entire notepad had been custom ordered for RICHARD HARRINGTON, VP. 

‘Darling,’ beautiful cursive starts, at odds with the footnote, ‘Sorry that we couldn’t get a hold of you. Your father had a business opportunity, you know how important those are. I’ll send you a postcard. Take care of the house, remember that Martha is coming on Wednesdays now to get the dry cleaning. Do something fun for your birthday!’ 

It’s signed XOXO, Muffin. 

Muffin is, of course, Richard Harrington’s wife, and also a walking punchline. Or at least she is when people aren’t tripping over themselves to stay on her good side.

Weird that she signed it as such instead of with ‘Mom’, but then Muffin always has been a bit…much. 

More importantly (besides the fact that they skipped out on their own kids birthday) is the date at the top, which says the note was left Tuesday, March 17th. 

It’s currently the middle of May.

Flo’s crossword springs to mind, each guessed word clicking into place beside Steve’s own, still warm, spoken just moments ago.

Abandoned, and ‘She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.’ 

Ignored and ‘I think you’ll find my old man doesn’t care.’ 

A cold realization sweeps through Phil, as he recalls the things they’ve all heard other kids say about Steve. 

No parents. 

Big house. 

Always down for a good time. 

(‘Neglect is the failure to give somebody proper care or attention.’ Powell had argued on their lunch break, as Phil complained that ‘neglected’ fit the stupid crossword better than ‘estranged’ had. 

“Estranged works because it’s when you’re not really talking to someone. Hence the pushing away part. They’re different. Similar! But different.” 

“That’s dumb.” Phil argued back. 

“You’re dumb.” Powell replied, then laughed when Phil gasped in mock offense. “It’s why you’re getting taken to the cleaners in your divorce!”

“Hey man, come on, too far!”

“Sorry, sorry--” ) 

All cop’s develop intuition, even the small town ones, and Phil’s kicks in as he stares at the note. 

Neglected might be a hard sell for a fifteen year old that drives a BMW, but estranged definitely fits the bill. 

(He’s pretty sure neglect does fit the fucking bill no matter how much money the kids parents have, but he’s been on the force long enough to know how these things go.) 

He turns on his heel and marches over, sticking himself right in between his boss and the only remaining teenager. 

“Where are your parents at, again?” He asks, right over whatever point Hopper was butchering. 

“What?” Steve and Hopper both say, before giving the other a look for it. 

“Do you know where your parents are at?” Phil asks again, switching up the wording a little just like they’d taught him in the academy. 

“Uh…No?” Steve says, seeming too startled to lie. “You’d have to call dad’s receptionist.” 

“Okay. And when are they coming back?” 

This time Steve tosses a look at Hopper, like Phil’s the one being weird here. 

“When they get back.” He says, and it’s like he’s trying to still sound tough, to put forth that King persona, but is fumbling a little now that it’s not Hopper who's asking the questions. 

“So you have no idea, at all.” He clarifies, and feels his stomach sink a little. 

“I mean, I could also call dad’s receptionist.” Steve says, like that makes it better.  

“Whose in charge of you while they’re gone?” And yes he knows it’s a stupid question, knows that Steve is fifteen (he thinks, anyway) and is perfectly old enough 

“...I am.” Steve says, right over Hopper’s annoyed; “What the hell, Callahan.” 

“Chief, can I talk to you?” He says, turning to face his boss. 

Hopper stares back at him in disbelief, before making a show of summoning the last of his patience with a loud sigh. 

“You.” He points at Steve. “Sit. Stay.”

“Want me to shake too?” Harrington Jr calls out in an attempt to recover, but Phil’s got a hand on Hopper’s elbow and is dragging the older man away before he can get sucked back in. 

“You better have found something good Callahan.” Hopper warns, as Phil snatches the note on the wall as they pass by. 

“Hopper,” Phil says quietly, leaning in as he pulls Hopper all the way into the kitchen, kicking empty solo cups as he goes. “I don’t think his parents have been home in a while.”

He shoves the note in the Chief’s face. 

“No shit, kid.” Hopper spits, and the nickname sits badly, now that Phil’s heard it spat at Steve the same way. 

(Hopper doesn’t mean it, Phil knows he doesn’t. 

Hopper’s the best boss Phil’s ever had. The guy’s just a little rough sometimes, gets lost in the little things and needs to be brought back down. 

‘He’s got a lot going on, hun, but we’ll get him there.’ Flo says when he’s been really mean, and Phil knows they will, he’s seen it himself, but sometimes he wishes whatever the Chief was healing from would let him go a little faster.) 

He grabs the note, eyes scanning over it, and Phil talks a little faster. 

“No, I mean, look at the date, Chief. They’ve been gone for months.” 

Hopper looks up from the note and gives him the world’s flattest state. “So?”

Phil gapes a little at him. “Isn’t that abandonment?” 

In response, Hopper simply steps more into the kitchen, then throws open a door next to the stove. Reveals a huge, walk-in pantry, piled high with all kinds of food. 

Stands next to it like it’s a party trick he just unveiled. 

“Given the lights are on and that fancy little car of his seems to have gas,  I’d say they’re providing for the kid just fine.” He says crossly. 

Which isn’t wrong exactly, but it’s not right either. 

“Yeah,” Phil protests, “but--” 

“Trust me, things could be a lot worse.” Hopper cuts him off. “Save all the pity for someone who actually needs it, and not a kid whose parents’ lawyers will cut both our balls off for even suggesting they don’t care about their kid.” 

“Harsh, Chief.” Phil mutters, stung. There’s a small, growing voice in his head that says Steve Harrington does kind of need someone.

That a kid, even one as old as Steve is, shouldn’t be left like this. 

“Life’s harsh. Now unless you’re volunteering to watch the kid all night in a cell, I say we call the brat’s parents and this time, we’re gonna hit them with a citation when they get home. See if they ignore that.” 

“Please do!” Steve calls loudly, from where he’s still seated on the couch. “It’ll be funny, trust me.” 

Hopper goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, before glancing sideways at the island counter covered in solo cups and bottles. 

Changes course to pluck an unopened whiskey bottle from the pile, tucking it under his arm. 

Storms back out to whatever the Harrington’s call the room Steve’s in, pausing only to stop in front of him. 

“Hey.” Steve says, spotting the bottle.

Hopper holds it out. “Oh, I’m sorry,  is this yours?” 

Steve’s mouth opens, before he catches Callahan’s shaking head. Thinks better of it, and slams it back closed. 

Grumbles; “No, sir.” 

“Oh it’s sir now, is it?” Hopper says with a snort. “Since you’re so good at eavesdropping, you already know what I’m going to do. Congratulations Harrington, you get out of jail tonight, but,” 

He leans forward, putting himself almost nose to nose with the surely teenager, “I will be making sure that this time, your parents pay attention.” 

Quick as a shot he’s up and out the door, slamming it close behind him like he forgot Phil was there. 

“Good luck!” Steve shouts after him, but it’s clear even he thinks the Chief won their little sparring match. 

“Have your parents really been gone since March?” Phil says when the coast is clear, and watches Steve blink at him like he hadn’t realized the younger officer was still there. 

“Yeah.” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Every kid’s dream.” 

It’s not. Even Phil can tell from the way Steve’s face looks just then, that he knows it’s not. 

He doesn’t know what exactly posses him, but the next words out of his mouth are; “You ever get too lonely here, you can stay with me.” 

“What?” Steve says, eyes snapping right to Phil’s face like he misheard him. 

He’s embarrassed for two entire seconds before deciding, fuck it. 

He already offered, he’s not taking it back. 

“It’s a big house, kid. You shouldn’t be alone for that long.” Phil thinks about his impending divorce. On the emptiness of the house, with his soon to be ex wife long gone. How that eats at him, sometimes. Adds;  “No one should be.”  

Harrington Jr. stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Whatever.” He scoffs, but it’s not quite the waspish tone he’d used before. 

“You ever need help either, you call me.” Phil says, because that seems important to say too. 

He points up at one of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, impossibly high over both their heads. “Even if it’s just to hold a ladder to change one of those lightbulbs.” 

Steve’s eyes go up with him then back down, like he’s still not sure this isn’t a joke being played on him. 

“I mean it.” Phil says, right as one of the front doors whips back open. Reaches into the pocket of his uniform, and pulls out his card. “You need me, you call.” 

“Callahan!” Hopper bellows, and Phil calls out a loud; “Coming!” before making eye contact with Steve once more.

“Take it.”  He says, holding out the card, and hopes he sounds like a proper adult when he does. 

(Phil often does not feel like an adult, least of which because he’s the youngest in the department by two decades, nevermind the failed marriage.) 

“Okay.” Steve says dismissively, but he reaches out.

Takes the card.

It feels like a victory and Phil lets it be one as he leaves the Harrington residence and Steve behind with it. Feels the rot of that be soothed by the fact he at least did something. 

(Also see’s Hopper didn’t wait for him, but is instead sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck. 

Knows his boss is gonna be pissed at him, but faces the noose anyway.) 

“Puppies are expensive.” The Chief tells him darkly, the second Phil opens the door. “And they shit all over the floor.”

“What?” He asks, not always used to his bosses nonsensical ramblings. 

He eyes the thermos the Chief’s holding, and wonders if already dumped the whiskey he stole in it. 

They all thought the Chief had been getting better, but maybe not… 

“Puppies,” Hopper stressed, jamming the hand holding the thermos in Phil’s face (no liquor smell, thank God.) “who have very rich owners, are typically well cared for, even if their idea of care and your idea are different.” 

Phil’s face contorts in confusion, eyes following Hopper’s finger pointed middle finger to the fading tail lights of Steve’s BMW. 

It takes him a second, but he gets there.

“Steve isn’t a puppy.” He says instantly offended, because teenagers and puppies are very, very different, thanks, and yes okay, he knows it’s a metaphor, but it’s a stupid one. 

“Acts like one.” Hopper says, before taking a noisy sip of the thermos. 

“He really doesn’t?” 

Phil wants to say he complains right back at his boss, but really it comes out as more of a question--because Steve Harrington has never acted like a dog. The kid’s not clingy, or whiny or even loud. 

He’s a kid, sure, a teenager that’s obnoxious, but aren’t all teenagers that way, by default?

Phil’s mother certainly said so, though she’d been teasing about it. 

(She also said something about how kids who can’t get what they need the right way, will revert to trying out the wrong ways instead.) 

“Whatever. Just don’t come running to me when you get too close and Mommy and Daddy show up to remind you it’s none of your business.”

Hopper starts the cruiser, expecting that to be that.

And normally it would be. Phil would leave it alone, even if he disagreed, but today he finds he can’t. 

Not when the words from Flo’s crossword are still haunting his head, ‘abandoned’ and ‘neglected’ and ‘pushed away’ lighting up like little warning signs, all pointing towards one very sad kid. 

“If they come back.” He finds himself saying. 

“Oh, they always come back.” Hopper snorts right back. “Just not when any of us ever want them too.” 

Phil doesn’t like that answer, but this time he does leave it alone. 

Figures the best he can do for Steve is what he already did. Let him know he saw him. Let him know he understood. 

If Steve needs someone, he now knows Phil will come. 

He won’t let anyone make him feel bad for offering that, either, because this is the exact thing he signed up to do, when he became a cop. 

Even if Harrington never reaches out to him, at least Phil can say he did something. At least he can live with himself. 

xXx

Weeks go by.

A month.

Two months and more.

By a year Phil has kind of forgotten about his promise to Steve Harrington, and by the time the Chief has gotten them all involved in some kind of--poisoned pumpkin patch problem, he’s too caught up in trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Hawkins to really think about it. 

That is, until the kid himself shows up on his doorstep, with a black eye and a hand hugging his ribs. 

Which would be concerning on its own, but it’s worse given that known lawn flamingo thief and constant pain in the police department’s ass, Eddie Munson, is right there with him. 

“Hi Officer Callahan.” Munson says, and he, Phil quickly realizes, looks perfectly fine, despite clearly being the only reason Steve seven on his feet. “Uh…Harrington said I should take him here?” 

He does not sound certain, and frankly, looks two seconds from bolting.

Given how much Steve is bleeding on him, Phil can’t blame him for it. 

“What the hell.” He says, shocked and loose tongued for it. “Did you two get in a fight!?” 

“No!” Munson yelps, then immediately stills when the act of it jostles Steve. “I found him like this. He was fucking trying to drive and was weaving all over the place--I got him to stop, and get in my van, but the only thing he’ll say is that I needed to bring him to you!” 

Like it wasn’t bad enough the chief had been out of contact all night or that there had been weird people swarming all over town, nevermind all those damn phone calls about loose dogs and--

“You said.” Steve interrupts Phil’s spiraling thoughts, voice sounding oddly strangled, and he'd pay more attention to that if he wasn’t finding new and concerning injuries every second he looked. 

“You said I could go to you, for help. If I needed it. Cause Hopper--Hopper’s busy,” Steve’s slurring, Phil realizes and oh god a lot of that blood is on his head, “An’ I didn’t want the kids to worry, but I think…i was wrong, I don’t--I think I’m…I don’t wanna be ‘lone--”  

“Okay, okay.” Phil reaches out, tries to take Steve’s weight off of Munson. “Get in here. You too, Munson.” 

Expects the latter to protest and is a little surprised to watch as the kid instead helps Steve hobble inside. 

“Put him on the couch while I get my first aid kit.” Phil orders, trying not to panic and failing. He has first aid training--more than, actually, because he took it as an elective back when he thought he was going to go to medical school, but that was years ago and Steve looks like he went head first through a blender. 

‘Stabilize him now, panic later.’ He orders himself, as Munson settles both of them down on the couch. 

“Am I dying?” Steve asks vaguely, to Munson’s increasingly panicked face. 

“Nope.” Phil says, voice as firm as he can make it. “Not today.” 

He comes over, looking over Steve once again 

“You staying Munson?” He asks, more an out for the kid than anything else. 

Watches as the older teen clocks that for what it is. 

See’s Steve unintentionally lean into his chest, breathing a little weird. 

“No man, you’re going to need an extra hand.” Eddie says. “I’m staying right here.” 

“Me too.” Steve slurs nonsensically.

“What the hell, me too.” Phil says, just to lighten the mood a little. 

Then he drops to his knees and goes about stabilizing Steve. 

(At some point Munson decides to help tell his latest flamingo heist story. Phil let him, even if no one had realized he’d pulled off another one again.

He got Steve to laugh, so Phil figures it was worth it, at least. ) 

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER NINETEEN ━━ Girls Talk

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 8.9K

❀ ━ warnings: tiny makeout nothing else i dont think

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: only a few more chapters left thank god. also i promise celeste actually is going to serve a purpose lol

JO FEELS THE WEIGHT of everything ahead more in her chest than anywhere else.

It’s not nerves. Not exactly. She’s not nervous heading into the Big East Tournament, not in the way people probably expect her to be. UConn’s handled conference play like a machine, and even when games have been scrappy—when shots haven’t fallen or players have gone down, when the rotation’s been thin and legs have been heavy—there’s never been real doubt. Not about their record, not about their identity. They’ve come out of it undefeated. And even if it’s just the Big East, they’ve done it by work, by belief, by toughness.

Still, Jo doesn’t let herself take anything for granted. It’s not really in her nature to. And it’s definitely not in Geno’s.

He drills it into them constantly—treat every game like it’s the national championship. Doesn’t matter if it’s Xavier on a Wednesday or South Carolina in the tournament. Doesn’t matter if they’re up thirty or down two. They play like it’s for a title. They prepare like it’s for a title. They think like champions. And Jo’s bought into it completely. Maybe even more than she realizes sometimes. But, here’s the thing: she’s doing all this to become a champion. She wants it more than anything.

So today—last practice at Werth before they leave for the tournament—it’s not just another walkthrough. Not to Jo. The gym smells like sweat and floor polish and memory, and everything feels a little more important. She’s locked in from the moment it starts. Not because she’s worried about their chances. Not because this is where it all begins. The push, the run, the stakes.

She loves practice. Loves the rhythm of it, the detail, the way film sessions bleed into reps and everything is purposeful. She loves Geno’s voice barking at them, loves when CD yells to calm down, loves the exhaustion that builds behind her knees after three hours of movement. She loves feeling the shape of her own improvement.

She loves this team.

It’s not just a line, not just some press conference thing to say. It’s real and rooted. She loves these people. The way Nika talks shit and throws no-look passes. The way Aaliyah’s always catches Jo’s dimes, her post work smooth as butter. The way Lou and Dorka have formed this weird, wordless connection like they’ve been playing together their whole lives. The way Aubrey quite literally defies gravity and nobody can box her out no matter how many times opponents try.

And Paige. Of course Paige. Always Paige.

She hasn’t played a second this year and somehow she still feels like the center of everything. That voice. That presence. The way she pulls Jo aside mid or post practice and says something small that can change her perspective on everything. Paige could be the best coach in the country if she wanted to be (well, maybe after Geno), and she’s only twenty-one. Of course, Jo misses the on-court Paige, the one she watched drain dagger threes in clutch time and argue with the refs like no one’s business. But there’s something even scarier—something even more Paige—about the way she’s taken this season and owned it anyway. No self-pity. Just effort. Energy. Leadership.

Her rehab’s going well, too. Jo knows it; she’s with her for a lot of it, actually. Paige moves different now. The bounce is back. The ease. And even if Paige downplays it, Jo watches. She’s always watching. Because she knows next season, Paige is gonna be back out there. And them with that Paige? It’ll be a whole different monster.

But for now, the Big East Tournament is up next, and they’re getting healthy just in time.

Caroline’s back. Everyone’s relieved about it. What she’s been through—the concussion stuff, the weird limbo of recovery, the way she’s had to just sit and wait and not know—it’s brutal. Jo saw it wear on her. The silence in the locker room, the way her laugh dulled, how she’d have to hole herself up in a dark and quiet room because of the pain. But she’s smiling again. Shooting again. And her release looks like it always has—clean and confident.

Azzi’s close, too. Her knee’s held her out for a while now, but the team’s been careful. Not rushing. Playing the long game. Jo’s missed playing with her, missed the gravity she brings, the way defenses panic when Azzi even glances at the arc. Having her back is huge.

And the timing couldn’t be better.

Because after this weekend, the NCAA Tournament is right there. And at UConn, under Geno Auriemma, it’s not about getting there. It’s not even about Final Fours. It’s not about anything less than winning the whole damn thing. Natty or bust. Always. Jo grew up watching that standard. She’s living it now.

They announced the Big East awards this morning. Jo’s still sort of processing it. Not because she doesn’t think she’s earned them. She knows what she’s done. She knows what she’s poured into this season. But to win both Big East Player and Freshman of the Year is rare. Paige was the last to do it.

And she beat out Maddy Siegrist for conference Player of the Year, too, which is slightly insane when she really thinks about it. Siegrist’s been crazy all year. If Jo’s not mistaken she’s actually led the nation in scoring this season. Jo guesses the committee must’ve seen something else in her—something broader. Leadership, maybe. Defense. Playmaking. The little things. The winning. Because UConn’s record is better. The numbers back it up.

First-team All-Big East. That’s her, Aaliyah, and Lou. Dorka and Nika made Second-team, and Nika got Defensive Player of the Year. Aaliyah is Most Improved.

Even with the team being so injured, it’s a sweep. And Jo’s proud of all of it. She really is. But she’s not floating. Not celebrating. Not letting it really settle in her head at all.

Because the job’s not done.

None of the awards matter if they lose in the Big East championship (they won’t). None of it means anything if they flame out in the Sweet Sixteen. No one remembers the accolades of you don’t back them up when it counts. Jo knows that.

Which is why she went so hard in practice today. And then, afterwards, when she stayed with Paige in the gym for extra work like they’ve done for months now. Shooting, handles, that kinda thing.

Which is why Jo is now dying.

Like—not metaphorically, not in the dramatic, attention-seeking way she sometimes jokingly pulls after sprints when Nika’s yelling at her to stop flopping around. No, this feels different. This is the kind of dying where her legs are jelly, her lungs are still catching up from the extra shooting drills, and there’s an honest, sincere moment where she thinks, Okay, maybe I should’ve stopped twenty minutes ago before Paige made me do that third round of one-dribble pull-ups.

But it’s not like she could’ve said no. She never says no. Not when it’s Paige asking. Not when it’s just the two of them, the gum quiet except for sneakers squeaking, rebounding for each other the way they’ve done all season. It doesn’t even feel like extra work anymore. It feels like something else. Just something they do.

But now Jo is laid flat across the locker room bench like a corpse, one arm flopped dramatically over her stomach, the other curled at her side. She’s still sweating through her practice tee, her face damp, chest rising and falling with shallow, almost theatrical breaths. Paige sits next to her, with Jo’s head is pillowed in her lap. Her fingers are dragging gently through Jo’s hair, smoothing it back behind her ears. The locker room is empty but for the two of them.

Jo doesn’t open her eyes, but she knows Paige is staring down at her. She feels it. The weighted, blue gaze that makes the air buzz against her cheekbones. Her whole body feels heavy and sort of floaty at the same time, like her bones are dissolving right into Paige’s lap.

“You did good today,” Paige murmurs, voice quiet and warm and a little scratchy. “Real proud.”

Jo groans immediately, a low, pained sound that comes straight from her gut. “No. It killed me. I’m dying.”

She doesn’t even try to sound tough. What’s the point? Paige saw her gasping for air after the last few shooting sets. Saw her grimacing through the last of the sprints, hands on her knees, dripping sweat. Jo’s not entirely above playing it up a little with Paige, either—just for sympathy, a little attention. It earns her more of Paige’s hand in her hair, fingers dragging down to scratch lightly at her scalp. It feels good.

Paige laughs softly. It’s more of a huff through her nose, but it’s affectionate and Jo hears the smile in it.

“Well,” Paige replies, clearly amused, “at least you look good dying.”

That gets Jo to crack one eye open. Just barely. The locker room is blurry at first, but Paige’s face is sharp and glowing in the center of it. That stupid little grin on her lips. The teasing glint in her eyes. And she’s looking at Jo like she always does—like Jo is hers and Paige is still not sure how it happened but she’s not complaining about it.

Jo swallows and reaches up without thinking, hand curling around the back of Paige’s neck. Her palm is clammy, but Paige doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“C’mere,” Jo mutters, voice hoarse and low, tugging gently.

She means it. She’s trying to pull Paige down for a kiss, make some kind of reward out of this moment, because she’s certainly earned it after all the buckets and the defense and the sprinting and the dying.

Paige leans forward with it but doesn’t get close enough at all. She laughs again. “Baby,” she says, “my back doesn’t bend that way.”

Baby.

It’s such a small word. Barely there. Tossed out like nothing. But it explodes in Jo’s chest like a firework. She doesn’t show it, but she feels it.

Paige doesn’t call her that often. Usually it’s Joey in that fond voice, or the God-awful JoJo nickname in a teasing way. But when she does call her that—when she says it in that low, almost lazy voice, like Jo is some kind of secret she’s been keeping close—it makes Jo feel warm. Claimed. Like they’re more than something without a name.

They haven’t talked about it. Not officially. Not really. They act like a couple. They kiss and fuck like one, too. But they don’t say what it all means. Jo’s been too scared to ask. Paige has never been in an actual relationship and Jo’s last one ended in the worst way they can. So, she’s got no spine about it, and she knows it.

She keeps telling herself she’s fine with it. That it doesn’t matter. That it feels real, and that’s enough.

Instead of thinking anymore about it, Jo just groans again and shifts, using what little strength she has left to sit up slightly, just enough to reach Paige properly this time. Her face is close now. Close enough to kiss.

And so she doesn’t show.

No words, just action. Just Jo leaning in and pressing her mouth against Paige’s like it’s the most obvious next step. Because it is. Because Paige called her baby, and Jo’s brain short-circuited, and now she’s just following instinct.

The kiss deepens, and Jo chases it—leans into it like she’s leaning into a cut to the rim, like there’s no stopping, no pivoting away. Paige opens her mouth a little and Jo takes full advantage, tongue slipping in. There’s this noise that Paige makes then—tiny, caught in the back of her throat—that makes Jo’s stomach flip violently.

Jo’s still sort of half on the bench, half off it, one knee digging into the vinyl cushion. But then Paige shifts, her hands sliding down Jo’s ribs. Jo moves with them, body rearranging in the space. She ends up straddling Paige’s lap, her arms around her neck, their chests pressed together. The sweat cooling on her skin makes her shirt cling awkwardly in places, but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even notice.

All she notices is Paige’s hands splayed on her back, fingers warm and patient, one curling into the hem of Jo’s shirt, brushing soft over bare skin. She notices the way Paige kisses her like she means it, tongue licking into Jo’s mouth.

Jo tilts her head, parting her lips wider, pushing deeper. Paige tastes like minty gum and the Gatorade she had at the end of practice and something that’s just Paige. It’s addicting. She doesn’t even care if her legs are still trembling or if her heart’s beating like it’s trying to hammer through her ribs.

She lets out a breath against Paige’s cheek, nuzzling into the edge of her jaw for just a second. “Jesus,” she whispers.

“Mm?” Paige murmurs, eyes fluttering half open.

“You trying to kill me?” Jo asks, voice teasing, but not entirely joking.

Paige smirks, pulling her even closer. “Thought you were already dying.”

Jo huffs a breath that turns into a laugh and kisses her again, harder now, hand tangling in Paige’s hoodie collar as if she could disappear into her if she just pulled hard enough.

She settles her weight fully in Paige’s lap, thighs bracketing her hips, breath catching a little when Paige’s hands shift lower, palming at her ass through her basketball shorts.

It’s perfect. It’s theirs. Other than right before bed, they hardly ever get this—not really. Not with time and space and no one around to ruin it. It’s rare, this kind of peace and quiet.

Which is, of course, when the door swings open.

They jump apart like they’ve been tasered.

Jo’s whole body jolts, heart plummeting as her eyes fly to the door. Paige curses under her breath, her hands leaving Jo’s ass like it burned her. Jo scrambles to move, to shift off Paige’s lap and find something approaching decency, even though it’s so fucking obvious what was happening.

And standing in the doorway is Celeste Sinclair. Red hair tied into a low ponytail, camera bag slung over one shoulder, UConn hoodie riding up a little on one side like she’s been rushing. She freezes when she sees them. Her eyebrows lift. Her eyes do this weird, flicking double-take that makes Jo want to crawl out of her skin.

It’s only a second. Maybe two.

But Jo can feel it—feel the calculus happening behind Celeste’s eyes. The math of it. Jo sitting in Paige’s lap. Lips probably still pink and swollen. Paige’s hands still halfway in the air.

“Sorry,” Celeste says, voice clipped and a little too sharp. Then, slower, eyes lingering—just for a second too long—on Paige, “Um. Sorry. I’ll just… go.”

She doesn’t look at Jo again. Just turns and walks back out the door, the sound of it clicking shut behind her deafening.

Jo exhales, breath rattling in her chest. She’s still kneeling on the bench, one foot on the floor, legs shaking a little from effort and adrenaline. Her hands are braces on her thighs like she needs to steady herself.

“Shit,” she mumbles.

There goes that secret.

She shifts off Paige’s lap entirely now, settling next to her on the bench. Not touching. Her skin suddenly feels too warm, like her body hasn’t caught up to the fact that they’re not making out anymore. Her heart won’t slow down.

Paige groans beside her, dragging a hand down her face. “God,” she mutters. “Of all people.”

Jo glances sideways. “You think she’ll say anything?”

Paige’s jaw tenses. She shakes her head like she’s not sure. “I should go—talk to her. Make sure she doesn’t.”

Jo just nods. Because, yeah, that needs to happen. No one knows about them. Not Azzi. Not Ice. Not Aubrey. Not Caroline. Not Geno. Not CD. Not anyone. And they’ve liked it that way. It’s been theirs, in the quiet between games and the sweat between practices. It hasn’t gotten messy because it’s been private.

She’s about to say something when Paige leans in, gentle again, a hand lifting to Jo’s cheek. She kisses her once, quick, a quiet reassurance.

“Be right back,” she murmurs, then stands and walks out, hoodie sleeves pushed up, bun slightly messed up because of Jo’s hands.

Jo stays there, alone on the bench.

And all she can think is: Well, shit. Cover’s blown.

PAIGE WALKS FAST.

Not running, but almost. Her sneakers are too loud against the hallway tile, the slap of rubber echoing in the quiet post-practice stillness of the facility. It’s always like this when they’re the last ones in the gym—quiet in a way that feels peaceful. But not now. Now, her stomach is doing somersaults and her chest is tight like she just did suicides.

She doesn’t even fully know what she’s about to say. She just knows she has to catch Celeste before she leaves, has to do something to shut it down before it becomes a thing. Before anyone else finds out. Because as much as she doesn’t want to hide Jo, it’s not like they’ve really had a conversation about any of this. What they are, what they’re doing. It’s just been… them. In pieces. In stolen time. Quiet. Private. Safe.

So, when she sees that familiar red ponytail swaying down the hallway ahead of her, her voice cuts through before she even decides what to say.

“Celeste.”

The girl stops—slowly. Turns around even slower. There’s something in her eyes, sharp and tired at the same time.

“What?” she asks flatly. Like she’s bored. Like Paige has already wasted her time.

Paige blanches. Her body keeps moving, but her brain just stalls out. She wasn’t expecting that tone. That edge. Celeste has always been a little cocky, yeah, a little smug, but never cold. Never even really annoyed.

Paige stops a few feet away, mouth opening and closing once, then again. Her hands twitch awkwardly at her sides. She doesn’t know if she should smile, be casual, be direct, be defensive. All of it feels wrong.

“Um,” she starts. “I—about what you saw…”

Celeste tilts her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “What, you and Jo Jacobson—your puppy-eyed freshman teammate—about to fuck in the locker room?”

Paige’s brows lift like she’s been physically smacked. “Jesus, bro,” she says automatically, startled and stumbling. “We were not about to fuck in there.”

And that part is true. They weren’t. That wasn’t the point of it. They were just—well, okay, they were definitely making out, but it wasn’t like that. But Celeste is staring her down with something curled and bitter in her bright green eyes, like she doesn’t believe a single word coming out of Paige’s mouth.

“Sure looked like it,” Celeste mutters.

Paige sighs hard and runs a hand down her face, dragging it along her jaw. There’s sweat still crusted under her nails from the extra reps with Jo. Despite hardly practicing, just doing the little things she can, her body is tired. Her heart is loud. Her patience is frayed.

“Okay,” she says, “I just—can you please keep whatever you thought you saw to yourself? Please?”

Celeste stares at her for a beat. Then she laughs—but it’s not a real laugh. It’s short and humorless, more of a bark than anything else. Her eyes flick to the floor, then back up, and she nods slowly. Mockingly.

“Oh, you wanna keep her a secret?” she concludes, mouth twitching at the corners. “Like you kept me a secret?”

Paige’s stomach lurches, because—what?

She blinks, feels her throat close up. That doesn’t even make sense. That’s not even close to how it went. But Celeste’s expression doesn’t shift—she’s still got that sharpness to her face, like she’s trying to see how deep she can twist the knife. Like she means to get under Paige’s skin.

“Bro,” Paige says again, brows pulling together. Her voice is still calm, but there’s disbelief under it now. “It wasn’t even like that with us.”

Because it wasn’t. They were never anything even remotely close to real. They hooked up a good amount, yes. There were a couple times when they were so drunk it would result in a sleepover. And, over the summer, sometimes Paige would flirt with her during her media duties. But they never even went on a date. Never saw each other outside of necessity with basketball or in bed. Celeste flirted all the time, yeah, still sort of does, but Paige never encouraged anything beyond physical. She made that line clear.

Celeste scoffs—loud, exaggerated—and looks away like she’s trying not to roll her eyes straight into the back of her skull. “Right.”

Paige takes a breath. It’s one of those sharp, tight ones that hits her ribs in the way down and doesn’t quite go all the way. Like her body won’t let her breathe easy until she figures out how the fuck this whole thing went from “whoops, we got caught kissing” to blackmail threat from a bitter ex situationship. Which is just great. Wonderful. Just what she needed on top of an aching knee, exhausting rehab, and a tournament she’s not even playing in yet beyond anxious for.

Tentatively, she tries, “Are you mad because I told you to stop texting me?”

It’s not accusatory, just curious. It makes sense—this being less about what Celeste saw and more about how she felt when Paige fully pulled the plug on them (which, for the record, they never even were a them). Last month, the texts had started up again—some related to media shit, yeah( but some that were just… kinda obvious. “What’re you up to tonight?” “Want to come over?” “Miss your face.” Stuff that had I’m still thinking about you naked as the entrée but also with a side order of maybe I want to hang out and talk, too.

And Paige had shut it down. Nicely. But firmly. Because even if she and Jo aren’t official, even if they haven’t labeled anything or had the talk—Paige knows exactly where her head’s at. She doesn’t want anyone else. Not even a little bit. Not ever.

Celeste narrows her eyes. “You are so smart, Paige,” she says sarcastically, before sighing. “I thought we were friends outside of the fucking. You made it seem like you liked me. Like you saw more than just one of the team’s Instagram admins.”

That hits Paige in a way she wasn’t exactly prepared for. Because Celeste sounds genuinely hurt now, not just defensive. It’s different. Real. And, yeah, okay—maybe there was a time where she leaned in too much. Maybe her being nice looks a lot like flirting if you don’t know her well enough. Paige has always been told she gives confusing signals. Too much eye contact. Too much laughing. Too much attention.

But it was never intentional. And it definitely wasn’t a promise.

Still, she softens, just a little. “I’m sorry ’bout that,” Paige says, and she means it.

Celeste scoffs again and repeats, “Right.”

And then she adds, tossing it out like a rock through a window, “I wonder what the coaching staff would think about two of their players fucking around this late in the season. Hm.”

Paige’s stomach drops. She hears her own heartbeat in her ears and her mind immediately starts running worse-case scenarios.

What would Geno say? Or CD? Or Jamelle?

Would they be pissed? Would they make them stop? Would it be a whole thing? Would the narrative become that they’re distractions to each other? Would Jo get blamed for it, even though Jo has literally never done a selfish thing in her life? Would there be whispers about the team dynamic being thrown off, even if it’s not true? Would the postseason get tainted by this?

She doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions. And she doesn’t want to.

“Celeste, c’mon,” Paige says, and there’s an edge of urgency to her voice now. She drops the posture, the tension in her jaw. Just puts it out there, raw and real. “Don’t say anything. Please.”

Celeste takes a step forward. “Why should I do anything for you?” she asks, voice cold. “Or, for that matter,” she adds, gesturing toward the locker room with a flick of her fingers, “your little bitch in there? I don’t owe either of you anything.”

There it is. The moment something shifts in Paige, a snap.

Because Jo is not a bitch.

Jo is all soft t-shirts and messy buns and shy smiles. Jo is late-night ice cream runs and twirling her pen in her mouth while she takes film notes. Jo is bright pink lip gloss and knee pads and unrelenting kindness, even when she’s bone-tired. Jo is the person Paige reaches for without even realizing it. The person who laughs at all her jokes and hums when she’s thinking and flushes when Paige calls her baby.

Jo is everything. Jo is hers. Not exactly in a claiming, possessive way. More in a I’ll protect this girl with my entire fucking chest If I have to way.

And Celeste Sinclair doesn’t get to talk about her like that.

Paige steps forward, looks down at the redhead steadily, showers set. “Don’t,” she says, low and controlled.

The word hangs there between them. It’s not loud, not even really forceful. Just steady. It lands like a stone dropped into water—clean, deep, no ripple.

For a second, something in Celeste’s expression flickers. Her mouth parts just slightly, like maybe she’s going to double down, say something cruel again, make this even messier. Paige holds her ground, doesn’t move a muscle. Her jaw is tight and she kisses her teeth.

Celeste shifts a little on her feet. Her shoulders relax just slightly, eyes sliding down Paige’s frame slowly. Almost like she’s assessing. There’s more behind it than just annoyance. Her lips curve—not all the way into a smile, but something close.

“You know,” she says, voice low now. Different tone entirely, like she flipped a switch. She leans closer. “I gotta say… you’re kinda hot when you’re pissed, Paige.”

Paige blinks. She genuinely almost laughs in the girl’s face at how utterly ridiculous it is. Are they not adults now? Sure, Paige can be childish sometimes but this is insane. There’s no way—no way—Celeste is actually doing this right now. Not after threatening to rat her out. Not after calling Jo a bitch. Not when Paige is standing here one wrong move away from a full-blown crash-out.

“Are you serious?” Paige asks in disbelief. “You just went from threatening me to—what? Hitting on me again?” 

Celeste shrugs, all fake nonchalance. “I mean… I can still want you and be mad at you. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Paige makes a face—is this girl bipolar or something? Sure seems like it.

The blonde shakes her head slowly. “You don’t get to flirt your way outta this.”

“I’m not trying to flirt my way out of anything,” Celeste replies, stepping back half a foot, but her tone still has that same slanted heat to it. “Just saying… maybe if you’d handled things differently, we wouldn’t be out here right now.”

That pisses Paige off in a different way. The insinuation that Celeste is the victim here just because Paige didn’t fall into some situationship she never wanted in the first place.

“I handled it the way I had to,” Paige says, firm. “I wasn’t tryna be a dick, ‘kay? I thought I was clear. I didn’t want more with you. That’s not personal. But I’m not gonna apologize for not wantin’ something I didn’t want.”

Celeste watches her for a long second, fiery green eyes flicking across Paige’s face. Then, her arms drop to her sides, some of the tension leaving her. Like the mask has been peeled off, or at least tilted.

“You really like her, huh?” she asks, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Paige says immediately, simply. Because there’s no question to it. “I do.”

Celeste nods once. Looks away, then back. Her mouth is a tight line now.

“I’m not gonna say anything,” she mutters. “Alright?”

Paige exhales. It’s not fully relief, but it’s close. “Thank you,” she says, cautious but real.

“Don’t thank me,” Celeste mutters, already turning. “I’m not doing it for you.”

She walks away without another word.

Paige watches her go, heart still beating a little too fast. She doesn’t move for a moment. Just stands there, staring at the spot where Celeste disappears around the corner. She doesn’t trust her. Not all the way. Not even mostly. There’s a chance this could still blow up later, or get messy, or turn into a headache down the line. But for now, it’s done. It has to be.

She scrubs a hand down her face. Turns on her heel.

And heads back toward the locker room.

THE ROOM SMELLS like garlic bread and takeout containers and the lingering sharpness of victory, all tangled into one heady mix that buzzes around Paige’s ears. The TV’s on low—some men’s game they’re hardly even watching—and everyone’s talking over each other anyway. The hotel room’s packed, the way it always gets when they congregate after a win, girls half-sitting, half-sprawled across mismatched furniture and the carpet, containers of different pastas balanced on paper plates and knees.

It’s warm. Not from the heat, but from the closeness, the full-body kind that comes after a weekend of playing your heart out and winning, again, like they always do. Big East Tournament champs. Shocker.

Still. It’s step toward the real goal, and Paige is proud of her girls.

Paige sits on the bed she’s claimed as hers (her and Aubrey are sharing a room in Uncasville this weekend), her back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of her. Jo’s right beside her, cross-legged, the hem of her shorts brushing Paige’s thigh when she shifts to dig around in her pasta container. Paige can feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of her sweats. She fights the urge to just look over at the brunette and stare.

Their teammates still don’t know. Celeste has been quiet since that day outside the locker room. No threats, no passive-aggressive commentary tossed into conversation. Paige is grateful for it, but the anxiety hasn’t completely dulled. She’s still not convinced the redhead won’t change her mind, especially if something rubs her the wrong way. So for now, Paige is doing her best to act normal. No brushing hands under tables, no lingering glances across shootaround, no reasons for anyone to ask questions.

But then she glances at Jo, and there’s a tiny bit of gold confetti tangled in her hair—caught behind her ear, near the roots. Leftover from the trophy ceremony earlier, when they were throwing confetti all over each other. Paige blinks at it. Doesn’t even think, really. She just reaches.

Her fingers brush against Jo’s hair, slow, tugging the shiny piece free. Jo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch or ask what she’s doing or turn her head. She just keeps twirling her plastic fork around a bite of pasta, like Paige’s hand in her hair is the most natural thing in the world. She tucks the confetti between her fingers and lets her hand fall back into her lap.

“Try this,” Jo says, out of nowhere, holding her fork up with a twist of unfamiliar pasta on the end “You’re gonna like it.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “That’s what you said about the gnocchi balls last week.”

Jo says, “Those were good.”

“No, they weren’t,” Paige argues, grinning a little.

Jo gives her a look. “C’mon, just take the bite.” She leans over, offers her the fork. Paige’s brain doesn’t even think about—oh, maybe it’s a little incriminating for a teammate to be feeding another teammate food if you’re trying to lay low about said teammate and yours relationship—instead, she just opens her mouth, lets Jo feed her the pasta. Clearly, she’s not very good at acting normal with Jo.

“Oh,” Paige says, chewing. It’s good, like really fucking good. “Yeah, okay.”

Jo grins and goes back to her container, satisfied.

Paige glances at her again—at her cheeks a little flushed from the heat of the crowded room, at the soft curve of her mouth when she bites into her next forkful. Jo’s in her warm-up jacket, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair in a messy bun that’s mostly falling out. She smells faintly like hotel soap and that strawberry body spray she keeps in her locker.

Paige swallows hard, looking back down at her own food.

And misses the way Nika and Azzi are both watching her.

Or, well, watching them.

Across the room, Nika leans in close to Azzi and whispers something behind her hand. Azzi raises her eyebrows, very slightly, and then presses her lips together in the world’s most obvious attempt at acting normal. Paige doesn’t notice it. She’s too busy stabbing a piece of chicken parm and pretending her mouth isn’t still warm from the fork Jo fed her with.

Her head buzzes a little. From the food, maybe. From the win. From the feeling of Jo’s knee against her thigh again. From how careful she’s trying to be, and how hard it is to not look at Jo the way she wants to, the way that comes natural to her. It’s always easier when it’s just the two of them. But out here, with the whole team packed into the room, she has to be a little more careful—she’s determined to be.

(She’s not very good at it.)

She bites into a cold breadstick. Forces herself to pay attention to Lili’s rant about the lack of sleep she got last night due to Yanna snoring like a man in their room.

Eventually, Paige finishes the last bite of her chicken parmesan, plastic fork scraping softly against the bottom of the takeout container. She lets out a sigh as she leans over and sets the empty box on the hotel nightstand. She glances to her right, where Jo’s listening to Ines yap about God knows what, her accent sharper than usual. Jo’s not eating anymore, her container of pasta sitting untouched in her lap, her fork abandoned to the side, fully focused on Ines, mouth curled up slightly in the corners in that soft way she gets when she’s genuinely amused.

Paige nudges her with her elbow. “You done?” she asks, nodding toward the food.

Jo doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. She just hands the container over wordlessly, knowing Paige well enough by now to read the question for what it really is: Can I finish it?

Paige grins. This pasta is good—creamy and buttery and wildly overpriced, but still.

At the end of the bed, Ice notices the hand-off and snorts. “Fatass.”

Paige doesn’t even look up. She just stretches her leg out, kicking Ice square in the shin, still grinning as she shovels another bite into her mouth. “Shut up,” she says around a mouthful of pasta, completely unbothered.

Paige keeps eating wordlessly, occasionally listening to the several different conversations around her and thinking about the weekend. Three games in three days. Lili was incredible in the post, Nika her normal defensive menace. Jo, per usual, balled out, dropping three twenty-plus point games easy. She was named MVP.

Paige played her role, too—Coach P, hyping the girls up, arguing with the refs for them, the usual agenda for her bench role.

She’s really proud of the whole team. Back in August, when she tore her ACL, so many people doubted them, thought they wouldn’t be able to get by without her. But they’ve done it, and they’ve done it well. It’s all building toward the real thing they all want. And, tonight, they get to feel it a little. The calm before the madness of March truly hits.

She takes another bite of pasta, leaning back into the headboard, letting herself enjoy it. This is one of those rare little pockets of peace. Warm, crowded hotel room. Her people. Good food. And Jo right beside her.

As Ines tells her story, half the room engaged, half the room sprawled and tired, Paige notices Jo moving. She scoots just a bit closer, like gravity’s pulling her in, her head tilting before dropping right into Paige’s shoulder.

Paige tenses a little, even though it could be passed off as an entirely friendly gesture. Best friends do stuff like this.

She glances down, eyes flicking toward Jo’s face. Jo’s not looking back. She’s just resting there, body soft and still, eyes focused on Ines. But the closer Paige looks, the more she sees the little tells—how her eyelids are lower than usual, her whole body loose in that way that only happens when she’s too tired to keep herself upright. Her hand rests lightly on her stomach, and her breathing’s already slowing. She’s exhausted.

Which makes sense. Paige saw the numbers after the game—Jo led the team in minutes, barely came off the floor all weekend. She was everywhere, doing everything. And Paige is proud. She wants to wrap her arms around her and say it straight into her neck. Wants to say, you were the best player in the building all weekend and I’m sort-of in love with you for it. But, obviously, she can’t here and now.

Quickly, though, the room starts to thin out. Everyone’s full, sleepy, the kind of tired that settles into your bones after a weekend of adrenaline and back-to-back games and nonstop noise. Caroline stands first, stretching with a groan.

“Okay, time for bed,” she says, rubbing at her face and grabbing her phone off the edge of Aubrey’s bed.

“Yup,” Aaliyah immediately says from her spot on the couch, already halfway out of the blanket cocoon she made. “I need my eight hours tonight.”

“Bro, you never get eight hours,” Yanna mumbles as she pulls herself off the floor, and Ines nods in solidarity, reaching for her shoes.

“Facts,” Ice adds, unplugging her phone charger from the wall.

It’s a chorus of tired bodies and half-laughs and sleepy groans as everyone starts collecting their things. Paige’s eyes flick over them out of habit, but mostly they stay locked on Jo. Not even on purpose, really. It’s just automatic at this point, how her gaze always finds her. Like her body notices the space Jo takes up in a room before her brain does.

Jo sits up with a quiet sigh, and Paige watches her rub her eyes with the heel of her palm like a little kid. Her voice comes out low, a little croaky with fatigue. “Yeah, I need sleep.”

Paige doesn’t say anything, just watches her move. Watches the way Jo pulls her sweatshirt over her head, stretching just enough to make her shirt lift up a little. The movement is barely anything, completely unremarkable, but Paige still tracks it—eyes dragging slowly, lazily, like she doesn’t even mean to.

Jo turns toward her. She gives her a smile—tiny, barely-there, soft—and pinches her right on the underside of her arm. Not hard, but not gentle either. Just enough to make her flinch.

“Ow,” Paige says, squinting and rubbing the spot.

Jo grins, standing and reaching down to grab her phone and its charger where they’re laying on the floor. “Night,” she says, before leaning into Azzi’s side hug, wrapping an arm briefly around her shoulders.

And then she’s walking out with the rest of the girls, slipping into the hallway with a quiet goodnight.

And Paige is a little bothered about it. She wants to sleep next to Jo tonight. She’s used to it by now, the nights at home default because they live together, and the schemes for away games when they switch with Dorka and Ice.

But they have new hotel roommates for the post season, random room assignments they didn’t even get to rig. And they’re supposed to be acting lowkey right now, so they didn’t try to switch.

They’re doing a terrible job at it apparently.

Because the door clicks shut behind Ice, and now it’s just Paige and Aubrey—since it’s their room—and Azzi and Nika, who haven’t moved. Paige glances over, confused when she catches the way they’re both looking at her: expectant, suspicious. Like they know something.

“What?” she asks, standing up, stretching slightly before she bends to gather her and Jo’s takeout containers into one stack.

She walks over, tosses them into the little trash can. They watch her the whole time. And then Nika snorts. Paige hears it before she sees the grin. That little smirk of hers always gives her away.

“Bro,” the Croatian girl says, “how long have you and Jo been a thing?”

Paige chokes. Literally. On nothing. Just inhales wrong on pure panic and starts coughing like she swallowed her own tongue.

Aubrey bursts out laughing immediately, leaning over from her bed to smack Paige on the back. “You got it,” she says between giggles, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen.

Paige pulls away from her, still coughing, face warm now for a completely different reason. “I—what—what’re you even talking about?” she asks, voice rough.

Nika raises both her eyebrows, unimpressed. Azzi leans forward now, too, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that calm way she gets when she’s not buying your shit.

“Jo and I aren’t a thing,” Paige says, more weakly this time, and she hears it in her own voice—how flimsy it sounds. How not believable. She wants to crawl inside herself and disappear.

Azzi doesn’t blink. “Paige, please. We’re not stupid.”

“We’re your best friends,” Nika adds, like it’s the simplest fact in the world. “We know you.”

“Mhm,” Aubrey hums from her bed, not even looking up from the text she’s typing.

Paige stands there, trying to figure out how the hell she’s supposed to lie her way out of this right now. Because the three of them are looking at her like they already know—not like they’re guessing. Like they’re just waiting for her to stop denying.

She opens her mouth again. “We’re not—” she says. And then stops.

Because, with the way they’re staring at her, she already knows this will be a losing battle. So, what’s the point?

She sinks into the bed like her bones have been replaced with sandbags, back hitting the headboard. Her stomach’s full, but her chest feels like it’s slowly caving in. Like someone cracked it open and left the door swinging.

She’s never been good at hiding things from her friends—or anyone, really—but she thought she was doing better than this. Apparently not.

She stares at the wall across the room for a second, then drops her eyes to her lap, the edge of the blanket twisted in her fingers.

“How’d you know?” she asks finally. “Did Celeste tell you?”

Nika makes a face, wrinkling her nose. “Why would Celeste Sinclair tell us?”

There’s a pause, and then Azzi, always fast, always surgical with her intuition, cuts in, “Does Celeste know?”

Paige’s head snaps up. “I—no,” she denies fast, shaking her head before Azzi can press it. “She doesn’t. Just—just tell me. How’d you figure it out?”

Azzi gives her this look, like she’s almost insulted it wasn’t obvious to Paige herself. Then she says, flatly, “Well, for starters, you literally told Aubrey and I that you liked her in October.”

That makes Paige groan, head titling back against the headboard, eyes closed.

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Nika mutters.

“You weren’t there that night for the crash out,” Paige says, waving a hand at her, like that explains everything—which, to her, it definitely does.

That night is seared into her brain like a tattoo. She remembers everything—the quiet guilt, the post-sex clarity, how fast her chest filled with panic. Celeste’s skin still warm under her hands when she realized she didn’t want this, didn’t want her. That she’d been trying to outrun a feeling that had already caught her. Jo. She’d left quickly, rushing to Aubrey’s apartment at two in the fucking morning, still smelling like Celeste and half-hating herself. Azzi had been there, too. She’d confessed like she was throwing up.

It was a mess. She was a mess.

(She’s better now. Mostly. Not spiraling as much. Not fucking people just to forget she wants someone else.)

“You were so miserable after you realized and told us,” Azzi says now, her tone gentler, doe eyes soft. “Especially when her ex was in town. And then, once they broke up, you, like… stopped being your miserable mopey self you’d been.”

“Exactly,” Nika says, nodding. “So, how long’s it been goin’ on?”

Paige hesitates. She glances between the three of them. Azzi’s sitting across from Paige’s bed on one of the chairs, fingers curls around one of her socks like she’s waiting to pull it off but got distracted by drama. Aubrey’s stretched out on her bed, knees bent, brows raised, very much amused. Nika’s on the floor, leant back against the dresser, legs sprawled out like she’s ready to stay as long as it takes.

They’re her people. They always have been. Even if she wanted to lie, she wouldn’t be able to. They already know.

So, Paige caves.

She exhales hard through her nose, mouth twitching, and says, “Okay, uh—we kissed for the first time when I went on that ski trip with her family for Christmas—”

“Bro, that was, like, right after her and that guy broke up!” Nika exclaims, sitting up straighter like she’s caught a scandal.

“Stop,” Paige says quickly, not even looking at her. “Don’t—don’t bring him up.”

Because it stings. Still. Not in the way it used to, not in that sharp, jealous way that kept her up at night—but in a deeper, quieter way now. Because it makes her wonder sometimes if she was just the warm body next to Asher. If Jo kisses her because she was close and safe and already there. But Jo never made her feel like that. Not once. And that was months ago now.

Paige shakes her head a little and keeps going. “Anyways. We kissed there. And then we talked ’bout it. And then it kinda became a ‘best friends who make out and cuddle but aren’t dating’ typa situation.”

Aubrey’s expression says obviously.

Paige scratches the back of her neck. “And then we fucked for the first time after the Tennessee game.”

Azzi blinks. “Wait—after she hurt her ankle?”

Aubrey makes a noise of disbelief, eyebrows shooting up.

“Her ankle was fine!” Paige defends. “She said it was fine, I didn’t—like—I didn’t pressure her or anything. It was a mutual, fully healed-up, consensual ankle situation.”

The other three start laughing. Paige lets them. Because whatever. It was fine. She’s not explaining the post-game hotel room events. No one needs to know Jo had ice on her ankle while they were fucking. Not relevant.

Azzi recovers first, her tone shifting a little, more curious than teasing now. “So… what are you guys now?”

That stops Paige. She looks down at her hands, fingers curling over the blanket again. It’s the question she’s been dodging in her own head.

“Nothing official,” she finally answers. “But we’re not seein’ anyone else. And it—it feels real.”

The word hangs there. Real.

Because it does. It’s not some high school fling or college situationship. It’s not an impulsive rebound or a secret thing they pretend doesn’t matter. It’s brushing teeth next to each other. It’s cooking together (or, well, usually DoorDashing, actually). It’s wearing each other’s clothes. It’s looking at each other like they’re already theirs.

“And we’re always together,” Paige says, softer now. “And I—I’ve never been in an actual relationship, but it… seems to be goin’ in that direction. If we ever actually talk about it.”

She lets that hang in the air, watching how the three of them take it in.

Azzi nods thoughtfully before locking eyes with Paige. “D’you want her to be your girlfriend?” she asks, voice soft like she’s being careful not to spook her.

With this answer, Paige doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The word is out of her mouth before she has a chance to second guess it, and the moment it’s hanging in the room, she kind of wants to pull it back, like she’s said too much, like it cracked something open inside her she wasn’t ready for.

Because of course she wants that. Of course she wants Jo. Wants to walk into practice without pretending that she didn’t fall asleep the night before with Jo’s hand under her shirt and her leg slung across Paige’s thigh. Wants to kiss her in public. Wants to hold her hand when she’s anxious. Wants to introduce her to people as her girlfriend and not have to glance at her first, like is that okay? are we okay?

But even saying it—yes—feels like walking a tightrope. Like admitting too much too soon. Like if she gets too close to the truth of how much she feels, it’ll all unravel.

Azzi tilts her head, studying her. “Are you gonna ask her?”

Paige blows out a breath and scrubs a palm down her face. “I—I’mma figure it out, okay?” she says, voice quieter now. “After the tournament.”

And that’s the truth. That’s the only way she can even frame it in her mind without worrying. There’s a wall around this time of year—March is sacred, locked in—and they all know it. It’s tunnel vision now. There’s no space for messiness or what-ifs or fragile beginnings that might fall apart if they get poked too hard.

This is what they’ve worked all season for. This is what everything’s about. And as much as Jo matters—more than anything—Paige can’t risk letting her head drift too far from the game.

Azzi, Nika, and Aubrey all nod at that, agreeing. It’s better to leave the big emotional swings for later. Win first. Figure it out after. Priorities.

But then Nika turns her head, eyes narrowing a little, not harsh—just quiet. Just a little hurt. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Paige’s stomach twists. That question hits lower than the others. It’s not accusing, exactly, but it lands heavily. Because these are her best friends, and she kept it from them.

She sighs again, her body sagging forward slightly as she leans her forearms on her knees, staring at the comforter. She doesn’t know how to make them understand without sounding like she’s trying to justify hiding it. That was never the point.

“It wasn’t about not telling you,” Paige says finally. “It was about us figurin’ things out first—which, we haven’t. Not really.”

She looks up at them, trying to keep her voice even, steady, like she means it all and wants them to believe her.

“We’re in the most important part of the season,” she says. “And we were scared that if something happened, it might mess with the team. Like, the vibe, the chemistry—all of it. And I don’t even wanna know what Coach or CD or the rest of the staff would say or think. We just wanted everyone to focus on March. Focus on what we’re all here for. And figure everything else out after.”

The last word ends with a kind of finality. After. Like there’s a promised world waiting for them just past the edge of April. Where they can breathe. Where they don’t have to hide.

Azzi nods slowly. Aubrey crosses her arms over her stomach and leans her head back against the wall. Nika drops her gaze to the carpet, thoughtful, chewing at the inside of her cheek.

They get it. They don’t have to say they do—Paige can tell. They’re not pushing her anymore. Because, at the end of the way, they’re ball players before anything else. They know what the stakes are.

Paige shifts a little on the bed and looks at them again, voice softer. “Can you guys not tell Jo that you know?” she asks.

Azzi furrows her brows. “Why? Why more secrets?”

Paige shakes her head, quick, already hearing how it sounds—paranoid, dramatic, unnecessary. But it’s not. Not to her.

“Because I think she’ll freak out if she knows,” she says honestly. “At least, right now. You know how anxious she gets. And it’s not like—she’s not ashamed or anything. It’s just… it’s already been hard enough figuring this out, the two of us. She didn’t even know she liked girls before this. I just wanna figure things out forreal between the two of us before she really has to worry. Y’know?”

She pauses, fingers messing with the blanket again. “I don’t want her overthinking it. Or shutting down. I just… I want to keep this safe. Just for us. Until we’re ready.”

There’s silence for a second. And then Nika, in a voice a whole lot gentler than usual, says, “Okay, P. We won’t tell.”

Relief floods her body faster than she expected. Her shoulders drop. Her hands unclench. She nods once, a quiet thank you, and lets her head fall back again.

She’s not used to sharing stuff like this. Because she’s never really had this to share. But, for Jo, she’s gonna try.

[fortunxa]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 THINKING ABOUT . . .

🫧⋆｡˚ Jinx x fem!reader ˎˊ˗

. . . having a homoerotic friendship with Jinx.

suggestive | mdni .ᐟ.ᐟ

she just gets you, in a way that feels almost unfair—your moods, your silences, the exact way your face looks before you cry. she’s your best friend. your favorite person. no one else even comes close.

you’re too close, always. she climbs into your lap when she’s bored, you rest your head on her stomach when you’re tired. there’s giddy groping in the kitchen when you pass each other—her squeezing your ass with a cackle, you flicking her boob in retaliation. but it’s playful, harmless. she rests her chin on your shoulder when you cook and asks if you missed her when she was only gone a few hours. she calls you dollface when she wants something, baby if she wants everything.

there’s casual nudity—her walking around topless, underwear and bruised knees on full display. you follow her into the bath one night because the conversation is too good to stop. because being apart for even five minutes feels wrong. she’s already in, blue hair piled messily on top of her head, steam curling around her shoulders, bubbles up to her collarbone. you sit on the counter first—cross-legged, leaning forward, still talking. but then she looks up and says, “you comin’ in, or just gonna be weird about it?” she winks, you roll your eyes, and then you’re stripping.

it’s nothing scandalous, but it becomes routine—just skin against skin, knees brushing underwater, her calf resting over yours. she dunks her head under and comes back up laughing, water dripping from her lashes. sometimes she climbs in behind you, arms draped over your shoulders, chin hooked over your neck. she washes your back while humming, hands a bit too careful. you wash her hair, fingers gently massaging her scalp, and she closes her eyes like she might fall asleep right there. just girls being girls.

it’s normal to straddle one another when you do each other’s makeup. it’s practical, you say. efficient. your thighs pressed together, her thumb on your chin, her knee between yours. she teases you in public and curls into you in private. she knows what makes you spiral, and you know what calms her down. she tells you you’re pretty when you need to hear it. you tell her she’s safe, even when she doesn’t ask.

she bites when she feels too much. soft, shallow nips to your shoulder, your jaw, your collarbone. but she kisses you right after—sweet, soothing. and if someone asked, you’d laugh it off. “we’re just friends,” you’d say, knowing full well she’s asleep in your bed wearing your shirt, legs tangled with yours. knowing her lips were on your throat last night, just to “see if it would make you giggle.”

and you both get a little possessive, but it’s not like you’re jealous. you’re the one who hypes her up before her dates, tells her she looks hot when she’s already halfway out the door. you nudge her toward it like a good friend would. but deep down? god, you hope it sucks. you hope they’re boring. you hope she comes home early. because you’ll be there—conveniently—arms open, blanket ready, your voice soft and teasing: “should’ve just stayed in with me, huh?”

and it goes both ways. she helps you pick out an outfit, says “go get ’em” like she means it, but then spends the whole evening refreshing your location. when the night goes south, she’s already waiting, smug and warm and just a little too pleased. “see?” she says, tugging you into her lap like that’s normal. “told you they wouldn’t know what to do with you.” you mention someone cute and she freezes. she plays along, plays it cool—until you reach for your phone. she snatches it, tosses it aside, and climbs on top of you. “look at me when i’m talking, yeah?”

maybe it’s a little toxic, a little codependent, but neither of you care. because there’s comfort in being needed like that, in needing someone like that. in knowing that no one will ever know her like you do, and no one will ever know you like she does.

it’s not dating. it’s not sex. but it’s intimate, greedy, full of unsaid things. you’re not sure if you want her or want to be her or just want to be the only thing she reaches for when she’s spinning out.

and maybe you’re not in love. maybe you’re just hers, she’s yours, and that’s enough to ruin both of you.

can i ever shut my yap and write something that fits in a screenshot instead (no 🤍)

[technitaur]

I could - and actually might - write an entire novel on what it was like to live with untrained dogs every day of my life for 41 years. My parents always felt like they were great dog owners and that they understood dogs, but they never saw any need to train the dogs.

They also had an unfortunate tendency to acquire new dogs on impulse. At one time, we had 5 dogs in the house and 3 of them were large dogs. All of them were untrained. Whenever there was a noise out of the ordinary, it was mayhem. I get a very unpleasant adrenaline rush whenever I hear the sound of knocking on a door, even if it's in a video game or something. It's because for most of my life, a knock at the door always resulted in a lengthy explosion of ear-splitting barking.

We were not dog owners. The dogs owned us. We had to work our entire schedule around the dogs. We could never have company over spontaneously, because we had to take the time to get all the dogs locked away in other rooms (and we had to make sure to divvy the dogs themselves up into groups that wouldn't be aggressive with each other).

Just walking out the door was a whole production. We had to spend the whole time holding back all the dogs because they were trying to get out, too. Getting back into the house was a frustrating trial of stumbling, getting jumped up on, and sometimes stepping on paws.

I could go on and on about all of the ways that living with untrained dogs is miserable, but I'll settle for giving the most egregious example. Somewhat fittingly, this most extreme example of my dog issues was also my last ever dog issue:

Earlier this year, both of my parents passed away within a few days of each other. I was left with my two cats, a cocker spaniel puppy, and two large (90lbs each) and very aggressive coon hounds. We originally got the hounds because my mom desperately wanted companion dogs, but we couldn't find any dogs available for our price range, so... my parents pretty much just took the first free offer that they found.

The hounds turned out to be way more of a handful than expected. So instead of them being inside dogs meant to be companions, my parents turned them into guard dogs that were left outside all the time. Outside, completely untrained, and frequently fighting each other over the food bowl or space in the doghouse, they eventually grew up to be extremely aggressive towards strangers and other animals.

(When they were younger, they would quite literally just bark all night, and most of the day. I'm amazed we never got the cops called on us for it. I'm also astounded that my parents, while annoyed at the barking, never seemed to think that it was an indication that there was anything wrong. To them, that was just 'what dogs do.')

Though the hounds were normally outside dogs, they had to come in during the night in the coldest part of winter. Because they were so aggressive, I couldn't allow them to be in the same room as the puppy if she wasn't protected. She had to be kept in a cage for her own safety the entire time the hounds were in the house.

I felt horrible for her. She was caged up quite a lot even before my parents died, because we had a lot of clutter and other stuff that she could have gotten into. That poor dog spent most of her formative months in a cage and it broke my heart. I had to go through an agonizing month of juggling the dogs' schedules by myself. I had to set alarms to get up every 3-4 hours to let out the hounds and give the spaniel a small walk. I was finally able to get the SPCA to come and get the spaniel. She was an incredibly sweet and happy little dog, and the guy said that she was going to be re-homed very quickly.

The hounds were a completely different, and much more stressful, story. They were not so easy to get rid of. I knew that I was completely unqualified to keep them. So were my parents, really, but all of a sudden, the legal liability was on me if something bad happened.

The SPCA wouldn't take them because they were aggressive. Even the county dog warden refused to help me, even when my lawyers asked for help on my behalf. I practically begged for the dogs to be taken away because I knew that they were a lawsuit waiting to happen. But the various forms of animal control around here just outright refused to help, basically saying that it wasn't their problem.

And to an extent, I agree with them. I know that they must have hundreds if not thousands of cases every year where people get dogs, won't train them, and then just want someone else to take care of the problem for them. But my situation was unique. I had dogs that were aggressive but it wasn't my fault they were that way. So I inherited a really shitty situation and I kept getting turned away wherever I looked for help.

A neighbor did try to re-home the dogs for me, and he even had a taker lined up. But when he came to get the dogs, they were so psychotically aggressive towards him that we didn't even manage to get them outside my fence. I was at my wit's end.

There was no way I could safely get the dogs into a car and get them to a vet myself. After 3 long months of struggling with having these dogs and living every day terrified that they were going to get out and hurt someone... I finally had to call an at-home euthanasia service to come and do the job for me.

It took a couple of hours to do it. With each dog, first I had to get them into a large cage, which was a task all by itself because they weren't used to being in cages. So they weren't very willing to go in. Once in there, I had to feed them a bunch of food laced with sedatives, but because it was an unusual situation, they weren't entirely willing to eat.

Fortunately, it finally worked. Once the initial sedative kicked in, the vet had to sneak in the room with a pole syringe and administer a second dose of sedatives to fully knock the dog out. After that, the final injection was administered. Fortunately, the process went much more smoothly than expected for both dogs. But it was an incredibly long and delicate process that wouldn't have been necessary if they weren't so aggressive.

It cost $1600 to put the dogs down. $1600 that could have been saved. Two lives that could have been saved. But because their previous owners didn't believe that training was necessary, two innocent, relatively healthy animals had to be put down.

If the dogs were younger, I might have paid the money to have them trained, but that also would have cost a bomb. They were about 3/4 of the way through their lifespan, so I figured it would be best to just put them down and save them the stress of being trained out of all of that anxiety and aggression.

I have hated dogs all my life, simply because I had to live with ones that were untrained. When I encounter well-behaved dogs that belong to other people, I love them. But I have always hated having dogs due to my experiences, and I will probably never have another one.

IF I ever decide to take that leap, I will not get the dog until I have pre-emptively set aside at least $5000 for training and medical costs.

Moral of the story: DO NOT FUCKING GET A DOG ON IMPULSE.

A dog is not something you can just enjoy for a month and then get bored of once the novelty wears off. You cannot just get it and then never expect to spend adequate time/energy/money on it again.

You should plan for a dog like you would plan for a child. You need to be willing to consistently put in the time and energy to raise the dog properly - for the duration of its entire life.

Some people probably don't want to hear that, but can you really call yourself a 'dog person' if you can't even do the bare minimum that's required to ensure the dog has good physical and mental health?

if you're unwilling to train your dog then you need to just not have a dog

[mononijikayu]

when you married nanami kento, you just knew that you wanted a life with him. but in that still, certain place deep in that chest of yours, you knew that you also wanted him to be the father of your children.

it wasn’t about legacy or expectation. no, if anything, you hated that about life. you didn't want his children because of that reason. there was something more important than that.

it was about how he existed in the world. he was gentle, principled, endlessly patient in the ways that truly mattered. he had a kind of strength that wasn’t loud, but lasting. he made things feel safe. not just for you, but for something larger, something future-shaped.

and that's what you believe would be so beautiful in the world. if someone as gentle and tender as him had something of him brought into the world to be just as gentle and tender. to be so loved by him, to be so loved by you.

you imagined it all so clearly in your head, if you were being honest. a child with his hands, his eyes, maybe even his brow when they got frustrated.

you pictured the quiet warmth of sundays, crayon drawings on the fridge, the sound of small feet padding across the floor, laughter tucked into corners of your home like sunlight.

he’d be a good father, you thought. the kind who teaches without raising his voice. the kind who holds everything steady when the world feels like it might tip over.

and so you tried. you both tried. with the kind of quiet hope people don’t always talk about. it wasn’t immediate, but you told yourself it was okay. these things took time. you had to be patient. patience wins in the end, you tell yourself.

soon enough, months passed. then more. the hope bent, thinned, but didn’t break. not at first. there were appointments. careful calendars. silence after the tests. reassurances. more silence.

until one day, the silence wasn’t a pause anymore. it was an answer.

you remember sitting in the bathroom, staring at the negative test like it had something more to say if you looked long enough. it didn’t. all it said was no. again. and again.

the grief came in waves, brutish ones that crash against the shore brutishly every single time. some days it was a sharp, bitter feeling. it was like a pang in your chest when you saw a family of three holding hands.

on the other days it was a soundless dullness in the boroughs of sorrow, like a blanket of fog you couldn’t shake off, a ghost that leads you to a bed of nothingness and tears.

you didn’t talk about it much at the time. and you can tell that neither did kento. not because you weren’t hurting. but because the hurt was so big, and you didn’t know where to begin. you didn't know how to grieve something you never had.

sometimes you caught him looking out the window, brow furrowed just slightly. quiet in a way that felt heavier than usual. and you knew. he felt it too. but he never blamed you. not once. you blamed yourself. he never did.

and then one night after a particularly hard week, when even your hope felt tired, you couldn't help but curl into bed beside him. you were unsure of what you were asking for when you reached for him.

he pulled you close without hesitation, without a second thought. held you like you were still whole, even if you didn’t feel like it anymore. your voice broke in the darkened room.

“what if it never happens? what if… it’s just us?”

and he was quiet for a long moment. but not the kind of quiet that avoids. the kind that holds. then he found himself speaking in reply, soft and low, the way he always spoke when something mattered.

“does a lifetime of love between us need to leave evidence?”

you didn’t answer. you just buried your face in his chest and cried. because that was him. kento, always seeing the heart of things. he wasn’t asking you to stop grieving. he wasn’t telling you not to want it.

instead, he was reminding you about all the things that mattered. gently, without pressure, that your love was not less because it had no name to pass on. no small voice to echo it. it was still here. still full. still real.

you and him. it was a whole universe, even without anyone else to witness it. that was more important to him. that was more precious to him. living a lifetime with you full of love was evidence enough.

and that night, something shifted. you still felt the ache sometimes blossoming in the bossom of your chest. many a times, you both did. but you know that it softened. you started noticing the life you’d built together more fully.

the slow mornings with coffee and tired eyes. the way his hand always found yours when you weren’t even looking. the quiet rituals of care. the laughter that still came, despite it all.

maybe your love didn’t need to leave evidence.

maybe your love was the evidence.

and maybe, just maybe, that was everything.

as you stare at kento's memorial image, you couldn't help but breathe and nod. tears flowing over and over again, until your eyes were red. until nothing could be done about it.

"you were right." you whispered to yourself, to him. to the nothingness. "it was more than enough for a lifetime....to love you."

[mw00nie]

i found you again g. satoru

A/N: okay so usually don't write notes. this isn't a note this is a warning. i cried writing this. so read at your own risk :)

w.c: 2.5k

warnings: reincarnation, vague smut, emotional hurt/comfort, yearning

gojo satoru has lived more lifetimes than there are stars in the sky. hundreds, maybe thousands. time bleeds between them now, thin and threadbare like gauze soaked in old blood. he is tired in a way that no amount of sleep can fix, in a way that’s ancient, mythic, cursed.

and yet, he wakes up in every life with one purpose: to find you.

he doesn’t always know how. sometimes it’s instant. the moment his eyes meet yours, it’s like the world shifts back into place. like he’s been out of breath for years and finally gets to breathe again. other times, it takes a while. you’re a passing stranger on a train, or a coworker in an office where he wears glasses. sometimes you’re older than him, sometimes younger. sometimes you love him immediately, sometimes you hate his guts and he has to earn it (which he always does.)

but you never remember.

you don’t remember the time you were a nurse in the 1800s and stitched up a bloody version of him under candlelight. you don’t remember the version of yourself that wore red lipstick and sang in jazz bars, where he sat in the back in a tailored suit and admired you. you don’t remember the lifetime where he was a war general and you were a spy and he risked everything to get you out. you don’t remember the time you were a jujutsu sorcerer too, and you died before he did.

he remembers all of it.

you never remember the thousand promises. never remember the vows whispered into the curve of your neck, or the way your body knew his like it was written into the code of the universe. you never remember the final moments, the deaths, the heartbreaks. you only ever look at him for the first time, again and again, and say:

“do i know you?”

And it shatters him. Every single time.

────────────────────

this time, you're a girl in tokyo who works in a quiet bookstore. you wear soft sweaters and tie your hair in lazy half-knots. you hum under your breath while shelving books and forget your tea on the counter while helping customers. and when you look up that day, eyes brushing over his frame in the entrance, he knows. immediately. It hits him like gravity, like a long-awaited breath finally exhaled. there’s no doubt, no hesitation.

it’s you.

but you don’t know him.

“can i help you find something?” you ask, smiling like it’s just any other tuesday. like your soul hasn’t been haunting his through centuries.

he swallows everything down. every ache, every memory, every "please remember me" and nods. “yeah,” he murmurs. “been looking a while, actually.”

you laugh, soft and oblivious, and he lets himself live in that sound for a little while. it's the first moment again. the moment before everything.

he visits you again. and again. he buys books he won’t read and drinks tea he doesn’t like, just to see you smile. you recognize something in him, maybe not the memories, but the tether. the gravity. the way your breath stutters sometimes when he says your name. you begin to wonder about him. you ask him questions. you lean in closer. he watches you tilt your head and squint at him as though trying to place him from a dream you can’t quite remember.

“you’re so familiar,” you murmur once, tilting your head as he walks you home. his heart cracks. he smiles anyway. “déjà vu, maybe.”

you don’t know he said that same line to you in 1847.

he knows the moment you start falling for him. you always do, eventually. it’s written in your soul.

but every time, it’s new for you.

────────────────────

weeks pass.

he dreams of you every night. some dreams are soft; a memory of you brushing snow out of his hair, or telling him your favorite song on the radio. some are awful; visions of you dying in his arms, blood on your lips, curses howling in the dark.

he wakes up sweating.

this life is peaceful. too peaceful. he’s retired from jujutsu. no more cursed energy. no more students. no more killing. but the price is you not knowing him. not really. not fully.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask one night, on his couch, legs over his lap.

you always ask him that. every life.

he says what he always says. “you.”

────────────────────

he kisses you the first time on your couch, your legs over his lap, your cardigan falling off one shoulder. you taste like strawberry tea and innocence, and he swallows the urge to sob into your mouth. his hands tremble against your waist. yours find his cheeks, fingers splayed like you’re trying to read something hidden underneath his skin.

that night, you tell him you want more, and god, he gives it to you.

it’s slow, at first. gentle. worshipful. he undresses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, lips trailing reverent paths down skin he’s kissed a thousand times before. he kisses the inside of your wrist, your stomach, your thighs, remembering every life your body once held. you arch for him like you always do, instinctual, breathy, the way you’ve moved for him since the beginning of time.

“toru,” you whisper, voice shaking, nails in his shoulders.

he groans like your name hurts. like it undoes him. “you always say it like that,” he says, breathless. “every time.”

you blink, dazed. “what?”

he doesn’t answer. just sinks into you slowly, deeply, like coming home. and as you clutch him to you, legs wrapped around his hips, gasping against his mouth like your soul remembers even if your mind doesn’t. he breaks all over again.

he makes love to you like he’s begging the universe not to take you away again. and maybe, just maybe, for a few minutes, it listens.

────────────────────

it began the way most fragile things do. 

you couldn’t sleep. you never said the words out loud, but he could feel it in the way you curled too tightly against yourself beneath the covers, how your eyes stayed open long after your breath had evened, always pretending to have drifted off when he turned to check. satoru never called you out on it. he only opened his arms and let you fall into them, wrapping around you like a promise he couldn’t keep.

“want me to tell you a story?” he asked once, one hand cradling the base of your skull, the other tracing soft circles into your back.

you gave a sleepy laugh, the sound half-buried in his chest. “i’m not a child.”

“you’re not. but your body needs rest and your mind keeps chasing shadows. i know the feeling.” he waited a beat. “let me help.”

you didn’t say yes. you just exhaled into his throat, a breath that sounded like surrender.

so he told you one. his voice dipped low, slower than usual, threading through the stillness like smoke curling in candlelight.

“there was a girl,” he began, “in a city made of stone. she had ink on her fingers and a book always in her lap. she didn’t speak much to anyone, except to the man who kept finding excuses to walk by her table.”

you smiled into his shirt, already fading toward sleep. “was he in love with her?”

“he’d already loved her for a dozen lifetimes.”

that made your head tilt slightly. you didn’t speak again, but he could feel the way your body stilled, the way something delicate shifted in the quiet space between his ribs and yours, like your soul had paused to listen, even if your mind couldn’t understand why.

the stories became your nighttime ritual. in every version, the details changed, different settings, different tragedies, different kinds of impossible love. but there were always two constants: a man with winter eyes and a woman who never remembered him.

he told you about a girl who smuggled letters across enemy lines, passing paper hearts into the hands of a soldier with white hair and a secret. about a prince who gave up royalty to live a simple life with the village weaver. about a queen who knelt before a man in chains and fed him pieces of bread until the world burned for them both.

you laughed sometimes. other times you curled into him with something heavy in your silence, your fingers drifting absently over his chest like you were searching for something familiar, something just out of reach.

“they’re beautiful,” you whispered once, long after the story ended. “but they always die.”

he kissed your temple, his voice caught in the back of his throat. “love doesn’t need to survive the body to be real.”

that night, your nails pressed faint crescents into his side as you fell asleep.

────────────────────

one night, you asked him to tell the story of the garden again.

you were curled up beside him on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, your head on his shoulder, the rain whispering against the windows like an old friend. the world outside was slow and soft and soaked in silver.

“the one where she keeps trying to grow tomatoes,” you murmured, “but he always ruins them and she forgives him anyway.”

he blinked. “you remember that one?”

your voice was thick with exhaustion, barely there. “i think so. feels like i do. i don’t know why.”

he tucked you closer, lips brushing your temple. “she planted them in a field once. in a lifetime that smelled like honey and sunburn. he couldn’t keep his hands off her. she laughed like it was the only thing that could keep the earth turning.”

you smiled, eyes fluttering closed. “you always make them sound like love songs.”

“they are.”

“even the sad ones?”

“especially the sad ones.”

you fell asleep like that, warm and folded into him, his hand stroking through your hair in lazy, reverent loops. he stayed awake long after, staring at the rain, wondering if the story had reached somewhere deeper this time. if some part of you, the part that lived in dreams and blood and memory, had begun to stir.

you didn’t wake when he carried you to bed. but you curled toward him in your sleep and whispered his name like it was older than language.

────────────────────

he starts dreaming of the first time he found you.

before you were ever born. before you had a name. you were light in a void. a soul that gravitated to his.

he remembers the promise he made to you then. “i’ll always find you. no matter how many lives.” you said you’d try to find him too.

but he’s always the one who remembers. you never do.

and he wonders what he did to deserve this. to carry the weight of every version of you alone.

────────────────────

this life lasts longer than most.

you say you love him on accident. he says it back like he’s been holding it in for lifetimes (he has).

you move in. you paint the walls. he teaches you how to cook. but deep down, he’s waiting.

because something always comes. a sickness. a curse. a war. something that takes you.

he thinks maybe, this time, it won’t.

until it does.

you’re hit by a car.

no cursed spirits. no revenge. no evil. just a car. just a slick road. just stupid, awful, human randomness.

he sees it happen from across the street.

he’s too slow.

and it’s just like before. he holds you in his arms. your blood seeps into his shirt. you’re blinking up at him like you don’t want to go.

he’s shaking.

“don’t- don’t leave me,” he begs. “not again, please. please.”

you’re crying.

“toru,” you whisper. “i don’t… i don’t want to forget…”

he presses his forehead to yours. he’s sobbing now. you’ve never said that before. not once.

maybe you remember. maybe you don’t.

he kisses you. you die in his arms.

again.

he lives another life.

and another.

and another.

each time, he finds you.

in a garden. on a battlefield. in a subway station. in a storm. you always look different. but your soul is the same.

he’s tired. so tired.

but he keeps looking. keeps waiting. keeps finding you.

he wakes in a body that doesn’t belong to the name on the mail by the door. he’s in his thirties. again. new life, new skin. but he remembers.

and he knows, without needing to be told. this is the last one.

there’s something irreversible about it. sharp. infinite. a full stop at the end of a sentence centuries long. there are no curses here. no clans, no talismans, no death wrapped in duty. just cities that hum gently in the distance, and skies that bleed peach-orange at dusk.

the world is normal. he’s just a man now. and for the first time in hundreds of years... that’s enough.

he sees you on a thursday. you’re in his building. you live one floor down. he finds you in the shared laundry room, sleeves pushed up, your fingers flipping through a book while the machine hums behind you.

you look up when he steps in. and for a moment, it’s nothing. just the blink of a stranger seeing another stranger.

but then...

your eyes change. your lips part. your fingers go still on the page. and you say his name.

soft. uncertain. like a question carved from every lifetime you never got to finish asking.

“satoru?”

his breath punches out of him.

he stares at you. older, softer, utterly unfamiliar in every way that doesn’t matter. and somehow you know.

you drop the book. it hits the floor with a thump. your hands cover your mouth and you’re already crying. no hesitation, just recognition. grief, love, memory. spilling all at once like a dam giving way.

he crosses the room in a heartbeat. he’s holding you like you’ll vanish if he blinks too hard. and you bury yourself into him like you’ve done a hundred times before, in a hundred different forms, a hundred different deaths.

“you remember,” he whispers, stunned. cracked. “you remember.”

your fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt. you nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “i remember everything,” you choke out. “every life. every time. i always loved you.”

and he breaks. completely.

because for lifetimes, he carried it all alone. every death, every kiss, every time you smiled without knowing why, every time you died without remembering him. but now... now, in a quiet building with humming machines and coffee-stained paperbacks— you do.

“you found me,” you whisper, tears caught on your lashes.

he laughs. it’s hoarse. broken. joyous. “of course i did,” he breathes. “i always do.”

your smile is wrecked. radiant. you touch his face like you’ve done it a thousand times. and this time. this one time. you say: “this time, i found you too.”

he kisses you in the hallway, beneath flickering fluorescent lights. it doesn’t matter. nothing matters except the feel of your mouth against his, the weight of your memories pressed between your chests.

this life is quiet. unmagical. miraculous.

there are no curses here. no fates to outrun. no knives between ribs or lives left unlived. just two people who’ve burned through eternity to get here.

and this time— you remember. you both do.

in this life, you begin again. not from scratch. but from everything you carried here.

together. fully. finally. forever.

[angelx]

Get Even - Chapter 2

word count: 1.9K

cw: frat prez!katsuki bakugou x fem art student!reader. manipulation, emotional tension, morally gray behavior, and a non-verbal kiss initiated without explicit consent (though not portrayed as assault), slow-burn, psychological conflict, blurred intentions, suggestive physical intimacy.

The days following the Sigma Vex party crawled by slower than usual, each one folding into the next like pages in a sketchbook, waiting to be filled.

For most people, the party was just a wild night to forget or brag about. But for Katsuki Bakugou? It was a spark—an itch he couldn’t ignore. The sting of rejection from a quiet girl who’d barely said two words to him gnawed at his pride like acid.

And he never let things go unanswered.

So, over the next week, Katsuki transformed into something new: an observer, a silent shadow trailing just out of sight. Not the creepy kind—at least not yet—but a calculated watcher who memorized the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you concentrated, how you carried your sketchbook like a secret treasure, and the faint limp in your step when you thought no one was looking.

You didn’t expect to see him again. Not after you ditched the party like your social anxiety was on fire. Not after you’d basically sprinted out of that frat house like the ghost of hookup culture was chasing you. But there he was—Katsuki Bakugou—shoulders broad, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, standing like he had every right to be outside the art building on a Wednesday afternoon.

You squinted at him.

“Lost?” you asked, not trying to hide the suspicion in your tone.

He scoffed. “Tch. Just lookin’ for someone.”

You arched a brow. “In the fine arts department?”

“Maybe.” A smirk tugged at his lips like he knew something you didn’t.

Of course, he did.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t have known—was that for the past week, Katsuki had been running silent recon like your life was a mission in a video game. He had questions. Who the hell were you? What made you so bold, so different, so mysterious, so... off-limits? You didn’t care about his title, didn’t laugh at his jokes to gain clout, didn’t try to sleep with him for status. You were just you. Sharp-tongued, quiet, weird little art girl who left a party without giving him a second glance.

And that? That shit was a problem. Because he needed to win. And winning meant playing the long game.

“You like coffee?” he asked casually, jerking his chin toward the small cluster of indie cafés that framed the edge of campus.

You shook your head. “Can’t. Stomach’s weird.”

He already knew that, but his eyes lit up like it was brand-new information.

“Huh. What about matcha?”

You blinked. “Only if it’s oat milk.”

“No shit?” he drawled, like it was a happy accident. “That’s what I get, too.” (Lie.)

But you went along with it, even though something buzzed low in your gut like an alarm bell. It wasn’t like Katsuki Bakugou to go out of his way for someone like you. He was loud, popular, the fucking frat president. You were quiet, constantly covered in graphite dust, and allergic to social norms. Your idea of a good night was crying over a sketchpad and watching emotionally devastating anime.

Still... you walked with him. Let him buy you that overpriced matcha from the hipster café that spelled your name wrong but got the drink right.

And then he kept showing up. Every week. Like clockwork.

After your Thursday figure drawing class, he’d be leaning against a lamp post outside. Casual. Like he hadn’t timed your exit down to the minute. Some days he brought pastries. Other times he offered to drive you to your studio, always playing it cool like he was “just passing by.” You weren’t stupid—far from it—but you were curious. And when he looked at you like that, all intense and unreadable and interested, it got harder and harder to push him away. He made you laugh, sometimes. Which pissed you off.

He let you rant about your professors and how one of them said your installation piece was “visually aggressive.” He listened. Actually listened. And when you mentioned that your favorite café had just sold out of their pistachio croissants again, he showed up the next day with two in a bag and a smug little tilt to his mouth.

“What’s the catch?” you asked him one afternoon, sipping from your lukewarm matcha while his stupidly expensive car idled in the parking lot.

He looked at you sidelong. “What d’you mean?”

“You’re nice all of a sudden. Buying me drinks. Driving me places. Listening to my tangents about gender in postmodern sculpture. You’re not trying to get back at me for leaving your party early or something, right?”

His jaw flexed. Just slightly. Just enough.

“No,” he said, voice low. “I’m not.” (Another lie.)

You wanted to believe him. Wanted to ignore the tug in your chest that screamed too good to be true. But he was persistent, damn it. Not pushy—never that—but steady. Present. There. Like he’d decided that if he was going to get under your skin, he was going to earn it. And goddamn it, it was working.

One day, when you were standing outside your studio, keys in one hand and half-eaten croissant in the other, he leaned against the hood of his car and said:

“Y’know, I kinda like you.”

You almost dropped the pastry.

“What?”

“You’re not like the other people I usually hang with.”

“That’s... because I don’t hang with people.”

He chuckled, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Exactly.”

Your stomach flipped. It shouldn’t have. You didn’t know it then, but every moment—every matcha, every ride, every sarcastic comment exchanged between stolen glances—was part of something bigger. A game he wasn’t supposed to lose.

And you? You were the last person who’d ever let yourself be played. But even black sheep get lonely sometimes.

Even you.

Time passed, like paint drying over a canvas you hadn’t realized was already finished.

What started as something strategic—manipulated, observed, handled like a well-planned heist—shifted. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly. Until it wasn’t just about winning anymore.

You and Katsuki Bakugou… became friends. Somehow.

The kind of friends who shared playlists and critiques on other people’s coffee orders. Who texted during class, sent stupid memes at 3AM, and argued over whether matcha was actually good or just Stockholm syndrome in a cup.

And the weirdest part? It didn’t feel fake.

It wasn’t just that he showed up. It was that he remembered things you didn’t even mean to tell him. The way you hated silence in the car, so he started making you custom mixes. The way your fingers always fidgeted with your necklace chain when you were nervous, so he held your hand during your art presentation critique without saying a word. The way you hated when people stood too close while you painted, so he gave you space—but never too much.

And every time you smiled at him, tilted your head, laughed behind your sleeve like you were trying not to show it—his stomach did that thing. (A/N: mf that's tapeworm.)

A flip. A twist. A fucking somersault.

It annoyed the hell out of him. Because what the fuck was that? It wasn’t love. Couldn’t be. Right?

Love was messy. Uncontrollable. Weak. He didn’t do love. He did plans. He did control. He did bets.

But you weren’t playing by his rules anymore. And somewhere between the gallery visits and the long drives where you talked about everything and nothing, the line blurred. The script flipped. He was supposed to reel you in, collect his win, and be done.

But then you looked at him one day, cheeks flushed from the gallery lights, eyes wide and honest and soft in a way he wasn’t built to handle—and he couldn’t shut up.

“I think I’m fucked.”

You blinked, tilting your head like you didn’t hear him right. “What?”

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. The air between you smelled like rain and gallery antiseptic. His jaw clenched like he wanted to punch himself.

“I don’t know what this is,” he muttered. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Silence. You stared at him. Your throat went dry.

“But then you kept… being you.” His voice dropped. “Kept laughing and looking at me like I’m someone worth knowing. And now? I’m not even sure if I’m in control of this anymore.”

“Is this a confession?” you asked quietly.

He winced. “I think it is. But—hell, I don’t even know if it’s love. Probably not. It’s something. It’s... something that’s wrecking all my plans.”

You didn’t speak right away. The cars outside kept passing, blurring into streaks of color behind the gallery windows. When you finally looked up at him, your voice was low. Honest. Maybe a little scared. “Then what now?”

And for the first time since the bet began, Katsuki didn’t have an answer. You waited. Maybe for him to backtrack. To turn it into a joke. To call you stupid for believing anything he said.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he looked at you like he hated this—hated that you made him feel anything at all. And then, like the last of his self-control finally snapped, he reached forward—and kissed you. No warning. No permission. Just pure need.

It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. Wild and hungry and bruising, like he’d been holding it in for weeks and couldn’t stand another second of pretending. His hands tangled in your coat, fists clenching fabric like you might disappear if he didn’t hold on hard enough. Your back hit the brick wall of the gallery entrance, breath catching in your throat, and still—still—he didn’t stop.

Because it wasn’t just a kiss. It was an admission.

A quiet, furious surrender.

You kissed him back. You don’t even remember deciding to—but your hands were in his hair and your mouth was on his and the world went mute around you.

Time hiccupped. And when he finally pulled away—barely, just enough to speak—his voice cracked around the edges.

“Sorry... I didn't mean to-”

You stared up at him. Lips swollen, thoughts scattered like charcoal dust on the floor.

“It's okay,” you whispered.

And neither of you knew what came next. But for the first time, it wasn’t about games anymore.

Katsuki’s eyes searched yours like he was still catching up to what he’d just done—like part of him couldn’t believe it either. Then he spoke, voice lower now. Rougher.

“You wanna come home with me?”

You didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. Your chest was still tight, skin still buzzing from the kiss. But you nodded—slow, deliberate—and he exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for hours.

The car ride was quiet. Not the awkward kind. Not really. He didn’t put on music. Didn’t talk. Just drove with one hand on the wheel and the other… slipping into yours.

You glanced down at the contact—his fingers wrapped around yours, thumb tracing slow circles across your knuckles like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed to touch you just to stay grounded.

And then, that same hand moved—casual at first, then deliberate—his palm grazing your thigh.

You tensed. Not in fear. In anticipation.

His eyes flicked toward you, then back to the road. No smirk. No cocky comment. Just quiet, thick tension filling every inch of space between you.

By the time he parked, your heartbeat was knocking against your ribs like it was trying to escape. The door shut with a soft click.

You followed him up to his apartment. No words exchanged. Just breaths. Just glances.

And when the door closed behind you—when you were standing in his entryway, shoes still on, jacket half-zipped—you turned to look at him.

Katsuki Bakugou.

The boy who was supposed to play you.

The boy who kissed you like he meant every second of it.

He didn’t move. Not yet. But his eyes were on you like he was waiting for a sign—anything to tell him he hadn’t just completely undone himself for nothing.

You took a step closer. And neither of you said a word.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Part 3 is in the making! will be finished and posted in 2 days!

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

TAG LIST: @d4wnyjlk @lillyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @greeeaaattt @oogieboogiesbugs0724 @dienamiight @urmom2bitch @kalulakunundrum @lotusstarr @bakug0uzb1thc @fr6giledoll @urfavangelss @xoxogospgirl @thirstygorl @randomhuman112 @emmiesarchive @gojosatorusno1 @emojellyace08 @ink-spill-124 @katsukispubies @artfulthoughtsblog @missdynamighttt @pastelbakugou @limbo-xe @wiinterrosee

Don't forget to reblog this yall i love you guys so much ( ੭ ˘ ³˘)੭‎°｡⋆♡‧₊˚

[lowrisemiller]

ꜰᴏʀ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ... ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ⧗

one - shot inspired by the song “Glory Box” by Portishead — also a tad inspired by @artficlly ‘s lessons in love making

winter soldier!bucky x black widow!femreader

She's Red Room. He's Winter Soldier. Neither remembers what it feels like to be touched without orders, to be wanted without purpose. Hydra pairs them as weapons, but in the quiet between missions—in bruised silence and shared Russian—they begin to find something unspoken. Something fragile. Something theirs.

masterlist | 5.9k words | photos do not depict what fem!reader looks like | mentions of torture, trauma, brainwashing, illusions to assault yk normal red room/hydra things, wee bit of violence and blood, praise, grinding, handjob, unprotected piv sex (not rlly tho if yk black widow lore…) and that’s it pls lmk if there’s more

You were transferred in a box.

Not literally, of course—but it felt that way. Blacked-out convoy. Shackled wrists. A one-way ride from the remnants of the Red Room to a Hydra-controlled facility somewhere in the Balkans. No name. No destination. Just cold metal under your thighs and a silence that felt worse than any scream.

You’d heard whispers of this place. Of him.

They called him the Winter Soldier.

Hydra didn’t send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostly—tight, quiet, obedient. But after your last handler died during a failed seduction op, you were labeled unstable. Too volatile. Too effective. Hydra saw potential where the Red Room saw disobedience. So they made a deal.

You became someone else’s problem.

The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.

They didn’t assign you a name. They gave you a number: Agent 47.

Your first few weeks passed in silence. You trained alone. Slept under surveillance. But being from the Red Room you hacked the camera. Ate without speaking. No one told you why you were there. Not until you saw him.

They wheeled him out of cryo like a weapon being unsheathed.

You were at the edge of the training floor, bandaging your knuckles from solo drills when he appeared—broad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But you looked at him. And you knew.

He was just like you. A ghost in someone else’s skin.

You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.

They handed you a brief, said “You’ll go with him,” and shoved you toward the drop point.

You didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it.

The first op was simple. A kill mission in Istanbul. You were bait, dressed like a party favor, coaxing the target toward a hotel balcony. Bucky waited in the hallway like a shadow. The kill was clean. Fast. He didn’t say a word the entire flight home.

You were used to silence. But his silence felt different. It was less about obedience, more about weight. As if words were too dangerous to carry.

You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his hand sometimes tremble after a kill. The way he stared at the wall like it was going to scream.

You recognized it. The fracture. The absence of self.

It took three more missions before he looked you in the eye.

Just a glance. After a messy clean-up in Kraków, blood is still damp on your collar. You were wiping a cut on your lip, sitting on the tailgate of the evac van. He stood across from you, face unreadable. Then his gaze flicked to yours.

Not curious. Not judgmental.

Just... knowing.

As if he saw you. Not the mask. Not the makeup. You.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something shifted.

Mission Location: Bucharest, Romania Objective: Eliminate asset defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. Cover Story: Tourist couple at Hotel Beron

You hate hotels.

Not because of the sheets—they’re always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though that’s usually cheap and flickering. You hate them because of what they mean: appearances. Playing and acting. Your body as a bargaining chip. Your face as a lie.

Tonight is no different.

You slip the gold earring into your ear with steady fingers, check your reflection one last time. The Red Room taught you to dress fast and fight faster. Hydra doesn't care what you wear, only that the target dies before he talks. Still, the dress they chose for you is low-cut and wine-red, tailored like a weapon.

Across the room, he doesn’t look at you. He’s adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.

The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniform—wrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.

That’s how it works between you.

The hotel bar is warm, glowing with amber light and careless laughter. You step into it like a ghost wrapped in silk.

Your heels click softly against the marble floor, your smile painted on with surgical precision. You're here to lure the target—a Hydra informant who decided to jump ship to S.H.I.E.L.D. You only have to keep him busy long enough for your partner to get in position.

You spot him at the bar. Older. Nervous. Talking too fast to a bartender who couldn’t care less.

You slide into the seat next to him like gravity pulled you there. A warm laugh. A brush of your shoulder. The same tired seduction dance the Red Room taught you at fifteen.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

He looks at you like every man does. Wants you like every man does. You feed it to him like honey over poison.

But as he starts to relax—fingers inching toward yours on the bar—you feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that he’s watching.

You don't need to turn. You know where he is.

Across the bar, tucked in the shadows near the back service door, sits the Winter Soldier. No mask. No rifle. Just a man in a suit too nice for the way his eyes scan the room—lethal and unblinking.

No one notices him. But you do.

He’s waiting.

The target gets comfortable fast. Too fast. He leans closer, asks if you want to go upstairs. You smile and say yes.

Your earpiece crackles with static, then his voice—cold, barely there.

“Level 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.”

You don't reply. You don’t have to.

The elevator ride up is silent, except for the elevator music and your heartbeat.

The hallway is dim. Carpet muffles your steps. When the door to 509 clicks shut behind you, you let the man touch your arm. You don’t flinch. You’ve played this role before. You already know how it ends.

You count down in your head.

Three... two...

The window explodes inward.

A blur of motion. Shattered glass. You duck before you even register the gunshot. The target stumbles back, screaming—blood blooming from his throat like a second collar.

You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.

He’s standing in the broken window frame.

Wind whips through the curtains. Gun still raised. Eyes locked on yours.

The Winter Soldier.

Back in the extraction van, it’s silent as always.

Your dress is ripped at the hem. There’s a scratch on your collarbone that stings. You can smell the powder burn still clinging to his jacket beside you.

You glance at him. His gaze is forward, unreadable.

But something about the way he watches the road—jaw clenched, fingers twitching—tells you he didn’t like what he saw in that room.

Not the blood. Not the kill.

You.

You wonder if he saw through the act.

You wonder if he saw how your hand shook when the man touched you.

Give me a reason to be a woman, not just a weapon.

He doesn’t speak. But just before the van turns, you feel it—his hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.

He doesn’t pull away fast enough.

The building smells like antiseptic and cement. Cold, old-world concrete, retrofitted with modern surveillance tech and the stench of fear.

You haven’t been back in months. Not since the transfer.

The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydra’s Moscow cell lives in the west. Where steel doors outnumber smiles and most conversations happen under cameras.

You walk the hallway beside him in silence.

The echo of your boots and his heavier tread match in rhythm—military, precise. You glance at his shoulder once, just once. The black tactical coat fits over the metal arm too cleanly, like it was sewn around the violence.

Neither of you speak until you’re summoned.

Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.

Your superior sits across from you—Director Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.

“Садитесь,” Volkov says without looking up. Sit.

You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.

Volkov doesn’t waste time.

“Доклад,” he says, motioning lazily with one hand. Report.

You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.

You begin.

“Цель устранена. Враг не передал информацию Щ.И.Т.,” you say clearly. Target eliminated. Enemy did not pass information to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Свидетели?” Witnesses?

“Нет. Один охранник — был устранён.” No. One guard—eliminated.

Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.

“And you?” he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.

Bucky’s voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.

“Всё прошло по плану.” Everything went according to plan.

His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says it—mechanical, hollow. Like he’s repeating words pulled from an old program.

Volkov watches him for a beat too long.

Then: “Хорошо.” Good.

But his gaze slides to you.

“Ты выглядишь усталой, девочка.” You look tired, girl.

Your jaw flexes.

“Я выполняю свою работу.” I do my job.

He leans back, smirking. “Иногда ты больше, чем просто работа.” Sometimes, you're more than just a job.

The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You don’t blink.

But you feel it.

A shift beside you. The faintest sound—leather glove tightening around a fist.

You don’t look at him. But you feel the Winter Soldier bristle, just for a second.

He heard it. He understood.

Volkov notes the silence like a man lighting a match near gasoline. He lets it burn a moment. Then shrugs.

“Свободны,” he says. You’re dismissed.

You both stand without hesitation.

But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.

“Солдат.” Soldier.

Bucky stops.

Volkov doesn’t look up as he says it.

“Девушка — хрупкая. Не дай ей сломаться.” The girl is fragile. Don’t let her break.

You look over your shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch. Just walks out, silent as death.

You follow.

In the elevator, no one speaks.

Not until the doors close and the security light turns green.

Then, in Russian—so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you—he says:

“Ты не хрупкая.” You are not fragile.

You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.

After a long pause, you whisper back:

“И ты не только оружие.” And you are not only a weapon.

Location: Hydra Training Compound, Belarus Objective: Infiltrate and surveil ex-Hydra weapons broker operating under a NATO-aligned cover Alias Names: Alina & Ivan Morozov Cover Story: Married couple visiting from Kaliningrad for black-market tech negotiation

The base is colder than Moscow.

Not in temperature—though it’s frigid at dawn—but in design. Gray walls. Glass panels. Doors with no handles unless they want to be opened. The kind of place where every hallway feels like a test, and every reflection in the steel has eyes.

You stand in the armory, adjusting your tactical vest, eyes on the mission file. The photos are grainy, black-and-white. Surveillance stills of a man named Konstantin Mirov, former Hydra quartermaster turned freelance weapons broker.

Your job? Get into his meeting. See who he’s selling to. Get out without making noise.

No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.

This one’s quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydra’s handler had said.

You’d snorted. The Winter Soldier hadn’t reacted at all.

Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gear—but something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.

You glance at the arm.

He doesn’t bother to hide it.

Bold.

Or suicidal.

You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. He’s adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.

Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.

“Your aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,” she says, Russian clipped and cold. “You’ve been married for five years. No children. No friends. You’re a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirov’s smart-tech vault.”

She hands Bucky the ring box like it’s a threat.

He opens it.

Two simple wedding bands inside.

You stiffen. “Is this necessary?”

The handler smiles, teeth like knives. “You’ll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects you’re spies, he’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You take the ring.

Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.

You follow.

Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirov’s estate

The drive is quiet. Trees blur past the windows, and you feel the weight of the silence settle between you like fog. The radio crackles occasionally—local news, rain reports, nothing useful.

He’s driving with one hand, the metal one. The flesh one rests on his thigh, fingers tapping once, twice, in thought.

You speak without looking at him.

“Are you comfortable with close contact?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “I don’t need comfort. I need control.”

You glance at him. “That wasn’t the question.”

He doesn’t answer.

The Estate — Mirov’s Private Villa

By the time you arrive, the act has begun.

You’re greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they don’t find the tracker tucked beneath the spare tire, or the bone mic embedded behind your left ear.

Inside, the villa is all excess. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Surveillance in every corner. You walk in like you belong.

Your room is on the top floor. One bed. No cameras inside, but you know better. Hidden mics, pressure sensors under the floorboards.

You wait until the guards leave before speaking.

“You take the side near the door.”

He nods once. No questions.

You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, he’s close. Too close.

You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.

He still doesn’t move.

Your heartbeat spikes—briefly.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

Now I just want to be human.

But I don’t know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldn’t.

Later That Night

The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirov’s garden.

You’re dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit again—same fit as Bucharest—but this time, you’re on his arm.

For show.

You link arms. Skin to skin.

He is warm.

You keep your smile fixed and your eyes on the crowd. Inside, you whisper:

“Three o’clock. Red dress. That’s the American buyer.”

He leans in slightly—lips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.

“She’s carrying,” he mutters. “Ankle holster. SIG P365.”

You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirov’s man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.

But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesn’t drop right away.

You feel the heat of it through your dress.

You don’t speak on the walk back to the villa.

The guards let you through without questions. One of them gives you a knowing smirk, like he expects you to fuck as loudly as you kill. You offer him the barest smile in return—just enough to keep him stupid.

Inside, the bedroom light is low. Amber and shadow and the faint buzz of some generator humming through the floor.

You unclip your earrings and place them on the nightstand.

Bucky’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. No words. No wasted movement. Just a slow, methodical undoing of the man he pretended to be tonight.

You glance over.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

But his jaw is tight.

You strip off your dress with your back to him. No flourish, no invitation. Just routine. Your spine is bare and littered with scars in the mirror. You catch his reflection when he finally turns.

His eyes flick to yours, just once, before dropping.

He looks away like it hurts.

You slide on the black sleep shirt. One of the few things in your duffel that’s actually yours. Cotton. Worn thin at the collar.

Bucky changes into a pair of Hydra-issued sweats and a black t-shirt. The metal arm gleams under the soft light, all tension and symmetry and weaponized restraint.

He takes the side nearest the door, just like you asked.

You slide under the covers beside him.

The silence is too loud.

The bed dips beneath his weight but doesn't move again. He’s still. A wall of heat and control.

You close your eyes.

And then—after several long breaths—you whisper, in Russian:

“Ты не расслаблялся ни на секунду.” You haven’t relaxed once.

He exhales through his nose.

Then:

“Слишком опасно.” Too dangerous.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.

“Мне казалось, ты был другим, когда мы танцевали.” You seemed different when we danced.

He doesn’t answer.

But he’s listening. You can feel it. His focus, always so sharp in combat, is now centered entirely on you.

You turn on your side, facing him in the dark. His profile is a study in contrast—scar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.

“I forgot who I was for a minute,” you murmur. “On the balcony. When you touched my back.”

His jaw tenses.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t want you to stop.”

The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.

This isn’t flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.

You feel his fingers move—just barely.

Then:

“Why are you telling me this?”

You don’t know.

Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didn’t pull away—he just stood there, stunned, as if you’d woken something up.

“I want to know if you felt it too,” you whisper.

His voice is a thread of breath:

“I don’t let myself feel things.”

You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.

Your fingers find his fingers.

And he lets them.

He doesn’t pull away.

You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contact—skin to skin.

A line crossed.

And neither of you can go back.

Location: Hydra Training Compound Day Three Post-Mission

They call it “recalibration,” but it feels like punishment.

Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, they’re back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesn’t reward precision. It doesn’t reward loyalty.

It rewards silence.

You’re already in the training gear—black compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it won’t be used today. Just a habit.

Across from you, Bucky stands shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower.

His metal arm catches the light like a warning.

You circle each other in silence. There’s no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.

Then, in Russian:

“Готова?” Ready?

You nod.

He lunges first—fast, controlled, mechanical. You drop low, sweep a leg, and he pivots instead of falling. His movements are brutal but beautiful, like clockwork designed to hurt.

You block a palm strike, twist under his arm, shove your elbow toward his ribs.

He lets you connect.

Not full force. Not enough to bruise.

Just enough.

You both freeze.

Your breath hitches.

He stepped into it—on purpose.

Why would he let me land a hit like that?Why does it matter that he did?

You disengage fast, roll back onto your feet. He stays still, watching.

Eyes unreadable.

Then, quieter:

“Ты теряешь фокус.” You're losing focus.

You sneer. “Ты проиграл.” You lost.

He steps forward again—slow this time. Less like a soldier, more… man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.

“I let you win,” he says.

There’s no arrogance in it. No mocking.

Just a fact.

You bristle. “Why?”

His eyes flick to yours—then lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.

“Because you’re tired.”

You swallow, throat tight.

He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because it’s me.And that scares me more than it should.

You don’t reply.

You rush him again, but this time it’s sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, you’re just… there. Trapped in his grip.

His fingers tighten—then loosen.

He releases you.

Your skin burns where he touched it.

You step back.

“Again,” you say.

He hesitates. Just a flicker.

Then nods.

You spar for thirty minutes. No talking. Just the sound of bodies hitting mats, of breath caught and released, of two people pretending not to feel what they feel.

And after the last round—when you’re both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulder—

You ask, quiet:

“Why are you different with me?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“Because you don’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

You look at me like I’m still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.

You could kiss him right now.

You don’t.

You just stay there, breathing next to him.

Neither of you moves.

The sparring is over, but it’s still clinging to you—under your skin, in the beat of your pulse, in the shallow ache of your left wrist.

You sit on the bench in the armory locker room. Shirt discarded. Wrist tender. It throbs in waves now that the adrenaline’s worn off.

Hydra’s med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.

You’re wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.

“Дай мне.” Let me.

His voice is low. Behind you.

You flinch, but you don’t stop him when he kneels in front of you.

You offer your wrist.

The metal hand holds it steady. Too gentle. The human one does the wrapping.

He’s meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.

Your voice is soft:

“Ты заботишься.” You care.

He pauses.

Then—barely above a whisper:

“Ты не должна была заметить.” You weren’t supposed to notice.

You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like this—he doesn’t look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.

And young. Younger than you imagined, when he’s not under command.But you’ve seen his file. You know that doesn’t make sense. Unless something’s been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.

“What do they call you?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“They don’t.”

Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset. 

You nod once. You won’t ask again. You’ve done worse to people with names.

When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.

Your breath stutters.

He touches like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but he’s trying anyway.And you… you need it.God, you need it.

“You stay too long after the others leave,” you whisper.

He looks up at you. Those eyes—gray and still and far away.

“So do you.”

You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.

You rise.

He doesn’t stop you.

But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.

“What's on your mind,” you say in Russian. “Just one thing.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to remember what counts as real.

Then, finally:

“Я боюсь забыть, каково это — не быть один.” I’m afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.

You don’t speak.

But something inside you breaks.

And you don’t fix it.

There are nights when the base goes too quiet.

Not silent—because no Hydra base is ever truly silent. There’s always the dull hum of the server banks, the pressurized hiss of sealed doors, the echo of boots in the corridor above.

But this? This is quieter. Hollow. Heavy.

You can’t sleep.

Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. There’s a tremor in your hands you can’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just… residue. From training. From life.

From him.

You slip from your quarters, barefoot. In a tank top and soft black shorts. You don’t bother to put boots on.

The halls feel colder at night. You glide through them like smoke.

Down one floor. Then two.

You know where he’ll be.

There’s a small chamber near the weapons lab—an auxiliary control room that no one uses after hours. No windows. Just a slatted steel vent near the ceiling where moonlight slices in, pale and ghostlike.

He sits there in the corner, on the floor.

Back against the wall.

Awake.

He’s always awake.

You don’t speak when you step into the doorway.

He lifts his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise.

Just looks at you like he knew you’d come.

You sit across from him, knees pulled up. The cold seeps through the floor into your skin.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

But that’s never mattered. Not with him.

The quiet between you has its own language.

He finally says, “Ты тоже не можешь спать?”

You can’t sleep either?

You shake your head. “Слишком много шума.”

Too much noise.

He nods.

You don’t mean the base.

You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that don’t bloom until morning.

You watch him. The way he sits so still. But you’ve seen him move—he’s lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, he’s just… there.

Like a monument to some war no one ever won.

You speak again.

“Do you remember who you were… before?”

His jaw flexes. Not anger—hesitation.

Then he says, “No.”

Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.

“I think I was someone else, too,” you whisper. “Before the Red Room.”

And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.

Maybe that’s what this is. Two weapons sitting in the dark, trying to remember how to feel like people.

You shift a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I think about it sometimes,” you say. “What it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes are on you like he’s trying to see that world through yours.

You whisper, “Give me a reason.”

His brow furrows.

You search his face in the low light.

“Give me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.”

A pause.

Then he leans forward—barely, barely—and says, so low you almost don’t hear it:

“Because when I look at you, I forget I’m a weapon.”

The air between you crackles.

But neither of you reaches across the space.

You just sit there, two shadows in the dark, a heartbeat apart from ruin.

But after a while sitting on the hard floor gets uncomfortable so you rise up slowly.

You guide him by the wrist—his flesh one, calloused and warm—and not his metal one. That’s on purpose.

He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching you. You always know when he’s watching.

Your room’s a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But it’s private. It’s yours. And he’s never been here before.

You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.

“C’mere,” you whisper, and he does.

He’s quiet, always quiet. That’s how they trained him. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damned place. Like your hands are the only ones he trusts not to hurt him. You pull him close, let your forehead rest against his chest. The cool metal of his arm touches your back as he hesitates—then wraps it around you.

He doesn’t know how to ask. But he wants this.

So you climb onto the cot, pull him down with you. No words, just breathing. The way his nose presses into your neck. The way his body curls toward yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You pet his hair. His breathing slows. You feel the tension drain from his body, even if only a little. You fall asleep like that—his arms around your waist, your hand over his heart.

But sometime in the dark, you feel it.

A slow press of his hips against your ass. The warm breath hitching against your neck. His hand twitching on your belly, the tremble of restraint in his thighs.

You shift, just slightly. You feel the outline of him—hard. Needy.

You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: “Soldat.”

He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. “It’s okay.”

He goes still. Like he’s waiting to be punished.

You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. “You want help, soldier?”

His eyes widened—blue and glassy and desperate.

“You sure?” you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. “We don’t have to if—”

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it’s been torn from him. “Please. I don’t… I’ve never…”

That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.

“Let me take care of you, then.”

You kiss him first. He doesn’t expect it, but melts into it like he’s starved for it. Like he doesn’t even know how to kiss back but he’s trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You straddle him slowly. He’s shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “It feels… s’good. Don’t stop.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. “Just let me.”

He nods, breathing hard. He’s so worked up already, hips twitching under you.

You take your time. Slide your fingers beneath his waistband, and he gasps when you wrap your hand around him. He’s hot, flushed, leaking already. You stroke him slowly, watching him fall apart.

His head tips back against the pillow. His thighs tremble. He whimpers when you twist your wrist just right.

“You like that?” you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.

“Y-yeah. Shit. Don’t stop—please.”

You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, “You wanna come like this? Or inside me?”

He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.

“I—inside,” he groans, eyes pleading. “Please.”

You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You don’t tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. “You feel—god, you feel so warm, so tight—I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmur, rocking gently. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He whines at the praise. Whines.

You ride him slow, deep, keeping your forehead pressed to his, your hands in his hair. Every thrust makes him gasp. Every grind makes him moan, softer than you thought a killer like him could.

You rub your clit, and he watches, eyes glassy and wide like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.

When you tighten around him, he loses it.

His whole body locks up, and he spills into you with a broken cry, hips bucking helplessly. You don’t stop. You work yourself over him until you come too, clenching tight around him, panting into his mouth.

You collapse on top of him. He wraps both arms around you—flesh and metal—and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.

He just looks like a man who’s finally been given something he didn’t have to earn.

The room is quiet again.

You’re both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands haven’t moved—still holding you like he’s afraid to let go, like the second he does you’ll be taken from him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.

You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. “No.You were perfect.”

He lets out a breath, shaky and full of disbelief. You reach up and brush his hair back, gentle fingers gliding over his cheek. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. He’s still figuring out how to believe those things. But you’ll show him. Again and again, if that’s what it takes.

You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. “I’m not going far.”

He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. “Can I… hold you?”

“Of course you can.” You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediately—strong and possessive and scared.

You kiss his collarbone. His breath hitches again.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just lay there, wrapped around each other. Listening to the hum of the base outside the door, far away from this little world you’ve built.

Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost don’t recognize it.

“I didn’t think it could be like that,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like… you wanted me.”

You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. “I do want you. Not just this.” You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “All of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.”

He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. You do it for him.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he says.

You rest your forehead to his. “It won’t be.”

“You’ll stay?”

You nod. “As long as you’ll have me.”

That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs you tighter into his chest and buries his face in your hair.

Eventually, his breathing slows again. You feel his body finally begin to relax beneath you. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he trusts you won’t leave.

You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydra’s nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.

For once, he isn’t a weapon.

And for once, you both believe—just a little—that maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe you’ll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.

Together.

dividers by @cursed-carmine & @hyuneskkami 🏷️ @zevrra @millersdoll @littlemillersbaby @stell404 @perpetually-fangirling-blog @veraarora @layaispunk @surebutwhy @m00ngazing @devilslittlehelper @bxtchboy69 @cinderblock24 @lilylovesu

[marvelseries19]

SAFE WITH YOU

Chapter Five - Castaway

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff ft female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: The process of coming back is hard, yet not impossible, especially since Natasha is right by your side through it all. And you finally get your happy ending.

A/N: Okay, with this, we say goodbye to this series. From this point on, there will be no more chapters. However, I will make one-shots to dive deeper into the healing process and show parts I didn't show or talk about, things you're curious about. As always, you're more than welcome to leave comments, feedback, requests, ask questions, etc. Enjoy. And if you see typos, no, you didn't.

Warning: +18, nightmares, maybe mentions of ptsd, etc. Some very, VERY suggestive part at the end.

Word count: 7.5k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The days in the medical wing pass in a strange, suspended rhythm. Time feels warped — too fast in some moments, agonizingly slow in others. You sleep in stretches, eat when they tell you, and endure tests and scans and soft-spoken assessments. They tell you your body is healing well. No major infections. The weight loss is significant but expected. Dehydration is corrected. You’re stable.

But you-you don’t feel that way.

The ceiling tiles blur into a single repeated shape. The bed is too soft. Too still. There are no rustling trees, no ocean wind, and no birds to mark the sunrise. Just the mechanical hum of machines, the occasional beep of monitors, and the muffled footsteps of nurses outside your door.

You find yourself waking in the middle of the night, expecting smoke, thunder, and the sound of waves. But there’s nothing. Just silence. You wonder if your body forgot how to feel safe.

Natasha comes every day.

She doesn't hover. She doesn’t overwhelm. She just is. Always there, curled in the chair near your bed, boots kicked off, hands wrapped around lukewarm coffee, flipping through a book without really reading it. Sometimes she talks. Sometimes she doesn’t. Mostly, she just watches you. Like, she still can’t quite believe you’re real. That you’re here.

There are moments when she reaches for your hand and hesitates, catching herself like she’s afraid she’ll break you.

On the sixth day, the doctors tell you it’s time.

“You’re stable,” the lead medic says gently. “We can continue monitoring from home and give you instructions. It’s entirely your call, but… We think you’re ready.”

You’re not sure what “ready” is supposed to feel like. The idea of leaving the room you’ve come to accept as a kind of purgatory doesn’t make you feel free — it makes your chest tighten.

You nod anyway.

Natasha is quiet as she helps you dress. Civilian clothes. Soft. New. The fabric feels too thick, too unfamiliar. You move slowly, your body still remembering scarcity. Still conserving energy. Still unsure it’s safe to let go.

She kneels to help with your shoes and pauses when you flinch at the contact. You recover quickly, hand on her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” she says softly.

As you stand together at the doorway, your discharge papers in a folder under your arm, Natasha glances down at your hand and laces her fingers through yours.

You hesitate. “I don’t know what’s waiting out there. I don’t know how to—”

“I know,” she says. Her grip tightens. “We’ll go slow. Whatever pace you need.”

You nod, even though your chest still aches with uncertainty.

The elevator ride down feels surreal. You’re not used to enclosed spaces with buttons and polished metal reflections. Your heart skips once, twice — Natasha notices.

“We can go back upstairs,” she offers quietly. “It’s okay if you’re not ready.”

You shake your head. “No. I just… need to get used to it again.”

When the doors open, the light is different. Sharper. Louder. There are more people. Too many. The security staff nods respectfully as you pass, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in a hallway mirror.

You don’t look like the version of yourself that disappeared. You’re thinner. Your eyes are sharper, older somehow. There’s a haunted look to your posture, even when you try to stand tall.

Natasha opens the car door for you. It feels strange — being helped. Being ushered. You slide into the seat and keep your eyes forward the whole drive, watching a world that moved on while you were gone. So many people, so much motion. Bright lights. Noise. Life.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha asks softly, not pushing.

You shake your head at first.

Then, quietly: “It doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Like… I left the world for a while, and it forgot me. And now I’m trying to remember how to belong to it again.”

She nods slowly. “I know that feeling.”

You glance at her. “Yeah?”

“I lived in shadows for a long time. It’s different. But I remember what it’s like to come back and not recognize the shape of your own life.”

That lands. You stare out the window. “And what did you do?”

She looks over at you, eyes soft. “I made new memories. With the people I loved.”

The apartment building comes into view. It’s familiar and unfamiliar all at once. You remember the smell of the hallway, the way the light slants through the windows in the afternoon. You remember the doorframe, the number on it, the chipped edge of the paint. Home. Kind of.

Your hand pauses on the doorknob. Natasha’s close behind you, silent.

You whisper, “What if I don’t know how to live in it anymore?”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then, gently says, “Then we make it new. Together.”

You open the door.

Inside, everything is neat. Intact. Untouched. Maria must’ve kept it clean. Your things are still where you left them: photos, books, and your coat hanging by the door like it had been waiting for you.

You step inside slowly, eyes scanning everything.

Natasha doesn't push. She just follows quietly, giving you room.

In the corner, you spot something unexpected — a small carved figure, worn and faded. Red. Maria must have brought him from the med facility. You walk over and hold him in your hand, brushing your thumb along the ridges of the coconut’s face.

Natasha watches you with something close to reverence.

You finally turn to her.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you admit.

She steps closer, placing a hand gently against your back. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

You nod, your eyes wet but steady.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe her.

You stay near a window for a while. The apartment is quiet, every sound soft and unfamiliar. You’re still holding Red, fingers absently brushing the worn coconut shell, when Natasha’s voice cuts gently through the stillness.

“Do you want to take a bath?”

You glance toward her, surprised by how simple and kind the question sounds. A bath. It’s been… years. And for a moment, the idea makes your chest feel tight — not because you’re afraid of it, but because it feels too gentle, too civilized, too far from where you were.

You swallow. “Yeah, but would you… stay with me?”

Her face softens. "Yeah, of course.”

She says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world — like she hasn’t missed you every second of the past three years. Like she wouldn’t drop everything to do exactly that.

Natasha walks you to the bathroom without fuss. She starts the water, adjusting it with practiced motions, quiet in the way she always is when things really matter. You sit on the closed toilet lid, watching steam curl toward the ceiling, already letting the warmth pull at the edges of something inside you.

Once the tub is full, you strip slowly, wrapping a towel around yourself as she turns away to give you space. You can’t help but smile at that, even if it’s faint — Natasha Romanoff, world-class assassin, averting her eyes with her cheeks slightly blushed, like you’re some delicate painting she’s afraid to damage.

You step into the water, easing down with a quiet hiss of breath as the heat envelops you. Your muscles scream and then slowly, slowly, begin to relax.

You lean your head back against the porcelain edge, eyes half-lidded. Natasha sits beside the tub on a folded towel, elbows on her knees, just watching you with a small smile and eyes full of unshed things.

After a minute, her voice breaks the calm.

“Can I help? With your hair?”

Your throat catches. You didn’t expect the offer, not like that — not so softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Please.”

She moves closer, sleeves pushed up, and gathers a little shampoo in her hands. Her fingers slide gently into your hair, slow and careful, massaging your scalp in delicate circles. It feels so good it nearly makes you cry — not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. Because you didn’t know something so simple could still feel like this.

Her hands are steady, rinsing with warm water cupped between her palms, careful not to splash. She never rushes, never speaks unless it’s to quietly ask if something’s okay.

And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.

“You’re here,” she murmurs. “You’re really here.”

You rest your cheek on your arm along the tub’s edge. “It still feels like I’m dreaming.”

“I know,” she says. “Me too.”

You sit in the cooling water a little longer, side by side in silence that no longer feels empty. Eventually, she helps you out, wraps you in warmth, and leads you back to the bedroom with the kind of patience that doesn’t ask anything in return.

And through it all — the quiet, the closeness, the simple human contact — you begin to believe that maybe you really did come home.

And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.

—

Later, you’re on the couch, curled in on yourself. You hadn’t wanted to lie down in the bed just yet. Natasha didn’t question it—just handed you a throw blanket, sat beside you, and let the silence settle. She doesn’t crowd you. But she doesn’t leave either.

You stare down at the ring around your neck. The chain is cool against your collarbone.

“I thought about you every night,” you say, voice low, almost ashamed.

Natasha turns her head toward you. “So did I.”

You swallow hard. “I pictured you. Waiting. And then I started wondering if I’d made you up just to have something to hold onto.”

She shifts closer. “I thought I’d never see you again. Every day I told myself I had to keep moving because if I stopped, I’d have to admit you were gone.”

Your voice is a whisper. “And now I’m not gone. But I don’t know how to be here either.”

Natasha reaches over and takes your hand, slow and deliberate. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Then we’ll figure it out together. There’s no right way to do this.”

You lean your head against her shoulder. It feels like touching solid ground after months in open water.

“I missed you so much it hurt,” you say.

She presses her lips to your temple. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

That night, after takeout and too many emotions to name, you stand at the bedroom door again.

The bed is made. The pillows fluffed. But it feels like walking into a memory.

Natasha waits patiently, giving you the space to choose.

“I want to try,” you say quietly. “But only if you stay.”

“I was never going to leave.”

She pulls back the covers and slides in beside you, and you crawl in with careful movements, still half afraid the walls might collapse if you breathe too loud.

You both lie on your backs, eyes open in the dark.

“Do you hate that I changed?” you ask.

Natasha’s voice is soft but certain. “I don’t care how you changed. I only care that you’re still mine.”

You roll toward her. Her arm is already there, waiting for you to curl into. You rest your forehead against her collarbone, heart racing like it hasn’t calmed down in years.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know,” she says, kissing your hair. “Me too.”

But she holds you all the same.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself fall asleep.

The room is dark and quiet. Natasha’s breath is steady beside you, warm, familiar, and grounding. You count each inhale, each exhale, like an anchor, like maybe if you focus hard enough, the rest of you will settle too.

But it doesn’t.

The bed is too soft. The mattress, the pillows—it all feels like it’s swallowing you whole. Your muscles are tense, your jaw is locked, and your breath is shallow. It’s not the silence that unsettles you. It’s the stillness. Too comfortable. Too easy. Too alien.

You lie there for what feels like hours, heart thudding loud in your chest, staring into the darkness.

Eventually, you slip out of bed as quietly as you can. The floor is cool under your feet, grounding in a way the mattress never could be. You lower yourself slowly, cautiously, and lie flat on your back beside your side of the bed, the wooden floor pressing firm and unyielding against your spine.

It feels… real. Familiar. You exhale, finally.

And that’s where Natasha finds you five minutes later—when her hand reaches across the bed and touches only cold sheets.

Her breath catches, and then you hear the mattress shift as she scrambles up, switching on the bedside lamp. Her voice is low but tight.

“Y/N?”

You blink up at her from the floor. “I’m here.”

She sees you and stills. Her shoulders drop slightly with relief, though her expression softens with worry.

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” you say quietly. “The bed felt wrong.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, without asking, she reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed, kneels beside you, and drapes it gently over your body. Her fingers linger a moment against your arm.

“Next time, wake me. Please.”

You look at her, eyes tired. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not a bother,” she says immediately, voice low and raw. “Not now. Not ever.”

A beat passes. Then Natasha shifts down beside you, lying flat on the floor without hesitation. The floor creaks beneath both your bodies. She glances at you sideways, head tilted on the hardwood.

“You’re really doing this?”

“You’re down here with me, aren’t you?”

A small smile plays on her lips. “Of course I am.”

Another pause.

“You know,” you murmur after a while, staring up at the ceiling, “the floor reminds me I’m real. That I’m here. The bed’s too forgiving. It’s too easy to think I might be dreaming all this. Or worse—dead.”

Natasha’s face turns toward you, open and quietly aching.

“I used to sleep on the floor too,” she says after a long beat. “First few years out of the Red Room. I couldn’t take the softness. The quiet. I felt like I didn’t deserve comfort.”

You nod, your throat tight. “I get that.”

“But you do deserve it,” she continues. “Even if it takes time to believe it.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then: “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I didn’t let myself hope.”

She reaches out slowly and links her pinky with yours. “Hope’s stubborn. Just like you.”

The silence that follows is heavier, but not suffocating. A kind of understanding passes between you without needing words.

Eventually, you roll onto your side, facing her. She mirrors you instantly, and your foreheads touch lightly. Her hand finds your waist, pulling you close beneath the blanket.

This close, it’s easier to breathe.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” you whisper.

“I could never bring myself to,” she replies, barely audible.

And with her warmth against your chest, her breath against your cheek, and the floor beneath you steady and real—you finally drift into sleep. Not perfectly. Not painlessly. But peacefully, for the first time in a very long time.

Together.

You wake slowly, eyes still closed, warm under the blanket, the floor beneath you solid and cool. For a second you forget where you are, panic fluttering at the edge of your chest—until you feel a thumb brushing slow circles against your side, and the scent of Natasha’s shampoo grounding you more than the floor ever could.

“Morning,” she whispers.

Your eyes flutter open. She’s already awake, head propped up slightly on her arm. Her gaze is soft, red hair a little wild from sleep.

You blink at her, throat dry. “You didn’t move.”

“Didn’t want to leave you alone,” she says simply.

You shift a little, wincing faintly from the stiffness. “You’re going to have back problems, Romanoff.”

She smiles, one of those rare, real ones. “Too late.”

You lie there in silence for a bit longer, the light beginning to slip in through the curtains.

“Part of me feels stupid,” you admit eventually, your voice still hoarse from sleep. “Sleeping on the floor, avoiding a bed like it’s a trap.”

“It’s not stupid,” she says gently. “It’s survival. You’re adjusting. That takes time. However long you need—I’ll be here.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “Everything feels different. Like I’ve got to learn the world all over again.”

“Then we’ll learn it together.”

That brings a lump to your throat. She must see it, because she reaches up and brushes your cheek with the back of her hand.

“I missed you so much,” she murmurs. “Every single day.”

You nod, voice tight. “I kept thinking about you. I kept wondering if I’d ever… just see your face again. Even once.”

She leans in slowly and kisses your forehead, staying there for a beat. “Well, now you’re stuck with me.”

A small laugh escapes you, and it feels good. Rusty, but real.

You finally sit up, stretching out your sore limbs, and Natasha follows suit, brushing out her tangled hair with her fingers. You glance at the bed, then at her.

“I think I want to try the bed again tonight.”

She smiles. “I’ll be there, too. We’ll face it together.”

It’s still strange—this new normal, this second chance. But in the quiet morning light, sitting beside her on the hardwood floor with a blanket draped over your shoulders and your heart a little less guarded, it doesn’t feel so impossible.

Not with her.

Not anymore.

The next night, it happens again. You try the bed. Last a little longer. Then move to the floor.

And again, Natasha follows — no questions, no sighs, no trying to coax you back.

The third night, she doesn’t even wait. When you quietly slip down to the floor, she follows moments later with a pillow tucked under her arm.

By the fourth night, you wake up and realize you haven’t moved at all.

You’re in bed. Still in Natasha’s arms. And for the first time since the island, you don’t feel like you have to run from peace.

—

A few months later.

The apartment is lived-in now. There's a plant on the kitchen windowsill that Natasha insists is thriving, even if it leans a little sideways. The couch has a dent where you both usually sit. Red is perched up on the shelf under the TV next to some decorations and framed photos of you and Nat, now forever a part of your life. And you smile every time your eyes land on it. Always a reminder of what you endured.

You’re healing. Not in a straight line, not without setbacks, but with intention. With her.

Some mornings are harder than others. You still wake up drenched in sweat sometimes, heart racing with ghosts. On those days, Natasha doesn’t try to fix it. She just hands you tea, brushes a hand through your hair, and sits close until your breath evens out.

There are good days, too. Days where you wake before her, cook something new, and even laugh freely. Days you catch her looking at you like you’re made of something rare and whole. You still don’t quite believe it, but you try.

You’ve been seeing a therapist SHIELD recommended. You hated it at first—too many questions, too much stillness. But eventually, it became a space you didn’t dread. You’ve started talking about the island, the silence, the routine that kept you sane.

You and Natasha still dance around some things. She hasn’t pushed you for intimacy beyond what you offer. She reads your cues like second nature—holding your hand when you’re overwhelmed, giving you space when your shoulders go rigid, curling beside you in bed when you reach for her without a word.

But it hasn’t been easy.

There was a week when you barely spoke after an argument. She’d gone on a short mission without telling you until the morning of, and you’d panicked, snapped at her, shut down. When she returned, you couldn’t look at her, too afraid of how much you need her. Too afraid of what needing someone means.

It was Natasha who finally broke the silence, sitting beside you on the couch and saying quietly, “You can be mad. I’ll still come back.”

That night, you cried in her arms for the first time in weeks. You hated that it helped. You loved that she held you anyway.

You’ve started working again. Slowly. First from home, reviewing field reports, helping analyze strategies—things that reminded you of who you were. Maria checked in regularly and, once, even told you she missed getting her ass handed to her during briefings. You laughed.

You and Natasha are different now. Not in a way that’s broken, but in the way that time remakes things—gently, with wear and meaning. You cook together more. You argue over whose turn it is to do laundry. You fall asleep facing each other now, not with fear, but with something like trust.

There’s still hesitation in both of you. Moments where your voices lower, not out of secrecy but out of reverence for how fragile things once were. You talk about the future, sometimes in fragments. A trip somewhere quiet. A garden. A place where you both might feel steady.

You're learning how to live again—with her and within yourself. The island isn’t gone. The pain, the scars—physical and not—aren’t either. But the ache isn’t everything anymore.

Love, you’ve learned, isn’t just the reunion. It’s the staying. The choosing.

And every single day, she chooses you.

—

The apartment was quiet one night.

It had been months now. Months of rebuilding, of learning how to be again—how to sleep through the night, how to laugh without guilt, how to let someone reach for you without flinching.

The bad days hadn’t disappeared, but they came fewer and further between. Now, most mornings started with coffee, soft light through the windows, and Natasha wrapped around you in sleepy warmth. Now, you could walk into a room without scanning every exit. Now, the weight on your chest was no longer constant.

And tonight, the stillness didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like rest.

You sat on the couch together, a half-watched movie flickering on mute, both of you tangled under the same blanket, your legs draped over hers. Her fingers lazily traced circles against your calf, like she was touching you just to remember you were real.

You watched her—her profile illuminated by the glow of the screen, soft and calm and so achingly beautiful in that quiet way you’d come to treasure.

You hadn’t said it out loud, not yet.

But it had been on your mind lately. That ring. The one that used to mean someday. The one that had waited carefully in a thin yet resistant chain around both of your necks for years now, quiet and patient.

You shifted a little and leaned your head against her shoulder.

"Hey," you said, voice soft, hesitant but steady.

She turned her head toward you, the question already in her eyes.

You reached for her hand under the blanket, fingers slipping between hers. “Do you ever think about it? The wedding, I mean.”

Natasha blinked. For a second, she didn’t say anything. Then her thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and thoughtful. “I used to,” she said, almost a whisper. “Every day. When you were gone, I—I’d think about what it would’ve been like. What we lost.”

You leaned into her a little more. “And now?”

Her hand squeezed yours gently. “Now… I think we might be ready.”

You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah?”

She nodded, shifting to face you more fully, her free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You feel it too, don’t you? That the worst is behind us. Not gone, but… no longer in control.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Just didn’t know if I could say it without jinxing it, I guess.”

Natasha’s expression softened, her eyes shining just a little in the low light. “Say it now.”

You looked down at your joined hands. “I want to do it. The wedding. I think… I think I’m finally ready. I feel safe again. With you. With us. I want to stand with you and mean it in front of everyone. I want that day.”

She reached out and cupped your cheek, pulling you into a kiss—gentle, lingering, a promise wrapped in silence.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely more than breath. “Then let’s do it.”

You smiled, your eyes damp, but your heart light. “We waited so long.”

“And I’d wait forever,” she said, pressing her forehead to yours. “But I’m really fucking glad I don’t have to.”

You laughed through your tears, and she kissed you again—this time with more certainty, more heat, and more joy. You curled into her chest, hand tightly holding your ring still proudly on the chain around your neck, heart thudding with a rhythm that felt steady for the first time in years.

And there, in the hush of your shared home, you both knew: it wasn’t just about a wedding. It was about choosing each other, again and again, even when the world fell apart.

And now, finally, you were ready to celebrate that choice.

Together.

It was almost funny how simple it was in the end.

No announcements. No grand gestures. Just two people holding hands on a porch swing, sipping coffee while the sun rose over the Barton farm.

Clint had seen it the second you stepped out of the car with Natasha, your fingers linked, a soft calm in your posture that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a knowing smirk, clapped you on the shoulder, and ushered you both inside where Laura was already pulling something out of the oven.

The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread wrapped around you like a blanket. It felt safe there, like nothing bad could happen under that roof. Maybe that’s why you found the words so easily.

“So,” you said slowly, sitting at the long kitchen table with your hands wrapped around a warm mug, “we’re finally going to do it.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

Natasha leaned in a little, the corner of her mouth twitching with a smile. “The wedding.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Laura let out a quiet, happy gasp and reached for your hand.

Clint blinked. “For real this time?”

You nodded. “For real. We’re ready.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, but she reached over, laying her hand over yours on the table. That said enough.

Clint leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a proud grin. “Took you long enough.”

You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh. “You’re one to talk. You and Laura eloped.”

Laura grinned. “And we regret nothing. But you two? You deserve a day. A real one. Something good.”

You hesitated. “We were thinking… maybe here?”

Clint sat up straighter. “Here? Like—here, here?”

Natasha glanced out the window, eyes softening as they landed on the old barn at the edge of the property. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Laura squeezed your hand. “We’d be honored.”

Clint’s grin only widened. “We’ll string up some lights and clear out the barn. Get the kids to stop shooting arrows for five minutes. It'll be perfect.”

You smiled, something warm blooming in your chest. “Just a few people. Small. Family. Maria, Fury, and the team. Phil, if he’s back from the field. That’s it.”

Natasha leaned her head against your shoulder. “Just us. The ones who stuck through it all.”

Laura stood and kissed Clint on the temple. “Then it’s settled.”

The next few hours passed in a blur of light laughter and soft plans. Talk of fairy lights and music. Maybe Lila could make some signs. Nate would be the ring bearer if he could sit still long enough. There was talk of food, dresses, suits—or not. Just something simple. Something real.

You stepped outside after lunch, barefoot in the grass, the wind soft through your hair. Natasha followed, her hand slipping easily into yours. You stood in front of the barn, weathered wood and high beams, the kind of place where new chapters felt possible.

“This is really happening,” you said, voice quiet.

She turned to you, her eyes bright and steady. “Yeah. It is.”

You smiled, then leaned in, forehead against hers.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were holding your breath.

The days that followed passed in a gentle rhythm—slower than you'd expected, but full of meaning. No frenzy. No rush. Just two people returning to themselves and to each other.

The dress fittings happened in a softly lit boutique that Maria insisted on renting out for the afternoon. “You deserve this,” she said simply when you protested. “And besides—this’ll be fun.”

And it was.

Natasha stepped out of the dressing room first, hesitant, smoothing her hands down the fabric of the ivory gown. It was elegant and minimal, with a soft sweep of silk and lace. Not overly formal. Not flashy. But it stopped your heart in your chest.

You stared for a moment longer than you meant to. “You’re going to ruin me,” you murmured.

A rare flush crept up her neck. “You like it?”

You crossed the small space to her, brushing a hand down her arm. “I love it.”

She reached up to cup your cheek. “Wait until you try yours on.”

You laughed, but when you returned a few minutes later in your own dress—simple, flowy, perfectly you—Natasha just stared.

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like she was memorizing something holy.

“Say something,” you whispered.

She blinked. “You’re real.”

The next few weeks were filled with quiet preparations. You helped Clint hang fairy lights in the barn while Laura stitched small details into the table linens. Lila painted wooden signs. Even Tony, who initially joked about throwing you a Stark-sponsored blowout, settled into his role of unofficial bartender for the night with only mild grumbling.

Fury didn’t say much when you told him the date—just clapped a hand on your shoulder and said, “It’s about damn time.”

Coulson smiled like he knew this would always be the ending.

And Maria—Maria just hugged you tightly, fiercely, as if she'd carried the weight of hope for both of you all this time. The night before the wedding, you and Natasha sat side by side in bed, each holding a notebook of vows you'd been scribbling in for days.

“Want to hear mine?” she asked quietly.

You nodded, heart thudding softly.

She read aloud words about almost losing you, and you coming back- About how she never stopped carrying you with her, even when she didn't believe in anything else.

You cried before she even finished.

Then, with trembling hands and a steadier voice than you expected, you read her your own. Words about the island. About how you survived and how she had helped you live again when you thought you wouldn't.

“I’m not promising easy,” you told her. “But I am promising you everything. Whatever I’ve got, it’s yours.”

That night, you slept in each other’s arms. And for the first time since you returned, there were no dreams.The morning came soft and slow, light pouring in through the farmhouse window. Natasha left early to get ready in the Barton house, Maria dragging her off with a garment bag and a mischievous wink. You stayed with Laura, sipping tea and letting Lila braid your hair while your dress hung by the window, glowing in the sun.

You should’ve felt nervous. You kind of did. But more than that, you felt… ready.

Whole.

Alive.

The barn had been transformed. The fairy lights flickered above rows of chairs filled with people who loved you. The air smelled like wildflowers and pine. There was music playing—soft, old, familiar.

And then, there she was.

Walking toward you down the aisle, in that same ivory dress, barefoot like you, a tremble in her lips and eyes glassy with tears.

You didn’t remember moving—only that you ended up in front of each other, smiling like the world had finally exhaled.

The vows came easy. No shaking. No fear. Just truth.

Natasha reaches for your hands. She holds them like they might disappear — like she's still, even now, making sure you're real. Her thumbs trace soft circles over your knuckles. Her lips press together for a moment as she breathes in, slowly.

Then she begins.

"I didn’t grow up believing in forever," she says, her voice quiet but sure. "Or softness. Or in anything that lasted. I’ve been a weapon. A shadow. A ghost meant to not be seen." You feel her hands tighten around yours. The crowd is gone, fading into a blur. It's just her. Just this.

"But then there was you. And somehow, you saw through all of it. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You loved me back into a person."Her eyes shine, green and wet with unshed tears. Her voice doesn't tremble. "I thought I lost you. And I would have carried that for the rest of my life. But here you are. Here we are."

She pauses, breathes.

"So I promise — not just to stand beside you, but to grow with you. To fight for the life we've built. To listen even when it’s hard and to speak even when it scares me."

A single tear breaks loose and rolls down her cheek.

"You are the only home I’ve ever believed in. You are the peace I never thought I’d deserve. And you’re the only person I will ever want to spend forever with. So I vow to be yours. Without armor. Without fear. With everything I am."

You take a breath.

You hadn’t expected your hands to shake. But they do. And Natasha, as always, notices. She gives them the smallest squeeze —I'm here.

And you begin.

"I used to believe that surviving was enough," you say, and your voice is soft but strong. "That making it through was the victory. But you, you reminded me that surviving isn't the same as living."

You feel Natasha’s grip tighten again, like her heart is answering yours.

"You brought me home, even when I didn't know how to walk through the door." A few sniffles ripple quietly through the small crowd.

"I promise to keep learning how to live—with you, beside you, for you. I promise to wake up every day and choose this. Choose you. Even when it’s hard. Especially then." Natasha’s lips tremble now, but her smile holds steady, and she looks at you like you’re the center of the universe.

"You are my safest place. My sharpest truth. And the first light I saw after so much darkness. I’m not promising perfection. I’m promising honesty. Growth. Love — always, unshakable, enduring. Quiet when it needs to be. Loud when it matters." You pause. "Whatever I have, whoever I become, it’s yours. Always has been. Always will be."

When the officiant says the words—"You may kiss your wife"—Natasha wastes no time.

Her hands come up to cradle your face as yours curl into the fabric of her dress. The kiss is not rushed, but full. Steady. Like breath coming back after being held for years.

And when you part, the barn is full of quiet cheers and wet eyes and smiles that feel carved from joy.

Clint lets out a loud “Finally!” that breaks the spell just enough to make everyone laugh.

You kissed her like it was the only thing you’d ever wanted to do. And it really was.

And when the music picked up, when the sun dipped and the lights above danced in the wind, when your friends clapped and toasted and swayed—

You held her close under the string lights, her forehead pressed to yours, and whispered,

“We made it.”

Natasha smiled. “We start now. I love you,” she whispers, too quietly for anyone else.

“I love you,” you whisper back and know — without doubt, without fear — that this is only the beginning.

—

The cabin sat at the edge of a lake that shimmered silver in the moonlight. It was small, nestled between tall trees and a quiet sky, wrapped in a hush that seemed to exist just for the two of you. The kind of quiet that made it feel like the world had finally stopped spinning.

It was your first night here.

No one else. No duties. No beeping medical machines. Just Natasha and you. Just soft blankets and the smell of pine and a fireplace crackling low in the hearth. The lake was still. The wind was kind.

Dinner had been quiet — not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence was full of the kind of peace you'd both fought for. Natasha had held your hand across the table, thumb brushing over your wedding ring as if to reassure herself it was really there. You’d done the same.

Now, inside the bedroom, you stood at the window, fingertips resting on the wooden frame, looking out at the dark.

Natasha watched you from across the room. You could feel her gaze, warm and gentle, resting on you like a blanket. She didn’t speak right away. She never rushed you. Not since you came back.

You turned around slowly, and when your eyes met, there was something unsaid in them, something shared. You crossed the room with bare feet and a steady heart. Stood in front of her. Let her take your hand.

“I missed this,” you whispered.

Her hand tightened around yours. “Me too.”

No rush. No sudden movement. She leaned in and kissed you, soft and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. Her other hand rose to your cheek, anchoring you there, letting you feel it — that you were wanted. Loved. Safe.

You touched her face in return, fingertips featherlight on her jaw, and said, voice barely a breath, “I’m ready.”

Natasha’s eyes flickered with emotion, and she nodded. “Okay.”

And in that word — just okay—were a thousand I love yous.

She helped you out of the soft sweater you’d pulled on earlier. Her hands were reverent and steady, asking with every inch of movement. You nodded when she looked to you for permission, and you undressed her too, slowly and carefully. It was the first time in so long that it hadn’t been out of necessity, or urgency, or desperation — but because you wanted each other. Because your bodies had been through war and survival and time apart, and you were choosing each other again.

She guided you to the bed, and the moment you lay down together, it was like something clicked into place. Natasha’s lips brushed your collarbone, your pulse, and your jaw. Her touch was gentle yet firm, a reminder of the love and passion that had always been between you. As you held each other close, the weight of the world seemed to lift off your shoulders, leaving only the warmth of her body against yours.

She slowly removed your shirt , revealing the scars and memories that marked your skin. But instead of recoiling, Natasha's eyes softened with understanding and acceptance, making you feel truly seen and loved in a way you had never experienced before. With each touch, each kiss, it was clear that this reunion was not just about physical desire but about healing and rebuilding what had been broken. The same followed for the rest of your clothes, each layer shedding away the pain and insecurities that had built up over time. As you stood there vulnerable and exposed, Natasha's embrace felt like a safe haven, a place where you could finally let go and be yourself without fear of judgment.

Her hands trace every curve, every scar, every piece of skin as if it were the first time. Soft, gentle, memorizing every new part of you. Her fingers dipped low from your collarbone, down to the small of your back, leaving a trail of warmth and comfort in their wake. With each touch, it felt as though she was erasing the past and creating a new beginning for you both. Her kisses followed your body from your neck to the valley of your breasts and down to your hips, igniting a fire within you that had long been dormant. In her embrace, you found solace and acceptance, a sense of belonging that you had never experienced before.

Natasha looks up to your face, silently asking for permission to continue exploring the depths of your desires. You meet her gaze with a nod, giving her the go-ahead. One of her hands reaches up for your hand, intertwining your fingers with hers, before she finally leans down to your center.

As she delves deeper into your pleasure, you feel a wave of ecstasy wash over you, surrendering completely to the intimacy of the moment. Natasha's touch is both gentle and confident, guiding you to heights of passion you never knew existed.

There were no words for a while. Just breath, skin, quiet affirmations. You whispered her name like a promise. She said yours like a prayer.

When it was over, and the room was full of warmth and the soft scent of pine and skin and shared love, she held you close, one hand trailing up and down your spine.

“Was it okay?” she asked quietly, her voice husky and a little breathless.

You nodded against her shoulder, then pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“It was everything.”

Her lips curved into a soft smile, and she leaned in to kiss you again — slow and deep and grateful.

You fell asleep that way. Skin against skin. Her heartbeat beneath your ear. No more running. No more surviving. Just two hearts, still learning to heal, finally at peace.

Together.

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127 @ima-gi--na-tion @sunny-poe @artemisarroxvolkov @hotcocoandonuts @scarletsstarlets @splatashaswife @generalbirdsalad @fxckmiup @yelldontwhisper

[aceshigh10987666]

I have a sincere question:

What do you think of this post by @anautistic

Masking is not something only people with low generalized support needs do. It's something that every kind of autistic person can possibly engage with in some form. Masking may not be as successful for some, but that doesn't mean it's not happening and having a lot of effort put into it. It doesn't mean that it can't still cause pain and have long term consequences. Masking just doesn't look like the same set of skills for everyone. For some it's attempting to blend in with the crowd and being "normal" and average and unexceptional. For others it's changing or adjusting things like movement or speech patterns - and not always in an attempt to appear neurotypical. Some might lean hard into a stereotype as a form of masking, because it just makes it easier for people to understand their immediate needs that way. Others still, could suppressing certain traits but not other traits, even if it seems counterintuitive to an outsider the traits they do and don't suppress. Sometimes its masking one "unusual" trait with another. It can look like someone who usually communicates a lot with noises and gestures and big movements being very still and quiet. It could be things like using more "adult" or "serious" looking tools even if it's not necessarily what the autistic wants or finds most accessible, like using text-based or keyboard AAC systems instead of symbols or grids, because some view symbolized AAC as something to grow out of. It's things like staying silent because one knows they will blurt out something inappropriate for the situation or infodump or have the wrong volume or odd cadence - even if that silence is also something that gets noticed and seen as unusual. Masking isn't only when you "pass" as 100% neurotypical successfully and it's not some all or nothing thing. It's not only about the output, it's the internal state of the person doing the masking that's important too. There's no one "thing" that autistic people do that is exclusive to one type, and masking, as it's often borne of trauma, is certainly not one of them.

Unmasking isn't safe for some autistics to do, especially those in certain minority groups. It's a luxury, so before you tell an autistic person to "just stop masking" please check your privilege.