#just something small to try and get going today

[monstersholygrail]

Rushing Rapids

Merman x fem!reader�� teasing, wild sex, creampie, aftercare, and a little teasing of cumplay

You could count on one hand the number of times your Merman Boss has let you see his Merman form. Far too busy running a highly successful company, the man doesn't often have time for a dip in the water to let his true self out to shine.

In fact, it was your job as his bodyguard to make sure he didn't come into contact with any source of water. Even the slightest drop ends up triggering his tail and he's left stuck like that for hours. And while your boss has gone through countless bodyguards to fulfill this task, you've been by far the best.

And you've lasted the longest too. You often hear his workers whispering to each other, secretly teasing him about how he must be in love with you to keep you around so long. While you didn't want to believe it, you couldn't ignore the way your heart flutters whenever it greets your ears.

But after today you're sure any feelings he has toward you are long gone. You half expect him to fire you on spot.

Today had been an important day for him as he had a lunch scheduled with an important client. All was going well until the waiter tripped, sending an entire pitcher of water to crash over him. You had been too slow, hadn't noticed the waiter fumbling nor the trajectory of the pitcher.

For a moment the world went still until your Merman Boss looked up at you with wide horrified eyes. While you were sure the horror was aimed at you, your boss was too busy wondering where he was possibly going to go. Luckily it just so happened that your place was nearby.

Now here you are, sitting on your toilet as your Boss' ginormous frame squishes into your tiny bathtub, his tail even falling off the edge and onto your floor. An adorable little pout marks his lips as he flicks at the water like he's this close to personally trying to fight it.

A part of you fears he's not only angry at the water but at you as well. Sure, you haven't been perfect at your job. You've made small mess ups here and there. But nothing like this.

"You seem upset."

Your Boss snaps his head over toward you, his pout growing impossibly bigger. If you didn't already know the question was ridiculous, his following scoff and the look on his face was plenty enough for you to get the message.

"Of course I'm upset. I just had a very important meeting fall through because a clumsy waiter forgot what even a merperson can do. Walk. And most don't even have legs."

His response stops you in your tracks, jaw dropping a little. He wasn't blaming you at all. The more you look at him the more you realize he isn't mad at you about it at all. Relief blooms in your chest, making you sit a little taller. You internally thank your boss, he should feel some of this relief too.

Without responding to his sarcastic reply you look around the bathroom in search of something that will help uplift the mood for him. As your eyes catch onto a bin in the corner your eyes light up.

Your boss is jolted from his thoughts as you suddenly dump a whole bin full of rubber duckies into the tub. All in attempts of making this feel more like a fun bath and less like a trap. But by the flat look on his face your boss is less than amused. Which you probably should've been expecting.

"Really? Rubber ducks?"

His voice shows his clear disdain for the toy but he hesitantly reaches out a hand and begins pushing it around. Almost... playing with it. Although he'd never admit that to you.

"Well, what else is there to do besides wait it out? There's not any other way to turn you back sooner?"

Your question settles between you two before something sparks in the depths of Merman Boss' eyes. His finger stills on the yellow duck toy but it drifts away in the water and it's impossible to know where it'll end up next. Something unsettling churns in your belly and you get the feeling you're not about to like this.

"Ok, so there may be something... But I can't say it out loud. Come in closer."

A lick of suspicion curls around you and your eyes narrow, appraising your boss. Though with one impatient look from him you know you won't be putting up an argument with him about it. He always ends up getting his way anyway so why not skip the foreplay?

"W-what is it? What can't you say out loud?"

The toilet rattles beneath you as you shift closer. It's the only real sound in the quiet bathroom aside from the swishing of water. Your breath hitches once you reach a certain closeness to your Merman Boss. This being officially the closest you've ever dared to be with him.

"Closer—“

"I'll do anything just tell me what you need," you interrupt, both not wanting to lose your job and giving any excuse you can to be near your boss.

Suddenly his hands are splashing out of the water and gripping onto your soft round hips. A shriek tears through you as one minute you're dry and the next you're soaking wet. And not in the good way either. You smack against a hard chest, your legs straddling the thick width of a tail, and it takes you a second to fully realize that your boss had just pulled you in.

Before you can lift your head to yell at him, his fingers pinch your chin and force you to meet his gaze. What you see in his eyes immediately silences you. The hunger burning in them leaves you gasping, sparking arousal deep in your core.

He leans in, stopping just short of your lips as they brush against each other. Your breath mingling and making you squirm on his slick tail. While you watch him stare down at your lips, waves of arousal continue to build within you.

"A human's kiss can turn me back much faster than simply waiting," he whispers softly like he doesn't want to break the tension between you.

Your body tingles with need as every fantasy you've ever dared to have about your boss dares to come to life. Every inch of you is overcome with impatience as you wriggle on his lap some more, gasping when something hard pops out from a slit on his tail.

"So why don't you kiss me?"

If possible, your Boss' eyes grow darker, the hunger inside them roaring to life as if trying to consume even him. His hold on your chin tightens like he's the one who needs to keep you still while he's shaking from his own restraint.

"Because once I start I won't be able to stop at just a kiss."

You go to ask what he means he bucks up his hips, intently brushing his rock hard cock along your clothed slit. And you immediately moan, totally unprofessional by the way, eyelashes fluttering briefly till you manage to look at your boss again.

You consider his words and what they could mean for you after this. But you want this, you've always wanted this since you first started working for the mysterious man. And it seems like he wants you just so much. So there's no need to fight it.

"Then don't stop," you reply.

Merman Boss surges forward before the words finish falling from your lips, his mouth clashing against yours. Mirroring moans vibrate between you like you're the sweetest damn thing he's ever tasted.

He presses into you as if trying to devour you, kissing you hard. Tongues fight for dominance and teeth knock together in your sheer desperation to make up for all the time you spent together not doing this.

His hand moves from your chin, caressing the skin of your cheek, and threading itself inside your hair. Ensuring you're real and that this is actually happening. Using his hold on you he molds your plump frame against his and starts rocking your core against his hard length.

"Get these off," he pants heavily, only breaking away from the kiss long enough to say that and then he's right back on you.

With a shocking amount of skill, the two of you manage to peel off your wet clothes in record time.

Both of you release strong powerful moans as your dripping cunt first makes contact with his thick girth. Every nerve in your body pulses as he takes hold of his cock and drags it through your folds, coating his length with your essence.

"You have no idea how long l've wanted this. Wanted you,” he breathes, his eyes shining with a longing that reflects your own.

"I have some idea."

Then you both moan as you sink down on his long pulsing cock, your hips buckling down on his length, taking him in hard and fast. Something ignites in your boss’ eyes and you shiver as his hands curl over your plush waist to help guide your movements.

But he has no idea how long you’ve been needing this, and it’s clear by the way his eyes widen as you start to ride him like your life depended on it. Your fingers dig into the scales on his shoulders to ground you and he hisses, his cock twitching and sliding against that special spot inside you.

With a fierce cry you start riding him even harder, every hard wet slap of your bodies meeting is aimed right for that spot, making you see stars. The water sloshes around in the tub like it’s in the midst of a raging storm when in reality it’s just you and your boss fucking each other’s brains out.

“Look at you, so perfect f’me. More than I ever realized,” your boss purrs, sounding as if he’s found the oceans most greatest treasure.

You moan loudly, your head rolling back as waves of pleasure rock through your body with every hard pump of his cock, his words only turning you on even more. Your body begins to buzz, on the precipice of something huge.

It only takes a few more pointed thrusts before you’re coming all over his cock with a ragged gasp, your body tensing before you sag against him, letting him take what he needs. And feeling your slick gummy walls clamping so deliciously on his length drives him nearly feral, his fangs flashing and his claws digging into your skin.

He moves your pussy up and down his cock, spurred on by every whine and whimper that falls from your mouth. Piercing growls slip from his own as your cunt drives him absolutely insane, he’s never felt anything better.

And he proves just that as he drives in as far as his cock can go and releases buckets of cum right into your depths, having never cum so hard in his life.

You both fall back to rest against the back of the tub, the only sound in the room being your harsh panting breaths. His hands smooth the tremors from your body, brushing up along your spine and holding you close. It’s nice and peaceful. Or is it the calm before the storm?

Because the longer he does it the action goes from soothing to arousing. And you know he can feel it too, just how much it’s affecting you. Your pulsing walls already trying to milk more from his spent shaft. And sea gods help him but it’s working.

“You know… it’ll still be some time before my tail fades. Why not make the most of it?” Your boss asks, hands sliding down to grab handfuls of your fat ass, and flexing his stomach as he rolls his hardening cock into your cum-filled cunt.

[p1astr81]

very random but could you do one where reader is a ferrari heiress and her and oscar have a secret thing going on and they try to see each other during race weekends (with some fluff please)

This was a bit angstier than I anticipated 🙈

Y/n Ferrari. A name that carried status wherever she went. A name that came with expectations.

One of those expectations being to not fraternize with the enemy. Which was easy.

Until he came along.

Sauntering into the paddock with his stupid floppy hair looking like a prince that just walked out of a Disney movie. And his ridiculous laugh that sparked humor in other people even when nothing was funny. And his chiseled face like it was crafted by michaelangelo himself.

It all started as genuine hatred between you two, kicking off after he nearly crashed Charles out.

“Touch one of my drivers again and I swear to you Piastri-“

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know the trust fund princess ran the team.”

You scoffed. “Are you the pot or the kettle?”

“What?”

“I’m calling you a hypocrite.”

But it slowly turned into a playful banter.

“Where’s the princess off to this time?” He called out to you as you passed him as he was exiting his hospitality.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Prince Charming?”

His brows raised at the new nickname. “Calling me handsome now?”

“No you idiot. I’m making fun of your ridiculous hair.”

“What? Should I cut it then?”

“Absolutely not.” You looked horrified at the idea.

A smirk curled his lips. “Ah, so you like it then?”

“Ha! Only in your dreams would I ever like anything about you.” You didn’t let him get another word in, walking off too quickly.

And then the banter slowly turned into tension.

“That dress is going to have a lot of eyes on you.” Oscar commented, taking note of your bright red sun dress with a low v-neck.

You hummed. “Eyes like yours?”

He shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

“Saying I look good?”

Oscar shook his head. “Whatever the Ferrari princess wants.”

And the tension soon transitioned into a restrained pining.

Your paths crossed after taking the grid photos for the 2025 season. “Your hair looks… slightly more put together today than it usually does.”

He felt like an object of study under your gaze. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.” He chuckled.

“I think it was.” A pause, then, “It looks good.”

Oscar froze. Then swallowed, and found his words again. “Did someone put you up to this? Charles? Lewis? Was it Ollie? Are you feeling okay?”

You laughed. A genuine laugh. “No, no one put me up to this, and yes I’m feeling okay.” You laughed again.

Fucking hell, Oscar enjoyed that sound. It made him feel like he was walking on clouds. This was dangerous. “Okay,” he started and wavered. “Thanks.” He muttered.

You took note of the blush on his cheeks, but you didn’t mention it. You sure as hell made sure to get him flustered every time you saw him, though.

And then the pining turned into… something. A situation of sorts.

You rushed into his room in the hospitality, tearing the hood off your head.

He was on you in seconds. Hands wrapped around your waist and his lips devoured yours. “Did anyone see you?” He rasped into your mouth.

“No, I don’t think so.” You confirmed in a whisper.

His hands slipped under your hoodie and he tore it over your head. He paused, caught off guard by the low-cut shirt. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

You grinned, shoving his shoulder. “Ah, c’mon charming it’s just a bit of cleavage don’t lose your head.”

He ignored your teasing, picking you up by the waist and carrying you over to the small sofa. He let you fly from his arms and you hit the cushions with a dull plop. He kissed the exposed swell of your breasts, sucking on the skin.

“Quit! Someone will see there!” You yelled in hurried whispers, and gave his head a small push.

He pulled back, gazing up at you with a dazed look in his eyes. “Good. Maybe then everyone else will stop trying to make moves on you.”

He dipped his head again, but before his lips could attack your chest-

knock, knock, knock. “Osc! Do you still have my charger?!” Lando shouted from the other side of the door.

Oscar’s eyes went wide, as did yours. You both swapped glances between each other and the door.

Say something, you mouthed.

“Uh, yeah.” He hesitated. You wanted to face palm yourself.

“Great! can I have it back?”

He looked to you in panic. You gave him a look that basically said, ‘this is your problem now’.

“Uh, yeah.” He grabbed the white cord while you did your best to hide.

He opened the door just enough to poke an arm out.

“What’s that about?” Lando asked in reference to the cracked door. “You got a girl in there or something?”

“No!” He answered far too quickly. “I’m, uh, I’m naked.” He covered.

You heard lando laugh. “Alright, mate.”

You both let out sighs of relief when the door clicked closed.

“You’re helpless under pressure if it’s not out on the track.” You shook your head.

And when he asked you out, options for a date location were very limited.

“I didn’t know where to go that we wouldn’t be seen so…” he gestured to the homemade full-course meal laid out on his dining room table.

You smiled. “I didn’t know you could cook, charming.” You took the chair he pulled out for you.

He shook his head. “That damn nickname.” He muttered, sitting across from you.

“You don’t like it? I think it suits you.”

“I know, because of my hair.”

You tilted your head at him. “Well, that is a factor.” You conceded. “But I think your pretty face lives up to the name too.”

His face flushed immediately, and he let out a nervous laugh. “Didn’t you say you’d only call me handsome in my dreams? Am I dreaming now?”

You shook your head. “Maybe you’ve hexed me.”

After that, it became official. Now both of you were concerned with not getting caught.

Singapore was scorching hot. Even inside the lobby of the Hilton as you tried to collect more towels for your room.

As you waited at the front desk, you felt a hand slide across your back. Not a lot of pressure to the touch, just… there. You jumped, ready to fight, but you gasped when you caught the eyes of the perpetrator. “Oscar! I didn’t know you were staying here!” You cheered in hushed tones, glancing around for prying eyes.

He looked just as happy to see you. “I could say the same.” He laughed. “What floor?”

“Five.” You answered.

“Two.”

You let the silence float between you. “I could-”

“Yes.” He anticipated your proposal. He had since the moment he caught you. He was just waiting for you to say it.

You smirked at his eager reply. “I’ll take my towels back to my room and I’ll see you then? Just text me your room number.”

Oscar nodded as the lady came back with three towels in her hands. You gave Oscar a small smile as you parted.

Too focused on you, he’d forgotten the reason he came down to the lobby in the first place. Awkwardly, he shuffled from the front desk and to the elevators.

Shit. His room was a mess.

He frantically threw things in his suit case and shoved stuff in the closet. Three hurried knocks landed on the door just as he zipped the suitcase closed.

“Hey,” he greeted, red in the face and slightly panting from all the running around. He waved you into the room.

Finally alone, you stand to your tip toes and place a sweet kiss on his cheek.

It wasn’t enough for him. He held your face in his hands, capturing your lips in his. It wasn’t hungry nor hurried, but a tender reminder that you belonged to each other.

“I’ve missed you so much.” You confessed with a soft exhale.

“You just saw me earlier?” He wasn’t stupid. He knows what you meant by that.

You shook your head, taking his hand and leading him to the bed. You kicked off your shoes and stepped from your leggings. You went for his suitcase and unzipped it, ignoring his protests. “I know you, Os. I know you’re not this clean.” You chuckled, gesturing to the spotless floors.

Plucking one of his shirts from his suitcase, you took off your own shirt and replaced it with his. The covers of the bed welcomed you, as did the embrace of his arms. You snuggled your head into his chest. “This. This is how I’ve missed you.”

The next weekend you attended was Abu Dhabi. Safe to say, you were both having intense withdrawals.

Oscar more than you.

You stared at the messages, guilt pricking your skin. Your sweet Oscar. Cast to the side because of your own fears.

After qualifying had long passed, you sought him out. The paddock was relatively empty by then, only the few stragglers of team personnel. Your hospitalities being right next to each other’s was certainly an advantage, one you used to its full extent. You sat outside, scouting for Oscar. You jumped up when you spotted him, quick feet making your way over before he could spot you.

When you reached him, your fingers closed around his wrist and dragged him between the buildings and around the back. There were no cameras. No people. Just solitude.

He looked drained from the day. “I’m sorry.” You blurted. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?” You took hold of his hands. “I’m just so afraid of him breaking us up.” You shook your head.

Oscar pulled you to him, wrapping his arms around you. He held your head against his chest. “Of course I know that.” He stroked your hair. Dull nails scratched your head. “Like you said, there’ll be a time.”

You pulled back enough to see his face. “I want it to be soon. Like maybe during break?” You suggested. “You’re right. I don’t want to keep living in secret.”

“What?” He panicked. “I don’t want to force you to do this if you don’t want to.”

You shook your head repeatedly. “No I want to do this.” Your eyes darted around, and then, “actually I want to do this now.”

“Wait what?”

Oscar didn’t get a response, you were already dragging him.

“No, wait. Like right now?” He panicked.

“Yes.”

Jesus, he was about to die and he only gets thirty seconds to prepare.

Hand in hand, he trailed behind you as the cool air from the Ferrari hospitality welcomed you. Your father was there, talking with Charles. He had yet to see you.

“Papa?” You called, standing in front of him.

He turned, brows furrowing when he saw Oscar. And then his eyes went wide when he saw your interlocked hands.

“I’m dating Oscar. And I’m happy. He makes me happy. And I know he’s not Italian or a Ferrari driver, but I think being with someone who makes me happy is better than both of those.” You rambled in English, ensuring Oscar would understand.

Your father looked between the two of you. The silence stretched, making Oscar more nervous by the second.

And then Charles started laughing.

“I know. Everyone has known for months. You guys aren’t as sneaky as you think you are.” Your dad spoke, clapping Oscar on the shoulder and squeezing him. “I’m just happy it was him and none of the others.” He smiled.

Oscar let out a heavy sigh of relief, earning a laugh from your dad.

[rafeslittlepup]

bunnyhousewife!reader can usually take a lot of rafes yelling , but one day shes js dealing with a lot before rafe gets home , so dinner isn’t ready , the house is a mess , shes in sweats instead of a dress , nd the kids are being loud nd throwing tantrums . nd after they get sent away she gets yelled at , nd starts crying literally 2 minutes in , nd rafe realizes she’s also has days js a long as rafe usually has , nd he stops yelling , but doesnt comfort her nd tells her it’s ok nd wtv . this is very random , so do with this ask what you will (i suggest writing it 😇) anyways bye queen

-💌

the front door slammed harder than usual, making her flinch.

she was on the kitchen floor. messy hair, stained sweatshirt, one sock half off her foot, as she wiped up spilled juice from rhett’s tantrum. jamie was crying upstairs, colton had drawn on the wallpaper, and the twins had just spent 10 minutes fighting over who got to chew on the plastic spatula.

the casserole never made it into the oven, garden roses on the table were wilted. and she hadn’t even changed out of her “ugly mom clothes.”

rafe stepped in and froze. his usual welcome home ritual. her in a ribbon-tied apron, candlelit dinner and lipstick on his cheek was nowhere to be found.

instead, he got crumbs on the floor, children crying, his wife in old sweatpants looking like a complete mess

“jesus,” he muttered. “the hell happened in here?”

and she didn’t answer, she sat back on her heels, silently clutching a half-clean paper towel.

“did you even start dinner?” he asked, walking past her into the kitchen. “why are they screaming like that? why does the house look like this?”

she blinked hard but throat tightened.

“i- rafey, i’m trying…”

“trying?” he snapped, yanking open the fridge. “you had all day. you’re home all day, and you can’t even manage the one goddamn thing I ask—?”

a shaky breath got stuck in her chest and she tried to speak but only a broken little hic came out. he paused mid-rant, still looking inside the fridge, before slowly closing it and turning to look at her.

she looked like a ghost of his bunny, her lip trembling, hair falling out of the claw clip. fingertips red from washing dishes over and over with hot water. and he didn’t say anything at first.

her voice cracked again, “i- i didn’t mean to mess it up. the twins were crying and fighting and— then rosie- i- i didn’t even get to brush my hair and then the casserole fell and— i know you like dinner when you get home, and I wanted to wear the cute dress, i just— i just couldn’t-“ she broke in tears.

it hit him then, she wasn’t just being lazy, she was overwhelmed, maxed out. his pretty little bunny had tried to hold it all together, and today it had all collapsed. she sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve, still sitting on the floor like a scolded child.

“…i’m sorry… i didn’t mean to make you mad.” she said trembling

rafe swallowed hard, he wasn’t used to seeing her cry unless he was the one comforting her. he reached for a dish towel, tossing it towards the counter without looking at her.

“…it’s fine.” he said “ i shouldn’t have yelled,” he added stiffly, rubbing his temple in that very rafe way. “it’s just- i had a long day.”

her voice was so small, he almost missed it “…so did i.”

that made him go still again. he glanced at her. soft, ruined, baby-pink bunny, her shoulders shaking as she bit back another sob.

but rafe didn’t know how to comfort gently. instead, he walked past her and turned off the oven she hadn’t used.

“i’ll order something, ‘kay?,” he muttered. “you want something?”

she shook her head no and he turned toward the hallway. “you should lie down, i’ll deal with them.”

she looked up, confused, “you will?”

“yeah.” he mumbled still not looking at her. “just for tonight.”

she just nodded, watching him walk upstairs.

[mereyapalais]

JE SUIS LÀ POUR TOI

Modern Stack x Reader

Ignore the fire in the picture pls. Lol

Excuse any errors. Enjoy

Ghosting was your defense mechanism. Having been hurt countless of times in the past made it hard for you to completely trust anyone that came in your life and show interest.

No matter house much they show up and show out, that little voice in your head is always ready and armed with all the wrong words to convince you that it’s all for show. They’re just doing it cause they want something from you.

They don’t really like you, just passing time.

You’ve fallen victim to the little devil in your mind. Sure it cost you a few great relationships but the lack of effort put in to to truly trying to keep you in their life always made you believe that you were actually right. No one truly likes you.

That’s until you met Elias, alias Stack.

It’s almost like someone out there, it be God or any other Divine Creature, knew exactly what you needed in that moment. Stack was truly a blessing. A gift.

Your biggest criteria for your partner was that they had to be funny. Someone with whom you can share hearty laughs mixed with some deep conversations.

With Stack, you found all that and then some.

That man could laugh you out your panties. But once he got you in that bed, nothing was funny anymore. Your previous laughs turned into cries of pleasure. Lips singing a totally different tune which translated the state of euphoria he had you in.

Never had you met a man with a skilled mouth inside and outside the bedroom.

Every thing was copacetic. Until you started going ghost on him.

It started with you taking hours to respond to his text messages. Purposely missing his calls. Engaging less in conversation.

Until you started to actively limit your rendezvous. Each day of the week had its own unique excuse.

Despite him trying to be understanding and giving you time, Stack could notice something was wrong. Sure you’ve only known each other for a fraction of time, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t been paying special attention to you.

You really came into his life and transpercer son coeur like a cupids bow.

When he found himself thinking about you at random times of the day, loosing interest in his little pass time ladies. That’s when he knew he wanted you in life. At least for a little while longer.

He tried to practice patience with you. Be understanding. Don’t smother you too much and be annoying. Lord knows he’s never felt such strong feelings for someone before. But after a few days of you ghosting him, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He didn’t even put much thought into what he was going to do. All he knew was that he hasn’t seen you in a minute and he was gonna see you today.

———————————————————————

There you were in your small bubble. Just enjoying the quiet of your home. At least you were trying to.

Before Stack, staying alone in silence for a prolonged period of time was not a problem. But things have changed. You don’t remember when they changed. They just did.

The silence in your home right now is just an indication that something’s missing. Someone’s missing.

Whenever stack was around, silence was a rare guest in the domicile. Whether it was the booming voice of his off key singing. Him telling you stories about all his multiple adventures. Even sharing some stories of his past crazy situationships.

Other times, his soothing voice was the only thing that could get you back to earth. Whispering sweet words in your ear. Cradling you in your arms so as to shield you from your thoughts. Sometimes he wished he could get in your head and remove all the weeds that have been growing there. Replace them with beautiful, colourful flowers.

Seven loud knocks in interval came to your door. The first few knocks were faint. But as the seconds passed without you opening up, the knocks became louder and louder.

At this point you feared your nosy older neighbours would be disturbed.

Approaching the door on your tippy toes so as to not reveal any human activity and alarm the other person of your presence, you looked through the peep hole.

“You don’t even gotta look. You already know it’s me, love. Open up.”

He was right you already know who stood on the other side of the door. You didn’t think he’d show up this soon. That’s a record. Normally they just get used to your absence. And vice versa.

“Aye, you better open up ‘fore I cause a scene for your bougie ass neighbours.”

You sighed proceeding to open the locks. As the door swung open his hand was in mid air as if waiting to knock again.

At the sight of you, he dropped his hand and with it went the wrinkles on his forehead. His face relaxed. Heart beating a bit slower when he saw you were still in one piece and breathing.

The both of you just stood there. No one uttering a thing. Simply contemplating each other.

No matter how much you tried to convince yourself you didn’t miss him, seeing him in front you made all the feelings you tried so hard to hide away came springing up to the surface.

“You really thought you could get rid of me that easily? I told you, you’re already in my system.”

“You not even gonna let me in?” His question was out of the ordinary. Any other time he would’ve already let himself in the minute you opened the door. Problem was, this wasn’t any other time. He knows he has to go slowly with you. Take his time so as to not push you away even more.

You didn’t give a verbal answer. Just stepped aside and he took the hint. Besides you couldn’t trust your voice in the moment. Your brain was running a thousand miles per minute trying to find the right excuse you were going to dish him.

Now inside the house, you were waiting for him to unleash his anger. Tell you how foul you were. Get all the things he has to say ofc his chest before storming out.

That didn’t happen. He looked at you with the softest expression in his eyes before meekly declaring “I miss you.”

Now that’s..new. Not knowing what to say since he caught you off guard. You simply stood there looking at him. You wanted to tell him how much you share the same sentiment as him. How much he has been occupying my mind lately. The word’s didn’t make it to your lips.

“You don’t even gotta tell me anything right now. Just let me be there for you. Please?”

Yeah, that did it. First it was the slight expansion of your nose, then you lips quivering lightly, like a child ready to cry, throat constricting, then finally your eyes stinging before they became blurry.

———————————————————————

You don’t recall how you got here. You body completely enveloped by a warm blanket, body melting in the comfortable mattress.

Looking outside the window, obscurity had taken over the sky. Time had really passed. How long have you been out?

Your senses started to awaken slowly but surely. One thing captured your attention. The aroma of some good home cooked meal seduced your nostrils. That’s when your stomach decided to announce itself with a loud grumble.

You left the comfort of your bed as you headed for the kitchen.

The sight in front of you tugged at your heart strings. There in your decent size kitchen was Elias, wiping down the kitchen that was visibly messy after his cooking. He was so focused on his task he couldn’t even hear you come in his space.

Not knowing how to announce yourself, you let out a small “ahem”. That caught his attention.

Turning around, he smiled as soon as he saw your face.

“You’re awake. I wanted to get done here ‘fore coming to wake you up. I know you don’t like eating when the kitchen’s messy.”

Good lord. He couldn’t get more perfect than this. Here he was taking care of you. Not once has he shown you his displeasure with

“It’s fine. The food actually directed me here. It smells nice.”

“Yeah I figured you’d be hungry after you wake up so I decided to throw something together for you.”

“Thank you.”

He plated your food before pulling out a chair which you thought was for you until he sat down. He patted his knees inviting you to sit on him instead.

“Are you sure..?” Came out your hesitant voice.

“Come on.” He said simply with a small smile on the corner of his lips.

You missed the proximity. You know he did too. Stack is the definition of touchy feely person. You will never find yourself close to him without him finding one way or another to touch you. Nothing sexual. He just constantly needs to touch you. You weren’t complaining.

You sat there in silence. Enjoying each other’s presence. You couldn’t help the sounds coming from your mouth. The food was

“You gonna have to slow down on those sounds. I know the foods not that good.”

“But it is though. What did you put in it?”

“Just some of my love and a pinch of salt to taste.”

“Corny.” You said flicking his ear slightly. Both sharing a laugh after.

“Stack, I’m really sorry about going ghost I-“

“Shh, we can talk about it tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere, you hear me? For now I just want you to enjoy your meal and rest some more. We gon’ talk about everything tomorrow.” With that he placed a kiss on your forehead. One on each cheek. On your nose before finally landing on your lips.

Yeah, you can’t comprehend how you were able to make it through the past few days without his lips on yours.

The kiss got hungrier. Messier. Each one pouring their all in the kiss. Hand’s roaming all over. Gropping, kneading, massaging the flesh.

As his hands found your breast and left a squeeze you couldn’t help but moan in his mouth. The vibration shooting straight to his member.

Breaking the kiss for air, your lips found themselves leaving open mouth kisses on his neck, sucking licking. Trailing up to his ears as your hands simultaneously found themselves going south, straight in his pants.

At the contact, his thighs jolted as your soft hands found him.

Your fingers found themselves playing with the his bulbous head. Spraying the already present thick liquid all over it. His thick leg’s spread apart to give you more access.

By now you, were straddling only one of his thick thighs. Rotating your hips chasing that sweet friction. You were definitely high off the pleasure.

Retracting the hand that was in his pants, you brought it up to your lips, licking around the digit. Sucking it like honey. He watched intently. Eyes narrowing lightly.

He took the finger that was in your mouth, coated with your saliva, and put it in his own mouth.

You proceeded to get on your knees ready to present him your excuses the only way you knew for now and show him how much you missed him.

“Wait, wait, what’re you doing?”

“What it look like?-”

“Nah baby, you don’t gotta do none of that.”

It wasn’t rare for you to use sex as a means to escape whatever mess going on in your head. Stack knew that. He never wanted you to feel like you were obligated to do anything.

“I want to. Please.”

“You sure?”

“Mhhm” You said eagerly. Mouth already salivating at the thought of what was about to happen.

Who was he to stop you. Sure he didn’t want you to feel like you had to do any of that but also if you wanted to he wasn’t going to stop you. Lord knows his body missed you bad.

One things for sure, it was going to be a long night.

Don’t forget to comment and reblog. Thank you for reading! 💋

[technicallyastar]

OMGUHHHH HIII, IT'S ME WHO WAS TALKING ABOUT THAT FREAKY ASS 007N7 X MALE READER FIC! Uhm, I don't really know what to say except go cray cray! I'm talking walls coated in white, toe flexing, sheet gripping freak. Or whatever you can do, honestly. I can't wait. OKAYY BAIIII!

NSFW UNDER THE CUT (MINORS DNI)

Communication 007n7 x Reader NSFW

You hadn’t fucked in a while...

07 would come home late – where being an intern only landed him with shit shifts and shit hours and shit pay – leaving him in a foul mood almost constantly although he did his best too save face in front of you and cOOLkidd, you could see it in his tired features.

You'd put on your most supportive charm and try your best to cater to his needs – being the designated one going grocery shopping and the one to do the laundry as well as clean the house, take the trash out, and make the bed – making sure he’s got nothing to worry about when he comes home. 

 – you doll yourself up for him and wear only nice things – making dinner the way you know he likes, with extra spice; much too cOOLkidd's displeasure– asking him about his day.

Being the best, most perfect partner you could be.

But like always... he's tired and replies only in grunts with a small smile on his face – doing his routines seemingly on autopilot – eating, showering, going to bed – leaving you alone in the dark with the dishes.

You sighed, boxing up the leftovers before packing him a lunchbox for work. Tying a handkerchief around it to make sure it wouldn’t accidentally spill in his bag, also so he had something to wipe his mouth with after finishing – and as you centered the corners, knotting them together into a neat little flower, you couldn’t help how your hands began to shake followed shortly by tears slipping down your cheeks.

You slid down the kitchen counter into a thud on the floor, pressing your sleeve over your mouth to try and muffle the small cries that soon spilled over. You don’t want to wake him up. You don’t want him to see you like this. He works too hard; he shouldn’t be bothered by you breaking down over nothing.

You just miss him, you miss him so much your whole body aches even though he’s right there in the next room. You clenched a fist over your heart, feeling it strangle itself inside your ribcage, making your throat seize up, dry where you choked down sobs. 

You thought today would be the day. You’d gotten yourself extra ready. Wearing the outfit he likes, even the lingerie he likes – not that he’d be able to tell without undressing you first.

You banged your head softly against the cupboards behind you, eyes closed as you calmed down your weeping. Still, you kept your sleeve pressed against your mouth, scared to let even your snivels reach anyone.

The hand covering your heart dropped into your lap. 

You let out a sigh, then thought about his big hands, imagining them – strong and sturdy and warm on your skin – roaming your body in greedy touches. How he manhandles you with his lips pressed against your ear – speaking filth so sweetly in that awfully low teasing rust of his.

Your hand slipped between your thighs – under the waistband of yor clothes and beneath your underwear – with slim fingers sliding between your legs you began to touch yourself.

You bit your sleeve, wanting to moan but needing to stay quiet. You can’t wake him up over something so unimportant, not to mention embarrassing.

You’re so pathetic. It stung your heart, but still, you kept your fingers working – drawing wet sniffles muffled as you felt the slick from your sex pool onto your hand, the by-product of gaining the attention it had been seeking for so long. 

You don’t often touch yourself. You just leave it to 07. Your hands are so different it’s nearly impossible to even imagine it’s him – and besides, he does it differently – a specific way you struggle to replicate. Suppose he's gotten to know your body a little better than you over the years.

Still, you get there. Albeit a numb and rather boring high, you still shook as it took you. Though, it didn’t come close to how 07 makes you feel.

You just end up feeling ashamed…

Crying and cumming on the kitchen floor while your husbands’s in the other room fast asleep after a hard day's work.

You freed your mouth from your sleeve and pulled your other hand out from inside your underwear, laying them both in your lap as you mulled it all over. It’s cold and silent and dark, and you wish you’d just rushed along and gone to bed with 07 when he’d muttered his goodnight.

You banged your head once again, then picked yourself up from the floor a moment later, releasing a sigh that turned into a yawn while dragging your feet quietly across the floor. You put the lunchbox in his bag before walking yourself to the bathroom. There, you splashed cold water on your face, looking your reflection dead in the eyes. You’d made yourself so pretty today, but he hadn’t touched you at all… he’d barely even looked at you…

You almost cried again but managed to suppress it – washing your face free of the neglected fruits of your labour, then brushing your teeth. You slipped out of your outfit and fished one of his worn shirts from the laundry bin. It smelled sweetly musky, like him – fitting you like a tent, reaching longer down your thighs than most of your shorter clothes. It felt nice. You could almost trick yourself into thinking it was him who’d made you cum earlier and not yourself – and that delusion itself was enough to make your chest flutter with warmth. 

You snuck into the bedroom and quietly shut the door with a soft click before sneaking under the covers on your side of the bed. He was already asleep. Deep breaths left him steadily while you studied his back in the dim light. He was tense. Maybe you could give him a backrub tomorrow and maybe he’d fuck you in return?

One can dream…

The thought put a small smile on your face as you soon followed in sleep yourself.

...

He took out the lunchbox you’d made for him, wrapped in a silly handkerchief with a burger print. His lip quirked up for just a second. You’re so silly. 

He and Cerulean had picked a tall place like usual – atop an office building with their legs dangling over the edge. It had become standard procedure.

They didn’t like being bothered during lunch – it prevented them from talking about the things they wanted to talk about, if and when they wanted to talk, and otherwise roped them into meaningless small talk they had no interest in. 07 could fake it when he had to, but Cerulean didn’t ever feel as inclined. So it was best for both of them to find someplace exclusive.

Which, more often than not, ended up with them atop a rooftop somewhere along their route.

07 popped the lid and found your note. 

'Is your name Google? Because you’ve got everything I’m searching for.'

You’re so adorkable . You’re so silly it made him blush sitting there. 

Fuck... he misses you...

His nose stung a bit just thinking about it, but he stifled it with a sharp sniffle before it could get any worse.

Unclenching his teeth with a huff, he picked up his food before chomping down on it. How long had it been since he’d held you? Must be since he started his job, which is what? A month ago already?

He couldn’t wait to run his own agency. He’d own a building just like the one they're sitting on right now – maybe even taller. You could work there as well – you already act as his personal assistant, after all – or maybe that’s just what a partner does. Either way, if you would work with him, he wouldn’t need to miss you so much all the time.

“Noli told me to tell you something- but you need to promise you won’t tell your girl that he ratted. Okay?” Cerulean broke through his daydreams. He was holding a sandwich from the cafeteria. “W-what?” He asked, taking another bite from his homemade lunch with a anxious look. It couldn’t really get any better than you, in his restless hours staring up at the ceiling he often thought just how long before you'd leave him-

“Noli told me-” Cerulean started anew but broke herself off before finishing. “Ah fuck it– doesn’t matter. Just listen.” 

 

“I-I am just tell me already!” 07 said, with a harrowed expression. The cliffhanger of information made him nervous, would you finally leave him, realize that you could so much better.

Cerulean hesitated for a moment longer, unsure how she should phrase it. But if memory served hernright, blunt honesty had always been rewarded with the anxious burger wearing brunette – so she decided to be straightforward with it. “Your partners gonna leave you if you don’t dick them down soon.” 

That got his attention.

“WHAT?” 07 barked, whipping his head to the side to stare in bafflement at the unfazed woman– 

“Don’t shoot the messenger-” She excused, legs crossed and her foraged lunch in lap. “I’m just tryna help you out.”

07’s aghast expression didn’t ease up.

It looked like he was going to say something, but instead, there came a long pause of them just staring intensely at each other.

It was normal. 07 had become better at processing things quietly without the need to fling curse words like he was back in his exploiter days. But still, the frown didn’t lift – only deepened.

He gulped after a while – looking down at his lunchbox again – fingering the blue, burger printed handkerchief quietly before muttering, now calmly. “Why does Noli know…”

Cerulean put her food down again, turning to look at the city below them, taking another bite of his sandwich – speaking with it in her mouth. “Uhm- he says it’s been a while since the two of you fucked- and that your partner's trying their best to keep you happy- mh- but that their at their wit’s end ‘cause you won’t talk or touch them-”

07’s frown softened a bit, eyes scanning your handwritten note again. It’s such a small thing, but without it, the day would have still been grey and sour. It was just a piece of paper, but it had felt like a warm kiss on the cheek and turned his mood from annoyed to giddy so seamlessly.

Losing you might just kill him, if it weren't for cOOLkidd it most certainly would he thought.

A weak whine left him then, along with a sigh. The feeling of dread ripping his chest was nearly enough to make him cry, but he clenched his fists and grit his teeth, and the sting in his eyes relented almost as quickly as it had come.

“There, There old man...” Cerulean continued laughing, turning her head to look at her unusually still and silent friend. Grinning at the sight of the cute pout that had taken shape on his face. “This is an easy fix...” she nudged suggestively.

07 threw her a glance, spotting her thin lips pulled into a friendly smile. He sighed again, this time with a bit of a small groan, knowing that was Cerulean’s way of telling him to open up.

“Nothing to complain about…” 07 mumbled in an effort to brush the subject off. But the feeling of Cerulean’s scrutinizing white eyes staring at him intently in wait – goading him into telling more – didn’t relent.

7 wanted to ignore het, but at the same time, there was something inside him that told him he shouldn’t waste the opportunity. In the end, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to share. Too vent. After all, Cerulean had been beside him for over a decade already, and they weren’t planning on ending their camaraderie any time soon. 

He ran a hand through his brunette locks with a tired expression as though surrendering, offering yet another groan of agitation. “If that's what they wanted, why couldn't they have just come to me...-” He spilled. “What am I supposed to do? Read their mind?”

Cerulean laughed again, shaking his head. “they're not going be so brazen. They wants their lover to make those demands.” she explained, keeping her smile before quirking a brow at the brunette. “Speaking of… why haven't you?”

07 threw her another glance, but he couldn’t feel more awkward sharing such things, even after such long years of friendship. 

Not that Cerulean cared if he was a little rigid. Actually, she found it amusing. 7 just needs a little time, but sooner or later, he always cracks. It’s just lucky that Cerulean has the endurance for it.

“I haven't because-” 07 started, visibly struggling. “I don’t wanna be too-” He stopped again.

“What?” Cerulean pushed, slanting her head.

The brunette threw his head back with yet another sigh. “They're just doing so much around the house doing chores, taking care of cOOLkidd- I didn’t want to be selfish...”

“Wow,…” Cerulean chuckled, smacking her hand down on the dads slumped shoulder. “Youre a great husband.” She praised.

But it didn’t take long before her smile turned a little sharper – now with not-so-innocent intent.

“But uhm…” He snickered. “If not your them... what have you been doing?”

“None of your fricking’ business, Cerulean.” 07 snapped back with a growl, shaking the druid's hand off his shoulder – his tired face returning to its original glory.

“Oh, come on,- give us a little something to laugh about~” Cerulean drawled, still with her playful smirk – eagerly waiting.

7 brooded for a moment longer.

But then finally gave in. “The shower… sometimes the car…”

Cerulean laughed, now loudly – boisterously and long enough to make the brunette face, neck and ears flush red. “That’s not funny.” He said. 

“Youre so right, that's just sad old man.”

“Shut up," 07 grumbled in return, refocusing on his lunch as the woman continued giggling.

“To think you’ve been holding back while your lovers been pining for it.” Cerulean rubbed salt in the wound, adding insult to injury, before stuffing the rest of salad in her mouth.

“Mh- that’s why communication is key.” 

07 also took his last bite before repeating his last words. “Are you done laughing at my misery?”

...

He came home to the smell of cooking and the hefty sound of the kitchen fan. The door swung closed with a loud bang, and you soon walked around the corner – spatula in hand with your apron on.

“You’re home early” You exclaimed, a smile spreading on your face while rushing over to him. Lifting your heels on your toes to plant a quick kiss on his chin. 

“Oh-” You gasped, surprised when he enveloped you in a hug instead.

Stunned still for a moment, but then you smiled.

“Welcome home~”

He sighed into you, big hands pressed at the small of your back, swaying you snugly against him – the spatula in your hand smushed between you.

You smelled like sweets, and he smelled of his cologne, and you both closed your eyes at the familiar but almost forgotten scent – bodies relaxing, realizing how much they’d missed the other's touch.

He held you there for a while, nuzzling his face into your neck with a low rumble– almost like the purr of a cat – before letting you down slowly.

“Is everything alright?” You asked, looking up at him.

He kept his hands at your sides for a moment longer, his usual unreadable expression donning his face from behind the glare of light that cast into the frames of his glasses further obscuring his face. “Not really.” He revealed, then pressed a kiss onto your forehead.

 “I-Is kidd here?.”

You wanted to ask but didn’t want to pry – trusting him that you’d talk about it later. Instead you answered,

"No he's still in class for another hour" He simply nodded at you before slipping out of his shoes, he set the table while you finished cooking, and you thought it a very nice change of pace – smiling with a giggle when he bumped into your form while carrying plates, almost tripping and tumbling too the ground. He was acting strange, but still, you wouldn’t complain.

Time went by quietly, once you had finished dinner. You kept waiting for him to talk, to tell you what it was that was bothering him, but he never did. You were both done with your individual tasks before long, and you got up to start working on something else.

He got up as well. Walking around the table, he stood behind you as he grabbed your wrist softly. "Honey, a moment.” He said – his voice gentle, just above a whisper. 

“7?” You asked, before feeling it – gasping out a surprised

"Honey, please can I?" 

“Oh-”

His hand rubbed the fabric on your hip, messaging your skin through your clothes as he pulled you back against his crotch, where you felt him – fat in his slacks – and nudging into the soft welcome of your ass.

Your chest fluttered with a giddy thrill, flustered and hot already.

“Right now?” You asked in a flushed rush. Bowed with both palms laid flat on the table – cheeks burning and eyes wide. 

“Yes.” He replied simply – voice still gentle but sturdy – perhaps a touch strained.

“Here?” You gushed, swallowing your spit.

“Yes.” He repeated, his lips hot on your throat, with kisses and licks and heavy huffs – his chest stiff and weighty with brawn, beating against your back where he haunched over you.

Your breath warbled, rendering your voice to just an unsteady whisper. “Of course d-

He was undressed your bottom half in quick tugs before you could finish, bunching your garments down to your ankles before molding his clothed bulge neatly into your ass – squeezing your hips and pulling you back to meet his movements as he started rolling into you with need.

You let him – waiting with knees somewhat shakey. It had been so long since you’d last felt his lust for you that now it made you nervous. Your hole was already weeping at the promise – squeezing desperately around nothing as you laid out like a meal beneath your husband, desperate for what was to come.

You closed your eyes, listening to him un-buckling his belt, followed by the heavy sounds of his pants dropping to the floor – then the warm feel of his hefty manhood resting between your asscheeks. You moaned just at the feel of it. Veiny and warm and soft. 

Your breaths turned even thicker in your throat – so excited you nearly started swaying  your hips to urge him into taking your underwear off.

He did. Hooking his fingers beneath the fabric, he pulled it down your thighs and knees and let it pool around your ankles along with your previous garments– giving your ass a firm grip on his way up.

His fingers then found your waiting hole, giving it a featherlight feel, bathing his fingertips in your arousal. You heard him swallow thickly at your ear – his breath baring hints of something heavier from his gut – almost heaving as he grabbed his shaft and slid himself down through your thighs.

You nearly started throwing a tantrum, feeling his girth glide between the fat of your inner thighs, glossing itself in its own slick that dripped from 7's tip. Your insides screamed for it. It was all too sadistic for you to handle, so unlike you loving accommodating, providing husband – you needed to push back into him – a wanton whimper escaping you even as you had your lip tugged between your teeth.

He answered the prayer, his movements controlled yet strained as he steadily guided it until his head caught on your entrance. He hissed, pressing inside you without any prepping – and you sucked in a gasp, stinging at the stretch, taking the fat mushroom-shaped bulb inside you slowly – so overwhelmed your vision blurred with spotted light as your legs trembled against his. 

Then you released the prettiest moan – whole body tense with anticipation as he eased the fat length all the way inside your pretty hole – filling it so good, your thighs quaked with curled toes, sinking your teeth into your lip with eyes squished tightly shut – sighing with a needy whimper once his head nudged deep into your core.

You and your body both had forgotten his size. Feeling tunneled. 

You nearly had the urge to climb away as it rested inside you – every meaty inch stretching you out – but he held you steady at the hips, keeping you still as he nestled deep and completely within your walls – making you pant out like a needy bitch heat. In the end, you couldn’t do much more than curl your toes into the carpet, tear filled eyes flickering with arms nearly giving out beneath you.

You didn’t expect the quite harsh slap to your ass. “Ah- 7-” You yelped with a buck, clenching down even harder around him.

He gritted his teeth at your pretty cry and did it again – planting his hand down hard into the doughy flesh. Pulling back with his hips and thrusting in again...

You clawed the table, picking up the tablecloth in balled hands – struggling to make breaths – insides fluttering and wavering between the delight of finally being filled and the flighty dread of being split in two – crying at the pain, being stretched so awfully good.

He smacked your already tender red ass again, and this time, you whimpered, reeling from the pain of it – feeling the skin sting and prickle – hot beneath the squeeze he made after, gripping the fat like putty.

“7!- s’too rough-” You cried, shaking on his shaft – but also from the pleasure – feeling your head cloudy and hot where your brows cinched up.

He ignored your cry, giving it another hit with his palm. Backing up until only his tip remained inside, then running you through again – pelvis clapping your rear. So deep it choked you, making your tongue loll out of your mouth with your moans. So robbing, you needed to bow down until your chest rested on the table to avoid your arms giving out beneath you – panting as you held onto the feel of his every inch sliding in and out of you. Fucking you so well, you drooled.

“Honey.. hah, y-you wouldn't leave me right?”

A cold rush flushed your body then.

The burn of pleasure suddenly went tense – still there, but vulnerable now. Your heart flared, beating fast – so loud you heard it in your head.

You weren’t able to answer before he’d snuck a hand up your chest and grabbed your throat, lifting you from the table and pressing you back against his chest where his lips could graze the shell of your ear. “Right honey?” He whispered now, feeling your breath turn thin beneath his hand.

He held you tight, fingers sinking into your jugular – but not enough to threaten.

Still, it made you squeeze on him harder.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Chest tight with a need to moan out, feeling the plush bulge of his cock-head knead into your core – making a mean outline on your tummy – burrowed so deep it made your thighs shake at the pressure – feeling the onslaught of that tightknit rope within your core begin to fray, soon to snap and let go

“It's so not like you.” He accused coldly, making another harsh thrust into you – cock punching your stomach in the perfect spot. “To go run your mouth with no plans of letting me know about anything.”

“B-but I-” You didn’t have your wits with you to defend yourself – busy rubbing your thighs together, chasing the sweet release you felt pursuing.

“Buh-buh-but nothing.” He dismissed – his other hand making way down past your belly button, his fingers soon running over your sex beginning to caress rough grounding toyches onto it – making your moans spill past where his hand kept your throat in a lock. “If you needed me that badly, you should have just asked. But I guess that’s too much for you, isn’t it? You’re just too innocent, aren’t you, honey?”

You were nearly there until he spun you around. Quickly gathering your thighs, he picked you up and made you straddle him – pushing your back against the wall with a bang that almost had the pictures falling down.

You only moaned, going dumb from the thrill, wrapping your legs around his torso as he sunk back inside you.

“ Be honest now-” He breathed with a grunt, pressing his forehead against yours, and you slung your arms around his neck. “You’ve been touching yourself without me, haven't you?”

You bit your lip under his interrogation, looking into his red eyes through your lashes only to look away – flighty with a tiny whimper before squeaking out a hesitant but honest, “Ye-yes-”

With a shuddering sigh from 07 he began slamming into you with – making you squeal with a moan, fingers pulling the locks at his nape while clenching on him tight – your breath shuddered, stomach tightening up like a knot before suddenly snapping.

He chuckled sadistically, feeling you shake from it. “Don’t you try it love."

His lips mushed yours with another groan while you moaned from the release. He gripped your ass tighter, pulling you to meet his rhythm, riding it out of you – biting your lip to finish the kiss.

“Be honest-” He seethed, his voice tight – low and gravelly, thick with arousal. “Where do you want it?”

You quaked at the question, head full of cotton from your orgasm. You looked at him with hearts in your eyes. “Inside me, please, 7”

“Fuck-” He stuttered – that was the last he could handle before burying himself deep – gripping you tight and keeping you snug against him as he emptied himself with hips jutting – pressing you firmly against the wall behind you.

He kept you there, forehead to forehead, holding his breath down to the very last drop – then let out a long and relieved sigh. But still, he held you there – with sweat running down his temple as he huffed air until both your breathing calmed down. And even then, he didn’t let go.

Instead, he carried you off toward the bedroom – leisurely in his steps as your legs dangled over his arms before placing you both down in the soft bed.

He helped you out of the rest of your clothes not left behind at the dinner table, shimmying it off over your head with your hands lazily raised in the air – then he tore his own shirt off over his shoulders, flexing his back with a stretch and groggy yawn before laying down with a complete sigh.

Throwing an arm over your midriff, heavy and thick with muscles – his hand splayed on the small of your back – holding you snugly – limbs tangled together with your heads propped on the same pillow.

“Next time just talk to me, please love.” He half mumbled into your chest, his eyes already closed.

You gave a breathy giggle, murmuring an “Okay~” with a smile. Looking at his face and the cute blush dusting his cheeks with dew.

He had that small scrunch between his brows like always, twisting his handsome face into something so adorably tense even in his sleep.

His warm breath puffed slow and steady against your face – dewy from his slightly parted mouth.

“7?” You whispered after a while, tapping your finger on the lense of his glasses with a soft bite to your lip.

He opened his eyes, sleepy but awake still – blinded by your wide-awake eyes eagerly staring back at him.

“One more time?”

007n7 fans feast, especially you two @subspacekisser1 @partymovv hope I did this Justice!

[hanginginthevoid]

Curiosity Killed the Cat, but Satisfaction Brought it Back

pairing: bob reynolds x reader

summary: almost every customer you see is the same. when you finally meet someone that’s different, you can’t help but let your curiosity pique. you shouldn’t have though, new doesn't always mean good or better. sometimes new can ruin you.

a/n: HI!!! I love the idea of character x powerless!reader almost as much as i love the idea of reader who can take care of themselves. SLOWBURN!!!!! I also wrote like 10 pages straight of this before i slowed down and remember how much i HATE writing endings… 

warnings: reader gets screamed at, probably ooc bob, lmk if i missed anything!

wc: 8.2k

---

Your life would be considered mundane. You spend most of your time studying, if you weren’t studying you were at work. But to be honest, you were studying at work too. Sure you still go out with your friends, but you’re not paying thousands upon thousands of dollars to not get this degree. 

The bookshop that you work at is cute. The brick walls painted sage green, the bookshelves that lined the walls, along with the display tables, were a nice dark mahogany. Small bouquets of different flowers were painted around the shop, like easter eggs for customers to spot.

If the customers actually look at the design choices, you’d never know. Most of the customers that you saw were business or finance bro’s and ladies trying to assert themselves in their corporate jobs. 

They’d pick up some ‘life-changing’ book, and you’d never see them again. The first floor of the shop was entirely dedicated to non-fiction because of this. Gotta make it easily accessible for the clients.

You prefer fiction, and honestly, it’s a better vibe having to go upstairs to find some whimsy than just staying at the same level. Every once in a while you’ll see someone venturing up there, maybe just to take a few pictures, maybe to actually buy something. Not nearly as often as you’d like though.

Most of the time you keep your head down, busy jotting down notes or highlighting your textbook. You greet customers when they come in, help them find the book they’re looking for if need be, and give them a polite smile while asking about their day as you check them out. But their faces blur together, and none of their responses stick with you for more than a few minutes.

Today was different though.

Today two men walked into the shop. One with shaggy brown hair, deep blue eyes, and a wobbly smile like he’s worried about something, and the other with blonde hair, a beard, and eyes so icy blue you could mistake them for gray. 

The one with brown hair takes to the shelves after returning your greeting. He scans them for a little bit, checking around the displays as well before coming up to you at the checkout counter.

“Hi.. again.” You look up, but he’s avoiding eye contact, looking everywhere but you, “Do you guys have any books not based not on real stuff?”

You nod along with him, “Yeah, of course. All of our upstairs section is for fiction books.”

“O-oh. Thank you.” And he’s moving away, looking like he’s sizing up the stairs ahead of him.

You feel a little bad for the guy - the guy he’s with is just standing at the door, and he seems unsure about everything. 

Your better judgement fails, putting a tab in your textbook so you don’t lose your place, “Are you looking for anything specific?” 

“Ummm.. Not really? Just - anything fictional.” He’s starting up the stairs before he remembers something and continues his response, “And a series. Something with a lot of books.”

You smile at him, a general customer service smile but it’s softened by the want to be kind to this man, “The Maze Runner is pretty good. Five books in the series.”

With a final nod, he’s up the stairs and it’s just you and the blonde man. You think about asking if you could help him with anything, but any normal person would have already looked around if they wanted to.

They both look familiar. Not excessively, but similar to someone who you would see walking around campus but never had classes with. Like the friend of one of your friends, who only shows up once in a blue moon. 

You can’t place them before the brown haired man comes back with a book. 

He hands, not places down, hands, you a book. Upon glancing at it, you see he picked your recommendation. 

“I think you’ll like it, I was really into it when I read it for the first time.” You scan the book, placing it with the front cover down onto the simple brown packing paper you picked out this morning.

“I think so too. You would be the expert after all,” He huffs out a laugh at the end of his sentence, handing you a credit card to make his payment. 

You smile along with him, sealing the book with a ‘Thank you!’ sticker. After the card clears you hand it back to him, along with the book, and send him off with the hope that he enjoys the book.

As he turns around, he motions to his blonde counterpart, and they both head out the door. Before it shuts though, the man turns around one more time leaving you with a ‘Have a good day!’ and a warm feeling in your chest because there really are still good, kind people out there.

Unlike the normal clientele that you see, you think about this man for the rest of your shift. 

He was attractive, so you’d almost doubt that he didn’t have a girlfriend. Or maybe even a boyfriend, but there’s no way that was the blonde man. He seemed more like a bodyguard…?

He was also kind. He might not have been confident, but that didn’t take away from his other redeeming qualities. 

You think mostly about the fact that he took your recommendation. He didn’t ask for one, so it’s truly surprising that he took what you said into consideration. Paired with the fact that he spent a decent amount of time up there, seemingly pondering his options, just to come back with your recommendation still.

It’s a shame that you’ll probably never see him again. People usually don’t have the time to keep stopping by the same bookshop in this city. Assuming he’s the same as everyone else, he’ll just order the next one online and call it a day.

—

You’re almost immediately proven wrong. Just three days later, the same shaggy haired, blue eyed man walks back into the bookshop.

This time, he’s accompanied by a woman. They greet you, ask how your day is going, then venture upstairs.

You eye them more than you’d like to admit. Trying to figure out these two, the woman is clearly more invested in him than his blonde companion had been.

She's got black hair, green eyes, and an accent. Exotic. 

She stands with him as he browses, inputting her opinion, giving suggestions. Ventures off by herself for a minute before coming back with a book, you assume to recommend it.

Maybe this is the girlfriend. The one who gets to go home and call him her own. By your guesstimate, they’ve only been dating for a little while. Too many boundaries between them to be a really established, committed relationship.

Eventually, you go back to your textbook. Reducing its value every time you annotate, a highlight to show importance, and a note to explain why exactly it's important.

As you're figuring out how you want to color code this set of flashcards, someone gently clears their throat in front of you.

You look up to see the ocean eyed man. He’s smiling at you, soft like he doesn’t want to scare you off. 

“Hey, find everything alright?” You’re standing now, resting your folded arms across the counter.

He nods as he responds, “Yeah, yeah everything was findable.” 

His girlfriend wasn’t beside him anymore, instead she's perusing around the displays about ways to drastically improve your life.

When he hands you the book, you see it’s ‘The Scorch Trials’, the second book in the series you recommended. Guess they spent all that time up there just to flirt.

You scan it, placing it face down on the same brown packing paper as the last book, “Am I safe to assume that you enjoyed the first one?”

“Y-yeah, I didn’t think Alby would die like that. Y’know? He felt like the glue and then boom! He was gone.” 

It’s sweet. He’s not afraid to show his joy from the story. Accentuation his ‘boom’ with his hands, and, holding eye contact. 

“Me either. My favorite is Newt though, so I’m just happy he made it out of the maze.” You’ve sealed the book with a ‘Have a great day!’ sticker, and then you’re handing it back.

“I don’t have a favorite yet, but I’ll keep Newt in mind! He seems like a good guy.” And then his girlfriend is back at his side, ushering him out the door. He yells a ‘Have a good rest of your day!’ over his shoulder, and then they’re disappearing into the busy New York sidewalk.

You wonder if he’ll finish the second one as fast as the first one. Though, you hoped not. 

You wouldn’t be working that day and even if he had a girlfriend he was still a breath of fresh air that you wouldn’t want to miss the chance to inhale. 

Maybe you’d go find a dandelion to wish on after your shift. But then again, he’s just a man. You don’t even know his name for God’s sake. 

Yeah, no dandelion for you.

—

Sunday is the universal reset day. Least you’d think so. You bring your laundry down to your apartment building's laundry room, let it start to do its thing in the washer then head out. 

First grabbing a coffee at the cute coffee shop a couple of blocks down. You swear they make the best macchiatos. 

Then you’re on your way to the grocery store. Getting the most important things first; Greens and proteins. Then the things important to your heart like carbs and cheese, ice cream if it’s weather permitting. Then everything else, from snacks to garbage bags, to dryer sheets, to a new mascara, or maybe even some flowers. 

The trick was getting everything you needed, but not too much that it became difficult to haul home. Today was not one of the days that you got the ratio right.

Maybe you bought too many snacks, but you’ve got a hell of a lot of assignments due this week and that permits a hell of a lot of snacking.

Thankfully, you brought a nearly empty backpack with you, so you’re able to stash some groceries in there and not kill your wrists. It doesn’t help much though, by the time you make it to the elevator your fingers are throbbing and turning white from the lack of circulation.

You put away the refrigerated and frozen items before making your way down the stairs. Gotta burn your calories somehow.

After switching your laundry from the washer to the dryer, you head back upstairs. Starting in the living room you put away stray books, highlighters, pens, and papers. Straighten up the couch by fluffing the cushions, and folding the blankets before grabbing any cups or mugs that may have been left out and bringing them to the kitchen.

You go through the dishes fast, most of them being able to fit into the dishwasher. Then it's putting away the rest of the groceries, and wiping down the counters. 

The bathroom and bedroom are tidied up daily so besides changing the sheets, you forgo taking care of them. Instead vacuuming so that you can just put on a movie and fold your clothes before making dinner.

You can barely hear your phone going off from where it rests on your kitchen counter. It gets ignored though, probably just one of your parents checking in, worried because you’ve been swamped with school. You can just text them back before you start folding.

After the vacuum is shut down, and properly stored in your coat closet, you head back downstairs to retrieve your laundry. 

The basket goes between the couch and the coffee table, ensuring you have enough space to section out all your clothes. But you still have to pick a movie. Something you’ve seen before, so you won’t get distracted. Yet still something interesting, so you don’t give up on your laundry halfway through and leave it all around your apartment. 

By the time you remember your phone and the aforementioned text from your parents, you’re about thirty minutes into ‘Madagascar’. The thought of leaving it, and continuing with your progress passes through your mind. And you mull over the idea for a few minutes. But then you remember that not everyone has parents that care about them, and you push yourself off the couch to go get your phone.

When you turn it on while walking back to the couch, you notice that it wasn’t from your parents. Instead you're met with a message from Tasha, your coworker. Maybe the shop ran out of a popular book? Or a customer wanted to return a, clearly, read book again.

Opening the chat, you see that it’s neither of those. 

Tasha: Some guy came in today asking about you

What guy could come in asking about you? Would this be your chance to meet some millionaire who’d pay for your tuition. God you hoped so. At the very least please let him be hot. Well, hot is an overstatement, let him be not horrid to look at.

You’d never know if you didn’t ask though, so you type out a quick reply before sitting back on your couch, digging your hand back into the laundry basket.

Y/n: What guy?

The response is nearly instantaneous.

Tasha: GIRL

Tasha: YOU TOOK

Tasha: SO LONG

Y/n: mb, yk sunday is my reset

Y/n: left my phone on the counter while folding clothes so i didn’t lose my flow

Tasha: does NOT matter

Tasha: he was FINE

Tasha: TALL

Tasha: DARK HAIR

A tall, dark haired man was asking for you? That’s like - half the businessmen in New York. She’d need to be more specific.

Y/n: you gotta gimme sumn else

Y/n: thats like half the people who come in

Tasha: like long dark hair

Tasha: blue eyes

You start typing before you can really think about the implications. 

Y/n: did he get a maze runner book??

Tasha: yeah

Tasha: so who is he

It’s comical how Tasha thinks that he’s interested in you. It’d be nice if he was. You’d definitely accept a date with him if he ever offered. But you’re not a homewrecker. 

Y/n: just a nice dude who doesn’t treat staff like theyre garbage

Y/n: he’s got a girl tho, she came w him last time

It’s getting late, and you’ve fallen behind on your mental schedule. You’ll start dinner while you finish up your conversation, then after you eat you can finish your laundry and head to bed. 

Getting up you take out the ground beef you bought just a few hours ago. Splitting it into two portions you put one half in a ziploc bag and stuff it in your freezer before putting the other half into a pan to brown. As you’re opening a can of crushed tomatoes, your phone dings with a new message.

Tasha: idk 

Tasha: didnt seem like he did when he was describing you

You shake your head as you start adding seasonings to your beef. Also putting a pot of water to boil before wiping your hands to respond.

Y/n: hes just nice

Y/n: dont read into it

Y/n: see u tuesday girly

Then your phone ends up on do not disturb. You’ve got to finish these chores if you want to be able to properly focus on your studies. 

Unfortunately you think about Tasha’s texts until you crawl into bed. She was adamant that he was feeling you in at least one sense of the word. The idea makes your cheeks warm. Not much, since it would just be a delusion, but enough for you to recognize the familiar flush.

Next time you see him, you’ve got to block the messages out of your mind. Otherwise you’d make a fool out of yourself. He had a girlfriend, and you’d respect that.

Plus, he didn’t even know your name! How could he have any sort of feeling for you without knowing your name? You supposed it could be similar to how you’ve got a flutter in your chest when you see him, but that’d be dumb, men don’t think that way.

—

You’re hunched over your laptop, typing up a storm when you hear the bell jingle. It doesn’t stop you from typing, you’ve got a flow going and you wouldn’t stop it for the world. 

When your half-hearted greeting is replied to by a known voice you freeze. It’s brief, so you hope he doesn’t notice, but it still happens. Then you’re back to typing, throwing a ‘let me know if you need anything!’ in his general direction.

Truth be told, you were just typing mumbo-jumbo. Trying to manifest a proper thought that would never come. You wanted to look up. See if he had come by himself today, or if he had brought his girlfriend along. But curiosity killed the cat, and living in the fantasy that he could possibly like you, was far too nice to trade.

You switch from typing on your personal laptop, to typing on the shop’s pc. If you weren’t going to be productive with your essay, you could at least be productive by ordering some much needed stock. 

That’s the only reason you switched. Not because you wanted to take a look around the shop. Not because the flutter in your chest was still happening, minutes after just speaking to him. And most certainly not because you remembered, curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

You wanted it to be conspicuous. Nonchalant. Just a casual glance around the shop to make sure no one was stealing anything. 

However, a shout made you spring your head up. Staring directly at the man you're infatuated with, and his companion for the day. A tall man, with a graying beard.

He really has no shortage of friends. All different shapes and sizes too.

“Sorry!” He’s waving at you, an embarrassed look overtaking his features. 

Before you can tell him that there’s no need to apologize his friend is speaking, loudly, again “Why do you apologize? We do nothing wrong, nothing.”

“Because! It’s a bookshop, and it was quiet. Silent even! Before you shouted.” He’s whisper shouting, trying to make his point in the quietest way possible. 

Huffing out a laugh, you go back to your essay. Even with nobody else in the shop, this guy still has the manners to not want to mess up the vibe. Maybe he has a twin you could get with.

You barely hear from the two again until they're right up in front of you. Your ears pick up on ‘Alexi’ and ‘over there’, before you’re approached by ocean eyes himself. 

“Hi. Sorry again, about him.” It looks like he’s rocking on his feet a little bit, but you’re not tall enough to be sure. “ He - uh. He’s not the best in social settings.”

“Ah, I see. So. What’re you getting today?” Your hands are out, like a child waiting to accept a present.

He places ‘The Kill Order’ in your hands. “Newt died. You kinda gaslit me into believing he was a safe favorite character.” 

The way he says it is flat. It makes you worry a bit, and he’s looking at you straight faced like he’s really got a bone to pick. “My bad! He really was my favorite. Even though he kicked the bucket. I didn’t think you’d really pay more attention to him if I mentioned it.” 

You hope your apology is taken seriously. Your eyebrows are creased, eyes conveying your sincerness, at least you hope they are. But then he’s laughing. Why is he laughing?

“Sorry, I - I wasn’t serious. I did think he was a safe character to like but I thought it’d be funny to pull your leg a little.” Oh. Thank god he wasn’t really upset.

Then you’re laughing a little bit along with him, “You got me. I’ll give you that.” You scan the book, proceeding along with the same routine as always. This time you’re wrapping it in a deep burgundy packing paper, sticking it with a ‘Come again soon!’ sticker before handing it back. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” He raises his eyes to meet yours when you start speaking, “but you read a lot.” 

“I’ve got a lot of time on my hands. It’s nice to be immersed in a different world sometimes.”

“Gotcha. Well it was nice to see you again…” You trail off, hoping he takes the hint and gives you his name.

“Oh - Bob, I-I’m Bob. What’s your name?” He’s back to avoiding eye contact. But he hasn’t moved away from the counter yet, so he can’t be that uncomfortable.

You give him your name, and he repeats it. Trying it out on his tongue, figuring out the syllables and the way to say them that makes them sound best. Then he’s leaving, well, more like getting dragged out. 

His huge friend has an arm wrapped around his shoulders and he’s walking with a purpose that Bob can’t resist. 

As they start to make their way down the street, Bob spares you a grin and a wave through the window. 

You wonder when he’ll finish that book. When he’ll be back and you’ll get to look into his eyes again. When you’ll get to dream about how soft his hair is.

As long as you’re on shift you couldn’t care less though.

—

This goes on for a few months. Bob comes in, always with a companion, picks out a book from a series you’ve recommended. The two of you crack a couple of jokes, or Bob asks you about your studies. And then he’s gone for a few days. 

Sometimes he doesn’t show up at all. Usually just for a few days, which wouldn’t be bad but it's abnormal for him. Once in a blue moon it's for a or over a week, he never explains, just apologizes.

His companions are always one of 6 people. They fluctuate, sometimes the same person joining him two times in a row, sometimes they rotate like a wheel and you don’t see the same person for a few weeks.

Then they stop coming. Well not entirely. But they stop coming inside. At first they just stand outside the shop, lingering just outside the door. 

Eventually they start to ‘drop’ Bob off. Walk with him till they get to the shop, the two of them exchange a few words, then Bob walks in, and his companion walks off. 

They make sure to pick him up after. It’s always on their time though. Bob will come in, pick out his book, check out, and then talk to you the rest of the time.

It’s all basic conversation, favorite colors, what drew you to get your degree, why you chose NYU over something closer to home, favorite ice cream flavor, what Florida was like. 

It seems silly to assume that he likes you. But it seems even sillier to assume that he doesn’t. No way would he waste all this time just to not care at all. 

He still asks Tasha about you when you’re not there. She thinks you two are a match made in heaven. Well as close to one as she can get without really knowing him. But he’s attractive, attracted to you, you say he's kind, so what’s not to like.

You see Bob and his female blonde companion, Yelena you think her name is, talking outside the shop. You can’t hear them, but you can see Bob wringing his fingers together and Yelena putting her hands on his shoulders, giving him a decent shake. 

Then it’s like something in Bob shifts, and he gains confidence. Looking into her eyes he smiles a bit, not too much, but enough for it to be noticeable. And he's turning around, and opening the door to the shop. 

“Good morning, how’s it going?” He’s smiling, looking directly at you.

You can tell he’s really taking you in. How you did your hair, the sweater that you’re wearing, maybe he even notices the mascara you put on just on the hope that you’d see him today. 

“Good, how’s it going with you?” 

He’s not moving from the counter, still studying you. “It’s good. Hopefully it’ll be better in a minute.” The look on your face, warm, comforting, understanding, interested, encourages him to continue. “I was hoping you’d maybe…” Bob has to take a breath to steady himself, “W-would you get coffee with me sometime?”

It takes you a few seconds to process. Bob wants to get coffee with you? Like as in a date? You’ve been dreaming about this for months. When you’re done thinking it through, the giddiness gets to you.

Beaming at him, “Of course. I would love to get coffee with you Bob.” 

“Really?” His mouth is gaping a little, like he really thought you’d reject him.

“Really. I’m not working on Thursday if that works for you?” You really hope that there aren’t hearts in your eyes. The blush on your cheeks is prominent, you can feel it, and it would be embarrassing if Bob didn’t have a matching one.

“Thursdays gre-perfect. It’s perfect.” 

You’re discussing which cafe to go to before you shoo Bob away to go pick out his book. God forbid Yelena comes back and he still hasn’t checked out.

There’s a pleasant warmth in your chest when he leaves. And you’re light, like every stress has been lifted away. Maybe it’s adrenaline from your crush being reciprocated, or maybe it’s the bloom of puppy love, either way it's welcomed.

—

When Thursday rolls around, you’re more energized than ever. Practically bouncing around your apartment as you get ready. Using the same body wash, and lotion so the scent really sticks.

Putting on makeup, not too much, but enough so that it enhances your face and gives you some extra ‘shine’.

You also make sure to dress comfortable, cute, but comfortable. You’ve only seen Bob outside of his sweaters a handful of times, and you doubt that a coffee shop date would be the spot he decides to bring out all the stops.

Wait. What if he doesn’t see this as a date. Maybe he just wanted to become friends with you outside your job. Wanted to add onto his never ending revolving companions to accompany him around on his errands. 

No. That’s not right. Bob wouldn’t do that, anyone would have to know that would be leading you on and he doesn’t have the hate in him to do that. No way.

When you get there, Bob’s already sitting down at a table. He’s people watching, looking out the window at all the unsuspecting people passing by.

His hair looks like he styled it instead of letting it do it’s own thing, and he's got a comfy crew-neck on. The slopes of his nose and lips and the way that his lashes lightly brush his cheekbones when he blinks. He’s beautiful like this, unfortunate that you have to break up his peace. 

You slide into the chair across from him, “Hey.”

He’s smiling at you, one of the biggest you’ve seen, “How was the walk?”

“Not bad, a little chilly but that’s nothing new.” 

“Well, let me get you a drink to warm up, yeah?”

You give him your order, and then he’s gone. Up at the counter in a flash, and seemingly back in even less time. 

Like a proper gentleman he hands you yours first. His hand was a little too big on the mug, leaving you no choice but to brush your fingers against his as you go to grip it. Believe it or not, it’s the first time you’ve touched. 

Suddenly, the world is being painted black. It’s creeping up all around you, spreading from where you stand, up the walls, to the ceiling. For a split second it’s just you in this neverending black box.

Then you’re in the backseat of your first ever car. “How the hell?” You’re looking around, trying to figure out how you could have possibly gotten here. You were just with Bob, at a cafe, on your first date.

Then you start murmuring. Not you you, but the younger you, the one sitting in the front seat. She’s talking about how tiring it is being perfect, doing everything that everyone ever asks, always being the one that people know they can rely on, or at the very least fall back on to talk shit about others to. And before you can even finish your rant your fathers screaming back at you. How he owns the house, he lives in the house, he bought your car, he provides everything and asks for so little back. 

You feel the tears before you recognize that you're crying. But you hear her sobs. The way her chest shakes with every breath, the way it's painful to inhale. How the hell did you get here, and why can’t you just get out?

The screaming doesn’t stop, it keeps going, getting progressively worse. You’re clearly ungrateful, and you need to remember your place. When you get your own place, then you can have the thoughts and feelings that you’re currently having. Until then suck it up.

You try to leave, opening the door of the car, but you can’t, you have too much respect for your father. 

The adult you is staring. This was the whole reason you left home after all. All the talk about having a place of your own, the arguments over the way you kept your room, or didn’t clean a specific area of the house. 

It ends with the sound of you sobbing still. Worse than before. Your airways are already compromised with the snot blocking it, and the way you’re trying to suppress the sobs is only making it worse. 

And then it’s melting away. In the same way that it started, but in reverse. The scene fades to black, the ceiling gets its color back first. The rest of the scene coming into view, Bob staring at you is the last thing you register. 

“I-i-i’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?” He’s worried, the stutter proving your thoughts. But how does he know something is wrong? You didn’t see anyone else in there with you, just your own personal hell.

“Did.. Did you do that?” You’re trying to piece together this puzzle. No way that you slice or dice it does it look good. 

His eyes are frantic, you think that’s what tipped you off, “I. I did. I didn’t mean to though! I promise it was an accident.” 

Then you’re pushing past him. Not slowing down as he calls after you. When you make it to the sidewalk, you book it.

What the hell?

What was wrong with him?

What was wrong with you?

How did he even do that?

Did he bring you out on a date just to humiliate you?

Maybe that’s what you deserve, his girl friends probably told him to do it. Even if you don’t understand how it worked, it would make sense; embarrass you to the point where you’d never bother him again.

—

You take the next week off of work. Any shift you can, you give to Tasha. The shifts that you do work, because you need money to live, are the afternoons. Just a few hours, essentially in and out.

As long as no one sells you out, Bob would never know and would never come during that time. 

You told Tasha that the date went bad, but that was all you had disclosed. You hoped she’d be kind enough not to meddle.

She did inform you that he came in often, almost everyday, looking for you. He’d asked when you’d be working next, Tasha told him it was illegal for her to tell him.

He’d left notes with Tasha, and she passed them along. Just for you to toss them in the bin. The one at work, so you wouldn’t be tempted to dig through the trash and see what he wrote.

He asked what you liked, if there was a gift card or book he could get you to apologize. Tasha told him to kick rocks. 

She did let you know that he looked awful. His hair was messy, tousled beyond its normal amount; like he spends all day running his hands through it. 

His eyes had bags under them. They were extremely sunken in, and had a purplish hue to them. His eyes themselves were red, sometimes puffy, most times half-lidded, like opening them took too much energy.

He was almost always sniffling. His nose red from irritation. You told her this had to have been allergies, Tasha insisted it was from crying.

And lastly, his hands. Always fidgeting. Picking at his nail beds, wringing around each other, or cracking his knuckles.

Bob looked worn down. His body, mind and soul. But what did Tasha want you to do about it, it’s not your fault.

—

It’s another week later when a blonde walks into the shop. 

You take a glance at the clock on your computer before speaking, “Hey, just wanted to let you know that we close in a half-an-hour. Take your time though.”

“I’m actually here for you.” 

That sends a chill down your spine. This is New York so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of to be taken hostage. But you haven’t done anything and you have essentially no value, so why are they here for you?

For the first time, you really look at the person in front of you. You know her. Not entirely sure from where, but she’s familiar in a way. 

You take the non-threatening approach, donning a soft smile before you speak, “Yeah of course. What can I do for you?” 

She’s staring at you, and you swear she hasn’t blinked once. It’s like she’s staring through your soul. 

“Bob told me that he sent you to a shame room.” 

“What?” Breath catching in your throat. You remember her now, Yelena. Bob’s most frequent companion. Maybe if you can keep your cool, you’ll get off easy.

“On your date. At the place that does the uhhh, latte art?” Yelena’s still holding eye contact. 

You’re really trying not to sweat, “Oh. Yeah, what about it?”

“You’ve been ignoring him since.” 

You can’t deny it. You literally switched shifts just so you wouldn’t have to see him. So you nod, hoping that suffices.

“He didn’t mean to. He can’t control it.”

What is she even talking about, “Sorry? Can’t control what?” 

“The shame room. Where you went when he touched you?” You hum a bit in response before she continues, “He can’t control that. He’s been good for months, so he thought he could get through a date, with you, safely.”

You don’t understand though. Why can’t he control that? Why can he do that, period. It’s not normal but Bob’s definitely not a superhero that you’ve seen on your TV before.

“Why.. Why can he do that?” If she’s gonna corner you here, you’re at least gonna ask some questions too.

“It’s a long story, not mine to tell. But I’m sure Bob would tell you. If you let him.” Then she’s turning, heading straight for the door. 

That’s it? 

That’s all she had to say?

What, was she trying to scare you into talking to him?

Your heart ached. You thought he liked you, thought he had maybe cared for you like you cared for him. And it’s okay if he didn’t but why did he have to make it the most painful way possible?

—

You don’t get much sleep that night. Tossing and turning as you replay the past few months in your head. Bob was a lot of things, but he wasn’t the type to be malicious. Not the type to purposefully torture others. 

And you doubt he sent Yelena after you. She probably just saw him hurting and decided to step in. Completely understandable, and in its own way that hurt too.

It hurt because it meant that Bob was hurting. He missed you as much as you missed him. And he’s had much less context for why you’re avoiding him.

You decide you’ll go to the shop in the morning. Hang out with Tasha and maybe, if you’re lucky, run into Bob.

—

You manage to fall asleep, not for long but it's better than nothing. The anxiety you have is making you shake.

Whether it's your hands, your arms, or your legs, somethings been moving all morning.

To calm yourself, you take the long way. Make a stop at a cafe, getting Tasha a coffee as well since you’re an amazing coworker. 

When you come up on the bookshop, you can see Bob through the window. 

While you can’t see his face, you know he’s not 100%. 

His shoulders are slouching, caving in on himself it seems. He’s saying something to Tasha, trying to get her to accept another note by the looks of it. 

The jingle of the bell above the door makes both of them freeze. 

Tasha’s eyes widen, recognition that you’re finally facing the music flashing through them. And that must be what makes Bob turn around.

He turns slowly. Eyes slowly roaming over your body before finally landing on your face. His mouth falls open, not a lot, but enough to be noticeable.

Then his lower lip starts to wobble, tears gathering over his waterline making his eyes glassy, and he’s moving towards you.

Slow, unsure steps lead him to a few feet in front of you. His hands move over your shoulders, not daring to touch you, but hovering close enough for you to just barely feel their warmth. 

“I’m so,so,so, sorry. I’ve been working on it, and I just..” He swallows before continuing, not breaking eye contact, “I feel so calm. Like - like I’m at peace, when I’m around you, so I thought it wouldn’t happen. I thought I could break it to you slowly, a-after you accepted a second date.”

You’re just standing there. The damn coffee you got prevents you from wringing your hands, and it’s difficult to bounce your legs when standing. 

The urge to back away from him is strong. But you can tell he’s trying, you can tell that he wants you to believe him.

When Bob realizes you aren’t going to respond, he continues, “I thought it would be too heavy, you know? To tell you about all of this baggage that I have. Thought that if I told you, everything would change.” 

“A warning would have been nice.” You’re not looking at him anymore, instead staring at your shoes. It’s a shame you didn’t trip on your lace on the way here, then you wouldn’t have had to come.

“I know.” Bob sighs, “I know that now. And if I could go back, I would have told you. Warned you even if I ended up being the boy that cried wolf.”

You see his hands retract, no longer hovering over your shoulders. You don’t understand why he pulls his sleeves over his hands. But then he’s placing his, now covered, hands on your shoulders. The grip he has is strong, but not painful, “I need you to know. I didn’t do it on purpose. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Intentionally at least.” 

“So you’d do it unintentionally?” 

You’re being difficult. Intentionally. Mostly because he’s not making sense, what type of scumbag says he’d never hurt you intentionally. That’s like the bare minimum.

“There’s… A lot to explain. I’ll explain it all, if you’ll let me!” He’s leaning a bit now, bending at the knees to get a look into your eyes. 

When you do meet his eyes, you can see the sincerity. They haven’t stopped glistening, still shiny with unshed tears. But it looks like he wants you to look into his soul, to understand that from deep in his core he is apologetic. 

A scumbag wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t have covered their hands to prevent touching you. They wouldn’t have been trying so hard to get in contact with you. 

So you nod. 

You’ve agreed to meet him again. Not on a date, but for some answers. 

He wants to do it today.

You tell him that you need time. To process or prepare, you’re not sure. But you know you need time.

Your feelings about him haven’t had the proper time to dissipate, so a small part of you still hopes that everything could work out.

—

When you do come around and text Bob that you’re ready to talk. His response comes almost immediately.

You invite him to your apartment. It’s more intimate than you would like, however it would save you the embarrassment of how you would end up if he were to send you to a ‘shame room’ again.

When Bob gets there, he's nervous. Just a little twitchy, not too much but enough to be noticeable. 

He’s brought pastries. Something about his mother telling him to ‘never show up empty handed’ tumbles from his lips as he hands them to you.

You offer him a drink, like this is just going to be a fun catch up between pals. 

Not sure what to expect, you lead Bob to your dining room table. It’s a good space to have this conversation, not too comfortable like the couch, but not too formal like standing near the door.

“So -” You can barely get it out of your mouth before Bob starts spilling his life story to you.

He doesn’t go too deep into any one topic, but he makes sure that you can paint a clear picture in your mind.

He had a rough childhood, never close with either of his parents. That led him to drugs, which then ebbed into addiction. 

The addiction sent him all around the world, sometimes trying to get better, most times trying to find more, better, different drugs.

He ended up in Malaysia, they offered him a test run of some new drug. One that would make him ‘better’. 

Everyone could be better, him more than others. 

But then there's a blank slate in his memory. No recollection of what happened after they gave him the drug.

Until he ends up in some bunker with 3 of his 6 companions. They escaped together and have been working to make the world a ‘better place’.

“Wait. What do you mean you've been ‘working to make the world a better place’?” It’s the first time you’ve spoken since he went on his tangent, and Bob looks surprised that you had something to say.

“Well, they do. Not me, I focus on… Communications mostly. Because I don’t have a good enough grasp on my powers yet.” 

“And what exactly do they do?”

“It’s uh - Classified?” 

You scoff, “Classified..? What do you think you are? The Avengers?”

After you mutter your rhetorical question, Bob looks away.

“No way. You’re an Avenger?”

“Technically.” His heads down, leaving you to stare at his scalp instead of his eyes.

“And all the people you came into the shop with? They’re Avengers too?”

“Yeah. They’re more flashy. I’m kind of surprised you didn’t recognize them, to be honest.” He huffs out a laugh, seemingly glad that you’re actually taking part in the conversation now.

Your response is quiet, “It’s a psychological thing.”

Bob hums in response, urging you to continue.

“When you see someone, like a superhero, out of where your brain assumes they would be, most times you miss it. Some of your friends looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I saw them, until now.”

“That’s… Wow, I never knew that.” Bob’s looking at you with a bit of awe in his eyes.

But then he’s straight back to business.

He tells you about how before, his bad days were bad and he’d black out. But now after the treatment, another, worse side of him has awakened. 

That’s how he transported you into one of your worst memories. 

“At least one person from the team stayed with me, all the time. That’s how it was when I first met you.” Bob’s tapping his fingers against the table, in a slow rhythmic pattern, “But then I wanted to take you out. And who goes on a date with a chaperone when we’re adults, right?”

“Yeah, right.” You’re laughing at him, or maybe with him.

“So, I started working on containing my powers more. Working on making them my own, so that I could be by myself. M-more like so I could be alone with you.”

“Just with me?” 

He’s nodding, “Just with you. And it went really good! To the point where I could go out on all sorts of different errands by myself.”

His cup has started to sweat. All the condensation building up on it from being untouched this whole time. Because you care about your well loved table, you reach across and lift his cup before placing it on a coaster. It slows him down for a second before he can continue.

“It was the nerves. O-or at least I think it was the nerves. I don’t know for sure what causes it; nobody does.”

“So, you being nervous about being on a date made you send me to my own personal hell?”

“Being on a date, with you specifically, yes.”

The way he’s opened up to you has greatly increased your trust in him.

If everything he’s saying was true, he had a bad deal in life and he’s doing the best with what he’s got. The Bob you knew did have some confidence problems, taking a while to open up to you originally so it wouldn't be surprising that he would be nervous.

It also wouldn’t be surprising that him being nervous would send his powers out of wack. There’s been articles about it before, how super powered individuals don’t realize the way their emotions are affecting their powers before it’s too late.

And if he’s lying. You’d have to give him a shot for just how damn good of a lie it was. No one could lie that good without a purpose.

So you reach across the table, towards Bob’s fidgeting hand. His eyes aren’t looking up so you only know that he sees you when his fingers stop tapping.

“I want to try.” You gulp and take a steadying breath, “I’d like to try with you if I didn’t put you off too much.”

You’re not touching him. Even though you would be the one suffering, it only felt right for him to make the first move. Not wanting to overstep by triggering his powers again.

After a couple of seconds he still hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked up at you, hasn’t grasped your hand, hasn’t even twitched his fingers.

Then, softly, like if he speaks too loud the room would crack around him, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m sure.”

Slowly, his hand rises up to meet yours. When they connect nothing changes.

No black tendrils crawling up your walls, no darkness consuming you with no escape, no flashbacks to things you don’t want to remember.

The only thing you feel is the warmth from Bob’s hand. The calluses on his palm, small, but still present. You feel the tender way his thumb brushes over your knuckles. 

Once he realizes that nothing’s happening, he grips your hand tighter. It seems unconscious, the surprise from nothing bad happening overtaking him before he can stop it.

He’s beaming at you. A kiddish smile, one that allows all the joy to really shine through. 

You’re no better. Smiling so wide that if you didn’t stop, your cheeks would start to hurt.

Everyone has baggage, some of them more than others. But that doesn’t mean that anyone is undeserving. Doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t give someone a chance to prove that they can be more than their baggage. 

You wouldn’t deprive yourself of this opportunity. Wouldn’t be so unkind to deprive Bob of it either. So with the promise that he would be honest with you. That he would communicate to you, the good and the bad, no matter what. You and Bob start your relationship.

Moving over to the couch, finally able to be comfortable, instead of cordial. The two of you settle into a movie, sitting close. Close enough to touch, but not actually touching.

Until halfway through, when your head comes to rest on his shoulder, and the blanket that you have resting on the back of the couch comes to rest over your laps.

Your curiosity over Bob may have ‘killed’ you, sending you into a week-long depression for many different reasons. Leading to you shutting out the world, not willing to accept the fact that you were wrong about him.

But the way that you’re feeling right now. Feeling Bob lifting his arm to wrap around your shoulders, letting your head fall onto his chest instead of his shoulder. Hearing his heart thumping in his chest, almost lulling you to sleep. 

You know that this is satisfaction. It’s bloomed deep in your chest, taking a permanent residence there. Deeply rooted like it's attached to every neuron in you. And you know that it’s brought you back.

likes/comments/reblogs give me buffs to my character (greatly appreciated <3)

[tttabii]

— 엔하이픈 getting sick - enhypen x reader ₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎

pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖ idol! heeseung, jay, jake, sunoo and ni-ki x idol! reader. ||× genre 𖹭: fluff !! note: writing this while i'm badly sick, i want them to take care of me too and i wrote a bit too much on the ni-ki part

heeseung ˎˊ˗

It was the middle of summer, and god—it was hot.

You had been under the sun for nearly three hours, recording a new music video, your throat sore and dry from yelling out directions to the equipment, dancing under the hot spotlights, and shooting scenes that needed to be shot over and over again. And even though your group's performance was later that evening, your body had other plans.

You'd already been fighting off a sore throat all week, but now? 

Your manager had to rearrange everything last minute. You didn't even have the energy to check your phone. So Heeseung came. Using the spare key he quietly carried around in his wallet, he opened the door to your apartment to find a disaster—tissues everywhere, the air was warm and stuffy, and you were curled up on the bed, nearly falling off your shoulder.

You were breathing heavily, slow and shallow, head burning up as he placed the back of his hand on your forehead. 

You let out a soft whine at the cold touch.

"...Hee..." you croaked, blinking open your eyes to find him kneeling beside your bed.

"Take it slow, baby," he said softly, brushing your hair back slowly. "I'll make you some soup, okay?"

You managed to give a small nod before he disappeared into your kitchen, and somehow just hearing him move around your apartment was comforting and made you feel at home. You pulled yourself out of bed just enough to wash your face and slowly shuffled into the living room.

Heart pounding, you opened your group's Instagram and Weverse notifications—the announcement was out. You weren't going to be performing today. Your fans were already asking questions and worrying about where you were.

You suddenly felt a little guilty, so you opened the live and set your phone up on the table in front of you, curling up on your couch. "Sorry, gu—" you broke into a rough cough, already hoarse.

Your fans could tell immediately that something was wrong. Your usually radiant skin looked pale, your lips were dry, and even though you had attempted to brush your hair just a little, you still looked awful and tired.  

"I'm sick, so I'm not going to be performing," you mumbled, voice soft and cracked. "I'm sorry, bunnies... I promise I'll do my best when I recover." 

From the kitchen, Heeseung watched with a faint smile as he poured soup into a bowl and brewed some herbal tea. He made sure to stay out of the camera's view, even as he walked over and gently placed the bowl of soup in front of you on the coffee table.

But your fans were fast.

"WHO JUST GAVE YOU SOUP?!"

"wait was that a GUY'S HAND???"

"THOSE RINGS..."

"that looked like Heeseung's ring. DON'T PLAY WITH ME."

You panicked, barely having the energy to lie properly. "It's my friend, guys... she's taking care of me right now."

Your voice broke again in the middle of a sentence. You coughed, even warmer, and could feel the throbbing in your temples return worse than before. Even the fans were chirping at you to log off. Heeseung gave you a slight reprimanding look through the screen before you pouted.

"Okay, bye guys!" You rushed out with a heavy wave as you ended the live.

You let out a long exhausted sigh and melted into the couch. Heeseung walked over as you leaned on him, and he hugged you against his chest, trying to invite a little warmth into your cooled body. You could hardly even keep your eyes open.

"Mm... shh," he whispered, and gently kissed your cheek. "I'll bring the food to the table, okay?"

He fed you the soup slowly, helped you take your medicine, and let you rest on his lap while stroking your hair. His phone buzzed. It was Jake.

jake: "bro get on fortnite rn we're wait-"

jake: "WAIT. LOOK AT THIS." [link to a post comparing the rings on "your friend's" fingers to Heeseung's] 

Jake was panicking. Heeseung only sighed, one hand still running along your forehead as you quietly whined in your sleep about the air conditioning being too cold.

Who cared if people suspected?

Let them talk. Let them wonder.

As long as you were by his side—and he could take care of you like this—Heeseung didn't care who found out.

jay ˎˊ˗

You were staying over at Jay's place because last night the rain came down in thick sheets and thunder rumbled so loudly you didn't dare walk home—he'd insisted you stay. And now, less than twelve hours later, the sun was scorching hot outside like it hadn't just stormed. The kind of sudden weather switch that made you feel like your body had been hit by a bus.

And with your weak immune system?

Yeah, you were fucked.

You hardly noticed Jay skittering around in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and lightly humming to himself as he prepared for morning practice. The ache in your head made the world feel as if it were spinning. You opened your eyes slowly, blinked a couple of times, throat was prickly, nose congested, and your head was cloudy.

Jay appeared from the bathroom a second later, towel around his neck, wearing a large smile that was fading fast—until he caught a glimpse of the haze in your eyes.

"Morning, princess," he said, walking toward you to kiss your forehead, never fully finishing his motion, coming to a halt. "...Baby, are you sick?" he said quickly, his brows knitted together as he placed his palm onto the back of your neck.

You were burning up. You gave him a weak nod and curled into the blanket, voice barely above a whisper. "I think I may have caught something..."

Jay wasted no time. Guilt written all over his face. "God! I should have brought an umbrella last night. We should never have been out in the rain..."

You sniffled and reached for him. "It's okay, Jayjay..."

He melted at how you held on to him like a sleepy koala, giving a soft sigh before scooping you up and moving to the bathroom. He wiped down your forehead and back with a cool towel in order to bring your fever down, mumbling apologies while he scrubbed the sweat off of your skin.

Once you were settled back on the couch, propped with all the pillows, Jay tucked a blanket in tight, told you not to move, and raced off to the nearest pharmacy for medicine. You knew he was worried, Jay always had that look of a worried parent when you were sick—the deep furrowed brow and concerned furrowed forehead.

While you waited, you made your way over to Jay's vinyl collection. He had played records for you before; the best jazz and mellow artists, that always felt warm. You picked one and let the soothing piano notes fill the apartment as you tucked back on the couch, missing Jay already.

You must have fallen asleep because the next thing you felt was his soft voice waking you up. "Sweetheart... wake up just for a bit... I made food."

He fed you warm homemade chicken soup with veggies, spoonful-by-spoonful, and made sure to watch closely to see that you ate enough before giving you medicine.

You took a quick photo of the meal after he left the bowl on the table, a cute little spread of home-cooked dishes. You uploaded it to your private account with a soft, simple caption:

"oops 🍵💤"

Immediately, fans flooded the post trying to guess if you had caught a cold. Some mentioned how comforting the food looked and a couple of the sharp eyed ones spotted the shadow cast by the glaring sunlight—two shadowy silhouettes.

One of the shadows had a slight fluff of hair that some fans questioned if looked... familiar. Some even commented that the food looked very similar to something Jay made during a prior cooking live.

Whoops.

But no one could really tell. No name. No face. Just a soft launch gone slightly sideways.   

Jay didn't care. When he saw the post he softly chuckled under his breath then lightly rubbed your back while whispering, "Next time I will make sure my shadow is more subliminal."

You just smiled sleepily resting your head against his shoulder. Fever aside, you always felt better when Jay was near.

jakeˎˊ˗

Jake had finally recovered from his weekly IV drip—the kind he still got squeamish about despite being used to it—and now, right on cue, you were sick too. Perhaps it was the cold snap, perhaps it was the jet lag from flying out to Japan with him right after you had your own tour, either way, your immune system didn't stand a chance.

Still, you showed up for him.

You sat in the VIP area with a few friends, bundled up in his favorite black leather jacket. Fans began murmuring, cameras clicked, whispers started going around on online forums. Eventually, even the loudest people in the room went quiet when they noticed you were there; at first trying to guess which member's jacket it was. 

"That jacket looks like Sunghoon's. Didn't he wear that in a photo a few weeks ago?"

"Wait no, isn't that Jake's?" 

Then someone zoomed in and caught the tiny detail no one expected: a small, gold retriever pin tucked near the zipper. The same pin Jake had worn a few times—once on his bag, once on his jacket in a Weverse live.

Oops.

Fans connected the dots faster than you could sneeze.

"SHE HAS THE SAME DOG PIN AS JAKE."

"Didn't she say on live last month she said she loves golden retrievers too??"

"Is this a soft launch or we keep being delusional again?"

Some were in denial, just a coincidence.

"No way. Everyone loves dogs. It is probably just a similar pin. She probably got it after seeing Jake wear his 🫠"

But others were already finding and editing side by side images. And in the middle of all this chaos, you were just sitting back stage, tissues in hand, warm paper cup of water providing lukewarm comfort for your raw throat. The lights and audience made your head spin so a staff member helped you find your way behind the stage, as you were trying not to faint.

Jake, while performing, had been searching the audience for your face. His heart sank when he was unable to see you anywhere. Then he rushed back stage during break and saw you right away, tucked away on the bench, passed out, bundled up in his jacket and sniffling miserably.

"Y/n," he said quietly, crouching down in front of you. "Why did you not tell me you felt this bad?" 

You blinked up at him. "Didn't wanna distract you. You're mid-show, Jakey."

He exhaled softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. "You're more important anyways."

A manager filled him in—how you'd likely gotten sick from the back-to-back traveling and sudden cold winds. Jake stood, nodding, then pressed some cash into the manager's hands.

"If she gets worse, take her to the hotel. And please grab some soup for her. Something comforting. Nothing spicy," he added with a knowing glance, knowing your love for spicy stuff.

Before he headed back to the stage, he kissed your temple, his hand gently cupping your cheek for a little too long. "I'll be back soon, angel... just wait for me."

Later that evening, Jake quietly opened the door to your hotel room, tossing the key card on the table before he slipped his shoes off completely. You were there, curled in a burrito of blankets wearing one of his oversized white shirts—legs bare and cold feet tucked into the covers. The tissue box was nearly empty on the nightstand and your nose was an angry red from previously blowing it so often.

He smiled softly, slipping between the sheets next to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your back against his chest. "You took the medicine, right?" He murmured against your hair.

You groaned. "I hate that syrup. It tastes so bitter.

Jake chuckled, kissing you softly first on your forehead, and then your cheek, and progressing to kissing your jaw. "You need it, bitter or not."

You shook your head, trying to hide under the blanket again, but he gently pulled you back. "Baby," he whispered, "I'll kiss you every time you take a sip."

Your eyes peeked out. "Everywhere?"

His smirk was immediate. "Everywhere."

You sighed dramatically. "Fine."

He held the cup up, waited while you pinched your nose and gulped it down, then kept his promise—pressing warm, feathery kisses all over your face, down your neck, even to your shoulders.

"See?" he whispered, settling under the covers with you again. "Not so bad."

You nuzzled closer. "You're lucky you're cute."

Jake chuckled, kissing your nose. "And you're lucky I'm hopelessly in love with you."

The fans could speculate all they wanted. But your head on Jake's chest, his arms tight around your waist, his whispered I love yous between medicine doses—was real, and he was yours only. 

sunooˎˊ˗

Lately, you and Sunoo had been obsessed with spicy food—spicy fried chicken, spicy tteokbokki, even spicy ramyeon at 1 a.m. The cravings hit both of you hard, and after every fiery meal, you two would cool off with mint choco ice cream like it was your thing.

The thing was—your spice tolerance wasn't like Sunoo's. Your throat was starting to bother you, but you didn't want to ruin the fun so you kept quiet. 

Not the best move. 

That night, after the spicy food coma set in, you and Sunoo did your skincares together—Sunoo dabbing toner with a cotton pad to your cheeks, while adjusting your headband like the skincare king he was. He laughed when you pouted at your sniffling, red, nose. "Too much spice, baby," he teased. You smiled, snuggling up beside him in bed, swiftly falling asleep. 

Then the alarm rang the next morning. 

You blinked awake slowly, throat so dry it felt like paper, damn near scratchy as hell. You reached over to shut the alarm off, hardly able to hum at all. Sunoo was already awake, arms around your waist softly, scrolling through his phone. 

He looked down to you the moment he felt movement in bed. 

"Morning, baby," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

You hummed again. That was when he noticed.

His head snapped up. "Wait... are you sick? And you didn't tell me last night?!"

You croaked, "Sorry... it's just my throat."

"Ugh, you're going to go from that to coughs to fevers. We've been eating spicy food and mint choco like it's a game! Why didn't you tell me?!" Sunoo groaned dramatically as he pulled you closer.

You gave him a small shrug, feeling too tired to faze it. He didn't scold you for long.

He wrapped you tighter in his arms, guiding you to the kitchen, making you sit while he brewed warm herbal tea. He even gave you one of his throat-soothing pills from his little skincare/pill kit. He showered you himself, rubbing your back gently, then gave you little massages where your muscles ached, whispering, "My poor baby..."

"Next time," he said shyly with a pout, "we're eating sweet and sour food only. No crazy spice unless I approve." You nodded into his chest, throat sore but heart completely full.

Later that morning, while bundled up in Sunoo's hoodie, legs over his lap as he massaged your calves, you posted on Weverse:

Never eating spicy food and then mint choco again 😿

It was innocent, but your fans immediately caught on.

You never mentioned mint choco before—always claimed it was "too toothpaste-coded." And last night, Sunoo posted a picture of a spicy feast and a suspicious bowl of mint choco beside it.

The comments flooded in.

"Wait didn't Sunoo post the same food?? 👀"

"THE TIMING DON'T PLAY WITH US"

"Bestie just soft launched her bf I fear 😭"

"Omg are you and Sunoo dating?! This can't be a coincidence."

Meanwhile, Sunoo peeked over your shoulder, reading the comments and laughing.

"You outed yourself," he teased, pecking your cheek. "My little mint-choco victim."

You groaned, voice still raspy. "Worth it... maybe."

He giggled. "Next time, we're eating rice and soup. That's final."

ni-kiˎˊ˗

You had just gotten off the plane and already felt like you were in hell. Your hoodie was glued to your skin, your cramps were worsening by the second, and to top it all off=—your period was going rogue in the middle of an extremely busy airport.

The air conditioning were blasting, but you were sweating as if it were 40°C. Fans were cheering, calling your name, waving signs and phones in your face. You loved them, just not today. Not when your head felt heavy, your body felt weak, and every nerve ending was screaming for silence and space.

You were wearing a baggy grey hoodie—Ni-ki's hoodie, of course—and a cap low over your face, a black mask covering your pale skin. You didn't want anyone to see how bad you looked. You just wanted to make it to the SUV outside. That's all.

Unfortunately, today wasn't going to be easy.

The sea of fans was insane. Bodyguards were attempting to keep the fans away, but some even the male fans were just pushing in too close. You kept your head down, ignored the flashing cameras, and didn't wave—not that you didn't care to, but your body wasn't processing the situations engendered by fandom.

That didn’t stop the fake fans from filming you anyway, uploading clips online with captions like:

"She didn't even smile."

"Why is she always acting like she's better than everyone?"

"Ugh, such a bitch. Not even a wave?"

"Look at her face, it's like she's disgusted by her own fans."

"I've supported her since debut but this? I'm done."

Real fans, however, were not buying the charade at all. They saw the slumping shoulders. The members gently holding you. The sweat on your forehead. The mask was hiding a certain paleness. And they came to your defense as much as the posted needed, writing:

"Guys... she looks sick."

"Leave her alone, she literally looks like she's about to faint and y'all are screaming in her face."

"Fake fans are exposing themselves fr."

 "Protect her at all costs. She doesn't deserve this hate." 

From the opposite gate, Ni-ki spotted you instantly. You were hard to miss, even in disguise. The hoodie. The posture. He could tell from meters away something was wrong. Your head was down. You were barely moving. You looked like you were seconds away from collapsing. And then... you did.

Your knees gave out, your vision went black for a second, and you dropped.

Chaos broke loose. Fans gasped, phones shot up, and your members swarmed to you. But it was Ni-ki that got to you first, pushing past airport staff urgently to reach you, gently grabbing your shoulders and saying your name softly. His group's SUV had just arrived, and without missing a beat he wrapped you in his hoodie, hiding you from view as he helped you inside the car.

Fans lost it.

Photos and videos of the two of you were circulated on the internet within minutes. The matching grey hoodies. The careful way he was holding you together as if you were glass. The way he pulled you into his car.

And of course, the rumors began to explode. The supportive fans were the first to jump into the fray:

"He literally carried her into the van. He didn't care who was watching."

"That's his hoodie. That's HER hoodie. That's THEIR hoodie now."

"Ni-ki was livid when he saw her faint. He cares so much I'm crying."

"Whether they are dating or not, she needed help and he was there. Respect."

But the toxic crowd quickly followed:  

"So unprofessional of her to faint in public."

"Why is he babying her like she's five?"

"I swear if they're dating I'm unstanning."

"She's not even that pretty why would Ni-ki go for her?"

"She always needs someone to save her, can't stand girls like that."

When you saw the trending Twitter tags - #ni-ki, #getwellsoonY/N, #matchinghoodie, #Y/Nattheairport, you clicked into the replies. 

Bad decision. You scrolled on in silence, chest tightening with every scornful reply, tears in your eyes, not just from being sick but from the sheer stupidity of it. That was when Ni-ki took your phone away.

Locked it up with one hand and put it out of reach. "You're not looking at that garbage," he said flatly.

"But-"

"No. I don't care what they say. You're sick. You fainted. And I'm here. That's what matters." He tucked you into the hotel bed, hoodie still wrapped around you, soup warming on the tray table.

He massaged your temples and brushed brushes hair out of your eyes, kissed your forehead and whispered,   "They don't deserve to know who you really are anyway."

Later on, that night, the hate just got worse. Clips of you fainting. Of Ni-ki helping you. Of the hoodie. The SUV. Fan edits with sad dramatic music. People scrutinizing every breath you took like it was a crime scene. And I mean the comments... they hurt.

So you went live. You just couldn't stay quiet any longer. You popped on wearing your pajama hoodie, your nose visibly red from blowing it so often. Your voice came out raspy, lower than usual, broken by coughs and sniffles every few words.

"Hey... I just wanted to clear something up" You began quietly and within seconds thousands of people were lifting up your notification. "I wasn't trying to be rude. I wasn't trying to ignore anyone when I was at the airport. I've been sick... I've been really sick."

Fans started flooding the comments: 

"You sound so sick omg :("

"Don't explain yourself we understand!!"

"Your voice TT please rest!!"

"Red nose and raspy voice oh no baby T_T"

"We love you no matter what. Health comes first."

You gave a weak laugh, sniffling. "Even though it was cold at the airport, I felt like I was burning up. And I was on my period, I... I genuinely thought I was gonna faint. I didn't mean to look cold or annoyed. I was just trying to get to the car."

You sighed, taking a sip of tea.

"And about Ni-ki..." you paused. "He just happened to be there. He brought his SUV before ours, and he helped me out because—Well, he's nice. That was all, I didn't ask him to help me, and it was dead nice of him." You bowed your head a bit, saying in a quiet voice, "I am sorry I didn't smile or wave or stop. I truly am. I just wasn't okay."

Comments blew up with reassurance, hearts and "it's okay's" galore. But then—just as you wiped your nose and reached for another tissue—your hotel room door creaked open behind you.

You didn't even realize at first. Ni-ki came into frame, barefoot, hair a mess, wearing a black tank top and your hoodie wrapped around him. He noticed your propped-up camera, and paused.

"...Are you live right now?" he asked, confused.

Your eyes widened in horror, slowly turning your head towards the camera and blinking. "....Yeah," you whispered.

Ni-ki squinted at the screen, and then at you. "Wait—wait, did you you just apologized?"

"Ni-ki—"  

"Are you kidding me?" He stepped fully into view now that he was visibly annoyed. "Why are you saying sorry when it's not even your fault?"

The comments exploded:

"WAIT HE'S IN HER ROOM??"

"NAH. NAH. NAH."

"YALL LIVE TOGETHER??"

"So, they're DATING???"

"Is this a soft launch or a HARD EXPOSE???"

You panicked to mute the mic, eyes wide and waving your arms. "Ni-ki, you're on live—!"

He blinked. "...So?."

You turned back to the camera all flushed, "So... yeah."

He leaned in and didn't even bother to conceal it now. "Hey. I'm already here—she's not going to read any other comments tonight. She's going to get rest. That's all we have. Goodnight."

Just like that, he ended the live for you. The screen went black. But the internet exploded.

"he's literally so protective over her??? ending her live, talking about 'us' not even'‘her'😭😭 "

"just say you're dating already omg we're not stupid"

"they didn't even hide it... same hoodie, same room, same SOUL"

"my mama and papa"

"he said 'she's not gonna read comments tonight' like who gave you husband rights?? oh wait"

"this is literally their soft launch and I'm crying"

"they're not even denying it anymore lmfao"

"she looked so sick but he looked at her like she hung the stars???"

"you mean to tell me ni-ki's been taking care of her while she's sick and getting hated on?? king behavior"

"y'all bullied a sick girl and then watched her bf walk in and protect her like a k-drama. embarrassing tbh"

"we owe her an apology fr she didn't even do anything but exist and faint"

Though of course, there's still bitterness going around: 

"she's milking this for clout now"

"i bet it was staged. who goes live when they're sick?"

"not her crying again"

"ni-ki deserves better"

"This isn't professional. Idols dating is okay, but being messy with it? NO WAY."

But that was immediately drowned out. Because the next trending comment thread was:

"anyway, when's the couple vlog?"

"pre-debut we got hints. WE BEEN KNOWING."

"them in grey hoodies is more iconic than the Eiffel Tower now"

"I'm framing that 'she's not reading comments tonight' moment. ACTUAL HUSBAND ENERGY." 

Ni-ki chuckled softly as he scrolled through the flood of comments, the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes. You were curled up against his chest, face nuzzled into his hoodie, barely keeping your eyes open from how drained you felt. Still recovering, still tired—mentally and physically.

"Look," he murmured, tilting the phone a bit so you could see. "These are the ones you should be reading."

He gently tapped the screen, showing a thread of sweet comments.

You hummed weakly, barely glancing, your forehead still resting against his chest. He could feel how warm you were—your fever hadn't fully gone down—but you managed a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Ni-ki kissed the top of your head and whispered, "That's more like it." Then, with one arm still wrapped protectively around you, he set the phone down again and pulled the blanket tighter around both of you.

"You don't have to deal with any of it. Not when I'm here," he whispered.

[hereforuconnwbb]

The Study of Us - CHAPTER 10

paige x azzi (pazzi)

au fic!

word count: 5.1k

warning: none

hey lovelyssss heres chap 10 !! nm to say abt it but that once again it is unedited 😭 lmk what yall think abt this chapter !! hope u guys enjoy🫶🏽

‼️‼️this wasn’t edited

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

Friday morning came quietly. The week had flown by faster than either of them realised. The days had been spent sitting close, papers spread across the desk, voices low and patient, the steady rhythm of their sessions folding into something natural and comfortable.

Azzi’s alarm on her phone buzzed softly next to her bed. She’d woken early and instinctively reached for it.

Azzi: morning p 💗

Azzi:  u ready for tdy ? 

A minute later, Paige’s reply appeared.

Paige: morning az 💗

Paige: not too sure tbh

Paige: i feel liek ik some things and then other stuff js slips away when i try to focus 😭

Paige: but tysm for sticking with me thru this whole thing tho

Azzi smiled to herself, the warmth in her chest growing as she typed back quickly.

Azzi: u have worked hard for this. that’s what matters most

Azzi: we got this

There was a pause before Paige’s next message.

Paige: would it be alr if i come over ??

Paige: maybe we could go thru a couple last things before we leave ?

Azzi didn’t hesitate.

Azzi: yea ofc. come on over whenever 

Azzi: i will make some eggs and toast too :)

She set her phone down and started getting ready, the morning moving around her in slow, easy steps. There was no rush. The day was theirs to face together.

—---------------------------------------------

The soft knock on Azzi’s door barely echoed in the quiet dorm hallway. She was just pulling on a sweater when she heard it, and a smile spread across her face before she even moved.

“Coming !” Azzi called, stepping quickly to open the door.

Paige was there, looking a little tired but with that familiar spark in her eyes that always made Azzi’s chest warm. Without thinking, Azzi reached out and pulled Paige into a gentle hug, fingers threading through her hair for a moment.

“Hey,” Azzi whispered, voice soft.

“Hey,” Paige replied, leaning in just a little before pulling back, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks for letting me crash your morning.”

Azzi shrugged, stepping aside. “You know you’re always welcome.”

Paige slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her. She moved toward the small lounge area, lowering herself onto the couch with a sigh. Azzi watched her for a beat, then turned toward the kitchen.

“I’ll bring us some breakfast,” Azzi said, moving quickly but carefully.

In a few minutes, Azzi returned carrying two plates, the steam rising from the warm eggs and toast. She set them down on the low table, then sank down beside Paige.

They ate quietly at first, the comfort of shared space wrapping around them like a soft blanket. Paige’s fingers toyed nervously with the edge of her sleeve, and Azzi caught the small gesture with a quiet smile.

“You ok ?” Azzi asked, voice gentle.

Paige nodded, though a little hesitantly. “Yea, jus… you know, the usual jitters. But this feels good—being here with you.”

Azzi reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair behind Paige’s ear, the touch light and reassuring.

“We’re ready. You’re ready. No matter what happens today, that’s what counts.”

Paige’s smile deepened, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a bit. In this moment, the world felt steady, grounded in warmth, quiet companionship, and the unspoken promise of whatever was unfolding between them.

—---------------------------------------------

They lingered over breakfast longer than they needed to, neither 1 in a rush to break the easy quiet between them. The eggs were simple, the toast a little unevenly buttered, but Paige swore it was perfect.

Azzi didn’t argue. She just smiled softly as Paige reached for the last bite on her plate and made a dramatic show of how good it was.

When they were both finished, Paige stood and reached for the plates before Azzi could stop her.

“I’ll wash them,” she said, already headed toward the kitchen.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Paige tossed a glance over her shoulder. “You cooked. It’s only fair.”

Azzi let her go without protest, watching her move around the space like she belonged there. It did something small and tender in her chest.

While Paige worked at the sink, Azzi crossed the room and grabbed her folder of notes from the desk. She brought everything to the couch and settled in, folding 1 leg underneath her, waiting.

When Paige came back, drying her hands on a paper towel, Azzi looked up and smiled.

“Ready ?” she asked.

Paige nodded, then paused scanning the space beside Azzi. Without saying anything, she slid onto the couch next to her, close enough that their sides brushed. Then, gently, she leaned into Azzi’s back, arms slipping around her waist as her chin came to rest on Azzi’s shoulder.

Azzi’s breath caught for half a second but then she relaxed into it like it was the most natural thing in the world. She leaned back slightly, letting herself fit into Paige’s hold, her head tipping slihgtly to the side so her temple could rest against Paige’s cheek.

“This ok ?” Paige murmured.

Azzi nodded, her voice soft. “Yea. More than okay.”

They sat like that for a moment, the notes still untouched on Azzi’s lap. Then Azzi picked them up and flipped through the pages.

“Alrighty. Let’s go over a couple things, yea ?”

Paige gave a sleepy hum of agreement, her arms still wrapped around Azzi, her thumbs tracing absent circles just below her ribs. Azzi’s voice stayed calm and focused as she moved through the review, occasionally tilting her head to glance at Paige’s answers, her own handwriting scrawled neatly across diagrams and formula sheets.

“Ok,” Azzi said, tapping the corner of the next problem with her pen. “Let’s try this one—eigenvalues for this matrix here.”

Paige squinted at it, pulling her arms in a little to think. “Um… you find the determinant of A minus lambda I, right ?”

“Right,” Azzi nodded. “And then ?”

“You… set it equal to zero and solve for lambda?”

“Exactly.”

Paige tried to work through the problem in her head, but her brows knit together after a second. “Wait, how do I know I’m setting it up right again ? I always get stuck when there’s variables in the diagonal.”

Azzi paused for a second, then smiled. “Remember how I explained it before ?”

Paige blinked, then let out a breath of laughter. “Oh my god, yeaaaaa. You said the diagonal was like the players running a full-court press, and the rest of the team had to hold their zones until the pressure backed off.”

Azzi laughed too, her body shaking lightly in Paige’s arms. “Exactly. And you subtract lamvda from the diagonal entries because they’re the ones applying pressure and everything else stays the same unless the press breaks.”

Paige grinned against Azzi’s shoulder. “Okok, that actually helped so much.”

She refocused, working through the rest of the problem aloud while Azzi listened patiently. When she got to the end, Azzi glanced at the work and nodded.

“You nailed it.”

“Let’s gooooooooo,” Paige whispered dramatically into Azzi’s ear, squeezing her gently.

Azzi laughed again, leaning her head back further until it bumped lightly against Paige’s. “Told you you were ready.”

They stayed like that for a while longer, the review continuing in quiet fits and starts. Calculus derivatives turned into little memory games. Paige mumbled through integrals and Azzi softly corrected her when needed, guiding her through it like they had all week.

Eventually, Azzi’s notes thinned out, more comfort than study material now. Paige had gone quiet, no longer tracing patterns on her side, instead, just resting, arms loosely around Azzi’s waist, her cheek warm against her shoulder.

Azzi checked the time, a small sigh escaping before she turned her head slightly. “We should probably head over now.”

Paige groaned into her shoulder. “Five more mins ?”

Azzi smiled. “If we wait five more, you’ll ask for ten.”

Paige leaned back, releasing her with a dramatic stretch. “Fine. But only because I’m feeling weirdly prepared and don’t wanna jinx it.”

Azzi set the notes aside and stood, brushing her palms over her sweats. “You are prepared. You’ve been locked in all week.”

“Not true,” Paige said, rising to her feet with a small bounce. “There were at least two days where I zoned out thinking about mac n cheese and couldn’t remember what a derivative even was.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you still nailed that practice quiz we did last night.”

Paige beamed, grabbing her jacket from the back of the coach. “Welp, that was mostly thanks to you.”

Azzi glanced at her, the smile soft and quiet. “You didn’t need much help. You just needed someone to believe you could do it.”

They both moved around the room in an easy rhythm. When everything was packed, they met near the door.

Paige bumped her shoulder against Azzi’s as she reached for the handle. “If I blank mid-exam, I’m blaming you.”

Azzi tilted her head. “For what ?”

“For setting the bar so high,” Paige said, grinning. “Now my brain thinks it’s supposed to remember everything.”

Azzi laughed. “That’s the idea.”

—---------------------------------------------

The walk was filled with light convos and the occasional shoulder bump when Paige got too animated describing how she’d probably freeze on question 1 and have to wing it with confidence. Azzi just smiled through most of it, offering a quiet reassurance here and there that Paige really was ready, even if she didn’t fully believe it yet.

As they neared the lecture hall, the mood shifted slightly to something more focused and a lil heavier. Other students were already filing in, some reviewing notes, others sitting with blank stares like they were trying to mentally teleport somewhere else. 

Azzi and Paige paused just inside, scanning the projector screen where the seating chart was displayed. Paige squinted, reading aloud under her breath. “Ok… I’m seat 4B… and you’re—”

“4D,” Azzi finished, already spotting the row. “We’re kinda next to each other.”

Paige exhaled with mock relief. “Thank god. If I have a meltdown mid-test, at least you’ll be close enough to hear it.”

Azzi gave her a look. “Just read the questions first. Don’t panic.”

“I make no promises,” Paige whispered dramatically as they made their way down the aisle.

Coincidentally their assigned row was already partially filled. Aubrey sat in 4A, legs stretched out and tapping her pencil against the desk rhythmically, while Caroline was on 4C, flipping through flashcards. Both looked up when they noticed Paige and Azzi approaching.

“Well well well,” Aubrey said, her grin already forming. “Look who finally showed up. Had to squeeze in one last study cuddle ?”

Paige shot her a look as she dropped into her seat in between Aubrey and Caroline. “It was a review sesh.”

“Mhmmmmm,” Caroline said, not even bothering to hide her smirk as Azzi quietly took her seat on the other side of her. “You look very academically prepared.”

Azzi didn’t say anything, just busied herself with pulling out a pencil and glancing forward.

As students continued to file in, the professor finally stepped up to the center of the room and clapped his hands once, grabbing everyone’s attention.

“Alright,” he called out. “Linear algebra and calc. You’ve had all week to prep, and now it’s time for the real deal. No phones, no notes, no excuses.”

The professor began walking through the aisles, handing out last-minute instructions and exam booklets. When he reached their row, he paused just in front of Paige’s desk.

He offered her a kind, knowing smile and lowered his voice. “Good luck, Paige. I’m sure you’ll smash it today… especially after all that extra tutoring with your girlfriend I’ve seen.”

A beat of silence.

Azzi’s head snapped up.

Paige blinked. “She’s not—” Her voice came out too fast, too high. “We’re not—uh—we’re just friends.”

The professor raised a brow like he didn’t buy it for a second. “Right right. Of course. You said that last time.” He gave them both a wink. “Still. It’s been nice watching you both work so hard. Very sweet.”

Then, before Paige could muster a reply, he gave her a light, encouraging pat on the back.

Paige opened her mouth again, then closed it, clearly at a loss.

Beside her, Aubrey let out a loud cough that suspiciously sounded like a laugh, and Caroline didn’t even try to hide hers, covering her mouth as her shoulders shook.

Azzi had gone completely still, the tips of her ears visibly pink.

The professor moved on like nothing happened, continuing down the row to distribute the rest of the exams.

Paige froze for a moment, cheeks flushing deep as she glanced sideways at Azzi, a nervous laugh bubbling out that quickly turned into a quiet, embarrassed smile. She dropped her eyes, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.

Azzi’s own laugh was low and awkward, her head tilting down just slightly, trying not to meet Paige’s gaze. Caroline, sitting between them, caught the moment and snorted softly, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips.

Paige cleared her throat, still blushing, and just murmured, “Ok… that just happened.”

Azzi gave a small, shy nod, eyes still on her lap. “Yep.”

Aubrey leaned forward slightly from her seat. “Girlfriend, ay ?”

Caroline chimed in, still grinning. “You two are so bad at hiding it.”

“We’re not hiding anything,” Paige muttered, tugging her jacket up like it might shield her from further embarrassment.

“Exactly,” Aubrey said. “That’s the problem.”

Before Paige could fire back, the professor returned to the front of the room.

“Alright class, you may now begin,” he called, and the room filled with the sounds of pages turning and nervous throat clears.

Paige stared down at the first problem and let out a slow, focused breath.

The quiet rustle of pages and scratching of pencils filled the room. Her fingers curled slightly around the pencil, but for a moment, her mind blanked.

Azzi noticed immediately. Her pencil paused mid-scribble, and without a word, she angled her body just enough to catch Paige’s eye. Azzi took a slow, deliberate breath, in and out, steady and even. Then she gave Paige a small, encouraging smile.

Paige’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, the tension loosening. She mirrored the breath, slow and steady, matching Azzi’s rhythm, and the warm confidence spread like a spark across the court of her nerves. Her pulse slowed, the panic retreating behind her focus.

The first few questions flowed beneath her pencil—straightforward matrices, simple derivatives, nothing to trip over. She moved with more ease, her mind settling into the rhythm of problem-solving. The numbers and variables felt less like obstacles and more like players moving on the court, each with a role and purpose.

Then she hit a stop, a layered problem, a tangle of integrals and eigenvalues that made her pause. Her breath hitched as the old fear bubbled up again. For a split second, the room seemed to tilt, the numbers blurring like defenders closing in fast.

But then, just as suddenly, the memory flickered of the late-night study session with Azzi a few days ago, the way they had talked through it slowly, breaking it down step-by-step. She pictured Azzi’s hand tracing through the problem, Azzi’s voice breaking down the “pick-and-roll” of the calculus, the way 1 part set up the next, how you could anticipate the moves and find the open shot.

Paige’s fingers tightened around the pencil, steadying, and she began again, this time with a clear path forward. Step by step, she dismantled the problem, the pieces falling into place like a practiced play. The panic faded again fully now, replaced by a quiet confidence as she wrote the final answer with a small, satisfied nod.

Azzi glanced over once more, her eyes bright with encouragement and a subtle pride, before returning to her own test.

Paige settled deeper into the chair, the nervous energy replaced by a steady determination

—---------------------------------------------

The final question appeared across the bottom of the page. Paige gave it a quick scan, noting the multistep logic and a sneaky limit tucked at the end, but instead of the familiar wave of dread, she felt momentum. Like the game was tied and the clock was winding down, but the ball was in her hands and her footing was solid.

Her pencil moved with purpose. She could almost hear Azzi’s voice again, low and clear: “Start with what you know.” So she did. She worked through each piece slowly, cautiously, and then faster as confidence grew. Substitution, simplification, draw the line between what’s real and what’s just noise. She boxed her final answer with a small flourish.

Just as she leaned back to glance over her work, the professor’s voice rang out from the front.

“All right, everyone—pencils down !”

A collective exhale filled the lecture hall. Some students stretched. Others slumped forward, mentally drained. Paige let her pencil roll off her fingers and onto the desk with a soft clatter. Her shoulders fell in relief, a slow, satisfied grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

“I’ll come around to collect,” the professor added, already making his way down the rows.

As he approached, Paige turned her test over neatly and slid it to the corner of her desk, fingers brushing over the cover one last time. She caught Azzi’s eye again, she looked calm and unfazed, like she’d just jogged a mile and hadn’t broken a sweat. Their gazes locked, and this time, Paige was the one who smiled first.

“Seems like you killed it,” Azzi mouthed, her eyes crinkling ever so slightly.

Paige’s grin widened.

As the professor passed, they handed in their papers 1 after the other, then gathered their things in unison. Aubrey let out a groan as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

“Well, that was kinda evil,” she muttered.

“Speak for yourself,” Caroline said breezily, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. “That was the least painful one yet. I’m calling that a win.”

The 4 of them filed out into the hallway, their steps naturally syncing as they moved away from the room. 

“I’m gonna head back to my dorm and get my stuff together,” Aubrey said, nudging Caroline lightly with her elbow.

“Yea, same,” Caroline replied. “Gotta finish packing before I head out.”

They shared a knowing glance as Aubrey shot a playful look back at Paige. “Text if you forget your toothbrush again.”

Paige rolled her eyes with a soft laugh. “Bruh that was one time.”

“Sure it was,” Caroline called back over her shoulder as the 2 of them disappeared down the corrifdor.

And then it was just Paige and Azzi.

They lingered just outside, the hallway quieting now that the post-test rush had eased. Paige leaned against the wall for a second, letting the calm wash over her. Azzi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned to her, voice soft.

“So…” Azzi asked, tilting her head slightly. “How’d it feel?”

Paige looked at her. She didn’t need to think long.

“Better than I expected,” she said honestly. “There were a couple problems that tried to mess with me, but I think I handled them ok. I didn’t freeze up, at least not for long.” Her eyes flicked to Azzi’s. “And… I remembered a lot of what we went over.”

Azzi’s smile grew, quiet and proud. “I could tell. You looked pretty locked in.”

Paige gave a modest shrug, but her cheeks warmed again—this time for a different reason entirely. “I mean… having you there definitely helped.”

Azzi laughed gently. “I didn’t do anything but breathe and stare at you.”

“Exactly,” Paige said, nudging her with her elbow, then immediately pretending like she hadn’t just flirted. “Anyways… I should probs go and  pack my stuff too before it gets late.”

Azzi nodded, lifting her backpack a little higher on her shoulder. “Makes sense.”

There was a small pause. Paige rubbed her thumb along the strap of her own bag before looking back up.

“Hey,” she said casually, “you wanna come with ? I mean, just to hang around while I pack.”

Azzi blinked, surprised by the offer, but she recovered quickly with a soft smile. “Yea,” she said, voice light. “Sure. I’d like that.”

Paige’s lips curled into a grin she couldn’t quite suppress, heart tapping just a little faster again but for the best reason.

They fell into step together, headed down the hall and toward Paige's  dorm. The test was done, the stress was behind them, and now, for the first time all day, the world felt a little lighter.

—---------------------------------------------

The door clicked shut behind them as Paige dropped her keys into the small dish by the entrance.

“As usual, make yourself at home,” Paige said as she took off her shoes.

Azzi was already moving toward the couch, sinking into the far corner like she belonged there, legs folded under her and an easy expression on her face. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Paige shot her a quick look, the edges of her mouth curling upward, before turning to the open bag on the floor. She crouched down next to it, unzipping the main compartment and tugging out a few folded items that had clearly been laid out with care earlier. 

The silence that settled between them wasn’t awkward—it was warm, comfortable, but still laced with the faint hum of something unspoken. Azzi watched her from the couch, chin resting on her knuckles, a soft smile tugging at her lips every time Paige muttered to herself or double-checked an item.

Paige reached for a few pieces of neatly stacked gear on her dresser and tucked them into the duffel 1 by 1.

“Ok,” Paige mumbled to herself. “Shoes, airpids, contact case… what else, what else…”

“You packed chargers?” Azzi asked from the couch.

Paige turned slightly over her shoulder. “Are you calling me predictable?”

Azzi lifted a brow. “No. I’m calling you practical. That flight is like three hours if I remember correctly, and you can’t survive without your tech.”

Paige smirked, but her cheeks warmed as she turned back to her packing. “Maybe I packed a backup portable.”

Azzi grinned, satisfied.

Paige zipped a smaller side pocket closed and let out a breath. “I always feel like I’m forgetting sum.”

Azzi stretched out 1 leg, then the other, letting her knees fall slightly apart as she slid down a little more into the couch cushions. “Want help remembering ?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She glanced up, then stood briefly only to drop down again—this time right between Azzi’s legs, back to the couch, shoulders settling in front of Azzi’s thighs. Her bag rested in front of her, one side still open. “You can keep me company instead,” she said lightly, reaching for her ipad and slipping it into the side pocket of her bag.

Azzi blinked, but recovered quickly. Her hands, hesitant at first, rested gently on Paige’s shoulders. A pause. Then her thumbs moved, slowly tracing circles against tense muscles.

Paige melted under the touch without meaning to, the smallest sigh escaping her lips. “Oh damn. Ok. That’s pre dangerous.”

Azzi chuckled, her fingers pressing a little deeper now. “Guess all those hours of helping my mom with shoulder knots finally paid off.”

Paige leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed for a second before reopening. She tilted her head slightly, gaze finding Azzi’s out of the corner of her eye. “Seriously. You’ve got magic hands.”

“Don’t tell everyone,” Azzi murmured. “They’ll form a line.”

Paige hummed, not quite joking. “Maybe I’ll keep you to myself then.”

Azzi’s fingers slowed for a moment before resuming their rhythm, and Paige, sensing the shift, smiled to herself.

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, Paige tilted her head all the way back, resting the crown of it between Azzi’s thighs so she could look up at her properly. Azzi’s hands stilled, one trailing to Paige’s jaw as if instinctively. She brushed a thumb along Paige’s cheekbone, then lightly tapped the tip of her nose.

Paige blinked at the gesture, grinning. “What was that for ?”

Azzi shrugged softly, her voice low. “You were making a face.”

“I was enjoying myself.”

“Exactly.”

Paige let her eyes roam upward, taking in Azzi’s features from this new angle—soft lashes, curious eyes, the way her smile lived more in her eyes than on her mouth right now, though the dip her dimples gave her away. She exhaled slowly, no longer pretending to be unaffected.

“You’re really pretty,” she said quietly but without heistation.

Azzi’s hand froze for just a beat, the fingers that had been tracing her jaw stilling before brushing again, slower now. “That’s not fair,” Azzi said softly.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “What’s not ?”

“You looking up at me like that and saying things like that.”

The air between them turned even more charged, the soft hum deepening into something heavier, fuller. Paige didn’t move. She just let her head rest there, gaze steady, vulnerable.

“Then don’t look away,” Paige whispered.

Azzi didn’t.

They stayed like that for a long, suspended beat—until Paige gently lifted her head and refocused on her bag, cheeks flushed but a smile tucked into the corner of her lips. Azzi, gently regrouping herself, let her hand trail down Paige’s arm instead, giving it a little squeeze.

“So,” Azzi said eventually, her voice a bit steadier, “Tennessee huh ?”

“Yep.” Paige stuffed a long-sleeve into the side pouch, then zipped it up. “In their house. Whole crowd yelling at us. My fave kind of chaos.”

Azzi chuckled. “I’ll be watching.”

Paige turned her head again, eyes bright. “Really ?”

Azzi nodded. “On my ipad. Gonna lay in bed and get comffy.”

Paige’s grin was immediate, sincere. “That actually means a lot.”

Azzi shrugged, almost shy again. “I like watching you play.”

Something about the way she said it made Paige feel like it meant more than just basketball.

She reached up blindly, catching Azzi’s hand and giving it a soft squeeze. “Good,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because I like knowing you’re watching.”

Azzi didn’t answer, but her hand tightened around Paige’s.

Eventually, the moment slipped into stillness, like they both knew it had to end but weren’t quite ready to let it. Paige gave Azzi’s hand one last squeeze before standing, brushing her hands on her sweats and grabbing the now fully packed duffel by the handles. Azzi stood too, slower, pulling her sleeves down as she followed Paige to the door.

“Got everything ?” Azzi asked softly.

Paige gave a soft laugh. “No idea, but at this point, I’ve committed.”

They didn’t say much on the way. Paige’s fingers brushed against Azzi’s once, and she didn’t pull away, didn’t apologize. Just walked close enough that their arms occasionally bumped, hearts thudding a little harder with every step that brought them closer to goodbye.

The team bus came into view parked outside the athletic center—lights on inside, engine idling low. Half the team was already on board, some voices floating through the open bus door, laughter mixed with music. 

But Paige didn’t head straight for the bus.

Instead, she veered slightly, leading Azzi toward a narrow space between the building and a row of hedges that offered some privacy. Just enough.

She set her duffel down against the wall and turned to Azzi, suddenly slower in her movements, gaze flickering over the girl in front of her like she was trying to memorize her.

Azzi smiled, something gentle and a little crooked. “You’re only gonna be gone a few days.”

“I know,” Paige said, but her arms were already winding around Azzi’s waist, pulling her in. “But imma miss you.”

Azzi didn’t hesitate. Her arms looped around Paige’s shoulders, tucking herself close, cheek resting against Paige’s jacket. “I’m gonna miss you too,” she said quietly, voice muffled by the fabric.

The hug wasn’t quick. It stretched on, warm and real, their bodies shifting slightly every few moments just to hold each other a little tighter. Paige buried her face into Azzi’s shoulder for a second, letting herself lean in fully before pulling back just enough to press a soft kiss to Azzi’s temple.

“I’m gonna message you every time I’m free,” Paige murmured. “Even if it’s just to say something dumb. You better answer.”

Azzi chuckled under her breath. “Wouldn’t dream of ignoring you.”

Paige smiled and kissed her temple again—slower this time. Then again, like it was the only way she knew how to say everything all at once. Azzi’s hands slid up Paige’s back, fingers curling in the material of her jacket.

“I’m serious,” Paige said against her skin. “Every break. Every meal. If I don’t see your name pop up I might actually forget how to function.”

Azzi tilted her head to look at her, eyes warm. “You’re such a sap.”

“And you seem to like it.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she reached up, brushed a stray piece of hair from Paige’s face, and held her gaze with a soft steadiness. Then, just as Paige moved to step back and reach for her duffel, Azzi leaned in quickly, pressing a kiss to Paige’s cheek.

It lingered.

“Good luck P,” she whispered against her skin, voice almost shy now.

Paige’s breath caught. Her hand hovered halfway to her bag before dropping again, a dazed grin tugging at her lips as her cheek warmed beneath Azzi’s touch.

“Ok,” Paige breathed, blinking a few times. “Ok, I’m ready now.”

Azzi smirked softly, but her arms hadn’t quite let go.

Just then, a voice called out from near the bus.

“Paige !” Caroline’s voice, amused. “Let’s go, lover girl ! Bus is heading out in two !”

Paige didn’t even look embarrassed. She just turned her head a little to call back, “Yea yea ! I’m coming !”

She glanced back to Azzi with a soft, almost bashful laugh. “She’s the worst.”

“She knows what she’s talking about,” Azzi said, eyes glinting.

Paige chuckled as she reached for her duffel again and slung it over her shoulder. But before she stepped away, she leaned in 1 more time, pressing 1 last kiss to Azzi’s temple—gentle, affectionate, like she didn’t want to go.

“I’ll text you once i arrive at the airport,” she said.

Azzi nodded, fingers brushing Paige’s wrist as if reluctant to let go entirely. “I’ll be waiting.”

Paige stepped backward, eyes still on Azzi. She then took a deep breath, gave her 1 final smile and jogged toward the bus steps.

Azzi stayed behind in the shadow of the building, watching as Paige climbed aboard, greeted her teammates and the staff, then turned at the top of the stairs to find her again through the window.

She waved.

Azzi smiled and waved back, her heart full.

And then the doors shut, the engine sounded, and the bus pulled away taking Paige with it but leaving something sweet behind in the quiet air between them.

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

[wendichester]

୧ ‧₊˚ extra sugar,

summary. sam's on a hunt and lucky for you, the diner you work at is his next stop.

pairing. sam winchester x waitress!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 694

notes / warnings. obnoxious flirting, sam being a shy cutie-patootie

You spot him the second he walks in.

Too tall, too broad, too scruffy academic to be from around here. Shoulders like a linebacker, but the way he tucks into the booth and opens a book before the menu even gets touched? Definitely not a regular.

He looks like he came out of a travel blog for sexy wanderers with mysterious pasts and tragic playlists.

You grab your notepad and saunter over, already crafting your opener, shooing your colleague away before she even dreams of it.

You’ve got your friendly flirt voice loaded and ready—part of the job, mostly. Tips don’t flirt themselves. But this guy? You’re not even pretending it’s just for the cash.

"Hey there, stranger," you chirp, hip popped just slightly. "Diner special today is meatloaf, but I can ask the kitchen to burn it if you’re going for the full small-town experience."

He looks up, startled. And god, those eyes. Hazelly, wide, and very much Not Ready For Eye Contact. He blinks, twice, before managing a polite, “Uh, I—I think I’ll skip the meatloaf.”

You grin. “Brave. What can I get you then?”

He clears his throat and fumbles to close the thick hardcover in front of him. You catch a glimpse of the title—some obscure folklore text that definitely has nothing to do with your specials board.

“Just coffee, please. Black.”

You write it down dramatically, tongue clicking. “How mysterious. Sitting alone with a big book. Drinking coffee like you’ve seen some things.”

His mouth quirks—half smirk, half nervous tic. “Maybe I have.”

Oh, that’s interesting.

You lean a little closer, just enough to make his ears pink. “Well. If you ever feel like unloading your tragic past, I’ve got refills and a good listening face.”

He huffs something close to a laugh. His fingers drum against the table, restless. “You always this charming, or am I just lucky?”

You pretend to think about it. “Both. Definitely both.”

You walk off, a little extra sway in your step, fully aware of his eyes trailing after you. The counter girl gives you a look when you pass.

“What?” you shrug. “He’s cute. And weird. My type.”

You bring the coffee, and he’s already back to his book, posture a little stiff like he’s trying to shake you off—mentally, not literally. But when you set the mug down with a wink, he thanks you so softly it makes your breath stutter.

You catch him glancing at the window. Then at the door. Then down at his book again. There’s tension in his shoulders, under the sweet-boy exterior. You’re good at reading people. He’s definitely hiding something.

But you let it go.

Because right now, you’re just a girl with a notepad. And he’s just a guy trying to mind his own business. Maybe save the world a little on the side.

You don’t ask questions.

You just keep refilling his mug.

You keep smiling, letting the air between you crackle just a bit more each time you say his name (he told you, eventually—Sam, shy and slow, like he wasn’t used to sharing it).

By the time he slides his check across the table, the sun’s dipped low outside. You’re halfway through wiping down the counter when he walks over to pay, hesitating like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how.

You help him out.

“Leaving already?” you say, all mock disappointment. “Was just about to ask you to marry me.”

That finally earns you a real laugh. Soft, rough-edged. The kind that makes you want to make him do it again. And again.

He sets down the cash—plus a tip that is very, very nice—and when he hands you the receipt, there’s something scribbled on the back.

A number.

You look up, surprised. He’s already halfway to the door.

But then he pauses. Looks back over his shoulder.

“I’ll be in town a couple more days,” he says, casual. Like he didn’t just hand you exactly what you were fishing for.

You tuck the number into your apron pocket, grinning. And then he’s gone. Back to his hunt. Back to whatever monster he’s chasing in the dark.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[perfectlyoongi]

CO-WORKER!YOONGI who reminds you to stretch your back. when you spend a lot of time sitting in front of a computer or lost among papers, it is normal for your posture to suffer some consequences that derive from that irritating pain in your spine. so when Yoongi would walk past you and see you too wrapped up in your work to pay attention to your needs, he would gently place his hand on your back, pressing his fingertips into the fabric of your shirt, making you straighten up automatically. neither of you knew how this habit came about, but you didn't care; for small seconds, for that tiny fraction of time that seemed to last forever, Yoongi touched you and that was enough for both of you. “i need the photocopies right away, don't forget. and please, straighten your back. you're going to turn into a banana before we even finish the project.”

CO-WORKER!YOONGI who always asks if you need anything. Yoongi was focused on his work, wasting hours between papers and meetings, but one thing about Yoongi was that he would never forget your needs. yes, your needs. even though Yoongi was an advocate of stopping for a second to breathe, the truth is that his focus was on you and not him; as such, between meetings and presentations, outings and photocopies, Yoongi made a point of passing by your desk and asking, very absentmindedly, if he could help you with anything. “i'll get some coffee before i go to the meeting. want anything? you need to eat. an apple isn't enough for breakfast. i'll get you a sandwich.”

CO-WORKER!YOONGI who always tries to lighten your workload. Yoongi knew that life could be intense and often hectic. and he also knew that a person was not made to spend hours locked in an office working on something that most likely wasn't even necessary. that's why Yoongi wanted to help you; if he had the time and the will, why shouldn't he help you? whenever he could, Yoongi would stop by your side, giving you tips and suggestions, stealing some paperwork and reports, trying to do everything he could to make sure you reached the end of the day less tired. “i've already finished today's presentation and i saw that you were a little confused. no, it's not a problem at all. tell me, what's stressing you out? i can help.”

CO-WORKER!YOONGI who has lunch with you whenever he can. you had to confess that on the days when he was busier and couldn't eat with you, you felt a little sadder. even though your lunches were sometimes steeped in silence, there was extreme comfort between you. like a blanket of acceptance, your lunches with Yoongi were perfect for you to recharge your batteries and gain strength for the rest of the day. sometimes talking about life, sometimes joking about work, you felt good next to Yoongi and he saw that. so, he always tried to have lunch with you, take some time out of his day to dedicate himself completely to you and make you happy, even if it was just for a simple hour. “tomorrow i don't know if i can have lunch with you, but i'll try anyway. if i can't, i promise i'll make it up to you the next day! but hey, don't wait for me tomorrow, okay?”

CO-WORKER!YOONGI who makes a point of praising you. “you did it!” was what he told you that day. “you actually managed to finish the project on time. how can you expect me not to praise you? despite everything, you didn't give up.” his smile was so wide it made you shy and his eyes had a shine almost as bright as the stars themselves — he was truly proud of you. “you are amazing and i don't think you've seen it yet. but trust me. you are capable of anything and you just proved it.”

CO-WORKER!YOONGI who always waits for you at the end of the day. whether you had to work overtime or leave early, you knew you could always count on Yoongi's company. sometimes you would return to your house at sunset, talking about childhood memories and remembering times when you hadn't met yet. other times, under the stars and protected from the freezing wind in his car, you passed traffic lights and road signs singing, grateful to have reached the end of another day. for a few brief minutes, which for you would be eternal, you shared Yoongi's company once more before the day ended and it was in that comfort and ease that you truly rested. “it's raining tomorrow, so i thought we'd walk today. we could stop by the bakery and grab a coffee before heading home. i heard they got a new cake and… sorry, i'm rambling, aren't i?”

CO-WORKER!YOONGI who thinks he's telling you something new, but you've always known. how was it possible for you not to know? it was in the way he looked at you — like you were painted by the most beautiful nebulas. It was in the way he spoke to you — as if all the poems resided in his voice. it was in the way he touched you — as if his very touch could ruin you. it was in the way Yoongi lived day after day — as if you were the only reason for his existence. how was it possible for you not to know that he liked you? “i thought it was more discreet. but i have to admit that it makes sense. it is impossible to live each day with so much love inside me and not have a way to express it. from somewhere, i had to spill these loving waters that make up the ocean of passion that i have for you.”

[abbotjack]

This City Doesn’t Forget (part three · impression management)

part one - part two

summary : Hospitals are full of ghosts. But the worst ones wear perfume and know your full name. What follows is a slow unraveling: whispers among staff, a curated “gift,” a rooftop encounter with Jack, and the quiet realization that the real threat isn’t scandal—it’s perception.

word count : 4,548

content warning: Emotional manipulation, gaslighting, covert workplace harassment, implied power imbalance, past infidelity, family tension, grief, trauma references (including pediatric death), subtle bullying and ostracization, emotionally intense dialogue, mentions of burnout and medical stress, allusions to PTSD, and ambiguous threats. Contains heavy themes of reputation, control, and the weaponization of grace.

a/n : I dedicate this to everyone whos been waiting for part three, deepest apologies.

TUESDAY

The hospital doesn't hum in the mornings so much as it breathes shallowly. Paper rustles. Shoes scuff. Machines beep in staggered time like a slow, mechanical heartbeat. And somewhere between the coffee pot in the lounge and the trauma board, your phone buzzes with a text that shifts the center of gravity under your feet.

URGENT: Compliance Office needs your signature on file. Sublevel 1. Ask for Jenna.

You stare at the screen a little too long. Your fingers are raw from double-gloving. There's a streak of dried something on your scrub top you can't identify, and you haven't eaten anything solid since a protein bar at 6 a.m.

Still, you go.

Because when you're a first-year resident and someone from Admin says "urgent," you don't ask questions. You obey.

The elevator ride feels longer than it should. Sublevel 1 is clinical in a different way than the trauma bay—quieter, unnerving in its civility. The air smells like toner, laminated badge sleeves, and lemon-scented floor polish that always feels slightly inappropriate in a place where so many people die upstairs.

You push open the door to the Compliance suite—and stop cold.

Charlotte Abbot is sitting at a table by the far wall.

The mother. The matriarch. The woman who once held your wrist too tightly at a holiday dinner and smiled with all her teeth while calling your thrifted dress "a brave choice."

Today, she's dressed in something pale and bone-colored that belongs in a luxury SUV ad. Her scarf is knotted with precision. A small gold pin gleams on her collarbone—medical caduceus, stylized and expensive. She looks like she came here to chair a foundation meeting, not ambush her son’s former mistake.

"Doctor [Y/L/N]," she says. Not Ms. Not you. Not even dear. The title slides out like she's trying it on.

Your first instinct is to flee.

Your second is worse: to apologize for something you haven't done yet. Instead, you nod. Not a bow. Not a smile. Just acknowledgment.

"I was told to meet Jenna," you say.

Charlotte gestures to the empty chair across from her. "Jenna's indisposed. I asked if I could borrow a moment of your time. Just a moment."

Her voice is low. Elegant. Practiced. A velvet rope across a locked door.

You don’t sit right away. There’s a French press and two cups on the table—one chipped at the rim, the other stained inside from something darker than coffee. Who the hell brews a full pot down on Sublevel 1? You glance around. No Jenna. No admin staff. No compliance officers lurking in the corners. Just silence and the slow drip of something that doesn't belong here.

Just her.

You sit.

"I'm sure your schedule’s relentless," she says, voice light but eyes tracking you too carefully. "I remember Jack’s intern year—he’d stumble through the front door looking half-dead, still in scrubs, sometimes with blood or charcoal stains on his sleeves. He’d sit down to eat and fall asleep with his fork halfway to his mouth. Hand would shake so bad he couldn’t get it to his plate without missing."

She laughs, like it’s endearing. Like Jack’s exhaustion was some charming, character-building footnote in his medical career. Like nodding off with a fork in his hand meant he was determined, not dangerously burned out. But you weren’t there for that part. Not really. Not when he came home wearing two uniforms at once—one stitched with rank, the other with a hospital badge. Not when the war hadn’t quite let go of him yet, and residency piled on top like a dare. Still, you can picture it. The tremor in his hand that no amount of caffeine could explain. The way a dropped tray probably made him flinch before his brain could remind him he was safe. The tightness in his jaw that didn’t come from stress, but from memory—old, buried, clawing its way back through fluorescent lights and sterile hallways.

You stay silent. Because even if you weren’t there, you know enough to recognize the ghosts.

"It's impressive," she continues, pouring into your cup without asking. "Emergency medicine. That's a battlefield discipline. You always struck me as more of a philosopher."

"I don't remember us talking much."

Charlotte smiles. "No. You were always in the kitchen with the boys. Laughing too loud. Taking up too much space."

There it is.

You wrap your fingers around the cup. It's porcelain. Bone white. The handle too small for a comfortable grip. Made to look delicate even when it's boiling.

"I wanted to speak before the year progresses," she says. "Before people get attached. Or ideas get… cemented."

You raise an eyebrow. "Ideas?"

Charlotte folds her hands. "About what your presence here might mean."

You hold her gaze. "What does it mean?"

"That depends on you."

She pulls a folder from her bag. Cream linen. Gold-trimmed. Heavy paper.

You already know what's inside before she opens it.

"There are other options," she says. "Other programs. Less crowded. Less emotionally… volatile. One of our family donors is on the board at Wake Forest. They’re looking for someone like you. Quiet. Capable. Willing to start fresh."

You don’t touch the folder.

Charlotte sighs.

"Jack is… loyal to a fault," she says. "He carries things long after they’ve stopped serving him. Pain. People. Promises. He’s never learned to distinguish between guilt and love."

You feel something twist in your stomach.

“What happened that summer was… regrettable,” she says, each word carefully chosen, lacquered in control like she’s rehearsed this line a hundred times. “You were young. My other son made foolish choices.” She doesn’t say his name. Doesn’t have to. “But Jack—Jack almost didn’t come back.” Her tone falters just enough to make you notice, but not enough to admit guilt. She lifts her cup, taps her nail against the rim—once, twice—before continuing. “He wrote me from overseas. Said he couldn’t sleep. Said every time he closed his eyes, all he could see were porch lights humming in the dark and knees scraped open on the pavement. He didn’t say your name, but I knew.” Her eyes flick to yours. “He said he felt failure. Like he’d left something bleeding and didn’t know how to stop it. Like no matter how many wounds he patched over there, it didn’t matter, because he hadn’t fixed that one.”

She lets the silence breathe. Lets it grow.

"I won't let him do that again."

You blink. “Do what?”

"Lose himself," she says.

You take a sip of the coffee. It’s not what you expect—light, almost delicate, with some floral note clinging to the edge like perfume on a collar. Not the kind of coffee brewed for comfort or caffeine, but for image. It tastes like someone tried to soften it on purpose, like bitterness was something to be ashamed of. Like someone poured rosewater over something burned and hoped you wouldn’t notice. It tastes like curated grace. Like someone trying to dress a wound in lace and call it closure.

“Are you in on this with him?” you ask. No soft lead-in. No mask of civility. Just truth, raw and bleeding.

Charlotte doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She picks up her coffee, takes a sip, and sets it down on its delicate saucer like she’s discussing dinner plans—not the fact that her son cornered you in a garage with a decade old photograph.

“I assume you’re referring to my youngest,” she says, tone light, almost bored. “The one you left.”

“I didn’t leave him,” you say, jaw tight. “He cheated on me. He lied. And the second he told me, I ended it.”

“I was wondering how long it would take you to bring the photo up,” she says smoothly, like she’s been waiting for this moment since you walked in.

Your throat constricts.

“You were heartbroken,” she says, like she’s narrating a memory that belongs to her. “And Jack has always had a weakness for things he thinks he can fix.”

Your pulse hammers in your ears. “He didn’t try to fix anything. He listened. He sat with me. I was the one who—”

Charlotte raises a hand gently, silencing you without needing volume. “I’m not interested in the choreography. It’s a mother’s job to notice patterns. That summer—you and Jack thought you were discreet, didn’t you? The long nights. The mornings he didn’t come home. The way you stopped flinching when his name came up. You were both too careful. And not careful enough.”

Your stomach twists. “You knew.”

“I suspected,” Charlotte says. “Then I watched. Jack is many things, but subtle has never been one of them.”

You force your voice steady. “And your other son? He took a photo. He followed me. Cornered me in a garage.”

She doesn’t react. No flicker of surprise. No maternal concern. Just a slow inhale.

“He’s angry,” she says. “And embarrassed. You made him look like a fool. And Jack let it happen.”

“He cheated on me,” you snap. “I left him. Jack didn’t steal me—I wasn’t his to keep.”

Charlotte leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of composure. “Be that as it may, the story isn’t about what really happened. It’s about what people think they saw.”

She taps one manicured finger against the rim of her cup.

“The image that remains—the one on that porch—isn’t of a woman scorned. It’s of a woman with her ex’s brother, legs around his waist, dress pushed up, eyes closed. You know what that looks like to everyone else? A scandal. A poor decision. An opening.”

You go rigid. “You’re going to use it.”

Charlotte’s smile is thin, almost pitying. “We don’t need to. All it takes is a whisper. A well-timed doubt. The photo is just a prop—your presence here is the real threat.”

“I didn’t come back for Jack,” you say, voice low, sharp. “I came back because I earned this. I built this life without him.”

“I’m sure you believe that,” she replies. “But tell me—how many people will see it that way once the story shifts?”

You stare at her, breath tight in your lungs.

Charlotte leans forward, her voice dropping.

“Reputation is about narrative. And you let yours tangle itself with both of my sons. That’s not ambition. That’s carelessness.”

You clench your jaw. “So this is what? Punishment? Gatekeeping?”

“This is protection,” she says. “For the legacy Jack still has left. For the family name. For order. You weren’t supposed to come back, and you definitely weren’t supposed to matter.”

You push back from the table, heart hammering.

“I won’t let you rewrite what happened.”

Charlotte exhales, slow and deliberate.

“We don’t need to rewrite,” she says. “We just need to remind people what they’re most willing to believe.”

And with that, you finally understand: she’s not afraid of the truth.

She’s counting on no one caring about it.

She stands. Smooths her blazer.

"You’ll think about it," she says. "I know you will. You always overthink things."

She gathers her purse. Steps to the door.

Then pauses.

Looks back.

"Do send my regards to Dr. Abbot," she says. "But let him rest. He’s done chasing ghosts."

She leaves.

And the air doesn’t move for a long, long time.

You don’t go straight back to the emergency room.

You say you’re checking vitals on 3. You say you’re waiting on a consult. You say your badge isn’t scanning on the trauma locker again. All of it is a lie.

You just need a minute.

And the cafeteria, sad as it is, doesn’t ask questions.

You take the far corner, near the vending machine that’s always broken. Slide into a seat against the wall and uncap your water bottle like you’ve got time to drink it. Like your stomach hasn’t been hollow since the moment Charlotte Abbot said “You always overthink things” and left you alone with your silence.

You don’t eat. You don’t scroll.

You listen.

It starts like a faint breeze. Two tables away. Two voices. Women. Breezy, clipped vowels that belong to people who’ve worked here long enough to stop pretending the place is sacred. You catch the first name—Renee—and the lilt of the second—Kirstie, maybe? RN tags. Hair tied back in uneven buns. One’s reading an email on her phone while eating baby carrots; the other’s folding a napkin into quarters like she’s trying to reduce the space she takes up.

“You see her this morning? Came in late. Or maybe she just looked it. Like she’d been crying or hadn’t slept or both.”

“Table Nine girl?”

“Mmhmm.”

“She matched here?”

“Apparently.”

A pause. The sound of chewing.

“Didn’t think they let that kind of drama through the Match algorithm.”

“They don’t. Unless someone made a call.”

That makes your stomach tighten.

You keep your eyes on the condensation dripping down your water bottle. Watch it bead. Slide. Pool against the label like it’s trying to escape.

“I mean, I don’t blame her, really. I’d sleep with Dr. Abbot too.”

“Wouldn’t. Too intense.”

“Exactly why I would.”

Laughter. Soft. Familiar.

“Still. Wild to go from one brother to the other.”

“I heard it happened before the cheating. Like she was already running hot for the older one while she was still with what’s-his-face.”

A beat.

“God. I sat at her table at the wedding. You could feel it. Like… heat. Not the sexy kind. The kind that curdles.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like Jack wouldn’t look at her. But also like he wasn’t not looking. You know?”

“Mmm. Dangerous.”

“Yeah. Like one of those things where no one says it out loud, but everybody knows? And now she’s on the trauma service?”

“What could go wrong.”

They laugh again.

But not cruelly. Not like they mean to hurt you.

Worse.

They sound curious. Intrigued. Entertained.

Like your life is a late-night case they didn’t have to chart.

And that’s what hurts the most.

Not that they’re wrong.

Not even that they’re talking.

But that it doesn’t occur to them—not for a second—that you might be sitting in the same room.

You rise slowly. Controlled. Leave the table. The air behind you buzzing with assumption and familiarity and the easy rhythm of women who’ve worked too many shifts to care about collateral damage.

You’re almost at the door when you hear one last thing—soft, almost inaudible.

“She doesn’t look like trouble.”

“They never do.”

You take the stairwell back up instead of the elevator. The motion helps. Forces breath into your lungs. Pulls your body back into your skin one step at a time.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

They didn’t say your name. They didn’t know for sure. They’re not malicious. Just bored. Just reading the signs you left behind.

But the signs were never yours to post.

They were hers.

Charlotte’s.

And now they’re blooming like mold on the walls of this hospital—impressions, innuendo, a photo no one’s seen but everyone feels.

You push open the stairwell door and nearly collide with Whitaker, who jumps like you slapped him.

“Oh—shit, sorry, didn’t mean to—uh.” He steps back, almost trips over his own feet. “Didn’t know anyone used this stairwell. Thought this was, like… pigeon storage.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Then frowns, softer now. “You okay? You look kinda—like your soul left but forgot its keys.”

You force a breath. “Caffeine’s crashing.”

He nods. Way too seriously. “Yeah. I had three Red Bulls before noon and then started crying in the elevator for, like, no reason? So. Vibes.”

His pager buzzes. He checks it. Grimaces.

“I gotta go help Santos find a vein in a dude. But, uh—if you die in the stairwell, just… don’t haunt me, okay?”

And then he’s gone—half-jogging, granola bar still in his pocket.

And somehow, that helps. A little.

You don’t move for a moment.

You just stand there in the middle of the hallway, scrub top wrinkled, ID lanyard sticking to your neck, pulse too loud in your ears.

Because this is the moment you understand something new.

They’re not going to ruin you all at once.

They’re going to let you rot slowly—beneath the surface, behind polite smiles, under the weight of stories that only have to feel true to become fact.

You rejoin the floor. You check on the elbow dislocation. You re-chart the beta. You even manage to laugh—half-heartedly—when Santos makes a joke about Whitaker falling asleep upright in the break room with his eyes open like some kind of burnt-out trauma raccoon.

You act normal. Because that’s what they expect from you. And you’ve already given them enough to whisper about.

You don’t see it until you swing by the resident lounge.

A bag.

Sitting on the counter near the fridge. Small. Black. Matte paper with matching ribbon handles—expensive, but subtle. One of those gift bags that looks like it came from a boutique that sells candles named after abstract emotions.

Tucked inside: tissue paper, crisp and folded. Something pale blue beneath it. And a small envelope. No name. Just your initials. Neat. Slanted. Familiar.

You glance around.

No one.

You peel the tissue back.

Inside: a travel-sized set of things. Lotion. Lip balm. A roll-on essential oil labeled “serenity.” A tin of mints. A tiny mirror shaped like a peony. The kind of kit someone would give a bridesmaid. Or a nervous girl. Or a mess.

Your hands go cold.

You open the envelope.

The card inside is thick, soft cream stock. Gold-foiled edging. Real stationary. Not drugstore. Not impulse-buy.

The handwriting is deliberate. Feminine.

“You seemed overwhelmed at the wedding. A little grace goes a long way. Hope this helps.”

That’s it.

No name.

But you know.

Of course you know.

Because the font on the “grace” matches the embossing on the brochure Charlotte tried to hand you this morning. Because the lotion is the same brand she used to leave in the guest bathroom during holidays, with the lavender sachets and the monogrammed hand towels no one was allowed to use.

Because grace is a word women like her wield like a scalpel.

You set the card down.

Slowly.

Like it might explode.

You want to throw the whole bag out. Shove it in the trash and light it on fire. But that would make it a scene. That would give it shape. And this isn’t a story with witnesses. It’s a pressure game.

You pick up the bag.

And gently—very gently—place it in your locker, behind your trauma clogs and extra compression socks. You close the door like you’re sealing something inside.

You don’t tell anyone.

Because it’s just lotion, right?

It’s just a card.

It’s just concern.

It’s not a threat.

Except it is.

You feel it in your teeth.

The door creaks when you push it open.

You don’t mean to be here. Not really. You’d just kept climbing—one flight, then another—chasing silence like it might let you breathe.

And now you’re standing on the roof of Allegheny General, the wind catching at the edge of your scrub top, the sky that sickly shade of late-shift blue, and the city stretching wide in every direction like it knows how lost you feel.

Your chest’s still tight from the last case. You can feel it in your ribs, in the place behind your sternum where the monitor beeped too long and too steady. You shouldn’t have run it. You weren’t even the first assist. But Langdon barked something about moving faster, and suddenly it was your hands in that kid’s chest, your voice counting off compressions, your breath stuck in your throat while the mother screamed in the hallway.

You keep trying to forget the sound.

You can’t.

The wind’s colder than you expect. It bites at your fingers, tugs strands of hair loose. You cross to the edge of the rooftop and lower yourself onto the concrete, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them, jaw locked as the city yawns open below.

You don’t cry.

You just sit there. Still in the scrubs with someone else’s blood drying under your sleeve.

You breathe.

One in, one out.

Don’t fall apart. Don’t flinch. Don’t let them see it.

That’s what you’ve been telling yourself since orientation. Since you saw the bag. Since you caught the two nurses whispering about you in the cafeteria.

And now you’re here. On the roof. Alone.

Except you’re not.

You don’t see him at first.

But you feel him—before he says anything. That shift in the air. That low, deliberate kind of stillness he carries with him, like he was built in the silence between artillery rounds. You don’t turn. Not right away.

You just stare straight ahead and say, “If you’re here to tell me I’m being dramatic, you’ll have to wait your turn.”

A beat of quiet. Then—

“That bad, huh?”

You glance over your shoulder.

Jack stands a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, watching you like he’s not sure you’ll let him near.

“I didn’t know you came up here,” you murmur.

Jack shrugs. “Only on the days that end in Y.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

He watches you for a second longer, then walks over and sits beside you—carefully, like he’s still measuring the space between you, still remembering what it felt like to want more than he was allowed to ask for.

“You good?” he asks.

You let out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “I think I broke a rib trying to crack a five-year-old’s chest, so no.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. He just nods.

“That was a shit case.”

You don’t respond. You just look out at the skyline.

Jack leans back, eyes on the clouds. “First time I lost a kid, I punched a vending machine and bled through three sets of gloves before anyone noticed.”

You glance at him.

He looks tired. Not the kind of tired sleep could fix. The kind that lives in your joints, your blood, your bones.

“I didn’t punch anything,” you say quietly.

He turns his head to look at you. “No. You ran it.”

You stiffen.

“Bad call?” you ask.

Jack’s expression doesn’t change. “No. Right call. Just a hard one.”

You nod. But your hands are fists in your lap now.

Silence.

Then—

“You always did show up when it was already burning.”

You say it before you mean to. And instantly regret it.

Jack’s jaw flexes. But he doesn’t argue.

You don’t know why you said it. Maybe because you’re tired. Maybe because you’re still bleeding somewhere inside from the last time you let him close.

Or maybe because being on this roof, with him sitting too near and not saying enough, makes it too easy to remember that summer. His hands on your skin. His mouth at your throat. His voice in the dark, low and wrecked, whispering your name like a confession.

You loved him. You never told him, but you did.

And when he left—God, when he left like that—you told yourself you’d never feel that weak again.

You nod toward the door. “I should head back.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you rise.

Then, just as your hand touches the door handle, he says—soft, almost inaudible—“You know it wasn’t just about me, right?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t explain.

But you know what he means.

That it wasn’t just about him staying away.

It was about who else told him to.

Who else never wanted you there in the first place.

You look back at him—just once.

And the thing that breaks you isn’t the distance. It’s the fact that he still looks at you like he wants to close it.

But you can’t let him.

Not now.

Because if you let him back in—if you let any of this happen again—you’ll lose more than your grip.

You’ll lose him.

So you just say, “I know.”

And then you leave.

Because sometimes protecting someone means becoming the thing they believe they’re better off without.

Even when it kills you.

The hallway you’re walking is the kind that always feels too long at the end of your shift—too fluorescent, too still. This stretch of the hospital doesn’t carry voices well. Just the sound of your own footsteps bouncing off cracked tile and the occasional hum of overworked vents. The air smells like bleach and something older, something settled deep in the walls.

You pass a hand sanitizer dispenser that’s half broken, a light that flickers once and dies. And still, you keep moving. Until something catches in your chest and you stop—just for a second. Just long enough to press the heel of your hand to your sternum like pressure might calm the panic clawing up from somewhere you can’t name.

Jack’s words are still in your ears.

You know it wasn’t just about me, right?

You knew. You’ve always known. The whispers at the wedding. The long looks from his mother. The fact that she wouldn’t speak to you unless his brother was in the room.

You remember the way she smiled when you'd leave. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. That says: finally.

You make it to the break room without seeing anyone. But someone’s already there.

Langdon’s leaned against the counter, sipping coffee like he hasn’t run three traumas back-to-back. He glances up as you walk in. Doesn’t say anything at first—just narrows his eyes like he’s assessing damage.

“Hell of a shift,” he says eventually.

You open your locker. Your hands are still shaking.

“Rooftop help?” he adds.

You freeze.

Slowly turn your head.

“I was up near Step-Down a few minutes ago,” he says, tone casual but not careless. “Caught a view of the east side.”

You freeze at your locker. Your hands still.

He sips once. Doesn’t blink.

“Saw you and Jack up on the roof.”

The air tightens.

He leans back against the counter, eyebrows lifting, expression unreadable. “You two okay?”

You force your voice not to crack. “Fine.”

Langdon sips his coffee again. “Uh-huh. That why he’s still up there?”

Your blood goes cold.

You blink. “What?”

Langdon nods toward the window. “Still saw him when I came down just now. Just standin’ there. Staring like the whole goddamn city did something personal.”

You don’t respond. You just shove your granola bar into your bag and close the locker harder than you mean to.

Langdon watches you. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine.”

He lets it sit there. Doesn’t push.

But then he says, casually, “There’s been talk.”

Your body goes rigid.

“What kind of talk?”

Langdon shrugs. “Couple nurses. Something about you. Something about Jack. And something about the Abbot family not being too happy to see you walk through the front doors.”

You meet his gaze.

“Let them talk.”

Langdon snorts. “They will.”

You shoulder your bag. Turn to go.

Langdon calls after you, voice low but serious.

“Whatever this is, it doesn’t scare me. But it scares him.”

You stop in the doorway. Don’t turn around.

“Good,” you say. “He should be scared.”

And then you’re gone.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Not when the person who’s still standing on the rooftop hasn’t moved an inch since you left.

[korraven]

Party on you…yeah

It never took a rocket scientist to feel the tension between you and the Winter Soldier.

Hell, even Tony picked up on it — and he wasn’t exactly the poster child for emotional intelligence.

It followed the two of you like smoke. Thick. Heavy. Unavoidable.

You were both Avengers, both soldiers, both broken in the ways that didn’t always show.

Was it lust? Yeah. It sat between you like a live wire, just waiting for someone to grab hold and not let go.

Was it hate? Maybe. You challenged each other, pushed buttons, cut deep when things got tense.

Was it friendship? At times. You understood each other in a way no one else really did. That kind of bond doesn’t form without some kind of scars.

But the truth?

It was something bigger. Something you never named. Something neither of you dared to touch.

Because you were a hero. An Avenger. You knew better.

And he… he was still learning how to forgive himself.

You never crossed the line. Not once.

When you were alone, it was quiet. Careful. Boring, in a way that felt almost painful.

Like walking a tightrope and pretending you weren’t dying to fall.

The only difference between you?

He was single.

You weren’t.

Nothing scandalous — you were dating a world-class reporter.

Clean record. Good heart. Someone your teammates liked.

Someone who smiled at press conferences and held your hand like you were the best thing that ever happened to them.

But he didn’t make your breath catch in your throat.

He didn’t make you question everything you thought you knew about control.

Bucky did.

He looked at you like he saw all the parts you tried to hide.

The damage. The danger. The hunger.

And still — he never turned away.

That was the problem.

It wasn’t love. Not exactly.

But it wasn’t not love either.

It was something you couldn’t name without setting it on fire.

Something wild. Something wrong.

Something real.

And you?

You were supposed to save the world.

But right now, all you wanted to do

was ruin it with him.

——

“Hey babe, did you still want tacos for dinner?” your boyfriend called, sticking his head out of your shared bedroom, his hair still damp from the shower.

You were curled up on the couch, phone in hand, TV on low volume but playing something you weren’t really watching. You didn’t answer at first. Just scrolled, pretending to be focused. When you finally glanced up, your nod was small, like your neck was too heavy to move fully.

“Yeah, tacos are fine,” you murmured.

He stepped out into the hallway, towel thrown over his shoulder, a pair of joggers slung low on his hips. His brows pulled together just slightly — not enough to show real concern, but enough to say he noticed.

“You okay, babe?”

You forced a small smile, eyes flicking back to your phone. “Yeah. Just thinking about something.”

He crossed the room and leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. His hands were still warm from the shower, and he smelled like that cedar body wash he always used. Normally, it made you feel safe. Today, it barely registered.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked, voice softer now. “Another mission?”

You nodded slowly, lying without even blinking. “Yeah… a recon thing Tony wants to send me on.”

He stepped back a little, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Recon? Didn’t you just come back yesterday?”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to the muted screen. “Evil never sleeps.”

He snorted at that. “Right, the Avengers’ slogan, apparently.”

You chuckled lightly, but your chest felt tight. You hated how easy this was. Lying. Dodging. Smiling through it. It didn’t used to be like this.

He leaned against the back of the couch, fingers drumming casually on the wood.

“Who are you getting paired with?”

You glanced up again. “Not sure yet.”

“Hope it’s Natasha or Wanda. Just not James,” he said with a teasing tone, but there was something behind it. Something a little too careful.

“Huh?”

He smiled, but it was the kind of smile people wear when they’re trying to make something sound like a joke. “Nothing personal. I know he’s a good guy. You guys are just… always paired up. It’s like a pattern.”

You looked back at your phone, jaw tight. “We work well together. That’s all.”

He didn’t let it drop. “I don’t think he likes me.”

You sighed. “Of course he likes you.”

“Has he said that?” he asked, keeping his voice light but direct. “Or is that just what you think?”

You hesitated.

“Both?” you said, but it came out more like a question than an answer.

He gave a slow nod, like he heard more in your pause than in your words. “Right.”

There was a silence. Not cold — just… different. Like the mood had shifted a few inches to the left.

You cleared your throat. “You want hard shells or soft?”

He grinned faintly, pushing off the couch. “Let’s do both. Live dangerously.”

You watched him disappear into the kitchen, heard the sound of cabinets opening, tortillas being pulled out, the fridge door squeaking. You should’ve gone after him. Should’ve said something to smooth it over.

But instead, you just sat there. Staring at the screen.

Thinking about someone else’s voice.

Someone else’s hands.

Someone else who made your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons.

And you hated that part of you hoped it would be James.

Again.

The sizzle of ground beef filled the kitchen. He was humming to himself, low and off-key — some song he’d picked up from a TikTok and half-forgotten. You stood at the counter beside him, chopping lettuce. The air smelled like cumin and garlic, and for a moment, it almost felt normal again.

Almost.

“Grab the salsa from the fridge?” he asked.

You nodded, reaching over without a word. You could feel his eyes on you — not in a suspicious way, just… attentive. Like he was trying to figure out what was floating behind your silence.

He didn’t say anything for a few beats. Then, as casually as he could manage:

“You’re always different when you get back from a mission.”

You froze, hand still wrapped around the salsa jar. “Different how?”

He shrugged, taking a step back to lean against the counter. “Just quieter. Distant, maybe. You don’t really talk about what happens out there.”

You set the jar down a little harder than you meant to. “Because most of it sucks.”

“I get that,” he said gently. “But sometimes it feels like you’re not really here, even when you are.”

You didn’t answer. Just went back to the lettuce, chopping slower now.

He exhaled through his nose, tired. “And when it is James you’re paired with, it’s even worse.”

You looked up, sharp this time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know you,” he said, calm but firm. “And I see how you are with him.”

You opened your mouth to deny it — had the words ready on instinct. But nothing came out.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Not entirely.

You and Bucky had been paired so many times now that it didn’t feel weird anymore. You’d seen each other bleeding, broken, barely conscious — and you’d always come back alive. Together. There was something sacred in that. Something magnetic you never fully unpacked.

But you hadn’t done anything.

Not yet.

Your boyfriend rubbed at his jaw, glancing away. “I’m not trying to start a fight, alright? I just… I don’t want to be the only one noticing what’s going on here.”

You stared at him, throat thick. “Nothing’s going on.”

He nodded slowly, like he was giving you space to stick to that lie. “Cool.”

The timer on the oven beeped, sharp and unwelcome. You both flinched slightly.

He moved to take the taco shells out, muttering something about them burning. And just like that, the conversation was over. Sealed under a layer of melted cheese and ground beef and fake smiles.

But the silence that followed wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t warm or comfortable.

It was the kind that made you ache for noise — or maybe just for the right voice.

Because while he was setting plates on the table, you were picturing metal fingers brushing against yours in a med bay.

While he asked you to pass the guac, you were remembering the way Bucky had looked at you last week when you got hit — like the idea of losing you would’ve destroyed him.

And when your boyfriend laughed at something dumb on the TV later that night…

you weren’t thinking about tacos anymore.

You were thinking about how wrong it felt to be held by someone who didn’t make you feel like you were standing on the edge of something dangerous.

You sat at the table while he finished loading the plates. The clink of cutlery, the hum of the overhead light, the smell of seasoned meat — all the normal things. And yet none of it felt… right.

Your boyfriend slid a plate in front of you and then one for himself. “Okay,” he said, sitting down across from you, “so hear me out—what if next weekend, we actually take a day off and do something? Like normal people?”

You gave him a small smile, picking at your taco shell. “Like what?”

“I don’t know… a beach day? Or just drive upstate? Hell, we could go full suburbia and hit a farmer’s market.”

You smiled again, this time a little more genuinely. “You, willingly waking up early for vegetables?”

“Okay, fair, I’d complain the whole time. But I’d still go. For you.”

You nodded, then took a small bite. It was good. Warm. Normal. Everything it was supposed to be.

“Doesn’t that sound nice?” he added, watching you.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It does.”

He hummed, like he was half-lost in thought, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “A party?”

“Party?” you blinked, pulled halfway out of your thoughts.

“Yeah!” he leaned back in his chair, suddenly energized. “Why not? It’s been forever since the avengers did something fun.“

You tilted your head, chewing slowly. “Since when do you plan parties?”

“I don’t,” he grinned, pointing at you with his fork. “You do.”

You scoffed. “Wow. Generous.”

“C’mon, babe,” he said, nudging your knee under the table. “You’re way better at that kind of stuff anyway. You’ve got the whole… Avengers social balance thing down.”

“That’s just code for my girlfriend is an avenger so she has hook ups for my next scoop.”

“Exactly.” He leaned in, eyes warm. “Just think about it. You, me, the team, a night off for once. It’ll be good for you.”

You gave him a small smirk. “Good for you, you mean.”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged, shameless. “But good for all of us too.”

You shook your head, pretending to be annoyed — but a small part of you was already cycling through logistics. Who to invite. How to keep it low-key. How to make it not feel awkward, especially with—

You cut the thought off before it could finish.

“Fine,” you sighed. “I’ll plan it.”

He lit up, tossing his fork onto his now-empty plate. “Yes. You’re the best.”

You stood to start clearing the table and muttered, “I know.”

As you turned, your phone buzzed on the counter. You glanced at the screen. A message from Natasha:

“Whatcha doing later?”

You snorted, typing back one-handed:

“Apparently. Planning a party.”

But just as you hit send, your eyes lifted toward your boyfriend. “Since I’m planning it Nat and Wanda doing it with me, cool?”

“Cool.”

——

[Party day]

Nat pursed her lips as she surveyed the overloaded shopping cart with something between amusement and mild judgment. There were LED lights, black and gold streamers, way too many disco balls, a fog machine that Wanda insisted on, and enough plastic cups to hydrate a small army.

“What kind of party even is this?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Something sexy,” you said with a grin, tossing a handful of metallic confetti into the pile. “Wanna get turnt the fuck up.”

Wanda laughed, holding up a pack of temporary tattoos. “Oh, we’re going full reckless.”

“I mean…” you shrugged, feigning lightness. “Why not? We’ve all been tense. I figured, let’s have one night where we dance like we don’t know what trauma is.”

Nat gave you a side-eye. “You sure this isn’t just a distraction from something else?”

You gave her a tight smile. “What else would I be distracting myself from?”

Wanda’s soft voice chimed in before Nat could press. “What’s the occasion, anyway?”

“Nothing crazy,” you replied quickly, like that made it true. “Just… wanted to have fun. So—who’s coming and who’s not coming?”

Nat, deciding not to call you out just yet, pulled out her phone. “Okay, let’s see… obviously Tony, Clint, Steve, Peter and his girl, Sam, Yelena, Vision, Bruce, T’Challa, Shuri…”

You nodded along, your mind trying to stay in sync with her list. But as the names kept coming, a hollow kind of weight settled in your chest.

You hadn’t heard his name.

Not once.

And you’d waited.

You’d given it time.

You’d told yourself he was busy — it was Bucky, after all. He could be anywhere. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he was off-grid.

Still, you pulled your phone out. Checked.

Your message from the night before sat there like a quiet mistake.

“Hey. Party this tomorrow night at tower. Come by?”

Read.

No reply.

You cursed yourself internally — not for texting him, but for checking again like you were in high school waiting on some boy who didn’t even know you existed. Except Bucky Barnes knew you. Too well. That was the problem.

Your phone buzzed.

Your heart stupidly jumped.

Hey just thinking about you, I miss you.

From your boyfriend.

Of course.

You stared at the message for a moment, lips parting like you might reply. But you didn’t.

Instead, you locked the screen and shoved it into your jacket pocket like the whole thing annoyed you more than it should’ve.

Wanda, bag of mini lanterns in hand, glanced over. “You okay?”

You forced a smile — the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just debating if I bought enough tequila or not.”

Nat was still scrolling her list, pretending not to notice the shift in your energy. But you caught the subtle glance she gave you — sharp, knowing, quiet.

She always knew when you were lying.

“Okay,” you said, clapping your hands once with artificial brightness. “Let’s check out and get to decorating. Tonight is about forgetting. Or pretending. Or both.”

Wanda laughed again, “Sounds like a plan.”

The living room looked nothing like it did a few hours ago. Music was already playing low from the speakers — just a warm-up playlist — while the windows shimmered with fairy lights. You were stringing up the last of the black and gold banners while Nat stacked solo cups into dangerously tall pyramids that looked more like a dare than a decoration.

Wanda was on the floor, barefoot, crouched in front of a cluster of LED candles and a bowl of chips, deciding which looked more aesthetically pleasing beside the speakers. She kept humming, light and content, but every so often she’d glance at you.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too busy smoothing out wrinkles in the tablecloth that didn’t really matter and checking your phone screen when no one was looking — even though it hadn’t lit up in over an hour.

Still no message. Still nothing from Bucky.

Wanda’s voice broke softly through the haze. “You’ve been folding that corner for five minutes.”

You blinked. Looked down. The tablecloth was fine. Flawless, even.

“Oh,” you muttered. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Mmm.” Wanda stood up slowly, brushing off her leggings. “Thinking about him?”

Your eyes lifted. You didn’t say anything.

She gave a small shrug. “You don’t have to answer. I just… I feel it. The way your energy shifts when you check your phone. When someone mentions his name. It’s like you tense, then try to pretend you didn’t.”

You sighed, finally letting yourself sink onto the arm of the couch. The room was glowing now — warm and soft — and for a second you wished you could just feel it. Just be present. But your brain didn’t want to play along.

“I invited him,” you admitted. “He read the message. Didn’t reply.”

Wanda’s expression didn’t change. “Do you want him here?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes... I mean I invited everyone.”

“That’s fair.” She perched on the edge of the coffee table across from you, her fingers brushing lightly across one of the fake candles.

Wanda smiled sadly. “That’s the thing about two people who guard their hearts like weapons. Sooner or later, someone bleeds.”

You looked at her for a long second.

“I don’t even know why I care,” you finally said. “I’m with someone. He’s good to me. He doesn’t leave me on read. He texts just to say he misses me. And I keep waiting for a man who won’t even—”

Your voice cracked a little. You swallowed it back.

Wanda reached over and placed her hand lightly over yours. “Sometimes we fall for people who feel like war. And it’s hard to walk away from that, even when peace is standing right in front of us.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at the lights you’d strung up, watched the way they glowed gold across the wall.

“I don’t want to ruin anything,” you whispered. “But I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Wanda squeezed your hand once, then let go.

“Whatever you decide,” she said softly, “we’re always right behind you. Even if it’s wrong.”

The words settled in your chest — not as comfort, exactly, but as permission. To feel everything you weren’t supposed to feel. To not have all the answers.

From across the room, Nat snickered as she adjusted the lighting behind the drink table. “You sure you’re not throwing this party for him?”

You looked up, startled. “What?”

She shot you a smirk over her shoulder. “Come on. You haven’t cared this much about streamers since Tony’s birthday bash two years ago. And this whole just wanna have fun vibe?” She twirled a string of LED stars around her fingers. “You mean just wanna see if Bucky shows up looking hot and moody again.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile cracked through before you could stop it. “Wow. You’re both so annoying.”

“Correct,” Wanda said with a small grin, standing to help Nat with the lights. “But not wrong.”

You tried to fight your grin off, but it lingered anyway — soft, crooked, worn thin with nerves.

“Okay,” you admitted, voice dry, “maybe, like… 8% of this party was Bucky-motivated.”

Nat scoffed. “More like 80%.”

You shot her a look. “Don’t you have cups to stack?”

“I already did,” she said proudly. “And they look like a Pinterest board from hell, so I’m free to judge.”

Wanda giggled and looped an arm through yours, guiding you back toward the couch for a second of calm before the guests started showing up. “Listen, whether he comes or not, this night’s about you. Having fun. Dancing. Getting a little too drunk. Probably fake-laughing at something Tony says and then actually laughing when he falls in the pool.”

You huffed out a breath, letting yourself relax just a little into her side. “I just don’t want him to walk in and think it means something. Or worse… not walk in at all and I still wish he did.”

Wanda bumped her shoulder against yours gently. “You’re allowed to want both. Just don’t let it steal your night.”

And with that, the doorbell rang.

Nat clapped her hands. “Showtime.”

…

“Jarvis, play my favorite song of the week!” Tony shouted over the music, already halfway through whatever drink he had in his hand — something neon, suspiciously strong-smelling, and definitely not FDA-approved.

With a groan, you and Bruce exchanged a look from your shared spot near the kitchen island.

“Here we go,” you muttered.

Bruce adjusted his glasses with a small sigh. “God help us.”

A second later, the speakers shifted, bass dropping so hard it made the floor vibrate. The sound of Party on You by Charli XCX flooded the room — sharp, confident, unapologetic — and suddenly the whole party shifted. Louder. Wilder. People shouted in recognition. Nat threw her head back and screamed, “This is my SHIT!” while Peter tried to dance and not spill a single drop of punch, clearly failing both.

Tony fist-pumped the air like he’d just saved the world. “You’re welcome!”

“This is an odd song for Tony to be listening to on repeat,” Steve said, sipping his drink grimly.

You laughed, shaking your head, but there was something in you — tight in your chest — that didn’t ease with the music. Your fingers tapped anxiously against your cup. Your eyes kept drifting to the door.

Steve noticed.

He didn’t say anything for a while, just sipped his drink and leaned against the wall beside you, eyes casually scanning the party — but you could feel it. That quiet, observant weight only Steve Rogers could carry. Then he finally said, low enough for just you:

“Hey… you’ve had that look on your face all night.”

You smirked without looking at him. “What look?”

“The one that says you’d rather be anywhere but here,” he said softly. “Y/N, come on. I know you. What’s the matter?”

You glanced at him — at those familiar, kind eyes — and for a second, you considered telling him. Really telling him. Letting it all spill out in a messy confession of things you weren’t supposed to feel, names you weren’t supposed to want to say.

But instead, you forced a smile. Light. Dismissive.

“I’m fine, Steve. Just hungry.”

Steve furrowed his brow like he didn’t buy it for a second. “Is this about Buck—?”

You took a long sip of your drink and cut him off with a raised finger. “Mmm…”

Steve exhaled through his nose. You felt him hesitate, caught between pushing and backing off — he knew your dance too well by now. But before he could say anything else—

“There’s my favorite girl.”

Your boyfriend’s voice slid through the music and landed right between you and Steve. You turned, and there he was, grinning, drink in hand, walking toward you like he hadn’t a single care in the world.

Steve stepped back instinctively. His eyes flicked between the two of you. Then they caught yours — and something shifted. He got it. You weren’t just anxious. You were torn.

He gave a small nod, not saying a word, just clapping your boyfriend once on the shoulder as he passed and muttering, “Good to see you, man,” before disappearing into the crowd.

Your boyfriend slipped his arm around your waist without missing a beat.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “This party’s insane. You seriously did all this?”

You smiled automatically. “Nat and Wanda helped.”

“Well,” he said, raising his cup, “remind me to thank them before I get too drunk to remember anyone but you.”

You laughed — quiet, controlled — but your eyes wandered again. Across the party. Past dancing bodies and half-empty cups and dim lights.

Your boyfriend took a step back from you, his eyes wandering your body with a sweet smile, “You look so freaking good.”

“Thanks,” you smiled. “You too.”

“Dance with me,” he said grabbing your hand gently.

Your boyfriend tugged you toward the dance floor, and you let him — mostly because it was easier than explaining why you didn’t want to move. Why every inch of your skin felt two seconds too late for your own body. Why your chest was too tight in the middle of a party you helped plan.

Charli XCX still blasted through the speakers, her voice wild and bold:

“I only threw this party for you…”

The line hit you harder than it should’ve.

You smiled up at him — your boyfriend, the good guy. The sweet one. The one who adored you out loud, who didn’t make you guess or dig for his affection. He spun you lazily in a circle, grinning like you were the only one in the room.

You should have felt lucky.

Instead, the lyrics throbbed in your ears:

“I was hoping you’d come through…”

You closed your eyes for a second too long. Tried to blame the wine. The lights. The way Wanda’s glitter highlighter was somehow still on your cheek from earlier.

Your boyfriend leaned closer, hands gentle on your hips, swaying with the beat.

“You sure everything’s okay?” he murmured against your ear. “You’ve been kind of… off tonight.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m just tired.”

He nodded, believing you — because he always believed you. That was the worst part. He wasn’t clueless. Just trusting. And you had nothing but guilt tucked in behind your ribs.

You forced a grin and bumped his shoulder with yours. “Besides, you’re the one who wanted this party, remember? I just made it happen.”

“And you crushed it,” he said sincerely, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I owe you big time. Like dinner, flowers, foot rub kind of big.”

You laughed, soft and real, because he was trying. Always trying. He leaned in to kiss you, and you let him. Let his lips press to yours. Let your arms wrap around him like they knew the script.

But the whole time, the song kept going.

“And I’m waiting for you by the window, yeah.”

And you hated how much your eyes still searched the party.

How a part of you — the reckless part, the stupid part — still wanted to see him walk through the door again. Still wanted to know if he cared that he’d left you on read. Still wanted one damn look that said he remembered how you felt when the world went quiet and you weren’t pretending.

You pulled back from the kiss and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Your eyes wandered back to Steve, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed casually over his chest — but you could tell by the way his body subtly shifted forward, by the flicker of something more alert in his eyes, that his attention had hooked onto the door.

He smiled, small but unmistakably real, and stepped forward like instinct.

You followed his gaze.

And there he was.

Bucky.

At 10:38 PM.

He was here.

At your party.

Your stomach twisted in a way that made your breath catch, like you’d swallowed something sharp and it lodged behind your heart. The room didn’t go quiet, but it felt like it did — like someone had hit mute on the rest of the world just for a second so you could watch him cross the threshold.

Black shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the dark glint of metal. His hair was tied back, his jaw set with that usual unreadable calm. But his eyes… his eyes scanned the room until they landed on you.

For one second — maybe two — no one else existed.

Not your boyfriend. Not the Avengers. Not the music pulsing through the walls or the laughter echoing off the ceiling.

[mattsnight]

first time ever — matt sturniolo

summary: in which.. y/n and matt have sex for the very first time (in their lives).

warnings: p in v, unprotected sex (don’t do this!!), cursing, use of y/n, virgin!reader x virgin!matt, virginity loss..

A/N: i need a shy/loser!matt typa guy in my life.

matt’s hands were tightly gripping your waist as you sat on his lap. his brown hair had fallen infront of his eyes, covering a bit of his sight. “y’look pretty today, y/n..” he mumbles, blushing. you look into his eyes, noticing his nervousness. i mean, you completely understood it. this was the first time both of you were actually doing something sexual.

“can.. can i take this off?” he points at your shirt. a small smile forms on your face as he asks. “mm.. yes you can, baby.”

his hands find the edge of your shirt before gently pulling it up and over your head. there’s a moment of silence after. shit. his mouth opens in shock. “oh.. i— you— what do i do?” he stutters, embarrassed. “hey— don’t be embarrassed. this is my first time too, remember?” you reassure.

“i know— i know.. it’s just.. ‘m supposed to be tough ‘nd all..” he looks down at your bra, his cock hardening at the sight. “i don’t mind you like this, matt. let’s figure this out together, yeah?” he nods quickly at your words, getting a bit more confident. his hands slowly move to the back of your bra, unclasping it.

when the bra is fully off, he lets out a small gasp. you open your mouth to tell him what to do next, but before you can speak he cuts you off by pressing his lips to your neck. fuck, you can feel yourself grow wetter within seconds. “matt— i— since when— nevermind— i- i.. need you so.. bad.” you whine.

he gently lifts you up so he can take off your shorts and panties. when he’s done, he unbuckles his belt and waits for you to do the rest. your hands slowly move to his jeans, but you stop, obviously nervous. “your dick is so.. hard.” you say, bluntly, before realising what you had said. “i mean— oh my god.” he laughs softly before grabbing your chin. “means you’re doin’ all this right, i guess.”

after a few more seconds, his pants had moved down. he’s left in his boxers, his hard dick visible. “y’ready?” he looks at you. you nod, taking his boxers off, revealing his thick dick.

“you wanna like.. sit on it?” yeah well, thats the point, isn’t it matthew? that’s what he realised immediately after he asked the question. “i mean—“ you cut him off by moving your body up so you’re hovering above him. not even a second later you slowly let yourself sink down, gasping and wincing at the stretch. “ngh— shit.”

“oh shit— y/n—“ matt whimpers out, his hands flying up to grip his pillow. when you’re fully adjusted, you start to move your hips. “oh yes.. goddamn.”

“matt— matt place your hands on my hips and help me, please!” you cry out as you try to move faster, desperate to cum. he does as you say and starts guiding your hips. you feel your legs trembling more with each thrust, signaling you’re close. “oh matt— im close.. im gonna cum.” you gasp loudly, moving your hips faster. “shit shit shit shit.” matt groans as he releases himself deep inside you. you cum aswell, hard.

“there you go..” matt’s hand starts moving over your back as you fall onto his chest, completely spend. “it’s okay.. you did so good..” he smiles.

“we should definitely do this again soon.”

…. fuuuuccckkkk

[universefcb]

Hiii, could you do a longer hector fort fic with reader who is insecure about her curly/wavy hair. She straightens it or does blowouts to hide it, but it ends up raining, and her hair gets wet and turns curly/wavy, and he thinks it's so pretty and doesn't understand why she would be insecure about it. I love your work sm boo if you don't want to do it that is totally okay. (This is something I really struggle with, and I just started wearing my natural hair again after straightening it almost every day)

HAIR OF THE GODS, HECTOR FORT.

→ Pairing: Hector Fort X fem!reader

→ Warning: Mention of Reader. Fluff, confort.

→ Author's note: I LOVE HIM

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

It was the third time you had fixed your hair in the reflection of the bakery window. Your straight strands, falling over your shoulders, were perfectly brushed—the result of almost an hour in front of the mirror, hiding any trace of what really existed underneath. Ever since you were little, that had become your routine: keeping your hair under control, avoiding curls, waves, whatever you were once told was ugly, messy, 'awkward'.

You couldn't quite pinpoint when you first started feeling self-conscious about your hair. Maybe it was when the other girls at school were complimenting you on your straight, 'princess-like' hair, while yours was called 'wild'. Or maybe it was when a boy, not unkindly, commented that your hair looked too 'frizzy'. You smiled at the time, but you never forgot it.

That day, however, there was another reason to worry. You were going out with Héctor, and the Barcelona sky seemed to want to test you. The gray clouds threatened to collapse at any moment. You pretended not to care, but your heart had been beating restlessly since you set foot outside the house. With each step, the memory of the water wetting your hair and revealing its natural texture became more real. And you didn't know if you could handle it. Especially with him by your side.

“You’re being strangely quiet today,” Héctor commented, glancing sideways at you as you walked together to the café you’d agreed to visit days ago. His hand was clasped in yours, warm, secure. His touch was light but constant, as if he wanted to make sure you were there with him the whole time.

You took a deep breath and replied, without much conviction:

“I’m thinking. Random things, you know?”

“Like what?”

You shrugged, trying to push the thoughts away.

"Nothing else."

But it was all there was to it. It was the fear that he would see a part of you that you had learned to hide. It was the subtle panic that you didn’t look as pretty as you wanted to. It was the insecurity of someone who had, for years, learned to mold herself to be accepted—even by herself.

The café was small and cozy, with lights hanging from the ceiling and the scent of melted chocolate in the air. Héctor held the door open for you to enter first, smiling with those dark, gentle eyes. He always did that—he treated you with such care that sometimes it felt like he knew what was going on inside you, even without you saying it.

You sat at the table near the window. The rain hadn't started yet, but the sky hung heavy like a silent warning.

“Do you want the usual?” he asked, already getting up to go to the counter.

“I want some tea today.”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Tea?"

You nodded, forcing a small smile.

“I’m trying to look more... light today.”

He chuckled softly, but didn't comment. He just nodded and went to get the orders. As he walked away, you took out your phone and opened the front camera. Surreptitiously, you checked your hair. Still straight. Still in place. Still 'controlled'. But the air was humid. You knew it was only a matter of time.

When he came back, bringing your tea and hot chocolate, you started talking like you always did. With Héctor, time passed in a strange way—fast and yet full of details. He talked about training, about the coach, about how he had slightly hurt his ankle, but nothing serious. You laughed, made jokes, and little by little you even forgot about your anxiety. Almost.

It was only when the thunder echoed outside that the fear returned with a vengeance. You turned your face to the window and saw the first drops falling, thick and sparse, as if the sky was still deciding whether it was going to collapse completely.

“Shit,” you muttered.

“What is it?” he asked, frowning.

“I forgot my umbrella.”

He shrugged, calm as ever.

“We can wait until it passes. Or... if you want, I'll run with you to the car.”

You thought about agreeing to wait. But he had an appointment later—a meeting at the club, something he couldn't miss. You didn't want to get in the way. You didn't want to be the one who was 'the troublemaker.'

“Come on. It’s okay.”

He hesitated for a second, but then nodded, standing up. As they left the café, the sound of the rain grew louder. He took off his coat and tried to cover you, but the drops had already decided what they were going to do. They fell in a rush, soaking your shoulders, your arms... and your hair.

At first, you tried not to think about it. You just ran with him, laughing nervously as you crossed the street and got into the car. But there, under the small space, panting, you felt it.

He felt the roots getting wet, the strands shrinking little by little. The waves taking shape. And shame tightened his chest.

You turned your face away.

“Don’t look at me, please.”

“What?” he asked, confused, trying to understand what had just happened. “Why?”

“I look... ridiculous,” you whispered, your gaze fixed on the floor of the car. Your voice barely came out.

“Ridiculous?” he repeated, as if the word was too offensive to come out of his mouth.

You closed your eyes for a moment. It was hard to say it out loud, but you had to.

“My hair is becoming what it really is. Curly... or wavy, I don't know. I spend my whole life trying to hide it. I brush it every day. I can't stand it looking like this. People always told me it was ugly, that it gave too much volume, that it looked unkempt. So, I straighten it. I always have. Because it's easier to be pretty like this. It's easier to be accepted.”

Héctor didn't answer right away. The silence was so deep that you thought about running away, running away, hiding. But then he pulled your chin with the tip of his finger, making you look at him, and looking at you as if you were seeing him for the first time.

“But he’s so handsome,” he said, his voice low, sincere, without hesitation. He ran his finger down her wet cheek.

You widened your eyes in surprise.

“Are you kidding?”

“Why would I joke about that?”

You laughed humorlessly, turning your face away.

“No one has ever found it beautiful. I’ve heard so many things... and I ended up believing it. I hide it every day. No matter how hard I try, it never feels right to show it like this.”

“That’s not true,” he said firmly, but with a calm gaze that held you in place. “You’re beautiful. With whatever hair you want. But this… this is your hair. It’s part of who you are. And I love seeing who you really are.”

You wanted to answer, but your throat tightened. He reached out carefully, and you didn't even realize you were shaking until you felt his fingers grip your chin and lift your face.

“Look at me,” he asked.

You obeyed. He was there, so close, his hair was also a little wet, some curly strands falling on his forehead. His brown eyes fixed on yours.

“There is nothing about you that needs to be hidden. Least of all this.”

You blinked a few times, trying not to cry. He smiled, and it was a small smile, but full of certainty.

“Promise me something?”

"What?"

“Promise me that one day you will try to see yourself the way I do?”

“And how do you see me?”

“Amazing. Strong. Beautiful. With the most beautiful hair in the world, but most importantly, with it being ours alone.”

You didn't answer right away. You just stood there, letting that moment wash over you. And, as strange as it seemed, for the first time you didn't want to run.

“Ours?” She asked embarrassedly.

“Yeah…” he looked at her lips, and smiled before placing his lips together.

You grabbed the back of his neck, pulling on the small strands there, making him sigh. His long fingers wrapped around your hair, pulling your head back slightly to separate your lips.

“And you know... I love pulling them at night.” He smiled sideways.

“Hector!” She slapped his arm lightly, smiling breathlessly.

Later, at home, you opened your phone's camera. Your hair was already starting to dry, forming waves and curls as it naturally did. You almost ran to get the brush. Almost.

But then you remembered the look in his eyes. The way he said he saw you. And, even though you weren’t sure if you were ready, you looked at yourself for a second longer. Then, you took out your phone and opened the selfie he had insisted on taking at the station.

You were shy, your hair already gaining volume, but he smiled as if you were the most beautiful thing in the world.

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Okay but the real question is: what would ford be like if he noticed that you were sad but weren’t talking about it.? How would he react?

I’m someone who can’t talk about the way they feel, about something. Like if I’m upset/sad/depressed about something, I might want to talk about smth but I just can’t find the right words to say it.

I guess I’m just looking for a little blurb or smth to read when I’m sad so I can feel better lmao

Pls and thank uu

(Love ur writing btw <3)

THE QUIET BETWEEN WORDS

Ford pines x reader, sfw, hurt/comfort

a/n: i’m sorry if this doesn’t come out perfect, i got inspired at first, but i struggle with dialogue and getting things across the way i want, so it probably sucks, but ive been writing this for quite a while after i received ur ask, and i really tried.

just really wanted to say, you’re not alone. i understand how that feels. i really hope things get lighter for you soon. you deserve to feel better 🤍

Ford is an observer. being a scientist for his whole life, he can’t let his curious eye slip even the smallest details, because details are what make his projects work. Ford noted in his brain that lately you were less active than usual, but brushed it off, because usually you said it was nothing serious, and put on a smile. and he hated himself, how every time he let it slide, he felt as if he were ignoring your problems. but at the same time, he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable or press too hard. today, though, with horror, he noticed that you didn’t appear at breakfast, not even the smell of Stan’s delicious pancakes could call you.

the kids felt lonely without you by the table. quietly, Ford admitted he felt lonely too.

he had gotten used to seeing you as part of the Pines family, always somewhere nearby. around the kids, gossiping with Stan about Gideon or Pacifica's make up, joking with Wendy as you slapped glittery stickers on Soos’ belly, brightening every dull corner of the old shack. you may never have noticed how Stanford stared at you, curiously at first, then affectionately, and more recently, with something very tender and alarmingly unscientific twisting in his chest.

later, after breakfast, he heard Mabel’s familiar lilt down the hallway, followed by your voice, quiet, flat, and terribly unlike you. Ford sighed with relief; oh, you were up. you were here. that’s good. his mood visibly changed, and even a smile threatened the corners of his mouth.

until he heard Mabel's excited pleas, “please? come to the lake with us, pleaaaase! it won’t be fun without you!” and your voice, trying its best to stay neutral “i. . . sorry, i don’t want to go today.”

Ford raised his eyebrows. he knew listening in on private conversations was impolite, but how could he ignore it? you, the one who adored Gravity Falls’ beauty and nature, the forests, the one who never passed up a chance to dip your fingers into water, who LOVED being near water, who never missed a day with the Pines family, rejected Mabel’s offer?

it unsettled him. something in him seized. logic and emotion, two forces that rarely worked in harmony within him, collided now.

when the others finally left, Stan yelling about sunscreen and towels, Ford lingered behind, then walked with soft steps to the living room, you were there. not doing anything, sitting curled into yourself on the couch, your hands drawn close, eyes heavy-lidded, staring at the tv. a half-empty mug sat untouched on the sill.

Stanford cleared his throat. “they’ll probably drag back a whole bucket of tadpoles, Stan’s got a terrible habit of bringing invasive species home, as i noticed.”

you didn’t laugh, didn’t even look at him.

“i see,” he said, quieter now. “you didn’t want to go. may i sit?” Ford asked, and you gave a small nod without looking at him. he sat in the armchair beside you, but not too close, leaving enough space. he had read once that animals in pain don’t want to be crowded. he wondered if that applied to people, too.

elbows resting carefully on his knees, fingers steepled. “you’ve been quiet,” he noted gently, “i’ve noticed you haven’t seemed like yourself, not lately. and it worries me.”

you looked down, hands tightened around your knees.

“i know,” you replied. “i just, i don’t know what to say.”

“you don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, folding his hands carefully in his lap. “but if you ever need someone to sit with you, im good at silence.” Ford inhaled slowly, gaze softening. “i know sometimes words don’t come easy. trust me, i’ve spent years unable to say the simplest things. trapped on an alien world for decades, and the hardest part wasn’t surviving. turns out, it was coming home, and not knowing how to say i was scared. not knowing how to admit that i wasn’t okay. not even to my own brother.”

you blinked and turned away, not wanting him to see your eyes as you felt them getting slightly wet.

“you really don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, im not pushing,” he added, leaning slightly forward. “but let me be here, anyway. even if all you need is silence and all you want is someone to just sit beside you and not ask for anything.”

your voice came out small, cracked. “i’m just tired, Ford, i don’t know why. i just feel so heavy. and it’s stupid, cause i feel like there’s no reason, and i don’t want to ruin the mood or make anyone worry.”

“hey,” Ford interrupted, “it’s not stupid. feelings don’t need a thesis. they just are. but you don’t have to do it alone when you have a family. Stanley taught me that, and now i want you to know that too.”

your throat moved, and you felt a lump as you tried to swallow. “i hate crying.”

“then don’t, you don't have to force yourself to do this, at least not right now. i believe you will be able to open up to me one day.” he said, offering the softest smile. “just breathe. and if you ever want to talk, now or in a month or in a year, i’ll listen. and if you can’t talk, i’ll still listen, to the silence.” his voice gentled even further. “you matter. very much. and not just when you’re happy or helpful or full of energy. i don’t need you to perform joy for me. you’re allowed to be sad, i will still care”

slowly, you nodded, giving him the tiniest tilt of your head, and later, Ford would write it down in his journal as “a blossom daring to lift itself after a storm”

Ford didn’t speak again, simply reached out and set his six fingered hand gently over yours, sitting with you in silence.

[prettydaisygirl]

oh em gee i absolutely adore your Rafe zombie AU!! could you write something where Rafe x reader go on a supply run and they find a kid? maybe reader would want to protect them, but Rafe is totally against it & wants to leave the kid behind? would love to see how that dynamic plays out <3

Hi nonnie! Thank you so much for your request! I love how much all of you guys love my zombie AUs! Speaking of which, because I have zombie AUs for multiple characters now, I have made them their own series titles, which is why things look different & also i got pictures. Hope you enjoy, this one was fun! <3

Us and Them (zombie au) with Rafe Cameron x fem!reader who learns her lesson ✿ 1.7k words

cw: zombie apocalypse, fem reader, reader wants to help a child, rafe is rough with reader physically, unnamed character dies from a gunshot

rafe cameron masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

This might be the worst idea Rafe has had since he found you at the beginning. Normally, you can trust him to be level headed and careful, but this might be the first time you hesitate to. 

Skyscrapers sprawl around you. You’ve been in cities before, obviously, but when you’ve become accustomed to small sheds and run down cabins, these tall monstrosities only serve to make you anxious. 

“Is this a good idea?” You ask, and the shake in your voice betrays your frayed nerves. “I thought you said we shouldn’t go into cities.”

“We shouldn’t.” Rafe’s voice is clipped and he tightens the grip he has on your hand. He’s in a bad mood today. “But if we try to go around, we’ll be wasting time. Days. Days we don’t have before it gets too fuckin’ hot.”

You know he’s right, he usually is. As harsh and uncaring as your boyfriend can be, he’s also the smartest person you’ve ever met. If he thinks cutting through the city is right, you know it’s probably the best option. It doesn’t make it any less eerie, though. 

It feels like every footstep echoes for miles, the sound waves bouncing off of metal and concrete. Your eyes dart around, sure that something sinister is going to crawl out of every shadow or alleyway. 

Rafe tugs on your arm again, pulling you down another street. Everything feels empty, but you know better. You know the reasons why the two of you have avoided cities before: too many hiding places, too many buildings and rooms, too much risk. It certainly feels risky. 

Your skin burns under the light of the sun. Winter had lingered on forever, far longer than it should’ve, and in just a few weeks things have completely flipped. Instead of your body being frigid with cold, your skin stings and your eyes burn with sweat. The concrete and pavement of the city only amplify the heat, reflecting the sunlight's rays. 

You’re turning onto another street when something in the opposite direction catches your eye. When you look again, steps lingering, there’s nothing. Rafe’s grip on your arm tightens when you hesitate to follow, but you look again, eyes tracing through the concrete jungle.

There. You see it again. A flash of color that catches your eye. It gets smaller as Rafe pulls you further in the opposite direction, but it moves again and suddenly the shape becomes unmistakable.

It’s a child, a little boy. Your heart sinks. He seems to be running up and down the different streets, you watch as he turns and disappears behind a row of buildings. Is he alone, or hurt? What if he’s looking for help?

“Rafe, wait-” You try to pull against his grip and he shoots you a look over his shoulder. You tug again, and this time, your wrist breaks free. In a split second decision, you turn, taking off down the street in the direction you saw the child. Your eyes scan over the dull grey tones, but you don’t see him.

You don’t get far running, obviously. Rafe’s loud steps catch up to you before you even make it back to the intersection. His eyes are fierce as he grips at your bicep, rough and harder than he should.

“The fuck is goin' on?” His question is harsh and low, and you should know better than to argue with him, but you do it anyway.

“Rafe, there’s a kid! I saw-” You point in the direction where you saw the little boy running, tugging almost desperately against Rafe’s grasp. The kid still hasn’t run back around the corner again. What if he’s stuck somewhere alone?

“Stop.” Rafe growls, jerking you into his chest and using his other arm to trap you there. You wriggle in his grasp, trying to escape even though you know it’s pointless.

“What if he’s hurt?” You ask, turning your head back in the direction you’d seen the boy, “What if he’s all alone?”

If you were looking at Rafe, you’d see the way his face softens. Just for a second, just a little, but it does.

“Baby,” Rafe says, freeing your arm and using his hand to turn your face back toward him. “He’s not hurt, and he isn’t alone.”

“How can you know that?” You ask, and you hate the way you can feel your eyes begin to burn. You know Rafe probably thinks you’re stupid and pathetic. “You can’t just-”

“How would he have made it this long in the city on his own? He didn’t.” Rafe’s eyes are stormy still, but the tone in his voice has calmed some. “And if he was hurt? You wouldn’t have seen him at all. It’s a trap, baby.”

“How can you know that?” You ask again, taking in a shaking breath. You look back and there’s still no sign of the boy, no evidence he’d ever been there at all. “Rafe, we can’t just leave him…”

“We can, we should, and we will.” Rafe’s hand slides down your arm to interlace your fingers together, no tugging or pulling this time. “We can’t help anyone else right now, you know that.”

You do know. You know he’s right, he always is. Even if it’s not a trap, if the child is alone, would you and Rafe be able to take care of him? You can barely feed yourselves. Even still, your heart aches, feeling split into pieces like shards of broken glass in your chest. 

“What if he’s not okay?” Your voice is weaker this time, your eyes glassy as Rafe shuffles you forward with a gruff ‘c’mon’.

There’s an awkward, icy tension between the two of you. You can tell Rafe is annoyed by your behavior, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes hard and narrow. Your stomach churns, heavy with guilt, and your feet shuffle against the pavement as you follow behind your boyfriend, fingers still interlaced with his despite your dragging. 

The two of you duck into a small, abandoned clothing store for lunch. It’s still hot inside, given the lack of electricity and AC, but being out of the direct sunlight helps. The two of you share a stale pack of old, crumbled crackers, choking them down with hot water from Rafe’s bottle. 

You lay your head against his shoulder for a while, letting yourself rest with your eyes closed. Rafe rubs your back, a gentle movement that silently tells you he’s sorry for jerking you around earlier. You weren’t mad about that, but you relish in the soft touch anyway. 

Rafe must feel really sorry, because he kisses your forehead before he stands up and then holds his hands out to help you. You take them, standing up and then brushing the dust off your pants. 

You follow him out of the shop and back into the street. You’ve made it five or six blocks when the sound of yelling catches your attention. The both of you duck immediately out of the road, crouching down behind some abandoned cars.

You see the little boy first, and your heart sinks. From here, you can tell he’s fine. He runs up to the stop sign and pauses, turning around. Right behind him is a woman. You give Rafe a side-eyed glance and his gaze meets yours, the both of you pressing closer to the car.

“Hey!” The woman seems out of breath, like maybe she’s been chasing the boy for a while. “Hey, little boy, uh… are you alone out here?” The woman looks at the boy, who stands completely silent. 

Nothing happens for a moment, the woman looks around nervously like she’s unsure of what to do. “If you’re sick, I can help you!” She calls out to the boy, who continues to stand still and silent. “I have a group, there’s… there’s other kids! We can-”

Rafe’s hand instinctively reaches for you at the sound of the gunshot. One shot, through the woman’s head, and she’s on the ground. The boy doesn’t flinch, not at the shot or at the sound of the body hitting the pavement, but you and Rafe do. You feel your head spinning and you feel like you might be sick, envisioning yourself on the ground instead of the other woman. 

The boy stands still for a long stretch of time, long enough that you start to wonder if the two of you should move. You open your mouth to whisper to Rafe, but stop when the boy’s head turns. A man comes out from behind the wall, holding a rifle. He ruffles the little boy’s hair before kneeling down to dig through the woman’s things. He takes everything, digging through her pockets and handing stuff to the boy to carry. 

“Come on, boy,” The man claps the boy on the back, who smiles proudly, and the two of them take off in the direction the man had come from. 

You and Rafe don’t talk about it, not until it’s late and you’re outside of city limits, wrapped in each other’s arms under the moonlight. The crickets are extra loud tonight, and you find yourself snuggling further into Rafe’s chest in your sleeping bag. His hand trails up and down your spine, the other tangled in your hair. You listen to his heartbeat for a while before you finally decide to talk.

“I’m sorry for being stupid.” You whisper, shame and regret coursing through your veins. Rafe’s hand stops in its path but he doesn’t speak, letting you continue. “I should have known better, but I almost fell for it.”

There’s a long moment of silence, then Rafe hums and his hand continues, up and down your spine. You let the silence linger even longer before you question him.

“Are you… not going to say anything?”

“Well… I think you already know that you messed up.” He tilts his head down to look at you, and you raise your eyes to meet his gaze even though you’re nervous. “You lived, that’s what matters. Every day, we keep moving forward.”

“Yeah.” You find yourself agreeing softly, though you still feel a pit in your stomach. You bury your face into Rafe’s neck and try to sleep, hoping to forget the city and the vision of the other woman's body on the ground soon. 

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© prettydaisygirl