#maybe i will finish this later. but for now take this

[ggidolsmuts]

AirBnB - Red Velvet Seulgi, ITZY Yeji

"This is a nice neighborhood!"

"Yeah." You look around the quiet European village. "So nice and quiet, I'm glad your company chose to film part of your MV here."

"And I'm glad you could take the time off to come with me!" Yeji slinks her arm through yours, pulling you close. You were initially debating if you should go with Yeji on what is a work trip for her, but you don't regret it now, especially when you see the intimate housing she's secured for the two of you. "Here we are." It's a cozy little two bedroom, complete with kitchenette and a small living room.

"Oh, it's a little small," Yeji frowns as you pull the luggage in. "Not much room to spread out."

"It's fine, you won't be here for the most part right? It's enough for me work in, I can use the spare room as a study."

"Are you sure? We can still grab a hotel in the village center. I thought the living room would be more spacious."

"No no, this is good. Don't stress over it." You pull Yeji in for a hug. "What's important is the person I'm here with, not where I'm at."

"Says the guy who had trouble with the visa."

"Who knew that 'Following gorgeous girlfriend on work trip' was not a valid reason to visit?" Yeji boops you on the nose as the two of you get to unpacking. When you finish both of you slump on the couch, tired.

"Oof, I did not think we brought that much stuff."

"Me neither, but at least it's done. Dinner?" You check the time and shake your head.

"I think they're closed by now, shops close early here."

"Really?" Yeji scrolls through Google Maps, only for her expression to fall as she goes through every restaurant nearby. "Oh well, at least I brought ramyun."

"I thought I told you not to, I was going to bring them!"

"I brought it in case you forgot!"

"Well, I guess we have too much ramyun then, you could've used that space for your makeup or something."

"Nah I asked manager unnie to bring most of it, but yay ramyun!" Yeji enthusiastically starts boiling water, humming as she thinks about the ramyun she's about to make. "Ugh this might be my one time to eat ramyun, I'm going to have to watch what I eat when we start filming."

"I'll sneak you snacks, or have something for you when you come back then."

"You are horrible," Yeji says it ever so sweetly. "I'm supposed to on a business trip, I have to be professional!"

"Well you're not at work now, I think you can afford to be a little... Unprofessional." Your hands rested over her flat midriff, thumbs playing underneath the waistband of her jeans.

"I did cook some ramyun so... Do you want to come over for some ramyun?" Yeji asks the classic line cheekily.

"Already here babe." Your stomachs growl in protest. "Maybe we should eat first though."

"Yeah, you're going to need some extra energy!" You raise an eyebrow at her words. "I've never had sex outside of Korea, gotta make the best of this trip."

"We should wait a few days then, let me pick up the local language and I'll be saying filthy things you won't even understand."

"Wonderful. While you build that Duolingo streak, maybe you can say a few things I will understand later tonight."

"I always do." The sweet and dirty moment is interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Who's that?"

"No idea, maybe the owner of the place, forgot something here? Let me take a look." You peck Yeji on the cheek and go to the door only to find a stunning lady in front of you, surely this can't be the owner?

"Oh hi, are you the owner?" "Are you the owner?" Both of you ask at once.

"Eh? I'm here with reservation." She flashes a printout in front of him, her mind racing. There must have been some mistake, why is someone else here?

"We booked this place for the week." He answers back.

"No that can't be right, let me call the owner." Hurriedly she pulls out her phone, praying it isn't true. She's heard of nightmare stories like these, where an unscrupulous owner double books a place, allowing them to make double the money, and leaving the inconvenienced parties to figure it out themselves.

"Who is it babe?" She hears a female voice call out from the apartment.

"Ah, someone else apparently booked this place too."

"Oh, we should call the owner then."

"Yeah she's doing it."

"Does she want to come in?"

"I'll ask." You wait for her to put down her phone, and in the back of your head you have a nagging feeling—she looks incredibly familiar.

"No response, great."

"Do you want to come in? Just to put your bags down while we figure it out?"

"Yeah sure, that'd be great, I don't know what's going on. Something like this has never happened before." You help the visitor with her luggage as you let her in, and you almost walk into her as she stops right at the entrance.

"Yeji?"

"Huh? Seulgi unnie?" 

"Small world, to think I'd run into you here!" Seulgi's completely wrong-footed by the development, but she greets Yeji happily, grateful to be seeing someone she recognizes. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to film for my MV, shh don't tell anyone!" Seulgi nods understandingly. "What about you?"

"Same actually." She holds up a finger to her lips as well.

"Oh my god that's so good to hear, I loved your solo debut!"

"Thank you! And this is..." Seulgi addresses the odd one out in the apartment.

"Ah, he's umm—" Yeji's quickly burning up, what should she say, she's not that close to Seulgi.

"I'm her manager, nice to meet you." He reaches out and offers a hand.

"Oh, huh, I thought I heard her call you 'babe' earlier." Yeji almost drops the fork in her hand.

"Ah, that's my name, it's unusual, get a lot of stares because of it. Yeji can you get Seulgi something to drink?" You quickly deflect Seulgi's line of thought, offering her a seat at the dining table.

"Oh, yes of course!"

"You can't get a hold of the owner?" you ask, trying to keep Seulgi's focus on her predicament.

"Thanks Yeji. Yes, they're not picking up, argh! What do I do now?!"

"Is there a hotel nearby that has a room? And then get a refund for this later." You offer, and Seulgi nods and starts looking, and her expression slowly sours.

"No, there's nothing in this town that's available." She downs her water in one shot. "Thanks, I'll be on my way then, gotta get in touch with my team, maybe I'll stay with them, or stay in the city and travel out here for the shoot."

"Are you sure? Why don't you just stay here for the night unnie?"

"Really? That's okay with you?"

"Yeah, right op— Babe?"

"Yeah, Yeji and I can take a room, and you can have the other room."

"You and Yeji will... share a room?" Shit, right, you're supposed to be her manager.

"Er yes, there's a sofa bed in there too, quite common in small towns like these, we've slept together before." You wince internally, but it was too late, the words were already out. Thankfully Seulgi's too caught up in accepting the solution to her problems to notice.

"Ah really? If you're really okay with it..." Both you and Yeji nod insistently, and you make sure to help her bring her luggage to "her" room.

"We're making some ramyun unnie, do you want some too?"

"Is that okay? Thank you!"

The three of you split two portions of noodles, and you retreat to your room after to let them talk shop. Yeji ducks into the room after an hour later.

"Hi babe, did you shower?"

"Mmhmm, go ahead." Yeji does so before getting under the sheets with you.

"So, did we get found out?" you mumble as she snuggles against you.

"What do you mean?"

"She's your sunbae right? I'm sure I'm not the first manager that's called "Babe" she's run into."

"You think so? Maybe it's more common? I don't know, she didn't say anything about you, I think she buys it."

"Either she's naive, or you're naive love."

"It's fine, she'll be settled tomorrow, and then you can talk filthy to me every night." Yeji grabs your hand, stopping it from drifting across her thigh.

"Every night? You're asking a lot from me."

"Wait till you see me in the outfits I'm supposed to shoot in."

"God, you can't say that and expect me to sleep properly." You slip your hand underneath her flimsy t-shirt.

"Stop! No more tonight, we don't know how thin the walls are!" Yeji slaps your hand, reprimanding you with a hurried harsh hush.

But unfortunately for both of you, it turns out that you two might not be alone for the other nights either, as you find Seulgi waiting for the two of you the next morning.

"So I spoke to the owner, they offered to refund me fully, and you 75% off, all we need to do is not report them on the app."

"Ugh, fine. Did they offer alternative accommodations? Or do you still need to look for that?" Seulgi shakes her head sadly.

"They offered to look but also said to not get my hopes up, there was always only a few hotels, and this is peak season. It's why they decided to offer their place on the app too, good money."

"Figures, where are you going to stay then?"

"I was hoping I could stay here? It'd be just a lot easier if I don't have to stress about it. I know I'm not paying anything, so I'm happy to split whatever's left of your bill after the discount. I don't mind taking half, it's a good deal since they're taking so much off."

"That's true but, Yeji and I would like some priv—" Yeji pinches your side and cuts you off.

"That would be great unnie! I was hoping you would stay, we'd both have each other for company, right?" Yeji's pointed look is your cue to chime in.

"Uh yeah, that'd be great, you could give Yeji advice on her shoot as well."

"Oh no, she's doing great already! But thank you, I'm glad that's sorted then!" Seulgi heads back to her room, leaving you to stare at Yeji disbelievingly.

"You were going to say 'privacy'! What would she think then?" your girlfriend retorts.

"Ugh you're right." You prepare breakfast for Yeji, making a little extra for Seulgi as well, and as they prepare to head out for their respective shoots, Yeji hangs back just a little bit, stealing a kiss as Seulgi leaves first.

"I'll try to get back early, we'll have to get our fun in while she's not around." She heads out, only to run into Seulgi still near the building entrance.

"Oh Yeji, is Babe not coming with you?"

"Babe? Oh, the manager? No, he's er, coordinating stuff with the company, I can find my way there myself."

"Yeah? Oh after your shoot we should see if there's any good scenic spots around town, we can take pictures for each other!"

"Oh umm yeah, that'd be great unnie!"

Seulgi, to her credit and Yeji's debit, is blissfully unaware. With a nice junior idol to enjoy the scenic city with, there's nothing she wants to do more than to hang out with her! She invites her on her daily runs, scouts out local cafes that they can check out, the different parks dotted around the area, everything is perfect!

Although, sometimes she can be mysteriously hard to find.

"Oh, hi Babe!"

"Hnn—uh? Oh hello Seulgi!" She catches Yeji's manager leaning against the kitchen island. Slowly he twists around to face her. "Have a good shoot?"

"Yeah, is Yeji around?"

"Yeji? Umm hmm... umm umm, no she's not, she stepped out for a run, said she ate too much last night."

"Oh, okay." His expression is a little odd though. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Huhhng? Yeah, just a little under the weather."

"Oh no, do you need any medicine? I have some that you could use."

"No, I'm good, thank you!"

"Sure, please don't hesitate to ask, I'm sure Yeji depends on you a lot."

"Ghhk!" You forget just how much Yeji's depending on you to pull your cock out of her mouth so she can breathe. Your shaft is covered in her drool, and it drips down her jaw, her mouth forced open the whole time you've been speaking to Seulgi.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That sound?"

"Sorry, that was me trying to hold my cough back." You quickly fake a cough, pulling your hips slightly back and unpinning Yeji's throat from the furniture.

"Are you sure you don't need medicine? It's not good to get sick abroad."

"I have medicine I can take, I'll be sure to take it, thank you though!" You try to wrap the conversation up quickly, and thankfully Seulgi nods and heads into her room, allowing you to talk to Yeji. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just couldn't really swallow." She wipes her mouth before diving back in.

"Wait, Seulgi's here!"

"Just finish before she comes back out!" That wouldn't be a problem, as Yeji knows just how you like your tip licked, flicked, and sucked. It is on you to muffle your moan as you start to empty your load down her throat.

"Ugh god..."

"Are you okay?" You almost jump and pop out of Yeji's mouth, Seulgi's back out again!

"Yeah, just er... some bad news from home."

"Oh no, I hope everything's fine!" She approaches you, offering her sympathy, but any closer and Yeji would be discovered.

"It is, sorry!" You hold your hands at arms length. "I just umm, need a moment to myself."

"Right, okay, I'm here if you need a shoulder to lean on."

She's so kind! Is what you would've thought, if Yeji didn't choose that moment to swirl her tongue around your tip, cleaning you thoroughly as Seulgi watched, completely unaware. "Th-Thanks, sorry, please don't worry about me and go about your day."

"Oh, umm, okay." Uncertainly Seulgi answers and heads out again, and you allow yourself to slump forward as Yeji pops your soft member out of her mouth.

"That was close!" Yeji laughs as she gets out from under you.

"Yeah well, you're the one who wanted to finish me off."

"Are you telling me you wanted to be blue balled all night after Seulgi's back?"

"No, but I suppose you want me to repay the favor before she comes back?"

"You read my mind." You share a kiss with Yeji as she shimmies her shorts down, and as you sink to your knees you pull her panties down with you.

Seulgi slaps her forehead at her own stupidity, she left her airpods back at home! She trudges up the stairs to the apartment, only to be met with a yelp when she opens the door.

"Ah! I-I thought you were going out unnie!" Yeji's in the exact same position as her manager earlier, leaning forward over the flat surface.

"Yeah I forgot my airpods, were you here earlier?"

"N-No, I just got back!"

"Really? I didn't see you on the way out just now! Where's Babe?"

"I took the building's— Hnngh! Back door. Oppa's in the room, he said he wasn't feeling well so..." Yeji couldn't hide her soft moan as you press your tongue against her slit, and thankfully Seulgi doesn't notice Yeji's eyes rolling up when you begin playing with her back door, fingers drifting around it.

"Yeah I saw him just now, he did not look good. Should I get something for him?" 

"No need, I'll take care of him!" Seulgi quickly ducks into her room to grab the airpod and waves goodbye to Yeji, a little distracted. Did Yeji just call him oppa?

"Oppa that's too much!" Yeji whines.

"You said back door, so..." You get back to licking her pussy, rendering her incapable of a quip back. Your neck is sore from looking up between her legs, but it is made easier as Yeji disappears from anyone's view, knees sinking to the floor as she full on sits on your face—the only things visible from a potential Seulgi are her fingers, still gripping the top of the counter.

"Oh fuck, you eat me out so good!" She rides your face rapidly, eager to finally get herself off on this trip. A lick, flick, and suck of her clit, and Yeji's thighs close around your head—they tremble around you, making you shake slightly, adding to her pleasure. She can't help but cry out, letting herself go, sinking further on your face as her legs go weak. When she's done she swings herself off you, slumped against the kitchen island as she gathers herself.

"God I needed that."

"Same," you agree, helping Yeji to her feet.

"I wish we could do more, but no telling when she's back."

"Me too, maybe we can stay a few days longer, say your flight got delayed or something?"

"Maybe, now go to bed and pretend to be sick before Seulgi comes back and catches us like this!"

Seulgi doesn't catch them in the act, but she certainly caught Yeji's ecstatic shout as she came. She had forgotten something else, and cursing her own forgetfulness Seulgi quickly headed back before stopping dead in her tracks. Yeji's cry was sharp and pointed, yet the moan after was ground out, sounding absolutely and thoroughly satisfied.

Isn't Babe in there with her? She wonders, surely he heard it! Unless...

Maybe he was asleep because he was sick and didn't hear it. The naive little angel on her shoulder thought out loud.

He's in on it, responsible for it even, oh he's getting her off good! The lusty little succubus between her legs speaks up to her.

He's her manager, that'd be unprofessional! The naive angel barks back, scandalized.

Oh please, he's her boyfriend, when was the last time you cooked ramyun for your manager? Seulgi knew the little devil in her head was right. She had known all along that Babe wasn't Yeji's manager (That probably isn't even his name! the naive angel in her finally realizes), but she just wanted to give Yeji the benefit of the doubt, to not think about her boyfriend giving something else to her. Starved for attention recently, the little devil in her grew quickly with each such thought.

Yeji sounded so satisfied didn't she? Seulgi whirls around, quickly heading the other way, forgetting about what she forgot, her mind filled with Yeji's noises that the lust devil won't let her forget.

Shut up shut up shut up shut up!

But the need doesn't go away—it manifests itself viciously in a vicarious need to know that Yeji gets fucked. Seulgi makes sure to tell the couple when she's out, and when she'll be back. If she's done early, she'll wait outside the apartment, split in two between eavesdropping, trying to see if she can catch the sounds of their activities and feeding her own needs, and trying to be the good sunbae, recognizing and giving them the privacy they need.

Once she's back in the apartment her eyes are sharp, Yeji might very well think that Seulgi's trying to catch them in the act, but no, Seulgi just wants her own satisfaction—any redness on Yeji's knees, or a t-shirt pulled slightly further up to hide a hickey, her hair maybe slightly mussed and messy. The dead giveaways that make Seulgi wet are the bowleggedness that Yeji tries to hide, the lipstick mark that Babe doesn't wipe off cleanly, the sudden additional load of laundry that they do in the apartment.

And yet she can't get her own satisfaction—between Yeji coming and going and her boyfriend staying in and working remotely, Seulgi has no time to herself! She does it mid-shower, the sound of running water barely enough to cover her whines and whimpers, but it is nowhere close to what Yeji gets—not nearly as loud or as satisfying surely. So Seulgi simmers, letting off steam in the shower when she can, waiting, hoping for the inevitable boilover.

It comes in the most unexpected of circumstances, one that Seulgi didn't even plan for.

"Nngh..." Seulgi mumbles as she stretches her arms, waking up in the late morning. She's still sleepy, but she wakes up immediately when she can hear their voices through the shared wall.

"And you're sure she's not home?"

"Definitely, I went out for a quick run, and her shoes were not there!" Seulgi's eyes fly to her freshly wiped footwear—she had brought them in for cleaning after getting them muddy last night. They are silent for a while, but it quickly becomes clear what's happening when Yeji's whine pierces through the wall, followed by Babe's low moan. Safe in their false security of Seulgi not being home, they are not soft, and Seulgi hears every word, whimper, and wail.

"Fuck me, oh fuck me I'm cumming!" Yeji gets off fast, and Seulgi is quick to kick off her pajama bottoms, sliding a hand between her legs—she's too horny to think, hearing them basically going at it directly. She's only conscious enough to muffle her sounds, fingers running up and down her slit and thumb pressing on her clit. She gets herself to the edge of orgasm, but it seems to end a little too early for her as she hears Babe's moan suddenly close to the wall.

"Oh yeah, drink it all." There is a long drawn out silence, peppered with a few groans, before finally Seulgi audibly hears Yeji gasp, his cock finally taken out of her—just how much did he cum?

"God I wish Minju were here." She hears Yeji say. Minju? Kim Minju?

"I know I know, I taste better coming from her." Seulgi's eyes are wide open, what is he saying?! "But if she's here, we both know I wouldn't get anything done."

"You'd get a lot of her done. You two mix the best." Seulgi's hand stops moving, shocked by the revelation. Yeji's boyfriend is openly having sex with Minju, and Yeji is okay with it? And he tastes better coming from her? Does Yeji... oh god!

"Imagine how you would taste coming from Seulgi unnie."

"Yeji..."

"She looks so tight, have you seen her abs?" Seulgi's sticky fingers drift over her hard midriff—what is Yeji saying now?

"She's your sunbae—"

"So? Don't tell me you don't find her hot, even I find her hot."

"She is, but things will get awkward, how would you face her at music shows?"

"Oh I see Chaeryeong all the time and face her fine. You say that like I don't see the others at music shows already, even Hitomi is debuting again!" First Minju, now Chaeryeong and Hitomi? The little devil in Seulgi now really wants to see what she's missing out on—Yeji's satisfied enough that she's fine with him fooling around, if anything, she seems to be the instigator!

"Can you imagine, that tight naked body writhing underneath you?" As Yeji says it Seulgi's imagining it as well, fingers dipping back down her body. "Do you think she likes it hard? Or is she more of a rider, imagine that waist riding on top of you."

"Yeji—"

"Oh please, you're hard again already." Seulgi bites back a whimper as she fingers herself, the thought of him getting hard thinking about her getting her wetter—it's part of her job to be hot and attractive, but knowing the effect she has on someone when they're right there is different.

"Enough!" He growls, and there is a bang and a moan from Yeji. There is no fanfare, no more fantasizing, and Seulgi hears the headboard begin to knock constantly on the shared wall. They're outright fucking, and Seulgi adds another finger in herself when Yeji wails.

"You're so fucking big!"

The rest of it is unintelligible, but the "ohs" and "ahs" she can make out more than tell Seulgi just how thoroughly Yeji's getting railed. It turns Seulgi on that she's partially responsible for this, that thinking about her is making them fuck that hard. The headboard banging begins to get faster and faster, and Yeji manages a high-pitched whine.

"Cum in me!" Seulgi's mind goes blank, imagining herself in Yeji's place, fingers going faster and faster, loud wet sounds coming from between her legs. She grabs a pillow and screams into it when she hears his deep groan, imagining him filling her up and climaxing with him. There's no holding back her pleasure, and Seulgi bucks her hips and let's herself go, squirting all over the sheets as her heels dig into the bed. The moans and gasps of the couple across the wall fill her head as they finish, and Seulgi continues to rub herself, getting every last drop out of her.

"Fuck yes..." she moans loudly as she comes down, too in the clouds to realize what she just did.

"Was that—" You and Yeji look at each other.

"You said she wasn't here!" you hiss, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Her shoes were not there!" Yeji quickly gets under the sheets, as if fearful of getting caught naked by Seulgi. "Do you think she heard?"

"Well if we heard her, she definitely heard us, we weren't exactly being quiet."

"Shit, this is bad! Oh no we were talking about her like that!"

"You did, I didn't say anything. Well, she did sound like she was enjoying herself. Who would say 'Fuck yes' like that?"

"You think... she was getting off on us?"

"Maybe? Or maybe she just woke up, and she didn't hear us."

"You think we just heard her, and not the other way around?"

"We have to hope." The two of you agree to not bring it up with Seulgi, and to deflect if she asks. It doesn't last long though, as you run into her ready to start her own extra load of laundry later that day.

"Oh, hello, you go ahead."

"Hello Babe, I think we can do both?"

"Oh, umm sure." Awkwardly you put you and Yeji's fluid-stained clothes in there, and you can't help but notice the stained bedsheets already in the tumbler.

"There we go," Seulgi says as she hits start. "You and Yeji do each other today?"

"Sorry?"

"Are you and Yeji doing anything today?" Whew, you thought you heard her say "do each other".

"N-No, she doesn't have any schedules planned."

"Yes, but what about you and Yeji?"

"I— I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh please, I'm not stupid, I know you're not her manager. I'm not even sure if your name's Babe, but I'll call you that for now."

"Er, right, thanks. If you could keep quiet about me and Yeji that'd be much appreciated."

"Oh of course, that's your personal life, what you and Yeji say and do, no one needs to know about that." Seulgi says it in a way that makes you think she knows about what you and Yeji did.

"Right."

"After all, Minju, Chaeryeong, and Hitomi can all keep quiet, as her sunbae I assure you I am more discreet." Your blood runs cold, and then hot, how did she know about them, the only way Seulgi would know is because—

Shit.

"Y-You heard everything?"

"Maybe? I don't know when you two started. I heard you two talking about my shoes when I woke up." You groan internally, realizing that she heard almost everything.

"Damn, er, sorry we woke you up."

"No problem, it was an interesting morning." With the cards all out in the open you play it straight with Seulgi.

"I gather you had your fun too?" You tilt your head towards the laundry. "We heard you briefly too."

"W-What?" Now it's her turn to blush. "What did I say?"

"You just sounded satisfied."

"Oh, well... So much for being discreet."

"Do you want more? I understand if you don't want things to get weird between you and Yeji but, we can arrive at an understanding."

"Understanding?"

"You heard what you heard, and we heard what we heard. If you want to hear more of us, I'm sure Yeji would understand."

"You'd be happy huh, getting to fuck Yeji, knowing that I'm listening the whole time?"

"Yeji's probably happier than I am about that. Plus you wouldn't be the first to listen to us."

"What—" Seulgi processes the new information, before blushing a little deeper. "I see."

"You just let us know if it becomes too much."

The next few days become much more enjoyable for everyone involved. With the understanding in place Yeji becomes much more handsy, teasing and riling you up whenever she could. It started off safe, and you would hold it till night time, where Yeji would simply kick off her shorts and allow you easy access. There was no need to be quiet, and soon Seulgi can hear the crash of your hips into Yeji straight through the wall. Shortly after the two of you finished you would hear a moan or two, the signal that Seulgi got off. She would be muted some nights, while other nights she would be louder, almost correlating with how tired she looked before she said good night to the two of you.

By the end of the trip though, as long as Seulgi wasn't in direct view, all bets were off. Yeji continued to rile you up, teasing and showing Seulgi just how you liked it, and as soon as Seulgi entered her room you would rip off whatever Yeji was wearing and fuck her on the nearest surface in the living room. You had no idea if Seulgi peeked, but you do know that you never heard her door close.

"Hnngh she's right there oppa!" Yeji whispers urgently—the two of you were at the kitchen island, and you're pressing her against the countertop, sliding her shorts down already. Seulgi was laying on the couch, facing away from the two of you. You held Yeji by her arms, and when you pressed your cockhead into her there was nothing she could do to hide her moan.

"You're so deep in me!" Yeji whines, and the two of you watch Seulgi's thighs spread on the couch—Seulgi was adamant about only listening, but no one ever said anything about you and Yeji watching her.

"Yeah? You like it when I'm deep in you?" you say loudly, hamming it up for Seulgi's benefit.

"Yeah, ah! You're longer than my fingers, wider too, it's like three fingers stuffed in me all at once!" The two of you watch Seulgi plug three fingers into herself, and you're not sure if she's scooting down the couch to get more comfortable, but it certainly gives the two of you a better view.

"So fucking hot, how are you so tight?" you utter into Yeji's neck.

"Because you haven't fucked me in sooooo long!" Yeji drawls. "I need you to really fuck me." You slam into her hard, making sure the sound of your bodies colliding get to Seulgi.

"You're going to be bruised, do you want to take it to the bedroom?"

"No, I'm going to be sore anyways, just fuck me already!"

Seulgi fingers herself as the noises behind her get more and more obscene. Yeji's words just made her think about the last time she was with someone, and the only answer she can come up with right now is Too fucking long ago! Yeji's devolving with every moan—she had heard Yeji moaning before through the walls, and part of her wondered if Yeji's embellishing it for her to listen to, but now Seulgi knows there's nothing made up about it. If anything, it's too natural, too raw, the way Yeji moans, the gasps and grunts mixing as Seulgi imagines you hilting yourself deep inside her, forcing sounds out that could never be engineered or faked. She's so close to her own climax, trying not to explode, to not make a mess of the couch they share.

"Nngh I, I'm gonna cum!" Yeji cries, and a sudden splatter of liquid fills Seulgi's ears, triggering her own orgasm.

"F-F-Fuck, oh fuck!" She's powerless to stop the gush of fluids exiting her own body, and her hand moves in a blur, spraying her squirt everywhere unapologetically. As Seulgi comes down from her own orgasm she hears Yeji whimpering, hypersensitive from her own peak.

"Cum in me, do it, do it!" A grunt and a groan from him, and Seulgi hears Yeji being filled up, the sigh she releases utterly satisfying, a coo of contentment. The sound of their finish goes straight to her very core, and in her own blissful state something finally crumbles, Seulgi's inhibitions and reluctance dissolve—she wants it, wants it real bad.

You and Yeji quietly try to get back to your bedroom, to keep the facade up, but you both hear it—Seulgi's soft plea from behind you, just before the two of you enter the bedroom.

"I want it, the real thing." Yeji nods eagerly, and you're never saying no to a woman like Seulgi.

"Tomorrow—" you start.

"Tonight." Seulgi stands up, her thighs shining with slick. She watches a little bit of you leak out from Yeji—she neglected to put her panties back on. "Or now. I can't wait, I'm going to regret asking, I know it."

"You won't. We'll clean up a little first, and then start?" The slight delay wrongfoots Seulgi—she was planning on getting straight into it, to let herself be taken along as soon as possible.

"Right, okay." Seulgi is left standing there naked and a little out-of-it, figuring out what to do next.

"Aren't you going to join us?"

You didn't have to worry about getting hard again, as sharing a shower with Seulgi and Yeji and watching the water run down their lithe bodies does wonders for getting you "up and running". Just the act of cleaning you off is enough to get you hard again, and Seulgi's eyes have been glued to it since.

"We're going to take care of you unnie." Yeji wraps a tower around her hair. "Can you get her body oppa?"

"Sure." You wrap Seulgi with a towel from behind, and you take the chance to feel her through the towel, squeezing her chest, feeling her react already. Her abs are firm and hard as you work your way down, and you dry each of her taut thighs separately, making sure to get right up to where they met her hips before stopping—there's no drying the wetness there.

Up top Yeji's whispering in her ear the whole time, telling her how she's going to be split open, how you're both going to enjoy her tight body, and how she's going to want it again and again. All truths. Yeji kisses her neck, leaving Seulgi a trembling anticipating wreck.

"I'm going to dry my hair, but I'll join you two soon." Seulgi lets herself be lead to bed, and she's gently but firmly pushed down. Your lips are on her neck, and with a touch on her thighs she spreads them eagerly. Seulgi gasps as your hardness touches her skin, hard, hot and...

"Y-You're big."

"Why do you think Yeji moans like she does?" Seulgi blushes, grabbing you with a hand and wondering if she could wrap her hand around you—just barely. You put your hand around hers, guiding your tip to her entrance. Seulgi squirms as you nudge her lips with your cockhead, resting it there and holding yourself back from just pushing in and taking her in one shot.

"You do it." Her hand drifts down your shaft, and holding on to your hilt, she pulls you in with a bit of help from your hips.

"Hnngh..." Seulgi has to force herself to relax as the pressure between her thighs grow—there's no way you're only three fingers wide! As she feeds your dick into her pussy she gradually releases her grip on you, one finger at a time lifted off your cock until her hand is free to grip your shoulder. You do the final bit for her, grunting as you're balls deep in Seulgi's pink velvet wrap.

"Fuck you're really really tight."

"I— Ah! Thank you!" Seulgi manages, moaning as you pull back and push forward with an experimental thrust. "Yeji!" Your raven-haired girlfriend has crawled on to the bed naked, hands cradling Seulgi's head in her lap.

"She really does look hot squirming like this." Yeji reaches for her unnie's tits, playing with them through tweaks and pinches. "Make her squirm more." You draw your hips back, and with your hands leaving red marks on Seulgi's thighs you thrust forward and pull her towards you, fully filling her in one hard thrust.

"Nngh oh god!" Seulgi cries, the lightning bolt of pleasure and thunder-like sting after splitting her mind in two, striking at her very core. She grips the sheets, her low moans expectant as you pull back, only to rise to a satisfying cry when when you slam back in, rocking her against Yeji's lap again and again. At some point Yeji's thighs open up, and Seulgi's head is on the bed, watching her junior's tight body loom over her, slithering down Serulgi's own form. A warm breath on her pussy makes her shudder—Yeji's breathing on her!

"Do you want to taste?" you ask Yeji, pulling back, allowing her to lick Seulgi's juices off your shaft.

"She tastes good." Yeji follows up by rubbing Seulgi's clit, making her squirm even more. Your thrusting slows down, allowing Yeji to get to work.

"Ah!" Seulgi bucks her hips, sending more pleasure through her when she feels Yeji's tongue and finger on her clit. Somehow Yeji knows just how far to push Seulgi to the edge before drawing back, giving her a brief respite for the storm that follows. Seulgi finds herself making the same sounds she heard Yeji make as you get back to pounding her at a brisk pace.

"Ngh ngh ngh hnnngh! Ack, oh g— mmm!" The pressure holding her pussy open is suddenly gone, and Seulgi's still in cloud nine as you clean your cock with Yeji's mouth, letting her suck Seulgi's cream and slick off you before you're plunging back into her now red velvet embrace. As her mouth hangs open a tang of salty sweetness hits her tongue—Yeji's openly dripping on to her, and in her current state Seulgi has no inhibitions at all.

"Ohhh!" Your girlfriend moans as her hips are pulled onto Seulgi's face aggressively, feeling the effects of her sunbae's tongue licking messily on her slit. You fuck Seulgi as Yeji plays with her clit, and then you're fucking Yeji's mouth as Seulgi plays with her pussy—an obscene sixty-nine plus one, filling the hole in each number. Seulgi's contracting around you haphazardly, and she's due an explosive orgasm. You press a hand to her mons, and Seulgi's throat tears in a scream as you pound her even harder, your cock pushing against her cervix, making her feel like you're straight up moving her womb around to your wishes. It's uncanny, uncomfortable, but supremely fulfilling—you're as deep as anyone can get inside her, and she's quite literally putty around your cock.

Seulgi grunts, and Yeji's surprised by the sudden squirt splashing against your hips, followed by the uncontrolled seepage of cream from her pussy as you fuck her through the orgasm, a ring of white around your shaft. Seulgi's groans and moans vibrate through Yeji, letting her feel Seulgi's orgasm directly.

"Shit, gonna cum!" you mutter as you look at Yeji's pleasured expression.

"Wait!" She quickly turns around, addressing her cockdrunk colleague. "Unnie, he can cum in you right?"

"Huh..." Seulgi simply blinks at her, not really processing Yeji's words.

"I want to see him cum in you, you want that too right?" Before Seulgi can answer though, she sees Yeji's head snap back, her eyes rolling into her head briefly, and then the same satisfied moan that haunted her since she heard it that first time.

No!

In your urgency you saw Yeji's slit flushed and spread right in front of you, and you simply grabbed her hair and came in the pussy you know you could always count on to take it. Already close from Seulgi's mouthwork Yeji cums with you, tugging and milking your load. You pull out after, letting Yeji collapse on to Seulgi.

"Now now, no need to pressure Seulgi into making a decision." Seulgi shudders as she feels your cum leak out of Yeji, thick and heavy and hot as soon as it drips out of her pussy and onto her own skin.

"No, I— I want it. Wanted it," Seulgi corrects herself, her mind still dazzled from her climax. Yeji whines briefly, and then it is Seulgi's turn to whine as two fingers are shoved into her.

"You can have some." The digits rotate in her, and Seulgi realizes that you're smearing your cum all over her walls manually.

"Fuck!"

"Give her a taste oppa..." Yeji sighs into Seulgi's neck, and her breath hitches as you plunge into her again to get more cum. Seulgi licks her lips unconsciously when you present your fingers to her face, and she sucks them clean obediently.

"Good?" she nods.

"Unnie, if you want the real thing, we have to get him hard again," Yeji whispers in her ear.

"How?"

"Follow my lead." 

Yeji calls out to you, and you're already half hard at the sight in front of you. Yeji's still on top of Seulgi, but two fingers spread her pussy lips, symmetric with Seulgi's spread lips below her. "Do you think you have another round in you? I think Seulgi unnie has something she wants to say."

"Dump your cum in me..." she says, her voice wavering a little. Her cheeks are burning, she's never said anything like that to anyone! She gasps as Yeji runs her fingers along her lips, spreading them further apart, exposing the distinct lack of thick cum on her walls. Yeji whispers more in her ear, and Seulgi follows through.

"Please fuck your two cumdumps and... use this one properly."

You can't say no to that. You start with Yeji, and she knows just how to squeeze you to get you fully hard again—this isn't the first, nor will it be the last time that she gets you going for a second round quickly. Coated with her slick and your own cum, you plunge into Seulgi, the unholy gooeyness on your shaft making her spine tingle. Then it's Yeji's slick, your cum, and Seulgi's slick, going back into Yeji's pussy. And then it's Yeji's slick, your cum, Seulgi's slick, and then a second layer of Yeji's slick, back into Seulgi's messy hole. And then—

"Fuck!" Seulgi pussy tightens around your cock as Yeji plays with her tits and kisses her neck.

Just use her, Yeji mouths silently, and you give her one more thrust in appreciation before focusing on Seulgi.

"Ahhh! Don't stop, please don't stop!" She's wailing now, silenced only by Yeji kissing her. It's a dual assault by you and your girlfriend—Yeji's lips on her neck and fingers on her tits, nips, and clit; your cock rubbing on her slick walls, her g-spot, and cervix. You bottom out and grind against her, leaking precum into her womb, and Seulgi's collapsing around your cock, nails digging into Yeji as she climaxes again. When you're close you signal to Yeji to get off, and you lean over Seulgi, enjoying the feel of her juicy thighs squeezing your sides, ankles locked around your hips.

"Gonna cum in you."

"Yes, fuck me—" You kiss her fiercely, but a stinging nip on your lip makes you pull back. "I didn't finish. Fuck me up." Having said her piece Seulgi gives in to your kiss, allowing you to fuck her top and bottom, your tongue thrashing and tangling with hers. Sweat pours from the both of you, soaking into the sheets as you pound her tight body into the creaking springs of the bed. You grab her short hair and tug, exposing her neck and leaving an angry hickey—Seulgi's so lost in it she doesn't even protest, her eyes beginning to roll back. You leave one more on her chest, and she's holding you there, letting you breathe her raw needy scent as she cries hoarsely, losing her voice as quickly as she's losing her mind.

*Crack*

A spring or two give up at just the right time, and you're pressing Seulgi into the bed as the tension in your body snaps, firing rope after rope of cum deep into her. Stuck beneath you she can only tremble violently as the sudden warmth in her becomes white hot pleasure up her spine, triggering her own orgasm. She squeezes everything around you, clenching your cock in time with your pulses, limbs trying to hold you close as she milks you.

"D-Don't move!" But you do, pushing the last of your cum into her and sloshing the rest, the connection between the two of you getting messier and stickier as her own mix of cream and slick leak out. Her legs finally unlock from around you, and you pull back to make way for Yeji.

"Your turn." Yeji takes her spot between Seulgi's legs and begins lapping up your combined fluids. "Taste good?"

"Delicious."

"Give Seulgi a taste." She does just that, gathering the creamy load in her mouth before kissing Seulgi—the older idol twitches as the salty liquid hits her tongue, but then she relaxes, kissing Yeji and letting the lewd mixture slide down her throat. 

"D-Delicious," Seulgi manages to gasp, still recovering from her climax. Yeji gets back to cleaning her, and she's thorough, licking and eating Seulgi up until Seulgi's thighs are shiny and quivering from overstimulation.

"Do you regret it?" you ask Seulgi, handing both of them a glass of water.

"No, I think. I... I'm gonna need a few days." She winces as she feels your mark on her neck.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's okay, I have makeup for it." After the debauchery Seulgi's beginning to blush, her inhibitions and sense of propriety returning. She just had sex with her idol junior and her boyfriend, what is she thinking! "I'll umm, go clean up in my room."

"Right. You can use the shower first if you want."

"That would be good, thanks." Seulgi gathers up her clothes slowly, wobbling on her feet. You cuddle with Yeji, listening to the shower running and giving Seulgi her privacy.

"Think we went overboard?" you mutter into her hair.

"I don't know, maybe? I don't think I've seen anyone cum that hard... It was hot." Yeji's still breathing a little heavy, and you realize she didn't quite get herself there while you finished with Seulgi.

"It was." You rub her slit slowly. "We should take a shower after she's done too."

"Yes please." When she hears Seulgi's room door close Yeji pulls you into the shower immediately, and with the water running on full blast you give her a thorough fingering, making her cum loudly and wetly until she's satisfied and squirming away from your hand.

"The shower was hotter," you say as you and Yeji cuddle, finally clean and ready for bed—you get the side with broken springs of course ("You made your bed, now sleep in it!").

"Tch, no need to placate me, watching the two of you was definitely the hottest part of the trip. Think she'll go for it again?"

"I don't know, she seemed rattled afterwards, I don't think she regrets it, but she also doesn't think it's a good idea?"

"We'll see, I'll try to speak to her, maybe before we go back to Korea."

Unfortunately, either intentionally or by work scheduling Seulgi avoids the both of you pretty much most of the last day or two of her trip, and the only words either of you manage to get in was a "Have a good flight!" as she leaves the night before you. You and Yeji return to Korea, and nothing happens for a while until Yeji's promotions overlap with Seulgi's—you're in Yeji's waiting room when Seulgi knocks on the door.

"Oh, is this Yeji's room? Oh, hi," Seulgi cheeks are a little red. "I was looking for her to do the dance challenge with."

"You just missed her, she'll be back soon."

"Okay, great. So are you her manager actually?" Seulgi asks after the short awkward silence.

"When she can talk her way into bringing me backstage, yes."

"I see." Seulgi fidgets for a bit, before taking a deep breath and making her decision. "Are you and Yeji free on the weekend?"

"I think so? After the music shows at least."

"Right, same here. So I just got a new mattress, and I live alone, I was wondering if you two could—"

"Oh, you need help moving it? Sure, I have a car, I can pick it up and bring it over if you need the help."

"Oh no no, there's no need for that, I—"

"Seulgi, we can come back later, there's someone else available to do the challenge right now!" Comes her manager's voice.

"Right, coming!" She spreads her arms. "It's good to see you."

"Umm yes, of course." Seulgi pulls you in close, as if giving you a friendly goodbye hug.

"I was hoping you two could help me break the old one."

A/N: As usual I'm late on the timing, Irene and Seulgi already due to come out lol. The AirBnB moniker was too good to miss out on, so I got around to it eventually! I also wrote a parallel piece called AirGnG, but it's just Yeji and Seulgi, and the smut dynamics are different, so give that a read too, thanks for reading!

[giorno-plays-piano]

Terrible Lie

Pairing: yandere!Bob Reynolds x reader

Warnings: allusion to noncon, stalking, obsessive tendencies, brief mention of drug addiction (nothing descriptive), Bob's mental illness, manipulation.

Words: 1.3k

Summary: Letting a stranger into your home is always a risk, but inviting a tormented superhero under your roof is asking for trouble. Especially the one who has been slowly morphing into something far beyond your understanding and control.

_______

"Please tell me you're not still living with that drug addict."

"He's a former drug addict."

You can already see your friend rolling her eyes despite being thousands miles away. Not that you blame her: if she did the same thing as you, you'd be buying a plane ticket to come and smack some sense into her right this minute.

Letting a mentally ill stranger with drug issues stay at your place is a bad, bad idea.

But it's Bob you're talking about. He might've been a stranger once, but he's not the kind you should be scared of. He's a troubled soul who has been in a dark place for way too long, and crawling away from it takes him time. You don't blame him. His story is not a nice one.

"Seriously, what the fuck?" Your friend sighs in exasperation, and you can hear both the worry and annoyance in her voice. "The fact he's nice to you now doesn't mean he's gonna be nice to you tomorrow."

You laugh, irritated, "Isn't it true about everyone, though?"

"Yeah, maybe tomorrow Lora gonna call you a bitch, but she's not gonna STAB YOU!"

Rubbing your eyes tiredly, you let out a breath. It's unsurprising she's so overprotective of you, but it sure is exhausting after so long. It's been months. From the second you found extremely anxious Bob in some dark alley, shaking and crying and mumbling something about his mother, to this day, he has never been violent. Depressed, obsessive, sure, but never in a dangerous way.

If he was dangerous, it's only to himself.

"I'm almost home. I'll text you later, ok?" You hear your friend sigh even before you finish talking. That's not the first time she raised the topic, and it won't be the last, but you can't find it in you to care. Bob stays.

"Alright," she murmurs, frustrated and yet letting you off the hook for now. "I really miss you. Call me more often?"

"I will."

Not that you actually will. It's not like you don't believe her - she's been there for you through thick and thin - and yet, the idea of her trying to fix you is vexing. You aren't broken. You don't need help.

Thankfully, Bob there, on the other side of the door, doesn't share her opinion. Not that you never argue about anything, God forbid you start speaking about the last Star Wars trilogy again, but he respects you. He shares your fears, your worries, and let's you talk when you need it and sits in silence with you just the same. For someone fighting his own mental illness, Bob is sweetheart.

Opening the door with your old, scratched key, for a second, you stare at the darkness of the room, wondering if your roommate went for a walk that late. It's rather unusual: not that he's afraid of the dark, but he prefers to stay inside after the sunset. To avoid trouble, he smiled awkwardly when you asked, and you decided not to press the issue. It's not your business why he doesn't want to be out after dark. Probably another trauma of sorts. The thought makes you want to call him to check if he's alright: he certainly didn't say he was going anywhere today, so his absence is a bit suspicious.

And then, you see the darkness staring right back at you.

As you yelp, losing your bag with groceries that lands with a loud thud, Bob hurriedly switches the light on, and you stare at him in his oversized green sweatshirt as if he grew a horn. What?

"I-I'm sorry!" He's quick to apologize, raising his hands up as if to show you he's defenseless. "I-I was just spacing out a little and didn't realize it was already dark."

Oh. Probably cognitive overload again, you think as you steady yourself, breathing out in relief. You could swear something out there was staring at you like you're a prey, but that was probably Bob's eyes glinting in the dark, and he's the farthest thing from a hunter. God, you probably scared the hell out of him yourself.

"Sorry for the scream," you smile, bending down to gather the scattered groceries, and your roommate hurries over to help. "How was your day?"

Abashed, he starts rumbling about the chores he did, the breathing exercises you once taught him, and the General Tao chicken he's very proud of, and you laugh, rubbing his shoulder approvingly as you deposit cartons of milk and cream in the fridge. It's true Bob doesn't have a job and you pay the bills, but, honestly, aside from being a good listener and a great friend, he's been real helpful around the house: cooking, cleaning, doing laundry have been on him almost since the day he moved in, and he was nice at it. Sometimes you joked it almost felt like having a wife, and Bob flushed such a deep shade of red you thought he might've had a hypertensive crisis.

"I'm sorry I spaced out," he mutters again, hands twitching. "I should've done journaling, but it just... sort of escaped my mind."

You tell him it's fine as you both set the table, and he takes the potatoes out of the oven where he left them to keep them warm. It's not like he's been stuck. There is so much progress! For one, you haven't heard him crying for at least two months, and his overall mood seems to stabilize without extreme highs and lows. He is taking his medication - that was a real bitch to try to get your hands on without prescription - almost religiously. Of course, you aren't a specialist, but living with him side by side, you think you can confidently say Bob is better.

And his chicken is really delicious, too.

When the night comes, you turn on your diffuser with lavender oil to help your rommate sleep and wish him goodnight before retiring to your own room. Whatever anyone says, things will surely work out. Getting back on your feet after years of abuse is a long journey, and relapse happens, but Bob has been trying so hard. He deserves a second chance.

Of course, you know nothing of who he is. You've never heard of the Sentry or the Void and only seen superhumans on TV. Robert is at fault, not that he could help it. Taking in a depressive outcast instead of a creature that ruins anything it touches? The choice was obvious, even if he felt bad about lying.

You'd be horrified if you realized what was staring at you in the dark. Bob, the way you know him, is a nice shield, indeed, but his split personality is not something he wants you to discover. Especially when he feels less and less like Bob or Sentry or even Void because he's becoming someone - or something - else...

Someone who can't keep away when you close your door and lay to sleep. Someone who manipulates you and your reality because it makes him feel safe. Someone who feels shame or guilt less and less with each day because Bob's sense of morals means nothing to the creature he becomes.

It grows stronger because you nourish and nurture it.

Sneaking into your room after dark became a comforting ritual: before he'd nestle in close, listening to your heartbeat to ground himself, but with time he grew bolder, allowing himself touches and kisses until he felt the emptiness go away. The comforting thought that he is gentle with you makes him go further. If you didn't know, it couldn't hurt you, could it?

He entertains the thought you'd allow him, anyway, if he said it helps him. You've enabled him this far.

"Thank you," he breathes out into your face after another kiss, his eyes two orbs of light that scared you so much a few hours ago. "Thank you for letting me in."

He knows it better than anyone. Whatever happens, Bob stays.

[norrisradio]

SOMETHING TO LOSE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "Watch the world from the sidelines / Had nothing to prove / 'Til you came into my life / Gave me something to lose" - Phoebe Bridgers, Sidelines

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x f!reader | ᝰ WC: 1.5K ᝰ GENRE: established (secret) relationship, reader is an F1 Academy driver ᝰ WARNINGS: car crash, mentions of injuries (i swear everyone is okay) ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: this has been dying in my wips for close to three weeks now. i'm still not entirely happy with it bc i fear i may have lost the plot but! when lando wins in monaco, you finish writing the fic (disclaimer: this was locked and loaded pre-race) ꨄ requested by @piastriprincess ! MWAH lily I hope you like this and I'm sorry it took so long <333

Lando Norris has never been one to sit still – especially not when something, or someone, starts to matter.

He’s always been motion. Quick hands. Quicker mouth. Jokes on standby, pace in reserve. He thrives in the blur of it all: the champagne spray, the scent of hot tires and hotter pressure. But not that day. Not the day he first saw you. 

You were plastered to the back wall of a McLaren media mixer, looking like you’d rather be at the dentist’s office than under the buzz of fluorescent lights and clinking glasses. Rookie year in F1 Academy, fresh out of British F4, a rising star in a room full of planets. You still walked like your racing boots didn’t quite belong on marble floors. You hadn’t said much – until you did. 

And once you did, Lando couldn’t stop listening. 

He’d wandered over to Andrea mid-joke, only to do a cartoonish double take when you said something dry and sharp that made even the famously stone-face team principal snort into his drink. 

You caught him looking. He smiled, eyes bright. You didn’t smile back. Not right away. 

But then you did.

And that was that. 

The first time he showed up at one of your races, no one questioned it. The golden boy of McLaren at a junior formula race? No brainer. “Just supporting the sport,” he’d said, offering a shrug and a picture-perfect grin. But his hands fidgeted with the corner of his pass as you climbed into the car. 

He;d planned to stay for a few laps. Maybe post a story. Instead, he stood trackside until the final lap, heart in his throat, as you surged from midfield like a firestorm and snatche P1 with a bold dive on the inside. 

When he saw you later – sweaty, grinning, champagne-soaked – he caught your wrist just before you disappeared into a sea of orange. 

“Congrats,” he said, then leaned in and whispered, “Don’t make me look bad in front of Oscar again.” 

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers stayed tangled with his. 

No one really knew. 

There were whispers, of course. A blurry photo snapped through a fence in Jeddah: two figures walking side by side behind the hospitality units, her head tipped back in laughter, his hand brushing hers for a heartbeat too long. A clip from a fan vlog in Zandvoort: you ducking into the McLaren motorhome during lunch and emerging fifteen minutes later with your race suit half peeled and your hair different – mussed, somehow, like someone had run their fingers through it. 

Twitter and Reddit and TikTok all had their theories, but that’s all it really was. Speculation, mostly. Nothing confirmed. Nothing with teeth. 

Oscar knew, obviously. 

He gave you a slow, pointed once-over every race morning you turned up yawning and pink-lipped, Lando not far behind, hoodie half zipped and smirking. 

“Sleep well?” he’d ask, deadpan. “Like a rock,” you’d shoot back, not even looking up from your phone. 

The grin Lando tried to bite back would always give you both away. 

Oscar would sigh, sip his tea, and mutter something about undignified behavior before 9AM before disappearing into the garage. 

In Singapore, Lando showed up to the garage with a blooming mark just under his ear, shaped like a bite. 

The PR team nearly passed out. 

He didn’t blink. 

You’d warned him in the back hallway. Low voice. Sharp nails pressing into the thin cotton of his race tee. 

“I will call your mother,” you hissed, eyes narrowed. “Please do,” he said, with that stupid, crooked grin he reserved only for you. “She’s been meaning to catch up with you.” 

You shoved him against the wall. He kissed you stupid anyway. 

The secrecy was half the thrill. The glances across garages, the messages that vanished like smoke, the way he’d text you a single orange heart after a podium. 

The secrecy wasn’t about shame, or hiding. It was about keeping, holding. You weren’t his for the internet. You were his in the quiet. His in the stolen hours. 

And then– Miami. 

You’re on the back half of the grid, a downside of an epic qualifying. “You’ll carve through them,” Lando had murmured into your shoulder that morning, the sheets still tangled around your legs. 

“You better watch,” you warned, grinning into his neck. “I always do,” he replied, voice low, hands gentle. 

He should’ve been preparing for his own qualifying. Instead, he’s trackside again, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, chewing his lip raw as your formation lap begins. 

Lap 5. 

Chambers doesn’t brake. You don’t have time. 

It happens in the blink of an eye – a flash of carbon fiber, the ugly crunch of contact, your car spun out into the gravel like a paper plane. The garage goes silent. Lando stops breathing. 

The screen doesn’t switch angles. The marshalls run. A puff of smoke billows upwards. Your car stays quiet. Still. 

Landos’s fingers curl tight around the fabric of his hoodie, strangling the MCL logo. 

And then–

Your voice. Faint, garbled. But yours. 

“I’m okay. That-uh. That hurt like a bitch. But I’m okay.” 

He chokes on air, clutching the table to make sure his legs don’t give out. 

Will glances over at him, reads everything in Lando’s pale face, and throws him a subtle thumbs up. It’s enough to keep him upright. Barely. 

He almost doesn’t make it to Q3. 

Will’s screaming something in his ear, – “Head down Lando, PUSH!” – but all Lando can think about is the moment your head hit the headrest. The static in your voice. The way your car didn’t move for four whole seconds. 

You’re already in the hotel room by the time he gets there. He doesn’t bother knocking – the door opens before his knuckles can touch the smooth wood. 

You’re standing on the other side of the threshold like you’ve been waiting. One hand on the knob, the other at your side. Like you know, somehow, that he needs this. That he’ll come apart if you make him wait one more second. 

There’s a bruise blooming across your elbow, faint enough to miss from a distance. Your hair is damp. You’re wearing one of his shirts. It hangs off your frame, soft and lived-in and safe. 

And your eyes – tired. But gentle. 

“I’m okay,” you say, and your voice is soft. Honest. 

You are okay. But he’s not. 

He steps into you before the door even finishes swinging shut. Arms wrap around your waist too tightly, his hands clinging like he doesn’t trust you to stay upright. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and breaths, really breathes, like its the first clean inhale since you went spinning across that track. 

A sound claws up his throat: half-sob, half-breath, raw and wrecked. “I thought-” his voice breaks. “God, I thought-” 

The rest won’t come out. The image is too fresh, too sharp: your car turned sideways, gravel flying, comms gone silent. 

You don’t tell him it’s alright. You don’t tell him he’s being dramatic. You just hold him, gently carding your fingers through his curls. 

He kisses you like it’s the only thing he remembers how to do –  lips brushing your temple, your jaw, the line of your throat, your wrist. Each one is a question he doesn’t dare ask aloud: Are you still here? Are you real? Are you mine? 

“Be more careful,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, voice hoarse. 

His eyes are red. His lashes are wet. 

“I know,” you murmur, thumb brushing his cheek. “I know.” 

That night, he curls around you like a question he’s too afraid to answer – one arm locked around your waist, the other wound beneath you, clutching at the fabric of your shirt. His face presses against your back. He counts every breath you take. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily. Not for him. 

But he says like that til morning anyway, holding you until his arms fall asleep. Because now, he knows what it feels like to imagine a world without you in it. 

And he won’t let himself forget. Not so he can worry – but so he can make damn sure he never takes you for granted again. 

When the morning light begins to slip through the curtains, you roll over slowly, still aching but alive. You blink at him through sleep-hazy eyes. 

“Hi,” you whisper, voice rough from sleep. “Happy race day.” 

Lando smiles for the first time in what feels like years – a real one, lazy and boyish. Relief softens him, round sout the sharp edges of his fear. 

“Hi,” he breathes. 

“I’m starving,” you mumble. 

He huffs a laugh, presses a kiss to your forehead. “Waffles and cartoons before I head out?”

You nod against the pillow, blow him a kiss as he stumbles out of bed for the room service menu. 

And just like that, the weight begins to lift. Not all at once. Not completely. But enough. 

Enough to believe that the world is still turning. 

Enough to believe you’re still his, still within reach. 

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 || 𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗

in which you stopped looking back

You graduated early.

Not because you were trying to prove anything. Just… because staying felt like suffocating.

UConn had too many ghosts. Too many empty chairs. Too many late nights walking past the gym where you knew she’d be—except you never went in. Not once. Not after.

So you finished your degree, packed your car, and drove across the country with everything you owned crammed in the backseat and a playlist long enough to drown your thoughts.

San Francisco felt far enough.

It was the job that sealed it—a communications role with a tech startup that liked your clean resume and liked your voice even more. You took the offer before you could talk yourself out of it.

You didn’t tell anyone where you went. Not even mutual friends. It was easier that way.

Clean slate. New sky. Different ocean.

You don’t expect to meet her at a dog park.

But grief’s funny like that.

You’re sitting on a bench with a notebook open on your lap, the kind you still carry even though your job’s mostly Slack messages and decks now. You’re jotting down lines that don’t go anywhere, half-poems you’ll never finish.

You don’t notice the tennis ball roll up to your foot until there’s a low woof.

You glance up.

Golden retriever. Panting. Tail wagging. Big brown eyes staring at you like you hold the answer to all of life’s questions.

And then you hear the voice.

“Sorry about that—he thinks everyone wants to play with him.”

You look up again.

She’s tall. Athletic build. Blonde hair pulled back in a braid. Black Valkyries hoodie, sleeves rolled. Her smile is wide and warm, the kind that’s easy to get used to if you’re not careful.

You hold up the tennis ball. “He’s not wrong.”

She grins. “You new around here?”

You nod. “Just moved.”

“Welcome to the best coast,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Kate.”

You hesitate for half a second, then take it.

Her grip is solid. Steady.

“Nice to meet you,” you say. “I’m… still getting used to the time difference.”

“You’ll adjust. And if not, the coffee’s better here anyway.”

That makes you laugh—quiet, but genuine. A flicker of something you haven’t felt in a while.

Kate watches you for a beat too long.

Her dog trots over, tail still wagging.

“He’s not subtle,” you say.

“Neither am I,” Kate replies with a wink. “You live around here?”

“Couple blocks that way.”

She nods. “Me too. Small world.”

You don’t know what makes you say it, but you do, “What do you do?”

Kate shrugs like she’s used to people not recognizing her. “Basketball.”

You tilt your head. “College?”

“WNBA.”

Your eyebrows raise.

“Golden State Valkyries,” she says. “Just moved here with the expansion. Number twenty.”

“Oh.” You blink. “You’re that Kate Martin.”

She laughs. “Depends. Which Kate Martin were you thinking of?”

You smirk. “The one whose buzzer-beater made my cousin cry in March.”

Kate grins. “Guilty.”

You glance down at the notebook in your lap. The half-written sentence. The empty line that follows.

“Well,” Kate says, throwing the ball again, “if you ever want a tour of the city, I give a decent one. And I know the best burrito spot in the entire Bay Area.”

You hesitate.

She sees it.

Something flickers behind her smile—something kind. Patient. Like she’s not going to push.

“No pressure,” she says. “Maybe I’ll just see you here again.”

You nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”

You do see her again.

Three days later.

Same park. Different bench. This time, you’re sipping coffee and pretending not to wait for her.

She sees you first.

“Told you,” she says, dropping onto the bench beside you, “best coast.”

You glance sideways. “Still undecided.”

Kate bumps her knee against yours. “I’m working on it.”

You don’t tell her about Azzi at first.

It takes months.

Of dog park conversations. Shared coffees. Quiet walks where neither of you says anything because the air already feels full enough.

She texts you sometimes—mostly memes, weird food pictures, photos of her dog wearing sunglasses.

You laugh more than you used to.

Smile more freely.

Grief, for the first time, starts to feel like something soft around the edges.

The night you tell her is cold.

You’re sitting on her couch after a win, both of you still buzzing from the energy. She’s sprawled across the cushions with a hoodie half-zipped, feet in your lap. You’re nursing a ginger ale and trying to ignore the way her laugh makes your chest ache.

And then she asks, softly, “Who was she?”

You blink. “What?”

Kate’s eyes stay on yours. “The one who still lives in the way you look at sunsets. And coffee. And dog parks.”

You stare at her for a moment. “Her name’s Azzi.”

Kate nods. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.

You tell her about the mornings. The silence. The way it ended before it ended.

You don’t cry. Not this time.

When you finish, Kate doesn’t say anything profound.

She just shifts closer and takes your hand.

And you realize you’re not waiting anymore.

You’re healing.

It doesn’t happen all at once. Nothing worth keeping ever does.

It happens the way sunlight finds the edges of your window before you’re ready to wake. The way laughter creeps into your chest when you least expect it. The way Kate doesn’t ask for pieces of you—you just start giving them.

You think the shift starts the night she asks if she can stay.

“You look exhausted,” you tell her as she kicks her shoes off in your entryway.

Kate sighs dramatically. “We had film, weights, and media today. One more question about how it feels to be an underdog and I might retire.”

You chuckle. “It’s week two of the season.”

“Exactly. Premature burnout is real.”

You raise an eyebrow as she flops onto your couch like she owns it.

“You want dinner or sympathy?”

“Both,” she mumbles into a pillow.

You order Thai food.

She helps you clean up even though she didn’t lift a finger to cook, and afterward, you both end up sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch, legs stretched out in front of you, her shoulder brushing yours like it's always meant to be there.

Somewhere between the second can of La Croix and you gently wiping curry sauce off her chin, she yawns.

And you say it—quiet, instinctive, “You can stay, if you want.”

Kate’s eyes flick up to yours. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She sleeps in your bed that night.

Fully clothed. A soft snore. The dog curls up at her feet like he already knows.

You lie awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths. It’s not romantic. It’s not even new. But it feels like something coming home.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

A rhythm.

She stays sometimes. Not always. Just when the air feels heavier and neither of you wants to say goodbye at the door. There’s no sex. No confessions. Just shared toothpaste, mismatched socks, and the way she knows how to fill the silence without crowding it.

She never kisses you.

Not until you’re ready.

It’s raining when it finally happens.

You’re both sitting on the balcony of your apartment, knees pulled up, mugs in hand. The city lights blink soft in the fog. There’s music playing faintly from inside—something mellow and wordless, like a thought that hasn’t formed yet.

Kate’s eyes are on the sky.

“Did you ever think it’d be like this?” she asks.

You glance over. “What?”

“Growing up. Getting older. The parts they don’t prepare you for.”

You think about it.

“No,” you admit. “I thought it would be simpler. Happier.”

Kate hums. “Me too.”

You sip your tea. “Are you happy now?”

She looks at you for a long moment. Then sets her mug down.

“I’m trying,” she says. “But sometimes it feels like I’m waiting for something I haven’t named yet.”

Your breath catches. “Me too.”

And she kisses you.

It’s soft. Intentional. No fireworks, no dramatic movie score. Just her lips on yours—gentle, reverent, like she’s asking permission and promising not to run.

You don’t pull away.

When it breaks, her forehead rests against yours.

“You okay?” she whispers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Did that feel okay?”

You meet her eyes.

“It felt like the first thing in a long time that didn’t hurt.”

Afterward, nothing changes all at once.

You don’t suddenly start calling her your girlfriend. You don���t delete old photos or stop dreaming about a life you almost had with someone else. But you do start saying goodnight with a kiss. You start looking forward to grocery trips together. You start smiling at the sound of your door unlocking at the end of a long day.

And when you cry—on a Wednesday afternoon for no reason at all—Kate doesn’t ask you to explain. She just holds you, murmuring quiet things into your hair like, “You don’t have to be okay every day,” and, “I’m not going anywhere.”

One night, as you lie curled into her chest, you whisper, “Do you ever feel like we’re building something with pieces that broke off other things?”

Kate runs her fingers through your hair.

“All the time,” she murmurs. “But that doesn’t make it any less real.”

You press your face into her shoulder and breathe her in—clean laundry, mint, and something that already feels like home.

You still think about Azzi sometimes. But it’s not a wound anymore. It’s just a scar.

And tonight, you’re not living in a memory. You’re living in the moment.

With Kate.

It doesn’t happen in a moment. You don’t wake up one day and stop thinking about her. That would be too easy.

Instead, it fades.

A little more every day.

You notice it in the quiet first. The way your thoughts no longer drift toward the “what if.” The way you go a full morning without remembering how Azzi used to take her coffee. The way you catch yourself smiling at nothing in particular — just Kate’s toothbrush next to yours. Her flannel thrown over the back of your desk chair. The way she hums when she cooks eggs.

You stop dreaming about the past because you're finally living something that feels like a future.

It hits you, slowly, that Azzi doesn’t live here anymore.

Not in your apartment.

Not in your chest.

Not in your every thought.

She was your before.

But Kate… Kate is your after.

And you’re starting to realize after doesn’t mean lesser.

It means survived.

It means stayed.

The first game you go to, she doesn’t know you’re there.

Kate had brushed it off during breakfast that morning. “It’s just preseason. Nobody comes to preseason.”

You didn’t argue.

You just bought tickets anyway, because the truth is, watching her play feels like watching the sun crack open a storm.

You sit in the third row behind the bench, hoodie up, coffee in hand, sunglasses hiding your face even though you’re indoors. She doesn't spot you during warmups. Doesn’t even glance into the crowd. She’s too focused. In the zone. Fierce and fluid, her jersey clinging to her shoulders like it was stitched to her skin.

The game is fast-paced. Tight. She plays like she’s been doing this her whole life.

You find yourself yelling — not just cheering, yelling — every time she makes a three.

A guy behind you laughs. “You her sister or something?”

You grin. “Or something.”

When the Valkyries win in overtime and she’s mobbed by teammates, she finally scans the crowd.

You wave once.

She stops.

Mouth open.

Then she smiles — big and bright and real — and blows you a kiss in front of thousands.

“You came.”

That’s the first thing she says when she barrels through your door that night, still in her post-game sweats and ponytail.

“I always will.”

Kate drops her bag, walks right up to you, and wraps her arms around your neck. “I played better because of you.”

“You didn’t even know I was there until the fourth quarter.”

She leans back just enough to look at you. “Didn’t matter. I felt different. Stronger.”

“You hit five threes.”

“And I thought about you after every one.”

You shake your head, blushing. “You’re ridiculous.”

She kisses your cheek. “I’m in love.”

You blink.

She freezes.

And for the first time, she looks scared.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” she says quickly. “Not like some big thing. It just slipped out—”

You press your hand to her chest. “Say it again.”

Kate blinks. “What?”

“Say it again,” you whisper.

She breathes in. “I’m in love with you.”

Your heart catches.

Because for the first time in years, there’s no shadow in your chest. No ghost in your lungs.

Just Kate.

You take her face in your hands.

And say it.

“I’m in love with you too.”

The moving in part isn’t dramatic either.

It’s just… the next step.

It starts with a toothbrush. Then her record player. Then the drawer in your dresser that fills up with her team-issued hoodies and Valkyries gear.

One night, while folding laundry, you hold up her socks and say, “Do you want a key?”

Kate glances over, frozen with a spoonful of peanut butter halfway to her mouth.

“A key?”

“Yeah.” You toss her the socks. “I mean, you practically live here.”

She blinks. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I want you here.”

She sets the spoon down slowly. Walks over. Pulls you in.

“I was scared you’d never say that,” she whispers into your hair.

You look up. “I was scared I’d never feel safe enough to.”

The first night you officially live together, she makes you dinner.

It’s awful. Undercooked pasta. Over-salted sauce.

You eat every bite.

She watches you with wide eyes. “You hate it.”

“I love it,” you lie, chewing bravely. “It’s aggressively seasoned.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“I love you.”

She grins. “Okay, that works.”

You do dishes together. She sings off-key. You splash her with water.

Your dog watches from the doorway like he’s never seen you this happy.

Maybe he hasn’t.

“Did you ever think we’d get here?” you ask her one night, curled on the couch with her legs over yours, TV on mute.

She turns her head. “Here as in…”

“As in this. Together. Safe. Full.”

Kate studies your face for a long second. “I hoped. But I never expected it. I figured you’d leave a little space in your heart for her forever.”

You go quiet. “I did.”

She nods.

“But not anymore.”

Kate turns. “Really?”

You nod, voice quiet. “I don’t think about her the way I used to. Not with ache. Just… a chapter. One that had to end to make space for this.”

Kate looks like she might cry. You kiss her before she can.

Her lips taste like home.

The smell of eggs wakes you before the light does.

You shuffle into the kitchen wearing her oversized Valkyries hoodie, hair a mess, eyes half-closed.

Kate’s already flipping something in a pan, hair wet from a shower, humming off-key.

She doesn’t turn around.

“You’re up late,” she says, grinning. “That’s two days in a row. I’m starting to think you’re becoming a night owl.”

You lean your head against her shoulder. “I was up at 6:30 yesterday.”

“Only because the dog farted directly on your pillow.”

“Betrayal from within.”

She laughs, sliding eggs onto your plate. “Breakfast of champions.”

You raise a brow. “This is toast with cheese and scrambled eggs.”

“Exactly.”

You both eat at the kitchen island, barefoot, knees touching under the counter.

No phones.

No rush.

Just soft chewing and the scrape of plates and the quiet understanding that this—this—is peace.

“You’re not getting that,” you say, grabbing the double-stuffed Oreos from the cart.

Kate gasps. “You monster.”

“We have five packs at home.”

“Yeah, but these are seasonal.”

“They’re red. That’s the only difference.”

“They taste festive.”

You laugh, setting them back on the shelf. “I’ll make you homemade cookies.”

“You just want an excuse to use your stand mixer again.”

“I love my stand mixer.”

Kate bumps your hip with hers. “I love you more.”

A kid behind you groans dramatically. “Ugh, get a room.”

You and Kate just smirk at each other.

No room needed.

This aisle is enough.

Sometimes, the nights are chaotic.

Pizza boxes. Game replays. The dog racing back and forth with a sock you never meant to sacrifice.

Sometimes, they’re quiet.

Kate builds a pillow fort in the living room with you one Saturday just because she can.

You watch a movie under the blanket ceiling, her hand on your thigh, her thumb drawing slow circles that say everything she hasn’t said out loud yet.

“I’d marry you tomorrow,” she mumbles against your neck.

You laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’d say yes.”

Kate pulls back. “Oh, really?”

“Maybe I’m holding out for a ring.”

She grins. “So you would say yes.”

You kiss her. “Try me.”

She kisses you back. But nothing happens the next day. Or the next week. And you let it go. Because you trust her timing. Because loving her has never been about pressure.

Just presence.

You come home from work late.

There’s no big buildup.

No camera crew.

No rose petals on the floor.

Just Kate standing in the kitchen with flour on her cheek, baking something that smells like cinnamon and home.

You drop your bag.

Tilt your head. “What’s going on?”

She shrugs. “Felt like making cookies.”

You walk over and kiss her cheek. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know.”

There’s music playing quietly in the background. A soft guitar instrumental. One you used to play on loop when your hands shook too much to type.

Kate takes the tray out of the oven and sets it down with a soft smile.

“Want to try one?”

You nod. Grab one.

Take a bite.

Something hard clinks against your teeth.

You blink.

“What the hell—?”

Kate is already grinning.

You pull out a small, sealed plastic capsule.

You stare at her. Then back at the cookie. Then at her again.

“No,” you whisper, heart in your throat.

She’s already kneeling.

She opens the capsule.

Pulls out a delicate gold ring.

Simple. Elegant. So Kate.

“I don’t want the big moment,” she says. “I want the small ones. Forever. The boring days. The mismatched socks. The way you hum when you make tea. I want every grocery aisle and pancake morning. I want you in all your moods. I want the quiet — if you’re in it.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

“I want home,” she says. “And that’s you. So… will you marry me?”

You laugh through a tear. “You baked my proposal.”

She shrugs. “I knew you’d be hungry.”

You grab her face and kiss her so hard the flour from her cheek dusts your lips.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. A hundred times yes.”

She stands, spinning you, and you don’t remember the last time you felt this light.

The dog barks. The oven beeps again.

The world keeps spinning.

But you — you’re still in her arms, saying yes.

You’re a few months into married life when the question starts to surface — not like an explosion, but like mist curling under the door.

It’s not a moment. It’s a million of them.

It’s Kate falling asleep on your chest mid-movie with your hand resting low on her stomach. It’s watching her at a Valkyries fan event, signing a little girl’s jersey and kneeling to tie her shoelace like she’s been someone’s mom forever. It’s you looking up from your laptop one morning, seeing her reading an article titled “10 Things No One Tells You About IVF”, and quietly bookmarking it.

It’s not if anymore.

It’s when.

You’re folding laundry together on the living room rug, legs criss-crossed, piles of socks between you.

Kate holds up a tiny onesie.

You frown. “Why do we have that?”

“It’s from when your niece visited.”

“You kept it?”

She shrugs. “It’s soft.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

The moment stretches, long and open and weightless.

You speak first. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

Kate sets the onesie down carefully. “Me too.”

You swallow. “For how long?”

“A while,” she admits. “Since before we got married.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to rush you.”

You look at her. “Kate… nothing about this feels rushed.”

She exhales slowly. “Okay. So what do we do next?”

You smile.

“We figure it out.”

The research phase is brutal. Endless acronyms. Clinic visits. Folders full of pamphlets.

You talk about adoption.

You talk about IVF.

You talk about sperm donors, legal rights, insurance loopholes, parental leave.

Kate makes a spreadsheet.

You make a playlist called “Baby Fever”.

Your dog seems to know something’s happening. He stays close, rests his head on your lap more often.

One night, Kate’s curled up against you on the couch, her fingers tracing your thigh under the blanket.

“What if I’m not good at it?” she asks quietly.

“At spreadsheets?”

“At being a parent.”

You tilt her chin gently so she’s looking at you.

“Kate, you’ve been taking care of me since we met.”

She smiles, but it’s fragile.

You cup her cheek. “You are steady. Patient. Kind. You lead with your heart. That’s all a kid really needs.”

Her eyes shine.

“You’ll be good too,” she whispers.

You kiss her forehead. “We’ll figure it out together.”

You both start sleeping later. Not because you’re tired. Because you're dreaming out loud more. The first time you think it’s happening, it’s a Tuesday.

Nothing dramatic. No morning sickness or glowing cheeks. Just… a pause.

A quiet shift in your body.

You’re brushing your fingers over your lower stomach while Kate folds towels on the bed. She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you with that look — the one that’s both too careful and too full of hope.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, breaking the silence.

You shrug. “I feel different.”

Kate freezes, towel half-folded.

“Different how?”

You hesitate.

“Just… tired. And sore. And I cried at a Subaru commercial this morning.”

She puts the towel down.

You don’t say it out loud. Neither of you does.

But you feel it.

Maybe.

You lie in bed, feet tangled, sheets kicked off.

“What would we name her?”

Kate’s voice is soft, drowsy. “Her?”

You shrug. “Just feels like a girl.”

Kate hums. “I like Avery.”

You smile. “I like Eliza.”

“We sound like we’re picking out names for a dog.”

You glance at the dog asleep on the foot of the bed.

“He is named Pancake.”

“Fair.”

You roll onto your side. “Would you want to carry, or…?”

She blinks. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“I think I want to.”

“Yeah?”

You nod. “I want to know what it’s like. To feel her kick. To know I brought her into the world.”

Kate’s hand slides to your stomach, warm and steady. “You’re gonna be so hot pregnant.”

You snort. “That’s your takeaway?”

“I will be unhinged. Emotionally. Physically. Biblically.”

You throw a pillow at her.

She catches it, laughing, then pulls you back in and kisses your forehead. “You’re going to be a great mom.”

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a dream anymore.

It feels real.

The first test comes three days later.

Negative.

You stare at the single line like it betrayed you.

Kate sits beside you on the edge of the tub. Doesn’t say anything for a long time.

You finally speak, voice small. “I really thought this was it.”

She nods. “Me too.”

You lean into her shoulder, forehead resting against her collarbone. She wraps her arms around you and rubs slow circles into your back.

“We’re okay,” she whispers. “This doesn’t mean anything. Just one try.”

You nod.

But the ache stays.

Not disappointment — not exactly.

Just the weight of almost.

The second time, it’s worse. Your period’s a week late. You don’t tell her right away. You can’t bear to watch the hope bloom in her eyes again if it’s only going to wilt. But she notices anyway.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says, one night, over pasta.

You poke at your food. “Just tired.”

“Work tired or something else tired?”

You hesitate too long.

Kate sets her fork down.

“Babe.”

“I didn’t want to get ahead of anything,” you say. “But it’s been a week. I didn’t want to say it out loud and jinx it.”

She’s already reaching for your hand. “Can I be excited now?”

You nod.

She squeezes your hand tight.

You take the test two mornings later.

Kate’s in the kitchen making coffee. She doesn’t hover. She knows you like to be alone.

You stare at the stick for ten straight minutes before the second line never comes.

It stays blank.

Stark.

Silent.

You walk into the kitchen with the test still in your hand.

Kate sees your face.

“Oh,” she says.

That’s all.

Just, “oh.”

You nod.

She doesn’t cry.

You do.

Just a little.

Into her hoodie, against her chest.

She holds you while the coffee pot beeps behind you.

“Maybe next month,” she says softly, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.

You whisper, “I don’t want to feel like this every month.”

And that — that makes her cry.

Just a tear or two. Quiet.

Because you both want this so badly it aches.

Because you know it’s not a promise. Not for people like you. Not even with science and love and timing on your side.

Later that night, you’re curled together on the couch. The dog is asleep. The TV’s playing some documentary neither of you are really watching.

Kate strokes your hair.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hum. “Yeah.”

“If it never happens… if we keep trying and trying and it never works…”

You look up.

“I’ll still choose you,” she says. “Every time.”

You press your face to her chest and whisper, “You’re already everything.”

Kate finds you in the kitchen at 2 a.m., wrapped in a blanket, nursing a glass of water you don’t remember pouring.

She doesn’t speak at first.

Just pads over in her fuzzy socks and wraps her arms around you from behind.

You lean into her.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you whisper.

Kate rests her chin on your shoulder. “Then don’t. We’ll stop.”

You turn to look at her. “You don’t mean that.”

She shrugs. “I mean… I want this. With you. But if you need to stop, we stop.”

You stare at her for a long moment.

“Tell me why we’re doing this,” you whisper.

Kate’s eyes are soft but certain. “Because I’ve seen the way you hold our friends’ babies. Because you tear up when you see toddlers in bookstores. Because I’ve seen how gently you love things. And because I want to raise someone with you who knows that kind of love.”

You look down at your hands.

“Do you still believe it’ll happen?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I still believe in us. And that’s enough to try again.”

You let the silence sit between you. “Okay. One more time.”

You don’t want to take the test.

Not because you don’t want to know. But because this is the last morning you still could be pregnant. Before the world says yes or no. Before it becomes fact.

There’s something sacred about this space — this limbo between believing and knowing. Between maybe and mama.

Kate’s still asleep when you slip out of bed, pulling her hoodie on over your tank top. The apartment is dark except for the faint glow of sunrise seeping under the blinds.

You pad barefoot into the bathroom. You take the test. You set it on the edge of the sink.

And you wait. Heart pounding. Eyes closed. You don’t look at it right away. You brush your teeth. You pet the dog.

You check your email, even though there’s nothing there but a newsletter from that baby site you accidentally subscribed to months ago.

Then you go back. You pick it up.

Two lines.

Two.

Not faint. Not tentative.

Clear.

Positive.

You don’t breathe for three whole seconds.

Then you sit on the floor.

And cry.

Kate finds you like that.

Hunched in the corner of the bathroom, clutching the test like it’s breakable, tears tracking silently down your cheeks.

She doesn’t panic.

She knows you.

Instead, she kneels in front of you, eyes scanning yours.

You hold the test up.

She reads it.

And for a long, long moment, neither of you speak.

“…You’re pregnant?”

Your lip trembles. “I’m pregnant.”

Kate lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

She cups your face in both hands, pressing kiss after kiss to your forehead, your nose, your wet cheeks, your lips.

“You’re—you—you did it. Holy shit, babe.”

You nod.

Still stunned.

“I thought I imagined it,” you whisper. “Every symptom. Every ache. I thought I was doing that thing where my body fakes it again.”

Kate shakes her head, forehead resting against yours. “Not this time. You’re really pregnant.”

You let the words sit in the air.

Later, you're on the couch in her lap, wrapped in a blanket, both still in pajamas.

You hold the test between you like it’s a photograph of the future.

“I think I’m still in shock,” you admit, voice quiet.

Kate kisses your temple. “We’ve been preparing for this so long… and now that it’s real, it doesn’t feel real.”

“What if I mess this up?”

“You won’t.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“We’ll handle it. Together.”

You rest your head on her shoulder. “What if I fall apart?”

“I’ll hold you.”

You glance up. “What if I need pancakes at 3 a.m.?”

Kate grins. “You’ll have pancakes at 2:59.”

You laugh, finally.

The first real, full one in weeks.

Kate pulls you closer, palm resting over your belly.

“I love you,” she whispers. “And I love them. Already.”

Your hand covers hers.

And for the first time — it really sinks in.

You’re not waiting anymore.

You’re beginning.

You decide to tell your people together.

It feels right.

You’ve kept so much close to your chest for so long — the early attempts, the heartbreak, the negative tests — but this time is different.

This time, it’s not a maybe.

This time, you get to celebrate.

And you want to do it with the people who carried you both when you couldn’t carry yourselves.

You and Kate settle in on the couch with your laptop propped up on a pillow and the dog nestled between you like he’s also in on the secret.

Kelsey Plum joins first, her camera at an odd angle, her head half cut off.

“I swear I know how Zoom works,” she mutters, adjusting. “Hi, gays.”

“Hi, chaos,” Kate says.

“Where’s the party?”

Then A’ja Wilson joins, sunglasses on indoors, sipping from a water bottle roughly the size of a toddler.

“Alright, what’s this emergency meeting?” she asks. “Y’all getting matching tattoos or something?”

Sydney Colson joins last, mid-laugh. “Please say you’re starting a reality show. Or a pyramid scheme. Or both.”

Kate smirks. “Better.”

“I knew it,” Sydney says, raising both hands like she just got baptized.

You glance at Kate.

She nods.

You hold up the ultrasound photo.

There’s a beat.

Then Kelsey screams.

“NO. YOU’RE—”

“I’m pregnant,” you say, already tearing up again.

Sydney gasps. A’ja stands up and disappears off-screen entirely. You hear the thump of her running around her house.

“Y’all really—?!” Sydney is blinking hard, trying to recover. “Wait. Wait. Is this for real?”

“For real,” Kate confirms, brushing a tear off her cheek. “We just hit eight weeks. Everything looks good so far.”

“I’m gonna cry,” Kelsey says, already tearing up. “Like, real-life tears. Y’all did it. Y’all really did it.”

A’ja finally returns. “I had to grab my fan,” she says, dramatically waving herself. “I’m emotional and sweating. My girls are gonna be moms?!”

You nod, overwhelmed.

Sydney leans forward. “So when do we get to be the drunk aunties?”

“Immediate effect,” you say. “Full clearance.”

Kelsey snorts. “Don’t play, I already got tiny Nikes in my cart.”

“I want the baby to call me ‘God-tier Auntie Sydney,’” Sydney says.

Kate rolls her eyes. “We’ll see how they feel about titles once they’re verbal.”

“Can I call dibs on introducing them to basketball?” A’ja asks.

“You’ll have to fight Kelsey,” you say.

“You know I’d win,” Kelsey says, deadpan.

Sydney screams.

It takes twenty minutes for the call to calm down. You sit there, teary, hand in Kate’s, watching them love you from across the country.

It feels like your baby is already being welcomed home.

“You’re glowing,” Kate says one morning, watching you sip orange juice in her old Iowa hoodie, which now barely fits over the swell of your lower belly.

You blink at her. “I’m sweating.”

“Glowing.”

“I haven’t slept in three days. I cried because a pigeon walked into traffic.”

Kate nods, totally unfazed. “Glowing.”

You roll your eyes, but inside?

You like it.

You like that she’s seeing you in ways you’re still learning to see yourself.

You’re brushing your teeth when it happens.

A faint, fluttery pressure.

You freeze. You wait. You press your hand against your belly and whisper, “Kate?”

She’s in the other room. “Yeah?”

You’re still frozen. “I think…”

She appears in the doorway, toothbrush still in her mouth, eyes wide.

You grab her hand, place it low on your stomach, and wait.

Then another flick. Soft, like a tiny stretch.

Kate gasps so hard she chokes on her toothpaste.

“OHMYGOD!”

You both start laughing, clutching each other, your mouth still full of minty foam, her eyes wide with tears.

“She kicked,” you whisper.

“She kicked.”

Kate drops to her knees right there on the bathroom tile and kisses your belly.

“You already know how to make an entrance,” she whispers to your bump. “Just like your mom.”

You raise an eyebrow.

Kate winks. “Not you. The dramatic one.”

It becomes a nightly thing.

Kate talks to your belly.

Not cutesy stuff, either — actual conversations.

“Hey, baby. So your mom cried because we ran out of pickles. And then again when we found more pickles.”

“She lies. I did not cry.”

“She wept. She sobbed. She almost named you Vlasic.”

You kick her from the couch.

Later, in bed, she speaks in hushed tones.

“Your mom is braver than she knows. She carries both of us, you know? And I think you’re going to be like her.”

You pretend to be asleep, but your fingers curl around hers.

You’re in a bookstore, wandering the children’s section, when Kate pulls a book off the shelf and reads the title out loud.

“‘Mama, Do You Love Me?’”

You nod.

She opens it, reads a few lines silently, and then quietly says, “I’m gonna read this to her someday.”

You stare at her.

At her calm, certain face. At the way her fingers graze the pages like they’re already part of your baby’s life.

And that’s when it hits you.

Not just that you’re pregnant. Not just that you’re having a daughter. But that you get to raise her with Kate.

And suddenly the past doesn’t hurt anymore. Not in the same way. You are not a broken thing building something new.

You are whole.

And you’re about to bring someone into the world who will be loved from the very beginning.

Sydney Colson is in charge of the games.

Which is the first mistake.

She shows up in a tiara and a “Hot Aunt” sash and hands out whistles with rules like, “If anyone says the word baby, you lose a point.”

Kate immediately says, “Baby.”

Sydney blows her whistle in her face.

Kelsey Plum is in the corner judging the food table like it’s a Michelin restaurant.

A’ja makes a playlist called Womb Vibes that includes Destiny’s Child, Sade, and one rogue Wu-Tang track.

Tiffany Hayes wins “Who Knows Kate Best” with disturbing accuracy.

Kate’s mom, Jill, brings a homemade quilt and starts crying as soon as you open it.

Kate’s sister, Kennedy, hands you a framed photo from the day you found out you were pregnant — the one Kate secretly took of you crying on the bathroom floor, holding the test like it was the whole world.

You cry for most of the afternoon.

And when the guests leave and you’re surrounded by tiny socks and bottles and notes scribbled in pastel-colored cards, you whisper, “It feels too good to be real.”

Kate kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees.

“It is real,” she says. “Because we made it.”

You wake up to pressure.

Not pain, not at first — just a dull weight in your lower back, like something heavy settling inside your body. The clock on the nightstand glows just past 3 a.m. Kate is still asleep beside you, one hand draped over your stomach, her breathing soft and even.

You lie there for a while, not moving. Not yet. Not sure if it’s real.

Another wave comes. Sharper this time. More insistent.

Your breath catches. You close your eyes.

It’s happening.

It’s finally happening.

By the time you gently shake Kate awake, the pressure has turned to pain — not unbearable, but growing. She blinks at you, confused at first, and then wide-eyed as she sees your expression.

“Is it time?” she whispers.

You nod. “I think so.”

She’s instantly out of bed, already in motion. Her calmness doesn’t mask the tremble in her voice when she says, “Okay. Okay. Hospital bag. I’ll get the car ready.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, both hands cradling your belly. “Don’t forget the playlist.”

She freezes, mid-sock. “Are you serious right now?”

You give a shaky smile. “Contractions Vibes was your idea.”

Kate exhales a breathless laugh, kisses your forehead, and disappears down the hall, mumbling, “God, I love you.”

The drive to the hospital is quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the soft shuffle of your breath. You grip the side handle of the passenger seat and wince through another contraction. Kate reaches over and squeezes your hand. Her thumb runs circles over your knuckles the whole way.

You’ve both rehearsed this moment so many times, but now that you’re living it, everything feels strangely distant — like you’re watching it happen from outside your body.

Kate speaks gently as she pulls into the parking lot. “You’re doing so well, babe. We’re almost there.”

You nod, but your hands are shaking.

You’re not sure if it’s fear or adrenaline or both.

In the hospital room, the air is cold and sterile, the fluorescent lights too bright. Nurses move quickly around you, efficient but kind. Kate stays by your side, her hand never leaving yours. The pain builds with each contraction — sharp and tightening, like your body is folding in on itself. You grip the sheets, the bed rail, her fingers. Anything to ground yourself.

“Breathe with me,” Kate says, her forehead pressed to yours. “In and out. Just like that. I’ve got you.”

Her voice is the only thing that cuts through the pain.

Time becomes something elastic — it stretches, contracts, loses shape. Hours pass, or maybe minutes. You’re not sure. You only know that your body is opening, splitting, preparing. You’re afraid. You tell Kate that. Quietly. In the moments between.

“I’m scared,” you whisper into her shoulder.

“I know,” she says. “Me too. But we’re doing this. Together.”

She wipes sweat from your brow, kisses your knuckles, murmurs encouragement even when you curse, even when you sob, even when you scream through the pain. She doesn’t flinch. She just stays.

That’s what love does.

When it’s time to push, the room shifts again. More people. More light. The midwife’s voice is calm but firm.

“You’re doing great. You’re almost there.”

You dig your heels into the bed. You bear down. You scream. Kate’s hand anchors you, and her voice is in your ear the entire time.

“You’re so strong. I’m right here. You’ve got this. I love you. I love you.”

You don’t know how long it takes. You don’t care. You only care about what comes after.

And finally, a cry.

One sharp, perfect cry that breaks something open in your chest.

You collapse back against the pillows, breathless, exhausted, shaking.

The baby is placed on your chest, tiny and warm and slippery and real.

She cries, and so do you.

Kate’s crying too. She’s covering her mouth with both hands, staring at the little girl in your arms like she’s witnessing a miracle.

And maybe she is.

“She’s here,” you whisper.

Kate nods, brushing tears from your cheeks. “She’s so beautiful.”

You both stare at her — blinking, squirming, perfect. She grips your finger, impossibly small.

“Hi, baby,” you say, voice thick. “I’m your mama.”

Kate leans in. “And I’m your mom.”

Your daughter yawns, already content. Like she knew this was home all along.

the room quiets.

The nurses step out.

It’s just the three of you now.

Kate lies beside you, one arm cradling your shoulders, the other resting gently over the baby sleeping on your chest. You’re both quiet. Not from exhaustion — though that’s there — but from reverence.

This is the beginning of something holy.

You whisper into the stillness, “We did it.”

Kate kisses your temple. “You did it.”

You shake your head. “We did.”

She looks down at your daughter.

And then back at you.

And smiles.

You’re at Golden Gate Park with your kids on a warm Saturday afternoon, sunlight slicing through the trees in golden slivers. Your daughter is three, your son one—both wrapped in the kind of laughter that makes every sleepless night worth it. You sit on the bench nearby, coffee in hand, sneakers scuffed from the short walk over, eyes tracking their every move.

You’re still not used to how full your life is. But you love it.

“Mommy!” your daughter yells, waving wildly. “Doggie!”

You look up, smiling. “Where?”

She points.

And that’s when you see her.

Azzi.

She’s walking along the trail with a golden retriever bounding in front of her, a leash still dragging behind. Her hoodie is baggy, hair tied up, sunglasses low on her nose. She bends down, laughing softly as she grabs the leash—then straightens.

She sees you.

Everything stops.

Your breath catches. It’s not a punch to the chest. It’s a slow, deep inhale of something you buried a long time ago. Something that still smells like fall mornings in Connecticut and heartache at 3 a.m.

You meet her eyes.

And Azzi… she doesn’t look away.

You don’t move at first. Neither does she.

You just look at each other—six years of silence coiling in the air between you, humming like a wire too taut.

Azzi makes the first step.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is soft. Hesitant.

You nod, standing slowly. “Hey.”

[specialagentsergio]

almost me again

summary: While visiting Spencer at Millburn Correctional Facility, the prison goes into lockdown, temporarily leaving you alone together. You don’t let the opportunity go to waste.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

category: smut w/ a lil angst because it’s prison spencer, 18+ (minors DNI)

content warnings: swearing, dirty talk, praise, making out, fingering, hand job, semi-public sex

a/n: [arises from the grave carrying smut] i wrote this for @imagining-in-the-margins stuck together challenge! this return to posting writing after three years is brought to you by her, all my other awesome friends on her server for helping keep my interest in this show alive, and my successful carpal tunnel surgery last year. enjoy!

word count: 3.6k

masterlist

Visiting Spencer in prison is a mixed bag of emotions. First is the anger that he’s been framed and abandoned by the bureau, leading to him being in prison in the first place. Then relief when he walks in and you see him alive and… well, not well, but at least alive. It’s followed by stress and worry upon seeing how tense and sleepless he is.

Last but certainly not least, there’s the frustration that comes from sitting across from him and not being allowed to touch him. Years of casual touch, affection, and intimacy, all completely ground to a halt. It’s a special kind of torture.

You can tell he feels the same. His fingers twitch when they’re inches away from your hands on the table, itching to take them. His gaze will catch on your lips, and yours does the same to him. The line in between love and lust feels blurry. At least his lawyer had been able to pull some strings so you could visit in a private room instead of in general population, being heckled by the other inmates.

Today you’ve been visiting for around ten minutes, and having finished giving him the (depressingly small) update on the progress the team has made on his case, you’ve fallen into silence. Most of your visits end this way, staring at each other, words unspoken but understood.

And pretty much undressing each other with your eyes.

Spencer opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by the sound of a buzzer. You both jump.

“What is that?” you ask when it repeats.

“I’m not sure.” He gets up and knocks on the door for the guard. “What’s going on?” he asks when it opens.

“Lockdown. Stay put,” the guard answers, in a voice you think he wants to invite no questions or conversation, but that kind of thing never works on Spencer. Or you, for that matter.

“Lockdown?” you repeat. “Why?”

“Aren’t you supposed to take me back to my cell when the prison goes into lockdown?” Spencer adds.

“I said, stay put,” the guard says harshly. “We’ll move you later.”

“Well, how long from now is ‘later’?” you ask, standing from your chair.

The guard doesn’t entertain any more chatter, though. He only gives another instruction to stay where you are, then the door closes and makes its own little buzz, locking you both into the visitation room.

Spencer looks through the small window in the door. “He’s leaving,” he says, disbelief covering his face.

“Leaving?” you confirm. “A guard, leaving us alone in a federal prison. What could even cause that?”

“I’m not sure. A riot, maybe?” he guesses. “Maybe they need more guards to shut it down or something.”

You move to stand next to him. “How long do prison riots last?”

“Well, historically, some have lasted months, but don’t worry; I’m sure they won’t leave us in here for more than an hour.”

“I’m not worried.” You place a hand on his shoulder and watch a shudder run through his body, eyes closing at the first touch of someone he loves in weeks. “It’d be a shame if we didn’t seize this opportunity.”

He turns to face you and you place your hands on his cheeks. And you mean to wait for him to respond to your suggestion before doing anything further, but you can’t help yourself—you pull him into a hug.

He hugs back immediately, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck. He breathes in deeply and you feel his body relax. The undercurrent of stress and tension he’s been carrying with him since Mexico shrinks. Not completely gone, but no longer overwhelming.

“Oh, I don’t care if they suddenly come back and I get in trouble for this,” he sighs. “It’s worth it.”

You open your eyes, looking out the window over his shoulder. “Well, there’s a guard at the end of the hallway, guarding the door to this wing, I guess, but he’s not looking this way. The other guy’s still gone. How long do you think we have?”

“I’ve no idea.” His hands wander lower, settling on your hips, fingers lightly gripping the fabric of your skirt.

“Well, then I guess the question is…” You pull back from the hug so you can watch his expressions and make sure you’re not crossing any lines he doesn’t want you to. “How long do you need?”

“Depends on what you’re referring to.” He tilts his head to kiss one of your cheeks, then the other. “If you mean how much time I need to be with you…” He kisses your forehead. “I’m not sure forever itself would be enough.”

It’s far from the first time he’s expressed such a sickeningly romantic sentiment, yet like every time before, it makes your cheeks prickle with warmth. You take one of his hands off your hips and lift it to your mouth, kissing the palm of it.

“However, I’m ninety-five percent sure you’re referring to how long it would take to get me off,” he continues. You see a little smile grace his lips before he dips his head to kiss your neck. “In which case, it’s probably ten minutes at the maximum.”

You put a hand in his hair, toy with it for a moment, then tug it lightly, just the way he likes. He inhales sharply. “Oh yeah?” you question.

“Maybe less,” he admits. “Probably less. It’s been over a month, and unlike you, I don’t have any privacy to take matters into my own hands, pun intended.”

You laugh. “Well, should we see what we can do about that?”

Spencer’s answer is a sweet, chaste kiss, almost as if he’s saying thank you. It’s immediately followed by a crushing, downright greedy one that makes you take a step backward to avoid falling. One of his hands cradles the back of your head while the other wanders. He can’t seem to decide where to put it, wanting to feel everything at once. Eventually he settles on untucking your shirt.

His hand grazes the skin underneath for just a moment. Before he can get any further, you grab the front of his prison-issued jacket and turn him, then push him against the wall. He makes a surprised noise.

“One of us needs to watch the door,” you explain. “And it’s easier for you to see over my shoulder than the opposite.”

“Right,” he says. “Got it. Watching the door. Can I feel you up now?”

You make a half-snort, half-giggle sound. “Yes, you may.”

He doesn’t possess an iota of hesitation as he slides his hand back under your shirt and up to your chest. He makes a grumbling noise, as if he’d forgotten there would be a bra in the way, but manages to get his hand beneath it all the same. “Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he mutters between kisses.

You press closer to him, your hands doing their own wandering. “I can tell,” you say. “I’ve never seen—or felt, rather—you get completely hard so quickly.”

Spencer huffs out a laugh. “I told you, it’s been a while. Paired with the way you were looking at me earlier…”

He tugs down the collar of your shirt to bite and suck a hickey into the skin under your collarbone, making you gasp. “Spencer.”

“Mm.”

“Not that I don’t enjoy foreplay, but...” you start, and he finishes the sentence like you figured he would.

“We need to be quick. I know.” He sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to the mark he’s just made on your skin.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask as you unbutton his pants. “Mouth, hands?”

“I’d never make you kneel on a concrete floor like this,” he replies. “And I want as much of your body touching mine as possible.”

You feign being put upon, as if you hadn’t been worried about the concrete floor as well. “Oh, if you insist.”

He doesn’t pay your tease much mind, instead adjusting one of your legs to hook around the back of his calf to keep your legs parted just enough for him to get his hands on you the way he wants, but without making what you’re doing immediately obvious to anyone who’d walk by or glance in.

You unzip his pants and push his underwear down just enough to free his cock, the tip already damp with pre-cum. You give it a few light strokes, coaxing more of the clear liquid out of it to spread down his length so you’re not jerking him off dry.

He sighs in a way that sounds like relief, and for a few moments, his hands still and he tips his head backward against the wall, letting the pleasure wash over him. You allow him his moment of calm, before gently reminding him, “Watch the door.”

He straightens back out and his eyes immediately fix on the small window in the door. “We’re still good,” he confirms. Despite your reminder on where to keep his eyes, they flicker back down to you, but you can’t really blame him. You’d find it hard to watch the door, too.

Spencer goes back to kissing you, sliding his hands fully up under your skirt to grip your ass and pull you even closer to him. He encourages the way you naturally rock against him, but when he moves a hand to rub between your legs, you feel a frown on his lips.

“Why did you have to wear tights?” he downright whines.

“What?” you ask with a surprised laugh.

“You wear this skirt—that I know you know I love, by the way—and that’s great, because skirts are easier to get into than pants, but then you paired it with tights, so it’s like you’ve canceled out the benefits,” he protests. “Why?”

The little pout he’s giving you, even as you continue to stroke his dick, is adorable. “Because it gets cold in this place,” you answer, which is the truth. “I can slide them down a little—“

“No need.” And before you can fully process what’s happening, he’s moved both of his hands to the junction of your tights and tugs on it until it rips.

“Spencer Reid!” you hiss.

“Tights aren’t that expensive,” he says dismissively, pushing on the inside of your thigh to open your legs to him further. “You have my wallet at home. Just take my card and get a new pair.”

“I’m less concerned about the cost of a new pair of tights and more so about the fact that I planned to wear these all day,” you say. It’s the truth, but you also can’t deny that what he’s done was unbelievably hot.

Spencer doesn’t address these worries, but rather gets right on with what he ripped the tights to do. He runs his hand once across the fabric of your underwear, and you can tell when he feels the slight damp spot because he lets out a little growl in your ear that makes you shiver.

“Sweetheart, if you wouldn’t mind…” he murmurs as he pushes your panties to the side. He gives a little rock of his hips.

“Oh!” You realize that you’d stopped stroking him when he tore your tights, and start up again, pushing his own underwear a bit farther down to be able to run your hand across his full length.

“Thank you, my love,” he replies in a soft and gentle voice that contradicts the greedy way he’s sliding his fingers into your folds and coating them with your wetness. He doesn’t waste any time in pushing one finger inside you, quickly followed by a second when the first glides in so easily.

You sigh in the same way he did earlier, a sound that’s tinged with relief.

“Your own fingers and toys just aren’t the same, are they?” he coos, beginning to thrust his fingers in and out at a steady pace.

You twist your hand as you run it down his cock, then thumb the tip, drawing a barely suppressed moan out of him. “No, they aren’t,” you reply simply. “You know there’s only one thing that I like inside of me more than your fingers.”

He hums. “I do. And as much as I’d love to provide that, we’re already pushing it with what we’re doing now.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “We keep slowing down; we need to pick up the pace here.”

He nods, glancing up at the door again to check for any changes. “Then let’s get to it.”

Spencer leans in to kiss you. As your lips meet, you change your hold on his dick from soft and casual to firm and purposeful. At the same time, he adjusts his hand so his thumb can rub your clit.

Both of you are well versed in how to get each other off. You know what each other likes the best, and how exactly to do it. You just don’t normally do it this fast and aggressively.

It’s working, though. It’s not long before you’re both panting into each other’s mouths more than you’re kissing. It helps that neither of you have been satisfied for over a month. He may think you’ve done just fine getting yourself off over that time, but in truth, laying alone in your shared bed always makes you too sad to get in the mood.

He doesn’t need to know that, though. Doesn’t need anything else to worry about, to feel guilty about.

You tip your head forward onto his shoulder as you feel the tension that’s been steadily coiling in your core start to close in on the breaking point. “Spencer,” you sigh out in the way you know he likes best.

His answer is a groan and a buck of his hips into your hand. “Don’t know how much longer I’m gonna last here,” he says, voice strained.

“I know I’m not making it another minute,” you say bluntly. The hand you’re not using to get him off has been gripping his arm hard enough to leave little crescent shapes through his clothing, but you move it now to push up your sleeve so it won’t get dirty when he cums.

He’s been remarkably quiet this whole time—his inclination to ramble carries over into the bedroom—and you imagine it’s been no small effort on his part. But when he feels one of the involuntary clenches of your walls that signals that you’re close, his resolve breaks.

“Honey, look at me, please, I wanna watch you cum,” he says, speaking as fast as he can while keeping the words clear enough to be distinguished.

You lift your head as he asks, similarly looking forward to watching him. The expressions he makes always enchant you, and unlike him, you don’t have an eidetic memory to draw on when you want to see it.

“Thank you, thank you. You’re so beautiful,” he praises. “Brightening up these dreary walls.”

You adjust your hands, wrapping one of them around the base of his cock and keeping it there so you can focus more on the head with the other. You watch him bite his lip to hold back what would usually be an unabashed moan.

“Best days are when you visit,” he continues on. “I just wish we could do more together. I wish I could touch you every time. Mm, so close.”

“You or me?” you ask, despite knowing the answer.

“Both.”

He crooks his fingers inside of you, hitting just the right spot, and you can’t help but gasp and momentarily throw your head back. Your body has its eyes on the finish line, and it’s racing towards it. You clench down on his fingers hard.

“That’s it, just like that,” he breathes out, and you can tell from the way his own muscles are tensing that he’s trying to hold back his release to see yours first. “Can you come for me, sweetheart?”

You nod. “Mm-hmm.”

As always, your body responds to his words with enthusiasm. Seconds after his request, you reach your peak, moaning out his name as quietly as you can. He shudders as he climaxes right after you. His release coats your hand and inner arm, warm and wet, as your walls clench rhythmically around his fingers.

“Oh, my god,” he sighs out, an expression of the pleasure and relief he’s feeling. You both rather clumsily work each other through your orgasms, unable to keep up the same steady pace while you’re distracted by the flood of feel-good hormones washing over you.

You stand catching your respective breaths for a few moments, then with the casual, practiced synchrony of lovers, he slips his fingers out of you, you let go of his cock, and you both wrap your arms around each other, mindful of which hands are sticky and wet.

When his lips find yours again, they’re gentle, almost reverent. “Thank you,” he breathes.

“My pleasure. Literally.” After hearing his quiet huff of laughter, you turn your head to rest your cheek against his shoulder. You can’t settle into each other’s arms in your regular way, but make do the best you can. In the quiet, familiar post-climax calm, things almost feel normal.

Almost.

You both look up at the ceiling as the buzzer that had quickly faded into the background of your mutual haze of lust suddenly stops.

“Think that’s our cue,” Spencer says softly, voice tinged with sadness.

“Yeah,” you agree just as quietly. You both straighten out, reluctantly letting space between your bodies. With your clean hand, you reach into your pocket and pull out a travel-sized pack of tissues

He pauses in tucking himself back into his pants. “You just have those with you?”

“Yeah. I, um…” You take a moment to think on how to respond as you use a tissue to wipe his spend off your hand and inner forearm. You decide on the partial truth. “I cry in the car after visiting you sometimes, so…”

More like every time.

You have to look away from him, then, or else the little heartbroken look on his face will make you start crying now. You take the few tissues he’s used from his hand and look around for some sort of bin or trash can, but there isn’t one, so you stuff the soiled tissues into your empty pocket. Apparently you’ll be doing laundry when you get home.

Spencer puts his hands on your cheeks, a silent ask for you to look back at him. “I’m so sorry I’m putting you through this,” he whispers when you meet his eyes.

“It’s not your fault you’re being framed, love,” you reply.

He shakes his head. “I should’ve—“

“Shh.” You press a finger to his lips. “We could talk all day about shoulds, woulds, and coulds. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. We do the best we can with the information we have at the time. That’s all we can do.”

He’s still cradling your face, and you lift your hands to loop around his wrists. You kiss him softly. He keeps his eyes shut when you pull back. “Try not to worry too much about me. Just focus on yourself and getting through this.”

The sigh he lets out is shaky, and a single tear falls down his cheek. “I’ll try.”

You wipe away the tear with your thumb and you’re about to try and comfort him further when the moment is cut short by the sound of a door opening down the hallway. “The guard’s back and heading down here,” Spencer confirms when he looks out the window.

You look over each other—you fix his collar, he straightens out your off-center skirt—then quickly move to your chairs.

“You know, I can hardly believe we got away with that,” you remark, lightening the mood and reaching across the table to hold his hand until the last possible second.

“Me either,” he chuckles, looking at your fondly.

The buzzing of the door signals you to pull your hands back and you fold them in front of you, trying to project a perfect image of innocence. You have to stifle a laugh when the two of you make eye contact out of the corners of your eyes.

The door swings open, and the guard doesn’t look much different than before, just red-faced and slightly sweaty from whatever he had left to do. “Visit’s over. All inmates are to go back to their cells,” he says, and you notice another guard is hovering behind him. He’s not as out of breath as the first, but definitely winded. You hope Spencer can get the scoop on what went down, because you really want to know.

“Okay,” you say simply, and stand. “I love you, Spence.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he replies, staying seated for the moment.

When you get to the door, the guard steps aside to let you through, but not before studying you with narrowed eyes. You assume he was anticipating one or both of you to protest the abrupt ending of your visit.

You turn to look at Spencer one last time before letting the second guard escort you out. You put on the adoring smile you know is one of his favorites, then press your fingertips to your lips and blow him a kiss.

Smiling back just as sweetly—god, you’ve missed that smile—he pretends to catch it and touches his own lips. For just one moment, with eyes only for each other, he seems completely relaxed.

“Come on,” the second guard says, grabbing your upper arm and tugging you away. You hate being manhandled by the guards, and normally you’d give them a piece of your mind, but today you don’t care. It’s worth it. Because for the first time in months, Spencer looks like himself.

—————

tell me what you thought here!

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT part twenty, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, rafe and reader being mentors, the 74th hunger games, last part of act 2 before i get to act 3, y/n lowk turning into enobaria and rafe becoming brutus as mentors LOL, a bit rushed sorry i needed to get this thru n done so i can move to the quarter quell which ill b working on IMMEDIATELY

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous

morning of the reaping

the kiss to the back of your head doesn’t register right away. but you stir anyway. your eyes squint against the sunlight pouring through the window, and your hand lifts lazily to cover your face.

behind you, rafe’s already moving. you can hear the quiet rustle of clothes, the sound of a drawer closing, the exhale he lets out as he buttons his shirt. he’s not rushed, definitely not cheerful. he’s just methodical. like every year.

“up and at ‘em, bug,” he says, trying not to sound like it’s the anniversary of another death sentence. his pants drag slightly on the floor before he steps into them. he’s not looking at you when he says it.

you don’t reply. you don’t have the energy.

your back aches, then you stay still for a few seconds longer, your head turned toward the edge of the bed, watching the dust in the sunlight.

eventually, you drag yourself up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. you shower, hands moving gently around the sore parts of your back. your lotion will help later. rafe will probably have to do it for you again. you don’t ask anymore. you just wait until he offers nowadays.

by the time you come out dressed, you find him in the kitchen. he’s already made breakfast. there’s eggs, toast, a sliced apple. it’s simple. you don’t say thank you, but you kiss him on the cheek. he doesn't flinch. he never does.

you lean against the island, elbows on the counter, your plate in front of you. your appetite is nonexistent but the food is hot enough to make you take a few bites anyway.

rafe watches you for a moment from across the kitchen before speaking. “we’ll do good this year,” he says, almost like he’s saying it for himself. “whoever they are, we’ll—” he pauses, then shrugs. “we’ll get them through training right. make it count.”

you nod once, barely moving your head.

there’s no pep talk this year. maybe there hasn’t been for a while. last year’s victor still sends letters sometimes, was one of yours, thankfully. the kid lives across the street now in rafe’s old home. you never really visit. it’s not because you don’t care. it’s because you do.

you finish your food slowly, then take your plate with you, rinse it in the sink, and set it down.

rafe grabs his jacket, slings it over his shoulder, and waits by the door, giving you space to follow when you’re ready.

you tie your hair back to keep it out of your face and you breathe in deep before you finally move to join him.

just another reaping day.

tribute parade + catching up

cato and clove, your new tributes for the seventy-fourth.

you’ve kept your distance in the beginning. you know better than to smother. they’re still kids, and kids don’t like to feel watched. but you watch anyway, just quietly, because if you don’t know them inside and out by the time the gong rings, you’ll lose them.

cato’s easy to read. he’s bold, broad-shouldered, and loud in the way boys that age always are when they’re trying to prove something. he’s a natural leader. you see it in the way he moves like the world belongs to him already. he reminds you of rafe at that age: headstrong, competitive, almost too confident. it makes you wary, but also hopeful. if he can learn how to control it, he’ll go far.

clove’s the opposite. she barely speaks. she watches and calculates. it’s good. her grip on her throwing knives is precise. you’re pretty sure she’s only fifteen, but already better than you ever were at that age. her silence definitely isn’t weakness. it’s just strategy. but you can still see the cracks underneath it all, the small things. like the way she looks at the older tributes. she’s still got her work cut out for her.

you’re not here to be their friend. but you are here to keep them alive.

so before the parade, you pull them both aside. you sit them down in the prep lounge, far enough from cameras and capitol handlers. rafe’s nearby, arms crossed, not saying much, but he’s listening.

“look,” you start, arms folded, weight shifted onto one leg like you’ve done this speech a dozen times before, because you have, “i know you’re both ready, trained, strong. but that doesn’t mean you get to go in there acting like this is already yours.”

cato’s mouth twitches like he wants to smirk. you cut him off with a look.

“you’re a team,” you say, gaze moving between them. “that’s what matters. you trust each other. you look out for each other. if you don’t, you’re dead.”

clove nods. cato stays still.

“people are going to want to ally with you. you’re both strong. you look good. you know what you’re doing. but at the end of the day, it’s going to be you two left standing. so you need to know each other. inside and out. what makes the other tick, what to say when one of you is slipping.”

you glance at cato, “and you, when things go wrong, and they will, you need to keep your head on straight. don’t get cocky. don’t get emotional. play smart. no one ever knows how it’s going to end, and if you don’t plan for the unexpected—” you let that hang.

rafe finally chimes in, “—you end up like the rest of them.”

he doesn’t say who them is but he doesn’t have to.

you see something shift in cato’s eyes. maybe the first sting of reality finally sinking in. whatever it is, you’re glad for it.

the stylists call for them soon after. it’s time for the parade. you give them one last nod and step back. rafe claps a hand on cato’s shoulder with that easy confidence he always carries, like he’s proud before the game’s even started. you can tell rafe likes him.

but everything changes the moment the chariots roll out and district twelve lights the whole damn place on fire.

literally.

you watch from the balcony with the other mentors, eyes locked on the tributes in coal-black suits and flames licking at their shoulders. katniss everdeen and peeta mellark. the crowd erupts. it’s not polite applause. it’s thunderous. you haven’t heard this loud of a crowd in a long time.

you don’t say anything at first. you just stare like the wind was knocked out of you.

beside you, rafe leans in slightly. “well, shit.”

you blink and look at him. he’s still wearing that casual smirk, but you know him too well.

“they’re not here to play,” you mutter.

you look down again at katniss and peeta, arms held high, faces glowing in the firelight. the capitol just eats it up.

and down there, you swear you can already see cato seething. but you’ll deal with that later. right now, you’re already calculating.

this isn’t going to be a regular year.

not even close.

let the games begin

you don’t flinch when the light turns red above the door, signaling it’s time. you’ve done this too many times now to let it show. still, your hands curl into fists at your sides.

clove is already suited up, dressed in arena attire with her hair in a bubble braid, thanks to valis. she looks calm, like a soldier. but you’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s faking it. her throat is tight. she keeps flexing her fingers.

“you ready?” you ask gently.

clove nods, “yeah.”

you walk with her, just a few feet between here and the tube. it’s not far, but it always feels endless.

“okay,” you say, like you’re about to give her a pop quiz. “remember what we talked about. you’re not going for glory. you’re going for survival. you find cover, find water, find weapons. your knives if you can, but don’t get picky. anything sharp works. anything long enough to keep someone back.”

she nods again, jaw locked tight.

“stick with cato if you can, but not at the cost of your own safety. he’s a tank, you’re not. you’re faster. don’t underestimate that. use it, and keep moving. don’t make camp unless you’re sure. and—” you pause, more serious now, “—don’t let anyone bait you into doing something stupid. let them play games. you’re playing to win.”

it’s all the same crap you say every year, just reshuffled and recycled. but pieces of it are new, like lessons from past mistakes, regrets over tributes you couldn’t save. you’ve learned how fast the wrong choice can kill a kid, how slow some deaths can be, how sometimes silence in the arena means more than screams ever could.

she steps into the tube. you move closer, only inches away from her now, and lower your voice so only she can hear.

“may we meet again,” you murmur. it comes out softer than you expect, like muscle memory, like prayer. you say it every year.

clove doesn’t get it. her brows twitch, just barely. but she repeats it back anyway, “may we meet again.”

you nod, but you don’t smile. there’s nothing to smile about. not now.

the glass seals, rising like a tomb. clove lifts her chin. you don’t say anything else. you just watch her rise. her eyes stay on you until the light swallows her whole. you exhale through your nose.

she’s small. she’s smart. like you said, if she finds knives, water, a pack, she’ll last. definitely longer than most.

if you could, you would bet on her.

the first few days are always the worst. the bloodbath hits like a freight train. you just sit there, fists clenched, watching through the hovercam feeds as your tributes do exactly what they were trained to do.

clove’s quick and brutal, almost surgical with the way she moves through everything. she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. you think maybe she’s trying to prove something, whether to the world or to herself. it’s hard to say.

she’s allied with the district one pair, marvel and glimmer, who you think were being mentored by gloss and cashmere this year, who you’ve spoken with once or twice at functions by now. they’re tall, poised, a little too perfect. they’re nice, but district one’s are always snobby at some point. you’ve never let yourself get close enough to see it. they’re not your favorite people, but you’ll admit, they know what they’re doing. their tributes are doing fairly well too.

meanwhile, rafe’s been working the capitol crowd like a seasoned pro, flashing smiles and charming sponsors, always talking up cato and clove like one of them’s gonna be the capitol’s next golden child. you’ve barely spoken to him these last few days. most nights, he comes back to the room late, muttering something under his breath about how ‘twelve is stealing the damn spotlight again.’

because they are.

you remember sitting there, frozen, watching the screens when caesar announced private session scorings.

“eleven,” rafe spat that night, shaking his head when the scores came in. “she got a damn eleven. and cato got a ten.”

you remember the rage on cato’s face, how he paced in the living room afterward, muttering that he never saw katniss lift a weapon, let alone do anything worth that score. said the gamemakers must’ve been drunk or something.

but it didn’t matter. the capitol had already made up their mind. they loved her. she clearly has some tricks up her sleeve that haymitch is telling her to hide, you’re sure of it.

and the capitol loves peeta too, especially with his heartfelt interview and the whole ‘star-crossed lovers’ angle that made half the capitol swoon. it’s clever, strategic. you can admit that. but it’s frustrating as hell, especially when you have clove and cato in the arena. they’re killing machines, trained for this, built for this.

you spend most of your days now watching clove and cato’s activity. you sleep maybe three hours at a time, if that.

you watch clove press her back against a rock and clean her knife with the hem of her sleeve. you watch cato sharpen his sword like he’s been waiting for someone to try him.

they’re stars. they should be winning.

so when rafe finally sits beside you one night, looking exhausted but still determined, and promises, “i’ll make them watch. i swear it,” you believe him.

the bar’s quiet, the kind that only exists in capitol back rooms where the noise has to be kept out or you’ll go insane. it’s tucked away behind one of the gaudier lounges they parade mentors through during interviews.

you pull your jacket tighter around yourself as you slide onto the cushioned bench beside rafe, letting your body fall into the space carved out by his arm. you lean into him, your leg draping over his without thinking.

johanna’s halfway through a rant about her stylists from last year, “i told them no ruffles, and what do i get? a goddamn woodland princess dress with a corset i couldn’t breathe in,” when finnick leans forward with a little grin curling at his mouth.

“maybe they just wanted to see if you had a waist under all that attitude,” he says.

johanna freezes mid-sip, slowly lowering her glass as she glares. she kicks out her leg under the table, solid contact with his shin.

he winces but starts laughing anyway, muffling it into the rim of his drink as some spills over the side.

you barely smile at the two of them.

“you look like you’ve been hit by a hovercraft,” johanna says, nodding at you. “long week?”

you don’t answer. you just raise your brows and take a sip of your own drink.

rafe’s hand drops to your thigh under the table, squeezing once. “don’t mind her,” he mutters, “she’s bitter ‘cause of last year.”

“damn right i’m bitter,” johanna says, catching that. she slams her glass down. “district seven gave me log rollers last year. log rollers. what the hell am i supposed to do with that?”

“make firewood?” finnick offers.

“very original,” johanna deadpans, “you should be a stylist.”

“maybe i will,” finnick says. “anything’s better than sitting in those sponsor meetings listening to everyone act like peeta mellark invented the idea of romance.”

“i still don’t get him,” you mutter, pressing your forehead lightly to rafe’s shoulder. “why team up with the careers if he’s in love with her?”

“to drive them away from her,” finnick says like he knows this strategy all too well. “or to get her killed. either way, it's bait.”

you nod slowly. “they ditched him though. probably when they lost glimmer.”

“shame,” johanna says, but not like she means it. “girl looked great in that green.”

you don’t say anything. neither do the others. rafe shifts slightly, just enough to kiss your temple. you don’t move.

“cato’s doing okay,” rafe says after a moment. “kid’s pissed, but he’s smart. he’s adapting.”

“clove’s better,” you say. “if she stays fed and still has a hold of her knives, she’s gonna make it to the final five easy.”

“look at you two,” johanna says, gesturing with her drink. “mentoring little yous.”

“cato’s nothing like me,” rafe says.

you glance up at him. “he kind of is.”

he looks down at you and shrugs. “maybe the temper.”

“maybe the pride.”

“definitely the hair,” johanna quips. “they all have that same district two look. like they just walked out of a weapons catalog.”

“at least they know what they’re doing,” finnick says. “my girl from four this year thinks fishing is a personality trait.”

“it’s better than carving trees,” johanna snaps. you all laugh a little.

reader keeping up with the finales

it’s the feast.

you’re curled into the corner of the couch, eyes locked to the screen. you don’t blink. you don’t breathe. clove’s there, just like you told her to be. she’s on top of katniss now, got her pinned, taunting her with that little smirk that always made you nervous. it’s a good look though. she’s bold and confident. maybe even enough to steal the spotlight from twelve.

rafe’s standing, not even bothering to sit. he’s closer to the tv, one hand at his mouth, biting his thumb nail. you’re nodding slowly, trying to will clove to stay sharp as if she can hear you in your head muttering ‘good, good, keep control’ and ‘don’t let your guard down.’

but it’s the feast. and the feast is chaos.

you should’ve reminded her again, told her anyone could come at any time. like—

it’s too fast. there’s no warning, no build-up. the cameras don’t show him running. they cut right to the impact, thresh grabbing her, tearing her off katniss like she’s weightless.

your breath halts.

clove’s voice cracks out, fear slicing through it like a blade. “cato! cato!”

you stand. you don’t realize it until your knees hit the edge of the coffee table and you’re upright.

“no,” you whisper, reaching blindly for rafe’s arm, clutching his sleeve like you might fall through the floor if you don’t hold on.

he doesn't say anything. he doesn’t move. just stares, wide-eyed, hand frozen halfway to his mouth.

thresh slams her against the cornucopia. your stomach lurches. again. and then there’s a crack.

the cannon sounds before she even hits the ground.

your hand slips from rafe’s arm as your whole body caves in on itself. you sink back onto the couch, eyes burning. you can still see her face, clove’s body crumpled on the ground like a doll tossed aside, her eyes still slightly open, lips parted mid-breath.

you press a shaking hand to your mouth.

rafe finally turns away from the screen, his shoulders tight, jaw clenched. he can’t watch anymore.

you rake your fingers through your hair and lean forward, forearms braced against your thighs, eyes still on the screen. it’s just cato now. he’s all there’s left for two.

his screentime comes soon. you’re in a lounge when you see him.

your eyes are red-rimmed from too many days of staring at too many deaths. you’re hunched forward on a couch that’s too modern to be comfortable, elbows on your thighs, hands braced tightly over your mouth and nose.

rafe’s here too, sitting on the armrest beside you, his body tense, his leg bouncing ever so slightly. he doesn’t speak. neither of you have spoken in a while. the only sound is the hum of the capitol and the commentary from the arena feed.

on screen, cato bursts out of the forest of mutts like a man possessed. your breath catches. he’s hurt. he’s bleeding from somewhere near his shoulder and mouth, but alive and sprinting up the cornucopia with one last desperate blaze of instinct. he reaches the top, grabs peeta by the chest, yanks him in with an arm tight around his throat.

there’s blood dripping down cato’s face. he looks manic, exhausted beyond reason, but still . . . still there’s that fire in his eyes. he’s snarling words at katniss, something cruel and theatrical, meant for the cameras. something probably about making it hurt, getting his last kills. he’s performing now, digging for a narrative, trying to steal the spotlight back with the only trick he has left: pain.

maybe he knows his odds are low. it’s written all over his face. they’ll love it for the drama, but you already know the ending.

you watch it all like a car crash in slow motion. your fingers dig into your skin.

katniss’s hands move too fast to register. her arrow flies, striking cato in the hand holding peeta. you flinch.

he roars, his grip loosening just enough for peeta to elbow him hard in the gut. cato stumbles. for one second, he’s just teetering on the edge, one foot scrabbling for balance on the metal, but then peeta shoves.

cato tumbles backward off the cornucopia and straight into the pack of muttations still circling hungrily below.

the feed doesn’t cut away. it doesn’t need to.

you drop your head into your hands. you don’t cry. your body’s past crying now. it’s a hollow ache that lives in your bones, heavier than grief. it’s failure. again.

rafe doesn’t say anything. you peek over and see him just staring. like he’s not really seeing anything at all. you think he might be doing that thing again, where he blames himself without saying it out loud.

“he was so close,” you whisper, but rafe doesn’t answer.

you stay like that for a long time. cato’s cannon finally fires after hours of the mutts digging through his armor and mutilating him below, with katniss’s last arrow to his head to mercy kill. the cameras never show the body. maybe there isn’t one left to show.

the rest is a blur. the feed shifts back to katniss and peeta, both practically half-conscious, barely holding it together. you can’t look away. you don’t go back to your quarters. you don’t sleep. you sit in front of the tv until your eyes sting and your joints ache. rafe leaves at some point, says he’ll be back, but you barely hear him.

you watch katniss and peeta curled up at the top of the cornucopia, not speaking much. they’re waiting. so are you. you’re pretty sure a good chunk of panem is.

the hours pass and the sky lightens. it’s nearly morning in the arena and you still haven’t moved.

the gamemakers haven’t done anything. there’s no finale. no twist. no mercy.

you’re getting angry now, but it’s mostly anxiety. you run a hand through your hair and shake your head at the screen. “what are they waiting for?” you whisper. “what are they doing?”

and then they move.

on screen, peeta stirs, glances around. katniss pulls herself upright slowly. you squint through your fatigue, watching as they exchange a few hushed words.

then katniss reaches into her pocket.

you sit up straighter.

no.

what’s in her hand are small, round, and deadly. you recognize the size and color immediately. it’s nightlock. your stomach twists violently.

they’re going to do it. they’re really going to do it. another suicide pact. another pair of kids refusing to play by the rules, refusing to be the monsters they were made to be. your chest tightens. it’s happening again.

the capitol wouldn’t let it happen again, would it?

you’re frozen as you watch. they’re raising the berries to their lips.

not again not again not again.

your heart pounds, breath shallow as your nails dig into your palms before a voice crackles to life. it’s robotic and a little too rushed, “stop! . . . stop!”

katniss and peeta look up at the sky immediately where the sounds probably coming in for them.

“ . . . ladies and gentlemen, may i present to you the victors of the seventy-fourth hunger games: katniss everdeen . . . and peeta mellark.”

there’s no images of them rejoicing. no final shot. no triumph. just silence. you stare. you don’t move. your hands slide down your face slowly, your eyes are wide, stunned.

the screen flashes once, then cuts to black. just like that.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[hannie-bees]

Pieces of you || c.hs

Pairing: Vernon x Reader

Genre: Fluff, domestic, romantic, comfort

WC: 1.9K

Theme: Its your 2nd anniversary and you gift your bf a jar of 100 reasons why you love him. 

Song Recommendation: 10000 Hours

Two years.

You’d been with Vernon for two whole years.

And yet, somehow, when your anniversary rolled around, your brain decided to take a vacation. The “what to get him” panic had set in early—weeks of browsing, scrolling through Pinterest boards titled “Anniversary Gift Ideas for Your Lowkey Emotional Musician Boyfriend", and endless Etsy deep-dives later, you caved and bought him a Rolex.

Now…

You were this close to a breakdown.

It was two nights before your second anniversary with Vernon, and you were dramatically sprawled across the living room carpet, surrounded by Google tabs, half-finished card drafts, and a fancy black velvet box from the Rolex boutique that now made you want to scream.

“Why did I do this?” You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face. “It’s so low-effort boyfriend-gift-core.”

To be fair, you’d panicked. Vernon had mentioned once in passing that he admired classic timepieces, and your brain short-circuited into: oh my god, fancy anniversary = man + watch = love. But the more you stared at the sleek, expensive thing, the more you hated it.

Because Vernon wasn’t a Rolex kind of boyfriend.

He was the boyfriend who saved the last bite of every snack for you even if he was starving. The boyfriend who left you post-it notes with doodled hearts on mornings he had early schedules. The boyfriend who wordlessly held you until your anxiety stopped clawing at your throat. Who remembered you liked your toast golden brown and your strawberry milk with extra ice cubes.

A watch didn’t cover all that. He deserved more.

And that's how you found yourself in your sweats, surrounded by crumpled sticky notes and a half-eaten box of cookies, trying to figure out how to tell him what he meant to you.

That’s when it clicked.

Words. Words were always the answer.

He’d once told you that you had a way of making ordinary things feel important, and maybe—just maybe—writing them down would remind him how much of your life he lit up.

You counted out a hundred sticky notes. Soft pastels in a mix of pinks, blues, and greens. And you began writing.

Your gummy smile. The first thing I fell for. It’s unfair. You smile, and I forget how to function.

The way you think. You process the world so gently and deeply—it makes me fall in love every day.

The way you love. Not loud, not flashy. Just right. Just… you. You don’t say it often, but you show it, always.

You understand me—even when I don’t make sense. Especially when I don’t.

You’re patient. With my bad days. My weird moods. You never make me feel wrong for needing time. You just… get me. You listen between the words.

You never make me feel stupid. Not when I forget things. Not when I panic. You just hold space.

You’re weird. The good kind. The dancing-in-the-kitchen, talking-to-cats, doing-a-fake-British-accent kind. The I’m-gonna-marry-you kind.

You send me memes when I’m upset. Usually cursed ones. It works.

You’re honest. Always. Even when it’s awkward or hard.

You give me the aux cord without even asking.

You laugh at my bad jokes like they deserve Oscars.

You kiss my forehead when I overthink.

You listen. Like, really listen. Like, “remembers things I said 4 months ago while half-asleep” listen.

You let me take the first bite of your food even when you’re starving.

You say, “Text me when you get home,” even if I’m just going to the convenience store.

You kept going, hour after hour. You wrote them curled up on the couch, with lo-fi playing and your legs tangled in a blanket you stole from his side of the bed. You wrote them the next morning, stirring pancake batter with one hand and scribbling thoughts with the other.

Each note was like a breadcrumb trail back through your relationship. The quiet mornings. The messy fights. The making up. The comfort.

The you-and-him-ness of it all.

27. You let me warm my hands on your stomach in winter, even though you hate it.

39. You rap under your breath when you’re concentrating. I pretend not to notice. You pretend not to see me smiling.

41. You never let go first during hugs.

57. You carry my bags without making a show of it.

69. You tell me “I love you” like it’s a fact, not a performance.

72. You say “I got you” instead of “it’s okay.” And somehow it feels like both.

88. You’re just… you. And that’s more than enough.

99. You remembered I always wanted to be seen. You saw me. Even when I couldn’t see myself.

100. You’re my safe place. My home. My favorite person.

You folded each sticky note carefully into a tiny square, dropping them into a clear jar one by one until it was full—your love made tangible, note by note, word by word.

___

Anniversary Morning

You woke before Vernon did, still tangled up in the shared comforter. His hand was loosely curled on your waist, chest rising and falling in that steady, sleepy rhythm that always grounded you.

You turned slightly to look at him.

His features were soft with sleep, lips parted just barely, hair tousled and flopping into his eyes. Your eyes trailed down to the tiny mole near his cheek—the one he always forgot he had until you kissed it and your heart squeezed.

Happy anniversary, you whispered in your mind. To the boy who doesn’t need to say much to make you feel everything.

___

You gave him the Rolex first.

He blinked at the box, then at you. “...Babe.”

“What?” you said with a grin. “You love watches.”

He opened it slowly, then whistled. “Okay, I do. But this is—this is a lot.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You deserve nice things.”

He leaned in, kissing your cheek with a quiet, “Thank you, really,” but you could tell from the way he pulled you into his side that he knew something was up.

___

Later that Evening

The sun was setting, casting honey-colored light through the apartment windows. You stood awkwardly in the living room, the jar tucked behind your back, your stomach flipping.

He was lounging on the couch in a hoodie and sweats, the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, a bowl of cereal in his lap even though it was almost dinner time. He looked up when you stepped in.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly.

Then, without a word, you walked over and placed the jar on the coffee table in front of him, before diving onto the couch, grabbing a throw pillow, and hiding behind it like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

He stared at the jar. Then at you. Then back at the jar decorated with little cloud stickers and a label that simply read: 100 Reasons I Love You (and Counting)…

His brow furrowed slightly as he set his cereal aside and picked it up. “What’s this?”

Your voice was muffled behind the pillow. “Read it.”

He opened the lid and pulled out one of the tiny folded notes, unfolding it carefully.

1. Your gummy smile.

The reason I fell for you. It makes everything else feel softer.

You peeked out from behind the pillow.

He blinked. Then pulled out another.

2. The way you think.

You have such a beautiful way with words; I could listen to you talk for hours and never get bored.

And another.

 3. The way you love.

Not loud, not performative. But steady, gentle. I always feel it. You don’t need to say a thing.

By the time he’d reached the fifth one—

5. Your patience.

You’ve never made me feel stupid for not knowing something. You make me feel safe enough to ask.

—His hand had slowed.

He looked over at you, eyes glassy.

“YN… What is this?”

You hugged the pillow tighter to your chest. “I felt like a Rolex wasn’t enough, too boring. So I made this too. It’s one hundred reasons why I love you.”

Vernon stared at the jar in his hands like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

Then he laughed softly, almost breathless, shaking his head in disbelief. “You wrote me a hundred love notes.”

“Every single one?”

“Every single one.”

You mumbled from behind the pillow, “It was either that or a custom rap verse about how hot your hands are. I figured this was less embarrassing.”

He laughed, soft and disbelieving, and then took another.

 12. You send me random memes in the middle of the day, and somehow they’re always exactly what I needed.

Like, you just know.

18. You never force me to talk when I’m not ready. You just sit next to me. That’s more comforting than anything.

29. The way you rub your thumb over the back of my hand when we’re holding hands. You probably don’t even notice you do it.

He swallowed, and his voice came out a little choked. “You remembered all these things?”

“Of course I did,” you whispered. “They’re pieces of you. How could I forget?”

38. You tell me you’re proud of me—even when I haven’t done much.

43. Your hoodie always smells like you, and I secretly steal it when you leave for the studio.

52. You once offered to watch a horror movie just because I wanted to, and you ended up hiding behind my pillow. Adorable.

 68. You once said, “You’re my favorite place to be.” I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

He pulled another one out, smiling through teary eyes.

Then he got to one that made him pause.

 73. That night you thought I’d leave you… I wish I’d told you then how wrong you were.

I’m not going anywhere. I’m always here.

He paused at number 73. His hands stopped moving. For a moment, the room was quiet except for the sound of his breath.

He looked at you then, completely undone, the kind of emotion that Vernon rarely let the world see.

Gently setting the jar aside, he leaned over and tugged the pillow away from your face.

“Babe,” he whispered. “Come here.”

You climbed into his lap with a shy smile, arms looping around his neck.

His hands cradled your waist. “You’re insane. You know that, right?”

You tucked your face into his neck, grinning. “Only when it comes to you.”

He laughed, pulling you in tighter. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten. Like, ever.”

You pulled back slightly, brushing his hair out of his face. “I just needed you to know. In case I don’t say it enough. I love you. A lot.”

His eyes searched for yours, warm and shining. “You show it in a hundred ways every day. I just have proof now.”

He kissed your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then, finally, your lips—slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world.

___

Bonus:

He started carrying one note in his wallet every day like a lucky charm.

Whenever he traveled, you’d get a photo—your jar of pastel notes sitting right on his nightstand.

And six months later, you opened your laptop to find a document named Reasons I Love You: Draft Version 1. He never let you read it. Not then.

But a year later, he printed it out. Bound it like a book. Gave it to you on your third anniversary.

The title?

Chapter 1 of Forever.

🌸 Masterlist 🌸

[sheisjoeschateau]

"Oh, so we do love Steve..."

VOLUME II Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ SERIES MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

VOLUME II / CHAPTER 1-4 (WARNINGS/NOTES): t.w.'s - severe traumatic diagnosis for one of the main characters, heavy topics, language, sensitive mental health matters.

[These chapters are meant to be read directly after Part X, in chronological order.]

Tbh if you are not comfortable reading about traumatic situations that lead to trauma induced mental states, then this is jot the story for you. That said, this story has a very beautiful, warm ending and the light at the end of the tunnel is eternally bright. So in my humble opinion? It's worth every bit of the damn journey, if you wanna hold my hand and get there together (we can follow behind Steve & Bauman, as they hold each other tight through it all). 18+

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Oh we are so back. And now? We're doing a time jump skip before we travel back in time, to figure out what all led up to this moment. Not gonna say much this time, because I really wanna let these next few chapters & my writing speak for themselves.

But I will say... I *did* make sure to include the first 4 chapters since I've been away for so long... ;)

Huge immense thank you to everyone who has not only been following this story religiously, but as also had an absurd amount of patience with me in picking this back up. Life's been keeping me occupied, but I can't complain. This platform is my escape, and I've nurtured it (along with this story) so that it's never a platform that doesn't provide me joy, release and peace of f*cking mind. You all do that for me and ily all the more for it. :)

Xx, Misha

Bonus: If you listen to this song cover, wayyyylllp then you are in for a treat. It heavily inspired this series volume, and it will be back...

***

CHAPTER ONE Systems Processing

Two months later . . .

The bedroom was dim and still. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful. Just stale, heavy with breath not being taken deep enough and seconds that dragged instead of passed. 

Outside, spring pushed up from the thawed ground like it had every year, resilient and blind to the war they’d all just finished losing pieces of themselves to. Inside, the Harrington house felt like a museum. Untouched plates on the dining table, old jackets on doorknobs, too many pairs of shoes by the door. Haunted by the living.

Steve didn’t move.

He lay on his side on top of the covers, still dressed in yesterday’s shirt and sweatpants, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other hanging limp off the edge like it had forgotten it belonged to a body. He wasn’t asleep. Not really awake either. His eyes were open. Glazed over, red-rimmed, fixed somewhere past the wall, past reality, like he was watching something only he could see.

He hadn’t spoken in four days.

No one called it ‘catatonia’ out loud, not even Owens. Maybe because saying it would make it real. Maybe because nobody knew what the hell to do about it anyway. Even Robin, who normally refused to let anything rot in silence, had gone still around him now. Hopper kept pacing. Joyce kept cooking. Dustin cried exactly once in the garage and punched the wall when Steve didn’t flinch at the sound.

Everyone floated.

Steve sank.

Except when you were there.

The door creaked softly. No knock. Just you. 

Just Bauman.

Just his.

You slipped into the room with the slow ease of someone who’d already been here a hundred times. Which, to be fair, you had. First when Steve was an ass. Then when he was a friend, even though that took a solid four years in the making. And then it’d been whenever things shifted again, into something more. And again and again, as it kept being more. 

And then there was now.

Now, when he was… this.

You didn’t speak right away. Just eased the door shut behind you and made your way across the room with a quiet, practiced patience. You weren’t hurrying. You didn’t tiptoe either. You walked like it was any other Tuesday, like this was just another morning, like Steve wasn’t fractured behind his eyes and lost somewhere between what had happened and what he couldn’t stop reliving.

You climbed onto the bed.

Not over him, not around. Right in front. You lay on your side, facing him, tucking your forearm under your own head as you shifted until his vacant stare met your eyes. He was still looking right through you. You didn’t flinch.

“Morning, sunshine,” you said, voice low, dry, but warm like always. “You look like a man who got hit by a bus and is now haunted by the ghosts of every single wheel.”

Steve didn’t blink. But his jaw twitched. Just a little.

“I mean that in the sexiest way possible,” you added, deadpan. “Total roadkill vibe. My type. I’m into it.”

The corner of your mouth curved. You watched him with that unreadable, Bauman-brand expression you always wore, somewhere between ‘I might kiss you’ and ‘I might blackmail you with a secret I haven’t even discovered yet.’

He didn’t smile. Not yet.

You reached up, gently brushed your thumb under his eye. “You didn’t sleep again.”

He hadn’t.

I couldn’t, he thinks.

The nights were always worse. They always got started behind his eyelids. A twisted slideshow began the second he let them shut, VHS clicking into place and no remote in sight to keep it from pressing play all on its own, inside his own head.

Inside his own mind, the tape rolled. The images, the smells. Blood. Burnt hair. Electricity. Boots on tile. Your scream. Hopper’s fear. Dustin’s hands shaking as he pressed them against Steve’s chest, clinging, no longer play-fighting and begging him to not blame himself, no matter what. Max’s cries, raw and unfiltered, telling him she’s scared, she’s scared, “I’m so scared, Steve, please don’t leave me in there, I can’t go back there, please Steve, please.” It’s all so unfamiliar, hearing them all sound so broken, they’re not supposed to be broken like that. He doesn’t understand it. It’s foreign.

Just as foreign as his own voice had been, sobbing for you, shoving Jonathan’s chest whenever he’d stopped pumping yours, demanding him to fix you, “fix her, we have to fix her, Byers, she’s not breathing, no one stopped helping you find Will, she’s not fucking breathing—”

Steve blinked once. Just once. 

Slowly.

You leaned closer. Not to kiss him. Just to be there. In his line of sight. In the only patch of reality he seemed able to touch right now.

“I made coffee. It’s terrible. I thought about poisoning Hopper’s mug, just to keep the spark alive. But Joyce would probably revive him with a look and then shoot me in the foot.”

A breath huffed from Steve’s nose.

It wasn’t a laugh. But it was a reaction.

“Too soon?” you teased, voice of an angel, mind of the devil.

Your smile barely moved. But your eyes did. You looked at him, not through him, and didn’t treat him like glass. You never did.

“I know you’re in there,” you said gently. “Probably trapped in that stupid overachieving brain of yours, underneath that—” you inhaled, allowing yourself to sigh deeply, lackadaisical as the words finished your sentence and eyes shifted to his hair as you stroked it. “—stupid perfect head of hair that I swear has started styling itself. Because your brain just keeps overthinking that hard.” Your eyes soften slightly as you stroke his hair gently, your thumb against his temple. “Thinking about how you could’ve done it all better. How if you’d just gotten to us sooner, or stopped that Soviet with the gun faster, or stayed calmer, yelled louder, climbed faster, kicked harder…”

Steve’s lip quivered. 

You saw it.

So you leaned in a little closer, voice softer now. Letting truth find its way into the conversation without force, the way Owens had told you to do. Unforced, but not kept in an untouched vault. That’s what he’d said. Don’t mask it. Give it room to breathe.

“But I was dead, Harrington.”

His breath hitched.

“I mean, technically. Legally,” you clarified with ease, voice light, head tilting just slightly in the most subtle mock tease of the specifics. “Pulse-free and crispy. And you brought me back anyway.” Your brows lifted slightly. “You. Your hands. Your voice. Five minutes.”

Steve’s stare flickered. A slight twitch of his eyebrow. 

His throat moved as he swallowed, like it hurt. Burned.

The way that your lungs had when you…

“And before you start spiraling,” you added quickly, “Eddie kept time, so if you wanna blame anyone for the fact that my heart stopped for exactly five minutes and seven seconds, blame Munson. Pretty sure he got his CPR certification off the back of a Judas Priest album.”

Steve blinked. Once. Then again.

The silence pressed in again. He still didn’t speak. But his eyes weren’t glass anymore. They were there. Focused. Locked on you.

You held that gaze and didn’t move.

“It’s okay to rest now,” you said quietly. “As long as you want. You fought so hard, Steve. For everyone. For me. For Dustin.” Your eyes glittered, never leaving his face. His beautiful, sweet face. “You don’t have to carry it all anymore.”

His fingers moved. Just barely. A slight twitch against the edge of the comforter, like maybe they wanted to reach for yours but forgot how.

You noticed. Didn’t push it.

Instead, you let your fingers wiggle on top of the sheets. A little flutter, drumming the mattress, shifting just barely an inch towards his as you offered something lighter. “Also, I should let you know Dustin is trying to organize your VHS collection by genre and thematic arc. I told him you’d rise from the dead and end him if he even touched Die Hard, so now he’s avoiding eye contact with your bookshelf like it personally insulted him.”

Steve’s lips twitched. The faintest hint of a smile. 

You grinned gently.

Then softly, barely a whisper…

“...s’fine,” he rasped.

You froze.

Your eyes widened just a bit. “What?”

Steve swallowed hard, throat dry and tight. He blinked slowly, then looked at you, actually looked, and tried again.

“S’fine,” he finally repeated, voice hoarse. “Let him… alphabetize it.”

You exhaled through your nose like someone had just cracked a window in a smoke-filled room. Then blinked hard, as if not to cry.

Steve saw that, his hazy brown eyes never leaving yours. And for the first time in days, he moved on his own. One hand, his fingers slow and unsure, reached out. Touched your wrist. Like an anchor. 

A lighthouse in the vast sea, swelling in the storm.

You covered his hand with yours immediately.

Robin appeared in the doorway not long after. Dustin, too. Both of them froze when they saw you holding hands. Steve’s awake. Not smiling, but finally looking somewhat alive behind his eyes.

The sight of it makes Robin’s hand come up to her mouth. Dustin didn’t even hide the tears. He darted into the room and flung himself at the foot of the bed, landing belly-first on the mattress like a flying possum.

“DUDE,” he blurted. “You talked. That’s literally the hottest thing you’ve ever done. Well, second hottest. First is obviously the CPR thing, because you were like, ‘clear!’ and then—”

“Hey.” You extended your leg and lightly waved your foot at Dustin. “Hey. Volume.”

Steve’s eyes stayed on you. Watching your mouth move. Your eyes flicker, your smile fluttering upwards at the corner like you didn’t want it to, not wanting to risk overwhelming him, but couldn’t help it.

And the ghosts? They weren’t gone. But they were quieter. Just for a little while.

Because Steve didn’t see the bodies anymore. Dead and dying, bleeding and wilting. Gasping for air, pleading for help, croaking out one last breath before their eyes became lifeless… 

He only saw you. 

Dustin didn’t say anything. Not for a full minute. He just stayed right there, half-sprawled on the bed, arms curled under his chest, chin resting on the blanket like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons. That ridiculous, familiar grin was stretched across his face. The one that used to hide the gap from the baby teeth he never lost on time. The one that now revealed a full row of permanent teeth, like time itself had forgotten how young they all still were.

He didn’t even try to stop smiling. Just beamed, at you and at Steve, even though Steve still hadn’t looked at him.

Steve’s gaze was fixed on you like it couldn’t be pried away without breaking something fragile. Like you were the only thing that could anchor him in a world that still felt too loud, too bright, too fast. His hand was still under yours, his fingers curled a little tighter now. Not gripping, just holding. Like it was something his body had finally caught up with and realized that he needed.

Robin hadn’t moved. She stood just inside the doorway, still braced against the frame like her knees had gone weak. Her hand was still over her mouth, covering the trembling edges of a sob that didn’t quite make it out. Her eyes were red. Brimming. Silent.

She hadn’t spoken since you went into the room.

You didn’t turn to look at either of them. Not yet. You kept your eyes on Steve, kept your breathing even. Your voice stayed low and calm, your expression steady, but not blank. There was feeling behind all of it. Deep feeling. But you kept it all tightly coiled behind your eyes, refusing to let it all spill out and drown the moment. 

Refusing to let it drown him.

Because you knew better than to flood a fragile circuit. And Steve Harrington, for all his strength, was cracked glass right now.

“Okay,” you murmured, just loud enough for the three of you to hear. “That’s enough excitement for one minute.”

Steve’s lip twitched again, brows furrowing. Barely. But it was there.

You smiled gently and looked past him, for the first time, at Dustin. You didn’t need to speak, just extended your free hand slightly, palm out, a soft gesture of welcome.

It’s okay.

Dustin understood immediately. He always did, with you. Always listeners, and trusted. He nodded once, moving forward slowly. Carefully, like the air in the room might shatter if he walked too hard. He knelt beside the bed, right by where you and Steve’s hands met and held onto each other. He didn’t reach for Steve, though. Didn’t talk, or ask questions, or try to make him speak. He just sat there, patiently, close enough to be seen but not felt. 

Letting Steve see him.

And Steve didn’t flinch. His eyes, still on you, subtly flicked toward the movement. Toward Dustin.

His brother. 

Steve’s doe eyes softened. It was a microscopic shift, but it was beautiful all the same. He didn’t speak. Of course he didn’t.

Owens had told you it would be like this.

“He might echo things you say,” he’d warned you all quietly, three nights ago. “That’s the easiest form of communication for someone in a post-catatonic fugue. He’ll sound lucid, but it’s muscle memory. Like the mind is bouncing off the walls of someone else’s words until it finds its own again.”

And that’s exactly what it had been. Four days of silence. Then, the faintest whisper of your own words sent back at you. Like an echo from underwater.

Until now.

Until “it’s fine.”

Those were his own words.

The weight of it still hadn’t settled. Because it was easier to hear about symptoms than to live with them. Easier to nod while Owens spoke in that tired, professional way of his, full of disclaimers and caveats, than to sit here and watch someone you loved disappear inch by inch. To see them breathe and blink and not be in the room.

But now? Now, Steve was here. Not all the way. Not completely.

But here.

You exhaled quietly and glanced at Dustin. His eyes were still shiny, but he was beaming. God, he was so bright when he smiled like that. Like he didn’t even know the room was still full of ghosts.

“Hey,” you murmured.

Steve’s eyes came back to you immediately. Locked. Like gravity.

“Think maybe,” you said, soft but sure, “you should try some water. Or, you know, attempt the wild and crazy act of swallowing something that isn’t your own feelings.”

Steve didn’t answer. Didn’t even nod. But the little flex in his jaw again, that little tick of muscle like his body remembered the shape of response, was enough.

You turned to Dustin. “Can you grab me that water glass from the dresser?”

Dustin scrambled with quiet eagerness. He brought the glass over, hand shaking just slightly. You winked at him as he handed it to you, not Steve, and backed off again. Still watching. Still smiling.

You took the glass and touched it to Steve’s lower lip gently. “Try,” you whispered.

He didn’t open his mouth right away. Didn’t pull away either.

You watched him patiently. Felt his fingers twitch again beneath yours.

Then, slow as thawing ice, he parted his lips.

You tilted the glass carefully as he lifted his head, which was progress. A little water slipped inside.

He swallowed. It wasn’t graceful. His throat bobbed like it hurt. But he didn’t choke. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact with you for a second.

“Good,” you said softly. Your thumb rubbed his knuckles once.

Steve let out a long, shaky breath. And then something happened. Something subtle. Not movement. Not sound.

Shift.

The air changed. Or maybe he did. Something behind his eyes. Like the light finally touched a corner it hadn’t in days.

He still didn’t speak. But he blinked, and this time, the blink felt real. Felt like his, not like the mind stalling and resetting.

Robin made a soft noise behind her hand.

You turned your head finally, just enough to glance at her. Her eyes met yours, wide and wet.

You gave the smallest nod. It’s gonna be okay.

Robin’s shoulders sank like the air had gone out of her lungs. She nodded, and didn't try to speak. Just stayed there, hand still over her mouth, a silent sentinel by the door.

You turned back to Steve.

He was still looking at you.

“Hey,” you murmured. “Still with me, baby?”

Another blink. This one slower, all for you...

You smiled, soft and sure, and squeezed his hand. “Good.”

It’s been maybe three minutes since you said that. Four, at most. Steve still hasn’t looked away from you. Not really. His gaze has drifted, sure, over your shoulder, to the steady weight of Dustin leaned up against the window. Just in his line of sight past you, propped up on your elbow beside him, smiling gently. And right behind you, Dustin was grinning quietly, that toothy smile full of unspoken loyalty. 

But every time that Steve’s glossy eyes flicker over to him, they come right back to yours.

You don’t say anything about it. You just keep holding his stare. Soft, calm, right there. Because you know better than to shatter this with too many words. You don’t want to break whatever delicate thread he’s holding onto. 

And Steve? He’s holding onto you. 

With everything he has left.

He keeps blinking slowly, like it helps keep the noise out. Like he’s sorting through the thoughts that aren’t plagued, trying to cling to the rare ones that aren’t rotten. The only ones that feel real anymore.

Like how beautiful your smile is. Even when it’s small. Even when it’s sad. Especially when it’s sad. And even now, when you’re not trying, it’s there. Still for him.

All for him.

He thinks about how it was the first real thing he could remember after they dragged you back into the light. 

That fragile smile, cracked at the edges, tender around the eyes, pulled from something ancient and bottomless inside of you, had been the first thing on your face when breath found your lungs again. After you’d been sucked underneath the current. The electric current that zapped you over to the other side. Not the literal other side, as in the wall. No, the other-other side. Not upside down. Not right-side up. Past the veil. Somewhere that you weren’t supposed to reach at only 20 years old. 

Somewhere that isn’t supposed to be reached into you’re old enough to become dust in the wind. Not jolted into it by a surge of shock that takes your life decades too soon.

And yet, here you are. His.

It makes his chest hurt. In a good way. In the only way that still feels good.

When he looks at Dustin, it’s different, but not by much. That same warmth, buried somewhere deep under all the sharp panic and muscle tension. The kind of love that doesn’t make a sound. The kind he never even got from blood family. The kind you only ever feel once, and if you’re lucky, you get to keep it.

His little brother. The one he didn’t get to protect. The one they took.

The image is still burned behind his eyes. The frantic, horrible shrieking of tires on the road above, the crash through the back fence, the screaming, the uniformed men, the guns, the gag. 

But worse than all of it was watching them drag Dustin out of that basement.

Drag you.

It hadn’t even been ten minutes. One blink. One breath. Steve had been gagged by then. Arms restrained so tight they bruised deep into his joints. Robin had been crying. Hopper was shouting. Joyce had been holding him, her own wrists tied, still finding a way to be there for him and shout through the fear in her throat. Mike and Max and Lucas had been frozen, pressed together against the wall like kids in a goddamn earthquake drill. Jonathan and Nancy had been shrieking, restrained and petrified, while Eddie had blood on his nose, the heel of a soldier’s boot dug deep into his back, between the shoulder blades. And Steve? Was useless.

He’d screamed so hard into the cloth they stuffed in his mouth that he’d torn the back of his throat. Spit and blood soaked the gag until it stuck to his tongue like glue. And all he could see were your legs disappearing through the doorway. Your voice screaming his name, telling them not to hurt him, not to hurt your uncle. Or Susie, or Dustin. 

Dustin trying to kick someone. His own wrists tearing against the tape they’d slapped onto him. Robin’s voice trying to scream for him. Trying to scream for you. And Steve.

“Steve, Steve, look at me—Steve, look at me!”

He can still hear Robin saying it. After they’d dragged you through the same door where Steve used to let you crash after movie nights, down the same hallway where Dustin always sneaks down for snacks in the middle of the night.

The man cave. His swanky, overcompensating bachelor pad turned game room turned war zone. And now it feels like a coffin. And yet somehow, you’re all still breathing in it.

“—gonna need at least three jars of peanut butter,” Dustin now mumbles beside you, voice low, conspiratorial, but bright. Like he’s trying not to wake Steve up from something.

You glance over your shoulder, raise an eyebrow. “Three? What’re you, eating it by the spoonful?”

“You know I do.”

Robin lets out a little puff of air through her fingers, still covering her mouth. A non-laugh. Her eyes are glassy. Twinkly. She hasn’t said a word since she sat down.

“You gonna back me up here?” Dustin asks, flicking his gaze to her as he steps up behind your back.

You nudge him lightly with your elbow. “She’s in mourning. The last of her protein bars got stolen by Murray.”

“I told her not to leave them in the glove compartment,” comes a voice from around the corner.

Your uncle.

Murray rounds it like a ghost. Barefoot, carrying a mug of black coffee and a clipboard, because of course he is. He doesn’t speak too loud. He doesn’t let the sarcasm spike above a dull rumble. It’s uncharacteristically softened, the way he only does it when he knows someone’s not okay and in genuine distress. He doesn’t comment on Steve’s distant, unblinking eyes.

You don’t either.

“I’m not saying the breakfast situation is dire,” Murray continues, perching on the edge of the low dresser without asking. He doesn’t need to. “But I am saying the last two eggs were questionably expired and Argyle made something that looked suspiciously like psychedelic oatmeal.”

You smirk. “He’s still on the kale kick?”

“Unfortunately. And he brought yogurt. Vegan. Unsweetened. Tastes like damp cement.”

“Ugh,” Robin croaks through her fingers.

You sniff a laugh. Even Dustin makes a face.

“I told him to pick up normal groceries with Hopper and Jonathan.” You flick your eyes back to Steve. He’s still watching you. Barely breathing. “Hopper’s definitely gonna ignore at least half of the list I made for it.”

He stares at you.

“Not if you guilt him hard enough,” Murray mutters. “You’re good at that.”

“She’s excellent at that,” Dustin adds.

You shoot both of them a look. “I use my powers responsibly.”

“Sure you do,” Murray says, sipping his coffee. “That’s why I’m out three Twinkies and half a carton of Pringles.”

You raise your hands. “That’s called preserving morale.”

Clutch.

There’s a flicker. A movement at the edge of your vision.

Steve’s hand.

It shoots out, sudden and sharp, and grabs you by the wrist. Not hard, but tight. Tight enough that it startles you. Tight enough that the others stop talking for a good solid handful of seconds, like the oxygen’s changed.

Steve’s eyes are wide now. Not as scared like they were before. Not as panicked. Just fierce. Pleading. The kind of look that says please don’t go without him ever making a sound.

You weren’t going anywhere. Not even close. But God, it still guts you.

“Hey…” Your voice is steady. “Hey. No one’s going anywhere. I’m right here.”

He doesn’t answer. You didn’t expect him to. So you squeeze his hand back. Gently. Letting him know you mean it. That you always will.

Then, very slowly, you bring his hand to your lips. Press a kiss to the base of his palm. Another one to the inside of his wrist. One more on his knuckles. All tender. All without words. Like muscle memory, like prayer.

Steve breathes a little better. A little more audibly. A bit shaky, jaw tightening and loosening… until finally, it settles. 

You don’t stop smiling all the way through it. 

“Okay,” you say, clearing your throat, and looking back at the group like you didn’t just feel your soul split in two. “We’re making a new list. Items Argyle and Jonathan are actually capable of acquiring.”

“Chips,” Dustin says immediately.

“Done.”

“Chocolate,” Robin murmurs.

“Double done.”

“Eggs,” Murray says. “Preferably not pre-rotted.”

You’re still holding Steve’s hand. Still smiling, still at ease.

He doesn’t speak, but you feel him shifting closer. Subtly. Timidly. He lets himself move inch by inch until his head is pressed against your chest plate, tucked in tight, safe underneath your chin. One strong arm stays curled close to his own ribs. His breathing is soft, still a little shaky, but it’s steady.

You rest your cheek against his hair, willing yourself not to say anything about the way his fingers clutch tighter into your shirt.

Dustin keeps adding items to the list. Murray keeps making dry remarks about produce. Robin chimes in once or twice with a cracked voice and grateful eyes. 

And you, still holding Steve, you just keep guiding the conversation. 

Because you’re the lighthouse.

Because Steve needs to hear the waves crashing on something steady. He needs to hear life continuing. He needs to feel love in the room without it asking anything from him in return. Just letting him exist in it.

Just letting him be.

And you’re not going anywhere.

Steve hasn’t moved from your chest, his breath still faintly damp against the soft fabric of your shirt. The black one he loves so much, the long sleeve that he says always makes him feel feral, ‘because you look like a badass that looks like she always wants to be told what to do but can hold her own in a fight.’ That’s how he’d described it once and it never left your brain. It lived up there, rent free.

Right now, his hand still clutches the hem of it, tucked in against his ribcage like it’s all that’s holding him together. You never stopped cradling him, never moved your cheek from the crown of his head, your arms circled around him like a ring of protection.

Murray sits back on the shallow bureau with a grumble, flipping through his clipboard notes, his pen still tucked behind his ear. “Alright, eggs, bread, three jars of peanut butter to appease the peanut gallery…”

“Rude,” Dustin mutters, no heat behind it.

“—those dinosaur nuggets that El’s now hooked on, that soup Steve likes… Jesus, what brand is it again?”

You answer quietly, not moving your cheek. “The one with the basil swirl in it. He always gets the tomato basil swirl. From that organic aisle.”

Murray clicks his tongue and scribbles. “Right. Pretentious soup aisle.”

“Hey, he likes it,” you murmur, just enough for Steve to hear, brushing your lips against his hairline before resting your cheek right back where it was. “That’s good enough for me.”

Your uncle hums, writing it down.

Dustin is seated cross-legged on the floor by the window now, nodding along as he tosses a grape from one hand to the other. “Mm, and those cinnamon rolls from that one place. The really soft ones he warms up with butter.”

“And peach Snapple,” Robin chimes in from the wall, next to the doorframe. She pushes herself off it now, moving closer. “He always picks the peach. Even when I tell him strawberry’s better.”

“He also buys it even when it’s not on sale,” you smile softly, letting your palm drift in slow circles across Steve’s back. “It’s like his small rebellion.”

Murray scoffs a laugh. Fond, no heat behind it. He sighs. “You people spend money like you’ve never been broke a day in your lives.” 

He pauses, shaking his head, glancing up at you from his clipboard. He pursed his lips, lightly tapping his pen against the paper for a couple of beats while just taking in the side of you holding him in the morning light, tucked here safely in his bed with him, over the covers. 

Murray finally sighs again. “So do you, by the way.”

Your brow furrows slightly as you hum, glancing over at him curiously. He just lifts an eyebrow, still writing down the grocery list.

“The Peach Snapple,” he clarifies easily, not looking up from his clipboard as he scribbles. “The one he always gets. So do you.”

That makes the little knit between your brows smooth over, and your cheeks begin to warm. It’s true, you think to yourself. You’d let that become a habit of yours, opting to start liking it since you’d always go to the store with him and he’d always grab one from the cooler before you both would even start shopping. Even whenever you guys would hit a 7-Eleven, or some really nice grocery market, he always looked for it. So now, you did the same thing. It grew on you. 

Just like he did. 

You smile to yourself. And then, muffled and still buried in your chest… you hear the words again. Echoed.

“…so do you.”

Steve.

Silence drops like a pin in church. Even your newly irregular heartbeat stutters in time against Steve’s forehead.

Murray’s head ticks up in surprise. Robin’s eyes go wide. Dustin stops chewing, mid-grape.

Your arms tighten just slightly around Steve, eyes flickering to your uncle. You’re stunned. Not just because Steve had spoken, but because it was that. A mirror of Murray’s own words, mouthed back with just the faintest hint of knowing. Not entirely his voice, but not not his either.

Oh my god, you think.

Oh my god, oh my god.

Murray blinks, and then, with the smooth recovery only he’s capable of, scratches his beard. “Well. At least someone’s paying attention.”

You grin, watery and full of love, kissing Steve’s hair again. “Yeah. He always does.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to.

The conversation moves on, gentle and easy. Robin makes another comment about almond milk, Dustin tries to convince your uncle to get one of those pre-marinated chickens. Murray pretends not to be listening, even though he is as he lists every single thing that they ask, like the secret softie that he is.

And all the while, Steve stays right there, clinging, hidden, breathing shallow but steady.

Eventually, Murray rises from his perch, brushing his hands off on his jeans. He claps them once, casually. “Alright, you guys ready?”

It’s meant for Robin and Dustin. A polite cue. A quiet way of giving you and Steve the room.

But Steve hears it, and before you can even blink, he makes a small, high sound. Barely a noise. 

A soft hitch in his throat, more breath than voice. Squeaked. 

Steve’s whole body jerks slightly, muscles snapping taut. His grip tightens on your shirt like a vice. And then he’s pressing harder into your chest, panic blooming in every stiff line of his frame. He starts shaking his head a bit. As if to say no.

Murray looks over sharply, brows pulling tight.

You freeze, but only for a second. Then you’re wrapping him tighter, voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey, hey, no—Steve. Baby, no. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re safe. It’s just Jonathan and Hop going with Argyle, that’s all.”

Murray watches somberly, lips pressed into a hard line. Robin covers her mouth again, eyes widened with grief. Dustin looks like he wants to say something but he just swallows it, knowing better.

Your uncle waves them both down carefully, silently. As if to say don’t speak, let him do it.

You lock eyes with your uncle over Steve’s shoulder, and what passes between you in that look guts you. Because he’s never looked at anyone like this before. So carefully, so seriously, so heartbroken. Not even you, not even as a kid.

You know what that means.

He’s scared, too.

Steve’s breathing stutters through his nose a couple of times so Murray crosses the room slowly, movements deliberate. He crouches beside you both and keeps his voice low, gentle, like you didn’t know he could be.

“Kid, we’re not going anywhere, alright? You’re stuck with us. Me and her and Dustin. Robin, too. This house is on lockdown now. We’re practically self-quarantining just to annoy the government that no longer has us underneath their thumbs.”

No reaction from Steve. But no flinch either. 

That’s the win. That’s the progress.

Once he’s sure Steve can hear him, Murray reaches forward and firmly rubs his hand between Steve’s shoulder blades. Long strokes. Solid pressure. He doesn’t speak anymore. Just lets the silence hold.

Steve doesn’t flinch. Instead… he relaxes. Just a fraction. Just enough for you to notice the tension start to bleed from his spine.

You look back at Murray again, lips parted. He meets your eyes. And this time, the worry is quieter. Still there. But with something steadier. The same thing you’re both clinging to.

Hope.

Murray finally nods once and gets up. “C’mon,” he mouths to Robin and Dustin after he’s already reached the doorway.

Robin leaves first, fast. She has to. You can see the tears building on her lashes. Dustin follows, biting his lip, head ducked.

Then it’s just you and Steve.

And still, he hasn’t said another word. Just breathing now. His face turned in, almost buried against your chest. Still clutching your shirt. Still so very quiet.

You stroke your fingers through his hair, thumb brushing over the back of his ear. Your voice is barely audible.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, Steve. I swear to God. You’re not alone.”

He doesn’t respond. But he breathes. So you keep going.

“You don’t have to talk yet, okay? Not if it hurts. But I’m here. And when you’re ready to talk to me? I’ll still be here.”

A long pause. Long enough for your own throat to tighten. You bite back the ache. You can’t cry. Not right now. He doesn’t need that. He needs you to be steady. Needs you soft, needs you strong, needs you period.

So you whisper it again, lips brushing his temple.

“I’m right here.”

More silence. And then, so quiet it’s almost like breath itself…

“So do you.”

The same words again. The ones Murray said. The ones Steve had echoed.

But this time?

This time it feels like Steve.

This time it’s his.

You pull back just a little, enough to see him. His eyes are open. Glazed and distant and tired… but looking at you. Really looking at you.

And you smile. Through the tears now freely falling down your cheeks, you smile. Press your forehead to his.

“Murray will make sure they get it,” you whisper, nodding. “The soup, the Snapple. The rolls. He’ll get all of it.”

You kiss the tip of his nose. 

Peck. Peck. Once, twice. 

Then the space between his eyebrows. Each of his closed eyelids. His cheekbones. Peck, peck, peck.

“I promise.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, nor does he need to. His eyes flutter. His body softens just slightly more against you. And his hand stays right where it is, curled in the fabric of your shirt, like an anchor.

And you hold him.

You just hold him.

***

CHAPTER TWO "Steve 'The Hair' Harrington"

Steve’s wristwatch sits discarded on the bathroom sink, the clock face reading 10:03 AM.

The familiar tile is warm beneath your feet, steam still ghosting along the mirrors behind the shower curtain, thick and slow. You’ve gotten used to this space, his full private bathroom, sharing it more than you’ve ever spent inside of it alone.

You can’t hear much over the steady patter of the water, but it doesn’t matter. You’re not listening for anything.

You already know what you’ll hear.

Nothing.

Not from him, at least.

Steve stands in front of you in the shower tub, his tall frame bowed just slightly at the shoulders, like he’s holding invisible weight. His limbs are more relaxed now, despite the stiff posture, his forearms loosely crossed one over the other in front of his toned, scarred abs. 

His pretty brown-eyed gaze, hazier than the steamy air, is locked on the drain.  The water is gentler today, not the full pressure he usually likes. Because when it’s loud, it startles him. And right now, Steve doesn’t need another reason to flinch.

You’ve gotten used to this. Showering with him. It wasn’t always like this, of course. You used to avoid being in the same house with him if you could help it. You used to flinch when you passed each other inside the Byers’ hall whenever you all would meet there, or whenever you’d exchange dry barbs sharp enough to draw blood. Four years ago, you would’ve rather set yourself on fire than bathe beside Steve Harrington. And he would’ve helped light the match in a fucking heartbeat. Hell, he would’ve sponsored the matchbox with his daddy’s credit card and been all too pleased about it.

Because back when he was seventeen and dating Nancy Wheeler. And back when you, stupidly, maybe, had encouraged her and Jonathan to snap out of it, when you drove the two of them that night inside your uncle’s living to get over themselves, stop lying to themselves. Ever since Steve caught wind of that, he’d looked at you as if you’d ruined him. Talked to you cruelly, discarded you with pride, just like King Steve would’ve done. Treated you like you were the monster in the woods. 

And you were the monster, for a while. In his eyes, anyway.

But that was years ago. And since then, the two of you have clawed your way through with grudging tolerance, reluctant teamwork, long silences, longer conversations, slow trust, soft nights, warm laughter, and then…

Well. And then you kissed.

Or really, he’d kissed you.

Out of nowhere. That night in this house. His house. The one you all ended up retreating to after everything blew sideways again, whenever Vecna vanished into thin air and Max slipped into a damn end 6-month long coma. After that night you’d all gotten a little drunk on Smirnoff (thanks to Murray), a little loud, laughing way too hard at things that shouldn’t have been funny. Hopper had been there. With Joyce. And Nancy and Jonathan. Robin. Eddie. You. Steve.

Just the adults and the younger adults, all breathing in that rare quiet, like maybe for once the world was going to give you a damn break.

Then the next morning, he’d let you read Max’s letter.  The failsafes. The one she wrote to him in case she didn’t make it. 

In case she didn’t wake up. 

He’d gone quiet whenever he handed it to you. Or let you pick it up. He pretends not to remember, anytime you two bring that up, just knowing that it bugs you. Because you remember everything. Every little detail. 

You remember he definitely didn’t read it himself, nor did he want to. He couldn’t. 

So you did. And you didn’t let yourself cry until later, whenever you were alone.

Neither did he.

Then later that night, while you were in your room after brushing your teeth and coming through your wet hair, ready to try and get some sleep, he’d knocked on the door. Steve didn’t say a word when you opened it. He’d just looked at you for a moment. Just looked at you like you were the question he couldn’t answer.

And then kissed you like his life depended on it.

Next thing you know, the two of you were pulling each other close, hands desperate and shaking, mouths open and aching, both sets of limbs tangled in one of his extra beds with the extra set of sheets. All tongue and teeth, and quiet gasps, naked and exploring. Hungrily seeking warmth, seeking answers, seeking common ground. Somewhere in the bend of your knee, or the cut of his v-line, a back and forth of moans and groans sighed and hummed into each other's lips and throats.

One night became two. Then a week. Then two months.

Two whole months.

And now it was this. This silence, this ache. This boy, beautiful and battered and not gone, but not here, either.

You’re careful as you rub the shampoo into your palms, lifting your hands to his head. You don’t speak right away. Not until your fingers are combing through his hair.

“You know how many of these we’ve taken?” you murmur softly, massaging near his temples.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even blink, or lift his gaze.

“At least two dozen. Maybe more,” you continue, gently. You ponder over them as you let the body wash turn to suds beneath your hands, reflecting. Remembering. “Romantic ones… steamy ones…” You carefully washed over his scars along his torso, silver and healed. Marking a mere chapter of his nightmares. “That one when we were washing bat guts off each other, which was… sexy in a very specific trauma-bond way.”

Still nothing.

You glance at him and smile anyway. “But this one’s new. You’re not bossing me around about conditioner ratios. Not telling me that my rinsing technique is flawed,” you tease gently, mock-serious.

Still quiet. Until… 

“Flawed.”

Your fingers stutter in his hair for a moment. 

It’s almost imperceptible, the way it’s spoken from him. 

You blink. And then you grin. “Exactly. Terrible technique. You should probably report me. Hair crimes, maximum sentence.”

You catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not yet. 

But you’ll take it. 

So you keep going, running the suds through your own hair while the water sheets down both of you. He’s so warm beside you. Not holding you, not quite touching. But not pulling away, either. And when your elbow bumps his side, he doesn’t shift.

That alone is worth more than gold.

You take turns on both of your behalf, just like that. Soaping your arms, then his. Your neck, then his. And whenever he looks like he might be trying to make sense of things, like he should probably be doing something, you don’t let him. You’re already on it. Steve’s always on it, so now it’s your turn to be. You don’t rush. And you also don’t stop kissing his shoulder every now and then. Or brushing the curve of his jaw with your mouth. Or pressing your lips to the soft, damp place just beneath his ear.

He never leans in. But he never leans out. 

And sometimes, he echoes something. Not a response. Just a mirror. A parroted echo, your uncle had once referred to it as. A faint repeat of your words, like maybe they mean something if he says them too. Which is why you treat it just like regular conversation. Like nothing’s wrong. Like this is your usual morning routine.

You talk about Dustin’s hair gel, how it still smells like pineapple and about how he needs to chill on it before his hair becomes uncooked ramen. About Robin’s meltdown over almond milk yesterday and how you’re pretty sure she’s going to end up getting arrested for smuggling raw milk by the time she’s thirty. About how Murray keeps writing oregano on the grocery list, even though there’s literally 5 bottles of it in the damn spice cabinet. About how Joyce and Hopper need to just get hitched already, how Jonathan and Nancy aren doing better. How they’re talking again. You even go on about how Mike and Lucas and Max have all actually started learning how to play instruments with Eddie, which is helping shape him out to be a great dad one day. Or maybe just the crazy uncle that he was born to be for those kids.

Steve listens, even when he’s not looking at you. He hums sometimes, looks at you sometimes like he wants to speak but can’t. He watches the bloodless water make sweet scented bubbles at his feet, where your toes kiss the top of his.

And finally, when it’s time to rinse, you ease him under the spray, guiding his head down so you can tilt it back. You’re on your toes a little, reaching, palms steady on either side of his head.  You chuckle softly, deep in your chest. The sound of it bubbles out before you can stop it.

“God, you really are happiest when someone’s doing your hair,” you whisper, smiling as the conditioner starts to rinse. “I swear, if I ever wanted to propose to you, I’d probably have to do it while rinsing your bangs.”

That’s when it happens. So fast and soft you almost miss it.

A smile. 

Steve Harrington smiles.

Not big. Not ultra wide. But it’s there, it’s right there and it looks just like him. Like one of those signature smiles of his, all charming and cocky and proud of himself. The one that you used to wanna smack right off his face with a bitch slap, only to end up chasing after it with your lips every goddamn day.

His lips just now had curved up into a flicker of that. Just barely. But enough to wreck you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “There he is. The King of Hair. The Crown Prince of Conditioner. My one and only shampoo deity.” You nuzzle your nose to his gently, teasingly, all featherlight and fond. Your hands keep working through the strands, rinsing the last of it out. “I should be charging for this. This is high-value spa work.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he lets you nuzzle him with hooded eyes that swim with love and don’t look completely lost as you do...

And that? That feels like a miracle.

After carefully flipping the water off, you go to reach for the towel hanging on the rack, one hand still in his, fingers loose. It’s right behind him, where he stands underneath the nozzle where the waterfall has ceased. It’s right within arms reach where you can still see him, still hold onto you as you do it.

But right before you move, Steve catches you.

Not fast. Not suddenly, not with a desperate grip on your wrist like he’d done this morning. Just a slow, deliberate lean forward.

…and then his nose presses into yours.

Just once. Gingerly, sweetly. 

Just Steve’s turn, to nuzzle your nose right back, albeit delayed. Just a few steps behind you.

You stop breathing. But only for a second. Then you smile again, steady and warm and careful not to show how badly you want to fucking cry.

Because he nuzzled back.

You nod like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it’s just another Sunday morning, another moment in the life you’ve built together. Even though it’s not. Even though it’s everything.

Because Steve might not be talking. But right now, at just past 10AM, in the quiet hush of a half-steamed shower, with conditioner still dripping from your fingers, and hot water is clinging to both your skin instead of blood and grime… 

Steve Harrington is saying something.

And you’re here to listen to every single word of it.

***

CHAPTER THREE "Girlfriend"

It’s not long after the shower. Maybe twenty minutes, tops. The sun has risen higher in the sky now—barely peeking through the heavy curtains of Steve’s room, just enough to cast warm little streaks of light across the bedspread and rug. The room smells faintly of his shampoo, the one you use on both of you now. Cedarwood and citrus, clean and bright.

Steve is sitting at the edge of his bed, dressed in the off-white Henley you love most on him. The sleeves are pushed up to his forearms, loose and rumpled just enough, and he’s wearing those goddamn black joggers that cling perfectly to his hips, hanging just right off his thighs. The Henley and joggers combo? Criminal. It should be illegal how good he looks like this—towel-dried hair falling soft and boyish across his forehead, skin warm and pink from the shower, eyes somewhere far away but still… somehow home.

He looks like a dream. Your dream. Even hollowed out and lost inside himself, he’s still the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.

And he’s letting you choose what he wears now.

That part, morbidly, makes you a little happy. You’re the one dressing him lately—picking out what’ll make him feel safest, softest, most like himself again. And selfishly, you get to choose all your favorite things on him. Because now you can. Because he lets you. Because you’re his. And he’s yours.

You’re still in your towel. Haven’t even gotten around to dressing yourself yet. You’re standing at his dresser, rifling through the drawers like you live here. Like you belong here. Because you do.

“Okay,” you mutter aloud, holding up one of his old Hawkins gym t-shirts and smirking to yourself, “I’m not even gonna pretend I’m not stealing all of these. I’m just—these are mine now. Sorry. That’s just the girlfriend tax.” You glance back over your shoulder. “You understand.”

He’s looking at you. Not in that faraway, glassy kind of way. Not completely. There’s something behind it now. A flicker. Something dancing in the honey-brown of his eyes like maybe he’s listening. Maybe not all of him, but enough. Enough to know you’re talking. Enough to be caught staring.

You flash him that grin of yours. The one he used to hate. That cocky, sunbeam grin he once swore made him want to walk into traffic. Back when you were seventeen and he’d still been with Nancy. Back before everything changed. Before the two of you grew up and broke down and clawed your way to this strange, undisturbed place. 

That’s the precise grin you wear for him right now, the only thing you’re wearing right now except one of the plushy towels that hangs around your frame. You tilt your head.

“Girlfriend,” you say again, real sing-song and light. “You like that word, don’t you?”

Steve doesn’t answer, but you see it. The way his shoulders shift, the way his mouth twitches. The way his eyes trail you as you take one slow step closer.

You say it again, quieter this time, eyes dancing. “Girlfriend.”

Another step.

And again. “Girlfriend.”

You’re barely a foot away from him now, towel still wrapped around you, your hair still dripping a little. Little beads of hot water are still clinging to your bare skin. You’re warm and damp and buzzing all over. And you’ve got this graceful saunter in your step. It’s lithe and teasing and slow, like a lioness, like something delicate and dangerous all at once. You watch him drink you in, even if he doesn’t mean to. Even if he doesn’t realize it.

You don’t reach out right away. You just kneel in front of him, slow and smooth, until you’re eye-level with where he’s sitting on the edge of bed. You’re smiling like you’re the happiest woman on the planet.

Because you are.

Because Steve makes you that.

You reach up, gently, and cradle his face in your hands.

He leans into it.

Oh, God, he leans into it.

Your thumbs press into the hollow of his cheeks, and you feel his skin… It’s still warm from the shower, still baby-soft and damp in the way that only Steve Harrington ever gets. His pretty eyelashes flutter for a second, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to look at you. But he does. He keeps looking. And it hits you all over again, just how much you love him.

How much you love him in the way that makes you ache and burn and swear to yourself you’ll never let anyone hurt him again. That nobody, nobody, is going to take you from him. Or take him from you. Not after everything. Not after what he’s survived.

And then, barely above a whisper… 

“…girlfriend,” Steve says.

Just that. Mild. Hesitant. Like he’s testing the sound of it.

You nod through the rush of heat in your throat, through the sting in your eyes. You smile wide and wicked, all fondness and joy, and you tease him like it’s no big deal, like yeah, you knew he liked it. Of course he likes it. You’re his fucking girlfriend.

Then Steve reaches up. Slowly, a larghetto movement. His fingers wrap around your wrists, right where your delicate hands still cradle his face. His touch is feather-light, but it’s real. He’s grounding himself. Holding on.

He says it again.

“Girlfriend.”

This time it’s stronger. Not loud, but his. It sounds like the way he says your name whenever he’s teasing you. The way that he says it when he’s kissing you and shutting you up. Like he’s not just saying the word, he’s claiming it.

Your chest tightens. Your hands tighten just a little around his jaw, and your eyes glisten even as your smile spreads wider. You lean in, just a fraction, and your nose brushes his.

“Yeah,” you breathe, so quietly. “Yours.”

His sad eyes twinkle, piercing into yours despite the trauma that hazes over them and tries to kill the light inside of them.

"All yours," you breathe against him with a gentle smile, eskimo kissing him the way that the two of you always do.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Steve’s eyes don’t look lost. They look like they’re finding their way back.

One patient, soft second at a time.

***

CHAPTER FOUR "Frozen Exstinction"

It was exactly 12:31 PM when the front door burst open like someone had just returned from war. Not the type of war that this crew was used to dealing with, though. 

Instead? They’d conquered a war waged in the fluorescent battlefield of supermarket aisles.

“Operation: Grocery Heist complete,” Argyle declared grandly, arms overloaded with a precariously teetering stack of brown paper bags. “We bring you tribute, o mighty household.”

Jonathan followed right behind him, far less theatrical, sunglasses still pushed up on his head and a bag of apples hooked onto his wrist like a purse. “He means we spent an embarrassing amount of money on exactly what everyone demanded, down to the five separate coffee listings.”

Hopper was already at the kitchen counter and halfway through pouring himself what had to be his third or fourth mug of coffee. He grunted like he had every intention of making it to five. “Six. That list said coffee six times.”

Murray didn’t even look up from the bag he was already rifling through. “That’s because we knew you’d think four was too low and five was some kind of trap. Six is your psychological sweet spot. You’re welcome.”

“You people are insane,” Joyce muttered, already reaching to help you unload the loot, her voice thick with amusement. “Who needs six kinds of coffee in one day?”

“You, apparently,” Murray quipped without missing a beat. “You’ve got Hopper’s taste in men, why not his taste in caffeine dependency?”

“Ouch,” you chimed in, stifling a laugh as you moved alongside Jonathan, digging through the mountain of groceries now overtaking Steve’s kitchen. “I felt that one from across the room.”

“I liked that one,” Jonathan grinned, elbowing you lightly. “We should start writing these down. Volume One: The Strangest Things That Piss Off Hopper and Murray: A Sibling Guide to Survival.”

“We are not siblings,” Murray snapped, already tossing a rogue orange back into the fruit bowl like it had personally offended him.

“Yeah,” you smirked beside him, “you wish you were in this bloodline.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Jonathan as you and your uncle high-fived. 

“See? Dangerous combo,” he warned the room, nudging Hopper’s shoulder in passing as he walked past. “You let two people like us exist in the same kitchen? Mistake.”

“I’ve made worse,” Hopper muttered into his coffee. “I’ve married worse.”

Joyce rolled her eyes, laughing. “Oh, please, spare me your sob st—”

“Ayyyye,” you and Murray both said in harmonic unison, your Cheshire-grinned faces both alight with wide eyes. 

You both snapped your fingers at Joyce, who buried her head in her hands, immediately catching onto what she’d just done. Hopper gaped at her.

“It’s sticking,” Murray sing-songs. 

“Exhibit A, Hop,” Jonathan gestured to his mother while looking at him. He gestured wildly between all three of you now. “Exhibit fuckin’ A.”

“Language,” Joyce feebly attempted, muffled into her hands.

In the middle of the chaos, Steve just sat there. Perched on one of the kitchen island stools, still wearing that off-white Henley and those loose black joggers you’d laid out for him earlier, his hair still slightly damp and towel-dried, like he hadn’t moved since you’d pulled it back from his face with your fingers and whispered how stupid hot he looked. Because he did. Even like this. Despite being this quiet, depleted, soft-edged and shell-like, Steve Harrington looked like a goddamn dream.

He wasn’t talking. Not contributing to the mayhem unfolding around him. But he was watching. You could tell, just from the way his eyes flicked from person to person. He tracked the lackadaisical way Argyle dumped a bunch of boxes labeled ‘snack cakes’ onto the counter with a proud “for morale” falling out of his mouth, to the way that you giggled beside Jonathan while Murray muttered “morale’s a scam.”

Steve didn’t smile. Not yet. But he was watching.

That was new. First time he’d actively done it like this in a group setting, for the last four days.

It was progress. And it mattered.

You kept sliding things out of bags, laughing with your uncle as you discovered the outrageous number of hot sauce bottles he’d sneakily requested, when Jonathan suddenly dropped a cold six-pack of peach Snapple right in front of you on the counter with a light thud.

“For the Harrington,” he said with a casual sort of grandiose, handing off another pack to Argyle to put in the fridge.

You blinked, then looked at the label, and instantly smiled. 

Without missing a beat in the flow of conversation, you plucked one cold bottle from the pack and wiggled your eyebrows at Steve, flashing him a tiny grin. Then, you set it down gently in front of him. He blinked at it, then looked up at you, eyes soft and slow and warm in a way that told you yes, he sees you. 

And the truth is, he always did, even when his catatonic state was at a level 2.

He watches as you pick up a second bottle, thinking that the first one had been for him, but then he watches as you silently pop the seal off this one. Not loud, not startling.  And then, you place it down in front of him — exchanging it with the first. And all the while, you kept talking to Murray and Jonathan about who was going to organize the pantry this time.

“Not it,” you said. “Not it,” Jonathan echoed, barely squeezing it in. “Absolutely not,” said Argyle like he had ten minutes to spare.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Steve finally reaching for the bottle. His fingers curled around it like it was made of porcelain. 

His blank expression flickers with glimpses of thoughts. Oh. 

You’d let the first one, kept sealed, register with him… 

…and then you actually opened a second one for him, and let him drink it…

…since he wouldn’t open his own.

Steve warily brought the opened peach Snapple into his lap, looking at it for a moment. And then slowly, so gently, he leaned sideways, his shoulder brushing against yours, the full weight of him subtle and seeking.

You didn’t stop talking. Didn’t react like it was precious, didn’t patronize or praise him. You just kept socializing and let him press into you, gradually and wordlessly, as you reached across the island for a box of granola bars and launched right back into teasing Hopper for having labeled beef jerky as “emergency rations.”

Steve just kept sipping. 

Just kept sitting there, watching and absorbing.

Letting himself be included.

And then, right on cue, like a sitcom entrance with stage lights behind him: Eddie Munson rounded the corner, freshly showered, black hair wild and damp, sporting jeans and a band tee that somehow made him look like he’d just wandered off a stage in 1987.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and traumatized royalty,” he sang, making a grand sweep of his arms as he entered the kitchen. “I bring peace, hydration, and the lingering smell of herbal shampoo.”

“Good god,” Joyce muttered with a fond smile.

Murray didn’t look up. “You’re worse than Argyle.”

Argyle gave him a thumbs up. “I taught him.”

Eddie leaned dramatically against the fridge, letting it hold him up like he was the star of his own soap opera. “So what’s for lunch, huh? What do you feed a recovering hero with a six-pack and the sad eyes of a wounded golden retriever?”

There was a pause as you hummed, pretending to consider that. Murray actually sniffed out a laugh, head still down, while Jonathan drummed the table and squinted as if he actually was searching for a witty answer. 

Joyce pursed her lips from the bread basket, starting to answer as she stocked it. “Well…” 

But then a tiny sound escaped and entered into the mix.

…from where Steve sat quietly nestled beside you, still leaning.

Not a word. Not a sentence. 

Just a soft, breathy puff of tinkered laughter. 

Like surprise had pushed the air out of him without asking.

Every head turned.

Eddie was frozen mid-lean, eyebrows raised high.

Joyce looked like someone had just handed her a puppy. Hopper went still, the coffee cup halfway to his mouth, mouth hung open behind the rim, while Murray flicked his eyes up towards the sound. 

Jonathan’s fingers drumming the counter ceased immediately. And you? Your heart just cracked open like a sunbeam through a stormcloud. You turned to look down at him, your eyes wide, seeing now that Steve’s expression had shifted just the smallest amount. It had the wholesome, innocent appearance of someone who had just caught onto the joke.

His mouth was tilted in a quiet, barely-there, subtly open-mouthed smile. And his eyes were on Eddie, having just processed the lighthearted joke that he’d tossed into the ring a good five or so seconds before he’d reacted. Delayed, larghetto, and wholesome.

It felt like watching a flower patiently turn toward the sun.

You moved before you even realized it, circling behind him and wrapping your arms around him from behind, arms looped around his chest with your hands dangling against his sternum. You leaned in to kiss his cheek. Then again, before moving to kiss his temple. Balmy, light presses of your lips like promises.

“Oh you heard that, huh,” you murmured against him fondly. Kiss kiss, promise promise. “Of course you liked that.”

“You sly dog,” Hopper murmured, shaking his head and finally sipped his coffee while grinning at Steve from behind it. Joyce was right beside him, eyes round and hazed over with emotion, watching Steve with motherly hope.

“Don’t let it go to his head,” Jonathan mumbled, but he was smiling so warmly, looking right at you and Steve.

You couldn’t even help the twittery, breathy laugh that caught in your throat but managed to escape anyway. “Oh yeah, you’re okay,” you murmured, quiet and gentle and just for him. “You’re so okay. And I love you so much.”

Steve still didn’t speak. But he did lean into you. And then, with one hand still holding onto that peach Snapple in his lap, the other reached up. 

Found your wrists. 

Held them there.

And when you murmured, “You’re safe,” against his ear, barely audible… 

He echoed it back.

“Safe.”

Soft, faint.

But there.

Joyce closed her eyes like she’d been praying for that exact moment.

And Eddie just stood there, jaw slack, blinking slowly as his eyes misted. “Holy shit,” he whispered to her. “Steve Harrington just laughed at my joke. I’ve peaked.”

Hopper spun it into something witty and roast-worthy towards him, to help “deflate his ego” but also keep the conversation flowing so that Steve wouldn’t retreat again. And also to keep from letting whatever thickness was crawling up his throat and made him have to keep clearing it every ten damn seconds.

They all resumed chattering. But you didn’t look at anyone else except Steve right now as you leaned closer, pressing your nose against his hair while he leaned against your chest, silent and sipping peach Snapple, surrounded by found-family absurdity, love, warmth, dry wit and everyone who mattered to him.

Safe.

Safe.

Safe.

And alive.

Jonathan has also learned how to immediately clock the hesitation in Steve’s eyes before it ever even forms in his body. It’s why he doesn’t hesitate, just like you and Murray, before drawing the reins of the conversation back into his own hands like it’s second nature.

“So what I’m hearing is,” he says, plopping a stool over for himself and resting on it with his hip, a half-empty bag of dried mangoes in one hand. “None of you trust me and Argyle to buy groceries unsupervised.”

“That’s what you’re hearing?” Hopper asks dryly as he settles into the bench near Joyce, arms crossed, legs kicked out. “Because I’m pretty dog-gone sure what I said was: ‘next time, I’m writing the list in crayon and attaching it to Eleven’s bike handles.’”

“Oh come on, man,” Argyle chimes dreamily from the fridge, holding a Tupperware of watermelon like it’s sacred. “You said you needed snacks, we got snacks.”

Hopper chews his doughnut hole very slowly.

Jonathan gestures at the kitchen like it's the Wheel of Fortune board. “We hath delivered!”

“Touched by an angel,” Hopper deadpans, mouthful of sugary dough.

“Um,” Murray lifts his head without even looking away from the receipt he’s been silently combing through for the last two minutes. “Did you or did you not purchase a novelty bottle of glow-in-the-dark pancake syrup?”

Jonathan doesn’t even flinch. “It was on sale.”

“You bought two.”

“Two-for-one.”

“I rest my case.”

“No one asked you to be the attorney general of the snack aisle,” you mutter, biting down on a smirk, one hand still draped gently across Steve’s chest as he stays leaned back into you, Snapple halfway to his lips. 

He hasn’t said another word yet, nor has he engaged or reacted, but he hasn’t checked out either. He’s looking at Jonathan. Then at Murray. Then back again. Following. Listening. His lips are slack but not grim. His eyes…they’re a little less glossed over now. A little brighter. They keep shifting from one speaker to the next, not unlike a lazy volley at a ping-pong table.

Joyce is already nodding toward the pile of grocery bags. “Please tell me you didn’t get the edible glitter sprinkles again.”

“No comment,” Jonathan mumbles.

“Jesus Christ,” Murray sighs, while Argyle tosses a grape into his own mouth without even blinking.

“Know what, I say let ‘em buy what they want,” you say breezily, leaning in to rest your chin a little more comfortably on top of Steve’s head, your voice like silk just for him. “Let them spend their money on stuff they’re clearly emotionally attached to.”

“Oh, like the inflatable margarita pool float,” Murray fires.

Jonathan lifts a finger. “That? Is for crowd surfing.”

“You live in Indiana.”

“And it was five dollars.”

Eddie whirls on him, grinning. “Whose five dollars?”

Hopper’s shoulders had started to shake, quietly at first. But then his chest joins in as you all keep jabbering, and the gruff, growling sound of him trying not to laugh just makes everything worse. You and Jonathan exchange a glance that only adds gasoline to the fire.

“I mean, let’s be real,” you grin at your uncle. “You’re just pressed you didn’t get the pool float first.”

“Oh please,” Murray snaps. “Sp—”

“Spaaaaare meeee,” Joyce says it for him, cupping her hands over her lips for emphasis, and not helping Hopper’s failed attempt at keeping his laughter in check.

Murray glares. “I wouldn’t be caught dead inside that avocado-shaped monstrosity. It has sunglasses.”

“And a cup holder,” Argyle points out like he’s reading the back of the damn box. 

You gasp lightly at that and tilt your head towards him, all while looking at Murray with the most robotic doll-like smile. As if you’re on a Truman show infomercial. “For your good ole buddy Smirnoff.”

“Oh, don’t encourage him,” Hopper groans, covering his face with both hands now.

“Smirnoff doesn’t help me float,” Murray your uncle quipped at you. “It helps me sink.”

“Poetic and emo,” you murmur into your Snapple.

“Don’t knock it till ya’ve floated in it,” Eddie sings, pleading your case.

Hopper wheezes miserably, like a dying animal behind his hands while Murray keeps failing miserably at holding his own and Jonathan bobs his head along with literally no music playing. Steve just stares at them, and you just snicker warmly next to his ear and let yourself sway with him a little bit. He honestly looks adorable right now, despite the fact that his expression is pretty blank. But the poor baby looks so focused right now, it makes your heart swell.

But it’s too late. The floodgates are open.

Eddie’s now cracking up from the freezer, tossing something into it without looking. “Hey Hopper, who’s responsible for this?”

“Responsible for what?” Hopper says on an exhale, not even looking up yet. Already dreading it.

“Three boxes of frozen dinosaur nuggets.” Eddie turns, holding one aloft in triumph. “Three. That’s a cry for help.”

Hopper drops his hands and just stares at Jonathan and Argyle. “Why.”

“They were on the list,” Jonathan says automatically.

“They were not on the list,” Murray deflects.

“Oh but they were,” you counter, already snickering.

“Well I didn’t jot it down,” he scoffs.

You clicked your tongue. “Marie Antoinette, why you lyin’ like dat?”

Eddie snorts hard, looking up from the box of frozen extinction. “Did you just call him—?”

“Really?” Your uncle literally gapes at you. 

You lift your eyebrows once, grinning like Satan’s spawn as a little sksksksk escapes from Jonathan.

Hopper, meanwhile, sighs so deeply it could trigger a weather system. 

“Let me guess,” he says in full-blown dad mode. “Ten plus one?”

Everyone knows exactly who they’re for, and that’s Eleven. No one says it, but the fat grin on Joyce’s face and the way Argyle nods solemnly confirms it before anyone has to verbalize it.

“Jesus, she’s obsessed.” Hopper huffs. “First it was Eggos, now it’s fucking prehistoric poultry.”

“She’s your kid,” Jonathan says.

“Your future sister,” you chime in, sipping your Snapple.

“Your daughter,” Joyce echoes, pointing a wooden spoon at him like a gavel, then at herself. “My future daughter.”

Hopper points at them both, then you, then them again. “Enablers.”

“Welp,” Eddie chirps. He’s now crouched like he’s proposing to the freezer. “I’ll eat the evidence if it helps.”

“I’m sure you will,” Hopper mutters, but he’s grinning now, and not just with his mouth. His eyes are soft. There’s no question who El is to him anymore. Not in the way he talks about her, not in the way he sighs, not in the way he pretends to be exasperated while looking at three goddamn boxes of chicken-shaped love.

Jonathan is all sksksksk again, when you absolutely deadpan at Hopper.  “C’mon, Jimothy, let our six little nuggets enjoy their Jurassic Park nuggets in peace, like goddamn.”

It’s the timing.

It’s the phrasing.

It’s the fact that you say it so completely straight-faced, while Eddie starts wheezing and Joyce just shakes her head like she regrets every life choice that led to this moment.

Hopper barks a laugh. It escapes him loud and fast, bouncing out like it was ripped from his chest before he could stop it. And then he schools his face immediately, glaring at you with narrowed eyes like that didn’t just happen.

Jonathan nearly collapses behind the counter trying not to fall over. Eddie is now bracing himself on the freezer door, head ducked into the ice box. And you’re grinning like you know you just won.

Hopper points at you as he walks by, heading toward the remaining bags. “You’re on thin ice.”

You just blink at him. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Send you back to college.”

“It’s trade school.”

“I’ll send you back to trade school.”

“I’m on break.”

“Then I’ll revoke it.”

Argyle hands him a cantaloupe slice without breaking rhythm. “Eat something, Hopper.”

“Yes,” Murray says with a sarcastically wry smile, looking like a fucked up informercial. “Please. Eat. You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

And somehow through it all, the back-and-forth, the rhythm, the pacing, the hum of warmth and memory and familiarity… you feel Steve move again.

Not flinching.

Just leaning.

Tilting his head back, so that he’s looking up at you now. His pupils are steady, glassy in a way that’s soft, not quite so distant. There’s something underneath that stare, something warmer than before, something quiet but whole.

“Oh hi,” you whisper, blinking down at him, cracking a smile.

He doesn’t smile back, at least not with his mouth. But his eyes… They dance. Right there in the middle of the chaos, they dance as they look up at you.

And then, barely above a breath, he murmurs, “six little nuggets.”

Your heart stops. Then flutters. Then folds in on itself, slow and radiant.

Because it’s not a joke, not to him.

It’s the dream he once told you Nancy about, but now shares with you. The one where you’ll both hit the road one day in a busted-up Winnebago, long after the world came crashing down again. Where the two of you will pull over wherever you want, whenever you want. Six kids. Loud. Happy. Messy. Yours. His. 

Both of your shared six little nuggets.

You lean down to him without hesitation, brushing the tip of your nose to his, nuzzling his tenderly.

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling into him. “Our little nuggets.”

And this time, when he nuzzles back, it’s slower. Not quite in sync with you. Not as easy as it used to be. But also not as delayed as it was this morning. But it’s real. It’s movement, it’s progress... 

It’s Steve. 

Your Steve.

You stay right there, cheek to his temple, arms still around his middle.

And none of the others see it, except Murray. He watches from across the kitchen, arms crossed now, leaning against the fridge with a soft, unreadable smile.

Then he clears his throat. “Oh, yeah. Harrington?”

Steve turns his head almost immediately, his reaction so instinctive it’s almost childlike. Like he thinks he’s in trouble. But when he looks up, all he sees is Murray wagging that little tub of butter in the air, smug as hell.

“They found this hiding in the dairy,” Murray says, all too proud. “You’re welcome.”

Steve’s eyes catch the label. His go-to butter. The bougie kind. You all talked about it this morning, with him curled up in bed facing you, Dustin pressed against the wall, Robin leaning on the doorframe, Murray perched like a crow on the dresser.

His eyes flicker. There’s something shy and sad and grateful that curls its way into his eyes, piercing through his blank expression.

“Psssshhh,” Eddie puffs out a laugh through his lips. “Knew you were a bougie butter bitch.”

Everyone laughs. 

“My bougie butter bitch,” you purr affectionately, rubbing your hand up and down one of his arms with your free hand. The one that he’s not still holding onto with one of his hands.

Murray winks at Steve, while Hopper walks by and squeezes Steve’s shoulder. And the conversation starts right back up again, full throttle, ridiculous and warm. But Steve puts the Snapple down. And instead, he wraps both of your wrists tighter against his chest, like holding onto you is the only liferaft keeping him from floating straight up into the ceiling. His face folds in a little, not enough for tears, but enough for you to feel that sting behind his silence.

You just kiss the crown of his head and keep joking about nonsense with the rest of your friends.

You don’t need him to say anything else.

He’s here. You’re here. He’s yours, and you’re his.

And that’s enough.

***************************************************************

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[deadhands69]

Misunderstandings

Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

fluff this was intended to be a drabble but.. it got out of hand. Still only a little over 1k word count so still not long...just not quite a drabble.

After Tomura Shigaraki introduces you to Kurogiri for the first time, the latter misunderstands the situation and thinks you're dating. Tomura is too flustered and embarrassed at the time to correct him so he goes along with it. The lie grows every time you come up. Not in malicious ways, just things like implying it’s a date when he’s going to watch a movie at your place. You’re close friends so Kurogiri reasonably assumes you must be really into each other. He likes this for Tomura, he seems happy with you.

One day, you run into Kurogiri at the grocery store and he brings up the “date” you and Tomura have that evening (he’s coming over for dinner.) At that moment, it occurs to you that he thinks of your hangouts as dates. Conveniently, you’ve had a crush on him for a while but given how avoidant he is you assumed he just wanted to be friends.

Perfect.

That night, Tomura comes home to Kurogiri who mentions running into you earlier and how excited you are about tonight’s date. Tomura had no clue you thought of the times you spent with him in that way, but he’s ecstatic. He’s been trying to think of how to bring up his crush on you forever but worried he’d ruin your friendship if you weren’t into it.

That evening, Tomura puts a little extra effort into getting ready. While he’d usually just head over in whatever he happened to wear that day, tonight he tried on a few different outfits before landing on one that was in his thoughts “good enough.” He brushes his teeth (twice,) puts on deodorant (also twice, just in case,) and checks the mirror more than he has in the past month. Staring at his reflection, he’s not happy with what he sees but he figures if it’s good enough for you to be into him that’s what matters. 

You put the same amount of effort in. Making food you know he likes instead of just ordering pizza or pulling something out of the freezer like the two of you usually do together. Additionally, you put on real clothes rather than the sweatpants or gym shorts you’d usually be in by now. 

Tomura shows up to your place and the two of you proceed to awkwardly stumble over each other for most of the evening. Dinner is more quiet than usual, given how nervous both of you are now not to fuck it up. 

What are you doing, you think to yourself while the two of you clean up, if he’s thought you were dating for a while there’s no need to be weird about it now. You take a deep breath.

“So,” you ask, “wanna watch a movie?”

“Yeah,” he responds instantly, “I heard there’s a sequel to that one we watched last week. I can find it for us?”

“Sounds good!” you say as you finish putting the dishes away.

A few minutes later, you walk to your bedroom, where the two of you usually hang out. Tomura is hunched over your laptop queuing up the movie. Has his hair always looked that soft when it falls in front of his face? 

You wonder where you should sit. If it’s a date, you should sit close to him, right? But since he’s thought you were dating for a while, maybe he wants to take things slower. You sit in your usual spot on your usual side of your bed. 

He sets the laptop on the desk before pressing play and settling into his own typical spot. 

Twenty minutes pass. Tomura stares at your hand, barely watching the movie. With the way you’re sitting your hand is right between the two of you. Open, welcoming. Do you want him to hold it? His hands are already sweating at the thought. He tries to dry them on his pants, but it doesn't last long. How would he know if you wanted that anyways? The two of you hang out all the time and you’ve never moved to touch him like that before. Although, he also hasn’t been looking for it. What if you’ve been sending him hints this entire time and he missed them?

Finally, after way too much deliberation, he decides to go for it. In a pretended yawn stretch, he extends his arm over yours before dropping his hand and interlacing  his middle, ring, and pinky fingers with yours.

Smooth, it actually worked.

Your heart is beating so fast, you’re amazed he can’t feel your pulse in your fingers. You’ve been staring at his hand wrapped around yours through most of the movie (you have no clue what’s going on, but that doesn't matter.) With how perfectly his hand fits yours, they look like they were meant for each other. You feel crazy for thinking that but it feels right.

When the movie ends and the credits roll, the two of you sit in silence for a moment. What now? You don’t want to move your hand from his, nor do you want the night to end. Given that he hasn’t moved to turn the movie off, it seems like he doesn’t either.

“So,” you start, “do you wanna watch something else?”

“Yeah.” 

Both of you lean forward to change it at once, bumping into each other. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“No, it’s fine I uhm…” suddenly you realize you’re closer than you’ve been all night. His eyes stare into yours from under his wavy hair. Since he made the last move, you figure it’s your turn. You lean in until your lips find his. Eyes fluttering closed as your hands move into his hair. It’s just as soft as you imagined it.

If holding his hand felt right, kissing him is absolute perfection. The two of you move in harmony with each other effortlessly. When you pull back for air, you’re both smiling.

“Maybe we could watch another movie and cuddle?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, scrolling through the streaming service for something tolerable.

“Find a long one.”

And that’s the story of how you started dating Tomura Shigaraki. Neither of you ever asked because you both assumed the other assumed you were together already. Thanks Kurogiri!

bnha masterlist

taglist: @xytraxpy @venom-barf  @shiiigaraki @thetinas21 @spam-1

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[waynes-multiverse]

P.S. This chapter was originally 3k… 😉

I may know the feeling... Weird phenomenon, really 😆🤷‍♀️

But you go, Abbie! Pound those chapters out!!! 💪👏👏👏

Love your choice of picking this up two years later and we get to see their actual wedding 🥹👰‍♀️🫶

I was so in trance with how everything and everyone just came together to support and celebrate them during this special day. Especially John's words stuck with me:

John nodded. “She had me wrapped around her little finger before I even knew what hit me. Still does.” His voice softened. “Women like that, they keep you on your toes. They challenge you, make you work for it. But, son, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. Nowhere better to be.”

It's honestly true – at least for me here. I once asked my husband what he loves the most about me, and he answered, "You challenge me" 😂 Seems to be a thing for men lol

"You always were a handful," she teased, blinking rapidly as if to stop herself from full-on sobbing. "But damn if I ain’t proud of the woman you’ve become. How grateful I am to be your mother.” You bit your lip, fighting back the wave of emotion threatening to ruin all of Jess’s hard work on your makeup. You squeezed Ellen’s hands. "I love you, mom."

This was also such a sweet and pure moment between Ellen and reader, especially considering how much she misses her birth mom and probably would want her there on such a day 🥺 But it's so good to see how they both have accepted each other as mother and daughter over the years. That's not always easy in their situation, and I love it so much 😭🫶

And I'm almost glad you cut out the vows after all of this because I would've bawled my fucking eyes out 😭😅

Gabe's speech was perfection – not subtle at all – but perfect in every way nonetheless 🤣👏

And my God, of course, Dean picked Ramble On as their wedding song. She might've made a mistake by letting him pick it alone 😂

He had done it under the stars in your father’s scrapyard, the place that had always been special to you as a kid, where you had felt closest to your mom. He had decorated it with fairy lights, roses, the whole nine yards, and when he dropped to one knee, looking at you like you hung the damn stars, you hadn’t even let him finish his speech before tackling him to the ground with your answer.

Love that we're getting a little glimpse of their proposal too 🥹 I wondered how and when he did it! Wouldn't've put it past him to lock it down a week into their relationship lmao

You’d always imagined a warm, beachy destination for your honeymoon—Hawaii, maybe the Florida Keys. Something close, something simple. But you never expected this. Your parents and Dean’s had banded together, insisting you take your first trip as husband and wife international. A wedding gift so extravagant it had left you both stunned, speechless even.

This is so sweet of them! Perfect wedding gift, honestly! And The Maldives are so damn pretty and romantic. They've been on my list forever 😍🏝️

Your lips twitched at the memory of the exact moment Dean had opened the gift, his expression shifting from excitement to sheer, unfiltered dread. Because the Maldives didn’t just mean a long flight. No, it also meant taking a seaplane to reach the private island resort.

Hahaha wait till he realizes he has to go back too 😂😂 And this time, there was no rude awakening. No air horn. No sudden jolt back to reality.

Fuck, I forgot about the damn air horn lmao! Love that you brought this back!!!

And man, their honeymoon smut was everything you'd want and more. But it was so beautiful to see them finally be openly in love now ❤️‍🔥😍

Rummaging through your toiletry bag, you exhaled in relief when your fingers brushed against it. A pregnancy test. One Charlie had slipped in as a joke—a homage to her annual Twilight binge—thinking she was hilarious. And right now? You were thanking her ridiculous sense of humour.

Hahaha I can totally see Charlie doing this! That Twilight reference had me dead, tho 💀🤣

“Dean,” your voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Oh, you're gonna be fine, kids 😆🫶💕

YAY! Baby and a new spinoff series? Sign me tf up! 👀👏 Also, if you need some baby/pregnancy/parenting stories for inspo, I gladly help out. I shit you not – a lot of them have to do with poop. And worrying about everything 😂🤪

Abbie, seriously, this series was so wonderful! I love this whole goddamn trope so much and you absolutely nailed it! The angst, the smut, the fluff, the amounts of times I screamed and cried – it was perfectly paced and so emotionally investing, you kept me on my toes throughout. Well done! Can't wait to see those two return!!! 🩵🩵🩵

The Arrangement - Chapter Ten (End)

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Two years have passed since you and Dean finally lay everything out on the table, a lifetime of love and friendship, and it's about time it's made official.

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings/tags: Smut (18+) Fluff!! Emotions are high in this one! and a surprise ending...👀

AN: Alright guys! We have officially reached the end of this series! It's been a ride and I'm so grateful for those who stuck around till the end and rode this journey with me! 🥹 It was my first time writing a full series and I hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I have! 😭❤️ (gifs not mine, found on google)

P.S. This chapter was originally 3k… 😉

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Dean exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie for what had to be the hundredth time. The reflection staring back at him felt surreal—like he was looking at someone else. Someone settled. Someone whole.

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. If someone had told him two years ago that this was where he’d end up—with you—he’d have called them crazy.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

Sam stepped in, already looking dangerously glassy-eyed.

Dean smirked. “You gonna cry, Sammy?”

Sam huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he stepped forward, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Just… proud of you, man. And happy for you. You deserve this.”

Dean swallowed. He hadn’t expected the weight of the moment to hit quite like this, but suddenly, it did. All those years—the two of you orbiting each other, pushing and pulling, too damn stubborn to admit what was obvious to everyone else. For so long, he’d been afraid to want this, to believe he could have it. But now?

He shook his head, smirking. “Jesus, if you start bawling, we’re gonna have to seat you in the back.”

Sam laughed, shoving him lightly before pulling him into a tight hug. Dean clapped his back, holding onto the moment longer than he’d admit.

Then, the door swung open again, and the rest of his friends poured in—Benny, Cas, Gabe—all wearing varying degrees of smug grins.

"Well, well, well," Gabe drawled. "Look at you, all cleaned up and looking respectable. Never thought I’d see the day."

Dean rolled his eyes, but Benny clapped him on the back. “You ready for this, brother?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Hell yeah.”

Then, the door opened one last time, and John Winchester stepped in.

The room quieted just slightly—not out of tension, but out of the weight that John always carried with him. His gaze swept over Dean, taking him in.

“How you doin’?” John asked.

Dean let out a breath as he smoothed his hands over the invisible wrinkles in his suit jacket. “Good. A little nervous, but… good.”

John nodded, stepping closer. His sharp hazel eyes softened as he studied his son, and after a beat, he shook his head with a quiet chuckle.

“You know,” John started, rubbing a hand through his thickening beard, there was more and more grey beginning to run through it now, “I knew she was the one the moment you brought her home.”

Dean huffed a little shocked. He never thought his father paid much attention to his relationships, unless Dean was asking for advise about something. John had always been the kind of father who seemed absent, out of the loop per se but, if you ever needed him, poof he was there.

“Yeah?”

John smirked. “Damn right. You trailed after that girl like a puppy since the moment you met her.”

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s not true.” It was. But Dean wasn’t about to admit that, he had to keep some dignity at least.

John let out a low laugh, glancing toward Sam, who was already grinning. “Oh, it is. Everyone saw it—hell, you’d look for any excuse to be near her. You’d act like it wasn’t a big deal, but soon as she walked in a room, you lit up like a damn Christmas tree.” He chuckled along with the other men in the room, and then added,

“And if she so much as smiled at another boy?” He blew out a breath, like it was the damnest thing. “You’d sulk for hours.”

Benny let out a laugh, and Cas muttered a “it’s true” whilst Sam and Gabe outright cackled.

Dean huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright, let’s not turn this into roast-the-groom day.”

John’s smile lingered for a moment before he took a breath, his expression growing more serious. “You know, that’s how it was for me with your mom.”

Dean blinked, straightening slightly at the sudden shift in tone.

John nodded. “She had me wrapped around her little finger before I even knew what hit me. Still does.” His voice softened. “Women like that, they keep you on your toes. They challenge you, make you work for it. But, son, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. Nowhere better to be.”

Dean swallowed hard, something thick settling in his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever heard his dad talk about his Mom like that—not in a way that was this raw, this honest.

John held his gaze. “You found something rare, Dean. Something worth everything.” He let out a quiet breath. “I’m proud of you, kid.”

Dean felt his throat tighten, but before he could find the words to respond, John pulled him into a firm hug.

It caught Dean off guard for half a second, but then he exhaled, sinking into it. His dad wasn’t a man of easy affection—not by a long shot—but when he did something like this, it meant something.

And it warmed Dean straight through.

John clapped his back before stepping away, clearing his throat. “Now, let’s get you married.”

Meanwhile...

You smoothed your hands over the fabric of your dress, breathing in deeply as you stood in front of the mirror. The reflection staring back at you barely felt real.

The dress was perfect—elegant but effortlessly you. Every delicate detail, every soft fold of fabric. It was another thank you to Jo and her wizardry in dress picking.

Your fingers brushed over the locket resting against your collarbone—the one that had belonged to your mother, the one Dean had returned to you. It was your something old, something borrowed, and as you held it gently, your heart ached with the weight of her absence. But there was comfort in knowing that a part of her was with you today.

Behind you, the room buzzed with excitement as all the ladies in your life gathered.

“Holy shit,” Jo breathed, eyes wide and a little watery as she took you in. 

Charlie joined her, the both of them clinging to each other like proud aunts. 

Jess, ever the romantic, clasped her hands together, beaming. “You look absolutely stunning.”

Mary stepped forward with a warm smile, adjusting your veil with careful hands. Her touch was gentle, but you didn’t miss the slight tremble in her fingers.

“You’re glowing, sweetheart,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion.

She lingered, taking you in with soft eyes. Mary had been like a third mother to you for as long as you could remember—always there with quiet wisdom, unwavering support, and a love that felt just as fierce as if you were her own.

“I’ve watched you grow into this incredible woman,” she continued, blinking back tears. “And I’ve always known—always—that you were meant for my boy. No one else could love him the way you do.” A watery smile pulled at her lips. “And God knows, he needs someone like you.”

Your throat tightened, emotion swelling in your chest.

Mary cupped your cheek, her touch featherlight. “I’m so proud of you. And I know, without a doubt, that you and Dean are going to build something beautiful together.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh, squeezing her hand. There was a nervous energy thrumming beneath your skin, but it wasn’t the bad kind—it was the kind that came with knowing something life-changing was about to happen.

Then, a soft knock on the door.

Ellen and Bobby stepped inside, and the moment Ellen saw you, she gasped. Her expression softened as she reached for your hands.

"You look beautiful, baby." Her voice wavered just slightly, and when you saw the glisten in her eyes, it nearly broke you.

Ellen Harvelle never cried.

But today, she did.

"You always were a handful," she teased, blinking rapidly as if to stop herself from full-on sobbing. "But damn if I ain’t proud of the woman you’ve become. How grateful I am to be your mother.”

You bit your lip, fighting back the wave of emotion threatening to ruin all of Jess’s hard work on your makeup. You squeezed Ellen’s hands. "I love you, mom."

"I love you too, sweetheart.” She pulled you into her arms, holding you tightly, and for a moment, you just let yourself be held.

Jess sniffled. "Damn it, you’re making me cry already!”

A collection of watery chuckles rippled through the room as you pulled back, watching Jess and the other women dab at their eyes. But when Bobby stepped forward, the laughter faded, replaced by something heavier.

He looked at you, and for the first time in your life, you saw him struggle for words.

“Ah, kid…” Bobby murmured, voice thick as he took you in. “Your mom… she’d be so damn proud of ya.”

Your throat tightened instantly, tears pricking your eyes for the millionth time that morning. You pointed at him warningly. “Nope. Don’t you do that. Do you know how long this took?” You gestured to your face in emphasis.

A chuckle rumbled from Bobby’s chest, but the warmth in his eyes didn’t fade. He stepped closer, squeezing your hand.

“I mean it. You’re gonna be the best thing that ever happened to that idjit. Not that he don’t already know it.”

A watery laugh bubbled from your lips. “Thanks, Dad.”

Bobby cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “Now, uh… before we go, I just need to make sure you’re sure about this. ‘Cause once you marry into that family, there’s no gettin’ out."

“It’s true.” Mary added with a shrug and a chuckle.

You smirked. "Well, damn. And here I was thinking I could just return him if I changed my mind."

Bobby snorted as everyone else laughed. "You’re stuck with him, sweetheart." He sighed, squeezing your shoulder. "But I gotta say… I don’t think he’d ever let you go, even if you tried."

Your heart clenched, warmth spreading through your chest, because you believed so too.

"You ready?"

You took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and then—

“More than ever.”

The first notes of Canon in D drifted through the air, soft yet powerful, carrying with them the weight of the moment. The murmur of the guests faded, the world narrowing to the centre aisle where one by one, your loved ones took their places.

Sam stood tall at Dean’s side, ever the loyal brother and best man, while your bridesmaids passed Dean with knowing grins. He barely registered them, too caught up in the pounding of his own heart, in the way his fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, in the anticipation buzzing in his veins.

And then—

The doors at the end of the aisle opened.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath.

There you were.

The world fell away, dissolving into a blur of nothingness. His vision narrowed, locking onto you as you stepped forward, arm looped through Bobby’s. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating you like something out of a dream—his dream. And damn, if he didn’t feel like the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

You were stunning, but more than that, you were you. The same girl who had been his best friend for more than a decade, who had driven him crazy and made him laugh harder than anyone. The same woman he had spent late nights with on the couch, teasing and pushing each other, pretending you weren’t falling long before either of you admitted it. You were the one who knew him better than he knew himself, who had stood by him through every fight, every high, every low.

And now, here you were, walking toward him, about to be his forever.

His throat tightened. His chest ached with the sheer force of everything he felt. And it took him a second to realise—damn it, he was actually crying.

Bobby’s grip on your arm was steady, though Dean didn’t miss the way the older man’s fingers clenched just slightly, like he was holding on for one last moment. Bobby had been your rock, your father in every way that mattered, and today, he was giving you away.

When you reached the altar, Bobby turned to Dean, meeting his gaze with the kind of silent understanding only a father figure could give. His eyes softened, but there was steel beneath them—a warning, a promise.

"You take care of her, ya hear me?"

Dean swallowed hard, nodding with confidence as he told him, “always.”

Bobby gave your hand one last squeeze before placing it in Dean’s, stepping back with a small, gruff sniff.

The warmth of your touch sent a shiver up his spine, grounding him, steadying him.

You looked up at him as you stepped up to the alter, eyes shimmering, lips curving into a small, breathless smile. “Hi.”

Dean let out a quiet, shaky laugh, shaking his head as he drank you in. “My god, you’re beautiful.”

Emotion swelled in your chest, thick and overwhelming, and as you stared into his eyes. Those same green eyes that had been home for as long as you could remember. You knew, without a doubt, that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Every step that had led you here—every late-night conversation, every argument, every kiss, every stolen moment—had been leading to this.

To forever.

The reception was already in full swing, the room buzzing with laughter and clinking glasses, but everything quieted when Gabe stood, a smirk already tugging at his lips as he raised his champagne flute.

"Alright, folks, settle in," he started, flashing a wink at you before glancing at Dean. "Now, I had a whole touching, sentimental speech planned—real tearjerker, would’ve had you all sobbing into your drinks—but then I thought… nah, let’s tell the truth instead."

A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd, Dean shaking his head while you rolled your eyes fondly.

"This story? This epic love story? It didn’t start with a grand romantic gesture, or some movie-worthy meet-cute. Nope. It started… with a dream." Gabe let the words settle before arching a brow. "And not in the chase-your-dreams kinda way—though, to be fair, there was some chasing involved."

Laughter rippled through the room, Dean groaning as he dropped his head into his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, we all know what I mean," Gabe continued smugly, clearly enjoying himself. "But let’s be real, this was always inevitable. It was clear as day these two were made for one another, the rest of us were just waiting for them to catch up. And when they finally did? Well, let’s just say… history was made. And, in some small way, I’d like to think I played a part in that. Y’know, a guiding hand. A little nudge. A subtle push toward the right direction."

Dean snorted. "Subtle, my ass."

Gabe ignored him, raising his glass higher. "So, here’s to them—two people who took their sweet time figuring it out, but who got it right in the end. To love, to laughter, and to the two luckiest people in the world."

The room filled with cheers and the clinking of glasses, and you turned to Dean, shaking your head.

"You still sure we shouldn’t have revoked his speech privileges?" you teased, despite the tears in your eyes.

Dean chuckled, pulling you closer. "Nah, he’s an ass, but he’s our ass.” You hummed in agreement and allowed Dean to pull you in for a sweet kiss. 

Gabe clinked his fork against his glass again, clearing his throat dramatically. "Alright, lovebirds, enough of the mushy stuff, before you make us all sick. Let’s get to the part we’ve been waiting for." He shot a wink your way before grinning at Dean.

"Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, it’s time for the bride and groom’s first dance!"

Another round of cheers erupted as Gabe lifted his glass in your direction, smirking. "Try not to step on her feet, Winchester."

Dean rolled his eyes as he stood, but then grinned down at you, taking your hand and guiding you toward the dance floor. Your heart pounded—not from nerves, but from the sheer overwhelming happiness swelling in your chest.

Then, the unmistakable opening chords of Ramble On filled the space.

You blinked, then let out a surprised laugh, shaking your head as you glanced up at him. "Seriously?"

Dean smirked, pulling you in close. "What? You really thought I’d let our song be anything else?"

You melted into him as he wrapped his arms around you, his hands resting warm and steady on your waist. The world faded, leaving just the two of you swaying together as Plant’s voice crooned through the speakers.

It was perfect.

From childhood best friends to navigating the tangled mess of emotions that came with your so-called arrangement. The night you finally admitted the truth—that you had always loved him. And whats more, so had he. You’d both been naive idiots thinking you could be anything other than this.

A year later, Dean had proposed.

He had done it under the stars in your father’s scrapyard, the place that had always been special to you as a kid, where you had felt closest to your mom. He had decorated it with fairy lights, roses, the whole nine yards, and when he dropped to one knee, looking at you like you hung the damn stars, you hadn’t even let him finish his speech before tackling him to the ground with your answer.

And now, here you were.

Your matching wedding bands, new but already familiar, warm against your skin.

Your arms around him, your heart pressed to his, exactly where you were always meant to be.

Dean pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, swaying with you in time to the music, his voice low as he murmured, "Took us long enough, huh?"

You smiled, tightening your hold on him. "Yeah," you whispered. "But we got here."

The song carried on, and as the tempo picked up, you felt Dean shift against you. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, "You ready to really do this?"

Before you could ask what he meant, he pulled back, a devilish grin spreading across his face just as the beat kicked in. With a playful tug, he spun you out, making you laugh in surprise, and when he pulled you back, he didn’t slow down.

The two of you let loose.

Gone was the slow, tender sway. Instead, Dean twirled you, moving with an effortless ease that made your heart race for an entirely different reason. You chuckled, shaking your head at the fact Ramble on was your first dance song, but damn if it wasn’t so him—so you.

When the lyrics hit, Dean pointed straight at you, his voice loud and clear as he sang along, "I'm goin' 'round the world, I gotta find my girl—"

You didn’t miss a beat. Grinning, you sang right back, "I've been this way ten years to the day—"

The crowd erupted into cheers, the energy crackling through the room like wildfire. One by one, your friends and family got swept up in it—feet tapping, hands clapping, laughter spilling from every corner.

Charlie and Jo grabbed each other, twirling dramatically before rocking out to the familiar riffs, their hair flying as they head-banged in sync. Sam was pulled in by Jess, who grinned up at him with that determined look he never could resist.

Even Bobby, usually content to watch from the sidelines, let out a gruff chuckle before grabbing Ellen’s hand, the two of them stepping onto the dance floor like they’d been waiting for an excuse.

And then there was Gabe—fully committing to the moment, arms flailing, air-guitaring like his life depended on it. The sheer ridiculousness had you dissolving into laughter as you twirled in Dean’s arms, breathless, giddy, caught up in the rush of it all.

Your friends and family surrounded you, the circle growing tighter as the song surged on. Twirling, jumping, shouting the lyrics like you were at the best damn concert of your lives. It was wild. Chaotic. Perfect.

And through it all, Dean never let go of you.

No matter how much he moved, how hard he laughed, how off-key he sang, his hand always found yours. Always drew you back to him. Like he was tethered to you, like you were the one thing in the world he’d never lose sight of.

By the time the song came to an end, you were breathless, cheeks aching from smiling so hard. The room blurred around you, a hum of joy and celebration, but all you could see was him.

Dean pulled you close, his forehead resting against yours, his warm breath fanning across your lips as he panted slightly from the exertion. His green eyes, bright with mischief and something even deeper, locked onto yours.

“I love you, Mrs. Winchester.”

The way he said it—like he was savouring the words, letting them settle into his very bones—you knew he’d never tire of calling you that. And neither would you.

“And I love you, Mr Winchester.”

Dean’s smile was radiant, warmth and adoration shining in his gaze as he cupped your face, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss so soft, so reverent, it stole what little breath you had left. In that moment, with the music fading and the world narrowing to just the two of you, your heart felt impossibly full. Your soul, finally, was whole.

3 weeks later.

The soft sound of waves gently lapping against the shore blended with the distant chirping of tropical birds as the golden morning light seeped through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow across the plush California king-sized bed.

A gentle breeze drifted in from the open window, carrying the scent of salt and sun-kissed sand, ruffling the gauzy fabric ever so slightly. The silky sheets were cool against your bare skin, a stark contrast to the lingering heat of Dean’s body beside you. With a contented sigh, you burrowed deeper, letting the warmth of the moment settle in your bones.

It had been a whirlwind since your wedding three weeks ago—an intoxicating rush of something long overdue. Of love, laughter and celebration with everyone who mattered most, all of which still echoed in your mind. 

Unfortunately, reality had hit fast afterward, with both of you needing to dive back into work almost immediately, your honeymoon put on hold until the vacation days finally kicked in. But now, you were here. Just you and Dean. Together. Alone in paradise.

And what a paradise it was.

Ten glorious, sun-drenched days in the Maldives, tucked away in your own private villa perched over the crystalline water. The white sand stretched like silk beneath your feet, the ocean a dazzling shade of turquoise that shimmered under the endless blue sky. Every morning felt like something out of a dream, like waking up inside a living postcard.

You’d always imagined a warm, beachy destination for your honeymoon—Hawaii, maybe the Florida Keys. Something close, something simple. But you never expected this. Your parents and Dean’s had banded together, insisting you take your first trip as husband and wife international. A wedding gift so extravagant it had left you both stunned, speechless even.

Of course, you knew why you and Dean had initially opted to keep things local.

Your lips twitched at the memory of the exact moment Dean had opened the gift, his expression shifting from excitement to sheer, unfiltered dread. Because the Maldives didn’t just mean a long flight. No, it also meant taking a seaplane to reach the private island resort.

Looking at him now, utterly at peace, snoring softly beside you, his upper body bronzed from days in the sun, freckles scattered across his golden skin like constellations, it was almost impossible to believe this was the same man who damn near lost his shit on both flights. The contrast was almost comical.

Gone was the stiff, panicked man who had sat ramrod straight in his seat, white-knuckling the armrests like his life depended on it. The man who had hissed “This is a terrible idea” every time the plane so much as dipped slightly. The same man who, when faced with turbulence, had squeezed your hand so hard you were genuinely worried about circulation loss. And when the seaplane landed on the water? He’d practically kissed the ground the moment you stepped onto the dock.

Your heart ached in the best way as you thought back on the past week—warm sand between your toes, the taste of tropical cocktails, the lingering press of Dean’s lips against your sun-drenched skin. Late nights filled with soft laughter and slow kisses, tangled sheets as you celebrated your marriage in the best way possible. 

It had taken you both a long time to get here, to this moment, but damn, were you happy.

Unable to resist, you swam through the sheets, moulding yourself against the familiar warmth of Dean’s body. Your fingers trailed across his chest, tracing over the scattered freckles like your own personal game of connect the dots, mapping out the skin you had come to know so intimately. 

Your touch was light, teasing, before finally settling over the hand resting on his stomach, now adorned with the simple silver wedding band that matched the ring on your own finger. A symbol of forever.

Dean stirred as the soft press of your lips ghosted along his shoulder, trailing kisses up the strong column of his neck. A deep breath shuddered through him, his muscles tensing before melting into your touch. He shifted fully onto his back, blinking his tired eyes open, only to be greeted by the most beautiful sight.

The soft glow of morning light behind you, your hair tousled, your eyes sparkling with warmth and mischief.

That damn smirk of yours.

His lips curled up at the edges, but before he could say anything, you leaned in, continuing your path of lazy, unhurried kisses along his jaw, your mouth warm and soft against his skin. His breath caught when your teeth grazed his pulse point, the sharp contrast sending a thrill straight through him. His eyes fluttered shut again at the feeling, his breath coming quicker. 

But then a thought, albeit fleeting, hit him. Why did this feel so familiar? 

However, his grip tightened instinctively on your waist, heat blooming low in his stomach as you suckled at his skin and he pulled you up, crushing his lips to yours in a slow, searing kiss.

Your tongue caressed his, your touch sending fire through his veins, and then your hand slid down his abdomen—fingertips just barely grazing the hard planes of his abdomen, slipping beneath the sheets with agonising slowness.

And that’s when it hit him. Just like Déjà vu.

The dream. 

This was exactly what he had pictured two years ago. The one thing that had shattered every illusion he had about what you were to him, the moment that had forced him to confront the truth—that he wanted you in ways he had refused to acknowledge before. That you were so much more than just his best friend.

It had led to The Arrangement. The realisation. The confession. Everything between then and now had stemmed from that dream.

And now, here you were. Not some figment of his imagination. You were real, you were his wife. 

And this time, there was no rude awakening. No air horn. No sudden jolt back to reality.

Just you and your fingers curling around his hard length in a teasing grip, that had his breath stalling in his throat.

A dream literally come true. And damn, if this wasn’t a full circle moment. 

“Fuck.” Dean huffed, head falling back against the pillows as your touch grew more purposeful, the whole thing made more intense by this little realisation. You tugged him softly, playfully, the pads of your fingers stroking his heated skin with an almost lazy confidence, and Dean let out a long, shuddering exhale.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he groaned, one hand gripping the sheets while the other tangled in your hair. “Feels so good, baby.” You hummed in response, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, then down his throat, your pace never faltering as you worked him, watching the way he came undone beneath you.

Dean’s stomach tensed when you suddenly slid lower, a slow, teasing descent, your mischievous gaze locked onto his as you kissed your way down his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body thrumming with anticipation as your lips trailed lower.

“Shit,” he rasped as you reached his lower abdomen, your teeth grazing over the sensitive dip of his hip. His cock twitched in your grip, thick and pulsing with need, and you smiled against his skin, amused at just how wrecked he already was.

“You okay there, handsome?” you teased, your voice warm and sweet, a sharp contrast to the absolute sin in your eyes.

Dean let out a strangled chuckle, shaking his head. “You know what you’re doin’.” 

“Mm. Maybe.” Your fingers tightened around him, stroking him once, twice, before your tongue darted out to tease the tip, swiping across the leaking head in one slow, torturous lick.

Dean’s hips bucked on instinct, a wrecked groan spilling from his lips. “Fuck—”

And then, without warning, you took him into your mouth, warm and wet and perfect, and his whole world tilted.

“Shit—baby—” His hand fisted in your hair as you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, your tongue working him in a way that had his jaw clenching and his abs flexing beneath you.

You were relentless, sucking him down with slow, deliberate drags, your eyes locked onto his the entire time, like you wanted to watch him fall apart. And he was—fuck, he was unraveling at the seams, barely holding onto control. 

“You’re too good at this,” he rasped, his fingers tightening their grip in your hair. “So goddamn good. Fuck—gonna make me—”

But before he could lose himself completely, he forced himself to move, a growl ripping from his throat as he reached down and hauled you back up, capturing your mouth in a desperate, heated kiss.

“Not yet,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick and rough, still breathless. “Wanna taste you, sweetheart.”

And then, in one swift motion, he flipped you onto your back, hovering over you, his lips trailing down your body, kissing, worshiping, taking his time to appreciate every inch of you.

His hands spread across your thighs, parting them, his breath hot against your skin as he settled between them. His mouth found your inner thigh first, teasing, his teeth grazing your sensitive flesh just to hear the way your breath hitched.

“Dean,” you whimpered, your hips shifting beneath him.

He smirked, dragging his lips up, and up, until he was right where you needed him. “Relax, sweetheart.” His voice was low, rough, filled with promise. “Lemme take my time with you.”

And he did.

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your clit before dragging his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, savouring you, his hands gripping your hips as he pinned you down, determined to make you feel everything.

You gasped, your fingers threading into his hair, your back arching off the bed as he worked you open with his mouth—licking, sucking, teasing, his tongue flicking against your most sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.

“Dean—”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against you, his voice thick with hunger, dark with raw need. “Let me hear you.”

And so you did.

You didn’t hold back.

You cried out as two thick fingers slid deep into your dripping cunt, curling just right—hitting that devastatingly perfect spot he had long since memorised, learned by heart just to ruin you over and over again. Your back arched, muscles clenching as he pumped them in and out, each stroke dragging a fresh moan from your lips.

His mouth came away from you, slick with your arousal, his focus now solely on his hand as he fucked you with his fingers, determined, relentless. His wrist flexed, his pace quickening, the wet, obscene sounds filling the room.

Your thighs trembled violently, your body caught between the unbearable pleasure and the overwhelming pressure coiling deep in your core, rising fast, too fast.

“I know, baby,” Dean groaned, his free hand gripping your thigh, holding you wide open as you writhed, instinctively trying to fight what you knew was coming. “Don’t run from it. Let it happen. Give it to me.”

The raw command in his voice shattered you.

With a strangled cry of his name, your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot, electric, tearing through every nerve in your body. Your release poured out of you, soaking his arm, drenching the sheets beneath you. The sheer force of it left you shaking, gasping, completely wrecked beneath him.

And Dean all but growled.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, dragging his fingers from your pulsing cunt, watching in fascination as your slick dripped down his wrist. He lifted them to his mouth, keeping his gaze locked onto yours as he sucked them clean, groaning at the taste.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with admiration and something darker, something purely possessive. “Every time… I swear, it just gets better.”

Heat flushed through you, but the shame that once crept in at moments like this was gone.

Dean had stripped it from you, erased it with every moan, every praise, every time he worshipped the way your body responded to him. He loved this. Loved dragging you over the edge so hard, so deep, that you couldn’t hold back. Loved watching you come apart, seeing the proof of how fucking good he made you feel.

And fuck, did he make you feel good.

You swallowed, watching as he smirked, his hand gliding up your trembling thigh, rubbing soothing circles as he took in the mess between your legs like the goddamn masterpiece it was.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he muttered, trailing his fingers through your slick folds, groaning at how sensitive you still were. His cock twitched from where it was trapped against the mattress. “And already dripping for more.”

You bit your lip, eyes half-lidded with need, your body still molten, still buzzing, but the hunger in his gaze sent another sharp pulse of arousal straight to your core.

“C’mere,” you murmured, crooking a finger at him, and Dean obeyed instantly, moving up your body with a predatory grace until he was caging you beneath him, his forearms bracketing either side of your head.

You grabbed the back of his neck, yanking him down for a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, desperate and messy. You moaned into his mouth at the taste of yourself on his tongue, the way he devoured you without shame. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, tugging him closer, needing him now.

Dean chuckled against your lips, low and husky, cocky as ever, but fuck, he loved you like this—needy, impatient, desperate for him. He rolled his hips, his thick cock gliding through your soaked folds, coating himself in your slick, teasing you both with the friction.

“Dean,” you whined, your nails biting into the firm muscles of his back.

He groaned, his head dropping into the crook of your neck. “Goddamn, baby—”

You whimpered as the head of his cock caught at your entrance, your whole body arching, pulsing, silently pleading.

“Baby, please,” you breathed into his ear, your voice drenched in pure want.

And fuck—Dean couldn’t deny you anything when you begged like that.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he tilted his hips and pushed in, inch by glorious inch, stretching you open, filling you to the brim.

A guttural groan ripped from his throat as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight, throbbing heat. His forearms trembled where they held him up, his jaw clenched as he fought for control, fought against the primal urge to pound into you, to take you the way he needed to.

“Jesus Christ,” he gritted out, his forehead dropping to yours. “You’re perfect.”

You gasped, your walls fluttering around him, nails dragging down his back, your body begging for more.

“Fuck me, baby,” you pleaded. “Please—”

And with that, he was gone.

All restraint shattered.

Dean fucked you, deep and unrelenting, hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that had you keening, moaning, gasping his name like a prayer. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your stomach, palming your breasts, fingers finding your throat, owning you.

He growled against your lips, biting at your bottom one as he pulled back, eyes dark, feral. “This what you needed, sweetheart?”

You couldn’t even form words, just nodded frantically, lost in him, in the overwhelming pleasure he wrung from your body with every deep, punishing thrust.

“Goddamn, you’re so good for me,” he groaned, voice wrecked, his pace growing erratic as he felt you tightening around him, pulling him deeper. “Gonna come for me again, huh? Gonna soak my cock this time?”

You sobbed, your entire body trembling, on the edge of bliss so sharp it made you ache.

Dean reached between you, his fingers finding your swollen, neglected clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles.

That was it.

That was fucking it.

Your climax crashed over you, stealing every last bit of breath from your lungs, and you screamed his name as your walls fluttered around him, squeezing him like a vice, milking him for everything he had.

Dean groaned, long and deep, his hips stuttering, his body locking up as he spilled into you, filling you with everything he had, holding you tight, panting against your sweat-slicked skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just lay tangled together, bodies trembling, completely spent.

Dean finally let out a slow, satisfied breath, brushing damp hair from your forehead as he kissed you, slow and deep, nothing but pure devotion in the way his lips moved against yours. 

“God, I love you,” he murmured between kisses, voice hushed and reverent, as if the words themselves weren’t enough to contain the depth of what he felt.

Your heart fluttered, as it always did when he uttered those three words, and your arms around his neck tightened, holding him closer.

“I love you too,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers ghosting over his cheek. His green eyes softened as he leaned into your touch, letting out a contented sigh before turning his head to press a lingering kiss to your palm.

And then a quiet huff left his lips as he dropped his head onto your chest, the weight of him grounding you, comforting in a way you could never quite put into words. Without a second thought, your fingers drifted into his sweat-slicked hair, combing through the damp strands, soothing him as exhaustion slowly pulled you both under.

“I can’t believe this will be our last night here,” he mumbled into your skin, his voice thick with sleep.

You hummed in agreement, a pang of sadness settling in your chest. This place, this little bubble you’d created together, had felt like a dream—one you weren’t quite ready to wake up from.

“Maybe we should just move here,” you murmured playfully, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Quit our jobs and stay forever.”

Dean let out a lazy chuckle, his breath warm against your skin. “Don’t tempt me.”

You pressed a kiss to the top of his head, feeling him snuggle closer, his breathing deep and even. Within moments, sleep, once again, claimed you both. 

A couple of hours later, the sharp grumble of your stomachs had dragged you both from your unplanned nap. The two of you groggily peeled yourselves from the tangle of sheets, reluctantly leaving the comfort of your bed to shower and dress. 

The day passed in a slow, blissful haze—lounging on the terrace, nibbling on fresh fruit and pastries, talking about home, about work, about everything and nothing at all.

As the evening approached, you had one last dinner reservation at the resort’s restaurant. Dean opted for a quick dip in your private pool while you got ready, the sound of water rippling as you slipped into a white, flowy sundress, the light fabric brushing against your ankles. You left your hair down, the soft waves cascading naturally over your shoulders—just the way Dean liked it. A touch of mascara, a swipe of lipstick, and you were ready.

“You look beautiful,” Dean’s voice was thick with appreciation as he appeared behind you in the mirror, his reflection stunning—his hair damp, torso bare and glistening with droplets.

You bit your lip, heat pooling in your stomach as he trailed his fingers over your exposed shoulder. Respectfully, he refrained from pulling you flush against him—knowing he’d soak your dress—but he still pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your skin.

Dean winked before stepping back, and with zero shame, dropped his shorts, giving you a perfect view of his delectable peach of an ass. He caught you staring as he looked over his shoulder, and with a cheeky grin gave his own firm cheek a light smack before stepping to the shower.

You were still giggling and shaking your head as you slipped on your sandals.

The restaurant was breathtaking—an open-air dining space set against the endless stretch of ocean, the sky painted in fiery hues of orange and pink as the sun melted into the horizon. Soft lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting a golden glow over the wooden tables adorned with crisp white linens and delicate floral arrangements.

The scent of salt and grilled seafood hung in the air, mingling with the distant hum of waves rolling onto the shore and light spoken conversations from the other guests.

Dean pulled out your chair for you before settling into his own across from you, already reaching for the menu with a familiar furrow of his brows.

“You know, we’ve been here all week, and I still don’t know what half this stuff is.” He let out a huff, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The two of you had tried different restaurants around the island, and while the menus varied, the dishes always seemed to push him slightly outside his comfort zone.

You giggled, shaking your head before deciding to take pity on him. “How about the steak?” You leaned over, tapping the menu where the 8oz fillet with sautéed potatoes was listed. “It’s about as close to a burger and fries as you’re gonna get.”

Dean followed your finger, eyes scanning the description with renewed interest before nodding. “Alright, yeah. I can work with that.” He flagged down the waiter, ordering you both a beer along with his steak, while you opted for grilled salmon with fragrant coconut rice.

When the food arrived, Dean eyed his plate warily, poking at the steak as if it might bite back. Clearly not used to the meat un-minced and patty-like. He cut into it, taking a tentative bite, chewing slowly as he mulled over the flavours.

“Well?” you prompted, watching him closely, lips twitching.

Dean let out a low hum of consideration. “It’s… not bad.”

You let out a laugh. “That’s practically a glowing review from you.”

He rolled his eyes, but a smile played on his lips. “Hey, I like what I like.”

Still, he indulged in the experience, even letting you feed him bites from your own plate after some playful coaxing. He’d grumble about it, but the way his eyes flickered with enjoyment every time he took a bite of your dish didn’t go unnoticed.

The night carried on in soft conversation and easy laughter, the warm glow of the lanterns reflecting in his eyes. And through it all, his gaze never strayed far from you—watching, adoring, committing this last night to memory.

Back in your villa, the island's natural warmth was thick in your hut with the scent of salt and jasmine as you pushed open the patio doors. Behind you, a familiar melody drifted through the space—the soft, unmistakable chords of Your Song filling the air as Dean messed with the vinyl player. The resort seemed to be a big fan of Elton, you'd noticed.

You smiled at the song choice, turning just as he held out a hand, a boyish grin tugging at his lips.

“Dance with me?”

Your heart melted, and without hesitation, you slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you close. His hands settled at your waist, yours looping around his neck, and he swayed you both to the slow rhythm. His chin rested atop your head, his fingers tracing lazy, absent patterns along the small of your back.

The gentle hum of Elton John’s voice wrapped around you both, the moment steeped in quiet affection.

“I hope you don’t mind, that I put down into words…” Dean sang along to the chorus, his voice soft and deep, trailing off as he smiled down at you.

“How wonderful life is, while you’re in the world,” he finished, his gaze holding yours, warm and full of something that made your chest ache.

Just as you rose on your tiptoes, he wasted no time meeting you halfway, capturing your lips in a kiss—slow and deep. The warmth of his body, the press of his hands against you, the way he kissed you—it all built into something deeper, something more desperate.

But then—

A sharp pang shot through your stomach.

You froze, your breath hitching. Then, it twisted, turned, and a wave of nausea slammed into you so suddenly, you barely had time to shove Dean back before sprinting to the bathroom.

“Shit—sweetheart?”

Dean was at your side in an instant, gathering your hair as you lurched over the toilet, emptying your stomach. His warm hand rubbed slow, soothing circles over your back, his voice laced with concern.

“Do you think it was the food?” he asked, frowning.

You let out a weak breath, wiping your mouth. “Maybe,” you murmured, though doubt crept in. If it was the food, wouldn’t Dean be sick too? He had shared bites of your meal, after all. However, another wave of nausea hit you and had you hugging the toilet bowl once more. 

You spent the rest of the night curled on the cool tile floor, Dean refusing to leave your side. He wiped your clammy forehead, whispered reassurances, cradled you against him when you finally had nothing left to give.

By the time the early morning light filtered through the windows, you were drained, barely able to crawl into bed.

When you woke a few hours later, your body was still heavy with fatigue, your stomach uneasy, but you managed to push through, packing sluggishly as Dean went to check out.

You were in the bathroom, collecting your toiletries, when your gaze landed on something that made your breath hitch.

Your box of tampons.

Unopened.

A strange, uneasy feeling settled in your chest as you stared at it. Slowly, you did the math in your head, counting back the days, trying to recall the last time you’d needed them.

Two weeks late.

Your stomach flipped—not from nausea this time, but from something far more terrifying.

No. No, it was impossible.

You were on the pill. You took it religiously.

But they aren’t always foolproof, your annoying voice of reason argued.

A sharp breath left you as you stared at the box, heart hammering in your chest. However, a thought hit you. You remembered finding it on your first night here. 

Rummaging through your toiletry bag, you exhaled in relief when your fingers brushed against it. A pregnancy test. One Charlie had slipped in as a joke—a homage to her annual Twilight binge—thinking she was hilarious. And right now? You were thanking her ridiculous sense of humour.

“Right. You’re just being irrational,” you whispered, trying to calm yourself. “You just ate something bad and your body rejected it. It’ll be negative and you’ll feel real stupid for freaking out over nothing.”

Your fingers fumbled with the packaging as you ripped it open, barely noticing the way your hands shook. Luckily, you needed to pee anyway, and with a deep, steadying breath, you settled onto the toilet, slipping the stick between your legs.

When Dean returned, the sight of your half-packed suitcase made his stomach tighten. You weren’t in the main room where he’d left you.

Had you gotten sick again?

The thought unsettled him. He’d spent the entire walk back hoping last night had been a fluke—that you wouldn’t suddenly take a turn for the worse, forcing him to figure out where the hell the nearest hospital was on this island.

You looked better this morning. Tired and a little pale, but no vomiting. No fever. That had been enough to ease his nerves—until now.

Then, he saw the bathroom door slightly ajar.

Quietly, he stepped forward, pushing it open. You were sitting on the edge of the bathtub, head down, shoulders tense.

“Hey, is everything o—” His words died in his throat when his gaze landed on the object grasped tightly in your hands. A little white stick.

His heart spiked.

At the sound of his voice, you looked up, eyes wide and alarmed, not easing his nerves at all. 

“Dean,” your voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

AN: Now... I have a confession. I had originally ended this at the wedding, but inspiration struck. And maybe stubbornness to finish up with these two. So the honeymoon was added and thus the premise to... *drum roll*... The Predicament. A sequel series that will follow Dean and the reader becoming parents. That's right! This isn't the last of this pair. 🤪 Also want thank you all so much for reading and sticking with me throughout this series! I hope you're all excited for another adventure with these two! 💙

Dean Winchester/Series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel @piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse @impala67stellawinchester @bonbonnie88 @youroldfashioned @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes @rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[wanderingbue]

“It’s bedtime,” House announces shortly after nine, and Wilson wonders if he’s ill or dying.

“I just got here,” Wilson reminds him around a mouthful of pizza. “The movie isn’t even over yet.”

House yawns exaggeratedly, arms stretching over his head. Wilson firmly keeps his eyes away from the pale strip of belly that peeks out from under House’s wrinkled t-shirt. “Sleep is calling to me, Wilson. I must answer.” He disappears into his room without even brushing his teeth.

Wilson gives it a solid five minutes before opening the bedroom door, because there’s no way he’s actually going to sleep now, a full three hours earlier than usual.

Yet there he is, pants off, happily curled up with a long body pillow; his leg propped up on it, arms wrapped around it, his face, the very picture of serenity.

“Do you mind?” House grumbles, cracking one eye open. “Trying to get my snooze on.”

“That’s new,” Wilson observes. “Is it for your leg?”

“It’s for my life,” House says, vaguely muffled. “Never slept better. Now go away.”

Wilson reluctantly shuts the door, finishes the movie with the volume turned down, packs up the leftover pizza to shove into House’s fridge, and heads home to his own, regular pillows.

He does a double take the next morning, walking past House’s office and realizing he was already in.

“You’re early,” Wilson says, which is to say, exactly on time for everyone else.

“A good night’s sleep can do wonders,” House replies pleasantly, taking a sip of his coffee.

Wilson hums, looking around the hallway for a medical cart. “Mind if I take some blood?”

“I’m not on drugs,” House says, shrugging his jacket off, strangely biddable. “Well. Other drugs.”

“Just need to rule it out,” Wilson says.

“It’s that body pillow. I’m telling you.”

“Uh huh.”

“You don’t even know the best part,” House says conspiratorially. “It’s heated. Remote controlled.”

“A modern miracle.”

“You should get one.”

“I sleep just fine,” Wilson says, adjusting the tourniquet around House’s bicep.

“But you could always sleep better,” House says. Wilson shrugs noncommittally.

The results come back clean, or as clean as they can be. He tests the coffee, anyway.

“Is this some sort of prank?” Wilson asks, finding House laying on the couch in his office a day later, the body pillow tucked firmly between his legs.

“Pranks typically do something humorous,” House says, securing the sleep mask over his eyes. “Is anyone laughing?”

Wilson doesn’t answer, because he can’t. He settles in at his desk and tries to get some work done, but even House laying perfectly still somehow remains a distraction.

“I can’t believe you brought it here,” Wilson eventually says. “I saw your bike in the parking garage. Did you strap the pillow to your back?”

House smirks, snuggling in. “Shush. Wake me up in twenty, will you?”

Wilson has never had serious sleep issues. He can't really afford to, as a doctor who understands that it's a privilege to get any amount of rest. He’s experienced the typical, minor problems that most people have, like finding it harder to fall asleep when he’s stressed out, or needing a midday nap when he was up late after an emergency page. Nothing long-term or debilitating. Nothing that ever made him seek more help than a glass of warm milk or a few fingers of scotch.

When he lays in bed, sleep tugging at his eyes, he thinks of the last time he was curled up around something, or someone, but finds he can't remember how it felt.

There’s a basketball game on, which keeps House up a little later than his strict new curfew allows, but gives Wilson enough time to ply him with beer, so that when he asks to crash on the couch that night, House doesn’t think much of it and just tells him to grab a spare blanket. Wilson waits until he’s in the bathroom, taking the longest piss of his life, to sneak into his room and get a closer look at the pillow.

It looks and feels like any other pillow, really. Maybe a little on the firmer side, to cushion the heating component in it. It’s long and solid enough to support House’s six-two frame. Wilson picks it up and gives it an experimental squeeze, holding it to his chest. It’s nice. Comforting. Smells like House, too. Wilson could sleep without it, though.

“You’re lucky I’m so generous,” House then says from the doorway. Wilson nearly drops the pillow, caught red-handed. “I wouldn’t share with just anyone, you know.”

Wilson guiltily sets it down. “I’ll—I’ll be on the couch.”

“Shut up and lay down,” House says, closing the door behind him. He turns around to put his sleep pants on, so Wilson strips down, too. He climbs into the bed and takes the body pillow that House shoves into his hands.

“Turn over,” he says, nodding to the opposite wall.

Wilson complies, because of course House wouldn’t want to sleep facing each other. That’d be weird. They don’t do that. He holds the pillow close and shuts his eyes.

There’s a click, and it slowly starts warming up.

Another click, turning the lamp off, submerging them in darkness.

Then an arm wraps around Wilson’s waist, and a leg settles heavily over his. The heat along his back from House’s chest is hotter than the pillow, maybe even hotter than the sun. The blankets are pulled over them and House sighs, his breath tickling the back of Wilson’s neck.

Wilson falls asleep quickly, but House falls asleep first.

Wilson wakes up warm and hard, with House draped over him. “Good morning?”

“Morning,” House says, his lips pressed to Wilson’s throat, stubble scraping roughly at his skin. “Great pillow, huh?”

Wilson picks his head up and looks for it. It ended up on the floor. “You managed without it,” he points out.

“Yeah, well,” House murmurs, sneaking his fingers under Wilson’s waistband. “It served its purpose.”

[holorform2009]

Mყ Dҽαɾ Lιƚƚʅҽ Gαɾԃҽɳҽɾ 🌿

A ray of sunlight casted over your sleeping figure, sleeping soundly. But then suddenly a tiny footsteps ran inside the room like as if it was in a hurry, it's wings fluttered aggressively, flying and then landing on the bed, it hopped on your body. You feel a heavy weight on your body, warm and felt a claws gently kneed your soft blankets, then without a warning a strong peck on your head and let out a noise of "Bockack!" It was non other than your pet white hen trying to wake you up.

You stirred and groaned in pain from its pecking on your skin as you lift the blanket on your face to take cover from getting pecked by your chicken. "Hayhay stop.. give me five minutes..." You lazily muttered.

The chicken stared at you for moment before getting down from the bed and leave, but then a few seconds later the hen came back with the roaster following behind. The roaster hopped on the bed and stand over your body before letting out a loud "BOCKBOKAAAOOO!!!" Your eyes immediately shot opened, the noise causes you to groan louder and decided to get up from the bed. "Okay okay! You guys won!" You sighed as you watched the roaster puffed his chest and plop down from the bed and left the room with the hen followed from behind. You slid off the bed and began your morning routine.

After finishing your daily routine you then grabbed your sunhat and gloves and head out to start harvesting the vegetables and fruits in your big garden. You greeted each pets when they passed by you as they help grow your garden keeping it healthy with no parasite or something that could make the fruits invaluable when you sell them.

You keep an eye on a raccoon next garden beside yours incase that animal decided to steal your fruits from you. Oh right! You forgot you have a gear that could prevent it from stealing! Oh silly you. You opened a chest and grab a heart shape like lock, you then approach your plant and put it on that has a lot of golds, shocked, celestial, moonlit/bloodlit, rainbow/disco, wet, freezing fruits. There we go! Now that raccoon will never steal your precious fruits from you! You almost forgot you had these in your chest...

Now the problem is solved time to sell your fruits! But wait. You already have enough amount of money... Maybe you could give this to your other neighbors? You also heard there was a new neighbor right beside your house who moved in a few hours ago.

A light bulb appeared on top of your head.

You hummed as you wondered which fruit do you plan on giving them, you ended up picking up a shocked rainbow celestial watermelon. It wasn't big or huge but this is fine. You smiled to yourself as you secured the fruit in your arms before heading your way to your new neighbor to give this fruit as a welcoming gift.

007n7 sighed as he tiredly placed the last box on the floor and decided to take a break by sitting on a couch watching as coolkid and Bluudude bickered each other then looking at PrettyPrincess who is playing tea party by herself.

He sighed once more before stretching his arms over his head and hears pop of his bones as he hummed in satisfaction. Suddenly there was a knock on the door, 007n7 raise a brow.

He stood from the couch and made his way over to the door, he opened the door and was greeted by child with a sunhat and a glowing rainbow fruit in their gloved hands.

"Hello there mister! I hope you don't mind me give this fruit to you but don't worry it's all free!" You handed the glowing-rainbow-fruit to the man who has a children of three. Shocked, he took off his glasses to clean it with his shirt before putting it back on his face. Yep, it's real. He can't believe this random and strange child holding a questionable anomaly of a fruit. "Uh..." He hesitate as he gently took the fruit and thanked you.

"You're welcome! I'm [Name] what's your name mister?" You said enthusiastically as you snatch his hands to shake before letting him go. "My name is 007n7, you can call me 07." Your smile widen at his response. "Nice to meet you mister 007n7! I hope you have a wonderful day!" You then turn around walking away with a skip in your steps.

007n7 watched as your figure getting smaller and smaller turning into a dot, he was still left baffled by the fruit you gave him. The two children who were bickering a minute ago finally stopped and looked at their father noticing he is holding fruit that seemed to glow and changed it colors.

Coolkid looked at bluudude who also looked at CoolKid before looking back at 007n7 as they both raise their brow in synchronized at their father. They shrugged before going back to playing their consoles to continue playing the game and maybe back to their bickering once more.

[ysochonky]

Hello

You seem like the perfect dream couple who searched for each other and found each other. Did your relationship initially develop as a purely romantic relationship, or was the fetish for hedonism already integrated? Did you, as a thin girl, meet Gluttony (through your boyfriend), and how did it develop that you've now literally mutated into a food machine and are getting fatter and fatter? And your desire for office work will continue to decline with every pound you gain? Pure laziness.......

Aww I love this!! My fatass has been putting on weight my whole life! We met on a dating app! I used only headshots so nobody could see in a whale. I’ve had abusive relationships my whole life. I hated my body because I was told too. Hubby and i hungout and literally fell head over heels. We’ve been together everyday since. We move into our place in two weeks. His biggest ex was about 130lbs. He told me he was guessing I was 180, maybe 200lbs. He was in for a surprise the first time we met. We had a great time but I was sure he was going go ghost me after day one. He says he was attracted immediately. Later on when we went all the way he couldn’t keep his hands off of me. My belly and thighs especially. He was definitely shocked at just how truly big I am. It was off putting because I’m used to it. After finishing he explained he loved it. He’s turned total chubby chaser 🙈. He can’t keep his hands off of me. He has helped me sooo much with body positivity. I love him so much and will be forever grateful. I only spoke about losing weight when we met. Now im excited to eat and gain. We stumbled upon this community and kind of hit the ground running. I lived on fast food for a decade. I’m so sedentary the only way I could be lazier would be becoming immobility. I sit my ass in a chair all day and overeat using my baby’s card. Huge breakfasts and lunches. The skinny girls watch me gorge and snack everyday. I get home from work and hop in ny baby’s car and he takes me to dinner #1. I waddle my ass in our room, get naked and stay in bed for the rest of the night. Only walking to the restroom. Snacking until I get my 4th meal of the day, McDonald’s. Hubby brings it in bed so I can stuff myself and go to sleep. I love the body positivity I have. I love how he’s so turned on by something new. He enables and pushes me 😋. He wants to get big with me. We have cream and mass gainer. I proudly say I don’t want to get small anymore. We’ve been walk/jogginh 4-5 times a week. He loves me so much and just wants to make sure my heart is strong and healthy. We will have videos soon! He’s so turned on by just how out of shape I am. 10-12 years of fast food, depression eating, eating from boredom, and zero exercise has added up. I struggle to get out of bed. Stand from the car. Take my clothes off. All leave me gasping for air. He gets so hard and always brings up the fact that I take less than 500 steps a day 🥵. We are going at our own pace but we are actively gaining!

[sirensdollesque]

𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒘𝒂𝒑! a waterpoloplaye!reader & lacrosseplayer!chris blurb

𝑰𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 chris gets to do what you do for practice!

somehow in a random conversation waterpolo practice got brought up, which was normal, you and Chris talked about practice together but after one day you mentioned wanting to try his practice, you did, which you would never do again but, now you really wanted chris to try what you do for practice.

after lots and lots of begging and maybe 20 kisses later, chris agreed, which is how you two ended up at the pool with you giggling and pushing him in before jumping in yourself.

"Okay so first let's just do the easy warm-up, a 200 and 200 eggbeat," you spoke as if it was of any familiarity to Chris, "a 200? eggbeat? babe I have zero clue what that is." you giggled speaking up, "okay a 200 is 8 laps and eggbeating is threading water, here ill show you how to do it." you sat on the edge of the pull demonstrating the motion of eggbeating and then showed him how it looked in the water, chris sorta got it but still complained about the burn it gave his legs.

by the second lap that chris completed he was convinced his heart might pop out his chest, while you? oh well you were halfway done with your 200 as if this was a normal day for you, which it was.

you finished your laps and were waiting for chris to finish his at the end of the pool practicing your launch up before throwing the ball, by the time chris done with the final lap he was at the wall of the pool collecting his breath, you swam over and smirked softly, "how you feeling?" "I think my heart might be physically beating outside my chest, so there's that, you do this everyday? as a warm up?" you nodded and smiled, "yep, come on we still got a 200 eggbeat, 50 front, 50 backward eggbeat, 50 left and 50 right."

you couldn't help but giggle a bit at how slow chris moved but granted you werent any different when you did what he did at lacrosse practice so you let him take his time and you did your 200 and waited for him to finish.

by the time he finished you cheered him on and then explained how to be on defense and offense in the water, and how to make a goal, you two did some other swimming drills like corkscrew, zigzag, and switching from waterpolo swim to eggbeating.

by the end of the 'practice' you laughed and bit at how unsteady chris was, you walked out fine and went to the girls area to change and waited for him outside.

"so, how do ya feel?" you teased a bit nudging him as you two walked out, "how that fuck do you do all that and not die?" chris sighed still catching his breath after getting out the pool, you shrugged giggling softly, "guess im just conditioned to it, gets easier over time."

chris hummed kissing your head continuing to walk with you, "I already had a lot of respect for waterpolo players but that definitely made me gain so much more respect, if that was practice I dont wanna know what a game is like." you laughed at his comment, continuing to walk with him as the sun started setting.

maybe you'd convice him to do what you do at swim practice one day.

torispeaks💌- I missed them, i also miss waterpolo szn 💔

tags- @fawnquette @sturns-mermaid @freshloveee @ch6rm @chrisissobabygirl @immaqulate @strnilolover @submattsgf @joces-wrld @throatgoat4u @jensturnss @sweetshuga @oopsiedaisydeer @theyluvivi @stvrniolostan @lyingonchris @courta13 @moth-feeet @stvrniolostan @sturniolo-szn2

[mysteryshoptls]

Epel Felmier Shared Lines

Tutorial: Let's go. ...If you're not going to follow me, I'll leave you behind.

Level Up 1: Heheh, I got better... I think?

Level Up 2: If I work hard, one day, I'll be able to...

Level Up 3 / Buddy Level Up: Let's keep working together from here on out, too. Okay?

Level Max: Just like a poison that can congeal everything, I feel new strength spreading through me. I feel like I could put anyone to sleep at this rate. Probably.

Vignette Level Up: Why're ya always stickin' ta me like glue? If it was because you thought I was strong and dependable, I wouldn't mind, though...

Spell Level Up: With this power, I'll take on the Housewarden!

Friendship Level Up: It’s kinda calming to spend time in this room. It’s dangerous, though, ‘cause I might get so relaxed that I let my real words slip out… But I still want to come over anyway!

Friendship Level Max: This place is so awesome with how I can spread out and relax! Thanks for everything. I’m gonna make sure you can have just as much fun over at my place, so you need to come over next time.

Uncapped: I'm going to get even stronger. You'll believe in me... Right?

Groovification: Slow and steady... It'd be great if I could grow as well as an apple does.

Lesson Select 1: Which class are you gonna take? ...I think I'd like to do flight class.

Lesson Select 2: You want to take class with me? Sure, I don't mind... Heheh.

Lesson Select 3: Stop dawdlin' and pick somethin'

Lesson Start: Mm, let's go.

Lesson Finish: Studying's real tiring...

Battle Start: To think you would try to take a bite out of me.

Battle Won: I wasn’t as sweet as I looked… Right?

Trouble 1: C'mon! I was just about to teach ‘em a lesson!

Trouble 2: Ah…! C-Can you pretend you didn’t see that just now? Hehe…

GIFT CALENDAR 2023: “How will you be spending the day?” Snow’s piling up again today, so I’m plannin’ on clearing the magical shift field with the rest of my clubmates. Didn’t bother me none, but the other guys were all dog-tired… Pathetic, ain’t they?

Birthday Login Message 1: My- ah, my birthday celebration? I haven’t celebrated it much outside of family, so you surprised me. Thank you… Ehehe.

Birthday Login Message 2: Eh, congrats…? Oh, you remembered my birthday. Thanks! Oh yeah, are you free today? I thought maybe it might be cool to rent a magical wheel, 'cause it’s been a while. If you’re up for it, maybe we could go for a drive… or something. We can’t go too far, but I’ll take you somewhere that’s got a great view!

Birthday Login Message 3: Ya came ta celebrate m'birthday? Woah, ya e'en gotta present fer me. Amazin’! Ah… Oops, I just easily slipped into my native accent! What I was saying is… Eh, you understand even without me rephrasing it? Eheh. That makes me happy to hear. I’m glad we’ve gotten so much closer.

Birthday Login Message 4: Thanks for the birthday present! Oh yeah, let me give you something in return. How about some skin cream? I got some from of my dormmates, but there’s no way I can use up all of it… They’re all nicely packed in a cardboard box, so I’ll swing by Ramshackle later to drop them off. Don’t worry about me, just take 'em all!

Birthday Login Message 5: Thanks for coming to celebrate my birthday! I’ll take good care of the present you gave me. Huh, I smell like smoke? Maybe it’s 'cause me and the Spelldrive Club were doin’ a BBQ as an after-scrimmage party. Ruggie-san’ll basically eat anything and everything, while Leona-san and the other guys were chowin’ down on the meat… It kinda turned into a huge battle for everything, but 'cause I gave it my all to grab what I wanted too, I got to eat a ton! That was so good! Ah… Don’t tell Vil-san what I just told you, okay? Thanks. I really got to have a great birthday 'cause of that.

Requested by Anonymous.

[casssmalefantasy]

beyond the baseline: the series — paige bueckers x oc!

“it’s never just a game. it’s what you carry when the court goes quiet.”

s: ari james transfers to uconn, joining the volleyball team and stepping into a world where basketball legends and fierce competition collide. as she navigates new friendships, old loyalties, and the silent pull toward paige bueckers, everything shifts beneath the surface. this series explores the messy, beautiful tension of unspoken feelings, the cost of secrets, and what it means to find home in unexpected places. a slow-burn, emotional journey through sport, identity, and love.

w: slow burn, friends-to-lovers, pining, jealousy, miscommunication, emotional vulnerability, swearing, kissing, sports team dynamics, bisexuality, private relationships, soft angst, mental health undertones, athletic pressure, hurt/comfort moments, and potentially smut.

author’s note: this took so long guys 😀, but i hope you enjoy it. new series lets goooo!!

————————————————————————

table of contents:

i. the transfer—new school. new team. old friend. something shifts. (may 27th)

ii. new team, same energy—ari’s finding her footing, flirting with danger (and maybe paige), and ice is starting to notice. (may 28th)

iii. we don’t flirt (we just talk like that)—quiet tension. playful banter. ari’s first game. ice’s warning grows louder. (may 31st)

iv. someone else’s hoodie—ari’s seeing jaylen. paige notices. jealousy brews. (june 2nd)

v. the night we didn’t talk about—quiet tension, a casual situationship, and an almost-kiss that changes everything. (june 2nd)

vi. game recognize game—ari’s caught between jaylen and paige, teams collide, secrets surface, and hesitation cracks the guard. (june 5th)

vii. don’t start what you can’t finish—old feelings resurface, silence grows heavier, and when the truth slips out, the fallout is impossible to ignore. (june 6th)

viii. tension holds like smoke—hurt lingers in the silence. jealousy rises. confrontation breaks what’s left. neither of them says it, but both of them miss the other. (june 8th)

ix. can’t outrun it—distance didn’t fix it. silence didn’t dull it. one photoshoot, one argument, and one kiss later — they’re finally saying what they should’ve said all along. (june 11th)

viii. tension holds like smoke—jealous words. a kiss they can’t take back. after weeks of silence, the truth finally breaks through — but nothing’s simple after that. (june 12th)

ix. it was never a game—what started as tension unravels into truth. one overheard confession, one shattered look, and too many words left unsaid. now, it’s all falling apart. (june 14th)

xii. we both know why—a fall, a text, and the moment that undoes the silence. some things don’t need to be said to be felt. (june 15th)

xiii. some things are worth waiting for—the game gets bigger. so does the love — soft, steady, and still holding on. (june 18th)

xiv. the game after the end—the final buzzer sounds, but the real game is what comes next — quiet moments, raw feelings, and a new beginning. (june 21st)