#note to self: we are NOT doing that again

[azzibuckets]

reputation, or, all the ways i’ve loved you

or, love is immature and heady and new and blissful and hard and exhausting and it might kill you but in the end—love endures.

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: paige and azzi in various stages of love, as told through reputation by taylor swift

a/n: as a celebration for 3k followers, here’s my longest fic yet! don’t know if this style is for me so we’ll see if i ever write a long one again lol. nevertheless, i hope you guys enjoy :)

word count: 9k

masterlist | oneshots masterlist

⋆⑅˚₊ i. dancing with our hands tied - i loved you in secret / first sight, yeah, we love without reason

July 2018

Out of all the things Azzi Fudd expected her father to do after telling him the big news, laughing was probably last on the list. Actually, scratch that — it wasn’t even on the list to begin with, because what kind of father takes their child’s health as a joke? Certainly not Tim, who’s forced Azzi to take her daily vitamin gummies for as long as she can remember, the nasty ones that taste too sour to resemble the Trolli eggs they’re supposed to be a dupe of.

But here is Tim Fudd, the man who raised her, lines crinkling around his eyes as he guffaws so loud he starts pounding his own chest. Azzi would be worried for his lack of oxygen if she wasn’t so incredulously offended. “Dad? Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, I heard you.” Tim pauses to take a breath before starting to laugh again, tears slowly beginning to form at the corner of his eyes.

“What’s so funny, then?” Azzi questions snarkily, hands on her hips in the perfect pose of sassy teenage indignance.

“Azzi, honey.” Tim straightens up as his breathing ebbs back to normal. He moves to place a comforting hand on Azzi’s shoulder, but she jerks away, not at all in the mood for his antics. “You’re not sick,” he says gently. “I think you might have something else.”

Azzi wrinkles her nose, running through all the meticulous shelves of research stored in her mind. She’d gone through every possibility on the Internet, taking methodical notes on every potential disorder, anamoly, or illness that could be afflicting her body. She'd been pretty sure she’d scoured them all, but maybe she had missed something in her overzealousness. “You’re saying I didn’t get a hypoglycemic episode?”

“Sweetie, do you even know what hypoglycemic means?”

Azzi opens her mouth to answer, wanting to say that she does, in fact, know that hypoglycemia is an indicator of low glucose levels in the blood, and that if left untreated, her bodily functions will not have enough energy to continue, and her organs will fail, and she will die a long and painful death, and her understanding of the word hypoglycemic makes it all the more astounding as to why her dad won't take her illness seriously, but before she can can even begin her tirade, her dad winces and puts up a palm. “Actually, never mind. I don’t want to hear all about your self diagnosis, as funny as it is.”

“It’s not a self diagnosis if everyone on the Internet says I have all the symptoms of hypoglycemia!” Azzi argues, but even she knows the argument is weak.

Tim massages his forehead, lips twitching with the exertion of holding back a second round of laughter. “And what did you say your symptoms were again, hon?”

“Excessive sweating, even when I’m like, standing still and it’s 60 degrees out. And dizziness. And my fingers start to shake sometimes! Difficulty concentrating, and tingling lips.” Azzi lists them out on her fingers, smiling triumphantly when she’s finished. Take that, Dad.

“Mm.” Tim rubs his chin in thought. “And when exactly do you experience these symptoms?”

“Well, the last time I can remember is when I was hanging out with Paige at Grandma’s on Wednesday.”

Tim coughs into his arm, loud, and it sounds suspiciously like a wheeze. Azzi squints at him, suspicion written across her face. After recovering, he prods, “Do you remember any of the other times this has happened?”

“I don’t know, I can’t think specifically. It happens a lot. Umm…” Azzi thinks back. “Maybe last week, at the fair? I’m trying to remember.” She closes her eyes, trying to prompt memories of that airy feeling in her head, the rollercoaster in her tummy, the buzz in her chest that had started the car ride over to the fair, right around when they’d picked Paige and her brother up.

It had gotten increasingly worse as the day went on, peaking during the afternoon when they’d been on the bumper cars. She’d been squished into the same car as Paige, the car offering only a very small seat to service two basketball players suffering from summer growth spurts, all long limbs and awkward lank. As a result, the sides of their feet and thighs and arms had been touching and overlapping—Paige almost fell into Azzi’s lap when Jose crashed into them especially hard, golden hair spilling across Azzi’s face and pale hands landing on her thighs. She remembers the smell of fruity shampoo and the feeling of feathery strands tickling her cheeks making her even dizzier than bumper car itself, her nerve endings lighting up, every point on her skin ultra sensitive as sweat had started to pool in her armpits and in the palms of her head. And when Paige's palms had rubbed up and down on her thighs — God. She'd almost died.

Azzi shudders at the memory and opens her eyes. “Yeah, definitely at the fair.”

“The fair?” Tim cocks an eyebrow. “You mean, the fair we went to last week?”

“Yes, Dad, that’s what I said,” Azzi responds, growing increasingly frustrated.

“The fair we went to with Paige and Drew?”

“Yeah.” Azzi crosses her arms in defiance. “Is that supposed to be relevant?”

Tim makes an unncommital sound in his throat. “So you’re saying you don’t get any of these symptoms, say, at home?“

“Well…” Azzi purses her lips. “I guess recently I've been having difficulty concentrating all the time. Wherever I’m like, at home or school or whatever.”

“What makes it hard to concentrate?” Tim cocks his head in genuine curiosity. “What’re you thinking about?”

Azzi doesn’t have a ready answer. What does she think about? She tries to draw from her memory again, but gets distracted by the sort of hilarious, muddled irony of trying to think about what’re you usually thinking about. Then she realizes she’s making an expression again, the expression Paige has coined as her “thinky face” whenever she’s trying really hard to work out a homework problem or come up with an outfit to wear. The first time Paige had mentioned it, Azzi had frowned at her. “I don’t have a thinky face,” she’d replied.

“Oh, you totally do,” Paige said, glee written across her face — her typical attitude whenever she gets to argue with Azzi about something and be right.

“No, I don’t,” Azzi argued, but she’s already accepted that it’s a useless fight. It always is with Paige, who's stubborn and hard-headed and so much like Azzi that she looks at her best friend sometimes and think she's found her soulmate. Platonic soulmate, of course.

Paige smirked at her. “Azzi Fudd so has a thinky face.” She leaned in closer, so close that Azzi could see the glimmer in the deep blue of her eyes and the way her long lashes fluttered. “It’s okay, though, I think it’s pretty cute.” Then she’d pulled back and started talking about some stupid NBA game she’d watched recently, a topic Azzi usually tuned out anyways but this time especially didn’t pay any attention to because she was too disarmed by the fact that Paige had just called her cute. It shouldn’t have felt weird; her friends at school and her teammates called her beautiful and cute and adjectives much more crazy all the time, but still. There again went that same dry feeling in her throat.

“Azzi?”

Azzi blinks as she’s pulled back to the present. “Huh?”

“Maybe you are really sick.” Tim sends her a weary look. “But I just asked you what you usually think about, remember? Do you have an answer?”

“No." Azzi shakes her head grimly. "I couldn’t remember.”

Tim is the one to squint in disbelief this time. “Honey, what were you just thinking about? That’s probably it.”

“Oh, Paige? I was thinking about something she told me the other day. But it’s nothing. Before I was trying to remember, but I couldn’t think—" She’s cut off with an uncomfortable realization that’s starting to dawn in her as a very, very large pit balloons in the bottom of her tummy and begins to ache.

And at the same time this horrible understanding is beginning to come to light in the back of Azzi’s brain, Jose stands up from where he’d been sitting on the couch, watching TV. “You’re stupid, Azzi,” he snickers as he walks by them to grab a snack. “I’m only twelve and even I know you’re not sick.”

“Shut up, Jose,” Azzi replies back angrily, still staring at her hands — the very same hands that had held Paige's, and trembled and moistened in sweaty nervousness. No.

Jose, her little twerp of a brother, sticks his tongue out. “Your lips aren’t tingling from hypoguyseema, dummy.”

“Hypoglycemia,” Tim supplies unhelpfully.

“Your lips are tingling because you wanna make out with Paigey.” And the words don’t really register in Azzi’s heads, not right away at least, she honestly only reaches out to slap Jose from her instinctive, older sisterly awareness that he's being an annoying smart ass like usual, but still he runs away, out of her grasp, singing obnoxiously at the top of his lungs, “Paige and Azzi sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-"

“Shut up, Jose!” She picks up a pillow from the couch and chucks it at him, narrowly missing his retreating figure and instead hitting a vase that slowly toddles in places before falling to the ground with a dramatic crash.

“Azzi, you know we don’t throw things in the house for a reason,” Tim reprimands, exasperated at the childish scene in front of him, but when he turns to look at his daughter, her head is in her hands and her shoulders are shaking.

Tim has loved Azzi since he’s met her as a bumbling little toddler who instantly attached to his hip. He knows Azzi is sweet and sensitive and soft, a girl who has the gift of easily picking up on others' emotions but also is vulnerable to having her own shaken up. So he bites his tongue and makes a mental note to resolve the sibling conflict later. Right now, his daughter needs him; without a word, he collects Azzi into his arms and lets her tears fall on his shirt sleeve.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” and he doesn’t have to say anything else for Azzi to understand he’s not just talking about now — that this shocking and indescribable feeling that Azzi has only been able to name now, is okay, that Azzi, for who she is, is okay.

And yes, Azzi is able to name the feeling, but yet she buries it under her skin. Just because she realizes she has a crush on Paige doesn’t mean she has to act like it — and it especially doesn’t mean Paige, who definitely doesn't like her like that, has to know, she reminds herself.

And although the "illness" never goes away, although she never stops being nervous, and her fingers never stop trembling at least a little when Paige kisses her goodbye on the cheek, Azzi becomes really good at acting. Really good. At first, she couldn't sleep at night, overwrought with anxiety because no matter how good she became at pretending, Jose and her family have never been the best at keeping secrets. But she finds a way to control it definitely not by threatening to take away and sell her brother’s gaming console if she ever hears a peep about how much she damningly wants to kiss Paige, and time passes, and Azzi turns 17, and it’s been two years of knowing Paige, and she thinks that she might be a little bit in love at this point.

She knows how her crush started: an infatuation at camp, impressed by the white girl's agility and speed on the court, the ease and practiced experience with which she directed the team on the court, turning them from a group of girls who'd never played together before into one that worked the ball seamlessly to a gold medal. Of course, in the very beginning, she'd always been hyper-aware of the fact that Paige was just so pretty, a mischievous smirk ever present on pretty pink lips that looked too soft, eyes always bright and hair, even when messy, like a halo around her face.

Then Paige had decided to come into Azzi’s life and do things like go with her family to the fair, and the infatuation had turned into something closely resembling love. And it's not like there weren't many other things that made Azzi fall so fast and so dangerously, like how kind Paige was to the JV girls on her high school team even when they could barely shoot free throws, to the way she was so freely open about her adoration for Azzi, always having to saying something about good she thought Azzi looked.

It was safe to say that Paige had wormed her way into her team then her life then her family then her heart, settling in there like it was home and she’d always belonged there. Paige was someone who could make her laugh, but was always up to talk about serious things, and also was just so sweet to Azzi. Azzi had never met someone who had been all of those things, and now she was positively enthralled. So, even at age 15, even at age 16, and 17, Azzi is completely and utterly fucked.

⋆⑅˚₊ ii. dress - all of this silence and patience / pining in anticipation

April 2019

Azzi hadn’t planned on going to prom.

It was only her junior prom, anyways, and it happened to be the same time Paige was coming to visit, which meant she was going to be booked and busy. Her friends had pushed her to go, but how could she tell them she’d rather be with Paige, playing 1v1 in an empty gym where they always guarded a little too close, hands fisting shirts, always with. heavy breaths into the back’s of each other’s necks and fingers skimming palms?

But then James had made her a poster, standing at her front door with a big smile on his face and flowers in one hand. And she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings, and what did she have to lose? James was nice, and cute enough. His hands were soft and Azzi didn’t mind holding them.

Which is how Azzi finds herself at the Lincoln Memorial, walking painstakingly up the steps in her tight heels. Her mom had gotten a makeup artist to come doll her up, and it’s her first time wearing eyeliner, or any eye makeup at all. She thinks she could get used to this smoky look, the way her lashes look full and dark. It’s not often she gets to express her feminine side, with basketball taking almost all of her waking minutes - she hasn’t ever gone to homecoming or any other dance, and sweats and her shirts are typically her go to outfit. So she admits that this wasn’t a terrible idea, to get dressed up and pretty for once. It certainly helped being able to watch Paige’s reaction (all blushes and wide eyes, thank you very much) when she’d stepped out of the bathroom, glimmering and gilded in a shiny dress that slotted open to show the rich brown of her thigh.

Azzi knew that Paige found her attractive. And although she’s spent years wishing such an attraction went beyond a nere appreciation of her body and her face, she’s long accepted the fact that the love Paige has for her is purely platonic. Strong and steady, sure, but heartbreakingly platonic. Still, Azzi, gets a kick out of making Paige nervous.

Azzi winces as she stumbles for the fifth time, the sole of her foot throbbing and screaming to be let out of the confines of her heels.

“I told you you should’ve brought sneakers and carried your heels,” Pige says from behind her, and Azzi fights the urge to turn around and throttle her. Usually, her best friend would usually offer to do that for her, but Azzi can tell she’s using this opportunity to try and test James — and by the shit-eating smirk on Paige's face, Azzi knows that failing would be generous to describe how he's doing.

Azzi glances beside her and places her hand on her mouth to stifle a giggle. Paige sticks out like a sore thumb as she walks casually behind them, hands stuffed into her Nike sweats. She’s wearing her bright pink EYBL sweater, her hair slightly messy from lying around all day, but she still looks confident as ever, totally unperturbed by the long gowns and tuxedos surrounding her.

“Alright, smile!” Tim and Katie hold up five different cameras, capturing about a million different angles of the group of teens. Paige stands next to them, watching as they pose, but it doesn't take long before she begins to grow bored. “Why am I even here?” Azzi hears her complain quietly to her parents.

“Because when you stay with us, you’re part of our family, and being part of the family means coming to support each other in big moments," Katie reminds her, ruffling Paige's hair.

“Big moments, my ass,” Paige says under her breath as to goes to carefully fix her hair. “I’ve never even been to prom. It can’t be that good.”

“Paige.” Katie sends her a warning glare, effectively shutting her up. Paige has a very comfortable relationship with Tim and Katie, they're basically a second set of parents for her, but she knows her limits.

“Be a good sport, kid.” Tim adds, and claps her on the back. With a long and drawn-out sigh, Paige follows begrudgingly as they move from place to place to take more pictures, hands staying in her pockets and face remaining indifferent.

“Alright Paige, get in there!” Katie puts her camera down to encourage Paige with a nod.

“I’m not even dressed nice,” Paige grumbles, but she sidles in anyways, hand hovering hesitantly over Azzi's side before brushing down her back and finally settling firmly on her hip. The dark haired girl finds herself leaning away from James and into Paige’s touch, her hand burning into Azzi's skin even through the layers of her dress.

“One of you two alone?” Tim asks, a teasing smile on his face. Azzi narrows her eyes at him.

“Aw, you don’t want one with me?” Paige grins, her tone light as she starts to leave.

“No, I do, wait,” Azzi stumbles over her words, flustered, as Tim starts to laugh into his hands. She reaches for the blonde’s hand and tugs her back to her side where she belongs. “My dad’s just being annoying.”

James steps out, and Paige immediately relaxes, head naturally tilting towards Azzi's as they both smile for the cameras. “Aight, I think that’s good,” Paige says after another round of photos and cooing by Azzi’s parents. She takes a step back, shoving her hands back into her pocket as her eyes skim Azzi’s body. Azzi meets her eyes once they come back up, and she wills Paige to say something, anything, but the blonde only swallows hard before looking away.

“Az, I’m gonna go with your dad to get the car,” James tells her. “You good going with your mom back home? I’ll be there to pick you up in like, half an hour.”

The car ride back to her house is silent. Paige picks at her cuticles, while Azzi sits ramrod straight in her seat, not wanting to mess up her hair or wrinkle her dress. When her mom pulls into the driveway, she reaches over and pinches Paige’s side. “Can you stay for a sec? I wanna talk.”

Paige, who had been already attempting to get out of the car, sits back down into her seat, eyebrows raised in a question. Azzi doesn’t speak yet, and their breathing is the only sound in the car. Paige crosses then uncrosses her legs, peeking at Azzi before returning her gaze outside the window, clearly impatient for the younger girl to begin talking.

Azzi fingers a strand of her hair. “Do you think I look pretty?”

Paige’s lips quirk at the question. “That was not what I was expecting you to say.”

“What were you expecting me to say?” Azzi asks, slightly defensive.

“Nothing,” Paige replies too quickly, but Azzi senses a tinge of relief in her tone. She shifts in her seat, edging slightly closer as she examines Azzi’s face. Her knee accidentally bumps into Azzi's ribs. Azzi hates when her best friend starts looking at her with her full attention. The heavy weight of blue eyes always causes her heart to flutter, and she begins to squirm self-consciously under her gaze. “Stop that.”

“You asked me if I thought you were pretty,” Paige retorts. “Can’t blame me for looking.”

God, she’s so annoying. Azzi pushes her, but Paige catches her hand, sandwiching it between her own and bringing it captive to her lips. “Of course I think you look pretty, Az,” Paige laughs. She presses a single small kiss to her knuckles. “You know I do.”

“Well, you didn’t compliment me tonight, and you always do.” Azzi ducks her head as she feels the warmth in her cheeks give her away. Damn it.

“Always want my validation, huh,” Paige teases, trying to meet her eyes, but Azzi looks away still, stubborn as always, and her expression sombers. “You look gorgeous, Azzi, seriously. I mean, you’re always gorgeous,” Paige tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, but Azzi’s not sure there was even a flyaway to begin with, so Paige ends up just ghosting her fingers down from her temple to her chin. “But…” her gaze falls down, and her eyes alone say enough words to finish her sentence and a thousand more. Paige leans in, eyes half lidded, and Azzi shuts her eyes, preparing for the usual affectionate kiss on the cheek. She shudders when she feels lips on her neck instead, at the soft spot below her ear, lingering for a few seconds before it’s gone all too soon. Deep, unguarded heat blooms from that spot, spreading from her neck to her chest.

Azzi realizes they’re still holding hands, and she gives Paige's fingers a squeeze for the hell of it. Encouraged, Paige moves in even closer, hands moving to the headrest for support. Azzi is caged in by Paige’s arms, and Azzi sort of likes it, and she sort of wants Paige to start kissing down her neck like in the movies, maybe leaving a mark or two, but she’s met only with a kiss on her cheek, right near the corner of her mouth, so close that if she’d moved to the right just a couple millimeters their lips would’ve touched.

Paige’s lips part just a bit, her tongue poking out to lick her bottom lip. Her breathing whistles out unevenly. “Have fun tonight, Azzi,” she says, eyes flicking down, and Azzi swears they pause at her lips. She pops the door open and slides out, walking slowly back inside all cool and collected, like she didn’t just leave Azzi absolutely ruined from just two kisses.

Azzi bangs her head against the headrest, perfect hair be gone, and groans.

༉‧₊˚✧

When she finally gets back home, hair messy from dancing, calves sore from jumping around, Azzi is just a little tipsy, softened at the edges. Most of the effects from pre-gaming with her friends have worn off by now, and all she feels is the loose warmth in her chest, a warmth that floods down to her toes when she opens her bedroom door and sees a lump on her bed. Blonde hair peeks out from beneath her purple blanket. Azzi giggles when she lifts it and sees Paige with her mouth ajar, snoring away. Her glasses are perched messily on her nose, laptop on her thighs still open. She takes a quick picture for blackmail purposes before grabbing her pajamas to go change.

Azzi blames the alcohol for the way she can’t stop smiling to herself the whole way to the bathroom. It’s been a hectic day, and the thought of being able to curl up in bed with her best friend, being able to soak in the warmth of her body heat and bury her face into her neck and finally relax, gives her more satisfaction than she’d like to admit.

By the time Azzi has finished getting ready for bed, Paige, constantly moving while awake and in her sleep, has sprawled out in the center of the mattress. Azzi climbs in gingerly, but despite her best efforts not to disturb the older girl, she stirs.

“Azzi?” The blonde rolls over and snuggles into a pillow before she seemingly remembers where she is and shoots up in bed, looking as startled as a deer caught in headlights.

Azzi can’t help but snicker. “Yeah?”

Paige blinks groggily at her, clearly needing a moment to get her bearings. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep in here.” She fidgets with the end of her shirt, almost as if she’s embarrassed to have been caught in Azzi’s bed like this, and Azzi gets a sudden surge of cuteness aggression.

Deciding not to turn it into a big deal (she'd never want to scare Paige away from sleeping in her bed, God knows how much she loves it） out of the goodness of her heart, and the sore muscles in her body telling her to just sleep, Azzi says quietly, “You don’t have to go.” She pulls the comforter over her chest as she watches Paige breathe heavily, her shoulders and back flexing in her hunched over position.

A moment of silence passes before Paige responds. “Okay.” Lying back down is an awkward process, actions hesitant as the older girl overthinks where to go. She finds the very edge of the bed, arms pinned to her sides as she stares directly up at the ceiling. And it’s not like Paige and Azzi have never slept in the same bed, but they’ve never intentionally slept together, limbs intertwining only in the dark of night when they pretend to be asleep and ending when one of them wakes up first in the morning and is able to separate themselves before they have to deal with the awkward ordeal of waking up snuggling. Neither of them have ever really considered the fact that it shouldn’t be awkward for people who are really just friends to cuddle—but for them, it always has been, even the slightest of touches meaning too much and too little.

So Azzi waits for Paige to settle into bed and close her eyes before she takes the initiative to scoot closer in. She pauses a little when her best friend stiffens, and starts to regret maybe overstepping. But then Paige reaches out for her. She stares at the ceiling, not looking at Azzi, but her hand tugs Azzi’s wrist, bringing her closer until she’s fully curling into Paige’s chest. Paige's arm falls around her shoulders a little awkwardly. But she's warm, her chest solid, and Azzi thinks it's perfect.

Azzi has almost drifted fully into unconciousness when Paige whispers, “How was prom?” Her lips graze Azzi’s temple as she speaks into her hair, and Azzi shudders at the feeling.

“It was fine.” She presses her forehead sleepily to Paige’s neck, skin against skin, feeling her pulse thrum steadily. The fresh scent of Paige's deodorant and body wash is simple, a thousand times familiar, but still her favorite in the world. “Missed you,” Azzi admits, the tenderness in her own voice making her cringe a little.

Paige squeezes her closer in. “Missed you more." Her thumb caresses the younger girl's jawline, soothing her to sleep. "Maybe next year will be more fun.”

Azzi doesn’t say that prom was only fine because she could only think about Paige the entire time, and that things probably wouldn't change in a year if they hadn't for the past three. She only hums softly in response.

“Good night.” Paige drops a kiss on her hairline, so briefly and so casually that Azzi almost misses it.

“Night.” Azzi snuggles closer in, heart racing, and she sleeps.

⋆⑅˚₊ iii. so it goes - i'm yours to keep and i'm yours to lose

May 2020

Paige knows before it happens.

It was hard not to. Azzi had been acting distant all week, smiles tight and eyes a little less shiny whenever she’d spoken to Paige. The blonde had just assumed it was because she was having a hard time saying goodbye—what she didn't know was that Azzi was saying goodbye in more ways than one.

The morning of, Paige is the last in the house to wake up. She pads downstairs, still in her pajamas, to find her family and Azzi at the table, eating waffles. Drew is babbling about dinosaurs or something, whipped cream all over his nose and chin, while her dad mans the waffle maker and her step-mom packs a bag of snacks. Azzi is sitting next to Drew, cross-legged and domestic while feeding him between bites of her own food, and it strikes a feeling within Paige she can’t quite place yet.

“Good morning to my two favorite people,” she crows, her volume much too loud for 9 in the morning as seen by the winces on everyone’s faces. She throws one arm each around her little brother and best friend, pulling them in for a group hug, and she finds a hint of the old, familiar softness in Azzi’s eyes before it’s quickly replaced by the distant, guarded expression she’s been wearing for too long. Paige’s stomach heaves a little, but then Drew smears some whipped cream on her nose, eliciting a tickle war, and like usual, the feeling gets pushed to the side.

“Paige, there’s a stack of waffles for you on the table. Try to eat pretty quick because we have to leave soon,” her dad motions for her to sit down, and Paige dutifully obeys. Her eyes light up when she sees the bottle of syrup, and she proceeds to grab it eagerly before drizzling a concerning amount onto her breakfast.

“Paige, you’re gonna make yourself sick,” Azzi reprimands, but Paige only kicks her hard under the table before digging in.

“I’m packing some food for your plane ride,” her step-mom says. “Do you want Slim Jims or apple slices as snack?”

“Can I have both?”

“You only have room for one.”

Decisions, decisions. “Slim Jims.”

Azzi wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Hey,” she says quietly when the adults fall back into their own conversation. “I need to talk to you before you leave.”

“Oh yeah, I was gonna talk to you anyways. I needed to tell you something.” Paige was going to give Azzi the letter she wrote a couple weeks ago. She’d written and rewritten it only about a hundred times, then copied the final letter to fancy card stock paper in her best hand-writing, even adding a couple quick sketches of flowers and rainbows and hearts. It looked pretty awesome, if she did say so herself. Anddddd it also said a bunch of things she wasn’t ready to say out loud, so Paige’s current plan was to say her good-bye before shoving the card in Azzi’s hands as the last thing she’d do before jumping in the car and leaving. And then she’d spend the entire plane ride with her dad going batshit crazy thinking about Azzi reading it.

But still, it would be worth it. Paige was so sure Azzi felt the same — how could she not? She felt the way Azzi’s heart rate picked up whenever they touched, knew the way Azzi looked at her when she thought she wasn’t looking wasn’t normal for just best friends, especially since summer, when everything had between them had changed. It had started off with a kiss, and quickly evolved to something messy and tangled between the two of them that they’d labeled as “friends with benefits”, a label that Paige thought did their dynamic injustice. But still, it had been four years of knowing each other and almost a year of being more, and Paige was finally ready to let Azzi know. No more friends with benefits — girlfriends.

But Paige, so caught up in her thoughts, doesn’t see Azzi’s face drop, the younger girl’s tendency to overthink clearly leading her own train of thought. So she continues to eat her waffles in blissful ignorance as Azzi sits back quietly.

༉‧₊˚✧

“I’m just so ready, ya know?” Paige tosses her charger in the backpack. “I think that’s everything on my packing list,” she muses to herself quietly, gaze sweeping around the room with an air of finality. Then she looks up at Azzi and smiles. “The college experience, the whole nine yards.” She takes a seat on her bed and pats the spot next to her, indicating for the dark haired girl to sit with her. “Even though there’s still COVID and I won’t be able to do the really fun stuff—" she imagines playing in front of a sold out crowd at Gampel, and the smile on her face dims just a little at the feeling of missing out, “—still, I’m just so excited. I can’t stop like, bouncing around. You get it, right?” She flops down on the bed, hands folding behind her head as she closes her eyes and imagines it all.

Azzi is silent beside her, still sitting upright. Paige can’t see her face, so she nudges her knee. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Azzi’s voice is unsteady. “I get it.”

Paige opens her eyes and sits back up. “Bro, are you good? I didn't wanna say anything, but you’ve been kinda acting weird lately.”

“Listen,” Azzi says. She’s fiddling with a loose thread on her sweats, and Paige swears her fingers are shaking. “I know we haven’t really talked about it directly, but–" she takes a deep breath to steady her voice, “I want it to be clear between the two of us. Clean cut, you know?”

“Clean cut?” Paige echoes, lost.

“Yeah. No messy stuff and wondering what we are. So that you can go do your own thing at college, without feeling bad or- or like you owe me anything,” her words trail off into a gasp, “and I can do mine.”

Paige is even more lost. “Azzi, what are you talking about?”

Azzi bites her bottom lip, her nervous tic. “I’m saying that we should end this — whatever this is. Friends with benefits, casually sleeping together, whatever you wanna call it." She inhales sharply. "It’s probably the best for both of us.”

Immediately, she hones in on the word casual. Casual? Paige had never thought that whatever they had going on was a casual thing. Maybe unknown, unfamiliar, new—but never casual. She thought it was the most sacred thing in the world. A bitter taste forms at the base of her throat when she realizes that maybe she’s read it wrong all along. But Paige would never want to pressure Azzi into something she doesn't want. “So you’re saying - you’re saying you wanna end this?”

“Yeah." Azzi finally turns her head to her, and her face is marked by tear tracks. "You know, for your college experience. And for me.”

Devastation.

That's the only word Paige can think of that comes even close to what she's feeling right now.

She feels numb, and stupid, and god. How could she ever been so foolish to think that Azzi could like her back? Could want Paige in the same, aching, all-consuming, nonsensical way that she wanted Azzi? She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out but a broken "Okay."

“Okay?” Azzi sounds incredulous before she shakes her head and catches herself. Clearing her throat, she mumbles, “So, um, we good?”

Paige is thrown. Completely, utterly thrown. “Yeah, we’re good. I guess.”

Her dad calls for her downstairs, and when she stands it seems like she’s watching herself move in third person. “Well, thanks for visiting this past week and saying goodbye. I had fun.” Her tone is strangely flat, void of any emotion, unrecognizable even to herself. But when your heart has just gotten broken before it had to chance to even beat, how can self-preservation allow you to be on anything but auto-pilot?

“Yeah, me too.” Azzi sounds defeated, and Paige wonders if it’s because she’d felt trapped this entire week, had hated whenever Paige had pulled her aside for a quick kiss. The mere thought of Azzi feeling uncomfortable around her makes her nauseous with guilt.

So, Paige does the only thing she knows how to do. She shoulders on her backpack, but her suitcase and duffel bags are already in the trunk, so she doesn’t have anywhere to put her hands, and they hang limply by her side. She doesn’t even know if she should give Azzi a hug. “We’re still…we’re still best friends right?”

“Of course.” The smile Azzi flashes is meant to be reassuring, but the way it doesn’t reach her eyes makes it anything but. “I’ll come visit you soon,” she adds as an after-thought, seemingly wanting to remedy the situation, but Paige doesn’t even hear her, already leaving before she can finish her sentence. Having to stay any longer, having to look and let go of the sight of Azzi in her bed, in her room, in her home, would make her break down on the spot.

So Paige leaves without really saying good-bye, and she cries the entire plane ride to Connecticut.

⋆⑅˚₊

Azzi: just said goodbye to paige

Azzi: my flight's in a couple hours

Azzi: see you soon

Azzi finishes texting her parents before shutting her phone off and snuggling deeper into Paige's blankets. Everything had turned out so different than she'd expected a week ago. She'd came to Minnesota eager to spend a few days with her best friend before sending her off to college, with this persistent, nagging hope in the back of her brain that maybe this would be the moment where she could finally tell Paige about her feelings.

Then the moment she'd arrived at the Bueckers' home, Paige had started going on about how excited she was for the college experience. She hadn't said it explicitly — no, Paige was too kind to tell Azzi directly, but Azzi knew everything her best friend couldn't say. That she wanted to end these things, because she wanted other, better things: other girls, other people, other relationships.

And besides, letting go of Paige now is the only way to save herself in the future, Azzi reasons to herself. Being stuck in this weird limbo of being her best friend who also kisses her would only make it so much harder to see and hear about Paige with other girls in Connecticut. It was better to snap it in half now, while she still could, to leave her pride somewhat intact so that she wasn't hanging onto Paige while Paige was trying to shake her off.

Azzi had ended it before Paige could, and that was that.

⋆⑅˚₊ iv. dress - say my name and everything just stops / i don’t want you like a best friend

February 2022

“I’m gonna go hang out with Kiki after this.” The corner of Paige’s mouth twitches when Azzi stiffens in her arms.

“Oh, okay.”

Paige drums her fingers against Azzi's waist. “Just wanted to let you know.”

“Well, now I know.“ Azzi sidles out of her arms harshly. “Gonna go pee.”

The deeply entrenched lingers of doubt becomes to crawl in her mind again when Azzi leaves, but unlike a year ago, when Paige had left her house for the airport in tears, she has experience. Experience in reading people and picking up when they show all the tell-tale signs of a crush: the flush of cheeks, the stuttering whenever Paige flirts a little too hard, the way she subconsciously leans into her touch whenever they’re sitting next to each other. And the signs of jealousy — all the signs she sees in herself whenever Azzi talks to anyone but her. And honestly, even if Paige didn’t know for sure, it’s getting to a point where she can no longer ignore the tension between them. Ever since Azzi has joined her at UConn, even though they haven’t slept together, per se, their relationship has been more than when they were; the press of mouths to cheeks that linger longer than necessary, the grinding at Ted’s that start before either of them are really drunk but pretend to be for the sake of forgetting. And, in all honesty, Paige really can’t see Azzi talking to another asshat. Hence, their current situation.

When Azzi comes back, oversized shirt wet with the stains of washed hands, Paige has finished gathering up her courage again. Azzi makes a point of sitting down far out of reach at the other end of the couch instead of returning to Paige’s arms. Definitely jealous, she thinks to herself.

“Might take her out to a nice dinner or something,” Paige says, picking up right where she left off. Then she decides why not be more of an annoying shit, and asks, “Actually, can I borrow your car?”

Azzi’s eye twitches. “What do you need my car for?” She does a damn good job of forcing her tone into one of disinterest and indifference, but from the way her jaw ticks, Paige knows she’s anything but.

“Mine’s low on gas and the restaurant I wanna go to is far. Wanna give her princess treatment, you know?”

The younger girl is positively scowling now, eyes in slits as she channels all her anger into glaring at the TV. “And why are you telling me all of this?”

Paige scoots next to Azzi and throws an arm around her shoulder. Time to make her move. Tracing circles on her shoulder with a finger, she says slowly, “Because I wanted to see your reaction.”

“My reaction?”

Her laugh comes out breathy. “Azzi, I can tell that you’re jealous.”

Her best friend’s eyes close briefly, and Paige’s heart drops a beat. Reading Azzi has always came naturally to her, pure intuition for someone she’s always in sync with. Not to brag, but she’s perfected knowing exactly how to push Azzi and where her boundaries are, but this time maybe she’d gone too far. Paige is two seconds away from apologizing until the dark haired girl opens her eyes again and says firmly, “I’m not jealous.”

No turning back now. “No?”

“I’m really not.”

“So if I took your car, and went to pick her up, with a bouquet of flowers, maybe even some chocolate, and took her to a fancy restaurant…you wouldn’t mind at all?”

A strangled sound leaves Azzi’s mouth, so quiet Paige almost misses it. “Not at all.”

“And if I took her back to her house-“ Paige’s voice drops a note, all husky and raspy, “and I took her to her bedroom, and I kissed her-“

“Paige-”

“And I touched her-,”

“Paige, stop.” Azzi’s chest heaves. Paige looks away, trying not to get sidetracked by the way her tiny tank top dips on her cleavage and leaves a little too much to the imagination. The younger girl shrugs Paige’s arm off her shoulders and stands up, backing away as if being any closer to her will make her explode. “Fine, you win. You know I’m jealous.”

Paige’s smile is triumphant. “That’s all you all had to say, baby.”

Scoffing, Azzi turns around and marches into her room, but Paige is quick to follow. “I’m not hanging out with Kiki after this,”she says, breathing down Azzi’s neck as she almost steps on her heels, but her best friend speeds up. “I haven’t hung out with Kiki since before you got here.”

“So?”

“So,” Paige emphasizes, and realizing she has only about five seconds before Azzi reaches her room and slams the door in her face for being, she admits, sort of an asshole, she says all in one breath, “I-wanted-to-make-sure-you-felt-the-same-because-I-have-feelings-for-you-and-I’ve-had-them-for-a-while-and-I-really-want-to-take-you-on-a-proper-date-and-hopefully-become-your-girlfriend-because-I-don’t-wan’t-you-like-a-best-friend-and-I-honestly-go-crazy-thinking-about-you-with-anyone-but-me-but-if-you-don’t-feel-ready-for-more-yet-then-it’s-okay.” She’s panting by the time she finishes and doesn’t realize that Azzi has fully stopped in her tracks before she’s stumbling over her feet and crashing into her, sending the both of them falling to the ground.

Somehow they both end up with their backs against the carpet, looking up at the ceiling. Azzi is still breathing hard next to her, from speed walking or falling or from Paige getting on her nerves, Paige isn’t sure which, but she waits patiently for her response, trying to ignore the stupid noise in her head saying maybe your dumbass got it all wrong again.

Finally, finally, after what seems like ten minutes, Azzi opens her mouth. “You’re stupid,” is all she says, then she rolls over and kisses Paige on the mouth.

Not what Paige was expecting after her grand love confession, but the plumpness of Azzi’s bottom lip captured in between hers makes it hard to complain about anything at all.

They kiss for twenty minutes, or maybe forty. Paige loses track of time, and honestly, she could do this forever without getting tired, but she came to Azzi's apartment tonight with a game plan, and she has to stick with it, so she pushes her best friend away a little to end their 10/10 makeout session.

Smoothing the frizz of Azzi’s hair back with her palm, she whispers, “I’m gonna take you on a date, okay?”

Azzi grins and kisses her forehead. “Okay.”

“Tomorrow. Are you free?”

Azzi moves to her cheek, tongue leaving wet trails on her face. “Don’t act like you don’t know my schedule.”

“Okay then. Tomorrow at six.” Paige traces the dimple of Azzi’s smile with the pad of her thumb, memorizing the indentation she loves so much. “That was lowkey easier than I thought it’d be.”

“Making my life hell for the past twenty minutes was easier than you thought?” Azzi bites down hard on Paige bottom lip, teeth scraping into her soft skin, and the blonde winces.

“Sorry,” she replies unapologetically. “Just had to make sure. Plus, you’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Azzi smirks against her mouth. “’I go crazy thinking about you with anyone but me,’” she mimics in a high pitched tone.

“Who you tryna be?” Paige grumbles, but there’s no heat in her voice.

⋆⑅˚₊ v. don’t blame me - i get so high, oh, every time you’re loving me

“It’s too early in the goddamn morning for you to be cheesin like this,” Nika complains as they stretch out on the cold floor of the gym.

Paige grabs her foot and leans toward it, shaking out the stiffness in her hamstrings and calves. “You’re just jealous I got a hot date and you don’t,” she responds, unable to take the grin off her face.

Nika grimaces. “Please never say that ever again.”

“Who’s this hot date?” Azzi plops down next to them, her thigh brushing Paige’s as she extends her knee, and Paige shivers.

Nika mimes putting a finger down her throat, and Paige waves her off. “Only the prettiest girl in the world," she says, not giving a shit about how cheesy the words coming out of her mouth sound.

Azzi wrinkles her nose, but her eyes shine with affection. “Have I told you you’re stupid?” She slides her hand over Paige’s, giving it a quick squeeze before moving it as quickly as it came.

“Only a couple of times.” Paige takes a swift search around for prying eyes before leaning in close to Azzi. “Just to be clear,” she whispers, “you like me? Like, like like me?”

“I feel like we're in middle school again, but to answer your question, last I heard of, yeah,” Azzi says, a smile threatening her lips. “Unless anything has changed since ten hours ago?”

“Nahh, nothin.” Paige gives Azzi’s earlobe a quick nip. “'Cept for the fact that I’m nervous as hell thinking about tonight.”

Azzi giggles at the ticklish feeling before CD steps into the gym, clapping her hands and directing the girls to start warming up. Paige sends her a wink before jogging to the front to take charge.

⋆⑅˚₊

They’re the last ones in the locker room, and Paige waits only a few seconds after the last of their teammates leave before she’s pushing Azzi against the wall and and kissing her. Paige’s cheeks are flushed and rosy from practice, hair coming loose from her bun and wild strands framing her face, and Azzi drinks it all in.

“Look so fuckin good just practicing, it’s unfair,” Paige mumbles in breaths, unable to keep her mouth away from Azzi’s for too long. Her hand wanders down Azzi’s back, fisting up her jersey to stroke the bare softness of her waist before trailing down to cup the swell of her ass. She squeezes hard, and Azzi moans into her mouth, a little breathy sound that drives Paige absolutely feral. It’s only when a door bangs outside that they realize how incriminating they’d look if someone walked in, and they separate, gasping.

“We should probably go,” Azzi breathes out, unable to take her eyes off the swollen wetness of her best friend’s lips.

“Probably,” Paige agrees. Then she takes off her jersey, movements slow and sensual. Her shirt rides up in the process, giving Azzi a glimpse of milky white skin and muscled abs, and Azzi really can’t blame herself for what she does next, not when Paige looks like that.

⋆⑅˚₊ vi. new year’s day - but i stay when you’re lost and i’m scared and you’re turning away

August 2025

Paige wakes up to three missed phone calls. She’s only able to swipe up and see that they’re all from Azzi before her phone immediately dies. She curses. Worst fucking timing in the world. She rushes to plug her charger in, tapping the black screen aggressively as if it’ll make it turn on any after. Her head still pounds from the chaos of the night before, her mouth dry and gross. She’s not sure if she even brushed her teeth after coming home from the club, the way her breath still stinks of alcohol.

She thinks about finally getting up to take or shower or do anything that’ll make her feel less disgusting but then finally, finally, her phone comes back to life. Her hearts starts pounding harder when she’d realized she’d missed not just three calls, but a series of texts.

11:45 PM

Missed call from Azzi

Missed call from Azzi

Azzi: hey u good?

Azzi: lmk if u need a minute

11:58 PM

Azzi: lmao did u forget

12:10 AM

Missed call from Azzi

Azzi: seriously paige

Azzi: at the fucking club again

12:22 AM

Azzi: call me when ur up

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Paige squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t even really remember last night—it’s a blur of hazy smoke, one too many shots, and bassy music thumping so loud she swore her eardrums almost burst. But after the win at home, that much needed win, when the team had started making plans to celebrate, Arike promising that drinks were on her, she’d told Azzi that she needed to cancel their previously scheduled Facetime for that night. Didn’t she?

She scrolls down, heart ricocheting in her chest when she sees the unsent text in her message bar. She must have exited it out or closed her phone before she could’ve pressed send. Cursing under her breath, Paige slides on her glasses and calls Azzi.

The phone rings three times before it’s answered. “Hello?” Azzi’s voice comes out dry and scratchy. She sounds like she’s just woken up, or is sick, or maybe a mixture of both.

“Baby, hey.” Paige runs a hand through her hair but gives up when it gets tangled in a knot. “I’m so sorry about last night. I meant to text you and I forgot to press send and there was a ton of shit happening at once. I should’ve double checked that it sent, and I’m- I’m sorry.” Paige isn’t sure what to do but keep apologizing, but she's only greeted with silence on the other end. After a couple of beats, she says hesitantly, “Azzi?”

Her girlfriend exhales slowly on the other end, the tell-tale sign that she’s trying really hard not to lose her patience. Not a good sign. “Okay.”

“Just...okay?” Paige repeats, slightly confused at the lack of anger or really any emotion at all in her tone.

There’s rustling on the other end of the line before Azzi’s voice comes out clearer and louder. “What do you want me to say?”

“I - I don’t know. Are you mad?” Because Azzi isn’t yelling at her, or saying anything in particular, just sounds resigned, and Paige doesn’t know what to do with that. She’d rather Azzi show any kind of emotion than this. She can't read this. She can't navigate this.

“Christ, Paige, you’re so dense sometimes.”

“You have every right to be mad with me, but I don’t know, you sound—”

“You think I want to be mad at you? You think I wanna spend one of our, what, four phone calls a week arguing with you? Fuck.” There it is.

Paige rubs her temples. “I know.”

“I’m not tryna be your clingy girlfriend from home,” Azzi continues. “Trust me, I’m really fucking not. Ever since you left I’ve been trying to respect your new life, your new schedule, letting you have space to enjoy your rookie year without having to feel suffocated. But please, please tell me I’m not insane for thinking that it’s unreasonable for you to cancel a call not even for basketball, but for shit like partying at a club?” Azzi pauses. “Honestly, I feel like I’m the one initiating our conversations most of the times. It’s like you’re putting in zero effort.”

“I understand that you’re mad but it’s a little ridiculous of you to just say I never put in any effort, Azzi.” Paige has never lashed out like this, never spoken to Azzi in this tone that sounds like anger and bitterness and exasperation fighting over each other to be heard, but Azzi's words strike something deep inside of her that hurts. “You think I like being this busy, this exhausted, having this little free time to talk more than a couple of hours? Throughout everything I’ve been trying to make you feel like a priority because god, Azzi, you are, I love you so much, and it hurts that you think I’m not even trying.” Her voice chokes an embarrasing amount on the last word, and she tosses her phone on her pillow to run her hands over her face in an effort to collect herself.

“Oh, my bad, Paige. Sorry for being such a burden and an inconvenience in your busy life,” Azzi spits out bitterly.

Paige can't help but jump to her own defense. “You didn’t even wanna come down to Dallas last month when you were free. And it's not like I can go up to you. If one of is putting in less effort, Azzi, it's sure as hell not me.”

“We had pre-season workouts, Paige, you know that.”

“I also know that they’re not mandatory and it wouldn’t have killed you to missed one. You could’ve worked out with me down here.” Somewhere deep inside, Paige knows she's being unreasonable, that Azzi has never asked her to skip practice for her and so neither should she, but she remembers the hurt that had coiled in her stomach, dark and tangled, when Azzi had refused to come down for even just a couple of days after not having seen each other in almost three weeks. If it had been her, she would’ve taken the first flight, Paige thinks, and it hadn’t taken much to spiral down the rabbit-hole of doubts—that Azzi didn’t miss her the same way she did, that Azzi was perfectly fine living her life in Storrs while Paige lived hers in Dallas, that Azzi didn’t care enough about Paige to want to visit her again. And when she’d been scrolling on Tiktok, seen videos of her girlfriend with her teammates that weekend, laughing and smiling with them when it could’ve been her—the spiral had turned into something much worse in her mind.

“So you expect me to drop everything for you but when it’s your turn to actually do something, to, I don't know, call me first for once, all of a sudden you’re too busy and tired?” Azzi accuses.

“That’s not even what I said!" Paige argues. "And I don't call first because I know you always call at a set time. Why are we even keeping track of who calls who first? If we're resorting to this, what's even the point?"

“What’s the point?” Azzi’s voice trembles. “What’s the point of this relationship, you mean?”

No, no, no. “Come on, Az, you know I didn’t mean it like that,” Paige pleads.

“You asked me what the point of our relationship was, Paige, don’t scramble now.”

“Because apparently you think it’s all one sided! And you’ve clearly been feeling like this for a while!” Paige swears under her breath. “How long have you been resenting me for this? Thinking that I don’t care about you, that I don’t care about us?”

“Don’t yell at me!”

“I’m not yelling!” Paige pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to get herself to take a couple of deep breaths and calm down. “Az, I’m sorry about last night, okay? I really am. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

“It’s not even about last night!” Azzi explodes. “How are you still not getting that?”

Seeing the time on her watch, Paige grits her teeth. “This conversation isn’t getting anywhere and I have practice. Can we talk later?”

“It’s always later with you.” Azzi’s voice is oddly high pitched, strained as if she’s trying to hide something, and Paige realizes that she’s probably crying. Fuck. She hates this, the distance, the ease of throwing angry accusations over the phone when you can’t see their face crumble from the impact of what you've done. Azzi sniffs. “Whatever. We’ll talk after. Call me when you’re done.”

“Okay.” Paige opens her mouth to say one more thing, but the line ends before she can. Fuck. She throws her phone on the bed, but it slides off the mattress and tumbles to the ground with a smack. Picking it up, she sees two cracks running through the screen. It looks almost as ugly as she feels inside.

Perfect. It’s 7 AM and her day already sucks.

As soon as practice is over, she shoots Azzi a text.

Paige: done for the day, lmk when ur free

Read

She checks her phone for the next couple of hours, waiting for a response, but to no avail.

Paige: are u really ignoring my texts

Paige: lmfao thought we left this petty shit back in high school

Paige: u said u wanted to talk and now u don’t want to?? i really don’t know what u even want from me

Azzi calls her a couple minutes later.

“That’s how I feel,” Azzi says tightly. “That’s how I felt last night, when I stayed up until 12:30 waiting for you to call.”

“Aight, next time tell me if you’re gonna call just to pick a fight, ‘cause then I won’t fuckin pick up,” Paige fires back, and she knows before she says it that it'll just make everything worse, but shit, she's so tired of arguing, for having to walk on eggshells whenever they talk, and she knows Azzi is too. And she's been in a terrifically awful mood all day, going stir crazy at her girlfriend's lack of response to her texts; she wants to resolve it more than anything, to make everything okay again, yet it seems like Azzi is holding onto that anger for her and she doesn’t know why.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, I don’t even know why I miss you," Azzi says scathingly. "Honestly, maybe we should take a break. This clearly isn’t working.” And those words are so sudden, so heavy and unexpected, that Paige can only fall silent in response.

Breathing hard, Paige touches her cheeks. She’s never been a crier, but all of a sudden the sleeve of her sweater is damp and her vision is blurring and her head is spinning.

“Paige?” Azzi says her name softly and regretfully.

“Yeah,” she says numbly into the phone, pretending as if Azzi suggesting a break—Azzi, in effect, wanting to end things—didn't just crush everything inside of her.

A sob comes out over the line. “I - I just miss you and I just said a bunch of shit that I didn’t mean and I feel so horrible. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Paige swipes angrily at her eyes, willing the tears to stop flowing. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Then Azzi whimpers, a small and deadly sound that pierces right through Paige’s heart, and despite everything, she just wants to reach through the phone and hold her. “I don’t wanna take a break. I love you, and I’m not used to fighting with you, and I just want you to be here.”

Paige is quiet for a moment, head swimming. “I’m sorry too. Listen, it’s late. Let’s just sleep on it and talk tomorrow, okay? When we both have clearer heads.” Paige would never call their relationship fragile, she feels like that would be a disservice to their years of fighting for each other, but it’s definitely not in a good place right now. And she's so consumed by her anger she’s not sure what might come out of her mouth if they keep going at it, and she doesn’t want to risk it.

"I love you," Azzi speaks quietly. Paige closes her eyes, turning the words over in her mind as a reminder. She loves you. You love her. That’s all that matters. "More than anything or anyone in this world, I love you."

"I know." Paige’s voice trembles. "I love you too."

The call ends, and Paige has never in her life felt this helpless; the only thing she can do from a million miles away is stare listlessly at the black screen on her phone. The two of them have always had their arguments, but it would always be resolved within a couple of days. Now, the distance makes it so much more complicated, because it had been easy—too easy to say all those things to Azzi that she really didn't mean. She supposes they both took part in it, intentionally calling instead of Facetiming so they could avoid dealing with the fallout or taking accountability by blaming it on the emotional and physical barriers separating them.

Christ. Paige reaches for the jar of melatonin on her bedside table. She's gonna need double the dose tonight.

⋆⑅˚₊

Azzi doesn't know what came over her.

Maybe it had been from the pure exhaustion of the past few months. Living in Storrs is like being surrounded by constant reminders of Paige—in Werth, in Gampel, even in her own fucking dorm. And she's always been stable and secure in their relationship, but it still hurts only being able to hear about Paige's new life without really being a part of it.

Then she'd gone and suggested a break, quite possibly the dumbest thing she's ever said, and for an agonizing second of silence over the phone, she'd been scared that Paige would agree, that Paige would say, maybe this is best for us, and end it all right then and there.

But she hadn't, and Azzi had apologized, but she knew it had done nothing to fix the impact of her words.

Which is why it's 2 AM, but she's still up, looking at flights to Los Angeles on her laptop. Paige has a game against the Sparks, and she can only stay for one day, so she's searching for tickets that will allow her to arrive right before the game and leave the early morning after.

Bingo. A last minute flight that leaves in six hours. Azzi calculates the timing in her head; the plane ride is 8 hours but LA is 3 hours behind, meaning she'll arrive at around 1 pm PST. It'll be too late by then to catch Paige before the game, and she wouldn't want to distract her anyways, so she'll have a few hours to make it to the game, watch, before hopefully having the chance to talk to Paige that night before both of them have to leave for their own cities. Azzi completes the purchase, then starts to pack her backpack.

LA is sunny and warm, and uplifts Azzi's spirits just a little. She takes an Uber to a restaurant to get some food in her stomach before taking another Uber to Crypto Arena. She wasn't able to secure a very good seat, so she pulls her hoodie tight over her head and hopes that the cameras don't see her. With red-rimmed eyes and deep bags under them, she looks worse for wear, and the last thing she wants to do is to be displayed on the big screen for everyone to see.

The first three quarters fly in a flash; Paige has a rocky start before she picks Rickea's pocket late in the second and scores, setting off her momentum for a solid 14 points by the end of the third. Azzi has always loved watching Paige play, but this is only the fourth or fifth time she's gotten to watch her girlfriend play professionally, but she's still in awe of how Paige moves so naturally on the court, already a leader on both ends despite being a rookie.

Azzi is on her phone during the break when the crowd starts to cheer. Looking up at the commotion, she fights the urge to groan when she sees herself on the screen, looking confused as hell. Contorting her face into a smile, she awkwardly waves and flashes a thumbs up before the cameras thankfully pan towards a celebrity across the arena.

Then she sees Paige, who had by some chance saw Azzi on the screen. The blonde is searching the arena, hands on her waist as her eyes sweep the crowds. Her mouth is tight, set into a firm line, body posture rigid, before one of the assistant coaches taps her on the shoulder and redirects her attention to Chris.

As soon as the game is over, Paige is walking around the court, evidently still scanning the arena for her. Knowing that the older girl doesn't have her phone, Azzi makes her way down the stairs, a task made much slower by her compression boot. Finally, she makes it down, but then she's stopped by a security guard who raises a brow at her.

"Hey, Azzi!" A familiar voice rings out, and there's Cameron, eyes bright as she makes her way through the throng of people on the court. She motions for the security guard to let her through the rope, and Azzi slips in. Wrong blonde, but still, Azzi is glad to see her.

"Cam! It's nice to see you," Azzi greets, pulling in the taller girl for a hug. "Looking good back on the court."

"Thank you, thank you." Cameron brushes off her jersey in faux humility. "Still getting used to it but it feels really good."

Azzi knows all too well what returning to the game feels like after an ACL, so she smiles sympathetically at her old friend.

"What brings you to LA?" The older girl leans in conspiratorially. "Here to see your girl?" Cameron is one of few people who'd witnessed the birth of their friendship into something more, and usually Azzi would be laughing with her, but the bleakness of it all makes her only have the strength to offer a weak smile and a "Yeah."

"Azzi." The two of them turn around and see Paige, who still looks slightly confused as she moves quickly towards the two of them. Azzi takes in her girlfriend, her hair falling apart from her bun, sweat beading on her chest and neck. Unsure of what to say or do, they look at each other for a second before Paige reaches out for a hug, both of them stiff before they fall into the familiarity of each other's arms. Azzi nuzzles her head into her girlfriend's neck, not caring that her cheeks come away damp from Paige's sweat. She'd missed Paige, terribly so.

Paige is caught up in staring at Azzi when they separate before she seemingly registers that there's a third person. "Hey, Cam," she says, dapping her up.

"Paige," Cameron pats her on the back. "Gave us hell tonight." Paige chuckles, and the two players pull apart, but Paige's gaze quickly returns to examining Azzi. Cameron looks between the two of them, observant as ever, and raises an eyebrow at the tension she senses hanging in the air. "Oookay. Well, I gotta go now, but it was nice seeing the both of you. Enjoy LA, Azzi. Good game, P."

"Yeah, you too," Paige says distractedly. "It's nice having you back on the court."

Then Paige and Azzi are alone, but not really alone because they're surrounded by athletes and media and fans and more than a couple of cameras pointed at them. Paige seems to pick up on the cameras too, when she reaches for Azzi's hand, then draws back, overthinking her actions. "Let's, uh, go to my car?" she suggests. "We can talk?"

Azzi nods, and they fall into step back to the locker room. They're silent as they walk, neither really knowing what to say, until a familiar curly-headed face intercepts them in the hall. "Paige," Rae Burrell intones, a smirk on her face, "Nice to see you." Azzi immediately tenses up, slowing down in her steps, but Paige's hand moves to the small of her back, a quiet reassurance, as she guides them along, trying to move past the Spark. "Rae," she acknowledges with a mere nod.

"Azzi, fancy seeing you here. How you doing?" Rae asks, all sugar and sweetness as she starts walking beside them.

"Just peachy," Azzi drawls. Her hand lands meaningfully on Paige's bicep, firm and smooth under her hand, and she draws her girlfriend closer. Paige wraps an arm around her waist and kisses her temple without even sparing a glance at Rae, and even though there's a million things they need to work through, though apologies are needed and solutions must be made, Azzi knows that through it all, they are the surest thing in the world.

Finally getting the hint, Rae nods. "Alright, see y'all around," she mutters, an ugly frown on her face as she ducks into a side room.

"She doesn't give up, does she?" Azzi grumbles, hand falling from Paige's arm when she realizes that the older girl is likely still angry from last night. But Paige grabs her hand and brings it back, an apology that's silent and the first of many, and squeezes her closer.

"No, she doesn't," Paige affirms. They've reached the locker room, and Paige lingers for a moment before going inside. She pulls Azzi in by the waist and presses their foreheads together. "I'm really glad you're here."

"Only for today," Azzi says, and disappointment fills Paige's eyes before the events of the night before flash in her mind. "It's good," the older girl responds gently. "You're traveling sixteen hours just to be here for a few, and I appreciate it."

"I'm sorry," Azzi says, the apology tumbling out of her mouth. The need for Paige to know how much she regrets everything is too much to bear, and she starts to continue apologizing, but she's shut up by Paige's mouth suddenly on hers, moving softly, intentionally, urgently, perfectly. Her lips are so, so soft, and Azzi has missed this so bad.

Paige gives her one last kiss, forceful and emphatic, before looking at her, soft and sweet. Azzi exhales. They're gonna be okay.

[vettelsvee]

ARGUMENTS AND UNWANTED SHARED SECRETS | Charles Leclerc

⋆ PAIRING: Dad!Charles Leclerc x Mum wife!Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: Charles is back home for summer break, and a message he receives from Lando to hang out in a club makes the two of you argue in front of your daughter because all you want is her to enjoy her dad... or maybe, is just your nervousness and hormones making you overthink a lot ⋆ WORD COUNT: 1462 ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: First ever fic i’m posting as a university graduate and officially a teacher, so I can say that apart from some exams my nightmare after 4 years is finally done! 🫡 I'd love to read your thoughts about this one, so feel free to comment and reblog, I'd appreciate it a lot! <3 ↳ TALK TO ME/MAKE YOUR REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

The long-awaited summer break had arrived, and finally, Charles Leclerc could return to his beloved Monaco to spend three weeks with you, his wife, and your four-year-old daughter, Julia.

There was no doubt that traveling so much, and especially being separated from his little family for long periods of time, was exhausting emotionally and mentally for the Monegasque. Still, he knew he had to continue with his career if he wanted to achieve the goals his younger self had set for him: becoming a world champion. That's why videocalls with the women of his life, and the support of some of his mates, especially the newly dad on the grid, Max Verstappen, made the season more bearable.

That's why, even while having dinner in pajamas, talking about any topic that came up while enjoying a simple homemade dinner they had cooked together, Charles felt grateful.

"How's the season going so far, daddy?" your daughter asked, looking at your husband curiously as she held her glass of water.

Charles sighed, feeling a little uncomfortable. He didn't want to tellyou anything related to his disastrous season at Ferrari, especially not in front of your daughter.

"It's been tough so far," he replied as calmly as he could, "but we still have the second half ahead to fight. It’s not like we’re winning the championship, but we could still fight for some points."

The 6-year-old girl, sitting to Charles' left, looked saddened to hear her father's words.

"Why can't we go see daddy at a race?" she asked, looking at you, who tried to smile the best you could.

At that moment, the Monegasque was overwhelmed with love even your face said otherwise. It seemed like your daughter had read his mind as he was going to suggest it to you in the following days.

"Would you like us to come see you race, honey?"

"I wouldn't like it, I would honestly love it," Leclerc nodded enthusiastically. "Having you in the paddock, just like when you were pregnant with Julia, would be a dream."

The little girl was over the moon about the idea, kicking her little legs with enthusiasm.

"Does that mean we can go see daddy, mommy? I want to go see him race! And maybe I can see Lewis too!"

You savored your daughter's excitement.

"Of course, honey. We'll try to go to a few races if possible, of course."

Charles took another bite of his meal before speaking again.

"Oh, come on," your husband replied, taking another bite of dinner. "You just have to make sure that Juls wears sunscreen and drinks enough water."

Suddenly, Charles heard the ringing tone of his cellphone in the distance. With a soft apologise, he immediately got up to answer the call, thinking it might be some work-related issue requiring his attention. As he returned, you and little Julia were discussing which races you could attend to see her father.

"It was Lando," the driver commented. "He told me he’s going out tonight."

"And are you going?" you frowned, not getting any response from your husband. All he did was staying silence, as if he was hiding something from you, as if he was scared. You knew him all too well, and that’s exactly what he was doing. "Charles, I'm talking to you," you insisted. "I don’t mind you’re going, but… I don’t know, I thought having you here, with us, for the summer break, meant you were spending time with us."

Leclerc sighed.

“I just wanted to hang out with Lando and with you as well. You know, having some private time and trying to relax as much as possible without laying on the couch the whole day when I’m not at the gym.”

Julia sat quietly in her seat, sensing the tension between her parents filling the room even at her young age.

You stood up, abruptly dropping the fork she was eating with.

"It's not just about you relaxing or us having a good time," you shouted, a bit desperate, and immediately regretted it. "You’re… I don’t know, Charles, I feel like you’re always kinda prioritizing your career over our family. Plus, what are you going to do with your daughter tonight? Are you going to leave her alone? Or should we call your mother at nine thirty at night on a whim?"

"It's not fair for you to make me feel this way, you know?" Charles retorted, getting defensive. "I work hard to provide everything you need. Besides, you can stay here with Juls if you can't, or don’t, want to come."

"I work too, and I handle other chores as well," you said simply, trying not to stick to his words, which were definitely hurting you. "Oh, and I also take care of your daughter and try to make her see that her father still loves her despite not being there for her when she needs him the most."

The tension building up between you in the dining room could be cut with a knife, and your daughter’s cries were what snapped you out of your anger.

"Daddy, I don't want you to fight! I want us to be together and happy!"

"Juls," Charles approached his daughter slowly, "it's okay, mommy and I are just exchanging opinions..."

"What's going on, mommy?" the girl interrupted her father, still with tears in her eyes. "Why are you and daddy fighting? Are you going to divorce like Lily’s parents?"

Charles and you realized what you were doing. You weren't used to fighting this hard, especially not in front of your daughter. Immediately, they both sat on the couch, putting Julia between you both.

"We're sorry for yelling, sweetheart," you apologized to the little girl. "Dad and I are just having a disagreement because, sometimes, adults have different points of view on a particular issue."

Charles nodded, agreeing with you and, at the same time, trying to calm the situation:

"That's right, Julia. Sometimes people don't agree, but that doesn't mean mom and I don't love each other anymore!"

Julia nodded slowly, still confused and saddened by the argument she had witnessed.

"Are you going to be okay then? Are you not going to separate? Can we go see daddy at a race, mommy?"

You and Charles exchanged a quick glance, increasingly realizing that the argument had really hurt their daughter.

"Of course, princess," the driver replied, planting a kiss on her forehead while getting up from his seat. "Hey, why don't you go to our room and pick a movie?"

Julia smiled shyly and left the living room without saying anything, a sign that she had calmed down a bit.

"Hey. Come here, please."

Charles took your hand, seeing in your eyes a feeling he promised never to cause again every time you had an argument. 

Pain. Disappointment. The feeling of not being good enough. 

Overthinking it all.

"You're right, love," he said, wiping away the tears starting to fall from your face. "I'm so sorry for acting like a jerk, I just wanted us to have a good time and for you to be able to socialize with the guys like before Juls came into our lives."

"Don't worry, Charles," you tried to give him a niec smile, but it wasn’t really worth the try. "I got a bit intense too. I guess it's the hormones, they're changing every now and then and..."

You realized you messed up at that moment. Quickly, like a reflex movement, you put you right hand on your mouth, but it was already too late. 

Once again, you fucked up even it was supposed to be a surprise...

"What do you mean, hormones?"

"I'm pregnant," you whispered. "I know we weren't planning it, but..."

The Monegasque was speechless, and a broad smile began to spread across his face.

"That's incredible!" he exclaimed, hugging you affectionately. "We're going to be parents again. I mean, it’s not like I was expecting this news but honestly, I can't believe it..."

"Mommy! Daddy! When are you coming?"

Julia appeared again. Now, she was wearing her father's Ferrari cap which, despite being too big for her little head, she loved. Her face immediately covered with a smile as soon as she saw her parents hugging, quickly forgetting you two were talking more loudly than you should moments before.

"Great! We're all together and happy now!" she shouted down the hallway until she reached the bedroom Charles and you shared.

Once the growing family lay down on the bed and started watching Cars for the umpteenth time —because to Julia, Lightning McQueen reminded her of her father—, Charles couldn't help but think how lucky he was to have his family by his side, even he was far from stupid sometimes.

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

[honeyslibrary]

I Love You, I'm Sorry | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Long distance relationship, angst, not sure what else, edited once

Summary; Reader and Luke get a taste of how difficult being in a long distance relationship is.

Word Count; 4.5k

Authors Note: This is a part one. I’d love your thoughts on what you think the ending should be. I personally love angst, but I know a lot of you love happy endings, so let me know (: As per usual, reblogs are appreciated 🩵 -Honey

It's late, nearly midnight in Ann Arbor, and your room is dim except for the soft glow of your laptop screen. Outside, snow is falling in slow, half-hearted flakes that dissolve before touching the ground, visible only when they drift through the cone of yellow light from the streetlamp below. Your desk is cluttered with notebooks, highlighters with their caps missing, and a half-eaten granola bar that's been sitting there since noon, its wrapper curled at the edges.

When Luke picks up, he's backdropped by the familiar off-white walls of his place in Jersey, hair damp and curling from a post-practice shower. He's wearing that oversized black Kith hoodie — the one he practically lives in, frayed at the cuffs from constant wear — and his voice comes through, slightly distorted by distance and poor connection.

"Hey."

You smile, automatic, muscle memory that hasn't faded despite everything. "Hey."

There's a beat of silence where neither of you rushes to fill the space. It's not awkward. Just... distant. Like the signal is fine, but the connection is still lagging, caught somewhere between Ann Arbor and Jersey, lost in the miles between what you were and what you've become.

"You look tired," he says, eyes scanning your face through the screen.

"Thanks," you deadpan, but self-consciously run a hand through your unwashed hair.

He smiles, a little, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way that still manages to make your heart stutter. "Rough day?"

You nod, feeling the weight of hours spent hunched over textbooks and lab equipment. "Had a three-hour chem lab and then my professor went rogue and assigned us a ten-page paper due Monday, even though it's supposed to be a five-week course project. So, yeah. Classic Thursday."

"Damn." He leans back against his headboard, the wood making a soft thunk. You can see the edge of a team photo taped to his wall, the corner peeling. "I don't miss that."

"You're telling me," you say, rubbing your eyes until pinpricks of light dance behind your closed lids. "I've had coffee for dinner two nights in a row. My blood is basically caffeine at this point."

He watches you for a second, eyes softening with something like concern or maybe nostalgia. Then asks, quieter, "Is it still like... non-stop all the time?"

You hesitate, fingers playing with the frayed edge of your sleeve. "Yeah. I mean, I guess I'm getting used to it again." The lie tastes stale on your tongue.

Luke nods slowly, a micro-expression of hurt flashing across his face so quickly you almost miss it. Then he glances away for a second, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something. When he looks back, there's something different in his eyes. Not annoyed, just... worn down, like fabric that's been washed too many times.

"I was trying not to bug you," he says, carefully measuring each word. "With the whole settling-back-in thing. Figured the first couple weeks of school would be hectic, so I didn't want to be, like... all over your phone."

You shift in your seat, the old wooden chair creaking beneath you, uneasy. "You're not bugging me."

"I don't know," he says, fingers absently tracing the team logo on his hoodie. "It kind of feels like I am."

You go still. He's not raising his voice. He's not accusing. But it hits anyway, like a door closing quietly but firmly in your face.

"I mean, you barely text me," he continues, voice level but threaded with something raw. "We haven't FaceTimed in... what? Over a week? And when we do talk, it's usually because I called first."

You swallow, suddenly too aware of how quiet your room is, just the faint hum of your laptop fan and the distant bass from someone's music three doors down. "I've just had a lot going on."

"I know," he says quickly, too quickly. "Me too. But... it's been a month now."

You glance at him. His jaw is tight, a muscle working at the corner, and he won't quite meet your eyes, instead focusing on something just past your shoulder.

"I was giving you space because I thought you needed it," he says, voice dropping lower. "But now I'm starting to feel like maybe I'm just... not part of your life anymore. Not really."

Your chest aches, a physical pain that spreads outward like ice cracking. "Luke—"

He cuts in, not unkindly, but with a firmness that makes you flinch. "I'm not mad. I just... I didn't think this would be so one-sided."

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a pathetic defense: "You know I suck at texting."

He gives a short laugh. Not mean, just tired, the kind that carries no actual humor. "Yeah. I do. But I thought you'd try. Because this is different now. We're not two blocks apart anymore. We're two states apart. I can't just swing by after practice or meet you at Espresso Royale with those stupid chocolate croissants you like." His voice catches slightly. "You're all I've got, and half the time, it feels like I'm not even crossing your mind."

"That's not fair," you whisper, the words hanging in the air between you like frost.

He meets your gaze, and it's the quiet in his voice that stings the most. "It doesn't have to be fair, it's how I feel."

You press your fingers to your forehead, like that'll stop the swirl in your brain, the mounting pressure behind your eyes. "I wasn't trying to ignore you. I've just... I don't know. Everything's overwhelming again. And I guess I thought if I didn't reach out, it would hurt less. Like... not reminding myself how far away you are."

He looks at you for a long second, the blue light of his screen making shadows under his cheekbones. "It hurts anyway."

And there it is.

The truth neither of you wanted to face, finally spoken aloud. Your fingers go cold.

You look at him, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it into a knot and then releasing it. You feel like you're staring at something that's slipping through your hands, slow and inevitable, like sand or water or time.

He sighs, quiet, the sound barely reaching your speakers. "I'm gonna head to bed. Early skate tomorrow."

You nod, barely, feeling numb. "Okay."

He doesn't hang up right away, and for a second, it seems like he might say something else, something to soften or backtrack. Offer a lifeline. But instead, he just gives you a small, sad smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Goodnight."

Then the screen goes dark.

And you're left staring at your own reflection, sitting in the silence you built, with only the soft tapping of snowflakes against your window for company.

You wait for a text that doesn't come.

The next morning, you send him a message, something casual about hoping he had a good practice, a peace offering disguised as small talk. Usually, he responds within minutes. This time, your phone stays silent for hours, until finally, mid-afternoon: It was fine. Pretty tired though.

No questions about your day. No follow-up. Just five words that feel like a door closing.

You tell yourself it's nothing. He's busy. He's tired. But the pattern continues. Your texts receive shorter and shorter replies, sometimes hours later, sometimes not until the next day. He doesn't call. When you try calling him on Sunday night, he doesn't pick up, just texts back twenty minutes later: Sorry, was out with the guys. Talk later maybe?

Later doesn't come.

By Wednesday, the realization hits you with startling clarity: this is what it feels like to be on the other side. This is what you've been doing to him for weeks.

Thursday night, you're sitting in the library, pretending to study organic chemistry but really just staring at your phone, willing it to light up with his name. It doesn't. A week ago, you would have been annoyed by the interruption. Now you'd give anything for it.

Your roommate slides into the chair across from you, giving you a strange look. "You okay? You've been staring at that same page for like, twenty minutes."

"I'm fine," you mumble, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.

"Luke?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

You look up, surprised. "How did you—"

"Well, for starters, you've checked your phone approximately eight hundred times in the past hour. And you've got that look."

"What look?"

"Like someone stole your favorite hoodie." She pauses. "Which, by the way, isn't that his Devils hoodie you're wearing right now?"

You glance down. It is. Luke left it with you when he left for pre-season, and you've been sleeping in it for weeks. It still smells faintly of his laundry detergent and that cologne he pretends not to use.

"He's not talking to me," you admit finally, the words feeling strange in your mouth. "Or, well, barely. It's like... he's just gone cold."

Your roommate doesn't look surprised. "Girl, are you stupid? You've been doing the same thing to him for weeks."

The bluntness of her assessment stings. "I've been busy," you protest weakly.

She gives you a look that makes it clear she's not buying it. "We're all busy. That's college. But you don't see me ghosting my boyfriend back home."

"I wasn't ghosting him," you insist. But even as you say it, you know it's not entirely true. You were keeping him at arm's length, minimizing contact, treating him like an obligation rather than a priority.

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks, closing her notebook and giving you her full attention.

You stare at your phone again. No new messages. "I don't know."

Friday morning, you check your phone the moment you wake up. Nothing. Friday afternoon, between classes, you find yourself opening your photos, scrolling back through pictures of the two of you. Friday night, you cave and call him. It goes straight to voicemail.

Hey, Luke. It's me. I just... I miss you. Call me back?

He doesn't.

Saturday passes in a blur of anxiety and regret. By Sunday, you're sitting on your bed surrounded by unfinished assignments, your laptop open to a half-written paper, but all you can think about is him.

The silence stretches into a second week. His social media offers glimpses of a life continuing without you: team photos, a night out bowling, a video of him laughing at something one of his teammates said. He looks fine. He looks happy. He looks like he's moving on.

It's only when you're scrolling through your calendar to check a due date that you realize what tomorrow is: one month since he helped you move in. One month of being apart. You'd talked about celebrating somehow, doing something special over FaceTime. Now you wonder if he even remembers.

Monday morning, your phone pings with a text as you're walking to class.

Can we talk tonight? 9pm?

Your heart jumps into your throat. You text back immediately: Yes. Definitely.

The day crawls by with excruciating slowness. By 8:45, you're sitting at your desk, hair combed, room hastily tidied, wearing a sweater he once said brought out your eyes.

At exactly 9:00, your laptop chimes with an incoming call. You take a deep breath and click "accept."

Luke appears on screen, looking tired but more serious than you've ever seen him. There's none of the warmth from before, none of the easy familiarity. Just his eyes, steady and questioning.

"Hey," you say, voice small.

"Hey," he replies. Then, after a pause that stretches too long: "So, I think we should talk about what happens now."

You swallow hard, suddenly afraid of what "now" might mean. "Luke, I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I know I made you feel like you weren't important, and that's not true at all. I was—"

"Stop," he says, not unkindly but firmly. "I don't need apologies. What I need is to know if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication.

"Because," he continues, voice steady but with an undercurrent of hurt that makes your chest ache, "I can't be the only one trying here. These past two weeks... this is what it felt like for me, for a month. Waiting for calls that never came. Checking my phone fifty times a day. Wondering if I still mattered to you at all."

You feel tears threatening, but you blink them back. "You do matter. You matter so much."

"Then why didn't you act like it?" The question isn't angry. It's genuinely confused, which somehow makes it worse.

"I don't know," you whisper, and then, forcing yourself to be honest: "I think I was scared. Of how much I missed you. Of how hard this was going to be. It felt easier to just... pull back. To pretend I was fine on my own."

He's quiet for a long moment, considering this. "And are you? Fine on your own?"

You look at him, really look at him, and shake your head slowly. "No. These past two weeks have been awful. I hated every minute of it."

"Welcome to my world," he says, but there's less edge to his voice now. "So what do we do? Because I can't go back to how things were before. I won't."

The silence stretches between you, full of all the things you've left unsaid. You know you're at a crossroads. You can make more promises, beg for another chance. Or you can face the truth: that long distance is harder than you thought, that you're both changing, that maybe what you had belongs to a different time, a different version of yourselves.

Luke waits, his expression unreadable. The choice is yours.

"I don't know how to fix this," you admit finally, voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to. I really want to."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your heart ache. "I want to believe that."

"You can," you say, leaning forward. "Luke, these past two weeks... I've been miserable. And it made me realize that I've been taking you for granted. I've been acting like you'll always be there, waiting, no matter how I treat you."

He's quiet for a moment, eyes searching yours through the screen. "Why should this time be any different?"

It's a fair question. One you've been asking yourself all week.

"Because now I know what it feels like to lose you," you say simply. "And I never want to feel that way again."

He looks down, and you can see him weighing your words, deciding whether or not to believe them. When he looks back up, his eyes are guarded.

"I need more than words," he says. "I need to see it. In your actions."

You nod, relief and anxiety tangling in your chest. "I know. I understand that."

"Do you?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice. "Because what I need is for you to make time for us. Real time. Not just when it's convenient for you or when you don't have anything better to do."

You flinch at the truth of it. "I will. I promise."

He shakes his head slightly. "Don't promise. Just do it. Or don't. But I can't keep...hoping things will get better. That's the part that kills me, you know? The hoping."

You feel tears threatening again, but this time, you let them come. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm so sorry, Luke."

His expression softens just slightly. "I know you are. But I'm not looking for an apology. I'm looking for change."

You wipe at your eyes, nodding. "So...what now?"

He seems to consider this, then says, "Now we take it day by day. See if we can build something that works for both of us. But I need you to be honest, with yourself most of all. If you can't do this, if you don't want to do this, then let's not drag it out."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "Is that...is that what you want? To end it?"

Luke's gaze is steady. "What I want is a relationship where I don't feel like I'm chasing someone who's always running away."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything that's been said and everything that hasn't.

"I'm not running," you say finally. "Not anymore."

He nods, but there's still hesitation in his eyes. "Okay."

"Okay," you echo, not sure what else to say.

"I should go," he says after a moment. "Early morning tomorrow."

Panic flares in your chest. "Wait, can we talk again?"

The question hangs in the air. Before, he would have been the one asking that. The one worried about when the next call would be. Now it's you, and the role reversal isn't lost on either of you.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I don't know. When do you want to talk again?"

You recognize the test in his words. "Tomorrow? I don't have class until eleven. We could have coffee together. Virtually, I mean."

He considers this. "I'll be up at six for training."

"Six is fine," you say quickly, even though you haven't voluntarily seen six a.m. since high school.

His eyebrows rise slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You've never been more certain of anything.

He studies you for a moment longer, then nods. "Okay. Six it is."

"I'll be here," you promise.

"We'll see," he says, and it stings, but you know you deserve it. Before he ends the call, he pauses. "You're wearing that sweater I love."

"What?" You glance down, feeling heat rise to your face. "Oh yeah."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, the first real smile you've seen from him in weeks.

Then the call ends, and you're left staring at your reflection again. But this time, it's different. This time, you're not paralyzed by indecision or regret. This time, you know exactly what you need to do.

You set your alarm for 5:45 a.m. Then you open your calendar and begin to carve out time, real time, for the person who matters most. Not leftover minutes between classes or half-attentive late-night calls when you're too exhausted to really talk. Actual, intentional time.

It won't be easy. Nothing worth having ever is. The distance is still there. Your schedule is still overwhelming. His hockey season is just getting started.

But as you close your laptop and get ready for bed, you realize something: you're not just fighting for Luke. You're fighting for yourself, too. For the person you want to be. Someone who knows what matters and acts like it. Someone who doesn't take love for granted.

You curl up under your blankets after changing back into his Devils hoodie. Outside, the snow continues to fall, covering everything in a clean, white blanket. Like a fresh start.

Morning will come early. But for the first time in weeks, you're looking forward to it.

The blaring of your alarm cuts through your dreams like a knife. You groan, blindly pawing at your phone until the noise stops. Your room is dark, the sky outside still black. For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, wondering why on earth your alarm is going off at this ungodly hour.

Then you remember. Luke. The call. Six a.m.

You force your eyes open, squinting at your phone screen.

7:28 a.m.

Your stomach drops. No. No no no.

You bolt upright, suddenly wide awake, heart hammering against your ribs. How did this happen? You set your alarm. You remember setting it for 5:45.

But the evidence is right there on your screen, mocking you: three missed alarms, all snoozed in your half-conscious state. And worse, two missed calls from Luke.

"No," you whisper, panic rising in your throat as you fumble to call him back. It rings once, twice, three times. Then his voicemail.

You try again. Straight to voicemail.

Your hands shake as you type out a text: Luke I'm so sorry. I slept through my alarm. Please call me back.

Nothing.

You try calling once more. Voicemail again.

Please Luke. I swear I didn't mean to. I set three alarms.

The message shows as delivered, but there's no response. You sit in the cold light of morning, the reality of what's happened sinking in like lead. One chance. You had one chance to show him you were serious, that things would be different.

And you blew it.

By 8:15, you've tried calling five more times. Each time, straight to voicemail. Your roommate finds you sitting cross-legged on your bed, still in his hoodie, staring at your phone like you can will it to ring through sheer force of desperation.

"Whoa," she says, taking in your expression. "What happened?"

"I messed up," you manage, voice hollow. "I was supposed to call Luke at six this morning. I slept through my alarm."

She winces. "Ouch."

"He won't answer," you continue, feeling tears build. "He probably thinks I just... didn't care enough to wake up."

Your roommate sits on the edge of your bed. "Did you explain?"

"I tried. He's not responding."

"Give him some time," she suggests. "He's probably at practice anyway, right?"

You nod weakly. She's right. He's probably on the ice right now, skating through drills, trying not to think about you. Or worse, thinking about you too much.

"What do I do?" you ask, hating how small your voice sounds.

She considers for a moment. "You wait. And then you try again. And you don't give up after one mistake."

The words echo in your mind as you drag yourself through your morning routine, as you force yourself to attend your classes even though you can barely focus on what your professors are saying. By late afternoon, you've checked your phone approximately a thousand times. Nothing from Luke.

At 4:17, just as you're leaving your last class, your phone finally buzzes. You nearly drop it in your haste to check.

Can talk now. Call me.

Your heart races as you find an empty bench outside your building and call him with trembling fingers. He picks up on the second ring.

"Luke—" you start, the relief of hearing his voice almost overwhelming.

"Are you kidding me?" His voice is tight, controlled, but you can hear the hurt beneath it. "Seriously? After everything we talked about last night?"

"I know," you say quickly. "I know how it looks. I set the alarms, I swear I did. I even set three of them. But I must have turned them off in my sleep. I never even heard them."

"Right." His tone is flat with disbelief.

"It's true," you insist. "Luke, please. You have to believe me. I wouldn't do that to you. Not after last night."

There's a long pause, and you can almost see him pacing in his dorm room, running a hand through his still-damp hair, trying to decide if he believes you.

"You know what the worst part was?" he says finally. "I actually got excited. I set up my laptop on the kitchen counter while I made breakfast. I thought... I actually thought this time would be different."

The quiet disappointment in his voice is worse than if he'd yelled.

"It will be," you say, desperate. "It is. Luke, I messed up. I know that. But it was a mistake, not a choice. I wanted to talk to you this morning. I was looking forward to it."

Another silence stretches between you. Then, quietly: "I think we need to take a break."

The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "What? No. Luke, please—"

"I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice oddly calm. "I thought I could. I thought if we just talked it out, if you just understood how I was feeling... but this morning made it clear."

"It was one mistake," you plead, tears filling your eyes. "One morning."

"No," he says, and the gentleness in his voice somehow makes it worse. "It's not just this morning. It's every morning. It's the fact that I keep hoping things will change, and they never do. It's the fact that I'm constantly disappointed, and I'm starting to think that's just... how it's going to be with us now."

"It won't," you whisper.

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But it's how I feel. And I can't keep feeling this way. It's killing me."

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle a sob. "So what, we're just... done? Just like that?"

He sighs, and you hear so much exhaustion in that sound. "I don't know what we are. I just know I need some space to figure out if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

"Of course it is," you say, voice breaking. "Luke, I love you."

"I love you too," he says quietly. "But right now, that's not enough."

The finality in his voice sends a chill through you. "How long?" you manage to ask. "How long of a break?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I need to focus on hockey. On myself. And honestly, maybe you do too."

You want to argue, to fight, to promise him that you'll do better, that you'll be better. But the words stick in your throat because deep down, you know he's right. You haven't been the person he needs. You haven't even been the person you want to be.

"Okay," you say finally, the word barely audible.

"I should go," he says after a moment of heavy silence.

"Luke—" you start, not ready for the call to end, not ready for whatever comes after.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he cuts in, voice soft. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Keep the hoodie. It looks better on you anyway."

Before you can respond, the call ends.

You sit there on the cold bench, phone clutched in your hand, tears streaming down your face. Around you, students rush to classes, laughing, talking, completely unaware that your world has just imploded.

Eventually, you make your way back to your apartment. Your roommate takes one look at your face and opens her arms without a word. You collapse into them, the sobs you've been holding back finally breaking free.

"He's gone," you choke out. "He's gone and it's my fault."

She holds you as you cry, stroking your hair, telling you it will be okay. But you know it won't be. Not for a long time.

That night, you curl up in your bed, still wearing his hoodie. You know you should take it off, that it will only make things harder, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Not yet. Outside, snow is falling again, heavier now, erasing footprints, covering everything in blank whiteness.

Your phone sits dark and silent on your nightstand. No goodnight text. No plans to call tomorrow. Just emptiness where there used to be him.

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE

[applereid]

— VOICE NOTES, AARON HOTCHNER.

inspired by this. these don’t take place in the same day btw!

[ ronnie ♡ ] — 9:24 am.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ ၊|• 0:23

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he says with a soft sigh, balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder while sifting through a stack of papers. “I left before you woke up— I didn’t want to disturb your sleep just to say goodbye.” A quiet chuckle escapes him. “I just wanted to tell you I love you. I’ll give you a call whenever I get a free moment today, yeah?” He pauses, then adds with a warm tone, “I made you some pancakes— chocolate chip, just how you like them. They’re on the stove, still warm. Alright… I love you. Talk soon.”

[ ronnie ♡ ] — 12:38 am.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ ၊|• 0:47

“Hi, baby. I’m sorry I missed your call earlier— it’s been an unbelievably busy day.” He exhales softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the weight of the day in his voice. “I miss you… like always.” A faint chuckle follows, tinged with fatigue. “I hope you and Jack are doing well at home. I don’t think I’ll be too late tonight— probably back around ten— so try not to fall asleep on me, okay?” “We finally caught the guy, and I called as soon as I had a moment. Now it’s just a matter of getting on the jet and heading home to you. I love you. I miss you more than I can say. I’ll bring something to eat on my way back, just in case you’re still up. Talk soon. Bye, sweetheart.”

[ ronnie ♡ ] — 5:00 pm.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ ၊|• 1:58

“Hey, baby,” he says with a soft sigh, settling back onto his hotel bed as he stares up at the ceiling. “We’re in New York for this case, and I can’t stop thinking about you… about that trip we took here a couple of years ago.” His voice trails off, caught in a memory, his thoughts clearly drifting. “I know this must be really hard on you. Me being away so often… and now this New York assignment? It’s been what— two weeks already? God. I’m sorry, baby. I hate being away from you for this long.” There’s a long pause. When he speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion, and it’s clear he’s holding back tears. “We’re actually staying at the same hotel we stayed at during our trip. I borrowed Reid’s camera and took a few pictures— I thought you might like that. I can’t wait to show them to you when I get back.” “You know I love you, right?” he continues, voice shaking. “I know this life isn’t easy. I’m gone more than I’m home, and when I am home, I’m barely present because of how drained I am. But I love you— deeply— and I’m so damn grateful for how patient and understanding you are. I know you deserve more… and yet, you stay.” He pauses again, a small laugh escaping him, fragile and a bit self-deprecating. “Guess I’m getting a little too emotional. I just really, really miss you.” “Call me when you get the chance, okay? I love you, sweetheart. Talk soon.”

[pagesfromthevoid]

Walk Through Darkness | r. r.

Robert "Bob" Reynolds x superpowered!reader

She will walk through the darkness to find him.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Mentions of depression and hypomania, panic attacks, depressive episodes, self-loathing behaviors, established relationships

Author's Note: Companion to Honey & Glass but you don't need to read it to understand!

Talk to Me! | AO3

Some days are better than others.

Bob said it himself, when they first met: sometimes he has high highs and then he crashes, and those days are the lowest of lows. 

She knows this, and she understands. Bob doesn’t think she does, and he tries to shield her from it whenever he has bad days. But it’s not the bad days that she worries about; the bad days, she can get through to him a little more. It’s those high days –the days when he suddenly thinks he’s invincible (it does not help that he technically is). When he thinks that he’s cured of his self-loathing, and he’s better than he’s ever been. 

It’s harder to get through to him on those days.

Bob gets happy –touchy, feely, confident –during these days. The first time he has a manic episode, she doesn’t realize it immediately. She thinks –maybe stupidly, maybe selfishly –this is a good sign. He wants to go out on a date; he wants to see a movie and “make out in the back row like a couple of dumb teenagers.” He’s even combed his hair, thrown on something that’s not his favorite sweater and sweats, and tells her to get ready. She’s all for it too –gets dressed up some, puts on makeup and a cute dress –and they go to the movie theatre.

Well, they try. 

On the walk there, he gets distracted by an art exhibit taking over Times Square, tugging her hand to pull her along to look at the screens as they shift images of colors and shapes. He completely forgets they’re supposed to make a seven o’clock movie, caught up in the colors and the people and everything going on around them. He wants to tip every street performer and is wrapping his arm around her shoulders like he’s going to lose her if he lets go. 

Then he refuses to go home. 

He says they should stay out all night; that there’s no reason to go back to the WatchTower because he can protect them from whatever’s out on these streets.

“I’m the Sentry,” he reminds her, and he’s purposely walking towards a not-so-good neighborhood. 

This is when she realizes something is wrong. Maybe she should have noticed it before, but the distractedness isn’t uncommon for Bob, and she was just…really happy he wanted to go out, honestly. 

“Bob,” she warns, pulling him to a stop. He’s beaming down at her, but his eyes are also shifting towards a dive bar that does not look like the kind of place she wants to go to. “I want to go home, Bob,” she insists, tugging on his hand.

“Why?” He asks, and he is –in fact –stronger than she is and doesn’t budge. “It’s fine –I won’t let anything happen. Seriously, it could be fun –,”

“Please take me home,” she says, more firm now, and he makes a face as he feels the pin prick of her powers in his head.

“We can go home if you get out of my head,” he counters, frowning deeply. His eyes are flickering that golden hue and she knows that she’s pushing him too far. 

She nods, slipping away from his thoughts and he sighs. Then he groans, and runs his hands over his face. “You’re mad at me. I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“I’m just tired,” she tries again, motioning to her feet. “I wasn’t prepared to walk all over –I would have worn anything but heels, you know?”

This seems to make more sense to him and he nods some. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, I could have carried you –,”

“Please do not carry me,” but she’s laughing a little, trying to ease the tension. Then she reaches out to take his hand again. “Let’s just go back to the Tower –we can watch a movie there.”

“I was really looking forward to that back row kiss,” he sighs, wrapping his arm around her shoulder again, holding her hand still.

“Next time.”

She knows what to look for now though –it’s still hard to bring him down. But it’s not impossible.

The low days are bad too –don’t get her wrong. They’re just harder in a different way. 

The low days, she’s not worried he’s going to try to be all powerful. She’s more worried he’s going to sink into those shadows again. Those are the days that it takes more energy to mask his nightmares; where his thoughts are so loud and so frantic that they scare her. 

But she promises him that she’s not scared of him. She’s scared for him.

The low days always follow the high days, but they last twice as long. He recedes into himself; refuses to talk to her (or anyone for that matter). They give him a day –they watch from afar, they make sure he eats and drinks water –but they give him that day. But after a day, the team picks him up. She picks him up.

Sometimes it’s just all of them sitting together and watching movies. He doesn’t exactly join –he sits in his corner, with his books and his chaise, but he’s in the same room. She sits on the floor next to him, because she knows he doesn’t want to be touched just yet. 

These are the days she lets him decide what he wants from her.

But this episode –it’s worse than the first one. Not as bad as what happened the first time they had met, but still bad enough that the shadows are staining the edges of the Tower before anyone really notices. He’s been coming out and talking to people –short, barely audible interactions, but they’re there. He’s touching her hand, just enough to remind her he’s there. But he’s tired, and they can tell, and Alexei suggests he go lay down. They’d come to check on him in a bit. He just takes a bottle of water and walks away.

She’s one that checks on him. And that’s how she sees the shadows, inching their way into her room.

He’s locked himself in her bedroom, because her bedroom has a lock and his does not, for his own safety.

The code pad has been overridden and she can’t get the door to open.

“Bob,” she pleads through the door but the shadows are moving faster, slithering over her feet as they flood under the crack of the door. “Bob, please open the door.”

When he doesn’t answer, she yells out for someone –anyone, really at this point –to help her get this damn door open. Bucky is who responds the fastest, prying her door open just enough for her to squeeze inside. The shadows scatter, only for a moment, before they swarm again. Then they’re wrapping around her. Bucky is trying to get the door open entirely, but there’s an unseen barrier that’s blocking the rest of them from entering the room. 

“Hey,” she whispers, kneeling into the shadows that are surrounding him. 

He’s shaking, cross legged on her floor, holding a vinyl in his hands that’s melted against his palms. Gently, afraid that she’ll scare him if she moves too fast, she pries the remainder of the vinyl from him. Then she throws it away. The shadows practically hiss at her as she shifts to sit cross legged in front of him, mirroring his position. 

“It’s…he’s so loud,” he murmurs, his voice shaking as he holds back tears. “It won’t stop. I…I can’t get him to stop –,”

She hushes him gently, holding her hands out, palms up. He doesn’t move, and she doesn’t force him. The shadows are pooling in her lap, and she can hear their whispers –whispers of her misdeeds, of his, of darkness. Trying to coax them both into the Void and the shadows. They’re trying to consume her but her mind is easier to shield than his, and she refuses to let the Void win.

The shadows are creeping up his hands now, and she finally moves cautiously to take his hands in hers. The shadows recede, as if fearful of her touch. The reality is that, in his mind, when she touches him like this –letting the shadows slink around her like snakes and brush against her skin –he is reminded of how much he is cared about. And that care, no matter how much he fears it will go away one day –staves off the darkness just enough. Because she’s telling him that she is not afraid of him. 

She will walk through the darkness to find him.

The shadows have stopped spreading but they have not gone away. Bob finally looks up at her –eyes red rimmed, puffy from crying. His entire body is shaking –but he cringes when she presses into his mind. She’s gotten better at smoothing out the thoughts; of softening them. She only does it when he asks, or in moments like this, where there is a danger of him falling again. They both know he needs to learn to handle them himself, but she refuses to let him suffer in these darkest moments.

Her hands slide up his wrists, over his arms, up his biceps. They rest just below his jaw, thumbs running over his cheeks gently as she pushes something softer into his mind. The shadows hiss further, retreating from the light, and she can hear the Void in his mind –cursing, threatening. Reminding Bob that he’s nothing to everyone, including her. How can he be a hero when he can’t even help himself? Why do you waste your breath on a man that’s not whole? He’s nothing, and deserves nothing. You’re going to leave anyway.

“No one is whole,” she reminds him gently, pressing her forehead against his gently. “We’re all made up of broken pieces, and every person who loves you is a stitch that puts you back together.”

Bob closes his eyes, nodding slowly as his breathing evens out. The shadows recede –slowly, reluctantly pulling away and returning to the darkest corner –and the barrier keeping the team out drops. Bucky pries the door open but Yelena stops them from entering. The team doesn’t leave, but they don’t interrupt.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though his voice is sluggish and it's clear that he’s exhausted. “I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to –,”

“You don’t need to apologize,” she promises, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks. His hands reach out to grip her wrists, anchoring himself in the softness that’s spreading across his mind. Letting it wash over him as the Void slowly but surely is washed away for the time being. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He nods, though his eyes are shut still. She taps her thumb against his cheek, telling him to look at her. Bob’s eyes open, and the gold glow that takes over is gone, freeing the blue that always reminds her of the sky on a cloudless day. His gaze is unfocused for a moment, glossy, as he blinks away the tears and the darkness before he finally settles on her face.

“What’s the secret?” He asks, voice small as the thoughts she plants slip away and leave him to fend for himself. There’s a flinch, but she doesn’t feel the shadows returning so she lets him handle it himself from here on.

“I love you,” she confesses, though it feels silly to confess something that has been obvious for several weeks now. “Let me safety pin the pieces of you together until we have the right thread.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Yelena shoving everyone away from the door. She’s shushing them, especially Alexei, who is trying to celebrate for the two. But the team disappears and leaves the two be, knowing they would be okay without support now.

“You…you don���t mean that,” Bob tries to argue; tries to pull away from her touch. But she holds him there. “You don’t want to love me –,”

“Robert Reynolds, I walked into the shadows without knowing if I was going to die,” she reminds him, forcing him to look at her. “And I didn’t even know you when I did that. I wasn’t a superhero, I wasn’t an assassin, or a supersoldier. I was an assistant. I did not walk into those shadows because I wanted to save the world, I walked into those shadows to save you. And I will walk into the shadows every single day if it means I get to love you another day.

“I do mean it when I say I love you, because you are easy to love, and you are worthy of it,” she continues, and there’s tears starting to form at the edges of her eyes as she takes a deep breath. “I love you more than…than I think I’ve ever loved anyone, which I know probably sounds insane because we’ve only been dating for like two months, but I can’t help it.

“So do not tell me I don’t mean it, and that I don’t want to love you. Because I do mean it and I do want to love you. And there’s nothing you could do to make me stop loving you.”

He wants to argue, she can see it in his eyes and the way his brows knit together in frustration. But there’s something behind his eyes –something that says he desperately wants to believe her. So he doesn’t argue, and slowly nods.

“I…I love you too,” he finally breathes, blinking away his tears. She smiles at him with watery eyes and shaking hands against his skin still. “I’ve never…I never thought I’d find someone like you. After everything –all the things I’ve done before the superpowers and even after –I just…I know I’m hard to love –,”

“Hey, no,” she interrupts. “It’s not hard to love you. It’s like breathing –,”

“You can’t mean that –,”

“I do –,”

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally settles on, and she bites her tongue. She’ll bring it up later, when he’s less stuck in his head and remind him. “I just…thank you. For loving me.”

She wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to thank her but she pauses, deciding to just…accept it for now. “You’re welcome, Bob. Thank you for loving me too.”

His hands drop from her wrists, rubbing his eyes. “Can we…can we take a nap?”

“A nap does sound really nice right now,” she admits with a soft laugh. 

She stands up, holding out her hands to pull him up. When he’s up, he doesn’t release her, though, and instead pulls her into a tight hug. His arms wrap around her shoulders, clinging to her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. She curls her arms around his middle, pressing her forehead into the crook of his neck, sighing into his skin. 

“I love you,” he repeats into her hair, squeezing her tight.

“I love you too,” she promises.

They stand there like that for a while.

[trulydeep]

It’s sometimes difficult to think through every dance and write up my notes after an intense session like we had today. When we’d finished, I was feeling so many emotions I can hardly process it still. I managed (I think/hope) to capture everything we worked on, but it was more challenging to focus with so much going on in the studio.

I had a nice time catching up with friends, one of the reasons I love being part of our wonderful dance community. X was her usual angry self, and I thought about leaving, but I can’t worry about her or what she’ll complain about next. She’s unfortunately just a complete mental mess, and nothing I do or don’t do can change that. I *loved* seeing a large group of young dancers and could’ve sat there all evening, watching their class, but I really needed to get going. I finished up, went through my usual stretches, and left to meet 1 for our regular late Tuesday evening dinner.

But, OMG… the dancing. Suddenly I am feeling everything differently. Last week was amazing and Q really helped unlock something in me. It feels like I’m able to connect with his movement on a totally new wavelength.

For some reason I’m unsure of, when we began one of the newer choreographies, our hands and forearms just sort of slid past each other as we walked into the set sequence. It was so beautiful and added a subtle but powerful nuance to a simple step. It quite took my breath away. Mmm…

I feel like I’ve swallowed a magical potion that started a burning fire in my veins. It’s an awesome revelation in movement, and it’s so new to me that it might be a while before it is consistent. But now that I’ve tasted it, I don’t want to dance without it ever again.

May 2025

[alohajix]

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐦

Description: [Y/N] signed her son up for soccer to help him feel a little braver. She didn’t expect it to feel like she was the one learning how to start over. And she definitely didn’t expect the coach to start feeling like home.

Warnings: single parenthood, child anxiety, parental guilt, emotional vulnerability, fear of abandonment, slow-burn romance, eventual consensual smut (soft to intense).

Word count: TBD.

author’s note: this little mini-story is actually part of something a bit bigger! if you enjoyed part one, i’m planning to share the four other parts exclusively on my patreon as i write them. there’s zero pressure, of course—just knowing you’re here reading already means the world to me. but if you’d like to support my work even more and follow this story as it continues, you’ll be able to find the rest over there when they’re ready. thank you so much for reading. i appreciate you more than you know! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight’s Masterlist

***

Warnings: child nervousness, social overwhelm, parental self-doubt, references to past social exclusion, emotional tension, fear of letting someone in.

Word count: 3,748.

The field is busier than I expected. Parents already staking their claims with fold-out chairs along the sidelines, sipping from oversized thermoses, shouting to each other over the hum of kids in matching jerseys sprinting across the grass like it's the World Cup. My stomach pulls tight as I kill the engine, my hands still wrapped around the steering wheel like I'm not entirely sure if we should even be here.

I glance into the rearview mirror, catching Archie in the back seat, small hands fidgeting with the hem of his jersey again. He's been doing that since we left the apartment—rolling the fabric between his fingers like it might unravel if he stops. It's bright red, way too big on him. He'd wanted it that way. Said the bigger one felt safer. Like armor, he told me, with the kind of serious little face only a six-year-old could pull off. But looking at him now, all I can think is how small he really looks in it.

I let out a slow breath and glance toward the field again, already feeling the weight of every other parent who looks like they've done this a hundred times before. Like they belong here. Like they belong together.

I climb out of the car, shut my door gently, and walk around to his side. He doesn't move when I open it, just looks up at me with those wide, worried eyes I know too well. The same eyes I've seen every time we try something new. I crouch down so we're level, resting my elbows on my knees.

"Alright, champ... you ready?"

His feet swing nervously over the edge of the seat. His voice is so soft I almost miss it.

"Do I have to go with them by myself?"

God, how many times have I heard that question in one form or another? First days of school, new babysitters, birthday parties where he doesn't know anyone but me. The same fear, every time. The same knot in my stomach when I have to lie just a little to make him believe this time will be different.

I reach for his hand, curling my fingers around his.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," I tell him quietly, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead. "But remember what we said? About trying? About being brave enough to see if it feels a little better once you get started?"

He bites his lip hard enough to leave a mark, glancing toward the field. I follow his gaze, taking in the kids already spread out in messy clusters, parents shouting encouragement like this is the most important thing in the world. My throat feels tight just looking at it.

"I'll be right here," I add softly. "The whole time. You can look for me whenever you want."

His chin wobbles just a little, but after a second, he nods. It's barely there, but it's enough. I press a quick kiss to his temple, breathing him in like it might settle something in me, too. That familiar scent of shampoo and syrup and him. My safe place, even when I'm the one who's supposed to be his.

I hold out my hand.

"Come on. Let's go check it out."

He slips his hand into mine without saying another word, holding on tight. Tighter than usual. We start walking toward the noise. And even though I've already promised him it's going to be okay, I'm not sure I believe it yet.

The closer we get, the more it feels like my skin's been pulled too tight. Like every step drags me further into a place I'm not convinced we belong. Archie's fingers are sweaty in mine, small and tense, and I can feel the tiny tremble in them with every squeeze. He's walking slower now, half a step behind, like if he keeps dragging his feet long enough, maybe I'll turn us around and call the whole thing off.

I want to. God, I want to. But I don't.

We stop at the edge of the field, just shy of the first line of folding chairs. I shift my weight, standing tall enough to look like I know what I'm doing, even though the truth feels like it's unraveling by the second.

Parents are everywhere—chatting over the hum of thermoses being popped open, stretching their legs out toward the grass like they've claimed this territory a dozen times before. Some of them are wearing team hoodies. Some already know each other's kids by name. You can tell by the way they laugh like it's nothing new.

I tuck Archie in a little closer to my side, scanning the field until I find the group in red jerseys forming near the far goalpost. A man's standing in front of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose from his neck. His sleeves are already shoved up to his elbows, hands gesturing casually as he calls the group to attention.

"All right, Red Rockets, let's bring it in!"

The way he says it catches me off guard—not sharp, not impatient, not the way I expected someone to rally a group of six-year-olds on a cold Saturday morning. It's... soft. Confident, but not loud. Like he already knows they'll listen without needing to shout.

I feel Archie flinch just a little beside me, his body shrinking closer to mine like the sound spooked him. I glance down, smoothing my thumb across the back of his hand.

"It's okay," I whisper, even though I have no idea if that's true.

When I look back up, the man's moving. Walking toward the group of kids gathering into a loose circle in front of him. I catch the edge of his voice again—lower this time, more focused on the ones who haven't settled yet.

Archie stiffens all over again, frozen like he's deciding whether to bolt or hide. And all I can think is please don't shut down. Not yet.

I'm already running through my backup plan in my head—how to peel him off the sidelines gently if he refuses to move, how to keep my voice from cracking when I tell him it's okay, we can try again another week—when I catch movement from the corner of my eye. He's walking toward us. Steady. Unbothered. No clipboard this time, no whistle in his hand. Just easy steps like he's done this before. Like he's not in a rush to fix anything.

Archie stiffens even more, his little body locking up next to mine like he's bracing for impact. I lean down toward his ear, lowering my voice to that quiet, steady hum I've learned works better than anything else.

"It's okay, baby. Just breathe. I'm right here."

He stops a couple of steps away, leaving space like he knows better than to crowd us. His hands are loose in his jacket pockets, his mouth tipping into the kind of smile that feels... patient. The kind that makes it look like this isn't a problem to solve—it's just a moment to walk through.

"Hey there," he says, nodding once like it's the most normal thing in the world to approach strangers this way. "First day nerves?"

I shift my weight, pulling Archie a little closer to my side.

"Yeah," I answer softly, my voice rougher than I mean for it to sound. "We just moved here. Still trying to find our place."

He nods like that makes perfect sense. Like he's heard it before.

"'S a lot, isn't it?" he murmurs, glancing toward the field again like he remembers exactly what it feels like to stand on the outside of something. "Is that your little one, then? Number five?"

I look down at Archie, who's still clinging to me, eyes wide but curious now.

"Yeah. Archer. We... we call him Archie."

Harry crouches down slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn't reach for Archie. Doesn't try to pull him out of hiding. He just lowers himself to his level and lets his voice drop even softer.

"Hiya, Archie. I'm Harry. Coach Harry, technically, but that feels a bit too serious for six-year-olds, don't you think?"

Archie doesn't answer, but his grip on my sweater loosens just a little. His eyes flick to Harry's shoes, then to his face, then back to me like he's checking if I'm still here. Harry keeps going, easy as anything.

"Y'know, we've got a job open today," he adds with a quiet grin. "Someone needs to help me set up all those cones over there before the team comes in. Think you might be able to help me with that?"

Archie shifts his weight, biting his lip, and for a second I'm sure he's going to shut down again. But then—so small I almost miss it—he nods. Just once. Harry doesn't make a big deal out of it. Doesn't whoop or cheer or make it a moment bigger than it needs to be. He just leans back on his heels, pushes to his feet, and tips his head toward the pile of cones on the grass.

"We'll just be over here," he says to me softly. "Promise I'll bring him right back."

I stay frozen where I am, arms wrapped tight around myself like I might actually fall apart if I move too fast.

Archie follows him. Slowly, yeah—but he follows. Two tiny steps at first. Then one more. He's a full body length behind, but he's moving. Moving toward something without me. My throat feels like it's closing up just watching it happen.

I hover at the edge of the chairs, not daring to sit down. My eyes flick to the other parents spread out along the sidelines, already swapping stories about school pickups and carpool schedules like this is just another weekend. Some of them aren't even watching the field. Some are already halfway through their second cup of coffee, shouting out names like they've done this a hundred times.

It's strange, standing here alone. My arms wrapped around myself like I'm bracing for something, like I'm waiting for a punch that never comes. I glance up at the sky for no reason at all, noting the gray clouds stretching low and heavy over the trees at the far end of the field. One gust of wind, and it'll probably rain.

Of course, I didn't bring an umbrella. I didn't think that far ahead. I'd been too busy worrying about Archie. About whether or not I could even get him this far.

I shift again, pressing my tongue to the back of my teeth to stop myself from calling Archie back. My fingers itch to reach for him, to pull him out of the spotlight and hide him somewhere safer. Somewhere smaller. Somewhere where he doesn't have to try so hard. But I don't. I stay planted. I watch Harry kneel beside the pile of cones, picking them up one by one and laying them out on the grass like he's got all the time in the world. He doesn't even glance back to see if Archie's still following. He just... waits.

Archie shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking back toward me like he's asking permission without saying it out loud. My chest tightens, but I nod once, small and steady, like I'm not terrified he's about to fall apart in front of everyone. And then he moves again. Steps right up to the pile and crouches awkwardly, his little fingers fumbling to grab a cone. Harry leans in a little, points to a spot on the field, and Archie starts walking toward it, arms stiff like he's afraid to drop it.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My throat stings with it. Like I've been holding that breath for longer than just today. It's small. So small. But it's more than I expected. I've seen people give up on him before. I've watched them get impatient when he freezes or takes too long to answer or hides behind me when they try to pull him out of his shell too fast. I've heard the tight, strained "it's okay, some kids just aren't social" more times than I can count. Always laced with that disappointed edge like they've already decided he's too much work.

I've seen the way they check their watches. The way they glance toward me with that half-frown, half-smile that really means "he's slowing us down." I've walked Archie back to the car more times than I can count with his head on my shoulder, whispering it's not his fault even when I know he doesn't believe me.

And every time it happens, I feel that weight in my chest. That bitter little voice in the back of my head that says see? This is why you keep your circle small. This is why you don't expect people to stay.

But Harry doesn't flinch. Doesn't push. He just lets Archie take his time, moving one cone at a time like there's nothing else to do today but wait for him to figure it out.

I glance down at the ground by my feet, kicking at the grass with the tip of my shoe like that might ground me somehow. It doesn't. All I can do is watch. All I can do is hope. I feel my heart catch in my throat because I already know I shouldn't let myself get used to that. He's just doing his job. And it's nothing. But the way it feels settling in my chest tells me I'm lying to myself already.

The rest of practice passes in a blur. I barely register what the other kids are doing. I don't hear a single word the parents around me say. I'm too locked in on Archie. On the way he stays close to Harry, watching every move like he's afraid he might miss something important.

And somehow, somehow, he stays. He doesn't run back to me. He doesn't shut down. He doesn't quit.

By the time Harry claps his hands together and calls the team in one last time, Archie's cheeks are flushed, curls sticking to his forehead, his little hands tugging on the bottom of his jersey again—but his shoulders aren't hunched the way they were when we got here. He's tired, but he's still standing.

I push off the fence and start toward the edge of the field, hugging my arms around myself again like it's going to hold me together for the next thirty seconds.

Harry crouches down to Archie's level again, says something low that makes Archie nod. Then he stands, turns toward me, and starts walking over with that same easy pace like we aren't two strangers standing on opposite sides of a life we haven't figured out yet.

"He did great," Harry says when he reaches us, nodding toward Archie like he means it. "Took a little warming up, but he stuck it out."

I swallow the knot in my throat, brushing Archie's hair off his forehead again.

"Thanks for being patient with him. I know he's... a lot sometimes."

Harry frowns a little—just for a second—like he doesn't like hearing that.

"He's not a lot," he says quietly, like it's a fact. "He's a kid. Kids move at their own pace."

And just like that, something in my chest pulls tight again. Because no one ever says it like that. Not without sounding like they're trying to convince themselves. But Harry says it like he actually believes it.

I shift my weight, blinking hard to keep my expression neutral. My mouth opens to thank him again, but nothing comes out. I chew the inside of my cheek instead, heat creeping up the back of my neck.

Before I can embarrass myself further, he clears his throat, rocking back on his heels.

"Listen, uh—would it be alright if I grabbed your number? Just in case we have to reschedule or... if Archie forgets anything?"

I freeze for a second longer than I probably should. I shouldn't. I shouldn't. That little voice in my head kicks in fast, warning me not to blur the lines. Not to give anyone even an inch closer than they need to be. But he's looking at me with that same steady patience I've watched him give to Archie all morning. Like I have a choice. Like he'll back off if I say no.

I nod. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, already unlocked to a blank contact screen. I take it carefully, fingers brushing his. His skin is warm. Calloused, like he works with his hands for real. I feel it all the way down to my wrist, like something I shouldn't notice but do anyway.

I stare at the screen longer than I need to. I could fake it. I could type a number off by one digit and let this stay exactly what it is. Professional. Detached. Easy to forget.

But my thumb moves before I can stop it. I type my real name—[Y/N]. My real number.

When I hand it back, Harry glances at the screen, then up at me again with that easy, unreadable smile.

"Perfect. Thanks [Y/N]." God help me, I don't trust myself not to read too much into it.

Archie shifts beside me, tugging lightly on the hem of my sleeve like he's working up to something. He's got that scrunched-up little look on his face—the one he gets when he's thinking too hard. His cheeks are still flushed from running around, curls sticking to his damp forehead, but his eyes are darting between me and Harry like he's trying to figure something out.

Harry tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket and gives Archie one last ruffle of his hair, starting to turn back toward the rest of the kids when Archie blurts it out—loud enough for half the field to hear.

"Mama... can Coach Harry come to dinner sometime?"

The words hit me like a slap to the chest. Quick. Sharp. Immediate. My stomach drops. My throat closes. I freeze.

Harry doesn't. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink, really. His smile doesn't falter for a second. He just crouches down to Archie's level again, his voice dropping low and soft, like it's just for him.

"Maybe one day, little man," Harry says, reaching out to tap two fingers lightly against Archie's tiny fist. "Gotta keep practicin' those kicks first, yeah? That's the deal."

Archie beams like he's just been promised Disneyland. I, on the other hand, feel like my face is on fire. My heart slams so hard I swear I can hear it in my ears. I glance around like I'm half-expecting someone to be standing there listening, but no one is. No one's paying attention to us at all.

Except me. Except Harry. Except Archie, who's already moved on like it's the most normal thing in the world to invite a complete stranger to dinner.

I clear my throat, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag.

"Alright, bud... let's grab your stuff."

Harry stands again, brushing his palms against his thighs like he's shaking off the grass. His eyes meet mine for one last second, and there's something there I can't quite name. Not teasing. Not pity. Just... something steady. Something that feels like he already knows I'm going to overthink this all night.

"See you next week?" I ask before I can stop myself, my voice tighter than I mean for it to be.

Harry nods, rocking back on his heels again.

"Wouldn't miss it."

And just like that, he's gone—turning back toward the pile of equipment like the last five minutes didn't knock the air clean out of my lungs.

Archie talks the whole walk back to the car. Little bursts of excitement tumbling over each other—how he kicked the ball once, how Coach Harry let him carry the cones, how next week he's going to run even faster. He's out of breath before we even make it across the parking lot, his tiny hand swinging in mine like all the fear from earlier never happened.

I keep nodding, making all the right noises, but it feels like my head is full of static. Like I can't get my feet back under me, no matter how many steps I take.

I get him buckled into his booster seat, double-check the straps even though I know they're fine. I lean in, pressing a kiss to his temple like I always do, breathing him in for just a second longer than necessary. He giggles, pushing at my face with one small hand.

"Mamaaa," he laughs, like I'm embarrassing him. Like it's funny. Like his heart isn't still tangled up in my hands the way mine is in his.

I shut the door quietly and lean back against the car, staring out at the emptying parking lot. Most of the families are gone already. The folding chairs are packed up, the chatter's faded, and the breeze is colder now than it was an hour ago. I wrap my arms around myself, digging my nails into my sleeves like that might stop the way my chest feels like it's caving in.

I don't know what I expected today to be. But it wasn't this. It wasn't the way Archie actually stayed. The way he looked—pink-cheeked and almost proud—for the first time in God knows how long. And it sure as hell wasn't the way Harry spoke to him. Or to me. Like we weren't some charity case. Like he wasn't performing patience for points. Like he actually... saw us. Both of us.

I shove my hand into my pocket, pulling out my phone before I can stop myself. My thumb hovers over the screen for half a breath too long before I swipe it open and scroll to my contacts.

Harry.

I lock the screen again and stuff it deep into my jacket like I can hide from it if I don't look too long.

"Okay," I whisper to myself, pushing off the car and moving toward the driver's side.

I'm already overthinking it.

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk1990 @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

[thegoldencontracts]

Aishiteru—I Love You

—♡ Whispered confessions of love in a language you really should have realized the both of you could understand.

—Characters: Leona, Ruggie

—Warnings: Reader is a bit dense, in case that's not your thing

—Notes: So, uh, I really did mean it when I said I'm back on my bullshit ww (in the voice of someone who surprised even herself); Anyways TIL male lions roar before mating ahahah guess which section that's gonna come up in (difficulty impossible)

Leona Kingscholar

It was very, very stupid to love someone who would so obviously never love you back. A prince of majesty untold with the bright, sharp green eyes of a predator and beauty that watched both his brains and brawn.

But you loved him. Maybe not. Maybe it was just infatuation, a mix of chemicals influenced by hormones bound not to last, but you didn't care.

And he... he tolerated you. The lion was a difficult one to get a read on, apathy masking all the depths of his emotion.

He thought you were scrawny, you knew that much, for he always shoved a packet of snacks into your hands when you spoke, claiming you "needed to get some meat on your bones".

He thought you were troublesome, as he said repeatedly when he helped you with those stupidly difficult homework assignments. There was a magic he seemed to work into his every word, one that made seemingly mind-numbingly complex concepts become clear as day.

And his henchman thought you were stupid.

"Seriously, Kantokusei-kun, you're denser than a pile of rocks..." The hyena beastman had muttered as you accompanied him to Leona's resting spot. "I'll leave you two to do your thing."

Leona was there, tail flicking lazily and hair perfectly disheveled.

"Herbivore," he said, adjusting his mane. He wasn't asleep for once. In fact, he had no hesitation as he stood, pawing at your shoulder. "You're late."

Huh?

"Late?" you asked. "To what?"

"We always meet around now," said Leona simply.

...Did you? Was it, like, something he kept track of?

Leona roared lowly. Was he angry or something?

"Did I do something wrong?" But he just laughed.

"Don't play coy with me, herbivore," he said. "I think both of our intentions are clear by now."

Was he trying to pick a fight with you? Oh, god, you were not surviving this unscathed. But- But you hadn't even said you loved him! You couldn't die without getting this off of your chest?

But you also couldn't put your feelings out there in the open to be so easily rejected...

You had a solution. Just pick a different language, easy as that!

"Ti amo," you said. If you died staring at his beautiful face you would die happy.

But again, Leona just smirked.

"Took you long enough," he said. "I was startin' to think you were just playing around."

Right. He must've thought you were insulting him! After all, he probably wanted to fight, right?

"It's, uh, not an insult," you admitted. Silence.

"...I know."

What.

"What do you mean, 'you know'? It could very well be one!"

Leona, for once, seemed visibly incredulous.

"Do you need to go to the hospital or something? Get your head checked?" He looked over you scrutinizingly. "Your vitals are alright. What's goin' on?"

"Well-"

"Are you tryin' to say you have bad taste or something?" he said, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess you'd be right about that."

"I mean, you don't know what I said! How do you know it's not an insult?"

...

Leona's eyes narrowed.

"Do you think," he said. "That a prince like me doesn't know a basic phrase like that?"

Leona was royalty. Right. Royalty. Who usually had to learn countless languages for diplomacy purposes.

Holy shit, you were stupid. And screwed. Very screwed.

"Thickheaded and a coward," he huffed, though his voice softened. "Got no clue why I like you."

Wait. He liked you?

"Why do you look so surprised?" Leona said. "Thought I made it obvious."

He really didn't. Then again, maybe you weren't the best person to decide what was and wasn't obvious, considering you couldn't figure out that a prince would understand a well-known Italian phrase.

"Well, um." you said. "I love you too!"

For a split second, you could've sworn you saw his cheeks flush darker, before he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I figured. Now c'mere."

Without letting you protest—not that you would've—he pulled you onto the bed with him.

"After dealin' with your thick head, I definitely deserve a nap."

But even someone like you could notice his tail was gently wagging.

Ruggie Bucchi:

You loved Ruggie Bucchi.

You loved his smile, his greyish-blue eyes, that dirty blonde hair of his that was just so easy to ruffle. You loved the way he would beam whenever he managed to score easy money or food, the way he endured everything life threw at him with a smile.

And there was his odd brand of kindness. He gave you bits of food he scored when he could, always insisting it was just "to make sure you'd owe him later"—but the time where he collected his debt never came. Every chance he could, he brought back food to share with the children back home. Your subconscious took note of each and every instance, whether you wanted it to or not. And each time, it seemed as if this bottomless pit of romantic pining somehow managed to get even deeper. Perhaps that was an oxymoron. Oh, well.

You doubted he loved you back, though. His gifts were friendly, and as was his smile. Nothing more. Those flushed glances you noticed were mere figments of the imagination. Ruggie Bucchi was a pragmatic individual who most certainly did not care for your affections.

So you kept them hidden. You tried, really, you tried. But the thing about romantic feelings was that they were impossible to keep suppressed.

The scene was a stereotypical sort; the two of you beneath a tree, splitting a sandwich. A light breeze.

This was where all the confessions happened, you thought. You sternly reminded yourself to act normal.

"Shishishi, this is good! Where'dja get it from?" He asked.

I love you so much, you wanted to reply. But you held your tongue. Act normal, you reminded yourself.

"I-I made it myself," you said. He beamed, little canines and agh hewassocute-

Damnit. You really couldn't take this anymore. But you couldn't bear to say those three words aloud either.

But what if there was a compromise?

Something other than English. A language he couldn't speak.

"Wǒ ài nǐ," you muttered. I love you, in Mandarin hinese. You'd heard it in a song once. Admittedly, it was a bit intense of a phrase, but still. It wasn't like he'd understand, anyways.

Ruggie stiffened, eyes going wide as saucers.

"What did you say, Kantokusei-kun?"

"Wǒ ài nǐ," you repeated, because it you still weren't satisfied with saying it once. "Just something in another language. You wouldn't understand."

You didn't mention Mandarin, in case he tried to translate.

"Uh-huh," said Ruggie, looking pointedly away form you.

Wait. Did he... think you'd insulted him?

"It wasn't anything mean, I-"

"I know."

His voice was still curt and clipped, red creeping up his cheeks.

"So," Ruggie said. "Do you know what that means?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

Ruggie cut you off with a flick of the wrist, before looking down, quiet as a mouse. After a few seconds, he spoke, slowly.

"Kantokusei-kun," he started. "Did you know," he cut himself off with a nervous shishi. "-That I can speak ten languages?"

"You can?" It was odd how Ruggie wasn't immediately taking the chance to brag about it, honestly. Or mention the skill's use in soliciting job opportunities.

"One of them is Mandarin," he said.

Oh.

Welp, you had a nice run. It was time to dig yourself into the nearest hole!

"Welp," Ruggie said, red-faced and apparently having had his fill of earnest conversation for the day. "That was awkward. Seeya! Don't be so tasteless with your jokes next time, okay?"

"It wasn't a-"

"Seeya!"

You sighed. Seriously? He thought you said it as a joke?

Maybe he was just uncomfortable and wanted to play it off. Yeah, probably that.

But the next day, you noticed the sandwich he brought you as 'payback' was shaped like a heart.

[keen-li]

All Aisle Ever Need 03 | jjk

chapter: 3/ ?

summary:

pairing: Jungkook x fem reader.

story type: series.

genre: exes to lovers, second chance au, right person wrong timing, lack of communication, forced proximity, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut.

rating: m. Mdni

wordcount: 3.7k+

warnings for chapter: troubled parental dynamics/figures. It's implied that they are both grown, Jungkook is older than reader (the age is subjective). cussing. found family, flashbacks. none really from here on.

a/n: this is when we get into a little more of the back story.

A/n: it's not a friday but here you go...

date: 13/05/25

note: this is not the first chapter

prev | next

story under cut.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Waking up early on a no-work day is great, though it does feel like a self-inflicted punishment today. Your body aches, and you can hardly move your neck. Your bed has always been comfortable and brought you nothing more than that. But last night, the sleep you got was in intervals. And that's rare for you. Each beginning had you slipping off because of how tired you were, but then your eyes snapped open from a dream.

The dreams varied from random childhood memories to Jungkook leaning against the door frame and smiling at you, still in the outfit you gave him. It felt too real. The waking you would say that was a nightmare, but the dream never caused you an inch of discomfort. It's nothing but a dream.

Maybe the smile was a threat. Everything feels like a threat to your life, to never let it be the same again. Because from now on, your life won't be the same.

Regardless of being able to sleep or not, you like waking up early. You have more time in the day that way.

You still don't know how to process yesterday. You try to remember the happy moments, but they get covered with his face. Yesterday, you were so angry at him and at everything, and today you're still upset. Now it's more about yourself. Maybe you should just take this oppo—no.

You don't have to take shit; this doesn't mean a single thing. It was a fucked-up coincidence.

You’re married to your fucking ex... sigh.

You're a meme to the universe at this point.

But of course, your ex is the best choice but the worst at the same time.

You thought sneaking out extra early to take your dress to the laundry would help you deal with this, but no... it’s making you feel worse because now you have to wonder if Jungkook is awake or not.

He sleeps longer than you; it’s not a surprise.

Something in you wants to avoid him at all costs, and after he leaves your house, you plan on doing that. But right now, you have to deal with it.

You’ve never been the type to kick people out, but you've never been shy to tell them when they've overstayed. Has he overstayed? Honestly, he should’ve never stayed, but—your fault again.

You’re kinder than you thought you would be. Because you should’ve called that Uber yesterday.

You sit in your car, thinking about whether you should go in or not, and you’ve never felt more childish. It’s your house; you shouldn’t be afraid to just walk in.

You don’t have to speak to him anyway; just walk in and do your stuff.

“Morning.”

You should’ve stayed in the car longer.

You scare yourself; the first thing you hear is his voice. You thought he'd still be asleep.

His voice is slow and flows out casually, clearly still in the hands of sleep.

You glance at him once, still stuck and taking your time to close the door. He eyes you from behind your island counter, wondering why you stand frozen.

“Thought you ran from me.” He smiles, licking the drop of coffee off his lip.

He thought you ran? Did you?

“You went into my room?” You finally move from your spot and into the kitchen. You’re so hungry. You knew you should’ve stopped by a café, but heaven knows what stopped you. Because now that you’re here, you don’t feel like anything you eat will sit in your stomach.

How would he know you weren’t here unless he looked into your room? You haven’t done your bed shit... did he go in your room? You don’t know why you panic at the thought of someone seeing you at a low point.

Because you’re not yourself right now.

Maybe you were running away.

“Wouldn’t dare.” He chuckles, staring deeper into his coffee.

He knows better than to. You already expressed that he wasn’t a guest here, so he doesn’t plan on doing anything further to anger you. Even making this coffee was a question mark for him.

“You left the door open,” he explains.

You freeze.

“I did what?”

“You left the door open,” he repeats. What? Are you about to yell at him?

You scoff, shaking your head. “Doesn’t sound like me.” You brush him off because you would never do that.

“Just telling you.” He retreats; it’s not something important to have a discussion on, but he thought you should know. If he wasn’t here and you did that, who knows what would’ve happened? You do live in a more secure apartment building, but nothing’s 100%.

He knows it’s something you wouldn’t do, but you look ‘not yourself today.’ Is it because of him?

You ignore everything; that's the affirmation of this whole thing, right? So that’s what you’re going to do. And something that helps you with that is your coffee.

So, pulling open your cabinet, you search the perimeter for the coffee bags you had. You swore you had them. They'd be almost done by now, but they’re there.

“You finished the coffee?” you turn sharply to the only person with a cup of coffee.

“I’m sorry.”

Great, now you’re going to have to drink tea. It’s fine; you like it, but coffee has always been a better stress reliever. And of course, it just had to be him to ruin the only thing you found solace in.

You accept it and choose to just reach for your mug—“It’s fin—are you using my mug!?”

“Am I?” He stares at the mug. It’s the first one he saw, and it was pretty. He didn't realize it, though. Are you upset? At this point, everything is a landmine in this house.

You roll your eyes. “You’re kidding, right? Is this how you act elsewhere?” He doesn’t respond. “Don’t be so comfortable.”

“You can have it...” There’s definitely a better way for you to set your boundaries with him, but like you said, it’s your house. Honestly, he should just go home. Nothing about being here feels welcoming.

He wants to give it back, but you’re already grabbing another.

You're both silent as you make your cup.

Words itch at Jungkook's throat as he just watches you. There's a lot he wants to say, but where to start? The thought of your reaction has him doubting if he shouldn’t just go home.

Mornings with you were once different from this. Back then, he'd be hovering over your shoulder as you both made breakfast. He preferred you sat, but you didn't like the idea of just sitting when you could help out.

And even when Jungkook forced you to just sit down and watch him, you couldn't just sit. So you would repack his pantry.

He smiles.

“You need to refill your pantry,” he suggests, not as hastily as you hear it, but as an observation. And maybe a conversation filler.

“With some new stuff as well.” Years back, when he would come to yours, he’d find the same type of food you have right now. He’s not sure if you’re just a super fan of the brands, and that’s cool, but you surely can’t have the same taste.

“I’ll be fine.” You walk past him.

You didn’t want to think much about it last night when you gave him the pants, but now you realize you should’ve sacrificed some sleep to find him a shirt. You hate it, but you've got eyes, and he's right in front of you. You hate how you notice how much he's changed. He's bigger—muscles, of course. Not that the pants are hiding much. Geez. You really don't like the best for you.

You never thought tattoos were something that were interesting to look at. Your mother said they were a useless commitment. But now, looking at Jungkook... they aren't that bad. But maybe it's just him. He looks good in them; you'll give him that.

But away from that type of thinking, you do hate that he doesn't seem uncomfortable at all. He's too casual with this.

And the flashbacks to days when you’d stay over at his (which was all you ever did). Thoughts of you laughing at something stupid he said or him—No. No, think.

“How did you sleep?”

Him speaking doesn’t help you in any way. It’s exactly what you don’t want to do.

“We don’t need to speak, you know?” You spit out. What are you even looking for? You can’t keep walking around.

Breakfast—you wanted to make breakfast.

“We’re going to have to.” It’s a truth you want to avoid. But it’s possible if you both agree that you don’t have to talk about anything. Doesn’t he realize that that’s better?

Still walking around, you pretend to not hear him. “Did you leave my room how you found it?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes at how you ignore him, but he’ll bite.

“Thought room service was going to do that.” He laughs, and you’re not amused. You can dish out so many remarks but can’t take them.

Not trusting him at all, you’re quick to take a peek at the guest room.

It’s clean. It’s clean.

“Not gonna cuss me out?” The smug look on his face has you rolling your eyes. Fine, he did one small thing you didn’t expect of him, so what?

“I don’t usually leave my pillows like that, but you tried.”

He laughs lightly.

Shit has never been this awkward between him and a woman before. And he’s never not known what to do. But you always seem to take him out of himself, honestly. You’re really going to be the test of if he’s changed or not.

Finally deciding to get serious, you open your fridge, and you groan at the sight. Not much to see, honestly.

“I told you, you need to refill.”

Being so caught up with the wedding, you forgot to go grocery shopping. In truth, you didn’t think you would need to. After the wedding, you thought you and your husband would move in together or find somewhere else to live, and that would be that. You didn’t want to waste food.

Maybe it was dumb to think that.

But it’s fine. You just grab a snack.

“We can go out for breakfast,” Jungkook suggests warmly, walking over to the sink to rinse it.

“Who’s we?”

He pauses.

“You wouldn't want to?”

You don’t answer for a second, but your stomach does a good job at speaking for you. You hate it sometimes.

Jungkook chuckles internally, and it threatens to slip past his lips when you try to deny it. If it was life or death, you would really rather die than let him help you. It’s a shame.

“Just because we’re married doesn’t mean you need me in your plans.”

“I would do this for anyone,” he's quick to correct.

“So generous.”

He rolls his eyes. But he won’t let your stubbornness stop him. “I’ll bring you back something then.”

You raise a brow, but you can’t deny the idea speaks to you. Even through your frustration, you won't deny that Jungkook is caring. He's a lot of things you can't seem to put together.

The day you left, you promised you'd never try to decipher what Jungkook was or was not because it didn't matter. It doesn’t matter.

“You’re coming back?”

Jungkook thinks for a second. He has overstayed, huh? Maybe he's running away from going home too. “Now that you’ve said it, no.”

It’s what you wanted; why is your chest tightening?

“But I would appreciate it if you could drive me back to mine.”

“J-just call an Uber.”

“Are we gonna discuss this again?” he chuckles. “We know how it’ll end.” He teases for your kindness last night.

"You slept with him?"

You roll your eyes at Jisoo’s reaction to you telling her Jungkook slept at yours.

Taehyung hasn't said much since you called them. You have no clue what has him busy behind the camera.

When coming back home, you stopped by the store just to buy food that will last you till you have to leave for the honeymoon.

You sigh. You're excited to be going out of the country, but the circumstances aren't ideal, so you wonder if you will enjoy it. You want to because it's been a while since you went on a trip and just relaxed.

While dropping him off, Jungkook offered for you to come in, and he could make something for you. But just like him, you didn’t want to have to speak to his mother, so you dodged that.

"What the heck? No, I didn't." The scowl on your face tells them how you feel about the idea.

Why the hell would that be the first thing she would think to ask?

"He just didn’t want to go home. And honestly, I get it." You shake your head at the memory of Jungkook's parents. His dad's cool, but his mother...

"His mother is kind of a bitch?" You question if that's how you should refer to her. It's not like it's wrong. You wouldn’t say it to her face or Jungkook's, but you do think it. Jungkook would get it, right? He's said it to you before.

"Is that how you're addressing your mother-in-law?" Jisoo laughs teasingly, and you follow.

"Honestly, if you met her, you would agree." You say defensively. You respect elders, but Jungkook’s mother? Lol.

"So he's got mommy issues?" Taehyung finally speaks.

You pause to think. "I guess you could say that." You frown when you think about it. And when you think more, you connect the dots and realize... "She's like my dad."

Small hums fall out of your friends' mouths.

It's only now that you're realizing how similar you and Jungkook could be. But you don't know much about him still. Why the hell did you love him in the first place? You barely knew a single thing about what you should’ve known about him. You guess you knew him; that’s enough, right?

You met his family. He's never met yours; maybe you're the one who wasn't serious.

You're shocked his mother didn't walk up to you at the wedding. Maybe she didn't remember you? But with the way she analyzed you that day, she should be able to remember.

What does she think of you now? Everything she says is so backhanded, honestly; you don't care to know.

"You seem to be feeling better."

"Yeah, you were a bitch yesterday."

You laugh out when Taehyung abruptly spits out his drink. You almost spit out your latte. "I was not." You definitely were. And the side eyes they give you are evidence of their disagreement.

You're not normally like that, but when you are, you're glad you have friends to tell you. They're never shy to do so. "I'm sorry for that. I was just so—"

"It's okay; we understand."

You pout and share a smile with them.

"So would you care to share what happened between the two of you?"

Oh—you could only dodge so far.

"If you want to," Jisoo adds, so you don't feel any pressure.

You have no issue with sharing it with them. Who else would you tell? But it’s definitely going to be embarrassing.

"It's nothing Shakespeare-worthy." You blush, embarrassed, hands over your face. Are you really going to have to relive it?

It really isn't anything special. You'd been with him for two years. Two years, and you were inching away from being anything serious the more days went on.

It was confusing because everything about you two felt serious.

You shared 'I love yous' (him first). You spent most of your time together and talked often. Jungkook would never go a day without sending a "hi" text. Everything felt set in stone and serious.

-

-

Flashback: Two Years Ago

-

-

"You okay?" Jungkook coos, brushing the loose hair off your face.

"Huh?" You finally tear your eyes off the one spot you've been staring at.

Jungkook, noticing the blank look on your face, pulls you in playfully. "You look sad." You laugh when he nuzzles his nose into your neck. "I don't like when you're sad."

Laughing, you pull him away and speak through a giggle. "I'm not sad."

He pauses his attacks to look at your face. "Then what's wrong?" He stares at every inch of your face and watches it closely as it falls once again. There's definitely something bothering you, and his brows furrow at the thought.

You stare at the wrinkles on his white duvet. How do you ask what you want to ask?

You pick at your cheek.

"Don't do that." He strokes the cheek that your teeth attack, and immediately you stop.

Whatever it is you want to say requires a more serious tone. So he sits up, the material sliding down his torso. You sit up as well.

"You can talk to me, you know, right?" He reassures you. You rarely get this nervous or awkward. But of late, he can definitely feel a shift on your part, which has led him to draw back a bit. But not enough to make you feel like he doesn't care.

He wouldn't say he's the best at this, but he tries; he wants to be good at this.

Honestly, he doesn't like where your silence is going. What are you about to say?

"I know." You know you can talk to Jungkook about anything, but there are things that are just so hard to talk about with someone you doubt could be there the next few years. You hate to trauma dump on somebody, and then the next moment, you're breaking up, and he's using those things against you. Would Jungkook do that? You're not sure.

Jungkook has honestly been a breath of fresh air for you in terms of relationships. But you're getting older, and you can't keep playing around. You're not even in an established relationship.

You never questioned the non-commitment in the beginning because you never thought things would last between you two. It was just a hookup, but the things turned casual, and soon casual hookups turned into casual conversations and casual laughter. Months turned into a year. And things would have been great if you both clearly didn't feel deeply for what you had.

It's honestly the most complicated situationship. You were basically a couple without the title.

Why? On your part, you would say you were scared things would change once you brought up commitment, or maybe you weren't the commitment type. You have no clue what it is you want, that's why it's hard to bring it up. But maybe whatever he says may push your mind to one direction.

"Talk to me, baby." He says, pulling you into him and placing a kiss on your temple.

You hate this. Hate this confusion. So you pull back and get off the bed.

Jungkook's confused by your actions. He sits at the edge of the bed.

"I can't do this."

Communication is so crucial, but you've been too carried away to do so. You never had goals or intentions for this relationship; it just happened, and you just let it. It was nice to not have expectations for anything.

How the hell did you survive this for almost a year?

But things are getting confusing, and now you realize.

"What do you think we are?" It's a genuine question, one with weight and could change a lot. You never really knew; you hooked up, but it never felt like that, and honestly, it was never always that. You always hung out and did non-sexual stuff. You talked, you laughed, and you even cried in front of him once, though it was because of a movie. If somebody saw the way you hung out, honestly, they would pin it as a friendship. Were you two friends? A fucked-up way to be friends.

"Huh?"

Yeah, you're just as confused.

"Where's this coming from?"

You roll your eyes.

"Don't you wonder?" You take a seat by his desk that's at the end of his bedroom. Jungkook watches your every movement. There's a lot of stuff he'd like to notice, like the way his shirt slides up when you sit down or the way your skin glows from the rays of sun from his window. But he can't; all he's thinking about is your question.

What are you actually?

"I don't know," he responds, and you scoff. "We never talked about it, really."

"We should talk about it."

If you weren't upset over nothing before what he says after surely guarantees that.

"What's there to say?" He chuckles. What's there really to say?

You scoff. "Well, do you want to be something?"

Jungkook pauses, stands, and walks over to you.

Just like you, he never really thought much of this in the beginning. But as time went on, he did grow feelings for you. And it was nice to not have a label or to even think of labels. It's not like he cheated or was disloyal to you. He was all yours, just without a label.

And there's nothing wrong with that to him. Labels aren't that serious. He doesn't need a label to treat you right. He's been doing that just fine.

"Huh? You want to be something?" He caresses your cheek as you look up at him. Why does he make your knees weak? That fucking smile. He's always too calm and always know show to calm you.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. "I don't know, Jungkook. I just... I don't want to keep pretending like this is nothing when it feels like so much more."

A embarrassing to say but you feel like you can trust him with it.

He nods slowly, processing your words. "I get it. I really do. But what if we just keep it like this for a while longer? No pressure, no labels. Just us."

You want to argue, to push for something more concrete, but the sincerity in his eyes makes you hesitate. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you both need more time to figure things out.

Maybe labels don't mean much.

"Okay," you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. "But we need to be honest with each other."

"Deal," he replies, a smile breaking across his face. "I promise."

But being honest with eachother was the last thing that happened...

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

A/n: we're now going to get into more of the back story so the following chapter will be flashbacks. I know its not a Friday but I wanted to get this out cause i missed Friday...

A/n 2: i'm sorry if this chapter was ass, this week's been busy and mentally draining. if you didn't like it please don't tell me and if you did like it please let me know.

i'm getting to the point where i'm getting insecure about everything i put down, so i hope i get through that but anyways i don't mean to sob... I will keep writing it though, I'm not giving up...

anyways I hope you enjoyed.

same time next week?

Lets discuss in the replies 🖐😊

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @granataepfelchen @jksusawife @notsevenwithyou @llallaaa @kmpj9 @lryf @smileyshaven @dragonflygurl4 @mar-lo-pap @blueberriesm @vantelover1306 @bjoriis @alana4610 @khadeeeeej

note: to join taglist just inbox.

every note, reply and reblog is appreciated.

[mega-wonsz-rzeczny-9]

I am. So normal. About act 5. Totally! (Lies)

This post will be very personal. I'm not that familiar with Tumblr so idk if anyone will see this, but just in case they do: I'll read every comment, so please be kind. This fandom is probably the least toxic fandom I've ever been a part of, but I'm afraid this post may contain some Mirabelle slander. I like her as a character, but she's far from my favorite, for reasons I'll explain below.

I'll be honest: Mirabelle always seemed a bit... annoying to me. Not in a "I hate this character, get off my screen" way, but rather in a "can she stop being anxious for 1 blinding second?" way, which is self projection from me, because I am also very anxious when interacting with other people. I relate to that part of her character, and I felt bad seeing how many times the others have to reassure her, so I projected my annoyance with myself onto Siffrin and the others. I like her as a character, but she reminds me of the part of myself that I'm ashamed of, which is why I don't love her.

When she reacted the way she did in act 5, I was honestly mad at her. How dare she say that to Siffrin, who's clearly not okay? How dare she slap them and declare that they we're never friends? How dare she keep the right to be mad later in act 6, knowing that Siffrin did it all because he was looping in time?! I don't think I'm fully over it.

But I think it's also self projection. I'm mad at myself for not being over some things. For not being able to forgive more easily. I'm just better at hiding how much some things hurt me. I hide my anxiety as much as I can, and agonize about it when I'm alone. I'm mad she's not as bad at communicating her own feelings as I am, which is very funny considering ISAT's main message is that communicating your feelings is imperative.

And then I come across a post like this - a post which praises her as a character exactly for the only interaction with her that genuinely made me mad at her for a while. And I read it. And I agree. And I realize just how much of this I could apply to my own life. I have the right to be mad about things that hurt me, no matter why they happened. It doesn't matter why the people who hurt me did it, I still deserve to be mad at them over it. Does that mean I have to retroactively decide we were never really close? No, but it's reasonable for me to decide that their actions change our relationship, even if they didn't intend to do it.

I think it's very neat how fandom discourse can redefine how I see a character, and in turn how I see myself. I was still mad at her when I finished the game. I'm mostly over it now, even though I still don't love when she's the main focus of fanfiction I read, (excluding some fics), because it's difficult for me to not find her annoying again.

Writing this post felt very cathartic.

This blog is pretty much just a journal where I make notes to myself, so I'm posting this even though I don't think it's perfect. Maybe I'll decide to edit it in the future? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

party pov of the Siffrinless run through the House during the Loop hangout has a hold on me rn…

i spoke broadly about it in this post but each of them would have much more personal conflicts and thoughts about Siffrin just…..disappearing without a word on the day of the final battle.

i was gonna talk about all of them in one post but i kept having more to say about Mirabelle. and i don’t talk about Mirabelle in depth as much as she deserves. so!

Party POV of Loop Hangout Day - MIRABELLE EDITION

we don’t see the clocktower interaction play out after Siffrin agrees to hang out with Loop, but there’s no reason to believe it goes much differently than usual without the friendquests changing things. which means this probably happens

We’ll stay with you, Mira. Siffrin says it every time this conversation happens.

Mirabelle offers them all a final opportunity to back out. she’s felt guilty, this entire time, dragging everyone along with her on a quest that feels doomed to fail, and that more than half of the party shouldn’t even really be involved with—a child, and two travelers risking their lives for a country that isn’t theirs, just because they had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

they should be allowed to leave. she may not have a choice, but the rest of them do. so she tries to offer them this escape, even though the thought of what’s ahead fills her with dread, even if she’s terrified she was the wrong choice for something this important and may not be able to protect them, or even succeed at all. and it’s such a relief and a comfort that they all choose to stay anyway, and she doesn’t have to face the House alone. she has support, company, friends to rely on. people who believe in her even when she doesn’t believe in herself.

except when they wake up the next morning, Siffrin is nowhere to be found. not in the clocktower, not in the town. how long do they search? how long does it take them to decide this must be his real answer to the question Mirabelle posed the night before?

Mirabelle takes Siffrin’s act 5 behavior…very personally. in her hurt and anger, she decides that if nothing’s wrong, if he thought it was okay to say something like that in that moment, they must have always been a worse person than she thought they were. she was always uncertain of his motives, his attitude. she reassures herself that their teasing is friendly, like it’s something she has to convince herself is true.

but some part of her really did believe that he saw himself as better than the rest of them—even if she never treated them with anything other than kindness! she didn’t let her uncertainty or anxiety get in the way of treating him with warmth, ignoring the potential bad-faith explanations of his behavior and trusting that they had better intentions than her fears would lead her to believe…until she had evidence that, just maybe, those fears weren’t so unfounded.

the Housemaiden in the Prologue even says that she thought they were mean, at first. uncaring. an impression that didn’t turn around until Siffrin got hurt protecting Bonnie. maybe it’s cheating a little bit to bring Prologue dialogue into an ISAT discussion since they’re not perfectly identical timelines, but i think it lines up with ISAT Mirabelle thinking Siffrin saw themself as “better” than her.

Prologue:

ISAT:

she applies this judgement not just in the moment, but retroactively. whatever goodwill and trust she had read into their behavior before, it’s gone. the person she reassured herself that he was would never do something like this, so she must have failed to understand him entirely, from the very beginning.

there’s no confrontation, in the Hangout loop. just a silent disappearance. they have no context or explanation for what happens. no heightened emotions from the immediacy of insults and anger thrown in their faces. but whatever emotions bubble up have time to simmer.

i can imagine Mirabelle’s thought process might be quite similar to how it is in Act 5.

something must be wrong, for them to act like this. to disappear without a word after promising everyone that they’d stay.

but if nothing’s wrong…she must have been wrong about them. he isn’t the person she thought he was. how could they leave now, after what they already sacrificed defending Bonnie? or was it because of what he lost defending them—that he had given all he was willing to give, and no more?

did they finally decide Mirabelle wasn’t a person worth believing in anymore? that her mission wasn’t important enough to waste his life in its pursuit? that someone like them shouldn’t bother following someone as weak as her?

she gave them the option to leave. she feels guilty that it hurts so much that he took it. angry and betrayed that he would lie to their faces and leave without a goodbye, when for all they know they’ll never see each other again. did they all really matter so little to him?

or was he scared, and unable to face them out of shame? can she really blame them for that, knowing her own terror at what entering the House will bring? maybe he’s just as scared as she is, even if he never shows it like she does. it’s their choice. he has no responsibility here, no obligation to stay and put himself in danger for their sakes. she offered them this. she offered them this. they’re allowed to change their mind. what right does she have to be angry? she would have understood if they’d just!! said something!!! it would have hurt, still, but, but—

did she ever really understand them at all, if she couldn’t see this coming?

[whambamsami]

smile, you're on camera! pt. 2

pt. 1

summary: basically only porn lmao

warnings: 18+, smut! like the whole thing is smut!

note: this is legit the third thing i've ever written, and my first time writing actual smut! definitely have a bit to learn haha but i had fun! not proofread at all so if there's any plot holes/errors im sorry <3

If he could hear your heartbeat before, you couldn’t imagine it now. 

You slid off your bed, fixing your nightgown, and made your way to your door. The very door that was the only barrier between you and Bucky’s apartment. Your hands were shaking, your throat tightened, your legs frozen. 

But ugly thoughts started to swirl in your brain. 

What if he was just toying with you?

Your grip on your doorknob was so tight your knuckles were turning white. 

You couldn’t do this. 

Could you? 

Regardless, you had two options; you could chop this up to his usual flirty banter, or you could finally relieve yourself of the tension that had been bubbling between you and Bucky since you could remember. Just once, to get him out of your system, you tell yourself. 

There was a third option that seemed much more appealing and within reach than the other two. 

You could pour yourself a fucking drink. 

You released the door, took a shaky breath, and pivoted toward your fridge, reaching numbly for the chilled martini glass you always kept in your freezer in case of emergencies. 

This absolutely qualified as an emergency.

Before you could even uncap your cheap vodka, there was a knock at your door. 

You didn’t need to guess who it was.

You froze, standing perfectly still. Maybe he didn’t know you were in here. 

“Sweetheart, we both know I can hear your heartbeat from all the way in my apartment. You think I don’t know you’re in there?”

Goddamn supersoldier serum. 

You don’t move. 

You hear him again, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Please?”

Well, now it would just be improper to not hear him out. 

You put your martini glass on the counter, wipe the condensation off your hands unceremoniously, and open your door. 

Bucky absolutely dwarfed you, his looming figure almost too tall and broad to fit in the frame. He had to duck his head a bit to enter your apartment. Was he always this…big?

He took a step toward you, looking entirely too calm considering your last conversation. 

“Y’know, I may be over a hundred years old, but even I know that it’s considered rude to ignore someone’s texts.”

Another step toward you. You take one step backward. 

“Yeah, well, eavesdropping is considered rude too. What happened to privacy? Where’s your shame, Barnes?” you counter, praying he’d be so distracted with your usual banter to notice just how much you were flushing. 

Another step forward. Another one back. You can feel the cool marble of your kitchen counter through your paper-thin slip sleep dress, and you were reminded of just how little was between your too warm, too desperate body and Bucky. 

He tilts his head, giving you that easy smile that always has you weak in the knees, and weaker in between them. He leans in and places his vibranium hand next to you, bending down to give you a better look at the predatory glint in his eyes. For a second you wonder if he was smiling or baring his teeth, flashing his canines, reminding you who was really in charge.

“You’re right, sweetheart. Where are my manners? It was awful rude of me to interrupt your private time.” his mild Brooklyn accent was thicker than usual, you think to yourself, before he wipes any thought in your mind by innocently asking “is there anything I can do to make it up to you? I do happen to be a professional in the area.”

Your lips part for just a second. You hope he doesn’t catch it. 

But nothing gets past Bucky Barnes.

A self-satisfied smirk dances on his lips as he puts his flesh hand next to your hip, caging you against your kitchen counter. 

The White Wolf was closing in on his prey. 

“What’s wrong, doll?” he purrs, eyelids lowering, “you don’t play well with others?”

You could taste the mint on his breath, could smell the woodsy warmth of his cologne. 

You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words. You can’t find any words. The only thought running through your mind was about how his arms felt next to you, how close he was. 

One metal, one flesh. One radiating heat, the other as cool as the long-forgotten martini glass that still stood perched behind you two on the kitchen counter.

You’d read somewhere once, that going from hot to cold too fast was bad for the human body. That it could give you a heart attack. You never knew if that was true or not, but it worked as an effective warning to ensure you didn’t spend too much time in your friends’ hot tubs on cold winter nights. 

Tonight, you wondered if it was true. If Bucky’s contrast of hot and cold touch would overwhelm your body and you would just die right there. 

There were definitely worse ways to go. 

His voice brings you back to Earth.

“Tell me to stop, “he mumbles, lips ghosting and noses bumping, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

His hands found your waist. Gentle but firm. Grounding. Tempting.

You knew he would leave, if you told him to. He sounded so earnest. So genuine. Vulnerable. 

Could he not see that you wanted this?

Your eyes found his. 

You could see it. The cracks in his restraint. Like he was forcing himself not to close the distance between you until you said the words.

He wanted you. 

Badly.

Your voice came out softer than you’d expected it to. 

“I’m not going to.” 

His restraint shattered.

His eyes darkened, his grip on you tightened, and he wrapped his vibranium arm around your waist and pulled your body against his, his other hand cupping your face, drawing you into a searing kiss.

You could practically taste his want. It was everything you had both held back, built on endless nights you’d nearly crossed these lines. He started softly, sweetly, as gentle as fresh-baked meringue. 

That didn’t last long.

He pulled away, just barely, and you could hear him murmur something like “...waited so fucking long for this…” before he was diving back in, deeper than before. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his red henley shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. It was raw. Unfiltered. Desperate. His lips were on yours like he’d dreamed of this, like he was afraid it might be the last time he’d ever kiss you, that maybe, if he did a good enough job, you might let him touch you a little longer. 

His hands were everywhere, grazing your exposed spine, his thumbs digging into your hips. 

Bucky broke the kiss for a moment, and before you could protest, he was grabbing you behind your knees and hoisting you up to sit on your kitchen counter like you weighed nothing. 

You let out a small squeak of surprise that had him grinning against your lips, capturing them again, swallowing the sound. 

One of his knees nudges between yours, opening you up to him. Your thin silk gown rides up on your thighs, exposing even more of you to his gaze, feeling so vulnerable your first instinct is to squeeze your legs shut. 

But he’s quicker. 

His vibranium hand stills your movements, cool in contrast to the heat permeating the room.

“You’re not going shy on me, baby, are you?”

His voice rumbled, leaning forward to let his lips graze your neck. You shiver at his touch, arching into him instinctually. You could feel him chuckle against you, could feel his stubble scratch you gently as he nipped at your collarbone, pulling a soft gasp you couldn’t stop if you wanted out of your lips. 

“Oh, where’s that mouth now, sweetheart? You sure had a lot to say earlier,” he croons, almost mocking you, stepping in and pressing his hips into yours, “Does something have you frustrated, doll? C’mon, use your words...”

You shoot him a glare, trying to gather enough air to speak, to fight, something-but then he shifts that same thigh upward. Pressure. Heat. Friction.

“God, Bucky...” you whisper, only half aware you’ve even said anything, so caught up in the effects he’s having on you.

And you can just feel the cockiness radiating off of him.

“Thought so,” he kisses your pulse point before grazing his lips on your earlobe, “I’ve been paid to fake reactions before, sweetheart...” His teeth graze your skin. “But that right there? That was real.”

You gasp, fingers curling against his chest.

“You’re such a-”

“Careful,” he murmurs, nudging his knee higher, eyes glittering. “You’re talking like you don’t want this. But your body’s saying something very different.”

He grinds just enough to draw a moan from your throat-a sound you did not mean to make. The second it escapes, his smile turns downright dangerous.

“Ohh,” he croons, lips ghosting over yours, “was that a moan? That little sound right there? That’s my favorite.”

You grit your teeth, trying to remember whatever point you were so desperate to make.

“I’m not some...fan,” you snap, even as your legs tremble around his. “You’re not going to ruin me with some pornstar act-”

His brow arches, slowly, like you’ve just dared him to try.

“Is that what you think this is?” he breathes, pressing his body tighter to yours. “Some act?”

His lips brush your jawline, teasing, lingering just enough to have you melting into him.

“If this was a scene,” and his hands tweak your hard nipples, hard enough to make you squeak, “I’d already have you on your knees. You’d be looking up at me with those pretty lips parted, mascara streaked down your cheeks, and you’d be begging.” and he soothes your tender breasts, sucking gently on each.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, thumb trailing down your bottom lip, his voice dropping even lower.

“But I’m not acting, sweetheart. And neither are you.”

You want to deny it. You really do. But his hand slips between your thighs again, two fingers trailing lazily along your soaked center, and your hips buck against him without permission.

“Still wanna argue?” he rasps.

“Y-yeah-” you force out, though it comes out more like a moan.

“God, you’ve got a mouth on you,” he chuckles. “I can’t wait to make you lose that bratty attitude.”

Then he’s kissing you-finally-a kiss that’s deep and consuming, like he’s making a point. He bites your lip, then soothes it with his tongue, one hand holding your jaw, the other slipping lower...lower...

“Gonna ruin you, doll,” he whispers against your mouth. “And when I do, it won’t be for the cameras. It’ll be just for me.”

And he’s got you in his arms, licking and nibbling at your throat as he carries to the bedroom. 

He’s got you on the bed, flat on your back, your flimsy slip dress tossed in the corner of your room. He looms over you, solid and intimidating and so goddamn cocky it’s unfair. 

You try to push at his chest again-weakly this time, more for pride than anything else.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you manage, breathless. “You do this for a living-” 

He stills. Just for a moment. Then he lets out a dark, slow laugh.

“Sweetheart...” His vibranium hand runs up your bare thigh, gripping tight at your hip. “If I was working right now, you’d already be cumming on camera, three times over, moaning my stage name like it meant something.”

Your breath catches. 

“This?” he growls, kissing down your neck, biting just where your throat meets your shoulder, “This is personal.”

Bucky hooks his hands in your panties, not waiting for you to lift your hips before he’s yanking them down your legs. He settles between your thighs, keeping his eyes on your face, like he’s dying to see your reactions. His fingers trace the slick seam of you, slow and patient, watching you squirm with a look of practiced delight.

“Besides,” he adds, dragging a thumb over your clit with wicked precision, “you think I fuck just anyone off the clock?”

“That’s the thing about my job, baby,” he says, leaning down until you can feel his breath ghosting over your core. “It takes a lot to impress me.”

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot, slow, experienced. He eats you like a man with no intention of stopping. Like someone who’s studied this, who knows the rhythm, the angle, the pressure. Like a goddamn professional.

You’re quick to cover your mouth with your hand, muffling what was sure to be another humiliating moan begging for more of whatever he’s willing to give, but he catches it, pulling back to grunt up at you, 

“None of that, doll. I want to hear every pretty little sound I pull out of you. I want to hear how you sound when you soak my face.”

“F-fuck-” you manage to stutter, legs trying to close on instinct.

His vibranium hand keeps you wide open, pinned in place.

And he dives back in, spurred on by every mewl he rips from you, circling your clit with his tongue before sucking you in, easing a finger into your tight, needy body, and curling expertly before adding another.

You’re arching into his mouth, barely in control of your own body as you feel your orgasm building fast.

“I’m- Jesus, Bucky, I’m close- you whimper.

He pulls back, replacing his mouth with his cool vibranium fingers, the contrast making you cry out.

“Y’close, sweet girl? Hmm? Show me how good you can be for me. Show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

And you do.

Your orgasm rips through you, gushing over Bucky’s fingers as he groans at the sight.

His fingers don’t still, continuing their torturous circling and pumping, and you hiss at the sensitivity.

“Sensitive, Bucky..”

“Oh, sensitive, are you?” he purrs, dipping his head once more between your legs, “I think you can give me one more, yeah? God, you taste so fucking good...” and he’s back to his onslaught between your trembling thighs, ignoring your pleas for him to ease up.

Your second orgasm comes entirely too fast, and you snap with a gasp of his name.

As you lay there, desperately trying to catch your breath, you’re dimly aware of him sitting back on his knees and freeing himself of his clothes, his tanned, muscular body now fully on display. 

You shouldn’t have been as shocked as you were about his size. He was a pornstar, after all. But taking a full look at his manhood as you reeled from the two orgasms he had pulled out of you, you couldn’t help but to gasp at the sight of him. Long, girthy, his red tip already leaking precum. 

“See something you like, baby?” he teases, rising over you again, “Don’t let me distract you.”

“You’re a smug asshole.”

He grins, unbothered, dragging the tip of his cock through your slick folds with a low groan.

“Yeah? You say that now. But let’s see what you’re calling me in five minutes.”

And then he thrusts in. All of him. Deep. Thick. You arch up with a cry, nails digging into his shoulders, so full it knocks the air from your lungs.

He doesn’t move. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, watching your face.

“What was that, baby?” he whispers, brushing hair back from your sweaty forehead tenderly. “Didn’t catch it.”

“I-I hate you,” you gasp, even as your hips rock up to meet him.

He groans. Deep and real and possessive.

“You love me like this.”

Then he starts to move. Slow, grinding thrusts at first, acclimating you to his intimidating size. His hands pin your wrists above your head. His mouth is everywhere. Your neck, your jaw, your lips.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he grunts, more to himself than you. 

His hand pressed on your stomach, down to the bulge from where he was fucking into you, deeper than you ever felt possible. 

“You feel that?” he purrs. “No camera. No crew. Just you. Me. And the way you’re taking me like you were made for it.”

You’re whimpering now, babbling his name, shaking apart beneath him, just doing your best to keep up.

“You think I fuck like this at work?” he growls. “No one gets this, sweetheart. No one but you.”

He’s pounding into you, merciless, all while leaving sweet kisses on your cheeks, rubbing soft circles around your clit. The contrast was maddening. 

“Cmon, doll, just one more for me, I know you can do it, can feel you squeezing tight around me,” he coos, speeding up his thumb on you, making you squeal. You could feel it, the sensitivity almost blinding, “Just one more baby, I know you want to be good for me, don’t you? Don’t you want to make a mess all over my cock?” 

When you cum, you practically scream. It was almost violent. You cried out for him, not even sure what you were begging for at this point, pussy milking him as you rode out the most intense orgasm you’d ever experienced, Bucky fucking you through it. 

You barely had time to catch a breath before he was capturing your lips in another kiss.

“God, doll, you did so good f’me, taking me so fucking good, gonna fill you up, baby, gonna- fuck-” 

You could feel him twitch inside you, just seconds before he let out a low moan, pumping hot white streams of seed as deep as they would go, murmuring sweet nothings against your lips as he emptied himself into your poor, overstimulated pussy. 

For a moment after, you laid together, exhausted, tangled in one another and reveling in what you had just done to one another. 

Then he’s wrapping you up in his arms, pulling you flush against his bare chest, kissing your bare shoulder sweetly. 

And then you feel his cock begin to harden against your quivering thigh.

“What, did you pop a Viagra before this? How are you not exhausted?”, you exclaim, gesturing to his crotch incredulously, making him laugh.

“Super soldier serum. Extra stamina. Which is perfect, because I didn’t focus nearly enough on those perfect tits of yours in round one.”

You blush softly. “How am I supposed to keep up with you? You’re like a… a genetically enhanced pornstar. How is that fair?”

He grins wickedly once again. “Aw, don’t be like that, doll! I just gotta break you in you a little, is all.”

“...break me in?”

“Yeah, train you. Get you used to me. Now let me eat that pretty pussy again, and then I want to see you ride my cock like you’re on camera.”

[fwaist]

JAW once said in an interview that “Carmy does not fuck” which is 1. hilarious and 2. in character and 3. intriguing, and I would love to hear your headcanons regarding this🙏🙏💕

of COURSE carmy doesn’t fuck. not because he couldn’t, but because he’s so emotionally repressed, chronically stressed, and buried under ten layers of guilt and self-loathing that sex would just be another thing he overthinks into oblivion. the man is hanging on by a thread and that thread is beef. so yeah. he doesn’t fuck—but if he ever did? it would be awkward and intense and kind of sweet in a “he’s trying so hard please someone give him a hug” way. and i have so, so many thoughts about that. okay—diving in.

Carmy’s not inexperienced, per se. He knows what sex is. He’s watched enough porn, read the occasional questionable Reddit thread, jerked off in rushed, guilt-tinged moments between 14-hour shifts and deep spirals of culinary self-loathing. But sex—actual sex, with a person who looks at him like you do? That’s a different kind of pressure. It’s a kind of heat he doesn’t know how to hold.

He prepped for this. Not like—intentionally, but… kind of. He showered longer than usual. Used the good soap. Trimmed everything down there as best he could and definitely nicked himself once or twice in the process—stood over the sink like it was a high-stakes mise en place, squinting into the mirror, muttering, “Okay, slow, slow, don’t fuck this up, chef…” The result is neat, if a little uneven. He smells like clean cotton and whatever expensive shampoo Sugar left in the apartment.

When it finally happens—when you tug him by the hand to the bed and he stammers something like, “We don’t have to, if you’re not—if this is too soon or whatever, I can wait, I’m chill,”—you kiss him quiet. He melts. Shoulders slumping. Lips soft and hungry. He kisses like he means it, like every second is precious, like he’s scared it’s going to be the last. And when your hand dips between his legs?

He gasps. Full-bodied, shaky. “Fucking Christ,” he chokes out, hips twitching. His cock’s already hard, hot against your palm. Not huge, not small—just right, pretty even. Cut, flushed pink at the tip, thick enough to make you feel it stretch you, but not enough to overwhelm. There’s a vein down the side that pulses when you stroke him, and he watches you like he’s watching God.

“Oh my god—yeah, okay, that’s—fuck, shit, sorry,” he mutters, hips jerking forward. “That—feels better than, like—anything. Ever. I don’t—am I supposed to do something with my hands or—?”

You laugh, and he blushes so hard his ears turn red. “You’re good, Carm. You’re doing fine. Let our bodies do the talking.”

He groans like that line alone nearly finishes him off. “Ohhh—fuck, no, don’t say shit like that—”

You guide him inside you, and for a second, everything stops. His breath catches. Eyes wide. Muscles tense like he’s bracing for something catastrophic, like maybe he’s about to cry or come or die. “Holy fuck,” he whispers. “Are you sure—are you okay—do I need to slow down?”

You just nod, and he lets out this broken little sound. Kind of a moan, kind of a whimper, and so sincere it nearly undoes you.

At first, he’s awkward. Bumping the wrong angle. Hips moving in tiny, unsure thrusts like he’s terrified to go too deep. Keeps checking your face like he’s looking for notes. “That—no, sorry—was that weird? I can stop. I’ll stop. Shit. I—uh—yeah.” You kiss him again, thread your fingers through his hair, and roll your hips until he’s buried deep and shaking.

When you get on top, his brain shorts out. Full-on blue screen. His hands fly to your waist like instinct, but his mouth is stuck on a loop. “Yeah. Fuck. Okay. Yeah. You’re so—holy shit, you’re—beautiful, baby, fuck, shit—” His voice goes high when you clench around him, like a whine caught in his throat. His hips twitch like they want to buck up but he’s scared to move, too scared to end it too soon.

And he does come too fast. Not in a tragic way—just in that achingly human, overwhelmed way that makes you want to kiss every inch of him. His hands tremble on your thighs, face slack with pleasure, mouth open as he gasps out, “I—I think I’m gonna—fuck—fuck, fuck, f—ohhh—shit—” and then he’s done, shaking under you, pressing his face into your neck like he’s trying to disappear.

“Sorry,” he whispers after. “I—I swear I can go again. Like. Soon. Just—holy shit.”

And he does go again. He’s hard again in less than ten minutes, and the second time’s better. He starts to find rhythm, his hands more confident, his mouth bolder. He talks more, too—low, raspy praise between panting breaths. “You’re so fucking soft, baby, you’re perfect, so wet, so good for me—” He latches onto your tits like he’s been dreaming about them for years. He sucks and mouths at them like a man starved, eyes glazed and reverent.

“I’ve got a thing,” he confesses, voice rough. “With—y’know. Tits. Just—fuck. They’re amazing. You’re amazing.”

You ride him through it. Take control. And he loves it. Because it lets him feel without the pressure to perform. He’s sensitive, vocal—little gasps and sighs spilling out with every grind of your hips. When you tell him not to talk, just to feel, he moans so sharply it echoes. His whole body tightens, stomach clenching, hands white-knuckling the sheets.

“Ohhh, fuck—don’t say that—fuck, I’m gonna—” he whines, high and airy, and then he’s coming again, teeth sunk into your shoulder to muffle it, cock pulsing deep inside you. His thighs twitch. You feel his whole body flutter under you, coming undone again.

After, he holds you. Silent. Breath slowing, chest rising against your back. Face nestled into your hair. And for once, there’s no chaos. No kitchen yelling. No fire alarms. Just the sound of your heartbeat under his cheek and the soft hum of the city outside his window.

You trace his jaw, and he mumbles, “I was so bad at that, huh.”

“You were perfect, Carm.”

He sighs, a sleepy little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Okay. Good. ‘Cause I—uh. Wanna do that again. With you. Like, a lot.”

And he means it. Every stammered word.

[cobaltperun]

The Catalyst (5) - Burning in the Skies

WandaNat x Female Reader

Chapter summary: A desperate battle continues, giving you all a taste of what’s to come and how unprepared you all truly are.

Spotify Playlist

Masterlist / First Part / Previous Part

Word Count: 4.6k

Note: I changed the last bit of chapter 4 and made it so that the Leviathan falls into the water instead of in the middle of New York. Now, on to the chapter!

-And in the end, we were made to be apart-

You were taking deep breaths, trying to cool down your body enough to avoid damage to it, when Stark flew right to you. “Note to self, if I ever build some sort of training room I need to disable the fire alarms,” he joked and you rolled your eyes as you summoned your glaive back.

“You do that,” your ribbons were cut in half by that stunt and your body heat was already abnormally high, but at least now you were properly warmed up and could use your powers much more effectively. You and Stark looked at the huge alien whale slowly sinking underneath the water surface. “I’d rather not do that again,” you told him, after all, if you exerted that kind of force again your body would go into overdrive and change, and you weren’t eager for that to happen again. Roaring interrupted whatever Stark was about to say, and you both looked toward the portal in horror as another of those whales emerged. “I’m not seeing things, am I?” you swallowed the lump in your throat, wondering just how many of these things were going to come down from space.

“I wish you were,” Stark understood the severity of the situation. More soldiers came with the whale, sooner or later you’d be overwhelmed. You needed more heavy hitters, otherwise this would all be for nothing. He shook his head. “Right, can’t dwell on that. I’ll get its’ attention, you handle the smaller ones.”

That really was your only option right now. “Let’s do it,” you both flew right back into the battle with Stark firing several missiles at the whale and making it turn to him.

You separated from Stark, trusting him to handle himself and turned your attention to the Chitauri soldiers. Your right arm was still limp by your side, but you threw the glaive with your left hand, piercing through two Chitauri on one of the chariots as they flew toward you and then boosted your speed with lightning, zapping toward the falling chariot and yanking the glaive out of the bodies.

Taking them down one or two at a time would take too much time, and too much energy as well. In a split second you made a decision, flying through a groups of them and getting as many of the Chitauri to follow after you. “That’s not dealing with them!” you heard Stark warning you.

You had to smirk at that. “Appreciate the concern, but,” you spun around, flying backwards and lit the bladed side of your glaive on fire while making lightning come out of the other end. “I’ve got this,” you began spinning the glaive above you, using the stray lightning to block the shots from the Chitauri and creating a whirlwind of fire and lightning above your head. The flames and lightning grew larger, spreading rapidly as you stopped and dropped down to the rooftop, causing a tornado of fire and lightning to form and catch the Chitauri that followed you.

“Okay, yeah, Firestorm,” Stark commented, figuring there was no need to worry about you.

You stopped spinning the glaive and glanced at the ribbons, the flight and the tornado just now made them noticeably shorter. You’d definitely have to work on your stamina in the future. You felt the heat in your left forearm, the blue cracks were slowly spreading. As the flames and lightning disappeared and the charred remains of the several dozen Chitauri fell you realized how little that attack did. Despite your efforts there were still too many of them.

Panicked screams pierced through the air and you looked below you, seeing some of the Chitauri were closing in on a floor where there were civilians. “Shit!” you cursed, flying toward them. You slashed through the air with the glaive several times, dropping two chariots and throwing your glaive at another. You flew between two more chariots and struck them with lightning, but you didn’t get to all of them in time and you watched as they fired, taking the aim at the civilians. It was reckless, but you got between the window and the shots, blocking a few, but getting shot twice. Their shots focused on you, blasting through what little protection the jacket provided as you gritted your teeth and swung your glaive in an arch, striking them down.

You strapped the glaive to your back and held your side, feeling the wound there, flames were already emerging from it, showing you just how close you were to an overdrive. At least it stopped the bleeding and closed the wound, but you certainly didn’t like seeing blue flames there. You looked back, realizing in an instant that you couldn’t rescue everyone. One of the people got shot, despite you being right there. You went inside and walked over to the man bleeding out on the floor. He was still alive, so maybe, just maybe you could do something. “Move aside, please,” you said and gently pushed aside another man desperately trying to stop the bleeding with his hands. It didn’t work on Coulson, but maybe this time it would be different.

Lightning crackled around your hand and you pressed it to the wound. The fire alarm got triggered and you nearly laughed, realizing the steam coming from your body had already turned to smoke. The water felt good, soothing your body as it burnt on the inside. You focused on the man’s wound and closed it with the heat from the lightning. “He needs urgent medical attention, this will only buy him some time,” you softly spoke to the people around you.

“What is going on?!” someone fearfully demanded.

Too many things to even start explaining. “Watch the news if you survive,” you said as you got up and turned to leave.

“We are the news!” another person cried out.

Oh, the irony. “Tough luck then,” you jumped out the window and noticed the other regrouping on the street. Well, it was kinda hard to miss Thor landing, so you went down as well, hoping they had something in mind to put a stop to this alien invasion. You flew toward them, cutting through another group of Chitauri and landing close to Rogers.

“What’s the story upstairs?” Rogers asked both you and Thor.

“People are still in the buildings. We need to keep their attention on us,” you said as you looked them over. No one was seriously injured yet, but they definitely didn’t have an easy time down here either.

“The power surrounding the cube is impenetrable,” and Thor just made the whole situation much worse.

“Thor is right, we gotta deal with these guys,” Stark confirmed it.

“How do we do this?” Natasha asked as another group of Chitauri flew above you.

“As a team,” Rogers’ answer was more to boost morale rather than provide an actual solution.

“Well, yeah, but how? We’ll get tired eventually,” even if you killed every single Chitauri here more would come.

“I have unfinished business with Loki,” Thor stated as Clint prepared his arrows.

“Oh yeah? Get in line,” Clint argued, eager to get his hands on Loki himself.

“Save it,” Rogers shit him down. “Loki’s gonna keep this fight focused on us and that’s what we need. Without him these things could run wild. We got Stark up top, he’s gonna need us to-“ he paused as Banner arrived on a motorbike.

“Well, I’ll be damned, he showed up,” you let out a sigh of relief, realizing you’ve just got the heavy hitter you all needed.

The five of you approached Banner as he dismounted and looked around. “So, this all seems horrible,” Banner commented a bit awkwardly.

“I’ve seen worse,” Natasha pointed out.

“Up close,” you added and dramatically coughed to cover it up.

“Sorry,” Banner apologized sincerely. Unleashing the Hulk was not something he wanted to do, especially not in that situation.

“No, we could use a little worse,” Natasha said and he seemed genuinely surprised by that.

“Stark, we got him,” Rogers said through his earpiece and you could hear relief in his voice.

“Banner?” Stark guessed.

“Just like you said,” Rogers confirmed it.

“Then tell him to suit up. I’m bringing the party to you,” Stark replied and you all looked ahead as Stark turned the corner, followed by the second whale that came through the portal.

“I don’t see how that’s a party,” Natasha actually stuttered a bit as she pulled her gun back.

“Doctor Banner, now might be a really good time for you to get angry,” Rogers said as Banner began walking toward the whale without a hint of worry. The whale crashed through the street, trying to get Stark and destroying numerous cars along the way.

“That’s my secret, Cap. I’m always angry,” Baner said and, well, you’d love to say you were surprised, but all things considered you sort of saw it coming.

You watched in awe as he changed, seamlessly, so smoothly you struggled to tell where Banner ended and the Hulk began, it was a natural transformation, without any pained roars, without any issues or resistance on either part. The Hulk smashed his fist into the whale’s mouth and got pushed back but it didn’t matter, the whale was being destroyed right in front of your eyes. It couldn’t do anything to the Hulk.

You stared blankly as the damn whale toppled over, stopped and redirected by Stark’s missiles. You swung your glaive, shielding the team from explosion and just shook your head. “One punch. That’s all it took. And I got in his way less than two hours ago,” as far as you were concerned that was the pinnacle of comedy right there.

The Chitauri roared from the building at all seven of you as you stood in a circle. Hulk roared as Stark landed between him and you. You could hear Natasha and Clint getting their weapons ready and for the first time the seven of you felt like a team. Rogers, Natasha, Thor, Clint, Hulk, Stark and you, all ready to take Loki down as he looked down on you.

And as ready as you all were, he seemed just a bit more ready as more whales and other aliens came flying through the portal.

All seven of you looked up, preparing to continue the battle. “Guys?” Natasha kicked you all into action.

There really was only one person who could lead this team. “Call it, Captain,” and Stark voiced it for all of you.

“Alright, listen up. Until we can close that portal up there our priority is containment. Barton, I want you on that roof, eyes on everything. Call out patterns and strays. Stark, L/N. you two got the perimeter. Anything gets more than three blocks out, you turn it back or you turn it to ash,” well, there were your orders.

You raised your right hand, finally feeling it again, and grabbed your glaive. “Consider it done,” you said as you put some distance between you and the team and taking flight in a burst of flames.

You slammed into one of the chariots and discharged lightning all around you, catching a few chariots at once. You dared to look down, you only had a bit less than a third of the ribbons left. You heard the Hulk smashing through the enemies and felt Thor summoning lightning. “That’s what I’m talking about!” you exclaimed, absorbing some of the lightning that Thor summoned and aiming it at the aliens. It was different from your own lightning, it was natural, almost uncontrollable, almost leaving you drunk with power and tempted to push it all a step further.

The lightning around you focused at the tip of your glaive as you pointed it at the enemies and you could feel the lightning coursing through your body, emerging from it, engulfing you entirely as you held the glaive with your right arm and put your left hand on your forearm. You waited until the aliens charged toward you and fired a laser beam of lightning from the tip of your glaive, a railgun of sorts. You let out a battle cry, focusing more power into the glaive and spreading it across the entire blade before you swung, sending dozens of smaller lightning-made laser beams instead of one large one.

By this point the blue cracks spread all over your body and you looked down to see flames bursting through your forearms against your will. A bit over a fifth of the ribbons was left as you flew lower, picking off any alien in your way. You saw Natasha and Rogers dealing with the Chitauri on the street and swooped down, cutting through a couple that were coming closer to them before jumping above Rogers.

“L/N!” he called out, raising his shield above his head and you decided to put your faith in that shield.

“This better work,” you charged the blade of your glaive and sliced against the shield, causing the lightning to disperse all around you and Rogers, striking several Chitauri. “Noted,” you said as you took a moment to catch your breath.

“You don’t look too good,” Natasha pointed out while she shot one of the Chitauri with their own spear rifles.

You looked at her, at the blood dripping down the side of her face, the bust lip, tears and dust on her uniform. “Neither do you,” although she was probably freaking out over the flames coming out of you, as well as the light yellow glow of your skin. “I’ll start glowing light blue if these,” you raised your right arm and pointed at the ribbon. “Get cut in half again,” the final stage before the overdrive.

“Be careful,” Natasha told you as you gave her a joking salute and flew up again.

The battle continued, one by one the Chitauri fell, but all of you were getting tired as well. You’ve taken several shots over the last half an hour, and your ribbons were reaching their end. From almost ten feet of ribbons you had when you jumped out of the quinjet you were down to five inches. It got to a point where you couldn’t even fly for long, instead going from one rooftop to another and only using your flames or lightning when absolutely necessary.

“Getting low there?” Stark asked when he flew by you.

“Yeah, I’m not sure how much longer I can last without changing,” you told him while you dropped down the side of the building, cutting down the Chitauri that were climbing up while you were at it.

“Maybe we need that boost,” Stark told you and he was right. This was looking like a never-ending fight and a bit of a power-boost might be just what you all needed right now.

However… “Yeah, about that, I’ve only got like two minutes in that form, and then I can’t use my powers for a few hours, period,” if it was just pain you’d deal with it, but overdrive simply wasn’t an option unless you knew the fight would end. You got back on the street and stabbed another Chitauri through the chest and then lifted it above your head and tossed it another one.

“How much time do you have left?” Stark asked, understanding the situation.

“Twenty min- did I just see Natasha on one of those flying things?!” you cried out when you saw her flying above you, unsure if you should go after her or yell at her. A shot grazed your left shoulder and you quickly jumped to the side, sending a fireball toward the alien that fired at you.

“I’ve got her back,” Stark promised you and blasted the Chitauri that were coming after Natasha.

“Thanks, Tony,” you muttered and you swore you could hear him smirk. “Not one word,” you warned as you rushed through the streets, covering people as they were fleeing from the Chitauri.

You cut off the path of about a dozen Chitauri before they could find any civilians that might still be nearby and clashed with them. Your slashes that weren’t powered by fire or lightning were getting weaker due to your exhaustion, and it was getting to a point where it took so much out of you to even pierce through one of them.

You lunged to the side to avoid getting shot at and threw your glaive in utter desperation, just to get a moment to breathe, but your back hit the car behind you and you faltered for a moment. A blast nicked your side and you gritted your teeth. One of the Chitauri slammed into you from the side, pushing you against the wall and you blasted through it with lightning, only for another to hit you. You gasped, coughing up blood as the ribbons dropped to less than an inch length each. You could feel your body burning from the inside, fire coursing through your veins, electricity firing off from each nerve, changing you from the inside as you desperately summoned your glaive and pushed the Chitauri off you. The pale blue glow spread all over your body, your skin broke along the cracks and flames pushed through instead of blood.

“I can close it. Can anybody copy? I can shut the portal down!” you heard Natasha’s voice and smiled despite the pain.

Just a bit more and this would all be over.

“Do it!” Rogers ordered quickly.

“No, wait,” your eyes widened when you heard Tony’s panicking voice and just narrowly dodged another Chitauri.

“Stark, these things are still coming!” Rogers exclaimed as you cut the Chitauri’s head off.

“I got a nuke coming in, it’s gonna blow in less than a minute,” Tony’s words changed everything. “And I know just where to put it.”

You were being swarmed by the Chitauri as you heard that and you discharged lightning from your body, leaving only fractions of the ribbons left around your wrists.

“Stark, you know that’s a one-way trip,” Rogers warned him and you let the flames burn around you.

“It won’t be,” you said through the earpiece. As Tony flew up toward the portal with a nuke on his back you let the flames and lightning engulf you entirely and the pain nearly made you drop to your knees. You let out a scream as you felt like your whole body was being changed from within, being torn apart and pieced back together by fire and lightning inside of you. You were engulfed in bright blue light as you took flight once more blasting through the air faster than before and just in time to catch up to Tony.

You watched as he let go of the nuke, sending it at the Chitauri mothership and then the vastness of it all hit you. You instinctively grabbed onto Tony’s armor, trying to power it back on enough to keep him alive as you pulled back toward the portal.

The space, the alien army… if it wasn’t for the nuke you would have lost. You weren’t ready. The Earth wasn’t ready. And your own power was fading as well, not due to two minutes passing, but because you were in space, unable to breathe, forcing your body to move even if it felt like that was an impossible task.

You haven’t felt this weak even when Magneto destroyed your home when you were a child.

You were truly, undeniably, faced with the reality. That if you stayed the way you were you’d be powerless when it came time to face whatever was coming.

~X~

Natasha anxiously looked at the portal, almost cursing you for going after Stark. Why would you be so reckless? “Come on, Y/N,” she whispered, tightly gripping Loki’s scepter.

“Close it,” she heard Rogers ordering and all of a sudden she was back on that mission, leaving you to bleed out.

“Not yet,” she refused the direct order.

“Romanoff,” she could hear this decision was difficult for Rogers too, but she wouldn’t go through with it.

“They’ll come back,” that had to be true. Otherwise she wasn’t sure what she’d do with herself.

Each second felt like an eternity, and then you burst out from the portal, pulling Stark along with you and her heart soared with relief and happiness as she plunged the scepter in to close the portal. She didn’t even watch the portal closing, she just watched you, flying down and landing on the edge of the building, several floors above her and holding Stark by the arm of his suit.

You looked different. And of all the things she expected it certainly wasn’t this.

Your body changed, your skin was blue, as if covered by crystalized blue armor made of hardened flames and lightning if that even made sense. Natasha could swear she saw flames burning just underneath your skin, or perhaps it wasn’t even skin, as it looked like a layer that covered you entirely and went over your clothes. Either that or they burnt away entirely, but she was willing to bet it was the former, rather than the latter. You had protrusions coming from your upper back, with flames bursting from them and keeping you up in the air and it looked like you had a sort of a helmet with two horns on each side pointing upwards. Lastly, she took notice of the blades emerging from your forearms, retracted, from the looks of it.

“Y/N,” she called out to you, noticing your eyes were closed.

Your body swayed back and forth and her relief turned to despair when your body cracked and in a burst of lightning you reverted back to normal, not even your skin was glowing anymore, and there was no smoke coming out of your body, you were entirely spent, and unconscious.

And you fell backward, letting go of Stark and plummeting down from the top of the Stark Tower with Stark falling right beside you. Natasha didn’t even cry out, she couldn’t, she just rushed over to the side of the building, watching helplessly as you kept falling.

No matter how tense things were between you, no matter how angry you were, she just got you back into her life and was now watching you fall to your death. And then the Hulk caught you and Stark and she felt like she could breathe again, hoping that you and Stark were just unconscious.

~X~

Roar of a furious beast jerked you awake and you abruptly sat up and winced. “What the fuck was that?!” you looked around, realizing the Hulk was the one who roared and that Rogers and Thor were standing over you and Tony. You actually came back from space.

“What the hell? What just happened? Please tell me nobody kissed me,” Tony demanded and you looked at him incredulously.

“We won,” Rogers told the two of you and you raised a finger, despite how much effort that took out of you.

“Yeah, but did anyone kiss him? Or me while we’re at it?” you asked, deciding right then and there that maybe you’ve spent a bit too much time with Tony in space.

Thor chuckled. “Do not fret, nobody kissed either of you.”

“Alright, Hey. Alright. Good job, guys. Let’s just not come in tomorrow. Let’s just take a day. You ever tried shawarma? There’s a shawarma joint about two blocks from here. I don’t know what it is, but I wanna try it,” and Tony was rambling, which, considering he nearly died, in space mind you, was understandable.

You just wanted to lay back down and rest.

“We’re not finished yet,” Thor shattered that dream into countless pieces.

“And then shawarma after?” at least Tony had his priorities set.

“Count me in, I’m starving,” you voiced your support for the idea, but first… locking up Loki.

“Romanoff, Barton, they are alive,” Rogers said through the earpiece.

“I heard,” you have never heard Natasha’s voice so vulnerable and filled with relief.

~X~

You and Tony were flown up to the top of the Stark Tower by Thor, seeing as neither of you was moving all that well, and Rogers was taken there by Thor as well, just to do things quicker. The Hulk jumped to the top of the building in a couple of hops and Clint made his way to the top as well while Natash was already waiting for all of you there.

The moment you separated from Thor you saw a blur of black and red and felt Natasha hugging you tightly. “Hey,” you muttered, too tired to think about everything that happened in the past. You just relaxed and hugged her as tightly as your current state allowed.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” she whispered, digging her fingers into your back as she buried her face in the crook of your neck.

“Yes, Ma’am,” if a situation like this occurred again and if you fought there was no way you’d be able to keep that promise, but for now, fresh out of the battle, you’d pretend it was a promise you could keep. “You kept the portal open,” you vaguely remembered the portal staying open until you went through it and Natasha froze at that. “Thanks, Nat,” you whispered, her actions today leaving a significant crack in your anger toward her.

“Okay, love birds, time for the show!” Tony called the two of you out. “Come on, let’s strike a team pose!” he ushered everyone to stand exactly how he wanted them to as Loki regained consciousness and slowly turned onto his back.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll have that drink now,” he said, only earning a growl from Hulk.

~X~

With Loki captured, the battle over and won, and shawarma eaten there really wasn’t anything else left to do. Sure, you could stay behind and wait for Thor to take Loki away but you had a lot to think about. The space, the threat that was inevitable, your place in all of this, you needed peace and quiet to think about it.

Tony was gracious enough to let anyone who didn’t have a place to crash at stay the night in his tower, but you intended to leave as soon as you cleaned up and got a fresh set of clothing. You called the elevators in a T-shirt and jeans and with your glaive on your back. The doors opened and you saw Tony there.

“Surveillance,” he shrugged, sort of implying he’s been riding up and down on the elevator since he saw you were leaving.

“I figured,” you replied and got in.

“You saw that, didn’t you?” he asked and for the first time you noticed just how affected he was by what he saw. There was barely concealed panic in his eyes, and you were sure he’d get PTSD from this battle, if he wasn’t already struggling with it from his time as Iron Man.

“Yeah, we’re in over our heads,” you barely understood anything you saw, and you were sure he had a much clearer idea of what it all meant, but you knew it was bad.

“We need to be ready,” it wasn’t even a question. You couldn’t back out now. You were an Avenger. And there was a battle to be fought.

“That’s why I’m leaving. These powers are too unrefined, I’m too inexperienced with them. I need to be stronger,” and you’d start by dealing with the overdrive issue. You couldn’t afford to be unable to use your powers for hours after the transformation that was already short-lived. Tony nodded as the elevator doors opened, and you stepped out, accepting this duty and the risks that came with it.

A/N: And with that we're done with The Avengers, on to Reader's Origin story!

Taglist: @toxicitytiger @wandaromamoff69 @womenarehotsstuff @psychickryptonitebouquet @seventeen-x @maddsdotorg @arualdcg @ilovemybabygirlmoon @redroomgraduate @canyonyodeler @skz-xii

[nobodygotyoulikehoshina]

LOOK BACK | Hoshina Soshiro

Chapter II

➢Summary: You weren't one to stick to tradition. Never were you, and never will you be. And if it meant following Hoshina Soshiro even to the pits of hell, you wouldn't hesitate on breaking any custom or practice. Too bad he never bothered to look back, where you always were.

➢Content: romance, angst, friendship, humour, violence (cw: mentions of death, fighting, blood, injuries, alcohol, cursing, possible mental distress from the characters, some gender stereotypes). will expand with the story.

➢ Pairing: Vice-captain! Hoshina x Platoon Leader! Fem! Reader

➢Genre: childhood best friends to lovers

➢Wc: 4352

➢notes: y'all are amazing. the first chap got 150+ notes in a few weeks. thank you so much for all the good, and i'm sorry for the bad. i'll try to improve as i work on my first series ever, so thank you in advance if you decide to stick around for that. comments, likes, reblogs, and DMs are always appreciated

anyway, i hope you enjoy once again!!

Your father never really liked your friendship with Hoshina.

He was a conservative man, very tradition-bound. In his mind, the Hoshina family stood on a pedestal that was never meant for him to reach, and he advised you to never try as well. The Hoshinas were meant to lead, and your family to follow. They were in the front lines, you stood in the back. They are the Captains, and you the Vice-Captains. That was the natural order of things.

But your five year old self couldn’t comprehend that. How come you were never meant to play with the kid with the bowl-cut hair with training garments way more expensive than your clothes? Why was it forbidden for him to teach you the cool sword moves that he had learnt from his father and relatives? It just never made sense to you.

But your fifteen year old self did understand better your position in the clan. Despite that, you had remained friends with Soshiro despite the disapproval of your parents and continued mastering the art of the sword in spite of all the clan’s tradition. But your awareness is what prompted that conversation with your father on a hot July morning.

“(Y/N)” he called out to you as you both sat on the edge of the tatami floor, facing the small garden of your house. “Do you understand our way of life?”

It was a heavy question for a fifteen year old, but you still answered. “Yes…I do”.

“Then you understand why I don’t like your friendship with the Hoshina kid, right?” It wasn’t the first time he had told you this. In fact, it was a recurrent theme between the both of you. But he had never looked so serious.

“Yes, father. I understand”. You wanted to say more but he spoke before you could.

“I know you do.” Then why did he ask?. “You aren’t like your brother, (Y/N). You are very smart and driven, as well as excellent with the sword. That is why I want you to understand something; your future is better away from the Hoshina clan”.

That statement felt like a sledgehammer to the head. Up until that moment, you had never considered a future without the Hoshina name attached to it. Not when you and Soshiro had dreamt for so long for a life together, side by side.

“What…what do you mean, father?,” you asked, voice trembling slightly.

Your father, ever so stern, tightened his face a little as he faced the sight of tree leaves rocking with the wind. “The Hoshinas don’t care about us the same way we do for them. Our family is strong, that is why we have survived for this long, but they do not exist in the same way as us. They live the true path of the warrior, the firsts to arrive at the battlefield and the last ones standing. While we protect the back, they continue moving forward. And moving forward means not looking back. Not even at us, their allies”.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You stood behind a thick wall of bulletproof glass. The buzzing of the Operations Room set up behind you was proof of the excitement this particular trial test brought to the Division. Since the Number 10 suit was developed for Hoshina to wear, along with Officer Ichikawa’s Number 6 weapon, the level of the Third Division’s subjugation proficiency had increased tenfold. Everytime Hoshina had to put on the suit for a programmed exercise, it produced great excitement among the Operation officers, but you had to admit it did worry you a little.

Platoon leaders were never called for this type of trials, but Hoshina had personally requested for you to be there for some reason. So here you were, surrounded by dozens of people in charge of collecting data or supervising the whole ordeal. You weren’t sure what to do, as Hoshina’s request had barely anything other than the requirement of your presence during the programmed exercise, so you just stood there, looking through the glass to the empty area below you.

“Security authorizations for Number 10 Numbers Weapon release” one of the officers shouted into the room.

“Authorizations, cleared,” Operations Leader Okonogi declared. “The suit is fully on. Release Vice-captain”.

From one of the walls of the enclosed training ground opened a door, letting a small figure clash with the bright gray walls. It was Hoshina clad in the purple and green suit of the Number 10 Numbers Weapon (simultaneously, his proudest achievement in his military career and the bane of his existence).

“Number 10, on field,” one of the officers announced.

“Vice-captain Hoshina, can you hear me?” Okonogi called out to Hoshina through the earpiece channel.

It took him a moment to answer. “Loud and clear, Okonogi dear”.

You started rolling your eyes at the pet name, but stopped yourself at the last second.

How unprofessional, you thought, unclear if it was directed towards yourself or your long time friend.

“How are you feeling, Vice-captain?,” Okonogi asked.

“Perfectly fine, Okonogi, if not for the fact that this monster brat won’t shuddup”.

You quietly chuckled from that statement. No matter how many times they had fought together, Hoshina and Number 10’s relationship remained the same.

“Vice-captain, please activate synchronization with the Number 10 suit,” Okonogi requested.

“Roger that”.

A load of numbers and metrics appeared on the large screens, way too fast for you to comprehend it. An image of Hoshina’s vitals showed everything in order, including the percentage of Unleashed Combat Power extracted from the suit.

 81% synchronisation, a robotic voice announced to the room.

“Not a bad start,” you muttered to yourself.

“That is perfect for us to start with, Vice-captain,” Okonogi declared, typing away some data into her screen. “Allow me to explain today’s exercise, sir.”

More people started to move inside the Operations Room, polishing the last details of the experiment Hoshina was about to be subjected to. Being truthful, you felt a little awkward and a little useless there, just watching as everyone did their jobs.

“The present trial will consist of two exercises,” Okonogi began explaining. “The first one is to test the level of synchronisation we can achieve with Number 10 during simulated battle, so we’ve recreated a holographic replica of the kaiju captured with a 6.1 fortitude”.

You opened your eyes a little. 6.1 fortitude? That was a whole squadron with a platoon leader needed to defeat that monster. 

“The second exercise will be testing the Vice-captains new combat abilities once we reach the desired synchronisation percentage. For that, we will be engaging in actual combat with the original captured kaiju”.

“What?” you couldn’t help but ask out loud. You clasped your hand over your mouth, hoping that no one had heard you. Unfortunately for you, the operations official besides you apparently did, so he turned to you.

“Don’t worry, ma’am” he assured you, “the room we are in is designed to withstand a 10.0 fortitude and there’s other officials on standby in case the Vice-captain needs it”.

“Is everything ready for the order, sir?” Okonogi asked.

“Ready if you are, dear Okonogi,” Hoshina answered with his usual happy tone. He turned to look directly into one of the cameras. “(L/N), please watch me with care”.

You scoffed at him, crossing your arms. “That’s why you called me here, didn’t you, sir?”

“Very well,” Leader Okonogi declared. “Vice-captain Hoshina in position. Cameras and sensors activated. Shields open. Initiate simulated combat”.

From behind the bulletproof glass, you could see a huge figure appear. It was a lizard-type kaiju of around six meters of height. Kaiju of its size was Hoshina’s specialty, but even 6.1 fortitude felt a little too harsh for a start.

“Vice-captain Hoshina and Number 10 Numbers Weapon initiating honju subjugation,” Hoshina announced through his mic, and you could hear Number 10 screaming a couple of things in the background.

Through intense battle, Hoshina began subjugating the fake kaiju. Well, Okonogi had called this simulated battle, but you could still feel and hear the rumbles of the training room from the intensity of the confrontation. No matter how many times Hoshina had slashed through the fake monster, it never died simply because the Operations Room kept reviving him to force the Vice-captain and the suit to synchronise.

“Okonogi, dear, I believe it’s a little cruel to keep us fighting like this, don’tcha think?” Hoshina commented while skillfully dodging an attack from the kaiju’s tail.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to keep you like this for a little more, sir” Okonogi sounded apologetic.

You observed your friend fight against the monster. With the Number 10 suit, he was faster than he already was with the regular suit, almost becoming a blur in the air. To the untrained eye, it looked like a piece of cake for Hoshina. A walk in the park even. But to you, who had been present for most of the time he spent crafting his seamless techniques, it didn’t seem that way. You could see the strain on his muscles and the heavy amount of concentration required to subjugate an enemy time and time again. The drive of victory gleamed on his focused eyes.

“Miss Okonogi,” one of the operations officers exclaimed, “Vice-captain has achieved 92% Unleashed Combat Power!”.

“No sign of extreme fatigue or strain on his vitals!” another one informed.

“Raise the body limiters!” their leader instructed. “Prepare for the second phase release! Do not let the Unleashed Combat Power drop below range.”

“Roger that!”

Okonogi grabbed the mic and spoke. “Vice-captain Hoshina, please retreat from the target. We have reached the desired synchronisation level and will be initiating phase two of the trial. Please take a few minutes of rest while the new target launches”.

Hoshina backed up to one of the room’s corners, although Number 10 didn’t seem too happy about that, shouting "Where did it go?”, "Where did it go?”. The holographic kaiju disappeared, leaving your friend alone once more. You could see his chest rise and fall with every breath he took, waiting to continue with the battle. 

“All vitals are stable and no significant injuries have been detected, sir,” Okonogi informed Hoshina. “How are you feeling, Vice-captain?”

“As great as I can be with this brat on me,” Hoshina flicked the eye on the center of the suit, eliciting a series of complaints from Number 10.

“That’s good to hear, because the next phase will start in about 30 seconds.”

From one side of the test room opened a huge door. A big shadow emerged from the opening, making the test site shake with each of its steps. Soon, a big lizard-type kaiju stood towering over your best friend, who, at that moment, looked like nothing more than an insect cornered against a wall.

“Second phase: activated,” Okonogi declared, “prepare shields in case of danger or malfunction. Deploy the special weapons”.

The word danger activated something in you. Watching Hoshina move and slash all around the kaiju made you miss the weight of your own weapon on your hip.

Minutes stretched long with the kaiju proving more difficult to subjugate than initially thought, especially with the bothersome acid it would spit in every direction. Nevertheless, your fearless Vice-captain dodged every attack coming his way, retaliating with a few of his own. Finally, when you thought the fight had gone on for way too long, Hoshina’s demeanor changed. His stance was no longer playful; he now looked ready for the kill. Taking hold of his dual blades as well as an extra katana for Number 10’s tail, he lunged forward in a deadly attack.

“Seventh Form: Twelve-layered Strike,” you heard him mutter.

The clash of blades slashing at one point filled the room. Then, the dull thud of a falling body. Hoshina had defeated the kaiju.

For one breath, the whole room stood silent, in awe of what they had witnessed. The prodigy of the Hoshina family had unveiled his ultimate technique; an attack only he was talented enough to achieve, far surpassing any warrior who had mastered the blade. Then, having processed that majestic ending, cheering exploded inside the Operations Room, momentarily forgetting the point of the job.

You mildly cheered on your friend, who was now struggling to make Number 10 let go of the katana. Laughing at the funny sight, your eyes wandered to the replays of the fight that the data analysis team was going through. For a couple of seconds, a video of that last move and a close-up of the dead kaiju popped up on the screen.

Oh.

“Well, how did it go?” Hoshina had finally freed the sword from Number 10’s tail and returned it to its corresponding capsule. “Anything worth tellin’ me?”

Okonogi’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Congratulations, Vice-captain! This has been our best trial yet. The metrics show an increase…”

She began explaining the numbers and statistics that certainly interested Hoshina, but not you. Moving from the corner you had occupied during the whole trial, you started making your way out of the room, figuring that you hadn’t been of much use.

I guess he just wanted to be a show-off, you thought, although you knew it didn’t fit Hoshina’s style.

A voice stopped you on your tracks. “Well, Platoon Leader (L/N), how was it?”

You were confused. Was he really asking you what you thought? You expressed your confusion. “Are you asking me, sir?”

“Yes, (L/N),” he clarified. “Whatcha think ‘bout my skills?”

That question brought you back many years to when you both used to train with smaller and much safer swords in the yard of his house.

You thought a little before answering. “Sloppy at best, sir”.

A couple of people behind you gasp. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a couple of degrees with the following silence. Hadn’t Operations Leader Okonogi said that this had been Hoshina’s best results so far? So who was this random Platoon Leader to contradict what the data clearly showed? Even Number 10 seemed offended by your comment, shouting “Sloppy? Sloppy? Where is this human who dares call us sloppy?”.

Well, I fucked up, you mentally slapped yourself.

Hoshina’s lighthearted laugh cut the tension in the room. “I know I could count on ya to be blunt about this! Go on, tell me more!”.

You cleared your throat, feeling more confident to speak. “Personally, sir, I don’t believe your technique is good enough to manage some of your skills, especially those involving the use of the Numbers Weapon limb. Your swordsmanship was not adequate, that’s why I considered your attempts sloppy”.

“Oh, how so?” Hoshina continued questioning you.

You paused for a moment before asking. “Sir, may I request permission to approach the target?”

Your friend seemed taken aback by your request. “Permission granted, come here”.

As quick as you could to avoid the stares from the Operations team, you got out of the room and climbed down the stairs as fast as you could. The brightness of the white light in the trial room blinded you at first, but soon enough you adjusted to the light. There stood Hoshina, clad in the armour made to suit him and no one else, along with the mangled corpse of the lizard kaiju. You approached both of them, feeling the piercing gaze of the wine-red eyes of your best friend.

“Well, little expert,” he teased you with no malicious intent, “where did ya say I went wrong?”

You pointed at the cuts that surrounded the damaged core of the beast. “Please look carefully at the wounds around this area, sir. If my vision is correct, we can observe four cuts that appear to be shallower and messier than the rest, indicating bad swordsmanship. These correspond to cuts number 3, 6, 9 and 12 in striking order of your ‘Twelve-layered strike’ attack. While watching your fight, I realized that these are made using the Numbers Weapon tail. The lack of strength and precision evident in the injuries are proof that the attack has not been brought to its most efficient form”.

You had gotten carried away by your expression, so it shook you off balance to see Hoshina smiling widely at you when you turned to look back at him. It wasn’t a kind smile but a teasing one, almost making fun of you. But with Hoshina, nothing felt like mockery. No, with him, it was his way of expressing proudness in a weird but endearing way.

“I am impressed by the depth of yer analysis, Platoon Leader,” he congratulated you, hands behind his back, “and ya did that merely by watchin’. Now, do you have any suggestions for improvement, (L/N)?”.

Your eyes gleamed at the question. You could never pass on an opportunity to speak about blades. “Yes, sir, I do”.

You started your explanation, analysing the pros and cons of Hoshina’s  blade technique. You had seen it hundreds, no, thousands of times. It felt as familiar as your own, so it was easy to spot the defects that even experts of the Operations team could never pinpoint. When you finished giving your recommendations, Hoshina’s smile widened. He took a couple of steps in your direction, and threw an arm around your shoulders to bring you closer to himself.

“I knew I could count on ya, (L/N)” he slightly ruffled your hair.

You tried to push yourself away from him. You felt your skin burn even though he barely touched any of it. From your distance, you could smell his natural scent mingling with the stench of sweat and metal from the suit.

“Please refrain from unprofessional contact, Vice-captain,” you finally distanced yourself from him. Hoshina didn’t seem to take your actions personally.

“Yes, yes,” he admitted in defeat. Hoshina turned back to the observation glass above. “Okonogi dear, I guess this concludes the trial, doesn’t it?”.

Okonogi’s voice came through both of your in-ears. “Yes, Vice-captain. We have collected the data we needed. Thank you for your service”.

“My, my,” he answered, “it’s not me ya have to thank. Let’s wrap this up quickly and go take a rest”.

“Roger that!”.

Sensing that your duty was now completely fulfilled, you saluted at your Vice-captain and dismissed yourself. He didn’t say anything, worried about something being said over his in-ear. He just half-heartedly saluted back and left you to your devices. On your way out, you met a clean-up crew waiting to take away the corpse to wherever they took dead kaiju for disposal. You looked at your wristwatch.

It’s still early afternoon, you thought, I still have time to catch up on training.

That way, you busied yourself for the rest of the day, trying to forget about the faint feeling of Hoshina’s arm on your shoulder and his intoxicating smell.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Shoot, it's late.

That’s what you thought as you scurried away through the halls of the base. It was late at night and lights would be shutting off soon. You had lost track of time during your training session by yourself, so now you had just an hour to take a bath and do a couple things in your room before going to sleep.

You were leaving some training area when you saw that the lights of a room were still on. 

“These rookies never learn…,” you muttered to yourself. Going out of your way to turn the lights on, you heard some noises coming from inside. Ready to scold some newbie for staying late, you poked your head through the door.

“Hey…” you started saying, but suddenly your mouth went dry.

Standing in the middle of the training room, Hoshina was a sight to behold. His black compression shirt and dark training pants proved to be more deadly than the twin blades in his hands. Every single muscle in his body had been sculpted to perfection, witness to the hard work your best friend put into his training. His closed eyes allowed you to admire how lethal his face card was, every single feature looking like it had been created with care and love.

On the count of two focused breaths, Hoshina started moving. Calculated slashes of his blades against the air were part of the image training he liked to practice on his own. He was meticulous like that. Watching Hoshina fight was always one of your biggest pleasures. He was a real warrior but, unlike most people, he didn’t treat the sword like just a weapon. No, to him it was more than just a slab of metal. Hoshina held his blade like an artist would hold their brush. With confidence and practiced reverence.

You sat down on your knees at the far edge of the tatami, watching him just like you had done thousands of times back at the Hoshina estate. You observed the deadly dance carried out by your friend’s mind, captivated by every move and gesture. Not daring to break his concentration by uttering a word, you remained in silence.

It didn’t take long for him to notice your presence. Finally ending his mental simulation of the battle–which you recognised as his earlier fight during the test–he turned to the door, catching you waiting for him.

“Oh, (Y/N)” he stopped on his tracks, “didn’t hear ya comin’ in”.

You raised from your kneeling position, now sitting criss-cross applesauce. “You were deeply focused and I tried to not make silence, sir”.

“I see,” he replied while putting away his blades. “And what brings ya here?”

“I thought some newbie was still in here and came to scold him”.

He chuckled at your answer. “What a diligent leader, thank ya for yer service. It is pretty late though”.

You sat in silence. If this conversation kept on, you would have to take an express cold shower instead of your nice warm bath.

Fuck it, I don’t care.

“So,” you broke the silence, “why are you also here so late, sir?”.

“I could ask ya the same,” he shot back teasingly.

You looked down at your training clothes. “I had to push back my personal practice time to attend the programmed exercise this morning, sir”.

“Oh right. Sorry ‘bout that”.

“It’s okay,” you shrugged your shoulders. “But you didn’t give me an answer, sir”.

Hoshina’s playful smile crept up to his face. “Ya ask as if ya didn’t grill my sword technique just earlier, huh”.

You shot an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir”.

You truly were. Your words must’ve had a deep effect on Hoshina if he had started working on improving his form right away. Although, being the perfectionist he was, it wasn’t that much of a surprise.

“Ya didn’t look an ounce of sorry back then, didn’cha?” he continued teasing you. “But it’s okay, that was why I called ya up there”.

You gulped. “I think you would’ve been fine without my input, sir”.

“Nah,” he dismissed your claim, “Okonogi and the others are good at their job, but sometimes ya really need someone who knows what they’re talkin’ ‘bout. A real pro.”.

“That is very kind of you to say, sir,” you bowed slightly in gratitude, “but I’m nothing compared to a master of the Hoshina blade style. There’s nothing you can’t accomplish with a sword if you learn it properly”.

Hoshina waved his hand in dismissal. “Nonsense, (Y/N). Ya could beat anyone’s ass with a blade any day of the week. That’s why ya are my Platoon Leader”.

Even though it was pretty late, Hoshina didn’t appear any tired. Quite the contrary. He fidgeted around the room, grabbing and moving training gear, putting away towels, and even changing the bottle on the water dispenser. You looked at him with amusement, although he didn’t seem to notice.

“Now that ya mentioned blade techniques,” he turned back at you with his arms crossed over his chest. You willed yourself to focus on his face and not on his muscles, “as far as I remember, yer family also comes from a long line of warriors. Don’t cha also have your own fighting style?”

You took a couple of seconds to answer. “Yes, we do”.

“Then why have I never seen it?!” he questioned you.

“Because it is not as refined as the Hoshina style and a little outdated to be honest”.

Hoshina gave you a puzzled look. “And why does that matter? I want you to show it to me”.

“Nop,” you replied to his request, “no need for that”.

The Vice-captain became whiny. “But why? Aren’t best friends supposed to tell everything to each other”.

“Well, you said it, Hoshina-kun. I told you about it, but I don’t have to show it to you”.

“Ugh, fine” he conceded, “that’s lame but I accept it for now, but one day I’ll make you show it to me”.

“Sure, sure”.

This time, you both finally wrapped up whatever you had been doing in the training room and headed for the showers. You continued your conversation with Hoshina, which consisted of him mostly speaking and you listening. You appreciated these little moments with your friend, which lately had been more scarce due to your busy agendas. Finally reaching the communal baths, where your dreaded cold shower awaited you, you turned to each other to wave each other goodbye. 

“So,” he started, “did ya forget your promise?”

You looked confused for a sec before it clicked. “Drinks at my place?”. He nodded. “Of course I haven’t, but that won’t be until a couple of weeks”.

“I know,” a smile adorned his lips, “but I wanted to make sure ya had added it to yer calendar”.

You rolled your eyes at him. “How could I forget, sir?”

“Shuddup.” He brought you closer to himself, and started ruffling your head like a little kid. After a little struggle, you managed to free yourself from his grip and scurried off to the showers, praying he didn’t catch the deep blush on your face.

next chapter ➢

taglist: @hana-patata @kokoiinuts @floweringdaisie @saru-93

[p2pecleanerwitheyes]

Lilia's Venus

Pairing: Lilia Calderu x Reader

Summary: You were feeling insecure and Lilia would do anything in her power to make you feel better.

Warnings & content: insecurity, anxiety, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, fingering, nipple play, self doubt, smut.

A/N: thanks again, @aggieharkness for being an excellent beta reader!!

Ao3

The day had started out like any other, you woke up buried under colourful patchwork textiles, hand-crafted and worn over time. The warmth that had encompassed you throughout the night was no longer there as Lilia’s side of the bed sat empty with the lingering smell of vanilla and cinnamon. Lilia had to pry your hands off of her to get out of the bed and make breakfast, she always woke up earlier and liked to make sure you weren’t hungry at any point of the day - even the crack of dawn. She had a routine, and the most important part of that was making sure her girl had her chocolate pancakes, and that’s exactly what she was doing.

As you became more aware of your surroundings and eased back into consciousness, the smell of Lilia’s baking flooded your senses, sending low grumbles straight to your stomach as saliva all but seeped from your lips.With one labored stretch and a long groan, you had Lilia’s attention immediately. She turned to face you with a warm smile and her spatula in flour covered hands

~ Well good morning sleepyhead, how are you feeling?

You let out another low groan, too tired to form coherent sentences, and shoved your head into Lilia’s pillow, inhaling the comforting scent.

~ Looks like someone doesn’t want any of the breakfast I have just put so much love into making?

Lilia’s smile only grew wider as you shot up, you would never turn down anything she made and she knew that threatening to take away your breakfast would get you to do anything. You tore yourself from the blankets and made small steps in protest of having to get up.

~ Uh why can’t you just take my breakfast to me and then we can both eat in the comfy and warm bed

You moaned as you approached the chair Lilia had pulled out for you at the coffee table and sat, picking up your knife and fork. Lilia put down your plates and a jug of maple syrup as she replied

~ Because…

Lilia finally sat down opposite you, picking up your hand and stroking your knuckles as she spoke softly.

~ Then I would wake up to chocolate chips and crumbs in my cleavage, when I would much rather just have you there.

You grinned and let go of Lilia, picking up the maple syrup and tucking in to your pancakes as she watched and did the same. She always told you that you drowned her wonderful cooking with the amount of maple syrup you used, but it was never out of judgement.

Lilia was happy to cook for you whenever you needed and she had no care about calories or numbers. She loved how your body was sculpted like a goddess and would make a big parade about how perfect you were, and god, did she show that in bed. She would kiss you on every spot she could get her mouth on and she would happily stare at you all day if you both didn’t have your respective things to do.

Despite this, the past few days had taken a toll on you - you were beginning to grow out of all of your favorite clothes and had spent a lot of time in front of the mirror. Taking note of all the things you would change about yourself if you could, and worrying about when Lilia would finally see how ugly you are. These thoughts were never ones you let Lilia in on, and you sure as hell didn’t plan to.

However, this breakfast, Lilia noticed how you didn’t have the same joy on your features as you usually did, and you weren’t so eager to eat. She wiped her hands on a napkin and spoke with concern.

~ Honey, are you okay?

You were pulled from your string of thoughts and quickly put a smile on your face.

~ Yeah! These pancakes are really good, Lilia.

Lilia thanked you for the compliment but still carried a sense of unease about your unusual demeanor today. She would get to the bottom of this, she had to know what was up with her sweet girl.

The day continued like this, you were closed off and Lilia’s worry only grew. You were tending to the plants in your small garden when Lilia approached you, with a furrowed brow and a heart full of concern.

~ Y/N…

~ Yah?

You turned around and put down the rusty metal watering can at your feet, wiping the soil that coated your hands onto your trousers.

~ You know you're going to have to change those and wash your hands if you want to come anywhere near me.

Lilia joked but your smile faltered slightly, with all the negative thoughts whirling around your head, you actually believed her.

~ Hey…I’m only kidding.

Lilia gave you a sad smile and pulled you into her warm embrace, she didn’t mind getting a little dirty for the sake of hugging you.

~ What's going on in that pretty head of yours?

~ What do you mean?

~ Y/N, I’m not blind, there's something…off about you recently. I just want to understand what you’re thinking so I can at least try to help you.

~ Lilia, there’s really nothing.

You tried to convince her but she noticed the way your bottom lip wobbled slightly as you pulled away and your eyes found everything apart from her own.

~ How about we get you cleaned up. What do you think about a nice shower?

If your thoughts were bad before, they just got a million times worse. Lilia would see you… all of you. The scars, the stretch marks, the extra pounds you had added to your frame. Tears threatened to spill as you thought about the arrangement more, pooling in your eyes, but not falling. You never did that in front of Lilia - she had enough on her plate with her visions, the shop, her own trauma…Her visions were ghastly things and were often brought on by stress, if she knew the storm that was raging in your heart, she would feel and see it as much as you did.

~ Oh, it’s fine, you can shower without me.

Your voice was hushed as you looked down, playing with your fingers and chewing on your lip. Lilia’s warm palm found your face as she lifted your head up and stroked your cheekbone.

~ Darling…what’s going on inside that pretty head of yours huh?

~ I don’t want you to see me.

You walked away from her and entered the shop again, slouching down on the pillows of the couch, huffing and hiding your face in your hands.

~ What do you mean by that dear?

~ Lilia, have you not noticed? I’ve been putting on weight. How are you not repulsed by me?!

Your tears now spilled, as did Lilia’s as she listened tentatively, you knew she loved every part of you, but something fucked up in your head was screaming otherwise. You knew she would kiss every inch of your skin if you wished, but your brain pushed the idea that she would leave as soon as she saw you, the real you.

~ Oh, honey. I love you so much, every part of you. The scars, the stretch marks, all of it…they give you life, they show that you're human and you’ve had human experiences. So what if you've put on weight! It only gives me more of you to cuddle…and it means you love my cooking.

Her last sentence came out as more of a whisper as you both chuckled at Lilia’s egotistical remark. You knew all of what she was saying was true, but there was still some hesitation. Your tears stopped flowing and you looked up to see a mischievous expression painted on Lilia’s features.

~ Lilia?

She got closer to you now, her breath traveling over your neck as she left small pecks over your pulse point. Her lips moved higher and she approached your ear.

~ Maybe i need to show you how much mama adores her girl.

All you could do was let out a pathetic whimper and nod as her lips returned to your pulse point, this time nibbling and sucking on the sensitive flesh. Lilia’s hands found the hem of your shirt, not minding that it was covered in dirt, and lifted it over your head. You felt her hands on your own, moving them away from your stomach. You hadn't realized that you moved to cover it until Lilia whispered in your ear.

~ Mama wants to see all of you.

She reached around to unclasp your bra, with eased and practiced skill. You let out another small whimper as you felt her hand on your sternum, pushing you deeper into the pillows on the couch . Her lips left your neck and travelled down, along the top of your breasts and eventually to your nipples, taking them into her mouth one after the other and eventually grazing her teeth along the sensitive buds. You let out a gasp when you felt her bite down slightly, your hand moving to the back of her hair and pulling her closer to you. Her kisses travelled further, peppering delicate smooches all over your stomach. Lilia’s smile grew as she heard you giggling softly.

But as she got closer to where you wanted her, you became needy, erratically pulling down your trousers and underwear and showing her your glistening folds.

~ Someone’s eager.

~ Please, look how wet I am for you, mama.

~ I just want one thing from you first, do you think you can do something for mama?

~ Yes…anything…please.

~ Tell me you’re mama’s beautiful girl.

Your words got caught in your throat as you heard this. Was she really mocking you right now? You looked down to see Lilia’s genuine and knowing expression, her eyes locked onto yours.

~ I…

~ Darling, you can do it. Believe it for me.

~ I am mama’s beautiful girl.

Before you could even take back any of what you said, Lilia’s tongue was on your pussy, licking a strip up your folds and swirling around your clit - making you moan slightly.

~ Mama is going to reward you now sweetheart.

Her lips latched onto your clit and sucked hard as she pushed two fingers into you, slowly thrusting them in and out and curling them ever so slightly. She knew the exact things to do to make you feel good and she could feel how each thrust made you clench and drip with fresh heat. She doubled down on her efforts as your moans grew in pitch and your hips struggled to match the rhythm of her thrusts.

~ Does mama’s pretty girl want to cum?

~ P-please…I..Fuck.

Lilia’s free hand moved to stroke a single tear that fell from your eyes as you came undone, she remained looking up at how magnificent you looked when you came. Her fingers inside you slowed but didn’t stop, prolonging the pleasure you deserved to feel.

As your high flowed out of you, the thoughts returned. Not as bad as before, but still there. Lilia got off the couch and stood before you, slowly stripping down to her yellow, matching bra and knickers. You were too much in awe and in the afterglow to even make a noise, you just sat with your mouth hanging open. Lilia gently took your hand and guided it towards her crotch, you gasped as her wetness seeped through the fabric and coated your fingers.

~ That’s all from seeing you, my love, do you feel how my body responds to you, to how perfect you are.

Lilia sat down once again and spread her legs slightly, making a show of removing her ruined panties. She then unclasped her own bra and sat there, all spread and opened for you.

~ Can mama’s good girl make her feel good now?

You didn’t need any further instructions - your mouth was immediately on her breasts, suckling and nibbling slightly on her nipples, Lilia threw her head back and closed her eyes, you always were talented with your mouth. Your fingers soon found her clit, rubbing softly with the pads of your fingertips, making her almost growl.

~ G-god, you're so good for mama.

Her words only spurred you on, grazing your teeth along her nipple and speeding up the movements with your fingers, Lilia’s high was approaching quickly.

~ Fuck…mama’s gonna cum for her perfect girl.

You held Lilia in place with a hand on her stomach as she came hard. Both of you were now shaking and covered in each other's juices, but you were right where you wanted to be. You both got cleaned up and ended the night in each other's arms, you may not have believed you were beautiful, but Lilia sure did and she would remind you every chance she got.

[linkons-most-wanted]

Hello! I just noticed that we never actually see any of the LIs get angry, displeasure may be, buy never truly angry. What do you think it would take for them to lose their temper?

On a similar note, what is each of the LIs' relationship with anger as an emotion, do they control it, supress it, let it reign freely, or does it control them? Whose do you think is the healthiest?

Thanks!

Thank you so much for this ask, and for your patience! My brain is functioning again 😂 (well, y'know, as much as it ever does)

I think this ends up being such a compelling line of questioning in relation to a dating game because a lot of us have complicated relationships with masculine anger.

I think it helps to frame up how I think about anger: a fight response due to a perceived threat. So we can think about: what threatens them? And how do they react?

Xavier represses his anger, which is a key reason I pegged him as a type 9. It's mostly expressed in his possessive moments when he becomes passive aggressive and gloomy, like we see in Misty Silhouette. Xavier's repressed enough that any outburst is very unlikely--we see how relatively passive he is when it comes to resisting his father in the Academy anecdote and Shooting Stars myth. The major weakness for Xavier here is that by repressing his anger, he can fail to actually change the circumstances hurting himself and the person he loves (MC). He also ends up overreacting to things that aren't real threats--like Charlie the baker. He needs to embrace this anger and coax it out as a useful signal--instead of sulking when he gets jealous, he can use it as a motivation to be more forward in his affection for MC, taking more risks in revealing his vulnerable feelings. (And I do think we've started to see him do more of this!)

As Xavier gets more comfortable with his anger (especially since MC's affirmed she likes this side of him) it still takes something major to make him lose his temper--such as a confrontation with Professor Lucius or another key Ever player. There we can expect quiet, focused, merciless combat followed by a bit of gloom as he has to finish processing that anger even after the confrontation is over.

Zayne's anger is largely self-directed (at least in the main timeline). He's furious at himself when he feels like he hasn't done enough to protect MC from himself. But his anger still functions in a mostly normal way--we see burst of it at appropriate times, such as in the Tomorrow's Catch 22 AU when he's dealing with the inmates. Here we see just how powerful his Evol can be, which speaks to how restrained he is the rest of the time. The threat is serious, so his reaction is proportionate. He doesn't over-react to things that aren't threats. The majority of the time, Zayne feels his anger internally and uses it as a signal that he needs to act. We especially see this in how he deals with Carter, someone he rightfully hates--Zayne makes it very clear that he has no interest in joining XHeart, he removes himself and MC from the situation when needed, etc. No inappropriate outbursts, but he's not placating Carter either. As far as the LIs go, Zayne probably has the healthiest relationship with anger--largely because passion and desire are the emotions Zayne struggles with much more.

For Zayne to lose his temper requires a pressing physical threat to the people he cares about most. His fury is explosive and decisive--the whole building is going to end up encased in ice. And since the emotion has run its course, he's swiftly back to checking on you, making sure you didn't get caught in the crossfire, etc.

Rafayel is a fiery character and, like Zayne, has a mostly adaptive and normal relationship with anger. (Notably, with Rafayel being 4w5 and Zayne being 5w6 there's a good bit of overlap in how they approach core emotions.) More of when we see his "anger" is when he's pouting or sulking that MC isn't giving him enough attention. Nightly Stroll is a great example. Rafayel's the character most likely to lose his temper in little moments and lash out--as we see with his little barbs about forgetting promises and rescuing small animals. He loses some maturity points for being passive aggressive instead of stating his feelings, but his moods generally run their course. Because his anger gets vented in smaller moments, bigger surges are less likely. (Possession by the God of Tides aside.) Sort of ironically, when he's really angry, the drama falls away, such as when he's dealing with Ever and their experiments on Lemurians.

The three things most likely to get under Rafayel's skin are insults to Lemuria, insults to his art, and (most of all) threats to MC. Paparazzi had better watch out if they pester him on a bad day and hit a nerve--a melted camera would be getting off easy.

Sylus is particularly interesting here because we do actually see a fair amount of his anger, but he deals with threats so swiftly and decisively that you almost miss it. For example, in Long Awaited Revelry, the Man in Black gets a "touch her and die" moment. Sherman is made to suffer before he dies. In Final Farewell, the Curse Box 1 incident shows Sylus destroying a copy of a prophecy about his curse with his mist. Sylus doesn't yell or berate, he just destroys anything in his way. He gets to cheat a little bit because he's so powerful that very few things can pose a real threat to him for very long. His same personality, given more realistic constraints, would definitely run into more scenarios where there are threats that can't just be dealt with. And, notably, I think that's a big part of his character growth with MC--he can be angry at how the Association is treating her, but he can't just go destroy the Association because that would hurt her. He's used to just being able to act on his anger. So, he has to learn to sit with those feelings--and he does so quite quickly, making him a contender with Zayne for healthiest LI around anger.

It would take quite a lot for Sylus to really, truly lose his temper. It would require a surprise--something he didn't calculate in advance and didn't have a plan for that simultaneously is a clear and present existential threat to MC. In that case, you'd best believe the horns and wings and tail and claws are coming out in an instant. An army? Vaporized. An unusually powerful Wanderer? Crushed into nothing. There would be casualties.

Caleb is alongside Xavier as having a more dysfunctional relationship with anger. He generally has a dysfunctional relationship with most emotions, to be fair. As Mr. Obsessive Protective, he's not exactly going to be emotionally stable, and of course we love it. Especially as a type seven, he's trying to keep himself busy enough to not have to deal with anger, grief, and other "negative" emotions. Crucially, when threats to MC trigger his "fight" response, he turns it on MC, acting angry with her for not listening to him when the source of his anger is really the threat he perceives. He does get that more under control after Homecoming Wings, but not in a healthy way--in Deceptive Solitude, we see him continue to lie to her and pretend everything is fine, even when he's furious to be followed. He overreacts (such as constantly disfiguring Viper) partly because of his own self-directed anger at not being able to protect MC in the past.

MC saying she doesn't need him really sets Caleb off. He's also got all the usual over-protective triggers--seeing her with other guys, perceiving threats to her safety, etc. Ironically, when real threats emerge, he's likely to downplay their significance--"Don't worry, Pipsqueak, I've got this."

~~~

Looking across the board, I think a large part of why I'm drawn most to Zayne and Sylus is that they have relatively healthy relationships with their anger. They act decisively and protectively when necessary, but don't over-react to things that aren't true threats. Their baseline is very calm, which can be quite healing for someone with trauma around others' anger.

Rafayel and Caleb are relatively more chaotic, with Rafayel being occasionally passive aggressive and petty, and Caleb being, y'know, deeply mentally unwell (💕).

Xavier ends up being really interesting because it can be tempting to say he has his anger under control, but as a type 9 myself, I feel comfortable criticizing his past passivity and his present slowness to accept and confront his emotions.

Anyway, thanks for giving me an excuse to ramble about this! ☺️