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wbbfannnnnn13 · 2 days ago

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Close Coverage // Chapter 4

a/n: many drinks in and many friends yapping, but i powered through because i'm a woman of my word

wc: 5.6k

**** Chapter 4: Performative ****

Azzi

The café was loud in that curated San Francisco way—exposed brick, mismatched mugs, and a playlist that sounded like someone’s vinyl collection filtered through static. Azzi stirred oat milk into her coffee without tasting it, one foot tucked under her chair, half-listening while Aaliyah and Kate debated tunnel fits like it was their job.

“I’m just saying,” she said, tapping her glass like a gavel, “if you have to explain the outfit in the caption, it’s not doing the work.”

Aaliyah gave her a look. “That’s rich coming from you. You wore mesh sleeves under a leather vest last week.”

“Exactly,” Kate replied, unbothered. “And did I explain it in the caption?”

“No, you left it blank with a single skull emoji.”

“Art speaks for itself.”

Azzi didn’t say anything. Just kept stirring her coffee, even though the oat milk had long since settled.

It was the kind of noise she usually liked—harmless, soft-edged, forgettable the second you stepped outside. Today, it made her feel like she was moving through glass. Still present, still functional. Just not fully here.

Her phone was face-down on the table, but she could still feel the weight of the unread messages—Nike updates, agent check-ins, a text from Paige she hadn’t opened yet. Probably something breezy. Probably something that would sound nice out loud and leave her feeling off for the rest of the day.

She hadn't said much since walking in. Aaliyah hadn’t pushed. Kate had filled the silence. That was their rhythm.

But the lull wasn’t built to last—not with the way Aaliyah kept sneaking glances over the rim of her cup, or how Kate kept twisting her straw like it was holding her back from saying something.

Aaliyah finally shifted in her seat. “Okay,” she said, softer now, eyes steady on Azzi. “How was the shoot?”

That was the thing about them. They always gave her time. But never too much.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “It was fine.”

“Liar,” Kate said, sipping her iced coffee like it was tea. “You’re doing that thing with your jaw.”

“I’m chewing.”

“You’re clenching,” Aaliyah corrected. She finally looked up. “Come on. Spill.”

Azzi let out a breath, dragging her finger through the condensation on her glass. “It was… fine,” she repeated. “We got through it. No one died.”

Kate leaned in, grin already forming. “But?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She let the café noise cover the silence—the whir of espresso, the scrape of chairs, someone laughing too loud near the window.

Then, finally: “It was weird,” she said, voice low. “Awkward.”

Kate tilted her head. “Because of her?”

Azzi hesitated. “I mean—kind of? They kept putting us really close. Like, physically. All that fake candid stuff. Blame the photographer.”

A beat.

“Uh-huh,” Kate said slowly, trading a look with Aaliyah.

“I’m just saying,” Azzi went on, too quickly now, “when someone’s face is, like, six inches from yours for forty minutes, it messes with your head a little.”

Aaliyah narrowed her eyes like she was doing the math in her head. “Wait. Are you saying…”

Kate sat up straighter, grinning. “You think she’s hot.”

Azzi choked on her coffee. “What? No. That’s not—”

“Oh my God,” Aaliyah said, wide-eyed. “You do.”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to,” Kate said. “You got Paige Bueckered. Textbook case.”

Azzi dropped her forehead to the table. “I hate both of you.”

Kate patted her back. “It’s okay. We’ve all been there. She’s like a golden retriever dipped in charisma. It’s a known hazard.”

Aaliyah was still staring at her. “So you never thought she was hot before this?”

Azzi lifted her head just enough to glare. “I didn’t say she’s hot now.”

Kate grinned. “Which means you totally did.”

Aaliyah was still smiling when she asked, “So is that it? Just one shoot and you’re spiraling?”

Azzi groaned. “No. That’s the other thing. They’re extending the campaign.”

Kate blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Two-week rollout,” Azzi said, straightening up. “Video spots. Interview days. Travel.”

“With Paige?”

She just gave them a look.

Kate winced. “Damn.”

“They’re calling it a chemistry campaign,” Azzi added, picking up her drink but not sipping it. “Like we’re some kind of narrative arc now.”

Aaliyah didn’t say anything right away. She just watched her, carefully. “And you’re not into that.”

Azzi shrugged. “I just don’t like being part of someone else’s story.”

They sat like that for a moment—coffee cooling, the mood heavier than when they walked in.

Then Kate, ever the disruptor, lifted her cup. “To surviving two more weeks of media matchmaking.”

Azzi clinked hers against it, managing half a smile. “Kill me now.”

The table quieted again. Not awkward—just that lingering buzz after a good line.

Azzi bit into her sandwich. It was warm, toasted just right, and still tasted like nothing.

She chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the corner of her napkin, letting the hum of the café blur around her. But her brain wasn’t quiet. It kept drifting—back to the shoot, back to Paige, back to the way something had crackled in the space between them.

It wasn’t anything they said. Not really. It was just… there.

The photographer kept saying closer, kept adjusting their angles, kept stepping back like the tension might look better from a distance.

And Paige didn’t flinch. She leaned in, smiling like she belonged in the frame. Like she’d been waiting for that moment.

Azzi hadn’t smiled back. But she hadn’t moved, either. She’d just stood there, every nerve in her body on high alert.

It was electricity. Unwelcome. Uninvited. Undeniable.

And then there was the mic’d-up stuff.

They’d both taken shots—quiet, clever ones. Paige had made a comment about Azzi being “all locked-in, no looseness,” and Azzi had fired back with something about Paige always performing for the camera.

Too fast. Too practiced. Both of them pretending it was banter.

It wasn’t.

It was friction. And it had stuck.

Now the clips were out, edited just enough to feel polished, just raw enough to seem real. People were already eating it up—calling it chemistry.

But to Azzi, it had felt more like a fuse being lit.

She swallowed. Took another bite. Still nothing.

She was just starting to feel the silence stretch again—long enough for her thoughts to start looping—

“It’s the tension,” Aaliyah said, popping a tomato into her mouth. “People are obsessed. There’s already a whole TikTok with that slow-mo clip from the last shoot.”

Kate turned her phone around. @pazzieedits: rivals or soulmates? Summer Walker playing. Azzi hitting a three. Paige smiling like she already knew it would go in.

Azzi stared for a beat. “Oh my God.”

“Nike’s probably salivating,” Kate said. “You can’t manufacture this stuff.”

“She’s always had that thing,” Azzi murmured, almost to herself. “This way of taking up space—loud without trying. Literally and figuratively.”

The silence between them stretched—not awkward, just attentive.

“You mean the whole ‘I command a room’ thing or the jawline that could cut glass?” Kate asked, like she wasn’t stirring the pot on purpose.

Azzi didn’t look up. “I meant presence.” Beat. “Don’t make it weird.”

Aaliyah tilted her head, smirking. “Okay, but have you ever said any of this to her? Like—out loud?”

Azzi shook her head fast, like the thought itself was absurd. “No. Why would I?”

Kate leaned in, grinning. “So what is it, then? Rivalry? Crush? Curse?”

Azzi didn’t answer. Her phone buzzed with a new Nike call sheet. HORSE shoot added. Tomorrow.

Her jaw tightened.

“She’s not my crush,” Azzi said. “But she’s always been my favorite to beat.”

Aaliyah snorted. “So you are rivals. Sounds a lot like the enemies-to-lovers pipeline to me.”

Azzi gave her a look. The kind that usually worked.

Not this time.

She looked out the window, eyes tracking the cable car sliding uphill.

“I guess we are now.”

Paige

“Let’s goooo,” KK shouted, flopping onto the couch like she hadn’t just team-wiped a squad on Fortnite. “You’re welcome for the carry.”

Paige threw a Dorito at her and missed. “You stole my last kill.”

“That’s called being efficient,” KK said, grabbing her phone as it buzzed. “Also—reminder? You owe me dinner and a playlist update. You’ve had me stuck on ‘Paint the Town Red’ for two weeks.”

Jalen Suggs laughed from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, controller still in hand. “No offense, P, but your taste is either R&B vibes or unhinged white girl on the run.”

“I contain multitudes,” Paige said, but her heart wasn’t in it. Not fully.

She stretched out her legs and leaned her head back, letting the chaos of KK’s scrolling and Jalen’s post-game snack narration fill the space. Her phone buzzed. Again.

She picked it up out of habit. Nike Campaign – Update: New deliverables: • HORSE shoot – Tuesday • Q&A panel– Friday Filming required for all segments.

She didn’t respond. Just tapped the screen off and tossed it onto the coffee table.

Because of course they were extending it.

What was supposed to be one day of content—maybe two if things went well—had blown up the second the first clip hit Twitter. Slow-mo edits. Reaction videos. “She looks at her like—” tweets. Side-by-sides from high school. From Team USA. From every UConn–Notre Dame matchup they’d ever been in.

Suddenly, it wasn’t just a campaign. It was a storyline.

Paige Bueckers vs. Azzi Fudd. Opening night. Sparks vs. Valkyries.

The W was leaning in. Nike was all in. And Paige?

She was somewhere in the middle.

Because whatever spark people thought they saw—it wasn’t new. Not to her.

“So...” KK said slowly, pulling up Twitter. “You’ve seen the edits, right?”

Paige squinted. “What edits?” She knew exactly which ones. Pretending not to was easier.

KK turned her phone around.

A video looped on screen—Paige laughing, Azzi drilling a jumper, both of them mic’d up and trading quick little digs. Paige’s “you always this serious?” cutting just before Azzi’s dry, “you always this loud?”

Some anonymous fan had synced it to a moody remix of “Superposition” by Daniel Caesar. Caption: they don’t even have to touch to ruin me.

She’d seen it already. Twice. Once when her agent sent it. Again when she searched it on her own.

She didn’t save it. But she didn’t scroll past it either.

Paige snorted. “Oh my God.”

Jalen grinned. “You two are basically the W version of Wattpad bait.”

“She hates this stuff,” Paige said automatically. “Azzi, I mean. She’s like... anti-hype. Emotionally bulletproof.”

KK raised an eyebrow. “Sure. But she still said yes to the extended campaign. And those edits?” She held up the phone again. “They’re not giving rivalry anymore—if they ever were.”

Paige shrugged, suddenly warm under her sweatshirt. “She’s competitive. Probably only agreed because backing out would’ve felt like losing.” She reached for her water. Didn’t drink. “I’m starting to think this whole rivalry thing’s been living rent-free in her head for years.”

“And you’re... what? Chill about it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Jalen looked over. “Can I ask something?”

“No,” Paige said immediately.

He grinned anyway. “Did you really not know she saw you as a rival?”

Paige blinked.

It was stupid, but the question landed. Hard.

“She’s... I don’t know.” Paige ran a hand through her hair. “I always thought it was just media stuff. You know—people love comparisons. Blonde versus brunette. Smile versus silence.”

KK snorted. “Gay Barbie versus lesbian Batman.”

Paige laughed, but it felt paper-thin. She shot KK a look—subtle, sideways, just long enough to say you know I don’t talk about that.

It wasn’t hostile. Just familiar. A silent rule between them.

KK held her gaze for half a second, then nodded once, like she understood. Like she always had. “Right. Anyway. Iconic edit.”

She remembered something—just for a second. A camp scrimmage. Azzi with her jaw set, eyes locked. Beating her to the baseline by half a step and saying nothing. Paige had joked about it afterward. Azzi hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t even looked at her.

The memory landed differently now. Sharper. Hotter.

“She’s been playing a different game,” Paige said quietly, “this whole time.”

Neither KK nor Jalen said anything. The room softened.

And Paige sat with it—this quiet, sinking realization that maybe she’d never really known what Azzi wanted from her. Or what she’d wanted in return.

She’d spent years brushing it off. Naming it friendly. Calling it fuel. But now? Now it felt like a mirror held up too late.

And the worst part was— She wasn’t sure she wanted to look away.

Azzi

Nike HORSE Shoot — San Francisco Gym

Azzi tied her laces tighter than usual, fingers moving fast, almost mechanically. The sound of the gym crew prepping outside leaked through the walls—rubber soles, mic checks, someone laughing too loud.

She hadn’t said much in the car. Just nodded when the Nike rep confirmed call time. Let the silence do what it always did—wrap around her like armor.

One last look in the mirror. Hair tight, sleeves rolled, game face on.

She didn’t need this to be anything.

Just a shoot. Just a court. Just Paige.

Azzi was already warm by the time Paige showed up—sweat at the base of her neck, jumper dialed in, and her nerves stretched thin like pulled muscle. The gym wasn’t huge, but it echoed with the kind of artificial excitement only a brand shoot could conjure: production crew buzzing, a DJ setting up by the bleachers, light rigs crowding the corners like curious spectators.

She’d done shoots like this before. Show up. Hit your shots. Say something halfway charming between takes.

But this one felt different.

Tighter. Like there was less air in the gym. Like even the silence had a camera on it.

And it wasn’t just the setup. The branded backdrop or the wireless mics or the film crew whispering behind monitors.

It was her.

Paige. Loose-limbed. Smiling. Acting like this was nothing. Like they hadn’t been circling each other for years in ways no one else ever seemed to notice.

Azzi wiped her palms on her shorts and stared down the baseline. Focus. It was just a HORSE shoot. Just a camera. Just Paige.

So why did it feel like the only one watching her could see everything?

“Energy’s great in here,” the director chirped as Paige walked onto the court, radiant and late, of course. “Let’s keep it light, playful, competitive. Fans eat this up.”

Paige was all teeth and charm, Sparks warm-up tied around her waist like a bow on a gift she knew everyone wanted. She high-fived the audio guy, fist-bumped the ball kid, grinned at Azzi like they hadn’t been pretending not to think about each other for the last twenty-four hours.

Azzi didn’t smile back. Not really.

“Morning,” Paige said, falling into step beside her as they headed to the half-court setup. “You ready to lose?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got jokes this early?”

Paige bumped her shoulder—just enough contact to register. “It’s called confidence.”

Azzi didn’t look at her, but she felt it.

The touch. The tone. The way Paige always made things sound easy, like nothing ever got under her skin.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

It was just Paige being Paige.

Loud. Warm. Unbothered.

Exactly the kind of energy Azzi had spent years trying to ignore.

The first few shots were easy. Reverse layup. One-dribble pull-up. Left-handed bank shot. The director called out notes like a coach with a marketing degree: “More banter, Paige!” “Azzi, smile a little!” “Let’s get that tension we saw in the last shoot!”

Azzi nearly rolled her eyes.

She wasn’t here to flirt. She was here to win.

But it was different now. The cameras, the campaign, the proximity. It wasn’t just a shoot—it was the first time since USA camp that she couldn’t keep her distance.

And she hated how much she noticed everything. The curve of Paige’s grin. The way the crew leaned in whenever they spoke. Like the whole world had been waiting for them to be in the same room again.

Paige missed a one-legged fade. Azzi sank it clean.

Paige groaned theatrically. “Are you even having fun?”

Azzi lined up her next shot. “Winning is fun.”

That got a laugh from the crew. Paige smirked, but something tightened in her eyes. They moved into trickier territory—Paige bouncing the ball off the backboard for a behind-the-head layup. Azzi missed it.

Paige beamed. “Tied.”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just walked back to the three-point line, set her feet, and drained a corner shot with one leg lifted.

“Okay,” Paige muttered, grabbing the ball.

By the time they were both at “S,” the mood had shifted.

The banter had quieted. The space between them felt tighter, like the gym had shrunk an inch without anyone noticing.

The air was charged—thick with something unsaid. Like the moment right before a tip-off, when the crowd hasn’t started yelling yet, but the court already knows. Knows there’s a spark coming. Knows someone’s about to take the first swing.

And Azzi wasn’t sure if it was adrenaline, or something else entirely.

Azzi caught Paige watching her in the mirror on the wall, just for a second too long.

Not anger. Not amusement. Just... attention.

“They have to be exes,” someone whispered behind her. Azzi heard it. Pretended she didn’t. She kept her face neutral, eyes forward. But her grip on the ball tightened.

Final shot: top of the key, off the bounce, turnaround jumper. Paige missed it. Azzi didn’t.

The gym erupted, cameras swinging, claps echoing off concrete.

Azzi didn’t gloat. She just turned, handed the ball to the nearest assistant, and walked off like it didn’t mean anything.

But her hands were shaking a little. She flexed them behind her back. She’d won. And not just won—beat Paige Bueckers. In front of Nike cameras. WNBA media. Everyone. It wasn’t petty. It was satisfying. Controlled. Deserved.

The world was about to see it, too. Her game. Her edge. Her win.

“Nice one,” Paige said, coming up beside her, still slightly out of breath. “Didn’t realize we were playing for blood.”

Azzi didn’t look at her. “We weren’t.”

But she’d felt the shift. The precision in her shots. The silence in the gym when Paige missed. The part of her that always needed to prove something... had eaten it up.

She expected a little coldness in return. Maybe a jab, maybe distance.

But Paige’s voice stayed even. Warm, almost.

No bitterness. No flinch. Just kindness.

Azzi hated how much harder that made it to walk away. So she did anyway—before Paige could say anything else.

Paige

Nike Dinner + Panel Event – Private Rooftop Venue, Downtown San Francisco

The venue was trying not to be fancy, which somehow made it worse. Edison bulbs strung overhead like twinkly lies. Artfully mismatched chairs. Wood-fired flatbreads laid out on reclaimed cutting boards that still smelled faintly of smoke. Like someone had read an article called “Vibe-Forward Events for Young Athletes” and decided this counted as intimacy.

Paige was already tired.

Her blazer itched at the seam under her arm. She tugged it down, fixed her expression in the way that looked like comfort, and stepped into the soft chaos of the rooftop—warm air, mid-tier wine, and strategically placed lavender candles trying to pass as ambiance.

“Look who finally showed,” Stewie called from a low bench near the end of the table, already three-quarters into her glass and draped like a Roman senator. “We were about to send the PR intern out with a flare gun.”

Paige raised both hands in mock surrender. “Blame Nike’s glam squad. Took them twenty minutes to decide if my vibe was ‘bold’ or ‘approachable.’”

A’ja clapped a hand to her chest, laughing. “Bold, always. Approachable’s a scam.”

“Tell that to my comment section,” Paige muttered as she slid into an empty chair with a clean view of the table—and Azzi, of course.

She was seated at the far end, posture perfect, sleeves rolled precisely once, sipping sparkling water like it was a vintage pinot. She hadn’t changed much—still guarded, still precise, still allergic to oversharing. But tonight there was something even more armored about her. Something honed. Like she’d shown up already bracing for impact.

The dress didn’t help. Simple black, nothing flashy, but it fit like it had been designed to prove a point. Elegant. Exact. Like everything Azzi wore, it spoke fluently in understatement. Paige let her gaze linger for half a second too long before looking away—tucking the thought somewhere tight and silent. Not the time. But still. She looked... good.

Their eyes didn’t meet, but Paige felt the static anyway.

The table filled quickly—Cam Brink, a rookie whose name Paige couldn’t quite remember, and two Nike execs who wore their curated friendliness like tailored suits. There were too many plates. Too many forks. Too many scripted smiles.

Ten minutes in, the first glass clinked. The campaign lead—mid-forties, black turtleneck, I speak athlete energy—rose with a champagne flute and a too-practiced grin.

“We just want to say thank you,” she began, “for being part of something bigger than the game. This campaign is about stories, connection, rising above the noise.”

Paige tuned out halfway through. She’d heard it all before. The recycled language of storytelling, branded authenticity, manufactured realness. She could give this speech in her sleep. Probably had.

“Before dessert,” the woman continued, “we’ll do a quick panel—just some light questions. Keep it real, keep it fun.”

Groans circled the table. Paige smiled automatically. The camera’s red light wasn’t even on, but her internal switch flipped all the same.

The early questions started light—but with a sharper edge than she expected. Not the usual what’s your favorite shoe or how do you prep for media day fluff.

Someone on the Nike comms team must’ve decided that “rivalries” were the more marketable angle tonight.

What makes a good rivalry? Paige said mutual respect. Said iron sharpening iron. Someone across the table made a “pshh” sound, and laughter broke out.

Is it more fun to beat someone you like or someone you hate? A’ja said “hate,” grinning. Stewie smirked. “The one who talks the most before the game.” More laughter. Elbows nudged. Someone muttered “facts” into their wine.

Paige kept it breezy. Smiled. Played along. But her pulse had started to tick upward, just slightly, like her body was registering something her mouth hadn’t caught up to.

Is there someone in the league you’ve always measured yourself against?

Cam named a vet. The rookie said A’ja, which earned her a playful groan and a toast. Paige gave a practiced shrug. “I try not to compare,” she said. “Everyone’s journey is different.” It was the right answer. The one she'd given in media training a hundred times. Still, she felt it—something shift at the table. Like her dodge had been noted.

And then came the closer: “If you had to describe your campaign partner in one word, what would it be?”

The pause stretched, almost generous. Long enough for Paige to feel the air flatten around her.

A’ja didn’t miss a beat. “Bossy.” Stewie added, “Correct.” Cam said “underrated,” the rookie said “intense.”

The laughter this time was more restrained. Maybe everyone was starting to sense it—the current under the tablecloth, under the script. The way some of these questions were brushing too close to something unsaid.

Paige felt her jaw unlock just in time. She reached for her water, realized her hand was tighter around the glass than it needed to be.

“Disciplined,” she said. Clean. Polished. Safe.

She didn’t look at Azzi. Didn’t need to. The word landed anyway—like a compliment trimmed to the bone. A word she’d chosen for how it sounded in the room, not how it felt in her chest. Still, it sat there. Heavy.

And then Azzi spoke.

Azzi

Azzi didn’t blink. “Performative.” It was immediate. Crisp as a jumper off the glass.

The word landed before she even heard herself say it.

Sharp. Too fast. The silence that followed wasn’t dead. It was loaded.

She hadn’t planned to say it. Not like that. But the word had lived on the edge of her tongue for years—since interviews where Paige said all the right things and Azzi said nothing at all. Now it was out, and she didn’t know whether to take it back or double down.

Because the truth was—Paige had always been good at the performance. Charming. Effortless. Smiling like she believed every word, and maybe she did. But sometimes Azzi wondered if Paige even knew how much she turned it on for the room. How easy it was to be beloved when you were exactly what people hoped you’d be.

The thought brought her back to that summer. USA Basketball. Seventeen and already a little too serious, a little too aware of how loud silence could be in a gym full of voices. Paige had been sunshine from day one. Not just talented—magnetic. Coaches lit up around her. Girls followed her like gravity. But she’d been kind, too. Or seemed it. Said hi in the hallway. Made space in drills. Joked with Azzi after a scrimmage and said, “I got you next lunch. I’ll save you a seat.”

Azzi had held onto that like it meant something. Showed up ten minutes early, then waited five more just to look casual.

By the time she walked in, Paige was already mid-story at a packed table, surrounded by every starter on the roster. She didn’t look up. Didn’t wave. Azzi stood there for a beat too long. Then slid into a half-empty table near the end. Ate quickly. Said nothing.

It was small. Dumb, even. But it stuck—like a bruise you don’t remember getting but still flinch when someone presses it. And after that, it got harder to believe in the version of Paige the world loved out loud. The one Azzi had almost looked up to. Almost trusted.

Now, years later, that same feeling hummed under her skin—hot and old and sharp around the edges. She stared at the skyline just past the rooftop lights, let the moment move on without her. Let Paige laugh, let the moderator joke, let the noise pick back up. But the word stayed there between them. Still pulsing. Still true. Performative.

A few people laughed, not quite sure if they were supposed to. The moderator chuckled nervously. “Oh, we’ve got some rivalry heat up here.”

Paige smiled, wide and dazzling. Pulled from the same drawer she used for press junkets and postgame losses.

“She means I’m good at marketing,” she said. “It’s a compliment in disguise.”

Azzi didn’t correct her. The panel moved on. So did the dinner. Sort of.

Later, she stood on the narrow balcony outside her hotel room, arms folded, phone sitting screen-down on the table beside her. She hadn’t touched it since the car ride back. The wind was cooler than she expected for California. Somewhere below, a siren moved through the night, low and steady.

She could still picture Paige across the table. The careful smile. The practiced ease. Like nothing had landed too hard. Like it hadn’t meant anything.

Azzi had meant it, though. Maybe more than she realized.

She’d told the truth. Or at least, her truth. But now it sat in her chest like something unfinished.

It was easier, usually. To say nothing. To keep her answers sharp and short and safe. But tonight she hadn’t. And somehow, it still felt like she’d lost something.

It didn’t feel like a win. Not really.

She leaned forward, resting her arms on the balcony rail. The city stretched out in front of her, lights blinking slow and far away. She wished she didn’t care how Paige had taken it. She wished it didn’t still sit there, between them, unsaid and glowing.

But it did. And it would. Until one of them finally stopped playing the version of themselves everyone expected. And just... said something real.

Paige

Later – Hotel Room 11:47 PM

The robe wasn’t comfortable anymore.

Paige sat at the edge of the hotel bed, ankles crossed like she was still being judged by someone offscreen. The kind of stillness that came from holding something in, not letting anything spill. Her feet were bare. One was going slightly numb from the angle she’d tucked it under her. She didn’t bother moving.

The room smelled like lavender and leftover setting spray. The curtains were drawn, but the soft glow of the city still pushed in around the edges—blurry, golden, indifferent.

Her mascara was smudged. She’d tried to rub her eyes clean, but it only made them redder. They stung anyway. She didn’t know why exactly. Or maybe she did and just didn’t want to name it.

Her phone buzzed.

Another notification. Another tag. Another take. She didn’t even hesitate before opening it—like maybe the next one would feel different.

It was a clip. Zoomed in. Muted.

Azzi, looking calm. Controlled. Saying the word like it wasn’t personal. Like it hadn’t sliced straight through her chest.

“Performative.”

And Paige, smiling back. Wide. Too bright. Too clean. Like she hadn’t heard it at all.

The caption read: they’re in love but it’s complicated.

Of course it did. Of course that’s what people saw. The story they wanted. Something shippable. Digestible. Always the lighting. Never the bruise.

She dropped the phone beside her on the comforter. The screen lit up her thigh for a moment before it went dark again.

She stared straight ahead. The wall across from her was blank except for the TV, which reflected her shape faintly in the black screen. A soft outline of someone who looked fine.

She reached for the phone again. Opened her messages. Typed:

PAIGE: Do I come off fake?

Sent it before she could change her mind.

The wait was a beat. Then two.

Then KK replied:

KK: Not to me. Never to me.

But you do try really hard to protect the soft stuff. That’s not fake, P. That’s just surviving sometimes.

Maybe she sees it and doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t mean she’s right.

The words landed low, like a quiet thud in her chest.

Not fake. Just… guarded. Just trying.

She rolled the phone in her hand a few times, then set it down again, face-down this time. Like that might help. Like the weight of it could disappear if she stopped looking. She didn’t think of herself as fake.

She thought of herself as aware. She knew what people expected—poise, presence, answers. She gave them what they needed. She gave them someone they could root for.

But Azzi had said it like a fact. Like Paige had been faking the whole time. Like she got to name the difference between real and not.

Who was she to say that?

Paige’s jaw tightened. She uncrossed her legs, shifted to sit back against the headboard, knees pulled up, robe slipping off one shoulder. She left it there. Cold air touched her collarbone, but she barely felt it.

Azzi, who never gave anyone anything. Who stayed quiet and got praised for being deep. Who let silence do the talking and still somehow always got the benefit of the doubt. Who got to be mysterious while Paige was called fake for showing up.

Where had that even come from?

Paige sat up a little straighter, pulled the blanket up to her waist without thinking. Her heart was still kicking hard against her ribs—quiet, but steady.

Performative.

It echoed. Cold. Precise. Like it had been waiting.

She tried to backtrack through it all—every camp, every team-up, every hallway pass between games. There was never a moment. Nothing huge. Nothing that screamed rivalry. But now that she was looking, the small things stood out sharper.

A tournament when they were sixteen—Paige had made a half-court shot and let the smile stretch too long. Azzi hadn’t clapped. That USA Basketball media day—Azzi had barely spoken. Paige had lit up every answer like a string of lights. A postgame once, where Paige made a joke. Azzi didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

She’d always brushed it off. Told herself Azzi was just serious. Quiet. Focused. But now she was wondering if Azzi had just… decided. A long time ago.

Had she really been carrying that word—performative—in her back pocket for years?

It made Paige’s skin prickle.

What did I do? she wanted to ask. What did I ever do to make her think I wasn’t real?

The question didn’t have a neat place to land. She wanted to throw something. Not to hurt. Just to break the pressure inside her chest.

But instead, she sat there. Still. Tense. Trying not to fall apart over a single word.

And yet—there it was. The sting.

Because it wasn’t just what Azzi had said. It was the way she’d said it. So clean. So easy. Like she didn’t even think twice.

Like Paige was nothing more than the version people already believed in.

She stared at the ceiling. Let her eyes blur. Let her heart ache in that slow, private way no one ever saw.

She didn’t want to cry. She just wanted someone—anyone—to say she was more than what they thought of her.

But tonight, no one did.

#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #fanfiction

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dozybeez · 2 days ago

Text

Spin For Me (Pt. One)

She’s the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He’s the campus heartthrob who’s used to getting what he wants—except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part two

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 2.3k

content warnings: slowish burn, eventual smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size and innocence kink. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I’m a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones

- Robbers by The 1975

- That Funny Feeling by Phoebe Bridgers

The lecture hall smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and cheap coffee. It buzzed with that mid-semester kind of tired—hoodies tugged over faces, headphones in, eyes on the clock instead of the slides.

You weren’t invisible.

Not in the way people usually meant it.

You were seen—just misread. Easily boxed in, easily ignored. In lecture halls filled with raised hands and loud, overconfident voices, you were the person in the back row with your hood pulled over your ears, black flats tapping lightly against the floor while you took neat, quiet notes.

No one looked twice. And if they did, it was only to borrow a pen.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

Until Kim Mingyu walked into class ten minutes late.

The door swung open like he owned the place. Sunglasses perched on his nose despite the cloudy forecast and a white tee stretched across his chest like it was tailored just to show off how broad and well-built he was. That half-grin had made him the most followed student on campus—15K and counting. He had a height that forced anyone to lean around him just to see the board whenever he was in a row in front of them. He gave the professor a lazy nod and ignored the dozen girls who immediately perked up in their seats as he dropped into the chair beside you like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t already trying to disappear.

You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him look at you.

“Group project presentations,” Professor Norris announced, clapping once to pull focus. “Partners are posted. No trades. Don’t ask. You have three months.”

Your stomach sank before you even looked.

A rustle of movement. Groans. Whispers about how unlucky they were not to be matched with Mingyu.

You flipped open your laptop to check the pairing list and whose name resided in the spot next to yours.

Kim, Mingyu

No.

No no no.

You felt him turn toward you the second he saw the same list. You couldn’t even process how he was able to match your name to your face, never having interacted with the campus heartthrob before.

“Looks like it’s you and me,” he said, smiling wide like it was good news.

You didn’t return it. “Great.”

No giggle. No flip of your hair. No “Oh my God, I totally follow you on Insta!” like the girl in front of you had said during the last class lecture. You just stared back at your laptop like you weren’t next to the most popular guy on campus. Like you hadn’t seen his face on flyers, tagged in party pics, or shirtless in more thirst traps than you could count.

Something in your tone made his smile falter—just for a second. But then he laughed like you were kidding, like you couldn’t possibly mean it.

“You free after class?” he asked. “We can talk through a game plan.”

You closed your laptop slowly. “I have work.”

“Okay, then maybe—”

“I’ll email you.”

And with that, you stood, shoved your laptop into your tote, and slipped out the side exit before the rest of the room even processed the assignment.

⸻

Mingyu stared at the empty seat you’d left behind.

It wasn’t that people didn’t say no to him. It happened. Sometimes.

But they didn’t say it like that.

Like they’d already decided who he was.

He scratched the back of his neck, still watching the door you’d walked out of.

⸻

The library study rooms on the second floor were always just a little too warm.

Mingyu tugged his sweatshirt over his head and dropped it onto the empty chair across from him. Underneath, his designer top showed his shoulders too well. He wasn’t trying to show off—well, not really—but he also wasn’t apologizing for it either.

You walked in exactly two minutes late. Oversized black hoodie, hair up in a messy claw clip. Your flats were silent on the tile. You didn’t look at him as you sat down.

You pulled out a worn spiral notebook instead of a laptop. Mingyu blinked. “Going analog?”

“It doesn’t die on me.”

He opened his laptop. “Fair.”

Silence. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

“So, uh… should we just start with the topic?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were flipping through the first few pages of your notebook, all neat handwriting and annotated margins. When you finally glanced at him, it was like you’d only just remembered he was there.

“I already picked one,” you said. “You can veto it if you want.”

Mingyu leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Taking charge, huh?”

You stared.

He threw his hands up. “No complaints. What is it?”

“Emotional repression and memory retention.”

Mingyu blinked. “That’s… intense.”

You shrugged. “It’s Psych 3023.”

“I was thinking something lighter. Like social media attachment.”

“You mean influencers?”

He grinned. “You say that like it’s a dirty word.”

You didn’t grin back. “Isn’t it?”

Mingyu let out a soft laugh. You were sharper than you looked. He wasn’t used to that. Most people talked to him like he was a golden retriever with a ring light. But you? You looked at him like he was a pop-up ad you didn’t remember clicking on.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll go with yours.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m flexible.”

You narrowed your eyes. He noticed—again—how big they were. Soft, doe-like. You blinked twice and looked away, like you were annoyed you’d been caught looking at him at all.

“Fine,” you muttered, uncapping your pen. “We’ll split the research. Half each. Meet again Friday?”

“Works for me,” he said, folding his arms behind his head. “Your place or mine?”

You looked at him flatly.

“Or the library,” he clarified with a grin.

“You’re not funny.”

“I kinda am.”

You stood before he could finish the thought, already packing your things. “Friday. Four. Don’t be late.”

He watched you walk out again. Same way you had in class—fast, focused, like you couldn’t wait to get away from him.

Mingyu let out a low breath.

He was used to people liking him right away.

But you?

You didn’t just not like him—you looked at him like he was a disappointment you’d already predicted.

And for some reason… that made him want to try harder.

⸻

You had two hours before your shift started. Enough time to switch.

Your dorm room was small and cluttered—textbooks in one corner, a makeup bag you rarely touched sitting unopened on the dresser.

The two-piece was already laid out on your bed. Pale pink, almost childish, with a satin ribbon tying across the back of the top. It looked like it belonged to someone with gum in their mouth and sparkles in their hair.

You pulled it on in silence.

You tied the ribbon. Adjusted the straps. Then you sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the mirror while you tied your notorious soft satin half-mask with little black lace trim.

You blinked slowly at the person staring back.

Fawn blinked back.

⸻

At Club Indigo, Fawn didn’t have to speak unless she wanted to. The lighting was dark—deep cherry reds and pools of purple. You took your time stretching backstage, your body moving to the low pulse of the music already spilling out from the main room.

Your name was on the lineup—third from the top.

You didn’t strip. Never had. You didn’t even give private dances. That was the rule. That was how Fawn stayed safe while working in your college town. Mentally and physically.

You danced.

And when the first notes of Deftones’ “Change (In the House of Flies)” echoed through the room, you stepped onto the stage, barefoot with light delicate steps, and climbed the pole.

Above the noise and lights and breathless stares, you finally felt in control.

⸻

The library smelled like burnt coffee and printer paper. You were already regretting agreeing to this study session.

Not because of the material—but because Mingyu had an undeniable way of drawing attention just by existing.

The tall ones always did.. and the ones that had faces like Kim Mingyu.

He sauntered into your corner of the library a couple minutes late, hoodie bunched at his elbow, still somehow managing to look like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot. His laptop was tucked under one arm, headphones tangled in his fingers, and two girls from across the room immediately perked up when they saw him.

You pretended not to notice.

He spotted you and smiled, bright and lazy. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, collapsing into the seat beside you. “Had to walk a friend to class.”

You nodded without looking up. “We’re already behind on the lit review.”

“Always so serious,” he muttered, pulling out his charger.

Another girl drifted by your table—a blonde in a tennis skirt who paused, leaned down, and touched Mingyu’s shoulder like she had every right to.

“Hey, you still coming Friday?”

You didn’t look up.

Mingyu glanced at you briefly before answering. “Probably not. Got a thing.”

“A thing?” The girl smiled, tilting her head. “You ditching me again?”

He laughed, low and polite. “Work. Group project.”

She blinked down at you like she hadn’t noticed you until just now. “Oh.”

You just kept typing.

“Good luck then,” the girl said after a moment, her smile fading, before walking away.

Mingyu sighed and leaned closer. “Sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“The plague of being stupidly charming.”

You shot him a deadpan look.

He grinned. “Kidding.”

You didn’t smile, but you also didn’t tell him to shut up. Small victories.

⸻

That night, you sat curled up at your desk, the glow of your laptop the only light in the room.

You’d just finished editing a short pole routine—a slow, eerie clip to “Robbers” by The 1975. Your grip was clean. Your spins, effortless.

You wore a mask in the video, just like always. Your hair swayed over your bare shoulders like curtains.

You uploaded it to your Tumblr. Two hundred thousand followers. Dozens of reblogs in seconds.

You closed the tab before the notes could start piling up.

This part of your life—your secret Tumblr, the masked Fawn, the quiet kind of fame—none of it existed outside of your laptop.

You went to bed in an oversized T-shirt and socks, not checking your phone.

⸻

The study session was, miraculously, productive.

At least until you hit a new section, and you leaned forward to help explain the concept to Mingyu, only to realize Mingyu’s arm was stretched across the back of your chair.

He wasn’t touching you. Not really. But he was close—close enough to be noticeable. He wasn’t even looking at you, just staring at the screen, listening with his brow furrowed like he was genuinely trying.

Still. You scooted half an inch away.

“You always do that?” he asked after a while.

“Do what?”

“Lean away whenever I move.”

You blinked. “I don’t.”

“You just did.”

“I just—” You paused, frowning. “You’re tall. You take up space.”

He smiled. “So it’s a spatial issue.”

“Yes.”

“Got it.”

A pause.

Then, under his breath, he added, “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone so easily flustered.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pink.”

You shut your laptop a little too hard. “We’re done for today.”

⸻

Back in your room that night, you pulled your laptop into your lap, opened a private browser tab, and typed in your Tumblr handle.

Your latest video had almost 60,000 notes. Just you, in your usual black ruffle set, spinning slowly on the pole in a dim-lit studio. The mask covered most of your face, and your hair was down, hiding the rest.

Nothing overtly sexual. Just movement. Art. Mood.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then closed the screen.

⸻

Mingyu liked the campus café in the morning because no one expected him to talk.

He kept his sunglasses on and his hood up as he leaned over the counter. “Two sugars, no cream.”

The barista nodded—she already knew.

He’d barely sat down when the bell above the door jingled again.

You.

You were in your usual morning armor—giant hoodie (navy this time), jeans cuffed at the ankle, and mary janes. A spiral-bound book was hugged to your chest like a shield. You didn’t look around. You didn’t see him.

He almost didn’t say anything.

But then again… almost wasn’t really his style.

“You stalking me?” he asked casually as you approached the counter.

You flinched. Just slightly. Then rolled your eyes. “God, do you live here?”

“Only when I’m hungover or avoiding the gym.”

You ordered tea—no milk, no sugar—paid in exact change, then turned and caught him still watching you.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t peg you as a tea person.”

“And I didn’t peg you as a person who reads.”

Mingyu clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Ouch.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. It was tiny—barely there—but it was the first time he’d seen something that wasn’t a wall.

He tapped the empty chair across from him. “Come on. Sit. We’re supposed to be friends now.”

“We’re not.”

“Okay. Co-researchers?”

You hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t ask about your tragic backstory.”

You rolled your eyes again, but you sat.

You sipped in silence for a while. Outside, campus was already coming alive—groups of girls in tennis skirts, someone skating by with a speaker, a guy on a bike nearly running into a recycling bin. The usual.

Mingyu noticed your eyes flick to a group of laughing students by the window. You looked at them like they were a movie you’d already seen too many times.

“You don’t hang out much, huh?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I don’t like noise.”

“That’s probably why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You just don’t like me.”

You met his eyes then. “You’re loud. And everyone’s always looking at you.”

He tilted his head. “And that’s bad because…?”

“It’s not bad,” you said slowly. “It’s just… everything you do seems like it’s for show.”

That caught him off guard.

You went on before he could respond. “You know how some people walk into a room and it feels like they’re trying to win something?”

Mingyu blinked. “You think I’m trying too hard?”

“I think you’re used to being liked,” you said simply. “And when you’re not, it bugs you.”

You picked up your tea and took a sip, calm as ever.

Mingyu just stared. He wasn’t used to being read like that. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

But he was sure of one thing: you saw through people like glass.

And now he was dying to know what else you’d see if you actually looked.

⸻

#seventeen fanfic #svt x reader #svt fanfic #mingyu smut #mingyu x reader #mingyu x you #mingyu fanfic #mingyu fluff #mingyu angst #kim mingyu fanfic #kim mingyu x reader #kim mingyu x you #kim mingyu fluff #kim mingyu smut #kim mingyu angst

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sereia4skz · 10 hours ago

Text

a house we build | chapter 1: not made in a petri dish

pairing: established!Minsung x fem!reader

< intro | next chapter >

⋆｡°✩

word count: 1468

You should have expected it in retrospect, you were told by the agency that they were important people. People who get whisked into black vans through private entrances, who live behind security teams and stage lights. But you had met all the other couples within the walls of the agency, so it was overwhelming, when you get ushered by who you assume is their manager, into a car.

You're led into an apartment building, through the elevators, and into a living room. They're already seated on two seats facing the couch. It seems like furniture was moved around to make the meeting easier. Your eyes widen a little when they meet Han's, a flicker of recognition flashes through your eyes, and you see Minho's smile tighten slightly.

Han Jisung stands up right away, waving. “Hi! Sorry. We weren’t trying to freak you out with all the security… I forget it's not normal for everyone.”

You blink, momentarily stunned by the fact that he’s real. Hair a little tousled, hoodie far too big, smile breaking his entire face in half. He looks like he just rolled out of bed and still remembered to be charming.

Lee Minho rises more slowly. He doesn’t smile, not really. Just gives you a nod and slides a cup of tea across the table. “You drink chamomile?”

You nod, maybe too quickly, still in shock at the two people in front of you. “Yes. Um. Thank you.

They’re not what you expected. Part of you is cheering at meeting people you used to be a fan of so long ago.

Because that's what you were an ex-fan, you had gone to the concerts, the fanmeets, the pop-ups, before the military. Stray Kids had promised they would be back but as the years passed and they took their turn your life had moved on and you lost the time you used to have to spend on such a hobby. It was only briefly online that you had even learnt they were still performing.

Jisung is bouncing his leg under the table like he’s forgotten this is supposed to be serious. Minho is watching you attentively, watching you work your way through your thoughts.

"Uhmm… I feel like I should be honest…" you barely get the sentence out, before Minho pipes up.

"You know who we are right?"

You nod softly, "I was a fan… Before your military service."

Minho's face tightens slightly, meanwhile Jisung is positively beaming.

"You were!?" it's like he didn't even process your answer fully because he's smile drops, "Why aren't you anymore?"

You shrug, "Don't have the time… Don't have the money… Kinda lost touch of it all when life got busy… Will that be an issue? I can just tell the company the meeting didn't go well," you moved to get up before Minho raises his hand to stop you.

"No, it's fine"

You weren’t expecting warmth. You weren’t expecting… ease. You clear your throat. “Do you- want to ask me anything?”

Minho tilts his head. “What made you want to do this?”

You’d practiced this answer in the mirror. Still, it sticks in your throat a little. “I, um. I want to help someone start a family. People who really want kids, but who… can’t. I know that’s kind of cliché, but-”

“It’s not,” Jisung says quickly, serious now. “It’s… really kind.”

You tuck your hands into your lap. “And it’s practical, too. I mean, I want kids eventually. Just not alone. And the money would help with school. Life. You know.”

There’s a pause. You wonder if that last part ruined it, if they’re looking for someone more selfless, more starry-eyed. But Minho just hums and leans back, eyes narrowed like he’s scanning something only he can see.

“We’ve met a few candidates already,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jisung adds, scratching behind his ear. “None of them felt right?"

You blink. “Oh.”

Jisung nods too fast. “You’re not too formal. Or weird about it.”

“You can say awkward,” you murmur.

He grins. “You said it, not me.”

Minho glances at him, then back at you. “Would you be okay carrying for a same-sex couple with a high public profile?”

"It's not like you guys are going public right? Like I mean I called it years ago but I'm assuming you want to keep it lowkey," you bite your lip, “So I… think so. I’d like to know what kind of involvement you want.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “All of it.”

Jisung’s eyes widen. “We don’t mean that in a creepy way! jJust like. We’ve waited a long time for this. We want to be there. Doctor appointments, baby kicks, weird cravings-”

“We’ve got room in the house,” Minho adds. “Private property. No press.”

House. Not apartment. You blink again. Whose apartment is this then?

“You’d want me to move in?”

“Only during the pregnancy,” Minho says. “If you’re comfortable. You’d have space. Full privacy.”

“It’s not like we’d be hovering,” Jisung says. “Unless you wanted snacks. I’m good at snacks.”

Minho gives him the you’re talking too much look. It’s almost fond, an I like you even if you're annoying.

You sit back and try to hide the warmth in your face.

You're ushered out shortly after. Minho bows, hand briefly grazing your wrist before he pulls away. Jisung waves again, then immediately knocks over his water on the way out.

You stare at the condensation ring he leaves behind and try to ignore the twist in your chest.

You like them. Too much. Already. Which is why, when the agency calls two days later with an offer, you don’t hesitate.

⋆｡°✩

The clinic is clean and quiet. You sit through the physical screening, blood tests, and psychological evaluations. You've filled out a hundred different papers, each more clinical than the last. When you get the all-clear, your phone buzzes with a message from Jisung:

| heard the doc said ur golden!! can we treat you to dinner soon?? :) we promise not to make it weird lol

Minho follows up two minutes later:

| He’s going to try to make it weird.

You laugh, in spite of yourself. You don't know how they make you feel like this already.

You agree to dinner. They take you to a quiet restaurant with no press in sight. Minho wears a black baseball cap and orders grilled fish and barley tea. Jisung gets three sides and nothing else, because he can’t make decisions under pressure.

You eat slowly and listen as they talk about the baby. Or babies. They want two. A sibling pair. They want each child to be biologically theirs, but they don't want to know who’s who.

"It doesn't matter," Jisung says. "We're both gonna be appa."

"We want to love them the same," Minho adds. "No favorites. Just ours."

"Do you want to help with the second one?"

"Ji." Minho warns.

It sounds so simple the way they say it. Like they already know everything.

⋆｡°✩

You sign the contract a week later. All legal. All clean. All laid out in tidy clauses and contingencies. But when the lawyer finishes reading the last page, Minho clears his throat.

“There’s one detail we’d like to discuss,” he says. “Privately.”

You’re taken to a smaller room, cozy, a little too intimate for business. Minho closes the door behind you and gestures for you to sit.

Jisung sits on the edge of the couch, fidgeting with a throw pillow. “This is going to sound weird. Or maybe not. I don’t know. We’ve talked about it a lot and-”

“We’d prefer natural insemination,” Minho interrupts.

You blink. “I- sorry?”

“No pressure,” Minho says immediately. “None. If it’s off the table, we’ll go clinical. We just wanted to ask. The doctors cleared it.”

You stare at him. “But… why?”

Jisung looks up. “We want them to be made with care. Not- cold instruments and sterile rooms. I hate petri dishes, that's why I didn't go to school, hate science.”

Minho’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You didn't go to school because you were an idol dingus," he sighs but it's filled with love, "We want them conceived in something close to love. Even if it’s not traditional.”

You blink at them confused.

Minho sees the confusion and softens, just slightly. “We’d take care of you. Start to finish.”

"Oh, like you're not thinking syringe? You're thinking…"

There’s silence. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to feel.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a body. It’s just a job. But somehow, you already know, if you say yes, nothing will ever feel clinical again.

Jisung swallows, voice quieter. “You wouldn’t be alone.”

You nod. And you don’t say yes, not out loud, but when Minho reaches for your hand to thank you, you don’t pull away.

series taglist: @rougegenshin @imagine-all-the-imagines @Imma-much-happier-person @Jisungs-iced-americano @Seungminthesnail @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @straykid2004 @geni-627 @Numberonedefendorpenguin @codex-12 @skzbiasot8 @Skzlover143 @jeonginsbaee @rekussk @bahngarang @mareuxkala @wwwtxao @katchowbbie @alondra601

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght

#stray kids x reader #skz x reader #skz imagines #stray kids #han jisung x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #minho x reader #lee know #minsung #polyship x reader #poly!minsung #minsung x reader

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filthyjoelslvr · 2 days ago

Text

The Other Woman (3)

part 1 | part 2 | part 4

Content: jackson!tommy x reader; jackson!joel x reader (previous chapter)

Synop: Tommy isn't the same after you told him about you and Joel. His heads hung low, his smile falters, his eyes scream of the pain he feels. You keep running into him and each time breaks you a little more than the last.

Then, Joel tells his ex wife of the affair. And the whole town knows. They stare, they whisper, and Tommy can barely stand it.

Warnings: pinv, fingering, tommy spits in your mouth, tells reader i hate you during sex?, sad tommy, guilty joel, physical fighting (mentions blood), very small mention of SA (past), death of mother, prob forgetting some

Word Count: 10K!

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: guys i hope you like this one!! i was in such a stump and then got a random burst of inspiration so i hope i did a good job blending it all together. i literally wanna turn this whole series into a chapter book!!! but i made this so long so another part is coming soon im so sorry yall, ik ik i need to chill. but..... should you have tommy's babies ???? AHH DONT COME FOR ME IM INTO THAT

It had been twenty-three days since you last spoke to Tommy.

Not that you were counting, but every night bled into the next without him, and each morning you woke up hoping the ache would be duller than the day before. It wasn’t.

The last time you saw him — really saw him — was the night everything fell apart. The night he looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Technically, he never asked you to be his girlfriend, not in those exact words, but you didn’t need him to. You knew it. Felt it in every look, every late-night visit, every time he held you like the world might end before morning. You were his. And he was yours.

But now… now you were nothing.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen the way it did. You never meant to hurt him, never wanted to be the cause of that devastation you saw in his eyes that day. The memory of it still clawed at your insides.

You heard the footsteps before the knock — heavy, sure, familiar in a way that made your throat tighten.

When you opened the door, there he was. Tommy. Sunburned cheeks, wind-worn jacket, smile so big it made your chest ache. “Told you I’d be back, didn’t I?”

You had launched into his arms. Laughed. Let him spin you like a girl who hadn’t done the unthinkable. You buried yourself in him because you didn’t know how to be anywhere else. Because you were scared.

You tried to tell him. Tried to say the words. But he kissed you — kissed you like nothing had changed. And you let him. You let him love you, worship you, fall deeper when you knew the truth would tear him apart.

And when he finally said I love you, you broke. You couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Tommy, I slept with Joel.”

You watched him come undone in real time. Disbelief. Rage. Pain. That gut-wrenching, final line: "Stay the fuck away from me. We're done."

And then the door slammed, and you felt yourself unravel.

Now, three weeks later, you saw him again for the first time.

You hadn’t planned to be in town, but someone had asked for help dropping off supplies. Just some cloth and thread. It was supposed to be a quiet errand — quick. Anonymous.

But then you saw him.

Tommy walked through the square, not ten feet from you. And the sight of him made your stomach flip and your eyes sting.

He looked terrible.

Not rugged or tired. Wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes hollow. Posture slumped like the world weighed heavier than usual. Tommy, who used to light up Jackson just by passing through, didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t speak. He just walked — silent and angry and broken.

Then he looked up. Just for a second.

Your eyes locked.

It was like being struck. His face flickered — just barely — before he looked away again, fast. Like you were something painful to behold. Like remembering you hurt worse than forgetting.

You didn’t move. Didn’t follow. You couldn’t.

You’d seen the damage. You saw what you did. How far he’d fallen from the man who used to dance with you in the kitchen just to hear you laugh.

You broke him.

So you let him go. Again.

You turned away, heart hammering, eyes blurry, breath shallow.

You wanted to run after him. To explain. To beg. But that wasn’t love — not anymore. Love, real love, was giving someone what they needed. And right now? Tommy needed space. Distance. Time.

Even if it killed you to give it. Even if he never let you close again.

Because if he needed time to hate you before he could begin to understand you, then that’s what you’d give him.

Even if it meant losing him forever.

The first time you ran into Tommy again after that morning in the square, it was by accident. You turned a corner near the stables, arms full of fabric bundles, and nearly collided with him.

He stopped. Looked at you.

Just for a second.

And then he walked around you like you weren’t even there.

It knocked the breath from your lungs. You stood there, holding that stupid cloth to your chest like it might keep you from falling apart.

After that, it kept happening.

At the gate post. By the greenhouse. Outside the mess hall. Always unplanned. Always painful.

And always the same.

He’d glance at you, just once — eyes heavy with something that looked like grief — and then look away, jaw clenched, chest rising a little faster. Sometimes he’d adjust his jacket, or rub at his mouth like he could scrub the memory of you off his lips.

Each time you saw him, he looked a little worse.

Like he was unraveling slowly. Skin paler. Beard uneven. His usual spark — gone. Tommy had always been a light in Jackson. He made people laugh. Made things feel easier just by being around.

But now? Now he barely spoke. He avoided crowds. Didn’t show up to half the community meetings he used to help run. And when he did, he’d sit in the back with a far-off look in his eyes like his body was present, but nothing else was.

It was like he couldn’t stand to be in a world where you also existed.

And still, you said nothing.

You wanted to run to him. To beg. To explain it all again. But you stayed quiet. You gave him the distance he so clearly needed, even when it felt like it was killing you a little more each day.

Sometimes you’d go to the trade stalls to stay busy. Sort items. Help with repairs. Anything to get out of your own head.

That’s where you’d see Joel.

Not often. Just enough to notice.

He never stayed long — always stopping by for parts or ammo, sometimes to drop off gear from a patrol. When he saw you, he’d nod once. Give you a polite hey or mornin'.

Nothing else.

No private talks. No apologies. No pressure.

He had stopped coming to see you, just like you asked.

And the silence between the two of you felt like a second kind of punishment. A colder one. Because even though Joel had been the cause of it all, he wasn’t the one looking at you like you’d destroyed him.

That was Tommy.

And somehow, seeing the pain still written across his face every time he caught your presence — like your shadow alone was enough to make him sick — it hurt worse than anything you could have imagined.

Because you were the one who did that to him.

And you didn’t know if you’d ever get the chance to make it right.

The silence didn’t get easier.

If anything, the more time passed, the heavier it got. It filled the corners of your house like smoke. Settled into your sheets. Clung to your skin.

Some nights, it felt unbearable. So you started writing.

Not because you expected him to read it. Not because you thought it would fix anything. But because keeping it all inside was rotting you from the inside out.

The first letter was messy — half tears, half ink. You didn’t even bother starting it with his name. Just dove straight in. I think about you all the time. I keep seeing you in crowds. Sometimes I think I hear your laugh and then remember you haven’t laughed in weeks.

You didn’t mean to keep going, but you did. The words kept spilling out. Page after page. You wrote about the little things — how you still caught yourself reaching for his favorite mug when you made tea. How you didn’t listen to music anymore because everything reminded you of that night he danced with you at the town square. How you couldn’t stop replaying the sound of his voice when he said, Stay the fuck away from me.

You folded that one and tucked it into your dresser drawer. Told yourself you’d burn it later.

But you didn’t.

You kept writing.

A second letter. A third. A tenth.

Some were long, aching pages of apology. Others were just fragments. You looked tired today. I saw you touch your ribs — did you get hurt? You smiled at someone. I was both relieved and sick over it.

You never sent them. Never would.

But writing them was the only way to keep yourself from going to him.

Because the truth was, every time you saw Tommy — every time he looked at you and then looked away — it felt like losing him all over again. The glances were killing you more than outright silence ever could. Like he still felt something, but it hurt too much to let it show.

You knew that look. You wore the same one when you were begging for Joel's love.

So you wrote. Because writing didn’t cost him anything.

You gave him his space, his time, his absence. Even though it made you ache. Even though you missed him so much it sometimes felt like you couldn’t breathe.

And still, he didn’t speak to you.

Which meant you were alone. So you wrote. Even if the only one who would ever read the letters was you.

The bell above the trade stalls door jingled, breaking the quiet rhythm of your work.

You didn’t even look up at first. Most people came in for standard barters — thread, blankets, maybe a new pair of gloves. But something in your chest tightened before you even saw Joel because you knew today you'd talk to him.

He hesitated in the doorway, like he was unsure if he should even step inside. Then, with that familiar heavy gait, he walked toward one of the side shelves, not looking at you.

You let a beat pass. Then another.

“…Hey,” you said, voice low but steady.

His head snapped up like you'd thrown a rock at him. “What?”

You stepped out from behind the counter slowly. “I was... wondering how you’ve been.”

He blinked at you, completely thrown. “You told me to stay the hell away from you.”

“I know,” you said softly, glancing down. “I meant it, at the time. But… I also meant what I said back then — that you needed to work on yourself.”

He frowned, jaw tight, arms crossing. “So what’s this? Curiosity check-in?”

You offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. Just figured if we were gonna keep running into each other, we didn’t have to pretend the other didn’t exist.”

Joel snorted under his breath, leaning a little against the shelf. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to start a damn conversation, I’ll tell you that much.”

You watched him carefully. “So… how have you been? Really?”

He scratched his beard, eyes narrowed like the question was somehow offensive. Then he exhaled, slower this time. “Better. Some days. Worse on others. But I’ve been tryin' to get my shit together.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded, grumbling like the words hurt to say. “Ain’t drinkin’ as much. Talked to people about helpin’ out more on the patrol rotation. Saw a counselor a few times, if you can believe that.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Didn’t talk much at first, but… I’m listenin’ now. Tryin’ to understand why I did the things I did. Why I kept goin’ back to pain like it was comfort.”

You studied his face, and for the first time since all this began, he looked almost… vulnerable. Not proud, not defensive — just tired and trying.

And it hit you, suddenly, how much further behind you were.

“I’m happy for you,” you said. “I really am.”

He tilted his head. “And you? You look like hell, no offense.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes even though they weren’t crying. “That obvious, huh?”

Joel’s face softened slightly. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

You hesitated, and when you answered, your voice was small. “I’m not. Not really. I miss Tommy so bad it makes me sick.”

His expression darkened slightly, but he didn’t speak, so you kept going.

“I told him. About everything. The night he came home. He told me he loved me and I—” your breath caught. “I told him what happened. With you.”

Joel’s face fell. “And?”

“He walked out. Said we were done. That he doesn't want to see me again.”

Joel looked away. “Yeah… I figured.”

You furrowed your brow. “What do you mean?”

He took a breath through his nose like he was bracing for something. “Tommy came to my house that night.”

You stared at him. “He what?”

“Stormed in like a damn fire. Said he wanted to look me in the eye before he broke my nose.”

Your breath caught.

Joel gave a dry, humorless laugh. “And he did. Couple times.”

“Joel…”

“I didn’t stop him,” he said simply. “Didn’t raise a hand. Just let him. Took everything he gave me.”

“Jesus…”

Joel nodded. “Threw me into a wall. Told me I broke the only good thing in his life. Asked me how long I’d been watchin’ him like a damn vulture, waitin’ for him to turn his back so I could crawl into bed with his girl.”

You felt like you might be sick.

“I tried to tell him it wasn’t like that,” Joel continued. “That it wasn’t planned. But he didn’t want to hear it. And truth is, he had every right not to.”

You pressed a hand to your stomach. “I didn’t know he— God, Joel."

Joel shrugged. “He said what he needed to with his fists. We haven’t talked since. Tommy is scary as hell when he wants to be.”

The silence hung thick between you, full of shame and pain and words neither of you could take back. You remembered that night you told the lie about the guy harassing you — how Tommy's expression turned unrecognizable. You know now Tommy meant it when he said he could find the guy.

Joel looked at you again, more carefully now. “You still care about him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

He nodded once, solemn. “He’s stubborn as hell, but he ain’t made of stone. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have shown up at my door.”

Your eyes welled, and this time, you didn’t stop the tears. “I think I already lost him.”

Joel shook his head. “I really am sorry."

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded. The two of you stood there for a while, surrounded by the quiet buzz of the shop, the weight of everything still hovering — but maybe just a little lighter than before.

Joel finally turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

“I’m trying,” you said softly.

He nodded once, then stepped out, the bell jingling behind him like punctuation on something that wasn’t quite closure — but maybe something close.

You didn’t want him.

Not in the aching, dizzy way that once made you forget what was right and wrong. Not in the sleepless, guilt-laced quiet after you let him crawl into your bed like a ghost begging to be remembered. That part of your story was over. Done. You weren’t his. Not anymore.

But watching Joel now — steady-voiced, clearer-eyed, softer somehow — still felt like swallowing glass.

Because he looked like someone learning to live. And you? You were still just surviving.

It wasn’t envy, not quite. Just a strange, heavy sorrow. Like watching a storm break over someone else’s house while you’re still knee-deep in floodwater.

You were proud of him. You were. Even if it felt like a betrayal to admit that out loud. Because Joel was trying. For once, he wasn’t running from the damage — he was naming it. Owning it. Carrying it like it was his to hold. And maybe that’s what made it harder: he was finally becoming the man he should’ve been before he met you.

But the part that hurt most didn’t live between you and him anymore.

It lived in the space between two brothers.

You hadn’t meant to tear them apart. You didn’t want that. God, you never wanted that. But when Joel told you — quietly, without flinching — about the fight, your stomach dropped so fast you thought you’d be sick.

Tommy had come to his door with all the fury a broken heart could hold. No words. No warning. Just fists.

And Joel had let him. Didn’t block, didn’t swing, didn’t shout.

He just took it.

Because he knew what he did. What you both did.

But knowing it doesn’t make it easier to live with. It doesn’t unmake the silence that now stretches between them like a scar across the years they’d built.

You’d already lost Tommy.

But knowing you might’ve helped him lose Joel too — that settled differently. A dull, throbbing grief you couldn’t outrun. You had touched something sacred, and you hadn’t been careful. And now they both carried that weight in their own quiet ways.

Joel with his guilt.

Tommy with his silence.

And you… with both.

You watched the wind roll through the trees above you, aching in your chest like you’d been hollowed out.

You didn’t want Joel. You never would again. But you wanted them to find each other. Somehow. Someday.

Even if it meant you never stood between them again.

Tommy,

I saw you again yesterday.

You didn’t say anything. You never do. Just that same half-second glance before your eyes drop like you’re afraid of catching something from me. Like I’m the infection now. And maybe I am.

I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry in a way that mattered. I wish I could hand you my heart in pieces and let you see how much of it still belongs to you. Even now. Especially now.

You looked tired. Not just the kind of tired that sleep can fix, but the kind that lives in your bones. I used to know how to make you laugh. Now I can’t even make you look at me without flinching.

It guts me, Tommy. Not just what I did. But what it did to you.

And about Joel.

I never meant for you two to stop speaking. I never meant to wedge myself between blood. I didn’t think. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t protect either of you.

And the worst part? You were both trying to love me in your own broken ways.

I still can’t breathe when I think about that night. You holding me like I was something soft. Something yours. And I was. God, I was. Even if I didn’t know how to show it right. Even if I let the wrong person tell me who I was and who I didn’t deserve.

You told me you loved me. I never said it back.

Not because I didn’t mean it.

Because I meant it too much.

And now you won’t even let me get close enough to say your name.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever have the courage to hand it to you.

But I had to write it.

Because pretending I don’t miss you isn’t working anymore.

Love always

Thanksgiving in Jackson wasn’t about turkey or cranberry sauce — not really. Not anymore.

There hadn’t been a turkey in years. Probably never would be again. The food had changed, stripped down to what the community could grow, trade, or salvage. Beans, rabbit, maybe dried cornbread if they were lucky. But it wasn’t about tradition — it was about normalcy. Or the illusion of it. About carving out a moment that felt familiar before the world lost its shape.

The whole town pitched in — tables made from repurposed wood dragged into the square, covered with mismatched cloths and cracked ceramic dishes. A makeshift fire pit burned low in the center, its scent curling into the air, a poor man’s incense for the ghosts of better holidays.

You almost didn’t come.

You’d stood by the door for a long time with your coat half on, debating. But in the end, the thought of free food — and a few hours outside of your own damn thoughts — pushed you out the door. You told yourself you’d stay thirty minutes. Just enough to show your face, eat something, maybe even smile like your bones weren’t aching with guilt.

But the second you stepped into the crowd, you knew something was wrong.

The air was wrong.

Too still. Too sharp. The way it gets before a thunderstorm or a fight.

People were looking at you. Not glancing — staring. Some subtly. Others, not at all. A few whispered to each other, heads bowed close like conspirators at a wake. Their eyes flicked up every few seconds, straight at you, as if you’d grown horns or started bleeding from the mouth.

You tried to convince yourself it was in your head. You hadn’t been around this many people in weeks. Of course it felt overwhelming. Of course everything felt too much.

But then it kept happening.

Someone who normally smiled at you — a woman you’d traded flour with two weeks ago — turned her head sharply when you passed. Wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

A man you used to laugh with at the greenhouse suddenly got real interested in a plate of carrots.

By the time you reached the food table, your chest felt like it had been filled with wet cement. Your hands were shaking. Your skin hot and cold all at once. The walls of the square seemed to close in, every table too close, every whisper sharpened like glass.

“…heard it was Joel…”

“…Tommy’s girl, wasn’t she?”

“…no wonder he looks like hell…”

You weren’t sure if you were going to faint or vomit.

And just as you turned to leave — just as you told yourself forget it, just go home — a hand gripped your arm and tugged you sideways into the alley behind the mess tent.

You barely had time to react before your back was against the cool stone of a wall and Joel Miller was standing in front of you, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

His voice was low, urgent. “You okay?”

You blinked at him, disoriented. “What—? What are you doing?”

“Could ask you the same damn thing,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You swallowed hard. “People are… looking at me. Talking. Joel, what’s going on?”

He shifted, jaw working. You could see it — that hesitance. That frustration.

“I told her,” he said finally. “My ex-wife. ’Bout us.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I told her. Sat down and told her the truth. ’Bout me and you. About what I did.”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came.

Joel continued, voice rough, like gravel dragged over pavement. “Didn’t expect her to forgive me. Sure as hell didn’t think she’d tell the whole damn town. But… she fuckin’ did.”

The words crashed over you like cold water.

Everyone knows.

The whispers. The stares.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, feeling sick. “God.”

“She said people had a right to know,” Joel muttered. “Don’t know why she thinks it’s their business but it’s not like I could’ve stopped her. Didn’t know she was gonna do that.”

You backed against the wall, head swimming. “She’s not wrong. She— she has every right to be angry.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

You were quiet for a beat.

Then you whispered, “But if they’re looking at me like this… then what about Tommy?”

Joel’s expression tensed.

Your eyes burned. “He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now he’s being looked at like he’s broken, like he’s the idiot who got played—”

“Hey.” Joel took a step closer, softer now. “I know. Believe me. I know.”

And just as you were about to say something else — to ask what Joel had seen, if Tommy had said anything — someone stumbled into the alley behind you.

Fast. Breathing hard. Gasping like he’d run the whole town.

You turned sharply. And there he was.

Tommy.

He didn’t see you at first. His hands were on top of his head, fingers laced as he paced two frantic steps forward, then back, trying to slow the breath rattling out of his lungs.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, voice low and wrecked. “What the fuck. Fuck." He put his hand across his heart as if to slow its beat. He looked like he was having a panic attack.

You froze. Joel did too.

He looked like panic made flesh — red-faced, eyes wide, shoulders shaking. His clothes were damp with sweat despite the chill, curls stuck to his forehead, his chest rising and falling like he’d outrun his own thoughts.

And then — he turned.

His eyes landed on Joel first. Then you.

His whole body went still. And the silence that followed was sharper than any scream.

At first, he just stared. Then — he laughed.

But it wasn’t the kind of laugh you remembered. Not the soft, throaty one he used when he was teasing you in the garden, or that boyish chuckle when you surprised him with a joke. This laugh was sharp, broken at the edges. It didn’t sound like relief. It sounded like something inside him finally cracked.

He kept laughing — once, then again, a breathless huff that collapsed into a sniffle. Like he was going crazy. He dragged a hand across his face, but his eyes never left the two of you.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ joking,” he said, voice hoarse.

He took a shaky step closer. His eyes were bloodshot, wide and dark like they were drowning in everything unsaid.

“Back here?” His voice trembled, then rose. “Hidin' back here, together, while the whole goddamn town is whisperin' about us?”

“Tommy—” you stepped forward, but he flinched.

“Don’t.” He pointed at you, then Joel. “Don’t do that thing where you act like it’s nothin'.”

His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts. “You two back here doin' — what? Fuckin' again? Thought you’d sneak off for another round while they’re out there lookin’ at me like I’m a fuckin’ stray dog that got kicked in the ribs?”

Joel stepped forward too, hands half-raised in surrender. “It’s not like that, Tommy. We were just talkin’, I swear—”

“Yeah?” Tommy barked. “Just talkin’? Like last time? Or the time before that?”

“It’s not what you think—” you tried again.

“It’s exactly what I think!” he shouted, voice cracking. “’Cause I know what it looks like. I know what people are sayin’. Do you have any idea how many people came up to me today, eyes all soft and sorry, like I just got left at the fuckin’ altar?”

You felt it then — a deep twist of guilt in your gut. His pain wasn’t subtle. It was all over him, in the way his arms stayed stiff at his sides, in the way his mouth kept twitching like he was trying not to break right there in front of you.

“They’re lookin’ at me like I’m pathetic,” he spat. “Like I’m too stupid to know what’s good for me. And you two—” his voice caught, and he finally blinked away the first tear that slipped free, “—you’re just back here. Hidin'. Doin' whatever the fuck this is.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Joel said, voice low.

Tommy’s eyes flicked to him. “You’re the last person I want to hear from.”

Joel fell silent.

You stepped forward again, slower this time, heart in your throat. “Tommy, please. Just listen. I didn’t know she was gonna tell anyone. I didn’t want this—”

“You did it though,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And now the whole town knows. And I get to be the fuckin’ punchline.”

His face crumpled, a fresh wave of hurt surfacing just beneath the surface — but he swallowed it back down. Didn’t let it rise. He didn’t yell again. Didn’t cry. He just looked at you like you were someone he didn’t recognize anymore.

And then he turned.

You reached for him without thinking. “Tommy—”

But he stepped out of your grasp. “Don’t,” he said, not angry anymore — just tired. “Just… don’t.”

And he walked away.

Not fast. Not storming. Just… left.

And it hurt worse than if he’d screamed.

You stood frozen for a moment after Tommy disappeared into the crowd — like if you stayed still enough, maybe time would reverse itself, maybe he’d come back. But he didn’t.

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hush around you, like the whole world had heard what just happened.

Joel exhaled slowly beside you, his arms hanging limp, eyes downcast. “Well,” he muttered, voice rough and low, “that went to hell real fuckin’ fast.”

You didn’t answer.

Your heart was pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You could still see the look in Tommy’s eyes — disbelief, betrayal, something splintered and sharp, like it physically hurt him to look at you. You hated it. Hated knowing you put that expression on his face.

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything to her,” Joel added, more to himself than you. “I knew she’d be pissed, but I didn’t think she’d… tell the whole goddamn town.”

“She had a right to be angry,” you murmured. “We hurt her, too.”

“Yeah, well,” Joel scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair, “I was ready to deal with her bein’ angry. Not every fuckin’ person in this settlement looking at us like we pissed in the water supply.”

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. “You alright?”

You shook your head. “No.”

And for once, he didn’t press. Didn’t try to smooth it over. He just nodded.

“I know you said you were working on yourself,” you said, your voice quiet and thick. “And I believe that. But I’m not… I’m not okay, Joel. I haven’t been okay since that night. Since I lost him.”

He looked away. You could see the guilt set heavy on his shoulders.

“I'm lost,” you admitted, eyes stinging. “And now… now he thinks I’m still sneaking around with you, after everything. After I tried so hard to give him the space to heal.”

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, scowling at the dirt. “He’ll calm down.”

You frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice dry. “I don’t.”

You both stood there in the quiet, the sounds of the Thanksgiving celebration still echoing faintly beyond the building — laughter, music, a child yelling for another piece of bread. It all felt miles away.

Joel finally spoke, gravel in his throat. “I didn’t wanna make things worse for you. I know what people are sayin’. I know what it looks like.”

You turned to him, heart aching. “I don’t care what it looks like for me. I care what it looks like for him. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now he’s the one people are whispering about. Staring at.”

Joel didn’t respond.

You crossed your arms over your chest, squeezing them tight. “He looked like he was about to fall apart. He was—he was running, Joel. From them. From all of it.”

Joel’s eyes closed for a beat. “I didn’t think he’d take it this hard.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You should’ve. We both should’ve.”

Another long silence.

“I deserve it,” Joel said finally. “The looks. The talk. Whatever comes.”

You nodded, a bitter smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe we both do.”

But even as you said it, your stomach twisted with something else — not guilt, exactly. Not shame. Something softer, sadder. Regret.

Because maybe you did deserve the judgment. But Tommy didn’t. He just loved someone he thought he could trust.

And now?

Now he was alone in it. And you didn’t know how to fix that.

Tommy,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this.

Maybe I’ll leave it in a drawer with the others until the paper yellows. But I needed to write you — even if it’s only into the quiet.

I keep thinking about your hands. How they never reached for me in a rush. How they held me like I was something worth protecting — not because I was fragile, but because I was yours. You made me feel steady, even when the world was still shaking under my feet.

You loved me like I had never been broken.

And I think… I think that’s part of why I broke everything.

It doesn’t make sense, I know. But love like yours — it asks you to rise. And I didn’t know how to. Not then.

I was still mourning something I couldn’t name. The future I’d lost. The person I used to be. There was a storm in me I didn’t know how to quiet, and sometimes when Joel and I sat in that silence together, it felt like breathing underwater — wrong, but familiar. He knew the dark. I think I mistook that for safety.

But please believe me. I loved you.

Even when I was with him. Even when I chose wrong. Even now.

It wasn’t about choosing someone over you — it was about losing myself. And in the wreckage, I hurt the one person I never meant to. You didn’t deserve it. You never did.

I remember the way your voice softened when you said my name. The way you smiled when you thought I wasn’t looking. The way your fingers brushed the small of my back like you were memorizing me. God, Tommy — I loved you so quietly, I think you never realized how loud it lived in me.

And now I’ve stained it. I’ve stained us.

The worst part is knowing I can’t take it back. That no matter how many times I whisper your name in the dark, you won’t be there to answer it anymore.

I don’t expect anything. Not forgiveness. Not understanding.

But if there’s a part of you — even a splinter — that still remembers what we were when it was good… please hold onto that. Not for me. But for you. Because what we had was real, Tommy.

Even if I broke it.

I need you. Still. And always a little too late.

Love always

It had become a cruel joke at this point — how often you and Tommy ended up in the same room. Same roads. Same shops. Same town that felt smaller and smaller every time he looked through you like you were a stranger.

You hadn’t seen him at the counter when you walked into the diner — your mind too tired to scan for him, your stomach louder than your anxiety. But there he was, three seats down. Hunched over a half-eaten plate of food, nursing a cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t leave. You couldn’t. The place was packed, and you were already late.

Tommy didn’t acknowledge you, but you saw it. The way his jaw tensed. The way his fork slowed down just slightly. He knew you were there. Of course he did. And the silence between you throbbed louder than the low hum of conversation around you.

You just wanted a quiet breakfast. Something warm. Something simple.

The man who sat down next to you smelled like sweat and old cigarettes. When he noticed you, he looked at you like you were a meal he’d already half-finished and didn’t particularly respect.

“Well, look who it is,” he muttered, loud enough for the next table to hear. “Didn’t think you’d show your face again.”

You didn’t look at him. “Not interested.”

“Bet that’s what you told Joel the first time, too. And Tommy. And who knows who else.”

The words hit you like ice water.

“Please leave me alone,” you said under your breath.

“Why?” he laughed. “Ain’t like your legs were closed before. You really gonna act shy now? After the whole town knows you were screwin’ around with both Miller brothers like it was your own little soap opera?”

You stiffened. People were starting to look over. The volume of his voice was rising, and so was your shame.

“Heard you like it rough. Heard you like to beg. How’d the Millers allow a little slut like you to ruin their family?”

You looked down, eyes stinging. The whispers were back, growing louder. You could feel them clinging to your skin.

"Ever think your mama died just so she wouldn’t have to watch her daughter turn into a whore?"

You felt it before you heard it — a sudden, unnatural stillness beside you.

The scrape of a stool. Then the sound of wood skittering against tile.

Tommy was on his feet.

Not rising — erupting.

His chair tipped backward, clattering to the ground, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look down. His eyes were locked onto the man beside you, and there was nothing soft left in them. Not anger. Not pain. Not grief.

Just something unhinged.

Something raw.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Tommy said, low and dangerous.

His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was quieter than you expected. Quieter than it should have been. But somehow, it carried through the room like a warning bell — low and deadly, the kind of tone that makes your stomach twist before your mind even catches up.

The man — greasy, smug, half-drunk — let out a laugh. He spread his arms like he was performing for the audience that was already starting to gather.

“Jesus, man, I’m just sayin’ what everyone else is thinkin’. You’re the one who got played. She—”

He didn’t finish.

Tommy’s fist hit his jaw so hard it made a crack like splitting bone.

The man reeled back into the counter with a grunt, clutching his mouth — but Tommy was already on him, fists flying with brutal, bone-breaking precision.

One. Two. Three.

You heard flesh meet flesh. Heard the man groan, then whimper, then go quiet as Tommy drove his fist into his face again and again — not just to hurt, but to erase him.

Curses spilled from Tommy’s mouth like venom. His breath ragged. His whole body shaking as he pressed forward, knuckles smeared red, eyes burning with something wild.

“Tommy!” you cried out, voice cracking.

But he didn’t hear you. He didn’t hear anything.

It was like watching someone drown from the inside out — a man unraveling, coming apart blow by blow.

The man had fallen to the floor now, barely conscious, one eye already swelling shut — but Tommy kept going. He grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him partway up just to drive another fist into his ribs. The sickening thud echoed like a gunshot.

Someone screamed. A chair scraped. Then another.

It took three grown men to finally drag Tommy off — his fists still swinging, legs kicking, his voice hoarse and cracked with rage. He struggled like an animal in a trap, teeth bared, his breath coming in ragged bursts that sounded more like gasps than anything human.

You stood frozen, rooted to the spot, hands trembling.

Tommy’s face was smeared with blood — some his, most not. His eyes darted around the room as they held him back, chest heaving, fists still clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white beneath the blood.

And then — it stopped. Like someone had pulled the plug.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The diner had gone completely still. Forks hovered mid-air. Half-eaten food sat forgotten. Every eye in the room was on him — on the blood, the wreckage, the man everyone thought they knew.

Tommy looked down at his hands, and something in him shifted.

Like he’d just realized where he was. What he’d done.

He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing more blood across his cheek. His gaze found you — just for a second.

And in that second, he didn’t look furious anymore.

He looked shattered.

Then, without a word, he shrugged off the hands holding him, turned, and walked out the door. Leaving silence and blood in his wake.

And you sat there, tears brimming, your heart in your throat.

It wasn’t just the shame that burned — it was the truth.

He was still protecting you.

Even now. Even after everything. And it was killing him.

The cold hit you first. Bitter and sharp against your skin, the kind that makes your lungs ache. But you didn’t care. You just ran — out the diner, past the wooden porch, boots scraping against the icy gravel road as you tried to catch up to him.

“Tommy!” you called, breathless. “Tommy, please— just wait!”

He kept walking. Fast. Determined. Like if he didn’t stop, none of this could catch him. Like if he just moved fast enough, he wouldn’t feel it. Wouldn’t feel you.

But you weren’t giving up this time. You couldn’t.

“Tommy—!”

He spun around so fast you almost ran right into him. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving from more than just the fight. His voice, when it came, was fire and fury and grief all wrapped into one.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snapped, sharp enough to cut you in half.

You staggered a step back, breath catching in your throat. He looked like he could explode all over again — jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides like he didn’t know what else to do with them. You’d never seen him like this. Not even the night he left.

“Tommy, I— I needed to talk to you. I just needed to say—”

“I’m losing my fuckin' mind,” he cut you off, voice shaking now. “You think I wanna feel like this? You think I like that I can’t stop giving a shit even when I want to?”

He laughed then — a dark, miserable sound that cracked somewhere in the middle. “I feel so goddamn stupid, you know that? All this shit people are saying about me— whispers, stares, fuckin' sympathy— I should be brushing it off. I shouldn’t care. But I do.”

His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

“And you know what that means?” he continued, stepping forward like the weight of it was too much to carry still. “It means I’m a fuckin' idiot. ‘Cause it proves I never got over you. That I thought I could, and I couldn’t. That maybe I never will.”

The words hit you hard, hollowing you out from the inside. But he wasn’t finished.

“I hate that I care about what they’re saying. But I hate it more when I hear them talkin' about you like that. Like you’re nothin' but some goddamn whore.” His voice cracked, his face twisting. “And after what that guy said in there…”

He looked down at his hands — still bloody, still trembling.

“I don’t even remember throwing the first punch,” he admitted, softer now. “I just saw red. Thought about everything. The whispers. The looks. Thanksgiving. You and Joel. I was already chokin' on all of it. And then that bastard had the nerve to bring up your mom and it just— snapped.”

He ran a hand through his hair, turning away. “And I lost it. I fuckin' lost it.”

You stood still, barely breathing. You could still feel the tension radiating off of him like heat. Still hear the echo of fists on skin, that sick, awful crack that had made your stomach twist.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, so quietly you barely heard it. “When I saw your face after, the way you looked at me…”

You stepped forward before he could finish. “I was scared,” you said honestly. “But not of you. I was scared because I didn’t know how much more either of us could take.”

His eyes met yours, and in them you saw something flicker. Guilt. Sadness. Love that hadn’t gone anywhere — it had just been buried under the rubble.

“And I need you to know,” you continued, “what you saw at Thanksgiving? With Joel? We weren’t doing anything. He was just warning me… that his ex wife told people. That everyone knew. That’s it.”

Tommy looked away, jaw tight. “Didn’t feel like nothin'.”

“I know,” you said. “But it was. I swear it was.”

A long silence stretched between you, brittle and cold. You watched him breathe, eyes fixed on the horizon like it could offer him answers.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he muttered eventually. “You broke my heart. I don’t even know if I can forgive you yet.”

You nodded, your chest aching. “I’m not asking you to. I just… wanted you to know the truth. And I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

He stared at you for a long time, the anger slowly bleeding from his features. Replaced by exhaustion. By wariness. By that familiar softness that hadn’t quite died, no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

“I don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do now,” he admitted, voice rough.

“Me either,” you whispered. “But maybe we figure it out. Or maybe… we don’t. I just didn’t want you carrying all of this alone anymore. Let me explain everything with Joel. Please Tommy."

He stared, you could see him debating the offer in his mind. But then he nodded — once — and started walking away, indicating he wanted you to follow.

The morning air was thick with tension as you followed Tommy through the sleet covered streets, your footsteps echoing in the silence. He hadn't said a word since you left the diner, his posture rigid, his pace quickening with each step. You hesitated, unsure if you should speak, but the weight of the moment pressed on you.

Finally, you reached his doorstep. Tommy paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Without turning to face you, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "Don't mind the mess. Haven't really had it in me to clean lately."

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "I know."

He exhaled sharply, pushing the door open and stepping aside.

Inside, the house was eerily quiet. The usual warmth and comfort seemed absent, replaced by an unsettling stillness. You followed him into the living room, your eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. It was as if the walls themselves held secrets, memories of a time before everything had changed.

Tommy led you down a narrow hallway to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered overhead as he stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the sink, turning on the cold water and splashing it onto his face. The blood from the earlier altercation began to mix with the water, swirling down the drain.

Frustration etched deep lines into his forehead as he scrubbed harder, trying to erase the evidence of his actions. You watched him, your heart aching at the sight. This wasn't the man you knew — the gentle, kind-hearted soul who had shown you what love could be. This was someone else, someone broken.

You stepped forward, your hand gently resting on his shoulder. "Tommy," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Let me."

He stiffened under your touch but didn't pull away. Slowly, he sank onto the toilet seat, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly together. You moved to the sink, wetting a washcloth with warm, soapy water. As you approached him, you hesitated for a moment before gently dabbing at the blood on his face.

The action was tender, soothing, a silent apology for the pain you had caused. As you cleaned him, your thoughts spilled out, raw and unfiltered.

"I've been with Joel for a while now— little over a year," you began, your voice trembling. "I knew he was married, but I thought... I thought I wanted him so badly. He made me feel things I hadn't felt in a long time. I thought he loved me."

Tommy's body tensed under your touch, his jaw clenching. You paused, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "I wasn't delusional. I knew he had a wife. But something about the way he made me feel... it made me think it was okay."

You continued, your hands moving carefully over his skin, wiping away the remnants of the morning's violence. "Over time, his love felt like hate. We were addicted to each other, but it was toxic. He never opened up to me, and I finally ended things."

His eyes softened, but the pain was still there, lurking beneath the surface.

"That's when I met you," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "At first, I was in a dark place. But you... you pulled me out of it. You showed me what love is supposed to feel like."

Tommy's breath hitched, his eyes closing as if to block out the flood of emotions.

"But then Joel came to me," you continued, your voice breaking. "He was jealous. He said he realized he truly loved me. He left his wife for me. And I... I didn't know what to do."

You paused, your heart heavy with the weight of your confession. "I wanted you, Tommy. That's why I spent so much time with you. I wanted to avoid Joel. And when you went on that supply run, I knew he would come. And he did. He made me feel like I wasn't good enough for you. Like I was a bad person."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you spoke. "He opened up about his past, and I was so confused. He said we belonged together. He manipulated me. And I believed him. I thought you deserved better. And that's why I did what I did."

Tommy's hand reached up, brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. His touch was gentle, hesitant.

"I understand if you hate me," you whispered. "But I needed you to know the truth."

Silence enveloped the room, thick and suffocating. Tommy sat there, unmoving, processing your words. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted.

You nodded, understanding the complexity of the situation. "I don't expect forgiveness. I just wanted you to know everything."

The cloth had turned a deep rust color, blood clinging to the fibers no matter how many times you rinsed it. The water swirled pink in the sink, warm and steady, but your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Tommy hadn’t said a word since you finished cleaning his face, finished dabbing at the streaks of blood with a gentle touch.

He looked so different now. Tired. Hollowed. Quiet in a way that didn’t suit him. Like joy had been scraped out of him with something sharp and careless. Like he’d been living on borrowed breath ever since.

You didn’t know why the words started pouring out.

Only that they’d lived too long in your chest. That this silence between you was wide enough to carry them.

“She wanted me to come,” you said, barely a whisper. “My mom. We were down to a single can of beans and a couple stale crackers. She said she’d feel better if we went together. That two pairs of eyes were better than one.”

Tommy looked up, slow and careful.

“But I was… I was scared,” you confessed, fingers tightening around the cloth. “It was getting dark. I didn’t want to be out there when the sun went down. I begged her to go without me. So she did.”

You let out a breath that trembled as it left you.

“She kissed my forehead, told me to bar the door behind her, and promised she’d be back before moonlight.”

You blinked hard.

“She came back with a broken lantern and a ripped jacket… and a bite.”

Your throat swelled shut at the memory, your voice a fragile thing breaking against the edges of your teeth.

“I believed — I still believe — that if I’d gone with her, she wouldn’t’ve been bit. Or I would’ve been. Or we would’ve both made it. I don’t know. I just know I didn’t go, and she died.”

A beat passed. Tommy's eyes filled with sorrow.

“When I saw the bite, I begged her to cut it off. I screamed until my voice broke. But it was already too late. Her hand was gray. The veins were turning. She knew.”

You stared at the cloth in your hands like it could wash the past clean too.

“She held me, told me she loved me, and then she made me promise to lock myself in the back room when it started. I tried. I did. I held the door shut and covered my ears. But I could still hear her.”

Your voice splintered.

“And when it stopped— when it went quiet— I waited for hours. And then I opened the door.”

You didn’t have to say what you saw. The image lived behind your eyes every time they closed.

“I used a fireplace poker,” you said, quieter now. “It took more than one hit.”

Tommy’s mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes shimmered like they were carrying the weight for you.

“I didn’t cry until it was over. And then I couldn’t stop. I buried her behind that barn with my bare hands. No shovel. Just dirt under my nails and blood on my wrists.”

You sat back against the wall and laughed softly, bitter and aching.

“After that, I wandered. I ended up with this man who said he’d keep me safe. I didn’t know what safe was supposed to look like anymore, so I believed him. He was kind at first. Gave me food, taught me how to shoot. But it turned fast.”

You wiped your eyes, only for fresh tears to take their place.

“He got possessive. Controlling. Said I owed him for everything. And one night… he tried to take what I didn’t owe. I ran. I didn’t stop running. Left everything behind. Everything but the scars.”

You traced a faint mark on your forearm, barely visible now, like a ghost trying to fade.

“I didn’t trust anyone for a long time. I fought for scraps. Slept in trees or crumbled houses. Stayed feral. And then… I found Jackson.”

You looked over at Tommy then. Really looked at him.

“And for the first time, people didn’t look at me like I was a stray. They gave me a home. A job. A name that didn’t feel like it came with blood.”

You drew in a shaky breath, your voice cracking again.

“So when Joel started looking at me like I was worth something, I couldn’t help it. I mistook it for love. I didn’t know better. I was still learning what love’s supposed to feel like.”

Your chest felt too tight to hold the truth. But you said it anyway.

“Until you.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of your tears.

“I was already damaged by the time I met you,” you said. “But you… you made me feel like I wasn’t broken beyond repair. Like I could be something soft. Something whole again.”

You stood slowly, walking to the sink and rinsing the rag one more time. The last of the blood twisted down the drain, disappearing into the dark.

“But I ruined that,” you said, voice low. “And I’ll live with it for the rest of my life.”

You turned back to Tommy.

He hadn’t moved. Not really. But something in his face had shifted — not softened, but cracked. A splintering of something buried deep.

If he spoke, you’d let him. If he didn’t, you’d understand.

You had no right to expect anything anymore.

You just wanted him to know who you really were before you lost the chance to be known at all.

You collapsed before you even realized your knees had given out.

The sobs had clawed their way up your throat so violently, you weren’t sure if you were breathing anymore. They weren’t dainty, quiet cries — they were guttural, trembling things, born from the deepest pit of memory. From the moment her hand slid from yours. From the way you waited for hours by the door until she came back bitten. From the awful silence that followed after you had to do the unthinkable.

The fire poker. Her eyes, no longer hers. The smell of blood and burnt iron.

The first swing. The second. The third.

You curled into yourself on the cold bathroom floor as if that could somehow undo the memory, or at least contain it.

And then there were arms around you.

Tommy didn’t speak. He didn’t try to hush you or ask questions or pretend to understand. He just gathered you into him with a tenderness that broke something else inside you — something quieter. Something long-starved.

You buried your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart completely.

“I’ve never told anyone,” you gasped eventually, your throat raw. “No one knows. They knew my mom died but not— not how. I never wanted to say it out loud. I was so scared. I should’ve gone with her. If I had, maybe— maybe she wouldn’t have been bit.”

Tommy’s grip around you tightened, protective and grounding.

“You were a child,” he murmured, his voice hushed like a prayer. “You were scared. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

You shook your head fiercely. “I had to kill her, Tommy. With a fucking fire poker. It took more than one hit. She didn’t even look like her anymore. But I saw her face. I saw it in the way she flinched before I— I just wanted it to stop.”

You started sobbing again, harder now, and he guided you gently back against his chest, cradling your head, his palm rubbing soft circles into your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. “I’m so sorry for all of it. For Joel. For the way I left things. For hurting you.”

Tommy’s voice broke when he finally answered. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve listened. Should’ve let you explain. Maybe we wouldn’t’ve ended up in pieces.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him — eyes red, cheeks blotchy. He reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek with a knuckle, like the gentlest thing he’d ever done.

“I ended things with Joel before you got back,” you whispered. “He told me he loved me and I couldn’t even say it back. I told him to leave. That it was over. I didn’t want him. Not anymore.”

Tommy swallowed, eyes searching yours. You could see the pain still there, beneath the surface. But you saw something else, too — that warm, quiet flicker that had always made you feel like home.

“I think about you every single day,” you said, voice trembling. “About what I lost. What I gave up. You made me feel like I wasn’t broken.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away.

“I missed you,” he said finally, like the words had been waiting behind his ribs for too long. “Even when I didn’t want to. Even when it hurt like hell.”

You reached up and took his hand in yours. “I love you, Tommy. I never stopped. Not even when I hated myself.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I love you too.”

And then he kissed you.

It was soft and slow, mouths trembling against each other, tasting of sorrow and healing and all the time you’d lost. You didn’t rush it. You just held on — fingers in his hair, heart splintering open in your chest like a window cracking to let the light in.

When you pulled back, your breath hitched. You didn’t want to let go. But some part of you still felt like you didn’t deserve to stay.

So you stood.

“I should go,” you murmured, voice quiet as you reached for the rag still clutched in your hand.

Tommy stayed on the floor, staring at the tile like it held the answers.

Then — softly, but with no hesitation — his hand reached out.

He caught your fingers in his, callused and warm, holding them like something sacred. Both of your eyes were still swollen. Both of your hearts still trembling. But the air between you had shifted — lighter now. Honest.

“Stay,” he said, voice low and aching. “Please stay.”

Your chest cracked. The ache, the guilt, the love — all of it swelled so fast it felt like it might knock you down again.

But you didn’t fall. “Okay.”

You knelt back down. Took his face in your hands. And kissed him once more.

This time, it wasn’t goodbye.

It was the beginning.

It started slow. Careful. Like the two of you were afraid of what you might find in each other’s mouths after so long. His lips trembled against yours like he didn’t trust the shape they made when they remembered your name. And you — you kissed him like someone starving for something you had no right to taste.

Tommy had every reason to push you away. Every reason to hate you. You cheated. You broke the one thing he gave you freely. His trust.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t recoil. He just held your face between his hands, like you were something fragile he hadn’t decided whether to keep or crush.

“I should hate you,” he said against your mouth, voice gravel-thick and shaking. “I want to. Jesus, I want to. But I don’t.”

The words cracked something inside you.

You’d cried before. At the diner. In the hallway. At night when no one could hear you. But now, in the quiet wreckage of his bathroom, with the moonlight cutting through the window like a witness, you shattered.

Your hands trembled where they rested on his chest, fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing holding you to earth. His heartbeat was wild beneath your palm—chaotic and human and so, so full of pain.

“I don’t deserve this,” you whispered. “I don’t deserve you.”

Tommy pressed his forehead to yours, exhaling through his nose like it hurt to keep breathing.

“No,” he admitted, eyes shut tight. “You don’t.”

It would’ve hurt more if he’d lied.

“But I still fuckin' love you.”

That’s when the kiss deepened.

It turned desperate. Hungry. A kind of grief-driven hunger that came from needing to remember everything you were terrified you’d forgotten. His hands roamed — slow and reverent — across your ribs, your waist, your jaw. Yours mirrored his, like you were rediscovering a map your heart still knew by memory.

The bathroom floor was cold beneath you. His hands were still stained with blood, your cheeks streaked with salt. The air between you carried the heat of unspoken apologies, of regrets that couldn’t be undone.

Tommy’s breath caught as he kissed down the curve of your jaw, whispering things he probably shouldn’t say.

“I tried to forget you,” he rasped. “I thought if I hated you enough… if I stayed mad long enough… it’d go away. But it didn’t.”

You nodded, pressing your lips to the pulse in his throat.

“I didn’t mean to ruin us,” you choked. “I was so lost, and Joel— he twisted everything in my head. Made me believe I was too broken to be loved the way you loved me.”

Tommy flinched at his brother’s name but didn’t pull back.

“I still trusted you,” he said, voice like crushed glass. “Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when I saw you with him, part of me kept hopin' you’d look at me the way you used to. Like I was enough.”

“You were always enough,” you swore, the words barely breathing between you. “I just didn’t believe I was.”

Tommy’s eyes shimmered — red-rimmed and raw. He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you again or run. But instead, he touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, like you were a ghost he hadn’t dared reach for.

“I didn’t know how badly you had me wrapped around your fingers,” he whispered. “Not until you were gone.”

You curled into him, your tears soaking into his shoulder.

When he kissed you again, it was slower. More cautious. Like he was sealing a promise he didn’t know if he could keep.

Your thumbs traced the curve of his cheekbones and relearned the softness beneath the man hardened by grief.

He kissed you deeper, tongue slipping passed the curve of your teeth, exploring like the territory was new to him. He wasn’t going to stop this, not with the way your hands began to drift down his chest, his sternum — slipping underneath the fabric of his worn flannel, exploring his body all over again. Not with the way his fingers curled against your waist like he was terrified of letting go again.

And not with how long it had been since he last touched you like this — with worship and ache and hunger all braided together.

You kissed him back slower this time, deeper — like your lungs knew his breath better than your own. You felt the way his lips were cracked from the cold. The way his rough stubble scraped your skin like a memory you welcomed.

The tension, the grief, the time — it all burned through your veins as you rocked your hips against his, feeling the way his length was already bulging through the fabric of his jeans. It’s been too long since you felt the drag of his teeth against your jaw, leaving a trail of saliva along the way. Too long since you curled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging to keep yourself upright. Too long since your name slipped from his throat like a prayer, sounding like he was waiting for this day too.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice shaking. “You’re gonna be the death of me, I swear.”

You didn’t respond. Just pressed closer until there was nothing between you but the restricting fabric. So close your knees dug painfully into the cold tile.

And when he groaned — low and guttural — you felt it in your spine.

He wrapped his arms around your back, laying you carefully on the hard floor — hips grinding into yours for any sense of relief, fingers brushing the stray hairs from your eyes. He was full of lust, full of hunger. Full of grief and devotion.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he muttered against your skin, mouth moving along you jaw, your neck, the hollow beneath your ear. “I should fuckin’ hate you.”

“I know.” You whispered.

“But I can’t.”

You didn’t realize you were crying again until he kissed your tears away.

“I tried to hate you,” he said, hands slipping beneath your shirt, rough palms mapping your ribs like he had to memorize every inch before sliding higher — grazing against the curve of your nipples already peaking. “God, I tried. But my heart was still reaching for you every time our paths crossed. I couldn’t scrub you outta me.”

You swallowed a sob, your body arching beneath his touch as he pushed your shirt above your chest — revealing your needy body underneath. His hands traveled all around the hills of your breasts, his head trailing kisses slowly down your body — hovering just over your curves. You instinctively arched up, trying to meet his mouth. His eyes flicked to yours, dark and hungry. He looked mad, yet his touch indicated otherwise.

“I still love you,” he confessed. You’re breath hitched, his lips trembled. “Even after everything you’ve done. Even after you ruined me. I still fuckin’ love you.”

Then his mouth was everywhere — desperate and sure — like he was reclaiming something sacred. And you let him. Let him bite at the soft flesh of your breasts, marking the skin no one else had touched in over a month. Your back screamed in pain against the bathroom tile, your fingers clung to him like a lifeline.

He was clumsy. Licking circles, flicking his tongue against your aching nubs. Taking your nipples between his teeth — sending electic shocks through your body — before sucking them into his mouth, tasting every part of you. His curls fell messily into his eyes when he pulled away with a loud pop. He’s never looked more unkept. But the way his eyes found yours underneath his curls had you squirming.

He trailed his fingers down to the clasp of your jeans, undoing the button and pushing them down to your ankles. You kicked them off, spreading your legs — ready and pleading. The soft cotton of your panties darkened in the center, proving how much you needed this — him.

His palm rubbed on the outside of the cotton — a soft whimper escaping your lips at his touch. He never broke his eye contact with you as his finger hooked, pulling your panties to the side and revealing your glistening pussy.

One of his fingers trailed achingly slow through your folds, collecting your juices and rubbing small circles when he came into contact with you swollen clit. He was killing you slowly, that was for sure. You spread your legs wider, begging for him to push his fingers through your entrance. But still, he trailed his fingers between you with that deadly eye contact you couldn’t stand anymore.

“Soaked.” Is all he said after a while. You didn’t know if he was trying to torture you. If maybe he was doing this to you as some sort of sick revenge plot. Have you ruined from his touch, begging and pleading for him, and then walk away without finishing what he started.

But finally, he pushed two fingers inside of you — sucking in a breath when he felt how ready you were for him. He started a slow pace, watching the way his fingers were soaked as he pulled out — just to push back in harder than before.

“Tommy…” You quivered. “Tommy please. I’m hurting— I.”

He leaned in close, lips hovering over yours. He rubbed your temple with his thumb, caressed your face.

“God, no one’s touched you in a while, have they?”

You shook your head harshly, mouth making a small O when his fingers started thrusting into you faster. A disgusting squelch filled the air.

His eyes had a fire behind them as he asked: “Was I the last person to touch you like this? The the last person to fill your pretty pussy with their fingers, huh?”

“Oh— god, yes Tommy. Just you.” You moaned. His fingers now curved inside of you, his thumb rubbing hard circles against your throbbing clit. He smirked, the fire fading out knowing that you’ve been waiting for him. Knowing you’ve been wanting him and only him.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered. “Gonna take good care of my girl.”

My girl.

You know you probably shouldn’t take that as anything, that maybe it was a heat of the moment thing. But you couldn’t help the way you heart swelled. Couldn’t help the smile spreading across your mouth.

You heard him throw his belt on the bathroom floor with a rough clank. Heard the fabric of his jeans being tugged down as he finally frees himself. You physically gulp, prepared and aching for him.

He rubs his tip over you clit, slapping it against it soflty — teasingly. Your nails dig into his arms. Pleading words escaping your lips.

Tommy grabbed you cheeks with his free hand, looking you dead in the eye as he pushed his cock between your walls. You clenched around the feeling — burning sensation shooting through your body as you attempt to stretch to his size.

“I fuckin’ hate you.” He mutters, pushing himself deeper when he knows that you can take it. Your body trembles, you deserve this. But then his hand is trailing through your hair, tugging slightly — forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“But god do I love you.” He says then. I love you. And he actually, genuinely smiles — a deep moan leaving his lips as he bottoms out. Your nails are scratching him now as you try to adjust to his size. But the burn is pleasurable at the same time. “Open your mouth.”

And you do, knowing that from then on you’ll always do whatever Tommy wants. That you’ll always love Tommy. A string of spit falls between his lips, right into your mouth. You don’t swallow — keeping it open so he can see the way his saliva hits your tongue, pools into your mouth.

"That's my girl," he chuckles lightly, quietly. He finally starts moving inside of you, slow at first. Until he’s going rough, skin slapping skin. “Fuck. Fuck, sweetheart, you can swallow now.”

And you watch the way his eyes blacken, the way he bites harshly at his bottom lip as you swallow his spit. Tasting the inside of his mouth. His hand traces your throat, watching it bob when you drink him.

Tommy sits up, ripping his shirt over his head and pulling your hips into him. His thumb circles your clit while he burries himself deep. Your back is arched off the bathroom floor, tears streaking you face from the pace.

A tight heat coils in the pit of your stomach and your legs shake uncontrollably. Walls clench around him and a groan from deep within leaves his mouth at the feeling.

“Tommy,” you moan, hands tightly wrapped around his wrists to keep yourself steady. “Tommy, come with me.”

“Shit. Yeah okay, babygirl.”

He lies back on top of you, one arm wrapping around your back, the other gripping your thigh as his pace quickens. Hitting you deeper and deeper every time. You’re screaming at this point, body convulsing. And when his thrusts finally falter, you come hard around him and he follows. White strands shooting inside of you. His cock twitches with every pulse.

He gives out, putting his entire weight on you — nothing but breath and bruised hearts, limbs tangled like roots desperate to hold — Tommy moved gently. Tender in a way that nearly broke you. He cleaned you up with warm hands, wiping the sweat and remnants of need from your skin like you were something sacred. Like this was something that mattered.

He helped you to your feet, still unsteady, still shaking from all the things that had been said and the things your bodies couldn’t help but confess. And without a word, he led you through the quiet house. Back to the place that once felt like home.

His room looked the same.

Maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The blankets were still slightly uneven, the corner of the rug still curled like always. His gun sat on the bedside table, unloaded but close. Your side of the bed — the left — was untouched. Like he'd never let himself forget.

He laid you down carefully, like you might shatter, and climbed in behind you without hesitation. You shifted instinctively, curling into him, your back pressed to his chest, his arm sliding around your waist like it had never left.

His warmth enveloped you — all muscle and tension and safety. He smelled like salt and sweat and sex. And still, somehow, it smelled like home.

“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered, voice hoarse and small, swallowed by the hush of the room. You weren’t sure if you meant it, but the weight of everything hung heavy between you.

You felt him breathe in deep behind you, chest rising slow and steady against your spine. Then, softly — so softly — he answered:

“Stay with me.”

Your breath caught.

No hesitation. No conditions. No more pretending.

You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes, your fingers curling gently around the arm he’d wrapped around you like a shield.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe that maybe love could survive this too.

Tag list: @looneyleo @emmaaas-posts @demo-bats @aphroditesblunt @staley83 @immyowndefender @magicxmiller @wow-life-love4 @thaliagracesgf @sugarminsss @keseqna @ijustrepost @cakesandtom @lovelyc @vampiredoggies-blog @hjzghi-blog

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ohtobelovedbyme · 3 days ago

Text

"What do you think of me?" | yjh [ch3]

Pairing: YJH x Reader

Genre: best friend’s brother to lovers (or something), FLUFF, romcom, office setting, yjh and his sister are nepo babies

Summary (this chapter basically goes like this): you: just trying to survive internship hell jeonghan: what if i grabbed ur wrist and whispered in ur ear while drunk also jeonghan: accidentally falls on you and passes out while BTS plays in the background also also jeonghan: “what do you think of me?” update: he stole the can you drank on and now you think he’s wearing your same, exact perfume. chat, is this normal behavior?

A/N: FINALLY DONE WITH THIS CHAPTER AHHH. I was planning on publishing this and ch4, but I figured you guys would want to read this first cause it's been 3 days (?) now 😭😭

Teaser | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 3

By 3:17 PM, you had already run out of your post-its, remaining patience, and reasons to live. Since last week, your seniors have been dumping all their work onto the interns. Your group chat, named “Corporate Work Trauma,” had more than 99 unread messages, either from interns begging the other to help them complete their work or wishing that your seniors would magically get fired and be replaced by more responsible people.

Just as you were about to complete your final assignment for today, you hear the sound of that stupid humming again.

“Intern! I’ll be needing your help with some of the materials for tomorrow.” Manager Kang, from a completely different department, walked over with urgent footsteps and dropped a stack of documents on your desk.

You just stared at it blankly. Manager Kang then cleared his throat, as if to say, “Oh, don’t worry. That will only take you 5 minutes.”

“Just flag me what’s urgent on e-mail, and I’ll get to it as soon as possible,” you looked up with the smiliest and politest face you’ve ever worn, but anyone who knew you would know that you were on the verge of either killing Manager Kang or breaking down.

“Great attitude,” he said, walking away.

“What an ass,” you muttered under your breath. You couldn’t hold it in, but you didn’t want to get fired either.

It was petty, yeah, but so was this day. And the day before that. And the day before yesterday.

From his office, Jeonghan looked up from his monitor. He looked around the room, and all the lights were turned off except for the intern area.

This usually happens every time the company hires new interns. A “rite of passage,” they called it. A hazing, he’d say. Usually, those seniors would get a serious talking to by the rest of the management, but this was just for formality since, well, those same people also do the same thing.

Jeonghan scrunched his nose just at the thought of how many interns quit last year. He did try to help them, albeit only those in his department. He only heard about those assholes from those adjacent departments that dumped tasks onto his interns and made them do their work when two of them quit. From then on, he banned other departments from casually coming in and out of his department. But I guess this happened again, since the interns right now have been staying late in the office for three days straight.

He finally stood up and went out of his office to tell the interns to go home for the night and to report to him about who was making them work and what they were assigned to do.

“Hey.”

You blinked up from your monitor, staring. Joenghan’s voice was low and effortless, like it was just another thought passing through the room.

The rest of the interns did the same and asked him if there was anything he needed. He asked them to leave for the night and to report to him tomorrow

The rest of the interns looked up like they’d just been told the war was over.

“Oh my god. Finally,” one of them breathed out, already half-standing.

“Bro, I’m gonna write a 10-page essay about the hell these people put me through,” another muttered, cracking their knuckles with a vengeance.

“Team Leader Yoon, you’re the realest one here,” someone said, patting their bag and walking out like it was the end of a prison sentence.

One of them turned back to you. “You coming?”

You glanced at your monitor, finger still hovering over the trackpad. “Yeah. Just have to finish this last page,” you said with a small smile.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Won’t take long.”

With a round of exhausted goodbyes and a collective sigh that echoed through the empty office, the rest of them finally filtered out.

When the last of the other interns finally leaves the office, you look up at your monitor. It was just one last page, and you were done. Might as well finish this and not let your hard work go down the drain before the bloody battle that breaks out tomorrow.

“You free for a second?” Jeonghan, who, unbeknownst to you, has been staring at you since he dismissed you.

“Hmm? Me?” you asked, surprised. That was a dumb way to respond, since you were the only one there (other than him). But, you know, you’re tired, he’s tired. There’s something abysmal, yet normal, about your reaction.

“No, the ficus. Yes, you. You’re the only one here.”

You got up, slowly, wary. “Okay…”

Jeonghan walks to his office, and you follow him. Right now, you’re not sure about what’s happening. He just dismissed you a while ago, right? You didn’t just dream that, right?

He opened his office door for you, and you stepped in. You’re hit with the scent again, but this time, it's more subtle.

It was late in the evening, and you’re too tired. The ambience of it all was so relaxing, you’re sure you would sleep here right now, if it weren’t for the subconscious part of your body telling you to sleep in your own bed.

“Sit,” Jeonghan said, his eyes pointing towards the couch.

You, oddly enough, half-expected a lecture on HR violations or intern responsibilities. More work. Maybe a mild scolding delivered in that stupidly smooth voice of his.

As you went to plop on the couch, he opened the drawer under his desk. From your view, you could see the shine of aluminium. A canned herbal tea and a familiar chocolate almond bar. Weird combo? Sure. But it was your go-to back in college, herbal tea and almond chocolate during all-nighters.

Jeonghan walked over to you, his shadow looming over your body. He held them out like a peace offering.

You just looked at what’s in his hands. “You... called me in for this?”

As you were about to take them, he pulled back his hand and opened the can first before placing both products on the glass coffee table in front of you. You roll your eyes.

He sat on the couch opposite you and leaned back, his hands going behind the back of his head. Casual. Composed. Eyes on you like he was studying your expression for microreactions. At first, you were hesitant. Your eyebrows furrowed, making that expression you had every time you’re curious about something. He knows what you were thinking about. How did he know about what you wanted, and why did he have them ready at his office? But then, you finally start drinking the tea.

Your eyes, already half-lidded, began to soften further. Before taking another sip, you went ahead to dig into the chocolate bar. Oh, the mood right now was too cozy. The lavender atmosphere, the soft wool couch swallowing you whole, and you finally having your first meal in almost seven hours, no less, from the man in front of you. God, you just wanted to stay there forever.

“You looked like you were ready to go to the morgue,” he said. “Figured you’d need something to swallow before you head home.”

You chewed slowly, staring at him as your brain finally caught up with what was happening. “Woahhh... Team Leader Yoon Jeonghan,” you drawled, voice thick with playful suspicion. “How did you know I was craving this exact combo? Have you been stalking me?”

Jeonghan quirked a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said lazily. “If I were stalking you, I’d probably know you secretly take screenshots of food from that mukbang channel at midnight.”

You choked slightly on your tea, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“‘Saved Posts,” he said, smug. “Public account. Rookie mistake, seriously. Who taught you internet safety?”

You gasped, half-laughing, half-mortified. “You actually went through my saved posts?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t have to. Your notifications were on during that one meeting, and your screen lit up with your username. Curiosity got the better of me.”

You paused, your hand still gripping the chocolate bar. Your cheeks flushed, just slightly, the faintest pink blooming as his words sank in.

You clutched your forehead dramatically. “Unbelievable. I’m never showing my phone in public again.”

Jeonghan leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. “You interns have been running yourselves into the ground lately. Figured someone should give a damn.”

You looked at him, and for a second, you couldn’t say anything. The teasing was there, sure, but underneath it was... sincere.

You rolled your eyes, if only to hide how warm you felt. “You could’ve just sent an email like a normal person.”

He scoffed. “And miss the chance to see your tragic little face in person?”

“Wow. Thanks,” you said flatly, trying not to smile.

Jeonghan waited a full five seconds before glancing back at the door. Then, slowly, he sat back into his chair.

His gaze dropped to the half-crushed can on the table, the one you'd sipped from earlier. Faint, but still visible: a perfect smudge of maroon left on the aluminium rim. It wasn’t just a mark. It was the same shade you'd been wearing all night. The same shade you’d been wearing since you started working here. Rich. Creamy. Almost too bold for you.

His fingers reached for it. Brushed the edge.

The pigment clung to his skin. He turned his hand over, staring at the stain against the pad of his index finger. A color too soft to be dangerous, but too dark to be innocent.

He lifted his fingers to his mouth.

A pause.

Then, he touched his lips to them.

The warmth wasn’t the same. But it mimicked what could’ve been yours.

He exhaled through his nose, a quiet, bitter laugh.

He didn’t even like herbal tea and almond chocolate.

The hum of the vending machine was the only sound filling the small break room. You sat slouched on the bench, head resting against the cold wall, eyes closed. The coffee in your hands had gone lukewarm. Your shoes were kicked off, legs tucked beneath you like you were claiming this sad little corner as your territory.

Today, you finally finished all the projects you were assigned. Your fellow interns finally stopped cursing and hexing your seniors, and you finally have time to relax. Moreover, those same seniors got chewed out by Team Leader Yoon. “My final warning,” you remember how his voice was calm and calculating, making everything he said sound like a death threat instead of a “I’ll-send-you-to-HR” threat.

“You look like you got hit by a truck,” a familiar voice piped up.

You cracked one eye open to find your best friend, Jeonghan’s younger sister, leaning against the doorframe, sipping from her iced latte like she hadn’t just insulted you.

“Truck, bus, and a management-level bullet train,” you deadpanned, sighing dramatically as you took another sip of your coffee. “The seniors? Demonic. One of them made me sort three years of archived campaign decks. My soul left my body halfway through 2023.”

She winced. “Okay, yeah. That’s cruel and unusual. Even I don’t like those archives, and I barely do anything.”

You snorted.

She sauntered over and sat beside you, nudging your shoulder. “You’ve been looking real burnt-out lately. You okay?”

You shrugged. “It’s fine. Just new intern stuff. Paying my dues. Blood, sweat, tears, and barely-scheduled bathroom breaks. Besides, your lovely brother finally saved us.”

“Ew, don’t call him that.” She grimaced. “You need a break. Like, real one.”

You looked at her suspiciously. “Why do you sound like you’re about to propose something... stupid? Insane? What’s the right word….”

She smirked. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all… maybe I am.”

You squinted. “Don’t say team-building workshop. I’ll cry.”

“Worse.” Her grin widened. “Karaoke. Tonight.”

You groaned. “Nooo. My legs feel like overcooked noodles. I can’t stand, let alone scream-sing IU.”

“But it’s to celebrate! You finally survived intern hell. That deserves a round of somaek.”

You blinked. “Can’t we just do that without involving the whole department?”

“Nope. Everyone’s coming--well, everyone that matters. Especially you interns. And…” She paused for a beat, her voice dropping just slightly into a mischievous tone. “Oppa might come too.”

“No, he won’t. No one will. Why? Because this won’t happen.”

“Come on~” She flipped her hair dramatically. “I might go tell him it’s a little celebratory thing.”

You stared at her. “You do know that he’s busy, right?”

She beamed. “Yeah, but he would make time. Maybe. As long as you’re there. Looking cute. And tired. And vulnerable.”

You almost choked on your coffee. “You’re evil.”

She beamed. “You love me.”

Jeonghan didn’t look up from his laptop when the door opened. “If this is about the budget sheet, tell them to stop using Comic Sans–”

“It’s not,” his sister sang-songed, plopping onto the guest chair across from his desk. “It’s about plans.”

“Sounds exhausting already.”

She leaned in, elbows on his desk. “Did you know we’re doing karaoke tonight?”

He raised a brow. “No.”

“Well, we are.”

“Sounds loud.”

“Mm-hmm.” She stretched the silence, letting it hang before she dropped the bait. “Guess who’s coming?”

His fingers paused mid-typing. “...”

“Yep. Poor girl’s been run ragged. You should’ve seen her, she looked like she was about to merge with the coffee machine. Thought it’d be nice for her to unwind.”

He didn’t reply right away, gaze still fixed on the screen, though nothing was being typed now.

His sister grinned. “Anyway. I told her you might come.”

This time, he looked at her.

“Just a heads up,” she added sweetly, before slipping out of the office.

Behind her, Jeonghan leaned back in his chair, his forearm rising to cover his eyes, as he slowly, very slowly smirked to himself. He let out a low chuckle, like he was plotting some evil Doofenshmirtz-level plan.

“This crazy bastard…” his sister just walked away as quickly as she could.

You were nestled in the corner of the private room, surrounded by your coworkers who were thriving in their tipsy chaos. The lights bounced off the walls, the mic was being tossed around like a volleyball, and someone was currently screaming their way through an old 2 PM hit.

You were smiling, even laughing occasionally, but your body still felt tired. Drained.

This probably wasn’t a good idea, but you were having fun. I guess you would have to prioritize your bodily needs tomorrow. The past few days had chewed you up and spit you out with a polite, overworked bow.

The door opened, and Jeonghan stepped in. Some of your coworkers did not expect him to come here, while the rest were too drunk to even get up from their seats. He was wearing a button-down shirt (too few buttons done up, you note) and sleeves rolled up like he just walked off a music video set.

You turned to your friend, who was screaming her lungs off. She made eye contact with you and winked. Yeah, no. This was her doing.

You could see his eyes scanning the room until they stopped. At you.

A faint smile ghosted across his lips. And then he walked in fully, sliding into an open seat at the end of the room, not next to you, but close enough to watch.

He didn’t even greet you directly.

You sipped your drink.

He sipped his.

But you could feel him there.

You had stepped out of the room to cool off. It was too warm. Too loud. Too much. It was like your skin couldn’t hold everything in anymore.

You were just beginning to breathe when you felt him.

Jeonghan leaned against the wall beside you like he belonged there. Like the hallway had been waiting for him.

You turned to see him, eyes closed, head tilted, cheek pressed lazily to his shoulder. His hair, beautifully disheveled, fanned out behind him, catching the soft light like silk. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the few buttons still undone, skin glowing pale beneath the low light. His hair?

You couldn’t tell if he was drunk or just reckless tonight. But his presence was magnetic, pulling everything in, including you.

“Team Leader Yoon… are you alright?” Your voice came out quiet, unsure, but your body already moved. You stepped in, closer, protective by habit and helplessness.

He didn’t answer at first. Just hummed low. His head dipped in a slow, deliberate motion.

“...Jeonghan?”

You watched the fall of his bangs. The way his lashes brushed the flush of his cheeks. His lips– plump, a little red, and parted just enough to tempt every reckless impulse in your brain.

Your hand lifted. You didn’t mean to. But it did. Hovering near his mouth.

You wondered:

Were they still wet from all the drinks? Or dry from the hallway air?

You didn’t find out.

Then, heat. Fingers wrapped around your wrist. Slow, firm.

You gasped.

He opened one eye, heavy-lidded, a little too knowing. Then, slowly, like he had all the time in the world, Jeonghan pulled you toward him. Not hard, instead, it was gentle, devastating. Until your bodies nearly touched.

You could feel it.

The heat. The scent.

Sandalwood. Lavender. And something unmistakably his.

And then, with the barest smirk at the corner of his lips, his thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

Your breath hitched.

“Same color,” he murmured, voice low. “Your lips… the other night.”

You forgot how to blink.

His thumb lingered a second longer before sliding away, his grip still secure around your wrist. But now, it was his fingers that trailed gently along the skin there, mapping every inch like it was a confession.

And then,

he moved again.

You didn’t even register it until his fingers brushed the slope of your neck. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your spine freeze.

Then he found the necklace you wore.

His fingers traced the delicate chain along your neck, unbearably slow, like he already knew what it was doing to you. You swallowed, breath catching when he reached the pendant resting above your collarbone. It was heart-shaped. Of course it was. His thumb brushed over it once, twice, as if he was testing the rhythm beneath it.

You were certain. Utterly, humiliatingly certain that he could feel your heartbeat rising against the cage of your ribs like it wanted to leap into his palm.

He held onto it.

Lifted it slightly. As if weighing something.

“Still wearing this?” he said, almost like he was asking himself.

Then, he let it go gently. The charm dropped against your skin with a soft clink.

You didn’t get to exhale.

Because in the next second, his hand slid to the back of your neck. His fingers threading through your hair, palm warm and solid.

He pulled you closer.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Intentional.

Your body followed, helpless.

He leaned in. Past your cheek. Past your jaw.

And just as your breath trembled out, his lips brushed the side of your neck, and he whispered: “What do you think of me?”

Your knees nearly gave out.

You could feel every syllable burn against your skin. Every letter was a sin.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look at him.

Because he was right there. So close. And you knew, if you turned your head, your lips would meet.

But then–

The door behind you rattled.

Voices. Laughter. The sound of someone scream-singing off-key to “Autumn Leaves” by BTS. The hallway light flickered briefly from the opened door.

Your blood turned cold. Your stomach dropped.

He kept his hand at your nape. Still holding. Still there.

Your pulse thundered. His breath ghosted your jaw.

He looked amused. Barely. Like this was all some twisted game, and only he knew the rules.

“Let go,” you whispered, though you didn’t even sound like you meant it.

He didn’t.

He just smiled against your skin.

THUD.

“Oh God!”

Yoon Jeonghan. Your Team Leader. Your best friend’s brother.

And now? Collapsed at your feet. Dragging you down with him.

“Okay, okay, I got it, you’re very strong–”

You struggled to keep Jeonghan upright as he leaned heavily against your shoulder, humming some half-forgotten ballad into your ear. His hair was falling into his eyes, lips slack in a dopey grin.

Across from you, his sister, your beloved best friend, was swaying slightly on her feet.

“Sooo…” she slurred. “Isn’t he heavy? He’s heavy, right? I told him not to mix soju and beer.”

“You also cheered him on,” you deadpanned, glancing at her with a little more concern. “You don’t look so good either–wait, did you drink from that mystery cocktail?”

“Shhhh,” she hushed you with one finger to your lips. “Shhhh. Listen. Focus. Mission. Jeonghan. Home.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna take him to your apartment, right?”

Your best friend blinked, confusion present on her drunken face.

Then she laughed. “Babe, I can’t even find my own feet.”

You turned your head slowly to where Jeonghan was now lightly beatboxing under his breath with his eyes closed.

“Oh my god.”

Oh my god, indeed.

Somehow, by sheer divine intervention and one very confused taxi driver, you got Jeonghan into the backseat of a cab, while your best friend leaned dramatically against a lamp post, blinking slowly.

“Alright, I’ll ride with him,” she mumbled. “You go home.”

“Uh.” You hesitated. “I think I should go with you two, actually.”

“Noooo.” She waved a limp hand. “I’ll just… go to sleep.”

“What–no, you can’t sleep in a cab– wait, are you calling another one for yourself?”

She nodded very proudly, pressing her phone to her cheek like it was a teddy bear. “Like a pro.”

You sighed, pulling out your phone. “I’m calling someone else to–”

She called out your name in a long and slurred tone.

You turned, and your best friend was suddenly wide awake. Swaying, but possessed by purpose.

“I have a genius idea.”

“…not this again.”

“You take him home.”

“What?!”

“Genius,” she whispered proudly. “He trusts you.”

You stared at her, baffled. You shook your head and said: “I should be taking care of you, not your brother–”

“But I’ll be fiiine,” she grinned, now somehow sitting on the sidewalk. “I live around here. You’re going the same way, anywayyyy. You’re also the responsible one. He’ll be nice to you.”

From the cab, Jeonghan murmured something that sounded vaguely like, “You smell like flowers,” before slumping over dramatically.

You exhaled. And sighed. And almost cried a little.

“…I hate all of you.”

The drive was mostly quiet, save for the muffled sound of traffic and Jeonghan’s occasional humming, off-key, barely coherent, but somehow still hypnotic. His head was back on your shoulder again, like a magnet, a gravitational constant you had no power over.

Your heart hadn’t slowed down since the hallway.

You didn’t move. You didn’t even breathe too hard.

Then, the cab driver cleared his throat. Glanced at you two through the mirror. You, with your face red, with your boss leaning on your shoulders.

“So…” he said, voice light. “Are you two dating?”

You froze.

“I– what? N-No, we’re not–”

“Because you look good together,” the driver continued, oblivious and chuckling. “Like a couple in a drama, you know?”

You were about to melt into the seat and die when Jeonghan stirred beside you.

He blinked slowly. Then let out a soft chuckle.

And in a warm, slurred tone, he said–

“I agree with him… Are we?”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide.

“Jeonghan–!”

But he was smiling now, lopsided and sweet, his cheek still pressed to your shoulder like it was the most natural place in the world.

He turned his face slightly, lips grazing the fabric of your shirt.

“You’re soft,” he mumbled.

Your nervous system stopped completely

The cab driver laughed. “Ahah, young love.”

You slapped your hand over your face, covering every inch that exposed the flush of your cheeks. “I’m going to jump out of this car.”

“I’ll catch you,” Jeonghan murmured, barely audible now, already drifting again.

But his hand, warm and slow, was still holding your wrist. Thumb brushing lazily across your skin like he wasn’t done saying everything he wanted to say.

You didn’t speak for the rest of the ride.

But your heart did. Loudly. The whole time.

Tag list: @sumzysworld, @lixisoul99, @viciousdarlings, reiofsuns2001, @lily409, @armycarat2612, @cheolliesvt

(To everyone commenting/reacting to this story, thank u very much! I'll make sure to actually finish this for u guys 😭❤)

#jeonghan fluff #jeonghan x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #svt #svt x reader #yoon jeonghan #jeonghan #jeonghan x you #seventeen

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shamrockqueen · 2 days ago

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Omega retreat : Chapter 15

Pairing : Alpha Bucky Barnes x Omega Reader

Warnings : R18, Emotional moments, angst, fluff, panic, ABO dynamics, Misunderstandings, Strong language, Bucky has been very bad, guilt

Word count : 1855

Summary : As an unmarked and lonely omega you find a flyer for a service called The Omega Retreat. You are paired with a compatible alpha to spend your heat or just a week at a luxurious cabin at a forest resort. Amenities and Utilities included. Enjoy the beautiful scenery, fresh air, as well as the company of an alpha of your choosing. What could possibly go wrong?

First chapter : Last chapter

Masterlist

Your skin was tinged with the sweet scent of omega sweat. Like a dripping black cherry dipped in dark chocolate, decadent and mouthwatering. It was a struggle for Bucky to contain himself, having to show more and more resilience just to keep himself from completely overwhelming you.

He continued to keep you close but made a conscious effort to keep you just out of reach of something dangerous.

It gave you a few moments of space, even now allowing you a chance to excuse yourself to the bathroom to freshen up. Searching fingers digging back into that little black hygiene bag long since forgotten on the sink.

Fuzzy memories floated by, the faint idea of something important someone gave you. Bucky’s presence in your mind overshadowed many other thoughts, leaving you floating on an air of ignorance.

Yet, in this cloud of bliss, something still wormed itself further in before unfurling into an unavoidable mass staring you directly in the mirror.

You turned the toothbrush in your hand, trying to recall all that was packed beside it in the bag. You emptied your hands, dropping the brush and toothpaste into the sink before digging into the bag, desperately trying to take stock of what was and wasn’t sitting inside of it.

Each time your digit fumbled over a familiar object, you counted along until every item was accounted for, aside from one. The realization was like a brick to the back of your head, jarring with a lingering ache as your pulse thrummed harder and faster in your tiny veins.

The memory that accompanied your panic was short, but its importance sunk like a stone to the bottom of your weakened stomach.

The doctor has been stern as she explained the medication to you, hammering home how it was “incredibly important that you never miss a dose” before tearing off a slip of paper with your prescription for the birth control. She had her own opinions about your want for the drug, even stating that “it would be in your better interest to settle down and start a family anyway,” but you’d insisted and yet somehow still failed.

The pills weren’t in the bag; it's a silver pop pack absent from where you’d sworn you’d pushed it into a small inner pocket.

You had to have missed at least a few days by now, only able to recall one solid memory of taking it before leaving your home. But, it was accompanied by another memory of you slipping the pill-pack into the damn bag.

Could it have fallen out in the car?

Could it have slipped from the bag to hide behind the toilet?

Maybe your memories were false from the start, and it never made its way out of the house? Maybe it was still sitting on your counter some odd hours away.

This whole time it hadn’t even crossed your cock-hungry brain, and even now it had taken you several minutes to even recall it once took shelter in that damn bag.

You’d felt exactly as foolish as they’d all painted you to be. A dumb, dumb omega. Too dumb to take care of your damn self. Too stupid and absentminded to take a damn pill in the morning.

It made you feel sick, doubling you over at the center of your belly, folding you into a ball at the base of the porcelain sink. Your screams were soundless, silenced by your own shame.

In the next moment, you were cradled in warmth. Strong arms outstretched around you, led by caressing hands rubbing calming circles into your shoulder and calf.

“Omega, what's wrong?!” A voice spoke to you, melodic and comforting. It’s calling to you from the hole you’d seemed to have buried your psyche in. A pit of self-loathing after yet another fall from grace.

It shouted again. “Omega”

Those hands now fanned over your contorted face, eyes pouring out with helpless tears as calloused thumbs wiped them from your reddened cheeks.

Next was the sound of your name leaving his lips. The voice is more familiar than before, tainted by anxiety but just as alluring. It made you feel safe again.

“James?” Your throat burned, your voice reduced to a squeak of a pathetic whimper as you called back out to him.

“I’ve got you. Hey, Hey.”

He has both hands spread over your cheeks, cupping your face to better fill your vision with him.

“Omega, what’s wrong?”

You sputtered out, finding your voice in a barrage of tangled words spoken in a state of spinning panic.

“I-I forgot about them…They were supposed to be in the bag! I’m so sorry, James; it’s an honest mistake.”

Each of his muscle fibers tensed at once, joints locking around you as if even in your moment of weakness you’d read the building thoughts in his mind and run away.

Run from the traitor he truly was.

His eyes dulled to a slate and lifeless gray, his own realization of what you’d discovered with the out-spilled contents of that menacing little bag as it seemed to have belched its contents into the sink.

It burned his lungs just to breathe, like icy shards of glass hitting his throat and cutting their way through his flesh and piercing through his skin.

The pages between you couldn’t have been more different, losing all meaning and translation. Saving one soul at the expense of another, trading guilt while at the same time clinging to and hoarding it for oneself.

You continued to cry, voice cracking and shaking, “I didn’t take my pills..I..I left them behind. I’m so fucking stupid!”

“You are not st..God damn it. You’re not stupid, Omega.”

“But, I fucked up. I wasn’t used to taking them, and I sh…I should have listened.” You tried to hide, burrowing into the crease of your hands in the hopes that they’d form an endless hole and swallow you out of existence.

“Stop. Please stop.” His fingers tangled with yours, tearing them from your face, wishing it was his skin that bore the brunt of your digging nails instead of yours.

But, it was still only you feeling this panic. Bearing this pain like you felt you deserved. You blame yourself when Bucky knows the blame should be on his shoulders. He didn’t want to be a coward, but a knot in his stomach began to snake through to his chest, then his throat, until it nearly closed from the added weight circling around it. So, he was silent, trying in vain to hold you, trying to will this wave of distress away.

His hands, bearing a rough and calloused exterior, held your smaller, pliant fingers tenderly. He was gentle, always taking care to hold you aloft the better to hide from you the crumbling foundation below your feet.

He held you, offering a hard but comforting embrace. He anchored you to his chest as he pulled you from the cold tile floor. His wide hands cradling each cheek as he brought your face and focus back to him.

“Please, just talk to me.”

“I forgot to take my pills. The..the contraceptive pill that…”My eyes, already wet and red from the previous onslaught of tears, begin to well up again before spilling out with each blink to drink against his fingers. “…I just feel so stupid. Like…I had one job…”

“No…stop, don’t say stuff like that.” His voice was serious and low to calm you but still carried a small amount of his own panic. He sits back on his knees, trying to lower himself closer to you.

“You forgot to take your pill?” He asked, or rather stated plainly, what you had been blubbering about. He knew better, knew that you weren’t at fault, but had to fight the urge to tell you that simple truth.

“I’m so sorry..”

“Don’t say that…you don’t need to be sorry.” His voice wavered slightly.

“But…what if..” I couldn’t find the words anymore, each possible syllable eaten by a ravenous wave of fear and dread. But, Bucky sat firm by your side. To you he seemed unshaken, unbroken. It was all at once comforting and bizarre.

“I could get pregnant. Doesn’t that scare you?”

Bucky took in a deep breath, a heavy inhale through his nose, before letting it out with a sigh in an effort to shake away the tension that was building in his chest and shoulders.

His voice is softer as he speaks, his eyes filling until nearly overflowing with an unspoken desire as he whispers, “No.”

It was the shock he saw in my own trembling gaze that prompted him to stumble over a somewhat better explanation.

“I mean… It does, but in a good way.”

He had to think for a second, a small beat of silence lingering before he continued wholeheartedly, “It’s like I’m flying, but for the first time.”

To him it almost felt exhilarating, like conquering fear instead of falling into it but maintaining a healthy but lingering unease that came upon instinct.

“I don’t think anything else in this world would make me happier.” The sentiment was real, a swell of genuine happiness, only to have it stalked down with a twinge of guilt as it cramped and crumpled his stomach.

Your throat is sore, your body feeling heavy after all the energy burned from a downpour of tears. You said his name softly, almost just affirming he was still close.

“James.”

Bucky continued, loosening his grip on that fleeting fantasy that continued to cloud his judgment over and over again. He should have known, known from the start before his Alpha brain sunk its claws further and further into his psyche.

“But, it does scare you.” His tone changed, becoming all the more serious as he took in the gravity of the situation he’d put you in.

He had scared you.

“Yes,” I say silently, nodding as I caught my breath.

I let his hands cradle me, grounding me to him as I calmed down, forming the words I couldn’t before.

“Everyone else wants to tell me what’s best for me; I just…wanted that freedom I never seemed to get to have. And, I blew it.”

“Please don’t blame yourself; it isn’t your fault.” He said with painful sincerity.

Your mind was still racing, grappling with all possible consequences “How can you not at least be mad? What if…what if I really do end up pregnant?”

“Anything you could give me, I’d be so grateful for. Your time, your heart, a family.” His voice gave a low crack of emotion, swallowing back the spike of guilt and pain.

His eyes were wet, irises and pupils a deep and darkened blue, swelling with undeclared passions and culpability.

Your lower lip wobbled, dobbling as you asked, “How can you love me so much already?”

“It’s like I’ve been looking for you my entire life.” It was true; he could feel it. A tug in the bottom of his belly, like a tight knot unwinding for the first time. You made him feel so calm and yet so anxious.

Chapter 16

Tag list : @meowmeowyoongles @black-cat-2 @cjand10 @bethyruth @scott-loki-barnes @wintrsoldrluvr @buckysdoll85 @lendeluxe @meowmeowyoongles @magnoliamermaid @heletsmelovehim @mcira @buckysbaby-doll @serendipitouslife90 @unicornicopia1 @animegirlgeeky @matchat3a @darkdemeter @iwudbutnah @winterslove1917 @daddytonysbaby @jvanilly @kandis-mom @onyxwolf @thebuckybarnesvault @nicestgirlonline @jbuckybarnesfan @val-writesstuff @ozwriterchick @bumblee-beezzz @cringeycookies @conner-kents-jacket @bohemianrhapsody86 @lillianacristina @cadencejames87 @teambarnes72 @ashychangeling @samuelkwinchester @nightofthesea @blackbirdwitch22 @mizunogamii @snapcapquartet @openup-yourmind @ashychangeling @krissydclayton93 @rivernell @futuristiczipperpeachcash

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gigiii1sblog · 2 days ago

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DORM-ROOM DEVIL 013

Warnings: mature content, fluff, sexual content, teasing, dirty talk, unprotected sexual content.

Chapter Thirteen: Something Growing in the Silence

Y/N POV:

I told my mom I felt sick. That was my excuse. Said I needed a break, said college was stressing me out and my body couldn’t keep up. Which… wasn’t entirely a lie. I had thrown up four times on the hour-long drive home. My head was pounding. My stomach churned every time I smelled something strong, and even the soft glow of my phone screen made me dizzy.

She asked about Chris over dinner.

I told her he had a game.

She raised an eyebrow and didn’t press, just nodded slowly and gave me that look, like moms do when they know something’s wrong but are waiting for you to say it out loud.

I went to bed early. Or at least, I tried. My heart was still in my throat. My chest was tight with everything I wasn’t saying, wasn’t thinking, wasn’t letting myself feel. Because if I started feeling it, I wouldn’t stop.

It was 2:13 AM when I crept down to the kitchen, hoping some ginger tea might settle my stomach. The light flicked on behind me, and my mom stood there in her robe, watching me like she knew everything.

“You alright, baby?” she asked softly, walking over to me and rubbing my back.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep.”

She paused. “You’ve been throwing up. You’ve been tired. Snappy. Crying over little things… anything you want to tell me?”

I blinked. “I don’t know. I think it’s just stress. I—I’ve had a bad few days.”

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes soft but knowing. Then she said it, gently:

“Sweetheart… when was your last period?”

The question knocked the air out of me.

I stared at her, blinking slowly, brain buzzing. “I… I don’t know,” I said quietly. “It’s usually on time but—”

“But?”

“I’ve been so distracted. Chris and I have been fighting. It’s probably just stress, like I said.”

Her hand came to rest on mine. “Maybe. But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take a test. Just to be sure.”

My heart dropped to my stomach. My throat burned. My legs felt like they were made of lead.

“I don’t think—” I started, but the words died in my mouth. Because the truth was… I didn’t know what to think.

Chris’s name echoed in my head like a warning.

We’d been careful… except when we weren’t. Except that night after the party. Except the beach. The kitchen. The couch.

And now?

Now I was home, sick to my stomach, throwing up everything I tried to eat, and the boy I loved was probably still drunk and clueless in his frat house bed.

My mom squeezed my hand. “It’s better to know, honey. Whatever happens, we’ll handle it together.”

I nodded. Slowly. Quietly. Numb.

But deep down, I already knew.

Something was different. Something was shifting.

And for the first time in weeks, the tears that slipped down my cheeks weren’t just from heartbreak.

They were from fear.

And maybe… maybe something else too.

CHRIS POV:

Two days since she left.

The dorm is quiet.

Too quiet.

Her door’s been shut since the night she left, locked, like a silent “fuck you” every time I walk past it. I haven’t touched it. Haven’t knocked. Haven’t opened it to find one of her sweatshirts on the floor or that stupid mug she always drinks tea out of left on the desk.

I don’t even know if she’s coming back.

I sat on the kitchen counter earlier and stared at the spot where she threw her keys before storming off. I could still hear her voice, loud and shaking and furious, telling me to leave. Telling me she hated me. Telling me she was done.

She didn’t mean it.

Did she?

God.

The last thing I said to her… I keep replaying it. My voice, bitter and angry:

“Don’t get mad at me for not showing you I love you enough.”

What kind of fucked-up thing is that to say to someone you love?

Because I do.

I love her.

In every backwards, broken, twisted way.

I love her like gravity, like I don’t know how to stand without her holding me down.

I just… I don’t know how to love the right way. I don’t know how to stop fucking up everything good that touches me.

I woke up this morning thinking about her laugh. That stupid, crooked smile she gets when she’s making pizza at midnight, barefoot in my hoodie, humming off-key to the music.

And now the whole place feels hollow. Her playlist doesn’t echo off the walls. Her perfume isn’t stuck in the couch. I even miss the sound of her slamming the bathroom door when I leave my boxers on the floor.

It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.

Matt asked if I was okay earlier and I told him to fuck off. Then I almost cried into my hoodie like a dumbass.

Y/N isn’t answering my texts. I called twice. I even FaceTimed once and let it ring until it stopped. I watched the screen go black like a slap in the face.

And still, I’m sitting here.

Staring at her door.

Praying she walks through it like none of this happened.

I don’t even know where she went.

She said nothing. Just packed her bag with shaking hands, eyes wet, chest rising and falling like she couldn’t breathe around me. And then she was gone. Like I made her disappear.

And maybe I did.

Maybe I pushed her so hard, this time she actually broke.

God, if I could take it back. If I could rewind the tape and stop myself from walking into that party, or kissing that girl just to feel something, or hurting the only person who’s ever made me feel whole.

I’d do it in a second.

But I can’t.

All I can do is wait. Sit in this empty room that still smells like her shampoo. Look at the chipped nail polish on her coffee mug. Pretend that the lump in my throat is just guilt, and not the terrifying thought that she might never come back.

That she might not forgive me.

That she might move on.

That she might be gone for good.

Y/N POV: Two days later

You’re born.

You grow up with stars in your eyes and softness stitched into your chest, like your heart was sewn from lullabies and late-night stories.

You believe in love. In slow dancing in kitchens. In promises kept.

Then—you meet him.

A boy with a crooked grin and bruised knuckles.

He tastes like smoke and chaos, like cheap liquor and midnight promises.

He laughs like thunder and touches like wildfire. He doesn’t just walk into your life; he crashes into it, full speed, no brakes.

He tells you he’s broken.

But you think if you love him hard enough, deep enough, real enough… he might bend toward the light.

Everyone warns you.

They say: He’s a hurricane.

And you’re just a house with open windows.

But you keep the windows wide.

Let him tear through you.

You call it love.

You’re not officially together.

But you never let go.

He burns holes in you with every kiss he doesn’t give.

Every night he doesn’t stay.

He walks away without warning—

Takes your breath, your voice, your fire—with him.

And you—

You live a thousand songs in his absence.

Every lyric a wound.

Every chorus a prayer.

You try to feel something for someone else.

You don’t.

You try to forget.

You can’t.

And now—

Now you’re here.

On the bathroom floor.

Cheeks flushed, fingers trembling.

The tiles are cold against your skin.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

There’s a stick on the counter. Plastic and sterile. A pink line bleeding across it like a scar.

Positive.

Your mouth is dry. Your lungs won’t work.

The world doesn’t tilt. It collapses.

Silently. Completely.

All at once.

You think of him.

His voice in the dark. The way he says your name when he’s half-asleep and clinging to you like he’s afraid you’ll leave.

You think of the party.

The yelling. The door slamming.

You think of the girl with her lips on his and your heart breaking in real time.

You think:

He couldn’t even stay.

He couldn’t even love me the way I needed.

How the fuck is he going to love this?

You’re not crying.

Not yet.

You’re frozen, surrounded by pieces of a life you didn’t plan.

And still, somewhere inside your chest—

You feel that same dangerous thing you always feel when it comes to him.

Hope.

But the stick on the counter doesn’t lie.

And this time, love won’t be enough to save either of you.

@izzylovesmatt @riggysworld @amiraisafreakokaysorry @ansteeze @pair-of-pantaloons @kitty-meow-meow44@emeraldsturns @sturnslux3 @kalel2005 @sarahsturns @teheabrams @needchrissturniolobad @julessspoetry @sturniszn @slutforchrissturniolo2@alinagrace11 @beardedbernard @matthewswifeyy

#sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #christoper sturniolo #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo #fanfic #angst with a happy ending #angst #sturniolotriplets #matthew sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturiolo fanfic #chris stuniolo x reader #chratt

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ceyanabbiolo · 2 days ago

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PHOTOGRAPH // M.S [09]

Summary: Daphne Denoire, a 21-year-old, returns to Boston after 3 years—but working for her brother’s best friend, Matthew Sturniolo, wasn’t part of the plan. He’s a 26-year-old multimillionaire. She’s the girl he was never supposed to feel this way about. With secrets between them and boundaries set, how far will they go for a love they never saw coming?

Warnings: slightly suggestive, kissing, angst

wc: 5834

Chapter 9: I've Been Thinking About You

I woke up earlier than usual, the sun barely pushing through the curtains. Today wasn’t just any Friday—Noah was coming home.

My big brother had been gone for what felt like forever, buried under textbooks and mock trials at law school, and even though we talked on the phone, it wasn’t the same as having him here. I missed the way he filled our apartment with his loud music and sarcastic comments. I missed having him around.

So, I cleaned and cleaned.

I started with the living room, vacuuming every corner even though it was already spotless. Then I moved to the kitchen—wiping the counters, reorganizing the spice rack, refolding the dish towels. Anything to keep my hands busy.

I kept glancing at the clock. He said he’d be driving back this morning, should be here by late afternoon. I had hours to kill.

After showering and pulling my hair up into a messy bun, I changed into comfy sweats and a tank top. I got to work in the kitchen next. Cooking always calmed me. I made his favorite—creamy chicken alfredo, with garlic bread and a salad I knew he probably wouldn’t touch, but I still made it because… well, I’m me.

I set the table, even though I knew he’d probably just grab a plate and eat on the couch. But I didn’t care.

The apartment smelled like garlic and basil, and everything felt warm and homey.

I wiped my hands on a dish towel and looked around the apartment with a small smile. It was quiet. Peaceful. But I knew the second that door opened, the volume in here would crank up.

I was lighting the last candle on the table when I heard the familiar click of the front door unlocking.

The door creaked open, and there he was, my stupid older brother, hair a bit messier than usual, hoodie slightly wrinkled from the drive, and his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His tired eyes scanned the room before landing on me.

“Hey,” he said, smiling widely.

I grinned back. “Hi.”

He dropped the bag near the door and walked straight toward me, wrapping me in one of his signature bear hugs. I practically disappeared in his arms.

“You smell like garlic,” he mumbled into my hair.

I laughed. “That’s because I made your favorite.”

He pulled back, raising an eyebrow. “Chicken Alfredo?”

“With garlic bread. And a salad you’ll ignore.”

He grinned. “Thanks, Daph.”

I pulled away, “All good.”

He looked around the apartment like he was taking in every detail. “You cleaned.”

“Of course I did. You're lucky I didn’t vacuum the ceiling.”

He gave a small chuckle and then sniffed the air again dramatically. “Smells like heaven. Are we eating now, or do I have to shower first and pretend I’m not starving?”

I rolled my eyes. “Eat now. Shower after.”

Noah clapped his hands once and made his way to the kitchen. “Man, it's good to be home.”

We sat across from each other, the clinking of forks and the soft hum of the city outside the window filling the space.

Noah took another bite, then glanced up at me between chews. “So,” he started, swallowing, “how’ve you been?”

I shrugged, poking at the pasta on my plate. “Good. Busy. I’ve been working, so that kept me going.”

Noah twirled his fork through the last bit of pasta, then looked up at me again. “So… how was L.A.?”

I nodded slowly, resting my elbow on the table. “It was good. Different.”

“Different how?” he asked, eyeing me curiously.

I shrugged. “The weather, the vibe. Every Hollywood”

He chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

There was a small pause. I could feel it before he even said it.

“Speaking of L.A…” he continued, casually but not really, “how’s Matt?”

My hand stilled slightly on my glass. I tried to keep my expression neutral. “He’s… good. Busy, you know. Same as always.”

Noah nodded slowly, watching me too closely. “You two talk often?”

I kept my voice light. “Sometimes. I mean, he’s technically my boss, so we talk about shoots and edits.”

Noah’s smirk faded a little, his tone shifting into something more serious as he set his fork down. “Is he a good boss?”

I blinked. “Matt?”

He nodded, eyes steady.

“Yeah,” I said quickly, maybe too quickly. “He’s…patient. Gives me space to do my work, trusts my edits.” I forced a small smile, fiddling with my napkin. “No complaints.”

He watched me for a second, like he was trying to read between the lines.

I cleared my throat. “Have you talked to him recently?”

Noah leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely. “Just texts here and there.”

I nodded slowly.

“I’m seeing him tonight, though,” he added casually, but I felt the words hit my chest.

“Oh, cool.” I busied myself with gathering the plates, hoping the clatter would cover how awkward I suddenly felt.

Noah didn’t say anything for a moment, and I could feel his eyes on me again. I didn’t meet them.

Matt’s name shouldn’t make me tense. He’s Noah’s best friend. Normally, they’re seeing each other.

So why did it feel like my skin was two sizes too tight?

“You okay?” Noah asked suddenly.

I forced a small, bright laugh. “Yeah. Just tired, that’s all.”

He nodded slowly, still watching. I grabbed the dishes and carried them into the kitchen, needing a second to breathe.

Because Noah didn’t know.

Therefore, I wasn’t about to tell him that his best friend had kissed me. Twice. And that I’d let him. Twice.

And maybe…I wanted to do it again.

I ran the water in the sink, letting the sound fill the silence while I stacked the plates inside. Noah got up too, bringing over the glasses. He leaned against the counter beside me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“You know,” he started casually, “Matt's not really the… serious type.”

I dried my hands slowly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he jokes around. He flirts with anything that breathes. I know he’s my best friend, but he’s always been like that,” he said with a shrug. “Even when we were younger, it was never just one girl.”

I kept my gaze on the sink, feeling my throat tighten.

“Why would that matter to me, Noah? I’m his photographer,” I said, eyeing him, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

“I’m just saying—if he ever makes you feel…I don't know, unprofessional? You’d tell me, right?”

I glanced at him, forcing a soft smile. “Yeah, of course.”

He studied me a beat longer, then nodded. “Good.”

I wiped the same spot on the counter three times, needing something to do with my hands. My voice came out quieter than I intended. “He’s been… nice. Like really nice.”

Noah tilted his head. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “Like… not how you’d expect, I guess.”

Something shifted in his expression—an edge of curiosity—but he didn’t push it.

“Maybe he’s maturing or something,” Noah muttered, reaching for a clean spoon from the drawer. “About time.”

I gave a half-laugh. “Maybe.”

He looked at me again, more thoughtful this time. “You two getting along then? I mean… It’s not weird, working together?”

I shook my head quickly. “No. It’s… easy.”

He raised a brow at that. “Easy?”

I caught myself. “I mean—like, he doesn’t make things complicated. It’s just work. We keep things professional.”

That wasn’t a lie. I just…left a lot out.

Noah nodded, thankfully dropping the subject, and made his way back to the couch with a stretch and a quiet yawn.

I turned off the tap, wiped my slightly damp hands on the edge of my sweatshirt, and headed to my room. My heart was still pounding—more from the conversation than anything else. I shut the door gently behind me, crossed the small space to my desk, and opened my laptop.

I hadn’t dared to look at it all day.

The email from accounting was still there, unopened. My fingers hesitated over the trackpad for a second before I finally clicked.

And then I saw it.

Deposit: $20,000.00

I blinked.

That had to be a mistake.

I leaned in closer, reading the breakdown. It was real. Four weeks of work, including the LA shoot. Flights and accommodations were comped, of course—but still. This was what I was paid?

My chest tightened. I wasn’t used to seeing numbers like this beside my name. Before this, I was freelancing in London, lucky to get maybe $30 an hour on a good day. Most gigs barely paid enough for rent and groceries. I’d spent years chasing invoices and doing free shoots just to get published.

And now… this?

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen like it might suddenly correct itself. But the number stayed the same.

Twenty thousand. For one month.

For working under Matt.

My stomach fluttered—not in the excited way, but in the confused, slightly overwhelmed way.

This wasn’t just generous. It was…excessive. Even for a high-end company. Even for Matt.

I rubbed my temples. Was this some weird favor? Was he just being nice because of Noah?

Or worse—was it because of what happened between us?

I didn’t want to believe that. He hadn’t treated me like that. Not once. Still… the thought lingered.

I was probably being dramatic. Matt doesn’t pay me; his company does.

I closed the laptop slowly, trying to catch my breath. I flopped onto my bed, my mind racing. My job felt real, my photos were actually getting used. I had seen a photo I took of Matt of a billboard the other day, and I felt really good about it.

Matt and I had exchanged a few texts since that night at the waterfront—simple messages, casual check-ins, nothing heavy. But I found myself looking forward to every buzz, every word from him. I liked texting Matt. I liked talking to him. Hell, I liked being around him.

It was too late. Deep down, I knew—I was falling for Matt all over again. Though this time, I wasn’t the helpless fourteen-year-old crushing on the older, untouchable guy. Now, as cliché as it sounded, maybe I actually had a chance. After all, Matt kissed me. Didn’t he?

Still, the thought sent a mix of excitement and nerves swirling inside me. Could things be different this time? Or was I just setting myself up?

I grabbed my phone and opened Instagram, then searched for Matt’s account. The last four posts were photos I had taken—my work, framed perfectly on his feed.

Seeing my shots there made my chest tighten a little. It was like a quiet reminder of how close we’d been, in ways I wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

MATTHEW

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place Noah and I used to hit up before life got too serious. We had our usual corner booth—same spot, same whiskey, just older versions of ourselves now.

Noah slid into the seat across from me, already shrugging off his coat. “Man, it’s freezing out,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together before grabbing his drink.

I lifted my glass in response. “Welcome home.”

He clicked his against mine. “Cheers.”

We drank in silence for a moment, the low hum of music and scattered conversations filling the space between us. I watched him carefully—he looked tired, but better than the last time I saw him. The city grind hadn’t swallowed him whole yet.

“So,” he said, leaning back. “How’s work?”

“Busy,” I replied, tracing the rim of my glass. “Photoshoots, meetings, running from place to place.”

He nodded slowly, then looked at me a little too directly. “And my sister?”

I kept my face calm. “She’s good. Talented. Focused.”

“Yeah,” he said, watching me. “She’s doing better than I thought she would be, coming back here.”

I nodded. “She’s a hard worker.”

He took a sip of his drink, his eyes still on me. “You've been good to her?”

The question hit heavier than it should have. I knew what he was asking, even if he wasn’t saying it outright. I met his gaze. “I have.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, then gave a short nod. “Good. She deserves that.”

I nodded too, slower. “I know.”

There was an edge to his silence now, and I couldn’t tell if it was suspicion or just big-brother mode kicking in. Either way, it made the back of my neck feel warm.

“She told me she went to L.A. with your team,” he added casually, but his tone wasn’t casual at all.

“She did,” I said. “Handled it well.”

Noah raised a brow, but thankfully didn’t push. Instead, he just leaned back and let the weight of his stare fade.

“I trust you, you know,” he finally said.

I looked down at my glass. “I know.”

Gosh, if he knew what I’d done. If he knew what we’d both done. If he had any idea how hard it was getting to look at her and not want more. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold back.

We shifted off the topic and the tension with it. Talked about old high school stories, bad fashion choices, that time Nick got a tattoo of a pizza slice on a dare—just stupid shit that made us laugh harder than we should’ve.

Noah was halfway through a story about Chris accidentally locking himself in our dad’s wine cellar when two girls appeared at the side of our table.

Both dressed like they knew what they were doing—tight dresses, confidence in their walk, glossy lips. The taller one smiled directly at me. The other leaned on the edge of Noah’s side, tossing her hair a little dramatically.

“Hey,” the one closest to me said. “You guys here alone?”

Noah, being Noah, straightened up a bit. “Just catching up. What about you?”

“We saw you from the bar,” the one near me said, eyes holding mine. “You looked…fun.”

I smiled out of habit, but it didn’t reach my eyes.

Noah caught it instantly. He looked over at me with a raised brow.

“Come sit,” he offered them casually.

They slid in without hesitation—Noah was already starting to flirt, leaning in a little, the way he always did when he was interested.

The girl next to me pressed closer, her perfume sharp and overwhelming. I moved my arm slightly away.

“So, what do you do?” she asked.

“Model,” I said simply, not feeling like entertaining more than that.

She leaned in, tracing her finger on the rim of her drink. “Of course you do.”

Noah glanced at me again—this time, longer. Noticing how stiff I was, how I hadn’t even turned toward the girl properly.

“You good?” he asked, in that tone only a best friend would use. Like: what the hell is going on with you?

I nodded, but I could see the confusion in his face.

This wasn’t like me. Usually, I’d have been laughing. Buying her another drink. Maybe taking her home.

But not tonight, because even though Daphne and I hadn’t defined anything, I couldn’t sit here and entertain someone else when I still remembered the taste of her mouth from two nights ago.

Noah could see it all over my face.

The two girls laughed at something—probably each other—and the one beside me leaned over, brushing her hand against my arm as she stood.

“We’re gonna go say hi to some friends,” she said with a sultry smile, already twisting her body like she was expecting me to watch her walk away. “Be right back.”

I gave a polite nod. “Cool.”

Noah watched them disappear into the crowd, then turned to me slowly, narrowing his eyes.

“So… you’re not into her?” he asked, like he was double-checking what he’d already figured out.

I shook my head once. “Nah.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyebrows drawn. “Seriously?”

I didn’t say anything, just stared at the amber liquid in my glass.

“No offense, but… that’s literally your type,” he said, motioning in the direction the girls had walked off in. “Tall, hot, face full of makeup, huge—” he stopped himself with a smirk, “—you know.”

I cracked a half-smile. “I know.”

He tilted his head at me. “So, what gives?”

A short, 5-foot, burnette with a baby pink and matcha obsession–or simply your sister.

I exhaled slowly, shrugging as I looked away. “I don’t know.”

Noah gave me a look. One that said bullshit, but he didn’t push. Instead, he clapped my shoulder lightly and leaned back.

“Just relax, man. You’re overthinking.” “Yeah,” I mumbled, nodding just to move on. “You’re right.”

We ordered some food, and after a few more drinks, the warmth of the liquor settled in my bloodstream, dulling the edge of whatever the hell I was feeling.

That’s when the girls came back.

The one who’d been sitting beside me didn’t even hesitate. She slid back into the booth, but this time, she didn’t just sit next to me—she straddled my lap, arms loosely looping around my neck like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Her perfume hit me instantly—something sharp and floral. Her lips pressed against mine before I even processed what was happening. I didn’t kiss back, not really, but I didn’t stop her either.

Noah glanced over with a smug grin, the other girl now tucked into his side. He raised his brows like that’s more like it.

But the second her lips were on me, something twisted in my stomach. It felt... wrong.

Technically, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I wasn’t tied to anyone. Daphne and I weren’t anything official. She even said it herself—“just a one-time thing”—twice.

So why did I feel like I was betraying her?

I didn’t touch the girl. Didn’t wrap my arms around her. I just let her do her thing while I stared blankly over her shoulder, jaw tight, counting the seconds until she got bored or I could think of a way to make her get off me without making a scene.

The truth was, my mind wasn’t here. It was across the city, in a quiet apartment where a girl with soft brown eyes and a voice like honey once told me I was a good listener, next to the waterfront.

The music pulsed through the floor beneath my boots, the bass heavy enough to rattle in my chest. The girl was still on my lap, tracing lazy circles on the back of my neck with her nails while talking about something I wasn’t listening to.

Then I looked over, and Noah was gone.

I scanned the bar, squinting past the dim lights and shifting crowds, but yeah… he was gone. Him and the girl had disappeared, probably upstairs to one of the private rooms this place had for whatever “after-hours fun” people wanted.

Typical.

“Looks like your friend found some company,” the girl on my lap said with a sly smile, biting her lip. Her tone dipped low. “Wanna go upstairs too?”

Her hand slipped down to my chest, fingers dragging slowly like she already assumed the answer was yes.

I looked at her.

She was beautiful—long lashes, lips done just enough to look glossy but not sticky, curves that would drive most men crazy. If this was any other night, any other version of me from a few days ago, I probably would’ve already been halfway up the stairs with her by now.

I wasn’t that guy, at least… I didn’t feel like him anymore.

I grabbed her hand, gently, and pulled it away from my chest.

She blinked. “So… no?”

I shook my head, offering a soft, apologetic smile. “Not tonight.”

She didn’t say anything at first, just stared at me like I was joking. When she realized I wasn’t, she climbed off my lap with a small scoff, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“Your loss,” she muttered, before disappearing into the crowd.

Maybe it was. However, right now, the only girl I could think about wasn’t here.

I leaned back against the booth, exhaling slowly, letting the noise of the bar blur into the background.

What the hell am I doing?

I ran a hand down my face, the alcohol buzzing just enough to dull the edges, but not enough to drown the thoughts crowding my head.

Noah’s little sister. The one girl I shouldn’t even be thinking about like this.

He was always protective of her—too protective. Hell, when we were younger, he’d give any guy a death stare if they even looked at her too long.

Noah knew me. The one who went through girls like they were names on a list. He never would’ve expected me to get close to Daphne, even if it was for work, and maybe he was right to be cautious.

But I wasn’t playing around.

That’s the part I couldn’t explain—even to myself. I’ve had flings, crushes, even something close to feelings a few times. But this? This felt… different.

The way she looked at me was like she actually saw me. Not Matt-the-model. Not Matt-the-name. Just…me.

And the way I kept catching myself wanting to tell her things I don’t even talk to Chris or Nick about.

I didn’t know what it meant. I knew one thing—I wasn’t ready to let it go.

Even if I had to pretend like nothing happened. Even if I had to keep acting like she was just my best friend’s little sister anymore.

Noah came stumbling back down the stairs, hair ruffled, shirt untucked, and a smug grin painted across his face.

“Alright,” I muttered, watching him approach.

He ran a hand through his hair like it would fix anything. “Are you ready to head out?” he asked, eyes slightly glazed but wide with energy.

I glanced around. The girl who had been on me was now distracted with her friends again. I slid out of the booth, grabbing my jacket. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Yo, I’m starving,” Noah said, stretching his arms as we stepped outside into the cooler air. “Let’s grab something greasy, man. Come back to mine? We can order in.”

I hesitated, just for a second.

“C’mon,” he added, nudging my shoulder. “It’s been a while.”

I gave a quick nod. “Alright, sounds good.”

However, my chest tightened a little because I knew who was going to be there, and I didn’t trust myself around her. Not anymore.

I followed behind Noah’s car, keeping a steady pace as we weaved through the late-night traffic. The city lights blurred past my windshield, but my mind wasn’t on the road. It was still spinning, full of nerves. I needed to cut it out, I was 26, damn it, too old to be acting like a school boy.

Noah’s turn signal blinks ahead of me, pulling me out of it. He turned into the familiar lot of their apartment building and pulled into his usual spot. I found one a few feet down, cut the engine, and stepped out.

Noah was leaning against his door, waiting for me, arms crossed lazily. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I said, shutting my door. “Just tired.”

We walked in together, through the front entrance, nodding at the tired-looking security guy at the front desk. The elevator dinged open after a short wait, and we stepped inside. The ride up was quiet.

The closer we got to their floor, the tighter my chest felt. I could already picture her, probably in sweats, probably curled up on that grey couch with her laptop open, maybe half-asleep with her hair up, maybe still awake with her glasses on.

I hated how easily I could picture her.

When the elevator doors opened, Noah walked out first, keys dangling from his hand. I followed behind, trying not to overthink the thud in my chest with every step we took closer to their door.

Noah pushed open the door and stepped in like he owned the place, which he did. He kicked off his shoes and called out, voice echoing through the apartment.

“Daph!”

There was a shuffle from down the hall, then her voice floated out. “Yeah?”

She came around the corner, her hair down, wearing an oversized crewneck and bike shorts, holding a mug in her hand.

“Can you take your—” she started, then stopped dead in her tracks.

Her eyes locked onto me.

The mug paused halfway to her lips. “Matt.”

I gave a small, easy smile. “Hey.”

She blinked, then cleared her throat and smiled politely. “Hey. I didn’t know you were coming.”

Noah had already dropped onto the couch, grabbing the remote. “We’re getting food, want anything?”

Daphne glanced between us quickly. “Whatever you're getting is fine.”

She turned, walking toward the kitchen and muttering under her breath, “Still need you to take your laundry out of the bin, by the way.”

Noah groaned from the couch. “I will! Chill.”

I stood there for another second, still staring at her back as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Yeah. I was definitely in trouble.

We settled in the living room, Noah grabbing the controller first and firing up a racing game. The TV lit up with the roar of engines and screech of tires as we battled it out, laughing and trash-talking like we hadn’t seen each other in months.

A couple of rounds later, the doorbell rang. Noah jumped up. “That must be the pizza.”

I followed him to the door and took the boxes from the delivery guy. “Alright, let’s eat.”

Noah called out, “Daph! Food’s here!”

A few seconds later, she appeared in the living room. Effortlessly stunning

She glanced at me briefly and then at the boxes, then raised an eyebrow. “You guys only got pizza?”

Noah shrugged, opening a box. “Yeah, what’s wrong?”

She let out a heavy sigh, crossing her arms. “Noah, you know I don’t like pizza.”

He looked up, a little surprised. “Sorry, I thought you’d just eat it.”

She shook her head, frustration creeping into her voice. “You know I don’t like pizza. You could’ve gotten something else.”

I looked between Noah and her, and even though she tried to hide it, the disappointment was all over her face. She had clearly been waiting for something decent to eat—and this wasn’t it.

“You said you’d be good with whatever we were getting,” Noah muttered, clearly a little annoyed.

Daphne let out a quiet sigh. “Yeah, but… I thought you’d be considerate.”

With that, she turned and walked off down the hall, disappearing into her room without another word.

Noah shook his head. “Man, she’s so dramatic sometimes.”

I didn’t say anything because the truth was, I didn’t think she was being dramatic at all. I think she just wanted to be thought of.

I sat in silence, slowly chewing my slice of pizza as the sounds of the video game filled the room. Noah was zoned in, trash-talking the screen while I quietly reached for my phone. I opened the delivery app and scrolled through the options, knowing exactly what to look for—some of her favorites: grilled chicken rice bowl, dumplings, and a side of cucumber salad. I added a matcha to the cart without second-guessing it.

I glanced over at Noah. He was too busy cursing at his controller to notice anything I was doing.

I paid, hit order, and leaned back.

About half an hour later, my phone buzzed. Your order has arrived. I unlocked my phone and opened Daphne’s contact. Me: Check the front door. I got you something.

I stared at the screen, waiting. A minute passed.

Daphne: What did you get?

Me: Just check. Maybe grab it quietly.

There was a pause. I heard a door creak gently down the hall, soft footsteps padding toward the entrance.

I didn’t look up, just kept pretending to scroll, listening. A quiet shuffle, the rustling of a bag being picked up. With that, I heard her go back to her room. Two minutes later, my phone buzzed.

Daphne: Matt, did you really get this for me?

Me: Figured you shouldn’t have to settle for pizza if you didn’t want it.

Daphne: You remembered the matcha

I felt a smirk tug at the edge of my mouth.

Me: Of course I did

There was a longer pause this time before she replied.

Daphne: Thank you.

I typed slowly.

Me: Enjoy, sweetheart

I finally looked up from my phone. Noah was still deep into his game, completely unaware. I leaned back into the couch, one thought running through my mind: I was screwed.

Noah was half-slumped on the couch now, controller in hand but no longer moving. The screen flashed the “Game Over” screen, but he didn’t even blink. His head tilted back against the cushions, his eyes barely open.

“I’m gonna head out,” I said quietly, grabbing my keys and sliding my phone into my pocket. “I’ll see you at the engagement tomorrow.”

Noah grunted something in return, a lazy wave of his hand.

“Oh—” I added casually, “I’m just gonna ask Daphne something real quick. About work stuff.”

“Mmh,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. “Yeah, whatever…”

I walked down the hallway slowly, pausing just outside her door. It was cracked open an inch, a faint light slipping through. I raised my hand and knocked gently.

“Sweetheart?” I said low.

She pulled the door open a little wider, standing there, her hair pulled back, a wooden fork between her fingers, and the food container still open on her desk.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft. “Are you leaving?”

I nodded once. “Yeah… just wanted to ask you something before I go. I told Noah it's about work.” She tilted her head slightly. “About what?”

I glanced behind me, making sure no one was there, then turned back to her, lowering my voice even more.

“Not really about work,” I admitted. “Just…can I come in for a sec?”

She blinked, surprised, but didn’t move to close the door. Instead, she stepped back and opened it for me to come in.

“Sure,” she said, quieter now. “What’s up?”

I stepped in, the door clicking shut quietly behind me, sealing us into the soft silence of her room. My heart was already pounding harder than I wanted to admit.

“I’ve been wanting to see you,” I said, my voice low, unsure.

She looked up at me with that small, shy smile. “Yeah?”

I nodded, returning the smile. “Yeah.”

“Thank you for the food, Matt,” she said, offering a soft smile, “Really.”

I nodded, trying to match it with my own. “It was nothing.”

My throat felt tight, like the words were too big for the space. “I’ve been thinking about you,” I murmured, almost like a confession. “About us.”

She didn’t respond right away, just nodded slightly, eyes steady on mine, waiting—like she knew more was coming.

“I was wondering if you wanted to—”

She suddenly tilted her head, eyes dropping just a little from my face. Her beautiful smile is gone.

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice softer, more cautious.

It took me a second to realize what she meant.

Her gaze was locked on my neck.

The heat rushed up my neck as I instinctively brought my hand to the side of it—too late. I knew what was there. The mark from earlier. One I hadn’t asked for. One I didn’t even want.

“Sweetheart…” I started gently.

She didn’t say anything. Her eyes stayed fixed on the spot like it was burning into her. Then she slowly looked back up at me, her smile completely gone.

“Listen—” I said quickly, reaching for her arm. “It’s not what it looks like. I’ve really been waiting to see you all day, Daph.”

She didn’t pull away right away, but the look she gave me—God, it cut deep.

“Yeah?” she said quietly, but her voice had a bitter edge. “That's why you got knocked up before you came to see me?”

“No—it wasn’t like that,” I said, desperate to close the space between us.

She shook her head and gently pulled her arm away. “It’s fine, Matt.”

“Daph, don’t do that—”

“We’re not together,” she said, looking past me now. “It’s fine. Really. Let’s just keep things professional.”

I saw it—just for a second—the crack in her composure. Her lips pressed tight, her chest rising with shallow breaths. She was hurt. Bad. And I didn’t know how to fix it.

“Can we please talk about this?” I tried again, my voice lower now. “I swear, it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t even want it to happen. I just—”

“Matt,” she said softly, but firmly. Her eyes met mine, glassy. “Please… just go.”

I froze. She was blinking fast now, and I could see it. She was trying not to cry.

“I’ll see you at the next shoot,” she added, turning away before I could say another word.

I stood there for a beat, helpless. Everything I wanted to say sat heavy in my throat, but none of it would change what she saw. What it looked like. I’d explain myself eventually, just seemed wrong now. She needed to cool off.

I did what she asked and halfheartedly walked out feeling like a coward. Even though I wanted to do the exact opposite.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: wompp, another update because I'm getting busy this week. mwah like and reblog!] –ceyana

Tags: @oopsiedaisydeer @ribbonlovergirl @mattsfrenchtoast @lm-a-mirrorball @urlocallera @kingofeverythingmb @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee @malox12 @sturnslux3 @carrielovesmatt @vanillakissesxx @sagesturns @enviedparty101 @kiarasmaybank @mattscore @fmg05 @mattsdiva @kenah-sturniolo @tropicfessed @courta13 @meatballlover10 @ellssturn @idkwhatthisis2009 @mattspillowprincess @chrissturniolodailysluts @babyt0matoes

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#ceyanabbiolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo #fanfic #sturniolo #nick sturniolo #brothers best friend #light angst

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queermccoy · 2 days ago

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nothin' lasts forever, that's how it goes (6393 words) by queermccoy Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard Characters: Evan "Buck" Buckley, Tommy Kinard, Maddie Buckley, Doug Kendall, Henrietta "Hen" Wilson, Abby Clark Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Doug Kendall Being an Asshole, Alternate Universe - Truckers, Running Away, Angst, Break Up, Daddy Kink Series: Part 4 of take guesses on exits, one has to be right Summary:

Before Buck could reply, there was a knock on the kitchen door. When he looked over, there was an outline of someone tall behind the gingham curtain.

"You expecting someone?" Buck asked.

Tommy shook his head. Buck knew his family lived nearby, two towns over, but they'd never unexpectedly dropped by before. Actually, they'd never visited at all. He wasn't sure who else it could be. Maybe the neighbor Maddie talked to yesterday was checking in.

Tommy got up from his seat, brushing his hands on his shorts. He walked over to the door and pushed the curtain out of the way with his index finger, making a confused humming noise.

He opened the door, holding it open just enough to be polite while blocking the view into his house. Tommy asked, "Can I help you?"

"Hello," said the absolute last person Buck wanted to hear from. Doug laughed in a faux-self-conscious way.

or, choices are made

[author's note: please read the note at the end of this work. thank you]

#911 fic #911 fanfiction #bucktommy #evan buckley #tommy kinard

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risky-witchy · 1 day ago

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CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR DELTARUNE CHAPTERS 3 and 4

Long ass post using the Deltarune OST and motifs as a basis for theories, specifically about Dess, her relationship with Kris, and the implications of what it all means

This might be all over the place but I have to get all of this out somewhere. This is a working theory and includes the theory that Dess is the Knight, however I do not go in depth into that part of the theory

Thinking about the Deltarune OST, specifically Raise Your Bat. This is the song that you play with Susie and Ralsei in the Lightners Live band minigame. In the segment directly before you play this minigame, Tenna brings up December and calls her a ‘musical prodigy’, and even jokes about bringing her back. There are very few times Dess gets name dropped in all of Deltarune, and I don’t think that it’s a coincidence that she gets mentioned right before you play a song called Raise Your Bat, given that elsewhere in the game you can find a picture with December in it, holding a bat and that the Knight has what looks like a bat as a weapon. My theory is that Tenna brings up Dess before this song plays because Dess is the one who wrote the song. There’s a specific lyric ‘and your futures lost its rights’ that could be referencing Dess and her potential role as the Knight, and the whole Prophecy Has Been Foretold, No Escape type thing.

I had to go back and look at the lyrics because every time I play the minigame I get too focused on doing good lol BUT for the most part, Ralsei changes the lyrics after remarking that they might be ‘inappropriate’, which is another reason why I think Dess wrote the song. However, there is a specific set of lyrics that don’t get changed:

‘Come follow me into the dark, with your heart as the ark which shall shine you the way // Because I’m with you in the dark with your heart as my mark which shall guide you the way, through the waves’

We have heard some of these lyrics before, in Don’t Forget, the song that plays in the end credits of chapter one, and the last song on chapter one’s OST. ‘I’m with you in the dark’ is used in both songs and interestingly enough, the melody that is sung with these lyrics are from the melody of Lost Girl, from chapter 2. What’s even MORE interesting is that the specific section of Lost Girl that is sampled is the section that contains Gasters Theme.

If my theory about Dess writing Raise Your Bat is correct, then this would draw a connection from Dess to Don’t Forget, potentially with Dess being the one who sings it. Musical prodigy, after all. I feel like this has basis because Don’t Forget isn’t in the play through of the game, but the end credits. It feels akin to the unused text you can find in the code of the game, there but overlooked. Dess is trying to communicate in whatever way she can, but she’s lost in the game itself. I think further evidence of this is the appearance of Gasters theme in Raise Your Bat, as he is also ‘lost’ in the game, a character who once existed but has disappeared from some tragedy.

Now, here’s where things get very theory heavy, and rely based on my own ideas of how things fit together. Hear me out. The full lyrics of Don’t Forget are as follows:

‘When the light is running low, and the shadows start to grow, and the places that you know seem like fantasy // there’s a light inside your soul that’s still shining in the cold with the truth, the promise in our hearts. Don’t forget, I’m with you in the dark.’

Now, may I call your attention to the end of chapter 4, if you aren’t doing the weird route:

Based on both of these lines being paralleled beautifully to Don’t Forget, if Dess truly is the singer in Don’t Forget, then this implies that Dess is the Knight. It also implies that Dess and Kris made a promise to each other, and I think it revolves around Noelle and the prophecy. That would also mean that Dess and Kris knew about the Dark World before the events of Deltarune chapter one occur.

We the player do not know the whole prophecy. Ralsei knows it all, Susie knows the end, and we might assume that Kris does not know the end because we the player do not get to see it. However I think Kris knows much more than they are letting on. Chapter 4 implies that Kris could have a preexisting relationship with the Knight and may be actively working with them, based on us overhearing the phone call in the Holiday’s kitchen, as well as the scene when fighting the Knight, if it’s a no hit run, Kris will cough, the Knight turns, and the fight ends. This all falls into place if the Knight really is Dess. Kris and Dess have made some kind of promise, and are working together to do… something.

I have seen a few people talk about the prophecy in light of everything revealed in chapter 4, and how they believe that Susie is not the intended hero of the prophecy but rather Noelle. the silhouette we see of ‘the girl’ the prophecy mentions has been noted to also fit a silhouette of Noelle, and the description we see could easily apply to her. Noelle is clearly very important to the story and it’s highly likely she is the intended lightener, along with Kris, in the prophecy.

I think the promise Dess and Kris made was to protect Noelle from whatever terrible ending Susie saw and Ralsei knows. I think that they are working together to create a different ending, and Kris either can’t or doesn’t want to get anyone else involved, so they keep it to themselves, despite genuinely caring for both other members of their party. I think this is a reason why Kris gets so upset when we the player force them to go through with Snowgrave, because Kris knows what happens at the end, if Noelle is involved.

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wrestlersownmyheart · 2 days ago

Text

"Yeet Of Fate" Chapter 7 (Jey Uso X Female Reader)

Title: Yeet Of Fate Pairing: Jey Uso X Reader Summary: When you, an aspiring author, decide to take your skills to the world of wrestling, you decide to shadow and tag along with a couple of wrestlers to learn more about the sport for your upcoming book debut. None other than the Royal Rumble winner, Jey Uso, is the male wrestler you will be working with, and needless to say, that makes you nervous. You tell yourself, things will stay platonic. You tell yourself that…

Jey Uso is at the top of his game, the last thing he needs is a fan trailing around after him and fan girling all over the place. He wants to do his job, bask in the glory of it and call it a day. Not have to answer questions all day long from a wannabe writer. That's how he feels, until he meets Y/N face to face. She isn't what he expected. And he doesn't like to be wrong. As beautiful as she is… He will keep things platonic. He tells himself that…

Disclaimers: I own nothing or anyone associated or affiliated with WWE. I own only the original characters. This is just a fictional story that came from my imagination. Content/Trigger Warnings: Violence against a woman. Mature themes.

Note: I realize that Naomi's and Jade's match was on night one of Mania, but in my story it's gonna be on night two.

Also, this chapter is a bit shorter than previous ones, but I needed to follow my outline and this is how it worked out. Sorry about that!

Chapter 7

You woke slowly to sunlight filtering through the windows of your hotel room. You discovered Jey's tattooed arm around you and you smiled, remembering the night before. You lazily turned over in Jey's embrace and faced him. Kissing him softly awake, you smiled at him again as he opened his eyes.

"Well, hello," he greeted, his voice a little gravelly from his sleep. "You are a sight, aulelei."

"I bet I am," you laughed, "My hair is all over the place, and-"

"Shhh," Jey placed his finger across your lips, "You look stunning."

"So do you," you replied, brushing the back of your hand down his bearded cheek. "I didn't know what being in love was like, but I sure love it."

Jey chuckled, "So do I." He kissed the tip of your nose. "Why don't we get up and get showered." He suggested, throwing the sheets aside and standing to his feet. He wiggled his eyebrows at you and you laughed as you always did when he did that.

"Sounds great."

You both walked into the bathroom and showered together, washing each other's hair and bodies. After a round of lovemaking, you discussed the show that night, and you told him of your plans to watch from the crowd so you could get a better view as well as some inspiration for your book. Putting some conditioner on your hair, he smiled, "Good. I can kiss you in front of everyone and they'll all know that you're mine."

You giggled, and kissed him. "I love the way that sounds. I'm yours."

"Yes, you are."

He rinsed your hair and then about twenty minutes later, you were both out of the shower and drying each other off, and getting dressed and ready for the day. You quickly blow dried your hair while Jey got ready to head down to the hotel gym and meet up with Jimmy so they could work out together.

You took a cab to the arena after Jey promised to meet you there later. Once you arrived, you slipped a twenty–which Jey gave to you for the ride–to the driver and told him to keep the change. You'd argued with Jey about the money but he'd playfully swatted your rear-end and told you to mind your mouth.

Hurrying up to the lobby, so you could find Naomi, you brushed your hair over your shoulder and went in search of the dressing rooms. You were immediately immersed in a crowd of wrestlers who were all over the place trying to get ready for the show that evening. You made your way to Naomi's room and knocked on the door. She opened it and happily ushered you in.

"I need to go to Jey's dressing room and work on my book a bit, but I wanted to drop by and wish you luck on your match tonight!"

"Thank you, girl!" Naomi gushed. "So how was last night?" She asked, urging you to sit down on the sofa for a few minutes.

"It was…magical," you said smiling. "I can't believe how lucky I am."

Naomi nodded, "We both are. The Uso men are definitely special." She patted your leg. "So, are y'all exclusive? Or what?"

"I think we are," you replied. "We actually need to talk more about our relationship and figure it out. But if he's all in, I definitely am."

"Glad to hear it," Naomi said. "Jey is a good guy. I don't want to see him hurt."

You nodded, "I'd never hurt him."

"I know," Naomi said with a soft smile. "You two are good together."

"Thanks, Naomi." You said, giving the female wrestler a hug.

"Don't mention it," she said with a smile. "Well, I need to prepare for tonight and get some practice in at the ring but thanks so much for stopping by and wishing me luck."

"Oh, no problem. I need to get going on my book too, so I'll get on out of here," you smiled, patting Naomi's shoulder. "See ya later?"

"Definitely."

With that, you left Naomi's dressing room so she could prepare for her match that evening, and you headed for Jey's dressing room so you could have some privacy to work on brainstorming for your book. You reached the door and opened it, stepping inside.

No sooner than you crossed the threshold, you were propelled forward by an unseen force. You stumbled and crashed onto the sofa, and quickly, you scrambled to your feet, and turned to see what had happened. The door was slammed shut by a huge hoodied figure, and you heard the click of the lock. The large man turned to you and removed his hood.

Gunther.

"I told you, you would pay."

Somehow you knew that he was no longer fooling around.

"HELP ME!" You screamed, trying to get someone's attention through the door. Somehow.

"Everyone is so busy and many are in their dressing rooms–they can't hear you," he said, stalking toward you.

"HELP!" You screamed again, ignoring Gunther. Avoiding him and running for the door, you hurried to unlock it, but before your trembling fingers could do just that, you were dragged back by your hair and slapped across the cheek. You shrieked in pain and fell to the floor holding your face.

"Shut up," Gunther growled. "You've had this coming since you first started traveling with all of us." He drew his leg back and kicked you right in the ribs. You exhaled sharply from the shock of the sudden trauma.

"I warned you. And I lost my belt because of you. You brought this on yourself, you dancing little whore."

Another kick to the ribs.

"St-stop!" You wheezed out and grabbed your middle to protect it from any further abuse.

"You want me to stop?" He growled, grabbing your hair again and yanking your head back. "You should have thought about that before now!"

"Somebody… H-help me!" You tried to scream again, but the attempt at it made your ribs scream.

"SHUT UP!" Gunther had become unhinged. He roughly tugged your arms behind your back and ziptied them. And then he grabbed your ankles and attempted to ziptie them as well, but you kicked him in the face. Growing enraged, he grabbed your hair and propelled your face into the hard floor. Then, he bound your ankles while you were stunned. Next, he tore off a strip of duct tape from a roll he pulled out of his hoodie and slapped it across your mouth.

You were so frightened. How far will Gunther go to get the title back, you wondered.

You had the feeling he wasn't going to leave you in Jey's room to be found–he was going to take you somewhere else and do no telling what to you. You could only hope that someone would see you out in the hallways and contact Jey.

Gunther lifted you up over his shoulder, and carried you out of the room. The hallways were dead quiet and empty now.

How could there not be someone out here, you asked yourself, as Gunther carried you to the elevator and went down to the parking garage. He walked a ways with you over his shoulder. He carried himself as if he had no cares in the world–even whistling a little tune.

He came to a dark sedan and popped the trunk open. You realized he intended to put you in the trunk.

No way, you thought, instantly beginning to struggle. But it was no use. There was only so much you could do tied up at the hands and ankles like you were.

Gunther tossed you into the trunk and you began to freak out. You tried to raise up and fall out of the trunk, but Gunther held you down and then wrapped his hands around your throat–squeezing tightly and choking off your air.

Struggling to breathe, you began to think that Gunther really was going to kill you. Your vision went hazy and then narrowed down to a slender tunnel. You tried to fight him, but there was little to nothing you could do.

You tried to make a sound. You really did. But between the tape on your mouth, and Gunther's hands around your throat, nothing would pass your lips. Gunther squeezed your throat even tighter.

The last thing you saw was his snarling face as you passed out…

}i{}i{}i{}i{}i{

Jey was into a set of weighted squats and Jimmy was doing some curls. The twins had gotten most of their workout in for the day but were pushing themselves just a little harder.

"Let's break, Uce," Jimmy finally said when he set the dumbbell back on the rack. Jey dropped his barbell to the floor and nodded in agreement.

Sitting down on a bench and drinking down some water, Jey pulled out his phone and texted Y/N.

"Hey, woman, I'm pretty much done with my work out. Gonna shower and head to the stadium. Give me a quick call?"

"Textin' her, ain't ya?"

Jey looked over at Jimmy and smirked, "Absolutely."

"You got it bad."

"I do."

"So, you planning to make an honest woman out of her?"

"I might be."

"Good. I like her."

"Don't like her too much. She's mine. You have your woman, let me have mine."

Jimmy chuckled and shook his head at his brother.

They hit the showers, and got cleaned up, and then Jey came out and checked his phone.

There was a text message from her, but it was clearly not typed by her hand.

"If you want her back in one piece, you'll give me a rematch. ~ G"

Jey cursed.

"What's wrong?" Jimmy asked, instantly on alert and walking up to his brother.

"Gunther. He's got Y/N."

Jey showed Jimmy his phone and let him read the text.

Now, Jimmy cursed. "Let's go."

The two twins ran to the parking garage and got in the rental. Jimmy drove and Jey tried to call Y/N. But there was no answer.

Jey cursed again, this time growling the expletive.

Once they reached the arena, Jimmy flew into the parking garage and sped through the garage until he came to a parking space nearest the elevator. The twins flew out of the SUV and ran for the elevator. Hitting the lobby button, Jey tried once more to call Y/N. To no avail.

Finally, he gave up and pocketed his phone and waited very impatiently for the lift to ding open. When it finally did, the two got out and began looking for Y/N. First, they checked the most obvious place to look–Jey's dressing room. There were signs of a struggle–the couch was in disarray, Y/N's computer bag was laying haphazardly on the floor, and a rug was bunched up, but there was no Y/N in sight.

They ran for Naomi's dressing room next, and found her warming up inside.

"Have you seen Y/N?" Jey asked, in way of greeting.

"Yeah I did, a few hours ago. She came to wish me luck and then went to your dressing room to work on her book, she said. Why?"

"She's missing," Jey answered. "Gunther's got her."

"Well, let's find her," Naomi said, dropping everything to help find her new friend.

"No way," Jimmy said. "You are not coming with us and getting endangered also."

"But three people looking for her is better than two people looking for her!"

"I know, but I'm not taking the chance," Jimmy said, kissing his wife's forehead. "Stay here in case she comes around. Call us if you hear anything."

She pouted, but nodded, as Jey and Jimmy went to look for Y/N.

It wasn't but about an hour till the show was to start.

I have to find her, Jey thought, as they searched the hallways. I just have to.

"Let's split up," Jimmy suggested. "We can cover more ground that way."

So they did. They went in opposite directions, and continued their search for Y/N. Jey straight up walked into the women's restroom, he didn't even care if anyone screamed at him.

"Baby, you in here?"

Nothing.

He backed out of the bathroom, and stepped back into the hallway. Trying to think of where else to look for her, he headed for catering just on the off chance that she could possibly be there. He knew she wasn't. But he had to do something. He couldn't just stand around hoping she would turn up. She needed him. Now.

He went to catering and was disappointed, but not surprised, to not find her there.

Jey became so desperate, he began checking all maintenance closets and even the men's restrooms.

Nowhere.

Y/N had simply vanished.

Where had Gunther taken her?

If you want on my tag list, just ask! 😀

Tagging:

@oreillystolemyheart @lookalivesunshine-x @southerngirl41 @claymoresofinfamy23 @beccalynns-world

@Heerah34 @dersha89 @shortyiceheart @wwechristina87 @expert-texpert

@sassymox @sammyfinn21-blog @alliecatsworldsblog @potatosackk @keisha-knell

@peaceloveandcurves @terrortwinunicorn @mzv11 @jazzyboo123-blog1 @ibelievedinjh

@fafomama @zigzoggy @raya-hunter01 @sharmelasworld @queenmotionlessxo

#Jey Uso #jey uso fan fiction #jey uso x reader #jey uso imagine #jey uso fanfiction

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luvnoirs · 10 hours ago

Text

SEVEN: SITUATIONSHIP

some of your love— a paige bueckers fanfiction

contents/warning(s): none but trust things are gonna pick up next chapter🫡 word count: 3.1k

PAIGE → ARLINGTON, TX

my fourth consecutive shot bounced off the rim.

"fuck," i groaned, immediately slumping over to the padded wall.

"you're supposed to put it in the basket, you know?" dijonai teased before she took a shot of her own from the three point line. it sank in.

i didn't respond. i wasn't in the mood for jokes today.

i hadn't seen sevyn in a few days. we texted and facetimed whenever we could, but it wasn't the same. not even close. my last couple of games were away so i've been on the road, and she's been wrapped up with her class and rehearsals.

but damn, i missed her.

missed her strawberry scent and how her skin felt under my fingertips. missed the feeling of her lips on mine the most.

i couldn't even describe the feeling i felt when i noticed the ring on her finger. i hadn't even seen it at first until it caught the light just right, gleaming in my eye like a harsh reminder. i wanted to say something, ask her something, but i couldn't— literally.

and yeah, maybe it wasn't my place to say anything at all. but the moment she kissed me on my couch, she made it my place.

if someone told my younger self that i'd end up here— in whatever mess this was with sevyn—i'd laugh dead in their face. because i meant what i said to sevyn.

i wasn't a homewrecker.

but was there even a hypothetical home to wreck in the first place? if anything, it was wrecked before i was even in the picture.

i didn't know the full history between her and elisha. only that it was eight years deep, at least from what little she told me over these past few days.

i knew that they started dating when she was freshly eighteen and elisha was twenty, but knew of each other since she was fourteen. i knew that elisha and her went to baylor together where things got serious between them. i knew there was more that she was leaving out.

because no one stays in something that long unless there's not only history, but damage.

"i think i want a dog," i held the phone up as i laid back against my pillows.

sevyn gave me a look through the screen. "paige, you barely even have time to raise a fish."

"okay, you're dragging it," i uttered. "i would be a great dog mom. what about a husky?"

"a husky in texas is crazy," sevyn said, starting up her car. "if anything you should just get a cat. it's less work and more convenient."

i frowned. "i'm not a cat person. they just stare at you like they're possessed."

"but they're so cute!" sevyn looked down at the screen with a pout for a moment then continued driving. "especially clingy cats."

"yeah, still not getting one," i stared at her through the screen, admiring how her features glowed under the street lights. "anyways, you headed back home finally? i miss you."

"no..." she glanced towards the screen with a light shake of her head. "i'm actually headed to pick elisha up from the shop. then i'll head home."

my lips pressed into a line. i've only seen elisha once, back when they first moved in and were outside by the moving truck. never had a conversation with her to form an honest opinion, but from what i've overheard, my opinion was anything but nice.

"but, i miss you too, paige," she smiled.

i hummed, readjusting my arm so it was resting underneath my head. "tell her i said what's up."

the camera tilted to the car ceiling as if she almost dropped it. "paige, i'm about to hang up on you."

“i’m kidding, i’m kidding,” i smiled despite the slight ache in my chest.

the light coming through her windshield shifted from yellow to red and she came to a stop. the soft glow from the stoplight illuminated her face, making her hair seem copper. she raised her arm, her bracelets clanking together as she fixed a few pieces of her hair before she caught me staring.

“what?” the corner of her lips tugged upward.

i hesitated. i knew i shouldn't say it, but i couldn't help myself. “come over tonight."

her eyebrow raised suspiciously, looking at the screen with a growing smile of curiosity. "oh?"

"just to chill. or sit. or... i don't know, relax? nothing like that," i rushed out, ignoring how the thought definitely crossed my mind. "i just wanna see you."

her expression softened and she nodded.

"okay."

SEVYN → DALLAS TX

the door shut with a click behind us. i dropped my belongings on the table, watching as elisha walked past me and toward the couch.

"you in the mood to cook dinner? i'm tired," she took a seat, already typing on her phone.

"nah, i'm actually gonna head back out," i shook my head even though she wasn't looking. i paused, thinking of a lie to tell her. "dijonai texted. i told her i'd swing by."

"oh?" she glanced up at me and chuckled. "you parked and came all the way up here though? you shoulda just dropped me off. that was dumb."

my heart raced but i shrugged it off. "yeah, i know. i just came back from class, so i need a quick shower."

"whatever," she shook her head and returned back to tapping her fingers on her phone screen. "i'll find something in the kitchen later."

i quietly exhaled a shaky breath, walking away toward my bedroom. i didn't completely lie... a shower was needed.

i pulled out my phone and opened up my messages to let paige know i'll be over soon, then tossed my phone on my bed. i let the shower run as i got undressed and wrapped my hair up.

after i was out and ready to get dressed, i rummaged through my closet. my hand came across a crop top out of habit, but my mind instantly thought back to when i wore that last time in her apartment. i blinked, then put it back and chose a loose sweatshirt that was cut along the top, exposing my left shoulder. i paired it with matching leggings and stepped into my shoes.

paige:

door is unlocked. you can just come in whenever you want

my hands felt sweaty as i typed back a response. everything about this felt wrong yet so right. whatever i had going on with paige... i couldn't even begin to describe it.

friends?

friends that wanted to kiss each other?

and i knew that i should stay away from her, at least until i figure out what i'm doing with elisha, but something kept pulling me back to her.

right as i was about to walk out, i caught a glimpse of the ring on my finger. i froze, staring at it for a brief moment before i hesitantly slid it off my finger. i tucked it away in my top drawer.

elisha was still on the couch by the time i stepped back into the living area, this time her eyes were glued to the tv screen. but as i passed by, grabbing my purse even though i didn't really need it, i could feel her gaze on me.

"i'll be back," i called out, walking towards the door.

"sevyn."

i paused mid-step, turning to look at her. she stared at me like i was crazy, then pointed to the table where my purse was.

"your keys. they're still on the table," she said.

oh.

i hid my nervousness with a forced laugh, "shit, thanks."

after i grabbed my keys, i gave elisha a quick smile, then walked out.

the hallway was quiet. only the sound of my breathing could be heard as i stared ahead at paige's door. i adjusted my sweatshirt and stepped forward, opening her door slowly.

i didn't hear much as i walked in, just the quiet hum on music playing from her living room tv.

i shut the door behind me and slid off my shoes by the mat. "paige?"

"in here," she called out.

i followed the music to find her in the living room, sitting comfortably on the couch. she was in a plain black fitted tee, the same one i noticed in our facetime call earlier, and sweatpants. the only difference is that she now had a pair of glasses on her face.

she looked up to the sound of my footsteps approaching and gave me a smile. "hey."

"hi," i grinned, placing my purse on the floor and plopping down next to her. "i didn't know you wore glasses. you look so adorable."

she peeked at over the rim of her glasses, "adorable? out of all word choices..."

"not gonna lie," i shrugged. "i was gonna say nerdy at first."

she scoffed, but a smile remained on her lips. "how thoughtful."

my eyes fell back on to the coffee table in front of her, i leaned forward to get a better view. "are those legos?"

"mhm," she picked up a half-taped lego box and showed it to me. "remembered i never finished it, so i figured you could help me tonight."

"i've never built legos before" i admitted, taking the box from her and inspecting it.

she froze. "you've never what?" paige gasped dramatically, her eyes wide behind her lenses. "sev..."

"damn, is it that serious?" i laughed softly, setting the box back on the coffee table next to the tiny scattered lego pieces.

"uh, yeah," she said seriously, handing me the instruction manual. "cmon, you got it."

i took a glimpse through the book, giving her a look. "this shit has like one hundred pages."

"aye, don't disrespect the process."

a little while later, we both ended up cross-legged on the floor, hunched over the coffee table like we were cramming for finals. the lego up house was finally starting to look like a house, or at least something like one, and the music still playing lowly in the background was the only thing stopping me from throwing a logo in frustration.

frustration not only from the legos, but from the fact that paige was sitting less than a foot away from me, looking annoyingly good in a pair of glasses that framed her face perfectly.

i held up a red piece, glancing back at the instruction manual again in confusion. "wait, so this piece goes... here?" i pointed towards what looked like a door.

paige peeked over, her shoulder brushing mine. "nah, that's a one by four. you need the one by six."

i stared at the lego and frowned. "they all look the same."

"no they don't," she snickered, looking through the pile of pieces until she found the correct one with ease. "see?"

i groaned, my head dropping onto the couch cushion behind me. "i need a break. this is making me hungry."

paige tapped my thigh, "nope. no breaks for the rookie."

i turned my head, still resting it on the cushion. "oh, you're strict."

"you like it though," a slow smile spread across her face as she continued sifting through a pile of legos.

"hm, maybe," i mumbled, my eyes still on her.

i noticed how her glasses slid slightly down the bridge of her nose and how a few strands of hair fell loose from her bun. her bottom lip was caught in her teeth again as she concentrated. the lego piece was still in my hand, but i didn't care about it anymore. watching her was much better.

she must have said something to me, but i barely registered it. i was entirely too focused on the way her hands toyed around with the small lego in her hand.

she turned, catching me staring. "what?"

i shook my head dismissively. "nothing."

she set the piece in her hands down on the table and fully turned towards me, leaning closer. "nothing? you sure about that?"

my eyes flickered over to her again. her lips were tempting, still, i looked away and sat up to the table again. "very sure."

i could feel her eyes on the side of my face, watching me as i played with the lego piece just to keep my hands busy. the weight of her stare pressed against my chest made the hairs on the back of my neck raise.

"stop doing that."

my head turned, brows pulling together. "what am i doing?"

"acting like you can't touch me," her voice was low and careful.

i stared at her for a moment, the air around us suddenly feeling much thicker. still, i held myself together. my head tilted, "who said i wanted to?"

the way her smirk deepened sent a shiver down my spine.

"that's the thing," she chuckled. "you ain't have to say it." her eyes flickered down to my lips. "i can feel it."

"oh my god," i rolled my eyes, trying to shake off how she was making me feel, but my body betrayed me. "you're cocky as fuck."

"mm," paige leaned back against the couch, shoulders lax, her hands now in her lap. "maybe. but, i'm right. you been looking at me all night like you need permission."

"i don't need permission for shit," i said, scoffing under my breath.

"exactly. so prove it."

i almost laughed her off, but by the way her eyes locked on my lips, i knew she was serious. my hand finally dropped the lego i had been clinging to before my body shifted towards her. our legs were nearly touching, and it wouldn't take much for me to take a seat on her inviting lap.

"is this what you had in mind when you told me to come over tonight?"

paige didn't answer immediately. her fingers slowly trailed toward my clothed thigh. i could feel her fingers drawling mindlessly through the fabric. she finally muttered, "maybe."

i thought about pulling away. tell her goodnight and going to my own apartment across the hall. tell her that this wasn't right.

then paige looked up at me, her eyes darker behind the lenses. "you knew that though," she added, licking her lips.

my breath hitched as her fingers danced higher, and every thought seemed to have left my mind. my hands found her jaw as i leaned in, my thumb grazing the corner of her mouth. i didn't kiss her yet, just waited. for what, i wasn't sure. maybe a sign? an excuse to fall back?

paige didn't move or inch forward. she wanted me to make the first move.

and i did.

i pressed my lips against hers, slowly at first. yet, paige kissed back eagerly like she'd been waiting for this moment since i walked in. her hands gripped my hips, tugging me down onto her lap, and i let her.

one hand found my jaw, squeezing gently, signaling me to part my mouth. once i did her tongue slid in, and i nearly gasped in surprise when her tongue rubbed against mines messily. the other hand the was on my thigh made its way under my sweatshirt, slowly and curiously.

her glasses shifted, starting to slip down her nose and i pulled back to take them off. but paige didn't make it easy, chasing after my lips and nearly catching my lip between her teeth in the process of me leaning away.

"paige," i laughed under my breath, folding her glasses and placing them behind me on the table.

"hm?" her voice was muffled against my skin as her lips found a new home at the base of my neck. her tongue flicked against my pulse and i moaned quietly. but when i felt her start to suck, i gently pushed her head away, fingers resting on the nape of her neck.

my mind went to the other woman across the hall as she looked at me, slightly dazed and confused.

"don't do that," i whispered.

she searched my eyes, then chuckled, humorless and dry. her hands dropped to rest on my hips. "so what are we doing, sevyn?"

my mouth parted, but i couldn't give her answer.

"is this about her?" she asked when i didn't respond.

i huffed, "of course it's about her. it always is."

"fuck elisha," she scoffed.

"paige," i rubbed my fingers against my temple. "it's not that simple."

"yeah, it is," paige doubled down, her hands still around my hips squeezing. "i get that you two have history, but look at yourself, sevyn. you keep choosing a version of yourself that's not even happy anymore. you told me that yourself."

i bit the inside of my cheek, hating how she was always right. hating how she always remembered the little details and things that i tell her. hating how she's only known me for a month, but it feels like it's been forever.

but then i thought about my mother. how i watched my father leave her. how she sacrificed everything, working to the bone, just to barely make ends meet. how she practically smoked half her life away because she couldn't deal with the stress anymore.

i wasn't my mother.

but somehow i still felt her presence deep inside me every time i thought about leaving the only stable thing i've had in my life.

my eyes shut, feeling smaller under paige's gaze.

"what happened to not wanting to just be friends?" paige said softly.

my voice was thin, eyes still shut. "i still want that. trust me." she rubbed circles on my hips, somehow soothing me.

"but you still want her?"

my eyes opened at that, mouth parting as i tried thinking of an answer.

it wasn't necessary elisha herself that i wanted. i wanted the life i imagined with her— the life since i was fourteen, seeing her for the first time. i wanted the wedding i imagined walking down the isle to. i wanted the big house and marigold garden that i imagined her attending to as our kids ran around.

without that, i wasn't sure who i was. at least outside of dancing.

"i want the life i've built with her," i finally whispered. "and leaving her means i'll be alone for the first time in a long time. everything i've pictured for my life will be gone, just like that. i don't know if i can handle that, paige."

"it's okay to want something new. that's part of life, sev. people outgrow each other," she squeezed my hip reassuringly. "and you never needed her to live the life you deserve. besides, you won't be alone. you'll have me."

i let out a small sigh, my body falling forward into paige as i rested my head on her shoulder. my arms loosely wrapped around her waist. "you're so good with words. it's getting kinda annoying," i mumbled against the fabric of her tee.

"i'm good at other things too, y'know?"

i cracked a laugh, "shut up."

#some of your love #paige bueckers x black!oc #paige bueckers #wbb #uconn wbb #wlw #wnba

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