#when to replace running shoes

[bonniepop]

another night where you fight, another night of silence. another night where miya osamu sleeps with his back to you.

the realization that there is not much more you can do to save your relationship clutches at your chest with an iron grip.

the gravity of it makes you whimper. pressing your lips together, you shakily push yourself up to sit blinking back tears while blindly stepping around for your slippers, willing yourself not to sob—not here, not where he can hear. your toes touch the fluff of them, and you hurry to slip them on. you need to get out of here.

as quiet as possible, you leave your boyfriend in your shared bedroom.

you stumble to the couch and kick off your shoes, blindly searching until your fingers catch the lampshade switch. you yank it to provide some light, rattling as it flings back into place.

you pull your knees to your chest and press your forehead against your kneecaps. a numb part of your brain thinks oh, so this is where this was, when you think of the misery that quieted itself, replaced with a numbness that overtook you during the fight you had with him earlier.

the numbness that made your limbs feel like ice when he clicked off the phone call without even hearing you out.

you wanted to tell him so much, but in the face of his blank gaze and dismissive demeanor, you shut off. you have more fight in you, you know that. but tonight you just couldn’t. couldn’t listen to him tell you that he needed more from you—more support, more time, more patience.

you’ve given him that, right? your brain runs with thoughts you can't keep up with. you gave him yourself. you have, for months, for years. you did what you could. you’ve withstood lonely anniversaries, forgotten birthdays, broken promises. you’ve done everything you could. you gave what you could. you gave everything you could.

i want you to come home, you wanted to tell him eatlier tonight. come home. you’re never home. i know you’re busy at work and you’re doing what you love but please, ‘samu. please. 

love me, too.

your body wracks with a sob, the hurt fresh, as if the words that you never got to say wounded your insides instead. you wanted to tell him that, you wanted to beg for it, beg for his time, beg for his attention, beg for him to love you back. but time and time again he just turns and says he’s tired, he doesn't want to hear it, and the moment is gone, and now the fear of knowing that leaving things unsaid will destroy you, will destroy him. will destroy both of you.

you huddle closer into yourself and sob, a sharp sound in your ears making your head pound.

“babe?” you hear through the ringing in your ears, and suddenly warm hands are on your arms. “babe, what’s wrong?” his voice is calm against your turmoil. “are you having a panic attack?”

“’samu, i’m—” you shudder and he leaves for a moment, flitting to the kitchen to grab you some water. 

“drink, please,” he tells you, gently unfurling you to sit. you comply with shaky limbs, taking the water he’d given you in your delicate grip. a few sips are enough to calm you down, but the fear is still there.

he gingerly takes the glass and sets it aside. he kneels in front of you, taking your hands and soothingly rubbing his thumbs against your skin. his fingers are hot, almost like a furnace, but when you realize that he's not, he's fine, your hands are freezing, you resist the urge to pull away as he warms your palm.

when he looks up to smile at you, you see the exhaustion on his face, and, instantly, you hate yourself for it. for this.

"i'm sorry," you blurt out, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.

his hand leaves yours and cups your cheek. "for what, baby?"

“i love you so much, osamu,” you tell him without thinking, voice thick and wet and miserable. you press the palm of the hand he let go of against his cheek, hiccuping when he closes his eyes to lean into your touch. 

“i love you, too,” he says, ready to apologize for the fight, but it's not about that.

not anymore.

you pull away. the confusion and hurt on his face is making everything worse.

“i love you so much,” you tell him, desperately wishing that he could understand. “but i—” you sob, “but, osamu, i can’t anymore.”

osamu presses his lips together, saying nothing. you hear him sniffle, and his fingers come forward to brush at the tears on your cheeks and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.

“i love you so much,” you confess. “i would do anything for you. and i have, i have for years. i’ve tried my best, but osamu, i’m so tired,” you sob. your voice feels like its giving out but the desperation makes the words claw themselves out of your mouth. “i’m so tired, i'm so tired and i'm so lonely, and—and—and i love you so much, but i have nothing left to give.”

you pull your hands away to hunch over and cry into your palms unable to face him. messily, you wipe at your face and push your hair back. you give him the most apologetic smile you can muster, but you're unable to see his face through your tears. “i’m so sorry i can’t give you more, osamu.”

you hear him sniffle and when you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands, his eyes are glassy. then he closes his eyes.

the pain that washes over his face is absolutely unbearable. the furrow of his brow and the wrinkle of his chin, the lines by his scowl that you know is him trying his best to keep it together.

when he opens his eyes to look at you, his eyes are no longer glassy. your heart breaks for the pain he refuses to show. “what’s next?”

your smile is sad and wet with tears. “i think you know.” you brush his hair back and cradle his face with your hands. “let’s… let’s do this in the morning, okay?”

he nods, looking away. he licks his lips and shakes his head, and he turns to face you with a furrowed brow and a little more composure despite his watery gaze. but it doesn’t take long before his face crumples and he rushes to hide his face against your legs. his quiet sobs are pained and miserable, his chest shaking as he cries. 

you press your face against his hair and cry with him.

—

the morning greets you kindly, the soft sunlight bathing your room in a sweet glow. it’s early, but you can’t keep sleeping. there’s a lot to pack.

your eyes feel hot and swollen, and bones feel heavy beneath your skin, weighing you down from getting up from the bed. still, you fight. you push yourself up to sit and notice that you’re alone. unsurprising, really; osamu has been leaving earlier and coming home later. onigiri miya needs care, needs nurturing, so it’ll blossom and grow. you need to stop begrudging him for it.

you finish your morning ablutions in the bathroom and head out to the kitchen, but when you open your bedroom door, the smell of food hits your nose like a smack to the face. your stomach twists when you see a familiar broad back—osamu didn’t leave—and your fingers turn cold.

the door slides shut behind you and he turns. “good mornin’,” he says quietly, shutting off the stove.

“good morning,” you say, walking to your kitchenette. when you see the spread on the table, you gape despite yourself. “osamu. what is—what.”

he flushes, sliding a delicious looking steak unto a plate and setting it alongside the other plates—nearly every single plate you own, you note—and your dining table is bursting with food. “cooked breakfast.”

“for how many people?” you ask, incredulous. “i tried t'remember everythin’ you liked,” he said with a sniff, and your heart crinkles at the edges, because that means something.

“thank you,” you whisper, and you quietly take a seat while sets aside the dishware he used. 

when he finishes, he turns to look at you, leaning on the counter. it takes him a while. “when you leave,” he says, “i’m going to try again.”

you stare at him, confused. you say nothing and wait for him to continue.

“i don’t want you to leave,” he says, and he rubs his face in frustration. “but i know i’ve—i know i fucked up. i love you, and i never should’ve hurt you.” he inhales through his nose. “but i did, and i can’t change that.

“but i’m not giving up on you. not on us. you—” he clears his throat, and the dark circles beneath his eyes makes your heart feel tight. “i’ll… if i have to start all over again, i’ll do it,” he whispers, walking closer and taking your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “i’ll win you back.”

“osamu,” you whisper, and his face crumples again.

“i love you too much to let you go,” he says, voice breaking as he fights back tears. “and i know that makes me a jerk. but i’m… i love you, so much—so fucking much, and i hate myself for not making you feel that. for hurting you.”

he gets on his knees and tears are streaming down your face. “leave me if you have to,” he says brokenly.

“if you need space, i’ll understand. but please,” he begs. “please don’t give up on me.” 

he does the unthinkable. he curls over and bows, back curved and forehead pressed against the backs of his hands, pressed against the floor.

the horror that overtakes you is beyond words. 

you drop to the floor to pull him upright, not letting him do this. he won’t do this to himself, you won’t let him. not for anyone, not for you. you pull his face against yours and kiss him as hard as you can, crying as you do.

you won't let him do this.

later, you sit on the couch, arms around osamu’s middle as you lie on his chest. the idea that this could be the last time you held him like this made you want to burst into tears again.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he promises, pushing your hair out of your face, gently guiding your chin up. “please, just… give me another chance.”

you look up at him, and your eyes meet.

—

“hey!” atsumu greets warmly as soon as you enter the restaurant, spreading his arms wide to engulf you in a hug. “it’s so good t’see you!“

“hi, ‘tsumu,” you greet, returning the hug. 

he motions for you to sit as he picks up the menu. “know what you want?”

you nod, not even bothering to pick up the menu. “how are you? how’s training?”

“’m good! training’s good. teammates are pretty good, too.”

"yeah? like who?"

atsumu makes a show of looking at the menu. "oh, i don't you know them."

you roll your eyes at his obvious ploy to get you to start talking. “fine. ask me.”

atsumu instantly leans in, conspiratorially covering his mouth with the menu and whispering, “how are you two? it’s been over a month now, right?”

“oi.” you twist your head to smile up at the newcomer. “stop bothering them, ‘tsumu.”

atsumu glares at his twin. “i’m the one who invited ‘em to lunch!”

osamu rolls his eyes and lays down a platter of onigiri in front of you. he snatches the menu and smacks his brother’s wandering hands with it before they get to close. “these are not for you.”

“but that’s a lot!" atsumu whines. "can’t i have any?”

“no,” osamu says resolutely, then turns to you and gives you the softest smile he can muster, pinning the menu by his side and arm.

"i haven't even ordered yet!" atsumu complains.

osamu ignores him. “let me know what you think.”

“okay,” you say with a smile. 

“and let me know if you need to take out anything,” he continues, “i’ll wrap it up for you.” he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. “enjoy.”

“thank you, ‘samu,” you tell him before he turns to leave. 

he smiles back at you and heads back behind the bar.

atsumu has evidently forgotten about ordering, because his eyes shuttle back and forth between you two before nodding considerably. “so i take it things are going well?”

“yeah,” you admit, picking up an onigiri. “going really well, actually.”

“you’ve been…” atsumu searches for the word, “is it still called ‘dating’? you broke up. but… entertaining each other…?”

“don’t hurt yourself,” you joke. “but yeah. let’s call it dating. and it’s going well, thanks for asking.” you take a bite of the onigiri.

“does he still have a chance?” atsumu asks, genuine curiosity on his face.

you chew thoughtfully as you look back at osamu, who’s smiling at a customer. you remember that bright morning, when he helped you pack, helped you move into your friend’s apartment. when he cooked all that food, and you found it neatly packed away in a thermal bag that had a handwritten note, reminding you to eat well.

you remember the next day, when he showed up at your friend’s door, holding flowers and inviting you out to get some ice cream. you remember his messages, his calls, his check ins on you, littered across the days, asking you how you are or if you’re eating or if you need any food.

you could call him if you needed any help, if you needed anything at all.

but reality sets in when you think of how one phone call could be a mistake, it stops you from searching his name each time you pick up the phone.

in your mind, you see his bent form, his begging, his tears. you remember his smiles and his hugs and his ‘see you later’s, his gradually growing list of unbroken promises. you remember the effort, the time he’s putting into you, putting aside for you. you remember how hard he tries for you.

it's like everything is new again.

his eyes catch yours and he gives you a small wave, and you wave back, your stomach fluttering.

it's not new, you think. it's better.

you swallow your food. it's delicious.

“yeah,” you say softly, “he does.”

[foldingfittedsheets]

The mattress store I’m covering at today is the same I worked at nigh on a decade ago. I had a seven year hiatus and here I am again, like slipping back into a pair of broken in shoes.

It’s a holiday weekend and everyone was pretty busy when a new couple walked in. They were asking about a warranty since their bed is almost ten years old and is having some dipping. They wanted to know if it could be a warranty replacement.

I was telling them it was unlikely but running through options and next steps and the longer I spoke with them the more intent their attention got. Some kind of unspoken communication was passing between them.

Eventually the wife looked down at my name tag. “Is that your name?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I confirmed, laughing because it’s an unusual name, but she looked like she knew me and I’ve never ever run into another person with my name.

“And your last name?”

I told them and they both crowed triumphantly. The husband said, “I knew it! I knew it was her! She talks just the same!”

The wife was beaming and said, “You sold us our bed! Ten years ago! Your hair was much shorter but we thought we recognized you! Your name is on our receipt!”

I was floored. To be working here on this day to help out a couple I’d helped ten years ago find their next bed was just a wild full circle moment.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: there’s some russian spoken here so i’ll put the translations into [little brackets] next to it

summary: nat cheated and you got a divorce. time jump of three years

warnings: smut (brief), alcohol, mentions of blood/injuries, house fire, child endangerment

word count: 17.2k (oops)

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Part 2: Secondhand Smoke

The drawer is open, its contents a mess. Old baby socks, screws, a teething toy. Natasha stares at it, trying to find what she's looking for. If she doesn't, you might kill her.

Behind her, Valerie runs down the hardwood stairs. She slips on her jacket and skids to the front door.

"Mama, we're going to be late!", she says impatiently. Lottie, sitting on the table with a donut in her hands, grins. "Hey, why'd she get a donut?"

"Because she wouldn't put her shoes on. Do you know where that permission slip for your field trip is?"

Valerie shakes her head. She steps over the backpack Natasha left on the floor to reach her shoes. "You can't find it?"

Natasha grunts and shuts the drawer, only to open the other one. More screws. A broken pipe wrench. A stack of documents she doesn't have a place for. She glances at the clock and realizes she's about to be late for the drop-off — again.

"Mommy's going to be mad", her older daughter helpfully informs her.

"Yes, bub, I know that", Natasha mutters. Lottie slides off the table, a sad little piece of donut in her hand, and tugs at her sleeve. "Hm?"

"Braid my hair, mama?"

She hesitates and looks at the clock again — 7.12. If they don't hurry, they will not only be late, but you'll get a text message from their schools as well. But Lottie blinks her big eyes and Natasha folds. As predicted in the hospital, she has your eyes, and she can't resist the sweet look on her daughter's face.

"C'mere", she mumbles, scooping Charlotte up and setting her down on the table. "Quick one, alright?"

Valerie groans and flops into the worn armchair. She stares at the ceiling, complete with wooden beams and a chandelier, and impatiently kicks her feet. Her shoes leave specks of dirt on the rug.

"Hurry", she drawls. Natasha curses quietly, her hands working on Lottie's hair.

"Shit", the younger girl parrots. She's been going through a phase lately. Whenever she learns a new word, she has to repeat it constantly until a new one catches her attention.

Much to Natasha's dismay, of course. She was forced to replace an entire list of curse words with kid-friendly alternatives.

"No, we don't say that."

"Why?", Charlotte asks. She's on the table, cross-legged, fingers sticky with sugar glaze. "Shit! Mama, shit!"

"You're not funny", Valerie mutters. She reaches for the remote and turns on the tv. Natasha gives her a hurried look.

"Wait, you can't-"

"I am funny!" Lottie turns her head. The braid slips from Natasha's fingers and comes undone. "Meanie!"

Ten minutes later. Natasha's sweaty, Charlotte's braid turned into space buns, Valerie's in a mood. The car ride consists of Elsa songs and two girls fighting over who gets to pick the music. Everyone's on edge.

Natasha can't help but think that this never happened when you were still married. A fleeting thought, but it stings. Once upon a time, she had her life together. Now, she's barely keeping it from falling apart. If it weren't for caffeine and duct tape, it'd all crumble.

She parks in front of the elementary school first and shoos Valerie out of the car. Right as she's about to walk away, Natasha rips open the door and hurries after her.

"Your permission slip!"

"You found it?"

"Under the car seat", she mumbles, turning Valerie around and putting the piece of paper against her back. She quickly signs it. "Here you go, bub. Have a nice day at school, yeah?"

She shrugs and grabs the permission slip. Natasha stands there, rubbing her forehead and watching her go, before she remembers that she still needs to drive Lottie and then make her way to work.

She turns around and gets into the car. The Elsa songs keep playing, Lottie keeps singing along, and Natasha is teetering on the edge between gratefulness and panic.

. . .

"You're late."

"I know. I'm sorry."

You're in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot with a sponge and holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder. It's Sunday afternoon, which means it's time for Natasha to drop the kids off at your place for the week. You decided on shared custody together, because how could you not?

She cheated on you, but that doesn't mean she she's a bad mom. She loves the girls as much as you do. She shows up for the small and the big things. She's present, and even though communication still isn't her strongest suit, she's trying.

You're still holding a bit of a grudge, though, and you're far from letting her forget it. Natasha understands that sentiment completely, which somehow feels like the worse option.

You adjust your shoulder and put the sponge aside. Someone screams in the background, then you hear the maniacal cackling of your younger child.

"What's going on?", you ask, slightly worried. Natasha's house is not quite as toddler-proof as you'd like it to be. You’ve seen it via FaceTime — dumbbells and tools everywhere, a huge fireplace, some arts n' crafts table for Lottie she got started on.

At least the backyard is big, with plenty of space for the girls to play. It's the main reason why Natasha bought the cabin sitting on the edge of a forest, and she took full advantage of it. Within a single summer, she built an entire playground, complete with a sandpit and a merry-go-round.

"Nothing- no, don't jump off that! Charlotte!"

You sigh and dry your hands, then exchange your shoulder for your hand. You open the fridge and grab the lettuce you bought the day before.

"Can you please make sure our daughter doesn't break her neck?"

"Sorry, babe. She's good, she just found one of my energy liquid gels."

In the background, you hear a high-pitched voice ask if it's mommy on the phone. You smile faintly and lean against the counter.

"You gotta hurry", you say, one arm crossed over your chest. "I made baked ziti, Vee's favorite. It'll go cold."

"Yep, yeah, in a minute." Natasha digs through something, and you hear bags rustle. "Goddammit, where'd you put your left shoe?"

"You lost her shoe? Which one, the Stride Rite?"

"Uh..."

Someone falls. You hear the thud, muffled but clear, and frown. Then, someone starts to cry. Natasha drops another curse word.

At this point, it doesn't faze you anymore. Charlotte is as energetic and reckless as Valerie was at her age, and you're used to the countless bruises and scraped somethings she brings home every week.

"Go help her", you sigh.

"We'll be there in a minute."

They, in fact, aren't there in a minute. It takes them forty minutes and a near-mental breakdown. But they make it, and Natasha pulls up in front of the house you once shared.

It's still the same. White picket fence, a red front door and window frames, the shoes next to the doormat. The grass has been freshly mowed, and the air smells like flowers and late summer nights spent on the porch together.

Natasha scoops Charlotte out of her car seat and carries her on her hip. The girl is barefoot and only dressed in one of Natasha's oversized shirts, which functions as a dress for her. Valerie's already a few steps ahead, so she opens the gate.

You step out the door and smile. "You made it!"

"Mommy!", Lottie shrieks. She starts kicking her feet until she's back on the ground, then she starts running.

"Hey, mom."

"Hey", Natasha adds, her hands in her pockets.

She takes a moment to look at you. Nothing about you is particularly outstanding, at least not right now — it's a Sunday afternoon, so you're in a white shirt and sweatpants. Your hair is up, your face bare, your eyes crinkling at the corners when you smile at the girls.

Then, you look up. Her heart flips. She's always been a little too weak for you.

"Hi", you say, crouching and hugging Charlotte as you redirect your attention. "You're barefoot, honey."

Natasha lingers by the gate, hands in her pockets and feet unmoving. She's still staring, still soaking in, and she's also zoning out. Even if just for a short moment in time, you're soft. Unguarded. You rub Lottie's arms, ask her if she's hungry, scoop her up and kiss her cheek.

You look at Natasha and tilt your head. It feels like there's miles between you.

"So", you start, adjusting your hold on the little girl, "we're going to have dinner."

"Oh, right." She nods and takes a step back. "Sunday afternoon? You'll drop them off?"

"Of course."

Natasha nods and turns around. Her phone starts ringing, so she fishes it out of her pocket and glances at the screen. She hesitates, then makes sure she's in the car before answering. You close the door behind you.

Valerie helps you set the table. Lottie is less productive — she's sitting on the floor with a coloring book —, but at least her humming is cute.

Between scooping baked ziti onto plates and pouring juice into glasses, you've been wondering who was behind that phone call Natasha got. It's a dumb thing to think about. It was probably her sister, or her mom. Clint also calls sometimes. Maybe he invited her to barbecue, as he sometimes does.

In the end, you're wrong. You're really wrong.

"Mommy, mama kissed a lady."

You freeze. Valerie's head whips around.

"Lottie!", she hisses.

"What? She did!"

"Yes, but-"

You lift your hand to interject. It's not your place to be jealous (you are); it's not your place to talk to the kids about this (you will); it's not your place to confront Natasha (oh, you have to). Yet, you can't help it.

She's not yours anymore, but when you were married to the one person who you actually loved, it feels like you'll always own a little piece of them. No matter what she did, it feels like she's still yours, in a way. Whether that's actually the case or not is debatable.

"Who was she?", you ask, trying to sound calm. But the way you keep wiping loose strands of hair out of your face is anything but.

"A lady", Lottie says. She's too enthusiastic for her own good. "She's pretty. She has a purple dress, mommy."

"Uh-huh", you say. Valerie looks like she's about to lose her mind. You raise your eyebrows at her. "You don't have to protect her from me, you know."

"I'm not!", she protests. "But I don't want you to get mad at mama."

"No, mama doesn't want me to get mad at her", you argue. You grab your phone and tap the phone icon. Valerie starts bouncing in her chair. "Just a quick call."

"Please!", she groans. "Don't fight again."

"Shush."

You walk into the living room, your phone against your ear. You barely hear how Valerie whispers something to Lottie about her ruining everything. For a split second, it's enough to make you rethink this.

Of course, Charlotte doesn't remember that day. She doesn't remember the yelling, the packed suitcases, how you kicked Natasha out. But Valerie does, and she's terrified of it happening again. She can't risk it — things are more or less peaceful right now. You haven't had a real fight in ages. This, however, might change everything.

Natasha picks up. She sounds almost relieved. "Hey."

"Who is she?"

A long pause. You swear you can hear her heart beat faster, louder. "What?"

"The woman", you say, coming to a halt next to the staircase. "The one you brought home. The one who met my kids without my permission!"

Natasha starts stammering. There it goes, her usual confidence. Goodbye, self-assurance and pride. You've always had a way of dismantling her like a children's toy.

"She, uh...her name's Irina."

"I told Lottie not to tell you!", Valerie yells from the dining room. You ignore her.

"And you let her come over?"

"It's not like I had a choice!", she says defensively. "She just wanted to pop by. She-"

"Does she know you have kids?"

"Who do you think I am??"

You barely manage to stop yourself from hissing the words that lay on the tip of your tongue. Throwing the fact that she cheated on you back at her would, despite everything, be a little too harsh. Plus, little ears are listening. All of this is bad enough already.

"Natasha, all I need is for you to tell me next time", you say, sounding curt. No room for softness, even if you still feel it between you. "I don't care that you're dating someone. But when it involves our children, that's when it becomes a problem."

She lets out a halfhearted noise. For some reason, she's stuck on you apparently not caring about her dating other people. It shouldn't bother her, but it does. Do you really not care?

She knows she'd care if you started dating. She'd lose her mind.

"Fine", she agrees. "But like I said, I didn't-"

"Well, you still let her kiss you in front of them."

"We were outside! They were probably peeping", Natasha says. "I'll tell her not to do that anymore."

"Yes", you mutter. "Good. Fine."

"Yeah."

You exhale slowly and glance toward the kitchen. Valerie's head is poking out the doorway, her face nervous. You give her a tight-lipped smile.

"Are you fighting?", she whispers.

"No, bub", you sigh. "Listen, Nat, we'll go have dinner now."

"Sure, yeah."

You give a noncommittal hum, then hang up.

You told Natasha you don't care. You told her that it's fine she's dating someone, because it should be. You're the one who rejected her when she tried to patch things up a couple months ago. You're the one who keeps avoiding her. You had every right to do that, and you have every right to keep reminding her of what she did.

It's simple — Natasha cheated. There are no excuses, no explanations, nothing that could justify what she did. She hurt you, which means that she should be in for a lifetime of being hurt by you as well. If only it wasn't for your kids. They're the reason why you try to remain friends with her, which doesn't always work.

The breakup was painful. Looking at her is, as well. Sometimes, you make Yelena pick up the kids or drop them off just so you don't have to see her. But there's secondhand smoke, still affecting you, and thought the support beams are burnt, they're still standing.

Still keeping it all upright.

. . .

Thick smoke curls out of open windows, tinted a dangerous black. Flames dance and flicker behind glass. Sirens blare and neighbors watch.

The fire engine comes to a halt, and Natasha immediately jumps out. The rest of the crew follows, all of them dressed in fireproof gear. Radios crackle and people yell — she's not sure who's yelling, but someone is.

They run toward the house, passing a distressed father who's trying to keep his wife from storming back into the house. Natasha knows what that means, and it only raises the stakes.

"Fire showing second floor, alpha side", the lieutenant yells. "Possible entrapment. Let's go defensive. Romanoff, search and rescue. Barton, fire attack. Rodriguez..."

None of this is new to her. She's seen it all before, and it's as familiar as breathing, but it's still scary. Adrenaline floods her, her heart beats faster. She's thinking on autopilot. Every move is practiced, from the way she breaks down the door to her crawling on the floor.

Smoke rises, after all. She has her BA mask on, but she still needs to stay as close to the ground as possible. It's hot inside, the heat even reaching her through the thick layers of gear she's wearing, and it's pitch-black. Her gloved hand sweeps across the floor, searching for bodies.

"There's a kid upstairs!", the lieutenant yells through the comms. "Up the stairs, first door to the left!"

She feels sweat drip down her lower back as she makes her way up the stairs. She doesn't get far, though — her path is blocked by a roaring fire.

"Fire located", she says, out of breath. "It's blocking the second floor, the kid's trapped. Need a ladder to the bravo side."

"Come outside."

The fire engine has already pulled up to the side of the house when Natasha gets there. She grabs an axe and starts climbing, her heart thudding and her baby hairs sticking to her temples.

In a field like hers, staying professional is important. You can't let your own feelings get in the way. But sometimes, that's impossible. All she can think about are Valerie and Lottie. Unlike this child, they're safe and sound, and somehow that makes everything hit harder.

The cries she hears are unbearable. They're not coming from the kid, no — it's their mom. Standing in the backyard, her husband barely keeping her from running straight into the flames. She doesn't blame her. She'd do the same.

Natasha grabs the axe and swings it. Glass shatters and thick smoke billows out. Fire's licking at the door that leads into the child's bedroom, but thankfully, the room isn't in flames yet.

She climbs in through the window and gets on the ground again, hand sweeping. She knows what kids do in situations like this one. She's a mother, of course she knows. She's also had to do this before.

The boy, maybe four years old, is hiding inside the closet. Tears have dried on his cheeks, but he's not crying anymore. It's hard to cry when you're unconscious. Natasha curses and gently picks him up, then she hurries back to the window.

"Child located", she says, clutching the boy like a little bundle of blankets. "Exiting now. Need a medic."

Getting down the stairs is, ironically, the hardest part. Her legs are shaking, her feet keep slipping, but her grip on the child is tight and secure. The second they're back on solid, safe ground, she drops down. Her eyes are red and teary, sweat is dripping, she feels like she's about to collapse.

Medics surround her and start to treat the kid. She only allows them give her oxygen once he's let out a cough and opened his eyes. The fire has been put out as well, and Barton sinks into the grass next to her. He nudges her side.

"You look beat."

"I am", she says, gulping water from a bottle she was handed. She's taken off her gear and is now sitting there in a soaked tank top and pants. The wind feels soothing against her skin, which is still way too warm from the fire. "Fuck."

"You're shaking."

"Yeah."

"It's hard when there's kids involved, huh?"

She nods, picking at the grass and still chugging water. She doesn't say anything. She can't. She's already close to sobbing. The boy was too close to not making it.

"I need to call the girls", she finally mumbles, running a hand through her damp hair. "Just to check on them."

"They're with Y/N?"

"Yeah." Natasha gets up and wipes her hands on her pants. "I think they're at some puppet show."

"The one that freaked you out?"

"Still getting nightmares. But the kids love it."

He nods, and she walks to the fire engine. Once she's found her phone underneath one of the seats, she sits down and dials your number. It takes seconds for you to pick up.

"Hi, mama!"

It's Lottie. Natasha nearly bursts into tears. But the kids get anxious when she cries, so she blinks a few times and inhales deeply to keep herself under control.

"Hey", she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "How are you guys?"

"Good! We saw puppets."

"Mhm? The scary ones?"

"They're not scary!"

She hears Lottie chew on something. Popcorn, probably. It's what the girls usually eat at those puppet shows. She also hears you, talking to Valerie and making sure Lottie doesn't run off.

Suddenly, she wishes she could be there with you, puppets be damned. Steal popcorn from the kids, kiss you in the dark, get fast food on the way home. It's not her life anymore, though. And the worst part is that it's her fault.

"So you had fun?", Natasha asks. She's leaning against the wall, legs stretched out. Outside, the crew is slowly returning to the fire engine.

"Yes! I want a puppet."

"You do, huh? I'll get you one for Christmas, how's that sound?"

"Mama, you're silly", she says, giggling. "Santa brings the presents!"

Of course. Even the imaginary bearded man from the North Pole, the guy who sits in malls and wears a fatsuit, outranks her.

"You're right, bub", she agrees. "Hey, how's mommy?"

"Mommy's good", Charlotte says, voice tiny and chipper. The second she says that, she hears you pause in the background. Valerie doesn't say anything, either. "She bought us popcorn."

"Yeah? Did you have lunch before?"

"No."

"That's a lie", you call, sounding muffled. "We had stir fry."

Natasha smiles to herself, but quickly puts on a neutral face when her colleagues enter the vehicle. She turns toward the wall a little, trying to shield the fragile bubble the phone call put her in.

"Mommy makes the best stir fry", she says. Men and women talk, change out of singed gear, intrude without being aware of it. She glances at them, then tries to focus on what her daughter's saying. "What was that, bub?"

"We miss you!"

She swallows and blinks. Her eyes are burning, but this time, it's not from the fire and the smoke. She rubs them to keep the tears at bay. She's surrounded by the crew, after all. They tend to not hold back on the teasing.

When she doesn't respond for a couple seconds, you gently take the phone from Lottie. Your voice cuts through the silence, kids' chatter in the background, and that makes everything worse.

"Hey", you say softly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine", she mutters. "Don't worry."

"You're at work?"

"Mhm." Natasha nods and flicks a blade of grass off her leg. "There was a house fire. It's all good now, though."

"Oh."

Something rustles, then beeps. Natasha recognizes it as the sound of your car being unlocked.

"Going back home?"

"No", you say, struggling to get Lottie into her car seat. "Wait, let me buckle you up- we're going to the library. Vee needs to pick up a book for her oral report."

"What's it on?"

You pause. "It's a surprise."

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh and nods, rubbing her forehead. The crew sits down, and the fire engine starts to drive away and back to the station.

"Well, I can't wait to find out."

"You'll love it. Want the kids to call you around bedtime?"

"Yes, that'd be..." She trails off and nods. "Please."

"Of course. Take care of yourself, yes?"

"You too."

You hang up with a click. Natasha stares at the screen for a moment, then a message from Irina pops up. She turns her phone off and tucks it into the waistband of her pants.

. . .

When you met Natasha, there was one thing you realized immediately. It didn't take long — she'd barely stormed into your apartment, fully dressed in her firefighter gear, and you knew already.

The woman in front of you was a flirt. She was putting out fires, yes, and she looked good doing it, but she was also flirting. Constantly, shamelessly, like it was as much of a routine as putting on her boots before work.

For some reason, you liked it. You were charmed by it. You knew you couldn't be the exception, that she probably flirted with just about every woman she ran into, but you didn't care.

Smoke had filled the kitchen. You were standing to the side, only in slippers and an oversized shirt, and coughed as she extinguished the fire. Her colleague stood to the side, assisting her and trying to get you out the door.

"Too much smoke", he said. "You'll damage your lungs."

"Fine, sorry."

A few minutes later, they both stepped out. Natasha took off her helmet and let her eyes sweep across you, from head to toe.

"You were making dessert?"

"Crème brûlée", you replied, hands tucked behind your back as you leaned against the wall.

She hummed, smirking faintly. There was the tiniest soot-smudge on her jaw.

"I'd advise against keeping cotton towels in the kitchen. They catch fire pretty fast", she informed you. She paused, looking at you again. "Though some things are worth the heat."

Pink color dusted your cheeks. You rolled your eyes and nudged her out the door, but now, there were two things you knew about her. She's a flirt, and she'd flirt with you again. Eventually.

You ended up being right about both. You went to the fire station a couple days later to thank them and drop off cookies (which you managed to bake without setting off another fire alarm).

Natasha was there, too. Smirking, teasing, a black undershirt displaying her casually muscular form. Her hands were calloused in that blue collar-way, her hair in a low bun. She accepted the plate and took a quick bite.

"No fire today?"

"Maybe next week."

Natasha, chewing, tilted her head. "Sounds like you want me to come back for seconds."

You suppressed a smile. The lieutenant was watching, after all.

"Careful", you said. "Don't want you to get in trouble."

"Might be too late for that", she mumbled, letting her eyes rake up and down your body once more.

No oversized shirt and slippers today — instead, you got into a short dress and dolled yourself up a little. Natasha appreciated it as much as she did the domestic little outfit you wore the other day.

Something warm stirred inside her. Before you knew it, you started meeting her for coffee. A quick 'I'm not seeing anyone right now' got tossed into conversations here and there.

You took her home one day, offered to make lunch for her. The third thing you figured out was that she loved fire jokes. She made them constantly, especially when you were handling something hot in the kitchen.

You had lunch together that day. You slid into her lap because she tugged you there, but you stayed because you didn't want to move. You feed her a forkful of food and managed to be the one who dusts her cheeks pink.

It was stir fry. To this day, it's her favorite dish.

Even when the plates were empty, she didn't leave. You sipped on a wine bottle together, talked, kissed once you were tipsy enough to have the courage to.

The night ended with Natasha in your bed and you on top of her. That joke she'd made a couple weeks ago — her being in trouble, thanks to you — turned out to be true. You were straddling her, hands on her shoulders, and she knew was falling way too quickly.

Natasha didn't do this. Not really. She flirted, she had sex, she blocked numbers. She excused all of that with her abysmal work schedule, her 24 hour shifts, the dangers that came with it. How would a relationship fit into her life when she barely managed to keep it together already?

She didn't expect you to come along, though. She didn't expect to fall in love. She did, anyway.

Suddenly, keeping her life together was the easiest thing she ever had to do. Because after every shift, she was able to look at the text messages you sent. She was able to come over, just like that, without having to announce herself. And you'd have a meal ready for her, even if she didn't warn you beforehand.

Natasha proposed a year later. At that point, you were basically living together.

It all felt easy, safe. You got married in a small vineyard (your idea), bought a house (her idea). Not even three years after you got married, you gave birth to your first daughter.

When Natasha gets called to that same apartment that started everything — the crème brûlée, the stir fry, the proposal between bedsheets and rose petals — she feels sick to her stomach. She goes home afterwards, tired and aching all over, and opens the door only to find Irina in the living room.

"Hey", she says. Natasha nods and drops her bag. "Sorry I didn't call. But you said there's an extra key under the doormat, so-"

"Yeah, it's fine." Natasha walks into the kitchen. It matches the rest of her cabin — counters made of walnut wood, complete with granite countertops. Steel appliances, chipped mugs, a protein shrine with powder, bars and beef jerky. She grabs a shaker and scoops powder into it.

Irina joins her. She feels her arms around her stomach.

"Someone rang the doorbell earlier."

Natasha pauses mid-water pour. "When?"

"I don't know. 2 o'clock, maybe?"

She curses and puts the shaker aside, then reaches for her phone. Surely, new messages have popped up.

Y/N: Vee is coming over later, so you can help her with her oral report — 11.42am

Y/N: don't know if you'll be home, a quick answer would be nice you know — 12.05pm

Y/N: you could've told me you wouldn't be home. — 2.38pm

The oral report. One on firefighters, inspired by none other than Natasha herself. She sobbed when Valerie told her over FaceTime a couple days ago.

"Why didn't you answer the door?", Natasha asks, already typing out apology after apology. Send her over, please, my phone was on mute, I completely forgot — and Irina is just standing there, peeking over her shoulder.

"I wasn't sure whether I'm supposed to."

"You weren't supposed to take the key either, yet you did." Natasha bites the inside of her cheek. She left the key under the doormat for Valerie specifically, so she could enter whenever she felt the need to.

That plan didn't work out, though. Why did she have to tell Irina about the stupid key?

Irina leans against the counter, arms crossed. "It was your kid?"

"Yes, it was my daughter." She lets out a frustrated noise. You've received her messages, but aren't looking at them. "She was supposed to come over today."

"You forgot?"

There it is. Natasha puts her phone aside and grabs the shaker, shaking its contents until the protein powder and water have formed a silky, foaming liquid. She takes a sip and walks into the living room.

"I was stressed", she defends herself. "Had a grease fire. It was the apartment where..." She pauses, then shakes her head and sits down. Irina raises her eyebrows.

"Where...?"

"Doesn't matter." Natasha kicks off her boots and leans back. She turns on the tv, zaps through the channels, then turns it back off. Outside, it's getting dark. It's around dinner time, so you probably wouldn't appreciate a phone call right now.

Irina sits down next to her. Her body curls into Natasha's, warm and distracting. If she screwed up everything else, she might at least get some sex out of today.

Delicate fingers trail down her forearm, to the little beaded leather armband around her wrist. Valerie made it for her when she was five, and she only takes it off when she's working.

It's enough to pull her back into reality. Natasha gets up, leaving Irina alone and rejected on the couch.

"I have to call my kids", she says, disappearing into the bedroom and closing the door.

She dials your number. You don't pick up.

On Sunday, Yelena drops off the kids instead of you. Apparently, you don't want to see her right now. Rightfully so, her sister says, and Natasha almost slaps her for it. But you'll get over it, like always.

No. You won't. She won't hear from you for a while, either.

. . .

"Please, mommy."

"No, honey. I'm sorry."

Lottie whines and bounces on the spot. She looks cute in her green dress, with her hair curled and the non toxic nail polish on her fingers. It is a special occasion, after all — it's her grandmother's birthday.

One you won't be going to, because Natasha will be there as well. It's been weeks of nothing. No phone calls, no texts, no dropping off the kids yourself. She's done a bunch of stupid shit in all those years that you've known her, but her forgetting Valerie like that may have taken the cake.

Valerie's not mad at her anymore, not at all. But, again, you're good at holding grudges.

"Mommy", your younger daughter whines. "I don't want to go alone."

"You're not alone." You put her on the table so you can put on the ballet flats you got her. "Your sister is going, too. And mama will be there. It's babushka's birthday."

"Lottie, stop crying", Valerie says. She sits down on the striped rug and puts on her own ballet flats. "There will be cake. You like cake."

"Exactly", you affirm. "You can bring me a slice, hm?"

"No", she says, covering her face with her hands. You get up and kiss her fingers, which are resting right on her forehead. "Don't wanna go."

You sigh, then scoop her up. You can't force her to do anything, but she'll probably change her mind once she sees her grandma, so you carry her to the car. Once everyone's buckled in and ready, you drive.

Melina's house is an hour away, but it takes you almost two thanks to a cranky toddler and her annoyed older sister. You wipe the seat with a wet wipe — Lottie, who got an apple juice pack as a sort of consolation, squished it so hard it exploded. Thanks to some miracle, nothing got on the girls' clothes, but it's all over the middle seat.

You scoop Charlotte out of the car set and dare to set her down. She immediately starts crying and stomping her feet, so you cave and pick her up again. Seems like the terrible two's sometimes last a bit longer.

Valerie is in a much better mood. She sees Melina's backyard — the wide patch of grass, the yellow shed, the huge tree with the tire swing — and immediately starts running. It's a sunny day, the sky's clear and the air smells like shashlik.

"Babushka! [grandma]", she yells, running straight into her grandmother's arms. She's embraced into a tight hug. "S dnem ​​rozhdeniya! [happy birthday]"

"Hello, my darling!" She kisses the top of her head and then pulls away to inspect her outfit. "Ah, red dress. Looks pretty!"

"Thanks!" Valerie smiles brightly. She seems to remember something, so she runs back to your side. "Mom, where's her present?"

"Oh, right here." You turn around and open the trunk of your car. You grab the gift bag, which is almost too heavy, and hand it to Valerie. Off she goes again.

You look at Charlotte, who has her face buried against her neck. You rub her side, try to coax her into looking at you, but to no avail. You've given up already and are walking toward Melina when, suddenly, she lifts her head and perks up.

"Mama!", she screams happily.

You freeze — no way —, then turn around. Yes way. Lottie's right, Natasha showed up. And she's not alone.

You're not too familiar with the blonde who's getting out of the car, but you can easily guess who she is — Irina. Dressed in a tight skirt and a blouse, her lips red and no dark circles under her eyes. Probably childless.

You adjust your hold on Lottie and try not to look too irritated. Melina, on the other hand, isn't trying.

"Who's that?", she asks promptly and straightens up.

Valerie turns around and grimaces slightly. You've raised her to be polite and kind, but in that moment, you can't blame her. You wish you were able to throw your own morals out of the window as well.

"You brought her?", Valerie says. She sounds so disbelieving it's almost funny. Instead, you rub her back with one hand and keep cradling Charlotte with the other.

Natasha looks stressed. She offers a tight-lipped smile as Irina kisses her on the cheek, and seeing that is enough for Lottie to lose the happy attitude again. The girl starts sobbing, because how dare her mom show up with a near-stranger?

"It's okay", you mumble, glancing at your ex-wife again. She lets Irina kiss her on the mouth, then the blonde turns away and waves at everyone in the backyard.

"Bye", she says, already making her way back to the driver's seat. The car engine roars and Irina drives off, thankfully.

Natasha lingers by the gate, and even though you're pissed, you can't help but look at her. She's always had a talent for looking her most irresistible when she absolutely shouldn't. Turnout pants, suspenders hanging off her hips, her beloved black tank top. Not at all birthday-conforming, but it's not like she cares.

Melina walks up to her. If there's one thing you know about your ex-mother in law, is that she's not going to be pleased with her daughter's decision to bring along a stranger. A stranger she wouldn't even introduce, for obvious reasons.

"Chto eto bylo? [what was that]", she asks, grabbing her daughter's shoulder and steering her further into the backyard. Lottie blinks away tears, then reaches her arms out for her mama again.

"Nichto [nothing]", Natasha says, glancing at the girl in your arms. She nods at you. "May I?"

Melina, shaking her head, answers for you. She steps in front of her. "What, 'nothing'? That wasn't nothing! Now don't play innocent. You don't bring stranger to my house, Natasha."

"She's not a stranger."

"She is to us."

Valerie crosses her arms and stares at the ground. Green grass, covered in wildflowers. You run your hand over her head.

"Listen", Natasha says, stepping around her mom to reach you and the girls, "she insisted on driving me. Said I never have enough time for her. I just didn't want it to end in a pointless fight. Hey, bub."

"Hey, mom", Valerie mutters. Natasha cups her face and tilts it up. "Hm?"

"I know I screwed up", she says apologetically, then kisses her forehead. "Your dress is beautiful, dochen'ka. [little daughter]"

"Thanks."

Lottie makes grabby hands, so you set her down. Without so much as even an ounce of hesitation, she tumbles into Natasha's arms. A few kisses, smiles, and she's back to being a mama's girl.

Then, Natasha looks at you. You raise your eyebrows, jaw set. She doesn't say anything.

Neither do you. You turn around and walk to the little porch. You enter Melina's house, which is somehow always cool and smells like tea and herbs. It's empty inside, no one to be seen, so you make your way into the kitchen and lean against the counters.

The fridge in front of you is covered in all kinds of memorabilia and keepsakes. An ultrasound of Valerie, a handprint of Charlotte. Family pictures, held up by little magnets. Another magnet, a souvenir one from Greece — you spent your first vacation as a family of three there.

You rub your eyes and turn around. Borscht is boiling on the stove, a bowl of pelmeni sits next to it. She made appetizers as well, which mostly consist of vegetables like radishes and cucumbers.

You grab one of the dirty bowls in the sink and start scrubbing it. Anything to distract your mind is welcome right now. Soap bubbles pop under your fingers, suds cover your hands. It smells like citrus.

Footsteps appear behind you. Someone leans in, blows warm air against your neck. You shut your eyes — when Natasha apologizes, this is her way of showing it. It's what comes before the words.

"Don't."

"I'm sorry." She nudges your hair aside, then places a kiss on the back of your neck. "I didn't know you'd be here. I wouldn't have let her."

You stand there, frozen, the feeling of her lips lingering hotly on your skin. You dry your hands, then turn around. She's standing so close she's got you caged in against the sink.

"You're going to pretend everything's alright?", you ask, crossing your arms. Natasha sighs. "Listen, you crossed a line. Multiple, actually. So don't act like, like..." You gesture desperately, then let your hand drop against your arm again.

"Like?"

"Like you're still allowed to do this." You swallow, trying your hardest not to look at the fridge again. "You showed up with her."

"She left", she says, putting her hands on your waist. Once a flirt, always a flirt.

"You're with her", you retort. It takes everything in you to push her hands away.

After all this time, they still feel comforting. Safe. They shouldn't be, but they are. She'd still start wars for you, and that may be the worst part. Those wars wouldn't be worth fighting.

"So?", she replies. "You're the mother of my children. Nothing will ever change that. Besides, things aren’t that serious."

"Oh, right." You laugh bitterly and shake your head. "If only that meant something. You cheated, anyway."

Natasha falls silent. Your words hit where it hurts most. She stands there, studying you in that inoffensive way she's got down to a tee. Despite her physique being the peak example of someone who's able to lift tree trunks double her weight off the ground, you've never seen someone resemble a hurt puppy more accurately.

"Nat", you plead.

"No, you're right."

"You know it's true. You've moved on."

"Mommy?"

You both turn your heads. Lottie's in the doorway, her mouth and hands stained red from the wild strawberries Melina always feeds the kids. You reach out your hand and she pads closer to grab it.

"You okay, sweetie?"

"I'm sticky", she says, holding up her other hand.

Natasha hums and scoops her up, then helps her reach the tap. You watch them, silently, your mind running in circles. For a moment, you see what things could've looked like if they'd been different. If everything had worked out.

Once Charlotte's hands are clean and dry, she zooms back outside to play with her cousins. You look at Natasha. She avoids your eyes and instead turns off the stove.

"Melina told me to get the borscht", she mumbles. "Can you help with the bowls?"

"Yeah, sure. Sour cream?"

You open the cupboard and grab every bowl you can find. Blue-rimmed, with little pink roses on them. Natasha hums and looks into the fridge, then pulls out two smetana cups.

It's silent. No one's speaking anymore. All you hear is the quiet clinking of silverware and the hum of the old fridge.

You almost bump into each other when you're leaving the kitchen. Natasha pauses and looks at you, contemplating. You tilt your head.

"You used to bite your lip when you're mad at me", she says. "It was easier when I knew what you're thinking. I miss it."

You falter, so much so that you almost drop the tall stack of bowls you're holding. She's flirting. Probably. Or she's using this to (cruelly) remind you that not only your marriage ended — but also the access you used to have to each other.

You used to be entangled. Without having to talk, you knew what the other was thinking. You remember an instance where she brought home comfort takeout without even knowing you'd been sobbing over Valerie outgrowing a onesie all morning. You remember her building dozens of seemingly useless things — a birdhouse, another bench (but make it kid sized), a whole pergola. She thought that it'd help.

You used to complain. Now, you look at your empty garage and miss the stacks of wood she used to have on hand.

"Yeah", you say, struggling to speak. "I know."

Natasha stops in the middle of the hallway. It's pure instinct for you to do the same.

"I miss you", she adds. You stare at her, desperately holding the bowls. "I think you know that. Just had to tell you."

"I mean..." You trail off. "Yeah. I guess I do."

There's a window at the end of the hallway. Small, insignificant, not even big enough to let much fresh air into the space. But it's slightly ajar anyway, just enough for Valerie to hear your mumbled words.

. . .

"Happy birthday!"

"S dnem ​​rozhdeniya!"

Melina raises her eyebrows, but you can tell she's enjoying the attention. She blows out the candles, eyes closed, then immediately gets up and starts cutting it into slices.

"Wait", Natasha says, grabbing the paper plates. "It's your birthday, for god's sake. Let me help."

Yelena stretches out in her lawn chair and yawns. She arrived an hour late, but she made up for it by bringing a puppy. She thinks she made up for it — in reality, only her and a handful of kids enjoy the hyperactive dog that's now chasing Lottie through the backyard.

She giggles loudly, then trips over nothing and falls into the grass face first. The puppy climbs onto her back and licks her red curls.

"No, no!" She giggles, then lets out a frustrated noise. "Mommy!"

"That's me", you mumble and stand up.

As soon as you've left, Valerie turns to Yelena. She's been carrying this little secret around for way too long now. She's itching to get it out.

"Aunt Lena", she whispers. Yelena raises her eyebrows and leans in.

"Is this a conspiracy?", she whispers back.

"No." Valerie shakes her head. "I heard mommy and mama talk. In the hallway. I think they still love each other."

Yelena freezes, her eyes locked onto the child's. Being Natasha's sister, she's usually the first to find out about stuff. She sometimes handles drop off's, whenever you're not in the mood to look at your ex-wife. But you and Natasha still loving each other? That's news.

"You mean, love-love?"

"Mama said she misses her", she adds. You return to the table, Lottie sitting on your hip, and Valerie puts a finger over her mouth. "Shh."

You sit down, oblivious, and thank Natasha when she hands you a slice of honey cake. Valerie gives Yelena a pointed look. She suppresses a grin and puts her hand over her niece's eyes.

As evening approaches, it gets colder outside. Charlotte falls asleep on your chest, Natasha scoots closer with her lawn chair. She drapes a blanket over you, and Valerie rams her elbow into Yelena's side. The blonde nearly chokes on her water.

"Blyat-"

"The kids", Natasha warns her. Yelena shoots her a glare. "What's your problem?"

Yelena grunts and sinks into her chair. You are my problem, she thinks, bitterly crossing her ankles. You and your ex-wife are. Just figure shit out.

You won't figure it out. Not for a while. But Natasha wraps her arm around your shoulders and you lean into it. Melina and Valerie both watch, one stunned and the other trying to hide the hope that's flaring up in her.

You ignore the others. You look at Natasha, who's warm and familiar despite everything that's happened, and feel her thumb rub circles against your shoulder. She hums, either not aware of what she's doing or overly confident in it.

"It's getting dark", you remark, voice hushed. She nods. "I should get the kids home. It's a one hour drive."

"Let me drive you", she whispers. You hesitate. "You said it yourself. It's dark, you're probably tired. It'll make it easier for you."

Valerie tugs at your hand. She heard every word, despite you trying to be quiet and discreet. You squeeze her hand, but don't look at her.

"I don't know, Nat."

"Come on", she says. "I don't like the idea of you and the kids being on the road this late. Let me drive you."

You hesitate again. But it's completely dark by the time you decide to leave, so you have no choice but to agree. You know you're in good hands with Natasha, so what's the harm in letting her drive you?

Valerie is half-asleep but thrilled. She tugs Natasha to the car and, despite knowing exactly how to do it, makes her buckle her in. You handle Lottie, who almost wakes up. Through some kind of miracle, she stays asleep.

You get into the passenger seat and wave at Melina and Yelena. The puppy in her arms yaps and tries to break free from her arms, but he doesn't succeed. The car drives off, and suddenly, it's just you and your sleepy kids in the back.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think it's always been like this. You, Natasha, the girls. Valerie watching like a hawk, despite her eyes being sleep-heavy. Music low and windows down just enough to let in some night air. A stuffed tiger in the middle seat, dangling from Lottie's limp hand.

There's no need for words, but there also isn't space for it. Anything you'd possibly talk about is not fit for Valerie's ears. She's still awake, so you need to be careful.

You glance at the time, which is displayed on a little screen. 9.21pm. Way past her bedtime.

"Honey", you say, looking at your daughter through the rear view mirror, "don't you want to sleep a little? Rest your eyes? It's a long drive."

"No", she says, shaking her head. "I'm not tired, mom."

"Your mom's right", Natasha says. "Take a little nap, hm?"

"No", she says stubbornly. She squeezes the hem of her dress. "I like it when it's the four of us. I don't want to sleep now."

You and Natasha glance at each other. It's quick, silent, but it's everything you need in that moment. She'd reach over and hold your hand, but again, there's a little hawk sitting in the back.

"Yeah", she says, voice softer. "I like it, too."

You don't know what to say. You can't afford to start missing this life that you never got to have, so you turn your head away from her. The fields and houses outside the window pass by in a blur.

. . .

Each of you balances a sleeping kid into the house.

Halfway through the drive, Valerie fell asleep as well. Neither of them woke up, even when Natasha pulled your car into the driveway, so you now have to deal with the unnecessarily difficult task of relocating children without waking them.

You slowly make your way up the stairs, Natasha following close behind. Lottie's limp in your arms, her mouth slightly agape. Asleep like this, you see the features she got from Natasha. You exhale and focus on not accidentally falling down the steps.

You carry Charlotte into her bedroom and tuck her in. Bedsheets with a zoo animal pattern, her little tiger plushie still clutched in her hand. You kiss her forehead, adjust the nightlight next to her, then walk out the room and leave the door ajar.

Natasha and you step into the hallway at the same time. You look at her, then quickly turn to go back downstairs. You're hoping she'll follow. That she won't stay upstairs, where it's way too close to your bedroom.

You're not sure what you'd do if she asked. If you'd say yes, if you'd allow yourself to bask in a fantasy that can only end in being hurt all over again. A fantasy, doomed to end eventually.

Thankfully, you hear her footsteps behind you. You walk into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. Natasha leans against the counter.

"They didn't wake up."

"No", you say, taking a sip. "They usually do."

"Yeah." She nods. "I know."

It's awkward, because you're both forcing yourselves to talk about something you don't want to talk about. But it's the safer option — always has been — so it's what you're going for.

You clear your throat and put the glass aside. Natasha watches you, contemplating, her arms crossed. Eyes meet, heads tilt, and she smiles faintly.

"Tired?"

"I'm fine", you say, pushing off the counter and walking into the living room. Natasha hesitates, then follows. "Didn't get much done today. Sorry about the mess."

"I found a bagel in my bookshelf last week", she says, helping you gather a couple toys and throw them into a laundry basket. "This is nothing."

You both reach for a baby doll. Your hands knock together. It's nothing but a brief touch, but you falter and look at her. You're crouched on the floor, so close you could kiss if only you leaned in a little.

You don't know if you should. Irina is lingering at the back of your mind, with that stupid skirt and the flawless, well rested-looking face. But Natasha's staring back at you, unmoving, and her eyes flicker to your lips.

That's when you quickly straighten up and grab the laundry basket. You hold it in front of you like a shield.

"It's late", you say, shifting awkwardly. "I'll call you a taxi, if you want. I don't know if there are any buses this late."

The disappointment is etched into her face, but so is a subtle sense of relief. Natasha is sure that her and Irina aren't that serious yet. There are no real labels (though, she did hear Irina refer to her as 'her girlfriend' before), and she doesn't want to put a label on it.

However, she cheated once already. She can't do it again, at least not if there's nothing more attached to it. Unless it promises her the future she thinks she's lost, she won't do it.

"Taxi's fine", she says, tucking her hands into the pockets of her pants. "You'll drop off the kids tomorrow?"

"Yeah." You nod, then remember something. Good thing you didn't forget thanks to the almost-kiss. "They're going to their cousin's birthday party next Saturday, if that's alright with you. It's a sleepover. I'll text you the address?"

"No, no." Natasha shakes her head. "Gracie, right? We've been there before."

"Mhm." You hum and lead her to the front door. "I got her a gift, all you'll have to do is make sure the girls bring it."

"Will do, captain."

You smile and lean against the doorway. The door is open, Natasha is standing on the porch. The wind is making loose strands of her hair flutter. Green eyes twinkle in the porch light, and a calloused hand squeezes your arm.

You recall hundreds of moments just like this one — late at night, Natasha coming home from a shift or leaving for one. Handing her a lunchbox, kissing her goodbye; or getting a 'I'm home'-kiss. Kisses that stopped, eventually. Nobody warned you that you'd have to go without them one day.

It's hard, not leaning in and trying to revive that little habit you had. Natasha has to keep herself from stepping over the threshold again. It wouldn't be fair, not to you or Irina. But there's a part of her that doesn't care whether it's fair to the blonde who can't be bothered to learn her daughters' names.

She doesn't know whether you'd want that kiss, so she finds a compromise. Her lips press against your cheek, quick and soft, and she pulls away. Your face burns up, you almost reach out, but she's already making her way to the gate.

"Taxi", you call, dumbfounded.

"I got it", she calls back. "Go inside. It's cold out."

"You don't have a jacket!"

Natasha taps her index finger against her lips, then she smirks and steps out of the front yard. She closes the gate, pulls out her phone, and gone she is.

You linger for two minutes. Pretending this is just another night — you waiting on the porch, dinner warming up on the stove, Natasha returning from a late shift — is the stupidest thing you could do in that moment, but you do it anyway.

The wind chime above you tinkles, and you look up. Another apology, back when she forgot to do something mundane. You stare at the shapes, all of them custom and dedicated to each member of what was once her family. A psi for you, a soccer ball for Valerie, a tiger for Charlotte. Natasha's, a fire helmet, dangles just a bit lower.

Despite everything, this is her family.

. . .

It's Natasha's idea that you go pick up the girls together. At first, you hesitate; it's not just that you'll be alone with her for a longer drive, but because this Sunday is hers. It's her time with the kids.

Your sister, however, texts you that Lottie's been whining and asking for you all morning. To help Natasha avoid having to deal with a cranky toddler, you agree.

She pulls up twenty minutes late. You're waiting by the front door already, dressed in a white shirt and short denim dungarees. Sunglasses are perched atop your head, and you immediately look up from your phone when you hear her.

"You're late!", you call, making a beeline for her pickup truck.

"Sorry", she says, leaning over the open the passenger door for you. "Look at you, all dolled up."

"Look at you, not even changing out of your pajamas."

Natasha grins. She's not too offended — she knows she looks anything but put-together, wearing shorts and an undershirt.

"It's warm out. Can't blame me."

You hum, agreeing, and sink into the seat. "A/C works again?"

"Fixed it last week", she says absently, turning down the volume of the radio a little. "Lottie helped me. She grabbed a wrench and added a nice dent to the door panel in the back."

You grimace apologetically. A song comes on, one you both can't stand as it brings back memories of alcohol, a party at the fire station, and vomiting into shrubs. When she kissed you on the hood of her truck and thought she could impress you with vodka shots. When she got drunk and told you she could see this being forever.

You reach out to change the station, then you stop in your tracks.

What you noticed is not worth mentioning, really. It should mean nothing. In that moment, it feels like a little stab.

"Don't like the 'new car' smell anymore?"

"What?" Natasha glances at the air freshener. "Oh, that. No, just thought I'd try this one."

"What was wrong with the other one?", you ask, sounding snippy.

For as long as you've known her, she used the 'new car' air freshener. Always. Whenever you'd stop at a gas station to buy a new one, she'd get that one. Obviously, it shouldn't be that important. For some reason, it is.

"Nothing's wrong with it", she says, glancing at you. "What's the issue?"

"Thought you'd at least be loyal to a fucking scent."

Natasha stammers. She glances at you from the corner of her eye a few times, her hand nervously tightening around the steering wheel. She's dumbfounded. She expected you to say a lot of things, but not that.

"It's- it's just a scent", she says weakly. "It doesn't have some deeper meaning."

"You're sure?", you hiss.

"Yes, I'm sure! God, you're going all therapist-mode again!"

You raise your eyebrows at her, and she winces slightly. That was the wrong thing to say. She regrets even thinking those words now.

"This has nothing to do with that! Ask any sane person, suddenly switching scents after years of having a favorite is not normal!"

"It's just a scent."

"It's not!"

"It is", she insists, suddenly grabbing the air freshener. You shut up and watch her tear it off, then she tosses it out the window.

Just like that, it's gone. You don't even hear it hit the ground. You stare at her, then shake your head and slump into the seat again. You hear her exhale, quietly but filled with so much frustration you swear she's about to have an aneurysm.

You cross your arms and shift in your seat. Natasha doesn't say anything. She keeps driving, the car passing by a gas station and some convenience store.

"That's not good for the environment, you know", you mutter, stubbornly refusing to look at her.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Y/N!"

"You saw that documentary!"

Natasha rolls her eyes, but doesn't reply. Of course she saw the documentary. You randomly sent it to her one morning, with a text attached to it — use metal straws. That was it. Nothing else.

She watched the documentary, of course. And of course she bought those stupid metal straws you told her about.

The silence lingers, heavy like the clouds hanging in the sky. They're dark and thick, and before you can even think about the incoming weather situation, it begins to rain.

Raindrops patter against the windshield and roof, constant and rhythmic and loud. You hope it won't be that bad — just a couple raindrops. A drizzle, maybe. Nothing so bad that it'll affect you.

It's not just a light drizzle, no. It starts bucketing down on you, rain pouring and the sky darkening. It begins thundering in the distance, then lightning strikes. Despite the air conditioning being on, you feel the air in the car get chillier.

"We'll be fine", Natasha mumbles when you glance at her. "Just a storm. I've driven during worse conditions."

It gets worse. On top of rain and thunder and lightning, the car makes a whining noise when it accelerates. The radio flickers, the headlights weaken, and you give her another worried glance.

"That's nothing", she says, but you don't miss the slight frown on her face.

"Nat, we're already running late!"

The car wheezes pathetically, then it slows down. Natasha curses and hits the steering wheel a couple times, but it's no use. It breaks down in the middle of the road, and she just barely manages to pull over.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Wait", she says, stressed, and gets out of the truck.

Within seconds of being outside in the rain, her clothes get soaked. She ignores the uncomfortable feeling of wet fabric sticking to her skin and pops open the hood. You stay where you are. She can get wet all she wants, but you're not moving. No way.

Something clatters, then you hear her curse. She stomps back to the driver's side and gets in.

"So?", you ask impatiently.

"The alternator's dead", she mutters, reaching for her phone. "I'll have to call AAA."

You stare at her, then exhale slowly. No need to start a fight — but your blood is boiling. All it took was one air refresher, and your day is ruined. Pair that with a storm and a truck that's broken down in the middle of the road, and it can't end well for Natasha.

"The kids are waiting!"

"And the truck broke down", she replies, pressing a button and holding the phone to her ear.

When she's done talking, she lowers it. The silence tells you everything you need to know. It'll be a long wait, possibly around an hour. That was the case a couple years ago, when you were on your way to your parents' place for the holidays.

"Idiot!", you hiss. "Did you know about this?"

"Well, it was acting up last week", she says, rubbing her face. "I thought I tightened the belt enough. It should've held."

"You thought? Nat, we're stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere! The kids are waiting!"

"I know that!"

"No, you don't!", you snap. Tears shoot into your eyes, and you're not fully sure why. "You can't do this anymore, Natasha! You can't pretend everything's alright and then be surprised when it all goes up in flames! Actually take care of shit for once! Be responsible!"

"I'm trying!", she retorts. She's a mess — water is dripping from her hair, her clothes are drenched (as is the car seat), and she's panicking. Another fight. Everything's been going somewhat well, and now you're about to get into another fight. "You think I wanted this to happen?"

This wasn't supposed to happen. Those are the words Natasha said on the phone three years ago, right before she told you she'd slept with Wendy. It's funny, how the human brain pushes some information aside and yet retains things you'd love to be able to forget.

You didn't forget, though. You stare at her, teary-eyed and furious, then open the car door and jump out. Natasha stares at you as you leave, the raindrops heavy on your skin. It takes her a second to register what's going on.

"Shit! Y/N, wait!" She accidentally hits her hand trying to open the door, then she storms out. "Wait, please!"

"Fuck you!"

"Y/N", she pleads. She's a firefighter, and she's faster. She reaches you within a matter of seconds. "Please."

You whip around. Loose strands of hair are sticking to your cheeks, and your eyes are red. She can't see the tears due to the rain, but she can't tell you're crying.

"Why'd you cheat?"

She blinks, her heart sinking. She never figured the 'why' out, either. There was never a reason, or an explanation, for what she did. It was cowardice, and idiocy, and selfishness all poured into what'd end up being the worst mistake of her life.

"Tell me!", you sob. "Come on! Don't just stand there!"

"Because I was an idiot", she says, finally able to speak again. She steps closer. "Because...I..."

You shake your head. The rain keeps pouring, and it thunders again. It's a furious sound, sizzling and crashing, and it sends lightning zipping across the sky.

"You don't even have an answer", you say. "Was it worth it? Destroying everything and not even knowing why?"

"It was a mistake, Y/N", she says, her voice breaking. "I told you."

"No." You laugh bitterly. "I hate that word. It wasn't a mistake. It was a choice. You chose to do it."

Natasha doesn't say anything because it's true. You're right, unfortunately, and it's painful to admit. Spilling juice, losing a key, forgetting about an appointment — those are all mistakes. They're forgivable, human. But cheating is not.

"I regret it every fucking day", she says quietly. Another step closer. "I miss you constantly. I don't just miss our family, but I miss you. I married you for a reason, Y/N. That day you almost burnt down your apartment for crème brûlée? I mark that date in my calendar every year, and I buy crème brûlée because god knows I'd end up burning down my kitchen as well, but I buy it because it's the reason why I got to marry you."

The crème brûlée. What started as a poor attempt at making a French dessert ended in you meeting and marrying this woman in front of you. Rain-soaked, stupid, but you love every tiny part about her. Even the ones that ended up hurting you.

Believing someone who cheated, however, is hard. Love doesn't change that.

"Bullshit", you whisper.

"It's not bullshit", she pleads. "I've loved you for over 12 years, and that's not something that's going to change. I love you."

"Natasha." You let out a soft sob. "You slept with someone else. That's final. Do you know how much it hurt me? It still hurts. Every day. God, Vee and Lottie both look like you, and sometimes it hurts to look at them!"

Natasha swallows. Tears fill her eyes, but she blinks them away. Emotionally avoidant — that's how you once described her as to Valerie. In hindsight, you shouldn't have. But you were tired and sick of her, and in that moment, you needed someone to vent to. Though there are certainly better options for that than your child.

That doesn't change the fact that you were right, though. Your ex-wife was never good at communicating. She doesn't like to show her feelings. Even now, tears are something she needs to suppress.

"I know", she mumbles. The storm is so loud you can barely hear her. "I'm sorry."

"I love you too", you say. Your voice shakes. "I don't think I can change that."

She blinks and nods. You shiver pitifully, and Natasha reaches out. You want to back away, but then her hands touch your arms, and you're pulled in. She feels warm against you despite the cold rain, and she feels solid.

Way too much of you relies on the woman who's holding you. Despite the divorce, and the fights, you can't imagine existing without her at this point. It's your biggest weakness.

You look up, jaw set. You shiver again. She smiles, eyes glassy with tears, and you tip your head back a little. She's taller than you, and what you're doing is instinct. It makes it easier for her to kiss you.

It's been years, and yet, the feeling of her lips moving against yours is as familiar as breathing. You get on your tiptoes and cup her face to keep her close. Bodies pressed together, you nod your head and deepen the kiss.

She tastes like tears and rain and that gum she always buys. Her hands run down your sides, squeezing and roaming, and she keeps pulling you closer like you aren't already intertwined.

You wrap your arms around her neck. Natasha hums quietly, her hands on your thighs, then hoists you up. You pull away.

"What are you doing?", you ask, out of breath. She's already walking back to the truck.

"You're shivering", she says. "I got a blanket in the back."

"Oh."

With the door open, you slide into the backseat. You tug Natasha in with you, and she doesn't resist. As soon as she's sitting, you're swinging one leg over her lap. She feels a twitch inside her shorts, a familiar one, and shifts.

"It's fine", you mumble, pressing your lips to her jaw. She exhales quietly. "I know what I'm doing."

"You're sure? We haven't..." She trails off. You close your eyes.

You haven't slept together in over three years now. Not long before you got pregnant with Lottie, sex turned rare and lost what it once overflowed with. It was hollow and lacked passion. But if you try hard enough, maybe you'll be able to pretend that never happened. That sex is still the same as it was. That you still know each other's bodies by heart.

Even if it's just to distract yourself for a short while.

"If you don't want to, we don't have to. Obviously."

"No, that's not..." Natasha laughs nervously. "I'm not going to last long, love."

"That's what you're worried about?"

She shakes her head, then kisses you. Her hands move upwards, undo the straps of your dungarees, take them off. You feel the bulge in her shorts, straining against the fabric, and help her out of it.

You straddle her again and sink down onto her. Neither of you are worried about using protection in this moment. You're too fixated on the feeling of her inside of you.

The rain keeps pattering against the windows, which are now fogging up on the inside. Her hands are holding onto your waist like it's a lifeline. The backseats creak softly, you grip the backrest, and everything around you stops mattering.

She lets out a quiet curse when you clench around her. You bury your face in her neck and smell rain and cologne.

"I mean it. I love you."

"I know", you moan. Her hips thrust off the seat.

"I want to fix this. I want to fix us."

You hum vaguely, but it shifts into a soft whine. "You're really picking your moment here, Nat."

"Sorry", she gasps. Her forehead is presses against your shoulder. "But I mean it."

"I know", you repeat, nodding and biting back moans. A shiver rolls up your spine, and heat pools in your lower belly. "Just...wait a minute."

"Right."

Her hips roll up against yours, and the orgasm washes over you like the rain earlier. You shudder and slump into her. She kisses your neck and you feel something warm drip down your thighs.

The windows are fully fogged up by now. It smells like sex and rain, and you close your eyes to soak it in. Her heart beats against yours, steady and rapid, and you feel like you got tossed back into the past.

. . .

The girls ask no questions when you pick them up, but you've never seen Valerie look this excited.

She jumps into the car, clutching her duffel bag like an oversized teddy, and gives you a toothy grin. It should relieve you that she's happy about this — in reality, it freaks you out.

There were no promises made. Nothing's certain. For all you know, you're playing house instead of trying to become an actual family again.

Thankfully, Lottie distracts all of you. She's cranky from a sleepless night, so she's fussing and complaining about everything. The fruit pouch you hand her is squeezed to death like that apple juice pack a couple weeks ago, and her stuffed tiger ends up flying through the truck and hitting Natasha in the head.

To try and bribe her into calming down a little, you grab ice cream at a fast food drive in. It offers you three minutes of peace, then it's smushed against the window. More tears come, little feet kick against the seat, and Natasha and you decide going home is probably your safest bet.

Natasha parks her truck in front of your house. You unbuckle, then give her a hesitant look. Just sex — except it wasn't. Not when there's so much history tied to it. It's tied to everything you do.

"I'll help you", she finally offers. You exhale, thankful she broke the silence. "I just gotta wipe the window."

"Sure. I'll get the kids."

You get out of the truck and gather the girls. One in your arm, the other holding your hand, and go inside. Natasha follows minutes later and drops off their duffel bags.

The moment she steps over the threshold, you silently agree on something neither of you says out loud. She doesn't consider leaving, and you don't consider asking her to. Instead, you move around in the house like this is how it's supposed to be.

(And maybe it is.)

Lottie doesn't question it. She inhales the grilled cheese Natasha makes for everyone, then drags her upstairs for nap time. Valerie stays seated at the kitchen table, legs dangling. As soon as she's alone with you, she leans in.

"Have you made up?"

You frown and put the knife aside, then dry your hands. "What? Nonsense. We weren't fighting, honey."

"You're lying", she says. She grabs the plate of apple slices you hand her and eats one. "You were. You always fight. Is mama moving in again?"

You stare at her, but she doesn't flinch. You doubt she isn't aware of the weight of what she just asked; she's been perceptive of her surroundings ever since she was a toddler. She's certainly acting like she has no clue, though.

"You're too observant", you finally say. You stand behind her and start fixing her hair. "Don't worry about me and mama, alright? You should read that book for your English class instead, bub. These are grown people-problems."

"But mom-"

"No", you reply. You use the hair tie around your wrist to put her hair into a ponytail. "I promise I'm trying my best here, alright? And so is mama. But there are some things that are just hard to deal with."

"I could help", she offers, getting up from her chair. "Please."

You furrow your eyebrows at her. Footsteps on the staircase make you pause, and you both peek into the hallway to see Natasha return. She looks at you.

"Lottie's asleep", she says. "Anyone want to watch a movie?"

Apparently, trying to distract Valerie from anything only works if you're Natasha. Even if just for tonight, she lets go of the topic. Instead, she curls up between you on the couch and stares at the tv screen like it's offering her the entertainment of a lifetime.

An hour later, Lottie joins. You finish watching the movie and put on some cartoon. You make dinner — stir fry; Natasha wants to both kiss you and sob her eyes out —, and then go outside. The rain has stopped a while ago, but the slide is still slippery, so Lottie almost zooms into the shrubs.

When it's bedtime, you get the kids ready together. You tuck them in, kiss foreheads, turn on nightlights and search for specific stuffies. Once everyone is happy, you meet in the hallway and go downstairs.

Again, there's not much talking involved. You don't have to say it out loud to agree on it. You get the couch ready like it's second nature — pillows, blankets, a change of clothes — and linger by the door when she sits down.

"Just for tonight, right?", she says, slowly unfolding the blanket. You shrug.

"I'm not going to answer that."

Natasha shoots you a faint smile, then sits down. "This is like that night where you kicked me out of bed."

"It's not the same at all", you argue. "Get some sleep, alright?"

She looks up and hums quietly. Join me — she doesn't say those words out loud, but she certainly thinks them. You, however, turn around and head up the stairs. Something rustles in the living room.

You're not ready to commit, or to pretend nothing ever happened. You can't go back to normal. But you can't bring yourself to let her go, either. All you can do is survive the moment and pray you don't fall apart in the morning.

By the time the sun comes up, three warm bodies will have joined Natasha on the couch.

2am. Valerie wakes up, thirsty, so she pads into the kitchen and fills up her water bottle. When she walks past the living room, she stops. Her mom's on the couch, asleep and snoring. She hasn't slept here in forever. Valerie hesitates, then curls up next to her.

4am. Charlotte wakes up. She carefully makes her way down the steps, her hand gripping the metal rods of the railing. She sees that the couch isn't empty and sleepily climbs on top of Natasha. She's knocked out within seconds.

5am. Something rips you from your sleep, so you get up and go downstairs to get started on breakfast. But you see all three of them on the couch — Natasha, on her back; Lottie, on top of her; Valerie, tucked between her side and the backrest of the couch. You pause and blink, eyes still heavy with sleep.

Walking up to them is not an active decision, and neither is laying down next to the woman who was once your wife. At least that's what you tell yourself, because it's been years since you were able to fall asleep this quickly.

When Natasha wakes up, all three of her girls have joined her on the couch.

You stir as well. As soon as you register where you are and what happened, you freeze.

Last night wasn't a dream. You didn't make it up. You were stupid enough to have sex with her, take her home, let her sleep over. Now, you're all entangled on the couch, and you have to deal with the aftermath.

The domestic peace you feel is the same thing you felt years ago. Back when everything was safe, when you trusted it. You were naive. You now know what it's like to have that feeling be taken from you, and having it taken away a second time will only hurt more.

Lottie and Valerie wake up at the same time, and you scramble up and excuse yourself. As soon as you've closed the bathroom door behind you, you sit down on the closed toilet lid. You feel the tears well up and roll down your cheeks. You cry quietly, hand over your mouth to stifle any possible noise.

Then, it knocks. You freeze and don't reply.

"Y/N?" That's Natasha's voice, soft and cautious. "You alright?"

"I'm good", you lie, ripping off some toilet paper to wipe your face. "Something happen?"

"Valerie's going to be late for school. It's almost 8am, which means she needs to be there in five minutes. I'm not good at maths, but I feel like that's kinda hard to do."

"Get her dressed", you say, getting up. You open the door and Natasha falters. "Grab a few snacks, she can eat those in the car."

"Are you-"

"Give her some lunch money too", you cut her off. You walk past her and scoop up Lottie, who's about to fall asleep again on the floor. "I'll pick her up later."

Natasha stays rooted in place. She looks helpless and confused; a little regretful too, maybe. You're gone already, having disappeared upstairs with a sleepy Charlotte in your arms.

She wants to follow you and apologize. She wants to talk about this. But Valerie runs to the front door, dressed and ready to leave, and she has no choice but to go.

. . .

Three days later, you find a jewelry box on your porch.

It just appeared there. No warning, no note, no quick text from the woman who made it for you. Another apology, disguised in wood and nails and painted white. You pick it up, flip it, inspect every inch of it.

Then, you open the lid. Between the little cushions she put in one of the compartments is a ring.

You know which one. It's the one she proposed with over a decade ago. It's the same width, the same diamond cut, the same design. It glistens in the sun, and you slam the box shut.

"What's that?", the woman behind you asks. You turn around and see Maria leaning against the doorframe. "Oh no. Don't tell me..."

"Yeah."

"She still does that?"

You gesture at the shoe rack next to the front door. "This thing's from, like, half a year ago."

Maria snorts into her coffee cup. She steps closer. Without even glancing at you, she pops open the jewelry box and pauses. "Dear god. Has she lost it?"

You give her a tired look. Maria is a firefighter as well. She works alongside Natasha, and she knows her almost as good as she knows you. She's also aware of Natasha's inability to communicate with words instead of DIY home projects.

"Guess", you mumble, shutting the box again.

"Is this her way of proposing?", she asks, following you inside. "I thought she'd be able to do at least that without a prop."

"What?" You stop in your tracks and whip around. Maria, startled, bumps into you and spills coffee. "Shit- are you insane? Why would you ask that?"

She rolls her eyes and puts the cup aside, then tugs at her shirt. It's stained with lukewarm coffee, and the fabric is sticking to her skin.

"Gee, I don't know. The engagement ring she gave you, maybe?"

You give her a stunned stare. "That's not- no. That's not what this is. I mean, that'd be..."

"Crazy? Insane? Completely bananas?" She shrugs and walks into the kitchen to grab a towel. You follow her. "Amen, sister. But it's kinda what it looks like."

You put your hand against your head and lean against the wall. Maria dabs at the stain and sighs.

"She's not proposing", you say. You're not sure if you genuinely believe that or whether you're trying to make yourself believe it. "I mean, she's with Irina."

"No, she isn't."

Your hand drops to your side. You wait for Maria to continue and explain — she can't just drop a bomb like this one and then not elaborate, after all. But she just frowns and rubs at the persistent stain on her shirt.

"What do you mean, she isn't?"

Maria looks up. She shrugs. "She had sex with you, didn't she?"

"Yeah, well." You laugh bitterly. "She also had sex with Wendy when we were married, so there's that."

"Yes, sure, but-" She sighs and takes off her shirt, then waltzes straight into the laundry room. You're tired of her constant back-and-forth, but you follow her anyway. "But she's changed. I think. And I heard her dump someone in the bunk room. She was on the phone, it got pretty ugly."

You stop in the doorway. Maria grabs a stain remover and dabs it on her shirt, then she puts it aside. You barely register any of it.

Apparently, Natasha's made a choice. She's sabotaging (sabotaged?) her relationship because of you. It's desperation in real time, and it's quiet, and messy. But she's picking you.

And you? You're not sure if you want to be picked. Maybe not being the first choice would be better for you this time. You still can't help the fluttering feeling in your stomach. You press your hand against your lower belly.

You're confused, you're scared, but you're also tempted. Part of you wants to believe in her, and in this love that still exists between you.

"She didn't tell me", you say dumbly.

"Of course not." Maria glances at you. "Why would she? She's terrified. She's fucked up before, and she's smart enough to know she's not immune to doing it again."

"Yes, but...she didn't tell me. She didn't...I mean..."

"Breathe, honey." She gently leads you back out into the hallway. "I mean, you should probably confront her, right? Don't be too nice, either. Make her suffer."

"Maria."

"I mean it."

You give her a deadpan look. She's one of the few who know why you and Natasha got divorced, and she's been a hater ever since. She used to be friends with your ex-wife, now she barely tolerates her. Seeing them in a room together is pretty funny, but you don't need her to act like this all the time.

She smiles and shrugs on her hoodie. "She deserves it."

"Yes, but she's Natasha."

"And this is why people fuck you over."

"Alright, time for you to leave."

She laughs and walks out the door. You stay on the porch, leaning against the railing, and watch her get into her car. She winks at you.

"I think she's off-duty today", she calls.

"No."

Maria nods and starts her car. "Yes. Absolutely", she says. "I mean it."

You groan. She sounds the horn, then drives off. You're left on the porch, alone, with a ring in a box waiting inside the house for you.

There's about a hundred things you'd rather do. Vacuum the house, mow the lawn, reschedule that appointment at the optometrist you won't be able to go to. In the end, you sit down in your car and drive to the other end of town.

Straight to Natasha's cabin.

. . .

Her cabin isn't unfamiliar. Not entirely.

You've been there countless times to drop the girls off, or to grab a toy one of them forgot. You know what it looks like — the dark wood, the gray trim, the metal roof. A huge backyard, half grass and half dirt patch, and a covered porch with a worn couch. Tools everywhere, even on the staircase.

You stay in the car for a long moment, then you get out and walk up to the porch. You don't knock, don't ring the doorbell. Instead, you lift the corner of the doormat and snatch the spare key Natasha apparently forgot there.

The door creaks open, and you're hit with a smell of pinewood and cologne. Sawdust and coffee are tangled into the scent, and you exhale softly as you step in. Now it's unfamiliar.

You inspect the coat rack, weighed down by jackets and fire gear and a diaper bag. You glance at the pairs of shoes scattered around underneath it. You peek into the kitchen and spot the protein powders and beef jerky on the shelf there.

Silently, you wonder whether her breakfasts are still as ridiculous as they were when you still lived together. She used to wolf down 5 to 6 eggs every morning, and sometimes followed up with waffles and leftover steak.

You shake your head and walk further into the house. It's comfy, you have to admit. Lived-in, too. You pick up a little sock with rainbows on it and put it on the coffee table, then you keep going.

A small staircase leads you into the walkout basement. You hear the sound of someone scrubbing something, so you keep going. You push open another door and freeze.

Natasha, on the floor, crouched next to a dresser. Sanding paper in hand, she's sanding the side. As soon as the door has swung open, though, she stops.

All you can do is stare at each other. Her hair, slowly coming loose from a low bun. The grey hoodie she's wearing, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her eyes, still looking up at you in that way that never stopped making you weak.

"You let yourself in?", she asks, her voice cracking.

"Why'd you give me the ring?"

She pauses. She slowly puts the sanding paper aside, then she wipes her hands on her sweatpants before getting up. You swallow, the jewelry box firmly clutched in your hands.

This is what you wanted. An answer. Watching her squirm, hesitate. Letting her feel what it's like to drown for a moment. You didn't come up for air for much longer, after all. Grief, motherhood, betrayal — crushing your lungs and pulling you under the surface. It's her turn.

"I don't know", she then says. You shake your head, but she lifts her hand. Her expression is pleading. "I wanted you to know I still had it. I didn't know how else to...you know."

"No", you say, both sharply and weakly. "I don't know. You think you can just drop this off and fix it all? I've told you that you building shit doesn't repair anything, Natasha."

"Yeah", she mumbles.

"And neither does this ring. I don't want it. Not like this."

She nods and steps closer. You willingly hand her the box when she reaches for it, and you watch her open it and pull out the ring. It gives you flashbacks to that night in your bed, when she was lying on her side with the ring between her fingers. She'd dumped rose petals all over the room, bed included.

It was right after sex when she revealed the ring. You were both flushed and out of breath. Back then, you swore you'd never be able to fall in love like this again. As of right now, you were correct.

"I'm not proposing", she says. She keeps the ring in her fist, careful to not drop it. "Honestly? I don't know what I'm doing. I haven't known for a while. But I need to fix this, Y/N. I need to fix us."

You shake your head. "No, Nat. You-"

"Wait", she begs. "I keep thinking about it. About the way you looked at me that night. Like I was the best thing you'd ever seen. And-"

"Natasha-"

"And I want to be that again", she finishes. You rub your eyes. "I'm not supposed to burn stuff down, you know. My job is to put fires out. But I burnt us down. And now it's my job to undo the damage."

"This is not the same as burning down a house", you say. "I'd prefer that, honestly. We'd just build a new one. But you can't do that with a marriage."

Natasha's running out of moves. She's sitting in this grief, letting it encompass her. It's like a heavy weight, one she hasn't been able to shake in three years. But she needs to keep trying, even if it costs her what little dignity she has left.

She steps closer, again. You stay rooted in place, which is both relieving and saddening. Not that long ago, she couldn't have imagined that she'd ever fear you not wanting her close. But you're still here, still in front of her, and she's not only running out of moves — she's running out of time as well.

Her eyes search yours. You avert your gaze when it becomes too much.

"Please", she says. "Just tell me what to do."

"I don't know", you say, looking at her again. Sawdust on her hoodie, her eyes filled with quiet desperation. "I can't do this if you're not sure. And even then, I..."

"No. Don't."

"Can it even work?"

"Yes. It can."

You chew on your lip and glance at the floor. More sawdust. A hammer. A stack of sanding paper in various grits. A bottle of water, and a shaker filled with some protein shake.

"You cheated", you say slowly. You're hyper aware that you're starting to sound like a broken record, but you can't help it. Natasha winces. "You slept with someone else. How do you make anything work after doing that?"

Unfortunately, she has no idea. Love and relationships don't come with usage manuals or instructions. You can either try to figure it out yourself or wing everything and pray it'll be okay.

She did try. Then, she screwed up. She struck the match, burnt it down, and now, you're standing between ambers and ash. You're breathing in the smoke in a desperate attempt to clean the air, but there's only two of you, and without opening a window, you'll die before you succeed.

There's only one solution left. Tear down the walls and let the smoke escape before it suffocates you.

"I can't undo what I did", she says. "I know apologizing isn't enough. It will never be. But I know I love you, and I'll keep working on myself, and I'll make sure that you'll never doubt me again."

You stare at her, hesitating. "Nat."

"I'm serious, Y/N. So serious." She exhales, her breath shaky. "Let me prove it to you. Give me a year. A test phase. You can back out at any point. You can always end it. But give me one chance. Just one. I'm not asking for anything else."

"And then?", you probe. "I don't trust you anymore. Not like I used to. What if I also don't trust you in a year?"

"That's okay", she promises. She cups your face, the ring stuck between her fingers and pressing against your cheek. "I'm not asking for anything else. I want you and the girls back. Just give me a shot at trying."

This is so her that you almost smile. Laying out blueprints, strategizing, framing it like something practical. Turning your relationship into a deal. But somehow, she's managed to make it raw and hopeful.

At the end of your life, you don't regret what you did — you regret what you didn't do. The 'what if' hurts the most. The knowledge that something could've been, if only there'd been more courage. If only you'd been braver. If you'd taken that leap instead of walking away.

Your marriage has always been centered around fire. It's the reason why you met. It's what Natasha deals with every day. It burned your marriage to the ground, even if not literally.

You feel it all over her, too. In her hands, which are calloused and strong. Her eyes blaze with it. Whenever you'd kiss her, you felt it. She's the human equivalent to fire. She's messy and unpredictable, she can cause disastrous amounts of damage. But when it comes down to it, she's there to warm you up.

Fire meant safety. Early humans used it as a source of light and protection.

It turns out that, even millions of years later, some things don't change.

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. Your eyes are burning.

"Don't disappoint the girls", you mumble. "Not again. Because I'll kill you, Romanoff. I swear."

Natasha lets out a breath. Her eyes glass over, her fingers shake against your cheek. You ended it with a threat, and truthfully, she deserves it. She'll have to fight for every scrap of softness now, but that's okay. It's worth it.

"I won't", she promises. "You know they're in good hands."

"Not the point."

"I know." She brushes her thumb over your lip. You move your head so her hand drops from your face, then you lean in and kiss her.

It's not a big deal. Just a quick brush of lips, lasting a mere second. It shoots adrenaline through her entire body and her heart begins to race. You pull away and reach up to remove some sawdust from her hoodie.

You stay silent for a moment as you study her. She doesn't say anything either, just stands there and admires you like the idiot she is. Finally, you pull away, but not without snatching the ring from her.

"I'll hide this", you say, walking up the stairs. She raises her eyebrows.

"Okay...?"

"You're not proposing unless I allow you to."

"Oh, uh- alright."

"It better be. Now get a move on, we need to pick up the girls."

She stares for another second, then she hurries up to follow you outside.

. . .

Picking the kids up together once was fine. Doing it a second time, though, left Valerie bouncing on the spot like she's a battery operated toy.

She's smart. She knew. All it took was seeing you and Natasha, waiting by your car. There was less distance between you this time. She'd touched your arm, hesitantly, and you'd opted for a faint smile.

Something'd changed. Which, for once, was a good thing.

Months have passed, and it's turned into more of a routine. You pick Charlotte up together, with Valerie waiting in the car already. The second she's in front of you, she lifts her arms at Natasha.

"Up?", she asks. Her voice is grouchy in that tired toddler-way.

"Sure, bub", she says, scooping her up. Natasha's always held babies like they're made of gold. It doesn't matter if said baby is three weeks or three years old. "Let's get you home."

"We're going to mama's place tonight", you inform them. Valerie tilts her head. "Sounds good?"

"You're not mad anymore?"

Natasha and you had a little argument last night, but it really was little. And, to be fair, it was mostly your fault. There's no need to start yelling over a roll of toilet paper.

You buckle up and look at your daughter through the mirror. Way too perceptive. That won't change. You love that about her, though, even if it sometimes drives you up the wall.

"Who said that?", you ask, smiling.

Natasha sits down and starts the car. She glances at you, then forces herself to keep her eyes on the road. "You got homework, bub?"

"Answer the question", she drawls. "Are you still mad?"

You get a pointed look from Natasha. You roll your eyes and push your hand against her cheek, making her laugh quietly.

"No", you say. "Not mad anymore. Sorry for the fight, honey."

"We didn't think you'd hear", Natasha adds. She takes a left turn and drums her fingers against the steering wheel. "You were supposed to be asleep."

"I don't care. You can't fight even when I'm sleeping."

"You're not the boss", Lottie says, throwing a LEGO figure at her sister. Valerie retaliates by grabbing her stuffed tiger and whacking it over her head. The next thing you hear is screeching and whining.

Exasperated, you turn around and intervene. "No, absolutely not. If we can't fight, then neither can you."

"She hit me!", Lottie cries out.

"She threw a LEGO at me!"

"Stop fighting and I'm getting you nuggets for lunch", Natasha mutters.

You want to intervene — don't bribe the kids into behaving, this can't end well, etc. — but then you remember that she's been doing this without you every other week for three full years. So far, nothing bad has resulted from it.

You slump into your seat when they immediately stop bickering. Natasha doesn't say anything, but she puts her hand around yours and squeezes gently.

At home, she grabs both kids and carries them into the cabin. One on her shoulders, the other in her arms, she slows down and turns around. You're close behind, holding their backpacks and the takeout paper bag.

You meet her halfway. There's a second of silence, of you just staring at each other, then you get on your tiptoes and kiss her. It takes her by surprise, for some reason, and you can't blame her.

You pull away first, and Valerie gives you a mildly disgusted look. She's been hoping for this for years, but she doesn't need to see you kiss.

"Can you not?"

Natasha shoots you a smile. You put your hand on her shoulder and turn her toward the cabin again. It's a spring afternoon, the sun is warm and the grass is covered in hundreds of little flowers. On the porch, Natasha left a half-finished bookshelf for Lottie's room.

As soon as you're inside, you wash your hands and dish out the food. You allow the girls to eat lunch in front of the tv for once, and they happily agree to find something to watch without fighting.

Then, it's just you and Natasha left in the kitchen. She's leaning against the counter, her hand twisting the top part of a water bottle. You can feel her watching you as you empty out the takeout bag and put the food on two plates.

"Want to share the onion rings?", she asks, pushing off the counter and walking up to you.

"You'll make me share my fries if we do, won't you."

"You know me too well", she mumbles. She wraps her arms around you and kisses your temple. "I'll let you have a sip of my beer."

She does. You end up on the porch together, sitting on the floor like teenagers. You stretch out your legs and she pulls them into her lap. You bring the beer bottle to your mouth and tip back your head. It's still cold, fizzy, tasting like the early days of your relationship.

You pass the bottle back to her, and she finishes what's left in it.

"Bookshelf looks nice", you comment. "Looks like a little house. Lottie will love it."

"I'll paint rainbows on it, too", she says. Her hand runs up and down your calf absentmindedly. "She asked for a bed with a slide, you know."

All you say is 'no', quickly and without hesitation. Natasha grins.

"I already told her no, don't worry. Not after the soap incident."

You hum, agreeing. Back at your house, Charlotte had dumped a small bucket of soapy water onto the slide and then slid down. Needless to say that didn't end well. You're still haunted by the blood coming out of nose.

"She laughed", you mutter, rubbing your temple. "She sat there and laughed. That's all you, you know."

"Sorry."

"Well, you better be. If she ends up wanting to be a firefighter, I'm suing."

"Maybe she ends up wanting to be like you", Natasha says. "I wouldn't mind that, you know."

You nudge her shoulder with yours. She sets her plate aside and wraps her arm around you.

Fire burns and destroys. It leaves behind ambers and smoke, soot and ash. The landscape looks scorched, your marriage was a wreckage. Things looked dead. But ash is fertile, and though you're marked, you're still here.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @scarletsstarlet @jassgunner @marvelwomen-simp @fairyfandomwhore @womenarehotsstuff @twentyonetornmyheart

[sainns]

ㅤ 𓈒 𓈒　 WITH EASE, in which hyung line helps you with your kid.

( 형 ) fem ! r ㅤ ◦ ㅤ 1632wc fluff ㅤ──ㅤ w jake's reader has twins, sunghoon is a single dad, set kid names in jay and hoon's.

from anna. for fave @junislqve my biggest fan 💌 she gave me a lot of ideas for this ty

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ REBLOGS ´ ᯅ ` FEEDBACK.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ LEE HEESEUNG.

you walk into your apartment, dropping your keys onto the counter as you slip off your coat. your tired expression is replaced with a bright smile when you see heeseung watching tv on your couch. you sit down next to him, gaining just enough energy to ask if your son is asleep.

“yeah, he actually went to bed pretty early today,” he stands, “do you want something to eat? i saved some food for you, i just need to heat it up.”

you nod, watching him walk away before closing your eyes. the exhaustion of your job has finally caught up to you and you might’ve fallen asleep if not for heeseung’s updates about him and your son’s day.

lee heeseung is your own personal angel, you think. your neighbor turned babysitter turned weird situationship; at least in your perspective. he takes care of you almost as much as he takes care of your three year old son. he’s at your apartment more than he is his own (that’s mainly your fault) and you’ve grown used to coming home to him almost every day.

you hear him say your name and your eyes flutter open to see the sympathetic smile he has on his face and it’s so gorgeous, he might as well break your heart now before you fall for him any deeper.

“it’s okay if you sleep for a bit, you’re tired,” he says oh-so matter-of-factly, because he knows you now, “i’ll wake you up in an hour.”

it’s more than an hour later, when you feel heeseung’s hand on your cheek, rubbing under your eye. he notices you beginning to wake up and pulls his hand away, “you should go eat now, ‘kay? the food is on the counter. i’m gonna go ahead and go home."

you sit up, frowning, “sorry, but can you stay? just until i finish eating, i’m sorry.”

he stares at you, silent for what feels like hours, and it makes you regret opening your mouth. you blame it on your drowsiness—you know that if you were in your right mind you wouldn’t have asked him even if you really did want him to stay. to your surprise, however, he grins.

“yeah, i can stay.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ PARK JONGSEONG.

you send jay a text, apologizing for the fifth time this month for backing out on your date. he’s probably becoming more annoyed with you each time you cancel, but it’s really not your fault.

for the past few days you haven’t been able to find a babysitter for your daughter. her usual one, jaehyun, was out of town, and your back up sitters all had plans or ended up canceling last minute due to personal problems.

you rise from your position on your couch, deciding you should get dinner started for the two of you. before you’re able to, however, you hear a set of soft knocks on your door. you go to open it without bothering to look out the peephole, figuring it was one of your neighbors coming to ask for something.

“hello—oh. jay?” your eyes widen when you process the fact that it’s your boyfriend at the door. he was probably the last person you expected.

“hey,” he gives you that smile that never ceases to make your heart almost stop.

“why’re you here? wait, nevermind. i’m really sorry about canceling last minute, the babysitter couldn’t come,” while you’re talking, you gesture for jay to come inside, shutting the door once he slips off his shoes.

“i’m not mad, these things happen,” he places a kiss on your forehead, lifting up a bag of groceries, “i figured we could still have dinner together, just with an extra person.”

“jay, you didn’t have to. i feel bad.”

and he really didn’t, but he did.

“i was going to buy dinner anyway. a home cooked meal is better, no?” he walks further into your apartment, setting down the bag on the small counter. “where’s gen at?”

“oh, she’s in—”

genevieve cuts you off, all but squealing as she runs out of her room with a toothy grin, “mommy, jj’s here?”

you don’t have time to scold her for running in the house because she immediately throws herself into jay’s arms, the man picking her up with ease, “woah. hey, sweet girl. what are up to, huh?”

you smile as they have a conversation, acting like best friends who haven’t seen each other in months. it melts your heart—genevieve liked jay from the day that she met him all those months ago and you know that jay loves genevieve like she’s his own. he’s definitely someone you want to keep around for as long as possible, if not for you but for your daughter as well.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ SIM JAEYUN.

your two kids run up to your best friend, fighting each other for a spot in his arms. they don’t fight for long because he easily lifts the two children up. he says hi to them and asks them about their day before stepping inside your apartment and kicking the door shut. once his conversation with the kids dies out, he looks at you with a smug smile on his face.

“they like me more than you,” he says instead of a normal greeting.

“that’s because you spoil them every time they see you.”

“they like me because i’m me,” he sticks his tongue out at you, “huh, guys, you love me, don’t you? your mommy’s just jealous.”

“you’re actually annoying,” you reach up, taking advantage of his occupied hands, flicking his forehead and quickly escaping to your kitchen before he can even think to retaliate against you.

he immediately sets the twins down, telling them to go play while he goes to help you with whatever you’re doing. he waits until he hears the faint sound of them pulling out their toys to go towards your makeshift hideout.

he creeps up behind you, being as quiet as possible. you’re popping a bag of popcorn, thankfully too focused on that than him and his whereabouts. he stifles a laugh, poking your side hard enough for you to curl in on yourself.

“oh my fu—jake, what the heck?” you scold him, hitting his shoulder.

he laughs, holding his hands up in surrender, “sorry! i had to get you back. i think you gave me a concussion.”

he assumes you notice the popping slowing down and you turn away from him, taking the bag out of the microwave. he can’t see your face but he knows you’re rolling your eyes when you speak, “please, i barely touched you.”

“that’s what you think.”

you don’t give him the pleasure of the response, ignoring him to instead pour the bag of popcorn into a bowl.

“thank you,” you say suddenly, turning around once more, “i was thinking and, you know, i don’t really say it enough.”

“you don’t–” he starts to say, but you interrupt him by grabbing his hand and lacing your fingers together.

“i do. you’ve been really helpful lately. so, thank you.”

“um”, he hesitates, “i love them and i love you. ‘course i’m gonna help.”

you smile, dropping jake’s hand and going back to preparing for your weekly movie night. he misses the warmth of your hand almost instantly, and he has to resist the urge to pull you back against him in a hug.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ PARK SUNGHOON.

he can’t help but think that this is too crazy to be a coincidence. you, the pretty mom he gained a mini-crush on at the park a couple months ago, now at his house with your son who just so happens to be his son’s new best friend. maybe whatever divine being that’s up there finally took pity on him and decided to give his bleak love life some color.

he slides over a glass of cold water to where you’re sitting and the smile of gratitude you give him could probably cause car crashes from how dazzling it is. sunghoon can see your lips moving, but can make out no sound. he’s too dazed from being in your presence to process anything other than the fact that you’re sitting in his house.

“...live with you.”

he comes back to reality, only catching the end of your sentence and blinks, “what? sorry, i spaced out."

obviously, he’s going to need more context because logically he knows you aren’t saying what he thinks you are—you’ve only known each other for a month—but he can’t think of anything else that would make sense.

“theo said he wanted to come live with you and yejun,” you say, amusement dancing across your face.

“oh,” he takes in your words, “really?”

“yeah, he was begging me earlier. so..” you pause to take a drink and he has to look away, “if you’re okay with it, can he spend the night?”

he agrees to it with a little too much enthusiasm. of course, this is mainly for yejun and theo—strengthening their friendship, helping them gain a lasting relationship or whatever—but it gives him an excuse to see you again tomorrow.

around twenty minutes later, sunghoon walks you out, his hands in his pockets. you told the boys about the sleepover, said bye to the both of them, told theo to be good and that you love him.

“i have a spare toothbrush and he can wear some of yejun’s pajamas, so don’t worry about coming back.”

“okay, perfect. um, i’ll see you tomorrow?”

“yeah, tomorrow,” he watches you walk to your car, waving as you drive off.

sunghoon knows for a fact that he’s fucked—he already wants to hear you say that all of the time; that you’ll see him tomorrow and the next day and the next. he feels like a teenager all over again, already thinking about what he’s going to wear and say tomorrow morning.

[plethorawrites]

Anyone else like the idea of a control freak Dom! Bruce Wayne?

Like, it wasn't something he ever really thought about pursuing because all his past partners were extremely strong willed and wouldn't let him get away with the kind of things he wanted to do, but with you? You're so damn sweet, you do basically anything he asks. And he realizes quickly that if he gave a command, you'd follow it.

So, proposing the idea of rules...small things about how you act or things you say, is an easy thing for you to agree to.

But Bruce is a control freak.

He always has been.

So he goes from having you stick to a schedule of sorts to micromanaging as much as he can— picking your outfits and throwing away the ones he doesn't approve of, making you wear certain things (or lack of them) to bed, keeping you sat on his lap while he works even until it's the middle of the night and you're exhausted because it's soothing to him.

He literally controls so much, and you take it all so well, because he's so sweet about it—kissing your shoulder as you nap on him while he works, running his hands up and down your sides when you wear the new dress he insisted you put on, whispering praise in your ear when you stay directly by his side during an entire event no matter what.

He picks out the new perfume you wear, because he likes it better than your old one, but you don't complain because it's incredibly nice. Just like the new purse he buys you to replace the one he wasn't a fan of and threw in the trash without telling you. Your shoes? No more flats. He likes the way you look in heels and doesn't let you wear anything else.

But they're Jimmy Choo's, so you have little reason to be upset. Besides, when you declare your feet hurt from being in them for hours upon hours, he picks you up like you weigh nothing, using it as an excuse to carry you around.

[softtdaisy]

hii !! Could I request something for Spencer where the reader gets shot in the neck instead of Spencer?

_______before it's too late

pairing. spencer reid x reader

summary. when spencer's protectiveness puts you in danger, he realised the reason why he can't handle losing you

words count. 2 455

what to expect. reader gets hurt, most of the story happens at the hospital

a/n. this was such a nice request i loved writing this story!! thank you so much for requesting it, i hope you'll love it 🤍

criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist| request

Spencer hated the sound.

Not any sound, actually. He loved the morning sound when the silence of his room was slowly replaced by the city’s noises. The cars outside, the incomprehensible conversation under his window, or his neighbor’s radio playing too loud. It wasn’t the best in the world, but it was proof for Spencer that he was alive.

He also loved the sound of coffee machines. His own at home—it made a distinctive noise he couldn’t understand, but he learned to love. And the one at the BAU. Because for the past two years, when he arrived in the morning and the coffee was flowing, it meant you were there.

Or maybe this last one was particular. Because now that he thought about it, Spencer loved many sounds related to you. The sound of your pen on paper or how you were hitting in a rhythm you could only hear in your head when you were thinking about work. The sound of your shoes on the desk’s floor that he could easily recognize every day. Or your laugh. Just…your laugh. 

Yes. Spencer loved these sounds.

But he hated the ones invading his head right now.

The whistles in his ears after the gunshots didn’t seem to leave. The quick steps of the nurses running in the hospital’s corridor. The beeps of the machine that was keeping you alive.

The memory of your last conversation.

“You know what?” You turned around suddenly, making Spencer jump. 

You’ve never been angry at him. You didn’t even show the slightest sign of disappointment in two years of working together. Not when he asked you to stay with him while he finished writing his case report, not when he froze in the middle of the field and you were the one in charge of the unsub. Not when he protected you and almost took a bullet for you—he really thought you would get angry and thought he saw you as some damsel in distress.

But maybe he should have expected that one. 

Locking you both in an office to not go on the field wasn’t his brightest move. 

He had watched you take the 367 steps around the room until now. And he watched as you took eight more to face him. Your finger pointed at him, with your tips hitting his chest.

“Fuck you, Spencer.” 

The team had been in Montana for the past week, dealing with a quite difficult case. The number of murders kept growing, and they couldn’t find the right lead to catch the unsub. They were all getting more worn out and angrier every day at their incapacity to find him. 

Spencer had seen Emily biting her nails again, Rossi insulting an officer in Italian, or noticed JJ’s red eyes earlier. Without talking about you and the sleepless nights you were making a string of. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder more than once these past days.

So when he heard Hotch say some of the team would go on the field to follow a lead, Spencer couldn’t hear his professional and rational voice. His heart was speaking louder than anything. It wasn’t until he told Hotch you would stay here to collect information and then asked you to follow him to an office that he realized it wasn’t fair to prevent you from doing your job just because he was the one scared for you.

“You have no right deciding whether I should go outside with the team or not,” you pushed him fiercely. “This is my job, Spencer! You do whatever you want, but you have no right to my actions.” 

He knew your reaction was caused by the lack of sleep and the accumulation of stress. That you would never in any normal situation complain this hard about that. More than that, you wouldn’t try to hurt Spencer with your words. 

Now he had to hear you mumble about him being unfair and delusional, that he wasn’t allowed to trap you here because he was nothing but a coworker. Which wasn’t true, right? You were his friend, and he knew he was yours. He had to hold on to this thought to not let your sharp words harm him more.

But at some point, he just couldn’t handle it anymore. “Could you please just stop? You’re being annoying,” he sighed, sitting on the sheriff's couch. He extended his hand, and like the last ray of sunshine outside knew about it, the key on his palm started to shine. “You want to get yourself killed outside? Go. Be my guest.”

He kept his eyes on you. To his biggest surprise, you didn’t rush to grab the key at first. You looked at him with surprise and something indescribable. Like for the very first time, you saw him in a different way. 

“But don’t complain if anything happens to you,” he added. That was the last straw.

You scoffed, snatching the key from his hand. 

“I hate you.”

That was the last thing you said before walking away and leaving him alone in the office.

“Do we have some news?”

“She hasn’t woken up yet.”

Spencer could hear JJ and Rossi talking. He didn’t need some super auditive power. He was literally sitting on the floor, right under them. He wasn’t even sure they had noticed him. He had been there for hours, sitting at the very same spot, his head close to creating a hole in the wall from banging against it. 

After you left the room, you called Hotch to join him, Emily, and Derek on the field. More than just the need to participate and help them solve the case quicker, there was this bittersweet grudge to prove to Spencer that you didn’t need to be protected. 

You were so preoccupied by the anger of feeling trapped that you couldn’t see the good intentions behind it.

Spencer was so preoccupied by the fear of losing you he couldn’t see the bad interpretation of his gesture.

And so, you were outside while he was looking for information with Penelope and Rossi.

Rossi was on the phone with Hotch when the worst happened.

The unsub was there. And he shot the first person he saw.

You.

“Agent down!” was all Hotch was repeating, forgetting he was even on the phone in the first place.

If Penelope started to panic immediately, Spencer completely zoned out.

He couldn’t lose Emily again. He couldn’t lose Derek; he was his brother.

He couldn’t lose you. He loved you.

That was the moment it hit him. How much he actually loved you.

“Who’s hurt, Aaron? Aaron!” Rossi yelled at the phone. It took him a few more yells to finally get an answer. One that everyone heard—he was on speaker. 

As soon as Spencer heard your name, his world seemed to crumble around him. He couldn’t ever hear the other calling him. His whole life was turned down to silent, except for the moment Hotch said, You got shot. That was all he heard the whole way to the hospital. Your name, again and again. And the distress in his voice when he said it.

He was the first to arrive. How ironic Spencer has been there before you. When you were the one who needed to be transported quickly.

The vision of your body lying on the stretcher would forever be inked in his mind. Unconscious, with a big bandage on your neck with some blood stained on it. You looked lifeless. And suddenly, Spencer felt like his life could lose all its meaning too.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything, Spence?”

He blinked once, twice, thrice, until JJ’s figure appeared clearer to him. He didn’t appreciate her concerned expression. Not because she shouldn’t be; everybody was stressed about you. But because he could tell that right now, a part of her concern was focused on him. And he didn’t deserve any of it. 

“I want her to wake up.” His voice was almost inaudible. He felt like he had no right hoping for your safety too. 

Because if he was asked, Spence would say it was his fault. It was his fault for making you angry when you were already tired and weaker, like everybody else. It was his fault for putting a new energy in your head when you should focus on the case only. It was his fault for thinking he could save you when it wasn’t his job.

It was his fault for falling in love with you when you were looking for a friend, not a lover. 

He closed his eyes for a second when JJ patted his hair softly to say goodbye.

One by one, the team left—they still had a case to resolve. Leaving only Spencer with you, knowing he wouldn’t go back to the hotel until you opened an eye. Knowing damn well he wouldn’t be useful until you woke up.

He couldn’t even sleep. It was impossible for him to put his eyes away from you, looking for the slightest move. A sign from you that would bring him back to life. Oh, what he would do to listen to your laugh, to hear one of your comments on his messy hair, or simply to see your smile. You always smiled. He needed you to smile right now.

He had been there for hours when it finally happened.

“Oh, fuck,” you mumbled, feeling like waking up from a coma that lasted for too many days. You could barely open your eyes; swallowing your own saliva was hard, and you felt trapped with your big bandage—that you remember.

It took you a moment to finally keep your eyes open long enough to have a clear view of the hospital room: the window on your right, the switched-off TV in front of you, and Spencer on the floor on your left. 

“Spence?” His name sounded like a pleading. It was. 

You had no memory of your dreams these past hours, but you knew one thing for sure: Spencer was in there. His pretty face, his pretty smile, his pretty lips on yours. Oh, you could cry from the thought of his mouth on your skin. 

You couldn’t properly turn your head to look at him. But Spencer was quick to jump on his feet to join you on your bed. 

“Oh, you look miserable,” you joked when he finally sat and grabbed your hand. A laugh that caused some pain in your neck. But you couldn’t care less. Nothing would hurt more than getting shot there.

Nothing would hurt more than the fear of losing Spencer Reid.

“You don’t look that good either,” he replied with a short laugh. His red eyes were betraying him. Spencer didn’t actually realize he had been crying these past hours until now. “You’re alive.”

Slowly, you brought his hand to your face. You needed to cuddle against it, to feel his skin, his touch. Ever since you started working at the BAU, you noticed that one of the things that helped you keep your feet on the ground and remind you that you were alive was Spencer.

Spencer and his happy smile when he was telling you about all his scientific facts. Spencer and his confused frown at some of your pop culture references. Spencer and his precious touch when you felt stressed about a situation.

Spencer, in his entirety.

He was quick at opening his palm, knowing what you were looking for. His thumb was brushing your cheek softly—something he needed to do. Touching you, knowing you were alive.

“You’re not getting rid of me like that,” you replied with a giggle. One he shared. One that made him shed a tear again. 

There were so many things going on in his head. So many thoughts mixing up. 

Sorry for trying to trap you earlier. Sorry for saying you shouldn’t complain if something happens. Sorry for reacting like I did. Sorry for being scared to lose you. Sorry for making you angry. Sorry for putting you in danger. 

Instead, all that came out of his mouth was “I love you.” Three simple words. 

“You said I had no right to your actions, and you’re right. But I refuse to risk losing you. I should have said it before, but I think today made me open my eyes. I love you. I love you so much“.

You listened to him, your hand glided from his to his arm, caressing it with a weak movement. It was almost too much for you considering your state. But you couldn’t resist touching him. Especially not now.

Once during a flight after a rough case, you were doing the same thing. Mostly for you, you felt the need to have Spencer close to you. He was your anchor that day more than ever. At some point during the flight, you accidentally let your hand slip underneath his sleeve. Since Spencer didn’t mind—still reading his book like nothing happened—you kept your hand there.

That was exactly what you did now. Wrapping your fingers around his wrist. 

“You’re lucky I love you too, then, I guess.” You smiled, tilting your head to the side. 

Not thinking about the bullet that was on your neck a few hours ago and forgetting about the pain any movement could cause you. So you grimaced again. 

“I feel so bad about what happened, do you…”

“How about we don’t talk about this?” You interrupted him. You moved slightly, probably not enough to fit Spencer’s body next to you. But it wasn’t going to stop you. “Come here, I need you closer.”

Nor him, actually. 

Spencer ended up sitting behind you, moving you with such precaution and care you felt like a doll. A very broken doll right now, but still a doll. He made sure your neck wasn’t hurting in this position, with your head falling on his chest. He knew this wouldn’t last; if the nurses saw you, they would immediately ask him to move so you could rest properly.

But for a few minutes, it was perfect. His lips on your hair, your hand caressing his leg. Both of your breathing were synchronized. 

“Actually, no.” You whispered in a voice that already sounded sleepy. “Don’t ever try to trap me, Spencer.”

“I…” he started, but you shut him up with a pat on the thigh.

“Unless it’s to make love to me.”

Spencer choked on his own saliva, which made you giggle against him.

“Too early?” You laughed, turning your head to watch his face. 

“Sleep,” he replied, still trying to catch his breath. Before giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. Something you both could get used to. 

Tag List @monzabee @lil_vampirina @rana030 @averyhotchner @liilysblog   📬 FILL THE FORM TO BE ADDED

[alinathinkstoomuch]

BRIEF RELIEF

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (part of my fake!fiancee series, but can be read as a standalone) summary: you asked for stress relief and aaron just happened to deliver it in the supply room...right as someone walked by, based on this request. warnings: smut, semi-public setting, fingering, lil hair pulling and mouth covering shenanigans, r wears make up & works in fashion, established relationship. word count: 3k

✧ masterlist

There were plenty of ways you loved to de-stress. Spa days with cucumber water and a fluffy white robe. Shopping sprees that required a second set of hands (and possibly a second credit card). Journaling with pastel gel pens while sipping overpriced matcha in your favorite café. Picking out a new signature scent just because it was Tuesday. Clearing out your shoe closet—though, admittedly, that one sometimes caused more stress than it relieved. Choosing which pair of Manolo Blahniks to part with? Torture in heel form.

But unfortunately, none of those luxuries were on today’s schedule.

Not when you were in the middle of organising the fashion show of the season. Between pointing frantic models towards the nearest powder brush, stitching a hem with dental floss, yanking what felt like a dozen bobby pins out of a hairstyle that screamed ‘wrong era’, and making sure the outfits went out in the exact right order, there was absolutely no time for candles, journaling or topping up your perfume. 

At one point, you actually had to stop and check the bottoms of your feet because you were sure they were on fire. They weren’t, obviously, but the pain? Very real. Your back felt like you’d accidentally signed up for a double reformer class, and your sweat had officially taken over the job of your setting spray which had definitely given up hours ago. Still, you smiled. You gave compliments. You kept everyone moving. Because this was your world, even if it felt like it was spinning a little too fast and a little too loud.

Just as you managed to get model number seven into her stilettos without poking your own eye out with a safety pin, that devastating, ooey-gooey voice made you pause. And maybe melt a little. 

“Is it always like this back here?”

You turned and there he was, leaning casually just inside the curtain like he hadn’t somehow managed to press pause on time simply by being there.  

“Only on days that end in y,” you replied, dabbing beneath your eyes in what you hoped was a graceful attempt to salvage creased concealer.

His response was a smile. One of those smiles, the kind that made everything tangled inside you slip apart until it all returned to what it once was.

“You look…busy.”

“Just another day in the office, honey,” you sighed, ushering model seven out with a gentle pat on the shoulder. Your eyes landed on the matcha in Aaron’s hand, and your entire soul lit up. “Is that—?”

“It is,” he confirmed lightly, holding it out to you. “Didn’t know if you’d had a break.”

You all but snatched it from him—elegantly, of course—and took three solid gulps like it had replaced oxygen for the next five minutes. 

“I like the dress,” he added, as if he hadn’t just lobbed a verbal grenade directly at your nervous system. 

You barely remembered putting the thing on, adamant that someone must’ve zipped you into it while you were too busy sticking down the inner corners of your false lashes. But the way he was looking at you, equal parts appreciative and enthralled, made you feel like you were walking the runway instead of running around behind it. 

“You mean the one with lipstick smudges and tear stains?”

“I mean the one that makes half the room forget how to speak.”

Smooth. Painfully smooth.

So smooth, in fact, that the words didn’t just land—they slid. Skimmed right over the surface of your skin and trailed somewhere lower, somewhere warmer, somewhere that made your knees question their loyalty.

You had to look away. Just for a second. Like maybe if you stared hard enough at a rack of colour-coded gowns, your mind would weasel its way out of the gutter, one currently overflowing with thoughts of Aaron’s hands.

Veiny, firm, steady hands.

“There you are!” Bella, your assistant, huffed as she appeared beside you. “We need blush-toned satin fabric. Like, now. Someone moved the roll and the hem on model eight’s dress is a tragedy waiting to happen.”

You blinked, cleared your throat, and nodded like you hadn’t just been fantasising about Aaron Hotchner’s hands and fingers five seconds ago. “Fabric. Right. Top shelf, back storage.”

“Ugh,” Bella groaned. “I can’t reach it without climbing something I’ll definitely fall off of, again.”

“I’ve got it,” you said quickly, cutting her off as you turned, matcha in hand and your doting boyfriend following behind like the good man he was.

Your heels echoed down the hallway as you power-walked towards the storage cupboard, nearly tripping over your own two feet because apparently gravity had also had enough of today.

“Have you had a chance to sit down at all?” Aaron’s voice followed just as you pushed open a heavy door leading to the storage room. 

“Does collapsing onto a chair for thirty seconds while I glued rhinestones to a hair clip count?”

He stepped in behind you, letting the door shut softly as you placed your matcha on the nearest shelf. You were halfway up on your toes, reaching for the top row where the blush-toned roll of fabric lived, when your elbow nudged the cup just enough.

The lid popped off and the matcha went everywhere.

“No, no, no,” you gasped, scrambling to save the now green-streaked shelf. “This was my one source of peace today!” 

Aaron was instantly beside you, grabbing a roll of paper towels from a lower shelf you hadn’t even noticed, moving in to blot the spill like it was nothing. 

“It’s okay, we’ll clean it up.”

You stepped back, letting him take over before the rising lump in your throat turned into actual tears. “I’m gonna be sticky for hours,” you groaned, throwing your head back. “And I’m pretty sure this is the wrong fabric anyway, and I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon in a sauna, and I haven’t eaten since… yesterday? And I miss my dog and—”

He paused mid-wipe, then reached out and rested a hand on your back. “Hey, what can I do?”

You genuinely tried to brainstorm options, real ones. Sensible ones. But all rational thought flew out the window as your shoulders slumped, your hands landed on your hips, and the words fell from your perfectly glossed lips like a prayer.

“Make out with me.”

His brows lifted, and he let out a half amused laugh, before going back to wiping up the spilled matcha—matcha that, to your horror, was currently getting more attention from his hands than you were. 

Now that was a real crisis. 

“Really, sweetheart? You sure you’ve got time in that jam-packed schedule for a make out session?”

“Yes,” you nodded, dead serious, like one of those dashboard figurines with the bobbly heads. “I only need, like…a five-minute heavy make out sesh to bring my stress levels back to something resembling normal.”

He shook his head, and you were graced with a side profile so pretty it felt rude. You caught the corners of his mouth twitching, the hint of a smirk creeping in at your suggestion.

“I’m serious,” you added, your voice coming out breathier than intended. “Please. I think I might combust and die if your tongue isn’t down my throat in the next ten seconds.”

“Oh, so it’s life or death now?”

You gave him your best wide-eyed pout, the one that had gotten you out of trouble and into trouble more times than either of you could count.

“Critically urgent,” you declared, every syllable dripping with need. 

You were already picturing it, how his mouth would feel pressed to yours, his tongue working miracles on the tangle of stress knotted inside you. You didn’t need a massage, a nap, or even a new perfume. All you needed was for him to toss those matcha-soaked paper towels in the bin and put that incredibly distracting mouth exactly where it belonged.

And when he finally moved? 

You had to physically stop yourself from squealing and jumping up and down like you’d just been handed a custom pink Prada bag straight from Milan. Instead, you stood perfectly still, well, as still as someone could stand while their fingers fidgeted with the sides of a couture dress and their pulse did laps. 

When the tissues were safely tossed, you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face, slow and easy like butter on warm toast. The second he was close enough, your hands slid up around his neck, fingertips now preoccupied with the collar of his shirt. 

“Hi,” you breathed, bouncing just slightly on your toes because self-restraint could only go so far.

“Are you sure this will make you feel better?” he asked, his hands finding their rightful place on your waist.

“Absolutely. This is exactly what I need. Now come on, wanna taste you.”

And really, how was he supposed to not react to that? When words like that came from lips he’d committed to memory, every curve, every sigh, every glossed-over comeback in that luscious tone he could never get out of his head. 

He pulled you in close, snug enough that the silk of your dress whispered against his suit. Then his mouth was on yours. He kissed you slowly, like he was sampling you. Savouring every bit of tension he could draw out. Like he was trying to decode the flavour of your stress before licking it clean. And yep, there it was. That delayed lighting cue. Oh, and the wrong heels on model four. And ah, yes, the soundtrack that didn’t flow quite the way you wanted it to. 

You couldn’t help yourself as your teeth gently tugged and sucked at his bottom lip, just enough to make his hands tighten at your hips.

There it was.

His tell. That tiny break in composure he didn’t even know he gave. He always did it—always—when he couldn't quite keep a lid on it. And you banked on it, because yes, the kiss was technically dissolving your stress, but it was also stirring up something else entirely. Something far less manageable. 

“Baby,” you whispered against his mouth as you took a step back, letting him follow you until your spine hit the shelving behind you. “This isn’t enough.”

He pulled back just a fraction, his breath still fanning across your face. “No?”

You shook your head, lips parted, pupils blown. “I need more, please. I’m so worked up, it won’t even take three minutes.”

“Honey, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re supposed to be getting the fabric for Bella, remember?”

“No, I don’t think I do.” You grabbed the hand resting on your hip and started guiding it down, lower and lower, until his fingers hovered right at the hem of your dress. You didn’t dare break eye contact, hoping he could see the desperation plain as day. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, and you watched the twitch of his Adam’s apple like it was begging to be bitten. Still, he didn’t stop you. Not once.

You slipped his hand beneath your dress. “Just feel me,” you whined. “Three minutes. That’s all I need. Well—three minutes and your fingers.”

That did it.

His hand moved on its own now, trailing up the inside of your thigh before slipping beneath your underwear. 

“Jesus,” he muttered, half in disbelief. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Told you,” you managed with a grin, though it disappeared the second his fingers brushed along your folds, dragging through the slickness before settling on your clit. Your whole body jolted, one hand gripped his bicep, the other clutched the edge of the shelf. 

“Okay,” you gasped. “That’s definitely helping.”

Aaron watched as your head fell back against the unit, the silk of your dress moulding perfectly to your rising and falling chest. He hadn't meant to move like that—not really. But the second you’d dragged his hand, every rational thought he’d clung to vanished. Just like that. Gone.

Because how the hell was he supposed to resist you?

Flushed. Breathless. Desperate. And somehow, still managing to look like you’d walked straight off the cover of a fashion magazine. So he gave in a little more, slipping a finger inside you. You moaned, high and needy, one leg instinctively hooking up onto the table behind him. The motion dragged him closer, deeper, like you couldn’t bear even a molecule of space between you.

“Aaron,” you whimpered, hips rolling against his hand, your fingers digging into his shoulder. “More. Please.”

He kissed your throat, just below your jaw. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“I don’t care—fuck,” you stammered, just as he slipped a second finger in. Your back jerked against the shelves hard enough to make them rattle and tip what remained of the lukewarm matcha onto the floor. Not that you noticed. Not even a little.

Then, he heard it.

A shuffle. A footstep. The door shifting…maybe closing? Maybe nothing at all.

Aaron stilled, breath catching mid-kiss as he tilted his head towards the sound. Your leg was still hooked over the edge of the table, the shiny material of your dress bunched high around his wrist, your body trembling under his hand.

His brain should’ve been sounding alarms, but instead? He was calculating.

You were covered enough that it could pass as something innocent. If someone walked in right now, he could probably get away with pretending he was straightening your dress. He could spin something. Say you’d gotten tangled in the hem. Maybe say you tripped. Something. Anything.

God. What the hell was wrong with him?

You had him out here—him, Aaron Hotchner—planning contingencies for how to keep your orgasm discreet in case someone walked in. All while his fingers were still buried inside you. 

“Please,” you mewled, squirming under his touch. “Don’t stop, please, I’m so close.”

“I think someone might be coming,” he murmured, his fingers curling deep inside you, dragging out another gasp.

“Yeah, me, just—fuck— right there.”

And that’s when you heard it too. Fast footsteps, clipped heels and then a voice unmistakably belonging to your assistant.

“Did you guys get lost? Where is the fabric?”

Bella. Of course.

But instead of panicking, your eyes snapped shut because right then, Aaron’s thumb dragged a lazy circle over your clit.

“Tell her,” he whispered calmly, fingers still not stopping. “Tell her you’ll be a minute.”

“A-Aaron—” you half-whimpered, half-hissed, toes curling inside your heels.

“She’ll leave faster if you answer. Go on, be convincing.”

You shook your head helplessly, pressure swirling hot and fast in your stomach. “C-can’t… right now.” 

“Hellooo? You guys are scaring me a little bit.”

Aaron pulled back, just enough for his eyes to sweep over you. And he saw it, the flutter of your lashes, the way your teeth pinned your bottom lip, the flushed glow painting your skin. This whole ordeal, the possibility of getting caught, was turning you on like nothing he’d ever seen before. 

It would take Bella exactly six steps, maybe less, to hear your failed attempts to keep quiet, to hear the lewd, obscene noises between your thighs as your wetness coated his fingers and wrist.

“Fuck, Aar—I’m gonn—”

His hand flew up to cover your mouth just in time.

“We’ll be out in a minute,” he called, casually, like this wasn’t the most indecent thing he’d ever done in a supply room. Like he wasn’t knuckle-deep inside you, fingers coaxing every last drop of your orgasm.

“Oh. Oh! Oh my God—I’m so sorry!” Bella’s voice rang out from the other side of the door. “Take your time, seriously! Fabric can wait. Don’t come out here… you know, not decent!”

The moment the sound of her heels clicked away, your body sagged against the shelf, every limb loose. You felt like you’d just been wrung out, soft, floaty, and about ten pounds lighter.

Aaron withdrew his fingers and adjusted your underwear with the kind of care that made you reconsider whether chivalry was actually extinct, your legs very nearly giving out all over again. But before he could move away completely, you caught his wrist, bringing his slick-coated fingers to your mouth and took them in, sucking them clean with a witty swirl of your tongue.

Aaron’s jaw flexed. “That’s not helping.”

You let his fingers go with a wet pop. 

“Gosh, silly me. You’ve been so generous,” you cooed, your other hand drifting south, feeling exactly what all of this had done to him. “It would be rude not to return the favour…especially when you know how pretty I look on my knees.”

He swallowed whatever response he was about to give, then reached up to fix the strap of your dress where it had slipped, a gesture so surprisingly tender it felt like he was putting you back together, piece by piece. Then, he grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging it enough to guide your face up to meet his. 

“Behave,” he warned, his other hand wrapping around your wrist, stopping your palming ministrations. “Unless you want me to take you home right now and have you miss the end of the show you’ve poured three months of your life into.”

“Boo. You’re no fun, Hotchner,” you pouted, stepping past him to finally snag the blush-toned fabric Bella had been losing her mind over.

“No fun?” he repeated, raising a brow. “Honey, my hand was up your dress not even a minutes ago. You’re lucky I didn’t use your lace panties to keep you quiet.”

You spun back to face him, dropping the fabric onto the table with a disappointed look. “You’re kidding, right? Why didn’t you?”

He let out a low laugh before bringing a hand to your cheek, his thumb brushing under your eye. “My dirty girl, why don’t you focus on finishing the show first, then we can discuss gag options at home, hm?”

You tilted your head into his touch, lips parting around a sigh that was equal parts amused and turned on. “I suppose I can last a couple more hours.”

He smiled before placing a kiss on your lips.

“That’s my girl.”

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[lushleona]

WICKED GAME. mattheo riddle.

mattheo riddle x fem!reader. part one. → part two.

summary ; after the war, nothing feels real except him—you’re not together, not really, but that’s never stopped you from crawling back to him when it burns too much to feel nothing at all. it’s cruel and addictive, and things change when your hypocrisy begins to bleed through. words ; 9.5k warnings ; sexual content, angst, toxic situationship, fingering, unprotected p in v, mattheo’s rough, creampie, oral m! & f!receiving, throatfucking, overstimulation, f!masterbation, voyeurism (?), swearing, hair pulling, orgasm denial, dirty talk, degradation, spitting, choking, pussy slapping, spanking, dp (fingers + cock), squirting

navigation. masterlist.

His back is to you when you open your eyes. 

You watch as he slides on his jeans—the same blue denim he was wearing last night when he showed up at your door. Listen as his shoes tap against the wood floor. There’s a certain rhythm to it, almost mechanical, like he’s done this a thousand times before. Muscle memory. 

He bends down to pick up his shirt from the floor, his movements slow, careful. You can almost hear the thoughts running through his head, though you know better than to ask. He’s good at keeping things to himself, as good as you’ve learned to be. 

His muscles flex as he reaches up to slide the shirt over his head, and your eyes catch on the scars littering his back, the faint red lines and the faded, angry stains left upon his spine, holding memories of the days that brought him to this point of roboticism, and despite your best efforts not to think too hard about it, your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

He glances over at you, and for the briefest second, there’s something in his eyes. Something soft, something different, though you can’t quite place it. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that familiar mask.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, his voice low, but there’s nothing in it. No affection. No real meaning. Just words.

You nod, eyes following his every move as he heads for the door, but you don’t say anything. Because what is there to say?

He leaves, and the silence that follows feels heavier than it should. You stay there for a few moments longer, listening to the sound of the door clicking shut, before you finally let out the breath you’d been holding.

Last night still lingers—on your skin, in your throat, between your legs. You feel it in the ache of your limbs and the hollow in your chest. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It never is.

Mattheo Riddle had become a ghost before the war had even ended, had already lost his entire sense of self. That moment—when he watched his father turn to literal dust—he couldn’t differentiate between whether the stirring he felt was grief or relief. 

The first time you saw him outside of Hogwarts was in a Muggle pub just off Diagon Alley. It had been a couple months since the end of the battle, right around the time you’d returned to a rebuilt version of Hogwarts for an eighth year. You hadn’t expected to see him at all, let alone there—half-drunk in a booth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes darker than you remembered. He looked up when you walked past. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just lifted his glass in a sort of salute, like you were two survivors nodding across the wreckage. 

You weren’t close, back then. Not really. Before the world went to ashes, you ran in the same circles—shared friends, shared classes, shared the occasional smirk across the room—but that was it. He was always a little too reckless for you to trust. And you were a little too careful, too quiet, for him to notice.

But war changes things.

The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. He still walks like he owns the ground beneath his feet, but there’s something broken behind his eyes now. Something lonely. You recognized it the moment you saw him again.

How could you not? It’s the same hollow feeling you can’t escape even in your wildest dreams.

That night in the pub, it was you who approached first, who spoke first. What started with small talk about mutual friends—about who made it out, who didn’t—turned into two drinks, then three, and then suddenly you were closer.

You can’t remember who leaned in first—only the bitter taste of whiskey on his lips and the way his hands slid under your shirt, all rough and desperate, as if he was trying to claw his way back into something real. It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts.

He took you back to his dorm that night, and all you can remember was the way he had you pressed up against the wall, his mouth on your neck and his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shirt like he hadn't touched another person in years. 

And then it happened again, two weeks later. And again, and again, until it became a pattern, the months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under.

No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

He doesn’t stay the night. Except when he does.

And you don’t care. Except you do.

You pull the silk sheets tighter around your bare chest, the scent of him burning your flesh. It’s riddled with vodka and musk and that cheap ass cologne you pretend not to love. Your eyes flutter shut, drifting back to last night, or more accurately, to every fucking night you’ve ever shared with him, honing in on every time he touched you with a certain gentleness that he usually never possessed. 

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain. The moments when his fingertips glided softly along the ridges of your spine, when you’d moan a certain way and he’d ease the hold he had on your hair, when he positioned you facing him instead of away. 

It was pathetic, really. The arrangement was what it was, and there was no underlying meaning to any of the unspoken rules the two of you set. It wasn’t serious, it wasn’t exclusive, and it never would be, but it seemed the walls around your heart were far too fragile, far too decrepit, to ever stand a chance.

You told yourself you could do it. That it was fine. That you really were just helping each other cope and it was only about satisfying a mutual need. The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him.

You glance to your side, sitting up with the covers pulled just below your arms. His expensive watch is on the nightstand, forgotten again. He always forgets something, and you’ve started to wonder if it’s intentional. 

Eventually, you force yourself out of bed, wincing at the sensation of your bare feet hitting the cold floor. The clock’s only just ticked past six—feels too early to get up now for a 9AM class, but you decide you need a shower. To wash away the smell of drinks and smoke and the grease in your hair, but mostly, to wash away last night’s activities. To wash him off your skin.

This cycle, it’s never ending, like a wound that scabs but never heals. Maybe a sane person who actually fucking cared about theirself would have called it off by now, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Because no matter how much it stings, no matter how bad the fire burns you, it’s still reassuring. There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

Your body feels unfamiliar as you pad quietly to the bathroom, like it doesn’t quite belong to you anymore, your limbs heavy with leftover sleep. You let the door click shut behind you before turning the water on hotter than you should, letting the steam rise and drown out the thoughts bouncing around your skull.

You step under the spray without waiting, eyes shut, letting the heat burn away whatever’s left of last night. It doesn’t work—but you stay there anyway.

By the time you drag yourself out, the mirror is too fogged to show your face, and your fingers are wrinkled from how long you stayed under. You dry off without thinking, dress even faster, and force yourself out of the dorm before your mind can drag you back.

The Great Hall is already buzzing with chatter when you arrive for breakfast but making conversation is the last thing you want to do.

Unfortunately for you though, things never work out in your favor. That’s made clear enough by the sight of a handsome boy in blue robes waving you over. Groaning internally, you give in and trudge over to him and his friends—not that you have much of a choice.

“Hi Rowan,” you offer, flashing him a half-arsed smile as you took the seat next to him, fighting the urge to drop your tired head into your hands. 

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily. 

Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

“Fine. Well, actually, I slept well.”

“I’m glad.”

Rowan was sweet. You’d been seeing him for a few weeks now. Nothing serious, but just a bit of fun. Dates, kisses, late-night study sessions that turned into something more. It was easier with him. He smiled at you in the hallways, held your hand under the table, asked questions like he genuinely wanted to know the answer. And he wasn’t bad to look at either—or to kiss. But when you did kiss him, when his hands were on your waist, your mind wandered. You couldn't help wishing his hands were rougher, warmer, different.

He pours you a glass of pumpkin juice without asking, like it’s an ingrained habit now. You thank him with a small smile and start picking at a piece of toast.

Rowan leans a little closer, nudging your shoulder with his. “You look tired. Was it the Arithmancy essay?”

You nod vaguely, reaching for the pumpkin juice. “Yeah, something like that.”

He chuckles softly. “Knew I should’ve stayed to help. I would’ve, you know—if you’d asked.”

You manage a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I know. You’re sweet.”

There’s a brief silence as you sip your drink, and then:

“I was thinking,” he starts, hesitant. “Maybe this weekend, you and me could take a trip to Hogsmeade? Just the two of us. I feel like I never get you all to myself anymore.”

You nearly choke on your toast.

“I— yeah. Sure,” you say too quickly, blinking down at your plate. “That sounds nice.”

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual.

Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

Your eyes flick toward the doors of the Great Hall every few seconds, scanning the entrance like your body’s acting on instinct, searching for him even when your mind insists not to.

Rowan’s voice pulls you back.

“Do you have class after this?” he asks, brushing a crumb off your cheek with his thumb. “I could walk you.”

You swallow thickly, nodding. “Yeah. Defense. With Slughorn.”

He laughs. “Isn’t he Potions?”

You blink again. Shit. “Right. Sorry. I meant… I meant Potions.”

You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even notice. That might be the worst part.

The weekend arrives with a sickening speed, each day bleeding into the next like ink soaking through thin pages. You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back. You don’t get the butterflies, the stupid fluttering warmth a younger, more naive version of you might have felt if he’d met your eyes across the room. Mattheo doesn’t give you that satisfaction, and it eats at you because all you want to know was if it was on purpose—if he was fighting the same fucking battle as you or if he honestly just didn’t care.

Too much to dwell on, you think. Too much to dwell on and too little in return. 

Your hands tremble as they gently scoop up Mattheo’s watch from the cozy spot in your nightstand drawer that you’d tucked it into, between freshly washed socks and bras. It felt too intimate, storing something that belongs to him in such a personal space, but you told yourself that that wasn’t your intention, that you were just safekeeping it for him.

Of course, safekeeping would’ve meant more if you’d returned it to him days ago, during one of the countless times you’d crossed paths in classrooms and hallways, and of course you'd thought about it, but you backed down before you even began.

Speaking to him when you weren’t drunk was a risk you didn’t want to gamble.

True, it would give you an advantage; you wouldn’t spew the same utter bullshit and nonsense you usually did when intoxicated. And true, chances were he’d just take the watch and you’d both move along with your days, but fuck, there was also the chance that either he’d ask you something you didn’t want to answer or you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance.

So instead you wait.

You wait and wait until Saturday night rolls around, his watch crammed into your jacket pocket as you stumble down the steps of the dormitories to the common room, where music is blasting so loud it could hardly be considered anything but noise. The air reeks of alcohol and weed, tendrils of secondhand smoke snaking through your nostrils to leave your head throbbing in record time. You haven’t even made it halfway across the room and your skull already feels like it’s cracking open.

The second Pansy spots you—your oversized jacket swallowing your frame, concealing the bare skin shown off by your tiny skirt —she’s practically lunging. Her arm hooks around yours, too tight and too fast, and her breath smells like firewhiskey when she leans in.

“Oh, look at you,” she drawls, eyes glassy, voice syrup-thick. “Looking all dangerous tonight. Who are you trying to kill with that skirt?”

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable. “No one, Pans,” you mutter. “I’m wearing the jacket for a reason.” Your free hand fidgets with the hem hidden beneath the leather, fingers twitching like they’ve got something to hide. “The skirt was the only clean thing I had.”

Pansy’s smirk doesn’t budge. If anything, it grows smugger. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with a glint that makes your skin prickle. “Mhm. Sure. Nothing to do with a certain someone you’re hoping to accidentally bump into? Saving the view for him?”

God.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Because she’s right. And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

“Fucking hell, Pansy, give it a rest. Aren’t you the one preaching every day and night about how women don’t dress for men?” 

She blanches, her brows furrowing. “Yes. Doesn’t mean I can’t tell when my best friend’s trying to get a certain boy’s attention.” Her voice is softer than before, like she’s trying to ease you into being honest with her, but she’s still slurring her speech and frankly, the words ‘best friend’ give you the urge to pull away. It only takes a couple beats without a response from you for her to rub at her reddened eyes with a fist and speak up again.

“You know he’s fucked up, right?”

Right. That again.

Like it’s news. Like it’s something you haven’t played on repeat in your brain until the record scratched.

“I’m well aware.”

“He’s not built for relationships.” 

You smile, sharp as broken glass. “Good thing we’re not in one then.”

She sways slightly, like the ground feels just a little softer than usual, and gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist.

Eyes flicking to the floor, you bounce up and down on the heels of your feet, running your tongue over your teeth. “I came here to loosen up, not be lectured.”

You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight. Her fingers linger for half a second before falling away, and you don’t wait for her to say anything else—you’re already moving. Head low, feet light, weaving through the maze of limbs and smoke and pulsing bodies.

The makeshift bar is a disaster. Half-empty bottles, sticky counters, solo cups stacked like some drunken monument to poor decisions. You grab the first clean-ish one you can find and pour whatever’s within reach—firewhiskey, you think, but it burns sharper than usual when it hits your tongue. You wince. Swallow anyway.

Your eyes skim the room. Just surveying. Being observant. Gathering intel like you’re not standing there in a fucking skirt short enough to haunt a Catholic grandmother.

Swallow again. The burn licks up the back of your throat, makes your eyes sting, but it shuts your brain up for a second. So you pour another.

You don’t even like the taste. You never have, but it gives your hands something to do, and something about the numbness creeping in behind your ribs feels... safe.

You glance around, like you’re doing it casually. Like you’re not scanning the room for a face you know too well. 

Your fingers tighten around the cup.

You’re not drinking just to get brave enough to talk to him. That’s not what this is.

This is you having fun. Being normal. Loosening up, like you said.

Right?

You take another sip.

He’s not even your boyfriend. You’re not his. There’s no label, no promises, no rules. Just... blurred lines and late nights and moments that mean too much and not enough all at once.

Your mouth tastes like sugar and regret. You chase it with more alcohol.

But then you catch a glimpse of him. He’s got a short brunette in a little black dress pressed up against the wall with his hands on her hips, the top button of her shirt undone, and worst of all, his mouth on her neck. 

The sight hits you like a fucking punch to the gut, jealousy slithering up your spine and coiling tight around your ribs until you feel like you can barely breathe. Your hands tighten into fists without you realizing, the stupid watch in your pocket starting to feel like 50 pound weights, dragging you down every moment you were still standing.

Jealousy slowly bubbles into rage, and you don’t know what pushes you to do it. Be it the alcohol, or bravery, or just pure fucking stupidity, you stomp over, effortlessly pushing through the countless bodies in your way, the hurt giving you power enough to do so. 

“Mattheo,” you croak out when you’re closer to him, fingers twitching with a lethal mixture of fury and anxiety. He doesn’t budge, lips still firmly attached to her neck, leaving a trail of red splotches and saliva.

Heat floods your entire body, up your ears and cheeks and neck, leaving you embarrassed for having called to him in front of all these people only to be ignored. Either he didn’t hear you because he’s completely entranced by this girl, or he disregarded you on purpose. Either way, it burns.

“Mattheo,” you call, louder this time. 

His eyes snap up, searching his surroundings before landing on yours, hooded, glazed, like he’s not really there. But the second he sees you, something in his expression shifts. Brief and barely visible, but there.

“…What?” he mutters, voice low and rough. He doesn’t move away from her. Doesn’t drop his hands from her hips. The girl turns slightly, confused, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. His gaze is still locked on you, half-dazed, half-aware, like he’s trying to decide whether to fight or flee.

Stomping over, you fish the watch out of your pocket, eyes never leaving his as you get closer. “You fucking forgot this,” you snarl, shoving the dumb thing against his solid chest, hard enough to make him stumble and to make the girl yelp. Without wasting a single second, you turn the fuck back around and walk away.

“What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath, his hand clasping over the watch as to not let it fall before completely disregarding the girl to follow you through the crowd.

You pray that he’ll lose you in the swarm of people, but of course, he doesn’t. He catches up just as you hit the corridor past the main room and grabs your arm—not hard, just enough to stop you, to turn you around—and the look on his face is equal parts confusion and condescension and anger. Like you just ruined his night.

“Are you fucking serious?” he growls into your face, the watch still clutched in his fist. “You come storming in, start throwing shit like a lunatic—”

You yank your arm out of his grip. “Oh, I’m the lunatic?” You laugh, short and humorless. “Sorry, didn’t realize interrupting you sucking face with some random slag made me the irrational one.”

He scoffs. “She’s not random.”

“Yeah? What’s her name then?”

He opens his mouth then closes it. Shrugs like he can’t be bothered to come up with a proper answer. “Does it matter?”

You glare at him, lip curled. “No. Of course not. Why would it? You’ve got a whole fucking lineup, don’t you?”

“You’re one to talk,” he sneers. “You playing house with Rowan fucking Rivers now? Letting him leave his shit behind too? Or do you just shove it under your bed like a good little whore and keep rotating us in?”

The slap would’ve landed if he hadn’t caught your wrist.

“You don’t get to fucking talk about him,” you seethe, struggling against his grip. “You don’t get to say anything.”

“Why not?” His voice is low, dangerous now, eyes narrowed as he leans in. “Because he’s the one who takes you on real dates? The one you’re actually proud to be seen with? While I get what—sloppy seconds in the dark when you’re drunk enough to forget you don’t give a shit about me?”

“You don’t know anything,” you snap, shoving him. He barely moves, just smirks wider, crueler.

“No?” He leans in again, voice like poison. “I know you kept that watch for a week. Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir. I know you came here in a skirt that screams look at me, Mattheo, and now you’re pissed that I did.”

You take a step back, voice shaking. “I kept it because I thought you’d come back for it, you prick.”

The silence that follows is blistering. It’s a truth you’ve only just admitted to yourself for the first time.

“You left it in my room on purpose, Mattheo.” Your voice is trembling now, shaking with everything you won’t say. “Don’t act like I imagined that.”

His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.” He lets it drop to the floor between you, doesn’t even flinch when it hits with a metallic clink.

You feel something splinter in your chest. It’s quiet for a while; you can’t even think of what to say anymore.

“I know enough about you,” he says again, and the venom in his voice feels like a slap all on its own. “I know you like it when I fuck the good girl out of you and you still act like I’m the one who should feel dirty.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it, to make you sound like such a needy, sex-depraved little girl, but you know he’s not wrong. Being with him makes you feel alive—that’s how you ended up in this position to begin with. Because you made each other feel real.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

You shove him. Hard.

He lets you.

But then he grabs your arm, pulls you into a corner, out of view, and slams his hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in like a goddamn threat.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this,” he says low, voice almost shaking now. “Don’t act like you came to this party looking like that for anyone else.”

Your mouth opens to argue, maybe, or scream, or slap him again, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

Because suddenly his mouth is on yours—hard, bruising, possessive—like he’s trying to prove a point, or make you forget every name that isn’t his. And you let him. You bite back. You kiss like you’re angry, because you are, and he tastes like smoke and firewhiskey and everything you can’t have but take anyway.

He’s already dragging you up the stairs to his dorm before you can even blink.

He slams the door shut behind you and you barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you again, his mouth hot and desperate, hands roaming like he needs to memorize the shape of your body all over again just to spite himself. Your back hits the wall with a thud, and he swarms into you, one hand fisting your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he growls against your mouth, biting at your bottom lip until you gasp. “Walking around with that innocent look, like you don’t fuck like you want to ruin me.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging him closer, refusing to let him think he’s the only one holding the reins. “You ruined yourself,” you spit. “Don’t put that on me.”

He laughs, low and cruel and breathless. “Still acting like you’re better than this,” he whispers, pressing his body flush to yours so you can feel just how hard he is, how much he wants. “Better than me.”

You don’t answer. You kiss him instead, messy and open-mouthed, biting down on his tongue just enough to make him hiss. He grabs your throat, not to squeeze, just to hold you there, thumb stroking along your jaw with a gentleness that contrasts his actions.

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

Your breath catches, humiliation and arousal burning through you simultaneously. He sees it, the way your body betrays you, and it only makes his grin sharper, hungrier.

“Knew it,” he mutters. “Knew that mouth wasn’t just for smart little comments and pretending you’re not fucking dying to be used.”

He tugs you deeper into the room, pulling off your jacket and revealing the skirt you wore underneath. His eyes narrow; the implication is clear. So is the command in his voice when he says, “On your knees.”

Your heart stutters, but you obey, mostly because you’re too proud to hesitate. The carpet bites at your knees as you kneel in front of him, evading his gaze because he’s watching you with a look that makes your skin feel too tight.

“Take it out,” he says, voice low and sharp. “Since you came all this way.”

You glare up at him, but your fingers are already working his belt loose, pushing fabric aside, your hands far steadier than you feel. He’s hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You swallow hard, shame heating the back of your throat, and he fucking sees it.

He’s thick and hard, and when he hits the back of your throat, you gag, but don’t pull away. He holds there a second too long. Then pulls back. Then thrusts again—harder this time, hand fisted in your hair.

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.”

You whimper around him, hands curling against his thighs for balance, spit slicking your chin as he thrusts deep, over and over. It’s brutal and filthy and not even a little bit gentle.

“You pretend you’re too good for this,” he breathes, cock dragging against your tongue. “Pretend you like him so much, but you never gag on his cock like this, do you?”

Your eyes water. Your throat clenches. You want to hit him, bite him, shove him back and scream, but you don’t. You just moan, low and broken, like you're agreeing with him.

Because part of you is.

“You like when I use you like this,” Mattheo hisses, slamming in again, making you choke. “When I fuck the lies right out of your pretty little mouth.”

He doesn’t stop until your mascara’s smudged, your mouth swollen, and you’re gasping through your nose with tears running down your cheeks.

Only then does he pull out, cock wet and twitching, your saliva glistening down his length.

He watches you pant for breath on your knees, lips red and parted, cheeks flushed.

“Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice.

You glare up at him, breathing hard, heart thudding so violently you swear it might crack your ribs open.

“Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock.

Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on. 

His hands find the hand of your head, wrapping strands of hair around his fingers and moving your head back and forth on his own to meet the thrust of his hips. He’s too strong for you to stop him, not that you even want him to, so you let him fuck your face like a damn fleshlight.

“Cumming,” he groans. “Get ready to swallow every fucking drop— I’m gonna check.”

And after a moment, you feel ropes of warm, salty liquid shoot down your throat, coughing a little as he finally lets you come up for air but still doing your best to swallow. His thumb and forefinger harshly grab your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Open.”

Oh. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d check.

Your lips part slowly, tongue out, breath still hitching from the aftershocks. Your throat is sore, your eyes glossy, but you hold his gaze steady even as your jaw trembles from the effort.

He leans in, one hand still gripping your chin, eyes dark as sin. His thumb drags your bottom lip down further, admiring the mess he’s made. His cum still glistens faintly on your tongue.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

The praise hits something dangerous inside you and you swear your body betrays you all over again. You don’t move, don’t speak, just keep holding your mouth open like he told you to, letting him see every bit of you wrecked and obedient. “Keep it open.”

You blink up at him, confused for only a second—until you see him curl his lip, tilt his head slightly, and then—he spits.

It lands right on your tongue, warm and wet and humiliating.

And your whole body clenches with how fucking turned on you are.

“That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.”

You do. You swallow every drop—his cum, his spit, all of it—and then open your mouth again without being told, just to show him.

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul.

You barely have time to brace before he’s yanking you up from the floor by the hair, your knees scraping the rug as you scramble upright, unbalanced. Your face is hot and slick and wrecked, your mouth still tingling from how thoroughly he used it, and your body stings with humiliation and heat and something even worse: want.

He spins you around and shoves you toward the full-length mirror propped up against the wall. You catch yourself just in time, palms flat against the wood paneling on either side of the mirror’s frame. Your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and flushed, mascara streaking down your cheeks, lips red and swollen and shiny with spit.

Mattheo crowds in behind you, pressing his chest against your back, trapping you with his body. His mouth hovers just above your ear.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick. “Fucking look.”

Your throat is raw. Your heart pounds. You look.

“Mouth wrecked. Face ruined. Drool all down your chin.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, unblinking. “And your thighs have been pressed together since the second you knelt down. What, sucking my cock got you wet?”

You don’t respond. He laughs, low and cruel, and his hands trail down, slow and mocking, sliding over your waist, the curve of your ass, gripping the hem of your skirt and hiking it up just enough to reveal the way your legs are trembling.

“This what Rivers gets?” he sneers. “This pretty little mess? Or do you clean yourself up for him, act sweet and shy and fuckin’ pure like you don’t choke on my cock every chance you get? Think he’d still hold your hand if he knew what you looked like with your mouth stuffed full of someone else’s cock?”

You blink, furious and humiliated, and maybe just a little aroused by the heat in his voice, the roughness of his grip, the fact that his cock’s already starting to harden again against your hip. Swallowing hard, you still refuse to speak, but your silence damns you more than any answer.

He smirks.

“Take your clothes off,” he says simply, stepping back and folding his arms. “Slow.”

Your breathing falters, but your hands move.

First your shirt, inch by inch, over your head and off your arms. Then your skirt, unbuttoning at your hip, sliding down your thighs and pooling at your feet, then your panties. You don’t rush, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s something humiliating about doing it this way. Slowly, while he watches, while you watch in the mirror. You’re down to just your bra, skin flushed, legs bare. 

Mattheo’s eyes drag over you like fire.

He walks you back toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You sit automatically, and he moves behind you, knees bracketing yours as he settles on the edge and tugs you back against his chest.

His breath is hot at your ear as his hands drift up.

One finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it with a single practiced flick. The straps slide down your shoulders, and you make a move to shrug it off, but he stops you, his hand coming around to cup your breast through the lace before it falls away completely.

You suck in a breath.

“You know, every part of you is prettier when it’s ruined,” he says, his hand squeezing once before letting the bra fall away altogether. “Even this.”

Your head tilts back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for just a second, but then his other hand slides under your thigh, hooks beneath your knee, and yanks your leg up, holding it back so wide you can see the slick mess between your thighs in the mirror. He does the same to your other leg, locking them open from behind, his arms under your knees, your cunt completely exposed.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he mutters. “Not done with you yet.”

You blink at your reflection, the slow creep of vulnerability tightening your chest. You’re fully bare now, curled against Mattheo like some kind of obscene doll, his hands splayed possessively over your body like he owns it, like he owns you.

“You know what I want,” he murmurs, voice rough against your temple. “So do it.”

You hesitate again and his palm tightens under your knee, jerking your leg higher, further apart, until your muscles strain with the angle.

“Do it,” he says again, quieter this time. More dangerous.

Your hand trembles as it slides down between your thighs, slow and uncertain, and he watches you in the mirror like a hawk, gaze burning into every inch of you. You suck in a breath as your fingers reach your cunt, slick and hot and already pulsing.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

You press your fingers against your clit, drawing slow, tentative circles, but it’s not enough—he makes it feel dirty, degrading, like something shameful when he’s not the one doing it to you. But his eyes are fixed on your hand now, on the way your legs twitch under his hold, on the stutter in your breath.

His palm slides up to your chest again, this time tweaking your nipple between two fingers with a twist that makes your hips buck—and then he’s gone again, gripping both legs now, holding them wide, making sure you stay open as you push a finger inside. You don’t even realize you’re whining, begging under your breath—please, please, please—until you hear him laugh softly, right in your ear.

“Pathetic little slut,” he breathes. “You’re going to cum just from your own fingers? From being watched?”

You nod without meaning to, the pressure mounting too fast, too sharp. You’re close, so fucking close, and your body’s about to give in.

But then, his hand lashes out and grabs your wrist, yanking it away from your cunt just seconds before you tip over the edge.

You choke on a sob, hips rocking up into nothing, your cunt clenching around emptiness as the orgasm dies, suffocates, fizzles out in your gut like ash.

“No,” he growls into your neck, dragging your hand up and away. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

You whimper, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon, still trembling in his arms. His grip on your legs doesn’t loosen. You’re still spread open, still flushed and dripping and unsatisfied, your cunt throbbing from the denied release.

He brings your hand up to your mouth, still wet from between your thighs.

“Open,” he says again, voice a whipcrack.

You do and he shoves your fingers between your own lips, slow and punishing, until your taste coats your tongue.

“Now be a good girl,” he says, breathing ragged against your ear, “and fucking hold it in.”

Your fingers are still in your mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue, when he finally lets go of your legs and shoves you forward onto the bed. You land on your elbows, breath catching, and before you can adjust, he’s dragging you back by the hips, forcing you flat on your back, knees bent and spread wide as he looms over you.

“Fucking mess,” he mutters, looking down at your slick cunt, still flushed and leaking from earlier. “And this is what you’re trying to give to someone else?”

His thumb drags along your inner thigh, deceptively slow, just skimming the edge of where you need him most, but not quite touching. You squirm under his gaze, shame prickling hot over your skin.

“You think Rivers could ever make you look like this?” he sneers. “Think he could make you drip like this, just from talking down to you?”

You don’t answer because you know he’s not waiting for one.

Instead, he grabs your thighs and spits—a sharp, wet sound—and the slick hit of it lands right on your cunt, warm and filthy. You jolt, moaning despite yourself, and his grin turns sharp and mean.

He licks a slow stripe through your folds, tongue flat and dragging, and your hips buck immediately. You can’t help it; you’ve been denied, teased, ruined already, and the wet heat of his mouth is unbearable. Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

He doesn’t start soft, doesn’t build up. He dives in with a filthy kind of hunger, tongue working in tight circles over your clit, then flattening to lick deep into you like he’s trying to clean out every trace of anyone else.

His hands push down on your thighs, holding them wide, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. You’re panting already, arching into his mouth, and he moans against you like he likes how desperate you are.

“Fucking taste of you,” he growls, voice muffled against your cunt. “Could eat this for hours. Make you forget every single thing but me.”

You whimper, fingers knotting in the sheets.

He pulls back just enough to spit on you again—louder this time, wetter—his saliva mixing with your slick and spreading as he drags his tongue through the mess. The sound alone makes your stomach twist.

You try to squirm away, overstimulated from earlier, nerves already frayed—but it’s useless. His mouth chases you with unrelenting hunger, tongue circling your clit, then sucking on it hard enough to make your legs jerk.

“Stay fucking still,” he growls, and when you don’t, he lifts one hand—crack. Slaps your pussy once, hard.

You cry out, thighs shaking, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He slaps you again. And then again. Three times in total, each one harder than the last, until your whole cunt is aching and wet and flushed.

You blink through the haze of pain and pleasure, cunt throbbing where he hit you, but you don’t dare close your legs. His mouth is back on you in seconds, licking over the sting, soft for one moment before he starts sucking your clit again like he’s trying to draw every last sound out of you. His nails dig into your thighs. He growls something you can’t even understand because your mind is fucking splitting—

And still, he doesn’t let up.

Not yet.

His mouth is relentless, tongue lashing over your clit like he’s angry at it, like if he sucks hard enough it’ll undo the fact that you ever even thought about being with someone else.

When he pushes two fingers inside you, it feels like too much. They’re thick and rough and he doesn’t give you time to adjust; just starts fucking them into you, curling them with practiced precision until your back arches off the bed and your scream rips through the room.

“Yeah?” he pants, barely coming up for air. “You gonna cum? Gonna soak my fucking face like the little slut you are?”

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, but he only groans louder, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“I said fucking cum,” he growls, fingers driving in even faster. “Now.”

And you do.

It slams into you like a wave, knocking all the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamp around his head, your entire body tensing as pleasure crests so violently it almost hurts. You cry out, raw, broken, and fucked-out, and your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, gushing as your orgasm tears through you.

You thrash, moaning his name like it’s a curse, trying to twist away from the overstimulation, but he’s got you pinned. One arm locked around your thigh, the other keeping his fingers buried in your cunt, his whole body pressed between your legs to keep you spread open for him.

“Fucking look at that,” he growls against you, his voice thick with pride and something almost reverent. “You fucking squirted, baby. All over me. Shit.”

Your body convulses again when he spits on your pussy, again, mixing it with your slick as he keeps working his fingers in and out of you.

“I’m not stopping,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he can’t stop. “Not until you’re shaking. Not until you forget every name but mine.”

Your legs tremble around his hands, your breath coming in broken gasps, your vision blurring with tears from how good it feels, how fucking much it is.

And through it all, Mattheo doesn’t ease up.

He just keeps devouring you.

Like he’s trying to crawl inside your body.

Like he wants to tear every trace of anyone else out of you—until there’s only him left.

Your second orgasm hits fast, brutal, not even a minute later. It crashes into you mid-sob, a breathless, splintered sound that makes Mattheo groan like you just fucking fed him. Your nails rake down his scalp, your legs spasm around him, and it doesn’t matter how much you squirm or whimper or cry out—he keeps going.

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore.

This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud.

He finally lifts his mouth from your cunt, lips swollen and glistening, and you gasp at the sudden cold air hitting your slick skin, but there’s no relief because his fingers are still moving inside you, slower now, deeper, like he’s exploring. Learning you all over again. Your hips twitch when he curls them just right and your voice breaks completely.

“Mattheo, I— fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he cuts you off, low and rough. His voice is almost affectionate now. Almost. “You will.”

His other hand strokes your thigh, deceptively gentle, before landing another sharp slap to your overstimulated pussy. You jolt, a pathetic little noise escaping your throat.

“So sensitive now,” he murmurs, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “Could cum just from my fingers, couldn’t you? Just from this.”

He adds a third finger.

You cry out, legs flying open wider on instinct, your walls fluttering as your body betrays you again, greedy, eager, desperate even when you’re already spent.

“You feel that?” he breathes, pressing against the spot that makes your whole body seize. “That little flutter? You’re so fucking close again, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over my hand this time, too?”

Your answer is a strangled sob and a frantic nod.

But just as your stomach starts to coil, he pulls his fingers out.

You whine, hips lifting off the bed in desperate protest, but he presses a firm hand to your stomach, holding you down.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second before.”

Your body trembles under the weight of it, your thighs twitching, breath ragged, heart pounding so hard it hurts, and for a moment, it’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl.

Mattheo sits back between your legs, hand dragging slowly down your stomach, through the mess between your thighs. His fingers are wet with you. You. He stares at them like they’re proof—proof of how much you want him, how much you’ll always come back, no matter how many names you let slip from your mouth in the dark.

He drags his hand up, smearing slick across your hip, your ribs, up to your throat, gripping it again, just tight enough to make your breath catch.

Then he leans in, nose brushing yours, voice low and gutted.

“You let him touch you?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, mind still trying to catch up. “What?”

He squeezes your throat once, firm, unforgiving.

“Rivers,” he spits. “Did you let him see this pussy?”

“No,” you gasp, voice thin. “No, I— Mattheo, I didn’t—”

“Did he taste you?”

You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes, and it’s not just fear or arousal or shame—it’s the ache underneath it all. The ache that says this still matters to you. That some part of you wants it to matter to him, too.

His grip on your throat softens for a second.

Then he shoves your legs open and flips you over onto your stomach.

You cry out in surprise, hands scrambling against the sheets, but he doesn’t give you time to think. He pulls you up onto your knees, dragging your hips back until you’re arched, exposed—humiliated in the most obscene way. Your face is half-buried in the blanket, flushed and wet, and you can just barely make out your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You look wrecked.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Lips red and bitten. Hair wild from where he’s been fisting it all night.

And your thighs are trembling, still parted, slick with arousal.

“Look at yourself,” he snaps, fisting a hand in your hair to make you lift your head. “So fucking beautiful.”

You do look. It’s unbearable.

“You see that?” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “See what I’ve done to you?”

You shudder as he presses in just a little, enough to stretch you open around the tip, but not enough to satisfy the ache. Not yet.

“You used to act like you were better than this,” he whispers, and his voice is low, hoarse, almost reverent. “All those books. All that fucking perfect posture in class. Just fooling everyone else.”

He shoves forward, burying himself in you in one brutal thrust.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your body clenches around him, raw and slick and too sensitive, but fuck, you’re full. So full it almost hurts. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just starts to move, deep and rough, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

Your eyes flick up again, dazed, catching your own reflection, and the look on your face is almost unrecognizable. Pleasure, pain, possession, and everything in between.

He wraps his hand around your throat, pulling your upper body back against his chest. Your spine arches, your tits bouncing with each harsh thrust, and he watches all of it, obsessed, with his eyes locked on the mirror.

"Say it," he snarls, hand tightening at your throat. "Say who you fucking belong to."

You gasp, pulse hammering against his grip, and he spanks you hard when you hesitate. The sting ripples through your thighs and up your spine.

“Try to run and I’ll fuck you into the floor,” he warns, lips brushing your jaw. “Now say it.”

Your chest rises and falls in stuttering gasps, throat working around the pressure of his grip. His cock pounds into you from behind, fast and unforgiving, and the obscene slap of skin against skin drowns out every last rational thought in your head.

“I— I belong to you,” you choke out.

He growls low in your ear. “Louder.”

“I belong to you, Mattheo.”

The hand on your throat tightens, but you see his eyes flash with something deeper. Something you’ve never seen before.

“Fucking right you do.”

He shoves your thighs farther apart, hand sliding from your throat to your mouth, stuffing two fingers between your lips until you're choking again, but on him this time, gagging softly as your tongue flicks against the calloused pads.

His other hand smacks your ass again, harder, the sting blooming bright across your skin. “Can’t even keep your legs closed,” he spits, hips slamming into yours. “So fucking desperate for it— this is what you need, isn't it?”

You nod, moaning around his fingers, mouth drooling, legs trembling beneath you. Every muscle is strung tight, a storm of overstimulation building beneath your skin, burning you alive from the inside out.

Then he pulls his fingers from your mouth and drags them down between your legs, slipping them in alongside his cock, stretching you, fingering you hard while still fucking you deep.

You scream.

He clamps a hand over your mouth this time, muffling the sound, and still doesn’t stop. The rhythm of his hips falters just long enough for him to pant in your ear, “Gonna make you squirt all over me. Gonna ruin this bed, this carpet— fucking everything.”

Your orgasm builds fast and brutal, a hot knot in your gut pulled tighter and tighter with every brutal thrust, every curl of his fingers inside you. You cum with a sharp, guttural cry, convulsing around him, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Your thighs tremble, your vision whites out, and then you feel it.

Liquid gushes out of you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his thighs.

He groans like he’s been punched in the gut. “Fuck yes. Just like that. Look at yourself, baby. Look at the mess you made for me. So perfect, you’re so perfect.”

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror: eyes wild and glassy, mouth open, chest heaving. You don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

But Mattheo does and he’s fucking obsessed.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

His hips keep snapping forward, unforgiving, his cock slick with your release, his hand back at your throat now—not tight, not angry, but there. Holding. Anchoring.

“Mine,” he breathes, voice cracked and wrecked against your shoulder as he finally cums, spilling deep inside of you. “You’re mine, you understand me?” 

You can’t even speak. Just nod frantically, tears running down your cheeks. And then you feel a little splash on your bare shoulder, so faint you almost think you’re imagining it, but you look up to see his face in the mirror, small tears evidently falling down.

It’s unclear whether the fluttering in your chest is from heartache or hope or pleasure, but it’s there, and it reassures you that he must be feeling something. At least a fucking sliver of the suffering you’ve been dealing with, at least a fraction of the feelings you’re harboring for him.

He suddenly looks so fucking broken, so vulnerable. You want to reach for him, wipe the tear from his face, ask him what the fuck is going on inside his head. You want to ask him why he’s so fucking cold one minute, and then this the next.

But you can’t. Not now. Not with your body still trembling beneath his, still so raw, so exposed. He’s still inside you, still holding you in place as he leans into you, his face resting against your neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice hoarse and barely there. His chest presses against your back, his grip on your throat loosening, fingers brushing softly over the delicate skin. “I hate this.”

You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, feeling the weight of his confession. You want to tell him that you hate it too, but it’s a lie. Part of you thrives in this chaos, this connection that burns and stings, even when it destroys you both.

His breath is still shallow, and for a moment, you both just stay there, silent, eyes locked on the mirror. He shifts slightly behind you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost... genuine.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “I didn’t...”

But his words fizzle out, swallowed by the distance that still stands between you two, even in the most intimate of moments. The words hang in the air, unspoken, a fragile thread that snaps the second you try to hold onto it.

His fingers trace a line down your spine, his touch almost affectionate, but it doesn’t last long. The coldness creeps back in, wrapping itself around his words like a familiar shroud. “You should go.”

It’s not a command, not really. It’s just the unspoken truth of what you are. What you always have been in this twisted dance; temporary. A passing fucking storm.

You turn your head slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror one last time. The rawness of his expression still burns in your chest, and for a fleeting second, you almost feel like he might say something else. Something more.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets go of you completely, pulls away, and it’s like the warmth he’d offered you was never there to begin with.

”I should go?” 

“… Yeah.”

Hm. Okay.

With shaky legs, you stand, slipping out from his grip and collecting your clothes. You force yourself to dress, your hands trembling, but your heart still pounding in your chest.

Before you leave, you glance at him one more time, his eyes averted, his jaw set, the wall around him already back up. You don’t say anything; you don’t need to.

You walk out of the room, the door clicking softly behind you.

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

© lushleona 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

reminder that reblogs, feedback, and comments are very appreciated and make me smile :)

part two

[artdcnaldson]

hurm patrick getting you high asf so he can pound ur pussy to no resistance?? just a wet warm hole that kisses his neck sloppy and paws at his shoulders

hi... <3 this made me so dizzy i'm obsessed. i let it cook a little i hope you forgive me <3

TW FOR NONCON/DUBCON VIA INTOX if this is a topic that will trigger you or is not to your liking, please don't read this <3 much love

Really, you should've stopped. You should've known that it was getting to be too much, but Patrick kept putting the joint back between your lips and encouraging you to take nice, big hits. His eyes boring into yours as he grins and rubs your back and grins.

"That's a good girl," he nearly coos. His voice is dripping with condescension that flies right over your pretty head as he takes the joint back. You don't even notice that he's not taking any hits from the joint, he just distracts you with soft little touches and mindless chatter before he's placing it between your glossy lips again.

It isn't long before your head feels a little fuzzy, when his hand on your thigh makes you just want to nuzzle up and curl against him like a cat. You sigh softly as he pets your face, thumb grazing over your cheek.

He clicks his tongue to get your attention and you peer up at him with heavy eyes, smiling sweet and docile up at him. When he runs his thumb along your bottom lip and tugs it down with no resistance, he knows he has you where he wants you.

The moment his thumb presses against your tongue, your soft, pretty lips seal around it. He lets you suckle and drool around it as he wriggles his hand down your jeans and into your panties. You're already nice and wet for him, he figures you probably have been since the moment you stepped into his dorm room and gave that sweet little smile as you toed off your shoes.

"That's it," he murmurs, mouthing at your jaw as his rough fingers rub at your clit, making you gasp and moan around his thumb. Each noise pulled from your mouth, each lazy blink and slow grind of your pussy against his fingers, is like the sweetest honey. Every thought in that pretty little head of yours unspooled and replaced with cotton candy. Sweet and ephemeral.

It's a relief, seeing you like this— when he's laying you down on your back and sliding your pants and panties off and you're just blinking lazily up at him. Cunt slick and hot, clenching around nothing when he strips you of your top and plays with your nipples.

You whine and mewl, squirming with desperate need that you're too mindless to beg for. But he can see it in your eyes, he can see it dripping from your needy little hole. Want. Need. Desire.

You're so pliant, so open. Your walls just barely fluttering and squeezing around his cock as he sinks into your warm, wet cunt. You moan softly and loop your arms around his neck— they feel too heavy for you to do much more than that.

Sweet little gasps and moans escape your lips as you mouth at his jaw and ear with sloppy kisses, and if he feels you getting a little too fuzzy, a little too limp, he just has drill into your cunt a little harder to bring you back to where he wants you.

You're so good for him like this— soaking wet and so sweet. From the looks of it, he'd guess you were in heaven. He thrusts a little harder and a whimper of a gasp punches out of your lips, again and again and again. Pretty, mewling cries, mumbled hot against his throat.

If he was nicer he'd make you cum, but you're not exactly in a position to hold him to it. You whine softly when he pulls out, and he almost feels bad as he looks down at you— bleary eyed and desperate. When he notches his cock at your lips, you almost look a little confused, but you open your mouth and let him in— until you're suckling on his tip and laving over him with your tongue.

"There we go," he murmurs, his fingers fisted in your hair as he sinks in a little deeper. "Just needed something else in your mouth, didn't you? Keep going, honey... that's it. Use that hot little tongue."

He comes with a groan, pumping his load into your mouth and over your lips. Pretty little angel lips glazed in his cum. When you lick it off, he rewards you with another hit. It's the least he can do.

[nottsbabe]

Tired Eyes

Theodore Nott x Fem reader

Summary; Theodore comes back to his dorm to find you asleep in his bed after a quidditch practice runs late.

Warnings; none just fluff

Theo's head was pounding, All he could think about was sleep. After most of the quidditch team went their separate Draco had insisted Theo, Blaise, Mattheo and a few others stay behind to go through some of the plays they had been working on. After what felt like hours of doing the same drill over and over, Draco Finally let them go.

Theodore lazily grabbed his key out of his pocket and unlocked his door with ease. He was no stranger to coming home past midnight on nights like these with barely any sleep in his body to begin with. He tossed his key on the side table near the door before sliding off his shoes and heading to the bathroom to shower. He returned a few minutes later with sweatpants and a shirt you had gifted him for his birthday on. He was so tired from quidditch and classes he barely looked down before collapsing on the bed. As he did so he felt something start to nervously claw around under the duvet.

You immediately shot up with a squeal, your brows close together and furrowed. Your sour expressions softened after you see Theo's tired eyes peering at yours with a concerned look resting on his features. All the fear in your body was replaced with worry after seeing how tired your boyfriend was. "Theo? Where were you?" you asked your lip trembling a bit. You had always been anxious about Theo's sleep schedule, always begging him to go to bed earlier, and party less.

He just shrugged his shoulders and shifted his gaze to one of the pictures on his wall, blinking slowly at it. You grab his face turning him so his gaze was on you once again. "Theodore." you said sternly. You were worried sick about him and tired of the excuses he would lamely give out. "Practice ran late." is all he said before grabbing your (his) hoodie strings and playfully hitting you lightly with them, as if he was trying to distract you from getting onto him.

With a sigh you laid back down staring at the ceiling. Theodore crawled under the covers next to you, pulling your whole body on his. His hands find themselves under your hoodie drawing stars and hearts on your back. "I'm sorry principessa, I'll do better." "I know it makes you anxious when i stay out late. I'll try my best not to." He says with a kiss to your forehead. "I love you Theo." You say contently, interlacing your fingers with his. After a few moments light snores escape your slightly parted lips as you slowly drift off in the comfort of Theo's arms. "I love you more, cara mia." Theo says hugging you tighter before quickly falling asleep as well.

Not proofread<3

[pricesprincess]

Can you do one with the reader ovulating, not wanting to get off John? I love your writings!

18+ explicit smut + reader is ovulating

Your body was changing and you caught the subtle shifts of it. Tender breasts, scents have changed, and slight cramping. Also, you wanted to fuck John from the time you woke up to the time you slept.

You knew what it meant.

Ovulation week.

It was circled on the wall calendar that John walked by each morning and that man was a menace if anything who loved to tease his sweet little wife. So, that morning after a shared cup of coffee, he helped you dress, his fingers trailing up your arms with a deep chuckle.

"What are we doing, baby?" You asked with a slight pout as he kneeled in front of you to help slip your shoes on, his blue eyes locked onto your heated gaze with a lazy grin. John silently stood up and kissed you tenderly, but it had your pussy clenching around nothing.

Your husband was quiet as he guided you out of the house, his hand settled on your lower back, sometimes drifting down to your ass that he squeezed loving when you backed into his greedy palm.

John was a gentleman, always has been.

But during your Double O, which meant ovulation and orgasm week, as you call it, seeing John do the most mundane things had you sweating under your clothes like you spent all day in the sun.

His scent tripled when you got a whiff of it, and he was even more handsome, which seemed impossible but whenever you stared at him, all you could think about was drowning him in your cunt, letting him get you off until you couldn't speak or even think about anything.

He catered to you like he always did, and it made you all giggly, like a schoolgirl with her very first crush. You linked your arm with his when you both walked inside the mall. "Baby...are you getting a haircut?"

What an evil husband you have.

His hair was getting a bit shaggy and while you love it on him, you also love how short and cropped it usually is, but he made sure to make it long enough for you to pull on when he's eating you out.

John answered with a smile and nodded towards the hair salon right next to the nail salon next door. "I'm gettin' one and you can get your nails done all pretty so I can see them later wrapped around my cock." His vulgar whisper had your thighs clenched together.

He kissed your cheek and checked you into the salon, already having an appointment before he paid in advance with a tap before he left, kissing you again, which made your tummy flutter.

All the women in the shop gushed about your husband, but all you wanted was his dick however you could have it, inside your mouth, cunt. Hell, you wouldn't even care if he smacked you with it.

You settled in the chair and let your mind drift to what John would have planned tonight. He was a man who knew how to please a woman and you felt like the luckiest wife ever to have him as a husband. An ache bloomed in your gut as you wished they hurry.

As soon as your nails were done, you bid everyone a thank you and a smile with a wave before making a mad dash next door to run into John, your face pressed into his chest. "Watch where you're goin' darlin', could run into the big bad wolf." He chuckled, holding you.

You looked at him with a sultry smile. "Oh, sorry, sir! I didn't even see you there; I was thinking about my husband. You see, he is so sexy and good to me, I have trouble thinking about anything else." You giggled and wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying.

"Oh? Well, you might need to tell me about your husband so I can replace him." John replied, making you laugh. He hooked his arm around your waist once you moved and guided you to his car.

Between his haircut and his scent, you found yourself in the backseat with your dress bunched around your hips as you sunk down on his fat cock, feeling him stretch your cunt to accommodate his girth.

John tucked his face in your tits, letting you use him as a human dildo. "Can't get enough of me, huh? S'okay darlin', use me." His words spurred you to create a nasty symphony of wet squelching and moans as he bared your breasts for him to play with.

You whined when he hit your sweet spot, turning your cunt into a dripping mess of slick and spit. Before you ended up in this predicament, you sucked him off while he fingered you.

It was only supposed to get you off until you made it home, but after the first orgasm, you wanted more of that and John.

With his cum smeared on your thighs and your panties tucked in his pocket, John drove him with your face in his lap, sucking off the mess you made, unable to get enough of him. When you got home, you pushed him on the couch and dry-humped him until you came.

That night during dinner, you sat perched in his lap, his cock nestled deep inside you as you both hand-fed each other dinner in the candlelit kitchen.

All the lights were off, bathing the house in darkness.

For dessert, John had you spread out on the table and his face between your legs, cleaning the mess this time.

In the morning, before he left, you woke him up with a blowjob that had his toes curling. During his shift, you would send him charged messages and pictures of the things you did around the house and you always made sure to give him a view of your naked body.

"What a bloody tease." John murmured, knowing his dick and fingers and mouth wouldn't get much of a break. But he didn't mind it one bit.

comments and reblogs are really appreciated. <3

[hatsukeii]

ring pop! / bsf!ushijima wakatoshi x reader

genre(s): heavy on the crack and fluff, dumb and dumber, ushiwaka is dense but loveable! childhood bsf to lovers! yay! sunshine! rainbows! candy!

warning(s): nothing, implied fem reader for fluency's sake, but please interpret this as you'd like!! i myself am non-binary, so at the very least you know the person who's writing has you in mind!! i still tried my best to keep everything gender neutral to the best of my ability!!

wc: 1490

tldr; “boyfriend? but i thought we were already dating?”

“Wakatoshi, can I have your second button?”

Petals of blooming sakura flowers replace the grey pavement beneath your shoes with a mosaic of dusty pink as you stand beneath Shiratorizawa’s famous confession tree. It’s a ritual that has been done for many graduations before your own, students would act nonchalant as they drag their romantic prospects beneath this very tree, all to ask for their second shirt button. This year, it’s your turn, your hands clenched behind your back as you rock forward, backward, forward, backward.

“What do you mean? My second button?”

“Yeah, your second button.”

Wakatoshi’s nose twitches in confusion and under the blanket of pollen from the flowers above. What’s so special about his second button, that you’ve dragged him under the Shiratorizawa tree for? His hand shoots up, picking at the thread sewn between each hole in his second uniform button. It doesn’t budge as he picks and pulls, until finally, he rips it off with force, handing it to you between pinched fingers.

“Here.” He reaches for one of your hands, linked with the other in anxiety and anticipation, and pushes your fingers apart, before dropping the button into your palm unceremoniously. You stare blankly at the small round in your hand, then at Wakatoshi’s deadpan expression.

“Toshi, that’s…that’s not how it works.”

He tilts his head in confusion, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to search your head for clues. The petals shuffle beneath your feet as you mindlessly grind your shoe into the ground, not sure what to make of this situation.

“I’m not sure what you mean. I gave you the second button, like you asked. Did I do something wrong?”

“Wakatoshi, I’m asking you to be my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend? Do you hear yourself? What nonsense, what has he been to you for the past six years, if not that?

“Boyfriend? But I thought we were already dating?”

You mind empties its contents as your jaw goes slack, a dumbfounded hum escaping your windpipe. You’re not too sure- no, you have not a single idea when that idea planted itself into his head. You’ve been subtle enough, right? And careful too! No love letters, or secret gifts, or bento boxes, just day to day, regular best friend interactions between the two of you. What could have possibly gone wrong?

“Dating? Where did you get that from??”

Wakatoshi frowns, hands moving to his pockets. A spring breeze whizzes by, filling the stale air between himself and you. That’s not very nice of you. Wakatoshi knows close to nothing about relationships, but he does know one thing: You probably should remember how you got together in the first place.

“You…forgot?” After all these years of tailing behind you at grocery stores, and weekly dinners at your house, and running to your place at a text’s notice, only to end up watching dramas all night and crying with you, and you forgot that you were dating? His voice quivers, a rush of betrayal in the gleam of his eyes stabbing at your chest as he grimaces at your confused expression, then back at the second button he just ripped off his chest that sits in your hand.

“I think I would remember if we‘re dating…but we aren’t.”

“How could you forget? I still have the ring pop from that day!”

What?

“Wakatoshi, the ring pop? From sixth grade?” At the mention of the ring pop, the fuzziness of an afternoon six years ago is wiped clean. You can almost taste the disgustingly artificial grape flavour that tingled and fizzed on your tongue, before sending you into a sugar high for hours, feel the cheap plastic ring that hung a size too big from your ring finger. You’re fairly certain that the company had discontinued that line of ring pops by now, the two pack too costly of a production for the cheap price they sold for in convenience stores.

“Yeah! I asked you to be my girlfriend with the second pop, and you said yes! You even wore the ring on your ring finger!”

His hands leave his pockets now, pointing accusingly at your ring finger that lacks a humorously large plastic ring. You’re not sure whether to be shocked or to laugh hysterically, not when Wakatoshi’s accusations of your…infidelity? are rooted in the sanctity and candour of a discontinued ring pop, until it all hits you at once. All the nights that he would drop off bags of groceries at your doorstep, your mother gleaming at his persistent service, and the afternoons of watching his volleyball trainings, his eyes glancing at you for approval at every legal point he makes, all the little times that led up to your eventual confession weren’t “best friend interactions.”

They were the actions of a boyfriend. A boyfriend, who (rightfully so) thought he was dating his girlfriend.

“Toshi…did it never occur to you that we’ve done absolutely NOTHING in all these years of ‘dating’? I mean, wouldn’t you have wanted to, I dunno, hold my hand? Or like, kiss me?”

Wakatoshi jolts backwards by an inch, hand travelling towards his jaw as he rubs it introspectively, trying to fan off the heat that is crawling from his chest to his neck. You stifle a giggle, before clearing your throat guiltily. No, you shouldn’t laugh at him. He’s trying his best to process the past six years of unrequited ‘dating’, how could you interrupt him? Do you have no heart, or shame?

“W-well, my dad’s always taught me not to do anything with anyone, partner or not, unless they asked for it first… and you never asked to. So, I never did.” He finally responds, as confidently as his stuttering voice could seem. “Besides, I assumed you weren’t the type of person to be into super-romantic dating, so I just never questioned it.”

You shake your head, smiling at the ground as you take a step towards him. Your hand grips his uniform button by your side, afraid that it might get lost in the petals if you drop it. Wakatoshi’s head darts from left to right, as if piecing together red herrings on a cork board, pinning down every interaction from sixth grade to now with thumbtacks as the strings tangle and twist.

“What about our drama nights? Was that also just being best friends?”

“Yes, Wakatoshi. That is what best friends do.”

“The grocery runs?”

“You offered to do them, and I assumed it was because you were always training late and wanted to help a friend out on the way home.”

“And the weekly dinners at your place?”

“We’re neighbours!”

You watch him groan, his face shoved into his now clammy palms. This is information overload, and Wakatoshi’s processor is melting down in front of your very eyes. He shakes his head frantically, his hair becoming disheveled. His hands run through his green locks, and land on his hips as his feet tap at the petal-covered ground.

“So, we have not been dating for six years, but you want to start dating from today onwards?”

"That is exactly what I'm asking."

Finally. He’s finally got it. The button weighs heavy in your hand, and you duck beneath his face to look him in the eye. He glances away, visibly repulsed by his embarrassment. He should've caught the signs...well, earlier. It somehow has never occured to him that a ring pop proposal might not be the most legitimate way to one's heart, and it certainly has never occured to him that it might have come off as an ingenuine attempt at securing a relationship.

"I meant it when I gave you the ring pop though."

Your face morphs into an effortless smile, the towering boy looking more timid than he ever has before. You haven't changed one bit since the day he's 'proposed' to you, from the smile lines that adorn your face, to the little pout of your lips when you grin. And as you look at him, eyes shimmering under the shade of the infamous Shiratorizawa confession tree, Wakatoshi is twleve years old again, missing a canine tooth on the top right side of his toothbed. He's pinching a long discontinued ring pop between both thumbs and index fingers, getting down on one bandaged knee earnestly to pop the big question.

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

And suddenly, you're twelve years old, standing right there, in front of him, tiny hands covering your mouth as you gasp and tell him yes, a million times over and more. Wakatoshi is 5'2 here, a whole foot shorter than his now eighteen year old self, slotting a ring pop that's two sizes too big on your ring finger, the candy diamond shimmering in the sunlight on the walk home. Except now, the ring pop has transformed into the second button of his soon to be forgotten Shiratorizawa shirt, residing in your clenched fist.

"I know. I know you did."

His eyes refocus as he snaps out of his thoughts, and he wonders if you still have the plastic ring from the ring pop, the one that means to him doing groceries for your household before his own, and showing up at your door to watch dramas all night in your bed, and helping your parents with the cooking before your weekly dinners. His eyes soften, the probing frown long gone from his face as he returns your smile with his own, cheeks pink and teeth threatening to show through his suppressed grin.

"Does this mean I get to kiss you now?"

"Yes, Toshi. Yes it does."

His hands spare no time to cup your face, pulling it up to his own as his fingers draw lines across your cheekbones. Wakatoshi's brain bursts in sparks of gold and red, and he genuinely ponders how he has lived until now without ever doing this once. He pulls away, unsure what else to do after, before sneezing in your face.

"Sorry, pollen, gross."

"Let's get out of here then, quick."

You grab his hand in your own, another sensation he isn't sure how he's lived without until now, and pull him away from the tree as you run to the school exit. He jogs behind you, and you turn around, your fingers interlocked with each other's.

"By the way, happy sixth anniversary, Toshi!"

author's note:

@catsoupki here's your long overdue ushiwaka prompt baby i hope you like you like ;P i had so much fun writing this omg i cracked myself AND my sister up like twenty times running her through what my plan was LMAOO

i too need ushiwaka btw i actually love him SO MUCH it's not funny anymore I NEED HIM SBSBSBSBSB the only other fic i have of him is genuinely some of the worst situations i've put any haikyuu character in recently so i have to treat him to a good one here ofc

anyways tags!!

@starlysama @chuuya-brainrot @fiannee @bailey-reeds

ok love u guys see u next fic bye bye

[2tarbell]

COWBOY TAKE ME AWAY

you ask your boyfriend to take a look at your engine…

(drabble. © 2tarbell 2024)

rafe was close to losing his damn mind. how was this thing even still running?

he’s not a mechanic, in fact he finds it all too fuckin’ annoying. but when you looked up at him with those sparkly eyes, asking him to fix your little car, he couldn’t bring himself to turn you down.

so there he was, backwards cap on and sweating through his shirt. he’s already smoked two cigarettes trying to even start to fix the damn thing. the mess that was awaiting him under the hood made him shoot you a look, but you simply furrowed your brows and sighed in that sugary sweet voice ‘jus’ dont know what’s wrong with it’.

he was a sucker, maybe. pussy whipped, for sure.

more than an hour had passed and hardly any progress was made on the deteriorating engine. he was starting to get pissed off, your ‘the chicks’ cd having played three times through, the screen door allowing it to be heard from the player in the living room.

rafe looks over at you again, taking in the way you sat on the steps of the trailer, pen in hand as you mumble to yourself about the crossword puzzle between humming along to the music. barefoot and sitting nice and comfy on the wooden plank. oh, the luxury.

you looked so pretty, and he almost dropped whatever tool he was using when he noticed you weren’t wearing a bra. he cleared his throat, focusing all attention on the shitty state of your motor.

“baby — what in the hell did you even do to this thing?”

your head snaps up at that, pouting and tiptoeing over to him, paper abandoned on the steps. you ignored his protests of heading inside to put on some shoes, stepping over rocks and weeds. rafe shakes his head and leans on his arms as he stares down the engine, praying to whatever will listen to magically tell him what the problem was.

he sighs when your arm snakes around his waist and turns to press a kiss to the top of your head that rests on his arm. your touch was a brief reprieve from the hot sun and difficult task.

“s’that bad?” you mumble, voice meek.

god, he would do anything to make that sad little tone vanish. but he can’t lie to you, not about this. no matter how much he knows you adore this car.

he hums, giving the engine a once over before looking over at you, “well, it— it ain’t great… gonna have to probably replace most of it if y’wanna keep it.”

the whine you let out makes an amused grin form on his lips. you both know you couldn’t afford to replace even half of it.

“well— can’t y’just— just—“

“ohhh, when did you become a mechanic, sugar?”

he whistles lowly at your glare, wrapping his arm firmly around your neck and pulling you in. the sensation of being pressed against his chest, his bicep pressing into your cheek makes a lick of heat shoot up your spine.

“don’t get an attitude w’me, a’ight?” he drawls into your hair, leaving that familiar heat to settle in your tummy. you knew better but whined incoherently, a babble of ‘but— but— daddy—‘. it might cost you some of his softness, but it was just so satisfying to hear him get just a little meaner.

“no, stop poutin’— dad’s doin’ this f’you on his off day, show some gratitude. there is nothin��� else i can do ‘bout the fuckin’ thing, ‘kay?”

he wished there was more to do for the vehicle, but it was about time. hell, you’ve had that thing longer than he could remember. you never were good at admitting he was right, though.

he sighs and shifts to wrap his arms tight around your waist, lifting you slightly on your toes. your hands immediately find his chest and you lean your forward against him, pouting still as his lips meet your temple. you stare at the car, feeling betrayed by something you considered your baby.

all things must come to end, or whatever the hell the saying is. you honestly found that to be complete bullshit as rafe runs a hand over your hip, fingers lightly caressing the skin between the fabric and your jean shorts. his touch was almost soothing.

“poor sweet girl…” his lips press against your ear, a teasing whisper, “what’m i gonna do with you, hmm?”

you huff, maybe a bit dramatically, and turn your head to gaze up at him. rafe chuckles softly at your expression, if anyone else did such a thing, it might’ve felt patronizing. but not him, not your rafe.

you can’t resist a little grin, hiding your face in his chest. he always made you fold too quickly. he coos and it makes you feel fuzzy all over. with a finger under your chin, he lifts your head up to press a sweet kiss to your lips. his are a little chapped and his scruff is starting to tickle your face but you don’t care, needing the comfort of your big, strong man desperately in this moment. his large palms trail down your body to settle and squeeze at your ass.

rafe smiles against your mouth, that tilt of his lips making your own rise. soon enough, you’re giggling and unable to kiss him back. he doesn’t care and presses closer, swallowing those precious little sounds.

he lifts you, hands throwing you up and over his shoulder. he smirks at your squeal and closes the hood with one arm, the other holding you snuggly on his shoulder.

“rafe cameron, you put me down!”

“nuh — uh. think it’s time you thank me, yeah?”

with a smack to the swell of your ass, he walks up the three steps to your shared trailer, already planning on taking you to shower with him. the screen door shuts with a slam and your laughter echoes into the dusty streets of your little neighborhood.

[decaffeinatedcandycane]

Annoying task force members - pet peeves - headcanons

Soap hates the heat. He blasts the AC on cold and buries you in blankets if you complain. Then, of course, whines when you refuse to remove the blankets. And don't even try to deny him access to your body when under said blankets.

He will whine worse than a husky being forced into a bathtub.

Same goes for when you are not butt naked for him. Yes, Soap has the absolute audacity to expect you to be nude when he is keeping the room a suitable habitat for polar bears.

Ghost hates everything that is not minimalistic. He ain't a hoarder, lovie. He is the dude with a single chair and a PS4. His apartment has the same furnishing, the landlord left. If you attempt to add something he will start an argument you eventually win.

Yes, Simon I need a second fork. People have more than one bloody fork.

People are wasteful, lovie...

This is my home too.

I own it.

S'that so!

Yes.

Fine. *starts packing*

Shit. No. Lovie. Stop that.

Don't touch me.

Eventually he makes it up to you. And tries to do better. But it takes time for things to get through his thick skull. This is why you opt to bouncing on his thick cock. Maybe your pussy will knock some sense into your boyfriend. Judging by the gone expression on his face... it won't be anytime soon.

Kyle is judgmental. High morals/high standards amrite?

You cover all his standards, but some of your opinions are wrong...

At least in his eyes.

Neither of you back down in an argument l which inevitably happens, and when things are desperate you call his captain, who is more than happy to help after hearing glass breaking.

Have you seen the vine of a dude who puts on a wig and fight a woman who says "You can't hit a girl" - yeah, that's Garrick for you.

You do fight each other. Never aggressively - more like petty hisses and cat swats. But you do. And on occasion, stuff are being throw - nothing too dear, just stuff. At least it gives the perfect opportunity for the squad to shop for gifts for you too rebels. And keeps Price's blood pressure moving.

Price is a stubborn old goat.

I don't like that.

Yes, you do.

No, darling, I don't.

You ate it last week.

You are confused.

Are you gaslighting me?!

No-o.

C'me here. Stop running! I-Just.Want.To.Talk.To.You.

Our dear captain, NEVER admits defeat. He will fight for whatever he wants and NOTHING will stop him... And this is why you chase him around with a shoe on a daily basis. Or refuse physical contact. Or steal his reading 'prescription' glasses, he definitely doesn't need, and watch him struggle.

Eventually he breaks when he realize his unnecessary stubbornness drives a wedge between you two thus breaks your beautiful heart.

When the smile on your face is replaced with even the slightest discomfort, it reminds him of the pictures he saw of his mother before she met his father. She was radiant, warm and happy. After she married, she gradually faded into a hollow version of herself - a version Price will not let you turn into. He will never allow himself to suck the life out of you the way his father did his mother.

[euphoricimagination]

𝓗𝓪𝓲𝓴𝔂𝓾𝓾 𝓫𝓸𝔂𝓼 𝓶𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓹𝓲𝓬𝓴-𝓶𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵

Feat. Nekoma & Inarizaki -> Part 2 [Aoba Johsai & Fukurodani]

Premise: You had to do something else for a week and a half, leaving the boys alone for that period. Although they told the coaches that they could survive without you, the coaches ask a girl to help them out instead. They weren’t particularly excited, which got worse the more they spent time with her

Nekoma

You arrived later than you expected, just on time for the club, So you didn’t get to see your dear team until much later

When you enter the gym, you see a…strange view

No one in the team was happy

Yaku and Kai didn’t have any expressions on them, Lev was pouting aggressively, Fukunaga had a frown, Yamamoto was mumbling words and Kenma was nowhere to be seen.

The girl that was supposed to replace you for the week was walking besides a very annoyed Kuroo, who was pushing the cart with the balls

Weird, considering that doing that was the basics for being a manager

They were so out of it that none notice the sound of your shoes, weird considering how attentive they are

“Ah Kuroo senpai, thank God you helped me! I’m so small and weak that I wasn’t able to push it over” you heard her say, making you cringe at the sentence

“Yeah, whatever” said a disinteresting Kuroo

And that’s when you confirm that something was really wrong, Kuroo was never this dismissive

“What’s happening? Everything ok?” you asked making Kuroo turn around with a relief smile on

“Oh hi, Kuroo senpai was just helping me since you know, I’m so small and weak” says fluttering her eyes at him

“It’s just pushing the cart. It has wheels on it…” You gave a disbelief look to Kuroo, who just rolls his eyes “it’s not that hard”

“Maybe for someone as big as you it wouldn’t be so difficult!”

That was it for Kuroo, who quickly move to your side giving you a hug

“Well, guess you can leave now that our manager is back. Bye”

"Kuroo-senpai!! Stooop! I can stay here too!” says stomping her feet

The whole commotion cause everyone to look at you, and you swear you heard a collective sigh full of relief

Quickly enough you felt a bunch of arms around you, a bunch of head pats and a ton of screams of your name

Which quickly was interrupted by a loud scream by the girl “KYANMA!!”

You look at the stairs where Kenma was standing shaking slightly with big eyes. The girl tried to get close to him, yelling “They are being mean, Kyanma!” but he just runs away towards you

Yes. Run. He hated her, she was so loud and desperate, Kenma literally couldn’t stand her.

“You’re back” says Kenma hiding behind you, showing more happiness that you ever have seen from him

So happy that he went to hug you tightly, he really missed you

“Anyways, now that our team is finally complete you can leave. Please go out” says Kuroo

“Agh! Fine! I’m way too good for you anyways!”

She sends you a look full of venom, but you didn’t really notice it

After all, you had a clingy Kenma hugging you tightly and the rest of the team waiting for one

Inarizaki

After your small break reached an end you finally were ready to go back to your boys

They were having a small hangout in the Miya household

They tried to be sneaky about it, not wanting to invite the girl that was replacing you

But sadly for them, she somehow knew and crash into them before you could arrive

She’s the first person you see when you enter their house with the spare key they gave you

“Who are you?” she asks with her eyebrow raising

“Ehh…I’m Yn, their manager. You helped them while i was out?” You ask back, confused at her sudden presence

“Yes…I actually think I should be the new manager! After all I play like 17 sports and definitely know more than you about sports. What do you think this is? Cheer? Not like it’s a sport, but whatever” she says with a overconfident smirk

In the meantime the guys that were already in the house starting to appear into the hall, confused at how loud her voice was being

“Anyways! Why don’t you leave? A girl like you probably doesn’t even know a thing about sports! We’re gonna play videogames while you probably just want to paint your nails or whatever!”

“Who says you’re staying?” Atsumu says, frowning

“Ha Ha, you’re so funny Atsumu! Of course I’m staying” she says nervous

“No, you’re not” Osamu adds

“I’m sure we can all hang out tog-” you try to say

“You shut it! I bet you don’t know anything about the sport!” She says to you despite you trying to help her

“Really? You barely even know what we play, you just join because you wanted to see hot guys” a voice behind you says, Suna entering the house as he passes his arm through your shoulders

The girl immediately went pale, stammering the next sentence “well…well, I mean, of course I know!”

“Sure, that's why you asked 'if we knew' the rules of basketball yesterday. Just leave, nobody wants you here anyway”

She scoffs annoyed, looking at the rest of the team as if asking for help, which she doesn’t receive. She scoffs one more time, walking towards the door and leaving as she shoots a glare towards you

“You guys are so mean” you say, receiving a chuckle

“She deserved it, if anything she just hinder our practice” Osamu adds

“Besides, nobody talks about our beautiful manager like that” Atsumu hugs you along side Suna

The rest of the team also comes to hug you, and while they were a bit rude, you knew that they only had good intentions

You love this foxes too much

----

Note: a little something about my boys, also, I cringed way too much while writing this