#without ever having been in a relationship

[wandasaura]

THERES NOTHING HOLDING ME BACK

summary — as the promise of summer begins to warm westview, you and wanda cherish the stolen moments of quiet before the chaos begins

warning(s) — established relationship, married couple, mayor!wanda, westview, dom/sub dynamics, stern!wanda, handy lesbian wanda, domestic dominance, subspace, slight sexual tension, teasing, oral fixation, biting, pet names, praise kink, cuddling, showering, light bratty reader, slight punishment (not really), whining/whimpering, kissing, agathario mention, fluff fluff fluff, men/minors dni

The warm sun was the thing you missed most about summer. It poured into your master bedroom, warmed the floorboards and the countertops in the kitchen when it became a heavy blanket over the countertops as the sun rose every morning to the East, which always put it right in the palm of your backyard. The sun sets to the West, toward the garage and barbecue area that she hosts people in at least once a weekend around during the riptide of warm weather and pre-planned activities on days off.

Summers with Wanda are always a circus. She’s the kind to cram as many days full of activities and genuine quality time as she can while the weather permits your sensitive bodies to slip outside without any pre-preparation or sacrifices. Heavy jackets and wool scarves weigh you down for a healthy majority of the year, but summertime is where Wanda makes up for all those date nights trapped inside by looming blizzards and flash flood warnings.

It’s hardly even begun, whatever season you’re in still balancing delicately between Spring and Summer. The low sixty degree days have ended officially, but the rain of springtime still haunts Westview days on and days off every time you think summer is officially upon you. It rained all last week, heavy downpours that flooded your backyard and the community park around the block, but the sky has cleared up and the ditches have dried out and there’s no chance of rain in the foreseeable forecast yet. It’s a good sign.

Yesterday, you’d helped Wanda take the cover off the pool leading up to your first official summer party that always happened on Memorial Day; rain or shine. She always did fall into her head when she had a project to manage and directions to throw around — mostly to herself, but sometimes she called you in for assistance. You lost her to a craft often, whether that be painting, or gardening, Wanda was a women easily lost in the things that she cherished. That included you. Your body, your mind. If something could be undone and put back together in her hands, Wanda Maximoff knew how to play it, and you were her favorite hobby to fall into.

In the wake of removing the cover from the twelve-foot in ground pool, salt water of course because Wanda was particular at best on her good days, and running out with her to the chemical supply store to pick up whatever was necessary to shock the water system, something had been ever so slightly more tensed about her reserve. You truly had no clue what she’d dragged you all around town for, she was the one who wanted the pool and knew all the right was to keep up with it from months of research, but you knew that nothing had gone wrong with any sales associates to put her in a bad mood. It wasn’t even a negative tension in her jaw, it was just pressure that had no reason to exist.

It followed you everywhere after that. That pressure in her jaw, how her eyes became clouded with something akin to glittering specs, you knew exactly what it was once you’d unlocked the front door and she’d told you to leave your shoes by the bench like it was second nature to remind you of the rules you’d enforced in your house.

You weren’t with her on that playing field, not when your day had consisted of the typical workload before you’d come home early to help assist her, but you let her have her moments when she couldn’t seem to control herself anymore. You sat beside her at dinner instead of across the table at the head, giggling with your hand in hers as she spoke some love-drunk poem at you from memory. You cuddled in close on the couch, which wasn’t something different, but Wanda held you tighter when she was wrapped up in dominance. It wasn’t possessive, but it had more passion behind it than any embrace she gave when it was just the two of you against the world together; equals in your dynamic and more best friends than true wives even on your worst days.

You’d fallen asleep with your head on her chest and a smile on your lips. You’d known Wanda was still wide awake when you closed your eyes, deciding that you were just going to rest them instead of staring straight ahead at the reflection of her side profile in the window pane. You’d just cleaned the master bedroom, pulled out the swiffer and the squeegee and all because the sight of pollen collecting on the baseboards was nauseating. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the soft rubbing of her hand on the small of your back was lulling, and Wanda knew what she was doing even if you weren’t nicely in the palm of her hand, all small and pliant the way she liked.

When you woke up, Wanda was already gone. She never did sleep well when you let her marinate in that headspace, especially alone, always worried about hypothetical situations, always on edge, never able to find peace even though it’s always been just you. For a woman terrified of vulnerability, you find it both astonishing and inspirational that she seeks it out in her every day routine so fearlessly. It doesn’t bring you any comfort to know that she’s downstairs, probably making breakfast out of her restless energy, hands constantly moving, subconsciously counting down the minutes until you wake on your own, or it reaches an acceptable hour to wake you herself. She replaced her chest with the pillow you only use when she’s away, sprayed with just enough of her perfume for it to not be overwhelming.

There’s a longing ache in your belly, a desperate need to find her, to be with her, to be the thing that keeps her hands busy for a couple of hours. You’ve both been so busy lately, between work, getting the house in order for summer and the gatherings that it brings — you wouldn't have it any other way —, and party planning for Memorial Day, there had barely been a minute to steal where your energy could be focused on just each other. Last year’s party had been a hit, but sending Wanda and Yelena out for beer in the middle of the afternoon after you underestimated Tony’s gut had been a monumental waste of time. You’d be prepared for Tony’s gut and Natasha’s thirst for vodka this year, even if it meant crunching numbers trying to find the best premium price instead of washing dishes with your wife because this is what your life has come down to in adulthood; beer bargaining.

The hardwood feels eerily cold beneath the soles of your feet warm from hours tucked beneath thick blankets. It’s getting warmer in Westview now, the humidity’s rising with the tide and UV levels. You’re going to need to switch out the comforter for the quilt pretty soon, already feeling a sheen of dampness coating your limbs like your a blade of grass. It’s only sixty something outside, but you're gross and clammy. The floor is a tundra the farther you step, but when you get the the door, your hand bracing the brass doorknob, pulling it open with only Wanda on your mind, a wall of heat hits you and it dawns on you that nobody had turned the air conditioner on last night. A miserable pout frames your features, sealing your mood for the day whether you intentionally planned to hold the grudge or not.

Wanda’s coddling last night had apparently been working against you discreetly, beneath both of your noses and her soft caressing hands; though you suspect by the time you’d fallen asleep on her chest, clutching desperately to her silk bubblegum pink nightgown with white lace to frame the sweetheart neckline, she’d had an inkling of a clue at least. Your head feels head now, slightly disoriented. You can see through the fog, enough to get down the stairs without tripping, but everything else feels out of reach. It panics you for a moment. You never did like being alone in this state; in this… concoction of love and affection and utter hopeless devotion. It’s a hard thing to name, the rush of feelings that comes over you at one time until all you can register is the consistent sting of tears in your eyes and the sensitivity in your heart. Your head hurts, just a little, just enough for it to almost feel like the tickle of butterfly wings shooting through you. Anything can unmake you in this state. Anything can bring those tears to the surface, but just as easily as you sink into this feeling of weightless despair because you just love her so much, how can it even be possible, you can fall out of it, and that’s devastating. Wanda hates the days she can’t get to you fast enough to protect this headspace and feed it with hers. She hates when you're two ships passing in the night instead of the star bound lovers you were destined to be after enduring so much pain and suffering in your lives individually and as a couple.

Wanda has senses as sensitive as a bunny, though she would claim they’re as sharp as knives. The duality of her always confident persona is immaculate, because you can’t even conceptualize her soft curves having any edge to them as she bounces on her feet to face you. There’s no tail, but her hair is knotted into a bun, and it bounces at the nape of her neck when her head spins, eyes searching to meet yours, confident and strong but laced with desperation.

“Oh, hello.” It doesn’t take her a single moment to recognize the softness in the way you look at her, your hands curled into the fabric of your tank top that you’d stolen from her, that you think she’d borrowed from Kate after a paint and sip night at the Grove, who stole it from Yelena, who initially stole it from Natasha’s closet in high school. It had lived many lives, seen many phases, many tumultuous breakups and harrowing deaths. One day soon it’s destined to leave your position, to move onto Maria or maybe even Lila Barton whose grown to be quite tall since two summers ago when you acquired it, but for now you cherish being involved enough in Wanda’s life to have such a statement of her friendships in your closet. It brings another wave of tears to your eyes, and your lips quiver as your center of gravity betrays you.

You can’t establish which way is up or down. You can’t tell whether if you take a step forward it’ll lead you to Wanda, or if you’ll wander off into the middle of town disoriented and out of place. You wobble slightly on your feet, attempting to move, to get your brain working enough to complete the one task in your head, but she’s looking at you with so much power and affection and devotion and love that you can’t even begin to paddle with the tide to try and escape the ripe current that’s pulling you down deeper, deeper, deeper — you’re drowning in her.

“Come here.” She coaxes, seeing your desperate need for order, for tender direction and expectations. She’d been craving this since last night, since you’d let her guide you through the motions of removing the pool cover, since she’d bossed you around the chemical supply store and you hadn’t even seemed to notice that her grip on your hip was guiding and unavoidable. You hadn’t tried to get away from her to know that she’d been playing with fire ever since you got in the car and she’d buckled your seatbelt with a charming smile.

It takes a minute to register in your head that she’s speaking to you, that she’s given you something to hold onto and pull yourself toward her with. When it does click, when her words float to you on a kayak in the middle of Lake Superior, the sky a crystal shade of blue, probably straight out of Walt Disney’s Cinderella, your feet scramble to comply faster than your brain can process actually moving. You stumble over your naked feet, your toes painted yellow, soon to be stripped and painted white for the holiday and bikini attire event ahead, crashing into the floor.

Wanda giggles at your misfortune, and your lips crumble. “Oh, my love.” She says nothing else, she probably doesn’t know what to say other than the few million reasons why she loves you, why she thinks you're adorable, why its so sweet to see you cry because she knows you're quite literally overflowing with love for only her. Her ego is big, probably dangerous, but it’s so undeniably charming as she looks at you with a near predatory gleam in her sage eyes.

It doesn’t register in your head that she’s using small sentences because she knows anything bigger will overwhelm your system entirely, and she’s not keen on spending the entire day wrapped up on the coach coaxing you back to health like her little baby bird, though she would if it came down to it. She wanted to keep you like this though, on the cusp of knowing everything you’ve ever wanted is at your fingertips, and so absorbed with love you never thought you deserved to have that you can’t even think of anything but her without gentle coaxing. The way you crave her direction, the way you let yourself obey her just because you love her, and you know without a doubt she has your best interest at heart, even if she likes to take her own pleasure first sometimes. The point is, she can do anything to you, and that fills her with power.

When you do crash into her chest, it’s like everything in the world feels right. She’s already changed out of that nightgown, never one to prance around the house in those specific kinds of pajamas. She’s traded it out for a pair of soft shorts,your shorts, the ones you’d picked up from Walmart when you’d taken a trip out of town with Pepper because you couldn’t keep ruining your good biking shorts on hikes with Kate and Lucky. Fanny respects your lululemon shorts; Lucky thinks they’re a napkin. Her t-shirt is insignificant, one from the athleisure company she loves and you can’t pronounce. It’s not a tight fight, but it's the dry fit material that catches on the rough patches of your palms and you whine irritably when it does just that.

“Hey, shh. I need you to use your words, pretty girl.” The pet names do little to subdue the fog, or even slow it down the slightest bit, but you can gather enough that she doesn’t intend to make this easy for you. It’s the subtle cruelty that initially drew you into her, the pointed harshness and the delicate condescension that isn’t just disgusted by praise and sweet love, it’s entirely derived of it. Wanda Maximoff is a snarky little shit, but she’s the softest bleeding heart you’ve ever had the pleasure of being addicted to.

“I hate this shirt.” You huff, the diamond on your engagement ring snagging on the fabric next when you aim to drag your nails down her back petulantly, never knowing how to express your feelings in this state, opting for whatever's easiest in the moment. It drives Wanda crazy, but you’ve always persisted even after all these years together. “You have a bra on already.” You whine, head clearing, your eyes focusing as you realize that you’ve already slept through your chance at coping a feel while she sips her coffee that’s steaming on the edge of the counter.

In a single moment, both of your wrists are in Wanda’s grasp, her state level and what you would most definitely describe as menacing. A whimper rises in your throat, that sinking feeling claiming you again with something different, something more. It’s not just blind love that sends you floating down the river anymore, its submission; complete and total submission. The fight isn’t always long, but the satisfaction of winning never feels any less glorious to Wanda.

“I know you’re not trying to hurt me, ange. Are you?” She furrows her brows, feigning innocence. You swallow thickly, nodding your head, willing to do whatever she wanted if it meant she kept looking at you. “Words.” She corrected, tightening her grasp on your wrists until you whined, squirming in place. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt, hardly even enough to be anything but unrelenting pressure, but in your sensitive state it was enough to drive you crazy with overstimulation.

“No.” It’s a petulant whine that has Wanda clicking her tongue. She never did accept the whining and the whimpering with a reason, and there was no reason to be carrying on between her grip when you’re the one that had tried to sink your claws into her like a kitten. “I need water.” You tell her softly, cheeks flaming. You’d turned the air on in your bedroom last night, thankfully, though without the fan also running it did little to really keep you cool beneath the comforter, but what it did accomplish was spreading pollen throughout the bedroom even though you’d just cleaned.

”And how do you ask? Have you forgotten all of your manners overnight?” Wanda settles you with a glare, and you drop your eyes, sighing softly as you try to align your thoughts enough to answer her properly.

“Please.” You add, and she smiles proudly, leaning in to kiss your head before she ushers you to the counter. There’s already a stack of pancakes on a plate, cooling down though they’re still steaming just slightly. Enough to tell you they’re probably the perfect temperature to dive right in without burning your tongue. There’s a dry wheeze at the end of your plea, and Wanda frowns as she navigates the kitchen, throwing a glance back at you when you hum, fingers pulling apart a pancake that you dunk into the bowl of syrup she’s set out.

“Use a fork.” She chides, because even if you’d taken a shower last night and your sheets had been washed the afternoon before you’d gotten home from a meeting, the circulation of pollen through the room meant that everything needed to be washed, including your sleep and sweat flush body.

You complied easily, kicking your legs as you reached for the fork she’d set out, forgoing individual plates. After years of practice, she’d finally figured out how to make just enough pancakes for the both of you to eat comfortably, filling in the gaps with fruit on days when your appetite was bigger than your eyes. Sometimes she made eggs, or sausage patties, but neither one of you felt like standing around the kitchen today when the sun was shining brightly outside.

“Do you want tea?” She asked softly after she slid a glass of water across the counter, smiling delicately at you when you eagerly gulped down half of its contents, the heavy pancakes and dryness in your throat an uncomfortable sensation. Your head bobs at the offer, and Wanda doesn’t chastise you for forgetting your words this time, laughing amusedly as you shovel another bite of pancake into your mouth before she can even turn her back to reach for a second mug.

She guides you through breakfast, occasionally feeding you a bite when you get distracted by tracing your fingers up her thigh. She leads you up to the shower when the dishes are piled up in the sink, stored away for sometime later on in the day when you have the patience to wait for her and she has the control to be away from you. It’s been too long since you’ve given over yourselves like this. Since you’ve just existed in the same space to keep each other afloat.

Wanda washes your hair in the shower, coaxing you through the process when she accidentally gets soap in your eye, your head not tilted back far enough to accomodate the stream of water pouring down your face. The coconut scented conditioner cleared both of your heads, but when it was paired with the watermelon body wash with moisturizing pearls, it sent you into endless bliss, your nose buried in Wanda’s neck as she let the stream do all the work in washing off your bodies.

When she got down on her knees, your core tightened, but all she offered you was a cheeky smile as she reached for the razor and shaved your legs, knowing that you liked to keep them smooth for optimal sporadicness during the summer months. Her hands had lathered you so dutifully with the vanilla cashmere shaving cream, adding to the medley of scents in the steam filled bathroom.

She giggled when you wiggled away from her fingers attempting to tickle your ribs when you raised your arms for her to get the rest of your body and preferred inches of skin, taking advantage of your easy vulnerability as she held you between her hands so intimately.

When you’d stepped out of the shower, shivering and teeth clattering even though Wanda had thrown your towel on the warmer by the door and wrapped you in it tightly, she’d insisted that you throw on your newest orange bikini even though you couldn’t take a dip in the pool until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. The UV wasn’t strong enough to provide any sufficient color to your pasty skin from winters unforgiving reign, but it was warm enough to accept the wardrobe and Wanda was good enough with that.

She lathered you up with lotion, and in turn she allowed you to put some on her, though she guided you through that process too, always telling you when she thought you missed a spot even if you hadn’t missed a single inch of her skin. It was all apart of her game, of making you feel like you needed her for every little thing.

By the time you wandered down to the kitchen again, dressed and ready for the free day ahead of you, your fingers laced with hers, it was time for lunch, already approaching half past noon. So, without missing a beat, Wanda packed up sandwiches and a container of cut up strawberries and pineapple and brought it outside to the hammock with her Stanley of water that she’d initially protested carting around with her every day, but after a game of White Elephant, she’d become obsessed. You loved the little things about her, but in these small stolen moments of magical worlds protected in your head, you noticed them even more.

You’d eaten your sandwiches sitting criss-cross on the grass. Wanda had painted your nose with strawberry juice that dripped onto her finger before your tongue accommodated the weight of a strawberry being placed heavily on the center of your outstretched tongue. There’d been a mischievous, wicked smile blooming on Wanda’s lips as your eyes hazed over you whimpered pathetically when she pulled her fingers away and told you to chew.

There was a truly sinister smile on her face when she told you to swallow, her thumb holding your chin, her fingertips feeling the bob of your throat as you did just that, remembering moments when it hadn’t been something as sweet as a strawberry rolled in pineapple juice on your tongue.

Somehow you ended up on the hammock, your body slotted between her legs, your head on her chest, her hands holding onto your ass. You watched the clouds roll by, and when your teeth sank into the flesh of her wrist when she moved a hand to brush baby hairs out of her eyes, her fingers pinched at your ass exposed by the cheeky cut of your bikini bottoms. You yelped, whining when she reprimanded you, sinking deeper into her until the sound of her heartbeat was enough of a distraction. Wanda rolled her eyes, kissing the top of your head as the hours rolled by.

Neither one of you noticed, too wrapped up in the quiet of the moment, in the serenity of your found peace in Westview. The only reason you knew it was time to go inside was because Agatha came out into her back deck with Rio, both of them bickering, cigarettes lit and their hair pulled up. Your head was clearer then, your smile softer but more present. Wanda’s head was clearer then too, no longer consumed with a need to make sure you knew you were hers. The need to fall into these roles would come again soon. The constant social exchanges, the planning, and the cleaning up, it would inevitably separate you until you exploded and ended up here, but for now you were content to fill the shoes of who you were at your core and through the eyes of the law; wives.

“How much do you want to bet Lilia’s going to file another noise complaint against them tomorrow?” You sighed when you stepped through the sliding glass door, settling into Wanda’s chest as you both lulled to a stop, not in any rush to keep moving and change into comfier clothes for the evening.

“She’s not even going to make it to the morning.” Wanda snorted, already anticipating the call from Westview’s most acclaimed Rio Vidal hater.

[hatchan]

You're right and you should say it!

I recently learned a phrase called "dishonest harmony" and I brought this in to show my therapist because I was like "This. This is what I'm really good at. I've been training in this my whole life. But I don't think that's a good thing??"

People pleasing behavior leads to dishonest harmony. We can get really really really good at maintaining harmonious social relationships that are based fundamentally on pretending we don't hate everything about it.

This is from an email I got as being part of Captain Awkward's Patreon:

Dishonest harmony describes the illusion of social peace & cohesion manufactured by the deliberate suppression of conflict, i.e. “We can all get along and have a good time as long as nobody brings up The Incident.” Dishonest harmony (sometimes called dishonest peace) can absolutely be a strategic choice, as patron Rachel S. eloquently describes:

"I am using it to describe a choice I am making in a relationship to not address an intractable issue in favor of maintaining the relationship. Before I was introduced to "Dishonest peace" I was calling it "superficially pleasant". Another way to think about it is maximizing the things I like about a relationship and refusing to engage around the issue that I don't. So I am choosing dishonest peace instead of honest conflict."

In Captain Awkward lingo, it's the assumption that if you are a reasonable person who is capable of remaining calm in the face of other people's shitty behavior, it's somehow easier to pressure you to keep putting up with shitty behavior forever than it is to impose consequences for shitty behavior on unreasonable people. Again, in working on the book, I have been trying to pinpoint the source of the enduring fear that runs underneath some of the common questions I get. Especially questions where there's a solution that should be straightforward, easy, obvious, etc. on the surface ("Just RSVP 'no thanks' and don't go", "Just be honest about how you feel," "Just tell them to knock it off already," etc.) and yet? The questioner is experiencing a seemingly disproportionate amount of worry and self-doubt. "Is this normal?" "Am I making it awkward because I'm just an awkward person?" "Since I'm the only one who seems bothered by this, maybe everyone is right that I'm overreacting and I should just let it go?" "Am I even allowed to feel upset about this?" "If I speak up about this am I gonna lose [my job][my relationship][all my friends][my whole family]?" These questions also tend to include a request for scripts that will stop other people's stressful behavior without ever making anyone feel bad, which feels to me like a recognition that maintaining dishonest harmony is a baseline expectation of the antagonist in the problem. If someone who mistreats you also has the power to put your housing, livelihood, and safety at risk if they don't get their way, "Can I afford to piss this person off right now?" can be quite a literal question.

Just, if there's a solution to be had, it can't be about individually improving ourselves to become more callous and cool about uncool, shitty behavior. "Politely" going with the flow might be the least worst among bad options, for a lot of reasons: You may not feel safe speaking up, especially knowing that other people are unlikely to have your back. If you depend on an unrepentant asshole for safe housing or continued employment, the costs of speaking up might literally outweigh the costs of staying silent, at least in the near term. But also, any time we calculate the costs of dishonest harmony vs. honest conflict, the cost-benefit analysis has to include both the cost to ourselves and the opportunity costs of doing nothing. If all of my reactions are "overreactions," what is the cost of not reacting? If leaving a party where people say racist stuff is "ruining" the party, what's the cost of showing up to or remaining at shitty racist parties? You may decide that preserving a given relationship is worth making a conscious effort to focus on the positives in the present and ignore the other person's bad behavior in the past, but that doesn't mean it doesn't cost anything, it means you've chosen to bear the costs (the pain of cognitive dissonance, the effort of suppressing what you know to be true, the pain of going against what you know to be right, or what Dan Savage has called "the price of admission") because the alternatives are worse or because the potential rewards are worth it to you. Your generosity, your patience, your hope that someday things might be different if you can extend a little grace? Those are gifts you can choose to give, not something you owe.

^^^^ these are just some highlights that I thought added to this post, but I'll copy the full text below the cut for anyone who wants to read the post in full:

"Dishonest Harmony: Explained" by Captain Awkward

I promised you a post about this after the poll from the other day, and here it is!

I stumbled across this term recently on TikTok where I follow a lot of ADHD and AuDHD creators, and it made a whole bunch of things about awkwardness fall into place. I want to do some more research about the origin of the term so I can give proper credit and citation, but here is my understanding so far.

Dishonest harmony describes the illusion of social peace & cohesion manufactured by the deliberate suppression of conflict, i.e. “We can all get along and have a good time as long as nobody brings up The Incident.”

Dishonest harmony (sometimes called dishonest peace) can absolutely be a strategic choice, as patron Rachel S. eloquently describes:

"I am using it to describe a choice I am making in a relationship to not address an intractable issue in favor of maintaining the relationship. Before I was introduced to "Dishonest peace" I was calling it "superficially pleasant". Another way to think about it is maximizing the things I like about a relationship and refusing to engage around the issue that I don't. So I am choosing dishonest peace instead of honest conflict."

We'll come back to this, but first I want to talk about a) dishonest harmony as a tool that power uses to maintain itself and enforce its authority, b) a consistent source of awkwardness, and c) the price it exacts.

Think about every period drama about elaborate systems of manners and dress where the question of "Will Mr. Ten Thousand A Year make a good husband for our plucky heroine?" is completely divorced from "Does he own his fellow human beings (& does he torture them himself or does he outsource all that to the overseers and just bank the profits)?" What's "ruder" in a ballroom setting, being somewhat disinclined to dance, wearing the wrong outfit, or asking that question about your prospective partners?

Think about every "Has the #MeToo Movement Gone Too Far?" article that tried to make the case that loudly objecting to being assaulted at work en masse is somehow worse than assaulting people at work en masse and how rude and annoying and shrill it is for rape victims to "ruin" everyone else's enjoyment of art by rapists. Think about The Case(s) of The Creepy Dude, where having every single woman bounce out of the friend group when she gets tired of being groped is somehow "easier" for the men than the potential friction of kicking out the groper.

Think about every letter to Captain Awkward Dot Com where the gist is "Not only are my loved ones totally fine with hanging out with my abuser, they also berate and punish me for not wanting to hang out with my abuser." Less dramatic perhaps, but no less painful is the cognitive dissonance of interacting with family members who cannot ever confront or admit the pain they cause. Turns out you can go home again, as long as you pretend that your childhood never happened and find a way to remain placid around people who think that your memories of what they did to you are something between malicious lies and personal attacks.

Workplaces run on dishonest harmony. If you asked 1000 strangers to define "professionalism" you'd get a lot of information about punctuality, how to dress, behave, and communicate, as well as a multitude of field-specific expectations for necessary qualifications and professional standards. But would anybody tell you about the part where you are supposed to remain calm, cheerful, and productive no matter how people treat you or what kind of abuses you witness? Sure, your boss pulled a machete out in a meeting, and your coworker screams at you to the point that it's damaging your health, but that's no excuse to slack off!

As I've been revising the book, there's been this thing in my chest that I haven't known how to say about how the very worst moments of my life were not the times that someone did awful things to me, they were about what happened afterward when the people who were supposed to be on my side did nothing to stand up for me and everything to judge and punish me about my reaction to the awful things. I could never win. If I froze, fled, or fawned instead of fighting, then the problem was that I needed to get better at standing up for myself. If I fought back, I was a troublemaker out to ruin everyone's fun. "Just ignore it!" "They only do that because they know it will get a reaction!" "Two wrongs don't make a right!" (I swear, if my atoms physically expanded every time someone told me to be the bigger person when someone harassed or bullied me, by now my mass would block out the fucking sun.) And if I spoke honestly about it, by pointing out bad behavior and double standards, or even just being honest about my own pain, then I was "overreacting," "causing drama," being "too sensitive," "making a big deal out of nothing," etc.

With serial "missing stairs," they would justify their own inaction with stuff like "Well, that's just how they are, it won't make any difference anyway" because in their minds nothing works to stand up to abusers except working patiently behind the scenes to gently change the hearts and minds of abusers by radiating eternal empathy and acceptance at them while pretending that it's not happening, or something. Believe me, I get the impulse to protect one's peace and conserve energy, and they were probably right about the feasibility of changing certain hearts and minds, but you know what? Even if they didn't know how to stop the abuse, it would have made a difference to me to hear,"You're not alone" or "That was incredibly messed up, I'm sorry, I have no idea what to do either." "You're right, but I can't afford to lose this job, that's why I didn't say anything." "Do you want to get out of here for a while?" "Can I bring you some water?" "Do you need a hug?" It would have made a difference to me to have someone be slightly more interested in my safety than their own comfort or how it might affect group cohesion if I remained visibly uncomfortable.

There's this old business parable/anecdote I heard one time, about the "last monkey." If the actual study existed and you know what it was, I'd love to know, but this is the version from my memory of being told about it:

Supposedly scientists did a study where they put bananas on top of a ladder in an enclosure full of monkeys, and when any monkey climbed the ladder to get the bananas, they whole group got punished. by being drenched with icy water. Once the monkeys knew to avoid the ladder, they stopped the punishments. Instead, they gradually introduced new monkeys to the group, and when those monkeys tried to climb the ladder, the experienced monkeys would stop them, no ice water required. Over time, they swapped experienced monkeys out and new monkeys in until none of the original monkeys who had direct experience getting drenched remained. Adding new monkeys to this group produced the same results--New arrivals would be like "hey, banana!" and all the rest of the monkeys would be like "FORBIDDEN LADDER, NO!" and physically prevent them from climbing, even though they didn't know why, until finally everyone stopped trying.

I think the story was told to me in the context of entering a deeply dysfunctional workplace, and it was supposed to be a parable about, idk, the dangers of unquestioning obedience and how fresh eyes on problems from outside are good, actually, but also if you're the new guy and you point out a problem be prepared for coworkers entrenched in systems of punishment to react badly to change and take it out on you even if they can't articulate why. Also (again from memory), monkeys can't make words, so the warnings were less "Welcome, to LabCorp, Bradison! Please don't climb that ladder, you wont like it up there" and more along the lines of a group rugby tackle. FYI, there's an iconic Reddit post called "Don't Rock The Boat" that covers similar ground. In Captain Awkward lingo, it's the assumption that if you are a reasonable person who is capable of remaining calm in the face of other people's shitty behavior, it's somehow easier to pressure you to keep putting up with shitty behavior forever than it is to impose consequences for shitty behavior on unreasonable people.

Again, in working on the book, I have been trying to pinpoint the source of the enduring fear that runs underneath some of the common questions I get. Especially questions where there's a solution that should be straightforward, easy, obvious, etc. on the surface ("Just RSVP 'no thanks' and don't go", "Just be honest about how you feel," "Just tell them to knock it off already," etc.) and yet? The questioner is experiencing a seemingly disproportionate amount of worry and self-doubt. "Is this normal?" "Am I making it awkward because I'm just an awkward person?" "Since I'm the only one who seems bothered by this, maybe everyone is right that I'm overreacting and I should just let it go?" "Am I even allowed to feel upset about this?" "If I speak up about this am I gonna lose [my job][my relationship][all my friends][my whole family]?" These questions also tend to include a request for scripts that will stop other people's stressful behavior without ever making anyone feel bad, which feels to me like a recognition that maintaining dishonest harmony is a baseline expectation of the antagonist in the problem. If someone who mistreats you also has the power to put your housing, livelihood, and safety at risk if they don't get their way, "Can I afford to piss this person off right now?" can be quite a literal question.

Self-help as a genre tends to treat every issue like an individual skill issue. "Here are 10 easy steps for becoming less awkward and more assertive in life!" It's an appealing and timeless formula because we know that we can't fix other people, we can only control ourselves, and anything that offers more self-control and actualization feels automatically more achievable than something that relies on others to accomplish our goals. As a result, self-help as a genre tends to conveniently ignore power dynamics. Even books that are explicitly designed to address that stuff are like "Welp, you can't fix misogyny, so just lean in harder, girlboss the shit out of life, and you too can become so excellent (and rich) that maybe sexism stops affecting you on a personal level!"

It's hard to fix stuff if you can't be honest about where it's broken and the honest truth is that sometimes when we speak up on our own behalf, we lose. Not because we didn't use the right words, or because our timing was bad, or because we were "unprofessional" or "rude" or terminally awkward, but because the people we spoke up to decided that they would rather have dishonest comfort than honest conflict or honest solidarity with us. There are certainly ways to practice being more strategic with language choices and more confident with delivery over time, but there is no perfect, smooth, foolproof way to deliver news that the other person doesn't want to hear that guarantees that they will react a certain way. And to use a trope as old as time, some people would rather shoot the messenger than be forced to deal with the message.

So, what do we do about it? That's a long and complicated answer about something I just learned the word for, but I have a few initial suggestions which are less about finding the perfect way to exist at all times and more about switching your defaults and rebalancing power:

1. Recognize when dishonest harmony is being prioritized, demanded, and enforced and name it for what it is, even if you're only talking to yourself.

2. Recognize that there is always a cost to dishonest harmony, even when it's a choice. Time to recalculate those costs as if you are (at least) an equal participant in your relationships.

3. Going with the flow, smoothing things over, choosing to stay silent for the sake of a relationship or the "greater" good or longer-term goals, etc. are strategic choices, not absolute rules and certainly not moral requirements.

4. There is power in solidarity. You can't stop other people from behaving like assholes, but maybe you can learn to be the person you needed.

What that could look like in practice, using a common scenario:

You're at a party, and someone makes an offensive comment and tries to play it off as a joke. Some people laugh nervously, others don't react at all, and somehow you're the only person who is like "wow, what a gross thing to say." Sensing you're outnumbered, maybe you don't say anything out loud, but you do something, like grab your coat or ask for the check, because it's clearly time to call it a night. And suddenly, all the people who had nothing to say about the verbal turd that The Great Comedian just left in the punch bowl are very concerned about your reaction. "What's wrong, can't you take a joke? Why are you so sensitive? Come on, sit down, don't ruin everyone's good time! Stop overreacting so much!" 

Recognize and name that shit, even if it's just inside your head. This isn't about what an inherently awkward, dramatic, uncool person you are, this is a demand for dishonest harmony from people who prioritize the illusion that everyone is having fun over real evidence that you are not having fun anymore. If the gross thing the other person said didn't "ruin" the party, but your visible discomfort has the power to ruin "everyone's" fun, that's certainly interesting information! If the group has calculated that it costs less to police your reactions than it does to do anything about what you're reacting to, are they right about that? Maybe yes, but maybe no. Just because they bet on it doesn't make it true.

Just, if there's a solution to be had, it can't be about individually improving ourselves to become more callous and cool about uncool, shitty behavior. "Politely" going with the flow might be the least worst among bad options, for a lot of reasons: You may not feel safe speaking up, especially knowing that other people are unlikely to have your back. If you depend on an unrepentant asshole for safe housing or continued employment, the costs of speaking up might literally outweigh the costs of staying silent, at least in the near term. But also, any time we calculate the costs of dishonest harmony vs. honest conflict, the cost-benefit analysis has to include both the cost to ourselves and the opportunity costs of doing nothing. If all of my reactions are "overreactions," what is the cost of not reacting? If leaving a party where people say racist stuff is "ruining" the party, what's the cost of showing up to or remaining at shitty racist parties?

You may decide that preserving a given relationship is worth making a conscious effort to focus on the positives in the present and ignore the other person's bad behavior in the past, but that doesn't mean it doesn't cost anything, it means you've chosen to bear the costs (the pain of cognitive dissonance, the effort of suppressing what you know to be true, the pain of going against what you know to be right, or what Dan Savage has called "the price of admission") because the alternatives are worse or because the potential rewards are worth it to you. Your generosity, your patience, your hope that someday things might be different if you can extend a little grace? Those are gifts you can choose to give, not something you owe. And you don't get to choose what other people are willing to pay.

Because something we all need to reckon with is the fact that "stunned, disapproving silence when people act like bigots and assholes" looks just like "silent agreement with bigots and assholes" from the outside. If we never speak up because we assume that we're all alone or because it "won't make any difference anyway," then there's nothing to prove us wrong, but there's also nothing to light the beacons for anyone else or change the circumstances. If we internalize and enforce the expectation of polite, compliant silence at all costs on others just because we're afraid because of past bad experiences or because we don't want to bear the costs, then we risk becoming the enforcer monkeys (one might even say "flying monkeys") who would rather teach people why there is no point in fighting back than do any of the fighting ourselves. Sometimes you only find out who's on your side when you stop pretending there are no sides or that we're all on the same one. Or as Maud, a friend of Melissa McEwan (of Shakesville fame/notoriety) put it, "There are times when you must speak, not because you are going to change the other person, but because if you don't speak, they have changed you."

So greetings to my fellow boat rockers, last monkeys, "good" daughters, and anyone who has ever been screamed at to Calm Down and Stop Being So Emotional when all we did was fail to hold perfectly and let flecks of someone's rage-spittle decorate our faces until they were done talking and then pretend like it never happened. Dishonest harmony is expensive. Sometimes it's worth it, and sometimes it is extremely not worth it. When we return awkwardness to sender, think about it as sending the emotional dry-cleaning bill to assholes who won't stop pooping on the tablecloth, and then tell me who is being "rude" and "uncivil."

End of manifesto (for now).

Adult realization: you will make mistakes, you will act irrationally. You will commit some wrongs that cannot be fully righted. People will dislike you and misunderstand you for all sorts of reasons. None of these make you a bad person. All you can do is try your best to be kind and just to people, grow and learn.

[p1psqueaks]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — “THINK FAST, I’M A RANDOM GIRL!” PRANK

ZAYNE

The door to your apartment clicks open with its usual soft chime, and you hear the familiar sound of footsteps — deliberate, precise. Zayne steps inside, slipping off his coat and hanging it on the hook like he does every evening, calm and efficient as ever.

You’re already in the living room, seated casually, heart pounding — not because of him (well, not entirely), but because you’ve been waiting all day for this moment.

He rounds the corner, loosening his tie and scrolling through something on his tablet, probably a post-op report or a medical journal. He’s still in his white jacket, the collar looking rumpled from a long shift, but somehow he still looks like a cover model for a magazine.

You spring to your feet.

“Think fast! I’m a random girl!” you call out, striding toward him with exaggerated confidence and puckered lips, going in for a kiss.

Without missing a beat — or even looking up from his tablet — Zayne smoothly shifts his body to the side, so your kiss lands on thin air.

“Apologies,” he says calmly, setting the tablet aside. “I’m in a committed relationship.”

You blink, half stumbling at the unexpected dodge. “Zayne!”

He finally looks up, one brow raised in the most professional fake confusion you’ve ever seen. “You just said you were a random girl.”

“I was joking!” you laugh, slapping his arm lightly. “It’s a trend — people prank their partners by pretending to be strangers trying to kiss them.”

He studies you for a second, eyes cool and unreadable — but you know him too well. The corners of his mouth twitch ever so slightly. “That explains the sudden aggression.”

“It was playful affection, thank you very much.”

He gently adjusts your shirt collar where it shifted during your ambush. “Random affection from strangers isn’t in my post-op protocol.”

“You actually dodged me like I was trying to sell you unapproved vitamins.”

He shrugs. “Reflex. Some of us have been trained to maintain sterile fields and emotional boundaries.”

You roll your eyes, still grinning. “So if I come back as me, and not some imaginary stranger, you’ll kiss me?”

“I’d expect proper identification.”

You lean in and squint. “Zayne Li, age 27, licensed cardiothoracic surgeon, detests carrots, has a weakness for sweets, and loves to keep poor Dr. Greyson on his toes. Do I qualify?”

He smiles faintly now. “That’ll do.”

He pulls you in by the waist and kisses you properly this time — steady, certain, no dodging involved.

When you pull back, breathless, he murmurs against your lips:

“…Though I will be documenting this as an unexpected variable in today’s stress exposure.”

You laugh. “You’re documenting my prank?”

“I’m a surgeon,” he replies smoothly. “I track anomalies.”

You narrow your eyes. “Next time, I’m putting on a fake name badge.”

“And I’ll still decline,” he says, dry but clearly amused. “I’m taken. And she’s… surprisingly creative.”

You grin, already plotting your next ambush. And Zayne? He’s already back to calmly adjusting his tie like you didn’t just try to jump-scare him with affection.

Professional. Unbothered. Slightly smug.

And completely yours

XAVIER

You spot him in the hallway — his coat slung over one shoulder, ear comm in one ear, eyes locked on a datapad in that usual Xavier-focus mode. Completely unaware.

Perfect.

You hide your grin and pick up your pace.

You’ve been waiting for the right moment to pull this prank. And honestly? There is no better target than your hyper-aware, never-let-his-guard-down genius of a boyfriend.

You get close enough to be in range — and launch your attack.

“Think fast! I’m a random girl!” you say in a sing-song voice and go in for a kiss.

Xavier reacts instantly.

He sidesteps so quickly it’s like he teleported, eyes widening with alarm. You nearly fall forward with the momentum, but before you can even wobble, his arm catches you at the waist — gently, but firmly.

He blinks down at you, brows furrowed, voice all cautious and serious.

“…Miss, are you lost?”

You break.

You burst out laughing, stumbling slightly into him as you regain your balance. “You dodged me!”

His eyes narrow, suspicious. “…Was that a prank?”

You’re still laughing. “Yes! It’s a trend! You pretend to be a stranger and try to kiss your boyfriend — he’s supposed to be caught off guard.”

“I was caught off guard,” he says flatly, releasing you now that you’re steady. “You said you were a random girl.”

“So you dodged me like I had the plague!”

“I thought you were a danger to public safety.”

You snort. “Xavier. I was wearing your sweatshirt.”

“Disguises are getting more advanced.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “You’re the only person in the world who would turn a surprise kiss into a tactical maneuver.”

He smirks now, just a little, like he’s proud of himself. “You almost got me.”

“‘Almost got me’?! I’ve kissed you in way weirder circumstances and you’ve never flinched.”

“That was before you claimed to be a random girl.”

You cross your arms. “So if I try again as me, will you still dodge?”

He pauses, tilts his head, and steps in close. “Try me.”

You lean up. This time, he meets you halfway.

Definitely not dodging.

When you pull back, he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear:

“…Confirmed. Identity: my girlfriend.”

You blink.

“Oh my god. You just biometrically verified me with a kiss, didn’t you?”

He shrugs, smiling faintly. “I have my methods.”

And that’s when you realize: you may have started the prank, but Xavier?

He just won it

RAFAYEL

You stalk into the room like you’re the star of a spy thriller, eyes locked on Rafayel who’s perched on his stool, eyeing the blank canvas with that trademark smirk playing on his lips. Perfect timing.

You burst out, voice loud and wild:

“Think fast! I’m a random girl!”

Before he can blink, you grab his face and dramatically pull him toward you, lips poised like you’re about to steal a kiss.

Rafayel freezes — then his eyes shoot open wide as he rips his body away from you. He yelps — yelps — and dodges you like you’re an incoming projectile. He spins, nearly trips over a chair, and lands in a defensive stance, finger pointed dramatically in your direction.

“Whoa — no, thank you! I already have a girlfriend!”

You freeze mid-laugh.

Rafayel narrows his eyes at you, breathing like he just escaped death.

“She’s really cute,” he adds seriously. “And she might actually kill me if I let a random girl kiss me, so thanks but no thanks.”

You blink. “Raf. It’s me.”

He pauses. Looks closer.

“Oh.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t recognize me?”

“Cutie,” he says, straightening up and pointing at your face. “You said you were a random girl. My loyalty sensors activated. Auto-dodge mode.”

“You yelped.”

“I was startled!”

You cross your arms, grinning. “So if I wasn’t a ‘random girl,’ you would’ve kissed me?”

He walks toward you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with that familiar crooked smile. “Of course. But I took your statement at face value.”

“You were ready to die on the ‘faithful boyfriend’ hill, huh?”

He nods solemnly. “With honor.”

You snort. “You do realize I was trying to prank you, right?”

He smirks. “And I respectfully reverse-pranked you back with my outstanding moral fiber.”

You sigh, dramatic. “Ugh. Foiled by loyalty.”

He leans in now, finally kissing you the way you originally intended — slow, warm, and just a little smug.

When he pulls back, he says, “Next time, try sneaking up without announcing you’re a stranger. I might be less heroic.”

“Noted,” you say.

SYLUS

You hear Sylus’s keycard slide through the lock, the quiet beep followed by the soft click of the door. He steps in, calm as ever, coat folded over one arm, silver hair slightly tousled from the evening wind. The man looks like he walked out of an editorial, not an actual building.

You pop up from behind the kitchen counter, phone already recording — not that you’ll ever show this to anyone (maybe Luke and Kieran, if you’re feeling bold).

He’s just set his coat on the hook when you pounce.

“Think fast! I’m a random girl!” you announce with dramatic flair, charging toward him lips first, as if you’re some lovestruck stranger who just burst through the wall of a romcom.

Sylus blinks — just once.

Then, without a hint of panic, he steps to the side with elegant ease, avoiding your kiss like it’s all part of his evening routine.

“I’m flattered,” he says smoothly, turning to face you. “But I already have a girlfriend.”

You skid to a stop, gaping. “You—! That was so smooth! Sylus!”

He raises a brow, expression cool but unmistakably amused. “You said you were a random girl. I respect boundaries.”

“I was testing you!”

“I figured.” His lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. “You don’t usually greet me with declarations of being a stranger.”

You fold your arms, mock-offended. “You didn’t even look surprised. You just... dodged. Effortlessly.”

“I’ve been trained to handle unpredictable situations,” he says, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve. “Though I’ll admit, this was a new one.”

“You’re impossible,” you huff.

He finally lets the amusement crack through his calm facade. “And loyal,” he adds lightly. “In case that was in question.”

You soften a little at that, though you try to hide it.

Sylus walks up to you then, cupping your face gently with one hand, eyes warm now behind the teasing edge. “Next time, if you want a kiss, I recommend introducing yourself as my girlfriend.”

You grin. “What if I say I’m a random girl with very good taste?”

He leans down, lips brushing yours just enough to tease. “Then I’d have to agree with her judgment… and still turn her down. Firmly.”

You laugh against his mouth, and this time, he doesn’t dodge.

CALEB

Caleb’s halfway out of the bedroom, shirt tugged halfway down and hair still damp from the shower when you strike.

“Think fast! I’m a random girl!” you yell, appearing in the doorway like a chaotic whirlwind of affection and fake stranger danger. You lunge toward him, aiming a dramatic kiss straight for his unsuspecting face.

He shrieks.

Actually shrieks.

Not in fear, but in pure, confused chaos.

“Wait — Whoa — Ma’am?!”

He ducks, barely avoiding your lips, arms flailing slightly like he's about to either defend himself or fall backward onto the bed.

“Uh — excuse me?! Who are you?! I—I have a girlfriend! She’s super cool and — and kind of scary sometimes—”

You can’t hold it in anymore — you’re doubled over, laughing, practically wheezing as Caleb backs away like you're an over-enthusiastic street performer trying to sell him a love potion.

He pauses.

Blinks.

Then narrows his eyes.

“…Wait. Was that a test?!”

You wipe tears from your eyes. “You passed with flying colors. I was a random girl, remember?”

He looks dramatically betrayed. “You were trying to trick me?! Pips, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

You walk toward him again, arms open. “Aw, come on. It was for science. And content. But mostly science.”

Caleb folds his arms, lips pressed together like he’s trying very hard not to smile. “So let me get this straight. You tried to assault your loyal, devoted, absolutely smitten boyfriend with a fake kiss just to see if I’d cheat?”

You nod cheerfully.

He gasps, pointing an accusing finger. “I am outraged. Deeply offended. A little flustered. Mostly flustered, honestly.”

You tip your head. “And yet… you didn’t kiss the random girl.”

He puffs out his chest. “That’s right. Because I’m taken. And I love my girlfriend. Even if she ambushes me before I’ve had coffee and pretends to be a rogue flirt in my own apartment.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, still giggling. “You’re such a dork.”

“I’m a faithful dork,” he declares proudly. “Put that on a mug.”

You kiss his cheek, and this time, he doesn’t dodge — he leans in like he’s been waiting for it all day.

“…Still mildly traumatized, though,” he mumbles as you pull away.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you promise, nuzzling into his shoulder.

He grins, boyish and soft. “Dinner. And an apology dance. Preferably to that cheesy playlist I caught you making.”

You groan. “You were not supposed to see that.”

He winks. “I’m the boyfriend. I see everything.”

[slasherslittlesimp]

Regrets (Steve X Reader X Bucky)

Part One

Your jaw ticks in annoyance as you stand at the entrance of the quinjet, staring at the exit of the tower. You’re fully dressed in your combat gear and ready to go, yet the one reason you have yet to take off is because Steve and Bucky haven’t come to say goodbye yet. It’s always been tradition ever since you started dating the two of them for them to come see you off before missions, and vice versa. For two years it’s been this way- a kiss good luck and a ‘come home safe’. But today you get neither of those things.

“Friday?” You speak to the AI. “Where are my boys?”

“They’re in the living room with Miss Valentine.”

That’s all you need to hear before you turn and fully enter the jet, sitting down and preparing for take off. For the first time in two years you’re leaving without either one of them being there to send you off. Your heart clenches painfully in your chest, and your eyes blur with tears you refuse to let shed as you take off away from the compound to go on your solo mission.

As you fly, you can’t help but to think about why you were left alone.

Almost a month ago, new agents were brought to the compound to get training. And with them came Holly Valentine- a young woman with a goal in mind, one that wasn’t to train. No, her goal was to get close to the two super soldiers. At first you weren’t worried. Steve and Bucky love you, and you all have spent an amazing two years together. You were confident in your relationship with them.

Until you weren’t.

Slowly, it felt as if a chasm was forming between you and the two soldiers. It started off with little things- them skipping out on training with you or crawling into bed an hour or so later than usual. Then it became not answering messages right away and spending less time together. After that it was cancelled plans and being called by your name rather than their loving nicknames the few times you actually saw each other. And now it’s them not even showing up to say goodbye because they’re too busy entertaining the new girl.

Natasha tried to reassure you that they still loved you. That they’d never replace you. But as the month went on and the less they showed you any attention, the less she was able to defend them. She started getting angry on your behalf, sending them glares and only talking to them in short clipped sentences. And when they’d ask what’s wrong she’d tell them to figure it out themselves. They still have yet to do so.

You’re jolted from your thoughts when the jet lands at your destination, having been put on autopilot the second your tears blurred your vision past the point of being able to see. The sudden jolt of landing allows a few tears to slip free which you quickly wipe away. You clear the tightness from your throat and stand up, walking to the back of the jet as the door drops open. With one last deep breath to settle yourself, you step off the jet and head towards your mission.

It starts off easy at first. Barely any agents that you manage to take out stealthily without being caught. But as you get deeper in the base you realize that it’s a little too easy. That’s how you find yourself ducking behind some crates as gunfire unleashes all around you. You try your best to fire back, managing to take out a handful of agents before being forced to reload. When a grenade suddenly clatters at your feet you’re forced out of your cover and into the open.

You fire off shots desperately. One by one the agents drop until you’re the only one left standing. You stand there panting heavily, adrenaline running high before crashing down. The second it wears off you collapse, struggling to catch your breath as pain radiates throughout your body. With shaking hands you scoot yourself backwards to lean against the wall before beginning to examine yourself.

A grunt of pain leaves you the second your fingers ghost across your side, pulling away stained crimson. The sticky warmth is uncomfortable, yet you keep searching. Your heart practically drops straight out of your chest when you feel more than one injury- more than one gunshot wound. Maybe even some caused by shrapnel from when the grenade went off. The amount of blood you’re losing is concerning, and you know you won’t be able to make it back to the jet on your own.

Letting out a tremoring breath, you try not to cry out in pain as you shift in order to reach into your pocket to pull out your phone. It nearly slips out of your blood soaked grasp and you have to tighten your grip to the point of your knuckles turning white to keep from dropping it. Despite the blood smeared across the screen, you’re able to call a number you’ve had memorized for years. It rings and rings, each shrill tone sending a sharp pain through your head until the line clicks. You nearly allow yourself to smile in relief until you hear it.

‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Steve-‘

You hang up, not even bothering to leave a message. At this point your vision is blurring, and your grip on your phone has weakened considerably. Despite this, you manage to dial the next number, able to click the speaker button just before your phone slips from your grasp and onto the ground. The familiar ringing echoes throughout the room for what feels like eternity before it clicks off. This time you don’t even let yourself feel hope or relief.

‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Bucky-‘

This time you don’t get the chance to hang up as your head lulls forward, your body going limp as you lose consciousness.

Authors note: wrote this in one sitting at midnight and didn’t read through it before posting. Hope y’all like it

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 6

Theme: homoerotic friendship messy core...

A/N: Oof, this was a challenge, but I felt obligated to get another chapter out quick with all ya'll being crashouts. You guys crack me up, but I secretly (not-so-secretly) love it. My mind is straight mush now, but it was a lot of fun writing this chapter, kind of dialogue heavy at parts, but I hope you enjoy.

WC: 5K

Warnings: angst, cussing (maybe)

**** Chapter 6 ****

It had been a couple weeks since the talk. Not a movie-scene blow-up or some epic “I choose you” moment—just a weirdly vulnerable heart-to-heart in the film room. Two people sitting in the blue glow of paused game tape, finally hitting play on everything else. No tears. No yelling. Just honesty.

And ever since, something had shifted.

They weren’t exactly glued at the hip again—more like orbiting the same planet without crashing into each other. Which, all things considered, was progress. A miracle, even.

They talked now. Real talk. Not just hey-good-drill or sarcastic comments about the weight room playlist. Full sentences. Actual conversations. Last week, Paige had even stayed behind after practice to argue about whether fruit snacks counted as a recovery food. Azzi said no. Paige called her a menace to sports science.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed this until it was back—until she could breathe around Paige again.

And honestly? Azzi had been breathing easier in general lately.

Breaking up with Derrick fucking Jones had cracked something open in her—in a good way. Like stepping out into fresh air after holding your breath too long. She hadn’t even realized how much energy she’d spent pretending. Pretending to be fine, to be all in, to care more than she actually did. The relationship had felt like lukewarm soup—tolerable, sometimes comforting, but never enough.

The moment it ended, she didn’t feel guilt. She felt relief.

She went home, ate half a sleeve of Oreos, and slept for twelve straight hours. When she woke up, the weight was gone.

Aubrey had cheered. Caroline had shown up with a Costco-size tub of cookie dough and refused to leave until Azzi talked. Really talked. About everything—about Paige, about the exhausting math of liking someone you weren’t sure you were allowed to like, about being tired of playing small.

They sat cross-legged on the floor of Azzi’s room, spooning dough straight from the tub and watching a muted rerun of The Princess Diaries like they were thirteen again. Caroline wore one sock and a messy bun, and kept making off-handed comments like, “This entire situation has big Mia Thermopolis energy,” which didn’t make any sense, but somehow helped.

Somewhere between Azzi muttering, “I don’t even know if I’m gay or bi or just… late to the party,” and whispering, “I don’t know who I am without basketball,” Caroline had looked at her—really looked at her—and said:

“Even if it’s too late for you and Paige… it’s not too late for you.”

Then she added, more serious this time, “You don’t have to figure out your whole identity tonight. But you do have to stop acting like you don’t get to have one.”

And for the first time in a long time, Azzi felt like maybe she wasn’t broken. Just… becoming.

Azzi hadn’t cried. But she had believed her.

So she started paying more attention to her own feelings. Not Paige’s. Not anyone else’s. Just hers. She poured more into practice, into film, into the one thing that had always made sense—basketball. Her first love. The only thing that had never made her feel like too much or not enough. And in the quieter moments—walking to class, waiting in line for coffee, sharing a laugh with someone in the library—she let herself notice. The way a girl’s smile made her stomach flip. The way it felt nice, just looking. Just wondering. Not in a dramatic, world-tilting way, but in those small, flickering moments that felt like maybe, finally, a beginning.

And Paige? Paige seemed good. She was still sidelined, still rehabbing, but there was a steadiness to her. Kathryn made her laugh, even if her jokes weren’t that funny. And maybe that was enough.

Azzi had told herself she was happy for her. Said it out loud enough times that it almost felt true.

Season had officially started, and Azzi was already feeling it in her bones—in a good way. There was a calm she hadn’t known she needed. Less pressure. More focus. Her shot felt smooth. Her legs felt fresh. She was ready. 

And of course, Paige had gone full Coach P.

Not that Azzi minded—most of the time.

“Okay, defense shows high hedge, what’s the read?” Paige called across the court during transition reps.

Azzi didn’t even look up. “Corner skip or hit the cutter.”

“Uh-huh. And if Aaliyah actually remembers how to seal this year?”

Azzi grinned. “Drop pass. Easy bucket.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume Aaliyah’s gonna remember the playbook and not just bulldoze everyone like a human wrecking ball.”

Azzi laughed. “Hey, it’s a valid strategy. Chaos is still technically a tactic.”

“Tell that to the refs. She’s already averaging one offensive foul per scrimmage.”

“Justice for Aaliyah,” Azzi said solemnly. “She’s just out here catching strays and setting illegal screens.”

Paige smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Meanwhile you’re out here running point like Sue Bird’s ghost is whispering in your ear.”

Azzi tossed the ball toward her. “You’re just mad I’m learning to do your job better than you.”

Paige caught it one-handed and shrugged. “Well, someone’s gotta keep the dynasty alive while I’m stuck pretending to enjoy hip mobility drills.”

It was… nice. Their rhythm.

Azzi had always admired the way Paige saw the floor—like she had cheat codes no one else had. Like the defense moved in slow motion just for her, every trap and rotation already decoded before it even happened. Paige didn’t just react—she anticipated. Manipulated. Threaded passes through windows that barely existed.

It was part art, part science, and Azzi had spent years trying to figure out how she did it.

So yeah, it meant something—having Paige in her ear now. Not just nitpicking her handles or telling her to keep her elbows in. But actually pushing her to see the game differently. To read spacing in real time. To feel the shift of a defense before it fully committed.

Though that didn’t stop Paige from offering shooting tips, which was ridiculous. And also entirely on brand.

“Wrist’s a little stiff today,” Paige said casually after Azzi drained six straight from the wing.

Azzi deadpanned, “Please enlighten me, Steph.”

“Just saying, maybe you’re due for a form check. Could be a thumb drift situation.”

Azzi blinked. “You really wanna die today?”

Paige smirked. “It’s giving 12% left-hand involvement.”

“I will end you.”

“You’d miss.”

Azzi couldn’t help it—she laughed.

They still had their bruises. Still had history—the kind that didn’t fade easily, no matter how much time passed. But this? This quiet, cautious rhythm they were building now? It felt like something new. Not perfect. Not certain. But real. Steady in a way that maybe didn’t need labels or guarantees.

Something worth holding onto, even if just with open hands.

Paige

Paige tried not to stare.

But it was hard not to when Azzi was running the floor like she owned it. Confident. Locked in. The kind of sharp that made her want to clap and curse at the same time.

She watched from the baseline, arms crossed over her hoodie, trying to act like she wasn’t tracking every move. Footwork. Tempo. Angles. The way Azzi looked off the defender before slipping a bounce pass through traffic that made two managers gasp out loud.

“Jesus,” Paige muttered under her breath, even though her heart was doing this dumb little fluttery thing she immediately ignored.

It was good. This was good. They were good.

Better, at least.

She hadn’t been sure how that film room conversation would go—if it would break them, fix them, or just confirm that some things weren’t meant to be salvaged. But somehow, it had done none of that and all of it at once. They weren’t glued to each other like they used to be, but there was something solid in the space between them now. Friendly. Safe.

Mostly.

Paige knew what Azzi thought—that she was fine, happy, moved on.

And in a lot of ways, she was.

Kathryn was great. Chill. Low drama. The kind of person who didn’t need a spotlight, didn’t flinch at silence. She sent memes at 2 a.m. and always asked how Paige’s knee was doing before anything else. She let Paige rant about PT without trying to fix it. She made things easy. Steady. Predictable in a way Paige hadn’t realized she craved.

She didn’t ask questions Paige didn’t want to answer.

Like how she was really feeling. Or whether she ever thought about last season. Or what it meant when Paige couldn’t meet Azzi’s eyes for a full thirty seconds after that assist drill last week.

Kathryn didn’t ask, so Paige didn’t have to say.

She didn’t have to explain the scar tissue in her body or the messier kind layered somewhere under her ribs. She didn’t have to name the ache she still felt sometimes—quiet but persistent, like a song she couldn’t quite skip.

With Kathryn, everything had its place. Everything made sense.

And still… sometimes it felt like wearing a jacket that almost fit. Like if she just didn’t breathe too deep or move too fast, no one would notice the way it tugged in the wrong places.

**** 

If this was what Azzi looked like at the start of the season… the rest of the NCAA should probably go ahead and panic.

Twenty-six points. Six steals. Two blocks. One no-look dime that had the entire bench on their feet. She was everywhere—disrupting passing lanes, beating defenders off the dribble, calling switches like she’d been running point her whole life. Calm. Dominant. Untouchable.

Paige was proud. Like… stupidly proud.

She stayed composed on the sideline, of course—clapping, high-fiving, doing her little “Coach P” head nod—but inside? She was doing cartwheels. Watching Azzi level up like this? It was everything she wanted and everything she wasn’t sure she could handle.

The win itself wasn’t a surprise—Northwestern wasn’t exactly a team anyone was watching. But a dominant win still mattered. Momentum mattered. And Azzi had set the tone for the entire season. Paige would’ve killed to be on the floor with her, just for one quarter. Just to feel the rhythm again. But instead, she cheered. Coached. Supported.

It was enough. Kind of.

No major celebrations after the game—just fist bumps and ice baths. Everyone had already circled the Texas matchup on the calendar. Bigger test. Bigger stakes.

Still, the team wasn’t going to let a W go unacknowledged.

Naturally, they ended up piled into Azzi, Aubrey, and Caroline’s dorm suite, half-eaten pizza boxes scattered across the counter and someone’s Bluetooth speaker cycling through a very questionable playlist. No one brought drinks—look at all of us being responsible, Paige had joked when they’d passed a gas station and kept driving. Instead, they loaded up on soda, gummy worms, and arguments about who would win the West this year.

The TV was tuned into the NBA game, but no one was really watching. Side conversations buzzed in every corner—Caroline arguing with Nika about Steph vs. Dame, Aubrey attempting to rank all the High School Musical soundtracks, and Paige just… floating. Listening. Letting herself feel like part of it all again.

Until she realized Azzi wasn’t there.

She looked around casually at first, scanning the room like she might’ve just missed her. But the couch was full. The kitchenette, too. And that familiar gravity Paige always felt around her? Gone.

She leaned toward Aubrey. “Hey, where’d Azzi go?”

Aubrey didn’t look up from her phone. “Something about homework, I think.”

Paige raised a brow. “What, her and Derrick off doing microeconomics by candlelight?”

Aubrey blinked at her. “What?”

Paige furrowed her brow. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

Aubrey looked up fully now, brows furrowed just as tightly. “Paige… they broke up.”

Paige froze mid-sip of her Diet Coke. “What?”

Caroline, sitting on the floor with her head against the couch, chimed in like it was nothing. “Yeah. Like, a couple weeks ago.”

Paige’s heart didn’t exactly drop—but it did shift. Like the ground underneath her had tilted a little to the left. Just enough to feel it.

“Oh,” she said. And then, stupidly, “I thought they were good.”

Aubrey and Caroline exchanged a look. Quick. Subtle. Not subtle enough.

Something in Paige’s chest pulled tight. She opened her mouth to ask more—when a bedroom door opened.

And there she was.

Azzi stepped out into the living room, hoodie half-zipped, glasses on, hair pulled into a low puff like she hadn’t given it a second thought. She looked… casual. Comfortable. Way too unaffected for someone who had just set the court on fire two hours ago.

“Sorry,” she said, sliding back into the room like she hadn’t been missed. “Forgot about some discussion posts.”

“Nerd,” Caroline muttered under her breath.

Azzi flipped her off without looking.

Paige tried to play it cool, but her brain was already halfway down a rabbit hole. Because discussion posts didn’t explain the way Aubrey had looked at her. Or the way Caroline had said it like it was obvious.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Azzi dropped onto the couch across from her, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza and taking a bite like nothing had changed.

And maybe it hadn’t.

But for the first time in a long time, Paige wasn’t sure she understood the game she was watching.

Azzi

Azzi played out of her mind tonight.

Career high. Thirty-two points. Against the number three team in the nation. She couldn’t stop smiling—not in the postgame presser, not in the locker room, not even as she tried to act like she wasn’t replaying it all in her head every five seconds.

This was fun. Like, really fun.

The kind of game where the rim felt like a magnet and her body moved like it already knew what to do before her brain caught up. Where the defense couldn’t keep up and the crowd fed off every bucket. Where she could feel it—that shift. Like maybe this wasn’t just a good start to the season. Maybe this was her season.

And when Paige came up afterward, arm slung across her shoulders in that way that always made Azzi feel like she was still tethered to something solid, she said it so casually you’d think she hadn’t just handed her the highest compliment in the universe:

“National Player of the Year. I’m calling it now.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, tried to laugh it off—you’re so dramatic, P—but inside?

Her chest buzzed.

Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it. It was Paige.

Yeah, they were only a year apart. They’d come up in the same circuits, trained together, pushed each other. But still—there was something about Paige that always felt… next-level. The way she read the floor. The way she led. The way she carried herself like she already knew who she was.

Azzi had admired that. Still did. So hearing her say something like that, even half-jokingly?

It hit different.

While the Northwestern win hadn’t exactly earned a celebration, this one definitely did. This wasn’t just about rankings. It was about making a statement. UConn was still UConn. And Azzi? She was someone to watch this year. 

Naturally, the plan was Ted’s.

It was basically written into the culture of the program. Big win? You go to Ted’s. Birthday? Ted’s. Existential crisis before midterms? Ted’s with mozzarella sticks.

And with their next game not until Sunday, they had time. A whole six days of breathing room to celebrate, recover, and maybe watch the tape three times before Coach could even schedule film.

Azzi had already changed into jeans and a cropped tank top , still riding the high of the night. Hair damp, lip gloss swiped on at the last minute, hoop earrings in because Aubrey told her they were “absolutely essential for main character energy.” She didn’t argue.

Tonight, she felt like the main character.

****

The second she stepped into Ted’s, it was like the night tilted in her direction.

The music pulsed low and steady under her feet, the lights were dim enough to feel flattering, and every head seemed to turn when she walked through the door. Some double takes. Some straight-up stares. Caroline leaned in behind her and whispered, “Try not to trip over all the attention you’re getting, superstar.”

Azzi just grinned.

She earned this. She was the moment.

The drinks came quickly—someone handed her a hard cider, then a seltzer, then something pink and dangerous that Aubrey claimed was “hydration adjacent.” Her limbs loosened, the edges of her mind softened, and for the first time in… she didn’t even know how long, her brain wasn’t buzzing with plays or questions or complicated feelings she hadn’t made space to sort out.

Everything felt light.

Easy.

Even Derrick, camped out in the corner with his friends, scowling like someone had stolen his fantasy football password—he couldn’t touch her mood tonight. He didn’t even register. He was background noise.

And Paige?

Paige was across the room, curled into a corner booth with Kathryn, heads tucked close, laughing over something Paige was showing her on her phone.

It should’ve stung. A couple weeks ago, it might have.

But tonight? Azzi didn’t feel jealous. She felt done.

She was just about to rejoin the group when someone stepped into her path.

“Hey.”

Azzi turned—and paused.

Tall-ish. Blonde. Bright blue eyes and a confident smile that made her brain short-circuit for a half second. The girl looked familiar—maybe from class? Definitely someone athletic. Softball, maybe?

And okay—she was cute. Like, actually cute. The kind of cute that made Azzi stand a little straighter without meaning to.

Azzi blinked. Oh no.

She had a type. Apparently, it was tall, blonde, and alarmingly self-assured.

“Congrats on the win,” the girl said, voice low but certain. “And the thirty-two points. You kinda went off.”

Azzi blinked. “Thanks. I—sorry, I think we had a class together?”

“Yeah,” the girl smiled wider. “Sociology. You were always late.”

Azzi laughed. “Guilty. You sat near the back, right?”

“Middle-left,” she said. “But I’ll take back-row cool girl energy if that’s what you remember.”

Azzi tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Okay, I’m not trying to be rude, but what’s your name again? I wanna say Lily… or maybe Laila?”

The girl laughed, clearly not offended. “Lexi. But I’m flattered you remembered the first letter.”

“Lexi,” Azzi repeated, like she was trying it on.

It fit.

Lexi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You looked like you were having a good time out there. On the court, I mean.”

Azzi smirked. “What, you watch women’s basketball?”

“I do now,” Lexi said, not missing a beat. “Especially when someone drops thirty-two with a side of four assists.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You memorizing my stats?”

Lexi shrugged. “I did my homework before walking over here. Can’t show up unprepared.”

Azzi bit her lip, trying not to smile too hard. “You walk over to girls a lot? Or just the ones who embarrass Texas on national television?”

“Just the hot ones,” Lexi said, like it was obvious.

Azzi choked on a laugh. “Okay, wow.”

“I mean,” Lexi added, leaning in slightly, “if you’re not into girls, feel free to let me down gently. But I figured it was worth a shot.”

Azzi tilted her head, heart thudding just a little too loud in her chest. “And if I am?”

Lexi smiled slow and easy. “Then I’d ask if I could buy you your next drink. Or at least distract you from your MVP fan club long enough to learn something that’s not in the box score.”

Azzi stared at her for a second, then tipped her head toward the bar, grinning. “Okay, Lexi-from-Soc. Impress me.”

****

Azzi hadn’t expected to have this much fun.

She and Lexi ended up at the bar, tucked between a group of baseball players and some overenthusiastic birthday girls singing along to early 2010s throwbacks. The noise blurred around them. None of it mattered. Not when Lexi leaned in to be heard, not when she made a face after trying Azzi’s drink, not when she laughed at something dumb Azzi said and bumped their shoulders together like they already had a rhythm.

It was… easy. Surprisingly easy.

Flirting with girls wasn’t something Azzi had done before—at least not consciously. But now, in the middle of it, she realized how different it felt. Not necessarily better. Just… different.

Guys always came in a little loud. Like they had something to prove. There was a performance to it—like they were trying to win a prize, and she was the prize, and everyone was aware of the transaction.

This?

Lexi asked questions and actually listened. She made eye contact in a way that felt open, not invasive. She wasn’t trying to take up space—just offering to share it.

Azzi didn’t feel like she had to act a certain way or say the perfect thing or pretend like she didn’t care. She could just… be.

And okay, yeah, she still got a little flustered when Lexi tucked her hair behind her ear or touched her forearm when she laughed—but she didn’t feel like she had to hide that either. It didn’t feel like a game she didn’t know the rules to.

It just felt right.

Not in some overwhelming, life-altering way. But in a quiet, steady way that made something inside her settle.

Maybe she really was into girls. Maybe she was into both.

She wasn’t sure she had the exact words for it yet, but for the first time, that thought didn’t send her into a spiral.

It made her smile.

Because here she was—talking to a girl. Flirting. Laughing. Feeling something. And it wasn’t scary.

It was good.

Paige 

At first, Paige didn’t notice.

Or at least, she told herself she didn’t.

She was mid-laugh, curled into the corner booth with Kathryn, legs tangled comfortably beneath the table, trading stories about their worst high school team bus rides—when the vibe shifted. Just a blip. The kind of thing most people would miss.

But Paige noticed. She always noticed.

She caught the change in body language out of the corner of her eye. Azzi at the bar. Some girl leaning in close, touching her arm like they were already three drinks and a secret in. Paige had seen Azzi lean in like that before. Only it used to be toward her—in the dark, in private, in all the ways they never talked about out loud. 

Azzi smiling like she meant it. Tilting her head like she was genuinely interested in whatever that girl was saying. Like she was… into it.

And then that girl—whatever her name is—laughed too hard and said something that made Azzi look down, all flustered and cute and—

Paige’s stomach dropped.

Just straight up collapsed.

She looked away immediately, like that would help. Like not seeing it meant it wasn’t happening.

Kathryn said something about the birthday girls near the bar and laughed again, but Paige didn’t catch it.

“Paige?”

Kathryn’s voice was soft, but her hand was firmer now—on Paige’s wrist. “You good?”

Paige blinked. Nodded too quickly. “Yeah. No. Sorry. Zoned out.”

Kathryn searched her face for a second. Long enough to feel it—something off between them. The first crack.

Paige tried to fix it with a smile. The wrong kind. Too sharp around the edges.

Kathryn gave her a look like she didn’t believe her, but didn’t press. She leaned back, giving Paige a little space, which only made the knot in her chest tighten.

Across the bar, Azzi laughed at something the other girl said, head thrown back, face flushed. She looked good. Like really good. And Paige felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Pissed off.

Like, irrationally. Deeply. Offensively. Pissed.

Because what the hell?

Since when did Azzi flirt with girls? Since when did she flirt with girls in public? Since when did she laugh like that with someone new—someone who wasn’t trying to pretend the past never happened?

Paige could feel it building in her chest, hot and loud and impossible to silence.

“Bro. What is happening on your face right now?”

Paige looked up to see Nika sliding into the booth beside her, eyebrows raised in that twin telepathy kind of way.

“Nothing,” Paige said automatically.

Nika narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re lying with your whole body right now.”

Kathryn, sweetly oblivious or maybe just choosing not to get involved, stood up and said she was going to grab another drink. Paige nodded, eyes locked on the table.

Nika waited until she was out of earshot, then leaned in. “Get up.”

“What?”

“Bathroom. Now.”

Paige opened her mouth to protest, but Nika was already yanking her by the arm.

She barely had time to register the sticky tile floor before Nika locked the door behind them and folded her arms. “Spill.”

“There’s nothing to—”

“Paige.”

She said it like a warning. Like a truth Paige wasn’t allowed to outrun anymore.

Paige crossed her arms too, mostly to keep her hands from shaking. “I’m fine. I just… noticed Azzi talking to someone.”

Nika blinked. “Lexi. Yeah. They’ve been talking all night.”

“And?” Paige said, too fast. “It’s weird, okay?”

“What’s weird?”

Paige threw her hands up. “I don’t know! That she’s out here flirting after just breaking up with her boyfriend? That she’s flirting with a g—what is that, even?”

Nika’s mouth pulled into a slow, knowing smile. “Caroline said she had an epiphany. That she might like girls.”

Paige blinked. “She what?”

“Yeah. Like two weeks ago. Aubrey said it was a whole thing. Apparently Caroline brought cookie dough and everything.”

Paige stared at her. “Why does everyone know this but me?”

Nika shrugged. “Maybe because you're too busy pretending you don’t care.”

Paige opened her mouth, then closed it again. Because what was she supposed to say to that?

Nika softened, but only a little. “I know it hurts. But she’s not doing anything you didn’t already do. You're with Kathryn?”

That one landed. Deep.

Paige didn’t say anything at first. Just looked down at the sink, jaw tight, heart thudding in a way she couldn’t steady.

Because Nika was right. She had moved on—or at least, tried to.

She had Kathryn.

Kathryn, who brought her coffee before rehab. Kathryn, who asked how her knee felt before asking how she felt. Kathryn, who laughed at her dumb jokes and always knew when to give her space without making her ask for it.

She was sweet. Thoughtful. Cute in a soft, almost-too-good-to-be-true kind of way. Honestly? Kathryn was perfect on paper.

And Paige was happy with her. She was.

So why did she feel like she’d just been sucker-punched by something she wasn’t supposed to feel anymore?

Why did it still matter what Azzi did with someone else?

The guilt pressed in, low and sharp.

She didn’t know what any of this meant. But suddenly, she wasn’t so sure she liked where it was going.

Because this wasn’t just about Lexi and her overly confident smile. It wasn’t even about the flirting, not really. It was about Azzi. Azzi, who used to look at Paige like she was the only one in the room. Azzi, who used to climb into her bed after road games and steal the covers and kiss her like she was afraid to stop. Azzi, who—when it came down to it—couldn’t choose her out loud.

Not when it mattered. Not when Paige had finally been ready to be chosen.

And now? Now she was suddenly out here figuring things out—out loud—with someone else? With some girl named Lexi who didn’t know any of the messy, bruised history they shared?

What made her easier to choose?

Paige’s jaw clenched.

Because if Azzi had been scared then, if she hadn’t been ready—fine. Paige had told herself she understood.

She gave her space. Gave her grace.

But this—Azzi laughing, wanting, letting someone else see it—

That was what Paige had begged for.

And now Azzi was finally doing it.

Just not with her.

When Paige stepped back into the bar, everything looked the same.

The music thumped low under the buzz of conversation, lights dim and familiar. Someone was shouting near the dartboard. Caroline was holding court in the corner with half the team. The floor still stuck a little with every step.

But something had shifted.

Or maybe it was just her.

She walked back to the booth like she was sleepwalking. Like her body knew the motions even if her brain hadn’t caught up.

Nika’s words still echoed somewhere in her chest, too loud to ignore.

Across the room, Azzi was still at the bar. Still smiling. Still talking to Lexi, close enough that their shoulders brushed every time one of them leaned in to say something. Paige tried not to look. Tried not to notice—but it was impossible not to.

She slipped back into her seat beside Kathryn. Kathryn, who looked up and smiled, that warm, gentle kind of smile that always made Paige feel like she was being chosen.

Paige smiled back. Or at least, she tried.

She told herself to be present. To focus. To let it go.

But her mind kept drifting. To Azzi. To the way she lit up tonight. To the way she never once looked over.

The tension settled somewhere beneath her ribs—dull, steady. Not loud enough to break her, just loud enough to make everything else feel a little quieter. A little less real.

Kathryn reached for her hand under the table, and Paige let her. She even laced their fingers together, like she meant it.

But in her chest, something felt… off.

Like she was still chasing a version of herself that had already moved on. Like someone had turned the volume down on everything else, and Azzi’s laugh was still the only thing she could hear.

[hrtwayne]

Guilty as Sin? || Alessia Russo

Pairing: Alessia Russo x Fem!Reader

Summary: On a stormy September night, you realize the love of your life was closer than you ever imagined.

Note: English isn’t my first language!

Warning: Mention of breakups, Alessia and Reader being completely oblivious!

Masterlist | Women's Football Masterlist

It was a little past 1:15 in the morning when you sat on the porch to watch the rain, which had intensified over the last fifteen minutes. The downpour hammered against the windows, and thunder rumbled across the dark sky, briefly illuminating the room you were sharing with Alessia that night.

You had woken up just a few minutes earlier, stirred by the storm, tossing and turning in bed as if the rain had only worsened your already terrible sleep routine. Wrapped in Alessia’s worn-out hoodie, you took a deep breath, letting the night’s cold contrast with the warmth that piece of fabric—and everything it represented—brought to your body.

There was something almost ironic about the situation. Just a few weeks ago, you had ended a relationship you once thought would last forever. Something that, in your mind, should have culminated in promises and rings. But when the tears came, when the emptiness settled in your chest, the first person you thought of wasn’t your mother, your longtime best friends, or even your team.

It was Alessia.

And Alessia, as always, showed up. Without hesitation, without question. She took the first flight from London, crossed oceans and time zones just to sit beside you on the floor, listening in silence, holding your hands as you poured your heart out between sobs. Now, in that stormy early morning, you weren’t crying anymore. But your heart was far from at peace.

Because something had changed. Or rather, something that had always been there—something you had never allowed to take shape in your thoughts—now imposed itself with an almost painful clarity. The hug before bed.

Alessia had wrapped her strong arms around you, pulling you close as if you were something precious, something she was afraid to lose. And for the first time, you had felt something different. Alessia’s touch wasn’t just comforting—it was electrifying. The warmth of her skin, the scent of her shampoo, the sound of her calm breathing near your ear. All of it made your heart race in a way no girlfriend ever had.

And now, alone on the porch, you finally admitted it to yourself:

I love her.

Not as a friend. Not as a sister. But in a way that terrified you—because it was intense, deep, and above all, without guarantees.

The creak of the door pulled you from your thoughts.

"You should be sleeping, darling." Alessia’s voice was soft but laced with concern.

You turned slowly, meeting the footballer’s blue eyes, still heavy with sleep. Alessia wore nothing but a jacket draped over her shoulders, her blonde hair disheveled, as if she’d gotten up in a hurry.

"Mhm, I just needed some air." You lied, trying to mask the tremor in your voice.

Alessia frowned but didn’t push. Instead, she stepped closer and placed a hand on your shoulder—her touch so familiar and yet, now, so loaded with meaning.

"You’ll get sick standing out here in the rain." She murmured, her fingers lightly gripping the fabric of the hoodie. "So that’s where my hoodie went."

You smiled, unable to muster a response.

"Come on." Alessia held out her hand. *"Let’s get you something warm to drink."

And you followed. Like you always did. Because when Alessia asked for something, you could never say no.

In the kitchen, Alessia moved with the same confidence she carried on the football pitch. As the kettle heated, she stole glances at you, leaning against the counter as you watched her.

"You should’ve woken me." Alessia said, pouring hot water over the tea bags."You know this lack of sleep is going to catch up with you eventually."

"I know, A."

Alessia sighed, recognizing the resigned tone in your voice. It was always like this when something was bothering you.

"Mhm, you’re coming to the match on Saturday, right?" Alessia changed the subject, her lips curving into a small smile. "I kinda need my good luck charm."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart beat faster.

"You know I am."

Alessia handed you the cup, your fingers brushing for the briefest moment.

"Then I’ll dedicate my goals to you."

You nearly choked.

"Don’t pretend you don’t know, darling." Alessia continued, her eyes gleaming with an intensity you’d never been able to decipher. "I always dedicate my goals to you."

And there, in that dimly lit kitchen, bathed in yellow light, you realized—maybe you weren’t alone in your feelings after all.

Because Alessia didn’t dedicate her goals to just anyone.

Just like you didn’t dedicate your songs to just anyone.

And suddenly, the fear felt a little smaller than the hope.

[1thesewordsaremyown1]

I remember there was an interview with Oliver (I think back around season 7?) where he mentioned that Buck so far had fallen easily into relationships, and he wanted Buck to have to work for it a bit.

And we all thought "oh, here it is with Tommy." Because Buck flubbed their first date, decided he needed to fix things, so he called Tommy and asked for a second chance.

And ever since, that work has stopped. Buck essentially became a passenger both in the relationship and after it. The man who decided to treat Abby to a hot air balloon ride to impress her on a date didn't think to buy Tommy a gift for their six month anniversary, even though he said himself that it was a special occasion. When they broke up, he talked over and over about calling Tommy, yet he never did. Sure, the 118 took his phone at one point, but that was one minute out of one day - there were plenty of opportunities when he was by himself where he could have just done what he wanted to do and called him.

It was Tommy who suggested getting back together. And it was Tommy again who let Buck know he still cared for him with "and for you." And yet the only time Buck thought to actually call him was to ask for a favour (poor Tommy, seems the only time the 118 ever want to contact him is to ask for help). Oliver said that he wanted Buck for once to have to work for a relationship, and here was a perfect opportunity for it post break-up, yet the show let him (and us) down. In fact, the only time they let Buck have ANY fire this season was when he was getting pissed over people accusing him of being in love with Eddie. Rather than have him fight for his relationship and give us something to be invested in, they dragged it out with a Buck who just couldn't do anything for himself - not without approval first anyway. It was comforting to think that Tommy meant so much to Buck that he couldn't get over him with the baking, but as it kept going it got to a point where it was like "it has been MONTHS, just DO SOMETHING, since you are clearly miserable."

And look, I get that with Bobby's death and with the grieving it wouldn't have been the right time to talk about their relationship. But the show has made Buck passive about pretty much EVERYTHING this season. They let him just accept Tommy's breakup without a fight and wouldn't let him call him and instead had him bake for MONTHS. They let Eddie walk all over him, treat him like shit and then have BUCK apologise to HIM. They had Chim basically telling him what to do, that he wasn't allowed to transfer (and I'm assuming we'll be coming back in S9 with Buck still at the 118).

Hey show, how about you let Buck make his own decisions? Why don't you let him fight for what he wants? In regards to Tommy, you had him say over and over again that he wanted to call Tommy... and then you never let him do it! You are making him look immature and INCAPABLE of handling a relationship at this point, so unless you are actually going to CONTINUE Buck and Tommy's story next season (and if you don't you have left one MASSIVE dangling thread, because so far their story appears to be unfinished) I don't see how he can be in a new relationship in S9. The Buck we have now, I can't see fighting for a new relationship to survive. Not when he won't even fight for Tommy - the man he wanted to move in with, the man he all but said he was in love with, the ONLY one he has ever brought up the idea of marriage with. How they hell are we as viewers supposed to believe that any other relationship would work?

[anxiousnerdwritings]

How would Damian react if his twin was adopted and made friends/ a life away from him. Would Bruenfeel conflicted because the child he ignored / neglected is doing well but on the other hand why didn't said kid try to include them in their new life. Would Talia & Bruce be jealous of the reader's new parents and work even harder to get them back.

I like to imagine that after everything twin!Reader has endured from trying to find a place amongst the rogues gallery to fill their familial void to having been rejected by Bruce and the batfamily early on, that they decide they just need to try and out source for the family experience they desperately want only for it to actually work in their favor for once. Twin!Reader is excited but doesn’t want to look like it in fear of it blowing up in their face like everything else has, but eventually they actually feel like they have a home now and a happy, loving one at that.

Damian would be so distraught to find out his beloved sibling has been taken in by another family in general, let alone his sibling willingly wanting to be taken in of their own accord. Especially by a family of just normal people. He could understand Twin!Reader seeking out the multiple rogues around town but a couple of nobodies though? He can’t exactly wrap his head around it. But what would hit Damian harder is if there was an adopted sibling involved, that would spiral Damian into dark territory to see his sibling interacting so happily with someone that wasn’t him. He’s their brother for god’s sake, their TWIN brother! He’d feel so utterly betrayed. A similar feeling to what Twin!Reader felt when they first witnessed Damian’s life with Bruce and the rest of the batfamily, seeing him being so happy and not being a part of that happiness, not that Damian knows about that. At least not yet.

Damian wouldn’t be able to exist peacefully knowing his sibling, his oh so very beloved sibling, isn’t with HIM. He can’t stand it. It makes him hurt to see how happy they are with other people and not him, like it physically hurts. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was thrown into a surprise panic attack at the sight of his sibling being taken away from him like that. (If Damian reacts like this in regards to his sibling in a completely platonic relationship, imagine how he’d react to them in a romantic one🫣👀💀.) All his training; all the mental, physical, and emotional control he’s ever had would go out the window witnessing his twin living life without him, especially a happy life. As much as he would want for his twin’s happiness, he can’t allow it if he’s not a part of it. A stark difference to Twin!Reader’s reaction to not being a part of Damian’s life/happiness. They chose to distance themself further and give Damian the life he deserved while they sought some semblance of a happier life/family else where hoping for something similar to what Damian was lucky enough to experience.

There is no doubt that Damian wouldn’t do something, he had to. He can’t just sit by and live knowing his twin is out there having a whole life without him whatsoever. He can’t just let his sibling forget about him, how could he? How could they even try? They were born together, they were meant to be together, and they would die together. That’s how Damian saw it, that’s the only way he saw it.

Bruce would be very conflicted. On one hand he’s glad that his other child was able to end up in a good place with what appears to be a good family and is happy. But on the other hand Bruce failed them completely, to the point that a family of complete strangers, a faceless couple of average Joe’s were able to do something he couldn’t. They managed what Batman couldn’t. And that hits him deep. For a time he could be okay with the news of Twin!Reader being with another family and thriving, but eventually he can’t let it go. He tried to be okay with it, he tried to accept it but deep down he just couldn’t. They are his child, it’s his responsibility to love and care for them, to help them and guide them through life, through the ups and downs. He wants to be the one to do all of that but now he’s been robbed of that by these other people. They’re none the wiser and he knows that, he’s well aware of that, but that doesn’t take away from the overwhelming thoughts and emotions he has towards this family who took in his child. Bruce would have it in his head that there has to be something up with his family, something not right. He can’t just take it on the chin that this time he fucked up and he can’t fix it no matter what he does, he can’t do it. He needs to find something, no matter how small or insignificant it is, he has to find something on these people. If not then his hand will be forced into taking more drastic measures. He isn’t above framing this genuine family for something they could never fathom doing just to not have his child with them anymore. If he can’t have his child wanting him or the rest of the batfamily in their life positively then he can settle for being in it for the worst. At least he’s still a part of it and eventually he will get them to come around, even if it takes some forcing.

Talia wouldn’t let any of this last, especially not for as long as Damian and Bruce have. It wouldn’t be surprising if Talia got to the family before Damian or Bruce could, or at least before Bruce’s plan was fully enacted. She’d have this couple of genuinely caring and loving people cut to absolute ribbons at the very least. At the worst, she’s torturing them beyond belief before she ultimately kills them. How dare these people believe they could undo all that she and Ra’s had done regarding Twin!Reader’s training, trying to turn them into a ‘normal’ child after all they’re capable of? Ridiculous. And Talia would wholeheartedly consider her mistreatment and outright abuse of Twin!Reader as ‘training’, you can’t tell me otherwise. That’s just how she justifies all that she’s done to them. Talia would also leave the mess for Twin!Reader to find, after all it’s a message. No matter the message it’s suppose to intend, Twin!Reader only sees that they will never get what they want most of all, not truly. They’re bound to live this fucked up life for however long they’re forced to and they will never really know peace. Even if they somehow finally get the ‘happy ending’ they’ve desperately sought for, it won’t be in the way they expected.

[vamplvs]

Could you possibly write something angsty for John Walker where maybe a mission or something goes wrong and he ends up taking out his frustration on reader but apologizes and makes up for it when he notices reader pulling away, I love your writing so much!! Hope you have a good day! 💕

ROUGH NIGHT?

INCLUDES -> john walker x gn!reader WARNINGS -> john is kind of a bitch (predictably) and the reader is kind of a bitch back (which is deserved), hurt/comfort, mentions of blood, injury, and death (missions, yk?), reader is anxious as HELL about john, very vague mentions of sex but nothing explicit WORD COUNT -> 2.8k NOTES -> ugh anon this is EXACTLY the kind of shit i love writing. hurt/comfort is where it's at and this is just so unbearably john-coded in the best way. like yeah! you get it <3 fair warning, this ran away from me REALLY quick. it was supposed to be a short blurb (mostly aftermath and comfort tbh), and then i got carried away. also you can rly see my love-hate relationship w john in this one LMAO. he's my wife but i wanna get into a fist fight with him too, yk?

the tower is always quiet without the team, and bob's presence doesn't do much to keep things lively as he's already a pretty quiet person. they've been gone for nearly two weeks—double the time john told you the mission would take. they're usually radio silent for the duration of their missions, but when a mission takes so long, it's impossible not to worry.

and just as impossible not to wish that john could be safe within the walls of the tower, in your arms at night, or making you dinner.

you spend those weeks with bob going back and forth between checking on him, organizing and reorganizing every corner of your room, and drowning yourself in books and tv—not that it works. john lingers in your mind, images of the worst case scenario dancing in your mind like a taunt. maybe he comes back just fine, or maybe it's in a box. for all you know, he's trapped somewhere between two psychopaths trying to torture him. or maybe the team just can't agree on a course of action.

the silence from them is deafening, only drowned out by the racing of your own heart.

but when they finally come back from some extended mission that john hadn't told you the details of, the usual racket of the tower doesn't return with them. they march pitifully into the floor of the tower that's been dedicated to the living and common spaces. yelena is clutching her side and leaning against bucky for support, whose metal arm is spasming. ava, of course, vanishes immediately upon arrival. in the brief second you lock eyes with her before she disappears for who knows how long, she shoots you a cryptically sympathetic look for someone who looks like they've been through the ringer. alexei limps along, more defeated than you've ever seen him. but john is nowhere to be seen.

"hey, where is he?" you pipe up from where you're sitting on the couch, worry creasing your brow. your book is long forgotten by your side. instead, your eyes keep looking over the group, taking in their injuries and oh, god-

"with the jet," bucky responds, voice worn thin with exhaustion and hint of pain. you watch them leave, alexei's limp worrying you most of all. if he's in bad condition, what does that mean for john?

you bolt upright from the couch, heading off to the jet with a mission of your own. the bleak lighting of these parts of the tower create an endless maze for you to follow. your quick steps echo in the empty hallways—the construction that has been ongoing for the past several months leaving vast parts of the building almost entirely bare.

office rooms, labs, training grounds. all of them are vacant, like the people and equipment meant to be filling them have been stolen from under your nose. even the other living spaces in the tower—entire sections of floors that were once dedicated to an individual team member—are devoid of life. it leaves the building, one that was such an integral symbol of hope and protection, feeling cold.

and it does nothing to help the anxiety that claws at your throat.

by the time you get to the hangar, your pulse is pounding in your ears with enough force that you're sure it's echoing too. you hurtle through the doors of the hangar, desperation coloring every hurried step.

your pace slows when you see him: a lone figure in a wide, vacant room.

john is sitting on a crate by the side of the jet. his helmet in his hands and the shield tossed to the ground. it lies against the ground, discarded and deserted. his suit is covered in dust, debris, and what you think might be blood. with his head down, you can't quite see his face.

"john?" his name is barely above a whisper, and yet it still bounces off each wall. "are you okay?"

john tenses, his hands twitching around the helmet. it takes him a beat too long to respond, and the silence gives you a moment to see him properly. his beard has grown since you last saw him, no longer the neatly trimmed scruff he usually maintains. the bags under his eyes have gotten deeper, too, and there's this haunted look in his eye when he looks up from his helmet. gone is the bright blue you've grown to love. "i'm fine."

"how did the mission go?"

he huffs and stands up abruptly, helmet falling by his side. it rolls away from him, staring at you blankly with its empty sockets. "it was fine." john shoulders past you, his every step pounding against the floor. he hardly looks you in the eye as he leaves.

there's a limp in the way he walks, a favoring of one foot that is more than enough evidence to the contrary—as if you needed anything more.

when bucky finds you later in the kitchen, you're sitting at the table just staring blankly at your laptop. a cruel, steady cursor stares back at you, ever-blinking. bucky works quietly by the stove, apparently unbothered by you until he hands you a lightly steaming mug of hot chocolate—in the very mug john gave you before he left for this mission.

"is he okay?" you ask, staring down at the mug's delicate, flowery pattern.

bucky shrugs. "he's been in the gym for a while." he sits down across from you, running a hand through his hair. "the punching bags are taking a beating, according to ava."

"more than one?"

"apparently." bucky takes a sip from his own mug. in any other situation, the care with which he drinks his hot chocolate would have been endlessly funny. a tiny, delicate mug in the metal hand of a super soldier.

you hum. it's not unusual for john to train after a mission. he takes pride in his skill, after all, drawing all kinds of satisfaction from landing grueling hits against an enemy—and even a place for hits to land, a shield, when needed. but punching bags aren't his go-to, they never have been, especially not to the point of going through several bags. john spars when he wants a fight, but this... this has your worry washing over you in waves once again.

your eyes follow the intertwining swoops of the flowers decorating the mug.

"look, it was rough for us, especially walker," bucky rolls his shoulders back with a sigh. "give him some time, alright? he'll come around." you can't be sure if bucky is trying to convince you or himself. either way, he stays with you. he tells you about the bad intel, about the informant that john had been too rough with, about the regrets that john brought home from the mission. "he'll be okay." and you can only hope that's true.

you don't see john again until hours have passed at that kitchen table with bucky.

when you finally walk into your shared bedroom, you can smell his shampoo lingering in the air even from the doorway. he faces away from you, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting his chin on his hand. and now that he's finally clean of the dirt that he brought home with him from the mission, you can see the bruises littering his back. they range from red to purple to nearly black, and your eyes are glued to them. you're sure that the ones on his chest and stomach must be worse.

"bucky told me what happened," you start, trying to keep your voice gentle. "i- i'm sorry that-"

john whips around, standing from the bed with a stiffness you've only seen in him during the aftermath of the void. his eyes blaze with hurt, backed by a fire built on kerosene and failure. "we aren't talking about this." his hands shake by his sides, knuckles raw and bleeding. bucky's story about the informant swims through your minds sluggishly, lingering. did he punch the scabs back open on the punching bags, or are those new?

"i just wanted to help-" you step forward with your hands out to him in a placating gesture, like he's some kind of wild animal. and with the withering look he gives you, he may as well be.

"yeah, and you never really can, can you?" he laughs bitterly, and his hands twitch again. footsteps pound on the floor, and suddenly, he's close enough to touch, close enough that you feel the adrenaline and shame still pumping through him, "i mean seriously, you sit here in the damn tower, and you hover. you always fucking hover." his voice just gets louder and louder, until you're sure anyone on this floor of the tower can hear him.

"because i care about you, john," you make a strong effort to keep your voice steady, fighting back the thickness wedging itself into your throat with everything in you.

"well, maybe that was your first mistake." his face is inches away from yours when he says it, with nothing but vitriol and venom backing his words.

your eyes burn. "john-"

"just-" he steps back, running a hand over his face, "i just need a fucking break, okay?" as soon as he turns his back to you again, you're out of the room. you swear the slam of the door behind you shakes the entire tower. and if you hear him calling after you, you certainly don't respond.

for the next few days, you avoid john. you spend nights with yelena or bob—thank god for that air mattress you found stashed in a closet months ago. and during the day, you only go back to your room when you know john is going to be out. if it's a break he wants, then it's a break he's going to get.

"he's a brash idiot," yelena tells you when it's her turn to host the movie nights you've been doing with her and bob.

bob, of course, is quick to intercept, "he definitely didn't mean it. right?" he defers to yelena, waiting for her to agree with him. not that she does, but you can appreciate the effort.

john's eyes follow you unwillingly when you're in the same room. they focus on every small movement—the way your eyebrows furrow when you're confused about something alexei says, the dip of you're mouth when you try not to laugh at bucky rolling his eyes at something ava says, the way your hands fidget with the end of your sleeves or your pen when you catch him looking. he feels like a mad man, itching to be by your side as bad as he is. and he can feel yelena laughing silently at him from across the room.

all the while, your heart aches. a break, he said, whatever that means. a break where he stares wistfully at you, eyes heavy with something that you could call sorrow if he hadn't been the one to call for a break.

it isn't until a full four days have passed that he finally works up the courage to apologize to you. it's ironic how he can face the scum of the earth, who do everything in their power to kill him, and yet he starts sweating when he remembers what he said to you. and when he remembers how you took it.

he finds you sitting by one of the windows of the emptier floors, a book in your hand—one of bob's recommendations. this room seems to be some kind of office space, though it's hard to tell with the minimal furniture that's been put in. he lingers in the doorway, taking a moment to watch you sitting peacefully. you don't have your guard up, and god, he misses seeing you like this.

he knocks gently on the doorframe, and you watch him approach with wary eyes. that same guard he was so grateful to see you without returns in full force.

"bob said i could find you here," his voice is hesitant despite how squared his shoulders are, despite how high he holds his head.

you huff. "can't quite keep quiet can he?" the pages of the book flutter when you put it down, the only sound in the room.

silence stretches between the two of you, and john has to look away from your accusing gaze.

"i'm sorry," he starts, shaky and unsure, "you didn't deserve that."

"i know." he winces at the certainty in your statement.

"the mission, it-" john finally looks you in the eyes again, taking a deep breath, "i'm so worried about you, all the time. it just-" his words trail off, like he's still trying to finish the thought. all that planning, and he still can't find a good way to put it all to words.

"yeah."

"i don't want you to get hurt." he flexes one of his hands. the wounds have long scabbed over but are still bruised badly.

"i'll be okay." you shrug, and he almost believes you.

"you can't know that-"

"i'm okay now, aren't i?"

his lips twist into a pitiful half-smile, and you can't help but give him the same look in return.

"when i-" his shoulders fall, "look, i didn't mean-" he curses under his breath, and that nearly gets a smile out of you. "i need a break from this," john gestures vaguely around the room, to the rest of the tower, "not- never from us. i fucked up bad, and i know that."

"okay." every response from you is clipped, tearing his poor attempt at a brave facade to shreds.

"i don't know why-" you give him an icy look that shuts that train of though down immediately. curse you for knowing him so well. "i shouldn't have said it, not like that."

john's heart races in the quiet moments that stretch between you two.

in the blink of an eye, your arms are wrapped around him. he lets out a shaky breath and pulls you close to him. his hands grab for your clothes like he's trying to prove you're really here.

"i'm sorry," he mutters into your shoulder.

"it's okay," you reply gently, threading fingers through his hair.

"you're so perfect, and so- just so close to all of this, and i have nightmares about you getting-" he takes a harsh, shuddering breath, "i don't know what i'd do."

"i know, baby."

you missed him for those days. you missed his hand in yours, you missed his gravely voice in the mornings, you missed his pain in the ass self-assurance. and it's good, so good, to have him back.

you wake the next morning without john in your bed, and if that isn't a rude awakening, you don't know what is. the sheets next to you are cold, and you almost trick yourself into believing that last night was a dream until john walks in with a cup of coffee in that same flowery mug and a tray stacked high with food.

"john?" your voice is still rough from sleep, cracking around the syllable.

"i made you breakfast, baby." with little ceremony, he places the tray of food and the coffee on the bedside table. he does it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like there's nothing else he would rather be doing.

"huh?" your mind is still struggling to catch up. it's too early, and the bed is, quite frankly, far too cold without him.

"i'm making it up to you," he kisses your forehead, and his hand lingers on your cheek for a beat longer than it strictly needs to.

"thought you made it up to me last night," you stretch your legs beneath the blankets, trying to work out some of the soreness. he chuckles at that, and the corners of his eyes crinkle in that way they do when he laughs.

"oh, that worked, huh?" john sits carefully on the edge of the bed, running a hand over your arm.

"mmm, maybe."

"does breakfast in the bed sweeten the deal?" there's a twinge of uneasiness in his tone matched with a gentle squeeze of your arm.

"only if you get back in bed with me." he smiles at you, all warm and tender.

"i think i can do that."

john finds his way under the blankets with you. his hands are soft when they wrap around you, and warmth bleeds back into the sheets steadily.

"you really should eat that before it gets cold," he mumbles against your neck.

"okay, okay." it's hard not to laugh at where john has situated himself. he's firmly attached to your side, only letting up when you reach for the food. even then, his hold on you shifts just enough to let you move, never quite relenting.

[seospicybin]

EVERMORE.

CHAPTER III

Bangchan x reader x Hyunjin. (s,f,a)

EVERMORE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When your daughter’s wedding weekend brings you, a former it-girl and Chris, a legendary rockstar back under one roof, the two of you must navigate old memories, unexpected feelings, and the chaos of family. As laughter, love, and a hint of scandal unfold, you're both reminded that some love stories don’t end—they just change shape. (15k words)

Author's note: Hold on tight. It's going to be a bumpy ride. Anyway, hope you enjoy it & pls leave a feedback ♡

Are We Getting a Bang Theory Reunion? Fans Think So—And There's More Than One Reason Why April 28, 2025 – By MusicByte Staff The internet is once again buzzing with rumors of a possible Bang Theory reunion—this time with more fuel than ever before. Despite no official statements from the band or their management, eagle-eyed fans have been piecing together clues over the past few weeks that point to something big possibly brewing. From cryptic posts on social media to mysterious studio visits, it seems like the iconic '90s rock band might be gearing up for a return. But it's not just the music that's catching fans' attention. Over the weekend, a fan posted a grainy photo of frontman Chris Bang having what appears to be a quiet dinner with his ex-wife—who also happens to be the longtime muse of some of Bang Theory’s most beloved songs. The photo, reportedly taken at a low-key restaurant downtown, quickly spread online, sparking speculation about more than just music. "I was walking past and did a double take—they looked really cozy," the fan wrote in a now-viral tweet. "Didn’t want to interrupt but I couldn’t believe it." Naturally, the sighting has stirred rumors that the former couple might be rekindling their relationship—a narrative that fans of both the band and the pair have never quite let go of. While some believe it could be personal, others think their reunion might be tied to the band's rumored comeback. “What if they’re writing again? Together?” one Redditor theorized. “She was the heart of so many of those lyrics. A reunion wouldn’t feel right without her influence.” Sources close to the situation have remained tight-lipped. When asked for comment, Bang’s management only replied, “Chris is focused on his creative projects. There are no updates at this time.” Still, fans are convinced something is happening—and if it involves both a band reunion and a romantic rekindling, it's bound to shake the industry. Until then, it’s all whispers and what-ifs. But if Bang Theory really is coming back, they might just bring the heart of their sound—and story—back with them.

-

The storm rolls in quickly, heavy and sudden. Rain lashes against the windows, wind howling through the trees, thunder rumbling low like the growl of something ancient. The house shudders with every crash of lightning.

But your heart, you believe your heart is beating louder than the cracks of thunder as you feel Chris’s hand roaming everywhere— over your shoulders, down your back, squeezing at your waist and hips like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you with his palms. His touch is hungry, almost frantic, but it never feels careless. It feels like he’s been holding himself back for too long and now he’s letting go, letting himself feel everything.

His mouth never leaves yours for long, kissing you sloppily, messily, like he’s starved for it. Every time he pulls back to catch a breath, you can feel the heat of it against your lips before he dives back in, swallowing your soft sounds with another desperate kiss.

When his hand slips under your nightdress, you gasp softly against his mouth, feeling the way his fingers toy with the silky fabric of your underwear — teasing, playing, tracing the waistband as if he's still deciding if he wants to be patient. But you know patience isn’t in either of your vocabulary right now. Not tonight. Not after everything.

With a low, frustrated sound, Chris finally hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear and tugs it down your legs in one rough pull. You barely have time to shiver at the feeling before his hands are back on your skin, palms sliding up your thighs, squeezing, pulling you closer, needing you closer. You clutch at his shoulders for balance, breathing hard, your heart pounding so loud you swear he must be able to hear it.

The way he’s looking at you now — like you’re the only thing in the world he’s ever wanted — it makes your knees feel dangerously weak. And you know, without a doubt, that you’re about to cross that line you can't uncross.

A sultry gasp falls out of your mouth when you feel his fingers touch you there, where the heat is pooling between your legs— so intimate, so tenderly— and your body instinctively reacts, your hips shifting closer to his hand as if seeking more.

In a hazy attempt to slow down whatever’s about to happen, you press your arm across his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palm. But Chris only catches your gaze with his, eyes dark and burning, silently asking for permission with every slow, teasing stroke of his fingers on your clit. You don’t stop him. You couldn’t even if you tried. His fingers move with a purpose, learning you again with each slow, torturous movement, on your bundle of nerves, between your delicate folds, around your entrance.

Every time you breathe out a soft, helpless sound, he’s right there to catch it — crashing his mouth over yours to swallow it whole. His kisses are just as hungry as his touch, rough and tender all at once, like he’s desperate to remind you of every piece of him you once loved.

Chris leans in, pressing his mouth to your ear, his voice a low, ragged whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

"I still remember this body," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "How to touch you... the taste of your lips..."

He proves it by gently catching your lower lip between his teeth, tugging on it until you whimper, your hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. Then, just as you’re barely holding yourself together, he adds in a rough whisper, "And I still remember that spot you can't resist."

He curls his fingers inside you — just right, just there — and your body betrays you with a sharp gasp of pleasure that you can’t hold back. “Oh...”

Chris hears it, feels it, and he grins against your skin, triumphant and teasing, like he’s never forgotten how to undo you and maybe he never has.

The breathy sounds you make are tangled between desperate kisses as Chris keeps pumping his fingers in ans out of you— slow at first, then deeper, more rhythmic, building you up with every stroke. He whispers against your lips, words you can't fully catch, but they sound so sweet, so intoxicating, like lullabies meant only for you. "So good for me," he breathes, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, the shell of your ear, anywhere he can reach. "So beautiful like this..."

Your body tightens around his hand, your thighs trembling with every thrust of his fingers. It’s too much — the way he knows you, the way he holds you close like he’s afraid to let you go — and with a few more deliberate strokes, you fall apart around him, moaning into the hollow of his throat as your climax hits you in a shuddering wave. You go limp against him, chest heaving, your head resting on his shoulder. But Chris isn’t done with you. Not yet.

He shifts just slightly, his fingers now circling your still sensitive clit with maddening gentleness, drawing another helpless whimper from you. Your hips jerk against his touch, your body too sensitive, too raw, but Chris just chuckles lowly, his voice a soft rumble against your ear.

"That’s it," he murmurs, "So good to me... so fucking good."

You barely have time to catch your breath before he tilts your chin up and captures your mouth in a kiss — deep and possessive — like he’s trying to brand the moment into your skin, to make you remember him like this all over again and God, you think you will.

Slowly, your hand glides down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch, the way his breath hitches as you trail lower and lower until you reach the undeniable proof of how much he wants you. He's already hard, throbbing against the thin fabric of his grey sweatpants. You smile against his lips as you palm him through the material, tracing the shape of his cock, feeling him stiffen even more under your touch. Chris groans lowly into your mouth, a desperate sound that only urges you on.

Without breaking the kiss, you tug at his sweatpants, dragging them down just enough to free his erection. He lets out a shaky breath the second the cool air hits his heated skin. And then, without hesitation, you wrap your hand around him — firm, knowing exactly what he likes.

Chris's forehead presses against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as you begin to stroke him slowly, teasingly, taking your time. His hips jerk slightly into your hand, his body chasing every bit of friction you give him. "God," he breathes out, his voice wrecked with pleasure, "you still know how to please me... always knew exactly what to do to me."

You look up at him through your lashes, your smile playful, almost daring him to keep talking as you stroke him a little harder, a little faster, delighting in the way he shudders under your touch.

You shift your body, slowly leaning down, and Chris shudders the moment your hair brushes along the sensitive skin of his abdomen. His breath stutters out of him, his hands clenching at his sides as he watches you — utterly entranced.

With one hand, you gather your hair, holding it back to make sure he has a clear view. You want him to see everything — how your lips part, how your tongue flicks out to tease the crest of his length, swirling around it with slow, teasing strokes that have Chris breathing your name like a prayer. You lock eyes with him, wanting him to feel it just as much as see it, and then, inch by agonizing inch, you take his length into your mouth, slowly, carefully until he’s fully disappeared past your lips.

Chris lets out a ragged moan, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes dark and desperate as he watches you work. You hum softly around him, letting him feel the vibration, a clear sign of how much you're enjoying this — how much you want to please him. You suck him gently at first, your mouth warm and soft, and Chris doesn’t hold back the sounds he makes, his head tipping back against the couch with a low, guttural groan.

"God, baby," he breathes out, his voice wrecked with pleasure, "you're trying to ruin me, huh?"

You pull back, just enough to tease him, dragging your tongue down his shaft before you slide him deeper again, taking more, sucking harder this time. The reaction is immediate — Chris's hips jerk up involuntarily, a sharp gasp breaking from his lips as he grips the edge of the couch like he’s holding on for dear life. You smirk around him, taking your time, savoring every delicious sound he makes, knowing that right now, he’s completely and utterly at your mercy.

Both of you notice that you're getting tired so you slowly pull away from him, letting your lips glide off with an almost teasing slowness, feeling the way Chris shudders from the loss of contact. You barely have a second to react before his hand finds the nape of your neck, pulling you to him with a fierce, desperate kind of hunger.

His mouth crashes against yours, kissing you with a passion that knocks the breath right out of you. His fingers tighten, holding you close, refusing to let you pull away until he’s had his fill, until your lips are swollen from his kisses and your heart is pounding against your ribs.

When he finally lets go, it’s only by a fraction — his forehead resting against yours as he mutters against your lips, "I need to have you… or I swear I'm going to lose my mind."

The way he says it, the gravel in his voice, the rawness of his confession, sends a shiver down your spine. You answer him with another kiss, softer this time but just as full of promise, before slowly pulling away again, your palms smoothing over his chest to steady yourself.

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, facing him, feeling the heavy weight of his gaze as he watches you settle over him. Your hands stay pressed against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his heart under your touch — a silent mirror to the storm raging in your own body.

Chris tips his head back to look at you, his hands instinctively finding your hips, anchoring you to him, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go for even a second.

-

Chris's hand finds the side of your face, thumb brushing gently across your cheek as he catches your eyes, holding your gaze like something precious. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, voice rough with the weight of everything he feels — everything he's felt for so long without being able to say it. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. He will never get tired of the way you kiss him — like you know him better than he even knows himself.

As your mouths move together, he feels it — the slow, deliberate grind of your hips against him, the delicious friction that shoots fire through his veins. He groans low against your mouth, feeling how hot and slick you are even through the thin barrier between you. His patience, already hanging by a thread, frays even more with every move you make. He meets your eyes again, and there’s no need for words. You understand — you always do.

Chris barely breathes as you lift yourself just enough, one hand wrapping around his cock to guide him to your entrance. His hands find the hem of your nightdress and push it up to your waist, needing — needing — to see it. The sight of you slowly, steadily taking his throbbing length into your body nearly breaks him. His head falls back against the couch, a raw, needy whimper escaping his lips as the tight, wet heat of you wraps around him, inch by inch.

His fingers dig into your waist, desperate to ground himself as you fully sink onto him, fitting around him like a missing piece he’s been aching for. He looks down between you, watching where your bodies are joined, and a rough, reverent sound tears from his chest. "God, you take me so well," he murmurs, almost in disbelief, his voice thick with awe and hunger.

And then he can’t take it anymore. Chris grips your waist tight, pulling you roughly toward him and crashing your mouth against his in a frantic, hungry kiss — all teeth and tongue and need.

Every kiss feels like it’s stitching together pieces of him he hadn’t even realized were broken. His hands roam greedily over you, sliding down the curve of your back, gripping your hips, then trailing lower to your thighs. He squeezes the soft flesh there, loving how you shiver under his touch, how you instinctively move closer to him like you can’t stand even a breath of distance, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

With a low, breathless groan against your mouth, Chris tugs at your nightdress, pulling it up and over your head until you’re bare before him, sitting pretty and warm and so real on his lap. He draws back just enough to take you in, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. Gosh, you’re beautiful.

His hands move on their own, roaming everywhere, touching, memorizing, squeezing the familiar softness of your body. His palms trail up your sides, over your ribs, thumbs brushing reverently across the curve of your waist. "I forgot how soft you are," he murmurs, voice wrecked with awe and something deeper, almost worshipful.

He leans in, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the delicate column of your neck, breathing you in like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. His mouth trails lower, down to your chest, where he lingers, nuzzling and kissing the sensitive skin there. Then he captures one of your breasts into his mouth, sucking gently, his hand fondling the other, fingers teasing and pinching just enough to make you let out a low, needy moan — a sound so sweet and sinful that it echoes around the room, searing itself into his memory. He groans against your skin, feeling you arch into him, offering more. He knows he’ll never get enough — not tonight, maybe not ever.

Chris swears he’s losing his mind — in the best way.

You start to move against him, rolling your hips in a slow, steady rhythm that drives him absolutely wild. His hands slide down to your waist, holding you steady, grounding himself in the way your body grinds against his.

Your eyes are locked with his, fiery and intense, a raw connection that speaks louder than any words. He can feel it — how much you want this, how much you want him — matching the desperation that's clawing through him.

He wraps his arms tightly around you, pulling you flush against him, his forehead resting against yours for a moment, just breathing you in. Then he begins to move too, bucking up from beneath you, meeting you thrust for thrust. The friction between you intensifies, every snap of his hips sending deeper, hotter pleasure crashing through him.

Your moans — raw, hoarse, beautiful — spill into the room, filling the air, drowning out even the thunder rumbling outside. He drinks in every sound, every gasp, every breathless whimper like it's oxygen, like he can't survive without it. He groans against your skin, clutching at your hips, his pace growing more urgent, more desperate, matching the frenzied beat of his heart.

"God, there's nothing like it," he rasps against your mouth, voice thick and broken, "you're perfect for me."

Chris can feel it happening — not just the heat building, the pleasure tightening, but something deeper threading through every kiss, every thrust, every shudder of breath between you.

It’s like you’re reconnecting, rediscovering everything you once were, everything you could still be. The way you cling to him, the way your body moves with his, the way your heart seems to beat in perfect time with his — it’s all too much, too real, too overwhelming. He holds you even tighter, his hand splayed across your lower back as you both chase that final high, the tension coiling impossibly tight inside him.

And then you fall — together — your cries mingling with his ragged groan as you come undone, wrapped up in each other like you were never meant to let go.

Chris’s heart stutters, full and aching, and as he looks up at you, he knows — He loves you. He always has. And now he knows he always, always will.

Before he can even think about it, he blurts out, “I love you.”

The words hanging in the air between you and him before he's pulling you down, pressing his mouth to yours in a kiss so deep, so desperate, so full of everything he can and can’t say. He pours all of it into you — every ounce of love, every silent promise, every broken piece that only you have ever been able to touch. He kisses like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent without you. And right now, in this moment, he doesn’t ever want to let you go again.

-

Chris wakes up to a dull, throbbing pain behind his eyes and a sticky feeling on his skin. He blinks a few times at the ceiling above him, the faint light of the morning pouring in from the windows.

The sofa creaks under him as he sits up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands, trying to chase the hangover haze away. His body aches — a different kind of ache than the one from his broken leg.

Last night flashes in bits and pieces behind his eyelids — your lips, your laugh, your hands on him, your breathy moans — and he runs a hand through his messy hair, groaning under his breath.

The smell of coffee and something sweet pulls him up to his feet, wobbling slightly as he leans on his crutches. Through bleary eyes, he sees you in the kitchen, back turned to him, moving around like nothing happened.

"Hey," Chris rasps, making his way over.

Except — when you turn around — it’s not you. It’s Tigerlily. She beams when she sees him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Morning, Dad. Survived the night?" she teases, setting down a plate of toast on the counter.

Chris blinks, stunned. "You’re— you're back?" he croaks out.

Tigerlily laughs. "Yeah, I just got in. Figured I'd surprise everyone. Mom told me you two were having a little party last night."

She lifts an eyebrow at him in a very familiar, knowing way.

"And by little, she meant you drank too much, as usual."

Chris opens his mouth to argue but only manages a sheepish grimace. Without missing a beat, Tigerlily hands him two pills and a tall glass of orange juice. "Here. Take these. You look like you're about to pass out standing up."

Chris doesn’t argue. He swallows the pills and downs the juice in one go, wincing at the sudden coldness in his empty stomach. He sets the glass down with a thud and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Where’s your mother?" he asks, trying to sound casual, though the question is heavy in his mouth.

Tigerlily glances at her phone. "She went grocery shopping with Julian. Should be back soon with our lunch."

Chris nods, sinking down onto one of the dining chairs with a heavy sigh. His body feels wrecked. His heart, too, if he’s being honest.

Tigerlily plops down across from him, pulling out her phone and scrolling. Trying to distract himself, Chris forces a small smile. "So... honeymoon. How was it?"

He listens to her talk, catching bits and pieces about beaches, sunsets, and snorkeling trips — but his mind keeps wandering. Back to last night. Back to you. Back to how easily he could lose himself again in you if he’s not careful. And despite the pounding in his head, Chris knows —

There’s no part of him that wants to be careful anymore.

It's midday when Chris hears the car pull into the driveway before he even sees you. The front door swings open, and you step inside, arms full of grocery bags, Julian right behind you carrying the rest.

Chris leans back in his chair, feeling that awful mixture of relief and tension twist inside him. He hates that he can't jump up and help you. Hates that he's stuck here, leg useless, heart even more so.

You flash him a smile — easy, casual — like nothing happened between you, like you hadn’t kissed him like he was the air you needed to breathe.

"Hey, you two," you chirp at him as you kick off your shoes and walk toward the kitchen.

"Hey," he mutters back, voice dry, throat tight.

Julian throws a grin his way as he sets the grocery bags down. "Hope you're ready for a feast. We brought enough to feed a small army."

Tigerlily immediately pounces, helping you unpack while chatting excitedly about the food she tried during her honeymoon.

Chris knows — knows — he can’t say a damn word about last night. Not here. Not now. Not with Tigerlily and Julian both beaming and filling the house with their bright, newlywed energy. So he plays along, he pretends like everything is fine, pretends like he isn't aching to pull you aside, to ask you what the hell that night meant to you — if it meant anything at all. Because right now, you move around the kitchen like it's just another Saturday, like last night didn’t happen, like you didn’t come undone in his arms and leave him thinking he could believe in second chances.

-

Lunch is a lively affair.

Tigerlily and Julian sit across from him, their plates piled high, both of them talking over each other as they recount their favorite parts of their honeymoon.

"We went snorkeling" Julian says, his face animated. "I've never seen water so clear in my life."

"And the night markets!" Tigerlily adds, her eyes shining. "We ate everything. I'm serious. I think I gained five pounds in a week."

Chris laughs at all the right moments. He nods, he smiles, he even cracks a joke here and there. But most of the time, he’s watching you even though you don't look at him. Not once. Not the way he’s looking at you — like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground right now.

Then suddenly, Tigerlily turns her attention to him, her fork pointed playfully in his direction. "So," she says, tilting her head with a teasing smile, "what exactly have you two been doing in the house while we were gone?"

Chris stiffens for a second, his mind racing. Next to him, you don’t miss a beat — you lift your head and, with a bright, breezy voice, say, "Not much, really. Just keeping the place from falling apart."

Chris glances at you from the corner of his eye. Your smile is tight. Too polished. He can see the tension in your shoulders, the way you're gripping your fork a little too tightly. He clears his throat, sitting up straighter.

"Yeah, not much happening," he echoes casually. Then, before he can stop himself, he adds, "Well... until last night."

Your head jerks slightly toward him. It's subtle — anyone else might've missed it, but Chris sees it, feels it. He quickly barrels on, forcing a chuckle.

"There was that thunderstorm," he says. "Neither of us could sleep with all the noise. Figured it was the perfect time to finally open that bottle of liquor my label sent over."

Chris rubs the back of his neck, shooting you a quick glance and catching the strained expression you’re trying to hide. "Bad idea," he jokes, trying to lighten the air. "Turns out, I can't handle hangovers like I used to. Getting old sucks."

Tigerlily lets out a dramatic sigh and rolls her eyes. "I told you to go easy on the drinking, Dad! You're supposed to be healing, not making it worse!"

Chris holds up his hands in surrender. "Lesson learned, little cub. I swear."

Everyone laughs — even you, though it's a little quieter than usual — and thankfully, Tigerlily shifts the conversation without pressing any further. Julian launches into a comment about the crazy weather forecast for the next week, and soon they're all chatting about the rain and how it ruined their travel plans.

You're laughing, chiming in with questions, teasing Tigerlily the way you always do but all Chris can think about is the way you felt last night — the way you kissed him like he was still yours and he wonders if you’re trying to forget, or if you’re just too scared to let yourself remember.

-

You stand on the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, as you watch Tigerlily and Julian getting into their car. They wave at you, their faces still bright and buzzing with post-honeymoon bliss.

"Bye, mom!" Tigerlily calls, leaning out the window.

You force a smile and wave, your hand fluttering half-heartedly through the air. "Bye, you two. Drive safe."

Their car pulls out of the driveway, disappearing down the street. The second they're out of sight, the pit in your stomach grows heavier. You knew this moment was coming. You’ve been quietly dreading it since the second you woke up this morning, curled up against Chris on the sofa like it was the most natural thing in the world. Since the second you felt his fingers lightly brushing over your back in his sleep, as if he couldn’t help but cling to you.

You take a long, deep breath, bracing yourself, before stepping back into the house. The door clicks shut behind you and the silence swallows everything.

You head straight for the kitchen, pretending like there’s nothing weighing down your steps, pretending like you're just... cleaning up after lunch, that's all. You start stacking plates, wiping down the counter, anything to stay busy. But of course, you hear his footsteps before you even finish.

Chris.

You don't turn around when you hear him step into the kitchen. You just keep wiping the counter, even though it's already spotless.

"It seems like..." Chris starts, his voice low, hesitant, "we need to talk."

Your whole body stiffens for a second. You quickly force yourself to move, cracking a laugh — light, casual, practiced. You turn to him with a grin that doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"Why so serious, Chris?" you tease, waving the rag in your hand like it's no big deal. "There's nothing to talk about."

Chris frowns, but you barrel forward before he can say anything.

"We were drinking too much," you say. "That's all. It was the alcohol. If we were sober... well, it wouldn't have happened, obviously."

You see it immediately — the way his face falls just slightly. The disappointment that's hard for him to hide. For a fleeting second, it feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

You hate seeing that look on him. You hate even more that you're the one who put it there. But you’re not ready for this, not ready to unpack the weight of last night.

So you quickly tuck the rag into the sink and wipe your hands on your jeans. You shoot him an apologetic, too-bright smile. "I really need to get some writing done today," you say, your voice almost breathless with the need to escape. "Deadline’s coming up fast."

Before he can stop you, before you can see more of that hurt written all over his face, you slip past him. You feel his eyes on your back as you climb the stairs two at a time.

Here you are. Running. Again. Running from him. Running from yourself. You slip into your bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind you. Leaning against it for a moment, you close your eyes, willing yourself to breathe, but it’s no use.

The thoughts crash over you, relentless and unkind. Chris. Last night. The way he touched you, the way he kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered and the three words that slipped out of his mouth like they were meant to be heard between you.

You shake your head, pushing away from the door. You sit down at your desk, open your laptop, and stare at the blinking cursor on a blank document. You tell yourself to focus, be professional, but the more you try to work, the harder it gets.

The memories of last night swirl and pull at you until you’re sinking, distracted and restless so you reach for your phone. Without thinking too hard about it, you call Hyunjin. It only takes a few rings before he answers, his voice light and warm, like sunshine cutting through storm clouds.

"Hey, you," he says, a smile you can hear.

You swallow the guilt gnawing at your chest and force yourself to smile. "Hey. Just… wondering how you’ve been."

Hyunjin hums thoughtfully on the other end. "Tired. Happy. Still kind of buzzing from the exhibitions. The trip’s been good for me. Good for my art, you know?"

You nod even though he can’t see you, tucking your legs under yourself on the chair, curling up small. You listen as he tells you about the new city he visited, the gallery that agreed to display some of his pieces.

His voice is animated, full of life, and you cling to it like a lifeline, but eventually, he trails off. A beat of silence, and then. "You okay?" he asks softly. "You sound… off."

You hesitate for a second before giving in to the simplest truth. "I think I just... miss you," you admit, voice barely a whisper.

There's a pause, and then a warm chuckle from his end. "You miss me, huh?" he teases. "Didn’t know you’d fall apart without me."

You laugh, grateful for how easy he makes it, for how light he can make you feel even when you're drowning. "I’m serious," you say, smiling into the phone. "I miss you."

There's another pause, gentler this time. "I miss you too," Hyunjin says, and there's something softer beneath his words. "I'll come home soon. I promise."

"I can't wait," you murmur, and you mean it. You mean it in a way that aches. You talk for a few more minutes — casual things, easy things — before he has to go. You end the call with a quiet goodbye and a lingering smile.

But the second your phone screen goes dark, it's like all the emotions you’d been holding back come rushing in again, an unstoppable flood. Chris. Last night. The way he said your name like it meant something. The way he kissed you like he never stopped loving you.

You bury your face in your hands, the weight of it all too much. No matter how far you run, no matter how many walls you build — you can’t outrun the truth. Not anymore.

-

The house feels too big, too quiet, and you can hear the echo of your own thoughts bouncing off the walls. You move around the kitchen mechanically, your mind elsewhere as you plate the food, setting everything neatly on the dining table.

When everything's ready, you stand there, staring at the finished dinner. You hesitate, chewing your bottom lip, debating. Calling Chris means facing him again — facing everything again.

And after this morning, after the way you ran, you're not sure if you're ready. You look at the clock, aware that the food is only getting colder by the second.

You sigh, scolding yourself for overthinking everything as you wipe your palms on a dish towel. You inhale air, raising your voice just enough to call out, "Chris! Dinner’s ready!"

There's a beat of silence and then you hear the sound of his bedroom door opening. You wait, bracing yourself for the tension, the awkwardness, the weight you haven’t figured out how to carry yet. But what you get instead makes you blink — and then burst into unexpected laughter.

Chris strides toward you with such exaggerated ease, as if he’s on a beach vacation rather than padding across the living room floor. He’s wearing a loud, colorful Hawaiian shirt — covered in neon flowers and palm trees — paired with a pair of short khaki pants that look like they belong in a tourist catalog.

The shirt, you realize with a sharp pang of fondness, is the souvenir Tigerlily brought him from her honeymoon trip. And Chris? Chris is owning it like he’s about to order a piña colada and lounge under the sun. You press a hand to your mouth, trying — and failing — to contain the laugh that bubbles up.

He looks so proud of himself, flashing you a lazy grin as he tugs at the hem of the shirt. "What?" he asks innocently, raising an eyebrow. "You said dinner, not a fashion critique."

You shake your head, still laughing. "You look like you're about to host a luau in the backyard."

Chris smirks, sauntering closer with a mock swagger that only makes you laugh harder. "Maybe I am. Maybe this is my new look. Summer Chris," he declares with a dramatic sweep of his arm.

For a moment — just a moment — the heaviness between you two lifts and you're grateful for it, grateful for the way Chris always, somehow, finds a way to make you laugh when you need it most.

He pulls out a chair for you before dropping himself into his own seat with a theatrical sigh, still looking far too pleased with himself and despite everything — despite the messy feelings knotting your stomach — you find yourself smiling as you sit down across from him, pretending that, just for now, things are simple again.

In the middle of dinner, Chris clears his throat and sets his fork down with a soft clatter. "So," he starts, twirling his glass of water between his fingers, "the label's pushing for a repackage album. For The Bang Theory."

You perk up immediately, your lips parting in surprise. "Wait, really?"

He nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. Couple new tracks, some acoustic versions. Nothing crazy. But they want to follow it up with a tour."

Your reaction is instant — bright and honest, your heart swelling a little at the news. "Chris, that's amazing," you say, meaning every word. "I just know the fans are going to lose their minds."

His smile stretches wider at that, genuine and a little boyish, like he’s soaking in your excitement like sunlight. For a moment, it feels easy again — you and him, like it always used to be, before things got complicated.

Chris chuckles and leans back in his chair, tipping his head toward you. "Yeah, well, I need to recover first," he says, nodding down at his casted leg with a mock grimace.

You snort, reaching for your drink. "You will. You’ll be out of here in no time."

He narrows his eyes at you, grinning. "You sound a little too eager to kick me out."

You pretend to think about it, then flash him a teasing smile. "Obviously. I have my peaceful, quiet house to get back to. Can't have some rockstar cramping my style."

Chris laughs, the sound warm and rumbling across the table. But then — just as the laughter is fading — he goes still for a beat. His gaze softens, the playful edge giving way to something heavier as he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

"Maybe I should just stay," he says, voice low and almost serious.

The words hang between you, charged. You feel your breath catch, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass. Chris holds your gaze — really holds it — and for a split second, it feels like the air between you two crackles with something unspoken. But then — he breaks into a laugh, shaking his head.

"Relax," he says, grinning. "I'm not that bad of a houseguest, am I?"

You force out a laugh too, nudging your foot against his lightly under the table. "You're terrible," you tease. "But I guess you make up for it with your world-class entertainment."

Chris winks, lifting his fork again as he dives back into his plate. "Glad to know my summer look didn’t go unnoticed."

You laugh again, but there's a slight tremble underneath it — a tremble you don’t think either of you can ignore for much longer.

After dinner, you and Chris stand side by side at the sink, working together in a quiet, easy rhythm — you wash, he dries. Every so often, his hand brushes against yours — small, accidental touches that send little shocks skittering up your arm.

At first, you try to ignore it, blame it on the cramped space, but then it happens again — and this time, it lingers. You pause, your hand still submerged in the soapy water, and look up at him.

Chris is already looking at you and you feel the air shifts. The steady noise of the sink, the music faintly playing from Chris’s portable speaker— it all fades until there’s nothing but the two of you standing there, inches apart. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you, his brown eyes dark and intent, searching yours like he’s trying to find something he lost. Your heart hammers painfully in your chest. You can feel it, the magnetic pull between you, inevitable and terrifying.

Chris sets the dish towel aside without breaking eye contact. His hand finds yours again, this time deliberately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles and to your own surprise, you don't pull away. Your breath catches when he leans in, slow, giving you every chance to move, to stop this — but you don't. You close your eyes, feeling the heat of him just a breath away.

And then—

The doorbell rings. Sharp and sudden and so out of place that you flinch back instinctively. Chris lowly curses under his breath, low and frustrated. You open your eyes just in time to see him closing his, jaw clenching as he pulls away from you reluctantly. Neither of you moves for a second. Neither of you says a word.

The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time. Chris exhales a heavy breath through his nose, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"I’ll get it," you say quickly, voice a little too high, a little too breathless.

You leave the kitchen in a hurry, your heart still racing, your lips still tingling with the ghost of a kiss that never landed and somehow, even before you open the door, a small part of you already knows who’s standing on the other side.

-

You open the door — and there he is. Hyunjin, standing on your porch with a bright smile and a bouquet of flowers in one hand.

"Hey, beautiful," he says, voice warm and a little breathless, like he couldn’t get to you fast enough.

Before you can even say a word, he steps forward and kisses you. It’s quick, familiar, and full of an easy kind of affection — the kind that knocks the air out of your lungs for an entirely different reason.

You stiffen for a moment, your eyes instinctively darting over Hyunjin’s shoulder toward the kitchen and sure enough — Chris is standing there, still by the sink, watching.

When Hyunjin pulls back, you force a laugh, hoping it hides the jolt of guilt punching you straight in the chest. He doesn't notice. Instead, he grins and holds out a bouquet of flowers, vibrant and beautiful.

"For you," he says simply.

You take them, your fingers brushing his. "Thank you," you manage to say, your voice coming out too soft, too strained.

"Can I come in?" Hyunjin asks, already stepping inside without waiting for a full answer.

You glance back toward the kitchen where Chris remains frozen for a beat longer than necessary. His face is blank, but the tight line of his jaw gives him away.

Hyunjin notices Chris then and beams. "Hey, Chris!" he says brightly, like everything’s normal.

Chris doesn’t return the smile. "Hey," he mutters back, the greeting clipped and sour.

The silence that falls between the three of you is thick enough to choke on. Chris sighs — long and heavy — then wipes his hands on the towel he’s still holding. "I’m gonna head to my room and rest," he announces stiffly, without sparing you or Hyunjin another glance.

And just like that, he turns and walks away, his casted foot thudding against the floor with every heavy, unhurried step.

You watch him disappear down the hall, your stomach twisting, the bouquet clutched awkwardly in your hands.

Next to you, Hyunjin is blissfully unaware of the wreckage he’s just walked into, chatting casually as he follows you deeper into the house — leaving the mess of emotions you can't even begin to untangle trailing in your wake.

You lead Hyunjin into the kitchen, the soft clinking of the vase and the flowers you set down on the counter filling the awkward silence.

He glances around, then back at you with a slight furrow to his brow. "Is your ex-husband okay?" he asks, keeping his voice light but curious.

You shake your head quickly, forcing a casual laugh. "He just—" you gesture vaguely toward the hallway where Chris disappeared, "—took his pain meds. Makes him a little grumpy."

Hyunjin immediately buys it, the worry smoothing from his face like it was never there. "Ah, that makes sense," he says with a small laugh, before his focus shifts entirely back to you.

Without hesitation, he steps closer, his hands finding your waist and pulling you gently against him. You don’t resist — you can’t — even as a tight knot forms low in your stomach.

"Why are you so shy, huh?" Hyunjin teases, his hands smoothing along your sides, his voice dropping to something softer, something sweeter. "You didn’t sound this shy when you called me to say you missed me."

You press a smile to your lips, willing your hands to settle lightly on his chest even as everything inside you feels tangled and wrong. "I did miss you," you say, forcing the words to sound certain as you hold his gaze.

He tilts his head, studying you with that easy charm that always made you feel seen — and yet, tonight, all it does is make you feel exposed. "If you really missed me," he murmurs, a playful glint in his eyes. "Then where's my kiss?"

You let out a soft chuckle, trying to bury the unease clawing at your ribs and because it’s easier — because it’s what you’re supposed to want — you lean up and kiss him. Your lips find his in a slow, tender kiss, trying to convince him... and yourself... that he’s the one you missed. That the ache blooming deep in your chest isn’t for someone else entirely.

But no matter how you kiss him, no matter how tightly you close your eyes, you can’t shake the way your heart still feels pulled down the hallway — to where Chris had disappeared, and where the truth still waits, heavy and unspoken.

-

From the kitchen window, Chris watches you moving through the backyard, headphones on, lost in your own little world as you water the plants. The late afternoon sun catches on the loose strands of your hair, and for a second, everything feels painfully clear to him.

These past few weeks — the stolen moments, the quiet laughter, the mundane days spent doing nothing and everything — they crash into him all at once. He realizes with a deep, sinking ache that this... this is what he’s been missing all along. Not the stage lights. Not the endless cities.

You.

And now, after last night — after seeing you melt into Hyunjin’s kiss — he feels it slipping through his fingers all over again. If he doesn't say something, if he doesn't do something, he’s going to lose you. Again.

Gripping his crutch tighter, Chris pushes himself away from the window, determination sparking in his chest even as a thousand nerves hum under his skin.

Dragging his casted leg behind him, he hobbles toward the back door and steps outside, wincing at the bright afternoon sun. You don't notice him at first — your back is still turned, your head nodding slightly to the beat of whatever you're listening to.

Chris opens his mouth, heart hammering, but no words come out. And then —

You spin around. It happens too fast. The hose, still in your hand, jerks wildly — sending a full blast of cold water directly onto him.

Chris freezes as the shock of it hits him, soaking his shirt, dripping down his cast. You gasp, scrambling to fumble the hose off, yanking your headphones down around your neck as you rush toward him.

"Oh my god, Chris! Why were you standing there?!" you scold, exasperated and panicked, while your hands flutter uselessly at his soaked shirt.

Chris just stands there, water dripping off his clothes, his heart still stuck somewhere between heartbreak and something he can't name. "I—" he starts, but ends up just sighing, heavy and defeated, as you continue to fuss over him.

He looks at you — your brows furrowed, your mouth pressed in a worried little line — and despite everything, a small, helpless smile tugs at his lips. Of course. Of course it would happen like this. And somehow, getting drenched by accident feels a little less painful than standing there, saying nothing, and watching you slip away.

Chris stands awkwardly on the back porch, dripping and heavy, as you disappear inside the house. The sun dries his shirt unevenly, sticking the fabric to his skin in patches. He shifts on his crutch, glancing toward the door just as you reappear, a towel in hand.

Without a word, you step up to him, concern etched all over your face. You start patting down his arms, his chest, gentle and careful, and Chris doesn't dare move — afraid he might ruin the feeling of your hands on him. When you reach his face, you slow down, dabbing at his cheeks and forehead. He closes his eyes briefly under your touch, something raw and aching swelling inside him. When he opens them again, you're right there — close enough that he can see the little flecks of color in your eyes. He wonders if you can hear his heart hammering.

"You’re such an idiot," you scold lightly, shaking your head. "Lurking behind me like that."

Chris huffs a small laugh, trying to steady himself. "I wasn’t lurking," he mutters. "I just—" He swallows. "I have something to say to you."

Your hands still for a second, and you look up at him, curious and a little cautious. He takes a breath, ready to finally say it, to put it all out there —

But before he can get a single word out, you gasp. "Oh! Wait, I forgot!" you cut in, eyes wide. "Tigerlily is taking you for dinner tonight."

Chris blinks, thrown off. "Yeah, but—"

"I think you should go ahead and get changed for it," you continue quickly, smiling a little sheepishly. "You know how punctual your daughter is."

Chris frowns, thrown even further off balance. "Why about you?"

You shrug, your tone casual — too casual. "I'm going out with Hyunjin."

And just like that, Chris feels it. The slow, painful pull of you slipping further and further from him. He nods stiffly, forcing a laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Right. Of course."

You miss the way his smile falters as you step back, gathering the damp towel in your arms. Chris watches you turn away, and the words he had been about to say — all the things he’s been holding in — collapse in his chest like a house of cards. He missed his chance. Again.

As expected, Tigerlily arrives right on time, cheerful and bright as she helps Chris slips into his jacket. "You ready to go, Dad?" she asks with a teasing grin.

"Give me a sec," Chris turns toward the kitchen, reaching for his phone and wallet lying on the kitchen island— but then he hears it.

A sudden gasp from Tigerlily, high-pitched and delighted. "Oh my God! Look at you, Mom!" she squeals.

Chris turns, confused for a moment, before he sees you descending the staircase. And for a second— just a second — the whole world seems to tilt. You look stunning. Your hair, your makeup, the way your outfit hugs your figure — it's enough to knock the air out of his lungs.

Chris stands there, frozen, as Tigerlily runs over to you, practically bouncing in excitement. "You look amazing!" she gushes, grabbing your hands. "Seriously, you look like you’re about to walk the red carpet!"

You duck your head shyly, flashing that small, soft smile that Chris knows all too well. The one that used to be just for him. Tigerlily spins toward him, still holding your hands. "Dad, doesn't Mom look beautiful?"

Chris blinks, forcing himself to find his voice past the tightness in his throat. He manages a nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah," he says, his voice quieter than he intended. "You look beautiful."

You meet his gaze briefly, offering him a soft "Thank you" with a small smile. It doesn't reach your eyes. Or maybe he's just imagining that — wanting there to be a part of you still hesitating.

Tigerlily claps her hands once, cheerful as ever. "Okay, are we ready to go now, Dad?" she asks, grabbing the car keys.

Chris nods, feeling the familiar ache settle into his chest like a stone. Dragging his casted leg carefully, he makes his way toward the door.

Tigerlily leans over, pulling you into a warm hug. "Have the best night, okay?" she says brightly. "You deserve it."

Chris doesn't let himself look back. He can't. He steps outside into the fading evening light, the door closing behind him with a soft click. And with every step toward the car, he feels it — You, slipping further away.

-

The moment you step into the grand hall, the air shifts around you — elegant chatter humming beneath the soft classic music playing in the room. You instinctively tighten your grip on Hyunjin's hand. Your nerves are rattling. You feel small, even in your best dress. You wonder if people will notice the age gap between you two — if they'll whisper about it, judge silently. You glance sideways at Hyunjin, feeling even more out of place next to him. He looks breathtaking — tall, composed, radiating an effortless charm in his sleek black suit. He fits here, in this glittering world and you, you’re not sure you do.

As if sensing the storm inside your head, Hyunjin gives your hand a gentle squeeze. You look up at him, startled, and he meets your gaze with a soft, reassuring smile.

"You look like a goddess tonight," he says, his voice low, meant for you alone.

It catches you off guard, the sincerity in his tone. It wraps around you like a warm, protective blanket. You nod, cheeks heating up, allowing yourself a shy smile. The confidence you thought you lost flickers back to life inside you.

A few people call out to Hyunjin as you both walk further into the room, exchanging polite greetings and nods. You cling to Hyunjin’s side, still slightly overwhelmed. Then, he leans down, brushing his lips close to your ear.

"There’s someone I want you to meet," he murmurs.

Before you can ask who, he’s already tugging your hand gently, weaving you through the crowd with ease. You follow him, heart hammering in your chest. He stops in front of a woman — tall, elegant, her salt and pepper hair tied back into a chic chignon. She turns as Hyunjin taps her elbow lightly.

The moment she recognizes him, her entire face lights up, and they embrace warmly, like old friends. You watch the exchange, feeling a little out of place again, until Hyunjin turns to you with a proud smile. "Miss Goldfinch, I'd like you to meet one of your biggest fan."

Hyunjin turns to you, introducing you back to her with something proud and tender in his voice. The woman’s name registers — and your heart jumps in your chest. You know her. You love her. She’s the author of one of your favorite books — the one you read over and over again when you needed comfort, when you needed to believe in something again.

You gasp softly, whipping your head toward Hyunjin, your mouth falling open in pure shock. He catches your expression and smirks, victorious, like he’s been planning this all along. You barely manage a polite greeting before you and the woman fall into an easy conversation. You’re animated, alive in a way you didn’t expect — discussing writing, art, everything in between.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Hyunjin stepping away to give you space. But even from across the room, you can feel his gaze on you.

When you steal a glance, you find him there — engaging in a conversation with someone, a drink in hand, a small, secret smile tugging at his lips. The kind of smile reserved for someone he treasures. His eyes never leave you.

The room melts away — all the people, all the noise. For a brief, beautiful moment, it’s just you and him in this vast, sparkling world. And you feel it again — that fluttering warmth deep in your stomach, delicate and dangerous. You wonder if he knows he has that effect on you. You wonder if you’re ready for what’s coming next.

Eventually, Hyunjin gently tugs your hand, leading you away from the crowd and toward a more formal setup. Rows of elegant round tables fill the space, and Hyunjin scans the small silver plaques until he finds the one with his name on it.

Without missing a beat, he pulls out a chair for you, offering his hand like the perfect gentleman. You place your hand in his, the simple touch sparking something small and electric between you. "Thank you," you murmur shyly as you settle into the chair.

Hyunjin slides into the seat right next to you, impossibly close. More guests begin to fill the seats around the table — two on either side of you and Hyunjin, and another across the round table.

The woman seated next to Hyunjin — beautiful, sharp-eyed — glances at him and immediately brightens in recognition. "Hyunjin!" she exclaims warmly.

You watch as Hyunjin greets her with his signature easy smile. He places a casual hand on your shoulder and introduces you with pride. "Have you met her? She's a brilliant writer."

You feel your cheeks warm at the compliment, but before you can bask in it too long, he continues: "And lucky me, she's my girlfriend."

The woman’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, but there's no judgment in her expression — just genuine interest. "You’re full of surprises, Hyunjin," she laughs, offering you a kind smile.

The background noise gradually fades as the MC steps onto the small stage at the front, tapping the microphone. The gala officially begins.

Without warning, you feel Hyunjin’s hand resting casually on your thigh under the table, his thumb drawing slow, languid circles on your bare skin. You shift slightly, fighting the way your body instantly reacts to him.

Leaning closer into his side, you whisper against his ear, "Don't you think I'm too old to be introduced as your girlfriend?"

Hyunjin smirks without missing a beat, turning his head slightly to catch your teasing gaze. "Would you prefer 'ladyfriend' then?" he teases back, voice low enough for only you to hear.

You almost snort, covering your mouth with your hand. "That’s even worse," you whisper.

Hyunjin's smile softens into something infinitely more tender. He lifts his hand from your thigh and reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush your skin deliberately slow, sending a shiver down your spine. "Maybe," he murmurs, so quietly, so intimately, "it's time we changed it."

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

"I mean..." he adds, that infuriating playful glint returning to his dark eyes, "it’d be easier to introduce you as my wife."

Your heart leaps — a wild, reckless thing — even as you struggle to keep your expression neutral. He says it so casually, so teasingly, but the words lodge deep into your chest, impossible to ignore. You have no response — nothing that would make sense without giving yourself away.

Hyunjin doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s just unraveled you. Instead, he leans closer again, his lips dangerously near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "I can't wait," he whispers, voice dipping husky and low, "to take this dress off you tonight."

At the same time, his fingers flirt with the hem of your dress, slipping just barely higher on your thigh. The combination of his voice, his touch, his scent — it overwhelms you. You’re not just flustered now. You’re aching. You squirm subtly in your seat, pulse racing, praying that no one notices the heat blooming across your cheeks.

Hyunjin pulls away just slightly, just enough to catch your dazed, wide-eyed expression — and he smiles that sinful, knowing smile, completely satisfied with himself. And you know, without a doubt, this night is only just getting started.

-

Chris sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window, the streetlights casting fleeting patterns across his face. Tigerlily keeps sneaking glances at him, her brows furrowing in concern. She can read him too easily — she always could. Finally, she breaks the silence.

"Is something bothering you, Dad?" she asks gently.

Chris turns his head toward her and offers a small smile, one he hopes looks convincing. "Just a bit tired," he says, brushing it off.

But Tigerlily doesn’t buy it for a second. She drums her fingers lightly on the steering wheel, hesitating for a moment before speaking again. "You know," she starts, "I used to root for you and Mom to get back together."

Chris’s heart gives a small, involuntary thud in his chest. "I mean," Tigerlily continues with a soft laugh, "Mom didn't get married again after the divorce. And I thought... maybe it meant something. That maybe, somehow, it would happen eventually."

Chris stays quiet, listening, his throat tightening.

"But now..." Tigerlily says, glancing quickly at him before focusing back on the road, "seeing her happy with Hyunjin, I realize... that's what matters most. That she's happy."

There’s a brief, heavy pause before Tigerlily quietly adds. "That’s what I want for you too, Dad. Whether it's music, the upcoming album or tour... I hope that you're happy."

Chris smiles at her words, the ache in his chest both heavy and warm at the same time. Without thinking, he reaches over and pinches her cheek affectionately, making her squeal in protest.

"My little cub is all grown up now, yeah?" He teases, his voice rough with fondness.

Tigerlily bats his hand away with a giggle. "That's because I'm married now!"

Chris groans dramatically, reaching over to tug gently at her ear instead. "Hey, you're my baby girl first," he says stubbornly, "before anything else."

Tigerlily laughs, her eyes shining, and turns the car into their familiar neighborhood.

Chris leans back against the seat, his smile lingering— but his mind and heart are somewhere else entirely. He thinks about her words, about you. About happiness.

You’re happy. That much is undeniable. And maybe... Maybe it's time for him to start searching for his own happiness too — even if it means finally letting go of you.

As the car rolls toward home, Chris stares out into the night, quietly wondering what happiness might look like for him now — and if he’s brave enough to find it.

As Tigerlily pulls into the driveway, Chris unbuckles his seatbelt with a soft sigh before leaning in to give his daughter a hug. "Thanks for dinner, little cub," he says, giving gentle pats on her back. "Drive safe, okay?"

Tigerlily grins and waves him off. "I’m not the one with a busted leg, Dad. You be careful."

Chris chuckles under his breath and pushes the door open, stepping out carefully with the help of his crutch. He throws her a mock salute before shutting the door behind him.

The car backs out and disappears down the street, and Chris makes his way to the front door, the night air cool against his skin.

When he steps inside, the house greets him with silence. It’s empty. Still. For a moment, he just stands there, listening to the absence of footsteps, of laughter, of your soft humming somewhere in the background. You're not here. Not tonight. Not with him.

Chris drags himself further into the living room, the crutch tapping quietly against the floor. His gaze sweeps across the familiar space — your sweater draped on the couch, a mug left drying on the kitchen counter, a pair of your slippers by the door.

This is your home. You have a life here, a good one. Before he came crashing in with his broken leg and his heavier baggage, you were doing just fine. And now, you’re happy. You have Hyunjin.

Chris sinks onto the edge of the couch, his heart heavy in his chest. Maybe it’s selfish to wish for more. Maybe it’s time he finally lets go — not just of you, but of the past he keeps chasing. He stares at his phone for a long moment, before finally unlocking it and scrolling through his contacts. He presses the call button. It rings once. Twice. And then a voice picks up.

"Chris! Hey, what’s up?"

Chris leans back, closing his eyes for a second. Then he says it before he can change his mind. "Let's go with the album," he says. "And the tour too. Let’s do it."

There's a stunned beat on the other end — then an explosion of excitement. "Are you serious? Chris, this is amazing! I’ll get the team moving first thing tomorrow!"

Chris chuckles, the sound low and tired. "Yeah. Thanks."

They say their goodbyes and hang up, and Chris lowers the phone to his lap. He should feel exhilarated. He should feel proud. And in a way, he does. But the hollow ache inside him remains. Because while he's choosing himself this time — choosing music, choosing a future — he knows he’s doing it without you by his side. And somehow, it still feels like a loss.

Chris leans his head back against the couch and lets the silence wrap around him again, heavier now, as he closes his eyes and wonders if moving forward will ever stop hurting quite this much.

Later that night, Chris lies in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. The minutes stretch painfully slow, the clock ticking like a slow, cruel drumbeat. He’s already taken his pain meds, but even the dull haze of them can't quiet his mind.

Thoughts keep churning — memories, regrets, wishes too late to fix. He turns onto his side. Then onto his back. Then his side again.

"God," he mutters into the darkness, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He’s restless, exhausted, wired. A terrible combination. Finally, he throws the blanket off and carefully swings his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold floor under his bare feet. Maybe a hot bath will help.

The bathroom is dimly lit as Chris runs the water, letting the steam curl into the air. When the tub is full, he manages to climb in with some effort, sighing as the heat sinks into his sore muscles.

For a while, he just floats there, letting the warmth untangle his body, if not his mind. It's peaceful. Almost enough to make him forget everything gnawing at his heart. But when his fingers start to prune and the water cools, Chris knows he has to get out. And that's when the real problem begins.

He tries to maneuver himself, moving slowly, cautiously. He gets both feet out of the water first, gingerly planting his good foot on the tile. He braces his hands against the bottom of the tub and pushes himself up with a grunt, heart pounding from the sheer effort.

When he finally gets upright, he lets out a shaky breath of relief. But the moment he tries to put weight on his crutch, he feels it — that brief, sickening lurch of gravity betraying him. The floor comes up fast. Chris barely has time to react before he crashes down, face first, onto the cold, unforgiving tile. The impact rattles through his bones, stealing the air from his lungs. And then, he doesn’t move.

The silence swells in the bathroom, broken only by the faint dripping of water from the tub. Chris blinks up at the blurry ceiling lights, dazed, the world tilting slightly around him. A sharp pain blooms across his shoulder and cheekbone where he hit, but what stings even worse is the bitter taste of helplessness rising in his throat.

For the first time in a long time, Chris feels truly, utterly alone.

-

You and Hyunjin stand just outside the grand entrance, the cool night air brushing your bare shoulders as you wait for the valet to bring his car around. Hyunjin rests a hand on the small of your back and doesn't let go— instead, he pulls you even closer to his side, his hand now resting on your waist.

"Did you have fun tonight?" he asks, his voice low and smooth, as he gently squeezes on the flesh of your waist.

You lift your eyes to meet his and smile, feeling the warmth blooming in your chest. "Mm-hmm," you answer softly, genuinely. "I had fun."

Hyunjin's smile grows — that devastatingly boyish smile that still has the power to make your heart skip a beat — and he leans in, planting a kiss against your temple. "I'm glad," he murmurs against your skin.

Just in time, his car pulls up at the curb. Hyunjin tips the valet generously before taking the keys and rounding the car. You slip into the passenger seat, smoothing down your dress as you buckle in.

Hyunjin settles into the driver’s side, buckling his own belt, but he doesn't start the car right away. Instead, he turns his body slightly toward you, his gaze locking on yours, a mischievous glint dancing in his dark eyes.

"Ready to go home?" he asks.

You nod, your smile lingering, feeling your heart still riding the high of tonight.

But Hyunjin doesn't turn the ignition. He just keeps looking at you, his eyes glinting in the dim streetlight. "Or..." he says, voice dipping into something more playful, more dangerous, "do you want to spend the night at your boyfriend’s place?"

You let out a soft, nervous chuckle, heat crawling up your neck as Hyunjin leans closer, his breath brushing your ear, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Your boyfriend who hasn’t seen you in a week," he continues, his hand brushing over your knee, trailing up slowly, "who misses you so much and still owes you breakfast."

Your heart thuds in your chest. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out— you don't even know what’s holding you back. Until Hyunjin presses a kiss to the side of your neck — light, teasing, enough to make your body lean instinctively toward him and whatever restraint you had crumbles.

"I'd love that," you whisper, breathless. "Yes."

Hyunjin immediately catches your chin between his fingers, holding you still as he kisses you — slowly, sweetly at first, then deepening the kiss until it steals the air from your lungs. You clutch at the front of his jacket, leaning into him, losing yourself for a moment.

When he finally pulls away, he brushes his forehead against yours, both of you breathing a little heavier now. He smirks, eyes twinkling with triumph as he finally turns the key in the ignition and steers the car into the night, taking you with him.

The night outside the car window blurs into a trail of soft lights and city shadows. Hyunjin has one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee — a quiet, grounding presence as his playlist hums low through the speakers.

There's a peacefulness to this ride, one you haven't felt in a long time. Your body is still warm from his kiss, your heart slowly catching up with the decision you've just made. You turn to look at him. He’s humming along to the song, fingers tapping lightly against the leather wheel, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if this night might turn into something you'll remember forever.

But then your phone rings. You glance down and see Tigerlily flashing across the screen.

"Sorry, I need to get this," you murmur to Hyunjin, who nods and lowers the music.

"Hey, sweetheart. What's—" Your voice dies in your throat at the sound of hers.

"Mom," she breathes, panicked. "It’s Dad. He—he fell in the bathroom. I had a bad feeling so I called him and he didn't pick up so I— I came to check and he wasn't— he wasn't conscious when I found him in the bathroom."

The breath punches out of your lungs. "What? Is he—how bad is it?"

"I don’t know yet. They’re doing scans," Tigerlily sniffles before continuing, "Mom, can you come? I'm worried for Dad."

Your blood runs cold. “I’m coming. I’m on my way.”

You hang up before she can respond, and turn sharply to Hyunjin, your face drained of color. “Please turn around. We need to go to the hospital. It’s Chris—he’s—he got hurt. He’s in the hospital.”

Hyunjin’s brows knit immediately, his hand already flicking the turn signal as he makes a swift U-turn. “What happened?”

“He fell,” you say, trying to control your breathing. “Tigerlily said he was unconscious. I don’t know anything else.”

Your heart pounds violently in your chest as you grip the edge of the seat, staring out at the road. The earlier warmth, the flirtation, the soft promise of the night ahead — it’s all been yanked out from under you in an instant.

Hyunjin reaches over and places his hand over yours, giving it a firm squeeze as he speeds up slightly. “We’ll be there soon, okay?”

But your mind is already elsewhere — at the hospital, by Chris’s side, fearing the worst. You don’t even realize you’re crying until Hyunjin gently wipes the tear that slips down your cheek with the pad of his thumb, silent the rest of the way.

-

The first thing Chris registers is the sterile smell — sharp, clean, and clinical. The lights above are blinding, but it’s the dull, throbbing pain on the side of his head that makes everything feel real. He groans softly, shifting on the hospital bed. His whole body feels heavy, sore in places he didn’t know could ache. When he turns his head, he sees Tigerlily slouched in the chair beside him. Her hair is a mess, eyes rimmed red, arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“Hey,” he croaks, voice rough.

Tigerlily’s head snaps up, relief washing over her face as she shoots out of the chair. “You’re awake,” she breathes, coming to his side. “Thank god.”

He tries to sit up, but winces immediately when a sharp twinge stabs the side of his head. His hand flies up, fingers brushing a thick bandage near his temple. “What the…?”

“Don’t touch it.” Tigerlily gently pushes his hand away. “You got five stitches.”

He blinks. “Five—? What happened?”

“You tell me,” she shoots back. “I called you and you didn’t pick up, so I came over. Found you unconscious in the bathroom. You must’ve slipped. You hit your head hard, Dad.”

Chris furrows his brows, piecing it all together. The bath. The way he lost his balance. The floor rushing up to meet him.

“The doctor says it’s not serious,” Tigerlily adds, softer now. “But you might have a mild concussion. You scared the hell out of me.”

He lets out a long breath, guilt crawling up the back of his throat. Just then, he hears hurried footsteps. The curtain around his bed rustles sharply — then flies open.

And it’s you. Your hair is still done up, your makeup only slightly smudged, and that elegant dress — the one that made his heart stop earlier — is completely out of place in the fluorescent ER light. But what strikes him more is your face. It’s flushed, eyes wide, mouth pressed into a thin line. You're terrified.

Chris forces a weak grin. “Tigerlily, is that your mom or is that how a grim reaper dressed these days?”

Without a beat, your purse swings up and lands a sharp, loud thud against his casted leg.

“Ow—! Jesus!” Chris yelps in pain.

“You asshole!” you nearly yell, voice thick with emotion. “I rushed here like a maniac, thinking you were—” You stop yourself, swallowing hard. “And this is what I get?”

Before he can speak again, you storm off in a blur of silk and fury, muttering curses under your breath.

Chris blinks after you while Tigerlily glares at him, then slaps his arm. Hard. “What the hell was that?”

“I—” He groans, rubbing his face. “I was trying to lighten the mood.”

“She was worried, Dad. She didn’t even think twice before telling Hyunjin to turn around and drive her here.”

Chris’s eyes flick toward the curtain you just disappeared through, a sharp pang in his chest. He hadn’t expected that. Not the panic in your voice. Not the look on your face. Not the care. And definitely not the guilt that’s now wrapping around his ribs like a vice.

The cool night air bites at Chris’s skin as Tigerlily wheels him out of the hospital. The hallway’s stark white fades behind him, replaced by the hush of the parking lot and the distant hum of traffic. Every rattle of the wheelchair feels like a jab to his sore bones, but he keeps quiet, watching the rhythmic movement of Tigerlily’s steps as she pushes him toward the car. She clicks the key fob, and the headlights blink as the car unlocks. Chris braces himself as she opens the back door and folds the wheelchair footrests out of the way. But his eyes catch something — just off to the right, two cars away.

You. You’re standing with Hyunjin, still dressed in that impossibly elegant gown, but your arms are folded tight across your chest. Hyunjin stands close, talking to you softly, too quietly for Chris to make out. Then, Hyunjin leans in and pulls you into an embrace, murmuring something into your ear.

Hyunjin’s hand lifts to cup the side of your face — fingers brushing your cheek with the kind of tenderness Chris remembers so vividly. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he kisses you. Just a light press of lips. But enough to make Chris look away.

Tigerlily comes around to help him out of the chair. “Okay,” she says gently, “take it slow.”

Chris nods, his jaw clenched as he grips the door and tries to rise. Pain blooms up his ribs and through his shoulders, and he lets out a sharp hiss.

“Careful—” Tigerlily urges, holding onto his arm. “Let me help.”

He grits his teeth and lets her guide him. He lowers himself into the seat with a wince, every muscle in his body protesting. His casted leg scrapes along the edge of the door before he lifts it inside and exhales hard, settling back against the leather.

“All good?” she asks.

He manages a thumbs-up. That’s all he can give.

Tigerlily nods, satisfied, and shuts the door gently. As she walks to the driver’s side, Chris catches one more glance of you — now walking toward the passenger side of the car, your face unreadable. You open the door and slide in silently. No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just silence. You don’t look back at Hyunjin, but Chris sees him raise a hand in a small wave. Tigerlily waves back politely before pulling out of the parking spot and steering the car out of the lot.

The silence inside the car is thick. Unspoken words hang in the space between you. Chris can feel it like pressure on his chest — or maybe that’s just the pain meds fading. He looks at the back of your head, at your delicate profile in the reflection of the window, at the way you seem lost in thought. You were supposed to be with him. You were with him. But not like that. Not anymore.

And Chris... he feels it now, in the space between your seat and his. You’re drifting. Further and further away, and he doesn't know how to reach you anymore.

-

The car rolls up to the driveway with a soft crunch of gravel under the tires. Before it even fully stops, the door on the passenger side opens and you’re out — storming up the walkway, heels clicking against the pavement, shoulders tense, not once looking back.

Chris watches you disappear into the house. The door shuts behind you with a firmness that echoes louder than the slam it could’ve been. He slumps in the seat, defeated.

Tigerlily shifts the car into park and glances over at him. “You’re in huge trouble, Dad,” she says matter-of-factly, one eyebrow raised as she unbuckles her seatbelt.

“I know,” Chris mutters, exhaling a sigh through his nose. “I’m very aware.”

She rounds the car to help him out. It’s clumsy and slow, and every movement tugs at his stitched temple and sore limbs. But with Tigerlily’s support, he manages to get inside. She doesn’t say anything when she opens the door and sees the house lights dimmed, a sign that you’ve retreated to your room — or maybe just didn’t want to wait around for him. Chris swallows hard and looks away.

“I left your meds on the kitchen counter,” Tigerlily says gently as she helps him settle into the nearest armchair. “Take them before you do anything else.”

“Thanks, cub,” Chris murmurs, trying for humor but barely managing a smile.

She crouches slightly to unstrap the velcro on his boot cast, making sure it’s not pinching his skin. When she finishes, she stands and brushes her hands off on her jeans. “I'd better go,” she says. “Mom’s mad. I know better than to linger when she’s mad.”

Chris chuckles quietly. “Smart kid.”

Tigerlily bends to hug him. “For the love of God, stop doing anything reckless, okay?”

“No promises,” he jokes softly.

But before she pulls away, her voice turns serious. “And apologize to Mom, Dad. Sincerely. She came immediately when I told her you got hurt. That means she still cares. Don’t brush that off with jokes.”

Chris blinks at her, stunned by her clarity — and her calm. “Wait a minute,” he says, smirking as he hugs her again. “Did my daughter just school me on how to be a decent adult?”

“I’m someone’s wife now,” she quips with a smug smile.

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

They laugh, just a little, and it’s the first real laugh Chris has had all day. “Drive safe, cub,” he says as she heads for the door.

“You too,” she calls back. “And be brave. You faced a sold-out stadium with a broken mic once. You sure can deliver a sincere apologize to Mom.”

Chris dramatically rolls his eyes. “Honestly, I'd rather face a stadium full of upset fans than facing your angry mom.”

Tigerlily quietly chuckles and takes her car keys with him toward the door, “Night, Dad!”

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving Chris in the quiet hum of the house and now, the hardest part waits for him just up the stairs— behind a closed door, likely locked, where you are. And where he’ll have to knock with more than just his knuckles.

But first, Chris needs to take his meds first. He swallows down the last of the bitter pills and tips back the glass of water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he sets it down in the sink. Then he hears footsteps.

He turns on his good foot—and there you are, coming down the stairs. Gone is the elegant dress from earlier. You’re in soft cotton now, barefoot, your hair down and your make-up is smudged. But your eyes—they burn.

Chris barely has time to register the look on your face before you storm toward him. "Wait—" he starts, but you slam your hands against his chest, hard, shoving him back. His back thuds against the fridge with a dull sound, the cool metal grounding him as he winces, stunned.

“You fucking asshole,” you snap. Your hands fist in his shirt now, slapping, pushing, anything to make him feel it. “You stupid, reckless, thoughtless asshole.”

Your voice breaks on the last word and Chris opens his mouth to speak, but you hit him again—this time it’s not strength, it’s desperation, devastation. The tears are in your eyes already, but you fight them.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night—I wasn’t thinking—I thought joking would help but—”

“No!” you yell, cutting him off. “You never think, Chris. You keep doing this—acting like you’re invincible, like it doesn’t matter what happens to you—but it does. It does!”

You’re trembling now, your voice cracking and raw. “For a second I thought you—” But you can’t even say it. The words stick in your throat like glass and then you break.

You crumble against his chest, sobs shattering the air around you as you bury your face in his shirt. Chris catches you instinctively, wrapping his arms around your shaking body. He holds you tight, one hand on the back of your head, the other splayed across your back like he could shield you from every bad thought. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, over and over, his lips pressed to your hair. “I’m so, so sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t—”

But your tears just keep coming, hot and heavy against his chest. And the more you cry, the more it sinks in. The fear in your voice, the panic in your eyes. You thought you might lose him. You still care that much.

Chris closes his eyes, guilt swelling like a tide, drowning whatever strength he has left. And in that moment, he realizes: no matter how much he's tried to convince himself he could move on, he’s still tethered to you—and you, to him. And tonight, that tether nearly snapped.

He lifts your head slowly, carefully, his thumbs brushing away the tears clinging to your lashes. Your eyes meet his, red-rimmed and glassy, and the sight of you like this—so hurt, so open—breaks something tender in his chest.

He sees it there, in your gaze. The pain. The love. The fear of almost losing him. His hands tremble slightly as he cups your face, holding you like you’re something fragile and precious—because you are. His fingers curve against your jaw, his thumbs resting gently on your cheeks. He leans in. Not rushed. Not impulsive. And then he kisses you. Softly. Tenderly.

A kiss not filled with desire or heat—but with truth. With apology. With years of unspoken feelings stitched between the space of your mouths. His lips move against yours like a confession, slow and steady, like he’s trying to say I’m sorry, and I miss you, and I still love you all at once.

And you kiss him back. You lean in with a softness that aches, your hands finding his shoulders. There’s a quiet eagerness in the way your lips move against his, a remembered rhythm, a fire long buried but never truly gone. And it stirs back to life in both of you—familiar, electric, alive.

The kiss deepens for only a moment, and when you part, your foreheads rest against each other’s. Your breaths are shaky, mingling in the quiet between you. Chris keeps his eyes closed, afraid that if he opens them, this will all disappear. But you’re still there, warm in his arms and for the first time in a long while, he feels whole.

Until all of a sudden, you pull away like the kiss burned you. One step back. Then another. He sees it—your eyes are downcast, lashes trembling, and your shoulders heaving with a quiet breath. And then you shake your head, slow and mournful, like you’re trying to shake him off you. When you lift your gaze to meet his, it’s not cold. It’s not angry. It’s worse. It’s sad. Wrecked. Resigned.

“This is a mistake,” you whisper.

Chris’s breath catches in his throat. “No,” he says, too fast. Too desperate. He takes a step toward you. “No, it’s not. That kiss—” He gestures vaguely between you. “That kiss meant something. It made everything clear. We’re still in love with each other—how could you not feel that?”

You flinch. But still, you say it again. “It’s a mistake.”

Something in him snaps. “Which one?” His voice rises, sharp with frustration. “The kiss? Me? Us?” He spreads his arms wide, like he’s begging you to choose which part of him you’re throwing away. “Tell me, because I need to know what exactly you think was wrong when everything about this—about us—feels right.”

Tears gather in your eyes again. Fresh. Shining. But they fall quickly this time, no resistance. You don’t wipe them away yet. You let them fall as you speak, voice breaking on every other word. “Waiting for you,” you croak. “That’s the mistake.”

Chris freezes. His mouth parts like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. Not a breath. Not a word.

You go on. And each word lands like a stone hurled at his chest. “We divorced because we weren’t ready. We said we’d wait—remember? We said we’d find our way back when we were ready.” You sniff, harshly. “I believed you. I waited for you. For years, Chris.”

He blinks at you, stunned. His arms drop slowly to his sides, helpless.

“I kept waiting. Through every silence. Every headline. Every award show. Every wedding photo.” The last part comes out in a gasp, like it was torn out of your lungs. You swipe at your cheeks with the back of your hands, rough and angry at yourself for still crying over this. “But you went on. You married someone else. And I... I foolishly still waited.”

He tries to speak, but his lips won’t move. His throat is dry.

“And now—now—that I have someone who wants me, someone who sees me and chooses me every single day without needing to figure himself out first, you come back.” You look at him like he’s a wound. “You want me again because someone else does. That’s not love, Chris. That’s not fair.”

You’re sobbing now, shoulders shaking, chest caving in—but you keep going, even as your voice frays apart. “I’m not going to let you break my heart all over again. I'm done waiting.”

And just like that, the room drowns in silence. The kind that feels loud. Crushing.

Chris doesn’t move. He can’t. Guilt has crashed over him like bricks—each word you said another weight on his chest, pressing down until it’s hard to breathe.

You calm, bit by bit, enough to speak through the jagged remnants of your tears. “Please, just leave.” you say. It’s soft. It’s tired. “Just do whatever it is you always do, Chris. Run. Go back on tour. Move on with someone else.”

You lift your chin, eyes still red and raw but burning with the last ember of strength you have.

And he knows—this time, if he walks away, he might not be able to come back but Chris doesn’t move. Instead, he watches you leave.

Your steps are slow at first—shaky, like your legs might give out—but you keep going. One hand trails along the wall for balance, the other wiping the tears from your face with the kind of frustration that only comes from crying over someone who keeps letting you down. You don’t look back and that’s what cuts the deepest.

The soft thud of your steps on the stairs is the only sound in the room now. Every step you take feels like a door closing. A version of his life slipping further out of reach. His hands hang useless at his sides. His jaw clenches. He wants to say something. Call out your name. Apologize. Plead. Run to you. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Because the truth is already in the room with him. Echoing louder than your sobs. He lost you. Not just now, not just tonight. A long time ago. Slowly, over years of silence and selfishness and choices he thought he could undo. But this… this was the last chance. The final thread. And he let it unravel in his hands. You disappear at the top of the stairs, and he hears the soft click of a door closing. That’s it.

Chris stands in the middle of the living room with the taste of your kiss still on his lips and the weight of your words wrapped around his throat like a noose. Every breath feels like a punishment.

And all he can do now is stand there and live with it. Live with losing the only person he ever truly wanted to come back to.

-

The morning sun glints off the windshield, warm on his face, but he barely feels it. Chris grips the edge of the open car door, fingers curling tighter than necessary around the metal. His cast feels heavier than usual today, like the weight of everything he's about to leave behind has settled in his bones.

Tigerlily hovers near his side, one hand on his back to steady him, the other reaching to help guide his leg in. She’s saying something—probably asking if he’s okay—but her voice sounds muffled, like he’s underwater. He nods anyway.

Then he turns his head, seeing you standing on the porch. Still. Silent. Watching him with that unreadable expression you've mastered so well over the years and for a second, Chris forgets how to breathe.

There’s so much he wants to say. Thank you. I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you. But none of it would make a difference now so he gives you a smile—a small, quiet thing. The kind of smile people wear when they’ve already lost, but still want to leave something behind. Something gentle. Something true.

Chris ducks into the car. The door closes with a click that feels too loud. Final. Julian shifts the car into gear. Tigerlily climbs in beside him. The engine hums. The tires roll forward.

Chris doesn’t look back. He tells himself he can’t—his neck hurts, the angle’s bad, whatever excuse comes first—but the truth is, he doesn’t trust himself not to break again. Not after that night. Not after the way you said please just leave like it was the hardest thing you’d ever had to say.

As the house disappears in the rearview mirror, Chris stares ahead, jaw clenched. The road stretches out before him, long and winding. There’s music waiting at the end of it. Stages. Cities. Crowds. Applause. But it all feels distant because the person he wants to share it with is standing behind him, watching him go.

As the car speeds up, Chris closes his eyes, and swallows the ache building in his throat. He’s leaving this place behind. Leaving you behind. But it doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like loss.

-

✨ The final chapter of Evermore is available on my Patreon ✨

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[sugardollcurse]

hi!! how are you? hope you're having a good week!

i love your fics so much i felt need to make a request🤍 (my first one ever hahaha) of course take your time and do it when you can. i'm sorry if it's confusing, this is my first time doing this:

it would basically be Paul being completely smitten with reader and not being able to keep his hands off her (she loves it of course, they're both drunk in love). he is constantly telling everyone how in love he is. the thing is reader isn't used to that behavior because her exes have always played it cool, avoiding commitment and keeping the relationship secret, so maybe she's confused?

anyway, thanks so much for your writing, you really have talent! hope you can see this! 🥰

-🐝

𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒊𝒕 | paul mccartney x fem!reader

𐙚 summary ; paul doesn’t know how to love you quietly, and frankly, he doesn’t want to. he’s falling hard and everyone knows it. the only problem? you’ve never been loved like this before.

𐙚 note ; ...what a delectable little request you’ve brought to my doorstep… also, i’m having a lovely week! i hope you are as well ♡

You first noticed it during lunch.

You’d only been together a few weeks, nothing serious yet... not officially, not out loud. But there you were, tucked in the booth beside Paul at a café near the studio, and he was sat so close you could feel his smile before you saw it.

“Tell them what you said last night,” he said, nudging you with his knee. “Y’know, that bit about the red coat. I thought it was dead clever.”

You blinked. “It wasn’t anything, just-”

“It was though.” He leaned in closer, grinning. “Don’t be modest now. She’s got a way with words, this one. Proper poetic.”

George raised an eyebrow. “She sayin’ poetry about your coat, Paul, or are you just tryin’ to flatter her into writin’ your next song?”

Paul looked offended. “Oi. I am flattered by her, thank you very much.”

Ringo snorted into his tea. John gave you a smirk like he was watching a sitcom unfold. But Paul just took your hand under the table and laced his fingers through yours like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

You weren’t used to that.

You’d had boyfriends before. The kind who’d change the subject when someone asked who you were. The kind who’d say cool it if you reached for their hand in public. Who never once introduced you as anything but a friend.

Paul had already called you my girl five times this week, and it was only Wednesday.

━━

The clinginess wasn’t needy. It was… tethering.

Whenever he walked into a room, his first instinct was to find you. His second was to put his hand somewhere on you. Your shoulder, your back, your thigh. Just to know you were there. Just to let you know he was.

One night, you were all at George and Pattie's place for drinks. You’d gone off to help in the kitchen, and when you came back, Paul was halfway through telling a story.

“-and she just walks right up to the bloke, says, ‘Is that your idea of subtle?’ And he froze. I swear, I’ve never seen someone go that red in my life.”

You paused in the doorway. “You’re telling stories about me?”

Paul lit up the moment he saw you. “Of course I am.”

You shook your head, but he was already reaching for you, patting his lap. “C’mere.”

“I can sit on the couch like a normal person.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I like you here.”

You sat, only because his eyes were all soft and hopeful like that, and he wrapped his arms around your waist like a child clinging to a stuffed animal.

John made a face. "You're so in love, it's disgusting."

Paul just kissed your shoulder without breaking eye contact. “You’d be lucky to feel it, mate.”

Your breath hitched at that.

You weren’t used to that kind of love, spoken out loud, worn on sleeves, pressed into skin like it belonged there.

━━

When the two of you were alone, it was worse.

Well, better. But also worse.

Paul didn’t know how to not touch you. He’d wander up behind you while you were brushing your teeth and drape himself over your back like a second skin. He’d lie in bed staring at you like you were made of stars. He kissed your forehead like it was a compulsion.

One morning, you stirred awake to find him already looking at you.

“What?” you whispered, voice still rough from sleep.

He smiled, sleepy-eyed and soft. “M’sorry, just… you’re dead lovely like this.”

You blinked at him. “Like what?”

“All sleepy. S’quiet moment, innit?” He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Makes me wanna marry you.”

You stared.

He laughed immediately. “Sorry, too much? I’m always sayin’ too much, I know-”

“No,” you said, too fast. “It’s not that.”

He frowned gently. “Then what?”

You hesitated.

Then: “You… say things like that so easily. Like it’s nothing.”

He blinked. “It’s not nothin’. I mean it.”

“Yeah, but…” You sat up, pulling the blanket with you. “Most people don’t.”

Paul pushed himself up beside you, brows furrowed. “You talkin’ about them old blokes again?”

You bit your lip.

He tilted his head. “They didn’t say nice things to you, then?”

“They didn’t say anything. Not in public. Not around friends. They’d act like we weren’t even together.”

Paul’s eyes dimmed a little.

“Wouldn’t hold your hand?” he asked, incredulous.

You shook your head.

Paul scoffed. “No offence, love, but they sound like right pillocks.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “I just… I don’t know what to do with someone like you.”

He softened immediately, scooting closer, hands resting gently on your thighs. “Then don’t do anything. Just let me.”

You blinked.

Paul smiled, slow and certain. “Let me love you loud.”

You felt something warm unfurl in your chest. Something terrifying, but good.

“And if I can’t match that yet?”

He reached for your hand. “Then I’ll be the loud one till you can. I’ll wait. I’ve got nothin’ but time for you, love.”

You stared at him, overwhelmed.

He kissed your knuckles, featherlight. “Alright?”

You nodded, heart thundering.

He tugged you gently back toward the pillows, curling himself around you.

“Y’don’t have to do owt but stay, alright? That’s it. That’s the gig.”

You pressed your face to his chest. “Okay.”

He grinned against your hair.

“And I’m not just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re fit.”

“Paul.”

“Or ‘cause your legs look incredible in my shirt-”

“Paul.”

He laughed, full-bellied and happy. “What? Just bein’ honest!”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

[hanniebaeee]

Hold My Hand - Bonus

Han Jisung x fem!reader

Warnings: Nothing

Genre: Established relationship, fluff

Summary: You've been dating Jisung for three months now. And you finally take Jisung and Minho out to a movie, to help them get acquainted. But they're petty as hell.

Hold My Hand

So this may have been one of your weaker (weakest) ideas yet. Your intentions were good - you wanted your best friend to meet your boyfriend (officially). And here you were. 

Sandwiched between Jisung and Minho in the backmost row at the movie theater, a bucket of popcorn balanced on your lap, already regretting the whole thing. Minho has been on your back about you gatekeeping Jisung, your boyfriend of three months. And Jisung has been saying no to your efforts of arranging a dinner with Minho. 

Dinner would never happen, you understood that much. So you went on to booking tickets for something more…low stakes - something that'll help Minho and Jisung coexist without throwing barbs at each other.

But the second you sat down, the passive-aggressive vibes started flying, and now you were playing referee to their whispered warfare.

Jisung, on your left, was slouched in his seat, his hoodie pulled up, glasses reflecting the screen. He was clutching a little fidget toy in his hand (“cos your ex gives me anxiety!”).

Minho, on your right, was impeccably dressed even for a casual movie night, looking perfect as usual. He was leaning back, one arm draped over the empty seat beside him, smirking like he knew his existence was enough to rile Jisung up. 

It started innocently enough. Jisung reached for the popcorn, his hand brushing yours, and he gave you a shy, goofy grin.

Minho’s smirk twitched. He grabs a handful of popcorn too, deliberately crunching it louder than necessary, and leaned across you to stage-whisper, “Hope you’re not planning to whisper sweet nothings the whole movie, Han. Some of us actually want to watch.”

Jisung’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He straightened, turning to glare past you at Minho. 

“Oh, sorry, Lee, didn’t realize you were the movie police.” he bit out, and you sighed, sinking lower in your seat, popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth.

“Guys,” you muttered, “it’s literally the trailers. Chill.”

They ignored you. Obviously. Minho leaned closer, his voice a fierce whisper, dripping with mock politeness.

“Just saying, if you’re gonna be all lovey-dovey, maybe don’t do it where I have to witness it. I’m trying to enjoy my popcorn, not gag on your PDA.” he said. 

Jisung scoffed and whisper-yelled, “PDA? You’re one to talk! You were practically glued to her for weeks, acting like you owned her. Maybe you should take a break from being a clingy ex!”

“Ex?” Minho hissed, leaning over you now, his elbow knocking the popcorn bucket. A few kernels spilled onto your lap, and you rolled your eyes, brushing them off. “We were never together, genius. Learn the difference between an arrangement and a relationship before you start throwing shade.”

“Oh, real mature,” Jisung shots back, pointing a finger across you. “You’re just mad because she picked me  over your fancy suits and trust fund!”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Can you both shut the fuck up? I’m trying to watch the stupid car commercial.” you snapped, shoving the popcorn bucket into Jisung’s chest. “Behave, or I’m sitting somewhere else.”

They both mumbled half-hearted apologies, sinking back into their seats, but the tension was still crackling. For a blissful five minutes, all eyes were on the movie. They were both quiet, and you relaxed, thinking maybe you’ve dodged the worst of it.

Then Jisung, ever the fidgeter, starts tapping the toy against his knee, the faint click-click barely audible. Minho’s head snapped toward him, his whisper sharp.

“Do you mind? My ears are bleeding here.”

Jisung froze, then deliberately clicked the toy one more time, smirking.

“Sorry, your highness. Didn’t realize your delicate ears couldn’t handle a little noise. Maybe you should’ve brought your noise-canceling headphones.” he said and Minho’s eyes flashed. 

He leaned across you again as he said, “Keep clicking that thing, Han, and I’ll shove it somewhere you won’t like.”

“Try it,” Jisung hissed, leaning in too, their faces inches apart over your lap. “I’d love to see you explain to Y/N why you’re starting a fight over a fidget toy she gave me. Bet you’re jealous, huh?”

You snorted, unable to help it, and both of them turned to you, looking betrayed.

“What?” you said, holding up your hands. “You’re both being ridiculous. It’s a fidget toy, not the Holy Grail. And Minho, you’re not helping with the death threats.”

Minho huffed, crossing his arms and slumping back. “He started it.”

“Did not!” Jisung whisper-yelled, and you clamped a hand over his mouth, glaring at him.

“Enough,” you said, your voice low but firm. “One more word, and I’m dumping this popcorn on both of you and leaving.”

They both shut up, shooting each other side-eyes but staying silent. You settled back, relieved, and for the rest of the movie, they manage to keep their bickering to exaggerated sighs and pointedly grabbing popcorn at the same time, their hands brushing in the bucket like it’s a duel.

You watched this dramatic showdown silently, munching popcorn and trying to focus on the screen, but you couldn’t deny the fact that it was kind of funny - your chaotic boyfriend and your smug best friend, fighting over nothing with no real bite.

When the credits rolled, Jisung stretched, his arm accidentally draping over your shoulders, and Minho rolled his eyes so hard you’re surprised they didn't fall out.

“Real subtle, Han,” Minho muttered, standing and brushing off his jeans.

“Eat your heart out, Lee,” Jisung shot back, pulling you closer with a grin.

You sighed, standing and grabbing the empty popcorn bucket. 

“You two are exhausting,” you said, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Next time, I’m bringing earplugs.”

As you left the theater, Jisung’s hand in yours and Minho walking beside you, still tossing barbs at each other, you knew this is your life now. Caught between these two idiots, refereeing their petty battles, and somehow loving every second of it.

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes

[petrifleur]

pairing: charlotte katakuri x reader

contains: established relationship, mentions of an arranged marriage, afab reader, bratty reader, brat tamer (or maybe enabler? i don't know) katakuri, slight hurt + comfort (nothing too serious i prommy), size difference, d/s undertones, impact play, subspace (?), fingering, squirting, implied aftercare; word count: 3.3k

author's note: man. . . i didn't plan for this to get this long as this was born only out of a daydream i had at work sigh. . . thank you to @sincerelyhunnybee and risu for beta-ing and happy birthday to my lovely wife @viboraneno <3 i hope you enjoy!!

please read my rules before interacting! minors, ageless / blank blogs will be blocked!

katakuri felt the vein on his forehead tick in time with his thrumming heart, he was stressed. was it from his responsibilities? absolutely. they were relentless and inescapable.

but another thing that was testing his seemingly endless patience was you, his spouse. ever since your wedding last year, you had been on his neck. constantly pestering him about little things, walking around the island without him or any guards present, sitting on his lap during tea parties, just being in his face constantly.

he could admit to himself he was being distant and a little cold with you, but you’d have to understand – he was the protector of his family, constantly having to patrol and be hyperaware of everything happening in his mother’s territory. katakuri was constantly alert, not really ever getting a chance to rest and recharge. maybe he was letting it out on you, just a tiny bit. but he wasn't talking much to you either, so you couldn't know what's going on his head. but you knew he needed an outlet.

you had become needy over the last year of your arranged marriage and katakuri could tell. you were becoming increasingly touchy with him, rubbing against him in meetings with his crew, grinding against him while sitting on his lap, even going so far as to masturbate way too loudly when you knew he was near. but instead of giving you the attention you wished for, he became even more cold towards you.

determined to make him snap, you had a very risky idea.

could it backfire? possibly. were you scared? shitless. but you figured it was worth a try.

so you put on your tiniest shorts and tightest shirt and just started wandering around the chateau, chatting up the guards and maids who quickly averted their gaze as to not garner katakuri’s wrath onto themselves. they would suddenly find anything else to do, whispering amongst themselves about how unbecoming this behavior was for you.

you continued your antics until you felt your husband’s menacing presence behind you, his large hand gripping your arm almost bruisingly.

“what do you think you're doing?” he snapped, eyebrows furrowed and grip getting tighter. you turned in his hold with a smile, feeling your heart jump to your throat in anxiety.

“i’m just taking a walk around, darling.”

the way you acted so nonchalantly had his pulse quicken in anger. he pulled you along to your chambers, ignoring the way you could barely follow his stride. he forcefully opened the door, pushing you inside before locking the door and turning to you with a scowl.

“is this really necessary? for you to walk around like this?” he motioned to your outfit, “for everyone to see?”

you folded your hands in front of you, tilting your head like a puppy. “what do you mean? is this too much?”

you saw katakuri’s nostrils flare as he took a deep breath, closing his eyes before looking back at you but not quite meeting your eyes.

“yes,” he sighed, pinching his nose bridge in frustration, “yes, it is. people are talking.”

“is that so? i don't really care about that.”

katakuri looked at your seemingly innocent smile which didn't meet your eyes. he knew you didn't care. but he knew that you knew that he cared.

he also understood why you were doing it. he knew you wanted his attention. and he so desperately wanted to give in, give you all of his devotion but somehow was too proud to actually do it.

he walked over to the bed, sitting down and ignoring the way it creaked under his weight. he patted the bedding beside him, quietly inviting you to sit beside him. you obeyed, sitting down with an arm’s length between you, as always. he sighed, feeling his heart tighten with how far away you seemed. and he was the only one to blame.

“please just cover yourself next time you want to take a walk. even if it's only a robe. i don't want people getting the wrong idea,” he murmured, looking into the distance but not really focusing on anything in particular before returning his attention to you.

“and what idea would that be?” you bit back, crossing your arms and gleefully noticing the way his gaze lingered a little too long on your chest. katakuri quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat. he turned to you, leaning a little closer.

“you know how easily rumors spread. people are talking. it's not only affecting your image, i know you don't care about that,” he murmured, carefully sliding his hand along your back. you could feel the heaviness and the slight divot of the wedding band on his ring finger and arched into his touch with a relieved sigh. “more importantly, it's affecting mine. and how i’m not caring about my spouse enough. now, that's not true, is it?”

you closed your eyes in bliss, happy that your husband was finally giving you even just a fraction of what you wanted.

“i don't know, katakuri,” you mumbled, leaning towards him so that you could feel the heat radiating from him, “is it not true? you have been buried in work constantly, not really speaking to me or even spending more than a minute in the same room with me. you don't seem to care about me.”

he was quickly getting up to calm himself from the stabbing pain in his heart. but before he could even process what he did, you pulled him back onto the bed with all the force you could muster. catching the both of you by surprise and before you could fully register what happened, you quickly climbed onto his lap.

you sat on his thigh and his eyes almost rolled back when he felt the heat from your core through his pants. your brows were furrowed, fake angry while a smirk lifted the corners of your mouth. you put your hands on his shoulders while his found purchase on your hips. even now, he was too shy (maybe even ashamed) to look at you. his cheeks were flushed a petal pink, the tips of his ears matching.

“do you really think i don't care? do you really think that low of me?” he mumbled, deep voice reduced to almost a whisper. you could feel your heart squeeze, knowing you pressed against a sore spot.

heat rushed to your cheeks as his hands hesitantly slid further back and he started squeezing and groping your ass. “w-well,” you muttered, “you have been very distant lately and you keep rejecting my advances. nothing i’ve tried before so i thought– ”

“so you thought you’d parade yourself like this and show yourself off to everyone?” he quietly snarled, although with no real malice. quite the contrary, he was wounded. he knew he was more quiet and short with you and he was painfully aware of the hurt your gazes held when he would reject your touches and offers to relieve his stress. truthfully, he had been constantly hard since he first saw you all dolled up on your wedding day. in his eyes, you seemingly got more and more beautiful each day and the way you were throwing yourself at him made it increasingly harder for him to control himself.

your voice grew in volume, frustration simmering under the surface. “well, i have to act like this so my husband will finally touch me, let alone look at me. it's not my fault you can't even look at me when i am parading myself around!”

you felt the pressure of incoming tears behind your eyes and willed yourself into calming down with a deep breath. “i know you're all riled up, katakuri. i know you have been since the day we married. i have been begging for your attention and affection every day since. and yet, you can't even look me, your wedded spouse, in the face because you're acting like a fucking virgin!”

he whipped his head up, his red eyes were boring into you and he was really looking at you now. he clearly wasn't expecting for you to explode like that on him.

“i know this is only a marriage for means but i still have needs. and you are my husband, you are supposed to fulfill them. i want you to, i am begging you to. you haven't even touched me or looked at me much during our honeymoon. not ever, not even when i’ve been offering myself to you like a cheap prostitute.”

katakuri, despite acting cold all the time, was somehow incredibly attuned to your emotions. there was never even a minute where he would question your feelings for him. he was the opposite, closed off and guarded, never giving you more than a split second of a glimpse into his inner world.

you were like an open book to him, always have been but never more so than now. he could see the poorly concealed hurt in your eyes, voice dripping in fake contempt. he knew your obnoxious behavior and brattiness were another way to beg for his attention, his touch, his love. he couldn't speak, couldn't move, he was witless. nevertheless, you continued, pouring your heart out.

“do you not find me attractive? do you not want to touch me?” your voice went quiet and your husband could feel you trembling in his hold. “is there someone else that's receiving what i so desperately want?”

suddenly, your world turned. it all happened too fast.

in a split second, you were folded over his thigh, your shorts being nearly ripped off with how much force katakuri pulled them down, along with your underwear. you let out a surprised noise from the back of your throat when his hand gently met your buttocks.

“is this what you wanted? hm?” he mumbled, low timbre barely reaching your ringing ears. his gloved hands gently slid along the backs of your legs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. you felt the heat prickling, simmering underneath the surface. you let out an incomprehensible whine, trying to hide your face. you felt a hand gather your hair and pull, the sting on your scalp making you gasp involuntarily.

“c’mon, darling. use your words. is this what you dreamed would happen when you paraded yourself around the chateau like that?” he spoke quietly. “you could've just told me what you want. we are married.”

your voice strained and shook, you didn't know whether it was from embarrassment, hurt, or arousal. “i tried showing you, my dear husband. but it’s like interacting with a wall. and i’m not talking about your physique.”

smack!

a sharp sting. heat soon followed, blossoming throughout your left buttock. when your brain finally caught up, a gasped “thank you” left your lips, a grin stretching over your face right after. you were finally getting what you wanted, what you had gotten on his last nerve for.

another slap followed soon. and another, and another. the glove padded his hand just slightly but with how much force he was spanking you with, it didn't matter whether his giant hands were covered or not.

“how dare you talk about yourself like that? do i not find you attractive?” he scoffed, disbelief coating his words. hurt was evident in the way he spoke, knowing that his behavior had pushed you to that point and he hated himself for it.

he continued his assault on your ass, watching in awe as your cunt started dripping, a pearl of arousal sliding down to your clit before dropping onto his pants.

“do you know how hard it is to restrain myself around you?” he snarled, adding five more slaps to the tally. you felt your whole body heat up, releasing all of the pent up tension and frustration you’ve accumulated ever since the wedding. his words made you feel warm, even if his hands were cruelly slapping your buttocks and pulling your hair.

“how much i have to control myself, especially when you're so sweetly offering yourself to me? it’s true that this is a marriage for means but that doesn't mean i am not incredibly aroused by you.” his voice was strained and you didn't have to look to know that his scarf hung loose around his neck now, the ends of it tickling your back. “and only you.”

you knew that katakuri’s face was contorted into a pained scowl, hurt by your words and his own incompetence as a husband. his hands let go of you for just a moment, their warmth leaving your backside and scalp as he slid off his gloves. they returned to gently rub and knead your ass, admiring the warmth and marks he had left already. you whimpered at his gentleness, such a stark contrast to how harsh he was before. he spread your cheeks to watch your cunt drool and clench around nothing at all. he felt his own cock throb heavily, pearls of his own arousal slowly dampening his underwear.

“i know what you want and i so desperately want to give it to you but i know you can't take me. no one can,” his voice was quiet again and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss onto the crown of your head. your brain started to feel fuzzy but you reveled in the affection. you didn't care how he showed it, you were just happy to finally receive it.

his hands lifted again, preparing for another onslaught of spanks onto your ass. his eyes watched as your cheeks rippled with every smack, how your cunt clenched when his hand came down. you gripped onto his leg, lips parted and slicked with drool as moan after moan left them. “m-more,” you managed to gasp out, “please, please, give me more!”

katakuri grunted, feeling his hands starting to sting as well. he continued, saving your desperate pleas and whimpers in the back of his mind for when he was away from you. your skin was starting to split in some places and so he moved onto your lower ass cheeks and upper thighs. knowing your skin was much more sensitive there, he let up on the pressure but it was still enough to have you squirm and cry out for him.

he quickly stopped yet again and you whined at the loss of skin to skin contact before all the air left your lungs abruptly. one of his thick fingers was filling your dripping pussy to the knuckle so suddenly that you could only squirm to try and accommodate the stretch.

“see, my darling spouse? only one finger and you can't take it,” he teased, the pad of his digit slowly pressing against that spongy spot that made you see stars. “how are you ever gonna take my cock, give me an heir, hm?”

he leaned down to grip your face with his other hand, pulling you into a mean arch and squishing your cheeks slightly. “i would break you,” he mused, his mouth stretching into an eerie grin that made your cunt clench around his finger. his pride roared in his chest as he felt your warmth and wetness, mentally lashing himself for waiting this long.

you gasped for air, holding onto his wrist. “please, please! break me, fuck me, p-please,” you sobbed, tears starting to roll down your cheeks. “i don't care, i just wanna please you!”

he chuckled, letting you fall back down as he slowly added another finger. you screamed, sobbed, squirmed to try and get away from the borderline painful stretch that only two of his fingers were giving to you. “oh, i’m not gonna fuck you, not tonight. but you will be punished,” he scowled, his other hand rising to come back down onto your ass for a final crescendo.

your whole body was starting to buzz, your brain going static, you weren't even fully listening to your husband. there were noises coming out of you, but you didn't know if you were coherent at all (you weren't). the pain coming from your ass, paired with the stretch of katakuri’s fingers in your pussy and the relief that you were finally getting what you so desperately wished for had you barreling towards the edge. it only took one more curl of his fingers to release the knot in your core and you screamed as you cunt gushed around his fingers, soaking his legs in the process.

he watched in awe as you continued to cum, amazed by how much time it took for you to stop gushing and screaming, the ecstasy prolonged by his fingers inside you still. he was so fascinated by how beautiful you looked, he wasn't even aware he was holding his breath until his head started to spin.

he was blushing furiously, chiding himself. if only he had understood how much you had truly wanted and waiting for him, he would've made you come undone much, much sooner.

he slowed his ministrations, gently rubbing your wounded buttocks as you twitched in his lap, coming down from your high. he watched as your breathing steadied and your head turned to look at your husband with unfocused eyes.

“thank you,” you rasped, voice hoarse and weak. katakuri gently lifted you onto his lap and wrapped his arms around you to hold you close. “no, i have to thank you,” he whispered.

his large hands rubbed your back and your breathing started to slow, along with his. your damp skin stuck to his as he started peppering soft kisses along your neck and shoulders, feeling his heart buzz when you giggled in bliss.

“next time you need me, please just talk to me. i know i have been neglecting you and been cold towards you. and i apologize,” he mumbled against your skin, feeling goosebumps trail up his spine when you started scratching his back.

“i will. all i wanted was some affection, i don't think i’m asking for too much. but i know you have been stressed and may have gone about it the wrong way. though i can't say this wasn't fun,” you laughed quietly, wincing at the pain coming from your bottom.

he agreed with a chuckle himself and buried his nose in your hair to inhale your scent. you opened your embrace and looked at each other lovingly, his thumbs gently caressing your sides. your hands cradled his cheeks and you pressed a kiss against his forehead.

“you're not asking for too much. i am your husband, it’s my duty to make you feel loved and adored, even if our marriage was arranged. and if i could give you the world, i would. because i do love and adore you. you're the only one who gets to see me like this and i trust you,” he mumbled before leaning close to press his lips against yours. “please trust me the same and know that i will do what you ask of me.”

your heart threatened to burst at his confession and you squealed in delight against his lips. after a few more appreciative kisses, he gently set you down on the bed and ran to start a shower for you. he quickly grabbed some ointment, a towel and a robe for you while the water warmed up. running back to you on the bed, he noticed your eyes starting to get heavy and he smiled warmly before softly picking you up.

“now, let your husband take care of you, darling.”

© petrifleur 2025 – all rights reserved, do not copy, modify, repost, translate any of my works. do not feed my works to any kind of ai.

[lieran03]

Raising Their Voice

Love and Deepspace Fanfic

The usual calm and soft men who never raise their voice suddenly did so in front of you, and that's only to protect you

Genre: fluff/slice of life Pairing: Rafayel x fem!reader (usage of Cutie as nickname) Words: 1618 Warning: none!

Writing commission || Ko-fi || AO3 acc

Xavier's || Zayne's || Sylus' || Caleb's

Based on THIS request

“Cutie, what do you mean you wanted me to shout at you? Why do you want me to speak harshly to you?”

Hearing Rafayel’s tantrum, a low chuckle can be heard from the girl who lay on his sofa, watching as the man who was busy perfecting his brush stroke stops his action the moment she spoke up her request. Unknown where the thoughts came from, Rafayel could only guess what his Cutie had been going on about to make her has the courage to voice it out.

“It’s just … when you speak Lemurian, I thought it sounded both sexy and attractive. I just wonder if the same response would be there when I heard you raising your voice. All this time, you always speak to me nicely, or just … well, pampering me.”

“I do raise my voice now and then.” Rafayel has now forgotten about his work and put his attention fully on the girl who also sits up straight.

A nod was given before she said, “Yes, and it was towards Thomas. Either because you couldn’t finish your painting at the right time, or when you’re dissatisfied with his work, or how he arranged your exhibition. But that’s not raising voice, no, I don’t think it was.”

Tons of questions filled Rafayel’s mind. He wanted to understand the reason behind her request, the real reason why she thinks his shouting voice was attractive. Searching through her expression, Rafayel decided to let a low sigh before leaving his work. All of his creativity has left his mind, replaced with a way to make his Cutie feel better.

“No matter how much you wanted it, Cutie, I wouldn’t ever raise my voice to you. if that moment ever happened, or if I ever scold you in any way, you’re free to slap me.” Rafayel’s body plopped onto her lap, seeking warmth and comfort. Once he felt her hands start to play with his hair, he finally looked up and stared with a puppy eye. “But, please, don’t hit me too hard or use your Hunter power, Miss Bodyguard.”

The conversation was quick to drop, and both Rafayel and she didn’t have the heart to torture the other more. From the start, it was supposed to be an easy conversation, nothing demanding, and not some request needed to be fulfilled. It’s easy to be forgotten to the point Rafayel could finish his last painting for his current exhibition.

The night came with Rafayel, who made her follow him to the exhibition, dress chosen by him. almost all night, Rafayel didn’t let her wander off from his sight. She also never really escape from his grasp, keeping him around her waist and said to look around in case there were some bad people tries to kill him when they’re not looking.

It was a lie. Rafayel did not need a bodyguard to be around him all the time, he even find it disturbing at first. He just wanted people to see—and know—how close he is with a woman, which mean he’s not available with others who are pursuing him. This is the only way for him to say that he was taken without having to make an announcement to the public about his relationship.

“Rafayel, there are some people who need to talk with you.” Thomas’ words came at the wrong time. While enjoying his food, after tirelessly talking with people he barely knew, it was cut off fast.

Looking at the way Thomas stares at her, she already knew that this conversation was private, meaning she didn’t and she shouldn’t join in. A light push was given towards Rafayel’s back, telling him to follow Thomas' words. It was added with how she took Rafayel’s plate, as a way to push him away. The smile on her face made Rafayel feel guilty more than ever.

“You better come back fast before I finish all your food, Fishie,” she teased, trying to lighten Rafayel’s mood.

With no way to say no, Rafayel finally gets away, grumbling at Thomas and pouting all the way to meet the important person. Being left alone with no one to talk to, the food that was supposed to be Rafayel’s was gone before she decided to look around, wanting to see once again, without an explanation coming from the artist itself.

At first, it went well and smoothly, nothing she needed to be wary of. Even without Rafayel to tell her about the painting or the story behind it, she enjoys everything and even learn slowly how each strokes bring her closer to Rafayel and his hard work. Although she didn’t know much about painting or brush strokes, seeing it all somehow made her say, it was all Rafayel. With her eyes focused on the painting, she saw nothing else around her.

Her mind was occupied when she felt someone was approaching her and speaking at the same time. It’s not the voice of someone she knows, not Rafayel or Thomas, which made her not bother to look at them. It might be someone just speaking to themselves while appreciating Rafayel’s work, which always happens.

“You’re really worth more than the painting here, did you know?” The last words were the reason her attention was finally averted.

“Yes?”

“Your beauty. It’s something that no painting here can capture. All the women pictured here didn’t stand the same as you.”

All the paintings of women by Rafayel actually describe her.

“I’m sorry, I already have someone with me.”

It was the same usual words as a cover-up, however, it’s not an entire lie. She has gone with Rafayel from the start, and even when he was supposed to entertain the guests that came to his exhibition, he could reassure Thomas that it could be done with her coming along. Whenever he was explaining the painting, his eyes would always find hers, only hers.

“Come on, it won’t work with me. I know that you didn’t. Besides, clothes like this are used to attract men. If not, why would you wear something so appealing?”

She was silent for a few seconds, trying to understand the situation. A frown finally appeared before she said, “I told you that I already have someone with me. And that person who gives these clothes to me personally. Dresses like this aren’t always used to attract … people like you.”

The situation escalated quickly. With the answer she gave, the man seems to be more frustrated than before. Words of insult came from his lips, somehow like he was trying to attract the other people who came to watch the exhibition. It’s not long before the fight has made a scene in the calm ambiance of the exhibition, Rafayel picks.

Although people have started gathering around the two, trying to understand the situation, none of them tries to separate them. While the man who comes her way points his fingers and still talks gibberish, the girl was calm and collected, trying her best not to throw punches at the man to show where he belongs.

“Would you mind?” A new voice breaks out through the fight. Upon knowing it was Rafayel, a sigh finally came from the girl, feeling glad that she didn’t need to take matters into her hands.

“Who are you …?” It’s not hard for anyone to see that it was Rafayel, the reason people were gathering there. “Ah … Rafayel.”

“What do you think you’re doing right now?” Slightly, Rafayel’s voice was raised, showing anger. “Disturbing my exhibition, and then trying to flirt with my guest … no, you’re even saying bad words about her. Do you want to be banned from the next exhibition?”

“N-no … that’s … it was her fault!” Rafayel, who already stood in front of her, trying to protect her and didn’t let him see even a strand of her hair, saw how the man was once again pointing at her and gave a glare. “She tells lies and makes me look like a bad person.”

More gibberish came once again, making Rafayel take a deep breath. “What a disgrace! A person who can't even appreciate art and make a ruckus. Thomas, ban this person the next time he ever tries to come.”

“W-wait, that’s not … then you should have banned her too! Why am I the only one to be …!”

“Enough!”

Rafayel’s shout made everyone jump, seeing another side of Rafayel. With a small pull to his elbow, the girl decided to interfere, didn’t want to make a bad impression on Rafayel, the artist. Understanding her concern, Rafayel took a deep breath before taking a small glance at her, hoping to find comfort from her.

“Thomas, take care of this.”

Not putting any more attention, Rafayel finally asked her politely—as if they were stranger—and brought her to another place. It didn’t take long before Rafayel finally found a secluded place, putting his head to her shoulder and seeking comfort.

“I’m sorry for shouting in front of you, Cutie. Now I feel really, really bad ….”

“Why would you? You’re so cool back there,” she mumbled while playing with Rafayel’s hair. “But more than that … I wanted to thank you for protecting me like that and taking things your way.”

“Well, can you believe what he said about you?! He even insulted the dress I personally picked for you!”

Holding back a laugh, she finally hugged Rafayel, burying her face to his chest. “I know, I know. He really shouldn’t have done something like that.”

“Cutie, the next time someone insults you, don’t hesitate to punch them! I will be the one responsible for it.”

[yesimwriting]

I really like to think about bestie and armand just being a silly little couple if/when they finally get together and doing silly couple stuff...

also I love your writing, I'm obsessed with them and their dynamic !!

this is such a cute concept, their dating/together era would be so sincere, i feel like that sounds kind of vague but their relationship is just so genuine, like there's no ulterior motives to the way that they are with each other

here's a list of couple-y things bestie and armand do when/if they ever lock in and get together:

When discussing labels, bestie is inclined to use the word 'boyfriend' because it's familiar. Armand finds the term much too fleeting and dismissible and would be ready to call bestie his companion after a single openly romantic outing (maybe before then tbh).

Regardless of any debates on what to call each other, bestie is so happy to show off/introduce Armand to her friends and family. Also, I think Armand is extremely polite around bestie's relatives. Best behavior for the in-laws <3

Bestie becomes so adept at deciphering how Armand's feelings, that a single glance in his direction is enough for her to know what kind of mood he's in. She also knows when to try to make him talk about what he's feeling, and when to just silently sit with him.

Armand's yearning somehow gets worse after they're officially together. He's constantly treating her like she hung the stars in the sky.

Armand reads about 95% of the books that bestie reads without being asked to so that he can talk to her about them.

He also brushes up on whatever art style/medium bestie is currently working with to make sure that he's familiar/up to date on whatever bestie's working on.

Speaking of bestie's art, she paints Armand regularly. He doesn't tell her how significant these paintings are to him until she's made a few.

Also, I think it'd take some time for Armand to tell her some of the details about his trauma, but once he does, he tells her more specifics than he's told anyone else. He'd also tell her about the ways in which it still affects him.

He regularly pledges his loyalty to her and means it, which, sometimes, feels more significant than saying "I love you".

They don't think to have a conversation about living together, they just end up always sleeping in the same place.

Bestie and Armand are like magnets. They constantly gravitate to each other without realizing it. Even when they're both doing independent activities, they end up in the same room, and then eventually, holding hands/touching each other in some way.

Despite their different schedules, they become semi-dependent on sleeping next to each other.

I believe that Armand has some trauma when it comes to abandonment, and while anxious attachment tendencies and jealousy can be a lot, bestie understands why Armand struggles with these things. She'll reassure him as much as she needs to, and genuinely doesn't mind.

Bestie is incredibly protective of Armand's mental an physical well being. He likes noticing flashes of that protectiveness more than he'd ever admit to.

Also, after they're finally together, sometimes they'll discuss something that happened in the past and bestie randomly realizes that Armand has been pining for her.

Armand discusses eternity with her extremely casually.

Any vampires that know about bestie's existence know not to mention her in front of Armand for their own safety <3

----

this became way longer than i thought it'd be omg

[rista-senpai]

Love you in the shadows

pairing: Sung Jinwoo x f!reader

summary: You are Antares’ beloved daughter. His biggest treasure, despite him being the CEO of the second biggest company in South Korea. He would give up everything within minutes just to see your smile. Even so, you failed to keep your father just as delightful, since you ended up as the secretary of his biggest rival, the number one CEO in your home country, Sung Jinwoo.

            Being stuck with a so-called ruthless man, feared by many for his authoritarian presence and cold, dark eyes, didn’t sit well with your father. Yet, you found them mesmerizing, something magnetic in those royal purple irises. Little did you know that the exact same eyes would see you beyond professional matters, forcing you to keep your feelings under a key, given the fact that you didn’t want to betray Antares.

            However, how could someone resist him, when it’s just you two in the middle of the night, lights low, soundless rain hitting the wide windows in his office, the air out of your lungs in seconds, when he looks so ravishing, words not being enough to describe him?

tags & warnings -> office au, forbidden love, secret relationship, reader falls in love with the only man she shouldn’t have been near, she fell first, but he fell harder, age-gap (reader is 24, Sung is 32), smut with plot

CHAPTER THREE

He changed.

You felt it first thing Monday morning, when the usual call for his coffee never came. Not a word, not a glance. Just silence echoing from behind the thick glass walls of his office.

At first, you brushed it off. Maybe he was just in early meetings. Maybe the weekend had drained him too. But by noon, the silence had calcified into something heavier.

He didn’t ask for the economic trend reports. His schedule sat untouched on the edge of your desk, his inbox flooded with unread messages you weren’t sure you were allowed to sort anymore.

Evening came, and that’s when you finally saw him.

Not the man you knew — not CEO Sung Jinwoo in his tailored confidence and razor-edged focus — but someone worn around the edges. Someone... else. His tie was loose, the top buttons of his shirt undone. Dark circles carved shadows beneath his eyes, and his usually polished hair was an afterthought.

Sleepless.

That’s the word that fits him now.

He didn’t acknowledge you when he passed by. Just a faint nod, as if you were another piece of furniture in the sleek office halls. You stared at your screen long after he disappeared, your fingers motionless on the keyboard. You couldn’t understand what went wrong — Saturday night kept replaying in your mind, forcing you to analyze every word, every look. But there was nothing you had done to deserve this silence. Still, you shoved that feeling deep down, like it would somehow dissolve on its own.

One of your worst ideas ever.

He didn’t ask for you in the following days either.

The clock was ticking. The meeting was just two days away. And he still wasn’t speaking to you.

With the weight of the entire office suddenly resting on your shoulders, you knew you couldn’t let this continue—not like this. Something had to give.

It was late at night, well past midnight, and as usual, you were the only two left in the building.

You found him in his office, the lights dimmed low, city lights casting fractured reflections across the glass walls. He didn’t look up when you knocked. Just muttered, “Come in,” like he already knew it was you.

You stepped in quietly, fingers curling around the file in your hand — a pathetic excuse to be there.

“You didn’t ask for today’s review,” you said softly. “Or yesterday’s. I just thought you might… need it.”

“I didn’t ask,” he replied without looking at you.

“I know.” You placed it gently on the corner of his desk anyway.

The silence dragged. Your hands fidgeted in front of you, unsure what to do, unsure if you should speak again. But the weight in the room was suffocating, and you were tired of walking on broken glass.

“Jinwoo,” you said — quiet, careful.

His gaze finally moved to you. Not sharp. Not cold. Just… guarded.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, voice steady despite the sting it cost you.

He leaned back in his chair, slow and silent. “I’ve been busy.”

“You’re always busy. That’s never stopped you from talking to me before.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow. “It’s complicated.”

You nodded, even though your chest tightened at the words. “I figured.”

Another silence. This one is less sharp, more resigned.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he said finally. “Something changed after... Saturday”

You felt it too. The way things shifted. Not in the moment, but in the aftermath. How quiet he got. How careful.

“I know,” you said. “But we didn’t do anything wrong.”

His eyes flicked to yours again, this time longer.

“Didn’t we?”

You took a seat across from him, hands folded in your lap. “You don’t get to push me away just because things got real. I work with you. I care about this job. About what we built here. But I also care about…” you hesitated, “clarity.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, then didn’t. His gaze dropped to the file again.

“You’ve been quiet. We can’t go into that meeting on Friday like this.”

“No,” he agreed, voice low. “We can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to make anything easy. I just… don’t want us pretending nothing’s happened. Even if all we do is decide to keep it professional.”

He nodded slowly. “I respect you too much to pretend.”

That surprised you. The raw honesty of it. No games. No shields.

“Then maybe that’s a start,” you said gently.

The tension didn’t leave the room — not entirely — but it softened. Like air finally moving after a long stillness.

“I’ll see you in the boardroom,” you added, rising to your feet.

He didn’t stop you. But just before you reached the door, he called your name.

You turned back.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t needed.”

You nodded. “You did.”

A small pause.

“But I’m still here,” you said softly.

Then you left.

And behind you, for the first time in days, he let himself breathe.

Of course, you didn’t let yourself think until the elevator doors slid shut behind you.

Only then, as the hum of the descending car wrapped around you, did your shoulders sag, and your lungs finally remember how to work again.

God.

You leaned back against the mirror-lined wall, eyes fixed on the overhead floor numbers ticking down, each one dragging the weight of that conversation further into your chest.

You’d done it. You’d gone in there, looked Sung Jinwoo in the eye — the man who hadn’t spoken to you in days, who could break your career with a single word — and told him the truth. Not just as his assistant. As you.

It felt terrifying. It felt like a victory.

Your hands were trembling.

It wasn’t even that anything between you had been resolved—not really. But something had cracked open. The silence had been broken. The air felt clearer, even if only by a fraction.

When the elevator doors finally opened onto the lobby, you stepped out with the kind of quiet defiance that came after a storm. The night was still, the city outside bathed in streetlight and glass. Your phone buzzed in your bag, but you ignored it. Not tonight.

You needed to process.

Not the work things. Not the reports or the meeting or the way the office had started to feel like a frozen battlefield this week.

You needed to process him.

The look in his eyes. The guilt. The guardedness. The fact that, despite everything, he hadn’t asked you to leave.

And more than anything, the way your heart still twisted when he said your name.

You pressed a hand to your chest.

"Get a grip," you whispered to yourself with a dry, humorless laugh.

But deep down, you already knew the truth. You could pretend all you wanted that it was just tension, just confusion, just proximity…

But tonight had proved it. You weren’t walking on eggshells anymore.

You were standing at the edge of something.

And for better or worse, you weren’t alone on that ledge.

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