#(this was way before they got into their relationship)

[sacredsorceress]

Mocha / Bob Reynolds

PAIRING: bob reynolds x cafe owner!reader SUMMARY: yelena decides to make it her mission to set up bob with her close friend. WORD COUNT: 2.6k A/N: not beta read, and named mocha after my favorite coffee! I am also realising I struggle with meet cutes so next fic is probably an established relationship whew. hope you enjoy!! WARNINGS: just insecurities, a beef mention of bob's drug-fueled past and fluff

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“Get dressed, Bob.”

Yelena tossed a pair of jeans and a sweater into Bob’s lap before placing her hands on her hip.

Confusion twisted his face.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Bob asked.

Truly there wouldn’t be anything wrong with what Bob was wearing if he hadn’t already been wearing it for three days straight.

In the months since… the incident… as they all now referred to it, Bob had made significant progress. He had stayed sober, gained a healthy amount of weight back, and worked on his mental health to a degree that even John had to admit that he was impressed by it. However, all this progress had been made inside the Avengers Tower.

Not that Yelena didn’t enjoying being around Bob, but she’d like to wonder where he was for once instead of being able to turn her head and see him curled up in his book nook every single time, without fail. At times she wondered if his skin had merged with the fabric of the seat.

“You are not going out like that.” She said matter-of-factly. “And you are starting to smell.”

Bob placed his book to the side and pulled himself up to look at Yelena.

“Going… out?” He asked.

“Yes, we are going out.” She said with a huff. “I cannot watch you sit on this floor all day again. So get dressed… and do not forget the deodorant.”

Yelena left without another word, leaving Bob to his own devices. Lifting up his arm and taking a sniff, he cringed and shuffled towards the bathroom toting the clothes Yelena had given him in hand.

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"Where are we going?"

Bob stumbled after Yelena as she effortlessly weaved her way through the busy Manhattan street. It was 5:30 pm and it seemed that all of New York were leaving their offices, on a mission to get home which, to Bob's understanding, seemed to all be in the opposite direction from where he was heading. With rushed apologies and too many elbows in his ribs for his liking, Bob had begun to miss the comfort of the tower.

"For coffee." Yelena replied without looking at him.

"Coffee?" He asked, glancing at sun setting between high rises. "Isn't it.. isn't it a little late?"

"Never too late for coffee, Bob." She said, rounding a corner. "Besides, it is quieter at night."

Bob bumped into Yelena's back as she slowed her pace.

"Here!"

Yelena opened her arms towards the café in front of her. A warm glow poured out through its windows and onto the sidewalk as if it wanted to sneak up their ankles and pull them through the doors. Through the glass, Bob could catch a few people doing work on their laptops or catching up with friends, lounging on the couches or curled up in the booths alike. What truly caught his eye, though, were the filled bookcases that covered every square inch of the walls.

Yelena, observing his fascination, smiled.

"I knew you'd like it." She said, grabbing his arm. "Now come."

In an almost cartoonish fashion, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee beans reached Bob's nose the second he stepped inside and carried him to the counter.

The barista's face lit up at the sight of them and Bob felt himself grow warm under her gaze. Her smile, warm and inviting- not like the polite ones Bob often got thrown by underpaid workers to evade the scrutiny of their boss- made him brush his tussled hair from his face.

"Lena!" You laughed, leaning against the counter. "Fancy seeing you here. Want your usual?"

Lena? Bob thought. Did she know you?

Bob glanced from Yelena to you.

"D-do you guys know each other?" He laughed awkwardly.

The blonde raised her eyebrow.

"Are you surprised that I have friends, Bob?" Yelena asked pointedly.

"N- no!" Bob said, shaking his head and crossing his arms. "I was just wondering-"

Then you piped in: "Oh are you Bob?" You asked, your gaze falling on him. "I've heard so much about you. It's so nice to meet you!"

God, he thought, it's hot in here.

You were pretty and kind- the first confirmed by his eyesight and accompanying heart rate and the second, by your friendship with Yelena.

If there was one thing that Bob was not used to, it was receiving warm attention from strangers. With a past riddled with crime and self-seclusion, he couldn't remember the last time someone had actually been happy to meet him. Even his current team had been mildly annoyed by his presence the first time they met.

But you had heard about him. That couldn't be good, right?

Bob pulled at the neck of his sweater and smiled.

"That's me." He answered timidly. "I'm sorry, Yelena's never mentioned you-"

Waving her hand in his face to cut him off, Yelena turned towards you.

"I'll have my usual." She said before turning to Bob. "What do you want?"

Suddenly it occurred to Bob that they were at a coffee shop. Hyper-aware of your gaze, Bob shoved his hands in his pockets to stop himself from nervously fiddling with them.

"Oh I- I've never had coffee." He said.

He said it in the most innocent way in the world, so much so that you couldn't even find it in yourself to make fun of him for it. If anything, you wished you had super speed to be able to fly out the doors, get ingredients for whatever Bob did like to drink, and whip it up in seconds so you'd never have to see him disappointed.

Yelena however, did not share the same sentiment.

"You are embarrassing me." She whispered.

Seeing the shame in his eyes, you cut in.

"I can surprise you if you want?" You offered. "I'll just come bring it to your table when it's done."

Pretty and kind.

"Y-yeah," He smiled. "That sounds nice."

With their orders sorted, Yelena wrapped her hand around Bob's arm and pulled him to a nearby table. Nestled in an alcove between bookshelves, Bob settled into his chair and glanced around him.

"This place is nice." He observed, peeking over the side of the bookshelf to catch a glimpse of you at the counter.

Yelena, following his eye-line, smiled.

"Good." She said, crossing her legs. "Because we will be staying here until you ask her out."

And there it is: why Yelena actually asked him to come out.

He should've known by her attitude- how she demanded he get dressed, how she weaved through passerbys without a second glance, how she stopped him from fumbling over himself in front of you... she was on a mission.

Bob would have been lying if he said he wasn't attracted to you. In the past, he had barely experienced attraction- his attention consumed more by illicit substances and how to get them rather than the affection of a woman. But he knew by the warmth that creeped up his neck and onto his cheeks and the way his heart seemingly flipped in his chest when you spoke to him that you had him.

However, that didn't mean that he could have you.

"Yeah- Wait." Bob said, tearing his eyes from you to look at Yelena. "W-what. I'm not- I can't... I don't know her."

"No," she said, folding her hands. "But I do. You two will make cute couple."

She said it as if it were simple. As if she could flip a switch and make him the perfect boyfriend.

"But-"

As if on cue, you strode over to the table with a tray in hand.

"One flat white for Lena," You said gifting the mug into her waiting hands. "And for Bob, a mocha: decaffeinated. I figured you might want to be able to sleep tonight."

You said the last part with a wink as you gently placed the mug down in front of him.

The warm drink sat in an orange mug with a foam heart on top and although he was sure you did them for everybody, Bob's insides felt like mush all the same. He couldn't remember the last time he had something that didn't come from a drive-thru window.

"And I know you didn't ask," you said, placing down another plate. "but I also brought over a chocolate donut to go with the coffee. I thought you might like it."

If Bob didn't know any better, he would have thought you were nervous because once the tray was free of any beverage, you tucked it behind your back and shifted on your feet as if you were finding any excuse to stay.

"Oh this looks really good," Bob groaned.

Careful to not burn himself, Bob gingerly brought the mug to his lips. The drink, filled with notes of chocolate that overpowered any bitterness of coffee while maintaining the taste, warmed him to his core. Feeling the temperature of the drink spread throughout his body, Bob sank into his seat and moaned.

A real, actual moan in front of the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.

It was only once he opened his eyes that he realized they had ever been closed in the first place.

"I think he likes it." Yelena chuckled.

Feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, he cleared his throat.

"S-sorry." He apologized, "it's really good."

The weight of your gaze bared heavily on him as he avoided your eyes, too afraid to feel the judgement they no doubt held at his reaction.

Instead you smiled.

"Nothing to be sorry about, Bob." You assured him. "That's the best compliment I've ever received."

A silence hung in the air then as the three of you stood at an impasse. The radio flicked between songs as it did, leaving the rhythmic clicking of a keyboard across the room the only escape from becoming intimately familiar with each other's breathing.

Yelena glanced between the two of you. She rolled her eyes and kicked Bob underneath the table.

"Ow!" Bob yelped. "What was that-"

"Didn't you have a question you wanted to ask her, Bob?"

Fuck, now you were really looking at him.

You were like the sun. As tempted as he was to stare at you, his eyes darted anywhere but your face as if it would hurt him just to look.

"Uh, um yeah..." Bob said nervously, "I wanted to... I was going to ask..."

You eagerly leaned forward.

"Yeah, Bob?"

Bob could listen to you say his name forever. A once held insecurity, dissipated like cotton candy in water.

He cleared his throat.

"Uh- what kind of milk did you use?" Bob said, drumming his fingers on the table. "Because I'm uh... lactose intolerant."

The end of the sentence dragged on awkwardly and although he was internally beating himself up for embarrassing himself in front of you, he was clouded by how much more humiliating it would have been to ask you out in front of Yelena.

Any hope you had in you that he would ask you something more personal faded as you physically deflated.

"Oh uh, oat."

Yelena thought she could kill him. She really could.

"Well uh," You said. "Enjoy."

And with that, you were gone.

The second you were out of earshot, Yelena leaned over the table.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I- I don't know!" Bob whisper-shouted back. "It just came out-"

"That you are lactose intolerant?" She argued. "You are suppose to ask her out and instead, you tell her you have tummy problems!"

Bob slammed his face into the table and groaned.

"You put me on the spot-"

"Because she was looking at you with the heart eyes!"

That picked Bob's head up.

"N-no. You're just saying that." He argued. "She doesn't like me"

Yelena rolled her eyes and jammed her pointer finger into the table.

"Listen to me, Bob." She said. "I know my friend. She likes you, okay? So we will sit here until you ask her out."

"But-"

"No buts!" She shouted, flicking her hand. "You will ask her. Now, I will enjoy my coffee before it gets cold."

And that's how Bob and Yelena ended up sitting in the coffee shop until close.

It wasn't that he didn't try, because he did. After a hype up session with Yelena he would stroll up to the counter with the intention of asking you on a date, but the second you smiled at him, he psyched himself out and just ordered another coffee instead.

As minutes turned to hours and the patrons began to file out of the cafe, you, Bob and Yelena were the only ones left- unless you counted the elephant in the room.

"Hey so," You said saddling up to the table. "I'm gonna start closing up. Don't worry about the bill or anything, I put it on Yelena's tab. Just head out when you're ready."

You hesitated.

"Oh, and it was nice to meet you, Bob."

Yet, as you turned to leave, you felt a clammy hand wrap around your wrist, holding you back.

Your eyes trailed from the hand up to Bob's face where his cheeks had been painted red. As if his lips had been sewn shut, he said nothing, but instead longingly gazed up at you, taken aback by your features so close.

"Oh for God's sake." Yelena said slamming her hand on the table.

Bob yanked his hand from your touch as you your attentions ricocheted towards Yelena.

"Lena-"

"I cannot keep watching this." She said, gesturing towards Bob. Her eyebrows had knitted together and a sigh escaped her lips. "Y/n, will you go on a date with Bob? Please? I cannot do the puppy dog eyes any longer."

If there was ever a moment Bob wanted to crawl into his own skin and let the Void consume him, it was right then.

Yelena meant well, he knows she does, but no matter how much she thought she knew her friend, what Yelena was not aware of was the clinical aversion that women seemed to have to him. The most Bob would be lucky enough to receive was a platonic fondness, never the affections of a woman so pretty and kind and warm and-

"I'd love to."

Pulling himself out of his own self-pity, Bob's mouth flew open.

"Y-yeah?"

You smiled at him.

"Yeah," You said with a laugh. "I thought you'd never ask."

Were you sure you didn't put caffeine in his coffee? Because Bob felt the sudden urge to throw himself out of his seat and run around the coffee shop.

Instead, he settled on handing you his phone to let you type your number in and allowing Yelena to usher him out of the coffee shop- him longingly looking over his shoulder at you until he physically couldn't anymore.

With a renewed pep in his step, Bob pulled out his phone and smiled.

Bob: Hi, this is Bob :)

Bob: From the coffee shop.

Bob: Yelena's friend.

Bob: I'm not really lactose intolerant, you're just really pretty. :)

And although Yelena couldn't see what he was typing on his phone, seeing the content smile that painted his face was more than enough for one to reach across her own- rolling her eyes fondly at the idea of her two friends in love and a mission, accomplished.

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[writeriguess]

Hi darling! Can I request Katsuki being obsessed with touching or having sec with Reader. He’s never been in a physical relationship before, but as soon as your relationship enters a new stage, he’s obsessed. Can’t keep his hands off you, sneaks too your room to touch you, pulls you to to empty classrooms and closets just to touch you

Touch-Starved

Katsuki Bakugo was never one to hold back when he wanted something. And now, that something was you.

At first, it was subtle—his hands lingering on your waist a second too long when he passed by, his thigh pressing a little closer to yours when you sat next to him, his fingers brushing the back of your hand like he was testing something. Like he was testing himself.

But once you let him in, once you moaned his name that first time, once your body molded against his, his self-restraint snapped.

Now, he couldn’t keep his hands off you.

1: Late-Night Sneaking

The first time he snuck into your room, it was past midnight. You barely had time to register the soft creak of your door before a heavy, warm body slid onto your bed, arms wrapping around you from behind.

"Katsuki—?" Your sleepy mumble was cut off by the feeling of his lips pressing against the back of your neck, hot and needy.

"Shut up," he muttered, voice thick with something dark. "Just lemme—fuck—I just need you."

His hands were already moving, sliding under your shirt, fingertips gliding across your stomach, then higher, palming your chest with greedy hands. He groaned against your shoulder, rutting his hips against your ass like he couldn't help himself.

"You—" Your breath hitched when he pinched a nipple, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers. "Katsu, what if someone hears—?"

"Then keep your fuckin’ voice down," he growled, but his other hand was already covering your mouth as if he wanted to make you scream. His fingers flexed, possessive, as he ground against you harder. "Shit, baby, I swear, I—" He exhaled sharply, almost frustrated. "Can’t fuckin’ stop thinking about you."

He had been like this all week. Ever since the first time you let him touch you under your clothes, he was insatiable.

The kisses, the groping, the way he touched you—it was like he was making up for lost time.

2: Empty Classroom Encounters

"Here?" you hissed, barely able to suppress a moan as Bakugo shoved you against the wall of an empty classroom, his knee pressing between your thighs.

"Yeah, here," he snapped, already tugging your uniform shirt out of your skirt, shoving his hands underneath. His palms were so hot, sliding up your ribs, thumbs brushing under your bra. "You know how fuckin’ hard it is sitting next to you all day? Not touchin’ you? You got no clue what you do to me."

Your breath stuttered when his lips latched onto your neck, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin. He groaned when you squirmed against him, rolling his hips forward so you could feel how hard he already was.

"Fuck," he breathed against your skin, hands gripping your waist so tight it was like he thought you’d disappear. "Just lemme feel you. Lemme—" He reached lower, squeezing your ass before hiking your skirt up. "Fuck, I wanna be inside you all the fuckin’ time."

Your head spun at his words, his desperation. His hands were everywhere, always touching, always claiming.

3: Closet Confessions

It happened again after class, this time in a janitor’s closet.

You barely made it inside before Bakugo was yanking your tie loose, teeth clashing against yours in a kiss so messy and eager it left your lips tingling. His hands were already up your skirt, fingers pressing against your clothed heat.

"You’re so warm," he groaned, rolling his forehead against yours as he ground his fingers against the growing wet spot. "Shit, baby, you miss me too, huh?"

You whimpered, legs shaking as he slid a finger under the fabric, brushing against your bare folds.

"Fuck, wet for me already?" He exhaled sharply, his breath ragged. "You like sneakin’ around with me? Bein’ my fuckin’ secret?"

His fingers slid inside before you could answer, and the only thing you could do was clutch onto his shoulders, biting back a moan as he pumped them in and out.

He watched you the whole time, his pupils blown wide, his free hand gripping the back of your neck.

"I'm gonna ruin you," he muttered, voice thick with lust, curling his fingers inside you just right. "Gonna make it so no one else ever gets to have you like this."

You clenched around him at his words, and he grinned.

"Yeah, you like that, don’t you?" His lips ghosted over your jaw, nipping at your skin. "Know you're mine, huh? My pretty little thing."

Your body answered before your voice did, back arching, fingers curling into his shirt as he worked you over.

His breathing turned ragged, pressing his hips against your thigh. "Fuck, I—shit, I gotta be inside you right now—"

A sudden noise outside the door made you both freeze.

Bakugo's hand snapped over your mouth just as you let out a muffled whimper, his fingers still buried deep inside you. His red eyes flicked to the door, then back to you, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

"Guess we gotta be real quiet, huh?" he whispered. But the way his fingers moved faster said he wanted to make you break.

And knowing him, he wouldn’t stop until you did.

[ovaryacted]

CW: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Talks of Jack Abbot & reader having a breeding kink.

Can’t stop thinking about seeing Jack Abbot carrying a little baby in the ER who came in late during night shift, sick and running a fever and they just won’t stop crying no matter what’s given to them and they’re so fussy. So Jack does what he thinks is best, holds them in his arms, and the baby calms down instantly, they just plop their head right against his shoulder and grips onto his stethoscope and he rocks them gently to soothe them as the medicine takes effect, all while comforting the distraught mother and reassuring her she did nothing wrong and did the right thing in getting some help.

Your reaction was instantaneous, a rush of warmth blooming through your chest and flowing into your gut at the sight of him cooing at the little human, his large hand running lines up and down their tiny back like it was second nature. It was at that moment you started imagining him with a little baby of your own, one you carried and nurtured in your own body, laying on the couch with them against his chest in the same manner.

The daydream haunts you for weeks after that night. You two spoke about having kids a little while back, way before he got down on one knee and slipped a ring over your finger. He promised once you were settled in your career and things have calmed down a bit that you could both take the next steps in your relationship and potentially build a family of your own. You bring it up to him, a little nervously at first, but Jack just gives you a kiss on the tip of your nose and your forehead, an understanding but mischievous glint flickering in his hazel eyes.

So when a four day weekend rolls around, and you’re set to be ovulating after your body adjusts to getting your iud taken out, Jack gets right to work. He takes advantage of the free time you both have, having you every which way for the duration of three whole days. You don’t think you’ve ever had such a lengthy sex marathon with your husband, hell you didn’t even know he had it in him to have such vigor when it came to family planning. But you didn’t complain, not when he ate your pussy until you cried, not when he fucked you so good words failed you and you drooled onto the mattress, not when he filled you to the brim, making sure he marks you as deep as he could go, as deep as you’d let him.

And yet it was never enough, he could never get enough of you. Jack had tunnel vision every time he’d drive into you. Whether it be from above, underneath, behind, or on the side, he kept picturing you glowing with a round belly and full breasts, waddling around the house in a stretched out T-shirt, probably one of his, as you looked for something to snack on. He wasn’t going to stop until he gave you what you wanted, until you both got the family unit you’ve been wanting for so long.

“Don’t worry baby, I’ll make sure it takes. You’re not leaving this room till it happens. Understood?”

You can only give him a playful salute and a tired smile.

[dragonsondragons]

Self Care - Jack Abbot x Resident!Reader

Summary: Jack’s new girlfriend takes self care really seriously given the line of work they’re in. He starts to observe these habits and some of them rub off on him.

Tags: Super fluffy, no use of y/n, implied age gap, suggested sexual activity, no real smut just Jack feeling you up a little, beekeeper!Jack

Author’s Note: Why am I obsessed with beekeeper!jack. There may be more where this came from because I had so much fun with this one– perhaps Jack and reader gardening (wink wink) while in their garden? Leads to sweet and slow stoned sex? Let me know what you think or if you have any requests! I’m always looking for more ideas. 

You do your little stretching routine after you wake up and you ask him if he wants to join you. He gives it a try, reluctantly at first. Then he starts to realize how good it makes him feel and does it with you every time. 

“What's this pep in your step you got going on here, brother?” Robby notices one day at hand-off. “Something to do with your favorite resident? Or should I say…new lady friend,” he does a little jazz hands.

“I regret ever telling you about us,” Jack rolls his eyes at lady friend. “But yeah, actually. She’s got me stretching when we wake up,” he explains.

“Ah. She’s got you whipped is what you mean.”

Jack chuckles under his breath. “Fuck off, stretching is good for you. And being whipped isn’t so bad either.” ____

You have a little garden that you tend to in the morning as the sun’s still rising right when you get off shift. It's cathartic, to take care of something that can't puke or bleed on you. Can’t punch you in the face. 

Both you and Jack had worked last night and it was a tough one. One of those nights where it felt like you lost more than you saved. You asked Jack to come back to your place after the shift ended, just wanting to be near him after your hell of a day. 

It was still early in your relationship, you had only spent the night at Jack’s place. This was his first time coming to stay at yours. 

You could tell he was so exhausted that you offered to drive home and he eventually accepted. He sat in the passenger seat of his Tacoma with his eyes closed as you drove, envisioning a shower, you looking soft in a ratty old t-shirt, and eating take out on the couch before going to sleep.

Instead, after you made two mugs of tea and set one before him on the coffee table, you headed to the backyard, slipping through the sliding glass door with a quiet “be right back, have to take care of some stuff real quick.”

After you’re gone more than 10 minutes and he almost dozed off twice, he started to wonder what this stuff was. He peeks out the glass door, seeing you knelt down at the edge of a garden bed peeling weeds out of the ground around your plants. The garden hose was on, filling up a big watering can to your left.

He comes to stand next to your kneeling form, placing a tender hand on the crown of your head and lightly running his fingers through your hair. “What are you doing, baby?”

“Checking on the plants. It helps me clear my mind from the day.” You smile softly up at him, see his free hand rub at his weary eyes. “Why don’t you go hop in the shower, I’ll be right in," you promise. He nods, turns to head back inside. 

He couldn’t believe you wanted to be pulling weeds and lugging watering cans after a shift. But when you trailed in a few minutes later, joining him under the spray of the water, he could see the way your shoulders were looser. You were more peaceful, at ease. It made him feel more calm too, just knowing you felt a little bit better. 

He started lugging bags of soil for you the following mornings. Dug up trenches to lay a new irrigation system for the crops. This time of spring brought so many birds tweeting around in the morning air, the perfect sound track to your calming moments together in the garden.

It was a peaceful endeavor, one Jack never thought he would find himself doing but turns out he absolutely loves it. After you tell him about the benefits of pollinators he really wants to start keeping bees (Jack Abbot is beekeeping age). He does all this research about it to make sure he doesn’t fuck with the bees, wants to do it right. Gets the whole mesh suit which you can't stop laughing at the first time he puts it on. Names his hive Beetopia. He's serious about these bees and you find it so endearing. You love that he's meshing into your life like this, making his own niche in something you both do together.

Sometimes when there isn’t much to be done he’ll make breakfast while you tend to the garden. He will always try to utilize the fruits and vegetables you grow as well as his self-harvested honey whenever he can. You eat it out on the patio, admiring the work the two of you have done. Your own little paradise. ____

Out of all the self care tactics that you have brought into his life, the bubble bath is definitely one of his sleeper favorites. His house had a huge bathtub in it that he never once used. One of the first times you stayed over, you went to use the bathroom before going to bed. His eyes were already closed when he heard you squeal in the en suite attached to his room. 

“How did you not tell me about this!” you yelled out to him. 

“What, the bathroom?” he responded half asleep and confused. You came back into the room and jumped into the bed next to him, resting your chin on his chest. He peeked his eyes open as he rubbed up and down your back.

“No! That massive tub, genius!” He was surprised. Hadn’t thought once about that thing since he moved in. 

“You like it?”

“I don't like it, Jack. I love it. Baths are so soothing and rejuvenating. I always feel like a newborn baby when I get out of the bath. And I don't have a tub at my place.”

“You’re welcome to use it anytime you want, honey.” He shifted you to your side, cuddling into you and kissing your cheek. 

“You’re too good to me. And as a reward I’m making you get in there with me.” he lets out a breath of a laugh as he drifts off to sleep with you in his arms. ___

You both had the next day off, for once. So there was no time like the present to christen Jack’s bathtub. He was nervous about getting in, not being able to wear his prosthetic to keep him stable, but you got in first and held onto him tight as he stepped over the edge and eased himself down into the water. You settled in front of him, letting out a breath as you melted back into him. 

You thought you liked baths already, but this was pure bliss. His strong body against you, your breaths synching up. He washed your hair and you washed his. The warm water soothed his achy back and the overcompensating muscles in his leg. 

Safe to say, baths become a regular occurrence for you two.

You get him a matching fluffy robe with a hood because one time he said he was jealous of how cozy you looked in yours after a bath. Once, Shen stopped by to drop off the butterfly portable ultrasound that he had borrowed and Jack answered the door in said robe. 

Jack had his stoic work face on, the grumpiness only enhanced by the fact that Shen’s visit was interrupting his time with you.

“Ha, you look like a Sith, Abbot,” Shen teased him, butterfly in one hand and a half drank Dunkin’ in the other. “Robe’d up and about to cut my hand off.” He took a loud sip of his coffee as Jack just glared at him. 

“Get out of here before I actually consider it.” He tugged the Butterfly from Shen’s grasp, about to slam the door in his face. 

“Oh c'mon Jack, that’s not very nice.” You ran up to the door and opened it further to reveal yourself. 

“Sorry John, he didn’t mean that.” 

“Yeah right.” He takes in your appearance beside Jack, wearing the same exact fuzzy robe. “Like the matchy matchy, very cute you two.” Shen pulls out his phone and snaps a picture before either of you could even process it. “That’s totally going in the group chat, dude,” he laughed. 

“Not making a good case for yourself here,” Jack muttered. Shen couldnt stop laughing, and at that you moved your hand off the door jamb and let Jack slam it shut. 

He turned to you then and let out a little chuckle at the whole ordeal. “He’s a piece of work.”

“Thought he was your favorite resident?”

“No, you're my favorite resident.” ___

Besides stretching to start the day on a good note, taking soothing baths, and tending to your garden you also do yoga sometimes to turn your mind off and tune into your body after a hectic shift. He’s still reluctant to try that one, and likes to give you your space to do the things you enjoy on your own sometimes. So he doesn't join you for that, but he loves watching you as you get ready to head to the studio. 

You always wear these skin tight, colorful matching workout sets that drive him crazy. He doesn’t mean to keep you from getting to class, but sometimes he just can’t help the temptation.

“Baby,” he draws it out in a long groan. He crossed the room to you, grabbing your hips and ghosting his hands up and down, reverently. You were trying to gather your keys and yoga mat to head out the door. “You’re killing me here with the powder blue.” The leggings hugged your ass just right. God, he was about to start drooling.

You try to squirm out of his hold to put your shoes on, but he won't budge. “Get a good look, Jack, because I gotta go. Gonna be late if I don't leave right now.” 

“Oh no, you're gonna be late already? Maybe you should just stay here with me,” he pouts suggestively. 

“Already paid for the class. Actually you did, your card’s on the account.” With your resident salary, Jack liked to treat you to things like a membership to a fancy yoga studio with free green smoothies. He loved ‘providing’ for you, even though you both knew you could be just fine by yourself. 

“Even better. I don't care about losing 30 bucks right now. Because you look way too sexy in those leggings to leave me here all alone.” He pecks your lips, then down your neck, sucking the spot where he knows will draw out a moan from you. You grasp your hand into his hair, getting lost in his efforts to entice you. 

“Let me peel these off of you,” he begs, running his fingers under the waistband of the leggings. His hands travel lower, kneading at your ass and pulling you tighter against him. “Just let me worship your beautiful body, sweetheart.”

How could you say no to that? Maybe you would miss your class, but this was a form of self care as good as any.

[honeypiehotchner]

Sleeping Beauty (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

Nobody look @ me this is the filthiest thing I've ever written I need to go take a cold shower

Summary: With the demanding jobs you both work, you and Hotch see each other more often when one of you is asleep. An idea pops into your head.

Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only etc, somnophilia (if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to scroll bc it's the entirety of this fic lmao), angst if you squint, established relationship, consent/ground rules are established before anything happens, fingering, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex (don't be like them), mentions of phone sex, dirty talk, Hotch is just pussy-whipped as y'all say

WC: 3.8k bc I clearly have no self-control

It started as a joke. Mostly.

Both of your jobs are demanding — you and Hotch knew this from the start. It was first date material, after all. The usual, surface-level questions including So, what do you do for work?

He told you later that he thought about giving you a vague answer, so as to not scare you away. But you had opened up first, said that your job at the courthouse meant your hours were long and somewhat unpredictable, no matter how hard everyone tried to stick to the 8 to 5 routine. There were nights you wouldn’t leave your desk until nearly eight. Hotch’s chest had tightened at that, even on the first date, the idea of you overworking yourself, but he’s no better.

You told him some nights it was a miracle if you got home before ten; he joked with you and said it was a miracle he made it home some nights at all.

It was like everything opened up from there. There was no pressure. If one of you had to stay late, it didn’t really matter, because the other probably had to as well. If one of you had to cancel or postpone dinner plans, it was fine, because nine times out of ten, the other was already on their way to calling for the same reason. 

It always makes the two of you laugh. The phone call the afternoon of the dinner plans, you laughing as you answer the phone to say, “Let me guess, raincheck?” His soft laughter, but apologetic all the same, “We just got called to New York.” And you expected it, so you said it was fine, right before your boss came knocking on your door, a frantic look in his eyes. “And I’m being summoned. Be safe in New York.” And Aaron’s ever-present gentlemanliness, “I’ll text you when I can. Go show them how it’s done.” You were grinning as you hung up, turning to your boss with an extra boost of confidence. “What do we have?”

As one can expect, this schedule, this careful dance the two of you have, means that nights together are rare, and the sex is, unfortunately, just as rare. Not that the two of you haven’t found other means— who knew Aaron’s dirty talk would somehow sound hotter through the phone when he’s timezones away, on a five minute break to call you and check in, and help you relax enough so you can sleep? But it’s not the same. It’s not the same as having him here.

And he is here, just not as often as you’d like, especially not when you’re awake. Ever since you started staying at his place — it’s closer to the courthouse, you tell yourself as an excuse, those five minutes make a big difference — you see him more often, but you mostly feel him. The dip of the mattress as he settles in to sleep beside you. The strong arm wrapping around your middle, pulling you toward him in his sleep, as if he needs to be certain you’re still there, even as he’s dreaming. The rustle of sheets as he scrambles to grab his phone to silence the incoming call, to get up and get dressed without waking you. 

It’s just a fact. The two of you see each other more when you’re sleeping. Isn’t that crazy?

So, who can blame you, when one night, half-asleep, only woken by Aaron’s soft nuzzling into your neck, you say, “Keep going.”

He freezes, lips just barely hovering over your pulsepoint, the place he loves to suck on, nip at, because he loves all of the little sounds he can draw out of you. 

When you’re awake.

“Honey,” he chuckles nervously, pulling back. “You’re asleep.”

“M’awake,” you protest, tossing your arms around him clumsily — as if that was going to prove your point.

He placates you with a soft kiss on your lips. “Sure, honey,” his laugh rumbles through his chest again as his hands smooth up your arms. “I believe you.”

“See?” you murmur, but your eyes are closed. There is no way you’ll remember this come morning. “You can keep going. Wanna feel you.”

He tenses. The idea is tempting, and that scares the shit out of him, which is exactly why his hands don’t move any lower than your arms. You’re practically asleep, for god’s sake. That’s taking advantage, and he will not be doing that.

“Maybe later,” he says gently, kissing your forehead this time. “I’m exhausted.”

You whine, but you bury your face in his chest, and your breathing slowly evens out. 

He sighs, wrapping his arms around you, wondering what in the world he’s going to do with you.

+++

You do remember it. Aaron thought you wouldn’t, and for a couple days he was convinced that you didn’t, until a rare night when he returned home to find you already there.

“Half-day,” you explain with an easy smile, meeting him at the door for a kiss. “Well, kind of. I brought some work with me. You know how it is.”

You’re rambling and he knows it. You know it, too, but you can do nothing to stop it. He knows you need to talk to him about something, but you don’t want to admit it. He knows how you work. 

Which infuriates you on a bad day. On a good day, it’s hot as hell.

Right now, it’s somehow a mix of both. All it takes is him sitting next to you on the couch, seemingly unbothered by your fidgeting, and one simple question.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Too many things,” you answer automatically, letting out a laugh and exhale at the same time. God, your chest feels so tight, and not in a good way. Since when are you this nervous to talk to Aaron? The man you’ve been seeing for well over a year now, the man who has been nothing but understanding with everything you’ve thrown his way, the man who is sitting right here with you, who knows exactly what your nervous rambling means and isn’t upset with you for it.

As if he can sense the anxiety rolling inside of you (and he can sense it), he reaches out to thread your fingers with his. “You can talk to me. Is it work?” You shake your head. “Is it us?”

“Kind of.”

“Is it the other night?”

Your eyes blow wide, giving you away entirely. Your eyes snap to his. “Seriously? Three questions? That’s how long it took you?”

He chuckles. “It would’ve only taken one, but I didn’t want to assume.”

“Cocky motherfucker,” you mutter, which only makes him laugh more. This is good. Lightening the mood is good. You don’t need to be so on edge about this, about what is most likely about to be Rejection City Central. “Okay. So. Yes. The other night.”

He nods, waiting patiently for you to get your words together.

“I feel like it was…too much.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Too much?” Nothing happened. Do you think something happened?

“I feel like I pushed too far, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry, we don’t have to harp on it anymore than this, I just— I felt like I was pushing you into doing something you don’t want to do. And I don’t want you to feel pressured—”

“Honey,” he stops you gently. “Hey, look at me.”

Slowly, you do, but there’s worry swimming in your eyes. 

“What do you remember?” he asks. He knows how it sounds, cryptic and probably a little scary, but he needs to fully see where your head is.

“Um,” you hesitate, your eyes darting away again. “I remember asking you to keep going and you saying no. Because I was asleep.”

He nods. “Okay.” He pauses, gathering his words. “Honey, we’ve never talked about that before, about doing anything when either of us is sleeping—”

“We don’t have to do it,” you immediately interrupt, clearly still with the wrong idea in your head. “It’s weird, I get it—”

“It’s not weird, not to me,” Aaron says, remembering the way desire flared in him. He had secretly hoped you would still be awake that night, not because he wants you to deprive yourself of sleep, but because he wanted to have you. “And it’s especially not weird if it’s something you want, too.”

You pause, staring at him wide-eyed. “Wait. You. You’d want to?”

“Absolutely,” he says, trying not to sound so unbelievably wrecked just by the thought. “But I want us to talk about it first. Set ground rules. Figure things out first.” He pauses, squeezing your hand. “Believe me, I wanted to.”

Your lips part just a little in disbelief. “You did?”

He nods seriously. “Of course I did. Do you have any idea how good you look sleeping in one of my old shirts and nothing else?”

You smirk, a wicked look brewing in your eyes. “I have an idea.”

He pulls you over into his lap for a bruising kiss, one hand cradling your jaw. It’s intoxicating, his tongue on yours, all gasps and moans as he rocks your body against his.

“Wait,” you gasp, his lips chasing yours as you pull back. “I want to talk about it.”

“We will,” he bites out, just before he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth. “But I want to taste you first.”

+++

You do talk about it. You lay the ground rules, for both of you. 

Aaron orders a new pair of panties just for the occasion, so that when you wear them, it’s a signal. He can do what he wants. For him, it’s slightly different, since he always sleeps in boxers, so if he’s not wearing anything, that’s his signal. He wants to be woken up; you’re happy to be mostly asleep, though you know your body will wake you up and want to stay awake to drink him in. 

And, of course, if when either of you wake up, if it’s too much and it needs to stop immediately, you have your safe words, but a simple no, stop will work given the added complication of being asleep.

It’s exhilarating, thinking about it. Planning everything out. Your body practically buzzes with need. 

But you have no idea when it will happen. That’s the whole point, of course, but it’s complicated with your work schedules. The strange hours and days you both work has never pissed you off so badly as it does now. 

It’s as if your schedules are mocking you. Every time it feels like there might be a night where something could happen, something comes up. Aaron is called away, a case goes sideways and delays his return, or you get slammed at work and don’t make it home in time before he’s called away, or you get home in such a bad mood that if he even tried to touch you, you might lay into him.

It just never seems to line up properly, none of it. You start to think it was foolish to want it so badly, that you should’ve known better with your schedules.

Especially because now, it’s quickly approaching week two of Aaron being away on a case in Florida, and week two of you practically living at his place since going back to your own apartment feels too empty.

You miss him. It’s an aching feeling, one you don’t get often because you two make things work, and because you’re usually too busy to feel it, but it’s here now. This is the second-longest case he’s been away on. And because the universe is torturing you, work is calm for the moment, so you don’t even have that as a distraction.

All you have are Aaron’s old law school t-shirts, a bed that still, miraculously, smells like him after a week of his absence, and a pair of lace panties that seem laughable as you pull them on.

You curl up against Aaron’s pillows, sighing deeply. When you close your eyes, it’s almost like he’s next to you.

+++

Hotch is bone-tired. It’s been a long time since a case has been this wild, full of this many twists, and dragging on so long that it’s starting to piss him off. All he wanted to do was finish this case quickly and get home to his girl, but the unsub had to drag things out. For a week and a half.

It’s so late when they get back to Virginia that he doesn’t bother texting you, not wanting to risk the sound waking you from your no-doubt peaceful slumber. He smiles faintly as he drives toward his apartment, thinking of you sleeping so softly, probably twisted in the sheets from how restless you get on your own.

God, he misses you.

He’s quiet as he unlocks the door and quickly silences the alarm. The apartment is dark as he sets his briefcase down on the couch, shrugging off his suit jacket as he heads down the hall. The door to his room is cracked just barely, and soft snores are coming from a lump in the middle of the bed.

He chuckles to himself as he enters, stealing a glance at you as he walks to his closet. He quickly undresses, not bothering to hang anything up until morning. Right now, he just wants to be next to you.

With just his boxers on, he heads back to the bed, lifting the sheet and— He freezes.

You’re in your usual pajamas: his shirt and your underwear. Except this time, it’s a very specific pair of underwear. A specific pair of lace panties that he remembers ordering, probably spending too much money on, but he didn’t care. He wanted them to be special. And they are.

And you’re wearing them. 

He stands there like he’s seen a ghost, his brain momentarily short circuiting as he tries to compose himself. He swallows.

He’s only human. It’s been so long since he’s seen you, even longer since he’s touched you, or even got to hear you touch yourself. The case was too hectic for even your usual phone sex, and he didn’t realize how wild it was driving him until now.

He tosses the sheet back gently, watching as you curl further into his pillow, your body registering the sudden chill.

Slowly, he crawls over you, settling himself at the end of the bed. He can only imagine how crazed he looks right now, the way his eyes can’t leave your legs. He wants to drink you. Devour you in every way possible.

His movements are gentle, not wanting to wake you, not yet. You said you wouldn’t mind being asleep the entire time, but he wants to rouse you, wants you to really feel it even if for a moment, but not yet.

Right now, he stretches your legs out, turning you on your back. You make no noise other than a content sigh. He smirks as he spreads your legs, lowering his mouth to his favorite place.

He plans to take his time. He has all the time in the world, after all. You’re sleeping soundly.

He mouths at your core over your panties, just barely silencing his own groan. That would be something, waking you up because he can’t keep himself in line. He can already hear the playful annoyance in your sleep-filled voice if that were to happen.

Returning to his task, he drinks you in as he likes, smothering your inner thighs in kisses, even leaving a love bite or two there. It’s a private, guilty pleasure you both have. He loves to leave marks, you love to have marks. But you’re both adults and you absolutely cannot be caught with a hickey at the courthouse.

So, he leaves them here. In a place where only the two of you can see. It wakes something primal in him, seeing the little reddened marks where he’s irritated the skin enough for a bruise to form later. He smooths his thumb over the spot, pressing. If you were awake, that would earn him a little squeak. Right now, all he hears are your even breaths.

He hooks a finger into your panties, pulling them to the side, nearly cursing aloud at how beautiful you are. He has to take a moment, just admiring, his thumb gently stroking you, and already glistening. He pops the digit into his mouth, eyes rolling at the taste. You’re addicting like nothing he has ever known.

He tests the waters some more, blowing onto your core, watching in awe as your body reacts instinctively, even in your sleep. It’s mesmerizing.

He can’t wait any longer, so he doesn’t try. He surges forward, finally tasting you, finally lifting your legs to rest over his shoulders. He relaxes into his favorite place, sucking gently on your clit before dipping his tongue inside you. You don’t even shift in your sleep.

He wonders, then, if he can make you cum like this. In your sleep.

Suddenly, and albeit selfishly, he wants to try.

He takes his time inserting a finger into you, watching as you take him in so easily. He adds a second right away, knowing how much you hate it when he teases you with just one. Your walls clench around him, but your heat envelops him, and he’s dizzy with it.

He circles your clit with his tongue as he thrusts his fingers, curling just slightly until you clench, your body telling him he’s found what he was searching for. And he doesn’t relent, only massages that spot inside as his mouth works outside. He adds a third finger, your body welcoming the stretch, pulling him in.

You shift, and he comes up for air, watching your face, but you don’t wake. You melt into the pillows as his fingers continue their pace.

Relieved in some twisted way, he returns to sucking your clit, doubling down, forcing you toward that edge. He almost thinks it won’t happen, that there’s no possible way you’ll climax and not wake up, until he feels those tell-tale spasms, and he knows you’re close.

He groans into you, knowing how that sends you over when you’re awake, and it works even now. Your walls clench around him, spasming through the shocks of your orgasm, and he doesn’t stop, milking out every last bit, wanting to drown in the way you taste, the way your body relents.

You’re a dream. He presses a loving kiss to your inner thigh, disbelief in his every breath. Gently, he removes his fingers, and tugs your panties down, tossing them to the floor. 

When he crawls back up the bed, you’re still sleeping soundly, but that won’t do.

He presses his erection into your hip, presses a kiss to your jaw, whispering, “Honey, I need you.”

+++

You’re floating on pure bliss. Dreams are rare these days, and dreams of Aaron are even rarer — which just feels rude, honestly. But this one. This one is the best you’ve ever had.

Only, you realize you aren’t dreaming at all. The sensations are real. The hot breath in your ear, the slick want between your thighs, the hard press of Aaron’s cock as he rocks against your hip.

But you’re so tired. You can’t bring your eyes to open. You barely have enough energy to turn toward him, to wrap an arm around his neck, toss your leg over his, pressing your core right against him. The growl he lets out is delicious.

The next thing you know, the boxers are no longer separating you, and the head of his cock is parting your lips. 

You sigh in content as he thrusts into you, hitting you so deep, staying there just to grind his hips into yours.

“Missed you,” you murmur, hands clumsily tugging on his hair to pull his lips to yours. He goes without protest, licking into your mouth and you gasp in surprise, tasting yourself. “Did you…?”

He smirks against your lips. “Did you know you can have an orgasm in your sleep?”

Your eyes fly open at that, vision adjusting in the dark, but it’s easy to see the smug look on Aaron’s face. And then he pulls his hips back, slamming into you again and causing your eyes to roll back. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, the words so gentle and soothing, a stark comparison to how brutal his pace and depth of his thrusts are. “Breathtaking. My sleeping beauty. Can you give me another one? Need to feel you again.”

You’re awake, but nowhere near alert enough to have any wits about you when he talks like that. You nod dumbly, rocking your hips in time with his, but your movements are sloppy, the pleasure rising at a blinding pace.

“Come on, honey,” he murmurs, capturing your lips again, his tongue searching for yours. “Just one more, then you can go back to sleep.”

Something about that does it for you. He thrusts as deep as he can go, and your body crashes, writhing against him as he holds you in place, grinding into you.

“There you go, so beautiful, honey,” he guides you through it, soaking up all of your little breathy moans.

But like every time when you have an orgasm (or two) when you’re already on the verge of sleep, your eyes are struggling to stay open.

“Aaron…” you whine, clinging to him. “Keep going.”

“Oh, I will, honey,” he chuckles, pressing a soothing kiss to your forehead before flipping you onto your back again, so he can hover over you. “You just sleep for me, okay?”

You nod, the action already taking too much of your energy as your eyelids slam closed and refuse to lift again. He moves inside you, slower now, just a gentle pace, lulling you back to sleep.

It doesn’t take long for him to spill inside of you, and you’re still somewhat conscious, given the happy little sigh he hears you let out when he cums inside you. You’ve always loved the feeling. 

Feeling wrecked, he slowly peels himself off of you, heading into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. When he returns, you’re back on your side, hugging his pillow again. He shushes you with gentle praise while he cleans you up before tucking you back in.

After cleaning himself and slipping boxers back on, the exhaustion hits him in full force, and he sleeps soundly with you tucked into his chest, clinging to him like a koala.

[pbaz7]

SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 3

paige x azzi

word count: 8k

a/n: this is just a chapter that moves their relationship forward a little so it’s honestly just random interactions they have. let me know what you think/live react if you can. they’re always appreciated 🫶🏼

—————————————————————————

Azzi had been back in LA for four days. The Sparks had already knocked out two games, and the schedule gave them a rare breath. One day off before flying out to Connecticut for a few road games. She’d been staring at her phone on and off all morning. Honestly she’d been thinking about texting Paige since she landed back in LA.

Azzi knew that if she didn’t reach out first Paige likely never would. So she kept flipping her phone screen up, then down. Eventually she sighed and grabbed her phone again. Her first message was just something simple.

Azzi [9:17AM]:

hi gorgeous

She didn’t expect a quick response, especially not from Paige. But her phone lit up almost immediately.

Paige [9:17 AM]:

wassup?

This made Azzi sit up a little straighter. She smiled and typed a response.

Azzi [9:17 AM]:

what are you up to today?

Paige [9:18 AM]:

got a training. then prolly going to workout

Azzi blinked, laughing under her breath.

Azzi [9:18 AM]:

you’re going to workout AFTER you’re done training?

Paige [9:18 AM]:

yeah

Of course she was. Azzi bit her lip, thumbs hovering as she debated what she wanted to say next. Finally, she decided to just be blunt.

Azzi [9:19 AM]:

i wanna see you today

if that’s ok with you

There was a short pause. Long enough to make Azzi regret sending it before Paige finally replied.

Paige [9:21 AM]:

you can come work out with me

Azzi [9:22 AM]:

it’s an off day

but i can come watch you workout

Paige [9:22 AM]:

watch me workout? seems boring

Azzi grinned as she typed her reply

Azzi [9:22 AM]:

i’m sure i’ll enjoy myself

Paige texted back a minute later.

Paige [9:23 AM]:

trainer’s coming at 10

i’ll probably start my workout around 12

Paige dropped a pin for her address and Azzi liked the message.

Azzi [9:24 AM]:

see you soon :)

As the morning stretched on, Azzi kept herself busy by stretching, having a little fruit, and scrolling. The clock felt like it was moving just a little slower than usual on purpose.

But when it finally got closer to the time she should leave, she took a shower and slipped on a pair of black Nike leggings and a black crop top. It was warm enough that the idea of her curls sticking to her neck made her grimace, so she pulled her hair up into a bun.

She glanced at herself once in the mirror, fixing her bun slightly before she grabbed her keys to head out the door.

When Azzi pulled up to the house, she eased into the driveway next to a matte black Audi R8 V10. Her eyes lingered on it for a second, slightly surprised.

She reached for her phone, debating whether to shoot Paige a quick text letting her know she was here. But she figured Paige was probably mid-set or hadn’t even checked her phone since this morning. So she opted for the side gate that she remembered going through with Cam and Rickea last time they were here.

The path curved around the backyard, and as she got closer to the gym she heard a voice calling out numbers and gloves hands hitting mitts with a constant rhythm. It sounded like Paige was still with her trainer so Azzi slowed her pace slightly, not wanting to interrupt.

Azzi stepped in slowly, the door creaking just enough to announce her presence. Paige and her trainer both instinctively turned toward the sound; Paige still breathing heavily, cloves resting at her sides, a grey shirt clinging to her skin.

The trainer looked confused, his eyes flicking to Paige silently asking if she was expecting someone but Paige didn’t react, only offering up, “I’ll be done in like ten minutes.”

Azzi gave her a soft smile saying, “No rush.” Azzi then made her way to the bench tucked along the side wall.

The trainer raised his padded hands again, and Paige turned back to him, nodding her head slightly, telling him to continue.

“1-1-2,” he called out.

Paige’s gloves snapped forward in a quick rhythm of two jabs and a cross.

“1-2-3.”

Another jab, cross, lead hook. It all seemed so crisp. Paige reacted to the combos like they had been engraved in her brain.

“6-3-2.”

The uppercut she threw landed with enough force to make her trainer shift his stance. He didn’t comment on it, just nodded in silent praise.

Azzi leaned back against the bench, watching the rest of Paige’s training unfold. Paige’s grey shirt was soaked through the back, and her blonde hair was tied into a messy bun. There was no music playing and no unnecessary chatter. Azzi’s eyes tracked every one of Paige’s movements. The way her back foot pivoted, how she snapped back into guard after each hit. How her shoulders moved with fluidity. Her breathing steady even as sweat rolled down the side of her jaw.

She looked beautiful like this and Azzi couldn’t help but feel a little in awe of watching her in her element.

The trainer called for a sidekick and Paige turned her hips and threw it hard—maybe a little too hard. Her foot hit the pad and forced her trainer to take a small step back, wincing with a quick laugh.

“Alright, yeah,” he said, shaking her head. “We’re done for the day.”

Paige’s face didn’t change much. She just exhaled through her nose, taking a step back and uncleaning her fists. She mumbled out, “My bad,” before moving to step out of the cage.

She walked toward the bench, tugging at the velcro on her gloves as Azzi sat up straighter, trying not to let it show how much she’d been staring.

Paige peeled the gloves off her hands and tossed them onto the bench next to Azzi. She stepped forward, reaching just past her, close enough that Azzi caught the faint scene to sweat and whatever soap Paige used. Her arm brushed Azzi’s shoulder lightly as she grabbed a half-empty bottle of water.

Paige twisted the cap off and took a long swig before glancing down at Azzi. “What’d you think?”

Azzi looked up at her, a small smile on her lips. “You look good.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, “I was talking about my form Azzi.”

Azzi shrugged, a little sheepish, but she still had a smile on her face. “I mean…I don’t know anything about fighting. But you hit stuff really well and you look good doing it.”

Paige just stared at her for a second, jaw flexing before she finally shook her head and took a step back, mumbling under her breath, “Jesus Christ.”

Azzi stood up, brushing invisible lint off her leggings as she took a step toward Paige. The blonde had her fingers hooked at the hem of her wet shirt tugging it upward over her torso. Her abs flexed briefly with her movements and her skin glistened under the overhead lights. She let her gaze linger, just for a second too long and Paige caught it. She paused halfway through pulling her shirt over her head saying, “Enjoying the show?”

Azzi’s eyes lift up to meet Paige’s blue ones. At the same time she bites her bottom lip a little saying, “Like I said, you definitely look good.”

Paige yanks the shirt off the rest of the way. “That right?”

Brown eyes drop to pale collarbones and abs before rising. “That’s right.”

Paige shakes her head with a quiet chuckle and glances somewhere else in the gym. “You flirt like you get paid to do it.”

Azzi grinned at this. “Could be if you hired me.”

That made Paige glance over at her again, a slight sparkle in her eye. “What’s the job description?”

Azzi pretended to think about it for a second before saying, “Motivational speaker. Personal admirer maybe. Really depends on what you like.”

Paige took another sip of her water, maybe trying to hide the small curve at the edge of her mouth. “You’re a little ridiculous, you know that?”

Azzi shrugged, “You’re not telling me to stop, so maybe you like it.”

Paige looked at her, like really looked, then just briefly her eyes flicked from Azzi’s face to her lips, the back again. If Azzi wasn’t paying attention she wouldn’t have caught it, but she did and she licked her lips slightly to stop the smirk. Paige finally said, “I told you, You can flirt if it floats your boat.”

“It does.”

They stood in the stillness of Azzi’s words for a second and the air between them seemed to get a little thick before Paige looked away, tipping her head toward the weights. “Spot me?”

Azzi didn’t take her eyes off of Paige as she nodded. “Mhmm.”

Paige walked over to the bench press, grabbing a towel and throwing it over the bench before sitting down. Azzi trailed after her slowly, watching every movement.

“You can’t spot me if you’re just going to stare,” Paige said plainly.

Azzi smiled, completely unapologetic about her blatant staring. “You’ll be fine.”

Paige scoffed softly, then laid back and adjusted her grip on the bar. Azzi stepped in behind her, hovering above the bar now. Paige exhaled deeply and began her set, the bar rising and falling easily. Azzi counted under her breath, but somewhere around rep five, her eyes began to drift from Paige’s shoulders to her chest down to her tight abs on display.

By the eight rep, Paige racked the bar cleanly and sat up. She caught Azzi’s gaze. “Thought you were spotting me.”

Azzi blinked, adding a sarcastic comment to recover. “Seems like you didn’t need one.”

Paige wiped her face with the towel. “I didn’t. I was humoring you.”

Azzi grinned. “That’s sweet. Most people take me seriously though.”

Paige took a long sip of water, then looked at her again. “That might be the problem.”

Azzi tilted her head at this. “You don’t?”

Paige met her gaze. “I didn’t say that.”

Azzi let the moment hang, the tension rising in the space between them.

Paige looked away, putting her water bottle back on the floor. “I’m doing another set.”

Azzi stepped back slightly, eyes still on her. “Don’t let me distract you.”

Paige shook her head as she laid back down, gripping the bar mumbling, “Little late for that.”

She moved through the rest of her push day easily, not pushing herself too hard. Doing just enough to keep her muscles active. Azzi lingered close by during each exercise, standing near Paige, sitting on the edge of the bench, or crouched nearby, offering jokes to distract the blonde on purpose.

“Your shoulders are actually kind of crazy,” Azzi said at one point when Paige set down her dumbbells. “You could do all of this and still have energy to carry me upstairs.”

Paige shook her head, biting back a laugh as she grabbed her towel. “You got a crazy ass imagination.”

“Not crazy,” Azzi responded, walking with Paige to her next station. “Just optimistic.”

There were more lines like that. Compliments tossed out like bait knowing Paige would bite on some of them. For the most part Paige deflected with a dry comment or a simple raised eyebrow, but Azzi noticed the few that landed. The slight lift at the corner of Paige’s mouth, the way she’d glance down at her feet or take a deep breath before moving on.

Eventually the workout wrapped up and Paige was rolling out her shoulders and stretching on one of her mats. Her arms were crossed behind her back in a deep chest opener. Azzi had been quiet for the past couple of minutes, as she watched Paige stretch in peace.

“You always dissociate like this when you’re done working out? Azzi asked as she stepped closer to Paige.

“Only when somebody’s staring at me like they’re tryna eye fuck me and I gotta pretend like I don’t see it.” Paige replied, keeping her eyes forward.

Azzi smiled at this and said, “I’m just appreciating the view.”

Paige turned her head, catching the way Azzi’s gaze wasn’t on her face, her eyes resting on the exposed skin just above her waistband. Now don’t get her wrong, Azzi wasn’t desperate by any means. She just knew what her gaze did, knew how to play the game right. So when she saw Paige looking at her she stepped closer, the two of them face to face and her hand lifted, her fingers lightly grazing the lining of Paiges stomach muscles, her eyes moving up to see the blonde’s reaction.

Paige’s jaw looked clenched and her eyes locked onto Azzi’s. For a moment it didn’t feel like the blonde was breathing. The contact was so light that it could’ve been imagined, but Paige felt it and it made her all too aware of how long it had been since she’d gotten laid.

Azzi let her fingers drop away, brushing her hand back as if nothing happened. “Did I tell you that you look good already?”

Paige didn’t say anything right away. She just kept her gaze on Azzi’s face, then drifted her eyes to Azzi’s lips before she broke it, looking past her, toward the other end of the gym like she needed to redirect her thoughts before they got ahead of her.

“You hungry?” Paige asked.

Azzi didn’t move at first, still watching Paige’s reaction before she finally stepped back, a small smile returning to her face. “I could eat.”

Paige nodded, breathing out through her nose as if Azzi stepping back gave her enough space to focus again. “Cool,” she said, bending down to reach for her towel. “Gimme a few to shower?”

Azzi just nodded as she walked over to grab her phone and keys from the bench.

Paige hesitated before she added, “You can come in if you want. Chill in the living room or whatever.”

“Yeah, sure,” Azzi said as she brushed her fingers through her hair, redoing her bun as they walked out of the gym together.

Paige flipped off the lights before shutting the door behind them. The early afternoon sun had warmed the path between Paige’s gym and the house and neither one of them spoke as they made their way across it.

Once they were inside Paige gestured down the hall. “Living room’s right through there. Think the remote’s on the couch.”

Azzi gave her a short nod and she watched as the blonde undid her bun and ran a hand through her damp hair before disappearing around the corner to head upstairs. There was something so effortlessly magnetic about her that Azzi couldn’t put her finger on.

She made her way into the living room, her footsteps soft against the wooden floors. She sank into the large cream colored couch, her body easily relaxing into the soft cushions as her gaze drifted around the space. The house was a modern Beverly hills home but it didn’t feel cold or unlived in.

There was a massive flat screen TV that was mounted on the fart wall with a PS5 mounted next to it. The TV was tucked between two tall shelves that held a mix of items. Some shelves were stacked with books while others had completed LEGO sets lined up and vinyls for a record player that sat nearby.

There was a collection of picture frames and Azzi leaned forward slightly, squinting to see them better from where she sat. A few of the pictures had Cam in them, the two of them in various settings: on a court, at what looked like a dinner, one with their arms slung around each other when they were younger at what looked like a family function. Other frames held what Azzi assumed was other family members. One picture showed Paige with a little girl on her back, both of them laughing.

Azzi’s eyes trailed to the large floor length curtained windows. Sunlight pressing softly against the cream fabric casting muted lines on the floor. The space felt personal.

She passed the time by scrolling on her phone, mindlessly switching between her apps. Azzi wasn’t sure of how much time had gone by when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs and when she looked up Paige was back. She was dressed in black Essentials sweats and a fitted black tank top.

Azzi’s eyes took in her appearance before she smiled. “You love showing off your arms, huh?”

“We live in L.A.”

Azzi laughed softly as Paige walked fully into the living room and sat on the couch, leaning her weight against the armrest.

“You smell good.”

Normally, Paige would’ve brushed it off, letting the comment go unaddressed. This time she glanced at Azzi and offered a small, “Thank you.”

Azzi was momentarily caught off guard by the acknowledgement. She was used to Paige ignoring her compliments at this point.

Paige leaned back further into the couch, letting her arm drape over the edge. “You have a preference? Food-wise?”

Azzi gave her a look. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one who just worked out for, like, three and a half hours.”

Paige shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I already started cutting.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Cutting?”

Paige nodded, resting her phone against her thigh. “Yeah. I gotta drop back to 135.”

Azzi’s forehead creased, her confusion and curiosity reflexive. “What are you now?”

“I’m naturally like 140, 141,” Paige said. “Gotta be 135 at most for the fight tho.”

Azzi tilted her head, still confused. “Alright potential stupid question…why drop weight? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just fight at whatever weight you’re naturally at?”

Paige raised her eyebrows a little, clearly used to this question. “It doesn’t really work like that. Most fighters cut weight to compete in a lower class. Fighting up means you're probably giving up a lot of size, reach, strength. It’s doable, but you’re at a disadvantage most of the time.” Paige pauses before adding, “Think about it like me for example. I’m 141 dropping to 135. If I fought at 145 I’d prolly be fighting someone who’s naturally 151 dropping to 145. So they’d have 10 pounds on me naturally.”

“So 135 is...what weight class?” Azzi asked, shifting a little closer on the couch.

“Bantamweight,” Paige answered , taking a sip of water. “I can fight at featherweight too if I want—that’s 145. But most of the top girls in that division walk around way heavier than I do.”

Azzi nodded. “So you’ll drop, weigh in at 135, and then go back up?”

“Pretty much. It’s a game. Make weight, rehydrate, eat. You just hope the cut doesn’t drain you too much. It’s why I start earlier.”

Azzi’s eyes drifted away, still trying to wrap her head around the new information. “That sounds crazy. And the weigh-in is right before the fight?”

Paige shook her head. “Nah, usually the day before. Gives you time to recover a little.”

“So how many classes are there in the UFC?”

“For women? Four main ones. Strawweight, Flyweight, Bantamweight, and Featherweight,” Paige listed off easily. “Each one’s got killers. Every class plays out a little different depending on size and speed.”

Azzi glanced over at her. “You really know all this off the top of your head?”

Paige nodded. “I live it.”

Azzi smiled, letting the quiet admiration show on her face. “You know this is probably the most you’ve talked since we met, right?”

Paige glanced at her. “It’s easy to talk about.”

Azzi shifted again slightly on the couch, turning her body more toward Paige. “Yeah. I can tell it means a lot to you.”

Paige leaned her head back against the cushion before looking over. “It does.”

The room settled into a soft pause before Azzi nudged her knee lightly against Paige’s. “You just wanna order something?”

Paige glanced down at the slight contact before saying, “Up to you.”

Azzi grinned. “Dangerous last words.”

Paige shrugged, letting her arm drape over the back of the couch. “I trust you…Kinda.”

Azzi gave her a mock-offended look. “Kinda?”

“Let’s see what you pick first.”

Paige tossed her phone toward Azzi, who grabbed it from the couch cushion it landed on. She tucked her legs underneath her and began scrolling through DoorDash, her eyes scanning for something that caught her attention.

After a few minutes, she made a satisfied noise, picked something for herself and handed the phone back. “This one.”

Paige looked down at the screen, reading the choice. Her expression didn’t change as she glanced back up at Azzi. “You’re disgusting.”

Azzi laughed, unbothered. “God forbid an athlete tries to eat healthy.”

Paige shook her head, muttering under her breath as she navigated the app. “This isn’t healthy. It’s a crime.”

“I like what I like,” Azzi said with a big smile, clearly amused by Paige’s distaste.

Paige ended up ordering a BLTA for herself and then locked the phone, tossing it aside on the cushion. “I no longer trust you to pick a meal.”

Azzi smirked. “Shouldn’t have handed me your phone.”

Paige let out a soft huff of a laugh and leaned back again. “Mistakes were clearly made.”

Azzi mirrored Paige’s position, tilting her head back to rest against the back of the couch as she watched the side of Paige’s face. “So,” she said casually, “what do you usually do when you have people over?”

Paige didn’t glance over. “I don’t.”

“Like…ever?”

“Not really.” Paige said, tilting her head to look over at Azzi for a second. “Too much effort and they never know when to leave.”

Azzi smirked. “Sounds like you’ve had some interesting guests.”

Paige huffed out a quiet laugh. “I’ve had…mistakes.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Mistakes?” Her tone was light, but there was an edge of curiosity in it. “You don’t do the whole casual thing?”

Paige shook her head. “Too much of a distraction. Not worth the trouble at the end of the day.”

Azzi tilted her head, studying her. “So what I’m hearing is that it’s just never been good enough?”

Paige's eyes stayed forward. “I didn’t say that.”

“If it was good enough, it’d be worth the trouble.”

Paige let out a laugh—more air than sound—but her face didn’t change. “You’re real confident for someone making a lot of assumptions.”

Azzi shrugged, eyes never leaving Paige. “You make it easy. You talk like someone who’s been disappointed one too many times.”

Paige let the comment hang in the air, deciding not to comment on it. “Tell me about you,” she said casually.

Azzi lifted her eyebrow. “What do you wanna know?”

Paige didn’t blink. “Whatever you wanna tell.”

So Azzi decides to talk to Paige about basketball. She shifted as she spoke, animated in a way Paige hadn’t seen before. Her hands moved when she talked about her parents, her eyes lighting up when she described the chaos of the backyard drills and unconventional training days—the time her mom saran wrapped her right arm to make her left better. Paige listened, barely speaking, but her expressions—however small—gave her away. A faint smirk at the saran wrap story, subtle eye contact at the ACL details, a quiet nod when Azzi described the mental weight of the recovery.

When Azzi got to the part about winning a championship, her voice softened just a little, like the memory carried a kind of stillness in her heart. “It made everything feel worth it,” she said, gaze lingering on the wall for a moment before glancing back at Paige. “Every surgery, every rehab session…all of it.”

Before Paige could respond, the doorbell rang. She stood up to grab the food, muttering something about “terrible timing” that earned a smile from Azzi. She sat back down, gave Azzi her food and they started to eat as the conversation picked up again. This time with Paige asking more, drawing Azzi out on certain moments, adding dry comments here and there that made Azzi laugh. Comments that made Azzi glance at her like she was trying to figure her out in a new way.

After she grew tired of talking about herself Azzi finished a bite of her sandwich and asked, “What about you? What made you get into fighting?” She knew the basics from Cam, how Paige’s dad had introduced her to the sport. Still, she wanted to hear it from Paige herself.

Paige glanced at her, wiping her hands on a napkin before leaning back against the couch. She didn’t answer right away, her eyebrows moving very slightly as she thought about what to say.

“I’m sure Cam’s told you I can be a bit…” she trailed off, lips tugging to the side as she searched for the right word. “Ill-tempered sometimes.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, amused more by Paige’s dry delivery than the admission itself. “That’s one way to put it.”

Paige chuckled slightly, her gaze dropping to the space between them. “My dad noticed it early on. Instead of riding me about it or trying to fix it the way most parents might, he found me something I could throw it into. Said I needed an outlet. Fighting made the most sense.”

Azzi nodded, chewing slowly as she took the information in. “Where’d the ‘ill-temperament’ come from?”

Paige was quiet for a moment but her posture or expression didn’t change. “When I was younger, my parents used to argue a lot. I’m talking loud, ugly shit. Eventually they split. I think I was around fourteen. Fifteen maybe.” She cleared her throat like it might push away the weight of the memory. “I was pissed at my mom for a while for leaving. Didn’t matter that it was probably the right choice or that she was doing the best she could. At that age, anger sort of…replaces any logic.”

Azzi didn’t interrupt, just turned more toward her as she listened.

“We’re good now though…really good, actually. But back then? I was just mad. At everything. Fighting gave me somewhere to put it.”

Paige leaned her head back against the cushion again, eyes moving up toward the ceiling for a second. “I don’t know why I still got a temper now, honestly. Maybe I just got hit in the head too many times.”

To her surprise, Azzi let out a soft laugh before adding, “You probably shouldn’t joke about that,” giving Paige a playful nudge with her knee.

Paige smirked faintly, the corner of her mouth twitching as she glanced at her. “I’ll live.”

Azzi raised her eyebrow, but her smile lingered. “Sure. Just don’t start forgetting things mid-conversation and we’ll be good.”

“I do that already,” Paige deadpanned, reaching for her water. “So if I forget your name tomorrow, don’t take it personal.”

Azzi tilted her head, grinning. “I’ll just remind you. Over and over and over.”

Paige gave her a sideways look shaking her head a little.

Azzi leaned her head back against the couch, eyes scanning Paige’s face. “You feel ready for the fight?”

Paige exhaled through her nose, arms folding loosely across her stomach. “No,” she admitted. “But I got two and a half weeks to be ready.”

Azzi tilted her head with genuine curiosity. “What makes you not ready?”

Paige shifted, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her water bottle. “Still gotta drop a few more pounds,” she said, then added, “And I’ve only watched a couple of her fights. I don’t have a feel for her tells yet.”

“Why aren’t you watching more then?”

Paige glanced over, adding dryly. “You’re here.”

Azzi gave a one-shouldered shrug, the corner of her mouth twitching. “We can watch it.”

There was a small stretch of silence before Paige asked, “You sure?” Searching Azzi’s face like she didn’t expect the offer.

Azzi nodded once. “Yeah.”

Paige grabbed the remote from the coffee table, her voice a little quiet as she said, “Bet,” before turning on the TV. A beat passed before she pulled up the fight footage, scrolling through a few thumbnails before selecting one.

They watched in near silence, the commentary barely registering as Paige sat forward, forearms resting on her thighs, eyes locked on the screen like she was studying a puzzle no one else could solve. The glow of the TV danced against her features, her a little jaw tense. Expression completely unreadable.

Every so often, Azzi would ask a question. Sometimes pointing at something, sometimes just tilting her head in confusion and Paige would answer, not unkindly, but with the same flat focus she gave the fight. Her replies were short, sometimes dry, offering, “No, that’s not a choke.” Or, “That’s awful footwork, she’s baiting herself.” But she never ignored Azzi, never brushed her off which didn’t go unnoticed by the brown eyed girl. If anything, she kept rewinding the footage as if each question helped her think differently.

Paige replayed one sequence three times in a row. “She drops her left every time she throws a hook,” she mumbled more to herself than to Azzi, gesturing with the remote. “Wide open for a counter.”

Azzi nodded slowly, starting to follow the things Paige was explaining to her. At one point she squinted at the fighter in question. “Why does she drop her hands when she lands?” she asked after a few seconds.

Paige blinked over at her. “What?”

Azzi pointed at the screen, her voice reflecting her curiosity. “Right after she hits clean, like you call it. She does this little—" she mimicked it, “—like, a half shrug or flex.”

Paige narrowed her eyes and rewound the clip, watching it again. Going back to other timeframes where she remembered a hit landing. The girl would land a crazy combo and sure enough, right after a hook. There was a split-second drop of her hands, almost like a flash of her arrogance, a cocky shoulder roll.

Paige stared for a moment, then tilted her head in complete confusion at something so obvious. “…What the fuck,” she whispered, almost too low for Azzi to hear. “That’s a rhythm break.”

Azzi smiled slightly at the thought of helping Paige a little

Paige didn’t say anything right away, she just rewound and played the moment back a few more times, in disbelief. “It’s so fucking obvious that I didn’t even see that. That’s...that’s stupid, but it’s useful.” She sat back slightly, her eyebrows raised in thought. “She’s gonna eat a hook doing that shit.”

Azzi leaned her head against the couch, watching Paige more than the screen now. “Guess I’m good for something.”

Paige didn’t look over, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Remind me to bring you to film more often.”

Azzi smiled at that, but didn’t respond. Instead, she let the silence settle between them again, the commentary of the fight filling the space. Paige suddenly exhaled and sank back into the couch, her posture finally relaxing.

“You always like this before a fight?” Azzi asked softly, not necessarily teasing her, just curious about getting to know her mannerisms.

Paige glanced over at her, her eyes more reflective than defensive. “I don’t know. Guess I just get quiet. Try to lock in.”

Azzi nodded. “You’re intense.”

“Takes one to know one.”

That made Azzi laugh, but it was quieter this time. She shifted to face Paige fully, resting her arm on the back of the couch behind her. “You ever get scared?”

Paige’s eyes moved back to the screen, then down to her hands resting on her thighs. “Not of getting hit,” she said eventually. “I trained too long for that. I’m more afraid of...not being good enough. Not being who I expect myself to be.”

The room went a little still after that. Not in a bad way, just honest.

Azzi’s voice dropped, almost hesitant to break the moment. “That’s a lot to carry.”

Paige gave a small nod, the flicker of an emotion crossing her face. “Yeah.”

Azzi’s fingers moved, brushing along the back of the couch, close to Paige’s shoulder but not touching her. “Well,” she said after a moment, “for what it’s worth…you’re one of the few people I’ve ever watched and thought, ‘yeah, she’s doing exactly what she’s supposed to be doing.’”

Paige turned her head to look at her and their eyes met for a moment. Almost like Paige was studying Azzi. When she finally spoke her voice was low, “You don’t even like fighting.”

Azzi tilted her head. “No. But I kinda like you so.”

The shift in their positioning was subtle. A slight lean of Azzi’s body toward hers, and the way Paige didn’t pull back. Just sat there, watching her like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with what she was thinking, but she wasn’t going to stop it either.

Paige’s gaze lingered on her for a second longer before drifting back to the screen. “You’re easy to be around.”

Azzi blinked, caught off guard by the words and by how Paige said them. Almost like they hadn’t meant to come out, or like she’d practiced saying them in her head but couldn’t bring herself to look at Azzi when she said them.

Azzi smiled softly and teased Paige a little saying, “That was sweet.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Paige added dryly, trying to wrap humor around something that wasn’t really a joke.

“Too late.”

Paige didn’t say anything back—not because she didn’t have a response, but because that was her response.

After a while, the room settled into another comfortable stillness, broken only by the occasional shifting of weight on the couch as they talked. But outside, the sun started to disappear and Azzi glanced at her phone, sighing as she sat up slightly.

“I should go. I gotta be up early. Flight to Connecticut tomorrow.”

Paige didn’t say anything right away, just watched Azzi. “Who you play?”

“Connecticut. Then the Mystics, and the Sky before we come back.”

Paige nodded slowly. “I’ll watch.”

Azzi grinned at this. “You will?”

Paige just looked at her with that same unreadable expression. “Yeah.”

They walked out together, the air cooler than what it was earlier in the day. When they got to Azzi’s car, she opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, but didn’t start the engine right away as she looked back at Paige, whose hand was resting on the door handle.

“I’ll text you,” Azzi said softly..

Paige gave a small nod. “Alright.” She hesitated for half a second, then gently pushed the car door closed for her.

Azzi lingered behind the window for just a moment, gaze meeting Paige’s again through the glass. Then she gave a small wave before turning on the car and shifting into reverse.

Paige stood near her car and watched Azzi disappear down the path.

…

For the first few days of Azzi’s road trip, they stayed in touch. Not constantly, but enough to be in the loop of one another’s day. Enough to miss it when it started to fade.

They would exchange texts after workouts or games, quick check-ins.

Azzi [12:19 PM]:

almost broke my ankle on a mop left on the court during shoot around

wanna come fight the janitor for me?

Paige [12:21 PM]:

i’ll pull up

being gloves for both of us

Another time after Paige had just finished sparring.

Paige [1:23 PM]:

heads still attached..barely

how’s your shot today?

Azzi [1:40 PM]:

clean. unlike your footwork probably

They even shared a call on the third night. Azzi had dialed on a whim, not expecting much. But Paige answered, the background noise of her gym speakers still playing music behind her voice.

“You’re still there?” Azzi asked, settling back in her hotel bed.

“Yeah,” Paige replied, slightly breathless. “Didn’t think you were the type to call.”

“Didn’t think you’d answer,” Azzi shot back, but the smile in her voice gave her away.

They talked for fifteen minutes—about nothing, really. Just talked.

But by the fifth and sixth day, Paige had gone quiet.

No text. No post-training recap. No response when Azzi sent her something from her game.

It was like she’d disappeared from the face of the earth.

Currently the cabin buzzed faintly with the quiet hum of the team plane and the occasional shuffle of movement from teammates. Azzi sat in her seat, her legs stretched out in front of her and her phone resting on her thigh, screen blank.

Across the aisle, Cam noticed the shift in her energy, even before Azzi pulled her headphones off.

“Hey,” Azzi said, her voice a little quiet to not disturb anyone else as she leaned over. “You heard from Paige?”

Cam looked up from the tablet she was watching film on. “Yeah talked to her a couple of days ago. Why?”

Azzi gave a small shrug, too casual to be real. “Just wondering. Haven’t really heard from her the past few days.”

Cam studied her expression for a moment. Head tilting and eyes narrowing like she was trying to read something off Azzi’s face. “You guys been talking?”

Azzi hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah a little.”

Cam’s expression softened—not into pity, but something close. Like she understood something Azzi wasn’t saying yet. She glanced at Azzi’s phone, then back at her.

“I told you she gets like this sometimes,” she offered gently. “Goes quiet. Especially when she’s locked in. Fight’s in a little over a week.”

Azzi nodded again, slower this time. “Yeah,” she murmured, her gaze drifting out the window, even though the clouds outside were too high and white to offer her anything.

“Since you can’t pop up at her house like I’d usually suggest…just call her when we get to the hotel tonight.”

Azzi let out a short breath, more of a quiet exhale than anything. “I’ve already text her a few times.”

“She probably hasn’t even seen them,” Cam told her. “She keeps her call ringer on, but turns off notifications for messages ”

Azzi nodded at that, letting the information settle.

Cam studied her for another moment. Then she smiled a little wide. “You like her, don’t you?”

Azzi blinked, her eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

“I thought you were fucking around before. Just attracted to her like everyone else,” Cam said. “But you actually like her.”

Azzi didn’t answer nor look at her right away. Her fingers tapped her phone once before going still in her lap. There wasn’t a need for her to say it out loud. But still she looked at Cam and said quietly, “Yeah. I do.”

Cam surpassingly didn’t tease her. She just nodded, like she understood the small weight of Azzi saying that. Then she went back to watching film on her iPad and Azzi went back to listening to music.

When they landed and Azzi got settled into her hotel room, she sat on the edge of the bed, her phone in hand. Cam’s words echoed in her head, and for a minute, she just stared at the screen, thumb hovering over Paige’s name in her recent contacts. She sighed before she tapped the call button.

It rang three times before a slightly breathless voice came through. “Hey.”

Azzi smiled faintly when she heard her voice. “Hi, stranger.”

“I’m sorry,” Paige said, her voice still a little uneven, the background music muffled but noticeable.

Azzi’s eyebrows pinched together slightly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing just hitting,” she muttered.

Azzi pulled the screen back just long enough to glance at the time. “At 11 at night?”

“Yeah,” Paige said simply, her voice a little distant again like she’d pulled the phone away or was pacing.

It went quiet between them for a moment. Then Paige’s voice cut through more clipped than usual. “You need something?”

Azzi got a little tense at the tone, recognizing the edge in it but choosing not to meet it with her own. “You went a little MIA the past two days.”

There was another pause. Azzi could almost hear Paige slowing down on the other end, just slightly. But the silence stretched for so long it made Azzi think maybe Paige hadn’t heard her

But then—“I’m sorry,” Paige said again, a little softer this time. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Azzi shook her head, adjusting the phone against her ear as she sank back into the pillows. “What’s going on?”

The other end of the line went quiet again, just the faint sound of Paige’s breathing which was slower now, like she’d finally stopped moving. Azzi waited patiently.

Then came a low exhale. “Just been in my head too much.”

Azzi let the silence stretch for a second before asking gently, “You wanna talk about it?”

There was a dry laugh from Paige. “Not much to talk about.”

“You’re in your head, aren’t you?” Azzi challenged her.

The silence that followed gave Azzi her the answer. She shifted again, pulling the hotel comforter over her legs. “What are you in your head about?”

It took Paige a few seconds to respond, but when she did, her voice was quieter than usual.

“No matter how ready you feel,” she said, “there’s still the nerves...the slight fear of stepping in the cage with somebody whose only goal is beating your ass. Knock you out if they can.”

Azzi nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips when she realized Paige was opening up. She could still hear Paige’s slight breathlessness on the other end of the line, could picture her wiping sweat from her forehead, standing somewhere in the middle of the gym, hands probably still wrapped.

"On the bright side,” Azzi said lightly, “that’s your goal too, right? Just beat her ass first.”

Paige huffed out a quiet laugh, the first genuine one Azzi had heard all call. “Fair.”

A beat passed, then Azzi asked, more seriously this time, “Does this one feel any different?”

“No, not really,” she said slowly. “I just know she’s arrogant. Got something to prove, so she’s gonna come in heavy. Probably try to make it a statement match.”

Azzi leaned back against the headboard, her eyes tracing the soft lines in the hotel ceiling. “Then just remind yourself of who you are. Of how you said you don’t step in there unless you know you’re walking out.”

There was a small pause on the other end—then a subtle shift in Paige’s breathing. The heaviness that had stuck to her voice since answering the call started to fall away.

“Yeah,” Paige said, her voice steadier now. “You’re right.”

Azzi smiled faintly. “So if you know who you are and what you can do…what’s going on?”

Paige took a long breath before replying. “Before every fight, you gotta get over that hump,” she admitted. “That mindset of knowing one hit…just one hit…could change your life forever. One hit hard enough, and it’s lights out.”

Azzi didn’t jump in to comment right away. She let the truth of the words settle between them, the weight of what Paige said. But she didn’t sound scared, she sounded like someone who knew the risks and still loved what she did.

Azzi shifted slightly under the covers, cradling the phone closer to her ear. Her voice was calm, like she didn’t want to spook whatever Paige was still untangling in her chest.

“What else?” she asked softly. “What else is in your head?”

Paige was quiet again, but it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t guarded this time—more like she was sifting through the noise, trying to find the right thread to pull on.

“…Just feels like a lot,” she said eventually. “The weight of being perfect. The expectations of staying undefeated. The pressure to show up like I’m bulletproof. The discipline it takes everyday. The diet. The sleep. The timing. You miss one thing and it shows. People think it’s just stepping in the cage and fighting but it’s not. It’s everything leading up to it that’s draining.”

Azzi nodded, even though Paige couldn’t see her. “Do you feel ready? Not physically, I mean. Mentally.”

“Some moments I do. Other moments I’m sitting in the gym at midnight because I convinced myself I’m behind.”

“But you’re not.”

“No,” Paige admitted. “I’m not. But that doesn’t stop my brain from trying to tell me I am.”

Azzi hummed quietly. “That voice’s a bitch.”

Paige let out a surprised laugh at that. “Yeah. She is.”

Azzi’s voice was even gentler now as she asked, “What does she say?”

“That I’m not sharp enough yet. That I’m going to slip. That my timing’s off. That I don’t have it in me to push myself for the next week. That if I lose, it’s over.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Some days.” A short pause. “Other days, I just fight back harder.”

Azzi laid her head back, letting the silence stretch naturally. “You’re fighting it now, aren’t you?”

Paige didn’t respond for a moment. Then she offered up a quiet, “…Yeah.”

Azzi’s voice grew, steady as ever. “Good. Because she doesn’t know who the fuck she’s talking to.”

Paige opened and closed her mouth, like the words were fighting their way out of her. Then finally, she said, “Thanks…for this.”

Azzi blinked, her eyes still on the ceiling. “For what?”

“For listening. Letting me talk,” Paige whispered. “I’ve never really talked about this before.”

Azzi turned her head toward the phone. “Why not?”

Paige let out a faint breath. “Because if I told Cam, or anyone in my family…it’d just scare them. Make them worry even more than they already do. Everyone’s already on edge when I fight. If they knew what goes on in my head before it? It’d eat at them.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away. She just listened and as the silence stretched, Paige took it as permission to keep going.

Her voice was quiet, but steady. “It’s not that I don’t trust them. I do, with my life. But it’s different when you’re the one in it. I don’t need someone to freak out for me. I just need…I don’t know. I guess I just need someone to sit with it without freaking out. Like you’re doing now.”

Azzi’s chest tightened a little. The sincerity in Paige’s voice, the vulnerability she was showing was rare. It made her want to reach through her phone and be there in person for this conversation. “I get that,” Azzi said quietly. “And I don’t mind sitting with it if it helps you.”

There was a soft rustling on the other end, like Paige had finally sat down somewhere. Azzi smiled and said, “Now, drag yourself out of the gym.”

Paige gave a quiet, amused sound. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Azzi teased. “Go put together one of those half-finished LEGO sets you were complaining about.”

Paige snorted. “They’re not half-finished, they’re…momentarily paused.”

“Mmhm,” Azzi said, clearly unconvinced. “Well pause the self-destruction and do something that doesn’t involve you punching a bag all night for once.”

Paige laughed a little but didn’t argue. “Alright. I’ll go build something.”

“You better,” Azzi said, already smiling. “And send me a picture of it so I know you didn’t just crawl in bed with a protein shake and call it a night.”

“You know me too well,” Paige mumbled.

“I’m starting to,” Azzi replied, smiling to herself in the empty hotel room in the middle of Chicago.

As the quiet between them settled into something calmer, Paige’s voice came through again. “Hey…I’m sorry again for going MIA. I just—” She gathers her thoughts. “I should’ve said something,” she added. “You played great the other day, by the way.”

Azzi sat up a little, caught off guard by the statement. “You watched it?”

There was the faintest smile in Paige’s voice when she answered and God Azzi wished she could see it in person. “I did.”

That single admission settled something in Azzi. She pressed further into the pillows and closed her eyes. “Goodnight, Paige.”

“Goodnight, Azzi.”

The call ended, but the quiet lingered in Azzi’s room. Different now, almost warmer. Like something small had changed between them after the call.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── EVEN WHEN IT'S HARD... ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka the one where even when it's hard...sim jaeyun will always choose you.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 1.1k ⌗ angst angst ANGST, reader is a lil self-sabotaging, jakey gets v v sad :(, but then comfort, reassurance, & fluff<3

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hello pls don't be mad at me for this one,,,decided to throw another angsty one into the mix because once again─i really wanna make this series realistic and i totally see yn still getting into her own head every now & then. and it's totally normal & realistic for couples to have lil moments of miscommunication and i feel like this is how jake would handle it :') bc at the end of the day, he will always choose yn...

You don’t even know how you got here.

It probably started small.

Something barely noticeable—something as small as a mere thought in the back of your head. A flicker of doubt—the kind that’s been fading, slowly but surely, over time.

But still lingers.

Like a crack in glass you don’t notice until the whole thing shatters.

Maybe it was a comment.

A look.

Maybe the restaurant you recommended but it ended up being mediocre.

The too-long silence during the drive back home from dinner.

And now here you are.

Standing in the middle of your living room, your bag still half-slung off your shoulder, while Jake stands from across the space—watching you with his arms limp at his side, a pout on his lips, confused and concerned, like he doesn’t know what’s happening.

And you don’t even remember what you said.

Only the way Jake’s face fell.

The way his shoulders sank immediately, like something slipped through his fingers and he didn’t even realize he was holding it.

The way he blinked, slow and stunned—like he felt the crack before he could make sense of it.

“I just think—” you sigh, sharper than you mean to be, your arms folding across yourself, “I don’t know—maybe you shouldn’t assume things about how I feel.”

Jake’s brows knit together, his voice low but steady, “I’m not assuming anything, Y/N. I’m asking. You won’t talk to me, and I’m—I just…I’m trying to figure out where your head’s at.”

You turn away.

Try to blink it back—the tightness rising in your chest. The frustration.

You don’t even know why you’re upset.

At him? At yourself?

“Well maybe my head’s a mess right now,” you say, a bubble rising to your throat. “And I don’t need you trying to fix it.”

There’s a pause.

A shift in the air.

Jake lets out a soft breath. Barely audible.

But you hear it.

And you see it, too—the subtle way his expression drops.

And god, it hurts.

“Okay.” He nods slowly, his voice suddenly quieter, barely above a whisper. “So what do you need, then?”

You hesitate.

Because that’s just the thing. You don’t know.

Because it’s not him. Never him.

It’s not the quiet car ride home. Or the under-cooked steak at the restaurant. Or the stupid thing he said about maybe meeting his parents next month.

It’s you.

It’s everything else.

The pressure. The doubt. The sinking feeling in your chest that you don’t deserve something this good. Something as good as him.

“I think…” you start, your eyes meeting his, swallowing hard. “I think I need space.”

And it’s like you ripped the floor out from right under him.

You watch the words hit him.

Watch how he stumbles without even moving.

His eyes flick to yours like he misheard. His breath catches like you knocked the wind out of him.

His fingers tremble at his sides, helpless and twitching, like he doesn’t know what to hold on to anymore.

He exhales a shaky breath and—

“No.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I’m not giving you space.” His voice cracks. Barely holding it together. “Not like this. Not when I don’t even know what I did—”

“You didn’t do anything, Jake—”

“Then I’m staying.”

His voice breaks again. And when you look at him again—his eyes are glassy. His voice trembles in a way that shatters your heart more than you’ve ever known before.

And before you know it—

Jake crosses the living room and closes the distance between you two—like he’s trying to reach the part of you that’s slipping through his fingers.

And when he’s right in front of you, he stops.

Just looks at you.

Like you’re the only thing he sees. Like he’s begging you to see him too.

“Let me stay,” his voice unsteady, more desperate now. “Please.”

Your throat closes.

“You’re shutting me out again and I can feel it and I know I’m not perfect, but���God, Y/N—I love you.”

A breath. A blink. A beat.

“I’m trying. I’m here,” Jake continues, his eyes pleading. Breaking. “Please don’t push me away when I’m trying to stay.”

You stare at him.

And you hate it.

You hate how much he means it.

How sincere he sounds—how shattered he looks.

How his hands are clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you, like he’s not sure he can.

And you hate that you’re the one making him feel that way.

Like love has limits.

Like maybe even he isn’t allowed to cross the invisible line you drew without even realizing it.

Because deep down—

You’re terrified.

Terrified that one day he’ll just say okay and walk out.

That he’ll stop trying. Stop fighting.

That your worst fear will come true: that you are too much. That you’re not worth all this effort.

“Jake…I’m scared,” you whisper—and it breaks.

The dam. The silence. You.

“I’m scared you’ll realize I’m not worth this,” you choke, your own vision blurring. “That I’m just—too much. Or not enough. Or both.”

Jake’s face crumbles.

Completely.

“Y/N.”

You shake your head, blinking fast—it’s all spilling now, messy and unfiltered and real.

“You could have anyone. You could find someone easier. Someone who doesn’t blow up over nothing or pull away every time it gets hard or—”

“Don’t.”

The sudden edge in his voice stops you—not sharp, but urgent.

Urgent, wrecked, and aching.

“Don’t you dare try to write me out of this story when I already know how it ends. Like I haven’t already chosen you.”

He takes a step forward.

“I don’t want easy. I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

Another step.

“Even when it’s messy. Even when you’re mad. Even when it’s hard.”

And before you can stop him, Jake’s hands cup your face—gentle, steady—like you’re something fragile and priceless at the same time.

“This is still you,” he murmurs, leaning down to press his forehead against your own. “And I still love you.”

Your lip quivers.

He brushes his thumb along your cheek—and only then do you realize you’re crying.

A broken breath escapes your lips.

“…I’m sorry,” you choke out, the tears falling out faster now—completely open and raw.

Jake lets out a small, breathy, almost sad laugh.

“Me too.”

And god.

You think that might’ve been the moment you fell completely, absolutely, irreversibly in love with him.

In a way you can’t describe.

In a way that sits in your chest and says this is it—even if you don’t know how to say it out loud yet.

So for now—

“Please stay.”

Jake smiles. It’s small. But so full of relief.

“Always, pretty.”

And he does.

Jake stays through the silence. Through the ache.

Through the heavy nights and the mornings when it’s better.

Because real love doesn’t run.

It reaches. And it stays.

Even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

<< past || no doubt m. list || next >>

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@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[randointernetperson]

When I was maybe 14-15, I got in a argument with my father, and spit on him, he very literally through me out of the house. I had no phone, no money, no food/water, and just a burring sense of rage. I ended up walking for a bout 5 miles, into town along the highway, before going to McDonald's for water, and to ask to use there phone. I called my father, and luckily he had cooled down, and came to pick me up.

But that situation could have turned dangerous, very quickly. I was for effectively homeless for those few hours, and I had no choice to either continue, that or go back to my father the physically tossed me out of the house. Being able to heave had somewhere to go, and some way to get there (allowing a me space form my parents (if even temporally)), that experience would have probably have been far less traumatizing.

(My relationship with my parents is okay, not like I heave much of a choice even now.)

okay, you know what? Running away shouldn’t be a crime. It shouldn’t be dangerous, either. Any kid should be able to leave their parents if they want, for any reason. No I’m not kidding.

“But Rue, where will these kids stay? Do you want them on the streets?”

of course not. In an ideal world, a kids would have multiple adults other than their parents they could look to for care, but I recognize that that will never be a reality for every single child. So: youth shelters, if they have nowhere else to go. There should be clean, warm shelters where anyone under 18 can stay for as long as they need, no questions asked. (And of course shelters that aren’t just for kids, but we’re talking about youth rights right now)

“But Rue,” I hear you say, “what if some moody teenager runs away after an argument?”

First of all, I’d rather a thousand moody teenagers run away than one abused child be trapped. Second, so what if one does? A kid needs time away from their parents, so they leave. The vast majority of them will get some time to cool down and then go back home, and if they don’t want to go back, period? Then nine times out of ten, they have a good reason. (Because yes, as hard as it is for you to believe, kids are humans who have common sense.)

“Okay, but what about the one time out of ten the kid doesn’t have a good reason?”

Then the kid doesn’t have a good reason. It doesn’t change anything. If someone wants to break up with their partner because of something stupid, you wouldn’t say they legally shouldn’t be able to. (And if you would, then you’re just a bad person.) No one should have to be in a relationship, romantic or otherwise, that they don’t want to be in.

[creamflix]

MY BOY ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief he's such a pretty liar — and by that, you mean he swore he’d change, really change, this time. but when an argument cracks the routine open, he starts seeing things he never noticed before — about you, about himself, about the damage that was never really fixed. w.c 6.6k

risk assessment established relationship, female reader, mentions of violence, (resolved) angst with comfort, teeny mention of sex, insensitive jjk men, semi-canon divergence, arranged marriage/marriage of convenience, true-form sukuna, sexism & zenin family misogyny, somewhat ooc characters sorry </3, ft! gojo, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna, naoya

a/n thank u to the anon who requested this! i'll be writing a smut sequel/alt version of this sometime this month :P for now enjoy the fluff & feels

☆ GOJO SATORU

It starts, as all things do, with your fiancé Gojo Satoru not taking you seriously. 

Not out of cruelty, not out of malice — but with the thoughtless ease of someone who’s never been told no in any way that mattered. 

He says it in passing.

"That dress again?"

He’s got a half-laugh in his voice, the kind he uses when he thinks he’s being cute, elbow nudging yours like it’s some inside joke between you two. "We really gotta get you something new. C’mon, let’s do a shopping day this weekend. Whole spree. My treat."

You don’t even catch it at first. Just a flash of confusion as you look down at the fabric — faded navy cotton, stitched with little forget-me-nots along the hem, a little loose at the sleeves now. You’ve had it for years, since university, as a matter of fact. A group gift from your closest friends on your birthday, who pooled what little they had just to see you smile. A dress you wore to your graduation, to your first job interview, to a night out when you didn’t feel like yourself and needed something to anchor you.

You brush it off at first. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that. Maybe he didn’t know. But when you bring it up later — tentatively, cautiously, like stepping barefoot over glass — it’s worse.

“That dress?” he blinks, expression unreadable for half a second, before a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Wait, seriously? Baby, I didn’t mean anything by it.” 

You don’t say anything, just sit with your hands curled into your lap, thumbs pressing into the soft fabric.

“It's not about the dress,” you murmur eventually, but he’s already waving you off with a laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Look, I get it,” he says. “Your friends bought it for you, and that’s sweet and all. But if it means that much, they can get you another one, right? Hell, I’ll give them the card myself.” he grins. “You’re not gonna tell me you're actually attached to that old thing? When you could have literally any dress you want?”

You lift your eyes to him. Not angry, not hurt. just... tired. And God, that look — he can’t name it at first. Doesn’t understand why his stomach turns, why something ugly coils in his chest. You don’t even look mad. You just look… disappointed. Like you were expecting something more from him, and he came up short. And that? That lands sharper than anything else could’ve.

His smile falters. His laugh dies in his throat. You look away, standing up slowly, brushing invisible dust from the dress as if to gather yourself back into it.

“Not everything can be replaced, Satoru.”

You don’t say it like an accusation. You don’t say it with heat or spite. You say it like a fact. And he just sits there, blinking, the silence stretching, prickling at his skin.

because he knows he’s not good with sentiment. He's never had to be. everything in his life was disposable, interchangeable, fixable — shattered glasses, broken bones, lives even. There was always more. Another version, a better one. What was the point of clinging to something old, something worn, when you could just get a new one?

But he forgot you weren’t like that. Forgot that some things matter not because of what they are, but because of who gave them. When. Why.

He sees your back as you walk away, the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your fingers tighten around the hem. And for the first time in a very, very long time — he feels sick. Like he’s missed something irreversible. Like he might’ve broken something not even he can buy back.

Later that night, the apartment is quiet in the kind of way that feels deliberate — like it’s holding its breath. No hum of the TV, no rain tapping at the windows. Just the soft rustle of clothes being folded and the sound of your fingers brushing over fabric, smoothing it down like it could ease something knotted in your chest. 

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, folding one of his shirts. He watches you from the doorway for a while before stepping inside, socked feet dragging slightly like they used to when he was a boy too tall for himself, trying not to be heard sneaking into places he shouldn’t be. He's got that same awkward energy now — a man who could level cities and doesn’t know how to enter a room where you won’t look him in the eye. He clears his throat. “Hey.”

You glance up but say nothing. Keep folding neat, careful lines.

“I was thinking,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should… maybe take a trip. Visit your friends back home. You haven’t seen them in a while, right? Could tell them about the wedding, make it a thing.”

You pause for a moment, blink once, then keep folding. He swears he sees your shoulders relax, just a little.

“Might be good,” he adds, fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie he forgot he was wearing. “Some air. Some space. From… me.” He means it to be light, maybe even self-deprecating, but it lands like a wet stone. 

You don’t laugh. You just fold the last shirt and set it aside, hands resting flat on your thighs. He exhales sharply, flopping down onto the edge of the bed beside you like gravity finally got its way. His elbows go to his knees, head in his hands. He looks like a man breaking and trying not to admit it.

“I don't get it,” he mutters, voice muffled. “Not ‘cause I don’t care. I just… I don't get it.”

He lifts his head, turning to look at you. His eyes are tired, open.

“It’s not just a dress,” he says, like he’s testing the words out on his tongue. “It’s — it’s what it means. Who it came from. What you felt when you wore it. I know that now. I just didn’t know how to say that earlier. I don't really know how to say it now.”

You stay quiet, watching him. Waiting. Not for excuses, not for him to stumble over his guilt. Just for truth. He frowns down at his hands, then up at the closet. Your side. The little things you’ve kept—notes, keepsakes, photos tucked into shoeboxes. Things that never mattered to him before, but now feel like landmines he’s been stepping over blind.

“I never had to hold onto things like that. I think I forgot people could.”

There’s a pause. A long one. He's chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes glossed over with thought.

“When Suguru died, I couldn't even keep his coat. Couldn’t keep anything. It all felt like too much and not enough. Shoko still has his lighter, I think. I never asked for it.” he exhales. “I didn't know how to carry something that used to belong to someone who wasn’t coming back.”

You turn your head, just slightly. Not fully facing him yet, but listening.

“So I got used to throwing things out. Not letting them mean too much.” his voice drops. “And now here I am, saying dumb shit about a dress I didn't understand.”

He looks at you again, and this time — his expression isn’t cocky or distant or flippant. It's raw. Humbled.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Not a grand performance, not dramatic. Just those two words, laid plain between you like an offering. He leans back on his palms, head tipping toward the ceiling.

“It's a good dress,” he adds, almost like a peace treaty. “You look beautiful in it. You always do.”

You don’t smile, not right away. But your eyes soften. And he sees it, the way your fingers ease from their fists. The way you finally lean back beside him, the warmth of your shoulder brushing his. 

It’s not forgiveness, not yet. But it’s something.

And Gojo Satoru, who has lived through the worst of loss and still come out laughing, feels this quiet shift as something sacred. Something worth remembering, something not to be thrown away.

☆ NANAMI KENTO

There are times you wonder if Nanami Kento even likes you.

Not in the way a husband is supposed to, not even in the way that makes the word affection stretch out and soften in your chest. Maybe just in the way someone appreciates a quiet presence, tolerates it. Like a painting in a room they’ve grown used to. Something familiar. Something that doesn’t make noise.

You’d both agreed to the marriage out of a quiet, mutual understanding. Family friends. Old classmates. Polite nods at weddings, idle conversation at funerals. The kind of person you wouldn’t mind spending your life with simply because they would never ask too much of you.

And when he returned to being a sorcerer — voluntarily, of all things — right around the time the engagement was announced, you took it as fate’s quiet concession: at least it’s someone you already know.

You didn’t expect romance. Didn’t expect flowers or whispered secrets in the dark. But you had hoped for something softer. Something kind.

So when you show up at his office during your lunch break, carefully packed bento in your hands, already nervous about being too much, you tell yourself it’s not about proving anything. Not about being the perfect partner. Just — something nice. You even knock. Twice. You hear him sigh before he answers.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says as soon as he opens the door. You blink, taken aback. “I brought you lunch.”

He stares at the bento box like it’s made of explosives. He doesn’t move to take it. “I told you not to overexert yourself,” he says, frowning. “You work too much already.”

“I—it’s just rice and grilled mackerel. It didn’t take long.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in slow through his nose. “That's not the point.”

Your hands are still outstretched, holding the box. His eyes finally land on you, and there’s a flicker of something sharp in them. Annoyance, irritation. Like he’s been caught in something he doesn’t want to feel.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again, quieter this time. 

You draw your hands back. "Okay," you murmur, like a child scolded for something they didn't know was wrong. 

He doesn’t say thank you, doesn't ask if you ate, doesn’t touch the lunch box.

You leave and the fish gets cold.

The next day, you play it safe. You don’t step into Nanami's office building. You don’t pack a carefully balanced bento with pickled sides and pressed napkins. You don’t even text him in the morning. You tell yourself you’re listening, respecting boundaries, giving space. Letting the neat lines he draws between things remain untouched.

But around noon, you feel it gnawing at you. 

Guilt? No—maybe pity. Not for him, but for yourself. For the quiet ache in your chest, the soft ache of not being wanted in spaces you hoped to belong to. You linger by the fridge, eyes scanning for anything edible. Half a tray of grilled tofu, leftover rice, a handful of wilted greens. Not much, but enough. 

You don’t arrange it prettily — no sauce cups. no handwritten note. You wrap it in a tea towel and leave your office fifteen minutes before your own lunch ends. By the time you get there, you’re rushing,crossing the threshold of his building like a ghost. The elevator ticks down with an unbearable slowness. 

12:55. Five minutes left.

You knock once and open the door.

Nanami's already standing. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He glances up and then immediately—immediately—frowns.

“You’re late.”

You blink, still holding the food between your hands. A flush rises to your cheeks, slow and uncertain. “I wasn't going to come,” you say, voice cautious. “You made it pretty clear yesterday…”

“And today you decided to show up when lunch is already over?”

There's a sharpness to his words, the kind that doesn’t raise its voice but cuts all the same. He's staring at you like you’ve done something irrational, inconsiderate, even. You look down at the tea towel in your hands. The food’s still warm. Barely.

“I wasn't trying to interrupt. I just thought… you might want something to eat. I threw something together. It’s not—”

“You should’ve come earlier.”

Something small crumples in your chest. Your hands tighten around the cloth. “I didn't think you wanted me to come at all,” you say, quieter now. 

Nanami's mouth presses into a firm line. His jaw twitches like he’s about to respond, then doesn’t. Just exhales, slow and long, and walks past you to shut the door behind you with a soft click. The silence that follows is heavy, full of things neither of you knows how to ask.

He reaches for the lunch, takes it from your hands wordlessly, and sits down at his desk. He doesn’t eat right away, just rests his hand over the towel, thumb smoothing out the edge like it might explain your intentions better than you can. You stand near the bookshelf, not sure what to do. The air between you prickles with something unfamiliar—frustration, maybe. Or the growing tension of expectations unmet, confused for resentment. Finally, he says, without looking at you, 

“I don't dislike when you bring me food.”

You tilt your head. “Then why—”

“I dislike not knowing when you’ll come. Or if you’ll come at all.” his fingers press into the wood of his desk. “I dislike thinking you won’t come. And then you do. Late.”

He finally looks up at you then, and it’s not anger behind his eyes. It’s… conflict. Confusion. Like he’s struggling to piece together a puzzle that changes shapes every time he gets close to solving it. “I'm not used to people doing things for me,” he admits, voice lower now. “I'm used to being left alone, or being expected to handle it myself.”

You feel something twist in your chest, a sting of realization. He's not angry at you, not really. He's angry at himself for wanting something he doesn’t know how to ask for. You step forward, slowly, gently. “Then maybe you could just say it,” you offer. “Say you want me here.”

He doesn’t, not yet. But his hand reaches out, uncovers the food, and he begins to eat. You sit beside him in silence, the tension slowly dissolving into the steam from the rice. He doesn’t thank you, but he eats every bite.

☆ CHOSO KAMO

You’re starting to think social protocol should be implanted in everyone at birth.

Just the basics. The unspoken etiquette of not talking through a mouthful, or not cutting lines, or — perhaps most relevant to your current situation — not complimenting another woman’s perfume while your girlfriend is holding your hand.

Choso, for all his softness and sincerity, missed a few memos on the human experience. Which is ironic, because he tries. God, does he try.

He listens to everything you say like it’s scripture. Nods when you explain the importance of making people feel seen. Tries to mimic the tone you use when complimenting baristas and bus drivers and kids with crooked laces. He's eager, warm, just a little awkward—but people love it. You still remember the proud look he gave you after telling a teen at the skate park, “You look so balanced, like a predator watching its prey,” and you’d had to gently steer him toward less feral metaphors.

You’ve guided him since, helping him shape compliments with a little less edge. And you’ll admit — it’s endearing. The way he admired that old lady’s sunflower hat, eyes sparkling like it was the most brilliant invention he’d ever seen. But today, today is something else.

You’re standing next to him in a café. Warm hand holding yours, your pinky tangled with his, your face tilted toward the pastry display. And the barista — a tall woman with kind eyes and long auburn curls — smiles as she hands him the receipt. And choso, like he’s narrating a thought as it passes, says:

“You have very soft lips. The color is… nice.”

You freeze mid-step, her smile stretches awkward. “Uh… thanks?”

He doesn’t even flinch. He turns to you, eyes expectant, like did I do good? You blink.

“Choso,” you say slowly, “What did we say about… complimenting strangers?”

He tilts his head. “To be specific. And polite. And not scary.”

“Right. And were you being… specific and polite just now?”

His brows draw together like he’s doing math. “I didn't say I wanted to kiss her lips. I just said they looked nice.”

You drag him by the sleeve to the corner of the café, behind a ficus plant, heart doing that rapid spiral between jealousy and sheer disbelief. “Okay,” you whisper, “You can’t say things like that to women when I'm standing right next to you.”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “But you told me it’s kind to compliment people.”

“Yes, but—” you exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Some compliments give off the vibe that you’re… interested in the person.” 

His frown deepens. “But I'm not.”

“I know that,” you hiss, waving a hand between you, “You know that, but she doesn’t.” He glances at the barista, then back to you. “So… she thinks I like her?”

“Maybe a little!”

“But I don’t.”

“But she doesn’t know that, Choso!”

His expression twists, hurt and disbelief slowly pooling there. “But… that’s not fair. If I'm being nice, and I don't mean it like that, why is it bad?”

“Because it looks like you mean it like that,” you say, helpless. He folds his arms, sulking now. “So I can’t say a woman smells good, or has nice hair, or lips. even if I’m just appreciating it. Even if I’d never leave you. Even if I said your lips were better.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You didn’t say that last part.”

“I thought it really hard.”

You fight back the sigh. He's pouting now, shoulders squared stubbornly, lower lip jutting out just a bit. like a kid told he can’t have candy before dinner.

“Choso.”

He doesn’t look at you. “It's still dumb.”

“Social cues are dumb,” you agree. “But they exist.”

He mumbles under his breath, “Shouldn’t exist if they make you hide compliments.”

“You’re not hiding them. You’re… redirecting them.”

He mutters something like, “feels like censorship,” and you just stare at him, stunned by how deeply he’s taking this. You press your lips together, watching him glower at the fern beside the espresso machine like it personally wronged him. Then finally, you whisper—

“Just promise me you’ll keep the lip compliments to me from now on?”

He gives you a very reluctant nod.

“…But only because your lips really are the best,” he mumbles.

And you let out the breath you were holding, squeezing his hand. You’ll call it progress. Kind of.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

Sometimes you wonder if it’s in your karmic debt to be tangled with men who don’t know what to do with basic affection.

You never asked Toji where he was going, never asked what he was doing, who he’d kill, what he’d be paid. He'd drop the money on your kitchen table like a lazy thank-you card — some loose bills, a few coins if he felt generous. It clinked against the bowl of sewing needles and antiseptic like a ritual. And you’d patch him up silently, routinely. A cycle you both slipped into like an old sweater that still held the scent of someone else’s cigarettes.

You had history. A past. But calling it a relationship? Maybe in another timeline where men knew how to sit with the ache of being wanted. So god forbid — god fucking forbid — you hand him a glass of water as he’s slipping his cursed tools into his jacket, your fingers brushing his as you press the cool glass against his palm. “It's hot today,” you murmur, “Don’t dehydrate. And—” your voice softens, “—watch your footing this time. That last jump from the balcony nearly tore your quad.” He takes the water but doesn’t drink it. And then, as if your words poisoned it, he sets the glass down without a sip. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “Don’t need you fussin’ over me.”

Your brow twitches. “Fussing?”

He exhales sharply, slow and impatient. “I didn't come here for pity.”

And something inside you snaps. Not like a wire, but like a stretched rubber band finally losing tension — a dull, slack kind of tired. “That's not pity,” you mutter, stepping back, your hand brushing against the door. “That's human decency, Toji.” He shrugs. Shrugs, like you’d just offered him a second napkin he didn’t need. “Whatever it is, I don't need it.”

“Oh? Then patch your own wounds from now on. Sew your own flesh. Hydrate your damn self.”

And you open the door and slam it so hard it rattles the frame. He just stands there on the other side, staring at the door like it betrayed him. His hand hovers mid-air, still partially curled around the sheath of his weapon, like he doesn’t know whether to knock again or keep walking.

Toji Fushiguro has taken stabs to the gut with less confusion than the sound of a door shutting on him after a glass of water.

And maybe that’s the problem. He's been surviving so long he’s forgotten what it means to be cared for without condition. But you? You’ve learned enough to know that care without appreciation isn’t love. It's labor. And you’ve worked overtime.

-

It takes him three hits to the stomach. Three clean, deliberate punches from men who didn’t live to brag about it, and Toji finds himself standing in front of your door again. Not knocking, not limping. Just…standing.

Like a big, wet, blood-specked dog who’s too proud to whimper but too injured to run.

And when you open the door — half-expecting a package, a neighbor, a miracle — your eyes nearly pop out of your skull.

“Are you kidding me?!”

You don’t even let him speak. Your fingers clamp around his wrist, yanking him in with a strength he knows better than to question. You march him straight to the bathroom, muttering under your breath like a storm ready to hail hell. He’s not even fully through the door when you’re tugging at his ruined shirt, peeling it off him with all the grace of a garbage disposal. He lets you, mostly because resisting you never ends well.

“You couldn’t have just — I don’t know — gone to a hospital like a normal human being? Oh wait, that would require being normal.”

You slap a wet towel against his chest

“Did you stab them first or were they just really, really enthusiastic about rearranging your insides?”

He's quiet. There’s a faint twitch at his jaw, like he wants to say something, but a bottle of antiseptic in your hand shuts him up real quick. You scrub like your life depends on it, like if you clean him hard enough, the last week will vanish off his skin too. Soap and dried blood swirl around the drain in a gruesome little ballet. His knuckles tighten around the edge of the tub when the antiseptic hits open flesh.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Take it easy—”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you snap, slathering another handful with absolutely zero sympathy, “Did the murderous mercenary just ask me to be gentle?”

He doesn’t reply. Because frankly, the soap in his wounds is making his eyes sting more than any blade could. And maybe — just maybe — that’s not the only reason they’re burning.

“You know,” you mutter, tone softer now, “You act like showing up here isn’t a confession in itself.”

He glances up at you. There’s blood drying at his temple, one gash near his ribs. His voice, when he speaks, is gravel caught in hesitation.

“...Didn’t know where else to go.”

You pause, just for a second. Then you sigh — a long, bone-deep exhale that tastes like surrender and soap.

“You’re a goddamn idiot, Fushiguro.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, wincing as you dab his side. “You say that every time.”

“Maybe if you apologized once in a while, I wouldn't have to.”

He tilts his head at you then. eyes calm, mouth twitching like he’s fighting off something between a smirk and a grimace. “This is me apologizing,” he says, voice low. “You think I'd let anyone else see me like this?”

It hits you then. Not just the words, but the weight behind them. And it’s stupid — it’s so stupid — but even drenched in his blood and your bathwater, even half-naked and so frustrating you want to dunk him into the toilet, you reach up and flick his forehead. Not too hard, just enough to say don’t be such a jackass next time. He grunts, and you mutter, “Next time you don’t show up for a week, I’m leaving you on read.”

He nods, like that’s fair. You finish cleaning him up in silence. And neither of you says it — not out loud — but maybe this is love in your own, terribly specific, catastrophically bloody way.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

There are times when you wonder if the internet was right: Never date a man older than you.

And not just older. Your boyfriend—no, courter, as he insists, like it’s the Feudal era—is Sukuna. A walking fossil. A man who pre-dates the invention of glass windows. Someone who’s spent centuries collecting knowledge like magpies collect shiny things.

At first, it was kind of cute. He’d run his fingers through your hair and mutter things like “You know, oak trees like that one were used for sacred offerings in the old capital,” and you’d smile up at him like, wow, what a charming bit of historical trivia. He’d gesture vaguely at your matcha latte, proud as a cat, and say “Tasted the first batch. It was better then. Earthier.” you hum and sip, amused, entertained. It felt like dating a strange, hot encyclopedia. A relic with biceps, even.

But the charm starts to crack around the edges when he watches you cook and breathes through his nose like you’ve personally offended ten generations of farmers. Like now.

You’re standing at the kitchen counter, chopping green onions for a stir-fry. And it’s not even that you’re doing it wrong — you’re just doing it your way. And yet, from his perch against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable, comes the familiar, grating hum of—

“You’re holding the knife wrong.”

You don’t look at him. “I've done this a thousand times, Suku.”

He makes a quiet noise, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “And incorrectly, each time.” Your grip tightens on the handle. You focus on your breathing. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“If you cut them diagonally,” he continues, stepping closer like a predator circling its prey, “You increase the surface area. Better flavor absorption. Even a child from the Southern provinces knew that.”

You stop chopping.

“Well, I'm not a child from the Southern provinces,” you say, evenly. He leans over your shoulder, fingers ghosting over yours — not gentle, just correcting, pressing them into what he deems the proper hold. “No, you’re not. Children back then were more attentive.”

That one hits. You pull your hand away, stepping aside and set the knife down.

He blinks. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, too fast. “I'll just… let you do it.”

He looks at the cutting board, then at you. Then scoffs again. That same infuriating little sound. Not mocking, not amused. Just — condescending. Like you’re some soft, dumb thing that tries hard and always fails. And the worst part? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’ll hold your hand like it’s made of rice paper, trail kisses down your arm, call you petal and little one and say things like “you’re mine to protect.” but he doesn’t see you. Not really, not as an equal. Not as someone who exists in the same frame of experience.

You’re just… small to him. Young. Naive. Ephemeral.

“You’re angry,” he says now, head tilted. You bite your cheek. “I'm fine.”

He narrows his eyes, steps closer again. “You’re not. You’re bristling like a cat.”

“Do you hear yourself?” you ask, finally turning to face him. “Do you ever stop and think about how you talk to me? I made a mistake cutting a damn vegetable, and you acted like I burned down a monastery.”

He straightens, face blank. Then cold. “I'm only trying to teach you,” he says, as if that’s supposed to make you grateful.

“I don't need a teacher,” you snap. “I need a partner.”

His jaw twitches. “And I need someone who listens.”

You stare at him, the silence stretching.

There it is. Not a misunderstanding, not a lost-in-translation moment from someone born before democracy. Just a bitter, stubborn truth. 

You’re not equals. You’re a fleeting flame to him. A girl with knives and heat and too many opinions. And he? He's eternal, ancient. And always, always right. You turn around, quietly gathering your things. His voice doesn’t follow. Not yet.

You’re sitting in the backyard now, arms folded, jaw set, full-blown sun glaring down like even it knows you stormed out without checking the weather. Your phone’s inside, your pride is up here with you, and the back of your shirt is beginning to stick to your spine. You hear the shoji door slide open with that gentle hiss. His voice follows, smug and echoing off the stone: 

“You know,” Sukuna calls out, “This is the part of the day when the earth’s axial tilt brings the southern sun directly overhead. You’ll overheat soon, petal.” 

You ignore him. Dramatically. You close your eyes and lean your head back like you’re immune to axial tilts. And then—

The sun spikes in intensity like it’s been listening to him. A bead of sweat slithers down your temple.

You last about thirty seconds before you’re bolting upright, stumbling in your too-hot socks across the stone path, bursting back into the cool house like a fugitive from your own ego. Sukuna’s waiting, naturally. Leaned against the frame with arms crossed and a smile so arrogant you can feel it searing through your soul.

“Oh shut up,” you mutter, peeling off your shirt like a defeated wrestler. He chuckles but doesn’t gloat, not really. His smile lingers, but there’s something else behind it — soft, thoughtful, almost... restrained.

“Petal,” he calls quietly.

You freeze. He only ever uses that voice when his hands are around your waist and the rest of the world has fallen away. You turn, arms crossing over your chest again, less annoyed now, more cautious. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first. Instead, he picks at the hem of his sleeve like it’s telling him what to say.

“I don't mean to make you feel small,” he starts, slow and measured, the words clearly coming through thorns. “I've spent years — centuries — knowing things no one wants to hear. People die, people forget. And then there’s you.” He lifts his gaze, finally meeting yours. “You listen. Even when you’re annoyed, even when you’re fighting me, you listen.”

Your chest tightens, stubborn anger still curling in your gut like it doesn’t want to give up that easily. He steps forward, voice gentler now. “I should be thanking you for even giving me that. For letting me talk. Letting me—” he hesitates, then exhales through his nose. “Share. I've been hoarding this knowledge for lifetimes. But now I get to pass it to you.”

You blink. You hadn’t realized how quiet it’d been in his world before you entered it, full of tangents and mistakes and kitchen errors. “…You could say all that instead of acting like a patronizing know-it-all,” you say, squinting at him. He shrugs, unapologetic. “You’re prettier when you’re irritated. Brings color to your face.”

You huff. But some part of you — some mushy, well-hydrated core — is starting to warm. Maybe you’ll never really be on equal footing. But he wants to hand you every piece of him, and if that’s not love in its own way — what is? And then—because he doesn’t know when to stop while he's ahead—he smirks. “Our children should hear these things too. Pass it down, generation by generation.”

You deadpan. “We don't have kids.”

He grins wider. “Not yet.”

A stalk of green onion whizzes across the room and bounces off his shoulder. “Tch,” he mutters, plucking it off the floor. “Poor cutting technique, by the way.”

You launch a second one straight at his face.

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

You’re starting to realize that behind every successful man is a woman.

A woman holding a knife.

And being Naoya Zenin’s wife means you live in the tightrope space between bloody respect and bloody disrespect, and frankly, it depends more on whether his mood is sour than anything you’ve done. Today, it’s the latter. And today, you’re the idiot.

You hear it from a maid first, in passing — something about “Master Zenin’s ingenious restructuring proposal.” You think it’s a joke. It has to be. You’d mentioned that idea last week, softly, while rubbing the tension from his neck, your lips close to his temple, your voice even closer to a whisper— 

“You know what would streamline the clan’s expenses?”

And now here it is. His plan, his innovation, his genius. You weren’t called into the meeting, weren’t even informed. And the best part? People act like you should be impressed.

“I thought you’d be proud,” Naoya says when you finally find him, post-meeting, lounging like he owns the air. He's twirling a calligraphy brush between his fingers, careless and smug. “It went over well.” Your throat feels tight, like every breath is wrapped in gauze. “You didn’t even tell me you were going to pitch it.”

He blinks up at you. “You told me, didn’t you?”

You stare.

“So?” he adds with a smirk. “What's mine is yours. And yours is mine.”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny — because if you don’t, you might scream. Or throw something. Or drive that calligraphy brush straight through his arrogant eye. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter. He shrugs, standing with the same irritating grace he carries into every room. “I'm a Zenin.”

You fold your arms. “And what am I?”

His gaze narrows slightly, as if the question confuses him. “You’re my wife,” he answers plainly, as though it should satisfy everything. “You’re mine.”

You could eat glass and it would go down smoother than that sentence. 

His fingers trail down your arm like he’s granting you affection, not brushing you off. “You give me your thoughts, I bring them to life. I don't see the issue.”

“You don’t see the issue,” you repeat, voice flat. “You didn’t even mention my name.” He frowns a little, like you’re overcomplicating things. “Why would I? The elders don’t care. They barely respect me. why would they listen to a woman?”

Your jaw clenches. He notices the shift, of course. Naoya’s many things — sexist, self-serving, endlessly smug — but he’s not stupid. “Look,” he says, tone lilting into placation. “You’re angry. Fine. I'll give you credit next time.”

You don’t want credit. You want your name said with pride. You want your words to carry weight without being dressed in a man’s voice. You want to be more than the soft-spoken strategist in the shadows of his throne. Sometimes, when he says “we’re one,” you wonder how many pieces of yourself are left unsaid, unthanked, unrecognized — just so he can stand taller in front of his men. And sometimes? Sometimes you wish you weren’t his anything at all.

It takes a week — seven full days, down to the damn hour — for Naoya Zenin to notice something is wrong. Not wrong in the way that he’s cut during training or that the weather’s dreary or the maids used the wrong incense in the bath again. No. 

Wrong in the energy of the house. 

Wrong in the way that every time he steps into your shared chambers, things are in place — dinner laid out neatly, his clothes pressed, his favorite tea at the exact temperature he likes. You even still massage his shoulders when he sits on the mat with a grunt, still trail your hands up his spine like your fingers remember the pattern of his vertebrae better than you remember your own schedule. If he’s lucky, he gets a fuck out of it. Mechanical, but there. Like clockwork. But the silence? That's what’s eating at him now.

No updates, no gentle commentary, no amused huff about how one of his cousins tripped on his own hakama or how the elders butchered a clause in the last contract. None of your insight, your brilliance, that cutting wit hidden under all that practiced poise. You’re just… quiet.

It hits him one night, like a blunt object to the chest. You’re folding your robes across the room, preparing for bed without waiting on him, without your usual retort to his offhand comment about how “the clan couldn’t survive without his guidance.” Usually you’d hum, or scoff, or mumble something clever about how you’re the one guiding the clan by proxy. This time? Just a blink. A soft, flat, unimpressed hum. 

And you keep folding.

He clears his throat. 

“...You didn’t mention what you thought of my handling of the merchant issue,” he tries, casually, like he’s not begging.

“You solved it,” you say. Three words — no tone, just a statement of fact. “Yes, but,” he pushes, frowning slightly. “Was it good? Bad? Tell me what you would’ve done.” 

You don’t even turn to look at him. “It's your clan.” 

Naoya blinks, jaws working. It should’ve felt like praise. 

It doesn’t. He shifts uncomfortably, eyes trailing over to where your futon is — neatly laid out. across the room. Far, as if he’d give you frostbite by breathing too close. You’ve never slept that far before. Not even when you fought, not even when he forgot your birthday and tried to make up for it with a ruby that didn’t match any of your jewelry. “…What’s going on with you?” he asks eventually, voice sharper than he intends. 

You shrug, settling under your blanket with your back turned to him. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been quiet for days. No opinions, no ideas, no…” He stops. Swallows. 

“...No talking.”

You don’t answer. He sits up, shoulders stiff, his hair a mess from laying down. His voice cracks around the edges, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “Is this about the meeting? About the idea?”

Silence.

“Look, I—”

He exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. I should’ve told them it was yours. I should’ve — fuck, I should’ve —”

You turn, just enough to look at him. Eyes tired. Not angry, not cold. Just... dulled from exhaustion.

“I'm not angry because you used it,” you say, voice finally sliding into the room like warm oil. “I'm angry because you didn’t even consider me. Because in this house, I'm not a person. I'm your reflection. And worse, when I disappear, you don’t even notice what’s missing.”

That hits him square in the chest, and he sits there, stunned, like someone’s pulled the floor from under him.

“…Sorry.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t expect it — because it’s probably the first real apology you’ve heard from him without the word “but” attached.

“I don't know how to fix that,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Not in this house. Not with… them.” he means the elders. The clan. The entire system of misogyny he was raised in like a second womb. “But I can start with this. With you.”

You sigh. Not in defeat, but in release. And you pat the space beside your futon. 

He blinks again. Slow, cautious.

“…Can I?”

“I'm not warming your bed tonight.”

“I'll take it.”

And maybe things aren’t fixed. Not the deep, knotted root of sexism still wrapping itself around the household like a noose. But for tonight, there’s an apology. A shared blanket. A woman who is no longer invisible. 

And a man who, for once, listened.

a/n hello!! this was initially meant to be a make-up sex post but the education system hates me and i had no time to write what i wanted, so i had to cut this fic short by a lot. i'll be publishing a part 2 around the same topic, but maybe with different scenarios for each character :) thanks for reading!  

[ronanlynchusurper]

i don’t think we talk enough about declan being equally as down bad and ‘all or nothing’ with romance as ronan is. like yes ronan said he would start wars and burn cities for adam’s true smile, begged god for adam after he first saw him and fortuitously had all his objects of worship were in one downtown block etc but ronan had known adam atleast 18 months at this stage. whereas declan really risked it all to get tyrian purple overnight for a first date gift after ONE conversation…the man was discussing their marriage as a ‘when’ not an ‘if’ before we even saw them kiss like what’s his excuse lmaoo

[xoxxbilliexoxx]

Use Me, I’m Yours

———————————————

Billie comes home angry and you’re her favorite stress relief. You spread your legs, ready to take her strap, but she has other plans

Established Relationship, Strap-on (B receiving), Dom!Billie x Sub!Reader, intense orgasm & squirting

Y/N POV

The soft sound of Billie’s car tires splashing against the wet pavement pulls me out of my thoughts as I lay stomach down across my bed. She’s been gone all day dealing with meetings about tour and other boring things that the outside world forgets she must manage.

She was dreading it this morning, hiding under the covers and pulling me close to her, fake crying about how badly she just wanted to stay next to me all day. I finally made her get up and while she begrudgingly got ready I made us both a protein smoothie and a piece of toast with almond butter- a breakfast we have been fixated on for the last 3 weeks.

I hear the front door open and close and my heart flutters at the excitement of my girlfriend returning home to me. I want Billie to end each of her days next to me, holding her in bed until we’re old and grey, enjoying the warmth of her wrinkly fingers interlaced with mine. My head stays resting in my hand as I anxiously wait for her to greet me, listening out for each of her steps to grow louder and louder as she gets closer.

Something feels different though, sounds different. The way her feet hit the wood floors is filled with emotion. It’s fast and it’s heavy. I lay still and wait, trying not to assume anything.

My door swings open and Billie’s energy fills the room. It’s hard to read, hard to grasp what it is she’s feeling. A small stuffed duffle bag is thrown onto the floor with a harsh echoed landing and within seconds Billie’s hands grab my ankles, pulling me towards the edge of the bed with a low grunt and a loud yelp from my own mouth.

Before I can speak I'm flipped around and pulled into a heated kiss. Billie’s soft lips guide every motion, every push and pull, every hungry drag of her skin against mine.

Moments pass before I pull away with a gasp, dazed and overwhelmed by the sudden passion.

“Well hello to you too, lovey” I say as I gain control of my mind once again.

“mmmmm hi baby, missed you so much” her words purr out of her, their tone rich with need and desire.

“How was your day? How were your meetings?” I question with a smile and intense eye contact that secretly makes my core throb.

She's still in the same position as she was when she kissed me, standing above me next to the edge of the bed, legs on either side of mine as I sit below her. She’s hovering over me and looking down with an intensity that fills my brain with blind anticipation, not knowing at all what might be coming but eager nonetheless.

“horrible, I hated every moment of them. everything is all fucked up and I felt like I was going to explode all day. I got it all figured out but i’m still just as fucking frustrated.”

I feel frozen for a moment, not used to seeing Billie angry, not sure how to engage. Before I can respond, she speaks again.

“I’m fucking pent up. Need you. Need you now”

Her hand wraps around my neck as she talks, biting her bottom lip as soon as she’s done. As her fingers squeeze just slightly I try to speak, my voice only partially able to come out. I feel pathetic, my words sound like a desperate moan.

“Do what you want, i’m yours baby”

“yeah?” she cocks her head as she questions me, a dirty smirk painted across her face, not at all trying to hide how much she wants me.

I fight against her hand as I nod my head and swallow, barely able to do either as she tightens her grip on my neck for just a moment before she pulls away. She grabs my waist with an intensity that makes my blood surge before she throws me onto the bed with a quiet aggression and walks away.

I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as she shuffles around in the inside of her bag. Billie has tons of clothes and toiletries here at my place, just as I do at her place, I’m not used to seeing her bring a bag over anymore and for just a moment my mind is brought back to the beginning of this whole adventure, when things were still so new and nervous excitement constantly raged through my body.

That same nervous excitement tingles against my skin as Billie turns around with the strap-on in her hands. Her eyes glow with desire as she moves towards me with a seemingly intentional slowness, as if she’s teasing. But it doesn’t feel directed at me, it looks as if she’s playing a game with herself, letting her desire build till she can’t control it any longer.

I lay still, letting my brain soak in the image of her now topless figure, hands filled with the promise of pleasure, hips swaying back and forth as she floats towards me. When the bed tips and her hands find my skin I lose my breath for just a moment.

The energy dripping off of her is still that of anger, of frustration that lingers even as she kisses my neck. It’s the anger that leads each of her motions, yet still she meets me with a tender touch, tender yet intentional, tender yet charged.

When her hands find the waistband of my sweatpants she yanks them hard enough to pull my thong down with it, happy to see what she has done. My wetness hits my inner thighs, a clear sign of the way her aggressive hunger turns me on.

My shirt comes off next, pulled up slowly as her hands glide past my newly exposed skin. They move slow enough to feel each goosebump they cause. It all feels like an orchestrated game, like she’s building her own hunger till she’s starving.

The anticipation of the feeling of her strap filling me up is overwhelming, my need bubbling up quickly. I’m pained with a heavy throb from the lack of touch where I need her most, squirming at the thought of her taking her anger out on me.

My mouth pools with saliva as I watch her slide off the rest of her own clothes, my eyes move slowly to take her in. She’s perfect, her body is meant to be a marble statue in a museum, permanently capturing her goddess-like figure.

When her hands reach for the strap-on my heart beats just a bit faster, my slick dripping from my core just a bit more. I’m eager to watch her fit it to her round hips, a sight that always takes the air from my lungs.

I get snapped out of my dazed observations when she slides it up my own legs, tightening the straps snuggly against my waist. Her actions are confident, like she’s following a planned attack.

“Need you so bad, need to use you baby, that okay?” Her question is rhetorical, it’s clear as she nods with her words. I swallow as I nod in response, all words and thoughts gone from my mind- all that’s left is an urgent need to watch Billie use me in a new way.

My hands move underneath my head, back flat on the bed, as I lay naked under Billie. Her legs are straddling me as she guides my plastic dick between her folds, coating it in her arousal before sinking down, letting its thickness fill her entirely. Her head is thrown back and a powerful groan echoes against the 4 walls of my bedroom.

She moans out quiet expletives like a whisper, like she’s only speaking to herself. It’s as if she’s forgotten I'm here, completely and totally focused on her own pleasure, her own desires. It’s something I never knew I needed, the way she’s entirely using me to get herself off.

Her jaw is clenched tight as she begins gliding up and down on my faux cock, closed mouth whines filling the air as she takes in the feeling.

I think about the fact that she planned this, brought these toys here with the intention of fucking herself on me, needing it so badly she went the opposite direction to stop at her house and gather her x rated supplies. It makes this all the more hot knowing it was premeditated, knowing she wanted it this much, thought about it this much.

“oh god, fuck yes baby, needed this so bad, needed to fuck myself on you so bad, feels so good for me, you feel so good for me mama”

Her eyes stay closed as she speaks, her voice is sent straight to the ceiling as her head faces up. Yet still the filthy words fill my ears and send shivers down my spine all the way to my toes. They mix with my blood and throb against my clit, making it feel all the more powerful each time she bottoms out and the base rubs my swollen bud perfectly.

I groan at the sight above me, her curves on full display, fingers toying with her own nipples as her perfect tits bounce with each motion. Her eyes are slammed shut and her bottom lip is trapped between her teeth, biting so hard a small drop of blood spills out, an intense contrast against the bright white of her teeth.

“you’re mine, you know that? all fucking mine” It comes out as a growl and again it seems as those she’s saying these words for herself, her own ears and her own pleasure. Her intense ownership and dominance is getting her off even faster.

Billie’s bouncing speeds up, moving her hips up and down faster and faster as her erotic cries grow louder, more whiny, more uncontrolled. Her hands leave her own boobs to grab mine before leaning down against me, forearms pressed against my skin and holding her up as she begins throwing her ass up and down as fast as she can.

I’m mesmerized by her, watching as she continues to use me, continues to fuck herself on me and get herself off, working off her anger while getting closer and closer to her peak.

“fuck y/n! fuck fuck fuck” it comes out as a high pitched whine as her movements grow sloppier. Her lips hit the skin of my neck but they don’t move, they just stay pressed firmly on my flesh, like she can’t focus enough to kiss me.

“need you, need you, gah fuck need you baby” Her words are muffled against my skin as she cries against me. my own loud moans spill out, ones that have been stuck in my chest for a while. I feel completely submissive under her, pathetically bucking up my hips to get as much friction as I can against my needy clit.

“gunna cum! oh my god i’m gunna cum” the end of her words are punctuated by a loud gasp as her movements stutter, unable to keep up the rhythm as her pleasure consumes her. Her legs shutter above me and her boobs push against mine as she collapses on my chest. Right as her moments halt, taken over by her high, I grab her hips harshly with both my hands and continue to move her up and down on the strap at the same rapid pace.

“that’s right baby, fucking cum for me billie, use me just like that, cum all over me, that’s its” my tone is aggressive, knowing it’s what she wants, what she needs, as she moves through her orgasm.

After more than 30 seconds she’s still cumming hard, still crying out and digging her nails into my shoulders. With a sudden scream I’m coated in her liquids as she squirts everywhere, gasping and arching and scratching at my skin.

I finally stop my forced movement of her hips, letting her fully collapse on top of me as she tries to calm her body down. Her nails are still clawing at my shoulders, muscles still clenched, breath still heavy.

“jesus fucking christ” she finally whispers.

I feel her plush lips place tender kisses on my neck when her breath begins to calm. Our bodies stay connected, her pussy still wrapped around the extension of me she just used for her pleasure, for her stress relief.

We stay like this for a few minutes, connected, quiet, intimate.

“feel better lovey?” I break the silence as my nails run up and down her sweaty back, tracing the lines of her back tattoo.

“So much better” she giggles back at me while pushing to sit up. A quiet moan slips out as she lifts her hips and slides off the strap on, laughing slightly as she sees how big of a mess she’s made, the bed all around us completely drenched.

A mischievous smirk slides across her face as she begins to fiddle with the harness still hugging me tight.

“help me get this off of you, wanna fuck my cum into you, wanna make you add to this mess now”

[maybejj]

TWIN FLAMES PART 16

≪ masterlist ≫

SOCIAL MEDIA AU, 18+ MDNI

baby!daddy!rafe x pogue!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of porn

summary: You and Rafe were the couple that no one saw coming. The kook king and the pogue princess falling in love was a shock to the whole island. The pogues questioned your relationship, the kooks despised it, and Ward took extreme measures to tear you two apart every chance he got. It was only a matter of time before the pressure caused the relationship to break. The constant arguing, the yelling, it all became too much. Rafe turned to drugs and you isolated yourself from everyone until there was too much damage to repair. But life has a funny way of bringing two souls back together. In this instance, in the form of a three year old little boy.

Notes: phew i feel like that was a lot. but now reader knows about hailey and while rafe ran into luke and is pissed about it, he didn’t fully crash out. but don’t worry. there will be a rafe crash out. it’s coming. just very slowly…

taglist: @yktayy9669 @massivepenguinfart @maybankslover @defnotayonna @daddyrafeslittleslut @a-lovers-card @inthelibrarybtw @scarlettoceaneyes @anacamofficial @bbyg4rl @smokahontas-113 @rafeysbabydoll @rafesbabygirlx @frankoceanluvr11 @flvredcas @voidangxls @ivy-34 @yolgart @starsmoonn @hannieskzzz @tqd4455 @jjasmiineee @congratsloserr @pr3tty-pink @lili-swagalicious @papercranesandinkstains @jamesbeaufortismylife @stoned-writer @kathryn-maraudersversion @st8rkey @justdamnpeachy @ggraycelynn @luvelola @icaqttt @rafe-cameronswife @pogueprincesa @mrsdrewstarkeyy @countryclubwhore @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @lerclec @drewsswifeyy @bee-43 @akobx @trevorsturniolo @mariamadison6-blog @larema121 @stelleduarte @klarxtr @ietss @todorokiskitten

[plotholesaregreatactually]

Honestly we don’t see much about Duke in these crossovers.

So here’s a really long post! Though it isn’t exactly Duke.

@im-totally-not-an-alien-2 I hope you approve!

(Oh it’s really late for me rn)

I mean, pretty sure duke could use his powers to turn invisible and he usually does the day shift by himself I think so it’s a bit easier to get some of his DNA without being noticed and as the meta of the group it makes sense he’d be targeted.

I can even imagine how they meet.

The sole somewhat stable surviving clone of the vigilante Signal manages to escape from the facility he’s held in.

Similarly to Superboy he gets some knowledge downloaded into him but not on the same level as I imagine this to be a smaller and more lowkey organization. That’s also why he isn’t so stable.

He gets some of Duke’s memories to as *waves hands* somehow his meta ability allowed him to just have some of his memories, for flavor ig.

So escaped clone learned pretty early on how to turn invisible and does a few light shows every now and then when fighting against his previous captors and to better understand his powers.

Someone noticed some weird light shows and a new ghost story is born!

In comes the Fentons with the ectoplasm powered steel chair!

And Phantom swoops in to the rescue! The gh- wait this isn’t a ghost!

And flys away after saving Mr. To-be-named who has stars in his eyes after being rescued for the first time ever. Though he still has a bit of bat paranoia ingrained in his being.

Next comes a hilarious series of cutscenes of them hanging out and getting closer to each other!

Danny introduces Cloney to Nasty Burger!

Beam Supreme (the clone) has a powers mishap! And gets an array of lightbulb and light related punny nicknames from Danny.

Danny shows Disco Strikes Back! His astronomy knowledge by bringing to a special event at a planetarium, for some reason though Sam and Tucker couldn’t make it?

Our Clone boy remembers that his template tried out for track and soccer before and decided to see if it’s something he would like. The track reminds him of the few endurance tests he was put through though with soccer he loved the camaraderie the sport had, and the fact he got to join a team while his template got kicked out.

Rainbow Jumpscare earns that nickname by scaring off a group of ghost that tried to jump Danny as a civilian! …He really liked the feeling of saving someone… though he didn’t like the way his chest felt when he saw Danny in danger.

And many more happen though you can think those up!

[Next part is in sections so you don’t have to read one huge chunk of text]

(Pt.1) Danny accidentally shows off his weapons prowess when a ghost uses Paulina as a hostage, he even gets invited a party she’s hosting tomorrow! He’s so excited! Or. He should be. He’s not sure why he feels so, uninterested, it’s Paulina! The school’s idol! And where’s Sparkles?

(Pt.2) It’s the day of the party and our dear clone boy really doesn’t want to be around, he’s realizing something about himself and if he sticks around longer it won’t be just the G.I.W after Danny. Showing off his powers like that must have alerted someone to where he is, and… if Danny, if someone who’s been so head over heels for some girl since they met finds out about his feelings then! No. He won’t ever find out. (Not even Clone Duke can do emotions, well he was made from a guy born in Gotham)

(Pt.3) Danny, after talking to, surprisingly enough, his parents, comes to a realization that Paulina doesn’t really matter to him anymore! I mean she’s popular and he’ll still save her and all but his relationship with Glowbug means a lot more to him!

(Pt.4) They play a game of cat and mouse, Clone Duke manages to find and start methodically disassembling the G.I.W by destroying credibility and funding. Danny on the other hand somehow manages to follow his trail due to a unique ectoplasmic signature on a gift he gave Gleam Beam early on during their friendship. Danny thinks the G.I.W did something to his… His friend of course! Ha ha yup just friends no weird feeling at thinking that at all ha ha.

(Pt.5) The G.I.W is a few steps away from being irrecoverably broken and Clone Duke feels… totally not alone he can compartmentalize like any other hero clone! Danny really misses his Glow Bro really really misses him. But in a totally bro way of course!

(Pt.6) Danny nearly dies, Clone Duke nearly dies, they both get captured. Sam, Tucker and Valerie though begrudgingly manage to break in and cause enough of a commotion our duo escape! They then face down an insane man decked out in stolen and remodeled tech, who was the one to capture the duo, and defeat him.

(Pt.7) Clone Duke decides to ‘finally tell them his name’ aka. He just decided on one and is definitely not telling anyone he’s a clone.

He tells them his name is Asier.

Danny suddenly remembers Asier is also a pickle.

Pickle puns.

Many pickle puns. And jokes. And plushies. And keychains. And- you get it now right?

Though of course they aren’t telling each other about the weird feelings they have! Nope not that!

Despite their weird pretty much flirting during the entire fight.

And oh. Oh dear the rescue trio is not amused. And through *insert method here* the rescue trio call out the glowstick duo on their feelings!

And now they have to deal with PDA™️. Just kill them now but don’t because if they become ghosts they’ll deal with this for an eternity.

Btw Asier managed to destroy the group that cloned him and has several plans for the Fentons to make his beloved !Boyfriend! Happy!

Later he comes out with the whole clone thing after meeting Ellie after nearly dying from being a little too unstable and they decide to prank the Waynes for their anniversary.

(Hi! If anyone wants to add or write out any of this please do!)

(Also I’m not adding Cores or Obsessions or Ghost Instincts because this is meant to be lighthearted and I don’t want to delve in deep)

(Also if you give me content it fuels me and lets me make more so please type anything and I will consume it with the grace of a untrained dog given bacon that somehow manages to idk write bootleg Shakespeare)

Danny held back his laughter as he sprinted away. The note he left in the batmobile is going to rile up Gothams furries if what his boyfriend said was right.

All he wrote was, "I'm dating your clone, and there's nothing you can do about it." No signature, no fingerprints, heck, he didn't even reveal who's clone it was. Now he and his boyfriend are going to follow along with invisibility and popcorn to watch their heads explode.

[holyschnitzel]

Hi holyschnitzel!

A friend showed me the game's demo and I absolutely loved it, I got really obsessed with the character Damon. The game's background is really interesting, so I started following you to keep up with the lore and updates.

However, when I started looking into things, I was surprised that MC basically end up in a three-way relationship with DG and Damon, which isn't apparent in the game.

I don't really like this idea and wanted to ask if this will stay this way or if there will be individual routes where they haven't slept together before (like I see in posts about him taking her virginity) and have just been friends… I saw them as a family and it feels like incest.

I've found out that quite a lot of people think the same.

Thanks a lot for your time

Blastic is having trouble explaining this properly, so I'll take over :)

First of all, thank you for your interest in Broken Colors and for sharing your thoughts. I appreciate your enthusiasm for the game and especially for Damon's character <3 You seem to have some misunderstandings about the relationships in the game, so I'd like to clear that up for you!

Let me clarify that DG and Damon are absolutely not family or related in any way. They are explicitly established as friends (with benefits) who met as adults. There is no familial connection whatsoever between them, so your concern about "incest" doesn't apply to them. Just because you consider them family doesn't make it incestuous, this is not how it works, you naughty little thing you! ;P

Next, regarding Damon's personality and behavior: While Damon does have attachment issues and can be intensely possessive, his relationship with DG is unique and established before the events of the game. Their dynamic is special precisely because DG is the only person Damon trusts enough to consider sharing someone with. This is actually consistent with his character - he's not casually sleeping with multiple people; he has one deeply trusted connection (DG) that allows for this specific arrangement aka poly-relationship.

About the possible routes in the game:

There will be a route where MC ends up with DG.

A route where MC ends up with Damon.

And a poly-route option with both of them.

You're free to choose whichever route appeals to you most. If you prefer a one-on-one relationship with Damon, that route will be available to you. The poly route is simply an additional option for players who might be interested in that dynamic :)

Of course, we understand some players may have different preferences or interpretations, but Blastic wants to stay true to her characters and world she has created. Everything you have read are intentional aspects of the narrative and character development!

Well! I hope this clarifies things. Thanks again for your support and for engaging with the game so thoughtfully, eleipsis! ^o^

[lnfours]

okay fianlly ! i bring to you —

— "if i fall asleep, don't hang up." "i never do, love."

— noticing them blushing coincidentally after making a comment. but they can't be blushing because of what they said. they wouldn't. would they? no, of course not...right?

alr i’m excited for this one ♡

sasha!!!! i’m so sorry this took so long, but i’m back and i hope you love this as much as i do!! thank you for being so patient with me 🥹🤍

cleaning out my inbox

your phone had rung late in the evening, once you had already followed your nightly routine and climbed into bed. you had your book in hand, the tv on for background noise, ready to relax after a long day.

you let out a sigh of slight annoyance when you heard it ringing from your nightstand. it quickly disappeared when you saw his name on your screen. you smiled softly, sliding the answer button to the right before his face popped up on your screen.

“hey,” you smiled at the curly haired man on your phone.

“hey,” he said, a tired smile on his face as he adjusted his arm behind his head, “what’re you up to?”

you held your book up to the camera and he nodded, squinting at the time in the corner of his phone, “shit, it’s that late over there already?”

“quarter to twelve,” you said, “but it’s okay,”

he shook his head, “‘m sorry, i wasn’t even thinking-“

“lan,” you chuckled, “it’s okay, just.. if i fall asleep, don’t hang up.”

he smiled, “i never do, love.”

you couldn’t help the way your cheeks turned hot, your smile growing a little wider as you bit the inside of your lip.

“what’d you get up to today?” he asked, the sound of the sheets rustling echoing through the speakers being a giveaway that he was trying to get comfortable.

“the usual,” you said, “work, came home, cleaned, ate dinner, got ready for bed, and now i’m on the phone with you,” he hummed, knowing your weekday routine pretty well, “what about you? how was media day?”

he chuckled, shaking his head, “‘m reminded every time i’m in front of the press why i like my privacy. you’re my peace and i wanna protect you from… all of this.”

you two had agreed to keep whatever this was between the two of you. take your time, not rush into labeling things. feeling things out, crossing the line you two danced around for years beforehand. the fans knew who you were, they’ve known you as long as they’ve known him, but as far as your relationship, that was just between you two and a select amount of your friends who you knew you could trust.

“is it that or do you just not wanna share me with anyone else?” you smirked, jokingly. he laughed with you, the two of you smiling at each other after a while.

“miss you,” he smiled softly, “i should probably let you get some sleep.”

you hummed, glancing at the time, “probably should,”

“i love you,” you weren’t sure if you’d ever get used to him saying it, “i’ll call you tomorrow when i’m done at the track.”

“can’t wait to hear all about it,” you smiled, “good luck tomorrow. i love you.”

“goodnight, baby,”

“goodnight, lan.”

[crescenthistory]

starry-eyed fear

pairing: remus lupin x black!sister!reader

synopsis: being raised in the noble and most ancient house of black meant that you were still looking at shadows like ghosts, even in a healthy and loving relationship with remus lupin, the best boy you had met. when his bad day triggers your fawn response, he sees through you and tries to help you calm down. in the end, you wind up wanting needing your older brother.

wc: 5.1k

cw: fem!reader, no use of y/n, complex ptsd symptoms written by someone with ptsd, childhood abuse, panic attack, fawn response, trying to use sex to avoid anger, conversations around consent, reader's self-neglect, eventual healthy communication, breakdown, hurt/comfort, changing povs, remus' self-hatred, big brother sirius centric for parts of it, background prongsfoot, found family, fluff

You would never tell Remus that you could tell he was in a bad mood before he even entered the dorm – though, on better days, he already knew.

His feet hitting harder against the corridor outside, dragging as if his body was simply too much to bear, gave it away. Not to mention his contradictingly quick gait; one that would surely cause his hip pain to flare, pain he only ever welcomed when he was feeling particularly sorry for himself or angry at the world.

This close to the full moon, he was usually feeling both.

Perhaps part of it was on you, too. Perhaps your overt awareness of the moon cycles in an effort to care for him best, backlashed and made you anticipate the drops in his mood that could come with it, despite him not giving you an explicit reason to do so. Despite him never proving that he would be a danger to you on his bad days. You still needed to help, to make it all better, or you would remain uneasy. 

Sometimes in your desire to care for him, you were actually carrying out injustices against yourself that consequently hurt you both. A lesson you would come to learn today.

Upon hearing his footsteps in the hallway, upon feeling the deferred chill penetrate your spine, you sat up straighter in your bed. Smoothing out the blanket, you dragged your textbooks into your lap in favour of the novel you had been reading, to seem more collected and productive. A bright smile already coated your lips when his hand hit the handle, in a hope to quench any turmoil in his heart before he could even voice it.

Had his walk not given it away, his face would; Remus opened the door and slumped his entire body against the doorway as he stared at you with exhaustion etched into every beautiful crevice of his face.

“Heya, dove.” The words were raspy, as if they hurt clawing their way out of his throat.

“Hi, my love,” you whispered in turn. You put your textbooks that you had not been reading aside, making space for him on the bed. Open arms, guarded heart.

Remus was limping a little as he closed the door behind him – the slam making you flinch while his back was turned. He had forgone his cane today, and was evidently paying the consequences. 

Maybe it was because Regulus got a black letter from home earlier this week that he still refuses to show you. Maybe it was the fact that he showed Sirius who also refuses to tell you what it said, meaning that it had to be bad. Maybe it was caused by you barely seeing either of them – and thus not being grounded by them – this past month with how hard they had been training for the end of quidditch season.

Or maybe it was because once your brain is convinced there is something to protect itself from, it will continue to do so even long after the threat is gone and all you’re surrounded by is your sweet boyfriend and his kind brown eyes. 

Either way, you could not help but instinctively fawn over him as he slumped down beside you on your bed.

As soon as he dropped his bookbag by the end of the bed, he beelined for your side. You propped up the pillows, making everything ready for him, but the lanky boy chose instead to crawl up on top of you and collapse with his head on your chest. The weight usually helped ground you, but with your body already dysregulated, you found it stifling and hard to breathe. 

All of this was pushed aside in favour of your hand going up to scratch at his hair while your free arm caressed his back, soothing.

“You’re alright, sweet boy.” You willed it to be true, both for him and for you. “I’ve got you. Do you need any pain potions? A massage?”

Remus made a slight tsking noise that made it even harder to breathe. “Just need you, dovey.”

You loved him. Gods, how you loved him. And you knew he loved you. Why was the panic still rising in your chest, tingling in your fingertips?

You kissed the top of his head in response, tightening your hold on him and trying to force your body to soften. “Well, you’ve got me. All of me. Whatever you want, love.”

Remus buried his face further against your chest, tipping his nose up to brush it against the side of your neck. Tender. Sweet. Suffocating. He pressed slight kisses to the skin there, breathing you in. “All of you?” he asked, voice again growing hoarser, but this time with another intention.

You knew how to make everything okay. 

The smile you plastered on widened, just for him, just to make him feel alright, to ward off any irritation remaining in his bones. With gentle fingers, you moved your hand to his chin and lifted his head at the same time as you slid further down your bed, so that you would come face to face. It shifted his weight off of you, which helped you focus on your mission. Wordlessly, you brought him in for a greeting kiss, lips pressed against each other and then opening one another, diving in.

Remus’ breath hitched that way it always did when you kissed for the first time in a while, like he couldn’t believe it, then promptly melted. His strong arms came to wrap around your waist, pulling you further against him; and just like that, you were suffocating again, but you kept shoving it down. 

You led inquisitive, kind fingers to the hem of his ruffled shirt, sliding up beneath it and exploring the expanse of skin. Your lips moved together, Remus deepening the kiss further and you gifted him a soft moan for his efforts that saw him doubling down on them. You pressed your body against his, giving your all, as your hands only escaped to begin unbuttoning his shirt and loosening his tie. Trembling.

“Need you,” Remus mumbled against your lips before he began trailing his kisses down the side of your neck. You pushed his shirt off, successfully leaving him half naked, and quickly moved onto your next mission, which was unbuckling his trousers. “Gods, I need you. You’re so lovely, so good.”

You kept keening at his attention, making soft sounds you knew he liked. You couldn't say anything, though, too focussed on breathing. His tongue kissed down your neck, lapping at your pulsepoint.

It was then that Remus’ movements froze for a second. Lips pressed against your rapidly beating pulse. “Dovey?” he asked, tone still coated with desire, but checking in. You kept his face buried in your neck with a hand on the back of his head, so that he wouldn’t try to look you in the eyes. “You alright?”

You hummed in the affirmative, going back to exploring his body with your free hand. “Let me make you feel good,” you murmured, ducking your face down to his own neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses there as you slid your hand down his unzipped trousers, cupping him. He groaned.

Your movements were instinctual, habitual, but you didn’t realise how robotic they were. Even with his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, hips bucking, Remus was beginning to pick up on it. “Mm, dove, w-wait a second.” It was all breathless mumbles.

You doubled down, grinding your palm against Remus’ length straining through his boxers, kissing down his neck and slowly trying to lower yourself with kisses down his chest. Kissing away his ire, his upset. His breath stuttered, but he managed to say your name, not as a moan but in an attempt to reach you.

What he did next made sense to Remus as a way to get you grounded again; it terrified you.

With a swift, kind movement, Remus grabbed your wrist and rolled the two of you from laying on your side to him laying on top of you. Your hand was removed from his trousers, and your face was drawn out from its hiding place, finally revealing your eyes to Remus’.

They flashed with fear for the one second you looked into each other’s irises, before you quickly averted your gaze. The unexpected movement, the sudden weight of him on top of you, the caging position you were in – it brought forth the hyperventilation you had been trying to fight back.

“Hey, dove,” Remus tried, voice unsure. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

You’re looking everywhere but Remus, breathing hard. This was not how you wanted this to go, not how you needed it to go. Your mind is suddenly yanked backwards, 2 years, 5 years, 12 years, through dark corridors and dark eyes zeroed in on you, shadows over your face, bruises on your body, pure and utter misery. He's angry, everything is wrong, you've done something wrong.

It was all you could do not to cry; because you knew crying only made it worse.

Though you didn’t see him, you could tell Remus had caught onto this sudden switch because his voice suddenly changed from uncertain to slightly panic as he said, “Hey, hey, my love, hey, you’re alright.”

He scrambled off of you, sitting awkwardly beside you instead, trousers still unzipped, the moment frozen in time. His hands hovering above you, wanting to comfort but not knowing how. Instinctively, you rolled your body to the other side, hiding away, as one arm wrapped around you securely and the other covered your face.

Hiding. What you always did best.

It broke Remus’ heart.

He whispered your name twice, voice breaking slightly. As he grew more determined, piecing together what was happening as best he could, he settled properly beside you. Your chest was heaving more and more violently, never quite catching your breath. “Dove, it’s alright. You’re safe. You’re safe, okay? You haven’t done anything wrong. But I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart. Please, breathe for me. Copy my breath if you need to.”

Remus didn’t touch you. He sat still beside you, all movements slow and measured, as he desperately tried to conjure up memories of conversations he had had with you or your bothers about how to help you through episodes. Going back to the first years of his friendship with Sirius where he held his hands through moments like this – well, maybe not exactly like this, but close enough. It was hard to think when he was this freaked out on your behalf but he had to try.

He breathed in and out loudly, slow movements, hoping to get you to copy him. You remained in your curled up position, struggling to catch on, but he wouldn’t give up. 

Grounding. You had told him about grounding, he had seen James do it for Sirius countless times after you all left. “You’re safe, my love. So safe. We’re in your dorm, it’s just you and me here. No one is angry, nothing is wrong. You’re okay.” He kept breathing for the both of you.

When he heard the violent sob that tore its way out of your throat, he thought for a second that he had said something terrible, that he had made the situation so much worse somehow.

Then, your voice rang through your head, confiding in him about how difficult it is to cry when you feel unsafe, how it only really happens when you’re with someone you trust.

He let out a sigh in relief – but it didn’t make the sound any less heartbreaking.

“That’s it, love, you’re all right. Let it out, do whatever you need. I’m here for you, okay? You’re safe.” Remus felt like he was reading off a list of what to say when someone is having a panic attack, which meant he felt like an utter buffoon, but you kept crying and you kept breathing, so he was at least not making it worse. 

“Oh, my girl, you’re okay.” He was fighting tears in his own eyes as he looked at you, ached to hug you but knew he couldn’t. “Can I come around to the other side of the bed, dove?”

He was expecting a no if not silence, but you emphatically nodded your head, another sob tearing from your throat.

Slowly, careful not to startle you, Remus eased his way off the bed and walked around to the other side, so that he could see your face without you emerging from your near-fetal position. He fully ignored his screaming knees and hips as he kneeled on the side of the bed, keeping his fingers interlocked on the mattress so they wouldn’t reach for you. Your eyes were squeezed shut behind your hand and his heart hurt more than his joints when he thought about what you must be seeing behind your eyelids.

He whispered your name softly. “My love, it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay, you haven’t done anything wrong. Whatever you’re seeing in your head isn’t real, not anymore, you're with me.” His voice broke on the end, but he willed it back to its soft, sweet nature to calm you. “Can you open your eyes for me, dove? It’s not real, I am. I am. It’s alright.”

Tears were still streaming freely down your scrunched up face, but tentatively, with no shortage of hesitation or fear, you began to peel open your eyes. The second you could see Remus’ concerned, loving face through your veil of tears, you broke further, hand shooting free to clasp over his.

“Oh, Remus, I’m so sorry,” you sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The feeling of your hand over his was a balm that empowered Remus to take further care of you, the stinging fear that you would be better if he left the room easing in his chest. He slowly turned his hands over, inviting you to clasp your hands together – sighing audibly when you did.

“What are you apologising for, sweet thing? You haven’t done anything wrong, nothing. There is nothing to apologise for. Just breathe for me.”

But you were shaking your head, cries intensifying. It looked like you wanted to say more, but couldn’t bring yourself to. Breath continuing to hitch.

“You’re safe, my love,” Remus murmured yet again, trying to catch your eye so you wouldn’t disappear into your mind. “I’ve got you, you’re always safe with me. I’ll leave if you want me to, but–”

“No!” you cried instantly, shaking your head. “No, please, please don’t.” Remus had already begun shushing you, promised he wouldn’t, but you continued. “Please stay. Remus, would you hold me?”

Remus didn’t point out that he had been until you began to hyperventilate, didn’t show you anything except an endless sea of understanding. He nodded and whispered, “Of course, my love. You’re sure I can touch you? I’ll hold you.”

You kept nodding through tears, shuffling back to make space for him.

Remus carefully slid in next to you, opening his arms so that you could position yourself how you wanted, scared to make you feel uncomfortable again. You attached yourself tightly to his side, mimicking the inverse of how you laid earlier, this time your head resting on his chest as you held him closely. He placed one hand on the middle of your back, a spot he knew made you feel protected, while the other wrapped your hand in his.

“Shhh, I’ve got you dovey.” Remus kissed the top of your head, slightly swaying you. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head as you cried, but even then you managed to bite out a few words. “I’m sorry. I knew you were upset and I wanted to make it better, I–”

When your sentence broke off with a sob, Remus tightened his hold on you, eyebrows furrowing in heartache for his sweet dove. “Oh, my love, you have nothing to apologise for. Nothing. You’re perfect, so sweet. But you never have to make me feel better, especially not like that.”

You made a hollow sound at that, and Remus continued. “Love, I would never want you to do something you don’t want to do. And I would never take my bad day out on you, you know that.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” The tone of your voice told him he shouldn’t have insisted that you knew as much; you were drenched in guilt and shame.

“No, no, my lovely lovely girl. You don’t get to be sorry, alright? This is not your fault. I’m not angry with you. I’ve never been angry with you.”

Vaguely, Remus was aware that stating absolutes like that weren’t healthy for you in the long run, that he shouldn’t reinforce that anger is inherently a bad thing. In this very moment, though, he could not care less about the long run and only wanted to bring his partner back down to him. He kept kissing your head, thumb brushing over the back of your hand. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he emphasised again in a whisper, so quiet with his lips brushing against your hair. “You’re perfect. Just breathe for me, dovey, breathe. I want you to feel alright.”

You remained like that for quite some time, with Remus doing his best to ground you as your breathing finally picked up on his and slowed down, but your heart kept up its rapid speed, like it wanted to run away to where no one could see it. He hummed quietly, the way you would hum for him when he couldn’t sleep before a full moon.

“Can I ask you something absolutely awful?” You whispered at last, voice still choked.

Remus’ lips twitched where they were pressed against your hairline. “I highly doubt anything you could ask me would be horrible, my love; please ask me anything. I want to help you.”

You shook your head violently against him, making him tighten his grip on your back to steady you and protect you from yourself as shuddering heaves escaped from your chest. “No, it is. It is awful.”

“I will love you anyway. I will answer anything.”

Another sob escaped you as you opened your mouth but failed to speak. Remus kept humming against you, cradling you as he waited in patience. “Can you please–” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m sorry. Can you please– can you get Sirius?”

Get Sirius.

Remus almost wanted to laugh through the tears shining in his eyes at the sight of your torment. You were painfully endearing, even now.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he murmured, peppering kisses against your forehead. “That is far from awful; that is lovely. You’re lovely. Of course I’ll get Sirius.”

You hiccuped. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re not enough,” you whispered through your continuing sobs. “I– no bloke wants his girlfriend to ask for his best friend when she’s upset, but I just– I need my brother.”

“Of course you do.” Remus squeezed you tighter, getting ready to release you. “Of course you do, my love. Luckily I’m not some bloke, okay? I’m yours. Yours. I want to help you.” Careful not to startle you, he starts untangling himself from your grasp, kissing every piece of skin near him that he knew you would be comfortable with.

“It’s just– he’s changed so much. Since. So when I see him, I know it’s over.”

Remus’ heart positively shattered for you – all three of you.

He pulled back enough to see your face, gently cupping your cheek. “I’ll run and get him, alright? Then I can leave you alone with him, or sit in the corner, whatever you’d like. It will just be a minute, are you alright to stay here alone?”

You nodded, but tightened your grip on his collar. When he looked at you in question you slowly leaned forward to kiss him goodbye – giving him time to pull away should he want to. As if he would ever want to. Remus waited patiently for your soft lips to meet his, the perfect gel for his wound.

“Just a minute, sweetheart.”

No later than he was out of your arms was Remus out the door, hastily pulling a jumper on and unzipping his trousers – his situation having calmed down somewhere between the tears. He made sure to close the door gently behind him, and then he was speeding down the corridor, heading for the boys’ dormitory.

A snowy layer of guilt and self-hatred began to fall down in his mind – how could you pick up on it so late, how do you always do the wrong thing – but Remus swallowed his pride and squeezed his eyes shut as he hurried. He would make it right by doing what you asked, by getting you your brother. That was the one thing Remus had zero qualms about; he would happily fourth wheel your pack of codependent siblings for eternity if it meant your smiles would continue to be more frequent.

For each step he took between your dorms, Remus made a new silent prayer that his mates had not stayed late at quidditch practice.

His prayers were quickly answered in the form of the unmistaken boisterous laughter of his three mates sounding down the hallway. Part of Remus, the one that still felt achingly guilty from the whole ordeal, felt a pang of fear of Sirius’ reaction. That his best mate would agree with his most cruel thoughts and claim that Remus had caused the heartbreak that was your current predicament. Though Sirius had made no threats towards him about dating his little sister, choosing instead to love and trust Remus, there was still an unmistakable weariness whenever your heart was on the line, in whatever way.

Remus hoped he had not deemed himself unworthy of that trust today.

Even if he had, he knew he would still hurry to get Sirius a thousand times over, if that would help you.

Out of habit, Remus knocked on the door twice before quickly pushing it open, not waiting for a response; it was his dorm too, after all. His eyes immediately landed on Sirius leaned back against James’ chest on his bed, cheeks rosy from practise and laughter. Meanwhile, Peter was sprawled out like a starfish on the carpet, in the middle of some deranged story that had the others in stitches.

All heads flew up with a smile when Remus entered, but Sirius’ brows were the first to furrow.

“Sorry, can I–”

“Everything alright?” Sirius interrupted, not to be mean but because he could not help himself. He sat up, detangling himself from James, whose hand automatically went to stroke his back soothingly.

“Yes, but could you come for a minute? She needs you.” Remus didn’t want to say too much here and now, both to avoid wasting time and because he didn’t want to expose your vulnerable plea to the other boys. He knows you view James like an additional older brother and Peter like a best friend, but this feels like a blood-kin kind of situation. A raised-by-Walburga-Black kind of situation.

Sirius elegantly shot up from the bed, squeezing James’ hand in parting without looking back as he sidestepped Peter’s messy limbs. It was an excellent choreography of movements, owed to ballet classes you both had told horror stories of, as Sirius swiped up one of his jumpers on the way to the door and squeezed out past Remus. A man on a mission.

Remus gave a tight-lipped smile to the two remaining boys as he closed the door, speeding after Sirius. The other boy cast a brief look over his shoulder, brows furrowed in concern. “Where is she? What happened?”

“In her dorm. She caught on that I had a bad day and it triggered her.” Remus struggled to keep up with Sirius, but he refused to slow down just on account of himself.

He was half expecting Sirius to ask him what he had done, to join the symphony of voices in the back of his head telling him that he did this to her. Instead, Sirius’ shoulders merely deflated a little as he picked up his pace.

By the time the two of them had made it to your dormitory door, Remus was out of breath while Sirius seemed to be holding his. The part of Remus that was just Sirius’ best friend was concerned about how watching his little sister, whom he adored above all else, having an episode might trigger him in turn. The part of Remus that was in love with you, though – which was all of him – was just grateful to be able to do something for you, anything.

Sirius gently pushed down the doorhandle, announcing himself immediately as he slipped into the room. “Babygirl? It’s me.”

Over Sirius’ head, Remus instantly spotted you, sitting upright on the bed but curled in on yourself. Arms wrapped around your knees that were pulled to your chest, forehead on your knees and shoulders shaking with tears and uneven breaths.

Your head picked up at the sound of Sirius’ voice, glistening eyes and deep-seated frown on display. You made a small sobbing noise that sounded like your older brother’s name.

In an instant, Sirius was by your side.

“Hey, hey,” Sirius whispered, in a voice so uncharacteristically soft it sounded foreign in his mouth, yet perfectly at home when directed at you. “Hey bébé étoile, what’s going on, hm?”

He climbed onto the bed, carefully dragging your body into his lap, so that he could cradle your head against his chest. You put up no fight, disappearing into Sirius’ embrace the moment he invited you in. The choreography from earlier continued, it was like you were born to be in each other’s arms, knowledgeable and comforting.

Remus stood in the doorway, mesmerised by the sight but unsure where to go. He could hear Sirius’ soft shushing, but not quite make out what he was saying, a mix of English and the French he usually refuses to speak.

With his hand on the doorknob, Remus was about to leave you two alone when he heard his name being called. 

“Rem? Could you stay, please?” Your eyes peered around Sirius’ comforting hand on the back of your head, an insecurity creeping into your beautiful irises that Remus thought had no business living there.

“Of course, dove,” he whispered, hurriedly closing the door – careful not to make it slam this time – and coming up to sit at the edge of the bed. He made himself comfortable as you disappeared into Sirius’ neck, whose attention had remained on you.

It was strange to watch you two like this. Independence was so important to you, going to unfair extremes to prove yourself stoic and strong and untouchable. And though you are the softest soul Remus knows when you are alone, he knows how much it means for you to stand your own ground.

While he didn’t think this lessened your independence in any way, it still felt out of place to see you looking so young. Curled up against Sirius, your hand cupping his ear and tracing every single piece of silver jewellery that was placed there, each a loud fuck you to the house you both survived, evidence of your departure. Watching you ground yourself with the cool metal and matching your breathing to Sirius’, your eyes closed as he whispered against your hairline, occasionally kissing it with a featherlight touch. 

It was beautiful. Remus felt a simmering pride within him for you both, for finding safety and unity in one another still, for, after every rough spot, to still be on each other’s team. His smile turned watery.

“You’re safe, bébé étoile,” Sirius whispered as your breathing evened out. “Remus isn’t like that. He would never be like that.” He looked up at Remus over your head, with an expression of gratitude and love. He didn’t even know how you were triggered or what Remus had done, yet he still felt those words to be true. 

Remus could feel himself being stitched into the fabric that was your new family.

You heaved a deep breath and sat up a little, still between Sirius’ sprawled out legs, but no longer leaning on him. With still slightly shaking fingers, you wiped beneath your eyes – and began to laugh. A soft, twinkling laugh that Remus couldn’t hold himself back from joining in on, at least not when he saw Sirius do the same.

“Phew,” you said in a quiet, yet exaggerated tone. “Almost overreacted to that one. Glad I didn’t.”

Remus chuckled more at your irony, but shook his head. He had the audacity to bump his knee against yours on the small bed. “No such thing, my love.”

“I for one think you should overreact more. Have you tried hexing him when you think he’s upset with you? That one always works for me.” Sirius made a clicking noise and winked at you.

Nevermind the fact that if Sirius ever had instinctively raised his wand at James, Remus knew he would have broken it in self-disgust.

You just laughed a bit more, falling backwards on the bed, arched over Sirius’ thigh in a way that surely couldn’t be comfortable but that he didn’t have the heart to comment on just yet.

Sirius seemed to agree as he smoothed his hand up and down your shin. “You landing yet, ma puce?”

You groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

He instantly grinned, looking over at Remus. “She’s landed alright.” He clamped down on your knee and jostled it a little for good measure, making you sit up, leaning back on your hands.

Just before he thought it himself, you declared, “I’m exhausted.” 

The endeared smile that spread on Remus’ face must have been sickening. “I can imagine, dovey. Feeling your feelings like that is no easy feat.”

“Yeah, well, you’re next,” you teased, but the gratitude still shone through your smile.

“Am I now? How will you enforce that?”

“I’ll give you something to cry about.” You transferred your weight to one hand as the other reached out to grab Remus by the collar and – gently, despite what it may seem – pulled him down to pile on top of you and Sirius. The latter faux shirked, as if the barely-there weight on his legs would crush him while you and Remus giggled.

It would be a while before Sirius went back to the dorm, well after you told him he could, a simmering concerned ache swimming in his eyes even as you teased one another. And even when Sirius did, Remus had a hard time agreeing to come with, despite the fact that your dormmates would be returning any minute and neither of them fancied detention for overstaying their welcome in the girls' dorm.

It was solved in true Black siblings fashion; yet another night of you crashing over at the Marauders’ dormitory. Unlike in your first years at Hogwarts when you would sleep in Sirius' bed, you stayed in Remus' this time. Though, Sirius still made his case clear. “No snogging in front of me – panic attacks I can put up with, but that is where I draw the line.”

If Remus stole a conciliatory, apologetic, lovestruck kiss or two behind the curtains at night, well, Sirius was none the wiser.