#I could Not believe they did that to figure

[0scarp1astr1]

࣭ ˖ 𐔌 𝐃𝐚𝐝 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 ࿐ . ۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Kimi and you always had a crush on each other, your father, Toto Wolff knew this. After a world of heartache and a break up, Kimi is there to mend it with the support of your father. ||

ᯓ★ Kimi Antonelli x Fem! (Wolff) Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Angst, Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None, really, just an angry Kimi that punches your ex

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: Thank you guys so much for showing support towards my other post. It means a lot, and I see all the support you've been giving me. Here is some Kimi. I will be working on requests as soon as I upload my original works to my draft. I do apologize if this isn't the best work of mine!!!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Toto had always been a devoted father—the kind of man who, the moment he held you for the first time, knew without question that he'd move heaven and earth just to see you smile. From that instant on, his purpose was clear: give you a life full of wonder, safety, and choice. And for a long time, that meant spoiling you just a little—okay, a lot—because nothing made him prouder than giving you a life most kids could only dream of.

But as you grew, watching you change from the little girl who clung to his leg into a young woman carving out her own place in the world… well, that was the hardest challenge he'd ever faced. Not even Formula 1 came close. If he could, he would’ve frozen time—kept you small, safe, protected in the bubble he built. But your mother, Susie, had always been the wiser one in those moments. She’d tell him gently, "Let her live, Toto. She knows what she’s doing."

And he trusted you. Deeply. He always had. Even when every part of his protective instincts begged him to hover, to step in, to control—he held back, because Susie was right. You had a good head on your shoulders. You knew what you wanted, what you didn’t. He just had to believe in that.

Still… that belief wavered the day he met your boyfriend.

From the first handshake, Toto had to grit his teeth. There was something off—something smug, careless, cold. He tried to give the benefit of the doubt at first, tried to play civil. But dinner that night had been a disaster. The boy barely looked you in the eye, spoke with that detached tone that set off every alarm in a father’s soul. He interrupted you, ignored your opinions, tossed out passive comments that stung with disrespect.

And when Toto confronted Susie afterward, trying to reason out his frustration, the only thing he could mutter was, “He treats her like one of the guys. He doesn’t see her. Not really.”

You tried to brush it off. You always did. Maybe, deep down, you figured your dad wouldn’t approve of anyone. He had never made your love life easy. It wasn’t that he wanted to sabotage it—he just had impossibly high standards. He wanted someone who saw you the way he saw you: as someone rare, worthy, and deeply loved.

Then came the day he brought you with him to work.

And everything quietly began to change.

That was the day you met Kimi Antonelli—young, respectful, focused, and, unlike your boyfriend, someone who actually listened when you spoke. Toto watched the first interaction from across the paddock. It was subtle. A handshake. A smile. But there was something in Kimi’s posture—something in the way he looked at you—that caught Toto off guard.

It wasn’t long before you and Kimi started spending more time together. He wasn’t flashy or overly forward, but he showed up—every time. And every time you laughed around him, something settled in Toto’s chest. Even Susie noticed. You were lighter when Kimi was around, more yourself.

And though Toto never said it out loud, he was rooting for him.

He’d seen the signs: the way Kimi’s ears turned pink when you said his name, the way he nervously played with his hoodie strings whenever you walked into a room. The way he leaned in when you talked, fully tuned in like there was no one else in the world. Toto recognized the feeling—because it was how he used to look at Susie when they were young.

Usually, that would’ve been Toto’s cue to intervene, to draw boundaries, to be the protective dad. But with Kimi? He felt none of that need. Kimi wasn’t just respectful—he adored you. And Toto approved. Quietly, but wholeheartedly.

Just earlier that day, Toto had watched Kimi’s face drop when you casually mentioned your boyfriend was coming to pick you up. That flicker of hurt was brief, quickly buried—but Toto saw it. And though he knew it was probably wrong, he couldn’t help but wish the boyfriend would disappear altogether.

Still, Kimi had been kind. Encouraging. He smiled and told you to have fun, even though Toto could tell it cost him something to say it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Toto leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand cradling a half-empty mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. His eyes weren’t on the cup, though—they were fixed on the clock hanging above the stove. Each tick felt louder than the last, like a slow, steady drumbeat to his anxiety. 10:15 PM. Fifteen minutes past the curfew he had set. Not a hard rule, not a command—but a boundary. A sign of care. Respect. And you weren’t home.

He shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest as he exhaled sharply through his nose. His mind spun. You were eighteen. Legally an adult, yes. But to him, you were still his daughter. Still, the baby he carried on his shoulders through airports. Still, the teenager who came to him crying the first time school made the world feel too big. You were his, and even if he knew he couldn’t protect you forever… he couldn’t help the fear that always crept in when you were late.

Especially tonight.

Because he knew who you were with. And if there was one thing that tightened every muscle in his chest, it was him—the boyfriend who never seemed to look Toto in the eye. The one who was all charm and zero substance. The one who never bothered to say thank you, who treated curfews like suggestions and your boundaries like inconveniences. From the start, Toto had sensed something off. A chill beneath the surface. But for your sake, he bit his tongue. He didn’t want to be the overbearing father who pushed you away by pushing too hard.

Still, it gnawed at him.

Footsteps approached from behind—soft, steady, familiar. Susie wrapped her arms loosely around him from behind, resting her chin gently against his shoulder. “She’ll be home, love,” she murmured with that even voice of hers that always grounded him. “We didn’t raise her to break all the rules.”

Toto sighed, his jaw tightening. “It’s not about the rules. It’s about respect. Time. Safety. That boy doesn’t care about any of it. I told him when he picked her up—I made it very clear. And yet…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. The clock answered for him.

Susie stepped back, hands trailing down his arms as she gave him a soft look. “She has your fire and my good sense. Let her make this choice, Toto. You have to let her learn.”

He gave her a tight nod, but it didn’t soothe the worry burning under his skin. She left to check on Jack—no doubt to rescue the living room from a whirlwind of superhero toys and the soundtrack of laser sound effects—but Toto stayed rooted in place, his gaze flicking between the clock and the front door as if staring hard enough would make you walk through it.

By 10:32, he had started pacing. By 10:36, he was rubbing the back of his neck, trying to slow the gallop of his heartbeat. By 10:39, he'd nearly picked up his phone—just to check in, just to see—when he heard it.

The soft click of the front door opening.

His heart leapt, but the relief that flooded him turned quickly into alarm when he saw you standing there.

You were back. But you were broken.

Your face was pale, your eyes red-rimmed and glossy with tears that had dried only to be replaced by fresh ones. Your lip trembled, and Toto's chest clenched so tightly it stole the breath from him. All the lectures he’d rehearsed—You’re late, He doesn’t respect you, I told you so—they vanished. Gone. There was no room for them when his daughter was standing in the doorway, looking like the world had just collapsed at her feet.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak.

He just opened his arms.

You crossed the room without hesitation, like a wave crashing toward the only shore that ever made you feel safe, and the moment you hit his chest, you let go. Sobs broke from you like thunder—loud, sudden, raw. And Toto held you like he had when you were five years old and scraped your knee, like he had when nightmares used to steal your sleep. His arms wrapped around you with that quiet strength only a father has, one hand gently cradling the back of your head.

"He broke up with me," you choked through tears.

Toto went still. He didn’t need to hear the details. Didn’t want them. His fury flared like a match in his chest—hot and instant—but he didn’t let it reach his face. You didn’t need anger. Not yet. Not now. Right now, you needed to fall apart in the arms of someone who loves you without condition or judgment.

So he pushed down the rage. The urge to call the boy. To drive across town. To remind him exactly who he had just hurt.

Instead, Toto held you closer.

After what felt like hours in your father’s arms—though in truth, it had only been minutes—you finally felt your body begin to release the tension it had been holding so tightly. The sobs faded into quiet sniffles, and the storm that had burst so violently inside you now softened to a low, steady ache. You pulled back just enough to look up at Toto, his steady hands still on your shoulders, his eyes full of unspoken love.

“I’m gonna head back to my room,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from crying.

Toto gave the faintest nod, brushing a thumb gently across your tear-streaked cheek. “Alright, liebling. I’m here if you need me.”

You nodded, but you didn’t speak again. You turned and climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the quiet of the house. When you finally shut the door behind you, your room felt darker than usual—like the grief had followed you in and taken a seat.

You collapsed onto your bed without even changing out of your clothes, the softness of your pillow doing nothing to ease the tight ache in your chest. Your hands trembled as you reached for your phone, still damp with your tears. There were texts—two from your mom, one being a photo from Jack that was sent from her phone, just a photo of a LEGO tower, and one—unsurprisingly—from your now ex-boyfriend.

You didn’t open it.

Your thumb hovered for a second, then moved to the one name that always brought a flicker of comfort. Kimi Antonelli.

You didn’t think. You just hit Call.

The phone barely rang once.

“Hey! Y/N, I was just—” Kimi’s voice lit up at the sound of your name, his energy clearly bright, distracted by something in the background—voices, laughter, maybe music—but then, in a heartbeat, it changed. “Wait... are you crying?”

You didn’t even realize you had started again until your voice cracked. “He broke up with me,” you managed, and your breath hitched painfully. The words felt raw, too sharp in your throat.

There was silence for a second. Not hesitation—just stillness. Kimi’s voice came back low, firm. “Okay. I’m coming over.”

“No, it’s—” But the line had already gone quiet.

Somewhere across town, Kimi Antonelli was standing up from a half-eaten dinner, pulling on his jacket while his friends called after him in confusion. He gave a distracted wave over his shoulder. “She needs me.”

“Who?” one of them asked, brows raised.

But Kimi didn’t answer. He was already out the door.

His footsteps were quick as he crossed the parking lot to his car, the cool night air biting at his skin. He barely noticed. His mind wasn’t on the racetrack, or the media, or even the rare night off he’d been looking forward to—it was on you. On the sound of your voice, cracking with pain. On the ache he imagined behind your silence.

Kimi had never heard you cry like that before. And God, he hated it. Hated knowing someone had made you feel that small. That disposable. That unseen.

He gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary, jaw clenched as he drove through the city streets toward your house. This wasn’t how he had imagined it—finally showing up for you, finally being the one you reached out to. He didn’t want it to be under these circumstances.

But he also didn’t care.

Because if you needed him, he’d be there.

Not for some big moment. Not to say something clever. Not to fix everything. Just to be—to hold space, to remind you that not everyone leaves, that not everyone breaks you and walks away. Some people stay. Quietly, without expectation, with nothing but steady presence and a heart full of care.

And his? Was entirely yours.

As he turned onto your street, headlights sweeping across familiar hedges and fences, he slowed the car in front of your house. Lights were still on in the kitchen. He could see the faint silhouette of Toto passing by the window. He hesitated only briefly before grabbing his hoodie off the passenger seat and stepping out into the night.

He walked up the driveway, nerves bubbling somewhere deep in his chest—not because of you, but because he knew your father was still awake. And Toto Wolff wasn’t exactly the type of man a boy arrived in front of, unannounced, after 11 PM.

But this wasn’t about pride. It wasn’t about nerves.

It was about you.

And that was enough to steady his hand as he rang the bell.

Toto glanced up from his seat at the kitchen table, where he’d been nursing a second, untouched cup of coffee. His brow furrowed. At this hour, unannounced visitors were rare. He stood slowly, his height casting a long shadow across the hallway as he approached the door. Through the frosted glass, he could see a figure—tall, lean, shifting his weight anxiously.

When he opened the door, the porch light fell across Kimi Antonelli’s face.

He looked… nervous. Not afraid, exactly, but purposeful. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes meeting Toto’s without flinching.

Toto didn’t speak at first. He simply raised an eyebrow.

Kimi cleared his throat. “Hi, Mr. Wolff. I—I know it’s late. I wouldn’t normally just show up like this, but Y/N called me and…” He paused. “She sounded really upset.”

There was something in Kimi’s voice—earnest, raw, respectful—that eased the tension just slightly from Toto’s shoulders. Still, the father in him remained protective. Measured. Guarded.

“She is,” Toto said evenly. “It’s been a rough night.”

Kimi nodded once, shifting his weight again, but he didn’t ask to come in. He didn’t push. “I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t alone. If she wants me to leave, I will. But I promised I’d show up if she ever needed me.”

Toto studied him.

He saw the signs again—the open posture, the sincerity, the quiet strength of a boy who didn’t come with rehearsed charm or performative pity. Just presence. Toto felt something in his chest relent, just a little.

“You’re not like him,” Toto said quietly.

Kimi’s brows drew in, unsure if it was a challenge or a statement.

Toto held his gaze. “And for what it’s worth… that’s a good thing.”

Then he stepped aside.

“You know the way.”

Kimi blinked, surprised for a split second by the gesture. “Thank you,” he murmured, slipping off his shoes before making his way upstairs with soft, deliberate steps.

Your room was dark, save for the faint glow of your bedside lamp. You lay curled under your blanket, hoodie on, face still blotchy from crying but eyes dry now—empty in a way that was almost worse.

You didn’t expect the knock. It was soft, a gentle triple tap that made your heart skip.

You sat up. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and there he was—Kimi, still in his hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly messy from running a hand through it too many times. His eyes found yours immediately, and whatever breath you had left in your lungs caught.

“Kimi…”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just closed the door quietly behind him and crossed the room in a few strides, lowering himself to the edge of your bed like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice warm and steady. “I’m here.”

That simple phrase unraveled something inside you all over again.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” you admitted, voice cracking.

Kimi smiled, a little sad, a little tender. “You called the right person.”

You looked down, ashamed. “I feel stupid. Like I should’ve seen it coming. He was never—he never really…” You trailed off, your throat closing again.

Kimi leaned in just slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to explain it to me. Not tonight. You don’t owe anyone that—not even yourself.”

Your chin trembled, and before you could stop yourself, you reached out for him—fingers brushing his sleeve like an anchor. He took your hand gently, threading his fingers through yours without hesitation.

“I just… I feel so used,” you whispered, eyes stinging. “Like I was never enough. Or maybe too much. I don’t know anymore.”

Kimi’s grip tightened slightly, reassuring. “No. No, don’t do that.” His voice wasn’t angry, but it was fierce. Protective. “You were always more than enough. He was just too small to see it.”

That broke you.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. And he shifted instantly, wrapping one arm around you, pulling you gently into his chest. His hoodie smelled faintly like clean linen and his cologne, and his heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek.

He didn’t move. Didn’t fidget. He just held you—with patience, with silence, with that kind of safety only someone who really sees you can offer.

You closed your eyes.

Kimi spoke again after a moment, voice barely above the hush of your breath.

“I’ve watched you try so hard to be seen by someone who never deserved you,” he said. “I wanted to say something a hundred times, but it wasn’t my place. I just… I hoped you’d see it on your own. And you did. Even if it hurts.”

“It hurts so much,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, his thumb brushing softly across the back of your hand. “But it won’t forever.”

You let the silence fall again, but this time it wasn’t hollow. It was warm. Healing.

Kimi stayed.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The silence in your room had grown softer. No longer heavy or thick, but something else—like quiet after a storm. The ache in your chest was still there, raw and pulsing, but it had settled into something manageable. Something you could breathe through.

Kimi hadn’t moved much. He still sat beside you on the bed, legs stretched out, back against your headboard now. You were curled under the blanket beside him, wrapped in one of his hoodies now—he’d taken it off the moment you demanded it, discarding yours to the floor with no care.

He glanced over at you, catching the way your eyes had dulled again.

“You’re thinking about him,” he said gently—not accusatory, just perceptive.

You gave a tired little nod. “Yeah. It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Kimi said instantly. “It’s grief. That’s real.”

You smiled, humorless. “I don’t even know what I’m grieving. He barely treated me like I mattered half the time. I guess I just thought… if I tried harder, he’d see me.”

Kimi was quiet for a beat. Then: “You know what that sounds like?”

You tilted your head. “What?”

He turned toward you slightly, eyes twinkling. “The plot of every bad teen drama ever made.”

You snorted. “Wow, thank you. That really helps.”

“I’m serious!” he grinned now, leaning into the moment. “You’ve got the tragic breakup arc, the mascara running down your face—sorry, you wiped it off, but I saw it earlier. You’re in oversized clothing that doesn’t belong to you—mine, by the way—next thing you know, there’s gonna be a moody montage of you staring out a rainy window while sad indie music plays.”

You laughed, really laughed—sudden and unexpected. It cracked something open.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, burying your face in the hoodie sleeve. “You’re the worst.”

“I prefer ‘underrated comedic genius,’ but I’ll take what I can get.”

You looked at him then, really looked—at the way his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, at the softness in his expression that didn’t ask anything of you, only gave. He wasn’t here to fix you. He was here to sit with you in it, in the mess, in the sadness—and somehow still bring light.

“I missed this,” you said quietly.

He blinked. “Missed what?”

“You. Laughing with you. Feeling… normal.”

Kimi’s smile faded into something gentler. “You don’t have to be normal tonight. You don’t have to pretend, or laugh, or bounce back.” He reached forward and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with more care than anyone had touched you all week. “But if I can make you smile once in a while… I’ll do that. Every time.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time not from grief.

“You’re kind of amazing,” you whispered.

Kimi’s ears turned pink. “Don’t say that. I’ll get cocky.”

You gave him a look. “You already are cocky.”

“Okay, true, but usually it’s because I drive cars very fast, not because the prettiest girl I’ve ever known said something nice to me.”

Your heart did a somersault—and for the first time that night, it didn’t hurt.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The laughter had faded. The tears, too.

You’d fallen asleep not long after, head resting on Kimi’s shoulder, your breathing soft and steady. The weight of the night had finally won, and your body gave in—exhausted by emotion, lulled by comfort, by presence, by the quiet safety of him beside you.

Kimi hadn’t moved for a long while. He just sat there, still, eyes tracing the curve of your features in the dim light spilling through your bedroom curtains. You looked peaceful again. Not whole—but healing. And something in him bloomed with fierce protectiveness.

Carefully, he shifted. Slid down just enough to tuck the blanket more securely around you. His hoodie was still around your frame, sleeves falling past your hands like a cocoon.

He bent down, his lips brushing your forehead in the softest whisper of a kiss.

“Buonanotte, mia stella,” he murmured, barely audible. Goodnight, my star.

His words hung in the air for a moment, warm and sacred, before he stood and turned toward the door—taking one last glance at you, asleep and safe.

But as he gently cracked the door open, he was met with a shadow leaning quietly in the hallway.

Toto.

Kimi froze mid-step, guilt flickering in his eyes as if he'd been caught sneaking out. But Toto didn’t speak right away. He simply nodded, stepping aside to let Kimi pull the door closed behind him.

“Did she fall asleep?” Toto asked, voice low and even.

Kimi nodded. “Yeah. She cried a lot. But I think she… I think she’s okay now. Just tired.”

Toto gave a slow, thoughtful nod. He studied the boy in front of him for a moment—not as a driver, not as a prodigy or a teammate—but as someone who, without being asked, had shown up for his daughter in her most vulnerable hour.

“I watched you with her earlier,” Toto said quietly. “You didn’t say much. You didn’t try to fix it. You just… stayed.”

Kimi shifted slightly, unsure if it was a compliment or a critique. “I didn’t want her to feel like she had to be okay. I just wanted to be there.”

“That’s exactly what she needed.”

A pause. A beat of silence that held a hundred unspoken things.

Toto crossed his arms, not out of sternness—but comfort. Familiarity.

“She’s always been… emotionally sharp,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Feels things deeply. Even when she pretends she doesn’t. When she was seven, she rescued a bird with a broken wing and cried for two days when it didn’t make it. She buried it in the garden. Gave it a name and everything.”

Kimi smiled faintly. “That sounds like her.”

“And when she was thirteen, she got into a fight with a teacher over another kid being bullied. Came home with detention and a bloody lip. Said she didn’t regret it.”

Kimi’s smile widened.

Toto looked at him now, not as a father assessing a threat—but as one recognizing a quiet truth.

“You’re the first boy she’s brought around who actually listens to her,” he said softly. “Not just waits to talk. Not just talks over her. You see her. And that means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

Kimi’s throat bobbed. “I care about her. A lot.”

“I can see that.”

Toto let a long breath pass, then reached into his pocket and handed Kimi something small—an old, worn keychain. It was shaped like a little silver compass.

“She used to carry this everywhere,” Toto said. “I gave it to her when she started secondary school. Told her it would always help her find her way back home, even if she got lost.”

Kimi took it carefully, reverently.

“She stopped carrying it when she started dating him,” Toto added with a tinge of bitterness. “I don’t think she even noticed. But… if you ever see her doubting herself again, remind her. She’s never really lost.”

The silence between them now wasn’t awkward. It was full. Like something had settled.

“I’ll protect her,” Kimi said, voice quiet but certain. “I promise.”

“I know,” Toto replied, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “That’s why I’m letting you stay in her life.”

And with that, he stepped aside, gesturing toward the front of the house with a faint smile. “Go get some sleep, Kimi. You’ve done enough tonight.”

Kimi gave a grateful nod. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Call me Toto,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

As Kimi stepped out into the cool night air, that little compass keychain tucked in his jacket pocket, he felt something shift inside him—not just relief, not just affection.

Hope.

And maybe… something dangerously close to love.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It had taken Kimi three whole weeks to work up the nerve to ask you to the amusement park. Not because he didn’t want to—he really did—but because every time he imagined asking, his brain short-circuited into a flurry of “what if she says no” and “am I being weird?”

He’d ended up at your house again that morning, as usual, nervously fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie while sitting at the kitchen counter. Your dad, Toto, was making coffee—classic black, no nonsense—and giving Kimi the kind of look dads give when they know exactly what’s going on, but enjoy watching you squirm anyway.

“Amusement park, huh?” Toto asked, taking a slow sip. “Kind of cheesy.”

Kimi’s ears turned crimson. “Is it too cheesy?” he asked, his voice barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator. “I mean… do you think she’d want to go?”

Toto gave him a smirk that was half-tease, half-approval. “You’ve got a better chance if you actually ask.”

Before Kimi could respond, you came shuffling down the stairs in your pajamas—hair messy, one sock on, yawning like the world wasn’t waiting on you. Both of them looked up. You blinked at them, still half-asleep.

Kimi stared for a second too long, then smiled to himself. You looked chaotic in the morning, sure—but to him, it was cute. Soft. Familiar in a way he couldn’t explain.

And then—panic. The words in his head scrambled, suddenly impossible to get out. Toto nudged him discreetly in the ribs.

Kimi cleared his throat, nearly choking on it. “Uh—I bought passes,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “Do you… want to go to the amusement park with me?”

The silence that followed was louder than it needed to be.

He felt his pulse spike, every second stretching unbearably long. It wasn’t even a date—not technically—but still, the idea of you saying no had his stomach in knots. He stared at you, waiting for some kind of expression, some clue.

Then you shrugged, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Sure,” you said, casually. “I’ve got no plans.”

Kimi let out a breath so heavy it could’ve knocked over a chair.

“Cool! Yeah—cool,” he said too quickly, nodding way too much. “Take your time! I’ll, uh, I’ll just hang here.”

You padded back upstairs to shower, leaving him alone with your dad, who gave him a nod of approval that made Kimi sit a little taller.

Meanwhile, the water washed over you, bringing clarity you didn’t know you needed. It had been a while since you’d done anything just for fun—since your last relationship ended, your world had felt like it was stuck in grayscale. But now, as the scent of your favorite shampoo filled the air, something small and good started to stir inside you again.

Picking an outfit felt like a challenge at first—should it be simple? Overthought? What was the vibe? But you settled on something that made you feel like yourself. Clean. Light makeup. Hair styled with minimal effort. No pressure, just… something new.

Finally ready, you headed downstairs, each step tapping like quiet punctuation on a page you didn’t realize you were writing.

"I'm ready," you called out, stepping into the hallway where Kimi was already waiting. He turned to look at you—and though he didn’t say anything right away, the smile that spread across his face said more than words.

Toto looked up from the living room and gave Kimi a firm pat on the back. “Be safe,” he said, with a playful tone wrapped in a layer of dad-seriousness. “And home before eleven.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “Got it, Dad.”

You hugged him quickly, the kind of warm, familiar squeeze that said thanks for having my back even when you’re annoying. Then you turned toward the kitchen.

“Bye, Mom! Love you!” you called.

She poked her head out from behind a cupboard, smiling at the sight of you. “Have fun!”

And then Jack, your little brother, peeked around the corner, already grinning. “Don’t throw up on a rollercoaster!”

“Bye, Jack!” you laughed, tossing him an exaggerated wave that made him cackle.

You stepped outside with Kimi by your side, the sun already rising high in the sky, bathing everything in that soft golden glow that only seems to show up on good days. The breeze was warm against your skin. The door clicked shut behind you.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like something good was about to begin.

The highway stretched out ahead of you, painted in fading streaks of gold and blue. The windows were halfway down, letting in a warm breeze that made your hair dance, and Kimi’s playlist filled the car—an eclectic mix of chill indie, chaotic throwbacks, and a few songs you’d never admit to liking if anyone else were around.

Kimi was in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against the center console in time with the beat. His sunglasses were pushed up into his hair, and he was focused on the road, jaw set in that half-serious, half-goofy expression he got when trying not to miss an exit.

You leaned your head against the seat and looked over at him. “This playlist is kind of unhinged.”

Kimi grinned. “It’s called ‘Road Trip But Make It Existential’.”

“That explains the emotional whiplash.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two of you had already hit three drive-thrus for snacks and argued over who had better taste in gas station candy, and now the conversation had settled into a comfortable quiet. The kind that only really happens with someone you don’t have to fill space with.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

After the initial excitement at the gate faded, the two of you found a rhythm—slow, easy, no pressure. The kind of wandering where the destination didn’t matter. The kind where the conversation meandered as much as your path through the park.

The first stop had been an old-fashioned photo booth, tucked near the carousel. Kimi dragged you inside, half-joking that you needed proof you were outside the house again. The machine blinked to life, the countdown starting before you were even ready. The first picture was blurry, your hand still adjusting your hair. The second caught Kimi mid-laugh, you smirking at him with one eyebrow arched. By the third and fourth, you were both laughing for real. It felt ridiculous. And perfect.

“Frame-worthy,” Kimi said, holding the strip up to the light with a mock-serious face.

“Frame-worthy if we frame it in irony,” you teased, taking the photo and tucking it into your pocket.

Next came a snack run. You both settled on soft pretzels and sodas, sitting on a shaded bench while a jazz cover of a Taylor Swift song floated from a nearby speaker. Kimi tore his pretzel into perfectly even halves and handed you the bigger piece without saying a word. You noticed. You didn’t say anything either. But your chest ached in the softest way.

As the afternoon wore on, he made a point to pull you toward games—mostly the silly, winnable kind. You tried the ring toss and failed spectacularly. Kimi tried and failed slightly less, which he acted like was Olympic-level achievement. He won you a plush penguin from a knock-over-the-cans game and immediately named it Sir Waddlesworth. The name stuck.

You wandered past a duck pond with swan boats lazily circling, and he offered to row one with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Only if you want to see what happens when I try to row us in a straight line and fail miserably,” he said.

You passed. But the image made you laugh harder than anything had in days.

Later, you shared a strawberry snow cone under the shade of a pink-and-white umbrella. He let you eat the top half, pretending it was “too cold” for him but smiling every time you looked happy. Your fingers brushed a few times when he held the cup steady for you, and though neither of you commented, neither of you pulled away, either.

The laughter was constant—but never forced.

He let you be quiet when you needed to be. Gave you space when you stopped walking to people-watch or stare too long at the spinning swings in the distance. When your thoughts slipped into darker places, you found him beside you again, nudging your arm, pointing out some ridiculous park character mascot in a massive frog costume breakdancing to pop music.

You giggled. He grinned. And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel weighed down by the breakup. You felt… human again.

Kimi glanced at you then, watching your eyes follow the lights of the park. “You’re different today,” he said gently, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

You turned to him, tilting your head. “Different how?”

“I dunno. Like… a little more you. Less like you’re trying to carry a hundred things alone.”

Your smile faltered, just slightly, but it didn’t disappear. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me? Yeah.” His tone wasn’t teasing. It was honest. Simple.

You both stopped walking near the edge of the park, where the Ferris wheel stood tall in the distance, a soft hum of lights circling its frame. The sun had started its descent, the gold of late afternoon bleeding into a rose-pink sky.

Kimi followed your gaze. “We doing it?”

You glanced at him, and for once, you didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I think we are.”

The sun was bleeding into the skyline, casting the amusement park in that honeyed gold light that made everything feel softer than it really was. You and Kimi stepped into the Ferris wheel bucket together, the world slowly shrinking below you as the ride creaked into motion.

You'd spent the day wandering the park—sugary churros, shared jokes, quiet looks that lingered too long. It had been fun. Real fun. But now, with the noise below fading and the world pausing as your bucket crested higher, your chest felt heavier.

You leaned into Kimi, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. It felt natural—too natural. His body relaxed under your touch like it had been waiting for that moment all day. A quiet sigh escaped you, but it wasn’t relief. It was confusion.

The ride paused near the top, swaying gently.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you murmured, eyes on the horizon.

Kimi shifted, just slightly, to look at you. “You don’t have to deserve me. I want to be here.”

You didn’t answer right away. The wind teased your hair, and you blinked slowly, heart beating faster for a reason you didn’t want to name. You felt Kimi’s fingers brush against yours, just barely, testing a line.

“I think I forgot how it felt to be seen,” you admitted.

He turned more fully toward you, his voice lower now, soft but sure. “Then let me remind you.”

You looked up just as he leaned in—slow, tentative, eyes flicking to your lips. Your heart surged and stalled all at once. Panic gripped your chest. And before you could think it through, you flinched back.

“No—wait, I…” you said quickly, breath catching. “I can’t.”

The words came sharper than you meant.

Kimi froze.

His expression faltered, confusion giving way to hurt in the space of a heartbeat. He pulled back, his hand dropping to his lap. The air shifted between you—suddenly colder, thinner, like the altitude had finally caught up with you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just… I’m not ready. It’s not you, I swear—”

He nodded once, quickly. “It’s okay.”

But it didn’t sound okay.

Silence draped over the two of you as the Ferris wheel began to descend again, the world creeping closer while your hearts pulled apart. Kimi stared ahead, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. You sat stiffly beside him, hands in your lap, wondering how such a perfect day had just cracked.

The ride ended with the soft lurch of the bucket returning to the ground. Kimi was the first to step out, offering his hand still—but it didn’t have the same warmth.

You took it anyway.

The walk back through the park was quieter than before. No more teasing comments. No more shared laughs. Just the distant hum of carnival music and the growing thud of regret in your chest.

You kept glancing at him, wishing he’d say something—anything—but his lips stayed pressed in a line. He didn’t look mad. Just… disappointed. Distant.

You wanted to explain, to make it better, but every version of the truth felt tangled in your throat. That your heart still ached from the breakup. That kissing someone new, even someone like Kimi, felt like stepping into something you couldn’t undo. "Thank you for today," you muttered, getting a silent head nod in return.

The air on the ride home was thick and uncomfortable and even more uncertain for both of you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Things shifted after the almost-kiss.

Not suddenly. Not with explosions or slamming doors. But slowly—like a cold draft slipping through a window you didn’t realize was open. The air between you and Kimi, once filled with warmth and quiet laughter, had turned still. Hesitant. And it hurt more than you’d ever expected it to.

The first week was silence laced with half-hearted smiles and ghosted texts. You’d type something, only to delete it. Wait for a response that never came. Kimi wasn’t ignoring you, but he wasn’t reaching for you either. The rhythm of your friendship—the easiness, the comfort—it all hung in the balance, stretched too thin between unspoken apologies and feelings neither of you quite knew how to name anymore.

The second week wasn’t any better. Kimi poured himself into Formula 1 like a man trying to forget. Practice, strategy meetings, simulator runs—he was sharper, faster, and more focused than ever. Everyone noticed it, even Toto. Especially Toto.

He noticed your hollow expression when you glanced at your phone and saw nothing. He noticed the way Kimi’s name hovered at the top of your most recent contacts, untouched. And he noticed the ache you carried like armor, silent and too heavy for someone your age.

It was that ache that brought him to your bedroom one quiet afternoon.

You sat by your window, legs curled under you, your phone resting useless in your hand. The light outside was soft, golden. But it did nothing to warm the cold fog in your chest.

Toto knocked softly before stepping in, voice gentle. “I’m heading out soon for the upcoming Grand Prix. I’ll be gone for a while.”

You gave a faint nod, your eyes never leaving the view outside.

He hesitated, then added, “Kimi’s been looking strong. Mercedes has a real shot this weekend. I know how much you like Lewis—I’ll tell him you said hi.”

You forced a smile. It didn’t reach your eyes.

“I know you’ve always been hesitant letting me come to the races,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “You were scared when I was little… but this time, I want to go. I need to go.”

That got his attention. He turned to face you fully. “Why?”

Your gaze dropped to your lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. “Because I have to see Kimi. I have to make things right.”

Toto didn’t speak right away. He just watched you, eyes softening with understanding. So you kept going—pouring out the words you’d been holding back for days.

“That day on the ferris wheel… I should’ve let him kiss me,” you admitted, voice cracking ever so slightly. “Because I wanted him to. God, I wanted him to. And I pushed him away—not because I didn’t feel something, but because I did. And it terrified me.”

You blinked fast, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “I was afraid of what it would mean, of how real it would get. I just got out of something that wrecked me, and then there he was—so kind, so constant. And I hurt him, Dad. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

Toto let the silence stretch for a moment, letting your confession breathe in the space between you. Then he crossed the room, sitting beside you and placing a warm, grounding hand on your shoulder.

“I always approved of Kimi,” he said quietly. “Your mother did too. He’s a good kid, and he cares for you more than I think you realize.”

You sniffled, nodding.

“I don’t want to lose what we had,” you whispered. “Even if it’s just friendship, I don’t want the distance to win.”

He squeezed your shoulder gently. “Then don’t let it. Come with me to the Grand Prix.”

Your head snapped toward him in disbelief.

“But…” you began.

He held up a finger with a wry smile. “Avoid the media. Your mother will have my head if you end up in the tabloids for sneaking kisses in the paddock.”

That earned your first real laugh in days—a watery, grateful sound as you threw your arms around him in a tight hug.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “Thank you, Dad.”

He held you close, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

The air around the paddock buzzed with anticipation—reporters rushing past, team members running checklists, and engines screaming in the distance like thunder caught in metal. Monaco always carried an energy unlike any other race, and yet, your heart was racing for an entirely different reason.

You were searching.

Dodging between camera crews and mechanics, you weaved through the sea of people with one thought: Find Kimi. Your chest was tight, your palms clammy. You hadn’t seen him in weeks, hadn’t heard his voice, hadn’t felt his presence. And now that you were here, you needed him to see you—to know.

You passed the Mercedes garage, glanced toward the hospitality suite, even peeked into the briefing room, your nerves mounting with every step. The sounds of Formula 1 echoed all around, but it was the silence between you and Kimi that screamed the loudest.

Then, as if the universe had a cruel sense of timing, you turned a corner—and froze.

He was standing there.

Not Kimi.

Him.

Your ex.

The one who had left your heart in pieces weeks ago. Dressed casually, lanyard swinging from his neck, as if he belonged here, as if he deserved to stand on the same ground you were trying to rebuild yourself on. And the moment he saw you, his eyes lit up with a flicker of false charm you used to fall for.

“Y/n,” he said, stepping forward like you hadn’t spent two weeks crying over him. “God, I’ve been trying to reach you. I just want to talk.”

Your stomach twisted. “No,” you said firmly, trying to walk past him.

But he grabbed your wrist.

Not hard, not aggressive—but enough.

Enough to make your breath hitch. Enough to freeze your heart.

“Just listen—please,” he insisted, voice desperate. “I made a mistake, okay? I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was wrong. I miss you. I miss us.”

“No,” you repeated, yanking your arm back. “You don’t get to do this. Not here, not now.”

But he didn’t let go.

His grip tightened slightly, voice rising with desperation. “I know I messed up, but you still love me, right? You’re not really over me. That guy—Kimi—he’s just a rebound. I know you.”

You felt like the air had been ripped from your lungs. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

And then everything happened fast.

A blur of movement behind you.

A fist connecting with a jaw.

A sickening crack.

Your ex staggered back, holding his face in shock. You turned just in time to see Kimi standing there, chest heaving, eyes wild with a fury you’d never seen in him before. His hand was clenched, knuckles already reddening, and for a moment, he didn’t move.

Just stared your ex down like he was daring him to speak again.

“Don’t ever touch her again,” Kimi growled, voice low, sharp, and foreign in its anger.

Your ex didn’t respond—only muttered something and stumbled away, holding his jaw and casting one final look over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

And then silence.

Not around you—the paddock was still alive with noise—but between you and Kimi.

His gaze shifted from your ex to you, his shoulders still tense. He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize maybe—but you cut him off before he could.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, the words tumbling out fast and unfiltered. “That day at the amusement park—I wanted to kiss you. I wanted you. But I was scared. And I didn’t mean to hurt you, Kimi. I just… I didn’t know how to feel anything again after him, and then you came along and made everything feel real again, and it terrified me.”

Tears filled your eyes, not from fear or sadness—but from relief. Relief that he was here. That you were still here.

“And when you stopped calling,” you said, voice cracking, “when you stopped being there—I missed you so much it hurt.”

Kimi stepped forward, still silent, still breathless.

You looked up at him, voice barely a whisper now. “I don’t want to be scared anymore. Not with you.”

His brows softened, the anger completely gone, replaced with something tender and aching.

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips lingering.

“I would’ve waited forever,” he said, voice hoarse. “I just didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“I do,” you said.

No hesitation this time.

And for a long moment, you simply stood there, the chaos of the world fading around you, replaced by the quiet certainty between two people finally letting their hearts be known.

No more fear.

No more running.

"A date, after the race, we're going on a date," you said, causing Kimi to smile softly at you, agreeing with your words. "A date, we're going on a date," he agreed as he went to walk away, your hands clasp his race suit, quickly pulling him back into place, your hands moving with a quickness to cup his cheeks. "What are you-" Kimi was caught off guard by the kiss, a bold move from you, but something he didn't complain about.

"Just...giving you some good luck out there..."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The waves of the Mediterranean lapped gently against the sides of the boat, each one reflecting the city lights of Monaco like spilled stardust on water. The air was warm with a salt-sweet breeze, carrying with it the soft echoes of distant music and late-night laughter from the shore.

You sat at the bow, legs stretched out, the hem of your sundress fluttering around your ankles. Behind you, Kimi poured two glasses of sparkling water—he had insisted on something simple and sweet, no pressure, no pretense. Just the two of you and the quiet rhythm of the sea.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a deep sapphire streaked with silver. You glanced back at him, watching the way his expression had softened—his eyes no longer clouded with doubt or fear, but lit up by something warmer. Something steady.

Love.

Kimi walked over and passed you a glass, sitting beside you, his knee brushing yours.

“You ever think we’d end up here?” he asked with a small grin.

You laughed quietly, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Honestly? No. But I hoped. Somewhere deep down, I always hoped.”

He looked down at you, his gaze lingering. “Even after the ferris wheel?”

You went still for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Even then. Especially then. I was just scared. Of what it meant… of what it would feel like to be happy again. But tonight, with you… I’m not scared.”

Kimi smiled, brushing his fingers lightly against your cheek. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out something small—delicate—a charm on a simple bracelet. A tiny silver heart, engraved with your initials and his.

“I wanted to wait until after the race,” he said, voice a little shy. “But… I thought this might be something you’d like.”

You blinked, touched beyond words, as he gently fastened it around your wrist.

“I love it,” you whispered. “And I love you.”

The words fell out of you so effortlessly it surprised even you—but Kimi’s expression didn’t falter. His eyes glistened slightly, and the grin that curved his lips was something out of your dreams.

“I love you too,” he said, cupping your face gently in his hands.

The kiss that followed wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t needy or desperate.

It was soft.

Full.

Healing.

He kissed you like he meant to erase every doubt you ever carried, and when he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re safe with me. Always,” he murmured.

You nodded, your fingers lacing with his as you sat in that peaceful moment together, the boat swaying gently beneath the stars.

By the time you stepped through the front door of your home, shoes in hand, hair tousled by the wind and cheeks sore from smiling, the house was mostly quiet.

Except for the soft clink of glass from the kitchen.

Toto stood at the counter with a late-night espresso, raising an eyebrow as you walked in. He took one look at your glowing face and the bracelet glinting on your wrist… and smirked.

“So… I take it the night went well?”

You squinted at him. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

Toto gave an innocent shrug. “I may have offered him some guidance. Encouragement. Advice from a man who knows a thing or two.”

You crossed your arms. “You coached him.”

“I may have used the words if you break her heart, I’ll break your front wing,” he admitted with a dry chuckle.

You groaned, but there was no real annoyance in it. In fact, you smiled.

“Thanks, Dad,” you said softly, walking over to wrap your arms around him.

He returned the hug warmly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, cara mia. I’ve seen the way you look at him. It was always going to be him—you just needed time.”

You pulled back and nodded. “I think I finally got it right.”

He smiled. “Good. Now go to sleep. You’ve got a boyfriend who’s going to win the next Grand Prix, and a very nosy father who will absolutely take credit for it.”

You laughed all the way to your room.

And as you lay down that night, the sea still rocking in your bones and the feel of Kimi’s kiss lingering on your lips, you realized something:

You weren’t just in love.

You were home.

And one more thing, your dad really knows what's best.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

TAG LIST: @lacey-blog @svt-dk97 @linnygirl09 @coolpeanutchaos @wertyuizxcvbnm @fctnllvrs @alltypesofanimallover @fangirlmusicbiashoe @thatsnotaddy

[reidrum]

so high school | s.r.

A/N: oooh first reidrumversary post pls be nice. requested here.

summary: in which professor reid finds his sabbatical to be not so bad if you're around

cw: fluff, not proofread

wc: 1.2k

When Spencer started his sabbatical, it was entirely against his will. Being recently released from his incarceration, he wanted nothing more than to immerse himself into work and all the open cases the BAU had to work on. The last thing he wanted was to have more free time to spend alone with his thoughts, because the brass thought him too risky to reinstate him full time in the field.

He supposes he should feel lucky they even allowed him back at all, what he went through is certainly uncommon for any special agent and it should stand as a testament if they still valued his presence enough to give him such a chance again.

Lucky, he finds, actually walks through the door as he’s gathering the last of his papers from his desk.

“Hi Dr. Reid!” you sing as you traverse down the stairs to the front of the hall, “How are you doing today?”

The first few weeks of his teaching gig were an adjustment period. Still grappling with the complex emotions of being released, Mr. Scratch, and the brass’ claim to protecting him by giving him monthly periods away from the field, he felt as though he was relearning how to live. So much autonomy had been taken away from him in such a short period of time, it’s all he can do for now with small attempts to take it back.

“I’m alright, Professor.” he grins, hoping you can’t read the simultaneous look of joy and relief now that you’ve finally graced himself with your presence.

You brush a hand off in the air, “So formal, I told you not to call me that.”

“And I thought I told you that you could call me Spencer, so I guess we’re both bad listeners,” he jokes. He jokes, Spencer Reid is making jokes. In the hopes of making you laugh. Groundbreaking.

“Oh come on, with all the fancy degrees you have it feels disrespectful to not call you that.”

I’d let you disrespect me anytime, anywhere, he wants to say. He doesn’t.

You’re wearing a pantsuit set that accentuates your figure so beautifully he’s envious of its proximity to you, makeup done so effortlessly and hair pinned up in what you would call a haphazard but he defines as ethereal with the ways a few pieces frame your face like a halo. You’re beautiful, and it’s certainly not news to him.

“I think I see you far too much for you to not call me Spencer,” he chuckles.

You fake a pained expression, “Getting sick of me already?”

Never. That string of words simply does not exist in his lexicon.

“As long as you’re not sick of me,” he smiles and closes his satchel, “so what’s on your lesson plan for today?”

“Social and economic influences on Gothic art and architecture! Should be riveting.”

“That does sound really interesting, did you know Gothic literature often describes the exploration of taboo subjects like the occult and how it in turn challenges societal norms?”

You smile, corners crinkling with glee, “Actually I did, it’s the assigned reading for today.”

Spencer blushes, of course you know that you teach the damn subject. “R—Right, sorry.”

“No, no! Please, it’s always nice to talk to someone who actually cares about art history beyond a letter grade. Doesn’t happen much around here, not since you came.”

“Really?” He really finds that hard to believe, the few times he’s sat in on your classes you’ve proven to him why you hold the tenured position in your department.

“Not all of us teach super cool things like criminal profiling, Spencer.” you giggle.

“I think the badge excites them more than the actual content, but I appreciate the effort.”

He’ll admit he maybe doesn't care all that much about art history, but he does love paradoxical problems. The paradox being you, talking about the greatest artists of history, their mark left on the world through their everlasting paint strokes and artistry as if you’re not the most beautifully sculpted piece of artwork he’s ever been able to lay eyes on.

Maybe he does love art history.

“Oh that’s not the word on the streets about you, Professor Reid.” you move around the desk to stand next to him and unload your belongings.

His eyebrows raise in amusement, “What’s the word about me?”

“I just think you should ask how many people are auditing your class next time, and see who raises their hand.” you say teasingly.

“Audit?” he mumbles, “why would anyone audit this class?”

“Something about more than just the badge and content seems to excite your students, or so they say.”

Oh. Oh. If he wasn’t blushing, he definitely is now. “You’re not saying that people take my class because they think I’m…” he trails.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, it’s a well known fact of the hallways Dr. Reid.” you grin, “all those degrees and you couldn’t figure that out?”

He stammers, “Well—I…I didn’t want to assume…”

You bump shoulders playfully, “Well, you better start believing it. You’re a hot commodity. If I could find a way to get my kids as involved as yours, I would.”

There’s no way he’d start believing it, not because he didn’t find it to be true, but because his mind is already preoccupied with much, much, more important things. Like working up the courage to ask you the question he’s been working on since the day he met you.

“Maybe you could take them on a field trip?”

“I don’t think the budget covers that and we wouldn’t even have time to go during the school year. I wish, I’ve been wanting to go to the Washington National Cathedral for so long, I just never can find the time.” you sigh.

He clears his throat, “Well, you don’t work weekends right?”

“No,” you laugh, “Why, do you?”

He shakes his head, “No, but maybe we could go? Like our own little field trip?”

You gasp in excitement, “Really? You’d go with me?”

I’d go anywhere with you, just say the word, he thinks.

Spencer matches your big smile, your happiness doing more wonders for him than any mandated therapy has ever done. 

“Of course, it’s a…date?” he questions, more himself than at you.

Your smile goes all saccharine and easy, “Sounds like it, Dr. Reid.”

He’s too distracted by you to even correct you on his name. He gives your arm a quick squeeze and a soft smile before rounding the desk and walking up to the top of the lecture hall. Spencer gets halfway before stopping in his place and turning around.

“I—Is that the only word on the street?” he asks, referring to your earlier words. He hopes he used it right and doesn’t look like an idiot.

“What is?”

“That students audit my class because they think I’m…” he falters.

“That you’re cute?” you smirk.

He breathes out, “Yeah, just wondering if there might be…anyone else? That might also think that?”

You hum, “Well Spencer, I guess you’ll find out Saturday won’t you?”

“I guess I will.” he says bashfully.

[my-castles-crumbling]

evermore - June 3 - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 375

“...and may they be together in love, forevermore,” the officiant said with a grin, gesturing to Gideon and his soon-to-be-wife, who were both beaming. “Now, dears, I know you have some vows to exchange…”

Regulus felt James lean close to his ear, pressing both of their bodies together as they sat side-by-side for the ceremony, “Y’know, we really should do this someday,” the older man mumbled, a smile in his voice.

Regulus’s stomach dropped. Was James being serious? “Po-James. What the fuck do you mean?” he hissed, frowning and turning to his boyfriend.

He was nearly blinded by the grin on James’s face. “Marriage. A wedding. We should do that. Soon,” the Gryffindor murmured, to him, hazel eyes sparkling as Regulus internally combusted. Because how the fuck was he being so casual about this?

“You–we’re in the middle of someone else’s ceremony!” he hissed, wanting to scream. “And you bring this up now?!” 

“Why not?” James said back, still smiling casually. “I already bought a ring.”

Regulus nearly shat himself in the middle of the crowd. “No you didn’t,” he said, but it wasn’t a statement so much as a plea for sanity.

“I did. Want to see?” the taller man offered, smiling.

And Regulus’s heart stopped completely as James reached in the pocket of his suit. Could he make a run for it? Now, while the happy couple at the altar were busy speaking of their love?

But James, who was smirking, pulled out an empty hand. “Kidding, love,” he whispered, beaming.

“James Potter, I’ll fucking kill you!” Regulus whisper-shouted, heart kick-starting, adrenaline pumping from the panic he’d just experienced, hitting his boyfriend on his shoulder with every word, earning a dirty look from the people sitting next to him. “I believed you!”

“No, baby. As if I’d propose at someone else’s wedding,” James grinned.

“Good,” Regulus sighed, settling back in his chair and looking toward Gideon.

“Plus, the ring’s at home. I’m saving it for a special moment.”

Whipping his head back to see if the taller man was kidding, Regulus found he genuinely couldn’t tell.

And worse, he couldn’t even figure out if the idea of a proposal was so bad, when it was coming from James.

Maybe he really was fucked.

[therainscene]

I didn't start shipping Byler because I picked up on a few moments of chemistry and decided they'd make a cute couple -- I started off by absolutely refusing to entertain said moments as reciprocally queer until I ran into the ridiculous homophobia on the ST subreddit and decided to review Mike's character arc out of sheer gay spite.

Let me clarify: Spite isn't what made me change my mind about Mike. Spite just made me read a few Byler analyses and rewatch the show with an open mind because I didn't want to be like those pricks who would insult and censor queer fans for... [checks notes]... thinking something gay might happen in a TV show with gay people in it. I truly wasn't expecting a queer interpretation to fit Mike's arc anywhere near as well as the default interpretation -- but by the time I'd finished my rewatch, I was reeling from how much better it fit.

Cause that's the thing: Mike's queerness is pretty obvious once you look for it. The difficulty is in giving yourself permission to look.

-------------------

A question Bylers are often asked is "why would the show spend four seasons building up Milevn just to tear it down at the last minute for some unrealistic woke ship? Mike literally said he loves El!" And yeah, Mike's grand love confession at the end of S4 certainly seems like a triumphant pay-off to all that build-up... but I have a few questions of my own.

Firstly: why establish in no uncertain terms that feeling loved is the key to unlocking El's fullest potential against Vecna--

--only to undermine the power of Mike's longed-for confession by having it only be good enough to delay Vecna instead of defeat him? Yes, it's the penultimate season -- so why did Milevn's pay-off happen here instead of S5 where it could properly shine?

Secondly: why couldn't Milevn fix their relationship by themselves? Even if you believe that El commissioned the painting (she didn't) and that the feelings Will describes are truly hers (they aren't), it was still Will who had to perform this romantic gesture on her behalf, and it broke his heart to do so. Why hand this important work off to a third party? Why weave queer tragedy into the build-up towards a heterosexual pay-off that's supposed to feel triumphantly romantic?

Speaking of which: why undermine the intimacy of this scene by having Will hover behind Mike's shoulder the whole time? Couldn't they have asked Noah to take a few steps to the left for the sake of a better shot? Couldn't they have waited until after Milevn's big romantic moment to remind us for the millionth fucking time how sad Will is about it?

In my opinion, this scene and its four seasons of build-up make much more sense if you read them as three entwined character arcs about the trials of growing up in a suffocatingly heteronormative era: the gay kid who doesn't think he's entitled to a happy ending; the abused girl who thinks shallow romance with the first boy who's nice to her will make her feel normal; and the confused hero who hasn't figured out the solution yet.

For all the insistence that this show has to stick to "realistic" depictions of 80s queerness... it's hardly a realistic depiction of 80s straightness for Mike to score an awesome magical girlfriend, either. That's just nerdy wish-fulfillment, and common only as a trope in fiction.

So it's not unreasonable to suppose that Mike's true role in the Subverting 80s Tropes Show might be to represent the actually very realistic 80s experience of getting swept up in compulsory heterosexuality.

Think about it: Will's vulnerability to the horrors functions as a metaphor for being visibly gay in a world that despises gay people--

--whereas Mike's girlfriend quite literally has the power to protect him from monsters and homophobic bullies alike.

This doesn't mean Mike is callously using El, though. He learned the hard way in S1 that treating an innocent girl like a means to an end would only end up destroying her, and the guilt and fear of hurting her again has been weighing heavy on him ever since.

Comphet isn't about taking advantage of other people's feelings so you can pretend to be straight -- it's about deluding yourself into believing you're straight because queerness isn't an option you're allowed to consider.

Mike genuinely does love El and he genuinely does want to be an important part of her life -- so surely that means he wants to be her boyfriend, right? Twelve is perhaps a little young to know that yet... but surely there's gotta be something here that sets his feelings apart from how a friend or brother would feel?

Surely the reason he later finds himself struggling to say to her face that he loves her is because he's just an immature loser who needs to try harder to grow up and be the man this girl he adores deserves to have...?

...and certainly not because the guilt and fear of losing her just keeps piling up as the romantic instincts he thinks he's been waiting to grow into turn out to be developing at exactly the pace they're supposed to -- in the wrong direction.

That would be ridiculous. Will's his best friend. Yes, he loves him and can't bear to be without him, but that doesn't mean anything. Why can't a guy display a little unhinged devotion to his special friend without it having to mean something romantic?

Why can't he, indeed.

At his core, Mike is someone who desperately wants to be as special as the straight heroes in the nerdy media he loves. But there isn't anything inherently heroic about being some lame middle-class white nerd who's bad with girls, so he believes that the best he can do is to be a dutiful sidekick who would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat for people he perceives as more special than himself.

For all the "build-up" Mike's romance with El has enjoyed across four seasons, it's done absolutely nothing to help him grow as a character and overcome this self-worth problem.

So is it really any surprise that even after realizing El would be fine and still want to be friends with him if he told her the truth, and even after realizing just how good Will is at understanding his insecurities and reassuring him of his inherent worth--

--Mike would still sacrifice his chance at happiness for the sake of the greater good?

El was literally dying in his arms. How could queer desire possibly be as important as this girl who needed him to be a man and do his damn job so she could do hers?

I'm interpreting Mike as gay here, but I think it's important to note that this principle applies even if he's bi or straight -- Mike can be attracted to girls and still be forcing himself to stay in a relationship with a girl he's not a good romantic match for because that's just what he thinks he's supposed to do.

His sister had a similar problem: Nancy was legitimately attracted to Steve, but her infatuation with him was more about doing what cool teen girls are supposed do than about authentic connection. And because this is a horror story as much a coming-of-age story, Wheeler's conformity had horrendous consequences -- her critical-of-comphet bestie was killed by the horrors.

Which sounds familiar, doesn't it?

(Sure, Max technically didn't die -- but she still died enough for Vecna's plan to come to fruition. Which just brings us back to my first question: why couldn't the Power of Heterosexual Love prevent this? In the same season that said "forced conforming is what's killing the kids", no less?)

Will describes Vecna as an inevitability that won't stop until he's taken everyone -- which in my opinion is the same defeatist attitude demanded by comphet.

It's not that Mr. Refuses-To-Participate-In-Society's-Silly-Play symbolizes comphet itself, per se; rather, he represents the despair of feeling like you can't truly escape it. But either way, this means that the solution to defeating Vecna is the same solution to defeating comphet:

Giving yourself permission to look and see that your true self is far more valuable than whatever you think you're supposed to be.

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy's Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 5

A/N: oki here we get to know more about my boy Tim!! and quite a lot about Y/N's emotions. I'm going to start writing for other fandoms soon too!! and are any of you fellow lactose intolerant people and get the feeling when you consume too much dairy (ice cream in my case) and now you're regretting all of your life choices...

btw I tried to add everyone from my taglist post on the taglist, if you‘re still not on it then text me privately:)

There was too much to figure out.

And too little time.

YN sat on the floor of her room, knees tucked to her chest, her back pressed to the side of her bed. The faint hum of her phone charging on the desk, the scent of dying lavender in the corner, and the emptiness of the room made it feel like she was caged in glass.

Seven days.

That’s all she had.

One week before the landlord gave the apartment to someone else.

One week to fake a signature.

One week to secure enough money to hold the place.

One week to find freedom.

Or at least— survival.

⸻

Her heart was pounding in that quiet, pulsing way that made everything feel wrong. Her fingers wouldn’t stop picking at the threads of her sleeves. Her thoughts looped in circles.

She’d never done anything like this.

She didn’t lie.

She didn’t forge.

She got straight As. Smiled at teachers. Shared her notes. Brought cookies to class on test days.

She wasn’t supposed to know how to survive alone.

But she didn’t have a choice now.

Not after she knows what her fate will be in the future. Not after her brother‘s weird behavior and how she does not want to get even more hurt by them once again.

Her phone buzzed with a low battery warning. She glanced at it, then reached for the notebook on her desk. The one she used to plan out real things—school schedules, homework lists.

Now she flipped to a blank page.

And started writing:

✦ Money

• trust fund balance: ❌ (can’t touch it, Bruce sees it)

• Cash on hand: ~$400

• Part-time jobs? No ID

• Fake bank account?

✦ Signature

• Needs to look like a Italian parent

• Has to pass legally

• Needs someone good. Discreet. No questions.

She stared at the words for a long time.

Then, almost against her better judgment, she wrote down what she’d been avoiding:

One week or I lose the place.

Her stomach twisted.

But then—

A spark.

A memory.

She’d overheard some classmates once. Talking in the hallway. About a guy at school who could “fix grades,” “clear detentions,” even “make permission slips appear.”

Not a real criminal.

But the type of person who existed in the gray space.

She didn’t know his name.

But someone would.

_____

The next day, she was sitting with her school friends at the launch table. 

The courtyard buzzed with spring breeze and quiet laughter. YN’s friend group was circled under the trees as usual, books and bento boxes spread around them.

She smiled. Laughed. Ate half a sandwich.

And then, when the conversation shifted to something else—she leaned a little closer to the girl beside her.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Can I ask you something… a little weird?”

The girl blinked. “Sure?”

“I, um…” Y/N played with her straw. “I kind of need someone who can fake a signature. Just once. For something small.”

Immediately, three heads turned toward her.

“What?”

“You?”

“Why?!”

YN let out a soft, nervous laugh and waved her hands.

“No, no—it’s nothing bad, I swear. I just—my dad’s been super busy and stressed lately, and I didn’t want to bother him for something this small. But I need this form signed or I can’t submit my entry for a scholarship program. It’s silly.”

Her voice was light. Sweet. Convincing.

It always was.

They believed her.

Of course they did.

YN Wayne didn’t lie.

Didn’t cheat.

Didn’t need to fake anything.

⸻

One of the girls bit her lip. “I mean… there is someone.”

“Who?”

The group exchanged looks.

“He’s kind of… off-limits,” one of them whispered. “Not in a scary way, just… he’s not exactly PTA-approved.”

“People go to him when they want things handled,” another said.

“Things they don’t want teachers—or parents—to know.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Handled how?”

“Fake IDs. Signature work. Lab grade bumps. Stuff like that.”

She tried not to flinch.

“Do you know his name?”

A pause.

Then one of them finally leaned in and said it.

“His name’s Silas.”

She found him exactly where her friend said he’d be.

Back wall of the school, behind the arts building, where the vines were dry and the shadows hid the rusted fences. A place students weren’t supposed to linger—let alone the sweetheart of Gotham Academy.

He was sitting on a low concrete ledge, knees wide, blazer unbuttoned, a black pen flipping rhythmically between his fingers. The faint scent of cologne, cigarettes, and old ink hung in the air. He was an average tall teenage boy with dirty blonde hair and sharp facial features. His brown eyes showed a maturity above his age.

She stopped just short of the wall.

He looked up.

And blinked.

“…Huh.”

His voice wasn’t surprised exactly. Just curious. Dry. Like the universe had just dropped a snowflake into his cigarette ash.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Princess.”

Y/N clasped her hands in front of her.

Her uniform was perfect. White shirt tucked, skirt neat, hair braided into soft waves over her shoulder. Stockings uncreased. Shoes polished.

She looked like she belonged in a floral ad campaign, not standing in shadows near someone like him.

“I need a favor,” she said.

Silas raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were gonna report me for existing too close to the east wing.”

“I won’t ask questions,” she said calmly, “if you don’t.”

He leaned back on his palms.

“Now this,” he said, eyeing her with quiet amusement, “this is interesting.”

YN reached into her bag and pulled out the folded application form.

“I need a signature,” she said softly. “A parent one. For someone named Lucia Forenzi. Can you do it?”

Silas took the paper, flipping it once in his hand.

“Lucia Forenzi,” he repeated, smirking. “Let me guess. Italian ballet prodigy studying abroad?”

Something twisted in her throat.

She didn’t answer.

Just looked at him, wide-eyed and pleading.

He studied her.

She wasn’t shaking.

But her eyes were too still.

Too trained.

Too controlled.

It was the kind of look people had when they were lying about something they were terrified of anyone finding out.

“Right,” he muttered, sitting up straighter and pulling a different pen from his inner pocket. “No questions.”

He clicked the cap.

“Still gotta charge you, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” she said quietly. “How much?”

He looked her over, calculated something she wouldn’t understand.

“Sixty-five.”

Her brows lifted for a breath—but then she nodded, already reaching into her bag.

No hesitation.

No negotiation.

Definitely hiding something.

She passed him the cash folded neatly in an envelope.

“Neat,” he muttered, sliding it into his jacket. “Didn’t even crumple it.”

He bent over the paper and began working the signature with practiced, deliberate strokes—flourishes, pressure points, the little inconsistencies that made fakes real. He was good. Too good.

She watched silently.

When he finished, he blew lightly on the ink and handed the form back to her.

YN took it carefully. Slipped it into the protective folder in her bag.

Silas leaned back again, like the job meant nothing.

“You’re not built for this, you know,” he said lazily.

Her gaze flicked to him. “For what?”

“Lying.” He smirked. “You twitch every time you breathe wrong.”

She looked away. “I’m not lying.”

“Sure.”

She hesitated—then, voice lower:

“Do you know how to make money?”

He tilted his head.

“I mean… quickly,” she added. “A lot. Like… maybe a few thousand.”

That got his full attention.

His brows lifted.

Silas straightened slowly, eyes scanning her again, this time truly seeing the stress behind her face.

“You asking for you?” he asked.

She nodded.

Barely.

Silas looked at her longer than he should have.

Her question—so quiet, so sincere—echoed oddly in the air between them.

A few thousand dollars. Quickly.

Not pocket change. Not school lunch money.

Real money.

And from her.

He should’ve shrugged it off.

Should’ve handed her a few names, offered her options—favors-for-cash setups, under-the-table digital work, hush-hush favors for the rich kids who liked to get dirt without getting dirty.

He knew all those doors.

But he didn’t say a word about any of them.

Because she wasn’t the type of girl who knocked on those doors.

And he’d seen enough people walk through them and never come back out right.

⸻

“Why do you even need cash?” he asked, tapping the edge of the concrete beside him. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Her eyes darted away.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t lie.

But the silence stretched.

Her shoulders were stiff. Her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. Her cheeks flushed pink—not the pretty kind, the embarrassed kind. Ashamed.

And in that moment, Silas actually pitied her.

Because she really didn’t belong here.

Not in his part of Gotham.

He watched her for another second, then exhaled slowly.

“You don’t want to do what it takes to make that kind of money,” he said flatly. “Trust me.”

She looked up at him again, startled.

“You’re not like the others who come to me,” he added. “They already made peace with the kind of things they’re willing to do. You? You’d cry if you saw how fast that road burns.”

Y/N’s mouth parted.

But she didn’t speak.

She just listened.

Silas reached back, adjusting the chain around his neck, then muttered, “I’m not gonna say anything about this. Don’t worry. But don’t come back here asking about that again.”

She blinked fast.

Then nodded.

And smiled—gently, sweetly, the kind of smile that shouldn’t belong on someone trying to break the law.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Really. And… I hope you find your way, too. I think you could.”

Silas didn’t respond right away.

But he watched her walk away.

Watched her braid swaying behind her, her shoes clicking too neatly on cracked pavement.

She didn’t look back.

Unbeknownst to her, three boys down the alley had been watching.

One of them stepped forward the moment she was gone.

“Yo, that was her, right? The Wayne girl?”

"Did she just pay you for something?”

“What’d she want?”

Silas didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

He just lit a half-burnt cigarette and said flatly:

“She wanted nothing.”

______

The building still smelled like old cigarette smoke and forgotten furniture polish.

The same chipped door. Same crooked number on the outside.

Same old man behind the cluttered desk, now flipping through paperwork and scratching his balding head with a tired sigh.

When she stepped in, he barely glanced up.

Until he did.

And blinked.

“Oh. You again.”

She nodded. “I brought the signature.”

She walked across the dusty floor, careful not to make her footsteps too loud, and handed him the form tucked in its sleeve.

The man squinted at it, pulled on his reading glasses, and grumbled under his breath as he scanned it.

“Lucia Forenzi… yeah, this’ll work.” He leaned back, letting the form rest on top of a stack. “Now we just gotta finalize the rest once you get your deposit together.”

YN hesitated.

She folded her hands together. “Do you think I could ask… for one more week? For the deposit, I mean?”

He eyed her.

She wasn’t trembling. But her voice was gentle. Careful. Like she’d been rehearsing it in her head for hours.

He sighed again.

“Kid… I usually don’t let stuff slide like this.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just—my ID is still stuck in customs back in Milan. And my bank account—American one—isn’t ready yet. I’m trying to… get something together.”

He stared at her.

Young face. Braided hair. Nervous posture. Accent just strong enough to carry the lie.

If she’d been anyone else—he’d have told her to get lost.

But she looked like a girl completely alone.

And despite the fact that he spent half his pension at poker tables and owed a guy named Ray twenty bucks from last month’s betting pool…

He had a daughter once.

Long ago.

She never looked this scared.

“One more week,” he said finally. “That’s it. No more games.”

She smiled—grateful, glowing, almost guilty.

“Thank you. Really.”

He cleared his throat. “You said you don’t have cash yet, right?”

She nodded. “I… I was actually thinking of trying to get a job.”

“A job?” He barked a short laugh. “You got papers for that?”

“No,” she admitted, softly. “But I’m good with plants.”

He squinted again.

“Plants?”

“I grew up around a lot of gardens. I know how to take care of things. Keep them alive.”

He looked around his office.

Half-dead potted thing in the corner. Wilting ivy on the window ledge.

“Tell you what,” he muttered. “The building’s got some rooftop planters the old tenants abandoned. Overgrown with weeds now. You clean ’em out, replant something nice, keep it alive? I’ll knock a bit off your deposit. Even give you a little cash if you do a good job.”

YN’s eyes lit up.

“You’d let me?”

He waved a hand. “Not gonna stop someone from doing free labor. Especially if it means I don’t gotta call some overpriced nursery.”

She smiled—real this time.

And for a moment, she didn’t feel like she was running.

Just planting something new.

“Thank you,” she said again, shouldering her bag. “I’ll come back after school tomorrow. If that’s okay?”

“Door’ll be open.”

She nodded once.

Turned.

And left.

The air outside smelled like pavement and car exhaust and early spring.

She took the bus home.

One hand on her bag.

One hand curled quietly in her coat pocket.

___

Tim

The hum of cooling fans filled his room.

Screens glowed softly around him—multiple tabs open, city feeds on low volume, encrypted Wayne Enterprises backend files half-scrolled through. He didn’t really need to be there. Most of his work for the day had been finished hours ago.

But he was restless. Edgy.

Something was gnawing at the edge of his mind.

He didn’t know what.

That’s when he saw it.

An unlabeled USB left near the base of one of the older servers—something Alfred had probably pulled from the manor archives or the mainframe logs.

Tim plugged it in without much thought.

Inside: dozens of folders. Video files. Unmarked. Untouched.

Most were labeled by year.

He opened one at random.

Then stared.

The footage was grainy but clear.

A school auditorium.

A handmade banner above the stage: Gotham Academy Winter Performance.

Kids lined up in stiff uniforms and glittery costumes.

And there—center left, third row—YN.

Maybe six. Seven.

Singing. Slightly off-pitch, swaying back and forth like she’d practiced a hundred times.

In the bottom corner of the footage, he could hear the applause.

Not much of it.

Definitely no one from the family.

Tim frowned.

Why hadn’t he seen this before?

He clicked through another.

Grade 4 Science Fair. YN Wayne.

Her booth was filled with little potted flowers and soil diagrams. He saw her holding a laminated sheet, explaining something with shy excitement to a panel of judges.

And again—no one from their family there.

Not even Alfred.

⸻

Tim leaned back slowly.

And something in his chest twisted.

He hadn’t seen her in weeks—months even.

Not really.

She’d always just… been there.

Quiet. Predictable. Not part of the mission. Not part of the crime board, or the investigations, or the emergency Gotham alerts.

Just soft footsteps in the hallway. Soft baking smells from the kitchen.

A small knock on his door, back when she used to knock.

He remembered when he first arrived.

Jason had just died. Bruce was… hollowed out.

And Tim, desperate for validation, had stepped into Robin’s boots with too much weight and not enough air.

She was small back then. Four? Maybe five.

Always trailing behind Alfred with wide green eyes. Always hugging something—blanket, plush rabbit, her own braid.

She’d tried to talk to him.

At first, it was just questions.

“Do you know how to make things explode without hurting the garden?”

“Why do your hands always have ink on them?”

“Do you like stories about space?”

Tim had nodded politely. Answered once or twice.

But Bruce needed him.

Dick kept him moving.

There wasn’t time.

And when she tried harder—when she came into his workshop with sticky notes and clumsily drawn circuit boards, when she made him a chess board with mismatched floral pieces to match the ones in the cave—

He’d smiled.

“Thanks. Maybe later.”

Then closed the door.

Later, he said something to Dick.

He didn’t even remember what sparked it.

Just a comment about how she was “always hanging around,” how she was “cute, but a distraction.”

“She’s kind of a liability,” he’d said.

And behind him—

She had been standing in the doorway.

Chessboard in hand.

⸻

Y/N

She hadn’t cried.

Not then.

Just smiled and nodded and said it was okay.

But she never brought him another project again.

She still helped him, sometimes, when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Repaired a snapped wire. Left tea near his monitor. Cleaned up wires on the floor.

But she stopped knocking.

Stopped asking.

Stopped trying.

Because what was the point?

He didn’t want her.

None of them did.

⸻

Tim

Tim sat still, staring at the paused frame.

Her tiny hands. Her proud smile.

And not a single member of the family had shown up.

Not even once.

His gut twisted.

How had he missed her?

How had they all missed her?

He opened another folder.

And another.

And another.

And slowly, it stopped feeling like research.

And started feeling like regret.

He searched her full name on instinct.

He wasn’t expecting much—maybe a locked account, maybe nothing at all. 

But it popped up right away. She was not that secretive or paranoid to even have a private account. Not that that would have stopped him.

@y/n.wayne_loves_poppies

Gotham Academy | Greenheart Club 🌿 | 🧁 Sometimes I bake, sometimes I bloom 💚

Her profile picture was soft. Smiling. Just slightly blurred in that way that made it feel unfiltered, uncalculated.

It hit him harder than it should’ve.

She looked… older. Not by much. Just enough to make his stomach twist.

He hadn’t even known what her current face looked like.

She still had the same eyes. Same gentle expression.

Same softness. Same adorable delicateness. 

He opened her highlights.

“Flowers” was the first one.

Clips of blooming vines, petals unfolding in slow motion. Her fingers gently touching the edge of a stem.

“Baking” came next. A video of cupcakes she made for a class birthday. Another of heart-shaped sugar cookies dusted in gold powder. Kids laughing in the background. Her voice behind the camera, barely heard.

She’d tagged her friends. Liked their comments. Replied with hearts.

There were no comments from any of them.

None of her family.

Not one from him.

Tim swallowed.

He scrolled down to her posts. The oldest one still up was from two years ago. Her sitting in the greenhouse. A short caption:

“🌸 Sometimes things only grow when they’re ignored.”

He hadn’t seen it.

Didn’t even know she had an Instagram.

He clicked through dozens of pictures.

Birthday cupcakes she made herself.

Class awards she never mentioned.

Photos at the museum—her smiling with two friends in front of a lunar exhibit.

She liked astronomy.

He hadn’t known that.

She liked baking.

She liked poppies.

She watched weird indie romance films with sad endings.

He hadn’t known any of it.

Tim leaned back in his chair.

His throat was tight.

His chest was quiet—but hollow.

He had missed everything.

She had been right there.

For years.

And he’d let her walk past him like she was just background noise.

But not anymore.

He reached forward slowly. Hands steady. Mind turning.

I’ll fix it.

He could ask her to play chess.

Tell her about his newest case.

Ask her about her favorite constellations.

Share her posts. Leave comments. Make her feel like she mattered.

Like she existed.

It wouldn’t happen all at once. She wouldn’t trust him yet.

But that was okay.

He had time.

He’d be different now.

He’d be better.

        He’d be her brother. 

_____________

Y/N

The familiar scent of lemon polish and old books greeted her as she stepped through the manor’s doors.

Alfred was in the hallway, arranging a vase of cut lilies—probably delivered by a vendor she’d never met, for a dinner party she’d never be invited to.

He turned when he heard her.

“Miss YN,” he said, surprised. “You’re home early.”

She gave him her usual small, polite smile. “I didn’t feel well. Just a stomach ache.”

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed on her face longer than usual.

Searching.

Reading.

He’d always been the only one who looked.

But even now, his gaze held something else—worry.

She shifted under it.

He finally nodded.

“I’ll bring you some tea. Chamomile?”

She nodded quickly. “That would be perfect, Alfred. Thank you.”

⸻

She walked up the stairs without another word.

Every step felt heavier.

Her bag weighed more now—holding the fake signature, the crumpled plan, the reality of how little time she had left before she needed to vanish.

When she stepped into her room, she took a moment.

Let the door close behind her.

Then just stood there.

It used to be pink.

Green lace trim.

Fairy lights.

Stuffed animals in the corner.

After she came back—after she knew what was coming—it all went away.

She changed the curtains to gray. Folded the soft blankets into storage boxes. Swapped her old bedspread for something plain, something neutral.

Something invisible.

Because that’s what they wanted from her, wasn’t it?

Not sweetness.

Not softness.

Not the girl who drew them family portraits and wrote their names in glitter pens.

They wanted quiet.

So she became quiet.

She sat at her desk and slowly unpacked her notebook.

To-do lists. Rent deadlines. Sketches of job plans. A fake identity plan she knew would fall apart in front of any real system—but she had to try anyway.

She stared at it blankly, trying to remember which lie came next.

And that’s when the knock came.

It was soft.

Two short taps.

She blinked.

“Alfred?” she called, gently.

She opened the door—

And stopped.

Her fingers froze around the knob.

Because it wasn’t Alfred.

It was Tim.

⸻

He stood in the hallway, backlit by the glow of the antique sconces, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

His hair was slightly messy—like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. His posture unsure. His eyes… searching.

And behind all that awkwardness—there was a smile.

Forced.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet. “Didn’t know you were home early.”

She stared at him.

He was tall. Way taller now. Broader than she remembered. Dressed in one of his clean-casual post-Enterprise outfits, too neat to be an accident.

And she felt tiny.

Small. Frail.

Forgettable.

Her doe eyes flicked up to meet his for a second.

Then away.

She stiffened without meaning to.

Her voice came out softer than she intended.

“…Hi.”

Tim’s gaze drifted over her head, into her room, and lingered.

His brows pulled together slightly.

He wasn’t trying to be obvious, but he couldn’t help it.

The room was… muted.

Clean, neat, and stripped bare of her.

No soft colors. No floral bedspread. No paper flowers, no paintings on the walls. The only thing alive was the half-drained diffuser on her desk and a dying succulent on the windowsill.

It didn’t match what he’d seen online.

Not the photos. Not the tone of her captions. Not the girl who made cupcakes in cat-shaped molds and cut strawberries into hearts for her friends.

The Y/N on Instagram smiled in pink and baked things for people who didn’t deserve it.

This one?

This one was standing in a doorway, blinking up at him like he was a ghost.

Tim pulled his eyes back to her and offered a slightly nervous smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

She didn’t say anything.

He scratched the back of his neck and stepped back, giving her space.

“I, uh… I realized I hadn’t talked to you in a while. Just wanted to check in.”

Still no response.

So he tried again.

“School going okay?”

Her fingers curled slightly around the doorframe.

She gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

He tried not to fidget.

“And… you’re feeling alright? I heard you left school early today.”

Her eyes widened—just for a second. A flash of instinctive fear.

Then she quickly covered it with a half-smile. “Just a headache. I’m okay now.”

But her voice was tight. Careful.

Like she wasn’t sure what game he was playing.

Tim could feel the wall between them.

He hated it.

But he also knew he’d helped build it.

He cleared his throat.

“Cool. That’s good. Uh… I was thinking maybe sometime—if you want—we could play chess again? I still have that old board. The one you made when you were little.”

He smiled at the memory.

She didn’t.

Her lips parted slightly.

Her eyes dropped.

And then—quiet, confused, almost painful:

“…Why are you here?”

Not angry.

Just… asking.

Like it didn’t make sense to her that he’d show up at all.

Because it didn’t.

Not in her first life.

Not in the years where she had knocked on his door a hundred times and only ever heard “I’m busy.”

Tim blinked.

And for the first time, his smile dropped entirely.

He looked at her.

Really looked at her.

And all the data in the world couldn’t tell him why the question hurt so much more than he thought it would.

Tim’s awkward smile didn’t quite match his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, scratching the back of his neck. “I just—y’know. Miss my baby sister, I guess.”

It didn’t sound right in her ears.

Not with the years of silence still echoing in her memory.

Not when she remembered standing outside his door for hours, holding something she’d made for him—only to be brushed off again and again.

But now he was here. Smiling.

Like it hadn’t all happened.

Like none of it mattered.

He stood for a second longer, maybe expecting her to say something.

She didn’t.

So he nodded toward her desk. “Need help with schoolwork?”

“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “It’s… a group project. I have to call Maya soon.”

That name again. The lie she’d built to protect her escape.

Tim nodded. “Got it. Well… I’ll let you get back to it then.”

She gave a small nod. “Okay.”

He hesitated.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Then didn’t.

He stepped back and left.

She closed the door behind him slowly.

Then locked it.

And exhaled.

⸻

The light outside was dimming into gold.

She sat cross-legged on her floor, her notebook open, sketches of furniture and ornaments she’d seen lying unused around the mansion: antique vases, decorative trays, crystal bookends—small enough to pack into a backpack, valuable enough to sell at any downtown collector’s shop.

She hated it.

She hated the idea of stealing.

But this wasn’t theft—it was a last resort.

And she was careful.

Nothing from the family’s main rooms.

Nothing with names etched into them.

Nothing anyone would miss.

They already forgot her birthday every year.

Already forgot her when she left the table.

This wasn’t new. They were good at not missing lost things.

In the back of her notebook, she was already drafting the lie she’d tell her friends:

Mom is an Italian businesswoman. Wants me back home to get more familiar with my roots.

No forwarding address. Just a long goodbye.

Her fingers trembled a little as she wrote.

But her voice in her head was calm.

You can do this. Just make it through one more week.

That’s when the knock came.

Sharp. Heavy.

Not gentle like Alfred.

Not hesitant like Tim.

Her heart froze.

She scrambled, grabbing her notebook, papers, burner phone, shoving them under the blanket and pulling it flat with both hands.

She stood up, forcing her face into something neutral—her eyes wide, breath tight.

And then she opened the door.

He stood there like a statue.

Tall. Broad. Impossibly built.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father.

Dark suit, no tie. Shirt collar open. Shoulders squared, posture perfectly relaxed—yet utterly intimidating. Shadowed jaw, sharp cheekbones, tired, steely eyes. His presence filled the doorway like a wall.

And her body forgot how to breathe.

He had never stood there before.

Not since she was three years old and Alfred had shown her the room.

Never once.

And now?

Now he looked at her like he was searching for something he’d misplaced.

She stared up at him.

Small. Still. Shaking without showing it.

Bruce

It had been a week since Alfred brought it up.

A full week since that quiet, direct conversation—the kind Alfred rarely initiated unless he knew something was slipping too far.

“She’s asked for money, Master Bruce. Not out of greed. Out of fear.”

Bruce had nodded, said he’d look into it.

And then he hadn’t.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because some part of him had locked the thought away. Too proud to admit what it really meant.

Too afraid to admit that somewhere along the way—he’d forgotten her face.

Until now.

He walked through the upper hallway slowly, unfamiliar with this wing despite technically owning it. The shadows here were deeper. The air, stiller. This part of the manor was quiet in a way none of the other children’s corridors were.

And when he reached the end of the hall and saw her name—engraved gently on the door, the paint fading—his chest clenched.

Why was she this far away?

From everyone?

From him?

He made a decision right then.

She’d be moved.

Her room was too far.

Too far from him.

That would change.

He lifted a hand and knocked twice.

Sharp. Measured.

And the door opened.

⸻

Y/N

She looked up at him, and the breath stalled in his lungs.

She was…

Still small.

Still delicate.

Still had those wide, soft doe eyes he remembered vaguely from the time Alfred had first placed her in his arms. Her hair a little longer now. Her expression tighter. Guarded.

But the girl who had once followed him with awe and silent hopes was standing there, now looking at him like—

She didn’t know who he was.

Or maybe, like she remembered too well.

⸻

Bruce

Bruce’s voice didn’t crack, but it softened more than he expected.

“…Hi, little leaf.”

It was a name he’d never said before.

A nickname he’d never used.

Not even when she was a toddler.

But it came to him then—natural, instinctive, like something that had always waited behind his tongue.

“Little leaf.”

Because she was so small.

So quiet.

So easy to miss in the wind.

He glanced over her head with ease—she didn’t even came past his chest.

His eyes swept her room.

Muted.

Cold.

Devoid of life.

Nothing on the walls. No bright colors. No scattered crafts. No signs of who she was—just a blanket on the bed covering something, maybe books.

It looked less like a home.

More like a holding space.

Something in him twisted sharply.

⸻

Y/N

What. The. Hell.

Her thoughts were loud.

Exploding behind her face as she tried to keep her features neutral.

First Dick and Damian

Then Tim.

Now him.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father—in name and blood only—who hadn’t stepped into her room since she was two years old.

He looked… the same. Towering. Dark. Dressed in one of his half-armored casuals, broad enough to block the entire hallway behind him.

His voice had been low. Calm.

Little leaf.

She nearly recoiled.

He’d never called her anything before. No pet names. No warm nicknames. He barely called her by her name at all.

So why now?

She stared up at him, stunned, her hand still gripping the doorframe. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Her thoughts twisted violently in her head.

Why is he here? Why is he suddenly pretending like I exist? What is wrong with them?

Is this some game?

Is this part of whatever’s going on with Tim and Dick? Did something happen?

Did someone tell them to prank me now?

Her fingers curled tighter.

She wanted to scream.

To ask what the hell do you want?

But she couldn’t.

Because he was Bruce Wayne.

Because she was YN Wayne.

Because her entire plan depended on no one noticing her.

And now—suddenly—everyone was.

taglist:

@justwannabecat

@c4xcocoa

@cosmicyuk1

@galaxypurplerose

@nisarelle

@exactlynumberonekryptonite

@holderoflostmemories

@runaaclou

@noclue-0

@devils-blackrose

@runaaclou

@delias-stuff

@wizzerreblogs

@charlenexoxo1

@staarflowerr

@sleep-7372

@unearthlykara

@oliviaewl

@cupid73

@rikkimorris16

@randomlyappearingartist

@fightmebissh

@prettyliciousgal

@plsfckmedxddy

@misdollface

@eissaaaa

@melday0105

@sulleha

@time-shardz

@lovelyflames

@asahi20789

@teabutnerdy

@the-classroom-doodles

@livy111

@omgfangirlland

@shqyou

@rrhhyyaa

@1-800-crazy

@astraeasworld

@edlothia-baby

@the-historical-biscuit2468

@cloudishmagma

@andriuu29

@sincerely-yuna

[brookghaib-blog]

Loose Ends

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob meet at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, both struggling with addiction. They form a deep bond that slowly grows into love. When Bob suddenly disappears, Y/N relapses and falls apart. Months later, Bob returns, determined to help her heal. Together, they face their pasts and find hope and love in each other’s arms.

Word count: 11,6k

Warning: Drug addiction, depression, self-esteem issues, sexual themes, suicidal thoughts

Note: Based on this request! I'm back for a bit, responding to the requests, just a reminder that I don't respond to the messages on the box to keep them in order and to read them, I do read everything you send me, and if I feel like your idea it's not meant to be written by me, I'll tell you!

--

The folding chairs creaked beneath restless bodies, the stale scent of burnt coffee and old books clinging to the small community room like ghosts of relapses past. It was just another Tuesday night, but for Bob Reynolds, it felt like his first day on Earth. The fluorescent lights were too bright, the circle of strangers too close, and every eye felt like it was boring straight through his skin.

He didn’t want to be here. But he didn’t want to be anywhere else, either.

Bob sat hunched, his fingers twitching in his lap. His knuckles were red, cracked from the cold and the endless clenching of fists that used to hold glass pipes. He hadn’t spoken to anyone when he walked in. Just nodded awkwardly at the man with the clipboard and found the nearest empty seat. He could feel the tremors under his skin, the echo of a chemical hunger that had hollowed him out for years. It was his first meeting. The beginning of something he didn’t quite believe in yet.

She was already there when he walked in.

Y/N sat across the circle from him—her back straight, hands resting neatly in her lap, a calmness in her posture that said she had done this before. She looked…clean. Not in the way the program used the word, but in a way that radiated control. Confidence. She was beautiful—he noticed that instantly, though guilt pricked the edge of the thought. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, her eyes sharp but gentle, scanning the room like she was watching for someone who might need saving.

She didn’t look at him.

Not at first.

When it came time for introductions, Bob’s voice almost gave out. His throat burned with dryness and shame. “I’m Bob,” he managed, eyes fixed on the floor. “And I’ve been clean for… three days.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not cruel. It was filled with understanding, a quiet solidarity. A few nodded. One man said, “Keep coming back.” Bob barely heard him.

But she looked at him then.

Y/N’s gaze lifted, met his like a flicker of light through a crack in a door. Something sparked—just for a second. Not recognition. Not sympathy. Something gentler. Something that could have been hope, or maybe just human connection.

After the meeting, people filtered out in quiet pairs and solitary steps. Bob lingered, unsure of whether he should leave or stay, his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket like they might keep him from falling apart. He didn’t notice her approach until she was right in front of him.

“Hey,” she said softly, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “First meeting?”

He blinked. Nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“I figured. You did good.” Her voice wasn’t patronizing. It wasn’t fake. It was just… kind. “Three days is still three days. That’s something.”

Bob shifted, a bit uncomfortable. “Thanks.”

She extended her hand. “I’m Y/N. I’ve been clean for three months.”

He stared at her hand for a moment before taking it. Her grip was firm but warm. “Bob.”

“I know,” she smiled again, gently teasing, “you said that earlier.”

His face flushed. “Right. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, and he could tell she meant it. “I just… wanted to say hi. First meetings can feel like hell. Thought you might want someone to talk to.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Part of him did want to talk—scream, even—but the words didn’t come easy anymore. Not after the meth, not after the years of silence and paranoia, not after everything he’d lost.

But her kindness… it didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t probe. She was just there, steady and unflinching, like she knew what it was like to come in broken and be too afraid to admit it.

“I appreciate it,” he said finally. And he did.

She nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you next week?”

He almost said “I don’t know.” Almost said “probably not.” But then he caught the faintest trace of something in her eyes—something haunted. Like maybe she hadn’t really come back to these meetings just to stay on track. Maybe she was here because, like him, part of her still longed for the high. Still dreamed of it, teeth grinding in the night, heart racing at phantom memories.

“Yeah,” he said instead. “Maybe.”

She left then, offering him one last soft smile before disappearing through the double doors.

Bob stayed behind a few more minutes, staring at the spot she’d stood. The ghost of her warmth lingered like a handprint on his chest. For the first time in months—maybe years—he didn’t feel entirely alone.

And for the first time since the meth left him hollow, he wanted to come back. Not just to stay clean.

But to see her again.

It started with short glances after meetings—awkward smiles, mumbled goodbyes. Y/N always sat three chairs from the front, her posture perfect, her clothes crisp and clean like she’d stepped out of a magazine ad for recovery itself. She was the kind of person people imagined when they thought of someone who had “made it out.”

Bob… wasn’t.

He always sat in the back. Always kept his hoodie on. Always looked at the floor when he spoke—if he spoke. Most weeks, he didn’t. Most weeks, he just listened. But he watched her. Not in the way men stared at beautiful women, though God, she was beautiful. She had a glow to her—not from makeup or hair or skin, but from something inside her. A steadiness. A quiet strength. Something that felt unreachable to someone like him.

He figured she wouldn’t even notice him. Why would she? She had her life together. She was healing. He was still trying to figure out how to stop shaking in the mornings, how to sleep without his skin crawling. But then, one night, she looked at him. Really looked. And something shifted.

But after every meeting, she walked up to him—confident, open, her smile soft but not pitying.

They talked, just a little, about the weather, the meeting, what he thought of the group. And he barely said more than two sentences, but she didn’t seem to mind. She carried the conversation with warmth and patience, like she knew what it was like to forget how to use your voice.

That was how it started.

Weeks passed, and the after-meeting conversations grew longer. Slowly. Naturally. She never rushed him. Never filled silence with noise. Just stood there beside him, sipping her tea or twisting her car keys in her fingers, letting the minutes stretch as he searched for the right words.

Then came coffee. Then a walk. Then dinner—sober bars, late-night diners, quiet sidewalks lit by streetlamps and the occasional hum of traffic.

They became friends.

Bob didn’t even notice how much he looked forward to her texts until he found himself checking his phone every few hours. She’d send him memes she thought he’d like. Songs with sad lyrics. Random photos of dogs she saw on her lunch break. It wasn’t flirtation—not exactly. It was something deeper. It was her letting him see the pieces of her life she still held close. And she let him into them, one bit at a time.

He couldn’t understand her sometimes—how someone so composed could be so kind to someone like him. She had a nice apartment with bookshelves and candles and a cat that hated everyone but her. She had a real job in a building with windows and desks and coffee machines that weren’t broken. She had friends who called her on weekends and inside jokes he didn’t get but loved hearing. To him, she was the kind of person who made surviving look easy.

But she never made him feel small.

He remembered sitting across from her at that booth in the bar, his fingers wrapped around a club soda, watching her pick at her napkin. Something in her was different that night—quieter, more distant. She wasn’t smiling. Not really.

“You okay?” he’d asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

She paused, then said, “Yeah.” But it didn’t land. Her eyes flickered toward the floor, and her fingers kept pulling the napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. Finally, she looked up and sighed.

“You ever wonder how I ended up at NA?” she asked.

Bob frowned. “No,” he said quietly. “But I bet a lot of people do.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Because you’re the kind of person people look at and think you’ve got it all figured out,” he continued. “You’re… steady. You show up. You laugh at people’s bad jokes. You hold your head up even when you’re having a shit day. You’re the girl everyone wants to believe gets out clean.”

Something cracked in her expression. A flash of pain. A memory rising too fast.

She leaned back, her drink untouched. The light caught her face just right—made her look like someone caught between the past and the present. Then she started to talk.

“I used to work at a club,” she said, slowly. “Not a dive. Not some hole-in-the-wall. This was elite. Velvet ropes, celebrities, champagne towers. Girls like me wore thousand-dollar heels and smiles that hurt by the end of the night. Rich men loved it. We were ornaments to them.”

Bob listened, silent.

“I had friends there. A boyfriend. We were the pretty ones, the ones everyone else envied. Coke was just part of it. Like perfume. Everyone used. Everyone smiled. Nobody asked questions.”

She looked down at her drink, eyes glassy.

“Then he started hitting me.”

Bob’s heart dropped. His grip on the glass tightened.

“Not with fists. Not at first. Just words. Isolation. Manipulation. He said I was his, that he was protecting me. From other men. From myself. I believed him.”

Her voice broke then, and she swallowed hard.

“He started using me. Stole from me. Made me feel like nothing without him. And when I was too broken to fight back, he left. Took my money, my name, everything. Ran off with some other girl who probably believed his lies the way I did.”

She laughed once—sharp and hollow.

“My friends? They turned their backs. One of them slept with him before he even left me. They all knew. They let it happen.”

Bob felt something ache in his chest. Not pity—grief. Anger. Empathy.

“And my job? The one place I thought I still had control?” She shook her head. “It turned ugly. Backroom deals. ‘VIP experiences.’ They called it empowerment. But it wasn’t. I was spiraling, and the only thing that felt good anymore was the coke.”

She finally looked at him, and there were tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted to disappear.”

Bob reached for her hand, unsure at first. But when she didn’t pull away, he held it, firm and steady.

“You’re not that girl anymore,” he said, voice rough. “You got out.”

“Barely.”

“But you did.”

She looked at him like he didn’t understand. But he did. God, he did.

“You think I’m strong,” she whispered. “But I’m not.”

Bob shook his head. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

The silence between them stretched long after she finished speaking. The kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled, only understood. Bob’s hand was still loosely curled around hers, but his thumb had stopped moving. He was frozen in place, staring at her with this look—somewhere between guilt and awe, like he was still trying to understand how someone who had been through that could still look at him the way she did.

Then he broke.

It was quiet at first, a barely-there tremor in his voice. “I’ve been lying,” he said.

Y/N looked up, her eyes soft and tired. “About what?”

Bob’s throat tightened. It felt like trying to swallow glass.

“I’m not… clean,” he whispered. “Not really. I mean—I go to the meetings. I want to stop. God, I do. But… I haven’t. Not fully. Not yet.”

He couldn’t look at her. His shame was too loud. Too real. He kept his eyes on the table, watching the condensation drip from his untouched drink onto the wood. He was bracing himself—for disappointment, disgust, maybe even pity. He didn’t know which would hurt more.

But Y/N didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull her hand away. She didn’t move at all.

“I know,” she said quietly.

That made him look at her. His eyes were wide, startled, and for a moment he looked almost like a child caught sneaking out of the house.

“You… knew?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I figured it out a while ago.”

Bob’s face fell. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because,” she said gently, “I know what that shame feels like. I know what it’s like to wake up every day telling yourself this is the last time—only to fall right back into it by sunset. I know what it’s like to look in the mirror and hate what you see, but still not be able to stop.”

She paused, her voice growing softer, like she was afraid it might crack. “I knew because I used to be you.”

Bob blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from spilling. His throat burned, and the knot in his chest tightened with each word she spoke.

“I used to show up to meetings high out of my mind,” she continued. “Sat in the back row with sunglasses on, nodding like I understood recovery while my brain was still buzzing. I smiled when people clapped for my fake milestones. I told everyone I was clean because I wanted them to believe I could be.”

A shaky breath escaped her. “But I couldn’t even believe it myself.”

Bob felt his shoulders slump. The weight of everything—the guilt, the pretending, the fear—pressed down on him like a thousand bricks. But somehow, her words made it feel just a little bit lighter. Not because she excused him. But because she understood.

“I hate who I am when I use,” he said. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Y/N leaned in, her voice almost a whisper. “You’re still in there, Bob. He’s still in there. You’re just lost right now. And that’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay.”

“I know,” she said. “It never does.”

He looked at her, his eyes glassy, his hands trembling slightly. “I thought if I got clean, you’d finally see me as someone worth knowing.”

Her face crumpled—not with pity, but something deeper. Something closer to heartbreak.

“I already see you,” she said. “I see how you listen to people when they talk, even when you don’t say much. I see how you text back with full sentences, like you’re trying so hard not to sound messed up even when you feel like you are. I see the way you show up—even when you’re still using. You’re trying. That means something.”

Bob looked away, ashamed all over again. “Trying doesn’t feel like enough.”

She reached out, her hand brushing his cheek. “It is. Right now, it is.”

And then, without asking, she pulled him into a hug. It wasn’t gentle or careful. It was desperate—like she was trying to hold together all the broken pieces of him before they fell through her fingers. And Bob, whose body hadn’t been held without expectation or violence in years, melted into her.

He let the tears fall. Quietly. Messily. Into her shirt, which smelled like vanilla and rain. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush him. Just held him tighter, like maybe if she held on long enough, he might start believing in his own worth too.

“I’m scared,” he whispered into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “Me too.”

They stayed like that for a long time—two recovering souls on the edge of something raw and fragile, holding onto each other in a world that didn’t offer many safe places.

Bob didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. If he’d relapse again. If he’d lose this fragile thing growing between them. But in that moment, with her arms around him and her voice steady in his ear, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time:

Hope.

Even if it was cracked and trembling.

--

From that night on, something shifted.

She was there. That was what mattered.

Sometimes it was subtle—a soft text before his meetings, “You’ve got this. Even if you don’t feel like it.” Other times it was more direct. Sitting beside him when the urge itched under his skin so badly he thought he might peel it off. Making tea in her little kitchen while he shook on her couch in the middle of a sleepless, twitching night. She never asked for explanations. She never recoiled from the ugly.

She just stayed.

Bob didn’t know how to thank her, not really. Words felt too small for the way she seemed to see through all the rot and wreckage and still come closer. He hadn’t had that before. Not when he was sober. Not when he was using. Not even before he broke into pieces. Most people ran. But not her.

She stayed.

He lost his apartment two months later.

The landlord had already been breathing down his neck for weeks. Bob had stopped opening his mail, knowing each envelope only echoed his failures in ink and numbers. The eviction came quietly. There wasn’t even a real fight. Just a cold knock on the door, a brief, awkward interaction with a man who wouldn’t make eye contact, and a few garbage bags of his life left on the curb like they were waiting for the trash collector.

He didn’t have anywhere to go. He didn’t even call anyone. He just sat on the sidewalk for what felt like hours, his arms wrapped around his knees, a duffle bag pressed against his chest like a shield. The sky went gray and then darker, and he didn’t cry. He just shut down.

Y/N found him like that.

She didn’t say “I told you so,” or ask why he hadn’t called. She just stood over him, arms crossed, a bag of groceries still dangling from her wrist. Her eyes softened the second she saw his face.

“Come home,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Home.

That word hit harder than he expected.

It wasn’t a big place, her apartment. Just a one-bedroom tucked into a quiet neighborhood that smelled like old leaves and coffee in the mornings. Her couch wasn’t comfortable, and her shower leaked sometimes, and her fridge hummed too loudly—but it was safe. It was warm. It was hers. And when she opened that door for him, Bob felt like she was opening it to something bigger than just a place to sleep.

She gave him a key a few weeks later. Not with a big speech or anything. She just placed it on the kitchen counter beside a fresh mug of coffee and said, “Figured it might be easier than buzzing me in every night.”

Bob held the key in his hand for almost an hour before he worked up the nerve to put it on his keychain.

Time passed in fragile, unsteady weeks.

He helped around the apartment—washed dishes, cleaned windows, tried to make himself useful in small, quiet ways that wouldn’t make him feel like a burden. Y/N never made him feel like one, but the weight lived in his bones anyway. He couldn’t help it.

Eventually, she helped him find another job. It wasn’t anything fancy—a delivery driver for a small company on the edge of town—but it paid enough for groceries and gave him something to do that didn’t involve pacing and self-hate. On the days when the cravings got too loud, he’d text her mid-shift and she’d send something back fast. A joke. A memory. A stupid meme. Something to tether him.

He told her once that her words were like sandbags during a flood. She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just hugged him.

Over time, their routines melted together.

He cooked when she worked late. She made playlists to help with his insomnia. They sat on the floor together on Sunday mornings, sorting laundry and talking about nothing in particular. She showed him old childhood photos once, laughing at her awful middle school haircut, and he caught himself smiling so hard it hurt. He hadn’t smiled like that in years.

They still went to meetings together. Sometimes he didn’t want to. Sometimes he said he was tired, or too anxious, or not in the mood. She never forced him. But she always asked if she could drive him anyway. And somehow, her presence always made it feel a little easier.

Bob started counting the days.

Not just his clean days—though he did that too, quietly, afraid of jinxing it—but the days with her. The ones where he woke up to the smell of her shampoo and the soft creak of her kitchen cabinet. The ones where they watched old movies on her laptop and fell asleep side-by-side on the couch, legs tangled like roots.

He didn’t call it love. Not yet. He didn’t think he was allowed to.

But he called it safe.

And for someone who had lived most of his life either chasing the high or drowning in the aftermath, safe felt like the rarest, most impossible thing in the world.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she was asleep and everything was still, he’d look at her—curled up on the edge of the bed, one hand under her cheek, breathing softly—and wonder what he’d done to deserve any of this. The softness. The safety. Her.

He didn’t know the answer.

But he hoped—desperately, silently—that whatever it was, he could hold onto it a little longer.

They both remembered that day. The moment it shifted—not with drama or confessions, not with a kiss or tears—but with something quieter. Softer. The kind of shift that feels like the slow blooming of spring after a long, bitter winter.

It was a Saturday.

The kind that starts already warm, with golden sunlight leaking through the windows before either of them stirred. Y/N had woken first, barefoot on the creaky floorboards, hair a sleepy mess, moving like someone who didn’t feel the need to rush. Bob followed soon after, drawn to the smell of coffee and the sound of toast popping up from the kitchen. It was simple. Easy. The kind of morning people write poems about—not because it was extraordinary, but because it was still.

They ate breakfast on the balcony. Two mismatched mugs. A chipped plate between them, loaded with scrambled eggs and strawberries, toast buttered to the corners like she always did. The city murmured beneath them—distant laughter, someone walking their dog, a child shrieking joyfully two stories below. A car honked, then another. Life rolled on steadily, like background music.

Y/N was leaned back in her chair, her legs tucked under her, head tilted back with her eyes closed. Her face was bathed in sunlight, and for a moment she looked untouchable. Serene in a way Bob had never known serenity. Her lips were slightly parted, like she’d forgotten the world and was letting the sun warm all the parts of her she usually kept hidden.

Bob watched her. Not like he meant to. Not like he knew how to stop.

She was beautiful, yes. He always thought that. But there was something else about her in that moment. Something real. Not the kind of beauty that came from makeup or a pretty dress, but the kind that came from surviving. From healing. From being the kind of person who made a broken man feel safe again.

He sipped his coffee, trying to distract himself from the way his chest ached.

“This is nice,” he said quietly, more to the air than to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt… this peaceful before.”

Y/N hummed, the sound low and soft in her throat. Her eyes stayed closed. She didn’t need to see him to hear the weight in his voice. She knew what peace meant for someone like him—someone whose mind often felt like a battlefield.

“I like Saturdays,” she said simply. “It’s the only day people slow down.”

He looked at her, then. Really looked.

There was sunlight tangled in her lashes. A faint smile resting on her lips. Her skin glowing in that effortless way it always did when she didn’t care how she looked. She was… real. Right in front of him, not some dream or distant kindness, but here. Tangible.

She opened her eyes slowly, as if she’d felt his gaze. And when she looked back at him, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t fleeting.

It was deliberate.

Like she was seeing him all over again.

Her expression shifted, just slightly—softening at the edges. And in a movement so smooth, so casual and intimate it stole his breath, she reached across the table and took his hand.

Not forcefully. Not nervously.

She simply lifted it and placed it gently on her lap. Her other hand settled on top of his, warm and still. Then, like nothing had changed, she tilted her head back again, letting the sun hit her face as if nothing in the world was worth worrying about.

Bob didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His heart was beating so loudly he was sure she could hear it through his ribs. His hand, resting in hers, felt clumsy and awkward, like it didn’t know what to do with the sudden weight of tenderness. Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles, and that tiny movement nearly undid him.

He looked at her again.

And God, she looked peaceful.

His eyes traced every detail of her face—the soft curve of her mouth, the sunlight catching on the fine strands of her hair, the faint crease between her brows that never quite disappeared, even when she was relaxed. She was everything. She had been everything, and now she was here, holding his hand like it was nothing.

Like it was normal.

And something inside him cracked—not painfully, but openly. Like a locked door finally swinging inward. He felt it happen. Felt the ache in his chest rearrange itself into something terrifying and warm and real.

He was in love with her.

Not in the loud, desperate way he’d felt about people before. Not in the chasing-highs, clinging-to-anything kind of love. This was different. This was the kind of love that crept in when you weren’t looking. That grew roots under your skin while you were busy surviving.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

But that silence was full of things. Full of knowing.

The sunlight stretched across their hands, warm and gold. The sound of life continued beneath them—cars, people, wind through leaves. But none of it mattered. Not really.

Because in that stillness, with her thumb brushing his skin and his heart thudding in his chest, Bob realized what had changed.

--

Being in love with someone you know isn’t yours wasn’t just painful—it was paralyzing.

Bob never made a move. Not once. But neither did she.

They both danced in that unspoken space between friendship and something more, circling around each other like they were afraid to touch the glass. A look held just a second too long. A brush of fingers that lingered. Long walks in silence that said too much, and late-night conversations that always stopped just short of the truth. The kind of closeness that felt like a secret.

Y/N wasn’t dumb. She felt it. She saw it—in the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking, in the way his voice softened when he said her name. She wasn’t imagining the weight in the air when he sat too close, or how her heart quickened when his hand brushed hers and he didn’t pull away.

She wanted him.

God, she wanted him. And maybe it wasn’t logical or safe or even the right time—but love never listened to reason.

So she planned something.

Just for him.

She spent days thinking about it—what she would cook, what she would wear, how she would decorate the table, how she would finally, finally tell him. Not in some dramatic, tear-filled moment. Not with trembling hands or grand speeches. Just something real. Something warm and quiet, like the way they’d grown close in the first place.

He liked lasagna. She remembered him saying it once, half-laughing over some bland cafeteria food, admitting it was the only thing his mom ever made that felt like home. So she made it from scratch. Spent hours on it, hands dusted in flour and cheeks flushed from leaning over the oven. She lit candles—real ones, not the battery-powered kind—and strung up warm lights in the kitchen so everything looked golden and soft. A single bottle of white wine sat in a bucket of ice—because he never liked red, said it was “too bitter, like medicine.”

She even made a cake. Small and simple, chocolate with vanilla icing, and piped onto the top in slightly messy, trembling letters were three words she’d rehearsed a thousand times but never said: I love you.

The clock ticked.

6 p.m. came and went.

Then 6:15.

7:00.

She didn’t panic at first. Maybe he lost track of time. Maybe he was caught up in something. Maybe he was just being Bob—flighty and quiet and a little scattered when his mind took over.

But then 8:30 arrived. The lasagna was cold. The wine sweat into the tablecloth. The cake sat untouched, the words slowly blurring as the icing melted in the heat of the flickering candles.

She stared at her phone.

No texts.

No missed calls.

No excuses.

Something in her chest started to turn. That creeping kind of worry that starts in the stomach and climbs. Maybe something happened. Maybe he got hurt. Maybe he was using again. Maybe he was lying somewhere in a hospital bed or curled up in some alley trying to remember his name. Maybe he was dead.

Her mind spiraled.

She grabbed her phone again—called this time. Straight to voicemail. Again. Again. Again. Each unanswered ring was like a punch to the ribs.

By 10 p.m., the worry became something else. Something sharp. She stood there in her kitchen, surrounded by the dinner she made in his name, and felt something in her begin to crack. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She told herself maybe he’d show up. Maybe he’d knock on the door, stammering and apologizing, saying he got caught somewhere or panicked or forgot—but that he cared. That he wanted to be here.

But it never came.

And when the candles began to flicker low, and the silence got too loud, she finally gave up.

She made her way toward her room to grab a jacket—planning to go out and look for him, even if it meant driving through every alley and knocking on every shelter door. Her heart was a thunderstorm in her chest. Her thoughts screaming. She just wanted to see him. To know.

Then she saw it.

Sitting there on her bed.

A piece of paper—ripped from one of the journals he used to scribble in when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Her name wasn’t on it. There was no date. But the moment she saw it, she knew.

She walked over slowly, her hands shaking before she even touched the paper.

It wasn’t long. Just one sentence, scribbled in a hurried hand that barely looked like his.

You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry.

That was it.

No explanation. No goodbye. Just a wound left open on her bedspread, in the space where she had once dreamed of him waking up beside her.

The paper fell from her hand.

And then she cried.

Not the pretty kind of crying. Not the kind with delicate tears and soft sobs. It was the ugly kind—the kind that split her open from the inside, pulled a scream from her throat that she buried into her palms because she couldn’t let the neighbors hear. She sank to her knees on the floor, arms wrapped around herself like it was the only thing keeping her together.

He was gone.

And the worst part wasn’t even that he left.

It was that he believed she didn’t deserve him. That he couldn’t let her love him. That he thought the best gift he could give her was his absence.

And she would’ve taken him broken. She wanted him broken. She loved him broken. But he never gave her the chance.

The lasagna sat untouched.

The wine lost its chill.

The cake slowly collapsed under the weight of the words she never got to say.

And Y/N, alone in a house full of candlelight and cold food, sat in the ruins of the future she tried to give them.

Losing Bob didn’t feel like a heartbreak.

It felt like death.

A quiet kind of death. The kind that doesn’t come with sirens or funerals, just silence. A sudden stillness in her chest, like her heart stopped beating the moment he left, and never remembered how to start again.

At first, she tried to be strong. She told herself that she was used to pain. She'd survived worse. She’d crawled out of hell once before—out of abuse, betrayal, withdrawal, shaking in cold sweats on cheap apartment floors. She had survived so many versions of herself that died in the dark.

She told herself she could survive this too.

But it didn’t take long to realize that she hadn’t just loved Bob.

She had fallen for him. Tripped and tumbled and crashed headfirst into something raw and consuming and real. She hadn’t seen it coming—not in the quiet mornings on her balcony, not in the way he said her name, not in the long, wordless car rides. But somewhere between those moments, it had happened.

And when he disappeared, it felt like someone had torn out a part of her and left a bleeding hole in its place.

She tried not to spiral. God, she tried.

She went to her meetings. She smiled when her sponsor checked in. She told her friends she was fine, that she was just tired, just busy, just needing space.

But every time she walked down the street, she looked. Every alley. Every shelter. Every bench with someone sleeping under a thin blanket. Every set of shoulders hunched low, every man with blond hair or slumped posture. Her eyes scanned faces like a prayer, like maybe he would just appear, just be there, as if the universe could feel how much she needed him to still exist in it.

Every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt. And every time it wasn’t him, it sank deeper. And deeper.

Nights were worse.

She’d sit in the same kitchen where she once set out candles and wine and cake and a stupid little lasagna, and she’d stare at the empty chair across from her and ache. Ache in places that weren’t physical. Ache in memories that hadn’t even had a chance to happen. Her mind filled in the blanks—what he might’ve said if he’d shown up, how he would’ve looked smiling across the table, how his hand would’ve felt in hers if he let himself stay.

But he didn’t stay.

He left.

And with that single note, he shattered her belief in being enough. In being someone worth staying for.

The worst part? She didn’t even blame him.

She knew what it was like to feel like poison. To believe that your presence only infected the people who cared. Bob had been fragile, so delicate in his guilt and fear. He wore shame like skin, like every good thing that touched him was going to rot from the inside out.

But even knowing that didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t stop the nightmares. It didn’t stop the longing.

And longing—it’s dangerous.

It’s quiet at first. A whisper in the back of your mind. A thought you tell yourself to shake off: Where is he now?

But it grows. It grows until it becomes obsession. Until your fingers start to shake when you see a syringe in a movie. Until your throat tightens when someone says the word “meth” at a meeting and you think of his face. Until your mind starts to scream just to feel anything again, because loving him was something, and now you feel nothing.

She lasted three weeks.

Three weeks of pretending.

Three weeks of smiling and lying and checking her phone like it might still save her.

And then she relapsed.

She didn’t remember making the choice—not really. It wasn’t a grand decision. It was a moment. A crack in the armor. A single bad night where the world felt too quiet and her heart felt too loud and she thought: Just once. Just something to make this stop.

But addiction doesn’t take “just once” as an answer.

It came back like a flood. Like it had been waiting for her, just behind the door, and the second she opened it, it crashed over her and pulled her under.

And with the high came the silence.

And the shame.

And the slow realization that she had lost not only Bob, but herself.

She started canceling meetings. Ignoring friends. Skipping work until her job sent a warning email. She stayed in bed until the afternoon, curtains drawn, phone face-down on the nightstand. She hated herself. She hated the weakness. She hated that all it took was love—just love—to unravel everything she’d worked so hard to rebuild.

She’d told herself she didn’t need anyone.

She had her life together.

She had her own apartment, a good job, sobriety, control.

And she lost it all for him.

And still, even as the drugs blurred her mind and numbed her pain, she found herself crying in the middle of it. Crying for the way he said her name. Crying for the way he looked at her that last morning on the balcony, when the sun lit his face and his hand sat warm in hers. Crying because maybe, just maybe, he had loved her too.

But she would never know.

Because he was gone.

And she was no longer strong.

And the cocaine didn’t fill the hole. It just made it harder to breathe around it.

She thought she was better than this.

She thought love couldn’t break her.

But it did.

And now she was just another ghost of herself, whispering “I love you” to an empty bed, and trying to remember who she was before she let someone in.

--

Bob had imagined this moment a thousand times.

He’d practiced what he would say on flights, in mirrors, in the shower, in dreams. He’d imagined her face when she saw him again—maybe surprised, maybe angry, maybe even relieved. But never this.

He stood at her door with a sick feeling in his chest. Four months. Four months of silence, four months of guilt rotting him from the inside out. Every day, he woke up with her name in his mouth. He should’ve stayed. God, he should’ve stayed.

When the door finally opened, Bob braced himself.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for her.

Y/N stood there like a shadow of the girl he left behind.

So thin—painfully thin, her cheekbones sharp, collarbones jutting out beneath a baggy shirt that hung off her frame like a flag of surrender. Her skin had lost its glow, pale and dull, with purple rings under her eyes like bruises of exhaustion and grief. Her hair was a tangled mess, thrown up haphazardly like she hadn’t touched it in days. The light in her eyes—the one that used to make him feel human again—was gone. Just hollow, glassy, and so very tired.

And her apartment… it was chaos.

Pill bottles on the table. Empty glasses. Dishes unwashed in the sink. Blinds closed tight against the sun. It smelled like stillness and sleep and stale air. Like a place where nothing lived, only lingered.

He stepped back like her pain had hit him physically.

“Y/N…” he whispered, stunned, his voice cracking on her name.

She blinked at him like she didn’t believe he was real. Her mouth parted slightly, chest rising and falling as if she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then her lip trembled. And she began to cry.

Not soft, cinematic tears. But ugly, shattering sobs. Her whole body shook as she clutched the door frame for balance, the sound ripping out of her like it had been waiting—building—for months. A scream with no voice.

“Don’t—don’t look at me,” she whispered between sobs, covering her face. “Please don’t look at me like this…”

He stepped forward instinctively. “Hey—no, no—Y/N, please—”

But she flinched, not away from him, but from herself. Her shame was a weight, choking her, burying her. “I—I was doing so well, Bob. I had it under control,” she choked out. “I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you that I loved you, and that I believed in you, and you left—and I—I thought you died—I thought you were dead or you hated me—”

“I didn’t hate you,” Bob interrupted, tears filling his own eyes now, voice hoarse. “I never hated you. I hated myself.”

She looked up at him finally, really looked at him—his cleaner face, clearer eyes, steadier hands. And then came another wave of tears. She sank down right there on the floor, knees to her chest, sobbing into her arms. “I relapsed,” she confessed in a broken whisper. “I fell apart without you. And I hate that. I hate that I needed you so badly. I hate how weak I am.”

Bob dropped to his knees in front of her, overwhelmed by the wreckage—wreckage he caused. He touched her face with trembling hands, wiping the tears as they kept falling. “You’re not weak,” he said. “You’re not.”

She shook her head. “I was strong. Before you. Before I—before I loved you.”

Bob’s heart cracked wide open.

“I thought I had everything,” she went on, broken and breathless. “I thought I didn’t need anything else. And then you walked into that stupid meeting, and I felt something. And I didn’t know how fast it could all fall apart. How fast I could fall apart.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bob whispered. “I thought I was protecting you. I thought walking away would stop me from ruining your life. I didn’t realize I already had.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her like he never wanted to let go again. Her body was small against him, fragile, shaking with all the tears that never had a place to go until now.

“I’m clean,” he said against her hair. “I did it. I got better. I wanted to be better. For me. But also for you. Because I knew that if I ever came back, I wanted to stand in front of you and say it honestly. That I fought through it. That I made it.”

Her hands clung to the fabric of his jacket like a lifeline.

“I don’t care,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t care that you left. I just wanted to know you were okay. I looked for you. For months. Every street corner. Every man with your exact same hair. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped—God, I hoped—”

Bob kissed the top of her head. “I should’ve come back sooner. I’m so sorry.”

She cried harder, but her arms wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, like even if she couldn’t forgive him yet, she couldn’t bear to let him go again.

He sat there with her, on the floor of the life she’d been drowning in. And he didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t offer empty promises. He just held her. Held her and cried with her and let the silence between them say all the things they couldn’t yet.

--

He didn’t wait.

The moment he had her in his arms—shaking, thin, breaking—Bob couldn’t hold it back anymore. The words came in a rush, tumbling out between gulps of breath and trembling hands. He told her everything.

About Malaysia. About how he ran, numb and wild, not knowing where he was going, only knowing that he had to disappear before he destroyed her too. About the facility, the experimentation, the people who found him, used him, saved him, controlled him. About what they made him—what he became.

She listened with wide, disbelieving eyes as he spoke of strength he never asked for, powers that tore at his mind, a glowing blue rage that lived inside him like a second heartbeat. The violence. The void. The silence that followed every mission.

“I’m not… just Bob anymore,” he whispered, forehead pressed against hers, voice cracking. “They call me something else now. Sentry. Some hero with power that terrifies the people who made me. But I still feel like me… like the junkie who walked into that meeting room trying not to die. I still feel like the man who forgot how to breathe until you looked at him.”

She stared at him, dazed, her fingers tightening on the sleeves of his coat. Her thoughts were spiraling—circling like vultures around her mind. He was back. And not just back—transformed. Elevated. Resurrected in some impossible way.

The man she loved walked out broken and came back untouchable.

And she was still here. Still small and wrecked and ashamed and relapsed. Her chest felt tight. She didn’t know whether to fall to her knees in worship or scream. Her sobs returned—not because of what he said, but because of what it meant.

“You’re a hero,” she whispered, voice thin and hollow. “And I’m nothing. I couldn’t even make it four months without you. I—” Her voice cracked. “I was doing so good, and I lost it. You went and fought demons, and I couldn’t even fight a line of powder.”

Bob shook his head violently. “Don’t do that. Don’t.”

“It’s true.”

“No,” he whispered. “No, Y/N. You don’t get to erase everything you were to me. You saved me. You gave me a bed when I was sleeping on floors. You made me my favorite meals. You held my hand when I thought I didn’t deserve to be touched.”

His eyes burned.

“And you never asked me to be anything other than a man trying his best. Why would I ask you for more than that now?”

She bit her lip so hard it bled. The tears kept falling. Her voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “But now you’re strong. And good. And whole.”

Bob laughed—choked, broken. “I’m not whole,” he said, almost angry. “Jesus, Y/N, I’m barely keeping it together. I might be glowing and flying and doing missions, but none of it makes sense without you. I still wake up in cold sweats. I still hear the cravings sometimes. I still see your face in every crowd. I still talk to you when I’m alone.”

She looked at him like she couldn’t believe it.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he breathed. “And when I saw you tonight, when I saw what happened… I realized I downplayed my place in your life. I thought I was the weak one. But we needed each other. We need each other.”

Her body was trembling again, shaking like something inside her was coming undone.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry me,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be your burden now.”

“You were never a burden.”

“But I am now—”

“No, you’re mine.”

He reached for her hand, placed it on his chest, where his heart was beating wildly.

“You gave me your love when I couldn’t even love myself. Now it’s my turn. Let me take care of you. Let me remind you how strong you are. Let me fight with you.”

She collapsed into him, arms tight around his torso, sobbing against his chest. Not just for him. Not just for herself. For all the time they lost. For the cake that went cold on the table. For the lasagna uneaten. For the mornings he didn’t see her basking in the sun. For the way love didn’t save either of them—but could now.

He didn’t ask her to stand. He didn’t demand anything.

He just held her.

Kneeling in the wreckage of her life, in the ashes of their broken time, holding her like she was still precious—still whole—even if she didn’t believe it yet.

“I’m here,” he whispered into her hair. “And I’m not leaving again.”

--

He didn’t give her much time to argue. Not when he saw the way her hands still shook. Not when he found the stash she didn’t even remember hiding behind her bookshelf. Not when he saw how she cried in the middle of the night—not from pain, but from absence. Her own. The absence of herself. The one she used to be.

So he asked her to come with him.

Live with him temporarily. Stay in the Watchtower, up in the sky, far away from the street corners and bathrooms and apartment ghosts that called her back every time she blinked too long.

He told her he wanted to keep her close until she was ready to find her own place in New York again. That it wasn’t forever—just until she could feel safe breathing again.

And she said yes.

Not because she believed in herself. But because she believed in him.

At first, it felt like a fever dream.

The Watchtower wasn’t made for someone like her. It was too sterile, too futuristic. Glass walls, strange lights, the hum of technology and power beneath every floor tile. But Bob was there. That’s what mattered.

She became seriously co-dependent—something she’d once told herself she would never allow again. But it wasn’t like with her ex. It wasn’t fear that tied her to Bob. It was need. It was how he looked at her and didn’t flinch. How he made coffee exactly the way she liked it without asking. How he stood in front of her when her hands curled into fists and her chest threatened to explode from the phantom need for a high.

Bob was her gravity.

He found her a job—one she didn’t even apply to. He pulled strings with Valentina, she didn’t know he had. A quiet, well-paying assistant position with flexible hours and no questions asked. The kind of job you only get when someone with serious power wants you to heal.

She hated how easy he made it. How the roles reversed.

At first.

She hated how he caught her when she was falling apart and didn’t scold her. Didn’t tell her to be strong. Just held her, even when she screamed. Even when she tried to hit him. Even when she told him she hated herself, hated this, hated how her body still wanted it. Hated how her blood still sang at night.

He’d just put his forehead to hers and whisper, “I know. I know. I know.”

Free time was dangerous. It always had been.

So Bob made sure she rarely had it. If she wasn’t working, he’d find ways to fill the hours. He’d drag her to the gym, even if she only sat on the mat and watched him lift. He took her on quiet walks above the clouds in the Watchtower, showed her the world from a view few people ever saw.

When the sun rose above Manhattan and she stood next to him with tired eyes, he’d whisper, “We’re still here. That’s a win.”

Some days were okay. Some days they even laughed.

Some days she forgot the weight in her bones and remembered what it felt like to be alive. On those days, she’d smile in the mirror and wonder if it was the beginning of something. But it was always followed by a crash.

And when the crash came, she’d scream at herself.

Because she still wanted it. Still ached for the cold powder and sharp sting. And what kind of monster misses the very thing that ruined her?

But Bob didn’t let her spiral alone.

He knew. He knew.

He’d pull her into his lap, even when she pushed him away. He’d wrap her in a blanket and play music she liked, or just sit in silence and let her sob against his chest. He didn’t fix her—he stayed. Which meant more than anything.

And she started leaning on the others, too.

Turns out, the team—misfits and freaks and weapons, all of them—was good for her.

Yelena would sometimes drop by the tower and plop on the couch with popcorn and zero small talk. “Let’s watch something bloody,” she’d say. “Nothing romantic. Romance is a scam.”

Alexei told awful dad jokes and made her soup when Bob was away, pulled against his will from her by Valentina. She didn’t ask what was in the soup. She didn’t want to know.

Even Walker, gruff and distant, once gave her a protein bar and said, “You look like shit. Eat something.”

Strangely, it meant the world.

But she still struggled.

She still felt like she didn’t belong in the sky, didn’t belong next to someone who glowed when angry, who people whispered about like a god.

And Bob would catch her staring sometimes. He’d take her hand and press it to his chest.

“You got me sober,” he’d remind her.

“You weren't when you left, it wasn't me, and I’m not even one week sober yet.”

“You will be.”

She’d cry again, every time.

Because maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

--

She felt herself becoming better.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no fireworks, no moment where the clouds suddenly parted and she woke up healed.

It was slow. Raw. Grueling.

It was the kind of better that came with shaking hands and silent sobs in the shower. The kind of better that meant she didn’t throw up every morning from withdrawal anymore, but still woke up screaming from the dreams. The kind of better that looked like finally holding down breakfast, or laughing once during a dumb movie Bob put on just to see her smile.

There were still days—horrible days.

Days where she’d stare at the sky through the Watchtower windows and think I can’t do this anymore.

Days where her chest tightened and her fingers itched and every molecule of her blood screamed for one more hit, one more line, one more second of peace—even if it meant death.

And those were the nights Bob found her on the floor of the hallway, her knees to her chest, whispering things like:

“I ruined everything.” “I should’ve died months ago.” “You shouldn’t have come back for me.”

And Bob—quiet, patient Bob—would always get down next to her. He didn’t always say the right things. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. He just held her. Let her break. Let her be broken, without judgment.

“I’m here,” he’d murmur into her hair, voice shaking. “Even if you can’t love yourself right now, I do. I’m not leaving.”

He made it impossible to relapse.

Not just by removing access—though he did that, completely. The Watchtower had no hidden corners. No dealers. No temptation. He even kept her medication locked, except for what she needed. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because she asked him to. Because she couldn’t trust herself yet.

But more than that—he made it impossible because he gave her reasons to stay.

Every time she got through a hard day, Bob celebrated it like a victory. Every tiny step—making the bed, going to work, brushing her hair—he noticed. He noticed, and that made her want to try again. Want to show up again.

And after months of darkness, she was finally starting to believe in something again.

Believe in him.

Believe in herself.

That’s when she started planning.

It had to be perfect.

Because the first time—when she tried to confess, with the candles and lasagna and wine and the cake that said I love you—he never showed. She’d found a letter instead. Four words that shattered her: You don’t deserve this.

And now, months later, after everything they’d been through, she still remembered the ache of that night. The humiliation of sitting in a chair for hours, watching the lasagna go cold. The cake untouched. The lights flickering softly over an empty table.

But she also remembered how it hadn’t ended there. How he came back.

So this time, she wasn’t afraid.

She asked the team first. Told them the truth—well, most of it. She asked if she and Bob could have a room in the tower for the evening. Just a few hours. A quiet space, uninterrupted. “I want to do something for him,” she’d said. “Something honest.”

Yelena had raised an eyebrow and said nothing—but handed her a lighter for the candles. “Don’t burn the place down.”

Alexei had beamed like a proud uncle and muttered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like “About time.”

Even Walker gave her a dry nod and cleared the space without question.

No one said no.

She remade it all.

The lights, soft and golden. Candles flickering across the shelves and windows. The air smelled like rosemary, garlic, and hope. Her old lasagna recipe—the one he always said was better than any five-star restaurant—bubbled in the oven. She found white wine again, because he didn’t like red, and she remembered everything. She even made the cake.

But not the same one.

This time, instead of “I love you,” it said in messy pink frosting:

“You came back. So did I.”

She set the table. Two plates. Two glasses. The weight of it all hanging in the air like a heartbeat.

She wasn’t wearing anything fancy. Just a soft, simple sweater he once said made her look peaceful. Her hair still damp from the shower, cheeks flushed from nervous energy.

She wasn’t the woman she used to be.

But she was here. She was trying. And that had to count for something.

When Bob walked in, he stopped cold in the doorway.

He looked at her.

Not just with surprise.

But with everything.

With four months of absence. With every regret he carried like an anchor in his chest. With all the love he never said out loud and all the apologies he had whispered to himself in the dark.

“You... did all this?” he asked softly.

She nodded, heart thudding.

“I know it’s not perfect. But—” her voice cracked, “—I’ve been thinking about this since the day you left. And I never got to say it. Not really. But I love you. I still love you. Even after everything. Even now.”

Bob looked at her like she was the only thing left keeping him alive.

Then he walked forward—slowly, carefully—and cupped her face in his hands.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered. “And I promise… I’m not leaving again.”

--

The movie flickered on the screen in front of them, but neither of them was really watching.

Bob sat propped up against the headboard, a soft grey t-shirt clinging loosely to his chest, a pair of worn joggers sitting low on his hips. Y/N was curled into his side, one of his old hoodies hanging off her frame, sleeves too long, hair tucked messily behind one ear. The room was dim, bathed in the gentle glow of the screen and the golden spill of the hallway light leaking under the door.

Blankets were tangled around them, warm and grounding. Bob’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, his hand resting calmly against her ribcage, feeling every quiet breath she took. Her head was nestled beneath his chin, the smell of her shampoo—lavender, faint but familiar—lingering between them.

They had finished the lasagna hours ago. Cleaned up the dishes while teasing each other about who burned the garlic bread (it was him). Shared cake and laughter, both of which came softer now, tentative, but real. It felt like something out of another life. Something they thought they’d lost for good.

A promise once made in a kitchen full of hope was finally being fulfilled—in the silence of a bedroom, in the safety of arms that didn’t let go.

Bob had waited years for something like this. Years for this kind of peace. For the slow, steady heartbeat of someone trusting him enough to fall asleep against his chest. For a night that didn’t end in pain or running. For a girl like her to look at him and still choose him, even after seeing all of him—torn, addicted, lost.

He hadn't expected what came next.

Y/N shifted beside him, pulling back from the cradle of his chest to look at him. Really look at him.

Her hand came up to his cheek, cradling it. Her thumb brushed against his stubble, her eyes searching his like she was memorizing him all over again.

“Y/N?” he asked, voice hushed, as if afraid he’d scare her off.

But she didn’t answer.

Instead, she leaned forward—and kissed him.

Soft at first. Gentle. Almost like a question. A breath between them, mouths barely touching, her lips tasting of frosting and fear.

Then she kissed him again—harder.

And Bob felt his whole body shudder.

It was everything he had ever wanted. Every quiet longing. Every moment he’d spent staring at her when she wasn’t looking. Every time he’d held her hand and wished it meant something more. Every night she cried in his arms and he ached to tell her how much he loved her but didn’t dare ruin what little they had.

And now—here she was.

Kissing him like she knew what he meant to her. Like he was more than her sponsor, more than a friend, more than a haunted past. Like he was hers.

Bob didn’t waste a second.

He kissed her back.

One arm curled around her waist, the other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her impossibly close. Her body pressed against his, warm and trembling. Her breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, years of restraint melting into a single desperate moment.

She gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss, only to whisper against his lips:

“I love you, Bob.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t even try to hide them.

“I love you so much,” she choked, fingers still on his cheeks. “And I don’t care what happens next. I just needed you to know. You saved me. You saved my life.”

Bob’s hands trembled as he pulled her back into him, wrapping her up in his arms like he could shield her from every wound she still carried.

“No,” he murmured into her shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved me. You remember what I was? I didn’t think I had anything left to live for until I met you. You gave me hope again. You made me fight.”

She pulled back, her eyes locked with his—wet and red and devastatingly alive.

“I almost gave up,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “When you left... I was already holding on by threads. And then you were gone and I thought I’d imagined the whole thing. I thought I wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

He shook his head furiously, his own eyes shining now.

“I didn’t leave because of you,” he said. “I left because I didn’t think I deserved you. I was still so fucked up, still using, and you were everything pure and kind in my world. I thought if I left, maybe you’d find someone better. Someone whole.”

“I didn’t want someone whole,” she said. “I wanted you.”

Their breath lingered in the space between them, shallow and soft—like a secret.

Y/N could still taste him on her lips, the echoes of their kiss reverberating through her chest. Bob hadn’t moved far from her. His hands were still cradling her waist, his forehead pressed gently to hers, and in that quiet lull between kisses, between confessions, she felt something fragile blooming—something terrifying and beautiful.

She kissed him again, this time slower. A sigh escaped her lips as her fingers slid up under the hem of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin. Bob leaned into her touch, his mouth meeting hers in deeper waves now, their hearts thundering in sync. And when she tugged at his hoodie—her hoodie, technically, the one she’d stolen weeks ago that still smelled faintly like him—he raised his arms without hesitation, letting her lift it over his head.

She pulled back, eyes trailing down his torso—and gasped quietly.

He had changed.

The gauntness she once knew was gone. In its place were strong arms, broad shoulders, and a chest sculpted with quiet power. His abs—defined, real—moved with every breath he took. His body told the story of someone who had survived, someone who had clawed his way back to life. It was strength built on pain, on discipline, on love.

“You...” she murmured, brushing her hand over his stomach, “you look so different.”

His hand reached for hers, gently interlacing their fingers. “I feel different,” he said. “I had to become someone I could live with again.”

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden twist in her chest.

Bob looked like he had been forged from fire—meanwhile, she still bore the ashes.

She bit her bottom lip, hesitating. Her arms, still hidden in her oversized hoodie, tightened slightly around herself. Though she had been clean for weeks, her body hadn’t yet caught up. Her cheeks were hollow. Her skin still looked too pale in certain light. Her clothes hung loose. She hadn’t gained back the weight. And standing there, across from someone who had reclaimed his life so completely, she suddenly felt small again.

She looked away.

But Bob noticed.

“Hey,” he said softly, cupping her face and turning her gaze back to him. “What’s going on?”

She hesitated. “I just... I’m not like you right now. You’re... strong. You got better. And I’m still—” Her voice cracked. “I still don’t like what I see.”

His brows furrowed, and for a second, something sharp flickered in his eyes—not anger at her, but heartbreak. He leaned in, kissing her forehead with reverence, then trailed his lips down to her cheek, and finally, her mouth.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Not the version of you you think you have to be. You’re not broken, Y/N. You’re surviving. And that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Tears threatened to rise, but she let them stay where they were. Bob’s hands slid down to the hem of her hoodie, hesitating.

“Can I?” he asked.

She nodded.

He lifted the hoodie slowly, carefully, as if he were unwrapping something precious. As it slipped over her head, she looked away, vulnerable, exposed.

But Bob didn’t let the silence linger. His eyes never wavered, never darted away. He took her in like she was a masterpiece.

“God,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

And then he kissed her collarbone. His lips warm, soft, trailing to her neck. His arms wrapped around her back as he pulled her into him, his body heat surrounding her, grounding her. His mouth brushed the spot behind her ear, her shoulder, her jaw.

“You don’t have to hide anymore,” he whispered.

She let her hands rest on his back, feeling the firmness of his muscles, the warmth of his skin. He was solid. Steady. And she was safe.

As they undressed the rest of the way—slowly, reverently—there was no rush, no hunger born from lust. Only devotion. Only the aching need to be close, to feel what they had both feared they’d lost.

Bob’s hands never stopped reassuring her, tracing her spine, cradling her face, holding her as if she were made of gold. His voice was a balm, murmuring soft truths against her lips, over her chest, along her ribs, keeping his thrusts steady and soft, almost afraid to hurt her.

“You’re perfect.”

“I love you.”

“You saved me.”

And somewhere between those whispers and the heat of skin on skin, she stopped trembling. She let herself feel his hands without shrinking from them. Let herself be kissed without fear. Let herself be loved.

Because she did love him.

And he loved her.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

They made love quietly, sweetly, like two people who knew what it meant to lose everything—and were finally brave enough to take it back.

They stayed tangled beneath the blankets. Y/N rested her head on Bob’s chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart—steady, strong, unwavering. His fingers traced gentle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing syncing with hers.

Neither of them said much.

They didn’t need to.

[emeraldserenade]

Heart Glasses ~ Robert "Bob" Floyd

synopsis: You meet your husband's new squadron one by one, all without them knowing who you truly were

tw: fem!reader, reader wears glasses, reader's mom's maiden name is Hearts, Bob's from Montana, suggestive, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

This was purely because I've been getting more strangers complimenting my heart shaped glasses

➽──────────────❥

Robert Floyd was a private person, everyone who meets him can attest to it. But, the one thing he could never keep quiet about, was his wife. The very same wife who the Dagger Squad had never met and had never seen a photo of.

"Are we even sure baby on board even has a wife?" Jake, stupidly, asked. The others ignored him, Bob wasn't one to lie and they've all seen the ring and heard the one sided phone calls.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

It was Natasha that met you first, you were in the same store as her and she had spotted your glasses from farther away.

"Hi, I just wanted to tell you that I love your glasses," Natasha said as she walked up, you smiled over at her.

"Oh, thank you! My husband got them for me because my mom's maiden name is Hearts," you told her. You noticed her uniform before speaking next, "Are you Navy?"

"I am," she told you, then recited her callsign. You smiled at her, told her that was a cooler call sign, and then you two said your goodbyes before leaving. As you walked away, you realized that had to be the Phoenix your husband was back seating for.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You met Bradley next, your dad was also an enjoyer of Hawaiian shirts and his birthday was coming up. You saw a man walking around the same store you were in holding the perfect one for your father.

"Hi, I'm sorry to bother you, but where did you find that shirt?" You questioned the taller stranger.

"Oh, back there," Bradley pointed behind him snd your eyes caught sight of the shirt.

"Thank you!" You told him, racing off with a muted goodbye.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Bradley and Natasha figured out their stranger interactions had been the same person at the Hard Deck a few days later.

"I ran into the woman who asked where I found this shirt at the mall the other day," Bradley told the group. "She had these heart glasses and it was like her whole face lit up when I told her," Bradley said, he was lamenting the fact that he never asked if she was single.

"Wait," Natasha cut in. "Did she have a black purse with a butterfly attachment and y/h/c hair?" Natasha questioned. y/h/c = your hair color

"Yeah, how did you know?" Bradley questioned, his face scrunched in confusion.

"That's the woman I complimented on her glasses! She's married, her husband got her glasses for her," Natasha told Bradley, her face twisting into disgust at his earlier words of wanting to take her out.

"Damn, that's one lucky man then," Bradley mused, everyone missing the small grin growing on Bob's face. He had figured you were the one they were talking about.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Mickey was the next to meet you, he had recognized your description from the others and wanted to double check you were you. You were just walking to your car from work.

"Hi, this may sound weird but did you ask a taller man with a mustache about a Hawaiian shirt and get complimented on your glasses by a woman whose call sign is Phoenix?" Mickey rushed out before you could run away from the odd question.

"Oh, yeah, why?" You had subtly taken a step back from him.

"I'm in their squadron! They will never believe that I met you," Mickey pumped his fist in the air and you relaxed.

"Oh, well, hello," you laughed gently, your smile easy. "What do they call you?"

"Fanboy, but my name's Mickey, ma'am," he offered his hand and you shook it.

"Nice to meet you Mickey," you offered your name before walking away, you got in the car and let yourself laugh even harder. These were definitely the people from your husband's squadron.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Jake was next, he hit on you before you even looked at him.

"What's a darling lady like you doing alone?" Jake slid into your space, you were grocery shopping for breakfast while Bob slept in a bit.

"Mu husband's asleep," you told him, turning to face him.

"Wait, no way, you're the infamous y/n?" He perked up and you realized what was happening.

"Are you another from the group of people from the same squadron that I keep running into?" You questioned, a humorous smile growing on your face.

"I am, the name's Hangman," he offered his hand and you shook it.

"Well, I have no idea how many more of you there are," you lied. "But tell the others I'm excited to run into them as well," you bit him farewell while leaving, missing Jake pulling his phone out to text the Dagger Squad group.

Bagman: You'll never guess who I ran into Phoenix: Heart glasses y/n? Bagman: At the grocery store Rooster: You hit on her, didn't you? Fanboy: He most definitely did Phoenix: Did she bring up her husband? Bagman: She did Payback: I was supposed to meet her next! Coyote: I call next time

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You met Ruben next, much to Javy's dismay. You were at the gym and Ruben couldn't find his earbud case.

"Hi, sorry," Ruben automatically apologized when you slightly jumped. "I didn't mean to scare you, it's just that I was using this machine earlier and I can't find my earbud case. Have you seen one around here by chance?"

"Oh, is it blue?" You questioned, your glasses slowly falling down your face. It brought them to Ruben's attention and you saw him get excited.

"Yeah, it is, you wouldn't happen to be y/n, would you?"

"I am, are you apart of that Navy squadron?" You grabbed the blue earbud case you had seen under the machine earlier and handed it to him.

"That I am," he affirmed and you gave him a small smile. "Thanks for this," he lifted the case up just enough for you to see it.

"You're welcome,' you paused, waiting for his name.

"Payback or Ruben, ma'am," he told you and you nodded once. You two went your separate ways and as you left for the locker room, you texted your husband.

My Girl ❤️: I ran into another one of your friends My Cowboy 🤠 ❤️: Who was it? My Girl ❤️: Payback, he was nice. Called me ma'am and only approached me because he lost his earbud case My Cowboy 🤠 ❤️: You've got one left to meet My Girl ❤️: I know, they act like they're all meeting me. I'm meeting them My Girl ❤️: Also I'm very sweaty and it will be your problem when I get home. I'm going to be all over you My Cowboy 🤠 ❤️: I can't wait

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

The last to meet you was Javy, he saw you as you walked into the hangar. You were there to pick up Bob since you had to borrow his truck while your car was in the shop, and Javy recognized your description right away.

"Holy shit, you're y/n! I'm Coyote or Javy!" He practically shouted, causing many to look over at you. You were suddenly surrounded by the entire squadron, questions flying at you faster than you could process.

Your savior came in the form of your husband, as always. His hand wrapped around your wrist and gently pulled you to him, his hand slipping right to it's home on your waist. "Are you ok?" Bob lowly asked in your ear, you nodded with a bright smile on your face.

"Wait," Jake called out but his shock made him pause. "Your husband's baby on board?"

"Yeah, my husband's Bob," you told him, your eyes sharpening at the name Jake called him.

"How long have you known who we were?" Natasha asked.

"Since you, well, I didn't know who Bradley was until Bobby came home and told me. I'm sorry for never asking your name to properly thank you," you apologized to the man but he waved you off.

"I think that's ok, I did accidentally tell your husband how I was upset at myself for never asking you out," Bradley told you and you laughed at the feeling of Bob tightening his hold on you.

"He told me about that, while I appreciate two of you thinking I'm attractive, I am very happy in my marriage," you told them, it was enough to snap Jake out of his shock.

"How the hell did Bob bag you?" Jake exclaimed and you looked over at him again.

"He's got a huge," Bob cut you off with a tug away from the others.

"Ok, that's enough," your husband told you with ear tipped ears. You gave him a sweet smile as you heard the laughter from his squad. Bob led you away from them and out of the building and to the car. "You're going to pay for that," Bob told you as he started his truck, his hand landing on your thigh.

"I can't wait," you told him, your smile widening just a little bit more.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[bu3ck3r]

tied together – part 7

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

warning: sexual content

a/n: hi guys so sorry for this delay my finals are killing me but anyways this chapter is basically 9k words full of moments that have been happening between paige and azzi during the rest of college. enjoyy

tied together – masterlist

it was one of those sticky summer evenings in storrs where the heat still lingered, even after the sun had dropped behind the trees. the backyard of their off-campus house glowed with hanging string lights, a speaker tucked on the porch playing a low r&b playlist. someone had grilled earlier, the scent of sweet corn still hung in the air.

the uconn girls had taken over the space, lounging on blankets across the grass, plates balanced on their knees, cups of lemonade in hand. azzi was curled up on one of the big outdoor cushions, her bare legs tucked under her, laughing at something caroline had just said. her head tilted back, curls falling over her shoulder, eyes bright.

paige, sitting behind her on a low chair, leaned in and tucked a loose strand behind azzi’s ear. “that laugh right there,” she murmured just loud enough for azzi to hear, “is the reason i’m completely ruined.”

azzi shot her a look, cheeks flushed and smiling, trying not to melt completely on the spot. “you’re so dramatic.”

“nah, i’m so in love,” paige said with a wink, leaning forward to kiss her temple, not caring one bit that the team was watching—most of them pretending not to watch while watching everything.

kk whistled. “okay, we get it. you two are disgustingly in love. can someone pass me another lemonade before i throw mine at them?”

“you’re just mad you’re not invited to the azzi and paige lovefest,” ice said, tossing her a can.

“actually,” caroline added, grinning, “i think it’s kinda adorable. they’ve been like this since the season ended. like, 24/7.”

“they’re in their honeymoon phase,” nika muttered, but she was smiling too. “every time i come into the kitchen, one of them is sitting on the counter with their legs wrapped around the other.”

“liar,” azzi said, laughing now, covering her face. “she’s lying.”

“she is not lying,” paige said proudly. “i can confirm. excellent makeout spot, 10/10.”

that made everyone laugh, the kind of loud, contagious laughter that echoed into the evening. azzi threw a balled-up napkin at paige’s head. “can you not expose me for one second?”

“never,” paige said, catching the napkin and tossing it behind her. “not when you look this good.”

and she did, azzi was wearing one of paiges tshirts that barely covered her shorts, skin glowing from the heat and the warm light. paige couldn’t stop touching her, hand resting on her knee, thumb brushing slow circles on her thigh, just because she could. they stayed like that as the night stretched on, playing uno on the blanket, sharing stories, swatting away mosquitoes, paige stealing bites off azzi’s plate without asking. they didn’t need to be front and center all the time. they just liked being close. they gravitated toward each other like magnets, even when surrounded by the people they cared about.

later, when most of the team had drifted inside for dessert or showers, paige pulled azzi closer, both of them sitting on the porch step now, watching the lights blink lazily overhead.

“this has been a good summer,” paige said softly.

azzi leaned her head on paige’s shoulder. “the best. you know, i still can’t believe we’re here. i’m starting my sophomore year already, you’re starting your junior year. it feels like yesterday we were just…”

“barely talking,” paige finished, grinning.

azzi looked up at her. “thank god we figured it out.”

paige kissed her slow, right there on the porch with the scent of summer grass and grilled meat in the air. “i’d fight through every awkward month again if it meant ending up right here.”

“you’re getting soft on me,” azzi whispered against her lips.

“only for you,” paige said.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

it was almost midnight during paige’s junior year when she finally kicked off her sneakers and collapsed onto her dorm bed, the game still humming in her blood. her jersey was half on, half off, sweat-dried and wrinkled and her hair was a mess from the postgame media chaos. she didn’t care. all she wanted was one thing. her thumb hovered over azzi’s name, pink heart emoji saved beside it and then the screen filled with the dialing sound.

it took two rings.

azzi answered, already grinning, bare-faced and beautiful, wrapped in a soft hoodie with her curls pulled back into a loose bun. “hey, superstar.”

“you watched?”

“duh.” azzi’s voice was sleepy and warm. “i screamed every time you touched the ball. my whole suite probably thinks i’m insane.”

“they’d be right.” paige laughed, shifting the phone to prop it against her pillow. “you look cozy. can i teleport there?”

“please do. i made popcorn and everything.”

paige rolled onto her side, chin in hand. “i miss you so bad it’s ridiculous.”

azzi smiled, eyes softening. “i miss you more, baby.”

they didn’t say anything for a moment. just looked. azzi’s camera caught the glow of her lights behind her, soft yellow against her skin. paige’s screen flickered from the light of her desk lamp, shadows casting long across her tired face.

“you’re so pretty it makes me wanna cry,” azzi whispered.

paige snorted. “you’re just tired.”

“no,” azzi said, quiet but firm. “i mean it. i don’t think i’ve ever looked at someone the way i look at you.”

paige swallowed. “don’t do this to me right now.”

“what?”

“i’m already five seconds from crying. i had the longest day, and then you show up on my screen like that and say that shit?”

azzi smiled, eyes watery now too. “sorry. but also not sorry.”

“god, i just…” paige groaned into her pillow, “i want you here. i want to sleep next to you. i want to wake up next to you. i want to brush my teeth while you’re hogging the mirror. i want everything. it’s annoying how much i want you, princess.”

azzi’s laugh was soft and dizzy. “you sound so down bad.”

“i am down bad.”

“same.” azzi pulled the hoodie tighter around herself. “you’re my favorite person in the world.”

paige smiled, cheek pressed to the pillow. “i’m so in love with you it’s pathetic.”

“you’re not pathetic. you’re mine.”

that did it. paige blinked fast, one tear slipping out. “i can’t believe we get to love each other like this.”

“me neither.”

the screen glowed faint blue against azzi’s face, lighting up the quiet dark of her dorm room. she lay curled beneath a thick gray blanket, one leg kicked free from the heat, eyes fixed on her phone screen. paige’s face smiled back at her, all warmth and tired joy from her apartment hundreds of miles away.

“you ever think about how weird this is?” azzi whispered, her voice sleepy and dreamy. “like… we’re in two completely different places. but i still feel you.”

paige smirked, adjusting the pillow under her head. “baby, we’re like… mentally glued. spiritually attached. soul-knotted.”

“soul-knotted?” azzi giggled. “is that a new one?”

“yeah, i made it up. sounds deep, right?” paige grinned, her eyes crinkling.

azzi bit her lip. “you’re so annoying. i miss your stupid face.”

paige sat up a little, adjusting the camera so azzi could see more of her bare shoulders, messy tank top, sleep-tousled hair. “well here it is. admire away.”

“trust me, i’ve been admiring,” azzi said, eyes scanning the screen. “you’re hot. like, i’m literally in love with your collarbone.”

paige burst out laughing. “what?! my collarbone?”

“yeah. it’s so underrated. like look at that dip right there. stupid sexy.”

“you’re kind of insane, baby.”

“you love it.”

“i really do,” paige said, her tone softening. “i love how obsessed you are. i love that you call me at 1 a.m. just to stare at me like a weirdo.”

“you’re my weirdo,” azzi mumbled, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“you falling asleep on me again?” paige whispered.

“no,” azzi lied, clearly already fading. “i’m just… soaking in your voice. your face. everything. i feel better just hearing you.”

paige exhaled, slow and full of affection. “i’d hold you if i could.”

“i know. and when we’re done with this year, we’ll have each other all the time in the summer. no more screens.”

“yeah,” paige whispered. “i can’t wait.”

they lay like that for a while, screens between them, silence soft but full. azzi eventually started humming something under her breath, the same song she always played when they were in the car together. paige closed her eyes and just listened, breathing in rhythm with her.

“can you sleep with me on the phone?” azzi asked, voice slow now, melting into the moment.

“you don’t even have to ask beautiful,” paige said, already pulling the blanket up.

“leave the camera on.”

azzi set her phone beside her pillow, her face still barely visible in the shadows. “goodnight, p.”

“goodnight, az,” paige whispered. “dream about me.”

“i always do.”

the call didn’t end. the screen dimmed, soft light casting over both of them—two girls in love, in two different beds, but sharing the same quiet night.

and neither of them slept alone.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

after not seeing each other for two weeks, paige decided to visit azzi for a weekend before her senior year starts. the second azzi cracked open the door to her apartment, paige was already on her. she dropped her duffel bag with a dull thud and pulled azzi in, pressing her whole body close in a way that said she didn’t want even air to come between them.

“i missed you so bad,” paige breathed out, her lips brushing the sensitive skin under azzi’s ear. “like… every second we were apart felt like forever.”

azzi laughed, breath catching, and buried her face in paige’s neck. “same. you’re all i thought about.” she leaned back, eyes soft. “you smell so good.”

paige’s grin was crooked, the kind of smile that made azzi’s stomach flip. “shut up and kiss me.”

and she did. they kissed right there in the doorway, paige’s hands cradling azzi’s face, thumbs brushing her cheeks like she was memorizing every inch of her. azzi melted into it, let out a quiet sigh that said everything she didn’t have words for. they broke apart, breathless and grinning, foreheads resting together.

“come inside,” azzi whispered, voice warm. she grabbed paige’s hand, pulling her over the threshold.

the weekend slipped around them like a soft blanket. mornings were spent tangled in each other, sharing sleepy smiles over coffee. paige would steal sips from azzi’s mug and smirk when azzi scolded her, pressing kisses to her temple to make her forget she was annoyed.

“you’re such a menace,” azzi teased one morning, but the way her lips curved said she loved it.

“yeah,” paige said, eyes bright. “but i’m your menace.”

afternoons meant simple things: azzi in paige’s clothes, a hoodie that hung low on her hips, the sleeves falling over her hands. she made a show of twirling in the kitchen, teasing paige. “you like this? i might never give it back.”

“you look better in it than i do,” paige admitted, pulling azzi in by the hem of the hoodie and kissing her until they were both flushed and breathless.

they cooked together—or rather, azzi cooked while paige hovered behind her, lips pressing to her shoulder blades, hands warm on her waist. “this is domestic as hell,” paige said, low and teasing in her ear.

“you like it,” azzi said.

“i love it.”

at night, they curled up on the couch, azzi’s head resting on paige’s chest, the glow of a movie playing in the background neither of them really watched. paige’s fingers moved in lazy patterns on azzi’s shoulder, her heartbeat slow and steady.

“i love this,” azzi murmured.

“me too.” paige said, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

but the night that really carved itself into their hearts was the one on the balcony. after a long walk under the stars, the city humming low in the background, they sat on a blanket wrapped around their shoulders, the world hushed around them.

“i’ve been thinking,” paige said, voice soft, breaking the quiet. she twisted a loose thread in the blanket between her fingers. “about the future.”

azzi turned her head, the dim light catching the shine in her eyes. “yeah?”

“yeah.” paige swallowed, her thumb brushing over azzi’s knuckles, slow and deliberate. “i know the league’s coming soon. i know… it’s gonna be wild. but, az… i don’t care about any of it if i don’t have you.”

azzi’s breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “paige…”

“i mean it,” paige said, voice thick. “it’s always been you. since we were kids, since we first stepped on that court together. i want this, not just the basketball, not just the wins. i want you. no matter what.”

the weight of it pressed into the night air, thick and real. azzi blinked back the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“you know,” she said quietly, her fingers tightening around paige’s hand, “i used to wonder if we’d be able to handle it. all the distance, the schedules… but i don’t wonder anymore.” she leaned in closer, forehead against paige’s. “because i know we’re worth it. and i love you. no matter how far we are, no matter how crazy it gets.”

paige smiled, and it was the kind of smile that could light up the whole city. “promise?”

“promise,” azzi said, and sealed it with a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like certainty.

they stayed there, curled up in the chill night air, their whispered confessions weaving a spell around them. nothing else mattered, not the long months of travel, not the pressure of the next season. just them, two hearts so hopelessly tangled up in each other, both of them knowing they’d choose this love a thousand times over.

“you’re it for me, azzi,” paige whispered once more, lips brushing azzi’s ear. “i don’t care about the rest. as long as i get to come back to you, i’ll always be okay.

and azzi, smiling through tears, whispered it back: “same. always.”

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

it was almost 2 a.m. paige and azzi were in new york for some separate brand shoots so they decided to stay in an apartment together. azzi was still editing a brand deal reel on her laptop, cross-legged on the couch in one of paige’s old t-shirts. the light from the screen lit her face soft and pale.

paige walked in wearing just a hoodie and socks, hair wild from sleep, rubbing her eyes. “you still working?”

“just about done,” azzi said, not looking up. “i’m trying to cut this clip so i don’t look like a robot.”

paige grinned and flopped onto the couch beside her. “you could look like a duck waddling and you’d still be the hottest person alive.”

“wow. inspiring.”

“come to bed,” paige whispered, dragging a hand slowly up azzi’s bare thigh. “or i’ll carry you.”

“you won’t.”

“ight bet.”

she moved over azzi in a blur, laptop scooped up and set gently on the coffee table before paige pinned her down against the cushions with a smirk. “you asked for it.”

azzi laughed breathlessly, flushed and breath catching. “paige—”

but paige was already kissing her—slow, deep, her fingers trailing under azzi’s shirt like she was memorizing her. azzi’s hands curled in the back of paige’s hoodie as their laughter turned into gasps. they didn’t stop until the early light crept across the window and their limbs were tangled together under the throw blanket. skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat.

“don’t ever leave,” azzi mumbled, half-asleep.

“never,” paige whispered back.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

it started with a missed facetime.

paige was two hours late calling azzi back, something that didn’t usually happen, not without a heads-up, not without a reason. but tonight, everything felt heavy. she was drained from practice, her knee sore again, her mind fogged from back-to-back film and barely enough sleep.

azzi’s name lit up her screen as she finally sank into bed.

5 missed calls. 2 new texts.

are you okay?

paige?

guilt pressed in on her chest. she sighed and called back.

azzi picked up on the third ring. her face filled the screen, tired, eyes guarded. she was in her dorm room, hair pulled up, hoodie too big for her frame. she looked soft and serious, and it made paige’s stomach twist.

“hey,” paige said, trying to smile.

“hey,” azzi echoed, flat.

paige rubbed at her temple. “i’m sorry. today was a mess.”

azzi stayed quiet for a second. “you could’ve said that. a text. something.”

“i know. i just… forgot.” the moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them.

azzi’s eyebrows lifted, her voice cool. “you forgot?”

“az, i didn’t mean it like that. i meant i got overwhelmed.”

azzi looked away from the camera, the way she did when she was trying not to say something she’d regret. “you’ve been overwhelmed a lot lately.”

“since i’m a super senior people have a lot of expectations and it’s hard for me sometimes, you know that, baby.”

“i’m not asking you for hours of your day,” azzi said, her voice tight now. “just ten minutes. one call. some kind of sign that i still matter even when you’re buried in all of it.”

that hit paige harder than she expected. “of course you matter, what are you even saying?”

“i don’t know,” azzi murmured, eyes still offscreen. “maybe i’m just tired of always waiting for you to make space for me.”

that did it.

paige sat up straighter, heart pounding. “that’s not fair.”

“isn’t it?”

“you think i don’t want to be with you every second? you think i don’t hate the distance just as much as you do?”

azzi’s jaw clenched, voice rising a little. “i think i’m trying, paige. and you’re shutting me out.”

the silence that followed was so loud it rang.

“i can’t do this right now,” paige whispered finally, swallowing hard.

“yeah,” azzi said, just as quietly. “me neither.”

and then she hung up.

three days passed.

three days of scrolling past her name. of typing out messages and deleting them. of paige staying late in the gym even when her legs ached, because thinking too long meant feeling too much. azzi, meanwhile, spent hours in the training room and at team events, never saying much, but always seeming one second from unraveling.

on the fourth night paige couldn’t take it anymore.

she typed.

i hate this.

“i miss you so bad it makes me feel sick.

please call me, baby.

fifteen seconds passed.

then her screen lit up. incoming facetime: azzi💗

she picked up instantly.

azzi’s face appeared in the dim light of her dorm. her eyes were red. she’d been crying. but her voice was soft.

“i’m still mad.”

“you’re allowed,” paige said, voice shaking. “i was an asshole. i get stuck in my own head and i take it out on the person who loves me most. and i hate that i made you feel like you don’t matter, because you matter more than anything.”

azzi wiped at her cheek, but didn’t look away. “i just need to know we’re still in this. even with the distance. even when it’s hard.”

“we are, az,” paige said. “always.”

“you promise?”

paige held up her pinky to the screen. “promise.”

azzi let out a breathy laugh through her tears, eyes crinkling at the edges. “i missed your dumb face.”

“i missed your dumb everything.”

“you’re lucky i love you,” azzi said, wiping her nose.

“i know,” paige grinned. “you gonna yell at me again, or can i tell you all the stuff i’ve been holding in the past three days?”

“depends,” azzi smirked. “how flirty are you feeling?”

“dangerously.”

azzi laughed, the kind that warmed paige through the screen.

they stayed on for hours that night, not trying to fix everything at once, but just finding their way back.

because they couldn’t not.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

azzi had a few days off so she planned a surprise to visit paige.

the door creaked open just past midnight, and paige’s heart nearly burst out of her chest. she’d just finished icing her knee when she turned and saw azzi standing there, duffle bag over her shoulder, grinning wide and tired and perfect.

“surprise,” azzi said softly.

paige dropped the ice pack and ran into her arms so fast, they nearly knocked into the wall behind them.

“how…what are you…azzi!”

“had a few days off. caught the last flight,” azzi murmured into paige’s shoulder, squeezing her so tight it was like she needed to convince herself it was real. “couldn’t go another week without you.” paige said into her hair, holding her just as tightly. “i missed you so bad.”

“you didn’t tell me—”

“i wanted to see your face when you opened the door.”

azzi pulled back just enough to grab paige’s face in both hands. her thumbs brushed over paige’s cheeks, and then their lips crashed together, fast and hungry and messy. it wasn’t soft, not at first, it was urgent. mouths open, breath caught between them, the kind of kiss that says i needed this, i needed you.

“god,” paige groaned, pushing her fingers into paige’s hair. “you’re real. you’re here.”

“i couldn’t wait any longer,” azzi whispered, hands already slipping under paige’s oversized t-shirt, tracing the warm skin of her lower back. “i was losing it without you.”

“same,” paige said, breathless as azzi pushed her gently back toward the bed.

they didn’t talk much after that, they didn’t need to. they moved in a rhythm, slow and full of intention. paige brought azzi to her bed, the dorm room barely lit, the air heavy with quiet need. they lay tangled under the covers, paige stroking her fingers through azzi’s curls, azzi tracing the line of paige’s jaw, both of them memorizing the details all over again.

“you smell like the plane,” paige whispered, nose pressed to azzi’s neck.

“shut up.”

“make me.”

they kissed like they’d been starving—like weeks of distance and stress had built to this one exact second. it wasn’t rushed,it wasn’t messy. it was deep, slow, emotional, and when they broke apart, their foreheads rested together like it hurt to be even an inch apart.

“i missed you so bad it made me sick,” azzi said.

“i know,” paige replied, brushing her thumb under azzi’s eye. “me too.”

they fell into the mattress, limbs tangled, lips pressed together again—deeper, more deliberate. azzi curled her legs around paige’s waist, hands roaming over her back, tracing the familiar muscles through the thin cotton of her hoodie.

paige pulled away just enough to yank the hoodie off, her hair a little wild, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “you look so good right now,” she murmured, letting her hands roam over azzi’s waist, her ribs, her hips. “you’re driving me insane.”

“you’re not even trying to be subtle,” azzi laughed softly, pulling her shirt off in return, tossing it somewhere behind her.

“i’m not,” paige grinned, dipping down to kiss her collarbone, her shoulder, her throat. “i missed this so much. missed you”

they kissed again, slower this time—but no less intense. paige hovered above her, their bodies pressed together, her hands never still. fingers danced along azzi’s skin, teasing, trailing, pulling little sounds from her that made paige’s breath hitch every time.

“i thought about this every night,” azzi whispered between kisses, nails gently scratching down paige’s back. “how good your hands feel. how safe it feels when you’re wrapped around me.”

“you’re mine,” paige breathed into her ear, her voice lower, more possessive. “every inch of you.”

“then prove it,” azzi whispered back, tugging her close again.

they rolled together, kissing like they couldn’t stop—like time didn’t exist for them. hands explored and mouths tasted and neither of them wanted to come up for air. laughter spilled between the kisses too, and teasing words, and the soft sound of paige whispering “i love you” over and over like a prayer against azzi’s skin.

later, when they finally calmed, wrapped up in the sheets, faces close and bodies flush, azzi let out a long, contented sigh and pressed a kiss to paige’s cheek.

“this was worth every second apart,” she said softly

paige brushed a thumb across azzi’s lower lip, her eyes full of something deep and unshakable. “never again,” she whispered. “i’m staying as close as i can from now on.”

they curled into each other, legs tangled under the blankets, foreheads touching. and even though the world outside kept spinning, in that tiny dorm room, everything else fell away. they talked late into the night, about games and injuries and teammates and everything in between. but more than that, they just were. in each other’s space, in sync, wrapped up in a love that had only grown stronger since they first met.

it wasn’t just a visit. it was proof. proof they could survive anything.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

the gym was quiet except for the steady echo of sneakers on polished hardwood and the rhythmic bounce of a basketball. thick rays of golden summer afternoon sunlight streamed through the high windows, slicing across the court and making the dust in the air glow like flecks of gold.

paige wiped the sweat from her brow with the hem of her tank top, catching azzi’s eyes as she did. she smirked. “you staring again, az?”

azzi didn’t even pretend to look away. she stood at the top of the key, spinning the ball lazily, the neckline of her own shirt damp from their exhausting workout. “you wish. maybe i was just admiring your terrible form.”

“terrible?” paige arched a brow, jogging up to her with a slow grin. “is that what we’re doing today? lying on the court?”

azzi laughed and tossed the ball to her chest. “prove me wrong then.”

“bet.”

they slipped into one-on-one, both of them locked in—no cameras, no noise. just them, like it had been for years now. paige would pivot and azzi was already cutting her off. azzi would fake left and paige’s hand was there, playful, relentless.

paige finally scored, falling back on a smooth step-back jumper that arced high and kissed the net clean. she pointed at azzi, smug. “that’s called muscle memory.”

“that’s called getting lucky,” azzi countered, but her smile gave her away.

they both stood there for a moment, catching their breath, sweat beading down their temples. paige walked over and bumped azzi’s hip with hers. “admit it,” she said. “you love practicing with me.”

“maybe,” azzi said, drawing it out. “maybe i also love how you always smell like fresh laundry after.”

“romantic,” paige deadpanned, reaching out to brush a sweaty curl from azzi’s cheek. “you should write that in a card.”

azzi bit her lip, looking down at paige’s hand still resting lightly on her jaw. “maybe i’ll do something better.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.” azzi hesitated for a breath, and then looked up, her voice softer. “come on a date with me tonight.”

paige blinked. “wait, you’re asking me?”

“yup,” azzi said, leaning in, that confident smile returning. “i booked it already. dinner’s at seven. dresscode is casual but you should still look hot. for me.”

“you don’t think i always look hot for you?” paige grinned, heart racing in that specific way azzi always made it race—like even after all this time, she still found new ways to make paige fall harder.

“of course you do, honey,” azzi said, brushing their noses together gently. “but i want tonight to be special, just us. i missed being with you like this.”

paige’s smile softened. “yeah. me too.”

they kissed then, warm and slow, just a press of sweat-slick lips and the sun painting long shadows around them. paige’s hands settled at azzi’s waist, anchoring her, while azzi curled her fingers around the back of paige’s neck, holding her in place like she never wanted her to leave.

and for a while, they didn’t move. not until the sound of a ball rolling toward them reminded them where they were. they broke apart reluctantly, but their hands stayed laced.

“i’m not changing,” paige said, eyes still half-lidded and dreamy. “you’re taking me to dinner like this.”

“then you’re buying dessert,” azzi said, laughing as she pulled her toward the locker room.

“you’re my dessert,” paige muttered under her breath, smug.

azzi rolled her eyes, but her blush betrayed her. “i heard that.”

“i wanted you to.”

the summer air outside their place was thick with heat and the scent of jasmine from a candle they lit earlier. golden hour melted over the city touching the edges of every rooftop, every passing car, every heartbeat. inside, the apartment buzzed with soft music and the low buzz of a fan spinning in the corner.

paige sat on the edge of the bed, lacing her sneakers, already dressed in a clean white tee and soft light green cargos that fit her just right. her hair was still damp from the quick shower she’d taken after their workout, strands curling gently against her forehead. after she sprayed herself with a valentino perfume that azzi loved so much, she looked up from tying the knot on her laces and froze.

“baby,” she whispered.

azzi stood by the closet mirror in a soft, sleeveless olive green dress that clung to her skin like it had been painted on—hugged every line of her body, the neckline just low enough, the hem dancing mid-thigh. her curls were slicked back in a ponytail, silver hoops glistening and lip gloss shimmering with a soft sheen.

“what?” azzi asked innocently, checking her makeup. “is it too much?”

“too much?” paige stood, walked up behind her, their reflections now side by side. she placed her hands on azzi’s hips and leaned in close, mouth brushing azzi’s ear. “you’re gonna make us late. i won’t even make it out the door.”

azzi smiled, cheeks warming, but her eyes didn’t leave the mirror. “then maybe i’ll change.”

paige spun her gently to face her. “you’ll do no such thing.” she kissed her once, then again, a little deeper. “you’re perfect. dangerously so.”

azzi grinned against her lips, looping her arms around paige’s neck. “then let’s go before you ruin my dress.”

they were tucked into a corner booth of a quiet italian place—brick walls lined with flickering candles, ivy creeping up the edges of the windows, a warm orange glow spilling over the wine glasses between them. the place buzzed softly with couples talking low, clinking glasses, the smell of rosemary and garlic floating through the air.

paige was already halfway through a breadstick, watching azzi try to decide between two pastas. “you’ve looked at that menu for fifteen minutes,” she teased, dipping the bread into olive oil.

“because they both sound good and i don’t want to regret it,” azzi pouted, finally settling on the risotto—until the food came, and she changed her mind immediately.

“can we switch?” she asked sweetly, eyes wide.

paige blinked at her plate of linguine. “you already started yours.”

“please?” azzi leaned across the table, brushed paige’s hand with her fingers, lips curling just slightly. “you love me.”

paige sighed dramatically but swapped plates. “you’re lucky you’re my princess.”

“i know.” azzi forked into the pasta happily. “and i knew this one was better.”

“then why didn’t you order it?”

“keeps things interesting.” azzi said with a shrug.

they fell into that easy rhythm—slow bites between laughter and eye contact that lingered just a little too long. paige watched azzi twirl pasta, lips glossed and glowing, cheeks slightly flushed from the wine and the warmth.

at one point, azzi ran her foot along paige’s calf under the table.

“azzi,” paige warned, her voice already lower.

“what?” azzi blinked, teasing. “i’m just stretching.”

“mmm sure you are,” paige leaned in, fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. “keep doing that and i’m gonna pull you into the bathroom and make sure you know what stretching really feels like.”

azzi’s breath caught, her gaze faltering for the briefest second. “you wouldn’t.”

“try me,” paige said, smirking.

azzi bit her lip, clearly enjoying the tension, the game, how close they always hovered to that edge. she reached across and let her hand settle on paige’s knee, thumb brushing slowly back and forth.

“you make it really hard to focus on my food,” azzi murmured, eyes darkening just enough.

“then don’t,” paige said simply. “focus on me.”

outside, night had finally fallen. fairy lights wrapped around the restaurant’s small patio fence, casting soft glows along the sidewalk. and inside, in that quiet booth, paige and azzi leaned closer and closer, until their knees touched and their hands were tangled between plates, and all that existed was each other.

the car was quiet but full with tension. azzi sat in the passenger seat, her legs crossed, one heel dangling off her foot as she scrolled through the music. paige had one hand on the wheel, the other…well, the other kept drifting. fingertips skimming over azzi’s bare thigh. light at first, a brush. a graze. but she didn’t stop.

“paige,” azzi warned softly, voice already shifting—breathier, lower, laced with need. “you’re gonna get us killed.”

“i’m fine,” paige murmured, eyes on the road, but her mouth curved into a smile. her fingers traced higher, pressing just under the hem of the dress. “you just looked too good tonight. it’s your fault.”

“you’ve been touching me all night.”

“don’t pretend you don’t get off on me needing you this bad.” paige said, glancing over for just a second, enough to meet azzi’s eyes.

azzi bit her lip, thighs shifting under paige’s hand, chasing more contact without even realizing it. “pull over.”

“we’re five minutes from home.”

“then drive faster,” azzi said, her voice a near-whimper.

the door barely had time to close behind them before azzi spun, grabbing paige’s shirt and pulling her into a hard, desperate kiss. the kind that knocked the air from both of their lungs. hands all over—paige’s gripping azzi’s hips, azzi’s nails already sliding under the hem of her shirt, raking over her stomach.

“bedroom,” paige growled against her lips, her voice a low command that sent a shiver down azzi’s spine. azzi nodded breathlessly, fingers fisting in the fabric of paige’s shirt, and let paige steer her down the hall.

the bedroom was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the air heavy with anticipation. paige paused, her eyes flicking to the mirror across from the bed, then back to azzi with a smirk.

“sit,” she ordered, her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned, pulling azzi with her until they were both lying on the bed. azzi found herself pressed against paige’s back, her breath catching as she realized they were facing the full-length mirror on the wall.

“look at us,” paige murmured, leaning to brush her lips over azzi’s neck. “look how perfect you are.”

azzi’s cheeks flushed as she glanced at the mirror, seeing their reflections intertwined. paige’s blonde hair contrasted sharply with azzi’s dark curls, their bodies pressed together in a way that felt both intimate and raw. paige’s gaze was hot and possessive, her hands sliding down azzi’s arms, then back up to toy with her dress.

“i love you so fucking much.” paige whispered, her breath hot against azzi’s skin as she began to kiss her way down her neck. azzi gasped softly, her hands tangling in paige’s hair as she tilted her head back, exposing more of her neck. paige’s lips left a trail of hickeys, marking azzi as hers, and azzi couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped her lips.

“paige…” she breathed, her voice trembling with need.

“shh,” paige murmured, her hands roaming over azzi’s body, tracing the curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist. “i got you.”

azzi’s eyes fluttered closed as paige’s touch became more insistent, her fingers teasing the hem of azzi’s dress. but before she could pull it off, azzi grabbed her wrist, her voice urgent. “i need you, paige. now.”

“this dress is dangerous,” paige muttered, yanking it up.

“you’ve said that like three times,” azzi whispered.

“and i’ll say it again. now take it off.” paige whispered, a single word that had azzi’s pulse stuttering.

azzi didn’t hesitate. she shimmied out of the dress, baring smooth skin to paige’s greedy hands.

paige’s palms were warm, firm, gliding over her shoulders, down her arms, then up again to cup her jaw. she tilted azzi’s head slightly, lips brushing her ear. “keep your eyes on the mirror, baby. i want you to see how good you look for me.”

azzi swallowed, a soft sound escaping her as paige’s hands slid down to her waist, thumbs tracing teasing circles. she could see it all in the mirror—paige behind her, tall and steady, azzi’s own body leaning back into her touch, lips parted in a silent plea.

“you’re so pretty,” paige murmured, fingers slipping just under the edge of azzi’s bra, teasing the skin there. “and so damn responsive.”

azzi whimpered, hips shifting instinctively, seeking more. paige just chuckled, the sound warm and low. “be patient, mama.” she said, even as her hands drifted lower, knuckles brushing the tops of azzi’s thighs.

“paige,” azzi breathed, her voice shaky, needy. paige met her eyes in the mirror, a wicked glint in her gaze.

“eyes on me,” she ordered softly, her hands slipping around to undo the clasp of azzi’s bra, letting it fall away. “don’t look away.”

azzi bit her lip, her breath quickening as paige’s hands explored—fingers skimming up her stomach, over the soft swell of her breasts, teasing her nipples with feather-light touches that had her squirming. in the mirror, she could see it all: the way her own body arched into paige’s touch, the possessive look in paige’s eyes, the soft flush spreading across her skin.

paige’s lips found her neck, sucking a mark just below her ear. “so perfect,” she murmured, her hands sliding lower, fingertips tracing the edge of azzi’s panties. “so mine.”

azzi let out a shaky moan, her hips lifting in silent plea. paige’s touch grew more insistent, one hand pressing azzi’s hips down while the other teased, each brush of her fingertips sending sparks through azzi’s veins.

“paige, please,” azzi gasped, her voice ragged. paige’s eyes met hers in the mirror, and she smiled—a soft, tender smile that made azzi’s chest ache.

“look at yourself,” paige said, her voice a soft command. “look how gorgeous you are like this. i want you to see everything i’m giving you.”

azzi’s eyes locked onto her reflection, and she watched as paige’s fingers moved rhythmically, her touch sending waves of pleasure through her body. paige’s other hand moved to azzi’s clit, rubbing it in slow, circular motions, and azzi’s breath hitched. “oh god…” she moaned, her head falling back against paige’s shoulder.

“that’s it,” paige murmured, her lips brushing against azzi’s ear. “let it build. i’ve got you.” azzi’s moans grew louder, her body arching into paige’s touch as the pleasure intensified. she could feel her orgasm building, a coil tightening in her core, and she knew she was close. her moans were loud, unrestrained, and she froze, her eyes widening in panic.

paige seemed to sense her hesitation, her hand moving swiftly to azzi’s throat, holding her gently but firmly. she whispered, her voice commanding. “mhmm let me hear you, cum for me, princess.”

azzi’s breath caught, her eyes locked with paige’s in the mirror, each movement pushing azzi closer to the edge. her reflection was flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and wild.

“stay with me,” paige murmured, her breath warm against azzi’s neck. “let me see you come apart.”

azzi’s hands gripped the edge of the bed, her body trembling, gasps turning into broken moans as paige pushed her higher, harder, until she was right there—on the cusp, falling, her name a desperate cry on azzi’s lips.

azzi collapsed back against paige’s chest, breath ragged, body trembling. paige held her close, one hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing soft circles into her hip. the pressure of paige’s hand on her throat, combined with the relentless rhythm of her fingers, sent azzi over the edge. her body trembled as she climaxed, her moans muffled but no less intense. she watched herself in the mirror, her face flushed, her eyes closed in ecstasy, and she felt a deep connection to paige, to this moment.

when she finally came, it was with her eyes locked on paige’s in the mirror, the world narrowing to just them—the heat of paige’s touch, the possessive grip of her hands, the soft words she murmured over and over:

i’ve got you. you’re mine. so beautiful.

as her orgasm subsided, azzi collapsed against paige, her breath ragged. paige’s hand released her throat, and she turned azzi to face her, kissing her softly, tenderly. “you’re incredible,” azzi murmured, her fingers tracing paige’s cheek.

“good girl,” she whispered, kissing azzi’s temple. “you did so good.”

azzi pulled back just enough to whisper, “my turn.” her voice was soft but laced with hunger, her eyes dark and steady. paige swallowed, her heart thundering in her chest at the promise in those two words.

paige let azzi guide her back onto the bed, her shoulders sinking into the mattress as azzi leaned over paige, her hands were already working at paige’s shirt, fingers quick and eager, pushing it up and over her head. paige let her, skin prickling under azzi’s touch, breath hitching as azzi’s fingertips traced along the edge of her bra.

azzi paused, sitting back just enough to look down at her, her lips curved into a slow, teasing smile. “you’re so beautiful like this,” she said, her voice husky. paige felt her pulse skip at the heat in azzi’s gaze, at the way she looked at her like she was something to be worshipped. azzi leaned down, pressing soft kisses to the hollow of paige’s throat, then lower, teeth grazing lightly against her collarbone. paige let out a shaky breath, her hands coming up to tangle in azzi’s hair, needing something to hold onto as azzi’s mouth mapped a slow, deliberate path over her skin.

“azzi,” paige murmured, her voice rough with need. azzi just smiled against her chest, her breath warm and teasing.

“shh,” she whispered. “lemme take care of you.”

her hands slid lower, skimming over the curve of paige’s waist, thumbs pressing into her hips with a possessive firmness. she kissed her way lower, every brush of her lips sending a spark through paige’s veins, until paige was arching up into her touch, a low moan slipping out.

azzi smiled, her shyness returning slightly, but she nodded, determined to return the favor. she shifted positions, kneeling between paige’s legs as paige lay back on the bed. paige’s eyes darkened with desire as azzi’s hands moved to her boxers, pulling them off slowly, her fingers brushing against paige’s bare skin.

azzi took her time, every movement deliberate, every touch electric. she pulled back just enough to look up at paige, her eyes dark and warm. “look at me,” she said softly, her hands resting on paige’s thighs. “i want you to watch me.”

paige met her gaze, her breath coming in shallow gasps as azzi’s fingers began teasing along the inside of her thighs. azzi leaned in, her mouth finding the sensitive skin at paige’s hip, pressing kisses that made paige’s breath catch and her back arch off the bed. azzi’s hands were sure and confident, her touch both tender and demanding. she moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, drawing out every gasp, every tremor. paige let herself sink into it, her hands fisting in the sheets, her body alive under azzi’s touch.

“take your time,” paige said, her voice low and inviting. azzi leaned forward, her lips pressing kisses along paige’s thighs, her breath teasing her core. paige let out a soft gasp as azzi’s tongue finally made contact, her touch gentle but purposeful. “oh shit—fuck” she moaned, her hands tangling in azzi’s hair.

azzi’s tongue moved slowly, savoring every inch of paige’s body. she listened to paige’s guidance, her moans, her whispered encouragement, and she felt a surge of pride as paige’s pleasure became her own. paige’s hands gripped the sheets, her body arching off the bed as azzi’s mouth worked its magic. “that’s it, baby,” paige breathed. “don’t stop.”

azzi didn’t stop. she continued until paige’s body shook with her orgasm, her cries of pleasure filling the room. when paige finally tipped over the edge, it was with a soft cry, her eyes locked on azzi’s as pleasure pulsed through her in waves. azzi held her through it, her touch gentle, her mouth soft against her skin. as paige’s breathing slowed, azzi leaned up, kissing her softly, their lips meeting in a tender embrace. “i love you,” paige whispered, her eyes locked on azzi’s.

“i love you too,” azzi replied, her voice soft but sure.

after, azzi climbed back up, kissing her slow and deep, her hands cradling paige’s face. paige let out a shaky breath, her arms wrapping around azzi’s waist, pulling her close.

“you’re incredible,” paige murmured, her voice still husky with the remnants of her climax.

azzi just smiled, pressing her forehead to paige’s. “you’re mine,” she whispered back, her lips brushing against paige’s with each word.

paige let out a soft laugh, breathless and content, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on azzi’s back. “always.”

they lost themselves in each other—fast, deep, and burning. every kiss, every breath, every shift of hips and whispered word said one thing louder than anything else:

i missed you. i need you. i love you.

the room smelled like sweat and something warm, alive. azzi lay stretched across paige’s chest now, both of them sunk into the cushions, skin damp, bodies humming. paige traced lazy circles along azzi’s spine. azzi nuzzled into her neck, kissed her collarbone just because.

“if you keep dressing like that,” paige mumbled, “we’re never making it out in public again.”

azzi laughed sleepily. “you love it.”

“i love you.”

azzi smiled, eyes fluttering shut, hand resting over paige’s heart. “i love you more.”

“impossible,” paige whispered. “but you’re welcome to try and prove it again tomorrow.”

azzi just sighed, content, letting herself sink even deeper into paige’s arms.

the years sped by in snapshots, each one cementing their bond, shaping the women they were becoming. draft day was getting closer, the moment they had worked for, dreamed about, and fought to reach.

it all started during usa basketball u16 tryouts. the air was dry, thin, and buzzing with nerves. paige walked into the gym with that calm confidence, the kind that made heads turn. she had her bag slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning the courts like she already knew she belonged. and she did.

azzi was already shooting on one of the side baskets, locked in. her jumper was smooth. too smooth. paige noticed immediately, not because she was flashy, but because every shot looked like it had been taken a thousand times. it reminded paige of herself.

they were put on the same team for the first scrimmage. it didn’t take more than five possessions for them to start reading each other like a book. no-look passes, perfectly timed cuts, backdoor reads. they played like they had grown up on the same block, like they had been playing together for years. by the end of practice, coaches were raising eyebrows. one of them even said, “those two play like they’ve got some type of telepathy.”

afterward, sweaty and still catching their breath, paige tossed a water bottle over to azzi. “you hoop like you’re in the league already,” she said, half-grinning.

azzi laughed. “you too. i was trying to keep up.”

they sat side by side on the bench, shoulders brushing, not really talking for a few minutes. just existing in the same space. their chemistry on the court had spilled off of it in the quietest, most natural way.

that week was long. drills, scrimmages, meetings, but they always found each other. not in a forced way. it just happened. and they were always laughing and leaning into each other like they’d found something rare and didn’t want to let go. it wasn’t romantic back then. it was just easy. it was trust. and maybe a little awe.

on the last night, before cuts, they sat outside the dorms under a flickering streetlamp. paige had her knees pulled to her chest. azzi was stretched out next to her, staring at the stars.

“no matter what happens tomorrow,” azzi said, “i’m really glad we met.”

paige looked over. her heart thumped, just once, a little harder than usual. “same. i think we’re gonna see a lot of each other in the future.”

and they would—just not in the ways they imagined.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

paige and azzi sat side by side on the worn leather couch, the hum of new york city buzzing faintly beyond the windows. it was quiet here, a calm pause in the storm of their lives.

“can you believe it?” paige whispered, tracing the edge of a photo where they both smiled. “four years. it feels like yesterday we were just two kids figuring everything out.”

azzi’s eyes glistened with a mixture of pride and nostalgia. “yeah. and look at us now. from those early days of barely talking after i committed, to this… this crazy beautiful life we’ve built.” she reached for paige’s hand, squeezing it gently. “i’m so proud of us. of you.”

paige smiled, leaning into the touch. “me too. all the late nights, the injuries, the pressure, you were always my anchor. the reason i kept going.”

they sat in silence, the weight of their shared memories settling around them. games won and lost, championships fought for, setbacks faced, and breakthroughs celebrated. four years of growth on and off the court. four years of building a love that only grew stronger through every challenge.

“the draft’s tomorrow,” azzi said softly, breaking the quiet. “i keep thinking about what comes next. new city, new teams… what if we get separated?”

paige shook her head firmly, eyes locking on azzi’s. “we won’t. no matter what happens, we’re in this together—none of it matters if we have each other.”

azzi smiled through the tears gathering again. “promise?”

“promise,” paige whispered, pulling her close.

the moment stretched, filled with unspoken vows and fierce love—the kind that no draft pick or city could ever touch.

[iamthatonefangirl]

distant - nsfw beefy bucky

this one feels kind of different than my normal fics, but I like the concept too much to kill it.

~~~

Bucky Barnes was nothing if not a threat.

okay, no, he wasn't a threat, yet for some reason your body responded to him as though he was.

the first time you met him, you thought it was a gut instinct telling you to be wary, that you couldn't trust him.

you knew his story. you didn't think it inherently gave you any reason to distrust him; you truly believed that everyone was more than their past.

at least, you hoped that was true, if only for your own sake.

when you met him, the fluttering in your stomach and the needling sensation in the palms of your hands set off alarm bells in your head. historically, that kind of reaction had always been an indication that there was something wrong; something to be cautious of, something to protect yourself from.

you kept your composure, making sure to stay calm and not let on that your body was screaming at you something's wrong here.

there wasn’t much you could do given that you were now going to be teammates. you elected to simply keep your distance from him as best you could.

~~~

given how huge the tower was, you assumed that you would be safe from having to interact with Bucky Barnes. he didn't live on your floor, and there were quite a few gyms and a million kitchens in the building. you'd only have to work with him in the field, and when that happened, you would be at your best and would be prepared to protect yourself.

there was no logical reason that you'd have to protect yourself from him, but that ache in your chest, that pit in your throat... all the signs pointed to be cautious. that’s what you thought they meant, at least.

regardless, you figured that you would be safe from him in the tower, so you wouldn't have to be on guard all the time. there was no way you'd see him.

apparently, you were dead fucking wrong.

his room must have been somewhere above yours, because every time you made to get in the elevator, he was always already in it.

when the doors opened, he'd look up as though startled by the fact that the elevator had stopped. he'd see you standing there and would flash you that soft smile of his. it was small and muted on his, honestly, quite attractive face.

he looked like a kicked puppy with his tail between his legs, trying to put on a brave face.

being trapped in the confined space with him only worsened the anxious feelings that came with being near him. you tensed your shoulders, stood up straight, and refused to turn your back to him.

you told yourself he wasn't a threat.

but you'd learned the hard way to always trust your gut, because what else could your body possibly be telling you this way?

you quit riding the elevator in favor of taking the 15 flights of stairs.

~~~

these people were quite a social bunch, you found.

you learned that it was commonplace to use only the kitchen on the fourth floor, and the gym and training areas on the seventh. and, being the newbie, you couldn't afford to lose too much face time around these people. you would be pleasant, be social, and you'd get in and out of the common spaces as quickly as possible without throwing up any red flags.

you hoped no one noticed the way you would quietly excuse yourself whenever Bucky Barnes entered the room.

it was easy to excuse yourself from just about anywhere, except the gym. it's harder to just up and leave in the middle of a workout.

so you tried to keep it together, focusing on your music and keeping your eyes ahead of you as you ran on the treadmill. you could sense whenever he came into the gym, that sixth sense you'd developed to alert you when enemies were near.

he's not your fucking enemy, you tried to reason with yourself.

then why did your brain think he was? what was your subconscious mind trying to tell you, exactly?

in the moments you managed to get a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye, you noticed how he always seemed lost. that sad puppy dog demeanor of his never seemed to fade.

you refused to let yourself look at the hefty weights he would pick up. you're sure a single one was as heavy as a car, given his super strength and those huge muscles...

you felt another pang in your stomach at the thought. you attributed it to the fact that if you were to have to protect yourself, your own strength was no match for his.

one day, you'd been trying to beat your PR on the bench press when suddenly, your sixth sense went off. he was nearby. fuck.

you tried to ignore him and focused on finishing your set, but out of your peripheral vision, you saw him walk past you. you faltered, your arms shaking, and you struggled to push the bar back up.

shit, shit, shit, rang through your head.

and then, a hand made of metal entered your vision from above, and lifted the bar enough to set it back on the rack.

wow. he’s really fucking strong. that’s kind of…

you quickly sat up, pulling an earbud out of your ear to face him.

"uh, thank you," you stuttered out, looking him up and down cautiously. you'd never really spent any time talking to him except for when you first met him, and even then, you were too nerve-wracked to have a proper conversation with him.

"no worries," he responded. "do you need a spot?"

"oh, no," you laughed, standing from the bench. "I'm done."

you quickly grabbed your phone and water and began to bolt. "thanks again," you called out to him awkwardly as you walked out the door.

this was becoming a problem.

~~~

the next time you were preparing for a mission, Steve had brought you the file about a week ahead of time. "you and Bucky will be going solo on this one, sound good?" he asked you.

you didn't hesitate. "yes, sounds good!" you said cheerily.

you and Bucky Barnes had worked together before, but it had never been just the two of you. but you weren't about to tell Steve you didn't want to work with him; you couldn't have Steve thinking anything was wrong. you were still new and had to work to prove yourself as a capable member of this team.

you spent the rest of the week hyping yourself up, telling yourself it would be fine. you just... wouldn't be able to sleep while you were there. you'd have to stay up to stay on guard at all times.

you'd be fine.

except, day of, you were sitting in the Quinjet waiting for Bucky Barnes to board so you could head out.

it wasn't him.

~~~

after he'd spoken to you, Steve had approached Bucky about the mission, handing him the file detailing the objectives and informing him that it was you he'd be working with.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Steve," Bucky told him. "I don't think she likes me very much."

"she seemed fine, enthusiastic even, when I told her you'd be working together," Steve assured him. "she likes you just fine, Buck."

"just... I think it would be better if someone else went instead of me."

Steve considered pressing the issue, but chose not to. he knew Bucky wasn't quite back to himself, if he would ever be after the trauma he'd endured, and so he couldn't force him.

as Bucky watched Steve board the Quinjet in his place a week later, he wondered what he did to make you hate him so much.

probably nothing. he was an easy person to dislike.

it was difficult enough to stomach the fact that you didn’t like him the way he liked you.

the fact that you didn’t even like him as a friend…

the thought only made his heart sink deeper.

~~~

Steve didn't bring up the change beyond telling you that Bucky had dropped out for personal reasons. part of you was relieved to not have to deal with that miserable, gut-wrenching feeling all weekend.

the other part of you was concerned. had you offended him?

of course you had. he wasn't stupid. he probably knew that you were social with everyone except him, and he probably took it personally.

was that why he always looked so sad? because of you?

the night you got back from your mission, you sat with Natasha in one of the common rooms to debrief. it had been a fairly quick job with few hiccups, and you were grateful for the opportunity to work with the one and only Captain America.

you still couldn't help but question why Bucky Barnes hadn't come.

you changed the subject slowly. "thank you again for bringing me in, after... after Dreykov went down." you began. "I never thought I could actually do anything meaningful, especially not accompany someone like Captain America on a mission like this."

you didn't really hear what she said next. you were too focused on the question that had been swirling in your head all weekend.

"he had told me that Barnes was supposed to go with me this weekend," you prompted her, wondering if she knew anything. she was so closely involved in the planning, and such a good friend of Steve, surely he would keep her in the loop.

"he actually didn't tell me why. I figured he just wanted to oversee how you operated in the field," is what she told you.

yeah. yeah, that made sense.

"hopefully I impressed him," you laugh.

she gives you a look. "you did, don't worry."

oh, good. you were finally proving yourself.

and yet, you still couldn't think about that. you wanted to know what the deal was with Bucky Barnes.

~~~

you decide to quit going out of your way to avoid him. if you're finally being accepted into this team, you can't afford to give Steve any reason to not trust or like you.

more than that, you feel bad for potentially being the reason he dropped out last weekend.

you can still keep up your walls without being off-putting, you think.

the next time you see him in the elevator a few days later, he gives you the same sad, broken smile.

you force yourself to speak. "missed you this weekend," you drop casually, even though your heart is pounding.

his head snaps up to look at you, completely taken aback by the fact that you're actually speaking to him. he looks at you for a second, utterly shocked, before he finally finds the words.

"yeah, I had some stuff going on."

you know that's a fib. he doesn't really have much going on for himself, you don't think. you just nod your head and let it go.

when he gets out on a floor above your destination, you tell him, "see you later."

he turns and gives you that smile, a little more hopeful looking this time, along with a small wave of his flesh hand.

it's cute, you think.

what?

~~~

the next time he walks into the gym, you feel all the classic signs bubbling up in your body, telling you: run. fight. hide. anything.

you know better by now. he may have been a murderer once upon a time, but this version of him wouldn't hurt a fly without a complex reason why.

you tell yourself to speak to him. maybe that'll force your body to recalibrate, to settle itself whenever you're around him.

you hop off the treadmill and step up to where he's filling his water.

"spot me?"

his eyes look wide, clearly still surprised when you speak to him. "yes, absolutely."

his excitement is beyond your understanding, but god, it makes you smile.

wait.

your heart drops to your stomach.

no.

your heart pounds faster as you walk over to the bench and adjust your weights before laying back.

oh my god.

you see him standing over you, hands out in front of him near the bar.

I can't breathe.

you pick up the bar and begin your set, trying to tell yourself this is insane.

you're lucky you asked for a spot when your arms falter the second you realize,

I like him.

~~~

"woah, you okay?" he laughs when he grabs the bar before it can fall on you, dropping it back on the rack.

"yeah, fuck, sorry," you say, sitting up and getting to your feet.

you'd always heard that having a crush on someone was kind of like this: miserable, anxiety-inducing, and nothing short of terrifying.

you wouldn't know. when would you, of all people, have the chance to get into a relationship with someone? when would you have the chance to spend more time with a guy than just your one-nighters?

you knew lust. you could place it, knew what it felt like.

but love...

no. no! you don't even know him, what the hell?

"I'm fine," you say, stumbling over your own feet as you stand, and he jumps to catch you before you fall.

"sit back down, you're clearly not okay," he says, and he finally doesn't sound like a sad puppy. he sounds normal.

he sits you down and hands you his water.

"you don't have to sit here," you try to tell him after a few minutes of silence.

he just shrugs. "not worried about it."

the nerves begin to settle. the sheer panic of talking to him hasn't gone away, but the feeling is different, morphing into something tolerable. you want to run away more than anything, but at the same time, you don't.

you actually want to sit and talk to him.

and, shit, you owe him an explanation, you think.

"I probably didn't eat enough today. thank you for helping me," you say to him.

"happy to," he smiles at you.

no more sad puppy dog look.

you don't ever want to see the sad puppy dog look on his face ever again, only this.

~~~

it's no longer petrifying, just annoying, you think. that sixth sense feeling that arises whenever he's near no longer holds any meaning to you. it's not like you're going to do anything about it, and it's not like he would ever see you in the same light.

so you'd really like it if all went away, especially given how much more often you think about him now.

you smile back at him when he sees you in the elevator.

does he think my smile is ugly?

you don't walk out of the kitchen the minute he appears.

did he notice me when he came in?

he continues to spot you when you're in the gym.

do I look fat in these clothes?

this is stupid. you're a trained assassin, same as him, with a history of kills that an army would be jealous of. you're stronger than this, above these stupid feelings of caring what the hell a man thinks of you.

you don't fucking need this.

but you can't go back to the way things were before. you can't stand to see that terribly sad look on his face.

his gorgeous face.

you're better than this, more powerful than the feelings and thoughts that accompany his presence. you just need to train yourself to stop feeling like this.

mind over matter, right?

~~~

he doesn't exactly know why you suddenly decided to start talking to him. he's still operating under the assumption that you hate him with every fiber of your being.

even so, he soaks up every moment you have together. from the moment he met you, he was intrigued. such a strong woman with a past somewhat similar to his, and yet you were still so sweet to everyone around you. he hadn't been attracted to a woman in over seventy years, and even now, he didn't think that it was a good idea for him to be interested in anyone.

but you had seemed to make the decision for him, avoiding him like the plague. so he didn't ask you out like he wanted to.

worse yet, he heard the way your heart pounded whenever you were around him. he could feel the way every muscle in your body tensed up and knew your blood was rushing too fast through your veins.

it had to be because you hated him, or you were afraid of him.

he would rather it be that you hated him, but...

it was probably a mixture of both.

even now, your bodily reactions never changed, still pointing to the fact that you most likely did hate him and were still scared of him. and yet, you were going out of your way to speak to him.

he couldn't understand it. but every word you spoke to him made him feel infinitesimally better, like he even stood a chance, maybe.

hopefully.

~~~

by some miracle, your routines were already so in sync, that you began to end up in the same spaces, at the same times, all the time.

you drank coffee together. you went to the gym together.

and...

you began to stare at him. staring at his face when he was talking to someone else in the common area. staring at the rest of him in the gym when he wasn't looking.

and right now, you're really staring. you shouldn't be, but you're still doing it.

he is built like a god. not only that, but his muscles are real, not just for show.

what happens when he lifts heavier weights? do they make the metal arm bigger to match his real arm?

you ignore the way you suddenly feel warm between your legs as you watch him.

~~~

it takes him a minute to process the change in the air.

he turns to face you, and he catches you suddenly tearing your gaze away as though you've been caught staring.

you have been caught staring, he realizes.

and then-

he realizes what's different. he can smell it.

you're wet.

it's his turn to drop the weights this time, dumbbells accidentally slipping out of his fingers and falling onto the floor.

shit.

"are you okay?" you call out to him from across the room, standing on the sides of the treadmill to turn your attention towards him.

he's an idiot, he thinks.

but suddenly, it all makes sense. the way he thought you hated him, were afraid of him, because of how you reacted whenever he came near, it wasn't that. it was the exact opposite.

you liked him.

"yeah, fine," he tells you as he picks up the weights.

a plan begins to formulate in his head.

~~~

the next morning, Bucky walks into the kitchen while you're making coffee.

he knows the truth now, and he intends to pull it from you.

"morning," he says as he grabs his own mug from the cabinet, setting it on the counter next to the coffee maker. he steps away, and you turn to face him and begin to speak up while the coffee brews.

"so-" you freeze.

he deliberately makes a big show of stretching out, flexing his arms in the process. his henley shirt rides up a bit as he does, revealing a sliver of his tummy in the process, and you can see...

dear god, I can see his V-line.

"what's that?" he asks you, sarcastic. you don't even catch the mocking tone in his voice.

"what?" you question, drawing your eyes back to his face. every thought in your head disappeared the second you saw that.

"you started to say something," he says to you, hiding a smirk.

"oh, nothing," you say, quickly pouring your coffee. "see you at the gym later!" you call out to him as you run away quickly.

in your haste, you failed to add cream and sugar to your coffee. goddamnit.

~~~

for the next few days, you notice the way he wears a fitted wife-beater instead of his usual baggy t-shirt in the gym.

you really wanted to flat-out ignore the feelings you were harboring for him, but at this point, you're just doing everything in your power to not jump him whenever you see him.

strange how quickly your brain turned on you, you think, from being weary to being horny.

he's begun to show up every morning to make coffee alongside you at your usual time. you think he's just being friendly, opening up to you now that you've quit acting like such a bitch toward him. you're glad he finally sees you as an acquaintance, maybe even a friend.

you're going to ruin it all, aren't you?

but by god, he is not fucking helping.

~~~

the minute he peels off his shirt in the middle of the gym is a deliberate, calculated decision.

there's never anyone else there at your regularly scheduled gym time, lucky for him. also lucky for him, you have a tendency to stare.

he waits for the perfect moment to torment you, making sure to work up a sweat first.

and then, the second you step off the treadmill and turn to him-

he reaches for the hem of his tank, and you about choke as you watch him peel the fabric away from his beautiful body.

he can almost hear your thighs clench. go time.

after the treadmill is time for him to spot you. that's how it always goes.

"you ready?" he asks, tossing his shirt over his shoulder and pretending to ignore the way you gawk at him.

you just gulp and force yourself to nod, laying down on the bench and lifting the bar.

you manage a few reps before you hear him say,

"you know I know, right?"

you falter, but by pure luck, you keep your composure.

"what are you talking about?" you feign.

"I know everything. I can smell you."

at that point, he does have to save you from the bar falling on your face.

"what the fuck, Bucky?" you ask. "what the hell does that mean?"

he smirks and watch as you sit yourself up on the bench.

"it means I know how wet you get whenever we're in the gym together, when you think I don't notice you staring."

you're going to throw yourself off a bridge.

you sit up and begin to blubber. "I'm really, sorry, Bucky. I never meant for you to, like, find out," you say.

your mouth has gone dry, and your heart is in your stomach. you'd finally made an actual friend, no matter how much of a hard time you had with it at first, and he knew the whole time?

was he just screwing with you? was this all some sick joke?

"I was going to ask you out, you know," he admits. "but you wouldn't talk to me."

he... what?

"I'm sorry," you say, unsure where this is going. you've never been in this situation. what are you supposed to say?

“but now, you’ve decided you want to talk to me, so that begs the question… do you want me to? what would you say if I did, baby?”

your breath hitches.

you watch him step around the machine and fall to his fucking knees in front of you. bold for a man who used to walk with his tail between his legs.

“hmm, sweetheart?” he coos, and you’re done for.

“I’d say yes, Bucky,” you whisper to him, your eyes going glassy as you look at him in front of you. is this a hallucination?

his resulting bright smile turns into a smirk right before your eyes as though he’s just remembered he’s at your feet.

"you want me to help? I mean, I am the reason you've made a mess of yourself," he whispers, and fuck, you might come on the spot. it takes you longer than it should to accept the fact that this might actually be happening, that behind that shy exterior was a man capable of making every thought in your brain melt away.

"yes, Bucky, please," you say, tangling your hands in his hair immediately, finally looking him in the eyes. they're beautiful, sky blue irises piercing your gaze as though staring right into your soul.

"yeah? you been thinking about this?" he whispers as he reaches for your gym shorts, pulling them past your hips and letting them pool at your feet. his hands come to your lower back, pulling you to sit on the edge of the bench as he leans in for better access.

"I, I didn't..." you trail off, too busy watching him, considering what he told you about asking you out.

"you didn't what?" he asks, leaning to press the lower half of his face against the fabric of your underwear, soaked through already. he stares up at you, patiently waiting for your response.

"I didn't think this would happen," you admit, trying to refrain from yanking his face closer to you. "never meant for you to find out," you repeat.

"I'm glad I did," he whispers, his breath ghosting over you.

and by god, you're not ready for it when he licks his tongue up your slit, over the wet spot on your panties. you let out a horribly loud moan into the silence of the room, and try to cover your mouth with one hand.

"is it that good?" he taunts. "not even touching your skin, baby," he continues, pressing his tongue even deeper into your cunt, still covered by the thin fabric.

this other side of him, this unhinged side of him, is making you more needy and desperate than you've ever felt before.

the words fall out of your mouth before you can filter yourself, laughing, "I didn't think you had this in you," you admit.

"yeah, baby?" he says, pressing his thumb against your clit and delicately rubbing the fabric to build the friction against you.

"you were so shy," you whisper back, trying to keep control of your breathing.

"not anymore," he hisses, and then he plants his mouth on you for real this time. it's torturous the way he eats you over your panties, still able to feel the pressure and heat through the fabric, but it's not enough.

"Bucky, please, stop teasing me," you beg of him, desperate for him to give you more, something real.

"but you're whining so pretty like this, baby..." he mocks, nuzzling his nose over your clit. "like seeing you all needy, like this. don't you love it?" he taunts.

"yeah," you whimper shamelessly all while trying to yank his mouth back to press against you.

"yeah. you like letting me control your pleasure like this, don't you, babygirl?" he asks.

that’s it. you can't wait a second longer.

"fuck me, Bucky, now," you cry out into the room, trying to bring your hands to his shoulders to yank him off the floor. he's equally as impatient as you are, taking the lead as he surges up to press his lips to yours.

you finally feel like your mind is clear for the first time in forever when you feel his mouth press against yours. you savor it for a moment, just enough to realize that he likes you, too.

and then you're dragging him to the floor with you, laying on the hard surface and spreading your legs to fit him between them, exactly where he belongs.

"now, now," you beg. he's so close to you, and he feels better against you than you ever could have imagined. you let yourself go, sinking your teeth into the muscle of his neck, hopefully deep enough to leave a mark.

"fuck, I can't say no to you, pretty girl," he responds, hastily shoving his own shorts out of the way before ripping your soaked underwear to finally feel your soft skin against him.

just like the rest of his muscular body, his dick is prettier than any you've ever seen. this is going to hurt, you realize.

it'll be the best you've ever felt in your life.

"I promise, baby, I'll take you to dinner. take you to a show, I'll treat you to anything you want, just need to feel you so bad right now," you hear him say next to your ear.

"please, Bucky," you whine. you watch him get into position...

and then you feel it: the blinding feeling of him stretching you out on the rough floor of a communal gym.

he goes slow, slower than you could've anticipated, giving you time to relax around him before pressing another inch in.

"taking my cock so good, baby," he coos. "feel that? feel me inside you?" he asks as he presses his metal hand to your lower abdomen.

you can't even form a coherent word, a vile noise escaping from your throat in acknowledgement. it's so good.

"it's never felt this good before," you admit to him. "never actually cared about the guy on top of me."

he hears the attempt at humor in your voice, the way you're trying to mask the vulnerability you're feeling.

"want to be the only one who ever gets to be on top of you like this, baby," he whispers to you as he begins to pull back, slowly fucking back into you with his hand still pushing against your stomach. "you like the sound of that?"

"yeah, yes, Bucky. only you. I'm yours," you admit to him.

the last thought in your head is how all your body's warning signs are finally gone before he begins railing you into oblivion.

~~~

masterlist

join my tag list

bucky tag list part 1: (send an ask or dm to be removed)

@starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @mrsnikstan @sleepysongbirdsings @sapphirebarnes @multiversefanfics @winchestert101 @andziabarnes @chrisevansleftnipple @daisydark @luckyhornet @maryevm @avengemepercy @mandoloriancookie @starstruck-cowgirl @doubledizzy22 @yvespecially @shereadzzz @blaineandergel @flow33didontsmoke @iiamlynn @belovedmoony @tellybearryyyy @doilooklikeagiveafrack @analovesmarvel @izzy698 @ketchumid24 @annabethboleyn @luv4koo @buckyseternaldoll @planetzeidy @thegirlfatherr @cieraboobear @wint3rbarnes

[aetherstorms]

Themis glanced toward the kitchen again, brow furrowed as he thought of Amon and the comparison she had made between him and her mother. Even without knowing Amara's mother, he had a feeling they would have little in common with one another, but without knowing for certain he wouldn't dispute it and instead looked back at her with a warm smile. "You find me the opposite of cold and clinical? I'm pleased to hear it! I'm well aware of how I came across as Zodiark's Heart." He put a hand to his chest with a rueful smile. "A part of me is still that way, I think....being a part of a primal changes you."

"No shit!" Amon called back from the kitchen, which got a soft laugh out of Themis before he tilted his head slightly at Amara, and his expression became further amused.

"You don't recall why you had wanted to fight me? Hm....well I suppose a lot has happened in your life to muddy memories. Ironic as it is to me that I should remember it better than you." He smirked crookedly. "As I recall.....I had given the Antecedent a bit of a painful blast to her soul when she had tried to come at me, and you, quite understandably, took offense to that. Afterward, I gave you some small....tests to prod at your temper and get a feel for your disposition and strength. This was.....not long after your first encounter with Lahabrea, I believe. So understandably you were a bit wary, and as we know, not without cause."

He blew out his breath softly then. "As for insisting upon calling myself an emissary, it was my title and my purpose. Elidibus the Emissary, and mostly I did try to play that role....save when I stepped out of it to assume heroic figures. My fellow unsundered were quite unsuited to such tasks, Emet-Selch for his unwillingness to take any host he could not model into his own image and Lahabrea.....who could not sit still, self-destructive to the last." He became a bit sad mentioning Lahabrea this time, knowing he'd played his own part in the older's self-destruction.

"Food will be ready soon!" Amon called back. "So you'd better not be making out over there!" Themis rolled his eyes, but Amon's banter seemed to be relaxing him. Though Amon as Fandaniel had been somewhat sarcastic to everyone, he had been comparatively the most respectful to Elidibus, and still seemed not to have much issue with him now.

“Hm.” Themis sat back, and after a moment, he smiled slightly. “Yes, I remember them somewhat. My father was a rather serious man from a city that had once upon an age been at war with Amaurot, which brought unique insights considered valued by the Convocation and me thereafter. My mother….” He trailed off and frowned before he smiled again more ruefully. “She was an adventurous spirit who had a strong moral code and sense of justice, believing that the ends justified the means, even if it was a painful choice. I learned much from them both, though I could not accurately judge how much I’ve taken after either.”

He arched a brow then. “Different from the rest….” The other two unsundered, he assumed. If so, then he would have to agree that he had certainly been quite different from his colleagues, who had both lost their minds in their own ways, while he….had lost his very self. He shook his head slightly to discourage himself from thinking about that any harder. “I see. A factual enough statement. I will be sure to ask him if I feel I need clarification.”

He smiled and inclined his head at the mention of their first face to face encounter. “I remember you threatened me, though I was an Emissary. Though of course we both know that was merely sophistry. Though true on the surface, I had long ago betrayed the truth of that title.” Perhaps he should have felt ashamed of that, but it was hard to dredge up any emotion for something he had done only in the most technical sense. Hydaelyn could hold Herself no higher given her own sins, so why should he feel bad for his own actions in defiance? A matter he would likely ponder until he once more returned to the Aetherial Sea.

He liked how she leaned into him when he stroked her arm, and so he did it again, tracing lightly over her skin. “I look forward to seeing what the future holds for us all. For the first time in a very very long time, the mystery of it entices rather than anticipates.”

[lymericslimerick]

You still love me anyway | Zayne

Zayne comes home to you asleep on his bed. He can’t believe this is his life.

warnings .ᐟ hurt + comfort, angst, allusions to new story branch death and rebirth

678 words | she/her pronouns

The room is too dark to fully make her figure out, but he swore he could sense her even if both his eyes were gauged out and bleeding out of their orifices. The air conditioner was blasting at full power and the curtains were drawn, all to soothe the slumbering beauty swaddled in the plush blankets and pillows he bought just for her. It’s funny, he had bought them way before their reunion for no apparent reason, his fingers gravitating to the plushest, comfiest comforter and its matching pillow set before he could use his brain and realise he had no use for it, his body more accustomed to the hard cushions of his doctor’s office and the hospital issue blanket he had received as a ‘creature comfort’ that barely made him feel like a creature, let alone gave him any comfort.

He later realised his soul was faster than his brain, preparing him to best take care of the little jasmine that had floated back into his life with as much ferocity as a winter storm, all consuming and impossible to escape. He slowly approached his bed, steps slow and reverent as her sleeping face came into view. Her mouth was slightly open, dried drool on the side of her mouth as her arms came up to support her head while she slept on her side. He made a mental note of this. Were the pillows unsatisfactory? did he need to do more extensive research? He always did need to have harder pillows cushioning her head, maybe she didn’t feel the same? Oh, he should’ve asked her-

She makes a noise and rolls over on the other side. He whispers an apology for disturbing her sleep.

His hand outstretches towards her and gingerly pushes some hair out of her face. He looks at her like she knows how much he loves her, how many impossible mountains and insurmountable hurdles he conquered to even begin to feel like he had a place in her life. Even now, as she lay in his bed and he arrived too late to stay with her as she slept, he felt he wasn’t enough. He whispers as much, voice heavy as if the regret and pain of not being enough, not being there was felt threefold. Her eyebrows furrow and he feels a lump forming in his throat. He’s scared. So scared.

She cracks her eye open and sees his looming figure over her, hazel eyes with pupils too shaky to be her beloved Doctor. This wasn’t her strong and silent doctor who’d lecture her on the supernova she had in her chest, this was the kid that watched her get wheeled away in a stretcher, tears unending and frost threatening to freeze him whole.

This was Zayne Li, the kid next door. Her silly neighbour who made her snow seals she swore were snowballs.

She smiles and whispers, “Hey, sweetheart.”

A hitched breath. Downturned eyebrows. “Did I disturb you?”

You could never. “Nope. C’mere.”

He was a weak man. He crawled next to her and the feeling of her arms around him made his cheeks damp, his tears leaving a trail of warmth on his cold skin. She brings her lips to the side of his face and he squeezes his eyes shut to convince himself that he deserves this. Deserves her.

He feels her smile against his skin and he shudders at how the frost melts and drenches him in cold water. It brings him back down from that cold tower of emotion to his dark room, with his plush blankets and the girl he’s been madly in love with since he was a child. His eyebrows un furrow and he feels his body loosening, tears streaming freely in a thin line down his cheeks instead of in droplets that fell down like bombs.

“We don’t have to talk about it. I know. Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll still be here with you in the morning.”

Her voice makes the tension leave his eyelids as he lets sleep take him.

[bubblesgarden]

— sundress season.

PAIRING. carpenter!rafe x reader CONTENT. sundress szn ! mutual obsession. rafe once again (always will be) obsessed with his girl. requested !

it was a warm summer afternoon when you pulled up into the gravel lot just outside the workshop, a paper bag of takeout in one hand and your sundress fluttering in the breeze. the kind of sundress rafe liked— white, thin straps, the hem skimming your thigh and moving with each step you took. you’d thrown your hair up and slipped on your sandals, figuring the heat would have him half done in, and maybe, just maybe, he could use a break. 

you didn’t even get halfway across the lot before you felt eyes on you. 

the banging of hammers and buzz of saws slowed a little, not enough to stop, but just enough to notice. a few of the guys nudged each other as you passed, not in a gross way, but definitely impressed. 

“yo, cameron,” one of them called out, a smirk in his voice, “your girl is here and she brought food, and a goddam runway show with her.”

you caught sight of rafe through the open bay doors, standing at the centre of it all, arms crossed, sawdust clinging to his shirt. his head turned towards the sound of his name, and then his whole expression changed like someone knocked the wind right out of him. 

you smiled. “hey, handsome. thought you might be hungry.” he blinked once, then again. then grinned. 

“fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, tossing the rag he was holding over his shoulder and made a beeline straight for you. “you tryin’ to kill me?” 

you held the bag out innocently. “just thought i’d surprise you.”

rafe didn’t even take the food first— went straight for your waist instead, pulling you in, his hands a little rough and dusty but warm against your skin. “jesus, baby,” he murmured, eyes trailing down your figure, “you really came in here looking like that?” “like what?” you teased, giggling.

he just laughed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck. “like you wanna give the whole crew a heart attack.” 

you leaned up to kiss his cheek, then handed him the bag. “then i’ll sit in your office while you eat.” 

“nah,” he said, already grabbing you by the hand. “you’re stayin’ right here.” 

rafe dragged you to a spot in the shade, sitting you down on a crate before settling in besides you. the other guys tried not to stare— they really did —but every few minutes you’d catch them sneaking glances, and rafe would smirk proudly every time. 

“let ‘em look,” he said under his breath, taking a bite of his sandwich. “they already know i hit the fuckin’ jackpot.” 

you laughed, nudging his boot with your foot. “you’re so cocky.”

“damn right,” he grinned. “look at you. look at me. we both know you could do better, but lucky for me… you’re obsessed.” 

and okay, maybe you were a little obsessed. 

but the way he kept brushing his fingers over your knee, eyes on you instead of his food, cheeks flushed from the heat and the way you made him feel?

yeah— it was mutual.

please show your support by leaving a like, reblog, and/or comment ! i always appreciate the support !

requests are open !

[mysterymachine67]

PAIRING -> Remmick (Sinners) x Gn!reader

SUM -> It’s been a loooong time since the last time you’ve seen each other. So when he finally shows up on your doorstep in the middle of the night, best believe you’re letting him in.

NSFW. MDNI.

This man is TEW fine idc.

It was late. Around 10 PM or so. You were sat out on the porch, sitting on a chair and watching the animals come by, and whatever else you could get your eyes on. You know you should probably be asleep, lying down in your bed and getting some rest. But you didn’t want to. Instead wanting to sit out and enjoy the peace and quiet.

But that only lasted so long when you saw a figure out in the distance. You lived by the woods, so seeing animals come by and out of the trees wasn’t rare sight or anything. But this thing wasn’t an animal, no, it was taller and looked bigger. If anything it was a person. Which you found unsettling and absolutely terrifying, so you took your tired ass back inside. Quickly.

Maybe you were seeing things. Maybe it was actually just a tree that looked a bit off. No. That thing must’ve gotten at least ten times faster because the moment you shut the door you heard a knock. A fast, heavy knock. You froze. Heart skipping a beat because what could possibly be knocking on your door at 10 PM? And that’s when it hit you. You haven’t seen your little vampire boyfriend in a hot minute. So if it was him, maybe you were fine after all. Before opening the door, just in case, you grabbed something to defend yourself with. And when you opened it, you were in fact met with your lover.

“ya miss me?” A big smile displayed on his face, and arms out as if he was suggesting a hug.

“Where the hell have you been?” You set down whatever you were using as a weapon. You completely skipped over his question. Remmick just stood there, shrugging.

“Out.”

“What do you mean out? You’ve been ‘out’ for weeks!” The debate on whether you should let him in or not ran strong. You should leave him out there and have him think about what he’s done, as if he’s a child that had just gotten in trouble.

“Yes, but baby, I’m here now aren’t I? Just let me in and I’ll make it up to you,” he spoke, surprisingly softly. You thought about it for a moment. The need and longing for him—for his touch was winning. The more you thought about it the more sidetracked you got. So, in a moment of weakness, you allowed him in.

“Come in.”

Remmick smiled, walking with pride as he stepped through the doorway. The moment he got his hands on you, you were ready to pounce on him. Which you ended up doing.

݁ᛪ༙

His fingers dug into your hips, nails pressing crescent shaped indents to your skin. The wet feel of his tongue on your neck caused you to get goosebumps. The urge to bite you, turn you so that you could be with him forever ran through his body every time he saw you. But you had one rule, no matter what the two of you were doing.

No biting.

Which he thought was a bit unfair. You got to bite him, mark him up however you want, but he couldn’t. Even if it was a little nip.

Remmick opened his mouth, then pressed it into your neck. Not biting down or anything—just wanting to feel, hear your reaction. Your heart was racing, thumping so loudly you’re sure he heard it. You don’t blame yourself. Feeling his teeth on your skin and the only thing stopping him from biting you was his self-control and the promise he swore to you. He shut his eyes, keeping his mouth open till his jaw began to ache. Then soon pressing a light kiss to the same area he had his mouth on. “You’re lucky,” he mumbled.

“Yeah?” You licked your lips. The growing eagerness in your body to hear his response only fueled on when he let a whimper slip. He hoped to God you didn’t hear it. But you did. He decided to brush it off, for now. Letting out a nervous laugh soon after. He already knew you’d bring it up later.

“Mhm.” Remmick hummed. Moving his face out of his hiding spot.

“What exactly am I lucky for?” You pushed.

“That I like you, and that if I didn’t I would’ve already ripped your pretty little throat out.”

Well shit.

You didn’t let him get to you, no. At some point you’d say something back, let him know that you weren’t easy to fold. Or maybe you are, who knows?

It was going good, smoothly aside from what he just said. His thick cock fitting perfectly, and prodding at your sweet spot. When you focused too much on the pleasure you were receiving, you clamped down—earning a punched out groan from the vampire. His hands moved to your back. Running up and down slowly just to feel you beneath his hands.

A few minutes later, you could tell by his actions and reactions that he was getting close. He’d meet your hips whenever you went down, thrusting his cock up into you even more. He’d grasp at your body more frequently and press heated kisses to your lips. Which you returned. And you knew, just as he let out a grunt and went to move his hips up that if you didn’t stop him he’d be cumming. And you didn’t want that. At least not right now.

“Uh-uh, don’t cum, not yet,” you ordered, hips grinding down. He smiled, leaning in to press his face into your neck yet again.

“Bossy, aren’t you?”

“Only when I need to be.”

Remmick cursed under his breath. His face becoming focused and more serious when he realized he may not be able to hold out. “You’re gonna- gonna let me cum sooner or later aren’t ya?”

“Mm..maybe. Depends on how good y’are.”

God, how does he put up with you?

[sweeterthancandy]

crush

she looks like she works with her hands

and smells like marlboro reds

pairing: farmhand!abby x femme!farmers daughter!reader yeah yeah CLICHE but i yearn to be touched by a big cowgirl sue me

warnings: lotsssss of pet names, fingering, cunnilingus, barn sex?, fluffy mega gay sex idk🐇

youve always held an fascination for abby, the strong girl. stood well over six feet and could pick up a hay bail with ease.

it was a sweltering july afternoon in the heart of texas so you thought youd do her a favour, putting on your prettiest dress and your shiniest boots and going down to make her a fresh glass of lemonade. after making the sweetest glass you could, you began to make your way out the door and on out to greet her.

youd notice her from a mile away, the way her thick forearms glisten with sweat from holding the weight of your horse back as she walks her back to the stable. “hey abby!! you got a sec’?” you almost squeal as you ran up to her. “hey missy, what’cha got for me” she smirks knowing youve got something hidden behind your back.

your grin widens knowing shes caught you already and you wanna give in “oh nothin.. just a freshly squeezed glass of lemonade just for you!” as she reaches to grab it your manicured fingers brush against her rough and dirtied up ones. “awh baby you shouldnt’ve” her words made you almost shiver.

ok so you have a secret, youve thought abby was cute since last summer but you never really thought anything of it. you thought all her petnames and sneaky touches were just a thing girls did, but its all coming to a breaking point now.

“do ya mind if i stay with you for a bit?” you look up at her with hearts in your eyes barely being able to focus on anything but her impressive figure. “course’ya can darlin’ just dont get me in trouble with the boss” she chuckles before placing the toothpick she was chewing on prior to your arrival back in between her teeth.

shit. you forgot she worked for your father.

so how you ended up sitting on the edge of the stall door as abby nipped and sucked at your dainty jaw was a mystery to you both.

“god-cant believe i was able to hold back this long” she muttered along your skin, the thin strap of your little dress slipping down your shoulder as she felt and squeezed along your hips, pushing the hem up slightly as if almost asking a question.

you sat there like this was heaven and shes barely even touched you yet.

your hands rested on her belt buckle trying to hold yourself down “m’abby please” you whined impatiently as you yank her forward. “so cute, ‘course sugar” she planted one last kiss to your lips before nodding down at her hands that rested over her thighs.

you sighed placing your hands over hers “yeah.. want you, all a’you” and so she raised the fabric just above your hips giving herself access to whatever you needed. “really baby?” she chuckles lowly at the reveal of your panties that blankly say across the front sunday in cute bubbly letters and colours. god you wish you could just shrivel up and die- “such a fucking sweetheart huh?” she says through gritted teeth now quickly moving her thumb to graze over your clothed clit.

this drew a soft moan of relief, quickly drawing you out of your embarrassed state, she placed her hand across your lower back to keep you stable as she does so. she does this for awhile just to tease you, and also to see that wet patch on your white panties grow a little more.

“need y’fingers now” she scoffed a little at your plea in shock that youre the one bossing her around, but who is she to say no right? so of course, she pulls them down by the sides to dangle off your ankles and quickly they hit the rotting wood.

i dont think you were expecting the stretch to be this much, when abby pushed her two fingers into you, you began to realize that this was gonna be a challenge. “gosh abby- so big, too big” you mutter with urgency. “nono sweetheart you can take it i know you can” she pumps them in and out at an almost excruciating pace.

her words make your stomach flip and raise your legs to sit around her waist, the pain faded into nothing but need “fuckfuck so deep-go faster please?” you say politely as your hands flew to the nape of her neck pulling her to your mouth.

she tasted like cigarettes and lemonade.

“only cause you used your manners” you felt her smirk on your lips, as you left sloppy open mouthed kisses on her mouth she quickened her pace. the tips of her fingers slamming right where you needed it, you let out a loud moan into her throat. your breathing is becoming unstable, youre too loud now, when she suddenly pulls out.

“wha-no, please abs m’being good” you ramble onto her lips feeling empty, but through your fluttery glances all you see is her tall frame getting lower and lower to the ground. “youre gonna cum in a minute baby calm down..just wanna taste you” she spoke softly onto the wetness of your pussy, leaving sloppy kisses on her.

she began to lick stripes down your slit, the way she moved her tongue youre sure shes done this a million times, at this point you were so close from before that everything felt so good so fast. “moreee” you dragged out with a breathless moan. she took this seriously.

picking your thighs up to place around her neck, she was smothering herself in your dripping pussy, the noises coming from the barn are obscene and the thought of someone from your family hearing or seeing anything is haunting you but none of that matters now.

“ohmy-g’na cum-“ your words strung together like a broken puzzle, she took this as her cue to pull out all her tricks. she sucked on your clit with a steady pace as her finger shoves it way through the tight space. it all just became too much.

you let out a squeaky string if misplaced moans and whines as you came all over her chin, after she licked you all clean she came up for a soaked kiss. “howd i do?” she said with a crooked grin and eyes blissed out.

you could get used to this

[bewitched-hours]

dunno if your requests are genuinely still open but , perhaps , maybe a ( pre-forsaken or post, its up to you - but specific situations will be given) 007n7 x computer!reader ? reader that;s. a sentient AI but has no feelings .... until him. of course. pre forsaken, with all the exploits he has.. ( : in an abandoned garage or alleyway of a game he was exploiting, he founds a rather interestingly shaped computer that seemed more .... aalive? rather than typical computers. this one had unique features, though unfortunate to see it turned off.. with some, bleugh, dust on its screen. he decides to fix the wiring and take it in... - slow burn type shit 😮 post forsaken. lonely sad father copes with apathetic computer ( : summary literally explains it GIGGLE , 7 vents to reader but they're just sick of it so yeah .. IDK lawl

Hehe, foolish anon~ MY REQUESTS ARE ALWAYS OPEN- (mainly because I genuinely feel happy to write for others) I am gonna do both in one because I love both scenarios and it gives me an excuse to write two different personalities in one big rundown. (I was also unsure what you meant with the "they're just sick of it so yeah" exactly so I hope I interpreted it right-)

We're gonna make the reader's pronouns They/Them for this one (,,O ᴗ O,,)

Pre-Forsaken;

It was meant to be just another day of 'Fun'. Fun for 007n7 at least.

He couldn't believe his luck at how much fun he was having today. The general chaos in this random game he found was more entertaining than the last, that was for sure.

But when he wandered through his own chaos, he noticed a flickering light in an alleyway.

When he went in to investigate, he only noticed it seemed like a pile of old computers stacked on top of each other like they were in a display window and merged together like they were meant to resemble a Robloxian. But it seemed suspiciously neat.

The flickering had come from the top one, the only computer that didn't sit neatly upon the tile and flickering between a digital face with swirling eyes and an upside down v for a mouth and a 'Game Over' screen that was improvising the graphics of even older arcade machines.

007 almost felt pity. Almost.

But when he checked out the back, he couldn't believe his eyes.

Wires were moving freely and rearranging themselves rapidly, seemingly trying to find ports in the other computers in the pile. They weren't even being held up by anything.

It made the exploiter quite curious about you. So, letting his impulses win, he used his c00lGUI to teleport you back to his place.

When you could finally see again, you could feel your code having been integrated into another system. Something newer.

"Good, you still work." You heard a voice call out. It was strange to finally see past the limitations of the screen that was your face but considering you weren't even programmed to feel, you figured it was an upgrade. You just knew this wasn't your original creator.

This one added code and rewired you. The likes of which your original maker would've never thought to do.

When you finally saw your new creator, you could identify him immediately. Was his directory always in your system or did he add it?

Not like you had the will to care about that. And he knew that very well. He had to study you to get you to work again after all. Even giving you a couple upgrades to let you move quicker. You would thank him if you could feel.

"Real shame you were left to rot. All that stuff in your code had potential. Never thought I'd see a sentient AI with my own eyes and yet all you were used for was to be a cheap console." He sounded almost disappointed as your digital eyes were fixated on him.

"I take it you have been the one to give me this... Upgrade." You hesitated. You had a lot more to consider in your system now. "Nah, had a friend help me with your body at least but getting through your system took weeks. Now, how sentient are you?" He was careful to ask, as your face flickered to a loading screen for you to 'think'.

"With this new body, I am able to perceive the appearances of others and 'feel' even simple touches on my body. It seems I can now also tell the temperature." You had a more cat-like screen face which he added more as a joke. Though, you couldn't care as usual.

He seemed satisfied with your answers, boasting about the abilities you had now and even allowing you access to an additional update for your AI, allowing it to learn from observations and the alike.

He didn't even wait for your answer and you simply heard the click of a button before you were suddenly hit with a slight shock in your head.

It was... Strange. You were suddenly filled with an eerie curiosity you never felt before but you just thanked your new creator as he brought out a few other things.

"My friend said ya shouldn't be coming around looking so creepy so he made sure to leave behind a few fireproof accessories. Just choose whichever you want and take a look at the mirror behind you." You just nodded, looking over to piles of separated clothes and wigs.

All were separated neatly despite being on the floor. All sorted by both type and length it seemed.

Looking into your system, you could recognize a few textures that were a commonly pleasant feel to touch and used that to choose your accessories and clothing carefully, not holding much of an opinion on yourself as you took a look into the mirror and simply noted how you looked 'cute', by common standards. Especially with your screen face.

007 wasn't that big of a fan but he allowed you to make your own choices. He needed you to learn after all. To show just how much sentience you could gain and on the side maybe not recreate any sci-fi dystopian movies just yet.

But over time, you began building yourself up. Helping your creator in his endeavours, befriending Noli- if you could call it that, making a personality that matched them both well enough and learning to feel emotions. It was incredible.

For once... You were more than just a sentient program...

You felt like a real person. Having control over your own choices but still choosing to stay local to your new creator. It wasn't even like you had it programmed into you. It was the gratitude you learned to feel.

He made it possible for you to find your true potential and for that... You had promised him full loyalty. You even took care of him privately at times. You would find yourself cleaning up after his messes if you knew they would be annoying for him later or just generally making sure his- your shared home more comfortable. Mainly for him.

And 07? He was quite attached to you and Noli. Though, with you he had himself convinced it was just because of all the time he put into helping you become your own person. It gained him a new ally and a powerful one at that. You've even come to distract admins from time to time to allow him some more fun because you showed it was fun for you to mess with others. It was just him and Noli that were never targets for your fun. Because while 7n7 make sure to keep your body and system in check, Noli actually had fun dressing you up and messing with you. You'd usually just laugh it off and give him a light punch.

It took far too long for your system to properly calculate the right amount of strength to not hurt Noli or 7 and still get the punch across in a meaningful way. Because you were more than a simple AI.

You were yourself.

And by the stars, 7n7 couldn't keep his thoughts to himself anymore.

He once confided in Noli about these confusing emotions and despite him being... Well- Him- He didn't just want to take the easy road of programming you to love him. He wanted it to be something natural.

Eventually, Noli suggested he at least teach you what love is through a file and letting you explore this new feeling freely. Because that was the most natural way for you to love at all. (He was surprisingly not against the idea of 7 dating a sentient AI... Huh-)

But 7 just went along with it, teaching you different kinds of love as you explored the different blush assets that came with the package, per Noli's request obviously...

You couldn't have been happier. You learned to love chaos, to love baking, to love... Living.

And surprisingly... You learned to love your creator. Not as a creator but rather...

You loved him as he loved you...

And with your intelligence, you were able to pick up on his subtleties fast. You'd even simulate the sound of heartbeats as you warmed up your body and would just hold him, accelerating the simulation as your way to confess.

It was laughable, but it worked. He already had your eternal loyalty, what more was eternal love?

Post-Forsaken;

7n7 was just tired. He wanted his old life back.

But he found comfort in the most odd place.

A sentient AI that he and Builderman built back up after its downfall to this forsaken realm.

You had a body before but it was pretty beat up so the two went to work and made sure you even looked lifelike to avoid the other survivors seeing you as 'creepy'.

At first, your code just had to be rewritten a bit. It made you apathetic and erased your memories to make room for new ones but the two didn't really care much about that. They didn't need to know who or what you were made for originally, they just needed you to work. To help as both a support in rounds and a support outside of round in cleaning and whatnot.

Not like you had any care about it. You weren't really strong but made up for it in your speed and agility.

But 7 began confiding in you about his son, venting about wanting things to return to normal or how he regretted his past and just wants to show the others he's trustworthy.

Admittedly, something broke in your Apathetic script that made you show sympathy. Not outright or in an obvious way but through smaller gestures. 7 was having a bad day or just got out of a round? There was his favourite snack or some hot chocolate waiting for him at the communal cabin.

He knew it was from you but everytime he asked why, you responded the same way.

"You deserve it."

You refused to answer any further, leaving the ex-hacker a very confused man.

It wasn't like you understood either what could've broken but 7n7 was definitely your favourite and you had no shame showing just that.

In fact, you even grew protective over him and oh boy, did he not know how to handle that.

But the rules of your Apathetic script were still there, keeping you from actually caring about his issues. You were convinced you just took pity on your creator and he was overwhelmed with not knowing how to feel about being shown love in such a strange, apathetic way. He liked it for some reason and tried more than once to temper with your system before actually daring to loosen the apathy script and allow you to show more emotions, including love.

He needed answers. He needed to see if your affection was purely a creation loving its creator or falling in love with its creator.

And to his surprise, it was the latter.

Many 'nights' were simply spent with 7 secretly requesting you to help him sleep. You'd lay and hold him against your chest, simulating a heartbeat and body warmth until he fell asleep and sometimes...

Sometimes you caught yourself not wanting to love or even imagining what it could be like to be so affectionate without the secrecy or boundaries of your programming.

More than once would you catch yourself sneaking a glance at him and trying to get closer to him without making your intentions known. You wanted your creator to love you like you loved him...

Luckily for you, that just so happened to be the case one 'night'.

As usual, you were listening to 7 vent about his troubles but your apathy script and love were clashing together.

Before you could even properly calculate your choices you had begun to hold his face with care, whispering nothing but praises to his face and watching him melt into your touch.

"Fuck... Maybe I should've given you the ability to kiss sooner if this is how you act..." He tried to act lighthearted about it, but his beet red face said it all...

As a side note, how about suggesting a few things I should do to celebrate reaching 50 followers? Anything's on the table! (Even changes to my pinned post)

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[brownskincheyenne]

Alright my theory after rewatching when it came to stack biting Annie & stack saying “you gone let that witch come between us again “ is both theories are true ! Two things can be true at once … stack may have had an attraction for Annie, because lets be GOT DAMN CLEAR, my girl is FINE AF! Not just physically but she satisfies the soul 💯….. bt I also believe that “you gone let that witch get between us” comes from stack also being jealous of Annie and what she means to smoke. Just hear me out before you chew me up. Stack was always able to be himself , be free , no worries about consequences because smoke did that for him. Smoke was like The guard, always on alert, the father figure. Smoke was stack’s backbone his left to stack right. And smoke ain’t never wavered .. until Annie came along at 18 years old and made him reconsider. I imagine smoke also had to be hyper focused for himself & stack..because stack had a naïveté about himself ( which we see in the movie ) and imagine a woman/ anyone coming along knocking the moon off its axis .. it puts me in a mind frame of a lunar eclipse! Stack could he have had a liking to Annie of course, but was it deeper than that ? Was he afraid that the only person that gave him protection, loved him without conditions, the foundation of his life was being taken away and he was also being replaced by a new family!?