#I had to Google that I only had the stupid sound in my head but not the word

[piastriprincess]

somethin' stupid  ⸻  isack  hadjar  x  reader  .

featuring  isack  hadjar  ,  friends  to  lovers  ,  university  au  ,  isack  being  a  down  bad  simp  ,  very  rusty  french  and  google  translated  italian  <3 word  count  9.5k author’s  note  literally  no  one  asked  for  this  but  i’ve  been  obsessed  with  isack  lately  and  this  is  the  result  !  loosely  based  off  a  poem  i  read  a  million  years  ago  on  this  website  called '8 ways to say i love you' .  unfortunately  you  truly  never  escape  what  you  thought  was  romantic  at  age  13  !  dedicating  this  one  to  @spiderbeam —  eve  ,  thank  you  for  getting  me  into  this  man  in  the  first  place  .  i  fear  you  have  my  heart  and  all  my  isack  fics  <3  as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  ,  it  helps  me  so  much  to  get  feedback  from  you  all  about  what  you  like  and  don’t  like  !  title  is  from  somethin’  stupid  by  frank  sinatra  .

one: spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot of whiskey you downed for courage. feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.

Isack is forgetting something. He has to be. Because even through a hangover that feels like a jackhammer pounding directly into his skull, there is still an awful tugging in the back of his mind, like his brain is trying to remind him about something vitally important. 

He rolls over, squinting at the harsh morning light filtering through the blinds, to discover he never made it to bed. No, his face is pressed against the scratchy cushions of the living room couch, mouth dry and tasting vaguely like rum and regret. 

Rum. He blinks hard, a memory swimming up through the haze in his head — Pepe returning from his first class of syllabus week last night with a brown paper bag in hand and a devilish smile on his face. He’d claimed one of his fellow comms majors had told him if you mixed Rum Chata with Fireball, it tasted exactly like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Isack didn’t even like sweet drinks, but that was your favorite cereal, so of course he had to try it, if only so he could tell you about it the next day. 

He groans and pushes himself upright, immediately regretting the sudden movement as the room spins around him. There’s a concerning stain on the worn carpet that wasn’t there the night before, and Ollie’s shoes are swinging lazily by their laces from the ceiling fan. The thought of you is stirring something in his brain, too. You hadn’t been there the night before — despite the fact that it was the first week of class, your thermodynamics professor had assigned you a particularly vicious problem set due at midnight — but you’d wormed your way into his drunken mind anyway. It happens more often than not, he supposes. Gabi’s put together a slideshow montage of all his intoxicated rambles declaring you the most perfect girl in the world that he’s started threatening to play for you if Isack doesn’t make a move before graduation. 

He’s still thinking about you when his phone buzzes from somewhere below him. He has to dig through the couch cushions, shoving aside loose change and a half-eaten sleeve of Triscuits before his fingers close around it. The screen has a thin, jagged crack across it that wasn’t there the night before, but he can still make out the notification from you on his lockscreen:

daily grind at 10:15? senior year deserves an extra special treat, i’m buying :~)

That must be what he had forgotten. Your coffee tradition. Rain or shine, hungover or sober, you always met at the Daily Grind for complicated sugary drinks before your first class of the semester. It was one of the few things in your friendship that was undeniably sacred. 

He glances up at the time. 10:13. Merde. He’s already dialing your number, rehearsing an apology in his head and a promise to be there as soon as he can, but the phone stops ringing and he gets your voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me. Obviously I don’t have my phone right now, but leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you! Or you can just text me like a normal person.”

Oh. Oh no. No no no no no.

Hearing your voicemail message — now that is familiar in the worst way. A sick wave rolls through his stomach, part hangover and part nauseous realization that drunk Isack might have done something really, really stupid. He winces, pulling up his call history, already half-knowing what he’ll find. 

Sure enough, there’s one outgoing call to you at 1:54 AM, and the memory clicks into place like the final piece of last night’s twisted puzzle. 

��Hiii,” he’d slurred into the phone, head lolling against the sofa. “C’est Isack. I — you know that, obviously. Your phone probably told you that! I’m — I’m drunk. And I wish you were here tonight. Wish you were here every night, en fait, but especially tonight. Pepe made Cinnamon Toast Crunch but, like, drinks. I know it’s your favorite and — you would have loved everything about it! As much as I love everything about you. I love your laugh, I love your face, I looooove you. Putain. I am going to regret this tomorrow.” With that he’d hung up the phone, immensely pleased with himself, and fallen asleep. 

Well, drunk Isack had been right about one thing, at least. Sober Isack is definitely regretting it. He’s been trying to figure out how to tell you that he likes you basically since he met you, and now he’s gone and done it in the most ridiculous way possible. 

His stomach twists, and it’s definitely not the hangover this time. It’s too late to cancel. You’re probably already there, sitting at your usual table by the window and ordering him something disgustingly sweet. He has no other option but to show up.

His mind fills with increasing dread as he gets ready. He considers faking his own death, but that seems like it might raise more questions than it answers. Plus, his friends would probably find a way to resurrect him just to kill him again for being such a total coward.

“You look like shit, Hadjar,” you say cheerfully as he stumbles into the seat across from you fifteen minutes after you’d agreed to meet. His hair is still damp from the world’s fastest shower, dark sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes. 

He smiles shakily back at you as you slide a coffee that looks like diabetes waiting to happen across the table to him. You’re acting surprisingly normal for someone whose best friend crooned a love confession into their voicemail in the middle of the night. Maybe you hadn’t even listened to it. Maybe you thought it was a butt-dial and deleted the entire thing. “Blame Pepe. He got me hammered last night.”

“I’ll excuse the lateness just this once,” you reply, face breaking into the smile that’s been ruining his life since freshman year. “Was it worth it?” 

“Jury’s still out,” he says, taking a cautious sip of his drink. As he predicted, it’s absolutely revolting, a sugar rush in a cup. “Mon dieu, this is disgusting,” he groans. “What the hell is it?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch latte,” you say, biting your lip, and Isack spits coffee all over the table between you. 

He’s still spluttering when you start talking again, eyes fixed on the table between you. “Look, I know you were drunk when you left that message,” you say, twisting a strand of hair around your finger, “and I know drunk people say stupid things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, heart sinking into his stomach. He had meant it, he thinks, but he’ll let you draw the incorrect conclusion if it makes you happier. If it means he gets to keep being your friend, to keep you in his life in whatever way you’ll allow. 

“So I’m not going to hold the whole ‘I love you’ thing against you. But if you really love my face, you should probably ask it out on a date, or something.” 

His head snaps up, almost too afraid to believe he heard you right. “Vraiment?”

“Vraiment,” you confirm, flicking a gaze up at him. Your eyes are bright, hopeful. “Do you want to take my face out, or what?”

You take a sip of your coffee like you’re trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing, but you’re drumming your fingers against the cup the way you always do when you’re in your own head. You’re nervous, Isack realizes. You want this as much as he does.

“I really want to take your face out,” he says, voice hoarse, and you just smile. 

You both finish your coffee, and afterwards he walks you to the engineering building for your class. Since it seems to be a good day for getting what he wants, he holds your hand as you go. He’s only hoping to brush against your palm, to feel the electric buzz of your skin against his, but instead you weave your fingers into his, squeeze his hand tight. 

When he looks down at your hand, intertwined with his, he’s already thinking about how he can say it to you again without fucking it all up. 

two: sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy. 

“Okay, seriously, if you laugh at me, I’m gonna break up with you,” you say, voice muffled behind the bathroom door, and the butterflies erupt in Isack’s chest all over again.

The first date had gone well. Better than well. It had gone kind of flawlessly, actually. So Isack took you on a second. Then a third. It’s wonderful — he keeps expecting you to say no, to say you’ve made a huge mistake and you’re better off as friends, but it’s been nearly two months now and you just keep matching his level of enthusiasm.

Your first Halloween together is no different. Halloweekend has always been a blur of mixers and parties spent side-by-side with you, so Isack wasn’t expecting anything new now that you were officially together. But you’d asked him one night a few weeks ago during a study session, ankle twisting around his under the kitchen table, what couples costume the two of you would be wearing this year. Isack had been so thrilled by the idea that you would publicly identify yourself as his girl that every single cheesy couples costume he’d ever seen over the years had flown out of his mind completely. He’d locked eyes with the vintage Mercedes poster he’d hung on their living room wall, and to his absolute horror, blurted “Brocedes,” which even to his lovesick mind sounded like the stupidest thing he’d ever said.

To his unending delight, however, you’d agreed without a second thought. Which is how he finds himself dressed as Lewis Hamilton in a Mercedes race suit and a Pirelli cap, waiting for his Nico to work up the courage to make her way out of the bathroom.

“I’m not going to laugh,” he assures you, teal sneakers squeaking against the floor as he wipes his palms on the suit. “Come on, mon coeur. Let me see.”

The door creaks open hesitantly, and there you are, the fluorescent bathroom light framing you from behind. Your hair is slicked back, tousled just so. The white suit hugs your body, and you have it unzipped just low enough to show off the soft line of your collarbones and the swell of your chest. 

Isack’s eyes drag down your body, unable to tear his gaze away from you. You’re unreal. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. It’s pretty much the only word he remembers at this point. 

You lean against the door frame, glossed lips curling into a soft smile. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think we’re going to be late to this party,” Isack says, voice rough around the edges. 

He crosses the room in two strides, pulling you into him by your hips. You loop your arms around his neck, threading your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and when you tilt your head up to kiss him, it feels like his world is exploding into a million pieces.

He still hasn’t figured out a better way to tell you how he feels about you. It’s strange, in a way; before you started dating, the situation felt wildly romantic in his head, like something straight out of those chick flicks you watch religiously and he pretends not to like. Two friends, madly in love with each other without having the nerve to admit it. Your relationship, though it was practically perfect in every other way, had complicated things. Isack wants to be the guy who sweeps you off your feet, not the creep who tells you he loves you after a month and a half. 

But now, with his teeth scraping impatiently against your collarbone and you breathing his name into his ear like it’s a prayer, he can’t imagine not saying something. It escalates quickly, as it always does with the two of you: he’s hauled you up onto the edge of the sink, and your legs wrap around his waist as he drags his mouth back up your neck to meet your lips. You taste like your strawberry lip gloss, and when you slot your tongue into his mouth it makes his head spin.

“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth. It’s caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, just a sound you could mistake for pleasure if you weren’t listening closely. You don’t react, just kiss him again so deeply he feels he might drown in it. A small noise escapes the back of your throat, one he wants to make you replicate over and over again, and he’s sure then that you didn’t hear him.

It’s probably for the best. He wants to be sure that when he does work up the courage, you’ll know, and there will be nothing to keep you from believing him. Not alcohol, not desperation, not the heat of a perfect, stolen moment. So he presses the words into the column of your neck, murmurs them into the cut of your collarbone. He traces hard little hearts into your hips with his thumbs. Your suit begins to slip off your shoulders, exposing the teal strap of your bra, and Isack thinks he might have legitimately died and gone to heaven.

That is, until the door swings open behind him with a dramatic bang. 

“Che schifo,” Kimi yelps, scandalized, covering his eyes with his hands. “Isack, your room is right there.”

You pull back from Isack, a laugh bubbling in your throat as you hike your costume back up your shoulder. Your gloss is smudged, cheeks flushed pink, and Isack thinks he’s never seen you look so beautiful, even if he does want to melt into the floor tiles right about now. 

“Sorry, Kimi,” you chirp, not even having the decency to look flustered. “Isack got so turned on by the thought of Brocedes that he just had to have me.”

“I did not,” Isack protests, cheeks scarlet. “Kimi, we were just —”

“This is a communal bathroom, Isack,” his roommate interrupts, frowning. “Don’t get me wrong, I am happy you two finally figured it out, but… we wash our hands in that sink.”

“You’re a menace,” Isack hisses under his breath to you, and you giggle, smoothing your hair.

“We’re late anyway,” you grin, hopping off the sink. “Don’t worry, Kimi, won’t happen again.”

He lets you pull him out of the bathroom, watching as Kimi closes the door behind you. “We can pick that back up later somewhere with a little more privacy,” you whisper into his ear, and he stumbles over his own feet. It’s embarrassing the way he can tell his eyes are lighting up at your words. He sends a small thank you to the universe that the fabric of the costume is thick. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles as he watches you walk to the door, hips swaying. “I’m definitely holding you to that.”

three: whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. maybe you were just sleep whispering.

The bed feels far too narrow to fit the both of you, the old-fashioned radiator in your room is clanking so loudly he’s worried it might explode, Isack’s arm is going numb where it’s trapped under your head, and there is absolutely no place he’d rather be.

He’d picked you up at the airport earlier that day — your flight was meant to land in the afternoon, but he’d shown up nearly forty minutes early, pacing excitedly around baggage claim until you descended down the escalator. You were wearing the hoodie you’d stolen from him before winter break and your biggest smile, and you’d jumped into his arms with such force that he’d dropped the homemade welcome sign he’d made, poster board fluttering to the floor. 

Since then, he’s been pretending personal space is a concept he’s never heard of. Hand on your thigh in the car, an arm around your waist as he carries your suitcase into your apartment, fingers tracing through your hair as you lay in bed curled into his chest. He can’t keep his hands off you. It’s as if the two of you were separated for three years, not three weeks.

“You’re unusually quiet,” you observe, one leg thrown lazily over his waist as you scroll through TikTok. 

“Just thinking,” he shrugs, flicking his eyes over your screen. You’re watching one of those kitchen restock videos you like, the light of your screen illuminating your face in the dark room.  

“Dangerous activity for you,” you tease, eyes bright. He grabs your waist and pulls you in, blowing a raspberry into your neck and laughing as you squeal and squirm away from him. “What’s on your mind, Hadjar?”

What’s really on his mind is how warm and comfortable he feels with you, how the sharp, persistent ache in his chest that he’d been feeling since winter break started has finally subsided now that he’s back in your presence. “How I survived three weeks without you hogging all the blankets,” he says instead. 

You gasp and narrow your eyes, but there’s no heat to it. “I do not hog the blankets,” you protest, pulling more of the comforter towards you.

“Sure,” he counters, pulling it back. “And I don’t have the shin bruises to prove that you’re also a sleep-kicker.”

“Those could be from anything,” you say primly. He gives you a look of pure disbelief, and you both dissolve into giggles, foreheads pressing against each other. 

Before leaving for winter break, he’d thought that everything would feel the same way it did when you were just friends. Despite the different time zones, the two of you had managed to talk every day — texts about everything from the prize he won in a Christmas cracker to the dog at your New Year’s party wearing a sparkly hat to his mom’s endless questions about when his copine would visit Paris. It was nice. He was happy, but it wasn’t enough. Not like it used to be. 

When you were friends, even in the years that he’d harbored his frankly all-encompassing crush on you, missing you had been manageable, a dull ache he could soothe with a voice memo or a quick call. But this had been different. Deeper. More essential to his being, somehow.

Every time he slid into his childhood bed, he’d glance over at the empty pillow and be struck with the visceral feeling that you should be there. He’d caught himself saving up stories to tell you, photographing random things because he knew they'd make you laugh, declining invitations from his lycée friends because he'd rather spend the evening talking to you than going out. You’d fallen asleep twice during your marathon daily FaceTimes, and both times Isack had stayed on the line just to listen to you breathe, feeling foolish and smitten and wondering when exactly you’d managed to make yourself feel like home to him. 

Suddenly worried that he won’t be able to keep himself from saying exactly that, Isack breaks the laughter with a clearly fake, very loud snore. 

“Baby,” you giggle, poking him in the side as the radiator clangs particularly violently. “Stop. I’m trying to sleep.” 

There’s some level of truth to that; it’s nearly 2 AM, and the two of you have been curled up in your bed since the early evening. But clearly, neither of you have been trying very hard to actually rest, too excited to be with each other again to let your eyes close. 

“You have a funny way of showing it,” he huffs, pressing a kiss into your temple. “You’ve been talking for, like, hours.”

“Fine,” you reply haughtily, wrinkling your nose up at him. “Look at me, totally asleep.” With that, you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, eyelashes fluttering against his skin, and go silent. 

He listens to the slow rhythm of your breathing, feels the way your chest rises and falls against him. He wants to follow you into sleep, but it’s evading him. There’s something playing on his mind — the thought that with every day he spends with you, he’s falling deeper into something he only thought he understood before. He’d been so sure he loved you back then, but this is something else entirely.

Maybe it’s the darkness, or the feeling of you in his arms again, but he’s feeling bold. “Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair. And then you sigh, snuggling closer into his hoodie with a soft, instinctive movement. 

Isack freezes, heart hammering against his ribs, and slams his eyes shut like he can pretend he’s sleep-whispering. Counts the seconds between your exhales until he’s convinced your movement was a coincidence, and he can bide his time some more.  

When he says it for real, you’ll be so blown away by how suave and gorgeous and charming he is that you won’t hesitate to say it back.

four: buy her flowers. buy her chocolate. buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and Isack has a plan. He’s been thinking about it for weeks. He made a reservation in advance at Maison de Lumière, the only restaurant near campus that required anything more than jeans and a sweatshirt. It had taken three calls and a small bribe to one of the hostesses, but he’d finally managed to secure a table. He didn’t have a suit, so he’d had to borrow Gabi’s. It’s miles too big and hangs loosely off his frame, making him look a little bit like a kid playing dress-up in his dad’s closet. He bought flowers — not from the grocery store, but real long-stem red roses wrapped in pink tissue paper that cost more than his weekly laundry budget. He’d even picked up a heart-shaped box of chocolates from the campus bookstore, at the last minute throwing a little stuffed bear into his cart that he almost immediately regretted. 

None of it is his vibe, really. He’s not used to grand romantic gestures. But you deserve everything he’s planned and more, even if it does make him feel a little ridiculous and out of place. And maybe, if everything goes absolutely perfectly, tonight can be the night that Isack finally tells you he loves you.

That is, until you get to the restaurant, and he realizes this is going to be a total disaster. 

You look so beautiful that Isack trips over his feet multiple times trying to open the door for you. Then you’re seated at a table by the window, which should feel romantic but really feels like the two of you are on display. There are several sets of silverware on the table for some reason, and the glasses are heavy crystal that Isack is afraid to touch. The bear sits on the windowsill like a fuzzy chaperone, its glassy eyes staring at you.

The waiter drops off menus in thick leather folders, giving you a ten-minute explanation of the special holiday prix fixe menu. Isack orders the cheapest wine on the list, and the waiter scoffs but obliges. When he finally leaves the two of you alone, silence weighs on the table like an uncomfortably heavy blanket. 

“So,” you say, drumming your fingers against the stem of your water glass. 

“So,” he agrees, trailing off. 

Then the two of you speak at the same time:

“This place is —”

“You look really —”

You laugh, but it’s not your laugh, the familiar sound that makes Isack’s heart flip. It’s stilted, forced. “Sorry, I was just going to say this place is… nice.”

“Thanks,” he says politely, straightening his tie for the fifteenth time, but he can’t keep the frown off his face. Nice. It’s careful. It’s a word designed to be meaningless, to hide how uncomfortable you are, and Isack can feel his perfectly planned night slipping through his fingers. 

It’s torture. Actual, literal torture. In three years of friendship and seven months of dating, you’ve never run out of things to say to each other. You talk constantly about classes and professors and the weird guy in your freshman dorm who collected vintage lunch boxes and whether aliens existed and what you’d do if you won the lottery. You flirt ridiculously and tease each other relentlessly. You send each other stupid memes at 2 AM and argue about linear algebra with the kind of intensity that comes from finding your mental match in another person. 

But tonight, surrounded by white linen and overpriced menu items and the soft classical music whispering from hidden speakers, Isack has nothing. He takes a sip of the wine, immediately wincing at the taste. 

“Isack,” you say gently, touching his wrist across the table as he forces a swallow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… this sucks, right?”

He blinks. “What?”

“This,” you say, waving your hand through the air at the restaurant, the pristine tablecloth, the overly perfumed candle flickering between you. “All of this. We both hate this. This isn’t us.”

For the first time all night, Isack feels like he can actually breathe. “Yes. Mon dieu, yes. This is horrible. The wine is horrible. I thought I was the only one.”

“No,” you laugh, and it finally sounds real. “You’re definitely not the only one. The waiter keeps looking at me like I’m going to smuggle the silverware out in my purse.”

He snorts, pulling at his tie until it loosens around his neck. “I’m so sorry, mon coeur. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted to give you the Valentine’s Day you deserve, something fancy and romantic and —”

“Awkward and uncomfortable and completely wrong for us?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “That.”

“I love that you wanted to do something special,” you say, and Isack’s brain short-circuits somewhere around hearing the second word of your sentence. “But I don’t deserve all this. I deserve you. The real you, not whatever tie-wearing, wine-drinking version of you that you think is going to impress me.”

You love that he wanted to do something special. Love. It’s the perfect opening. Three simple words that had been circling in his head for months, waiting for the right moment to be dropped. 

He opens his mouth to speak, finally working up the courage to say exactly what the entire night is for, but you beat him to the punch. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

A half hour later, the two of you are pressed shoulder to shoulder on the hood of Isack’s beat-up Honda with a twenty piece nugget box and two Slurpees between you. Your dress is hiked up around your thighs, bare leg pressed against his, the stuffed bear sitting in your lap.

You lean your head against his shoulder, taking a long sip of your Slurpee. “Next year, maybe let’s skip the fancy restaurant.”

“No complaints on that,” he allows, taking a bite of a nugget. “That bottle of wine basically wiped out our date budget for the rest of the semester, by the way.”

You laugh as the cool February wind picks up, and without thinking Isack takes off Gabi’s jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders. You smile up at him, makeup smudged slightly at the corners of your eyes. “Now that’s romance. Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.”

Isack sighs happily, wrapping his arm around you. He’d spent so long planning what he thought was the perfect night. The flowers, the chocolates, the overpriced dinner, the teddy bear, all because that’s what movies and romance novels and r/Relationship_Advice said you were supposed to do when you loved someone.

But now, with chicken nugget crumbs on his fingers and the taste of blue raspberry in his mouth and your laugh still echoing in the crisp air of the parking lot, he thinks maybe it’s this.

five: blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. when time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.

There aren’t many rules Isack has for your relationship. Why bother, when everything is perfect without them? It’s not like you need a set date night, since you hang out with each other all the time anyway. He likes PDA. He would rather die than tell you who you could or couldn’t talk to, and he thinks you’d probably laugh in his face if he tried. Your relationship has always been one guided by what feels right in the moment, and Isack feels awfully right pretty much every time you’re around him. 

There is only one rule set in stone: the Infinite Playlist. A certain list of songs, subject to additions but never subtractions, that the two of you are forever required to dance to. It had started before you were dating, back when Isack would have taken any excuse to watch you smile, to have a private moment with you. Your relationship only solidified the tradition. It doesn’t matter where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. The first few notes of a song would play, and the two of you would drop everything to dance to it. 

“What Makes You Beautiful” comes on in the grocery store aisle? Ditch the cart, because the two of you are finding an area open enough to perform your fully choreographed routine. “Alors On Danse” plays at a frat party? Hopefully you aren’t talking to anyone important, because that conversation is coming to a swift end. 

Normally, Isack loves the Infinite Playlist. Today, he wishes Lando had played anything else.

It’s a classic, unseasonably warm day, the first one of the spring semester. It feels like everyone on campus is outside, textbooks open to pages they won’t read and Frisbees cutting lazy arcs through the air. Your friends are sprawled on picnic blankets on the lawns, idly chatting. Maya and Chloe are passing around a thermos of jungle juice. Ollie has his laptop out, allegedly to work on his thesis, but he’s mostly just scrolling through his Spotify queue.

You’re sitting under a gnarled old oak tree, back stiff against the rough bark and knees pulled into your chest. Isack settles on the grass about ten feet away, trying to make eye contact with you, but you are very deliberately avoiding his gaze, pretending to be absorbed in your multivariable notes. The air between you is charged with all the things you’d said to each other three days ago, heavy with all the silence that had settled between you since.

The argument hadn’t been anyone’s fault, really — just a silly miscommunication, something that should have ended fast and early. But you almost never fought, and you weren’t used to it, both too stubborn to back down and admit it was stupid so you could move on. Halfway through the argument, Isack had said something careless, something that stung, and you’d stormed out of his house with flushed cheeks and teary eyes. Now, everything is tense and uncertain between the two of you, too quiet and too sharp. 

You’re still pointedly ignoring him when Lando pushes Ollie away from the laptop, proclaiming loudly that he absolutely needs to hear a certain song before the sun sets. Seconds later, the telltale bassline of “Get Low” starts blasting through the speakers, and Isack’s stomach drops. You may have been in a fight, but unfortunately, the Infinite Playlist hadn’t gotten the memo.

His gaze snaps to you, instinct winning out over pride. When you slowly lift your eyes from the papers in your hands, he feels a little surge of hope in his chest. After a second of uncertainty, he stands, finding an empty strip of grass, and motions you over. 

He wants to make you laugh. He wants to be over the top, or ridiculously bad, or anything that will break through the stoniness in your face. 

Slowly, almost too slowly, you warm up. When he tries the Sprinkler, you barely look at him, just tapping your toe against the grass. He Dougies, and you move a little bit closer. By the time he resorts to the Shopping Cart, you’ve loosened up enough to give him a snort of laughter. He reaches his hand out, and you take it, letting him twirl you straight into his arms.

“Je suis désolé,” he mumbles into your ear, holding you against him.  

There’s a pause, where you don’t say a word. “‘M sorry, too,” you sigh, and the relief that rolls through him is overwhelming. “That was so stupid.”

“So stupid,” he agrees, dipping you just because he can, because you’re talking to him and the world feels right again. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

You giggle as he drops you, pulls you up again. “Me neither. Let’s not do it again, yeah?”

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, as you grin like the last three days of cold shoulder could melt away just from the sheer force of your smile. “Deal.”

You rest your hands lazily on his shoulders, moving your body against his, and he presses a kiss to your neck. “Missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, hoping you know he doesn’t just mean the dancing. 

“Missed you,” you retort, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your cheeks are pink from the sun, eyes bright, and his chest feels very tight suddenly. 

“I love you,” he blurts, and the relief he’s feeling shifts immediately to horror when you falter, feet slipping in the grass as you look up at him, something awestruck in your eyes. Before you have the chance to respond, he pulls you in by your hips, flush to his body.  “—r sweet moves,” he finishes lamely, heart pounding in his chest. “I love them. Very classy, mon coeur.”

You laugh brightly, squirming against him. “Classier when you aren’t trying to grind on me, Hadjar.” 

You don’t say that you love him, not then. The moment had passed. His cowardice had made sure of that. But he feels your eyes on him still, warm and hopeful, and he knows that another song, another moment will come soon enough.

six: write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival mr. darcy’s. debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? in her coat pocket? throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. let her wonder if you meant it.

By the third morning of spring break, Isack starts thinking about forever. 

The beach rental is chaotic, to say the least — eight twenty-somethings in three bedrooms with one working bathroom, Maya and Gabi holding backflip contests off the porch into the deep end of the pool, an ever-growing pile of sandy towels that no one wants to take to the laundry. 

It’s also kind of perfect, though, mostly because Isack gets to wake up every morning in a room with you. The sheets are mismatched and smell a little like the sea, and the bed is practically child-sized, barely big enough for the two of you to fit. But none of that matters as much as the fact that every time he wakes up, your legs are tangled into his, face mashed into his chest, hogging the entire comforter with your hand curled over his waist like you’d reached for him in the middle of the night and refused to let go. 

It feels like playing house, at first. But then Isack starts letting himself imagine a world beyond the crappy Airbnb, a future where he never has to start his mornings any other way, and the domesticity of it all is doing something frankly dangerous to his heart.

So he writes.

It’s not supposed to be anything serious, at first. Just a way to get all the feelings out, scrawled into the back of his physics notebook and kept to himself. But the words keep coming, looping over themselves as he tries to put shape to the feeling in his chest. 

Mon coeur,

We’ve been together for almost eight months now, and I keep thinking I should have said this already. I’ve been trying to find the perfect moment, the perfect words, practically since we started dating. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe there is no perfect way to tell your girlfriend that she’s the most important thing in your life. 

There’s this thing in physics I’ve been thinking about a lot called quantum entanglement. You probably know the concept, but in case you don’t, subatomic particles can get magically tied together, and when they do, each particle’s quantum state can’t ever be described again without the other. The particles’ fates get inextricably linked together, no matter how far away they are from each other.

I think I’m entangled with you, mon coeur, because I can’t see a future without you in it anymore. I want to wake up with you every morning, no matter how many times you kick me in the shins while you sleep. I want our toothbrushes to keep sitting next to each other on the counter. I want to keep dancing in the kitchen with you to the Infinite Playlist. I want to keep hearing you try to speak French to me. I want to keep making fun of your terrible French. I want to keep thinking about forever with you in a way that should scare me, but doesn’t at all. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is I love you. Je t’aime. In English, in French, in whatever language you want to hear it in. 

He reads it over three times, stomach churning. It sounds pathetic, desperate, like something from a lovesick teenager and not a very mature twenty-year-old who really should have figured out how to express this to you by now. 

But it’s also true. Every word of it. 

“Baby, get down here!” your voice floats up the stairs, and Isack rips the paper out of the notebook and shoves it into the pocket of his shorts frantically, like somehow you’ll be able to see it from a floor below him. He heads downstairs, where chaos is already in full swing. Pepe is chopping up what feels like a thousand oranges for mimosas, and for some reason, there’s batter on the ceiling. 

“Thank god, our resident Parisian is awake,” you say, reaching for him as soon as he enters the kitchen. “Do you know how to make French toast? Because Chloe’s vision is not translating into reality.”

The letter feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket all day. He keeps looking for the right moment — nearly gives it to you on the beach while you’re reading, before Kimi interrupts to show you the shells he’d collected. He thinks about sliding it over the dashboard as he watches you drive into the town center for groceries, singing along to Fleetwood Mac with the windows rolled down so you can smell the salt air. Maybe he can leave it somewhere you’d find it by accident, like a secret saved just for you.

On the other hand, the thought of you actually reading it kind of makes him want to throw up. 

When he tries to get rid of it, though, he can’t quite do that either. It feels like he’s crumpling up your relationship, all the things he knows he loves about you. So in the end, he settles for leaving it in the kitchen trash, neatly folded on top of an empty twelve-pack box and stained popsicle sticks, content in the knowledge that he has more time to figure out how to say everything he feels. 

You’re all on the porch outside when shit goes sideways. The sun is beating down, your legs draped lazily over Isack’s lap as you play Uno with the boys. Gabi’s just won, and he’s being unbearably annoying about the whole thing.

“Alright, I should take out the trash before we make dinner,” you say absentmindedly, putting down your cards and unfolding yourself out of your chair, sauntering inside. 

Isack doesn’t quite register the danger at first. Then it hits him. The trash. His letter. Your name on the front, scrawled unmistakably in Isack’s handwriting. He jolts upright so fast his chair tips over behind him.

“Merde,” he mutters, already scrambling across the deck, splinters digging into his feet. He shoulders past Ollie in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears so loud in nearly drowns out the chorus of confused voices behind him.

By the time he gets to the kitchen, breathing hard as if he’s just run a marathon, you’ve already found it. You’re holding the letter gingerly between two fingers, like you’ve picked it off the top of the trash, and Isack is so unbelievably fucked. 

“Did you mean to throw this away?” you say, voice unsteady.

“I —” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair roughly. “It’s, um, nothing. Just trash. Yeah.”

After he finishes stammering through the world’s worst explanation, you look at him for a long moment. Then at the letter. Then back at him. 

“Okay,” you say quietly, and drop the letter in the trash without unfolding it. You tie the bag off, pulling it out of the can, and walk out the side door without a backward glance. Isack stands in the kitchen, listening to the door creak shut behind you with the sinking feeling he’s just made a big mistake.

Dinner, predictably, is loud, full of overlapping conversations and splinters off the old patio furniture. Isack barely hears any of it. You’re sitting beside him, laughing at the story Gabi is telling about the guy next door and his snorkel mask, but there’s a tightness to your smile that hasn’t gone away.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t act weird. You still steal bites of pizza off his plate and brush your fingers over his knee when you reach for your Coke bottle. But he’s known you long enough to know you’re still thinking about it, to know he hasn’t gotten off the hook just yet. 

“Just tell me one thing,” you say later in bed, voice soft and a little hesitant, fingers tapping against his thigh. “Was it something bad? About me?”

Isack stiffens, rolling over to look at you with wide, panicked eyes. “No, mon coeur,” he says gently. “No, never. Je te le promets.”

You nod slowly, biting your lip. “Okay. I trust you, I just — sorry, I just keep thinking about it. What would you write and then throw away?”

You’re looking up at him like you know what the letter said, or maybe like you hope you know, and the air between you turns sharp with potential. He wants to tell you. The words are right there, crowding at the tip of his tongue. He opens his mouth, and then he closes it again.

He’s scared. Scared that if you don’t feel the same, it’ll all fall apart. Scared that if you do, it’ll make everything real.

“It was nothing important,” he lies, and pretends not to notice the way your face falls just a little.

seven: wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. tell her with your hands shaking.

“Latte for Isack?”

The Daily Grind churns with the desperate energy of finals week, the scent of stress nearly overpowering the espresso aroma, but Isack keeps pushing his way through the college-age customers hunched over their laptops with dark circles under their eyes. Your robotics exam started just about three hours ago, which means you’ll be stumbling out of the engineering building any minute now. With any luck, Isack will be there with a coffee for you, ready to hear all about it. He’s planning his Best Boyfriend Ever acceptance speech in his head already. 

He picks up the cup from the barista, at the last minute buys one of those lavender honey scones you always stare at through the display counter but never purchase because “twelve dollars for a pastry is capitalism at its worst, Isack, even if it does taste like it’s made by a baby angel.” He doesn’t have the money for it, not really, but imagining the excitement on your face when you see the bag is enough to have him forking over his credit card. His bank account is crying, but some things are worth being broke for. 

He’s just across the street from the engineering building when students begin streaming out like survivors escaping a shipwreck. He scans the crowd until he spots you, hair piled on top of your head messily and shoulders slumped. Still beautiful, even after an hours-long grueling exam. He holds up the bag, knowing you’ll see it before you see him, and your entire face lights up, exhaustion melting into relief. 

“Baby, what are you doing here?” you laugh, hands cupped around your mouth so he can hear you across the street. You’re half-jogging towards him in your eagerness, entirely focused on him and the promise of comfort he represents. So focused, in fact, that Isack sees the cab before you do, the yellow blur cutting through the intersection headed directly for you.

Isack freezes. He tries to scream, to warn you, anything, but the sound dies in his throat. In the entire universe, the only thing that matters is the ear-achingly loud honk of the horn and the startled look on your face. 

You, thankfully, don’t freeze like him. You jump back, cab just kissing the edge of your shin, backpack swinging through the air and clattering back against your side. 

The car doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even slow down. The whole thing is over in a second. But to Isack, the second stretches forever, and in it he can see everything that could have happened, the way his life could have split open in a single, terrible instant.

You stare after the car, dazed, and Isack is moving before his brain can catch up with his body. Not to you, not at first — he’s running halfway up the street, screaming obscenities after the car’s receding tail lights in rapid French about the driver’s ugly mother, the size of his dick, and how terrible he is at pleasuring his partner. 

“Hey. Hey, Isack, it’s okay.” You catch up to him, place a hand on his arm, gently, and all the rage inside of him snaps. 

“Ce n’est pas bien!” His hands are trembling, something hot pricking at the back of his eyes. “He could have killed you.”

“It was my fault,” you say softly. 

Isack pulls you into a tight, desperate hug. He can’t stop seeing it every time he blinks: the cab’s tires squealing on the street, your sneakers jumping back, the bumper brushing against your leg.

He buries a hand in your hair, no doubt filling it with snarls and tangles, and breathes in the familiar, warm scent of your shampoo. His cheeks feel wet, for some reason. “He should have been more careful. Il aurait pu te tuer. You could have died.”

“I didn’t die,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and soothingly stroking his shoulders. “I’m okay, Isack.”

“You could have died. I could have lost you,” he repeats, and the words come out horribly strangled thinking about the prospect of a world without you in it. No more forcing him to taste-test your seasonal lattes. No more watching stupid Netflix romcoms because they make you laugh. No more slow dancing in his kitchen, swallowing your laughter with kisses when he steps on your toes. It wouldn’t be a life worth having.

“I love you,” he sobs into your hair. “Je t’aime, et tu aurais pu mourir. I love you.”

You run your hands through his hair, holding him as tightly as he’s holding you. “Isack, babe, you have to breathe. It’s fine. I’m right here, mon coeur.” Your accent is as terrible as ever, but you’re solid and breathing and alive against him, and he lets out a rattling gasp. “See? I’m right here. I’m okay.” 

“Right,” he croaks, voice hoarse as he tries to catch his breath. “You’re here. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you confirm. “Everything is okay. I know you’re panicking, but I’m fine. You don’t have to be scared. I’m right here.”

“Okay,” he breathes after a moment, pulling back and slowly disentangling himself from you, even as every molecule in his body protests at the distance.

You wipe your thumb gently over his cheekbones, brushing away the tears, and he presses his face against your hand like a cat. Desperately seeking your affection, your touch, any reminder that you’re still here with him. You smile at him, wobbly but real. “What’s in the bag?”

“Scone,” he manages to choke out. He’d nearly forgotten he had the bag at all. It’s ridiculously crumpled, fuchsia paper crushed between white knuckles. His fingers ache when he unclenches them. 

“Really?” you ask. “The one from Daily Grind? Baby, you didn’t. That’s so sweet! You know I love those. Can we go back to my room and split it?” Even though he can tell you’re rambling, trying to distract him, your smile is enough to make him forget a little bit. So he sniffles and lets you lead him across campus, rubbing soothing circles into his palm the entire way home. 

It’s not until later in your room, watching Star Wars and eating his half of the scone as you comb your fingers through his hair, that Isack realizes you didn’t tell him you love him too. You assumed he was panicking, which was true, but it didn’t make the feelings any less real.

He loves you, and you don’t believe him.

eight: say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. do not adorn it with extra words like “i think” or “i might.” do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “i love you too.”

The air smells like champagne and summer. Graduation day is a blur — sweaty hugs on the lawn, too-bright flash photos where at least one of you is sure to be mid-blink, parents crying as they watch their kids grow up. 

Isack cheers, stomping his feet wildly, as you cross the stage to receive your diploma, tassels blowing in the breeze and smiling into the crowd megawatt-bright. After the ceremony, Ollie pops a mini bottle of champagne and nearly takes out his macroeconomics professor with the cork. Kimi runs a lap around the quad, Doriane screaming bloody murder on his shoulders. Pepe cries twice, once because the dean mispronounced his name during the ceremony and again when Isack presents him with a photo of the two of them from freshman year move-in day, all gawky limbs and awkward smiles.

The party starts as soon as your caps hit the ground. Isack’s house is spilling over with friends who don’t want to say goodbye just yet, dancing barefoot on the patchy backyard grass with beers sweating in their hands. There’s music pulsing through an overamped speaker, loud laughter echoing between the trees. You sit on his lap on the leaning porch steps, sipping from a Solo cup and pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek when Chloe takes a Polaroid of the two of you. It comes out a little blurry, but Isack slips it into his phone case anyway. 

By the time afternoon bleeds into evening, the two of you slip away from the party, too full of sentimentality to be around anyone except each other. For once, Isack doesn’t have a plan in mind, too content with your hand in his as you walk one last slow loop around campus. The brick paths you’ve worn down over four long years. The benches you’d studied on outside the dining hall, trading smuggled cookies with your head in his lap. The hill you’d sledded down together freshman year, when Isack took one look at your flushed cheeks and pretty smile and realized what he was feeling wasn’t just friendship.

“Oh, the fountain!” you cry delightedly, tugging his hand hard towards the stately stone fixture as you near the main quad. It’s a campus tradition, passed down through generations of sleep-deprived undergrads. Legend has it if you jump into the fountain with your sweetheart, you’ll always find your way back to each other. “Isack, we have to do it, come on.”

You set off across the quad, barefoot and heels swinging from your fingertips, but Isack stays, because every single place on this campus is a memory that leads back to you, and he starts to have the feeling that this very moment is what it’s all been building to all along. 

“Mon coeur?” he calls out from behind you, hands shaking in his pockets. When you turn back to look at him, the setting sun is painting your skin golden, the sleeves of your gown billowing in the wind, and it takes all the breath out of his body. Four years of friendship, nearly a year of dating, and you still have the ability to make time stop for him. 

“Yeah?” you ask, tilting your head with a curious expression, and he knows. 

“I love you.” 

He doesn’t say it drunk, or panicking, or praying for you not to really hear it, or with the desperation of someone trying to stop the clock. He says it with the quiet certainty of someone who’s been waiting way too long.

“I know,” you say, eyes sparkling. He waits for you to continue, heart in his throat, but you just grin smugly at him. 

“Non,” he shakes his head as he walks towards you, smiling despite himself. “Not fair. You cannot pull a Han Solo unless your life is at stake. Actually, you cannot pull a Han Solo at all —”

You swallow his outrage with a kiss, pulling him in by the tie and knocking his cap askew. “I love you too,” you say against his lips, as his hands come to rest on your hips. “Really.”

“I know,” Isack breathes out, dizzy with it, as he tugs you towards the fountain. “Really.”

The fountain isn’t deep, water only reaching to mid-calf. But it’s shockingly cold for a June day, the spray raising goosebumps on Isack’s arms. You shriek with laughter as you follow him in. “Oh god. Not one of my best ideas,” you gasp at the sudden chill, the hem of your gown trailing in the water around you. 

“What do you mean?” he grins, pulling you so close he can see the water droplets on your lashes. “It was a perfect idea. Now we’ll always find our way back to each other.”

You loop your arms around his neck, pressing up on your toes and kissing the corner of his mouth. “That would imply I’m planning on losing you in the first place,” you say, and Isack is hit with a wave of affection so strong it nearly makes his knees buckle.

“I love you,” he breathes out again, spinning you in a slow circle. “I’ve been wanting to say it for so long.”

You crinkle your nose at him, grinning ridiculously. “I love you too. But why didn’t you?”

“I was trying to plan out the right moment,” he admits.

And then, almost shyly:

“Turns out any moment with you is the right one.”

[littletrashpile]

Can I just say I’m really proud of myself for being totally honest even though it hurts. My throat hurts a lot, but I feel very… free. I’m finding relief in this honesty, this full expression of myself in a place that’s all my own. I’m not, what’s it called, censoring myself and limiting my words, wants, and wemotions. Hehe I made myself laugh.

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

Hard Launching ∘°∘♡∘°∘

Summary: lando and y/n wanted to hard launch their relationship after dating secretly for a while. lando finds the perfect way to do so.

☘ ln x reader ✧˖*°࿐

☘ fluff + humour ✧˖*°࿐

masterlist ☾☼

lando and y/n had been discussing for a while about hard launching their relationship. they had managed to keep it out of the media for an entire season, but the media liked to paint lando as a villain, in more ways than one. not only were they attacking his skills on track, they began collecting pictures of lando with women, no matter how many years ago, and publishing them with articles about him being a womanizer.

the funniest ones were the pictures of lando and her sister out on some bonding time. reading those articles always made y/n laughed, and she would be lying if she said that she didn’t have them bookmarked in her browser for a pick me up when she was having a bad day.

at first, they had thought of doing a simple post with a cheesy caption. enough to let the fans knows that he was off the market again. but, it also felt kind of boring, and that was not lando or y/n’s style.

they discussed it for weeks, looking at different social media websites for inspiration, until it struck lando. scrolling through instagram, he’d found the perfect way to hard launch his relationship with his girlfriend.

when y/n asked him, he said, “you’ll just have to wait like the rest of the world, my love. but, i know you’re going to love it.”

y/n waited, just like he had told her to. she waited for two months, until one day, in the middle of her work, she received the instagram notification of lando posting and tagging her. this was the moment, y/n thought.

opening instagram, she found a reel, instead of a post or a story like she assumed. quickly, wearing her airpods, y/n clicked on the reel, increasing the volume in the background.

the reel opened with someone recording lando as he walked, head down and concentrated. the person recording said, “excuse me, what are you listening to right now?”

lando took out one of his airpods, and said, “my girlfriend yapping,” and then walked away.

the reel immediately cut to different instances of y/n talking and lando patiently listening. they were all sped up videos, and y/n watched her animated hands as she ranted, and lando listening, changing his position every so often. the music in the background was a lively, jaunty sound, and it fit so well with the reel.

there were a series of videos, from their home, from the paddock, from conference rooms where they were waiting for zak, or even from the gym where lando worked out, and y/n basically followed him, still talking his ear off. there were multiple videos of them on facetime as well, or screenshots of their hour - hour and half long conversations.

y/n laughed. it truly was the perfect way for lando to hard launch their relationship. it described them perfectly, if she did say so herself.

scrolling through the comments, she saw a lot of fans crying that he was a taken man now. she saw some saying things like, “this is the realest representation of a relationship.” there were some hate comments too, but they were stupid, so she ignored them.

she commented on the post as well, typing, “wait till i send you a 20 minute voice note on my lunch break” to which lando immediately responded with, “can’t wait, i got my airpods and my phone fully charged”

y/n laughed again, opening her text messaging app, and sending a quick “i love you this was perfect” to her boyfriend.

·̩̩̥͙＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊·̩̩̥͙

hi! i hope you guys enjoyed this! it came to me while i was driving to college! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday

[wordsofwhimsy]

─✧ 𝒞𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂 𝒐𝒓 𝑹𝒐𝒕 ✧═

Pairing: Retro!Mark Grayson x fReader

Warnings: None

Tags: Slow burn

Word Count: 2,007

Synopsis: You were the glossed-up, diamond-dripping queen of his empire—the only thing he ever treated gently in a world he tore to shreds. But lately? You’ve been feeling more like an afterthought than royalty. So after two many fights, you finally do what no one else in the multiverse dares: You leave.

You don’t slam the door.

You don’t scream.

You just roll your tiny suitcase across the marble floor like it’s a runway and you’re doing a final walkout in six-inch heels and Chanel gloss. And he—he—is standing there in the doorway like the apocalypse showed up early.

“Where the hell are you going?”

You adjust your sunglasses. Indoors. “Out.”

His jaw clenches. That stupid perfect jaw, carved like it was meant to be clenched. The goggles are still on his face even though he’s home now, but you can feel his eyes boring into you like lasers through your mini skirt.

“Out,” he repeats, voice low. Dangerous. “You’re not serious.”

You scoop your Pomeranian into one arm, brush a fleck of lint off your jacket. “Baby, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says, low and cold, like the threat isn’t in his words but buried under them. “What are you even mad about?”

You pivot halfway, just enough to flash him a smile so sweet it curdles.

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe the fact that I haven’t seen you in eight days? Maybe the part where I had to Google whether you were dead or dismembered because you’re too busy playing Mortal Kombat with alternate versions of yourself to answer a damn text?”

He flinches. Just barely. But you catch it. And it gives you just enough juice to keep going.

“Or maybe,” you hum, adjusting your grip on your suitcase handle, “it’s the fact that the only person who touches me lately is my nail tech.”

His jaw tightens so hard it pops.

You step into the elevator like it’s a throne room. Gaze straight ahead. Not giving him the dignity of one last look. Not until—

“Stop.”

His voice hits you like a gunshot.

You turn, slowly.

He’s halfway to you. Gloved hands clenched at his sides, goggles still hiding everything but the rage. That seething, helpless, desperate fury that only ever comes out when you remind him you’re not his possession.

“You leave,” he says through his teeth, “and I’ll find you. Doesn’t matter where you go. Doesn’t matter who you’re with. You think someone else can give you what I can?”

You shrug. Innocent. Airy. Theatrical.

“I mean… maybe not the private jet,” you say, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “But, like, I don’t need that. I could be happy with something simple.”

He laughs. Short, bitter, and sharp. The goggles tilt as he shakes his head.

“Oh, sure. Something simple.” His tone is mocking at this point. “Like what? A two-bedroom condo in the suburbs? Sunday Target runs with some guy named Brad who drives a hybrid and calls you ‘babe’ while he loads organic groceries into the back of his Prius?”

Your smile widens. “Sounds kinda cute.”

His hands curl into fists.

You press on, basking in it now. “Maybe I’ll get a desk job. Something stable. Quiet. We’ll get a golden retriever. Host wine nights. I’ll get really into throw pillows.”

He steps forward. One slow, heavy footfall that makes the elevator creak.

“You. Wouldn’t. Last. A week.”

You giggle, like he’s complimented you. “You think I’m too high maintenance?”

“I think you’re full of shit,” he snaps. “You wake up in silk sheets. You don’t even own a microwave. You once cried because a hotel didn’t have truffle fries on the room service menu.”

“That was an emotionally vulnerable day,” you sniff, wounded. “And I missed lunch.”

He’s pacing now. Eyes blazing behind the goggles. Voice rising just enough to make the little dog in your arm tuck its ears.

“You don’t want ‘normal.’ You want worship. You want someone to carry your bags and buy you diamonds and treat you like a goddamn princess every minute of the day.”

You tilt your head, batting your lashes. “And yet here I am—unloved, underfucked, and walking out the door.”

The elevator shudders when he slams a hand against the wall.

You don’t flinch.

Because you know him. You built this man. And you’re the only thing in this universe he’d never lay a hand on—except to hold.

His voice is lower now. Hoarse.

“Tell me what you want.”

You meet his gaze, your own voice suddenly smaller. But not weak.

“Just you,” you whisper. “All of you. Not this half-assed, war-hungry ghost version that flies in and out like I’m some layover between battles.”

And that’s when you see it. The crack. Right behind the lenses. In his posture. In his chest. Like someone just took a crowbar to the armor and he didn’t even try to stop it.

His shoulders drop, just slightly. A breath punches out of him, and you can see it all now—the fear. The confusion. The twisted little knot of boyhood grief and grown man rage all tangled up behind those stupid silver goggles.

You’d feel bad for him, maybe. If it weren’t always you left holding the pieces.

“If you want me,” you say, soft but sure, “then act like it.”

You wait. He doesn’t move. So you nod. Just once. Like you’re sealing something off inside yourself.

Then you step back, gripping the handle of your suitcase before rolling it over the threshold of that elevator like it’s the closing shot of a music video.

“You’re not really going,” he says.

You pause. Turn just enough for him to see your beautiful lips curve upward—quiet, worn, and finally tired.

“I wasn’t really staying.”

The elevator doors begin to slide shut.

He lunges again—but it’s too late.

Too slow. It had to be intentional, didn’t?

The last thing you see is his silhouette.

Tall. Still. Lost.

The last thing he sees is you.

Gloss poppin’. Heels sharp. Gone.

—

TWO WEEKS LATER…

The walls are beige. The countertops? Granite. There’s a bowl of decorative lemons on the table and a man named Kevin humming while he washes wine glasses.

You’re in hell.

You sip from your oversized glass of “locally sourced” white wine and stare out the patio window of Kevin’s perfectly normal condo. It’s got a view of the community pool and a sad little grill he’s “meaning to use more often.” There’s an HOA newsletter on the fridge.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Kevin walks up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist like he’s done it a million times (it’s been four days), and nuzzles into your hair.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I’ve been thinking... maybe we could hit that couples’ painting class I told you about. You said you like art, right?”

You smile. The kind that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That sounds… sweet.”

Kill me, you think.

And outside? Just out of view? Hovering mid-air in a hoodie and not even a shirt?

Mark is watching. More wrecked than ever.

He’s been watching.

Every date.

Every dinner.

Every saccharine little handhold.

At first, he figured you'd come running back. Wait it out. Miss the lifestyle. Miss him.

But now?

You're wearing sundresses. Laughing at jokes. Acting like some housewife version of the woman he built a goddamn empire around.

It was driving him insane.

And tonight, you see him.

It’s subtle—a flicker of movement past the glass, a shadow too fast to be a bird. And you know. You feel it.

He’s here.

You straighten.

Fix your gloss.

And turn around like a woman with a mission.

“Kev, babe?”

He perks up immediately. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You straddle his lap with the type of pointed purpose that would be obvious to anyone but him. Slow. Sultry. Ridiculous.

His eyes go wide.

“Thought you said you wanted art,” you purr, cupping his face. “Wanna paint a memory?”

Outside?

Mark’s already punched through the side of the building.

CRASH.

The drywall explodes in a burst of dust and splinters, sending Kevin yelping backwards so fast the recliner tips over. Your Pomeranian screams like a tea kettle from his little bed in the corner.

You stay exactly where you are—legs crossed on the couch, unbothered.

“Oh,” you say casually, blowing gently on your wine. “You found me.”

Mark steps through the wreckage like he owns it. Sweats flapping. Hair tousled. Chest bare and dusted with drywall. He doesn’t look at Kevin. Doesn’t even acknowledge him.

Just stares at you.

“You done playing house?” he says, low.

You raise your glass. “You gonna pick up the tab for the wall?”

He’s at your side in a blink. Not touching—but close enough that the air between you goes electric.

“You think this is funny?”

You sip. “A little.”

Kevin, somehow still alive, makes a sound like he’s trying to find his spine. “Hey—what the hell is your problem, man?! You can’t just—”

Mark turns his head once.

One slow, deliberate look.

Kevin’s mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth click.

“Go take a walk,” Mark says without even looking at him again. “Take your lemons with you.”

Kevin doesn’t argue.

The door shuts behind him a second later, and now it’s just the two of you. Well—three, counting the dog, who is absolutely trembling under a decorative throw pillow.

Mark doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands there like he might self-combust.

“You wanted me here,” he says. “Didn’t you?”

You set your wine down. Smooth your skirt. Meet his eyes. “I wanted you to care.”

“I’ve always cared.”

“Then show it.” Silence hangs for a moment, and you’re looking at him with an expectation to deliver.

He doesn’t disappoint,

“I tore a guy’s face off last week because he used your name like he knew you.”

You smirk. So pretty.

“...hot.”

Mark’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like a threat disguised as one.

“Come home,” he says.

You lean back, slow and deliberate. Cross your legs. Rest an arm on the couch behind you like this was just a casual discussion.

“And what happens if I don’t?”

He takes one step forward. Still not touching. But close enough for you to feel the warmth rolling off his skin.

“Then I stay,” he says. “I’ll sit right here. Watch every night you kiss him like you mean it. Watch every fake little laugh. I’ll rot this whole building if I have to.”

You stare at him, a quiet moment passing before you feel your  nostrils flare. You explode.

“NO!” Your hands fling up, all but levitating off the couch as you stomp your heel into the ground.

“NO, no, no, no, NO—what the actual hell, Mark?! That’s not what I wanted!”

His brows knit under the goggles. “You just said—”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID,” you screech, jumping to your feet and pacing in tiny rage laps. “But you’re supposed to be, like… mister tough guy!!” You whirl around and jab a finger into his bare chest. “CLAIM ME, DAMN IT! I’m not your ex, your coworker, your emotional support idiot—I’m the love of your psychotic little LIFE and you’re over here acting like I’m furniture you’re emotionally attached to!!”

He opens his mouth, but you barrel on before he can get anything out. “I left so you’d get MAD! So you’d come tear the sky apart looking for me! So you’d crash through a window and kiss me like you own me! Not sit in my ugly little rental like a depressed raccoon with boundary issues!”

“I broke the wall—”

“THAT’S BASELINE BEHAVIOR FOR YOU.”

Mark just stares at you. Then, slowly… that deranged little smile starts to stretch. “You wanted me to drag you back by your hair,” he says, low.

You throw your hands up. “YES!! Preferably onto a private jet, but I would’ve settled for a rooftop!”

He takes one step forward.

You step back.

He steps again.

You back up right into the arm of the couch—and stop.

“You really want that?” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You want… the worst of it?”

You swallow. “…Yes.”

Then his hands are on you.

[solarsturniolo]

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: in which Matt is failing his classes and at risk of having to repeat the semester, and his tutor is the reason behind it.

𝕯𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗: This is a collaborative story that me and another person started on, but I was given permission to edit and continue it, and I am in charge of it now :) All characters in this story are of age. None of the characters are minors. All previous parts are linked beneath the word count.

𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: cursing / smut / switch!matt / switch!fem reader / male masturbation / wet dreams / use of good boy / virgin!matt / p in v / oral (fem receiving) / oral (male receiving) / overstimulation / breeding kink / praise kink / mommy kink / scenes mentioning anxiety

𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝕮𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 8145

Previous parts: Intro / One / Two / Three / Four

X O X O X O

No lights glowed outside as Matt slowed to a stop, gravel crunching under the van tires. The house seemed empty and devoid of life. He opened his phone and checked the message again - 1209 Cherokee Parks - I’m in the right place…

She started typing and his breath hitched in his throat. Does she know that I’m here? How could she know that? Was she watching for me? Waiting for me??

Come around the back it’s unlocked. 

His heart thundered as Matt turned off the engine and stepped out of the car, pressing the button on his key fob, the car chirping in the silence that surrounded the neighborhood like a cozy blanket on a cool evening. He flinched, the sound breaking that silence, and he made a beeline for her house, or more so the shadows to keep from linking himself to the late night disturbance. A privacy fence ran the length of the sidewalk but it didn’t take him long to find the gate, and less time to slip through it, the rusty hinges groaning softly as he pushed the wooden door open. He made sure to secure the door shut, taking the time to lock it properly.  

“Get inside.”

He jolted, whipping around to meet her face to face, but his heart thundered as all he was met with was the eerie shadows of the night. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, terrified by the voice from the darkness. She stepped out of a shadowed doorway and tilted her head inward. “Come on.” The moonlight glimmered in her eyes, her hair reflecting beams of hazy gray light. Her face held no emotion, and Matt swallowed. He was in a lot of trouble, and he knew it. 

Matt obeyed, silent as the grave. How do you apologize to someone for…what I did? ‘Hey sorry I’m a horny freak with zero self-control, hope we can still be friends so my grades don’t plummet and my life doesn’t blow up in flames’. As he silently monologued, she led him through a maze of hallways and furniture, graceful and careless all at once. She stepped through a door, ushered him in, and closed it behind her. Matt realized three fundamental truths simultaneously.

One, he was in her bedroom. Two, she was in her bedroom. And the most important of the three, she and Matt were in her bedroom at the exact same time. Together.

This was an illuminating half-second for Matthew Bernard Sturniolo.

Looking around her room, Matt’s eyes flickered between the butterfly tapestries, pulled straight from a fantasy, to a basket of laundry on the floor. A pair of panties lay atop it, pink and soft-looking. What material is that? Silk? Matt blushed a deep shade of embarrassed, but she didn't even notice. “Sit,” she said, settling on the bed and opening her laptop. “Work.”

Matt took a deep breath. “Please, I’m so-”

“Finish your paper. Then talk.”

Matt knew there was only one option. He logged into his Google account on her laptop, pulling up the google doc that he had spent the past week working on. It should have been completed hours earlier, with her sitting across from him or even possibly beside him, laughing at something stupid he had said. But instead she stood there with her arms crossed over her chest, an unimpressed look on her face. Matt’s stomach twisted up, an ache growing in his side. He got right to work, not wanting to waste a single second. Each moment he had right now was precious. And every moment that he could save by bullshitting the rest of his paper, meant more time being spent on her. Apologizing to her. Begging for her forgiveness. Pleading for her to give him one more chance. To prove that he wasn’t this perverted creep with no self control…

The minutes passed quietly, with her music playing somewhere in the background. He liked her taste - a mix of artists he enjoyed and music he’d never heard, but liked in the moment. He wanted to ask if he could download one of her playlists. He figured that could be a conversation for later.

 She got up at one point to let her cat in, and Matt paused for a moment to reach out a hand. With signature feline airs, the animal ignored him completely, her fabulously fluffy tail flicking at him as she turned away from him. The cat rubbed up against her ankle, meowing softly. Shrugging, he returned to his paper. Matt’s focus kept slipping, but the desperate need to explain himself—to somehow apologize to her—pushed him on. Within the hour, he’d cobbled together something vaguely resembling an essay, or at least a rambling apology wrapped in questionable punctuation.

“Okay, I’m done.” Matt leaned back, straightening out of the hunch he’d assumed.

She beckoned with her hand, and he bashfully passed the laptop to her, remembering how this very same interaction had played out mere hours before. If she recalled anything similar, she didn’t show it. She read over his essay in total silence. 

With nothing to occupy his brain, Matt looked quietly around the room once more. Fucking laundry basket, he growled inwardly, trying his damndest to avoid even a glimpse at the underwear lying atop it. What does it look like on her? Does it go up to her waist on the edges or does it sit right on the side of her hips? His cock stiffened at almost the speed of light, and Matt grasped the nearby pillow, subtly moving it to his lap. The brisk friction caused a jolt of pleasure to burst through his synapses, and he mentally cursed himself for choosing to wear sweatpants. The first rule in the goddamn book: NEVER wear sweatpants unless you know they’re coming off. He pressed the cushion down with a little more force, desperate to conceal his, now fully loaded, weapon. 

She reached the end of his work and gave a nod. “It’s fine.” Her tone was unimpressed. Almost…bored?

“Okay. I mean, is there anything I need to-”

“Get up.”

“Huh?”

“Up.” She waved once with her hand, brows raised in dawning incredulity.

Matt hesitated, his fingers clenching around the frilly pink pillowcase. He laughed nervously, running a hand through his disheveled hair.  

“I really don’t think you want that…”

He smoothed out his shirt, nervous energy sparking through him - he wondered what in the world she was doing. He refused to meet her gaze, already knowing that his cheeks were the same bright red as the tip of his aching cock. Humiliation swirled around him, and Matt began to drown in it.

“Matt,” she warned.

Matt finally looked at her and he sighed. He shoved his hands into his pockets, adjusting himself subtly, before standing up and looking at her, shame written across his face. He knew what was coming, and he needed to brace himself for it.

Here it comes. ‘Matt, you’re a disgusting perverted creep and I never want to see you again. I told everyone what you did, and everyone else thinks you’re a gross hormonal pig too. You should look into being homeschooled, it’s not like you’ll be making it to graduation with your grades anyways.’ 

She took a deep breath and began to speak. “You freaked me out today. I wasn’t expecting to see porn on your laptop, much less porn like... that. I mean, everyone has their own tastes but I just…didn’t expect that from you.” She rambled, running her fingers through her hair, a rosy tint rising to her cheeks. 

Matt’s eyebrows furrowed as he processed what she had said, an unfamiliar feeling bubbling in his stomach. “You had expectations about the porn I like?”

Strangely, she began to stumble over her words, the blush deepening in her soft skin. “N-No, I just- I just meant that-”

Matt interrupted her abruptly. “Listen, I’m really sorry that I made you uncomfortable, I seriously didn’t mean to, I want to keep my grades up so I graduate on time, and I just-” he sighed. “I’ve been under a lot of pressure, I keep beating myself up over every little thing I do, because all I keep doing is messing things up. I never wanted to put you in that position, I feel like a fucking pervert, I know how uncomfortable it made you and I’m so-”

She cut him off with a series of words that stunned him into speechlessness. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. You made me curious.”

Matt blinked. She continued.

Her fingers began to fiddle with her hair, twisting it around before inevitably untwisting it. “I’ve never met a guy that watches porn like that… usually they just want…I dunno…crazy stuff,” she said, moving her laptop to the other side of the bed, allowing her to sit down on her bed. Her eyes never left him, staring straight through him. She licked her lips slowly, Matt was almost sure she was doing it on purpose, and his dick twitched in his pants. He prayed that she hadn’t been able to see it. Her gaze finally released him, her eyes now admiring the elaborate pattern of pinks and whites on her bedding, her fingers toying with the pillowcase that Matt had previously been using. Her eyelashes fluttered, and suddenly her eyes met his again. “But now there’s some stuff I wanna try.”

Matt choked on nothing but the air in his lungs, his breath catching like it had betrayed him. He took a step back without meaning to, as if distance might shield him from whatever this was—this impossible kindness radiating off her like sunlight on a grave.

This is a trap. You know it’s a trap. No sane person would act like this—not after what he did. Not after the damage he left behind. She should be furious. She should be a storm. She should be tearing into him with words sharpened by rage, calling him names he wouldn’t even contest. He wants that—no, he needs it. He needs her hatred to make sense of his guilt; needs her cruelty to validate the punishment he’s already been living on a loop in his mind.

She should be shouting while he drops to his knees, not in some grand gesture, but because the weight of his shame makes standing feel dishonest. She should mock him while he agrees with every insult, letting her reduce him, rename him, strip him of even the illusion of redemption. He would take it—gladly, greedily—because maybe then he could believe there’s still a chance to make things right. Maybe then, her disgust would feel like attention. Maybe then, he could stop trying to claw his way back into her life through every waking thought.

But instead, she stood there—calm, composed, unreadable—and it terrified him. Because kindness felt like a trick. Forgiveness felt like a lie. And worst of all, some pathetic part of him still hoped it wasn’t.

Her voice sliced clean through the noise in his head. “Apologize to me, Matthew,” she said, softly—almost tenderly. Her lashes lowered, veiling her eyes like she already knew exactly how this would go. “Apologize, and do it properly.”

The calm in her voice wasn't mercy—it was precision. She didn’t need to raise her voice. He was already unraveling, and she was offering him the privilege of obedience. Her gentleness wasn’t forgiveness; it was power wrapped in silk, and he felt it coil around his throat like a ribbon.

Matt didn’t want to believe his ears. He must have misheard her—twisted her words into something they weren’t, something he wanted too badly to trust. She couldn’t have meant what he thought she meant. No. Impossible. This had to be a test. A cruel, careful test. She wanted him to prove himself—to piece back together what he’d shattered. That was all this was. It had to be.

Because the alternative made no sense. Because the alternative terrified him. Because in what universe would she still want him?

And yet, even as doubt gnawed at his mind, she kept looking up at him—silent, composed, unblinking. Her lashes cast delicate shadows across her cheeks, and her fingers toyed absently with the frilled edge of the pillowcase, twisting it with a slowness that felt almost rehearsed. Purposeful. Effortlessly cruel.

She didn’t need to speak again. Her eyes said everything: she knew. She knew he was already unraveling. She knew she had him. And worst of all—she knew he would give her whatever she asked.

Because he was hers. Not in some romantic, poetic way, but in the raw, desperate sense of a man who had already surrendered, clinging to the hope that his suffering might somehow still earn him a place beside her again.

At her feet, if that’s where she wanted him.

His throat constricted painfully, a ragged, desperate gulp tearing free like a silent scream trapped inside him. The weight of her seriousness crashed into him with the force of a tidal wave, relentless and inescapable, washing away every fragile hope he’d built. She was serious. Dead serious. “Yes, ma’am,” he croaked, voice cracking under the unbearable pressure, knees shaking like fragile glass ready to shatter beneath his weight. Each trembling step toward the bed was a surrender, a leaf caught in a storm, drawn irresistibly closer to the fierce eye of the hurricane—her.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he sank to his knees, eyes locked fiercely on hers, drinking in every flicker, every shadow, as if tracing constellations in the dark expanse of her soul. His lips parted just enough to steal in a breath, fragile and trembling, like a moth hovering at the edge of a flame, knowing full well the danger but unable to pull away. His entire body was a live wire of longing and reverence, humming with the electric ache of finally standing—or rather kneeling—before the sun that had burned its mark into his heart.

His heart thundered so loud it threatened to burst through his ribs, pounding out a frantic rhythm like war drums signaling surrender and devotion all at once. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined this moment would come—never thought she’d glance his way, let alone allow him to be this close, kneeling here like a pilgrim before a cathedral of light and shadow. His pulse hammered in his ears as every breath he took was a prayer, every inch of him aching to dissolve into her gravity, to be swallowed whole by the orbit of her presence.

He steadied his breath, forcing himself to meet her gaze through thick lashes, the air between them crackling like charged lightning—an invisible current pulling him deeper into her spell. And then, voice raw and trembling, he whispered, “Is it okay if I…”

“If you what?” Her smile bloomed slow and lethal, but all Matt could feel was the wildfire raging inside him—an uncontrollable blaze that scorched reason and left only raw nerves exposed. His heart was a cage of frantic wings beating against bone, desperate to escape but trapped by the weight of everything he wanted and feared. Her voice—soft, teasing—cut through the storm in his chest like a blade, leaving him shattered and aching in its wake.

His cheeks burned with a shame so fierce it threatened to drown him, a shame tangled with a desperate hunger he barely understood himself. Every glance she cast his way was a flame that stripped him bare, exposing all the cracks he’d hidden beneath layers of doubt and guarded hope. He was caught in the pull of her gravity—helpless, unraveling, utterly undone—each heartbeat a battle between longing and fear, between wanting to rise and knowing he could only fall.

He knelt there, trembling beneath her gaze, lost in the chaos of his own making—an electric storm of need and vulnerability, worship and self-doubt, burning brighter than he could bear. And in that silence thick with unspoken truths, he realized he was no longer in control. She was the storm, and he was nothing but a broken soul willing to be swallowed whole.

“If I touch you,” he whispered. “Please let me make it up to you.”

The words clawed their way out of him, trembling and torn from someplace deep—deeper than longing, deeper than shame. It wasn’t just a plea. It was surrender. His voice shook with the weight of it, with the frantic need coiled so tight inside his chest it felt like it might break him open. He didn’t know if he wanted forgiveness or punishment—only her. Only her.

She smiled, her eyes glistening with a devilish gleam.

Slow, deliberate, dangerous. That grin carved into him like a blade dipped in honey. She reached for him, and when her hand touched his cheek, it was like setting fire to an already scorched earth. He leaned into it with a reverence so desperate it bordered on madness. His breath stuttered, eyes wide and drowning in the sight of her. She was everything—salvation, damnation, and the space in between.

“Such a good boy, aren’t you?” she murmured, and the sound of it, that voice—warm and wicked, sweet like poison—had his stomach knotting, coiling tighter with every word. It wasn’t just praise. It was control wrapped in silk. It was a chain he didn’t want to break.

“Go ahead,” she allowed.

Her fingers trailed down beneath his chin, light as silk and twice as devastating. It wasn’t just her touch he craved; it was what it meant. It was permission. It was presence. It was power—and he would have followed it into the dark. Her gentle fingers traced his jaw, soft and lingering, like a promise he hadn’t earned. As her hand began to pull away, he followed without thinking, like gravity itself was tied to her skin. His head moved with her hand, desperate not to lose contact, like she was the only real thing keeping him tethered to this earth. Her touch was oxygen, and without it, he was already starving. Matt whimpered.

X O X O X O

With both hands, he took reverent hold of her calves and pressed his forehead to her knees, panting. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing the soft skin on the inside of her legs, “I’m so sorry.” Shame flooded his cheeks, but it was a distant thing now—drowned beneath the urgency of his need. His mouth was reverent, desperate, moving over her skin in slow, trembling strokes like he could write a liturgy there with kisses. Every breath he drew was an invocation. Every exhale, a confession.

And she laid there, silent. Watching. Not stopping him. Her fingers twitched at her sides but didn’t move. Her throat bobbed, once, like she’d swallowed something heavy, and her breath caught in the back of it. She should have told him to get up. She should never have put him in this position, where he felt guilted into begging for her forgiveness. But those sudden realizations were worthless.

Because somewhere in the darkest corner of her heart, where no light ever touched, she liked it. Needed it. Needed him like this—ruined for her. She liked the way he trembled. The way he crumbled. The way he clung to her like salvation with a heartbeat.

He knew it was wrong. So wrong. To adore her like this—like a deity, like damnation in a dress. But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to. She was the sin he chose every time. The altar he bled on. The fire he walked into with open arms.

Unbeknownst to Matt, the woman before him used every single iota of self-control she possessed to restrain herself. He carried on with his adulation, nosing the space behind her knees, where her thighs tapered down into slender calves, gentle lingering kisses brushing across her soft skin, holding her leg with sweetened hands. 

“What are you sorry for?” She murmured, remembering her place in the current dynamic. In control. She would not let him take control. He had a lesson to learn, after all. 

Matt looked up, eyes wide and wet with pleading, and the fluttering in her gut turned violent. “I freaked you out,” he whispered, forehead pressing against her leg as if seeking absolution through skin-to-skin contact. “I—I didn’t mean to. I left it open—on my laptop—I didn’t think you’d see—” His voice cracked, hands trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He breathed the apology like it hurt to say, like it was being torn from him.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, swallowing a groan. Was he trying to destroy her?

Then his lips were climbing higher, kissing a slow, fervent path up the inside of her thigh, curls tickling the other leg with maddening softness. “I won’t do it again. I swear,” he murmured, frantic now. “Just don’t give up on me, please. Don’t walk away. Don’t leave me—please…”

She stayed silent—because if she spoke, she’d break.

He shifted to her other leg like it was sacred, leaving heated, trembling kisses in his wake. His breath shuddered across her skin, turning warmth into goosebumps, into want. “Please,” he begged, forehead pressed to her shin now, his voice fraying at the edges. “I can’t lose this. I need this. I need you. I’m trying—I’m trying so hard, but my brain just won’t shut up, it’s always spinning and buzzing and—and every time that I see you, I just…” he breathed out, his hands growing clammy as the heat radiated off of him and melted into her skin. “I get so distracted…”

He broke off, panting, lost in it.

She watched, breath caught somewhere in her chest, as he clutched her leg like a lifeline. His hands, gentle and sweetened with guilt, clung to her leg like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“Distracted by what, Matthew?” she asked finally, her voice sharp yet sweet. 

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and frantic, and the way he looked at her—like she was salvation and punishment all in one—made her knees ache to give way.

He gulped. “You.”

She hissed—a sharp sound of warning—and shoved him back. The contact was light, but to Matt it landed like a blow. His hands fell away from her skin, trembling and empty. His chest constricted painfully, heart shriveling as though she'd torn it straight out with that single gesture. He stared up at her, stunned, breath frozen.

Then she moved.

It took him a beat to realize what was happening—her fingers sliding down to her waistband, pushing her pants over her hips with a smooth, measured finality that made his vision blur. He barely had time to think. Instinct seized him.

His hands flew to help, yanking the fabric the rest of the way down with a frantic reverence, like it was holy cloth he had no right to touch. His breath came in ragged, gasping waves, chest rising and falling as if he’d been underwater for minutes.

Then—skin.

Bare. Warm. Real.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracked and breathless. “Please, please… please get on the bed. I’ll make you feel good, I swear—I need to, I need to—please let me, let me—” His hands cradled her waist as if she was the most fragile thing in the world. 

He kissed her skin with trembling lips, frantic, hungry, worshipful. His words spilled in a feverish rush, barely coherent between kisses: “I’ll be so good—I’ll take care of you—fuck, just let me—I’ll ruin you right, make you forget every second you were mad at me—please please please…”

He was shaking. Not from fear—but from pure, unbearable longing.

“I can’t—” he choked, breath stuttering. “I can’t think when you’re like this, I can’t breathe—please just let me have you, let me show you—anything, anything you want—I’ll crawl, I’ll beg, I’ll break, just say it, please…”

He clung to her like a man unraveling, burying his face in her skin, like he could inhale her, drown in her, cease to exist and call it peace.

She was already scrambling backward across the bed, breath ragged, lips parted with aching need.

“Apologize, pretty boy.”

The words struck him like lightning—commanding, sharp, and so goddamn hot it nearly undid him.

Matt climbed onto the mattress with no grace, no hesitation, crawling after her like he was starving. His hands found her thighs, spreading them open with trembling reverence, his chest sinking between them as he laid himself low—offered himself.

A strangled whine tore from his throat, desperate and raw. “Come here,” he breathed, almost pleading, voice thick with worship and ache.

His fingers slipped under the waistband of her dark blue thong—so soft, so unfairly pretty—and he dragged the delicate fabric down her hips, over her thighs, past her knees, all the way to her ankles. He let it fall to the floor like it was nothing—because compared to her, it was nothing. Everything else blurred into irrelevance the moment she was bare before him.

And then he saw her.

The breath left his lungs in a single, broken sound.

Glistening pink, folds slick with arousal, her wetness catching the light as it shimmered between her thighs. Matt’s vision blurred. His throat closed. He blinked once, twice—trying to convince himself this was real. That this was for him. That she was for him.

He’d never seen anything more beautiful.

Not in dreams. Not in fantasies. Nothing he’d imagined came close to the aching perfection of her, wet and open and wanting.

She gasped, a noise of surprise getting caught in her throat as Matt’s strong hands grasped the underside of her thighs, yanking her closer towards him. His patience had fled in mere seconds, he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to taste her. Even if it was the last thing to find itself on his tongue, he would have died a happy man. 

He couldn’t stop the smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth—not when she threw her head back into the pillow like that, not when her fingers tangled deep in his chestnut curls, clutching him like she needed something to anchor her to this plane of reality. His breath trembled in his chest, heart stuttering hard against his ribs as her hips jolted upward, chasing the heat of his breath like it was the only air she could breathe.

He blinked once, dazed, then leaned in—lips pursed—exhaling deliberately over her soaked heat again, just to feel her react. Another buck of her hips. Another desperate twist of her fingers in his hair.

“God, please don’t tease—”

Her voice. That voice.

It cracked something inside him.

His head spun, the sound of her plea short-circuiting every thought in his mind until all that remained was need.

He didn't waste another second. The space between them disappeared in a heartbeat as he leaned in, cradling her thighs with care, reverence. Her arousal painted the inside of her thighs, shining in the low light, folds swollen and pink and perfect. He blinked, dizzy with need, and then dropped lower—his chest flat against the bed, his arms hooked tightly under her thighs like she might vanish if he let go. He dragged her closer, as close as he could get her, nose brushing the soft, swollen heat of her folds.

His tongue pressed flat against her slick, swollen folds, and the world simply vanished.

A deep, guttural moan rumbled from his chest, half-broken by how overwhelmed he felt. Her taste—God—her taste was everything. She wasn’t sweet like candy; no, she was better. She was fresh-cut fruit at a summer cookout—lush, ripe, dripping with juice. The kind that stains your fingers, makes you greedy. The kind you go back for again and again and again.

Seconds. Thirds. Fourths. Forever.

He groaned against her, tongue gliding slowly, purposefully, savoring every second like she was the only thing that had ever mattered. His self-control unraveled, thread by thread, lost to the way she trembled under his mouth.

He lapped at her with aching tenderness, every motion an offering. A devotion. A promise.

He wasn’t here just to make her feel good.

He was here to worship.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me. You don’t know—fuck—how long I’ve wanted this, how many nights I’ve thought about this, about you.”

Another moan. Another flick of his tongue. Her taste spread across his tongue like it belonged there.

His eyes fluttered shut. His hips ground helplessly into the mattress as he worshipped her. Every sound she made, every twitch of her thighs, every tremble in her breath—it was breaking him down, reshaping him into something new.

Something hers.

Matt’s mouth was everywhere—open and eager, sucking gently on her skin like he could draw her pleasure straight into his bloodstream. He moaned into her flesh, every sound raw, needy, helpless. He didn’t know where his body ended and hers began. Didn’t want to. He was lost in her, in the warmth of her thighs, the scent of her arousal, the pulse he felt with his lips and tongue and fingers.

His hand slid away from her thigh, shaking slightly, and found its way between her legs—fingertips brushing over her slick heat in slow, reverent circles. She was wet. Dripping. Not just a little. She was soaking. For him. The realization hit him so hard he almost forgot to breathe.

Matt gasped softly, grinding his hips into the mattress below in helpless rhythm. He couldn’t stop it. His body was responding to hers like a tether had been tied between them—his pleasure directly bound to hers. But this wasn’t about him. It never was.

Every moan that spilled from her lips, every small twitch of her hips, every broken sound she tried—and failed—to bite back, lit his nerves on fire. He knew the sounds women made when they were pretending. He knew what it looked like when it was performative, for show, for ego. This wasn’t that.

This was real.

She was coming apart for him. And it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed.

His eyes flicked up to the bedspread beneath her—soft pink, patterned with bows and cherries—and the sight nearly undid him. The fabric was already darkening beneath her, soaked with her need, a testament to what he was doing to her. What she was letting him do. And Matt thought: Nothing in the world could ever be more sacred than this.

More sure now, more devoted, he let his jaw go slack and buried himself between her thighs. His tongue moved with purpose, no longer timid—worshipping her with every stroke, every flick, every trembling kiss. He kissed like it was prayer. He licked like it was penance. He moaned like he could cry, overcome by the taste of her, the heat of her, the knowledge that she was letting him do this.

Her gasp shattered the air between them like glass.

His entire body froze, then shivered in reaction.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked and low, his hands tightening against her hips, holding her like she might disappear. “I’ll do this all night if you keep soundin’ like that…”

He meant it. God, he meant it.

She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked, and Matt whimpered—not from pain, but from pure, unfiltered need. He would’ve thanked her for it. Begged for more. There was nothing she could do to him that he wouldn’t want, as long as it came from her.

“Don’t stop,” she panted, grinding her hips into his mouth like she was using him—because she was. And he loved it. “Never stop.”

Matt groaned in response—deep and throaty, the sound vibrating directly against her clit. “Yes ma’am,” he panted, almost frantic. 

He slipped two fingers into her with the softest, most reverent care, and the moment he felt her walls clench around him—tight, warm, pulsing—he nearly sobbed.

His mouth latched back onto her clit, tongue stroking and flicking with a new intensity. Not rough. Never rough. Just intentional. Worshipful. Deliberate. Like he was spelling her name in devotion with every movement.

She tugged harder at his hair and he moaned again, voice broken, almost delirious. If she told him to stay like this forever, he would. If she wanted to leave marks, to scratch, to bruise, he’d take it all with thanks in his mouth.

He was hers.

To use.

To own.

To control.

And she—she was his to worship. His to serve.

Her pleasure was his purpose. Her moans were his reward. Every twitch of her hips, every whimper, every breathless command—it all carved deeper into his soul. He wasn’t just making love to her with his mouth and hands.

He was offering himself.

And he hoped, desperately, wildly, that she’d never stop taking.

She writhed beneath him, breath catching in broken gasps, and something in Matt fractured. It wasn’t just need anymore— this was pure, unfiltered obsession. His hands slid up her thighs, not to roam, but to anchor—to bind her to him, to hold her in place like he was terrified she might vanish. And maybe he was. Her body trembled against his, and instead of letting it pull him back, he held firm. Made her feel every moment of what he offered, every movement a wordless plea: stay. feel. don’t leave me.His chest burned. The aching, terrifying sense that if he let go of her for even a second, he might fall apart entirely. As much as she tried to move, he held her still, making her feel every second of pleasure that he offered to her. Every deliberate and direct flick of his tongue over her sensitive bundle of nerves had heavenly sounds pouring out of her, a fountain of praise spilling from her lips in sickly sweet mewls. Each whimper that escaped her lips carved itself into him like scripture.

His breath caught as he pressed his forehead into her, as though seeking absolution. “God…” he muttered into the hush between her sounds, his voice trembling with awe, like her pleasure was something holy and he was barely worthy of witnessing it. He opened his eyes and looked up at her—this sacred, luminous thing sprawled before him—and something broke open in his chest. His gaze flickered down, taking in the sight of her beautiful temple before him. A sacred thing that was, at least for now, in this moment, all for him. This is what worship feels like.

She whined, a sound so beautiful and light that it made Matt feel like he was floating. She could ask anything of him in that moment, and he would do it without thought. Tear open chest and snap off each individual rib. Offer up his soul. Disappear, if she willed it. His fingers gripped onto her thighs as if he was afraid he’d be torn from her in seconds. His tongue traced patterns over her sensitive clit, hymns and prayers of praise and worship soaking into her. She let out a gasp, a broken cry, a moan that had his bones aching, his body trembling. “Don’t stop - God, please… don’t s-stop-” she choked out, her back arching off of her soft pink sheets. She tried to move her legs, to wrap them around him and pull him impossibly closer, but he kept her thighs tightly pinned down to the mattress. “Oh my god, Matt-” she panted. 

He heard it again—his name, soft and soaked with breath—and it nearly undid him. She had said it before, countless times. But now it was different. Now it was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man, and he clung to it with everything he had. A sound had never shaken him to his core quite like she managed to do so effortlessly. He gripped her thighs tighter—not to restrain her, but to steady himself. To hold onto the edges of this moment before it passed. His whole world had narrowed down to the sound of her voice, the curve of her body, the way she clung to him like he mattered. Like he was all that she needed.

Her release was building—he could feel it in every inch of her, like a tide swelling under the surface. Her stomach tightened beneath his hands, her breaths came in sharp, uneven bursts, and her entire body began to tremble with anticipation. She was unraveling, coming apart—and taking him with her.

Matt’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything except her. The way she clenched around him, as though her body was trying to hold onto him, to keep him inside her orbit, to refuse the very idea of distance between them. He wasn’t just touching her—he was being taken in. Consumed.

He let out a shaky exhale, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the realization hit him: she was swallowing him whole—not just in body, but in soul. He was disappearing into her, cell by cell, thought by thought, until there was nothing left of him that hadn’t been reshaped by her.

He no longer knew where he ended and she began.

The connection was more than physical—it was existential. His identity, once something he held onto so tightly, now slipped away like sand through trembling fingers. All he could feel was her. All he wanted to be was hers. To be absorbed into her completely, like he was meant to be nothing but a part of her design.

She was rising—he could feel it in the air, in the rhythm of her breath, in the way her body pulled tighter around him like a fist made of silk. His chest ached with something greater than need. It was reverence. As if her climax was a sacred rite and he, trembling and overwhelmed, was the willing sacrifice.

“Please…” he whispered, forehead resting against her. He didn’t even know what he was begging for. Her release. Her grace. Her forgiveness. To be allowed to stay in this moment just a little longer, before the universe pulled him away from her.

And when she finally shattered, he felt it as though it happened inside him. Like her pleasure had cracked something in his soul wide open—and he welcomed it. Gladly.

Because to be undone by her was the only way he ever wanted to fall apart.

When her body collapsed beneath him, still trembling with the echoes of release, Matt rose slowly—like surfacing from deep water, breathless and disoriented. He kissed her thighs, her hips, her stomach, reverently, his lips soft and wet with the taste of her. Each kiss was a quiet benediction, a whispered thank-you pressed into skin.

She lay still, panting, her gaze unfocused and pinned to the ceiling like she was somewhere far from the world. Something in Matt’s chest twisted painfully. Was she okay? Did she regret this? Had he gone too far? His heart lurched and tumbled downward, helpless and heavy.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice thin and unsteady, his hand cupping her cheek as he leaned over her.

She blinked, then smiled—soft and dazed, still catching her breath. “I’m great.”

Relief hit him like a wave. His body sagged with it, and he let himself fold downward, resting his head on her stomach like it was the only place he belonged. His arms wrapped around her, holding her like something fragile, like if he didn’t ground her with his touch she might drift away into the ether.

He didn’t want to let go. Not now. Not ever.

There was no lust in the way he clung to her now—only reverence. A quiet, aching sort of awe. As if this moment had redefined something fundamental in him. She had opened herself to him, let him see her undone, vulnerable, divine—and now he couldn’t remember how he’d ever existed apart from her.

Matt closed his eyes, pressing his ear to the soft rise and fall of her breath. If he could, he would have crawled inside that rhythm and stayed there forever. Not to take anything more—but just to be. Near her. Part of her. Anchored in her gravity.

He didn’t say a word. There was nothing to say. She had already given him more than language could ever hold.

X O X O X O

Matt traced slow, reverent circles on her skin, his thumb trembling with every pass. His breathing was uneven — shallow, restless — and not from exertion. It was the ache. The ache of being so close, of giving so much of himself and still wanting to give more. His arousal throbbed beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, but he said nothing. He wouldn’t ruin this. Not with need. Not when she was letting him stay. Not when he felt, somehow, like he belonged.

Her fingers brushed through his hair again — slow, rhythmic strokes that scratched gently at the nape of his neck, a place no one had ever touched with this kind of... claim. A shiver rolled through him, full-body and involuntary.

She noticed. “What’s wrong, pretty boy?” Her voice was soft, not mocking, but curious — like she was peeling back another layer just to see him.

“I’m... I’m sensitive,” Matt whispered, hiding his face in the crook of her waist. The confession made him burn from the inside out.

“Oh yeah?” She almost hummed the words, the noise vibrating through her ribcage.

Matt nodded, a little breathless.

“Roll over.”

His head shot up. How am I supposed to hide this fucking boner now?

“Strike one,” she said, her voice hardening with each word. “Roll. Over.”

“Yes ma’am.” Matt’s brain tangled up into itself, and he scrambled awkwardly to obey, lifting his hips so she could see the shape of him, hard and helpless beneath stretched fabric. There was no hiding now. The gray sweats betrayed everything — the way his body pulsed with need, the way his mind unraveled the moment she spoke to him like that.

“Oh, Matty...” she sighed, her fingers ghosting over his thigh. “You’re aching, aren’t you?”

He swallowed. “...Yeah.”

When her hand brushed lightly over the front of his boxers, Matt gasped, hips twitching toward her. “God... that feels so good,” he breathed, voice cracking.

She worked slowly, tracing the outline of him with intention, watching every twitch of muscle, every flutter of his lashes. Matt was barely holding it together. His fingers gripped the sheets at his sides like they were the only things keeping him tethered to the earth.

“You're shaking,” she observed softly.

“I... I can’t—” he tried, voice breaking. “I just... I want you so much. I need to be good for you. Please tell me what to do.”

She paused, watching his chest heave, his face flushed and open like never before. There was no ego here. No control. Just Matt — raw, exposed, and aching to please.

“Then listen,” she said gently. “Be still. Breathe. Let me take care of you.”

And he did. Because in that moment, Matt wasn't afraid of submission. He craved it. Not out of weakness, but from the overwhelming desire to be seen, to be wanted, to be enough.

He was hers to guide. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel lost.

She smirked, eyeing Matt like he was her next meal. Like he was a wounded rabbit, cornered by a ravenous wolf. His heart raced in his chest, his body trembled, his breathing became unsteady and scattered. Despite being her prey, Matt had never felt more drawn to someone in his life. He had never felt more safe. “Take them off, baby,” she purred, her tone dripping with venom disguised as something sweet. She licked her lips, slow and deliberate, eyes fixed on him. Matt’s breath hitched. There was something in the way she looked at him—like hunger, but not just for his body. For power. For surrender. For the soft, desperate pulse of his heart beneath her hand.

His legs trembled. His fingers twitched at his sides. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Matthew,” she murmured, her voice dipped in something syrupy and sharp all at once. A coaxing cruelty. A promise. A trap that he wanted—no, needed—to fall into.

Matt didn’t breathe. He just stared, wide-eyed and dazed.

Her voice dropped an octave, velvet wrapped in steel. “Strike two.”

That did it.

Matt’s fingers fumbled and tripped over each other as he desperately tried to loosen the knot in his drawstrings. Once they were undone, Matt met her gaze again, hesitantly pushing his sweatpants down to his knees, blindly kicking them off onto the floor of her bedroom. The tip of his cock peeked out below the faded blue waistband of his boxers, his own arousal oozing from his tip. He looked up at her, awaiting judgment, his chest rising with shallow, uneven breaths. The air between them crackled.

“Good boy,” she whispered, drinking in the immensity with her eyes. Matt’s bulge was prominent, a thick rise with deep valleys on either side. Without thinking, she reached out to touch him. Her thumb brushed over his exposed skin, his body lurching forward involuntarily at the contact. 

Matt’s jaw dropped as his lips parted, letting out a quiet yet delicious, “Ohhh….fuck….” He watched the movements of his lover’s hands with whoreish lust, eyes hooded and dark, chest rising and falling like tumultuous ocean waves as she stroked him over the soft fabric of his underwear. From caressing his tip to using two fingers to apply pressure on both sides as she slid over his length, from base to head, she hunted for which bundle of nerves elicited the best noises out of her toy. As she reached the head of his cock with her thumb and index finger, his chest hollowed out with a powerful exhale. 

She didn’t rush. She studied him—how his body responded, how his breath stuttered, how his eyes flicked upward, pleading for something he couldn’t name. Her fingers moved with purpose, seeking out every place that made him tremble, made him whimper, made him submit.

“You like that, sweet boy?” she murmured.

“Yes,” he gasped, voice thin and desperate. “Yes, I do. Please don’t stop.”

But she did. Just like that.

The silence that followed was deafening. He twitched, hips shifting forward helplessly, as though his body refused to accept the absence of her touch.

“No, please—Mommy, I’ll be good, I’ll be so—”

Silence fell like glass shattering.

Matt froze. The word had slipped out of him like breath, like instinct. And now it sat between them, shimmering and dangerous.

He reeled back in horror, eyes wide, fumbling for his clothes as if shame might be something he could cover. “I-I’m sorry—God, I didn’t mean to— I, I can go, fuck, where’s my-”

“Matt.”

“-never do that again, I’m so sorry, I need my pants, where the hell-”

“Matty.”

“-did they go, oh here they are, I-”

“Matthew.”

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It cut through his panic like a hot blade.

He stilled, one leg in his sweatpants, his chest heaving.

She tilted her head slightly, the air around her shifting. Gone was the teasing smile, the playfulness — in its place was stillness, something sharp and commanding behind her eyes. “Did I say you could leave?” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to.

Matt froze. His breath caught in his throat. That single question struck him harder than any shout could have. He stood half-dressed, trembling, the fabric of his sweatpants tangled around one ankle. Shame and heat rushed through him all at once, but beneath it — or maybe because of it — something deeper unfurled. A kind of devotion that cracked open his ribs and spilled him bare.

He looked down, eyes wide, heart thundering like he’d been caught doing something sacred the wrong way. “No,” he whispered. “You didn’t.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but it softened. Just enough. Like she knew exactly what she held in her hands — and how carefully it needed to be treated. “Then why are you trying to run, Matthew?”

He couldn’t answer. The knot in his throat was too tight. All he could do was shake his head — once — and step back toward her. He let the last of the fabric fall from his leg with a muted thud, and knelt before her at the foot of the bed. Not out of instruction. Out of instinct.

She reached forward and touched his jaw, tilting his face up to meet her eyes. “You get scared when you feel too much,” she said, so softly it barely carried across the room. “But I already see you. I see all of it.”

Matt’s hands found the edge of the mattress like a lifeline. His whole body was trembling. “I don’t want to mess this up,” he said, almost like a confession. “I’d do anything right now just to stay close to you.”

“Guess you better obey then,” she said quietly.

Matt swallowed. “I guess I better,” he agreed.

X O X O X O

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[mattyriddlesbitch]

Theodore Nott talking dirty in Italian to fem reader who doesn’t know Italian but finds it super hot, with a smutty ending?

Yes! I love this idea. I think he'd love it a lot if you didn't speak Italian, just so he could tease you more. Also, I used google translate, so idk how accurate it is, but hopefully it works.

Dirty Talking

Theodore Nott x F!Reader

Warnings: Oral(Male receiving), cussing, unprotected sex, creampie.

18+ Minors DNI!

You always loved when your boyfriend would talk in Italian. Something about the way it sounded and rolled off of his tongue just did something to you. He could be saying anything in Italian and you’d want him to just take you right there as he kept talking.

And Theo noticed. He wasn’t stupid. He saw the way you would blush ever so slightly and press your thighs together. He just never said anything because he liked watching your reactions and he knew you’d try to stop your reactions if he mentioned them.

But when he was arguing with Draco about the quidditch practice as you all were heading back up to the castle, he slipped into Italian as he cursed him out. You suddenly got flustered and blushed. Theo noticed this, forgetting about the argument with Draco as he waved him off, dragging you away into a broom closet. He was frustrated and needed a release and he could tell you were turned on.

“Theo, what are you doing?” You asked as he closed the door behind you two.

“Ti scoperò.” He said into your ear as he pushed you against the wall, pressing kisses down your neck.

“Wait, what?” You asked, your brain trying to catch up with his actions as he spoke Italian.

“Ti scoperò. Sii buono con me.” He said before kissing you. It was rough, a hand in your hair and another on your waist. He pulled back and pushed you onto your knees, undoing his pants. “Così bello.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.” You said, but you could feel how wet you were becoming.

“You love it, though, don’t you, cara mia.” He smiled down at you as he pulled out his cock. “Aprire.” He said as he tapped his tip on your lips as he grabbed your hair.

You had no idea what he was saying, but you opened your mouth and he pushed your head down his cock until you gagged. He let out such a hot moan before guiding your head up and down his cock, tears building in your eyes as you held onto his thighs.

“Così dannatamente sporco. Look at what you do to me, principessa.” He moaned. “Mi prendi così bene.”

God, his fucking deep voice with those words. You didn’t even care what he was saying, it just sounded so good, so filthy to you.

“Merda. You’re so fucking good to me.” He said before pulling out of your mouth and up off the floor. He pushed down your panties before turning you around to press your front against the wall. “You’re so fucking wet from me talking in Italian, huh?” He slipped his fingers through your folds, feeling how soaked you were.

“Yes, fuck! Yes, it’s so good.” You moaned.

“Così sporco.” He said before removing his fingers and teasing your folds with his cock. “You want me to fill you up, mi amore?”

“Yes, please!”

“Who knew a little Italian would get you all slutty for my cock.” He teased before thrusting into you. He covered your mouth before you could make a sound. “Stai zitto. You want everyone to hear?”

He started thrusting, using his free hand to wrap around your front, holding you closer to him. You were moaning and crying out into his hand, your hands holding onto the wall for support.

“Così buono. You’re taking me so well.” He said quietly in your ear before kissing your neck. His chest was pressed against your back, trapping you against the wall as he kept fucking into you. “Do you wanna cum, principessa?”

You nodded against his hand, moans only getting louder as he angled his hips slightly to hit that spot that makes you see stars.

“Sei così avido. Sei così sporco. Lo adoro.” He said, moving his hand that’s wrapped around you to play with your clit. The combination of his dick inside you, him playing with your clit, and the Italian were enough to have you cumming in mere moments, trembling and crying out into his hand. “Brava ragazza. Good fucking girl.” He praised, helping you ride out your orgasm. “You gonna be a good girl and let me cum in you?” He asked as his thrusts sped up, chasing his own orgasm. You nodded against his hand again, whining and whimpering as he overstimulated you. He cussed as he came, slipped between English and Italian as he moaned in your ear, filling your pussy with his cum. He removed his hand from your mouth and pulled out, slipping your panties back up with a smile as he kissed your cheek. “Guess I found another weakness, huh, cara mia?” He teased.

[uh-oh-its-bird]

There are so many naruto time travel fics out there but what I need SPECIFICALLY is an ANBU era team of Kakashi, Tenzo, Itachi, and Shisui getting flung into the founders era.

Like. Ok just looking from the political side of it that's;

A) 2 very young and VERY powerful Uchiha's (one of which is the future clan head!! Politics!!)

B) A very fucked up baby mokuton user who's still in the middle of being deprogrammed and can totally pass for Senju

C) The free wild card that is Hatake clan lore on top of having a stolen sharingan. On top of *that* him being the team leader of a team of kids who, in the time period context, should both be at eachothers throats and probably not be expected to obey the commands of someone not only from another clan but a way smaller one

Theres SO much potential there!! So many political implications in virtually ALL of the directions!!!!

Yk what as I'm typing this out I'm having ✨️ideas✨️ so let's make some story points to sort those out:

• I think itd be neat to have this happen like. A year? Ish? Before the massacre? So age wise, and full disclaimer I'm referencing Google and Wikipedia rn so I could totally be wrong, I think that's :

Kakashi (18)

Tenzo (17)

Itachi (12)

Shisui (15)

Could be wrong about the ages but honestly it's my world you're just living in it, so.

Then me going totally purely off of my own headcannons, were going to say they came in a about a year before Izuna died and place the founders ages as:

Madara (23)

Hashirama (23)

Izuna (19)

Tobirama (18)

Big fan of Tobirama being the youngest between the 4 but projecting the aura of someone as old as like. Idk, however old Madara is. Very funny to me, 10/10

• I'm personally a big fan of dogteeth kakashi so we're running with that all the way home. Also a huge fan of the "Hatake's are a distant, more feral cousin of Inuzuka clan" hc along with some sprinklings of "back in the day they had a bit of a Reputation(tm) for being a 'lill wild, and everyone generally tries to avoid them. Which isn't too much of a problem because theyre a very small out of the way clan from Iron, they just have a big reputation in contrast to their size.

In more modern times tho, along with (obviously) having dwindled down to a single depressed teenager, they've become a lot tamer over the years due to village life. Kakashi is a Hatake, 100%, but he is NOT up to the standards of this time. Which becomes a bit funny when people see him, go "oh FUCK it's a Hatake" and then start edging slowly towards the door like he's about to rip their throat out with his teeth. Meanwhile he's standing there like 🧍‍♂️"am I that ugly."

Give me a scene where, finally used to this reaction to him from the general shinobi population, the team starts to use it to their advantage.

"Give us the scroll or we'll let the Hatake off the leash to have his fun with you. He's been awfully hungry latley you know, hasn't had fresh meat in days"

Kakashi, feeling kind of stupid, gave his best growl.

It caused an almost immediate, embaressed flush to rise to his face, but he didn't let up. It sounded more like an almost pathetic puppy growl than anything to his ears, but apparently it was enough to convince the trembling enemy nin because he slowly lifted the scroll up in offering.

Wow. Now he couldn't tell if he was embaressed for himself or for this guy.

Probably both to be honest.

• So like. Itachi is the clan heir. That's big. That's important. Let's do something with that.

First off, I had a great time reading this one fic (tho I don't even remember what the fic itself was about now, oops) where a plot point of it was how Sasuke is just a walking stereotype of main house Uchiha. Like people look at him and they don't just go "oh that's an Uchiha." They go "oh fuck that's an UCHIHA Uchiha." He's so fucking painfully, obviously related to the very tippy top of the clan that anyone not blind can tell. It's in the way he looks, it's in the way he talks and treats those around him, it's in the way he fucking holds himself. You look at him and every other stereotype about the Uchiha clan is there in big, bold letters. (On top of that he's also a dead wringer for Izuna, which I'm such a sucker for and desperatley wish people would do more with)

So like let's give that to Itachi here because it's so fun for several reasons.

First off; Sasuke in this is like. Straight up a doppelganger of Izuna, just a few generations apart. They could be twins. Itachi, as I'm sure you are aware, is Sasuke's big brother. So let's take some liberties and say that Itachi could absoloutley pass as a blood sibling to Izuna and Madara.

He is however 12, so we're also going to say that the only people who get to make this connection is anyone who's seen the siblings when they were also at a similar age.

On top of that however he has the 'walking amalgamation of all the stereotypes of the main Uchiha house' so anyone who isn't blind will look at him and assume he's somewhere in the sphere of 'important main house person' tho who really knows how distant the relation may be exactly. No one !! That's who !!!

Second; He's the fucking clan heir!! What the fuck!! This bit would have the most impact after all the messy time travel reveals when things have settled down a bit, so it'll sit in the back pocket for a bit. Save it for some fun shaking up later down the line so we don't run out of all the fun reveals too fast and bore the readers, yk?

When it is brought up tho it'd be fun to maybe have some fucky Itachi and Madara mutual understandings of the way things work.

• So. Madara is like a bit of a scary bed time story to Uchiha children, right? Like. "Ooo make sure you don't get too obsessive or fall too deep into your grief and always stay loyal to the village or you'll end up just like Madara!!"

Something something Uchiha-Village relationships are tense as hell, something something Madara fucking over a lot of the clan with his whole. Everything., Something something scapegoat and old stories, something something 'people have probably been talking a lot more about how "god dammit this all started with Madara" in recent years.'

Now with that in mind let's take a look of what our time travelers think of Madara:

Itachi is a good Konoha soldier. Itachi (as has been very much fucking proven) would rather beat a possible problem before it even exists with a hammer till it dies an ugly bloody death than even RISK it blossoming into a proper problem. Itachi does not like Madara. Itachi personally, quietly thinks they should maybe wait till the village is formed then carefully arrange a little accident for him before he goes off the rails. He, even more quietly, maybe even thinks it would be a kindness. Allow him to be remembered well by the village instead of scorned.

Shisui I think is cautiously optimistic about him. He's the kind of guy who gives the benefit of the doubt, who weighs the options, risk and reward, but includes things like hope and compassion in his calculations. Yes, Madara was a uhh. Thing. That happened. But in every story his big blow up always come from one specific event; Izuna's death. So if they stop that from happening, wouldn't it secure both a better future for them and Madara? The history books never went into detail about Izuna, he doesn't know what he's like, but maybe his involvement in the future, on Konoha's side, could lead to even more profits for them long term. At the end of the day he's not against killing Madara (though to be clear, they are at first operating on trying to avoid all interactions with historical events and return home without touching things) but it'd be nice, to manage to get a happy ending for everyone. Unrealistic maybe, but nice.

Mmmm hear me out actually, maybe Shisui, after interacting with him a bit, finds that Madara reminds him of Itachi too. They definatley both have that "I would do unspeakable things to even dream of my loved just one more time" energy, if you know what I mean

Anyways; Kakashi and Tenzo are both neutral on Madara. Yes, they learned about how he betrayed the village when young just like everyone else, but they weren't getting the bed time stories and "do this and you'll end up just like him" warnings like the Uchiha's. They're possibly leaning into negative but are detached from the situation enough to just go "well he hasn't done it yet and his brother is still alive so he won't any time soon" and be done with it

• Now, on the the total opposite side of the spectrum you have Hashirama and Tobirama. People are brought up in Konoha to fucking IDOLIZE these guys. You can not tell me our team of time travelers wouldn't be at least a little awed to speak with them.

I think Tenzo would be the most wide eyed about Hashirama, both for the baseline "holy shit that's the Shodai Hokage" and also that fun juicy mokuton user imposter syndrome he has going on for him. That guys DNA is inside his body!!! Holy shit wait does that mean if someone did a blood relation test with them he might read as being related to him?? Fuck were gonna pocket that for now but like. Mmmmm potential.

I'd say Itachi is the most hesitant about Tobirama but again, village loyalist, so.

You know what tho maybe Shisui is the most hesitant about him (though still largely positive) he both def grew up looking up to him but can also see the anti-Uchiha policies people inact now with the implications that Tobirama would have approved of it. He doesn't know if he would, but like, he has to wonder.

Kakashi is probably the most normal about them (and also has experience in being close to a hokage (Minato) to know that at the end of the day they are painfully human) Don't get me wrong, he's still in some sort of awe! He might get a little lightheaded at the thought of seeing the God of Shinobi in proper battle, or the possibility to see the famed genius of Tobirama with all the different jutsu's he's invented. You can't tell me Kakashi didn't spend a little extra time reading about him when he was trying to make Chidori. Honestly I'm gonna roll with that and say he had a bit of a phase as a kid where he was a total fan boy. Maybe sprinkle in the good old HalfHatake!Tobirama hc to add some faint daydreams a lonley babykashi had after his father's death, about getting to meet him as family. Like cmon, little genius idolizing and projecting on some big history figure only to find out they're actually related? Can you say potential?

Anyways he did eventually grow out of the phase, probably got unattached to it all and lost interest after the whole "losing everything he loved" bit of his life. And at the end of the day, he doesn't have any real complex personal hang ups on the founders like the others do. Thus, most normal.

• And then my favorite most special boy, Izuna !! He's for sure the one they're all most neutral about. He's not actually taught about in the academy? There's probably some throw away line about him in some history books somewhere, but he died young and was quickly buried by the looming shadow of Konoha. The only real knowledge had about him in modern times is just a vague "Yeah he got killed by Tobirama which lead to peace being made but also lead to Madara losing his shit"

Poor Izuna he's the linchpin for it all but was left an unremarkable footnote of history. My boy deserves so much better

Tenzo doesn't actually even know who he is, that boy got bare minimum education under Danzo and Izuna was NOT included.

Itachi and Shisui mmmaybe have some small little fun fact here or there buried in stories from the older members of the clans but like. It's gonna amount to just "yeah he had a great katon" and thats about it.

I WILL SAY HOWEVER. Itachi sees him and instantly is that one PTSD dog meme. Sasuke is a BABY but holy shit Izuna looks exactly like he'd expect him to grow up as and it's making him FEEL THINGS. Also he's so bratty little brother coded !! He's an entire 7 years older than Itachi but Ifachi keeps fucking up and trying to big brother him it's embaressing.

And ofc Itachi didn't go into the first meeting thinking he'd see some weird older mirror version of his beloved baby brother who he misses and worries about very very much. So like. There's for sure going to be some conflict there. If their first meeting is a scuffle (which it probably will be) I think Itachi would keep hesitating to attack. On full run away mode. Which is probably for the best bc he shouldn't try to fight Izuna anyways honey he's like double your bodyweight and you're strong but you aren't THAT strong.

• Pointing back at both the 'Itachi does not like Madara and has quiet thoughts about how it'd possibly be in everyone's interest to just kill him' and the 'Itachi and Madara quietly bond over being clain head/heir during stressful times (w pressure from the elders especially)

I can see 2 outcomes of a potential bonding conversation with them:

1) They come to understand eachother better.

Madara wants to be on good terms, he looks at this kid and sees one of his brothers eyes and the others quiet determination. He can tell Itachi doesn't like him for some reason, and it's frustrating because he doesn't know why. He wants him to like him. He wants to be able to offer his hand and have it taken. It hurts, to be looked at with such suspicion from a face that has traces of Izuna's.

Meanwhile Itachi . . . Itachi looks at Madara and he sees someone who gets it. Gets it like no one ever has. It scares him. He looks up at this man, this horror story he's been told to fear becoming, and he sees himself. And this realization shakes him. It makes him think, makes him wonder. He's so, so sure of his loyalty to Konoha. More sure than he is of anything else in the world. But . . . But if something happened to Sasuke, if he had to choose—

And maybe it softens something in him too, along with the (honestly healthy) dose of fear. It forms a little crack in his shell, just enough to maybe, maybe let Madara through. Just a hair.

Or 2) we pull one of those "The conversation ends with them agreeing verbally but mentally they're on 2 VERY different notes."

Madara, nodding and looking at Itachi meaningfully: "Yeah it can be hard, but all we can really do is try to make the world a safer place for the ones we love. (To create Konoha, to keep my clan safe. Izuna safe. And now to keep you safe too.)

Itachi, nodding slowly: "Yeah. No matter how hard it is (even though I think I understand you more than anyone else Ive ever met) we have to try to make the world a safer place (by killing you in your sleep once Konoha is formed) for the ones we love (My clan. My village. Sasuke.)"

• Also pointing back at the 'Hatake warring clan era reputation,' the 'Tobirama is half Hatake' and also now pointing at Tobirama's title as the White Demon. Small thing but it'd be neat if there was some small throw away line that the nickname lowkey started in part because of the absoloutley terrifying reputation of the Hatake combined with Tobirama's own Everything(tm) like it just had some influence on how some view him. Give me Uchiha's making dog jokes ab him it'll be funny

• Ok but now the actual plot thoughts. Yeah I know I kept you waiting sorry about that.

So time travel! Probably due to a mission gone wrong. Some ruins or some ancient crumbling scroll that wasn't even supposed to do fucking time travel but was so old and corroded that it somehow managed to transform into a whole other seal by pure bad luck. Or good luck I guess, considering it could have just turned into a nuke.

Our favorite team of disasters are very very alarmed !!! What the fuck !!! Obviously they don't default to thinking time travel, but they immediatley know something is wrong. The landscape has changed, though the big landmarks are still there. The mission was complete anyways with no injuries so they just retreat to Konoha. Only oops !! It's not fucking there!!!

Queue alarm.

Shisui is the first one to suggest time travel because he's quirky like that. And there's a very easy way to confirm this theory.

(Also we're going to say that Konoha's location is a valley a few miles out from the Naka River that borders the Senju / Uchiha territories.)

This is convenient because that verification method involves checking in on where Itachi and Shisui know the old Uchiha compound should rest.

They do it in full stealth mode, the second they saw Konoha was missing Kakashi as team leader decided they'd treat the land as enemy territory. They all agreed ofc, for all they knew this WAS enemy territory now.

And, ofc, yeah!! There's the old Uchiha compound!! Being active!!! There are people there!!!

"What are the odds Fugaku-sama decided to have the clan return to their homeland for ahh, cultural enrichment?" Kakashi asked weakly.

"Time travel." Was the only reply he got from Shisui, whispered reverently as the boy vibrated with excitement on the branch.

Itachi just gave him a look, radiating a level of dissaproving disbelief that no normal 12 year old should be able to make. Kakashi would know, he was that not-normal 12 year old once.

From there they decide a no interference policy. Hands off guys!! They probably debate it tho, like, a good amount. They all have ✨️opinions✨️ except maybe Tenzo who's lowkey still in the middle of trying to learn how to be a person and is following Kakashi's lead 99% of the time. Especially since they're still in mission mode and this is like a super serious discussion and he really does know the least ab the founders overall.

They probably debate the merits of going to Uzushiogakure bc seal help but it's really far and they don't actually have like, just any leverage with them. They already decided not to fuck with the future so it isn't like they can trade secrets and warnings. At least if shit happens here they have some plausible deniability, being, yk, 2 uchiha's and a senju-passing guy with Mokuton. Kakashi's kinda fucked tho in that regard but he isn't going to be doing the party ANY favors with his clan heritage.

Which means it's time to potentially get desperate enough to interact with Tobirama !!! Which will inevitably lead to them bumping into a Uchiha patrol or something!!! I don't know honestly

• Anyways want Hashirama and Tenzo to interact. He has so many issues like holy shit. Let Hashirama give him the hug he deserves. I want him to violently adopt him. New brother acquired!!!

I said before but Tenzo is still reprogramming from ROOT. Let Hashirama impact that! Let him help! They can make flower crowns and photosynthesize together idk

Hashirama would be so happy to have another mokuton user, I think they should be able to sense eachother extra strong and like 'ping' off of eachothers chakra, it'll be fun

▪︎ I'm not thinking toooo hard about power scaling and this is fanfiction so a) don't quote me on this and b) for the love of all that is holy don't take my words as gospel

But for this fic specifically I'm ranking the founders and Team Ro, weakest to strongest (in a clean, fair fight head on w no time to prepare) :

Itachi (he's fucking 12 guys. But also he is like. FRACTIONS under Tenzo and Shisui. If he were 13 I'd let him be above or at the same level but like. He's 12. Cmon.)

Tenzo - Shisui (they're like JUST under the next 2 tho like seconds behind)

Izuna - Tobirama

Kakashi ( by the skin of his fucking teeth and the advantage that is his stupid amount of jutsu's and lack of self preservation)

Madara - Hashirama

And again that's not counting like. The specific situations, time given to prepare, potential dirty tricks they could play (I think the Konoha tricks would play a fraction dirtier than the others, who are slightly more used to big open battles vs the ANBU squad who does all sorts of shit in all sorts of places) plus like. Mental state and team ups.

Tenzo or Shisui couldn't take down Izuna or Tobirama but if they teamed up I'd allow it. Kakashi would get his ass kicked by Hashirama or Madara but he could survive a minutes longer than the others would

Itachi is doing his best

But like

He's 12 guys

I love him and he is terrifyingly competent but he won't win 1 on 1 with anyone unless he has some sort of advantage. Minus Shisui and Tenzo who he does have the advantage of regularly fighting, so.

• I think they do get to go back home in the end. It takes a ton of work tho and they probably do need to get Mito's help with it, Kakashi can show them the seal they got brought here with but it's an ACTUAL one in a trillion miracle it didn't fucking atomize them. So it needs a lot of touch ups

Anyways !!!

I have a little more rattling around in my brain but I'm really tired and also starting to think about other things now so I'm gonna stop here. Might come back and add to it later so stay tuned if you're into that

Full disclaimer I'm not gonna write this. I don't have the proper energy and it'd probably end up being too ambitious of a project if I tried. I'd love to see it happen tho, so like !! Big open invitation to absoloutley anyone who might want to take even a fraction of the ideas I've listed.

@ me if you do tho I wanna see the final product

[maladaptivedaydreamers]

ProHero!Bakugo x Lawyer!Reader [Hate Sex, Exhibitionism, Bondage]

Being Bakugo’s lawyer was proven to be quite.. challenging. With the goal to finish missions quickly and earn money for his best friend’s suit, he’s quite careless with the aftermath of his actions. That’s where you come in, fixing up the files, talking to the necessary people, and nagging his ear to ‘not cause trouble next time’. Frenemies, as they call you, you hate each others’ guts. He hates you for nagging him all the time and disturbing him, you hate him for giving you a pile of paperwork every day. Enough is enough. Today, you find yourself storming to his penthouse, holding another lawsuit filed against him. 5,511 words.

“Pro Hero Dynamight destroys newly built Hozu Tower!” Y/N slams the newspaper onto his desk. “What were you thinking, huh?!” She ran her hands through her hair. “5.5 Million! Did you ever think about that, huh?!” Bakugo scratched his ear, closing his eyes to drown out her screams and footsteps. “Woman.. shut up.” “NO! Shut up?! This is the 3rd one this month!” She yelled, pacing around his desk. “You said you were gonna be more careful, is this more careful?” She sighed, rubbing her eyes with her thumb and middle finger. “Tell me, are you STUPID?!” He looks up at her, giving her a scoff. “This is your job to fix. So do it, don’t bother me with this.” He stood up and slammed the door shut. She slammed her hands on his desk, frustrated. Why the hell would he keep doing this?!

Y/N stood there for a moment, staring at the door that Bakugo had just slammed in her face. The audacity of that man. How many times had she been stuck cleaning up his messes, all because he refused to take responsibility for his reckless actions? She clenched her fists, her mind racing with frustration. 

With a deep breath, she turned on her heel and headed toward the window, staring out at the city below. The lights flickered as the night settled in, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions brewing inside her. He had pushed her too far this time. 

“Not again…” she muttered to herself as her phone buzzed in her pocket. A new email from the office. She glanced down at the notification, and her heart sank. Another lawsuit. Another disaster to clean up. 

Her hand tightened around the phone, “Hello?” “Ms. L/N. Have you heard?” “Yes, yes. I’m handling it. Set up a meeting for me-“ “No, not that. Check the news.” WHAT?! Y/N scrambles to open Google before— “Pro Hero Dynamight destroys pavement near his own agency building! Read more here!” That.. motherfucker. “I’ll call you back.” She races to his penthouse, one she’s been to way too many times. The doorman recognizes her and quickly opens the elevator for her. DING! SLAM! She barges inside, her head fuming.

“The hell are you doing here? I’m busy.” Bakugo's voice was dripping with annoyance, but there was a hint of something else too; something darker, simmering beneath the surface. 

Y/N turned around slowly, her eyes narrowing. "Don't even think about walking away from this one, Bakugo." Her voice was cold, but there was a fire behind her words. "You can't just wreck everything and expect me to fix it without consequences." 

Bakugo took a step toward her, his presence overwhelming. “It’s my pavement. My agency. How much do you need this time?”

Her pulse quickened, but she stood her ground. "You’re an idiot. You don't think before you act, and now we’re both paying the price. Every damn time, it’s the same thing. And I’m tired of cleaning up after you."

He grinned, that cocky, insufferable grin that made her blood boil. "Sounds like hmmm, it’s your job. I think you're just mad you’re getting lazy.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the silence between them felt suffocating. But then, she snapped. "I hate you." The words escaped before she could stop them. "You’re selfish, reckless, and I hate being stuck with you. I quit.”

Bakugo’s grin faltered, but only for a split second. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between them, his hand wrapping around her wrist in a grip that was almost painfully tight. "You think you can talk to me like that, woman?”

She didn’t flinch. "I’ll talk to you however I damn well please. I worked hard and I will not be stuck with a small headed little bitch like you!”

Their faces were inches apart now, the air between them crackling with tension. And for a brief moment, the animosity between them seemed to boil over, transforming into something much more raw. Something darker.

Bakugo’s free hand reached up, his fingers brushing against her jaw as he tilted her head back slightly, eyes burning with unspoken anger and desire. "You think you can hate me all you want," he growled, "but we both know you’ve got a thing for me."

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "Don’t flatter yourself," she shot back, but the words felt weak, even to her own ears. “You’re barely my type-“

He scoffed, clearly unconvinced. "You sure about that?"

Before she could answer, his lips were on hers; rough, demanding, as if he was trying to prove something. The kiss was full of aggression, but there was a spark beneath it all, a heated clash of frustration, resentment, and something deeper, darker. 

Y/N’s mind was a whirl of confusion. She wanted to push him away, to remind herself of all the reasons she hated him. But her body betrayed her, responding to his touch in a way she couldn’t ignore.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, his gaze still locked onto hers. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, a mixture of satisfaction and something else in his eyes. 

Y/N swallowed hard, trying to gather her thoughts. "Don’t… don’t ever do that again," she said, her voice trembling.

Bakugo smirked, but there was something dangerous in the way he looked at her. "You’re the one who came here, lawyer. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself."

She stared at him, still processing everything that had just happened. "This isn’t over," she said, her voice low and steady, but the heat in her cheeks was undeniable.

"Yeah, we’ll see about that," Bakugo muttered, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Y/N’s pulse raced in her chest, her lips still tingling from the kiss. The suddenness of it, the intensity, made her entire body feel like it was on fire. She stumbled back, eyes wide, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Her breath was shallow, her mind scrambling to form words, to regain control. 

"What the hell was that?" she demanded, her voice shaky but still holding onto the anger she’d worked so hard to maintain. 

Bakugo didn’t move, his posture relaxed, though his eyes were a storm. He was watching her closely, waiting for a reaction. "What do you think it was, princess?" His tone was teasing, but underneath, there was something dangerous, something that made her heart race even faster.

Y/N clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She wanted to scream, to shout at him, but the words stuck in her throat. Her mind screamed at her to get out of there, to leave before this got any worse. But her body didn’t want to listen. It was still humming with the aftershock of his touch.

“That’s assault! I can sue you- she started, her voice breaking, but before she could finish, Bakugo was closing the distance between them again, his presence overwhelming. 

"Shut up," he growled, his hand shooting out to grab her by the collar of her shirt, pulling her closer until they were almost nose to nose. "You think I don’t know what you want? You’ve been walking around here acting like you’re better than me, but I see through it, Y/N. I see how you look at me."

Y/N’s breath hitched as his grip tightened. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He smirked, that cocky, infuriating smirk. "You think I don't notice? The way you look at me when you get pissed off, the way you stand so close to me like you're daring me to touch you. Don’t act like you don’t want this too."

She should’ve pushed him away. She should’ve fought back, screamed at him to leave her the hell alone. But her body betrayed her again. She was pressed against him, her chest heaving with every breath, and despite herself, she could feel the heat between them. 

“No,” she finally managed, her voice low and strained. “No, I don’t want this. I don’t want you.”

Bakugo’s eyes flashed, that familiar fire lighting up in them. "Liar." His hand released her collar, but only to trail down the side of her neck, his fingers ghosting over her skin. "You’re so full of shit. You’ve been begging for this, just like me. All this tension? You think I don’t feel it too?"

Y/N’s body trembled with a mixture of fury and something else—something she couldn’t name. She took a step back, trying to steady herself, but Bakugo followed, keeping the space between them small, his towering presence making her feel boxed in.

"You're wrong," she said, her voice shaking more than she cared to admit. "This is nothing."

But the moment the words left her mouth, she saw it—the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. Bakugo stepped closer, his breath warm against her ear. "You're lying. You don’t get to tell me what you don’t want, not after what just happened."

Y/N froze, her heart pounding in her chest. "Don’t you dare—"

But Bakugo wasn’t listening. He took hold of her wrist again, tugging her forward until she was almost pressed against him. His lips brushed against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "You want to keep pretending you hate me?" His voice was a low, guttural whisper, and it was laced with something dark—something that sent a thrill of danger coursing through her veins. "You can keep lying to yourself, but I can tell you’re on the edge."

She was so close to him now she could feel the heat of his body, the raw power radiating off of him. Her heart raced, her breath ragged. She could feel the tension between them, thick as smoke. 

For a moment, neither of them moved. She could hear the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, the silence between them deafening. And then, with an almost predatory grin, Bakugo leaned in. "Let’s see if you still hate me after tonight."

Before she could react, his hand was on her shoulder, pushing her back toward the desk, his lips crashing into hers again—this time more forceful, more demanding. It was impossible to ignore the spark of something deep within her, the way her body reacted to his every touch.

She should have fought back. But instead, her body froze for a split second, caught between the overwhelming anger and something else—something darker, something she was terrified to acknowledge.

He pulled away briefly, looking down at her with a dangerous smirk. "You think you can run from this?" he asked, his voice dripping with challenge. "I’ve been waiting for you to admit what we both know."

Y/N’s chest rose and fell rapidly as she glared at him, her words a strained whisper, "This... this isn't what you think."

"Isn't it?" Bakugo’s voice was dangerous now, rough with an edge of raw need. His hands moved down to her wrists, pinning them to the desk. The power in his grip was unmistakable, and as he leaned in, she felt the weight of the situation press down on her—both literally and figuratively.

For a moment, everything went still. And then, in a flash, everything was a blur of heat, tension, and that all-too-familiar feeling of control slipping through her fingers.

Y/N’s breathing was ragged as she struggled beneath his grip, her wrists pinned firmly to the cold, smooth surface of his desk. Her back arched slightly as she tried to pull away, but Bakugo’s body was too close, too solid. The scent of smoke and leather clung to him, surrounding her, intoxicating her. 

“This is insane,” she whispered, her voice trembling—not from fear, but from the chaos burning inside her chest. “We can’t—this is wrong.”

Bakugo leaned in until his mouth was hovering just above hers, his breath hot against her skin. “Then act like it” he dared, his voice low and dangerous. “Prove it. Prove you don’t want this.”

She opened her mouth—whether to curse at him or scream or demand her freedom, even she didn’t know. But nothing came out. Her eyes flicked up to his, and what she saw there made her heart stutter. It wasn’t just lust. It was anger, yes, but also desire that had been simmering far too long, something primal and unrelenting. 

“You think I don’t hate this just as much as you?” she spat finally, her voice venom-laced but shaky. “I hate that I want it. I hate that you know I want it.”

Bakugo’s mouth curled into a smirk, something wicked and triumphant. “You think I’m any better?” he growled. “You’ve been in my head since the day they assigned you to me. Every goddamn meeting. Every lecture. You, with that tight little suit and that sharp mouth, telling me how to behave like some stuck-up saint.”

His grip on her wrists tightened—not painfully, but enough to remind her just how little control she had in this moment. “But guess what, princess?” he leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “You’re just as fucked up as I am. You’re dying to get ruined.”

A small sound escaped her throat; half frustration, half something darker. And suddenly, her legs were wrapping around his waist, yanking him closer. Her body moved before her brain could stop it, reacting to the firestorm that had been building between them for months. If they were going to crash, she wanted to feel the wreckage.

“You want to ruin me, huh?” she snarled, teeth bared. “Fine. But I’m taking you down with me.”

Bakugo laughed—low, dark, and full of heat. “Finally,” he breathed against her lips. “You’re starting to sound like mine.”

He let go of her wrists and reached under his desk, pulling out a black silk tie. One she’d tossed at him weeks ago after a gala gone wrong. One she’d never expected to see again.

“What the hell are you—” she started, but he was already behind her, tugging her arms behind her back.

“You came here screaming about lawsuits,” he muttered as he bound her wrists, “but you knew damn well what you wanted. Didn’t you?”

Y/N gasped, the silk tight against her skin, her arms now restrained above her. The helplessness sent a jolt of panic and thrill racing through her veins.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice sharp and low. “Say you wanted this.”

Her jaw clenched. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“I said—say it.”

She glared over her shoulder at him, eyes blazing. “You think you’ve got control here? You think just because you’ve got me tied up, you’ve won?”

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need you to admit it. Your body already did.”

He moved in front of her again, taking in the sight—her blouse rumpled, her eyes defiant and blazing, her chest rising and falling with rapid, uneven breaths. She looked furious. And beautiful. Like a storm in human form.

Bakugo tilted his head, grinning like a wolf. “Fuck. I’ve always wanted a little carnage.”

And with that, he leaned in, crashing his lips into hers again, fire and fury sparking with every movement. She responded in kind, her teeth catching his bottom lip, her bound hands twitching with the urge to claw at him.

The room spun with heat, with tension, with the absolute chaos of what they were about to do. They weren’t lovers. They weren’t even enemies. They were something else entirely—something combustible. 

The kiss was a battle. Teeth clashed, tongues fought for dominance, and all the months of pent-up rage, control, and repressed want exploded between them like a lit match to gasoline. The desk behind her creaked under the pressure of her body pinned against it, her bound wrists straining behind her as she arched into him, half wanting to push him away, half wanting to drag him down with her.

Bakugo broke the kiss just enough to catch his breath, his forehead pressed against hers. "You really are a pain in the ass, you know that?"

Y/N’s growl was breathless, dangerous. “And you’re a fucking menace.”

“You came to my place,” he growled, hands roaming, assertive, possessive. “Stormed in here like you owned it.”

“I came to fix another one of your goddamn messes,” she spat, still catching her breath. “Like always.”

“You just wanted an excuse to see me,” he whispered darkly, voice laced with heat. “And now look at you. All tied up. Moaning like a liar.”

Her breath caught. Bakugo’s hand slid slowly up her thigh, fingers brushing the hem of her skirt, every movement deliberate, slow, teasing. His other hand stayed on her waist, keeping her pressed to the desk like she was part of the furniture now, something that belonged there, beneath him.

"You wear these little pencil skirts like you don't know exactly what you're doing," he murmured, dragging the tip of his finger along her inner thigh. "Coming into my office all self-righteous, but your eyes always tell on you, sweetheart."

"You're sick," she whispered, hips shifting involuntarily toward his touch. "You get off on control, on chaos—"

"And you don’t?" His eyes gleamed with wicked pleasure. "I think you like being ruined by the very thing you swore to keep in check."

Y/N’s jaw clenched, her pulse thundering in her ears. “You think tying me up gives you power over me? You’re just a sadistic-”

Bakugo leaned in, his lips brushing hers again, but he didn’t kiss her—not yet. “Nah. The power’s in the fact that you let me.”

Her mouth parted to protest, but he caught her chin between his fingers, holding her still. “You could’ve filed that lawsuit and walked away. Could’ve sent it to my agency, let my PR team handle it. But no… you came here. With that fucking fire in your voice and heat in your eyes. You wanted the fight. You wanted this.”

She hated that he was right. She hated how much of herself she saw in him; volatile, prideful, always in control but secretly aching for someone to wrest it away.

“You hate me,” he whispered against her skin, lips trailing down her jaw. “But you need me.”

She turned her face sharply, so their mouths almost met again. “Fuck you,” she whispered. “You’re fucked up in the head, Bakugo.”

Bakugo chuckled low in his throat, fingers now gripping the tops of her thighs, spreading her legs open across the edge of the desk. “Then we’re both fucked,” he muttered, voice raw. “Because I only feel alive when I’m fighting you. Or—” he kissed her again, sharp and dirty, “—fucking you.”

The city lights glimmered outside the massive penthouse windows, framing them in the glass. Anyone across the way could see. The idea made her stomach twist with both panic and twisted thrill.

“You’re not going to make me beg,” she whispered defiantly, even as her legs wrapped around his waist again.

“I don’t want you to beg,” he growled, teeth grazing her neck. “I want you to break.”

She hissed through her teeth, her body trembling in his hold.

“And when you do,” he said, dragging her toward him across the desk until their hips met, “I’ll be right there. Picking up the pieces. Just so I can break you all over again.”

He kissed her then—deep and brutal, a promise of the wreckage to come. And she kissed him back like she knew exactly what she was agreeing to.

Bakugo’s grip on the silk tie tightened, pulling Y/N flush against the edge of the desk. Her back arched instinctively, breath stuttering as the cool wood dug into her spine. Behind her, the city pulsed with golden lights, but all she could focus on was the molten fire in his eyes—hungry, raw, and laced with something feral.

He leaned in, lips dragging along her collarbone before his teeth scraped the delicate skin at her throat. A gasp tore from her lips, her wrists straining against the silky binds behind her back as he trailed one hand down her hip, the other gripping her jaw like he owned her.  “You feel that?” he muttered against her skin, hot breath ghosting over her throat. “That’s how much you fucking need me.”

Her body betrayed her again. Heat twisted low in her stomach as her hips shifted, brushing against the hard edge of his belt. She shoved at his chest, breathless and burning with something ugly and addictive. “You’re unbelievable,” she spat, her voice sharp—but tinged with need. “A man-child with too many goddamn toys.”

Bakugo just laughed, a dark sound that rumbled deep in his chest. In one swift motion, he shoved her flat onto her back across the desk. The tie bit gently into her wrists as she squirmed. Above her, he looked like a man possessed, one hand still holding her down by the throat, the other sliding under her blouse.

“You gave me this tie,” he growled, thumbing at the clasp of her bra with a rough precision. “Don’t act like you didn’t want me to use it.”

Y/N’s lips parted—whether to curse or moan, she didn’t even know anymore. Her breath caught when he began popping the buttons of her blouse one by one, exposing more skin to the chill air and his scorching gaze. Her skirt rode higher with every movement, and the cool glass behind them gave a full view of the scene; anyone across the street could see like it was a movie right before their eyes.

“You sick fuck,” she gasped. “You like the idea of someone watching?”

Bakugo leaned in, breath hot against her lips. “No,” he whispered, fingers sliding up the inside of her thigh. “I like the idea of someone watching you fall apart because of me.”

She tensed, heat flooding her cheeks. But when his thumb pressed against her through her panties—slow, knowing—her hips bucked traitorously into his hand. 

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, parting her with maddening patience. She bit her lip hard, eyes fluttering closed as his thumb circled her clit. Every nerve lit up. Her body writhed under his, wrists tugging helplessly at the binds behind her. 

Her breath hitched when he pushed two fingers inside her—slow, deep, deliberate. “Give them a show,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Come on.”

Y/N’s head tossed back, lips parting on a moan she couldn’t contain. “I hate you,” she gasped, hips rocking against his hand. “I hate how you fuck me up like this.”

Bakugo’s teeth grazed her throat. “Yeah? Then say it louder.”

His fingers curled just right inside her, and her resolve shattered. Her back arched, legs trembling, breath stolen by the release that ripped through her like a wave. She came hard, the silk around her wrists the only thing anchoring her to reality as he watched her break with a twisted smirk.

He pulled his fingers from her, holding her gaze as he pressed them to his lips, sucking them clean like it was nothing. Y/N trembled beneath him, blouse open, body flushed, wrists raw from the tie.

“You break like that again,” he murmured against her lips, “and I’ll be here. Just to ruin you all over.”

Her pulse thundered. Her mouth parted to snap something vicious in return, but all she could do was breathe, shattered and silent.

And when he finally untied her wrists and stepped back, her arms dropped limply to the desk, spent and shaking.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

It was only the beginning of the wreckage.

Y/N didn’t move.

The room buzzed around her—city lights flickering through the windows, a car horn far below, the ticking of the minimalist clock on Bakugo’s wall- but her body felt miles away. Her wrists ached in the best kind of way, her chest rising and falling in uneven waves as she lay sprawled across his desk, blouse half-open, tie forgotten on the floor beside her heel. Bakugo said nothing as he stood back, chest heaving slightly. His hair was a mess, wilder than usual. His hands hung loosely at his sides like he didn’t quite know what to do with them anymore. His gaze roamed over her, slow, calculating, but not smug. Not anymore. He finally ran a hand through his hair and let out a slow breath. “You alright?” The question hit harder than it should’ve. Not mocking. Not gloating. Just…quiet.

Y/N sat up slowly, tugging her blouse closed with trembling fingers. She didn’t look at him. “You ask me that after tying me up and finger-fucking me on your desk?”

Bakugo shrugged a shoulder, something unreadable crossing his face. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

She glared at him, cheeks flushed, but not just from embarrassment. Shame coiled in her gut, tangled with arousal and the bitter taste of surrender. “You’re such a goddamn asshole,” she muttered, grabbing her stuff from the floor.

“Yeah?” he said, voice low. “Then stop coming back.”

That stopped her. Mid-button. Mid-breath.

He didn’t look at her when he said it, just turned and walked to the bar near the windows, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting the cap off like he hadn’t just torn her apart in every way that mattered.

Her mouth opened. Closed. No comeback. No snark. Because the truth was, she could’ve stopped coming. Could’ve let her interns handle the paperwork she hated so much. Could’ve ghosted him and made his life hell through legal channels.

But she didn’t.

Again and again, she came storming in. Fighting. Screaming. Burning. Maybe because she knew Bakugo was the only one who could handle that kind of fire without running. She pulled her hair back into a messy twist, gathering herself. “You’re reckless, Dynamight. And I still have to fix your mess,” she said, slipping back into her heels.

He glanced at her from over his shoulder. “Thought you hated calling me that.”

“I do.” She crossed the room to grab the file she’d dropped. “But we both play roles, right?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Yeah. Yours is ‘I hate him.’”

Y/N shot him a look, half-smirk, half-threat. “And yours is pretending you don’t care.”

Silence stretched between them. Charged. Complicated.

She turned toward the door, expecting him to let her leave, like always.

But then— “I dream about you sometimes.”

Her heart stopped. She didn’t turn around.

“You’re always yelling,” he said, almost to himself. “Wearing that smug little suit. Trying to make me behave.” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “But then you’ll still come back to me. You know you’ll never quit. Because, deep down, you already know you’re mine.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened on the doorknob. Her throat felt tight. She didn’t know what to say— if she should say anything.

So she didn’t. She walked out, heels clicking down the hall like punctuation. But her hands were still shaking.

[2 days later..]

Y/N hadn’t slept. Not really. She’d gone home, washed the scent of him off her skin, burned through casework, ignored every one of his messages, short, unreadable texts like “We need to talk” or “Don’t ignore me.”, and even the “Thanks for getting me out of that one.” She told herself it meant nothing. That it was just a line they crossed once—a heat-of-the-moment mistake.

But then she looked at her wrists in the shower, saw the faint marks from the silk, and had to bite her own fist to stop the way her body remembered. So she buried it. Locked it down. Became ice again. Until her doorbell rang at 11:47 PM. She blinked at the screen on the intercom, and her blood ran cold. There he was. In black sweats, a tank top, hair a mess, eyes darker than she’d ever seen them.

Bakugo.

She hit the button. “You drunk?”

“No.” His voice was gravel. “Just fucking sick of you ignoring me.”

Y/N hesitated.

Then she the door buzzed open.

He stepped inside like a storm barely contained. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak. Just stood in the middle of her pristine apartment like he didn’t belong there, but was daring her to say it.

Y/N crossed her arms. “What do you want?”

“You.”

She froze.

“You think you can scream at me, jerk me around, and then walk away like nothing happened?” he said, taking a step closer. “You think that meant nothing?”

“It meant nothing,” she snapped. “It was a mistake.”

Bakugo’s jaw ticked. “Then why do you look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Don’t act like an idiot. You’re smarter than that.”

Her pulse pounded so loudly she could barely hear her breath. He took another step. She didn’t back away. “You’re not some fantasy, Katsuki,” she bit out. “This isn’t one of your stupid hero missions. You don’t get to fuck your problems into submission.”

He grinned, all teeth. “Is that what I did? ‘Cause last I checked, you were the one moaning my name while tied to my desk. You were the only one to cum and I didn’t even ask for you to return the favor.”

Her slap was lightning quick, but he caught her wrist before it landed.

The tension crackled. Breathless. Violent. Wanting. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Hit me if you want, sweetheart. But you know what happens next.”

She hated him. Hated him for being right. So instead of pulling away—

She kissed him. Hard.

Their teeth clashed, mouths hot and messy. Bakugo shoved her against the wall, hands gripping her thighs to hoist her up. She wrapped around him instantly, lips devouring his like she’d been starving since the last time.

Clothes came off like secrets. Buttons popped. Hair pulled. Hands everywhere.

He dropped her onto the couch, kneeling between her thighs with fire in his eyes. “You wanna pretend this doesn’t matter?” he growled, dragging his mouth down her chest. “Then try to pretend you don’t feel this, bitch.”

Y/N arched, fingers threading through his hair, already too far gone. This wasn’t control. This wasn’t release. This was war—and they were both losing gloriously.

[The next morning..]

Y/N walked into the agency’s legal floor like she hadn’t had her legs over Bakugo’s shoulders just forty hours earlier. Her heels clicked with intention, her blouse was buttoned all the way up, and not a hair was out of place. Coffee in one hand, lawsuit in the other, lips set in that practiced, perfectly unbothered line. Everyone in the hallway nodded when she passed.

“Good morning, Miss L/N.”

“Morning,” she said coolly. Like her mouth hadn’t been full of Pro Hero two nights ago. She stepped into the elevator. The doors were closing—until a hand shoved them open.

And there he was. Bakugo Katsuki. In all his grumpy, brooding, freshly-showered glory. Tie loose, blazer slung over one shoulder, jaw clenched like he’d rather chew glass than be there.

Y/N didn’t even blink. “Dynamight,” she said, sipping her coffee.

“Y/N,” he grunted, stepping in beside her.

Silence. Tension thick as cement. The elevator chimed. Floors passed. Y/N scrolled casually through her phone. “You’ve been served again. Property damage in Kamino. Four civilians mildly injured.”

“Did they die?”

“No.”

“Then they’re fine.”

She sighed, not looking at him. “You’re insufferable.”

He smirked. “Didn’t sound like that when you were screaming my name.”

She didn’t react. Not even a twitch. “I scream at a lot of people,” she replied smoothly, “Doesn’t mean I want to see them again after.”

His nostrils flared. “Keep pushing, princess.”

“Or what?” She looked up at him finally, eyes sharp. “You gonna spank me in the conference room?”

Bakugo stepped closer, crowding her into the corner of the elevator, voice low and dark. “Keep talking like that, and I just might-”

DING!

The elevator opened to the executive floor. Both of them stepped out like professionals.

Two PR assistants glanced at them, wide-eyed.

“Morning, Dynamight! Miss L/N!”

“Morning,” they said in unison… calm, poised, lethal.

[Meeting Room 3B. 8:30 A.M.]

The PR meeting was in full swing. Y/N sat across the table from him, flipping pages of the legal packet she’d prepped. Bakugo leaned back in his chair, legs wide, hand loosely tapping a pen against the table. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked up. She ignored him.

Mostly.

Until she licked her lower lip slowly, mindlessly, while turning a page. He dropped his pen. She didn’t look up, but her lips curved slightly. “Careful, sir.”

Bakugo leaned forward, voice low and amused. “My bad, just thinking.”

“Well, please try to keep your head with the meeting?” she said sweetly, passing him a highlighted clause. “Try reading for once.”

He didn’t break eye contact as he took it from her, their fingers brushing for the briefest second. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. Just sat there, straight-backed and unbothered, like she wasn’t soaking in power from the tension she kept tightening between them. Petty. Petty and perfect.

And Bakugo? Bakugo was seething. And hard.

[cherrygarcia-07]

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy📞❤️/ Spencer Reid

technophobe spencer reid becomes obsessed with leaving you sweet little love letters in the form of voice notes <33

(this was inspired by a tweet I saw talking about Spencer leaving you voice notes and I spiralled a little)

pairing: spencer x gn reader

genre: fluff fluff fluff

word count: 1.9k

notes: nothing i just want spencer reid to leave me voice notes oh my god :(((( btw sorry if this is poorly written i am sleep deprived and fighting delirium rn

masterlist

————————————————————————-——❤️ —————————————————————————

Spencer didn’t understand it at first, being the self-proclaimed technophobe he was.

“Why would I need to do that when I can just call you?” He’d protested, sounding as confused as if you’d just spoken to him in alien language (probably more so seeing as he could likely decode an alien’s messages faster than he could figure out what the purpose of a voice note could possibly be).

You’d tried to explain it to him but it was like talking to a brick wall. A tall, astutely stupid, old-fashioned brick wall. Hell, he was still solely using that old brick phone of his until you had forced a smartphone in his hands and put your heart and soul into batting your lashes at him until he begrudgingly agreed to use it (only on the side, he’d said, when he absolutely needed to- that brick phone still sat snug in his pocket at all times). You loved him, but he was stubborn. And he had sworn, pledged, vowed that he would never have a need to send a voice note instead of simply calling- that was until you started sending them to him.

It was fair to call Spencer uncooperative when it came to most aspects of technology, but unfortunately for him his dopiness outweighed it tenfold. It didn’t matter what you said to him, just the sound of your voice was enough to render him silly. You would send him messages full of absolutely nothing: ramblings about your loud next door neighbour; pitchy performances of whatever song was stuck in your head that day; mundane questions you could totally just google but opted to consulting your encyclopaedia of a boyfriend instead- and he would be absolute mush where he stood listening to your voice as it rang, sweet and melodic, in his ears.

Spencer would catch himself reaching across the bed to his nightstand, eyes still closed and head buried in his pillow, desperately needing your familiarity to soothe his sleepless nights but not wanting to wake you with a phone call. His fingers would move on their own, finding your contact instinctively and scrolling until your voice notes appeared on his screen, knowing you were the lullaby he needed to settle his restless brain. Sighing contently, he would sink back into the mattress and listen to your messages as if they were poetry (even if you were just talking about some pop culture drama he had no clue about) until a wave of calm passed over him and pulled him into a sea of sleep.

When he was away with the team he didn’t always have the time to call you, but the cases he was working on would weigh heavy on his mind and so, like clockwork, his hands would find your name in his phone again. A small but undeniably lovesick smile would settle on his face as he allowed your voice to light up the dark events of the day until they were distant rain clouds in the sky that was your presence, hanging over him protectively even when you were apart.

He hated to admit it, but he was beginning to understand the appeal.

Spencer had laid in bed one of those sleepless nights, phone in his hand as he stared at the screen. He wanted to return the favour but couldn’t fathom where to begin. A million questions bounced around in his head (‘What do I say?’ How long do I talk for?’ ‘Wait, how do I even press record…?’) and he wondered if after all these years he’d had his dear IQ wrong seeing as something so simple as a smartphone had him completely and utterly stumped.

When you checked your phone the next morning, your jaw dropped. You rubbed your eyes in disbelief, thinking you must still be asleep and dreaming as you took in the 4 notifications under Spencer’s name. A short, breathy laugh escaped you as you eagerly unlocked your phone, itching to hear what awaited you.

The first voice note was 2 seconds long. It was muffled, and you could make out the rustling of sheets as if someone was shifting positions before it cut to silence as the message ended.

“He must’ve sent that one by mistake.” You muttered to yourself before moving on.

The second voice note was slightly longer at 7 seconds long. It began the same way, muffled movement and awkward silence for the most part until a voice cut through at the very end saying something you couldn’t quite decipher before cutting out completely as the message ended abruptly.

You couldn’t help the chuckle that you let out. God, he was just so endearing. A grin stretched across your face as you shook your head, bracing yourself for the third voice note.

Through your speaker, Spencer cleared his throat before speaking, shy and quiet.

“Um… H-hi uh…” He stopped to clear his throat again, a nervous habit of his you adored, before mumbling to himself “God, what do I sa-“.

You were laughing loudly at this point, your head dropped forward slightly as your shoulders shook and you didn’t hesitate before moving on to the fourth and final message.

There was a stretch of silence at the start before he spoke, like he couldn’t tell if he had hit record or not. “I’m not really sure what I’m doing but, um, I wanted to talk to you but I didn’t want to wake you so I thought I would finally try this out. I hope this makes you happy seeing as I feel incredibly foolish right now.” You could hear the shy smile in his words as a sigh left your lips. “But, um, that doesn’t matter because I wanted- needed, really- to tell you that I love you.” His voice had dipped lower, raspy and heavy with drowsiness but simultaneously so full of affection and adoration that it made your heart swell. “And that I hope you’re sleeping well. Goodnight, sweetheart.” There was another small period of silence before spoke again, this time to himself, “Now, how do I stop recor-“.

Over time, Spencer became more confident in the voice notes he would send, despite his continuing persistence that they were completely unnecessary in the wake of standard phone calls. Some days you would check your phone to hear frantic blabbering about the latest piece of research that had fascinated him, his voice loud and animated as he spoke with excitement laced through his words and you smiled a great, impassioned smile as you could practically see the way his free hand was wildly gesturing in tandem. Other days it would be shorter messages, relaying a random fact that had popped into that marvellous, never ending brain of his that he thought you’d enjoy (which you always did, but you would enjoy anything no matter the topic as long as it was coming out of his mouth). But every morning and every night, like it was law, Spencer would make sure to begin and end your day with a string of smitten ‘I love you’’s and heartfelt ramblings, making sure you woke up and fell asleep knowing how sincerely and how endlessly you were loved.

In the mornings, his voice would be slightly groggy, raspy in that way that sent shivers down your spine and made your heart stop beating for a moment. You could picture him lying in bed, brown curls splayed out in every which way around his head as it rested on his pillow, big doe eyes lazy with the lingering dreams of the fading night. Closing your eyes, you allowed his voice to take over your senses as the butterflies in your stomach danced at the love letters that spilled so effortlessly out of those soft lips of his. At night, Spencer’s voice would be heavy, weighed down by the long day behind him and yet he never skipped a second, as if he needed to get every lovestruck thought out of his head before his body would even consider letting him sleep, even if it meant he had to wait just that bit longer before he could see you in his dreams again.

You had never known love like it, like him, in your life. Spencer was unashamed, proud of the feelings he harboured for you and he never let you forget it. When you were together he was glued to you in some way or another, a gentle hand holding the small of your back like you were something precious that he could hardly believe he had the privilege of loving, or his arm draped over your shoulders like a shelter for you to burrow under and stay wrapped up cosy in the safety of his touch. He had a smile that was saved only for you, a genuine beam that reached as wide as it could across the face that you cradled in your hands every second you had the chance to, and his gaze was soft, glazed over slightly in a haze of adoration as he treasured your face that looked back at him with the same amount of tenderness. It was these memories that flashed across your mind every time you heard his voice, the familiarity of him somehow closing the distance no matter how far apart you were and it was as if he were sitting right beside you, cuddling you close like he never wanted to let you go.

The first time he sent you a voice note in public, you could tell. There was that same hesitation at the beginning that had been present in his first attempts so long ago, his voice was quiet and almost shaky and he paused at odd times where you could tell he was stopping to look around him to make sure no one could hear him. You’d giggled as you listened to him, nervous and bumbling as he detailed the quaint little bookstore he’d found and insisted he bring you there on your next date.

In those lonely evenings when you were apart, you’d find yourselves exchanging silly voice notes to keep each other entertained. Your sides would ache and your cheeks would be stiff from laughing at the numerous cheesy Clint Eastwood impressions he would leave you and you’d wish you could see the way you knew his face was mimicking the matching facial expressions too.

Whenever you were having a bad day, your phone would chime and the weight on your chest would begin to lift as you listened to what felt like an entire soliloquy of pure love. Spencer would go to the ends of the earth, travel space and time and whatever else he may come across if it meant he could make you happy and banish any sadness you felt into a big black hole never to bother you again. It killed him when he couldn’t be there to hold you, to stroke your hair and press light but longing kisses to your forehead as he hugged you through the pain you were feeling, and so the messages he sent were lengthy, longer than any other as he spilled his heart out into something you could play over and over whenever you needed him beside you, leaving positively no room to doubt that anyone or anything could love as deeply and as earnestly as him.

Somehow, despite his obstinance around technology, it seemed Spencer had found an outlet he admired, another means of connecting with you, of taking care of you and loving you in a way that surprised him with its vulnerability and for that he was grateful. It didn’t matter how many compliments he showered you with, how many kisses were shared in moments of intimacy or how many ‘I love you’s tumbled out like they were second nature, it was never enough. If this meant a whole new world of late night ramblings and whispered sweet-nothings, then who was he to say no?

-

[p1astr81]

stay done -cl16

in which: You just can’t walk away from Charles, no matter what he does.

pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader

warnings: angst, mentions of potential cheating, google translated French, Charles is a complete dick, reader is stupid as hell, mentions of vomit, not proofread I fear, lmk if there’s any more!

based on “stay done” by tate mcrae

‧‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅

The both of you sat on opposite ends of the sofa, and somehow the topic of Lewis joining the team next year came up. Stupidly, you commented, “yeah, it’s going to be incredible if you beat him.” Of course, it wasn’t a dig at your boyfriends abilities, but rather a recognition of the past achievements of the 7 time world champion.

Charles looked to you with furrowed brows. He assessed your expression before scoffing. He stood abruptly, moving with haste. “Charles, I didn’t mean it like that.” You chased after him down the hallway of his Monaco apartment. “I’m sorry,” you tried again after you received no response or acknowledgment from the man. “Fuck off.” He muttered, stepping into your shared bedroom and slamming the door in your face. You tried to twist the handle.

Locked.

“Babe, come on.” Your fist softly collided with the door once. “You’re an incredible driver, I just meant with his achievements and whatnot…” you trailed off, realizing your words weren’t making the situation much better.

Hate that I’m always gonna have a side to me / That’s still in awe when you’re mad at me / You can’t do it wrong in my eyes

“It was a stupid thing to say. I take it back, I’m sorry.” The only thing your apology granted was the sound of broken glass from somewhere inside the room. You took a shaky breath, and hesitantly tapped your knuckles against the wooden barrier. “Charlie? You okay?” You called out hesitantly.

The door was thrown open seconds later. Charles’s green eyes were a few shades darker as he glared down at you. His gaze pierced through you, and somehow caused the rise and fall of your chest to cease. “Fine.” He grumbled, stepping by you. He was sure bump your shoulder with such force it turned you a full ninety degrees. You watched as he plucked his keys from the counter. “Where are you-“ he shut the front door, abruptly cutting off the rest of your inquiry.

Your attention turned to the sound of shattered glass from earlier, and you took a cautious step into the room to investigate it’s source. Your heart dropped to your stomach when you saw the picture frame. On the floor. Upside-down. Surrounded in glass.

You were cautious of the scattered glass, stepping on your tip-toes to avoid it. You retrieved the frame by its stand. Once it was in your grasp, you stepped away from the glass. The picture was a favorite among the both of you. Taken by joris at the amusement park, after Charles just succeeded in winning you a giant plush. You had your arms stretched above your head, your lips spread into an open smile, probably cheering loudly at the time it was taken. The picture caught Charles as he was dipping down to grab you around your hips and hoist you into a close hug. He was a little blurry, but the love in his eyes was clear as day.

A tear ran down your face. You made no attempt to wipe it away. More followed as your feet carried you to the living room. You gently placed what was left of the frame on the coffee table, and sat on the sofa in front of it.

I hate it that you gotta break something / To realize we’re at rock bottom

Four days passed. You both agreed to forget the past incident, and he replaced the picture frame.

You were in the kitchen, cooking dinner for the both of you. You’d plated it up nicely, and placed the two dishes on the table at your respective spots. “Now, Leo, stay away from the table.” You redirected the cute little dog to the living room. He never jumped on the table to steal food, but he was a troublemaker in many other ways, which always had you worried.

You descended down the hallway to the room dedicated to his sim, and knocked on the door lightly before entering. “Foods done,” you inform him, your voice light with hope, but cautious. “Just bring it here.” He instructed, his eyes on the screen. You let out a small sigh as the bit of hope you held onto fizzled into nothingness. “Charlie, it’s been a week since you last came to eat with me.” You said, your voice small as you felt pathetic begging your boyfriend to just eat with you.

“What do you want from me?” He fired back, spinning around to face you. His eyes were narrowed, daring you to give a snappy reply back. “Just twenty minutes.” Your voice was hardly a whisper, broken as you bargained for an ounce of his attention. He sighed—though the sound was more of a huff—and gestured to the monitor stating, “I’m working. Isn’t that what you want? So you can leech off of my money some more?”

That one hit hard. While you owned the day care down the street, you didn’t make nearly as much as Charles did. You swallowed the lump in your throat, fighting back the pricking sting of tears. “I’ll be back with your plate.”

But kill me again cause the high’s twice as high / Wish this bullshit would end, but we’re back here again

Charles was away for another race, in Vegas this time around. “Baby, I saw this one dress and I thought you would like it so I took a picture,” he quipped over your FaceTime call, a text from him sending soon after. It was a really cute dress, but you could just make out the price tag. $5,000. “You know me well, cause that is a really cute dress.” You laughed. Charles smiled. “Ah, perfect. I’ll buy it tomorrow before the sessions.”

Your stomach twisted, your head reeling with his words from a couple of weeks ago, ‘So you can leech off of my money some more’. Since that night, you’d purchased everything yourself, turning down his offers or blocking him so he couldn’t swipe his own card. You turned down every transaction from his account. You had to adjust a little, as buying whatever you pleased was no longer an option with your new budget.

You shook your head quickly. “No, that’s alright I think I have plenty of dresses.” You turned down the offer as politely as you could without raising any red flags. Charles’s expression twisted, his brows pinching together and creasing the space between them. “What is it with you lately? You’ve been acting like my wallet has a disease.” You gave a forced laugh at his joke. “Nothing, just… independence is nice, I suppose.” You tried to reassure him with a smile. He gave you a skeptical look, piecing the puzzle together all on his own. “is this about what a said the other week?” You didn’t answer, your gaze drifting to a far-off place. “Come on, you know I didn’t mean that.” His voice was soft, an apology lying just beneath his words that never surfaced.

“No, yeah.” You agreed quietly, a small nod of your head confirming it double. “Charlie it’s getting pretty late here, I think I’m going to head to bed.”

“Oh, chérie. Why didn’t you say something earlier. It’s like—what is it,” he calculated the time difference in his head quickly, “two in the morning there.” He gave you a look of pity, or maybe it’s guilt. “I just miss you, is all.” You smiled softly. “Wish you were still here with me.”

Charles chuckled lowly. “I miss you, too. But I’ll see you next week in Brazil, yeah?” You nodded to confirm, though he already knew. “Can’t wait. Goodnight bébé.”

Yeah, I know we should break up / But I just can’t stay done with you / When I take off my makeup / Go to bed wanna wake up with you

You were meant to be flying into Brazil tomorrow, but a picture surfaced after Las Vegas that had you cancelling your flight.

You send a screenshot of the photo to Charles, demanding, “what is this?” he won in Vegas, and evidently celebrated in the infamous ‘sin city’. The picture taken during that night caught him red handed. A pretty blonde girl sat on his lap, hardly covered by her mini, skin tight, dress.

The guys were trying to be funny by calling a few of the escorts over. Nothing serious.

Honestly, a part of you wanted to laugh at his response. “Nothing serious”??? Was he kidding?? Her ass was pressed up against his dick and he thinks it’s “nothing serious”???

Fuck you and your excuses, Leclerc. Don’t expect me to be in Brazil tomorrow, ‘cause I’m not showing up.

We're best friends and enemies / We're good 'til you're dead to me, yeah / I told you goodbye like / Hundred million times

His messages came poring in quickly.

Ma chérie, please. Im sorry.

Don’t take this so harsh, it was only a bit of fun.

I didn’t do anything with her

I give you my life on that promise.

Please don’t leave us like this.

The sheer audacity of this man had you stumbling over your own thoughts, but somehow the ones that translated through the keyboard were,

I’m not ending us. I just need a bit of space right now.

I know I sound so dumb / But I just can't stay done with you / I just can't stay done with you

A few days went by, and you went out with your friends to momentarily forget about Charles. You drank. A lot. And alcohol—being a depressant and all—did it’s job exactly. Your plan to use the liquid to forget about him backfired, as the end of the night left you on the bathroom floor of your friend’s flat, crying as you scrolled through old photos of the two of you.

So when he called, you couldn’t resist picking up this time, even though you’d ignored all his calls previous.

“I miss you so much,” you started, choking on your own sobs. “Charles, please.”

You were entirely unsure of what you were pleading for. Another apology? For his presence? There wasn’t a true answer.

“Oh, Chérie,” he cooed. “I’ll pick you up, yeah? Are you at your friends?” He was gentle with his words and his tone of voice, as if any other tone would inflict physical pain upon you. This was the Charles you fell in love with. The caring, gentle, loving one.

After receiving confirmation that you were in fact at your friend’s residence, he raced over to pick you up and comforted you as soon as you set a foot in his car.

“I’m so sorry. So, so, so sorry.” And with his arms wrapped so tightly around you, whispering sweetly in your ear, how could you not think his apology was sincere?

So you gave in, accepting his apology after days of stubborn silence. “I know.” You sobbed into his shoulder. The never ending tears soaked through his thick hoodie, causing it to plaster to his skin.

Two hands cradling your face, he pulled you away from his shoulder gently. Your hands clung to the ends of your hoodie as he pushed the stray hairs from your face. “I love you.” He placed a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger for a moment before he pulled away. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

You nodded, leaning back into your seat. He was sure to keep a hand in yours the whole way there.

I hate it that I'm tryna call you up / When you're the thing that I'm running from / The one-way street I can't get off, oh yeah

You walked into the small pizza place across the street from Charles’s apartment building. A friend of a friend was very adamant about meeting you for lunch today, and when she offered to pay, who were you to say no?

Giving her a short greeting, you sat in the booth across from her. The atmosphere was awkward, but you chalked it up to not knowing her all that well.

Until halfway through your meal, she reluctantly slid her phone across the table to you. A very short conversation lit up the screen.

hey

hi?

wyd?

nothing rn

wanna come over?

can’t, I’ve got plans later.

At first, you were confused as to why she would show you the interaction, but then your eyes scanned over the name.

Charles Leclerc

“I met him at a club not to long ago.” She explained. “I had no idea he had a girlfriend until I did some digging and when I found out it was you… I’m really sorry.”

As if a small sorry would do anything to fix the tremendous ache in your heart.

“Have you…” you swallowed your fear. “done anything before? Hooked up?”You feared the answer, praying to whoever would listen that she spoke out a no.

“No. But he was really flirty when we met.” You couldn’t meet her eyes. The pity in them making you want to scream like a mad woman. “Send me a screenshot of that?” You requested, your voice strained from the effort of holding back your tears.

She nodded. “‘Course.”

“Thanks for lunch.” You muttered quickly, grabbing your stuff and nearly sprinting out of the place.

Charles tried to greet you as you stepped into the flat, but you shoved past him and locked yourself in the bathroom.

The door handle jiggled, but the lock did it’s job. Charles tapped his knuckles against the wooden door. “Chérie?” The nickname had an anger bubbling inside you. “Are you alright in there?” With your newly acquired information, you wondered how he could sound so genuinely concerned.

“Uh, just feeling sick.” You answered shakily. It wasn’t entirely a lie. You were feeling extremely sick to your stomach. Something nasty swirled from within and it had you leaned up against the wall with your legs drawn to your chest.

“I’ll get you some water.”

The bathroom tiles reverberated from a buzz of your phone. When you opened the message to see the screenshot, the lunch you just ingested crawled back up your throat and forced itself out of your body. The contents dumped into the toilet bowl.

A foreign body pressed closely toward yours, holding your hair from your face and rubbing your back.

How the hell did he get in? You asked yourself, then remembered the key he kept on top of the doorframe.

It didn’t matter, cause the feeling of him so close to you had you spilling everything your body could offer into the bowl.

“Go away,” you manage to mumble.

“What?”

“Go away.” You repeated more clearly, attempting to push him away but given you were head first in the toilet, it was a little challenging.

Charles laugh is laced with concern. “Why would I do that? I know this isn’t-“

“Because I saw the texts.” You lift your head, pushing away from him and taking up your spot against the wall once more. You wiped your face with a piece of bath tissue while he looked to you with furrowed brows, shaking his head in confusion. “I don’t understand. What texts?”

You threw your phone at him, screen displaying the conversation. “Those texts.”

You watched as he read through the conversation. Guilt manipulated each of his facial features and weighed heavy on his body, forcing him to his bottom and his back up against the bathroom vanity for support. His position mirrored yours. Back straight and knees bent to meet your chest.

Sat across from you, his forehead fell to rest on his patellas. “I’m sorry, bébé.” He muttered.

You sniffled, whipping your nose with the back of your hand. “Coming from you, those words don’t mean much anymore.” You mumbled, playing with you hands in your lap.

He exhaled a sigh from deep in his chest. His eyes found your figure, a pained look painting his expression. “I know. I know.” He shook his head. Desperation filled him, a burning desire to reach out to you but he held himself back. “I have no excuse this time.” He carefully placed your phone on the tiled floor beside you.

You said nothing, your eyes still on your hands as you twisted your fingers between each other. Ideas of how to respond and repercussions swam around in your mind. You considered breaking it off with him and leaving for good. But at the end of the day this was your Charles and it was nothing more than a text. A text sent when you asked him for space. Perhaps he thought you were on a break.

So, you being you, you cut him some slack. “I think I’ll be sleeping in the guest bedroom tonight.” Your voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper, and you still couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.

Charles felt a little lighter at your words. You weren’t leaving. You weren’t breaking up with him. Hell, you’d still be under the same roof, just a few meters from Charles. He smiled softly. “Okay.” He nodded.

I've been nothing less than cordial / But if we're really talking morals / Why'd you have to hit her up like that? / You should know it isn't normal

A generous amount of make-up remover soaked the cloth in your hand. Gentle swipes took off the top layer of your makeup, coating the light colored cloth in an ugly shade of brown. The cleansing balm took off whatever the makeup remover failed to, and you washed your face to be sure it was all off.

Charles had avoided the bathroom, but when you came out, he couldn’t resist giving you a small, “goodnight.” He received no response from you, but did not blame you for ignoring him.

You slipped into the guest bed, the mattress was hardly used and therefore not as broken in as yours and Charles’s.

You tossed and turned for an hour. Your brain couldn’t shut off. It constantly found a new thing to complain about every five minutes. The bed is too stiff, or it’s too cold in here, and then when you got another blanket, now it’s too hot.

But the most notable complaint, I miss Charles.

You whispered out a curse to the empty room, trying your hardest to push that thought far away from your brain. But it was persistent. It was the devil on your shoulder, telling you Charles could fix the ache in your heart—even if he was the cause of it.

You should be mad at him. You shouldn’t be the one longing for his presence beside you. You should be repulsed at the mere thought of him.

You couldn’t find it in you to stay mad at him. He was an irresistible force, constantly drawing you into him even when he wasn’t trying to.

And eventually, after an hour of trying to talk yourself out of it, it drew you right back to his side. As you slid into the sheets next to him, you tried your best to stay quiet and not to wake him. But when a warm hand was placed on your hip, you knew you’d failed to do so.

“I love you.” He tiredly spoke. You said nothing. Instead, you laced your fingers with his.

I just can’t stay done with you.

[phyrestartr]

Divine Favour | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader (Pt.4 | END)

W/C 7.2k #NSFW, male!reader, top!reader, bottom!sukuna, ABO elements, heian sukuna, typical kitsune shapeshifting, jp mythology, canon typical violence, morally grey reader, unhealthy relationships, questionable relationships, power imbalance, ABO elements, gojo/megumi/yuuji/nobara cameos, yuuji/megu/nobara are early 20s, sukuna is controlling/possessive/obsessive, rough sex, not edited enough (oh well) Note: It's finally over (dies like Noctis)

tags: @kamote-kuneho @kamote-kuneho @nyanwko @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @3zae-zae3 @chibiduck @kiiyoooo @lukaijah @memedealer-exe @f0th3rr @boretheral @cicithemess @paastaboi @someone0vx

“Google says kitsune are usually attuned to one of the thirteen elements,” Nobara prattled, scrolling through the random Japanese mythology website on her phone. “Itadori, what's his element, huh?” 

Yuuji pursed his lips, face growing deadpan as he thought and quickly realized he had no clue.

“Uh…” 

Nobara grimaced. “Useless.” 

“Hey, I didn't know they were all, y'know, elemental-y, okay?! Jeeze!” 

Megumi sighed and shook his head. “We're supposed to be keeping an eye on him, not arguing about garbage you found online.” 

The two country bumpkins followed Megumi's gaze to where you snoozed under a tree. It felt a little strange seeing you donned in one of college's spare uniforms, but you seemed quite pleased by the modern take on fashion and aesthetic. Yuuji wondered if you'd take to modifying the plain, black clothes the way you'd done so in the past.

“Oi, kyuubi!” Nobara called as she wandered in your direction, much to the chagrin of Megumi. “I got a question for ya.”

You spared her a sleepy glance before sitting up and stretching with a wide, toothy yawn. It almost took the three aback, seeing how sharp and distinctly not-human your teeth were.

“You and everyone else, evidently.” You hummed and combed your tail with your fingers. “Speak.”

“Is it true that your kind are, like, elemental or something?” 

Megumi sighed as he rolled up beside her. “She means to ask if kitsune are elementally-attuned, whether it be to fire, water, earth–that sort of thing.” 

“I literally just said that!” Nobara hissed as she smacked Megumi's arm. The raven didn't react in the slightest. 

“Yeah!” Yuuji piped up. His face grew red as soon as your lazy stare flicked to him. “I-I, uh–like, y'know, fire. Or…you talked about fire?” 

“You are so tactless. It's starting to get sad.” 

“Can it, Kugisaki!” 

You smiled. “It's true, more or less. I was taught my sort usually falls into one of the thirteen elements: celestial, wind, spirit, darkness, fire, earth, river, ocean, forest, mountain, thunder, sound, and time.

“Then, there are the broadly ‘bad’ sort, nogitsune, and the ‘good’ sort, zenko. Most say only zenko reach total divinity, but that's not always the case.” 

“Yikes, so the bad kitsune can be gods too?” Yuuji asked as he sat down with you and pulled at the grass idly. “Isn't that, y'know, bad?”

“Gods are all inherently bad, as far as I'm concerned,” you said.

“Gojo-sensei mentioned you were one,” Megumi offered as he and Nobara sat, too. “A god. The people revered you.” 

You snorted and covered your mouth the way you might have if you had the long sleeves of a kimono to aid you.

“They didn't mind me. I don't think they particularly liked me, considering what company I kept.” You hummed and straightened out your sleeve. 

“Yeah, but…you're not him, so what's the point in hating you?” Yuuji asked, and you couldn't help but feel more weight and worry behind the words. 

“I don't care what they thought of me. I only cared about what the palace residents thought. They were my family, in a sense.” 

“Even Sukuna?” Megumi asked. 

“That's such a stupid question, oh my god. Boys are so stupid,” Nobara said with a deadpan.

You smiled, though, and kindly still answered. 

“Especially Sukuna.” 

“Hey, hey! Sorry for the wait!” Gojo called across the field as he made a show of sauntering on over before teleporting in the blink of an eye. “So? Are we all–oooh, are we gossiping?”

“What, no?!”

“No.”

“No.” 

Gojo pouted. “My students always leave me out. Thankfully, my sweet, pious, precious (Name) is nice to me!”

“You're late, Satoru,” you sighed as you stood, tying back your chopped hair into the tiniest of ponytails. “What is the reason?”

Gojo whined and trotted up to you, rubbing and petting your ears to bring you back to his side of the issue.

“It's not my fault! All the higher-ups are sooo annoying and yap sooo much!” He shuffled behind you and played with your three lush tails much like a toddler would. “Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy that's not gonna get mad at the Gojo Satoru?” 

You sighed and flicked your ear, thwacking him in the forehead with it. “Let's not waste any more time, cretin.

“What're we even doing, Sensei?” Yuuji asked, rubbing the back of his head after raising his hand like he was in class. “You didn't really tell us anythin’.” 

“Yeah, I thought we were just watching the fox until he had to go back in his cage,” Nobara said, arms crossed and expression sour. “Seems kinda stupid. He's not even a threat.” But Yuuji knew there was little truth to that statement.

“I'm guessing the meeting was about relocating (Name).” Megumi looked at Gojo. “So what's the plan?” 

–

The five of you walked endlessly through the vast forest surrounding the college. Your gaze traveled up sky-scraping trees, admiring the ancient song of life only you could hear through the soil and air. Wind danced across the verdant canopy above, scattering beams of molten sunlight across the forest floor and dappling the shoulders of the sorcerers before you with golden kisses–a sight you so sorely missed from your tenure at the palace. 

The land was not crying here. You'd heard the distant sound from the concrete jungle resting far below the rise of the college, and it shrouded you with jaded confusion and contempt for what had been done to the world in your stead; if you'd been smarter, wiser to the plans of one, could you have prevented this? Or were humans simply inevitable with their evolution? Perhaps it was up to the Earth to find the yang after the yin.

“Okay, this is it!” Gojo called, snapping you from your rampant thoughts. 

You looked to where he gestured, and found a simple building. It was reminiscent of the college in its design–modern, but clearly inspired by traditional architecture–and it looked fairly new. A bell attached to a rope stood at the forefront, as did a well for mortals to throw their offerings before ringing the aforementioned chime. Beyond that, the shrine lacked character and decoration. It was a clean slate. 

You blinked owlishly, and tilted your head. “This is…?”

“A shrine! For our new on-campus god! How fun is that, huh?” Gojo smiled, proud for a reason you couldn't decipher. “You get to make it home!” 

The younger three all deadpanned, looking between each other, trying to parse if their teacher was delusional or just being a menace to society and doing this behind the council’s back. Honestly, it was up in the air. 

“I–is that even–” Megumi tried, but gave up and rubbed his face instead. 

“So…(Name)’s gonna be, like, our resident god, or something?” Yuuji wondered, feeling his heart pitter patter just a little faster. 

“Haha! Sure, if you want to think of it that way.” Gojo smiled and looked toward the blank canvas of a shrine. “In exchange for divine favour, we grant sanctuary. Home. A place to call your own.” 

You didn't say much, but your tails swished and flowed as you stared at the humble abode–your humble abode–and inhaled shakily. 

“I suppose this will do,” you conceded, still too unwilling to give Gojo the satisfaction of knowing he'd touched your heart. “It's a bit stingy, however.”

“STINGY?” 

“Indeed. Now, begone–I have work to do.” 

– 

Sukuna reached for you when he dreamed. He didn't need to sleep, he had no use for it as he was now, but he convinced himself into the realm of the unconscious regardless, searching for the doorway leading to your mind. 

And he tried night after night, day after day, searching and sitting outside the palace of your inner realm once he found the entrance. The door was the same as the one leading to your chambers in your shared home; a simple, sliding door of wood and paper. Beautiful. Comforting. 

He knew the door wouldn't open for him, not yet; he deduced what may have happened, and what that would have meant for you all and himself as a result. He'd have to be patient. Wait for you to let him in to confront him, or seek his comfort. 

But he didn't expect the door to open so suddenly behind him, sending him rolling onto his back and staring upside down at the most magnificent sight he'd ever beheld–a kyuubi, sitting poised across the room, dressed in a haori several sizes too big, waiting with his back turned as candlelight flickered and lulled the room into a lazy, sleepy haze.

Sukuna righted himself and stood, spirit flailing and tearing itself apart in his uncontrollable want for you, for a desire to return back to the simplicity of this time. But he couldn't go back. Maybe he could recreate it. 

“Fox,” Sukuna murmured, excitement igniting the small, human body he'd been forced to mold his soul into. It felt so much worse in this form, his want being so much more fucking unbearable and burning a hole in his damn chest and skull. 

You shifted, head turning the slightest toward him yet refusing to give way entirely. But, then you stood, and Sukuna suddenly understood how you felt in the presence of his overwhelming power. 

You stood tall. Proud. Powerful. Your ears pointed towards the heavens while your tails fanned against the gates of hell when you turned to face that lover of the past, the one you held so dear for decades. 

Sukuna almost felt weak in the knees (or was that somehow Yuuji interrupting his delusions?) when bright red markings caught the light, shimmering in divine sparks of orange and teal in the firelight–and your eyes. Your eyes. They burned with higher purpose. With unreadable certainty and alien understanding. You made Sukuna's gut coil with need. 

“My Sukuna,” you whispered to the room. You took a step forward, and Sukuna eagerly met you the rest of the way. “You look so…small.” 

He looked up at you–yes, up--and admired your face and godly stature and just how fucking tall and unearthly and powerful you were looming over him. 

“Stuck looking like this fucking runt while I'm in his body,” Sukuna explained bitterly. He reached a hand up while he spoke, and you graciously leaned down to let his skin touch yours. 

An ache curled under Sukuna's skin, flushing his complexion with heat and suffocating him in those unbearable sorcerer uniform garbs. His pants strained too tight, his jacket and hoodie made his core swelter and his mind grow fuzzy. It was torture. 

“He looks so much like you,” you drawled, holding Sukuna's face in kind. You hummed with sympathy when he moaned and leaned into your touch, only abandoning his own rediscovery of your features to hold your palms against him, to indulge in everything so wholly you. 

“Forgot what I look like, huh,” Sukuna huffed. “This brat looks like a beaten monkey.” 

“So did you.”

“Hey.” 

“But I adored you anyway, did I not?” 

Sukuna scanned over your face slowly, methodically, wondering. 

“Adore. You mean ‘adore’.” 

“Perhaps.” You smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone. “It's been some time.” 

“You chose me. You belong to me.” Sukuna's lip curled as he growled and forced your hands into his skin firmer as though to leave scars. “Mine. Only mine.” 

Your lips quirked upwards and Sukuna pulled you down to kiss you. His voice reverberated between your linked bodies as your tongue licked into his mouth far enough to nearly make him choke. You kindly pulled him flush against you, wrenching more pleased, needy noises out of him with no effort at all. 

“You're as starved as Yuuji,” you whispered as his hands fumbled with your ornate clothes, yanking and pulling at them with reckless abandon. 

“Shut up.” His grumbling lessened just a bit when you eased your robes open, exposing your perfect skin to him once again. 

“I believe it'd displease you if I stopped talking, no?” You tore the clothing off the other's body as he pulled you down to the floor with him, suddenly so eager to submit. 

Sukuna scoffed. “I–just touch me, fox.” 

It was your turn to purr and keen, basking in the soft tremble of anticipation the all-powerful choked on as he spread himself bare beneath you, your garbs cascading all around him like a waterfall–only you would get to see him, chest heaving, eyes swirling with lust and need, hidden behind a curtain of embroidered flames.

“Poor thing.” You dug your nails into his hips and dragged him toward you, prodding your aching length against his unprepared heat. “You've been so long without touch. Without love. Do you still think it's meaningless?” 

The curse snarled, and you caught him by the throat, pinning him in place and jamming your other hand's fingers down his throat before he could bark back at you. And just that simple torture had the king's hips twitching and bucking, slowly falling into time with the rhythm of your digits slipping in and out of his bratty mouth. 

“F-fuck you,” he gasped once his mouth fell empty. 

You chuckled smoothly. “It's simply food for thought.” You pressed two fingers into him and worked inside with ease despite the crushing heat clamping down around you. You didn't know if his sweet, little body wanted you to stay put or fill him faster. 

“Fuckin'--annoying, shithead, bratty fox–” he cut off with a ragged moan as you pressed against his prostate and rubbed against it slowly, firmly, deliciously. His eyes fell shut and his brows twitched up, a vivid look of desperation and concentration making him look far too vulnerable and breedable for his own good. 

“It's strange,” you hummed, working him a little faster and jamming your fingers against his sweet spot over and over. “I never thought you'd willingly submit.” 

“I need it,” Sukuna growled, fisting his hand around his weeping length and stroking to the beat of your fingers. His hips bucked forward and back, unsure of what searing pleasure to lean into more; luckily for him, you were keen to up the ante. 

Your fingers slipped out and Sukuna snarled, crimson eyes snapping open to brand you with frustration. You felt the whip of desperate commands about to crack off Sukuna's tongue, so you wasted no time filling him back up, stuffing him beyond his limits. 

The man almost gasped, though it could have just been the force of your cock punching the air out of his lungs. You pulled him against you, seating him to the base with a little effort and brute force. You knew he liked the pain. Pleasure was closely acquainted with it, after all. 

“This is what you wanted,” you murmured as you rocked into him. 

The curse didn't know if you beckoned an answer from him, or simply stated the facts. So, he didn't answer you. He instead gripped onto your shoulders to keep himself steady while you effortlessly drilled into his core with each and every thoughtful roll of your hips. 

And it felt good. An uncomfortable, searing stretch accompanied the deep plunges filling him beat after beat. His body tightened and clamped down around you, forcing your length to rub against the weakest, most sensitive spots inside of him–places no one would ever dream of hitting inside the unruly king. None besides you, of course. You were different. Better than the rest. Fit to fuck and fill him if Sukuna so desired it. 

“(Name),” he groaned when you changed up the angle, aiming to rub up against the ceiling of his insides with every thrust. You tortured his weak spot, and made a casual show of forcing his stomach to bulge and distend whenever you bottomed out entirely, and Sukuna reveled in it. He wanted to be yours. Just yours. 

“You're so sweet when you submit,” you cooed, leaning down and nuzzling against his neck as you fucked into him harder and faster. “You should have done so sooner.”

Sukuna should have clapped Back, but he couldn't; he was too busy trying to angle himself to somehow get you deeper. He was too busy trying to pull you closer, to graft his thick thighs to your scar-riddled sides like a branch on a tree. He couldn't spare a single braincell on your arrogant Teasing when all he could think was, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me–

“Now he's lost his voice,” you sighed. “Such a pity.” Your hips hit particularly hard to punctuate, and Sukuna grunted. 

“Again,” he choked out. “Fuck me like that.” 

You branded a smile into his skin with a hum. “Are you sure? I won't stop if it's too much.” 

Sukuna opened his bleary eyes and spied your nine tails fanned out, cloaking the ceiling from sight. It felt like staring death in the face. Maybe he'd been in its clutches this entire time. Maybe he wanted–needed–you to be the end of him.

Your hand found his throat again, and Sukuna nodded as best he could, too overwhelmed and overstimulated to get words out of his open mouth–but grunts and groans had no issue bursting through as you left mercy by the wayside and destroyed him as thoroughly as he requested. You were, after all, a selfless god.

Sukuna's eyes rolled back as his head tilted in kind, mouth left agape as you burned him alive; every push of your body into his lit new fires, and every second you stayed connected, more of his soul exhausted itself before rising from ashes once again. The tightness coiling in his stomach grew unbearable and insatiable, hungering for more and more and more until–

“There's no shame in coming undone,” you cooed, your lips and fangs replacing the hand in his throat and peppering apologetic kisses. “Unravel for me, my love.” 

My love. My love. My love.

“Fuck,” Sukuna gasped. He clung to you, and you raised your head to kiss him, swallowing his strained noises to keep them a secret from the outside world and himself. 

He grabbed at your shoulders and arms as his head tilted back and a hoarse cry left him–just as his body clamped down and sent him over the edge, he realized pushing in and out had become more taxing. Perhaps because of his cumming, or perhaps because of the ungodly thing swelling at your base and ripping him open. 

You worked him through his high, never thinking of pulling away from him when he needed you most. Because this was bound to end. He was bound to wake up and feel cold where your hands now touched. He was stuck in the body of another with no hope of reaching you unless he somehow, some way turned the tables on all those weak sorcerers and broke free. 

But he would. He'd claim his vessel and walk amongst the new world, autonomous and untouchable. It was only a matter of time. 

–

Though Sukuna was selfish in chasing his own pleasure, he soon found immense satisfaction in yours.

The number of times he'd trap you against a wall and finger you until your legs gave out and your voice ran hoarse was too great to count. He couldn't help himself; that bewildered, wide-eyed look you gave him every time you were let go to fix your robes and catch your voice screamed, what was that for? And boosted Sukuna’s ego. He reveled in the glory of being the only one to do this to you, to being the one who forced you to lose composure. 

In his chamber, he indulged further. He'd work thick fingers deep inside of you while his other hands roamed and touched, stroking, pinching and rubbing wherever he deemed needed attention. And you were putty in his hands, absolutely melting into everything he did to you, even if accompanied by a shock of pain. 

Because you were a creature who only knew sex for the sake of bearing children. Beyond that clan using you in an attempt to create half-breed sorcerers, your primal nature influenced you to only seek out a mate for the purpose of bearing children, and not necessarily for pleasure. 

But Sukuna was the opposite. He never thought of siring children. He only thought of pleasure of another's body and the thrill of total domination over them, never the idea he'd suffer the consequences of an heir; he had those women drink a special tea to prevent that for a reason, especially when a handful had come to him, offering their bodies in return for fame and perceived power. 

With you, he could entertain the idea, however. 

Yes, the mere idea of watching you walk around the gardens, properly swollen with his children, with physical proof of his ownership and coupling with you, sparked something akin to greed in his chest. Though it was a little warmer than just that, admittedly.

–

Yuuji liked you. There was no escaping it, no denying it–he liked being around you. He liked your smile. Your tails. Your ears. The way you scared the shit out of him the first time you properly met. You were just…weird. Interesting. Kind of like Yuuji himself. 

But you were kind, too. The times he wandered out to meet you at your shrine to “check up on things,” or because he was bored, he always found you tending to your gardens, talking to the passerby wildlife, dozing at the entrance, and his heart would do something funny in his chest. 

Then his mind would rot until all he could see was you sprawled beneath Sukuna, singing the king’s praises while he fucked you into the tatami and bred you. 

It wouldn't stop there. Sukuna would taunt him, poisoning him with sinful thoughts and diabolic urges:

You think that fox'll give you the time of day? You, a petulant runt with not a shred of experience beyond your hand? Hah. 

Consider it a blessing--you'd probably cum too fast to enjoy him properly. You'd embarrass yourself to death.

I know you think about him when your hand's around your cock. You wish he'd warm it, no? Wish you got to watch his ass take you in? 

Go on, why don't you just try? Fulfill your fantasies! Maybe he'll act the part of a pious, pitying god and throw you a bone. 

Yuuji, for as airheaded as he could be, knew Sukuna wanted to indulge in you through his vessel. Or, he truly believed Yuuji wouldn't be able to hook up with you and live to remember it. Maybe he was right. 

But the young man thought you had a soft spot for him; he wasn't great at reading people by any means, but he thought you always gravitated to him before the others. You always held more warmth in your eyes when they fell upon him, and your preening touch constantly found him, your hands always smoothing out the creases of his uniform while deft fingers fixed his hair and pleated his hood into more attractive folds. 

Maybe your touchy-ness toward him was a culmination of your need to parent something. Yuuji didn't fully understand it, but Gojo mentioned something about you wanting children, but you couldn't have them. Not anymore. And so those urges manifested in other ways. 

But the young sorcerer wasn't so sure anymore.

“My Yuuji,” you cooed when he came to visit. “You're back again so soon. Is everything alright?”

Yuuji smiled and braced for impact, bowing his head the slightest bit to let you bonk yours against his in greeting. It really reminded him of the way cats would welcome each other. Thankfully, you didn't seem too eager to mark him with a dose of spittle, though. 

“Yeah, everything's cool. Just–dunno. Wanted to come see what you were doing, I guess.” The sorcerer shrugged and pocketed his hands after you'd finished lovingly headbutting him.

“Mmh. Well, I certainly don't mind the company.” You smoothed back his hair and fixed the wild flare of one of his eyebrows before stepping away and meandering back towards your shrine. “It feels like something's going to happen soon.”

Yuuji's stomach flipped. “Yeah? You think so?” He followed you, watching the hypnotic swaying of your tails and hips and ass–wait, wait, wait, no, no, no–

What? Am I wrong? Sukuna's voice purred. Looks downright breedable, doesn't he? He said it more like a want than a taunt, this time, like if he were in Yuuji's shoes, he'd jump on you and pick up where you left off. 

Shut up, shut up, shut up, Yuuji chanted, trying to calm down. Don't ruin this!

Ruin what? Your sad attempt at courtship, brat? 

Yuuji said nothing. Sukuna howled with laughter. 

“Natural disasters cannot always be predicted,” you murmured, bringing Yuuji back to the present. “And they can never be stopped.”

The younger frowned and rubbed the back of his neck as he followed you inside. “Eh, I mean…we can stop a lot with sorcery, can't we?”

“And if that disaster is born of sorcery? What then?” You snapped your fingers, and every candle in the room ignited with amber flame.

“Uh…I mean…” He sighed and rubbed his face. “I still think we can stop it. We'll figure out a way!”

You sure about that, brat? 

You laughed, soft and kind, bringing a smile to Yuuji instead of a ticked off frown. You had a way of settling his nerves and relieving the tension from tightly wound muscles. Is this the effect you had on Sukuna? Is that why he cherished you so much? 

“I admire your optimism, Yuuji. Perhaps I should aspire to be like you,” you said. 

Yuuji's face flushed. “E-eh? Wh–no! You're awesome the way you are! And, uh, you're–y’know. You're good!” Smooth. Eloquent. Exceptional.

You hummed and wandered further into the back rooms, allowing Yuuji to follow you to your chambers to relax. “Well, I'll trust your opinion, then.” 

“Okay. Yeah. Cool.” The sorcerer cleared his throat and messed with his hood as he followed your lead, admiring the tidy, comfy space you welcomed him into. Pillows and blankets were plentiful and all bunched together on a futon, so much like the nests Yuuji often saw in his dreams. It felt a bit…intrusive to see it in person. 

“Hey, uh,” Yuuji started, “I–can I ask something?” 

You seated yourself down across the small, simple kotatsu, and gestured for the younger to join you. “Of course.”

The sorcerer sat down across from you. “You and Sukuna. Were you guys–did you ever…y'know.” 

You tilted your head, curious. “Go on.”

“Were you, like, in love? Or something?” Yuuji's face burned red at the words. Talking about love was so damn awkward for some reason, especially when it had to do with Sukuna and the fox Yuuji himself pined for.

“Ah.” You tilted your head the opposite direction, and hummed. “I was in love, yes.”

Yuuji's chest ached. “Even now?” 

“Eternally.” 

“Do you want him back?” 

You didn't answer right away, and the festering pain spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers; of course you wanted him back. Of course you wanted your ancient, all-powerful lover back. Why would you ever accept Yuuji in his place? A weak, mortal being?

Before Yuuji could retract the question, you'd shuffled around to his side of the table and held one of his hands in both of yours. The younger couldn't bear to look at your face, and so kept his eyes trained on your elegant fingers smoothing over his rough, scarred knuckles. 

“I would not trade a soul that walks amongst the living for a soul that has already lived its life,” you said. “Sukuna has lived. And he has died. He may rise once more, but I do not seek to aid it; he chose to die in hopes of living forever. He must accept what his decision brings, as must I.” 

The storm inside of the sorcerer calmed the slightest bit. Sails no longer whipped and frayed; they caught wind and led his heart back to placid waters, though the depths of the oceans could always threaten future treachery. For now, however, Yuuji found safety.

“Man, you really are like Yoda,” He laughed, filling the room with renewed brightness.

You blinked owlishly. “Yoda? What that is, I do not know.” 

Yuuji laughed harder and clasped his hands around yours. “Nah, don't worry about it. It's a good thing, though. From one of the movies Gojo-sensei made me watch.”

“I would strongly advise against taking lessons from that man, Yuuji.” Your brow creased as your hands clutched his in a death grip. “He’s not normal.”

Yuuji grinned, then, and held your hands just as tightly. “Yeah, he's weird. But he's smart, too! One of the strongest guys alive, y'know?” 

“Even the strongest can make mistakes,” you said. “Even the strongest can lose, Yuuji. Always be careful, even if victory is assured.” Your careful touch graced the curve of his cheek. “I would hate for your visits to stop.”

The sorcerer's heart beat in double-time. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

–

The leaves crinkled and rustled, flashing shades of amber and ruby in the dwindling daylight. Gone was the warmth of Summer's smile; now, the cold, fierce nip of Autumn cut through the air, whispering secrets about the first frost and what it would do to devastate the green around you.

But you were a god. A creature of fertility and good luck. And so, the grass did not die, and the forest did not wither under the coming winter's threats. 

It seemed your gifts could not reach into the depths of your soul, however. Perhaps you weren't to indulge in the privilege of what you brought the world--the mortal things around you could make use of a blessing from the divine, but could the divine themselves? Could you bring yourself a remedy to your loneliness the way you brought life unto the ground beneath your feet? 

You didn't know.

–

The end of October came, and the world trembled with the force of thousands of lives ending in misery and terror. You beheld it from your home, the sight of the clouds turning orange and red as hellfire devoured all. 

Bless me ‘n wish me luck! Gojo had said last time he swung by. Definitely don't need it, but you're my favourite cheerleader, y'know?

That was not too long ago, perhaps a day prior. Maybe it'd only been twelve hours ago since you last saw him. Three hours ago since you last felt his celestial presence upon the earth. 

“I would hate for your visits to stop,” you murmured, and your chest froze with the cold. 

–

Winter brought with it snow and darkness. Kuraokami had his ways of slipping his icy presence through the slivered cracks of wood grain no matter the time or place; the great dragon would be heard and seen if it was his final act upon the earth. 

Not even you could keep him out, the lesser deity you were. But you didn't mind the company; the cold breaths against your skin woke you from nightmares and empty blankness when you dozed and dazed, feeling the days slip by and blur together into one grey smear of solitary existence. 

Something had happened. Ever since the sky lit ablaze in a familiar scene of ungodly strength, you felt a shift in the state of existence. In your relevance in the grand scheme of the college and history. 

Your sorcerers lost their way to you, you realized. The cushions around the kotatsu stayed fluffed and untouched save for one. Five of the six clay tea cups gathered dust as they waited, hopeful, like you. 

–

You woke to the feeling of hollowness. It jostled you to consciousness, in fact; those two little unborn lives swirled and stirred, clawing at your stomach before vanishing in an instant. 

Maybe they'd grown too sick and weary of the loneliness and snow, too.

–

Sukuna had walked down this path too many times. And too many times he'd been unable to move, unable to claw his way out of the prison of his vessel to get back to you–but things were different now. 

He held a bundle of blankets close as he wandered toward a speck of verdant green amidst the snowy whiteness blanketing the forest, and remembered a distant past he yearned to return to:

Sukuna was a restless creature. He often distracted himself with challenges, duels, leafing through stolen knowledge of other clans–but, on rare occasions, none of that would appeal to his tumultuous mind. 

You always appealed to him, however. You, with your lavish tails, your exquisite appearance, your superior poise and prose, you always enthralled him, made him wonder and stare. 

Maybe it was because you were always doing something. If you weren't tending to his women, you were meandering around the palace, admiring trophies earned in whatever form they came in: art, weapons, bones. If you weren't doing that, you might be in the garden instead, fine-tuning the patterns drawn in the zen garden yourself and feeding the massive koi. If not that, then you might be asking Uraume to teach you to cook, or you could be fiddling with your loom or–well, it could be anything. 

Sometimes, you’d choose to  lay with Sukuna and keep him warm and content throughout the dreary haze of winter. 

You didn't hate winter yourself, no, but Sukuna most definitely did. The snow and ice were a pain in the ass, and they always threw the garden into a messy disarray of dead foliage and slushy mud that'd have to be tended to come springtime. And it was cold as hell outside. Who asked for that? No one. 

“My love,” you cooed as you stepped to his side while he stared out the window. “Glaring won't make the seasons change.” 

Sukuna scoffed. “That a challenge?”

“Not at all.” You reached up and smoothed his hair back, stopping pesky, rebellious strands from tickling his forehead. “I'd hate to see what you'd do in an attempt to play god.”

“I'm already a god,” he countered as he snatched your hand from his hair and looked down at you.

“Not a god of the seasons, I'm afraid.” You held his hand and pulled it down to kiss his knuckles. “But a god amidst men, nonetheless.” 

Your beast hummed deep in his chest. You had a funny way of setting his roiling soul at ease with your effortless praise and acknowledgement. 

“Knew there was a reason I kept you around,” the man purred, leaning down to touch his forehead to yours. 

You leaned up into the soft gesture like a cat too eager to be pet. “You'd be quite bored without me.” 

“No kidding. I'd go fucking mental if I didn't have you to entertain me.” His voice was a murmur, then, and softened even more when your warm hands cupped his cheeks like he was a priceless, fragile artifact: precious, special, breakable.

“Yes, yes, I go insane in your stead, loved one.” You touched your nose to his, then, before placing the softest of kisses upon his lips. 

A light, sighed grumble slipped past Sukuna's lips when your skin left his. It was his turn to nudge his nose against yours, earning himself a petal-like smile from his prized possession, before he blessed you in return, trying to match the kindness you'd met him with. 

You held the front of his garbs as you leaned up into him, and his hands all found their places on your smaller frame in return, pulling you closer, keeping you against him. He hardly wanted anything like this in the past before you came along and tore his mind and soul to pieces before hunkering down in the hollow of his ribs and setting up shop. It was aggravating. Captivating. 

“Come,” you softly beckoned, slipping away from his desperate hold and leading him back to the bundle of blankets and linens he’d learned to accept as a bed.

As always, he had no choice but to follow, abandoning his mad-dogging of the outside world to join you and the infinite warmth his personal Amaterasu brought him. 

“You’re lazy as hell in the winter,” Sukuna noted as he sat himself down in the middle of your nest and let you get to work adjusting blankets and such around the both of you for optimal comfort. 

“You're free to traipse off into the snow if you so wish.” You settled yourself by Sukuna's side and tucked under his heavy arms. “I will remain here. Warm. Dry. At peace.” 

Sukuna rolled his eyes and pulled you close to his side, squeezing a chirped purr from your chest. “Think I'll pass on the snow.” 

You smiled to yourself, feeling warm and content with the settling silence engulfing you as the snow engulfed the world. Winter was the only season where he'd stay by your side, so you often indulged in it, bothering him and sticking to him like a needy pet until spring inevitably rolled around to ruin your happy spell. Because Sukuna was more wild and feral than you. He had to go wander, to go fight. Otherwise, he'd have no purpose. 

Unbeknownst to you, he may have another purpose in mind. 

His hand breached your clothes and reached down, stopping just above your navel to your surprise. There, he drew gentle, thoughtful circles against your skin. You felt pulses of cursed energy flicker and feel, searching for something neither of you yet knew of. 

“What is it you're looking for?” You murmured, knowing full well what he sought.

Sukuna inhaled deeply and exhaled just as heavy. “How long does it take to get one god knocked up, huh?” He tutted and looked down at you, holding an annoyed look while you met him with doey, lovey eyes as you leaned into him more. 

“I'm sure you'll be the man who finds out.”

Sukuna grinned to himself and adjusted the lump of blankets he held. Arrogant pride blossomed in his chest alongside his bolstered ego; if he could do this as a mere man, what could he do as a curse? 

The king sighed as he breached the warmth of the halo surrounding your humble, comfy abode. He was getting sick of the shit weather in the games, all the cold and emptiness. Being near you was what he needed. 

“Oi, don't make a fuss,” Sukuna grumbled lowly to the whining duo he adjusted in his arms. “You wanna get inside or not?” 

But before he could make use of his newly freed arm, the doors slid open before him. 

And you stood there. Tired. Disheveled. Eyes big and hopeful, yet rimmed with disbelief and shock as you stared at your man and the package he brought to your doorstep. 

Sukuna would be lying if he said he didn't melt, too. Being here, standing firm and whole and so very real and untethered in the spot other sorcerers stood in their attempt to spirit you away from him–it was the reason for his existence. 

And so was your arms wrapping around him and holding him close. 

“Ho? So you did miss me, huh?” He hummed, looping an arm around you and pressing you closer to him. “Sure didn't act like it earlier.”

“I didn't wish to believe in something that felt untrue,” you murmured into his shoulder. “Even now, you're not…entirely yourself.” 

Sorrow stained the undertones of your voice. Whether it was for the fate of Fushiguro Megumi, or for the state of your lover, Sukuna did not know. 

But he was here. He was tangible. He was in control. Finally. 

“At least I'm here, yeah?” He said. And you nodded. 

You led him inside and into the room filled with comfort and warmth. Works of embroidery lined the once-unremarkable tapestries draping down from the ceilings and walls, and the wooden pillars now boasted intricate carvings in various states of completion. Seemed like you'd gotten quite bored in your wait. 

Sukuna sat with you, being the man to finally make use of the fluffed cushions around the kotatsu as he dragged it to your side to stay close. You needed it. He thirsted for it.

The bundle whined and cooed as soon as Sukuna’s ass hit the cushion, and he sighed. “Think you can take care of this, fox?” He teased, but felt a rush of something overtake him when he caught you with your ears perked, tails swishing, back straight as you stared down at the bundle. 

He eased them into your arms and, with shaking hands, you pulled back the wooly linen to find two perfect little treasures staring up at you with big, red-lined eyes. One held the colour of yours, while the other took responsibility for sporting Sukuna's hues, but both boys’ eyes glimmered with divine flecks of gold and amber. Their hair blushed with the colour of sakura petals, and two, itty bitty tufts of soft onyx ears dotted both of their heads like chocolate chips in strawberry ice cream. 

Two perfect kits. Your perfect kits. 

“You seriously wanted these things?” Sukuna asked, teasing and rude, but softer and warmer than the fire burning in your chest. “Gotta say, they're pretty fucking annoying.”

You swathed your tails around them and purred with the ferocity of an avalanche as you leaned into your partner and doted on the teeny tiny babies he'd somehow brought back to the land of the living. A part of you felt guilty for what this could mean. The rest of you screamed, I don't care. 

“Look at them,” You whispered, tracing the roundness of their cheeks with a gentle touch. “They're beautiful.” 

“Well, lookit who their parents are.” Sukuna chuckled and held you against his side, which you eagerly melted into. “Kenjaku had a plan for them too, turns out. Who woulda thought?”

“You never told me,” you said. “Why did you not tell me?” 

“You would've been pissed,” Sukuna said, voice matter of fact. “Better to just do it and reap the benefits later.”

You looked up at him, and found his gaze locked onto you. “That's quite selfish.”

“I'm a king. I can do whatever I want. I can have whatever I want,” He reminded you. “As soon as I take care of a few pathetic, loose ends, everything'll be in place. Right where it all needs to be. And life goes back to normal." 

Your heart did something funny when you read between the lines. “Must you–”

“Don't question me.” Sukuna grabbed your chin and forced you to look down at your snoozing babes. “You’ll lose this. All of this. You'll be left with nothing all over again if I don’t finish this off. That what you want, fox?” 

“You know the answer,” you murmured, too content to let him guide you and sway your reason. He tugged your chin toward him, forcing you to look his way again.

“Tell me anyway.” Tell me what I want to hear.

How could you refuse? 

“No matter the case," you murmured, soft as forgotten winter snow, "you will always have my favour, Ryoumen Sukuna.”

–

Forever to be loved, herein lays a God's young,

Imprisoned by none, held dearly by the Disgraced One. 

[missmielyhoran]

Chapter 1

Welcome to Humphrey high my loves...

I don't know shit about the british education system, and tbh it's confusing when I googled it, so I just made one up! But it's a all rounder school, more like fiction people are doing anyone and anything except studying.

Sunshine asshole × Grumpy sweetheart enemies to lovers

[Warnings - Angst, death threats, Harry being asshole as always, y/n having stick up her ass, bullying like a lot of]

Masterlist

*****

Humphrey High was a prestigious school for wealthy families. People from all over the world would send their kids there to get education from exceptional teachers.

It was basically boarding school for rich trust fund babies who have their head up their asses.

The school had seen many things from inappropriate relationships to enemies at each others throat to lovers who would die for each other.

Still, there was one story that stood out the most...

The whole small stadium of school was packed, yet no one dared to make a sound. Sweat glistened down the side her head to her neck as the sun was shining right above her head. It was too hot of a day, but nothing could stop her.

This was the last shot it would either make or break her streak of winning. The scores of both parties were equal, and even she had to admit that after a long time, she found a good opponent. The other girl served, and the intense game was on, but as good as the other could be, she wasn't her. The ball made a loud sound when it hit her racket, making the ball fly just an inch from beside the other girl, insuring her win.

The whole stadium roared while some booed, but there was a single person, the loudest of them all whistling and cheering for her, knowing it would get on her nerves.

Y/N rolled her eyes, looking over the bleacher where he stood with his smug taunting smile. She ignored him and walked towards her coach, who gave her a patt on the back and congratulated her.

There were a few things Y/N was known for, her great skills in tennis, physics, her resting bored face, which rarely turned into a smile and hating Harry Styles. It wasn't like she grew up in a traumatic household or had a traumatized childhood. Well, she did have traumatized childhood and experiences, but she feels like she had always been this way. That's why he called her that stupid nickname-

"My My Wednesday" Harry said, walking towards her, his ring clad fingers making clickling noise as he clapped.

"I will see you at the practice on monday, coach." She nodded her head and picked up her bag, looking around for her best friend who was nowhere to be seen.

"Why you ignore me, darling?" Harry asked, pouting feigning hurt. He was walking backward in front of her, and she had all mind to push him.

So, she did.

He fell on the grass with a thump mumbling a small 'ow' as if falling on grass would hurt him. Y/N took the opportunity and race walked out of the stadium to the parking lot where she saw her friend dry humping with some girl on her car!

"Get off" Y/N said once for all, and the other girl was scrambling off of her car's hood while her friend laughed. She looked at her car for any dent or scratches when there were none she hummed contently. Y/N threw her bag in the backseat while Amelia slid into the passenger seat.

"Next time don't fuck on my car" Y/N said giving Amelia side eyes. Her best friend raised her hands in defeat, knowing the love she had for cars. It wasn't like Y/N was obsessed with cars or has a passion for collecting them (she had), no. It's just this old Mustang she got as a gift that she loves more than anything cause it was given by the only tolerable person in her family, her grandma.

"Did you win?" Amelia asked as Y/N started the car. Y/N gave her a deadpan look and shook her head. "Of course you won it was silly of me to ask" Amelia laughed.

"Hey doll, can you give me a ride with you?" she suddenly heard the infuriating voice again. Harry stood on her car's window, his face way too near hers for her personal taste. It irked her, and he did it more. He knew she hated when people were near her, and he did just that.

He stands way close to her or puts her in a position where she has to be near a lot of people or talk to them. He did everything he could to push her buttons.

"No" Y/N said, and just as her foot was going to accelerator, Harry ran and slid in the back seat.

"Such a sweetheart, aren't you?" He gave her a fake smile and fixed his attention to Amelia.

"Hey, wasn't that the girl from history class?" He asked Lia, earning an eyeroll from Y/N. Y/N wasn't one to judge people for their preferences, but she did judge her best friend's preference in men cause their was one boy she keeps going back to and has almost fucked half school to make him jealous but as always it never works and she has to be the one listening to her cries and rant about how shitty men are.

"Yeah" Amelia agreed with same sly smile as Harry's. "She's so hot I was shocked she even agreed" Amelis laughed.

"Are you kidding me you're hot as fuck. No wonder she agreed" Harry sat back in the car seat like it was his own hands behind his head and all. "Get your friend some too it might get that stick out of her ass" Harry chuckled.

"I don't want something. All I want is for you to get out." Y/N said, looking at Harry through the rearview mirror as his dorm had arrived. He just shook his head and got out of the car. He leaned against the window like before, way too near her for her taste but she didn't back cause that would mean he knows it affected her and she would rather die than admit that anything he does affects her.

"And if you can't find anyone, my dorm is just a garden away" Harry said, "You can get details from your bestie. I can assure you my service is very satisfying. " He winked and gave Amelia a smirk. Y/N glared a whole behind his back as he skipped towards his building while Amelia laughed beside her.

Oh yes, forgot to tell...Amelia and Harry used to fuck. Alot. And yes the service sounded very satisfactory from a thin wall but she will never admit that.

"He's just joking babe calm down." Lia laughed as if it was funniest joke, but all it did was annoy her.

*****

"I just don't understand why he won't even look at me!" Amelia whined, "Am I not pretty?" She asked Y/N sadly.

She looked at her friend and sighed, "You don't look bad" She said and resumed her homework.

"Then why won't he ask me out!?" Amelia let out a loud groan and fell back on bed. Y/N just shook her head and tried to concentrate back at her homework.

"Why won't you ask him out if you're so desperate?" Y/N said and Amelia looked at her like she has 3 heads.

"I'm desperate that stays between you and me. I would rather die than let him know that" She said, "Anyways what are you wearing for the annual ceremony this year?" Amelia asked.

Y/N slammed closed her notebook and put her head down on the desk. Every year except her first she had found a way to dodge going to that god awful ceremony.

It was the time that inncident with him happened and after that she can't stand being near him or go to that ceremony again.

"I'm not going" Y/N said putting an end to the discussion.

"But it's our last year!" Amelia whined, "I don't want to be there alone. Pleasee Y/N" Lia practically begged.

"Don't worry, you will find someone" She said and put her books where they belonged. It was true Lia was the perfect person to exist she was pretty, smart, outgoing, she made friends werever she went just don't let her know Y/N thought all that about her cause she won't let her hear the end of it.

"But I want to go with my bestieee" Lia whined again, giving her best puppy eyes.

"We do this every year, and just like every year, it's not going." She said, going to the washroom to change into her pajamas.

She breathed heavily as she looked into the mirror. She hated crowed places and told everyone and herself also, but she knew why she didn't want to go, really.

*****

So, yeah... this was this. I will write a new chapter soon. I'm also working on the 2nd part of the stages of grief, so that may be out soon also.

Thanks for all love. I love you guys so much<3

Taglist- @tenaciousperfectionunknown @that-daydream-look @harryspirate @tiaamberxx @lomlhstyles @vmpellie @sunshinemoonsposts @jayde515 @yeehawbrothers @sleutherclaw @ikea2-0 @thechaoticjoy @astridcommings @gxbiqs

Please Like, Comment and Reblog♡

You can tell me how it was here♡

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x DC AU: Danny didn't want to rely on his rogues, but Tucker's computer skills only got them so far and if the media black out continues... Danny knows it's not going to be pretty for them. Nightmares begin to plague the Justice League.

---

Danny gets back from a shitty conversation with Clockwork and in his frustration, accidentally sets off one of the new GIW sensors that his parents allowed to be installed in the lab. Their collaboration seemed to be going no where but when Danny had new holes blasted through him... it must be going somewhere. Damn it.

The commotion is loud enough that Jazz hears it from her room above the lab (he knows she listens to more than just the lab... it's cause she cares, even if it is a bit invasive.) and rushes in to play the distraction while Danny gets away. This time it works- the Drs. Fenton might have the worst aim in the city but they demand all shots cease if a civilian is nearby- Next time his mom might be aiming her gun at him and not the ground. Danny decides he'll buy Jazz a coffee on his way home.

But first, new holes. Yikes. That like, needs medical attention- He heads to Tucker's place and he's pretty sure Sam is already there.

"Danny! What the fuck, did Clockwork-" She starts, her meticulous cat eyeliner making her glare all the deeper.

"Nah, it's the stupid GIW sensor, the stupid one I told you guys about that has a spring lose in the back?"

"I thought we decided those weren't a concern?" Tucker looks him over, face covered in undisguised and very blatant concern.

"Yeah well, Clocky pissed me off so I forgot about them when I came back in through the lab portal-"

"you were supposed to be practicing making your own." Sam interrupts.

"-And when I did, the thing got knocked and I was swatted like immediately. Jazz launched herself into the lab so Mom made them stop shooting and it gave me enough time to get out." Danny continued to explain, ignoring his friend's 'i told you so' faces.

"Dude. We're pushing it close this week. Sam already had a confrontation with the lab guys and I already got blacklisted on my new persona accounts. We're like seriously threading the needle for getting caught." Tucker, pulls his glasses down to pinch the bridge of his nose and Danny and Sam both get what he's really saying. They need to lie low.

"What did CW say to piss you off?" Sam asks after a silent moment.

"He said nothing really, just like he always does, but insinuated I should try getting a rogue to help." Danny sighs.

"What, Like getting Ember to announce the GIW invasion on her tour? We already agreed that-" Sam is getting angry as she speaks so Tuck cuts her off- "It's a bad Idea. She is- They are all just as likely to get captured and hurt as you are if you go out of town." He comes to the same conclusion they've agreed on for weeks. No rogue involvement.

"Maybe we just need to sleep on it... Hey... wait." Danny sighs, but then his gears start to turn.

"Nocturn. We need Nocturn to help us. He can get the message out through dreams." Danny comes to the new conclusion and his friends look hesitant but at least like they're considering it.

"Isn't he an ancient? He's not going to help us for free." Tucker, ever the Egyptian god in these moments.

"Most people don't take their dreams literally." Sam, ever the skeptic in these moments.

"Yeah but, if they dream it enough times, and they're the right people to do something... they can look it up and then at least see that there is a problem?" Danny sounds hopeful and its the first time he's sounded that way in months.

"What, you're gunna give Batman nightmares?" Tucker snickers but Sam looks inspired.

"That's exactly what he's going to do. We need to haunt the Justice League. They'll see past the fake facade the GIW put up online and they'll be able to get the right legislation passed." Sam is practically buzzing.

"Okay, so lets get scheming- What do you get the primordial beast of the unconscious? Should I google 'what to get someone who has everything'? " Danny laughs.

_____

Bruce and his children rarely do feelings when they have breakfast in the morning after a night of separate patrols, but it seems as though the room is plagued with unease. Tim looks about as tired as ever, so his unease is probably attributable to WE board meetings, but its unlike the rest of his children to be so... disturbed. For some reason, after Alfred has excused them all from eating more than a few nibbles, they make it to the cave. Bruce is glad for the noise his children bring.

The nightmare's he's been having are following a dark plot. A town, a boy who looks like he was kin, and so, so much death. Bruce has had vivid dreams before in life, but this nightmare is... unreal. He tries to remind himself that it's just a nightmare.

When his JL emergency communicator goes off at the computer desk, he's not expecting it to be Dinah Lance. She and her Birds are typically wary of him in Gotham, even if they work well together in the League. He answers it like he would any Batman call, with silence.

"Bats, we have a problem. Any chance you've been having weird dreams about a kid getting experimented on or a town being burned down? Ghosts? Lazarus portals?" Dinah sounds exhausted, but Bruce snaps to her voice with rapt attention. As do all of his children.

"I-" Bruce takes a look around the room, everyone's heads except for Tim's nodding up and down with distress," We all have."

"Something tells me that they whole JL is. Everyone I've talked to this week has had a variation of the same dream. We either have a telepath trying to tell us something, or something even worse than that."

"I'll call emergency meeting, we need to collect details and try to determine the complete message."

"I'll send you what I've noted down so far, sans personal details of course, it's definitely in a town called Amity Park though. My client this morning saw the sign."

Batman grunts and the call ends. It's time to get to work.

----

When the Justice League finally arrives, the town is glowing, and everything feels like... sleep. smothering. snoring. smoking. smoldering.

And then, despite the exhaustion that echos within them, the trudge onwards. The noise of laser guns certainly wakes them up a bit.

[nameless-jamie]

Hi, could you write a fic where the team gets food poisoning? Maybe Rupert did something to change their catering before a big match or Shandy comes back with a vengeance. And now PA has to take care of the whole Richmond team?

Thanks

Drabble - Everyone's PA

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing, mentions of puking and food poisoning

A/N: Hi I changed the context a little and made it a vengeance from West Ham in general hope its still good. Thank you for the request!

In all her time as Jamie Tartt’s PA, Y/N had dealt with her fair share of absolute disasters. She had smoothed over last-minute schedule changes, tracked down missing passports, and even fished Jamie’s car keys out of the fridge once when he was convinced someone had stolen them. But this? This was something else entirely.

The AFC Richmond locker room looked like the aftermath of a battlefield. Players were sprawled across benches, the floor, and, in some cases, curled up in the fetal position near the walls, groaning in pure misery. Others were fighting for dominance over the toilets. The air was thick with suffering, the kind only brought on by the worst kind of intestinal betrayal.

“Jesus Christ,” Y/N stood at the entrance, arms crossed, surveying the wreckage with a mixture of horror and resignation. “What the hell happened in here?”

Colin, who was lying flat on his back with one arm dramatically thrown over his forehead, barely cracked open one eye to look at her. “This is it. This is how we die.”

From the other side of the room, Sam let out a pathetic whimper, his forehead pressed against a bench as he clutched his stomach. “I have never known pain like this.”

“Don't let my mum find out I went out like this,” Isaac mumbled from his position near the showers, face pale and eyes vacant as if he had already accepted his fate.

The sound of someone retching echoed from the bathrooms. Y/N grimaced. “Oh my God. Could someone please tell me what happened?”

Jamie, the only one still upright—though he was leaning against the wall for dear life—lifted his head just enough to look at her, his face pale and sweaty. “It was the food,” he croaked, voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking took too much effort.

She stared at him. “What food?”

“The Chinese stuff,” he murmured, wincing slightly as he shifted his weight. “West Ham sent over food. Said it was a gift to congratulate us on the win. Every one of us ate it.”

Y/N blinked. Then blinked again.

And then she let out a slow, measured breath through her nose, rubbing her temples as she processed just how monumentally stupid that was.

“You’re telling me,” she said, her voice eerily calm, “that you all decided to eat a massive amount of free food from West Ham—a team that hates Richmond—without even checking where it came from? From your fucking rival.”

Jamie hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “...Yeah? Maybe they wanted to be friends or somethin'.”

She threw her hands in the air. “Oh, you absolute idiots.”

“Oi,” Jamie pouted, though it lacked his usual energy. “How were we supposed to know it was dodgy?”

“I don’t know, Jamie. Maybe because it came from West Ham? Or maybe because this particular restaurant is literally known for having health code violations? Did that not set off any alarm bells for you? Could've googled it.”

Jamie blinked at her, then turned his head slightly to where Dani Rojas was curled up in a ball, moaning weakly in Spanish.

“…Fair point,” Jamie admitted.

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. “So, let me get this straight. All of you ate it?”

“Not Will,” Dani mumbled, barely lifting his head.

Y/N turned her gaze to the one person in the room who seemed completely fine. Will, the kitman, stood off to the side, sipping a juice box, looking mildly concerned but otherwise unaffected.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you fine?”

Will shrugged. “I don’t trust free food.”

Jamie let out a weak, pitiful groan. “Wish I didn’t.”

Y/N groaned, shaking her head. “This is unbelievable.” She turned back to Jamie, crossing her arms. “Can you at least help me sort this mess out?”

Jamie, bless him, made a valiant effort to push off the wall and stand on his own, attempting to look capable and useful. The moment he took a step forward, however, his legs wobbled, and he immediately stumbled, barely catching himself before he hit the floor.

Y/N sighed. “Right. So I’m on my own.”

She cracked her knuckles, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.

For the next three hours, Y/N played nurse to a whole Premier League team. Will did help her a little...

She handed out water bottles and electrolyte tablets like she was running a triage unit. She forced them to sip ginger tea and chew on dry crackers to keep something in their stomachs. She confiscated Jan Maas’ gym bag when he attempted to head for a workout, claiming he could “sweat out the poison.”

“That is not how food poisoning works, Jan.”

"In the Netherland's we heal like this, pain is the best medicine."

"Fuckin' hellllll...."

She physically wrestled Jamie’s phone out of his hands when he attempted to tweet, “West Ham is full of ops. This means war.”

“I will delete your whole account, Tartt.”

"The people want to know how Jamie Tartt is doin' and he's doin' pretty shit right now, love. Literally."

At one point, Ted came in and tried to help, but his version of helping consisted mostly of telling food-related motivational stories about resilience and the importance of trusting one’s gut—while an entire team of men clutched their stomachs in agony. She had to politely but firmly push him out of the room.

By the time the worst of it had passed, she was exhausted.

She flopped onto the worn-out couch in the locker room, sighing deeply as she finally allowed herself to relax.

Jamie, looking only marginally less like death, shuffled over and unceremoniously plopped his head onto her lap.

She glanced down at him, raising an eyebrow. “You reek.”

“ 'M still fit, though,” he murmured, voice raspy from hours of misery.

She let out a dry laugh. “Debatable.”

Jamie smirked up at her, eyes twinkling with something just a little softer than his usual cockiness. “I know you think so, love.”

She rolled her eyes but ran her fingers through his messy hair anyway, smoothing it away from his forehead.

Jamie sighed contently, melting against her like a cat in a sunbeam. “Dunno what we’d do without you.”

Y/N huffed. “Probably die.”

Jamie hummed. “Yeah. But like… in a funny way, yeah?”

She groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

He grinned sleepily. “And yet, here you are, takin’ care of me and my whole team.”

She flicked his forehead. “Shut up and sleep.”

Jamie let out a soft chuckle but obeyed, closing his eyes as he relaxed against her.

Y/N sighed, staring down at him, then looking around at the absolute chaos that had unfolded in the last few hours.

This was her life.

And, God help her, she wouldn’t change it for anything.

By the time the worst of the food poisoning had passed, most of the team had either passed out from sheer exhaustion or been picked up by loved ones. Isaac’s mum had come to get him (which was both adorable and terrifying), Sam had been whisked away by Simi, and Dani had somehow mustered enough energy to call an Uber before dramatically collapsing into the backseat.

That just left Jamie.

Jamie, who was currently draped across one of the benches, looking like he’d just survived a near-death experience. He had one arm lazily slung over his stomach, his head lolling to the side as he gave Y/N his best sad, pathetic, I-need-you-to-feel-bad-for-me eyes.

“Everyone’s gone,” she pointed out, pulling on her coat. “You should probably call an Uber to take you home. Maybe Keeley or Roy can come get you.”

She was hoping he liked that idea because she wouldn't let this pukey striker in her car.

Jamie let out a long, pitiful sigh, blinking up at her as if she’d just suggested he attempt to walk to his house on broken legs. “Can’t. Keeley’s in Ibiza, Roy would never get me, you know me mums in Manchester and I basically pay you to take care of me, soooo.”

She frowned and asked him innocently. “What about one of the lads?”

Jamie groaned. “They’re all just as fucked as me, babe. Most of them are already gone.”

He wasn’t wrong.

But that didn’t mean she wanted to deal with him personally.

She sighed, rubbing her temple. “You could just—”

Before she could even suggest getting an Uber again, Jamie turned the full force of his kicked-puppy expression on her.

“Please?” he murmured, voice hoarse and pitiful.

And damn him, because he knew she couldn’t say no to him when he looked like that.

Y/N let out a long, suffering groan. “Fine. Get your sorry pretty ass up. You're lucky I get paid for this.”

Getting Jamie into the car was an ordeal.

First, he claimed he was too weak to stand, so she had to practically drag him out of the locker room. Then, once they were in the car, he decided that sitting upright was too much effort, so he slouched down in the passenger seat, legs sprawled, head leaning against the window like some tragic poet contemplating the meaning of life.

“You’re so dramatic,” she muttered, pulling out of the parking lot.

Jamie cracked one eye open. “You love it.”

She shot him a glare. “I tolerate it.”

He grinned, but it was lazy, barely-there—like even teasing her was taking too much energy.

For the first few minutes, it was quiet. Peaceful, even. Y/N started to think maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t be so bad.

And then Jamie groaned.

“Ugh, my stomach hurts,” he whined, shifting in his seat.

Y/N tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Yeah, Jamie, that’s what happens when you eat poisoned food.”

“D’you think it’s real food poisoning? Or just, like… West Ham curse poisoning?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s real food poisoning, you idiot.”

Jamie hummed, clearly unconvinced.

A beat of silence. Then—

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Y/N immediately slammed on the brakes, sending Jamie lurching forward with an undignified squawk.

“Oh my God,” she hissed. “Do not throw up in my car.”

Jamie groaned dramatically, leaning his forehead against the window. “Pull overrrr.”

She swerved into the first available parking lot, barely getting the car into park before Jamie threw open the door and stumbled out.

Y/N sighed, leaning her head against the steering wheel as she listened to him retching into the bushes.

This was, officially, the worst night of her life.

After a few minutes, Jamie crawled back into the car, looking even paler than before, but at least he wasn’t actively vomiting anymore.

She handed him a water bottle. “Drink.”

Jamie took it, sipped it weakly, then let out a tired sigh, leaning his head back against the seat. “You’re a saint, y’know that?”

She snorted. “More like an idiot for agreeing to this.”

Jamie cracked a small smile. “Still. Thanks.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, simply pulling back onto the road.

By the time they got to Jamie’s house, he was half-asleep, mumbling incoherent nonsense about chickens and West Ham’s bad vibes. She had to help him inside, guiding him toward the couch as he slumped against her like a deadweight.

“Alright,” she muttered, helping him lie down. “You’re home. You’re alive. My job here is done.”

But before she could pull away, Jamie grabbed her wrist, blinking up at her blearily.

“Stay?” he murmured.

Y/N hesitated. “Jamie…”

“Just till I fall asleep,” he mumbled, already halfway there. “Promise.”

She sighed, looking down at him—his tired face, his messy hair, the way he still managed to look stupidly attractive even while on the brink of death.

She was so going to regret this.

But still, she sat down beside him.

Jamie hummed in contentment, shifting slightly so his head rested against her thigh. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, soft and steady.

Y/N leaned her head back against the couch, sighing deeply.

Maybe she was an idiot for always putting up with Jamie Tartt’s nonsense.

But as she absentmindedly ran her fingers through his hair, she figured it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

[watcheraurora]

A Promise Broken, A Promise Kept

Okay fine, brain. I give in (I got this idea and it wouldn't let me go until I finished it) (The idea for this kinda possessed me and I wrote this over the course of like four days. It's 43 Google Doc pages but I wrote it in Tumblr drafts lol) 15.8k words

—

"Where... where did my tissue box go?" Jimmy demanded, lifting up the novel off the end table as if he'd find a whole box of tissues hiding underneath it.

He texted his housemate—who was out with some friends—while he searched. You didn't happen to move my tissue box before you left, did you?

He doubted it. If Scott moved things in the house, he usually told Jimmy about it or asked if something was okay to be moved. But Jimmy always kept a box of tissues on this side table. They liked watching movies and Jimmy was a crier in a lot of them. So he kept the tissues next to where he sat on the sofa.

Except it was missing.

He scoured the living room, checking behind the sofa's throw pillows and underneath the sofa as if there was room in any of those places for a full tissue box to hide.

Nothing.

Jimmy stood with his hands on his hips in the middle of the room and looked around, confused and frustrated.

He stomped to the bathroom and grabbed a tissue from the other box to finally blow his nose in the hopes that his stupid springtime allergies would give him a rest.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out.

Scott: No... I haven't touched it. Why?

Jimmy replied quickly, It's just not there. I must have moved it and forgotten I did, I guess. Or maybe Norman snatched it

He didn't actually believe he forgot he moved it, but he didn't want Scott to get worried or irritated at him for losing something so silly.

He huffed in frustration, threw away the used tissue in the bathroom bin, and went to go check Norman's usual haunts (cat tree, litter box, bed, the back of Jimmy's closet) to see if there was a shredded tissue box at any of them.

There weren't. Jimmy huffed. He went back out to the living room to go back to spring cleaning. His mother had taught him, many years ago, how to oil the wood of the side tables once a year to keep them nice. In his old, worn out football uniform that was so tattered he only ever wore it to paint or clean these days.

As he sat next to the end table with his oily old washcloth—he'd been using the same rag with furniture oil that never got out for a few years, keeping it in a plastic bag in the back of the cleaning cupboard—he caught sight of the living room vent.

The slats were covered in dust.

He bent back and snatched up the duster from where he'd left it on the back of the loveseat. Then leaned closer to the vent.

He blew hard to get the initial layer of dust off.

"Achoo!"

"Bless you," Jimmy said automatically.

Then froze.

"Hello?" he called. "Is someone there?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

"Achoo!"

That was definitely a sneeze.

Followed by a skittering noise that sounded like quick footsteps of some sort of creature.

Inside the vent.

Most wall vents were bolted or screwed to said wall. But this house was so old that it was loosely clipped instead. Jimmy kept meaning to get some bolts and drill some holes but had yet to actually do so.

He popped the cover off and peered in.

There was nothing in there.

Jimmy scrunched his brows and pulled off his glasses. The lenses were a tad dusty but otherwise not terribly dirty. He dug into one ear with his pinky nail. No excessive amount of wax. He looked around. "Norman?"

The jingling of the cat's collar was audible from Jimmy's room.

Jimmy got up and grabbed his phone. He texted Scott.

Running to the store. I think we might have a mouse. Gonna grab some traps.

He got a thumbs-up emoji of acknowledgment from Scott.

He threw on a different outfit quickly and shoved his slip-on sandals onto his feet before heading to his car.

Forty-two minutes later, he made it back.

"—had to go to two different stores to find the humane kind," Jimmy was saying into his phone when he threw open the front door with a bag in his hand. "No, Joel—Joel—you know I don't have the heart for the other kind." He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, don't 'Jimmy, lad' me in that tone! I'm not gonna call the exterminator! That defeats the purpose of getting a humane trap to capture the mouse instead of kill it. This will be fine, I promise." He paused. "Yeah, yeah. You too. Bye." He tossed the phone carelessly onto the sofa and got some bait out of a cupboard to get the mouse traps ready.

—

Jimmy woke to the sound of skittering footsteps. He jolted and looked around his dark bedroom. It was blurry. He patted gently at his bedside table to find his glasses, which he shoved onto his face.

Something metallic creaked. Jimmy's head whipped to look at the vent in his room, between his dresser and his desk.

It was slowly tilting open. Jimmy watched with wide eyes.

A tiny human-shaped figure stepped out from behind the vent, slowly closing it behind themself. A pair of insectoid wings drooped down their back. One of them was bent at an angle Jimmy had to assume was unnatural. In the darkness, they had fire for hair that cast a gentle, soft candlelight glow on the area around them.

He watched the figure tiptoe over to his desk and jump up onto the handle of the bottom drawer with a tiny, quiet grunt. The non-bent wing wiggled. The bent one just twitched. The tiny person kicked their legs and scrambled to get up onto the handle. From there climbing up onto the drawer's ledge. Then the next handle. The next ledge. The next handle, then up onto the top of the desk. Every time, the tiny little person wiggled and kicked their legs to scramble up.

Once on the desk, the little person crept directly to the pencil cup. Jimmy watched them hop up with a flutter of the non-bent wing and snatch a pencil out of the cup. A short one Jimmy had been using to draw.

The little person inspected it and sat down on the desk in a shaft of moonlight, mixing the silvery moonlight with the golden firelight. They pulled something out of their pocket. Jimmy watched as the tiny person stuck their tongue out in concentration and began to carve the pencil. Specifically sheering off a small section of the wood from one side. The little person started muttering under their breath.

"And we do the carve-y carve-y. Make a nice little thin stick. Nice sturdy stick. Hehehehehe." The voice and figure seemed masculine, though with the tiny person's size it was hard to tell.

Jimmy watched as the rest of the pencil wood was broken off. The tiny winged person pulled a short loop of thread out of the pocket of his little red outfit and unwound it to get to the thinner fibers. He started to try to brace the piece of wood against his bent little wing. He winced as he tried to bend the wing back into a straighter position, hissing and baring his teeth like it hurt. He tried again to bend the wing back.

Then he whimpered and Jimmy couldn't stand to just watch anymore.

He sat up. "Can I help?" he asked.

The tiny guy screamed and scrambled—falling off the desk and scattering the bits and pieces he'd had in his hands.

"Whoa!" Jimmy lurched off his bed and managed to catch the little person before he could hit the floor, careful not to close his hand to crush the wings any more than they already were or burn his hand on the fire for hair. Which had gone out for just a moment to reveal normal gold hair beneath it in short waves, though it quickly sparked back up to its prior merrily-burning flame. Though the fire didn't burn around his hair. Rather, his hair became the fire.

Jimmy lifted him close to his face.

"Are you alright?"

The good wing fluttered fast as the little guy screamed again. "Human!" The word was an exclamation of fear as he tried to get to his feet and run away. But he had nowhere else to go on Jimmy's palm.

"Hey, heeey there, little guy. I'm not gonna hurt you," Jimmy said soothingly. "I want to help you."

The tiny person—the word fairy hit Jimmy in the face like a train when he finally put together why he had wings and those pointy ears—was still scrambling to try to get away. He was shorter than Jimmy's hand was long and as he screamed, he showed off little fangs as his good wing fluttered and the bent one twitched. Red dust fell from the movement of the wings, landing on Jimmy's palm.

"Ssshhh! You're gonna wake my housemate," Jimmy hissed. He brought his other hand up as flat as the first so there was more room to stand on. "I'm not trying to hurt you."

"Put me down, put me down, put me down!" the fairy pleaded.

Jimmy slowly lowered him down to the desktop and waited for him to climb off. Then returned the scattered thread, pencil shaving and sharp tiny piece of metal that the fairy had used to cut the pencil from the floor to the desk top. The fairy bundled the pieces up in his arms and looked around wildly for a way down.

"You can call me Jimmy," Jimmy said. "What's your name?"

The fairy regarded him with suspicious eyes. They were as red as his little outfit.

Jimmy took a step back and crouched on the floor so he could be closer to eye-level with the desk, rather than looming over it.

"You can call me T... Tango," the fairy said reluctantly.

"Hello Tango. Are you hurt? Your wing looks bent."

Tango still regarded him with suspicion. The bent wing twitched as the normal one flickered. Scattering more red dust. "I'm trying to fix it," Tango said, the slightest of pouts forming on his mouth as his pointy ears drooped a little. He tightened his grip on the small scraps.

"Can I help you fix it? I can hold the stick in place."

Tango's tiny red eyes narrowed. "No," he said. "I'll do it myself."

"You don't trust humans, do you?"

He took a few steps back over the desk top.

"Okay. I don't have to help. You just seemed to be struggling on your own and I wanted to offer if you needed it." Jimmy bounced a little and moved back a bit. "You're a fairy, right?"

Tango nodded. A tiny little nod, even for someone his size. Almost impossible to see if Jimmy hadn't been searching for a response.

"What happened to your wing?"

Tango glowered into the middle distance as his fire for hair flickered faster. "Stupid cat," he muttered. Almost like he didn't want Jimmy to hear.

Jimmy rubbed his eyes under his glasses. "Big fluffy cat? Kinda creamy-grey? Blue collar?"

Tango muttered something else that Jimmy couldn't quite make out.

"I'm sorry. That's my cat. Norman. He must've thought you were a bug. He likes bugs."

Tango mumbled something Jimmy couldn't hear.

"Is there any way I can help you that doesn't involve touching you? Can I get you something to drink? Some water? Or some milk?" Jimmy had heard a few stories about fairies. They liked gifts of cream or milk, didn't they? Jimmy and Scott didn't really keep cream in the house but...

Tango's normal wing perked up completely at the suggestion. "Milk?" A tiny smile seemed to be trying to form.

"Yeah. Can I get you some?"

Tango nodded. His fire hair grew a little brighter. "Yes please!"

Jimmy smiled. "Let me go get some. Don't go anywhere." He got up and tiptoed off to the kitchen.

—

Tango plopped back down onto the desk top, sitting and trying to re-fit the little stick and the threads to splint his wing. Maybe he should've asked for Impulse's help after all. Maybe if he wasn't so stubborn—he could have clenched Zed and Skizz's hands while Impulse realigned his wing. But no. He had to get caught by a human in the middle of the night. Idiot. Stupid Tango.

He put his knife back in its sheath in his pocket and pouted. This was going to hurt.

But a bit of milk... that would be quite the treat. A nice little reward for resetting his wing.

He quickly set up the splint and got it ready to brace against the ridge of his wing and tighten the threads. His small hands moved quickly. He ignored the fairy dust that fell from his wing, shaking some off his hand.

He bit down on a piece of wood that had come off the long pencil he'd carved the splint from. Humans would call it a shaving. But it was a perfect size for Tango to bite down on while he realigned his own wing. He'd balked before and he got caught by a human because of it. He couldn't allow that to happen this time.

Carefully, he positioned his hands on the ridge of his wing. His fire hair simmered low.

He couldn't count himself down and reset the wing on the wrong number to avoid tensing up. That wouldn't work when he was aware that he intended to do it.

So he just jerked his wing back into place.

He bit through the shaving with his fangs and his hair flared bright and hot as he screamed.

Quickly, he tightened the threads to splint the wing. Only once that was accomplished did he finally relax. Slumping to lie facedown on the human desk, all his limbs splayed out and the tears of pain mingling with the fallen fairy dust. Making it into a red paste.

The human—Jimmy—burst back into the room, trying to be quiet but there was a wild glint in his eyes behind his spectacles. Tango's head snapped up to look. "Are you okay?" Jimmy whispered loudly.

Tango nodded. "I'm fine." He twisted to look at his wing. The ridge was still a little wonky, but it would straighten out in time as it healed. "Just... Had to reset my wing." He shrugged, his good wing fluttering with the movement, though the bad one could still do no more than twitch.

Jimmy stepped over and placed what appeared to be the lid of some sort of small bottle on the desk beside Tango before crouching to be at eye-level. Or as close as a human could get, anyway. "We don't, er, have any cups meant for someone your size. I hope this is okay."

The lid was the same width and depth as a soup pot back home. Though it wasn't completely full of milk, it still had quite a bit in it. More than Tango thought he might be able to drink on his own. But that wouldn't stop him from trying. He loved milk. Most fairies did. "Oh this should be just fine!" He reached for it and took it up in both hands. The lid's white plastic was lighter than the metal pot Skizz and Gem used to make soup. Easier to lift to drink.

Tango surprised himself by drinking it all. Fairly quickly. He must have really needed the sweetness after fixing up his wing. He shuddered all the way down to the tip of his good wing after wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"That was delicious! Thank you!"

Jimmy smiled. "You're welcome."

Tango's wings flittered as some sort of vibration hit them. He gasped and ran across the desk, diving behind the pencil cup to hide. He sucked in a deep breath and his fire hair went out, turning back into normal hair. Hiding the light just like he'd done in the vent earlier when he'd borrowed the tissue box to try and make a cast for his wing.

The door to the room creaked back open. "Jimmy?" another voice asked, with a different accent, around a yawn. "Who're you talking to?"

Jimmy had stood up when Tango moved. Tango couldn't see what either human was doing. Just listening and feeling the disturbances in the air to stay hidden. "I'm not talking to anyone," Jimmy said. Maybe too quickly.

"I heard voices. I thought I heard screaming. Like. Really quiet screams."

"Oh! Sorry. I was watching a movie on my phone. I thought I had the volume down enough. Earbuds were irritating my ears."

"You were asleep hours ago. I heard you snoring."

"Yeah... then I woke up. Had a messy, stressful dream. Woke up. Turned on a movie to try to quiet my mind. Got a bit of milk to try and sleep."

There was a long pause between Jimmy and whoever the housemate with the different accent was. Tango did his best to keep his shivering wing as still as possible so it didn't chime with magic like fairy wings often did. He crouched low, feeling his bad wing slide soundlessly over the somewhat bumpy woodgrain of the desk that the human would think was incredibly smooth.

"You're sure you're okay?" the housemate asked.

"Yeah. Scott, I'm fine. I promise."

Another silence stretched out.

"Okaaay," the housemate—Scott—said. "I'll see you in the morning."

"See you in the morning," Jimmy replied.

The door creaked. The heavy footsteps of a human retreated. Another door creaked.

The human house fell silent.

Jimmy was standing carefully positioned in front of the desk to hide the mangled pencil from the door.

"I should go," Tango whispered. He went over to the drawers he'd climbed up to get up onto the desk in the first place as his hair sparked back into fire. He sat on the edge of the desk and started to reach out with his tiptoes to reach the ledge of the drawer, holding onto the edges of the desk for stability.

"Can I help you down, at least?" Jimmy whispered, crouching again. Holding out a flat hand toward Tango.

Who shrunk away. Jimmy twitched back just a bit.

"Or I don't have to. Just don't want to risk you falling and hurting your wings."

Tango kicked his legs. "Promise you'll just set me on the floor?"

"Of course. I promise."

Jimmy wouldn't feel it—but Tango could. A twist in the fabric of the world that came with making a promise to a fairy. Magic. If Jimmy broke that promise, he would be left to the mercy of the Fae.

Carefully, Tango extended one bare foot toward Jimmy's waiting hand. Jimmy moved it closer and let Tango slide onto it. He stayed low so he wouldn't lose his balance and fall.

Jimmy moved his hand down slowly. "Is that how you got into the house? Through the vents?"

"Mmhmm. Lots of lovely little tubes and tunnels with these nice little ventificators to move around in." Tango wiggled playfully, and Jimmy smiled. He had a nice smile. Tango decided he liked it. Humans had such small canine teeth, compared to a fairy's fangs proportionally.

Jimmy hesitated before lowering his hand all the way to the ground. "Will you come back?" he asked. Tango's good wing began to bristle as the magic did. "I, er... I'd like to see you again."

"I gotta return your tissue box. It didn't work to help my wing. So... yeah. I'll come back. Just... don't try to catch me in a jar."

"No, I would never. I promise," Jimmy said.

Another twist of magic stretched between the two of them.

"Be careful making more than surface-level promises to fairies, Jimmy. Your folklore exists for a reason," Tango said, hopping the final distance off Jimmy's palm and onto the floor. That first twist of magic eased and disappeared. He stumbled a bit through the thick carpet and pried open the vent. "Sleep well."

Dodging into the unnaturally rectangular ductwork, Tango skittered out of the house, his way lit by his hair.

—

"Where have you been?!" a voice demanded. Tango squawked in surprise and whirled to see Skizz storming over, all seven inches of him, his dark blue wings fluttering fast behind him, buzzing and chiming with power.

Tango curled in on himself. "Just, y'know, out and about."

Skizz's thunderous expression didn't ease. He reached around Tango and grabbed at his good wing, pulling it up. The bad wing lifted slightly in tandem. "And what is that?!"

"A splint. To heal it."

"Tango!" Skizz exclaimed. "You can't go running around human areas by yourself!"

"What about humans?" another voice asked as Impulse poked his head out of his hole in the tree's hollow trunk. His black moth wings with their yellow eyes swept back and forth slower than Skizz's more traditional fairy wings.

"Tango was sneaking around human territory!" Skizz snapped.

"No, I was fine! I was safe!" Tango protested. "I just needed something sturdier and straighter than a normal twig to splint my wing!"

Impulse didn't look convinced either. "Tango, you know how dangerous humans are. Lizzie got too close and she was never heard from again. She disappeared."

"I know. I wasn't—look. I just have to return something I borrowed and then I'll never go back, okay? I just needed something to help me fix my wing. I have it now. And once I return what I borrowed, I'm done."

Lizzie had vanished years ago and no one else had turned up missing since. Tango didn't understand why the whole court was still so scared of getting too close to humans. Sure, humans were enormous and physically stronger than any fairy could ever hope to be, by the nature of their size, but fairies were the dangerous ones. Humans didn't have magic. They couldn't. Their blood simply couldn't conduct it the way a fairy's could. Fairies were the ones that held the true power over humans. Sure some humans were bad and there would always be stories of fairies getting their wings ripped off—but most of them were relatively harmless.

Skizz's grip tightened on Tango's shoulder. "Make sure you are."

—

Tango returned to the human house the next night, dragging the tissue box through the ductwork. For a human it probably weighed next to nothing. But it was no small feat for a fairy to drag it all the way through from the exhaust vent outside to the one in Jimmy's room. The weight wasn’t the problem so much as the size. It was unwieldy compared to Tango’s height. And while it was fairly heavy, he could still drag it.

He peered through the slats in the vent to confirm he was, in fact, in the vent that led to Jimmy’s room. He recognized the bed and the rest from the night before. Slowly, carefully, he pushed open the vent. The metal creaked.

The bedcovers rustled and Jimmy sat up, putting his spectacles on. Cub needed spectacles too.

“You’re back,” he whispered with a delighted smile.

Tango nodded and began to drag the tissue box out of the vent. “I told you I needed to return the tissue box,” he said.

“How’s your wing?” Jimmy got out of bed and tiptoed over to the vent, pulling it open more and pulling the tissue box out with one easy, effortless movement.

Tango shrugged. His good wing fluttered and the bad one twitched. "Doesn't hurt as bad now that it's got the brace-ificator."

"That's good." Jimmy bent down and offered a flat palm to Tango.

Who just stared at it for a few moments. "I have to walk everywhere. I can't fly," Tango pointed out, his eyes slowly traveling up Jimmy's muscular arm to meet his eyes. Which where warm brown in the firelight of Tango's hair. "That's not fun for a fairy."

"Sorry," Jimmy said sympathetically.

"It's fine. It'll heal soon enough." Tango hopped up onto Jimmy's palm and sat cross-legged in the center of it. Jimmy lifted him up to be almost eye-level. "Fairies tend to heal quickly."

"That's good, at least."

Tango nodded.

"Can you... can you stay? For a little bit? I just—gosh, I have so many questions! I didn't know fairies were real."

Tango fidgeted. The longer he was away from the tree, the more his family would think he'd been caught. And sure, technically, he had. He'd been seen. But he hadn't been trapped. And he didn't need the whole court swarming to try and save him. He took a deep breath. "I can stay for a bit," he said. "But not too long. And I might not be able to answer all your questions."

"That's fine, that's fine," Jimmy said with a nod.

Tango's ears flicked as his good wing wiggled. "What's your first question?"

"How do you hide from humans?"

Tango snickered. "Well. I don't mean to alarm you, but we're pretty small," he said, smiling. Jimmy smiled back and Tango's tiny heart thudded faster. "We're not too small to see, obviously. But being small helps us hide."

"Do you, like, have magic?"

Tango's gaze flicked up to where he could almost see the flames of his hair. "What do you think?"

"Does that help you hide?"

"The fire doesn't but the magic does."

"And the fire comes from the magic, right? I saw your hair turn back into hair and then into fire."

Tango nodded. "Yep! I'm a fire fairy!"

"Oh, I definitely couldn't've guessed that," Jimmy said, voice colored by playful sarcasm.

Tango giggled.

Something in the house creaked and Jimmy went utterly still, holding Tango closer to his chest and looking toward the door. Tango's good wing flitted and then rested. "Housemate?" he whispered.

Jimmy listened for a few long seconds. "I think it's just the house settling," he whispered back.

Tango nodded.

Jimmy perked up. "Oh. Come with me into the kitchen." Still carrying Tango on his palm but moving slow to not cause too much motion, he climbed out of bed and held his hand up to his opposite shoulder. "Care to hop over there? Might be easier."

Tango looked at where Jimmy's collarbone—exposed by the loose sleeveless shirt he had on—made a hollow below his shoulder.

Fluttering his good wing, Tango stepped onto the collarbone and braced his feet there to sit on Jimmy's shoulder, holding onto the edge of the sleeveless shirt.

Jimmy walked slowly to the kitchen. Creeping through the house. "How long can you stay tonight?" he whispered.

Tango shrugged. "Not too long. I need to get home."

"Will you come back?"

Tango didn't answer immediately. Jimmy was opening the fridge. He pulled out a large jug of milk.

"Here. I went to the shops today and bought these. They're meant for a little girl's dolls but I thought it might be a good size for you." He opened a drawer and pulled out a tiny plastic cup that he set on the counter. Blue and clear. Next to the cup in the drawer was some sort of dropper. That he stuck in the milk and squeezed the bulbous top. When he released the pressure, it sucked milk up the tube, which he then used to fill the little cup. "I think this was supposed to be used for medicine but we've never opened it from the plastic before," Jimmy added, indicating the dropper.

The cup was still a little too big for Tango, but after the lid the night before, Tango knew he could more than handle the cup. Jimmy held a hand out and let Tango hop onto it and lowered him down to the counter.

"I... might be able to come back," Tango said. "But it won't be easy. Fairies are supposed to hide from humans. My family will get mad if they know I got seen."

"Well, I certainly won't tell them."

"I know." Tango took a big drink of the milk. "That would require you seeing them and no one gets this close to humans besides me."

"Why?"

"I'm curious and they're scared. We lost a fairy who got too close to humans years ago. Never heard from her again. But I can't just... quit." Tango's bad wing twitched. "Even when stupid cats get me."

"Mm... you might be a little bit reckless."

Tango laughed, trying to stay quiet, as his wings tried to flutter in tandem. "You... are singing to the wind there, skippy," he said.

"I'm what?"

"Y'know. Telling me something I already know."

"O-oh."

“Is that not a human phrase?”

“Er… I don’t think so.”

Tango hummed in thought and took another sip of milk. "Any other questions?"

"Yeah—what did you mean last night when you told me to be careful and folklore exists for a reason?"

"Did you do any reading on Fae?"

"Er..."

"It's dangerous for a human to break a promise to any fairy. Just like it's dangerous to give one your name."

"I think I've heard of that."

"I'd hope you had."

"What about fairy rings? The mushrooms in the woods?"

"Be careful of them. Humans don't often survive well in Avalon. And if they do come back, they're forever changed."

"So it exists?!" Jimmy hissed.

"Of course. That's where we're born." Tango sipped his milk. "That's where we'll go when winter comes back. We're only living on the human plane because spring and summer here are delightful." His wings tried to flutter.

"What's it like to fly?"

Tango looked up at Jimmy. A small smile formed on his face. "There's nothing like it."

—

After doing his best to wash the Barbie doll cup and dropper, Jimmy hid them away and took Tango back to his bedroom. "I should probably go now," Tango said quietly. "I don't want to risk my family noticing I'm gone."

Jimmy nodded. "I get it."

Tango hopped into Jimmy's hand and let Jimmy lower him to the floor. He slipped nimbly into the vent.

"I hope to see you again," Jimmy said.

Tango's wings flickered and twitched. "I'll try to come back. No promises, though."

"I understand."

Tango pulled the vent shut. His footsteps were quiet in the ductwork and faded fast.

Jimmy pivoted and flopped onto his bed, climbing under the covers.

Sleep claimed him quickly and before he knew it, morning light was streaming through his bedroom window. He could hear Scott whistling in the kitchen, bustling about making himself some breakfast.

Slowly, Jimmy clambered out of bed and went out to the kitchen. Scott was standing in front of the stove with a frying pan on it, whistling as he cooked what smelled and looked like hash browns. He was in an Extravagant Breakfast mood, then. Not surprising for a Saturday.

Jimmy, making no move to be quiet and letting his footsteps make the floorboards creak, approached from behind and planted his face on the topmost curve of Scott's spine, groaning in complaint into the loose fabric of Scott's T-shirt. He and Scott had been close friends for years and knew he wouldn't mind Jimmy planting his face in his back to complain. Something Jimmy could really only do with Scott—Scott was one of very few people who was taller than Jimmy. That group also included Etho, next-door.

"Bad night again?" Scott asked.

"Yeah."

"Sorry." Scott turned off the stove and turned to wrap a comforting arm around Jimmy's shoulders. "Should we try getting you some sort of sleep aid?"

Jimmy took a deep breath and huffed a sigh. "No... not yet, anyway. If it persists, maybe." He wasn't sure how to explain that his lack of sleep was self-inflicted.

Scott pinched his chin in order to examine his face, tilting it around. "What's been keeping you up?"

Jimmy shrugged. "It's more like I've been waking up in the middle of the night and then struggling to get back to sleep."

"I'm sorry, Jimmy. You can always wake me if you need to."

Jimmy shook his head as best he could with his chin still pinched. "No. No reason for us both to be tired. I'd hate to make you share my suffering for no reason."

Scott sighed, affectionate and exasperated. "Helping you isn't suffering."

"Lack of sleep is."

Scott tutted. "How about this, if you're struggling to get back to sleep and you think it'll help, come crash with me. Just climb in and wake me up and I'll help you get back to sleep."

Jimmy was quiet for a few moments. "We'll see," he said.

"I have a good idea to tucker you out tonight."

"Do tell."

"Joel and Grian called this morning. Well. Grian called this morning on his and Joel's behalf."

"Mm."

"Ultimate Frisbee. They want to go to the park and play tonight."

Jimmy perked up. "Really?" A smile formed on his face. He blinked, trying to force his eyes to focus. He forgot to put his glasses on. Scott nodded. He wouldn't call himself an athlete compared to Jimmy, probably, but neither would Grian and Joel. Joel used to be an athlete before he'd wrecked his knee when they were kids. Now, they all just liked to all be bad at sports together. Messing around more than actually playing.

"Yeah."

"Did you tell them we're in?"

"I told them you would be in and that I'd think about it."

"I'll text them. Are Lizzie and Mumbo joining?"

"I think so. And I think they were considering extending the offer to Martyn and Pearl."

"Awesome!" Jimmy felt himself smiling, his fatigue forgotten. "We're gettin' the whole gang together!"

"Well. Enough for a four-on-four, anyway," Scott remarked.

Jimmy beamed. "Sounds fun."

—

In Jimmy's experience, getting eight adults together to hang out was nearly impossible. How Grian and Joel managed it, he had no idea. But he wasn't going to complain. He had all his friends from school in a park and they were playing Frisbee. What more could he ask for?

"Martyn, pass it!" Jimmy called, running and clapping to show he was ready to catch. Grian was tailing him hard, but Grian's legs were significantly shorter and Jimmy was quickly outpacing him.

Martyn was currently trying to throw it around a frantically-trying-to-intercept Pearl, waving her arms through the air.

"Timmy, go long!" Martyn shouted, hurling it as hard as he could at an angle.

Jimmy pivoted and took off. Laughing as Grian shouted in protest behind him that his long stride wasn't fair.

—

Tango lingered in the canopy, hiding amongst the leaves. Watching the humans play a game with a flying disc of some sort. Jimmy he recognized—though he hadn't been expecting to see him here. But he didn't know any of the others. Which he did expect.

Jimmy wasn't wearing his spectacles. Tango wondered if he could see okay.

He was playing with seven other humans. Two with long hair and feminine frames, five with shorter hair and more masculine frames. All of them seemed to be having a good time.

One of the feminine frame humans went running. She had long pink hair pulled back in a pair of pigtail braids.

One of the human men caught her around the waist. He had curly dark brown hair with a bit of green in his bangs. "I got her, Jim! Throw it!"

The woman squealed and laughed, kicking and writhing, smiling wide. "Joel!" she protested. "Let me go!"

Tango's entire body went rigid.

He knew that laugh.

He knew that smile.

He knew that voice.

"Lizzie?" he whispered.

His body kicked into motion all at once. He leapt for the next tree over and caught a branch, scrambling up onto it. He ran across it to the next branch, getting closer and closer to the big open field the humans were playing on at the edge of the woods. Trying to get a better, fuller view of the area. He cursed his stupid wing for not being able to fly. To move faster.

When he finally got to a clump of leaves he could hide in while still watching the humans, he slowed down to pant and then peek.

The woman had rounded ears. She was human-sized. She was wearing human clothes. The roots of her hair appeared to be a light brown, making the pink fake.

But, no doubt about it, that was Lizzie.

She was alive.

Tango reached for his magic and plucked at it, sending the vibration of it across the field to Lizzie—only to feel it dissipate before it could touch her.

She had no magic anymore. Nothing to resonate with his bid for connection. No way to reach back.

She wrenched out of Joel's grip and went running after that flying disc.

Tango grabbed at his magic again. But instead of gently directing it toward Lizzie, he formed it into a spear of words and hurled it in her direction.

She stumbled while trying to catch the disc and went completely rigid.

Lizzie, is that you?! It's Tango. Do you remember me? How are you human?

Her eyes—big and blue and oh-so-familiar—scanned the trees. Sweat clung to her brow, plastering a few pink strands of hair to her face. She panted.

Joel slowed to a stop beside her. "Love? You alright?" he asked, setting a hand on her lower back. Tango realized they were wearing colorful rings on matching fingers. Lizzie's was pink with flowers carved into it. Joel's was green with leaves carved into it. He glanced toward the trees she was peering at. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing," she replied. "Just tired."

Her eyes found Tango's and locked on.

"I'm gonna take a bit of a breather," she declared, straightening up and marching toward the trees. She sat at the base of the trunk of the tree Tango's branch was part of and leaned back. She waited for her human friends to stop looking at her and then knocked twice on the trunk, pulling her braids from her back to drape down her chest. Her gaze searched the canopy for Tango.

He was already running down the branch for the trunk, using the chunky bark to climb down, hiding away from the humans until he hit the grass and circled it.

Lizzie's hand was waiting in the grass for him, her body turned away from her friends to hide him.

Tango jumped onto her palm. "You're alive?" he hissed quietly.

"Ssshhh!" she whispered, bringing her hand up to her lap, body still angled to block him from sight of the other humans. "Tango, please—you can't tell the court!"

"What?! Why not?!"

"Because they'd never understand."

"Lizzie, we thought you were dead!" Tango whispered.

"I know. Well, I figured, anyway."

Tango's bad wing tried desperately to flutter in tandem with his good one. But the splint and the pain stopped it. "Lizzie—why did you—how could you leave us like that?" He grabbed onto her finger with his whole hand where he was kneeling on her palm.

She twisted, a fond expression on her face, as she watched Joel and a shorter man in a red knit sweater argue and bicker about something. "I love him, Tango," she said quietly.

Tango's heart thudded in his chest. "How could you leave us though? Your family? How did you... how did you become..." He looked her up and down. "One of them?" He didn't mean to sound disgusted, but his disbelief clouded his tone and might have come across that way.

"Magic."

"Obviously. But what kind of—"

"Lizzie? Everything alright?" Joel called.

"Fine, babe!" Lizzie shouted over her shoulder. She whipped back to look at Tango. "Listen—please don't tell the rest of the court. I don't—Skizz would lose his mind and I can't do that to Gem and the others. It's better if they think I disappeared. Please, Tango." The desperate pleading in her eyes made Tango's heart twist.

"N... no it's not," he whispered.

"Tango. I married a human. I can't go back to being a fairy even if I wanted to. Not anymore. And I don't want to anyway." She put the barest tip of her finger under his chin. "Tango, please. Promise me you won't tell the court."

Tango blinked up at her in disbelief. "You know I can't do that," he replied. "Fairies never make promises."

She sighed. "I know. But... please?"

Tango sat in silence for several long moments, listening for any other humans approaching.

"You... you loved him enough to give up your life and your court and your magic to be with him?" Tango's voice had gone small. "To be human?"

Lizzie nodded.

Tango took a deep breath and sighed. "Okay. I won't tell anyone."

She sagged a little. "Thank you."

His red gaze hardened. "But you should."

Not waiting for her response, he hopped off her hand and slid down her leg into the grass. His good wing flickered irritably.

He leapt up onto the trunk of the tree and climbed until he was up in the canopy's branches, catching glimpses of Lizzie's pink hair through the leaves.

"Lizzie?" Joel called.

"Coming!" Lizzie shouted back. She picked herself to her feet and ran toward him, kissing his cheek. He smiled softly at her. Fondly. Affectionately.

Tango's heart twisted. He wasn't sure whether to be happy for her or sad that the court lost her forever.

"Whoa—WHOA!" a familiar voice shouted. Jimmy tripped and spilled onto the ground, rolling over in the grass as the smaller human man in the red sweater dogpiled on top of him, cackling. Another tall man (this one with blue hair and dark brown roots showing it was fake like Lizzie's pink) draped himself over Jimmy's legs and the tall, willowy, brunette woman flopped over all of them. They were all laughing—even Jimmy as he shouted for them to get off of him. Despite the conflict tumbling around in Tango's heart, he couldn't help but smile.

It seemed humans and fairies weren't that much different when it came to friends.

—

Two weeks passed before Jimmy saw Tango again. He wasn't woken in the night by the vent cover creaking open. Nothing else went missing. Norman wasn't on alert. Jimmy was starting to convince himself that he wasn't going to see Tango ever again. And that would be fine. Tango said it would be difficult to get away and not make his family suspicious. Jimmy was disappointed—he found Tango fun and friendly and he enjoyed spending time with him—but he didn't want Tango to risk his own safety.

But Jimmy found himself leaving the Barbie cup with some water in it next to the vent on nights when Norman slept out on his cat tree in the living room instead of at the foot of Jimmy's bed. Just in case.

He was roused from his sleep by something irritating his nose. He twitched it and sucked in a deep breath, peeling his eyes open.

Tango was leaning sideways, his head tilted, to try to be parallel to Jimmy, his hair normal rather than burning so he wouldn't light the pillowcase on fire. He was holding onto Jimmy's nose and squishing it back and forth. "Jimmy! Jim-my!" he stage-whispered in time to the squishing of Jimmy's nose.

Jimmy jolted backward as clarity snapped to attention in his brain. "Whoa!" he hissed. "Tango! What're you...?"

Tango beamed and bounced on the pillow like a kid jumping on the couch. "I finally got to come visit!" Both of his wings flicked. The bad one was still splinted, but the splint wasn't as long, like it could move again but hadn't yet regained full mobility. "How have you been?" he asked quietly.

Jimmy rubbed his face and patted around his bedside table for his glasses. "Er... I've been alright. Just going through life, y'know?" He pushed his glasses onto his face.

Tango straightened up properly and his hair sparked back to life, burning merrily. "I guess," he said. "Human lives seem so boring. You just, like, clean things and go to work."

"Well what do you do?" Jimmy asked. "Do fairies not have jobs?"

"Pfft. No. Why would we need jobs? We gather our own livelihoods and we share when we don't have enough and someone else has excess. We dance and we play and we enjoy the world and her natural beauty as she gives it to us."

"Sounds nice."

Tango grinned. "It is!"

Jimmy grunted as he sat up properly. He offered a hand to Tango. Who hopped up onto his palm and knelt. Jimmy lifted him to his shoulder and Tango moved to perch there instead. "Did you see the cup I left next to the vent?"

"I did! Thank you. It was very much appreciated." Tango wiggled and smiled happily.

Jimmy got out of bed, Tango clinging to his tank top's collar to stay steady. "Want some milk?"

"I'd love some!"

"Let's go then." Jimmy went to the vent and picked up the small cup and took it with them out to the kitchen.

Partway there, Tango stood up on Jimmy's shoulder and clung to his ear to stabilize himself. "Guess what?" he whispered directly in Jimmy's ear.

"What?"

"A human fair is in town. And a small court of fairies hides among the fair's equipment when they travel around. Their court and mine are going to have a little party while they're here. I'm so excited."

"Fun," Jimmy said, opening the fridge. "Maybe I'll get my housemate to go with me. Keep an eye out for you."

"Oh, I won't be at the actual fair," Tango said dismissively. "That's too dangerous and my big brother would never let me be around a crowd that big while my wing is still busted. Our party will be in private, silly."

"Right, yeah. 'Course," Jimmy replied. "I knew that."

Tango giggled.

Jimmy lifted a hand and lowered Tango down onto the kitchen counter, where the cup had been filled with milk. Tango picked it up and lifted it in both hands toward Jimmy like a toast. "Cheers!" he chirped before taking a sip. Jimmy smiled. "I saw you playing the game with the throwing disc thing, by the way."

"Oh, did you?" Jimmy asked. "You saw us playing Frisbee?"

Tango nodded and drank more milk. "Mmhmm! It looked like fun."

"It is."

"I saw the smaller red man tackle you."

"Oh, Grian didn't tackle me. I tripped and he took advantage to just fall on top of me. He's a menace. But he's also my older brother and I love him."

Tango was quiet for a moment. "I have an older brother too," he said softly. "He's the main protector of our court. He keeps us safe. He's a good leader." He cleared his throat. "Which one was your housemate again?"

"The really tall one with blue hair."

Tango's chin dipped in a quick nod. "Got it." He looked around Scott and Jimmy's kitchen. Well, mostly Scott's kitchen. Jimmy didn't consider himself handy in the kitchen whatsoever—thankfully Scott preferred cooking for at least two or more.

"What were you doing at the park?" Jimmy asked.

Tango shrugged, his wings flicking a little. "I wasn't at the park: I was in the woods. But I heard humans shouting and got curious."

"Ohhhhh," Jimmy said, nodding sagely.

"My older brother would be really mad if I was actually in the park. Humans are likely to hurt fairies."

"Makes sense."

—

Tango slipped out of the exhaust vent of the house and climbed down the drainpipe. He snuck quietly across the small backyard and ducked through a diamond-shaped hole in the chain-link fence. Putting him solidly in the forest.

He headed back to the court's hollow tree. It was a long walk for a lone fairy and dawn wasn't far off. But he didn't dare reach out with his magic to see if someone was willing to come get him. The rest of the court would tattle to Skizz and Impulse if they knew Tango had snuck out of the tree again to visit a human.

Tango kicked a speck of dirt as he walked along with the sole of his bare foot.

He thought about Jimmy. Who would be quite the catch were he a fairy. He'd probably be a defender, like Skizz and Scar. Big and strong. Fairies didn't have jobs. They had roles. Skizz was the defender and the leader. Tango and Impulse were fixers. Bdubs was a maker. Gem was too, but specialized mostly in textiles. Fern kept the library. Scar and Cub were tricksters on top of being defenders—or semi-defender, in Cub's case. Cub was one of the thinkers. The wickedly smart one who mostly got put in charge of planning.

But Jimmy would probably be a defender, if he was a fairy. Dark blond and dark-eyed with that strong jaw—maybe he'd be another mothwing like Impulse...

No. He'd have a swallowtail butterfly pattern. Like Fern's. Except Jimmy's would be yellow—a tiger swallowtail rather than Fern's spicebush. Despite the fact that Tango almost exclusively saw Jimmy wearing blues and whites, he got the feeling that yellow wings would suit him nicely. A vibrant accent color.

If Jimmy were a fairy, Tango would have snatched him up years ago.

The thought pulled Tango up short. He stopped walking and leaned against a tree trunk. Where had that thought come from? Sure, Jimmy was handsome—but he was also human. Being attracted to him did Tango no favors. It was pointless. It could never be—

Lizzie.

She became human permanently.

Tango shook his head and went back to walking quickly through the woods. Lizzie might be willing to abandon her court, her family, her magic, her wings for the love of a human—but Tango wasn't.

Skizz would probably stop him if he tried even if he wanted to.

Plus, Tango wasn't that great at complicated magic and he couldn't imagine a ritual like that could be anything less than astronomically difficult.

No.

No handsome human for him.

That was fine.

He was almost to the tree when he heard a fairy's wings behind him. He ducked into a bramble, put out the fire in his hair, and looked back. It wasn't forbidden for him to wander the woods at night, but if Skizz was the one who caught him, he'd probably get lectured (again) for being reckless. Out in the dangerous woods alone at night.

Tango wasn't that worried. As a fire fairy with burning hair, most big creatures that could eat him—like owls and foxes—didn't get anywhere near him. Most of those creatures were afraid of fire.

But who else was heading back to the tree just before dawn?

Keeping low and quiet, he saw a familiar figure heading into the hollow knot in the tree that led to the court's homes. Insectoid wings shaped like a traditional fairy's like Tango's and Skizz's. The fairy was wearing a fluffy coat made of moss.

What was Bdubs—the king of hounding the court to get a good night's sleep—doing out and about in the woods in the middle of the night?

Tango watched him land gently and disappear into the hollow trunk before he ran at the trunk himself and leapt into the air, grabbing the bark as high up as he could and climbing it to get inside.

—

"Y'know, I've never had funnel cake before," Scott remarked as they wandered the fair, watching a family walk past with a funnel cake in hand.

Jimmy halted in his tracks, putting a hand on Scott's forearm to stop him too. "Shut up! You haven't?!"

Scott shook his head and brushed his blue curls off his forehead. "Never."

Jimmy squeezed Scott's arm. "We have to remedy that right now," he said, smiling. "C'mon. Let's find a vendor. My treat. We're splitting one—I think we'd both be sick if we tried to eat a full one on our own. And they're better when shared anyway." He smiled, and received a smile in return. His hand slid down Scott's arm to take his wrist and drag him through the fairground to find a place selling funnel cake. "I should warn you: the powdered sugar is messy. But it's so worth it."

Scott laughed. "I trust you," he said. "I don't mind a little sugar."

He pulled Scott along behind him until they found a vendor selling funnel cake and Jimmy dragged them in line. While they waited, he looked around. Trying to catch sight of any fairies sneaking around. Not that he expected to see any of them. But he still kept an eye out.

At one point, Oli and Eloise rushed past, giggling and throwing Jimmy and Scott a brief wave before falling into a line for one of the rides. A rickety-looking roller coaster Jimmy was not getting on, no matter what. The Ferris Wheel looked a little safer but still a bit sus—he was only getting on if Scott asked.

They made it through the line and got a funnel cake. Scott located a picnic table in the shade where they could sit down and try it without worrying about getting bumped into while walking.

Jimmy broke off a piece of the cake. "Wanna try it first or shall I?"

"You go first," Scott said. "You were the more excited."

Jimmy put it in his mouth. Sweet, soft, and slightly crunchy from being fried. He hummed in rapture. "Oh, that's good," he said around his mouthful. He broke off another piece and held it out for Scott. "Try it."

Scott leaned forward and took the piece between his teeth, smiling all the while.

Jimmy's eyes widened just a little. He'd expected Scott to take it from him with his fingers, not his mouth. He wasn't worried Scott would accidentally bite him, just surprised.

Scott chewed thoughtfully, eyes unfocused and nodding as he did so.

He swallowed. "That's delicious," he declared.

"Right?!" Jimmy agreed.

The two of them sat at the picnic table for a while, eating their treat piece by piece, sharing as equally as possible when they both wanted to just devour the whole thing on their own. Jimmy knew if he had that much sugar and oil all at once, he'd probably be sick and Scott agreed, but the taste was almost enough to make the idea worth it.

Partway through, Oli and Eloise collapsed at their same picnic table. "What a rush!" Oli exclaimed.

"That roller coaster doesn't look safe," Jimmy said.

"Didn't feel safe," Eloise agreed. "I could almost feel my brain rattling around in my skull."

"But it was fuuuuun!" Oli drawled.

Jimmy met Scott's eyes. Scott nodded with one small movement. They each broke off a piece of the funnel cake and offered it to their friends. Both turned it down, claiming their stomachs needed a moment to settle before they could try to put anything in it.

Jimmy and Scott didn't complain about getting the whole thing to themselves, but both of them would have felt remiss had they not at least offered to share with their friends.

They were just polishing off the last little bit when a shadow fell over them. "Well, well, well! Look who we found!" a voice said. Jimmy looked up.

"Etho! How are ya, man?" he asked. "I'd hug you or shake your hand, but..." He looked at the veritable mess the funnel cake had left behind. Etho just chuckled, one arm around his partner—a somewhat short guy with fluffy, curly black hair who was somehow braving the heat of a summer evening in a green jacket that appeared to be made of moss. He was holding a large bear plushie that was eye-achingly vibrant magenta.

"It's all good," Etho said. "We're fine, aren't we, Bdubs?"

"Uh-huh!" Bdubs nodded enthusiastically.

"Enjoying the fair?" Etho asked the four sitting at the picnic table, the corners of his eyes crinkled to show he was smiling behind his face mask.

"Yep!" Oli chirped.

"Lot of fun," Scott agreed. "Just tried funnel cake for the first time."

Bdubs perked up. "Funnel cake?" He spun to look at Etho, pressing his front to his side and wrapping both arms around him. "Can we get some, please, please, please, please, please!"

Etho gave Scott a playfully-chiding look. "Look what you've done." But he rested his chin in Bdubs' curls. "Yeeeaaahhh, I guess. Let's go find some."

"The nearest stall is right over there," Jimmy said, pointing toward the one they'd got theirs from.

"Thanks," Etho said as Bdubs began talking loudly and dragging Etho in the vendor's direction. Etho was smiling.

"I take it you know them?" Oli asked.

"Next-door neighbor," Jimmy said. "And his partner. Who I don't know as well but seems nice."

"Aaahhh, I see," Oli said in a goofy voice like he was a Film Noir detective.

"Look at that sunset," Eloise said quietly. Everyone turned to see the sun dipping toward the horizon, turning orange and painting the sky and its clouds golds, oranges, pinks, and almost reds.

"Ferris Wheel?" Oli said to Eloise.

"Ferris Wheel," she agreed. They got up and went to go get in line with a brief goodbye.

"Should we, too?" Scott asked. "Take some pictures?"

Jimmy smiled. "Sounds fun!"

They dusted themselves off—the powdered sugar got everywhere—cleaned their hands of the remnants of the funnel cake, threw away their trash, and went to follow their friends.

They got on right as the sun was touching the horizon, pausing every few degrees to let others board as well. It was an old, more traditional Ferris Wheel with benches big enough for two people, rather than a huge one with dangling baskets for six or more.

That suited them just fine.

Scott had his phone out, taking pictures of the sunset. He turned his camera toward Jimmy. "Smile," he said.

Jimmy did. Scott's camera shuttered.

"Ooh. That's a new profile pic right there," Scott said, showing the results to Jimmy. In the light of the setting sun, his early tan was bronzed and his hair had glints of gold. The whole picture was warm and glowy.

"Yeah—please send that to me."

"'Course," Scott said. But he switched his phone to selfie mode. "Bring it in, first." He leaned close. Jimmy leaned to match.

Scott took a couple selfies of the two of them. Including one where they turned around to let the half-sun silhouette them. Jimmy smiled and laughed.

When the pictures were done and Scott's phone tucked back in his pocket, he rested his head on Jimmy's shoulder. "Thanks for this," he said softly. "Thanks for telling me the fair was in town. It's been a long time since we did something just... out-of-the-norm."

Jimmy nodded. "Welcome. Happy to be here, having fun."

Scott hummed agreement as they watched the sunset continue to deepen. The highest points of the sky were already inky with stars poking out. The rising moon was bright opposite the sky from the sun. Jimmy took a deep breath and sighed, content and happy—and wondering where Tango was and whether he was having a good time.

—

"Sun's down! Time to paaaaarrrrrtyyyyy!" Zed exclaimed, falling off the mushroom of the fairy ring and catching himself with his pink-and-yellow wings. The fairies cheered. Someone broke out the wine, its distinct scent filling the air. Tango smiled, his wings wiggling. He still couldn’t fly, but at least he could move his bad wing just a bit.

The music started, and so too did the dancing. Tango was the only fairy stuck on the ground, but by Oberon that wasn't going to stop his friends from making him dance with them. Gem, Impulse, Skizz, and Zed all got their hands on him and lifted him into the air.

He laughed as his friends hauled him around through the sky, singing and dancing along to the music. At some point, someone shoved a hollowed-out seed full of wine into his hand.

Never one to avoid a bad time, Tango drank down the whole thing. There was nothing quite as delicious as fairy wine. It always left him feeling sparkly. His wings chimed as they fluttered, but his right one still couldn't hold him up. Gem laughed where she was mostly behind him. "Tango, that tickles!" Green fairy dust drifted down from her orange monarch butterfly wings, mingling with the pink-and-gold dust from Zed's.

He glanced around. Bdubs wasn't here. He'd claimed exhaustion and had gone to his room last night and hadn't emerged since. Fern was sitting on a mushroom, a seed in her hand that she'd probably only had a single sip of, talking to one of the fairies that had been traveling with the human fair. The fairy was taller than even Skizz with reddish, mechanical wings, curled horns, and green skin. An uncommon type of fairy, but not unheard of. The horns and skin, at least. The mechanical wings were almost unheard of. Fern's expression was one of sorrow as she talked to him.

But other than that, both courts seemed to be having the time of their lives. A Fae Revelry was a party like nothing mortals could even hold a candle to.

Tango took the next seed full of wine that had been handed to him and downed it too.

He wasn't going to remember most of this party in the morning, probably.

He was fine with that.

He let himself get lost in the moments and the wine as it went straight to his head. He danced with his friends and ate whatever food had been provided by the fair's court, enjoying his court's specialty wine with abandon. Fairies partied a lot, but it had been a while since they had a second court to enjoy partying with. The other court seemed to think the same because they were matching the same level of overdoing it that Tango's court was doing.

At some point he found himself back on the ground, holding both of Fern's hands as they jumped in circles. Gem's appeared at some point but left after a bit. Scar crashed into them both with Cub right behind. "Watch the wing, watch the wing, watch the wing!" Tango exclaimed as he crashed into the grass. Thankfully, both his wings were unharmed as he hit on his side.

He heard himself laughing, but he wasn't really fully present in his own mind. Addled by the wine and the food and the music.

He hoped, distantly, that Jimmy was having a good time.

—

Tango woke up in the lawn behind Jimmy's house, half-hidden by a flower bush. He'd heard of the concept of a hangover before but fairies didn't get them, so he was just tired.

He pushed himself upright and looked around. He had no idea how he got here. He had vague memories of Skizz and Impulse lugging him back to the tree, suspended between them as they flew. But at what point in the night had he stumbled through the woods to get here? Why had he come here? He couldn't remember. Another vague memory of him wanting to tell Jimmy "something important" was lingering just out of reach of his recollection.

A masculine voice on the other side of the fence shouted, "Aurora? Have you seen my trowel?"

Followed by a feminine voice shouting, "Check under the wheelbarrow!"

The shouts jarred Tango out of his thoughts as the neighbors started arguing. Lighthearted and friendly with no real bite to any of the words.

"Don't make me come out there, Etho!" the feminine voice called with a laugh.

Tango peered around, making sure the stupid cat who'd busted his wing wasn't outside and that the neighbors wouldn't see him. Once he confirmed, he took off running for the exhaust vent, leaping into the air and squeezing himself through the gaps to access the ductwork.

He snuck quietly through the ducts until he found the living room. Where he'd borrowed the tissue box from originally. It had been restored to its place, apparently. He could see it through the slats in the vent.

Jimmy was lounging on the sofa, holding one of the glowing rectangles. He'd called it a phone... right? Tango didn't remember. The stupid fluffy cat who'd busted his wing was on Jimmy's lap. Jimmy's free hand was idly petting him. The tomcat's ears twitched in the direction of the vent and his hair started to raise a little. Jimmy noticed.

Tango held his breath and turned his fire hair back into normal hair.

The cat was still bristling.

"What's wrong, Norman?" Jimmy asked, his hand stilling in the cat's fur.

Norman hissed toward the vent.

Tango hissed back, baring his fangs and flaring his wings.

The cat mewled pathetically, looking surprised, and buried his face in Jimmy's shirt.

Jimmy set his phone on the low table by the sofa and rolled off the sofa, landing on his knees on the floor, holding the cat in one arm. "Tango? Is that you?" he asked quietly. His voice sounded tired. He had a button-up shirt on over his sleeping sleeveless shirt.

Tango ignited his fire hair again. "It's me."

"Okay. Be quiet, my housemate's home, but..." Jimmy looked around. His free hand reached up and touched the pocket on the chest of his shirt. He lifted the flap and pulled it open. "Hop in."

Tango dodged out of the vent and creaked it shut before running across the floor, jumping up Jimmy's leg and climbing the loose overshirt before crawling in the pocket and pulling the flap down over the top so no one would be able to see him. The pocket was muffled and a little darker, but it was warm. Right over Jimmy's heart. Which he could feel in the vibrations of the fabric.

Tango couldn't help himself and Jimmy wouldn't see—he snuggled closer to Jimmy's chest. Closing his eyes.

"How was your party?" Jimmy whispered.

"Wild," Tango whispered back with delight and rapture. "How was the fair?"

"It was fun! I had a good time."

"That's good." Tango yawned.

"Tired?"

"I was awake for most of the night."

Jimmy hummed. "Sleep in my pocket. You're safe with me," he said.

"I don't think that's a good—"

"Tango. I promise: I will never hurt you."

Magic twisted between them.

Tango yawned again. "I warned you about making promises to fairies," he pointed out. But he was already burrowing down in the pocket, snuggling close to Jimmy's warm chest and eyelids growing heavy. "'S dangerous."

Jimmy's hand gently cupped his pocket. It was warm. "This one I think I can keep," he said softly.

"I promise not to hurt you either." Tango hummed and rested his head against Jimmy's beating heart. Drifting off.

—

Tango woke up from his unexpected nap disoriented. Where was he? Why was he surrounded by fabric on all sides? What was that rhythmic thumping?

Peeling his eyes open, memories came crashing back. Right. He had taken a nap in the chest pocket of Jimmy's shirt.

That rhythmic thumping was Jimmy's heartbeat.

He shuffled a little.

Jimmy was humming softly. A tune Tango didn't recognize. Occasionally singing some lyrics under his breath. There was quiet clatter accompanying him. "—I keep on hopin' we'll eat cake by the ocean..." Jimmy sang.

Tango managed to get to his feet in Jimmy's pocket and lift the flap covering it just enough to peek through.

Jimmy was cooking. There was a black metal frying pan on a stove and something yellowy in it that he was moving around with a black plastic spatula.

"—lose our minds and go crazy-crazy, ay-yayayayaya—"

"Whatcha makin'?" Tango asked, keeping his voice down in case Scott the housemate was nearby.

Jimmy jolted. "I didn't realize you'd woken up!" he hissed.

"Just now," Tango reassured. He twisted and moved the flap out of the way so he could look up at Jimmy's face. Laid back and relaxed—and really, really handsome. That strong jaw and nose and brow bones framing his face. Tango's heart was going about as fast as a hummingbird's wings and he forced himself to look away. "Whatcha makin'?"

"Eggs," Jimmy said. "I'm not good at making much else, but I can make eggs."

"Where's your housemate?"

"Out in the garden. He has a blood feud with the morning glories going."

"Why?"

"Morning glories twist around other plants and choke them out. They kill the flowers and the hedges and they grow back too fast. I guess. The garden is really more Scott's domain. I let him futz with the flowers and the hedges and I do my best to take care of the inside of the house. Which includes making us both some lunch while he weeds. You can talk normal volume for now. I'll warn you if I see him on his way back in."

Tango shuffled in the pocket a little bit. "Morning glories are good for being able to climb otherwise-unwieldy plant stalks," he said. "Which fairies really only care about when..." He released a long breath. "When their wings are busted." He looked down at the frying pan.

Jimmy reached up a free hand and cupped the pocket comfortingly. His hand was warm through the fabric. "It'll heal, right?"

"Yeah. It has been healing. It'll be fine soon enough. I just hate feeling useless and grounded." Tango rested his chin on his hand that was holding the top of the pocket.

"Is taking it easy not an option?" Jimmy asked.

"I get bored."

"Ohhh..." Jimmy's body rocked like he was nodding in understanding. "I get it."

Tango looked out the window nearby. The sun was past its zenith. Afternoon. "I need to get home before my court freaks out about where I've been," he said, starting to pull down the top of the pocket and push the covering flap up. "I've been gone too long already."

Jimmy turned off the stove. "Okay. I'm sorry to see you go. But I understand. Can I get you anything before you leave? Some water or some milk?"

"I wish I had time for that. But it's a bad idea. I gotta go."

Jimmy sighed. "Be safe." He moved over to the vent Tango had come in through and crouched low, opening his pocket and helping Tango out onto his hand. Which he then lowered to the floor as his other one popped open the vent.

"I will." Tango smiled as he hopped off Jimmy's hand and into the ductwork.

"Will you come back?" Jimmy asked quickly, before Tango could disappear into the ducts. Tango paused, his hair simmering lower, going from yellow to red.

He smiled, though. "I'll try," he said.

Before turning and running into the ducts, his bare feet making soft thunks against the metal.

He made it to the exhaust vent that led outside—and saw the blue-haired housemate bent over a bush, wearing gloves covered in dirt, ripping morning glory roots out of the ground. His back was currently to the exhaust vent, but there was a lot of open grass between Tango and the nearest hiding place.

Tango shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, fidgeting with his fingernails nervously. He was already wasting time. Skizz was gonna be so mad at him for being missing for so long the morning after a revelry. Especially one as crazy as the one the night before.

"Scott! Lunch is ready!" Jimmy shouted.

"On my way!" Scott called back. He ripped out one final morning glory and got to his feet. He pulled off his gloves and headed for the back door.

Tango seized his chance to leap from the vent and bolt into the hedges. He wove between the bushes' stems, grabbing branches to lift himself up and swing his legs through gaps where the floor was obstructed.

Through a hole in the fence and into the trees.

The buzzing of wings met his ears.

Right as he got bowled over. A tangle of limbs and wings falling to the forest floor.

"Ack!"

"What the—?!" The loud voice was familiar.

"Bubbles?"

"Tango?"

Bdubs and Tango disentangled themselves from one another, brushing off dirt and shaking off their wings.

"What're you doing here?" Tango asked.

"I could ask you the same thing, mister!" Bdubs exclaimed.

Tango searched around for a good answer, and couldn't find one. "I, um... I..."

"Don't tell me you're in love with a human too!"

"I wouldn't say tha—wait. What do you mean, 'too'?"

"Rats," Bdubs cursed under his breath.

"Bdubs, are you... in love with a human?" Tango was fairly certain he already knew the answer considering Bdubs' shifting eyes and shrunken demeanor. Which was saying nothing about his prior response. But it seemed kinder to ask.

Bdubs shredded a piece of moss off the sleeve of his jacket. It started growing back immediately as Bdubs picked apart the bit he'd pulled off, making tiny little flakes fall to the ground. "Don't tell Skizz," he whispered. "Please. I know he's just trying to protect us while we're in the human world but—"

"No, I wouldn't." Tango shook his head.

"Are you..."

"I don't know," Tango admitted. "I... might be falling. But we're just friends. By accident."

"That's how me and Etho got started. Accidentally met."

Tango nodded. "If Skizz asks, we were out in the woods together." Fairies couldn't lie, and that was technically true. "He'll be less suspicious if we show up together."

Bdubs jumped on the excuse. "Yes!"

"Let's head back. Walk with me. We were together in the woods the whole time."

—

Are you in love with a human too? Bdubs words chased each other around and around in Tango's head. He laid on his bed in his room of the tree and put his arm behind his head, looking up at the woodgrain of the ceiling. Lost in thought.

Jimmy made his heart get faster. Jimmy was handsome and sweet.

On the way back, Bdubs had told Tango that there was a spell he used to make himself temporarily human-sized so he and Etho could spend time together in the human world. There was also a spell to make a human fairy-sized, but it was much trickier to accomplish and humans couldn't be disguised as fairies—no wings—as easily as fairies could disguise themselves as human.

Tango liked spending time with Jimmy. But it felt too soon to say for sure whether he was in love. "In love" seemed like a big step. Maybe the first initial pieces of a crush were falling into place. But he wouldn't go so far as to say he was in love with Jimmy. Handsome and sweet and kind as he was... It was too early for in love.

He rolled onto his side, listening to an owl hooting nearby, thinking too hard to fall asleep yet.

Maybe he'd get Bdubs to teach him the temporary spell. Maybe he'd... could he give it a shot? Outside of fire magic, Tango wasn't the best at magic. He wouldn't want to fail the spell and end up a tadpole or something. Which wouldn't surprise him.

He pursed his lips. Not yet. He wasn't in love yet. And he wasn't going to ask Bdubs for the spell yet. Maybe one day. But not yet.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Trying to ignore the way Bdubs' words were still spiraling through his head.

—

A month passed, spring gradually warming up. The days getting a bit longer. Tango visited Jimmy about once a week, if he could swing it to get away. Though sometimes more time passed between. Ten days to two weeks. But Jimmy was always happy to be woken in the middle of the night to Tango poking him in the nose or pulling on his hair to wake him up.

"Jimmy?" Scott asked, snapping his fingers a few inches away from Jimmy's face to catch his attention.

Jimmy shook his head to clear it and smiled. "What's up?"

"I asked if you were interested in going to the shops with me. There are a few things I need to get for the garden and then I thought maybe we could grab some lunch while we were out, for once. If you wanted to join me."

Jimmy nodded. "Sounds fun! Let me go get some socks and shoes on." He got up from the table and went off for his room.

—

"Psst! Jimmy?" Tango crept around the house, darting between hiding places where the stupid cat couldn't paw at him and bust his other wing. "Jimmy, are you home?" The house was dark. None of the artificial lights were on. The only light was whatever sunlight could make it through closed blinds and curtains.

He found his way to Jimmy's room. It was both empty and messy. And dark. Unoccupied. "Jimmy?"

Silence.

Tango adjusted the threads on his splint and his wings fluttered. And then drooped.

He climbed up on Jimmy's desk and found the pencil he'd mangled to make his splint. Holding it in both arms, braced against his torso, he wrote a note on a little square pad of paper—that he put under Jimmy's pillow so he'd find it when he was in private.

Stopped by to say hi. Sorry I missed you. -T

—

The tiny independent café was pretty empty for lunchtime on a Saturday. Maybe the looming clouds were keeping people at home.

Jimmy had his mouth pressed against his thumbs where his hands were clasped and his elbows were on the table while he and Scott waited for their lunch to be ready. Scott was checking his shopping list and hadn't really even noticed Jimmy was watching him with a thoughtful expression on his face. He was ticking things off and muttering under his breath while Jimmy just watched.

"Scott?" Jimmy finally said.

Scott looked up. "What's up?" he asked.

Jimmy took a deep breath. "I was thinking about that fair we went to," he said.

Scott nodded. "It was fun. Thanks for telling me it was in town."

"Yeah. 'Course."

"There's something more you want to say, isn't there? You've got that face on."

Jimmy nodded. "There is."

"Alright. Out with it."

"It's about how I found out it was in town."

Scott put his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers, phone discarded, screen down, off to the side. "I'm listening."

—

Tango scoured the court's library, deep in the roots of the tree. He had a little paper and some ink ready to write down everything he'd need.

"Whatcha doin', Tango?" Bdubs asked loudly.

Tango whirled. "Ssshhh!" he hissed. "I'm glad you made it. I need your help to find something."

"What?"

"You were right. And I need your help."

"Tell me what you need," Bdubs said.

—

“Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy!”

Jimmy woke up to Tango scrambling up the side of his bed, clutching at the sheets to pull himself to the top of the mattress. Fatigue vanished. He propped himself up on his elbow. “Tango! I’m glad you’re here. I have a big surprise!”

“Oh! I do too!”

“Ooh! I bet my surprise is bigger,” Jimmy whispered.

“I seriously doubt it,” Tango whispered back playfully.

“You go first.”

“No, you. I insist.”

"No, no. I want you to say yours first."

"Mm-mm. My lips are sealed until you tell me yours!" Tango beamed cheekily, shaking his head.

Jimmy grinned. “You remember my housemate, right? Scott? With the blue hair?” Tango nodded. “Well. He and I have been dancing around feelings for each other for ages now. Neither of us really wanting to ruin our friendship. But I thought about what you’d said about taking what life gives us and finally decided to tell him. And he felt the same and—he’s my partner now! We’re together! Tango, I love him so much. Thank you for helping me have the courage to say something.”

Tango’s wings dropped. “O-oh,” he said. “Yeah. That, uh… that certainly is big news.”

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy?”

“No, I am! Just… My news isn’t as big by comparison.”

“Well, what was your news?”

Tango’s wings lifted and fluttered in perfect unison. “My, uh, my wing is all better. I can fly again. Kinda, uh, paltry news compared to yours.”

“Oh, Tango, that’s amazing! I’m so happy you’ve got that part of your life back!” Jimmy smiled. He reached out as though to offer Tango a friendly touch with one fingertip, but Tango took a step away.

“Yeah. Me, uh, me too.” His wings trilled like a hummingbird's as he lifted off the bed. “I should… I should let you get back to sleep. I’m sure you’re busy now with a new romance.” He swooped over to the open window he must have come through, his wings trailing red dust. “Sleep well, Jimmy.”

"Do you not want to stay a few? Have some milk or water?"

Tango's wings glimmered in the shaft of moonlight. "No, thank you. I don't want to keep you. Some other night, maybe."

“Tango, are you sure you’re okay?”

Tango smiled. But his hair was simmering low and red, rather than big and yellow. “I’ve certainly been worse,” he said before ducking through the window and disappearing into the night.

—

The shock broke before Tango made it back to the court’s hollow tree. He plummeted into some soft-looking leaves and clung to the branch, sobbing. He’d found the spell Bdubs used to be human-sized temporarily to be with his… Etho. He’d found the ritual Lizzie used to become human permanently. He’d been all ready to square up and tell Jimmy his real feelings. Ask for a real chance as equals on a level playing field. Confess he’d been in love with Jimmy for awhile.

A sob wracked through him.

Not meant to be.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was happy for Jimmy. Of course he was. He loved Jimmy and wanted him to be happy. He was happy Jimmy found someone who made him happy. He just couldn’t ignore the overwhelming tidal wave of sorrow that crashed over him.

He pulled his little scroll of magic notes out of his pocket and began to lift it up to his hair.

He stopped.

He couldn't bring himself to do it.

His grip on the scroll was going to crease the paper, probably, but he couldn't quite bring himself to burn it.

He just let himself cry. Away from the court. Away from any prying eyes. In a tree where he could just release the emotions where no one would ask questions he didn't want to answer.

His heart broke and his chest felt both hollow and like he was caught in the vice-like grip of a human fist. Unable to escape. Pain gnawed at his chest and heart, spurring tears to fall, plopping on the bark of the tree branch.

Something else burned—and Tango cried out, clutching at his chest in surprise. "Wh... what?" he rasped out.

The burning—it was magic.

That twist in the fabric of magic that Tango had almost forgotten about over the past month.

A promise.

Which promise had Jimmy made? Why had it broken?

"J... Jimmy," he whispered as panic descended over him. He spilled himself off the side of the branch, his wings fluttering fast to catch him in the air. He twisted and shot back toward Jimmy's house. Trying desperately to remember which promise Jimmy had broken. Why was his memory so bad?

He got back to the house just in time to see a rather vacant-eyed Fern climbing over the fence from the house next-door. The one Bdubs often left.

"Fern! Fern!" Tango hissed, darting out of the trees to intercept his friend. Her eyes were glassy and empty, her black wings mostly blending into the night. "Fern, what's wrong? What's going on?" He knew, already, but he was hoping she would remind him which promise had broken.

"Someone broke a promise," Fern droned blankly.

The door to the neighbors' house opened. "Fern?!" a voice hissed. Tango turned to see a woman about the same age as Jimmy with brown hair that turned to purple toward the ends in a loose T-shirt and trousers leaning against the frame.

"Someone broke a promise," Fern repeated.

"Rora? Something wrong?" a voice Tango now recognized as Etho's called from deeper in the house.

"Everything's fine," Rora called back. Her eyes locking with Tango's for just a moment before she stepped back and nodded. The back door shut.

Fern moved around Tango and headed for the window to Jimmy's room. Somewhere distant, he could hear humming and buzzing.

Tango twisted just in time to see the rest of the court emerging from the trees.

"No, wait—wait!" Tango exclaimed, zipping to cut Fern off. He threw his arms out to stop her from being able to open the window. "Now wait, just listen to me—"

He got cut off by Fern waving a hand and the window flying open.

Skizz slammed into Tango and they both went tumbling into the room, landing on the desk. Skizz didn't even seem to realize he'd done it, getting up and flying over to the bed.

The court landed on the pillow around Jimmy's head.

All of them were muttering about broken promises, not seeming to really notice Tango at all. All of them were leaving colored fairy dust all over the pillow and bedding.

Jimmy's eyes were open but they were just as glassy as the court's. His mouth was slack and he seemed to be in a sort of fugue state.

"Stop—wait—Skizz—stop!" Tango pleaded. He flew over and hovered in front of Skizz, his wings fluttering madly, feet dangling an inch above the pillow to be level with Skizz's height. "Skizz, wait! Please!" He grabbed Skizz's shoulder and shook it.

"The human has broken a promise to the Fae," Skizz said, voice toneless. "He falls under Fae rules. Left to the mercy of Fae control." Skizz grabbed Tango by the shoulders and pushed him down.

Tango's bare feet slipped a little on the cotton pillowcase.

But it seemed to snap the court out of their drone state. Zed's mismatched wings flittered as he looked around. Impulse sneezed his own gold fairy dust off his face. Gem's brow was furrowed as she kept Bdubs from falling over. Scar and Cub were near one another, as always, shoulders pressed together for comfort.

"Tango?" Zed asked. "What's going on? Who is this? Why are we here?"

"What promise was broken?" Fern put in.

Tango ignored their questions. "Go home, all of you," he said firmly to the court. "This isn't any of your business."

Skizz's firm hand rested on his shoulder. "We can't leave yet, Tango. Not until the price for a broken promise is paid."

"Price..." Tango couldn't remember what the price was anymore.

Skizz bent to give him a gentle look. "The promise was made to you. You have to lay a geas on him. He's under your control. He can't be freed from this state until you give him a command."

"No," Tango insisted, pushing Skizz's hand off his shoulder, his wings fluttering madly, but not lifting him up in the air. "I made him a promise too. That I would never hurt him. I'm not going to curse him with a geas."

Bdubs' mouth fell a little slack. "This is the human you fell in love with," he whispered quietly.

A murmur rippled through the court.

Skizz's expression hardened. "You what now?"

Tango set his jaw. "It doesn't matter," he spat. "He doesn't feel the same. He has a partner he's in love with. But I'm not going to hurt him. Broken promise or not, he doesn't deserve that. I won't be the wicked trickster fairy who ruins his life. I'm not that spiteful. I can't do that to him."

"Then you confine him to this forever," Skizz retorted.

Tango stiffened. He thought quickly, looking around Jimmy's bedroom. "You said the geas was a task to fulfill?"

"Them's the rules, Tango-Top," Skizz agreed.

Tango fluttered over to Jimmy's ear and knelt next to it. He closed his eyes and thought. One of his hands curled into a fist in Jimmy's hair. Just to ground himself.

He took a deep breath. "Get rid of any evidence that we ever knew each other," he said. "That mangled pencil. The doll cups. Throw it all out."

Clarity sharpened in Jimmy's eyes as Tango stood up and took a few steps back. He took a deep breath and blinked several times, rousing. "What in the... Tango, hang on!" he protested quietly. Tango's shoulders were curled forward and his wings and pointed ears drooped.

"How much of that did you hear?" he asked quietly.

"All of it!"

A pang ricocheted through Tango's chest. "So... you know. How I really..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He looked at the rest of the court. "Go home. The price is set to be paid. Leave," he said, a sharp edge to his voice.

Bdubs was the first to take wing toward the window. Gem followed. Then Scar and Cub. Fern looked wary but she lifted off the pillow and crossed the room. Zed, Impulse, and Skizz were quiet for several long moments, all looking at Tango. He narrowed his eyes, his fire hair flaring brighter and hotter.

"Go," he ordered.

For a moment, he thought they wouldn't. "Come on, guys," Impulse said, his moth wings sweeping through the air. Skizz and Zed took wing just after him and the three of them went through the open window.

Jimmy sat up. His body seeming to be moving without his conscious command. "Wait—Tango—hang on—why—" He stumbled a bit getting out of the covers, one foot getting caught in the bedding for a moment. "Why did you order me to get rid of the evidence that we've known each other?" He was already moving to his desk—which was covered in multi-colored fairy dust from the entire court's flight in and out of the room—and pulling the mangled pencil out of the cup.

Tango swallowed down the lump in his throat, flying alongside Jimmy's head. "Because with the evidence disposed of, it'll be easier for you to forget me."

"Forget?!" Jimmy demanded. "How do you mean forget? Are you going to magic away my memories?"

"No. I'm not good enough at magic for that. You're gonna forget eventually because you're human and that's how human memories work. Not too long from now, all I'll be is a recurring dream you had for a month and then never again."

"What?!"

"I'm never coming back here, Jimmy. I'm not putting you in this position again. Your broken promise wasn't even your fault. It was mine. And I won't do that to you again. You'll never see me again. I'll be a pleasant memory of a fuzzy, funny dream you once had. A silly fairy with fire for hair."

"Tango wait. That part that the moss-covered fairy said. About you being in love with me—"

"It doesn't matter. You're in love with your housemate. You should be with him. He makes you happy. I was just a friend and I have no right to any of your feelings. I, uh..." Tango rocked in the air. "I'm going back to Avalon for the rest of the year. Leave the rest of my court alone. They're not as forgiving as I am. You probably will never see them anyway." Tango stopped directly in front of Jimmy's face, making him halt in the hallway on his way to the kitchen where the doll cups were. "Jimmy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I messed it all up."

"Wait, Tango, don't say that—"

"I was gonna tell you, earlier, that, uh... that I'd found some magic that could temporarily make me human-sized. I was gonna ask for a shot with you. But I'd rather you be happy with your human partner. It'd be much easier for you. So... thank you. For all the fun we did get to share. It was worth it, to me." He flew close to Jimmy's face, his fire hair turning back into normal hair to not burn him. "Be happy, Jimmy. That's your real geas from me. Your real command. Be happy and live a full, human life. Forget about me. Let me be just that pleasant, silly dream. Nothing more."

Tango leaned forward and pressed a warm kiss to the space between Jimmy's eyebrows.

"Be happy and love freely," he whispered.

He darted around Jimmy's head and flew for the open bedroom window, zipping out into the night as little more than a tiny ball of red light.

—

Jimmy's body moved of its own accord, taking the mangled pencil and the plastic Barbie cups to his neighbors' rubbish bin before delivering him back to his own bedroom and finally releasing him from whatever hold the magic had on him.

He ran out into his backyard. "Tango!" he whisper-shouted. "Tango?"

Silence. Nothing more than the crickets and other night bugs.

—

Tango packed up his room in the tree, making sure everything was neatly organized.

"Knock-knock," a voice said from the doorway. He turned to see Skizz, Bdubs, Zed, and Impulse lingering there. "What're you doing?"

"I, uh... I'm going back to Avalon for the rest of the year. I'll come back next spring. I just..." He shook his head. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to be here. Not with everything I messed up. I need to go home. Clear my head."

Zed was the first to step over the threshold. "We'll miss you," he said softly.

"I know," Tango said. "I'll miss you to. But I'll see you when autumn gets too cold."

"That's right, you will," Impulse said.

Zed wrapped his arms around Tango. "Come on, bring it in," he said. Tango clung to his friend tightly. Skizz and Impulse wrapped arms around the both of them in a crushing group hug, Bdubs draped outside them all as best he could.

"I'm sorry, Tango," Skizz said. "I was too harsh earlier."

"No. You were right. I got too close to the humans and I made a mistake and it almost hurt one. It won't happen again."

Skizz rested his chin in Tango's hair. "Be safe in Avalon, buddy."

"I will."

[psychotic4ghost]

NNN but Simon's never heard of it until you tell him.

Simon had a smart phone but it was only so he could store photos of you and the occasional couples photo that you'd force him to take. But really he didn't have social media or even really knew how to use Google on the damn thing.

So when you ask him the first morning of November if he can successfully do no-nut-november, he gives you the cutest tilt of his head before asking what the fuck that is.

"No-Nut-November? You seriously don't know what that is?" You ask as you push against his chest to look at him. The two of you had been laying in bed that morning, not wanting to get up just yet. Your head was on his pectoral and his arm was wrapped around your back.

"No...should I know?" He asked as he tilted his head quizzically at you.

"It means not cumming for the whole month of November." You inform, biting back a giggle.

"That's stupid."

"You should try it."

"Why the fuck would I do that?"

"Cause it's fun." You think for a moment before continuing. "I bet you can't." You say with a coy tone, knowing he can't back down from a little challenge. Especially one given by you.

"It sounds easy." He grumbles. Your plan was working.

"Hm. Yeah? That just means you can't fill me." You can't help but let that giggle escape now.

You watch those gears turn in his head as he contemplates your words and the meaning behind them. "Deal."

The look of bewilderment on your face causes him to laugh now. You didn't expect him to take on the challenge especially after realizing he can't cum inside you as he so so so loves to do. It's like a ritual for the man, the deed isn't done till he's cum at least three times inside your gummy walls.

"You won't last!" You fight.

"Wanna bet?" He asks as he abruptly flips you over, pinning you to the bed with his broad chest. Your cheeks burn with fire as he begins teasing and kissing you.

By December first, just know you'd get the biggest, fattest cream pie of your life because when put to the challenge, Simon Riley does not back down. He did, in fact, win.

I wrote this on my phone cause I was smacked with the idea mid scroll. If you want the rest of November as content I shall consider writing it lol. But in the meantime, enjoy this lil tease <3

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