#ONE: Collision Course 2 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

phantomrose96 · 6 months ago

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Before the Birds Sing

Christophe wakes on the morning of April 7th for the 273rd time.

It is 7:03, as it almost always is, and it is the snooze-delayed alarm that wakes him, as it almost always does. Christophe knows the pattern of bird song before they chirp, and he knows the exact cadence of cars that hum by on the street before they even crawl around the corner. Christophe listens to it, and he dawdles on his phone.

There is no practical reason to check his phone. He knows of course that it is 7:03 and he knows it’s 67 degrees outside—sunny—35% humidity—and he knows the contents of the 2 texts he received overnight. But Christophe makes motions with no practical reason. He does it to not upset anyone who, if paying close attention, could take issue with him knowing things before he’s learned them.

Christophe stows his phone into his pajama pocket at 7:06 and goes downstairs, which is the optimal time to go downstairs. Any earlier and Madeline’s pot of coffee would still be brewing, and she’d offer him first-cup with a touch of resentment over him getting first cup of the pot she’d been brewing. But if he refuses it would be a Thing, and Christophe hates starting a Thing.

But it is 7:06, and Madeline is starting to empty the dishwasher, steaming cup of coffee perched on the counter beside the sink. Christophe says, “Morning” and kisses her head and pours his own cup.

“Morning,” Madeline answers. Her hair is not damp anymore, but it could be in the two cases Christophe woke at 6:45. He hadn’t yet figured out what caused that. He’d never been able to recreate it on purpose.

“Oh,” Madeline always says. “My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?” she always asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Christophe sometimes answers. Because the sometimes when he sounds too neutral makes Madeline’s mouth tighten with worry. And the sometimes when he’s too enthusiastic makes Madeline stiff like she’s confused. “I hope she’s got more stories about Boki,” which is Madeline’s mom’s new dog, and is the optimal answer to give about her mom coming over for dinner.

“He’s gotten so big,” Madeline says with a smile.

This is optimal because Boki is an easy topic to interrupt when Beatrice from across the street slams into Christophe’s car.

“Christ!” Madeline reacts to the SLAM-RRCH, WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP of collision and car alarm and woo woo woo of Bucky from the downstairs unit.

(“Hush, Bucky,” Peter from the downstairs unit says muffled.) Christophe is in the stairwell, heading out the door. (Peter is making hashbrowns. Christophe stopped at his door one morning, for no real reason. During the mid-100s of his loop, Christophe tried a few things “just because.”) So he thinks about the hashbrowns abandoned on the stove while Peter pulls Bucky away from the door. Christophe goes outside to Beatrice with her hands on her head.

“I didn’t see it!” Beatrice always says while Christophe opens the door. There is lipstick smeared from lip to hairline straight across her cheek. She wears an expression like she’s run over someone’s child.

Christophe goes through the motions of looking at his car, which is always identically dented in the fender, with the same red paint tucked in its scratches. “Hey hey, these things happen. Do you have your insurance information? We just need to call our insurances, and they’ll sort it out.”

This is the optimal answer. Beatrice calms down, as she takes comfort in being given actionable direction. Christophe knows a lot about Beatrice, who he’d never met before today. She has three sons: Jimmy who knows a mechanic from college, Kevin who is an insurance adjustor, but for a life insurance company, and Mikey, who is Beatrice’s favorite as most of the time, he’s the one she calls.

“Yes, yes okay. It’s in the glove box—yes, Mikey, yes that’s—the guy is here, his car. Mikey, I should get my insurance information, right? Yes,” Beatrice says into her earpiece. Christophe thinks to ask her what Mikey does for a living, but there’s no reason to detract today’s path, which so far is optimal.

Beatrice scuttles away, opening her passenger door and half leaning out of it while she finds her papers. There is no good way to prevent Beatrice from hitting his car—as it turns out, no one believes you if you preemptively try to tell them not to hit your car. And getting his own car out of the way doesn’t quite work. Getting to it in time requires cutting Madeline short on her question about her mother. And the interruption makes Madeline upset.

If he can figure out how the 6:45 wake-up loop works, maybe Christophe could move his car first, then talk to Madeline, then Beatrice wouldn’t hit his car—but it would be a lot of pressure, to get that lucky, and then try to do the whole day after that perfectly, lest he just wake up all over again, 7:03, hearing the birds before they chirp.

“This, I think. It’s this paper?” Beatrice asks.

“Yes yes, see this number? You’ll need to call that one.” Christophe just needs to be understanding, but firm. And not say anything like, “Sorry, maybe my car was too far out of the driveway!” because that will make Beatrice purse her lips and nod and say “Yeah, actually I think your car was too far out.”

Beatrice asks—maybe to Christophe, and maybe to Mikey—how long this whole thing with insurance will take. Christophe tells Beatrice insurance should handle it quickly. He’s not sure if that’s true. He’s never made it to tomorrow.

…

Christophe’s shoulders ease down a fraction once Beatrice is out of sight. The rest of the morning is easier. Madeline only needs to be told “Don’t worry, insurance is handling it.” And there’s no real wrong way to shower, and no real wrong way to get dressed. And as long as he avoids Summer Street on the way to work (someone hit a fire hydrant there) then there’s not many wrong ways to get to work.

Christophe reads all unread emails, which are memorized at this point. He accepts Frankie’s invite to grab lunch together in the cafeteria. He doesn’t start anything important while counting the minutes to 9:43. 9:43 comes, and their boss Bruce calls Christophe, and Frankie, and Arnold into his office.

Bruce wears the same olive shirt every day with the same unmatching plum tie—except for one day when he wore an orange tie. He orders everyone to sit the way he always does. And he gives the same rant, which Christophe puts on a face of surprise for, while Bruce reads out the scathing customer email received overnight over a massively delayed shipment. Bruce’s hand flies around in a rage, and there is a different watch on today.

The watch is unusual. It’s silver. Not the normal gold one, and kind of thinner. Christophe wonders why it’s different. Christophe wonders about the little things that are capable of changing, and whether that means Peter isn’t always cooking hashbrowns, or if one of these days Beatrice simply won’t hit his car.

“So tell me, Mahone, how does this happen?”

Christophe snaps from his thoughts about watches, experiencing the emotion of surprise for the first time in many days.

“If they’d gotten us the right shipping address from the start, we wouldn’t need to be jumping through all these hoops and taking the blame to fix their fuck-up.”

Bruce’s little eyes get about as big as they can on his red face, and Christophe immediately feels his ribcage drop down to his feet.

He’d given the optimal response… to offer to Frankie in the office space later, when Frankie would be sitting crouched and staring at his knees with an expression like he didn’t want to be staring at his knees. This is Frankie’s client, and every time today happens, Frankie shoulders the most blame. And it makes Frankie feel a little better when Christophe directs the blame back onto them.

Bruce’s answer, optimally, is, “It’s an oversight, you’re absolutely correct. I know our team can get this sorted out today. And we’ll craft an apology email to them immediately.”

“Mahone did you just say the word… ‘fuck-up’, to me?”

Bruce is having an affair. Christophe doesn’t technically know this today. But he does if he tries proactively to enter Bruce’s office and read the (quite positive) response email to his apology, and only if he times this between 1:19pm and 1:21pm. Maria from accounting is under the desk for reasons that cannot be explained away. He actually needs to come in at about 1:30pm to read the email, which Bruce will nod to and give a firm clap of approval to Christophe’s shoulder.

“Sorry, I completely misspoke. I meant to say ‘our’ fuck-up, and…” Christophe trails off, tired. He is long-since tired of finding brand new optimal paths off untrodden conversations. He is quickly losing the motivation to try. This is clearly unsalvageable.

Bruce has a wife and a 9-year-old daughter.

“Sorry, we'll try that again,” Christophe says, under the gawking stares of Frankie and Arnold.

“No, you don’t get to try that again, Mahone. Not to me,” Bruce says. “You can pack your desk and get out of here.”

Christophe does not pack his desk.

It is 7:03 am. Christophe hears the note of each bird before it chirps.

…

“Oh,” Madeline always says. “My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?” she always asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Christophe sometimes answers again. “I hope she’s got more stories about Boki.”

“He’s gotten so big,” Madeline says with a smile. SLAM-RRCH “Christ!” WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP woo woo woo.

“I’ve got it,” Christophe says. He opens their unit door and rounds the stairs. (“Bucky, hush.”) He thinks about hashbrowns.

Bruce’s watch is gold again today.

“So tell me, Mahone, how does this happen?”

“It’s an oversight, you’re absolutely correct. I know our team can get this sorted out today. And we’ll craft an apology email to them immediately.”

Christophe is dismissed along with Frankie and Arnold, who bow lower than him and walk like they have tails tucked up. Christophe opens the door back into their office space, and Frankie takes his seat, staring at his knees with an expression like he doesn’t want to be staring at his knees.

Christophe squeezes a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. Performatively, he looks over his own shoulder, like he’s checking to ensure Bruce hasn’t followed. Bruce never does. “If they’d gotten us the right shipping address from the start, we wouldn’t need to be jumping through all these hoops and taking the blame to fix their fuck-up.”

Frankie straightens a little, until he only a little bit resembles a shrimp. He smiles a little at Christophe.

Christophe takes his own seat, and he begins crafting the optimal client apology email.

…

Christophe pulls into the grocery store parking lot. He has a text message open from Madeline, performatively.

“Hey, sorry I don’t think I can make the fish tonight. There’s not enough for three people. Can you pick these up on your way home? We can just do a taco night.”

Sometimes Madeline says this aloud to him in the morning, if he comes down at 7:03 and if he doesn’t turn the conversation to Boki. It’s more convenient to have the list as a text message, though it functionally stopped mattering after about the 10th loop when he’d memorized the ingredients.

Christophe’s path through the grocery store is optimized. Though that is another thing that functionally does not matter. It makes no true difference if he doubles back for the avocados, or combs the spice aisle twice, or even if he stands blankly in the produce section thinking about car insurance or workplace affairs. The grocery store doesn’t really count for anything. As long as he delivers the one good joke to the cashier, it’s a success.

“A lotta avocados,” Amanda with the nose piercing says. That her name is Amanda and that she has a nose-piercing are technically the only things Christophe knows about her today. But on other todays, he’s asked her about family and about school. She has three sisters and three cats. She goes to community college. She’s a Scorpio. There is a faint scar on the middle knuckle of her right hand.

“Yeah, I’m thinking of trying out avocado therapy.”

She gives him a quirked eyebrow. He waits a beat.

“Just start smashing them until I’m better or until I have guacamole, whichever comes first.”

Amanda snorts, and she scans the last item. It’s NOT even that funny. But he said the avocado therapy thing one loop for no real reason and, somehow, it was a hit. He’s tweaked the delivery just a bit, until it felt optimal.

Christophe folds himself back into the car with the avocados and the cilantro and the lime and the onion and the chips. He turns the car on, and the radio crackles to life with Sexyback on the throwback channel. He lets it play in its entirety before moving the car out of park. It’s easier than counting the minutes needed before he’s allowed to arrive home without Madeline remarking that he got home from the grocery store “really fast.” It’s also why optimizing the avocadoes doesn’t matter. Getting home from the grocery store too fast is weird, and Christophe optimally does not do anything weird today.

Lucinda is already in the kitchen when Christophe arrives home, smelling faintly of cloves, which Christophe figured out on about the 50th loop. She is parked on the barstool overlooking the island counter, hawkishly observing the bowls of cheese and sour cream and tomatoes and shredded lettuce.

“Ah, he’s back. Finally,” Lucinda says, and there’s never any real avoiding that. Even when Christophe comes home weirdly early, he’s come home late. “You should be helping Madeline prep. Not me.”

Lucinda takes the whisky glass with the one spherical ice cube and re-parks herself at the kitchen table. Christophe unpacks the guacamole ingredients, and he does not ask about Boki yet, because Boki needs to be the second topic tonight.

Christophe makes guacamole with the exactly ripe avocados, and the exact right proportions of lime and salt and onion—it is, if he’s honest, not enough onion—but it is optimized for Lucinda, who stopped criticizing his guacamole after about the 100th loop.

He uses the bowl Madeline likes and dumps in the chips that Madeline likes too. He offers her a single chip while she’s still frying the ground beef, and she takes it with a secret little smile. He gives her a secret little smile in return, which is enough to somehow say Lucinda is a mutual nuisance, but not enough to suggest he hates her.

The taco ingredient bowls all come to the table one by one. Lucinda is slopping a pile of guacamole onto her plate with the guacamole ladle. “Ethel’s cancer is back. Poor girl. Lopped off both her breasts already. What more can you do?”

“Oh no… Mom, that’s horrible,” Madeline says. She’s stopped mid-taco-bite, brow scrunched in worry. “When did she find out?”

“Today. She doesn’t wanna do chemo again. Poor girl. Probably on her way out at this point.”

Christophe knows from other todays that Ethel is 87. She’s a gardening friend of Lucinda. She used to be a world-class chef, when being both a woman and respected in the restaurant world was unheard of. She has 14 great-grandchildren. She’s taken a boat across the Atlantic Ocean. She beat cancer at age 75. She is probably going to die to it this time.

This is not the first time Christophe has thought about the fact that, as long as today is April 7th, Ethel will never die of cancer. He’s thought about all the people who would have died in the months after April 7th who, in some way, are still alive. And if or when the loop breaks, everyone who dies on April 7th does not get to wake up tomorrow.

But these are the sort of thoughts Christophe has had in depth since the very early days of his loop. He thinks, by and large, he’s settled on the answer that, for every person who doesn’t die today, there is someone else denied being born tomorrow. And whoever he’s holding to life today is offset by someone else who should get to live tomorrow.

There are people out there who are living the worst day of their lives every single day for the last 273 days, and there are, statistically, just as many people living the best day of their life every single day.

As Christophe figures it, this loop is morally neutral. And if he wakes up on April 8th tomorrow, there is no one he’s doomed, and there is no one he’s saved.

When there is nothing more to be said about Ethel, Christophe asks about Boki. Lucinda lights up, and she fumbles for her phone, squinting at its screen. “I have pictures. Oh I have so many pictures.” Lucinda turns the phone to Christophe. He sweeps until the 19th photo, and pauses there.

“What sort of feeder is this? It looks fancy. Nothing like what Pickle had when I was growing up.” It’s just an automatic feeder, but Lucinda loves the suggestion that it’s fancy. She explains it as if Christophe is learning about electronics for the first time, and it pads time.

Christophe has made sure to clear his plate while Lucinda talks. He does not reach for seconds on anything. He needs a clear path to excuse himself from the table, because he knows what Lucinda will bring up next, like he knows the bird notes before they sing.

“I did want to tell you something else, Madeline. And I didn’t want to just ‘text’ it to you, okay? I need you to see my face so you know I’m upset too and so you don’t accuse me of mean and hateful things.”

Christophe has no reaction. He sees the confusion, and the fear taking over Madeline’s face.

“John and I are getting a divorce.”

Madeline’s face is fully white. “Mom, no…”

John is not Madeline’s biological father. Her bio dad left when she was three. Christophe shouldn’t even know his name, but he blundered in comforting her one of these loops and she spat it like a curse.

There is John instead. John who came into Madeline’s life when she was four and treated her like his daughter ever since. John who married Madeline’s mother a year later and who’d been Madeline’s dad ever since. John, who had no blood tie nor name tie to Madeline, and who is about to lose his legal tie as well.

“Mom, you said you were doing therapy,” Madeline always says, whenever Christophe gets this far.

“I am! And I’ve realized that I deserve better than what John is doing to me.”

“Better than John? You deserve better than John, Mom?”

“Madeline this is MY life. Do not do this thing you do where you try to make it ALL about how hurt you are.”

The optimal thing for Christophe to say is nothing, he thinks. The optimal thing to do right now is nothing, he thinks. He guesses, as best he can guess. He doesn’t always get this far. He hasn’t had the chance to try as many things as he’s been able to try with Beatrice, and Bruce, and Amanda. But when he has tried to speak, it doesn’t work. Maybe, optimally, Christophe shouldn’t be here, but Lucinda forces it every time.

He lets Madeline speak. He lets Lucinda respond. He fades into a wallflower, until Madeline slams her chair back and throws her napkin down and says, “I think you should go home, Mom.” He lets her storm into the living room, and he gives a performative glance to Lucinda. She’s not really his concern anymore. Lucinda always leaves right after this.

Christophe stands at the doorway of the living room, which has gone dark since the sun set. Madeline is sobbing quietly on the couch, one pillow pulled into her lap. Christophe can’t see it, but she always has it. He knows it’s there.

He enters, and he sits on the couch with her, and he holds her gently.

He does not know the optimal thing to say.

He’s tried many things. But he says things that are insensitive, or too sensitive, or too optimistic, or too pessimistic. He says things that he has no business saying. He says hollow things. He says things that are too mean to Lucinda, or too apologetic to John.

So every day, he tries to say something new.

The darkness is resting on Christophe’s eyes. He’s staring into the darkness of the livingroom. There are plates of tacos in the dining room. There is unfinished guacamole going brown in Madeline’s favorite bowl.

“That won’t be us,” Christophe says, for the first time.

The pattern of Madeline’s crying breaks. He holds his breath, filing away yet another wrong response, when Madeline reaches her arms out and wraps him tight. She’s crying into her shoulder, but the tensing of her fingers against his ribs is so tender.

“I won’t ever do that to you,” she says into his work shirt. “I love you. Thank you for being here. Thank you. I love you.”

He rubs her back, and his heart is beating faster than it’s beat in 100 loops.

“I love you too,” he says, and it’s optimal.

…

Christophe washes plates. He packs away leftovers. He listens to the shhhh of the kitchen faucet nozzle as it blasts the sink basin and gurgles away down the drain.

The cicadas chirp outside. He doesn’t know this rhythm.

Christophe showers. He gets in bed. Madeline hugs his arm. He stares at the ceiling, and it is 9:00pm for the first time in the last 274 days.

… ... ...

274 days ago, Christophe woke up on April 7th for the first time .

He checked his phone. He read the text from his mom asking for money, and he read the text from his dad telling him to ignore his mom. He checked the weather. He got out of bed and carried himself down the stairs at 7:03.

Madeline was standing at the counter, hunched over a coffee pot huffing fragrant steam up to the ceiling. She caught him from the corner of her eye, and with a sort of veiled resentment Christophe recognized, she poured the first cup and handed it to him.

“My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?”

“Why?” Christophe answered, the word bubbling from the knee-jerk disdain pulling down on his rib cage. Madeline poured the second cup of coffee for herself. “We had her over last week.”

“I don’t know. But she wants to come over,” Madeline answered defensively. She pulled open the dishwasher, stacking plates with a clack, clack, clack.

“We don’t have enough fish.”

“We can just make tacos.”

“We had tacos last week.”

“Fine,” Madeline said, turning back around and leaving the dishwasher half-unloaded. “I’ll tell her no.”

“Come on,” Christophe said. “Don’t say that like I’m being unreasonable.”

“No no, I’ll just tell her no.”

“She’s just… a lot. Come on.”

“You don’t think I know that? I grew up with her.”

“Don’t talk like I’m the bad guy here.”

“Oh, you learned her favorite sentence.”

Christophe’s hands tensed against the hot porcelain of his mug. He had too many words that wanted to pour of out his lips. “You think you’re the only one who grew up with a difficult mom?” “You don’t see me subjecting YOU to MY mom.” “What about maybe a ‘Thank you, Honey, for putting up with my Mom who we both know is a lot.’”

None of those made it into the air. His whole line of thought was ground to a sudden halt by the SLAM-RRCH outside.

“Christ!” Maddie exclaimed, words drowned under the WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP woo woo woo.

Christophe moved with momentum, with adrenaline. He slammed open their unit door and rounded the hall with bare feet (“Hush, Bucky.”)

Outside, some woman was standing just outside her car, lipstick smeared across her cheek and holding her hands against either side of her head.

“What did you DO?” Christophe snapped, all but shoving her out of the way while his heart raced and he investigated the dent in his fender.

“I don’t know!! I didn’t see it! I didn’t see it!” the woman echoed in hysterics. She blinked tears that smeared down her mascara. “Let me call Mikey! He’ll know what to do!”

“Don’t call anyone, Christ. I have to leave for work soon! Just get your insurance documents out of your car, …Fucking Christ.”

The woman stood motionless. She’d been shocked quiet, but still blubbered mutely while the tears fell from her mascara. Great. Great. Another person making Christophe into the bad guy. He rubbed his finger over the red paint scratched into his fender, and he let out a noise that got Bucky barking again.

…

Christophe took his seat at the office, slinking in fifteen minutes late with the mantra-like hope that Bruce hadn’t seen him come in late. It wasn’t his fault his idiot neighbor had scraped his car. It wasn’t his fault that Summer Street was backed up all the way to Oak Road, which he’d screamed himself hoarse about in the car, leaning on his horn all the while.

“Your mom can come over for dinner. It’s fine,” Christophe texted to Madeline. He entertained the hope that it didn’t come across passive-aggressive, but he also couldn’t find the will to include a heart-emoji or an “I love you” that might have softened the tone.

“Okay. Thanks,” she answered.

Christophe’s blood boiled all over. He read emails and re-read them, again and again, because their contents would not stick in his mind.

“Mahone, Charles, Kim, my office. Now.”

Christophe snapped upright, heart stirred to a frenzy for the too-many’th time today. The ice trickle down his spine said “Fuck, you are in trouble for getting in late.” But the inclusion of Frankie and Arnold did not make sense for that. The realization sat like a brick in his stomach while he rose, and met eyes with Frankie and Arnold, and followed Bruce into his office.

Bruce was wearing an ugly olive green shirt with an uglier plum tie when he closed the office door behind them all, and his face was an even uglier scarlet.

“Can any of you three… fucking explain to me, why this email was in my inbox this morning?” Bruce shifted into theatrics, reading each scathing note with a pizzazz solely for the purpose of getting under Christophe’s skin, Christophe was sure. Arnold and Frankie seemed to wince in unison with each lunge Bruce made, but Christophe refused to break posture.

“So tell me, Mahone, how does this happen?”

“You should ask Kim,” Christophe said. Frankie winced again, and it made Christophe madder the way his mind likened Frankie to a scolded dog. “He was the one handling the client.”

“No, I am asking you, Mahone. This is your team. Do not make excuses and do not shift blame. That’s what a weak man does.”

(“Then explain what exactly you’re doing right now.”) Christophe thought to himself. But he did not say it out loud, because he too was a scolded dog.

…

Christophe muttered a curse through each blocking cart and each clueless shopper blocking his path. He got avocadoes, and later doubled-back for the onion, and then doubled-back again for the limes. The chips were in the wrong aisle, because some stupid fucking store manager had decided to move everything again. Christophe forgot the jalapenos.

“Ah, he’s back. Finally,” Madeline’s mother Lucinda said the moment Christophe opened the front door. She leered over her glass of whisky, which immediately set fire to Christophe’s ever-simmering disdain for her.

“I came from work, Lucinda. Because I have a job,” Christophe bit back.

“You people always have excuses,” and it is one ‘you people’ too many, so Christophe set the grocery bag down and disappeared into the living room to throw himself on the couch.

“Mom do not speak to him that way,” Madeline said.

“Well did you see the way he talked to me? Called me jobless.”

“Mom, we’re not doing this.”

“You always want to make me the bad guy.”

Twenty minutes passed, with the living room growing dark around Christophe while he seethed into his phone. He marinated in his spite. There was no reason to make him share a room with Lucinda, in his own apartment. It was his, after all. Madeline moved into his apartment.

Soft footsteps broke his train of thought. Someone stood blocking the bit of light leaking in from the dining room.

“Christophe, hey… That was really out of line of my mom. Sorry.”

“You think?” Christophe answered.

“She’s miserable, and she needs to make everyone else miserable.”

“She does not ‘need’ to. She chooses to. And you let her.”

“I don’t ‘let’ her, Christophe. Don’t make her actions my fault.”

“Her being here is your fault.”

“She…” Madeline breathed hard out of her nose, and she lowered her voice. “She insisted on it. Absolutely insisted.”

“My mom insists I send her money. I just don’t.”

“It’s different.”

Christophe let out a little snort. He let the silence linger.

“…Look, I’ll say thank you once she’s gone, okay. A really really big thank you. I’ll make you any dinner you want this weekend, as a thank you. Okay? Because… she’s a lot. I know she’s a lot. So… thank you.”

The anger boiling in Christophe ebbed a fraction, and he almost resented this more, because this whole day was so much easier if he let himself fester in it.

…

“Ethel’s cancer is back. Poor girl. Lopped off both her breasts already. What more can you do?”

“Oh no… Mom, that’s horrible.”

Christophe dipped his chips in the guacamole without jalapeno. He did his best to avoid looking at Lucinda without making it obvious he was avoiding her. He tuned in only long enough to hear ‘cancer’, and tuned back out when he was sure Ethel was no one he knew.

Ethel as a topic stuck. Lucinda seemed to revel in it, in that way she loved, to bring up something horrific and make it everyone else’s burden to indulge her on it. It sickened Christophe, the way she seemed to light up at every opportunity to tell you something horrible.

“Ethel has honestly made me realize something. And it’s that life is short. And one day you’re gonna wake up with breast cancer, thinking to yourself, ‘Why’d I waste all this life?’” Lucinda stuffed another bite of taco in her face. Through her food she spoke. “So I wanted to tell you this myself, Maddie. And I didn’t want to just ‘text’ it to you, okay? I need you to see my face so you know I’m upset too and so you don’t accuse me of mean and hateful things.”

Christophe stiffened, angry before he even knew what he was angry about, just certain of the fact that Lucinda was about to make something worse for him than it already was.

“John and I are getting a divorce.”

Madeline’s face was fully white. “Mom, no… Mom, you said you were doing therapy.”

“I am! And I’ve realized that I deserve better than what John is doing to me.”

“Better than John? You deserve better than John, Mom?”

“Madeline this is MY life. Do not do this thing you do where you try to make it ALL about how hurt you are.”

“Shut up! Jesus fucking Christ!” Christophe slammed his fork down. “Is this all you do? Show up to make everyone miserable? Come here to make Madeline cry?”

“Christophe, don’t," Madeline whispered.

“She’s a miserable fucking bat and she’s doing this to cause drama. What a happy day for John to finally be fucking rid of you!!” Christophe turned to Lucinda, his eyes wild, and he broke into emphatic applause. And each clap was for his mom. For his dad. For the woman who hit his car. For Bruce. For the morning traffic. For the brainless idiot blocking the limes in the grocery store. “YAY JOHN! YAY JOHN! FREE OF HIS FUCKING SHACKLES!! HOORAY JOHN!!”

And in front of him, Lucinda crumbled. Into sobs. Into hysterics that seized her whole body and shook it. Blubbering, to the point of wailing. She kicked her chair back, and on unsteady feet she rounded out of the dining room.

“Mom! Mom, come back. Christophe did NOT mean that.” Madeline gave him one scathing look before disappearing after her mother, the front door to the unit opening and clicking shut. Feet on the stairs. Below them, Bucky bellowed woo woo woo.

And then it was quiet.

And then Christophe was alone.

With all the makings of tacos scattered around him, with guacamole going brown in a too-small bowl, Christophe was entirely alone.

Alone, he sat. Alone, he thought. Alone, his righteous anger slipped away from him like the tide. He felt naked and cold as it left him. He felt his cheeks burn. He felt his own self-loathing nestle into the shape of where his anger used to be.

He spat a curse. He spat another. He stood. He kicked a chair. He shoved the table, unseating one glass of water which toppled and spilled its stream in a ppttititktikt to the floor. He grabbed his head like the woman who hit his car, and he dropped to a hunch.

And when staying like this felt unreasonable, Christophe unfolded himself. He rubbed his eyes. He stacked dishes, and popped Tupperware containers, and scrubbed down the counter, and set the dishwasher to its 4-hour delay.

He showered. He got in bed alone. He stewed on every kind of apology he thought of texting Madeline, but his pride burned against each one. He stewed until his phone buzzed, and some sick part of him held the hope that maybe it was an apology from Madeline.

“I don’t think this is the relationship I want. I’ll be by tomorrow morning to get my things.”

“…Fuck.” Christophe slammed his phone down. “Fuck!” He grabbed his phone back and he sat up, and with all the force he could muster he pitched it against the hardwood floor. Its case exploded off, screen shattering to magnificent spiderwebs. Tinkling bits of glass and plastic scattered unseen across the floor.

Christophe was breathing hard. He was seized by the absolute sheer unfairness of everything. He wanted a do over. He wanted a different today. He wanted one more chance to not let everything go to absolute shit.

Christophe woke up on April 7th for the second time.

… ... ...

It is 9:10pm on the 274th day of April 7th, and Madeline has fallen asleep against Christophe’s arm.

And this is optimal, surely.

He’d said the right thing. Hadn’t made it about Madeline’s parents or his own. Was it always that simple? That she wanted assurance she wasn’t going to end up like John. “That won’t be us.” That was all?

Christophe should be happy.

He did it right, finally.

This is the escape criteria, surely.

Well, "surely" is a silly word for Christophe to use. As if the criteria were ever a mystery. As is he himself hadn't been activating the loop every single time.

April 7th would last exactly as long as he decided to make it last. That had been the case since his very first loop.

He's found "optimal." He has a reason, finally, to stop activating the loop. He can stop making today perfect. He can let tomorrow be April 8th, for the first time.

And it is about time, isn’t it? To let those babies be born. To let those people die. To let the people having the worst day of their lives and the best day of their lives finally move on to just another day.

He’s been feeling guilty about it lately, every time he feels the day hasn’t been optimal, and he made the choice to activate that power that sprung up like a wellspring inside him while he’d screamed and smashed his phone on the ground.

Tomorrow is April 8th.

Tomorrow everything moves forward.

Christophe’s palms are clammy.

He thinks about waking up at a time he doesn’t know tomorrow. He thinks about birds singing to a tune he cannot already hear like a rehearsal in his head.

He thinks of everything Madeline might say, and he grows colder at the idea he won’t know what to say back.

He thinks about starting fresh, with a whole unoptimized day ahead of him.

It makes him cold. With Madeline snugged tight against him, Christophe feels so cold.

…

Christophe wakes up the next morning to an empty bed. He checks his phone, checks his text messages, checks the weather. He gets out of bed, and he heads down the stairs to the smell of brewed coffee.

“Morning,” he says, planting a kiss on Madeline’s head. She looks up from the dishwasher long enough to give him a “Morning,” back. Christophe pours his own cup of coffee.

“Oh,” Madeline says. “My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?” she always asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Christophe answers warmly, feeling like he’s fallen in love with life all over. “I hope she’s got more stories about Boki.”

#writing #original writing #Before the Birds Sing #new short story idea :)

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charlesoberonn · 10 months ago

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Random concept I came up with last night:

The Great Wreck

Legends say that a long time ago two sea captions were on an accidental collision course in the middle of the sea. Both of them were too stubborn and prideful to turn around, expecting the other person to move. They sped up in a deadly game of chicken until their ships collided. But instead of sinking into the sea, the two wrecks fused into a floating mangled wreck.

The wreck was cursed, and over the millennia it attracted many arrogant and foolish captains, gaining more and more ships into its ever expanding area. In the present, it became a site favored by pirate, prospectors and treasure hunters, plumbing the labyrinthian mangled decks for whatever they can find. Some outlaws even made a home in the great wreck, taking residences in old captain quarters or building a new home out of loose planks.

Bonus facts:

The Great wreck is about 18km in radius (about 1000 km^2 in area).

There's an entire ecosystem of sea creatures living underneath and inside the wreck, so watch out!

I imagined this location as the setting for the first arc in a One Piece-inspired sea adventures story.

The main character is a tomboyish adventurous girl.

She meets a squatter who's been stuck in the wreck for years. He built a new ship out of parts of other ships.

She helps him take it out of the wreck and off on adventure they go.

They take some ancient shipwreck treasures with them of course.

#charles writes #writing #adventure #concept

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bueckets · 7 months ago

Text

Prophecy | Finale

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two | Three (you're here)

Description: Following the viral video of Paige and Azzi, you spend the next three months redefining what perfect means. Each shot becomes a statement, each swish echoing with something colder than precision. Your teammates watch you stay late every night, turning heartbreak into headlines, until even UConn's dynasty seems breakable.

The game approaches like destiny. Harvard versus UConn in the Final Four, a collision course that ESPN calls "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For." Twenty thousand tickets sell out in minutes. The whole sport holds its breath.

You haven't spoken to Paige since that night in the snow. Haven't read her texts or opened her letter. Instead, you let your game speak - 47 against Princeton, 51 against Yale, perfect shooting in both. They call it The Revenge Tour, though you never bother correcting them.

Now Dallas looms like a storm on the horizon. One game to prove that some things break you, and some things make you unbreakable.

This is the story of which one you become.

WC: 11k

WEEK ONE

After that night in the gym, you don’t miss. Not once.

Every shot is a calculation, a release, a fury of physics and heartbreak. Each arc is perfect, each swish feels like vengeance. The ball obeys because it has to. Because it’s the only thing left that makes sense.

Paige’s texts come in like a storm. Desperate, raw, and relentless:

Monday (3:47 AM): please just let me explain.

Monday (4:15 AM): it wasn't what it looked like.

Monday (4:22 AM): i miss you.

Monday (4:45 AM): please answer.

You sit on your bed staring at the ceiling, the blue glow of your phone lighting the room like a taunt. Sierra grabs it from your hands and sets it face down on your desk. “Nope.”

By Tuesday, the messages get sharper, more frantic

Tuesday (2:13 AM): i know you’re mad. i’d be mad too.

Tuesday (3:01 AM): rocket, please. you mean everything to me.

Tuesday (3:45 AM): i never meant to hurt you. i’d do anything to take it back.

By Wednesday, she calls. Seventeen times. Sierra’s thumb hovers over the block button. Jasmine glances at you, but you just lace up your shoes and head for the gym.

Thursday, the texts shift to something softer, almost pleading:

"i know you're reading these."

"just tell me you're okay."

"god, i miss you."

"please just talk to me"

Sierra and Jasmine take turns deleting the messages before you can see them, but you know. You always know.

“She’s hurting,” Jasmine says carefully one night, her voice soft like she’s walking a tightrope.

"Good," you respond, and sink another three.

WEEK TWO

The texts get longer, more rambling.

"i know i screwed up. i don’t even know how to start fixing it. all i know is that i want to."

"i miss how you made me feel like the best version of myself. like i could do anything."

"i miss you solving equations while watching film. i miss your voice. i miss you."

"rocket, i love you. i don’t care if you don’t believe me right now, but it’s the truth. i love you."

"please just tell me to fuck off or something. anything is better than this silence."

You don’t read them, but Sierra does. She updates you with clipped summaries: “She’s still apologizing. Still desperate.” You just nod, focusing on your form. Release. Swish.

“She says she loves you,” Sierra says one day, her voice careful.

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply, grabbing another ball.

WEEK THREE

Thursday evening, it snows. Heavy, wet flakes that stick to the ground and blanket campus in white. You’re in the gym, as always, the only sound the steady rhythm of the ball hitting the floor, then the net.

Sierra bursts in, out of breath, snowflakes clinging to her jacket.

“She’s here,” she says, voice strained.

You pause mid-shot, the ball resting heavy in your hands. “What?”

“Paige,” Sierra says. “She’s outside. Just standing there. She’s not leaving until you talk to her.”

You blink, your pulse quickening. “In the snow?”

“Yes. In the snow,” Sierra snaps. “Want me to handle it?”

You glance at the door, at the faint glow of the snowstorm through the windows. Your chest feels tight.

“I’ll do it,” you say quietly.

Sierra looks surprised but doesn’t argue. “You sure?”

You nod, dropping the ball onto the rack. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

You push open the gym door, and the cold hits you like a slap. The snow is coming down hard now, heavy flakes swirling in the wind and catching in your hair, on your lashes, melting instantly on your skin. The air bites at your face, sharp and unforgiving, and you pull your sweatshirt tighter around you as you step into the storm.

Paige is there.

She’s standing under the dim glow of the parking lot light, a lone figure against the blanketed white. Her coat is too thin for this weather, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if that could keep the cold out. Snowflakes dust her hair, her shoulders, even her lashes, sticking there like delicate glass. Her nose and cheeks are red, raw from the wind, and her breath comes out in uneven clouds that catch the faint light before disappearing.

Your heart pounds as you take her in. It’s not fair, how seeing her still makes your chest tighten, how her very presence feels like it could knock you off balance. You feel your feet ache against the frozen pavement, the sting of cold air in your lungs, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in your chest.

She looks up as you approach, her eyes locking onto yours immediately. They’re red, glassy, the unmistakable sheen of unshed tears making them glisten. She uncrosses her arms, her hands trembling, and takes a single step forward.

“Rocket,” she says, and her voice cracks. Just that one word, and it’s enough to make your knees threaten to buckle.

You stop a few feet away, planting your sneakers firmly into the snow to keep steady. Your throat feels tight, your tongue heavy. For a moment, you can’t speak. You just stare at her, the silence between you as thick as the snow falling all around.

“What are you doing here?” you manage finally. Your voice is sharper than you intended, but the lump in your throat makes it hard to sound anything but cold.

She shifts, wiping her hands on her coat as if that’ll stop them from shaking. “I—I had to see you,” she stammers. “You weren’t answering, and I just—” Her voice breaks again, and she swallows hard, trying to steady herself. “I just needed to try.”

The words hang in the air, weighty and raw. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay grounded, to not let your emotions spiral. The wind picks up, whipping snowflakes against your face, and you blink hard against the sting.

“You’ve said enough,” you say, your voice flat.

“I know,” she says quickly, stepping forward again. Her boots crunch against the snow, and the sound feels deafening in the quiet. “I know I’ve said everything wrong. I don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. I just—” She takes a shaky breath, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “I need you to know how sorry I am. How I got into my head leading up to it. I was scared. I’m sorry. For everything. For ruining us.”

Your breath catches at that, and your chest tightens even more. Her words hit like a weight, heavy and suffocating, and for a moment, you don’t trust yourself to respond. You feel the sting in your fingers, the way the cold air pinches your ears, the dull ache in your feet from standing still too long.

“It wasn’t just a mistake, Paige,” you say finally, your voice trembling despite your effort to sound steady. “It was trust. It was everything we had.”

She nods quickly, tears finally spilling over. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, trying to hide it, but her hands are shaking too much. “I know,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the wind. “I know I broke it. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for hurting you.”

The tears keep falling, streaking down her red cheeks, and she doesn’t bother wiping them anymore. Her shoulders shake, but she doesn’t look away from you. You want to turn away, to stop seeing her like this, but you can’t. Your eyes burn, your throat feels raw, and the weight in your chest only grows heavier.

“I loved you,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. Her breath catches audibly, and you see her shoulders slump further, like the words are knives she’s been bracing for.

“I love you,” she says, her voice breaking entirely. “I still love you. I’ll always love you.”

The snow falls harder now, coating everything in a thick, suffocating white. You feel it collect on your shoulders, your hair, melting down your neck. Paige shivers, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, her breaths coming out in ragged clouds.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you as you stare at Paige. The snow falls heavier now, landing on her lashes and melting against her flushed cheeks. Her nose is red, her hands trembling as they clench at her sides. The cold bites at your skin, your ears pinching, your feet aching, but none of it feels as sharp as the weight in your chest.

“Go home,” you say, your voice cracking slightly despite your attempt to sound firm.

Paige doesn’t move. Her wide, red-rimmed eyes stay locked on yours, brimming with fresh tears. Her lips part, but no words come, just a soft, shaky breath. Then:

“Please,” she whispers, barely audible over the wind. Her voice is raw, broken, and it hits you like a punch. She takes a step closer, her boots crunching in the snow, her hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach for you but knows she can’t. “Please,” she says again, the word shaking with everything she’s trying to say but can’t.

You inhale sharply, your chest tightening as you force yourself to stand your ground. “Paige,” you say, softer now, almost pleading yourself. “Go home.”

She flinches, like the words physically hurt, but she doesn’t argue this time. She nods slowly, blinking hard against the tears streaming down her face. Her shoulders slump as she turns away, her steps hesitant, dragging in the snow like she’s leaving pieces of herself behind with every step.

You watch her walk toward the far end of the parking lot, her figure blurry through the curtain of falling snow. She stops once, just for a moment, her back to you. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, but the motion is weak, almost futile. Then she moves again, trudging toward the lone car parked under the faint glow of a streetlamp.

The driver’s side window rolls down as Paige approaches, and you see KK leaning out, her face a mix of concern and frustration. KK says something—low and sharp, the words lost in the wind—and Paige shakes her head, opening the passenger door and climbing in without another glance in your direction.

The car idles for a moment, exhaust puffing into the frozen air, and you catch a glimpse of KK glancing your way, her gaze hard but questioning, like she’s debating whether to come out and say something. But she doesn’t.

The brake lights flare as the car shifts into gear, and then they’re gone, disappearing down the snow-covered road.

You stay rooted to the spot, the cold seeping through your clothes, the sound of their departure fading into silence. You don’t move for a long time, staring at the empty space where they’d been, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

You stand there long after the car disappears into the swirling snow, the cold seeping into your bones. Your feet ache from standing still, your fingers sting from the frost, and your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. You force yourself to turn, your legs heavy as you walk back toward the gym, the door looming like a safe haven you don’t feel like you deserve.

The moment you push it open, the heat rushes out to meet you, thick and suffocating. It hits your face like a wall, and suddenly, you realize how cold you were—how raw your skin feels, how your ears throb with the warmth sinking in. You blink against the hot air, your vision blurring, and that’s when you feel it. The damp streaks on your cheeks, the burning in your eyes.

You were crying.

The thought stuns you for a moment, but there’s no time to process it. Your feet move automatically, carrying you deeper into the gym. The echo of your footsteps bounces off the empty court, the sound sharp and hollow in the stillness. You make your way to the locker room, the familiar scent of sweat and rubber hitting you like a memory you didn’t ask for.

Inside, Sierra and Jasmine are waiting. They’re sitting on one of the benches, their expressions tight and unsure, like they don’t know what to say—or if they should say anything at all.

Your eyes meet Sierra’s first, and the look she gives you is soft, pitying, like she’s trying to hold you together with just her gaze. Jasmine looks away quickly, her hands fiddling with the strings of her hoodie, her shoulders tense with unspoken guilt.

Neither of them says a word.

You don’t either. You don’t have the energy.

You walk past them, your legs threatening to give out, and sink onto the bench in front of your locker. The cold from outside is still in your body, lingering in your muscles, making everything ache. You press your hands to your knees, trying to ground yourself, but the weight in your chest is too much.

It breaks.

You bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking as the sobs finally come. They tear out of you, raw and uncontrollable, and you can’t stop them even if you wanted to. The locker room fills with the sound of your crying—ugly, unfiltered, and nothing like The Prophecy at all.

Sierra shifts behind you, and for a moment, you think she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. Neither of them does. They just sit there, giving you space to break apart, their quiet presence the only thing holding you from completely falling apart.

Your tears soak into your palms, your breath coming in gasps, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel the full weight of it all. The cold, the betrayal, the way her voice cracked when she said, “I love you.” It crashes over you, relentless and unrelenting.

And you let it.

Because in this moment, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to calculate the pain away or turn it into fuel.

For now, you just let yourself break.

WEEK SIX

Her last attempt comes in the form of a letter. Handwritten. Twelve pages. Sierra finds it slipped under your door one gray morning, the paper just slightly bent, as though it had been clenched tightly before being left there.

“Want me to burn it?” Sierra asks, holding it up like it’s fragile, like even touching it too long might do damage.

You don’t answer at first, your eyes fixed on the envelope. Your name is written in Paige’s handwriting, unmistakably hers—soft, looping, careful. It looks like she spent a long time on just that one word. The ink is smudged in places, faint blotches where you know she must have paused, maybe wiped her eyes.

“Rocket?” Sierra asks again, her voice gentler this time.

You reach out, hesitating before your fingers brush the paper. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, like it’s holding every unsaid word she couldn’t force into those desperate texts, every plea she couldn’t voice the last time she saw you.

“No,” you say quietly, your voice firm despite the knot in your chest. “Don’t burn it.”

Sierra doesn’t press. “What should I do with it?”

You swallow hard, still staring at the envelope like it might crack open on its own. “Keep it,” you murmur finally. “For after March.”

The corner of her mouth twitches in a faint, understanding nod. She tucks the letter carefully into her bag without another word.

Because that’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? Every ignored call, every perfect shot, every breath you’ve taken since that night in the gym has been leading to one thing: March.

Two weeks later, the bracket drops.

Harvard vs. UConn. Sweet Sixteen.

You hear whispers everywhere—teammates speculating, reporters asking veiled questions about how you feel about the matchup. You stay quiet, dodging the noise with an unshakable focus that keeps the world at bay.

Paige doesn’t text. She doesn’t call. But one night, you see it.

It’s subtle, so subtle you almost miss it: a photo on her Instagram story.

She’s sitting on the floor of her dorm, the soft golden light of a bedside lamp pooling around her. Her knees are drawn to her chest, her head resting on her arms. There’s no caption, no obvious sign of you. But in the corner of the frame, hanging off the back of a chair, is your Harvard hoodie.

The air leaves your lungs.

It’s so small, so quiet, but it feels loud in your chest.

Sierra notices you staring at your phone and gives you a sharp look. “Don’t,” she warns.

“I’m not,” you reply, locking your phone and sliding it across the table.

And you aren’t.

Instead, you lace up your sneakers and head to the gym.

30 DAYS TO MARCH MADNESS

The bracket predictions start rolling in. Every analyst has the same storyline: Harvard and UConn are destined to meet in the championship.

ESPN calls it "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For."

You don’t watch their coverage. You don’t need to. You just shoot.

Paige’s last text comes at 2 AM:

“i still miss you.”

You delete it without reading. (Sierra tells you about it later anyway.)

25 DAYS

“Did you hear?” Jasmine says as she slides into the locker room after practice, her voice quieter than usual.

You don’t look up. “Hear what?”

“Paige was at some party last night. Someone saw her with... someone.”

You pause mid-lace, your fingers tightening. “And?”

“She’s... moving on. Or trying to.”

Later, Sierra shows you the photo: Paige with her arm around a tall blonde, both laughing like the world doesn’t hurt them.

You close your phone, drop it in your bag, and hit the gym for 200 straight shots. Each one lands, clean and precise, but your chest tightens with every swish.

At midnight, Sierra finds you still there. “She’s doing this on purpose,” she says softly.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make you feel what she’s feeling.”

You grab another ball, square your shoulders. “Bold of her to assume I still care.”

(You do. God, you do.)

20 DAYS

Your game is evolving. Whatever limits you thought existed don’t anymore. You’re not just making shots—you’re erasing boundaries.

Reporters ask Coach about it after Harvard crushes Penn by 30 points. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

She shakes her head, her voice filled with awe. “She’s playing like someone who has nothing left to lose.”

Because you don’t.

15 DAYS

Another photo surfaces: Paige dancing at a club, the same blonde close enough to blur the line between friendly and intimate. The image spreads through whispers, not headlines, but it’s enough to reach you.

The next morning, Jasmine deletes all your social media apps. “Focus on what matters,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

So you do:

47 points against Princeton.

51 against Yale.

Perfect shooting in both games.

The whispers around you grow louder. People call it The Revenge Tour, though you don’t bother correcting them.

You let your game speak for itself.

10 DAYS

Harvard enters March Madness ranked #1 for the first time in school history. UConn is #2.

The narrative writes itself:

Ice vs Fire.

You hear the buzz but tune it out. Paige posts a hype video for the tournament. There’s no sign of you in her clips, but you don’t need to be.

That night, you shoot until your arms shake. The sound of each swish reverberates through the gym, the echoes cutting through your chest like heartbreak.

5 DAYS

The tournament begins, and you burn through the first two rounds like wildfire:

45 points against Florida State.

52 against Tennessee.

You still haven’t missed.

UConn advances too. Paige plays like she’s on fire, dropping 38 against Duke and 41 against LSU. But she misses. She stumbles. She’s human. She’s flawed.

You tell yourself that’s why she couldn’t keep you. Because perfection is lonely.

2 DAYS

The Final Four is set: Harvard vs. UConn. The matchup everyone’s been waiting for.

Your teammates feel the weight of it, the buzz of history swirling around them, but you stay quiet. Focused.

“Are you ready?” Coach asks after practice.

You glance at her, your expression steady. “Always.”

1 DAY

The press conference is brutal. Every question is a thinly veiled attempt to dig into the drama. Paige. The rumors.

You give them nothing.

“I’m here to play basketball,” you say flatly. “Nothing else matters.”

Later that night, alone in your hotel room, you stare at the letter Sierra saved weeks ago. It sits on the desk like it’s daring you to open it.

Your hands shake as you unfold the pages.

The first three lines hit harder than you expect:

"I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know I broke something perfect. I know I lost the best thing that ever happened to me."

You stop reading. You don’t need to see the rest.

The paper burns easily in the sink, the edges curling in on themselves like the words are folding into ash.

Tomorrow isn’t about forgiveness.

It’s about proving that some things break you.

And some things make you unbreakable.

Time to show her which one you are.

THE FINAL FOUR: HARVARD VS UCONN

The arena in Dallas feels alive, like it has a pulse of its own. Twenty thousand fans pack the stands, and the roar of the crowd is more than sound—it’s energy, crackling in the air, vibrating through the floor. You can feel it in your chest, in the way your heart beats a little faster as you stand in the tunnel, waiting.

This is the game. The one people will talk about for decades.

“Harvard vs. UConn,” ESPN’s voices echo faintly from the screens overhead, carrying over the din “The Game Women’s Basketball Has Been Waiting For.”

“Harvard’s perfect season against UConn’s dynasty.”

“Two programs. Two stars. One unmissable collision course.”

You don’t look at the screens. Don’t let the noise creep in. You focus instead on the rhythm of your breathing, the weight of the ball in your hands, the perfect arcs playing out in your mind. Force vectors, trajectories, momentum. The physics of what’s about to happen.

Sierra steps up beside you, her face all business, her game face as sharp as you’ve ever seen it. “You good?”

You nod once. She doesn’t ask if you’re sure. She’s seen you these past weeks—seen the extra hours, the obsession, the way you’ve turned heartbreak into something almost unrecognizable. She’s seen you rewrite what’s possible when perfect turns to steel.

“They’re out there,” Jasmine says quietly, stepping up on your other side.

Your stomach tightens, but you don’t let it show.

“You’re sure you’re good?” Sierra presses, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m perfect,” you say flatly, the word cold and sharp.

The crowd’s roar deepens, and you know UConn must be taking the court for warmups. You can picture it without looking: Paige leading them out, her stride confident, her expression poised. She feeds off this energy, always has, like she was built for these moments.

You think about everything—every ignored text, every late-night practice, every time Paige’s name appeared on your phone screen and you turned away. You think about the letter, folded and burned, its words turned to ash: "I know I broke something perfect."

“I’m ready,” you say, voice steady.

Coach nods. “Good.” She turns to the team. “Ladies, listen up. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to tonight. They’re bigger, they’re stronger, and they’ve got more banners in their gym than we’ll ever see. But we’ve got something they don’t.”

She looks at you, and there's something fierce in her eyes.

"We've got perfect."

The team huddles up, hands in. But before they can do their usual chant, you speak. It's the first time you've addressed them all day.

"When we take that court," your voice is quiet but carries weight, "you're going to hear a lot of noise. They're going to talk about everything except basketball. But that's not why we're here."

Your teammates lean in closer.

"We're here because I made you all a promise three years ago. That we'd make history. That we'd show the world what Harvard basketball really is. That we'd be perfect when it matters most."

You look each of them in the eye.

"Tonight, we keep that promise."

The tunnel erupts in fierce agreement. Your teammates are ready for war.

"One minute!" calls the official.

You close your eyes for a moment, center yourself. Think about all the shots that led here. All the nights in empty gyms. All the physics problems solved between free throws. All the moments that built The Prophecy.

And yes, you think about her. About early mornings in her dorm. Late nights watching film. The way she said your name like it was something precious. The way she looked at someone else the same way.

The anger rises, cold and precise. You use it, let it sharpen your focus until everything else falls away.

The tunnel lights flicker as the official signals. It’s time.

"Ready?" Sierra asks one last time.

You step toward the light of the arena, toward the noise, toward destiny.

"Perfect," you say.

And then you emerge into madness.

The sound hits you like a wave the second you step onto the court. It’s not just noise; it’s a force, a physical thing that presses against you, vibrating in your chest.

"THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY!"

The chant rolls through the arena like thunder, swelling as the crowd rises to their feet. Signs wave above the sea of faces:

"PERFECTION WEARS CRIMSON"

"847-2: THE PROPHECY SPEAKS"

Your entrance stops UConn's warmups cold. Every player freezes mid-drill, even the legendary Geno Auriemma turns to watch. You catch Paige's reaction in your peripheral vision—the way she stumbles slightly, ball slipping from her fingers. But you don't look at her. Won't give her that.

The Harvard section is delirious, but it's more than that. The neutral fans, the media, even some UConn supporters are on their feet. This is what happens when you spend three months turning heartbreak into headlines, when you take "perfect" and make it look easy.

Your teammates hit the court, their warmups sharper, fueled by the energy of the crowd. But your routine is different. Quieter. Singular.

You start at the three-point line, the ball resting in your hands. The noise fades as you focus, your heartbeat steadying. One shot.

Swish.

The explosion of noise is deafening. You don't react. Just catch, shoot, swish. Again. Again. Again.

On the other end, UConn's trying to maintain their composure, but you can feel their eyes on you. Feel the way their usual swagger has been replaced by something else. Something that looks like doubt.

Your teammates are feeding off the energy now. Sierra drills a corner three, the ball cutting through the net with a satisfying snap. Jasmine blocks one of Taylor’s layups in a mock defensive drill, both of them grinning fiercely.

"Focus on our game!" Geno barks, but even he keeps glancing your way.

The media's having a field day. Every camera in the building is trained on you, catching every perfect shot, every ice-cold expression. ESPN's commentary carries over the speakers:

"We're watching something unprecedented here, Rebecca. The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she's transcendent. Look at the way UConn's players are watching her. They're supposed to be the dynasty, the standard-bearers, but right now they look shook—"

And still, you don’t look at Paige.

The crowd's volume keeps building, impossibly louder with each perfect shot you make. NBA players sitting courtside are shaking their heads in disbelief. Olympic champions in the stands are filming on their phones. This isn't just a warmup anymore—it's a statement.

Finally, mercifully for UConn, the buzzer sounds to clear the court for final preparations. As the teams head to their benches, you allow yourself one glance at their side. Just one.

Paige is standing near the sideline, her hands resting on her hips, her gaze fixed on you. For a split second, your eyes meet. Her expression shifts—shock, pain, something that might be regret.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer, then turn away, your face unreadable.

You turn away, face impassive. But inside, the cold fire burns hotter.

Because this isn’t about her anymore.

This isn’t about heartbreak or revenge.

This is about showing the world what happens when perfect stops trying to be loved.

And starts trying to be legendary.

The starting lineups are about to be announced, and the arena hums with anticipation, the kind of energy that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. It’s not just loud—it’s electric, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Every cheer, every chant, every flash of a camera feels sharper, brighter, heavier. History is about to be made.

The announcer’s voice booms, reverberating through the cavernous space, calling out names that blur into the roar of the crowd. You barely hear them—don’t need to. You’re locked in. You can feel the ball’s weight in your hand even though you’re not holding it, the phantom rhythm of your dribble steadying your pulse.

The Prophecy is about to speak.

And everyone—Paige, UConn, the world—is about to listen.

Sierra wins the tip with authority, the ball snapping to Maria like it’s been rehearsed a thousand times. Harvard’s ball. The crowd leans forward collectively, the sound dropping to an expectant hum as you cross half court, their energy feeding into the moment.

UConn’s defense is already set. You see it as soon as you step over the timeline: box-and-one. Four players sagging into a tight zone, leaving Paige on you.

Of course they’d make her guard you. Of course.

She’s close, closer than you expected, the kind of tight defense that borders on personal. Her eyes flicker for a moment, uncertainty bleeding through her usual focus.

“Please…” she whispers, so quiet it almost gets lost in the noise. “Can we just—”

You don’t let her finish.

A crossover—quick, precise, lethal—cuts her off mid-sentence. The crowd gasps, a collective intake of breath, as Paige stumbles, her footing faltering for just a second. But a second is all you need.

You rise up from 25 feet, the motion as natural as breathing. Perfect form. Perfect rotation.

Swish.

The crowd detonates.

3-0 Harvard.

"THE PROPHECY STRIKES FIRST!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "ICE COLD FROM DEEP!"

UConn pushes the ball upcourt fast, their transition game as polished as ever. Paige has that look now—the one that used to make your chest tighten, the one that once made you believe she could do anything. Now, it’s just data to process, another variable in the equation you’ve already solved.

She drives hard to the right, her speed and body control flawless. She’s counting on you to back off, to avoid contact, to give her just enough room for the pull-up jumper she’s perfected.

But you don’t.

Your body stays with hers, every step mirrored, every shift anticipated. When she rises for the shot, your hand is already there, contesting at the perfect angle. The ball leaves her hands, spinning slightly off-axis.

Clank.

The sound of the ball hitting the rim feels louder than it should, the miss reverberating through the arena like a misstep in a symphony.

“REJECTION!” The crowd erupts again, their voices rising to a fever pitch. “THE PROPHECY WITH THE PERFECT DEFENSE ON THE PRINCE!”

Maria grabs the rebound and pushes the break. You trail deliberately, your movements fluid, waiting for the play to unfold. The ball swings to you on the wing. Another catch. Another perfect release.

Swish.

6-0 Harvard.

Geno Auriemma doesn’t hesitate. Timeout, 47 seconds in. His voice carries across the court, sharp and commanding as he pulls his players in, trying to steady a ship that’s already rocking.

The ESPN commentators are incredulous. “I’ve never seen anything like this! The Prophecy isn’t just scoring—she’s controlling the entire game. And having Paige Bueckers guard her it’s psychological warfare at its finest.”

In the huddle, Coach Matthews stays calm, her voice steady amidst the chaos. “Keep executing. They’re rattled.”

Your teammates nod, feeding off her composure. You don’t say anything, don’t need to. The look in your eyes says enough.

Back on the court, UConn shifts their defense. KK Arnold takes over guarding you, her physicality immediately apparent. Paige shifts to Jasmine, but you feel her eyes on you anyway, like a weight pressing against your back.

You make her pay for it.

A quick backdoor cut—sharp, timed to perfection—leaves her a step behind. Maria sees it instantly, the lob arcing perfectly into your hands. You lay it in cleanly, barely breaking stride.

8-0 Harvard.

The UConn section is restless now, the nervous energy rippling through their chants.

From the crowd you hear, “She's not that special! Lock her up!"

The next time down, you catch the ball at the top of the key, KK’s hand pressing into your hip. You rise anyway, unfazed. The ball barely brushes the net on its way through.

11-0 Harvard.

Geno is furious, calling out defensive adjustments. But there's something different about UConn's energy—they're not just trailing, they're shook.

Paige tries to take over, driving hard to the rim with an intensity that feels more desperate than controlled. Her first step is sharp, her movements calculated, but there’s something frantic in the way she moves—like she’s trying to match you shot for shot, trying to prove something to herself as much as to the crowd.

Her floater arcs high but catches the back iron and rolls out.

The crowd groans, the sound rippling through the UConn section like a wave of disbelief. Paige’s jaw tightens as she sprints back on defense, but you’ve already moved on, focused, untouchable.

On the next possession, she pulls up for a three. It’s a clean look, her form textbook, but the ball rims out again, drawing a gasp from the fans and a loud clank that echoes through the arena.

Then she drives again, barreling into the paint, trying to force her way through Sierra’s perfect positioning. The ball pops loose, Sierra’s quick hands stripping it clean, and the Harvard section explodes in cheers.

Meanwhile, you’re somewhere else entirely.

Athletes talk about it, but few ever get there: the space where time slows, where the game feels less like competition and more like art. The roar of the crowd fades into a low hum, the edges of the court softening as everything sharpens around the ball in your hands.

It’s not just instinct—it’s control, precision, the physics of perfection in every step. Each shot feels inevitable, each movement unfolding like an equation you’ve already solved.

On defense, you can feel the tension radiating from UConn, their movements tighter, their communication louder. When Emma finally scores off a put-back—muscling through a sea of Harvard defenders—the UConn section celebrates like it’s a game-winner.

11-2 Harvard.

You glance at the scoreboard, then at your teammates, your calm focus unshaken. They know what’s coming next.

You show UConn what victory really looks like.

KK Arnold presses into you as you bring the ball up the court, her hands swiping aggressively, trying to throw you off balance. You shift your weight left, plant your foot, and cross over so quickly it sends her stumbling, her arms flailing for balance as the crowd gasps.

You take one step back, rising effortlessly over Caroline’s outstretched arms as she contests, her fingertips barely brushing the air beneath the ball.

Swish.

16-2 Harvard.

The Harvard bench leaps to their feet, arms raised, while the UConn section sits frozen, unsure of how to react. Geno is pacing now, barking orders to his team, his sharp voice cutting through the tension.

"We're watching history," the announcer's voice trembles with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just winning—she's rewriting what's possible in this sport."

Paige is pressing harder, trying to shoulder the burden of momentum, but it’s slipping through her fingers. She forces another drive, this time straight into Sierra, who holds her ground like a wall. The whistle doesn’t blow, and Paige stumbles as the ball goes loose again, Maria scooping it up and feeding you on the wing.

The moment your hands touch the ball, you already know what’s going to happen.

Perfect rhythm. Perfect form. Perfect swish.

UConn tries everything: double teams, traps, full-court pressure. Nothing works. You split defenders like they're standing still, find teammates for open shots when they sell out to stop you, and when they give you any space at all.

The quarter ends with one final dagger. UConn tries to hold for the last shot, but you read Paige's eyes—you always could read her eyes—and jump the passing lane. The steal leads to a breakaway with three seconds left.

Most players would lay it in. Safe. Smart.

But The Prophecy isn't most players.

You take off from just inside the free-throw line, rising up as the buzzer sounds. The ball leaves your hands at the perfect angle, with the perfect spin, following the perfect arc.

Swish. As time expires.

29-10 Harvard.

The arena absolutely detonates. Your teammates mob you as you walk calmly to the bench. Even Coach Matthews cracks a smile.

In their huddle, you can see Geno gesturing frantically, see Paige's head hanging.

But none of that matters.

Because this isn't about them anymore.

This is about perfect.

And perfect is just getting started.

The second quarter opens with UConn desperate to change the momentum. Their energy is sharp, frantic, the kind that comes from a team not used to being punched first. Geno has abandoned the box-and-one, switching to a triangle-and-two defense. It’s designed to suffocate you—two defenders shadowing your every step, cutting off your air, daring the rest of your team to beat them.

You glance at Paige and KK as they close in, their feet shuffling in sync. Paige’s jaw is tight, her expression unreadable, but there’s tension in her shoulders, the kind you’ve seen in every film session this week. KK is louder, her movements brash, barking orders at the rest of the defense.

The first possession, you take the ball at the top of the key, waiting for the defense to swarm. KK gets there first, her hands low and active, trying to force you left. Paige closes in immediately after, her presence suffocating.

You don’t flinch. You shift just enough to pull both defenders with you, then flick a no-look pass to Sierra cutting baseline. The ball drops into her hands, and she lays it in cleanly, untouched.

31-10 Harvard.

"The Prophecy showing she can dominate without scoring!" ESPN's excitement builds. "This is basketball genius at its finest!"

Then it happens.

Four minutes into the quarter. Harvard up 37-15. You shake loose from the double team, slicing through the defense like a knife through fabric. Sierra's screen creating the perfect angle of separation (47 degrees, optimal for catch-and-shoot scenarios), your feet set precisely shoulder-width apart, knees bent at the textbook 110-degree angle.

The ball feels good leaving your hands—perfect, even. The rotation is clean, the arc flawless, the trajectory straight out of a physics textbook. It’s the kind of shot you’ve made thousands of times. The kind of shot you don’t even need to watch to know it’s good.

But sometimes, the universe has other plans.

The ball hits the back rim, bouncing straight up, a little too high, a little too slow. It hovers for an agonizing second.

The entire arena holds its breath. Twenty thousand people frozen, watching the impossible happen. The ball hangs there, defying gravity for one more precious second, before falling away.

You’ve missed.

The UConn bench explodes, their cheers wild and unfiltered, like they’ve just won the championship. Their fans echo the celebration, chants swelling and overlapping.

"SHE’S HUMAN! SHE’S HUMAN!”

Paige takes a step toward you, instinct guiding her more than logic. It’s the same look you’ve seen in practices, in dorm rooms, in quiet moments when her guard was down. She wants to reach out, to say something, to bridge the gap between who you were to each other and who you are now.

But she stops herself. Her foot hovers for half a second before she steps back, her hand falling limp at her side. She remembers where she is. Who she’s supposed to be to you now.

And still, everyone waits.

Your teammates glance at you nervously. They’ve seen what happens when you miss. They know the last time you broke. They know why.

But you're not the same person who broke in that dark gym.

Instead of shattering, you do something no one expects.

You smile.

It’s small, controlled, more ice than warmth, but it’s enough to send a ripple through the arena. The silence shifts into something sharper, heavier.

The message is clear: Missing doesn’t break me anymore.

Nothing does.

"Oh my," the ESPN announcer’s voice is barely above a whisper. "That might be the scariest smile I’ve ever seen in basketball."

Next possession.

You take the ball at half court, KK and Paige closing in again. Their energy is different now—more cautious, less certain. They’re waiting for you to pass, waiting for you to hesitate, waiting for the doubt to creep in.

But it doesn’t.

You glance at the defense sagging just slightly, expecting hesitation, and then you do the thing no one else would.

You rise from the logo, the shot pure and effortless, the ball spinning through the air like it was destined to fall.

Swish.

40-15 Harvard.

The arena erupts.

Your teammates are screaming, their hands raised in disbelief. Coach Matthews stands for the first time all game, clipboard forgotten, her face a rare mix of awe and pride.

"THAT'S HOW YOU RESPOND TO ADVERSITY!" ESPN's voice cracks with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she’s unstoppable!"

UConn calls timeout, but it's too late. They've lost whatever psychological edge they thought they'd gained. The rest of the quarter becomes a masterclass:

You hit threes over double teams.

Thread passes through impossible angles.

Turn their defense into a highlight reel of broken ankles and shattered hopes.

By halftime, the score is 52-27 Harvard. You've got 31 points, 8 assists, and a message that's louder than any perfect streak:

Some things break you.

Some things make you unbreakable.

And sometimes, becoming unbreakable is better than being perfect.

The teams head to their locker rooms, but the story of the second quarter isn't the score. It's the smile after the miss. The logo three that followed. The moment when The Prophecy proved that she's not just a perfect player.

HALFTIME

The locker room feels like it’s vibrating, the energy practically bouncing off the walls. Your teammates are loud, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus of disbelief and celebration. Sierra’s pacing, too hyped to sit, while Jasmine reenacts your logo three for the tenth time, miming your shooting form with exaggerated flair.

"DID YOU SEE THEIR FACES?" Sierra's practically dancing. "When you smiled after that miss? I thought they were gonna pass out!"

"That logo three was DISGUSTING," Jasmine adds, mimicking your shooting form. "The disrespect!"

You let their voices wash over you, grounding yourself in the chaos without joining it. Sitting on the bench, you pull a water bottle to your lips, its coolness a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your skin.

But Coach Matthews raises her hand for quiet. "They're going to come out desperate. Geno's never been down this much in a Final Four. Expect everything."

You nod slightly, her words steadying you. She’s right. The storm is coming. You can feel it brewing beyond the walls, the hum of the arena like distant thunder.

Through the locker room door, the halftime show filters in faintly. ESPN’s voices carry over the noise of the crowd:

“Harvard leads UConn 52-27 in the most lopsided first half of a Final Four in recent history…”

“31 points, 8 assists, 12-of-13 shooting, 5 steals. These aren’t just numbers; they’re history in the making…”

“And it’s not just the stats. That smile after the miss? That was the moment The Prophecy stopped being perfect and became something more. Something immortal.”

Sierra catches you listening and grins, holding up her phone. “You’re trending worldwide. Again.”

You wave her off. You don’t care about that. You’ve never cared about that.

But then Jasmine nudges you, her expression shifting from playful to serious as she shows you another text. This one’s from KK.

Paige is crying in the bathroom. Whole team’s shook.

Good.

THIRD QUARTER

The second you see UConn retake the court, you can tell they’ve changed. There’s a new energy to them—sharper, more desperate. Paige’s eyes are slightly red, a telltale glint betraying her earlier tears. But there’s also something dangerous in her expression, the kind of desperation that makes even the best players reckless.

Geno’s thrown everything at the wall. UConn opens with a full-court press, their defenders swarming like bees, aggressive and chaotic.

It’s laughable.

You slice through them on the first possession like they’re standing still. A quick pass to Maria in the corner. Perfect release.

55-27 Harvard.

Paige tries to respond immediately, driving hard to the basket with her head down. The play is pure determination, her shoulders hunched as she barrels into the lane, but you’re ready.

Sliding over, you plant yourself perfectly, your feet set, your body immovable. When she crashes into you, the impact reverberates through your chest, but you don’t budge.

The whistle blows. Offensive foul.

Paige hits the floor hard, her hands slapping against the hardwood. For a split second, instinct kicks in—the memory of a hundred practices where you’d help her up, offer her a hand, a joke, a smile.

But that was then.

Now, you simply turn and walk away, your expression colder than the ice under her feet.

“Ice. Cold,” the announcer breathes, the disbelief palpable.

On the next possession, Paige picks you up full court, her body language bristling with frustration. She presses in close, practically stepping on your toes, her voice low and cracking.

“Please,” she whispers. “Just look at me. Just once.”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you hit her with a combination that feels less like basketball and more like poetry:

Crossover right.

Behind the back left.

Through the legs.

Step-back three.

The crowd doesn’t even wait for the ball to hit the net. The moment Paige stumbles backward, they’re on their feet, screaming.

The shot, of course, is perfect.

58-27 Harvard.

The UConn section is dead silent now. Even Geno has stopped pacing, his arms folded as he stares helplessly at the court. Paige glances toward their bench, her eyes briefly meeting Geno’s, but he has no answers either

Next possession, you wave off the screen, motioning for everyone to clear out. The court feels impossibly wide as Paige crouches in her defensive stance, her body coiled with tension. You can see the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, the way her breathing hitches as she exhales.

Time slows.

Can see the tears threatening at the corners of Paige's eyes.

Can feel twenty thousand people holding their breath.

Perfect isn't about not missing anymore.

Perfect is about what you do next.

The move is pure poetry.

Crossover so quick the cameras barely catch it.

Through the legs at half speed, letting her think she's got you.

Then the acceleration – zero to legendary in a heartbeat.

Paige lunges, trying to stay in front.

The crowd rises as one.

But they don't matter.

Nothing matters except the physics of this moment.

You rise up from 30 feet, Paige's hand right in your face.

Time stops.

The ball arcs through the air like destiny.

Swish.

The arena detonates.

Your teammates mob you as you jog back, their faces alight with disbelief. Even the referees exchange glances, one shaking his head like he’s just witnessed the impossible.

61-33 Harvard.

Paige doesn’t move. She stays rooted to the spot where you left her, her head bowed, her hands on her knees. The weight of the game—of the moment—presses her into the hardwood.

The UConn bench looks like a graveyard.

Perfect breaks back.

The quarter ends with Harvard up 73-41. You've got 45 points on a shot chart that looks like abstract art. Each bucket more impossible than the last. Each move designed to teach them all the same lesson.

FOURTH QUARTER

Ten minutes left in the biggest game in women’s college basketball history. Harvard up 73-41. The crowd buzzes with anticipation, sensing the inevitable.

Paige opens the quarter like someone with nothing left to lose. Her movements are sharper now, more fluid, like she’s untethered from the weight of expectation. There’s desperation in her eyes, but also glimpses of what made her special.

What made her yours, once upon a time.

She hits a deep three. Then another. Her teammates respond, pressing full court, fighting for every inch, clawing for one last stand.

On the next possession, UConn doubles you at half court, but you see the opening before they do. A quick bounce pass threads the needle, hitting Sierra in stride for an uncontested layup.

75-44 Harvard.

The press comes hard again, but you stay poised, letting it collapse around you before sending a no-look pass over your shoulder to Maria in the corner. She drains the three, and the crowd explodes.

78-44 Harvard.

Paige tries to answer with a contested jumper at the other end, and it rattles in. She’s pressing now, forcing every play, trying to drag her team back into a game that’s already slipping away.

Back on offense, you hesitate near the arc, drawing in the defense before flipping a behind-the-back pass to Jasmine cutting baseline. The ball barely touches her hands before it’s in the net.

80-46 Harvard.

Coach Matthews calls timeout to sub you out with 1:32 left. The ovation is deafening—every single person in the arena on their feet, cheering until their voices crack. You’ve got 34 points, 15 assists, and 7 steals, but the numbers barely scratch the surface of what just happened.

You jog to the bench, your teammates mobbing you, their hands slapping your back, their voices a chaotic blur of celebration.

As you pass Paige one last time, there are no words. No need.

You both know what this moment is.

The final buzzer sounds: Harvard 89, UConn 51.

Confetti falls, a blizzard of crimson and gold, as your teammates tackle you in a storm of laughter and tears. Cameras flash everywhere, their lenses capturing history in real time.

You stand at center court, calm amidst the chaos, the weight of the moment settling over you.

Because you did it. You won.

The locker room is a storm of joy, the kind that only comes from rewriting history. Music blasts from a speaker in the corner. Sierra’s leading a conga line with the championship trophy hoisted high. Jasmine and Maria are filming every second, screaming into their phones about being “FINAL FOUR CHAMPIONS, BABY!”

You should be reveling in it. You are, to an extent—smiling as Sierra shoves a bottle of sparkling cider into your hands, laughing as Jasmine accidentally sprays half the team with the foam.

But deep down, there’s an itch you can’t scratch.

You made the statement. You dominated the game. You won the war.

But the battle inside you—the one that started long before tonight—is still unresolved.

Later, when the celebration starts to wind down, you find yourself leaning against a corner of the locker room, still clutching the now-empty bottle of cider. The room feels quieter, though the energy still hums faintly in the air. Your teammates are scattered—some FaceTiming family, others sprawled on benches in blissful exhaustion.

Sierra catches your eye from across the room. She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head slightly, a silent question.

You shake your head. Not yet.

An hour later, you’re back in your hotel room, the championship hat still perched on your head, your phone buzzing endlessly with texts and notifications. Most are from reporters, friends, family. A few from Jasmine and Sierra, who are probably still partying somewhere downstairs.

You scroll through them aimlessly, not sure what you’re looking for until you see her name.

Paige.

She hasn't texted. Not since before the game. Her name sits there like a ghost in your messages, daring you to make the first move. To break the silence that's grown between you like a wall.

For a while, you just sit there, staring at the empty message thread. You replay every moment of the game in your mind—the way her voice cracked when she guarded you, the way she pressed harder and harder as the score slipped further out of reach. The way she nodded, warrior to warrior, as if she knew what you’d just written into history.

And yet, it doesn’t feel complete. Not entirely.

Before you can overthink it, you start typing.

you can come by if you want

The message is simple. No explanations, no context. You don’t even wait to see if she reads it before tossing your phone onto the bed and heading to the bathroom to wash off the night.

When you come back, the screen is lit with her reply:

where?

Your heart stumbles over itself as you type the room number. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt, trying to ignore how your pulse picks up with each passing minute.

The knock, when it comes, is so soft you almost miss it.

For a second, you just stare at the door, your pulse thudding in your ears. The part of you that has spent months building walls tells you not to answer, not to let her in.

But tonight isn’t about walls.

You open the door.

She’s standing there, still in her UConn travel gear, hair tucked under a beanie. Her eyes are tired, rimmed with dark circles, but there’s something in them—something vulnerable, tentative—that catches you off guard.

“Hi,” she says softly.

“Hi.”

You step aside to let her in. She moves hesitantly, as if unsure whether she belongs here.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The room feels heavy with unspoken words, with everything the game couldn’t settle.

“You played…” Paige starts, then stops, biting her lip. “You were unbelievable.”

“Thanks.” You cross your arms, leaning against the desk. “You weren’t bad yourself.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, the sound awkward and raw. “I tried.”

Silence stretches between you again. The words you want to say stick to the back of your throat, stubborn and heavy. You watch her hands fidget with the strings of her hoodie, a nervous tell you used to find endearing. Now it just makes your chest ache.

Finally, it’s Paige who breaks the tension.

“I thought it would feel better,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly. “Losing, I mean. Seeing you win. It’s like I needed you to win. I needed you to be okay without me. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.”

Her honesty feels like a gut punch. You unfold your arms, suddenly unable to stay distant. “Paige…”

“I’m sorry,” she rushes out, words tumbling over themselves.“For all of it. For hurting you, for not fighting harder, for—”

“I know,” you cut her off gently, your voice quieter now. “I know.”

She looks at you, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Do you?”

You nod, stepping closer. “Yeah. I do. And I…” You take a shaky breath. “I’m tired of being angry. I don’t want to carry it anymore.”

Her shoulders slump, the tension leaving her body all at once. “I don’t either.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the weight of everything unsaid filling the room.

And then, slowly, you reach out, your hand brushing hers. She looks down at the contact, her lips trembling, and you feel something shift.

Forgiveness isn’t instant. It’s not easy. But it starts here, in this quiet room, with the two of you trying to find your way back to something that feels whole.

“Sit,” you say softly, gesturing to the bed.

She hesitates, then sits down, and for the first time in months, the space between you feels less like a chasm and more like a bridge.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to cross it.

She sits on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for something. You grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge, needing something to do with your hands.

“Want one?” you ask, holding it up.

Paige glances at you, nodding slightly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You hand it to her, and your fingers brush—just for a second. It’s such a small, fleeting touch, but it makes the air between you feel charged, like something fragile and important is hanging there.

She twists the cap off the bottle but doesn’t drink, just stares at it like it holds answers. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually let me in,” she says softly.

“Neither was I,” you admit, sitting down beside her. The bed dips slightly under your weight, and for a moment, you’re hyper-aware of the small space between you.

Her lips curve into a faint, rueful smile. “Fair.”

The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken things. You look at her out of the corner of your eye—the way her hands tremble slightly as she holds the water bottle, the way her hair falls messily over her shoulders, the way her shoulders rise and fall with each shallow breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Paige murmurs, breaking the silence. “You were… unbelievable tonight. I mean, you always are, but tonight…” She trails off, shaking her head like she can’t find the words.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“I wasn’t just talking about the game,” she adds, her voice quieter now. “The way you handled everything—the pressure, the expectations, even me. It was like watching someone I didn’t even know existed.”

You glance at her sharply, caught off guard by the rawness in her voice. “You know me better than anyone.”

“I thought I did,” she says, her lips twitching into something that’s not quite a smile. “But I think I only knew the parts of you that let me in. And I don’t think I earned the rest.”

Her words hit something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to bury. You look down at your hands, twisting the cap on your water bottle. “You didn’t need to earn it,” you say quietly. “It was always yours.”

She turns her head to look at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable, and you can feel her staring, feel her trying to read between the lines of your words.

“I should’ve fought harder,” Paige whispers. Her voice cracks, and she drops her gaze back to her lap. “For us. For you. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” you interrupt gently, surprising even yourself with the softness in your tone. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. I’ve already forgiven you.”

She lets out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping like a weight has just been lifted. “Really?”

You nod, your throat tightening. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The sound of her breathing fills the room, slow and uneven, and the faint hum of the city outside filters in through the window.

“It’s weird,” you say after a while, breaking the silence. “I thought beating you tonight would feel like closure. Like I could finally move on. But it didn’t.”

Paige looks up at you, her brows furrowed. “What did it feel like?”

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. “Like I was still waiting for something.”

She doesn’t ask what, doesn’t press, but the way she looks at you tells you she knows.

The silence stretches again, but this time it feels different—like the space between you is slowly shrinking, like the air is shifting.

You shift slightly on the bed, your knee brushing hers. The touch is small, accidental, but neither of you pulls away.

“Do you want to stay?” you ask suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them.

Paige blinks, her eyes widening in surprise. “What?”

“Stay,” you repeat, your voice steadier now. “Just for tonight.”

She looks at you, searching your face for something—hesitation, doubt, anything that might make her say no. But she doesn’t find it.

“Okay,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, standing up and grabbing a spare blanket from the closet. “You can take the bed. I’ll—”

“No,” she interrupts quickly, shaking her head. “I mean, we can… share. If that’s okay.”

You hesitate for a moment, then nod again. “Yeah. Okay.”

The bed feels impossibly small as you both lie down, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. You’re on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about how close she is. Paige shifts slightly, the mattress dipping under her weight, and you catch the faint scent of her shampoo.

You try to focus on anything else—the faint hum of the city outside, the muffled sound of someone laughing in the hallway, the rhythm of your own breathing. But your mind keeps circling back to her.

“Hey,” Paige whispers after a while, her voice tentative in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Can I…?” She trails off, and you turn your head to look at her. Her eyes are wide, uncertain, the soft light from the window catching the gold flecks in them. “Can I hold you?”

The question catches you off guard, but only for a second. Then you nod, shifting onto your side to face her.

She hesitates, like she’s still waiting for you to pull away, and then she closes the space between you. Her arms wrap around you carefully, like she’s afraid you’ll break, and you feel the warmth of her body settle against yours.

You exhale slowly, your head resting against her shoulder, your hand curling slightly against her chest. Her heartbeat is steady, grounding, and for the first time all night, you feel your own racing pulse start to calm.

“Is this okay?” she asks softly, her breath warm against your hair.

“Yeah,” you murmur, letting your eyes close. “It’s okay.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you like a cocoon, the world outside fading into the background. You focus on the small details—the way her fingers trace absent patterns against your back, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the way her cheek brushes against your temple.

“I missed this,” she whispers, the words barely audible.

You don’t answer right away, your throat tightening with emotions you’re not ready to name. Instead, you shift closer, tucking your face into the crook of her neck. “Me too.”

Her arms tighten slightly around you, and you feel the faintest press of her lips against your hair. It’s not a kiss, not really—just a gentle, fleeting touch, like she’s afraid to ask for more.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air. But for now, it’s enough. Enough to share the silence, to let yourselves be close again, to let the cracks start to heal.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” she says quietly, breaking the silence.

You open your eyes, your gaze meeting hers in the dim light. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

The faintest smile tugs at her lips, hopeful and tentative, and you let yourself smile back.

For now, it’s enough.

For tonight, it’s everything.

The End

A Note from the Me

Thank you for following The Prophecy's story through these three parts. Your comments, messages, and support have meant the world to me. You've helped shape this story of what happens when perfect meets human, when physics equations meet matters of the heart, when being unbreakable becomes more important than being flawless.

Thank you for being part of this journey (cornball moment lol). If enough people want I can do a 6 year time jump as a short story where they're married.

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whisperofaflame · 29 days ago

Text

Collision Course

Chapter 15b: Our Little Mouse [Part 2]

WandaNat x [innocent, femme] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: While you wait in the garden, Natasha and Wanda have a conversation about you upstairs, in which their feelings come to the fore.

Word count: 3.7k

Featuring: Sapphic women yearning and second-guessing their actions (basically the theme of the entire fic tbh). Mention of sub-drop and domme-drop.

A/N: This follows on directly from Chapter 15 of Collision Course and Part 1 of Chapter 15b. It's dialogue-heavy and I've been fairly consumed by doubt about it this week, but the writing is now a lot cleaner after the wonderful assistance of @bishovapls , who very kindly beta-read this for me. Her encouragement and corrections have been invaluable in getting me to the position of feeling comfortable to post this ♡ (If you're not already following her you need to do that now; she writes the most incredible WandaNat and Bishova content).

When Natasha heard the click of the front door opening, her first instinct was to move to the window and check on you. But there was no sign of you nor Mayakovsky anymore when she looked out to the garden. Most likely, you were beneath the balcony, sitting on one of the patio chairs as she had instructed. If not, you’d be hiding out in the living room downstairs.

“Hey,” Wanda called out, her cheerful voice ringing through the house.

“Through here, dorogaya moya,” Natasha replied, prying her eyes from the window and moving to the sink to wash her hands. She could hear Wanda’s footsteps approaching, even through the sound of the flowing water.

“Hello, my love,” Wanda murmured close to her ear, as she propped her chin on Natasha’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around her wife’s waist from behind. Natasha turned off the faucet and twisted round in Wanda’s hold to capture her lips in a kiss.

“Good day?” Natasha enquired, fumbling with her left hand behind her back to try and locate the hand towel which hung beneath the sink.

“Mm. It was okay. How was yours? How is myšička?”

Natasha turned around to dry her hands, and Wanda let her go. Only once her hands were dry and the towel was replaced did she answer.

“It was… interesting. She’s been a bit all over the place, emotionally.” Natasha paused. She knew that she would probably regret voicing the thought which was burning at the tip of her tongue, but she threw caution to the wind and said it anyway. “I think she missed you.”

Wanda’s face wasn’t hard to read. Natasha knew her wife well, and noticed the concerned quirk of her eyebrows, as well as the slightest scrunching of her nose, which was only ever evident when Wanda was truly delighted by something.

“Where is she?” Wanda asked, obviously eager to reunite and shower you with affection.

“Out on the patio,” Natasha replied, “but we need to talk first, Wanda.”

“Okay. What do we need to talk about?” Wanda queried, looking a little fraught. Natasha nodded towards the dining table, and followed Wanda over once she caught on to the suggestion. Wanda sat down at the end of the table, and Natasha took the seat alongside, turning the chair to face her wife.

“She’s had a difficult day,” Natasha admitted, with a sigh. “I knew it would be, really; she obviously didn’t sleep well last night, but also it was the longest time she’s been without you since the accident. I think that hasn’t helped. I mean, of course I tried, but I’m not the same. She’s attached to you, Wanda.”

Wanda nodded, with a slightly sad smile.

“Yes, I suppose she is.”

“You know how I feel about that,” Natasha said plainly, leaning to the side slightly to rest her elbow on the table.

“I do,” Wanda agreed.

There was a pause then, as they both contemplated the impasse.

Eventually, Natasha broke the silence with a sigh.

“She came to find me this morning,” Natasha began, feeling it was important to be frank about what had happened that day. Their household had always operated on honesty; there was no need for this to change just because you were currently residing there too. “And she told me she was about to go out for a run.”

Wanda frowned at this, her cheeks paling slightly.

“You didn’t let her, did you?”

“Of course not,” Natasha protested, only just managing to contain a sigh of indignation. She might not be as all-in with affection as her wife, but that didn’t mean she was apathetic about you, or your safety. “No; I highlighted the risks, and when that didn’t put her off, I made her consider how you would feel if you came home and found out that I’d let her go for a run.” Natasha raised an eyebrow at Wanda, unable to restrain a small smirk that tugged at her lips. “It was a little too effective, honestly.”

“How did she react?” Wanda asked, leaning in with concerned curiosity.

“Well, she sort of surrendered at that point, but she wasn’t happy. I tried to suggest we go for a walk, but she wasn’t having it; she just said she needed to go for a run. I managed to get her to explain a little, though. She said she needs to exercise, Wanda. I think she’s used to doing a lot, and she’s going a little crazy being so stationary.”

“But she has to rest,” Wanda fretted, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “It’s not even been a week and… it was so bad.” She whispered the last part, her voice cracking as she recalled the accident.

“I know,” Natasha soothed, reaching out and stroking Wanda’s forearm. “But she’s a strong little thing, really. And she told me today that it’s not her first broken bone — turns out she’s always been a bit of a liability!” She turned her tone playful at the end, grinning at Wanda until she elicited the desired little huff of laughter that meant she was breaking through the worry. "I think we need to be more careful of her mental health, rather than the physical, lyubov moya. She opened up to me when I asked her about it. Just a little, just enough for me to know that exercise is how she copes with things.” Natasha paused, knowing the next part may elicit some dissent. “So we compromised. I let her use the spin bike in the gym, just for half an hour, with my supervision.” She could see Wanda opening her mouth to quibble, but she ploughed on. “And I said I’ll continue to let her, when she needs. But only if she asks, and only if I’m there.”

Wanda closed her mouth again, and Natasha wondered whether her extra detail had quelled some of the arguments in her mind. She was silent for a while, still spinning the rings, but the revolutions were slower now. More contemplative than ruminative in nature.

“Did it help?” Wanda asked finally, her voice rather small, like it pained her to consider it.

“It did,” Natasha admitted. “She was a lot brighter after. For a bit, at least. We ate lunch, and she seemed relaxed while eating. And then we went for a walk to get some buns, and she was really chirpy on the way there. That’s when I learned about all her injuries. She was happy, talkative.”

Wanda seemed saddened by this, more than anything. But Natasha understood. Wanda’s protective instincts prioritised rest, and keeping you safe at home. The success of Natasha’s tactics seemed to directly contradict her own approach, making her efforts and affections appear futile in comparison. Natasha kept one hand on Wanda’s forearm, but moved her other to rest upon Wanda’s hand. The next part she needed to share may come as a blow. But it was necessary to explain it all. Wanda needed to understand.

“She was fine until we came out of the bakery, and our discussion moved to college. I asked if she wanted to start going in, and she panicked then. Because she seems to think that you wouldn’t want her to.”

Wanda looked up from her hands, meeting Natasha’s gaze with a rather startled expression.

“We haven’t even talked about it… I - I don’t know why she would think that.”

“Well… Would you want her to go, if she asked to go in tomorrow?” Natasha asked, trying to keep her tone gentle rather than accusatory. Wanda swallowed, then released a small admission.

“No — I’d say it’s too soon.”

“And she knows that, lyubov moya, because she’s practically joined at your hip, and absolutely desperate for your approval.” Natasha’s heart clenched as she saw her wife’s eyes begin to glisten with tears. This was why it was necessary to have this conversation now, just the two of them, before having a discussion with you too. Wanda wasn’t much more enlightened than you were about the nature of your relationship together. Sure, she had her hopes and a history of wanting something specific, but at the same time Natasha was sure that a lot of her behaviour was being enacted on pure instinct. Wanda didn’t even seem to know what she was doing, half the time. She was just feeling, being. And it was up to Natasha to see, to understand on behalf of both of you.

“Did something happen between the two of you this morning?” Natasha asked, needing to know what she had missed. Something seemed to register and flicker in Wanda’s eyes, and Natasha knew then that her instincts were correct. There had been something.

“I might have got a bit carried away,” Wanda whispered, her face flushing with colour. “Maybe I was too dominant… I don’t know. I just instructed her to tell you if she needed anything, and then I… I asked her to be good for me, while I was away.”

Natasha suspected that some details might be being omitted, but she didn’t press for them. She could assume how it must have happened, how Wanda slipped into her dominance and soothed you into submission. There would no doubt have been copious pet names and physical touch involved too, all of which would have intensified the experience for you. And, inconveniently, this all transpired right before Wanda left for the day.

“She mentioned that,” Natasha shared. “She’s pretty cut-up about it actually, scared that she’s not been good for you, and that you’ll be disappointed in her.”

“I’m not,” Wanda murmured. “I’m worried.”

“Me too,” Natasha said simply. “I’m worried for the both of you. This whole thing… it seems to be spinning out of control rather quickly.”

“We can make it work,” Wanda asserted, rather desperately. “I know we can. I’m sure about this, about her, Natasha.”

Natasha took a deep breath. She needed to be honest, the voice of reason.

“I know you’re sure, lyubov moya, but I’m not. And I don’t think she’s capable of being sure of anything, at the moment.” She watched as a single tear trickled down Wanda’s cheek. Not able to bear it passing untouched, unrecognised, Natasha reached out and brushed it away with a careful stroke of her finger.

“Wanda, I love you to the moon and back many times over, but I think you’re losing yourself a little. You can’t just push the poor girl into subspace whenever it takes your fancy. She’s not ours; she’s just our guest. And she’s vulnerable. Even if you do think it could work, we can’t introduce it now — she’d probably panic and run away, and then if she did agree to it, we couldn’t really characterise it as free consent, could we?”

“I know,” Wanda agreed quietly. “I just… It’s hard to know where the line is. I keep losing sight of it, I suppose.”

“Me too,” Natasha admitted, prompting Wanda to look up in surprise. Natasha gave her a small, rueful smile. “You’re not the only one who’s struggling there. I think I’ve crossed the line a few times too. It is hard.”

They sat in silence for a while then, with Natasha contemplating her mistakes, and Wanda no doubt doing the same. It was so complex, the situation they’d ended up in. A good deed, somewhat corrupted by increasingly complicating feelings.

“I think — and I may be wrong; it’s just a suspicion — but I think she’s been experiencing sub-drop, at times, over the last few days.” Natasha posed her theory lightly, interested to hear Wanda’s take on it. When there was no immediate response, she elaborated. “I mean, it certainly seemed like it this afternoon. She missed you, and she was worried about what you thought of her, and what you had said. And the only thing that seemed to help was just being with her, and holding her, and reassuring her a lot.” Natasha chewed at the inside of her mouth, remembering the times she hugged you, and the way it had felt. That detail was unnecessary, however. She had to keep her own feelings detached, to protect the both of you. She had to remain objective.

“She likes you a lot, you know,” Wanda breathed, looking up into Natasha’s eyes with tearful sincerity. “I see the way she looks to you: always checking how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking about her. And you must see how she relaxes when you smile, and when you’re silly with her. She’s attached to you too, Nat. Just differently.”

Natasha swallowed, trying to contain the emotion that swelled inside her, a rising tide of euphoria that Wanda’s words provoked. Her defences were slightly delayed, but they sprung up then, providing an alternative, protecting her from the feelings.

“It’s just because I’m the gatekeeper to you, really. I think she knows — even if it’s just subconsciously — that I’m the one who will call this, in the end. So she wants to know that I’m still happy with her being here, and happy with the two of you becoming so close. I think she’s scared I’ll put a stop to things, all of a sudden, based on something she has done.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Wanda rejected, very quietly. “Because if that were the case, that she only cared about my affection and your permission, then she wouldn’t have admitted any of that to you, today. She’d be holding it inside, scared it would make you end this.” Wanda paused, then leaned forwards and gave Natasha a gentle kiss. “She trusts you, Talia. You just don’t trust yourself.”

Natasha stilled in her seat, letting Wanda’s words seep into her very soul. That nickname — from the real name — had a sacred place in their relationship. Wanda knew the power it held over her, and she used it sparingly, respectfully. She only pulled it out to highlight moments and mark meaning. So her use of it now gave every word extra weight, making them settle heavy inside Natasha’s body, burying the arguments that may otherwise have clawed up through her chest. The name had a way of stripping her down, chipping away her armour and revealing what lay beneath. And today, her armour seemed thin. It simply melted away like salt in the rain, sharp crystals dissolving to nothingness. Without it, her shoulders seemed to narrow and droop — like she had lost her exoskeleton, and now had to face the world more feeble.

“What’s going on with you, my love?” Wanda asked, moving her hands to interlock fingers with Natasha’s own. When Natasha made no move to answer, Wanda gave a further prompt. “I already know what you think, Talia. Right now I want to know how you feel.”

The question tugged at Natasha’s composure, unpicking her at the seams. At some point in this conversation, the power had shifted. She had thought she was in control, but now she felt on the back foot, spinning without direction. She clung to Wanda’s hands, trying to anchor herself, and return to shore.

“Talk to me, láska moja,” Wanda encouraged, “just one word will do.”

And she found it: the feeling sinking deep inside her.

“I just feel… guilty,” Natasha breathed, and it seemed like the words cut through her last defences like a knife. Wanda was watching her avidly, reading her like a book, and Natasha couldn’t help but continue turning the pages for her, showing her every piece of what she was feeling. “I’ve been trying all this time to find the balance — but if I hold back while you are being soft with her, I feel like I’m being cold. And if I let myself be soft with her too, it feels wrong… like we’re manipulating her somehow. It makes me feel dirty.” The words were spilling out without a plan, tumbling unvetted from her lips. “But then, when I asked you to pull back, it clearly hurt her. And I don’t want that. I care about her too. It’s just… I’m scared. And I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Wanda seemed to inflate then, taking account of the slight wobble in Natasha’s voice and seeming to come fully back to herself to address it.

“We do what you’re doing right now,” Wanda said fervently. “We communicate. To each other, and to her.”

Natasha nodded wordlessly, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She hated feeling like this. Unsure. Afraid. It wasn’t like her, and she didn’t want it. She was used to comforting, not being comforted. She was used to being in control.

Wanda slid out a hand and cupped Natasha’s cheek, continuing her soft assurances.

“And I think we just try our best. Not too much, not too little. We can find the sweet spot together, and we can ask her too.” Wanda’s hands moved to capture each of Natasha’s, and she entwined their fingers together. “We’ll figure this out, hm?”

Natasha took a long, shuddering breath in through her nose. And then she released it, in a slow exhale through her mouth, her lips parted into a small O.

“Yes. We will.”

Wanda smiled at her then, her eyes still a little shiny but holding warmth rather than sadness now. It never ceased to amaze Natasha, how her wife could be buoyed by the opportunity to soothe another. She came alive when people were upset, and not in a malevolent way. Wanda just truly lived for others, lived for the chance to help and to heal.

Sometimes Natasha felt guilty for rarely needing that kind of help from her wife. It felt like something she couldn’t provide, a failure on her part. Your arrival had placed that fact into stark relief. You provided something which Natasha could never give, something which Wanda craved with the deepest part of her soul. And Natasha desperately wanted her wife to have it. But she was scared that it wouldn’t work, scared that Wanda would invest too much, only for her dream to fall apart. Natasha would give Wanda the moon, if she could. But she couldn’t give her you. That decision was yours alone, a choice that couldn’t be meddled with, if it were to be true and free.

They remained quiet for a while, which was just what Natasha needed. When she felt this way she just needed two things. Time and touch; just enough to decompress.

“You know…” Wanda said quietly, stroking Natasha’s cheek with her thumb and gazing into her eyes with a steady kind of certainty, “…myšička may not be the only one having a drop today.”

Natasha let out a small breath of mirth, half-defensive, half-surrendered. Perhaps Wanda was right. Perhaps it could explain this strange concoction of emotions she was feeling — guilt, confusion, and a little panic too.

“Maybe,” she admitted, though she didn’t want to linger on this. So she summoned her intentions again, fumbling for the thread of the task at hand. “We really do need to talk to her.”

“Yes,” Wanda agreed, dropping her hand from Natasha’s cheek, and settling it on her lap instead. “What do you propose, my love?”

Natasha was grateful for the way Wanda handed back the reins, grateful for the way her wife knew when to pause, and when to progress.

“I think you ought to get her, and give her some reassurance first,” Natasha directed, feeling her body recharge with resolve as the emotional discomfort ebbed away to the background. “I told her she’s not in trouble, but I think she needs to hear it from you, too.”

“Okay, I can do that. And then shall I bring her up here?”

Natasha considered the suggestion, then shook her head.

“The table will feel too formal. Perhaps the sofa downstairs?”

“That sounds good. I’ll chat to her outside, and then bring her in.” Wanda tilted her head then, obviously preparing a new question. “How do we go about this?”

“I think we just have to keep it simple. Reassure her that we want her here, and she can stay until she’s better. Then ask her what she needs from us — college, exercise… we can prompt her, if need be. Whatever it is, we can figure out compromises, together.”

“And what about… everything else?” Wanda asked, and Natasha knew what she was referring to. “Do we explain, even just a little?”

Natasha sighed, overwhelmed by the impossibility of employing perfect ethics in this situation. To be completely honest would mean accosting you with a rather intense premise, at a time when you had no clear alternative. And to withhold it would mean deceiving you, entrapping you in a situation you hadn’t been able to consent to.

“We tell as much of the truth as we can,” she determined, speaking her decision slowly, checking each word as it came. “Like the truth that we like having her here, and we want her to stay until she’s better. And the truth that we need her to communicate with us if she’s uncomfortable.”

Wanda nodded along, taking it in with a fervent expression.

“I’ll let you take the lead, my love.” She frowned a little then, obviously considering something else. Natasha gave her a little nod of encouragement to continue. “I know you want me to be careful, to hold back a bit more… but I think she’ll need me tonight. And you too. She’ll need us to be gentle.”

“I know,” Natasha assured her. “And for tonight, I think we give that to her. But don’t lose yourself, lyubov moya. Just be Wanda, with her. Please.”

“Sľubujem,” Wanda committed, her promise quiet but steady, intent.

They kissed then, long and slow, exchanging breaths, regrets and resolve. When they broke apart, Wanda leaned her forehead to rest against Natasha’s own. They stayed like that a moment, skin touching, Natasha’s eyes dipped and Wanda’s closed.

“Go now,” Natasha whispered gently, giving her wife a final peck of the lips. “Our little mouse will be growing cold.”

Wanda leaned back, her smile radiant in the slightly fading light of the early evening. And in the warm glow of her wife’s joy, Natasha couldn’t even summon any regret at the slip of her words, at the possessive pronoun that had snuck past her reticence and settled into the secret space between them.

A/N: Thank you for reading, and sorry again that this took so long!! It was a bit scary taking a step back from Tumblr/writing for the last week, but I do feel a lot better now and ready to write and share more. I hope you all have a lovely weekend ♡

Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this) @nessheartnat , @valerie-lexi , @bishovapls , @redheadsinmybed , @electric-guillotines , @naominanuq

#wandanat x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #collision course #wandanat #f/f fanfic #marvel fanfiction #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff

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hameesstuff · 2 months ago

Text

Tokyo drift

Jaehyun x Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Tokyo Street Racing AU

Word count: ~5k words

Warnings: Tension, rivalry, heavy smut (2 scenes), one crash, fluff at the end.

___________________________________________

Part I: Smoke and Mirrors

Tokyo never slept—but neither did you.

Midnight painted the city in neon veins and roaring engines, and your car—a wine red Mazda RX-7—was the sharpest predator in the streets. You lived for the thrill, for the reverberating growl of tuned engines and the rush of slicing through Shibuya traffic like a ghost in carbon fiber. And at the very top of your “Do Not Fuck With Me” list?

Jeong Jaehyun.

Arrogant. Smirking. Too rich, too smooth, and maddeningly fast. His Green Supra was more than just a car—it was an insult. Every time he passed you at the finish line with that annoyingly perfect smirk, your fists curled.

He parked beside you like he always did—too close, too smooth—and leaned against his car like he owned the entire goddamn city.

“You look tense,” he said. His eyes flicked to you, dark and amused. “Nervous?”

“Only because you’re here,” you replied dryly, tugging your gloves tighter. “The smell of desperation’s hard to ignore.”

He grinned, shameless. “Desperation? Sweetheart, I just like watching you lose.”

“Keep dreaming.” This was your thing. The constant bickering. The heat. The impossible tension that turned every race into a war, and every stare into something that lingered a little too long.

The flag dropped.

Engines screamed.

And you were gone.

PART 2: NECK AND NECK

He was good. Annoyingly, infuriatingly good. You’d pushed every gear to the limit, drifting through Tokyo’s back alleys like a ghost, but he was always right there in your mirror. Too close. Too fast.

It was always like this. He pushed you. And you hated how much you loved it. At the finish, he beat you by half a second. Half a goddamn second.

When you pulled up, engine still humming, he was already leaning against your car—again. “Still behind,” he teased. “But hey, you’re consistent.” You shoved your door open with a little more force than necessary. “One day you’ll eat those words.”

He stepped closer. Too close. You could feel his heat. Smell the leather of his jacket. The subtle twist of his smirk. “One day?” he murmured. “I was hoping it’d be tonight.” Your breath hitched—just for a second. But he caught it. His eyes darkened.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you warned.

He tilted his head. “Aren’t we always?”

PART 3: COLLISION COURSE

It had rained earlier. The asphalt was slick, shimmering under streetlamps like oil-slicked glass. The underground buzzed with heat—bets were placed, engines revved, and you felt that itch in your bones. The one that said win or die trying.

Jaehyun pulled up beside you, engine growling low like a challenge. His eyes met yours across the line—smoldering, unreadable.

He tapped his temple. Focus, the gesture said.

You revved your engine. Bring it.

The flag dropped.

The world exploded into motion.

You and Jaehyun were locked—sliding around corners, tires screaming, headlights slicing through the Tokyo dark. He tried to pass on the inside. You blocked him. He clipped your rear fender.

“Shit!”

Your car fishtailed. You overcorrected.

There was a flash of a wall. A scream of steel. Then—

CRASH.

Metal twisted. Your windshield shattered. The airbags exploded.

You felt pain—sharp, sudden, and terrifyingly real.

Everything blurred.

Then—Jaehyun.

He was there. Hands bloody, face pale.

“Y/N! Y/N! Can you hear me?”

You blinked, dazed. “...Jaehyun?”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice tight. “I’ve got you. Don’t move—ambulance is coming.”

You wanted to speak. Wanted to fight. But everything went dark.

PART 4: FALLOUT

You woke up in the hospital to harsh light and dull aches. Bandaged ribs. Splinted wrist. And… Jaehyun. Asleep in a chair beside your bed.

He looked wrecked.

When he noticed you stir, he jolted awake.

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse. “Hey, you're okay.”

You swallowed hard. “I crashed.”

“You spun out,” he whispered. “I thought—I thought I’d lost you.”

Something in his eyes cracked, and you suddenly saw the version of Jaehyun no one else got to see. Raw. Stripped. Real.

“You stayed?”

He nodded. “I couldn’t leave.”

You stared at him. “Why?”

He looked away. “Because this was never just racing for me.”

PART 5: BURNING RUBBER, BURNING HEARTS

A week later, you were back on your feet—bruised, sore, but defiant. The crew welcomed you like royalty. Everyone had seen the crash. Everyone had seen Jaehyun’s face when they pulled you out.

Now, at the underground garage party thrown in your name, the music was too loud, the lights too low, and Jaehyun… was watching you from across the room.

Again.

Always.

You moved past him on purpose—brushed his arm. He followed. Of course he did.

The hallway outside was quiet. Cold.

“Stop following me,” you said, not turning.

“Can’t,” he said behind you. “I think about you every time I close my eyes.”

You turned slowly. His gaze was molten.

“You almost died,” he said. “I couldn’t breathe when they pulled you out. You haunt me, even when you're not there.”

Your voice trembled. “It was a race.”

“No. You were the risk.”

And then—he kissed you.

Hot, angry, desperate.

You shoved him back against the concrete wall, your lips colliding with his, teeth grazing, hands tangling in his jacket. He growled into your mouth—low, needy.

“Tell me you want this,” he rasped.

“I want to forget we’re enemies,” you whispered. “Just for tonight.”

PART 6: WALLS AND WHISPERS

Clothes were yanked—half ripped. His mouth devoured yours as he lifted you against the wall, your legs locking around him instinctively.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your throat. “You drive me insane.”

“You like it,” you panted. “Admit it.”

His fingers slid beneath your waistband, stroking hot, wet skin. You gasped, bucked.

“You’re soaked for me,” he muttered, eyes glazed. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this.”

You didn’t. Not even a little.

His mouth moved lower, worshipping your skin. He dropped to his knees like he meant it—tongue tracing fire along your thigh before burying himself between your legs.

Your moan echoed off the walls.

By the time he stood again, you were trembling.

“Condom?” you whispered.

He pulled one from his jacket. “Always prepared.”

He slammed into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“Jaehyun—”

“Say my name again,” he growled, thrusting deep. “Say it like you mean it.”

You did. Again and again.

And when you came—writhing, clinging, breaking—he came too, groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours.

PART 7: POST-IGNITION SILENCE

After, you sat beside him in the back of his car, half-dressed, winded, stunned.

“Well,” you said breathlessly, “that escalated.”

He chuckled. “So... rivals?”

You smirked. “More like… complicated coworkers.”

His fingers brushed your jaw. “Let me complicate it more.”

You let him kiss you again—slow this time. Sweet.

Which was worse, really.

Because this? This could hurt.

PART 8: CRACKS IN ARMOR

The weeks that followed were a mess of races, glances, almost-touches, and unfinished confessions.

Sometimes he’d find you alone in the garage, brush your fingers accidentally-on-purpose, lean close but never kiss you again.

Until the night you lost.

Your engine gave out mid-race. You limped back in last. Jaehyun found you behind the tents, crouched beside your smoking hood.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“No, you’re not.”

He stepped close. “Why are you pulling away?”

“Because I can’t lose like that again,” you said. “Not to a race. Not to you.”

Jaehyun reached out, his fingers curling around yours.

“You never lost me,” he said softly. “You’ve had me since that first night.”

PART 9: GARAGE GLOW

That night, he took you home.

Not to fuck—not at first.

He undressed you slowly, reverently, like you were something rare. Every kiss was a promise. Every touch a confession.

When he slid inside you this time, it was slow. Deep.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “I need to see you.”

You did. And it undid you.

He rocked into you with steady thrusts, fingers intertwined with yours, lips pressing soft nothings into your shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Every time. Always.”

And when you came this time, it wasn’t fireworks. It was sunrise. Warmth. A release so gentle, you cried.

He held you through it, kissing the tears away.

FINAL LAP, FINAL HEARTBEAT

The crowd was wild. The stakes were higher than ever.

Tonight wasn’t about the crown. It was personal. One last race. You vs. Jaehyun. One-on-one. Winner takes all.

He leaned into your window before the race. “You ready?”

You gave him a look. “For victory?”

“No,” he said softly. “For us.”

Your breath caught.

Then the lights went green.

You shot forward, your RX-7 screaming, tires spinning smoke into the air. He was right beside you, his Supra a green blur.

You weaved through the city’s veins like lightning—dodging trucks, skimming barriers, pushing past limits. Jaehyun tried to pass you on a bridge curve. You blocked. He smiled.

“You trust me?” he called through the comms.

“Not even a little!”

He laughed—and then pulled a stunt you didn’t expect. He tapped your rear, just enough to send you into a spin. But instead of crashing, you drifted through a narrow alley, gaining time.

“You crazy bastard,” you muttered, catching control again.

“Just helping,” he smirked.

The last stretch was an abandoned Tokyo highway—lit only by your headlights and adrenaline. You were side by side, neck and neck, screaming toward the finish.

Then—a sharp turn. Jaehyun clipped a cone. His car wobbled.

“Shit—!”

Without thinking, you nudged him with your rear fender—steadying him.

He looked over at you in disbelief.

And you smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You crossed the line at the exact same moment.

A tie.

The crowd went insane.

But all you heard was your heartbeat—and his voice, suddenly at your ear.

“You didn’t want to win?” he whispered.

“I already did,” you said, turning toward him. “I’ve got you.”

He kissed you right there in front of everyone. Fast, messy, hot with leftover adrenaline and unspoken confessions.

And you kissed him back like the world was burning behind you.

Because maybe it was.

But he’d still be your favorite crash.

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

___________________________________________

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wlwsoccerfics · 1 month ago

Text

Bad Back(StephCatleyXArsenalReader)

Summary: during a Game you get a Back injury that leaves you with a back brace for a few months and your wife takes Care of you.

You and Daphne switched every other Game. Both sharing the Spot of Number one Goalkeeper on the Team. You liked that alot Sharing the Spot with your best friend and fellow dutchie.

Currently you were on the way to the Game at the emirates. Your wife Steph was driving. You didn't Drive with the team on the Bus cause you planned on visiting Manchester with Steph and Beth to see your sister Viv. She was your twin. You weren't identical but still had that Special twin bond. Vic was watching Myle and Calvin for you Guys so you could take the two later with you Guys to Manchester.

"i am excited to see Viv!" You told your wife. Steph laughed softly. Of course she wasn't surprised to hear that.

"i would be concerned If you weren't excited Babe. For real. I don't know who is more excited to see Vivi, you or Beffy!" Your wife answered.

"okay valid! I don't know either." You admitted and chuckled softly.

"are you excited about the game today? I know how much you enjoy Games against Manchester United." Your wife replied.

"Very excited." You let her know. "You?" You asked.

"very much." Steph said softly.

When you reached the Stadium you walked to the changing room together, Hand in Hand. Running into Kim & Leah on the way there.

"aww it's our newly weds!" Leah stated teasingly. You have been married for 3 years and have been together for almost 5. But it was no Secret that you still often acted like freshly in Love Teens. So the Team liked to tease you two about it.

"Jealous much, Williamson?" You asked just as teasingly. Leah was one of your best friends.

"Like she is any better with Elle!" Kim replied. Chuckling softly.

"Point for you, Kimmy!" Steph said and smiled. All of sudden you felt someone jump onto your back, quickly holding her.

"Hoi beste vriendin." You heard Daphne say. You smiled and held her up on your back with one arm. ( hi bestie. )

"Hoi Daphne." You replied and smiled softly.

"Je gaat het vandaag geweldig doen! Dat weet ik zeker!" Daphne let you know, which made you smile even more. ( you gonna do amazing today! i just know it! )

"Bedankt." You replied. Your little group made it's way into the changing rooms.

You sat down and put on your Football cleats after greeting everyone.

"i am excited to Play against Tooney!" Alessia admitted.

"we gonna kick Manchester Uniteds Asses!" Katie stated.

"i am looking forward to this Match too!" You hear Codi say.

The Game was going great for you Guys. Arsenal was in the lead right now. 2-0 was the Score. You did some great saves. It was almost half time when Manchester United was awarded a Corner kick. You jump towards the ball. So did Leah and Millie Turner. The two didn't only knock eachother down but also made you lose your Balance when you went back down from the jump and fell hard against the Goalpost. Whimpering in pain.

"y/n!" Steph yelled out. Your wife kneeled in front of you. Millie and Leah back on their feet. Thankfully they weren't Hurt. You on the other hand.

"don't move, y/n! The medics are coming over." Katie said.

"my back, it feels weird." You admitted. Tears streaming down your face.

"i am right by your side, Babe!" Your wife answered. The medics made sure to be really careful. They put on a Neck brace just in case. Steph was allowed to Go to the hospital with you.

Your twin has watched the Scene on TV in Horror and was trying to call Steph now. Viv felt sick to her stomach.

"Steph, thank god! I was freaking out because i thought you wouldn't answer my call. And i saw what happened on tv. How is y/n?" Your sister wanted to know.

"she is getting a Check up right now. I am in the waiting room!" Your wife let your sister know. Your sister was currently on the way to London. In fact she was calling from the Car.

A little while later Steph was back by your side. Holding your Hand. You sat on your back with a back brace on.

"you have a fractured back bone. So the brace has to stay on. Apart from when you shower of course. There is no surgery needed but the healing process can take Up to 12 weeks." The doctor told you.

"when can i go home?" You wanted to know.

"in two days. We just want to Help you adjust to what's going on right now with your Body and then you are allowed to go home. Cause i know your Club is gonna make sure you gonna be okay!" The doctor answered. He happened to be a big Fan so you and Steph signed a picture for him.

Viv looked at you. She was quite glad to see that you didn't look as fragile anymore. Because on tv that looked alot different.

"i am glad you will be fine after the twelve weeks! Cause i was super freaked out." Your twin said and took your hand gently. Giving it a small squeeze.

"i am glad about that too. Especially cause i have Plans with my wife!" You answered.

"i don't need to know about my best friend and my sister in law having Sex!" Beth stated when she walked into your Hospital room.

"that's Not what i was talking about!" You told her and playfully rolled your eyes.

"my Love was actually talking about trying for a Baby!" Steph admitted. Viv and Beth both looked surprised but Happy.

"oh my god! I am excited when that happens!" Daphne happily said, when she walked into the room.

"you will be one of the First ones to know!" You told your best friend.

Two weeks later you really have gotten used to the back brace. As much as one can. Your wife did alot to help you and made things alot easier for you.

"thank you Babe. For everything, i mean it!" You replied after she handed you a Plate with cut Up strawberries and a cheese Sandwich.

" i married you and promised through the good and the Bad. What Kind of wife would i be If i didn't help you?" Steph asked and kissed your head softly. You smiled at her.

"i still appreciate you and i am very thankful. Promise i will always be there for you as well Babe! You are stuck with me!" You let her know. Smiling even more now. She smiled back at you.

"stuck with you? Best News ever!" Steph answered.

It was a hard and exhausting time but you fought your way back onto the pitch and Steph was always with you. Just like your sister and your entire Team. And your Bestie Daphne of course.

#woso x reader #woso fic #arsenal women x reader #woso request #steph catley x reader #daphne van domselaar x reader #katie mccabe x reader #leah williamson x reader #kim little x goalkeeper reader

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eelliotss · 6 months ago

Text

— A Curse Between Us, part 2

Bound by a curse and centuries of longing, he scours the universe to reclaim the woman who once shared his soul, only to find her fractured by forgotten memories and a life that no longer includes him. As he fights to reignite their bond, you emerge— a black box of secrets and power capable of shattering the fragile balance of his kingdom and plan, a new variable that alters the balance of his life

“I was supposed to be the last of us,” he breathed.

Will she always be his fate, or will your introduction into the picture tip the balance of his destiny?

⚠️ Spoilers to Sylus’s myth. Reader is not MC, and in this story, Sylus is still a dragon.

word count: 3.2k

SLOW BURN

masterlist

previously:

“I was supposed to be the last of us,” he breathed, the words heavy with a mix of wonder and dread. The room felt smaller now, charged with an energy both of you have not felt in centuries. The air was pressing down on your lungs as adrenaline coursed through your body.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” you whispered. A frown quickly crawled up your face as you hurriedly turned away, dashing into the crowd. Before Sylus could react, a voice rang in his ear: “Sylus, can I use your card?” That small distraction was enough for him to lose you. Somewhat annoyed, he answered, “Don’t bother me with such trivial matters.”

In that moment, the Onichynus leader knew the balance of power had shifted.

This was no mere encounter. It was a collision of forces that would change everything.

◆◇◆─◆��◆─◆◇◆

He stood motionless for a moment, his crimson eyes fixed on where she had been moments before. The energy she left behind lingered faintly, a tantalizing hum that refused to dissipate. It unsettled him. Another one of his kind? It was impossible. It had to be.

But he didn’t have time to entertain impossibilities.

Shaking off the unease clawing at the edges of his mind, Sylus turned his attention back to the voice ringing in his ear. “I’ll take this for a million,” she spoke, reminding him of the task at hand. Whatever Relia’s presence meant—whatever secrets she carried—would have to wait. There were more pressing matters to attend to. She was waiting for him.

“Five million.”

◆◇◆─◆◇◆─◆◇◆

The corridors of the auction were buzzing with activity, the hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses filling the air. Sylus navigated the crowd with ease, his towering figure parting the sea of attendees without effort. He caught sight of her near the center of the auction floor, standing amidst a group of bidders. The soft light of the chandeliers above bathed her in a warm glow, making her stand out even among the richly dressed crowd.

She was laughing. It was a rare sound, light and carefree, and it sent a pang through his chest. She was pretending, of course. That laugh was just part of the role she was playing—an act to keep the bidders’ attention away from him and the true purpose of their visit here. But even knowing that, it was enough to stir something deep within him.

Sylus stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against a nearby pillar as he watched her. She was radiant, even in her feigned joy. His jaw tightened. She shouldn’t have to do this. She shouldn’t have to risk herself for this mission. But she had insisted, as she always did, and he hadn’t been able to refuse her. Not when she looked at him with that fire in her eyes, that unyielding determination that reminded him so much of the girl he had fallen in love with.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore. Not yet.

Sylus approached MC just as a well-dressed man leaned in closer, his expression filled with thinly veiled intent.

“That pendant,” the man said, gesturing toward the delicate piece resting on her chest. “It’s extraordinary. I’d offer you a fortune for it, along with a dance, if you’d indulge me.”

MC’s smile was tight, polite, but before she could reply, Sylus stepped forward with the ease of someone who owned the entire room. His smile was sharp, cutting through the tension. “Its a gift from me,” he said smoothly, his crimson gaze locking onto the man. “And, as for the dance, I’m afraid she already owes me one.”

The man hesitated under Sylus’s piercing stare before chuckling nervously. “Ah, I see. My apologies, then.” He bowed slightly, stepping back before disappearing into the crowd.

MC turned to Sylus with an arched brow, her irritation barely masked. “He was about to offer me ten hightowers for a dance. What are you going to offer me?”

Sylus’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, his usual arrogance gleaming in his expression. “My charming company,” he quipped, his tone teasing.

“Now, stop wasting time. The aether core. Do you know where it is?” She sighed, her demeanor shifting back into sharp focus.

Sylus’s smirk deepened as he gestured toward the far end of the auction hall. “Don’t ask useless questions. They took the bait. Let’s hurry before things get chaotic.”

He led her through the building’s corridors and stairwells until they emerged onto the rooftop. The air was sharp and electric, crackling with the unstable energy of a protofield. A swirling vortex of power surrounded the rooftop’s center, where a large, jagged stone pulsed with erratic light.

Sylus’s expression remained calm as he gestured her forward. “After you,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement.

MC stepped closer, her focus fixed on the glowing stone. As she approached, the energy intensified, swirling into chaotic patterns. Sylus stayed close behind, his presence steady as he guided her through the unstable field.

The moment she activated the stone, the air split with a deafening screech. From within the vortex, a massive electric-type wanderer emerged—a bird-like monster with jagged wings crackling with raw energy. It spread its wings wide, arcs of lightning cascading into the night sky.

MC’s breath hitched, but Sylus’s voice cut through her fear. “Don’t worry,” he said, his tone low and reassuring. “We’ll handle it.”

The battle that followed was fierce. The wanderer was fast, its strikes relentless, but Sylus moved with precision, his chains coiling and striking with deadly accuracy. MC supported him, her movements deliberate as she worked to weaken the creature’s defenses. Finally, with a combined effort, the bird let out a final, piercing cry before collapsing into a burst of energy.

Amid the remains of the creature, the aether core sat gleaming faintly. MC approached it cautiously, her hand reaching out to claim it. The moment her fingers brushed against its surface, it glowed faintly before shattering into pieces.

“What…?” MC’s voice was filled with confusion as she stared at the fragments. “What… happened?”

Sylus remained silent for a moment before answering, his voice quiet but steady. “That’s what happens. The core breaks as soon as its power enters you.” He glanced at her briefly before turning his gaze upward, his expression distant.

The rooftop felt heavier now, the silence pressing down on them. Sylus’s eyes scanned the dark sky above, but his mind was elsewhere. This place—it wasn’t just a battlefield. The setting resembled his graveyard of memories, the place where it had happened. Where she had been tortured. Where she had driven the blade into him, ending their shared tragedy with her curse.

And now, she stood here again, her gaze filled with curiosity and confusion, with no recollection of what had transpired. Of what they had been.

He swallowed the surge of emotions rising within him, his voice low as he finally spoke. “Let’s go,” he said, turning away from the sky. “We’re done here.”

MC followed, unaware of the storm of regret and longing swirling within him.

◆◇◆─◆◇◆─◆◇◆

The journey back to Lincoln was uneventful for MC. He watched her departure from the shadowed balcony of one of his many hideouts in the N109 Zone, his crimson eyes fixed on the car as it disappeared into the distant haze of polluted skies. A part of him wanted to follow, to keep her within his reach, but he forced himself to stay. She was safer in Lincoln, far from the chaos that defined his domain.

But even with her gone, her presence lingered, clawing at him like a restless ghost. His fingers brushed against the red pin on his blazer as he leaned back against the cold metal railing. Memories of her—of their past—haunted him, as vivid as if they’d happened yesterday. He had been so close to her tonight, closer than he’d been in what felt like lifetimes, yet the distance between them felt greater than ever.

He pushed the thought aside, turning his mind toward the storm brewing in the N109 Zone. The auction’s aftermath had left ripples throughout the city, whispers of what had transpired spreading among its dangerous inhabitants. The acquisition of the Aether Core would draw attention, but Sylus knew how to handle such matters. What concerned him more was the unexpected element that had revealed itself during the auction.

You.

The memory of you lingered in his mind, your eyes and calm demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos around you. You weren’t just another player in the Zone’s intricate web of power struggles. You were something else entirely—a black box, a variable he hadn’t accounted for.

The N109 Zone was his domain, a place he had shaped and bent to his will. He knew every player, every hidden agenda, every unspoken alliance. And yet, you had slipped through his grasp, your presence unexpected and unaccounted for.

He tapped a button on the console embedded in his desk, summoning his second-in-command, Kieran. The door to his quarters hissed open moments later, and Kieran stepped inside, his crow mask reflecting the dim light in the room.

“You called?” Kieran asked, his tone casual but attentive.

Sylus turned from the document in his hands, the list of the auction’s attendees, his crimson eyes meeting Kieran’s. “I need information. On her.” He tossed the paper onto the table, a red circle highlighted one name on the list.

Kieran raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise breaking through his usual stoic demeanor. “The princess of the N109 Zone? Thought she wasn’t on your radar.”

“She is now,” Sylus said sharply. “I want everything—her movements, her alliances, her purpose here. And I want it yesterday.”

Kieran nodded, his expression turning serious. “Consider it done. But… if I may, why so suddenly?”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. His mind was already racing, piecing together the threads of a plan. “She’s an anomaly,” he said finally.

Kieran hesitated for a moment, then nodded again. “Understood. I’ll have a report for you within the day.”

As Kieran left, Sylus returned to the window, his gaze distant. The pendant in his hand grew warmer, its glow intensifying for a brief moment before fading again. It was a reminder of what he was fighting for, what he had sacrificed everything to protect.

◆◇◆─◆◇◆─◆◇◆

As expected of the right hand man of Onychinus’ leader, Kieran entered the boss’ office within a few hours, a stack of documents in his hands and a bemused expression on his face.

“Got something for you,” Kieran said, dropping the papers onto Sylus’s desk. “But, uh… don’t expect anything groundbreaking.”

Sylus arched an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “Go on.”

Kieran gestured to the papers. “Yn. Turns out, she’s exactly what you’d expect. The adopted daughter of Darian Graves, the second most influential man in the N109 zone. She was adopted when she was seven into power because of Grave’s inability to have kids despite years of trying, he boasted about how him finding her was destined, and showered her with anything a girl could dream of. She’s the true definition of daddy’s girl. Barely steps out of line, barely makes appearances except in her father’s place or companies her dad to events, keeps to herself most of the time. The only thing remotely interesting is that she doesn’t seem to care about the politics of the Zone. She’s more focused on… well, nothing, really. Just a quiet life under her father’s shadow.”

Sylus frowned, flipping through the documents. The information was mundane—locations you frequented, interactions with key figures, a few inconsequential purchases. Everything painted a picture of someone perfectly normal. Too normal. Well, as normal as the daughter of a black market business owner can be.

Kieran smirked, leaning against the wall. “Seems like you’re wasting your time on her. She’s as harmless as they come.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately, his eyes scanning the pages with precision. Harmless. The word didn’t sit right with him. He’d felt the hum of her presence, the weight of something far more dangerous beneath the surface. This couldn’t be all there was to her.

His fingers paused on a photograph tucked among the papers—a candid shot of you walking through a crowded market, your expression calm and distant. Dark eyes, straight black hair, and an aura that seemed almost too composed. Sylus stared at the image for a long moment, his mind churning.

“Harmless,” Sylus murmured, his tone laced with doubt. “We’ll see about that.”

◆◇◆─◆◇◆─◆◇◆

It wasn’t long before the opportunity to learn more about you presented itself.

A week passed. The N109 Zone was as chaotic as ever, its underbelly teeming with activity. Sylus spent his days managing his organization, keeping the Zone’s delicate balance of power in check. Yet his thoughts kept drifting back to you. Your presence had disrupted the careful structure of his world and the reality he had always believed.

His chance came when one of his subordinates reported a gathering of high-ranking figures in the Zone. A private meeting, hosted by none other than Darian Grave, your father, second most powerful figure in the N109 Zone. The meeting itself wasn’t unusual; such gatherings happened often, as rulers of the Zone’s territories maneuvered for influence. What caught Sylus’s attention was the guest list: you were rumored to be attending.

Sylus decided to go, not as a participant but as an observer. He rarely attended these meetings, preferring to operate from the shadows, but this time, curiosity won out.

The meeting was held in a sprawling underground hall, its walls adorned with symbols of wealth and power. Sylus arrived unnoticed, his presence concealed as he watched the proceedings from a shadowed alcove. The room was filled with familiar faces—warlords, smugglers, and mercenaries, all vying either for dominance or a powerful ally in the Zone. Desire laced every part of the room, from people’s eyes to the air within. He was well too accustomed to those looks.

The ballroom was a masterpiece of excess and elegance, a stark contrast to the chaos of the N109 Zone outside its walls. High vaulted ceilings stretched above, their intricate carvings illuminated by chandeliers dripping with crystal shards that refracted light like fractured stars. The air was thick, almost suffocating, with the pungent scent of colognes—bold, sharp, and overbearing. It was the kind of smell that tried too hard to assert dominance, an attempt to mask insecurities and project an air of power. The notes were harsh, peppery, and metallic, layered with a faint undertone of sweat and stale cigars. It clung to the room like an invisible fog, mingling with the distant tang of industrial steel that seeped in from the Zone outside.

The floor, a gleaming expanse of black marble streaked with veins of gold, reflected the movement of the guests as they glided across it. Women in shimmering gowns of every jewel tone imaginable swirled past men in sharp suits adorned with subtle metallic accents. The soft swish of fabric and the click of polished shoes against the marble provided a rhythmic counterpoint to the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

In one corner, a live string quartet played a hauntingly beautiful melody, their music weaving through the air like a silken thread. Each note rose and fell with precision, managing to carry over the noise of the crowd without feeling intrusive. The sound was accompanied by the faint clink of glasses as waiters moved deftly through the room, balancing trays of crystal flutes filled with golden, bubbling liquid.

And then you appeared.

You entered the hall with an air of quiet confidence, accompanying your father like a jewel that adorned him, your movements fluid and unhurried. You wore a sleek black gown that shimmered faintly in the dim light, your dark orbs scanning the room with practiced indifference. Your aura was subdued, almost hidden, but Sylus could still feel the faint hum of your power—a reminder of your true nature.

Your father stated a grand speech, thanking everyone for joining his annual ball. And thus, the game officially began. People scurried to those they thought would benefit them, greed and lust lacing the air they breath out. After all, this ball was one of the gatherings of the most powerful people in the N109 zone. Unsurprisingly, the crowd around your father and you was one of the largest, with people almost begging to be seen by Darian— the man only second to the notorious Onichinus leader. You didn’t speak much, content to let your father dominate the conversation. Yet your mere presence commanded attention. Sylus studied you intently, his mind working to piece together the puzzle you presented. Your calmness was unnerving, your lack of overt ambition unusual for someone in your position.

As the mingles drew out, you found a way to excuse yourself from your father’s side. You glided to a server nearby to grab a glass of something that, hopefully, could drown out some of the noice around you. The peace was short-lived.

“Miss Yn,” a man approached you. Of course you saw their eyes, the eyes of men brimmed with lust, eyeing you from head to toe. The need in their eyes— for your wealth, power, and body— sent shivers down your spine. Your gaze met his with a soft smile on your lips. “I’m Alex,” he introduced. He rambled on about his business, seemingly boasting about how competent he is. You simply listened with a polite curve on your lips, occasionally throwing in a chuckle at his flat jokes, if you could even call them one. You must’ve acted your part a bit too well, giving him the confidence to inch closer and placing a hand on the top of your waist. “I heard you do not have a partner tonight,” his voice dropped along with his gaze. “How about we step away from this crowd and… get to know each other better?”

Bile rose in your throat as his suggestion hung in the air. You shifted slightly, sliding out of his grasp with practiced ease. You shifted slightly, creating just enough space to remove his hand without making a scene. “I appreciate your… enthusiasm, Alex,” you said, your tone calm but edged with frost. “But I’m afraid I must decline.” He frowned, his smile faltering. “Come on,” he pressed, stepping closer again. “Don’t be like that. I can—” “You can leave,” you interrupted, your voice sharper now, cutting through his excuses. Your midnight eyes met his with an intensity that made him pause. “I’ve been polite, but my patience has limits. Don’t make me repeat myself.” Alex hesitated, his confidence wavering under the weight of your gaze. His hand twitched as if considering another move. “You’re done here,” you said, your voice dropping lower, almost a growl. “Walk away before you embarrass yourself further. You wouldn’t want me calling for my father, would you?” The flicker of fear in his eyes was brief, but it was enough. He stepped back, muttering an incoherent excuse before retreating into the crowd, his bravado shattered.

You exhaled softly, the tension in your muscles easing as you released your tail from its hold. Lifting the champagne glass to your lips, you took another sip, savoring the bitterness that lingered.

“Handling your admirers with grace, I see,” came a familiar voice from behind you.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was Sylus. He leaned casually against the nearest pillar, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. Your eyes met his without surprise. If you were startled by his sudden appearance, you didn’t show it.

“You’re not very subtle,” you said, your tone as calm as ever.

Sylus smirked, leaning casually against the wall. “And yet, you noticed me. Maybe I wanted to be found.”

You tilted your head, studying him with a faint hint of amusement. “Or maybe you’re just bad at hiding.”

The exchange was brief, but it was enough to confirm what Sylus had suspected. You weren’t just another player in the Zone’s power games. You were something else entirely—a force that could reshape the rules of the game itself.

And for the first time in a long time, Sylus found himself intrigued.

#sylus #sylus x you #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lnds #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #sylus x mc

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oddinary4bts · 1 year ago

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Chasing Cars | ch 3 (jjk)

☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, this chapter contains mature content)

☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff

☆warnings: a power outage, Jungkook being a menace as per always, getting stood up for Valentine's Day, falling on a patch of ice, alcohol, curses, peach, OC gets a little jealous, explicit content: teasing?, dom!Jungkook, big dick!Jungkook, sex toy (vibrator), male and female masturbation, praising, cum play (don't be stupid), fingering

☆word count: 13.2k

☆a/n: this is like one of my fav chapters in this whole series, and also the one inspired by jungkook's iconic live with the candle and the white dress shirt and oof :') hope you enjoy it!! Thank you to @moonleeai and @jessikahathaway for beta-ing, you guys are the best <3

☆series masterpost

☆add yourself to the taglist here!

☆☆☆☆☆

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

☆☆☆☆☆

Thursday, February 14th

Sometimes, the universe aligns to create such a shitty day that you think your life is a joke. A cruel joke, and you’re just the sitcom character that people use to make themselves feel better.

Today has been one of those days. You woke up late, somehow not hearing your alarm, and got to your midterm so late you didn’t have time to finish. At least you were confident in the answers that you did write down, so you think there’s a chance you’ll still pass.

Then, you forgot your student ID, and the lady at the cafeteria refused to let you eat even though she’s seen you almost every day of the semester so far. Nabi offered you some of her salad, but you felt bad and barely ate.

Then the rain started – freezing rain at that – and you had to run to the other building for your genetics class, ending with your hair half frozen and the knowledge that you’re going to get sick by tomorrow.

Genetics class in and of itself is fine. Your stomach gurgling all through the class isn’t, and you’ve noticed people looking at you where you’re sitting, every time your stomach thinks it’s a whale and it needs to sing to its fellow mates.

During break, someone offers you a protein bar, and you take it with cheeks burning, thanking them profusely. Though you hate the taste of protein bars, and you struggle to finish it without puking on the desk. You power through, and then the class resumes, and you try to focus. It’s hard, and when you receive a text from Hoseok, you stop pretending that you’re listening.

[2:47 pm] Hobi: have u seen the weather outside? [2:47 pm] You: yeah it’s trash. I think I’m still half frozen [2:49 pm] Hobi: don’t have power at my place anymore [2:50 pm] Hobi: and it looks dangerous to drive

You know exactly what’s coming. It shouldn’t even come as a surprise – you don’t know why you agreed to meet up on Valentine’s Day. Yet, you’ve been looking forward to it all day, perhaps because it’s been so shit even hanging out with Hoseok on this day of celebration of love seemed better.

[2:50 pm] Hobi: any chance I can get a raincheck?

You want to bash your head on the desk, and of course, the professor chooses this exact moment to call you out for being on your phone. You flush a deep red, mumbling an apology as you put your phone face down on the desk. Everyone’s looking at you, and from where you’re sitting at the back of the class you can see that half the people aren’t even taking notes. You think they’re full of shit for glaring at you, but you can’t help the way you turn crimson, and Nabi stifles a laugh next to you.

“Shut up,” you whisper through gritted teeth, elbowing her in the ribs.

She shrugs innocently, and then her eyes slide back to the professor as he resumes the class. Not wanting to risk it, you focus too, and it seems the shame is what you need to finally concentrate because you find yourself typing away on the computer, describing the pictures in the PowerPoint slides so you can understand them later.

The lights go out five minutes before the end of the class. The projector shuts down in time, a clear indication that the college has run out of power too – something that rarely ever happens unless it’s the end of the world outside.

There’s a series of gasps, and the professor looks so jaded at the front of the class that you wouldn’t be surprised if he’s made of the actual precious stone. He looks towards the door, where you can see that the light has also gone out in the hallway.

Without even a glance at the class, he slams his laptop shut, heaving out a sigh.

“Class dismissed for today, we don’t have enough time left to wait for the power to come back on.”

It doesn’t even take half a second before everyone is starting to put their stuff away, the class suddenly overcome with a cacophony of sounds, and Nabi turns to you.

“Who were you texting during class?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Shut up.” You put your laptop in your bag, chugging the rest of your water bottle before you stuff it next to the laptop. “Hobi cancelled on me.”

Of course the whole friend group now knows about you two. You have Hoseok to blame for that, and his incredibly good idea to have sex at a party last week, where Yoongi walked in on the two of you. You’ve never seen Yoongi look more uncomfortable before in your life and, to your surprise, he’s been teased about the situation a lot more than you or Hoseok. It’s still a relief because you were afraid the friend group would go to shit if people knew, but now it seems it’s only solidified it even more.

“Bruh,” Nabi lets out. “Why?”

You motion to the dead neon lights over your heads. “The weather. He doesn’t have power anymore.”

“Shit.” You finish packing your stuff and you’re walking out of the class when she continues, “That’s wild though, didn’t think the freezing rain would hit that bad.”

A girl in front of you turns as if summoned. “They’re saying it’s going to be the worst storm of the century.” She points her phone towards you and Nabi, screen first. “Look, tons of trees have already fallen.”

Your eyes widen, because indeed she’s showing a picture from a group chat, of a tree having fallen on someone’s poor car. You wince in time with Nabi.

“RIP to whoever’s car that is,” you answer.

The girl nods, a wistful expression taking over her features. “That would be my boyfriend’s.”

You don’t talk more after that, and she jogs to join her friends closer to the stairs. You take that as an opportunity to finally reply to Hoseok, grabbing your phone out of the pocket of your coat.

[3:59 pm] You: power even went out in college so yeah, np!

Hoseok is quicker to reply than you’ve expected, saying that he’d like to meet up some time this weekend if you can. You don’t promise him anything, though you don’t really have plans as of right now.

You’ve just got a feeling that, if the storm is going to be the storm of the century, you won’t be hanging out for at least a few days. And the moment you step outside, you realize that it might even take more than a few days.

Trees have fallen everywhere. The sidewalk is entirely iced, and just by the time you’ve made it to the bus stop in front of the building, you’ve seen a car accident, both cars unable to stop at a stop sign. You figure taking the bus would be dangerous right now, and you settle on aiming for the pedestrian trail that leads to a park near your apartment, while Nabi parts to head towards the dorm, where apparently the power is still on. She tells you to let her know if you have power at home, and then you turn to head towards home, fishing your phone out of your pocket.

At least it’s not raining heavily as you walk. It’s the only positive thing in your day, and you hold onto your phone, sending a text to Taehyung to inform him of the situation.

You’re two minutes from home when you slip on a slab of ice, and you fall in a puddle of mud that stains your pale pants. You don’t even know how there can be mud when everything else is frozen, but of course, you had to fall in it. You assess yourself for a second, making sure nothing hurts too bad and then you mutter, “Of fucking course.”

You don’t even feel like getting up. If it wasn’t for the fact that the mud in which you’re sitting is freezing, you think you’d sit there until you died. You feel drained, and the weight of the day finally hits you head-on, bringing tears to your eyes.

Or maybe it’s just the embarrassment of walking home with your favourite pair of pants ruined. You don’t even know anymore; too much has happened in just a few hours for your brain to accept to be working anymore. You angrily blink the tears away, knowing you’ll break down the second you step inside your own home.

You can only hope that Jungkook is not going to be there. You hold onto that hope as you get to the building, and when you see the lights are out, the tears win against you. You carefully walk up the stairs – even they are covered in a thick sheet of ice – and surprisingly, you make it to the top unscathed.

You try to unlock the door with shaky fingers, struggling to find the hole through the blurriness of your tears, and you almost consider breaking the door down when it suddenly swings open in front of you.

“Peach?”

You’re aware that you’ve got fat tears rolling down your cheeks. You’re aware that you probably look a mess – you are a mess – but all you can do is stare at Jungkook.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, voice laced with concern as he steps aside to let you in.

You put your bag down, shrugging as he shuts the door behind him carefully, eyeing you as if you’re a specimen of a rare animal that’s going to run if he startles it. You refuse to meet his gaze, refuse to speak lest you embarrass yourself with crying even more. All you do is angrily wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“Hey,” he says, and he puts a hand on your shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

You motion around. “What’s wrong?” You scoff, and out of spite, you force down the wave of tears that is threatening to meet the ones you’ve just dried on your cheeks. “Everything is fucking wrong.”

You glance at Jungkook, and he’s just watching, eyes widened. He seems startled by your outburst, and you think you see him gulp.

“Do you…” he trails off, glancing at the door. You only then realize that he’s clad in his winter coat, and he was probably on his way out when you arrived. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head no, hating yourself for the way your bottom lip trembles.

His hand is still on your shoulder, and it slowly slides to your arm. “Did you hurt yourself?” he asks.

He’s only then realized that you’re half-covered in mud.

“I fell on a patch of ice,” you answer.

He makes you turn, assessing the damage. “If you soak your pants in water, I can get the stain out.”

“There’s no power.”

He turns you back around, offering you a small smile as he cocks an eyebrow arrogantly. “Astute.”

You want to punch him so bad, but what you do is laugh, which makes you think you’ve gone crazy.

“Water still runs, though,” he points out. “I’ll take care of it when the power comes back on. Doesn’t even need to be warm. You can save what’s left of the hot water for a shower if you want?”

He says it like a question, and you shrug your shoulders. A new tear rolls on your cheek, and to your surprise, Jungkook dries it with his thumb. He then points to your shoes.

“Take these off. You’re going to take a shower before the neighbours steal the water.”

“I don’t…” you trail off, as he’s just staring at you as if what you were going to say was going to be the stupidest shit he’s ever heard. As much as you want to hate him right now, the way his hand feels on your arm is making the anxiety lessen, until you realize that it’s going to be okay.

You can head to Ria and Nabi’s dorm right after a quick shower.

“M’kay,” you finally accept. “But you can go, you don’t have to stay.”

He shrugs, and when he lets go of your arm, you almost want to grab his hand and put it back there. “I was just going to charge my phone in my car. It can wait.”

You hold his gaze, feeling swallowed by his big doe eyes. It finishes drying the tears on your waterline, and you take a deep steadying breath. “M’kay,” you repeat.

At that he smirks, nodding his head once. He kicks off his shoes as you carefully take yours off, and then he makes grabby hands at you.

“What?” you ask.

“Your coat,” he answers. “I’ll put it in the closet for you.”

You slightly frown. “Why?”

“Because I’m trying to be nice?” When you remain silent, he chuckles. “You think I’m just going to let my best friend’s sister cry when she gets home?”

The words hurt, even though they’re just a statement of what you are to him. “You’re so random.”

He looks somehow offended. “Just give me your coat, peach.” He’s stern, and you have half a thought to mimic him, but you resist. When you hand him the coat, he offers you a grin. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

Once again you surprise yourself by laughing, and the grin on his lips softens in a way that makes you warm inside.

“You’re annoying,” you whine.

He shrugs as he opens the closet. “Just go take a quick shower. Make sure to soak the pants too.”

“Yes, mom.”

He chokes on a snort. “Oof, no, don’t call me mom.”

You stifle a laugh, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. He faces you again, and you startle as he pinches your cheek. You push him off, as all he does is offer you a wide grin that makes dimples appear on his cheeks.

You’ve never really seen those dimples before, not while he’s smiling. You have to force yourself to look away, and as entrancing as they are, you manage to have your gaze drop to a random spot on the floor. “Alright then, I’ll grab my stuff. You can charge your phone while I’m in the shower.”

“All good, I’m at 65%,” he says. “I just checked online, and the power outage will likely last through the night so… figured I didn’t have anything better to do.”

You purse your lips. “Oh.”

There’s an awkward silence before he motions to the bathroom. “Aren’t you going?”

Your cheeks burn, and you nod once before heading towards your room as he snorts behind you, evidently laughing at you. You ignore him, quickly grabbing a change of clothes and bringing them to the bathroom. Jungkook’s moved to the couch, and to your surprise you see him with a book in hand.

“You read?”

The question is out before you realize, and Jungkook’s head snaps in your direction.

“It’s for a class.”

You nod once. “Right.” You then scrape your throat, glance at the bathroom and then settle your eyes on him again. “I’ll be right back.”

He smiles at you, and it’s the last thing you see before you walk into the bathroom, softly shutting the door behind you. Luckily enough, it’s still light enough outside for you to be able to shower without being in the dark, and as Jungkook advertised, there’s still hot water.

You take the fastest shower of your life, not wanting to risk running out of hot water, and then you put your dirty pants in the sink, soaking them in cold water. You put your clean clothes on – nothing impressive, just a pair of black sweatpants with a white t-shirt. You take one look at yourself in the mirror – you look like you’ve gone through hell, but at least you’re refreshed.

With a steadying breath, you walk out of the bathroom, and your eyes immediately find Jungkook where he’s still sitting on the couch, looking like he hasn’t moved an inch. He glances at you before resuming his attention on his book. You feel awkward, yet you still walk in his direction because, frankly, what else is there for you to do when there’s no power?

“What’s the book about?” you enquire.

He raises it for you to see as you sit next to him. He moves too fast, and all you can see is something about trickle-down economy before the book is back in his lap.

“Looks boring.”

He laughs. “It is. Plus, trickle-down economics is bullshit.”

You nod wisely, even though your knowledge in the economy and business field is little to zero. All you know is that trickle-down economics is what rich people use to defend their actions, which immediately makes it so you don’t trust it one bit.

Eat the rich and all that.

“Right,” you let out.

Jungkook throws you a glance. “Feeling better?”

You don’t know how to answer. Because, yes, you feel somehow better now that you are clean and warmed from the shower, but you’re still very aware that the power is out, you’ve likely failed a midterm, and your date was cancelled.

“Sort of,” you answer, shrugging your shoulders. “Today was just a shitshow.”

He says nothing, but his big eyes on you entice you to open up to him, making you feel more at ease than you’ve ever been around him.

Maybe because you just need someone to vent to after all.

“Like… I woke up late this morning,” you tell him. “Arrived so late to my midterm that I couldn’t finish. Then realized that I forgot my wallet here and couldn’t eat lunch. Got stood up for a date tonight, and now no power here? This day has been the worst.”

You sit back on the couch after you’ve finished your tirade, and Jungkook just looks at you curiously. You don’t register you’ve called hanging out with Hoseok a date until Jungkook says, “You had a Valentine’s Day date?”

You shut your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose and exhale loudly. “Sort of. Not really a date.”

“How can it not really be a date?”

You entirely miss the teasing in his voice, mostly because you’re appalled at yourself for the slipping. “It’s just… my friend with benefits, so not a date.”

“Damn, peach,” he says, and he bursts out laughing. You crack an eye open, your heart feeling like it’s been stabbed as Jungkook grins at you. “Didn’t think you were one to have a friend with benefits.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, and his gaze slides away from you as his brows furrow slightly. “You’re Tae’s sister, and the way he talks about you I just… I don’t know.”

Annoyance creeps into you as you cock an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t listen to what Taehyung says about me. He still thinks I’m twelve.”

Jungkook snorts, and to your surprise, it makes you smile, right as he glances at you.

“Are you not?”

“Yah!” You punch him in the shoulder, and he laughs as he massages the spot. “I’ll have you know I’m an adult.”

His features turn somber, and he plays with his piercing for a time before he answers. “I’m starting to realize it, trust me.”

In the somberness of his eyes, a spark ignites, and you feel as if electricity is running on every inch of your body. You wish it would run into the building instead, bringing the power back on but unfortunately, you’re the only victim, and all you can do is hold his gaze.

The moment stretches until you grow uncomfortable, and your eyes slide to the Switch under the TV, as if it’ll find solace there.

“Anyway,” you say, scraping your throat. “Apparently there’s still power at the dorms so I think I’ll head over there.”

“You’ll abandon me?” he says, faking offence. “Right when I offered to take care of your pants? The nerves on you.”

You roll your eyes as the awkwardness fades to be replaced by the annoyance Jungkook usually brings out of you. “You’re a big boy, you don’t need me.”

“You sure you want to walk all the way there though? What if you fall again?”

You push him as he smiles wickedly, satisfied that he’s annoyed you. “I hate you.”

“You know what you hate even more than me?”

Your brow creases in confusion. “What?”

He shrugs his shoulders, a smirk growing on his lips. “You’ll have to stay for me to answer.”

You sigh deeply, folding your arms on your chest. You gauge him, watch as his smirk only widens while you ponder staying here. And you don’t even know why you’re considering it in the first place. There’s just something about being able to talk to Jungkook like this, about being comfortable next to him that makes you want to stay.

“Name a single reason why I should stay,” you finally say.

His smirk turns victorious. “I’ll cook something for you.”

“The power is out,” you feel the need to remind him.

He throws you a no-bullshit look. “Really, peach, you need to find a bit of creativity in your life.”

“What?”

“The stove doesn’t run on electricity, it runs on gas.”

You look up at the ceiling. “How was I supposed to know that, I barely ever cook.”

“I cook!” he bursts, waving the book around. You didn’t realize he was still holding it, and you laugh as the pages flutter around. “And you usually steal my food, so just let me make something for you tonight.”

You purse your lips, meeting his gaze as he looks at you, faking annoyance. “What do you want to cook?”

“I have chicken that I need to cook tonight if I don’t want it to go bad,” he says. “I can make noodles with it.”

It takes you all but two seconds before you realize that there’s no way you’re going to leave when Jungkook is suggesting to cook for you. “Alright.”

“Yeah?” You nod, and Jungkook beams. “You won’t regret it.”

You laugh, slightly shaking your head as he puts the book away and gets up. He offers you his hand, the one with the tattoos on the back of it, and you furrow your brows. “What?”

“Go get changed,” he says, hand still extended between you. “I’ll give you a Valentine’s Day date, but you’re going to have to play the part too.”

Something stops in your chest – your heart, most likely – and you’re hit with the thought that this is a bad idea. That whatever Jungkook means by that is going to be the mistake of the century, yet you still find yourself accepting his extended hand.

He pulls you to your feet, and he doesn’t let go of your hand for a moment, big doe eyes widening slightly as he looks at you.

“You…” you trail off, scraping your throat as you look away from his eyes.

It’s all you can do not to get lost in his gaze.

“I?” he presses, voice low.

“You should dress up too,” you mumble, cheeks burning. “So I’m not alone.”

He lets go of your hand, and your fingers twitch as it falls to your side. When his index finds your chin, you think your blood stops in your veins. He makes you tilt your head back, enough so that you’re forced to meet his gaze.

“I will.” His voice is grave, and you don’t miss the way his eyes dart to your lips once as they part. “I’m going to make this worth it. You deserve it after such a shit day, don’t you?”

You gulp. “Yeah?”

He pats your cheek. “Yeah, you do.”

And then he’s walking away. You’re left standing there, heart racing in your chest, feeling so warm you think you’re about to catch fire. You watch him disappear into his room, and it’s only when he’s out of sight that you manage to move, making your way to your own room.

You shut the door behind you, resting against it as you take deep breaths to calm down. You’re not sure if it’s doing you any good, because this is Jungkook. Jungkook, with his tattoo sleeve and piercings, your older brother’s best friend. Your roommate, the man that’s been playing with you for weeks, for months, like you’re just some playdough. You think he’s doing it on purpose. He has to – he’s trying to make your life miserable because you’re Taehyung’s sister. You don’t see what else it could be. Because why the fuck would Jungkook act like this with you?

You’re not stupid enough to believe it isn’t your fault. Because you were there the night of The Incident, and you reckon things have changed with Jungkook since that night.

You take a deep, steadying breath before pushing up from the door. No matter what it is that is making Jungkook act like this, you’re still curious to see what he’s preparing for you. Spending time with him like this, with no power and nothing else to do than talk…

Maybe it’s going to help you understand what’s happening in that thick skull of his. So you search for something to wear, something warm since the heating is also down. You settle on brown dress pants that you know make your ass look amazing, and you pair them with a pale beige wool turtleneck. You tuck the shirt in your pants, putting a belt on to make sure it stays in place, and then you take a good look at yourself in your standing mirror. Satisfied with your outfit, you make to move out of your room, but you stop with your hand halfway to the knob.

You can hear Jungkook humming in his room, a soft melody that’s making you think he’s taking a long time in there. Is he actually dressing up? It makes something terribly warm and soft settle in your chest, and you turn back around, grab your makeup pouch and head to your desk.

If this is a date, or whatever it is that Jungkook considers dates to be, you want to look good for it. So you put a little bit of makeup on, trusting your instinct to make it look great even though the light of your small mirror doesn’t turn on since there’s still no power. You hear Jungkook get out of his room before you’re done, and you hope he doesn’t decide to come here.

You doubt he would, but you somehow feel awkward as you’re getting ready. Because he’s your older brother’s best friend, because he’s a college fuckboy, because he’s been making you feel too many things lately – most of them you repress as if your life depends on it. And you think, your life does depend on it. Because nothing can happen between you and Jungkook; you wouldn’t do that to Taehyung. And mostly, you wouldn’t do that to Jungkook, because you know Taehyung would hate him if something did happen.

You sigh. It comes out shakily, a clear indication that you’re growing anxious, and you almost want to laugh at yourself. You want to tell yourself to get a grip, to just play along for things are bound to go back to normality when the power comes back.

You only stop feeling anxious when Taehyung texts you, your phone lighting up where you’ve put it down on your desk.

[5:02 pm] bröther👽: jk texted me the same thing! Glad u won’t be alone tonight [5:02 pm] You: he’s gonna cook dinner [5:03 pm] bröther👽: lmao, jk doesn’t cook for girls, feel lucky

With that you realize that, indeed, you should feel lucky. Because Jungkook can be a friend, if not anything else. It’s reassuring, and you finish getting ready feeling lighter than you’ve felt all day, as if the hell that today was is all forgotten.

You spray some perfume on the inside of your wrists, dabbing it on your neck before you finally declare yourself ready to head out of your room. You hope Jungkook won’t make fun of you – he’d be the kind of guy to make fun of you for this, you just know it – and you make your way to the kitchen, where you can hear him busying himself.

He’s brought his portable speaker out of his room. The one that also has a projector in it, and it shines northern lights on the walls and on the ceiling of the kitchen, giving it a cozy atmosphere. No music is playing as of right now, yet Jungkook is still humming, voice low yet melodious.

You rarely hear him sing, but anytime you do, you feel like your ears are blessed by an angel.

He reappears from where he was hidden in the fridge, and his mouth falls open as he catches sight of you.

He’s wearing a white dress shirt. You think it’s made of linen – it doesn’t look particularly fancy. Yet the way he’s rolled it on his forearms is weirdly attractive, even though he’s only wearing grey sweatpants with it. It’s a look, a look you think only he can pull off. He’s taken the time to style his hair back, and he’s put on earrings you’ve only seen him wear a couple of times during parties.

He eyes you up and down, his doe eyes crinkling in appreciation. “You look good, peach.”

The compliment makes you blush, and you offer him a small smile. He echoes it right away, and he holds up a bottle of rosé that you bought two months ago and forgot all about since then.

“Wine?” you let out as you stop in front of him. You feel awkward because, obviously, it’s wine, but you still hold his gaze as he nods.

“It’s yours but…” He shrugs, glancing at the label. “I figured it’d work well with the chicken.”

You nod once. “Sure, we can drink it.”

It makes him happy. You can see it in the way he beams, and then he puts it down on the counter with the rest of the ingredients. When he moves, you catch a whiff of his cologne, and you feel your cheeks burn again. You glance outside – the rain has stopped, but grey clouds are still looming in the sky as the world slowly darkens. You wonder if they’ll go away some time tonight – without the light pollution, you reckon you’d be able to stargaze.

You end up helping Jungkook with the cooking, chopping some vegetables as he takes care of the meat. You’re not particularly hungry, so you take your time, talking about everything and nothing. Jungkook is good at this, you realize. He’s good at changing your mind, at making sure it doesn’t wander back to your midterm and to the rest of your shitty day. He makes you laugh, cracking stupid jokes whenever you do something, smirking at you when you roll your eyes.

Being with him like this also makes you understand why he’s Taehyung’s friend. He feels more natural this way, less fuckboy-ish, and it’s a side of him you’ve never really seen before.

You sit at the kitchen table, sharing a glass of the rosé wine while the food simmers on the stove. Jungkook’s put on an indie music playlist before you started cooking – something you teased him about. Who knew Jeon Jungkook likes indie music?

“How was Tae before college?” Jungkook asks all of a sudden when there’s a lull in the conversation. “He barely talks about high school.”

You know the exact reason why, and her name is Youna. Taehyung’s ex, his high school sweetheart. The one that moved to the other side of the country without ever once looking back.

“He was an idiot,” you answer, and Jungkook laughs. “No, seriously. He dated the same girl all through high school. Was convinced he was going to marry her.”

“That sounds on brand with Tae,” Jungkook says, nodding his head wisely. “He said that about every girl he’s dated in college, but most of them don’t last more than a few weeks.”

You wince. “Remember Hailey from last semester?”

She lasted about three weeks, but she spent most of those at the apartment. It was the only three weeks where Jungkook and you had talked more than just small talk – or his usual teasing. Mostly because you kept complaining about her, and Jungkook kept saying you were cute when you were mad.

Come to think of it, it still was teasing.

“Fuck, her voice,” Jungkook lets out, shaking his head. “I’m sure she was faking having such a high voice. I don’t know how Taehyung could deal with that.”

It’s your turn to laugh, and Jungkook smiles as he watches you. “I swear to God, I was about to kick Tae out of the apartment,” you say. “I’m glad she didn’t last.”

“Agreed.”

There’s another silence as the song switches on Jungkook’s speaker. You take a sip of wine, appreciating the taste, and Jungkook gets up to check the food on the stove. He comes back a moment later, sitting back next to you.

You think he’s closer. He feels closer, and the smell of his cologne fills your nose again.

“You put on some cologne,” you state, and it startles you somehow. You weren’t expecting to say that and, clearly, Jungkook wasn’t expecting it either.

“Yeah.” He looks down at himself as if the cologne is visible on him. “Do you like it?”

You gulp. “Yeah, you smell good.”

He smirks, nodding his head. “You too, peach. I love the vanilla scent.”

You don’t know what to do with the compliment. You mutter a thank you before taking a large sip of wine, and Jungkook chuckles before following your lead.

“Do you think Tae and that girl in France will last?” you ask. “He still hasn’t told me who she is.”

Indeed, he’s remained evasive whenever you’ve asked. You stalked the people that are with him on the semester abroad, and you think two of the girls could be your brother’s type, but it’s hard to tell.

“Oh,” Jungkook lets out. He grabs his phone, resting his forearms on the table as he opens it. He goes on Instagram, and as it loads, he glances at you. “He’s told me. Let me show you.”

“What!” you exclaim. “How come he told you and not me?”

Jungkook chuckles. “No idea. But here.”

He shows you the girl’s profile, and you take his phone as you scroll through the pictures. To your surprise, she’s not one of the two girls you stalked. She looks shy, barely showing her face in her pictures, most of them being of nature anyway. Come to think of it, you do get a romantic vibe from her feed, and you reckon that would work well with Taehyung.

You’re about to give Jungkook his phone back when it vibrates in your hand, a notification appearing at the top.

[6:05 pm] Shelly 💦🍒: are u gonna be here soon?

It’s not your fault that you read it, and your gaze widens as you look up from the device. Jungkook hasn’t noticed, and he smiles at you, seemingly expectant.

“So?” he asks.

“You had a date tonight?”

His mouth falls open. He looks guilty, eyes widening and taking a sheepish expression. He remains silent, and you can almost see the cogs turning in his head as he thinks of what to answer.

You don’t know how to feel. You feel bad for the girl – Shelly – who’s clearly waiting for Jungkook somewhere. You feel bad that he chose to stay with you because you were upset, but mostly you feel strange that he’s doing all of this for you when there’s someone waiting for him.

The emojis next to her name are enough of an explanation of what she is to Jungkook. Still, you feel increasingly uncomfortable, even more so as he says nothing.

“What the fuck, JK?”

“She’s no one,” he says when you get up. “Trust me, I’ve only hung out with her a couple of times.”

You laugh, and it’s somehow void of joy. “Why would I care?”

He looks at the glasses of wine, and then at the food on the stove. “I don’t know… because we’re…” He motions between you, and then at said glasses of wine and food. “I just forgot to tell her I wasn’t going to come over.”

It’s enough of a reminder that Jungkook, for all his current kindness, is a renowned college fuckboy. It reminds you of all the times you’ve heard him fuck – was Shelly one of the girls? You feel disgusted, and you walk out of the kitchen, not wanting to look at Jungkook right now.

“Peach,” he says as he follows you out in the darkness of the living room.

The living room is also strangely cold, and you shiver as you turn towards him. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “But why are you even reacting like this?”

You scoff. “I don’t know, Jungkook, you tell me.”

You can’t see his expression. But when he takes a step closer to you, you feel the heat of his body radiating in the space between you.

“Are you jealous?” he asks, and you hear the smirk in his voice.

“No,” you say, and you scoff again. “I’m weirded out.”

“Because I was going to fuck someone tonight?” It’s his turn to scoff when you remain silent. “Weren’t you going to fuck that dude? Hoseok?”

You don’t know how he remembers Hoseok’s name, but he’s got a point. You wet your lips, tongue poking your cheek next. “Right.”

“Come on, peach, just come back in the kitchen,” he says. He grabs your hand, and your breath gets caught in your throat as he escorts you back to the chair where you were sitting. You begrudgingly follow, and when you’re seated he towers over you.

You tilt your head back. “What?”

He flicks your nose, and you dodge a second too late. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“Fuck off,” you grumble. “I wasn’t jealous I was just weirded out.”

He smiles at you wickedly. “Of course, peach. Of course.”

He sounds so cocky you want to hate him, but all you can do is glare at the table. He pushes your wine glass towards you as he sits back next to you and you wordlessly take it to chug it.

“Now that that’s done,” he says once you’ve put it back on the table, “what do you think of Tae’s girl?”

You had all but forgotten why you were holding Jungkook’s phone in the first place. You recall her Instagram to the forefront of your mind, pursing your lips.

“She looks chill,” you answer.

Jungkook pouts. “Just that?”

You shrug. “What else am I supposed to say?”

“Well,” Jungkook starts. “For one I can’t believe she’s Tae’s type. She looks nothing like the girls he dated here. Like just think about Hailey?”

You just nod, because in truth you fully agree with him.

“Her Instagram is a vibe though,” Jungkook continues. “Tae is big on vibes so… maybe it works?”

You nod once more, tilting your head to the side as you really think about it. Because frankly you’d like for Taehyung to find someone that lasts. As much as you know he’s been having fun in college, you know his happiness usually lies in a healthy relationship like the one he had with his ex.

“Hopefully it does,” you finally say. “Tae deserves it.”

Jungkook looks at you, somber expression on his features as he plays with his piercing. It makes your heart cease in your chest, and you busy yourself with refilling the wine glasses as he remains silent.

“He does,” Jungkook eventually replies. “He actually really does.”

He sounds so serious you throw him a questioning glance. “Yeah?”

He blinks once, as if stepping out of a daze before flashing his infuriating smirk at you again. “Definitely.”

There’s an awkward silence, and you watch as he takes a sip of wine before getting up to check on the food. He deems it ready, and makes two bowls, one for you and one for him. He sets yours in front of you, a proud smile on his lips.

“Smells good,” you compliment him as he sits.

He winks at you. “Wait till you taste.”

You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes, and you take a tentative bite, holding his gaze as he expectantly waits.

“Shit,” you let out, and you fan your mouth with your hand. “Why is it so spicy?”

“Don’t tell me you’re like your brother and can’t stand spicy food,” he complains as you take a long sip of wine.

You put your wine glass back down, wincing as it clinks against the bowl. It fortunately doesn’t break, and you push it away from the dish as you chuckle. “What’s wrong with not liking spicy food?”

He pouts. “You guys are so weak.”

You fake-glare at him. “This shit is so spicy it would wake the dead.”

He snorts, stifling his laugh until you meet his gaze and you burst out laughing at the same time. You think it’s the first time you’ve ever heard him guffaw like this. His laugh is contagious, pretty, and you’re convinced it can have healing effects.

You’re convinced it has healing effects. Indeed, in that instant, you finally really forget about the day, the heaviness it left behind dwindling into nothingness. It’s replaced with happiness, and chatter with Jungkook becomes easier, more natural.

You realize he smiles a lot. You make him laugh a lot too, and whenever he does you feel your heart flutter in your chest. You don’t like the feeling, know it’s a mistake, but with the wine, all you can do is try to make him laugh some more, and smile whenever he does.

You’re on your first beer after finishing the wine – and the overly spicy food, which Jungkook congratulated you profusely for finishing. You’ve talked about every subject that’s come to your mind so far, none feeling taboo with Jungkook. He eventually tells you about Shelly – she is indeed one of the girls you’ve heard him sleep with – and you laugh as he admits he’s really happy he didn’t have to see her tonight.

You can’t help but snort. “Jeon Jungkook, saying no to sex? I’ve heard everything.”

“Bruh.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Is your opinion of me so low you think sex is the most important thing to me?”

His eyes are gleaming with mischief in the light of his speaker, which will apparently run out of battery soon. You both don’t care, and you’ve lit a candle in case it does die. Its sweet fragrance has been chasing the smell of the food away, and it’s been giving the kitchen a homey vibe, even as it’s growing chilly.

“Is it not?” you tease.

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head at you. “Not at all.”

You throw him a no-bullshit look that makes him frown cutely.

“How long can you go without having sex?” you ask him, holding in a laugh.

He narrows his doe eyes at you. “At least a few weeks.”

“A few weeks? That’s nothing!”

“Yah,” he bursts, and he laughs as you snort. “Peach, just because I have casual sex doesn’t mean I can’t stop if I want to.”

“Then stop,” you challenge him.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Give me one reason why I should.”

“To prove a point?”

His eyes narrow further, but if you’ve understood one thing about Jeon Jungkook, it’s that he doesn’t step down from a challenge. No, as competitive as he is, you’re pretty sure he’ll do it.

“Peach,” he purrs, and it has something warm form in the pit of your stomach. “Is it really about me proving a point, or is it about you being jealous?”

You choke on the sip of beer you were taking, which only makes him laugh. You think it’s a little condescending, but you know he doesn’t mean it in a bad way. You still punch him in the shoulder for it, unable to resist.

“Why would I be jealous?” you ask. “Hobi fucks me good.”

Jungkook shuts his eyes and his nose scrunches. He shakes his head once before looking at you again. “I didn’t want to know that.”

You smile as if you’ve never done anything wrong in your whole life. “Your loss.”

He laughs at that, gaze dropping to the table. Silence grows between you, but it’s comfortable, not like what silence with Hoseok feels like. With Hoseok you feel the need to speak whenever there’s a lull in the conversation but, right now, you’re content with just sitting back in your chair, sipping on your beer.

To your surprise, Jungkook starts singing over the song, gaze lost in his own glass of beer. His voice settles deep inside of you, resonating in your soul, and you just look at him, awe clouding your mind.

You’re not sure he’s realized he’s singing. Because when he meets your gaze, he lets out a small laugh. “Why are you looking at me like this?”

“You have a beautiful voice,” you whisper.

It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but you’re pretty sure his cheeks have turned pink. “Nah.”

“No, I’m serious,” you insist. “I often hear you hum and… you sing really well.”

His nose scrunches up again. “Stop it.”

“Just take the compliment,” you say, laughing as he plays with his piercing.

You reckon it might be the first time in your life you’ve ever seen Jeon Jungkook shy. Because he clearly is, and he looks away from you, running his hand through his hair. It undoes the hairstyle, and a strand falls on his forehead.

You’ve never felt such a visceral need to brush your hand through someone’s hair before. You manage to resist, busying yourself with holding your beer instead.

“M’kay,” he lets out. “Thanks, peach.”

His voice is soft. Softer than the fur of a puppy, and it makes the warm thing in you grow. You gulp, wetting your lips. You don’t miss the way his eyes glance at your mouth, and he looks conflicted for half a second before he smirks again.

“We should have hung out like this before,” he declares.

“Yeah?” is all you can answer.

You feel yourself leaning in. You haven’t even realized how close you’re sitting to him until you’re leaning in. He does too. He leans forward, tilting his head to the side slightly. He looks surprised, even more so when one of your hands finds the back of his neck, pulling him closer until you’ve erased the distance between you.

You both didn’t close your eyes. And you both look startled from your lips touching, so much so that you let go of him, straightening away from him. He, on the other hand, hasn’t moved, and his gaze goes fully serious before he grabs your arm gently, pulling you closer to him again.

This time, when your mouths meet, you shut your eyes, sighing softly as he kisses you. His piercings press into your lower lip, and as his mouth moves against you, you feel the warm thing inside of you grow so big it bursts. It bursts the same way fireworks do – in an explosion of colours that leaves you waiting for more.

He doesn’t disappoint. He tilts his head to the side, deepening the kiss. His hand on your arm moves up until it rests on your shoulder before he decides better and moves it to the side of your neck. His thumb swipes at your jaw, gently, and it’s his turn to sigh in the kiss.

When his tongue darts out of his mouth, you meet it with your own. For a reason unknown, you expect it to make you both grow horny, but the kiss remains soft, slow like you have all of eternity stretched out in front of you.

Even though it’s languid, even though it’s soft, you grow dizzy, head spinning as you taste the beer in Jungkook’s mouth. As his hand moves to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer. You rest one hand on his chest, right above his heart, and you feel the organ racing under your fingers. It makes you grab a handful of fabric as if that will anchor you in the present.

As if that will make you forget that you’re kissing your brother’s best friend.

It does, though you reckon it might be the way Jungkook shifts in his chair, moving so that you can straddle him. And he pulls you in, softly, tugging on your arm until you let go of the shirt and drape it over his shoulder. You sit on him, legs on each side of him, your toes barely even touching the floor. Still, your mouths move in unison, his lips petal soft against yours.

Your other arm circles his neck too, until you’re holding him against you. His large hands land on your waist, gently, and his thumbs stroke you, barely even grazing you over the thick fabric of your wool turtleneck.

You don’t know how long you kiss. It just seems like you both don’t want to stop, like you both know the moment you stop will be a wake-up call, one you’d rather avoid while you get stuck in this bubble of eternity with him. The fireworks keep on shining bright, warm summer sun blooming in your heart as if this, this was always meant to be.

Oxygen is futile when you’re kissing Jeon Jungkook. Not needed, as if he breathes air into your lungs. You think he does, and you sigh once more as your hands get lost in the hair on the back of his head.

The next swipe of his tongue is sharper, carries more intent, and you both startle, finally parting from each other. Though you remain a hairsbreadth away, longing for his lips the moment your mouths aren’t connected anymore.

Immobile, you breathe in shakily, and you hear him do it too. He’s still stroking you, gently, and he wraps his arms around your waist to pull you in. You rest your head on his shoulder, breathing in the clean laundry smell of his shirt, along with the scent of his cologne as you turn your face towards his neck.

The moment stretches some more, as you listen to the music. His grip around you loosens as you press a soft kiss on the mole you’ve discovered on his neck. He pushes you back, gently, until your back is against the table. Your gazes meet then, and you wonder if his eyes always shine like this. Do they always hold the light of the universe in them, or did you set fire to his gaze?

He gulps and his mouth falls open. His pupils fill with something you can’t quite put your finger on, yet it has clouds taking over the summer sun in your heart until the beating organ goes cold.

“Now you’ve had a fake Valentine’s Day kiss,” he murmurs, and the fireworks burst into a void that tastes like ash as you interpret his gaze.

He’s regretting this. It takes over all of his features, turning his big doe eyes into hearths of remorse. It finishes dousing the sun in your heart until the star goes to sleep, and all that’s left is the echoes of what once was.

“Fake?” is all you manage to let out.

He shuts his eyes, eyelids fluttering close softly. He looks like an angel repenting as he rests his forehead against yours, forcing your own eyes shut from the proximity.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he reminds you, reality sinking into his words.

You nod against him before pulling away. You try to get up, but his hands on your waist hold you in place.

“Let me go,” you whisper.

He does so, albeit reluctantly, arms falling to his sides in a defeated manner. You try to not let yourself think about it too much, try to forget what just happened as you stand up, moving away from him.

Without his body heat you shiver, and you hate yourself for the next words you say.

“We should share a room tonight. It’s going to be cold.”

His eyes shoot open as he turns his head towards you, surprise replacing the reality. As if he thought he ruined everything, and you think maybe he did. Maybe he did ruin everything, but you don’t even want to be thinking about it right now. You just want to go to sleep, to let the night pass.

Maybe the insanity will go with it.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

You shrug your shoulders. “You know, Taehyung doesn’t have to know everything.”

Jungkook slowly gets up, facing you. You gulp as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, hand going to your chin again. He leans in, forcing you to tilt your head back until his lips find yours again.

It lasts a fraction of a second, yet it leaves you scrambling for breath as he takes a step back. He nods as you meet his gaze, an eyebrow cocked in question.

“We can sleep in your room,” he says. “It’s smaller, it’s going to be easier to keep it warm.”

Right as he finishes his sentence the battery of his speaker dies, and silence surrounds you as the northern lights go to sleep. The light flickers in time with the flame of the candle, and you glance at it.

“Sounds good,” you agree, and you wet your lips as you look at him again. His big doe eyes still shine even with just the candlelight, and you wish the world was different. Wish that he wasn’t Tae’s friend, that you could just grab him and have him kiss you stupid again. But he’s right. You shouldn’t be doing this.

Sharing a bed is only practical. Only because it’s cold, and you have to survive the night. A voice at the very back of your mind tells you that you could head over to the dorms, but you don’t want to.

You want to remain here, in this instant outside of the linear timeline of your life.

“Maybe you should get your bed covers?” you suggest. “So we don’t get cold.”

He smiles, so far from his usual smirk and grin that you feel a pang in your chest. “Yeah. Yes, that’s a good idea.”

All of five minutes later, he meets you in your room. You’ve changed into your previous outfit, and he’s swiped his dress shirt for an oversized white Nike t-shirt. He’s holding his bed cover to his chest, just a white bundle that he offers you as if he’s trying to make peace with you. You motion to your bed, and he nods before walking over to it.

You shut the door behind him, turning to look at him as he debates for a few seconds where to sleep in your bed. He starts by putting his bed cover over yours and then chooses to sit at the foot of the bed, on the side that’s against the wall.

He then turns to meet your gaze, his profile cast in the flickering light of the candle from the kitchen and the few others you’ve lit while waiting for him.

“I think this is the first time I’ve been in this room since Jimin moved out,” he tells you, and his lips stretch into that same soft smile.

You glance around, pursing your lips. “Hope it doesn’t disappoint.”

“It doesn’t,” he reassures you as he imitates your action, observing your room. “It feels like you.”

Not knowing what’s that supposed to mean, you cock an eyebrow. “Does it?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t explain further, and you shrug it off as you move closer to your bed to sit on the edge. The moment you’re in his vicinity your heart picks up in your chest. It’s hard to believe that Jeon Jungkook is in your bed right now, and you have to remind yourself that it’s purely because it currently is freezing in your apartment.

“Should we…” you trail off, motioning at the bed.

He chuckles, a sweet sound that forces you to gaze at him, eyes widening as your heartbeat picks up even more. “You want me in your bed so bad, do you?”

You short-circuit, flushing fully red as you struggle to find something witty to reply with. Falling short on words, you end up shrugging your shoulders as you move under the covers, hoping he won’t tease you further.

You highly doubt you’d survive him teasing you more.

To your relief, Jungkook ends up chuckling again, but he remains silent as he slides in next to you, keeping a safe distance between the two of you. You lie on your back, while he turns to face you, and you feel the weight of his gaze on your profile.

It makes you turn to look at him, and he offers you the same kind smile.

“Shouldn’t we blow the candles out?” he asks, and his gaze darts to where you’ve left the candles on your desk and night table. “Just to make sure we don’t burn the building down.”

“You want to go to sleep right away?”

You hate yourself for saying that. Indeed, a smirk grows on his lips and he jumps on the occasion to say, “You want to do something else?”

Something grows hot inside of you, and it’s not that same summer sun he ignited in you earlier. You wet your lips, burning from the inside out as you remind him, “We shouldn’t.”

He chuckles again. “Didn’t you say he doesn’t need to know?”

You meet his gaze, find the mischief behind his big doe eyes and roll yours. “You’re annoying.”

Right on cue you shiver. It takes you by surprise, because you feel your insides burning, yet the temperature in your room is low, winning against the warmth.

“Are you cold?” he asks, no traces of mischief left in his eyes. Only concern can be found in his pupils, and you want to hate him for it.

“A little,” you admit. “The covers are just cold.”

They actually are, as your bodies have yet to warm them. To your surprise, Jungkook sidles closer to you.

“I can hold you, if you want. I’m always too hot.”

You burn a thousand shades of red as you wet your lips. “You don’t have to.”

“Come on, peach, I won’t let you freeze while I’m right here.”

Yet he doesn’t do anything, waits until you’ve nodded your head to slide even closer, and he loosely wraps his arm around your waist. His warm breath fans the side of your face, and you do your best to ignore it.

“Better?” he asks, voice low as he whispers in your ear.

You shut your eyes as electricity courses through your whole body. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Your brain zeroes in on the weight of his arm on you, and when his fingers start tracing random figures on your waist, you let out a small yelp.

“That tickles,” you tell him.

He does it again, and you try to push him away. Only, Jungkook is far stronger than you, and all you manage to do is end up with your back against him as he holds you firmly to him.

“Stop,” you beg, a little breathlessly.

“It’s warming you up, is it not?”

You roll your eyes, though you reckon it is. You don’t feel nearly as cold anymore, and you can feel the heat growing in you again. As an attempt to get away from him, you shuffle, and it earns you a breathless chuckle from him.

Just to make sure you didn’t imagine the whole thing, you move your hips again. Something twitches in his sweatpants and your mouth falls open.

“You’re…”

“Consequences of the position,” he’s quick to say. “Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t know how you possibly can not worry about it. It’s all your brain can focus on as you shift again, and this time he hisses.

“Maybe you should not do that.” His voice is low, husky, and it sends shivers all over your body.

You bite your lips. “Why?”

He pulls you back in, flush against his chest. His lips ghost on the side of your neck, and you think you’ve been struck with lightning. “Because we can’t do anything about it.”

“Right.”

He rests his head on the pillow behind you again, sighing deeply. His hand holds you against him, forcing you to feel every inch of his hard body pressing into you.

Of his hard dick too, where it pushes into your ass.

“Maybe we should go to sleep,” you say, eyes fluttering shut.

He nods. “We should.”

“I need to blow out the candles.”

His arm loosens around you before he fully lets you go. You prop yourself on an elbow, leaning towards the night table. You blow out the candle you’ve left there, and before you can move you feel Jungkook’s palm resting on your hip.

“Shit, peach,” he whispers.

You look behind yourself. Your position is explicit, as if you’re angling yourself to fuck yourself on him better. It makes you move your hips, and you see the moment something snaps inside of him.

“Why don’t you lie down next to me before we blow the rest of the candles out?”

There’s something stern, authoritative in his voice, and you immediately obey him.

“On your back,” he adds.

You exhale shakily as you turn, not daring to disobey. His hand lands flat on your stomach, and he starts drawing circles around your navel. You inhale sharply as he nudges your cheek with his nose.

“You look stressed.”

“What are you doing?”

You hear the smirk in his voice when he says, “Helping you fall asleep?”

“Jungkook…”

“Peach.”

You fall silent as he keeps tracing circles. He sighs next to you, almost longingly and he rests his forehead against your temple. His lips are so close you think you feel their softness on your cheek.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he whispers. His fingers still on you, under your navel. Some inch or so over the band of your sweatpants and he pushes your shirt up before resuming his actions directly on your skin.

“We really shouldn’t…” you trail off.

“Are you going to be able to sleep?” he asks.

It’s rhetorical – he knows just as well as you that you won’t. “No.”

“It could help you sleep.”

You don’t want to know what the ‘it’ refers to. “Yeah?”

He wets his lips, or maybe he plays with his piercing. But from the proximity, you feel his tongue and you think you’re going to die right then and there.

“Doesn’t it help you sleep when you touch yourself?”

You’re soaking your panties. You’re burning up, caught on fire by every strike of lightning that Jungkook’s words ignite in you.

“Does it help you?” you counter-back, remembering when you heard him watching porn two weeks ago.

“It does. Always sleep soundly after.”

You slowly nod, gulping as his lips close on your jaw, and he sucks gently.

He’s danger in human form. And he knows what he’s doing, he knows how to weave words to cause your undoing. You think he’s already started weeks ago, the night of the Incident.

Taehyung is miles away from your thoughts when you say, “You want to touch me?”

He smirks against you, licks at the spot he just sucked on. “Why don’t you show me how you touch yourself?”

He moves his hand away from your stomach, and you moan softly when he parts your thighs open, resting his palm on the one closest to him as he presses it against his hard dick.

“Shit, Jungkook.”

“I know.”

You hate him. You hate him so much you slide your hand between your legs, pressing a circle on your clit.

“Good girl.”

You moan again, yet you stop your ministrations on yourself. “I want to watch you touch yourself too.”

He grunts, grinds his dick in the side of your thigh once more. “You want to see me come?”

“Want you to finger me with your cum.”

You’ve gone insane. You think there’s an asylum out there for you, yet Jungkook only chuckles manly against your jaw. “Peach, I won’t touch you tonight.” You whine, and he sucks on your jaw again. “You can do it yourself.”

He’s mad. So are you, and you untie the knot of your sweatpants so you can slide your hand in. You moan softly as you find your clit, and you dip two fingers inside of yourself before moving back to the bundle of nerves.

“Jerk yourself off,” you tell him. You try to sound commanding, dominant, but your voice is whiny. It earns you a smirk from him as he turns on his back. He takes off his pants and underwear, clearly not as shy as you. You can’t see his dick when you look down as he’s still under the covers, and you gulp as you imagine it.

Feeling bold, you push the covers off, needing to see him. And the sight doesn’t disappoint. His dick is large. Not excessively long, but the girth makes you understand why he’s got girls screaming whenever he fucks them. His tip is glistening with precum, and he runs his thumb on the slit before spreading the precum on his shaft. Large veins run along the length, from base to top, and you’re struck thinking he’s got the prettiest cock you’ve seen in your life.

“Like what you see?” he teases as he strokes his dick once, slowly but with a firm grip.

“Do you want to see me too?”

You really are bold. Far bolder than you’ve ever been with anyone before. Maybe because all of tonight Jungkook has put you at ease, and you think there’s nothing embarrassing about finally living out your fantasy. Especially not when he’s so pliable to it, willing to follow you into the land of insanity.

Scratch that – he’s the one leading to madness.

“It’s only fair if I see you too, no?” he teases with a smirk on his lips as he looks at you with his dark, intense gaze.

“Yeah.”

It’s all you say before you shimmy out of your pants. You don’t miss the way his eyes go to your hip, where you have a large dragon tattoo. He curses under his breath. “Didn’t know you were tatted.”

“Got it last semester,” you answer with a shaky voice.

He smirks up at you. “Hot.”

You gulp, unable to hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds. Shier than him, you keep the panties on. To your surprise, he sits up, runs his hand on the inside of your thigh before he lies down on the other side so he has a view of between your legs. His feet are next to your head, and you angle yourself away from them so that they aren’t in your face anymore.

“Touch yourself, peach.”

You nod, and you draw circles on your clit through the fabric of your underwear. It’s a plain black thong, yet you feel immensely sexy when Jungkook’s doe eyes narrow dangerously as he watches you touching yourself, stroking his dick lazily.

You watch how he touches himself, heart beating out of your chest. You’re on fire, a wildfire raging through you, and you moan softly as you press harder into you.

“Why don’t you touch yourself under your panties, mmh?” he asks, gaze sliding up to meet yours before he goes back between your legs. “Won’t it feel better?”

You can’t resist him. You push your panties to the side, holding them with one hand as you go back to your clit. Your thighs instinctively want to close together, but he holds them open.

“Put your fingers in.”

You do. You push two digits in, arching them as you rub at the sweet spot inside of you. He watches, licking his lips as he increases the pace on his dick. You moan right as he grunts, the sound making shivers course up and down your spine.

“Why don’t you use your vibrator instead?”

You entirely stop moving, digits deep inside of you. “Huh?”

“I’ve heard you use a vibrator,” he explains. “I want to see you bury it in your tight little pussy.”

Your walls clench around your fingers at his crude words, and it doesn’t take any more for you to roll towards your night table so you can grab said vibrator. When you’re settled back in your previous position, you click it on, and the soft buzzing fills your room.

“Wait,” Jungkook says, stopping you before you’ve pushed your panties aside again. “Take this off.”

He pinches the fabric on your hip, over the tattoo, and all you can do is nod once before you do. He licks his lips, looking at you appreciatively through half-lidded eyes. He looks between your legs, where you just know he can see your juices glistening. Before he says anything else, you put the vibrator on your clit, legs twitching as harsh pleasure courses through you.

To your surprise, he moans, a low sound that has your pussy clench hard. Of course he sees, and he’s quick to say, “Put it in, peach.”

You obey, and you let out a breathy sound as you immediately rub your clit with your other hand. The next few minutes are a world of bliss, of pleasure and of Jungkook’s praises and grunts, entwined with your moans. You think your room is burning hot, or maybe it’s just his eyes on you. His balls are tight as he jerks off harder, faster, eyes never once moving away from the spot between your legs, where your vibrator makes squelching sounds as you push it in and out of you.

“You’re doing so well,” Jungkook tells you after you’ve moaned loudly.

You’re nearing your high, but for some reason, you haven’t been able to hit it yet. His words bring you closer, yet it remains just barely out of touch.

“So fucking well,” he adds, breathlessly, and you notice he’s gripping his dick harder, moving so fast you barely can see his hand, except when it slows on his head with a flick of his wrist. He moans, grunts loudly. “You’re so hot, I’m going to come.”

“Fuck,” you curse as you watch him push his shirt up, and you catch sight of his defined muscles. They contract as he jerks himself off, and you think you’re drooling.

Maybe because you’re so close to hitting an orgasm that you can’t do anything other than drool.

He glances at your face once. You meet his gaze, blood boiling as you see his eyebrows almost touching over his eyes, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes loudly. His eyelids flutter close as his eyebrows bunch up over his eyes even more, and then he moans out something that sounds like your name.

Not ‘peach’. Your full name. It makes your eyes water as you observe him, as you watch how he looks in pain. And then he curses, and your eyes fall to his dick to see white spurts of cum coming out, covering the tattoos on the back of his hand as he keeps moving, never once faltering.

Your walls clench tightly around your vibrator. You think you’re about to come, but the orgasm doesn’t want to hit, evading you frustratingly. Your motions grow inconsistent, the push and the pull of the vibrator clearly not enough for you.

As Jungkook comes down from his high, he surveys you once more, features blissed out from coming. He watches you struggle as his hand stops at the base of his dick.

“Look at the mess I made because of you,” he says, and you moan. He tilts his head to the side, pulls at his piercing, and then stops you. Puts his hand over yours between your legs as the vibrator rests deep inside of you. “Do you need help?”

You feel some of his cum as it spills from his hand to yours. You keep rubbing on your clit, meeting his gaze as he awaits your answer. “Yes.”

He smirks, and you let him grab your vibrator. He pulls it out of you, watches your juice on it with a hungry look on his features before he hands it to you again. “Put this on your clit.”

You obey, and you sigh in pleasure as he covers two of his fingers with his cum, even picking some up where it fell on his abdomen, decorating his defined abs. You know exactly what he’s going to do before he does, and it makes you curse.

He meets your gaze. “Are you on the pill?”

“IUD.”

He smirks. “Good girl.”

And then he pushes his cum-covered fingers inside of you, arching them to expertly play with your g-spot. You cry out, throwing your head back in pleasure. He fucks you with his digits for a while, and you press your vibrator hard on your clit, as if it’s going to make you come faster.

All it does is make you close your thighs on his wrist. He pulls his fingers out, forces you to spread your legs wide open again, and then circles your entrance with one finger.

“It’s so hot, to watch my cum dripping out of you.”

His digits are in again before you can reply, and he fucks you so well, you crash right into your orgasm, walls spasming around his fingers. You moan, loudly so, and tears prick at your eyes as the waves of your orgasm drown everything in you, making you shake with pleasure.

You ride the high for a long time. Longer than you’ve ever had before, and Jungkook whispers filthy praises to you all through it, until you cringe with oversensitivity and turn off the vibrator. You put it down next to you, and Jungkook pushes in and out twice more before he pulls his fingers out of you.

You remain silent for a while, both of you regaining your breath. Once you stop feeling like you’re seconds away from passing out, you prop yourself on your elbows, watching him. He’s still looking between your legs, and you instinctively close them.

His eyes shoot to your face, and he smirks. “You have no idea how hot you are with my cum dripping out of you, peach.��

You bite your lip, so hard you think you taste blood. “Shit.”

“I know.”

“What did we do?”

He shrugs, sucking on his piercing. “We made sure we’ll sleep well, that’s all.”

You sigh, nodding once before you lie back down on the bed. “Shit,” you repeat.

This time he laughs. It’s a soft sound, something that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. For some reason, it reminds you of the kiss in the kitchen, and butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Even more so as he says, “Let me go get something to clean you up with.”

He pulls his boxers up and then gets up. You miss the way he winces as his feet hit the cold floor, and he’s back with a washcloth before you’ve had time to realize he was gone.

“I’m sorry, there was no hot water left.”

“Oh,” you let out.

He chuckles as he sits next to you. “Do you want to do it or…?”

You nod, and you grab the washcloth out of his hands before cleaning yourself up. It really is cold, and you wince, one eye shutting as you make sure you’re clean before handing it back to him.

“What do you want me to do with this?” he asks, a teasing tone in his voice.

“I don’t know?”

He laughs, still grabbing it before throwing it in your hamper. “Did you want to pee before going to bed?”

You nod again. “I should.”

“Are you okay to get there?”

You roll your eyes, finally finding some of your usual defiance. “You didn’t fuck me, Jungkook, I can still use my legs.”

“Right,” he lets out before chuckling. “I’ll wait for you here then.”

The trip to the bathroom is the worst you’ve ever experienced, with how cold it is in the rest of the apartment. You’re pleased that your room is warm when you come back, and your heart squeezes in your chest as you see Jungkook lying on his side, looking at you as you enter and shut the door behind you.

He smiles warmly at you. “Better?”

“Why is it so cold?” you complain, which makes him laugh that cute, giggly laugh of his. You immediately look away from him, not wanting him to see the blush on your cheeks.

You blow the rest of the candles out, and in the dark, you make your way to your bed. You slide under the covers, sighing at how warm they are now.

“I’m glad you stayed,” Jungkook says as you settle next to him.

You gulp. “What?”

“You said you were going to go to the dorms,” he reminds you, even though that was an eternity ago. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Oh,” you let out. You’re happy it’s dark because your cheeks burn so much you imagine you’ve turned purple. “I’m glad I stayed too.”

He sighs, and you feel the mattress move as he shifts. “Do you want to cuddle?” he asks. “For warmth.”

You snort, and even though you’re in the dark, you nod.

“Sure.”

A few seconds later, you’re the small spoon again, and he holds you close to him. He sighs once more, and it ends with a yawn that has you laugh softly.

“Tired?” you tease him.

“Yeah.” He chuckles, nuzzling his face in your hair. “I’m going to sleep like a rock.”

So are you. Even if you shouldn’t, even if you and Jungkook probably committed a big mistake tonight, you still know you’re going to sleep soundly.

Especially as his breathing evens out behind you, interrupted by soft snores here and there. It forms a melody that lulls you to the land of dreams, to a land where you can forget that he’s Taehyung’s best friend, and where you can imagine that he’s yours after all. It’s idyllic, unreal, yet your sleeping form clings to it like it’s a lifeline in a storm.

You just know that reality is bound to hit again soon.

Prev | Chapter 3.5 | Next

☆☆☆☆☆

Oooooof yep. They really did that hehehe. What did you guys think? Did you like it? Let me know!!

#chasing cars ch 3 #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook fic #jungkook #jjk smut #jjk angst #jjk fluff #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fic #jjk #jeon jungkook #btswritersclub #chasing cars #chasing cars series

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floraisunwell · 5 months ago

Text

Invisible string | s.r

who: spencer reid x fem!reader

category: fluff (??)

summary: you've always loved reading at your spot in the park, getting lost in books and daydreams. what you didn't realize was that someone had been noticing you all along

lyric prompt: “green was the color of the grass where I used to read at Centennial Park, I used to think I would meet somebody there/ time, curious time, gave me no compass, gave me no signs. Were there clues I didn’t see? and isn’t it just so pretty to think, all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?” Invisible string, t.s

word count: 1.1k

a/n: my entry to @mggslover 1k event, congratulations once again darling

t.w: none

divider by @esote-rika

The park had always been your favorite place in the whole city—a patch of green and calm right in the middle of the metropolis' restless buzz. Exactly what you needed after a long day. Alone, but surrounded by people; that weird in-between your introverted personality had always loved.

Beneath your favorite tree, you'd lay out a towel, open a book, and let yourself slip away. Between the pages, you'd been a poet, a painter, an elderly woman reminiscing on her youth—someone's lover, even.

And sometimes, in the spaces between sentences, you'd let yourself dream. You'd imagine meeting someone, falling stupidly, hopelessly in love—just like in your favorite romances.

You knew it was silly, highly unlikely, but the thought alone was enough to make you smile. Enough to fill you with a quiet kind of hope.

And then, as if crafted by destiny, you did meet someone.

☆

Near-Miss #1: The Coffee Shop

The first time Spencer saw you, it wasn’t at the park. It was at a coffee shop, long before he ever noticed you beneath that tree. He hadn’t even been paying attention at first, too busy watching the barista prepare his drink. But then he saw you—leaning against the counter, absently tracing circles on its surface while periodically checking your watch. Something so ordinary, so insignificant, yet he couldn’t look away. He thought about getting closer, maybe striking up a conversation. But by the time he worked up the nerve, you were already walking out the door.

☆

Lucas was a lovely guy. You met on a rainy day—"Mind if I help?" he had said, noticing how you were struggling to juggle your things and an umbrella at the same time. He ended up with your number, and soon, the tree that used to be your spot became your shared spot.

☆

Near-Miss #2: the train ride

A familiar giggle caught Spencer’s attention. He looked up and saw you.

Curled up by the window, book in hand—as always. He watched as you absentmindedly twirled your hair, scribbled something in the margins of your book, let out the occasional quiet laugh. It was just like all the other times he’d seen you, and yet, he was still mesmerized.

The thought of approaching you crossed his mind. Maybe he could finally say something, maybe this time—

The train jolted to a stop. You stood, tucked your book under your arm, and stepped off the train before he could find the words.

☆

Picnics, reading sessions, coffee breaks, cloud-watching—beautiful moments. But now it was Valentine’s, and you were alone at your spot. Turns out Lucas wasn't the one after all.

For the first time, you sat under the tree alone, thinking about all the little moments that, maybe, had been clues.

The way he never understood your love for books. The fact that he never got your bakery order right—"It’s too complex, and you know that, babe." You’d chuckle, brush it off, but it unsettled you.

You knew it was dramatic. Of course, he wouldn’t be like the men in your books. He was good enough. But something was missing.

A sickly kind of romance filled the air—people of all ages showing their love for each other. You were sure you’d witnessed a failed proposal a few minutes ago. Amid all this love (and some heartbreak), you felt invisible.

But maybe you weren’t.

☆

Near-Miss #3: the collision (and almost first conversation)

Spencer had walked past you countless times. A hundred, maybe more. But one time, he almost spoke to you.

You were heading in opposite directions. You looked hurried, eyes glued to your book even as you walked. He was distracted too, skimming a page of his own. And for a moment, just a split second, you almost collided.

At the last second, both of you stepped aside. Hushed apologies, barely more than whispers, before you kept walking.

He took a few more steps before his brain finally caught up and registered who you were. He stopped in his tracks, only to turn around just in time to see you disappear into the crowd.

He cursed himself for losing another opportunity.

☆

Spencer loved the park, too.

He came to play chess, to read, to watch people—not in a creepy way, just something he enjoyed. You had always been one of his favorites to watch.

He loved how you’d giggle at a line in your book and then glance around to see if anyone had noticed. How you’d twirl your hair when you were deep in thought. How you looked so utterly lost in your stories, as if the world around you didn’t exist.

☆

But now, it was Valentine’s, and the young man who usually accompanied you was nowhere to be seen.

His chance.

"Can I sit here?" His voice startled you. You looked up to see a tall, slender man watching you.

"Uh... sure," you replied, still a little confused.

"Why are you alone?" Fuck. That probably sounded weird.

You huffed a small laugh. "Well, not anymore." He smiled at that, a little softer now.

"I'm Spencer, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Spencer. I guess now you're my partner for the day."

"I guess," he echoed, his smile was so wide it could seem fake

☆

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Spencer looked at your book and said "You were reading a book by the same author on the train a few months ago"

"Was I really?" you blinked

"You were," he affirmed "I was in the seat across from you. We sat across each other many times in fact"

"I guess we were bound to meet sometime then" you mused meeting his gaze

"Yeah," he mumbled with a smile"Something like that"

thank you for reading!

#mwah <3 #lovers1kevent #flora rants ✿#valentines fics #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #celebration event

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moonstruckme · 2 years ago

Note

omg omg omg i can see it now, reader in the hospital hooked up to an ekg and emt!maurauders after dropping someone off sees her in the room and they go in to check on her and her pulse just skyrockets and sirius is like "oh are you still in shock?" and rem is like "...i don't think so" and then they all get so flustered and reader gets flustered and fluffffffff

Thanks for requesting!

part 1 | part 2

cw: hospital, head injury, broken ribs

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 979 words

Some of the whiplash you’d been warned about is setting in now. It’s been a few hours since the trio of unreasonably attractive paramedics had dropped you off at the hospital, and you’re stiff and sore all over. Even your knees have developed dark bruises, apparently from hitting the dashboard when you’d stopped suddenly. You don’t remember getting them.

The other doctors and nurses who’d been assigned to your care have been nice and of course highly competent, but no one has been as kind or warm as the men who’d picked you up at the scene. Ridiculous as it is, you almost miss them. There’s nothing comforting about this place, and if you can’t have the familiarity of a loved one with you, you’d happily settle for the strangers’ compassion.

The parade of hospital workers and concerned loved ones going past your room is endless, but you look up from your phone when someone stops abruptly in the doorway.

Sirius lets out a quiet oof when he crashes into James from behind, Rem simply sidestepping the both of them before coming to a stop in front of your room.

“Hey.” James grins at you. “It’s you, from the car crash.”

“Hi.” You return his smile bashfully, and Rem gives James an exasperated look.

“I’m sure she’d rather not be referred to as the girl from the car crash, James.”

“Right.” James' smile goes somewhat sheepish. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you reassure him. “Thanks for…uh, everything. Earlier.”

“You’re very welcome,” Sirius drawls, recovering from his collision and sauntering into the room. He gives you a not-so-subtle look over. “Just doing our job, dollface.”

The monitor connected to your finger starts beeping more rapidly, and the suave confidence saps from his expression.

“Shit, are you still in shock?”

It starts going faster. You’re pretty sure your face is getting red too. How much trouble would you be in if you just disconnected the thing?

“I don’t…” Rem’s eyes narrow, a second before his eyebrows raise an inch. “I don’t think so.”

Your gulp has to be audible.

“Oh,” Sirius says, his brow unfurrowing. He looks at you, and a smile curves his lips. “Oh.”

“Okay, the both of you fuck off.” James comes to your defense, striding over as if to forcibly remove Sirius from your beside. “Look what you’re doing to the poor girl! Remus, you didn’t have to give her away like that.”

“Better than her still being in shock,” Rem—or Remus, apparently—points out.

“It’s fine, darling,” James goes on with forced breeziness. He’s looking at you with such sweetness you’d almost believe his nonchalance if not for the quick way he blabbers on. “Honestly, it’s an unfair advantage for us that you’re the only one with a heart monitor on. Though I suppose I’m lucky I don’t have one on too, or we’d be making a pretty terrible symphony in here right now.”

It takes you a second to catch his meaning, but by the time you do he’s blushing nearly as badly as you.

He’s tossed himself under the bus just so you wouldn’t be down there by yourself.

You don’t know what to say to that, but a quiet thanks slips past your lips unchecked, and for reasons you cannot figure James’ smile softens in response.

“Anytime, love. So, what’re you still doing here?” He changes the subject hastily. “They keeping you for observation or something?”

“No, I’m just waiting for my ride to get off work,” you explain. “What are you doing here?”

Sirius grins, leaning against the wall near your bed. “We work here, babe.”

“No, I—I know that,” you laugh. It hurts your chest, and all three boys’ expressions tense with sympathy when something in your face must reveal it. “I meant, don’t you usually work in the ambulance?”

“We just dropped off another patient,” he says, so preparedly that you suspect he knew what you were really asking the first time. “Older guy, complaining of a stomach ache.” He winks. “No competition for you, sweetness.”

Christ. You’d thought they were bad when they’d picked you up, but it’s worse when you can actually process what they’re saying and doing.

“Is he okay?” you ask, ignoring Sirius’ last comment.

James gives you another one of his soft smiles. “Yeah, he’s alright. We see him like three times a week, he’s always fretting about something. But how are you, sweetheart? They treating you alright in here?”

You shrug. “I’m fine. I have some broken ribs and a concussion, like you said earlier, but I’m just glad it wasn’t worse. And of course everyone has been very nice.”

“Glad to hear it.” Remus’ voice seems soft compared to the other two, though he more matches your volume. He perches next to you on the bed, eyebrows scrunching just a little as he looks at the stitches on your forehead. “Mmm, that’s probably going to scar.”

“I don’t mind,” you say honestly, a second before remembering his own scars. They tug a bit as his eyebrows flick upward again, and then his lips pull into a boyish, lopsided grin.

The monitor goes off again, and you cover your face with your hands as Sirius cackles.

“Sorry, lovely.” Remus’ voice sounds somewhat amused too as his hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing delicately. “We’ll get out of your hair so you can rest.”

“Thank you,” you say into your hands, removing them only once his weight lifts from the bed.

Sirius won’t stop laughing, not looking abashed even when Remus grabs him by the collar of his shirt and drags him along on his trajectory out of the room.

“Get well,” James says, walking backwards to follow them and giving you a smile that seems to contain, impossibly, equal parts mirth and earnestness. “I’d say I hope to see you around here again, but best not, huh?”

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b00kdiary · 1 year ago

Note

MORE BAT BOYS X PLUS SIZE READER (smut!!) PLEASE xxx

Cautious | Bat Boys

ACOTAR Bat Boys x Plus Size reader

It's just as Cassian said: the bat boys were young and dumb… and fucked females in the same room as each other. Y/N’s in for one hell of a surprise.

Warning: Mature themes (18+), swearing, fluff, and smut.

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

PART TWO

"Rhysand" I giggled, the sound drowned out as he slammed the oak front door shut and pushed me up against it.

He pressed his lips to mine, capturing my laugh within that soft, sinful mouth of his.

I gasped, back arching against the cold wood as his tongue swept in, the faint taste of wine invading my senses. My fingers clawed up his armoured chest, scratching and admiring the lean muscle he had gained training here at Windhaven.

He caged me in, taller and broader than I had expected, especially for a male of only twenty years. But his experience with females was more than evident as he kissed me, one hand gripping the flesh at my hip while the other curved around my jaw to keep me just where he liked.

A moan slipped free as his lips plucked back from mine, an insatiable hunger in his violet gaze as he dipped his head down and began suckling wet, needy kisses against my throat. I felt his smirk against my skin at the sounds he wrenched from me.

"Rhy-Rhysand," I couldn't form proper sentences, not as he nipped and sucked against the sweetest spot at the base of my throat. He hummed absentmindedly. "We'll get caught – "

"Rhys," He corrected, voice like melted chocolate. I bit my lip as he kissed up neck and jaw, before pulling back to smirk at me.

Gods he was beautiful.

"Call me Rhys, darling," He brushed the tip of his nose against mine and my eyes fluttered. "And no one's going to catch us. My mother is at the town hall, gossiping with your mother."

I giggled again and his lip quirked at the corner. A flash of sweetness behind the charm.

Again, his lips met mine, a collision of teeth and tongues and enough need that all my protests disappeared. Washed away by the feel and taste of him, by the way, his hands now brushed up my stomach, long, ringed fingers teasing under my aching breasts.

So many noises escaped me as that hand lifted higher, and I felt a charge of power course through me as Rhys cupped my breasts in his palm, a rough sound rumbling from him as he pinched my pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

"I don't – " Words failed me again, every sentence melting into a moan as he toyed with my breasts, grinning as he did so. "I don't think this is what your mother meant when she said to make me feel welcome."

He snorted and braced a hand over my head, the other moved to tilt my chin to meet his pleased smirk. I could smell the salt and jasmine on his tan skin, could make out the few Illyrian tattoos peeking out from under his leathers.

"I disagree, darling," Again that smooth term of endearment, and the smile he gave me as my thighs clenched shut told me he knew what it did to me. "I'm doing exactly what I was told – creating long-lasting allies, a friendship to withstand centuries."

"Is this how you treat all your friends then?" I quirked a brow, desperately ignoring the way his thumb swooped back and forth at my jaw.

"Don't be jealous," His smile broadened a breathtaking sight. My lungs constricted tighter when he leaned down closer, and I felt the unmistakable imprint of his hard length against my stomach. "I'm sure I'm not the first friend you've ever made, Y/N darling."

A glint of challenge in those midnight eyes.

"Now who's jealous?" I teased and satisfaction filled me when shadows eclipsed his eyes, the hand at my jaw tightening when I rocked my hips forward to rut against him. He growled as I did it again. And again.

"You are trouble," He chuckled, and I was molten in his hands as he pressed one long, indulgent kiss against my mouth. The kind that promised a night I wouldn't easily forget. "I'll take your lack of a denial as a personal challenge, to be the best friend you've ever had – "

I opened my mouth to laugh, but then Rhys clamped a broad, calloused hand over my lips. Silencing me.

His mouth pressed against his knuckles, violet eyes warning me to stay quiet.

And then I heard it - footsteps crunched outside, a gentle patter against the stones leading to the cabin.

"Let me just grab my shawl," A light, feminine voice called out. Rhys and I weren't breathing. "The weather's turned for the worst."

My heart lurched. That was Rhysand's mother and the look in his eyes told me she would not be pleased to find him here, find me here. This was definitely not the kind of welcome she had meant.

It all happened in a blur.

One second, we stood there, pressed against each other, his hand over my mouth and knowing we were absolutely fucked. And then the next, a cloud of dark mist erupted through the room and then Rhysand had gripped my small hand in his – and winnowed us.

It was a flurry of darkness and shadows, warping and twisting our bodies as we moved through time and space. He gripped my soft body tight, hands keeping me protectively close.

And then we were in a room.

I gasped as my feet once again met solid ground, the world spinning around me, my guts coiling in tandem with it. Rhys yet against pressed a finger against my lips, and I found myself cemented to another cold, oak door.

His bedroom door likely, though I couldn't see over his towering, broad form.

I gripped his wrist, staring into those wide violet eyes and straining my ears. I froze as the front door creaked open, those soft footsteps pattering into the living room, muttering as she moved. My nails carved half-moons into his flesh, a mixture of fear and excitement taunting me as we both silently listened for his mother's steps.

I might have been crazy, might have utterly fucking insane for how my body was reacting. But with him so close, being able to feel every hard inch of him and not being able to touch him for fear of being caught... it made my core soak.

Rhys's eyes flashed down to mine, surprise and mischief in them as he caught the scent of my arousal. I felt my cheeks heat and I swear he seemed to shake with the restraint it took to keep waiting, looked as if he wanted to devour me at this moment.

But we waited. Even if it killed us.

We waited, listening in suffocating silence as Rhys's mother waded through her home, items rustling and clattering as she searched for her shawl. It might have been a few minutes or a lifetime before she sighed, finding it.

I rubbed against Rhysand's cock again as her footsteps padded toward the door, getting quieter.

And the second that door closed shut – the male snarled and then was upon me.

My back slammed into the wood behind me, hard enough that the breath knocked from my lungs. Rhysand gave me no time to get down air before his mouth clashed with mine and his tongue forced my lips and teeth apart.

He moaned into my mouth, and I felt alight as every inch of him cemented against every inch of me. My hands gripped his shoulders, exploring and feral as I touched my way along the hard, lean lines of him, desperate to just feel him.

He seemed to feel the same, his mouth tearing from mine to bite and kiss against my throat again, his face slotting into the crook of my neck and mouth teasing the already bruising flesh there. I whimpered, eyes rolling as his mouth descended lower, my dress yanked down enough for my breasts to spill free.

"Fuck," Rhys swore, his gaze pitch black. My body burned at that look.

His head dipped and his lips found purchase around one taut nipple, drawing it between his teeth and sucking. He hummed and the sound travelled through my whole body, mixing with the desperate sounds wrenching free from my parted lips.

Rhys enjoyed my breasts, smearing spit along them as he toyed from one to the other, biting and kissing and worshipping them.

It was dangerous for us to do this still. Stupid even. Knowing Rhys's mother could come back at any point, knowing my own mother would likely start looking for me soon, that if they came here, saw us, even smelt us –

"How- how did your mother not know?" I managed to choke out, fisting Rhys's midnight hair. He continued twirling his tongue around my sensitive nipple as if he hadn't heard me. "She must have smelt it – "

"Why are we talking about my mother?" Rhys groaned, lips curling into a disgruntled frown. I yanked at his hair, forcing his face back up to mine, and he sighed at the persistence in my doe eyes. "Magic – that cloud of mist? It's a little trick to make sure none can sense me, sense us."

I hummed in understanding, opening my mouth to ask another question. But then his hand curved down my stomach and my breath hitched as he slowly pulled my dress higher, exposing my legs to the cold air. I shivered as his hand traced my bare skin, closer and closer to where I needed him.

"Did that placate your curiosity?" He teased, fingers trailing in and out, until my core was clenched with need.

"Don't be an ass," I scowled, hips shifting, trying to force some contact. But Rhys just smiled, drawing faint circles at the apex of my thigh. "We nearly got caught, I'm being cautious – "

"Cautious? Is that what it was?" He arched a thick brow at me, and my back curved when he ran the pad of his thumb over the front of my panties, feeling the dampness there. "Do you always get this wet when cautious?"

Any smart retort I had died on my lips as Rhys pressed his thumb against my clit and began slowly rubbing circles over the thin cloth. I moaned, and his grin was victorious, his dark gaze half-shielded by the strands of his hair tousled forward.

He seemed no longer in the mood to tease me, and I was glad for it as I dragged his mouth back to mine. A grumble of approval from him as he lazily rubbed at my clit, his mouth moving just as lazily against mine.

"Rhys," I pleaded, hips grinding down against his palm needing more friction. And he obliged me, no, he more than obliged me.

I watched as this half-Illyrian, half-High Fae male, the next High Lord of the Night Court, possibly the most powerful High Lord to ever be, dropped to his knees before me.

He looked up at me through thick, dark lashes, that mischief and desire in his eyes enough to make me climax alone. But then he lifted my soft thigh and hooked it over one broad shoulder and growled as he pushed my dress back and revealed my white underthings, a wet spot painfully obvious in the centre.

The wooden door handle dug into my spine, but I couldn't do anything but lean against it, my chest rising and falling in waves as I stared down at him before me.

His low position exposed the Fae light in the room, and it glistened over his tan skin and feral smile as he brushed his thumb over the thin material again. I bit my lip hard enough to bleed as he slipped a finger under the material and tugged it to the side.

"Cauldron," Rhys groaned, a low, appreciative noise as he eyed my exposed, wet core. "Look at you."

My cheeks heated, a mixture of arousal and embarrassment, suddenly feeling very exposed. Rhys kissed my inner thigh, playfully nipping at the flesh there, forever able to calm any raging emotions within me.

My nails cracked against the wall as his soft lips trailed higher, closer and closer to my centre. I couldn't contain my breathless moan when his mouth met that forbidden spot, and he dragged a slow, deliberate lick up my core.

"Rhys," I could barely hear my voice over the pounding in my heart. Could barely hear it over the soft, sensual growl Rhysand emitted at the first taste of me.

And as if that taste was better than he could imagine, he went back in for another. And then another. And another. Until he was licking and suckling his tongue back and forth against my sore clit, wrenching sounds that were unmistakably lewd.

"Careful, darling," Rhys chuckled, pulling back from between my legs just far enough for me to see his dilated pupils and the wetness coating his smile. "If you moan any louder, we'll definitely get caught."

I didn't have the chance to respond before Rhys plucked my clit between his lips again, all thoughts eddying from my mind as pleasure knitted through my core, painfully tight. My head thudded back against the door, my hips grinding down against Rhys's tongue, chasing that familiar high.

My fingers laced through his hair and Rhys hummed as I tugged at the strands, my body acting of its own accord, now riding his face, riding his tongue. I felt something tauten within me, and my legs began to shake as my climax approached faster and faster.

"Rhys," I gasped, back bowing. "Rhys, I – "

"I know, I know," He purred, the vibration running through me. "Just let go, darling."

He flicked his tongue hard and fast, and my mouth parted in a desperate cry as my release slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs. My body stilled, thighs closing around his head instinctively, and I was near sobbing his name as I fell apart.

Rhys kept going through it. Held me like he wished to make this moment last an eternity.

The stars exploding across my vision dimmed, fading as I sagged back against the door.

I giggled, half-gasping as I pushed at his head, my body writhing as I forced his mouth off me. Rhys laughed, low and sultry, before eventually relenting, plucking back and licking the moisture from his lips.

I peered down at him, sweating and dizzy. The male was a sight for sore eyes, grinning up at me, as he watched me catch my breath.

“That wasn’t very cautious of you, darling,” Rhys smirked, stars twinkling in his eyes. “It’s a miracle no one heard you.”

I bit my lip, laughing as I stared down at the male, my orgasm fogging every sense and making it impossible to retort anything nearly witty enough back.

“Oh, you were heard,” A rough voice drawled the words. Yet Rhysand’s mouth didn’t move. “It’s a good thing we’re so good at keeping secrets, eh Rhys?”

My heart stopped as I lifted my head, following that smug voice.

And saw two Illyrian males before us.

Watching us. Watching me.

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

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PART TWO

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averagetransfempuppyposter · 2 years ago

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Shots ring out, rattling the massive frame and the small, fragile pilot within. QUERY: Input from Handler? The positive feedback continues as another frame falls out of the sky before her as she dodges out of the way, a masterfully executed maneuver. QUERY: Handler? Input? >_Good dog. Almost done, darling. CONCLUDE: Come back to Handler? She wants nothing more than to please Handler, to make Handler happy and proud of her. Her real body may be weak but within the steel of the frame she is strong. Strong enough to make Handler proud. Strong enough to keep Handler safe. To keep everyone safe. She knew that Handler had a name, one beyond the title, but she couldn't remember it. She didn't need to remember, right? Just needed to please, to help, to keep Handler safe. >_Not just yet. 2 more, can you do that for me? CONFIRMATION: Yes Handler. Engaging. A final series of shots rings out, distorted in the abnormal atmosphere of the now-inhospitable planet, glassed towards the start of the war. One enemy frame's boosters are blown out, and it careens sideways in a spiral, colliding with the other frame. The tangled mass of steel limbs and weaponry fall through the clouds on a direct collision course with the dead ground below. QUERY: Come back to Handler? >_Yes darling, come on back. Wonderful job. --------------- The cockpit of the frame hissed open, the light of the hangar bleeding through into the darkened interior. The woman within curls up slightly, flinching away from the light. A crew of mechanics scurry away as her Handler approaches, climbing up to the cockpit and cooing encouragement and affection in the pilot's ear. >_Wonderful job, dear. Such a good hound. A hand brushes over her hair, gently working out the various neural plugs and cables from the back of her head and neck while her mind drifts away into the words of Handler. Her ears merely registered the words, translating them into plain text for the pilot to easily comprehend. >_Such a good job today, so many wonderful little tricks. Such a good girl. The pilot's body had been modified countless times over the past several hundred cycles, removing anything unneeded and adding dozens of small optimizations to interface with her frame. >_Just breathe, dear. I've got you. Her ears were modified, only registering sounds to translate into plain text to prevent the potential deafness resulting from dogfights. >_You're all done for today. You're okay, my darling pilot. Her spinal column and brain riddled with implants to let her plug directly into the mass of steel, her true body. >_Such a good dog. Her vocal cords... those never worked. Not really. To solve that, any intention to speak was translated into plain text as well, a readout sent directly to Handler. QUERY: Did... good? Handler scoops her up into a gentle embrace, carefully lifting her from the cockpit. Handler would keep her safe, let her rest... >_Very good, darling. So, very good. Her head rested on Handler's shoulder with one hand in her hair, the other on her back, gently lifting and carrying the pilot through the halls from the hangar to Handler's bunk. QUERY: Rest with Handler? >_Of course, sweet thing. Such a good girl. You've done so, so well today. Handler lays the pilot down on a large mass of pillows and blankets at the foot of the bed, where she sleeps. Her bed. Last time she slept in Handler's bed, she'd fallen out and gotten hurt, and Handler couldn't have that happening again. The pilot couldn't bear to sleep in the bunks with the other pilots, couldn't bear being so far away from the comfort and warmth and love of Handler. She knew that even if she startled awake, haunted by nightmares, Handler would be there to calm her down, keep her safe, kiss her and hold her gently... STATEMENT: I love Handler. QUERY: Handler loves me? From the bed above her, Handler spoke. >_More than anything, angel. More than anything.

#hornyposting #hornypost #mech posting #mech fucking #pilot posting #my writing

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silcoitus · 6 months ago

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Put the Pen Down

Masterlist | AO3 link

Rating: Mature

Tags: Silco, gn!reader; fluff; domestic fluff; established relationship; chronic migraines; hurt/comfort;

Word count: 1.1k

Betas: @juniper-sunny @medic-simp

“You need to rest.”

“No, I need to finish this.”

“No. You. Need. To. Rest.” You come around to his chair, hand featherlight on his hunched shoulder. Leaning forward to meet his eyes, your voice is as soft as your touch. “Put the pen down, Silco.”

A curt exhale puffs out of Silco's nostrils at that. Always stubborn. Unyielding. But you can tell by the way his good eye twitches and his hands keep balling into fists that you're right—that the aura is fucking with his vision and soon that will give way to pain.

From there, it's just a matter of time before he's spiraling into a frenzied rage. Angered that these chronic migraines have taken yet another day from him. That they have laid waste to all his meticulous plans, his precise strategies. That they come about with no warning, no discernable pattern. For all his brilliance, no amount of strategizing can stop the Chemtank engine of a migraine as soon as it's on a collision course with him. No bargaining or smooth talking can compete with the crashing wave that is an attack from his own brain.

It's the one way he's utterly powerless.

Read the rest on AO3

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whisperofaflame · 3 months ago

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♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 2: A Tale of Two Cities

WandaNat x [femme, innocent] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Story Summary:

After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.

Chapter Summary: Wanda drives you to your drab apartment to grab some necessities, before welcoming you to her home.

Word Count: 6.4k

Featuring: Hints of praise/mommy kink, and desperate attempts to describe NYC by an author who's never been there.

When you near a red SUV, Wanda pulls out her keys and unlocks it with a button, making the brake lights flash on momentarily. You start towards the passenger door but she pulls you back gently, fingers pressing against your bicep.

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” Wanda asks, her voice slightly teasing in tone. “I don’t think I’ll be letting you drive today.”

You blush, realising your error. “Sorry; I — I’m not used to the passenger seat being on the right side.”

“Ah, of course darling, don’t worry,” she says, softer now and paired with an understanding smile. She doesn’t separate from you though, keeping hold of your arm and leading you up to the front of the car, where she opens the door for you.

“Thanks,” you whisper, and she lets you clamber in. But she’s still holding the door, waiting. Once you’re sat down, you look at her in confusion.

Wanda bends her knees and starts to lean over you. Having her this close, briefly seeing her cleavage before you rip your gaze away, makes you feel breathless and warm. Surprised and unsure, you hold your breath and watch as she places your bag at your feet and then takes hold of the seatbelt, which she carefully manoeuvres it around your right arm, avoiding the sling as she leans in a bit further to click it in beside you.

“There,” she murmurs, placing a hand on your knee. “All sorted.”

You manage a smile, the only thing you can offer in this moment, when you have no oxygen to give voice to words. Her actions were sweet, and your interpretation of them edges towards intimacy — but you know, in the remaining rational part of your brain, that it makes sense to give you help. You would have struggled to sort out your seatbelt on your own. Wanda is just being nice, you tell yourself. You need to stop letting it fluster you.

Wanda stands up again, looking down as if checking you’re safely enclosed, then closes the door for you. You watch as she walks around the front of her car, bringing your attention to the shiny red bonnet, the one which you were unceremoniously flung upon just a few hours earlier. You wonder if your body has left a mark — scratched the paintwork or left a dent. Or what if your bike hit her car too?

Your bike…

You turn around swiftly, bring about a new wave of pain in your collarbone, but you’re too shocked by what you see to register the ache.

Your bike — or rather, what’s left of it — lies in the boot and across the folded back seats. The frame is warped, the wheels buckled. The seat lies separate, the fabric torn and the seatpost bent. Coiled through spokes and cogs and metal is the snapped remnants of your chain. All these pieces, unsalvageable.

You shouldn’t care this much, because it’s not your bike really, not the one you’ve spent years riding and maintaining. That one you sold to a friend before you moved, a reluctant but necessary dissolution of your bond. This bike is one you bought secondhand the first full day after you arrived here. You’ve only used it a handful of times, not enough to justify becoming attached.

But somehow, the disfigured remains of this bicycle bring up an array of emotions: disappointment; horror; grief… And fear. Because this activity, this means of transport which you took so much for granted back home, suddenly seems entirely unfeasible in this new place. Not just because of the mangled bike, but also your injury, and the seeming inevitability of more accidents. Cycling, which offered and represented freedom and independence, has been taken from you. And this loss just seems to confirm all the worries that have been brewing: that this move has been too much; that this place is too different; and that you’ll never fit in or feel safe.

And so, when Wanda opens her door and climbs in, she sees you staring tearfully at the wreckage in her trunk. You hastily wipe your eyes with the wrist of your good arm when you feel her presence.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she says, sounding genuinely sad on your behalf. You avoid looking at her, embarrassed by your emotions, trying to compose yourself before turning around. You feel a hand being placed on your knee, warm and grounding. You appreciate that she’s not rushing to fix your feelings, like telling you that you can get a new bike, or that you should just be thankful to have come out of the collision alive. You know both of those things, and you’re still sad. So it’s nice to just have the physical comfort of her hand on your knee, and the patient silence that allows you the time to calm down.

When your tear ducts close and you feel assured they’re not going to betray you again, you turn around, careful not to meet her gaze. Not yet. You look down at your knees, the left one still blanketed by her long fingers, which give a light squeeze.

“Sorry, I — I don’t know why I’m so upset… I’m just being stupid,” you whisper, voice cracking with the remainder of your sobs, viscous in your throat.

Wanda hushes you, and draws light circles on the outer edge of your knee with her thumb.

“It’s okay to cry, Y/N,” she tells you in a quiet, soothing voice that makes you close your eyes. You feel like her words cloak you with a heavy warmth that clouds your brain and puts you at risk of… something. Falling asleep maybe? You can’t quite put your finger on it, but it feels dangerous somehow, this feeling. Like teetering on a precipice.

“You’ve had a very eventful morning,” Wanda continues, her thumb still tracing patterns on your knee, prompting goosebumps to emerge under the denim of your jeans. “And you’re definitely not being stupid, darling.” The intensity of her tone causes your heart to flutter, and you feel inclined to agree now despite yourself, because she speaks with such assurance, such authenticity. Her serious statements are made all the more persuasive by the inclusion of such sweet nicknames; like sugar in a pill, they make you willing to swallow whatever she may serve you.

You look up at her, basking in the warmth of her gaze and the glow of her touch, and smile slightly. Your face is wan from crying, making Wanda only melt more at the adoring expression you gift her.

“Y/N, can I drive you to your place so we can pack a few things for you?” Wanda asks, still treating you to the tantalising touch of her thumb.

You think about this, then nod. When she tilts her head slightly, you feel compelled to add speech. “Okay,” you manage, small and unsure. But it seems to be enough for her. Wanda smiles so approvingly at you that you feel a glow of pride, as if you have done something much more than speak a mere word.

With her remaining hand, Wanda presses on the car’s display screen and pulls up the Sat-Nav. You watch her dazedly, and stare in confusion when she stops unexpectedly and turns back to you. Wanda suppresses a chuckle, seeing your baffled expression.

“Darling, you will need to tell me your address, I’m afraid,” she says, lifting her hand from your knee and then, just soon enough that you don’t let loose a whimper at the loss of her touch, she tucks some straggling hair behind your ear. You feel your cheeks heat up at her proximity, but perhaps she thinks it’s due to your apparent assumption that she can read your mind.

You hasten to find your phone, checking your pockets with light pats before leaning down, a little painfully, to search your bag. You find it in your front pocket, and pull open Google Maps to find the pin you set as your new home. Then, with trembling fingers, you type the Zip code onto the display.

You lean back then, unsure how to set it properly and not wanting to assume or overstep. Wanda smiles at you, and presses a single button which pulls up the route and ETA. It should take 25 minutes to reach your apartment. You bunch up the fingers of your left hand in your lap as Wanda begins to drive, anticipating awkwardness, and pulling your body in to shield yourself from the strangeness of the situation.

You needn’t have worried about the journey. Wanda seems easy and relaxed around you, pointing out landmarks in the distance, and telling light stories triggered by places you pass. You are grateful not to be asked questions; your brain is still murky, impossible to fish answers from with any accuracy. Plus, you can feel a tiredness settling in to your being, cemented by the ache in your bones and the blossoming bruises which will surely paint the accident vivid on your body by tomorrow. What little energy you have left you cling to and wield as a weapon against sleep. You can’t sleep now, not in Wanda’s car, as you approach your tiny, grimy apartment in a neighbourhood you don’t yet know.

You prod your faculties to produce a list of items to pack, but it proves futile. The concept of 72 hours in Wanda’s company is too big, too unbelievable to pin any mundane necessities to. And you seem to have lost the capacity to plan, all attempts being derailed by distraction of a most beguiling kind. Wanda.

When Wanda parks the car, it takes a moment to orient yourself and recognise the street. There is the takeaway beside the door to your block, shutters closed and graffitied. In front of it, the fire hydrant which caught your attention, day one, as a staunchly iconic article of Americanism, despite its mundanity. And beside the car, the skinny tree in the pavement — or sidewalk — rooted in a rectangle of scorched soil, audacious weeds and sun-dried dog faeces.

Your new home.

“Um, I guess this is me,” you announce awkwardly, unsure how else to initiate this transition.

“I’ll come up with you,” Wanda states smoothly, leaving no room for disagreement. “I can help you with the doors and carrying stuff down.”

You smile briefly, and nod. It’s hard to summon anything but horror at the thought of Wanda seeing the hovel you inhabit now, the only apartment you could arrange — and, more importantly, afford — at this stage.

Wanda, at least, seems unabashed by the surroundings. “I’ll come round and let you out,” she tells you, and she’s already walking round the car by the time you process and prepare a protest. So you sit meekly, awaiting her support and watching her hair swing against her shoulders as she walks, producing glints of red as she catches the sun.

There’s a fluttering in your stomach when she opens your door and reverses what she did before like a choreographed dance, unbuckling your seatbelt, folding it back into place and lifting your bag onto her shoulder.

You’re about to ask why she’s taking it, but it occurs to you that she maybe doesn’t want to leave it in the car. You don’t really know the area well enough to trust or suspect it yet, so you trust her judgement. The bike, at least, will pose no temptation to any passers-by.

You swing your legs around and slide out the car. The drop is larger than you expect, and Wanda steadies you with a hand cupping your elbow as you land like a baby deer, skittish and uncoordinated.

“Thanks,” you murmur, adding clumsiness to your mental list of I hope she puts this down to the concussion.

You lead her to the door, hearing her lock the car behind you. You pat your pockets again, this time finding the phone you unearthed, but unsurprisingly nothing else has magically appeared there since you last checked. You turn, blushing, to face Wanda, and gesture to the bag. She doesn’t need words to understand what you need, swinging it off her shoulder and holding it out to you. It’s hard to undo the zip with one arm, but she responds to your movements by providing helpful opposition, tugging the fabric of the bag away from your zipping movement to give it more purchase. You find your key, and she zips the pocket back up for you, saving you the trouble. Again, you just smile your thanks.

You unlock the door and lead her up the musty smelling stairway to reach your flat door, pausing a moment to take a steeling breath before opening up your new life entirely to this woman you met mere hours ago.

Your flat is very small, more of a glorified studio apartment than anything. The ‘bedroom’ is essentially the same room as the kitchen, distinguished only by its position round the corner of the L-shape. The bathroom, thankfully, has its own door, but it’s also shaped like an afterthought in the architect’s design, tall and narrow like a closet, coming off the ‘hallway’ space. And by that, you mean the square metre your feet first touch when you walk in.

You’ve already unpacked all the worldly possessions you brought with you on the plane, and it still feels empty in here. Especially because it’s tidy, which is against your base nature but seems to be inevitable here, where you both lack enough things to create clutter, and have a wealth of lonely, anxious time in which to clean. When you first arrived, you subjected everything to a near-existentially erasing scrub, gutting out the remnants of the previous tenant and elevating the space from unsanitary to outdated.

Your brain is spinning with apologies and excuses you feel the need to express, but you decide just to hurry and complete your task so that you can extricate Wanda as soon as possible. This, however, proves difficult, as your thoughts fail to coalesce with any relevance to packing. Wanda watches you a while as you rummage through your drawers of clothes, whole body betraying your inner struggle.

“Sweetheart, let me help,” she intones, stepping forward to your side. You look up at her, embarrassed but admittedly desperate now for any support that makes this activity more efficient. “Do you have another bag we can use?” Wanda prompts, and you pull a rucksack from under your bed, eager to fulfil her request and at least make the process of helping you less painful for her.

Wanda instructs you one step at a time: tops, pants (you nearly open the wrong drawer at this, before remembering she must mean trousers), and then underwear. For this step, she subtly looks away, saving you the humiliation of parading your intimate items between the drawer and the bag.

She reminds you of toiletries next, and you do a quick sweep round your bathroom, grabbing everything you might need. Finally, she prompts you to pack things to do, whilst reassuring you that you can also borrow books and watch films at her house if you get bored at any point. You slide your kindle into the bag first. Since the remainders of your bookshelf are packed in boxes back home in your parents’ attic; you’ve become a minimalist out of necessity, and it pains you. Next, you slide in your Nintendo Switch, a little sheepishly, wondering if she’ll think it is childish. On that note, you’re glad your stuffed rabbit is tucked beneath your duvet, out of sight.

“All done?” Wanda asks, when you awkwardly buckle the backpack closed with one arm. When you nod, she smiles and adds a quiet “good job, honey” which seems to singe your face with heat and embarrassment. You try to wrestle down the elation inside you, not wanting to acknowledge the addictive nature of her recognition and praise. Because if you do, surely it will bury you.

“Come on,” Wanda says, reaching out and taking the bag away before you can sling it over your good arm. “Let’s head to mine and get you settled.”

She has a bag over each arm now, yet still she reaches out for your hand like it’s no bother, like she wants to. You look at her outstretched fingers, your shoulders folding in to your centre in automatic bashful reception. When you clasp her hand, it makes the pain a little more bearable, even as it ripples down your arm from the self-protective movement. She’s leading you slowly out the flat, letting you turn as you leave to lock the door behind you.

On the stairs down, she is watchful, attending to your cautious movements. You’re being extra careful; the sling is making your body feel uneven, difficult to trust. Wanda stays by your side, matching your pace and applying some upward pressure against your hand to allow you to lean on her when necessary.

As you approach the car, your stomach flutters in anticipation of the ritual. Wanda lets go of your hand to open the back door and carefully tuck your bags into the footwell, out of reach of the disassembled bike. You stand on the pavement waiting, hoping she will help you again. It’s strange how you’ve surrendered your independence so fully, seeking out assistance and leaning in to the supports. Although, maybe it’s not your willingness that is surprising, but rather the speed. You hardly know her, and already you’re falling to your knees in your mind.

When Wanda closes the door and turns to you, her face breaks into a radiant smile. Like she’s pleased at your patience and trust that she will help.

“Alright, let’s get you in, sweetheart,” she intones, voice low and delicate, like she’s talking late at night, and using a tone conducive to sleep. Wanda opens the passenger door for you, and you shyly slip past her to sit down and swing your legs in. Holding your breath as she leans over with a smile, pulling on your seatbelt and buckling you in. Your faces are so close, they almost touch. Her lips… they are tinted red and glossy, and you’re staring at them far too long, you know, but you can’t seem to control yourself. Wanda looks at you, and you can’t even summon the decency to look away. You are frozen in enchantment.

Her smile, so soft and accepting, produces warm tingles in all regions of your body. it widens a little, as she gives your knee a singular, pausing pat.

“All sorted,” she whispers, and you have to gasp for breath when she closes the door, because you’ve been holding it without realising for a while. As she walks round the car, you pull yourself in, trying to centre yourself before she reappears. Slowing your breath, willing your cheeks to cool down. Stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the insistent feeling which is pooling in the depths of your body.

Wanda enters on her side, sits down and closes her door. She reaches for the screen with a perfectly manicured finger, tapping it with a sparkling red nail and selecting the button marked ‘home’.

“It’ll be a fifty minute drive, Y/N, so feel free to sleep if you need. You look a little tired.”

You are tired, whether by her influence or the drugs in your body. But you don’t want to fall asleep, it would feel rude when she has to drive you, when she has done all this to help.

“I’ll be okay,” you whisper, giving her a small smile. She looks back at you, her eyes flickering up and down ever so briefly, lips hovering on the edge of a smirk. Like she doesn’t believe you.

And she’s right to doubt your claim. Mere minutes into the journey and your eyelids are fluttering, head drooping intermittently as you catch yourself slipping away. In the midst of your slow succumbing to slumber, you miss the sideways glances Wanda makes, watching you in awe as you slip away so sweetly.

You awake to a soft, hushed voice. Soothing, it calls you out from under the blanket your brain has placed on your consciousness.

“Y/N, honey, we’re here.”

Your brain unwraps the blanket tentatively, peeling it back. Your eyes open, blinking as you adjust to the light and your surroundings. You turn to see Wanda watching you with interest as you wake.

“Hi sweetheart,” she welcomes you, “you were out like a light.”

You still feel a bit foggy, disorientated and stiff. You roll your body a little in the seat, trying to stretch your muscles awake, but you’ve forgotten that your limbs are littered with emerging bruises, and your shoulder is sitting severed in a sling. You wince and emit a tiny squeak of pain, which you are too sleepy to stifle.

“Careful, darling,” Wanda reminds you, as she brushes some hair out of your face and tucks it behind your ear with a gentle, lingering finger. Her words, her touch, are like a soothing balm.

Slowly, you look out the windows at the street surrounding you. A neat row of townhouses — mostly reddy-brown in colour, with a few exceptions painted in muted tones — face you on either side. There are trees flanking the parked cars, leafy and green, all curling in to meet each other in a sun-dappled embrace over the narrow street. You shrink a little in the realisation that this is where Wanda lives, the same Wanda who saw your seedy street and entered your dingy flat.

Again, Wanda comes round to help you out, and you debate undoing your seatbelt yourself, to save her the trouble and you the embarrassment, but you don’t move. And you’re not sure if you’re frozen in fear of breaking the ritual or denying the feelings it gives you. In your lap, you pinch the fingers of your left hand together in a stilted rhythm.

When Wanda opens the door and sees you sitting still, she beams at you, as if pleased you waited. Though maybe she’s thinking you’re silly? You’re not sure. The only thing you can comprehend when she again leans over to release you is her scent, distinguishable now that you’ve been exposed enough to note it. It’s floral but not sickly, and soft, a mere whisper to your nose. A whisper you hardly catch, elusive and intriguing, making you yearn for it to be repeated.

She steps back to let you get out, holding the door and watching as you turn and slide into standing. You manage to stand steadily now, though a wild wish to wobble grips you momentarily. When you step forward out of the way, Wanda closes the passenger door and opens the door behind to retrieve your bags, again swinging them onto her back, one strap on each shoulder, before closing the door. She doesn’t mention the bike, and neither do you. You both know it’s irretrievable. At some point, you’ll have to arrange for it to be recycled or scrapped. Not today though. Today you just want to lie down and let yourself be numbed and soothed by pills and Wanda’s presence… Two potent cures, both with potential side effects which you will gladly endure.

“This is us,” Wanda tells you gently, gesturing up to a four-storey tall residence, with an ornate staircase up to the main door. Above the entrance level, the next floor has a rounded bay window, decorated with plant pots. You wonder which floor Wanda and her wife live on, and whether they are responsible for the plants.

She leads you up the steps to the door, constantly attentive to your movements, supporting your elbow at your side as you climb. The outer set of double doors open with Wanda’s push, then there is a wide wooden door which she has to unlock. You’ve only just registered the lack of buzzers when she holds the door open for you, letting you walk in. You see a long open-plan room, and you realise that this is not a block of flats, but rather one residence. The whole thing. Her home.

This level is open plan, narrow but extending a long way back. Beneath your feet are dark walnut floorboards, shining and clean. There is a sofa and a few armchairs with a coffee table here, and further back is a small wooden table and chairs. In the far end of the room, you spot a fancy staircase that curls at the bottom, and large glass doors leading out to a balcony.

Wanda is taking her shoes off beside you and placing them in a little cupboard, on a rack. You mirror her actions, pressing your shoes off with opposite feet to avoid awkwardly stooping and removing them with one arm. When Wanda spots you, she opens her mouth — perhaps to tell you there’s no need — but you’re already leaning down and picking them up. She lets you pass her and place them neatly on top of the rack, where there is space.

“Thank you darling,” she says softly, “but next time, it’s okay if you want to keep them on.”

You smile bashfully, but in your head you are thinking that you’d far prefer clear rules, so you could follow them correctly and make sure you are as unproblematic a guest as possible.

“Shall I give you a little tour?” Wanda asks, and you nod.

“Yes please,” you say softly. She smiles in return, so warm, so welcoming.

“Alright, sweetheart. We call this part the dining room, though I suppose it’s also part living room.” Wanda walks forward, gesturing smoothly to the sofa and then moving towards the dining room table. “This is where we eat usually, though sometimes we’ll eat downstairs too.” She moves again, you following at her heel like a puppy. “And this is our kitchen.”

You look at the kitchen, tucked slightly out of the way behind the staircase. The patio doors you saw from the entrance lead off from here, onto a small balcony which has stairs leading down to the garden.

“I usually do the cooking, since Nat’s not really a fan,” Wanda says, a little conspiratorially. When you cock your head slightly in question, Wanda clarifies for you. “Natasha, my wife. She’s out at work today but you’ll meet her later.” Then she gestures to the glass doors. “Come on, I’ll take you down this way.”

You follow her out the doors and wait as she closes them over again behind you. Then she leads you down the wooden steps into the garden, which is narrow like the house, though a similar depth. It’s kept beautifully, plants and bushes lining the sides, two good sized trees at the back with a hammock and a canopy strung between. Beneath the balcony coming off of the kitchen, there are a table and chairs, as well as a barbecue stand. A string of fairy lights hangs above, lit up but dim under the overwhelming glow of the sun.

“It’s lovely,” you tell her, appreciating the greenery and serenity of her garden.

“Thank you, darling,” she says appreciatively. Then she gestures with her hand to follow, and she leads you through another set of glass doors into the lowest level of her home. Here is a much larger sofa, and a far more cosy space. A large TV screen hangs on the wall, at a good height for watching movies or playing games without straining your neck to look upwards. You notice a PS5 on the console table, and your eyes flicker up with curiosity.

“You have a Playstation?” you ask, intrigued.

Wanda smiles. “It’s Nat’s… I must confess I’m not very good with that stuff, though she’s tried to introduce me many times. Do you play video games?”

You grin at the formal way she asks, so indicative of her unfamiliarity.

“Yeah, I um, have a Switch. I used to have an Xbox but I had to sell it before I moved, it was too big to bring.”

“That’s a shame,” Wanda responds sympathetically. “Well, maybe you and Nat can play together while you’re here. I’m sure she’d appreciate having some capable company.”

As lovely as it is to hear Wanda’s confidence in this, you can’t help but worry about meeting her wife, Natasha. What will she think of your sudden, unexpected imposition? But you try to stuff down your anxiety and remain present in Wanda’s tour, because she’s being so attentive and helpful, and you don’t want to seem distracted or ungrateful. So you smile and nod at her comments, and look in politely to the adjoining pantry which she indicates to you.

Then she leads you through the rest of the basement floor, briefly showing you the cupboards and a bathroom, then leading you past the staircase towards two remaining doors.

“This one leads to a staircase at the front, going up to the street,” Wanda explains, gesturing to one. “And this one…” — she opens the door and leads you in — “is the gym.”

You’re surprised at how well equipped this room is, how bespoke every fitting seems to be. There are long mirrors on the walls, special flooring which is slightly sprung, an exercise bike, treadmill and rowing machine, as well as a weights station and hanging punching bag. With all this, there would be no need to pay for a gym membership. Not that it seems money is an issue for these women. Again, you wonder vaguely what they do for work, and whether it will ever feel appropriate to ask.

“Wow,” you breathe, not able to hide how impressed you are. Wanda lets out a small chuckle at this, and as your cheeks heat up, you try to summon a more mature and insightful comment. “Do, erm, you use this space much?”

“I’m in here every so often, more so in the Winter really, when it’s too cold to get out,” Wanda considers. “Natasha uses it most days though, mainly in the mornings before breakfast. That’s why we made sure to have it down here, so there was no risk of her interrupting my weekend lie-ins.” She grins at you, and you smile shyly back. “Right, shall we head up again?”

You nod, and so she leads you out, gently shutting the door behind you. She gestures for you to head to the stairs, so you do. When you reach the bottom, you turn round to face her, to wait for her, expecting her to lead. She tilts her head at you a little curiously, then her face breaks into perhaps the softest smile you’ve received so far. She looks so happy, so caring.

“Don’t worry, darling, I can lead you up,” she says quietly, and you blink, doe-like, at the sound of her cooing words.

As you follow her up the winding staircase, the meaning and feeling of her words catch up to you. You feel slow and hazy and warm. And somehow you don’t think you can blame the concussion or the medication this time.

Wanda leads you up two flights of stairs, past the entrance level and up to a new floor. The second floor? Third? You’re not sure in which order you should regard them.

This floor, like the basement, is more closed-plan, with a corridor parallel to the stairs, and doors leading off.

Wanda shows you through one facing the staircase, leading into a large bedroom with a wide bay window — the one you spotted from the street, with green leaves and flowers poking up out of their boxes. It’s chic, with a king-sized bed, dark wooden bedside tables and an intricate rug over the floorboards. But small, contained. Cosy.

“This is where Nat and I sleep,” Wanda says, a little shyly. You hover by the door, not wanting to intrude on their private space. Even though she’s brought you in here.

Wanda walks over to you, and cups your good elbow with her hand.

“Y/N, I want you to know that if you need anything tonight, or any other night, you can absolutely wake us so we can help you. Just come to our room and get us. Do you understand?”

You feel somewhat distracted by the feel of her hand, warm against your elbow, heat seeping through the light fabric of your long-sleeve top. But when you pull yourself together, you nod. Even though you have no intention of ever waking them up, because what reason could you ever have, good enough to disturb them?

“Words please, sweetie,” Wanda prompts, her voice low and enchanting. You swallow, feeling caught. Like she could read your mind and see that you were only nodding to appease her, and not really buying in to her words.

“Y-yes, Wanda,” you stumble out, eyes dipping from hers but always being pulled back, like hers have a magnetic draw.

“Good girl,” she praises, and you can feel your breath stuttering, all the air having evaporated from your lungs. The effect these two words have on you is frightening. You feel both the slow, foggy feeling from before, as well as a giddy sort of elation. Like you’re floating on a high, a high which you will surely seek again when it is gone. You feel complete.

Wanda brushes your hair behind your ear, then her hands drift away from your body as she turns to lead you out. A small thought tugs at you; you can’t remember feeling any hair out of place.

You’re frozen for a moment, before an invisible string between you and Wanda seems to pull you to catch up. You go from spaced out and still to a kind of desperate trotting, eager to be near her warmth again.

“Through here…” Wanda continues, as if nothing happened back there, as if your sense of self wasn’t upended with her words and her touch. “Is Nat’s study.”

She shows you, and you glance around, acknowledging the sleek contemporary space only vaguely in your mind as you replay her words over and over like a mantra. Good girl. Good girl.

Wanda seems to analyse you for a moment, and you ought to rearrange your face to seem calm and unaffected, but you don’t know how and you don’t know if you can even if you did. She seems to shake off whatever concern she may have had though, because she’s promptly leading you up the stairs to the final floor. Up here, there are skylights which flood the corridor with sunshine. She shows you a bathroom, and tells you that you will have sole use of it while you are here, though you’re welcome to borrow any toiletries from downstairs if you need. Then she shows you the room facing the back of the house.

“My library,” she says quietly, and your breath seems to go missing again, though this time from the wonder of such a space, hidden within the older shell of the building and the distinctly contemporary interior besides. The walls are lined with built-in wooden bookcases and furnished with rows upon rows of colourful, gilded covers. You walk in automatically, past Wanda, who stands aside to let you roam. As you glide around, taking in the books and the armchairs and the soft red lighting, you yearn to trace the spines of the hardcovers, to open an old book and breathe in the smell of the pages.

“Do you like it?” Wanda asks, bringing you back to the present.

You turn quickly to her, and flush at your eager and forward actions. You can’t find the words, but you’re sure she understands from your emphatic nod.

“I’m glad, darling,” she says. “You’re welcome to pop in anytime while you’re here. And read anything, nothing is too precious for you to touch, okay?”

Your eyes widen at the offer and the possibilities it entails. You can really read anything from here? It takes you a moment, but you manage to smile and whisper a small “Thank you.”

Wanda nods, looking pleased. “Right, the last thing to show you is your room, and then I can make us some lunch while you get settled.”

She walks out the library, and this time you follow with a hint of reluctance. Still, you feel happy to be walking in her wake. It gives you purpose. It gives you a goal.

Wanda opens the door opposite the library and leads you into the final room of the house. Your room — for the next night or so, at least. It’s hard to remind yourself not to get attached, when Wanda speaks so easily and generously in those terms.

It’s lovely, decorated simply with a calm energy that makes you feel at home at once. There’s a small desk in the corner, facing one of the two tall windows looking out towards the street. There’s a lovely skyline view here, one that matches the view from Wanda and Nat’s room just below. The bed is maybe a little smaller than theirs, but plenty big enough for you and far bigger than the one in your flat. Wanda shows you the walk-in closet attached, and pulls out some fresh towels for you.

“Thank you,” you tell her, and you hope she can hear in your voice and see in your face how grateful you are.

“You’re most welcome, darling,” she assures you. “Now, would you like some help to unpack, or do you think you’ll be okay on your own while I make some lunch?”

“I’ll be okay. Thank you though,” you respond carefully. You’re not sure how much unpacking she is imagining, given you have only two small bags and there’s not much point unpacking anyway for such a short stay.

Wanda smiles. “Alright, Y/N, I’ll just be down in the kitchen making us some lunch. Do you have any allergies, or anything you don’t like?”

“No allergies,” you tell her, “but I, um, don’t eat meat. Just fish, sometimes.” You decide not to relay the rather long list of foods you don’t like based on taste and texture. For her, you decide, you’ll eat anything. Even maybe olives.

She nods. “No problem. You just come down whenever you’re ready, darling. And if you need a rest instead, I’ll save some food for you.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, and she matches your soft smile before she leaves.

When she’s gone, you sit on the edge of the bed and let out a deep, shaky breath, letting remembered words reverberate in your head like the constant flickering of stars in the night sky.

Thanks for reading! The above artwork was created by the amazing Lulu ( @queen-of-chaotic-surprises ) and it beautifully encapsulates the vibe of the car journey in this chapter. I'm so in love with it, and I hope you can follow Lulu and show your love on the original post too ♡

If you want to continue reading this fic, you can find Chapters 1-12 here on AO3. (I'm slowly posting on Tumblr too but my AO3 updates are more regular!)

#wandanat #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel fanfiction #wlw fanfic #f/f fanfic #collision course #stories #mommy!wanda #mommy wanda #mommy wanda x reader #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff

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