#and before opening it was just too stressful

[abbotsanatomy]

Can I request a Jack x reader where reader gets hurt while working and Abbot goes insane trying to make sure she’s okay 🤭

⨳ HEART IN YOUR THROAT

pairing: jack abbot x wife!doc!reader warnings: workplace romance, descriptions of injury, depiction of an erratic patient, assault of a healthcare provider. author's note: y'all i wrote this man stressed! (reasonably) he CANNOT lose another wife...

There's a tune stuck in your head, from the drive to work. You're humming it as you look over your most recent patient's labs. But you can't hear yourself anymore when someone yells from somewhere near the ER's ambulance entrance.

'Yell' isn't really the right word, it's more of a shrill screaming that chills you to the core. You're still leaning on the station counter, when you spot Jack running towards the screaming, followed by Ellis.

The computer's immediately abandoned, as you make your way through the ER in a sprint. You pick up a paper gown on the way out, and pull it on, tying it in the back. The emergency entrance's glass doors open automatically, as you make your way through them and onto the road.

It's chilly outside, as can be expected on a winter night in Pittsburgh. You can feel cold air making its way deep into your bones, but you know you have to move quick when you see the patient thrashing violently on a hospital gurney. You can tell Ellis and Jack have already gotten a few kicks to the face, trying to steady the patient's legs, where the blood is making it difficult to asses his injury.

You make for his arms, which are free and way too close to grasping Ellis by the hair. You're pulling him back onto the gurney as gently as possible, pulling both of his arms into yours. There's no way to be reassuring in this kind of situation, but you try anyway. He isn't taking any of it, though. His screaming directly at your face makes you flinch a few times. His wife shouting in the background isn't so comforting either.

Somewhere throughout the struggle, the patient gains on you. You can slowly feel your grip over him slip. With a rough shove from him, you're down on the floor, face planted directly onto the pavement. You can hear a sickening crack when you try to move your face across the concrete. An intense pain shoots up from your nose, and you swear you can feel it in your brain.

"Fuck!" you shout into the ground, and even that hurts.

You can hear John make his way out of the emergency entrance, he almost leans down to check on you, but you give him a thumbs up. You just want this idiot on the gurney out of your sight, then you might get up. He makes his way to help restrain the patient.

Jack's voice is distantly shouting a question at Shen that you can't quite make out. Then, he's right in front of you, pulling you up by your arms before you can protest. There's an almost alarming amount of blood on the pavement where your face was. When he pulls your face up to get a good look, you can taste your own blood making its way down your throat.

You wipe away the blood from your top lip. Any expression you make is so painful you regret ever even having a face. Jack's eyes are going back and forth, analyzing every part of you to make sure there's nothing else besides the glaringly obvious broken nose.

"I think it's..." you take a deep breath in through your mouth, "broken."

The gurney passes you two, crouched on the side of the road. Jack shoots the patient the nastiest glare you've ever seen. He looks ready to kill the man. You're pretty sure he would've at least put him in the hospital if he wasn't already here.

The moment he looks back into your eyes, his face twists into a more comforting expression.

"Yeah?" he smiles, but it barely reaches his eyes, "I think so too, honey. Let's get you up. I'll take care of it."

You let him pull you up to stand. He's still observing you for any signs there might be something else wrong.

"You hurt anywhere else?" he asks, his tone soft.

You shake your head.

Even if you were, you're pretty sure the burning sensation in your face is clouding your judgement. "Nope. Legs just a lil' sore."

"Alright. We'll get 'em looked at."

By that, he means he's going to move you into the ER and damn-near yell at anyone who even suggests he go assist with the patient and let someone else take care of you. You always knew Jack had a protective streak, but seeing it in action is entirely different. You're sure you'd be laughing and making fun of him for it, if speaking and smiling and breathing didn't hurt so bad.

He guides you to one of the ER chairs, and pulls the cubicle curtain closed. The first victim of his very thorough physical examination is your nose, which he packs to stop the bleeding and then gives you a local anesthetic injection in. It dulls the pain and makes the manual realignment feel like barely a gentle pull.

When he's done, he checks you everywhere else. He does a million tests you both know are incredibly excessive. You let him turn your limbs every which way, check your breathing a hundred times, and perform a neuro exam more than ten times, probably.

"I'm fine, Jack," you kindly inform him, for the fifth time since you've sat down, as he flashes a light into your eyes.

He puts the flashlight away and nods, finally acknowledging you. His arms come to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs stroking the skin there. Your eyes meet. When you smile at him, he grimaces.

"Oh my god. Am I really that deformed?" you joke.

He shakes his head slowly, "You could never be anything short of gorgeous in my eyes."

You're about to make another joke, when you realize his eyes hold an intensity in them that's usually reserved for those terribly intimate moments you share, almost exclusively, at your apartment. He looks really fucking scared, too. It’s a proper notch down from how afraid he looked outside, so you’ll take it.

"Where doesn't hurt?" he asks.

You point to your cheek. It isn’t completely pain-free, but it's the only place you can tolerate any kind of pressure and actually feel it. He leans down and presses his lips gently there. It makes your eyes flutter shut instantly. Your hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, keeping him there.

"I think you'll need to perform an even more thorough examination. At home. In bed," you whisper into his ear.

When he laughs against your skin, you turn your face to the side, so you can press your mouth to the side of his jaw. You instantly regret it, though, because your freshly split lip burns.

"Ouch," you complain.

Jack presses one last kiss to your temple, before he pulls away. He grabs his phone out of his front pocket.

"We leave in an hour," he confirms.

"You can nap here. I'll make sure no one wakes you up until it's time to go," his voice is soothing, but you know he's not really asking.

Luckily, you can already feel your eyes droop, so you’re barely arguing anyway. Jack's footsteps are heavy, and when he pulls the curtain open you can tell he hesitates for a moment.

It sounds like he has a smug grin on his face, "And, uh, you're only slightly deformed."

Your eyes shoot open, but before you can grab something to throw at him he's already out of eyeshot.

"You can't say that to your patients, Doctor Abbot!" you yell after him.

The last thing you hear before passing out is his distant laugh.

[littlelovelunette]

Obedient Pups

Sevika x Ambessa Medarda x Ran x Reader

Contains smut, foursome, submissive!Sevika, biting, strap, oral, fingering, pet names, groping, squirting.

Sevika and Ambessa merely seemed to be tolerating each other, but hey, a woman needs to get the stress out. And with the way things had been, Sevika didn't want to go to the brothel. No, because for once she wanted to be the one to be fucked. This wasn't Sevika's ideal situation, in fact, she'd never been in this kind of a situation. Sevika cussed under her breath, “Mhm? What was that?” Ambessa asked her, voice low as she fucked into Sevika with the huge strap. It was dark red in color, squelching as it went in and out of Sevika's tight hole. “Fuck,” Sevika bit down onto Ambessa's shoulder as she tightened around the strap.

Ambessa let out a low, amused hum, her large hand gripping Sevika’s thigh to keep her in place. “Tight little thing, aren’t you?” she murmured, her voice husky and thick with satisfaction. Each thrust was deliberate, punishing, the sound of skin against skin echoing off the stone walls of the dim room. Sevika clenched her jaw, pride clashing with the overwhelming sensation coursing through her body.

“Don’t get cocky,” Sevika growled, though the tremor in her voice betrayed the way her legs had started to shake.

“Oh?” Ambessa leaned down, lips brushing Sevika’s ear. “Then stop moaning like that.”

Sevika hissed through her teeth, fingers digging into Ambessa’s back hard enough to leave crescent marks. The stretch was brutal, the pace relentless, and Sevika’s body betrayed her at every turn — the slick sound of her arousal only spurring Ambessa on.

“Thought you wanted to be used,” Ambessa purred, nipping at Sevika’s jaw. “Don’t go soft on me now.”

“Harder,” Sevika rasped, eyes wild. “If you’re gonna fuck me, then fucking do it.”

Ambessa grinned like a wolf before slamming into her deeper, hand now moving to wrap around Sevika’s throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes flutter. Sevika's growl turned into a choked moan, the strap dragging against that spot just right, making her arch and shudder beneath the warlord’s weight.

“Good girl,” Ambessa muttered, dark and low. Sevika wanted to cry out in pleasure but she'd rather be edged for hours than give that satisfaction to Ambessa.

“Fuck you.” She said with each thrust but she couldn't deny the heights of pleasure Ambessa could push her to. Just as Sevika's pussy clenched around the strap, readying for a well-deserved orgasm, the door burst open.

A very flustered Ran stood there at the doorway, pale cheeks instantly reddening, “I'm so terribly sorry,” they said slowly, frozen in place.

Ambessa's golden eyes flicked over to them, reaching out a hand. Her big hand closed around Ran's wrist and they were pulled inside too. Ran’s eyes were wide as Ambessa pushed some of their black locks to the side to examine their face, “It just so happens all of Silco’s workers are… pretty.” Ambessa paused. “Go close the door, Sevika,” Ambessa said, taking the strap out of her violated hole with a shclik.

Sevika, the probably most humiliated one amongst all, got up and walked to the door with wobbly legs, but she tried her best to not let it show.

Ran stared after Sevika's naked form, gawking at her as if the latter hadn't ever seen a naked woman.

Sevika slammed the door shut with a glare, then leaned back against it, steadying herself with a low exhale. Her thighs still trembled, her pussy pulsing in the aftershock of pleasure denied, but she kept her chin high — refusing to look as wrecked as she felt. Ambessa, still fully in control, turned her attention to Ran like they were a new plaything to examine. “You walk in on something like this,” she said, her voice honeyed but laced with danger, “You don’t get to walk out untouched.”

Ran opened their mouth maybe to protest, maybe to apologize again but the words died on their tongue when Ambessa tilted their chin up with her fingers. “What’s your name?”

“R-Ran,” they stammered, eyes darting nervously between Ambessa’s unreadable gaze and Sevika’s simmering one.

Ambessa smirked. “Cute.” She pressed a kiss to the corner of Ran’s jaw, slow and possessive. “Do you want to stay, Ran?”

Ran hesitated, heartbeat thundering in their chest. Sevika scoffed behind them, still leaning against the door, arms crossed making her breasts look plumper. “You’re already in the room, might as well stop gawking and take your clothes off.”

She walked up behind Ran and tugged their shirt off.

Ran, completely off-guard, looked at Sevika with a scandalised expression but then it melted away when Ambessa pulled them in for a kiss. Sevika worked on undressing them while Ambessa devoured their mouth, “You've been drinking.” Ambessa murmured.

“Not much, I'm sober.” Ran mumbled and given the way they were melting away already proved that.

It wasn't long until Ran ended up on their knees, eating Ambessa out nervously, tongue flicking over the older woman’s engorged clit. Ambessa guided them with a gentle hand while her other hand was busy rubbing Sevika who was on the couch beside her. “See, you both can be such obedient pups when you listen.”

Ran let out some sort of submissive whine against Ambessa's cunt, “Shhh, pet,” Ambessa forced her face deeper into her pussy, “Just keep sucking.”

The room was hot — thick with sweat, moans, and the wet sounds of submission. Sevika's head was thrown back, jaw clenched as Ambessa’s fingers circled her clit with agonizing precision. Her breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed, but every so often her eyes opened to watch Ran squirm between Ambessa’s legs, cheeks flushed and lips glistening.

Ambessa, ever the picture of indulgent control, sighed contently.

“That’s it,” she purred, guiding Ran’s mouth in lazy motions, her own pleasure building steadily. “Such a sweet little mouth. You're lucky I’m feeling generous.”

Ran whimpered again, more desperate this time, clearly overwhelmed but trying not to falter. Sevika, glancing down from her haze of pleasure, smirked lazily. “You’re drooling on her thighs.”

“I know,” Ran mumbled, muffled against Ambessa’s folds.

Ambessa chuckled, curling her fingers a little deeper into Sevika. “They’re eager. You could learn a thing or two, Sev.”

“Fuck off,” Sevika growled, though it came out breathless.

And then—

The door creaked open. “Ran? You in there?” Your meek voice sounded out.

All three heads turned — Ran freezing between Ambessa’s thighs, Sevika still trembling with need, and Ambessa… grinning as if she was caught mid-feast.

You stood in the doorway.

Eyes wide, lips parted, frozen at the sight in front of you: Sevika laid out on the couch, flushed and naked; Ran on their knees, mouth pressed against Ambessa’s slick cunt; and Ambessa herself, completely unfazed, her golden gaze locking with yours.

“Well, well,” she said, slow and honey-thick. “Looks like we have another guest.”

Sevika groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “Fucking hell.”

You didn’t move.

Ambessa tilted her head. “Close the door, sweetheart,” she said. “Or do you want the whole Undercity to watch?”

Your cheeks flushed more than before and you closed the door behind yourself. “Um…” you hesitantly walked over to the three of them. Ambessa dipped her fingers back into Sevika's cunt making her moan deeply. Your panties instantly dampened. Sevika reached her flesh hand to rub your crotch, “So wet, dolly.”

You moaned, grinding against Sevika's fingers, “Please… I need it,” Ambessa smirked, adding a third finger inside Sevika causing her breath to hitch.

Sevika would've cussed the other woman out but she focused on you, “Strip,” she commanded and as if under some kind of spell, your hands reached to the straps of your dress, letting your clothes pool at your feet.

Ambessa let Ran up after she finished, pulling them in for a heated kiss while Sevika pulled you into her lap. “Go ahead, finger the pretty girl,” Ambessa told Ran.

You were straddling Sevika's abs, knees on either side of her. Sevika's hands, both flesh and mechanical, came to roughly squeeze and play with your breasts as you moaned, feeling Ran's finger against your entrance. Ran glanced at Ambessa, silently seeking reassurance.

Ambessa gave them a nod, “You're doing well.”

You felt them rubbing the insides of your wall, smearing your slick all over your vulva before dipping knuckles-deep inside.

You moaned and grabbed hold of Sevika's breasts as Ran's fingers scissored inside you, Sevika reached her flesh finger to rub circles on your clit, “Feels good?”

You whimpered and nodded, Ran's fingers in your pussy, and Sevika's on your clit— you were truly in heaven. Ambessa was whispering in Ran's ear, guiding her to fuck your pussy. You gasped when Ran's fingertips brushed against your g-spot, small mewls of pleasure leaving your lips until you leaned down and kissed Sevika.

“Curl them,” Ambessa whispered and then Ran did, causing your back to arch and you squirted over Sevika's torso. Sevika smirked, watching as you finished all over her.

Ambessa stood up, “We should finish this at the Medarda Estate before anyone else walks in and joins us.”

[revelboo]

hate to always be asking for things, but is there any way we can get some comfort for g1/idw starscream? either us taking care of him or him taking car of us, I'm not picky

i managed to work myself into an anxiety spiral so bad I thought i was gonna yartz, and I know he can get the same way haha.

Sure! I absolutely understand the anxiety spiral, too

Scenario- stress

Starscream x Reader

• Blinking as Star mass shifts as soon as he’s in your shared habsuite and makes a beeline right for where you’re sitting watching pirated TV on his giant alien tablet, you open your arms for him. And he just buries his face against your middle, arms looping around you with a groan, nearly knocking you over. Being extra dramatic today, but you blow you a breath and lay a hand on his helm. “Megs?” Hear his muffled growl and take it as a yes, free hand smoothing over his wings as they tremble slightly. “I’m sorry.”

• Venting and annoyed with himself for needing comfort, he can’t make himself move away from the feel of those soft hands on him. Soothing away the stress of dealing with Megatron. Knows that it’s not your fault, that he’d had to deal with Megatron before you. And knows that you know that, too. Laying his head in your lap, his servos fist in the back of your covering, letting you fuss over him and relaxing under the attention.

• Running your fingertips over his helm, he makes a low, rumbling noise of appreciation, wings stretching slightly as he leans into your touch and those red optics look up at you. You half expect him to grumble that he’s not a sparkling, to get embarrassed about being babied, but he just shutters his optics. “Needed this,” he admits, rough voice gruff.

• “I know,” you murmur, leaving to press a kiss against his helm. Feel him shift against you, helm brushing your belly as he goes up on his knees and hooks his arms around you, dragging you up against him, face buried against your neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”

• Means so much after all the mistakes he’s made with you. All the times he’s accidentally hurt you because he didn’t think, just acted. Arms tightening on you to make you squirm and wheeze before he eases up. Knows he doesn’t deserve you, your warmth and forgiveness. But needs it so much. Needs someone to need him. A place to belong. And he doesn’t belong anywhere but wherever you are.

[redhoodsdeer]

on wheels (tired!reader x mechanic jason)

civil!reader x jason todd

prompt: where the reader's car decides to mess it up on the worst day possible, fortunately the mechanic jason was quite willing to help.

a/n: i finally posted again, and tbh, i didn't really like this one, but i have a thing for mechanic jason that just can't be put into words, i hope you guys love this as much as i love mechanic jason.

It was 10pm on what seemed like the most stressful day of your entire life, everything you wanted was to get home and take a shower long enough for your neighbors to think you were dead, but since this was definitely the worst day of the year, of course you couldn't, and of course your car broke down on a dark Gotham street at 10pm.

Every little thing that could go wrong today, did. Your ran out of coffee and you were way too late to stop by a coffee shop, your work clothes that you were supposed to pick up at the dry cleaners yesterday? still stuck there, your important meeting with your boss? the biggest disaster of your whole career.

All you wanted to do was curl up in an fetal position and cry on the floor until this day became a really distant memory, but instead, you were calling the tow truck at 10pm on a terribly suspicious street in Gotham.

After what seemed like hours of no one answering your calls, you finally got an answer and arrived at the garage, which seemed to be the only 24-hour garage in town, and you were infinitely grateful for that.

Okay, now, you were expecting a mechanic twice your father's age, on a dirty white tank top and a beer belly, you didn't expect that at ten o'clock at night on the day that seemed endless, you would come face to face with a greek god who had escaped from Olympus.

Biceps so big they could break you in two (and you kinda wished they did), the most angelic face you've ever seen, not to mention the white streak in his hair, because of course your mechanic had to be absolutely divine, on the day you were absolutely mundane, your tight skirt stained with coffee (which wasn't even yours!), your face as tired as a construction worker's on the end of the day, and your makeup had abandoned you three disasters ago.

"Ma'am, so what's the deal with the big guy here?" he asks, his voice so deep you thought you might melt. Your voice barely came out, your eyes struggling to stay on the car between you two.

"I don't know, I was on my way home when it broke down, I have no idea what happened, my dad was the one who used to take my car to the mechanic."

And of course the perfect day for you to get used to going to the mechanic by yourself was the same day you tripped in a mud puddle on your way to work and had to walk three blocks back just to take a shower.

He stares at you like you're from another world, before shaking his head and lifting the hood of the car, looking for whatever was wrong with your car.

Your eyes followed every move of his methodically, as if, if you looked away he would disappear and be replaced by a regular mechanic with a beer belly and a bad attitude.

And when he took his grease-stained hands off the hood of the car and turned his blue-gray eyes to you, you felt like you might faint.

"Lucky for you, it's nothing really bad, you've just been a while without an oil change and it's easy to fix." The raspy voice echoes through the shop and you feel your heart beat faster as you slowly nod your head to show that you understood.

"And how much will this cost?" Your voice asks, politely, already searching through your bag for your wallet, which was a bright pink, because you simply felt like everything around you was black, white and gray, and you wanted to have something colorful to remind you of the existence of colors.

As he walked around the workshop, just before he put his grease-stained hands on the hood to open it and change the oil, he gave a little laugh that could have been mistaken for a smirk, and coming from that man, you felt like you needed to lean on something to keep your composure, more specifically, him.

He finished and closed the hood of your car, wiping his hands on a cloth that was lying on a shelf, it might have just been because it was him doing it, but every movement he made sent a wave of heat over you, because everything looked so fucking hot.

But before you could even find your card inside the colorful wallet, a smirk appeared on the man's face, who was now leaning against the side of your car, looking as attractive as humanly possible.

"Chill, it's just some oil change, it's already 11pm on a Tuesday night, you look exhausted, it's on the house, maybe that way you'll become a regular customer" His voice teases and you swear you just felt your heart entangle with your lungs.

There was no way this divinity in human form was flirting with you, of all people, you, at your worst, you were sure your hair that you had delicately styled the night before had given up a long time ago, and you swore you looked as much of a disaster as you could.

But still, there he was, openly flirting with you. "In the face of such an irresistible proposal, maybe my car will break down more often around here, who knows, maybe I'll forget to change the oil again." You shrug, putting your wallet back at your purse and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you smiled at him.

A chuckle escaped his lips as he tossed your car keys back to you. “Maybe you should get my number in case you need help and you’re too far from the shop.” He shrugged, just before writing his number on a worn-sided post-it note that was stuck to the counter and handing it to you.

Your hands touched for least than half a second, and as cheesy as it may sound, you swear you felt an electric wave run through your body the moment your hands touched.

And right there, on the scribbled paper, was 'Jason' written in a sloppy handwriting that made you smile to yourself as you read it.

"Jason, huh?" You ask, looking up from the small note. He just shrugs, a silly smile on his face.

"You'll have to call to find out."

As you drove out of the garage, driving your now, not-quite-broken car, with a smile so big they might think you were leaving a casino after winning a jackpot, finally get to you that this interaction had actually happened, and that the neatly folded post-it note inside your pink wallet really had the number of the hottest guy you had ever seen.

And now, you were hopefuly waiting for your car to break down, willing to even crash into a tree if it would make him appear faster.

It turns out, in the end, your day wasn't so bad after all.

[ssweetreveries]

wind down | l.mk

🎧 all mine . brent faiyaz

☆ mark x reader

⋆ 18+ mdni!

⋆ word count! 1.5k

⋆ request? ✓

oneshot, nonidol!mark, afab!reader, bf!mark, softdom!mark, sub! reader, unprotected sex, a bit of dirty talk, praise, brief cumplay, mark is so so good to reader :(, creampie, fluff, use of pet names (baby), porn no plot...

synopsis. both you and your boyfriend had a long day at work, so you decide to wind down together..

likes, reblogs, comments are appreciated!!

author note: i’ve been wanting to write for mark since foreverrrr!! finally here 🥹🙏 i tried to incorporate fluff and smut as per the request—im not sure how i feel about it but hopefully you like it anon, thank u for requesting<3

i apologize if there is any mistakes, this isn't proof read and english isn't my first language. enjoy!! ><

The door shut with a soft thud, the only sound indicating that Mark was back from work. It was already the late evening, his schedules having run a bit later than anticipated. He was tired, you were tired—both of you were tired after an exhausting work day.

You peaked up from the couch, watching him silently as he took off his shoes and dropped his work bag somewhere. You could see the tiredness etched on his face, the tension in his shoulders—and honestly, he looked as good as ever even like this.

He notices you staring and offers you a small smile, walking up to you and taking the space next to you on the couch. He sighs and pulls you in his lap without a word, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply.

You smile softly to yourself and play with his hair as he holds you close—basking in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Evenings like this were common between you and Mark—nights where both of you were too tired to do anything, just wanting the comfort of each other presence.

You stay like that for a while—at one point you even think he fell asleep, his breathing steady against your neck and his limbs unmoving if it wasn’t for his tightening grip around your waist. He mumbles something against your neck, his lips brushing your delicate skin though you can’t quite hear what he said.

“Hmm?” you pull back just slightly, gently cupping his face in your hands, “What was that, baby?” you ask him, voice just above a whisper.

He leans into your touch, a small tired smile on his lips as he mumbles again, “I missed you.”

You smile and brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead, “Mmm, I missed you too.”

He sighs and his hands start to wander up and down your sides soothingly, “You’re so pretty, (Y/N)..”

“I look horrible, Mark.” you laugh, knowing your appearance was a bit disheveled from the long day you just had.

He hums absentmindedly, hands coming to find your face and pulling you in for a sweet kiss. “Still pretty.”

You sigh, letting him have his way before pressing your lips against his once more.

Your lips move against each other, soft and lazy at first before slowly growing more passionate by the second.

His hands run through your hair before cupping your face and pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. He pushes his tongue in between your lips, a satisfied moan leaving him as your tongues meddle with each other.

As the kiss deepens, his hands start to wander as well, finding solace on your waist in a possessive grip—pulling you impossibly closer. He breaks the kiss to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck, and you can feel his hardening erection pressing against you as the intensity of the moment escalates.

His hips buck a bit, grinding his hardening length against you, a low moan escaping his throat. His hands slide down to your ass, gripping you tightly.

His kisses become more heated, more desperate—all the pent up stress from his day coming out with his rushed movements and you bite your lip at his eagerness.

He bites down gently on your neck, sucking a bit to leave a hickey—his hands squeezing your ass. He's so hard now that it's uncomfortable, and he knows he needs to be inside you soon.

Without breaking the kiss, he stands up suddenly, ignoring the ache in his calves from the intense hours spent in rehearsal—carrying you with him.

Mark drops you onto the bed, careful not to hurt you. His eyes are dark with lust and frustration from his long day as he climbs over you. "I need you, baby, please." He whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

"You have me, Markie." you whisper back, hand caressing his cheek and that's all he needs—

He gently pushes your legs apart, and quickly makes work of his pants, freeing his thick, hard length.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he watches you removing your sleep shorts and panties, revealing your bare pussy. He groans a bit at the sight of you spread out before him, so ready and waiting for his cock.

"Fuck, baby, so wet already," he rasps, voice thick with need as he brings a hand to your core, running a finger down your folds and pushing his thumb in your aching hole—before pulling back and bringing his thumb to your lips, smearing your arousal on your bottom lip. "Open,"

You do—letting him push his digit in your mouth and swirling your tongue around it just like you know he wants. He groans, both satisfied and aroused at the sight.

He pulls his hand away and replaces his finger with his tongue. "I need you now, baby, I can't wait.." he whispers against your lips.

And you know you can't resist your boyfriend—not when he's whispering those filthy words so sweetly against your skin. Not that you'd deny him any way.

"I want you," you assure him, fingers playing with his hair.

Mark pulls back, gripping himself tightly, giving his cock a few hard strokes before positioning himself at your entrance.

"I love you" he whispers softly, barely audible before pushing inside you in one swift motion—his thick length filling you completely. He lets out a low moan, his head falling back as he savors the feeling of being inside you again.

He starts moving his hips immediately, thrusting into you with hard slow strokes. "Fuck, I missed this pussy,"

You whine a bit and clench involuntarily at his dirty words.

Mark starts slow at first, giving long, hard thrusts that hit deep inside you. But as his arousal grows, his patience runs thin. He picks up the pace slamming into you faster and harder. His balls slapping against your ass with each thrust—nasty sounds filling the room.

"Fuck, baby, so good," he rasps, "missed this, missed you." He leans down to capture your lips into a deep, searing kiss.

You moan against his mouth, doing your best to kiss him back as he continues his unrelentless thrusts. "M-missed you t-too— Fuck, Mark—!"

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer as he thrusts into you mercilessly. He buries his face in your chest, muffling his loud groans. He's so close already, the stress and tension from his day making him feel like he might explode any second.

Despite his own impending release, he manages to slow down his pace momentarily, focusing on hitting that spot inside you that drives you wild. His fingers dig into your hips as he grinds against you, desperately trying to make you cum before he loses control.

You let out a breathless moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot just right.

He feels you clench around him as he hits that perfect spot inside you over and over again—one of his hand coming down to rub your clit in firm circles, knowing exactly how to touch you to get you there. His own cock twitches inside you as he feels your orgasm approaching.

After a few more thrusts and the extra attention to your clit you throw your head back and moan loudly as you reach your climax—your pussy tightening around him like a vice.

A low moan leaves his lips at the feel of your walls clamping around his length and starts fucking into you again, hips snapping to yours with no restraint, chasing his own orgasm.

His thrust become desperate and erratic—burying himself to the hilt inside you. "Fuck, gonna c-cum, baby—"

He buries his face in your neck as he finally reaches his peak with one hard, final thrust. His cock pulses inside you, shooting hot ropes of cum deep in your overstimulated pussy.

He keeps thrusting through his orgasm—your body shuttering, hands clenching the sheets tightly as he draws out every last drop. "Fuck.. fuck.." he pants heavily against your shoulder.

Then he pulls back to look at you, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his lips. He remains buried deep inside you, feeling his cock twitch with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, "Are you okay, baby?" he asks softly.

You offer him a hum and a small nod—a small, tired smile of your own playing on your lips.

He leans down to kiss your forehead softly, cock still buried inside you. He knows you must be exhausted, so he doesn't move too much, giving you time to recover.

After a moment, he pulls out slowly, feeling his cum leak out of you but he doesn't care—he lets his body weight slowly settle on top of yours, mindful not to crush you as he nuzzles his face in your neck and presses a soft kiss to your collarbone.

His voice is low and gentle as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, praising you and the way you make him feel. "So good, baby, so perfect, just for me." He mumbles against you. "Mmm, love you so much.."

© ssweetreveries follow for more!

asks are always open for anything! ♡

[gracie-eilish]

okay so i have another actress!reader because i was so excited u opened ur requests again haha. i luv ur work and again you dont have to pick this up. but how about actress!reader being a big actress and everyone wanting to work with her because she’s so talented. but reader already in an established relationship with billie chose to breakup because she’s felt like she wasn’t giving enough time to the relationship. months go by and the reader and billie are miserable without eachother, then comes award night or oscar night. it being highly anticipated that reader wins and billie being there nominated as well, they both see eachother and realize that it was a mistake leaving eachother. maybe it’s like eye contact with one of them on stage accepting an award and that’s when they realize idk. sorry for this being so long, but thank you!!

an: requests can be as long or as short as yall want them to be!! thank you for sending thisss (sorry it took me so long🥺)

an: suspend ur disbelief for this one teehee! i made some edits to real life for the sake of the story :) please read request for summary!!

warnings: none !

you were already nervous enough the whole night. it was the first time you had ever been nominated for an oscar, for a performance you put so much into! you just didn’t expect tonight to go like this.

you wanted the pink, hollywood, barbie dream you had been living since last year… since you met billie.

while in post, greta and the team introduced you to billie and finneas after they had completed their song “what was i made for”. as barbie, they wanted your opinion on the song as well! making sure if fit with your intentions and the performance you gave. you and billie clicked and the rest is history.

until a few months later when life blew up for you, the highly anticipated movie came out with a bang shooting you into stardom! and shooting down your schedule. you and billie had broken up about a month ago due to your stress and limited time for a relationship. you thought it was for the best…

now you sat in the dolby theater, donned in pink, mingling with other nominees, but you can’t seem to focus. not when she was also there. sitting right behind you, also mingling and enjoying her night as a nominee. the two of you hadn’t spoken all night, a respectful wave and smile was all you two shared. for now…

billie’s performance was breathtaking, you were so proud of her. she had been so nervous about singing this song live for months, and you were there by her side every festival show last summer, watching her prove herself wrong and rock it.

as the crowd leapt to their feet for her, you made brief eye contact. you sent her a watery smile and you cheered and clapped with the rest of the crowd. she sent you one back, before taking in her moment once again. the sight was unimaginable, the whole theater on their feet for her and her brother… but she was distracted too by a pretty girl in pink.

when the time came for the award for best original song, naturally you were the first one on their feet when billie’s name was announced as the winner. after hugging her family members, and after the shortest hesitation, she leapt into your arms for a congratulatory hug before continuing her way down the aisle, finneas following, to accept her award.

you couldn’t help but feel emotional. you missed her so. fucking. much.

“and i also want to thank y/n, you brought barbie to life so perfectly and made it so easy to feel how you were feeling so we could write this song. thank you for your input and support always.. like literally always…” she continued with her thank you’s, meanwhile your heart was beating so fast in your chest. that was the first time you had “spoken” since the breakup…

the reverse happened when your name was announced as the winner for best actress in a motion picture. shocked, you stumbled to your feet, hand over your mouth trying to hold in the tears. you hugged your family next to you and felt a hand on your shoulder.. billie.

the hug was so familiar.. warm, safe, like home.

“i’m so proud of you ba……” her words got jumbled in your head due to the music volume. barbie? baby? no of course she said barbie! why- why would she say baby? she said barbie as a cute little joke… right?!

as you accepted the award you went down your list of thank yous, and of course expressed your gratitude for the honor you were receiving.

“i mean this is just such a dream come true.. i never thought playing a doll most of us used to play with as kids would lead me here…” you trailed off. you looked up but she was already looking. her big blue eyes glassy with tears, and her hands clasped together on her chest with pride.

she missed you.

the after parties were actually the most fun you had had in a long time!! dancing and mingling and drinks, it was a perfect night.. well almost perfect.

in true hollywood fashion, you caught her eye across the room. she changed into a grey suit, seeming to be much more comfortable now than in her dress. she nodded her head towards the door behind her. signaling she wanted you to follow. without a second thought you pushed through the dance floor to follow her. pushing the balcony door open, looking right and left.. and there she was.

“hi,” you said breathlessly.

“hi.” she replied with that heart melting smile.

JK JK JK there’s no part two, i just wanted to be evil for a second teehee

“how are you?” you squeaked, suddenly shy. your shyness was always endearing to billie.

“i’m doing actually really good.” your heart sped up. “but how are you doing miss oscar winnerrrrr?” she said with a smirk, opening her arms for you. giggling, you let her encase you in a hug that you never wanted to get out of.

“i really am proud of you,” she whispered. her voice clearer now than it was before.

“thanks billie,” you gave her a pouty smile, her words touching.

“of course baby,” she pushed some hair from your face, her other hand still resting comfortably on you waist.

baby. not barbie… baby.

you bit your lip, eyes shifting between hers before you broke. “i’m so so sorry billie. i don’t know what i was thinking. i was so busy and i couldn’t keep up and i took it out on us and that was so not okay, and-“

following in the theme of hollywood moments, she cut you off with a kiss. immediately your shoulders relaxed, and you just melted into her arms.

“i know love, i know.” she kissed your cheek pulling you in for a hug. “let’s just enjoy tonight yeah? we can talk about it later. just want you right now.” you just nodded, not trusting anything more than a squeak to come out of your mouth.

the disco pop sound of the barbie soundtrack flooded through the door making both of you look towards the dance floor. while your head was still turned, billie pressed a kiss to your cheek before holding out her hand.

“care to dance, oscar winning actress barbie?” you snorted at her charm, while taking her hand.

“why of course, oscar winning pop star barbie.”

the two of you had a lot to talk through. and you would, tucked in her side in her hotel room bed that night. lots of tears would be shed, as well as hugs given and apologies squeaked out. but until then, you two danced the night away, holding onto each other, sharing kisses and having the best night of your lives. together again.

[mylovesstuffs]

“It’s not cute” — Choi Seungcheol

Request: hey, Celeste!!! how are you doing? I'm so glad your requests are open!

i wanted to request something (in whatever form you feel most inspired to): reader having essential tremors (it's an actual condition im not making it up 😭✋) and being frustrated about it, maybe lashing out or breaking down one day. the fact that everyone points it out and sometimes joke abt it, etc. angst + comfort , maybe? also i'd like it to be w cheol or wonu, but tbh any of them is absolutely fine!

tysm <333

It starts with eyeliner and ends in a breakdown. The world doesn’t understand what it’s like to live in a body that won’t always obey, tired of laughing first before someone else can. But Seungcheol doesn’t need to understand it all, he just holds your trembling hands like they’ve always been steady, and loves you like you’ve never been less.

Genre: Non-idol au, established relationship, angst and comfort, introspective slice of life and character study

Pairing: Seungcheol × fem!reader

Content: Essential tremors [aka benign tremor, familial tremor, and idiopathic tremor], emotional breakdown, eyeliner symbolism [bc girlyhood], comfort from a loving partner who is choi seungcheol, no judgment, warm arms and understanding hearts, one-sided flashbacks to bullying/teasing, reader struggling with internalized shame, reassurance, love that stays

Content warning: Mentions of medical condition [essential tremors], anxiety, childhood bullying, ableist microaggressions, internalized frustration and self-doubt, crying, cursing once or twice, one emotionally charged breakdown. No explicit content.

Word count: 921 words

A/N: It was supposed to be shorter... about 400 words like a drabble, though I still think it's drabble but I was hoping for it to either be 400-500 words or 1k 😔

For my sweet anon—i hope this gives you even a sliver of the comfort you were looking for. This one was written with a lot of heart at like... 2:46 am when i should’ve been asleep but cheol brainrot said otherwise. To anyone else who reads this and relates even a little: your exhaustion and frustration is valid, and your hands deserve to be held gently too. I experience a slight tremor as well, though I believe it’s genetic since it runs in my family. According to my doctor, mine is primarily triggered by stress and anxiety [I was under treatment back in October during a period when my mental health went really down]. I’ve been prescribed different medications since then, not specifically targeted for tremors, but the tremor was listed as one of the symptoms being addressed in the medication guidelines. While I might not fully relate to this experience, as my condition hasn’t been formally diagnosed and doesn’t really interfere with my daily life, I still hope I was able to do this piece justice. Also, huge thanks to Calli @hhaechansmoless for beta-ing. As always, we run anyway ! (￣▽￣)ノ♡

It starts small, and it always does; a dropped spoon, a tremble in your fingers while pouring water. The slightest bit of shake that you'd think it could pass unnoticed, but that, people always notice, and never don’t comment on.

“Why are you always shaking?”

“You nervous or something?”

“You should drink less coffee.”

“Aw, you’re like a baby deer.”

Haha, it is so funny to you at this point. But today, it feels entirely different to you, it's like you're not yourself anymore. You’re tired, and you just want to put your eyeliner on, but the line goes jagged again. And for some reason, that tiny thing becomes the last straw of the day.

You slam the eyeliner on the counter and nearly knock over everything else with your unsteady hands. “God, I’m so sick of this!” you hiss. “Why can’t I just be normal for five fucking seconds?”

The bathroom door creaks open and you already feel Seungcheol behind you. “Hey,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”

You blink back your unshed tears, but still they betray you like everything else lately. “It’s not cute, Cheol. It’s not quirky, or funny, or something you get to joke about. I hate it. I hate how I shake. I hate how people treat me like it���s some personality trait. It’s a condition, and I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and so does your composure, and you sink down onto the closed toilet lid, face in your hands, breath shaky just like your very own fingers. The way they’ve done for so long, it doesn’t even surprise you anymore.

All you expect right now, is silence. But instead big, calloused, warm hands wrap gently around yours.

Shaking or not, he brings them to his lips and kisses your knuckles, softly and slowly. “I know it’s not cute when people don’t take it seriously,” he says, kneeling in front of you. “And I’m sorry if anyone’s ever made you feel like you have to pretend it’s no big deal.”

You look up with your glassy eyes and trembling lips. “I’ve never once thought less of you for it,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be ‘normal’ to be everything I love.” A small sob leaves your lips, and he pulls you into a hug, his arms secure around you, voice a low hum against your hair. “You can be frustrated. You can hate it, but you don’t have to go through it alone. I’m here, even if your hands shake every day for the rest of your life, I’ll still hold them just like this.”

You want to believe him, even as your fingers tremble. In fact, you do believe him; believe that he doesn’t want to let go, that he won’t.

But there’s something bitter lodged deep in your chest, a heaviness that doesn't disappear just because someone holds you through it, because you've heard this before. Variations of it. Words that sounded like comfort, but were laced with pity, gestures that looked like care, but never stayed long enough to be safe.

You remember being younger and dropping your spoon in front of classmates during recess. The laughter and the mock sympathy haunted you for years and they still does. “Are you scared?” they'd tease. You weren’t; not then at least. You didn’t even know what was happening, and why your body betrayed you when all you wanted was to be still.

And now, years later, it’s not even the tremor that hurts most, it’s what comes along with it without your consent. The way people watch, the way they assume it’s your fault, the way you're constantly being explained—to others, to yourself, that you’ve become a walking explanation.

“You know, she has this thing—”

“It’s not that big of a deal—”

“She’s always been like that—” You’re always like that.

It chips away at you, little by little, and you start adjusting your life to avoid the gaze. No eyeliner on days you feel particularly self-conscious, two hands to hold a cup, even if it makes you look ridiculous, rehearsing how you’ll brush it off when someone points it out again; laughing before they do, so it seems like you're okay with it.

You’ve weaponized your own shame into pre-emptive jokes. Turned your fear into something palatable… but it still hurts. It hurts when people don’t even ask if you’re okay. They just assume you’re something to laugh at, to observe, and you’ve been strong for so long, that today just felt like the end of it. Like how this one tiny thing —the jagged eyeliner—was all it took to remind you how helpless it can feel to live in a body that doesn’t always listen. But now, there’s warmth.

And maybe that should terrify you, because if people can be cruel, then love can be temporary. But his arms around you don’t feel temporary, his silence doesn’t feel judgmental, and most important of all, he doesn’t ask you to feel better; he just stays along with you.

You want to believe that someone can see all of it: the struggle, the cracks, the exhaustion, and still choose to stay, but not because they pity you, not because they want to fix you, but because they love you even like this, and especially like this.

Your breath hiccups in your throat, and you let yourself lean into him just a little more. Though your hands still shake, you begin to believe they don’t make you any less worthy of being held.

[i-get-obsessed-fast]

hello! can i just say your fics are so amazingly written and make me feel really fluffy inside <33

i was wondering if you could write a spencer reid x new bau reader? reader is a new hire at the bau and always has her hair up in a cute new hairstyle everyday because she has curly hair and if she were to have it out, it would just get in the way in the field. so, when she is invited to rossis house for the first time for a dinner, she finally wears it out for the first time in front of them. spencer, seeinf her hair for the first time like this, malfunctions and goes speechless for a bit. very fluffy and self indulgent

thank you so much if you end of writing it!!!!

Yay thank you so much! I'm glad they make you feel that way!<3 and LOVE this request!

Curl Pattern | S. Reid

It had been six months since you joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and while it had been nothing short of stressful, in a strange way, you’d come to love it. Not only what you do but the members on the team.

They had welcomed you with open arms from day one, and over time, they’d grown from colleagues to genuine friends.

“Hey! Love your hair.” Emily said as you entered the roundtable room, plopping down in your usual chair.

“Thank you.” You replied, grinning. She always made it a point to compliment the various updos you’d show up to work with.

JJ leaned in, squinting playfully. “You know, your hair always looks amazing when it’s up, but why don’t you ever wear it down?”

You shrugged. “It’s a hassle, and would probably just get in the way.”

JJ nodded, understanding, just as Garcia swept into the room, her voice commanding everyone’s attention.

“We’ve got a case, angels.” She said, her tone more serious than usual.

Los Angeles. The case was ugly. You guys ended up staying for days, combing through evidence and following dead-end leads, until the end came suddenly…and at a cost.

“Damn.” Morgan muttered, the weight in his voice matching what everyone was feeling.

You all stood there silently as officer jones body was carried away in a bag. He had saved your guys team by stepping in at the last second.

It hit you then: This job isn’t just high stakes. It truly is life and death. Every time you pack up and answer a call, it could be the last.

The ride to the airport was quiet. You sat in the back, leaning your head gently against Spencer’s shoulder, something you guys always did, while you held onto Emily’s hand on the other side of you.

No one spoke, and that silence was louder than anything.

When you boarded the jet, you instinctively took the seat beside Spencer. He gave you a small smile, and you offered one back, grateful for the quiet comfort he always managed to give without even trying.

Across from you, Hotch and Rossi spoke in low voices, going over the final details of the case. You leaned back, closing your eyes, hoping for a few minutes of rest, but your mind was too restless.

Back in Virginia, you all returned to the office just long enough to grab your belongings.

As you all waited by the elevator, Rossi turned to address the group.

“Before everyone runs off, I’ve been thinking.” He said, his voice warm but firm. “We see each other in the worst circumstances. Maybe it’s time we try to be together in better ones. So, I’d like to host a dinner. Tomorrow night, eight o’clock. Bring your families, your partners, hell bring your pet. Let’s appreciate the lives we fight to protect.”

Everyone nodded, some smiling, others still to drained do more than murmur their agreement.

“I’ll be there.” You said softly, stepping away from the group. “I’m taking the stairs.”

“Goodnight.” JJ said. A chorus of goodbyes followed.

“Uh- I’ll walk with you.” Spencer said suddenly, falling into step beside you. You looked up, a little surprised, but smiled. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” he said simply, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

“So… What’s wrong with the elevator?” He asked, after a beat, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Didn’t feel like waiting. I’m exhausted.” You replied with a shrug. “Yeah, me too.” He said quietly, then hesitated. “You will be a Rossi’s tomorrow, right?”

You glanced at him. “Yeah. You?”

He nodded quickly. “Yes. I mean, I wouldn’t miss it. It’ll be nice to be together…outside of work.”

You smiled at that. “Are you bringing anyone?”

He shook his head. “No. Just me.”

“Same.”

When you reached the last floor, he moved ahead to open the door for you. “Here.” He said softly.

“Thank you.” You replied, brushing past him with a smile.

He didn’t stop there, he walked you to your car. “Uh, drive safe.” He said, his voice a little quieter now.

“You too, Reid.”

You slid into your car and glanced up at him one last time before pulling away. He stood there for a moment, watching you go, hands still in his pockets, eyes soft.

౨ৎ

You arrived at Rossi’s exactly at eight, nerves buzzing under your skin. It was silly, maybe, how much you’d overthought this, your first time at his home, the outfit you debated over a dozen times, and most of all your hair.

You rarely wore it down, it was easier to just keep it up and out of the way, at work and sometimes even outside. Today though, tonight was the night you decided to let it be free and you were a bit nervous.

You walked up to the front door, glancing at the cars in the driveway. Everyone else was already inside. You rang the doorbell.

Rossi opened it up almost immediately with his signature warmth, already holding a glass of wine. “There she is!” He beamed, pulling you into a quick hug before hanging off the glass. “Come in, come in!”

You smiled, stepping into his home. It was beautiful.

Elegant, cozy, timeless. Just like him.

Following the sound of laughter, you made your way into the kitchen. The moment you walked in, the room went just a touch quieter.

“Okay, wow.” Emily said, setting her wine glass down dramatically. “Your hair! It’s gorgeous.”

Your cheeks burned. “I figured I’d let it down tonight. Special occasion.”

“You need to let it down always.” Penelope gasps, walking over to gently fluff a curl. “It’s so pretty, I’m obsessed!”

JJ grinned from her place on the island. “Seriously, you look amazing.”

“You guys are sweet.” You smiled.

You move through the group, greeting everyone, but your steps slowed when your eyes landed on Spencer.

He was standing, frozen in place like someone had hit pause on him. His wine glass was in one hand, and the other was in his pocket like always.

“H-hey.” He stammered as you reached him. “Hi.” You replied with a smile, leaning in for a gentle hug. He barely moved, still staring at you.

His gaze flicked to your curls, and he blinked. “I-I love your hair. I mean, not that I didn’t like it before, but it’s-um-it’s just-” he trailed off, visibly malfunctioning.

You tried not to giggle. “Thank you, I let it free tonight.”

He nodded a little too fast. “Good decision. A great decision. Everyone loves it. I-I love it. I mean, yeah.” He looked like he wanted to curl into himself.

You looked down shyly, smiling to yourself.

The night carried on with soft music, clinking glasses, and the kind of comfort only you guys could create.

You and Spencer eventually found yourselves with the little kids watching as Spencer showed them a magic trick then watched as they slowly lost interest and start playing tag instead.

Henry shouted something and ran off with Jack close behind, leaving the two of you now alone, while the others were caught up in Rossi’s wine-tasting tangents.

It was quiet for a moment. You glanced at Spencer, who was already looking at you. Again.

His voice came out all at once, like he’d been holding it in. “Did you know that the shape of your hair follicle determines curl pattern? Curly hair follicle are more oval, which causes the strand to curl at an angle, creating the spiral-”

He stopped himself mid-ramble, his eyes going wide. “N-not that I’m analyzing your hair or anything, I wasn’t, well, I kind of was, but not in a weird way. It’s just, you know, science. And- uh- it’s… lovely. Really lovely.”

You laughed softly, warmth blooming in your chest. “Spencer, are you nerding out over my hair?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly flustered but unable to stop smiling. “Maybe a little. It’s just… scientifically interesting. And aesthetically… breathtaking. On you.”

You bit back a grin. “That’s the nerdiest and sweetest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

He ducked his head, the tips of his ears glowing pink. “Well… I’m kind of full of those.”

You leaned your shoulder gently into his, your voice playful. “Guess I’ll have to wear my hair down more often, huh?”

Spencer nodded, almost too quickly again, still blushing. “I-I wouldn’t mind that. At all.”

And for the rest of the night, every time you caught him looking your way, his smile was just a little softer than usual, and his stare more meaningful and filled with something more…

Hope you enjoyed @athenxt !! Thank you sm for your request<3 had sm fun writing this.

I’m going to get to the rest of the requests soon!! So if you’ve sent one in recently I promise they will be out! I’ve just been in a slump, unfortunately, but thank you all! <3

~ Tag List ~

@samslovebug @alastorssimp @sleepysongbirdsings @khxna

[hittmeandtellmeyouremine]

Puddin'!

pairing: puddin!reader x older!rafe

warnings: mdni, mostly fluff but suggestive content, (implied) age gap, ddlg themes, use of 'daddy'.

word count: 700+

a/n: if you don't like this kind of stuff just scroll. i'm trying something out before putting out the hardcore stuff that's sitting in my drafts.

puddin!reader who had always been so independent her whole life. she took care of everyone else around her, provided for herself, made quite the reputation for herself. she didn't need anyone else to support her, certainly not a man.

puddin!reader who's best friend had dragged her to some event, saying something about how she wanted to make a few new connections and she needed the emotional support. so, of course, she went with.

puddin!reader who rafe spotted from a mile away, like a fuckin' angel in a sea of sinners. his eyes raked over the lacy, baby blue dress that stopped just barely at her thigh, contradicting her tanned skin deliciously.

puddin!reader who rafe saw right through the second she opened her mouth to respond to his introduction. the whole independence thing? it was all just an elaborate act to keep people away, to protect herself from the horrors of the world.

puddin!reader who told rafe her name, her real name and at first he obliged. responding to her with it, addressing her with it. but it didn't last very long in his mind, not when she was the sweetest thing he had ever met.

puddin!reader who had unlocked something new in rafe, something he had kept buried deep within the folds of his brain. and he had done the same to her. because with any other guy she was cold, dismissive. they could barely get an answer out of her. yet here she was, looking up at rafe like he was some sort of savior.

puddin!reader who let rafe take her home, show her around his fancy estate that she was positive costed more than she's made her whole life. she let rafe's hand linger on the small of her back, letting her familiarize herself with his space.

puddin!reader who eventually let this become a casual thing, constantly finding herself within the walls of rafe's home.

puddin!reader who talked rafe's ear off the second he allowed her to, smiling as she told him about everything and nothing at all.

puddin!reader who fell for rafe's charm and security. how could she not? when he'd pull her onto his lap, pushing the curls out of her face and telling her about his day before letting her tell him about hers.

puddin!reader who couldn't quite pinpoint what exactly was so different with rafe, why she felt so... weird. rafe brought out a different side of her, one that was more submissive. too submissive.

puddin!reader who rafe unraveled like a ball of yarn. he had seen it in her the second he met her. he spent the beginning of their relationship trying to scrape it out of her, little by little, piece by piece.

puddin!reader who took comfort in rafe calling her puddin' rather than her real name. her heart fluttered every time she heard him call her that, making her way to his side briskly.

puddin!reader who rafe convinced to quit her job, move in with him instead because it would be easier that way. because he had more than enough to support and provide for her. because she was young and didn't deserve to be stressed by a job that was barely paying her.

puddin!reader who rafe helped decorate her new room, saying something about how she needed her own space for when she didn't want to be with him. she thought that was just about the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her.

puddin!reader who would sit between rafe's thighs, back pressed against his chest. rafe would play with her hair, finger coiling her curls one by one. her eyes glued to whatever movie he had put on to occupy her.

puddin!reader who didn't really think twice the first time rafe referred to himself as 'daddy', not even really giving it a second thought. that was when rafe knew, he had finally gotten her.

puddin!reader who had regressed without even realizing it. he had stripped her of all her independence, clouding her innocent little mind with his care and affection.

puddin!reader who depended on rafe as more than just a significant other and rafe was more than happy to give that to her. his puddin' who he treated like princess. he didn't know how badly they both needed this, but he sure as hell wasn't letting her go anytime soon.

-

[weneeya]

falling for you m.list | rules

pairing. one piece x reader

characters. zoro, law, sanji, ace

note. i haven't write with those boys since so long but i'm so back in one piece so be ready to see them! please request with anyone from one piece <3

Zoro

you might be the only one not aware of what is going on between him and you 

he doesn’t care much though, it’s fine by him to stay like this 

he’s always keeping an eye on you during a fight, just to be sure

he knows you can defend yourself well, but he can’t help it 

he lets you steal his food without arguing much, which is weird because he tries to kill Luffy each time he tries 

the crew teases him about it but he brushes them off everytime 

he’s a big shy boy, but he just doesn’t care if anyone knows about his feelings for you

he has a huge soft spot for you and he doesn’t even tries to hide it 

there’s no real realization because he knows why he’s doing this 

he would die for anyone in the crew, but he would definitely burn the world down if you asked him to

Law

realization hits HARD 

he’s not the type to show a lot of emotion, at least he wasn’t until he began to travel with the strawhats

and you? you get him stressed 

he didn’t realize it until robin pointed it to him 

maybe she wasn’t wrong, but no way he would admit it like this 

yes he lets you stay around him a lot, even allowing you to touch him without complaining too much 

and yes you’re always stealing his coat when you’re cold and he doesn’t bother him

but falling for you? no way

he can’t be falling for someone, especially not you 

yet, he can’t take the idea out of his mind since robin’s words 

he notices the way you scrunch your nose when you smile 

or how your face lights up at the idea of visiting a new island 

you’re adorable, and his heart can’t take it 

damn, maybe he’s down bad finally

Sanji

he loves women so much so his behavior isn’t questioned a lot at first 

he’s a simp, it’s not weird that he’s treating you better than anyone else 

until he began to prioritize you over everyone else

even the other girls 

makes your favorite dessert all the time

even asks you what you want to eat and does his best to make it with what he have

nami is the first one to talk about it, and he feels his heart stop at the thought 

is he really in love? like, real love

he’s a romantic guy, that’s it, he can’t be feeling those things 

he can’t, right? 

but the way you’re so gentle with him, never pushing him away when he treats you like the most precious thing on the sea

well, he realizes he might feel something more for you

Ace

the boy is blind, even more than you are 

he’s naturally clingy and touchy with people, a joyful boy 

yet, he seems worse with you 

he always keeps an arm around your shoulder, talking you about his dear brother a lot 

when he falls asleep out of nowhere, it’s usually on your shoulder or even falling on your back

the day he was drunk and put his hat on top of your head? everyone knew it was over 

if anyone tries to tell him about it, he just stays with his eyes open wide in shock 

he blinks a few times, slowly processing the words 

a shrug of shoulders and he just accepts it like this 

fine, perhaps he’s in love, but so what? 

he doesn’t change anything, it just means he can be even closer to you than before

thank you!

[mssishipi]

taste of indulgence - sjy, pjs

CHAPTER 4 — SHOW ME SPICY

— Avoidance was your only way to move forward, but Jay and Jake weren’t about to let you slip away so easily. How could you pretend you didn’t want them when your body told a different story? If you wanted to play stubborn, fine. But brats don’t get to run—they get put in their place. And they were more than ready to show you exactly what spicy really meant.

content tags: everyone is gay or fruity!!! angst! reader is self sabotaging, she made jake cry, jay is angry (and stressed), let's play back to friends by sombr, psych majors who don't know how to communicate, reader assume sunghoon's sexuality, reader cuts her hair short, jay's pov, sunoo is just sunoo.

explicit content (smut): uhm threesome (switch jake, dom jay, sub reader), public sex, unprotected sex, humiliation (?), dacryphilia, rough throat fucking, cunillingus, jake tried to be angry but went soft, overstimulation, double vaginal penetration, creampie, anal sex (mxm). MDNI! WC: 21.5K

want a taste?

"I think red nails would look good on me, don't you think?" You flipped your hand over, inspecting your nails with a thoughtful look.

Sunoo barely glanced up from his phone before reaching out to grab your hand, tilting it side to side. "Hmm... Maroon, definitely. With silver designs," he decided with a nod.

"Almond shape?" you asked, watching his expression closely.

Sunoo furrowed his brows, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as he considered. "Square could work too... gives that classic, clean look. But yeah, almond is a solid choice. It'll look good when you're, like, casually reaching for things."

"Okay, I should set an appointment with the nail tech Wonyoung keeps talking about," you mused, already pulling out your phone. As you both walked past a full-length mirror in the store, you stopped in your tracks, turning your head slightly to get a better look at yourself.

"Maybe I should cut my hair, no?" You ran your fingers through the strands, tilting your head as if trying to picture it. "Or maybe I should dye it? What color do you suggest?"

Sunoo looked up from his phone, finally giving you his full attention. His mouth was slightly open, eyes squinting as he observed you.

"I tried a new makeup style today," you continued, adjusting your reflection with your fingers. "I don't know if it suits me yet, but if I cut my hair, maybe it would. This length would be good, right?" You pointed just below your ears, mentally mapping out the bob cut you were suddenly considering.

Sunoo blinked, then gasped dramatically. "You're planning to get a bob cut, bitch? Are you fucking serious?!"

You raised an eyebrow at his tone. "What? You don't think it would look good?"

He placed both hands on your shoulders like he was about to shake some sense into you. "Do you have any idea what a bob cut means?"

You laughed, shaking him off. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Short hair on a hot girl?" Sunoo huffed, crossing his arms. "That's a crisis cut. A post-breakup cut. A someone just emotionally wrecked me and I need a fresh start cut!"

You rolled your eyes, but your smile faltered slightly. "Maybe I just want a change."

Sunoo wasn't buying it. He crossed his arms, his expression shifting into something more serious. "Yeah, right." He paused before adding, "By the way, Jake keeps texting me, asking when our vacant period is. He says you're not replying to them."

Your steps faltered, but you quickly regained composure. "I already told them I'm busy," you said, forcing a casual shrug. "Our internship is coming up next year, so I have to start networking now. I need professors to recommend me to the best hospitals—ones that actually offer jobs after the internship."

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. "That's a solid excuse, I'll give you that. But babe, you're literally ghosting them."

"I'm not ghosting."

"Bitch." Sunoo deadpanned. "You left them on read for two weeks."

"Because I'm not in the mood to fuck them anymore," you said flatly, resuming your pace.

Sunoo gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "Oh my god. The coldness. The absolute heartlessness." Then, his voice softened. "Babe, you sound like a total bitch right now, but I know you. And I know there's a reason you cried that night."

You exhaled sharply, staring straight ahead.

"I'm your friend," Sunoo continued, his tone gentler now. "You can tell me if they hurt you. Did they do something? Say something? I mean, yeah, they're my friends too now, but you know I'll always have your back first. So tell me."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "It's not like that. They didn't do anything."

"I just... I don't know, Sunoo." You stopped walking, running a frustrated hand through your hair. "I thought I could handle it. I thought it would be easy to keep things casual. But the longer I stayed, the harder it got. Now, it just fucking hurts."

Sunoo crossed his arms, watching you carefully. "You like them."

"Sunoo—"

"You like them," he repeated, this time with certainty. "Not just one of them. Both of them."

Your throat felt tight. "It doesn't matter."

Sunoo scoffed. "It matters if it's eating you up like this."

You swallowed, avoiding his gaze. "I was never supposed to catch feelings."

Sunoo let out a long breath, his expression softening. "You're human, dumbass. Not a fucking robot. It was bound to happen."

"It doesn't change anything." Your fingers clenched at the hem of your uniform. "It's just—fuck. I don't even know where I stand with them. I mean, they're sweet, they treat me so well. Who wouldn't fall for them?" You let out a bitter chuckle. "But that's the thing, isn't it? I don't know if it means anything."

Sunoo tilted his head, watching you carefully. "Have you told them how you feel?"

"What for?" You scoffed. "So I can humiliate myself? So I can hear them say, 'Oh, that's cute, but we never actually saw you that way'?" You let out a hollow laugh. "No, thanks."

Sunoo pursed his lips. "You don't know that's what they'd say."

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back. "It doesn't matter, Sunoo. Because even if—if—they felt something, it wouldn't change the fact that I'm still just an extra in their relationship. They've had each other for years. I'm just..." Your voice faltered, and you forced a small smile. "Temporary."

"Babe," Sunoo frowned. "That's a really shitty way to look at it."

"Is it?" You met his eyes, voice quieter now. "Or is it just reality?"

Sunoo sighed, rubbing his temple. "I'm saying, maybe just tell them what you feel. Communicate—"

"No." You cut him off, shaking your head. "It's better to just move forward. Cut them off and be done with it." Your voice wavered, but you quickly steadied yourself. "As I said, even if they did feel something, it wouldn't change anything." You swallowed the lump in your throat, "I'll just consider them a hookup. That's all they were supposed to be anyway."

Sunoo huffed. "Look, babe. You wouldn't be spiraling over them, trying to change your hair, your nails, your entire damn life just to get away from the way they made you feel." He sighed again. "I get it. Feelings suck. But lying to yourself? That's worse."

You exhaled sharply, looking away. "It doesn't matter, Sunoo."

"It does matter." He poked your forehead. "And sooner or later, you're gonna have to face it."

Well, too bad because Sunoo didn't have a choice but to deal with your stubbornness. He had seen you shut down before, had watched you bury your emotions so deep that even you forgot they existed.

Avoidance was the only way. Cutting them off was the only way. If you ever told them the truth, it wouldn't change anything. If they did feel something for you, it still wouldn't matter. Because being together with two guys? It wasn't realistic.

Jake and Jay were perfect together—enough for each other. Their love was already deep, already established, already real.

You were just an afterthought, a temporary distraction, a spice added to their relationship to make things more exciting for a while.

That was why you had to let it go. Because holding on would only break you more.

Avoidance was the only option. But that didn't mean it was easy.

You shared three majors with them, which meant there was no real escape. Every time Jay or Jake tried to talk to you, you scrambled for a half-baked excuse, something—anything—to put distance between you.

And you felt guilty. Because at this point, you weren't just avoiding them, you were leaving Sunoo to deal with the fallout.

Every. Single. Time.

"Sorry, I already made plans to get my nails done," you said, forcing a smile as Jake grabbed your arm after your laboratory class, trying to pull you toward the arcade.

"We can just go with you!" Jake perked up immediately, his eyes practically sparkling at the idea. He turned to Jay, beaming. "Right?!"

Jay, as always, was quieter, but his gaze was on you.

You resisted the urge to sigh. "Uh—actually, I'm going with my other friends."

Beside you, Sunoo tensed, trying not to roll his eyes so hard they got stuck.

"Then Sunoo can go with you guys," you added quickly, shoving the attention onto him.

Sunoo's head snapped toward you so fast,  "Excuse me?" His expression was pure betrayal.

Jake blinked, tilting his head. "Wait. Sunoo's not going with you to get your nails done?"

"Nope!" Sunoo answered before you could. "Because I'll be with you guys. Losing all my money on rigged machines. Can't wait!"

He hooked his arms through Jake and Jay's, dragging them away before you could say another word. But not before shooting you a sharp, knowing look.

Avoidance was the only option, but it was hard.

It was almost funny, how desperately you were trying to erase them from your life, only for your own mind to betray you at every turn.

Jay's lips were always dry. Did he ever listen and start using the lip balm you recommended? Or was he still stubborn about it?

Jake had a terrible habit of not drinking enough water, always running on boundless energy until he inevitably crashed. You wondered if Jay kept that in mind—if he reminded him to drink more, if he handed him a bottle without a word, the way you used to.

Not your problem anymore.

"Your nails are so pretty!!!" Wonyoung screeched, grabbing your hand and turning it under the flashing club lights. The silver designs shimmered, catching every flicker of neon.

"Thank you," you muttered, tipping back your drink without hesitation. The alcohol burned down your throat, but you welcomed it. Anything to dull the edges. Sunoo sat beside you, talking how he wants to have sex tonight.

Another drink. Then another. By the time the rest of your friends arrived, your head was already buzzing, you can't even keep up with the conversation anymore. You laughed at the right moments, nodded when necessary, but your mind was elsewhere.

"Can you recommend a good waterproof mascara?" you mumbled, resting your head against Sunghoon's shoulder.

He exhaled through his nose, clearly unimpressed with your state. "I don't know? Maybelline, I guess? Or some Japanese brand—those are good too."

"You're gay," you giggled, voice slightly slurred.

Sunghoon scoffed, shifting slightly so you didn't slide off him. "How the fuck is that gay?"

"You just know things." You poked his chest, eyes drooping.

"It's called having sisters, dumbass," he deadpanned.

You giggled, the alcohol making everything funnier than it should be. "Hehehe, ever since you joined our group, you've had this, like... boy love energy."

"I'm not into boy love," he muttered, taking a sip of his drink.

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. "Oh my god. You're homophobic."

Sunghoon choked on his drink so hard he nearly spit it out. "What?! Where the fuck did you get that from?"

"How are you not into boy love?" You slurred, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "Boy love is great. It's wholesome, it's cute, it's—"

Your voice cracked and your lips wobbled, remembering Jay and Jake. Suddenly, your eyes burned.

You sniffled. Sunghoon, who had been mid-rant about how you made no sense, suddenly froze. He stared at you, wide-eyed.

"Hey... are you—are you crying?"

You sniffled, waving a hand dramatically. "I miss them."

Sunghoon blinked. "Miss who?"

"Boy love!" you wailed, smacking the table. "Boy love is so cute! It makes me so jealous! Agh—fuck! How can you not like boy love?! I miss seeing some boy love, but it hurts seeing some boy love!"

"Bro, what the fuck are you talking about?"

You sniffled harder, rubbing your eyes aggressively. "It's so unfair. Why are they so perfect together? Why can't I just be happy watching them be happy?!"

Sunghoon, still utterly baffled, slowly turned his head, scanning the club for someone or anyone to deal with your mess. His gaze landed on Sunoo, who was currently twerking in the middle of the dance floor, hyping himself up with your other friends.

"It's really hard to avoid them," you hiccupped, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. "I miss them."

Sunghoon let out a slow breath. "Uh-huh."

"I'm making the right decision, right?" you asked, eyes wide and desperate, like you were begging him to validate your self-sabotage.

He scratched his head awkwardly. "Uh... yeah?"

"Yes," you repeated, sniffling. "I'm right. They'll stop. They'll forget me. They'll live happily ever after."

Sunghoon nodded again, then you let out a wobbly sigh. "I will also forget about them," you declared, before promptly bursting into tears again.

You wiped your nose aggressively. "I'll just go back to my old self. No more stupid feelings, no more heartbreak, no more—no more them."

He gave you a cautious thumbs-up. "Sounds... healthy."

"I'll just masturbate with my vibrator," you continued, completely ignoring him. "At least my vibrator doesn't make my heart hurt."

Sunghoon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ."

"Women can over-complicate things, and that's because they go deeper—sometimes too deep, admittedly."

Yes. Exactly. To avoid over-complicating things, avoidance was the only solution.

You were just walking down the hallway, minding your own business, when a hand suddenly grabbed yours.

You yelped, eyes widening. "What the—?!"

Before you could even react, you were being pulled, not roughly, but firmly, until you stumbled into an empty mini-theater room. The door clicked shut behind you, and your heart pounded as you whipped around.

"Jake?"

He was standing there, hand still wrapped around your wrist, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line. His usual playful energy was nowhere to be found.

The room was too quiet and intimate. The only sound was the distant hum of the campus outside, muffled by thick walls, the kind that trapped secrets and held them hostage. Your pulse was a dull roar in your ears as you stared at him.

God, you missed him. The playful lilt of his voice, the way he always smelled like clean laundry and something unmistakably Jake. You missed the way he touched you—soft, then rough, then soft again. You missed them. Him and Jay.

Your chest tightened, instead you swallowed, immediately trying to pull away. "Jake. Let go."

His fingers twitched against your skin, like he was debating something—like he wanted to hold on a second longer, just in case you changed your mind. But then, finally, he released you, but he didn't step back.

He was still too close.

"You are avoiding us." He said, wounded by frustration. "Why?"

Panic coiled inside you, what the fuck. You weren't ready for this. Your thoughts scrambled, reaching for an excuse, anything—anything—that would make him back off. Think. Think. Think.

But then Jake's face softened, and he exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry if we did something wrong," he said. "Just—please, talk to us. If you don't want to have sex anymore, that's okay. I understand. We understand." He took a step closer, voice cracking slightly. "Just don't shut us out, please."

Fuck. You almost caved. Jake have this eyes that knew exactly how to weaken you, but you spent enough time to hardened yourself. Pulled your walls up so high that even you couldn't see over them.

Lied through your fucking teeth.

You crossed your arms, forcing a blank expression. "I'm busy, Jake. I don't have time to play around with you two anymore."

Jake blinked, hurt was flashed across his face. "P-Play around?, I-Is that what this was to you?"

You scoffed, "What else would it be?"

Jake's expression twisted, like your words had physically knocked the breath out of him. Good. Maybe he'd finally get the hint.

"Look, Jake." You forced yourself to keep your voice steady, swallowing down the lump clawing its way up your throat. "I don't want to be mean, but get a fucking clue. Okay? Yes, I'm avoiding you. You and Jay were fun. The sex was good. But that's all it ever was."

Jake inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. His eyes, still locked onto yours. "Just explain to us, why?"

"I don't owe you an explanation in the first place!" you snapped, voice rising despite yourself. You could feel your resolve cracking, your emotions clawing their way to the surface. But you couldn't let them win. You couldn't let him see you break.

Lied through your fucking teeth.

"I got tired of it, okay?!"

Jake's breath came out unsteady. "You could've just told us," he said, "I-Instead of... this—instead of just shutting us out like we never meant anything. We're friends, r-right?"

That last word came out, and his voice cracking, and that was what almost broke you.

Because Jake was looking at you like he was desperate to understand, like he needed you to say something—anything that could make this all make sense.

"Friends?" You let out a cold, hollow laugh, tilting your head like he'd just said something stupid. "Jake, we were never friends."

The second the words left your mouth, Jake flinched, his breath stuttering. His entire body stiffened, his shoulders curling inward.

"Don't say that," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "You don't mean that."

You clenched your jaw so hard it ached. "I do."

Jake swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he stared at you like he was trying to see through the wall you'd just slammed between you. Like if he looked hard enough, he'd find something—some sign that you were lying.

But he wouldn't. Because you were good at this. You were good at pretending.

"Just tell me why," he tried again, softer this time, more pleading than before. "If you ever cared about us at all, just... tell me why you're doing this."

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms, your entire body screamed at you to stop, to take it all back, to fix this.

But you couldn't. You forced out a sigh, rolling your eyes. "God, Jake, you're so clingy." Jake flinched, and you saw the exact moment something in him cracked.

"You took everything way too seriously," you continued. "It was just sex. I don't know what the fuck you thought this was, but it wasn't deep."

"You were convenient," you added, twisting the knife deeper. "That's all. And now? I'm over it."

Jake sucked in a breath, his shoulders stiffening. You noticed the way his lips trembled. And then slowly—he nodded.

Tears streaked his cheeks, but he didn't wipe them away. He didn't lash out. He didn't beg. He just looked at you—looked through you—his expression heartbreakingly soft despite everything.

Jake didn't yell. He didn't curse you out, didn't demand answers or call you a liar. Instead, he just stood there, letting the weight of your words settle between you. His eyes were soft—too soft, filled with a quiet kind of devastation that made your stomach churn.

Without another word, he turned and walked away. The door clicked shut behind him, and that was it.

Your body sagged the moment he was gone, like the strings holding you together had been severed. You sucked in a breath, trying to steady yourself, but the air felt suffocating. Your hands trembled at your sides, your fingers twitching like they wanted to reach out, to pull him back.

Don't break down. Don't be weak. You did what needed to be done.

One minute. Just one minute to get yourself together.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your throat burned from holding back something that wanted to crawl out, guilt, regret, longing, you didn't know. Didn't want to know.

Then, finally, you exhaled. Straightened your back. Set your shoulders and walked out.

The hallway was quiet, but not empty.

Your steps faltered as you saw them—Jake, standing there with his back slightly hunched, his hands gripping the hem of Jay's uniform. His shoulders shook and his breathing uneven.

And Jay stood right in front of him, tense and rigid, watching him with a concern expression. His fists were clenched, but his hands hovered just slightly—like he wanted to touch Jake, to comfort him, but didn't know how.

And when he looked up, his eyes found yours. The softness that was there for Jake was gone.

Jay's gaze was dark, sharp, and cold in a way that made your breath hitch. There was no visible anger, just an overwhelming quiet rage simmering.

Your pulse kicked up, you immediately turned away to avoid his gaze.

Spun on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, forcing your steps to be even, controlled. Ignoring the way your chest ached, the way your throat felt tight, the way your lungs felt like they couldn't get enough air.

You did the right thing.

BACK in high school, Jay never really liked being around too many people. He wasn't exactly antisocial, he could hold a conversation when needed, and he got along fine with classmates.

But having a solid group of friends wasn't his thing. Socializing felt like a chore, something that drained him. It was exhausting trying to keep up with people's expectations, their small talk, their unnecessary drama. So, he kept his distance, floating between different groups without ever fully settling in.

Girls, especially, were a whole different kind of exhausting. He wasn't clueless—he knew most of the guys in his class were obsessed with them, always whispering about who had the best tits, passing around porn links like they were trading cards.

Sure, Jay could admit that women were attractive. Sexy, even. Tits were nice, pussy was great. But in his experience, being around women felt more like a headache than a pleasure.

They were too complex, too hard to figure out. One moment they were sweet, the next they were upset over something he didn't even understand. And somehow, he was always expected to know why. It was frustrating. The high-pitched screeching in the hallways, the emotional rollercoasters, the way they'd take out their bad moods on him for no reason—it was all too much.

So, he stayed detached. Women were beautiful, but from a distance. Up close, they were just another thing he didn't have the patience to deal with.

"Did I just... get rejected?"

Jay barely had a second to process before the words came tumbling out from the stranger standing in front of him. The guy was wearing a soccer jersey, his eyes red-rimmed like he'd been crying for a while.

Jay raised an eyebrow, not sure why he was being dragged into this. He didn't even know the guy.

"Do you think I'm ugly?" the stranger asked, pouting up at him like some kicked puppy.

Jay gave him a once-over. The guy was about his height, maybe a little smaller, with messy hair and wide, golden-retriever eyes that only made his pathetic expression worse.

"She said I give the best head," the guy continued, sniffling. "But, continue to say some monologue that it's not me, it's her. What does it even mean?"

Jay sighed, running a hand down his face as he stared at the sky. Out of all the people this guy could've dumped his sob story on, why him? He just wanted to go home, lay in bed, and maybe practice a few guitar solos, not babysit some heartbroken stranger.

And that's how he met Jake.

If Jay was being honest, Jake could be a lot to handle. He was loud, clingy, and had the attention span of a golden retriever, but somehow, they just worked.

They balanced each other out in a way Jay never expected. They didn't argue much, jealousy was never an issue, and even when they weren't in the mood to deal with each other, they just shrugged it off—no drama, no unnecessary fights.

And Jay loved him. So much that he followed him to university, enrolling in the same classes just to be with him.

That was why, when Jake first brought up the idea of a threesome, Jay had been flabbergasted. He wasn't the sharing type. He was possessive by nature, and the thought of someone else touching his Jake made his blood boil. But Jake was patient, communicating his feelings in the only way he knew how: between tangled sheets.

It took months for Jay to even consider it. He didn't know what to think, didn't know if he'd be okay with it. Whether it was another guy or a girl, the thought of it made him wary.

Then, one day, he and Jake went out to his favorite café, and that's when he noticed you.

You weren't looking at him. You were looking at Jake. Staring—too long, too obvious.

Jay's eyebrow twitched. He knew exactly where he had seen you before.

You were the girl at the freshmen welcoming party, kissing random girls like it was nothing, completely lost in the haze of alcohol. He remembered the way you moaned when two girls did body shots off your stomach. You were that drunk—so far gone that, by the end of the night, it was him and Jake who had been instructed to carry you back to your dorm.

And now here you were, staring at his boyfriend.

You like guys too?

He huffed, raising an eyebrow when he caught you looking.

Then there was the train ride during the retreat. Another moment. Another time you stared at Jake when you thought no one was looking.

Jay had noticed.

"Do you think she's into threesomes?" Jake had whispered to him that night, curiosity practically dripping from his voice. He was always like this—open, playful, intrigued by new experiences.

Jay had just sighed, brushing the thought aside. "How would I know?"

He didn't think about it much after that. At least, not until he saw you sneak out of the drinking room at the retreat.

And for some reason, he followed.

He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was suspicion, or maybe it was something else. And that's when he saw you grinding against some guy named Heeseung, lips locked in a messy kiss, your whimpers barely muffled by the night air.

Jay's fists clenched at his sides. He should've turned back. Should've left. But instead, he stood there, watching.

And fuck, he didn't expect his pants to feel this tight.

Jay thought you were beautiful. Not just in the obvious way—yeah, you had the kind of face that turned heads, but it was more than that. You had this energy, this pull, something that made people gravitate toward you like you were a magnet. And Jay had always been the type to keep his distance, to stay in control, but even he wasn't immune to it.

And he knew Jake wasn't either.

Jake was naturally affectionate, clingy even, but with you, it was different. He paid attention in a way Jay had never seen before, like he was cataloging every little thing about you.

"She likes soft textures," Jake mused, scanning the shelves of the convenience store. He grabbed a puff pastry filled with chocolate and strawberry, tossing it into their basket. "She'd like this."

Jay raised a brow, watching as Jake continued down the aisle, muttering to himself.

"I think we should get makeup wipes," Jake said, grabbing a pack without hesitation. "She uses this brand, right?"

Jay exhaled through his nose, amused. "Since when did you memorize her entire skincare routine?"

Jake shrugged, grinning. "Since she started leaving her stuff at our place."

That part was true. At first, it had been little things, a stray hair tie, a forgotten hoodie—but now there was a whole section of their bathroom cabinet stocked with your products. Your shampoo was in their shower. Your chapstick was on the nightstand. Your presence was everywhere, lingering like the scent of your perfume.

It annoyed him, how easily you captured Jake's attention, how effortlessly you slipped into their dynamic like you'd always belonged there. Jay had never been the jealous type, not really, but something about the way Jake gravitated toward you, the way he paid attention to you in ways that felt too careful made something uneasy settle in his chest.

But over time, Jay realized it wasn't just Jake.

He found himself watching you more often than he cared to admit, listening when you talked, remembering the small details about you without even trying.

He started noticing things—how you always smelled like vanilla and something sweet, how your nose scrunched up when you were focused, how your lips parted slightly when you were about to tease someone. It wasn't just Jake who was drawn to you. Jay was, too.

"Men have different parts in their brain," their professor droned on at the front of the lecture hall, pacing slowly as he gestured to the board. "It's an anatomical difference that affects communication—"

Jay barely heard the rest. Instead, his attention drifted to you, slumped against Sunoo's shoulder, your mouth slightly open as you slept. Sunoo was just as bad, his head tilted against yours, completely knocked out.

Jay huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

The two of you looked ridiculous, but for some reason, he felt that same annoying warmth in his chest that he'd been trying to ignore. The same feeling that made him buy your favorite snacks at the convenience store without thinking. The same feeling that had him listening a little too intently whenever Jake talked about you.

"Anatomical difference, my ass. Men just use their dicks instead of their mouths, that's why they're assholes," Yunjin muttered, typing away on her laptop while half-listening to the lecture.

Jay didn't agree with that. He knew men communicated—just differently. Maybe not with words the way women did, but through actions and through presence.

Like how Jake never outright said he wanted you, but always found an excuse to bring you up in conversations, to keep you close.

Like how Jay himself never said much at all, but still, for some reason, his attention always gravitated toward you.

They just had different ways of showing affection, and for a while, Jay thought that was enough.

Until it wasn't.

"It's freezing. What are you doing out here?" Jay asked, stepping onto the snow-covered porch where Jake sat curled in on himself. The night air was sharp, biting against his skin, but Jake didn't seem to notice.

Jay's eyes trailed over him—his red nose, the slight tremble in his fingers, the way his eyes were swollen and glassy.

"Were you crying?" Jay frowned, reaching out to tilt Jake's face toward him.

Jake flinched, but he didn't pull away. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

"Baby, talk to me," Jay said, firmer this time.

"I—I..." Jake's voice wavered. His breath came out in a shaky cloud, visible against the cold air. "I'm sorry."

Jay's brows furrowed. "For what?"

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, as if saying it out loud would break him.

"I like her, Jay."

Jay's breath hitched at the confession, Jake had always been expressive—his love was loud, easy, all-consuming. But maybe, just maybe, Jay had never truly listened. Never truly looked. Because if he had, he would've seen this coming.

Jay let out a slow breath, steadying himself. Then, without hesitation, he cupped Jake's face, thumb brushing away the tear that slipped down his cheek.

"I'm sorry, I know it's wrong —"

"You don't have to be sorry," Jay murmured.

Jake sniffled, confused. "But—"

Jay shook his head, cutting him off. "I like her too."

Jake stilled. His grip on Jay's jacket loosened slightly, as if he didn't believe what he just heard.

Jay exhaled, looking past Jake for a moment, toward the snow-covered street, the dim porch light casting a soft glow around them. It had taken him too long to realize it, but now that the words were out, they felt right.

"I didn't want to admit it, but I get it. I get why you feel this way."

Jake's lips parted slightly, his breath hitching. "Then why did we—" He hesitated. "Why didn't we talk about this sooner?"

Jay fell silent, because that was the problem, wasn't it?

Their entire relationship had been built on silent understandings, unspoken words, actions instead of conversations. It had always been enough—until it really wasn't.

Jay wasn't the type to talk about feelings, and Jake... well, Jake always just went with whatever Jay was willing to give.

Jay sighed, finally meeting Jake's gaze again. "Because we never really talk about things, do we?"

Jake let out a breathy, broken laugh, shaking his head. "No. We really don't."

Jay reached up, threading his fingers through Jake's hair, pulling him into a slow, grounding hug. Jake melted into him instantly. For a while, neither of them spoke. The cold wind bit at their skin, the snow crunching softly beneath their feet as they shifted slightly in place. But neither moved to go inside.

"I miss her," Jake finally whispered. His voice was small, fragile in a way that Jay rarely ever heard. "Is it right to tell her how we feel?"

Jay stiffened slightly at the question, that was the real problem. It wasn't just about their feelings anymore—it was about yours too.

He wasn't an idiot. He had noticed the shift in your energy, the way you had started pulling away, the way your texts had become shorter, emptier.

Maybe you felt it too. Maybe you had been trying to fight it just as much as he had.

But unlike him, you had chosen to run.

And Jay hated that.

Because the truth was, he had spent so much of his life avoiding unnecessary complications, keeping people at arm's length to protect himself from feelings he didn't know how to deal with. Relationships were easy when they were just sex, when there were clear boundaries that everyone followed.

But you had blurred every single one of those lines.

He had spent months trying to ignore the way he felt, convincing himself that this was nothing more than what it started as — just a bit of fun. But then you wormed your way into their lives in ways he never anticipated.

It was in the way you laughed at Jake's stupid jokes, in the way you pout your lips at certain foods, in the way you always took extra time to make sure Jake was drinking enough water or that Jay wasn't skipping meals.

It was in the way you would fall asleep on their couch, curled up like you belonged there, as if you had carved a space for yourself in their world without even realizing it.

And yet, they had never said anything. They had never talked about what any of this meant, never acknowledged the growing weight of their emotions.

"I don't know," Jay admitted, "but I know I don't want to lose her."

Jake swallowed hard, his grip on Jay tightening. "Me neither."

He wasn't sure how to approach this, wasn't sure how to untangle the mess they had all made. But one thing was certain—he and Jake wanted you.

And if there was even the slightest chance that you wanted them too, Jay would figure out a way to make this work.

Poly relationships existed, didn't they?

And if that was the way to keep you, then Jay would do everything in his power to make you stay.

...

Except you were acting like a fucking bitch.

Despite all the planning, about how to approach this properly, Jake had gone ahead and done the one thing Jay told him not to do—talk to you without a plan. Without giving you time. Without preparing himself for the worst.

And now Jake was curled up in Jay's arms, shaking, trying to choke back his sobs while Jay clenched his jaw so tightly.

Jake was impatient, and you were pushing them away.

Jay's head was going to fucking explode. He didn't know how to handle this. He hated seeing Jake cry, hated the way his hands trembled as he held onto him. Hated the way you had shut them out like they didn't mean a goddamn thing to you.

Well, he knew that they meant something to you.

Jay's patience had been stretched thin for weeks now. Every time he thought he might have a chance to talk to you, you slipped away like smoke between his fingers. It was pissing him off. He could feel you pulling back, putting up walls he hadn't even realized were there. And the worst part is he had no fucking idea how to break them down.

He wasn't the kind of guy who begged. He wasn't the kind of guy who chased. But for you? For you, he was losing his goddamn mind.

"Hey, shhh, it's okay, I'll talk to her," Jay murmured, his voice steady despite the frustration simmering beneath the surface. Jake sniffled, his face buried in Jay's shoulder, but his grip didn't loosen. His whole body shook, fingers digging into Jay's back.

Jay sighed, bringing a hand up to wipe Jake's wet cheeks with the pad of his thumb. Jake's lips trembled.

"She's not even giving us a chance."

Yeah, he fucking noticed.

And it pissed him off. Not just because you were avoiding them, not just because you were pushing Jake away—but because Jake wasn't even mad about it. He wasn't angry; he was hurt. Both of them knew you didn't mean what you had said that day. But what could they do when you refused to talk? When you were so hell-bent on running?

"...Many individuals engage in self-sabotage not because they don't want happiness, but because they fear it."

Jay blinked at the professor's voice, his jaw tightening as he focused on the lecture.

"Fear of commitment, avoidance of intimacy, and reluctance to accept positive emotions often stem from deep-seated insecurities. This can manifest as pushing people away when they get too close, fixating on imperfections to justify emotional distance, or convincing oneself that they are 'better off alone.'"

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.

"To put it simply," the professor continued, leaning against his desk, "people self-sabotage when they don't believe they deserve good things. They anticipate failure or abandonment, so they preemptively destroy what could be good before it has the chance to hurt them."

Jay's head instinctively turned to where you usually sat. Your seat was empty. Of course, it was.

His fingers drummed against the desk, irritation flaring in his chest. He already knew you were avoiding them, but it was becoming worse. First, it was the silent treatment, then skipping plans, ignoring texts. Now, you were barely showing up to class. What the fuck were you thinking? Were you really about to fail a major subject just to get away from them?

Jake nudged him lightly, his eyes worried. "She's really doing this, huh?"

Jay clenched his jaw. "Fucking ridiculous," he muttered.

He didn't understand. Why were you acting like this? They had never once made you feel unwanted. Never treated you like an afterthought.

The professor moved on, but Jay wasn't listening anymore. His mind was spinning, the weight of your absence pressing heavily against him.

Prelims came and went. And still—no shadow of you.

Jay barely glanced at his exam paper as he turned it in. He had spent the past hour only half-focused, tapping his pen against the desk in frustration, mind elsewhere. He already knew his score wouldn't be his best. Not with the way you were consuming his every thought.

Outside the exam hall, Sunoo approached him hesitantly. Jay didn't miss the way he shifted awkwardly on his feet, fingers twisting together like he was debating whether to speak.

"I'm sorry," Sunoo finally said, sighing. "I hope... whatever's happening with you guys, you'll be patient with her."

Jay exhaled sharply through his nose. Yeah. He was trying to be patient, but patience was running thin when you wouldn't even look at them anymore.

Sunoo hesitated again before glancing around, making sure no one was listening. "It's not my story to tell," he admitted carefully, voice softer, "but she likes the both of you." He shook his head, lips pressing together. "She just... she's being negative."

Jay's grip tightened on his exam booklet. Of course, he fucking knew that. It wasn't just obvious—it was the only explanation that made sense. But hearing it from Sunoo, having someone else confirm it, should have made him feel better. It didn't.

Because knowing that you wanted them didn't change the fact that you were pushing them away. It didn't change the fact that you were choosing to ruin this before they even had a chance to prove to you that it could work.

Sunoo studied Jay's face, reading his silence before sighing. "She's just scared," he muttered. "That's how she is."

Jay huffed out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah? Well, I'm getting really fucking tired of watching her run."

Sunoo gave him a look, almost as if to say, then catch her.

Fine. He would. One thing was clear—this avoidance shit? It needed to end.

They had to talk. They had to communicate. Well, they had been trying. But talking to you was like grasping at smoke. Jay had tried to contact you, but it was clear you had soft-blocked them both. His messages stayed unread. Calls went straight to voicemail.

Jay had tried to find you. But every time he did, you ran. Midterms came. Jay was exhausted, irritated, and so fucking done with the distance.

And then, he saw you. Laughing like nothing had happened, like you hadn't disappeared off the face of the fucking earth. You were standing outside the library with a group of friends, flexing your nails dramatically as the others fussed over them. Jay's steps slowed. Your hair was different, it was short.

A bob cut. The sight of it made his chest tighten. It wasn't a bad thing—hell, it looked good. But it was different. You were different.

He inhaled sharply and stepped forward, but before he could close the distance, your gaze flickered up. And you saw him for a second your expression froze.

Then, before Jay could even process it, someone else entered the scene.

Some guy. That fucking guy and his girlfriend.

Jay watched as they approached you, watched as the girl kissed your cheek, Heeseung slinging an arm around your shoulder.

And you let them. You let them pull you away before Jay could even reach you. No fucking way.

"Do you think we should give up?" Jake had asked once. Jay only shook his head. No.

Communication is key—but with the way you're acting, they need a different strategy to reach you.

You don't get to run. Not anymore. Men speak in different ways they said, and if the softest way doesn't get through to you then he'll have to go rough.

"Oh my God, this is the most chaotic event ever," Sunoo complained loudly, fanning himself dramatically with his schedule sheet. "Who in their right mind thinks it's a good idea to hold university games when summer is practically melting us alive? That's actual insanity."

Sweat clung to your forehead, your clothes sticking uncomfortably to your skin. All around you, students were sprawled across the open field, desperately searching for shade or breeze.

Sunghoon turned on his small turbo fan and aimed it toward you and Sunoo. A soft hum filled the air, and you immediately leaned into the stream of cool air.

"Bless your soul," you moaned, eyes fluttering shut as the breeze hit your face.

Meanwhile, Wonyoung sat cross-legged on the grass nearby, sipping water with a serene expression, completely unbothered by the scorching sun.

"This is actually so unfair," you muttered, glancing at her in disbelief. "I look like a soggy dog, and she's out here looking like a skincare commercial."

"She's probably not human," Sunoo said flatly.

You slumped dramatically closer to the turbo fan, shoulders sagging with defeat. "Why did you even register us for dodgeball?!" you whined, voice muffled as you practically shoved your face into the breeze. "I look like I've been through five stages of grief, I don't even barely survive now that we don't do anything, then what about tomorrow."

Sunoo shrugged, unapologetic. "It's tradition. And it's the only time I get to legally throw a ball at people I don't like."

You gave him a flat look, lifting your face just enough to mutter, "That includes me, doesn't it?"

"Depends on how much more you complain," he deadpanned, eyes hidden behind his oversized sunglasses.

Sunghoon leaned slightly forward with a furrowed brow. "Hey, your mascara is kind of melting. Like... a lot."

You gasped, sitting up straight. "No! No, no, no—" You fumbled through your bag in a mild panic, fishing out your phone. The moment your reflection came into view, you groaned. "I look like a raccoon who just got dumped."

"You always say that," Wonyoung chimed in with a lazy smile, finally acknowledging the conversation as she shifted beneath her sun umbrella. "And yet somehow you still pull."

"Not in this heat I don't," you grumbled, pressing a tissue to the corner of your eye. The moment you pulled it back, it was smudged black. "Great. I look like I'm melting from the inside out."

You leaned into the mirror on your phone, trying to fix the damage but the more you dabbed and adjusted, the worse it got. The eyeliner smeared into your under-eye, and your lashes clumped at odd angles. You cursed softly under your breath, cheeks hot with both embarrassment and the unforgiving sun.

"I need to go to the bathroom," you muttered, standing quickly and brushing off the back of your shorts. "This is a mess—I need to fix this before I look like I got dumped and then thrown into a fire."

"I told you to change your mascara," Sunoo mumbled. "Waterproof isn't just a suggestion in this weather."

"I didn't think it'd get this bad!" you hissed, reaching for your bag—which, naturally, was hanging from Sunghoon's overburdened shoulder. He handed it off without complaint, arms already full of Wonyoung and Sunoo's things too.

"Where are you going?" Wonyoung asked without moving.

"To salvage my face," you said over your shoulder. "If I don't come back, assume I drowned in the sink."

You didn't wait for a reply, slipping away from the group as your shoes scuffed against the hot pavement. The chatter of students faded behind you, replaced by the distant hum of activity inside the university. The moment you entered the shaded hallway, the temperature dropped just enough for you to breathe.

Your footsteps echoed lightly as you made your way toward the restroom, the cold tile of the building cooling the soles of your feet through your sneakers. You exhaled a long, slow breath—finally out of the noise and the sun.

You pushed open the bathroom door and slipped inside, letting it close behind you with a soft click.

You dropped your bag on the counter, you pulled out your makeup, eyeing the smudged disaster on your face. Carefully, you began dabbing away the ruined mascara and eyeliner, patting concealer beneath your eyes and slowly rebuilding the illusion of composure. Your lashes clumped slightly as you reapplied your mascara, and you leaned in closer to the mirror to separate them.

You were just about finished when a voice cut through.

"Figured I'd find you here."

You jumped, nearly knocking your makeup pouch off the counter. Your head whipped toward the door—where Jay stood, leaning against the frame.

"This is the girls' restroom," you snapped, the panic slipping into your voice. The last thing you wanted was to be cornered by him. And God, of all the times, why did he have to look so fucking good in that damn denim jacket?

Jay didn't flinch. He just stared. "It's not like I haven't seen everything already," he said, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him with a low thud.

You scoffed, hard, grabbing your bag off the counter. "Right. And that gives you a free pass to stalk me now? Is that how it works?"

Jay's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed low. "I didn't stalk you. I came to talk. Since you're ghosting every call, and message, avoiding us, and you made Jake cry," he added, emphasizing the last part.

"Maybe because I don't want to talk," you bit out, slamming a lipstick back into your bag. "I already told your boyfriend—I'm done with the both of you. So stop. Stop being so fucking annoying."

You tried to storm past him, but his hand shot out fast, gripping your shoulder, forcing you back.

"What the hell is your problem?!" you snapped, "You think cornering me like this is gonna change anything?"

Jay's eyes darkened, his voice dropping a notch. "Yeah. Maybe it will. Since the version where I let you push us away didn't work."

"You don't get to decide how I feel," you hissed, shoving at his chest. "You don't get to show up like this just because you're pissed I won't answer you."

"And you don't get to shut down every time something doesn't go your way," he shot back. "You act like you don't care, but if that were true, you wouldn't be shaking right now."

Jay's eyes dropped to your arm, the subtle tremble giving you away. You quickly swallowed the lump rising in your throat and tucked your arm behind your back.

He raised a brow. "Can you stop being a brat for five seconds and just hear me out?"

You scoffed, biting down the sting in your chest. "I told you—I'm not interested anymore. Why are you so damn pushy?!"

"Because we fucking like you!" Jay snapped, you stiffened, the silence that followed hitting louder than his voice had. Your breath caught. His jaw clenched, and the space between you suddenly felt way too small.

Being with them isn't realistic.

Push them away.

Lied through your fucking teeth.

"Wow. Great. That's your excuse?" you spat, though your voice shook just enough to betray you. "You like me, so now I'm supposed to just roll over and forget everything? Grow up, Jay. That's not how this works."

Jay stepped forward slowly. You instinctively backed up, your spine hitting the cold edge of the counter.

"You felt something too," he said, eyes fixed on you. "Don't bullshit me."

"Shut up," you shot back too fast, and too obviously defensive.

He didn't stop. His gaze locked on yours, footsteps steady. "You can act cold, pretend you're done, like we didn't get under your skin. But I know better."

You pressed harder into the counter. "You don't know shit," you hissed. "It was a mistake. A phase. Whatever the hell you thought you saw—it wasn't real."

Jay's mouth curled, smirking. "Funny. That 'phase' made you tremble like that? That mistake had you gasping my name?"

Your chest rose and fell fast, your heart thundering behind your ribs like it wanted out.

He leaned in, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath. "You're not scared of us. You're scared of how real it felt. You're scared because it meant something—and you don't know what the hell to do with that."

"Shut up," you repeated, but your voice cracked on the edge of it this time.

Jay went still and finally, he heard it. That tiny crack in your armor, the one you didn't mean to let slip. The one he'd been waiting for.

His expression shifted, the usual smirk gone. What was left was quiet, focus and dangerous stare.

"You can keep pushing us away. Say it was fake. Say it was a lie. But you and I both know—" his voice dipped, "—it was the most real thing you've ever felt."

You clenched your jaw, refusing to look at him. If you met his eyes now, it was over, you knew it. So you stared at the floor, at the sink, at anywhere but him.

"Look at me," he said.

You didn't. So he grabbed your jaw, rough, and tilted your face toward his. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you locked eyes with him. And that was it. The moment cracked open, revealing everything you hadn't said.

His gaze bore into you, not blinking, not softening. "You gonna keep pretending this meant nothing?" he murmured, breath ghosting over your cheek. "You gonna keep walking around like you're not haunted by us every fucking night?"

You said nothing because you couldn't. Jay stepped in closer, so close the space between you vanished, the scent of his cologne hitting you hard, that familiar deep and musky. Your legs wobbled, barely holding you up, and you cursed your body for betraying you.

He leaned in, his hand still holding your face, thumb brushing the edge of your lip. "You really think you can just move on? That someone else is gonna touch you the way we did? Know you the way we do?"

His voice dropped even lower, a growl at the edge of it. "You think you're just gonna give that cunt to someone else?" His hand slid down, slow, dragging along your throat, pressing just enough to make your breath catch. "You think it's gonna listen to them?"

Your thighs clenched on instinct. Fuck.

Jay caught the reaction—he always noticed. His lips curved just barely. "Your body doesn't lie," he said, "It remembers us. The way you moaned. The way you begged. That pussy listens when we speak. You know it. I know it."

His hand rested just above your chest now, feeling your heartbeat racing beneath it.

"You can lie all you want," he said, eyes dark and locked on you. "But your body's telling the truth."

You were frozen, pulse slamming in your throat, heat spreading beneath your skin. Jay's lips brushed the shell of your ear. "Say it didn't mean anything. Look me in the eye and say it."

A soft, broken gasp—no, worse. A moan left your mouth. You felt the slow smile curl against your skin, felt the change in the air as his grip shifted.

"There she is," he murmured. "Couldn't hold it in, could you?"

"Fuck you," you choked, breathless, humiliated, every inch of your skin lit up with heat and shame.

His hand slid from your chest to your neck again, thumb brushing your jaw as he tilted your head up. "You already did," he said. "And you fucking loved it."

His other hand slid to your hip, fingers digging in just hard enough to make you gasp. Then he stepped in fully, pressing his body flush against yours, pinning you between the counter and him.

"Push me away," he said, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling, eyes locked on you like a hunter cornering prey.

But you couldn't look away. His scent coiled around you, and your legs barely held you up. You felt it, the warmth blooming between your thighs, the traitorous ache soaking into your panties, and you hated how much he could still do this to you with so little.

"Push me away," Jay repeated. "Make me cry the way you fucking did to Jake."

His hand tightened around your throat suddenly. Your hands flew to his wrist on reflex, clutching him but you didn't push. You didn't even try. A squeak escaped your lips, your fingers just held him there, trembling, as the air caught in your throat and heat flared down your spine.

"Stop talking," you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut, as if you could block out the sound of his voice.

But his grip on your throat only tightened. "Why?" Jay murmured, his tone taunting. "Can't take it?"

Your lips parted, breath ragged. "I—I'm s-sorry, okay? I'm sorry," you gasped.

Jay's eyes narrowed, and a sharp, mocking smile curled at his lips. "Sorry?" he echoed. "Now you're sorry?"

"No. You don't get to say sorry and pretend that fixes this," he snarled. "You lied. You ran. You made Jake cry. You threw us away —and now look at you."

"Look at yourself," he hissed. "Pathetic little whimper in your throat every time I speak."

You tried to shake your head, but he didn't let you. "No. Don't look away now," Jay growled, fingers still wrapped tight around your throat, forcing your eyes up to meet his. "You wanna play cold? Strong? Then own it. Stand tall. Push me off. Say it was all a fucking lie."

Your lips trembled. You tried. You tried to hold it in—but everything broke at once. "It's not!" you cried, voice cracking, hands shaking against his wrist. "It's not! I'm sorry!"

Your chest heaved. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to—I just—" your voice splintered into breathless pieces, eyes glassy, vision blurring, "please just—just—fuck!"

You grabbed his shirt, knuckles white.

"Touch me, please!"

The words left your mouth like a scream torn from your core, soaked in shame, in need.

"There's the truth." His grip released your throat to slide lower, hands now on your waist. Your hips met his, and the hardness pressing against your core made your breath stutter, arousal flooding you so hard your legs gave a twitch.

"You begged," he whispered, eyes never leaving yours. "Say it again."

You swallowed hard, breath catching, lips parted and trembling.

"Say it," he repeated like a command. "Say it so you remember how low you got."

You hesitated, just for a second, but the ache between your legs, the fire in your belly, the heat in your cheeks—it was too much.

"Please..." you whispered, eyes wide, voice shaking. "Touch me."

Jay tilted his head slightly, then leaned in to your ear again, mouth brushing your skin. "Louder."

You shut your eyes, biting your lip, humiliated but so fucking far gone. "Please," you gasped, louder now, every word dripping with shame, "touch me. I need it. I need you."

Jay didn't answer immediately. He let the silence hang heavy, waiting—making you sweat in it. Then he leaned closer again. "Think you deserve it?"

Your breath caught. "No..." you whispered. "N-No. I don't."

Jay smiled. "Exactly." And then, without another word, he pulled away. Just let go of you and stepped back, turning his back.

"H-Huh?" you breathed, the air suddenly cold without his touch. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the field," he said flatly. "You don't deserve shit—not after all the stupid games you played."

Panic flared so violently inside you it made your knees weak. The throbbing heat between your legs was unbearable now, your panties soaked, your stomach aching from how badly you needed release. But worse than the arousal was the cold pit of humiliation, of abandonment.

You lunged forward, clutching his wrist with both hands. "No, no—please! I'm sorry!" your voice cracked. "Please, I'm sorry, I just— I got jealous. With you and Jake, I— I like you. I like both of you, I just thought..."

You were sobbing now, tears spilling hot and fast down your cheeks. "I thought it would be better if I was out of the picture. I didn't know what to do. I miss you! I— I need you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

Jay turned slowly. "And you acted like a bitch because you thought it'd be better?" he hissed. "We chased you for three fucking months."

You froze, mouth parted, lips trembling. "And what did you do?" Jay continued, voice rising. "Blocked us. Ignored us. Walked away like we were nothing. Like you didn't feel anything."

"I did," you whispered. "I did."

He stared down at you, breathing hard, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on your tear-soaked face and the hands still clutching his wrist

"You're going to earn your place back," he said coldly. "We're not just taking you back. You'll crawl for it. You'll beg for it."

You stood there, frozen, tears still fresh on your cheeks. Shame burned through you, and the arousal between your legs was only getting worse.

"You want me to touch you?" he asked, his voice low, mocking. "You think I'll give that to you just like that? Just because you cried a little? Because you finally admitted you fucked up?"

You shook your head slowly, lip trembling. "N-No..." you whispered.

"No?" he echoed, lips curling. "Then why are you still standing like you're in control?"

You blinked at him, confused for half a heartbeat. And then the word dropped. "Kneel."

You flinched. Your legs almost didn't respond but your body knew. Knew the command, knew his tone, knew exactly what was expected. Your knees buckled beneath you, and you sank slowly to the floor, the cold tile biting into your skin.

Jay towered over you now, looking down with nothing but cold amusement in his eyes. "Pathetic," he muttered. "You were so full of fire. So quick to run your mouth. What happened to all that attitude, huh?"

You kept your head down, cheeks flushed hot, hands trembling in your lap.

He stepped in close behind you, hand fisting in your hair and yanking your head back just enough for you to gasp. "I should make you wait longer," he said, staring down into your eyes. "Should make you watch me walk away again. But then I'd miss watching you break. And I like this view too much."

Your lips parted, breath caught between a sob and a moan.

"You know what I should do?" Jay whispered. "I should call Jake. Let him see what's left of the girl who told him she was 'done.' Let him see you begging on your knees, soaked and broken. You think he'd feel sorry for you?"

You shook your head again, tears welling up all over, and yet—your thighs pressed together.

Jay smirked. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

He released your hair, let you slump forward just slightly. "You're going to stay right here," he said. "On your knees. Hands behind your back. You don't get to touch. You don't get to beg again unless I say."

"Yes..." you whispered, eyes shut, heart racing. "Yes, okay..."

You heard the soft rustle of denim—Jay pulling off his jacket and tossing it carelessly onto the counter. The metallic click of a belt followed, then the slow grind of a zipper sliding down. The sounds alone made your pulse spike.

Jay stood above you, fingers resting at his waistband. His gaze dropped down to meet yours and the look in his eyes made your stomach twist in the most helpless, humiliating way.

He shifted his stance slightly, drawing closer, one hand sliding into the front of his jeans, adjusting himself as his breath hitched low in his chest. A dark patch spread along the front of his briefs, Jay let out a low hiss through his teeth, his jaw tightening as he watched you watching him.

Jay's thumb brushed your bottom lip, dragging the soft flesh down just enough to part your mouth. With one hand, he pushed his briefs down just enough to free himself, fingers wrapping around the thick base of his cock. The head was flushed, already wet at the tip, and he slowly angled it toward your waiting mouth.

You opened for him without hesitation, lips parting wide, tongue slightly curled. You saw the flicker in his expression, by the way his breath hitched sharply, his brows twitching together.

"Fuck..." he muttered under his breath, just before his hips surged forward. The sudden thrust made your throat constrict, a choked gasp escaping you as you adjusted, eyes watering.

Both of his hands moved to your head now, fingers splaying through your hair, rough and needy. He let his fingertips glide against your scalp at first, almost soothing, before his grip tightened. A sharp tug followed.

"Why'd you cut your hair, anyway?" he asked, breathless, but the question was half a growl, half a genuine bite of irritation. His fingers tangled in your shorter strands, clearly missing the length he used to wrap his fists in.

Tears blurred your vision, slipping down your cheeks, but you didn't stop. Your throat worked hard around him, swallowing, adjusting, the wet sounds of gulp, gulp, gulp are echoing against the tile walls of the bathroom.

Your lips stayed stretched around him, tongue coiling beneath the shaft, dragging slow and deliberate from the base upward as you swallowed him again and again.

The world outside the bathroom didn't exist. You'd forgotten where you were, forgotten the echo of distant footsteps, the fact that the tiled walls weren't just enclosing heat and pleasure but public space. You were too far gone in the taste of him, in the stretch of your lips, in the burn of each breathless gasp you took through your nose.

Then—knock knock. A sharp, sudden rap on the door snapped. You flinched, instantly trying to pull back, eyes wide in panic, throat clenching around him. But Jay didn't let you go.

"Shh," he murmured. His fingers tightened in your hair, the other hand sliding to the back of your neck. Before you could react, he forced you down—all the way. His cock sank into your throat in one sharp, complete thrust, your nose pressed flat against the skin of his pelvis. The breath caught in your lungs. Your eyes watered harder. You were choking, but you stayed, frozen, as his grip held you exactly where he wanted.

The door creaked open.

"It's just me," came a soft, casual familiar voice.

You heard the unmistakable click of the lock sliding into place behind him. A moment later, you could feel the weight of Jake's stare, as he stood there, just inside the bathroom door, watching.

Jake's tone was edged with uncertainty, but not surprise. "You said you were just gonna talk," he said as he took in the scene—your knees on the cold tile, face flushed, cheeks hollowed, and Jay buried deep in your throat.

Jay exhaled through his teeth, head tilting back slightly, his grip finally loosening just enough for you to breathe again. But he didn't pull out.

"That's her way of apologizing," Jay hissed, his hips rolled forward again with purpose, forcing another wet choke from you. "Isn't that right?"

His hand remained in your hair, holding you steady, guiding your mouth with every thrust. His other hand slipped down to your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, smearing the spit that clung there like gloss.

You looked up and there was Jake.

You'd always remembered Jake as soft-spoken, the kind of boy smiled too gently. Sweet to a fault. The kind of person who would've cupped your cheek and whispered it was okay, would've helped you up and kissed the tears from your face.

But not now. Now his eyes weren't soft. They were cold, sharp and predatory.

Even through the blur of your lashes and the sting of fresh tears, you saw it: the shift. The hunger.

"You're crying," Jake said. He tilted his head, studying your face. "She's crying, Jay."

And how you remembered, too well, the way he had this thing with you crying every time he fucked you. A fascination of your tears.

"She should be," he said flatly. "After the shit she pulled? She should be sobbing." He thrust forward again, slow and deep, watching your throat stretch to take it.

Jake didn't blink. His expression didn't soften. He just knelt lower beside you, one hand resting casually on his knee as he leaned in a little closer. His eyes were fixed on your tear-streaked face, watching every twitch of your mouth, every breath you struggled to take around Jay's cock.

His cock twitched in his pants. There was a fire building in his chest stoked by the sight of you like this—on your knees, choking, tears running, all for his boyfriend. And yet... all he could think about was that moment. That time he tried talking to you, voice soft, reaching out with patience, and you'd barely looked at him. Just shrugged him off.

Maybe he'd been too kind. No—he had been too kind.

Jake didn't know exactly what he was feeling as he watched Jay drive himself deeper into your mouth, but it wasn't softness. Not anymore. A new edge in his blood he hadn't recognized before. Every time your throat clenched, every time another tear slipped down your cheek, something inside him twisted tighter.

"You're so unfair," Jake said. He stood slowly, eyes never leaving your face.

Jay reached up, hand curling around the back of Jake's neck, fingers threading into his hair. He pulled him down, and their mouths met in a slow kiss.

You whimpered around Jay's cock, your voice small and choked as your eyes followed the scene unfolding above you.

They didn't look at you. Their kiss deepened quickly, mouths open, tongues sliding together in a messy, hungry rhythm. Jay tilted his head, humming low against Jake's mouth, and Jake responded with a moan that vibrated through him—a sound that made Jay's grip on your hair tighten just slightly.

Their bodies leaned into each other, mouths devouring, heat bleeding off them like they'd forgotten you were even there. You whimpered again, louder this time, throat sore, nose running, your jaw aching, but they still didn't acknowledge you.

Then you sobbed, your body trembling as another wave of tears spilled down your cheeks. Jake pulled back from the kiss, breathless, lips slick.

"Stop being dramatic," he muttered as he looked down at you. His hand came down with no hesitation, fingers sliding into your hair alongside Jay's to push you further.

You whimpered one last time, cut off by the sudden pressure as your head was forced forward. Your nose pressed flush to Jay's skin again, throat stretched to its limit.

"Shut up," Jake said quietly. Jay hissed through his teeth, his body jerking slightly as your throat took him again, deeper now under Jake's added weight.

You gagged again, but Jake didn't flinch. He just turned his head and watched his boyfriend with a crooked smile. before leaning in to kiss him again. Their mouths met above you, hot and open, tongues sliding as if you weren't there.

You couldn't breathe.

Your throat burned, raw and stretched too wide, and your jaw felt like it was splitting apart under the unrelenting ache. Jay's pace had become erratic now, his stomach bouncing against your nose with each desperate thrust. You could feel the tightness in your chest spreading, oxygen slipping further and further out of reach.

Your lungs screamed. Your eyes streamed. But neither of them looked down.

And just when you felt his cock throb in warning, when your body tensed in anticipation of the inevitable—

Jake pulled you off.

You gasped as you were suddenly released, choking, coughing, collapsing sideways onto the cold tile floor. Your body folded, weak and trembling, chest heaving as you dragged in greedy, ragged breaths. Your lips were swollen, spit-slick and trembling, and the back of your throat felt like it had been clawed raw.

You barely had time to lift yourself onto your elbows when you saw Jake move again.

He dropped to his knees smoothly in front of Jay, his mouth opened without a word, and he took Jay in deep, his jaw relaxed. You watched through bleary, tear-streaked eyes as Jake's head began to bob, slow and sinuous, his lips wrapped around the same cock that had just brutalized your throat.

Jay groaned, one hand bracing against the counter, the other curling in Jake's hair. His hips jerked once, twice—and then he came.

Jake didn't flinch. He swallowed it all, his throat working silently, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring it. His fingers dug into Jay's hips, keeping him in place as the last tremors rolled through him.

You stayed on the floor, trembling, watching through a curtain of tears you couldn't stop.

Jake pulled back with a wet drag of his mouth, lips glossy, tongue flicking out to catch the last trace of Jay's release. He looked up at him with hooded eyes, mouth still parted slightly, breath heavy. Jay let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing Jake's hair back from his face.

Something in you twisted again. Bitter. Ugly. It crawled up your chest and sat there. You wiped your face with the back of your trembling hand, smearing the tears more than cleaning them. The other reached up shakily, trying to push your hair out of your eyes, trying to regain some kind of dignity.

But Jake didn't give you the chance. He turned to you slowly, head cocked, still licking the corner of his mouth. His gaze locked onto you, that same hunger was still in his eyes.

"You think you're done?" he asked. Jay's hand dropped from Jake's hair, and looked down on you again. 

Jake stood and approached you with the lazy certainty of someone who already knew you wouldn't resist.  He crouched in front of you, his face level with yours. He reached out and brushed your hair back

Your lips trembled as you tried to speak. "I-I'm sorry, Jake..." you whispered, barely able to meet his eyes. "Both of you mean something to me. I just... I didn't know how to handle it. I miss you. I didn't mean to make you cry. You're precious to me, baby."

Jake stilled. For a moment, he didn't blink. His gaze searching yours. His breath hitched, just enough to give him away, his jaw tightening as his face flickered with softness. Behind you, Jay leaned back against the wall with a soft exhale, arms crossing over his chest. His eyes flicked between the two of you.

Jake's hand hover near your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You leaned into it simply to feel him again. Just that brief, tender contact that used to come so easily. Your skin brushed his fingertips, and he didn't pull away.

"I'm so sorry," you sobbed. Your body trembled, shoulders shaking, the emotion too big to contain any longer.

Jake exhaled sharply, his entire demeanor going soft suddenly. "Shhh..." he finally whispered, pulling you into him.

His arms wrapped around you tightly, and he tucked his face into the side of your head. His nose pressed gently to your temple. One hand moved to your back, slowly rubbing up and down.

"You meant it?" he murmured. "All of it?"

You nodded into his shoulder, arms tightening around his waist as you clung to him. "I meant it," you whispered, breath hitching. "Every word."

Jake didn't move right away. He just held you there, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other drawing slow, rhythmic circles against your spine. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, faster than it should've been.

For a moment, everything else faded— the ache in your throat, the sting of your tears, even Jay's quiet presence nearby. It was just Jake. Just the closeness you hadn't had in too long.

"I should be angry," Jake murmured after a pause. "But I missed you too much." He pulled back just slightly, enough to look at you. "Don't lie to me again. Don't run." he said softly.

"I won't," you whispered. "Let me fix things." The moment the answer left your lips, Jake moved, he hooked his arms beneath you, lifting you up.

You let out a small gasp as he turned, setting you down on the cold counter behind you. Your back hit the mirror with a soft thud, the glass cool against your scalp as your legs instinctively parted to accommodate him stepping in between them.

He kept his eyes on yours, even as his hands moved to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers working them down. "Let's fix things, huh?" he murmured, dragging your shorts down in one motion. "You want to make things right?"

You nodded again, barely able to breathe as the air hit your wet skin.

"Then spread those pretty thighs," Jake growled under his breath. He dropped the fabric carelessly to the floor, hands sliding up your inner thighs, his eyes landed on the soaked fabric of your panties before he pushed them aside.

"Already dripping," he muttered. His fingers pressed against your folds through the soaked cotton, dragging slowly up your slit, teasing you. The friction of the fabric sent jolts through your core. He pressed a little harder, making your hips twitch in response.

Another presence pressed close—Jay. He moved in behind Jake. "You're spoiling her again," Jay said as he leaned in, his breath warm against your neck.

His hands slid up your body from behind, palms rough, until they found your breasts. He cupped them through your top, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they stiffened beneath the fabric. He gave a sharp little pinch that made you whine, your body jolting forward as your thighs tensed around Jake.

"I don't think she's learned her lesson though," Jay muttered, rolling your nipples between his fingers lazily.

"She looks sorry," Jake said, but his eyes were locked on your glistening cunt. "But I don't think that mouth means anything until it's begging."

Jake dropped to his knees between your legs, mouth already parting as he pressed it against your heat. He pushed the fabric aside with one hand and gave your folds a slow, deliberate lick that made your head fall back against the mirror.

"I'm sorry," you choked out, voice shaking. "I mean it—please. I'm really sorry!"

Jake didn't answer. He just groaned against your pussy, his tongue flicking against your clit. The vibrations made your thighs clench around his head, but he held you in place, grip firm, unmoved by your squirming.

Jay chuckled above you. "That's one. Keep counting." He leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear. "You don't get to say you're sorry once and expect it's over, sweetheart."

"I am, I swear—" you gasped as Jake sucked your clit into his mouth, making your hips jerk. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Jake. Jay, please—please forgive me..."

Jay's hand slid lower, fingers trailing a heated path down your trembling stomach. His hand slipped between your thighs, right above Jake's head, and his fingers found your clit in seconds, rubbing slow, tight circles in contrast to the deeper movements of Jake's tongue.

The combination made your head tilt back, a cry caught in your throat.

Jake groaned against you, the sound buzzing through your core as he pushed his tongue into your hole, fucking you with slow, deep strokes. His nose nudged against Jay's fingers as he worked in tandem.

Jay's free hand found your breast again, making your shirt up to your collarbone and exposing your skin. His fingers found your nipple in your bra, pinching it between his knuckles until your back arched involuntarily.

Jake pulled back just enough to speak. "She tastes like guilt," he muttered before dipping back in. This time, his tongue flattened against your slit, licking long and firm, each pass rougher than the last.

"I am guilty!" you cried out, voice cracking as your fingers clutched the edge of the counter. "I fucked up—I know I did, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I missed you, both of you—"

Jay didn't respond right away. His thumb rose to your throat, brushing the hollow there gently, deceptively.  "You're not forgiven yet," he said calmly. "But keep begging. Maybe we'll believe you."

Jake moaned into your cunt, tongue working harder, faster, burying himself in your heat while his grip on your thighs tightened, nails biting into your flesh to keep you still.

Your body arched reflexively, head pressed hard against the mirror behind you. The cold glass was a cruel contrast to the fever building inside you, the friction between their mouths and fingers making your thoughts blur and your words tumble out in desperate, breathless gasps.

"I'm sorry—please, I'm so sorry—Jake, Jay—don't stop, please—don't leave me—I'll do anything—"

"You will do anything," Jay murmured, lips brushing your jaw as he kept one hand working your clit and the other still wrapped around your throat. "But that doesn't mean we're done punishing you."

Jake pulled back just long enough to spit on your cunt, watching it drip down before diving back in.

"Y-Yes, yes, yes..." you breathed. A few strands of your hair had fallen across your face, clinging to your flushed cheeks. Jay tsked under his breath, brushing the messy hair away with care. His fingers swept your temple, tucking the strands behind your ear to clear the view. He wanted to watch your face, every twitch, every tremble, every silent plea written across your features.

Jake's tongue flicked over your clit again, followed by a slow, deep press inside. Your thighs shook against his shoulders, toes curling over the edge of the counter.

"You don't even know which one of us you're moaning for, do you?" Jay whispered.

"I c-can't—" you whimpered, breath stuttering. "I'm sorry—Jake, Jay—I'm sorry, I swear—please..."

Jake growled softly between your legs, like your apology alone made him want more. He shifted his angle, tongue plunging deep as his nose rubbed against your clit, creating friction that made your spine arch and your head knock back into the mirror again with a dull thud.

Jay caught your head this time, hand sliding behind your skull, fingers threading through your hair.

"You'll come like this," Jay murmured, his lips brushing yours without closing the distance. "On his tongue, with my hand around your throat, and every breath you take will be ours."

"Jake—fuck!—Jay—I'm—" You choked on your own voice, the climax coiling inside you about to snap.

Jake didn't slow. His tongue moved in steady, ruthless strokes. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you anchored, legs trembling under the weight of everything he was drawing from you.

Jay's hand remained firm around your throat, not choking but holding. His thumb pressed lightly just beneath your jaw, grounding you as the rest of your body lost control. His eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every flicker of surrender build in your face.

"Look at me," he ordered softly. "Don't look away."

You tried—God, you tried—but your vision blurred with tears and white-hot pleasure, your eyes fluttering, lashes damp as you clung to consciousness. "I—can't—" you gasped, every breath shallow, high-pitched.

Jay leaned in, brushing his mouth against yours without kissing you. "You can," he whispered. "You will."

Jake's mouth locked around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking fast, perfectly cruel. One hand slid beneath your ass, lifting you just enough to change the angle, and the pressure hit exactly where you needed it. The world around you fractured.

Your entire body arched.

A scream tore from your throat as Jay's hand held your windpipe and Jake's tongue forced you over the edge. Your vision went white behind your eyelids, every nerve in your body seizing with the violence of your orgasm. Your thighs clamped around Jake's head involuntarily, hips grinding into his mouth.

"There it is," Jay growled, watching the climax crash through you. "Fuck, that's it. That's what sorry looks like."

You sobbed, mouth open and shaking as aftershocks rolled through you, making your legs twitch, your fingers slip on the counter's edge.

Jake didn't stop right away. He licked you through it, each drag of his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your core. Only when your body jerked from overstimulation did he finally pull away, mouth slick, chin wet, his breath ragged.

"Goddamn," he muttered, voice rough as he looked up at you from between your legs. "Still the sweetest fucking thing I've ever tasted."

Jay eased his grip on your throat and let your head fall forward against his shoulder. You collapsed into the space between them, boneless, panting, your body trembling and used, your voice lost somewhere.

Jake rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he reached for his waistband. He was flushed, breath ragged, hands already moving to undo his pants. You lifted your head weakly, eyes wide, still dazed as you looked up at Jay. "A-Are we really doing this? In here?"

Jay arched a brow. "Jake just had his mouth buried in your pussy," he said smoothly. "Don't start playing modest now. Don't be selfish."

Jake let out a sharp breath as he freed himself, hissing softly as his hand wrapped around his cock.

Your breathing hitched when he stepped in closer. He lined himself up with you, the swollen head of his cock teasing your entrance, sliding up through your folds, collecting the wetness there before grinding it against your clit.

You whimpered at the friction. "My back hurts..." you managed to stammer out. "It's... it's uncomfortable."

Jake didn't even flinch, he pushed in his whole length into you in one motion. You both moaned at the feeling.

"We'll make it comfortable." Jake growled, breath hot against your cheek as he gripped your waist. 

Without warning, he lifted you off the counter, his hands strong under your thighs. You let out a startled gasp, your legs instinctively locking around his hips as he held you up with ease. His cock stayed buried inside you as he adjusted his grip, settling you in against him.

"Ahh—Jake!" you cried out as he began to move, bouncing you on his cock. Every thrust drove him deeper, the sound of skin on skin echoing sharp against the cold tile walls. Jay moved without a word. He slipped in behind you, one hand found your hip, steadying you as your body jolted from Jake's pounding pace, while the other reached up, sliding to seize your breast.

"God, fuck—" Jake groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your damp skin before he started kissing and biting, not caring about the sweat.

Jay's mouth found your shoulder first, then your throat, trailing wet kisses up your jaw until he reached your lips. Your head lolled back against him, mouth already open, and he took full advantage—tongue slipping between your lips, swallowing the moans Jake was forcing from your chest.

You whimpered into Jay's mouth, his cock grinding against your lower back, the friction syncing with every bounce of your hips. Your body moved helplessly between them, each movement rubbing him against you, closer... lower...

"You're so fucking wet," Jake growled against your throat. "I can feel it all over me." He thrust harder, teeth grazing your shoulder as he panted.

Jay broke the kiss with a sharp nip to your bottom lip, tugging until you gasped. "I think we'll fit," he said, voice low, eyes flicking down to where your bodies met. "Don't you think?"

Your heart lurched.

Your eyes widened as you felt Jake adjust his stance, your weight shifting in his arms. Your body tensed immediately, the pressure at your core tightening to near-panic. "Wait! W-Wait—!" you stammered, breath catching in your throat.

Jay was already positioning himself, one hand on your lower back, the other on Jake's hip for balance as he leaned in. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before you felt it—his cockhead, thick and hard, pressing lower just beneath where Jake was already buried inside you.

The angle was careful. Slick with your arousal and the lingering wetness of Jake's earlier mouthwork, Jay began to push slow his shaft grinding against Jake's through the tight squeeze of your entrance, the pressure unbearable even before he was fully inside.

Jake slowed immediately, holding you tighter in his arms, breath ragged against your cheek. His voice was low, firm, grounding.

"Relax for him. Breathe. You can take it."

But your body was shaking, the stretch is too intense, and too foreign.

"Fuck! I can't—" The words tore from your throat, panic bleeding into your tone—cut off almost instantly when Jake surged forward and kissed you. His mouth swallowed your cry as Jay began to sink in, splitting you further, claiming space that wasn't there.

Your entire body tensed, clutching, pulsing, your walls clamping down instinctively on both cocks as they shifted inside you, working together to make room.

Both men moaned low in your ears. "Shit," Jake gasped into your mouth, breaking the kiss just to breathe. "Fuck, she's tight—Jay—go slow."

Jay's groan was more guttural, his lips brushing your shoulder. "I am—she's gripping us like she's trying to push us out."

You whimpered as your body was forced to take it—all of it. The thick drag of Jay's cock sliding in alongside Jake's, every inch of your walls stretched to their absolute limit, friction pressing between them, heat building inside you so violently it made your toes curl.

Their hips pressed in unison, the base of their cocks grinding together deep inside you, buried to the hilt. You could feel them inside each other through you, the shared space, the impossible pressure, the slow pulse of them twitching inside your cunt, both thick and deep and so full it.

Jay hissed, forehead pressed to your back. Your mouth hung open, panting. All you could do was hold on—legs locked around Jake's waist, arms limp around his shoulders, your body trembling violently between them.

You couldn't tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began.

Jake's head dropped to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. "I can feel him," he whispered. "Fuck, I can feel him moving through you."

Jay's hand shifted from your hip to Jake's jaw, guiding his face upward. Their bodies pressed so close, only you between them, joined not just through you, but with you.

Jay leaned in, lips met Jake's, tongues brushing, mouths sliding together as their hips shifted slightly, still buried inside you. Their kiss deepened quickly, tongues pressing hard, teeth grazing. Jake groaned into it, when he pulled back from Jay only to kiss you next.

His lips claimed yours fast, almost needy—salt and sweat and desperation—and Jay didn't wait. He was already kissing along your neck, up behind your ear, while his hand slid between you to stroke your clit with slow circles.

The shift in pace was dizzying. They weren't pounding into you. Not yet. They were just holding you. Deep, warm, kissing, mouths trading between you and each other.

Jake finally broke the kiss, forehead pressed to yours as he whispered, "You feel like heaven right now."

Jay's mouth brushed your shoulder again. "She's shaking. Poor thing's too full to even speak."

Your fingers digging into Jake's shoulders, back arching slowly. The pressure of them both still lodged inside you kept your body humming with tension.

Jay kissed the side of Jake's mouth again before murmuring, "Move with me, baby."

Jake nodded once. They shifted. And then, slowly, carefully, they began to move.

One would pull back while the other pressed in, your body stretching and clenching around the rhythm. It was slower than before, more controlled, but no less overwhelming. The glide of two thick cocks inside you, perfectly in sync, had your body twitching, tears pricking your lashes again.

Their mouths kept moving, on your throat, on each other, across flushed skin and slick shoulders. They didn't speak much, just low moans, shuddered breaths, the soft slap of bodies finding rhythm again. Jay's hand never left your clit. Jake's arms held you close.

"Stay with us," Jake whispered into your mouth, the tip of his nose brushing yours.

"Don't run next time," Jay added, his voice deep in your ear. "We just want to keep you." And their cocks kept moving, slow and deep and together, keeping you open, full, and exactly where you belonged.

Jake shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his stance, the grip on your thighs tightening as he found more control in his movement. The slow rhythm gave way to more deeper, and faster, his hips slapping up with wet, rhythmic sounds that bounced off the walls.

The moans pouring from you grew louder. You were unraveling again, overstimulated, but your legs refused to stop twitching, clinging around Jake's waist as your hands clawed at anything for purchase—his shoulders, Jay's neck, the edge of the mirror behind you.

A sudden sound echoing outside, footstep and people murmuring as they pass by. Panic stabbed into your chest. You froze for a moment, instinct flaring, shame bubbling up behind your ribs. The reality of where you were hit hard—legs wrapped around one man, another flush to your back, both of them inside you, fucking you, right there in the university bathroom.

But the pleasure didn't stop. You twitched, thighs squeezing reflexively, a cry caught in your throat. "Someone's—"

Jay's hand came up instantly, cupping the side of your face as he leaned in, swallowing your next sound with a kiss. His mouth sealed over yours just as Jake drove up harder, his thrust knocking the breath from your lungs, forcing the moan straight into Jay's waiting tongue.

"Let them hear," Jake hissed, voice rough against your skin, his pace unrelenting now. "Let them wonder who's making you sound like that."

The footsteps outside faded, but your heartbeat didn't slow. It thundered in your chest, driven by both fear and the savage pleasure coursing through your nerves.

Jay broke the kiss with a strand of spit between your lips, eyes half-lidded, and flushed. "You're squeezing us like you want to get caught," he murmured, fingers slipping between your bodies to rub your clit again, drawing a fresh, keening whimper from your throat.

Every drag of their shafts against each other inside your overstretched cunt sent aftershocks through your core, your body trembling violently with each grind and press. The feeling of them rubbing together inside you, separated only by the thin, spasming walls of your body, wasn't just overwhelming—it was ruinous.

"F-Fuck," Jake choked, hips jolting up hard. The impact of his thrust slammed you forward into Jay's chest, your breath ripped from you as your body tried—and failed—to brace for the intensity.

Jay grunted, catching your body easily, his hand fisting your hair as he held you in place. His cock surged deeper alongside Jake's, the slick sound of their movements inside you impossibly loud in the quiet space.

"Can't hold it," Jake panted, sweat dripping from his temple, breath stuttering. "She's—she's so tight I can feel you through her—fuck, Jay—"

Jay growled, his own control shattering with every convulsion of your clenching walls. You could barely think anymore—your mouth hung open, no words left, only broken gasps and sobs as your body tightened around them again. The pressure had built too fast. It rolled up from your core, cresting so high you couldn't breathe.

Your orgasm hit hard. It exploded through your abdomen, a pulsing, electric burst of heat that seized every muscle. You screamed, not even a word, just sound—your voice breaking as your cunt clenched violently around them, walls spasming uncontrollably.

"Fuck—" Jake snarled, the rhythm of his hips shattering.

He slammed in once more, his cock jerking violently inside you as he came with a rough moan, hot pulses of cum flooding your cunt. You felt every spurt, thick and hot and deep, and the sensation of being filled only sent another shiver of pleasure rolling through your already-fractured nerves.

Jay wasn't far behind. Your body's violent squeezing around both cocks at once pushed him over the edge—his thrusts turned erratic, hard, his breath tearing through his chest.

"Gonna fill you up," he groaned against your throat, voice ragged, hips pressing as deep as they could go. "You're gonna take all of it."

Then he came. You felt the way his cock throbbed next to Jake's inside you, the rush of hot fluid spilling in, mixing with Jake's release, both of them pouring into the same aching space. Their hips jerked in sync, involuntary tremors shaking them as your body held them tight, refusing to let go.

Your own climax still burned through you, wave after wave wracking your limbs, your nails digging into Jake's shoulders as your vision blurred.

You were just there, caught between their shaking bodies. They didn't pull out. They stayed inside you, panting, foreheads pressed to your skin, arms wrapped tight around your waist. The room was filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, the soft whisper of sweat-slicked skin, the occasional stuttered groan as aftershocks rolled through all three of you.

Jake leaned his forehead against yours. "Fuck," he breathed. "You're so beautiful."

Jay's hand came up to stroke your side. "No more running, okay?" he murmured, his lips brushing your temple as he spoke. "We're going to talk this time. Really talk."

You tried to nod, but your head only shifted slightly. A soft, low hum escaped your throat as your vision swam and your body slumped against Jake's chest. Everything ached. You weren't sure if your legs were still attached, or if you'd ever feel your core without that deep, burning throb again.

It had been so long since you'd let yourself be used like that... and even longer since it had ever felt like this. Safe. Claimed. Held.

Jake was the first to move, easing himself out of you. You whimpered faintly at the loss, but even that sound felt distant in your own ears.

"Hey," he whispered, fingertips brushing your cheek. He tapped gently, calling your name. "Hey, come back to me, baby."

But you couldn't answer. Your eyes were half-open, glazed with exhaustion. Your body limp between them. There was no strength left in your limbs just the slow throb of overstimulation and the deep, quiet ache that said you'd been pushed right to the edge of yourself.

Jake's expression changed instantly. "Shit—she's out of it," he muttered, voice sharp with guilt.

Jay's brows furrowed. "She's overwhelmed. Fuck."

Together, they moved quickly, shifting their grips. Jake bent to retrieve his pants, tugging them up with one arm while the other held you carefully to his chest. Your body sagged against him, boneless but trusting, your cheek pressed to the slick skin of his shoulder. "I've got her," Jake said quietly.

Jay adjusted himself quickly, stepping in to help. His hands cupped your thighs, his gaze scanning your face. "We need to get her cleaned up. Somewhere soft."

"Yeah," Jake agreed, his hand smoothing the back of your hair.

You couldn't speak—not really. You were too far gone, too worn down in the sweetest, most bone-deep way.

But you felt them. You felt the tissue as they wiped between your legs, cleaning their combined mess from your trembling thighs. Another passed over your face, cool and damp, brushing away the sticky sheen of sweat and the tears you didn't remember shedding. Fingers were tender as they tucked your hair back, smoothing it down, and you sighed softly into the sensation.

Jake carried you effortlessly, holding you to his chest. You felt Jay beside you, one hand steadying your legs as they moved together. Their voices were hushed now, murmurs exchanged just beyond your hearing, their steps soft against the tile.

When the door opened, the shift in air hit instantly—cool and dry from the hallway's air conditioning, raising goosebumps across your flushed skin.

You managed one last, drowsy breath as the cool air washed over you. Then your eyelids dropped.

You stirred slowly, the first thing you felt was warmth. A soft bed cradled your body, the sheets cool against your bare skin, but it was the sensation wrapped around your waist that anchored you. The scent pressing against your back was just as recognizable—clean sweat, faint cologne, and something uniquely him.

You blinked slowly, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks before you opened your eyes fully.

Your head was nestled into the crook of someone’s neck. His skin was warm beneath your cheek, his heartbeat a steady thrum beneath your ear. You shifted slightly, body still sore and heavy, and looked up.

Jake was watching you, eyes soft. He rubbed slow circles against your side with the pad of his thumb, his other hand still resting gently across your waist, holding you close.

“Hi,” he whispered. 

You managed a small, sleepy smile. “Hi. How long was I out?” you asked, blinking again to clear the haze still lingering behind your eyes.

Jake exhaled through his nose, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “About an hour,” he murmured. 

Your brows knit faintly, and he brushed a thumb along your temple. “Don’t worry,” he added with a soft smile. “We covered for you. Told them you fainted because of the heat—overexerted, nothing serious.”

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound dry in your throat. “Technically not a lie…”

Jake’s grin widened just slightly, a playful glint flickering behind the softness in his eyes. “Mm. They don’t need the exact details.”

You gave a breath of a laugh, but it faded quickly as your gaze lingered on his face—the gentle curve of his smile, the creases near his eyes, the way he was watching you so closely.

 “Jake…” your voice came out small.

He stilled, but his thumb never stopped moving on your side. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, the flood of everything you’d been trying to suppress surged up your throat. You swallowed it down once, then let it rise.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “For avoiding you. For running off. For shutting down instead of just…” You trailed off, sighing as your brows pulled together. “I was scared.”

Jake’s lips parted slightly, his grip on you tightening for a moment before he pulled you in closer, pressing your cheek against his chest. You felt the beat of his heart against your skin.

“I didn’t know what to do with what I was feeling,” you continued. "I started… caring. And that made everything messy. Because you and Jay—you’re already whole. You don’t need someone like me getting in the middle of that.”

Jake was silent, listening, his hand still tracing soft patterns into your skin.

“And I kept thinking…” You swallowed hard. “If I let myself fall deeper, I’ll only be the one who ends up hurt. Like I’d ruin what you both already have. That I didn’t deserve it, any of it.”

He finally spoke, his voice low. “Why didn’t you just tell us that?”

“I didn’t know how,” you admitted. “And then when I saw the two of you together, being so perfect—it made me realize how small my place in this is. Or… was.”

Jake shook his head, exhaling as he tilted your face up gently with his fingers. “You think we’re perfect?” he said, a sad sort of smile curling at the corners of his lips. “We’re not. We’ve made mistakes. We didn’t talk about a lot of things. But one thing we were sure of?” His thumb brushed across your cheekbone. “We both want you.”

Jake's thumbs caressed the apples of your cheeks, his gaze never leaving yours. His breath was warm as he leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closing briefly. “I’m sorry we didn’t make it clearer,” he whispered. “We thought we were showing you—through touch, through time, through every little thing we did. But we never said it. And maybe that’s where we messed up.”

You blinked back the heat behind your eyes, your throat tightening. Jake’s fingers brushed under your jaw, coaxing you to look at him again.

“We want you,” he said, “In every way. Not just in our bed. Not just when it’s convenient. We want you in our life. You’ve already made space in it—you didn’t ruin anything.”

You let out a shaky breath, and before you could stop yourself, you pressed your face into the crook of his neck again, seeking warmth, shelter, reassurance. His arms wrapped tighter around you.

“And Jay?” you asked quietly, voice muffled against his skin.

Jake chuckled softly, the sound a little choked. “Jay’s downstairs trying to pretend he’s not pacing. He’s been wanting to talk to you too. But I asked him to give me this moment first.” He pulled back just enough to brush your hair from your face. “You mean more to him than you think.” 

The soft knock came, Jake didn’t move right away, just held your gaze, giving you a choice without saying a word. When you gave the smallest nod, he leaned over and called out gently, “It’s okay. Come in.”

The door cracked open, and Jay stepped inside. His eyes immediately found yours, and the moment they did, the edge in his posture melted. He wasn’t guarded like he usually was.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, stepping closer.

Jake shifted slightly to make space on the bed, and Jay took it without question. He sat on the edge first, then leaned in beside you, bracing one hand on the mattress near your hip.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Sore,” you said, voice raspy with sleep. “Like I got hit by a very… affectionate truck.”

That pulled a laugh from both of them. Jake’s body vibrated behind you with the sound, and Jay let out a quiet chuckle as he rubbed a hand gently over your knee, his thumb brushing just above where the blanket had slipped.

“Sorry,” Jay murmured, though the smirk was playing at his mouth now. “Not sorry.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into him when he bent down and pressed a kiss to your temple. His lips lingered there for a beat longer than expected. When he pulled back, he looked more serious. 

“No more running,” he said quietly, “I’m not great with… talking. Feelings. All that shit.” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking down briefly before returning to yours. “But I want this. I want you."

Jake let out a quiet huff behind you, shifting closer as he nuzzled the back of your shoulder. “He’s always like that,” he whispered, “I was the one who confessed first. Initiated the first kiss. First sex.”

Jay’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “You asshole,” he muttered.

“You blushed when I touched your wrist,” Jake added, grinning now.

“I was cold,” Jay shot back. You laughed then soft, but real—and both of them stilled like they’d been waiting for the sound. Jake’s smile softened, and Jay, still glaring at his boyfriend.

Jake grinned wider. “He literally couldn’t make eye contact for twenty-four hours after we slept together the first time.”

“I hate you,” Jay muttered, but he was already reaching for you again, hand slipping beneath the blanket to rest on your stomach, drawing you back toward him as he curled in behind.

“You don’t,” Jake replied, smirking as he met your gaze. “He just never knows how to say the nice shit.”

“I will push you off this bed,” Jay warned to keep Jake from opening his mouth again. “Then we’ll fall together,” Jake countered smoothly, wrapping an arm tighter around your waist.

You sank into their warmth, nestled between their bodies. You turned your face slightly, resting your cheek against Jay’s collarbone while one of your hands found Jake’s under the blanket.

For a long, comforting moment, no one spoke. Then, quietly, Jay’s voice rumbled near your ear. “Were we too rough earlier?”

You shook your head without hesitation, cheek still pressed to his collarbone. “No. I needed it,” you murmured, honest and calm. “It pushed me out of my head. That’s what I needed.”

Jake’s hand tightened slightly around yours, and he smiled softly. “So… are we okay now?”

You turned your head toward him, lips curving with amusement. “That depends,” you said. “Was that makeup sex?”

Jake raised a brow, mouth twitching. “Wait—that wasn’t?”

Jay snorted behind you. “If that was just a warm-up, I’m scared to know what the actual makeup sex is supposed to look like.”

You laughed, low and a little breathless, the sound making both of them smile wider.

“I guess we’ll have to do it again,” Jake said, voice dropping just enough to make the tease linger. “Y’know. For clarity.”

It didn’t take long. Clothes were shed, tossed carelessly across the floor—shirts half-inside out, underwear tangled near the foot of the bed. You were on your back with Jake above you, his mouth on yours, his tongue moving with a tenderness that made your body ache all over again.

Then Jay moved. You barely had time to gasp before his hand curled into Jake’s hair, tugging sharply. Jake groaned into your mouth, the kiss breaking as Jay pulled him back.

“Not so fast,” Jay said, “You had your turn.”

He dragged Jake down the length of the bed, making him twist and arch, until Jake’s head was between your thighs, his back curved beautifully under Jay’s grip. Jake didn’t resist—he melted into the position, groaning as he inhaled the scent of you, mouth finding your cunt.

You gasped, your legs parting without thought. The sting from earlier still lingered, but it was chased by the familiar, glorious heat of Jake’s mouth. He licked into you slowly at first, tongue stroking over your clit.

Your back arched as he moaned against your folds, his face buried deeper. “F-fuck, Jake—” you whimpered, fingers tangling in his hair, hips twitching against his face.

Jay watched from behind him, one hand stroking down Jake’s spine, the other trailing lower. You didn’t see the moment he slipped his fingers between Jake’s cheeks, but you felt the way Jake moaned louder against your cunt, hips jerking slightly as Jay began working him open.

“Want to see you fuck him,” you breathed, voice cracked with need. “Please. I want to watch.”

Jake whimpered into your pussy, tongue fucking you deeper in response. Jay’s eyes lifted to yours. His fingers were slowly pushing into Jake. “She wants a show,” he said, leaning in to kiss Jake’s neck. “You gonna be good for her?”

Jake moaned again, his voice muffled by your cunt, and you tightened your grip in his hair, nails dragging across his scalp.

Jay’s hand slid away briefly, and you heard the soft click of the drawer beside the bed opening. A moment later, the quiet sound of a bottle opening filled the space. Cool lube met skin, and Jay didn’t hesitate—he returned to Jake’s body with a steady hand, working the slick between his cheeks.

Jake whimpered again, body shuddering beneath both of you. Jay kept stretching him, fingers moving in slow, deep circles, curling and scissoring in a rhythm that made Jake pant harder against your pussy. His mouth never stopped licking, sucking, groaning into your folds with more desperation the more he was opened up.

You looked down and nearly lost your breath at the sight: Jake’s flushed face buried between your legs, his lips wet and glistening, while Jay knelt behind him, eyes dark, and focused as his fingers slick, sliding in and out of Jake’s ass with increasing ease.

Jake was trembling now, his thighs twitched against the sheets, and you could hear the breathless hitch in his throat each time Jay’s fingers pressed just right inside him.

“She’s gonna see how good you take it." Jake moaned hard against your clit, and you cried out—your hips bucking into his face. He didn’t stop. If anything, he devoured you harder, tongue working you open.

Jay leaned forward, pressing a kiss between Jake’s shoulder blades. “You ready for me, sweetheart?”

Jake’s reply was only a ragged whine, and it made your pulse spike.

“Please,” you said softly, the only voice in the room not breaking. Jay’s eyes flicked to yours, gaze locking for one searing moment. Then he leaned forward, hand steady on Jake’s lower back, and began to push in.

Jake let out a strangled groan against your cunt, his tongue faltering for a heartbeat before diving back in with renewed force. Your legs tightened around his head, your hips rising helplessly into his mouth.

“Good boy,” Jay breathed, voice thick as he slid deeper. “Keep eating her.”

Jake moaned again, the vibration pulsing through your clit as Jay’s cock pressed deeper inside him. You could feel Jake struggling to hold rhythm, overwhelmed by the dual sensations—his mouth locked to your cunt while Jay slowly filled him from behind.

Jake’s fingers were clutching your hips, knuckles pale, his lips slick with your arousal as he flicked his tongue over your clit again and again—desperate, hungry, obedient. Behind him, Jay moved with a slow, grinding pace, hips rolling forward, burying himself inch by inch into Jake’s tight, slicked hole.

“Shit,” Jay groaned, head dropping for a second as his hands gripped Jake’s waist.

Jake whined against you, hips pushing back to meet Jay’s thrusts even as his mouth stayed locked on you, his tongue circling your clit in dizzying spirals. You could feel him moaning again and again.

Your hand threaded deeper into Jake’s hair, pulling tight, guiding his mouth where you needed him as your hips rolled shamelessly against his face. His moans were frantic now, high-pitched, especially when Jay snapped his hips forward harder—burying himself to the hilt. 

His tongue was relentless, and the pressure was building again in your core, fast and burning, pulled taut by every flick of his mouth, every grind of Jay’s cock rocking through him from behind.

You were right on the edge—suspended between pleasure and the raw thrill of watching them together.

Jay’s rhythm grew rougher, his groans more ragged. One hand slipped from Jake’s hip to curl around his waist, holding him in place, deepening every thrust. The wet slap of skin filled the room, matched by the obscene, eager sounds of Jake’s mouth on your cunt.

Your back arched. Your breath hitched. “I’m—fuck—Jake!” you cried, your orgasm tearing through you. 

Jake moaned loud and deep into you as you came, your body spasming under his tongue, your legs clamping around his head as your hands tangled tight in his hair. You rode it out on his mouth, grinding into him, the pressure of Jay’s thrusts making Jake groan right through your high, pushing you even further.

Your body melted into the sheets, chest heaving, but your eyes stayed locked on the scene unraveling in front of you.

Jay didn’t relent. He adjusted his grip, arms slipping under Jake’s chest to haul him higher, fucking into him harder from behind with a pace that was nothing short of brutal. His skin slapped against Jake’s ass with wet, relentless rhythm, and Jake took it beautifully—his moans muffled, body twitching with every deep thrust.

You watched them, your lips parted, breath shallow. Both their faces were flushed and wild, lost in each other. And instead of jealousy, the sight only fed the fire already burning in your gut. The ache that never really went away around them now pulsed hotter, deeper.

Jake’s voice broke as he moaned loud enough to echo through the room. “Jay, baby—oh fuck!”

Jay reached up, tangled a fist in Jake’s hair, and yanked him back just enough to crush their mouths together. The kiss was messy, desperate, teeth clashing, tongues sliding, both of them breathing into each other’s mouths.

The noise of it made you whine. You couldn’t stay still. You crawled forward on shaky limbs, eyes locked on Jake’s cock, thick and flushed and bouncing wildly with every one of Jay’s thrusts.

Your hand wrapped around it in one slow, sure stroke, and Jake shouted into Jay’s mouth. Jay pulled back just slightly, his eyes flicking down to see your hand wrapped tightly around Jake’s length, pumping him in time with the rhythm of their bodies.

Jake’s head fell back, hips jerking forward into your touch, his stomach tight and trembling. His mouth opened in a silent gasp, then a broken moan when you dragged your thumb over his leaking tip, smearing the precum down his shaft.

“Fuck,” he choked, voice shaking. “That—God, that feels so good.”

Jay groaned behind him, his rhythm stuttering just for a second at the sight in front of him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers wrapped around Jake’s cock—your nails catching the light, long and perfectly shaped, moving over him in steady, merciless pumps.

He hissed through his teeth, fucking into Jake harder. Jake moaned again, louder this time, his whole body pushing back into Jay while thrusting forward into your hand. His eyes fluttered open, hazy and wild as they met yours, lips parted.

Jay’s voice cut. “Lay down, baby.”

You blinked, heart pounding. You released Jake’s cock with one last stroke, watching his hips twitch at the loss, and moved backward on the bed without a word. You lay back across the pillows, your legs parting instinctively as you settled into the space, your body already pulsing in anticipation.

Jay pulled out of Jake with a slick, wet sound, his hand curling around Jake’s hip to steady him. “Come on,” he said, gaze flicking to Jake, then to you. “Enter that pussy and ride my dick.”

Jake didn’t wait. He crawled over you immediately, his hands braced on either side of your shoulders, and with one fluid motion, he lined himself up and sank into you.

You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as the stretch hit you hard all over again. Your walls were still sensitive, still twitching from your last orgasm, and now he was filling you again.

Behind him, Jay didn’t waste time. He adjusted, positioned himself, and with one slow, deliberate push, slid back into Jake’s ass.

"Ahhh!" Jake’s whole body jolted. A strangled sound caught in his throat, mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that was sloppy, all tongue and open breath. His hips began to move almost immediately, short shallow thrusts between your legs while Jay drove into him from behind.

“F-fuck,” Jake moaned into your mouth, pulling back only to drop his lips to your throat. He bit down hard—just enough to make you cry out—then dragged his mouth lower, tongue hot on your skin as he kissed, licked, and bit his way down to your collarbone.

Your fingers clutched at his back, and every time he thrust forward into you, it was followed by the shock of Jay’s cock driving him forward again—his motion caught between both your bodies.

Jake was trembling, moaning louder than ever, his rhythm completely overtaken by Jay’s pace. Every thrust from behind forced him deeper into you, the sensation nearly too much. His moans spilled against your throat, turning into helpless gasps as his cock slid in and out of your soaked cunt.

His voice broke in short, frantic cries. “Jay! Jay—please, baby, oh God—”

His mouth returned to your neck, teeth scraping the skin before he latched on, biting down with desperate force. The sharp sting drew a gasp from you, the pain blooming into pleasure just as Jake’s hips jolted forward again, burying himself to the base.

He held there for a moment—frozen, panting, his breath hot against your skin. His back was slick with sweat beneath your palms, muscles twitching under your touch.

Then he pulled back, just enough for you to see his face. His lips parted, breath shaky and shallow. His eyes were unfocused, lashes wet, the flush across his cheeks deep and burning. He looked wrecked, and completely beautiful—mouth closed now.

You clenched around him involuntarily. “You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, voice trembling with emotion. “So fucked-out.”

Your hips rose instinctively, pushing up into him, your body begging for more, for all of it.

Jake let out a shuddering groan. He rolled his hips again, slow and deep, and the way you took him made him press his forehead to yours.

Behind him, Jay didn’t slow. He was pounding into him with brutal control, groaning with every thrust, his grip locked tight around Jake’s hips to keep him in place. You could feel each stroke reverberate through Jake's body, transferring into yours.

“F-Feels so good—ahh, fuck—feel so good!” Jake cried out, voice cracking, mouth open in a moan that bordered on a sob.

You reached up with a shaky hand, brushing the damp strands of hair from his face, your thumb stroking gently along his cheekbone. He leaned into the touch, lips trembling, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

Your body clenched again, the pressure cresting high, unbearable and exquisite.

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasped, hips lifting to meet his every desperate thrust. “Jake—cum with me, please—ahh—now!”

Jake’s breath hitched, his hips faltered before he slammed into you one final time, burying himself deep. His entire body seized, a loud, gasping moan torn from his chest as he came hard, cock pulsing inside you with wave after wave of heat.

You fell with him, your orgasm ripped through you, stealing the breath from your lungs as your cunt clenched around him, milking every drop of his release. Your cry echoed into his mouth as he kissed you again.

“Fuck—both of you are so hot—God—”

Jay’s pace grew rougher, deeper, his restraint unraveling with every breathless sound spilling from Jake’s lips, every clench of your cunt around Jake’s cock. He watched you both, panting, his hands gripping Jake’s hips so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.

“Fucking hell,” Jay growled. Jake moaned again, overstimulated and soft, his forehead still resting against yours as Jay buried himself one last time with a low groan, 

You felt it in Jake’s shudder, the way his breath stilled as Jay’s cock throbbed deep inside him. The sound Jay made as he emptied himself, his body pressing tight to Jake’s back.

Jay was the first to exhale, his lips ghosting over the back of Jake’s neck as he slowly eased out. Jake let out a soft whimper, his body twitching from the sensitivity, and you wrapped your arms tighter around him, one hand sliding over his spine.

Jake collapsed onto you gently, his full weight cushioned by your body, his cheek pressed to your shoulder as he panted, still flushed and wet with heat. You stroked his hair, letting your fingers card slowly through the damp strands.

Jay shifted beside you, climbing up the bed on unsteady arms before dropping down on your other side. His chest was heaving, he wrapped one arm around your waist, hand splayed across your stomach, fingers brushing softly against your skin.

Jake tilted his face up to look at you. “You okay?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You nodded, stroking his cheek. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Better than okay.”

Jake gave a breathless laugh, burying his face briefly into the crook of your neck. “Fuck,” he groaned, still catching his breath. “That was the most delicious orgasm I’ve ever had."

You chuckled, breath hitching a little as you threaded your fingers into his hair again.

Jay leaned in from your other side, his body pressing close, his mouth trailing a soft kiss along your shoulder before brushing Jake’s temple. His arm wrapped around the both of you, pulling you tighter into the warmth of him. Your legs tangled instinctively, bodies nestled under the sheets that now clung to the lingering heat of sex and skin.

None of you spoke for a moment, the silence stretching comfortably between heartbeats and shallow breaths.

Then you glanced between them, your voice still breathless. “So…” you murmured, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Does this mean I have two boyfriends now?”

Jake’s head popped up slightly, a crooked grin forming. “Only if you’re okay being heavily spoiled and never allowed to escape.”

Jay made a quiet sound of amusement beside you, his thumb brushing a lazy line along your hip. “We’re clingy,” he said, voice low, eyes half-lidded but sincere. “Terrible at sharing. Lucky for us, we just want the same person.”

You laughed, letting yourself melt back into the weight of them, your body still pulsing with quiet aftershocks and warmth. “I think I can live with that,” you said softly, eyes fluttering closed as their hands continued to drift gently over your skin.

And then you suddenly remember something. Your eyes snapped open as panic surged through your chest.

“Shit—Sunoo!”

You shot up so fast that the blanket fell off your chest and Jake practically flinched, startled, his sleepy post-orgasm daze completely shattered. Jay blinked at you from behind, frowning in confusion. Then he realizes what you meant.

“Sunoo!!!”

Jake’s voice echoed across the grassy field the next day, dramatically over-the-top as he broke into a slow-motion sprint—arms wide, expression exaggerated with mock desperation.

You couldn’t help but laugh under your breath, trailing behind him with your fingers laced through Jay’s. Sunoo, on the other hand, stood perfectly still ahead, arms crossed, expression locked in a glare.

Just as Jake went in for a hug, Sunoo’s palm came up and smacked him square across the face—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to jolt the dramatics right out of him. Jake stumbled back, blinking.

“You didn’t text, you didn’t call, and my best friend just disappeared with you two?” Sunoo snapped, pointing an accusing finger toward you and Jay. 

You smiled awkwardly, offering a sheepish little wave behind Jake’s shoulder.

“She fainted!” Jake explained, hands flying up. “We were busy assisting her. Medical-grade care. You should be grateful your best friend fell into the right hands.”

Sunoo’s eyebrow arched so high. His gaze slowly dropped to your neck… and then narrowed. “Yeah, right,” he said dryly, arms crossing again. “That why she’s covered in poorly hidden hickeys?”

Jake blinked, he slowly reached out and bit his own finger, eyes wide as he turned to stare at you. “Babe,” he whispered. “You said you’d cover those.”

You flushed, dragging the collar of your shirt higher with a quick tug. “I did! Jay distracted me!”

Sunoo rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Dodgeball’s starting now—don’t actually faint this time.”

Your fingers gently slipped away from Jay’s, reaching out to Sunoo instead. You slid your arm through his as you began walking beside him, your shoulder brushing his. He let you lean into him without hesitation.

“I assume the three of you are okay now,” Sunoo said after a pause, voice lighter, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “I’m still scared,” you admitted. “But… as long as I’m with them, I think I’ll be fine.”

Sunoo gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “Yeah, well. You’ve got me at your back too.”

Jake popped up beside Sunoo, slinging an arm over his shoulder with a wide grin, pressing in close to you on the other side. Jay followed right behind, falling into step beside you with that calm, quiet presence that always made you feel anchored.

“So,” Jake said casually, stretching his arms above his head before locking them behind his neck. “What do you guys want to eat later? Because I’m seriously craving some Samyang Buldak noodles.”

Sunoo stared at him, blinking once. Then, flatly: “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jake blinked back, innocent. “What?”

“It’s thirty-four degrees,” Sunoo said, gesturing wildly to the sky like the sun itself was his witness. “And your dumbass is out here craving spicy death noodles? Are you okay? Do we need to check for brain damage?”

"Well, I love spicy!" Jake scoffed, throwing his hands up. 

Their voices quickly dissolved into muffled bickering again—Jake insisting it was about heat and thrill, Sunoo arguing that eating molten fire under the sun was a cry for help.

Jay exhaled a quiet laugh beside you, his fingers brushing against yours. You felt the heat of it—not from the sun, not from the air, but from them.

From all of this. And as you watched your best friend and your boyfriend argue, with Jay steady at your side and your pulse still echoing from the day before, you couldn’t help the smile curling at your lips.

Maybe Jake was right. 

Maybe a little spicy-ness was exactly what made life interesting.

[woozinhos]

if you’re up for it can we just consider chan getting embarrassed to be caught by the reader humping his pillow 😩

I can explain|| Lee Chan x Reader

Notes: stop why have I made y/n so fucking sexy in this one you’re welcome guys

Chan was in his room, trying to relax after a long day. He was tired and a bit stressed, and his thoughts kept drifting to you. As he lay in bed, he started to feel a familiar stirring in his groin.

He tried to ignore it at first, but the more he thought about you, the more intense the feeling became. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that would ease the pressure. Suddenly, he realized what he was doing. He was humping his pillow, the friction sending shivers down his spine. He stopped abruptly, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over him.

He knew that it was wrong to be doing this, but he couldn't help himself. The thought of you was too tempting, too alluring. He looked around the room, making sure that the door was locked before continuing or so he thought it was. He began to move again, his hips grinding against the pillow as he pictured you in his mind. He imagined your touch, your lips on his skin, and the sound of your moans in his ear.

He bit his lip to stifle a moan as he got closer and closer to the edge. Just as he was about to come, he heard a knock on the door. The knocking continues, getting louder and more insistent. Chan tries to ignore it, hoping that whoever it is will just go away. But the person on the other side of the door is persistent, and he can hear them calling his name.

He hesitates for a moment, torn between the need to answer the door and the desire to finish what he started. In the end, his need for release wins out, and he continues to grind against the pillow, his movements becoming more frantic. As Chan gets closer and closer to his climax, he can't hold back his moans anymore. They slip out of his mouth, low and breathy, as he buries his face in the pillow.

He's so lost in the pleasure that he doesn't even notice when the door creaks open. You walk into Chan's room, looking for your charger. "Hey, Chan, have you seen my charger?" you ask, not noticing what he's doing at first.

But as you look up, your eyes widen in shock. You see Chan lying on the bed, his face flushed and his body tense as he hides his actions from you. Chan's face turns an even deeper shade of red as he realizes that you've caught him. He quickly pulls the covers up to his chest, trying to cover himself as much as possible.

"Y-Y-Y/N!" he stammers, his voice high-pitched and shaky. "I-I can explain!" You can't help but feel a pang of excitement as you watch Chan try to explain himself. You've never seen him so flustered before, and it's kind of cute.

"I was just...uh..." he trails off, clearly at a loss for words. "I was just trying to...relax." You raise an eyebrow, a sly smile spreading across your face. "Relax, huh?" you say, stepping closer to the bed. "Is that what they're calling it these days?" Chan gulps as you approach him, his eyes darting around the room nervously. He knows that he's been caught red-handed, and there's no denying it now.

"I...I couldn't help it," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was thinking about you." You feign surprise, pretending to be shocked by his confession. "Me?" you say, placing a hand on your chest. "You were thinking about me while...relaxing?"

Chan nods sheepishly, his face still burning with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "I know it's wrong, but I couldn't stop thinking about you." You sit down on the edge of the bed, looking at Chan with a mix of amusement and concern. "You know, there are better ways to relieve stress than that," you say, a hint of flirtation in your voice.

Chan's eyes widen as he realizes what you're suggesting. "W-what do you mean?" he asks, his voice trembling slightly. You crawl up the bed, closing the distance between you and Chan. He watches you with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, his heart racing in his chest.

You straddle his waist, your body pressed against his. "I mean," you whisper in his ear, "that I could help you relieve your stress in a much more...pleasurable way." Chan lets out a shaky breath, his hands instinctively coming up to rest on your hips. "Are you sure?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You nod, a sultry smile on your lips. "I'm very sure," you reply, grinding your hips against his. "I want to make you feel good, Chan." Chan shivers at your words, his grip on your hips tightening. He can feel the heat radiating from your body, and it's driving him crazy.

"Please," he whispers, his voice hoarse with need. "I need you."

[dearlenore]

TE AMO MEANS I LOVE YOU. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer doesn’t want you to feel homesick…

PAIRING: brazilian!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.3k / fluff

a/n: req so fire I don’t have anything to add😭 anon req here

You can barely feel your legs by the time you step through the front door. Everything aches—your back, your feet, your head. The combination of a long shift, missed meals, and a pounding homesickness you didn’t even realize had crept up on you leaves you disoriented and dazed. You drop your bag to the floor with a heavy thud and let your shoes fall off wherever they land.

“Spence?” you call out weakly, unsure if he’s even home.

No response.

Your heart dips. It’s silly—you’re not even mad. You just really wanted to collapse into his arms and let him talk about some obscure historical fact you won’t remember while you bury your face in the scent of his cardigan.

Dragging your feet forward, you turn toward the kitchen, hoping he might’ve left a note or something.

But what you see stops you cold.

It’s not just that Spencer is home—he’s in the living room, kneeling in front of the stereo, surrounded by what must be dozens of vinyl records and CDs. Some still in shrink wrap. Others open, their contents splayed out delicately on the rug, like he’s trying to solve a musical puzzle.

He doesn’t notice you at first. His long fingers are carefully placing one of the records into a sleeve. His lips move silently, probably reading the liner notes. You know that face—the one he makes when he’s concentrating too hard to hear anything around him.

You step closer, confused and stunned. “Spencer… what is all this?”

He finally looks up, startled, and then a wide, bashful smile spreads across his face. “You’re home early.”

You scoff, dropping your keys onto the counter and squinting at the organized chaos on the floor. “No, I’m actually late. I had to cover for Clara because her babysitter bailed. What is all this?”

Spencer stands slowly, brushing invisible lint from his pants. There’s a faint smudge of dust on his nose that makes him look boyish. “I was going to surprise you. I wasn’t finished yet.”

You blink. “With what? An entire music store?”

He chuckles and takes your hand, gently tugging you down to sit with him on the floor. “Do you remember a couple weeks ago, you said you missed home? That nothing here really sounded like Brazil?”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. It had been an offhand comment, murmured into his chest after a stressful day. You hadn’t even realized he’d taken it to heart.

“Well,” he says, excitement flickering behind his soft eyes, “I did some research. A lot, actually. I talked to a Brazilian record collector online, and I found a store that imports vintage and modern music. Some of it’s digital, but I thought it would be more special to have the real thing. Something you can hold and play and… feel.”

He gestures to the piles. “There’s MPB—Chico Buarque, Gal Costa, Caetano Veloso. Some Bossa Nova—João Gilberto, Elis Regina. A few funk carioca and samba records too. And—oh!—I found a Tropicália collection from the ’60s. It was hard to find, but the guy I talked to helped me out.”

You’re frozen, eyes moving from album cover to album cover, tears threatening to blur everything. He says each name so carefully, stumbling a little over the pronunciations but clearly trying.

“I thought maybe we could build a little library,” he continues, a bit shy now, like he’s not sure he’s done the right thing. “A musical version of home. For you.”

Your lip trembles.

“Oh no,” Spencer says, eyes going wide. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You launch yourself at him before he can say anything else, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you press your face into his shoulder.

He immediately holds you back, murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” even though you’re not crying from sadness.

“I’m not upset,” you whisper, voice thick. “I’m just… I’m so tired. And I missed you. And then I walk in and you’ve done this?”

He chuckles softly into your hair. “You sounded so sad that day. I didn’t know how to fix it. But I thought… maybe music would help.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He blushes, his hands settling on your waist. “I wanted you to feel like you belonged. Even when you’re far away from where you came from.”

Your heart stutters.

You’ve always loved how brilliant Spencer is, how his mind never stops moving. But it’s this—his softness, his attentiveness, the way he listens—that makes you fall in love with him again and again.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His smile deepens. “I love you too.”

You glance at the records again, something bubbling up in your chest. “Did you really get funk carioca?”

He grins. “Yes, and I regret it already. Some of those lyrics…”

You burst out laughing. “It’s not all inappropriate, I swear.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because one of those songs taught me three Portuguese curse words I didn’t know before.”

You fall back against the couch, giggling uncontrollably. “Now you’re culturally enriched.”

“I’m something, that’s for sure.”

He stands and offers you a hand. “Come on. You haven’t even seen the best part.”

You let him pull you up, and he guides you to the little corner of the living room you’d both half-abandoned for months. It had been your reading nook at one point, but life got busy. The chair became a coat rack. The little table sat empty. But now, it’s glowing with soft light from a string of fairy lights. A portable record player sits on the table, already spinning a vinyl softly through the air.

The opening notes of “Águas de Março” float into the room—gentle, warm, familiar.

Your breath catches. “That’s… my dad used to play this when we were cleaning on Sundays.”

Spencer squeezes your hand. “I hoped it would feel like home.”

You sit down in the chair, letting the music wash over you, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, you relax.

Spencer kneels in front of you again, resting his arms on your knees. “Want to teach me the lyrics?”

You glance down at him, grinning. “You want to sing in Portuguese?”

“I want to impress your grandma next time we video call,” he admits sheepishly.

You laugh. “She already thinks you’re a genius.”

“I’d like her to also think I’m charming.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Okay. Repeat after me: ‘É pau, é pedra, é o fim do caminho…’”

He repeats it, tripping over the accent.

You giggle and gently correct him, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Better.”

“Again?”

“‘É um resto de toco, é um pouco sozinho…’”

He says it again, a little smoother this time.

You don’t even notice how much time passes. You teach him line by line, each repetition followed by laughter and a kiss, until your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Eventually, you end up sprawled together on the rug, your head on his chest, your hand resting over his heart. The music continues to spin, one record after another, creating a bubble of nostalgia and love and safety around you both.

Spencer’s fingers draw soft patterns on your arm. “Do you think it helps?” he murmurs. “The music?”

You nod against him. “It feels like I’m not so far away. Like my past and my present are holding hands.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Then it was worth every penny.”

“You’re too good to me.”

He hums. “I think you underestimate how much I love you.”

You smile, eyes fluttering shut.

No one had ever loved you quite like this before—with thoughtfulness, with quiet gestures, with an understanding that homesickness isn’t always loud or obvious, but it’s there. Like a shadow.

And somehow, Spencer had found the perfect way to bring the sun back.

Later that night, as you fall asleep to the soft hum of Caetano Veloso playing from your new collection, Spencer whispers, “I think I’ll start learning Portuguese.”

You’re half-asleep, but you hear him.

“Why?” you murmur, curling closer.

“So I can talk to you in your first language. The way you dream.”

And you think, just before sleep pulls you under:

This man is my home, too.

[xuchiya]

the last bell before midnight || wanteez ep.1/3 || ot8

| genre: TV Show AU. Zombie AU. Thriller-Comedy. fluff (small). | mentions: fake blood. camera changing POV. this settings goes to wanteez episode 3

part 2 || part 3

The school bell rang, but instead of signaling the end of class, it echoed through the empty corridors like a death knell—low, ominous, and unsettling. The sound jolted you awake. Your head pounded faintly, and the cold linoleum floor beneath your cheek sent shivers up your spine. You blinked, disoriented, the ceiling fan above barely spinning, creaking with every turn.

Just moments ago, Ateez had been outside—laughing, running, basking in the sunlit freedom of recess. Then everything went black. No warning. No explanation. Now, you were lying in your classroom, surrounded by the scattered bodies of you and the boys, all beginning to stir with groggy confusion.

You were the first to sit up, groaning as your muscles protested. The body camera strapped to your chest shifted with your movement, its blinking light the only indicator it was still recording. The room was dim, illuminated only by the cold, flickering glow of emergency lights bleeding in from the hallway. It cast long shadows across desks and walls, making the familiar classroom feel alien and abandoned.

“(Y/N)-nnie?” a familiar voice croaked out, barely above a whisper. You turned to find Hongjoong struggling to sit up, eyes wide with confusion and fear, “I’m here,” you said softly, reaching out to help him. At first, it sounded like ambient city noise—distant hums of machines, maybe the echo of passing cars. But something was off. There was a rhythm to the sounds, something too organic, a little too close.

You narrowed your eyes and crept toward the classroom door, heart beginning to drum in your chest. With cautious fingers, you slid the door open just enough to peer out.

Your breath hitched.

The hallway stretched ahead, bathed in pale emergency lights and eerie stillness. But the silence didn’t last. Groans echoed off the walls—wet, gurgling, hungry. Shadows shifted. Then came the unmistakable sound of dragging feet, smearing against the floor.

Your blood turned to ice. Down the corridor, figures emerged from the darkness—limping, twitching, groaning. Familiar uniforms. Familiar faces. But their eyes were glazed, their skin pale and torn. Mouths hang open, teeth stained red.

Your ex-classmates.

Now full-time flesh-hunters.

Zombies.

You couldn’t move, only stare, frozen at the threshold of the classroom as the nightmare you never thought could be real unfolded just beyond your door.

“(Y/N)-nnie! Get in here!” Hongjoong hissed, grabbing your arm and yanking you inside the classroom. The door slammed shut behind you, attracting the zombies outside as they scurried towards the noise and bang against the door, Seonghwa stacking chairs to block it seconds later, “No use of looking for snacks if those things were lurking,” Wooyoung gasped, collapsing against the wall.

The boys held their breath in as it kept coming until it slowly died down and the same noise of groans came back. You flipped your hair and narrowed your eyes at Wooyoung. Mingi came over and wrapped his arms around your shoulders as you pat his back. “Excuse me, someone had to make sure San didn’t eat all the emergency choco pies—who knows how long we’ll stay here!”

San, caught mid-bite, froze. “...they were stress snacks!”

Mingi chuckled but his laugh was cut off by a deep thud on the door. You all fell silent again. Mingi’s grip on you tightens, “Noona I’m scared…” You kept your warm hand on his back, “It’s okay Mingki, noona is here.”

As you all wait, the same red blinking lights of the body camera each on your bodies, Seonghwa’s point of view camera showed where he picks up a paper with Ateez symbol on it. The point of view suddenly changed and it was back to all of them. 

“Yeorobun … I found this one.” Everyone turned towards the second eldest as they hurried towards him. You and Mingi stayed put in your place, Hongjoong guarding the door. Seonghwa read whatever was on the card outloud. The mission was simple: escape the school by finding the last three digits of the code to unlock the rooftop exit. The problem? Each number was hidden in a “zombie-infested” part of the school, and time was running out.

You pat Mingi on the back, “Mingki we have to team up.” He shakes his head stubbornly until Jongho and Yunho have to remove him from you. You chuckle, thanking the boys before glancing at the bloody map of the school on the bulletin board. Yeosang peeked through the blinds. “There are three of them. One’s Mr. Lee. He was my homeroom teacher—well, until he started foaming at the mouth.”

San stood up, clutching a broomstick whilst Wooyoung had a helmet— which you frown in utter confusion on how and where he got the helmet from until San spoke again. “I say we split into three teams. Cover more ground.”

Everyone all stared at him, “Or die faster,” Seonghwa muttered under his breath. You raised your hand, “It’s not a bad idea since the school ground is quite big. Before we can find the next clue, we have run out of time. I’ll go with San and Yunho to the teacher’s lounge.”

San beamed, already clinging on to you while Seonghwa has to pry him away, you thank him. “We’re the dream team.”

“More like the chaotic trio,” Yunho groaned. As you all discussed a better way to finish the simple and easy mission Hongjoong nodded, his leader's brain doing 100 calculations at once. “Fine. Me, Yeosang, and Wooyoung will check the library. Seonghwa, Mingi, Jongho—you take the gym.”

You took a deep breath, looking at each of them “9 makes one team?” They all moved semi-circle and chanted softly before disassembling to their perspective group.

You tiptoed beside San and Yunho, the air cold and tense. A lone locker creaked in the distance. Before you all left the room, some of the boys looked for anything to defend themselves, some managed to find an antidote— in case someone got bitten and they have 5 minutes before they turn into a zombie.

Yunho manages to find a flashlight near the stairs where a small bookshelf can be found. Your flashlight flickered, “Why is it always the math department?” Yunho whispered. “It already killed my GPA. Now it’s trying to kill me.”

You spotted the teacher’s lounge just ahead—your target. The hallway leading to it stretched out like a tunnel, too quiet, too still. You took the lead, your steps careful and calculated, your breath shallow. The flickering emergency lights cast eerie shadows along the walls, making lockers look like looming figures watching your every move.

Just as you three were walking towards the lounge room of the teachers, a shrill, metallic ring tore through the silence.

All of you froze. All frames showing the members frozen as where you all are. 

It was the school bell—the one that usually signaled the start of the next class. But now, in this nightmare version of your school, it was a warning siren. Your heart skipped a beat. The memory of the card flashed through your mind.

"Warning: Any sound above 60 decibels will trigger a response from the infected."

That bell was definitely louder than 60.

Your camera’s point of view came in and despite it being dark, the camera still picks up the panicked look on San’s face and Yunho’s attentive body. It suddenly changed to San’s camera point of view to which you could see him gripping on the broom tightened. Then the last point of view is Yunho, the only thing it could pick up is his ragged breathing and the movement of his body. 

It switched back to the main point of view, Yunho’s eyes widened as he instinctively stepped back, scanning the hallway behind you. For a moment, none of you moved—holding your breath, as if that could erase the sound that had already echoed through the building.

And then you heard it. A distant thump.

Then another.

Groaning. Wet and drawn-out. A dragging footstep. Then several more. From behind doors, stairwells, lockers—every corner seemed to awaken. And they weren’t just moving— they were running. From afar, you could hear Wooyoung’s screaming and Hongjoong’s panic “woah” several times. 

“They’re coming,” Yunho whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with urgency, “Teacher’s lounge,” you said sharply, snapping them out of their frozen state. “Now!”

You all started running when the first zombie stumbled on the floor. Your eyes widen, “Go go go!” Yunho was quick enough to take your wrist as you all rushed towards the lounge room. You pushed the door to the side, praying it wasn’t locked—and to your relief, it gave way with a soft click. The three of you slipped inside just as the distant sounds grew louder. Closer. Hungrier.

You shut the door hearing the scratches and pounding of their fist on the door, but your hands trembled from the thrill. Yunho, being the tallest, reached above the door to lock it. Not the strongest barricade, but better than nothing.

The lounge was dark, cluttered, and smelled faintly of old coffee and dust. Folders lay scattered across the floor, and someone’s half-finished lunch sat rotting on the desk. You scanned the room, trying to find anything that looked like a clue or a sign.

But your ears never stopped listening—every sound outside felt like a countdown.

Time was running out.

“So much for the dream team.” You murmured, Yunho and San chuckled, “Well at least we’re fast.” Yunho answers.

“And chaotic.” For a while that the three of you were waiting for the whole thing to calm down, San was the first to move away from the door and spun around to check the room.  “Wait,” San whispered, pointing at something. “Look.”

At first glance, the room looked abandoned—papers scattered, desks pushed askew, and the faint hum of broken fluorescent lights above. But then you saw it. Slumped at a desk near the window was a figure in a beige trench coat, one leg lazily swinging back and forth. Its head was tilted unnaturally, jaw slack, a red pen still clutched in its hand like it was grading papers from the afterlife.

As you all walked around the room, you ducked back immediately, heart pounding as it suddenly turned in your direction; holding on to the two. “Looks like a teacher. Definitely turned.”

San leaned in close. “On its desk, there’s another antidote, I’ll get that. We go in quietly, grab whatever we need, and get out.” You squint through the dark and indeed, another bottle— similar to the one inside the classroom—is on top of the desk of the teacher.

“Are we supposed to get notes or … those?” When Yunho pointed something at the desk, you and San squinted. Indeed a small cube with a number 3 on top of the circular table. 

But the thing is, the desk that Yunho is pointing at is on the other side. The teacher’s meeting room. You groan softly, “For sure that door is locked.”

“They said to get number codes but nothing much of what it looks like.” San said, cringing as the zombie moved.

“I can distract it while you take the antidote as discreetly as possible…” San giggles, nodding. As much as you like taking things seriously but you weren’t born in this world to take everything in your hands— seriously. But you smirked. “Or… we make it fun.”

Yunho gave you that look—equal parts exasperated and concerned. “Don’t do it. Don’t you dare—”

Too late. You, being the brave and slightly unhinged ninth member of ATEEZ, cracked your knuckles, reached into the chalk tray behind you, and picked out a piece. With one precise throw, you launched it across the room. It clanged against a locker, sharp and loud.

The sound echoed like a gunshot in the dead silence. Inside the lounge, the zombie’s head snapped upright, roaring as it followed the sound.

“Now,” you whispered, eyes gleaming with mischief.

San dropped to the floor, sliding across it like a spy on a mission, while you and  Yunho ran towards the other side where the empty office room for the teacher’s meeting room holds, cupped his hands and hoisted you up through the open side window of the meeting room. You tumbled in, landing with a soft thud beside a locked drawer. You rushed towards the circular table to grab the cube, flipping it; “3”. 

“Bingo,” you whispered, snatching it and shoving it into your hoodie. Just as you were about to leave, a loud clang could be heard from the locker. 

Your stomach dropped. “Guys?” The zombie outside is not alone.

A low growl echoed behind you.

San’s voice came out as a sharp whisper. “Move. Now!” 

Your head snapped towards the locker as it bangs open and another zombie came out and it was running. Towards you.

Yunho didn’t hesitate. By adrenaline rushing through his body, he slammed his body against the meeting door as you dove behind the table, knocking it towards the zombie as you raced towards the open door where Yunho’s hand extended towards you. You barely caught your balance before he yanked you into a sprint.

“GO!” San shouted as he closed the door where the two zombies roared, clawing at the door as San caught up with you two, the door behind suddenly sliding open and the two zombies catching up with the three of you.

“AHHH!” 

You tore down the hallway, Sab grabbing a nearby mop (after dropping the one he held inside the office) and swinging it like a baseball bat as the teacher-zombie lunged from behind. Its fingers grazed your jacket, but San’s swing knocked it back into the wall with a crash.

Without slowing down, Yunho hops on the stair railing. You hesitated, lagging on your feet but with San’s gentle urge for you to keep going, “Go go, it’s safe.”  So you took a leap of faith and onto the stair railing, sliding down with San right behind you, yelling like you were on a rollercoaster from hell. 

At the bottom, you saw the others running towards your direction. As you hop off the rails, you are out of breath; falling on the floor as you catch your breath.

“You guys got it?” Seonghwa asks, also, slightly out of breath. Nodding, you show the cube with the number on it. Hongjoong cheers softly, plling you up on your feet.

“Okay okay let’s go!”

All of you stood before the keypad with empty slots. You were sweaty, breathless, a little scraped up, but alive. You held out each of the numbers that the boys retrieved, you placed the numbers accordingly as you did the lock loosen and it fell to the ground.

Yeosang pushes the door open and the sunlight hits your face. You all step on the rooftop wherein the freedom awaits for the nine of you. Then you turned to the boys, all dishevelled and clothes with stains on their uniforms but overall, a relief look settled on their faces.

“We made it,” you smiled, pushing hair out of your face. Wooyoung grinned and threw an arm around you. “Of course we did. We had you, noona.” Rolling your eyes as you pushed Wooyoung away, the others slumping onto each other as they settle on the ground.

That is what you all thought was the sweet escape. A static can be heard, making you and the others frown in confusion, the good vibes suddenly vanishing.

“Sorry if I was being easy on you but here's where the real game begins  …” 

“Ateez, welcome to the first round.”

[potatoplace]

A Match Into Water

Feysand x Vanserra!Reader

Poly!ACOTAR x Reader Masterlist | Request

Summary: You fall ill, slowly, until it takes over your life. Your mates watch helplessly as you're torn from them too soon.

Warnings: chronic illness leading to death, seizures, fainting rapid weight loss, let me know if I missed something

Words: ~5.2k

Author's Note: So this is for the lovely 🪐 anon, inspired by the song 'A Match Into Water' by Pierce the Veil - I hope I got the vibes right for it, I went with mega angst 🙏 let me know how you guys like it! I didn't start crying til the end, but uh... yeah this one was tough for me to even write, it just feels very heavy. So read with caution. It's up on AO3 too! 🫶

18+ only pls

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

It began with a cough.

Not often enough to cause any concern. Not even every day.

And when it did become every day, you had gone to see Madja, who told you to drink plenty of fluids and gave you a special tea to help soothe your throat, which had grown increasingly scratchy.

Of course, you’d done your best to hide it from Rhys and Feyre at first. They were always so busy and stressed as High Lord and Lady of the Night Court, and you didn’t want to burden them further.

But when you had fainted during Starfall, tumbling off the edge of the House of Wind?

Rhys had caught you, thankfully, and you awoke to the sight of his violet eyes filled with worry. When you turned your head to the right, you saw Feyre, her blue eyes sparkling with tears, some of them already pouring down her cheeks.

“Are you okay, baby?” she asked you, one of her hands cupping your cheek softly.

Your head hurt and you were exhausted, but other than that you felt fine.

You didn’t have to open your mouth, Feyre already curled against the inside of your mind just how you liked. “Good, good. Madja’s run all the tests, but she wasn’t able to conclude what made you faint.”

“And, Madja told us that you’ve had a cough for a few weeks?” Rhys questioned, though you knew he was asking why you hadn’t told them.

With the little energy you had, you pulled him into your mind, showing him how worried you’d been for him and Feyre, how overworked they’d been the past few months, and how you only wanted to save them any worry for you, over something as silly as a cough.

Darling, he whispered into your mind, his midnight voice filling your head and washing away the ache that had been building. A cough isn’t silly, when it lasts for weeks. We want to make sure you are healthy, above all else.

You’re our mate, Y/N, a very important piece of our whole, Feyre cooed, climbing into the cot you were on and cradling you in her arms. We wouldn’t know what to do without you. So please, if you keep having problems, let us know?

You hummed in agreement, nuzzling into Feyre’s chest. I will.

Rhys’s head came to rest on your chest, listening to your heartbeat closely, but shot up a moment later when the door swung open.

Madja stepped in, clipboard in hand. “Ah, Y/N, it’s good to see that you’re awake,” she said as she stepped towards your cot, standing at the end of it. “Now, I wasn’t able to find the cause of your fainting tonight with any of my tests. I was wondering if you had any abnormal symptoms before you did? Anything like shortness of breath, lightheadedness, chest pains?”

You bit your lip, your eyes darting between Rhys and Feyre. “Uhm… I started feeling lightheaded when we arrived at the House of Wind, I think?” you said quietly. “And just before I went out my chest started hurting pretty badly so I went to the balcony for some fresh air…”

Rhys inhaled sharply at the news, and you turned to look at him. “You fell from the House, darling.”

Oh.

“Hm. If it happens again, make sure to sit down immediately, and try having something to eat or drink. And I’ll have you come in once a week-”

“Twice a week,” Feyre interrupted as she stroked your hair.

“Very well, twice a week until you’ve had no incidents for three months. I also want you to take more baths, they should help with the coughing you’ve been experiencing, in addition to the tea I gave you,” Madja said, writing out the instructions for you care and passing the paper to Rhys. “If you feel able to have your mates winnow you or carry you home, I think it would be a good idea for you to have a long soak in warm water, followed by plenty of sleep.”

Do you feel ready? Feyre asked softly. You nodded against her, and a moment later you were pulled into her arms and whisked through the fabric of the world, landing next to the bathing pool in Feyre’s old room in the Moonstone Palace. Rhys appeared just after, tugging you and Feyre into his arms. He pressed a kiss to your head, then to Feyre’s before letting his arms fall.

Let’s get you into the bath, love, Rhys whispered, a soft caress in your mind.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

Just like your cough, the fainting only happened every so often.

Until it began happening weekly. And then daily.

Feyre had stopped most of her duties as High Lady, passing all those that didn’t require her directly off to Mor, who was more than happy to help, given the circumstances.

Rhys set foot in Illyria and the Hewn City maybe once a month, with Cassian taking charge of wrangling the war camps and Azriel overseeing Keir’s rule.

They much preferred staying with you whenever possible, taking you on short walks on the edge of the Sidra or snuggling on the couch, reading the latest novels Nesta had recommended together.

That was all you seemed to be able to do these days, if you wanted to stay conscious.

Currently you were sitting on a cot that had become so familiar to you, it was practically your second bed. Madja was standing before you, her hands hovering in front of you as she used her magic to scan your body.

She sighed and lowered her hands, writing something down in your chart. “I’m sorry, dear, but I still can’t find anything that could be causing these symptoms,” Madja said softly, giving your hand a squeeze when your eyes filled with tears.

“Do you… Could the Dawn Court possibly have answers?” you asked, rubbing your forehead to try to help with the pounding headache that had been building the past hour.

“I could ask some of my contacts there, they might have more experience with what’s happening to you,” Madja sighed, and you could tell she wasn’t hopeful. “It’s worth a try. Now… Have you reconsidered telling your family? I’m sure they would care to know, your mother and eldest brother at least.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to burden him, he’s just taking charge of the court now that father’s been eliminated,” you sighed. “I’d like to wait until I’m better.” You stood slowly from the cot under Madja’s disapproving eye, though she didn’t fight you on your decision to keep the news limited to the Velaris, following Madja to the door. It swung open, revealing Azriel, waiting to take you back to the River House.

If you couldn’t go to your appointments with Rhys or Feyre, you preferred going with Azriel. Cassian always had tears in his eyes, and Mor was overly cheerful, to the point your head ached from the positivity. Azriel was a perfect, neutral party. You knew he was worried for you, yes, but he never had misty eyes or tried to cheer you up, instead giving you the space to process whatever Madja had told you that day, usually the same news that she’d found nothing that would tell her what’s causing your health problems.

Today was no different. He let you walk through the clinic and out the door before stooping to lift you into his arms, taking off into the sky a moment later.

Our little secret, he had called it after one particularly bad appointment. You’d barely been able to walk that week, and had been so depressed at your situation. All you had wanted to do was go for a short flight, but Rhys and Feyre refused, worried that it might cause you to faint or have some other problem pop up. But Azriel had taken you to your appointment that day, and after had taken you into his arms, slowly ascending into the sky.

You’d cried in his arms, the freeing feeling of the wind in your hair washing away most of your worries, at least until you touched back down, just outside the River House.

Today, you looped your arms around his shoulders and looked around, gazing with lovesick eyes at the city you cared for so deeply.

The city you’d barely been able to be in, with your condition.

Your eyes traced the path of the Sidra, marked each building that you used to regularly visit, where your friends live.

Until the right side of your body started tingling suddenly, the pain in your head kicking up a notch-

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

“We told you, NO. FLYING. How simple of an ask was that, Azriel?!” Rhys shouted in the distance, loud enough to break through the fuzziness in your ears. “Do you realize that you could have killed her?!”

A voice murmured something softly, and you tried opening your eyes to see what was happening.

But they were so heavy, and you were so tired.

You listened to Rhys yelling for a while longer, drifting in and out of consciousness until you felt a soft hand grip yours.

“Would the two of you shut up?!” Feyre asked angrily, her voice clear and close. “Y/N can hear you.”

An instant later, your other hand was held in between two large, warm ones, and you knew instantly that it was Rhys. Two hands gently grasped your feet, through a blanket.

It took you a few more minutes to muster the energy to open your eyes, blinking wearily up at Rhys and Feyre’s worried faces.

You hated that it was becoming a familiar sight.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Feyre said thickly, tears shining in her eyes as she stroked your hair. “How are you feeling?”

You inhaled slowly, thinking. My mouth is dry, you pushed down the bond, your tongue like cotton in your mouth. Feyre beamed at you, lifting your head gently while Rhys grabbed a glass sitting on the table next to your cot, carefully pouring cool, soothing water down your throat. You finished most of it before you had them pull it back, feeling a bit more awake now.

What happened?

Rhys inhaled sharply, shooting a glare towards your feet. Standing there was Azriel, looking guilty and… scared.

“You seized in Azriel’s arms, mid-flight,” Feyre answered. “He brought you back to Madja’s immediately, but you’ve been out for an hour.”

It’s not Azriel’s fault, you whispered to her. I insist on us flying home, my puppy dog eyes are too good.

Feyre smiled at you, a sad thing. I know, love. Rhys will realize that in a bit too, and apologize.

You gave Azriel a soft smile, hopefully conveying that you in no way blamed him for what happened.

But you knew he would still blame himself.

Madja walked into your room, famous clipboard in hand and an assistant healer by her side. “Y/N, I’m going to be keeping you overnight for observation, just to be sure you won’t seize again without immediate care. Rhys, Feyre, you can stay if you’d li-”

“Yes,” your mates answered in unison, and Madja smiled at them.

“I thought that would be the case. Now, we can get you moved into one of our overnight rooms, the beds in there should be big enough to fit the three of you, but most certainly two of you,” Madja explained. “Now, Norelle will be doing most of your care overnight, but I will still be in the building, available at any moment if you need me. Right now, we still don’t know much about you condition, so tell her if anything changes or gets worse, okay?” she asked, expectant eyes on you.

“Okay,” you agreed, not missing the way your mates also nodded their agreement to her.

“Good. Now, let’s get you into that other room, it should be far more comfortable,” Madja said with a smile.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

You’d been discharged the next morning, with Madja repeating her instructions to sit down and have something to drink if you start feeling off, as well as having one of your mates call for her or Norelle’s assistance.

Only three days later, you had another seizure, hitting you while you were walking in the backyard with Feyre.

You were kept overnight again, and released in the morning, still with no answers as to why your body seemed to be slowly falling apart.

Five days later, you seized again, this time hitting your head on the living room coffee table when no one was in the River House.

You woke to a familiar face hovering above you, glowing hands tracing over your body. “Y/N, it’s nice to see you,” Thesan said softly. “How are you feeling?”

Your head ached terribly, much like it did before each seizure you’d had, and your entire body was sore.

Feyre relayed the information for you while Rhys carefully gave you small sips of water, his eyes completely devoid of stars.

“Hm,” Thesan hummed. “My magic can’t find anything wrong with you. Madja said that this all started with a cough, correct?” You nodded slightly. “And you began fainting at Starfall, preceded by lightheadedness and chest pains?” Another nod. “Those grew in frequency until you began seizing, yes?”

“Yes. Is there… Do you know what might be wrong with me?” you asked hoarsely.

“I’m not entirely sure, but I’ve seen a case similar to yours before,” Thesan answered, somewhat hesitantly.

“And?” Rhys asked shortly, his eyes finally ripping away from you.

“She… It was a difficult road for her, before she passed.”

Feyre sobbed beside you, and you managed to turn your head to look at her, ignoring the stabbing pain in your head as you did so.

Hey, it’s going to be okay, you whispered into her mind. It’s going to be okay.

Her eyes locked onto yours, the anguish in them bringing tears to your own. I know, baby, I’m just scared for you.

Don’t be, we’ve got the second best High Lord helping me now, you told her with a tiny smile.

Feyre chuckled wetly before turning to Thesan. “So, where do we go from here?”

“I’d suggest transfusions of my blood once every other week, and one of yours on opposite weeks,” Thesan explained, and you made a face. Ew. “That should help heal your body from whatever is happening to it, as well as plenty of rest. And since I’m here now, we can start your first transfusion today."

You nodded, ready to get it over with, and hopefully you would start feeling normal again soon.

Maybe you’d even be able to go shopping in the Palaces again, without being carried by one of your mates the entire time.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

A week later, and you’d had no seizures, and only two fainting spells.

Which was perfect, because your brother’s first ball as High Lord of Autumn was tonight, and you desperately wanted to attend.

“Please?” you begged Feyre as you pulled a gown made in autumn colored silks from the closet. “I really want to see Eris be crowned, Fey.”

Feyre sighed beside you as she tried to avoid your eyes, failing miserably. “Fine, but only because you’re so damn cute,” she cooed as she pinched your cheek, pulling you in for a sweet kiss a moment later. “But once we get back, it’s bedrest tomorrow, alright?”

You scrunched your nose, but nodded anyways.

Twenty minutes later, you and Feyre were dressed and ready to leave, meeting Rhys in the living room. He looked mildly upset that you were dressed for the ball, but a moment later he smiled softly at you, likely after Feyre had told him your reasoning. “Are we ready, sweet mates of mine?”

You both nodded before Feyre and Rhys sandwiched you between them, winnowing to the Autumn Court in the next moment and landing in the entrance hall of the Forest House.

Your head went fuzzy for a moment before clearing, and you ignored the worried looks your mate shot you as Eris approached.

“Eri!” you squealed as you flung yourself into his arms, relishing in the way he squeezed you tightly. Before, hugs like these were saved for behind closed doors, one less piece of information for people to use against him. “Being High Lord really suits you, you look amazing!”

“You look lovely as well, sweetheart,” Eris replied, though you could see the worry in his eyes.

You’d lost the smallest amount of weight, you supposed, but it must have been noticeable to him…

“Dinner is just about to start, but once that’s done, I’d like to steal you away from your mates for a dance," Eris said as he led you into the grand hall, the table already set for dinner service, roasts and all.

Dinner was lovely, even with some of the tensions shared between the seven High Lords and their Ladies - or High Ladies, in the Night Court and Winter Court’s cases.

You felt fine all throughout it, and felt well enough to dance once with your brother, after he was crowned with the gold leaf crown of the High Lord of Autumn, adorned with glittering rubies, diamonds, and emeralds.

But halfway through the dance, a dull pain shot up at the base of your skull before spreading further, your body tingling, and you were just able to contact Feyre before all went dark.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

“And when were you going to inform me?!” your brother asked furiously. “She is my sister, I deserve to know if she’s seizing every other day!”

A soft sigh came from your right, a hand gently squeezing yours.

More yelling, but you didn’t care to listen to it, instead shrinking into your mind, where Feyre was curled around you entirely, the inky night cocooning you so nicely.

You’d stay here forever, if you could.

Another hand clenched around your left one, so familiar that you knew it could only be your mother’s.

You drifted off again, coming out of your mind to the sound of more yelling. Your eyes cracked open, moving to the right to meet Feyre’s. Make them be quiet, please, you asked, the pounding in your head only worsened by the fighting.

She nodded, and mere seconds later the arguing ceased, Rhys and Eris making their way to your bed in your old quarters of the Forest House.

“Darling, it’s good to see you awake,” Rhys said quietly.

“Y/N, why didn’t you want me to know you’ve not been doing well?” Eris asked, his amber eyes locking to yours.

Because you would’ve dropped everything to see me, and you needed to secure the court, you told Feyre, and she passed the words on to Eris.

He sighed, but didn’t fight the truth of your words. “Still, I expect to know every detail of your care from now on, and for the two of you to contact me if anything even more serious occurs,” Eris demanded, eyeing Rhys and Feyre carefully.

Rhys nodded, and you knew that he’d keep his word.

“Now, I’m going to have the three of you stay the night until you feel well enough to travel, alright Y/N?” Eris asked, though you knew it was more of a demand than anything. You nodded. “Good. Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning. Mother should be back in no more than an hour, she’s off grabbing some tea for you, she insisted on being the one to make it for you,” Eris said, his eyes softening.

“Night, Eri,” you said quietly, watching him leave your old room before looking at your mates. “So… Bedrest?” you asked sheepishly before yawning wide.

“Bedrest,” Feyre confirmed, tears in her eyes.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

The transfusions helped, in a way. You were seizing less, but your appetite had vanished entirely for the first few days following them, no matter how you tried to stop it. You began losing weight rapidly, even as you were feeling slightly better from the healing properties of both Feyre and Thesan’s blood.

But the reprieve it brought you dwindled quickly as your health worsened once more, only two months into the new course of treatment.

Nothing could save you, it seemed.

You tried to keep your darker thoughts from Rhys and Feyre, but you were so exhausted most times that you existed within their minds, leaving your tired, sore body behind for most of the day. So they heard the loss of hope happening within you as you stayed bed-bound for over a week straight, seizing too often to even leave your room now.

Eris had begun visiting at least once a week since your incident in the Autumn Court three months ago, and had been coming close to twice a week for the past three weeks. Your mother joined him most times, but today had stayed home.

“…Going to try that, okay?”

You blinked yourself back to awareness, eyes focusing on Eris’s. “What?”

He smiled patiently at you. “We’re going to try something different today. Thesan believes that you have a blood condition, and that my magic may be able to burn it away,” he explained.

“Okay,” you said, too tired to try and understand his words. All you really wanted was to be in your bed at the River House, snuggled on both sides by your mates.

Instead, you’d been stuck in this room, an overnight clinic room of Madja’s that had been set aside exclusively for you, almost all of your things having migrated here, with how often you had to be here.

Rhys squeezed your hand lightly, afraid to bruise your now-delicate skin. “We’ll be right here, darling,” he said softly, and you could hear how he was fighting tears.

You must have fallen asleep, because the next thing you knew, blinding pain shot through your body, heat burning you from the inside. A scream ripped from your throat and the pain stopped, but your nerve endings were on fire, every inch of your body feeling like a gaping wound as your clothes, the bedding, air touched it.

“What the fuck did you do to her?!” a voice roared from beside you, amplifying the pain in your head until you went unconscious, darkness overtaking you.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

Mount Ramiel quaked beneath him as he slammed his fists into the ground, roaring into the air with a sound of pure pain and rage.

Pain, because his mate was dying, in pain every waking second of every day.

Rage, because the Mother had seen this fate fit for his mate, one of three pieces to a whole, who he could not imagine living, breathing, without.

The creature within him burst through his skin, night exploding around him and covering the mountaintop as he raged, waiting to calm enough to return to her side.

To watch her wither away, losing weight, losing consciousness, losing life.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

Feyre sat at your bedside, quietly speaking to Thesan about any possible treatment routes that they hadn’t gone down.

Obviously, the thought that burning your blood with Eris’s healing fire was a misguided one, one that had sent you into a days long coma, still sleeping beside her. At peace, for once.

“I’m sorry, Feyre, but… I think it’s time to consider her quality of life, how much the treatments have affected her,” Thesan said carefully, watching as Feyre’s eyes sparked with rage, before calming into the numbed acceptance she had been displaying for weeks now.

“What would…” she sniffled, rubbing a few tears from her eyes. “What would you suggest, if we… If she wants to stop treatment? To make her… More comfortable?” Feyre hiccupped, grabbing your hand tighter.

Thesan sighed heavily. “We could give her medicine for the pain, but aside from that… I think the presence of her mates, her family, her friends would be the most helpful.”

Tears tracked down Feyre’s cheeks, and she nodded.

She could make that happen.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

You woke to the sound of quiet chatter around you, your eyelids leaden curtains that refused to part.

Hello, love, Feyre cooed into the expanse of your mind, sinking down next to you on the bed. Can you hear anyone besides me?

Yeah, you replied softly, curling into her presence.

Good, people wanted to talk to you. It’s alright if you can’t answer, they just wanted to let you know that they’re here, alright?

You hummed into your mind, the corners of your lips tilting up when Rhys joined her in cuddling you, physically and in your mind. You let yourself sink into the midnight darkness of them, let them hold you safely as your friends and family spoke to you.

“Y/N, it’s nice to see you,” Eris said thickly, and you felt him grasp your shin. “I can’t stop thinking about when you were ten, and you walked around declaring yourself as the High Lord’s heir apparent to all of our brother’s, me included. I’m glad I followed you, or Doran would have thrown you against a wall for it,” he chuckled. “And Lucien-”

“I made you a crown of leaves from outside, and the three of us had a ceremony in the woods, crowning you High Lady of Autumn,” Lucien finished. “It’s one of my fondest memories at Forest House, along with you covering for my dates with Jesminda. It took you an awful long time to learn how to read spellbooks.”

You giggled in your head, thinking of how happy he’d been, winnowing back into your room after seeing his first great love.

“Well I love how you were always ready to go shopping with me, even if you didn’t need anything yourself. We would chat for hours and have lunch and…” Mor sighed. “I loved having that time with you, Y/N.”

“You’re an amazing cook, probably the best I’ve ever met,” Cassian said, earning a few chuckles and a light slap, probably from Nesta. “And I’ve always thought of you as a sister of my own.”

“Y/N, you know that I love how you can beat me in chess, and we both have the same perfect taste in teas. You’re the one that I confide in, and you feel like a sister to me, as well,” Azriel said softly.

“I loved getting to work with you in the kitchen, Y/N, it was so amazing to learn from someone who knows so much. You’re also so kind, and you treated me so warmly from the moment we met,” Elain said with tears choking her throat, and you heard her turn and begin to cry, muffled, likely by Lucien’s shoulder.

“Maybe I didn’t trust you with my sister at first, but you have the exact same taste in novels as I do, and that… May sound silly, but it made me realize that you loved my sister and her mate, even without the bond. And I’ll always love you for loving her,” Nesta choked out, the most emotional you’d ever heard her in the fifty years you’d known her.

“My… My darling daughter,” your mother sniffled. “You have always been there, by my side. You kept my hopes alive Under the Mountain, and seeing you love so freely has brought me so much joy.”

The pain in your head kicked up when you tried to open your eyes to look at her, to see her once more. Suddenly every noise worsened it, before a wave of night washed down your spine and deadened your senses, and you heard almost everyone shuffle out of the room.

Mates stayed, though. Your Feyre, and your Rhys stayed behind, holding you close before sinking into your mind once more. They held you there, the sound of their heartbeats lulling you to sleep as they sent you images of Velaris, as if the three of you were flying again.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

Soft music floated through your mind as you came to, your eyes opening slowly to the sight of your room in the River House, and a careful, slow glance to the left and right let you know that your mates were laying beside you, their arms and legs tangled around you.

Hello, darling, Rhys purred into your mind as he nuzzled your cheek.

Good morning, love, Feyre whispered, planting a kiss on your forehead softly. Are you hungry? Thirsty?

Thirsty, you groaned, letting her and Rhys adjust you and pour water down your throat, easing the aching dryness that had taken root there.

It never seemed to leave you for long, always coming back to make you cough, to make you lightheaded, to make you fall unconscious.

I love you, Feyre cooed when they settled you back against the pillows, letting her lips meet yours gently.

I love you too, Fey-ruh, you said after a moment, your brain working slowly to pull the words together.

And you know I love you too, Y/N, Rhys said before pressing his lips to yours next, softer than ever before, like you would break at the slightest pressure.

Your lips pulled up at the corners, your eyes meeting his blank, teary violet ones. And I love you, Rhysie. You breathed heavily before putting another sentence together. Don’t either of you ever forget it.

Hey, now, Rhys said softly. Don’t be talking like that, love.

You felt Feyre shaking beside you, her grip around you tightening. It’s going to happen. Just… Don’t forget me. But don’t… You coughed, your entire body going rigid until your lungs calmed. Don’t forget each other, you pleaded with them, looking between them slowly, seeing the tears in their eyes. Promise me, you demanded. Please.

You might be leaving your mates, but you would be damned if they left each other to join you, lost each other after losing you.

Okay, we promise. I promise, Rhys assured you, stroking your hair.

I promise, we won’t forget us, but most importantly, we will never forget you, Feyre said, tears streaming freely onto the pillows now.

You breathed out a sigh of relief. Good. I love you, you said tiredly, relaxing as much as you could into your mates’ hold.

You hardly noticed as you went unconscious, the feeling slipping over you with the next push of your lungs.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

“This is it,” Madja said from the foot of the bed.

Your chest barely moved now, each breath growing shallower and shallower. You hadn’t woken in five days, the only liquids your body was receiving being from ice cubes, lifted to your lips to wet them.

Your frail, near lifeless body lay before them, and they could hardly breathe.

The sight of you withering away, the life in your eyes slowly dulling had been difficult, but nothing had prepared them for this.

Your death.

Rhys and Feyre crawled into the bed next to you, and pulled you against their chests, tears freely falling onto your skin, your hair, your nightgown.

They felt as your breath slowed further, your heartbeats growing fewer and fewer as your body finally gave out to the disease that had sapped your life from you in half a year.

When your last breath left you, when the golden thread that tied the three of you together shredded, severed, shattered inside of them…

Night erupted, covering the land in darkness, their anguished cries echoing throughout the Night Court as their mate lay in their arms, dead.

🤍🩵💔💜🤍

General Taglist: @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @meritxellao @twismare @wrenisrad @icey--stars

[warpdrive-witch]

Hello! Can I request angst for Agatha? Maybe Agatha and the reader are married and have a baby together, but someone is trying to come between them. This person wants the reader and starts sending fake photos to Agatha, making it look like the reader is cheating. At first, Agatha doesn’t believe it, but then something happens that makes her doubt everything, and she ends up leaving the reader. Eventually, she finds out the photos were fake all along. You can decide how it ends. Thank you!

Hey Anon! Thanks for the idea. I wanted to write this out for you before the last two weeks of the semester hit me in the face. I hope you love it. Enjoy 💜

18.1k Words. Manipulation. Leaving. Arguments. Angst. Childbirth. Stress.

The Evidence of Nothing

The nursery smelled like lemon oil and fresh cotton—the scent of new beginnings. Dust motes floated through the golden light slanting in from the west-facing window, catching on the soft curve of your belly as you reached up to shelve another book. Your back ached, but you smiled through it, one hand pressing instinctively over the gentle swell, like your daughter might press back.

Behind you, Agatha leaned in the doorway, her silhouette softened by the light, a mug in her hands and amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You know she’s going to pull all of those down the second she learns to stand.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “And you’re going to say, ‘She’s just curious,’ while I’m the one re-shelving The People’s History of the Peloponnesian War for the fifth time.”

Agatha stepped forward with a chuckle, placing her mug on the windowsill. “I never said I’d stop her. Just that I’d admire her technique.”

You grinned as she came to stand behind you, her hands slipping beneath yours to brace the book in place. Her fingers brushed over yours—cool from the mug, grounding and sure. The baby kicked then. Sharp and sudden.

Agatha stilled. Her eyes widened as she looked down at your belly. “Was that—?”

You nodded, eyes glossy. “She liked the joke.”

She exhaled a laugh, but it broke halfway. Her hand rose slowly, reverently, and settled against the place where the kick had landed. When the baby kicked again, her face cracked wide open with wonder.

“She’s real,” she whispered. “I mean—of course she’s real, but…”

“I know.” You leaned your head against her shoulder, the both of you swaying slightly where you stood. “It still hits me sometimes. Like I’ll forget for a second and then she moves and—”

“It’s everything again,” Agatha finished, voice thick.

You turned into her. She kissed your forehead first. Then your lips. There was peace here. A quiet certainty. Even when your hips ached. Even when the world outside felt too sharp. This house, this room—this love—was steady. Later that night, curled together on the couch, Agatha rubbed your back while you sorted through baby name lists on your tablet.

“I still think her middle name should be Justice,” she said, half-serious.

You raised an eyebrow. “What is she? A comic book character?”

“She’s got your spine and my attitude. She’ll need something iconic to anchor her.”

You shook your head, but you were laughing. And when Agatha rested her palm against your belly again, the baby kicked once more—strong and deliberate, like she agreed.

------

It was supposed to be a quick meeting. Twenty minutes, max.

You’d agreed to meet Maya Larkin at the campus café just off the quad—a tucked-away spot where faculty and grad students lingered over lukewarm espresso and half-graded papers. She’d reached out the week before, her email full of gratitude and eagerness. She was revisiting her thesis proposal, she said. Wanted your perspective. “Only if you have the time,” she’d added. “I know how busy things must be.”

You did have time—barely—but she’d been one of the brightest students in your public history seminar last year. Smart. Focused. Maybe a little intense, but respectful. And genuinely curious about the same kinds of questions that lit your brain up.

So you said yes.

You arrived a few minutes early, one hand cradling your belly out of habit as you shuffled into a corner booth. The barista behind the counter gave you a nod—already making your usual. The baby had started getting fussy about temperature lately; everything had to be lukewarm or she'd protest with a well-placed jab to your ribs.

Maya slid into the booth a few minutes later. Polished, professional, a little overdressed for a casual meeting—but maybe she was coming from a class. Her smile was wide, eyes bright behind dark-framed glasses.

“Professor,” she said warmly. “You look amazing. Glowing, honestly.”

You smiled, nodding in thanks. “It’s mostly the lighting. And the fact that I didn’t throw up this morning for the first time in three days.”

She laughed like you’d told a good joke.

The conversation was fine. Mostly.

She asked sharp questions. Brought up your recent panel presentation at the library conference. Quoted your article on queer archival silences—verbatim. It should’ve been flattering, and part of you was impressed. But something about the way she said, “I think about that line all the time: ‘Sometimes silence isn’t absence—it’s refusal.’” made the back of your neck prickle.

Not wrong. Just... too knowing. Too aware.

You chalked it up to nerves. People got weird around professors, especially when they admired them. You’d done it yourself, back when you were Maya’s age.

As you stood to leave, she hesitated.

“I, um—actually got you something.” Maya reached into her bag and pulled out a small gift bag. Pale yellow tissue crinkled softly at the top.

You blinked. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” she said, waving it off. “Just something small. I saw it and thought of you. No big deal.”

Inside was a teething ring shaped like a stack of archival boxes. You’d seen them on Etsy—clever and kind of adorable. It was cute. Harmless.

But something about the way she said thought of you landed a little too close.

Still, you thanked her. Smiled. Told her good luck with the revisions.

And then the soft chime above the café door jingled.

You turned instinctively—already recognizing the cadence of her footsteps.

Agatha spotted you immediately. Her expression melted into that familiar, quiet joy—the kind of look that made you feel seen even before she’d touched you.

She crossed the café in a few strides, pausing behind you just long enough to drop a kiss on your cheek. Her hand skimmed your shoulder, thumb brushing gently across your collarbone in a touch that had always made you feel like home.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she murmured. “I figured you might be here.”

You leaned back into her. “I thought you had office hours?”

“I did. Canceled the last half. Your texts looked like you were fading.” She smiled, then glanced toward Maya with polite curiosity. “Hi.”

Maya’s voice came a second too late. “Hello, Dr. Harkness.”

There was something clipped in it now. Tighter. You recognized the shift immediately.

Agatha blinked. “I’m sorry—have we met?”

Maya’s jaw tensed.

“I was in your History of Political Thought class. Fall semester, two years ago.”

Agatha’s face was blank. “Oh. I—apologies. I usually remember my students, but that year was a little chaotic.”

Maya’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Apparently.”

You stiffened. Agatha, ever perceptive, felt it too. Her hand dropped instinctively to your shoulder again, thumb smoothing small circles over your sweater.

“I was just heading out,” you said, easing yourself up from the booth.

Maya stood as well, but not before her gaze flicked—slow and assessing—from your rounded belly to Agatha’s arm still resting over your shoulder. Her nostrils flared so subtly it might’ve gone unnoticed… if you hadn’t already been watching her too closely.

“You two… know each other?” Maya asked, voice deliberately light.

Agatha lifted a brow. “We’re married.”

The words landed like a slap.

For a moment, Maya didn’t speak.

Then: “Well. Congratulations.”

You gave her a gentle nod, polite and practiced. “Good luck with your revisions. I’m sure your work will grow into something strong.”

Maya’s mouth twisted like she’d bitten into something sour. “I hope so. It’s always interesting to see who gets remembered.”

Agatha turned, her free hand settling protectively at your back. “Have a good afternoon, Ms. Larkin.”

You didn’t look back as the two of you walked out.

But Maya did.

------

The late afternoon had settled into something slow and honey-thick—sunlight slipping through the windows in lazy gold ribbons, the kind that softened the edges of everything. You were curled on the couch, a mug of herbal tea resting on the swell of your belly. It tasted like regret and well-meaning advice—raspberry leaf, lemon balm, nettle. Jen’s special blend. She’d handed you a mason jar of the stuff last week with a knowing look and said, “Not glamorous, but helpful. Trust me.”

You did trust her. Jen had been a part of your life long before she'd become your doula. She lived just two doors down—equal parts brilliant and grounded, a former ER nurse turned midwife who now grew heirloom tomatoes in raised beds and hosted monthly book clubs that always devolved into feminist rage and laughter. She’d been the one to gently insist on keeping a birthing pool in the house. “Just in case,” she’d said, tapping her temple. “Babies don’t care about plans, sweetheart. They come when they come.”

So, the pool waited in the corner of your bedroom. Deflated. Coiled like a secret. A quiet backup plan to a backup plan. But somehow, its presence made things feel more real. More possible. As if someone else had thought through the chaos so you didn’t have to.

You shifted slightly, adjusting the laptop perched across your thighs. Your legs were tangled in a pretzel of academic exhaustion—one knee bent beneath you, the other stretched out just enough to tap absently against Agatha’s thigh. She sat beside you on the couch, a novel open in her lap, though the angle of her gaze suggested she hadn’t read more than a paragraph in the last half hour.

A groan escaped your lips as another email notification popped up in the corner of your screen.

“What now?” Agatha asked, not looking up.

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “Another undergrad asking if I can ‘just glance’ at their digital exhibit proposal before Monday. It’s Friday, Agatha. I’m not their personal fairy god-historian.”

She smirked without lifting her eyes. “You kind of are.”

“I do not grant academic wishes.”

“You do. I’ve seen you. One time you rewrote a student’s thesis abstract and called it ‘pedagogical triage.’”

“That was an emergency. He didn’t know what a historiographical lens was and was three weeks from presenting to the department.”

Your inbox dinged again.

And again.

You groaned theatrically, one hand drifting to your stomach as if to physically shield your child from the chaos of academia.

“Okay, let’s see… Michael needs help with his citations… Tabitha wants an extension… and—”

You stopped mid-sentence.

A new subject line blinked softly on the screen:

Following up on our chat – Maya Larkin

The air shifted—not dramatically. But enough. Enough that you noticed when Agatha's hand stilled on her book, her breath hitching just faintly in the quiet space between seconds.

You clicked the email open.

Hi Professor, Thank you again for taking the time to meet. I found our discussion about archival ethics incredibly inspiring—it really made me think more deeply about emotional bias in preservation work. I’d love to meet again if you're available. Totally understand if you're busy! I just value your insights so much. Warmly, Maya

You leaned back against the cushions, already composing a gentle, professional brush-off. “Why do they always want to ‘pick your brain’? My brain is tired. My brain is bloated with third-trimester fog. My brain is a balloon full of sleep deprivation and foot cramps.”

Agatha didn’t laugh. Not this time.

She slid a bookmark between the pages and set the novel down in her lap, fingers drumming once—then stilling.

“Didn’t you already meet with her?” she asked lightly, casually. But her posture had changed. More upright. Alert in that quiet, practiced way she had when something didn’t sit right.

You nodded, scrolling. “Yeah. Earlier this week. She was fine. A little intense. One of those students who memorizes your entire CV and then watches your face to see if you’re flattered.”

“Hm.”

That was all.

Just a soft sound. Noncommittal. But thoughtful.

You glanced sideways. “What?”

Agatha shook her head and reached out, squeezing your ankle where it rested against her thigh. “Nothing. Probably just the protective instincts kicking in. I didn’t love the way she looked at you the other day.”

You arched a brow. “She was nervous.”

“She was… something.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but stopped. Because even if you didn’t feel threatened, you had noticed the way Maya had lingered a little too long after the meeting. The way she’d smiled like she was testing a theory, not just being polite.

Agatha didn’t press. She didn’t need to. Her gaze drifted back to your belly—softening—and then flicked toward you.

------

Agatha hadn’t meant to overhear it.

She was coming out of the departmental printer room—an ancient, humming closet of overheating machines and jammed toner cartridges—when she caught the tail end of a conversation between two adjuncts near the breakroom, voices low and gossipy in that way people got when they weren’t talking about anything serious but still wanted to sound important.

“…said she stopped by their office hours yesterday and no one was there. Totally empty. Door open, lights on, but nothing.”

The other voice was vaguely familiar—maybe one of the anthropology post-docs. “Weird. They’re never out of office. Especially not this late in the term.”

“She even knocked, just in case they were in the back or something. But yeah—nobody.”

Agatha froze for half a second, her hand still on the doorframe. They didn’t name you, not outright—but “never out of office” could only be one person. You. You were practically known for it. You’d once held office hours on a snow day “just in case.”

It was probably nothing. Maybe the student had shown up late. Maybe they were confused.

Still, something tugged.

That night, after dinner—after the dishes had been stacked and the leftovers labeled, after you had curled up on the couch with a book propped on your bump and a blanket over your knees—Agatha said, too casually, “Did you have office hours yesterday?”

You looked up. “Mhm. Why?”

“I just… someone mentioned not finding you in your office.”

You blinked, then rolled your eyes a little. “Oh—yeah. A student came by early, and she looked like she was two seconds from a panic attack, so I offered to walk with her. We sat on the bench outside the library. Figured it would be less intimidating than hovering in my weird windowless cave while she tried to explain her draft.”

Agatha tried to keep her expression neutral, but something flickered. “Which student?”

You frowned, trying to remember. “Tabitha, I think? No—wait. The other one. But then Maya spotted me and before I could find a way to leave, she started asking questions”

Agatha’s body didn’t tense.

Not really.

But something in her shoulders changed—some ancient, barely visible bristle of self-protection.

“She asked to meet again?”

You nodded, distracted, already flipping back to your reading. “Yeah. I mean, she was right there, and I didn’t have anyone else scheduled. It was fifteen minutes, tops. Honestly, she just needed someone to tell her she wasn’t failing at life.”

Agatha hummed softly.

Then: “She’s coming up a lot lately.”

That made you look up again. “What?”

“Nothing,” Agatha said smoothly. “Just an observation.”

You watched her for a moment longer. Her face was calm. Too calm.

“She’s just a student,” you said gently.

“I’m sure,” Agatha murmured, pressing a hand to your leg beneath the blanket. “I’m just… noticing things. That’s all.”

You let it go. But that little weight settled somewhere behind your ribs. You weren’t sure whose discomfort it belonged to—yours, or hers.

------

Agatha didn’t sleep that night.

Not well, anyway.

You hadn’t noticed—you’d passed out hard, your back pressed against her chest and your belly cradled in the crook of her arm. She stayed awake for hours, thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of your shirt, waiting for the unease to loosen in her chest.

It didn’t.

She hated how it made her feel. Suspicious. It didn’t suit her. But something had shifted. She could feel it.

The next day passed without much fanfare. You had back-to-back meetings, and she had a faculty review to finalize. By the time the two of you finally got home, she could see how exhausted you were. Your ankles were swollen, your eyes rimmed with fatigue. You needed rest, not questions. Not doubts.

So she didn’t bring up Maya again.

She kissed your temple when you dozed off on the couch, then tucked a blanket around you and padded into the kitchen to make tea. Her phone buzzed just as the kettle began to scream. It was a message from an unknown number.

No words. Just an image.

The photo loaded slowly, the progress bar crawling like it knew what it was about to reveal.

And then it appeared. A blurry shot—taken through the wide library windows. You, seated on the bench just outside. Maya beside you. Leaning close. Too close.

The angle made it look worse than it was. Maya’s hand was reaching toward you—your shoulder, your hair, your face? It was hard to tell. You were turned slightly toward her, mid-sentence, eyes soft in a way that Agatha knew was your way of listening.

But it looked intimate. Too intimate. The time stamp read two days ago. The message underneath came through a second later.

“I thought you should know. I’d want to.”

Agatha stood still for a long moment. The kettle wailed beside her. Steam curling into the air like a warning. She clicked the phone off. Her tea went cold on the counter.

When you stirred awake an hour later, you found her reading, eyes unreadable. She smiled when you sat beside her. Kissed your temple. But her hand didn’t linger the way it usually did. And when you fell asleep against her again, she watched the ceiling for a long time.

------

It was a Thursday—ordinary in every way.

The kind of day that passed without ceremony. Students shuffled by her open door, leaves rustled outside the window, and the scent of dry-erase marker clung to the sleeves of Agatha’s cardigan like a ghost.

She was in her office, drafting lecture notes for next week’s seminar, a half-finished cup of coffee going lukewarm beside her laptop. Her pen tapped absently against the margin of her notebook as she reread a line, crossing through a phrase and rewriting it cleaner, sharper.

Then her phone buzzed against the desk. Once. Then again. A third time—sharp enough to fracture her concentration. She exhaled, annoyed, and reached for it. A single email. No sender listed. Just a subject line:

“You deserve to know.”

Her stomach pinched. Her finger hovered above the screen, reluctant, but still—curious. She tapped. The email contained no message body. Just an attachment. She opened it. It took her a moment to process what she was seeing.

You, unmistakably, sitting in your office. The light from your desk lamp made your skin glow. Your cheeks were red, lips parted mid-laugh. The angle suggested someone had taken it from just outside the open door—or worse, through the cracked blinds.

You looked happy. Relaxed. Flushed. And then she saw the caption. Crude. White letters overlaid at the bottom like a tabloid headline:

“Not just a student, is she?”

Agatha’s heart lurched.

It was a still photo—just a single frame. But it said too much. Or maybe nothing at all. If she didn’t know you, if she hadn’t watched you move through life with such open honesty, it would’ve been easy to believe something else was happening. Something private. Something inappropriate.

She wanted to throw the phone across the room. Instead, she stared. The world thinned out around her.

For a moment, it was like being back in that other life—the one before you. The one where trust had been a sharp thing, easily broken. Where someone else’s secrets had rotted out the floorboards beneath her and left her standing in the wreckage.

She thought she was past that. She thought you had taught her something better. Then another email came in. This time, from an address she didn’t recognize.

No name. No signature. Just words:

This isn’t the first time, either. Thought you should know before it gets worse. Her hands trembled. She didn’t respond. Didn’t forward it. Didn’t delete it either. She closed the email and shut her laptop and sat in silence, the image still burning behind her eyes.

------

It was a Thursday—ordinary in every way.

The kind of day that passed without ceremony. Students shuffled by her open door in half-zipped jackets and earbuds, the last leaves of the season skipping across the sidewalk outside. Somewhere, someone sneezed with the conviction of a man losing a midterm. The heater clicked on for the third time that hour.

Agatha’s office smelled like dry-erase marker and paper. The kind of quiet, book-lined room that had once made her feel grounded. Today, it felt too still.

Her lecture notes sat open in front of her, margins scribbled with arrows and underlines, but her pen hovered above the page without moving. Her coffee had gone tepid. Forgotten.

She should have been thinking about next week’s seminar. Reframing Public Memory: Power, Absence, and Archive. She should have been considering which readings to cut, which to expand, whether she had time to rewrite the slide about monumentality in Southern cemeteries. But the only thing that kept repeating in her head—unwelcome, unprovoked—was that still frame.

Your face. That laugh. The cold, acid shape of implication twisted into the caption.

She’d stared at it too long. Not because she believed it, but because it had caught her off-guard so precisely. Like someone had reached into her chest and jostled the bone she’d only just learned to trust again. A knock came at the doorframe—two short taps.

“Dr. Harkness?”

Agatha blinked and looked up. Alice stood in the doorway, cradling a stack of folders against her hip, a travel mug balanced precariously on top.

“Oh. Alice. Come in.”

Alice stepped inside, nudging the door open with her shoulder and setting the folders down on the edge of the desk. “Here’s everything for the grant submission. And your revised syllabus notes.” She paused. “You okay? You look like you’ve been staring at the same sentence for twenty minutes.”

Agatha gave a thin smile, folding her arms loosely on the desk. “Just tired.”

Alice didn’t sit, but lingered—her weight shifting between feet, gaze flicking toward the half-shut laptop. She was observant, always had been. Too sharp sometimes. Not easily brushed off.

Agatha turned back to her notes, flipping a page. “Did you end up adding the entry about the queer oral history archive?”

“I did. Cross-referenced the metadata guidelines, too. But…” Alice hesitated. “Sorry, I know this might be out of line, but… you muttered something earlier when I knocked. Something about ‘students.’” Her voice gentled. “Everything okay?”

Agatha’s hand stilled. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. Just a whisper. A habit, maybe. A bleed-through of thought into speech. But now that the door was open, she didn’t quite know how to close it again.

She kept her tone even. “Have you ever had a student… blur the line between academic admiration and something else?”

Alice blinked. “Like… parasocial?”

“No.” Agatha’s mouth twisted faintly. “Like interest. Romantic, or otherwise.”

“Oh.” Alice set her mug down. “Yeah. Once or twice. It was awkward, but not threatening.”

Agatha didn’t say anything right away.

Alice tilted her head. “Is it someone in your class?”

Agatha shook her head. “Not mine.”

Alice frowned. “Then who?”

The silence stretched. Agatha tapped her pen once against the desk, then looked up. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low. Careful. “Maya Larkin.”

Alice's brow furrowed in recognition. “The archival student? She’s… intense. Bright, but intense. I sat in on her presentation last semester. Didn’t she reach out to—?”

“Yes.”

Agatha’s eyes met Alice’s across the desk. Something unspoken passed between them. Alice straightened. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly. Just…” Agatha exhaled, folding her arms tighter. “Something doesn’t sit right. And I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Especially not about someone she chose to mentor.”

Alice’s gaze softened. “Then maybe start with what you do know. Or… show me?”

Agatha didn’t move. She didn’t open the laptop. But she nodded—slowly. As if anchoring herself to the moment. To someone else who could see the thread, even if it hadn’t unraveled yet.

Outside, the breeze rustled through brittle leaves. A bell rang across campus. And somewhere down the hall, a printer kicked on with a shrill whine that made them both flinch. Ordinary sounds. On an ordinary Thursday. But the air had shifted. And something quiet had begun to take root

------

That night, the house felt too quiet. You were humming to yourself in the other room, folding the last of the laundry and calling softly for her to come help pick out tomorrow’s baby clothes. You sounded light. Happy. You had no idea.

Agatha didn’t answer right away. You found her in the kitchen, standing barefoot by the sink, the refrigerator still open behind her. Her phone was in her hand, screen dark now. Her other hand rested lightly against the counter, fingers flexing as if trying to ground herself.

You stepped behind her, arms circling gently around her waist, your cheek brushing her shoulder. “You okay?”

Agatha turned, slow, her eyes hard to read in the dim light.

“Yeah,” she said, too quickly. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

You tilted your head, searching her face. “Anything I can do?”

She hesitated—just long enough for something cold to slip between your ribs.

“No,” she said finally, voice quieter than before. “Not tonight.”

She slipped her phone into her back pocket and offered you a faint, tired smile. You kissed her temple anyway. But she didn’t lean in the way she usually did. And the photo—unspoken, unseen—settled between you like a weight neither of you could name.

------

Agatha balanced the takeout tray against her hip, the brown paper bag tucked tighter under her arm as the scent of roasted tomato soup and fresh focaccia drifted around her like a promise she hadn’t figured out how to speak yet. The hallway air was cool and faintly metallic—old building, older vents—but the warmth from the food wrapped around her like a second skin.

She hadn’t planned this. Not really.

But when she saw the café chalkboard outside the library—Lunch Special: Roasted Tomato Bisque & Focaccia—your favorite, always your favorite, something inside her sparked. Soft and urgent. Not guilt, not exactly. More like a quiet offering. A bridge she wanted to rebuild plank by plank, even if her hands still shook from the weight of doubt.

It wasn’t that you had done anything wrong. She knew that. God, she knew that.

But something in her—something old and cracked and half-healed—had split open again.

It was the kind of hurt that didn’t arrive with sirens or certainty. Just a slow corrosion. A voice at the back of her mind that whispered remember when, and what if, and don’t be stupid again.

Agatha pushed open the department door with her shoulder, her grip shifting to balance the tray. She’d imagined this moment on the walk over—your surprised smile, your eyes lighting up at the smell of soup, the way you always touched your chest when something moved you without warning.

She missed you.

Missed you, even though you shared a bed. Even though you laughed beside her and kissed her temple and traced her belly with reverent fingers when you both couldn’t sleep. Because somehow, in the silence between all those soft moments, space had grown. Not because of you. Because of her.

She was halfway down the hallway—almost to your door, already smiling in anticipation—when someone rounded the corner. Maya. Agatha’s body went still.

Maya’s hair was twisted into something that looked effortless but wasn’t. Her lipstick was dark, plum-red and glossy, drawn on with too much care for a casual Thursday. She carried nothing in her hands. No notebook. No folder. Just a small smile that didn’t belong here.

And she froze when she saw Agatha.

Only for a second. Just a flicker. But it was there—the startle, the adjustment, the recalibration of her mask.

“Dr. Harkness,” Maya said, voice breezy, polite. Too polite. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Agatha didn’t smile. Her voice came out smooth, practiced. But cold.

“Clearly.”

Maya gave a half-laugh, her tone airy. “Just finished chatting with Professor. She’s always so generous with her time.”

Her eyes glittered—bright, sharp. Performed. Agatha’s grip tightened around the bag. The warm focaccia inside had begun to cool.

“Uh-huh.”

She didn’t step aside. Didn’t look away. And Maya didn’t linger. She breezed past with a nod, perfume trailing behind her—overly sweet, synthetic florals clinging to the stale academic air like a foreign presence. Wrong, Agatha thought. It smells wrong.

Only when Maya’s heels faded down the stairwell did Agatha begin to move again. Her breath was shallow. Her steps were careful. Your office door was open.

Inside, you stood at the far end of the room, sleeves pushed up, glasses slipping down your nose, surrounded by paper stacks and soft lamp light. You looked like yourself. Grounded. Focused. Beautiful.

And for one aching second, Agatha wanted to leave. Not because she didn’t believe you. But because she didn’t believe herself. Not fully. Not yet. Not when the shadow of something she'd once survived had found a new shape in her mind again.

You looked up and your entire face changed.

“Hey!” you beamed, already moving toward her. “What are you doing here?”

“I, um...” Agatha held up the tray with a shy, uncertain smile. “I brought you lunch. I saw the special and thought—”

She didn’t get the rest out. You were already across the room, stepping around a precarious tower of graded essays. You took the tray from her hands with a grateful sigh and set it on your desk. “You’re the best. I’ve been living off dry cereal and office candy for two days. You might’ve saved my life.”

Agatha laughed, but it cracked on the tail end. Barely audible. But you heard it.

You turned to her, head tilted. “Hey,” you said softly, reaching for her hand, guiding her fingers to your sleeve. “You okay?”

She hesitated, then let her fingers slip against the fabric. You were warm. Solid. Real.

“I’ve been…” Her voice thinned. “Weird. I know. I’ve been trying not to fall into old patterns, but—”

You frowned. “Agatha—”

She bit her lip and shook her head. “I don’t want to be that person again. The one who assumes the worst. Who sees ghosts in corners and shadows where there aren’t any.”

You stepped closer, cupping her face with both hands. Your thumbs brushed the softest curve of her cheekbones.

“You’re not her,” you whispered. “You’ve grown past that. You chose to.”

Agatha’s eyes shimmered. “I’m still learning how to trust what’s mine. That I don’t have to protect myself from the good things.”

“I know,” you said. And then, gently, “I love you for trying.”

You leaned in and kissed her—slow, certain, soft. A promise in a breath. She melted into it. And for a moment, everything held.

But later—when Agatha excused herself to the bathroom and stepped into the hallway, heart a little steadier, soup left half-eaten on your desk—she passed the bench outside your office. The one from the photo. The one from the email.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t look directly at it. But she slowed. And the scent hit her again. That same cloying, artificial perfume. It clung to the air like a warning. Like a thread she hadn’t pulled on yet.

------

Agatha told herself she was done looking.

She told herself the worst was over—that she’d chosen to trust you, that the lunch visit had grounded her again. She’d kissed your cheek. She’d stayed the whole afternoon. She’d even laughed.

But later that night—well after you’d fallen asleep, your body curled toward her beneath the quilt, a hand resting instinctively over your belly—her phone buzzed again.

1:13 a.m.

Another unknown number. Another email address that meant nothing. Another photo.

This time, it was nothing damning. Nothing intimate. Just you and Maya passing in the hallway. Maya smiling. You laughing at something, a coffee cup in your hand.

But the angle was the same. The framing. The intent. A beat later, another came through.

A different angle. This time inside the building—taken through the narrow glass window of your office door. You were seated at your desk. Maya was standing above you, too close, holding something out of frame. You looked distracted. Tired.

Underneath it, the caption:

“How long has this really been going on?”

Agatha’s heart pounded, hot and sick in her chest. She clicked away. Tossed the phone onto the nightstand like it might burn her. But the buzz came again.

1:29 a.m.

“You deserve someone who tells you the truth.”

2:04 a.m.

“Open your eyes.”

She stopped reading them. Stopped opening the photos. But she didn’t delete them. And the next day—Friday—was worse.

They came in every hour. Some from blocked numbers. Some from emails strung together in nonsense letters and numbers. Each one just different enough to seem real. Each one feeding the same slow, venomous narrative.

She tried to stay busy. She taught her class. Held a department meeting. Even brought you a decaf latte halfway through the day, holding your hand a little too tightly when you thanked her.

You noticed. Asked if she was okay. She said she was just tired. She smiled. She kissed your cheek in front of your T.A. like nothing was wrong.

But by the time the sun set, Agatha felt like she was made of glass—brittle and thin and dangerously close to shattering. And still the messages came. Still the images. Still that voice in her head whispering: what if you’re wrong?

------

It was just a voicemail.

That was all.

Agatha had only left the department twenty minutes earlier, her leather satchel slung over one shoulder, a glass container of pasta tucked neatly under her arm—the leftovers from last night’s dinner you hadn’t had time to eat. She was planning to drop it off, maybe steal a kiss, maybe convince you to pack up early and go home. She knew how grading week swallowed you whole. How you forgot meals and hours and sometimes your own name if a citation wasn’t formatted right.

She knew the look you got—brows drawn tight, glasses slipping down your nose, a red pen clenched like a scalpel. It worried her. The kind of tired you carried was never theatrical. It was quiet. Noble. Dangerous.

So she’d called you.

Nothing big. Nothing dramatic. Just a soft Hey, I’m coming by. I’ve got that stupid pasta you like. The one you claim tastes better when I make it—even though it’s just garlic, butter, and lies.

You didn’t answer.

Not unusual. Your phone had a talent for burying itself under student folders and library receipts and those tiny post-its you used like breadcrumbs through your chaos. She’d expected that. What she hadn’t expected was—

Laughter. Yours. She heard it before she saw you.

The hallway curved gently, your office sitting at the far end with the door half-open, just wide enough to spill out sound and light. The kind of light that made everything inside seem warm. Familiar.

Safe. Agatha slowed. There you were.

Back turned slightly, perched behind your desk with a paper cup in one hand and a soft smile blooming across your face. And across from you—

Maya.

Standing comfortably close.

She was holding something—thin, rectangular—one of those draft exhibit panels you always helped students with, maybe. Her fingers trailed across the printed text as she tilted it toward you, asking something Agatha couldn’t hear.

You answered. Your voice was gentle, thoughtful. Encouraging. The way it always was when someone came to you unsure of their own work. It wasn’t flirtation. Not technically.

But then you laughed again—quick and bright and familiar. Agatha’s stomach twisted like it had been tied wrong. She stopped walking.

She wasn’t hiding. Not really. She didn’t duck behind a corner or backtrack toward the stairwell. But she didn’t keep going either. She just stood there, the pasta container cooling in the crook of her arm, watching your smile break open like sunlight and wondering—absurdly, painfully—when was the last time I made you laugh like that?

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She reached for it. One notification. A voicemail.

To: You Sent: 15 minutes ago

She blinked down at the screen, thumb hovering. You hadn’t even listened to it. Agatha’s breath caught low in her chest, a slow burn threading into her ribs. It was nothing. It was everything. A moment, a shadow, a memory she couldn’t quite claw away from.

For a second she just stood there, listening to the soft hum of your voice as it filtered into the hallway. The way you said Maya’s name. The quiet affection that seemed to thread through your tone like silk.

And then she turned. She didn’t speak. Didn’t step forward. Didn’t knock. She walked away. The pasta was still warm when she got back to the car. But she wasn’t.

------

You noticed it just before you left campus.

A low, rolling tension curled through your lower belly—dull at first, more pressure than pain. You paused at the edge of the quad, one hand coming to rest just above your hip, your other gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter.

You told yourself it was nothing. Braxton-Hicks, maybe. Jen had warned you about them. “Practice surges,” she’d said. “Common this late. Annoying, but harmless.” Still, something in your body felt different. Not sharper, exactly—just... aware. Like the air inside your skin had shifted. Like your muscles had started listening to a frequency you hadn’t meant to tune into.

You breathed through it, slow and steady, and pressed your free hand against your belly. The baby gave a soft nudge, as if responding. Not distressed. Just... present. Still here. Still with you.

By the time you reached the car, the tightness had eased. Mostly. But your body didn’t forget. It carried the memory of that tension like a held breath, like a word not yet spoken. And as you turned onto your street, you thought—not for the first time that week—We’re getting close.

------

The house was quiet when you got home. Too quiet.

No music playing. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the low hum of the fridge and the steady thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

You paused in the doorway, keys still clutched in your hand. “Hey,” you called softly. “Soup delivery?”

No answer.

You kicked your shoes off slowly, the weight of the day still dragging behind your eyes. Your shoulders ached. Your head buzzed. You just wanted to sit down. Eat. Maybe curl into Agatha’s arms and forget the last six hours of student panic and policy meetings.

You found her in the kitchen.

She hadn’t cooked. Just stood at the table, one hand braced against the back of a chair, her phone face-down beside her. Her back to you.

You tried to lighten the air. “Sorry I missed your call. I had a student stop by and I—”

“Which one?” she asked.

Her voice wasn’t loud.

But it cut like broken glass.

You blinked. “What?”

She turned slowly.

Her face was pale. Not in anger, but in something worse—grief, maybe. Shock. Like part of her had known this was coming and still hoped she was wrong. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest. Eyes rimmed red.

“Maya,” she said. “Right?”

You sighed—too long. Shoulders sagging. You rubbed at your temple. “Oh, we’re on this again?”

Her mouth parted just slightly.

You kept going, not even realizing how deep the hole was getting. “It’s been a long day, Agatha. Seriously, I was going to tell you. She just stopped by—she’s having a meltdown over her thesis and—”

She flinched like you’d shouted, even though your tone wasn’t raised.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. Her hand lifted slightly, like she needed to physically block the sound of your voice. “I can’t believe this.”

You held up your hands. “Agatha. Babe. Relax. It’s not what you think. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

And then you saw it—really saw her. Everything Agatha had been holding in. All of it. Her sleepless nights. Her guilt for doubting. Her shame for even entertaining the idea that you—you—could betray her. But also the fear. The creeping, unrelenting fear that maybe… maybe something had changed without her realizing it.

Her eyes were rimmed red, her mouth trembling even as she tried to hold it steady. She looked like she was about to break—and worse, like she was ready to let herself.

You stepped back slightly, blinking, your hand instinctively hovering over the curve of your belly like it could protect something sacred.

“What is happening right now?” you asked, voice cracking. “Let’s just—let’s back up.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she pulled her phone from the counter and tossed it onto the table between you. The screen lit up—dozens of unread messages. No names. Just previews. Just timestamps. Just photos.

“Every single day,” she said. “Someone’s been sending me pictures. Emails. Texts. All anonymous. Photos of you.”

Your throat went dry.

She swallowed like it hurt. “Of you. With her. Maya. Laughing. Smiling. Sitting too close. Standing too close. In your office. Outside the department. Every hour. I’ve been spammed, I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I keep trying to trust you and I keep getting punished for it.”

You shook your head slowly, hands raised in disbelief. “Agatha, no one is punishing you. This isn’t what you think. I didn’t do anything wrong. You know me. You know better.”

She reeled back like you’d slapped her.

“Don’t you dare say that to me,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m being irrational.”

“I’m not—I’m just—” you exhaled hard, struggling not to shout. “You’re yelling at your pregnant wife. I’m carrying your child, I’ve been on my feet all day, trying to hold it together, and now I come home and get accused of… what, having an affair with a student? That’s not irrational? You don’t think this is too much?”

“Oh, so now I’m the bad guy,” she spat. “You’ve been hiding her from me—”

“I haven’t hidden anything!” you snapped.

“You didn’t tell me! You knew she was hanging around you like some lovesick ghost, and you never told me how often she was showing up. How close she was getting. You let it slide.”

“I didn’t think it mattered!” you cried. “Because I wasn’t doing anything!”

“And that’s the problem!” Her voice rose to a sharp, furious pitch. “You didn’t think it mattered. You didn’t think I needed to know. You just let it happen and acted like it was nothing. And now I’m the one losing my mind over it.”

“I have been honest with you,” you said, chest heaving. “I am being honest.”

“You’re not,” she growled. “If you were, I wouldn’t be finding this out like this.”

You stared at her for a long moment—hurt and angry and cracking at the seams.

“Wait…” your voice dropped, bitter and stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me about the photos when they started? Is this what’s been going on the past week? Agatha, you didn’t trust your wife—your very pregnant wife—to not fuck some… what, random student?”

She froze. And in that silence, something changed.

You could see it in her eyes—how a thousand things collided there all at once: shock, shame, fury, and something far more dangerous than either.

Disbelief.

“I wanted to trust you,” she said finally, voice hollow. “God, I wanted to. I tried. But every time I reached for you, I felt like you were slipping away. Like there was something you didn’t want me to see.”

You blinked, jaw clenched. “Because I was trying to hold everything together. Because I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you.”

Her breath hitched, furious. “And what, that gave you an excuse to hide things from me?”

“There was nothing to hide!” you snapped. “You’re acting like I’ve been sneaking around behind your back when all I’ve done is work and come home and try not to collapse from exhaustion!”

“Then why does she keep showing up in my inbox?” she shouted. “Why do I get photos of you with her looking like you’re sharing some secret—like she knows something I don’t?”

You felt it then. The pain again. Low. Sharp. Deep in your lower belly.

You winced—one hand bracing against the edge of the counter. It was quick. Too quick for her to name it for what it was. But she saw it. The flicker of pain across your face. The way your breath caught.

“Are you okay?” she asked, softer, suddenly closer.

“I’m fine,” you bit out, eyes hard. “Not that you care right now.”

She reeled back. “Oh, that’s rich. I’ve been losing sleep over this for days, watching these messages roll in and wondering if I’m going insane, trying not to ask, trying not to accuse you of something I desperately hoped wasn’t true—and now I’m the one who doesn’t care?”

“I’m nine months pregnant, Agatha!” you shouted. “I’m exhausted and hormonal and in pain, and all I’ve done is try to keep my head above water while you spiral over something I didn’t even know was happening!”

She was quiet. Just long enough for the anger to twist into something colder.

“I need to think,” she said, her voice shaking. “I can’t be in this house right now. I need air. I need space.”

You stared at her like she’d hit you.

“Agatha,” you whispered, voice rough with disbelief. “But if you walk out that door—if you leave your wife and child because you couldn’t come to me with this sooner, because you didn’t stop to remember who I am to you—then don’t you dare walk back in like it didn’t matter.”

Agatha stood there for a moment, completely still.

Then she nodded—once. Sharp. Like she was trying to save face even as her hands trembled. She turned, walked to the door, and opened it.

The hallway beyond was quiet. Dim. The kind of silence that felt like winter pressing in.

And then, without a word—

She stepped out.

Closed the door behind her.

Not a slam. Just a click.

But it echoed like the end of something sacred. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The weight of her absence settled instantly. A hollow space in the middle of your chest. And somewhere beneath your ribs, deep and deliberate— Another wave of pain bloomed.

------

You didn’t sleep.

Not really.

You moved to Agatha’s side of the bed sometime after midnight, dragging her cardigan with you like a lifeline. The fabric was worn soft with time, faintly scented with lavender, cedar, and the kind of clean musk that always clung to her skin long after she left the room. It smelled like her neck at the end of the day. Like the hollow between her shoulder blades where you used to press your lips when she was too tired to speak.

Now, the scent filled your lungs like a bruise.

The sheets were cold at first, but you curled into them anyway. Into her pillow, still faintly indented from where her head had rested the night before. You pressed your cheek to it like maybe if you held still enough, breathed deep enough, she might come back.

The house was too quiet. Not peaceful. Not gentle. Just still.

That unnatural kind of stillness that follows an argument—sharp-edged and waiting to be shattered. The air felt heavier without her in it. The floorboards creaked beneath nothing. The wind outside didn’t rattle the windows, didn’t whisper through the trees. It just... waited, like you did.

Your phone lit up every few minutes on the nightstand. And each time, your heart jumped before your eyes confirmed what you already knew.

No missed calls. No texts. Just a calendar notification. A weather alert. A silence so complete it felt like a decision.

You pulled your knees up, curling around your belly like you could shield her—your daughter—from this grief, from this growing ache that had nothing to do with the pain and everything to do with the space Agatha left behind.

------

The pain came again at 2:13 a.m.

Not lightning-sharp. Not the panic-worthy kind of pain. Just pressure. Heavy and low, like something behind your hips was being pulled forward in slow, deliberate pulses. It dragged beneath your belly like a tide curling into the shore.

You gasped softly, hand instinctively cradling your bump. Braxton Hicks, you whispered to yourself. You’d read about them. Felt them before. Practice contractions. Harmless.

You waited for it to fade. It did. Eventually. But when the next one came—thirty minutes later—it lingered longer. Wrapped itself around your lower back like a vise and then eased away just slow enough to leave you shivering.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. You just shifted again, hand pressed firm to your stomach, as if you could steady something deeper than the physical pain. As if your daughter could feel your apology. I’m okay, you thought. We’re okay. She’ll come back. This is just a nightmare. It’s temporary. It has to be.

But the next wave was sharper. Not enough to make you scream. Just enough to steal your breath. You held it in. Held everything in. You didn’t want to make this about you. Not again. Not when she had walked out already believing that somehow, you were the one who couldn’t be trusted. That your honesty wasn’t enough. That your love hadn’t been enough to keep her from believing a lie.

You stayed in bed.

One hand protectively curved around your belly, thumb stroking the stretched fabric of the nightshirt that barely fit you now. The other hand clutched your phone—white-knuckled, silent.

The screen stayed dark. No messages. No typing bubbles. Not even an ellipsis. You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the next wave of tightness. Not painful, just… ominous. Like your body was rehearsing for something you weren’t ready for. Like your heart had pulled the curtain back on something too early.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. But you must have, eventually. Just long enough for your mind to trick you. You dreamed of her shadow falling across the threshold—quiet, careful, like she didn’t want to wake you.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her hand brushing your hair back with reverence, voice cracking as she whispered, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. Come back to me.

And just when you reached out to touch her— You woke. Your hand met empty sheets. Her side of the bed was still cold. And the pain was still there.

------

The light coming through the curtains was thin and gray—more of a suggestion than a sunrise. A sky that hadn’t decided what kind of day it was going to be. You hadn’t moved much.

Your limbs were heavy, your spine sore from how long you'd been curled on one side. The tightness under your belly was back—low and insistent. Not sharp, but... deeper. A stretch pulled tight from within.

You closed your eyes. Counted. One, two, three, four... ten. It faded. Slowly. You exhaled shakily and dragged your phone toward you, your thumb clumsy against the screen. The calendar blinked up at you.

9:02 a.m. HIST 604 - Lecture: Public Memory & Monument Crisis

You stared at the notification.

Then at your unread messages—still none from Agatha.

Still nothing from the woman who had sworn she'd never walk away from you again. You sat up slowly, one hand braced against the mattress. Your joints protested. Your belly tensed again, harder this time, and you bit the inside of your cheek to stay quiet.

When it passed, you pulled open your email, typed out a cancellation in two lines: Class canceled today due to family emergency. Please review last week’s slides and prep your monument comparison paragraphs for Monday.

You clicked send before you could reread it. Before your guilt could edit it into something more professional, more honest, more devastated. You hauled yourself upright, dragging your aching body toward the kitchen. Tea. Toast. Something bland. Something quiet. Something that could pretend to fill the hole in your chest.

The contractions were still far apart. Nothing consistent. Nothing you couldn’t breathe through.

But they were real now. And the silence was, too.

------

The email came at 11:04 a.m.

Subject: Following up again!

From: Maya Larkin.

You stood in the kitchen, hunched over the counter with a slice of toast in one hand, the knife still resting in the butter dish like you’d forgotten what to do with it. The toast was cold. Barely toasted. More obligation than meal.

Your thumb hovered above your phone, and when the preview lit up on screen—Maya Larkin in crisp, mocking letters—it felt like someone had dumped ice water down your spine.

Your jaw locked. Eyes stung. You didn’t open it. Didn’t need to.

You could already hear her voice in your head—over-sweet and paper-thin, saccharine in that way that tried to pass as sincerity. You could picture every word.

I really valued our last conversation. Would love to hear more about your research. You’re such a source of inspiration.

Like she hadn’t left a trail of ruin behind her.

Like she hadn’t been waiting for the exact moment your life started to split open. She hadn’t even waited twenty-four hours. You stared at the glowing screen, heart pounding in your ears. You could feel your pulse in your throat, hot and uneven.

It was almost impressive, the audacity. Your hand trembled slightly as you tapped the checkbox beside her name. Delete. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

The moment the message vanished, a sharper pain bloomed low in your belly—cutting and sudden. A tight band of pressure that wrapped from your back to your abdomen like something had been cinched too tight inside your own body.

“Ah—shit,” you breathed, gripping the counter’s edge.

Your knees bent slightly, your center of gravity shifting as you rode it out. The contraction rolled through you like a slow wave, strong enough to punch the air from your lungs but not quite enough to drown you.

You stayed there—eyes closed, teeth grit, one hand gripping the countertop, the other pressed firm against the top of your belly.

The baby responded with a soft, steady kick. Then another. Like she was nudging you. Still here. Still with you. When the pain finally ebbed, you exhaled hard through your nose and laughed—dry, breathless, bitter.

“For the love of God,” you groaned aloud, voice hoarse, cracking around the edges, “can you and your mother not have the fucking worst timing in all existence, sweetie?”

You braced one hand against the countertop, the other moving slowly over the hard swell of your belly, fingers splayed wide. The motion was rhythmic, instinctive—an attempt to soothe what couldn’t be soothed. To quiet the storm gathering beneath your skin, even as another one began to roll in just outside the walls of your home.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and long, like a warning echoing from across the ridge. You paused, lips parting.

Then—flash.

A burst of lightning lit up the windows. Just for a second. But enough to cast sharp shadows across the floor, to make the room feel momentarily stranger than it had before.

The baby shifted beneath your hand—slower this time. Pressing outward with a steady, deliberate roll. As if responding not just to your voice, but to the change in the air. As if reminding you she was here. With you. Still yours.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice catching in your throat. “I know, baby. We’re okay.”

But the words tasted like dust in your mouth. Because you weren’t sure it was true anymore.

The wind howled outside, brushing along the windows like a breath against glass. Another flicker of lightning chased itself through the trees. The air in the room felt tighter now, like it knew what was coming.

And still, the door hadn’t opened.

------

Alice hadn’t meant to dig.

Not really.

But something in Agatha’s face yesterday—too composed, too careful—had scratched at the part of her that didn’t like leaving threads hanging. And then today, when Agatha had handed off her lecture notes with a quiet thank you and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, Alice felt it again.

Something was wrong.

She waited until after office hours ended. The building had thinned out, echoing with the shuffle of closing laptops and the rustle of winter coats. Outside, the sky was turning the kind of purple that meant evening had arrived without permission. Alice poured herself a mug of tea from the communal pot, sat down at her desk, and opened her laptop.

She started with the basics.

Maya Larkin.

Archival theory graduate track. High GPA. Strong recommendations. And overly, suspiciously involved for someone technically in their second year. Her name came up in faculty minutes for multiple committees. There was a line in last semester’s teaching assistant roster—assigned to one of the introductory cultural memory seminars. And—odd—there was her name again, listed as unofficially observing two classes she wasn’t enrolled in. One of them, Alice noticed, was yours.

That was the first flag.

The second came when she dug into the departmental project logs. You’d listed Maya as a research assistant for your exhibit work. But her time sheets were inconsistent. Too many hours logged for too few materials submitted. And when Alice opened the shared drive, a handful of the file names made her stomach shift.

draft_1_CURATED_final_Fig7_ML PersonalNotes_ArchivalBias ObscuringNarrative.pdf

That one stopped her.

She clicked it open.

The document wasn’t long. Just two pages, single spaced. But it was... pointed. Not academic. Not entirely. It read like something between a manifesto and a personal reckoning. The tone was clinical, but the language leaned emotional. It was about ethics. About relationships. About blurred boundaries in mentorship—and the price of being "silenced by those in power." A line near the bottom was underlined:

History is shaped by who gets to hold the pen—and who gets to pretend their version wasn’t written with someone else’s blood.

Alice sat back. Her tea had gone cold.

Her gut clenched in the same way it had when she read through student complaint reports. Not the obvious ones. The quiet ones. The ones that came through too late, or never made it past the draft folder.

She was just beginning to take a screenshot when her email pinged.

Subject: FW: Maya Larkin / Department Concerns

It wasn’t addressed to her directly. It had come through the general admin inbox, flagged and forwarded by the assistant dean. She opened it on instinct.

The message thread was messy, half-redacted in places—but the last entry was clear. A message sent to the dean’s office through the student conduct reporting system. The complaint was vague, unsigned. But it was about you.

And attached—tucked at the bottom like a time bomb—was the file name she recognized immediately:

MayaLarkin_Confidential.pdf

Alice clicked it.

And froze.

The top of the page included a photo.

Not damning. But calculated.

You. In your office. Smiling. Hands clasped on your desk like you’d been mid-conversation.

Underneath, typed in bold:

“This isn’t the first time. She does this. She hides it well. Ask around.”

Alice sat there, blinking at the screen, the quiet hum of the building pressing in around her.

She didn’t know that miles away, in a quiet kitchen, Agatha was already fighting not just suspicion but history.

Didn’t know that you’d just dropped your bag, already feeling the pressure in your belly growing tighter, deeper.

All she knew was that she had the beginning of something very wrong.

And she had to decide—right now—what to do with it.

Alice hadn’t expected to find much.

When she first started digging—cross-referencing Maya’s class history, department activity, advising notes—it had felt almost procedural. Academic. Agatha hadn’t asked her to. But the worry had been visible in her posture all week, coiled beneath her clipped sentences and long silences. Something had shifted in the way she moved, the way she watched the halls. Something had changed.

And Alice… well. Alice had spent enough time around professors to know when quiet turned dangerous.

So she kept going.

A few emails. Public ones. A seminar scheduling thread Maya had been CC’d on. A forwarded student project list. Then one strange file in the shared server. Titled like a joke: “Sandwiches & Strategy.” Tucked inside a subfolder of Maya’s exhibit drafts.

She opened it, half-expecting some bizarre mock-up of label formatting.

Instead, it was text.

An email chain.

Not one meant for her. Not one meant for anyone, really.

Her blood chilled.

She scrolled.

I’m surprised she hasn’t said anything. Maybe I should up the frequency again? She’s probably too distracted—being that pregnant and all.

Alice froze.

Don’t worry. I’ll keep playing it sweet. Professors love a good praise sandwich, right? ;)

She’s not going to stay with Harkness once this all sinks in. She’s too smart for that. I’ve read her work. She wants someone who understands her. Who sees her. She’ll come around.

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the page like it was daring her to breathe.

Alice sat back in her chair. Her throat felt tight. Her hands had gone cold.

This wasn’t a misunderstanding. It wasn’t unrequited infatuation, or professional overstepping, or even obsessive admiration.

It was manipulation.

Planned. Practiced.

Targeted.

She moved quickly after that.

Pulled the metadata. The email header. The sending address: maya.larkin@campus.university.edu. No spoof. No alias. Real.

And at the bottom of the file, as if Maya had been too smug to resist leaving one last fingerprint, was a draft auto-saved from her personal folder. Dated two days ago.

Subject line: “Timing the Follow-Up—Any Movement Yet?”

Alice’s heart pounded.

She stood. Pushed away from her desk. The room felt suddenly too warm, the air too thin.

She didn’t know the full story—didn’t want to. But she knew enough. Enough to recognize the danger. Enough to know how cruel timing could be.

And enough to know that Agatha needed to see this now.

She opened her phone and thumbed out a message fast as her fingers would let her:

Then she attached the file.

No explanation. No delay.

She pressed send.

And somewhere—across town, or across the next breath—Alice imagined Agatha’s world tilting sideways.

She just hoped she’d gotten to her in time.

------

Agatha hadn’t gone far.

She’d told herself she would. Told herself she needed air, space, time to clear the fog that had been choking her for days. But all she’d done was circle the same blocks—campus, downtown, the park, campus again—her hands clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that her knuckles had gone bloodless.

The silence in the car was deafening.

Not peaceful. Not grounding.

Just punishing.

Every red light felt like it was glaring at her. Every green one felt like it was daring her to run. She turned the radio on at one point, desperate for something to fill the space. But the third love song that came on—a hushed duet about forgiveness—made her stomach lurch. She shut it off and let the stillness swallow her again.

Her phone buzzed at least ten times.

She checked it every time.

None of the notifications were from you.

She couldn’t decide if that made it better... or worse.

By noon, she had retreated to the faculty lounge—dim, windowless, too quiet. The air smelled faintly of burned coffee grounds and overripe bananas left behind in the communal bowl. Her mug of tea sat cooling on the table in front of her, untouched.

She hadn’t even noticed she was crying until a drop hit the back of her hand.

She wiped it away roughly.

Then stared at her phone.

Again.

Your last words played on repeat in her chest, carved into her like a blade pressed just shy of the heart.

“If you walk out that door… then don’t come back until you really know what you want.”

She thought she was protecting herself.

No—that was a lie. She’d been protecting a scar. One that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with the people who came before you. The ones who had twisted the truth until it didn’t even resemble love anymore. And she'd looked at you—her wife, the mother of her child—and for one terrible second, she’d seen them instead.

And she had left.

She’d left you.

And then her phone buzzed again.

Alice (TA): Thought you should see this. You’ve been worried for days and I had a gut feeling. Sorry if I overstepped. But it’s her. It’s Maya.

Agatha blinked.

Sat up straighter.

Another buzz.

An email forward. No subject. Just the thread.

She tapped it open.

And everything stopped.

From: maya.larkin@campus.university.edu Subject: Timing the Follow-Up—Any Movement Yet?

I’m surprised she hasn’t said anything. Maybe I should up the frequency again?

She’s probably too distracted—being that pregnant and all.

But don’t worry. I’ll keep playing it sweet. Professors love a good praise sandwich, right? ;)

She’s not going to stay with Harkness once this all sinks in. She’s too smart for that. I’ve read her work. She wants someone who understands her. Who sees her. She’ll come around.

Agatha went completely still.

Her body turned to stone. Her mind, smoke.

The air left her lungs in one long, broken breath—like she’d been struck across the chest.

The mug beside her rattled as her hand trembled.

She read it again.

And again.

And again.

It wasn’t you.

It was never you.

It was her. It had always been her.

The photos. The angles. The captions. The carefully worded doubts. The pattern. The persistence. The manipulation.

All of it—orchestrated.

And Agatha had believed it. She’d let herself be pulled into it. She’d let that doubt grow into something that poisoned the space between you. She’d thrown you to the wolves of her own unresolved past.

She had walked out.

And you had begged her not to.

Agatha stood so quickly she nearly knocked the table back, her chair screeching loudly against the tile floor. The untouched tea sloshed across the rim of the mug, staining a napkin she hadn’t meant to grab.

None of it mattered.

Her fingers fumbled for your contact, hands shaking so violently she could barely tap the screen. Her heart was hammering hard enough that her vision blurred.

The call rang once.

Twice.

Three times. Voicemail.

She didn’t leave a message.

Just hung up and hit redial.

“Come on,” she whispered, pacing in tight, frantic circles. “Come on, baby. Please pick up. Please. Please—”

Nothing.

Again.

------

She didn’t remember most of the drive.

Only the white blur of her knuckles on the steering wheel. The way her fingers cramped around it, too tight, like letting go for even a second might undo her. The wind howled through the crack in the driver’s side window—one she hadn’t meant to leave open, but hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Now, it screamed across her cheek like something alive.

Her breath echoed inside the car—ragged, uneven, frantic. It sounded louder than the engine. Louder than reason.

And still, the phone sat useless in the passenger seat, vibrating occasionally with texts from friends, from numbers she didn’t check.

Not from you.

The sky had begun to turn somewhere around the edge of campus.

What had been a still, gray morning had thickened into something darker. Angrier.

Clouds rolled in low and fast, the kind that made your skin prickle before the storm ever touched the ground. Early spring wasn’t supposed to look like this. The petals from the dogwoods had started flying sideways, caught in sudden gusts of wind that bent the trees like dancers in grief.

It didn’t rain yet. But the air threatened it—humid and thick, full of the kind of pressure that made your ears pop.

A low growl of thunder rolled out across the horizon. Distant, but moving closer.

Then—flash.

Lightning cracked across the sky like a spine splitting open, bright enough to make her flinch.

She gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on the wheel until her fingers ached.

Almost there. Just hold on.

A road sign whipped past, and she realized she’d blown through a stop sign without seeing it. She didn’t care.

She didn’t slow down.

The wind pushed hard against the side of the car as if the world itself was trying to stop her from getting home. Like it knew how badly she had fucked up, and was asking her—are you sure you deserve to be forgiven?

She pressed harder on the gas.

Because it didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting to you.

The trees bent violently now, their shadows whipping across the road like limbs reaching for something they couldn’t touch.

Another roll of thunder.

And then—finally—the house came into view.

The porch light was still on, faint in the gray. The door shut tight. No ambulance. No headlights. Just stillness.

Too still.

Agatha’s pulse spiked so hard she thought her vision might go black.

She turned into the driveway fast enough to send gravel scattering behind her tires, slammed the car into park, and flew out before the engine even finished shutting down.

Her door was still hanging open behind her when she burst across the threshold, yelling—

“Babe—!”

And the storm followed her in.

------

The door slammed open, the sound ricocheting through the quiet like a starting gun.

Agatha’s voice cracked as she crossed the threshold—and froze.

You were in the kitchen.

Your body hunched forward over the counter, one hand bracing against its edge, the other clutched around the island stool like an anchor. Your head hung low, hair matted to your temples with sweat. Your knees buckled, hips shifting with uneven weight as a low, guttural moan spilled from your mouth—wordless and raw.

You weren’t screaming.

The pain was deeper than that. It came from the center of you, low and primal, a sound Agatha felt in her bones.

You swayed, body trembling.

Your grip tightened on the counter until your knuckles turned white. Like if you let go, the earth might tilt out from beneath you.

Agatha’s heart stopped.

Her keys hit the floor. Her bag dropped after them with a dull thud she didn’t register.

“shit…”

She crossed the room in a blur, feet nearly skidding on the tile. Her chest heaved. Her hands were shaking.

But her instincts didn’t waver.

She stepped in behind you, one hand sliding to your hip, the other splayed across your lower back. She didn’t squeeze—just held, grounding you with her touch. Her front molded to your spine, steady and warm, her breath catching at the base of your neck.

You let her.

You leaned back into her like your body remembered something your heart hadn’t forgiven yet.

“I’m here,” Agatha whispered, her voice shredded but sure. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good. Just breathe, baby. Just breathe through it.”

Your head dipped forward again, shoulders curling.

A sob caught halfway between breath and pain—rough, sudden, involuntary.

She felt it vibrate through you.

Still, you didn’t look at her.

Couldn’t. Not yet.

You were shaking. Sweating. Trembling from the inside out.

But then you spoke.

And your voice was a rasp—hoarse, broken, laced with pain and something far more dangerous: exhausted fury.

“She has your fucking timing,” you whispered.

Agatha stilled.

You gave a watery, near-hysterical laugh—more breath than sound, more grief than humor. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks, hot and fast, leaving tracks that shimmered in the kitchen light.

“She’s just like you,” you managed, the words broken by another wave of pressure tightening across your body. “No warning. No apology. Just decides to show up when she wants to... Just here.”

Agatha squeezed her eyes shut, guilt blooming like wildfire beneath her ribs.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her lips trembling as she pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

She kissed you again, slower this time, as you rocked through the final seconds of the contraction. Her hand rubbed slow circles into the curve of your hip, the other gently holding your belly from underneath—supportive, reverent, desperate to feel the life she’d walked away from just hours ago.

You sagged into her as the pain eased, panting, your forehead resting against your arm.

She stayed behind you, holding you steady.

And in that moment, for the first time in hours, you didn’t pull away.

The contraction faded like a tide slowly pulling back into the sea, leaving behind wreckage—breathless, aching, soaked in sweat and sorrow.

Your legs trembled beneath you, not quite able to hold your weight. You could feel your pulse in your fingertips, erratic and desperate, and your breath hitched on the edge of a sob you barely managed to swallow.

You still hadn’t looked at her.

Not really.

She was behind you, her hands still firm on your hips, steady as stone, her presence quiet but unrelenting. She wasn’t moving. Wasn’t letting go.

Like she knew—if she stepped away again, it would break something neither of you would be able to fix.

And finally... finally, you turned your head.

Slowly. As if the act itself might tear you open further.

Your gaze met hers.

And what you saw there nearly broke you all over again.

Agatha was crying—but not in the way you expected. There were no sobs. No shaking shoulders. Just a rawness in her expression, an openness that looked too big for her face. Her lashes were heavy with unshed tears, and her lips were parted like she’d been holding in too many apologies and didn’t know which one to offer first.

She wasn’t pleading.

She wasn’t defending.

She was bleeding.

Your hand lifted—trembling, unsteady—and reached for her.

You brushed your fingers along her cheek, and she leaned into it instantly. Like it was the only air she’d been allowed to breathe in hours. Her lips found your palm, kissed it softly. Reverently. Like she was memorizing the shape of you in case you disappeared again.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” Agatha whispered, her voice low and cracking, like each word had to claw its way through all the things she should’ve said sooner. “But I need you to hear me.”

You were still trembling from the last contraction, legs unsteady beneath you, your weight shifting from foot to foot. The cool edge of the granite counter pressed into your back as your hand gripped it tight—not for balance, but to anchor yourself to something solid. Something that wouldn’t let go.

Your breath came in short, uneven bursts. The space between them was narrowing.

“Maya did this,” Agatha said, stepping closer, slow, careful—like you were a cliff’s edge she didn’t want to push. “All of it. The photos. The emails. She made them look real.” Her eyes searched yours, pleading—not for forgiveness but understanding.

“She wanted to make you look like the one who broke us,” she said. “She wanted me to fall apart so she could swoop in and pick through the pieces.”

Her voice caught. She swallowed. “Alice found the proof—her last message was sent from her campus email. Not even a fake account. She was arrogant enough to leave a trail. I have it. I saw it. I should have known. I should’ve trusted you. I didn’t—and I left.”

The air inside the kitchen felt dense, thickening with every word.  Your breath hitched. The truth hit harder.

Outside, thunder cracked—loud and sudden. The kind that didn’t roll in slowly but arrived sharp and demanding. The windows trembled slightly in their frames. A moment later, rain began to hammer the roof with a rhythm that sounded more like urgency than comfort—fast and wild, like it had been holding back until now. Slamming against the walls like an afterthought as if the clouds had finally decided they’d held it in long enough.

You should’ve said something. Maybe you were about to.. You inhaled sharply. But it wasn’t from the storm. It was your body—tensing again. You knew this feeling now. The pressure didn’t creep in this time—it claimed you.

It started slow—a whisper of pressure, like the tightening of a string behind your ribs. Then the grip of it began to build, heavier, deeper, rolling up your spine and anchoring in your belly like a warning bell that rang inside your bones. Your grip on the counter tightened. You shifted your stance, knees bending slightly. Your breath hitched—sharp and involuntary. Agatha’s eyes caught the change in an instant, posture shifting. Her voice softened, but it didn’t falter.

“Another one?” she asked, stepping forward, already steadying your waist with both hands.

You didn’t speak. You gave a small nod, gripping her sleeve, tugging—not to push her away, but to pull her closer. You didn’t want space. Not now.

“Okay. I’ve got you,” she said gently.

Agatha didn’t hesitate, sliding into place as if your bodies were two puzzle pieces that had never fit better than now her eyes locked to yours. Her arms found your waist, one hand pressing firmly to your lower back, the other at your side. Her presence was immediate—warm, grounding, yours.

The pain slammed into you with a force that knocked the air straight out of your lungs.

Your forehead dropped against her collarbone, your fists bunching the front of her shirt as your entire body clenched around the contraction. A low, guttural sound slipped from your throat—somewhere between a cry and a growl. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t poetic. It was real and sharp, and it echoed off the kitchen walls like thunder of your own. You gasped, folding into her, your fingers fisting the fabric over her ribs like it might keep you tethered to something.

Agatha didn’t flinch. Her breath came slow and deep beside your ear, mirroring yours. “In through your nose,” she whispered. “That’s it. Breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

You whimpered into her shoulder, legs wobbling again. She planted her feet wide, locked one arm firmly around your waist, the other rubbing slow, grounding circles across your lower back.

Agatha pressed her forehead gently to yours, her breath trembling against your skin. Her eyes were wide, glassy with guilt, and darting between your face and your belly like she couldn’t decide where to anchor herself. Her fingers tightened briefly at your waist, then loosened, stroking once in apology. Her knees bent slightly as if she were ready to drop with you, to bear the weight herself if she could. Her whole body trembled—not from fear, but from restraint, holding back the full collapse she so clearly wanted to fall into. “I—I know this isn’t the time,” she said, her voice barely more than a rasp, “but I need to say it anyway.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The pressure in your back was mounting again, tight and low, but you kept your focus on her, blinking through the blur of heat behind your eyes.

“The things I said… what I thought you were capable of—what I let myself believe—” Her breath hitched, chest rising unevenly against yours. “I didn’t just doubt you. I doubted us. And that—God, that’s not something I’ll ever forgive myself for.”

The pain answered before you could.

It started like a slow fuse, curling up your spine and settling beneath your ribs like something smoldering. You winced, jaw clenching hard enough that your teeth ached.

“Don’t,” you growled through gritted teeth. “Not now.”

“But I—”

Your grip on her shirt tightened like a vise. The tension in your abdomen snapped up like a wire being pulled taut. You could feel it—your body preparing, bracing.

“No,” you snapped, eyes squeezed shut as the wave crested. “Not while I’m in the middle of a fucking contraction with a superstorm outside, my body tearing itself open, and your daughter acting like she’s late to a goddamn press conference.”

Agatha froze, mouth half open.

“I need you here,” you said, voice trembling. “Right here. Not in your guilt. Not in your head. And definitely not thinking about some college bitch who doesn’t matter.”

For a breathless moment, the kitchen was still. Rain hammered the roof in thick, staccato bursts, seeping through the walls like a second heartbeat. The air smelled like petrichor and electricity, and somewhere nearby, a shutter thudded against the siding. The lights overhead flickered once. Even the wind outside seemed to pause, like the world itself was holding its breath with you.

And then Agatha let out a stunned, breathless laugh—wet and raw, like it had been caught behind her ribs too long.

She pressed her face into your shoulder, her arms winding around you like she could stitch herself back into place just by holding you tighter.

“Okay,” she whispered, voice cracking as she kissed your temple. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Your grip on her cinched tighter, nails digging into the soft cotton of her shirt.

You gritted your teeth, blinking hard through the pressure rising inside you. Tears stung at the corners of your eyes. “Agatha—” you gasped, voice shaking. “I swear to God, if your kid wasn’t trying to make a dramatic-ass early entrance, this conversation would not be ending this quickly.”

Agatha let out a second broken laugh, breathless and barely stitched together.

“Yeah,” she rasped, forehead still resting against yours. “She’s got my timing… and, apparently, my talent for catching you off guard.”

You groaned, your grip tightening at her waist again as the next wave started to rise.

“We’ll deal with the rest later,” you muttered, breath already hitching. “Right now? Your daughter is trying to race a goddamn storm.”

Agatha gave a soft, shaking laugh and kissed your temple again, lingering this time, like she needed the press of your skin to stay steady.

“Of course she’d choose now to make an entrance,” she murmured. “He’s ours.”

You moaned low into her collarbone as the contraction peaked, your body folding inward.

She rocked you gently, arms locked around your back, one hand stroking low circles at your spine, her voice low and close to your ear. “Could’ve picked a better time, kid,” she murmured toward your belly, smiling through the chaos. “But I get it—you’re mine.”

Outside, the storm pounded against the windows. Lightning lit up the room for a blink, casting long, jagged shadows across the tile. The lights above flickered once, then steadied. Your skin prickled. Everything felt too loud. The house groaned softly, as though it too was bracing.

You sagged against her when the contraction finally passed. Drenched. Trembling. Spent. Your shirt clung to your body with sweat, hair stuck to your forehead in damp curls. Your knees buckled, and Agatha caught you again, easing you gently onto the kitchen stool like you were made of something precious and breakable.

“I’ve got you,” she said again, softer now, like a prayer.

She knelt in front of you, her hands on your thighs, her forehead resting briefly against your knees as if she had to touch you in every way she could just to prove she was still here.

You reached for her hair with one shaky hand, threading your fingers gently into the dark strands, and tugged just enough to pull her gaze to yours.

“Three weeks,” you whispered your voice barely a breath. “She’s three weeks early, Agatha. What if—what if something’s wrong? What if he’s not ready? What if I’m not—” Your voice broke. “I didn’t think it would happen like this. I thought we had time.”

Agatha’s lips parted, the beginnings of an answer trembling on her tongue—but the next contraction swallowed it whole before either of you could speak.

You cried out as your body folded again, sharp pain lancing through your back and belly, your breath coming in stuttering gasps. You clung to her like a lifeline—fingers digging into her shoulders, knees buckling beneath you.

“Breathe through it, baby,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and steady right at your ear. “You’re doing so good. I’ve got you. Right here.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t panic.

Her hand slid down your spine, grounding you as she held your full weight against her chest. You could feel the tension under her skin, the thrum of her pulse where your faces brushed—but she kept her voice even, her movements measured.

When the wave passed, she helped you into the stool again, one arm still wrapped tightly around your back.

She glanced at the microwave clock.

And this time, you saw it—the flicker in her eyes. Brief. Controlled.

“Five minutes,” she said under her breath. Then a little softer, to you, “They’re coming fast.”

You nodded weakly, chest still heaving.

She didn’t waste time.

Agatha moved toward the door, snagging the keys from their hook and slipping her shoes on in practiced motion. “Okay. Let’s get you to the car.”

But as she opened the front door, wind slammed into it like a wave. The storm had turned violent. Rain came in sideways. And beyond the porch, halfway down the drive, a massive limb—oak, by the look of it—lay twisted across the road, blocking the way completely.

Agatha stepped forward, squinting into the storm.

You tried to stand, gripping the back of the stool.

“What is it?” you called, voice raw.

She turned back toward you, soaked now across the front of her shirt, and calmly closed the door behind her.

“There’s a tree down across the drive,” she said, brushing the water from her face. “We’re not making it out by car.”

Your stomach dropped.

But Agatha crossed the kitchen to you with purpose, calm carved into every line of her face.

Agatha crouched in front of you, wiping the sweat from your upper lip with the edge of her sleeve. “This isn’t what we planned,” she said gently, “but it’s still going to be okay. You are not alone in this.”

She laid both palms over your belly. Kissed it softly.

------

Agatha helped you settle against the stool again, her hand lingering at your back, her thumb sweeping slow, grounding circles just above your hip. You were still shaking—damp with sweat, hair clinging to your temples, your legs trembling from the weight of what your body was doing and what it still had left to do. Your lips parted like you wanted to speak, but no sound came. Just breath. Just fear.

Agatha leaned in close, her forehead brushing yours for half a second.

“I’m going to call Jen,” she murmured, voice calm but laced with something that vibrated beneath it. “I’ll be right here. Okay?”

You gave her the barest nod, your eyes fluttering closed as another ripple of pressure lingered in your spine.

Agatha turned and slipped into the hallway, just far enough for the edge of her control to splinter. She pulled her phone from her pocket with damp fingers, her thumb slipping slightly on the screen as she tapped Jen’s name.

The storm was louder here.

Rain pelted the windows in heavy bursts, wind howled against the eaves like it was trying to get in. A shutter somewhere upstairs banged once—twice—and the floor creaked beneath her feet as she braced herself against the wall. Her heart was hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three times—

“Agatha?” Jen’s voice came through sharp and clear, cutting through the noise like a flare. “Is it time?”

Agatha’s knees bent slightly. Her back hit the wall.

Her voice cracked before she could catch it. “Yeah. Yes. She’s in labor—real labor. Her contractions are five minutes apart, maybe less. I was getting ready to take her to the hospital but—” she swallowed hard, “there’s a tree down across the drive. We’re boxed in. I can’t—there’s no way out.”

Jen didn’t miss a beat. “Hey. Hey. You’re okay,” she said, calm but unshakable. “You’re exactly where you need to be.”

“No,” Agatha whispered, voice thin, fraying at the edges. “She’s early, Jen. Three weeks early. We were supposed to have more time—another two, maybe three weeks to get everything together. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to give birth like this.”

There was a pause on the other end. Just a breath.

Then Jen’s voice came back, even and warm. “And yet here she is. And she’s not doing it alone.”

Agatha pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, trying to collect herself, but her voice still cracked. “She’s scared. And I think—I think I am too.”

“I’ve got you,” Jen said gently, her tone steady as steel wrapped in wool. “And I’ll be there in less than twenty minutes.”

Agatha blinked fast, pressing her palm harder against the wall as her knees trembled. “You really think—”

“Agatha,” Jen interrupted, not unkindly. “You’ve got this. She’s got this. You’ve both done the work. Your job right now is to stay grounded so she can fall apart and know she’s safe. You can fall apart later.”

Agatha closed her eyes. Her throat tightened. But she nodded, even though Jen couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” she said, softer now. “Okay. What do I need to do?”

“Fill the birthing tub with warm water—now, before the power goes,” Jen said. “You’ll need soft towels, as many as you can find. Blankets for the baby. Light some candles if you’ve got them. Create calm. She needs to feel like she’s safe, not trapped. Put on some music if you can.”

“I will,” Agatha whispered. “I will. Just—just come fast.”

“I’m already halfway there.”

The call ended.

Agatha stood there for one long moment, phone still clutched in her hand, the silence after the call ringing louder than the wind. Her other hand curled tight around the doorframe as if bracing against more than just the storm. Her chest lifted. Fell. Once. Twice.

She would not cry.

She would not break.

Not while you needed her whole.

She wiped her face on her sleeve, straightened her spine, and turned back toward the kitchen.

Back to you.

Back to where everything would begin.

------

Agatha stepped back into the kitchen like gravity had pulled her there—like you were the axis around which everything else turned. Her eyes found you instantly.

You were still hunched forward on the stool, one hand pressed to the round, taut curve of your belly, the other white-knuckled around the edge of the counter. Your head hung slightly, hair damp and curling against your cheeks, breath shallow and uneven. Every inch of you looked like you were holding the world in place through sheer will.

“I just talked to Jen,” Agatha said softly, crouching low until she was eye-level again. Her palms landed on your thighs, warm and steady. “She’s on her way—less than twenty minutes.”

You nodded, but your lower lip trembled.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Agatha tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingertips lingering longer than necessary. Her voice dropped lower, gentler. “I’m going to grab a few things—towels, blankets, the tub. But I’m not far. I’m not leaving you, not for more than a breath.”

You gave her the smallest nod, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. She pressed a kiss to your forehead—soft, reverent, grounding—and then rose. Your breath still shallow and fraying at the edges. Another wave wasn’t far off—you could feel it circling.

Agatha stood, pivoted smoothly into the bedroom, and crossed to the corner where the birthing tub had sat for weeks—deflated, coiled, and quiet.  Just days ago, it had been a joke. Jen had insisted on bringing it over “just in case,” setting it quietly in the corner of your bedroom while you all laughed and waved it off.

You’ll be in a hospital. What would we even need that thing for?

Agatha stepped back into the kitchen, the bundled vinyl slung over one arm. “Where do you want it?” she asked quietly, her voice even but full of something that trembled beneath it. “I don’t want to guess.” You didn’t hesitate.

“Bedroom,” you whispered. That was all she needed.

Agatha unzipped the casing, vinyl whispering open like the start of something ancient and sacred. She rolled the sides out with care, smoothing the base flat onto the rug between the bed and the en suite bathroom. Her foot pressed firmly to the pump. Once. Twice. Again. Slowly, steadily, the tub began to rise. The walls lifted like breath being drawn, one slow inhale at a time.

Outside, the wind howled, rain battering the windows like fists desperate to get in.

The tub stood now. Empty but waiting. The hose was already coiled near the vanity in the bathroom—Jen’s earlier instructions playing out like prophecy. Agatha attached it to the hot water tap and turned the handle slowly. Pipes groaned. Then, water surged forward, rushing in with a hiss. Steam unfurled, rising from the basin like breath made visible in the soft bedroom light.

She adjusted the temperature, tested it against the back of her wrist—then left it running and turned toward the bed.

But a sound stopped her.

A low groan. Guttural. From down the hall.

You.

She was moving before the breath finished leaving your lungs.

Agatha found you back in the kitchen, your hands braced against the counter, your back bowed beneath the pressure of the next wave. Your body trembled as the contraction climbed, and your knees wobbled as you swayed gently in place, trying not to fall.

“I’ve got you,” she said as she reached you, her arms sliding around your waist like she’d done it a thousand times. “I’m here. Just breathe through it, baby.”

You didn’t answer—just let your weight fall into her chest as she rocked with you, one hand supporting your lower back, the other curling around your ribs. Your forehead found her shoulder. Your nails dug lightly into her sleeve.

Outside, thunder rolled low and long like a drumbeat too close to the skin.

“I’ve got you,” she said again, voice steady in your ear. “Let it pass. Just one wave. You’re doing so, so good.”

When the contraction finally broke, you collapsed fully into her, your breath ragged against her collarbone. “I’m going to grab the towels now,” she said, brushing your cheek with the backs of her fingers. “And the receiving blankets. The ones from the shower. I’ll be quick.”

You nodded, lips parted, eyes wet.

“I want to walk,” you whispered.

Agatha pulled back just enough to look into your face, searching your eyes.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll walk.”

She didn’t lead you far—just toward the bedroom. You followed her slowly, your palm pressed to her shoulder, legs still shaking with every step. The hallway stretched between you like a tunnel, lit only by the flicker of warm bulbs and the silver flash of lightning that darted across the windows.

------

Inside the bedroom, steam curled around the rim of the rising tub, soft and silvery in the low light. It shimmered like breath in winter air, casting a warmth that made the room feel smaller, closer, sacred.

Agatha moved with quiet reverence. She crossed to the dresser, pulling open the drawer where everything had been waiting—towels folded weeks ago, waiting for a moment neither of you believed would come like this. She draped one thick white towel over the chair beside the bed, then laid two more at the edge of the mattress like offerings at an altar.

From the woven basket near the nightstand, she lifted three receiving blankets. One patterned with tiny stars, another with soft blue-gray clouds. The third—pale, delicate, covered in tiny wildflowers the color of lavender breath and spring rain.

She held that one longer.

Her thumb traced the hem. Her throat bobbed.

Then she placed it carefully on top of the stack, smoothing the cotton flat with a touch that bordered on reverence.

Behind her, she heard the soft shuffle of your feet.

You were moving Each step was measured, your fingers trailing along the wall for balance as you entered the bedroom.

You were halfway to the tub when it hit.

No warning this time.

No chance to steady yourself.

You stopped mid-step—your hand flying out to catch the edge of the dresser, your back arching as the contraction ripped through you like a current. A sharp, breathless cry tore from your throat.

Agatha turned at once.

She was at your side in seconds, one arm catching your waist, the other bracing the small of your back.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I've got you, baby. Let it come. Let it move through you.”

Your body bowed forward, forehead pressing to her collarbone as your fists tangled in the fabric of her shirt.

This one was stronger. Meaner. Your legs nearly gave out.

She widened her stance, bearing your weight with her whole body, her palm rubbing firm, grounding circles against your spine.

“You’re okay. You’re doing so good,” she whispered, her cheek against your temple. “You’ve got this. Just one wave. Just one.”

You moaned through clenched teeth, knees shaking as you rode it out, breath coming in staggered gasps.

The room was thick with heat and steam, with the sound of rain hammering the windows and water pooling softly into the tub behind you. The house smelled like lavender and sweat and stormlight.

And still—Agatha held you.

Anchored you.

Loved you through it.

When the wave finally began to ease, your whole body sagged into her, trembling and soaked, your breath hot against her neck.

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

And from the tub behind you, the water kept rising.

You were still folded against her, breath unsteady, your muscles trembling in her arms when you whispered, “I want to get in.”

Agatha pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, searching your face.

“Something’s different,” you rasped. “It’s lower. I need—I need the water.”

Agatha nodded. “Okay. Let’s get you in.”

She supported your weight as the two of you shuffled slowly back into the bedroom. The air was thick with steam now, the tub nearly full, soft ripples dancing across the surface. The scent of lavender from the towel stack mixed with rain, rubber, and something primal—the smell of newness, of birth edging near.

Agatha turned off the hose, tested the temperature one last time, then moved to help you out of your clothes.

“You don’t need to wear anything,” she said softly, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “Not unless you want to. It’s just us here. Jen will be here soon.”

You hesitated, fingers still curled around the elastic of your bra.

Then you nodded once.

“It’s just us,” you whispered.

Agatha helped you undress slowly, gently, reverently—like unwrapping something fragile. Your body was flushed, shining with sweat, each motion drawn taut by exhaustion and urgency. When you were bare, she helped you step one leg at a time into the warm water. You sank into it with a gasp, the heat stealing your breath for a moment, then releasing it in a shuddering sigh.

But you didn’t get far.

Your knees barely bent before another contraction slammed into you—hot, deep, unbearable.

You cried out, one arm flying to the rim of the tub, the other searching blindly for something solid.

Agatha caught your hand.

“I’m right here,” she whispered, crouched at the side of the tub, her palm locked around yours. “Hold on to me. Breathe through it. Just like that.”

You let out a sob, forehead pressed to the edge, water lapping against your belly as your body convulsed.

Agatha’s other hand reached into the tub, pressed to your back just above the waterline, rubbing slow, wide circles—anchoring you through it.

“You’re doing so well,” she murmured. “So, so well. I’ve got you.”

You cried harder at that.

Not because of the pain—but because it was just you two.

Because even in all the storm and sweat and fear, this was still love.

When the contraction finally released you, your body collapsed forward against the side of the tub. Your eyes closed. You whimpered, soft and hoarse.

Agatha knelt beside you, still holding your hand. Her forehead dropped to your wrist as her shoulders began to tremble.

You felt the quietest sob echo between you—shallow, aching.

“Agatha,” you said softly, almost begged, needing her eyes again. Needing to know she hadn’t disappeared beneath the weight of it all.

Her hand slid over your slick back again, slow and firm.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “It’s just us.”

Your eyes fluttered open—wet, aching.

She looked at you like nothing in the world mattered more than this.

Than you.

“I’m going to come in,” she said gently. “Okay?”

You nodded. Wordless.

Agatha stood, stepped carefully into the tub behind you, settling against the inflatable wall like it had been molded for this moment. When you leaned back, your head found her chest. Her arms wound tightly around you from behind. One hand cradled your belly. The other laced with yours again, soaking and strong.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, her lips brushing your temple. “I’ve got you. All of you.”

And for a moment, the storm faded. The air was still.

Then your body tensed.

Agatha felt it at once—the sudden shift beneath your skin.

You gasped. Your fingers clutched at her knee.

“There’s pressure,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Something’s happening—she’s coming—”

Agatha’s hand pressed lower on your belly, feeling the way everything had changed.

She didn’t speak. She only held you tighter. Breath catching.

Then—

You let out a noise neither of you had heard before—part scream, part growl, pure instinct.

The pressure between your legs had shifted—immediate and burning.

Agatha’s eyes widened. Her hand moved to the inside of your thigh, her other arm bracing you as your hips lifted from the water.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. I need to see.”

“Is she—?” you gasped, voice brittle and barely there.

Agatha’s hand moved between your legs, careful, reverent. “I think her head—” Her voice cracked. “I think she’s—” She cut herself off, swallowing hard. “I’ve got you.”

The door creaked open behind you.

“I’m here,” came Jen’s voice, calm and sure. “I’m right here.”

You barely registered the sound at first—so focused on the fire building in your body, the ache blooming low in your pelvis—but Agatha’s head lifted.

“Jen,” she breathed, still crouched behind you in the tub, her arms around your waist, her hands steady even as her voice wavered. “She’s close. Her head’s crowning. I can feel her.”

Jen was already at the edge of the tub by the time Agatha spoke again, her boots kicked off at the bedroom door, sleeves pushed up, eyes soft but focused.

“Good,” Jen murmured. “You’re both doing beautifully. Let me see.”

Agatha shifted slightly to give her room, never letting go of you—not even for a second.

You were panting, hands clutching the sides of the tub, your forehead pressed to Agatha’s shoulder. Her skin was hot with effort. Yours was soaked in sweat. The water between you steamed like breath in winter air.

Jen leaned forward. “Hey,” she said softly, voice right beside your ear. “I know it’s a lot. But you’re almost there, okay?”

You nodded, barely. “It burns,” you whispered. “It’s so much.”

“I know.” Jen’s hand touched your thigh gently, anchoring you in the moment. “That means you’re close. That means she’s coming.”

Your body seized again—another contraction rolling in fast, unforgiving.

Agatha held on.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered into your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You screamed—not from fear, not anymore, but from force. You bore down as Jen coached from one side and Agatha held you from behind.

“Good,” Jen murmured. “That’s it. Let your body lead. Just like that.”

Agatha’s hands stayed steady—one at your back, the other bracing your belly. “Breathe with me,” she whispered. “Just one breath at a time.”

The contraction eased, and you collapsed against her, whimpering.

Jen’s hand was gentle as she checked again. “She’s almost there,” she said softly. “Next one might do it. But let’s take a minute. Rest. You’ve earned it.”

Agatha pressed her forehead to the back of your neck, her breath shaky, her voice a thread. “You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”

You let out a small, broken laugh that turned into a sob. “You better be,” you muttered. “I’m pushing a human out of my body.”

Jen smiled, not laughing at you—but with you. “And she’s almost here,” she said. “When the next one comes, you give it everything you’ve got.”

You nodded again, slower this time.

Your whole body trembled.

“I can’t do it without her,” you said suddenly, voice sharp, panicked.

“You’re not,” Agatha whispered. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Jen reached over the edge of the tub and placed her hand gently on top of yours. “Both of us,” she said. “We’ve got you.”

The air in the room shifted. Not quieter, not calmer—but steadier.

Then another contraction hit.

It built low and deep, dragging itself up your spine like a wave coming to break.

You screamed again, louder this time. Agatha held your shoulders; Jen pressed her hands just beneath your belly to help guide the push.

“There,” Jen said. “There she is.”

You sobbed. Agatha’s lips were at your temple.

“One more, baby,” she whispered. “Just one more.”

You pushed—harder than before, through the pain, through the thunder outside, through the fear still trembling in your chest.

And then—

The water shifted.

A weight slid free.

And a sound—your baby’s first cry—cut clean through the world.

Agatha caught her, hands trembling, eyes wide with awe.

Jen helped guide her gently upward, and then—your daughter was on your chest. Slippery, warm, beautiful.

Alive.

You wrapped your arms around her, sobbing, your whole body trembling from the effort. Agatha pressed herself to your back, crying openly now, her arms around you both.

“She’s here,” she whispered. “She’s ours.”

Jen moved quietly, checking vitals, helping you position her better on your chest. The baby let out another cry—softer this time, as if she’d found what she was looking for.

And through the windows, the storm kept on.

But inside, all was quiet.

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