#and i wanted to see what it’s like first

[bruisedboys]

dead of the night — bucky barnes

bucky calls you, his loyal assistant, in the middle of the night, asking for your help. he’s got four assassins with him and they need a place to hide. you’re too in love with him to say no. SPOILER WARNING!! plot spoilers for thunderbolts

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note: disclaimer guys I totally made some stuff up to make the scenario make sense lol hope u can forgive me

thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader, fluff, kissing, one bed trope kinda, 4k words

You wake to the shrill sound of your phone ringing. At first you think it’s your morning alarm, and wonder why it feels like you’ve only been asleep a few hours. It takes blinking yourself awake to realise it’s still dark out, the street outside your apartment dead quiet. Your phone continues to ring, piercing through the quiet of the night, the screen lit up and flooding the corner of your room in white. You groan. Who on earth is calling you in the middle of the night? 

You sit up dizzily and grab for your phone. You stare blankly at the bright white screen, blinking hard until your eyes adjust and you can see the name that pops up. 

Bucky Barnes. 

You blink at your phone. Your boss? Well, he’s not really your boss, but you are his assistant, and you’re not really sure whether you’re friends or something else entirely, so he might as well be. 

You hit the answer button. 

“Bucky?” You’ve long passed the stage of calling him Congressman Barnes. Besides, any ounce of professionalism left between the two of you has probably now turned to dust, given the ungodly hour of his call.

“Hey.” He sounds tired, his voice strained. “Hey, I’m so sorry, doll, I know it’s late.” 

No kidding. You ignore the fact that he’s called you doll, ‘cos if you think about it too long you’ll be here all night. ”What’s the matter?” You ask. “It’s one in the morning, Bucky.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, but it’s urgent. I need your help.” 

His words make you sit up straighter. Bucky’s been, for lack of better words, distracted lately. On edge, like he’s been waiting for something to happen. He’s been continuously disappearing at important events, and he keeps taking mysterious calls in hushed tones. You hope this has got nothing to do with the call he got from Valentina’s assistant (Mel, you think her name is) last night. He only told you about it because he’d wanted you to cover for him today while he “took care of something,” in his own, ominous words. He’s been MIA all day and you haven’t heard from him until now.

Somehow, you think this has got everything to do with the call from Mel. 

“Are you okay?” You ask on instinct.

“I’m okay, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, brushing you off. “We, uh.. we just need somewhere to hole up for the night.” 

Your brain ticks. “Hold on, we?” 

You can almost hear him wince on the other end of the line. As if on cue, you pick up some muffled voices in the background. A man’s rough voice followed by a woman’s smoother one — and is that a Russian accent? What has he gotten himself into? 

“There's, uh, five of us,” Bucky says, like that makes it any better. 

There’s a long beat of silence. You sit in the dark, still half foggy with sleep, waiting for your brain to catch up with what he’s telling you. He … wants to bring strangers to your place? To what, hide? From who? You’re dumbfounded.

“I— what?” Is all you can manage. 

There’s another short silence, and then Bucky must realise how ridiculous he sounds, because he starts to backtrack. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I shouldn’t have called, I’ll just—“ 

“No, wait,” you interrupt before you can stop yourself. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you find yourself wanting to help. You trust him, and know he’d never do anything to hurt you. Whoever these people are who’re with him must really need your help. And who else can he call, anyway? “It’s alright, I can help. Come over, okay? How far away are you?” 

Twenty minutes, as it turns out. You spend the time making your apartment and yourself look somewhat presentable, less for your visitors’ sake than your own, and because it’s Bucky.

Bucky, who’s been to your apartment three times now. Once when he got you flowers for your birthday. Another time when you’d mixed up your laptops, and accidentally come home from the office with his instead of yours in your work bag. (He’d come round to pick it up and you’d cleaned the whole place, even though he only stood in the doorway for five minutes.) And the most recent time, when you’d gotten too drunk at the bar after work, and Bucky had walked you home, deposited you in your bed, and locked the door behind him. You don’t remember most of it, but you do remember feeling so so in love with him it made you feel sick. Or maybe that was the whiskey. You doubt it. 

You’re tossing the trash from your takeout dinner in the bin, and trying not to think about how you felt that night, when there’s a knock on the door. Your phone dings on the counter, a text from Bucky. 

It’s me. 

You laugh to yourself. He can be so accidentally ominous sometimes. You cross the living room to the door and open it. 

Five people stand behind it, all in varying states of disarray. Bucky’s at the front, probably the least beat up looking, though his jacket seems to be torn in some places. Two women (girls? They don’t look very much older than you), one with a blunt blonde bob, and one brunette with pretty eyes, both looking a bit worse for wear. One very tall, older man in a red getup that makes him look like Santa Claus - it’s absurd, but somehow you feel even more absurd in your plaid pajama pants. And bringing up the rear is… John Walker? 

“Um, hi?” You say to the group at large. When Bucky said we, you didn’t expect John Walker, of all people, to show up. You try not to stare. “What can I do for you?” 

The blonde girl opens her mouth, looking amused, but Bucky beats her to it. “Funny,” he says bluntly. Then, softer, “Can we come in?” 

You share a look. Bucky has a very intense default gaze, but it seems to soften whenever he looks at you. And right now, he’s looking at you like I’m tired, I need help, just let us in please and I’ll explain. 

You step back with little objection. Something about the way he seems to say trust me with just one look — it gets you every time. If he was a serial killer, you’d surely be dead by now. 

“Alright,” you say. “Wipe your shoes, please.” 

Everyone files into your living room. It’s not a huge space but it’s enough. Walker closes the door behind them. No one sits down. 

“Who is this, again?” The brunette girl asks Bucky, breaking the silence. You assume she means you. 

“We work together. She’s my assistant,” Bucky explains, throwing you an apologetic, somewhat strained, look. “Y/N.” 

“Hello,” you say awkwardly. 

They all just stare at you. You know what they’re thinking. Why on earth would Bucky, former winter soldier, avenger, and now congressman, bring them to his assistant’s place in the middle of the night as if it was a safe house? You’re asking yourself the exact same thing. 

“Y/N, this is Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John.” Bucky names them off, pointing them out to you as he does. “They— I mean, we just need a place to stay until morning.��

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just go to yours?” Walker pipes up, addressing Bucky. You hate to agree, but you were just about to ask the same question. 

“Valentina’s watching my place,” Bucky explains. “She knows by now that I’ve got you guys with me, she’ll have her people on us in no time if we go to mine.” 

This only confuses you further. Valentina is … watching his house? This is not what you signed up for when you applied for a job as an assistant — it seems both you and Bucky are in over your heads. Though maybe you should’ve expected it, Bucky being a former Avenger and all.

The others seem to understand Bucky’s explanation far better than you do, and they all look to you expectantly. 

You look at the group of strangers, then at Bucky, then back at the strangers. They’re all standing there rather awkwardly. At their best, they’d probably be the toughest looking group you’ve ever seen, but right now they look dead beat, covered in bruises, dark bags under their eyes, and you suddenly feel very sorry for them.

“I— yeah, okay,” you say. They’re already in your living room, already know where you live, what’s it matter now? “You can stay for the night. Make yourselves at home, guys. There’s water in the fridge and the bathroom is down the hall to the left.” 

The brunette — Ava, Bucky called her — gives you a tight smile. “Thanks,” she says, and collapses on your sofa. 

The others follow suit, though Walker stays standing with his arms crossed. 

Pleasantries over, you grab Bucky’s arm and tug him down the hallway. He follows willingly, though you don’t give him much choice. You end up in your bedroom, where you corner him. 

“Bucky, what’s going on?” You whisper harshly.  “Who are those people? Why would Valentina be watching your place? And why is John Walker here?” 

You’re so busy bombarding him with questions that you don’t notice the way he’s holding his arm, not until you’ve finished speaking. Your eyes drop to his forearm. The fabric of his jacket has been slashed open, and there’s blood all over the sleeve. 

“Oh,” you say stupidly, then even more so, “Bucky, you’re bleeding.” 

Bucky grimaces. “I know, doll.” 

You grab his arm, forgoing politeness, and hold it up to your face. 

“It’s looks bad,” you say, forgetting you’re not supposed to care about him as much as you do.

You look up and find your face inches from his, his arm clutched between you. You suddenly feel very hot.

“Let’s, um,” you flounder for a few seconds, flustered not only by everything that’s happened in the last half hour but also his closeness, and the look on his face. “I have a first aid kit in the bathroom, I think. Come on.” 

You guide him out of your room and across the hallway into the bathroom. You forget to ask why he’s bought a hoard of what look like trained assassins into your home, and force him to sit on the lip of the bathtub, pushing him down by the shoulders. He scrapes hair out of his face with his metal arm and looks up at you where you’re rummaging through the cupboard above the sink. 

“Y/N, I’m—“ 

“Don’t say you’re fine,” you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and you go on, “Are any of your friends hurt?” 

Bucky pulls a face. “They’re not really my friends,” he says. “And no, none of them are hurt, they’re just tired.” 

You nod, accepting his answer for the meanwhile, even though it only opens up about a million more questions. A moment later you finally find what you’re looking for, a red and white first aid kit tucked away at the back of the cupboard, collecting dust.

You move to stand in front of Bucky, opening up the kit and setting it on the toilet lid. 

“Show me?” You stick your hand out for his wounded arm and he gives it to you with no objection. 

You hold his wrist and carefully push his sleeve up over the wound, revealing a harsh cut across the length of his forearm. On closer inspection, it’s not horribly deep, the blood only makes it look that way. 

Still, you frown. “How did you manage this?” You ask him. 

Bucky looks for a second like he’s reliving whatever happened to cause such an injury. He searches for the words, then, “I sort of flipped a truck?” he says. “Long story.” 

Flipped a truck? Whose truck? You raise your eyebrows at him but ultimately decide it's fruitless to keep asking questions, at least until he decides to explain what’s going on. 

“Right… I’m gonna clean it, okay?” You drop his arm to pull out a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit, unscrewing the lid and dabbing the liquid onto a cotton pad. “It might hurt.” 

Bucky looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “I’m tough, doll.” 

You clean his wound as best you can. You only sort of know what you’re doing, a half remembered first aid course you took in college sitting at the back of your mind, but Bucky doesn’t protest. Actually, he doesn’t make a sound at all, just watches you with those dark eyes. It makes you nervous, like he’s looking right through you and reading all your inner thoughts. The worst part is, he’s always looking at you like this, like he can read your mind, to the point where you’re pretty sure he knows all your secrets. Like how you’re desperately in love with him and have no idea what to do about it. 

You continue your work, quiet. The silence is heavy, a sort of unspoken feeling floating between the two of you like a white hot star. You want to reach out and grab it, see if Bucky will follow, but you keep your mouth shut. 

You’re unraveling a roll of bandage to wrap his arm when you finally speak. “So, are you gonna tell me why you brought a bunch of assassins into my home In the dead of the night?” You laugh at your own joke, but the look on Bucky’s face stops you short. “They’re… they’re not assassins, are they?” 

Bucky purses his lips. “Well, you’re not very far off…” 

He launches into an explanation, finally. First, of what Valentina’s really been up to. Project Sentry — putting a gold ribbon and a promise of a better life on a special super serum, and testing it on the most vulnerable subjects she could find. Then, how she rushed to eliminate all proof of the project, including the four people in your living room (who turn out to actually be trained assassins, though Bucky promises none of them will hurt you), and Bob, one of the test subjects. 

Then he tells you about how he tracked Mel’s phone to a site in the middle of nowhere, where he found Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei in a “predicament,” and “saved their asses,” as he puts it. He spares you the details, but it's how he sliced his arm open, and why they’re now retreating to yours to regain their strength before going after Bob. Bob, who’s vulnerable but much stronger than he probably knows, and who Valentina now has in her clutches. 

By the time he’s done explaining, you’ve realised how much bigger this is than just you and Bucky. For days this has all been happening without your knowledge and Bucky has been dealing with it all. You’re not annoyed, you get why he didn’t tell you. Still, you wish he’d asked for your help earlier. 

“So, you’re going after Bob?” You ask, carefully tucking in the end of the bandage. You spent half of his explanation just staring at him, hardly believing what he was saying, and the other half wrapping his arm, trying to believe what he was saying, no matter how ludicrous it sounded. 

Bucky nods. “I guess so. He could be dangerous in Valentina’s hands, you know?” 

You nod back. “Yeah, I get it. Won’t it be dangerous, though? Going after him? 

You say it before you’ve thought about it. You realise right after that it makes you sound like you care far too much about the man sitting in front of you, who’s really just the guy you file documents for. You don’t owe him anything. 

Bucky smiles. “Don’t worry, doll. We’ve got four assassins on our side, five if you count me.” 

You frown. “You’re not an assassin.” 

You don’t care what he’s done in the past, you can’t see him as anything else but lovely. He’s brave, kind, and so thoughtful it aches. 

Still, Bucky shrugs. “Used to be.” 

You pack up the first aid kit and put it away. Bucky watches you, his gaze like a burning fire on the back of your head. When you’re done cleaning up, he stands up and crosses the room, meeting you by the sink. 

“Thank you,” he says, earnest though his voice is rough from exhaustion. “You make a good nurse.” 

For some odd reason, butterflies erupt in your gut at his words. You look up at him. He’s very close now, only a step or two away from being chest to chest. You manage a grin. 

“That’s me,” you say, faux casual. “Best nurse and assistant you’ve ever had, huh?” 

You might be imagining it, but you’re pretty sure Bucky’s eyes flicker to your lips. He’s distracted as he murmurs, “Uh huh.” 

A beat of silence, and then Bucky takes a step closer. Your chest burns. He raises his vibranium arm, and you watch as his silver fingers close around your forearm. You can’t feel it through your sweater, but you can imagine how smooth the metal would feel on your skin. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. 

“Mm,” he hums back. He’s definitely looking at your lips now, and moving closer by the second. “What, doll?” 

You blink rapidly. He’s so close now you can smell him, sweat and dust but underneath that something heady, a bergamot cologne you’ve smelled on him before. 

“I— what are you doing?” You whisper, starting to panic. 

Bucky looks at you, this intense look of yearning in his eyes, like he’s being pulled towards you and can’t stop, and you almost melt into the bathroom tiles. 

“I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, so quiet it’d be impossible to hear him if he weren’t this close. “Can I?” 

You sort of guessed as much, but to hear the words coming from his mouth is something else entirely. You find yourself nodding. You don't know why. Well, actually, you know exactly why. You like him a lot, and you’ve imagined this moment a million times over in your head, though in your imaginations he certainly wasn’t bleeding out in your tiny bathroom.

“Okay,” you manage, heartbeat turning frantic. 

You see a flash of his smile before he’s pulling you gently forwards by the wrist and then kissing you. It’s chaste, gentle, but you can almost feel him holding back, his grip on your wrist tightening as he moves closer still, almost like he can’t help himself. The pressure of his kissing pushes you backwards a half inch — your back hits the edge of the sink and you don't care, you really don’t, because Bucky is kissing you and his thumb is rubbing a rough circle into your inner forearm, and his lips are so warm they leave yours buzzing.

Too soon, Bucky pulls away. 

You blink at him. He’s still agonisingly close to your face, and still looking at you like he wants to eat you. Your heart’s a riot, worse when he reaches up with his freshly bandaged arm and tucks a rogue piece of hair behind your ear. 

His hand lingers at your jaw. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused and rough, but he touches you like you’re made of starlight. “Is it okay that I did that?” 

You nod. “Yes,” you manage. Even to your own ears, you sound breathless as anything, but you’re so dizzy that there’s no space to be embarrassed about it. “I— yeah.” 

Bucky smiles, but it’s not smug. If anything, it’s achingly fond. “I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have roped you into this. I just … didn’t have anyone else I could call.” 

You shake your head. You won’t say it, but right now you’re infinitely glad he called. Even in the dead of the night. “It’s okay.” 

Bucky strokes your jaw with his thumb, slow and intentional. “No one will hurt you while I’m here, okay? And we’ll be out of here before you even wake up, I promise.” 

You nod around his hand. It’s hard to digest anything he’s saying while he’s touching you like this, and looking at you like that. You think you get the gist, though. 

“Okay,” you say. You desperately want to kiss him again, but you’re much too shy to ask. Before you can work up the guts, he’s moving away. 

“I think you should get back to bed,” he tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and checks the time. “It’s past two.” 

“Right,” you nod, not wanting to, but you’re too dizzy and too tired to protest. 

You and Bucky leave the bathroom together. You follow him still half in a daze, not understanding how he can be so nonchalant when you literally feel lightheaded as a direct result of the kiss. You suppose he’s just better at hiding it, or maybe you’re just very sick in love. 

You and Bucky step into the living room to find probably the most absurd scene to ever grace your living space. Yelena and Ava, both knocked out on the couch, Ava’s head on Yelena’s shoulder, drool falling from the blonde’s open mouth. Alexei sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, snoring like a bear. And Walker sitting at your kitchen table, bent in half with his forehead resting on his crossed arms, fast asleep.

Both you and Bucky seem to realise at the exact same time that there’s nowhere other than a much too small chunk of floor for him to sleep. You turn to each other. 

“Do you want to—?” You start. 

“I can sleep in the—“ he says at the same time. 

You both pause. 

“Sleep in the what?” You ask him, incredulous. 

Bucky grimaces. “The car?” He at least has the decency to look guilty as he says it. 

You roll your eyes. “You’re absurd. Come on, you can sleep in my room.” 

It’s ridiculous, you know, but the words leave your mouth before you think about it. The truth is, you’re both dead tired and you’ve got no other option. Besides, you don't see how this night could get any more ludicrous. What’s it matter if Bucky sleeps in your room? He’s just kissed you, hasn’t he? 

You start to pull him towards your bedroom, but he stays put. 

“Y/N—“ 

“You said you wouldn’t let any of them hurt me,” you say firmly. “How’re you gonna do that from the car?” 

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. 

“I… don't know,” he mumbles lamely. Then, at your I told you so look, “Are you sure?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s too gentlemanly for his own good. “Yes, I’m sure. Come on.” 

You pull him towards your bedroom, much too tired now to be flustered about it. In the dark of your room, Bucky insists on sleeping on the floor. You let him, because he’s stubborn, and because you think if he were to sleep in your bed, no matter the distance you know he’d put between you, you’d be much too consumed with nervous energy to even shut your eyes, let alone sleep. 

It’s half past two when you finally crawl back into bed, Bucky lying on a stack of pillows on the floor at the foot of your bed. Though you can't see him, you feel his presence like a weight over your chest. 

You settle down on your pillows, already feeling the tug of sleep behind your eyes. Before you can fully succumb, Bucky speaks up. 

“Y/N?” He sounds just as tired as you, but you can't ignore the way he says your name like it's something special. 

“Yeah?” You hum back. 

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. You suppose he’s thanking you for everything from housing a bunch of strangers, to letting him kiss you. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” 

A pause in which you think about how to respond. Then, 

“With a pay raise?” You joke weakly. 

Bucky sighs loudly, but the smile in his voice is evident when he murmurs back, “Whatever you want, doll.” 

You grin to yourself. Now that’s something you can fall asleep to. 

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

[teaboot]

Re: my “don’t ‘test’ people, communicate your needs, because they aren’t instinctive to others” post:

I feel like a lot of people are reading that post and saying ��if your friend/partner/colleague can’t be arsed to take the initiative, be courteous, or anticipate reasonable needs, they’re a selfish baby”

Which, on one hand, yes! Distributing labour in a shared space is a form of invisible labour that typically women are saddled with in disproportionately high percentages, but that wasn’t actually what I was saying

If the first time you notice something you desire isn’t being fulfilled you decide to test the other person and judge whether or not they care about you, that’s shitty. You have the responsibility to say “hey, I noticed this and it bothers me for this reason, when you do this I feel like this, can you do something else?”.

If you have done that REPEATEDLY and see no change, then it may be reasonable to conclude that the other person is disregarding your words.

If this is something that you have never pointed out before, or that you spontaneously decided to look for, or something that’s only come up once, don’t fucking “test” people. Don’t lie. Don’t try and “trap” them. That’s shitty. Come on

I’m a messy person with ADHD. I live alone. I clean up after myself and feed myself and everything an independent adult does on a schedule that WORKS for me. If you suddenly appear in my space and hate how I live but say nothing, I’m going to take you at face value and believe that you’re okay until you say otherwise.

Because why wouldn’t I? Why would I believe you’re lying to my face about your preferences and needs? Why would you want me to never believe what you say???

SAY WHAT YOU NEED. TELL ME HOW TO SHOW I CARE ABOUT YOUR COMFORT AND I WILL USE THAT INFORMATION.

Don’t just change a detail in your behaviour and judge mu character based on whether or not I can Sherlock Holmes your intent and desires off that alone

Attitude is communicated in REPEATED AND CLEARLY COMMUNICATED PATTERNS, not in one-offs, assumptions, and symbolism open to interpretation.

People are people, not books or TV shows. You can talk to them- you don’t have to do a literary analysis on whether or not a carton of milk means I’m a selfish bastard who doesn’t love you

[madamechrissy]

Blueberry Yum Yum - oneshot preview/taglisttt

Pairings - Fratboy Plug Sukuna x Nerdy stoner reader

This will be a cute ass lil smut oneshot where you fuck your plug and he gets down bad from your coochie aha, reader is a freak, Sukuna will whimper. will be smutty and explicit, preview here is just mentions of sex and weed smoking, college AU

Comment to get tagged babesss you know the drill, will be out next week 🫶🫶🫶 preview below!

"What if we like... had sex?" Sukuna starts coughing up the thick smoke of his purple haze, wondering if it's fucking laced with something as you sit there, blunt in your hand and your legs crossed, casually smoking it as if you brought up the fucking weather.

"The fuck did you say!?" He demands after he catches his breath, you inhale your blunt now, you're by far his nerdiest client, you shocked him when you asked to buy from him the first time.

You scream good girl, certified Velma from Scooby-Doo - annoying 'actually - jinkies' nerd. The two of you even hanging out was a fucking anomaly, a mathlete and a frat boy, one he didn't try to figure out. He enjoyed selling weed to you and smoking with you, hearing your stupidly intelligent thoughts, he enjoyed looking at you too. Sure you were fucking gorgeous in that soft, sweet way.

So what the fuck was this!?

"It's been a while," you murmur, handing him the blunt back now, he takes a huge rip, coughing again as you speak. "If I'm not really your type it's cool."

"If you're... you... I..."

"Shit, it's fine. Calm down. Just was thinking it'd be fun." He keeps staring at you, mouth wide open, and you sigh, rolling your eyes. "Dude it's fine don't freak out. Forget it."

"Forget it? The fuck?" He's glaring ruby eyes at you, while you take a wad of money our of your little black backpack, decorated with anime pins all over and a ridiculous amount of keychains.

"Here," you hand him the cash, fingers brushing for a moment while he just stares. "Shit, I made it weird."

"Yeah you fucking did. Who just says that?" He glares right at you, thin brows low over his narrowed eyes, those sooty pink lashes too fucking pretty and long, god you're jealous of them!? Are they so pretty because you're baked?

"Sukuna, you've fucked like half the girls I know, I have heard you're pretty good at it." He blinks again at that, a rare blush to his cheeks, not fitting his cocky persona while you put out the blunt, letting it smoke against the tray. "Here's the money. Thanks again."

You turn, and he grips your wrist, pausing you, it feels way too good. Not only has it been way too long, Sukuna was fucking hot, every time he got too close you felt that heat, you literally clenched when he just brushed a big hand across your shoulder to grab something. And your boyfriend broke up with you six months ago, you thought maybe it would be fun to fuck him, Sukuna is sexy as fuck and chill. Now you want to disappear, clearly reading the room wrong as usual.

You suck at that.

"You wanna fuck me? What like... some friends with benefits? Or one time shit?" He stands, hovering so fucking tall, you turn and look at him, blazed whites of his eyes red, you swallow nervously, eyeing the tattoos on his chest in that thin white wifebeater that's just unfair to wear around you while you're ovulating, you can see his nipple piercings through it, and it's doing too much.

"I thought like once, if we liked it sure we could do it more. If we're both single and... get along... plus you're hot."

"Yeah I am." He grins and you roll your eyes.

"You know... never mind."

"Wait brat, shit." You sigh, looking up at him now, as he turns you two him, his cock twitching just looking at your dilated eyes behind thick glasses, your parted lips. His fingers brush against the softness of your sweater, watching your nipples press against the material.

"It's cool if you dont want to. Like I am chill about it promise." He fingers the edge of your sweater, blitzed off his ass wondering if you're some fucking dream for a moment. But he feels the heat of your skin as his fingers slip up your waist.

"Think you can keep up with me, huh brat?" He murmurs then, snarky with his smirk. You step closer, your finger drifting up his hard chest.

"The question is if you can keep up with me, Sukuna."

Taglist open!! my pairings are as ridiculous as ever lol

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[reignpage]

❀ In which husband!Nanami makes a big decision after your labour Tw: hard labour, difficult pregnancy, allusions to death, angst, not proofread

“Are you sure about this?” The doctor asks again.

Kento leans back in his chair, staring straight ahead at the older man before him. He notes, with a little humour, how concerned his doctor looks at the prospect of a younger, more virile man like him undergoing such an operation. There seems to be some stigma surrounding the quick and low-risk operation, almost as if the idea of any man willingly sacrificing an essential part of their identity, their manhood, is so abhorrent one must check again and again if they are certain this is what they want. 

And he is. 

If asked, and he’s sure when he discloses his decision to friends and family, they will ask, he’ll tell them it is the easiest choice he has ever made — second only, of course, to his decision to marry you. 

No matter how many times the doctor reminds him that contraceptives are satisfactory, that abortion is available up to twenty-two weeks gestation, and he might come to regret this later when the pain settles in, Nanami Kento will not change his mind. Not even when you, his beautiful wife, argued, pleaded, with him. 

You resented the thought of not being able to give him the big family he’s always dreamed of, but how could he possibly tell you, through your tears and the quiet suckling of the nursing baby in your arms, that you’ve already given him everything he could ever want?

That it isn’t a big family he wants but rather, simply, a family with you. 

Years of giving you everything you’ve ever wanted makes this one act extremely uncomfortable; defying you goes against his nature, after all. But he sees no other way to go about this. Perhaps it's just better to ask for forgiveness than approval on select occasions.

The pregnancy had been hard. The labour even harder. Lasting longer than twenty hours, the nurses and doctors rushed around, beelining in and out of your room with all sorts of expressions on their faces, ranging from professional sternness to mild worry to pure panic, all reflecting the emotions he wore on his own face as he waited outside. 

At first, things went smoothly — the overnight bag was ready by the door, your contractions were consistent and you were both able to get ahead of your water breakage. He was by your side throughout it all, holding your hand, brushing your hair back, going through breathing exercises, and giving you encouragements. 

You were anxious but excited, rattling off baby names as back-up plans in case the baby was 'giving off a different vibe,' worrying about the crib you both picked out, the colour of her room, and trying to remember every single advice you heard from your experienced friends. “What was it babies can’t have until much later? Ugh, I can’t remember now. It was something I really like and was super bummed I can’t let her taste until like centuries later. “

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?” You grinned at him.

His lips twitched.

“That’s all I get? I thought that was hilarious.”

He wiped the sweat off your forehead. “It was very funny, my love. I hope our baby gets your sense of humour. She’ll make for a successful clown.”

The eye roll you gave him, for one happy moment, convinced him that this labour was going to be just as they said.

There was nothing to be concerned about. Your tests were clean, there’s no history of complications, you followed the recommended diet and have been diligent with the vitamins. It was just going to be your standard birth and they have years of experience.

You’re in safe hands.

So why were you straining for so long?

Why were you screaming through gritted teeth, threatening to break every bone in his hand?

Why was he growing dizzy at the sight of your shaking body?

“Just breathe, sweetheart, alright? Breathe for me.”

You tried. You tried so hard. “Yes, y-yes, I am. Oh, fuck, Kento, it hurts. It really hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.” Mouth dry, face flushed, and voice broken, he could only mutter empty promises. A true failure of a husband, unable to do a single thing to alleviate your pain. “Hang in there, please. They’ll sort it out. It’s all going to be fine.”

The nurses began whispering among themselves, too hushed and hurried for him to understand. "Is everything alright? What's happening?"

More people came in, crowding the bed and pushing him away. He tried to tell them you needed him by your side, that you needed something to hold, someone to keep your hair out of your face. He was being escorted out, wordlessly.

"Ken? Wait, don't leave. I'm scared." Your hand was outstretched and he fought, against better judgement, to hold it just for a second to soothe your worries. They didn't let him.

"It's okay, sweetheart. T-they're going to take care of you."

Hours flew by. He paced the floor, and answered all the messages and calls he received from worried loved ones with responses he didn’t really believe in but knew he had to: ‘she’ll be fine,’ ‘she’s in good hands,’ and ‘it’s probably nothing.’

Sitting on a cold, hard bench, in a large waiting room with people he could only hope weren't in the same position as him, Kento couldn't sleep. Instead, he listened to the incessant ticking of the clock, the dull thrumming of the TV in the corner, and the monotone voices of nurses talking among themselves.

He wasn’t in the room when your baby was finally out, missing out on her first cry, on watching that instant connection you talk about form, on being able to thank you.

They only beckoned him in with relieved smiles some time later. Finally, he could see you, could hold you, tell you how amazing you are. And he did. He held the baby too, small, beautiful, unable to even open her eyes, but had a great set of lungs on her, just like her mother. 

“Oh, sweetheart. She looks just like you,” he breathed out. 

You didn’t reply, couldn’t look at him, couldn’t smile. You simply held his hand and gave him a reassuring squeeze. The feeling of your cold, clammy hand weak and quivering like you were holding onto a thin rope just so you could say goodbye will forever haunt him.

"Sweetheart? What's wrong, love?" He turned to the nurses, tried to meet their eyes. "What's happening to my wife?"

The events after that were hectic and Kento, try as he might, couldn’t piece together what happened. Rapid beating and beeping, sudden shouts, baby taken away, and he was pushed out of the room. The last glimpse he had of his wife, the last glimpse he thought he would have forever, was of her spasming on the bed, surrounded by strangers in masks and stained robes. 

Alone.

Terrified.

Failed by her husband. 

Never again, Kento swore. Never again will he put you through that, the pain, the suffering, the fear. He’ll never drive you to the edge of life and allow you to teeter on your own. If it’ll be anyone, it’ll be him. It has to be.

You survived this time and he’ll do everything in his power to make sure there isn’t a next time — he’s not sure he could step up and be the father your baby needs without you.

His hand still shakes.

In his sleep, at his absolute worst, he hears your screams, holds your limp body, and grieves your presence. He's ashamed to admit he couldn't pick his baby up for days after, that he had let dark circles grow, allowed darker thoughts to permeate his mind, consuming him.

How could he possibly look in his little girl's eyes and know she almost lost her mother? That in a split second, everything you two built together could have burned down in front of him? That when it mattered most, he was powerless as a man, as a husband, and as a father?

"You've been washing the same plate for five minutes, Ken. I think you need more sleep," you said, hugging him from behind.

He had wandered into his mind again, running on autopilot as he washed the dishes. Clearing his throat, he forced a smoothness into his voice. "Yes, you're probably right."

"Are you still thinking about going to the doctors?"

"Yes."

You sighed. "I'll be okay, Kento. You don't need to do that. We're going to be fine. Let's just live as we always did and let the universe take us where we need to."

Wet hands clutched your dry ones. There was a firmness to them, unyielding and tight. When he spoke, his tone commanded attention, rendering you as silent as the baby sleeping in her crib. He didn't turn around, likely couldn't, for he knew if he did, his resolve might just crumble.

"I won't leave your life in the hands of anyone else. I refuse. Your life holds more value to me than my own and I will not spend it so carelessly, leaving it in the hands of the universe or God or whomever else. I can't see you go through...that again. I can't. I w-wouldn't survive it. And I know you want more children because you think that's what I want, but sweetheart, I need you. I need you. You may never understand what I mean and that's alright. The life we have is good. It's perfect. I can't risk it. I won't. So, I'm sorry but I don't think there's anything you can say to change my mind."

Pressing a kiss in between his shoulder blades, you said, "I know."

Unending, your patience is commendable — you don't grouch when he wakes you up in the middle of the night just to make sure you’re still breathing or get irritated when he insists on carrying the heavy lifting around the house.

He took off more time out of work, desiring nothing more than staying at home so he can keep you fed, can take care of the baby whilst you catch up on sleep, and help you shower on unsteady legs.

Every moment, every kiss on his knuckles, every brush of your hand on his cheek, every admission of love bears a thousand times more weight now. The persistent crying in the middle of the night, the mess, the diaper-changes, the vomit on his clothes don't frustrate him; they're a mark of what you and him had fought so hard for.

This is the family he’s always wanted. The family he must protect. 

And damn it all if he lets it, you, slip away. 

So, he says, calmly and with the most certainty anyone can muster, “Yes, I’m sure.”

Jello! Had some time to make this since my exam was pushed later. Sorry for yet another angsty piece, I just couldn't get the idea out of my head. It's very rushed, as I'm sure you can tell. I think I'm a little out of practice cause it's been almost a week since I last wrote something

Well anyways, this is just a snack to keep you guys fed whilst you wait for me on the other side

Blessing and good tidings y'all

[classyrbf]

um...ugh... um... anal with professor!nanami... teaching you some respect yk... yeah... in his office, scolding you while prepping on his fingers... yeah...

love your works please be happy🫶

PROFESSOR NANAMI #2 — NANAMI KENTO

SYNOPSIS...after unknowingly having sex with your professor before the first day of college, you find yourself avoiding him in attempts to save yourself from embarrassment, but when you fail your first quiz, he’s quick to see you after class

INFO...professor!nanami x fem!reader, anal, first time, nanami is a little mean, rough sex, degradation, clit rubbing, spanking, creampie, no p in v, overstim, panty ripping, fucking in his office, possessiveness (?), not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

read the first part here

it’s been weeks since your first interaction with professor nanami. You were surprised that he hadn’t noticed you or even called you out for being his student. Maybe he just decided to ignore it all together and move on with his life to save both of you from embarrassment. If so, thank god. There’s no way he’s gone a month without grading papers and seeing your name, let alone just seeing you in the crowd of students. It’d be a miracle.

But he does notice, he’s noticed since day one when you tried to sneakily hide your face at the end of class, rushing out the door. Was he shocked? Of course. You never said you were a college student, especially at this college. But what are the odds he’d end up being your professor? He finds it funny. Lately, he’s been finding every excuse to talk to you without making it look suspicious and thankfully for him, you failed your first quiz.

He’s calling down students to his desk to give them their papers, finally landing on yours, a big fat ‘F’ in the corner of it. “Y/n,” he calls out, waving the sheet. Your figure enters his sight, carefully walking down the lecture hall stairs. Slowly, he lifts his head, glasses hanging low on his nose. “See me after class.” He hands you the paper, an expressionless look on his face.

If the ‘F’ in the corner of your paper immediately caught your attention and you felt like you wanted to collapse right then and there. Really? You flunked your first quiz? And your professor, who you accidentally fucked, now sees how dumb you are? Life couldn’t get any more worse. “Okay,” you murmur, walking back to your seat with shaky hands while he calls another student.

An hour passes, and everyone else is gathering their things to head back to their dorms or their next class for the day. Your eyes tread on Nanami carefully, hoping if he’s distracted enough, you can sneak away. He tidies up the papers on his desk, pushing his glasses up. You attempt to blend it with the crowd, leaving, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“Miss y/n,” his voice rings in your ears, making you stop in your tracks. “Please, come here.” He folds arms across his chest, leaning against the front of his desk as he intently watches you walk towards him, barely able to look him in the eye. The last student leaves, the lecture hall completely empty, nothing but silence. “Into my office,” he orders, squinting at you.

You thickly swallow, your mouth dry and your heart pounding against your chest as you follow behind him. He shuts the door behind you, the click of the lock making you even more nervous. The smell of his expensive cologne wafts past you, the same cologne he was wearing the night you two met. “You think I haven’t noticed you hiding away from me?” He steps towards you, making you step away in return. “I’ll admit, I was a little shocked to see your face in my class of students,” he chuckled, trapping you between the wall and him. “I feel like some type of pervert. Fucking one of my students in my car? I should feel horrible, devastated even.

“I’m���I’m sorry, I should’ve told you I was—” You can’t even finish your sentence, your nerves making you stumble over your words. How are you so shy around him now, but you weren’t too shy to fuck him?

“Everytime I look at you in class, all I think about is that night. You know how fucking hard it is to try and not get a hard on in the middle of class?” He grits his teeth. His grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him, his dark eyes boring into hours. He takes your hand, allowing you to feel his semi hard cock through his slacks. “You feel that? That’s what you fucking do to me.” The warmth of your hand makes him shudder.

“It was an accident, that night was just supposed to be a one time thing,” you tried to argue, but deep down, you never wanted it to be, not with how hard he made you cum while whispering such dirty things in your ear.

“No, no,” he shakes his head, smiling. “You’ve been a bad fucking girl lately. Ignoring me, failing your quiz, what were you thinking? You need to be taught a lesson,” he huffs. His larger hand yanks you over to his desk, a smell yelp escaping your lips when pushes down, holding you there. He lightly traces his fingertips against your skin, goosebumps appearing. He pushes up your skirt, getting a good view of your ass, and the cute lace thong you’re wearing underneath. “Is this what you wear to class?” He question, pulling back the fabric and letting it snap back onto your skin.

A crack in the air breaks the silence, his hand smacking your ass, making you jolt forward. “Ah!” You whimper, your skin stinging from the contact. He wastes no time to swat his hand over your ass again, hitting the same spot. “Mmmph!” You bite down on your lower lip.

His broad chest presses against your back, his lips ghosting against your ear. “You ready to be a good girl yet?” He spanks you again, the sting making you squirm beneath him. “I’ll take that as a no.” He smack the other cheek three times back ro back, a muffled cry escaping from your lips. His eyes wander down to your pussy, noticing the wet spot on your panties. “Is that what you’re expecting? Expecting me to fuck this pretty little pussy today? You got it all wrong. Bad girls don’t get fucked in their dripping cunt.” With ease, he rips your panties off, discarding the fabric to the floor.

“I’m sorryyy,” you whine, hips wiggling in hold as he spreads your ass to get a good look at your holes. Your pussy is glistening, tempting him, reminding him of how warm and tight you are, but he shouldn’t reward you with what you want. He can’t. You gasp, feel his warm spit drip onto your asshole, a foreign feeling to you. Was he seriously going to fuck you in your ass right now? The pad of his thumb rubbed in his spit, his free hand undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants. “Please, Professor Nanami,” you whimper, looking over your shoulder to see he already has his cock out.

He smears his precum against your ass, slapping the head of cock against it, growling at the sensation. He spreads your ass again, prodding his cock against your hole. He lifts one of your legs onto his desk, trying to stretch you as much as possible. You’re a whining, dripping mess. He spits once more on your puckering hole, slowly pushing himself in. “Ahhh, fuckkk,” he groans, his tip pushing inside.

“Nnnghh! Slow! Slow!” You cry out, reaching your hand back in attempts to stop him, but he just keeps stretching you open with his thick cock, letting you feel every inch without stopping. If it’s hurts so bad why does it feel so good? He’s already so deep inside you, his pelvis pressed against your ass, letting you feel his throbbing cock against your walls. “Oh my god, I can feel it,” you moan, bewildered by the fact he was actually inside you.

He pulls his hips back all the way, before fully thrusting back into you. “So fucking tight, hah…shit,” he pants, hooking his arm around yours, and holding them in place as he pounds into you. “Look at the fucking ass,” he grunts, smacking it before groping the burning flesh in his palm.

Your eyes roll to the back of your skull. You never knew getting fucked in the ass would feel this good. Though, it was still torture. Your pussy was still dripping, eager for any ounce of attention. Each thrust has your mind turning into mush by the second. It’s hurts so fucking good, you’re confused whether to moan or be on the verge of tears. “Please, please, I’m sorry!” You cry out. The duality of this man was beyond you. He so easily can go from whispering praises in your ear to treating you like a complete whore.

“Shh, shh, just take my fucking cock. This is what you get when you don’t behave,” he rasps out, pulling you back on his cock, leaving you no room to run away from the intense pleasure.

“Ah! Ah! Fuckkk! I can’t, I can’t!” Tears prick the corner of your eyes, your hand balling into fists, nails digging into your palms. His cock rams into your ass, you poor pussy clenching around nothing. Your brows furrow in pleasure, completely awestruck by the pleasure. Your skin is hot to the touch, that familiar pit forming in your stomach. “Mmph, I’m…I’m gonna cum!” You whimper.

“Don’t you dare cum. You don’t deserve to fucking cum for acting the way you did. Hold it,” he barks in your ear, breath fanning against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. He’s completely unfair, his cock still fucking you so deep, making it harder for you to keep control.

You shake your head, jaw falling slack as the pleasure builds and builds, ready to spill over the edge. “Please! I’m gonna cummm!” You cry out, looking back at him, desperation written all over your face. “Ah! Ah! Please, Professor Nanami,” your eyes flicker down to his lips. “Let me cum, please,” you beg and beg, hoping he has a sliver of mercy. He smirks at your attempts, his hand reaching between your legs while you’re distracted and rubbing your swollen clit just make you break even more. His rubbing in messy circles, putting just enough pressure to make your brain fuzzy. “No, no! Oh my god, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cummmmahhh!” Before you know it, you’re spasming on his cock, body writhing beneath him, your eyes rolling back.

Nanami is completely aware you couldn’t hold back, he knows you had no other choice but to fully let go and feel the intoxicating high of your orgasm. So he keeps rubbing your sensitive clit while fucking your tight little ass, your body falling forward on his desk. Your pussy drips with your cum, creaming around nothing while you drool over his scattered papers. He hold your head down, fingers entangled in your hair watching the way his cock stretches your hole open. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He snarkily says, shaking his head at you.

Incoherent babbling is all that you muster, heavy eyes barely blinking open. You were being fucked stupid in real time. His cock was all that you could feel and think of. So sit there, taking his cock, trying to right your wrongs and be a good girl for him while he uses your ass. You notice his thrusts growing sloppier and harder, hips smacking against your ass and echoing through the room. “Shittt,” he tosses his head back, licking his lips. He halts his movements, slowly sliding his cock out. You whine at the loss of feeling, looking back at him with pleading eyes. He spreads your ass, taking a look at your gaping hole, pulsing for him. “Your ass looks so fucking good stretched from my cock, baby.” He chuckles, smirking to himself like he’s proud of his work.

You lazily smile at him, biting down on your lower lip as you watch him spit on his cock, easily sliding back into your ass. “Ohhhhh,” your eyes roll back when you feel full of him again, his bruising grip on your hips pulling you back on his cock. “Yes, yes,” you huff, whining and whimpering when he starts sloppily thrusting into you again.

He looks down at you, his glasses slipping down his nose in the process, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. “Be a good girl and take all my cum in your ass, baby,” he moans, his hand now squeezing the plump flesh of your ass. “Shit, I’m so fucking close,” he breathes, chest heaving up and down with every labored breath.

“Cum in me! I’ll be your good girl, Professor! Want you to fill me up so badly,” you mewl. His abs flex, hips jolting when he pushes every inch of his cock deep inside you, settling there as hot spurts of his cock fill your ass. “Ughhh yesss!” You smile, his moans and grunts making your pussy tingle. His cock throbs inside you as he slowly pulls out, some of his cum dripping out and down to your cunt. “Mmm, fuck,” you giggle.

He spanks your ass multiple times, making sure to give each cheek equal treatment. “I think you learned your lesson,” he gruffly said, pulling you up towards him and pressing a slow kiss to your lips. “That pretty ass is gonna remember the shape of my cock forever, you understand? It’s mine.” He grips your jaw, forcing you to face him. You meekly nod your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “Good.” He pecks your lips again. His eyes wander down to his watch, looking at the time. “Ten minutes till my next class. I need to freshen up.”

“Um…I have no panties,” you blurt out, reminding him that he had ripped them off of you earlier. “I can’t go to my next class with your cum dripping out my ass, Professor. What would everyone else think?” You smirk, sitting on top of his desk.

“Fuck,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, stay in here until my class is over and don’t make a sound.” He gives you a warning look, raising a brow at you. “I’ll drive you back to your apartment after.”

“Fine.” You smile, pecking his cheek.

“I have to run to the bathroom, okay? Behave,” he orders, glaring at you.

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feel free to support me <3

[neigepomme]

some time after caleb and you start dating, you realize caleb grows more and more spoiled.

he still does his part and is a great boyfriend! however, you see his pout more and more often nowadays. it's mostly caused by things outside of your control; for instance, when a guy checks you out while you're out with him.

you barely gave that guy a glance, but caleb had his bottom lip jutted out and let out a loud sigh, one clearly designed for you to hear. when you don't acknowledge it the first time, he does it again — louder this time.

you lift your head to stare at him, and you're met with slightly furrowed brows and a pout, somehow making caleb look like a puppy rather than his 6'2 pilot self.

“what's got you down, hm?”

and then the brand new spoiled part of him kicks in — he looks away and sighs yet again before speaking.

“nothing.”

you let the silence sit for a beat, suppressing an amused smile at how caleb has gotten. after some more awkward silence, caleb speaks again, only with a flushed look on his face now.

“it's just.. that guy was checking you out. you. my girlfriend.”

you could eat him right up. how cute is that? the man who never outwardly admitted he was jealous and wanted more of you all to himself, who couldnt bring himself to be more greedy with your attention is sulking at the fact that a random man, checked you out while he was by your side. 

fully beaming at him now, you grab onto his cheek and pull lightly, “is my favorite pilot jealous? i only have eyes for you, you know.”

judging by the way the corners of his mouth curl up, caleb seems to be satisfied with your answer. holding onto your hand tighter, he mumbles something along the lines of “i wasn't jealous, just.. unimpressed.”

spoiled darling of a man you have by your side.

🍎 pomme's notes — do you guys know when dogs just sigh really loudly when they don't have your attention sometimes? that's caleb

[sluttyminghao]

♡ pairing: seungcheol x afab!reader ♡ genre: smut (like. straight up pwp) ♡ w.c: 2.9k ♡ warnings: choking, cum play, overstimulation, degradation/praise, cock warming, breeding kink, multiple orgasms, brief mentions of anal play, mirror sex, face fucking, bdsm elements, possession, raw and rough sex, no aftercare, extremely explicit ♡ a/n: the filthiest thing I've written probably ever. Please carefully read the warnings before reading! thank you to @facethesunflower and @supi-wupi for beta-ing for me ily both!

You knew exactly what you were doing when you wore that red dress out to dinner—short, tight, and no panties as the cherry on top. You wanted to rile him up.

But you didn’t expect this. Not this kind of punishment.

You’re on your knees in front of the mirror, your arms bound behind your back with one of Seungcheol’s belts, your dress bunched up haphazardly around your waist, while your makeup, that you had worked so hard on to make sure it was perfect, is smeared all over your heated face. His cock is buried deep in your throat as he fists your hair and fucks your mouth with zero mercy, all the while he’s got a smirk etched into his face as he observes you.

“You wanted to tease me with that fucking dress?” he growls, eyes locked on yours through the reflection. “Parading around the restaurant and the bar with no fucking panties on? All the while you’re biting your lip like a little whore all night?”

Your reply is nothing but a gagged moan around his cock, leaving him breathless for a moment.

He yanks you off his erection with a wet pop. You gasp for air, drool sliding down your chin. He smears it back across your lips with his thumb messily, chuckling as he does so.

“Look at you,” he mutters, his voice dark and low. “Such a cock-hungry slut that you can’t even breathe without it, huh?”

You nod, desperate. “Please…I want it—I want you…”

He slaps your cheek—not overly hard, but just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. “You don’t get to want things, baby. You gave that up when you decided to act like a fucking brat.”

He drags you by the hair to the bed and throws you face-first into the mattress. You whimper quietly as he spreads your legs roughly, the belt still pinning your wrists together behind your back. Your ass is already sore from the earlier spanking he’d given you.

He doesn’t give you a warning. No glint in his eye, no twitch of his arm; just spits onto your pussy and drives himself into you with one brutal thrust. Your scream is muffled by the sheets as he starts a merciless pace, groaning as he does so.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Seungcheol groans, leaning over your back, one hand becoming tangled in your hair, the other gripping at your hip like a vice. “That’s what a dumb little breeding toy like you gets. Used. Fucked. Filled.”

You whimper at the stretch; he’s thick, deep, and bordering on brutal, and you’re absolutely soaking and clenching, your body is addicted to him even as you shake from the force of it.

“You’re gonna cum on this cock,” he snarls. “Again, and again, and you’re gonna fucking thank me for it.”

He pulls out halfway and slams back in so hard your knees slip forward on the sheets. His belt bites beautifully into the skin of your wrists. You’re a complete mess for him; you’re crying and drooling, even moaning his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.

And he loves it.

“Look at yourself,” he pants, gripping mindlessly at your throat and yanking you up, forcing your eyes to the mirror. “Fucking look. This is what you wanted, right? Getting ruined? Getting bred like a filthy little cumdump?”

You can see it so clearly now. Your own eyes, glazed and teary. Your makeup is utterly and completely ruined beyond salvaging. The way his cock disappears into your soaked pussy, over and over, your body twitching from overstimulation.

You’re beautiful. Broken. His.

“Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Yours,” you sob. “It’s yours…please, please-”

He slaps your ass and cuts off your sentence, the crack echoing through the room. “Damn right it is. And I’m not stopping until you’re dripping my cum for days.”

The first orgasm slams into you like a freight train. You scream, shaking under him, your walls pulsing so hard that you nearly black out from the pleasure alone.

He doesn’t stop. Oh no, he just fucks you harder.

“That’s it. Keep squeezing my cock. You want to be a little fucktoy? Then take it.”

You cum again before you’ve even come down from your first high. You’re sobbing now from the intensity, head falling forward, thighs trembling.

But he’s not done.

He pulls out of you only long enough to flip you onto your back, arms still tied, your body wrecked and soaked. Then, he grabs onto your ankles, pushes your knees up to your chest, and pounds into you like he wants to rearrange your guts.

“You think I’m done with you?” he pants, sweat dripping from his gloriously chiselled jaw. “You don’t get to tap out, baby. Not until this pussy’s leaking and wrecked.”

Your body arches, not just from his actions, but also his words. It’s too much, everything is too much; it’s perfect.

When you start sobbing from pleasure again, he slows his pace, not out of mercy, but out of sheer cruelty. He grinds his hips into you slowly now, deep, torturously slow, rolling his hips stupidly slow to make you feel every thick inch of him.

“Yeah, cry for me,” he whispers, cupping your cheek. “My perfect little slut. My hole to breed.”

And then, with a snarl and a quick thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and cums hard—hot and endless, pulsing inside you. You feel it flood your cunt. You feel it stay.

He keeps you there, his cock still inside you, not letting it spill out.

“Keep it in,” he growls. “You don’t get to waste a drop.”

You're shaking, twitching, and barely breathing at this point. You are completely spent. He finally unties your wrists, relief flooding through your arms as you begin to regain feeling in them, and pulls you close.

“Shhh, you did so good,” he whispers, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead, lips kissing your temple. “Took everything like my perfect little cumslut.”

You whimper, weakly nuzzling into him. “I want more,” you whisper, wrecked.

He chuckles darkly.

“Oh, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”

_______________________________

You’re still twitching.

You’re still flat on your back, legs splayed open, his cum slowly leaking from your overstretched pussy onto the filthy white sheets.

The room smells like sex—filthy sex. Your mascara is streaked down your cheeks, your lips swollen from biting them, your thighs red and slightly stinging from his hands. You’re wrecked.  And he’s watching you with that same dark, unrelenting hunger. That same look that has that familiar warmth pooling in your abdomen and your thighs twitching with want.

“Look at this mess,” Seungcheol murmurs, dragging a thumb through the slick trail of cum between your legs. “All of that, and you’re still not satisfied?”

You whimper, body flinching from the contact; you’re still far too sensitive, too raw, and yet your hips tilt up toward his hand unconsciously.

He smiles, slow and mean.

“Greedy little slut.”

You blink up at him, dazed, fucked-out, voice barely there and unrecognisable to you when you did speak. “Need more.”

“You need more?” he echoes, sharp and condescendingly, his cock already hard again in his fist, still glistening from the last round. “You’re dripping, baby. You’re full of me.”

You moan softly, back arching, thighs trembling.

He climbs onto the bed, settles between your legs again, and lines himself up again. “No begging this time,” he says, cockiness filling his raspy voice. “You already gave me permission.”

Then he pushes himself into you. You scream into the pillow he shoves over your mouth, muffling the sound as he sinks into your ruined hole, stretching you out all over again.

“Fuck, you’re still so fucking tight,” he groans. “Even after all that. Like this pussy was made to be used and fucked relentlessly.”

You squirm under him, your weak hands gripping the sheets, nails tearing at them, your mind shattering from the stretch. It’s too much, but you don’t want him to stop. Not ever.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispers, grabbing your throat and making you look at him. “Take it. Take it all. You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to be my little cumdump.”

You nod, tears streaming freely down your cheeks. “Y-yes, sir.”

He spits in your mouth.

“Swallow it.”

You do so, without hesitation.

He rewards you with a brutal thrust, then another—deep, sharp, unrelenting.

“You’re fucking addicted,” he growls, fucking you like he’s possessed. “To my cock. To being used. I could ruin you, and you thank me for it.”

You’re crying again, the cries are loud and desperate, and you’re even more soaked than you thought possible, practically begging him and babbling complete nonsense between moans.

“Please…please don’t stop, oh god, I can’t…I’m gonna-!”

“Then fucking cum,” he snarls. “Cum while I fuck another load into you. Show me how much this pussy needs to be bred.”

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up. You explode around him, convulsing so hard your legs go numb. Your scream is lost in the pillow. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, slapping your ass hard when you whimper too much.

“You’re crying like you don’t love it,” he pants, his cock pulsing inside you. “But you do, don’t you? My perfect little slut.”

“Yes,” you sob. “I’m yours, and so is this pussy, forever and always”

Then he cums, burying himself deep and spilling another thick load inside you. Your body spasms, feeling it flood your cunt yet again, mixing with the last one. It's obscene. It's perfect.

And still… he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, inside you, his toned chest heaving with each breath, his hand stroking your cheek.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, slowly rolling his hips. “All that cum inside you?”

You nod, barely conscious. Just raw nerves and need.

“You’re gonna hold it,” he says. “Gonna sleep with it still inside.”

You tremble, fucked into obedience. Seungcheol finally lies down beside you, pulling you onto his chest, still fully sheathed in your throbbing, overstimulated hole.

You don’t even have words. Just breathless, broken whimpers.

He kisses your hair.

“Still want to act like a brat, baby?”

You shake your head slowly.

He chuckles. “Good girl.”

There's a slight pause. Then…

“…But if you do, just know—I love punishing you.”

And from the way your ruined hips roll forward just the slightest bit, still greedy for his touch and his cum, he knows you’re already planning your next mistake.

___________________________

The morning light is barely creeping through the blinds when you feel it. A familiar warmth pressed against your back, a familiar scent, the soft hum of Seungcheol’s breathing in your ear.

And then, his hand moves.

Your body is still trembling from last night’s punishment, but he’s already got you right where he wants you, his cock buried deep inside your pussy, soft and hard at the same time, like he never wants to let you go. He doesn’t.

You’re still too sensitive from everything he’s already done to you, your body still aching from the lightly forming bruises, your mind half-drowned in what he’s made you feel. And yet, your hips instinctively roll back toward him again, seeking the warmth of his body, the pressure of his cock buried deep inside you. You need him to fill you up again, and again.

You can feel the weight of him against your back, can feel the way his chest presses against your skin. His hand curls around your neck, holding you just right; not too tight, but enough that you begin feeling lightheaded.

“Still want more, baby?” Seungcheol asks, his voice a rasp in your ear.

You nod desperately. “Yes. Please. Please, Cheol…”

He hums low in his throat, the grip on your throat tightening slightly. His fingers dig into your skin, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Such a needy little slut. Always so greedy for me,” he murmurs, grinding his hips against your ass. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk. I’m going to fill you up again. And you’re going to take it, like the little slut you are.”

You whimper, your legs so, so weak, but you lift them anyway, spreading your knees apart, offering yourself to him. It’s nothing new at this point, he owns you. He’s already claimed you, and there’s no going back.

With one smooth motion, he pulls back and then thrusts deep into you, filling you up completely. You gasp, the sensation of being so full overwhelming, even if he had just rearranged your guts not even 12 hours earlier. Your body shudders, feeling every inch of him inside you.

“You still take me so well,” Seungcheol groans, one hand moving to your waist, holding you down as he starts to fuck you slowly and steadily. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you. You’re my perfect little hole, aren’t you?”

You moan, the words coming out of your swollen lips before you even think. “Yes… I’m yours. Always yours.”

He groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your waist. “That’s right. Don’t you forget it.”

The grip on your neck tightens again, just enough to make your head spin. You start to tremble again, overwhelmed by the sensations, by the ache between your legs, the way his cock fills you, the way he fucks you like he owns you.

And then, without warning, he pulls out. You’re left gasping and whining, on the edge of something, desperate for more. But he isn’t finished with you yet.

He slides his fingers down to your ass, teasing you, rubbing gently at your hole, before pushing one finger inside, stretching you open. You gasp, your body already on edge, and you can hear him chuckle darkly behind you.

“Can’t even take one finger? You’re so fucking weak,” he mutters, adding another finger. He works you open slowly, teasing, as you squirm beneath him.

“Cheol, please,” you beg, wanting to feel more. You want it, need it. Him.

He grins against your skin. “Want me to fuck you here, baby?” His voice is low, teasing. “Want me to stretch you out? Use your ass like the dirty little slut you are?”

“Yes, yes!” you cry, desperate. “Please, Cheol, I need you. All of you.”

He laughs darkly, his fingers still working you open, preparing you. “So fucking greedy. You don’t even care, do you?”

“No,” you pant. “Just want you… want you to fill me.”

“I don’t think you’re quite ready for that, maybe another time” his voice is low as he pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the messy sheets, his hands then coming back to your flesh and letting his fingertips glide over it, sending goosebumps along your skin.

He shifts you onto your stomach, spreading your legs apart. You feel the coolness of the sheets against your skin, your body still weak, but you can’t stop shaking with need. You don’t want him to stop. You want everything he’s willing to give you.

Seungcheol positions himself behind you, one hand wrapping around your throat again, the other guiding his cock to your wet, stretched hole. He grinds against you, feeling the slickness of your body, the warmth of your skin. He leans forward, his lips brushing against your ear.

“I’m not stopping this time. You’re going to take all of me,” he whispers. “And you’re going to keep taking it. Got it?”

You nod numbly, your body trembling in anticipation.

“Answer me,” he demands, voice rough. “Got it?”

“Yes, yes! I’ll take it, Cheol. I’ll take everything.”

With a groan, he thrusts into you again, hard and deep. Your body jerks forward at the impact, your breath caught in your throat. The force of his thrusts makes your body rock against the bed, and you feel the sting of the slap he lands on your ass, the hot burn of it making your skin tingle.

“You’re so fucking perfect for me,” he growls, fucking you relentlessly. “Look at you. Taking it all, like the whore you are.”

You can’t hold back anymore. You’re crying, your tears soaking into the sheets, your body shaking with every thrust. The pleasure is too much, overwhelming you.

He slaps your ass again, harder this time. “You’re such a good slut. Taking everything I give you. You’re going to be dripping for days. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Cheol. I understand.”

He leans forward, thrusting harder, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you in place. “Good. Now, let me fill you up. Let me make you mine.”

He thrusts into you one final time, his cock buried deep inside you as he cums again. The feeling of him filling you up makes your body shake, a sob escaping your lips as you come undone once again, the sensations overwhelming.

And when he’s done, he stays there, deep inside you, for a long moment. You’re trembling, exhausted, but still so needy. Still greedy for more of him.

He pulls out slowly, then shifts to pull you close to him, wrapping you in his arms.

“You’re still mine,” he whispers against your skin. “You’ll always be mine.”

[pixelplushies]

For my next trick, I'm going to turn this wolf/husky... Into a thylacine.

First, we unstuff the unsuspecting victim...

Then we get the Broth prepared. This is sandstone Rit dye for artificial fibres. We want this to be below but close to boiling so we don't damage the plush fibres. I have no idea what 200F means but the packet was American so I switched my thermometer to F.

Wolf soup! This is my first time dying a plush but I wanted to see if I could get a gradient on the nose and feet, so I'm keeping them out of the water. I also stitched some stripes on the back so we will see how they turn out...

Don't use your food cookware for this folks, this is an old pan I've used for dying model car seats before (don't ask).

Time to rinse this guy and give him a quick spin in the washer. It came out almost dry. I'm impatient so I just went ahead with a slightly damp plushie.

Rounded the ears, swapped the eyes, used alcohol markers for the markings! Thylacine! The tie-dye stripes didn't quite turn out but I like the effect. Tydylacine..

Gonna let him dry properly and he should fluff up good. The fur has remained nice and soft. Very peaceful. Very demure.

[hedgehog-moss]

The cherry tree I planted in front of the greenhouse blossomed for the first time this spring! A round of applause!

The wind always blows from the valley so I planted this tree strategically so that in spring a delicious smell would be delivered in my living-room through the windows, and around the outdoor table where I work, and it worked :) I estimate that it improved my quality of life by 11%. A light spring breeze carrying a cherry blossom smell is the kind of thing that stops me in my tracks ten times a day and makes me close my eyes and take a deep breath and think oh, life is good.

More tree updates: I talked in this post from 2021, then this one from 2022, about how I hoped to plant a 'fruit tree path' in the woods behind my house—this project is still ongoing and, well, hasn't borne fruit yet, but has finally blossomed. My Fruit Alley now boasts 10 trees, and looks like—what it is, a small opening in the woods that I have to deploy heroic and sustained efforts to keep open, because the woods try to reclaim it year after year, patiently, like a slow green tide.

The white thing in the middle is one of the tarps I've been using to smother brambles, I move them every few weeks and it works pretty well. I also use cardboard, but in the spring it's hard to keep up with the sheer rate of growth everywhere. Of course the main enemy is the army of broom that you can see in the distance, all yellow and cheerful-looking at the moment. I mostly fight them in the winter, every year I manage to push them back a few metres...

Here's a photo where you can better see some of the trees :

In total I have planted 2 apple trees, 1 quince tree, 1 mirabelle plum, 3 red plums, 1 nectarine tree, 3 cherry trees. I'm really glad that all of them survived, as I was a bit worried about damage from deer or boars. I did lose 2 chestnut trees that were destroyed so savagely I have to assume it's wild boars, but I had planted them much farther away in the woods and I won't make this mistake again. I now have two new baby chestnuts and I planted them near the greenhouse (downhill):

I think I'd never seen nectarine flowers before, they look exotic! I also discovered this year what quince flowers look like:

The only tree that didn't bloom was the smallest apple tree, and honestly that's her fault because for some reason she decided to make tender new green leaves in the middle of winter, so she pretty much exhausted herself for nothing. And you can't blame climate change and seasons being weird for this, because it was a cold and snowy week and no other nearby fruit trees were making any leaves. The confused apple tree is a New Zealand cultivar, so I suppose you could argue she thinks she's still in New Zealand, except she's never been to New Zealand in her life, she was born and raised in France, she doesn't know New Zealand exists. The only possible explanation is, I suppose, a deep-rooted yearning for their ancestral homeland among New Zealand apple trees.

I was a bit concerned when this tree then failed to produce any leaves in the spring, I worried she might be hopelessly hemispherically-challenged, but then I went back to check two weeks later and she was finally green! In a seasonally-appropriate way!

Other trees I've planted, not in the fruit tree path: a persimmon, but it died very quickly :( I will try again; a goji berry shrub, which has been here for two years and seems to be doing well, but so far no sign of berries; and in front of my house, an amelanchier (un arbre dont ma mère n'arrive jamais à se rappeler le nom et qu'elle persiste à appeler "le mélenchon"):

Finally, my last piece of important tree-related news is that I had the hazel tree near my house removed this winter:

I asked the guy who was working on the road nearby with an excavator digging a drainage trench if he could do it, and it took all of 10 minutes, like picking a flower, it was impressive!

And the reason I wanted to remove it is that there are hundreds of hazel trees in my woods and I wanted something different in this spot by the house. Unfortunately for this deserving hazel, it just wasn't special enough.

So I planted a tiny ginkgo :) And now I just have to be extremely patient as I wait for everyone to grow.

[grotesquevi]

★ cupid carries a gun.

open up your skull, i'll be there climbing up the walls.

cw # 18+ mdni, modern au, mentions of marijuana, dealer+loser!ellie, blink and you miss a slight pervert behavior, sub!reader, switch!slightdom ellie, pussyslapsyum, pet names, fingering, public sex.

an # if you recognize this it may be because it's from my previous account aka @vicorices who got deleted out of nowhere, this is me trying to get all my work back up again cause i'm not losing three months of work thanks to a shitty team who wiped me out of the internet.

the first time she saw you, she called you bro by accident.

it happens unexpected. ellie's been selling weed for a while now and she's used to get random text messages from unknown numbers: a friend of a friend, a recommendation from some old client — of course when she got your text you're not going to receive special treatment, not when she greets you like she would greet a guy, asking you where to meet since the club's big.

you're friends with cat, that's how you got her number. your usual provider is being insane with ridiculous prices you cannot afford not even by chance, so you're searching for someone else, a reliable source you can buy your weed from without getting into much trouble.

she’s perfect for the job.

it's a surprise either way when you tell her to meet you close to the main stairs in the first floor, and you think you saw her by the time you get there, but before you can approach your phone lights up with a new notification from an unknown number you now recognize.

you like it, making them think you’re a man, confuse the people you buy weed from. it's funny cause it's not the first time it happens, matter of fact, it's really common as you approach the auburn haired girl, noticing she's far less intimidating than your last seller, less tattoos on the face to instead, be covered in freckles and green eyes.

and to ellie — it's clear you aren't a bro too.

you don't pay much attention since it's a quick interaction, but to ellie its enough to make her spiral. too much weed, too much booze that night made her look at you like you're most beautiful girl out there, barely illuminated by the sporadic lights that changes time to time as you approach to her in a nice top of a band she also hears.

"hey. sorry to make you wait" you're too kind to her rough heart, yet from up close she's able to look at your face properly: where the fuck did you know cat from? why she hadn't seen you before too? was she hiding you from her?

"ellie," she presents herself like you do and she's almost a little shy to ask you to walk with her to a less crowded space, cause it sounds different from when she usually asks, slapping herself mentally for being so lame when she meets a pretty girl in a situation like this: don't be a fucking pussy. "do you mind if we move to a quieter place?"

"no, no problem" you reply "i was going to ask you the same, actually. don't want to get kicked out from here."

and you must be really trustful person, cause ellie could be a bad person and you're following her willingly, entering a dirty, small bathroom only to lock the door beneath her not really knowing her true intentions. you know she's not going to do anything when she's nervously speaking to you as the space got way reduced.

"so, you're friends with cat" what's she even doing? trying to pull off some small talk she sucks for? either way your nodding as ellie gives you a small bag with an smiley face on it, letting you see the weed she's going to sell you out first — "you study here in this university?"

"yeah, it’s my last year" you say inspecting the weed with a pleased look, sure you're buying when you take a deep breath and it seems like actual weed and not a fucking rock so tight it seems it came in somebody's ass, good smell, some purple there between different shades of green "film school."

"sick," she looks at you for a moment since you're too busy looking at the product. under the white lights ellie can see the details on your face now, the small moles, the scars, things she wasn't aware of as she wasn't so close as she is now — "it's okay? you like it?"

“smells real good, my last supplier was pretty shit and always had the same strain" you find her concern cute, sure she must take pride in selling good stuff, maybe that's why cat shared her number so reluctant to it, you'd gatekeep a good dealer too.

“that’s lemon haze” ellie explains as a subtle layer of red spreads right over her nose, must be the weather inside the bathroom or something like that, but it's hot as she stares at your eyes and she's betting you must be thinking she's the weirdest girl in the planet. her flannel's too fucking tight, too thick. "it's a nice sativa, wont leave you stupid nor like a hungry animal."

girls like you may be out of her league, but even when ellie's brain saying the same, it does not matter when your fingers brush against hers and you're laughing at her bad joke, giggling like she's oh so funny and it's enough. it may be a tactic she's falling all the way in when saying a lower price than regular and your eyes widen cause you don't believe it: why would such a good quality be cheaper than the usual shit?

"you study in this university too?" you curiously ask as if you're trying to catch the trick, clever girl. she’s selling you cheaper to secure you.

"forensic science" you seemed a bit surprised by it since you didn't talk much to stem girls in general, being in two different fields: hot— "it’s my last year too."

"that sounds cool, never met someone who study that," you say as you're pulling out 20$ for at least 3 grams of top-graded-weed: she's fucking stupid for selling that quality for less than $30 "well nice to meet you ellie, if i don't get poisoned with your weed, you'll be definitely hearing more from me."

and she wants to say something flirty, something with her usual witty charm and her sarcastic replies she loves by heart, but instead of saying something clever, ellie ends up stuttering, tripping in her own words as she nods.

"i- uh- yes sure. save my contact and text me anytime."

fuck it, cause it does get her to know you'll be talking to her again someday, maybe this week, maybe the next, tomorrow. her weed is hella good and her own brain is feeding her delusions cause as far as she knows you might as well be the biggest heterosexual girl in university, but you're there waving her goodbye with a warm smile and your perfume lingers in the air for a while even when you're not there.

so ellie stays in the cubicle for a minute. the longest minute of her life when she takes a deep breath at the scent, discovering the fruity notes, the damn strawberries sweet as ever now impregnated under her nose.

fucking cat cause she must have kept you all to herself, pure selfish reasons — ellie thought they were in good terms.

it's crazy to say she would've done the same if you were her friend too.

the second time ellie sells you weed you're talking with your friends seated in a secluded spot of the main quad and the sun hits your skin just in the correct way to make her mouth go dry.

you're using this straight sinful sundress in blue and white, covering from the fresh air in a denim jacket and it looks so good she needs to check you actually messaged her in the first place and didn't imagined the whole thing.

she politely greets everyone but her attention drifts back to you when ellie's sitting close like you're friends with her before the people you’re hanging out with.

"was it good?" she asks, blatantly checking you out you're resting over your elbows, letting the exposed parts of your body fill out with vitamin d after being trapped in class for what it seems an eternity, and ellie feels trapped too, slightly different cause she's experiencing the victorian era on the flesh when only a glimpse of your ankles is enough to kill her — "guess it was if you're texting to meet up again."

"yeah, seems like you got the best weed in the whole place" you laugh, each time warming up to her as you reply under a pair of black shades that make you look so fucking attractive: her weed, the best. "good job, ellie."

awfully good price. outstanding for you, only loses for her.

the third time, you're meeting her outside class and her friends joke calling you her girlfriend as ellie quickly walks away hoping you didn't hear them: do you talk to her about dinosaurs too, williams? you're too polite to say you find it cute.

by the fifth time you're on her car and the silence is so damn loud as the music sound softly in the speakers, some song you say you like as ellie turns up the volume so you can hear it better. you're humming to the tune, a two-minute song as she pretends to be searching for the weed on her bag, taking more time on purpose.

"are you going to take the same three grams or you feel generous this time?"

"no, just three" you reply to her question. you've become quite aware of her consistent gaze on you now after weeks of selling you grass, personally giving you the best, making the moment linger without you noticing until you actually do catch on her subtle tactics— "that way i can text sooner and see you again this week."

ellie’s clueless most of the days but with that? anyone would notice you're flirting, blatantly as you look up to her and your dealer struggles to resist the need on her hands to pin you against the passenger seat and lean all over the console to go on and kiss you until you clearly state what you want. no playing around the bushes this time. demand, as her stomach turns, what do you mean by that.

do you want to see her more? that's why you buy three grams and talk to her every three or four days? are you, by any chance, not straight?

“if you want to see me during the week, you might just ask” ellie says mirroring your tone “like you ask to buy weed from me, s’not that hard.”

you’re the one who's nervous now, and she considers on giving you the weed as a gift before you’re paying. loses, you only mean loses in her economy at this point — and it's driving her hella mad when you get out the car and ellie’s left there with the need to have you as closer as you possibly agree to.

silk fabric slipping through her fingers.

the sixth time, ellie decides she's going to do something about it. about her needs. there’s no actual way you’re not flirting with her, the image of you in the passenger seat still sealed freshly on her mind even if it was a week ago, repeating it over and over again — you got her staring at your profile pic, debating if she can or cannot masturbate with the pictures you’ve shared on instagram from spring break in fucking california, liking your post cause it’s the only way she dares to interact, a way of saying she’s there.

in the middle of a saturday night, thinking about you. two in the morning and it’s all fucking you.

she should make up her mind. you’re a good buyer, and she wishes to keep it that way. you don’t ask for later payments, you constantly buy and don't share her number with weirdo friends like everyone else does, you're a reliable source surely: so why does her heart stops in her chest cavity when her phone's buzzing and ellie's reading the name she saved your contact with?

right. her pathetic crush on you.

her fingers move on their own before she considers to delay her response five minutes to seem busy.

she wont charge you double.

shit. it's two in the morning and she's selling you weed driven by the desire to see you again, using this gray hoodie to protects herself from the cold autumn breeze as she's pulling up to this party totally uninvited, passing the open door like it's her own house as zeta phi seems to be fully loaded now as the music sound loud and strident as all her hopes of catching you alone goes to the trash can.

no she’s not going to charge you double, she’s just guilty she’s so into you without you having any idea of it.

where you waiting for her arrival? fuck. her brain is acting up like a backstabbing bitch and ellie cannot help it as you appear radiant under a sea of people. you're not saying a word either when you're lacing your fingers with her's and you're pulling on your dealer upstairs, feet moving on their own as she don't make a single effort to resist your magnet-like influence in her very self.

ellie’s hand are sweaty cause she's so fucking nervous but you don't seem to care about it, looking back at her from over your shoulder only to offer a smile she cannot wrap her head around for a moment.

"can i ask where you're taking me?" she questions you, hoping her voice doesn't sound like that really, so strained and rough from just see you around — "or am i your hostage now?"

"we need a more private space to buy" you state like it's obvious "duh, the rooftop's empty. i stole the key."

ellie should've know you were a walking hazard.

cause it really seems like an achievement when you're opening the rooftop door, mischief grin as you look twice behind your back paranoid as ever someone can see what you're doing; and ellie chuckles at the sudden adventure, how you're closing the door when you invite her to step in with a subtle head movement, quickly shoving the key back to the pocket in your skirt.

cute. she thinks you’re cute.

it's empty like you said, and the knowledge makes every hair on her arms stand on their own even when she's wearing this thick hoodie that protects her from the cold.

"cannot risk my dealer of getting in trouble down there" you explain now that you can talk to her at a decent volume, and she fully eats it even when it's a clear lie and you're making up excuses to get her away from the noise.

"very kind, gonna name you my knight in shinning armor if you keep this up."

you're panting the spot right next to you as you take a seat in the over-used lounge chair with a tiny wooden table in front of it, and like a trained animal, ellie follows cause it's the perfect spot to leave her backpack as her brain keeps buzzing at the name you used to call her seconds before— my dealer.

she is, by all means, your dealer. it makes her chest fill out with a different kind of emotion, sound so fucking intimate, so nice.

"gonna buy the usual three grams, princess?" your knee brushes against her, and ellie's breathing hitches cause you're wearing this black-sheer stockings all the way to your upper thigh and she becomes aware of it when the material slips down as you're seated, skirt raising slightly upwards against the muscles of your legs: one movement and she swears she'd be able to see your underwear and ellie has to once again, remind herself how you quickly reduce her to this behavior; this state, shoved in a sea of pure filth — "or did you just call me because you wanted to see me tonight?"

she's feeling lucky tonight even when she never feels that way, a strike of confidence ellie feels as a rush on the blood: you give her a sight of your legs and now she's all over the damn place? loser behavior.

"is it that obvious?" you want her to kiss you. it's a need that installs deep down in your chest, and if you're not making it obvious by then you're definitely doing it now: you're not straight, you're not bulletproof to the holes her eyes make on your skin every time you have the pleasure to be left alone in her company, you're not giving up on this constant game of seduction you like to play "i'm buying weed too, so coming up here actually matters for you."

"haven't we state that already?" ellie asks, looking up to you as she drinks in the sight of you under the almost invisible light of the stars up in the sky "if you want to see me during the week-"

"might as well just ask" you completed for her as ellie grabs her bag so she can pull your weed from it. the best three grams she has in her power "i know that- thank you."

"it's a gift" she finally dares to say it now — "don't pay me this time."

has she ever felt this way before? never. the overwhelming pull, the reminder you're not her's? stings on ellie's skin like tiny needles. it's not a big deal, once again she's losing money all reckless, but fuck- it's worth it, worth it when ellie see you malfunction for a long moment, brain short-circuiting cause you don't expect it.

"that's not the deal."

"i don't care what our deal is, you're my best client, and i take care of my clients” it’s simple as she says it “sides. the weed does not matter, seeing you was payment already.”

"don't go yet," you add before she's making a movement to get up, hands cold wrapping around her arm as you pull her down to the lounge chair you're so comfortably seated — "smoke with me. let's talk for a while."

and she knows it's dangerous, but you're batting your eyelashes, looking at her with this sly smirk on your face she wants to kiss away and ellie has no option but to stay there buried in your side, your fingers still tight against her arm muscles as you make her stay.

"okay, but i need you to let go of me baby- i can't roll a joint with you all over."

liar.

she just want to see you get all flustered because of her as her fingers swiftly roll a joint without much effort, allowing the smoke to fill the air seconds after before you’re sneezing and she notices how you shiver on her side, turning her face to look back at your pretty face she’s been avoiding to stare so much.

"you cold?" she asks, and you do not want to admit it, but ellie's taking her hoodie off and it's a fucking sight when she's wearing this white tank top she does not care about until she can physically feel the shift of the air between you and her, caught up with your eyes checking her out as she lights up the joint.

"thank you," and for being a stoner, it's smells surprisingly nice as you relish on the warmth of it, comfortable now as you watch her smoke "i'll gave it to you downstairs."

"go home with it. you're going to catch a cold like this."

the silence it's imminent for a moment before she's passing you the joint an you're holding it between your fingers.

"i like your tattoo" is it also an excuse? not really, but ellie's bringing her arm closer to you as she's showing it under the flashlight of her phone cause she likes it too, showoff — "can i touch it?"

any other time she'd be denying it mumbling something stupid about hating random people to go on and touch her scarred arm but you're not a random girl. so she's whispering a barely audibly yes, and your fingertips are tracing the pattern etched on her skin, taking your time in doing so.

"it suits you," you praise as you touch, and she's fucking melting there under simple caresses, under something so simple as your fingers tracing her inked flesh, invisible shapes as you just want to keep your hand on her "did it hurt too much when you got it done?"

"yeah, sort of" it's not really like she's trying to sound cool, in all honest, she's just trying to be coherent now as you keep touching her skin as you smoke. invested in questions she's answering in full auto-pilot.

you're high after a while, and it's her weed that makes you look like that. half lidded, a lazy smile on your lips as you keep talking to her, red eyes, slower than ever: shit. she'd devour you all.

“have you ever shotgunned smoke into someone’s mouth?” you ask curiously, and the question comes out of nowhere as you stare at her blowing the smoke, a warmth creeping upon her neck as she notices the way you’re staring at her, ellie’s blushing.

selling you weed and not be able to get high with you every single time must be named one of the most horrible crimes in humanity.

“when i was like, 17?" ellie replies thinking for a moment "i dunno, thought it was the hottest thing ever- have you?”

“no, not really."

and to be fair, ellie's high too. she's testing a new strain with you and the words roll out of her tongue so easily she has no time to regret it, not when you're looking at her like you want her to get handsy there in a damn lounge chair, to hell if it’s in the middle of nowhere or not.

“want me to do it for you?” she asks, a gentleman as usual “i’ll gladly be the first.”

it takes a moment for you to consider it before your voice is all low and husky — "mhm."

“come here then miss,” ellie says using a finger to call you out, the joint already on her lips before she takes a long drag — “sit on my lap and open your mouth f’me.”

it's devastating.

your weight on top of her, your ass in her leg as she can see again, those transparent sheer stockings that must be damn useless against the cold, and her hand rest on your upper thigh there where she looked before.

you're so obedient. your skirt is a sinful invitation to touch further, and you're parting her mouth for her so she can get closer, and as she smokes, ellie does get closeto you. closer than she’s ever been — more than the car, the bathroom in the party she met you, mere inches before she's shotgunning the smoke in your parted lips and you're smoking from the same weed that was in her lungs.

"17-years-old ellie was right" you reply, not really moving to give her space as ellie's fingers squeeze your leg like a reminder you're there still, sated on your dealer's lap, her hands on you — "it is the hottest thing ever."

it's almost a chronicle of a death foretold, cause ellie's kiss does not surprise you at the slightest. it's demanding and sloppy cause she's high, you're high, and she's a victim of this force she cannot escape near you.

so she keeps on kissing you until your lips are swollen and you're simply there, slowly wanting more, squeezing your legs together cause you don't want to be a slut now — no. you don't want her to know you're soaking over a few kisses, at ellie's fingers pulling on your high stockings down till they are no longer there anymore.

"you're a fucking menace" she says between kisses, breathing heavier now by the seconds: ellie already noticed— "a menace to me, to my weed and my economy, you know that? how you make me sell out my stuff at half the price cause i want you as my secured client?"

despite her words, she's pushing you closer to her so you can feel her rib cage pressed against you, the goosebumps you produce just from being close to her, red lips and messy hair.

"it’s your loss ellie, cause i'd pay for the full price."

"mmhm well shit, you're really lucky cause you do give damn good kisses" she murmurs, fingers toying with the hem of your skirt now and she has the damn audacity to keep on smoking cause she's now confident on her effect, how you’re all affected by her touch — "and if you give damn good kisses, i'm betting all my money that you have an even better pussy for me."

the sounds you're making? fuck. she’s creaming her panties already when you're letting her touch you so freely and it’s not near enough.

"what is it going to be then, huh?" she asks curiously, her mouth already following the path down to your collarbone, your cleavage before she’s taking her time in leaving red-purplish hickeys there hidden beneath her own gray hoodie "should we make it to our seventh selling or you're going to let me play with your needy cunt as a much deserved reward?"

shit. shit. shit. you're so fucking wet when you're parting your legs further apart to give her a nice view of your underwear, a damp spot already there between your legs who’s enough to make her mouth water with the thought of burying her face between your thighs, intoxicate with the smell you're emanating and she feels already under her nose.

good fucking girl. she wants to praise you, let you know you're doing a great job there letting your skirt roll up to your stomach, so easy to get rid of it ellie's sure you did it on purpose now so she can let her hand slip between your legs to feel how soaked you are.

your cunt makes this sound when her finger’s taunting you she just happens to love, and your underwear clings to your pussy lips, hips buckling up to meet her fingers already wanting more.

greedy.

"shh-" she tries to reassure you — "you're comfortable there baby? want you to feel good when i touch you yeah? you'll let me know anything cause you're my well-behaved girl, aren't you? my best client here.”

ellie’s making you shake her head, coaxing you to say out loud you are comfortable there, ass in her lap, spread legs as her fingers push against the fabric right against your entrance, noticing how the cotton soaks at the motion.

"look at you all desperate" she chuckles — "have you been thinking about this a lot like i do?"

her fingers pull on your underwear to the side and there it is: glistening cunt, swollen lips and neglected clit that's just begging to be touched, filled, discovered by her hands, her mouth, tongue. nothing she fucking wants more.

who she is to ever deny anything to you? to stop selling you weed? the joint falls to the ground now as she's using her entire hand to touch you, fingers rubbing against your minor and mayor labia, circling against your engorged clit as you arch your back and she has to use force to keep you still, taking what she has to give like a champ.

"you're fucking soaked-" there's a slap sound that fills the air, and even when there's people in the garden they don't seem to hear your whimpers as her hand comes in contact with your pussy and she's slapping it once again, just enough to apply some pressure in your clit, just enough to make your legs shake "so responsive to me, gonna let me stuff this cunt full tonight? fucking finally huh? you've been haunting me like no one else."

and you giggle, giggle cause you cannot fucking believe it: fucking your dealer? are you so for real right now? you're deep under a cloud of haze you're unable to control, disheveled state when your skirt is all the way to up and your underwear being pulled to the side at her mercy and you can only answer:

"yes- ngh yes please ellie."

"shit- your clit is all puffy baby, all needy for me."

you're squeezing her already so hard when she’s working on you. a wet schlick that fills the air and combined with your incoherent words of praise and moans will send her to the grave.

ellie’s knuckles-deep and fuuuck. you're so tight she needs to ask if you're doing right, cunt engulfing her' fingers until there’s no more and she's curling them right to the spot so you don't care about the drunk fucks in the garden anymore, about anyone who can hear whats going on in an empty rooftop.

ellie’s using a hand to keep your legs spread when your free will collapses like paper cards, pulling them apart only to add a third finger in your used hole and reduce you to pieces now, clenching tight as she rubs on that special spot inside and you're mumbling something about feeling so full, so good with her inside.

"this pussy must be made for me baby, fits me like a fucking glove," ellie’s doubling her efforts, her palm colliding against your clit, fingers thrusting against the right spot over and over — "gonna let me see your pretty face when you cum? i know you're close."

you are. fuck you so are. your movements are erratic, your legs shake, and ellie's kissing on your shoulder, leaving a path of wet kisses on the exposed skin on your neck, biting on your earlobe, anywhere she can get.

"i can't-" you cry out, moving yourself in quick, sharp movements, it’s overwhelming — "fuck i can't hold no more-"

"let go" she replies, holding you tightly against her body — "let go. i got you."

it's hot. messes up ellie's jeans with a damp mark on them, turning the fabric darker when you finally cum and you're gushing on her fingers, leaking through trembling legs.

"fuck yes. drench me like that," your dealer moans, stealing a kiss from your parted lips, keeping the last glimpses of air in your lungs for her benefit "use me, baby, don't stop."

ah. ellie's in trouble after all, cause it don't seem she’ll be selling weed to you now. not when she's mixing business with pleasure and she's making you bend against the top rail of the old lounge chair cause she's not able to wait any longer to lick you clean until you have no other choice but to cum again.

truth be told she once heard cupid's cruel, but she didn't believe it fully, not until now since ellie knows, first hand — the little fucker shoots to kill.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝟽:𝟷𝟸 𝚊𝚖 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which paige thought you'd never look up

It was quiet in a way Paige wasn’t used to.

Not the kind of silence that buzzed in the background of a UConn locker room after a tough loss. Not the kind that blanketed a gym when the lights shut off and sneakers stopped squeaking. This was a softer quiet. A private kind. The kind that came with early mornings and fresh starts, with unpacked boxes and unfamiliar streets. The kind that reminded you that you were alone, but not necessarily lonely.

Paige sipped her coffee—black, a little too bitter—and leaned her elbows on the black iron railing of her third-floor balcony. The mug was warm against her palms, grounding. Below her, Dallas slowly stretched itself awake. Cars hummed lazily down the street. A man walked his dog, leash slack. Somewhere down the block, someone opened a café, the smell of bread and espresso sneaking its way into the breeze. A city in motion.

You.

You didn’t make a sound when you entered her frame of view. You didn’t even look up. Paige hadn’t seen you coming until you were already halfway down the block, your ponytail swaying behind you, earbuds in, tank top clinging to skin that looked golden in the rising sun.

She blinked. The mug halted halfway to her lips.

Who the hell…?

You weren’t jogging. You were gliding. Effortless. Focused. There was something about you—something sharp and soft at once. Something about the way your hands curled into loose fists and your gaze stayed forward, like the world was too big to pause for.

Paige turned slightly, leaning over the railing, trying not to seem too obvious, tracking your path as you disappeared past the edge of the complex. You never looked up. You never noticed her.

But she noticed you.

She watched the street for five more minutes after you vanished, but it felt like the air had shifted. Like you’d taken something with you. The corner of her mouth lifted, just barely.

“I should’ve said hi,” she muttered to herself, though she knew that would’ve been weird. Creepy, even. Still, the thought stuck.

The next morning, Paige was back on the balcony.

Same coffee. Same mug. Same city waking up.

She told herself she just liked the view. That it helped her start the day with a clear head. That it had nothing to do with you.

She didn’t expect to see you again.

But like clockwork—there you were.

This time she noticed the way your breathing was steady. The way your eyes flicked briefly to the trees overhead, like you were admiring the light that filtered through. The way your lashes caught the sunlight. Paige tried not to stare. Failed. You were mesmerizing.

You didn’t look up. You passed, just as fast as the first time, and were gone again.

Paige set her coffee down and leaned on the railing with both arms.

Who were you?

Some part of her wanted to yell down. To say something stupid like, “Hey! Want coffee?” Or maybe not stupid. Maybe bold. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t even know she was there.

By the fourth morning, Paige wasn’t pretending anymore.

She was out there ten minutes earlier than usual, hair damp from a rushed shower, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. She didn’t even care that the coffee was too hot to drink yet. She was just waiting.

And when you came into view—sweat glistening along your temple, your brow furrowed in concentration—Paige felt something shift in her chest. You were so consistent. So focused. Like the rest of the world fell away every time your sneakers hit the pavement.

Paige wondered what music you listened to. What your name was. What your voice sounded like when you laughed.

She wondered if you’d ever notice her. She hoped you would.

It became a rhythm.

Wake up. Coffee. Balcony. You.

Sometimes Paige would pretend she wasn’t watching. She’d glance down at her phone or scroll through a playbook Coach sent her the night before. But her eyes always found you. Always.

One morning, she caught herself smiling before you even arrived.

Another day, she forgot to sip her coffee until it was cold.

Once, you slowed to stretch just past her complex, hands on your hips, one foot out in front. Paige sat frozen, heart in her throat, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers adjusted your waistband, the way your gaze swept lazily across the street.

Your eyes flicked up. Not at her balcony. Not quite. But close.

Paige’s heart nearly stopped.

She ducked her head, instantly self-conscious.

Get a grip, Bueckers. You didn’t even know she existed. But the possibility—however small—lingered in her chest like a spark waiting for air.

That night, Paige lay in bed, her ceiling fan spinning shadows across the ceiling. She thought about the WNBA, the press, the weight of everything ahead. But mostly she thought about you.

The girl with sunlit skin and a morning ritual.

The girl who didn’t even know her.

Yet.

A week passed.

Seven mornings. Seven runs. Seven quiet moments where Paige didn’t even know your name, but could tell you always tied your left shoe tighter than your right. That you sometimes ran with your hoodie up when the wind picked up. That you stopped at the same crosswalk two blocks down and lightly tapped your thigh while you waited for the light to change.

She noticed everything. The smallest patterns. The ones only someone watching too closely would catch.

It scared her a little.

Because she wasn’t used to watching. Paige Bueckers had always been the one people watched. On the court. In interviews. Walking down campus sidewalks. But now—she sat in silence on her narrow balcony, not even breathing sometimes, afraid the sound of her inhale would somehow spook the magic away.

And you—you were never late. Not once.

By the eighth morning, Paige was talking to you in her head.

“Hey, good morning.” “You always run this early?” “Do you stretch before or after?” “I’m Paige, by the way.”

The words curled inside her mouth, unspoken and restless. She imagined saying them every time you passed. Imagined what you'd say back. If you’d even hear her. If you'd smile.

But she never called out.

There was something sacred about it—the not-knowing. The distance. The tension suspended in the stillness between two strangers who orbit each other without touch. Something about the way Paige didn’t have to be Paige Bueckers out here. She was just a girl on a balcony, falling for someone she hadn’t even met.

She started dressing differently.

Less hoodie, more intention. A cropped UConn shirt here. A clean low ponytail there. Some mornings, she changed twice before you arrived—pretending she didn’t care what she looked like, even though she’d just spent fifteen minutes debating if her sweat shorts made her look like she hadn’t slept or like she had effortless charm.

She Googled morning running routes in Dallas, wondering where you started. Where you ended. If she could walk out her front door, take a left, and bump into you at the trailhead.

But that would ruin it, wouldn’t it?

There was something beautiful about this invisible string. Something gentle in the ache of almost.

One morning, you stopped.

Paige nearly dropped her coffee.

You were at the edge of the block, where the sidewalk narrowed under a crooked oak tree. Your foot twisted slightly, just enough to make you wince. You paused, leaning down, fingers tracing your ankle. Paige’s stomach twisted.

You looked up.

Not at her. But close.

And for the first time—Paige saw your face fully.

The high cheekbones. The slight furrow of your brow. The bare, natural curve of your mouth. The sunlight made a halo out of your hair. You blinked a few times, stood slowly, then shook it off. You started running again.

Paige sat there breathless, staring at the empty street long after you were gone.

She replayed that wince in her head all day.

The next morning, Paige was early again.

Too early. The street was empty. She waited anyway.

When you came into view—finally, like a reward—you were slower than usual. More careful with your stride. Paige leaned forward instinctively. Watching. Worried.

She wanted to yell, “Hey, are you okay?”

But still—she said nothing.

You ran by. Your pace light. Focused. Careful.

And just before you vanished down the block, you looked up.

Not fully. Not long.

But your eyes flicked upward. Just for a second. Toward the building.

Toward her balcony.

Paige froze.

Was that…? Had you…? Had you seen her?

She stood up so fast she nearly kicked her coffee off the table. She stepped back inside her apartment, heart pounding.

Was she imagining it? Had the heat gotten to her?

She paced.

Hands on her hips, she ran through the moment again. The angle of your gaze. The soft tension in your mouth. The flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?

You had to have seen her. You had to.

And yet—nothing changed.

No wave. No smile. No pause.

Just one look. A flick of your gaze and the sound of Paige’s pulse hammering in her ears.

She sat back down.

And the next morning—she waited all over again.

She wasn’t following you.

She swore to herself that she wasn’t. This wasn’t a “plan.” She didn’t scroll Maps at 2AM the night before, cross-referencing her own apartment with every cafe in a three-mile radius. She didn’t purposely lace up her sneakers and walk three blocks farther than she needed to because she’d seen you pause at the corner earlier that morning, staring into the window of a place called Oak & Ivy.

She didn’t.

Except… she did.

But only because she wanted a chai latte.

Okay, and maybe because something about this particular Tuesday afternoon felt heavy with possibility.

Oak & Ivy was small, warm. The kind of place with low music, local art on the walls, and a chalkboard menu that looked handwritten daily. Paige stepped inside and immediately felt underdressed. Not in clothes—she had on her usual Wings hoodie, joggers, hair in a bun—but in presence. This was a soft-space, a world of whispered conversation and clinking mugs. Her world had always been louder.

There you were.

Back left corner. One leg crossed over the other, a half-drunk iced drink sweating onto the wooden table beside your phone. You had a book open, thumb tucked into the spine. A pair of glasses perched on your nose that Paige had never seen during your runs.

She almost walked out.

It was instinct—like her body recoiled at the idea of this being too real. For weeks she’d seen you in motion. Clean, safe, faraway. But here you were now, real and still and close enough that she could see the softness in your eyelashes and the way you tugged the sleeve of your sweatshirt when you turned a page.

Paige stood frozen near the register. The barista gave her a once-over and asked, “Can I help you?”

Her brain stalled.

You can help me by rewinding the last 60 seconds so I can pretend I didn’t see her and save myself from cardiac arrest.

“Yeah, uh… chai latte. Iced. Please.”

She tried to speak in a lower voice, just in case you might recognize her name when it was called. But the barista had already written Paige on the side of the cup. Sharp black ink. No hiding now.

She stepped to the waiting area.

Didn’t look at you.

Tried not to.

Failed.

You flipped another page. Took a sip. Adjusted your hair behind one ear.

Paige’s stomach twisted. You were right there. Right there. Not running. Not passing by. Not a blur of sunlight and skin. Just… present.

She stared at the drink fridge for a full minute just to avoid staring at you.

What would she even say?

“Hi, I’ve been watching you run past my building every morning and you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and I think I know the rhythm of your breathing better than my own now?”

Yeah. No. Immediate restraining order.

She tapped her foot. Adjusted the sleeves of her hoodie. Checked her phone even though no one had texted her. And when the barista finally called her name—clear, bright, “Paige!”—she winced.

You looked up.

Just briefly. Just a flicker.

Your gaze skimmed across the cafe. Passed over the counter. Lingered for half a second on her.

Paige tried to act normal. Which meant grabbing her drink too quickly and nearly knocking over the basket of paper straws.

Smooth.

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she turned—heading for the door like it was the finish line of a nightmare and a dream at the same time. But just before she reached it, she looked back.

You were watching her.

Not hard. Not long. Just… watching. Curious. Calm.

You met her eyes. Gave the softest nod.

Paige’s heart flatlined.

She pushed open the door, stepped into the sun, and nearly screamed into the sky.

The moment haunted her.

Not in a bad way. In the kind of way that you replay, frame by frame, every time your thoughts go quiet. The way you tilted your head just slightly when you looked at her. The way your lips parted like maybe—maybe—you were going to say something.

And now you had a voice in her head. A nod was all it took.

That night, Paige lay on her couch in the dark. The city buzzed faintly outside. Her iced chai sat half-drunk on the coffee table. Her eyes never left the ceiling.

She didn’t talk to you.

But she’d been in the same room as you.

That was something.

That was everything.

The next morning, the city felt louder.

Not in actual volume, but in texture. Every movement felt like it meant more. Like the hum of traffic was heavier. The birdsong too sharp. The scrape of ceramic against the railing as Paige set down her coffee mug made her wince like a sound tech wearing headphones turned up too high.

She was wired. Buzzing.

All because you had looked at her.

All because you had seen her.

Not in passing. Not as a blur while running. Not a flicker in the corner of your eye as you paused under that oak tree.

Yesterday, you had looked at her across a quiet coffee shop, and your eyes had stopped. Just for a second. But they had stopped. On her.

And… you nodded.

A single motion. Barely more than a breath. But it had wrecked her sleep like a freight train through silence.

Paige hadn’t stopped replaying it. The angle of your jaw. The curl of your fingers around the straw. The curve of your lip like you might’ve said something if you were braver. But she wasn’t brave either. Not yet.

She sat on her balcony now, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, coffee untouched beside her. The sun hadn’t even broken through the cloud cover yet, but she was already waiting.

She told herself she didn’t know if you’d still run today. Maybe you’d gone out earlier. Maybe you were sore. Maybe you didn’t want to see her. Maybe that nod hadn’t meant anything. Maybe it was just… polite.

But Paige’s body didn’t believe any of those excuses. Her body leaned forward, heart ticking too loud, eyes scanning the sidewalk like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

Then she sees you.

Same rhythm. Same ponytail. But something was different.

You were in black leggings instead of your usual navy ones. Your headphones were in, but one was slightly popped loose. Your steps weren’t rushed—they were intentional. Confident. Controlled.

And—God help her—you were glowing.

She sucked in a breath.

Her hand twitched like she might wave.

She didn’t.

But as you passed her building, your eyes flicked upward.

Deliberately. Directly.

Paige’s heart stopped.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t slow. You didn’t speak.

But your eyes met hers for a second longer than any stranger’s should.

It was intentional.

It was acknowledgment.

It was everything.

And then, just like always, you were gone. Down the block. Around the corner.

Paige leaned back in her chair, exhaled, and realized she was trembling.

You’d looked up.

On purpose.

You knew she watched you now.

And you’d let her.

She didn’t go back inside right away. She sat there until her coffee went cold and the sun climbed higher and the world grew louder and more awake.

But inside, Paige felt something else blooming.

The tension wasn’t sharp anymore. It was alive. A heartbeat between them. A question that didn’t ache as much as it dared.

Saturday wasn’t supposed to matter.

Saturday was for errands. For sleep. For tossing her laundry in the washer and forgetting it for three hours. For clipping her hair up in a claw clip and pulling on whatever hoodie didn’t smell like gym socks. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t dramatic.

It certainly wasn’t romantic.

But here she was—standing in the middle of the produce section at Central Market, staring blankly at a wall of avocados and absolutely failing to remember what she came in for.

Because you were here.

You.

Three feet to her left, browsing the citrus section like you hadn’t just broken her brain for the fifteenth time this month.

You were real.

Not just morning-light real. Not balcony-real. Not coffee-shop-shadowed real. You were sweats and baseball cap and canvas tote bag real. Hair tied up. No makeup. Phone tucked into your pocket. And God, Paige thought you were beautiful when you ran, but this—this wrecked her.

There was something vulnerable about seeing someone in a grocery store. Something naked about it. No pretense. No performance. Just oranges and lists and decisions.

She couldn’t breathe.

She turned her cart sharply, pretending to examine a pile of organic kale she didn’t want. Her heart thudded against her ribs like it was trying to escape. Her fingers clutched the cart handle a little too tight. Her mind scrambled.

Leave. Just leave. You got your oat milk. That’s enough human interaction for one day.

But she couldn’t.

She peeked sideways.

You were holding a grapefruit now, inspecting it like it owed you answers. Paige could see the way your brows knitted in slight concentration, how your thumb gently brushed across the peel. You looked like you were somewhere else in your head.

“Hey.”

The word came soft. Unassuming.

Not directed at her.

You were talking to the guy beside you. A worker. Asking if they had more of something in the back. Your voice was softer than she imagined. Smoother. Familiar and brand new all at once.

Paige didn’t know why that made her feel like sitting down on the floor.

She ducked her head, wheeled around the opposite end of the display, and made a beeline for the granola aisle like it was a damn emergency.

She stared at the cereal boxes.

Didn’t read them. Just stared.

“You didn’t see me”, she told herself. “You didn’t. Please don’t.”

She turned her back to the entrance of the aisle. Counted to ten. Tried to slow her breathing. Tried to remember who she was. A basketball player. A grown adult. Not someone who panicked at the sight of a girl holding fruit.

She heard your voice again.

Closer.

A soft laugh this time.

She held her breath.

Your footsteps passed. Faded.

She turned.

You were walking toward the refrigerated section, casually tossing a baguette into your tote. Completely unaware.

Or… maybe not.

As you rounded the corner, you glanced over your shoulder. Just a bit. Just enough.

Paige caught your eyes.

And this time—you smiled.

Not huge. Not dramatic.

Just the corner of your mouth, pulling upward like a shared joke only one of you had the nerve to say out loud.

Paige felt her face flush instantly. She gave the most awkward nod in the history of nods. It was barely a movement. Her neck betrayed her.

You were gone again.

Like always.

She finished her shopping on autopilot. She didn’t see you again, but you were everywhere. In the smell of lemons. In the warmth left behind in the aisle where you’d stood. In her reflection on the sliding glass doors as she left the store, heart spinning.

She didn’t even remember to grab the oat milk.

The morning light had changed.

It wasn’t just the sun—it was something in the air. A shift so subtle it couldn’t be explained. Paige felt it in her skin before her feet hit the floor. She brushed her teeth with one hand on the counter, staring at her reflection like it might answer the question she hadn’t asked out loud.

What the hell are we doing?

Because it had gone on long enough now.

Not the watching. That was still hers—her little ritual of silence and caffeine and breathlessness. But now it was yours, too.

You looked up every time you passed. Sometimes a nod. Sometimes a smirk. Once, when she was mid-sip and caught off guard, you winked.

She choked. Actually choked. Spilled coffee on her shorts. You didn’t see the aftermath, but she spent the next fifteen minutes pacing inside her apartment, praying to the gods of charisma to get it together.

But neither of you spoke. Not yet.

She was back on the balcony.

She’d picked a different hoodie this time—cleaner, softer, a pale blue that looked better with her eyes (not that you were close enough to see her eyes… probably… but still). Her hair was braided this morning, one long rope over her shoulder. Her coffee steamed beside her, untouched.

There you were.

She could sense you before she saw you. There was a rhythm to your stride now that matched something in her. Paige swore the sidewalk quieted beneath your feet.

You turned the corner. She leaned forward—just slightly. Like her body was answering a question her mind hadn’t dared ask.

And you looked up. Of course you did.

But this time, you slowed.

Not a full stop. Not dramatic.

But noticeable.

A change.

A message.

Your gaze locked with hers—firm, deliberate. Like a string pulled tight across the distance between you. And Paige—God help her—she smiled. She didn’t plan it. It just broke across her face like light through glass.

You smiled back.

But you did something new.

You raised a hand. Just slightly. A wave. Not small. Not hesitant. A real one.

Paige’s heart burst in her chest. She lifted her hand. Waved back.

It was absurdly simple. But it felt like a tectonic shift.

You ran on.

She didn’t breathe for five full seconds. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

And when she finally exhaled, it was a laugh. A disbelieving, giddy, shoulder-shaking laugh that curled up from her gut and warmed every cold morning she’d ever spent on that balcony.

The text from her teammate came an hour later.

Nai: u high off caffeine or something? why u smiling at nothing during film?

Paige didn’t answer. She couldn’t explain it. Not yet.

That night, Paige sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling through her camera roll. She stopped on a photo of the skyline she’d taken the day she moved in. She’d captioned it new city. fresh start.

She never expected that “fresh start” to come in the form of a stranger on a sidewalk.

A stranger with a smile that lingered like a song she hadn’t heard in years but somehow still knew all the words to.

She didn’t know your name. But she was sure of something now.

You knew hers.

Paige hadn’t meant to be out this long.

What was supposed to be a quick walk—just to get out of her apartment, clear her head, stop watching game tape for five minutes—had turned into a full-on wandering session. She didn’t have a destination. No headphones, no purpose. Just her hoodie, her keys, and the sun warm on her shoulders.

It had been one of those weeks. Rough practice. Minor ankle tweak. Restless sleep. Her head was cluttered with noise she couldn’t sort through.

Until she saw you.

Sitting alone.

On the edge of a public fountain three blocks from her place. A small plaza she’d passed a dozen times but never really looked at.

You were… just sitting there.

Not running. Not passing. Not in motion at all.

You had your legs folded up on the edge, chin in your palm, eyes squinting slightly at the sun. Your phone was beside you, but you weren’t on it. You looked peaceful. Focused. Your other hand held a half-full water bottle, which you slowly tilted in your palm like you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Paige stopped walking before her brain caught up.

She felt it in her chest first—that quick burst of recognition, followed immediately by panic. Not panic like fear, but panic like a wave crashing inside her ribs. A sudden, chaotic awareness of how unprepared she was to see you outside the ritual.

No ponytail. No sports bra. No earbuds. Just… you. Sitting. Still.

She hesitated on the sidewalk, frozen halfway between turn around right now and say something.

You looked up.

The second your eyes found hers, Paige forgot how to breathe.

She watched your brows rise—subtle, surprised. But not unpleasant.

You smiled. Not the small, passing kind. This one was slower. Real. It unfolded like you meant it. Like seeing her here, outside the script, was good.

She gave a soft wave.

It felt different this time. More vulnerable somehow.

You tilted your head.

“You stalking me?” you asked.

Your voice.

She’d only heard it once before—in the grocery store, directed at someone else. But now, it was aimed at her. Direct. Dry. Teasing.

Paige blinked.

You smiled wider. “You don’t have to look so scared.”

“I’m not scared,” she said too quickly. Then cleared her throat. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You nodded toward the open fountain ledge beside you. “You can sit. If you want.”

Her brain paused. Screamed. Rebooted.

She sat.

Carefully. Casually, she hoped. Arms rested on her knees. Close enough to feel your presence. Far enough not to intrude.

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just took another sip of your water. Looked up at the trees rustling overhead.

Paige felt like the whole city had gone quiet.

And then you glanced at her again. “You always sit on balconies and silently watch women run by, or is that just, like, a Dallas thing?”

She laughed. Out loud.

A bright, honest, caught kind of laugh that made her bury her face in her hands for a second.

“God,” she muttered. “I swear I’m not creepy.”

“Mm.” You raised a brow. “You did start waving at some random stranger from above like a Victorian ghost.”

“I’m—okay. That’s fair.”

You smiled again.

“So,” you said. “What’s your name, Balcony Girl?”

“Paige.”

You nodded. “Nice to meet you, Paige.”

The silence that followed was easier now.

Not loaded. Not shy.

Just a pause. A breath.

Paige looked at you sideways. “And your name?”

You smirked. “Guess you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Paige was up before her alarm.

No snooze button. No dragging her feet. No thirty-minute battle with her pillow before rolling out of bed. She was up and moving—messy bun, mismatched socks, hoodie half-zipped—like muscle memory had already decided that today matters.

The morning was still. The sky hadn’t shaken off its blue-grey yet. A light breeze danced through the street, cool against her legs as she stepped out onto the balcony, coffee warming both palms.

She leaned against the railing. Same spot. Same view. But nothing about it felt the same.

Because now, she knew your name.

Not literally—not yet.

But she knew your voice. She knew your laugh. She knew the way you raised an eyebrow when you teased her like it was second nature.

And most of all, she knew you’d noticed her. Not just as some figure on a balcony or a flash of recognition in a coffee shop. You’d spoken to her. You’d invited her to sit. You’d made her laugh, called her Balcony Girl, and then disappeared again—just enough mystery to make her stomach flip when she thought about it.

She waited now, but not nervously. Not obsessively.

She waited like someone who expected you.

When you appeared—just like always, at the edge of the block—it was like the entire street shifted into color.

You weren’t running hard this morning. Just a jog. Your pace was light, easy. Your hair was down today, in a low braid that bounced behind your back with every step. You had a new sweatshirt on—navy with faded white letters—and Paige squinted, trying to read it.

You looked up.

Eyes locked instantly.

And this time, when Paige waved, it wasn’t cautious.

It was hers.

Bright. Confident. Familiar.

You grinned mid-run—real and wide—and lifted your hand in return. The motion wasn’t slow or teasing or halfway. It was excited. Like waving at someone you were actually happy to see.

You didn’t stop. You kept running. But just before you turned the corner, you shouted up, “See you tomorrow, Balcony Girl.”

Paige blinked, stunned.

“Wait—hey! You still didn’t tell me your name!”

You were already disappearing around the building, your laugh echoing faintly down the street.

She stood there for a long moment after.

Grinning.

Speechless.

A little wrecked in the best possible way.

Later that morning, she texted Dijonai again.

Paige: okay so hypothetically if you were falling for someone you haven’t technically dated yet but they’ve called you ‘balcony girl’ twice… what does that mean

Nai: it means ur gone

Nai: rip to paige. we knew her well.

Paige sat on the couch, still smiling like an idiot. She pulled her knees up to her chest, coffee forgotten beside her. The street below buzzed like any other day.

But she wasn’t watching a stranger anymore.

She was watching you.

And tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

She didn’t make coffee that morning.

Didn’t even step onto the balcony.

She couldn’t.

Because today, Paige wasn’t watching.

She was waiting.

Her heart thudded in her chest like it hadn’t since her first college start, like something was about to begin—but she wasn’t holding a ball this time. She was just holding her breath.

And a water bottle.

Because if you’re going to wait outside your building for a girl you’ve only technically spoken to once, the least you can do is pretend you’re doing something athletic.

She shifted from foot to foot in the crisp morning air. No headphones. No distractions. Just her hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles and her eyes scanning the sidewalk like she was trying to find the exact place you’d appear.

There you were.

Right on cue.

You rounded the block, braid swinging, cheeks flushed with the kind of early sun that made everything look a little more golden than it really was.

You slowed the second you saw her.

Eyes narrowed. Smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Look who decided to join the ground dwellers,” you called out between breaths.

Paige smiled. “I thought I’d try this thing where I don’t watch people from above like I’m in You.”

You laughed softly, coming to a gradual stop right in front of her.

Close now.

She could see the freckles on your nose. The sweat gathering at your temple. The way your chest rose and fell with the tail end of your run. You looked even better up close. Real. Breathless. Effortless.

“You waiting for someone?” you asked, teasing but warm.

She shrugged, casual. “Kinda hoping you’d show up.”

You smirked. “Guess I’m predictable.”

“No,” Paige said, before she could help herself. “You’re… constant.”

The word settled between you. Heavier than she meant it to be. Truer, too.

Your smile softened. You looked down at your shoes for a second, then back up. “You always say things like that?”

“Only when I’m nervous.”

You raised a brow. “You’re nervous?”

“A little.” A pause. “Okay, a lot.”

You took a step forward. Close enough that Paige could smell the citrus tang of your body wash. “You don’t have to be,” you said, your voice softer now. “I don’t bite.”

“Good to know.”

“But I do like messing with you.”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “I figured that out somewhere around ‘Victorian ghost.’”

A beat passed. And then—finally—you offered your hand.

You said your name. Simple. Like a secret finally shared.

Paige reached out without hesitation, taking your hand in hers.

Warm. Steady.

“I’m Paige,” she said again, even though you already knew. She wanted to hear it in this moment, between you. Not from interviews. Not from Google. Just here. Just her.

“I know. You told me last time,” you replied with a smile. “And you’re kind of hard to miss.”

You let your hands linger in that shake a little longer than necessary.

And neither of you pulled away first.

The run was over.

But Paige hadn’t gone back upstairs.

You hadn’t sprinted off.

Instead, you slowed to a walk beside her, gently bouncing on your heels to ease the tension in your calves, your shirt clinging slightly to your back. The early sun had started to climb, but the street was still quiet, shaded with lingering spring cool.

You didn’t say much at first.

Just that you always ran a five-mile loop. That you usually stopped for smoothies after, two blocks over at a tiny place Paige had never even noticed.

“Best in Dallas,” you’d said, casually. “And no one’s ever in there.”

And somehow—without needing to ask—Paige was walking there with you.

The smoothie shop was tucked into the corner of an old strip with weathered signage and murals of fruits that looked like they hadn’t been touched up since 2012. You pushed the door open with your shoulder like you’d done it a hundred times before. Paige followed close behind, the bell above the door jingling softly.

The inside smelled like mango and bleach. Neon chalkboard menus lined the wall. You didn’t look—you already knew your order.

Paige glanced at the options, overwhelmed.

“What’s good?” she asked.

You leaned close, eyes flicking over the board. “Mango pineapple with extra ginger. Trust me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Ginger?”

“It bites back. You’ll like it.”

You turned to the employee—who barely looked up—and ordered yours like it was routine. Then you waited beside her while she stumbled through hers, still skeptical about the ginger.

When you both sat down by the fogged-up front window with your plastic cups sweating between your palms, the silence stretched for just a beat too long.

And then you sipped and nodded, pleased.

Paige did the same. Her face twisted.

You grinned. “Too much?”

“No,” she coughed. “It’s good. Just… assertive.”

“Like me,” you said, grinning wider.

Paige rolled her eyes, laughing. “Unbelievable.”

But she was smiling now. Less guarded. Her shoulders looser. The tension from the balcony days melting into something brighter. Warmer.

You rested your cheek on your hand. “So… how long were you gonna keep watching me from your balcony before saying something?”

She blushed. “Forever, probably.”

“I figured. You had that socially capable but emotionally repressed look about you.”

“That’s… incredibly accurate.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, “I liked it.”

Paige swallowed around a smile and a sip of smoothie. “So, you noticed me?”

You gave her a look like duh. “You’re tall. You have a balcony. You waved. Kind of hard to miss.”

“Still. I wasn’t sure.”

“You were consistent,” you said simply. “And cute.”

That shut her up.

For about five seconds.

“I thought you didn’t bite?”

“I don’t,” you smirked. “But I do flirt.”

You both laughed, heads tipping toward each other naturally. The smoothie cups sat mostly untouched now, condensation dripping down the sides like your fingers had forgotten about them entirely.

When you both stepped back out into the sunlight, Paige felt something settle in her chest.

Not nerves.

Not longing.

Just… peace.

You walked beside her again. No destination. No expectation.

And before you split off at the corner—before you jogged backward for a few feet with a casual, “See you tomorrow?”—you nudged her shoulder lightly with yours.

Not too much. Just enough to let her know the world had shifted again.

Paige nodded, lips tugging upward.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed, voice warm.

And for once, it didn’t feel like watching anymore.

It felt like beginning.

The invitation hadn’t come casually.

It took Paige three days to work up the courage.

Not because she didn’t want you there. She did—more than anything. But because it wasn’t just asking you to watch her play. It was letting you see her under the lights, in her element, where her name echoed over loudspeakers and strangers wore her jersey. It was one thing to wave from a balcony. Another to stand on a court in front of ten thousand people, knowing you were somewhere in the front row.

Somehow, it felt more vulnerable than all the mornings combined.

She hadn’t asked for your number. That still felt too soon, too sharp. But she knew you always ran the same route. Always stopped. Always passed her building right around 7:12 every morning.

So that’s where she waited.

This time, not with coffee.

Not from above.

But outside. Hoodie on. Bag slung over her shoulder. Nervous energy curling around her fingers.

She heard you before she saw you—your sneakers scuffing lightly against the pavement, your low hum to whatever song played in your earbuds.

And then there you were.

You slowed the moment your eyes met hers. A little surprised. A little delighted.

“You’re not usually here this time of day,” you said, breath caught mid-stride.

“I was waiting.”

Your brow lifted. “For me?”

Paige grinned, a little bashful. “Well, yeah. I, uh… I have a game tonight.”

You crossed your arms playfully. “Let me guess—you’re kind of a big deal?”

She laughed. “Only on Tuesdays.”

You tilted your head, studying her. “So… why tell me?”

Paige pulled a sleek, laminated ticket from her hoodie pocket and held it out. Court side. One seat. Your name written in block letters on a sticky note pressed to the top.

“I thought maybe you’d want to come,” she said, softer now. “If you’re free.”

You blinked.

“Wait—how did you even get my name?”

“You said it last week. At the fountain,” Paige said, smiling. “I wrote it down on a napkin as soon as I got home. Just in case.”

That made you laugh. A little startled. A lot charmed.

“You’ve been carrying that around?”

“Like a complete loser, yeah.”

You took the ticket gently, reading the seat info, lips parting slightly. “Court side?”

Paige rubbed the back of her neck. “Like I said… kind of a big deal.”

You looked at her for a long moment. And then, quietly, “You want me to see you.”

It wasn’t a question. It was truth.

Paige nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Something passed between you then—gentle, slow, sure. Like gravity. Like all those mornings on the balcony had only ever been the prelude to this.

You smiled.

“I’ll be there.”

Hours later, when the lights rose and the anthem faded, Paige stood on the sideline, heart hammering harder than it should have for a regular-season game.

Her eyes scanned the court side seats.

And there you were—smiling, hoodie zipped, knees tucked under your seat, hands wrapped around a drink you probably didn’t even like.

When you waved, Paige forgot the noise. When you mouthed, good luck, she swore it echoed louder than the crowd.

She played with fire in her chest that night.

Sharp. Clear. Blazing.

Because you were watching now.

And Paige had never wanted to impress anyone more in her life.

The lights were brighter tonight.

Maybe it was just the adrenaline. Maybe it was the packed house. But for Paige, it was you.

You, sitting court side in her world.

In a hoodie she didn’t recognize. Legs crossed, head tilted, your eyes tracking her every move. Your body language was calm, casual — like you belonged there.

And maybe you didn’t realize it yet, but to Paige? You absolutely did.

Warmups were different.

Her layups were smoother, sharper. Her handle was a little more flashy than usual — just enough sauce on a behind-the-back to make her teammates raise their brows like, Okay, Bueckers.

She didn’t care.

She glanced over her shoulder after every made shot.

And each time she saw you still watching, still there, still smiling — it lit her up like a floodlight inside.

By tip-off, Paige was already humming.

She didn’t start the game with a pass. She started it with a pull-up three.

Net. No hesitation.

The crowd roared, but her eyes flicked down to you.

You mouthed something. She thought it was damn.

She grinned.

A fast break. She weaved through defenders, long strides and perfect timing. A no-look pass to Arike for the finish.

Arike smacked her shoulder as they jogged back down the court. “You good, Bueckers?”

“Great,” Paige said, breathless.

Her eyes found you again. You were laughing at something someone next to you said, but you looked back just in time to catch her staring.

You didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

Timeout.

Coach was drawing something on the clipboard. Paige was half-listening. Her towel was draped around her neck, her chest rising and falling fast. Sweat clung to her temple.

And still… she looked for you.

You were leaning forward now, elbows on your knees, eyes sharp.

Dialed in.

Seeing you watch her like this — not like a curiosity or a habit, but like someone invested — it rewired something in Paige’s body.

She stood, shook out her legs, and checked back in without a word.

The next possession, she went full showtime.

Spin move. Hesitation. Crossover.

Stepback jumper from the elbow.

The defender reached — missed — and Paige let it fly.

Net. Again.

But she didn’t celebrate.

She didn’t throw her arms up. She didn’t beat her chest.

She just… turned. Jogged backward.

And looked straight at you.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth — one only you saw. One for you.

You shook your head like what the hell is she doing to me, and she felt her entire bloodstream flood with heat.

Fourth quarter. Wings up by six.

Paige was loose now. Every cut precise, every pass threaded like needlework. She wasn’t showboating — but she was playing with intention.

Like every move had your name on it.

She wanted you to see her. Not just the girl on the balcony. Not just the girl on the sidewalk. But this version — sharp, focused, in command of everything around her.

You saw her.

And when she hit her final bucket — a dagger three with a minute and a half left — she didn’t even watch the ball go in.

She turned before it landed, eyes locked on you.

You were on your feet. Clapping. Laughing. Glowing.

And Paige felt like she could’ve floated all the way home.

The second the buzzer rang, Paige didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t follow the team toward the bench. She didn’t stop for the high-five line. She didn’t glance at the scoreboard or the cameras closing in on the Wings’ star player with their lenses hungry and waiting.

Instead, she walked directly to you.

You were still standing in the front row, tucked just behind the barrier, a little stunned by the intensity of her performance. You looked flushed from the noise, from the weight of the crowd around you. But your smile—God, your smile was steady.

She stepped around the bench. Past security. Past the media. Her sneakers squeaked slightly as she moved across the hardwood, ponytail damp against the back of her neck, heart beating louder than the arena.

Your eyes caught hers.

And then you laughed—soft and startled—because she didn’t stop walking.

“Hi,” she said, breathless.

“Hi yourself,” you said, grinning. “What the hell was that performance?”

Paige leaned one elbow on the scorer’s table and shrugged. “Felt like showing off a little.”

“For who?” you teased, clearly knowing the answer.

She tilted her head, like the answer was obvious. “You.”

You blinked. That smile tugged at your mouth again, the one that unraveled her from twenty feet away. And then—just slightly—you held up the sticky note she’d left on the court side ticket. Her handwriting, still there.

Thought maybe you’d want to come.

“I did,” you said. “I really did.”

Paige reached out. Not dramatically. Not like a grand romantic gesture. Just… easy. Familiar. Her fingers wrapped gently around your wrist.

“Walk with me?” she asked.

You didn’t answer with words. You just stepped over the small barrier and followed her, like you were always meant to.

The tunnel was cooler than the court, lit in long, clinical strips of white light. But Paige didn’t feel the chill. Not with your hand brushing hers, not with your footsteps echoing beside her in rhythm like they always had—just on pavement instead of hardwood this time.

“You were ridiculous out there,” you murmured. “Seriously. Spin moves? Step backs?”

“Too much?” she asked.

“Kind of unfair, actually.”

She smiled, glancing sideways. “You make me want to be unfair.”

You bumped her shoulder. “Is that your game-day flirting voice?”

“This is my every day flirting voice,” Paige replied, without missing a beat.

Your laughter filled the tunnel.

It sounded better than the cheers had.

Near the locker room entrance, she paused. The media would be let in soon. Her team would be peeling tape off their ankles. She’d get pulled for postgame interviews, stat sheets, questions about her minutes and her shooting percentage.

But right now—there was just this.

She looked at you fully. Like she had on the balcony. Like she had at the fountain. At the smoothie shop. Every single time she’d wished she’d said something sooner.

“You know I don’t just do this,” she said quietly. “Invite people. Let them in like this.”

You nodded, suddenly serious. “I know.”

“But I wanted you here.”

You looked down at her hand, still lightly holding your wrist. You flipped it so your fingers could wrap around hers properly this time.

“I’m glad I came,” you said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“So, you gonna give me your number now, or are we sticking with sticky notes forever?”

Paige laughed. Bright. Relieved. She pulled out her phone and held it out.

“Here,” she said. “Make it official.”

You typed it in. Smiling. Then handed the phone back.

When Paige looked at your contact name, you’d put it in as Y/N <3

Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m memorable.”

She leaned in slightly, just close enough to catch your breath.

“Yeah,” she said. “You really are.”

The apartment felt different.

Maybe it was always this quiet after games, but Paige had never noticed it. Usually, she was buzzing from the adrenaline, running through plays in her head, FaceTiming family, tossing her jersey into the laundry basket, and collapsing into bed.

But tonight, the only thing she was thinking about… Was you.

You, sitting court side like you’d been there forever. You, waiting for her after the game, smiling like her chaos made sense to you. You, entering your number in her phone with a little smirk like of course I belong here.

Paige sat on her couch, legs tucked under her, hoodie draped around her shoulders. Her hair was still damp. Her knees ached in the way they always did after a big night.

But her chest felt light.

She stared at your name on her screen.

Y/N <3 [Send Message]

Her thumb hovered.

And then… she typed.

Paige: hey. it’s paige, the one from the balcony. thanks for being there tonight.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. Then locked the screen and tossed her phone on the couch beside her like it burned.

But it buzzed. Almost immediately.

She scrambled to pick it up.

You: you were electric. i’ve never seen anyone look so in control and still that unhinged in the same 40 minutes. it was kinda hot ngl.

Paige laughed—head back, eyes wide, completely undone by how fast you could wreck her with a single sentence.

She typed again.

Paige: okay, ngl i was showing off. not even sorry.

You: you shouldn’t be. you made it very hard to look cool sitting court side while actively swooning.

She bit her lip. Heart hammering. Fingers flying.

Paige: you looked cooler than me. i kept looking for you between plays. couldn’t help it.

There was a pause.

And then your typing bubbles popped back up.

You: you always looked. even before you knew me.

That hit her like a heartbeat.

True. Simple. Real.

She didn’t reply right away.

Instead, she just sat there, thumb tracing your name at the top of the screen.

Y/N <3 — who wasn’t a stranger anymore.

You were here now. In her phone. In her world.

With her.

Her alarm went off at 6:45, and for the first time in weeks… Paige didn’t rush to the balcony.

She didn’t even reach for her hoodie.

Instead, she lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart full and uncertain. Last night felt like something sacred. Like something she wanted to protect with silence and slowness. You’d texted her until nearly 1AM. Dumb jokes. Little moments. A sentence she read over five times, “You don’t look like anyone else when you’re on the court.”

She didn’t know what that meant entirely.

But she wanted to find out.

By 7:10, she finally got up.

No coffee. No performance. Just sweats and a plain white tee, hair tied back, sneakers loose.

She cracked her knuckles and opened the front door to her building, walking slowly down the steps into the stillness of early morning.

And stopped short.

Because there you were.

Leaning against the black railing in front of her building. Hoodie on. One foot crossed over the other. Arms folded. A water bottle dangling from your fingers. Sunlight slicing across your cheekbone.

Waiting.

For her.

You spotted her the second she stepped outside.

“No balcony today?” you teased.

“No need,” Paige said, stunned and grinning. “You came down to earth.”

“I figured it was your turn to be the one surprised.”

“Mission accomplished.”

You started walking without prompting, slow, unhurried steps down the sidewalk in the direction of nowhere.

Paige fell into rhythm beside you.

“I didn’t know you knew where I lived,” she said after a moment.

You looked over. “I’ve been running past it every day for three weeks.”

“I know. I just mean…” She shrugged. “It’s different seeing you standing there.”

“How so?”

“You weren’t moving. For once.” A pause. “You were waiting.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Felt like the right morning for it.”

She smiled at the ground. “I thought that was my job.”

You bumped her shoulder with yours. “We can take turns.”

You walked in easy silence for a while. Past the corner store. Past the mural she’d never noticed until you pointed it out. Past a pair of pigeons fighting over a bagel chunk.

Everything looked lighter. Like the city had exhaled.

“You hungry?” you asked, glancing at her.

“Starving,” she said, hands in her pockets.

You jerked your chin down the block. “There’s a place I know. They make the best breakfast tacos. I’ll buy if you admit you were trying to flirt with that step-back three last night.”

Paige laughed. “Oh, 100%.”

“You’re shameless.”

“You’re the one who showed up.”

You stopped walking for a second.

She turned to face you, just half a step behind.

And you said—quietly, sincerely, “Yeah. And I’m really glad I did.”

Paige didn’t say anything at first.

She just smiled.

And reached out.

Not for your wrist. Not like before.

But your hand.

You took it. No hesitation.

Just warmth.

And every single morning before this one suddenly made perfect sense.

Paige woke up before her alarm again.

But this time, there was no rush.

No need to throw on a hoodie or check the time or stand watch like a sentinel in sneakers. Her body was loose. Her heart, calm. Because she knew you were already here.

In the next room.

In her apartment.

In her life.

You’d stayed late the night before. Tacos, movies, the kind of quiet talking that only happens when the city’s asleep and the lights are dim. You hadn’t spent the night — not yet — but you had fallen asleep briefly curled up beside her on the couch, your head resting against her shoulder, your fingers still lightly intertwined.

She hadn't wanted to move. Ever.

And now, as soft morning light crept across her bedroom floor, Paige slid out of bed, tiptoed through the apartment, and opened the balcony door.

The air smelled clean. Crisp. New.

She stepped outside and sat in the chair that had been hers alone for weeks. The same one where she'd watched you run by and wondered what your voice sounded like. What your name was. What it would feel like to be seen by you.

Now, she didn’t have to wonder.

Because thirty seconds later, her front door clicked softly.

And she heard it—bare feet on wood. The low rustle of a yawn. And your voice, groggy but teasing, “No coffee today?”

Paige turned.

There you were.

Hair messy. Hoodie stolen from her closet. Sleep still clinging to your eyelashes.

Beautiful.

She held up a mug. “I made you one.”

You smiled and stepped outside, folding into the chair beside her — the one that had been empty every morning before now.

You pulled your legs up under yourself, took a sip, and sighed. “Okay. This makes up for you not letting me win in Uno last night.”

“I don’t go easy on people I like.”

“Oh?” Your eyebrow arched. “You like me?”

Paige looked over at you — eyes soft, cheek pressed against her hand.

And nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “I really do.”

You didn’t look away.

Didn’t tease this time.

You just whispered, “Good.”

The street below was waking up slowly.

Someone walked a dog. A runner passed — not you, for once. You both watched in silence, sipping coffee, the city stretching itself awake beneath your feet.

But for once, Paige wasn’t watching the street.

She was watching you.

And this time, she wasn’t waiting.

You were already here.

[littlelamy]

       for some reason you don’t even remember calling him. one minute you were sucking down your third spiked strawberry snowcone—because the pink ones were your favorite, and also because they went down too easy and tasted like nothing except melted popsicle—and the next, your head was spinning, heels were off, and your phone was pressed to your ear, rafe’s name glowing on the screen.

“bun?”

you must’ve got his voicemail the first time. because now, on the second try, he answered.

you hiccuped. “hi baby.”

“where are you?”

you giggled, “at the bunny barn!”

he tries to remember where you told him you were going before you left earlier, “you mean your sorority house?”

“uh-huh,” you slurred, flopping back onto a bean bag chair that someone must’ve dragged into the yard. the sky was spinning or maybe your tummy. “we’re celebratin’. spring..something. i dunno. my sisters said i had to drink because i’m a legacy and legacies are fun!”

rafe exhaled hard on the other end. you could picture him already—shirtless, pissed, leaning over his steering wheel with that annoyed twitch in his jaw. “are you inside or outside?”

you squinted. “both..i think i’m outside the inside. the grass is cold, but my toes are pink.”

“stay put..i’m coming.”

“you’re coming?”

you gasped, “like right now?”

“yes, right now.”

you clutched the phone tighter, legs kicking a little. “ohmygod you’re my hero. you’re gonna rescue me like a hot knight with pretty eyes..rafe?”

“yeah?”

“don’t hang up. m’gonna forget where i am if i close my eyes.”

“i’m staying right here, bunny. just talk to me.”

“okay,” you breathed. “um. i saw a duck. it was waddling near the keg. i named him tater tot. do you think he wants a pledge pin?”

you don’t remember what you said after that, only the smell of jungle juice, the imaginary feel of warm grass on your thighs, and the sound of rafe’s voice cussing someone out in the distance.

“bunny,” someone's rough and sexy voice growls out. you blinked, slowly opening your eyes. rafe was standing above you, chest rising and falling under a thin white tee, hair messed up like he’d driven with the windows down. he crouched beside you, knelt on the lawn, scowling so hard and beautiful. “you called me drunk,” he said, low. “you never call drunk.”

“i misssed you,” you whispered, arms stretching up like a little kid who wanted to be carried. he didn’t hesitate and scooped you up, tucked your face into his shoulder as he started walking back toward his truck.

“i only had four drinks,” you mumbled.

“i can tell.”

“they were pink and sparkly.”

“of course they were.”

you nuzzled into his neck. “are you mad?” he didn’t answer for a second.

then mumbled out, “i’m not mad.” he pauses, a lazy smile spread on your face, but the smile is gone in an instant. “i’m fucking furious.”

you whined, “aw rafe, don’t yell at me.”

“i’m not yelling.”

“you’re growling. your mad growl.”

“you called me at midnight, drunk and alone. barefoot in the fucking grass with god-knows-who leering at you. what if i hadn’t picked up?”

you sniffled, “but you did.”

“yeah,” he muttered, setting you down gently in the passenger seat. “i did.” your thighs stuck to the leather. your short dress had bunched up even higher. you tried to tug it down, but your coordination was shot.

“baby,” rafe warned, already buckling you in, “if you flash me one more time in this dress, i’m putting you over my knee the second we get home.”

you pouted, “i just wanted to see my sisters.”

“and now i’m seeing way too much of you.” you hiccuped instead of replying.

he climbed in on his side, started the engine, and peeled out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping your thigh. he was glowing under the bright dash lights. jaw clenched, knuckles tight, mouth twitching every time you made a little drunken noise. even though he's gorgeous, and you wanted to cry.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered. he didn’t look at you, but his thumb did stroked your thigh.

“you should’ve called me sooner.”

you blinked, “so you aren’t mad?”

“i was never mad at you,” he snapped. “i’m mad you were out here without me. mad you thought it was okay to party at some house full of girls in tiny dresses without backup.”

you blinked down at your tiny dress. “do you not like this one?”

his hand slid higher. “i love it.”

you smiled, “then why are you being so grouchy?”

“because i spent twenty minutes picturing you passed out on the lawn while frat boys took pictures.”

you giggled, “nooo, i was fine. tater tot was guarding me.”

“who the fuck is tater tot?”

“the duck.” he stared at you as you grinned. teeth still pink from the snowcones consumed throughout the event.

he groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

you leaned over, kissed his shoulder. “but i’m cute.”

“dangerously.”

he carries you inside when you get home. you protest a little, mumbling something about being able to walk, but then your ankle wobbles and he says “uh-huh, bunny, sure,” and keeps carrying you bridal style all the way up to your room.

he sets you down on the bed, starts unlacing your sandals.

you stare down at him, in awe. “you’re so good to me,” you whisper.

“not good,” he mutters.

“yes, you are. you take care of me even when i’m annoying.” he pulls off the second sandal, tosses it aside. you tug his shirt. “rafey?”

“yeah?”

“will you stay?”

he doesn’t hesitate, “yeah, baby.” he helps you out of the dress. wipes off your sticky makeup with warm water and one of your strawberry-shaped cotton pads. pulls one of his old t-shirts over your head and tucks you in.

he’s quiet the whole time until you’re curled up, half-asleep, whispering into the collar of his shirt. “i didn’t kiss anyone.”

he stiffens, “what?”

“at the party. i didn’t flirt. i didn’t… i mean, some people were being silly, but i just waited for you..like a good girl.”

his hand strokes your hair, “i know.”

you peek up. “you do?”

he nods, “mhm you’re mine,” he says. “even when you’re drunk and stupid and barefoot in the grass. still mine.”

you smile. “even when i smell like jungle juice?”

“especially then.”

❤︎ tags below

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[motorsportbarbie13]

One New Voicemail (Max's Version)

your relationship with max as told by his voicemails.

(no warnings. one angsty one but it's fine. extra credit to @lestapiastrisgirl for helping me with the last few ideas.)

Your First Date 

“Hi.” He clears his throat. 

“Its Max.” Pause.

“Verstappen.” 

Well. This was going splendidly. 

He chuckles. “You probably know that though, right? I didn’t quite plan this out.” 

He shakes his head. Whispers: clearly not you idiot. 

“Um. So. I just wanted to say thank you. For tonight. I mean, I planned everything and paid for it  all so I’m not thanking you for that…” Max winces. 

“Just…for being you. I don’t think I’ve ever had a first date like that. It felt like we talked for hours, which I guess we did, didn’t we?” 

He laughs again and you can almost see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at you. 

He hums “I liked it. I like you. When can I see you again? You said there was that Degas exhibit at the Louvre you’ve been wanting to see. We could go tomorrow? I’ll have Frank file flight plans first thing tomorrow morning.” 

Oh he was in so much trouble. 

“Okay. Bye.” 

Click. 

Your First Kiss 

“Hi.” Max is breathless, in awe of what just happened. 

“I know I just left but I can’t stop replaying that kiss in my head. I almost walked into a light pole your lips had me so distracted.” He shakes his head, head swiveling back to look at the offending pole. That would have been a fun black eye to explain.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for...” 

He pauses, like he’s remembering the first time he ever imagined pressing his lips to yours.

“God. For the longest time. Since I saw you that first night at that dinner party.” 

Mutual friends he’d have to thank tomorrow morning for giving him what felt like a turning point in his life.

“You had the same lipstick on tonight and I just…had to know how your lips tasted.” 

It had been slow, dripping through your closely pressed skin, sticky-sweet as honey. Max would never forget it for as long as he had breath in his lungs.

“You’ve ruined me, schat.” He accuses but there’s no fire in the words. No real accusations, just statement of facts. “Ruined.”

He shakes his head again, reaching for the car key in his pocket.

“Can we do it again tomorrow? And the next day?”

And forever?

He leaves that part out. For now. 

Click. 

He Wonders If He's Worth It 

“Are you…sure?” He’s anxious, you can tell by the way he breathes on the other end of the line.

“I just wanted to ask again because I can’t quite believe I got you to agree to be my girlfriend” His laugh is anything but humorous. It’s dry. Brittle. 

“Being with me is a lot. I know it’s a lot and it’s a lot to ask of someone.” He thinks he might be able to let you go now if you walked away. He’s scared you’re going to. 

“If you don’t want to be involved with me, I’d understand.” 

The fear of losing you grips at him like ice. You can hear it in his voice and your heart shatters because he doesn’t realize how badly you’re falling for him too. 

“It’s just…I feel like I can breathe around you. I don’t have to wear a mask or be Max Verstappen, 4 time world champion. I can just be Max.” 

A pause. As if he’s gathering the courage to choke out the last words on the tip of his tongue.

“Your Max. If you’ll have me.” 

The last bit is whispered, like he doesn’t want the world to hear how weak he is for you. How easily he’d follow you anywhere. 

“Okay. Bye.” 

Click. 

He Wins The Championship

“Baby!!!” He shouts, laughter filling every corner of his voice. 

“We won! The championship they said I couldn’t win!” Around him, champagne drips and gin flows.

“Where’d you go? I just saw you and then you vanished!!” 

You had told him ten seconds before he had pulled out his phone to call you. A trip to the Ladies Room was required and he knew that. But the 5th gin and tonic robbed him of his memory. 

“Can you believe I’m a FIVE TIME world champion?” Max’s shouts turn watery, like the emotion is hitting him like a freight train. 

“I’m so glad you were here to be with me. I never want to win without you ever again.” 

He’s getting sentimental. It used to be a rarity with him, the Flying Dutchman trained up to be a champion by Jos. But now? Now he was soft. So soft. But only for you. Always for you. 

“I miss you.” He pouts. 

The music thumps in the background, causing Max’s head to spin. 

And then, you. Across the room, returning from your trek to the restroom. He spots you and his entire face brightens. 

“There you are!” He coos into his phone. “Fuck, you’re so pretty. Did you know that? You’re so fucking beautiful and I can’t wait to marry you.” 

He doesn’t realize the weight of the words falling from his lips. But he means every syllable. 

“Okay, I’m hanging up now because I want to go make out with you. Bye.” 

Click. 

You Two Fight 

“Liefje, please.” Max is panicking. 

“It’s the middle of the night and it’s raining. It’s not safe for you to be out right now, I don’t care how mad at me you are.”

It had been stupid, the fight. It had spun out of control too quickly, whipped up out of thin air thanks to too many nights on the road and too little time spent together.  

“Please, for the love of God come back to me.” The tears fall freely now, he’s never seen you this angry. 

He’d neglected you, gambled away the love that you so freely give him without complaint. And now you had walked right out as easily as if you were going to the store. It was just another day to you.  

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’ve never raised my voice at you ever, I don’t know what came over me. I…” He shatters around the words. 

“I don’t even know why I was angry anymore.” It was the truth. He didn’t know why he had snapped, why he exchanged soft whispers for barbed shouts, sharp around the edges, filling his mouth with glass. 

“We’ve never fought like this and now your car is gone and it’s one in the morning.” He’s desperate now, breaths coming quick and shallow. 

His vision blurs. Is this what it feels like when you die? 

“Please, baby. I don’t care if you’re still mad at me, you can be mad at me for the rest of your life but I need you to be safe.” The thought of anything happening to you because of his stupid anger had Max swaying beneath the lights of the living room. 

“Please.” 

He begs. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He sobs. 

Click.  

You’re pregnant 

“Liefje. My Wife. Love of my life. I am concerned.” Max sounds slightly scared to be making this phone call. 

“These requests…” He squints at the handwritten list you left for him on the back of an envelope. “Grape jam, not jelly? Pickles? Pistacio ice cream with chocolate ribbons?” 

This list had to be a joke. 

“Are you filming me? Is this going on TikTok?”  He glances around at the store, half expecting to see you hiding in a corner with your phone out. 

What the fuck was a ‘chocolate ribbon’ anyway? 

“Pebble ice? Baby, should we call your doctor in the morning?” 

He knew he was asking for trouble, calling into question the validity of your pregnancy cravings but Max was getting concerned. He’d even called his sister on the way to the store. Victoria had insisted it was normal. 

Max wasn’t convinced. 

“I love you, you are the love of my life and I’d do anything for you, you know that. I just don’t know if I can purchase pickles and ice cream knowing that they’re going to be consumed together.” 

An image of what your pan you might choose to swing at his head if he came back without everything on your list flashes through his mind. 

Max pulled every jar of grape jam off the shelf. 

“I’ll be home in 10.” 

Click. 

You’re in labor 

“Your sister called!” Max’s voice is panicked, out of breath. “She said you’re in labor but didn’t want to bother me in my meeting!” 

“Your contractions are 5 minutes apart and you didn’t think you should call me for that?” The anxiety in his voice creeps in, despite him desperately choking on his tone. 

“Thank God I’m close by but liefje, please!” He heaves a sigh. 

A car door slams. Engine fires up, purring to life.

“You know you can bother me about this.” 

“Oh my God.” A pause. Like the gravity of the situation just hit him square in the jaw. 

“You’re in labor. Like labor labor.” He’s awestruck now.

“We’re going to be parents soon, aren’t we? Are we ready? I mean, I know you’re ready but am I ready?” There isn’t a doubt in his mind that you’re going to be an amazing mom. He’s known that since the day you found out you were pregnant.  

“Holy shit I’m going to be a dad. This is…this is fast.” You’d later tease him that he’d known about this moment for almost nine months now. It wasn’t exactly a surprise.

“Jesus. Okay.” 

Deep breath. 

“I’m just leaving the office and I’m on the way to the hospital now. Are you okay? Why am I asking your voicemail this? Why aren’y you picking up?” 

He’s totally panicking.

“I’ll be there soon. I love you.” 

Click. 

Your Toddler Steals His Phone. 

“MAMAAAAAAA!!” A small toddler-like squeal follows your favorite name you’ve ever been called. 

“Mama I miss you! Where’d you go, Mama?” The question is stilted, the baby still learning how to move his mouth around the proper words. 

“Schatje! Where is my phone?” The question is muffled, like Max is far away. 

Tiny footsteps clatter against the hardwood floor of your Monaco home. 

Peals of giggles and breathless gasps are the only thing you hear in response. 

“Mama save me! Save me from Daddy!” Your little boy giggles, squealing in delight. 

Louder footsteps sound behind your baby, who is surprisingly fast despite his stubby little legs. “You get back here right now!” Max orders, but there’s laughter at the edge of his voice.

This is a game. 

A game neither Max or your baby want to lose. 

“Daddy says he’s going to tickle me if he catches me!” 

Another squeal. 

Giggles. 

One voice high pitched. One lower pitched, your husband finally catching up to the speedy toddler. 

“Give me that. Who are you…oh you managed to call your Mama?” 

A pause. Your toddler nods. “Didn’t want a bath! Mama will rescue me!” 

Max chuckles, prying little fingers off of his phone. “She will not. She’ll say you’re stinky too! You need a bath!” 

“Noooo!” He howls but it’s too late. 

“Sorry, liefje. He’s fine. Bath time is going well! Enjoy your time with your sister! Love you.” 

A pause. 

“Tell Mama you love her.” 

“Save me Mamaaaaaaaa!” 

Click. 

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTIKTOK TREND: CALLING MY BOYFRIEND'S BROTHERS * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where Y/N and Matt do the TikTok trend 'calling my boyfriend's brothers to see if they would cover for him'.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

"Okay, ready?" Matt asked, lifting his thumb above the screen as he hovered over the red circle inside the TikTok app.

They were both sat on her bed, Matt’s socked feet crossing over hers at the foot of the off-white comforter covered mattress, her shoulder leaning into his comfortably. The phone was perched at arm's length, front camera facing them, perfectly angled to catch both of their faces.

Y/N adjusted herself slightly so she was fully in the frame, brushing her hair behind her ear so her face was fully seen.

"Yeah." She nod. Matt tapped the screen, and a countdown blinked.

3... 2... 1...

As soon as the camera started recording, Y/N turned to it with an excited smile.

"Hi! So, I’m about to call Matt’s brothers, Chris and Nick, and pretend that Matt told me he was going to them a few hours ago. But he’s obviously right here, so we’re gonna see if they cover for him or not." She said rapidly, her words tumbling over each other.

Matt leaned into the frame with a nod.

"Try Chris first." He said, eyes glinting with anticipation.

Y/N turned her head to give him a raised eyebrow. She held the expression for the camera, too, before letting a crooked smile slip as she looked down at her own phone, her fingers already scrolling her favorites list.

"Alright." She muttered, finding Chris’s contact and selecting it. She pressed the speaker and quickly moved her phone closer to Matt’s so his phone could catch all the audio.

The dial tone filled the room, ringing for some seconds.

Matt tilted his head, whispering.

"He’s not gonna answer. Watch. I bet he’s like passed out or somethi-"

But before he could finish that sentence, the ringing stopped.

"Hello?" Chris’s voice came through, slightly raspy like he had indeed just woken up.

Matt’s lips snapped shut. He stared at her phone, frozen.

Y/N’s voice was suddenly sugar-sweet.

"Hey, it’s Y/N."

"Yeah, I know it’s you." Chris replied instantly, with the most guy best friend-coded dry tone ever. "What do you want?"

Y/N’s shoulders shook with a held-in laugh.

"Matt left my place a few hours ago, said he was going back home, but he’s not picking up his phone, so I just wanted to check..." She started, trying to keep her voice casual. "Is he there?"

The other end of the line went quiet.

Matt leaned forward like he was about to climb through the speaker. His eyebrows raised as the silence dragged.

"He said he was coming home?"

Y/N widened her eyes at Matt, giving a subtle nod to her phone.

"Yeah. Like two hours ago."

"Oh... yeah." Chris said, and Y/N's mouth dropped open. "Yeah, he is. He got here like a little while ago. We were actually thinking of streaming soon."

Matt whipped his head to look at Y/N, then to her phone, then back to her. He looked surprised that Chris would actually cover for him but was afraid of Y/N's reaction at the same time.

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

"Oh, okay, cool. Could you pass him the phone real quick? I just need to talk to him for a sec."

There was a beat.

"Uhh... I think he’s sleeping." Chris said, voice feigning uncertainty. "He just went to his room."

Matt pressed his lips in a thin line, his whole body trembling as he tried not to burst into laughter. His knees came up instinctively, curling in as he looked at Y/N.

Chris was a terrible liar.

How could they be planning to stream if he 'just went to his room'?

Y/N tilted her head at the phone.

"Oh. Hm. Could you wake him up? It’s kind of important."

Another pause.

She raised her brows and slowly turned her head to Matt with eyes that screamed 'he’s about to give up'. But instead, Chris's voice returned, smooth as butter.

"Yeah, hold on. I can do that. Gimme a sec."

The faint sound of rustling blankets and a bed creaking came through the speaker, as if Chris had actually gotten up.

Matt squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders bouncing as he laughed into his hand, trying desperately not to let a sound, the phone in his hand shaking with his movements.

Y/N looked at the camera, then back at her phone when more sounds kept echoing from it.

Thump.

Rustle.

Creak.

The sound of a bedroom door opening. Then faint, echoing footsteps down a hallway.

Thump-thump.

Thump.

Stairs?

"No way." Y/N whispered, jaw slowly dropping. Her hand hovered over her mouth, eyes wide in absolute disbelief as her phone blared the unmistakable sound of Chris stomping upstairs. "There’s no way he’s actually going to your room."

Matt was frozen next to her, frowning while trying to control his breathing from his laughter.

Then, click.

A door opened.

And a light switch flicked.

Y/N let out a little gasp, turning to Matt, mouth half-open in shock.

"Did he just-?"

Matt’s eyes traveled to her from her phone screen.

"I think so."

And then, Chris’s voice came through again. Muffled at first, like he was calling into the void.

"Matt? Matt!"

Y/N’s hand flew to her screen, muting her side of the call so fast it nearly slipped from her grip.

"Oh my god." She blurted out in a loud laugh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He’s actually trying to wake you up."

Matt, beside her, laughed just as hard, shaking his head in disbelief, his phone wobbling in his hand as it continued to record.

Chris didn’t stop.

"Matt, wake up."

"Wake the fuck up, Matt."

"C’mon, dude. Your girl wants to talk to you."

Y/N slapped a hand over her face, muffling her laughter against her palm so it wouldn't disturb the call audio. Matt leaned his head back, lips trembling, hand on his stomach like he was in physical pain.

"Thank you for muting it." Matt muttered, so only Y/N could hear him. "I would’ve choked if I had to hold back any longer."

Y/N’s nodded, silent tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She was trying so hard to be respectful of the bit, but it was a losing battle.

And then Chris’s voice echoed louder, like he was back to talking to Y/N - and not "Matt" -, letting out a dramatic sigh.

"Y/N, I don’t know what you gave to him." He said in complete deadpan. "But he won't wake up for anything. You put him in a coma or something."

Y/N took a deep breath, biting her lip so hard it actually hurt. She unmuted her phone with a shaky thumb, still snorting between breaths.

"He isn’t waking up?" She asked, voice cracking with the effort to sound normal.

Chris didn’t even hesitate.

"No. I literally shook him. I yelled in his ear. He didn’t even move. I’m not even sure he’s breathing, bro."

Matt, curled up beside her, let out a strangled squeak as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, laughing so hard but still trying to keep it quiet.

Y/N’s lip wobbled from trying to suppress a smile.

"Alright, well- uh... can you tell him to call me when he wakes up?"

"Yeah, yeah." Chris said like he was already on his way back downstairs. "I’ll try again in a few, or I’ll text you. He’s probably just dead tired. I gotchu."

"Thanks, Chris." Y/N managed to say through clenched teeth.

"Mhmm. Talk soon."

Click.

Y/N dropped the phone onto the bed like it had burned her. She didn’t even have time to recover before Matt’s phone started vibrating in his hand while it was still recording.

Chris.

Y/N and Matt made eye contact, stunned for half a second before the hysterical laughter burst out of both of them simultaneously.

"He's calling me." Matt said to the camera, voice raspy from laughing too hard.

Y/N leaned closer to Matt, cheeks still warm from all the laughter, her voice slightly breathless as she spoke directly into the front lens.

"Alright. Time for Nick. But I’m gonna switch it up a bit ‘cause he’s at the Space Camp office today for some meetings, so if I say you were supposed to meet him there, he won’t be as suspicious."

Matt, leaning back on one elbow with a squint in his eye, let out a low hum.

"Bold of you to assume Nick’s gonna cover for me. You know we’re not the glue here."

Y/N gave him an innocent glance.

"What do you mean?"

He smirked and gestured vaguely at her face.

"You and Nick are like, glued together. He’s obsessed with you. He’s gonna throw me under the bus faster than you can say lip balm."

Y/N dramatically rolled her eyes.

"You’re just scared."

Matt made a pfft sound.

"Yeah, right."

With that, Y/N pulled her phone back up, scrolling through her contacts until Nick’s name popped up, paired with about seven different sparkly emojis and a shooting star. She grinned, tapped 'call', set it on speaker, and moved her phone next to Matt’s again.

It didn’t even ring twice.

"Hey, queen!" Nick’s voice chirped through the speaker, a little too loud and echoey from what was clearly a busy office.

You could faintly hear a door closing, chairs scraping, and someone saying 'That’s not the right shade for the summer launch' in the background.

Y/N’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Nick! Hi!"

Matt groaned and covered his face with his free hand. Y/N slapped his thigh to shut him up, trying not to laugh.

"Um, I’m so sorry to bother you at office day." She continued, letting her voice take on the sweet, clueless tone. "But Matt left my apartment a few hours ago and said he was coming to your office? To help out with the Space Camp shoot or something? He’s not answering his phone, and I was just wondering if he made it to you okay."

There was silence on the line.

Y/N’s smile grew slow and devilish as she waited.

"... He said he was coming here?" Nick asked, his tone completely suspicious, laced with genuine confusion.

Matt pressed his lips in a thin line. Nick would kill him.

Y/N nodded.

"Yeah." She replied sweetly. "He said he was gonna help you take some pictures?"

There was another half-second pause.

"That little bitch."

Y/N choked, slapping her free hand over her mouth so fast she nearly knocked her phone off the bed. Her shoulders shook violently as she turned wide eyes on Matt, who looked deeply offended.

"I told you!" Matt mouthed, pointing at her with a betrayed look.

Nick continued, completely unaware of the chaos he’d caused on the other end of the line.

"No. No, queen. He did not come here. He never told me he was coming here. I even asked him this morning if he could pick me up after the shoot, and he had the audacity to say no because he was spending the day at your place." He sounded like he was pacing now.

Matt’s hand was now covering both his eyes, shaking his head.

Y/N slowly lowered her own hand, trying to breathe.

"Wait... so he’s not there?"

"No!" Nick practically yelled. "He hasn’t even stepped foot into this building today. This man lied to your face. He betrayed my trust. And he skipped being my chauffeur."

Y/N sent a pointed look to Matt. She always told him to pick Nick up if he asked for it, or at least make Chris do it.

Matt squinted at her, whispering as lowly as possible so Nick wouldn't hear.

"Don’t you dare side with him. He called me a bitch."

Nick continued on the other side of the phone.

"Did you try calling Chris? Maybe Matt went home. You didn’t check with him?"

Y/N let out the most exaggerated sigh, forcing her brows to furrow and her voice to drop.

"No... no, I haven’t. I-I just figured if he said he was with you, then..."

Matt raised his eyebrows at her acting, but she waved him off.

"Oh, sweetheart." Nick said gently, his entire tone doing a 180. You could hear the pout forming on his lips. "Hey. Listen to me. I’ll try calling him, okay? Both Matt and Chris. I swear, if that little fucker is playing hide and seak, I’ll find him. But I promise you he wouldn’t do anything wrong."

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a smile and nodded seriously like she was actually worried Matt had evaporated into thin air.

"Okay. Please, just let me know as soon as you find out anything?"

"Of course." Nick replied immediately. "I’ll call you the second I get anything. And if he doesn’t pick up my calls, I’m going to kill him myself."

Matt raised an unimpressed brow and muttered a low 'Charming', rolling his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head.

Y/N beamed.

"Thanks, Nick. Oh, and when the shoot’s done, lemme know, and I’ll come get you, okay?"

Nick gasped dramatically.

"You’re the best. See, Matt could never. Love you, queen."

"Love you more." Y/N chimed before tapping the screen to end the call.

As soon as the line disconnected, she turned slowly to Matt with a look that could only be described as smug. Chin high, eyes gleaming, she crossed her arms and tilted her head.

"Nick passed." She announced. "He would never lie to me. Not even to save your sorry little ass."

Matt raised both brows in surrender and shrugged, looking toward his still-recording phone.

"I told you he wouldn’t cover for me. That man would rat me out to the FBI if it meant you’d still do his nails next week."

Y/N smirked, reaching over to grab one of her throw pillows and hugging it to her chest, feeling victorious.

"And for the record, yeah, Nick really would beat the shit outta me if I ghosted you for two hours-"

His words were interrupted by a soft chime echoing from Matt’s phone. At the top of the screen, a message banner rolled in from their shared triplet group chat.

Nick:

@Matt WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?

Y/N froze.

Matt blinked once, twice, then turned slowly toward Y/N.

"Well, he said he would chase you down, so..." Y/N shrugged, smiling.

RING RING.

The phone echoed into a vibrating buzzing. It was Nick. Calling Matt. Y/N’s phone started ringing two seconds later, and Y/N's eyes were quick to meet the caller ID, Chris. Now he wanted answers, too.

Matt stared at the double call screens with dead eyes.

"I have never regretted anything faster in my life."

© vanteguccir

[biggianteggplant]

“Things They Didn’t Mean”

They didn’t mean to hurt you — but they did. And you started changing because of it. Now they notice… and it’s already different.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

“Watch what you eat,” Ushijima says, voice low, neutral. He’s looking at your tray like it’s offended him.

You smile—a practiced, automatic thing—and laugh it off. “Oh, right. Yeah. Just hungry, I guess.”

He nods. Just once. And that’s the end of it. To him, anyway.

The next day, you bring a salad. You poke at the lettuce with your plastic fork, chew each bite like penance. He glances at your lunch, says nothing.

The day after, it’s just fruit. You peel a clementine slowly, fingers sticky with juice, and avoid his eyes.

Then you stop bringing your usual snack. The one he used to reach over and steal a bite of without asking. The one that always made him smile—subtly, but still. Now your bag is empty. So are you.

By the fourth day, Tendou corners him by the gym doors. “Hey, Wakatoshi,” he says, voice too light. “You realize she’s barely eating, right?”

Ushijima blinks. Still, silent. His gaze drifts toward you—sitting against the wall, water bottle untouched, your eyes vacant in a way he can’t quite name.

That evening, practice ends. The sun is low, gym almost empty. You sit alone on the bleachers, staring at nothing, your fingers curling around the hem of your sleeve.

He approaches without a word, sits beside you like it's instinct. In his hands: two onigiri, wrapped carefully.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, eyes on the rice, not you. “I just… I care if you're healthy. Not thinner.”

You don’t respond. Your fingers twitch toward your bag, but fall short. He places one onigiri in your lap, the other in his own hands.

You pick at the rice. Slowly. Cautiously. Like you’ve forgotten how to be hungry.

He doesn’t speak. Just sits with you, quiet, steady. Watching. There’s guilt in the way his shoulders slope. In the way his chopsticks pause every few bites, waiting to see if you’ll keep going.

You finish half. It’s the most you’ve eaten all week.

He nudges the second one a little closer. Not pushing—just offering.

“Please eat,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “With me.”

And you do.

For a long time, he says nothing else. But his silence is kind now. Careful. And when he finally looks at you, it’s with eyes that say he’s sorry in all the ways words can’t.

SHIRABU KENJIRO

The words slipped out of Shirabu’s mouth like a diagnosis—clinical, cold, final.

And the worst part? You weren’t even fighting.

You had just spilled tea on your notes—weeks of lectures and scribbled diagrams now soaked through and curling at the edges. You laughed, a little sheepishly, brushing at the mess with your sleeve. “Well. That’s my sign to take a break, I guess—”

He didn’t laugh.

He stared at the papers like they’d personally offended him. “You’re not cut out for the kind of future I want.”

You blinked. “…Future?”

He nodded once, distracted, eyes already flicking back to his laptop. “Medicine’s not for people who lose focus. Who make little mistakes.”

You smiled, like it didn’t sting. Laughed, like you hadn’t heard that same voice in your own head on bad days. “Right. Of course.”

That night, you stayed up redoing your notes from scratch. And the night after that. And the one after that.

You started waking up before him. Stopped doodling in the margins of your med books. Stopped humming when you cooked, because every second needed to be productive. Coffee became a meal. Sleep became a luxury.

You didn’t complain. Didn’t cry. Just… shifted. Quietly. Carefully. Willfully.

The version of you Shirabu fell for—the one who teased him while quizzing him on anatomy terms, who wore fuzzy socks to study groups, who once made him a human heart out of Jello just to prove a joke—she was slowly fading.

At first, he liked the change.

The silence. The discipline. The way your pens were always aligned now. The way you never interrupted him mid-sentence anymore.

But then… He noticed.

You never touched him just because anymore. Never made dumb puns over dinner. Your shoulders stayed tense even in your sleep. The music in your world had gone quiet—and he hadn’t realized how much he loved its sound until it disappeared.

One night, he came home late from the library and found you at your desk, fast asleep. Your glasses were still on. Your hand was stained with blue ink, fingertips trembling slightly from too much caffeine and too little rest. There was a cut on your thumb from a broken pen. Your lips were dry. You looked pale—drained, like all your color had been slowly siphoned away.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, heart sinking.

And when he touched your hand, you didn’t even stir.

He sat down beside you, swallowing guilt like poison. “I didn’t mean for you to become someone else,” he whispered, the words raw and foreign in his mouth. “I just wanted you with me. I didn’t realize I was asking you to lose yourself.”

His voice cracked. For the first time in years, he cried.

Quietly. Beside you.

Because you were still there. Breathing. Trying. But something in you had cracked.

And he had been the one to make the first fracture.

TSUKISHIMA KEI

That was the last thing he said to you that day. You had just finished gushing about your favorite show—something about parallel universes and time loops and a sad, smiley villain who reminded you of him (your words, not his). You were laughing, hands moving, eyes bright.

And he had sighed, leaned back in his chair, and muttered: “Are you done yet?”

You blinked. Laughed it off. “Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”

He didn’t respond. Just went back to scrolling.

After that, you didn’t talk about your favorite shows anymore. Stopped sending him memes. Stopped rambling in long voice notes that always ended with you laughing at your own jokes.

He noticed, of course. But didn’t say anything.

Yamaguchi did.

“She doesn’t text you stuff anymore, huh?”

Tsukishima scoffed. “Didn’t realize you were tracking my notifications.”

But later that night, alone in his room, he opened your chat. Scrolled through the silence. Past the last thing you sent—a meme, three weeks ago. A stupid one, about dinosaurs and headphones. He hadn’t even reacted to it.

The empty space beneath it felt louder than any rant you used to send.

The next day, he walked past a store on the way home and froze. In the window: a little keychain of your favorite character. The one you wouldn’t shut up about for two whole weeks. The one he pretended not to care about but secretly knew the name of.

He bought it.

He didn’t even think. Just… did.

The next morning, he dropped it on your desk before class. No warning. No note.

You blinked, staring at the tiny figure in your hand. “What’s this for?”

He adjusted his glasses, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “So you’ll annoy me again.”

You stared at him for a beat, stunned. Then your lips twitched.

You didn’t say anything. But that night, he got a message.

[you]: i just rewatched episode 8 again and i need you to understand how emotionally devastating that scene was. also this keychain is SO cute i might cry.

He read it three times. Smiled. Just a little.

(Translation: I forgive you. I missed you too.)

SUNA RINTARO

He had said it offhandedly. Barely looking up from his phone.

You had just sent him a selfie—your hair a little messy, eyes a little dull, but your smile was there. Honest. Tired, maybe. But still you.

And he said: “You look tired.”

You blinked at the screen, lips twitching in a way that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Then replied, “Yeah. Been a long day.”

After that, you stopped sending selfies. Started fixing your hair more before calls. Wore cooler tones. More neutrals. Nothing bright. Nothing bold. Started double-checking the lighting. Your angles. Yourself.

One day you joked, “Better not look tired again, right?” But your voice was too quiet. The kind that curls at the edge of something fragile.

Atsumu noticed it first.

“She doesn’t send you stuff anymore, huh?” Suna didn’t answer. “You told her she looked tired, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. But his thumb froze over your chat. Unread messages: none. The last picture you sent had disappeared after twenty-four hours. You didn’t save it. And you hadn’t sent another since.

The silence in the thread felt heavier than words.

So he stared at his camera for a long second, then sighed and snapped a picture. No filters. No angles. Just him—messy hair, hoodie hood half-on, eyes barely open.

He sent it with a message: “This is how I look when I actually look tired.” “You always look like someone I wanna keep looking at.”

You stared at the screen. Chest aching. Then, finally:

[you]: you're still bad at words. [suna]: yeah. but i’m trying.

And he was. In his own way—awkward, quiet, a little late.

But trying.

(And somehow, that was what mattered most.)

OIKAWA TOORU

You didn’t mean to bother him.

You had only sent three messages. Short ones. Thoughtful, even.

[you]: hey, u free later? [you]: you okay? you’ve been quiet today. [you]: let me know if you need anything. i’ll leave you be. promise.

And then it came. His reply.

Flat. Dismissive. Laced with exhaustion and that familiar edge he gets when he’s overwhelmed.

[oikawa]: you’re really needy sometimes.

You stared at the screen for a moment too long. Then you smiled. The kind of smile you force when people are watching. “lol sorry. my bad.” One last message. That was all.

And then you stopped.

You stopped texting first. Stopped sending him memes you knew would make him laugh. Stopped double-texting, triple-texting. Stopped reaching out at all.

You gave him what he seemed to want.

Space.

He noticed by dinner.

By the time the team wrapped up practice, Oikawa was already scrolling through your messages, rereading old ones like a lifeline. There were no new ones. No “I miss you.” No “Goodnight.” Just… nothing.

He opened your chat three times that night. Typed. Deleted. Typed. Deleted again.

What was he even supposed to say?

Iwaizumi noticed the silence too.

“She’s not needy,” he said while they packed up. “You’re just used to being worshipped.”

That stung.

Because it was true.

Oikawa Tooru had always been admired—on the court, online, in every room he walked into. He thought love looked like attention. He hadn’t realized until now that he’d treated your warmth like a reflex, not a choice. Until you took it away.

Until your silence said everything.

So three nights later, he was standing in front of your door.

A hoodie pulled over his head. Hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He looked small. Not in height—but in guilt.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

You opened it.

Your eyes were tired. Guarded. The space between you filled with things unsaid.

Oikawa’s voice was low. He didn’t even try to smile.

“…I miss your ‘needy,’” he said.

You blinked, lips parting slightly.

“I miss you.”

Still, you said nothing. Just looked at him like you weren’t sure if this was another performance or the real thing.

“I don’t want space,” he continued. “I want your clingy texts. I want the memes. The constant check-ins. The way you send me random thoughts at midnight.”

He looked down at his shoes.

“I want everything. Even the parts I didn’t appreciate.”

Silence.

Then he looked up, eyes raw.

“I only push away the people I care too much about,” he whispered. “And that’s you.”

It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just honest.

For a long moment, you stood there. Then, slowly—quietly—you stepped aside.

He didn’t wait for permission.

He just walked in, shoulders trembling slightly.

You closed the door behind him.

And neither of you said another word. Because this time, he would show you through presence what he failed to express in words.

He came back.

And he didn’t let go.

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

It was just a bad game.

He was frustrated. Quiet. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.

You knew how he got. You didn’t say anything.

You just reached out—softly, gently—for his hand. Not to fix him. Just to say I’m here.

But he pulled back like your touch burned him.

“Don’t touch me right now.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

You blinked, hand frozen mid-air. Then you let it drop, your voice a quiet crumble. “…Sorry.”

That was it.

You stepped back. Gave him space. And from that day on, you stayed there.

You stopped reaching for him. Stopped brushing your fingers against his sleeve when you passed by. Stopped fixing his hair when it curled over his forehead. Stopped lacing your fingers through his on long walks.

You hesitated now—every time. Your hands hovered near him, never landing.

And Kiyoomi… didn’t notice.

Not at first.

But Komori did.

He waited until the locker room was empty, then slammed his locker shut louder than necessary.

“You told her not to touch you,” he said, arms crossed. “And now she doesn’t. Happy?”

Kiyoomi blinked, confused.

“She flinched when you brushed her arm, Omi. She flinched. That girl used to hold your hand like it was second nature.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

Komori left. Kiyoomi sat down, heart unsettled, brain replaying every tiny moment—your hands curled into your lap, your stiff shoulders, the way your gaze flicked to his fingers then away.

It was true.

You were gone, somehow, even while still beside him.

That night—no, early morning—he couldn’t sleep.

He stared at his phone screen in the dark, thumbs hovering. Then:

[sakusa]: i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted.

No typing bubbles appeared.

He didn’t expect them to.

But the next day, he found you outside the gym, hugging your arms to yourself, pretending not to see him.

He walked straight to you.

You looked up, cautious.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He just reached forward—and for once, it was him who was shaking—and took your hand. Both of his around yours, like anchoring something fragile.

You looked down at the connection. Then back at him.

His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“I want you close,” he said. “Even when I’m upset. Especially then.”

Your lip trembled.

He held your hand tighter.

And in that quiet moment, on the edge of hurt and healing, you let yourself believe him.

Because sometimes, people push away what they need most. And sometimes, if they’re lucky, they get the chance to hold it again.

KENMA KOZUME

You used to sit beside him.

No words. No noise. Just quiet company while his fingers danced across the keyboard, headset snug over his ears.

You liked being close. He never complained—until one night, between matches, he muttered without looking at you:

“You’re kind of distracting when I’m streaming.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t sharp.

But it stuck.

You blinked. “Oh.”

And after that… you stopped.

You stopped bringing snacks and dropping soft kisses to his temple when he won. Stopped curling up next to him. Stopped humming under your breath or watching from the corner of his screen.

You stayed in your room more.

Quiet. Out of sight.

Invisible.

Kenma didn’t notice at first—too busy adjusting his settings, managing collabs, climbing ranks.

But Kuroo noticed. Over Discord, mid-game, as Kenma sat in silence between rounds, Kuroo muttered:

“She doesn’t bug you anymore, huh?”

Kenma blinked. “What?”

“You look kinda lonely now.”

The words landed like a delayed hit.

Kenma glanced to the side—out of instinct—at the space where you used to sit. Empty. Still.

He stared longer than he meant to.

His fingers paused over the keys. The stream kept running. The chat wondered what happened. But Kenma didn’t move.

Later that night, he found himself in front of your door. A bag of your favorite snacks in hand. Slightly crumpled from how tightly he’d been holding it.

He knocked once. Soft.

You opened the door, eyes tired. Surprised.

He didn’t speak at first. Just held out the bag.

“…What’s this?” you asked quietly.

“Peace offering.”

Your brow arched. “You said I was distracting.”

He looked down, fingers flexing.

“I know,” he murmured. “I was wrong.”

You stayed quiet.

So he stepped forward, placed the snack gently beside his controller on his desk, then turned back to you.

“Come sit with me?” he asked. Then, even softer: “I miss your noise.”

You blinked.

And for the first time in days, your lips curved—just slightly.

He held his hand out toward you.

And this time, when you took it, he didn’t let go. Not even when the game started. Not even when chat noticed.

Because he wasn’t playing to win anymore. He just wanted you back beside him.

Even if you distracted him. Especially if you did.

MIYA ATSUMU

You hadn’t meant to cry.

You didn’t even realize it was happening—until your voice cracked mid-sentence, and you saw the way Atsumu’s expression tightened, not with concern, but irritation.

“I’m not in the mood for your drama right now.”

It hit like a slammed door.

You blinked once. Twice.

Then you nodded.

"Sorry," you said, voice barely there.

And after that—you stopped.

You stopped venting. Stopped opening up. Started smiling too wide, laughing a little too quickly.

"I’m fine." "Just tired." "Nothing big."

You said it so much, you almost believed it.

But Atsumu didn’t.

Not at first—he was too wrapped up in training, in pressure, in exhaustion and ego. But Osamu noticed.

“You broke something, y’know,” he said one night, tossing a towel over Atsumu’s head. “You might wanna fix it before it stays broken.”

That’s what finally made him pause.

And that’s what led him here— To the empty gym hallway, where he found you sitting against the wall, knees to your chest, eyes blank.

You didn’t notice him at first. Didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch.

He walked over, crouched down, and gently rested his forehead against your shoulder.

“…I’m the drama,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not you.”

You stayed quiet.

He clenched his fists. Loosened them. Then tried again.

“Please don’t hide your feelings from me. Ever.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked away, eyes burning, lip trembling—but still, you said nothing.

So Atsumu pulled you into his arms.

Held you there. Not asking for forgiveness, not rushing it—just there.

“I was stupid,” he mumbled into your hair. “I was tired and selfish and I made you feel like too much.”

His voice cracked.

“You’re not too much. I was just too stupid to handle someone real.”

You didn’t say anything right away.

But your hands slowly—finally—gripped the back of his jersey.

And that was enough.

Because this time, he wouldn’t let go first.

KITA SHINSUKE

You were tired. Not just physically, but the kind of tired that settles in your chest and makes everything feel heavier. You forgot to do something small — misplanted a row of seedlings in your shared garden, or maybe you overslept and missed breakfast with him.

He didn’t yell. He never did. Just that calm, steady voice:

“That’s not very disciplined of you.”

No anger. Just disappointment. And somehow, that was worse. It clung to you for days.

You started fixing your posture more, triple-checking tasks, waking up earlier than needed. No more lazy mornings. No more spontaneous dancing in the rain or lying in the grass just to feel the sun. You stopped being soft. You started being… correct.

And he noticed. How your laugh faded. How your hands trembled when you thought he was watching.

It was Aran who quietly pulled him aside one afternoon. They were harvesting. The sun was warm. But Kita felt cold at the words:

“She’s not blooming anymore. She’s surviving.” “You’re so focused on raising standards… you didn’t see her lower herself.”

That night, he found you tending the garden. The same bed you both built together. The soil was dry. The petals curled inward. And so were you.

He knelt beside you silently, heart heavy.

“Discipline matters,” he started. “But so does grace. I should’ve given you more of it.”

You didn’t look at him. Your fingers kept digging gently through the soil.

So he did something rare. He placed his hand over yours. Soft. Still. Sure.

“You don’t need to be perfect… to be precious to me.”

Your breath hitched. And when you finally looked up — eyes glassy, dirt smudged on your cheek — he smiled, just barely.

“Let’s grow softer things. Together.”

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

You’d tried something new. Maybe you curled your hair, tried eyeliner, wore that outfit you weren’t sure about but finally had the courage to put on. You didn’t expect a grand reaction. But you didn’t expect that either.

“You look weird.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just said it like a volleyball stat: flat. Unthinking. Unfiltered.

You smiled like it didn’t hurt. Went to the bathroom that night and wiped it all off. Told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

But the next day, you played it safe. No more makeup. Neutral clothes. You toned it down, layer by layer, until it felt like you’d erased something. And he didn’t even seem to notice.

But others did. Sugawara asked Kageyama during practice, teasing but genuine:

“What happened to all those selfies she used to send you? I kinda miss the glitter.”

Kageyama blinked. Paused. Scrolled through his phone that night. Through bright lipstick, messy buns, silly filters, captioned doodles. Gone, now.

And then it hit him.

You’d stopped sending anything. Stopped showing anything.

He found you that night, seated quietly on the porch or your shared bench near the gym.

“Hey…”

You looked up. Tired. Dull.

He sat beside you, awkward fingers twitching on his knee.

“You’re… not weird. I mean, you are, but like. Not—bad weird. Like… your kind of weird. And I liked that.”

You didn’t respond. Just stared ahead.

So he added, softer this time:

“I’m stupid with words. But I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to disappear.”

You swallowed. He turned slightly, desperate and clumsy:

“Please don’t change for something dumb I said. I didn’t realize how much I loved… all of that. All of you.”

You turned to him. Eyes glossy, voice small:

“Then why didn’t you say that sooner?”

He didn’t have an answer. So instead, he reached into his pocket and held out the phone screen — a selfie of you from a month ago.

“I saved this one. I liked your smile here the most.”

DAICHI SAWAMURA

It was something small. You tripped on a stair and instinctively, he caught your wrist, pulling you close before you fell.

Someone whistled. A teammate teased: “Ooh, Daichi, playing knight in shining armor?”

He panicked. Embarrassed. Tried to play it cool. So he shrugged and muttered,

“She’s not my responsibility.”

Laughed it off.

But your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

You’d never expected him to take responsibility for you. You weren’t asking to be saved. But you’d thought — maybe — it was okay to lean. To trust. To fall near him.

After that day, you stopped doing that.

You handled everything alone — even when your hands shook carrying too much, even when your emotions threatened to spill.

No more late-night texts. No more spontaneous hangouts. No more quiet moments walking beside him.

You avoided everyone for a while.

Until Suga found you missing again from another group outing and went straight to Daichi.

“She knows she’s not your responsibility, Daichi. She just thought… you gave a damn.”

That silenced him.

That night, he went up to the school rooftop — the place you always went when you needed to breathe. You were already there, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes on the sky.

He didn’t speak. Just sat beside you. Let the silence ache between you both.

Then finally, barely audible:

“I wanted to protect you. Not push you away.”

You didn’t look at him. You just said, hollowly:

“You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

But he shook his head gently.

“No, you don’t. I didn’t say that because I didn’t care. I said it because I was scared of how much I did.”

You blinked, eyes burning.

“You’re not my responsibility,” he whispered again — but this time softer, reverent. “You’re my person. That’s… different.”

[kakashisacademia]

pairing: hooker Toji Fushiguro x you | warnings: paid sex

summary; you’re a shy sweet girl until you book Toji one day for an hour and he ruins you completely

ೃ⁀➷ Break For The Man You Paid For

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” His voice is low, rough. And worse, almost bored. Like he’s just confirming an order at a takeout window. He’s leaning against your doorframe in a dark jacket, arms crossed, eyes dragging over your body like you’re a price tag.

You nod barely. You can’t even look him in the eyes. “Y-Yes. I… I want to.”

He smirks. “Alright. Let’s see the money.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you hand him the envelope. He takes it without a word, flips through the bills, and raises a brow when he sees the tip tucked in. “Didn’t say you had to pay me extra.”

“I… I just thought, um, you should have it,” you mumble. “Since… you’re doing this.”

Toji lets out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “Doing you, you mean.”

You freeze. He sees it. Sees the flush rise in your cheeks, the way your thighs press together a little.

He jerks his chin. “Lead the way, then. Time’s ticking.”

You nod again, turning to walk toward your bedroom, and he follows, his eyes locked on the sway of your hips in your too-soft, too-cute little dress.

You sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap. Toji shrugs off his jacket and sets it on your chair like this is any other job.

“You ever done this before?” he asks, voice low as he kicks off his boots.

Your eyes flick to his and then back to your lap. “No. I’ve never…”

“Figured.” He pauses, gaze dark. “You nervous?”

You nod. “Y-Yeah.”

He hums. “You should be.”

And then he steps between your knees, tilts your chin up with a single finger. “You paid me to fuck you, sweetheart,” he says, voice calm and heavy. “So unless you’ve changed your mind, I’m gonna give you what you paid for.”

Your breath catches. And god, that look in his eyes like he doesn’t care, like you’re just another client, but there’s a flicker, just a flicker, of something sharper. Like he’s already guessing how you’ll sound when you break.

He steps back then and already stripping in a slow, methodical way. Shirt off, scars on display, pants dropping low on his hips before he slides them off. You can’t help but stare. His body is… terrifying. Thick muscle. Power. And that heavy cock he rolls the condom onto without ceremony.

You undress then too, hands shaking, the urge to hide thickens. God, this is a mistake, you think over and over again when you sit back down. And it only gets worse.

He doesn’t ask what you like. Doesn’t touch you first. He just kneels on the bed, grips your hips, and pulls you toward the center like you’re nothing more than a pillow to fuck.

You gasp, arms fluttering a little as you adjust. “W-Wait… just, um-”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he mutters. “Unless you want me to.”

Your face burns. He leans over you, knee spreading your thighs apart, positioning himself with practiced ease. You feel the thick press of him, blunt and unrelenting, against your entrance.

“Try to relax,” he says, flat. “Won’t take long.”

He pushes in. Your breath stutters, more from the stretch than the pain. He’s big. So much bigger than you expected. And he’s not slow about it either, just steady, deep, filling.

You grip the sheets. He watches your face as you squirm. Not out of concern, but curiosity. Like he’s trying to decide if you’re enjoying it or regretting everything.

“You’re tight,” he mutters. “Thought you said you wanted this.”

“I- I do,” you whisper. “It’s just-”

He stills. There’s a second. Just one. Where something shifts in his eyes. A flicker of… not tenderness, but awareness. Maybe even guilt. He exhales, low.

Then, he says softer. “You ever had a guy inside you before?”

You hesitate. Then nod. “Only once. It was years ago.”

That explains it. Toji braces himself on one arm and slowly rocks his hips, less force this time, more glide. Watching your lashes flutter, the way your lips part in surprise.

“Feels good?” he asks, voice still flat, but quieter now.

You nod. You’re trying. So hard to enjoy it. But your face is flushed, lips bitten pink, thighs trembling like you’re trying not to embarrass yourself.

And Toji, bored, cold Toji, watches it all.

“…You’re cute,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You blink up at him.

“I mean,” he continues, fucking you with lazy, deep strokes, “for a shy little thing who paid for dick like it’s takeout.”

Your face burns. But your body clenches, just a little, and he feels it.

He smirks. “Oh. So that does do something for you.”

His hips roll slow, deep. Not lazy now, intentional.

Your hands clutch the sheets, chest heaving, mouth parted in the softest moan. He can feel you pulsing around him, every little squeeze sending heat right to his spine.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice darker now, no longer bored. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper, turning your face away in embarrassment.

“Don’t hide,” he growls, hand catching your chin and turning you back. “I wanna see.”

Your lip trembles. And it shouldn’t affect him. You’re a client. This is a job. But the way you look at him like he’s something more, like he’s the first man who’s ever really touched you… fuck, it does something to him.

“You want me to make you feel good?” he asks, voice low and rough against your cheek.

You nod.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“…Yes. Please.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rough and warm, not gentle, but good. Your body jolts, breath catching.

“You this sensitive from just a few strokes?” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ hell, baby. You were made to be fucked.”

You choke on a moan. He thrusts deeper now, fingers circling your clit, watching your expression twist with pleasure you’re too shy to admit.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you like it.”

“I… I like it.”

“Say you like being used.”

Your breath hitches. You hesitate. “I like being used.”

And that’s it. Toji’s control starts to crack. His rhythm picks up, harder now, more intense. Your body bounces beneath him, thighs shaking, eyes glossy with overwhelmed pleasure.

He leans down, mouth hot at your ear. “Still shy, princess?” he taunts. “Even while you’re clenching around me like you’re about to cum?”

You let out a soft, desperate noise. So close you’re shaking. And that makes him grin.

“You gonna cum for the cock you paid for?” he growls. “Gonna soak it like a good little client?”

Toji can feel the way your walls flutter, the way your legs tighten, your hips bucking just slightly against the force of his thrusts. You’re panting now, clutching the sheets like they’ll save you, like if you just focus hard enough, you won’t cum. But that’s not gonna fly.

“Uh-uh,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand. “Don’t you fucking dare hold back on me.”

Your eyes go wide. “I…I can’t… Toji!”

“You will.” His hips slam into yours harder, deeper. “You think I came all this way for you to hold that pretty little orgasm in?”

You shake your head, trembling.

“Paid good money, didn’t you?” His voice is hot against your ear. “So cum, sweetheart. Soak my cock. Make it worth my time.”

Your back arches, the force of him, his filthy voice, his control. All of it tears through you.

You break. You cry out, legs locking around his waist, body spasming under him as the orgasm crashes through you so hard it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It’s loud. It’s messy. And worst of all, it’s so much better than you ever expected.

Toji watches you fall apart with a dark, satisfied grin.

“Fuck,” he mutters, thrusting through the aftershocks as your pussy clenches helplessly around him. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You whimper, tears at the corners of your eyes, face hot and flushed. And he’s still hard. Still moving. Still inside you, deep and full and relentless.

“Cute thing like you should get used to cumming for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips across your jaw. “You think this is over?”

You blink up at him, dazed. He gives your thighs a squeeze, grinding his hips just right.

“It’s a flat rate, sweetheart,” he smirks. “I don’t stop till the hour’s up.”

Your eyes widen. You’re still shaking. Still dazed from your first orgasm, thighs sticky and trembling, lips parted in soft, shattered whimpers.

Toji doesn’t give her a break. He grabs her waist, flips her like she weighs nothing, and drags her up onto all fours. Her body is limp, pliant, already wrecked.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he grunts, kneeling behind her, cock still thick and hard, glistening with her slick. “You wanted the full hour, right?”

You try to protest, whimpering. “I…I need a second.”

But his chest is suddenly pressed to your back, hot and heavy, making you arch. His hand slides around your front, palm wide against your belly, holding you in place.

“You’ll be fine,” he breathes against your ear. “Just keep that pretty little pussy open for me.”

And then he slams into you again. You cry out, voice raw, high-pitched, barely human. The angle is deeper. Devastating. Like he’s reshaping you from the inside out.

His hand moves. Rough fingers sliding up, curling under your jaw and suddenly he’s got you by the throat. Not choking. Not cruel. Just holding. Like he owns you now.

You whimper, hips rocking back into him without thinking.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, voice a dark growl. “Look at you.”

His pace is filthy. Brutal. Skin slapping. Your body jerking forward with every thrust, eyes rolling.

“Your sweet little act’s slipping, baby,” he snarls, lips brushing your temple. “Didn’t think you’d beg for it like this.”

You try to form words, but they melt on your tongue.

“Thought you’d be quiet. Thought you’d be polite.” His grip on your throat tightens, just enough to make your heart stutter. “But now you’re moaning like a goddamn porn star.”

“Toji, pl-please.”

“Yeah?” he snarls. “Beg again. Beg like you’re gonna pay me to own you.”

Your body convulses. Another orgasm crashing through you before you even realize it’s coming. Your legs collapse. He holds you up, still thrusting, not letting you fall, not letting you hide.

“You gonna remember this?” he growls. “Next time you’re wet and lonely and thinkin’ about booking a nice, quiet boy to fuck you gentle?”His hand curls tighter around your neck. “You’ll think about me.”

Your body’s gone limp beneath him. Eyes glassy, lips trembling, drool at the corner of your mouth. You’re barely upright, shaking with every thrust, every drag of his cock splitting you wide open from behind.

But Toji isn’t done. Not even close. He fists your hair and pulls you up against his chest, dragging your back flush to his soaked torso, your knees barely supporting you. Your breath stutters, weak and ragged.

“That’s it,” he breathes at your ear, voice low, dangerous, almost giddy in its cruelty. “That’s the face I wanted.”

You can’t speak. You just moan, open-mouthed and broken. His hand catches your jaw, turns your face toward the mirror across the room.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Fucked stupid. Paid me to break you, and now you don’t even know what day it is.”

You stare. You see yourself. Red faced, hair a mess, mouth hanging open, tits bouncing with every hard, punishing thrust. Your thighs are glistening, your eyes wet, your body marked where his hands gripped too tight.

And Toji behind you looks feral. Chest heaving. Muscles flexed. That usual bored smirk nowhere to be found. He looks hungry.

“See what you do to me?” he hisses, snapping his hips hard. “You see what you fucking unlocked, sweetheart?”

You whimper, nodding helplessly.

“You thought this was just business,” he growls. “But look at me. Look at how fuckin’ hard I still am after making you cum twice. Look at how I can’t stop.”

You let out a strangled moan as another orgasm builds, your body clenching down on him involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice dark and reverent. “Let it hit you. Fall apart. I want you gone, baby. I want you wrecked. Ruined. Cryin’.”

He grips your throat again, thumb brushing your spit-slick lips.

“Cum,” he growls, voice low and guttural, hips pounding into you so deep you feel it in your ribs. “Fucking cum for me.”

And you do. It hits you so hard you scream. Legs give out. Vision goes white. Your body folds in on itself and he catches you. Hand in your hair, cock still inside you, eyes locked on your twitching reflection like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And all he can say, voice wrecked and chest heaving, “Fuck.” And then he comes, hard. His groan long and croaked as he fills the condom.

The shower’s warm. Steam curling around you, hands braced to the tile, trying to keep from sliding down. Toji’s behind you, his massive palm gently guiding water down your back. It should feel awkward. Transactional.

But instead, it feels… safe. And quiet.

You’re trembling, flushed from heat and adrenaline, and the only thing you can whisper, soft and confused, “…But the hour’s up?”

He goes still behind you. Then a low, short laugh like you just asked if the sky is blue.

“The fuck’s your point?”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s not even looking at you. He just grabs the body wash and starts rubbing it into his chest like he belongs there, like this is nothing.

“I just…” You blink. “I thought you’d leave.”

He snorts. “What, you got somewhere to be?”

You flush deeper. “No…”

“Good.” He reaches around you, hand brushing your waist not sexual, just familiar. Steady. “Me neither.”

Your heart thuds painfully. Then quieter, almost shy, you murmur, “You didn’t have to stay…”

And his eyes finally meet yours. There’s no grin now. No smirk. Just a slow blink, a shrug of his broad shoulders.

“I wanted to.”

That’s it. No flirt. No seduction. Just truth.

And suddenly, you’re really trembling. Not from the sex, not from the heat, but from how seen you feel. How safe. How real this moment has become. Toji notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping close, crowding you into the warm tile with his chest. “I’m not goin’ anywhere yet. So relax.”

His hand curls gently under your jaw, tilts your face up to him. “You’re not just another lay,” he mutters, eyes softer now. “I don’t do this. I don’t stay. So don’t look at me like that.”

You whisper. “Like what?”

“…Like I’m something good.”

You smile anyway.

And even though he curses under his breath, even though he turns away and grabs the shampoo like it never happened his hand stays on your waist.

She falls asleep on his chest after the shower. Just like that. Naked, boneless, her cheek smushed into his pec like it’s her damn pillow. Her fingers curl softly against his ribs. Her breath is warm. Even in sleep, she clings.

Toji’s staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. He should leave. He should have left hours ago. Fuck, he should’ve never stayed in the first place.

But here he is. Flat on his back. Smelling like her shampoo. Spent. With a soft little thing drooling on his chest and wearing his damn heart like it’s hers now.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. He should move. Should shove her off. Should say something. But all he can do is stare at the ceiling fan spinning above them and think, ‘fuck. I’m so screwed’.

Because he’s been with women. Dozens. All shapes, all types. Loud ones. Wild ones. Girls who knew what they wanted and weren’t shy about it.

But this one? She was quiet. Sweet. Nervous. She whispered, not moaned. She looked at him like he mattered.

And now after he fucked her out so hard she could barely stand, she just… trusted him. Fell asleep like he wasn’t the coldest, meanest son of a bitch alive.

His arm moves before he can stop it, sliding around her waist, holding her a little closer. His fingers press against her soft hip, just to feel her warmth. Her realness. She sighs, content in her sleep, and burrows in deeper.

And Toji, the fucker who’s broken bones and walked away from love like it was nothing, feels something shift behind his ribs.

His heart stutters. Catches. And for the first time in a long, long time… he whispers something soft, like it hurts.

“…What the hell are you doing to me, sweetheart.”

No answer. Just the hum of the fan, the warmth of her breath, and the quiet ache of something he might not survive. But he stays.

And when morning comes he’ll still be there.