#as long as there's hope there's work to do

[maskedbyghost]

Part 2 of Simon Leaving During Sex Like a Coward

It doesn’t hit him right away.

He’s used to walking away from things, from people, too. It’s not easy, and that night, when he left you sitting there, all soft and broken and still wanting him, he thought he was doing the right thing.

He told himself he was protecting you. He told himself he didn’t deserve to hear you say I love you, and told himself it would hurt less if he left before things got worse.

But the thing about lies—even the ones you tell yourself—is they don’t stick for long.

It starts with a dream. One of those dreams that feels too real. So real it stays with him long after he wakes up.

You’re smiling in it. Not at him—at someone else.

Some faceless man with his hand on your lower back and a ring on your finger. There’s a baby, too. Swaddled up in your arms, pressed to your chest like something precious, and Simon’s just standing there, watching.

He wakes up gasping, his heart fucking pounding.

It keeps happening. Every night. You in a new house, you in a sundress, barefoot in some sunny kitchen, you laughing, you holding a baby that’s got your eyes. Never his. And the man—he’s always just a blur, a shadow, but Simon knows he’s better. Kinder. Softer. The kind of man who wouldn’t flinch when you said I love you.

It fucks him up.

He starts thinking about you all the time. What you’re doing. Who you’re with. If you hate him. If you cried after he left. If you ever said it again—to someone else.

And it’s not just guilt anymore. It’s this awful emptiness, like something’s missing and no amount of sleep or work or noise can fill it.

He tries to move on. Tries to pretend he doesn’t miss you like a fucking limb. But nothing works.

Not when he catches himself checking his phone, hoping maybe you reached out, even though you shouldn’t. Not when he sees your shampoo still in the corner of his shower. Not when he wakes up hard and aching and alone, whispering your name into the dark like some pathetic ghost of the man he was when he had you.

So he gives in.

He shows up at your door one night, three months later, soaked from the rain, with his heart in his hands and his pride already long gone.

You open the door wearing that same old hoodie of his you used to steal all the time, the one you said smelled like safety. Your eyes go wide when you see him, and he swears his knees almost buckle.

He doesn’t even say hello.

“I fucked up.”

You blink, your arms crossed. You don’t invite him in.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “You did.”

“I was scared,” he tells you, voice hoarse. “Not of you. Of—of what I felt for you. It was too much. You made me feel like I was worth something, and I didn’t know what to do with that.”

You just stare at him, jaw tight, mouth set in that way that used to mean you were trying not to cry.

“I thought I could walk away,” he says, louder now, desperate. “Thought I could forget you. But I can’t. I see you in every fucking dream. I hear you when I’m lying in bed. I miss your voice, your laugh, and the way you looked at me like I was good, even when I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t,” you say quietly. “You hurt me.”

“I know. I know I did, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. But I had to try. I had to come back. Even if it’s too late. Even if you’ve moved on and you’re happy. I had to see you again. Had to tell you I love you too.”

You flinch. He notices.

“You don’t get to say that now,” you whisper. “Not after the way you left.”

Simon nods, swallowing hard. Rain dripping from his hair, his lashes. He looks soaked and miserable and completely undone.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says. “But I’m still here. And I’ll keep showing up, every day, every hour, if that’s what it takes. I’ll beg. I’ll wait. I’ll prove it. Just tell me I haven’t lost you for good.”

Silence.

Just the sound of rain and your shallow breath and his heart beating too loud in his ears.

You narrow your eyes at him. Fold your arms tighter across your chest.

“If you’re serious about this,” you say slowly, “then you can start by showing me. And I don’t mean some pretty speech in the rain like we’re in a fucking movie.”

Simon just stares, barely breathing.

“I want a cinnamon roll. Warm. With extra icing. From that bakery that always spells my name wrong on the bag.”

His brow lifts just a little. That place’s queue was always ridiculous, and you used to complain every time, but never enough to stop going.

“They close in fifteen,” you add. “So if you’re serious, you better go now.”

He opens his mouth, probably to say something dumb, but you don’t wait to find out.

You slam the door in his face. Hard.

Simon stands there, rain dripping from his lashes, staring at the door like it just hit him with a brick. Then, after a second, a low chuckle slips out—rough and breathy, like he can’t quite believe you’re giving him hoops to jump through.

“Cinnamon roll,” he mutters, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turns away. “With bloody extra icing.”

And yeah, he’s soaked and slightly out of breath already, but he’s going.

He’s getting that fucking cinnamon roll.

PART 3

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starting with a cinnamon roll but don’t worry, we’re working our way up to a birkin 😌

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

[brokenmenswhore]

a proposition: it’s getting serious | poly!marauders

#7

pairing: poly!marauders x fem!reader (james, remus, and sirius, featuring alecto, dorcas, evan, lily, and mary)

warnings: not proofread, smut (MDNI 18+), angst, fingering, rough sex

a/n: do you guys like the title of this one because i truly think im so fucking funny

a proposition: masterlist

────── ☾ ──────

He was avoiding you. It was obvious to everyone.

It wasn't like Sirius was your best friend in the world, but you were still close. Then he kissed you. You hadn't heard from him since.

After everything Remus had told you before you and Sirius had kissed, you knew that something was up. It was the only explanation. You knew you hadn't done anything wrong. Whatever this was, it was all Sirius. You didn't want to pry, so you decided to let him come to you whenever he was ready.

But it had been weeks.

In the meantime, you had your fair share of fun with Dorcas and Mary. You told them it was unfair that you had sex with a woman alone once and that it was Marlene, and they worked to rectify it.

Evan was still ravenous any time he was near you, and spent five full days seeking you out between every period, after class, and even sometimes first thing in the morning. You sometimes returned the favor, but only when he wanted it. He was happy to stay in between your legs for hours.

And of course, there was Remus. He hadn't been elaborate about pursuing you, but you oftentimes went to him first when you were feeling experimental or particularly needy. Remus was your first, and you were tethered to him in a way you couldn't explain.

But even he couldn't justify Sirius's avoidance. You could tell that something caused contention between the two of them, but they were best friends, and Sirius hadn't pulled away from him.

You felt like you ruined the group. Like you caused the drama- like you were the problem, no matter how many people told you that wasn't true.

What bothered you the most, other than Sirius avoiding you, was the fact that everyone acted as if they knew why, and just didn't want to tell you. You had interrogated Remus quite a few times, but he acted nonchalant every single time. Any time you asked someone how he was doing or why he was still not talking to you, they would just shrug and change the subject.

You had had enough.

You sat cross-legged on Sirius's bed, making sure your skirt still covered you. He took significantly longer than you anticipated to get back to his dorm, since he had last-minute Quidditch practice and you had no idea. But you knew that he had to come back to his dorm. Eventually.

The moment the door swung open, James spotted you on his bed, and immediately turned around. He pushed past Sirius as Sirius noticed you, and tried to do the same.

James, now behind him, pushed him into the dormitory and slammed the door shut.

Sirius tried to pry it open, but James was standing on the other side, pressing it shut. Sirius took a deep breath and dropped his head before walking over to his desk and dropping his Quidditch bag, completely ignoring you.

“Be back in like an hour!” James called, giggling as you heard his footsteps dissipate.

You waited for him to turn to you, but he never did. He just pretended to go through his bag for a frustratingly long time.

"Sirius?"

No response.

"Talk to me, Sirius."

No response.

You shot upward and got in his personal space.

"Sirius."

"What."

"The fuck do you mean what? You haven't spoken to me in weeks."

"Whoops."

"Siri, c'mon." You dropped the nickname, hoping it would help your case.

"Don't call me that."

"Why not, Siri?"

"Stop."

"Then talk to me, Siri."

Sirius took a deep breath and flared his nostrils, turning to you and looking at you for the first time. "What."

You threw your hands up. "You've been avoiding me, as you know."

"Mm.”

"Don't you think I deserve to know why?"

"I'm not avoiding you."

"Yeah, okay," you rolled your eyes.

"Okay," he repeated in the same tone you used.

You were frustrated, and annoyed, and your confidence faltered as your voice cracked in sadness that you ruined something as you asked, "did I do something wrong?"

Your vulnerability shone through, and it caused Sirius's features to soften. He watched your eyes soften as you nearly cried. You had spent weeks mulling over why Sirius was avoiding you, and you couldn't think if anything wrong that you did, unless maybe you really were that bad of a kisser. Yeah, you had gained a ton of confidence recently, but you weren't made of steel all of a sudden. Around Sirius, you were still that younger little girl who blushed whenever he looked in her direction.

"No, no, you didn't do anything wrong, shit," Sirius said, running his fingers through his hair.

You sniffled to hold back the tears. You were fighting with every cell in your body to appear strong. "Then what is it? Please tell me. Please."

Your voice completely broke on the final word, and tears spilled from your eyes, despite your refusal to acknowledge them.

Sirius immediately pulled you into his arms, holding your head against his chest. "You did nothing wrong," he assured you, "nothing at all. I did."

You pulled away to look up at him. "What do you mean?"

"I fucked up."

"No you didn't," you sniffled, "because we kissed? Why would that be bad?"

"It wasn't, it wasn't," he said, lightly stroking your hair, "that's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?" your anger was coming back a bit, "because I seem to be the only person you're avoiding, and that's the only thing that's happened between us."

Sirius let out a deep breath. "Y/N, please."

You stepped backward and pulled away from him. "Do you regret inviting me in? Is that what it is? Are you guys planning on kicking me out or something?"

"No, we would never-"

"Or maybe you're just upset about Remus. Is that it? You acted weird when I came to breakfast with bruises. Are you just jealous of Remus and taking it out on me? Huh?"

"I am jealous of Remus," he admitted.

"And you're punishing me for it?"

"I'm not jealous of Remus because he's Remus," Sirius said, "I'm jealous of Remus because of how you are with him."

You knew what he meant. You weren't stupid enough to not acknowledge or know that you had one hell of a connection with him. "So you're mad at me because you wish you had someone to give you what Remus and I have?"

Sirius stared you dead in the face. He was so tired of fighting it.

"I'm mad because I want what you and Remus have, with you."

"All you had to do was say so, and I would have fucked you. That's, like, the whole point of this."

"No-" Sirius threw his hands up and paced. He was trying to figure out how to say the words he'd never thought he would have to, or want to, say.

You watched him run his fingers through his hair again as he looked at you and forced himself to speak. "I don't mean I want you just to fuck you, Y/N, I want you."

You blinked rapidly as you stared at him. His eyes were almost pleading, hoping that he wouldn't be facing rejection.

"Oh," was all you could say. You were in shock.

"Yeah."

You both just stared at one another. Each moment felt like an eternity. Neither of you knew what to say or do.

"How long?"

"What?" Sirius asked.

"How long have you been feeling like this?" you asked, your voice small and quiet.

Sirius shrugged, "in sixth year, well, fifth year for you, James was trying to show us someone in Hufflepuff he hooked up with. It wasn't you, obviously, but we thought you were who he was pointing at, cus the actual girl was like two seats to your right. You looked up and caught me looking at you, and you turned bright red."

You nodded your head slightly and chuckled in disbelief. "Are you fucking with me?"

"No."

Your laugh of disbelief died there.

"You mean to tell me you've been noticing me this entire time?"

"Mhm."

"So- but you signed me up to fuck your friends?"

"I still wanna fuck you, don't get it twisted,” he chuckled. That was the Sirius you knew.

"But-"

"I noticed you before this, Y/N, but it's different actually knowing you. I didn't think you fucking Remus would make me feel like this until I actually met you and got to know you."

"So this is all because I'm fucking Remus?" your heart still couldn't process what your brain understood.

"No, Y/N, for fucks sake, this is all because I've never fallen for somebody before and I don't know how to fucking act. I don't even know how to fuckin' be around you."

Sirius seemed to immediately realize what he said, because his breathing hitched in his throat as he stared at you.

You couldn't breathe.

After what felt like an eternity, Sirius pleaded, "please say something," so quiet that you almost didn't hear it.

"I don't know what to say," you admitted.

Sirius sighed in disappointment, assuming he was getting rejected. "I'm sorry, forget I said anything-“

He turned to try to leave again, but you said "Sirius, wait," and ran up to him, grabbing his arm and trying to spin him back toward you.

He turned to face you, but kept his head up, looking forward instead of at you. He couldn't handle looking you in the eyes as you rejected him.

"Sirius, look at me."

He refused. You touched the side of his face, stroking his cheek lightly with your thumb. "Please look at me."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "No, Y/N, you don't get it, I can't just fuck you and leave it there, and that’s how this is supposed to work, but I just-“

Sirius sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands.

You knelt down in front of him. You gently moved his hands away from his face, and he looked at you, eyes glassy as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“There’s this tether between myself and Remus that I don’t think I can ignore,” you said. You knew it might hurt him, but it was better to be honest if things were hard already.

Sirius interpreted your words in his own way. “Is that what’s holding you back?”

You paused for a moment. “Holding me back from what?”

“Could I have you if I shared you with Remus?”

You were visibly taken aback by his question.

“I can see it in your eyes, Y/N, you can say whatever you want, but you can’t lie to me, not really. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel the same.”

You couldn’t.

He knew you couldn’t.

“I’ve liked you forever,” you admitted.

“You still blush when I look at you,” he smiled.

“You’ve never looked at me the way you are right now.”

“I have. You just didn’t know what it meant until now.”

Your breath hitched in a light gasp. “Sirius-“

“Please just tell me how you feel,” he said, “and if you say you feel nothing, even if I know it’s not true, I’ll shut the fuck up and leave it be.”

You had to be honest with yourself, and with what you’ve always known and always felt. “I have feelings for you.”

Before Sirius could smile too big, you said, “but I can’t ignore whatever this connection is with Remus.”

Sirius took a deep breath to contemplate his words. “I can share. Remus and I share everything anyway.”

“What about the rest of the group?”

“I really don’t care about the rest of the group.”

You took a second to contemplate your next move. Having Sirius Black to yourself seemed too good to be true. Sirius was always the one you assumed you wouldn’t have a shot with, but if your conversation with Remus taught you anything, it was that Sirius’s reputation wasn’t all too accurate.

Remus. What would he think? You wouldn’t be exclusive with him, but would he get bored of you? Would he be angry that you and Sirius broke the rules, and not want you anymore?

“We have to talk to Remus, obviously,” you said.

Sirius’s head shot up as he looked to your face, contemplating the weight of your words. We. His eyes flickered back and forth between yours desperately as he studied your face. “Are you saying yes?”

Your train of thought was going too far off the rails to even comprehend what he said. “Then we’d have to tell everyone else, but definitely Remus first. And-“

Sirius grabbed your face, his hands on either cheek as he shook your attention back to him. “Are you saying yes.”

You took a deep breath. You’d gotten the sexual experimentation you’d needed. You cared for the rest of the group, but definitely not the way you cared for Remus or Sirius. Sitting there, Sirius holding your face, eyes glassy thinking you didn’t want him, you knew you’d be a fucking idiot to deny him. This is all you’d ever daydreamed of when he would catch your eye from the corner of the room.

“Yes.”

Sirius took one quick moment to smile before he pressed his lips against yours, pulling you closer to him. Your knees shifted against the carpet as you held onto Sirius’s arms. He moved a hand to the back of your head, holding you even closer to him as his lips molded with your own.

You pushed yourself off of your knees, maintaining the kiss as you stood in front of him, his legs spreading apart as he moved to grip your waist.

He pulled away briefly. “I really, really want you to know how much you mean to me,” he said through static breaths, “but I don’t think I can be gentle with you right now.”

You pushed a piece of his hair behind his ear. In a near whisper, you said, “I don’t need you to be gentle with me. We have time.”

“We have time,” he repeated, more to himself than to you, so quiet that you almost didn’t catch it.

You waited for him to process before you made another move. He searched your eyes with his own.

Seemingly in an instant, Sirius realizes the emotional strife was out of his system, but the physical wasn’t. His demeanor shifted as he said, “I wanna fuck you so hard that you forget Remus exists.”

You felt your core pulse at his words. He grabbed the back of your thighs and pulled you onto his lap. He moved his lips close to yours, but instead of kissing you, he continued to whisper, “you wanna be mine? I’m gonna fucking make you mine.”

“Sirius-“

He didn’t let you speak. He pressed his lips to yours in the most intense kiss you’d experienced yet, his dominant hand gripping your jaw to hold you in place. His other hand grabbed your ass, pressing you down into his lap as he bucked his hips lightly.

Your skirt fanned out onto his stomach, meaning the bulge in his pants pressed directly against your underwear. You could feel yourself soaking through them as the lengthy bulge bucked between your folds.

Sirius’s fingers were so tangled in your hair that you didn’t think he would be able to ever let go. He groaned as he slapped your ass harshly, and you felt the intensity of the moment, taking a chance to gently catch his lower lip between your teeth.

You pulled away lightly, releasing his lip as he looked up at you with lust-blown eyes. “Now where did my innocent little Y/N learn to do that, hm? Remus?” he smirked.

“I’ve never done that to Remus,” you shrugged as if the conversation was casual.

“Oh really?” Sirius smiled, gripping your face with both hands and pushing you even harder onto his bulge, “savin’ some things just for me? Wish you saved yourself for me,” he admitted.

“You kinda scared me,” you admitted back.

Sirius tilted his head like a puppy. “I scared you?”

“Mhm.”

“How so?”

You flushed with embarrassment. “Thought you’d be too rough with me. Didn’t know how much I’d want that.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Too rough, huh? Is that what you want?” He slapped your ass again, moving your hips against him, causing you to gasp, “you want me to be rough with you, huh? Show you what I’ve been wantin’ to do to you this whole time?”

“Please,” you pleaded.

“Again,” he demanded.

“Please, Siri, be rough with me.”

Sirius harshly pulled your face down to his, kissing you again as he, without warning, ripped the fabric of your underwear to expose where he was grinding against.

You squealed and pulled away. “Sirius!”

“What?” he shrugged like nothing had happened.

You stood up, and he pouted, but you could see the concern in his eyes. You quickly pulled your skirt down and discarded the ripped fabric of your underclothes, taking residence on top of him again. You saw his breathing relax when you returned. “I had to get up to take my skirt off anyway!”

Sirius threw his hands up next to his head. “They were in my way.”

“You literally still have your pants and boxers on.”

Sirius smirked. “Y’know, you could help with that, babydoll.”

You rolled your eyes at his cockiness, but you couldn’t deny him- he was just so charismatic. Even painfully horny and having just confessed his romantic love for someone for the first time, he laid there with his hands behind his head as you unbuttoned his pants as if he was the sexiest being alive. He kinda was.

You knelt in front of him, trying to unclothe him. You, of course, nervous from trying to maintain the intensity of the moment, could not get his pants fully unbuttoned. Your fingers fumbled with the final button.

“Fucks sake,” Sirius said, doing it for you and removing both his pants and boxers, allowing his cock to spring free directly in front of your face.

You choked on a gasp and coughed.

Sirius didn’t move, he just sat up on the edge of the bed and looked at you. Your eyes were transfixed on his leaking cock, your brain wondering how the fuck you were possibly supposed to suck him off without suffocating.

“Remus is bigger, hun, if you can fit him, you can fit me,” Sirius assures you, worried that you were panicking.

“Remus is… skinnier,” you said.

Sirius laughed. “Yeah, can’t argue with that.”

You looked up at Sirius, then back to his impressive length. You wrapped your hand around him, and he bit his lip to keep himself from losing control immediately. You began to stroke him, looking up at him through hooded lids as you licked his tip.

He threw his head back, but quickly reset, not wanting to miss a moment of watching you take him in your mouth.

You sank down onto him, doing your best to keep your cheeks hollow to accommodate for his girth. You gave yourself a few moments to adjust to his size and the feeling of a comfortable rhythm, before you began to move at a steady pace, using your hand to cover any ground that your mouth couldn’t.

You gazed up to Sirius, and his chest was rising and falling rapidly, his eyes fixed directly on you. You fought to maintain eye contact, even though the angle he was sitting at made it difficult to look up so far.

“Fuck, dollface, just like that,” he moaned, using one hand to tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear.

He began to stroke your cheek with his thumb as you sucked him, the gesture so intimate and sweet during such a filthy act. You moaned in surprise at the contact, and Sirius growled in response.

“Shit, can I fuck your mouth?” he asked.

You pulled away, still stroking him with your hand as you said, “You can do whatever you want with me.”

The noise that came from Sirius’s throat was purely primal.

He gathered your hair into a ponytail, holding tightly as the other hand positioned himself in front of you.

“Open.”

You opened your mouth and he immediately pushed himself in as far as he could, his tip hitting the back of your throat, causing you to gag.

He pulled back out, and said “easy, bunny, relax,” before pushing back in again.

You clenched the muscles in your throat as he did it again, his tip hitting the back of your throat. You coughed and moaned around him, but kept your composure the best you could.

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructed, “that’s it, that’s it.”

With him stilled, you were able to adjust to the feeling of him at the back of your throat, and adjust to comfortably breathing through your nose. You slackened your jaw, hollowing out your cheeks. You got yourself in a position comfortable enough that you didn’t have to move- Sirius could just fuck your mouth as he pleased.

You looked up at him and moaned around him, signaling that you were okay and he could move.

He began to push your head down, your hands bracing yourself against the mattress as he moved your head via your ponytail.

You fought like hell to look up at him, having been told several times by everyone in the group that boys liked eye contact during head, and they were right. The moment your eyes met Sirius’s, he began to fuck your mouth even faster, his pupils blowing and growing darker at the sight.

“Fucking hell, fuck,” he moaned.

You were so ridiculously turned on by the sight and sounds of Sirius, and felt confidence build from your core upwards. You reached a hand up and gently cradled his balls, squeezing ever so slightly as he continued to fuck your mouth.

“Fuck,” he moaned, extending the word as he finally gave in and his back slammed against the mattress. His hand never left your head, but it did loosen, and you took the opportunity to take control of the pace.

You didn’t let up, but rather tried to push yourself as much as you could, sinking yourself as deep as you possibly could on Sirius. You fought through the gags, and your nose grazed Sirius’s lower stomach.

“Fuck, fuck, don’t do that or I’m gonna fucking come down your throat,” he said.

So you did it again.

“Shit, please, I need to be in you to come,” he pleaded.

You liked hearing him whiny and desperate for you, so you held him in your throat and swallowed, constricting around him.

Sirius bucked his hips involuntarily, pushing himself to the absolute limit. It was too much for you, and you pulled away to catch your breath.

Despite his leaking cock and evident need, Sirius took the opportunity to hook his arms under yours, hoisting you up to a stand.

“But-“

“I am so not ready to be done with you yet,” he said.

Sirius stood and traded places with you, forcing you onto the mattress and standing between your legs.

He pulled your shirt upwards, and you raised your arms to allow for him to remove the garment and throw it off to the side. He skillfully unclasped your bra blindly, throwing it in the same direction he had your shirt, leaving you bare naked beneath him.

“Merlin’s fucking beard,” he said, his hands roaming the newly exposed skin.

You felt yourself stiffen underneath his touch, the direct attention on your exposed body causing you to be nervous.

“Oh, baby, you’re fucking beautiful,” he said, his voice full of adoration, like you were the most ethereal being he had ever seen, and he couldn’t comprehend that he got to see you like this.

“You called me baby.”

Sirius met your eyes in concern. “Is that okay?”

“I like it.”

Sirius smiled and resumed staring at you, studying every curve of your body like he would never get to see it again.

As much as you appreciated the adoration, you needed some part of him inside of you, and you needed it now. You knew of one surefire way to pull Sirius back into a rough, possessive headspace. It was playing with fire, but fuck you liked the heat.

“Only Remus calls me baby.”

Sirius’s hands stopped. He slowly looked up to your face, surprise at your confidence evident on his face.

“Oh yeah?” he challenged, running a hand down your entire torso, not even bothering to prep you before he roughly inserted two fingers into you, “is that right?”

“Mhm,” you moaned as Sirius began to viciously scissor and pump his fingers in and out of you, your wetness enough that you didn’t need any extra preparation.

Your hips began to swirl beneath him, and Sirius pressed his palm to your clit, adding to the immediate intensity of the stimulation.

“Only Remus calls you baby, huh?” he said, his own anger working himself up to fuck his fingers into you rougher and rougher, faster and faster, “then I guess only Remus can make you come like this too, huh? If Remus is so fucking special.”

“Fuck,” was all you could cry out.

“You’re mine, you understand that? I can call you whatever the fuck I want, baby. What are you gonna do, go cry to Remus about it? Would you rather have his fingers inside of you? Huh?” Sirius was seething as he gripped your jaw and forced you to look at him with his unoccupied hand, “would you?”

“N-no,” you gasped out.

“Oh, but you seem to be so fucking obsessed with him, don’t you?” His pace was fucking ruthless, and your entire body was writhing and convulsing beneath him as you instinctively tried to escape the intensity, but he wasn’t letting up. His face was mere inches from yours, and he watched you come undone as he spoke, anger mixing with lust. “You only ever wanna have Remus make you come, huh? Don’t even know what you’re missing. You like this? Does it feel good? Because if he’s so great, I’ll just go get Remmy and he can bite you some more.”

Sirius was angry beyond the point of coming back. He needed you to disagree; he needed you to want him so bad and come so hard that you couldn’t even consider Remus.

“So good, please, I want you, just you-“

Sirius moved his hand to your throat, applying light pressure, mostly to hold you in place, rather than cut off air flow.

You knew Sirius’s anger was not only from a place of lust and longing, but a place of hurt. Sirius was never needed or wanted, and you knew he compared himself to Remus relentlessly.

“I only want you, Siri, please, wanted you for so long-“ you could barely get words out through the strangled moans and gasps, “it’s always been about you, fuck- fuck, I’m gonna- fuck, Siri, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Yeah? Didn’t know you could come for anyone but Remus.”

Tears were threatening to spill from your eyes as you writhed uncontrollably under Sirius’s harsh grasp. He curled his fingers as he pumped, hitting your sweet spot over and over again.

“Please, please, Siri, come- gonna come- please-“

“Should I just go get-“

You cut off Sirius’s sassiness before he could say the name again. “Fucks sake, Sirius, please,” you gasped, his grip on your throat loosening when he heard your tone, “I only want you, I don’t fucking care about Remus right now, please make me come, Merlin- fuck- I need you-“

Sirius pulled his fingers out of you entirely.

Your breath was erratic and quick as you looked up at him, almost in disbelief that he had just done that. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move. Your core ached and clenched around nothing.

“W- wh- I-“

Sirius dipped his head into the crook of your neck, his body shaking slightly, and you heard his sniffles and gasps from beside your head. In an instant, the walls crashed down.

“Siri?” you asked, your voice gentle and calm.

Sirius lifted himself on his arms and looked down at you, a tear still falling down his cheek.

You wiped the tear away and tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear, stroking his cheek with your thumb, as he had done to you earlier. “You okay?”

“Just worked myself up a little too much, ‘m sorry,” he sniffled, “‘n you said you need me.”

“Mhm,” you smiled, “you can’t compare yourself to Remus all the time, Sirius. Two completely different relationships.”

“But you always went to him, and you never came to me, it was always him-“

“Sirius, you said it yourself, we can’t just fuck around and call it a day. It’s always been different with us, you know that,” you spoke.

“I’m just always second, and I just-“

“I shouldn’t have said only Remus calls me baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to work you up that much,” you said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he took a deep breath, “‘m sorry. I’m good, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not second, Sirius. Who’s been making me blush all this time? Take it easy, breathe. Can you lay down?” you asked.

Sirius laid out on his back next to you, and you swung a leg over his waist, straddling him despite your aching core.

You toyed with the buttons of his shirt. “Can I?”

You could see that he was about to cry again.

“Sh, sh, easy,” you said, leaning down to kiss him sweetly, “you’re beautiful, Sirius, I just wanna see you.”

Sirius didn’t fight you as you unbuttoned his shirt, your lips attached to his neck so that he didn’t have the added nerves of knowing you were watching his chest and stomach become more and more exposed each second.

You pushed his shirt open, and slowly kissed down his collarbone, then his chest, and then his stomach, lifting just before where his cock was still hard and leaking onto his lower stomach.

You looked up at him, and realized his eyes never left you.

“Are you okay?” you checked in.

“Sorry,” Sirius said, wiping his eyes one final time before he was able to pull himself back to earth, “nothing ruins the mood like my insecurities.”

You kissed him again. “I don’t know about you, but I’m still in a mood. You stopped touching me at the worst fucking moment.”

Sirius snickered. “Next time, don’t be so fucking needy.” He was baiting you. You were happy to bite.

You ran your fingers across his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles. “Can’t help it,” you said, touching him softly and nonchalantly, “I need you bad.”

“Yeah?” he asked as you lifted your hips, positioning yourself directly above his aching cock.

“I need you so, so bad, Siri,” you said, slowly sinking down onto his length.

His hands gripped your hips violently, his knuckles nearly going white from the strength of his hold. He had been imagining what you would feel like around him for what felt like an eternity. As you sank fully down, Sirius couldn’t help but hold you there, barring you from movement.

“Fuck,” you moaned, your forehead pressing against his.

“Baby, baby, baby,” Sirius chanted like a mantra.

“Please let me move, Siri, I need to feel you so bad,” you spoke quietly in his ear.

“Fucking hell,” he said, releasing his grasp on your hips and allowing you to bounce up and down.

You still hadn’t nailed your riding technique, so it took you a few tries to get your balance right. You knew you had it when Sirius grabbed for your arm, a low moan escaping his lips as he pulled you to him.

He kissed you harshly, taking a moment to relish in the feeling of you fucking him. As good as it felt, Sirius was not okay with you servicing him and doing all the work, when all he wanted was to wreck you.

Sirius held the back of your head to maintain the kiss as his other arm wrapped around your waist, pressing your torso to his as he began to snap his hips upward. You whined into the kiss at the sudden new angle.

“Heard you like being manhandled baby, is that right?” he spoke into your ear, your head falling into the crook of his neck, “you like it rough, huh?”

You moaned in response as Sirius snapped his hips even faster, holding your waist down so that you stayed in place for him.

“Liked you ‘cus you were so fuckin’ innocent,” he began, your entire body jolting with each thrust of his hips, “could tell from how easily I made you blush. Knew it’d be fun to wreck you. Never dreamed you’d like it so fucking much,” he slapped your ass hard, causing you to cry out into his shoulder.

“Been-“ you could barely speak, “thinking about this, you- so long.”

Sirius fucked into you faster. “Keep talkin’.”

“Siri, please, don’t make me.”

Sirius slapped your ass, not letting up on his pace at all. “Please, baby, keep fuckin’ talking.”

“Not fair,” you struggled out.

“What’s not fair,” he shot back, “is making me wait this long to feel you. Fuckin’ hell, angel, you feel so fucking good.”

Sirius slowed down, almost fully stilling before he flipped your two bodies over. He then grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips upward to meet his.

You went to hoist yourself up on your arms, but he grabbed your wrists, connecting them behind your back and holding them with one hand. “Down.”

“I’m not a dog,” you challenged, “unlike some people.”

Sirius smiled, a genuine smile. You were joking with him in the middle of intense sex. It just kept getting better and better.

“Oh, shut up,” he replied.

“Are you fluffy? Like what color are you? Do you know tricks?” you taunted.

Sirius growled, leaning over you and shoving a finger into your mouth. “I said shut up.”

You sucked on his finger obediently as he rolled his hips and entered you again.

“Good girl,” he said, breathy, “you’re taking me so well.”

You whimpered into the pillow as Sirius rutted your hips into the mattress, his thrusts not fast, but hard.

“I’m gonna-“

“Not yet.”

“But-“

“Don’t you fucking come yet, you understand?”

“I don’t know how to-“

Sirius gripped your jaw, holding you down as he leaned further and further onto you, “don’t fucking come until I say so. You’re mine, listening is the least you can fuckin’ do to show it. Unless you’re not mine.”

Hook, line, and sinker. “I’m yours, I’m yours, Siri, all yours, I need you, only you-“

“Fuck,” he cried out, the loudest he’d been yet.

You fought like hell not to come, but it was difficult when the boy you’d been fantasizing about forever was fucking you ruthlessly from behind and moaning your name.

“Fuck, Y/N.”

Your name sounded so sweet coming from his lips.

He smacked your ass again, watching the way the flesh moved when touched. He watched himself enter and almost exit you time and again, admiring how fell you fit together.

You felt his eyes travel up your back to your face again, where you lay wrecked, burying your face in the pillow to silence yourself.

“Uh uh uh,” Sirius tsked, pulling your hair so that your face was pressed sideways into the pillow, “let me hear you.”

“Siri-“

“Just like that, baby, sounds so pretty when you say it.”

“Please let me come, Siri,” you begged.

“Fuck, lay down,” he said, pulling out of you and tapping your hip to alert you to turn around.

You laid on your back and Sirius immediately re-entered you.

“Wanna look at your pretty face when you come for me,” he explained, leaning down to kiss you.

Despite the harsh snapping of his hips, Sirius kissed you gently, a reminder that he was still him, and you were still you, and this was still real and safe.

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as your body fought, and was denied release a third time. “Siri, please, I’m gonna come, please-“

“Not until I say so, babydoll, you can do it,” he groaned, “need to come with you. Need it so bad.”

“Need you,” you said, “I need you to come in me, please.”

“You need me to come inside you? Hm? You need me?”

“I need all of you, please, Siri-“

Sirius moved a hand between your bodies, rubbing circles on your clit as he fucked you.

Your back arched as you whimpered, the sudden contact too much to hold back anymore.

“Wanna feel you, baby, come for me.”

That was all it took.

Your high crashed over you violently, your walls squeezing Sirius intensely as you, for lack of a more descriptive term, screamed.

The constriction of your walls sent Sirius over the edge. He could have come the second you touched him, but he wanted to wait for this moment, and it was sweeter than he could have imagined.

You pried your eyes open to watch Sirius as he came, but he was focused completely on you, his pleasure being achieved from seeing yours. He leaned down to kiss you as you both caught your breath.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as if he would leave without you holding on. After a few moments, he had to physically pry your arms apart.

“Gotta pull out sometime, babydoll.”

You stuck your lower lip out in a hyperbolic pout. “Why?”

“Merlin, you are everything,” he said, smiling and kissing you one more time before he pulled himself out of you. He gazed to where your bodies had just met, and watched as some of his come spilled out of you.

“Fucking perfect,” he said, so quiet it was nearly a whisper.

You pushed sweat-slicked hair away from your forehead, stretching out your sore legs and instinctively closing your legs.

“No, no, no,” Sirius said, pushing your legs apart again, “the show isn’t over.”

You giggled as you watched him, so consumed in the sight that he was trying to not even blink.

“It feels messy, let me clean up a bit,” you said.

“Sh, I’ll obviously clean you up,” he protested, “just let me make the moment last a little longer.”

When Sirius was satisfied, he looked at your sweaty, fucked-out frame, and decided normal aftercare wasn’t enough.

“We need a shower,” he laughed.

“I don’t-“ your cheeks flushed as you weighed what you were about to say, “I don’t think I can stand.”

Sirius grinned wide, leaning down to kiss you before scooping you up into his arms. “You don’t have to,” he said, carrying you toward the bathroom.

────── ☾ ──────

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[buckysleftbicep]

all that's left 𐙚 b.b

pairing: fwb!bucky barnes x fwb!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, friends with benefits relationship, unprotected sex, lots of angst, arguments, hurtful words, bittersweet ending (sorta)

summary: you and bucky were never meant to be more than friends with benefits—until you say those three words. he walks out. then a mission traps you both in a sealed room, and suddenly, there’s no escaping the walls you both built.

word count: 4.4k

author's note: hi! for my first fic, it's kinda long, started working on it after watching thunderbolts! i hope you enjoy it, if you did, let me know or reblog, whichever works! love ya and have a great day! i hope this doesn't flop :")

“(Y/N), you’ll be with Bucky”. 

The sentence cuts like paper through skin — quiet, clean and a lot deeper than it actually looks. Steve’s voice is steady, casual, captain-like, just as he always was when it came down to missions, the kind of tone he uses when he is expecting no resistance, and despite the glance that seems to reflect some sort of apology and perhaps even pity, you knew he was just doing his job. He is the team leader after all. 

But the sound of his name, his name that you couldn’t bring yourself to even utter for the last two weeks, drops into your gut like a live grenade, you didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Your fingers stayed steady on the edge of the thick mission file, but inside you, something splinters, not all at once, but just a small, sharp crack under your ribs, the kind that gets worse when you pretend it doesn’t exist. 

Across the briefing room, Bucky’s face remains still, his expression stoic, unreadable and you find yourself thinking that perhaps, you never were able to read him the way you thought you did. Because if you did, you’d figured out that everything that had transpired between you and the brunette was nothing more than meaningless flings, quick fucks if you will. 

What was it they said? 

Right — good enough to fuck, but not good enough to love. 

You exhale softly, biting your lip as you scanned the file quickly, hydra base, intel recovery, two agents in, clean extraction. Of course it’s you and him, it always had been, both of you were known as SHIELD’s dream team when it came to intel extractions, break a few necks, fire some bullets and you both were out, unscathed, efficient, dangerous. 

And then you’d return back to base, where his lips would meet yours feverishly as his hands trailed your curves, his fingers long accustomed to every crevice of your body. Bucky knew how to draw out every sound, every breath, every damn piece of you that craved to feel wanted.

You could remember the way he undid your suit on his bed, whispering those sweet nothings in your ear as you begged him to fuck you, your eyes blown wide with lust, and lips swollen as he teased out of you feelings you never knew you had. 

But all of that was short lived, because well as much as you harboured nothing but stupid, aching love for the cerulean eyed man, he thought differently. That was clear as day when he had pushed himself off you, shock painted on his face as he pulled his pants on hurriedly, almost as if being in the same room for just another second would kill him. You had stumbled to your feet, bare and trembling, your voice rising as your heart cracked wide open, “I didn’t mean to, I swear Buck, please-”. You had reached for him, almost as if he’s already gone and left you, and he is. 

“You were never supposed to fall in love with me (Y/n)-”

“I-I know Buck, please even if its not real for you, p-please, I just-”

He cuts you off, the emotions that were warring in his face replaced with that of coldness, the icy gaze that fell on you crushed whatever hope you had left.

“Let’s stop this, you were just convenient, don’t make this more than that”. 

You had remembered that silence, god, it was deafening, and you felt the words like a harsh slap, like a knife twisting under your ribs and you watched, eyes rimmed red as the man you once believed could one day love you back walked out.

“Everything alright?” Steve’s voice cuts through your thoughts, you nod, eyes still trained on the file even though you damn well knew that moment was still playing in your head, like some sick film that couldn’t stop replaying itself.

“Buck?” Steve asked, shooting a glance towards his pal, you dared yourself to look up, Bucky’s jaw is clenched tightly, eyes unreadable as always, fixated on the door behind the capotain, almost as if it could offer some kind of salvation. 

“Yeah, all’s good”. The brunette replied. 

Liar. 

The flight is quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that is far from peace, it was brittle, breathless, the kind that hung in the air like smoke after a fire. You had sat at one end of the jet, legs crossed, a mission file open in your lap that you hadn’t actually read past the first line.

Across from you, Bucky sat with, face turned just enough that you could see the line of his jaw, tight and unmoving. He hadn’t even looked at you once since takeoff. 

Not that you were looking. 

Well, not really. 

But it was impossible not to notice him, the way he took up space without even trying to, the low sound of his breathing, even and steady, the slight twitch in his gloved fingers where they tapped a rhythm only he understood. You used to know that rhythm. You used to know everything about James Barnes.

And now?

Now you couldn’t even tell if he hated you or worse — felt absolutely nothing at all. 

You kept your eyes fixed on the printed pages in front of you, even though your mind was anywhere but on the mission specs. It was a simple job, according to the file at least, in and out like Steve had said. You and Bucky had done this dance dozens of times, a flawless rhythm honed by years of fieldwork, communication and something that had once resembled trust. 

Once. 

The last time you were on a mission like this, you had ended up on Bucky’s lap, breathless, gasping, half-dressed as his mouth burned its way down the soft skin of your neck to the valley of your breasts, metal hand fluttering over your skin like he wanted, no, like he needed to memorise every inch.

Your moans had bounced off the walls of the jet as it lurched from turbulence, as Bucky kissed you though it, called you his pretty girl, said he needed you, wanted you. 

And now, he wouldn’t even look at you. 

“Should be a quick one, get the files, and you’re both out, no detours, as far as we know, this base has long been abandoned”. Steve’s voice crackled through the comms, grounding you with its usual steadiness. “Files are stored in a secure server, sublevel three, eyes up, low contact expected, you two copy?”.

“Copy” you said first, voice even, rehearsed, almost if you didn’t just cry your throat raw the last two weeks. 

There was a beat of silence, then, “copy”. Bucky’s voice was rougher, lower and it sounded like a word forced out through clenched teeth. 

And that was it, silence reclaimed the jet, thicker than it was before. 

You risked a glance at the brunette, a real one this time, and your stomach twisted in a knot. He hadn’t moved. His eyes stayed fixed on the small window beside him, gaze distant, the curve of his brow giving nothing away. 

There was a time where you thought you could read him, every flicker of emotion, every blink, every breathe, you knew when he had a bad night, when the nightmares plagued his dreams, you knew when his therapist had hammered down on him, giving him one of her many unsolicited advices that well, he never did take seriously, besides the one where she told him to talk to someone he trusted. You.

Well, it was you, between the hungry kisses and your back against bathroom walls as Bucky filled you so perfectly, he was sharing his life with you, the days he spent with HYDRA and of course, the 40s. 

But maybe that had been an illusion, or maybe you were just hopelessly naive, stupid. 

You turned your gaze back to the file, the words blurry as a headache bloomed at the base of your skull, you could feel tears well up in your eyes as you tried to get the words Bucky spat harshly out of your head. 

God, you had begged him to stay, to not leave. 

Begged him to stay after the words slipped out, — I love you — so fucking stupidly, so recklessly when your body was tangled with his as his hips had snapped against yours. You hadn’t even realised you had said them at first, until you had seen the look on his face, almost like you had stabbed him. 

Your voice, small, shaking naked in every sense of the word, you could still see his cold, icy, piercing gaze, the softness draining from him like light bleeding out of a room. 

Now, here you were, trapped in a tin can, above hostile territory with the man who shattered you, who was fine pretending you were both just teammates. Just agents. Like you hadn’t fallen asleep in his arms and thought, maybe, just maybe this could be real. 

You clenched your jaw, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. 

You didn’t want to love him anymore, but god, you missed the way it almost felt like he did. 

The hallway stretched ahead like a vein of steel and silence, cold and humming with the kind of tension that settled in your bones, the kind that made your skin itch under your tactical gear. You and Bucky moved through it like you always had, together, seamless, wordless.

Muscle memory wrapped in old wounds, you fell into the rhythm automatically, Bucky would  move, and you would follow, you’d gesture, and he’d respond, the dance that made SHIELD send the both of you out for every data retrieval mission, because the both of you never failed. 

Even now. 

At the end of the corridor, two guards stood, chatting lazily, their rifles slung low, Bucky glanced at you, nodding towards them, you didn’t hesitate before the both of you sprang into action. 

It was efficient. Brutal. Over before the guards even knew they were in danger, you veered left, using the shadows like muscle memory, silent steps, steady breaths, the first guard didn’t even have time to draw his weapon, you slipped behind him, arm hooking around his neck in one clean, practiced sweep, the way Nat taught you, he struggled for a moment, but you held tight, twisting just enough until his knees buckled and he went down like a soft thud.

Bucky was already on the second guard, a flash of movement, a sharp, harsh kick to the back of knee to drop his stance, and before you knew it, guard two collapsed like dead weight. 

You didn’t flinch when Bucky’s hand brushed against yours as you passed the second server room. But you felt it, a graze of skin. barely a touch — and yet it seared like contact with a live wire.

He flinched, not a recoil exactly, but a hitch. The faintest disruption in his usually smooth motion. 

Enough to make you ache.

Then the door to the server room hissed open. You entered first, sweeping the corners, eyes scanning out of habit more than necessity.

“Clear,” you muttered

You knelt by the console and pulled the flash drive from your pocket, it slid into place with a soft click, and lines of code immediately flickered across the screen, the words, “download initiated” flashed across the computer, the whir of fans, the pulsing red light overhead and the steady tick of your heartbeat.

Then— SLAM.

The door behind you shut like a guillotine, a mechanical hiss following the unmistakable sound of a lock sliding into places the panel on the wall started blinking red. 

“What the fuck—” you whirled, reaching instinctively for your comm.

Absolutely nothing, no static, not a voice.

You looked at Bucky, already at the keypad, jaw tight, eyes focused on the screen as his fingers danced over the keys, punching in override codes with mechanical precision, but even he looked tenser than usual — less sure.

“Backup lockdown protocol?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even. 

“Could be,” he said, not looking at you. “Maybe they knew we were coming.”

“Great.” You exhaled sharply. “Perfect.”

The room was small, closer than it had felt a minute ago, the red emergency lights cast shadows across the concrete floor, licking up the walls like flickering firelight, and the fact that you were this close to Bucky didn’t help, thoughts ran through your head as you tried to suffer through the silence.

Too tense. Too close.

“You don’t have to look so pissed,” you muttered after a long, stretching silence, arms folded tight over your chest like they could hold the ache in. Your voice echoed slightly in the metal-and-concrete hush of the server room, small but biting. “It’s not like I planned to get stuck in a room with you.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even turn around.

That silence was cold and heavy and deliberate, it was more infuriating than any argument. More cruel than any insult. And just like that, the restraint you’d been clinging to fractured, snapping apart like thin glass under pressure.

“Seriously, Bucky?” You took a step forward, fists curling tight at your sides, heat prickling behind your eyes. “You’re just gonna stay quiet?”

He paused. His back tensed. Then, without looking at you, he said flatly, “I didn’t realise we had anything left to say.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Sharp. Surgical. You sucked in a breath like it would stop the sting, but it didn’t. Instead, your lips curled into a bitter smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said, voice tight with disbelief. “Maybe a follow-up to ‘you were convenient.’ Maybe that’s not something you just say and then disappear.”

At that, his shoulders stiffened. His fingers twitched near the keypad, as if they were still trying to solve the problem — like maybe if he focused hard enough, he wouldn’t have to face the real one standing behind him. But the motion faltered, and he let his hand fall away.

“You said it like I meant nothing to you,” you continued, voice cracking, breath hitching somewhere between fury and heartbreak. “Like I was just some mistake you made in a moment of weakness. Some warm body you used to get through the night.”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have to.” The words tumbled out of you now, raw and ragged. “I was there for you, Bucky. Every night. Every fucking night. When you couldn’t sleep. When the nightmares got so bad you couldn’t breathe. When you looked in the mirror like you didn’t deserve to be alive—I was there. And y-you used me.”

He turned at last, his eyes wild, stormy. His voice broke as he spoke.

“You told me you loved me.”

You flinched like the words had weight,  like they could bruise you more than he already did.

“You think I could keep touching you after that?” he said, quieter now, like something inside him was unraveling.

And you froze.

The air thinned, shrank around you. Your heart thundered against your ribs.

“You think I could keep doing that to you,” he went on, his voice barely holding together, “knowing you felt something—when I... when I couldn’t let myself feel anything at all?”

Your voice was barely more than a breath. “So you ran. Because someone gave a shit?”

His eyes flared, a flicker of something wounded flashing through the cracks in his carefully worn armor.

“You don’t get it,” he snapped, cerulean eyes darkening. “You never did.”

“Then explain it to me,” you said, stepping forward until the air between you pulsed. “Help me fucking understand why I wasn’t enough.”

He looked like he wanted to bolt. Like the truth was a weight too heavy to hold. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

“You were supposed to know the rules,” he said finally, voice flat but not emotionless. “You made them. No feelings. No strings. You knew what this was.”

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you,” you whispered, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “I just... did. And maybe that was stupid. Maybe I read something into it that was never there.”

His jaw flexed. His face closed off. And when he finally spoke, it was like ice cutting through your ribs.

“You did.”

The silence that followed was endless. Deafening. It rang in your ears louder than gunfire.

You stared at him, something inside you slowly collapsing in on itself. Your spine straightened, chin tilting up in a last shred of defiance even as your voice wavered.

“Wow,” you said. “Guess I really was convenient.”

He didn’t move. But something flickered across his face — guilt, pain, maybe even regret — and for the smallest second, it looked like he might take it all back.

But he didn’t.

Your throat closed. You couldn’t breathe past the pressure rising in your chest. You were unraveling, piece by piece, in front of the one person who’d already seen you at your most vulnerable. And it still wasn’t enough.

“I was a mission to you,” you said. “Something broken to fix. A distraction. A warm place to hide when the rest of the world got too loud. But y-you…”

Your voice cracked, and you turned away, hating yourself for how much it still hurt.

“You were everything to me. And I hate that you still are.”

That finally did it.

Bucky’s face shifted, like something inside him broke and bled out all at once. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched, his lips were pressed into a thin, hard line, but even that didn’t hide the tremble beneath. His eyes, dark, stormy—flickered with something close to pain, raw and real, like the weight of everything you said was scraping against his soul.

The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened, harsh shadows carved by years of anger and loss, Bucky’s breathing hitched—sharp and ragged—like he was fighting against the damn emotions clawing their way up from somewhere deep and dangerous. You caught the briefest flicker of something you’d never seen before: brokenness. 

A crack in the armor.

His metal arm twitched at his side, a reminder of what he’d been through, what he still carried. The cold gleam of the metal contrasted with the heat of his skin, flushed in anger or pain, or both. His whole body was tense, like he wanted to run, or fight, or maybe just disappear.

And yet, even with all that anger, all that rage, there was this dark, raw ache in his eyes—like he hated himself for feeling it, for letting you see it. He looked like he was on the edge of losing control, and maybe that scared him more than anything.

“I begged you to stay,” you said, almost whimpering as tears fell, Bucky’s voice came a second later, rough and ruined.

“I left because if I stayed, I would’ve destroyed you.”

You turned then, eyes blazing through the blur of tears. “You didn’t destroy me, Bucky. You left me alive to remember it.”

The server beeped — a cold, neutral sound. Files downloaded. Mission complete. Job done.

But this wasn’t a mission. This wasn’t something you could walk away from with a pat on the back and a debrief.

This was ruin. Quiet, private, and absolute.

You turned your back to him, shoulders trembling. Your hands curled into fists, knuckles white with the effort of staying upright. Silent tears carved paths down your cheeks, but you didn’t make a sound.

Behind you, Bucky didn’t speak. Didn’t move. The air between you was thick and poisonous, buzzing with everything you’d said and everything you hadn’t.

And in that unbearable silence, you finally understood the one truth that stung more than all the rest:

He wanted to love you.

But James Buchanan Barnes didn’t know how.

The server beeped again.

Still, you didn’t move, you couldn’t. Your hands trembled at your sides, your back still turned, chest rising and falling like your lungs were trying to remember how to breathe without pain. The words still echoed in the tight air between you, circling like ghosts neither of you could exorcise.

And then you heard it.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. The quiet creak of his boots across the floor. Closer. Closer still.

“Don’t,” you rasped, not turning around, afraid that he would see the tears that now stained your cheeks. “Don’t come near me if you’re just going to walk away again.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky said behind you, voice thick, low, loaded.

Then his hand was on your arm, warm flesh this time, not metal, turning you gently, carefully, until you were facing him.

Your eyes met his cerulean ones, and something snapped, Bucky crashed his lips against yours like he’d finally broken through whatever leash he’d kept himself on, no, it wasn’t gentle or sweet, it was punishment and apology and desperation all at once — teeth and tongue and heat and anger and god, it was everything you remembered and everything you’d tried to forget.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

Your hands clawed into his shirt, dragging him closer, pouring all your pain into it, needing him to feel it. You wanted to hurt him with your mouth, your nails, your breath — the way he’d hurt you — but it was all tangled in love, twisted, beautiful and devastating all at once.

Bucky’s hands cupped your jaw, tilted your head, deepened the kiss until you were dizzy.

“Say you hate me,” he growled against your mouth.

You gasped, breath catching. “I do.”

“Liar.” His voice was rough, ruined. “You feel this. Same as me.”

And then his metal hand gripped your waist, pulling you against the hard line of his body. You moaned — couldn’t help it — the contact lighting a fire beneath your skin, melting the last of your resolve.

“Fuck,” you hissed, as he backed you into the server console, lifting you onto it with ridiculous ease.

He stepped between your legs, breathing ragged, hands everywhere,  tugging at your clothes, sliding under them, desperate to feel skin.

“You still feel like mine,” he muttered, voice cracked and reverent as he shoved your shirt up, exposing your stomach, your bra, the sweat-slick skin he used to worship like religion.

Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of his tac vest, shoving it off, needing to touch. To drag your nails down his chest. To mark him, claim him back.

“You walked away from this,” you gasped, kissing his jaw, biting it. “But your body still remembers me.”

He groaned deep in his throat. “I never forgot. Not once.”

And then he was on you,  mouth on your neck, tongue sliding down to your collarbone, hands rough as he ripped open the button of your pants, dragging them down with agonizing speed. You gasped as cool air hit your thighs, and then again as he dropped to his knees like you were something to be worshipped.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, fingers tangling in his hair as he looked up at you with blown pupils and a bruised mouth. His hands hooked behind your knees, dragging you to the edge of the console like you weighed nothing.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.

You stared down at him, chest heaving.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

That was all he needed.

He buried his mouth between your thighs like a starving man, and you screamed — hands fisting in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue slid deep, his stubble scraping your thighs in the most delicious way. It was filthy. Sinful. He moaned into you like he was addicted to the taste of your pain, your need.

You were already close — the heat was unbearable — but he didn’t let up, didn’t pause, not even when you came apart on his tongue, shuddering and crying out his name like it was a confession.

He stood then, mouth wet, eyes feral, dragging you off the console and spinning you around.

Your palms slapped against the metal surface. You were still panting, legs trembling, but you wanted more. Needed him.

“Tell me you still want this,” he said against your ear, one hand trailing up your back, the other palming your ass.

“I want you,” you choked out, pressing back into him. “I want all of you.”

The sound he made — a desperate, broken groan — was followed by the sound of his zipper, then the feel of him, thick and hard, rubbing against your slick folds.

When Bucky pushed into you, it was like being split open and healed all at once.

You both gasped. Swore. Clutched at the metal console like it might save you from drowning in the fire.

He set a brutal rhythm — relentless, deep, pounding into you with years of unsaid words and unmet longing. You met every thrust with your own, sobbing his name, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure coiled tight again in your belly.

“You feel like home,” he groaned, fucking you deeper. “You are home.”

You shattered with his name on your lips.

And this time, when you broke, he didn’t let go.

He followed you over the edge, spilling inside you with a raw, guttural moan, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his arms wrapping tight around your waist like he was terrified you might disappear again.

The silence that followed wasn’t the cold, cruel kind anymore.

It was quiet. Close. Reverent.

And when he finally pulled back, pressing a kiss to your spine, your shoulder, your temple — you knew.

Bucky couldn’t say it.

But this time, he wasn’t going to leave.

“I left because if I stayed, I would’ve broken you. And maybe… maybe I already did.”

Your breath caught, the confession hanging heavy in the room between you both. For a moment, the walls didn’t feel so cold. The distance shrunk, just a fraction, because finally, for the first time, he wasn’t hiding behind that ironclad façade.

You took a shaky step closer, eyes searching for something you’d never dared hope to see: vulnerability.

“Maybe you did,” you whispered, voice trembling, “but I’m still here.”

His gaze faltered, raw and unguarded. The storm behind his eyes softened, just enough to invite you in.

Before you could think twice, your fingers reached out, tracing the cold metal of his arm, and then his cheek. His skin was warm, alive, and beneath his guarded exterior, you found something broken, but not beyond repair.

Bucky’s lips parted, as if to speak, but instead, he pulled you into a bruising, desperate kiss that said everything words couldn’t. It was an apology, a plea, a promise all tangled into one.

The mission could wait. The past could wait.

Right now, it was just you and him, raw, broken and real.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start again.

i love, love, love, thunderbolts, it reignited my love for bucky ౨ৎ

[heartyluv]

cockwarming with caleb and zayne (separately) and they’re sleepy and clingy and won’t let you out of their sight 🫢 omg who said that…

Note: Righttt, like who said that.. 👀 But really, this was so fun, omg. I hope headcanons are okay. I just felt like all the ideas were flowing so easily like this. And I am so sorry if this is too freaked outtt LOLL!!! Thank you so much for the request, luvly!

Creds to @/enchanthings & @/anitalenia for the dividers!

Warning: I feel like cock warming being in this is enough for you guys to understand what’s going to be happening in here.

Caleb

ꨄ︎ Okay so for Caleb, I feel like he comes home after needing to be away for work. Your man is tired and jet lagged, and the first thing he wants to do after he washes the airport off of himself, is take a long nap with you.

ꨄ︎ And duhhh, you are climbing in that bed with him. You two fall asleep, but you wake up maybe an hour into it. He’s knocked out, even snoring a little. While being in his arms is where you’d want to be, you did have some chores to finish up before he got home. So you figure, why don’t I just get up and do them while he sleeps so he gets my undivided attention later?

ꨄ︎ So with the stealth of a ninja—an inexperienced one—you snake out of his hold. You wash dishes, prep for dinner, and you even take a shower. Like that’s how tired he is because I think Caleb would notice if you even twitched on a normal day, let alone sneaking out of the bed.

ꨄ︎ Then bam, another hour goes by, maybe an hour and a half. (I believe you wanted to get back into bed with him, but you didn’t want to wake your poor baby up.) Caleb isn’t necessarily awake, but you know those times where you wake up and you’re half aware for like a second? That’s what happens with him when he notices you’re gone. And he does not like that.

ꨄ︎ He’s like a lost puppy, getting out the bed, groggy, hair messy, and searching for you. It’s a quick search since he sees you as soon as he steps out the room. You’re in the living room, watching something on TV.

ꨄ︎ “Baby, you left me,” he says sleepily, eyes barely open. “Come back to bed. Please?”

ꨄ︎ And you think it’s all innocent, till you look over at him and he has a tent in his pantsss LOLLL. Like okay, it was completely innocent, but I firmly believe Caleb is always semi-hard around you. He actually can’t help it. It’s like his cock is always on go and just ready when you are.

ꨄ︎ He notices you staring and even when he looks like he needs to take his ass to bed, he can’t help but smirk. And don’t get him wrong, he wants to fuck you. But his body legitimately needs more rest, so he tells you what he’s thinking.

ꨄ︎ “Why don’t you come watch your show in the room with my cock inside you? Best of both worlds, don’t you think?”

ꨄ︎ Cock warming is y’all’s thingggg omg. So you make sure you’re quick to follow him. And Caleb doesn’t just want his dick inside of you, he wants skin to skin contact.

ꨄ︎ Now, I’m about to get freaky, so bare with me.

ꨄ︎ You both get undressed, you make sure you have the remote before you lay down, and Caleb’s strong body is right behind you.

ꨄ︎ “Go ahead and find what you were watching,” he kisses your neck. “Let me get you ready for me.”

ꨄ︎ Baby, you’re trying to just click on the damn app to open it but you’re struggling. And you wanna know why? BECAUSE WHILE YOU HOLD YOUR LEG UP, CALEB IS TEASING YOUR CLIT WITH THE TIP OF HIS COCK TO GET YOU WETTTT!!!!!

ꨄ︎ You keep squeezing and clenching around nothing, and the ache in between your thighs is making you dizzy. And mind you, HE’S DOING ALL OF THIS HALF SLEEP, SO IT’S SLOW AND LAZYYY.

ꨄ︎ “I’m about to slide in, okay?” He kisses your shoulder. “You have to stay with me. Don’t want to wake up and you’re not here, again.”

ꨄ︎ And guess what…? When his cock starts to fill you up and he’s a little more than halfway in… You… Have… An… ORGASM!!!!!! Shocked both him and you, but he wasn’t complaining, not one bit.

ꨄ︎ “Holy fuck… If my body wasn’t so tired…”

ꨄ︎ But you assure him it’s okay and he’s fully seated in your soaked cunt, his cock being warmed by your slick and comforted by your tightness.

ꨄ︎ He’s knocked out again shortly after, the sheets over your waists while you play your show on low volume. And you definitely feel him pulse inside of you. It’s comforting in a way.

ꨄ︎ Here’s your overall visual: You just came—unexpectedly—and Caleb’s cock is sitting inside of you. He’s sleeping with his face over your shoulder, his steady breathing in your ear. His big arms hold you so tight, you’re both fully naked, and his strong chest is against your back. And, his hand is on your boob, gently holding it like it’s a stress reliever LOLLLL. You already know, you’re not going anywhere for a good few hours.

Zayne

❄︎ Now for sweet Zayne, I think he’s coming home from the hospital and all he wants to do is be with you. You know those days where you just feel extra clingy for some reason? That’s what he’s feeling. I think between being sleepy and seeing you as his comfort makes his heart so full and warm.

❄︎ But, he frowns when he walks in and you’re not there. No music is playing, he doesn’t hear you humming, he just doesn’t see any sign of you. You’re always doing one of those things when he comes home, so he’s down that he doesn’t see any of it.

❄︎ When he went to text you, it came to him that you told him you were going out with a friend tonight for her birthday. But he smiles when he gets ready to put his phone away to see you had messaged him, telling him you’d be home in twenty minutes.

❄︎ He utilizes that time to do his nightly routine and when you walk through that door? Despite his tiredness, he is hands on.

❄︎ “You look nice,” he kisses your neck as he slides your purse off your shoulder, not even needing to look at the hook to hang it up. “I missed you.”

❄︎ Now, you can’t stop giggling at his ticklish kisses and grabby hands. But you see how tired he is and you’re just as tired from being out, so you know sex isn’t going to happen tonight. So, you suggest cock warming. I don’t think you’ve guys have done it before, honestly. I think you’ve had moments where he’d be sitting inside you for a little bit after having sex, but it’s never longer than a minute or two.

❄︎ “I’m willing to try it. If it lets me feel as close to you as possible, it will become my new favorite pastime.”

❄︎ Zayne doesn’t even want to be away from you while you get undressed. I even think he’s helping you LOLL. Helping you with your heels, sliding your dress off, and had he not showered before you got home, he would’ve been in there with you.

❄︎ But once all of that’s done, you know you have to help him get hard and with what he’s been expecting, he’s already halfway there.

❄︎ Zayne lovessss stimulation. He’s a whining mess when you start to stroke him in his pants, breathing heavily into your mouth as you kiss him tenderly. And the ways he’s talking.. GOOD GOD.. All the while, you’re getting soaked just by doing this. You didn’t even bother with putting panties on.

❄︎ “Is it normal to be so addicted to you? I don’t think I have it in me to be apart from you for any amount of time. Will you indulge me and my selfishness?”

❄︎ Once he lays in the bed, you climb in his lap while he holds his cock to guide himself into you. And it’s literally a breath of fresh air for him when your walls spread to accommodate him. AND WITH THE SLEEPY TONE OF HIS VOICE, IF YOU HAD IT IN YOU, YOU WOULD’VE JUST STARTING BOUNCING ON IT.

❄︎ “Oh, you’re so good to me,” he whispers when you gasp while his cock slides in. “I can’t believe I’ve deprived myself of something so intoxicating.”

❄︎ You actually have him shivering, that’s how good it is. It’s so tender, intimate, and he knows that if you’ll allow him, he’d prefer to be with you like this as much as possible.

❄︎ “Since it’s my day off, I intend to spend all day tomorrow, like this. Is that alright? Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

❄︎ Every gentle squeeze of your walls is like being welcomed home. And it’s not long till you both fall asleep like this. I just know every time you move even a little bit, he holds you tighter. He’s serious about not letting you go anywhere if he can help it. If he could cook dinner while you wrapped yourself around him, I’m so sure he’d do it LOLL.

❄︎ Between your weight on top of him and his cock seated in your pussy, the man is wrapped in the most luxurious cocoon. This was the closeness he was yearning for.

[jakedustry]

I need enha smut headcanons

OT7 x fem!reader

wc 2.5k

warnings fingering, mirror sex, oral, phone sex, audio kink, manhandling, mutual masturbation, edging, temperature play, lingerie kink, nipple play, body worship, degrading + roughness, slight sub and dom dynamic in sunoo's, handjob, vaginal penetration, I might have missed some

↪ izzy adds... oh mae, you know I love you. This idea was so juicy but you already know that from the way we talked about it together. Sorry it took me so long to get it done </3 It's late and I did not read this after myself so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes btw :3

m.list

HEESEUNG

Has an audio kink 

“You hear that?” His voice is low as he leans to whisper into your ear, his fingers sliding between your folds. The wet sound sends a shiver down his spine, his hard cock trembling, searching for some kind of pleasure. “You’re so wet, I haven’t touched you yet.” You whine, arching your back more and he groans, the sounds you make echoing in his ears. His name leaves your lips in a desperate plea and he immediately pushes two of his fingers in your hole. “Say it again. I want to hear you.” You do as he asks, repeating his name over and over again as he fingers you, making your eyes roll back. “I’ll have to record this next time,” he whimpers. “And have your moans playing in my ears at all times.” 

Loves mirror sex

“Look at yourself,” he coos, circling your clit slowly as you bounce on his cock, your eyes closed from all the pleasure. He bites your shoulder and you finally listen to him, your eyes shooting to the mirror in front of you. You watch yourself bounce on his cock, one of his hands squeezing your breast while the other massages your clit, bringing you to your second orgasm that night. “You look so fucking good,” he says, thrusting his hips up, his eyes tracing the reflection in the mirror. 

Into phone sex 

“Wait, fuck, I’m almost in my room,” he says, in a hurry as he unlocks the door of his hotel room, hoping no one saw the bulge in his pants as he passed by, your soft moans echoing in his ears. He pulls his pants down as soon as he reaches the bed, putting you on a speaker as his hand wraps around his cock, imagining it’s your pussy sucking him dry while you finger yourself on the other side of the country in his very own bed, wearing one of his shirts. His name rolls on your tongue with so much ease it has him groaning so loud he’s convinced Sunghoon can hear him from his room. But he doesn’t care, not when he knows you’re about to cum with him even when he is in a different city. 

JAY

Needs to make you cum at least once before even undressing himself

“Does that feel good, baby?” He asks between kisses, his thumb rubbing your clit while you sit on his lap. Your mouth hangs open, broken moans escaping your lips. You grind on his lap, leaving a wet patch on his thigh. He leans down to your neck, kissing your collarbone as his fingers find your entrance, finally pushing them in and giving you the pleasure you’ve been searching for. “Right– Right there,” you gasp, your head falling to his shoulder as he works you through your first orgasm. It’s only when you fall apart on top of him that he helps you lay on the bed, taking down his clothes and hovering over you. 

Manhandling king

You knew what being a brat would lead you to. It hasn’t been the first time you’ve had an attitude with your boyfriend, but not even knowing the consequences would stop you. Jay watches you throughout the entire dinner, his jaw clenched. It’s obvious to anyone who knows him that he’s mad, and you can only imagine what that means for you. 

As soon as you walk through the front door of his apartment, your back hits the wall beside you, your eyes wide as one of his hands finds your waist and the other rests beside your head. “You like being a fucking brat?” He questions, holding your jaw and making you look at him when you avoid his eyes. “Couldn’t be nice during dinner at least?” When you don’t say anything, he turns your body in the blink of an eye, your chest pressed against the wall now. He leans closer, pressing himself against your ass. “I need to fuck the attitude out of you, don’t I?”

Has the best aftercare 

You’re worn out when Jay lays down beside you, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You hum with a smile as he kisses your forehead, mumbling soft praises into your ear. You lay still for a while, simply cuddling and inhaling each other’s presence, until he gets out of the bed, walking over to your side and gently picking you up. You giggle as you wrap your hands around his neck, letting him carry you into the bathroom. When you sit down in the tub, you notice all the marks he has left on your thighs. Before you can comment on it and scold him, he’s already setting the water temperature to help you wash you up. 

JAKE

Gets himself off by simply eating you out 

Jake’s fingers are cold on your thighs, holding you in place as his tongue laps between your folds. You tug on his hair, your hips rolling against his mouth, trying to find more friction. He hums on your clit, a soft moan escaping his lips. Your eyes roll back, clenching around nothing when he sucks your clit. His hips thrust against the mattress but he doesn’t take any initiative in jerking himself off, too busy focusing on the sounds you make when he pleases you. 

Talks you through it + likes to watch you masturbate 

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he praises, slowly palming himself through his pants as he watches you, his eyes glued to the way your fingers pump in and out of your pussy. Your eyes roll back and you squeeze your thighs together on instinct. “Open them for me, baby. Let me see.” You whine but listen, giving him a clearer view. A curse slips past his lips, a groan following shortly after as he unzips his pants. “You’re doing so good, fuck. Rub your clit.” You follow his commands with ease, your eyes rolling back from the pleasure, pretty sure you could come just from his voice. He knows so as well, using up the very fact in his advantage as he leans closer to you, whispering into your ear. 

Doggy — > ass guy

Jake’s hands wrap around your ass, pulling you onto his lap with a smirk. You smile, grinding on top of him as you press your lips onto his, moaning quietly when he gives you a tight squeeze. It doesn’t take much longer and before you can fully comprehend his movements, you’re on the bed, your ass up in the air while you fist the bedsheet beneath you. “So pretty,” he groans, slamming his hips against yours. You’re sure there are red marks everywhere but you don’t care, not when his hand slides to your clit, massaging it gently as he leans closer to you, his stomach pressed to your back. “So fucking pretty.” 

SUNGHOON

Likes being in control and denying you orgasm 

A loud whine leaves your lips as he pulls his fingers away, a playful smirk spreading on his lips. You hold his wrist, trying to pull his hand back between your legs but he is stronger, resting his hand on your side instead. “What is it, hm?” He asks, his lips wrapping around your clit. You feel your orgasm building up again, gripping the sheets beneath you. But right when you’re about to cum on his mouth, he pulls away again, causing a whimper to escape your lips in protest. “You’d like to cum, huh?” He teases, satisfied with the cries you let out.

Has a lingerie kink 

Sunghoon’s eyes wander up from his phone, his jaw clenched when he sees you standing near the bed in a robe wrapped around you. He scans your figure, a smirk forming on his lips as he places his phone down and moves closer to you, sitting on the edge of the bed now. You come to stand between his legs, smiling sheepishly as he unties your robe, letting it fall to the ground. He smirks when he sees the lace underwear you have on, his hands gripping your waist. “Wore this for me?” He teases, bringing you closer and placing a kiss to your stomach. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Let’s keep this on, shall we?”

Loves temperature play

The ice cube on your nipple makes you arch your body forward, your pussy clenching around nothing. “So sensitive,” he hums, leaning down and wrapping his lips around your breast. His hot breath replacing the cold ice cube makes you shiver, the moan that escapes your lips almost pornographic. You can feel him smirk against your body, as he rubs the ice cube down your body, trailing your curves. You gasp when he presses it against your clit, moving lower to replace the ice cube with his mouth again.

SUNOO

Loves breast/nipple play

You lay on your bed, your eyes following every one of his movements as he sucks on your nipple, massaging the other with his hand. You bite back your moan, your head spinning as his tongue circles your nipple, his thumb brushing over your sensitive bud when he switches to your other boob, making sure it’s not forgotten. “Sunoo,” you whisper, running a hand through his hair to make him look at you. He pulls away for a second, scanning you with his eyes. “Feels good?” He asks with a smile when he realizes you made him pull away just because of that. You nod, biting your bottom lip. He rolls your nipple between his two fingers, not saying anything else and simply watching your every reaction.

Is a sub mostly

Your smirk, your hand wrapped around his cock as he squirms under you, soft pleas and cries leaving his lips. “Just a bit more, baby,” you coo, squeezing his tip as you jerk him off. Your free hand slides between your own legs, gently rubbing your clit. He listens to your every word, whining under your touch. He has to bite his lip to prevent any sounds from escaping his lips when you position yourself on top of him, slowly sinking in. His head falls on the pillow behind him, his hands finding your waist as you ride his cock in a rhythm that suits your preference.

Teases just to fall apart under you later 

Sunoo opens his mouth to say more but before he gets the chance to, your lips crash with his and you pull him closer by the collar, making sure he shuts up. It’s been a long night of listening to him brag about how well he pleases you and that he could do so right then and there without a single care that you were outside. You didn’t mind it at first, chucking or rolling your eyes playfully every time he said something. You have enough of it now. If he wants to brag so much, he better start doing more than just talking. He rests his hands on your sides, keeping you close as he kisses you back, melting into your touch when you hold his neck while kissing him. All his plans disappear as you push your tongue into his mouth, his head turning blank. He couldn’t win this fight.

JUNGWON

Worships your body any chance he gets

Jungwon’s hands trail your hips, his touch gentle and soft. He places a few kisses to your stomach, slowly making his way up to your chest. He cups your breast, smiling as he massages them softly. A soft moan escapes your lips and you run your hand through his hair. “You’re so pretty,” he mumbles, helping you to sit on his lap. He squeezes your thighs, his eyes locked with yours as he kisses your chest again. “Absolutely beautiful, baby.” You smile, leaning down to press your lips onto his. “Gorgeous,” he mumbles, causing a soft giggle to escape your lips before kissing him again.

Loves being praised

“Fuck, it feels so good, Wonnie,” you gasp, lacing your fingers with his as he thrusts into you. He groans, his cock twitching inside you. “Yeah?” — “Yeah,” you nod, biting back your moans. “You’re amazing. Filling me up so well.” His eyes roll, thrusting into you with more force now. His head spins as he listens to your moans, trying to match his thrusts with your sounds. “Fuck– Yes, Wonnie, exactly there.” It’s a matter of seconds before he finishes inside you, your words echoing in his ears.

Likes to be vocal — “be good for me, baby.” “That’s it, just like that” 

His moans fill your ear as soon as he slides his cock inside, soft praises leaving his lips. You whine, your hips rolling against his. “You’re so perfect,” he groans, pulling his cock out completely before thrusting back in. You gasp, your eyes rolling back as he leans down to kiss your neck. “Taking me so well.” — “You feel amazing,” he moans right after, his nails digging into the flesh of your waist. He would fuck you all day if he could. “Fuck– you squeeze me so well, I’m going to cum.”

RIKI

Public teasing

His hand settles on your thigh, giving it a tight squeeze while keeping his eyes on your friends, nodding to whatever story your best friend was just talking about. Honestly, you completely turned off when you felt his hand on you, her words making it in by one ear and out the other right away. Your boyfriend leans closer to you and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he reaches your ear. “You’re squeezing your thighs together,” he whispers, briefly glancing at your friends on the opposite side of the table. “You should behave, love. What are they going to think if they find out?” It was easy to say Nishimura Riki knew how to make you weak in the knees. 

Into hearing you beg

“Tell me what you want, I can’t know if you don’t,” he coos, his thumb circling your clit. You squirm under him, closing your legs on instinct. He spreads them apart again with ease, his fingers teasing your wet hole. “Please,” you cry, your eyes closed and hips trying to rub on his fingers. “Please, Riki. I need– Need more,” you plea, his hum sending a shiver down your spine as he pulls his hand away instead. “No! No, please, I’ll be good. Please just–” you gasp when he thrusts two of his fingers into you without a warning, scoffing proudly as you moan into his ears, letting him know just how good he feels. 

Into watching you touch yourself 

“Open up more,” he commands, his hand lazily moving up and down his cock as his eyes wander all over your naked figure, his eyes stopping at your fingers buried deep inside your pussy. You obey, spreading your legs more to give him a better view as you finger yourself, your head falling back as your orgasm builds up. You moan his name on repeat, listening to his broken curses as he matches his speed to your. You pull out your fingers to rub your clit, looking at him again. Your mouth falls open but no sounds come out as his fingers replace yours and he brings you to your orgasm in the blink of an eye.

⋆✶ izzy's tags @beomiracles @adel222 @hwanghyunjinismybae @liaatiny @nxzz-skz @bamgeutsz @xylatox @skyearby @cristy-101 @biteyoubiteme @thetxtdevil @chann1esroom @blooqz @kristynaaah ✶⋆ want to get notified? join taglist here!

[docrobinavitch]

i can’t recall if i already put in a suggestion, but my idea is a dr robby girlfriend/wife reader

reader deathly afraid of needles but takes injections every week for migraines. michael takes his “lunch break” to calm reader down and help her through the injection.

hiii bestie thank you so much for the request! i took some liberties with this so i hope that's ok. this should've been a relatively short prompt, but i am apparently incapable of writing anything without establishing backstory!

_______

time after time

dr. robby x wife!reader content: 18+ mdni, swearing, needles (obvie), some canon medical stuff, but barely words: 4.8k

It had been Robby’s idea for you to see a neurologist for your migraines. He had been begging you to for as long as he’d known you.

The first time he came home from a shift to find you laying down in the shower with the lights off, it scared the shit out of him.

“What the fuck?” He flipped the light switch on and dropped to the side of the tub.

But you seemed annoyed and groggy as you squinted against the sudden brightness, “Lights off, please.”

He looked at you incredulously, but since you didn’t seem to be dying, he obeyed, “I thought you fell.” He said, sitting down next to the tub and rubbing at his face.

“The sound of the shower and the feel of it against my head is soothing the pain,” You murmured, “Also,” You gestured to the toilet, “Proximity if I need to puke.”

He shook his head, “You could’ve warned me.”

You hummed, “Lost track of time. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”

“That’s… mildly concerning.” You didn’t say anything else, but he continued to sit there, unwilling to leave you alone in this state, “Would you see a neurologist if I got you a referral?”

“No.” You said immediately.

“Why not?” He asked, though they had already had this conversation. He wondered, though, if asking while you were in the middle of an episode would change your tune.

“I’ve been dealing with it just fine by myself.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose, “I’m not sure I would call this just fine. Did you take Advil?”

“Yes.”

“Did it work?”

You didn’t answer, which was an answer on its own.

“I hate seeing you like this.” He said quietly.

“Then go in another room.”

He smirked, you were stubborn. To a fault sometimes. But so was he. He would wear you down. Not that day perhaps, but eventually.

“Can’t leave you here unsupervised when you’re like this. You could slip and fall when you try to get out.”

You sighed, “Well then, I guess we’re at an impasse.”

And it went like that for years, Michael repeatedly asking you to see a neurologist, you refusing.

It wasn’t until a year into your marriage that you finally agreed. Lately the attacks had become more frequent and lasting for longer periods.

Michael had been checking on you when he was home, but for the most part you would shrug him off and go back to sleep. It had been days, now since it started. But you wouldn’t listen when he said maybe you should go to the ER for fluids and meds. So he would leave you, putting a security camera in your bedroom so he could check on you while he was at work.

You had rolled your eyes when you watched him angle the camera towards the bed, “You know, baby, we could be doing much more exciting things with a camera in the bedroom than watch me sleep.”

“Yes,” He nodded solemnly, “And it’s a shame that we can’t do any of those fun things because you refuse treatment—“

You groaned and tugged a blanket over your head, “Thank you, Dr. Robinavitch, that’ll be all.”

He had smirked and pulled the blanket back down, kissing your forehead, “You know how to find me if you need me. I love you.”

When he checked a few hours later and you were off camera, he assumed maybe you were feeling better, maybe had gone to eat something. Or, you had gone to lay in the shower in the dark. He sent off a quick text to check in and then jumped back into another case.

But a half hour later, Dana was coming to find him, “I need you in North 11.”

“Just a second.” Robby was gloved up, watching Collins and Santos drain some blood that had collected around a patient’s lungs.

“I really don’t think you want to wait for this one.” He turned and looked at Dana. Her face was hard to read, but she wasn’t one to insist if it wasn’t important.

“Collins, you got this?”

“Sats are rising,” She glanced up at Robby, “We’ll call if we need you.”

“What is it?” Robby said as he degloved and threw away his robe.

Dana sighed, “Your wife is here. She’s fine.” She added at the look on his face, “Well, not fine. But she’ll live. Status migrainosis.” He nodded, but showed no other reaction, “You don’t seem surprised that she’s here.”

“She’s had a migraine for three days now, mostly bed ridden.”

“And you left her at home?”

He huffed a laugh, “When have you ever known my wife to do something just because I suggested it? Do you think I should have tossed her over my shoulder and brought her here against her wishes?”

“Point taken.”

Robby started walking, Dana trailed a step behind, “She brought herself here?”

“I think she Ubered, but she was pretty upset when she got here, it was hard to understand her. She didn’t want you to know she was here.”

Robby slowed and turned back to Dana, “Why wouldn’t she want me to know she was here?”

Dana gave him a knowing look, “Come on, Robby. You’ve been begging her to see a doctor for years now. The two of you are competitive and stubborn as hell. Her being here means you won.”

He gave a short laugh and began walking again, “Well she can’t be that bad if she’s thinking about winning.”

“As if you weren’t thinking about it, too.”

“How dare you. My beautiful wife is in so much pain she’s in my ER and you think I’m thinking about winning?”

“I don’t think,” Dana smirked, “I know.”

Robby pushed back the curtain to see you sniffling, curled on the bed and around a basin you appeared to have been vomiting in. You wore one of his hoodies which was tugged over your head, the strings pulled tight enough that it partially covered your eyes.

He sighed and pulled a stool close to the bed, “Hey, sweetheart.” He said softly stroking a hand on your bare ankle, “I hear you’re in a lot of pain.”

You glared up at Dana, “Traitor.”

“Sorry, kid.” Dana smiled and backed out, pulling the curtain closed behind her.

With just the two of you now, he could see you struggling not to cry, “The pain’s only gotten worse and worse and I couldn’t stop puking and I got scared.”

“It’s okay, you’re probably dehydrated. It’s likely that this was just your normal migraine, but since the pain’s worse than you’re used to, we’re going to run some tests to be sure.” He started to glove up as he spoke, “We’ll give you fluids and some meds intravenously for the pain while we wait for a spot to open up for CT.”

“Intravenously?” You squirmed away from his touch, “Can’t I just take them orally and chug a bunch of water?”

He eyed you strangely, “They won’t work fast enough that way, you’d probably keep puking them up.”

You rubbed a hand at your face, frustrated as tears began flowing again, “I can’t,” You cried.

“What do you mean you can’t?” He asked gently.

“Needles.” You mumbled.

He raised his eyebrows, “You’re afraid of needles?”

You nodded, still sniffling.

He almost laughed, “How did I not know this? In all the time we’ve been together haven’t you gotten vaccines or bloodwork done?”

You sighed and closed your eyes, tilting your head back against the bed, “If I absolutely have to, I wear noise canceling headphones and a blindfold so I don’t know when it’s coming.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know, but it’s stopped me from punching healthcare workers involuntarily. They don’t like it when you do that.”

Robby nods solemnly, “Yeah, I can imagine. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.” You sighed helplessly, “I thought maybe you’d think it was silly.”

“It’s not silly,” He said softly, “It’s a very common phobia.”

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back, “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk to me like I’m a patient you’re trying to soothe.”

He sighed, “Well, right now you are my patient and we have to get those fluids and meds in your body sooner rather than later, so I’m sorry to say, but we’ll have to put an IV in and we’ll have to take some blood too once you’re hydrated—“ You looked at him with horror and he said quickly, “But you probably won’t even feel the second one once you’re hydrated, alright. It’ll be super quick, I promise. And I’ll be here the whole time. I’m gonna go get Dana, okay?”

Robby sighed and walked out of the room.

“How is she?” Dana was immediately next to him.

Robby sighed, “She’s deathly afraid of needles.”

“You’re kidding,” Dana playfully shoved his arm, “You’ve been with her how long and you didn’t know? Some husband you are.”

He nodded and looked at the floor, “I feel awful I didn’t know. It explains why she’s always been so resistant to come here or go to the neurologist.”

“It’s okay, Robby. Happens to the best of us,” She clapped him over the shoulder, “Do you want help with the IV?”

“Yeah, I thought maybe you could do it. I don’t do them often and I don’t want to miss her vein.”

 Dana laughed, “Ah, so if I miss the vein, she can hate me instead.”

“Exactly.” Robby said as they pulled the curtain back around your bed.

You were puking again when they walked in and Robby immediately put a hand to your back to soothe you. It looked like you were vomiting straight bile now, which he imagined was very painful and only further exacerbating your migraine pain.

“Could we… Turn these lights off?” You asked calmly, but tears were streaming down your face and you were shaking.

They couldn’t turn the lights off because you weren’t in a room. “Do we have any private rooms?” He asked Dana quietly.

“Oh, no,” You said immediately, “I don’t want to take that from a patient who actually needs it—“

“You are a patient and you need it.” Robby said, and then turned back to Dana.

“We don’t, but we could put her in the family room. One of them has a little couch she could lay on.”

Robby nodded, “Could you grab a wheelchair?”

Robby fussed over you, carrying you into the wheelchair when you said you could walk. Rubbing your back when you inevitably vomited again. And although Dana would do the IV insertion, Robby disinfected your skin and tied the tourniquet.

Despite your best efforts, you whimpered when the tourniquet tightened. Robby looked up at you, “Did I hurt you?” He asked softly.

You shook your head, but didn’t say anything, worried you’d start sobbing if you tried to speak. You felt silly about how afraid of the needles you were. Anyone else would barely flinch at the thought of it. But it made you feel sick.

Robby came around to your other side, taking the hand that wasn’t about to be poked, “Look at me.” He smiled when you obliged, his eyes warm and loving, “Do you want to know what’s happening or would you prefer not to know?”

You took in a shuddering breath, “Could you distract me, please?”

He held your hand to his mouth, bending his forehead towards yours, “This was supposed to be a surprise, but I booked us an Airbnb in the mountains for Memorial day weekend.”

Your lips turned up just marginally and Robby watched as Dana prepped the IV behind you, “Will there be a hot tub?”

Robby laughed, “Yes, there will be a hot tub and it has an excellent view.”

“That’s good,” You seemed to be relaxing a bit more now, eyes barely opened, muscles deflating, “Because I bought a new bikini last week. I must’ve known subconsciously I would need it.”

He hummed, Dana was getting very close to inserting the needle, “What color is it?”

“It’s blue,” You licked your lips, “I know how you like me in blue.”

He smirked, “I like you in every color.” He said, and at the same time Dana inserted the needle. You jumped just a little, but you weren’t crying anymore.

“All done, sweetheart.” Dana said softly and took off the tourniquet, “You did great.”

Dana left the room, giving them some privacy, and Robby sat in the dark with you for a few minutes.

“You should get back to your patients,” You said, eyes closed.

He watched you carefully, “I’m going to refer you to a neurologist in the hospital. I’ll make sure an appointment gets scheduled where I can go with you. Okay?”

You swallowed and kept your eyes closed, “Okay.”

He leaned over and kissed you lightly, “I love you, I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”

“Okay, love you.”

And so, you had gone to that appointment and had been prescribed Aimovig, a medication that needed to be injected once a month. You had tried to argue your way out of it, but the neurologist insisted it would be your best bet at reducing the number of episodes.

“Baby,” Michael whispered to you, “I can do it for you every time, I promise—“

“You don’t know what I’m like when—“ You sighed, cutting yourself off, “I was in so much pain the last time in the ER, I couldn’t put up much of a fight. What if I hurt you or something?”

He laughed, “You think I’ve never had a combative patient before?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “I’m your wife.”

He leaned in closely, his nose brushing against the shell of your ear, “Can we just try it, honey? It might work so well you find it worth it.”

You swallowed tightly and then clapped your hands together. “Fine.”

Robby had given you the first shot there in the neurologist’s office. The neurologist had left the room.

You were already beginning to shake, watching as Robby put on a pair of gloves.

“I’m going to inject it in the back of your arm, so you’re not going to see me do it.”

You felt a wet cotton pad on the back of your arm, “Now, I want you to try something for me.” He said, and you heard the cap of the injection pop off, “Could you sing our first dance song for me?”

You gave a short laugh of surprise, “You’re serious?”

“Humor me.”

Against your will, you were smiling already. Your wedding had been dreamy and romantic, everything you had wanted. You were married, just the two of you, a photographer, and an ordained minister at the top of a mountain. You had both read your vows through tears. Later, you had dinner and dancing in a garden at the base of the mountain with your friends and family. Your first dance had been to Time After Time, but a more acoustic version of it sung by Lennon Stella. The original version with Cyndi Lauper had played in a bar on one of your first few dates and you had had to coax Michael to the dance floor with you. It had been your first dance then and at your wedding. You had thought yourself very clever for that, but you had kept that secret between you and Michael.

“Fine, but only if you sing it with me.”

He chuckled, “Deal.”

You say go slow I fall behind The second hand unwinds If you’re lost you can look and you will find me Time after time If you fall I will catch you I’ll be waiting Time after time

You winced at the sting of the needle and your heart rate picked up, “Keep singing.” Michael urged.

If you’re lost you can look and you will find me Time after time If you fall I will catch you I’ll be waiting Time after time

As you both finished singing the second chorus, you felt Michael place a bandaid to your arm, “There you go,” He said and gently turned you to face him, “That wasn’t so bad, hm?”

Thirty days had passed since and Michael kept forgetting to help you with the second injection.

“Honey, I am so sorry.” He said that morning, rushing through the house to get ready for shift, “Why don’t you stop by the ER this afternoon and I’ll do it on my lunch break?”

You laughed, not looking up from the novel perched in your hand. It was a Saturday and you were sat at the kitchen table, eating a bagel and sipping your coffee slowly, dressed in only one of Robby’s old T-shirts.

“You forget I have been to the ER,” You swallowed the bagel in your mouth, “I know you don’t get a lunch break, baby.”

He leaned down to kiss you and as he pulled away, booped your nose, “Don’t be a smart ass. Bring the Aimovig and call Dana when you get there, she’ll come find me.”

“Yes, sir.” You mock saluted him and he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t forget it needs to be taken out of the fridge at least 30 minutes before injection.”

“I know.” You said, not looking up from your book.

He paused at the doorway of your home, looking down the entryway, he could see you perched at the kitchen table, your legs pulled tight to your chest. He never understood how you could sit comfortably like that, “You’ll come, right?” He asked, one AirPod in his hand, the other already in his ear, “You won’t pretend that you forgot?”

You looked up from your book to meet his gaze, the beginnings of a smirk on your face. Slowly, you looked to the clock on the wall, “You’re gonna be late.”

He sighed and lightly knocked the heel of his hand against the doorway, “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

“I love you, have a good day!” You shouted after him.

“Love you too,” He replied, closing the door behind him.

***

“Dana,” Robby leaned over the desk at the hub, “My wife may be stopping by at some point today, could you come find me when she gets here?”

“Yeah, sure, everything okay?”

He nodded, “She was prescribed Aimovig for her migraines, I told her to come here so I could inject it for her.”

“Why don’t you just do it at home?”

He sighed heavily, “Because I keep forgetting and I think she keeps allowing me to forget to keep delaying it.”

Dana smirked as they began doing rounds, “If she’s delaying it, what makes you think she’d come here of her own free will?”

“She told me she would,” He shrugged, “I can’t keep treating her like a patient or a rebellious child, I can tell it’s getting on her nerves. She said she would come so I’m taking her at her word.”

“Fair enough.” Dana said, “I’ll let you know when she gets here.”

“Thank you.”

***

When you walked into the ER waiting room, you immediately felt your anxiety tick up. Walking to the window, you knocked sharply to get Lupe’s attention. You gave her a wave and a smile and she waved you through, unlocking the double doors that led to the ER.

Taking a deep breath, you exhaled shakily as you walked over to the hub where you saw Dana.

“How’s my sister wife doing today?” You asked playfully. You knew about the running joke that Dana was Robby’s work wife. When you found out about it, Robby had worried it would make you jealous, but you had only laughed and joked that you always wanted a sister wife.

Dana looked up and smiled, “Mrs. Robinavitch, we weren’t sure you’d show.”

“Ah,” You leaned against the hub, “You mean my husband didn’t believe me when I said I would come.”

“Oh, can you blame him, kid?”

You clasped your hands tightly in front of you to try and stop the shaking, “Did you know he told me to come in during his ‘lunch break’?”

Dana laughed loudly, “Lunch break? He’s lucky if he has time to stop and take a piss.”

You chuckled, “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Alright, let me go find him, you wait here.”

You nodded, letting the smile fall from your face as Dana left. You were very good at covering up your anxiety when you needed to be, but your breathing trembled and your hands still shook.

“Hey,” A warm hand settled on your shoulder, squeezing lightly, “I’m glad you came.”

You turned to see your husband, “Well, don’t sound so surprised. You asked me to come, I said I would, so I’m here.”

He smiled, “Alright, follow me.”

You trailed behind him through the chaos of the ER.

“Dr. Robby!” You turned at the sound of your husband’s nickname to see what looked like a resident running after him.

“Not now,” He said quickly.

“But, I need—“

“Go ask literally anyone else, I will be with you shortly, Dr. Santos.”

You followed behind him into what you recognized to be the family room. He sighed deeply as he closed the door behind you, muffling the din of the ER.

“I can wait here for you,” You said softly, “If you need to go deal with that.”

“No,” He said and turned to you, smiling, “You have my undivided attention.”

You smiled tightly, “Great.”

“Oh, come on,” He cradled your face gently in his hands and you closed your eyes at his touch, “It’ll be over before you know it. I’ll be very gentle.”

Your eyes watered, but you nodded.

“Did you bring the Aimovig?”

You nodded again, reaching into your bag for it, but your hands were still shaky and as you pulled it out, it fell from your hands. Robby caught it in his hand, eyes focused on you the way they always did when he was worried about you.

“Why don’t you sit down over here?” He guided you gently to a chair, “I brought you some treats.” He pulled out a Polar seltzer can and a small package of Nutter Butters.

You managed a small smile as you took the Seltzer can from him and popped it open, “Thank you.”

He pulled on a pair of gloves while you focused on your breathing, barely taking a sip from your seltzer.

“No Nutter Butters?” He asked mildly, “I thought they were your favorite.”

You take in a shaky breath, “They are, but I am pretty nauseous at the moment. Wouldn’t want to start puking in your ER.”

“I can have Dana grab you some anti nausea meds.”

“No,” You said, “I’ll be fine once it’s done.”

He sat on a stool and rolled over to you, sliding between your knees, “Take a deep breath for me?”

“Michael, I don’t need a diagnosis, I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on with me.”

“Come on, I’ll do it with you,” He slid a hand to your inner knee, “Deep breath.”

You rolled your eyes, but did as you were told. Michael breathed with you, and though you hated to admit it, it was soothing to hear the sound of his breathing in sync with yours. The weight of his hand on your knee and the light circles his thumb made against you grounding.

“Better?”

You nodded, “A little.”

“Good, turn around for me?”

You straddled the back of the chair, taking a deep breath as you felt the wet cotton pad against your skin, “How’s your day so far?” You asked.

He chuckled, “You want to know about my day right now?”

“You act like I never ask you,” You sighed, “I’m asking for you to distract me so I don’t have a full blown panic attack. Who was that resident earlier? I haven’t seen her before.”

“Dr. Santos? New intern.” He pinched the muscle in the back of your arm between two of his fingers and you heard the cap on the injection clatter to the floor. “She’s good. Smart. Observant. Sometimes too ambitious for her own good. More empathetic than people give her credit for.”

You groaned quietly feeling the prick of the needle in your skin, exhaling shakily.

“Just another second, you’re doing so good, baby... And, done.” You felt the bandaid on your skin and heard the snap of Michael’s gloves as he tossed them in the trash.

Then his hands were on you, turning you to look at him, “Hey, you did it. You okay?”

You nodded, your anxiety leaving you in a rush. You felt Robby’s hands on your face again and you leaned into him, “You said I did good?”

He laughed, “Very good,” He grabbed the Nutter Butters and opened the packaging, “Eat.”

Just then the family room door opened and you recognized Dr. Mohan at the door, “Oh, um, Mrs. Robinavitch, I—I didn’t know you were here, sorry to interrupt, I—“

“What do you need, Mohan?” Michael asked and you tried to hide your laugh. It was always like this with the residents. Something about seeing you with Robby really flustered them. You listened as they spoke about a patient and then Mohan was gone.

“What do you do to your residents that they look so goddamn scared whenever they see you with me?”

He rolled his eyes, “Eat your cookie, please, I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you.”

“You’re insufferable when you baby me.” You said, but took a bite of the cookie anyway.

He kissed the top of your head on his way out, “Complain all you want, I know you like it.”

You smirked as you watched him head back into the ER, Dr. Mohan following him closely.

With Michael gone and your anxiety leaving you, you fully took in the Nutter Butters and seltzer. Your favorite cookies and favorite drink.

You had always been annoyed by his insistence to get you treatment for your migraines. It wasn’t like he had been the first partner of yours to suggest you see a doctor, but he was the first to not give up, despite your stubbornness.

He had pushed, but he had never made you do anything you didn’t agree to. And now, in the face of your silly phobia, he had cared for you with no judgment, and thought to bring your favorite snacks in even in the chaos of his work day.

Obviously, he loved you very much. It had never been up for question, you knew the reason he was so stubborn was because he cared about you and hated seeing you in pain. But still, sometimes, it was nice to be reminded.

After a few minutes, true to his word, Michael returned.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.” You said, and reached for his hand, pulling him down to sit next to you, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course.” He smiled at you, “You’re not lightheaded or dizzy?”

“No,” You said and held up the cookie wrapper, “The cookies really helped.”

His grin widened, “Good. You’re cleared to go home, then.” He kissed your forehead and then stood to go, but you pulled him back down.

“If I’m not gonna see you for another six to seven hours, I’m gonna need a better kiss than that.” You smirked.

He chuckled, but seemed happy to humor you, taking your face in his hands he kissed you, long and slow. He slipped his tongue into your mouth, keeping you anchored to him with a hand at the back of your neck. Your toes curled in your shoes when he sucked your lower lip into his mouth and bit down gently.

As he pulled away, just slightly, you were still leaning into him for more, “Was that better?” He asked, cocky grin on his face.

You cleared your throat, sure you were blushing, “Yeah, that was fine.”

“Well I gotta get back to it now. I’ll see you at home?”

“Um, I have dinner plans with some friends in town so I might be back later than you, but yes.”

He nodded, “Okay,” He kissed your forehead again, “Be careful. I love you.”

“Always. I love you. Make sure you eat something, please.”

He nodded to acknowledge he’d heard you, and then he was gone, back in the thick of it.

[arylleth]

Growth isn't a matter of age, nor of knowledge—it is measured in the space between impulse and response, in how we navigate discomfort without turning it into a weapon.

There comes a moment—quiet, often humbling—when you realize that emotional maturity is not about perfection, but about presence. It’s the courage to pause when all you want is to lash out. There's a quiet strength in emotional maturity. Not in knowing everything, but in being willing to unlearn, to listen, to say, “I was wrong,” without collapsing into shame or defensiveness. This is the work of becoming whole: knowing that being flawed doesn't make us unworthy, but refusing to take responsibility does damage the spaces we inhabit with others.

As Carl Rogers, one of the founders of humanistic psychology, wrote: “The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” Growth begins with self-awareness, not self-reproach. And it deepens when we learn to offer that same gentle awareness to others—especially when they falter.

As Bell Hooks wrote in All About Love, “Love is an action, never simply a feeling.” And action requires effort. Not just in grand gestures, but in the daily work of listening better, judging less, asking instead of assuming. Real connection can only grow where accountability lives—where people are brave enough to confront themselves and kind enough to do it without shame.

We often long for others to be better. To understand us, forgive us, fight for us. But how often do we offer them the very grace we demand? We crave safe spaces, but are we safe people? We want honesty, but do we know how to hold it when it’s not flattering? not recoil when it's uncomfortable? Maturity begins when we recognize that relationships aren’t built on performance, but on mutual responsibility.

It’s easy to blame the other, to say they failed, they disappointed. But what about us? Are we willing to look inward, not to condemn, but to understand? Healing begins when blame ends. When we stop outsourcing our discomfort and start asking: What’s mine to repair?

In his Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke reminds us: “The only journey is the one within.” And from that inner journey, everything flows: empathy, clarity, strength. We grow not by avoiding our flaws, but by facing them with tenderness. Not by never failing, but by learning how to rise without stepping on others.

John Bowlby, in his attachment theory, showed us that emotional connection is a basic human need, not a weakness. But it is earned, sustained through trust, consistency, and repair. No bond survives without responsibility. Real love requires us to be better not just for ourselves, but for those who dare to be close to us.

We often believe that how we love will shape how others love us back. But that's only part of the truth. It's not enough to give love—we must give it where it can live. “Love is an act of will—both an intention and an action.” And part of that will is discernment: learning to invest in people who return love in kind, not just absorb it.

So yes, love generously, show up fully—but not blindly. Teach people how to love you by loving yourself enough to walk away when they can't meet you there. We don't always receive the love we give—but we can choose to give it to those who do. We grow not by avoiding conflict, but by staying present in it. By choosing repair over pride. By learning to say: "Here's what I feel. Here's what I need. And here's what I'm responsible for." That's not weakness—it's the foundation of every honest relationship.

We mirror the world we want to live in by how we choose to be, especially when no one is watching.

In the end, the version of ourselves we hope others will be with us—honest, kind, brave—we must first become for them. Not to earn love, but to make space for the kind of love that holds, honors, and reciprocates. Be the version of yourself you’d want others to become in your presence. Because deep down, we’re all just hoping someone will meet us in that space — willing, open, and real. And perhaps the most loving thing we can do is meet them there first.

May you find people who water the roots of your being, who don't run from your truth, who make the garden of your soul not just bloom—but feel safe to keep growing. May you become that person for others.

You're not grown until you know how to communicate, apologize, be truthful and accept accountability without blaming someone else.

[storyweavingspider]

I’m ngl there’s a lot of things that *suck* about being a visible/openly trans woman, even in one of the safest cities for trans people in the US.

But at the same time, my visible presence has done so much to make others feel safe or seen. just by existing.

Sometimes it’s as simple as another trans woman seeing me at the metro station and giving me a nod of acknowledgement, that we both exist in that moment.

Sometimes it’s queer/trans kids swarming me in a bookshop because they’re so excited to see someone older and like them; that I’m confident enough to go out wearing what I want and be loud (visibly and otherwise) and here and it gives them hope for when they’re older.

Sometimes it’s their parents seeing me and them asking me how best to support and protect their trans kid, because they see how things are going in the world and they don’t want to hurt or mess up with their kid.

Sometimes it’s an egg with her family in a store looking a little too long with a little too much longing, and seeing the realization in her eyes that one day that’ll be her.

Sometimes it’s someone who’s been out for thirteen years privately telling you that you’re the reason they decided to come fully out, that seeing you fighting and speaking up and existing gave them the courage to do it too.

Sometimes it’s someone coming out at work because they heard their coworkers using your correct pronouns even when you aren’t around; that they came out by saying “You know Anonsee? I’m like them.”

Existing in public and being visible can be terrifying or risky, but if it’s something you feel confident enough to do, your very presence can make a huge difference. Each of these stories are actual experiences I’ve had, and I’ve had literally hundreds more since coming out.

You may be someone else’s lighthouse, keeping them safe and calling them home.

[mediumgayitalian]

Right before he left for an errand of his father's, Nico di Angelo almost kissed him.

Will is sure of it.

He'd been so close. Will had felt his breathing, spine tingling, on the curve of his dry lip: he had stood on on the bottom stair of the porch of Cabin Seven, a little shorter than Will even than usual, hands hovering over Will's wrists. Will had fought with the temptation to slide his wrists just so upward, just enough to slot against his open palms; he had resisted, in the end, but it was a close thing, a desperate need to feel the chill of Nico's chapped hands through his bandages, past his tangled string bracelets. Nico had parted his lips, meaning to say something, and Will had exhaled, quick and short, flicking down to meet his eyes, already staring. Nico's pupils were dilated, even obvious with the dark dark dark of his eyes, and his eyelids were low-slung, long eyelashes fanning. He had managed one word.

"I --"

And then Will's stupid watch chimed, and Nico glanced down, and he cursed, wrenching his hands away, and that time Will did grab them, just for a milisecond, just on reflex. And Nico had frozen and stared down at their joined hands, eyes wide, but Will was already halfway through a reflective "Sorry! Oh my gods! Sorry! Don't be late!" and Nico straightened, eyes narrowing in determination, and rushed out his okayseeyoulaterbye and sprinted across the common, disappearing into the shadow of his cabin. And Will stared after him for several minutes, until his vision was obstructed by a camper.

A camper who turned to him, eyes wide and sheepish and hopeful, wrist bent oddly, and said: "Hey, Will --"

And Will screamed his frustration so loud the camper jumped out of his skin, squeaking out an excuse, and walked quickly off, which was just as well because Will doubted he could be very much help when he was so busy stomping back to his cabin, burying his face in his pillow, and screeching until his voice went hoarse.

"Fucking boys!" he shouted.

Lou Ellen, in his cabin for some reason, flipped a page of her magazine, snorting.

"Hear, hear."

And that was that.

-- -- --

Except that wasn't that.

Because Nico sends him letters.

"I don't get any of those," Percy observes , peeking over his shoulder. Will slams the paper to his chest. shoves his face away, and storms off, face burning.

"Maybe because you are a tool," he mutters darkly, and flushes worse when he does not mutter at all, and Annabeth laughs so hard she chokes. He ducks into the stables and presses his steaming forehead to the wood, eyes squeezed shut, letter clutched to his chest as he waits out Annabeth's wheezing, Percy's hurt mumbling.

"I'm not a tool, am I?"

"Oh my gods I am going to pass out."

Once she reassures him, giggling, and drags him off Somewhere Else, Will peeks out. There is Clovis, curled up on the ground, but he is out cold. There is Miranda, a little ways away, tending to an olive tree, but she minds her own business. There is Connor, rigging...something, but that's okay. Will knows his pressure points.

He exhales, willing the heat away from his face. It doesn't work. He sits down in Guido the Pegasus's stall, anyway, shooting him a small smile in greeting, and smooths out the letter on his thigh. It reads:

Dear My Friend Belov

Will,

Hi.

Okay, hi again. I let this letter sit for two weeks because I was embarrassed. I don't know what to say. Because I'm

Hi. Again.

I have locked myself in my room with a pen and no food source (you would not approve). I gave one of my father's minions a key. They are not to release me until I have filled at least one page. So.

Uh, -- wow, is it stupid, writing 'uh', I used to write letters for competitions at school -- I miss you. I guess. I got a papercut yesterday and my stepmother gave me a bandaid. It was so strange and then I blinked because -- it shouldn't be strange, right? That's what you do for papercuts. But then I realized that I never get bandaids for papercuts. You just healed them.

And then I realized I have become a booger.

Will stops, and laughs. Guido huffs and raises his horsey eyebrow at him, and Will knows its in judgment because horses are the judgiest creatures on Earth, except for church ladies, and his ears burn. But he cannot force away the giant smile on his face no matter how hard he tries. He shifts, laying back onto the haypile -- and ignoring Guido's whiney huff, see, being mean has consequences -- and holding the letter above his face. From this angle, he can see the scratch marks bleeding in from the back, from all the words Nico has crossed out. Will considers using his X-ray machine to determine what it says and then realizes that is insanity. His pulse fires in his ear, loud and red-hot.

What does booger even mean.

I used to -- fight manticores! Empousai! I fistfought The Original Werewolf and won!

You make me weak.

He hears it, loud and echoing: the stutter of his heart, the actual moment where it pauses for a second, as if it doesn't have a job. Will inhales sharply and freezes with his fingers pinching the edges of the pages, breathing out, and out, and out; he exhales the sum total of oxygen left in his lungs and does not move, still, shifts only his eyes as they swing rapidly from line to line and word to word and trace every shift and bend of the careful cursive letters.

I don't -- that's maybe not the best way to write that but I tried three different sentences and they don't work right. What I'm trying to say, is: I used to be really cool and badass and everything, but you keep bossing me around and I keep letting you, and now I use conditioner in my hair.

He snorts a laugh, finally, swimming vision rebalancing as his lungs inflate again. His hands shake, ever so slightly, so he rests the letter gently on his lap, and tucks his hands under his thighs. Guido noses gently at the mess of his hair, and Will leans into the clever horse, smiling.

Which you don't even use! Because you're awful like I used to be and use -- that stupid 3-in-1 stuff! Because you never have time for anything! Because you don't tell people with papercuts to stuff it and get their own bandaids! Because you're ridiculous!

I guess I am really just thinking: sleep. You, I mean. I sleep until my servants wake me, which, I mean, there's no sun down here, but is probably noon or something. You should sleep, because now that I'm not there I'm sure no one else is bothering you to do it, and you're an idiot.

So.

I reached the end of the page so I don't have to write anymore. I hope you get this letter soon and you haven't dropped dead from exhaustion, even thought I know you haven't because I would feel it and I would kick your ass right back to the land of the living.

I love you

Don't kill yourself. Be meaner.

Love, Bye,

Nico. (di Angelo)

"Of course you have servants," Will mumbles, and buries his face in his hands.

Guido neighs at him, loud and exaggerated directly in his ear. Will shoves him off, scowling, and somersaults to his feet, standing with his hands on his hips. Guido blinks his big eyes at him. They are dark, like Nico's. Will considers screaming. He doesn't want to receive a hoof to the kneecap, so he doesn't, and instead redirects his energy into finger-combing Guido's mane and making general groaning noises of discontent. Guido rolls his eyes at him, which is rude. Which is -- judgey, and Guido is a dumb horse and he should not be embarrassed in front of a dumb horse but he is and it is the worst and all Nico's fault, he knows it.

"You're a horse," Will says, huffy. "You do not understand my gripes. How would you feel if you fell in love --" Will falters -- "if you -- well -- well!" He stops, squeezing his eyes shut. Don't kill yourself. Be meaner.

What is wrong with him.

What is wrong with him.

"Did you know he smells like a garden," Will says, eventually. He loosens his hold on Guido's mane when he whinnies in discomfort, pressing a smooch of apology between his giant eyes and using his hand to shake his fist at the heavens instead. "Just -- all the time. He smells like when you dig up the dirt, right before you put the flowers in the ground. That -- heady smell. You know?"

Guido blinks at him.

"Of course you do not know. You are a winged horse, and I need a straightjacket." He smooths down his patchy coat, sighing. "Guido, which pegasus do you have a crush on."

Guido, being a horse, does not answer.

"Is it Princess Peach Sour Rings?" He glances over at the dusky orange mare, lips pursed in consideration. Guido, too, looks in interest: they make eye contact, look to Will, and then back at each other. Will swears he sees them raise their eyebrows. "It's Princess Peach Sour Rings, isn't it."

The look in Guido's eyes says: you are unwell. Will doesn't need to be distantly related to Pegasus Himself to glean that much. Unfortunately, he's directly related to the God of Being Delusional, so this flies over his head.

"Okay, Guido, we are going to do what's called a Guided Thought Exercise. Are you ready? You don't look like you're ready. You need to take a Deep Calming Breath. Good. Okay."

Will closes his eyes for the Effect. He takes the thoughts his brain just constantly has of Nico -- smiling; Nico with his tongue poking out of his mouth, concentrating; Nico with sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, eyes glinting, sword a moving shadow; Nico hopping out of the window of Cabin Eleven, cackling as he is chased across camp by several furious, shouting, now-moneyless children of Hermes -- and envisions balling them up and tossing them out his ears. This, predictably, does nothing. Will ignores this failure and moves on.

"Guido, imagine for a second you are a regular, boring horse. You do not have cool wings like the rest of your friends. But it's cool 'cause you can gallop really fast. Maybe. And then one day, this other horse -- Princess Peach Sour Rings, are you imagining her -- comes in and this horse is just the most beautiful horse you've ever seen. Big, beautiful brown eyes, almost black, really, except when he stands by the campfire they glow like amber." Will clears his throat. "Uh, she, I mean. Princess Peach Sour Rings. And -- and, when this beautiful horse comes into the stable, you notice she has the most graceful wings you've ever seen and also coincidentally the most powerful kick in the land. And all she is valued for is her kick. And it makes you sad. Because the wings!"

Will pauses. He shifts so he has either hand on Guido's face, staring directly in his eyes. Guido allows it. Will cannot resist another smooch, tinier this time, right on his big snout. Then he pulls back and resumes eye contact.

"Guido," he says, seriously, "I have lost my metaphor. My brain is noodles."

Guido bumps his head softly against Will's. Will groans, leaning into the touch. Nico had accused Will of making him weak. Well, Nico makes him stupid. Constantly. Will is generally a really intelligent and articulate person. Nico makes him feel like his Wernicke's area has been pulled out with a fork. Which is an issue, because Will relies on his Wernicke area among others to do things such as brush his teeth and oh yeah, also surgery, because as Nico has so deftly pointed out this camp is broken. And also illegal. But Will has a job so he can't really be worried about that right now.

He screams.

Guido, gently, headbutts him. Will picks the letter up from the floor and shakes it violently.

"I am going to -- burn this," Will says, lying. He notices his fingers have creased the thick paper and rushes to smooth it out. "In a fire. Yes. Right now." He nods to himself. "Bye, Guido."

Guido does not respond. All well, though, because even if he could Will is too busy muttering to himself, tripping every forth step, scanning the looped cursive for hidden messages that are clearly not there. He kind of hopes if he holds the page up to the light then the words hey I should have kissed you before I disappeared for a hundred years that's my bad will appear, but this is all for naught. No such words appear. Only y's looped in a really gay way and that's stereotyping, it is, but they really do kind of follow the pattern.

"If you had kissed me I would have let you," Will says to the letter, because the only way he is saying that to Nico himself is if someone successfully clones his body and forces a microchip in his brain. "Like, just saying."

The letter, predictably, does not respond. This is perhaps for the best as if it did Will would have grander problems, which is saying something, because his mother fondly calls him Math Textbook, which is funny if hurtful. Anyways.

He makes it back to the middle of Camp, and stands for several minutes in front of a blazing brazier. There is if he is not mistaken a can of paint at the bottom of this one. That would explain the fumes. It would also explain the Chiron shouting at the grotesquely accurate spray-painted depiction of a penis on the side of the Big House and the various gathered Hermes children standing in smug Miranda-rights silence.

"It would be a great shame to burn you alongside evidence of a crime," Will says to the letter, solemnly. "Nico worked very hard to get you to me." He turns red as the sun as he says it and ignores it because he is well-rounded and developed and mature and emotionally available and adult and not emotionally repressed in any which way shut up Austin. "Maybe I will burn you individually, instead. Yes. More personal, that way."

He folds the letter carefully along the seams so as to conceal its contents from wandering eyes and marches with grand purpose, double time, to the Arts n Crafts shack. He notices the pottery wheel is out and twitches towards it, remembering the increasingly ugly vases he is creating and gifting to Chiron to see how long he will politely accept them before finally cracking, but remembers at the last moment that he is on a Quest and cannot afford any further distractions. He does take a quick second to flick a spot of paint on the back of Drew's neck but that is unrelated and cannot be traced back to him.

"Hi," he says, to the crowd at large. Lacy waves enthusiastically. Will waves back and makes a heart with his hands also because she is the best and Will loves her. "Does anyone have a lighter or a match or flint or something of the likes?"

Mitchell pauses. Will leans over to observe the jewelry box he is painting and nods in serious appreciation. He is very fond of the individual muscle veins being painted on Naruto's likeness.

"I am trying very hard to think of a non-terrifying reason you are so intent on a source of fire," Mitchell says gently, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "See, the way you have requested it reads arson to me, if you can imagine."

"What if I wanted to start smoking cigarettes."

"Hm."

"He could be learning lighter tricks," Valentina offers. "You know, put a bunch of hand sanitizer on and then set your hands on fire. The such."

Will nods enthusiastically. Mitchell somehow does not look assuaged.

"Aren't you a." He pauses, pressing his hands together. "Hm. Is lighting your hands aflame sanctioned by a medical professional such as yourself?"

"I think freedom of expression is important, yeah."

"...I see."

Will pats his shoulder. He continues to look alarmed, but returns reluctantly to his mostly naked Naruto painting. Will, as always, appreciates his endless support. Nobel Peace Prize for Mitchell Lastname 2013.

"So," Will continues, when no lighter is brought forth, "no flames?"

"No," says Valentina, sadly.

"No," says Mitchell, less sadly.

"If you're going to self-annimilate, do it elsewhere," Drew says, not sadly at all. She adds a careful dot of red paint to the grotesquely accurate depiction of Connor Stoll's decapitation. "I don't want the heat to dry out my hair."

"Self-immolate," Will corrects, and wanders off.

His search for a lighter produces no results. You'd think, in a Camp as oft-flammable as this one, the task would be an easy one, but Will wants it too badly, see, so the universe has punished him for the crime of hope. 'Tis likely why Nico did not kiss him, actually. Will pauses as he considers that Nico might not return if Will wants that too badly, too, just like his brothers, and gently and lovingly places that thought in the box in his brain labelled 'YIKES'. He pushes forward, humming.

"Nyssa," he says jovially, running into her. She pauses, eyeing him warily.

"You're not getting an alibi from me again, Solace. I don't want a repeat of..." She shudders. "Last time."

Will schools his face into a mask of sincerity. "Of course not, Nyssa, I would never, Nyssa, what do you take me for, Nyssa, I am only a boy, Nyssa." He is careful to cross his fingers behind his back lest he set off his allergy. Nyssa does not notice but seems to suspect.

"One day you're gonna suffocate," she says cryptically. Will inclines his head knowing she is correct. "It will be your own fault."

"I need a lighter," Will says, batting his eyelashes to change the subject. He makes his face as innocent and hopeful as he can manage. "Not for arson, I promise. Well, only kind of. The definition of arson is broad."

Nyssa sighs and walks away.

"No one in this Camp loves me," Will laments. He folds the letter back along its careful creases and tucks it, in its worn envelope, into the many beautiful and non-excessive pockets of his shorts, patting in gently. "I guess you get to survive, letter. You will remain the last manifestation of any affection Nico has for me as it surely fades for a cuter boy with nicer jeans down in the Underworld. How ye Gods are moved by my plight, and yet, none can break the ancient Sisters' iron decrees; doomed, by all Fate's accounts, for mine own torch to burn; down to embers, down to coal, down to ash; forgotten in the wind and reduced to the wind of memory; a weak, pitying blast in the stillness of the future."

The sun shines brightly in approval of his misery. Will shoots a thumbs up at it, sighs wistfully for at least seven seconds, to really seal it in, and follows the rest of the camp to the dinner bell. Percy only pouts sadly at him three times and then is easily distracted by dessert. None bring up the arson, although Mitchell watches with careful eyes.

Will sighs and sulks through dinner, pushing the food around his plate until he remembers he's ravenous and shovels it down. He rebuffs his siblings attempts at conversation by virtue of being too heartbroken to speak, not unlike Penelope, awaiting her beloved Odysseus, but then Kayla claims that bluegrass is a mid shadow of jazz and Will is so indignant he needs both hands and a borrowed third hand from Austin to properly list all the ways she's wrong. By the fiftieth stanza of their argument, obviously in couplets because they are not animals, the letter stops burning a hole into the khaki. By the seventieth, Austin starts weeping in misery, and he has almost entirely forgotten it. By the ninetieth, he resigns it to a hidden page in his journal, stashed under his mattress.

He is sure, anyway, that it is a fluke.

After all -- Nico could have kissed him, before he left.

But he didn't.

-- -- --

next

[no-144444]

Hello! Could I possibly request a kimi antonelli × reader. The reader is an F2 DAMS driver and she's in redbull academy and even if she had same/better results in F2 Kimi made it into F1 and she didn't and now she's like having a really hard time not being mad/clearly jealous of Kimi? They were also kinda secretly dating when they both were in F2 and they still didn't officially break up but she has bad anger issues and is either taking them out on Kimi or treating him coldly. And Kimi is trying to fix things. They also bothe still really love each other

won't change- k.antonelli

꩜summary: everyone knew that seat was yours. what happens when your kind-of-boyfriend takes it instead?

꩜pairing: andrea kimi antonelli x fem! reader

꩜a/n: series...? lmk (also THANK you to the person who sent this in i LOVE WRITING ANGST AGAGAGAGGAGAGA)

Imola rolled around quicker than you’d hoped. F2 was great, but it wasn’t F1. You worked. You fought. You raced. You were leading the championship, and it looked like nobody was going to touch you. You were going to run away with it this year, and next year was still unknown. You could end up in FE, maybe Indycar, maybe something else. Probably not F1, Toto had made that clear. Every team talked big talk about wanting you on their team, until it actually came to giving you a seat. Williams and Sauber (soon to be Audi) were offering a reserve driver position. Andretti was offering an Indycar seat. Prema was offering an Indycar reserve driver seat. Alpine was offering a World Endurance Championship seat. Mercedes were offering a GT2 seat. Arrow McLaren were offering a reserve seat. Cupra Kiko were offering a seat. Cadillac wanted to talk. RedBull wanted to talk. You had options, and great ones at that, but you wanted that stupid fucking Mercedes seat that Kimi got, because it was meant to be yours. 

“Alright?” George asked as you walked into the paddock, a bright smile on his face. “Ready for today?”

You came second last year. Gabriel won it by 7 points. You pretended it didn’t bother you. Jak joined your side in the paddock and you walked straight past George, not really caring about what he had to say. You should’ve had that fucking Mercedes seat, and everyone knew it. You were overperforming massively in a terrible team, like you always had, and you were great. 

“Everything ok?” Jak asked as you walked into the garage. “Up late with homework?” he teased. 

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Something like that, yeah.”

“How do you think you’ll do today in the Mercedes?” he asked and you felt your blood run cold. Your first chance in an F1 car. Your only chance in an F1 car, probably. 

“I think I’ll be fine,” you nodded. “Kimi drives it, how hard can it be?” 

Jak laughed at your (not-so-subtle) dig and nodded. “You’re going to be out for blood on that track, aren’t you?” 

You didn’t answer, but everyone knew that was the case. You were driving George’s car. You were up against Kimi. 

You really couldn’t give a fuck about anything other than setting the quickest lap, and showing Mercedes exactly what they missed out on. 

“Alright?” George asked as he watched you place your in-ears into your ears. You nodded and he sighed. “Don’t crash my car, please.”

“I won’t,” you nodded. “See you later.” 

You got up and into the car, sparing not a glance to the other side of the garage. But Kimi glanced. Kimi more than glanced. He’d been enchanted by you all day, considering he hadn’t seen you in months. Your hair was a little bit longer. Your face looked a little bit more… taut. You had this sullen look in your eyes that never seemed to go away. The face of a woman who was beaten down by a sport that hated her. He cringed when he noticed his father staring at him, staring at you. Long gone were the cheeky smiles and soft eyes. You barely smiled on the top of the podium anymore. 

“Ricordati. Non è una brava persona,” Remember. She isn’t good for you. he whispered, gripping the back of Kimi’s neck gently. He nodded to his father, but he knew it was a lie. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him. Those glances and touches in a crowded room, those day-long dates where he got to know everything about you, those nights spent laughing at random stupid videos, the way you kissed him and smiled against his lips after a big win, those moments before races where you reminded him that you loved him, but you’d race him like you hated him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He missed it, missed you. Missed everything. 

George didn’t try to strike up anymore conversation, he knew it wasn’t worth it. Basically anyone in Mercedes was dead to you, except Doriane, and even then, you barely spoke a few words to her at a time. Sometimes, it hurt. Sometimes that little hole in your chest wept when you were reminded that despite being the better driver, you still weren’t chosen. And it wasn’t even your fault. Kimi, despite being p6 in the F2 standings, was the safer bet because he was a man. He wouldn’t get the backlash. He wouldn’t get the hatred. You would. 

You were sick of it. Sick of racing, of Mercedes, of life, at that point. You raced to win, not to race. There was no passion behind your eyes beneath that helmet, just calculated moves and skill. There was no deviating from the lines you’d created in your head, just pure instinct, driving circuits you’d never driven before with perfect accuracy. It impressed everyone. You impressed everyone. People were scared of you on and off the track. People knew that you would be the first modern female F1 driver with a seat on the grid. Some people wanted you to fail. Others wanted you to succeed. 

FP1 was well underway, and you were on top of the leaderboard. Kimi came up behind you, and you cut him off. It was calculated, methodical, and completely unnecessary, but still, you continued. Again, he tried to get ahead of you, only burning up his tires behind you. Again, you stopped him. You had one chance to show every F1 team in the paddock that not only could you drive like hell, you could fight like hell too. Again, he lunged. Again you covered it. 

“Let Kimi pass please.”

“Nope,” you shot back. 

“Y/n, this is really not worth fighting for. Let Kimi pass please.”

“He should try and fight for it, fuck’s sake he’s never fought for anything in his life,” you scoffed, listening to the team orders and letting him pass. 

Top of the time sheets in practice. Skilled racecraft against Kimi. 

“What were you thinking?!” Toto demanded over the phone. You could tell he was pacing. “Everyone is going to be talking about you two now.” 

“Good,” you shrugged. “I don’t really care, Toto, and I have qualifying soon, sorry.” 

You hung up the phone without another thought. It wasn’t your problem, it was his. It was his fault. He could kick you off the Mercedes program, and you’d just join another. You knew, even if you won F2 this year, you weren’t going into F1, much less with Mercedes. 

“Y/n!” 

Every muscle stiffened at his voice. That simple, Italian accent. That tan skin, those deep brown eyes, that unruly hair. Inescapable. Unforgettable. 

And sadly, annoying persistent. 

“Hey,” he rushed up to your side as you pulled off your suit, walking into your room. He didn’t stop at the door. “How are you?” 

“Fine,” you grumbled out, pulling your firearms over your head. He swallowed, his mouth filling with saliva. He didn’t want it to go like this, but he understood your position. The seat should’ve been yours, not that he was bad, both of you knew he was great, soon to be one of the greats, but so were you. He’d known it from the moment he saw you on that karting track all those years ago. The way your passion seeped into every corner, how every victory meant the same as the first, how you looked at the track- like it was calling for you. It had made him laugh before, but it reminded him of what he should have. That passion he shouldn’t ever forget. He didn’t see it out on track today. Your moves were clinical. Your corners were precise, quick, not your own. You followed the racing line to a T, forgetting the way you used to complain about the ‘racing line’ and how it held you back. Kimi gulped again. 

“You were quick out there,” he nodded, trying to find something else to look at, other than you. It proved pretty difficult, considering his eyes usually landed on you in any room, whether he wanted them to or not.

“That’s the aim of the sport,” you answered in that sarcastic, clinical voice he’d heard so many times, only it had never been towards him. It was always for the people who pissed you off, or said dumb shit like ‘tough luck’ after a race. “Do you need something?” 

Kimi hadn’t realised he’d been staring with his mouth open until your hand reached up and closed it. The touch was familiar, too familiar. You shook it off. Kimi didn’t. “I wanted to see you,” he blurted out. “You’re not responding to my texts and you’re not in the paddock when I am-”

You shrugged, rushing around your room ‘cleaning’ it. You needed something to do with your hands so you didn’t look at him. “We race different series now, schedules don’t align,” you answered like it didn’t tear him apart. “It’s not uncommon.”

“I want to see you though,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I still-”

“Shut up Kimi, you don’t know what you’re saying,” you scoffed. “Now please get out, I have to get ready for quali.” 

“I miss you,” he grabbed your arm and your skin burnt beneath his touch. You froze as he spoke, what else were you meant to do? “And I’m sorry, I know it’s not what you want but I love you.” 

You pulled your arm out of his gasp, walked over to the door, and opened it. “Go.” 

“We need to talk about this-” he begged, but you weren’t interested. You couldn’t have a relationship with someone you were so jealous of, it’d tear you apart. He stepped closer to you. You rolled your eyes, emotion building in your throat. 

You pointed a finger against his chest, eyes brimming with tears. “You have so many people who support you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You don’t need me too. You don’t need someone else to remind you of how brilliant you are. You don’t love me. Please leave Kimi.” 

He froze to the spot. He hated seeing you like this, eyes wide and tears falling. He hated not being able to do anything about it, because he was the reason. He knew you felt bad about your actions, he could see it in the way you didn’t totally shy away from him every time he saw you. Those small glances you sent his way gave him hope, hope that soon enough, he could get you back in his arms. He didn’t usually take offence to your outbursts, especially not in recent weeks, but denying that he was in love with you was a step too far. Anyone with eyes could see the way he bled and died for you, loved you whole-heartedly, and gave you his all. He huffed out a sigh, one of defeat. His shoulders dropped as he walked out of the room, without another word. 

You hated this. You hated feeling defeated. You hated being second. You hated Andrea Kimi Antonelli. 

That wouldn't change.

navigation for my blog :)

mercedes & williams masterlist

[izzih22]

Heyy, would you write a fic based on this interview that paige and Azzi did:

"Wow, I didn't think about that," Fudd said Friday.

"I had not thought about that part because I'm just super-excited to play in the tournament. I know Paige has been on me because I've been, a couple of times, relying on her. If my shot is not falling I can take a step back and Paige will take care of it. She's been on me to not let that happen. She's like, 'These are our last few games together regardless of what happens. There won't be more. I want to see you play well.' She's been challenging me to step up and be more aggressive with her."

"I don't ever want her to defer," Bueckers said. "I want her to think, 'I've got this.' We want her to be her best, aggressive self. Don't defer, don't necessarily look to pass, look to score and do it every time she touches the ball. That opens everything else up for our team."

Don’t Defer

Note: hope y’all like it!!

They were the last ones on the court.

The rest of the team had cleared out an hour ago, the lights in the practice facility dimmed except for the ones directly over the main court. The echo of bouncing balls and squeaking shoes had long faded, replaced by quiet.

Azzi sat on the hardwood, legs splayed out in front of her, gently rolling her ankle with one hand and staring at the opposite basket. Paige stood a few feet away, dribbling lazily between her legs, glancing at her every so often.

Neither of them said anything at first.

Azzi could feel it. The weight of it. The end creeping closer. Whether it was a week away or three, they both knew — this was it. The last tournament run. The last bus rides. The last post-practice meals. The last of this version of them.

The air between them had been different all week. Charged. Not bad. Just… more.

“I was watching film,” Paige said, still dribbling.

Azzi blinked, then turned her head slightly. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Azzi didn’t ask what film. She already knew.

Paige hesitated. “You passed up four shots in the first half against Marquette.”

Azzi sighed and leaned her head back onto the floor. “Here we go.”

“No, really.” Paige stopped dribbling and walked toward her, the ball thudding against her hip. “Four clean looks. You made the right pass, technically. But we didn’t need the right pass. We needed you.”

Azzi closed her eyes. “My shot wasn’t falling.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“Exactly.” Paige dropped the ball and it rolled away. She crouched down beside her, hands on her knees, staring down at her girlfriend. “You’re in your head before the ball even hits your fingers. And you know it.”

Azzi didn’t move, but her throat tightened. She hated how well Paige could read her. Sometimes she wished she couldn’t.

“I just don’t want to let anyone down,” Azzi said quietly.

Paige sank the rest of the way down, sitting cross-legged next to her. Her voice softened. “You think passing up open shots is how you protect people? Because it’s not.”

Azzi let the silence stretch again, but Paige didn’t fill it. She just waited.

Finally, Azzi turned her head toward her. “What if I miss?”

“Then you miss.” Paige shrugged. “You miss, and we get back on defense. But if you don’t even try? That’s worse.”

The lights buzzed faintly above them.

“I’m not trying to shrink,” Azzi whispered. “It just happens.”

“I know,” Paige said. And then, after a beat, “But I also know you. You want this. You’ve been working for this your whole life. So stop playing scared.”

Azzi’s eyes burned. Not because Paige was being harsh, but because she wasn’t. She was being honest. Raw, real, and deeply present in a way she only ever was with her.

Paige reached out and tugged gently at the sleeve of Azzi’s shooting shirt. “Hey.”

Azzi looked at her.

“These are our last few games,” Paige said, voice low. “No matter what happens. I don’t want to look back and think we didn’t give everything. That you didn’t.”

Azzi swallowed hard. “I just… it’s easier when I know you’re there to take over.”

“That’s not the point,” Paige said, touching her hand now. “We’re at our best when you take over. When you stop deferring and just… go.”

There was something else behind her voice, something Azzi couldn’t name right away — not frustration or urgency, but something heavier. Sadder.

She sat up slowly. “You’re scared too.”

Paige blinked.

Azzi searched her face. “You don’t want to say it, but I know you. You’re scared this is the end.”

Paige’s jaw flexed. “It is.”

Azzi shook her head. “Not for us.”

“Not for us,” Paige echoed. She took a breath. “But yeah. For this.”

The gym. The uniforms. The late-night ice baths and the early-morning walkthroughs. The feeling of walking onto the court next to the person who knew your game better than anyone else in the world.

“Promise me something,” Paige said quietly.

Azzi nodded.

“Play free tomorrow. I mean it. Don’t look for me, don’t defer, don’t hesitate. Just go. Go like it’s the last game of your life.”

Azzi’s throat tightened again. “Okay.”

“I want to see you do it. Really do it. I don’t care if you miss. I just want to see you trust yourself.”

Azzi looked down at their joined hands, then back up at Paige. “Only if you promise me something too.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t carry it all by yourself.”

Paige blinked.

“You’ve been doing that all year,” Azzi said. “Every game, every moment. You take it all on, like it’s your job to fix everything. But you don’t have to do it alone. Not with me here.”

Something in Paige’s expression cracked — not in a weak way, but in a vulnerable one. Like she’d been holding her breath for weeks, and finally someone noticed.

“Okay,” she said, her voice soft and uneven. “Deal.”

They stayed there for a while, the court quiet around them, the air warm with everything unsaid. It didn’t need to be said.

⸻

The next night, Azzi dropped 27 points.

She pulled up without hesitation, attacked without apology, and never once looked toward Paige for permission.

And Paige? She watched with pride, her chest aching in the best kind of way — the kind of ache you get when someone you love finally realizes how powerful they are.

Late in the third quarter, Azzi hit a step-back three that sent the bench into chaos. As the timeout buzzer rang, she jogged back toward the sideline, chest heaving.

Paige met her at half court, slapped her hand, and grinned.

“There she is.”

Azzi’s eyes sparkled as she grinned back. “Told you I got this.”

“You always did,” Paige said. “You just had to believe it.”

[motorsportbarbie13]

One New Voicemail (Charles' Version)

your relationship with charles as told through voicemails

(i can't believe how well these are doing! i'm so glad you guys like these!! this one is specifically for @lestapiastrisgirl <3 hopefully this helps my charles girlies cope with cha being knocked out of q2 as i put this together...2k words)

First Date 

“I cannot believe I hit your neighbors car tonight.” Charles’ cheeks flame with embarrassment. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

“That’s one hell of a first date story we’ll be able to tell our grandkids.”

Pause. Charles suddenly realizes he might have just made this voicemail awkward. His eyes close, cheeks heating again. Why does he lose all sense of decorum and control around you?

He presses on. 

“I took you out, swept you off your feet…” Another pause, as if he’s replaying the entire evening in his head, checking to make sure his perception of the evening matched the reality. “I hope…”

He clears his throat. Moving on. 

“And then BAM! Straight into a parked car. I am stupid.” It’s the same tone as that famous radio message and you are crying laughing.  

“The FIA going to take away my super license next time. Please don’t tell Ferrari. I’ll never live this down.” Charles shakes his head, eyes rolling at the memory of the crunching sound his Ferrari made and the laughter that spilled out of you after the incident. 

“I hope my inability to park hasn’t scared you away. I swear I’m usually smoother…” 

‘Usually’ being the key word there. 

Until he was less than a foot away from you in his car, your perfume so intoxicating that he’ll never get off of his mind.

“You just make me so nervous.” The vulnerability in his voice makes your heart squeeze. 

“I was looking at you, listening to you laugh at my stupid jokes when I should have been watching where I was going.” Had he known you’d be wearing that little black dress and sky high heels, he would’ve hired a driver for the night. 

“In my defense, you are so pretty when you laugh and parallel parking is hard.” 

God, he hoped he hadn’t screwed this up. He already can’t stop thinking about you. 

“Can I make it up to you with a second date? Please?” 

And maybe a third. And fourth. And fifth?

Click. 

First Kiss 

“Mon dieu…” Charles sighs into the phone, lovesick and drunk on you. 

“First I hit your neighbors car and then the poor woman catches us making out on the stoop.” He scrubs his hand over his face. He’s going to have to pay for you to move apartments, he’s so embarrassed. Charles will never be able to face your silver-haired neighbor ever again. 

“She stood there for a long time though…which is weird.” 

He chuckles finally, picturing the way she had stood there for several moments, glaring at you two, hands on her hips. 

“I don’t think she likes me. Which, fair I guess.” 

Charles been so lost in the fact that he’d finally worked up the courage to kiss you that he hadn’t heard the door creak open. Or the way your neighbor cleared her throat. Loudly. Six times. 

“In my defense, that was the best first kiss turned first make out session I’ve ever had.” 

Charles was ruined after that kiss. The way you had touched him, drug your fingernails across the back of his neck, up into his hair. Tugged a little bit. 

A groan rumbles in the back of his throat as he turns the key to his newly-repaired Ferrari. 

“If I promise not to try to make out with you in front of your neighbor, can we do it again?” 

Something tugs deep in his gut at the thought of seeing you again. “I have to go to Maranello tomorrow for testing but I’ll be back Wednesday.” 

That was in two days time. Two days too long. 

For the both of you. 

“Please apologize to your neighbor again. I swear I’ll keep my hands to myself next time.” 

A pause. You can picture the grin sliding across his face.

“At least until we get inside.” 

Click.  

He Questions Everything

“I can’t do this anymore.” The anguish in his voice has your stomach twisting when you listen to the message. 

It was late where you were. Or early. He didn’t know. He was in Las Vegas, you were in Monaco. Too many miles and too much heartache. 

“I’ve given that team my entire heart. My youth. My best years and this is what they do? They can’t even listen to my suggestions. Can’t help but blunder themselves into P10 when I should’ve been on the podium.” 

He’s rambling now. You’re his safe space though. The only one who won’t call him petty or ungrateful. Won’t judge or call him out. You see the pain his team causes him. The way he gives them everything and then some and still is expected to give more. 

The line goes quiet for several moments. You think maybe he hung up, but the message keeps going. 

Silence stretches but it’s full of everything he can’t bring himself to say. 

“Red Bull’s been sniffing around, with Max retiring. Merc too, with George on his way to Cadillac.” He hadn’t told you this. Hadn’t told anyone outside of his manager. Charles was almost afraid to talk about it, even with you. 

Because if he said it out loud, it meant he was considering leaving his home. 

“Ferrari has…well, they’ve given me everything but…” 

A sigh so deep and full of everything he can’t put words to. It feels disloyal to even think the things that have been turning over in his mind since he took the checkered flag hours ago.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” 

The sound of a suitcase zippering. 

“I’m coming home. Can we spend the next two weeks somewhere warm so I can just stare at you in a bikini and forget the hell that this team puts me through?” 

The thud of his suitcase echos. 

“Please?” 

Click. 

A Surprise

“Before I tell you what I just did, I would like to remind you that I love you more than life, mon ange.” 

You had frozen mid-step in the hallway of the apartment listening to that opening line. 

“It’s really a funny story, to be honest. I think you’ll laugh.” At least that’s what Charles was banking on.

“It all started when Joris and I went to see an old friend of his after the gym today. He needed to get something for the car he’s been working on and this guy had the part.” 

This story was suspiciously twisty and curvy, even for your boyfriend.

“So we get there and there are puppies EVERYWHERE.” 

At that very moment, a little yip comes across the line and Charles groans. 

“Leo!” He scolds. 

Oh, great. He’s already named him. This was not going to end well. 

“Leo!” He repeats. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled the surprise.” 

Leo yips again, louder this time. Like he’s just discovered he can make that kind of noise. 

“Surprise!” Charles says weakly. 

“He was the runt of the litter. He’s blonde. Like you!” 

The moment the words are out of his mouth, Charles knows he’s in trouble. 

“I mean…” 

Leo barks. Charles tuts. 

“I’ll be home in ten. You’re going to love him, I promise!” 

He hoped. 

Click. 

He Feels Left Out

“What on earth were you texting Maman today, amore?” Charles grumbles into the phone. 

“She was giggling like a school girl anytime she looked at her phone.” He slots the key into the front door. 

The lock clicks. 

Leo barks. 

You’re in Paris for work, missing your boys. 

“And then she refused to tell me what you were talking about.” 

It’s so cute when your boyfriend gets jealous of your relationship with his mother. It was innocent though. You had sent her a meme making fun of Charles’ most recent parking accident on the streets of Monaco. 

Charles was just so easy to tease. 

“All she would say was that she was talking to you and that you were having a very funny conversation.” 

A pause. The jingle of Leo’s leash. 

You can practically feel the pout on his face. 

“Probably at my expense, no?” 

The elevator to your flat dings and Leo barks again. It’s about time for his nightly walk but you can tell Charles is still grumpy by the way he won’t let this go.

“What were you two talking about?” He whines. 

If FOMO had a spokesperson, it was Charles LeClerc. 

“You two are so mean to me.” He pouts. 

“I love you. Call me later.”

Click. 

Grocery Store Fumble

“Amore, we have a problem.” You can tell Charles is desperately trying not to panic. 

“Why are there so many tube shaped green vegetables at this market?” 

He stands in the middle of the produce section of your tiny grocery store. You were a few blocks away, in the middle of cooking dinner. 

“Whoever thought it was a good idea to put the cucumbers next to the zucchinis has a sick sense of humor.” He grouses. 

Theres a rustle of plastic as he opens the produce bag. You had just asked for one zucchini and now Charles was spiraling. 

“The sign says ‘Cucumbers and Zucchinis! Buy 2 get 2 free!” He’s panicking. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

Dinner rests squarely on his shoulders and right now, it’s not looking so good. 

“Does it matter?” He asks like he’s expecting an answer. Like he’s not talking to your voicemail. 

“Can you use a cucumber instead?” Deep breath. “What if I get this wrong?” 

He picks up two green vegetables, one long and skinny, wrapped in plastic and another shorter, thicker, a deeper green. His eyes scan the deserted store. No one was around to help. 

He was on his own. 

“How different can they be? They’re both green. Both long and skinny. Although this one is a little…thicker.” 

The giggle that starts low in his throat has you rolling your eyes when you listen to the message a few hours later. 

“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate.” 

A frustrated sigh morphs into a groan. 

“You know what? I make professional athlete money. I’ll buy all the green vegetables so that way I don’t get yelled at for being stupid. Again.” 

He’s so dramatic.

Another bag rustles open. 

“I’ll be home soon. I love you.” 

Click. 

A Song For You

Soft strains of music float across the line. Charles doesn’t speak. Doesn’t actually realize he’s accidentally called you. He’s at his piano, lost in the piece he’s working on while you’re away on a trip. He’s missing you fiercely and coping the only way he knows how: music. 

The song meanders on for several moments. Soft. Careful. You can feel the adoration he’s pouring into every note, even through the muffled sounds of his phone being tucked away in his pocket. 

He doesn’t know he’s giving you the best gift. 

The music dies and it’s quiet. 

“Do you like it, Leo?” Charles rasps, his voice unsteady. 

Leo doesn’t answer, just lifts his head to look at your boyfriend. 

“Do you think she’ll like it?” He sounds…nervous. 

Charles rarely gets nervous. 

Except when it comes to you. 

“I’ve been working on it for ages now and it’s finally coming together. Finally feels like it’s a reflection of how I feel when I look at her.” 

A heavy pause. He still doesn’t realize the phone is recording his confession to Leo.

“I’m going to marry your mama one day.” He tells the dog. 

“I’m going to marry her and this is the song that’s going to play when she walks down the aisle towards me.” 

A few notes drift across the line again. Delicate. Like he’s piecing together a puzzle. 

“She is everything, Leo.” 

His voice his reverent, like he’s planning on getting down on his knees and worshipping you the next time he sees you. 

“Your mama has the prettiest eyes, doesn’t she? The prettiest smile? And when she laughs. God, when she laughs it’s like the sun finally peaking out from behind a days worth of storm clouds. Bright. Warm. Everything.” 

Charles chuckles, shaking his head. “And she turns me into a total sap apparently.” 

A sigh. 

“I miss her.” 

You’ve only been gone for 24 hours. 

“Do you miss her? I miss her, Leo. I know she’ll be home soon but…” 

A pause as he reaches for his phone to call you. Chuckles when he sees he already has. 

“Hello, amore. I guess you heard all of that, oui? Come back to Leo and I. We miss you. I have something I want to play for you.” 

Another pause. 

“I love you.” 

Click. 

[asahehskafah]

every time I saw this post, I felt strange. It didn't feel like it applied to me, but I couldn't help pausing to stare out of the window for a moment.

It wasn't until last month that I realised it did.

A local transmasc had noticed me simply nodding along and saying 'same' when he was briefly summarising some of his trauma, instead of looking mildly to moderately shocked like everyone else at the meet-up. He pretty much cornered me in my DMs a while later when I was having a bad day and said 'hey do you wanna like. get into any of this?'

By that point I had already kinda figured out the deity identity stuff, but wasn't really that confident in owning it properly, nor had I figured out some of the more specific reasons why I felt it fit. He systematically deconstructed over 26 years worth of parental and societal trauma over a few days and it has made me realise how completely my internal structure is made up of nothing but a lattice barely-working beams that were never meant to be load-bearing, carefully constructed around a space of nothingness.

Lacking a sense of self is horrifying to me. My core is a void around which barely anything exists, except for a handful of preferences (I like specific times of stories, i dislike specific types of food, etc). I hadn't realised that I'd gone through so much of what I did until he literally ripped down the curtain shielding my introspection from going near that part of the room.

So seeing this post again, with the magnitude of mine own folly at last laid bare? It hurts. I am repressed. I've denied myself for nearly three decades. I've avoided doing anything to try to be myself because I've learnt from my past experiences that all it does is gets people hurt, and they hurt me back in the process. I feel like anything I'd do that would result in me taking up space endangers those around me, and thus endangers myself in response.

Making this account was a way for me to figure out what lays beneath the shell. I hesitate to even call it a mask, I don't think it's even vaguely reminiscent of humanity. I know it'll take time for me to find myself, but now that I'm aware of this wound at the centre of the world, it hurts so much to have to live with it.

I want to get through this. I need to live and survive and figure out what's on the other side of this barrier. I need to get out of my landlord(mother)'s house and cut her out of my life, have a space where I can actually figure out who I am and who I'm meant to be. But there's so much waiting involved while the 'affordable' housing company im on the waiting list for (and have been for over 6 months) does their thing, and I don't know how much longer I can hold out.

As I'm writing this, I'm AFK in FF14, listening to one of my favourite melancholy songs and sitting in a field of Elpis flowers, blooms meant to represent hope. The song is about the journey we've already walked, and how we've survived it. 'Unbroken promises we made so long ago. You're still here.' It makes me sob wretchedly to think about how I've survived this far, through the lens of this song. 'Always, night follows day. The sun will shine again. Walk on, never look back.'

I hope I can keep going.

i keep meeting transfems whose personalities are like, gaping wounds. girls who've been stomped on over and over until they start thinking they're uniquely evil and they deserve it. people shouldn't be allowed to treat us like this.

[paperbodiesamongthestars]

Halfway out the door, but it won't close

Yeah, I'm still mad. The show flatly refuses to address the emotional fallout of the events that take place on it, so I guess I'll do it myself.

Title from Say Don't Go by Taylor Swift, because I love a T Swift lyric as a fic title.

Read the whole thing below, or on AO3.

For the first time in a long time, Buck wants to run. 

The roots he spent so many years putting down washed away more easily than he ever could have imagined, and that hurts. He’s always known Bobby was important—the linchpin of the 118, in addition to being the father Buck always wanted—but Buck was somehow still surprised when things spiraled apart so quickly and so completely without him. 

And Buck gets it. He does. Everyone is retreating into their own corners, taking comfort from their families, and that’s good. He’s glad everyone has that kind of support system. He’s glad they have families to lean on, and to grieve with. 

He just wishes he had someone in his corner too. 

And Maddie’s got him—he knows she does. If he called, she’d be there in a heartbeat, no questions asked. But she’s pregnant. And Chimney almost died. And Bobby did die, making sure Chimney got out. They have a lot going on, and Buck doesn’t want to be selfish. 

Besides, he’s managing. Sure, he wishes he didn’t feel quite so alone all the time, and he wishes that all of the ways he’s trying to help weren’t fundamentally selfish, like they apparently are, but he’s dealing. The hardest part is that he’s been doing his best to be what everyone else needs—to live up to Bobby’s last words—and he’s falling short. He doesn’t—he’s really not sure what else to try, at this point. 

It really doesn’t feel like anyone wants him to keep trying. 

The temptation to pack up his jeep and just choose a direction is intense. He doesn’t, because he promised to take over Eddie’s lease, and Maddie’s baby is coming, and maybe there’s something Athena will need from him at some point, but he looks at the horizon on his way to work and all he sees is freedom.  

He compromises, and requests a transfer. The 118 doesn’t mean what it used to, to him, and maybe at another house he can get up for work without feeling like the grief is going to pull him under. Maybe at another house he’ll stop wanting to take a hard turn onto the freeway, and drive until he loses track of where he is. The 118 is already changing anyway. Eddie will head back to Texas, and the team will get a new captain at some point, and Buck isn’t at all sure that he can see someone else in that seat. Maybe this way he can keep his love of the job, even if it feels like he’s lost just about everything else he cares about. 

And then the building goes down, and the 118 pulls together to help. 

Buck withdraws the transfer paperwork. He doesn’t want to feel disloyal to Bobby’s memory. Going to work every day at that station, like things can ever go back to the way they were before, still makes him feel like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s paralyzed; every decision he wants to make feels like the wrong one. 

What he really needs to do is start looking for an apartment. Eddie and Chris are coming back to LA, and of course Buck is going to give him them their house back. He’s happy they’re returning—obviously he is. And the house never really felt like home anyway, aside from—well. It’s never felt like his, is all, aside from one bright, hopeful morning in the kitchen. 

He tries not to think about that too much. The warm light, and the billowing hope in his chest, and Tommy’s familiar scrunchy smile before everything went sideways. It’s too bright to look at for long, so he’s gotten used to locking it away again. 

He should call Tommy, probably, but it feels like it’s been too long. Tommy took a lot of risks to help them, and came to the funeral when Athena asked, to round out Bobby’s first team at the 118, and Buck didn’t even call him after. Never really thanked him. He’s got some texts on his phone—how are you really doing?—that he never responded to, and a couple of voicemails he hasn’t listened to. So yeah, he assumes that window is closed, no matter how much Tommy put on the line for him—for them. 

It’s one more thing that Buck used to have and doesn’t anymore. 

Buck is quiet at work, and the team thinks he doesn’t see the worried glances and the wordless conversations. No one asks him about anything, so he doesn’t share. He spends a lot of time thinking about how he used to picture his life, where he thought he’d end up. 

It should be enough, to have what he has now. He has his sister and the 118. He’s loved, certainly.  He matters to people—he knows he does. But it doesn’t feel like quite enough anymore. He knows everyone lost Bobby, and everyone is dealing with it in their own way, but he doesn’t think he should have to feel like an afterthought, or an inconvenience. He has the vague sense that he shouldn’t have to keep making his grief smaller, but he does it anyway. What else can he do?  

Eddie sets a firm date for his return, and he keeps telling Buck that he doesn’t have to move out, but Buck does. He does have to move out. It’s just—it’s the right thing to do. He thinks it is, anyway, but maybe he’s making it all about him again. He can’t tell anymore. 

Buck goes on calls, and he gradually packs his life back into boxes and labels them, and he goes to look at apartments. He doesn’t find any that he likes. They’re too small, or too dark, or in the wrong neighborhood, or they just don’t feel right. Big shock there—nothing feels right to him. 

Buck knows his realtor is frustrated when he tells her the kitchen in one of the units faces the wrong direction, and he gets it; he’s frustrated with himself. 

Buck goes back to his—to Eddie’s—to the mostly packed house, and he finally admits to himself that he’s not really looking for an apartment. 

He goes to see Gerrard, with a request for vacation this time. 

“It’s a good chunk of time,” Gerrard says slowly, from behind the desk where Bobby should still be sitting. 

“It is,” Buck agrees.

“Sometimes staying busy is better, in these situations,” Gerrard says. Buck can tell he’s trying to be gentle about it, but all he can see is Tommy’s shoulders hunching when Gerrard all but called him a fairy at the medal ceremony. He doesn’t waver. He holds Gerrard’s gaze until the man looks away, clears his throat, and signs the request. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Buckley.” He sounds irritated, and Buck feels a little better. He also hopes he knows what he’s doing, but he has a good feeling about it. He’s optimistic, maybe, for the first time in a while. 

Buck shows up to his next shift with a countdown clock in his head, and the rush of relief he feels almost makes him dizzy. He’s got another ten days before his time off starts, but it’s sitting there on the horizon now, an emergency exit, an escape hatch from his life.

He feels steadier now that he can see it up ahead. He’s a little more settled in himself, and he knows everyone sees it. His friends exchange relieved glances when they think he isn’t looking, and some part of him wonders why they can’t just talk to him. He wonders why they couldn’t just sit him down and tell him they were worried, but maybe that’s unfair. Maybe everyone is doing their best, and Bobby’s loss is just insurmountable. It feels that way sometimes, like Buck won’t survive this. It feels like all the bonds tethering him to his life snapped at once, and they’re just dangling now, the severed edges fraying by the day. 

Buck doesn’t say anything about the time off. He works and he smiles at his friends, and no one eats together or makes plans to hang out after work. He tries not to be too hard on himself for giving up—for betraying the last thing Bobby asked him to do. He tried—he really did—but he just can’t anymore. He can’t throw himself into holding everything together when no one seems to want to be held. 

He hopes Bobby would understand, but he can’t be sure.  

The day finally comes. Buck’s stuff is packed into his jeep or his new storage unit. He works his last shift and still doesn’t say anything. He thinks about it, but he’s not sure what he would even say. He figures his friends will have questions when he doesn’t show up for the next shift, but that’s a couple of days from now. Maybe by then, he’ll be far enough away to have found some answers. 

Buck makes it a little over an hour into his drive, heading north, before he has to pull over; he’s crying so hard he’s afraid he’s going to hit something. He takes the next exit, doesn’t see the number through his tears, and parks in the first parking lot he finds. He turns the car off, leans over the steering wheel, and gives in to his sobs. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he takes one deep breath, and then another. He feels calm for the first time in a while, emptied—for the moment—of the deep, terrible sorrow that’s been suffocating him for so long. He cleans off his face and then sits up straighter and looks around. He’s parked near a Jack-in-the-Box and he’s suddenly starving, so he goes inside and orders about half the menu. He goes back to his car to eat, windows down, staring unseeing at his surroundings as he thinks. 

Getting even this far out of LA, he feels like his brain has rebooted itself, like he’s stepped out of a fog and can suddenly see clearly again. He considers what he wants to do next. 

He could turn around. He could drive back into the city, and find a place to stay for a couple of weeks while he keeps looking at apartments, and he could use the time off to get settled into a new place. He could rebuild his routine. The thought of it makes a pit of dread open up in his stomach, so that’s a no. 

He could keep going. He could get back on the road, head north the way he planned, drive until he feels like stopping and find a place to stay the night. He could do that for weeks—he’s got six of them before he has to be back at work. It’s what he should do, probably. He could rely on himself, learn how to be alone. Only he feels like he’s already pretty good at that. He’s been alone a lot in his life, and he knows he could do it. But six weeks on his own suddenly feels a lot more like loneliness than freedom. 

Buck tilts his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. With this unexpected—and almost certainly temporary—feeling of calm and clarity, he’s suddenly confronting some uncomfortable revelations. 

Underneath the grief and the helplessness he’s been feeling for weeks, he’s angry. He’s angry at Eddie for getting in his face, and for implying that he didn’t do everything he could to save Bobby. It felt like shit to hear it, and Eddie was a dick for saying it. He’s angry at the rest of the team, too. For not taking him seriously. For assuming he was as fine as he seemed, even after losing someone who was more of a father to him than his own father ever was. For not even asking where he was moving to when he left Eddie’s house. He loves Chim, but maybe he was wrong; maybe Buck doesn’t owe it to Bobby’s memory to stay in a place where he doesn’t really feel seen anymore.

Buck knows he’s a lot—he can be a lot. But he also knows that he’s grown up in the last few years. He’s loyal, and will do anything for the people he loves. And even before Bobby died, he wasn’t getting that back from his friends. He understands why—they all have lives, and kids, and it’s been a crazy year for everyone. But he consistently made the effort to be there for them, and it doesn’t feel great that no one could find the time to do that for him. 

Well. One person did. One person always showed up for him.  

Maybe Buck doesn’t actually need to get out of LA for six weeks. Maybe he needs some space from his friends and family until he’s got a better handle on his anger with them. But maybe he doesn’t have to spend the next six weeks alone. 

It’s entirely possible that Buck’s silence the past few weeks closed that door for good. But Tommy’s been texting and calling, even though he’s not getting anything back, so maybe it didn’t. There’s only one way to find out. 

It’s early afternoon by the time Buck parks in front of Tommy’s house. He doesn’t know Tommy’s schedule anymore, but he gets lucky—Tommy’s truck is parked in the driveway. Buck’s hands are sweaty all of a sudden, and some of the conviction he felt earlier has drained away. There’s enough left to propel him out of the jeep, though, and up the steps onto Tommy’s porch. 

He rings the doorbell and waits. It’s only a few seconds before Tommy opens the door. His face creases with surprise when he sees Buck, but his eyes are warm. 

“Hi,” Buck says a little awkwardly, and then he barrels on before Tommy can say anything in return. “I want to be friends,” he blurts, without really meaning to. Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up and then furrow as he frowns, and Buck watches his eyes shutter, the way they did in the kitchen that morning. “For now!” he adds hastily. “I’d like to be friends for now.” 

Tommy’s expression does something decidedly judgmental before he gets a handle on it. He’s such a bitch sometimes, and Buck likes him so goddamn much. Loves him, in fact, but he thought about it the whole drive here, and he’s a mess right now; if he says it for the first time today, neither one of them will ever trust it.

“Maybe you should come in,” Tommy says slowly, and his tone is so neutral that Buck winces. It’s fine. He can fix this. Tommy’s willing to at least hear him out. 

He follows Tommy into the kitchen, and sits on one of the barstools at the island while Tommy makes two cups of coffee. He slides one over to Buck and sits at one of the other stools. He’s got his expression under control now, and Buck hates it. Tommy’s so expressive when he’s comfortable that this carefully polite mask feels like a slap. 

Still, Buck feels more relaxed right now than he has in weeks, just because Tommy is sitting across from him, watching him, and yeah, he should probably start explaining. 

“I put in for a transfer,” he says, and there go the eyebrows again. Buck smiles despite himself. “I withdrew the request, later, but then I took some time off. Kind of a lot of time off, actually.” He has a thought, and he looks up. “S-sorry I didn’t get back to you.” 

Tommy shakes his head. “It’s fine, Evan. I figured you were busy with your family.”

“Not, uh. Not so much,” he says, feeling tears pricking at the backs of his eyes. “It’s”—he waves a hand—“everyone has their own families, you know?”

Tommy’s frowning at him now. “You’re their family too,” he says slowly, like it’s an obvious truth, and that does it. The tears come, and so does the whole of the last few weeks, words spilling out and over each other as Buck tries to convey his loneliness, and helplessness, and what Bobby said, and how hard he tried, and how no one seemed to want that, and then Eddie—

He loses the thread a little bit, and he’s not sure what he’s saying. He’s trying to get the important parts out through the tears, but he’s not sure he’s even making sense anymore. And then Tommy’s arms are around him, big and warm and grounding, and he stops talking at all and just cries for a little while. 

When Buck is composed again, Tommy takes a step back. Buck wishes he wouldn’t, but he holds out his hand and Tommy takes it, and that’s something. There are some things Buck still needs to say. 

“It got a little jumbled earlier, so I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but I, uh. I gave Eddie his house back.”

“You said,” Tommy says, and squeezes his hand. 

“I didn’t find a new apartment,” Buck admits. “I was going to go on a road trip, just drive for the next few weeks, stay wherever I felt like staying.”

“That sounds nice,” Tommy says. 

“It did at first,” Buck says. “Then it sounded really lonely.” Tommy makes a soft noise in his throat. “So I—I turned around and came here instead.”

“Because you want to be friends,” Tommy says slowly. 

“Because I want to be friends right now,” Buck corrects. “I absolutely want to try again. I wanted to try again last time, before—but I screwed it up.”

“Pretty sure I screwed it up,” Tommy says. 

Buck shrugs. “Maybe we both did. I want to do it right. But I’m a mess right now, and I don’t want you to think that I’m only here because…because everything else in my life is falling apart. I want to choose to try again when we’re both solid.”

Tommy nods, but his gaze stays on the countertop in front of him. “What if”—he clears his throat—“what if you get your feet under you, and realize this isn’t what you want?”

“I won’t,” Buck says, calm and sure. He tugs on Tommy’s hand to get him to look up. “Tommy, I won’t. I’ve been missing you for months. The only reason I want to wait is because I want both of us to know for sure that we’re building on a solid foundation, okay?”

Tommy stares for a long moment, searching his face, and then he gives one short nod. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

Buck can feel the smile stretching over his face. “Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and smiles back. 

“I thought you weren’t ready to move in together yet,” Buck says without thinking, when Tommy shows him the spare room. 

Tommy rolls his eyes. “This doesn’t count. This is me helping out a friend, like everyone should do.” His tone is pointed, and Buck tries to ignore the little burst of pleasure he gets from knowing Tommy is mad on his behalf. He can work on being less petty about it later. 

“Yeah?” Buck asks. 

“Evan,” Tommy says, leaning in. His voice is low and intimate. “When I actually ask you to move in with me, you’ll know it.”

“Yeah?” Buck asks again, and it’s a lot breathier this time. 

“Yes,” Tommy says with a smirk, and Buck briefly wonders how committed he has to be to the friends thing. He watches Tommy saunter out the door, heading for the kitchen, and he firmly reminds himself that waiting is the responsible choice, and will absolutely be worth it.  

He’s by himself for the moment, but he doesn’t feel alone at all. He looks around the spare room, at his clothes hanging in the closet, and the soft blue comforter on the bed. Tommy put fresh sheets on it earlier, and they smell faintly of lavender. He sits on the edge of the bed, closes his eyes, and breathes. He feels good here, safe and comfortable and wanted. 

He knows his grief will be back, and the real world will intrude sooner rather than later. He’ll have decisions to make, and explanations to give when the team realizes he’s gone. He and Tommy still have a lot of talking to do. 

For right now, though, he can smell the faint scent of lavender, and Tommy’s body wash underneath that. He can hear the sound of Tommy moving around in the kitchen, and birds chirping at each other outside the window. His hand moves over the comforter, and he feels the echo of Tommy’s palm against his. 

Buck blinks his eyes open and smiles to himself. He’s not okay yet—not by a long shot—but for the first time since Bobby died, he knows that he’s going to be.  

[azzibueckers5]

i want you to need me (need to want something more)

(ao3 link) (read iwkpa first) (wc: ~9k)

five times paige bueckers curses azzi fudd's entire existence and generally wants to die, and one time she curses azzi fudd's entire existence but for really awesome reasons this time so it's chill.

chapter 1 (of 2): in which paige is down horrendous. like horrendously horrendous

AN: hi hello looky here, i did indeed write more of these idiots. enjoy angtsy paige as promised. i swear the second chapter will make up for it. i hope. i smoked a joint by myself and listened almost exclusively to waiting room while writing the majority of this... so that's your warning in terms of angst levels and editing levels lmfao i'm sorry <3 (also there's a BRIEF mention of religious guilt but its like so super light- but if you're worried at all just message me)

1. june 2020, arlington, virginia

the dc humidity is stifling as paige races up the last stretch of asphalt after azzi and turns up the driveway to the fudd’s house, breathing heavily and trying to muster up enough remaining energy to catch the younger girl in the last stretch of their run.

the air is heavy around them, thick with an incoming summer storm, and paige doesn’t even have the breath to groan aloud when azzi’s finger’s graze the basketball hoop’s post at the top of the driveway a second before her own, their designated finish line. 

“i win again, fuck you,” azzi wheezes, the pride in her voice still audible even through her heavy breathing.

paige’s eyes do not catch on the strip of skin exposed between her waistband and the bottom of her shirt when she pulls her arms up to rest them on her head. they do not. 

she slaps at azzi’s leg half heartedly and attempts to keep both the fatigue and petulance out of her voice when she whines, “you cheated- grabbed my back when we turned up the hill.” 

they both know that paige was already losing. 

azzi doesn’t dignify it with a response, and only shoves her leg back in retaliation, which. rude. 

“so hot out. wish it would start raining already,” is what she says instead, and it's a testament to how long their run was that she’s not fighting the cheating allegations. 

paige grunts in agreement and hunches over, hands on her knees, trying simultaneously to catch her breath and also valiantly to ignore the sight of azzi stripping off her tank top in her periferal. and then she discovers that if she leans over far enough, her ponytail will fall over her eyes and she can inconspicuously ogle azzi from behind strands of her hair. 

delightful.

she’s too busy letting her eyes roam across the smooth, taut skin of azzi’s stomach that’s being revealed and involuntarily tracing the sweat droplets on her abdomen to notice that azzi throws the damp shirt at paige’s head, until it hits the side of her face and drops to the ground next to her foot. 

it takes a concerning amount of strength for paige to not reach down, bring the teal material to her face, and do something entirely insane like inhale it. or worse, lick it, which she’s pretty sure isn’t something you’re supposed to want to do when confronted with your best friend’s sweaty work out top. 

belatedly, she says “ew azzi, that’s nasty it’s all sweaty,” and hopes the disgust in her voice is convincing. she wishes azzi’s sweat was as repulsive as she’s trying to make it seem, but instead it just makes her desperately want to put her mouth on the places that produce it. 

there might be something wrong with her. probably.

and then azzi’s head tilts, in the way that almost always leads to trouble, “yeah?” 

and paige’s disgust was either too convincing and azzi feels like being a shithead, or not convincing enough and still azzi feels like being a shithead but for entirely different reasons, because the brunette smirks, and proceeds to wipe a hand across the moisture on her abdomen and then shove it in paige’s face.

paige wants to die. like genuinely. death. drowning. incineration. a bolt of lightning perhaps. 

instead, she shrieks, catching azzi’s wrists in her hands, and tries to shove her sweaty forehead into azzi’s neck, wrestling with her hands to get one free and lift her own shirt up to wipe the damp material across azzi’s side. 

they’re both squealing, giggling in between indignant grunts, and the struggle lands them pushed up against the plastic of the garage door with a thud, paige pinning azzi’s hips to the surface with her own. 

and this. backfired. a little bit. because now she’s pressing a sweaty, wriggling, half naked azzi against a hard surface. with her own body. 

her brain whites out for a second, and azzi must notice because she takes advantage of her hesitation to do anything and flips them, wiping her face down paige’s arm. 

and paige isn’t like, turned on by that, but she’s not not turned on either. what the fuck.

she can’t even come up with retaliation, too focused on how close they are and how warm azzi is, and the feeling of her skin pressed up against paige’s, and. she’s going a little bit insane, she thinks.

azzi stills then, too, at paige’s non-reaction, and then they’re just staring at each other, hands still gripping each other’s in a now forgotten attempt at defense, air thick with more than just the humidity. 

they stand there for a second, just looking, chests heaving, and paige isn’t going to kiss azzi, obviously, that would be stupid, but she’s certainly thinking about it, and.

and then thunder claps, loud, above them, warning of an imminent downpour, and azzi jumps away from paige like she’s been burned, stumbling backwards. 

her face is contorted, a little shocked, like she doesn’t know what just came over her. paige wishes she knew the feeling, but unfortunately she knows all too well what just came over her. 

her head falls back against the garage door, arms going limp, and she watches, dazed, as azzi disappears into the house, calling out something about how winners get to take the first shower over her shoulder, the screen door banging behind her.

she lets out a groan loud enough to be mistaken for another roll of thunder and wonders how long this silly crush she has will continue to torment her. 

this awkwardness– usually the result of paige getting to close, touching too much– has been happening more often recently, ever since she eagerly embraced the fudd family’s hospitality to let her stay with them through quarantine. 

if she’s honest with herself, which she usually isn’t, the tension has always been there, she’s just now letting herself notice it more, and she wishes– especially in instances like this when azzi gets particularly close to letting paige cross lines before shoving her away– that she’d never let herself pay attention to it all. 

because it aches a little bit, in a masochistic, addictive sort of way, the exhaustion of having azzi close in every way but one– the one she only lets herself think about in the darkness of the middle of the night, with azzi’s slow breathing only inches away. 

she wonders when, if ever, she’ll have the courage to do something about the way her stomach flips when azzi smiles at her a little too long, or the way her fingers tingle when azzi grabs her hand during movie nights. 

she knows the other girl like the back of her hand though, knows that she isn’t ready yet, doesn’t know if she’ll ever even be ready, so she shoves her fascination with azzi’s sweat into the corner of her mind labeled things i shouldn’t think about and presses a hand to her forehead, hard, trying to physically force it back. 

she stays outside long after azzi disappears, body cooling all the way off, and doesn’t follow her until the rain starts, until the water droplets pour down onto her and cruelly wash away the traces of azzi’s sweat from her skin.

2. november 2022, storrs, connecticut

paige has had maybe the worst day ever. 

okay not really, but certainly the worst day she’s had in a while. she’s not dramatic enough to say it beats that one in august, the scar on her knee is too heavy a reminder of that, but it’s up there, just mundane enough to be brutal in the quieter ways, the ones that add up.  

it had started, this morning, when instead of waking to the movement of azzi disentangling herself from paige’s comforter, the blonde had been jerked awake by the sounds of jana and ice bickering, loudly, outside her door and an empty left side of the bed. 

azzi and her had fought the night before– nothing big, just a flare up of irritation that happened sometimes when they spent too much time together– and she’d left their weekly movie night early instead of curling up against paige’s pillows and falling asleep like usual, leaving a lingering annoyance over paige’s mood already. 

so, naturally, she’d started her day in shitty spirits, and they’d only worsened through a particularly brutal PT session. 

and then she’d had to sit through a team meeting preparing for an upcoming game that she’d spend sitting, uselessly on the bench, had gotten a paper back with a less than stellar grade, and had been caught in the rain on her walk back from the dining hall with nika. 

all she wants to do now is to wallow in self pity, make azzi cheer her up, and tuck herself into her favorite spot between the brunette’s head and shoulder and let her hands in paige hair wash away the day. 

they’d made up from the night before at practice this morning, when paige had been incessantly annoying, throwing basketballs at azzi’s shots during warm ups until she’d dropped her stupid ignoring paige act, and she’s looking forward to finally unwinding in front of one of the only people she’s ever been vulnerable in front of. 

azzi hasn’t responded to paige’s text about coming over by the time she gets out of the shower, but she doesn’t really care, too sulky to wait for her to be done with her homework or whatever she’s deemed more important than tending to paige’s ego, and she trudges down the hallway and up the stairs between their suites with more drag in her feet than usual. 

caroline is sitting on the couch when paige barges in, and she looks surprised to see paige here, which is odd considering she spends equal time in this apartment as she does her own, but paige ignores the hesitancy on her face in favor of starting down the hall, too tired to care. 

but then caroline says “ wait, no,” shrilly, a little panicked, when paige makes it about halfway through the living room after a muttered hello, and stands up off the couch, as if she needs to physically interrupt her movements. 

and that stops paige in her tracks, because what.

“bruh- what,” paige bites out, and if it's a little rude, sue her. “azzi’s here, right?”

caroline hesitates. “yes, but-”

but paige isn’t listening, and caroline will understand, anyways, that paige really just needs azzi right now, so she cuts the brunette off, mumbling “kay, catch you later,” before walking the short rest of the way down the hall and to azzi’s door.

she can hear caroline protesting behind her, more urgently, but paige is having none of it, and pushes open azzi door without knocking. 

and stops short. 

there is a boy in azzi’s room. 

there is a boy on azzi’s bed . 

in paige’s spot. on azzi’s bed. 

there is a boy in azzi’s room on azzi’s bed sitting next to azzi, touching azzi’s thigh. 

paige feels like she might throw up. 

“oh- i’m. oh-” is all she gets out, as azzi jumps off the bed like she’s been burned, the stupid boy’s hand falling limply off her leg in the process. 

“paige! what’re you- hi- what’re you doing here?” she says, eyes wide and flustered, like she’s been caught. 

because she has, a little bit. they don’t exactly talk about the people they hook up with, but paige usually has some semblance of idea on what azzi is doing, enough to know when she needs to let nika get her uproariously drunk, or call drew for a couple hours to take her mind off things. 

they also don’t really ever bring people back to their rooms– in the rare event paige is feeling particularly horny, she’ll always go to a girl’s room, never bringing them back to hers. because her room is her and azzi’s space, and she’d kinda thought azzi’s room was too, seeing as the brunette had never brought anyone back either. until now, of course. 

on a fucking random thursday evening. fuck.

paige is reeling, and the entire day’s worth of shitty events comes crashing down on her. 

“m’sorry- sorry i was just- i’ll just-” she flips a finger over her shoulder at caroline behind her and backs slowly out of the doorframe, trying to stave off the tears welling in her eyes until she’s alone.

“wait, p, are you- are you okay?” asks azzi, hands wringing together in front of her. she looks torn, and paige is genuinely offended that this mediocre boy is enough to even hold a candle to her, enough to make azzi glance back and forth between the two of them like they hold equal weight in her life.

stupid-ugly-boy has been entirely silent throughout this horrifically awkward interaction, head moving between the two of them in uncomfortable confusion, and paige really wants to kick his face in. 

instead, she mumbles out a “no yeah- i’ll just. come back later,” and her voice sounds shaky. what the fuck.

azzi tilts her head and asks, imploringly, “you sure?” and paige almost wants to just break down right then and there, and cry about physical therapy and the rain and her stupid knee and her stupid paper and how this fucking guy messing everything up, but she glances at ugly-stupid-boy still sitting on azzi’s bed, and nods once, before turning on her heel. 

“m’sure. see you like- tomorrow. or whatever.” 

her voice doesn’t crack, which is something, and she hears azzi ask again but she’s already halfway back down the hallway, speeding past caroline and her pitying expression to get the fuck away from whatever is about to happen in azzi’s room. 

she pauses once she gets outside their apartment’s door for a second, half expecting azzi to be right behind her with a dismissive excuse for ugly-stupid-boy and soothing words for paige, because azzi always knows when she’s upset, always prioritizes fixing it, but when she realizes after five seconds that azzi isn’t coming, she starts down the hallway and lets the tears begin to fall.

she hasn’t cried over azzi in months, ever since she decided that she was going to have to be fine with being just friends, just best friends, that it was enough, but by the time she gets back to her room, she’s full on sobbing, and she collapses down onto her bed, muffling her cries into the st. john's basketball sweatshirt that azzi had left two days ago when she’d been there for a movie night and had ended up sleeping over. 

she doesn’t even have the right to be upset, not really, and this somehow makes it hurt worse. 

because azzi and her weren’t dating– weren’t anything– and she didn’t owe paige an explanation for what she did with her life, her body. even if it was with really stupid ugly boys. especially then. 

her heart feels like it's been hit with a hammer anyways, though, and she takes back the thought that she’d had earlier– that she wasn’t dramatic enough to say this was the worst day ever– because this was now officially tied with the day she’d torn her acl. 

at least that had had a fix- a surgery, and a rehab regimen, and doctors telling her how to get better, get stronger. she even had a return date, a definitive end to the injury, even if it was far off. 

but this feeling in her chest, the absolute panic coursing through her veins? there was no doctor that could cure it, and no timeline on when it would get better. 

she was starting to think it never would.  

…

paige must fall asleep like that, curled around azzi’s sweatshirt crying, because she wakes to the feeling of azzi pulling the hoodie out of her arms. 

she blinks blearily up at her, eyes puffy and disoriented, and she hates herself a little bit for immediately noticing how soft and pretty azzi looks in the dim light of the room.

“can i-” is azzi’s sheepish, whispered question, gesturing down at paige’s arms. 

even in her sluggish state, she knows she should say no. even in normal friendship circumstances, crawling into each others beds after having sex with other people is considered fucking weird. 

but paige is a weak, sad, little idiot, and she does not say no. she nods instead, and azzi visibly sighs in relief, before slipping into paige’s arms like she has a thousand times before and tangling their legs. 

and paige’s heart hurts, because how dare azzi seek her out after breaking it so casually. and how dare her dumbass self let her. 

she doesn’t know why she asks, but she can’t stop the question once it pops into her head, and she waits a few moments, like maybe if long enough time passes azzi will fall asleep and she won’t have to hear the answer, and then:

“did you- did you fuck him?” she whispers, and the word fuck comes out harsh, vulgar. 

azzi stiffens in her arms, and there’s silence for a few beats, before she exhales a quiet “ paige,” and it’s answer enough. 

it cuts deep, so, so deep, and paige should cry, and yell, and kick azzi out of her bedroom, because that’s not fair , that she gets to sleep with other people and then come crawling back to paige, traces of someone else’s hands all over her, but instead she just inhales quietly against the stinging behind her eyes.

she shifts them on the bed, so azzi is curled up with her head on paige’s chest, and tilts her head back so the younger girl won’t be able to feel her tears when they inevitably fall.

and as azzi drifts off, paige wonders what her last straw will be, because she’s creeping closer and closer to the point of no return, the heartbreak of no return. 

she’s weak for azzi though, knows she’ll let the girl do almost anything, and as she lies awake, tears dripping quietly, uncomfortably into her ears, she knows she’ll always let azzi come crawling back, always give her whatever she wants. 

it’s not at all a comforting thought.

3. april 2025, tampa, florida

the music in the hotel suite they opted to turn into an impromptu after party is just on the side of loud called obnoxious , but paige can’t bring herself to give a fuck when azzi is singing along to the song emphatically next to her, smile wide and notes slightly off key as she tries to drag paige in closer to dance with her. 

her hair is damp from the earlier spray of champagne, and there’s confetti stuck to her forehead, and paige thinks she’s the most beautiful woman that's ever graced the earth. 

and she knows they’re both like, really, truly, exceptionally drunk, but she really hopes she’ll remember this moment in the morning: her and azzi, tangled together on the dance floor, pure joy splashed across the brunettes face, their teammates in various stages of hammered around them, champagne still flowing and laughter echoing through the room. 

she feels like she’s on cloud nine, like nothing could pull her down from  the high of the natty, and azzi’s unwavering attention, and her beautiful, strong, pretty hands that are tangled in the net still dangling from paige’s neck. 

when people start winding down (see: caroline carrying kk upstairs, and ice and jana passing out on the couch in the corner), paige and azzi drag themselves off to paige’s room. 

and in her haze, paige doesn’t really know why, but they stay tangled together on their waltz to the elevators, and in the elevators, and then back down the hall towards the room, and when paige almost trips over the door frame after fumbling with the key card, azzi laughs so hard she almost causes them both to crash to the ground, and.

and azzi’s laughter is still the best sound she’s ever heard– and she’s heard the buzzer at the end of a national championship game win– and paige really wants to taste it. 

and then. and then she is tasting it because she’s kissing azzi, wide and messy and giddy. 

and azzi’s kissing back, she’s kissing paige back, and this is definitely the best day of paige’s life, no doubt about it. 

they stumble through the door into the main room, bumping into the dresser in their insistence upon staying attached to eachother, but paige can’t be bothered to actually pay attention to where they’re going because she’s kissing azzi, and azzi’s hands are underneath her shirt on her stomach and her hands are in azzi’s hair– and holy fuck.

azzi makes a needy little noise in the back of her throat when paige tugs at her shirt, and their lips part for a second so she can yank it off, and paige wants that noise imprinted in her mind forever . 

she tosses the offending material behind her just as azzi turns around and launches herself onto the bed, giggling all the way, and paige takes a second, in her absolutely sloshed state, to appreciate the sight of a happy, half naked azzi climbing off balance onto the bed and waiting to be kissed, just as giddy as paige is. 

she’s so pretty. and she’s waiting for paige to come and kiss her, and fuck.

this is even better than raising the trophy over their heads, even better than cutting the net. 

and then azzi whines out a needy “ paige,” and she scrambles to follow, because what the princess wants, the princess gets. 

she giggles aloud at that thought– and then realizes when azzi makes an indignant noise that it hadn’t been just a thought but she’d said it out loud too. oops.

azzi pulls paige down on top of her the second she gets close, and she falls, limbs knocking and tangling in an unfortunate manner, but then their mouths are melding together again and paige doesnt care at all that her leg is trapped because they’re kissing . 

she moves her mouth down for a second, just to suck a mark into the skin of azzi’s chest, and azzi moans into her ear, and jesus christ. paige is overwhelmed. she pulls her head back with a nip of her teeth, and the sight of the darkened skin, red and angry and proof that azzi is hers, is enough to make her throb in her sweats. 

she surges back up to kiss azzi again when the younger girl's hands tangle in her hair, tugging like she’s just as needy for it as paige is, and.

and she doesn’t mean to– really, she doesn’t– but she’s still riding the high of the game, and azzi is spread out underneath her, clad in only a sports bra and sweats, kissing her, and there’s so much champagne running through her veins, and so much skin to put her mouth on and. she just loves azzi so, so much that she has to tell her. 

“fuck, az. love you- love you so much,” she mumbles, pressing the words into azzi’s neck, and dragging her tongue across her collarbone. “m’so in love with you,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. 

it seems like something azzi should know, probably, since it's so awesome and they’re kissing . 

except– azzi stiffens.

“no p, shhhhh– why’d you ruin it, c’mere,” azzi slurs, lazily, one hand pressing over paige’s mouth, and. 

and paige's heart cracks in her chest. 

she pulls back and blinks down at azzi, trying to come up with a coherent response while her mind catches up to the reality of what she’s just said.

“wha’” she says dumbly, at a loss, white noise suddenly filling her ears. 

“can we just. can this just be kissing– i don’ wanna complicate…” azzi trails off, and then when paige says nothing, tries to drag her in for another kiss, eyes unfocussed.

paige lets her, for a second, before her mind catches up to it, and then she jerks her face back, trying to ignore the keening noise azzi makes when she does, because. 

because she’s just told azzi she was in love with her, and the response had been don’t ruin it. she wanted to die.

“azzi, i can’t–” 

she frowns, eyebrows drawing up comically, and has the audacity to sound annoyed. “why not?”

paige cannot do this right now.

“can we just– can we just talk about this in the morning?” she asks, voice cracking on the last word. at azzi’s grumpy huff, she adds, a little desperate, “azzi, promise me we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

and azzi must be really drunk, because her eyes are drooping, but she agrees. “yeah, promise, p.”

paige doesn’t believe her, doesn’t even know why she wants to talk about it in the morning anyways, but as she glances down at the mark, now taunting, that stares up at her from azzi’s collarbone, dread settles heavy in her gut.

“go to sleep, az,” she whispers, and tucks a curl behind her ear.

“‘kay,” she replies, sleepily, drunkenly, and paige thinks fuck.

and she doesn’t know how that started and ended so fast— they were barely in the elevator like ten minutes ago— but paige feels her whole world come crashing down. 

and when azzi falls asleep almost instantly, half on paige’s side of the bed, curls tangled and face peaceful, like she didn’t just shatter paige’s whole entire heart, paige thinks that this might be the thing that finally kills her. 

she’s still drunk, so drunk, and the room is spinning from the liquor and blurring from the tears. 

she tries to muster up sleepiness that won’t come, tries to shut down the searing panic that’s thrumming through her, but the only coherent thought in her head is fuckfuckfuckfuck.

she’d known, on a deeper level, that azzi probably didn’t feel the same, but the way she’d been looking at paige recently, they ways she’d clung to her tonight, the way they’d just been fucking making out , it had made paige think, just maybe, that she’d had a chance, that maybe azzi’d felt it too.

but now she knows, with certainty, from the way azzi had callously rejected her, that azzi didn’t feel the same. 

if her entire body wasn’t so paralyzed with dread, she thinks she would probably throw up.

eventually, on what should be the happiest day of her life so far, championship net still tangled around her neck, dreams achieved, and the love of her miserable life next to her, she falls asleep crying. 

because she knows, with all the drunk certainty in the world, that this has fucked them up, fucked paige up, in a way that will be impossible to fix.

the taste of champagne on azzi’s lips and the echo of the words why’d you ruin it follow her into her dreams. 

and when azzi is gone when she wakes up, she’s not even surprised.

4. april 2026, indianapolis, indiana

the arena is deafening with the wrong crowd’s noise, almost suffocating, sky blue and yellow confetti falling around the sea of people on the court, as paige watches in despair as ucla celebrates their thorough defeat of uconn in the national championship.

the huskies had barely stood a chance, in all honesty. sarah had gotten hurt in the semis- a strained ligament after a particularly hard fall in the paint that didn’t pose serious long term concerns but had sidelined her for today’s game, and kk hadn’t been able to clear concussion protocol after a hard hit during the first quarter. 

which left azzi, and the rest of uconn, limping through what would otherwise be a quite competitive match, and just trying to not get blown out. 

azzi had played spectacularly too, in paige’s deeply biased but correct opinion, keeping it close enough to not be embarrassing and racking up 33 points and 4 steals. 

but it hadn’t been enough, and even from a hundred feet away, without having talked in months, paige could see how upset azzi was, how hard this loss would be felt. 

it made her want to bundle azzi up in her arms and hide her from the rest of the world– tuck her away and talk her down from the spiral that paige knew with certainty her brain was already starting to spin. 

except she doesn’t have that privilege anymore, and it was killing her. 

she’d sat with nika and a couple other ex teammates, so they get to go down onto the floor to give consolatory hugs and apologies, but by the time paige gets through kk and geno and all the other people who want to talk to her, azzi has already disappeared into the tunnel. 

caroline takes one look at paige’s faraway gaze following the back of azzi’s head, and shoves her towards the entrance. “go find her. gonna be the only one who gets through to her anyways.”

and it should be reassuring, that caroline thinks paige is still the right person to go after her, but it only adds to the pool of dread in her stomach. regardless, though, with a pat on nika’s shoulder, paige slips away into the tunnel, knowing without a doubt that azzi is hiding in an empty room somewhere, trying to compose herself enough to talk to the media. 

she ducks into three different doorways with no sign of the brunette, before coming across an empty office, lights off but an achingly familiar back profile visible through the window in the door. 

paige pauses, hesitating. a year ago, she wouldn’t miss a beat, would already be next to azzi telling her a stupid joke and trying to get a smile out of her, but she’s not sure azzi wants that from her anymore. paige hasn’t exactly been a stellar friend, avoiding alumni events and dodging texts, and the guilt is suffocating. 

still though, azzi is hurting, and paige will never be able to sit and watch her be upset without at least trying to do something about it.

cautiously, she raps her knuckles against the doorframe, before pushing in, not waiting for azzi to turn around. 

she does a double take when she turns enough to see that it's paige, and her heart breaks in her chest at how surprised she looks that it's the blonde, and how upset she looks at the loss.  

they stare at each other for a second, and it's almost awkward– a reminder of the last year that's aged them and driven them apart– and paige’s heart constricts. azzi looks so tired. 

she doesn’t know why she says it, why she thinks it will be funny, but she makes a pathetic attempt at breaking the tense silence by blurting “miss me out there?” and immediately regrets it. 

azzi’s face falls, cautious expression morphing into blatant hurt, and she curls in on herself. and fuck. paige is really stupid. 

“no, azzi, i didn’t-” she stutters out.

and then without thinking, with only the visceral need to comfort the younger girl running through her, paige closes the space between them in three steps and wraps her arms around azzi, one hand cupping the back of her head and nestling azzi into her neck. 

and then they’re hugging, and azzi relaxes into her, curling so tightly together that maybe they’ll be able to forget about the distance of the last year.

“m’really proud of you,” she presses into azzi’s hair. “still the best shooter in the nation, forreal.”

“i still lost ,” comes the response, ever the pessimist. 

“not your fault. played better than last year, even, and you were the mop .” 

paige pauses, assessing the mood, and then adds, still into azzi’s hair, “gonna go number one next week, az. i just know it. dc’ll love you. they already do.”

“maybe, but i’d probably pick lauren, cause y’know, she won,” she protests, and paige can feel the tears soaking the collar of her t-shirt. 

“hey.” 

she gently tugs azzi’s head back and out of her shoulder to look at her for a second, faces close. 

which is a mistake, because now they’re inches apart and azzi is so beautiful, even crying like this, and paige has missed her so badly, but she needs to make sure azzi believes the next words out of her mouth. 

“if they don’t pick you, they’re fuckin’ stupid, okay?” she reassures, wiping a thumb under azzi’s eye. 

she inhales shakily but nods, and paige can’t resist adding “besides. either way you’re still gonna lose to me in the league,” with a lopsided smile.

azzi collapses back into her, with a weak groan, laugh muffled into paige’s shoulder, and it sounds more like a sob, actually, but it’s something , and paige just tries to hold her, tries to lessen the pain with physical touch alone. 

the last time they’d been this close without awkwardness had been almost exactly a year ago, and they’d been kissing, and. 

paige forcefully shut down those thoughts. she has azzi here, in her arms, and she isn’t going to waste it. she closes her eyes and tries to memorize the feeling of azzi’s strong body pressed up against her, the tickle of her curls against paige’s neck, the grip of her fingers against the back of paige’s shirt, the way she smelled, still sweaty from the game. 

because she doesn’t know if she’ll ever get this again, have azzi this close.

they’re quiet for a bit, just breathing each other in. 

and then azzi mumbles “i’m really mad at you,” into her shoulder, in lieu of all the distance between them, the awkwardness that they both know is paige’s fault, and guilt floods her senses.

paige thinks azzi can’t possibly be more mad at her than she is at herself.

“yeah,” she breathes out. “i know,” and tightens her hold. 

she wants to apologise, to get on her knees and beg for forgiveness and convince azzi to forgive her, to let her back in. that leads to hurt, though, so instead, she just grips her a little harder, like maybe telepathically she can convince azzi how much she misses her, how much the last year has fucking sucked.

the seconds tick by, and paige hopes that this is as healing for azzi as it is hurting for herself. 

and then a staff member paige doesn’t recognize comes barrelling into the room, shattering the sanctuary of peace that they’ve carved out, and azzi wrenches herself from away paige’s grasp, face wet and hands shaking.

“oh- i’m so sorry- i didn’t realize…” the woman trails off, seemingly processing that she’d just interrupted azzi fudd and paige bueckers.  

azzi wipes at her eyes frantically, and stutters out “no it’s um- it’s fine i think i have to go do press,” before darting out of the room with only a glance back at paige, eyes wide and expression weary. 

and then she’s just. gone. 

the woman looks between paige’s stock still position and the space by the door that azzi just fled from and starts profusely apologizing, but paige cuts her off with a gruff “its fine,” and the woman stops, before nodding and radiply following azzi out the door.

and then its just paige, and the lingering scent of azzi’s hair, and the ghost of her touch in this fucking empty office. 

she wishes, often, that she could hate azzi, because it would make this whole thing easier. but this is only a reinforcement of how she will never be able to do that, will probably spend the rest of her life loving her and missing the feeling of them pressed together. 

she stays in the room for ten more minutes, trying to compose herself, and when she’s more emotional for the rest of the day than she otherwise would be, she just blames it on ucla.

5. july 2026, dallas, texas

sometimes, on her darkest days, when she wakes up with azzi’s phantom touch on her face or her laugh still ringing in her ears, paige wonders if loving azzi as much as she does, without reciprocation, is her punishment for being gay, because it aches a thousand times worse than any injury she's ever had to endure. it's the kind of hurt that feels like it has to be caused by some higher power, has to be some sort of eternal damnation. 

this morning is one of those days, and she wakes with the echo of azzi’s name on her lips, only to be reminded of the harsh reality of her empty dallas apartment upon opening her eyes. 

she sighs, long-sufferingly, into her pillows, who offer her no advice, and resigns herself to another hollow day. 

there is no part of her, anymore at least, that struggles with her relationship with god and her sexuality– ironically enough it had been azzi that had talked her through her guilt-induced panic attacks during high school– but the feeling of punishment still lingers, occasionally, like maybe god was spiteful that she’d always worship azzi just a tiny bit more. 

she sighs again, this time to her ceiling, which remains as mockingly adviceless as her pillows, and counts to three in her head before dragging herself out of bed to get ready for practice. 

basketball is usually a sure bet at a good distraction, but today, they’re prepping for the next three games. 

which means they’re prepping for the mystics. 

which means paige has to see azzi’s fucking perfect (face) shooting form seventeen different times, and endure sideways glances from everyone in the room, as if knowing that azzi would be here, in dallas, in a weeks time wasn’t nauseating enough as is without everyone pitying her. 

only dijonai and arike knew the gut wrenching truth: that they had been neither lovers nor strictly just friends, but something worse, in the middle, just teetering on the knife’s edge that was more , until paige had knocked them off balance and the blade had eventually sliced through her head and heart and cut her open, leaving azzi with only a few knicks

the team was still aware, though, that they were on less than stellar terms– probably thought they were exes like the rest of the fucking world– but that didn’t spare paige from having to offer up intel, as coach had put it, on slowing her down 

(her quiet loyalty to azzi has no limits, it seems, because she only offers up a meager statement about the shooting guard occasionally favoring her left leg, which isn’t even really true anymore.  not that paige paid enough attention to azzi’s games to notice that progress. at all.)

film, evidently, drags by, and even the abnormal amount of stupid jokes from dijonai isn’t enough to distract paige from the miserable anticipation of having azzi in the same city. 

practice afterwards is even worse, somehow, and paige is uncharacteristically sloppy, getting told on three separate occasions to lock in. 

she lets arike trail after her when she hits the weight room instead of the showers, if only because she doesn’t have the energy to protest, and prays that the older girl, who has become something of a mentor, and who at least somewhat understands the predicament, leaves paige to her thoughts. 

surprise, surprise, her prayers go unanswered, and she makes it barely three reps into her chest presses before arike breaks the weighted silence.

“you can’t go on like this forever, p. you know that,” is her really chill, lightweight conversation starter. always to the point. 

“dunno what you’re talking about,” she says, stubbornly, sulkily. 

arike doesn’t even glance up from her own rack, like paige’s denial doesn’t deserve a response, before sighing.

“i’m talkin bout you barely being able to say the name of a girl you haven’t spoken to in months, haven’t been alone with in a year.”

paige resists the urge to tell her that, actually, paige had been alone with her in april, and it had hurt so badly to be that close to azzi that she’d nearly fled the state that night. it probably won’t help her case. 

“i can say azzi’s name. i just don’t like to.” her voice comes out relatively smooth, and paige mentally pats herself on the back.

“you grippin’ the bar so hard i’m worried you gon’ snap it in half.”

whatever. at paige’s stubborn silence, she continues. 

“look. i get it, okay, i do. but you need to at least try and move on. take advantage of what’s left of the break. take a pretty girl out on a date-”

“ rike-” paige starts to protest, but is ignored.

“you don’t have to marry her, paige. you don’t even gotta kiss her. but this sulking thing has got to stop.”

“i’m not sulking,” she says. not at all in a tone of voice that could potentially be mistaken for sulking. 

arike just raises an eyebrow. “i have a friend, jadyn, she’s cool. used to hoop. she’s asked about you before, definitely your type. lemme set you up, please. if not for your sake then the rest of us who’ve had to watch you mope since you got here.”

“how do you know what my type even is,” paige says, stubbornly. 

arike lets the bar fall out of her hands post-squat with a loud thump, before beginning to gather her things. mockingly, she asks, “do you want me to answer that?”

paige does not. she switches gears. “i’m not moping.”

unimpressed, arike squirts some water from her gatorade bottle down at paige as she walks by in response. “yeah, sure. just think about it, okay? baby steps.”

…

paige contemplates arike’s offer on the drive home, and in the shower, and even throughout her automated, rather lacking post shower routine. 

the last time she’d hooked up with someone had been a few months after the natty. paige had been hammered after a win with dijonai, had tried to take a random girl home from the bar, and had proceeded to call the poor girl azzi while they were making out against the door of her apartment. it had been as disastrous as you’d expect, and paige hadn’t tried since. 

she hopes, maybe, that the older girl has dropped it, and paige won’t have to either awkwardly shut it down again, or worse, suffer through a date with an unsuspecting stranger. but then as she’s pulling on a pair of sweats, her phone lights up in front of her with a text from the devil herself. 

arike: im sending jadyn your number, pleaseeee just give it a shot. 

she sighs, and glances at the mirror across from her. even now, a year since being anything remotely azzi’s, she still looks at herself and only sees traces of the younger girl. 

her third piercings that she’d let azzi coax her into (she had been staunchly against it until azzi had said, casually, “it’ll be hot” and paige had agreed in a matter of milliseconds.)

her hair, damp from her shower, smelling like the shampoo paige had been using since freshman year at uconn because azzi had said it smelled nice once. 

even her t-shirt, subconsciously chosen out of her drawer, was the color blue that azzi had said matched her eyes. 

it was ridiculous, after all this time, all this silence– silence that was paige’s doing– how firmly intertwined azzi still was in her life. her claws were still buried in paige’s whole being, dug just as deep as they’d ever been. to be fair, she’d never actually tried to dislodge them, beyond the whole no speaking thing, but still. 

she knows that probably needs to change, knows that part of the reason for putting distance between them was so that eventually paige could think about her without a knife between her ribs, but the thought of moving on feels wrong. even the idea of changing her fucking shampoo feels like a step too far. 

because paige doesn’t want to forget. there’s almost comfort in the misery: missing azzi– loving azzi– is as familiar as breathing, even if that breath feels like it's being ripped from asthma ridden lungs.

arike is right though, paige needs to at least try. she thinks about the words baby steps , and tries to ignore the nausea in her stomach.

she glances back down at her phone on the dresser when it lights up with another text, but her eyes skip over the notification from arike without reading it, and land on the time: 5:55. 

she only knows about angel numbers because azzi had gone through a brief phase during her second acl tear that she’d called her spiritual awakening (paige had called it azzi’s trip to crazy town ), but still, she remembered what 555 had meant. transformation. it had stuck with her, a little more than she’d expected, and she glances at her framed uconn #5 jersey that hangs next to the door to her closet. 

she can hear azzi’s voice in the back of her head, reading out of some voodoo book she’d picked up on a trip to her favorite bookstore, reverent even with paige making fun of her every thirty seconds. 

555 signals change and new beginnings, suggesting you should let go of old patterns that no longer serve you and embrace the significant shifts and personal growth that are on the horizon. 

god. she’d give anything to be back in that tiny dorm room in storrs, curled around azzi like nothing outside of her room had existed and listening to her drone on about tarot cards and spiritual realms. before paige had gone and fucked everything up.

but she’s not- she’s in dallas and azzi is in dc, she thinks , she doesn’t even know for sure, because they haven’t talked in months and- paige needs to get a grip.

and when the third 5 ticks to a 6 and her phone buzzes again, this time from an unknown number, paige resigns herself to trying . 

she’ll try to listen to this girl arike is convinced paige will like, and not picture azzi in her place; try and relax and let loose and embrace the possibility of moving on. maybe she’ll even let herself be taken home, she doesn’t know. 

but this moping thing is really getting old, and she knows it can’t last forever. over a year is already teetering on the edge of pathetic, and that's without considering the part about how paige is wallowing over a girl she didn’t even date. 

embracing change and new beginnings or whatever. she can do that. 

… 

god is laughing at her. he must be. embracing change this ass. 

as she sits in her car outside the apartment building she’s just fled from, trying to calm herself down enough to not be a danger on the road on her drive home, she curses her entire existence. 

herself, for just generally being a pathetic idiot, the stupid fucking angel numbers, for giving her the entirely false impression change was coming, and god, for making her life one long-running, miserable joke.

and most importantly, azzi fudd. for being like, so impossibly wonderful that paige is on the verge of a panic attack just from hearing her voice for the first time in months. 

how did she know. 

panic courses through her, more potent than the venom of a snake bite. all it took for paige to resort back to hopelessly, impossibly azzi’s, despite the taste of someone else on her lips, was a phone call that lasted less than 2 minutes and azzi saying i miss you.  

she feels like the scene is frozen (surprise, surprise, even the metaphors she makes up in her head about her own life are straight from azzi’s favorite movie) where ana begins to climb up the side of a cliff, huffing and puffing and evidently feeling like she’s made an exceptional amount of progress, only for the shot to pan out and reveal that she’s only a couple inches off the ground. 

because she hasn’t had to interact with azzi at all in the last year really, aside from painful group events and ignored texts, and she’s self aware, knows that getting over azzi is gonna take more than a year of just trying and failing not to think about her, but she didn’t realize how easily she’d fall back into her old feelings after a god forsaken two minute phone call. she’s been trying, slowly, to make progress, reconcile with what her life looks like without azzi in it, and had almost convinced herself real headway was being made, only for the last twenty minutes to completely shatter that mirage. 

paige knows she shouldn’t read into it, let azzi voice in her ear spark anything but regret and hurt.

except azzi misses her .

the ten minute drive back to hers is a miserable affair of trying not to think about the hurt in azzi’s voice following jadyn’s question in the background, and the fact that azzi said she’d text, and. 

and the fact that she’d called paige. drunk. saying she missed her.

paige has the backbone of a worm.

she’s returning from an otherwise very decent date and hookup and of course azzi as is the only thing on her mind. of course. 

she feels a little bit guilty, too, as if she was like. cheating on azzi. which is fucking ridiculous, she feels ridiculous. but she can’t fully squash the thought that azzi somehow knew that paige had just been kissing someone else and pretending the straight, silky hair in her hands had been curly and wild instead. 

whatever. 

she allots herself five more minutes to freak out, before resigning herself to the fact that she has to get out of the car, but as she goes to turn it off, her eyes catch on the time on the dash: 1:11am. 

the voice in the back of her head that sounds like azzi says the law of attraction and manifestation. 

she slams her head on the steering wheel in despair. 

…

sleep that night comes slowly, fitfully, morning even slower, and paige tries valiantly to set her overeager expectations that azzi will text to a very manageable zero.

she’s never been good at wrangling her mind into reason when azzi is involved, though, and when she rolls over at 8:30 and has no new notifications, she takes the pillow she’d just been lying on, presses it to her face, and tries to smother the side of herself that is still pining, nine years strong. 

(she fails.)

but then, after dragging herself out of bed, while her head is stuck deep in her closet, trying to pick out which depression hoodie she wants to wallow in today, she hears the distinct sound of a text tone from where she’d left her phone on the bed. 

she jams her elbow into the shelf, and then again into the doorframe in her haste to check her phone, but she can’t even pay attention to the sharp pain of her funny bone, because there, against her lockscreen of drew in a uconn bueckers jersey, is a text from azzi fudd. 

azzi 💗: you gonna show me your cowboy boots collection or what

and every (meager, pitiful) ounce of progress from the last fifteen months that hadn’t already disappeared the night before flies out the window. 

if paige were a smart woman, with her best interests at heart, she would reply with something dry and dismissive, push azzi away and resort back to the moping that’s been occupying her life for the last year. 

unfortunately, paige is a fucking idiot, through and thorugh, and azzi remembered to text, and is trying, again, despite paige’s track record of ignoring her, and. 

paige really, really misses her. 

and she hasn’t exactly made a lick of progress in this whole distancing herself thing, and really, what could one hang out do. it’s not like paige can fall more in love with her.

she waits for what she believes is a respectable, chill, not too eager amount of time– time in which she passes by pacing holes in her floor and trying not to throw herself out the window– and then responds an hour later. 

she can do friends. she can do one game and a hangout and not lose her mind. definitely. 

when paige has grey hairs in five years, she’s billing azzi for the dye treatment.

AN: peace and love <3 as always pretty pretty please tell me how you liked it. i BEG. wait also the title comes from lizzy mcalpine's pushing it down and praying, and it's the line that directly follows I wanna know peace again, wanna sing a different song which I thought was quite fitting. ALSO! the second chapter (the +1) should be out in the next couple of days i just wanted to get this out first don't worry. i will redeem myself from the angst and give you fluff and smut i swear on my life.

[prettydaisygirl]

If possible can we get a part two of the one bed trope with James?

Maybe a smug Sirius when he finds out his plan worked. Maybe even a month after the cabin.

I love your stories so much. You are so talented!!

AND "Hello my love! I am absolutely obsessed with the one bed trope James potter fic you just posted! It’s so lovely :) I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a part two, just the next day where they have a soft, fluffy morning- you know maybe them being a little awkward at first because they’re not sure what to do, but falling into this comfortable intimacy because of the forced proximity? No worries either way but I love your writing!!"

I got two requests for a part two of the one bed trope fic! I'm so glad to see so many of you enjoyed it, I was really proud of it after I struggled with it for a few days haha! I tried to blend these two requests together, and I'm pretty happy with how this turned out. I hope you all enjoy, thanks for requesting <3

(boy)friend!James Potter x fem!reader who get found out ✿ 1.3k words

cw: fem reader, reader and James don't want to admit that Sirius' plan worked, mentions of smut but nothing detailed, Sirius is so dramatic I love him

james potter masterlist

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previous part

This morning was decidedly not going the way you had hoped it would.

It started out good. More than good, you would even say wonderful. You’d woken up with James’ head between your legs, which is quite possibly the best way you can imagine waking up in the morning. You’d cuddled for a while, showered together, and you relished in the feeling of being around your boyfriend. Truthfully, things were new. The two of you have only really been together a few weeks. 

But it doesn’t feel new. It feels like two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly, that were always meant to find one another. Sirius may have pushed you, but there’s a deep knowing in your gut that things would always have turned out this way. A million lifetimes, a million different paths, and you think that you and James Potter would find your way together. 

The morning after your first kiss with James, you’d woken up in his arms in the cabin. 

 Your eyes flutter open, taking in the sight of James Potter’s sleeping face. For a moment, you’re in utter disbelief until you remember the conversation, and the kiss, from the night before. You find your cheeks heating up, and you press yourself closer to him as your heart pounds. His arms wrap tighter around you, like even subconsciously he wants to be closer to you.

You place a gentle kiss on his chin, and he takes in a long breath before his own eyes open. He smiles at you softly, a hand raising to hold your cheek. There’s a moment where both of you just sit comfortably still, looking at each other in the early morning light. Then James lowers his mouth to yours and despite the morning breath it’s the best kiss you’ve ever had. 

When James finally pulls away, you’re sufficiently dizzy and desperate beneath him. He smirks confidently and climbs off of you, holding out a hand for you to take. 

The two of you eat breakfast together, go on a little walk through the woods and enjoy the beauty of nature and solitude. He kisses you again, then, as you slow dance under the trees in the light of the midday sun, and you know you’ll always think of this moment when you hear birds singing.

“We can’t tell Sirius about this,” James whispers to you with a teasing smile on his face. You chuckle, pulling him just a bit closer as the two of you sway.

“No, we cannot.” You agree, your sweet laugh making James’ heart soar. 

The rest of the weekend is much the same. You have sex for the first time, with James whispering how beautiful you are and how much he adores you. You cuddle in front of the fireplace and James falls asleep with his head in your lap as you read him a book. It’s beautiful, everything you could have ever wanted. And you’re not going to tell Sirius.

And so far, neither you or James had managed to let it slip to Sirius, or anyone else, that your relationship had changed so significantly. You didn’t want to hear Sirius’ smug teasing, endure Remus’ knowing looks, or even Peter’s intrusive questions. The two of you just wanted to be you two just for a little bit longer. 

But, of course, secrets can only stay secret for so long. This morning is when things go wrong.

James washes your hair and then kisses you until the water goes cold. He wraps you in a towel, calls you his ‘angel’, and goes downstairs to make breakfast. 

You’ve just finished drying your hair with James’ towel, wearing one of his shirts and your panties, when you hear the front door open and close. You’re not immediately put off, thinking maybe James stepped outside for the paper or something. 

“Oi, Prongs! Why is there a pair of ladies shoes by your door?” Sirius. 

You freeze, looking down at your lack of clothing, the open bedroom door, the obvious evidence of your nights here scattered around James’ home. 

Sirius’ footsteps echo as he moves into the kitchen. You stand, taking the quietest steps you can possibly manage to lean against the bedroom door, listening. 

“Pads, mate, you have to text me when you want to come over. It’s not like we share a bedroom anymore, is it?” Your boyfriend’s voice gives you butterflies, but it only increases your anxiety, overwhelmed by the situation. You grasp the wood of the bedroom door tightly. 

It’s not really a big deal if Sirius finds out, you know eventually everyone will find out. But you weren’t expecting it. You wanted to tell everyone on your own terms. 

“Well, sorry, but I’m here now.” You hear something scrape across the floor, presumably Sirius sitting down at the dining room table. “There’s a pair of women’s shoes by the door, and you’re making pancakes. I’ve interrupted your morning after, haven’t I?” Sirius laughs boisterously and James seems to shush him. 

“Sirius, please-” If James says anything else, you don’t hear it. There’s only a moment of quiet before Sirius’ voice says the worst possible thing imaginable.

“Jamsie,” Sirius’ voice is high and sing-songy, and even though you can’t see him, you know there’s a bright grin on his face, “Is she who I think she is? Did my plan work?”

“So you admit it!” There’s another scraping sound, you guess James sits at the table by Sirius. You decide to move across the bedroom, losing out on some of the conversation while you put your jeans on. 

Fully clothed now, you tiptoe out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Sirius and James are sitting at the table, as you guessed. You and James meet eyes and he shrugs. Sirius sees this, whipping his head around so fast you think he might injure himself.

“Ah-ha! I knew it!” Sirius stands up, clearly proud of himself and his match-making skills, “You don’t have to thank me, just let me plan your wedding!”

“Sirius!” James’ eyes widen and he looks at you apologetically. But, strangely, you don’t feel upset. In fact, you find yourself starting to laugh, and Sirius does too. James looks between the two of you with a furrowed brow before even he can’t help but join in, chuckling and shaking his head. “You can’t just say that.”

“I can say whatever I want because I was right!” Sirius flips his hair over his shoulder dramatically. “I’m thinking ballroom wedding. Fancy for your parents, Jamsie, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” James shakes his head and you take a seat at the table with two of them. He moves closer, brushing a soothing hand over your knee to apologize for Sirius’ intrusion. 

“Really?” You chime in, surprising both of them, “I would imagine you’d want something extravagant, Jamie.” 

“I do! Well, I mean- If… If you want something extravagant, then I do too! I want to show you off…” Sirius watches the interaction with a smirk, obviously taking notes to tease the both of you later. 

You roll your eyes and smile, lightly shoving at James with your hand, though it doesn’t even move him an inch. “We’ve been together for three weeks, James. I don’t know what kind of wedding I want.” 

“Well, you must have some idea-” James’ voice is cut off by the scrape of the chair again, Sirius standing up and putting his hands on his hips. He does a little bow and you roll your eyes again.

“Well, now I have put the idea into your heads. Ponder it,” He smiles giddily, grabs his bag, and begins making his way back to the front door. “I can’t wait to tell Remus about this. He’ll be glad his allergic reaction wasn’t for nothing!”

“Sirius!”

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