#finally got the energy to work on this again

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ don't get it twisted ୨ৎ ( myg. )

✸⠀⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ after their late-night studio hookup, yoongi wakes up still feeling her — under his skin, in his mouth, everywhere. she’s not his, not officially, but she’s everywhere. and when he sees her again at work, dodging his eyes and pretending nothing happened, he starts to realize just how badly he wants more than just her body. when she shows up with food, teasing smiles, and that fucking scent that doesn’t belong to him… it spirals. there’s jealousy, confessions whispered into lips, and a whole lot of filthy, possessive sex that tastes suspiciously like love.

featuring⠀idol!yoongi x producer!f!reader⠀・ themes⠀friends with benefits turned into messy feelings ending in emotional smut fest, heavy tention, angst, smut, fluff ・ wc⠀11.4k⠀・ lu's note⠀part two is finally here and it’s filthy and tender all at the same time. brace yourself, bc this is basically porn with a little bit of plot at the beginning. it took me forever to decide whether to just write this as a quick follow-up or stretch it into two more parts, but honestly? i think i love the way it turned out like this. likes, comments or anything to let me know you’re enjoying the content i make are so very appreciated. so pls pls pls let me know how you liked this follow-up to “too good at pretending.” your support means the world⠀・ navi

warnings⠀・explicit sexual content, oral sex (f + m receiving), unprotected penetrative sex (she's on the pill but still risky behavior), cum play / cum on skin (thighs), cum eating kink, facial / swallowing kink (reader shows him before swallowing), dirty talk, vocal yoongi, praising + slight degradation, public-ish sex (after-hours at hybe), overstimulation, grinding, soft edging, eye contact kink, intense intimacy, possessiveness, jealousy, soft dom!yoongi energy, subtle sub!reader moments (begging, obedience, oral fixation, emotional conflict in the form of "is this still casual?" (spoiler: is not), confessions masked as dirty talk, mutual longing, soft aftercare, gentle teasing, fwb arrangement falling apart in the most delicious way

he wakes up with the taste of her still on his tongue.

the early morning light cuts sharp through the blinds in his apartment, painting pale, angular lines across the rumpled sheets tangled around his legs. it’s quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty, like it’s carrying all the things left unsaid from the night before. yoongi blinks against the brightness, one arm slung over his forehead, already aware that sleep’s long gone.

she’s not in his bed. she never was.

he’s alone, and it’s fine. it’s normal. this is how it works.

but his brain is still playing it all back like a track stuck on loop — the way she whimpered into that blanket, how her hands trembled against his chest, how her voice cracked when she said his name like it meant something. the lace still bunched around her thighs. her hoodie barely covering the flushed skin underneath. the mess she made of him — in more ways than one.

he shifts onto his side with a quiet exhale, staring at nothing, jaw ticking slightly. she’s not yours, he reminds himself. not really. never was. but last night?

last night, she felt like it.

it wasn’t supposed to be like that. not with her half-sprawled over the couch, face pressed to the cushions, sweat cooling against her spine while he held her like something he’d miss in the morning. not with the way her voice got all soft and half-sweet when she mumbled “that’s gonna be hard to top,” and he pretended to roll his eyes even though his chest felt too tight.

yoongi sighs and drags a hand over his face. his phone’s somewhere on the floor, probably dead, and he knows he should get up. shower. check in with the team. respond to emails. exist. but all he can think about is her — how calm she looked when he zipped up his hoodie over her bare skin, how easily she smiled like none of it complicated things.

he gets up eventually. shuffles to the kitchen, makes coffee he doesn’t really want. leans against the counter in just his sweats and scratches at the back of his neck like it’ll do something about the heaviness sitting between his ribs.

it wasn’t just the sex. it never is with her. it’s the way she moves, the quiet moments in between, the way she’s the only person who can pull a fucking laugh out of him when his head’s a mess. she’s loud and chaotic and takes up so much space — and still, he always wants more of her. even when it drives him insane.

he doesn’t know what he expected. that she’d call? text? pretend they didn’t spend half the night wrapped around each other trying to pretend it wasn’t emotional?

maybe.

instead, there’s nothing.

and that’s fine. it’s how they operate. no strings. no promises.

except now she’s everywhere in his head — her voice, her breath, her body, the way she looked back at him with that glassy, wrecked expression like he’d ruined her. like she wanted him to.

he leans over the sink, watching steam curl from the mug in his hand, and exhales slowly.

this is dangerous.

he knows it.

he always did.

but something about last night — the way she let him hold her afterward, the way she curled into him like she trusted him with the quiet — it hit somewhere deeper than it was supposed to.

yoongi presses the mug to his lips and doesn’t drink.

just stares out the window, wondering if she’s awake.

wondering if she’s thinking about him too.

probably not.

she’s got deadlines. demos. an inbox full of producers waiting to work with her. he’s just the guy who showed up when she was stressed. who made her come so hard she couldn’t speak. who left handprints on her hips and walked out like it didn’t change everything.

he should shake it off. he will.

eventually.

he finds his phone under the edge of the bed after returning to the room, face-down and clinging to life with 7% battery. the screen lights up with a soft buzz as it registers movement, a handful of unread messages — none of them from her. he tells himself that’s a good thing. a relief. means they’re both on the same page. detached. unaffected. not thinking about the way her voice cracked when she came apart in his hands.

his thumb hovers over her contact anyway. he doesn’t even have her saved under her name — just a nickname from a stupid inside joke they made when she first started working at the label, something only she would understand. something that feels a little too fond now.

what would he even say?

“how’s the mix coming along?” “good seeing you last night.” “you okay?”

no. too obvious. too boyfriend.

and yoongi — god, he’s not her boyfriend. not even close. he’s the guy she calls when she needs to let go. when her brain’s too loud and her body’s too tense and she needs someone who won’t ask questions. he’s the guy who knows what kind of wine she likes but not who she was before she came to seoul. he’s the guy who kisses her like he means it but never stays past 3am.

except he did stay. last night. or at least long enough to make it complicated.

he locks the phone screen with a sigh and tosses it onto the bed.

his hand runs through his hair as he stands in the hallway, eyes unfocused, still half-stuck in memory. she had her hoodie halfway on, hair a tangled mess, skin flushed, panties ruined. she was leaning over the couch, eyes glassy, mouth open — her fingers clutching the cushion like she was holding on for dear life. he was buried in her, hips snapping forward, sweat dripping down his neck, and she was looking back at him like she fucking owned him.

and maybe she did. maybe she still does.

yoongi huffs out a breath through his nose and heads toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to fuck’s sake. the moment the cold water hits his skin, it shocks his system, draws a sharp inhale from between clenched teeth — but it’s better than the alternative.

because his dick? yeah. still hard. again.

it’s been like this since the friends with benefits deal started — this recurring morning wood that feels more like a symptom of her than anything physiological. it’s her voice in his ear. her hands under his shirt. her scent still lingering on his fingers hours later. it’s her.

and sure, yeah, he could jerk off. he has. he does. but it never hits the same. because his body doesn’t just want release — it wants her. her warmth. her weight. her voice when she says his name like it’s a secret.

he stands under the water longer than he needs to, hands braced against the tile, jaw clenched like he’s trying to ground himself in anything but the feel of her nails dragging down his spine. pathetic, he thinks. this isn’t what you signed up for.

but it’s already too late.

because yoongi — quiet, guarded, impossibly private yoongi — is starting to want things. dangerous things. like the sound of her laugh when she’s tired. like the way she hums when she’s deep into a track. like waking up to her beside him instead of a memory.

he shuts off the water, the silence hitting heavy around him again.

maybe she’s not thinking about him at all. maybe she’s already buried in her work, earbuds in, sipping iced coffee and dissecting vocal layers like last night never happened. like she didn’t fall apart on his lap, whispering yes against his mouth like it wasn’t just about the high.

he dries off in silence, towel slung low on his hips, steam still curling in the mirror.

he won’t text her. not yet.

he’ll wait. he always does.besides — she’s not his.

he’s just the one who keeps pretending that doesn’t hurt.

yoongi sees her before she sees him.

he’s walking down the hall on autopilot, barely paying attention to anything around him — not the interns rushing past, not the sound of muffled bass leaking out of a rehearsal room down the corridor, not the endless buzz of HYBE in its usual quiet chaos. but the second his eyes catch on her frame — leaned slightly against the wall outside one of the smaller editing suites — his body tenses like it knows. like it’s already reacting before his brain can fully catch up.

and she looks… different.

not bad. never that. but off. not in the way her hoodie hangs half-off one shoulder, or in how her sweatpants are cuffed unevenly like she dressed in a rush. no — it���s something in her face. her posture. the way her arms are crossed too tightly over her chest, phone clutched in one hand like she forgot she was even holding it. she’s not scrolling. not listening to anything. just… standing there.

thinking. spiraling, maybe. exactly like he was this morning.

yoongi slows his pace, considers walking past like he didn’t see her, like he’s busy or distracted or actually trying to stick to the five things he said he needed to get done today. but then she shifts — leans her head back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed for just a second — and the urge to go to her overrides whatever pride he has left.

he clears his throat gently as he approaches, hands stuffed in his pockets, expression calm. detached. casual.

don’t act weird. don’t ask anything you don’t want the answer to.

“yo.” his voice comes out low and steady, like he hadn’t spent all morning overthinking her moans. “you alive?”

her eyes snap open, and for a split second — just one beat — he sees it.

the flicker of panic, or maybe surprise, something unguarded in her face before she pastes on a quick, sheepish smile.

“barely,” she says, shifting her weight, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “you know how it is. deadlines, caffeine dependency, existential dread.”

yoongi lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, but he doesn’t miss the way she fidgets — the way she avoids looking directly at him at first, eyes darting back to her phone even though it hasn’t lit up once.

he doesn’t ask. doesn’t press. but he notices.

and that alone is enough to twist something tight in his chest.

“you waiting on a studio?” he asks instead, nodding toward the door beside her.

she shrugs. “yeah. i think there’s a mixing session still going on. should be out any minute.”

a pause stretches between them — not awkward exactly, but not easy either. and yoongi hates that. hates how he can feel the difference, how something unspoken hangs between them like a draft neither of them wants to acknowledge.

but then — just like that — she softens.

maybe it’s the way he’s watching her. maybe it’s the way his tone never changes, never pushes. or maybe she just missed him too.

because she lets out a quiet breath, eyes finally meeting his, and says, “by the way… you still owe me for the trauma of almost getting caught by some poor intern last night.”

yoongi blinks, caught off guard for a second — then he huffs a soft laugh through his nose.

“you mean you owe me,” he counters, tilting his head slightly. “i had to walk out with your fingerprints all over me. i looked like i’d been jumped by a very determined groupie.”

she bites back a grin, eyes twinkling just a little. there she is.

“well,” she says, voice lilting now, flirtation curling at the edges of her words, “i am pretty determined.”

yoongi raises an eyebrow at that, his smirk sharp but slow, blooming like smoke across his face. his heart’s doing something annoying in his chest, but he plays it cool, lets the silence settle a beat before he leans in just slightly — not too close, but enough to make her breathe a little slower.

“yeah?” he murmurs, eyes flicking from her lips back up. “i noticed.”

she looks away, laughing under her breath, and it’s subtle, it’s small — but it’s there. that shift. the thaw. her arms uncross, her body leans just a fraction closer to his without realizing.

and yoongi — well. he still doesn’t know what’s going on with her. why she was so dodgy at first. why her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes until just now.

but he knows this:

whatever she’s avoiding, it’s not him.

not yet.

and for now, that’s enough to make him stay a little longer.

yoongi leans his shoulder against the wall beside her, his posture easy but his eyes anything but. he’s studying her — not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but she’s never really needed the full weight of his stare to feel it. it’s in the way he turns slightly toward her, how his fingers drum lightly against his thigh like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he shouldn’t. he glances down the hallway, then back at her, voice smooth, unbothered.

“you end up doing anything with the track?”

she pauses. and he notices that, too — the half-second delay before she answers. like she’s sorting through all the possible ways to respond before landing on the one that gives away the least.

“uh…” she exhales a small laugh, tilting her head. “not really. i was kinda distracted yesterday.” her mouth twitches like she might smile, but she doesn’t let it land fully. “haven’t had the time to change anything else.”

yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips twitching just slightly. “distracted, huh?”

she shoots him a side glance — quick, but not defensive — the kind of look that says don’t start. but her cheeks give her away, that faint flush just beneath her skin that she pretends doesn’t exist. she shifts again, now more relaxed, fingers brushing through her hair like she’s trying to give her hands something to do.

“yeah, you know,” she says, voice a little too casual. “just… things.”

yoongi hums. it’s low, amused, maybe just a little smug. he can still hear her voice in his head — soft and breathless, whispering yes, right there like it was meant only for him. the idea that she couldn’t finish the track because she was too busy falling apart in his lap makes something dark and satisfied curl in his gut.

but he doesn’t push it.

not directly, anyway.

“well,” he says, glancing at the closed door beside them like it owes him an answer, “let me know if you need help finishing it. i’ve got a few... ideas.”

the way he says ideas — slow, a little rough, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth — it’s not exactly appropriate for a hallway conversation. but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t roll her eyes or walk away or pretend she doesn’t know what he’s implying.

instead, she presses her lips together, like she’s fighting a grin, and leans just slightly closer.

“do your ideas come with another fire hazard warning?” she asks, tilting her head like she’s teasing — but her voice is lower now, softer, the flirtation deliberately buried beneath layers of fake innocence. “because that couch might still be drying, min yoongi.”

yoongi exhales a laugh, not loud, but real. it catches him off guard a little, how easily she can do that — drag him out of his head, make him forget he spent the morning trying not to miss her.

you’re not supposed to miss her, he reminds himself again. this isn’t that kind of thing.

but it’s hard to remember that when she looks up at him with those eyes, when she says shit like that with a straight face, when she acts like she’s not dragging him deeper into something they never named.

and still — he doesn’t say anything else.

not about the night before.

not about how quiet she looked when he found her.

not about how good it feels to make her laugh.

he just pushes off the wall, hands back in his pockets, head tilting slightly.

“just saying,” he murmurs, eyes still on her, “you could probably sample some of those sounds you made. turn it into a synth line or something.”

she scoffs, but it’s breathless — and her smile this time? yeah. it lands.and yoongi walks away with the ghost of it still clinging to him.

yoongi’s studio is cold when he steps in — not in temperature, but in that still, slightly hollow kind of way that lingers when it’s been empty too long. the air’s stale from last night, a faint echo of synths still ringing in the silence. he doesn’t bother turning on the main lights. the blue LEDs lining his monitors are enough, casting the room in that familiar low glow that always made it feel like a world apart. separate from reality. quiet enough to breathe in.

he drops into his chair with a sigh, spinning slowly once before leaning forward, elbows on the desk. the song on the screen isn’t new. not even close. it’s one he started months ago, maybe longer — moody and slow and layered with too many half-formed ideas. it’s got no destination, just a vibe. it reminds him of rainy nights and restless fingers and things left unsaid. basically, it reminds him of her.

he doesn’t say that out loud, of course. wouldn’t even say it to himself if it weren’t already a fact clawing at the edge of his thoughts.

he queues the project up anyway and starts fine-tuning a few synth patches. adjusts the EQ. nudges a vocal sample an eighth note forward. it’s all mechanical, methodical — a distraction. a half-hearted one.

and then the door opens with a soft knock that’s already halfway pushed open, because only one person enters like that.

“yo,” hoseok calls, his voice the same warm, light tone it always is — like sunshine pouring into a dim room. “you alive in here?”

yoongi barely glances back. “physically.”

hoseok lets out a chuckle and steps inside, already dropping into the second chair like he owns it. his hair’s messy, face fresh, dressed down in sweats and a too-expensive hoodie that only looks effortless. days like this — in between releases, tour planning still months off — they get to breathe. kind of. stretch their limbs, catch up, check in on old projects and worse habits.

“working on anything new?” hoseok asks, peering at the screen.

yoongi shrugs, clicking aimlessly through the stems. “just polishing old shit.”

“gonna release it?”

yoongi hums. “probably not. just… filling space.”

hoseok’s quiet for a moment, just watching him. the air shifts slightly — not tense, not heavy, but perceptive. yoongi knows that silence. knows hoseok’s thinking something but giving him time to get there first.

he doesn’t. so hoseok does it for him.

“so… you and (y/n), huh?”

yoongi pauses. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look over. just drags the waveform a little to the left and hits play.

a low synth hums through the room, heavy with bass. atmospheric. slow burn. just like him.

“what about us?”

“don’t play dumb, hyung. i saw you two in the hallway earlier. i’ve heard you two. you think walls here are soundproof? please.”

yoongi exhales through his nose, lips twitching. “should’ve worn headphones.”

“should’ve kept it in your pants,” hoseok says, grinning.

that earns a full laugh — low and brief, but real — and yoongi leans back, finally meeting his eyes.

“it’s not like that,” he says.

“yeah?” hoseok quirks an eyebrow. “looked a lot like something.”

yoongi goes quiet again, eyes flicking back to the screen. the waveform’s looping now, the beat repeating every few seconds. he doesn’t hear it.

he hears her.

“yeah, well… i was kinda distracted yesterday.”

he presses his thumb into his lower lip, jaw tight.

“it’s complicated.”

hoseok nods slowly, more serious now. “you like her.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

yoongi doesn’t answer. because he does. more than he wants to admit. and it’s not just the sex. it’s her voice in the booth. the way she fights for her mixes. the way she can go from shouting across the room to whispering something filthy against his throat in the span of ten minutes. it’s how she always makes things harder — and somehow easier, too.

“you’re not exactly good at hiding shit,” hoseok says after a beat. “not with her. you look at her like… like you’re trying not to fall in love and failing miserably.”

yoongi’s heart lurches, but his face doesn’t move.

“and what if i am?”

hoseok shrugs. “then maybe stop pretending it’s casual before she walks away for real.”

that gets him.

yoongi swallows thickly and doesn’t answer.

just stares at the screen again.

like the waveform might give him a reason to do something before it’s too late.

the music’s long stopped, but he’s still sitting there — hunched slightly in his chair, eyes fixed on the screen like it’ll offer up an answer he hasn’t already dissected a thousand different ways in his head. the studio has sunk into that kind of deep stillness only late hours can create. no voices in the halls. no random knocks. even the building’s subtle mechanical hum feels distant, dulled under the weight of everything he isn’t saying.

yoongi doesn’t realize how much time has passed until his stomach lets out a low, sharp growl that physically pulls him out of his spiral. it echoes in the silence, ridiculous and needy, and he exhales a dry laugh through his nose, rubbing his face with both hands. fuck. how long has it been? eight hours? ten?

he glances at the time and winces. of course.

he pushes back from the desk slowly, spine stiff, legs numb from being curled under him too long. everything feels a little off-kilter — his body, his thoughts, even the way the air sits in the room. it’s like time’s been suspended in here, and the second he steps out that door, it’s going to catch up to him all at once.

his stomach growls again and he grumbles under his breath, rummaging half-heartedly through the snack drawer he always forgets to restock. nothing decent. just a crushed protein bar and gum that’s long expired. he considers ordering food, but even that feels like a decision he’s not ready to make. like his brain’s too preoccupied chewing on something else.

hoseok’s words won’t stop looping.

“you look at her like… like you’re trying not to fall in love and failing miserably.”

he thinks about the way she looked in that hallway earlier. how she tried not to meet his eyes at first. how her voice dipped low when she flirted. how her smile faltered for half a second when she thought he wasn’t looking. and he thinks about the night before — how natural it felt to be around her, even when her moans were echoing off the studio walls. even when he was saying shit he wouldn’t say to anyone else. even when he kissed her hair like he meant it.

because he did. and he’s not sure how long he’s been meaning it, but now that he’s realized it, there’s no unknowing it.

yoongi leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the floor but not really seeing it. would it really be that bad if he wanted something for himself, just this once? if he stopped pretending that whatever the fuck is happening between him and her isn’t turning into something real?

it’s a dangerous question. he knows the answer already. it’s yes. it’s always yes.

because this thing they’ve got? it was built on boundaries they both agreed to. no labels. no expectations. just fun, she had said, eyes lit and smile mischievous the night it started. and he had nodded, quick to agree. because why the hell would someone like her — loud and electric and alive in all the places he’s muted — ever want someone like him?

but still. there are moments. fleeting ones. like the way she lingers after they fuck, half-tucked against him, eyes glassy and unreadable. or how she always plays him the real version of her demos, even the unfinished ones. or the time she reached for his hand in a crowded elevator and didn’t let go until they hit the lobby.

yoongi drags a hand through his hair and lets out a low, frustrated sound.

she’s not in love with you, he tells himself. she would’ve said something by now. ended it. laughed in your face.

except… maybe she wouldn’t. maybe she’s just as scared of ruining it as he is.

and suddenly everything starts to feel confusing. like the lines are blurring faster than either of them can keep up with. like they’ve both been balancing on a wire stretched too thin, pretending not to look down.

he swallows, throat dry. maybe it’s the hunger. maybe it’s the exhaustion. or maybe he’s finally just sick of lying to himself. but right now — in this empty room, with his heart pounding harder than it should — all he can think is:

what if i already lost her and didn’t even realize it?

and worse —

what if i haven’t lost her yet, but i will… if i don’t do something soon?

he grabs his phone. his fingers hesitate over her name again.

but this time — this time, maybe he doesn’t want to wait.

the knock is soft at first — more of a tap, really — but in the silence of the studio, it sounds almost like thunder. yoongi’s head lifts, eyebrows tugging together, not expecting anyone this late. he sets his phone down, heart in his throat for no good reason, and crosses the studio in slow, measured steps. when he opens the door, it takes everything in him not to let that sharp, startled smile break too wide across his face.

she’s standing there, hoodie zipped up halfway, a takeout bag dangling from one hand, and that familiar, irritatingly smug smirk playing on her lips like she already knows what he’s thinking.

“look at you,” she says, brushing past him before he can even get a word out, “alive but barely, i assume.”

he doesn’t stop her — never does — just closes the door and watches as she makes herself at home like always. she drops the bag on the tiny coffee table he’s never used for actual coffee and then turns to face him, hands on her hips.

“you didn’t answer your texts, you haven’t eaten, and you look like you’ve been brooding about god-knows-what for at least eight hours straight. so,” she says, lifting the bag with a flourish, “your savior has arrived. congratulations. your digestive system won’t fail you today.”

yoongi lets out a laugh, low and genuine, dragging a hand over his face as he moves to join her. “you’re so dramatic.”

“and you’re one stomach cramp away from passing out,” she shoots back, already unpacking the containers. “i should start charging you for emotional labor.”

he raises an eyebrow. “this is emotional labor?”

“you have the social awareness of a houseplant,” she says, grinning. “yes. it is.”

they settle onto the floor, knees bumping as they sit side by side in that unintentional kind of closeness that always seems to happen between them. like no matter how big the room is, they always end up in each other’s orbit. he watches her unbox his favorite dish without needing to ask what he wants — like she knows. like she’s wired to know.

and for a moment, it’s easy. too easy. the jokes, the way their arms graze, the way her voice softens a little when she hands him chopsticks. it should be mundane, but it isn’t. it never is with her.

but then it hits him.

a scent — subtle but undeniable. something unfamiliar. it cuts through the usual notes of soy and ginger and her shampoo, and it’s not hers. it’s cologne. a man’s.

yoongi goes still for a second, eyes narrowing just slightly as he breathes it in again, trying not to overreact but already spiraling. it’s not strong, but it clings to her — on the sleeve of her hoodie, near her neck. and it’s not his.

she doesn’t miss the way he stiffens. she never misses anything about him. her eyes flick to his face, then down to her own clothes like she already knows what he’s picked up on.

“oh — that?” she says, nudging his knee gently with hers, tone light but cautious. “it’s not what you think.”

he looks at her, expression unreadable, but the jealousy’s already burning somewhere low and sharp inside him, like a slow boil he doesn’t know what to do with.

“been working with yeonjun,” she continues, fingers playing with the edge of the takeout lid. “on one of the tracks i told you about. you know how he is. touchy, all over the place, dramatic as hell. hugged me like four times in an hour and spilled coffee on my hoodie, so i borrowed one of his. it’s nothing.”

she’s watching him now — carefully. like she’s waiting for a verdict. like she’s not entirely sure he believes her.

yoongi doesn’t say anything at first. he looks down at the food in front of him, then at the edge of the sleeve she’s tugging at absentmindedly. it’s stupid. he knows it. it’s ridiculous how fast the thought of her with someone else can unravel him.

but still — that voice in his head won’t shut up.

you’re not her boyfriend. you don’t get to care.

except he does. even if he shouldn’t. even if it hurts.

“he’s loud,” yoongi mutters finally, picking at the edge of the takeout container. “and he wears too much cologne.”

her lips twitch, just a little. “yeah,” she says. “i like yours better.”

he looks up then, eyes catching hers in that heavy, too-long way they always do when things start to slip between the cracks. she’s smiling, but her gaze is steady. honest. and maybe a little nervous.

she nudges his knee again.

“don’t get weird about it.”

yoongi exhales slowly, something unspoken loosening in his chest.

“not weird,” he says, voice soft. “just hungry.”

but they both know what he really means.

they eat mostly in silence, the kind that isn’t awkward — more like lived-in quiet, something gentle that exists between people who know each other too well to need constant talking. the food is warm, comforting, grounding in a way that makes the chaos in yoongi’s head slow to a manageable hum. for a while, the only sounds are the rustle of containers, the soft clink of chopsticks, and the occasional, lazy sip from shared soda cans.

she’s cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pushed up, her wrist brushing against his every time she reaches for something near the middle. she’s focused, for the most part, but her eyes keep flicking toward him — little glances that say she’s thinking something, maybe a lot of things, but doesn’t know how to start saying them.

yoongi’s sitting back against the couch now, long legs stretched out, one arm resting across the seat cushions behind him. he’s not touching her, technically — but it would take the slightest movement for his fingers to find her shoulder, or her hair, or her hoodie collar. and he’s watching her, openly, a lazy half-smile playing on his lips that he doesn’t bother hiding. because she said something stupid. ridiculous, really. something about how the drums in her demo sounded like “a washing machine having a panic attack” and how she was going to “maybe rebrand as an experimental laundromat composer.”

“what the fuck does that even mean?” he asks, still grinning.

“don’t act like you wouldn’t stream it,” she says, chewing the last bite of dumpling. “i know your niche little taste.”

he scoffs lightly. “i’d stream it just to clown on you in the comments.”

“exactly,” she says, pointing a chopstick at him like she’s proved a point. “engagement.”

he snorts, shakes his head, leans a little heavier against the couch. “so the demo?”

she shrugs, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “i mean... it’s still a mess. but kind of a beautiful one? i think i needed last night, actually. i was stuck. in my head. needed to… get out of it.”

he hums at that, a quiet acknowledgment, but his eyes flick away for a second. because yeah, she did get out of it. she got under him, over him, and inside his fucking brain. and now they’re here again, sitting close, joking like nothing about it cracked anything open. but it did. he knows it. and maybe — maybe she does too.

he opens his mouth to say something — maybe another joke, maybe something a little more honest — but he never gets the chance.

she kisses him.

not in that frantic, breathless way that usually comes after too much tension and too little distance. not the way she does when she’s climbing into his lap or tugging at his hoodie, all teeth and heat. this is... different.

it’s soft. casual, almost. like a pause in a conversation, like punctuation. like she just wanted to shut him up for a second — or maybe just needed to feel him without all the buildup.

her lips press gently against his, warm and slow. her hand settles on his thigh, thumb brushing absently against the fabric of his sweats, not suggestive, not teasing — just there. grounding. familiar. and it catches him off guard because there’s no real hunger in it, not yet. just intimacy. quiet affection disguised as a throwaway moment.

he doesn’t move, not right away. just lets it happen. lets her kiss him like it’s normal. like it means nothing. like it means everything.

when she pulls back, barely, her face hovers close — her breath still mingling with his. her fingers still resting on his leg. and for a second, neither of them says anything.

yoongi just looks at her, the smile slow to return this time, eyes soft and half-lidded.

“that was random,” he murmurs.

she shrugs like it’s nothing, like her heart isn’t beating out of her chest. “you looked too smug. it was annoying.”

he chuckles, eyes still on her lips. “sure.”

“don’t get ideas,” she adds, reaching for another dumpling like she didn’t just change the temperature of the whole room.

but he does.

he has.

and now he’s stuck with them.

she's licking soy sauce off her thumb when she asks, too casually, “do you have plans when you go home?”

yoongi’s mid-chew, eyes flicking up at her like he’s trying to decide whether she’s joking or baiting him — both, probably. always both with her. he swallows slowly, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and leans back again against the couch, stretching out like a cat settling into warm sun. his arm slides higher along the cushion, closer to her shoulder now, and he smirks, head tilted just slightly.

“you know it’s late, right?”

she shrugs, unbothered, lips twitching as she looks sideways at him. “best things happen when it’s late,” she says. “yesterday’s a good example.”

the words hit like a loaded trigger, pulling a visible shift in the air between them. the quiet settles differently now — thicker, slower. her voice has that edge again, that deliberate softness that sounds like innocence but hides all kinds of trouble beneath it. and yoongi? yeah, he’s already moving closer.

he props one elbow on the back of the couch now, turning fully toward her. his knees bend just a little, thighs open. the way he looks at her is heavy, something simmering behind his lashes as a slow grin stretches across his face — a smile that says i know what you're doing. and i’m not stopping you.

“so what,” he says, voice roughening just a notch, “you bring me dinner, make me laugh a little, kiss me like that, and now i’m just supposed to fuck you again?”

she giggles — that little gasp-hiccup sound she only makes when she’s been caught red-handed but still refuses to play innocent. her eyes flick down to his mouth, her hand trailing back to rest on his thigh again, fingertips just barely digging in through the fabric of his sweats. she’s not answering. doesn’t have to.

yoongi leans in — lips ghosting just over her cheek, the shell of her ear — close enough to make her skin prickle.

“you get needy when the sun goes down, huh?” he murmurs, breath hot. “always showing up with excuses. food. fake concern. pretending you’re here to babysit me when you know damn well you just want me to lay you out again.”

her breath hitches, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

his mouth finds hers again, but this time there’s no hesitation — none of that soft in-between from earlier. it’s hungrier now, like they’re picking up where they left off last night. like he’s been thinking about this since he watched her walk away, sweat-stained and glowing and satisfied. his hand moves instinctively, resting on her hip, thumb dragging just under the hem of her hoodie, lazy and unhurried.

he breaks the kiss to murmur against her lips, “you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

her eyes flutter, but she nods, biting her bottom lip just to keep from moaning at how good his voice sounds when it dips like that — low and secret, like a promise.

“what part are you stuck on?” he asks, eyes heavy, his free hand now dragging up her thigh with just enough pressure to make her shift. “me pulling your hair? or when you came all over my fingers before i even got inside you?”

she exhales hard, laughing through it, but she’s flushed now, knees turned inward like she’s trying to contain the heat blooming low in her belly. it’s no use. he already knows. he can read her like a language he’s memorized in every form.

he kisses her again, slower this time, then pulls back just enough to whisper:

“say please, baby. i’m still full from dinner — but if you ask real nice... maybe i’ll still have you for dessert.”

and just like that —

yoongi’s night is no longer his.

it’s hers. always has been.

“please,” she breathes, voice smaller than before — not playful, not sarcastic. real. the kind of soft that only surfaces when the guard drops, when want curls up from her belly and takes the reins of her mouth. “yoongi, please. i’ve been thinking about you all day… couldn’t stop. couldn’t—” she exhales, eyes fluttering, “i can’t wait anymore.”

and that—god, that—does something to him.

yoongi’s breath stutters, his fingers tightening where they rest on her thigh. there’s a fire building slow and low in his stomach, the kind that doesn’t rush — the kind that simmers, burns, because it’s not just about lust. it’s about the way she looks at him when she says things like that. like he’s the only one who’s ever been able to pull her apart in just the right way. like she needs him to be the one to get her there, every time. like she’s already unraveling from the idea alone.

he shifts as she climbs between his legs, her hands working slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact — her gaze warm, serious, a little bit mischievous. she presses a kiss to his jaw first, featherlight, then down to his throat, her lips brushing his pulse point.

“you always take care of me,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “let me take care of you.”

yoongi groans low in his chest, head dropping back against the couch with a dull thud, already undone by the idea before she’s even touched him. his hoodie bunches slightly as she tugs at the hem of his shirt, her fingers grazing over his skin in teasing strokes. she moves lower, slower — kisses trailing down like breadcrumbs, soft and hot, until she settles where he needs her most.

and then—

then, her mouth is on him, slow and warm and devastating, like she’s trying to memorize the taste of him. like she’s saying thank you with every breath, every drag of her tongue. she wraps one hand around the base of him, the other braced lightly on his thigh, grounding herself as she works. the sounds she makes are quiet, eager, reverent. she takes her time. she wants to. because yoongi’s always been so careful with her — always patient, always knowing exactly how to touch her, how to ruin her in all the right ways.

and now it’s her turn.

yoongi’s hands bury in her hair, not rough — more like he’s anchoring himself. his lips part around a curse he doesn’t finish, his whole body going taut with restraint. because she knows what she’s doing, knows exactly how to undo him. and she does it with intention. with purpose.

with care.

and maybe that’s what breaks him most —

not the pleasure, not the heat, not the slick sounds and the pressure building too fast to hold —

but the fact that it means something.

even when they’re pretending it doesn’t.

his fingers slide through her hair, gentle at first — reverent, almost — before curling tighter at the nape of her neck. he brushes the strands back from her face so he can see her, the way her lips stretch around him, eyes glossy and half-lidded, her cheeks flushed with heat and want. she looks wrecked already, mouth full of him, but still so fucking pretty it almost hurts.

yoongi bites down on a groan, hips twitching the slightest bit, restraint clawing at every muscle in his body. fuck, she looks good like this. like she belongs there, between his legs, sinking deeper into whatever quiet madness they’ve been building for months.

“look at you,” he mutters, voice a slow drag of smoke, deep and rough in the back of his throat. “fuck, baby… always so eager for it.”

her eyes flick up at him, and that’s when he knows—knows—she’s loving this just as much. he can feel it in the way she shifts, subtly squeezing her thighs together, in the soft, messy sounds she’s making around him. muffled whimpers that melt against his skin. she’s getting off on it. on the way he talks to her. on the way she knows he’s watching every movement, every hollow of her cheeks, every trembling inhale.

“you like being my good girl, huh?” he breathes, thumb grazing her jaw, the corner of her lips as she bobs her head slowly. “bet you’re soaked already. fuck—are you?”

she whines low in her throat, the sound vibrating through him, and yoongi’s eyes flutter closed for a second, overwhelmed. he’s not gonna last if she keeps making noises like that. but god, he loves it. he loves knowing she needs the filth just as much as the touch. that she’s getting wet just from his voice, from the weight of his hands in her hair, from the control he gives and takes in the same breath.

“wish you could see yourself,” he grits out, voice low and hungry. “so fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth. like you were made for it.”

her rhythm falters slightly, a soft shiver coursing through her as she presses closer, takes him deeper — because of what he said. and yoongi groans again, the sound ragged now, falling apart.

“yeah… that’s it. just like that, baby. just like that.”

and somewhere deep in his chest, it twists — not just lust but something else, something more dangerous. something that says this is more than what we said it would be.

but he doesn’t say that.

he just watches her fall apart for him, mouth full, eyes glazed, and knows —

she’s his.

even if neither of them has dared to say it yet.

she doesn’t move right away when he finishes — just stays there for a moment, breathing through her nose, eyelashes trembling, lips parted around him like she’s trying to leave a mark that’s more than just physical. and when she does finally pull back, it’s slow, teasing, her tongue dragging along the head of him like she’s savoring the last taste.

then she looks up — really looks up — and opens her mouth slightly, showing him what he gave her, a wicked little smile curling at the corners of her lips before she swallows without breaking eye contact.

it’s filthy. it’s devastating. it’s so her.

yoongi feels his whole body jolt at the sight, like the tension that’s been coiling up inside him has found a new place to spark. he lets out a rough, breathless laugh — low and disbelieving — before pulling her up by the jaw, not roughly but with a kind of urgency that surprises even him.

he kisses her. hard.

no hesitation, no space between them. he kisses her like he wants to memorize the taste on her tongue. like he wants to remind her that it’s not just about what she did, but how she did it — the way she gave it to him, the way she always does, without asking for anything back but still deserving everything.

and he gives it.

his hands are already sliding beneath her hoodie, palms warm and greedy against her back. the fabric rides up as she shifts closer, climbing into his lap without a word. he doesn’t ask — he doesn’t need to. she’s already moving how he wants her, like she knows. like she feels it.

he tugs the hoodie over her head in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere behind them, forgotten. her bra’s simple — soft black cotton, no lace, no shine — but fuck, it fits her perfectly. the kind of thing that isn’t made to seduce but ends up doing exactly that anyway.

his hands pause for a second. he just… looks.

she’s straddling him, bare above the waist except for that small piece of fabric, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. her fingers are in his hair now, slow, thoughtful, threading at the roots like she’s not sure if she wants to ground herself or pull him closer.

and her eyes — they’re searching his face. not teasing, not playful. serious. soft. like she’s trying to memorize him too.

yoongi swallows thickly, his hands sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing just beneath the underwire.

“you’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, quiet, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

she doesn’t say anything. doesn’t have to.

the way she leans in to kiss him again, slower this time — deeper — says it all.

yoongi’s hands are all over her now — slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to map her body from memory even though he already knows it better than his own. he palms the curve of her ass through her sweats, fingers spreading, squeezing, grounding her onto his lap. her body responds instantly, instinctively — hips rolling once, twice, like her muscles remember the rhythm before her mind can catch up.

he groans into her mouth when she does it again, this soft grind that presses her right against where he’s growing hard all over again. his fingers dip lower, sneaking beneath the waistband of her sweats, and it’s like she melts right into his hands. like her body wants to be held there.

"fuck," he mutters into her mouth, "you know what you do to me, don’t you?"

she breathes a shaky little laugh, forehead pressed to his, her hands still in his hair, nails grazing his scalp just right. “you sound surprised.”

he doesn’t answer — not out loud. instead, he helps her shift back just enough for him to start tugging her sweats down. she lifts herself slightly, letting him ease them over her hips, down her thighs. her underwear’s a delicate scrap of fabric, damp and clinging and completely in his way. he doesn’t waste time — peels them off with a practiced ease, sliding both pieces down her legs, letting them get tangled around one ankle like they always do when they get too impatient to bother properly.

she sits back on his lap, now bare from the waist down, still in that soft black bra, and he exhales hard through his nose — not even trying to hide the way his eyes drag down her body.

“jesus, you’re—” he starts, then just groans, pulling her into him again like he needs her closer, like even skin to skin isn’t enough.

he kisses her deep — messier now, open-mouthed, hungry. one hand cups the back of her neck while the other returns to her ass, squeezing hard as he rocks her against him, making her gasp into his mouth.

it’s not rushed. it’s not frantic. it’s just them — steady and knowing and hot with everything they haven’t said yet.

and god, he could lose himself in it.

maybe he already is.

their bodies are flushed, sweat starting to gather in the small spaces where skin meets skin — under her thighs, his hands gripping the back of them, her chest pressed to his, her breath warm against his jaw. she’s moving in slow circles on his lap, bare and wet and leaving a mess on him, that slick, sticky evidence of how much she wants him — how long she’s wanted him.

yoongi can’t stop watching her face.

she’s breathing heavy, lips parted, eyes locked on his like she’s balancing between control and surrender. and she’s doing this thing — this fucking thing — where she grinds just right and then pulls back the second he thinks he might slide into her. the tip of him keeps slipping through her folds, catching for a second, teasing that sweet ache of friction, and then she rolls her hips up and away again, dragging a whimper from both of them.

“you’re playing a dangerous game,” he grits out, voice dark, jaw tense.

her nails trail up his shoulders, one hand slipping around the back of his neck, the other flat on his chest, steadying herself. she leans in close, close enough that her lips brush his, her breath shaky. “i want you to need me,” she whispers, barely audible. “like i do.”

and that sentence? that one sentence nearly undoes him. because fuck does he.

he's needed her in every version she’s shown him — loud and teasing, quiet and wrecked, undone in his hands or breaking him apart with just a glance. he’s needed her since the first time she kissed him and acted like it didn’t mean anything.

his hands move instinctively — one sliding up her back, the other unclasping her bra like he’s done it a hundred times before (because he has). he tosses it aside without looking, eyes never leaving hers.

and then he kisses her again.

not like before — not teasing, not playful. this kiss hurts. it’s full of things neither of them are brave enough to say. it’s heavy with the weight of all the feelings they’ve kept buried under sweat and moans and half-laughed excuses.

his tongue slides against hers, and she gasps, moving faster now, grinding harder. he grabs her hips and guides her, dragging her down against him, and they both groan — heads tipping back for a second before they look at each other again.

and fuck, the eye contact. it’s too much.

their foreheads touch, noses brushing, panting into each other’s mouths. they’re so close to breaking. so close to letting it all spill out.

but neither says it.

not yet.

not out loud.

so instead, they stay here — teetering on the edge, breathless and desperate, wrapped in each other’s silence.

pretending it’s still just physical.

pretending they’re not both already in too deep.

her fingers wrap around him, slow and sure, and it’s like the room holds its breath.

yoongi’s chest stutters as she lines him up, her forehead pressing to his, and for a second they’re still — just breathing, both of them trembling with restraint. she doesn’t look at his face. not right away. her eyes are locked down, staring between them, watching how he disappears into her inch by inch, slick and hot and so fucking close it sends a shudder through her entire body.

her brows twitch upward in a soft, desperate kind of pain — not from discomfort, but from overwhelm. her mouth falls open around a quiet, strangled sound, something raw and completely real that slips out before she can stop it. it’s not the first time he’s been inside her — not even close — but something about this time feels different. maybe it’s the silence. the eye contact. the tension they've been choking on for weeks. months. maybe it’s the way neither of them’s bothering to pretend anymore.

because she’s shaking, and he’s gripping her hips like a lifeline, and then—

then she says it.

“i don’t want anyone else to have you like this,” she whispers, voice thin and cracking at the edges. her breath ghosts over his lips as she moves, the words punctuated by the slow rise and fall of her body. “i’m done pretending, yoongi. i don’t—fuck, i can’t.”

the confession splinters through him, sharp and blinding.

his hands slide up her back as she moves — slow at first, then faster, her hips snapping down in short, messy bursts. there’s nothing graceful about it. it’s frantic. possessive. like she’s trying to stake her claim on him with every wet slap of skin against skin. like she’s branding him with her body, letting him feel what she hasn’t had the nerve to say until now.

yoongi groans — guttural, broken — and digs his fingers into her waist as she starts to ride him harder, pace faltering with every moan she swallows back. her eyes flicker to his then, glassy and dark, and he can barely hold her gaze without falling apart.

“mine,” she says again, almost like a warning, like a plea. “you’re mine.”

he nods — fuck, he’d do anything for her right now — and brings his forehead to hers, their noses brushing as they move together in this messy, electric rhythm. every push, every drag, every breath feels like a vow neither of them has the guts to say out loud in plain language.

but it doesn’t matter.

because her body says it for her.

and his, god help him, answers back like it’s been waiting this whole time.

yoongi’s mouth finds the curve of her neck — hot, open-mouthed kisses dragging along her pulse as he pants against her skin. she’s still moving on him, slower now, deeper. every roll of her hips making his breath catch, making his hands grip tighter at her waist like he’s scared she might slip away despite what she just said.

he groans against her skin, the sound raw and low in his throat. needy, in a way he hasn’t let himself be — not until now. his teeth catch her earlobe, a soft bite that makes her shudder, and then he says it:

“fuck—i’ve been wanting to hear you say that.” his voice is wrecked, voice box vibrating against her neck, and his arms wrap tighter around her like he’s trying to fold himself into her, bury all the things he’s never admitted. “for so long, baby… you have no idea.”

she breathes in sharply, head tipping back, and he uses the opportunity to kiss down her throat, to press his lips to the hollow of her collarbone, to feel the way she trembles from the inside out.

and then he pulls back — just enough to look at her.

really look at her.

his hands slide up her back, fingertips tracing her spine, and their eyes lock again in that heavy, charged silence. her hips keep moving — slower now, drawn-out, grinding deep like she wants him to feel all of her. like she’s memorizing the way he fills her. her chest brushes his with every shift, and she’s still watching him. like he’s the only thing anchoring her.

“say it again,” he whispers, voice low but clear.

she leans in, mouth brushing his as she moves, as she grinds with purpose now, deliberate, claiming every inch of him.

“you’re mine,” she breathes, barely audible.

“all yours,” he answers without thinking.

and fuck, the way they move after that?

it’s not about getting off anymore.

it’s about knowing.owning.

holding each other in the most vulnerable way they ever have — naked and honest and right on the edge of something they can’t undo.

her forehead presses to his, and she doesn’t stop moving — slow, grinding, so deep it’s like she’s trying to carve him into herself, like she wants to memorize every ridge and throb, the way his breath catches, the way his lashes flutter when she tightens around him just right.

and then she whispers it.

into his lips.

into his soul.

“say i’m the only one,” she pleads, voice trembling. “please.”

and she is. she is. he doesn’t even hesitate.

his mouth crashes into hers — desperate and full of heat, his hands splaying across her back like he doesn’t want to let a single part of her go. he kisses her like it’s the only way he can say what he’s feeling without unraveling. not soft, not teasing. hungry. raw.

and then he moves — not away, never away — but with her.

he shifts, gently guiding her down onto the rug that cushions the floor below them, the tiny coffee table shoved just far enough to give them space. she’s blinking up at him, wide-eyed, lips swollen from his kisses, chest rising and falling like she’s about to break. he strips off the last of her clothes — her bra already gone, but her socks, her hoodie tangled around her arms, still in the way. and his — his shirt’s gone in a second, and his sweats follow, tossed somewhere into the growing pile around them.

“you’re the only one,” he says against her skin, voice thick, reverent. “the only one i think of. when i touch myself. when i wake up. when i hear a fucking melody that sounds like you.”

he grabs her ankle, lips brushing over the thin skin there, and starts kissing his way up — slow and reverent at first, then hungry when he reaches the bend of her knee, the inside of her thigh. she gasps, her legs twitching around him, and he hooks his arms under them, pulling her closer like she belongs wrapped around him.

“you’re it, baby,” he murmurs, kissing higher, closer, nearly to her core. “no one else. no one fucking touches me like you do. no one knows me like you do.”

and maybe it’s the way she trembles when he says it. maybe it’s the way she looks at him now, like she believes him.

maybe it’s the truth in his voice that finally makes her body let go of the tension she’s been carrying since the moment they met.

because now?

it’s not about pretending.

it’s about claiming.and he’s more than willing to let her do the same.

he doesn't rush it—no, not at first. he hovers there, above her, between her legs, one hand splayed across her waist like it’s anchoring him to the present, to her. their eyes meet, and there’s a beat of stillness, thick and charged and warm, where neither of them says a word. their bodies are flushed, skin tacky with heat, but it’s the emotion in the air that makes it almost unbearable.

then, with a soft breath and a quiet, reverent kind of groan, he sinks into her again.

and it’s everything.

she gasps, arching up to meet him, her hands flying to his back, her nails dragging across his shoulder blades, not to hurt—but to hold. to keep him right there. and yoongi… yoongi moves. faster than before, a little harder, but still tender. every thrust is measured but needy, like he’s trying to burn this version of her into memory.

his mouth finds her ear again, his breath hot and uneven. “you feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice cracked and low. “like you were made for me.”

and then his hips snap forward, deeper this time, dragging a strangled moan out of her lips that has his head spinning.

“so fucking tight,” he growls, one hand slipping up her ribs to cup her breast, thumb grazing over her nipple. “you always take me so good… no one else gets this. no one gets this from me but you.”

she cries out at that, clinging tighter, and he kisses her—open-mouthed, messy, not even pretending to be composed anymore. she’s unraveling beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in like she needs him to stay, like she doesn’t want to risk even a second of separation.

his forehead falls to hers again, noses brushing, sweat dripping at the temple. “you’re it for me, baby,” he murmurs. “you hear me? all this—" he rolls his hips again, and she keens, "—only for you. only ever been for you.”

and there’s a truth in it that tastes like something permanent.

like something they've both been too afraid to say.

her hands cradle his face now, and he kisses her again. again. like it’s the only language that’ll carry everything he means.

and as their bodies move in sync, as the rhythm builds and the heat coils, the words he keeps spilling into her skin blur—between filthy and loving, between “you’re so fucking wet” and “you’re everything,” between want and need.

because for yoongi, with her, there’s never been a line.

just her. only her.

she comes undone with his name on her lips — not yelled, not screamed, but breathed out like a secret, like a confession she’s been carrying in her chest for weeks. her back arches, fingers digging into his biceps, eyes squeezing shut as her thighs tremble around his hips.

yoongi watches her fall apart, watches the way her body stutters and spasms, the way her mouth falls open in a shaky gasp. and that’s it for him — the breaking point. the way she looks when she finishes, all flushed and ruined and clenching around him like she doesn’t want to let go.

he pulls out just in time, jaw tight, breath shallow, barely choking out a curse before he releases thick and hot across her inner thigh, hips still twitching as he grinds against her skin. he could’ve come inside — he knows she’s on the pill, they’ve had that conversation — but there’s something so primal about this. about seeing her messy and wrecked, painted in him, like he marked her.

he stares at the mess for a beat — her legs trembling, her chest heaving, the slick between them sticky and raw — before leaning down without a word, mouth open, tongue dragging slow across her thigh to clean it.

and fuck, she jolts.

her eyes snap open, still hazy with the aftershocks, only to find him there, on his knees, licking himself off her like it’s nothing. like it’s everything.

the sight alone makes her throb all over again.

yoongi finishes what he started, kisses up her thigh, across her hip, then her stomach. and when he makes it back to her mouth, she’s already reaching for him, already tugging him closer.

and when she kisses him this time, it’s dirty and sweet all at once, her hand sneaking between them to wrap around both of them — his length, still slick, still sensitive, and hers, her arousal still warm on his skin.

she kisses him again, deeper now, still catching her breath — and her hand moves between their bodies, slipping down to wrap around him, slow and deliberate. he twitches under her touch, still sensitive, still slick from everything. and then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, she slides her fingers lower, brushing through her own arousal, their mess mixing on her skin.

yoongi watches, breath caught in his throat, as she lifts her hand between them. her fingers glisten, coated in both of them, and then—

then she brings them to her mouth.

her tongue flicks out, slow and purposeful, licking across her fingers like she’s savoring every bit. tasting them both. tasting this — whatever they just crossed into.

his groan is instant, guttural, completely wrecked.

and she just grins, lips slick and eyes wild, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him.

“we’re fucking insane,” she whispers, lips brushing his.

and they both crack then, laughing — not hard, not loud — just breathless and loose and wrecked, tangled up in something that feels like relief.

like they finally let something out they didn’t even know they were holding.

he kisses her again, grinning against her lips. “yeah,” he murmurs. “but that was so worth it.”

and it was.

god, it was.

he doesn’t let her go. not after that.

his arms wrap around her again, pulling her flushed against his chest like he's afraid she’ll evaporate if he loosens his grip. his lips brush her temple, his breath still uneven, but his voice—his voice—comes out soft. low. vulnerable in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to be in so long it almost feels foreign.

“say that you meant it,” he whispers, his thumb stroking the curve of her spine. “please.”

he swallows, presses his nose to her hair. “because i don’t think i could take it if that was just… a weird kink. or some fucked-up moment of too much intimacy.”

she’s quiet at first. her fingers are tracing slow circles over his ribs, and then she shifts just enough to look up at him — really look. her cheeks are flushed, lashes damp, eyes so sincere it knocks the wind out of him.

“i do,” she says, voice steady but soft. “i have for a while.”

yoongi's breath catches.

and then he’s kissing her. everywhere. her cheeks, her nose, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. all of it. frantic, relieved, grinning. like he just found out the universe wasn’t playing a joke on him after all. like it’s real now. and she’s just laughing softly, tangled in his lap, letting him love on her without saying anything else.

until she leans her head on his shoulder, still kind of sticky and disheveled, her bare legs wrapped around his waist, and mumbles—

“so… what now?”

he exhales a breath of a laugh, kisses the side of her head again.

“now,” he starts, glancing at the door like it might fly open at any second, “we clean up before someone like hoseok comes through that door and finds us like this—” he gestures vaguely to the pile of clothes, the mess, them on the floor, still glowing like a pair of sinners caught in the sun.

she groans, face burying into his neck, giggling like she knows it’s a close call.

“—then,” he continues, more seriously this time, “you let me take you out on a breakfast date tomorrow.”

that gets her. she lifts her head, blinking at him like he’s said something profound. “breakfast?”

he nods. “yeah. like pancakes, coffee, awkward first date questions we already know the answers to.”

her smile softens into something that makes his chest feel too small.

“okay,” she says. “yeah. i’d like that.”

and for once, yoongi’s not thinking ahead.

not worrying.

not pretending.

he just nods and holds her tighter, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14

[codnasties]

I am obsessed with the way your brain works. can you imagine könig finally fucking a real pussy for the first time and she’s so tight and wet and hot he cums almost immediately but he didn’t get soft. just so horny and finally he’s got a perfect place to vent all that energy, even five orgasms in he’s begging her to keep going, his balls are still so full, just ride him a little harder, squeeze down on it just like that he just needs it one more time, just one more he promises (he’s lying)

konig fucking pussy for the first time 🗡 (🌽 link)

my baby boy konig is not the most experienced man. things about being anxious, socially akward, and a tad too intimidating. the combination of all of those has led him to where he is right now in life.

like konig is no virgin, but all of the intercourse he's had has been with no strings atached, so he didn't worry too much about the consecuences of his want and need to release pent up tension in a manner that can be cosidered too harsh and rough.

but with you, it's different. the last thing he wants is to hurt you. so when he fucks your pussy for the first time he realises that he's way too big for his own good. his sexual experiences and mostly being used to fleshlights, make it that way. so he's slightly surprised that all you can't take him.

again, he's being very slow and patient with it, but not even his bulbous tip? but trust me,it's more than enough for him, because he has to stop for a second before he blows his load pathetically at the feeling of your walls tightening around just that little bit of him that he was able to fit inside.

there is no prep in this world that could get you ready for that cock

[arkofangels]

Stretch It Out!

synopsis: After helping you ease into working out, Dunk offers some hands-on motivation

Pairing: Duncan "Dunk" Shuttlecock x Reader (Date Everything)

Content. MDNI: GN! Reader, personal trainer!Dunk, praise kink, size kink, rough sex, overstimulation, creampie, athletic dom energy, sweat, choking (light), spit, dumbification , muscle worship (from both sides), improper use of yoga positions

“Th-this is where you’re weak, right?” Dunk’s voice cracks—deep and guttural, like he’s just fumbled the ball and liked it.

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when he’s got you pressed chest-down on your yoga mat, sweat-slick and trembling, your legs splayed as wide as they’ll go under the strong, caging weight of his body. He’s got one bulky arm laced around your midsection, the heel of a calloused palm pinning your wrist above your head, and the other hand—

Fuck, that hand is dragging your hips back like he’s trying to line you up for a perfect field goal.

The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance, flushed hot and slick from everything he's already done to you—stretching, teasing, edging with his stupid mouth full of praise and filth.

“Right here,” he pants, his cleats digging into the floor as he jerks forward and shoves the thick, veiny length of himself into you in one slow, spine-bending thrust.

“Oh fuck–mmghhh!” Your mouth falls open, drool stringing from your lips into the mat below. “D-Dunk—right there!”

“Right there, huh?” he grunts, voice all hoarse and starved and dripping heat. He braces one elbow—elbow skate grinding against the mat—and slams into the same spot again. “This your weak spot? Right where you get all soft and squishy f’me?”

You choke out a whimper, body locking up, toes curling in your socks.

And Dunk groans like a man in his prime scoring the winning goal in triple overtime. “Shit, yeah. You’re clutch, baby. Makin’ me feel like a fuckin’ champion.”

He’s not subtle. He never is. Every thrust is a penalty-worthy foul, full-body and brutal—his padded hips hammering into your ass with a wet, smack! of skin on skin, the seams of his football-textured pants brushing your thighs raw.

And you love it. You’re taking him like a champ, brain turning to static, vision sparking with every drag of his cock along your g-spot.

“So good,” he growls, low and rough in your ear. “So tight. Taking me like this? You were made for me—swear to God. Can feel you tryin’ to pull me back in every time I leave. Mmmph—don’t worry, I ain’t going anywhere.”

His fingers twist in your shirt collar—yanking you halfway up, arching your spine so he can get even deeper, stretch you out more, ruin you. His mouth is right at your ear now, warm breath ragged as he growls out praises like a dirty coach from hell.

“You’re doing so fuckin’ good. I mean, look at you. You’re—shit—you’re beautiful like this. Sloppy, sweatin’, fuckin’ perfect.”

The sound you make is more animal than human, all heat and overwhelmed bliss.

“S-slow down,” you whine, even though your hips are moving to meet him. “It’s too—too much—”

“Oh no, no no.” Dunk chuckles, deep and mean and amused. “We don’t quit halfway through a workout, sweetheart.”

Then he slams into you again. Hard. Vicious. Filthy.

You nearly scream, forehead digging into the mat, tears dripping freely now.

He leans down, mouth pressing at the back of your neck, lips brushing the sweat there. “One more set, baby. Just one more. And then I’ll let you cool down on my chest. Promise.”

And when you finally come—crying out like you just crossed the finish line of a marathon, your whole body twitching under him—he follows with a growl that sounds more like a war cry than a moan, spilling deep inside you and holding you there, locked to his body like a medal he refuses to take off.

Afterward, you’re a pile of boneless mush sprawled across his sweaty chest, legs still twitching. He strokes your back with gentle fingers, breath slowing.

“That,” he whispers, brushing his stubbled jaw against your temple, “was the best cardio I’ve had in years.”

You murmur something incoherent.

He grins. “No bummers allowed, remember?”

[schitthappens]

Growing up Steve's parents hated all the tourists that crowded their little town so they vacationed elsewhere to avoid the rush. Steve went with them and adopted their hatred of tourists that took him away from his friends and his favorite place in the world.

Eddie loved the summers he got to spend with his Uncle Wayne, the energy of all the people, the late nights and slow mornings. Now that Eddie has graduated, he works part time at the plant with his uncle and gets the watch the town he loves transforms every summer into the lively hotspot of strangers. That is of course until he gets his heart broken one too many times by a tourist leaving at the end of the summer never to be heard of again.

The summer before Robin goes to college Steve begs to finally have a summer with her before she leaves for the year. And since the main house has already been rented out for the summer, Steve and Robin get a 2 month long sleepover in the guest house.

It's about a week into the summer when Robin drags Steve to the arcade. She's been showing him all the spots that are still present throughout the year but come alive in the summers. The ice cream shack only opened for the few months. The amphitheater with live music every weekend. The arcade that stays open later so all the kids are in bed and they can play without interruption. It's here that Steve first lays eyes on him. Long dark curly hair, thin waist and legs that go on for days. If only it wasn't summer and Steve could look at this man forever, but of course he's just here hogging the Skee-ball machine until fall rolls around.

Steve sees him again the next night and before he can say anything Robin is marching her way over to the group he's with. Steve misses any introductions trying to catch up with Robin and it takes him well into the night to put together the fact that he actually went to high school with a few of the guys and Robin knows them from band but Steve is sure he would recognize Eddie (it didn't him near as long to learn that bit of information) if he's seen him before.

In the following days their little group continues to meet up most nights. Steve and Eddie couldn't be more different but end up inseparable. Robin would be hurt that Steve was ditching her for a new friend on their first summer together if he wasn't making sure she was always included, which might actually be hurting Steve's chances.

"I think Eddie thinks we're dating" Robin says to Steve on a night they decided to stay in and have a 'girls night'.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Well only if you were waiting for him to make a move".

Steve sputters at that, "Wha- why would you think I'd want Eddie to make a move? We're friends and the summer's almost over anyway."

"Steve it's not even the 4th of July yet!" She rolls her eyes at him.

"So!"

"So have your fun while you can!"

"Robbie, you know why I can't do that!"

Robin can tell they're getting into dangerous territory and drops it "Fine. What color do you want your nails?"

"Red." and they move on from that conversation.

---

As the summer progresses, Steve and Eddie keep getting closer. Chrissy returns from her summer vacation and it's Robin that ends up ditching Steve once a week for date night. It's one of these nights that Steve almost kisses Eddie. If it wasn't for the sudden fireworks, Steve would have done it and then there'd be no saving his heart from the eventual heartbreak that would be sure to come at the end of the summer. He's already dreading it enough not need to add kissing (or anything else for that matter) to the mix.

Steve pulls back and tries his hardest not to be alone with Eddie, especially late at night, curled up on a blanket, under the stars, but it gets harder as the weeks go on.

Eventually Robin starts packing for college, Steve's parents are due home in a few weeks and Steve doesn't know what's gonna happen when the summer ends. Whenever Eddie brings it up Steve avoids the question or changes the subject not wanting to hear how far away Eddie will be and how he'll try to keep in touch it won't last past Halloween.

The whole group hangs out less and less as one by one people leave for the summer until it's just Steve and Eddie. A few times Steve thinks Eddie is gone for good without saying goodbye until he's there the next week at the arcade playing Skee-Ball with Steve or they're seeing a movie together.

It's the middle of September when Steve finally kisses Eddie. They had gotten burgers and milkshakes together and walking through the quit town together. Not another tourist in sight and Steve can't take it anymore.

"Umm what was that?" Eddie sputters after Steve had pulled away.

"Sorry did I misread this?" Of course Steve was making it all up in his head like he always does.

"No but why now?" Eddie looks so confused. "Why kiss me now when you're just going to leave soon?"

"Leave?" Now Steve is confused.

"Yeah summer is over. Don't tourist go back home at the end of the summer?"

"I'm not a tourist"

"But you're renting that fancy guest house!"

"From my parents.."

"And you said it's your first summer here!"

"but I've spent every fall, winter and spring here since I was born."

"So why didn't you kiss me earlier?" by now Eddie is exasperated.

"Because YOU'RE a tourist and you're going to leave me!"

"Maybe at one time I was, but Steve I've lived here for 3 years now!"

Of course they each had a million other questions to ask each other but now that they knew neither one was going to leave any time soon Steve pushed Eddie into the nearest alleyway against the brick wall and kisses him like he had wanted to all summer.

Robin just rolled her eye when Steve called to tell her the news.

Steve and Eddie meet in a cute little tourist trap of a town. They go all summer dancing around their feelings for each other, but both of them have strict "no dating tourists" policies--- no point in getting attached to someone who already has a return flight booked.

They spend all summer dreading the day the other one heads home. It takes them damn near til Halloween to realize--- neither of them is a tourist.

[sweetromanova]

Fur Better or Worse: Part Three🐈‍⬛

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has survived aliens, norse gods and the world ending and now her cat is apparently on a mission to ruin her life, one litter at a time.

Chapter Three (The Final)

The door had barely clicked shut behind Wanda when the quiet returned, folding over the apartment like a soft blanket. Nova stirred slightly, her nose twitching as she nestled deeper between you and Natasha, clearly content but restless.

You shifted your hand a little, fingers brushing through her soft fur, feeling the faint but steady rhythm of her breath. Natasha’s arm tightened ever so slightly around your waist, her touch grounding you in the stillness.

Neither of you spoke. Words felt heavy and unnecessary.

Minutes passed. You listened to the quiet hum of the city far below, the distant murmur of life that felt miles away.

Then Nova’s breathing shifted, sudden, shallow, uneven.

Your heart seized.

Natasha’s eyes snapped open, sharp and alert in the dim morning light.

“She’s just. moving,” Natasha whispered, although her voice was taut with restrained urgency.

Nova let out a soft, strained meow and pawed restlessly at the blanket, her belly twitching.

“Could this be it?” You breathed, already reaching to support her.

Natasha shook her head slowly. “Not yet. But close.”

You both watched her, tension creeping in, the fragile calm dissolving.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The briefing room buzzed with low murmurs and the soft clatter of keyboards. Maps and schematics flickered on the big screen, pinpointing the latest mission gone sideways. A recently promoted agent had gone in alone, with junior agents and the intel was all tangled up.

You sat side-by-side with Natasha at the long table, eyes trained on the data scrolling by. The team was gathered around, expectant but a little skeptical, you could almost hear their thoughts.

Natasha’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the table, her expression unreadable as she scanned the schematics. Finally, she spoke, voice cool and exact.

“Intel shows the target’s movement erratic, almost like a diversion. But if you look here-“ She tapped the screen. “-the signal overlap from their comms is inconsistent. That suggests a relay point nearby, possibly a decoy.”

You leaned forward, catching her meaning immediately but adding your own spin. “Right and if the relay’s a decoy, maybe the target’s hiding in plain sight, blending with the crowd. The stress markers we got from civilian chatter suggest someone’s been acting out of character, nervous but careful.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Emotional intel. I wouldn’t have prioritised it but it fits.”

“Exactly.” You smiled, energised. “If we combine the comms anomaly with the behavioural shifts, we might narrow down the location faster.”

Natasha glanced over, a flicker of approval in her eyes. 

“Agreed. If the new agent had noticed that, this wouldn’t be a mess.”

You smirked. “We’re here now. Let’s clean it up.”

Back and forth you went, Natasha’s precision balancing your instincts. The room’s energy shifted, the team watching you two trade insights, complementing each other like clockwork.

When you finished, Natasha stood and addressed the group with that rare edge of warmth. “Plan’s solid. We adapt the route to cut off the relay point and use behavioural cues for extraction. We’re not just relying on tech. This mission needs eyes and instincts.”

One of the older agents shifted, voice grudging but impressed. 

“You two... you actually work.”

Natasha’s smirk was quick but genuine. “Who knew? Teamwork can be useful.”

You reached out, lightly nudging her arm. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Last time someone got comfortable, it ended with my cat up the duff.”

“Again you speak of having my babies.” Natasha tutted, with a smirk. “You know you just have to ask.”

“That ship sailed, grandma.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, sharp and playful. “Whatever. Good work guys, I’m heading for a much deserved coffee.”

“Yeah, go on.” You joke. “Keep taking all the glory.”

She leaned in just slightly, voice low. “Only if you keep surprising me.”

The rest of the room might still be shocked, but right then, it was just the two of you. A perfect, improbable team.

Once she returned, armed with another coffee for you. You had cracked on again, other agents twiddling their thumbs and spinning on chairs as they tried and failed to get a word between your immaculate plan.

“Ok guys, go rest. We have an hour before launch.”

The briefing room emptied fast, agents rushing off to prep and gear up. The hum of urgency faded into a quiet buzz, leaving just you and Natasha behind, the glow of the screens casting soft shadows across her face.

She crossed her arms but didn’t move to leave. Instead, she gave you that rare, direct look, the one that always felt like a challenge and a dare all at once.

“Surprised?” She asked, voice low, a half-smile tugging at her lips.

You shrugged, tilting your head. “Not really. Just surprised we didn’t knock anyone’s socks off earlier.”

Natasha stepped closer, the space between you narrowing just a fraction. “I prefer to save the good stuff for when it counts.”

You matched her tone. “I like your style. Quiet but lethal.”

Her eyes darkened, amusement flickering through them. “Don’t get cocky. I’m still the one who keeps you grounded.”

“Yeah?” You smiled, stepping in just a bit more, matching her breath. “Who says I want to be grounded all the time?”

Her hand lifted, fingers brushing just along your jawline, light, teasing but deliberate. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You leaned in, barely closing the gap, voice low and smooth. 

“Maybe I’m here for that too.”

She pulled back just enough to grin, eyes sparkling with that familiar fire. “Careful. Flirting with me is dangerous.”

“Good.” You whispered. “I like danger.”

The moment hung between you, electric and unspoken until Natasha’s smirk broke it and she turned toward the door.

“Get ready. We’re on soon. And don’t be late.”

You laughed softly, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the mission. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The night was quiet, the Tower’s usual hum toned down to a soft, distant murmur. You sat cross-legged on your bed, a book forgotten in your lap as your thoughts tangled and unwound with the gentle flicker of the bedside lamp.

A soft knock echoed at your door.

You glanced up, surprised. Who would be visiting this late?

“Hey.” Came Natasha’s voice, low and careful. Behind her, a small, plaintive whine made your heart tug.

You swung the door open to find Natasha standing there, Liho pressed against her leg, eyes wide and shimmering with worry.

“Can we come in?” Natasha asked quietly.

You stepped aside without hesitation. “Of course.”

Liho darted past you, immediately settling on the bed and nudging your hand, his little body trembling slightly as he circled Nova.

Natasha’s eyes flicked to Liho, then back to you, her voice soft but steady. “He’s upset about Nova.”

You nodded, understanding the worry beneath the words. “Yeah, I noticed. She’s been restless all evening too.”

Natasha gave a small, almost shy smile, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t want him to be alone… or you with her. She’s a handful at the moment.”

You blinked, heart skipping.

“That’s… nice.” You managed, your voice quieter than intended.

Natasha stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. “I mean I know I’m here for Liho and well I guess technically Nova too but I-“

She paused, hand brushing against the doorframe. “I mean I just thought- Well she’s a handful and you-“

You almost stayed quiet, let THE Natasha Romanoff struggle to structure a sentence, her brain not wiring as she tried and failed to find an excuse.”

“I just- I guess it’s about both of us.” You felt the weight of the words in the air, the unspoken care threading through them.

Liho crawled up, settling between you both and you reached out, fingers brushing against Natasha’s as they rested near the his head.

“You don’t have to say anything more.” You whispered.

Natasha’s lips curved in a tender smile. “Good. Because I’m terrible at that.”

You laughed softly, the sound a balm in the quiet room. 

“I know.” You laughed. “I- I- I-“ You mocked, laughing louder when she shoved you further back. “I’m kidding!”

“Yeah, yeah, put Netflix on.”

You scanned through the options, pretending to be indecisive but secretly hoping Natasha would just pick something so you didn’t have to decide.

“Anything in particular?” Natasha asked, her voice teasing.

You gave her a look. “I was hoping you had a secret guilty pleasure show you’d finally admit to.”

She laughed quietly, the sound low and genuine. “Guilty pleasure? Me? I’m practically an open book.”

“Sure, Natasha. Open book with a few locked chapters.” You winked.

She nudged your shoulder playfully. “Fine. Maybe I like those ridiculous reality cooking shows. You know, where the chefs dramatically chop vegetables and argue about sauce consistency.”

You pretended to be scandalized. “That sounds… terrible.”

“Exactly. It’s the drama you live for.” She said, smirking. “What better way to end your night by watching a chef call someone an idiot sandwich…”

“Now I know where you get YOUR attitude from.”

You settled back against the couch cushions, reaching out to run your fingers through Liho’s fur. “But, you’re saying you’re basically a reality show fan at heart?”

“Only if you promise not to tell anyone,” Natasha said, mock serious.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

For a while, you both just watched the screen, the glow flickering across your faces. Between episodes, you traded jokes, little quips about the characters and quiet observations about the day’s events. The world outside melted away until there was just the soft sound of the TV, the occasional murmur of the cats and the steady, comforting presence of Natasha beside you.

At one point, Natasha’s hand brushed yours, fingers lingering a beat longer than necessary.

You caught her eye, and she gave you that subtle, knowing smile, the one that said she was exactly where she wanted to be.

“Thanks for letting me crash here tonight.” She whispered.

You shrugged, heart full. “You’re welcome anytime.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Morning light filtered softly through the curtains as you stretched, already feeling the subtle tension in the apartment. Both Nova and Liho were unusually restless today. Nova prowled around in small, anxious circles, her belly low and heavy, while Liho padded after her with a concerned whine.

You sat up in bed, rubbing your eyes and glancing over at Natasha, who was already scrolling through her phone with a focused look.

“You’ve been googling again, haven’t you?” You teased, watching her furrow her brows.

Natasha looked up, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, I figured I should probably be prepared. Pregnancy in cats isn’t exactly my area of expertise but there’s tons online about signs, labor, what to expect.”

You nodded, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement. “Anything important?”

“Mostly just that they can get restless before labor and some fresh air might help calm her down.” Natasha said, nodding toward Nova, who was now pawing at the rug in a way that looked part frustration, part discomfort.

“Fresh air sounds good.” You agreed. “Maybe take them for a quick walk in the gardens? Get them out of here for a bit.”

Natasha’s phone buzzed quietly on the nightstand but she ignored it, already moving with quiet purpose. 

“Yeah let’s take the elevator. She can’t do stairs and I don’t fancy having my arms ripped to shreds carrying her.”

“You’re dramatic. C’mere angel.” You grabbed a soft blanket and carefully wrapped Nova, who gave a resigned little meow as she settled in. Liho hopped into Nat’s arms with a hopeful purr.

“Nice try Liho, you’re not the one pregnant.”

Together, you headed for the elevator, the soft thrum of the building’s morning routine humming beneath your feet.

The doors slid open and you stepped inside, Natasha right behind you.

The elevator hummed quietly as it descended, the soft glow of the overhead lights casting long shadows on the walls. You breathed out, trying to soothe Nova as she shifted restlessly in your arms. Natasha stood close, her eyes sharp and alert even in the small space.

Suddenly, with a violent jolt, the elevator shuddered to an abrupt stop. The lights flickered wildly once, twice and then snapped off, plunging the cabin into a suffocating darkness. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by the faint hiss of the ventilation and Nova’s quickened breathing.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest as panic flickered beneath the surface.

“Okay…” Natasha said, her voice calm but firm as she immediately started looking at the machine on the wall. “Power’s out.”

You swallowed, the blanket around Nova warm against your chest but your heart suddenly heavier.

“Stay calm.” Natasha said, reaching out to steady the side rail.

Liho meowed sharply, sensing the tension.

“We’ll figure this out.” You said, trying to believe it yourself as Nova shifted restlessly in your arms.

Before you can fully process the blackout, Nova stiffens in your arms again, her small body trembling violently. A sharp, urgent meow pierces the silence, a raw, desperate sound that sends a cold spike through your spine.

“She’s in labour.” Natasha whispers, voice low but edged with urgency.

Nova’s breathing quickens, shallow and ragged, her tiny paws clawing at your shirt as if searching for something to hold onto. A ripple of tension shoots through her belly, subtle at first, then rolling in stronger, relentless waves.

You brace yourself, trying to keep calm, but the dark space feels suffocating, every second stretching unbearable.

“Okay, okay.” You murmur, your eyes filling with tears and hands trembling as you gently stroke Nova’s fur. “We’ve got you, we’re right here.”

Natasha’s hand finds yours in the dark, fingers tightening in silent support. The elevator remains eerily still, an unyielding cage around you as Nova pushes against the pain, the first of the kittens on the way.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The elevator was a tomb of darkness, silence thick except for Nova’s laboured breathing and the soft, urgent meows that rippled through the still air.

You crouched low, cradling Nova close, your heart pounding with every tremor that shook her tiny frame. Your hands trembled uncontrollably as you stroked her fur, desperate to soothe but terrified of what was coming.

“She’s going to be okay.” You whispered, voice breaking. “Right? She’s going to be okay.”

Natasha crouched opposite, her expression calm but her eyes sharp, scanning the small space as if plotting an escape route while grounding you with her steady presence.

“Focus on her breathing,” Natasha said quietly, voice firm but gentle. “Match it. Slow, steady. Breathe with her.”

You tried, inhaling deep, but panic clawed at your throat. “What if something goes wrong? What if-“

“Stop,” Natasha cut in softly but with iron resolve. “We don’t know that. Right now, she needs us to be calm. You can’t help if you lose it. Labour happens all the time in animals, she’s not hurt, ok?”

You swallowed hard, nodding, forcing your breath to slow even as your mind raced.

Natasha reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead. “Look at me.” She said, voice low but grounding. “We’ve handled worse. Alone and together.”

You met her gaze and for a moment, the chaotic fear inside you softened.

Nova’s meows grew louder, a fierce urgency behind them. Your chest tightened watching her struggle, but Natasha’s calm became an anchor, steady and sure.

“We’re right here.” Natasha whispered, squeezing your hand. “We’ll get through this. One step at a time.”

You nodded, gripping Nova tighter, the warmth of Natasha’s hand a silent promise in the dark.

⋆⋆⋆⋆ 

The elevator was suffocating, the dim emergency light casting long shadows that danced as Nova trembled beneath your hands. Her breathing quickened, shallow and urgent. Liho was restless too, pacing the tiny space with soft whimpers, the tension palpable.

“Okay, okay.” Natasha murmured, voice calm but steady as steel. “We’ve got this. Just focus on Nova and I’ll do the rest. She needs you to stay calm.”

You nodded, though your chest felt tight, words caught somewhere between panic and hope.

Nova’s body tensed suddenly, a low whine escaping her lips. Then, unmistakably, she tensed and she pushed.

The first tiny, slick kitten slipped free, fragile and squirming. You caught it from Natasha instinctively, warm and wet, eyes barely open as she immediately went to coax the next.

Natasha’s hand found yours, fingers tightening around your wrist like an anchor. “You’re doing great.”

Your voice cracked as you crooned softly to the newborn, heart pounding a wild rhythm in your chest. 

Nova wasn’t done.

Another contraction hit, harder and faster. You could barely think, just feel, just be. 

You watched as Natasha slid her hoodie off, laying it down on the floor like a next and signalling for you to lay the kitten down where doting dad Liho immediately jumped into action.

Another kitten emerged, and then another. The air was thick with urgency, the confined space suddenly too small to hold the weight of the moment.

Your knees ached from kneeling on the cold floor, sweat trickled down your back, but you kept your hands steady, soothing, catching.

“Almost there.” Natasha said, leaning close, her breath warm against your ear. “We’ve got you.” 

You don’t know if she was taking to Nova, the kittens or you.

Finally, the last kitten slipped out, a tiny, mewling bundle that fit snugly in your palm. Nova sagged, exhausted but alive, her eyes soft and trusting.

Then, a sudden jolt. The elevator shuddered, lights flickering desperately back to life.

The doors slid open to a flurry of movement, medical personnel, Dr. Montgomery, and the rest of the vet team rushing in with blankets, equipment and calm voices.

“Let’s get them to the med bay, now!” Dr. Montgomery commanded, gentle but urgent. Wanda must have sensed what was happening and immediately called for her.

You barely had time to blink before gentle hands lifted Nova from your arms and and the kittens from the safety of Natasha’s hoodie. You sat back on the floor, breathless and shaking.

“Where are they taking her? Is she okay?” Your voice was barely a whisper as you turned to Natasha, eyes wide and unsteady.

Natasha slid down beside you, pulling you into a steady, grounding embrace. Her voice was low, soothing.

“She’s going to be okay. We did everything we could. And she’s not alone.”

You looked up, searching her eyes, finding a fierce, quiet promise there. And in that moment, tangled on the cold elevator floor, you knew everything would be.

⋆⋆⋆⋆ 

Later, in the softly lit recovery room, Nova lay curled up with Liho, both cats nestled into a cozy nest of blankets. Nova’s breathing was steady now, her eyes half-closed in peaceful rest. Liho gently groomed his girlfriend, a quiet guardian in the calm after the storm.

Natasha and you stepped inside quietly, drawn toward the tiny kittens resting in a heated incubator just across the room. The little creatures twitched and stretched, their translucent pink skin shimmering faintly under the warm light.

“They’re so tiny.” You breathed, reaching out a trembling hand to gently stroke one of the kittens’ soft heads. Despite being a little early, they were healthy and strong, their tiny heartbeats steady and strong beneath your fingertips.

Natasha smiled softly beside you, watching you with a calm that made your heart ache. You felt overwhelmed, relief, exhaustion, and a flood of emotion too deep for words.

And then the tears came again.

You blinked furiously, hoping to stop them but the floodgates had already opened.

Natasha nudged you gently, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Well, would you look at that… the soppy grandma shows herself again.”

You couldn’t help but laugh through your tears. “Shut up.”

She smiled wider, and her voice softened. “You’re doing great. Nova’s doing great. And you- you were incredible.”

You looked up, voice barely above a whisper. “Me? Natasha, I think I cried more than the one pushing kittens out. I need to thank you, I couldn’t have done it without you. Honestly... thank you. For everything.”

There was a pause, thick with unspoken words and then Natasha leaned in slowly, her eyes searching yours with warmth and something more.

Before you could think twice, you closed the space between you, your lips meeting hers in a soft, tentative kiss.

It was gentle at first, then steady, grounding, a promise and a thank you all wrapped into one.

When you pulled back, Natasha’s smile was a little softer, her hand warm in yours.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

When you pulled back, Natasha’s smile was a little softer, her hand warm in yours. You stayed like that for a moment, fingers entwined, the quiet hum of the room wrapping around you both like a comforting blanket.

The tiny kittens stirred in their incubator, one letting out a faint, almost imperceptible mew. You glanced back, your heart swelling at the sight of new life so fragile yet fierce.

Natasha leaned her forehead gently against yours, her breath warm and steady. 

“Looks like we make a pretty good team. Again.” She whispered.

You smiled, feeling the tension of the day melt away, replaced by something light and bright. “Yeah. The best.”

A sudden giggle burst from just outside the door, startling you both.

“Oi, lovebirds! I don’t know if I’m talking to you painful idiots or the cats!” Wanda’s cheerful voice rang out. “Anyway, Aunty Wanda is here!”

You both broke into laughter, Natasha squeezing your hand before calling back.

“Wanda, keep it down! Some of us are trying to be romantic.”

“Too late!” Wanda chirped. “I’m officially your number one fan. Bring me those kittens, I need to document this epic moment!”

You exchanged a glance with Natasha, laughter still bubbling up between you.

The day had been nothing like you expected, but somehow, it was perfect.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers lounge was unusually full, a mix of coffee cups, throw pillows and six grown superheroes trying very hard not to squeal over a box full of newborn kittens.

Natasha sat beside you on the couch, arms crossed but the softest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Nova was perched proudly beside the carrier, tail curled protectively around Liho, who seemed to have decided that fatherhood meant staring at anyone who got too close to the babies.

“Alright." You said, standing, dramatically holding up a notecard. “As promised. Official kitten name reveal.”

“Finally,” Sam groaned, sipping from a mug that said World’s Okayest Avenger. “I’ve been placing bets for hours.”

“I told you the white one would be named after me,” Tony said, adjusting his sunglasses indoors. “Because obviously, they saved the best for last.”

You cleared your throat. “Okay, first up, this little ginger one, who screamed like a banshee during delivery, his name is… Captain. Because he’s clearly the leader of this wild bunch.”

Steve gave a small nod of approval.

Next, you pointed to a sleek, grey kitten with a small tuft of white on his chest, currently curled around Nova’s tail.

“This little ninja with absolutely no chill is Winter.”

Bucky blinked. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or deeply uncomfortable.”

“He bit Steve’s sock and vanished under the couch with it." Natasha deadpanned. “It fits.”

“Fair." Steve muttered, eyeing the sock thief with a healthy amount of suspicion.

You leaned forward, reaching toward a pale gray tabby with wide, curious eyes. “This fearless little explorer who tried to climb out of the box earlier? Meet Scarlett.”

Wanda gasps, immediately scooping her on. "My little Scarlett."

“Y’know, this one does look like she’s planning his own SHIELD infiltration.” Clint mused, offering the kitten a tiny paperclip to play with. “He can have my locker.”

You grinned. “Now, this one here, tiny but dramatic. Meows before, during and after every nap. I give you… Arrow.”

Clint smirked. “I like that one. Direct hit.”

"This one is Thunder." Natasha smiled, lifting up the grey kitten and letting Thor take her from him. "Careful, she's loud."

She joked but true to her word, the tiny kitten let out a large meow that even had Liho stand up to look alert.

"She is small but she is mighty." He cheered, holding the tiny animal that basically looked like an ant in his huge arms.

“Next." You said, holding up a bold grey and white fluff ball who was busy swatting at Sam’s sleeve. “Para. Named for our resident airborne ace.”

Sam grinned. “Hey, respect the paratrooper.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “And me? I get what?"

"Don't be impatient."

"I can barely wait!" Tony groaned. "Give me!"

"Ok so this white little angel is... Salt."

"Salt? Salt, really?!”

Natasha gave a smug smile. “Yes. Salt.”

Tony groaned dramatically. "WHY?!

“So now Salt and Pepper have you under their thumb.” The room burst into laughter as you and Natasha fist bumped.

"And you really like Tequila. It goes well."

"And finally, we have..." Natasha went on, holding up the little white ball that has a black patch of fur over his left eye. "Fur-"

"-Widow."

"I thought we said Fury-"

You held up the smallest kitten of the bunch, showing the almost hour glass shape on her belly of dark fur.

Natasha blinked, hand frozen mid-pet. “You really want to name a kitten after me?”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “She’s small. Stealthy. Judges people. Sleeps like a brick. Remind you of anyone?”

“She also clawed Sam when he tried to boop her nose.” Wanda added, smugly.

“She booped me first!” Sam protested.

Natasha glanced down at the kitten, who yawned, stretched, and promptly turned her back to the group. “I like her.”

You leaned in with a grin. “Thought you might.”

Thor clapped his hands. “Now we must forge them tiny armour. And perhaps give them titles.”

Tony nodded seriously. “Agreed. I’ll have JARVIS print out a kitten command center by morning.”

“Please don’t.” Steve said, already pinching the bridge of his nose.

Wanda, kneeling beside the box with her phone out, panned the camera toward the team. “Everyone say ‘fluffy vengeance!’”

“FLUFFY VENGEANCE!” They all chorused, with varying degrees of commitment.

You and Natasha watched, shoulder to shoulder, as your friends descended into chaos, clinking mugs, arguing over kitten rosters and trying to convince Liho to let them pet the babies.

Natasha turned to you, voice low. “Still think danger’s your favourite part of this?”

You smirked, nudging her knee with yours. “Nope. This is.”

She tilted her head, considering you for a moment before replying.

“Well,” she said. “Good. Because I’m not raising six Avengers cats on my own.”

You grinned. “Don’t worry. We’re in this together.”

Natasha leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple, while everyone else pretended not to watch. Except Wanda, who was giggling behind her hand that wasn't holding her kitten.

“Teamwork." She smiled. “Told you it was useful.”

[cherienymphe]

His Little Bird

Carmine Falcone x Reader

Warnings: DUB-CON (bordering Non-Con), violence, power imbalance, escort!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @whimsicalrogers

summary: Carmine would rather clip your wings so long as it kept you right where he wanted you.

⭑

You paused in your counting, lips parted as you looked between the bills in your hand and making sure you counted that right.

“You–.”

“I gave you what I wanted you to have.”

You looked over your shoulder at those words, blinking at him for a moment.

Carmine was buttoning up his suit jacket, paying you no mind as your brows drew together in a slight frown. You contemplated between voicing your confusion or simply taking the extra money with a smile. After all, Carmine Falcone wasn’t the kind of man you questioned about anything, but your curiosity won you over, and you took the risk.

“...why?” you hesitantly asked him.

Your question came out soft, but you knew he heard you. He didn’t answer you right away, and part of you started to accept that he was going to ignore your question entirely when he proved you wrong.

“You don’t need it?”

The question was obviously rhetorical, and you looked down.

“No, no I do. I just…” you shrugged. “I charge the same every time, and you’ve always paid exactly that so I was confused.”

When you looked up again, his gaze was already on you, and you watched him slide those familiar shades over his eyes.

“That’s all,” you weakly added.

You remained seated at your desk chair as he approached you, his shoes against the floor sounding so loud in your otherwise quiet room. When his fingers gently met your jaw, you relaxed under the familiar ministration. You gave him a small smile when his thumb brushed along your skin.

“Anybody ever told you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

You gave a soft closed mouth chuckle at that, nodding.

“Sorry. Thank you,” you finally told him as he stepped away from you.

You were right behind him as he made his way to your door, grabbing his coat from the couch on the way.

“Buy yourself something nice,” he told you as you let him out. “Maybe a bigger bed.”

The hallway in your apartment complex was poorly lit as he crossed the threshold, and you watched him disappear down the stairs before returning inside. When you made your way back into your bedroom, you approached the window, eyes landing on that familiar expensive car when you looked down into the street.

Carmine stepped out of your building only a moment later, and like always, he turned to glance up at you before dipping inside the backseat.

The moment the car disappeared down the street, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. In a matter of seconds, you became all too aware of the soreness in your neck and the dull ache between your legs. With a small sigh, you looked down at the money on your desk, pulling your lip between your teeth at the extra $500 staring back at you. 

You knew what Carmine said, but you couldn’t help but to frown at it.

Gotham had no shortage of corrupt and immoral men, and so you saw no reason why you shouldn’t take advantage of that. Most of them only ever seemed to want one thing from girls like you, and you didn’t see the harm in making sure you got something out of it too. It certainly allowed for you to be as selective as you wanted with who you gave your time to, and Carmine Falcone was someone you’d given your time and energy to on numerous occasions.

It was always the same—you met up, he liked what he liked and never went over an hour, and a grand was in your hand before he walked out of the door. Of your small handful of regulars, you were reluctant to admit that Carmine was your favorite. He was simple and consistent, and unlike some people, he understood how this worked.

He was predictable…until now.

He wasn’t what you would call a soft man—although sometimes he seemed uncharacteristically soft with you—and he certainly didn’t just do things out of the kindness of his heart. There was no wool over your eyes about the kind of man Carmine was…and yet…he’d given you an extra five-hundred dollars tonight for what? Because he felt like it? Because you, as he so politely reminded you, needed it? It was very strange, and it unfortunately plagued your thoughts well into the night, robbing you of much needed sleep.

“That happened to me once,” one of your friends told you a few days later. “He was a real decent guy, you know?”

She tapped her coffee mug in her hand.

“Simple and easy and not bad on the eyes either, but then one day he starts paying me way above my rate, and then he starts buying me all these gifts. I’m talking handbags and shoes and jewelry—the real stuff.”

A frown passed over her features then.

“The penny finally dropped, of course. He wanted to take me out on a real date and was talking about pursuing a real relationship with me,” she sighed. “He wanted me to give it all up, and he’d been trying to butter me up to the idea, and I told him ‘look this is how much I make a week and if you can’t maintain what I’m used to then I’m just getting screwed over here by someone who might dump in a month’.”

She suddenly chuckled to herself.

“You should’ve seen how mad he got,” she shrugged. “Naturally, that was the end of that, and I imagine he found some other girl to sweet talk into becoming his kept girlfriend.”

You mulled over her words before eventually shaking your head.

“No, he… I promise you, that is the last thing this guy wants.”

She tilted her head at you.

“Trust me, if you even knew who I was talking about,” you trailed off with a genuine chuckle. “This man likes his image, and sure, he may pay us and buy us drinks when the occasion calls for it, but he’s not trying to butter me up so he can parade me on his arm.”

“Well, how do you know?”

She continued before you could argue that.

“You are a bit of a sweetheart,” she gently teased, poking your arm. “I think you could melt anyone’s cold heart.”

You knew that she wasn’t completely joking, and that only made you roll your eyes.

The idea of Carmine Falcone ever pursuing an actual relationship with you was laughable for so many reasons, but namely because of who he was. He practically ran Gotham, and you sometimes wondered why he didn’t just go ahead and become Mayor. It’s not like it would be the first time a corrupt politician was in charge, and you were sure he could ensure he’d win with no problem.

You’d even brought it up to him once while he’d been getting undressed.

“You just seem like a guy who likes being in charge,” you’d said, cheek resting on your arms as you watched him. “Surely being Mayor is way better than running some businesses.”

You’d watched him unbutton the cuffs of his shirt, immediately pushing yourself to your knees as he approached you.

“Being the Mayor isn’t as powerful as you think, sweetheart,” he’d told you in that low baritone of his.

“Oh?” you’d cheekily wondered as you undid his tie, sliding it from around his neck. “You know something I don’t?”

He hadn’t responded, only throwing you a crooked smile, and moments later the conversation was forgotten entirely.

Your rapport and relationship with the man was nice enough, but truthfully, everything could be nice enough when money was involved. Fact of the matter was that he was a kingpin from a revered family, and you simply couldn’t fathom that your friend’s situation was currently yours. Carmine Falcone paid you chump change to have sex with him and let him choke you, and when it was over, he got to pretend you didn’t even exist. What more could the man possibly want from you?

Your nails dug into the hand around your throat, a choked gasp escaping your lips as your stomach harshly pressed against the pool table from the force of his thrusts. The billiard balls rolled around on the surface of the table, and your free hand was pressed against the material to steady yourself. Every time your eyes started to close, it was like he could sense it, and he’d hit you with a particularly hard thrust.

When Carmine wanted to have you brought to the Shoreline Lofts, you had to admit that your curiosity made you excited. You’d never been to the loft before, and you’d always been curious about it every time you found yourself at the Iceberg Lounge. While you prepared yourself for what was undoubtedly going to take place the moment you arrived, you hadn’t expected it the very moment you stepped out of the elevator. 

With no time to even take it all in, you’d found yourself manhandled and bent over the pool table within a minute.

It was reminiscent of the few times Carmine stepped into your apartment without a word, hands on your arms to guide you exactly where he wanted you. Just like those times, not a single word left his lips, and his tight grip on your throat told you that this was purely about frustration. He didn’t make a habit of talking about work with you, not a fan of pillow talk, but the few times it came up in conversation, you surmised that it was a lot more than just a king sitting on his throne and telling people what to do.

You always knew when someone fucked up because your body bore the brunt of it.

When he came, it was with a grunt, and spots danced in your vision from how hard he was choking you. Your nails scraped against the felt of the pool table, and when he let you go, your knees buckled. You were miraculously able to hold yourself up while he got presentable, and before you could pull your dress back down with your trembling hands, Carmine beat you to it. When you started to help him, he stopped you by grabbing your hand and putting a thick roll of money in it, and you eyed it.

Even without counting it, you could tell that it was too much…again.

You were fighting to catch your breath, trying to hurry up and do so and question him about this again because you really didn’t know how to feel about this becoming a habit. However, you didn’t get the chance to, Carmine putting his phone to his ear as he told Kenzie to escort you back downstairs.

“My driver will take you home,” he told you as you straightened, struggling to do so as he ended the call. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

You frowned at him at that, and once again, your confusion almost prompted you to question him for a second time when the sound of the elevator reached your ears. Choosing to just coast along on the current that was Carmine Falcone, you made your way to the familiar police officer as he escorted you into the lift. You tucked the money into your purse as you mulled over his words, wondering if you understood him correctly and that meant he’d be riding home with you.

No one in the club paid you any mind with the exception of a familiar face or two that paid you for your time in the same manner that Carmine did. As you followed Kenzie out, you were even tempted to charm your way into getting the other man to reveal a thing or two about his boss that would explain his strange behavior lately, but Kenzie was nothing if not professional around you.

When you slid into the backseat of Carmine’s car, the driver didn’t take off, confirming your earlier suspicions. It only added to your confusion, and you found yourself unable to relax during a time where you’d be nothing but relaxed. Your conversation with your friend came to mind, and you bit your lip. You weren’t about to jump to any conclusions, but one thing was certain.

Your once predictable client was becoming quite the opposite.

You were unsurprised when the dark-haired man slid into the backseat next to you about fifteen minutes later, his driver pulling off and taking a familiar route almost immediately. It felt strange to be sitting beside him in the backseat of his car. Either he was showing up at your door or he was sending his driver to take you to him, the same driver taking you home once you were done. You were already paid for your time and it didn’t exactly include the ride home, so you didn’t know if you should attempt small talk or ignore the thought of keeping up pretenses altogether.

You were almost to your complex when he finally spoke after a silent ride.

“I want to discuss something with you.”

You finally looked at him just as the car slowed to a stop, and you gave him your full attention, both nervous and wary of what he was about to say.

“When you count that money tonight, you’ll see that it’s a lot more than an extra half a grand tacked onto it…”

You took a deep breath at having that confirmed too, giving him a soft ‘okay’.

“...but I’m sure you already guessed that. You’re a smart girl,” he said to you, finally looking at you. “...and I have no doubt you’ve thought about why.”

You only nodded, feeling wholly in the dark about where this conversation was going. 

“My businesses are steadily growing, and with more demand comes more hands to hire to meet those demands…”

“Right.”

“That means more money, yes, but that also comes with more screw ups from new people and more stress from the screw ups…and I’ve been finding myself a lot more stressed these days,” he continued.

You thought to yourself that this was the most he ever talked about his line of work, but you didn’t have the proper chance to linger on that because he was revealing the point of this conversation.

“I want you to free up your time—all of it. I’ll pay whatever I need to.”

It took a few moments for his words—and the meaning behind them—to process, but once they did, you blinked. Then you blinked again, lips parting before you mentally told yourself to close them. Carmine didn’t look away from you the entire time, feeling the weight of that intense gaze even from behind his shades. Telling yourself that your silence was bordering on rude, you cleared your throat.

“Can I think about it?”

It was obvious he hadn’t been expecting that response, even if he didn’t show it, but his silence told you enough. He took a deep breath, and you knew it wasn’t because he actually needed it, but because he was thinking about what to say to you and how to say it. It was interesting to think that because Carmine had been seeing you for a few years now, you knew more about him than probably anyone else.

People tended to reveal a lot about themselves in between the sheets, whether they intended to or not.

“What’s there to think about?” he asked you, voice lowering in the dark car.

Only a lamp on the street lit the side of his face.

“It sounds all good and dandy, Carmine, but what happens when business starts running smoothly again and you don’t need me for stress management anymore and I’ve cut off all my other regulars?”

You licked your lips under his unwavering gaze.

“It just doesn’t seem smart.”

“Have I ever not taken care of you?” he asked you, and you almost wanted to laugh.

“I provide a service, and you pay my rates. Outside of these last couple of meetups, I wouldn’t really call that ‘taking care’ of me,” you hesitantly answered.

Only silence followed your response, and you wondered if you’d crossed the line—if you’d offended Carmine Falcone.

The longer the silence stretched, the more nervous and unsure you became, but you didn’t dare look away from him. When he lifted his hand, you actually flinched, and you didn’t know if it was a trick of the light, but you swore that the corner of his mouth curved. You only relaxed some when his thumb met your chin, his index finger gently grazing underneath.

“Alright,” he finally relented, to your surprise. “Think about it…but don’t think about it too long, okay?”

Your brows drew together at that, getting the feeling that he only expected one answer when it was all said and done, and you had a feeling it wasn’t ‘no’.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m just not feeling well,” you said over the phone. “I should be available next week.”

The man on the other side sighed, his familiar voice wishing you a speedy recovery albeit with an exasperated mumble. When he hung up the phone, it was your turn to sigh, closing your eyes in frustration. Even the simple act of sighing made you wince, and you mentally cursed Carmine Falcone to whatever hell birthed him. Slamming your work phone down onto your nightstand with a bitter satisfaction, you made your way to your kitchen to make some tea.

When you told Carmine you’d think about his offer and when he told you not to think for too long, you knew then that he eventually expected an enthusiastic ‘yes’. After all, in his eyes not only was it an offer you’d be silly to pass up, but why would you ever say no to him? What you hadn’t expected, however, was for the rich man to essentially punish you for your hesitation.

You reached up to graze your cheek, wincing at the skin to skin contact.

Carmine had met up with you days ago, and you were still sporting the evidence of it. He claimed that the stress of things at work got the best of him, but you knew better than that, and you didn’t doubt that he knew you knew. The man liked to be a little rough in bed—wearing a few bruises along your neck in the past—and you got paid to fulfill a service, not judge, but you knew that this was different.

Not once had the other man ever slapped you, bit you hard enough to draw blood, and choked you so hard that you actually passed out. When you came to, you’d been all alone with the sheet covering your frame and a thicker stack of cash on your desk. For a brief moment after coming to, you’d even forgotten what had happened. The bruises in the mirror afterwards were nothing in comparison to how they’d darkened over the course of a day or two.

You knew that Carmine was vicious at times, but you suppose you’d never given him a reason to be so towards you.

When the number of the man in question flashed across your phone hours later, your heart actually skipped a beat. You contemplated ignoring it, but there was no doubt that would bring about a whole new slew of problems if he thought you were ignoring him. Blinking back angry and frustrated tears, you answered on the fourth ring.

“What?”

You didn’t even try to hide your annoyance.

“Is that any way to greet me?”

You sighed, and he seemingly let it slide, continuing before you could respond.

“I’ll be coming by tonight. I should be there in no more than an–.”

“I can’t tonight,” you cut him off, tapping your fingers against your thigh. “I’m not feeling well.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Did you come down with something?”

Feeling like you’d be caught in a lie, you sighed.

“No, but–.”

“I’ll see you in an hour.”

The line went dead before you could even process that, and the breath you let out was full of frustration. The thought of going through tonight what you went through the other night made a ball of dread form deep in your gut, and you wondered what would happen should you choose to just…not answer your door.  If anyone in this city could scare you though, it was Carmine Falcone, so when that knock came exactly one hour later, you were slow to answer it.

…but you answered it nonetheless.

You gazed at him through the cracked door, one hand on the wall as he stood in the hallway in all of his glory.

“Carmine, I told you that I don’t feel good,” you whispered.

He merely hummed at you, the facial hair above his lip twitching.

“You don’t look sick to me…”

You rubbed your forehead in frustration.

“That doesn’t matter…”

Your words died in the air as he moved towards you anyway, pushing the door back and forcing his way by you with ease.

“Carmine…!”

You quickly shut the door behind you, hurrying towards him.

“I told you that I can’t tonight–.”

“Is this about this?” he evenly asked you, gesturing to your appearance. “You’re calling out sick because I got a little rough with you?”

“Bullshit!”

It came out before you could stop yourself, and you regretted it almost as soon as you said it but before you could let that fear linger, tears kissed your eyes against your will as he callously mentioned your last meeting. You attempted to turn away when he reached for your face, pushing at his hand and hating yourself for crying in front of him.

“What is this?” he harshly asked you. “What are you crying for?”

When you finally shoved his hands away, you turned your back on him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Got a little rough with me?” you quietly repeated, looking over your shoulder at him. “Look at my face, Carmine!”

You gestured wildly to your throat.

“Look at my neck…”

You collapsed onto the couch, hands in your lap as you looked up at him.

“Why did you do that to me?” you asked him, voice cracking. “...because you were mad at me? Because I told you something other than yes?”

You really hated that you were crying in front of him, but while you’d had your fair share of bad experiences with men in this line of work, the other night with the man in front of you felt so different. You didn’t know if it was because you and Carmine had known each other for years and a level of trust had been built between you—because you both needed to trust each other on some level for this to work after all—or because he’d gone out of his way to intentionally hurt and demean you for daring to tell him anything other than what he wanted to hear.

Maybe it was a mix of both.

“I told you I’d think about it,” you whispered.

“There isn’t much to think about unless you plan on turning me down.”

You closed your eyes at that, wiping your face with a sniffle.

“Carmine, it’s not just about bills, you know. I have a future to plan and think about and I cannot cut off every other man I regularly see just to put all of my eggs in one precarious basket,” you tearfully spat at him.

“I told you that I would pay whatever you need me to,” he eventually said, slowly moving to sit in the loveseat across from you. “Surely you don’t think I’d have any problem taking care of you and giving you more than enough to plan whatever future you’re imagining.”

You briefly closed your eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Carmine, you scare the hell out of me. God forbid I piss you off again–what are you going to do, break my jaw next time?” you quietly wondered. “I had to turn down two of my regulars this week because of you.”

You watched him watch you as he leaned back into the chair, an elbow on the armrest.

“Do you think that’s something I’d be upset to hear?”

You blinked at him with a frown before briefly glancing away, struggling to swallow.

“Is this really about work and the stress it’s causing you?” you finally asked, voice hushed.

Carmine held your gaze.

“I would be a liar if I said that the thought of you only taking my money doesn’t upset me, at all.”

You slowly nodded at that, wanting to let out a humorless laugh.

“...and if I said no?”

There were a few moments of silence before his shoulders rose and fell.

“Well…we’d just cross that bridge when we got there.”

You didn’t like his tone at that, and you shuddered as you brought your legs up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around your knees.

“I could just leave, you know. The world doesn’t start and end with Gotham,” you lightly threatened. “...and there will always be someone willing to pay to spend the night with a pretty woman.”

“...and what makes you so sure I’d allow that to happen?”

Your face crumbled again at that, and you threw your head back.

“Carmine… There are plenty of girls who work at your club who also do what I do,” you said to him, frustration coloring your tone. “Plenty who would be ecstatic to–.”

“I don’t know those girls like I know you.”

His response was simple—and understandable—enough.

When you didn’t have a response for that, he sighed, and you watched him stand with wide and fearful eyes.

“Well…so long as you’re still mulling it over…”

You jerked your hand back when he reached for you.

“We might as well do what I came here to do.”

“I told you–Carmine, no…”

You were pressed against the couch as he towered over you, and he paused at that, so still as he stared down at you that it genuinely terrified you.

“No?” he hummed. “I really hope I won’t have to hear that a second time.”

“Carmine, please…”

“Don’t you need the money?” he wondered as he roughly pulled you off of the couch. “After all, you had to turn down two offers this week because of me, right? Hmm?”

You kept digging your feet into the floor while he manhandled you towards your bedroom. His hands were tight on your arm and waist, and you winced at the pressure on parts of you that were already sore.

“Isn’t that what you said? Let me make up for that…”

“Stop! I–.”

You cut yourself off with a gasp when you found yourself shoved onto your bed, and your attempt to move back away from him was cut short when he pulled you back to him by your ankle. No matter what you did, he was successful in getting you right where he wanted you, and the thought of enduring another night like the other night had the words tumbling from your lips without hesitation.

“I’ll do it!”

He didn’t hear you at first—or was enjoying scaring you too much—and so you repeated yourself louder, the words coming out more jumbled because of your tears. When he finally paused, you swore that you could feel your heartbeat in your throat, and when his hand loosened around your neck, you let out a choked sigh of relief.

“I’ll do it,” you tearfully told him as he let you sit up. “My time is… It’s all yours, now.”

Carmine didn’t respond right away, but he did rest his hand on your unblemished cheek, brushing his thumb over your skin as he looked over you. He let out a deep hum, taking your chin between his fingers.

“I knew you’d see things my way,” he told you, and you wiped your face. “Besides…”

He pressed his lips to your forehead, hand on your jaw.

“You’re soft,” he murmured against your skin. “Always have been, and it can’t hurt to have me around more.”

His lips moved from your forehead to your cheek and then finally your lips, his other hand resting on your waist. Your heart sped up in your chest, and you made a small noise of protest just before he shushed you.

“I’ll be gentle tonight,” he told you, voice low and rough. “I promise.”

You recognized that you didn’t exactly have a choice, and you blinked back tears as he laid you back down although a few did escape despite your efforts.

Carmine kept his promise, his hands the most gentle they’d ever been while he kept you in his lap, lips brushing over the bruising on your throat. The sensitive parts of your skin were going to hurt regardless, and every time you tensed up at every touch, he shushed you with what you were sure was meant to be a comforting sound.

“You’re alright,” he said to you while he guided you up and down his cock. “Just a little banged up…”

It wasn’t lost on you that had you given a different response tonight, you’d be ‘a little banged up’ even more, and you shuddered when he pulled you closer. Your professional relationship that thrived on mutual benefits had morphed into something a bit more sinister overnight, and you wondered just how truthful Carmine had been when he insinuated that having you all to himself was only a minor perk to his proposition. 

As he flipped you over and gently pressed his hips against yours, you wondered if that was the goal all along.

[midnightquillz]

I wanted to try this again, So i think I got it down this time. :) Honestly i know this poster { @thewriteadviceforwriters was giving advice and i love it but this mentally gave me a prompt. So intentional or not i hope you see this! Thank you :)

MidnightQuillz version of:

✨ The Twist That Reframes Everything ✨

Content Warnings:

Murder and premeditated killing

Financial fraud/embezzlement

Psychological manipulation and deception

Undercover surveillance/stalking

Exploitation of grief support groups

Domestic violence (verbal arguments)

Death of a loved one

Fake grief/emotional manipulation

Police investigation themes

Betrayal of trust

Note: This story involves someone using grief counseling as a cover for criminal activity and an undercover investigation within a mental health support setting.

The Support Group

Jasmine had been going to the grief support group for three months when Alex first showed up.

The community center meeting room always smelled like burnt coffee and industrial disinfectant, but Jasmine had grown oddly fond of it. It was the only place where she didn't have to pretend she was "doing better" or "moving on" or any of the other phrases people used when they were uncomfortable with her pain.

"We have someone new joining us today," Linda, the group facilitator, announced with her usual gentle smile. "Alex, would you like to introduce yourself?"

Alex was younger than most of the group—maybe late twenties, with tired eyes and the kind of nervous energy that came from drinking too much coffee and sleeping too little. They fidgeted with the sleeves of their oversized sweater as they spoke.

"Hi, I'm Alex. I... my partner died six months ago. Car accident." Their voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm not really good at this talking thing, but my therapist said I should try."

"Thank you for sharing," Linda said. "What would you like us to know about your partner?"

Alex's face softened. "Their name was Jordan. They were... they were everything good about the world, you know? Always making everyone laugh, always trying to help people. They worked at the animal shelter downtown because they said someone had to speak for the ones who couldn't speak for themselves."

Jasmine felt the familiar ache in her chest. It had been eight months since Marcus died—also a car accident, though his had been at night, in the rain, on his way home from working late at the youth center. She'd heard Alex's story a hundred times in different versions from different people, but it never got easier.

After the meeting, Jasmine found herself walking out with Alex. It wasn't intentional—they just happened to be heading in the same direction.

"How do you do it?" Alex asked suddenly. "Linda said you've been coming for months. Does it get easier?"

Jasmine considered lying, giving the answer people wanted to hear. Instead, she said, "Some days are better than others. Some days I still wake up and forget he's gone."

"Jordan used to leave me little notes," Alex said. "Stupid things, like reminders to eat lunch or jokes they found online. I keep finding them in random places—jacket pockets, between book pages. It's like they're still trying to take care of me."

"Marcus did that too," Jasmine said, surprised. "He'd put Post-it notes on the bathroom mirror with terrible puns. I couldn't bring myself to take them down for months."

They walked in comfortable silence for a while. Then Alex said, "Would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Not like a date or anything, just... it might be nice to talk to someone who gets it."

Jasmine hesitated. She hadn't really talked to anyone outside the group since Marcus died. Her friends and family meant well, but they all seemed to think grief had an expiration date.

"I know a place," she said finally. "The café on Pine Street. They have terrible coffee but good pastries."

Alex smiled—the first genuine smile Jasmine had seen from them. "Perfect. I love terrible coffee."

Over the next few weeks, Jasmine and Alex fell into an easy friendship. They met for coffee after group meetings, texted each other on bad days, and slowly began to share the weight of their grief.

Alex was funny in a dark, self-deprecating way that made Jasmine laugh despite herself. They had strong opinions about movies, knew an alarming amount about obscure true crime cases, and always ordered the same thing at the café—black coffee and a blueberry muffin they never finished.

"Jordan would have loved you," Alex said one afternoon, stirring sugar into their coffee. "They collected people like you."

"People like me?"

"Good people. Genuine people. They had this theory that the world was full of people pretending to be okay, and the only way to survive was to find the ones who admitted they weren't."

Jasmine thought about Marcus, about how he'd had a similar philosophy. "What did Jordan do at the animal shelter?"

"They were a veterinary technician. Worked mostly with the dogs nobody wanted—the old ones, the sick ones, the ones with behavioral issues. Jordan said they just needed someone to be patient with them."

"That sounds like Marcus. He worked with teenagers everyone else had given up on."

Alex nodded. "Do you think they would have been friends? Jordan and Marcus?"

"Definitely," Jasmine said. "Marcus would have loved Jordan's Post-it note thing. He was always trying to make people smile."

"What's the worst thing about it?" Alex asked suddenly. "The grief, I mean."

Jasmine considered. "People expect you to be grateful for the time you had. Like the pain is worth it because you got to love someone. But some days I think I'd rather have never met him than feel like this."

"Yeah," Alex said quietly. "And then you feel guilty for thinking that."

"Exactly."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the rain streak down the café windows. Outside, people hurried past with umbrellas and determined expressions, everyone rushing somewhere important. Jasmine wondered if any of them were carrying the kind of weight she and Alex carried.

"Can I ask you something?" Alex said. "Do you ever feel like... like you're betraying them by moving forward? Like enjoying anything is proof you didn't love them enough?"

"All the time," Jasmine admitted. "I laughed at something on TV last week and immediately felt sick about it. Like I was supposed to be sad forever to prove he mattered."

"Jordan would hate that," Alex said. "They'd probably leave me a note telling me to stop being an idiot and go live my life."

"Marcus would say the same thing. He was always pushing people to be better than they thought they could be."

Alex smiled, but it didn't reach their eyes. "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd been in the car with them that night."

"Alex..."

"Not in a suicidal way," Alex said quickly. "I mean, maybe sometimes. But mostly I just wonder if I could have changed something. If I'd been there, maybe I could have grabbed the wheel, or told them to slow down, or..."

"Or you'd both be dead," Jasmine said gently. "I've had the same thoughts about Marcus. What if I'd convinced him to stay home that night? What if I'd picked him up instead of letting him drive? But you can't live in the what-ifs."

"I know. Jordan's mom tells me the same thing. She says Jordan wouldn't want me to blame myself."

"You're close with Jordan's family?"

"They're all I have left of Jordan, you know? Jordan's mom still texts me every week to check in. Their dad sends me pictures of their dog. It's like... they're keeping me connected to the person I was when Jordan was alive."

Jasmine felt a pang of envy. Marcus's family had been kind but distant after the funeral. They'd never really approved of their relationship, and his death had only made things more awkward.

"That's beautiful," she said. "I'm glad you have that."

"What about you? Do you have anyone who knew Marcus well?"

"A few friends from work, but they don't really know what to say anymore. Everyone's moved on except me."

Alex reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I'm not moving on either. We can not move on together."

The following week, Alex didn't show up to group. Jasmine waited until the last minute, thinking maybe they were just running late, but Linda started the session without them.

"Is Alex okay?" Jasmine asked Linda after the meeting.

"I'm sure they're fine," Linda said. "People sometimes need breaks from group. The work we do here can be overwhelming."

Jasmine texted Alex that night: Missed you at group today. Everything okay?

No response.

She tried again the next day, and the day after that. By the weekend, she was genuinely worried. It wasn't like Alex to disappear without saying anything.

On Monday, she decided to stop by the animal shelter where Jordan had worked. Maybe someone there would know how to reach Alex, or at least confirm that they were okay.

The shelter was a small, cheerful building with murals of dogs and cats painted on the outside walls. Inside, the smell of disinfectant couldn't quite mask the underlying scent of animals and hope.

"Excuse me," Jasmine said to the young woman at the front desk. "I'm looking for information about someone who used to work here. Jordan?"

The woman looked confused. "Jordan? I'm sorry, what's their last name?"

"I... I don't actually know. They worked here as a vet tech. They died about six months ago in a car accident?"

The woman's expression grew more puzzled. "I'm sorry, but I don't think anyone named Jordan has worked here. I've been here for two years, and before that my supervisor would have mentioned anyone who... who died. Can you describe them?"

Jasmine realized she couldn't. Alex had talked about Jordan constantly but had never shown her a picture, never described what they looked like beyond vague terms like "beautiful" and "kind."

"Maybe I have the wrong shelter," she said weakly.

"Maybe. You could try the city shelter on Broadway, or the one in Queen Anne."

Jasmine thanked her and left, but she didn't go to the other shelters. Instead, she sat in her car in the parking lot, trying to make sense of what she'd just learned.

That evening, she googled "car accident Jordan Seattle six months ago" and found nothing. She tried different variations—Jordan, car accident, vet tech, animal shelter—but came up empty.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Alex: Sorry I missed group. Been having a rough week. Coffee tomorrow?

Jasmine stared at the message for a long time before responding: Sure. Pine Street café at 2?

Perfect. See you then.

Alex looked terrible when they showed up to the café the next day. Their eyes were red-rimmed, and they kept glancing around nervously.

"Are you okay?" Jasmine asked. "You look like you haven't slept."

"I haven't been sleeping well," Alex admitted. "Bad dreams."

"About Jordan?"

Alex's face went very still. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because... because that's what we talk about. Our partners. Our grief."

"Right. Yes. About Jordan."

They ordered their usual—black coffee and a blueberry muffin—but Alex's hands were shaking slightly as they stirred sugar into their cup.

"Alex, I need to ask you something," Jasmine said carefully. "I went to the animal shelter yesterday. The one where Jordan worked."

Alex went very pale. "Why?"

"Because I was worried about you. You disappeared without saying anything, and I thought maybe someone there could help me figure out if you were okay."

"And?"

"They said no one named Jordan had ever worked there."

Alex was quiet for a long moment. Then they said, "Maybe I got the name wrong. Maybe it was a different shelter."

"Alex."

"Or maybe they just didn't know. Big staff turnover, you know?"

"Alex, stop."

Alex looked up at her, and Jasmine saw something in their eyes that made her stomach drop. Fear. Guilt. And something else—something that looked almost like relief.

"There is no Jordan, is there?" Jasmine said quietly.

Alex's face crumpled. "I can explain."

"I don't understand. Why would you lie about something like that?"

"Because I needed to," Alex said, tears starting to fall. "Because I needed to understand."

"Understand what?"

Alex wiped their eyes with their sleeve. "How you did it. How you got away with it."

"Got away with what?"

"Killing Marcus."

The words hit Jasmine like a physical blow. "What?"

"I know it was you," Alex said, their voice suddenly steady. "I know you killed him, and I know you've been lying about it for eight months."

Jasmine felt the world tilt around her. "Alex, what are you talking about? Marcus died in a car accident. You know that. Everyone knows that."

"Marcus Chen died in a single-car accident on Highway 99 at 11:47 PM on a rainy Tuesday night," Alex said, and their voice was different now—clinical, precise. "He was driving home from work when his car hydroplaned and hit a tree. No other vehicles involved. No witnesses."

"How do you know his last name?" Jasmine whispered.

"Because I've been investigating his death for eight months. Because Marcus Chen was my brother."

The café suddenly felt very small and very quiet. Jasmine could hear her own heartbeat in her ears.

"Your brother," she repeated.

"My older brother. Marcus Alexander Chen. He called me Alex when we were kids because he said my real name was too long. Alexandra." Alex's eyes were hard now, all pretense of grief gone. "He was driving home from the youth center where he volunteered, just like he did every Tuesday night. Except that Tuesday, he'd been fighting with his girlfriend. You."

"We didn't fight—"

"You did. The neighbors heard you screaming at each other. Something about money, about him finding out what you'd been doing." Alex leaned forward. "Want to know what I think happened?"

Jasmine wanted to run, to scream, to deny everything, but she was frozen in place.

"I think you'd been stealing from the youth center's fundraising account. Marcus was treasurer, so he would have noticed eventually. I think he confronted you, and you fought, and you knew your comfortable little life was about to fall apart." Alex's voice was getting louder. "So you followed him when he left. You waited until he was on that dark stretch of highway, and you ran him off the road."

"That's insane. You're insane."

"Am I? Because I've been watching you for months, Jasmine. I've been to your apartment, I've followed you to work, I've sat in group therapy sessions listening to you perform grief for a man you murdered." Alex pulled out their phone. "I've been recording everything."

Jasmine's blood turned to ice. "Recording what?"

"Every conversation. Every coffee date. Every time you slipped up and said something that didn't match the story you told the police." Alex scrolled through their phone. "Like how you said Marcus left you Post-it notes on the bathroom mirror, but you told the investigating officer you'd removed all his things from the apartment the week after he died. Or how you said he was working late that night, but the youth center's records show he left at his normal time."

"You're twisting things—"

"Or how you knew exactly how much money was missing from the fundraising account even though that information was never made public."

Jasmine felt like she was drowning. "I never said anything about money."

"Two weeks ago. You said Marcus was always worried about money, that he'd been stressed about some accounting discrepancy at work. But the only people who knew about the missing money were Marcus, the center's director, and the police."

Alex leaned back in their chair, and for the first time since Jasmine had known them, they looked genuinely calm.

"I've been building a case against you for eight months," Alex said. "The fake grief support group attendance, the manufactured friendship, the recorded conversations—it's all evidence. And tomorrow morning, I'm taking it all to the police."

Jasmine's hands were shaking now. "You can't prove anything."

"Actually, I can. See, while I was playing your grieving friend, I was also tracking your financial records. Turns out you made some interesting deposits right after Marcus died. Insurance money, sure, but also payments from some offshore accounts that are very hard to trace."

"You're crazy."

"And you're a murderer who's been using a grief support group as cover for your guilt." Alex stood up. "The really sick part is that you actually seemed to enjoy it. Playing the grieving girlfriend, getting sympathy, making friends with other people who were actually in pain."

Jasmine thought about all their conversations, all the times she'd felt genuinely connected to Alex, all the moments when sharing her "grief" had felt almost real.

"I did love him," she said quietly.

"No, you didn't. You loved what he could give you. And when he threatened to take that away, you killed him."

Alex gathered their things. "Oh, and Jasmine? That story about Jordan? I got it from you. Every detail about the Post-it notes, the animal shelter, the caring nature—that was all Marcus. I just changed the name and made up a car accident. Funny how easy it was to get you to tell me exactly how to fake grief when you'd been doing it for months."

They paused at the door. "The police will be in touch soon. I'd suggest you get a lawyer."

And then Alex was gone, leaving Jasmine alone with her cold coffee and the terrible understanding that everything she thought she knew about the last three months had been a lie.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Thanks for the confession. - Detective Chen

Detective Chen. Marcus's sister. Alexandra Chen, who'd been patient and kind and understanding while she built an airtight case against the woman who'd killed her brother.

Jasmine looked around the café, at the other customers drinking their coffee and living their normal lives, and realized she was probably looking at it for the last time as a free woman.

Outside, it started to rain.

🔪 3 Plot Twists That Slap (and 1 that should be arrested) 🔪

hello and welcome back to me yelling on main about storytelling crimes. today we are talking about plot twists. specifically: the good, the god-tier, and the why-would-you-do-this-i-trusted-you tier.

let’s go.

✨ The Twist That Reframes Everything ✨ a.k.a. the “wait. WAIT.” twist. This is when you drop a twist that doesn’t just add drama - it recontextualizes the entire story. It makes the reader go back and reread earlier scenes like “was this character ALWAYS sketchy or am I just stupid??” It retroactively changes the emotional weight of everything that’s happened. Suddenly that offhanded comment in chapter three hits like a brick. The romance subplot becomes 500% more tragic. The villain’s motive makes SENSE now. Delicious.

✅ Best used when: the breadcrumbs are subtle but real. The twist shouldn’t come out of nowhere - it should feel inevitable in hindsight. Like Sixth Sense, Knives Out, that one betrayal in your favorite anime you still haven’t recovered from.

2.🧨 The Emotional Betrayal It’s giving: “i would’ve died for you” energy. This is the kind of twist that hurts. You thought they were loyal. You thought they cared. They did care - and still did it anyway. Or they never cared, and now you’re spiraling. This twist slaps because it’s not just about plot, it’s about trust. It stabs the characters AND the reader in the same motion. Bonus points if it’s a slow burn betrayal. Bonus bonus points if the betrayer feels genuinely torn up about it.

✅ Best used when: the reader is emotionally attached. Don’t waste this one on a side character we barely know. Save it for the love interest. The best friend. The mentor figure with dad energy. Make it personal. Make it RUIN lives.

3. 🧊 The “They Were Dead the Whole Time” but Make It Interesting Listen. This one’s risky. It’s a classic for a reason but also easy to flop. But when done well? Haunting. Creepy. Unhinged in a gorgeous way. It doesn’t have to be death either - maybe the character’s been possessed. Or they’re not real. Or the narrator’s memory is lying. The KEY is to not lean too hard on the shock. Lean on the vibes. Give it eeriness. Make it a slow unraveling. Give us dread. Give us melancholy. Give us psychological decay with a side of unreliable narrator.

✅ Best used when: you’re writing something surreal, gothic, speculative, or emotionally weird. This twist isn’t about plot logic, it’s about atmosphere and emotional rot.

🚨 The Twist That Should Be Arrested: “It Was All a Dream” 🚨 I’m sorry but. no. if I read 80k words of someone’s descent into madness just to find out it was their stress dream and now they’re normal again?? I will throw the entire book into a lake. This twist erases tension instead of escalating it. It invalidates everything the reader emotionally invested in. It’s the narrative equivalent of gaslighting. don’t do it. UNLESS - and this is a big unless - you’re doing it with INTENT. Meta intent. Dream-within-a-dream psychological horror intent. If you’re gonna do it, it better haunt me. It better RUIN me. Otherwise? Into the lake.

okay that’s all. go forth and commit plot crimes responsibly. bonus points if you use all three Good Twists in the same story and then look me in the eye like “oh was that too much?”

it wasn’t.

tag me when you emotionally destroy someone with it.

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

[33lol]

Bath Time

Pazzi (paige x azzi)

SMUT

warnings: soft sexual content, crying/emotional breakdown, fingering, a hint of nipple play, lots of fluff, aftercare

wc: 3.4k

MDNI

It was finals week at UConn. Meaning Azzi was stacked with exams and lectures. She had an 8am class—which she forgot to set her alarm for and was almost late to. Then she had a Calc exam right after that she stayed up late studying for (hence why she forget to set her alarm). Math had never been her strong suit, so she was already anxious before stepping into the math building. The team also had film the previous day, in which she was called out a lot in the tapes for simple mistakes. Ones she knew how to fix, but had just been too in her head to focus in the moment.

Luckily for Azzi, she was finished with classes and work for break after she took her Calc exam. Did she feel confident in her answers—no. But she just didn’t have the energy to care right now. All she wanted to do was go back to her dorm and crawl in a hole.

Azzi was on her way, walking back to her and Paige’s dorm when she saw her grade get put in for the test. She didn’t want to open it, but she knew she had to. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and clicked open the grade,

Calculus Final Exam

C+

Was it the worst she’d ever done on a test, no. But it was the worst she’d done on a final. On a test that really mattered—and it was definitely not up to Azzi’s standards. Azzi couldn’t help but start balling, letting the emotions override her composure. Hot tears streamed down her face, smudging her mascara and leaving streaks on her cheeks. Eventually she picked back up in her steps—barely. She kept walking, feeling overwhelmed with anxiety and exhaustion from her week. It didn’t necessarily pan out how she imagined, and seeing what she thought was hard work not pay off in the end was the last straw. Each step felt heavy as she dragged her feet across campus. It was only a five minute walk from her class to her dorm, but it felt more like thirty.

Eventually she made it back to her dorm. She felt a hundred pounds heavier walking up the stairs with the weight of the week on her shoulders. When she got to the door, she just stood there. Then remembered, Paige was home. Paige was her home. She reached for her keys and fumbled with them while unlocking the door because of how shaking they were.

When she finally opened the door, she saw Paige sitting on the couch reading a book. She looked so calm, stress free—unlike her best friend hovering in the doorway. Paige looked up at the door and saw Azzi immediately start crying again.

She rushed up off the couch, “Hey, hey. What’s wrong baby?” Paige said frantically pulling Azzi into her chest.

Azzi let herself be pulled, melting into the warmth and comfort of the blonde. Still letting out gut-wrenching sobs into Paige’s shirt.

“Azzi baby,” Paige said softly. “What’s goin on in that pretty head of yours. Huh?”

Azzi clutched Paige’s shirt tighter. Knowing she was probably getting mascara on it, she pulled away slightly—but still didn’t look up yet.

“I.. feel.. like shit,” Azzi said through her sobs.

Paige sighed, aching for Azzi feeling so horrible.

“Come here ma,” Paige said, pulling her into a tight hug further into the living room. Paige wrapped her arms around Azzi’s back, waiting for Azzi to relax into her.

Azzi leaned further into Paige, resting her head over the older girl’s heart. She felt the steady beats in her chest and the deep breaths from her lungs. It helped a little. At least to where Azzi stopped crying.

“Can you look at me Az?” Paige said so gently and soft. Her heart felt like it was ripped into a million pieces when Azzi finally glanced up at her and she looked ruined. Her eyes were red and puffy, mascara smeared under her eyes, and tears streaks running down her cheeks.

Paige ran her fingers under her eyes, wiping away some of the black smudges. Then she leaned down and kissed Azzi’s cheeks, trying to dry up the salty wetness, willing the younger girl to focus on her. Azzi closed her eyes at the feeling of Paige’s lips on her skin. A feeling she never got tired of.

Azzi showed the faintest sign of a smile when Paige cradled her face and said, “I’m here. I’ve got you now,” with the utmost certainty and assurance in her tone.

“What happened bubs?” Paige asked caressing Azzi’s jaw with her thumb.

Azzi took a long, deep breath and exhaled. “I’ve just had such a busy and stressful week. I’ve been stacked with classes and preparing for finals. And then having Geno on my ass at practice hasn’t been helping.” Azzi closed her eyes and sighed again. “And then I was almost late for class this morning because I forgot to set my alarm and then I had a final right after it that I literally fucking bombed and my knee’s been hurting all week but I haven’t had much ti—”

“Baby breathe,” Paige cut into Azzi’s anxious rambling.

Azzi’s chin started trembling again, but before any tears could start streaming again, Paige kissed her forehead and rubbed up and down her arms.

“I wanna help you relax. The week is over now. I don’t want you thinking about anything else other than being here with me right now. Okay mama?”

Azzi nodded and fell back into the safety of Paige’s chest. “I got mascara on your shirt,” she said, muffled into Paige's body.

“I don’t give a shit about the shirt,” Paige giggled trying to lighten the mood.

Azzi let out a breath that may have been a slight laugh to some ears.

“Hey.. do you want me to run you a warm bath?” Paige suggested while rubbing Azzi’s back.

Azzi smiled at the idea and mumbled, “Mhm. Sounds nice.”

Paige kissed the top of Azzi’s head and started walking them toward their bathroom. Paige kept Azzi in front of her, walking with her arms around her waist behind her.

They got in the bathroom where Paige turned the lights to the dimmer setting and started the bath water. She put some eucalyptus oil bubbles in water in hopes of calming Azzi down.

“Sit on the toilet seat ma”

Azzi padded over to the toilet and sat down with a grunt. She was subconsciously rubbing at her knee, and Paige noticed.

“Is your knee flaring up again?” she asked while grabbing something from the counter.

Azzi shrugged, “I don’t know.”

Paige knelt down in front of her holding a pack of makeup wipes. “Azzi.. how long has your knee been hurting mama?” she asked a bit more sternly. She wasn’t messing with the health of her favorite person. Not after everything she’s worked so hard to get back to.

“Since Sunday,” Azzi said barely above a whisper, with her wide doe eyes averting Paige’s gaze.

Paige sighed, “It’s Friday,” she informed her with worried eyes.

Azzi just nodded, sitting with her shoulders curled in. She looked small—helpless. But she was never actually helpless when she was with Paige.

Paige kissed her left knee, saying a short, silent prayer over it. Then she moved to her right knee, doing the same thing—kissing it and saying the same prayer.

Azzi looked down at her with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. She never had to think when she was with Paige. She could lean on her. Paige was her rock in a way. They were best friends, but deep down they were just waiting for something to change. And tonight was it.

Paige popped back up and opened the pack of makeup wipes, pulling one out and setting the pack aside.

“Close your eyes for me,” Paige said in a low voice

Azzi did. She let Paige take care of her. Paige gently swiped the cold wipe over her face, ridding any stress and doubt from the week from her skin.

When Paige was done, she stood up and kissed Azzi’s temple before turning off the water.

“Stand up mama. Imma take your clothes off okay?” Paige said with care. “Wanna get you in that warm bath.”

Azzi nodded and stood carefully. She still felt heavy, like every movement took ten times more effort.

“Lift your arms for me”

Azzi stretched her arms over her head, thankful for Paige’s help. Paige took the hem of Azzi’s shirt and lifted it slowly up her body, and gently over her head.

She set the shirt on the counter and turned back to Azzi. Paige reached around Azzi’s back and unclasped her bra. She slid the straps down her shoulders, letting her feel the cool air.

Azzi had been naked in front of Paige before. The best friends have always been comfortable changing in front of the other, they’ve even showered together before. But this time felt different—weighted.

Paige leaned down, kissing Azzi’s collarbone. Azzi smiled at the blonde below her. She set her bra down on the counter with her shirt. Paige crouched lower and Azzi rested her hands on her shoulders. Paige looked up at her to check in. When she saw Azzi looking more unguarded, she felt good to keep going. She slid the waist band of her leggings and underwear down at the same time. Azzi stepped out of them while still holding onto Paige for stability. Paige shoved the clothes away and stood back up.

Paige took Azzi’s hands, “Let me help you in baby.”

Azzi’s eyebrows furrowed a bit and her bottom lip jutted into a pout, “You’re not getting in with me?”

Paige looked into those eyes. The ones that showed every emotion on Azzi’s face—the ones she could never say no to.

Paige smirked and let out a short laugh, “I didn’t know if you wanted space or not”

“I never want space with you,” Azzi said, still pouting.

“Ok then,” Paige said, faking annoyance with a little eye roll, but couldn’t help but smile. She kissed the corner of Azzi’s mouth—getting rid of the pout immediately—and yanked her shirt off. Azzi stood there, watching the way Paige gave in so easily. Paige took her sports bra off, and then her shorts, and then her boxers. Paige was still smiling softly. She stepped in the tub first, noticing the warmth to be the exact temperature Azzi liked. She took Azzi’s hands and helped her in over the side of the tub. Paige helped her lower into the tub before sitting down behind her. She wrapped her arms around Azzi’s stomach and laid her head on her shoulder.

“Let me take care of you, okay? You’ve got me.”

Azzi hummed and leaned her head back on Paige’s shoulder. Paige kissed the side of Azzi’s neck and took some of the water and bubbles and cupped it over her back. She did that for her arms and her shoulders. Massaging the warmth into her muscles.

Azzi closed her eyes and enjoyed the older girl’s thoughtfulness. Paige ran her hands deep on Azzi’s shoulders and neck, eliciting moans and grunts from Azzi any time she hit a knot or a point of tension. Azzi didn’t have to say anything for her to know she was starting to feel better. Paige leaned further back into the tub, pulling Azzi to lay more onto her chest. She scooped more water and cupped it over Azzi’s chest and stomach. She ran her hands along her sides and lower on her hips, massaging there as well.

This was the most relaxed, cared for, and seen Azzi had felt all week. Her week was hectic and rushed. But Paige always knew how to slow her down. Paige leaned in Azzi’s ear, “Want me to scratch your back mama?” she asked quietly.

Azzi’s mouth twitched into a barely there smile, “Mhm.” She sat up a little, enough for Paige to reach her back. Paige started slow, scratching her back in circles, tracing random shapes, and connecting the dots of Azzi’s freckles. Then she had an idea. She started writing out letters to see if Azzi could pick up on what she was saying,

A-Z-Z-I

A moment went by. Then the brunette giggled, “Did you just spell my name?”

“Maybe,” Paige said with a teasing glint.

She thought of another one,

B-I-G-H-E—

“Hey!” Azzi looked back at her trying to act mad, but couldn’t hide the smile fighting to stay on her lips.

Paige threw her head back and laughed, then she kissed Azzi’s cheek. “Sorry ma,” but she wasn’t that sorry.

“Ok I have one more,”

I—L-O-V-E—Y-O-U

Azzi wasn’t dumb. She knew what Paige said, but she also wanted to get her back for the last word.

Azzi fake gasped, “Paige Madison, you did not just write ‘Big Daddy’ on my back!”

“What!?” Paige said, starting to blush. Azzi knew that was her nickname from the team. She also knew Paige liked it.

Azzi bursted out laughing, her whole body shaking from the giggles. Paige smiled seeing Azzi more carefree, even if it was at her dignity’s expense.

“You fucker,” Paige said with no bite.

She wrapped her arms around the younger girl again and pulled her back against her front.

“I love you too,” Azzi said quieter from the loud laughs erupting from her just moments ago.

Paige squeezed her hips and then trailed her hands to Azzi’s knees, rubbing lightly. She traced over her scars and massaged the tissue, hoping to help relieve some pain. The she moved her hands to the insides of Azzi’s thighs—starting to trace along that skin as well.

Azzi’s breath caught for a second. She tilted her head back and looked at Paige.

“I know what else would make you feel better…” Paige said quietly—almost nervous to even suggest it. Azzi immediately got butterflies low in her stomach. Azzi had thought about it before too. She just never forced anything that she thought should come naturally.

“Yeah?” Azzi retorted in a breathy voice.

“Yeah… I mean.. only if you want. I don’t wanna.. like take advantage of you or anything.” Paige said sincerely and genuinely worried that it may come across like she was using Azzi at a vulnerable point.

“No, P… I’ve wanted this for a while. I always want you. Please.” Azzi begged.

Paige looked into her eyes—still searching for clarity—but instead of words, Azzi took Paige’s wrist and moved it higher on her thigh.

Paige glanced down at Azzi’s lips, then back up, and then down again. Before she knew it, she leaned in, meeting Azzi’s soft lips that were salty from the tears.

Azzi sighed into the kiss, letting Paige take control. Paige managed her tongue into Azzi’s mouth, gliding across her lips and tongue—tasting. Once she felt that Azzi was relaxed enough into the kiss, she moved her right hand over the place Azzi really needed her. Her other hand came up her side, squeezing her hips, holding her stomach, holding her thigh. She just wanted to touch Azzi, anywhere she’d let her. She wanted her to feel her. Just her.

They were still kissing, Azzi losing herself in the movement of Paige’s lips. Paige let her fingers start circling Azzi’s clit—slow circles and light pressure. Azzi whimpered against Paige’s lips—letting go slightly, but Paige pulled Azzi’s bottom lip with her teeth to bring her back in.

Paige squeezed her thigh with her free hand, letting her know she’s okay. Telling her everything they haven’t said. She circled her clit like that for a minute, adding pressure gradually. Azzi started breathing a little harder against Paige’s mouth. Paige dipped her fingers lower, over her cunt and spread her slick back up to her clit—circling again.

Azzi couldn’t keep up her side of the kissing—the sensation of Paige’s fingers becoming overwhelming. Paige felt it and pulled back. Their faces were still close, Azzi still tilted back to look at her.

“It’s okay baby. I got you. I wanna hear you know. Let it out,” Paige encouraged her tenderly.

Azzi nodded breathless and leaned her face more onto Paige’s neck. Paige moved her fingers back down slowly. Azzi’s eyes fluttered closed and she let out a small gasp as Paige slid two fingers into Azzi’s entrance.

Paige started a slow rhythm, using her thumb to still keep pressure on her clit. She pumped in and out, curling up into Azzi. She listened to Azzi’s breathing, becoming more ragged—and she heard how her moans were coming out high. She took her time, not wanting to rush. She felt Azzi deserved that. For this moment to be the slowest thing about her week.

“So good for me, Azzi baby. You’re so good. Let go for me,” Paige kept saying to Azzi.

“You’re so beautiful. So perfect.”

“Just feel me.”

“I’m here with you. Always.”

Paige moved her left hand up to Azzi’s stomach, holding her firmer. She picked up her pace a bit with her fingers inside Azzi.

Paige saw the rise and fall of Azzi’s chest starting to become quicker.

“Mm, feel good mama?” Paige asked lowly, to keep her grounded.

Azzi nodded, “S’good,” she choked out through her rugged voice.

Paige pushed her fingers in deeper, curling higher into Azzi.

“Ahh—mm-fuck,” Azzi moaned by Paige’s ear.

Paige rubbed Azzi’s clit harder and pumped her fingers in faster—wanting Azzi to fully give herself to her.

“Mm-I—fuck—P-Paige”

“Cum for me Az. Let go.”

“I’m—ah- I’m close”

Paige moved her left hand up to caress Azzi’s nipples softly, adding to the tension and helping her get there.

Paige pushed down hard on Azzi’s clit and curled in just the right spot. Making her arch into her chest and let out a heavenly whimper in Paige’s ear.

Paige felt Azzi cum. She felt her cum hard, like it had been pent up in her for a while. She slowed her fingers down, letting Azzi ride out her high. Paige pulled out slow, seeing Azzi twitch from the sensitive touch.

Paige used the soapy water to rinse off her fingers and then ran her hands over Azzi’s sides, “You did so good princess.”

Azzi still had her face slightly in Paige’s neck. She was trembling, body and mind exhausted. “Mmm” was all she could get out while leaning further into Paige.

Paige smiled and held her close for a minute longer. The water was starting to get cooler and Paige saw the goosebumps on Azzi’s skin.

“Can I help you out ma? So I can get you all warm in bed?” Paige offered in a sweet voice.

Azzi nodded in Paige’s neck, “Mhm”

“Okay then. Sit up for me baby,” Paige helped Azzi lean forward.

Paige stood up and stepped out of the tub first.

“Take my hands”

Azzi grabbed Paige’s hands and was pulled up carefully. She helped her step out of the bath, then got towels from the warmer. She wrapped one around Azzi first, drying off the water droplets sprinkled on her body. Then she wrapped herself up and walked them toward their room.

“Stay there,” Paige said to Azzi standing by the foot of the bed. “Imma get some clothes for us.”

Azzi waited, shivering slightly—but watching how Paige didn’t hesitate to take care of her. Paige walked back with Azzi’s favorite hoodie (which was actually Paige’s) to wear to bed and a pair of boxers. She slipped their towels off of them and helped Azzi into the hoodie. She bent down and let Azzi step in the boxers while Azzi held her shoulders. Paige threw on her clothes as well and guided Azzi onto the bed.

Paige climbed up to the pillows, opening her arms, “Come here baby.”

Azzi crawled up to Paige and plopped right on her chest—breathing in her calming scent. Paige rubbed circles on her back and ran her fingers through her scalp with the other.

“I’m sorry you had sucky week. I wish I would’ve done something sooner,” Paige admitted with guilt.

Azzi looked up, just enough to make her point, “Not your fault. I tried to hide it. And you’re here now, P. That’s all I want. Thank your for being here.”

Paige smiled softly, “Man I love you Azzi.”

Azzi blushed in the dim light of the room. “I love you too Paige.”

And they knew what each other meant. Things were different now. A good different. And they would talk more about it later. But they already knew they belonged to each other.

Paige leaned down and pressed a soft, sweet kiss to Azzi’s lips—then the top of her head. Azzi hummed at the affection. Paige turned the lamp off and continued rubbing Azzi’s back and stroking her hair—until the pair fell asleep, wrapped in each other. Not the week they had, not the hard days—just them. Together.

[berrychaivibe]

Fast Lane Feelings | One Shot

summary: you and lando never got along with each other until one day he finally tells what’s been going on with him

pairing: lando norris x f1driver! female reader

request by: Hello! Can I request a Lando Norris x female reader Emines to lovers? Only at the end it’s a bit steamy and they both race for McLaren and are very competitive? Thank you, great work! – @ripmyselfxd

author note: sorry this took so long to write! Enjoy ♥️

warnings: cursed words

one shot

You’re grateful today was your day off—but of course, you had to spend it stuck by Lando’s side. The two of you have never really gotten along. It’s always been the same cycle: constant bickering, sarcastic remarks, and the occasional cold shoulder when you just don’t have the energy to deal with him.

You’ve known Lando for three years now, and somehow, he still gives you the ick. You honestly don’t understand what everyone sees in him—what makes people gravitate toward him the way they do. Whenever he’s around, the energy shifts, and not in a good way.

It’s like a dark cloud settles over you the moment he walks into the room.

“I can’t believe I have to do this shit!” You mutter underneath your breath.

You knocked on the door of his hotel room, nerves buzzing as you waited for him to answer. You’d come to give your boss a piece of your mind—but now that you were here, the words felt stuck in your throat.

You raised your hand to knock again when the door swung open. Lando stood there, leaning casually against the frame, eyes narrowing with that trademark smirk.

“Ice Queen,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You scoffed, brushing past him into the room and settling onto the couch like you owned it. “We need to talk, Golden Boy.”

Lando shut the door and turned to face you. “Let me guess—this is about how you lost to me three days ago?”

God, he was so fucking annoying.

“No,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “This is about you disappearing. Why the hell aren’t you showing up for the race?”

He lets out a sigh. “The boss sent you, didn’t he?”

You breathed out, sharp and heavy. “I don’t have time for your bullshit Lando. What’s going on with you?”

Lando sank into the couch, leaving a small space between you. You stayed quiet, giving him room to gather his thoughts.

He exhaled slowly. “You know… ever since you beat me three times at Monza, it’s like I don’t even recognize myself on track anymore.”

“Huh? Come again?” You said, tilting your head with a confused expression.

He began explaining, “I lost my edge after you started beating me in all those races.”

You nodded, listening closely as he went on. “I’ve tried over and over to get my mojo back, but nothing’s worked.”

“Have you talked to Andrea about it?” you asked.

He gave a small nod. “Yeah, but he thinks the real issue is that I can’t race properly anymore… because of you.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at you. “I know, but…” he said, trailing off as he reached for your hand. “He thinks I’m in love with you.”

“What?” Your eyes widened as you looked at him. “Lando, we both know that can't be true.”

He stares at you in silence, unwilling to admit the truth to himself just yet. His heart pounds in his chest, faster with every passing second.

“Lando…” you whisper.

He clears his throat and said. “I–It’s true.”

Fuck!

This conversation was nothing like what you imagined. You pictured the two of you bickering, arguing playfully over who’s the better driver—not… this. Whatever this was.

You shake your head slowly. “Golden boy… you can’t fall for me.”

But he doesn’t look away. Instead, he shifts closer on the couch, the space between you disappearing.

“Why not?” he asks, voice low and steady.

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Because I’m not exactly easy to be with.”

“Says who?” he murmured, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “With me, you are.”

“That’s bullshit.” A scoff escapes you.

He leaned in closer, his voice low. “I can prove it.”

Your eyes flicked from his face to his lips. “Lando… please.”

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered, his nose brushing gently against yours.

Part of you had dreamed of this moment, but you never thought it would come so soon.

“Y-Yes.”

His lips met yours, soft and sure. You melted into the kiss, returning it with the same need. He pulled you into his lap, your legs straddling him as your fingers tangled in his hair. He trailed kisses down to your neck, leaving your heart racing with every touch.

[xlucygraysongbirdx]

neil post aftg and his trauma and movie night with the foxes

the foxes settle down for their regular movie night, arguing over whose turn it was to pick the movie this time (it's Nicky's, everyone hates Nicky's choices), when neil walks in late. everyone except andrew asks where he's been, though andrew knew he was feeling restless and went for a longer run than usual. he'd been having a bad week, not sleeping, having panic attacks, and it was wearing down on him, he'd hoped a longer run would wear him out enough to sleep tonight, but look in his eyes told andrew that it hadn't worked.

neil waved the foxes off and settled down next to andrew, handing over the pint of ice cream he'd got for him. andrew in turn shares his blanket with him, throwing it over neil's legs once he's settled and allows their thighs and arms to touch, allowing neil to lean on him in the way that he needs when things get too heavy.

the foxes finally relent and allow nicky to choose the movie, and he picks out a horror movie because "it's Halloween" "in 4 weeks nicky" "it's never too early to celebrate Halloween". the movie goes on and the foxes settle, the only noises coming from those who react to the scary parts.

andrew was only half watching the movie, and mostly watching neil. his eyes were fixated on the screen and his anxious energy had dissipated. andrew had learned a lot of things about neil since they met, but his most recent discovery is that he shouldn't be worried about neil when his energy drives him on longer than usual runs, he should be worried when he's completely still.

and right now, neil wasn't moving at all.

andrew reached around the back of neil and flicked matt hard on the side of his head. matt was about to protest loudly until he caught sight of andrew. andrew gestured a cutting motion, pointed at the tv and then at neil. it took him half a second to get it, but he looked at neil and saw exactly what andrew meant. the movie was triggering him, and matt had learned like andrew that a still neil was not good.

with his hand back underneath the blanket, andrew blindly searched for neil's and tapped twice on the top of his hand, "yes," the tapping meant. he didn't expect a reply, but neil, despite his gaze firmly on the TV (looking through it rather than at it), neil tapped twice back on andrews hand, "yes." neil turned his hand over and andrew interlocked their fingers and gave it a gentle squeeze.

matt leaned over dan, who had been sitting in front of him between his legs, and grabbed the tv remote. "alright, this is boring," he said nonchalantly as he tapped buttons to eject the dvd. the foxes groaned and protested at him, nicky being particularly loud. andrew notices dan turn to protest, but her eyes lock on neil's still frame and andrew sees the understanding settle in her eyes.

"agreed," dan said. "nicky's banned from choosing movies, let's watch something else."

"it was getting good!" nicky protested, so matt threw a pillow at his face.

"put him on the bench too," matt said, "awful movie choices don't deserve court time."

next to andrew, neil snorted. andrew didn't think he was listening, but he finally tore his gaze from the now blank tv to acknowledge the argument brewing between dan, matt and nicky. kevin chimed up at that point, a cutting remark about how they'd all be better if they didn't waste time on movie nights and the foxes booed him collectively, multiple pillows ending up in his face. andrew could only watch as the stillness slowly left neil's body, as tiny elements of amusement crossed his features, as he settled back to andrew's side instead of sitting stiffly forward.

"let renee choose," andrew said, the only words that had come out of his mouth. matt sent him a disapproving look. renee was banned from movie choices too. but andrew knew that whatever she picked would be lighthearted enough not to trigger that stillness again. and no one argued with andrew and renee's bright smile was telling enough that she understood the assignment, and no one protested when she chose a musical movie that too many of the foxes shamefully knew the lyrics too.

[rainrot4me]

any thoughts of ftm tim. rain please. ftm tim with a fat t-dick in my mouth. WHO SAID THAT!

GIVE IT TO ME GIVE IT TO ME I AM DROOLING EVERYWHERE PUT THAT T-DICK IN MY MOUTHHHHHHHHHHHH. this is about to be incredibly thirsty.

As I type this, I am working on a Masky + Jeff t-dick headcannon thing so keep an eye out :)

── .✦

Little afab Tim was the classic “messy kid that you can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl at first glance” appearance. Shaggy haircut, scraped-up knees, always coming home muddy and bruised because he just needed to burn off that restless boy-energy.

Was nerdy as hell—obsessed with horror movies, superhero flicks, comics, anything violent and grotesque because it let him live out fantasies of being the tough, strong hero, even if everyone around him kept telling him he was supposed to be a “nice girl.” Always compared himself to the big strong main character that always saved the day.

Loved to act out cop and robber or cowboy and rebel roles with friends—a plastic knife tucked in his belt, running around yelling “I’m the bad guy!” and it just felt right, like the aggression belonged to him, and no one could tell him to sit still or be soft.

Had a couple neighborhood boys he hung around who accepted him as one of the guys, which helped him survive, but still went home to parents who forced him to wear skirts for family photos. That made him burn with shame.

When he got older, he fell into video cameras and storytelling—documenting everything, creating worlds where he could be the character he wished he was. Masky, in a sense, was the grown-up evolution of those childhood roleplays: an identity that could be harsh, unbreakable, male.

Teen Tim would put on sports bras under giant hoodies, trying to flatten his chest while avoiding locker rooms, telling everyone “I’m just shy,” but really wanting to disappear. If anyone feminized him in childhood, it felt like being punched in the gut—but he didn’t have language for it. He only knew he hated hearing “young lady.”

He’d definitely draw himself as a boy in school art projects. Comic heroes, video game characters, action dudes—he’d design them to look like him, but male, an escape hatch.

As any media and internet rampant child does, Tim found transitioning and symbolic metaphors for such in film. The first real time learning what it meant to be trans was a film festival entry that gave a really poetic presentation on transitioning and the elements of that. He dove deeper, looking up buzz words and researching what a binder was—and it kind of all went from there.

There’s something heartbreakingly real about Tim using Masky to finally live out the fantasy of being strong, unstoppable, respected as a man—even if it came at the cost of everything else.

Tim, by the time Marble Hornets starts, is probably only recently living openly as a trans man. He’s legally changed his name, maybe started low-dose T, maybe hasn’t even gotten top surgery yet—or decides not to get it at all—depends on how he feels.

He still feels raw and exposed, especially on camera. He’ll check angles obsessively so nobody catches sight of binder lines or any slip-ups. Those “behind the scenes” takes where he’s adjusting his hoodie? That’s him making sure nothing is showing.

The anxiety is off the charts: not just because of the Operator, but because he’s still working out how to be seen as Tim. Correcting people on pronouns, bracing for slips, constantly hyperaware of his voice, his shoulders, the way he takes up space on the crew.

Alex and Brian (Hoodie) respect him, and Masky becomes a tool to reclaim his masculinity. He makes Masky hyper-masculine on purpose: broad, terrifying, unstoppable. In the mask, he doesn’t worry about being read as “not man enough”—he is a man, no questions.

During the stress of the Operator, that old dysphoria flares. He feels like his body is betraying him again, that he’s too fragile, too easy to break. So he pushes harder—taking risks, doing dangerous stunts, trying to prove he’s strong enough.

Physical dysphoria + mental decay go hand in hand. The constant Operator interference makes him doubt his reality, and he hyper-fixates on his body: “Why do I still feel like a scared little kid?”

The Operator, in a twisted way, makes him more determined to be Tim. If he dies, he wants to die as Tim, no one else. That fear fuels him to correct people sharply if they misgender him, even as the tapes keep rolling and the world collapses.

If you look at his movements during the series—hunched, guarded, tense—it’s partly the dysphoria talking. He’s so aware of how every part of him is being recorded, judged, preserved on film.

There’s also a deep resentment. He’s just started to live his life as himself, to be free, and now this monstrous creature is tearing it away. There’s a special kind of rage there, one that burns through every Masky appearance.

Tim grows up with this sense that “being a man” means being big, being loud, being dangerous. When he’s younger, people treat him like a “tomboy,” calling him “feisty” or “wild,” but it never feels right. It feels like they’re letting him be “like a boy,” but not a boy. That cuts deep—so by the time he transitions, he’s determined to go all the way.

In his head, real men are fearless, aggressive, capable of hurting if they have to, and respected because they can instill fear.

So once the Operator takes him and he becomes a proxy, that deep-seated idea comes roaring forward. Masky is built on it: a brutal, cold, unstoppable force. When Tim kills or threatens or screams at victims, it’s cathartic—he feels powerful, like no one could ever misgender him again.

He channels every drop of dysphoria-fueled rage into becoming someone terrifying, because if you fear him, you can’t question him.

It goes from survival to performance: hyper-masculine, toxic, even, but it makes him feel safe. Killing is twistedly validating. It’s the ultimate declaration that he is a man—strong enough to protect himself, violent enough to protect what’s his, and ruthless enough that no one will ever see “weak” again.

There’s an almost childish logic behind it, like he’s still that kid trying to prove he belongs in the boys’ club—except now the stakes are bodies and blood.

At night, maybe he lays awake and wonders if he’s overcompensating, but the next day, he’ll pull the mask on and stomp those doubts out. Because in the mansion, in the field, in the kill, he is Tim. He is a man. No one can argue that. No matter how loud is head is to tell him otherwise.

꩜ .ᐟ

[fairydustttx]

One Thing.

Richie Jerimovich x reader

“Don’t care if you got another cause tonight I’m your only lover”

Warnings: Smut & language.

Word count: 2655

Summary: You and Richie have done well to keep your relationship under wraps—until now.

The hum of the fridge is the only sound in Richie's house as he kicks the front door shut behind the pair of you. It's quiet — not in a heavy, haunted way — but in that off-kilter, post-shift kind of silence, like the restaurant is still buzzing under your skin.

You hadn't planned on ending the night here. Not again. Not like this.

Not when you both promised — again — no more fooling around after work. Especially considering you both started early again the following day.

But here you are. Shoes kicked off. Apron stuffed in your bag. Richie's shirt stained with tonight's sauce and the telltale signs of a night that almost got away from both of you.

There's an empty LaCroix can on the counter, a Sox cap on the table, and the smell of leftover lasagne in the air. Richie hasn't even taken off his shoes. He's pacing like he's still fighting someone on the line — or maybe himself.

"You didn't have to show me up in front of everyone," he says, finally.

You lean against the wall, arms folded, a smirk playing on your lips. "You were about to serve a pork chop raw, Richie."

"I was testing it, babe. I had a system!"

You raise a brow. "Yeah? Was your system salmonella?"

He shoots you a pointed look, but it's not angry. Not really. There's a spark there. Something amused. Something warm.

"This is why we said no more work talk after ten," he mutters, tugging off his jacket and tossing it on a chair. "We start with pork chops, and next thing I know, you're calling me a dumbass while we're naked."

"That happened once."

"And yet... it’s pretty unforgettable."

Richie finally turns to face you fully, and for a moment, the energy between you shifts — softens. Like he's about to say something honest. Something real.

But instead, he takes a step closer, tilting his head.

"You keep lookin' at me like that," he says, voice low, "I'm gonna forget why I was mad in the first place."

You laugh, but it comes out more like a breath. "I'm not sorry for calling you out. But I am sorry that it happened in front of Tina and Fak."

He snorts. "You know Fak's been rooting for us since day one. You think he doesn't know?"

You hesitate. "You think he does?"

"Babe. Fak's got, like, sixth sense relationship radar. He probably saw us make the smallest amount eye contact and started shopping for wedding gifts."

You roll your eyes, trying not to grin. "So much for secretly dating."

Richie shrugs. "I mean, we haven't exactly been subtle."

You step closer, toe to toe now. "So what, Richie? You want to tell everyone?"

He looks at you and for a second, something flickers in his eyes. It's not fear. It's something quieter. Something like hope.

"Yeah," he says softly. “One of these days, it’s gonna be out there. No hiding it anymore. I’m actually fucking kinda ready for it."

You nod, your lips twitching up. “Okay."

Richie breathes out like you just took a weight off his chest. Then he smiles, that half-cocky, half-earnest grin that makes your stomach twist.

And then, suddenly — you're kissing.

It's not slow. It's not careful. It's Richie. It's messy and warm and fast, and he kisses you like he's waited all night to feel your mouth on his again. Like he's never had anyone love him this way — and he's terrified it's going to end.

Your back hits the wall, but it's more playful than anything. His hands are on your waist, tugging you closer, your fingers already tangled in his shirt.

"You're like the best fucking thing that ever happened to me, you know that?" he says into your mouth. "And I'm still somehow always tryna screw it up."

You pull back just enough to look at him. "You haven't screwed anything up."

"Yet."

"Then stop thinking about the 'yet.' Just... be here."

He nods, pressing his forehead to yours. "Yeah. Okay. I'm here."

And he is.

He touches you like he means it. Like he's still amazed you let him do this — that you want him. Clothes fall off in record time, more laughter than finesse. He trips over his own pants trying to kick them off and nearly knocks over a lamp. You both burst out laughing before falling back onto the couch, half-naked and flushed.

It doesn't stay very funny long.

Once you're straddling him, once he's kissing down your jaw and murmuring your name in that reverent, quiet way he never uses around anyone else — it shifts. It always does.

"You good?" he asks, brushing your hair back.

"Better than good," you whisper.

And you mean it.

He holds your waist like he's grounding himself, guiding you down onto him with a sharp breath. The stretch pulls a moan from your throat, and he stills, letting you adjust.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "You killing me over here."

"You love it."

"God help me, I really do."

He moves inside you with a steady rhythm — not rushed, not frantic. Like he's savoring it. Like every second is a gift. His fingers trail up your spine, into your hair, pulling you down into another kiss that's all tongue and heat and unspoken things he's too scared to say out loud.

You whisper his name. He groans your nickname into your shoulder. And when it builds — when it crests — it's not fireworks. It's a wave. A quiet crash. Like coming home.

Afterward, the room is thick with warmth and quiet. Richie's arms are wrapped tight around your back. You don't move. You just stay there, wrapped up in each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Eventually, he speaks. Muffled. Soft.

"You think we're gonna fuck this up eventually?"

You look down at him, running a hand through his hair.

"We already are. That's the whole point."

He laughs — real, full, unguarded. And then pulls you down into his chest.

You settle there, hearts thudding out the last of the tension.

"He grins into your neck. "God, I'm so lucky. You like me, even when I talk too much."

"I love you," you correct. "Even when you talk way too much."

And for once — Richie doesn't say anything clever.

He just holds you tighter.

You're still lying on his chest, skin damp and flushed, when he breaks the silence again.

"Can I ask you something?" Richie murmurs, his voice quieter now, like he's not totally sure he wants to say it out loud.

You shift slightly to look at him. "Always."

He hesitates.

"You ever think about... I don’t know.Kids?"

The question lands soft but weighted — like a pebble dropped into still water. Not hard, but the ripples travel deep.

You blink slowly. "Are you serious?"

He nods, eyes not quite meeting yours. "Yeah. I mean — not, like, now. Not tonight. Obviously. Jesus. But, like... I don’t know. Just wondering if you've thought about it. Ever."

You take a shaky breath, slightly surprised by how fast the answer comes.

"I don't think I want them."

Richie's eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, you brace for it — the discomfort, the shift, the subtle judgment you've learned to expect from people who don't understand why a woman might say no to that idea.

But he just nods. Like it makes perfect sense. Like he already knew.

"Yeah?" he says, voice even.

You nod. "Yeah. I mean... I've thought about it. I've really thought about it. But it's just not something I see for myself. Not now, and maybe not ever."

There's a long pause.

Then Richie exhales, smiling softly. "Honestly? That's kinda a relief."

You marrow your eyes. "Really?"

He shrugs, resting his head back against the pillow. "I love Eva more than anything in the whole goddamn world. I'd jump in front of a train for her. But... it's hard. And I think I messed it up, a lot of it. Being a dad, it's like—" he pauses, squinting toward the ceiling "—it's this thing I keep trying to grow into, and I don't always know how and I don’t ever think I will.”

You press your hand to his chest, fingers over his heart.

"You're a good dad, Richie."

He gives a half-smile, a little crooked, a little sad. "I try. But the idea of doing it again, starting all over? With someone I love this much?" He turns his face toward yours. "That's scary as fuck."

Your throat tightens at that. "Because you don't want to lose it?"

"Yeah," he says, almost a whisper. "Exactly."

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his. "Well, you won't."

He kisses you — soft, lingering. No heat, no rush. Just gratitude. Just you and him.

You sigh into it, letting yourself settle deeper into his arms.

"I like us how we are," you say quietly. "I don't need anything else."

Richie nods. "Yeah. Me too. You're already more than I thought I'd ever get."

The room is still and golden in the low lamplight. Outside, cars speed by like background music for your very weird, very wonderful life.

Eventually, he tucks you closer, murmuring against your hair.

"Can we stay like this for a while? Just... like this?"

You smile. "We've got all night."

And you do. Just the two of you. No screaming tickets. No line cooks. No fake-outs. No pressure.

Your life together isn’t perfect. It’s a little messy — the way the kitchen counters are always cluttered with coffee mugs and takeout menus. The house smells like late-night Chinese food and your lavender candles, you’d somehow convinced Richie to keep. There’s the Saturday mornings spent arguing over who gets the last pancake, the lazy Sundays wrapped up in a blanket on the couch binge-watching old movies. It’s the kind of life that’s full of noise and chaos and laughter, but always full of each other.

The room settles into a soft quiet, the kind that follows everything — the laughter, the kisses, the honest talks. You lie tangled in each other, warmth settling like a soft blanket.

Richie’s fingers trace circles on your arm, but his voice breaks the silence again, low and hesitant.

“Can I ask you something else?”

You hum tiredly, still pressed against him.

“If Eva’s okay with it... maybe you’d want to meet her?”

You smile, heart squeezing softly. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

He smiles back, his eyes bright. “Me too.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The following morning the morning sunlight cuts across the prep station like a spotlight. The Beef smells like bleach, lemon zest, and burnt toast — classic — and everyone's still dragging from last night's double shift.

Everyone but you and Richie.

You're humming under your breath, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in a bin of herbs. Richie's at your side, close enough to brush elbows, rattling off a joke to Marcus that doesn't even make sense — but everyone's too tired to call him out.

You lean over to grab a container from the lower shelf. Richie moves behind you, his hand automatically sliding to the small of your back as he passes.

It's instinct. Casual. Familiar. Too familiar.

He doesn't even notice. He doesn’t even hesitate and keeps walking toward dry storage like his hand belonged there.

Tina pauses, mid-chop, eyes flicking up from her green cutting board. Ebra squints from the other side of the kitchen like he's solving a complicated math problem. Sydney goes still.

Marcus looks up from the mixer. "Wait. Did you see that?"

"See what?" you say, far too fast.

Sydney narrows her eyes. "Okay, now I know something's up."

Richie's already back a second later, reaching over you for a knife and doing it again — hand grazing your spine like he's tuning a radio.

He still doesn't notice.

Sydney drops her spoon.

"Okay," she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear. "What the actual fuck is going on?"

You blink. "What?"

"That's the third time he's touched your back in like ten minutes. Is that, like, a nervous tic? Muscle memory? Or is this, I don't know... foreplay?"

You cough.

"I touch a lot of backs," Richie says defensively.

"That's worse," Tina mutters without looking up.

Ebra nods. "Deeply concerning, cousin."

"It's spatial awareness," you try weakly, but your ears are already burning.

Fak appears from the walk-in just in time to catch Richie's hand resting — casually, intimately — on your hip. He stops in his tracks, mid-chew, holding what looks like a very expired granola bar.

"Wait. Wait. WAIT—" Fak points, his voice rising in excitement. "OH. MY. GOD."

"Fuck," you mutter.

"I knew it!" Fak cries, triumphant. "You guys are together! You've been secretly banging this whole fucking time!"

Marcus peeks over a stack of baking trays. "But you said they weren't."

"I was misled by their Oscar worthy acting," Fak says dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest like he's winded.

Sydney crosses her arms, smug. "I've known for weeks. Richie's been weirdly... soft. I thought maybe he had a brain injury."

"I don't do soft," Richie snaps, but his cheeks are red now.

"You rub her back like you're burping a baby," Sydney fires back.

Richie points at her, opens his mouth... then closes it. "Okay. That's fair."

Tina leans against the counter, smirking. "I knew something was going on. You been humming this morning, girl. Nobody hums at this job unless they're in love or on some really good drugs."

"I thought they were just co-dependent," Ebra adds. "You know. Like most people here."

"You're all being so dramatic," you protest.

"You kept it from us!" Fak gasps. "You kept it from me! I was gonna make you friendship keychains!"

"We weren't hiding it," you try to explain, glancing at Richie.

"We just... didn't say anything," he finishes, sighing.

"Didn't say anything?" Sugar repeats, appearing in the doorway with a clipboard. "Richie, are you serious?"

"Oh for fucks sake," Richie mutters. "Not you too."

"You kept this from me?" Sugar demands, pointing between the two of you. "Me?"

"I knew you'd react like this!" he shoots back.

"And you—" she spins to you, eyes wide "—you could've said something."

You shrug. "You could've asked and I may have told you."

Carmy, of course, chooses that exact moment to stroll out from the office, towel over his shoulder like a chef poster boy, calm as ever.

"I thought it was obvious," he says casually, walking past the group.

The room freezes.

"You what?" Sugar blinks.

Carmy shrugs, already halfway to dry goods. "I mean... Richie's been a extremely normal lately."

Richie scoffs. "I am never normal."

"Exactly," Carmy says without turning around.

Everyone loses it.

"Okay," Marcus says, through a grin. "Now I do feel betrayed. I thought we were your friends."

"You are," Richie says. "That's why we didn't want to subject you to my very real and terrifyingly powerful sex aura."

"Richie," you groan, wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and die.

"What?" he shrugs. "Babe. You knew what this was."

"Do not call me 'babe' in the kitchen," you warn — but you're already grinning from ear to ear.

And then — as if to hammer the point home — Richie's hand returns to your back again. Not thinking. Not performing. Just him. Just something he does without realizing. A soft, grounding rub between your shoulder blades.

It's not a secret anymore.

But somehow, it still feels like something private. Something just yours.

Sydney raises an eyebrow. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I think I ship it."

Richie beams. "You hear that, baby? We're canon."

"Right I’m leaving," you say, flatly.

"I'm proud of you," Fak says, placing a solemn hand on Richie's shoulder. "Our little guy's in love."

"I will kill you," Richie says, playfully smacking his hand away.

But his other hand doesn't move from your back.

And you don't ask him to.

[snowysosturn]

The Underdog - Chris Sturniolo Part 2

Part 1 Part 2

Pairing: Chris Sturniolo x Y/n

Summary: Chris is a rising star in the MLS - talented, charming, and known for being a player, both on and off the pitch. He’s never had a girlfriend, but always had a soft spot for Y/n, the girl who knew him before the fame but never took him seriously. Once their paths cross again, will history repeat itself or start to feel like potential?

Warnings: slight mentions of being emotionally unavailable

I stare down at the phone in my lap, double checking that I read it right.

"What’s up Y/n"

There’s absolutely no way he texted me that fast. I mean, who even does that? But I suppose, Chris has always been this way with me.

I lock my phone without replying and drop it beside me like nothing.

Not happening. 

Not tonight.

Not ever.

I don’t even announce it to the room. If I even hinted at that text, the girls would lose their minds. And I’m not in the mood for the teasing. Not when I’ve worked so hard to keep this peace I’ve found.

Maya suddenly pipes up from my bedroom floor, taking me out my trance. “So, Y/n any boys on the go?”

I shake my head casually. “Nope. Just enjoying being single, it's only been two months since Shane and I broke up, I’m not looking for anything right now.”

She gives me a look, and I shrug.

“The only version of talking to men I actually like is rejecting them or putting them in their place. I’m at peace on my own right now.”

Everyone laughs, but it’s true. I’ve got nothing in me for romance or messy situationships. I recently got out of something real, something heavy, and the thought of starting over, teaching someone how to be good to me from scratch? 

Hard pass.

Tasha nods in agreement. “Yeah, I’m convinced the dating pool is radioactive.”

I smirk, leaning back into the cushions on my bed. “Exactly. I’d rather take a nap and mind my business.”

No matter how still I sit, or how silent I stay, Chris’s message still lingers in the back of my mind, bubbling quietly beneath the surface.

“Speaking of naps” I mumble, stretching out my arms and grabbing my phone again, “I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

The girls groan in agreement, “We’ve all got placement in the morning” I remind them, sitting up and brushing pizza crust crumbs off my hoodie. “And there’s nothing worse than dealing with moody teenagers when I’m moody and sleep deprived.”

“Don’t remind me” Maya says, already yawning. “If a 10th grader even breathes wrong in my direction tomorrow, I’m faking sick and going home.”

We all laugh, but it’s that tired kind of laugh that trails off into silence.

-

My alarm went off at 7am, but I couldn’t pull myself out of bed until ten minutes later. I lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that today wouldn’t be as long as I thought it was going to be. I finally dragged myself up and started into my routine, a quick shower, skincare, brushing my teeth while scrolling through emails, and a mental rundown of the day ahead.

It’s Friday, thank god. The only thing standing between me and the weekend is one school day, a few lessons on mitosis, and the chaos of teenagers who definitely have their minds on anything but biology.

I get dressed in something comfortable but teacher appropriate, black trousers, trainers, a knitted sweater. Toss my hair up into a claw clip, throw some concealer under my eyes, and swipe on some lip oil. Nothing all too fancy. Just enough to look somewhat presentable.

I grab a croissant on my way out, throw my laptop and USB into my tote bag, and head out. The air outside is crisp for a Houston morning, and the city already feels louder than usual. It's like the buildup to Sunday’s final has made every street corner buzz with energy.

Posters of Dynamo players are plastered across shop windows, orange flags hang from balconies, and every other person I pass is wearing a jersey.

Chris Sturniolo included. His face is printed across a bus stop ad, arms crossed, cocky grin. I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. Of course he’s everywhere.

I reach the school gates at 8.45am and head to my classroom. A couple of students are strolling about the hallway, dragging their backpacks and laughing way too loudly for this hour.

The classroom is cold, so I flick on the heat and drop my bag at my desk. I load my slides before I glance through the notes, not that I don't know them by heart. I’ve taught this lesson three times already. I could probably do it in my sleep now at this stage and considering how tired I am, I just might be running that risk.

The bell doesn’t ring for another ten minutes, so I sit on the edge of the desk, swinging my legs slightly, and take a bite of my croissant.

Outside, I can see a couple of boys kicking a football across the field. One of them has a Dynamo backpack. I exhale a laugh through my nose. The final’s not until Sunday, but it’s all thats going to be on anyone's mind today.

And honestly? Fair enough.

The team’s gone further than anyone expected. There’s something about your home team winning that makes people feel like they’re a part of it too , like the victory belongs to the city, the people itself. And I won’t lie, it’s been nice. For Houston to feel like this again.

I lean back and stretch, rolling my shoulders. Just one more day. One more round of teenagers pretending to listen. One more lukewarm cup of tea from the staffroom.

Then we can all pretend to care about mitosis while secretly counting down the hours until kickoff.

I actually do wonder who’s going to start on Sunday. I open my phone and click onto Instagram, scrolling through the Dynamos feed, to see if theirs any consistencies in their starting lineups. 

Chris starts almost every game it seems, so it’ll be interesting to see how it plays out come Sunday.

I haven’t spoken to him in years. And even then, I barely did. He’d try cocky little smirks in hallways or dumb jokes in passing but I never entertained it. Never gave him the satisfaction.

Now he’s in the final. Playing for Houston Dynamo. Texting me.

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little curious.

Just a little.

Then a thought passes through my brain.. You know what else would be interesting to see?

How much I could actually mess about right now.

I slide into my DM’s, hovering over Chris' message.

“What’s up Y/n.”

Short. Casual. Confident. Classic Chris.

I stare at it for a moment, thumb paused above the keyboard.

I mean.. I’d never actually go there, not in any real kind of way. But maybe, maybe, I might enjoy putting him in his place a little. For old time’s sake.

“Shouldn’t you be focusing on Sunday instead of texting girls?”

I hit send before I can hesitate.

A soft laugh escapes me, because I know that’s not the response he was expecting. If he thought he could slide back in like that, he clearly forgot who he was messaging.

Suddenly the school bell rings and I put my phone back into my tote and stand up as the first group of students shuffle in. Whatever reaction he has, I’ll deal with that later.

-

The bell rings and it’s finally break. I finished up my third lesson of the day, the last group of kids filing out with half the understanding of mitosis and none of the attention span.

I gather my things, shoving my lesson planner and pens into my bag, and make my way toward the staff room.

As soon as I pull out my phone, a notification lights up my screen.

Chris Sturniolo: “Wow no need to do me like that, I need something to take my mind off it.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. My fingers move faster than my brain.

“Oh yeah, and women is the answer for that?”

I hit send and shake my head, slipping the phone into the pocket of my trousers.

If he thought I’d fold that easy, he clearly still doesn’t know me. Let him chew on that while I sip a cup of overly sweetened tea and pretend to mark homework I’m not even slightly in the mood for.

I wonder what he’ll reply, and what kind of spin he tries next.

a/n: I know im going to have a field day writing this series

taglist: @mattybearnard @sturn-33 @ncm9696 @yourfavsturniologirl @crazy4jewel @sodakid1234 @stupendoustreewinner @lovealwayssturniolos @matthewsturniolosss @m4ttsmunch @loveexxx @ilusa @starkeyszn @wonnieeluvvr @dylnblue @valxrieq @maggot3647 @cigarettecemetary @ribread03 @chrisstvrns @bandasaruswrx @noplaceissafeanymore @amexiass @witchofthehour @mattssgf @jetaimevous @v33angel  @ivysturnss @urmom69lol @ashlishes @watercolorskyy @sturnioloshottiekay @amelia-sturniolo3 @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @pvssychicken @alizestvrnss @chrisstxrnsaxe @sophand4n4 @vickytaa @marrykisskilled @bxtchboy69 @yourfavsturniologirl @julisturn @sydneyylainn @sophia-77n @trevorsgodmother @sturnslutz @yourmother29 @girl24cherry @astronea @pinkdyit @mattswrinkleton @asmine @sagesturns

[littlepinkbirdie]

The Weight of Light

Before the serum, you and Bob Reynolds used to dream small. A dingy apartment in Queens. A cat you’d both forget to feed on time. Nights on the fire escape talking about saving the world in half-jokes — because back then you both knew you couldn’t save much of anything.

You were gifted, even then. Not superhuman, not then — but special enough that someone noticed. They trained you. You did your best to keep Bob out of it, but Bob… Bob always wanted to be enough. Strong enough for you. Strong enough to matter.

You remember the last night you saw him. He kissed you on the corner of your mouth and said, “When I come back, you’ll see. I’ll be something good.” You watched him disappear down the hallway. You never got that kiss back.

Years passed. You got stronger. You earned the suit, the codename, the burden of your own missions. The world burned around the edges, and you did your best to hold your corner together.

And then came the Thunderbolts. You didn’t want to join them — but they needed you. Needed your restraint, your level head. Someone to keep the others in check when the leash slipped.

They didn’t tell you who you’d be working with until he stepped off the Quinjet.

The golden swirl of energy around him made your chest clench. He looked so big — a living sun trying to cram himself into a man’s shape. But his eyes found yours immediately, wide and disbelieving behind that perfect hero mask.

“Bob?” you breathed, before you could stop yourself.

He blinked like maybe you’d punched him. You almost wish you had.

They briefed you in the same tent — you, your armor half-scorched from the last skirmish, him sitting too close because he couldn’t seem to stand having you at arm’s length again. He barely listened to the mission rundown. He kept glancing at your hands.

When the team scattered for final prep, you stayed behind to check your gear. And then he was there, standing in the doorway. Backlit, golden. Too much light in too small a space.

“You look the same,” he said softly.

“You don’t,” you shot back, but it didn’t come out angry. Just tired.

He stepped closer, gold flickering across his shoulders like a nervous twitch. “I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t know—” “You didn’t know a lot of things, Bob.” You turned to face him. Close enough to see the freckles under all that cosmic power. “You didn’t come back.”

His breath hitched. “I wanted to. I tried. I—” He reached for you and hesitated. His hands hovered by your shoulders like he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch you anymore. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t care.

“I missed you,” he said, voice cracking under the weight of a thousand regrets.

You closed your eyes. Let yourself feel the warmth radiating off him, that same warmth that used to curl around you in bed when the world felt too sharp. “Then stay. This time… just stay.”

His forehead pressed to yours. The gold light dimmed, just enough that he felt like Bob again. Just enough that you let yourself believe he could be.

Outside, the team was calling your names. Another mission. Another chance to lose each other all over again.

But when he pulled back, he was smiling that crooked, boyish smile you’d never forgotten. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

For the first time in years, you almost believed him.

.·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·..·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·..·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·..·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·..·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·.

You hit the ground running — quite literally. The intel was shaky: a splinter cell trying to steal alien tech from a half-collapsed research facility. You’d done this dance a hundred times — in, neutralize, out. But with the Thunderbolts, it was never that simple. Too many egos. Too much power barely held together with duct tape and half-truths.

Bob — Sentry — stayed near you the entire time. Even when the team leader barked at him to flank the east wing, he lingered behind you, hovering like your own personal sun. You caught him glancing at you between bursts of laser fire and falling concrete — eyes wide, desperate, like he was trying to memorize you through the chaos.

“Focus, Reynolds!” you snapped, throwing up an energy shield just in time to deflect a plasma bolt.

His mouth twitched — a ghost of that old grin. “I am focused.” “Then focus on them!” you shouted, jerking your chin toward a trio of mercs vaulting over the rubble.

He was gone in a blink — a gold streak smashing through the air, ripping weapons from hands like they were toys. You’d forgotten how terrifying he was when he let himself be what the serum made him. Light and force and wrath, with that gentle heart still buried somewhere inside.

When the last mercenary hit the ground, you were crouched over the stolen device — a box humming with alien circuitry and too much bad news. Bob landed beside you, stirring dust and shards of broken ceiling.

“You good?” he asked, voice softer than you expected. Like the fight didn’t just happen. Like you were still those two kids on a fire escape, dreaming about tomorrow.

“Yeah,” you muttered, not looking at him. “Cover me. I’m disarming this.”

You felt him move closer — warmth rolling off him in quiet waves, the golden flicker under his skin like a heartbeat. You hated that it still calmed you. Hated that after all these years, he could still make you feel safe even when he was half a breath away from tearing the sky open.

The device powered down with a sharp hiss. You sagged back on your heels, suddenly aware of the ache in your shoulders, the grit in your gloves. And him — kneeling beside you, so close you could see the tiny scar under his jaw you’d kissed a thousand times.

“Nice work,” he said, a smile ghosting across his lips.

You forced yourself to laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t look so surprised. I always had your back, remember?”

He didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something he’d lost. Then his hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek so lightly it almost didn’t feel real.

“I remember,” he murmured. “I remember everything.”

Your breath caught. For a second, the ruined lab, the Thunderbolts, the alien tech — it all fell away. It was just him. Just you. And all the things you’d left unsaid when he walked out that door all those years ago.

You didn’t kiss him. Not yet. But you didn’t pull back either. You leaned in just enough to let your forehead rest against his, the gold flickering brighter like it could feel your heartbeat.

Somewhere behind you, the comms crackled with orders. Extraction inbound. Another fight waiting on another horizon.

But right then, you let yourself breathe him in. Let yourself believe, for a moment, that maybe this time he’d stay.

And when he whispered, “Don’t let me go again,” you nodded — because you’d waited too damn long to lose him twice.

Author note: HIII HERE YOU GO PEOPLE @saintbusan @crypticfawnn LOVE YOU ALL HOPE U ENJOY

[snzydarling]

omggggg can i request megumi who gets hit with a cursed spirit that makes him sooo sneezy and he’s so grumpy that he cannot control it

Hi I want you to know that im actually in love with you for this request..... thank u so much....

Safe as Houses

megumi, yuuji, established ita/fushi (JJK) cw: snz kink content !!!! lots of mess notes: hi i litr feel like i hijacked this so I hope u still like it (;´∀｀) i rlly tried to just let myself write however I wanted to which is what you can thank the mess 4.... ... obvi this takes place post - canon in the pro sorcerer / evb lives au !! Hope u all enjoy (^ー^)

All things considered, Yuuji was having a great day. 

They were called to a small cluster of grade-1 curses hiding out in an abandoned factory, weak enough that the two of them had split up early on. Megumi had summoned his dog and went off to a side hallway while Yuuji travelled down the main path. Besides the faint warbling of curses, everything had been silent in his direction. 

Yuuji was traveling with an extra hop in his step. It wasn’t often they got to do jobs together- the shortage of sorcerers was never-ending, even though the number of curses was nowhere near what it used to be. It was their last job of the day, too, so they had the rest of the night together. He’d just finished off the last curse- some big, hulking thing, and was wiping thick blood from his hands when his phone started ringing. 

It took a second for him to find it. His screen lit up with Megumi’s contact name and picture- one of him with a hint of a smile on his face, on his birthday, with frosting smeared on the corner of his mouth. 

He answers, and there’s nothing besides breathing. “Megumi? What’s up?” He can’t pretend there isn’t worry seeping into his voice. The veil must’ve lifted, but he still could’ve been injured. He tries again. “Megs? Are you okay?” Finally, some noise comes. Sniffling, then more breathing, then sneezing. 

“hH’cshh - tZch - i’tzhh -! H’tszh - tzchh-!” Megumi gasps for breath, and it crackles through the phone. “ ‘tzshh - t’SCHhiew-  ! YuhH - Yuuji-” Yuuji sighs with relief, and clutches his heart. It hammers against his palm. 

“Megumi! Bless-“ he’s cut off by another gasp, then a flurry of sneezes. “ ‘tZSHh - ‘tzsh - ‘tschh - i’ZSCHhi-!” “Bless you!” He tries again. “You okay?” 

“k’tCHh - i’tZCHh-! I can- can-tSZHhi-! Shit!” The sound of wet, vigorous scrubbing comes through the speaker. Yuuji frowns. “Where are you?” He brings the speaker up to his ear to listen for Kuro barking, but he's silent. 

“Don’t come over-” He breaks off into coughing. Itchy, breathless coughing, like he’s allergic to something. “ ‘ktZCHh-! I’kszhh - tzshh-! i’tZSHhiewh-! Ugh. Don’t come over, Yuuji, i’IZSHh-! ‘ktzshh- tZShh-! I’m not-iZSHhih!” Yuuji can hear him throw an angry hand up. “Megumi, what’s wrong?” 

“ N - Nothing! Just go - iH’KZSHhi-! Just go home. hH- it’TCHhi-!” Kuro growls at something in the distance. Probably just expressing his owner's irritation. Something must be wrong, but he can’t find Megumi like this. His energy is too faint.  

He can’t just leave him, though, even if Megumi is too stubborn to realize that. His sneezes are always fitish and pitchy, but this is a different level. He can’t seem to even communicate, so something must be wrong. Kuro seems fine, so he tries something else. 

“Kuro, speak!” Obedient, it barks. Yuuji had been trying to train him like a dog for years, and it's finally worked out. If Megumi was okay, he’d tell him he told him so. 

Yuuji makes quick work of finding Megumi. Kuro meets him in the doorway, tail wagging. The curse is gone, so he must’ve already eaten. 

Even though he loves Kuro, he's not his priority. He has to scan the room for a second to find Megumi, hiding in the corner. He looks like he's sulking. The lights are on in the building, but they’re old, so he's shrouded in shadows. His head is down, and Yuuji kind of feels like he should approach him like a scared animal. 

The floorboards are old. They creak under his step. Megumi jerks up- weird, because he should’ve already felt his energy, but Yuuji doesn’t get the chance to figure out what’s wrong. 

“ ‘tSZhhi - tSCHhih-! ih’TZSHhih! ikZSHh-!” His energy crackles and pops, almost like it's mad. Megumi curls over into his elbow. “ ‘tZSHhi-! ’iSSHh - iZSHhi-!” When Yuuji tries to approach, he’s met with a shaky palm, like some kind of barrier. Kuro barks at him from the doorway. “  iH’kZSHhi-!  iH’TzCHhi-! G-hH! go away, Yuuji’tZSHhi- ‘tzsHh-!” Poor guy. He’s not reacting to him, is he? Just to test it, he steps back, but Megumi keeps sneezing. 

“ ‘tZCHh-! I’kTZHhh - i’tZSHhi-!” If he can get near, he’s fine to touch him, right? Megumi pulls away when he sits next to him, but he can’t do much else. 

Gently as he can, Yuuji pries Megumi’s face from his elbow and lifts him up. As much as he wants to respect his privacy and everything, it kind of seems like he can’t breathe right now. He’s sniffling all needily, nose scrunched like he's trying not to sneeze again. It doesn’t last. 

“ hH - hI’tZShhi-! ‘zshh - kZSHh - k’tChh-!” He tries to turn away, hiding the next flurry in cupped hands. This one gives him a second to breathe, thank God. Each inhale is punctuated by sniffles. 

Yuuji can finally get a good look at him then. His face is flushed red and wet. Tear tracks run down his cheeks, and there’s dampness under his nose that he's trying hard to sniffle back. Yuuji tries to find some tissues, but comes up empty. After just a moment, Megumi suddenly starts writhing away. 

“ ‘iZSCHhi- ! Yuuji-!” He’d kind of forgotten he was holding him. He lets go with a sorry that Megumi probably doesn’t hear. “ k’ZSCHh-! ‘Izshh - tzSHh - hHi-! hH’iZSCHh-iew!” Each release is messier than his typical sneeze. Megumi confirms this with a string of mess clinging to his lip when he pulls away from his hands. 

Megumi jerks away even further, face beet red, but he doesn’t really care. He just wants to get Megumi out of here. 

Yuuji tries to think as Megumi tries to clean himself up. The material of his uniform is rough, leaving his nose red, and it irritates it even more because the next fit is Megumi’s most desperate yet. He gasps into it, and it sounds like a whine. 

“ ‘tZSHhi-! hI’kZSHh - i’kZSHhi-! it‘TZCHhi-!” It’s times like these when Yuuji wishes they knew sign language, like Inumaki and Yuuta do. They can both say things like ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘okay’, and he’s pretty sure he remembers most of the alphabet, but Megumi obviously isn’t okay, and he probably couldn’t keep his hands free for long enough to say anything. The same goes for their phones. 

“  iH’KZSHhi-! ‘iZSCh- t’ZSCHh-iewh-!” Finishing off the yet irritated and kind of loud for Megumi, clears him out in the form of glistening wetness down his chin. His sleeves are already wet and clearly not helping much, but the fabric of Yuuji’s outfit is softer. He offers his sleeve quietly, and Megumi kind of snarls at him and scrubs his nose against his shoulder instead. 

It leaves a wet patch, and Megumi hitches again. Yuuji thinks he looks cute when he's trying not to sneeze, usually, all fluttering eyelashes and parted lips, but he’s too worried to cook over it right now. He hopes the last one gave them a second to talk and tries again. 

“Megumi, what happened?” He gets a sideways glare, but Megumi eventually stutters out “A curse.” It’s breathless, like his lungs are too busy fluttering to give him enough air to talk. “Can I see your face?” If Yuuji asks, maybe he’ll be less snappy. It doesn’t work. 

Instead, Megumi shakes his head, unable to actually answer. It’d probably be kind of mean if he could. When he discovers it again, seconds later, it's turned even further away from Yuuji. 

“ h’tZSCHh-! ‘izshh - tzSHh - iSCHh-  hH-! hI’iZSCHh-iew!” It seems like holding them back really isn’t doing him any good. The hand he puts on his back only lasts until he's done sneezing, then he gets shoved off. 

“Why are you being so weird?” He asks, before he can help it. They were over this months ago, Megumi’s tendency to push away. The wall between them is physical now.

”Because-” Megumi breaks off to sniffle desperately. “I’m gross,” he murmurs. There’s something deeper there; he can hear it in Megumi’s tone, but Yuuji doesn’t feel like pushing. He’d rather focus on the more physical problem. 

Every time Megumi sneezes, his cursed energy pops and sparks, and Kuro phases with it. When Megumi muffles a rapid “ ‘kZSHh - i’ZChh - i’tZCHhi-!” into his shoulder, Kuro warps into half-melted shadow before returning to normal once he's done, so he can’t carry Megumi. That means all of the shadows are out of the question, and Yuuji can’t summon any shikigami. Looks like Megumi is gonna have to suck it up. 

“I know-“ “ ‘IZSHh-u!�� “Bless you! I know you don't want to, but I’m gonna have to carry you.” Megumi scowls. “I can walk.” He grumbles, standing up tall like it’ll prove a point to Yuuji. Jeez, he's in a bad mood. 

They last all of a few seconds like that. Megumi, face flushed and scrunched and quivering, and Yuuji hovering awkwardly. It isn’t much of a surprise to either of them when Megumi breaks the silence, no matter how hard he's fighting it. 

“hI’tZShhi-! ‘zshh - iZSHh - k’tChh-! hH-! iZSCh - zSHh - tZSHu-!” He takes in another rapid set of gasps, taking the time to glare at Yuuji’s concerned face. “ ‘IZSHh- ‘ZSHhi - hHi’TZSHh-! hI - idZSHh - tzSHh - tSCHhi -!’

God, he can’t stop. Something about trying to hold them back, maybe? The next set is broken only by a need for air. Yuuji grabs his shoulders, holding him steady while he sneezes and sneezes. 

Once he catches a lance of Megumi between cycles of gasping breaths and rapid releases, there’s strings of mess clinging to his lips. The next inhale is basically a whimper, head Theon back like he's praying for something. The fluorescent light shines against the dampness painted on his face.

“ ‘tZSHh - iH’tZSCHh-iew!” Immune system or curse or whatever it is momentarily satisfied, he slumps a little against Yuuji. One hand comes to scrub at his nose, mess ticking against his skin. Yuuji rubs his hand along his shoulder, frowning when they’re already trembling with uneven breaths. 

“Just try to let them out.” He says and hopes Megumi is too tired to keep fighting him. He gets a look beneath weighed-down eyelashes. His face crumbles again, but it's a little softer this time. 

“hH’iSHhi-! i’ZSHh - it’ZSHhiew-!” Once again, he's left sniffling the mess for a second. Yuuji breathes with him. “Bless you! Can we go home now?” It’s starting to get chilly, and Megumi’s in need of a good mose blow. He sort of wants to call Ieri too, and see if they can do anything about this. 

Megumi shakes his head. “Ill- iZSHh-yu! I can’t really walk.” Yuuji pats his shoulder a few times. He looks really pathetic. Megumi shrugs him off, like he can read his thoughts. “I’ll carry you!” 

“I’ll sn-i’ZSHh- ! Sne-e’tZSHh-yu! Damn.” Megumi sighs, gesturing vaguely instead like he is saying ‘you get the point.’ Yuuji does. Frankly. He’s had enough of Megumi on him that he’s beyond caring, but he might shove him away if he says that. 

“Bless you! I don’t mind, promise.” Even if he did, his worry about Megumi would’ve overpowered it. It’s not like they have much choice anyway. Megumi huffs. He opens his mouth to say something, probably argues more, but he takes a quick breath and dissolves again instead. 

“ hH’kZSHh-! ‘dZSH-yh!” At least they’re softer, even if they drip snot down his lip. “ ‘dshh - tZch - i’tzshh -! hd’tSh-  H’dtszh-iew!”. The rapid-release flurry seems to drain whatever fight’s left in him. 

   Yuuji kneels, wincing when the coldness of concrete seeps through his pants. Megumi presses against his back for a second, about to get on, but then Yuuji feels his chest expand and the contact is gone again. 

“hD’zZSHh-yu!” Megumi sniffles lots of times behind him. When he gets on his back, Yuuji can hear his stuffy breath in his ear, warming his neck. 

They make it about a minute before he's sneezing again, long enough to make it a few paces down the street. If the way Megumi’s chest has been stuttering against him is anything to go by, it's only because he was holding back again. 

“‘dZShu - iZSHh - ‘tZSHh - iD’ZSHh-yh!” Megumi’s elbow brushes against his back. A couple droplets of mess land on his neck, sending goosebumps down his spine. With every release, Yuuji feels tired muscles clench against him. Another rapid triple finished off this set, all contained in one breath. Megumi sighs out a “sorry” at the same time as Yuuji calls back a “Bless you!” 

Yuuji tried to keep track of how much Megumi sneezed on the way back, but he lost track pretty quickly. They’re slowing down, just enough for him to get a sentence in. Two, if he talks quickly. 

After a moment of fumbling with the keys, Yuuji deposits Megumi on the couch and finds him a change of clothes. He blows his nose for a long time, muffles a percussive “ d’zshhi - ‘dtZShh - idT’SHhi-!”, then has to blow again into a new tissue. Yuuji sits in the kitchen watching him through the steam of the kettle. The congestion has all settled, which has been making him cough and his voice crackle in his throat. Besides, Megumi’s getting annoyed with all his worrying, so the kitchen is probably a good place for him to be. 

Megumi jumps a little when the kettle blows. Yuuji’s pretty sure he was starting to fall asleep, which is really cute, but he's got to stay awake long enough to talk and shake and take a bath. He grabs a box of tea that’s energy boosting, according to the box, and puts a bunch of honey into Megumi’s, because that's supposed to help irritated throats. 

He’s sneezing into the sleeve of a worn sweatshirt when he enters back into the living room. Softly, a tickly sounding “ hH’tzshh - ‘tsHh-iewh!” that seems a lot better now that he's not so stuffed up. 

He takes the cup with both hands, nodding his gratitude. There’s already a damp spot on his sleeve. Yuuji plops down with a contented sigh, bumping their shoulders together. He sips his own tea, some blend of citrus and vanilla that warms his whole body. 

He gets so comfortable that he almost forgets about calling for a second, just until Megumi starts tensing next to him again. 

“ ‘tzsHhih! hH’zshh-! i’tSHh-yu!” He moves his face from cotton to tissues, sniffling. “Bless you,” Yuuji says, fumbling around for his phone. He thinks he dropped it for a second, heart sinking because having to get a new phone would really suck, but it turns out he had just moved it to his jacket pocket before picking Megumi up. 

Ieri answers on the fifth ring, voice soft and tired. “Hey. What’s up?” Looking at the time, it's actually pretty late. He doesn’t get to apologize, though, because another voice cuts through. 

“Itadori! Yeah, what’s up? Your mission go okay? Gojo. Megumi stiffens next to him, sending a look that’s watery and a little distressed. Telling Ieri you can’t stop sneezing is one thing- she might huff out a laugh, but it's right to business after that. Gojo is an entirely different beast. 

“Hi! It went well! It’s just, um.” Megumi kicks him in the shins, albeit gently. Looking over at him again, his nose is twitching with a promise. “Just what? Are you embarrassed about something?” Megumi mutters something like ‘mute the phone’ between breaths, but Yuuji thinks that might make him even more suspicious. 

“No! Mgumi’s got kind of an issue. He got hit and now he-" “ ‘IZSHh- ‘dZSh - hHd’TZSHh - ‘dZSHh-yh!” Megumi interrupts him in rapid succession.  giving him just a second to breathe before his eyelids flutter shut again. Once he finally finishes sneezing and starts sniffling into a tissue, his ears are red. Yuuji murmurs “bless you” and gets a glare as thanks. 

There’s silence on the other end. Yuuji can almost see his face. Ieri, half disgusted and half curious, and Gojo. Grinning ear to ear because Megumi’s unlucky enough that his sneezes are so obviously him. 

“Woah, Megumi! Bless you! You catch something?” He can hear the smile. Megumi sniffs, moving the tissues away from his face to talk. “No.” Is all he says. Ieri sighs.

”So what’s going on, seriously? I’m too tired to guess.” Fair enough. So Yuuji tells her, mouthing a sorry to Megumi, who’s glaring hard at nothing. When he finishes, Ieri hums, tapping something against a notebook. 

“It's not super uncommon for curses to have this sort of effect. Megumi, you said you felt fine?” Yuuji brings the phone closer to him, and he clears his throat before answering with a simple “yeah.” Faintly, he can hear Gojo cackling. 

“I think you're just going to have to wait it out. Some allergy meds might help with the congestion, but that's about it.” Megumi hums. There's an unpleasant noise coming through the speaker for a second, then Gojo's voice is loud. 

“Poor Megumi!” He coos. Megumi scowls, scrunching his nose for a second. “I wish I got to see it! How cute!” Megumi makes a move to hang up the call, but his body gets the best of him. 

“hd’zshh-! ‘dZShhi - id’tSHhih-! hH - ” Gojo babbles something. “ h’iZSHh-iewh!” He had to duck into the collar of his sweatshirt, since those were so quick. He's frowning deeply when he resurfaces.  

“Thank you, Ieri.” He says, cutting off whatever nonsense Gojo is chattering off. “Goodbye.” He hangs up the phone in Yuuji's hand and slumps back against the couch. Yuuji sets it down and takes Megumi's hand, rubbing his thumb along soft skin and bone china-white scars. “You want to take a bath? Might help.” 

They ruled out some kind of pollen or spores when Megumi changed, but a bath should at least make him feel a little better. 

Megumi nods, then twitches into his wrist a few times. “ h’ISHh-! hiD’tzshh - id’ZSHhi-!” Yuuji gives his hand one last squeeze before he goes and starts the bath. 

It's a pretty quick affair. Megumis sensitive and tired, and something about the strands keeps sending him into itchy, rapid fits. When Yuuji puts shampoo in his hair, he gasps and lets out a rapid flurry of sneezes, and doesn't stop until he rinses it out. 

Once Megumi's dry, hair mussed, he looks like he could fall asleep standing up. Yuuji drags him to bed, since it's pretty late anyway, and Megumi watches him quietly through puffy eyelids. 

They curl up in bed a couple of minutes later. Yuuji rubs his back when another fit overtakes him, and hands him a tissue when he pulls away from his sleeve. Megumi's asleep minutes later. 

Yuuji stays awake to watch him, just to be sure. He's still stuffy, even though the bath helped a little, lips parted and breathing through his mouth. His nose is red-rimmed and abused. Every so often, it twitches, like he's itchy even in his sleep. 

Yuuji follows him to sleep, and neither of them wakes up until noon. Megumi's fine, if a bit sniffly, and Gojo texted at around 9 this morning, reading ‘Good morning ( ^-^)ノ☆ !! Guess who took you two off the roster for today?? Rest up (*≧∇≦)ﾉ’, so Yuuji texts back a ‘thank u (^○^)’ through bleary eyes. 

Gojo responds quickly with a ‘Megumi OK??’, so Yuuji snaps a sneaky picture of him. He's blinking away sleep, sporting a terrible redhead. Gojo hears it and starts typing, but he puts his phone down and watches Megumi instead. 

“You hungry?” He asks after a while, once Megumi’s awake enough to listen. He nods, bumping Yuuji's chest with the top of his head. He's always quiet for a while after he wakes up. 

He kisses Megumi softly, and his lips are a little chapped. They twitch upwards against Yuuji's own. They're always okay together. 

[acapelladitty]

Hey ummm if you're taking requests and by chance still write for Karl could I maybe request some hurt/comfort? Like maybe he loses his temper and accidentally hurts his gf and she runs and hides because obvi and they kiss and make up later >.<

swirling winds

Summary - After a mild confrontation, a bad decision on Heisenberg's part leads to an injury which he feels compelled to fix.

Link to AO3 ☆ Fic Masterlist ☆ Ko-Fi

Walking along the corridor to the main furnace room, you pass the rows of inactivated soldats which lined the wide space as you rehearse your practiced speech in your head with various little additions to sweeten the deal. Karl had been cooped up here since early in the morning and your determination to force him to finally stop his efforts for the day and join you for some food made your expression firm.

The door to his main work space is as stiff as ever as you attempt to push it with your shoulder and you jolt in surprise as it screeches and swings open with some obvious help from the man within. Almost falling through the doorway due to the intervention, you catch yourself and straighten up to make your way over to Karl as he swivels enough in his chair to watch you approach.

He’s covered with sweat and you can see where his white shirt is sticking to his damp skin, his familiar trench coat having been abandoned on a nearby table due to the heat. Eyes as sharp as ever, his hair looks particularly unkempt as it sits wildly atop his head, and that familiar warmth that his appearance always sparked settles within your chest.

“What?”

Hardly the welcome response you had wanted but still, you’re willing to swallow the snippy tone down as you stand in front of him expectantly.

“It’s coming up to dinner time,” you explain with a soft smile, distracted momentarily by the chest hair poking free of his vest. “The Duke had some lovely fresh rabbit which I snatched up and have prepped in a stew. I was thinking a big meal now means that the rest of the night could be freed up for some fun.”

“I’m too busy,” Karl dismisses you with a slight tilt of his head and a waved wrist, “so you bring it up here when it’s ready or I’ll get to it later.”

“It’ll be cold later.”

“And? I can heat it by the furnace. Or have it cold, hell, I don’t really care.”

All good will quickly fleeing from your body at the persistence of his pissy attitude as he turns his back to you dismissively, you choose to match his energy in an instant.

“And then it’ll be shit.” You snap, hands sitting on your hips in a show of irritation. “And I’ll be pissed off that I’ve wasted my time cooking for an ungrateful bastard.”

That got a reaction as Karl turned in his chair once more, his unruly brows furrowing into a glare as he placed the thick, metallic cog that he had been manipulating atop his lap to fully free up his hands. Pointing at the door with one hand as it slowly opened at his whim, Karl’s other hand raised enough to run through his shaggy hair – disturbing the strands and pulling them further away from his sweat-slicked face.

“Out now. Do what you want with dinner.”

“No.”

At the blatant refusal, his sharpened white teeth show in a barely concealed snarl as he once again swivelled back to his work, his intentions crystal clear.

“Fuck off now, sweetheart.”

Flicking two of his fingers, a scrap of metal from the floor casually flies in your direction but stubbornness keeps your feet rooted the ground as you refuse to back down even an inch from his petty threats.

His accuracy slightly off due to his split attentions, the metal tears through the thin fabric of your shirt- his shirt- and you can’t help the cry which rips free of your throat as it takes a small chunk of your arm with it, blood immediately beginning to roll down your arm as you instantly wrap your other hand around it to stem the flow and ease the sharp pain which radiates from the wound.

At the cry, Karl’s body stiffens in surprise and he whirls in place, nose flaring at the scent of your blood as intelligent eyes sweep over your hands and injured frame – seeing the red quickly staining the digits and fabric.

“Fuck.” Karl grumbles, slamming his hands on his thighs as he pushes himself free of the stool. His movements are quick as he approaches, clearly intending to assess the damage, but you can’t help the flinch that jerks your upper body as you instinctively shift away from him, unsure if he’s still mad at you or not.

He pretends not to have noticed the flinch but you see the way his expression tightens as he instead plays it off and walks past you towards the medical supplies he has stashed away in one of the many cabinets which litter the room. You watch him with wary eyes, your arm now having settled into a dull, discomforting ache as your fingers remain pressing harshly against the wound to stem the flowing blood. Karl is muttering something, the words completely inaudible, but you can feel the frustration rolling off him in waves as he snatches up a bottle of first aid medicine and turns of his heel to face you once more.

Karl pauses for only a moment, a hint of indecision creeping into his face but he brushes it aside as he strides towards you – heavy boots thumping against the floor with purpose. Stopping just in front of your frozen position as he senses the tension in your frame, he holds his hand out and waits for you to make the first move.

Glancing between his hand and his face, you can see the unspoken apology there – the apology which was likely never to come – and you relent with a sigh as you pull your hand from the wound and present your arm to his examinations.

“Why didn’t you try to move?” Karl finally asks after pulling aside the torn shirt and inspecting the bleeding cut. His voice is laced with the frustration which you can see keeping his shoulders tight, but you suspect that he’s angrier with himself than you so you reply to him evenly.

“I didn’t think it would hit me. I didn’t think you’d actually hurt me.” You answer somewhat honestly. It wasn’t the first time that debris had found its way hurled in your direction, intentional or not, due to his fragile grip on his temper at times, but he had never actually made a deliberate choice to harm you with it.

He pulls the cork of the first aid bottle with his sharp teeth, spitting it to the ground before pouring the contents over your fresh cut. The liquid is cool against your skin and the sting of it washing over your wound steals the breath from your lungs as you feel the unnatural way in which your skin knits itself back together until it’s no longer bleeding and the skin is left unblemished.

Happy with the result, Karl releases your arm gently and you are quick to undo the remaining buttons as you drop the now ruined shirt to the floor and step away from it while glancing neatly at your healed arm, the skin still stained by blood which hadn’t quite been washed away by the liquid.

“Didn’t mean it.” Karl grumbles, voice coming more from his chest that his throat as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. Flicking his head to push away the flecks of greying hair which has slipped free across his forehead, he holds your eye as he speaks.

“Just a mild fuckup. We’re both used to that by now, eh?”

Sighing again, you accept his words for what they’re worth as you reach out and wrap your fingers around his left wrist, tugging his hand free. You squeeze his hand, the skin so much rougher and larger than your own, encouragingly and begin leading him towards the door towards the kitchen area.

“Then make it up to me.” You smile, forgiving him yet another sin. “Come eat.”

In an instant, he has you caught in his hands and you yelp in surprise as he snatches you to his chest and practically sprints back to his work desk. Your senses are enveloped by him, natural musk and the scent of metal clinging to him like a second skin, and you inhale deeply as he deposits you on the edge of the desk, legs dangling as he moves to stand between them – spreading your knees roughly to accommodate his significant width.

“Karl, what the fuc-” You begin but are quickly cut off.

“You said I had to eat, figured I’d start with a little starter before the main meal.”

As he speaks, he drops to his knees and his beard is rough against your thighs as he pushes his face against your panties, the suddenness of his movements making you jerk in surprise as his final words are muffled by your cunt.

“I didn’t mean that.” Bending slightly, you run your hands along his hairline and find your fingers coming away damp with sweat. Your surprise ebbing away quickly, it wasn’t the first time that Karl had used sex as an apology – as an easy way to show affection and intimacy without having to use pesky words which didn’t fall easily from his rough lips.

Karl pulls away with a frown at the perceived refusal, his thick brows creeping together as he stares up as you with a disappointed look that brings a smirk to your lips despite your annoyance.

“But I suppose you do owe me something nice.” You roll your eyes, never willing to turn down a change to have him eat you out like the animal he was, as you push his head back towards your panties. “Well, bon appetite I guess…”