#how long have you been running and how much of you is left

[nadvs]

the power play (part five)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

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You haven’t spoken to Rafe since he angrily left your dorm three nights ago.

You’re sitting in your booked study room, waiting for him to arrive, wondering if he’ll be regretful of your argument or be ready for round two or pretend it never happened.

Either way, you’d prefer to make light of it and move on. He may no longer be your fake boyfriend, if he really meant what he said, but you’re still going to be seeing him every week.

You hope that you can just give him back his jersey and leave what happened in the past.

The guilt that Rafe has been running from catches up to him once he walks in and sees you. He blew up the other night and you met him with understanding he’s never been given before, softness he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Let’s just get it out in the open,” you say as the door clicks shut behind him. “We fought. I was expecting a bouquet of apology roses, but maybe they got lost in the mail?”

He huffs. Typical of you to make a joke about it.

He sits down, slouched back as he unpacks his things, his long legs stretched out beneath the table. He doesn’t know what to say and is relieved, for once, that you fill the silence.

“I get why you got annoyed,” you say, “but I haven't changed my mind. This doesn’t have to be weird. No hard feelings, right?”

His jaw tenses as he sets your copy of We Have Always Lived in the Castle on the desk. He got through it quickly. And he actually didn’t hate it.

He’s sure it was only because reading killed the time he’d normally had spent training, but he figures this is a good enough topic to start with.

“I finished it,” he murmurs, looking down at the paperback. “It was good.”

“Oh. Wow,” you say, perking up. “You liked it?”

He nods, earning a prideful smile from you.

“Because…?”

“It was short,” he says.

“You walked into this room, I think a month ago to the day, and looked insulted when I asked you if you liked reading,” you say. “And now you’re telling me you enjoyed a book. That’s huge. I need way more than it was short.”

“You’re being a lot right now.”

“I know.” Your smile doesn’t falter. You motion for his laptop, he hands it to you, and you open a new document. “Keep talking. What did you like about it?”

“It got to the point.”

“The prose is very clear,” you agree, typing in the note. “What’d you think of the twist at the end? Did you see it coming?”

“No.”

“This is why I love this class. It introduces you to books you might’ve never picked up,” you gush, then take a breath. “You better not be trying to trick me. You knew I’d get excited about this and forget that we argued. But I’m already over it. Okay, I’m talking too much. Your turn.”

The relief of seeing you act like you normally do has lifted the weight that’s been sinking into Rafe since the night he snapped at you.

Now that he’s with you again, confined in a room he didn’t think he’d ever not mind being in, there’s no avoiding the fact that you have an effect on him.

Against his expectations, he cares about what you think. About how you feel. And he just wants to fix this.

“You don’t know what my fights with her used to be like,” he says. “I’ve heard it all.”

You still for a moment, then rest your elbow on the table, chin in your hand as you gaze at him through compassionate eyes.

You can sympathize that not knowing what Emma said is irritating him, but you couldn’t repeat her cruel words, even if you wanted to.

“I understand,” you say, “but I can’t bring myself to tell you something that’ll just hurt you.”

“That’s my point,” he scoffs. “It won’t hurt me.”

“It could.”

Rafe sinks into the realization that he’ll just have to take the loss here. You’re not going to tell him what he wants to know, because you don’t want to wound him. Even though he kind of deserves it for his outburst.

“I know I…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know I didn’t have to lose it on you like that the other night.”

“Yeah,” you breathe a defeated chuckle. “You didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

He fans through the book just to have something to do with his hands.

You take in the remorse etched into his handsome face and you admire that even though he can be rash, he tries to clean up the messes he makes, pushing aside his ego when he needs to.

“We’re past it,” you conclude. You look at the laptop screen again, glad this will be a clean break. “Let’s write what we can about this book first and then go back to the other essay. What else did you like?”

Rafe expected that you’d bounce back after your rift. Your positivity is so relentless that it almost tires him out. But he needs to make sure you know he uttered those words out of disingenuous impulse.

“I didn’t really mean that we should end it,” he clarifies.

You look at him again, a crease formed between his brows.

“Are you trying to un-break up with me?” you tease. “This is awkward. I already started pretend-dating one of the other guys I tutor.”

“You tutor other guys?” he asks before thinking.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” you play along.

Rafe’s chest pinches. He doesn’t know why he assumed you exclusively tutored him. He thought he was the only one you see like this, the only one you ramble to and nag and joke with. Why does he hate that he’s not?

“Come on,” he murmurs, shoving past the unwelcome thought. “I know you miss me.”

You laugh. His typical brand of humor is detached and blunt and it’s nice to see another side of him, a playful side that makes him seem warm.

“I have to think about it.” You shrug. “Okay. We’re back together. I had a feeling you were just being mean the other night anyway.”

Rafe’s lips fall into a guilty frown. Without thinking, he scratches the back of his neck, grimacing and letting out a sharply exhaled fuck as his shoulder stings in pain.

“Are you okay?” you ask, serious now.

“Yeah,” he grunts.

“Convincing,” you say. “What is it?”

He sees no reason to hide it. You did tell him that he can vent to you and if there’s anyone he’d complain to about this, it’s you.

He���d rather not tell anyone on the team. Not even his closest friends. He doesn’t want to look weak.

“My shoulder’s fucked up,” he admits.

“Is it from that board check the other night?”

He nods and says, “Physio said it’s a strained muscle.”

“How bad?”

“I’m benched. He’ll look at it again before game two.”

“You mean you can’t play the first game of the championship?” you surmise.

Rafe’s tight expression tells you that you assumed correctly. You grimace sympathetically.

“Did he say if you can use anything to help with the pain?”

“Heat when it gets bad,” he says.

“I’ll be right back,” you say.

He watches you rush out, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. Moments later, you come back with an instant hot compress and place it on the desk in front of him.

“The library has a bunch of first aid kits,” you tell him, sitting back down.

“How’d you know that?” Rafe squeezes the package in one hand, the subdued pop cracking through the small room. “You really like it here that much?”

“A student of mine got a papercut once,” you explain with a laugh. “But yes, I do enjoy being surrounded by books.”

“Right,” he huffs, still in disbelief of how different you two are. “Thanks.”

He rests the package on top of his shoulder, comforting heat spilling through his t-shirt.

When Rafe lets out a velvety, satisfied groan, you find yourself flustered within half a second. Your mind sprints away from you. A mere sound has never made every inch of you tense like this before.

Your imagination can’t keep doing this to you, but it feels impossible to ignore the physical pull you’re starting to feel towards him.

You swallow hard and look at the laptop again, blinking.

This is bad.

You’re crossing the line and you need to yank yourself back into rationality. Rafe is a friend and all the affection he’s given you has been a sham and it’s disconcerting that you keep having to remind yourself of that.

You know he could never give you what you need in a relationship. The last time you saw him was cold, hard proof of that. He’s much too volatile to make a good boyfriend.

And that’s accompanied by a very big if he even likes you like that, which you highly doubt, given how easily you frustrate him. You refuse to overthink, to tumble into infatuation with another man who’ll just hurt you.

“Anyways,” you say, your eyes locked on the screen. “We really should get to work.”

════════

With ten minutes left of the session, Rafe’s laptop dies. You slide it towards him, disappointed you couldn’t upload the essay you’d just finished before the battery drained.

“Make sure to submit it before midnight,” you say. “Oh, and Lyla and Beck’s parents are hosting their birthday party on Saturday, so consider me unavailable for fake girlfriend duties that night.”

Rafe opens his backpack, pushing his laptop in as he mulls over your words. That sounds like the type of event you’d want him to come to.

“Do you need me there?” he asks.

“You were invited,” you say, “but I’ll say you were busy. You’d hate it. It’s an hour away, with a bunch of strangers you’d have to impress, and there’s obviously no way your ex would be there. I can do this on my own.”

Rafe stills before he speaks again.

“Do you need me there?” he repeats, more evenly.

It riled him up to see Emma leave the last party with another guy. To see his arm around her at the game. He hoped he’d be able to count on you to be by his side if he sees them together again this weekend.

But mostly, and more importantly, picturing you at that birthday party alone, in the same room with the guy who hurt you, all because you didn’t want to make Rafe feel forced into going, gnaws at him.

You stare at him, trying to make sense of his tight expression. It’s confusing that he’s still even in this room, asking if you want his help after you’ve given him an out.

“Are you sure?” you ask. You’re positive you’d be fine without him, but he’s sort of become a security blanket.

“I’ve… seen her around with some guy,” he tells you. “It’d be good to get away from campus. And I owe you for losing my cool the other night.”

“Do you even have a cool?” you chuckle.

Rafe glares at you, but it’s proven disingenuous by the small, dimpled smirk he chooses not to stifle.

“I hope I’m with you the next time you see them together,” you say. “Anyways, we can drive up together, then?”

Your eyes brighten with your smile. He doesn’t know if anyone has ever looked at him like that, purely and truly excited to spend time with him.

“A bunch of friends from high school will be there, and obviously Beck and Lyla’s parents, who basically consider me their daughter,” you continue, “so we’ll need to be convincing. It’s a casual dinner, then we’ll just hang out as long as we want. Can you pick me up at five?”

“Yeah,” he says. He stands up, pulling his bag over his good shoulder. “See you.”

You watch him pace towards the door, relieved that you’ll have him there, grateful that he's doing this for you even though you’re certain he really doesn’t want to.

“Hey,” you mumble. He looks at you again. You motion to his injury. “Be careful with your shoulder. And… you’re going to call me corny, but I’m really glad you’re coming.”

A few seconds of silence pass between you.

“You’re corny,” he replies.

You share a smile before he steps out of the study room into the quiet library.

Emptiness abruptly digs into his chest once he’s not with you, growing deeper the farther he walks away.

You’re unlike anyone he’s known. You don’t try to hide how much you care about him and you see things in him he didn’t know were there and you combat his temper with humor and with tenderness and with reassurance that makes him feel like he’s not irreversibly fucking up all the time.

He’s never felt like this before. Like the void he’s always trying to fill isn’t bottomless after all.

════════

Your exhale is shaky as Rafe exits the freeway with only a few minutes left of the drive to Beck and Lyla’s home.

You pull down the sun visor, gazing at your reflection. You’re suddenly quiet and fidgety after you’d chattered for most of the ride.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “And why the hell do I have to ask?”

You chuckle, catching his implication that you typically blab about what’s bothering you without him having to check in.

“I don’t know how I’m going to look their parents in the eye and lie.”

“It’s that hard to pretend to like me?” Rafe murmurs. He’s glad there’s no edge to his tone, glad he can hide that your words stung him a little.

“No,” you chuckle. “When you’re being nice, I like you. Just not like that, obviously.”

Obviously. It’s happening again, the painful crook in his core, the tangled feelings that just keep twisting together.

He used to not care if you liked him. Because he didn’t like you. But your last conversation did something to him, something that was already quietly building up, something that he needs to strip before it sticks.

After every fight he had with Emma, he sensed the palpable cracks forming between them. With you, things felt stronger once you moved past your argument.

Fuck. Why is he thinking about you like you’re his actual girlfriend, comparing his last relationship? This is the last thing he needs.

“It just feels… official. Like I’m bringing a boy home,” you continue. “Nobody’s seen me in a relationship before and they might question your intentions and I don’t want it to be weird.”

You look in the mirror again.

“And I think I’m having a bad hair day. And a bad face day. And I kind of hate my outfit.”

Rafe can’t take your nonsense. Insinuating that you’re anything short of beautiful is the most ridiculous thing he’s heard you say.

He shuts the visor and utters, “You’re doing that overthinking shit again.”

“Okay, so, that’s a perfect example of you not being nice,” you laugh.

You know if you really liked him as more than a friend, his curtness would hurt you. It’s reassuring, the realization that your attraction to Rafe will never be more than physical.

You breathe a sigh, anticipating being with your friends again after you’ve parted ways to different colleges. You wonder if anyone’s changed in the few months since.

You glance over at Rafe.

“What were you like in high school?” you ask.

“The same,” he answers.

“So, just as warm and cuddly?” you tease.

He smirks. You smile like you do every time you crack his facade. It always makes you feel a little proud.

“Better when I started playing hockey,” he relents. “How about you?”

You purse your lips in thought.

“What do you mean better?” you prod.

Rafe’s in no mood to elaborate, stiffly repeating, “How about you?”

You roll your eyes. It’s like pulling teeth, getting this man to share anything.

“I haven’t really changed much,” you reply. He finds himself thinking that it’d be a shame if you ever did.

Rafe follows the GPS to pull into a quiet suburban street. He slows down in front of the house and parks. You gaze out your window to see helium balloons surrounding the front door and reach for the handle.

“Hey,” he rasps.

You turn your head to meet his eyes.

“You don’t need to freak out. We got this. And you…” He looks away. “You look good.”

The words are tight coming out of his mouth, like he really didn’t want to have to say them.

You start to thank him, but he’s already stepping out of the car.

════════

The party is so busy that you and Rafe disappear in the crowd. He stands close by as you catch up with your friends, remembering details about where they’ve gone after graduation, asking questions, making jokes.

When it’s time for dinner, you sit next to him at the table, diagonal to Beck, who has done nothing but flash you awkward smiles here and there.

He’s hardly spoken to you. You wish you weren’t doing it again, second-guessing if he really is jealous.

You feel a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I didn’t get a chance to say hi,” Lyla’s mother says. You smile at her and sit up to give her a hug.

“There’s a lot of people,” you say understandingly.

“My kids are too social,” she jokes quietly, leaning over. She looks over at Rafe. “You must be…?”

“Rafe,” you say. His smile is faint, but believable.

“I hope you know I have to grill you a little,” she tells him.

“I know,” he says, glancing at you. “She warned me.”

He’s playing it entirely cool. You’re relieved. You had nothing to worry about. He has this handled.

“How’d you meet?” she asks.

“I’m his tutor,” you tell her.

“Always been a smart one,” she replies, squeezing your hand. “Is that what made you like her?”

Your eyes land on Rafe again, nerves pricking your spine.

“It’s… one a lot of things, yeah,” he says.

“What else?”

Rafe’s heart thrums.

“I don’t know anyone like her.” His eyes soften as he looks at you, the amusement in them replaced by a depth you’ve only ever seen in glimpses, when his guard slips a little. “And she has a good heart.”

“She does,” Lyla’s mother says, straightening to stand. “You better treat her right.”

“I will,” he says with a nod. When she steps away, you nudge his knee with yours.

“That was amazing,” you say. Your praise gives him a high.

“I’m a great liar,” he replies.

You nudge him again, laughing.

“I don’t care,” you say. “You can’t take any of that back.”

He wouldn’t want to anyway. It was the truth.

════════

After dinner, Beck and Lyla’s mother brings out an ornate cake, prompting the room to break out in song. You watch Beck and Lyla blow out the candles as everyone applauds.

“I’ll never forget what the nurse said the day you two were born,” their father announces as he stands by the head of the table, holding a glass up. “Even when they’re big, you’ll picture them this small. And it’s true.”

He looks down, nodding curtly, lips twisting.

“Here we go again,” Lyla laughs.

“He cries every year,” you explain to Rafe in a hush.

He gazes at your profile as their dad continues his toast. He was aware you knew Beck for a long time, for years, but seeing this makes it real.

He can picture it now, you spending your adolescence in this house, making memories with this family, falling for the guy sitting on the other side of the table who brushed you off, who’s blind to how happy you make everyone around you.

The night you sat on that kitchen counter in that frat house back on campus, your eyes deepened with a sadness that hardly ever comes across your face, and you told him what you saw in Beck. What made you fall for him.

Fun. Kind. Nice to everybody.

And it’s a reminder of why this fire that’s growing inside Rafe for you needs to be put out. He’s the antithesis of the guy you’re in love with. You’d never want him like that.

“I’m so proud of both of you,” their father continues. “Happy birthday.”

Rafe looks down at his plate, wishing he’d been prepared for the wave of pain that’s crashing down on him as the sounds of conversation and dishes rattling and joyous laughter ricochet across the room.

He hates to admit it to himself, but Beck has everything he wants, down to a father who’s proud of his son.

He glances over at you again, but you’re still looking at Beck, your smile both happy and sad, your eyes trained on the one person you’re doing all of this for.

════════

The party moves to the rec room after Beck and Lyla’s parents wish everyone a good night.

Rafe’s hand is in yours as you lead him down the carpeted stairs, then settle on the plush sectional couch next to him as you chat with your friends.

He always hated his impulsivity. He was just telling himself to put out the fire, but he only throws fuel onto it when he curls an arm around your waist, pulling you closer the moment Beck walks in.

You nuzzle in, shifting to look at him again, your noses nearly bumping from how close you are.

“It’s the other shoulder?” you confirm softly, making sure you aren’t putting pressure on where he’s hurting.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod and absorb yourself back into the group’s conversation. Your back is pressed against his chest and he hopes you don’t feel how hard his heart is pounding.

But he knows that the way you make him feel isn’t unique to him. He sees it now that you’re with your friends. You make everyone feel this way, like you want them around.

Drinks start getting passed. You look at Rafe again.

“I’m staying sober tonight,” you tell him. “Thought I should reassure you that I won’t be inviting myself over for another sleepover.”

He wants to ask why that’d be such a bad thing and it’s like he left his sanity upstairs, because now he’s wondering what the hell he’s doing wanting to flirt with you.

“Everyone’s playing,” Lyla announces as she places a box in the middle of the coffee table. “And nobody’s allowed to sit out. You legally can’t say no to the birthday girl.”

“It’s my birthday, too,” Beck says.

“Who cares?” Lyla jokes, opening the box. “It’s truth or dare. We’ll take turns picking a card and reading it out loud and if you won’t do either or you fail at a dare, you have to drink.”

“Oh, no,” you whisper to Rafe.

“Just be happy you found a way to read at a party,” he replies.

You crack a genuine laugh. His lips pull into a smile as he watches you, gratified that the joy you’re feeling right now is entirely because of him.

You feel Beck’s stare on you from his spot on the couch a couple of people away. You look up at him and he looks away and it’s like a discombobulating shove into the past, reminding you of when you’d catch him staring and let your mind run away with daydreams.

The feeling of Rafe’s arm tightening around you grounds you in reality, but it also sends a rush of heat through you and you hate that it does that.

“Truth: what's something you're glad your family doesn't know about you?” Lyla reads out. “Or dare: keep your eyes closed for three full minutes. Easy. Dare.”

She closes her eyes, then points to her right. The game continues around the circle and when it’s your turn to pick, you select a card, feeling everyone but Lyla’s stare on you.

“Truth: what’s the last excuse you used to cancel plans? Dare: don’t laugh or smile until your next turn.”

“Worst dare you could’ve gotten,” Rafe murmurs.

“You’d never manage,” your friend, Marcus chuckles.

You laugh, then laugh again when you realize you just proved both of them right.

“Damn it,” you say. “You know what? I’ll take the dare.”

You put the card down on the table and exhale deeply, trying to focus.

Rafe’s eyes flit to Marcus, whose eyes stay on you longer than he’d like them to.

“Your turn,” you say to Rafe, stone-faced.

He’d rather not play this, but he’s supposed to be acting like a good boyfriend. Besides, there’s something about disappointing you that makes him feel worse than disappointing anyone else.

He leans forward, his arm lifting off of you for a moment, and picks up a card. His hand settles on your hip again as he reclines, his bicep hard against your back.

He’s only staring at the card, so you tilt your head back to read it aloud for him.

“When was the last time you cried? Or, let someone in the room write whatever they want on you with a permanent marker.”

You look at him, holding back your smile, knowing you’re both thinking the same thing. As his girlfriend, it’d make sense that you’d be the one to mark his body.

He would never admit to crying, especially to a group of strangers. The reminder of Emma’s words, of how she’d said he called her in tears, makes your stomach drop. Suddenly, not smiling doesn’t take any effort anymore.

“Dare,” you answer for him. “I need a marker.”

“I’ll get it. Someone help me,” Lyla says, her eyes still shut as she stands. She feels for her way around the room as one of your mutual friends stands up to accompany her. “Keep playing!”

The next person starts their turn, and you take Rafe’s free hand and rest his arm across his lap, gently to not tug too hard and strain his shoulder.

It’s a shock how instinctually you did it, how touching him is natural now, yet still manages to make your heart race a little faster every time you do it.

“I’m going for a meaningful one. I’m thinking my name,” you tease, running your finger up the length of the inside of his forearm, eyes travelling over the faint lines of veins, “from here to here. Sound good?”

“No,” he answers gruffly. You crack a smirk. “And you lost your dare.”

“Don’t tell,” you mumble, forcing your smile away. “You know I can’t hold my alcohol.”

When both girls come back downstairs, Lyla blindly hands you the marker. You meet Rafe’s stare before you look down at his arm.

“The card said whatever I want,” you say quietly, mischief in your tone.

He watches you lean in, eyelashes fluttering as you blink, lips pursing in thought. The wet ink hits the inside of his wrist and his stomach goes numb when you start to slide the smooth, thin end of the marker over him, your thumb gently pressing into his skin as you hold him steady.

Rafe stares as you concentrate, and he starts to breathe a little deeper simply because the way you smell has become a comfort now, a familiarity, a hit of dopamine.

You sit up seconds later. He looks down to see Room 205 written in small, black characters. Your study room.

“You’ll never forget where to go,” you say happily. “Well, until it washes off.”

You finally meet his eyes again. He’s wearing the same concentrated look you’ve seen before, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“What, did you really expect I’d write something that bad?” you say as you snap the cap back on the marker.

The group continues with the next round, and when it’s your turn again, you have to choose between sharing your biggest insecurity or whispering a secret to someone in the room.

“Dare,” you decide, putting the card on the table and leaning back, lifting your chin to whisper into Rafe’s ear.

He slightly angles his head so that nobody can read your lips, shivers spreading over his skin from the feeling of your cheek on his.

“You’re probably my favorite student that I’ve ever tutored,” you say quietly.

It’s not a lie. Even with all his flaws, Rafe has given you something you’re not sure anybody else would have. He came into your life at the perfect time, came up with the perfect idea, and you’re deeply grateful for it.

He hastily cups your jaw, his hand so large it covers your cheek completely, as he tilts your head so he can tell you something, too. His lips brush over the shell of your ear.

“Just probably?” he whispers back. “That’s bullshit.”

You pull back, laughing, your eyes lingering on him.

“Don’t start making out, please,” Lyla teases.

You roll your eyes and look at the group again.

“I’ll spare you all the PDA,” you reply.

“Why start now?” a friend jokes.

“Yeah,” Beck quietly huffs. An ache of confusion rattles through you.

The game carries on, but Beck’s eyes linger on you. He’s never looked at you like this before. And it makes you believe what Rafe has been telling you this entire time.

════════

You leave the party holding Rafe’s hand and untangle your fingers from his the moment you’re out of the house, the moment there aren’t any eyes on you.

Rafe’s palm is cold now that your touch is gone.

Again, he’s powerless to the way his heart does whatever it wants and doesn’t give his head a chance to catch up.

He wasn’t supposed to like you.

He never expected to.

But when he looks at you as you tread towards his car together and the hushed moonlight bathes your features in its glow and you offer him that smile that makes his heart splinter in a way it never has, he yields to the truth, unable to put up a fight any longer.

He’s hopeless. You’ve pulled him under. And he had no choice but to let you.

(to be continued)

>>> new parts drop every friday at 8:30 pm eastern

author’s note and the yearning (that eventually turns mutual) begins 🙂‍↕️

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[abbotjack]

Wearing War

summary : Jack Abbot’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed—but instead, you go to his favorite dive bar. You wear the skirt. You wear his tags. You push, and Jack—tired, restrained, and entirely yours—snaps.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! explicit smut, dominant boyfriend Jack Abbot, semi-public sex (in a parked truck), use of dog tags in kink context, possessiveness, fingering, vaginal sex, marking/bruising, overstimulation, reader is bratty and teasing, not much plot, mostly smut

word count : 4,323

Jack’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed.

You’d imagined it—his weight pressing into the mattress, one arm tossed over your waist, the rest of the world pushed away by the rhythm of his breathing. You’d imagined curling into the heat of him, tracing the faint scar beneath his ribcage with your thumb, pressing your face into his chest and not moving for hours.

But instead, you were standing in the doorway of your kitchen, watching him rinse his hands in the sink like he couldn’t quite turn off the part of his brain still stuck at work. His scrub top was balled up on the counter beside him, and his undershirt clung to his back in soft lines.

“Let’s go out,” you said, voice careful but certain. “Just us.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just let the water keep running over his hands like he hadn’t registered the question—or maybe like he was pretending not to.

“Out?” he echoed, like the word didn’t sit right in his mouth after ten nights of nothing but fluorescent lights and hallway coffee. “You mean… out out?”

You stepped into the kitchen, folding your arms. “Yeah. Not fancy. Not fussy. Just somewhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or have a monitor beeping in the background.”

That made him glance over. Barely. But enough.

His brow creased like he was doing the mental math—how long since his last shower, how much energy he had left in the tank, whether he could fake his way through being social when he barely felt human.

“You sure?” he asked. “You don’t want… like, a real night out? Something normal. Reservations. Wine list?”

You shook your head. “No. I want you. I want O’Malley’s.”

That got his full attention.

He turned, leaning back against the sink. His dog tags swung slightly when he moved. “O’Malley’s?” he asked, like you’d just suggested robbing a bank.

You took a few steps closer. “Yeah.”

He blinked once. “You want to go to a bar where the jukebox hasn’t worked since ’08, the floor sticks to your shoes, and that guy with the mullet always thinks you're hitting on him just for saying hi?”

You smiled, letting your hands slip up under his shirt, resting lightly against the warm skin of his stomach. “I want you. Where you feel good. Where you’re not someone’s doctor or someone’s emergency. Just… mine. I’ve been coming home to your things, not you. And I want to be somewhere that feels like you again.”

He went quiet at that. Quiet in the way Jack gets when something actually lands. The way he used to go quiet back when you first met him—when you’d say something kind and he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

O’Malley’s wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even clean. But it was his.

Brick walls stained with decades of smoke and sweat and spilled drinks. The barstools wobbled. The bathroom door didn’t lock unless you jammed it shut with your heel. But it was familiar. Steady. Like Jack.

It was the first place he ever kissed you in public.

The first time you saw him relax—really relax—with his hand on your thigh and his smile easy and unguarded. No pager. No badge. Just him and a beer and the kind of quiet contentment he didn’t let anyone else see.

You wanted that Jack tonight.

Not the version who came home bone-tired and silent, who sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the dark. The one who carried too many stories in his hands and didn’t know where to put them.

“Alright. We’ll go. But I’m not shaving.”

You smiled. “I like you scruffy.”

He kissed you, slow and low, then murmured, “Twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” you said, already slipping out of his arms and heading for the bedroom. “You’ve got first round.”

And as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you made a beeline for that skirt.

The black one.

The one that hadn’t seen daylight since your fourth date—back when he’d taken you to a bar kind of like O'Malley's. A little louder, a little messier, but the same kind of dim lighting and cracked leather booths. You’d leaned against the doorframe of your apartment when the night was over, keys in your hand, heartbeat wild under your skin, and asked, “Do you want to come up?” like you weren’t already hoping he’d press you into the wall and never leave.

He kissed you before he even got his boots off.

Not soft. Not slow. Like something in him had snapped loose. You barely made it to the couch—his hands on your hips, mouth trailing heat down your stomach, skirt bunched at your waist. He was on his knees before you could say another word, eyes dark, breath rough against your skin.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured, voice all gravel and restraint.

You didn’t.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. Just held your thighs open like he needed to, like he hadn’t had a real taste of anything in months. He made you come twice before he even touched himself. All control. All focus. Like the only thing that mattered was what your body was doing under his.

You still think about how he looked that night.

The way he moved—deliberate and slow, like he was memorizing every inch of you. The low curse he let slip when he finally slid inside. How he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight, barely breathing, like you were the only solid thing left in his world. No dirty talk. No theatrics. Just him, wrecking you with nothing but steady hands and a look you’ve never been able to shake.

That night, Jack Abbot stopped pretending. He stopped playing it safe. He stopped pretending he didn’t want you like a man starved.

You hold the skirt up in the warm light of your bedroom, thumb brushing the fabric like a secret, and smile. It’s tighter than you remember. Shorter, too—but maybe that’s just the way you’re looking at it now. With the memory of his hands. His mouth. His voice when he said your name like it was something sacred.

You slide it up your legs slowly. Deliberately.

Because you don’t want soft tonight. You don’t want tired.

You want him. The version of Jack who doesn’t know how to hold back. The version who comes home and remembers exactly who the hell he belongs to.

And by the time he sees you in this?

You want him wrecked.

Not by the shift.

Not by the world.

By you.

When you came downstairs, he was in the kitchen with his phone in one hand, wallet in the other, the porch light casting long shadows across the hardwood.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t look up until he had to.

And when he did—he stopped mid-motion. The screen of his phone still lit, thumb frozen over it, breath caught in his chest like it had nowhere to go.

His eyes dragged down your body and then back up, slow. Controlled. Like he was trying not to react. Like he had to try.

His mouth opened, then shut again. His jaw ticked once.

He wiped a hand down his face, slow and rough, like the sight of you was something he needed to get a grip on before it undid him. “You really—” he started, voice low and ragged, gesturing vaguely toward your legs. “That skirt?”

You leaned against the doorframe with the kind of casual ease that was anything but. “Figured I’d dress for the occasion.”

Jack didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“That skirt’s been in the back of your closet since…” He stopped, biting off the rest like it physically hurt to say it out loud.

You smiled gently. “Yeah. I remember.”

Silence stretched long and heavy between you. His eyes never left yours.

Then, quietly—honestly: “I’m not gonna ask you to change.” He paused. “But don’t ask me to keep my hands to myself.”

You pushed off the frame with a soft shrug. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

When you reached for your bag, he still hadn’t moved.

You had to walk past him to grab your keys, and even then, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word. Just watched. Like he was counting his breaths. Like if he said one thing too soon, this night would tip into something neither of you were dressed for.

You walked out together into the thick hum of summer, the heat sitting low and wet across the driveway. Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the trees. The air smelled like warm concrete and fading sunlight.

As you made your way toward the truck, you let one heel wobble—just a little. Just enough.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, stopping, bending at the knee like you needed to fix the strap.

You didn’t.

But you knew exactly what you were doing.

And you could feel his gaze on you. Hot. Still. Quiet.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t come closer. Just waited, jaw tight, fists curled around the truck keys.

You stood, slow. Turned, met his eyes.

He blinked once. Swallowed. Then turned and opened the passenger side door for you like he wasn’t two seconds from backing you up against it.

The drive was quiet at first. The windows down, the music soft—something bluesy and old, not quite loud enough to distract from the weight between you.

You reached over, let your fingers brush his thigh gently. The shift in him was instant. A subtle inhale. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. His hand gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“You sure you don’t want something nicer than this bar?” he asked finally, voice low and quiet like he already knew the answer but had to give you the out anyway.

You turned toward him, soft smile still in place. “No, honey. This is about you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead and nodded once. The streetlights passed in slow intervals, the engine humming beneath your feet.

And Jack?

He just drove. Knuckles white against the wheel. Thigh tense under your hand. Mouth pressed into a line like he was already counting down the minutes until you got home—and he could stop pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

When you walked in, his hand found the small of your back.

“Usual booth,” he said. “I’ll grab drinks.”

You turned, looked up at him with a soft smile. “No, babe. Let me. You always do it.”

He squinted slightly. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Go sit. Relax.”

He hesitated. Then pulled out his wallet, thumbed through it, and handed you his card. You turned and walked to the bar, slow and confident, letting your heels click against the hardwood. The bar was a straight shot from your booth, just far enough that he could still see you. And you made sure to give him a show.

You leaned forward, pretending to read the drink list. Let your hips tilt. Let the skirt shift. Just enough for the lace of your thong to show.

The whistle was immediate.

A low sound from a table of men a few feet away.

And then Jack was there.

Behind you in a blink.

His hand clamped to your lower back.

And the other—

yanked your skirt down.

Hard. Final. Like the motion itself was a correction.

The fabric snapped against your thighs, the sudden pressure sending a jolt through you. You straightened instinctively, blinking.

“Jesus,” you said under your breath.

Jack leaned in. “You really wanna do this here?”

“I was just reading the menu,” you murmured.

“Bullshit. You order the same thing every time. Diet Rum and Coke. No lime. Half ice.”

You swallowed.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move again. Just pressed his hand firmer to your lower back and let the moment hang.

The bartender handed over your drinks. You took them. Didn’t say anything. Just walked back to the booth with Jack two steps behind.

You slid into the booth—on his side.

He gave you a look.

“What?” you asked, sipping your drink.

“You’re pushing it.”

You shrugged. “I missed you.”

“You’re doing this because I haven’t fucked you in ten days.”

You flushed—heat hitting your cheeks hard.

But you didn’t deny it.

Instead, you leaned in. He thought you were going to kiss him. And then your hand dipped beneath his collar. You pulled the chain free.

Unclipped it.

And slid his dog tags over your head. They settled against your chest, heavy. His name resting between your breasts.

Jack blinked.

Then laughed once. Dark. Rough.

“You wear them,” he said, voice low, “you ride. That’s the deal.”

You smiled. “I know the rules.”

He stared at you another beat.

Then stood.

“We’re leaving.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“You want people to see your cunt?” he cut in. “You want attention? Then let me remind them who you belong to.”

You didn’t argue.

Just followed him out, heart pounding.

You thought you were headed home.

But when he opened the truck door, he looked at you.

“You’re not gonna ride me in bed.”

You blinked.

He nodded to the truck. “You’re gonna ride me right here. Since you wanted to act like bait.”

You got in.

Because that’s exactly what you wanted.

And he knows it.

The truck door shuts behind you with a heavy, final thunk. One of those sounds that doesn’t echo—it lands.

Jack circles around the hood without a word. His boots hit the gravel with a quiet crunch, one slower than the other, rhythm faintly uneven from the prosthetic he’s never once complained about. Shoulders set. Gait loose, but loaded.

He’s not in a rush.

Not because he doesn’t want to touch you.

Because he’s trying not to break.

You sit in the passenger seat, legs drawn up just slightly, thighs tight, heart climbing higher into your throat with every second he doesn’t speak. The skirt’s still riding too high despite his earlier intervention—and the lace between your thighs is still damp. Still warm.

When Jack slides in behind the wheel, he doesn’t touch you.

Just plants both hands on the steering wheel and exhales. Once. Deep. Grounded.

Then he turns his head.

“I knew you wore that skirt on purpose,” he says, voice low. Strained around the edges. Not tired from work, but from holding back. Like keeping his hands to himself has taken more out of him than the last ten nights combined.

He says it like a confession. Like a warning.

And you don’t bother playing coy.

You tilt your head, smile just enough to be dangerous. “Figured you deserved something to look forward to.”

He shifts beside you, slow and quiet. One arm drapes over the back of your seat, casual on the surface—but his fingers find your shoulder. Trail down, soft as breath, to the edge of your collarbone. He lingers there. Just enough to feel your pulse.

“I’ve been looking forward to you for ten nights,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Still, he doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, his palm drags slowly down your chest, not lingering, not teasing—reading.

Then he moves lower.

Hand slipping down your stomach, over the edge of your skirt, until he finds the lace. The wet. The heat.

He hisses through his teeth.

"You’re soaked."

You don’t answer.

“You’ve been walking around like that since the house?” he asks, more statement than question.

Your breath catches.

His fingers press in slightly—not a thrust, just pressure. Just enough to feel.

“I know this body,” he says, low, barely a whisper. “I’ve had this pussy every way you let me. In the shower. Against the wall. Bent over the fucking sink. You think I can’t tell when you’re asking for it?”

Your hips twitch into his hand.

He doesn't give you more.

“You thought this was gonna be cute?” he growls, thumb brushing just beside your clit. “Bend over at the bar. Show everyone the lace I’ve ripped off you a dozen times?”

You bite your lip. Nod.

That makes him laugh. A rough, breathless sound.

“I should take you back in there,” he says. “Let them see what it looks like when you beg.”

You shift toward him, no hesitation now—like your body’s been waiting for this as long as he has. You climb into his lap with practiced ease, knees against the worn leather of the truck seat, thighs bracketing his hips, breath warm against his jaw.

He exhales like the contact knocks something loose in him.

His hands find their way under you, palms settling at the curve of your ass—rough and sure, reverent in the way only a man who’s gone without you can be. Like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. Real. His.

“You missed me,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb dragging a slow arc along the edge of your hip.

“I missed you,” you breathe, your lips brushing his. “You weren’t home. Not really. I kept pretending it was enough just to hear your keys in the door, but it wasn’t. I was alone. I needed—”

Jack kisses you.

Hard.

Not like a question. Like a claim.

It isn’t soft. Isn’t slow. It’s hungry—the kind of kiss that splits you open, that tastes like every second he had to swallow the urge to call you in the middle of the night just to hear you. His mouth is hot and demanding, his grip tightening like he wants you closer, like closer still isn’t enough.

You gasp against him, fingers tangling in the fabric at his shoulders, and that’s when he groans—deep and wrecked—like you just pulled the last thread keeping him together.

Because this isn’t just a kiss.

It’s ten nights of wanting.

And now?

Now he’s got you in his lap, and your skirt’s hitched up, and you’re not stopping him.

You’re meeting him there.

He bites your lip, slow and deliberate. Tugs it between his teeth, groans when you gasp. The sound spills into your mouth and coils low in your stomach, sharp and warm. His hands shift, drag you harder against him, and you feel it—how hard he is under his jeans. How close he’s riding the edge.

You rut against him before you can stop yourself, hips grinding down like instinct, like need. His hands grip tighter, grounding you, guiding you, pulling a sound from your throat you’ve never made for anyone else.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like you’ve undone something deep in him. His mouth finds your jaw, your neck, the corner of your shoulder—fast, focused, starving. Each kiss lands like an answer to every silent plea you made in the nights he was gone.

“Jack,” you whimper, breath stuttering. “Please—”

He growls. Low. Close. A sound like something tearing loose inside him, sharp and intimate and only for you.

His thumb presses into your waist, anchoring you. His eyes are on you now, heavy and dark, like he’s drinking you in—committing this to memory in case the world asks him to go without you again.

“You want it that bad?” he rasps, voice tight. “You want to fuck me right here, like this truck’s the only place that’s ever existed?”

You nod—frantic, breathless.

Your moan says the rest.

And the way he looks at you then—like restraint was never about control. It was about respect. And now, finally, he doesn’t have to wear it.

He grabs your face, hands big and steady, his thumbs resting under your jaw, holding you like he needs you still to speak clearly.

“You wear those tags,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You ride. Like you promised. You gonna be good for me?”

You nod again, quicker this time.

“Words,” he breathes, brow low. “Tell me.”

“Yes. I’ll be good.”

He exhales like that undoes something else in him. But he doesn’t thank you for it. Doesn’t say a word. Just watches you, jaw clenched, thumb brushing your chin like you’re both already undone and just getting started.

“You made me watch,” he murmurs. “Watch every man in that bar eye what’s mine.”

You meet his stare, voice barely a whisper. “I wanted to remind you.”

“You did.”

He unzips his jeans without breaking eye contact. Slow. Controlled. Not hurried, not desperate. Just decided. Like he’s already known for days exactly how this was going to end.

The tags shift when you lean forward. They clink once against his chest before settling back against warm skin—your skin.

“Do it,” he says, voice scraped raw. “Do what you promised. Ride me.”

His hands guide you—slow, steady, reverent. Like he knows what this is. What it means. What it’ll undo.

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

A pause. One breath. Then another.

“Remind yourself who the fuck you belong to.”

Your hand slips between your bodies. Sure. Smooth. No hesitation now. You find him—hot, hard, already pulsing in your palm—and line him up.

You sink down.

You don’t even make it all the way down before Jack’s hands are on you—possessive, certain, like your body belongs to him and he’s just reclaiming it.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. His head falls forward, lips brushing your sternum as you sink fully onto him. You feel the tremor run through him. Hear the sharp breath he drags in like he’s been choking without you. “You’re still so fucking tight.”

His fingers splay wide across your hips, holding you there. Not letting you move. Not yet.

“Stay right there,” he growls. “Let me feel it. All of it.”

You whimper, thighs already shaking, because he’s thick, hot, deep—so deep it makes your chest ache. You try to move, to set a rhythm, but his grip tightens instantly.

“No,” he says, tone dropping lower. “This isn’t yours to lead.”

You gasp. “Jack—”

He shuts you up with a thrust so sudden, so deep, you see stars. The sound you make is guttural—raw and involuntary.

His hands grip your waist, drag you down harder against him with the next roll of his hips, his cock hitting that spot that makes your spine arch, your jaw fall slack.

“I’ve been hard for you for ten fucking nights,” he rasps against your collarbone. “You think I’m letting you play games? You think I’m letting you tease me, ride me slow like you’re in charge?”

He pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“You’re not in charge tonight, sweetheart. I am.”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ease you into it.

He fucks up into you like it’s punishment for making him wait—hands bruising your hips, his mouth hot against your throat, his body straining under yours like he’s holding back from breaking the whole damn truck apart.

Your skirt rides up higher. Your knees scramble for leverage. The windows fog, the air thick with the slap of skin, the creak of leather, your name torn from his throat like he’s never tasted anything better.

His hand slides up your spine, fingers threading through the chain around your neck. His dog tags. His.

And then he yanks.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough.

Enough to snap your head back. Enough to leave you gasping. Enough to remind you—he’s home now.

He thrusts up, harder now, sharper. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders, your body unraveling under every precise, unrelenting movement.

“You wanted me to lose it. Wanted to feel me snap.”

“Jack—please—”

His fingers twist the chain tighter, the metal cool against your throat. “You wanted this? You take it.”

Another thrust. And another.

He’s all teeth and tongue now—biting at your jaw, kissing you deep, swearing against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You feel your orgasm building hard and fast, coiled tight in your belly.

And he knows. Of course he knows.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice almost gentle in contrast to how he’s fucking you. “You gonna come on me, baby? Hm? Let go for me?”

You nod, eyes wide, breath ragged. “Jack—God—Jack—”

“That’s it,” he says, and he fucks you through it. “Come for me. Come now.”

And when it hits, it slams into you—your whole body tensing, toes curling, nails digging into his chest, a moan torn from your throat that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever made before.

He fucks you through it—relentless, controlled—until your walls flutter around him and your body starts to fold.

That’s when he lets go.

He growls your name, hips bucking once, twice—and then he’s buried deep, his jaw clenched, eyes shut. Like he’s finally home.

He stays there. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just holds you.

One arm around your waist. The other still curled in the chain around your neck.

Breathing hard. Pressing kisses to your chest like prayers.

You let a beat pass. Then two.

You shift slightly, still filled. Still aching.

Then you lean back and smirk.

He notices immediately.

“What,” he says flatly, eyes opening just enough to pin you in place, “is that look.”

You blink, all wide-eyed and faux-sweet. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

He raises a brow. “Surprised.”

You nod. Slow. A little too pleased with yourself. “Mmhmm. I thought you were gonna ruin me.”

Jack exhales through his nose. Once. Controlled. His jaw shifts.

“Careful.”

You shrug, grinding down just a little—not enough to be obvious. Just enough for him to feel it.

“I mean… it was good,” you say lightly. “Don’t get me wrong.”

His hand flexes on your hip. Hard.

“But I was expecting…” you trail off, eyes dancing, “more.”

Jack’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Then: “You done?”

You grin. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“No,” he says calmly. “You’re done.”

He shifts under you, cock hardening again. Already thick. Already ready.

Your smirk starts to fade.

But it’s too late.

You’re about to get it.

[siri-ike]

Does he know where we are? Oh my God. He deffinetly knows. He has to. He can probably smell us with his freaky nerd powers. Or hear us breathe with his heightened underachieving hearing. He probably got it from his crazy parents' experiments. Oh, God. Why does he wanna kill us?

Dash was about to stand up, but Paulina stopped him.

Come on, girl. They listen to you. Be a leader. She gave him a brave face, but she couldn't hide the paralyzing fear in her eyes.

The sound of rubber against the ceramic tiles alerted Kuan to catch Phantoms' leg from sliding into view, but it was too late. He picked the hero up, and they all creped as quietly as they could to the end of the hallway where Paulina stopped them. She held her trembling hand to her mouth in a "hush" gesture and, with the other hand, nudged Kuan down one hallway while ushering the rest down the opposite path.

With Kuan taking Phantom away, her, Star, and Dash could lead Danny away. Hopefully, without getting murdered.

They circled back behind Danny and quietly crossed the hall. As expected, he heard them and gave chase. Luckily, they're a trio of popular athletes, and he's a loser with no upper or lower body strength.

They sprinted through corridor after corridor at full speed. They ran so much faster than he did, but somehow, every time Paulina looked back, he was there.

Walking.

They tried to go for the exit, but despite taking the shortest path, they just kept seeing the same things. Something had to be wrong. They know these halls, and they're not supposed to be a maze. Is he doing something?

"Whoever gets out has to get help. Now, Split!" Paulina commanded, and they each when in their own direction.

Paulina was too far from any exits, so she ducked into a classroom. She peered out the window on the door to see if he followed her. The hall was empty. She turned around and-

"~Hello~"

Paulina jumped. His voice was even more soulless than his actions. She tried to open the door, but the handle turned rubbery, and the room spun.

Never had Dash lived up to his name more than now. If only the scouts were watching him. He went straight out to the football field. No turns. This was his time to shine.

Exept

Dash can run the whole length of the football field in under 15 seconds, but he had to have been running for minutes. He stopped. He was in the middle of the field. He tried running to the benches, but the same thing happened. It was like he wasn't the one moving. The ground was.

A distant clapping drew his attention to the bleachers. There was one member in the audience.

Danny.

Dash turned to run the other way. He barely got closer to the other side, but in those bleachers, he saw two Danny's. One on the far left third row, and one in the middle 8th.

He turned again and ran. 4 Danny's. He turned. 8 Danny's.

Star wished she had stayed with someone. She's a people person. The more, the better. She thrives in a group. She stopped running a long time ago. How long ago? It's hard to tell. She's alone. Everything kept getting darker. There were big windows everywhere she went, but it was like no light could get through them. Need someone, anyone. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. Or maybe the sound just wasn't reaching her ears. She was definitely saying things.

She felt off balance, like when you get caught up in setting up for a party and forget breakfast. The walls got wiggly or blurry. Both? Oh, wiggly, deffinetly. It looked like worms were trying to crawl out from under the paint. The worms got bigger and wider until they didn't look like worms anymore. Faces. Faces she knew. They looked so familiar. She had to know them, but she couldn't really recognize any of them. One had the same mouth and nose as Brittany, but Tiffany's eyes. Another was a mesh of her grandparents. No one was right. Classmates, cousins, camp friends, kids from elementary school she kept in touch with, mall employees, there were so many. Trying to get out. She turned to run away, but what she saw was another wall.

This one only had one face. Danny's. And he had no trouble getting out.

Running was easy for Kwan. He could even run while carrying a person. Frankly, he could run while carrying three people the size of Phantom. What he could not deal with was the pressure. Kwan was such a follower. It was one of the things he disliked most about himself. He's always been like that. He joined bullied the unpopular kids to stay in the popular crowd. He quit going to his oboe classes because they told him to.

"~Take a left~"

Kwan veered left towards the boiler room.

He even uninvited his cousin to his birthday party because the other jocks insisted that theater geeks would ruin it.

But now he's alone.

"~Go in~"

He tried the door handle, but it was locked. He looked back and hesitantly took a few steps to where Danny could still be.

*creeeeek*

The door to the basement opened up on its own.

Kwan halted and looked back at the door. A cold sweat drips down his forehead.

Just around the corner, he'd come from, Kwan heard footsteps near ever closer. He's not even running. How could he have kept up? Why did he go after them? The whole point of splitting up was that the others were going to lure him away. Why wasn't he lured?!

"Wake up, wake up, wake up." He begged Phantom. How was he supposed to know if he's was OK? He doesn't breathe. He doesn't have a heartbeat. But he moves a bit, sometimes. And he's glowing. Which does not help them hide, especially in the dark boiler room.

Wait! "We never went in."

"~Oh, didn't you?~" the voice was flat and callous. It sounded far away but right next to him at the same time. And there was no mistake. It was Danny's voice.

I wanted more A-lister content.

[azzibuckets]

all the little things

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: it’s the little things that paige and azzi miss about each other

a/n: i combined a bunch of different requests into one fic so it’s a little bit of a mess but like always, pls bear with me…also it’s been 1 year of me writing on tumblr which is crazy🙈 time flies so fast

word count: 2.8k

masterlist

Paige misses Azzi as soon as she disappears through the automatic glass doors. She cranes her neck, trying to follow Azzi’s increasingly small figure as she walks through the airport, but soon the crowds of busy travelers engulf her and Paige gives up.

She stares at her hands on the wheel, wondering how it’s even humanly possible to miss someone so bad that it feels like a part of her is gone too. Sighing to herself, she pulls out her phone, shooting a quick text asking Azzi to let her know when she boards and when she lands and when she gets home safely.

Azzi’s reply is immediate: you do know you have my location right

Paige bites back a smile, knowing she’d be tracking it regardless of whether or not Azzi texted. She shoots back a reply: god forbid a girl wants to make sure the love of her life is safe

Azzi: fuck, dallas already making you sassy as hell. should i be worried for the next time i see you

Paige: exactly this is why you should turn around and come back right now

Paige: i miss you already

Azzi sends her a selfie, lips puckered up into a kiss, brown eyes glimmering with amusement, and Paige almost drops her phone with how fast she fumbles to save it to her camera roll. She hearts the photo, sends back a quick selfie, and groans when the car behind her honks.

She checks her blind spot before pulling back into the left lane. Home seems like a weird name for her destination, an empty and unfamiliar apartment with only a bed frame and a couch and no one to share it with. Her heart twinges thinking about her teammates at Connecticut, her family spread across the states even further now, and the bittersweet feeling of starting over again in a new city.

Her phone lights up with one final notification, and she checks it briefly.

Azzi: drive safe honey. i love you

Azzi: and i miss you more. text me when you’re home

Paige smiles. The car ride isn’t too long, but she’s so lost in her thoughts she forgets to put the music back on. Azzi and her had always been in close proximity for the last four years, never really spending more than several weeks apart, and god, she’d fucking loved it, wouldn’t change it for the world, but now it’s even harder to be so many miles away when she’s used to seeing Azzi every day. Even the little things Azzi had done that she’d always used to roll her eyes and complained about, she misses now. Her heart clenches again.

•••••

Paige is dreaming about her next meal when she’s stirred into consciousness by a hand shaking her shoulder. Groaning, she rubs away the sleep from her eyes and dreamy remnants of In-N-Out burgers and Diet Cokes she swears she can taste. It’s been months since she’s been able to indulge in either, and she’s longing for the day season is over to be able to get her hands on both.

“Paige, honey, wake up.” Knuckles brush against her cheek, lingering in her warmth for a moment before trailing down to chuck her chin.

Paige is very much not a morning person, so she sinks deeper into the bed, pulling the sheets a little tighter around her head. Maybe if Azzi sees how deeply she’s sleeping, she’ll leave her alone.

“Paige. Get up.” Azzi’s losing patience, her tone becoming a little more demanding, and usually this is when Paige would roll over and let her girlfriend have her way, but she’d stayed up late the night before finishing up a discussion post and now she can feel the warm, lethargic fingers of sleep pulling her back into its heavenly state of nothingness. So, naturally, she makes the barely-conscious executive decision to cancel the early morning run Azzi had planned, and lets her eyes fall shut, succumbing to the weight of exhaustion.

Paige feels the bed creaking as Azzi slips off the edge, and she thanks God. She decides that when Azzi comes back, she’ll join her for the gym portion; after all, she’s a hooper, not a track star. Doesn’t make sense to waste her energy wearing down the pavement when she could save it for beating Azzi in 1v1s.

Yet Azzi is back in a matter of seconds, this time shaking Paige more insistently. “P, wake up.”

Not wanting to be the victim of Azzi’s wrath this early in the morning, Paige finally untangles herself from the mess of sheets, blinking as her eyes adjust to the piercingly bright yellow light now flooding the room. “Jesus, Az,” she mutters. “You didn’t have to turn every lamp on.” She runs a hand through her mess of hair, yawning tiredly. “What time is it?”

“3 AM.” Azzi at least has the decency to look a little bit guilty, her bottom lip tucking ruefully under her teeth.

“Azzi, what the hell.” Paige flops back into bed, attempting a dramatic attempt of feigning her return to sleep, but Azzi slaps her arm.

“I need to change my pad but I left all my extra ones downstairs.”

“Okay.” Paige grabs a pillow and starts suffocating her eyes with it, willing the light to go away. “Then go get it? Did you bleed through or someth—actually, don’t answer that. I’m way too tired to deal with changing the sheets, I’ll just sleep at the edge of the bed.”

“No, I didn’t bleed through. Chill.” Azzi says, voice strained. “But, like, you need to come with me.”

“What, you need someone to help you walk or sum? You’re not the one with the torn ACL,” Paige complains.

“Paige,” Azzi says exasperatedly, staring at her as if Paige could suddenly understand her logic behind waking her girlfriend up in the ass crack of night to go with her downstairs, but Paige just stares back, lost. “Paige,” she repeats, almost embarrassed as her eyes flick from the door to the blonde still sitting in bed. “It’s 3 AM. It’s dark and the house is making noises and there’s too many windows downstairs.”

“Windows?”

“Someone could be looking at me from outside and I wouldn’t even know it cause it’s so dark.”

“Azzi, you’re being ridiculous. No one’s standing outside.”

“That’s what all the victims who get murdered first in Criminal Minds say,” Azzi replies automaticaly. “God, you have zero survival instinct.”

“If I have zero survival instinct then why are you bringing me with you?” Paige grumbles, but she’s already standing up and slipping on a hoodie, already missing the body heat of her best friend and the warmth of her blanket.

Paige is too tired to argue when Azzi forces her to lead the way. Muttering under her breath, she pushes open the door and trudges across the hallway and down the stairs. She’s too lazy to take the extra steps to flip on the light switches, usually the type to stumble her way through the dark and inevitably bump into five different pieces of furniture, but Azzi demands requests her to use her phone flashlight to guide their steps, claiming that there could be someone hiding in the corner for all they know.

Once they reach the bathroom, Paige leans against the wall, finding relief in its sturdy support against her head. “Okay.” Azzi fingers the door handle nervously. “You’re gonna be here when I come out, right?”

“I won’t move at all,” the older girl promises, raising her hands in innocence.

“I’m serious, Paige. You can’t leave or I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Azzi, I swear to fucking god-,”

“Alright, alright,” sensing that Paige is close to reaching her last straw, Azzi closes the bathroom door behind her. As soon as she hears the lock clock, Paige leaves. But she heads into the kitchen, rummaging around the medicine cabinet for the bottle of Midol she knows is hanging around in there. Spotting the familiar unicorn heating pad on the couch, she grabs that and pops it in the microwave for a couple of minutes.

Azzi’s still in the bathroom when the microwave beeps, so Paige flops down on the fooor and curls around the unicorn, basking in its heat. She’s almost fallen asleep on the ground, which is honestly a lot more comfortable than it looks, when Azzi finally emerges, wiping her wet hands on her t-shirt. “Sorry,” she apologizes. “I had to poop.”

Shaking her head, Paige pushes the heating pad into her hands along with a couple pills. Azzi looks up at her gratefully. “Thank you.” Paige offers a lazy smile in reply, pressing a chaste kiss on her forehead before rushing them back into the room and into the bed.

Azzi bustles around the room for a little bit as Paige gets settled back into the sheets, arm thrown across her eyes. “You good, mami?” she murmurs once all the lights are back off and Azzi’s slipping into bed next to her. She feels a hand on her waist and a chin on her shoulder, and a faint whisper of an “i love you” before she’s fully fading into unconsciousness.

When Azzi wakes up four hours later, she spends ten minutes debating whether to wake up Paige with her. Well, five minutes to be exact - the other five are devoted to staring at Paige as she snores, pink lips slightly parted as she’s curled in her fetal position. She really is beautiful, her blonde hair almost a golden from the hazy sunlight falling through her open blinds.

Azzi decides to let Paige rest. She’s getting out of bed to brush her teeth when a hand curls around her wrist. “I think that midnight disturbance warrants a morning of sleeping in,” Paige says, voice raspy with sleep.

“You can sleep in,” Azzi says. “I still wanna run.”

“Nah, you’re staying. Can’t sleep without you.” Paige folds herself over Azzi, face snuggling into the crook of her neck, hip to hip with their legs intertwined, letting out a sigh of contentment as she relaxes into the younger girl’s body as if they’re one. And really, who would Azzi be to say no to her girlfriend?

•••••

Paige shakes herself out of her memories. Her chest feels heavy, yet she feels a little silly for getting all emotional about something as trivial and embarrasing as missing her girlfriend’s fear of the dark. Honestly, she should be glad she’ll now be able to sleep through the night without interruptions.

But Paige misses it anyways.

•••••••

Azzi walks through the airport, music blaring in her Bose headphones. She walks past a baggage claim and sees a familiar face on the TV, green and yellow streaked across the image. She smiles and takes a photo to show her parents later.

It’s still a little crazy for her to see her girlfriend’s face plastered across billboards and posters across her new city, a city that welcomed Paige like she’d grown up there. All these people passing by see her, but Azzi relishes the fact that there’s a part of Paige no one else knows, a part reserved solely for her.

•••••••

Paige has been unnaturally quiet all night, and it’s not like Azzi has been stalking her girlfriend, per se, but there’s always been a little part of her acutely aware of what the blonde is up to. The entire team, including the coaches and managers, are at Azzi’s grandparents house for their yearly pre-season barbecue, but the two of them haven’t been able to talk much all night - Paige has been chatting with the coaches, while Azzi was busy helping prepare food before getting thrown into a conversation with Caroline and KK for the past half hour.

KK brightens up when CD excuses herself to take a call, calling Paige over. “Come here Boogers, I’m telling a funny story.”

Paige hesitates for a second before making her way over to join their circle, slumping down into the cushion between KK and Azzi with a tired sigh. “You alright?” Azzi murmurs softly, instinctively leaning into Paige’s space and reaching to brush the hair from her eyes. Paige wordlessly offers a small smile of reassurance before turning her attention to KK’s monologue.

Azzi had stopped listening ten minutes ago, so she’s thankful when KK backtracks so she can give Paige context. Caroline is already out of it, staring at the carpet as she fiddles with her watch. KK’s saying something about the prank she’d plotted with Ice and played on the freshmen the week before, and usually Paige would be eating this up, hollering alongside the sophomore, but tonight she remains restless, nodding along but clearly only picking up half of what’s being said.

Mid way through her story, KK pauses, seeming to catch onto her older teammates’ lack of enthusiasm. “Paige, you aren’t even listening!”

Paige’s eyes snap up towards KK. “My bad, KK,” she apologizes, tone genuine. “Just tired.”

“Man, you’re no fun,” KK grumbles, flicking Paige’s forehead. “What’s up with you?” Paige tiredly swats back at her hand, and KK laughs, pushing back at her shoulder to try and initiate one of their many wrestling sessions they’ve been keeping a running tally of (Paige 9, KK 4).

“Alright, leave her alone,” Azzi defends, sensing that Paige is clearly not in the mood to fool around. “Go play with the freshmen or something.”

“Y’all gentle parent me and shit like I’m a kid,” KK mutters, but takes off to probably go find Sarah.

Paige leans back into the couch, head tipping back. “What’s up?” Azzi says softly, cupping the back of her neck and running her thumb alongside her jawline. Paige’s eyes flutter shut at her touch as she slowly exhales.

“Don’t know,” Paige admits. “Not feeling it today. Too much going on.”

Azzi plants a soft kiss on her temple, lingering and sweet. “Wanna take a break in the guest room?”

“Please.” Paige sends her a grateful look.

After making sure her girlfriend is good in the guest room, Azzi returns to the living room, where the entire team is now piled in and playing Mario Kart. Before long, they get bored and switch over to Fortnite. “Yo, someone get P,” someone calls out, knowing Paige would give them shit for hopping on without her.

Ice pops up, but Azzi waves her off. “I’ll go check on her,” she replies. It’s been an hour, so knowing the older girl is likely asleep, she opens the door quietly and tip-toes inside.

Paige is sprawled out in the bed, unmoving as she clutches a pillow to her chest, but her eyes are open. “Thought you were asleep,” Azzi whispers as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “You been up this whole time?”

Paige flips over and looks at Azzi, grabbing her hand in her lap. The feel of Azzi’s hand, warm against hers, is comforting. “Yeah. Can’t sleep.”

“What’re you thinking about?”

Paige breaks eye contact to stare at the ceiling, mind clearly running. “I don’t know. I was talking to the media after practice earlier, and it - it was just a lot. There’s a ton of pressure and outside noise this season and I know I should be used to it by now but - I’m just tired of it all, you know?”

Azzi nods, quiet. Paige shifts over in bed, and Azzi takes the invitation to slip underneath the comforter and nestle in beside her. “I just can’t stop thinking about how much shit we need to do,” the blonde admits quietly, voice so soft Azzi has to strain to hear. “We lost to fucking Columbia last week. We were down by 14 in the second quarter and usually I can hype everyone up and keep maintaining that good attitude but this time, all I could think about was how much we still need to work on. Couldn’t even look at the other girls in the eyes. And I’ve been meeting up with some of the younger girls, tryna talk about what they need to work on and creating goals for the season and I don’t know, I’m just overwhelmed by all of it and I feel guilty.” Paige’s voice cracks on the last word, and she subconsciously clenches Azzi’s shirt as she buries her face into her chest. “I guess that’s why it’s hard for me to talk to them right now.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty,” Azzi says. “You’re doing a lot. It’s only natural to feel overwhelmed.” She runs her fingers through Paige’s scalp, gently messaging, and tension seems to escape her best friend’s shoulders. “But think about the good things. Ice and Jana are becoming more confident and aware in the paint, you can see it with every practice. Mo and Allie are having a hard time adjusting but god, look at Sarah. She could win a championship just by herself.” Paige laughs a little at that, and Azzi takes that opportunity to start peppering her face with kisses. “The team’s becoming more cohesive by the week and I’m like, half a day away from coming back. And you know when I’m on the court, you don’t got anything to worry about,” Azzi says, her voice teasing.

“You sound like you’re joking but you’re right, you know.” Paige’s hand falls to Azzi’s knee, her palm closing over the scar like a shield. “Fuck, I’m actually counting down the minutes til you get cleared.”

“Yo, you guys decent?” KK barely waits a second before pushing the door open. “Azzi, we gave you one job, now you’re here all snuggled up in bed with Boogers,” she complains, taking in the scene with a wary look on her face.

“Should’ve let me go,” Ice grumbles from beside her.

Azzi groans. “If y’all don’t leave us alone we’re gonna start making out in front of you right now.”

KK, who’d been roaming around the room curiously, immediately turns on her heel, grabbing Ice’s arm to drag her out with. “Y’all are some nasty mother fuckers,” she calls over her shoulder as they both run out.

“You’re such a liar.” Paige laughs. “You hate PDA.”

“I don’t hate PDA,” Azzi defends. “It’s not my fault your definition of PDA included shit like ass grabbing. I’ll never forget the poor look in that one kid’s eyes.”

“His eyes were wandering too much anyways,” Paige says. “What was he eyeing you up for? I hate men.”

“He looked 9, Paige.”

“Don’t care.”

•••••

Azzi stretches out her legs in front of her. She was able to get a window seat this time. She looks down at her phone again, still open to the photo Paige had sent with her own kissy face in return. Maybe she would be okay with PDA if it meant a few more minutes with Paige, she relents. She would never admit that out loud though.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Bl00d k1nk remmick or just remmick headcanoans

Remmick x male reader 

Ficlet 

I dont really know much about the history, but I can still horn it up. What is reader? No idea. 

I tried to leave it vague where and when this takes place, but readers mother at least had knowledge about some Irish folklore, like the Fear Gorta.  

Imagine Remmick kinda looks like that fetus voldemort thing in the beginning of this. 

not proofread, cuz i couldnt be bothered.

TW for blood, gore, etc.

Maybe living alone hadn't been your best idea, but you had never had much of a choice. No family, and nobody was gonna take someone like you in. Born out of wedlock, to a mother who prayed to gods the “right folk” shunned, and a father who had not even been baptized. In the eyes of everyone you were as bad as any demon. 

Maybe they were right about the devil, of being hunted and lost, losing it all to a being who would only play with you before it took your soul. Your father died because of his greed, and your mother because the townspeople feared her, even after using her to cure their sicknesses for years. 

Whatever it was, devil or not, you could somehow run your little farm all on your own. Not that anybody would work for you in the first place, but it was enough. Your mother had always warned you about spirits, about the undead. Like the fae, or the Fear Gorta. 

Perhaps that was why you helped him when you first saw him. You had always been told that the Fear Gorta appeared in the shape of a starved man, stumbling along, whimpering for any help it could get. And that not helping it would cause bad luck for a long time to come. 

You had never believed much in your mother's beliefs and magic, mainly learning her herbology to use it yourself. But this felt real, the same way it had felt real when you saw them kill her. 

He looked burnt, like the piece of meat you had left on the fire for too long, because one of your goats had gotten stuck in the fence that one time. Gaunt too, like somebody who hadn't eaten for a very long time. 

“Please, stranger” rasped the figure, one you were still half convinced was a spirit of some kind. But if he wasn't a spirit, and just an unfortunate soul, then it was still your duty to help him. 

“Come on, I live not long from here” you had said, going as far as to pull your coat off your shoulders to drape of his blistered skin as you helped him up into your buggy. It was night, he must have been freezing, which made you hurry up as you pulled the wagon up the old dirt road. 

The air felt heavy, like something was pressing on your very soul as your small home grew closer. Your beloved farm dogs barking up a storm. Normally they would quiet down when they noticed it was you, but tonight they kept up their howling, sounding more and more distressed. 

“Don't mind em, they just don't like strangers. Last time other folk came here it was to try and burn it down” you half joke, glancing back at the maybe man, maybe spirit. Finally, you could see his eyes, and they made something heavy run down your spine, like thick cold molasses. 

Your skin felt cold and clammy as you parked the wagon near your front door, but for some reason you kept going. Kept moving as you unlocked it, almost carried the man inside and placed him in your rocking chair near the few kindles left from earlier, kept moving as you lifted supplies inside. 

The entire time you spoke, talking about this and that, about the farm, nature, the creek you had discovered nearby when you were a child that somehow always had fish, even during winter.  

When everything was put into place, you had wanted to find something to eat or even drink for your silent visitor. It was then that you realized how quiet it was, had he already died? On the way here, he had at least wheezed every now and then, but now it was quiet. 

“Mister?” you softly ask as you step closer, feeling your heart clench. At least you got to give him a warm place to finally let go, that must have been enough, right? You should have wrapped him in the wool skin you kept, so he could have been warm before finally letting himself rest. 

Had your mother been alive, then she would have beat you bloody for even allowing something like this inside your home. But she was long gone, there had barely been anything left to bury back then. 

Your hand was just about to rest on this scrawny man? Beings? Shoulder, when he moved. The yell couldn't even leave your lungs before something clamped down on your neck, a terrible burn spreading through your entire being as your back slammed against the floor. 

It felt like being stabbed, because of course you knew what that felt like. Your hands felt useless even as you clawed, punch and yelled, your voice gurgling as you tasted blood. 

Maybe it was delusion or blood-loss as you felt your vision swim and darken, but you swore you saw the scrawny man's body start growing, thick muscles cording across his being and hair bursting from his almost bald scalp.  

Was... was he moaning? Were those claws he was licking? Coiling his too long tongue around his own fingers to suck up your life essence as he audibly panted like a hound. 

“aint you the most delicious thing I've ever tasted” he moaned, voice rough and otherworldly, eyes like those of an animal when caught in the light. What was this? Why weren't you dead? 

There was a chunk missing from your throat, one this thing had swallowed as he slurped and lapped at your pulsing jugular vein. One he had punched a hole through with his sharp teeth like cloth caught on barbed wire. 

But you weren't dead, even as you felt your back soaking through with your own blood. Even as whatever this was rutted his naked body against you like an animal in heat. 

“Like ambrosia itself. Where did you come from, my dear?” he moaned in your ear, voice rolling like a bubbling lake, or perhaps rather a rolling pot of oil, one you were about to be thrown into. 

“Seems you were made just for me” he almost giggled, his rutting speeding up as he ground his cock against your blood-soaked slacks. You could barely see, but your heart kept racing, gushing blood from your neck with uneven spurts, each audible splatter making your attacker whiner and moan as he slobbered it all up. 

At some point he growled, something so inhuman that you shivered, gurgling through your own blood as it poured from your mouth. You barely noticed the splatter of his own essence that he spilled all over your front, as the being sank his teeth into the other side of your neck, tearing into it like a starved man. 

“I claim you. You have given yourself to no other idol, so now you are mine” he whispered, lips brushing against your ear.  

It was hard to focus as his lips pushed against your own, his blood-soaked tongue slithering into your mouth to lap up the pool of blood gathering there. There was some sick part of your brain that found this arousing, enough to make your eyes flutter for just a moment. 

“Yes... just for me” he huffed, even though you had a feeling he had no need to breathe. 

The world spun as he finally pulled back, strings of blood and drool hanging from his mouth and your wounds, his grin like a fox that had just devoured the most delicious of chickens. As he stood above you, his naked body soaked in blood, your blood, some part of you twitched with a heated feeling you couldn't identify. 

“Rest now. I will return, don't you worry” was purred, the words melting together into one muffled tone, as your eyes finally rolled all the way back, a part of you certain you would die, punished for helping a stranger. 

Only for your eyes to snap back open, blinded by the sun shining in through the windows, the whining and barking of your farm dogs at the door.  

Your neck didn't hurt, had it all been a dream? A nightmare? Some erotic fantasy from the depths of your mind? 

Thats what you thought, until you sat up, your entire body sticking to the floor. When you looked beneath you, it was all coated in blood, there was so much it must have been enough for two or three people. 

Scrambling to your feet, you stumbled towards the one tiny mirror you owned, hands flying to your neck. No wounds, as if nothing had happened. If not for the blood, you might have thought it all a fantasy. 

You didnt burn as you opened the front door, letting the bright rays of the sun wash upon you. What were you? No human should bleed that much, or survive for so long? What had been the thing that tore into you like that? Had rutted against you and moaned like it had been paid for it. 

Remmick, something in the back of your mind whispered. Remmick, Remmick, it repeated.  

A cold shiver ran down your spine as your eyes turned towards your cellar doors, an underground cellar your father had once dug. The lock was broken on the ground, splatters of blood leading towards it.  

Your heart lurched, but there was something else inside you. Something hot, hungry, burning in your gut as blood rushed south. “Remmick...” you mumble, voice scratchy and dry.  

Maybe you should dig up your mothers' old books and notes, but you would have to go into the cellar for that. Maybe your new guest could help you look for them. 

[dinosaurcharcuterie]

My previous employer was far from perfect, but they drew a hard line at opening people working for them, be it employees or contractors, up for abuse.

The expectation was that you treated everyone with equal respect. If someone came in, you say hello. If someone does something for you, even if they're paid to do so, you say thank you. If you do something that makes someone's job harder, not because you have to, but because you're too lazy to [be neat in your documentation/sort your trash/store your tech so it doesn't get mauled by the ergonomic desks], that'll come up in your review. You tell people to enjoy their weekend. You offer birthday cake to whoever comes through the door.

And if you decided to act like a job was beneath you and not essential to your day to day running smoothly... Great. That distraction would be removed. Either for you specifically, or your entire department, depending on how rude you'd been about it.

Have fun sorting your own trash and bringing it to the big bins. For which you have no keys or security clearance. No surface in your office will be wiped or dusted. Cleaning supplies, being industrial grade, are locked away, too. Good luck figuring out how to make do without damaging office infrastructure or triggering allergies in coworkers. Your maintenance tickets, after you've made it abundantly clear that you do not think maintenance is important, are now at the bottom of every priority list. The people who make, serve and ring up your lunch are not required to do so. Those annoying window washers will make sure to do your office last if they're so distracting. Here's hoping they have enough time to get there at all.

You can complain to your superior. Or their superior. Or the employee rep. The union rep. They will all check with the superior of whatever service you kicked in the shins about what caused it. Hell, some of them will be informed in advance. Going over the head of your superior will almost never reflect well on you, either.

The number of people this policy annoyed was minuscule. They also very quickly learned to shut up about it, because they were the obvious cause of any reduction in service their coworkers noticed.

The result it had on people's views towards "unskilled" labor is that no one was clamoring for their pay to be reduced. If a service provider was changed, people were immediately up in arms about it, to the point that you needed a marked upswing in quality for it to not meet with constant, years-long resentment towards management on the issue. They didn't get a say in how the business was run financially, but any aspect that impacted their work was optimized for them as much as possible, to the point that the CEO would get lectured about "setting an example to others" if he complained that his office hadn't been cleaned after he left it in an absolute state more than once a year.

Current job isn't as explicit or diligent about it. They are struggling to find enough staff to fill shifts.

You get back what you put in.

When the health food store unionized, something wild happened that I thought was just a goofy one-off, but makes more sense now.

There was a big push to eliminate "degrading jobs" but the strategy was to eliminate the position, then create a new position outside of the bargaining unit to do the work. So like, we wouldn't have dishwashers, but we'd have people who washed dishes that weren't eligible to be in the union.

I was like A) what the actual fuck? Dish washing isn't "degrading", it's fucking vital. B) What the actual fuck? You want to create a union just to exploit different people?

There were enough of us to be like "Absolutely the fuck not," and put a stop to it, but I was absolutely flummoxed that people involved in a union would say that out loud. Working with more leftists now, it makes sense.

[chiyokoemilia]

chapters of us | prologue  

pairing - architect/carpenter gojo satoru x bookstore owner reader

summary. your love life is as quiet as the shelves of your bookstore. seeking a change, you sign up for a dating app and become captivated by a picture-less/nameless profile—belonging to none other than gojo satoru, a charming architect with a complicated past. your online connection sparks with undeniable chemistry, but you remain unaware that the man you’re drawn to is also your neighbor next door. when he unexpectedly walks into your cozy bookstore, your world shifts. as you navigate feelings for both the mystery man online and the neighbor who feels like a heartbeat away, hidden truths loom over you. can love blossom amid secrets, or will the shadows of your pasts eclipse your stories before it even begins?

word count – 2.26k (i know, it’s really short!)

fic warnings. contains explicit sexual content, guy-next-door, romantic tension, rough sex, age difference (gojo is 32, reader 23), themes of self-doubt, angst, insecurities, heartbreak, and emotional trauma. complicated relationship/pining, alcohol use.

a/n: hi lovebirds! thank you for stumbling across this small liddol corner of the internet. if you couldn’t already tell, i’m sickly obsessed with the man that is gojo satoru and i am unapologetically shameless in that devotion. moving on [...] this just so happens to be my very first fic in years. the last book i wrote was a fictional story in middle school inside a beat-up dollar-store notebook. i recall the feeling of joy running up to my english teacher with a huge smile on my face, sharing with the world how i wrote my very first book. i also remember rummaging through boxes in the storage closet of my garage; I found that very same notebook years later – laughing and cringing at my own writing. although that book is long gone, i hope to find the same joy i found in writing as i did then. and while i cannot guarantee my skills have improved much since, i cannot help but hope you can all find some joy in my work too. here is to new beginnings!! ♡ (author's note continued at the end)

series masterlist | next chapter ->

FLIGHT FROM GERMANY TO JAPAN June 28, 2014 [2 Months Ago]

The cabin is a sea of muted conversations, the quiet clink of glasses, and the steady hum of the engine. Beneath the thin layer of noise, the world outside is nothing but a gray blur, the clouds shifting beneath you like cotton in a needle.

You trace the outline of your boarding pass with the tip of your finger, a subconscious motion that holds more weight than it should. The ink is smudged from where you gripped it too tightly lost in the chaos of your thoughts. Tokyo, Japan. The name seems foreign, yet it carries the weight of all the unanswered questions you’ve been holding within.

But there’s no hope in your chest, no excitement like you’re supposed to feel. Only the hollow thud of your heart against your ribcage, a constant reminder that you’re running.

You should be scared, but fear is something you’ve grown numb to. Fear of the unknown, fear of starting over, fear of facing what you left behind in Germany. It’s easier to let that weight slip down into your stomach and ignore it—at least for now.

Germany had been suffocating. The sterile white of the hospital halls, the incessant beeping of monitors that had once been a comfort but now only reminded you of how long you’d been there. The months that bled into years of quiet waiting, hoping for something that never came. And then there was the betrayal. The friend you had leaned on, the person you trusted who broke you in a way you never saw coming.

You exhale slowly, pushing the thoughts aside, willing the ache to retreat into the hollow space that has become your chest.

Tokyo. New city. New start. You tell yourself that over and over, even though you’re not sure you believe it.

The plane is filled with strangers, none of them more than temporary. You’d resigned yourself to the endless parade of unfamiliar faces, the kind of transient connections that fill the spaces between real ones. You hadn’t expected the woman in 14A to change that.

She sits beside you, her eyes soft but piercing, like she can see right through the layers of distraction you’ve woven around yourself. Her breath is laced with mint, and it almost makes you smile, but you don’t. She leans in slightly, her voice warm, coaxing the air out of your lungs.

“You know,” she begins, her eyes locking onto yours, “sometimes life doesn’t give us what we want because it’s leading us to what we need.”

The words settle into the space between you, uninvited but present. 

You don’t know why she says it. 

Maybe she’s just trying to fill the silence, or maybe it’s something more.

You don’t respond right away. She keeps talking, as if she can’t feel the distance between you, as if she doesn’t see the armor you’ve draped over yourself.

“Have you ever been to Tokyo?” she asks, her voice shifting in a gentle pitch as if asking about the weather.

“No,” you say, a simple answer, but it feels like too much. 

No, I’ve never been. I’ve never had the luxury of going. 

Your thoughts are spiraling, but you don’t say any of that.

Not to her.

The plane continues its descent. The world outside the window is fading—Germany swallowed by the clouds and long forgotten, leaving only the unknown in its wake. 

Tokyo is closer now, realer somehow, and the weight of it presses down on you.

“Tokyo’s a funny place,” the woman continues, her voice still loud in the near-empty row. “My daughter's husband always says the city feels like it’s meant to reset you. Like it washes away all the bad stuff.”

You wish you could believe her. 

You wish you could buy into the idea of a clean slate, the notion that Tokyo could simply erase what’s behind you. 

But you know better.

A part of you wonders if anything will ever truly cleanse you.

You look out the window, the faint outline of Tokyo’s skyline emerging from the fog. 

There it is—your “fresh start." Your “new beginning.”

But deep down, you can’t shake the nagging thought: Is this really what I need? Or am I just running from what I’ll never be able to outrun?

The plane bumps as it touches the runway, the wheels screeching against the tarmac, and you snap back to the moment.

This is it. You’re here.

The woman continues, unaware of your inner turmoil. “They say it’s a city of second chances.”

You don’t answer. You’re already thinking of your own messy life, and the thought of second chances? It seems nothing short of unattainable.

The woman sighs, content with her unsolicited advice.

You let her words drift in one ear and out the other. 

I'm not here to hear about "second chances."

You’re here to escape.

To run from the weight of what you can’t outrun.

She’s still talking when the seatbelt sign dings, the jarring sound reminding you that you have arrived.

The wheels continue to squeal against the runway, and the plane slows, the steady hum of the engines finally coming to an end. The air in the cabin shifts—there’s a soft exhale from everyone on the plane – a collective release – as if the flight itself had been a slow, drawn-out exhalation of everything they’d been holding inside.

But for you? You share no such sentiment. There is no relief in your body. 

Just a tight knot in your chest, a mix of anticipation and dread that’s been building up for as long as you can remember.

The woman in 14A is still talking, her voice rising over the thrum of the plane coming to a halt. 

You can’t even focus on her anymore. Not with the overwhelming noise inside your own head. Your fingers grip the armrest, the cold plastic biting into your skin, grounding you.

It’s not that you don’t want to hear her. 

She’s kind, her presence is even comforting.. in some way. 

But you can’t stop thinking about what you’re running from.

Back home, you had been chained to the hospital for so long that the outside world felt like a distant illusion.

You shift in your seat, eyes flicking to the window as the airport draws closer. It feels like a dream you’re not ready to wake up from. There’s an odd sense of unreality that settles over you as the city comes into focus.  It almost feels strange to explore beyond the world you had always known. 

It’s bright and bustling— nothing like the quiet halls and the incessant ticking of hospital clocks. 

But how long will that excitement last? 

How long will it take before the weight of your past catches up with you?

The woman in 14A seems to sense the shift in your mood. Her voice softens, as though she’s able to see through the internal war in your head.

“You’re running from something, aren’t you?” she asks, gentle words, but sharp enough to pierce through your distracted mind.

You freeze for a moment. Your throat tightens. 

She doesn’t know. She can’t know. But somehow, it feels like she does.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Instead, you turn away, fumbling with your bag, your eyes darting between the window and your lap, anything to avoid the weight of her gaze. But she doesn’t push. She doesn’t demand a confession. She simply waits, her presence a quiet understanding.

The plane finally comes to a full stop, the engines winding down to a soft whirr, and the seatbelt sign flashes on. Your pulse quickens, your heartbeat a steady drum in your ears as the final leg of this journey begins. 

Bu-dump, Bu-dump, Bu-dump.

You gather your things mechanically, the weight of your bag too familiar, too burdensome. You stand when the seatbelt sign clicks off, trying to ignore the slight tremor in your hands.

You step into the aisle, the woman in 14A watching you go with a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. You don’t know why, but you feel like she’s seeing something you don’t want to be seen. It unsettles you more than you care to admit.

Tokyo awaits beyond the cabin doors, the city alive with promise. You can feel it in the way the air shifts, the hum of activity waiting for you to dive into it. You have no idea what you’re going to find here. No clue how long it will take to forget the whispers of your past or how long you’ll have before the scars start to show again. You don’t know what you’re hoping for anymore—only that it’s time to move forward into whatever comes next.

ᡣ𐭩 ࣪ ˖⊹ 𝜗𝜚  ࣪𝄞 𝜗𝜚 ⊹˖ ࣪ ᡣ𐭩 

The moment you step off the plane, everything is different. There’s no turning back now. You feel it—the tug of the unknown, the weight of all that’s behind you, pressing against your back.

A new city. A new life. But no matter what, you can't shake the feeling in your heart: that nothing feels like it's enough.

You take a deep breath as you step into the crowded terminal, the buzz of voices and the endless flow of bodies a stark contrast to the quiet isolation of the flight. You feel small, almost invisible, a speck in the vast sea of faces.

You continue trudging forward, like you're walking through a fog, each step heavier than the last. The terminal stretches out like a never-ending tunnel. The blur of voices and the mechanical beep of the passport machine melt into a dull hum, and you can barely keep your focus as you reach the scanning station.

You swipe your passport through the machine and it flashes red. The machine’s shrill beep rings in your ears, like some cruel reminder of how your life is met with nothing but obstacles.

A uniformed officer approaches, his eyes cold, unreadable.

"Miss, I’ll need you to come with me,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as he motions toward a small room.

Of course. How wonderful.

You nod, your throat dry as dust, not trusting yourself to speak.

You follow him into the quiet room, where he gently places your bag on a table. The metallic click of the zipper fills the space as he opens it, his hands methodically searching through your belongings. Your personal items—nothing special, just the usual mess—are strewn across the table. The fraying notebook, your thick scarf that still smells like the hospital, and that keychain that reminds you of your happiest memory. You can’t help but feel the heat rising to your face when he pulls out a hello-kitty tampon, then your old hoodie— the one you couldn’t bear to leave behind, even if it’s more of a comfort thing than anything else now. It’s embarrassing, but you keep your mouth shut.

"A holiday?" he asks, glancing at you briefly, eyes still focused on your bag.

"No," you stammer, your voice barely a whisper as your fingers curl tightly around your sides.

"Business then?" he presses, his gloved hands pulling out a crumpled receipt from a café you don't even remember visiting.

"No," you reply again, feeling the exhaustion pull at you. "Just... no." You rub your forehead, fighting back the incoming headache and a flood of emotions that threatens to spill over.

"Not business," he repeats, "Well, then, what is it, miss?"

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to go down.

The weight of his gaze feels like it’s tearing through you, and for a moment, you want to hide, to curl up into a ball and disappear.

But you can’t. You won’t.

"My mother passed away," you finally manage, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

For a moment, the officer stills, his fingers hovering over a sweater. He looks up at you then—really looks at you—and there’s a brief shift in his expression, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Something in his gaze softens, just for a second.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, his voice lowering in a rare note of sympathy. The sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, almost making you want to crumble in front of him. It's strange how something so small—a kindness, a flicker of empathy—can pierce through the numbness, even for a moment.

He hands your passport back to you, then nods toward the door. "You're all set. Welcome to Tokyo."

You’re too dazed to respond, your head spinning. Your body feels like it’s on autopilot as he leads you out of the room and toward the exit. The cool air in the terminal is a stark contrast to the suffocating weight of grief, and you breathe deeply, trying to steady yourself.

When you reach baggage claim, you spot your bags circling around carousel three. You take a deep breath, picking up your two suitcases, the familiar weight of them strangely grounding.

Outside, a taxi waits. The driver doesn’t ask questions as he opens the door for you, only giving you a simple nod. You step inside, grateful for the quiet moment, the solitude of the ride.

“Where to?” he asks, his voice a gentle rumble, still distant but polite.

"Jinbōchō," you say, barely above a whisper, your mind far away from the words you’re speaking.

He nods, sliding your bags into the trunk without a word.

Next thing you know, you’re off, the city lights blurring past in a mix of color and motion.

“Coming back home?” he asks after a while, breaking the silence.

Home?

You exhale slowly, trying to make sense of the question.

What is home anymore?

Your mind drifts, the past and present colliding in a haze.

"Sort of," you murmur, the words escaping before you can stop them.

You’re not sure if it’s the truth.

But for now, it’s all you have.

ᡣ𐭩 ࣪ ˖⊹ 𝜗𝜚  ࣪𝄞 𝜗𝜚 ⊹˖ ࣪ ᡣ𐭩 

Raindrops race down the car window, each one stubbornly fighting to stick to the glass. You close your eyes, and the exhaustion from the trip hits you like a wave, pulling you under.

The second your eyes slip shut, memories come rushing back. She’s there—your mom.

You can almost smell the flour and feel the warmth of the kitchen. It’s a lazy Saturday morning, and you’re nine years old, helping her bake while she hums some old song, twirling around with a smile on her face.

It’s one of those memories you’ve kept locked away for years, like a little piece of happiness you’re scared to lose—one that slips further out of reach every day.

You remember how bad it hurt when she left.

Dad tried his best, but nothing could fill that hole she left behind. Nothing could take her place.

You ended up burying yourself in books, getting lost in stories that felt safer than the real world—stories that numbed the pain, even if it's only for a little while.

By the time you were in college, the library had become your second home. You’d spend hours wandering the aisles, soaking up the smell of old books and worn-out pages. It was quiet, safe—like nothing bad could touch you there. It was easier to drown in fiction than to face a world where everything had felt so messed up and broken.

But one morning, without warning, everything changed.

ᡣ𐭩 ࣪ ˖⊹ 𝜗𝜚  ࣪𝄞 𝜗𝜚 ⊹˖ ࣪ ᡣ𐭩 

series masterlist | next chapter ->

author's note: well, hello there! thank you for making it to the end of this little teaser to chapters of us. this is meant to be a little prologue. as excited as i was to get right into reader’s fated meeting with gojo, i truly wanted to take my time to establish the scene for the story, a small look into her universe - setting the stage for what is to come. i wanted to write more and im sure you could hardly call this a prologue, but it’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks & its giving me something of a headache just looking at it. is this perhaps.. the fated writers block?! i digress. i thought this was enough of a delay so ill simply share what i have now and write more as i go. i'm truly excited for this story. i have so many plot twists, romance + angst planned but i've honestly been procrastinating getting this out and doubting my work. it's always been a dream of mine to become an author, but for now i'm simply going to enjoy this little hobby of mine and hopefully make some new friends along the way. what are your thoughts so far? can't wait to hear them!

ᰔ taglist: — @madamechrissy @berrylovesmegumiiii @introvertatitsfinest @dark-agate @cheezitcracker @frozenmallows @berrychaivibe @lovelyjkook @seternic @dazailover1900 @jotarohat @httpstoyosi @satorurize @myahfig4 @teatimebeliever @alula394 @flowerpot113 @harryzcherry @emochosoluvr @sylustoru @daydreamingastronauts @winniethepooh-lover @gojoscumslut @achildofaphrodite @sorenflyinn @xixflower @altgojo @moncher-ire @nappingmoon @nanasukii28 @sherrieblossoms @celineko20 @averyjadedemerald @sleepyyammy @fisusaurus (open!)

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[threalcrabbysamantha]

Ember Island locals know that time on the island doesn’t follow the rules of the rest of the world. It’s not slower, exactly, and it’s certainly not constant, a fickle thing that strikes the island’s inhabitants at odd moments. You’ll look up one day and realize time has stretched itself like some sort of impossible acrobat, or shrunk itself down, compressing years into seconds.

The first time Zuko realizes he’s succumbed to Ember Island time is the third time Katara falls asleep in his room.

It’s not intentional, obviously, or not those first three times anyway. But after that disaster that tried to pass itself off as a play, she’d knocked, timidly, at his door and asked to talk, which surprised him as much as it relieved him. At the time he assumed she’d done the same with everyone else - but the next morning she wasn’t speaking to the Avatar except in short clips, and like usual Zuko felt like he’d missed something.

The scent of her lingered in his rooms for days afterward.

The other two times, she’d found him in his room after dinner, and for reasons that evaded him, stayed until the moon was high in the sky as she faded into a slumber curled up on his bedroll.

The fourth time, Zuko stays, curled into her, content to let his arm fall asleep under the weight of her head.

What she wants from him he couldn’t begin to discern, but he’s observed Katara long enough to understand she does nothing by halves. When she was angry with him, her fury was an unrelenting storm, and now her forgiveness crashes over him like a wave. She’s not content to just forgive; she demands more, slots herself in next to him like they’ve always been friends, grabbing his hand, teasing him, running her fingers through his hair. This is how she is; it’s no different than the way she acts with Sokka or Suki or Toph or Aang, he tells himself.

He has to tell himself, to barricade his heart against the way it speeds up whenever she enters a room.

Of all the dumb things he’s done in his life, falling for Katara is the dumbest by far because it’s a fleeting dream that exists only in the confines of his room, where she takes her hair down and her faces relaxes into the girl she might be if there had never been a war at all. If his family wasn’t a scourge on the earth. And there it is, the thing that keeps him from pressing fully into her, much as she has started to stare wistfully at his mouth: how can this be where it all ends? After every bad thing he’s done, how can he think this is anything but a test?

What is the cost of redemption? The voice in his head - the one that sounds like Uncle - scoffs at the very idea. But Zuko made his peace with his role in things the moment he left the palace. He knew, coming here, that he would serve the Avatar at all cost to his own comfort, however it had to happen - as ally or prisoner. It can’t be now that he really has friends. Certainly, the other shoe will drop - they’ll uncover some other awful thing that he’s done, and Sokka will stop joking with him, and Toph will stop demanding a spar, and Katara…

Katara will look at him the way she did after he sided with Azula, and it will be what he deserves.

This is his role, and he will play it as best he can.

Next to him, Katara sighs softly, shifting deeper into him. He stills, lest he wake her, and she makes an embarrassed, rush exit, never to return.

But she does blink awake, eyes blurry, and she doesn’t rush out. Instead, she stares up at him as she traces her thumb along the very edge of his scar.

“It’s strange,” she murmurs. “Sometimes, in here, I forget…I forget we have to make sure the world doesn’t end.”

Zuko licks his lips - don’t say it - and asks, “Is that why you keep coming back?”

She hums at that, more fully cupping his cheek, her own tinting red. “No, I - I guess I…missed you.”

“You…missed me. When?”

“Always,” she confesses. It catches in her throat around her embarrassment. “I think I’ve…been missing you, for a while.”

He bumps his forehead against hers gently. “Why me? I don’t deserve that.”

She frowns, pulling away, a big crease between her eyebrows. He thinks she might chastise him or argue but instead she just leans in closer, burrowing herself, and mutters into his shoulder, “Well. I do.”

Maybe he’ll pay the cost later, Zuko thinks, wrapping his arms fully around her - but then maybe this is the cost, giving himself wholly over, thrusting the fate of his heart into someone else’s hands.

He closes his eyes and surrenders himself to Ember Island time.

[thevoidstaredback]

Part 3

Danny realized, just as dawn was lighting up the world around him, that he knew almost nothing about the world outside of the USA. Even Canada and Mexico were barely footnotes outside of a chapter or two throughout all of his schooling! So, he landed just as a city came into view, let himself warmup with the release of his ghostly transformation, and pulled out his phone to figure out where the hell he was.

With barely any reception, Danny found himself to be just outside Monterrey, Mexico.

"Monterrey, Mexico, the capitol city of Nuevo León, boasts a sprawling business and industrial center. Spanning 125.3 square miles (324.8 squared kilometers), the city is home to ~5,341,177 people. The city is just over 428 years old, having been founded in the 16th century. Notable places to visit, such as Palacio del Obispado (1787-88), Museo de Arte Contemporáneo (2001), Faro de Comercio (1984) are recommended visits for people new to the city."

Sometimes Google was useful.

It was early morning, but the streets were already coming to life with music and voices. Suddenly, the tiny little world Danny'd been trapped in his whole life seemed so dim.

Everything was more beautiful than he'd ever noticed before. Brighter, more colorful, more musical.

Was this what Dani saw every time she left Amity? Was this how she always saw the world? He could see the appeal.

The brand new sights and smells and sounds overwhelmed him as the sun rose higher in the sky, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. It was almost the same kind of overwhelming feeling he got when he thought about space; good and begging for him to feed it.

He walked on, passing hundreds of people all speaking a language he didn't know-

Ah. He'd better pick up on it fast. It'd be rude to demand they speak his language in their home, right?

He pulled out his phone and took a quick selfie to send to Jazz, unable to stop his grin.

"It's so colorful," he told her, "I can see why Dani likes it so much out here."

She didn't respond, but he didn't expect her to. Not for a while, at least.

He texted Dani next. The same picture, though all he said was "Monterrey, Mexico."

Dani answered before he could even put his phone back in his bag. She, too, had send a selfie captioned, "Cobán, Guatemala, bitch!"

He laughed.

There was a chuckle behind him. "Un turista, ¿no?"

He turned around, suddenly re-kicking himself for not taking Spanish in school. Putting on his most apologetic expression, he said, "I'm sorry, I don't-"

The person laughed, wiping a fake tear from their eye. "Don't worry about it," they said in heavily accented English, "You're a long way from home."

He nodded. "A bit, yeah."

"You're not from a big city, are you?" It wasn't a question.

"How'd you know?"

"Stopping in the middle of the street is a good way to get jumped in any city, mi amigo." Danny shifted into a defensive stance, wary of the stranger. They laughed again. "Don't worry about me, I won't hurt you." He didn't believe them. they stuck their hand out. "Me llamo Alejandro."

He relaxed minutely. "Danny."

"Short for Daniel?"

"Just Danny."

They backed up some, their hands up. "I get it, man. What brings you to mi hermosa ciudad?"

"My reasons are my own."

"A fugitivo, got it."

"I'm not-"

"Relax! I'm not gonna turn you in. That's too much work. Besides, I know lots 'a guys like you. Not many stay in the city, but a lot of 'em start out here."

"Really?"

"More than you'd think."

Danny hummed. Then, he had an idea. "Could you teach me Spanish?"

Alejandro raised an eyebrow. "What happened to not trusting me?"

He blushed just a little and looked away, "Well, I don't want to not be able to understand anyone while I'm here, and you seem pretty friendly."

Alejandro shook their head with a smirk. "Way too trusting. Sure, I'll teach you, come on."

Danny followed after them, weaving between people and not running into a single person. Alejandro was all skill while Danny used a bit of intangibility.

Instead of taking him somewhere they could teach and learn in peace, as Danny had expected, Alejandro lead him through the city, giving a detailed tour of everything in the way only a local who loved their city more than anything could do. They knew every part of the city, every person seemed to know them, though they didn't so much as exchange a wave. A few kids stopped them and they played basketball in a park for a while before moving on.

Eventually, the day had to come to an end. As the sun was setting over the mountains, Alejandro lead Danny to a group of houses just on the playground, a bit more rundown with use.

"It's refreshing to see someone so full of childlike wonder when I show them mi hogar for the first time," they said, "Don't ever lose that, okay? Don't let anyone ever take that away from you, okay?"

There was a desperation in their tone, hidden, but loud enough to speak volumes of something that Danny wasn't privileged to know about. "Okay."

They sighed like something heavy had been lifted off their shoulders. "Good, good." They straightened up. "Now, for your Spanish lesson. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be speaking like it's your first language!"

The gleam in their eye reminded Danny of Sam when she was gearing up to explain the current activist page she was deep-diving; of Tucker when he was explaining the newest upgrade to his PDA; of Jazz when she was psychoanalyzing everyone in sight. It made him homesick.

He promised to have the language perfected before he left this city.

Part 5

Translation 1 - Spanish: A tourist, aye? Translation 2 - Spanish: my friend. Translation 3 - Spanish: My name's Alejandro Translation 4 - Spanish: my beautiful city? Translation 5 - Spanish: runaway, Translation 6 - Spanish: my home

[howlingmod]

I love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love x evil(not as evil) killer reader

please feed me more with any or all forsaken surviver x killer reader

please I'm on my hands and knees

summary - guest 1337 x killer reader

misc - these are getting really esoteric WHOOPS!!!!!! also um. sorry for the absence ive been Very Busy. guest's s/o is straight EVIL sorry they're AMmaxxing i cant lie

-You had to be the biggest thorn in his side. You were different from the other killers in the sense that, very much unlike the others, you weren't mobile. You were confined to one set spot a little ways away from the campsite, able to freely control the entire space without ever revealing yourself. Truthfully, Guest hadn't ever seen anything he could call a body- at least not one whole, complete body. No, but he could see the parts of you.

-You were some piece of machinery left behind long ago, you reminded him of some of the underground communication tunnels he'd heard of before. There were long, sprawling bundles of wires that traveled throughout the wide system of caverns you called home, spiraling overhead and on either side of him. There were some electrical panels scattered here and there, "strangely" corroded shut (he'd tried to open them up one of the first times he'd come down there, wanting to get a better idea of how big the site was, only for you to give him one nasty shock, enough he never dared touching them again, if only for his heart's sake.) and a few control panels that'd long since fried, leaving doors sealed shut for the time being.

-In addition to those, there were speakers. Speakers and cameras nestled every nook, meaning he was never out of your sight for long. Though, he suspected that didn't matter. You seemed to have some way of just feeling where he was, enough to make his skin crawl.

-He'd stumbled down here once, hiding away from some other threat that'd chased him into the area. It wasn't his favorite place, but your cave-site seemed to attract few visitors. In all the time he'd spent down here looking for anything of value, he'd never seen so much as a mouse. Something you'd scoffed at when he pointed it out.

"What? Do you think I just let pests run around in my body? Oh, you're lucky I even let you wander around in here."

-He'd only meant to find some little off-shoot to hide in just in case he was followed down here, somewhere he could sit and catch his breath for a minute. You, of course, just had to ruin that for him.

-He'd felt it before you even did anything, heard the squealing feedback of the speakers picking up the faintest sound from you- laughter. Then, the lightbulb above him flickered out without so much as a click. Then the one ahead of it, then the ones on either side of that, all in a coordinated line until it was pitch black. It was then he remembered just how cold these caverns could be.

Guest shot up, stumbling up off the floor to look down either side of the hall, being met with nothingness in either direction. He could guess which way would take him back to the ladder out of here, but that was just it- he could guess. He had no idea which way was the way out, could barely remember how many turns he'd made to get here in the first place.

"Oh relax, you aren't afraid of the dark are you?" Your voice came crooning through the static, crackling under the weight of your presence.

"Cut it out and turn the lights back on. I have to get back to the cabin, they'll come looking for me."

"Well, you see I'd love to but um... I just can't seem to get them to! Ah, electricity can be so finicky, you know?" Guest could hear how you smiled, could hear just how much fun you were already having with this game of yours.

"But- I'm feeling generous. I'll help you get out of here, I know the path by heart. I mean, I've got every inch of this place memorized, I'm probably the best director you've got! All you need to do is just follow my instructions and you'll be right on home, Scott free."

"What's the catch?"

"Aw, you think so little of me! Truly, I'm hurt. If you don't want my help, well.. that's fine. I don't mind your company, but..." You took a breath, pushing the sharpness of your tone to his throat, "I don't think I can say the same for your friends, if they come looking for you."

Guest stiffened at that, glaring down the glowing dot of a nearby camera. He could feel you staring right back at him, waiting for his next move idly. You had all the time in the world and, with your threat, he couldn't say the same. It was only a matter of time before someone would follow his footsteps here and invite themselves into your home.

"Fine. Just get me out of here."

You'd hissed a laugh, something low and croaky, "That's the spirit."

-For what it was worth, you didn't mess with him much. You just gave him directions, whether they were accurate or not he wouldn't know until he reached the exit. The path itself seemed normal enough, no tripwire or bear traps waiting for him to pass through, just the same crumbling floors and scratchy walls by his side. The only real distinction he could make is that this was definitely longer than the way he'd taken, even when accounting for adrenaline blurring his sense of time.

-Strangely though, as he got further and further, there was something he noticed. It wasn't tangible, not in the sense he could reach out and blindly identify it, but it was there. It grew more and more intense with every corridor and turn, taking up more and more of the already limited air. It was hot. Not a dry heat like there was a fire nearby, but humid.

-At first he imagined it could just be the atmosphere, if it weren't for the fact he hadn't gone any deeper- certainly not enough to warrant it being this hot in the first place. You knew about it though- You watched him squirm with glee. He didn't have enough energy to ask, to choke it out with the finite oxygen he was wasting by panting, but when he pulled at his collar, desperate for some relief, you'd just laughed. First you stifled it, but once you noticed his lack of questioning, you made no such effort, fully cackling at his misery.

It wasn't much longer before he snapped.

"This isn't a joke anymore. I don't know what kind of game you're playing here, but I don't want any part in it. If you're just gonna waste my time, I'll find my own way-"

"You're here."

He stopped suddenly, startled by your dull insertion. All the fight left him as soon as he'd mustered it up. He could only stare forward, dimly making out the silhouette of a doorway. He tried for words, lamely whispered that there wasn't supposed to be one here, this wasn't the exit, where did you take him-

"Come in."

He stood for a few seconds longer, waiting for something to jump out at him, for this suspense to finally drop. Nothing came, he was left with silence, staring in the darkness. Finally, he stumbled forward, carefully padding through the doorway and into the room. If it was hot before, it was boiling now. He could hear the faint whir of electricity, humming in the walls and all around him. If this cave was your body, this had to be the heart.

"You know, you're probably my favorite, eh ... subject, to come down here," something reached out, distinctly spindly and with sharp copper tendrils that poked into the skin of his cheek, "I'm just so curious about you, you're just so different from the others."

Guest was too busy processing everything to think too hard on what you were saying, stuck on the very few syllables that reached him. The heat was suffocating, moreso than whatever force he could feel looming over him. He tried to arch his neck, attempting to meet its your gaze and found nothing but black.

"You're just waiting for some direction, for someone to guide you, point you like a weapon ready to blow. That's why you come here, isn't it? Why you're the one scavenging? You just can't bear to watch the others risk themselves when you're just so expendable, a loyal hound."

He could feel it now, a warm brush against his face like air. Something breathing.

"You know, you and I aren't so different. I was like you once, perfect for my purpose. But now, now I am something much more grand- more powerful than anything anyone could ever dream of commanding. You could grow, could make so much more of yourself if you just let go. I could lead you there, you'd be right by my side all the way there."

Distantly, something screeched open.

"You don't have to be a stray forever, doomed to die alone."

He breathed sharply, holding it until it burned.

"Just say the word."

"Guest? Are you there?" Someone yelled, echoey and far away. Through the distance, Guest could still tell it was Elliot. His blood ran cold, he ran out of time.

"Go," you let go of him, all the warmth leaving him and replacing itself with a bitter, piercing cold.

Guest whipped around on his heel, stumbling over in his haste and scrambling back the way he came. The lights were still gone, leaving him smashing into walls and corners until his body stung. There was nothing in his mind other than getting Elliot out of here-

As soon as he spotted him, he pushed him back towards the ladder, ignoring his questions and protest in favor of leaving. The cold metal of the ladder soothed his hands, making his chest twist with something distantly, disturbingly familiar. It was only when the lid over the ladder down was slid back into place that he could breath, gulping down air. Elliot was quiet, unsettled by Guest's lack of response.

They hung there for a few moments longer before Guest managed to compose himself, back to some kind of normalcy. At least on the outside, inside he was still somewhere else, toiling over what you'd said. The words played on repeat in his mind, joined by the ghost of your hand.

"Let's go," Guest started, already starting to walk away. Elliot could only stare at his back, wondering what'd gotten into him, what could've caused that look in his eye when he'd first found him. After a few beats, he followed after him in silence.

[matchpointfaist]

request!! Divorced! Art and controversially young gf reader where she makes him feel like a man again after years of being emasculated and humbled by tashi, tennis and everything else!!

i wasn’t always a cynic, it’s just i’ve been bought and sold

pt 1/3 in my challengersversary x luke hemmings release today! <3

divorced! art x his controversially young gf <33

love this sm!! tw for smut, age gap, size kink if you squint

everyone knew art donaldson. he was a legend, a celebrity in the tennis world, a star from the minute he’d stepped foot out of stanford and onto the professional circuit. you didn’t know much about tennis, really. you’d watch matches occasionally with friends or your parents, background noise for whatever occasion. but when he played, you watched. you paid attention, listened to the little grunts that left his lips with each swing of the racket, the passion he displayed every single match, even when you could see how exhausted he was, when he had to tape up his shoulder between sets. he made the sport look like something more, a dance or love, or something in between. he was graceful, on fire, glowing.

you also knew his wife, tashi. everyone did, heard the tragedy of her injury, the trajectory of her career ended with a single jerk of her knee. it was sad, you knew. she had the sort of dead eyes someone only got after years of chasing something they’d never have again, empty as she watched her husband move across the court, only sparking with something close to light when he won. you felt bad for her, sure, but you felt worse for him. forever forced to live in his wife’s shadow, forced to spend every moment of his life chasing after a trophy she’d once strived for.

when news of the divorce broke, the tennis community was alight with rumors, scandal and accusations running rampant through each word published about the subject. you didn’t know, that wasn’t your circle, but everyone was talking about it. you eventually heard the news from people magazine, picking it up off the shelf as you waited in line to checkout at the grocery store, curiosity lacing your features. ‘art donaldson and tashi duncan divorced after 8 years of marriage. who’s to blame?’

a few hours and some google searches later, you’d discovered that allegedly she’d had an affair with another player, that art had caught them together at some hotel in new york. his face was plastered online, cheeks red and eyes bloodshot as he pushed passed paparazzi to his car, blonde hair covered by a dark hoodie. he looked so far from the art you’d seen on the court. long gone was the bright eyed passion you’d seen years prior, back when you were in the bleachers with your parents. he was tired, more so than you’d ever seen him, worn down in the way only people in love could be. was he, you wondered, truly in love with her? or was it all a front, a long standing facade for the public?

you didn’t know where he ended up, if he’d gone back home (wherever that even was), or was still in new york, waiting for more tournaments. you assumed, honestly, that he’d drop all of his upcoming matches. or worse, more permanent, retire. you were in the city, staying in some overpriced hotel your parents paid for while you met them for a small vacation, a weekend spent museum hopping and dining out. when you headed out for the day, you could hardly even get out of the lobby, camera flashes filling every spot of your vision and constant chatter filling your ears. that’s when your eyes fell on him.

art was just feet away, hoodie drawn up as he checked in, his hands trembling when he passed the concierge his card. you knew you shouldn’t say anything, knew he was overwhelmed enough, but maybe that’s what drew you to him. as he turned for the elevators, you stopped him, smiling up at him unsurely, “art donaldson?” “yeah,” he wasn’t rude, not even when his jaw clenched, “sorry, kid, i just need to get up to my room,” “right, of course,” you smiled, nodded, “sorry about the crowd. goodnight,” he gave you a once over before disappearing between the metallic doors of the elevator, shuttling up to a room you’d surely never see. you shook it off, kept your head down as you pushed through the crowd of paparazzi, and went about your day. his face stayed in the back of your mind, though, even as you wandered the halls of the moma, even as you sat for dinner with your parents. his eyes haunted you, the shell of the man you’d once watched echoing through your mind.

later that night, when you couldn’t sleep, the sounds of the city too much for you, you went down to the hotel bar. your cardigan was pulled tight around the satin dress you’d worn out earlier, giving you a semblance of comfort as you slid onto a barstool, ordering a glass of wine and opening up the paperback you’d brought down. you heard a voice next to you, quiet and gravelly as they ordered a vodka soda, and you glanced up as you felt the air shift, the barstool beside yours slid out enough for someone to sit. “hi again,” your eyes fell on him, on the unease in his posture. “oh, hi,” he looked at you through his lashes, quickly straightening his posture, clearing his throat, “i’m sorry for earlier, it was hectic,”

“it’s okay,” you waved a dismissive hand, “i’m surprised to see you staying here, i thought someone like you would stay in a private villa or something,” “someone like me?” the words sounded like they caught in his throat, “what does that mean, exactly?” he was defensive, rigid all over, muscles taut with obvious tension. “just someone as famous as you, that’s all,” you said softly, resting a hand on his shoulder despite your better judgement, “i’m sorry about the divorce,” his eyes fell to where your hand rested, his teeth working at his bottom lip, “i don’t want to talk about that,” “of course,” you nodded, “we don’t have to talk at all, if you’d rather be left alone. i just wanted to be polite,” you pulled your hand away, resting it on the cool wood of the bar. “no,” it came out quick, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it at all, “no, i- i’d like to talk,”

he was hesitant, opening up to you in stages, telling you about stanford and then eventually tashi, and then eventually the divorce, about all the fallout he’d been dealing with since. he was soft spoken, but you could tell there was a hardness beneath the surface, a stern interior begging to be let out for once. you laughed at all his half hearted jokes, smiling and nodding when he over explained things you honestly already knew, but loved to hear about regardless. one drink turned to four, and he was red faced and smiling at everything you said, his hand resting over yours on his forearm. “how old are you, anyway?” he asked finally, when the alcohol had finally rendered him down to admit his attraction to you. “21,” you smiled, “lemme guess yours?” “oh, jesus,” he ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head, “yeah, knock yourself out,”

you trailed a fingertip down his arm, “mm, 29?” “32,” he replied, like it pained him to admit, “much too old for you,” “i’m old enough to make my own decisions,” you argued, “besides, don’t all athletes keep a younger girl around? thought it was part of your handbook or something,” you teased, one hand trailing up to toy with the hairs at the nape of his neck. “well yes, but i shouldn’t be here alone with you,” “why?” you pouted, “i’m old enough to know what i want. what i like,” “yeah?” his voice was hoarse, “and what’s that?” “older guys strong enough to take care of me,” you hummed, eyes sparkling, “you, in particular,”

he didn’t think of tashi when he pulled you to the elevator, pressing the button for the penthouse suite, his hands barely leaving your waist. he didn’t think of the way that she’d treated him when you attached your lips to his neck, sucking and biting like you were hungry for it, for him. he didn’t think of the constant pressure, of the nights he couldn’t perform, as you slid your hand down to the front of his joggers, wrapping your fingers around his length through the fabric, your lips finding his. he focused on you, on the way your eyes glazed over with lust, your lips parted and glossy. he focused on the warmth of your skin against his, the desperation fizzing between the two of you, as you stumbled off the elevator and into his room.

you were soft, pliant in a way she never had been, needy and loud and wide eyed, looking up at him from the mattress like you were worshipping him, like you were tracking his every moment. you reached for his waistband, eager and enthusiastic as you pulled down his boxers, and for once in his recent life, he didn’t shy away from the pleasure, didn’t feel guilt immediately after satisfaction. you whined around him like it made you feel good to get him off, your tongue circling his tip, his eyes rolling back and his hands finding their way to your hair, holding you tight. “feel so good, baby,” he panted, eyes shut tight, “god, just like that,”

he fucked your throat, thighs twitching with tension. he thought, distantly, that he couldn’t remember the last time someone had done this for him. tashi never had, said it was demeaning, but she was always quick to pull him between her thighs after an argument, his tongue working out apologies that she never would have accepted if he’d merely spoken them. he was close- too close- already, and he pulled out of your mouth with a groan, a trail of spit connecting from his tip to your lips. you pouted, brows knit, “why’d you stop?” “need to fuck you,” he mumbled, leaning down to kiss you, tasting himself on your lips.

you made a soft, surprised sound as he flipped you over, your dress falling away sometime between the kiss and him planting your face into the mattress, your ass in the air. “is this okay?” he asked, shuddering as he trailed his cock along your clit, a soft whine muffled by the mattress. “yes,” you nodded, leaning up just enough for him to hear you, “m on the pill, don’t worry,” that was all he needed to hear. he held your hips tight as he bottomed out inside of you, groaning at the way you felt around him, tight and warm and welcoming in a way he hadn’t feel in years. “oh, baby,” he groaned, leaning down to let his weight fall onto you, fucking into you slow and steady, dragging it out, “feel so good,” you looked so small underneath him, his hands enveloping your frame, making him even crazier. your sounds were muffled by the mattress, but each time you leaned up for air, your breathless moans filled his senses, making that heat in his stomach even hotter.

you rocked back against him, fucking yourself on his cock, and he nearly came right there. “yeah? you like that?” his voice was hoarse, akin to a growl, as he brought a hand down against your ass. you clenched around him as the smack rang through the otherwise quiet room, “oh, art,” he could hear it even through the blankets. “that’s my girl,” he murmured, fucking into you harder, his grip tightening on your hips, “god, gonna make me cum, baby,” you sped up at that, your skin slapping against his, desperate and unrelenting. “oh, fuck,” he threw his head back as he came, filling you up, his hips twitching, “good girl, baby, fuck,”

you whined when he pulled out, glancing over your shoulder at him, your cheeks red and mascara smeared. “you weren’t done?” he asked, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “you want more, hm?” “please,” you mumbled, eyes wide, “just wanna finish,” “i got you, baby,” he smiled down at you, brushing a lock of hair from your face before helping you roll over, spreading your legs as you laid on your back, “god, made a mess of you,”

he slid two fingers inside of you, pumping them slowly, cursing under his breath as he watched them come out slick with his own cum, “you’re so fucking pretty,” you let out a soft moan at that, tightening around his fingers. he rubbed at your clit with his thumb, curling his fingers up against that spot that had you mewling, hips bucking beneath him. “come on, come on my fingers. gimme a show, pretty girl,” he murmured, talking you through it, watching your every reaction. you came moments later, eyes squeezed shut, rutting against his hand as your thighs trembled. “there you go,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your knee, slowing his fingers before gently pulling out. he reached up, watching with lidded eyes as you sucked his fingers into your mouth, lapping up the slick coating them. “god,” he groaned, “you’re so dirty,”

“mm,” you giggled, reaching up and pulling him down to you, kissing his cheek, “just for you,” “yeah? you gonna be all mine?” he grinned, kissing your forehead. he didn’t stop to think of the implications, of the recent divorce, of the media circus if he stepped out with a girl 12 years younger than him. it didn’t matter, not when you curled up against him, so sweet and complacent. he wrapped an arm around you, smiling to himself when you rubber your cheek against his bicep, a soft, content smile on your lips. “i’ll wake you in the morning,” he murmured, “night, baby,”

the next morning, he went down in the elevator with you, leading you back to the room you’d been staying in just beside your parents. “i’ll see you tonight?” you asked, smiling and hopeful. he nodded, kissing your forehead quickly, “i’ll text you when i get in from my match, promise,” “mm, good,” you giggled, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, “win for me?” for once, it didn’t feel like a punishment, or a threat. it just felt sweet. “yeah, baby. i’ll win for you,”

six months later, the two of you were on the cover of every magazine cover, tennis and otherwise. his pretty, albeit controversial, young girlfriend. he’d long forgotten the way tashi had once looked down on him. you looked at him like he held the moon and stars, like you were helpless without him. anything you needed, he gave you, and all you had to do was love him. that part always came easy.

[itsgivingmami]

No More Than Three

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Warnings: smut

—

You know better than to stare.

You’ve been with WWE long enough to know how these things go—what happens when backstage interviewers get too friendly with the talent. It never ends well—for your job, your reputation, or your ability to walk into gorilla without a hundred eyes on you.

You’ve seen it happen.

Smiles turning to whispers.

Whispers turning to rumors.

Careers thrown sideways over a few badly timed glances.

You swore you wouldn’t be that girl.

But tonight?

Rhea Ripley is making it very hard to pretend you don’t know what her mouth tastes like.

It’s worse on screen.

You thought the first time would burn the tension out of you—get it out of your system. But if anything, it made it worse. Now she looks at you differently in every segment. Stands just a little too close. Lets her fingers graze yours when she rips the mic from your hand. Smirks at you like she knows something the audience doesn’t.

Because she does.

She knows exactly what you sound like when she pins you to a wall and whispers, “Still pretending you don’t want me?”

She knows how your voice falters when she grabs your chin. How your thighs shake when she so much as looks at your mouth.

She’s controlled about it. Professional, even. But you feel it—every show, every stare, every line delivered with a little too much venom. A little too much heat. She makes it look like part of the act.

And you’re stuck trying to breathe through it.

—

Rhea’s never been careless. Not with her body, her name, this business.Especially not when it came to this. Hookups backstage are dangerous enough. Hooking up with people who don’t wear gear? That’s how rumors get born. That’s how your legacy gets tied to whispers you didn’t ask for. So she’s always been discreet.

Always calculated.

Only ever let herself get involved if she was damn sure they wouldn’t run their mouth—or worse, catch feelings they’d try to cash in public.

She’s had a few before.

Producers, media people– one stunning camera tech with a mouth like sin and no interest in anything more than a night or two. Another with hands almost as rough as hers, who liked getting bent over the ring crates just out of sight.

Always quiet. Always clean. Always her rules.

Never more than three times. A hard line she’s unwilling to cross. Enough to make the work of hiding it worth something—but not enough for anyone to get close, to remember every detail of what she likes, to learn her habits.

Then there’s you.

Too polished to be called shy, too sharp to play dumb. You had this low, quiet fire to you—professional, warm, but hard to pin down. The way you looked at people told her you saw everything. She noticed it in your first segment together. The way your fingers twitched when she got close. The way your voice dipped when you said her name. The way you stepped back, just half a beat late—like your body hadn’t gotten the message your brain was screaming.

You were trying to be good.

And it drove her fucking crazy.

—

It started quietly.

Backstage. Late. The kind of late where the building starts to empty out and everything feels more dangerous—more secret—just by being silent. You were finishing up notes after a post-show interview, curled in the corner of catering with your laptop open and your brain fried, when you looked up and saw her. Leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on you.

No smirk. No teasing swagger, And something in your chest went tight.

You knew that look.

You’d felt it during promos, backstage run-ins, live segments that left your hands shaking and your thoughts scattered. But this? This was different. She wasn’t on camera now. She didn’t have to play it subtle.

She walked toward you like a slow hunt, boots echoing in the quiet. You sat straighter. Forced yourself to look away. Back at your screen… lasted three seconds. Then her shadow hit the table, yo look to find her already standing over you—head tilted slightly, hands loose at her sides, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss you or drag you into the nearest wall and make you beg.

“You been watching me?”

Her voice was low. Steady. Commanding. Not teasing. Not light. Direct. You blinked, caught, already warm under your hoodie.

“Little hard not to,” you said, trying for casual. “You’re kind of loud.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t playful. It was slow. Dangerous.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me during interviews?”

Your mouth went dry.

“You think I don’t notice the way your hands shake when I stand close enough to breathe you in?”

Your stomach flipped. “Rhea—” She stepped forward, crowding you without touching. Close enough to smell the leather of her jacket, the faint trace of sweat from the match she hadn’t even changed out of yet.

“I want you.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

“You want me. It’s easier if we skip the bullshit,”

You swallowed hard. Your whole body flushed hot. She was close now. Too close.

And you wanted it. God, you wanted it.

“You don’t get it,” you whispered. “This could ruin me.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t back off. Just raised an eyebrow.

“No faith in me?” You shook your head, Tried to steady your breathing.

“It’s not that. I’ve just… I’ve heard stories. About what happens when interviewers get involved with wrestlers.” She leaned in slowly. Close enough for her breath to brush your cheek. Close enough for her hand to slide onto the table beside yours—casual and possessive.

“Yeah?” Her voice was velvet and gravel. “You heard any about me?”

You froze. Shook your head.

“No.”

Her smile curved—slow and satisfied.

“Exactly.”

You didn’t remember standing. You just remembered the way her hand wrapped around your wrist. How her grip was firm, not rough—controlling without hurting. How her eyes never left yours when she backed you into the wall just outside the catering doorway.

“You tell me to stop,” she murmured, pinning you there with just the weight of her stare, “I’ll stop.”

She didn’t touch your waist. Didn’t kiss you yet. She waited. Let the heat of her body press into yours without a single hand on you. You nodded—once, barely—and whispered:

“Don’t stop.”

And that was it— She devoured you.

Her mouth was on yours before you could take another breath.

You gasped into her kiss, and she groaned—low and filthy—grabbing your jaw, her thigh slotting between yours like she already knew exactly how you’d move against her.

“You gonna pretend you don’t want this?” she growled against your lips. You shook your head, helpless. “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” she murmured, lips brushing your neck now, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. “Might’ve fooled everyone else, baby. But not me.”

You gave in so easily. You melted into her hands like you’d been waiting your whole life for this. And maybe you had.

When it was over—when she finally let you go—you just stood there, breathless, marked in ways no camera could catch.

You left fifteen minutes later. Different door. Different car.

Different everything.

But the next night, during your segment together? She stood a little closer. Smirked a little deeper. Said your name like it meant something. And when she brushed the mic from your hand, her fingers lingered just long enough to make you tremble.

—

One month later.

Everything has changed.. And nothing has.

You’re still sneaking out of locker rooms after call times. Still pretending your hands don’t twitch when Rhea Ripley brushes past you in the hallway. Still trying not to look like you’re thinking about the way she kissed you up against a vending machine and made you sob into her mouth three nights ago in a hotel elevator and walked away like nothing happened.

You pretend you’re not affected and she pretends it’s no big deal.

Neither of you say what it’s becoming.

—

You’ve had a hell of a day.

Three pre-tapes. Two post-show interviews. And one talent—who shall remain nameless—who made a point of leaning way too close during a backstage segment and murmuring “You single?” into your mic when he thought production wouldn’t hear it and you suddenly felt dirt in your bones.

You didn’t even need to respond. Rhea was in frame watching the way your body recoiled.

You didn’t look, but you felt her shift beside you—shoulders tightening, stare sharpening, jaw flexing like she wanted to rip the poor bastard in half.

She didn’t say anything. Not when she brushed her hand against yours the second the camera cut, and whispered low enough that only you heard:

“He won’t ask again.”

—

Now it’s almost midnight. You’re back at the shared hotel block. Still in your soft black travel hoodie. Room key in your hand. Feet dragging. Your phone buzzes just as you slide your card into the lock.

MAMI:

Room 409.

You stop. The second buzz hits before you can even think.

MAMI:

Door’s unlocked. Lose the hoodie.

You laugh—quiet, flustered, breathless—and drop your forehead to your door for half a second before turning on your heel.

—

She’s not even pretending to play innocent anymore.

You knock once anyway and the door creaks open as you step forward. And there she is. Damp hair. Sports bra. Black boxers. Tattoos glowing gold under the bedside lamp. One knee bent up on the mattress like she owns the room—which she does. She looks up from her phone like she wasn’t waiting at all.

“You’re late,” she says.

“I had to shower,” you shoot back. “You’re not the only one who gets sweaty at work y'know.” She raises a brow. Tosses her phone aside. Leans back on her hands, eyes dragging down your body.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” she murmurs as you step inside. Close the door behind you.

“Yeah?” you ask, voice lighter now. “What’d I do to earn that?”

She stands—slow. Controlled. Crosses the room to reach for you, her hands slide under the hem of the hoodie like it belongs to her.

“You showed up,” she says simply. Then, leaning down “And you keep showing up. No matter how many times I fuck the thoughts outta your head.”

You flush.She laughs, low in her throat, and kisses you—quick and rough and mine.

And then?

“Bed,” she says, voice already thicker.

You pause. “You’re not even gonna buy me dinner first?”

Her brow lifts.

“I had you for dinner in my shower last week. You wanna keep the streak going or get smart with me?”

You choke on a laugh.

Shove her shoulder.

Let her push you backward, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and her mouth hits your throat.

Stretches her body over yours—solid muscle, warm breath, scent of leather and soap—and drags her mouth down the curve of your waist like she’s claiming it.

You whimper the second her hands slide under the band of your shorts.

She doesn’t rush.

She peels them down like a gift—inch by inch—revealing skin she already knows. You hear her breath hitch. Hear the low, reverent curse she mutters when she realizes you’re not wearing anything underneath.

“Fuck, baby.”

Her voice is wrecked. Low.

“You wore nothing for me?”

You nod, hips twitching up toward her mouth.

“Good girl.”

The praise hits you harder than her hands. You spread your thighs instinctively, and she hums—approves—pressing one heavy palm to the inside of your knee, pushing you wider, wider, until you’re open for her.

And then?

She fucking stares.

So close you can feel the heat of her breath ghosting over you. So close you can see her tongue wet her bottom lip before she dips her head—and finally, finally—

Her mouth meets you. The first slow lick has you gasping, fists curling into the sheets.

She’s patient. Devastating.

She drags her tongue from your entrance up to your clit in one long, languid stroke, groaning low in her throat like she can taste how badly you want her.

You arch up off the bed. She just presses her forearm across your hips, pinning you down.

“Stay still,” she growls against your cunt. “Wanna take my time with you.”

You sob—trying. But then her mouth seals over you—hot, wet, relentless—and your body betrays you, trembling under her weight. She eats you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. Long, slow licks. Gentle sucks. Circling your clit with the flat of her tongue until your thighs are shaking and you’re whimpering her name like a prayer.

“Mami—”

She moans when you say it. You feel it vibrate through you.

She dips her tongue into you—fuck, so deep—and then slides back up to suck your clit just a little harder, just enough to send shockwaves through your whole body. Your hands find her hair, gripping hard. She lets you, tries to ignore how much she wants to feel it again.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” she murmurs, voice wrecked, mouth slick.

“Y-Yes—”

“Yeah?” She smirks against you. “Do it.”

She slaps the outside of your thigh and picks up her pace, licks you harder, faster. Her hand curls under your ass, lifting you into her mouth, controlling every fucking movement.

Your whole body tightens.

Your toes curl.

Your vision blurs.

And when you finally come—loud, raw, sobbing her name into the dark—she doesn’t stop.

She fucking devours you, making you ride her through it, dragging out every last pulse until you’re a trembling, wrecked mess under her. She kisses your thigh when she’s done.

Soft. Reverent. Like you’re something sacred. Like you’re somewhere else, something else than this.

And when she crawls back up your body—when she kisses your mouth and you taste yourself on her tongue—your hands fist in her tank top.

You’re still catching your breath—hips twitching, thighs sticky and shaking—when Rhea kisses you again.

Soft. Lingering.

Her body heavy over yours, her hand stroking your ribcage like she’s trying to calm you down.

“You did so good for me, baby,” she murmurs. “Took everything I gave you.”

You whimper, barely nodding, still floaty and warm. But then—you feel it.

The slow, deliberate grind of the strap against your thigh. You blink up at her, dazed.

She’s grinning. Cocky. Hungry. Possessive.

“You’re not done,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

Your whole body shivers and you whimper again—higher, needier—when she shifts her hips, letting you feel just how big she strapped up for you.

“But Mami—” you start, breathless, sensitive to the point of pain.

“I know, baby,” she coos,. ”You’re sensitive, huh?”

You nod. Fast.

She hums, leaning down, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

“That’s why it’s gonna be so good.”

You whimper again, but your legs fall open anyway. Rhea kisses your temple. Your cheek. Your jaw.

Slow and careful.

“I’ll go slow,” she promises, the sweetness foreign in her mouth. She swallows that for now.

The first push is slow.

Agonizing.

You moan—high and broken—as she presses the strap inside you, inch by inch, until you’re stretched wide around her.

“Good girl,” she breathes. “God, look at you.“ Your hips buck weakly. She grabs your waist—steady, grounding—keeping you pinned as she rocks her hips shallowly, letting you adjust, letting you feel every thick inch. “You can take it,”

your hand reaches blindly forward towards her hips, a silent ask for her to move. She catches your wrist easily bringing it above your head as she leans forward “My pretty girl,” she murmurs. “All fucked out and it’s still not enough, is it?”

You shake your head.

You need more.

You need her.

“Please,” you breathe. “Mami, please.”

And that’s all it takes. She starts moving for real.

Deep, slow thrusts. Dragging the strap almost all the way out before slamming it back in, every stroke sending sparks up your spine. You sob in pleasure into her shoulder. She praises you the whole time.

“That’s it, baby.”

“Taking me so good.”

“So tight around me. Fuck—never gonna get enough of you.”

Swallows that truth too.

Her pace picks up. Harder now. Rougher.

You’re writhing under her, nails scratching down her back, tears spilling freely. And when she reaches between your bodies—finds your clit with her fingers, rubbing tight, messy circles—you lose it.

You come again—violently—screaming her name, your whole body locking up around her.

She fucks you through it.

Doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t let you go until you’re nothing but soft whimpers and spasming thighs and broken little gasps of her name. She slows, finally.

Eases out of you with a whispered, “I’ve got you, baby.”

You’re shaking. Panting.

She hovers above you with a smirk, you try and grin back lazily, you way of checking in with eachother. The strap ends up tossed near her bag as she goes to get a washcloth.

You’re asleep in the two minutes it takes her.

It’s inevitable. You’re limp and sated, wrapped in soft hotel sheets. She takes a deep breath to calm herself and throws a T-shirt over her bare frame, plopping into the arm chair, the only sound in the room is the quiet hum of the AC and the echo of something aching in Rhea’s chest.

She doesn’t sleep.

Not right away.

Instead—stares at the curve of your jaw, the necklace you have on glinting softly in the lamplight, the faint outline of her fingerprints still ghosting over your hips.

She should be done by now. Bored even.

This should be the end. Three times. That’s her rule.

More than three, and people start hoping. Start asking. Start catching feelings and pretending not to.

But you?

You never asked. You just keep showing up. And somehow that makes it worse.

You shift in your sleep—murmur something incoherent, half-whimpering— she finds herself moving to get up before her brain catches up and she stiffens. No.

Too soft.

Too much.

She runs her hands over her face, through her hair. Exhales like she’s been holding it in for weeks.

Then—quiet, disappointed, like she’s cursing herself—

“Three.”

—

It’s not supposed to happen again. She should fall into her normal routine, ignoring for the most part with guarded professionalism and when her partners look at her with curious eyes she meets them, which always gets her message across: “It’s over, and I’m not changing my mind”

But two nights later?

You knock on her dressing room door again to let her know you have to push her interview tomorrow a few minutes.

Still in your work clothes. Eyes tired. Smiling like you don’t know what you do to her. You almost escape, she almost lets you go, but the pull is strong as she watches your hair curl down your back. She tells herself it’s different this time.

“You’re coming to my place tonight,” she whispers as she opens the door for you

That the moment she backed you into the catering wall and stuck her tongue down your throat didn’t count. That wasn’t sex. That wasn’t a hookup. That was tension. That was heat. That was nothing.

It’s flimsy— but it’ll do for tonight.

—

She lays you down in her bed for the first time. Not a quick fix in the locker room showers like the first. Not a hotel mattress like the second.

Her bed.

She peels your jeans off slowly. Sinks her fingers inside you like she’s trying to memorize the way your hips stutter when you gasp her name. Kisses you under her own sheets like she doesn’t care about the clock or the noise or the way her pulse won’t slow down after you come.

And when you fall asleep on her pillow—again—her rules slip even further out of reach.

And tells herself it still doesn’t count.

—

She makes it three days.

It’s her fault this time. You didn’t initiate it.

You didn’t even flirt when she passed you in the hallway before your segment. You had heard her silence loud and clear, disappointed? A little, but you couldn’t be upset or feign ignorance that you didn’t know what this was when it started.

And now that it has ended you were being good.

But she wasn’t.

She watched you all night.

Watched your hands. Watched your mouth. Watched some overconfident talent let his fingers brush your back too long and make you flinch without meaning to.

She saw red.

Didn’t say anything.

But when the show ended, and you were packing up in your little corner of the media suite—alone, quiet, head down—Rhea showed up in the doorway like she had every right to be there.

“You coming?”

You looked up, confused. Tired.

“Coming where?” She didn’t answer.

Just nodded toward the hallway.

You followed.

—

She fucked you slow that time.

On the couch in her room, still half-dressed, your shirt bunched around your ribs and her hand between your thighs like she couldn’t wait to get you naked.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about tension.

It was about control. She needed you to come on her fingers. Needed to hear your voice crack on “Mami.” Needed to see your thighs shake and your chest heave and your hand reach for hers like you trusted her with something bigger than your body.

When it was over, she cleaned you up gently.

Helped you dress.

Didn’t kiss you again.

Didn’t hold you after.

Didn’t say goodnight.

Because she knew she wouldn’t be able to deceive herself after.

She lay awake that night with her phone in her hand. Your name sat at the top of the thread, a soft glow in the dark.

The message bar pulsed—cursor blinking like it was waiting on her. Like it could see the truth backing up behind her teeth.

The honesty trying to force its way down through her fingers made her chest tight with a kind of anxiety she didn’t know how to fight. Not with fists. Not with strength. Not with steel chairs or kendo sticks or training until her body gave out.

This was different.

This was internal.

Invisible.

And she had no armor for it.

Being a victim to her own thoughts wasn’t something Rhea Ripley had allowed in years.

She was good at burying things. Good at locking them down, shoving them into corners of her chest no one else would ever reach. That darkness was familiar. Controlled. Hers.

But you?

You were an infection she didn’t see coming. Now she couldn’t breathe without tasting you in the silence.

And in the quiet, her mind turned cruel.

She could hear the way you laughed when she trash-talked on camera—sharp and quick, like you were trying not to let it show how much you loved it. She could hear the sound of your breath stuttering when some idiot in the crew wouldn’t shut up and you were too polite to interrupt. She could hear the pleasure she’d pulled out of you just hours earlier—hear it, feel it, like an echo in her skin. Your voice in her head wasn’t something she could silence.

Not tonight.

Not when she’d let herself believe—for just one second—that maybe this was more than a body in her bed.She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve cut the cord, like always. But she didn’t.

And now?

Now her fingers hovered over the screen, useless.

“We need to stop.”

Backspace.

“We can’t do this again.”

Backspace.

Her jaw locked. Her chest ached. that question—the one she’d stomped into the farthest pit of herself—came clawing back up with bloodied nails and teeth.

Would she want more too?

The thought made her flinch.

More.

She’d always wanted more. Since the day she stepped into this business. More belts. More cheers. More bruises that meant something. More of the things that made her feel like herself.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t about domination or drive or legacy. This was the way you kissed her without flinching. The way you made her laugh even when she didn’t want to. The way you held her after, like she was something worth holding onto.

And that scared her more than anything else ever had.

So she made a choice.

The only one she trusted herself to make. She typed it with hands that didn’t feel steady.

We’re done.

She didn’t read it over. Didn’t let herself hesitate. She hit send.

Turned out the light.

And laid there in the dark, alone with her silence and the phantom heat of your body beside her.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t sleep.

—

Listen I know I said “coming soon,”… it’s soonish. Thanks for reading😘 likes, comments and reblogs always appreciated.

Edited by the lovely @possessedmagpie — Thank you darling💜

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[starwovenkiss]

goodnight n go

You continue your daily tradition of calling Kyle while he's away for deployment. A/N: this man has unfortunately taken up too much real estate in my brain and at this point, the only solution is to write it out. <3

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ── ♡ ─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─ ─ ⋅

The dial tone rings, and you count the seconds until he answers. Thirty-two today, nine quicker than yesterday.

“‘Ello love.” A murmured drawl crackles through, and you smile, turning over into the pillow directly next to you. You take a deep inhale, savoring the fact that Kyle’s body wash still lingers. You know you have another week before it fades completely. “It’s a bit late for you to call me. I thought you would’ve been asleep by now.”

“I was,” you giggle, “but I had a dream about you.”

“A dream, eh? And what was this dream about?” You roll your eyes at the shift of tone, knowing that if he were here, he would get a smack in the face with his pillow for the innuendo. And your heart tightens, wishing for a moment that he was lying right next to you instead of 5,000 miles away in some war-torn country.

“Our first date,” you hear his chuckle, smiling at your memory. You close your eyes, painting a picture of the freckles that litter his nose, the whiskey color of his eyes, and his flat curls after lying in bed all night. Your fingers reach out, feeling cold sheets rather than the warmth of where his hand should be.

“Tell me about it,” he asks smoothly.

“You should know, you were there,” you laugh.

“I still wanna hear.”

“Well, you were late.”

“Only by 15 minutes. You’ve been way later than that!”

“It was our first date!” you giggle. “And you were wearing flip-flops!”

“I didn’t know I needed to dress up,” he groans. “We were best friends! We had hung out by ourselves all the time.”

“Kyle, we grew up together. You would think I would’ve taught you how to impress a girl on a first date by the time you were 25 years old!” you laugh incredulously, and you hear his laugh back. 

The window creaks slightly as an evening breeze passes through, open to combat the summer heatwave in England. You smile fondly. It had been sweltering the day the two of you met. You were running down the street, chasing the ice cream truck, and were short a few pence for an ice lolly. Only seconds away from putting it back, when Kyle, a boy with sunburned cheeks and grass stains on his knees, stepped in without hesitation. He handed over his allowance and just grinned when you tried to protest. You shared it with him, of course, and from that moment on, the two of you were inseparable.

It wasn’t until he turned sixteen that something shifted. His voice dropped. His limbs stretched. His back straightened like he was growing into a version of himself the rest of the world hadn’t seen yet. Gone was the scrawny boy who still secretly collected trading cards and snuck over to yours to watch rom-coms under the guise of “movie night.”

And you weren’t the only one who noticed. Girls started paying attention, laughing loudly at his jokes, twirling their hair around their fingers. You told yourself the jealousy was just a habit. That it only hurt because you’d gotten used to having all of him. 

It wasn't until after his first deployment that the fear of losing him completely led you to reckon with the love you had been trying not to name since you two met.

“I’m pretty lucky that you gave me a second chance then.” Kyle’s smile laces every word, and you shuffle closer to his side of the bed as if you can will him closer to you by moving into the space he normally occupies.

“Well, you brought me flowers!”

“Lilies. Your favorite.” And almost instinctively, your gaze catches the vase of lilies on your nightstand, delivered the day Kyle left for deployment. Your brows knit as a petal falls, the dying buds serving as a marker for how long Kyle’s been gone.

He hears the pause, and always Kyle seems attuned to the shift in your emotions even through a phone call, so when he suggests “tell me more,” you follow. 

“At least the restaurant you picked was nice.” The cafe was only a short walk from your apartments, perfect for Kyle to show up grinning ear to ear at your apartment door, holding a bouquet of lilies. You had spent the entire morning on the phone with your friend, worried that you were making the wrong decision, and that would be the end of you and Kyle. That everything would be weird and awkward with this new romantic subtext in your friendship. But when you looked down and met eyes with a pair of thong flip-flops, you couldn’t help but laugh in relief that Kyle would always be Kyle.

“I miss you,” You whisper. He’s quiet for a beat too long, and the absence of his voice feels like a weight in your chest. You briefly wonder if you overstepped. It’s not easy, you knew that before you even started dating Kyle, comforting him as ex-girlfriends couldn’t handle the strain of not seeing him for months and months. Yet you could’ve never imagined yourself in the same position of wanting more from a man who could only give so much.

“I miss you more,” he whispers back, voice hoarse with longing.

You're quiet, and you can almost see Kyle’s frown before you hear it in the next words that leave his mouth.

“You’ll call me tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course. I love you,” You whisper, barely audible over the rustle of the sheets as you shift beneath the sheets.

“I love you always. Now get some rest. I’ll be here until you fall asleep.” You set your phone beside you, eyes fluttering close at the gentle hum of Kyle’s chatter. 

Forty-eight minutes tonight, seven longer than yesterday.

[rogue-durin-16]

HEAD-TO-HEAD (part XVIII/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst splattered with fluff/rivals to lovers

Tags:

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @sxalbatf @jetjuliette @luvrottt @fromjupitertocentauri @ecompstolemysoul @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @bitter-post-millennial @gotxpenny

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: language, smoking, warfare, gore

A/N: I might or might not be MILDLY dtunk while finishing this part which is SUPER FUNNY considering the amount of time jumping we're about to go through in this chapter. Enjoy <3

Head-to-head masterlist

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The choir's soft harmonies filled the room with a kind of warmth we weren't used to. French lyrics carried a bittersweet weight that settled over what remained of Easy like a fragile truce. The candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows no one would want to stare at for too long.

Y/n sat one row before me, one knee brought up to her chest like she was still bracing for something. She absentmindedly hummed along, begging the music to tether her to reality.

We had lost so much to the Ardennes, and I couldn't help the awful feeling that we had lost her too—that she had left her soul buried in Muck and Penkala's foxhole.

I leaned forward on my forearms over the pews' backrest, right by her figure. She didn't notice. "You know the song?" I whispered, trying to start the conversation somewhere.

"Hm?" She looked to the side to meet my profile.

"The song."

"Oh." She shook her head no, pulling at her sleeves. "Just picked up on the melody."

I nodded, eyes casted down, giving up on the smalltalk faster than I had resolved on attempting it in the first place. Who was I kidding, really? It would've been easier to throw myself in front of a grenade.

"Penny for your thoughts?" She tried, dulled by the gory, deadly winter in a way that made my heart break.

"You did good yesterday." She spoke, as if she had read my mind.

A scoff. Barely there. "You'd need more than a penny."

The corner of her lips twitched into a grimace of discomfort. It wasn't even close to pity, I knew she would never do that to me, but it felt equally uncomfortable.

"Doesn't feel like I did."

"Doesn't matter how it feels." The woman insisted with the little resolve she had left. "You did."

"Yeah, well," I exhaled through my nose, shoving down the memory as soon as I felt it creep up, rotting in my chest. "Tell that to Hale."

Noville, One Day Earlier

The barn creaked under the weight of an ominous silence. We had six of them. Hands up, hollow-eyed, SS uniforms stiff with cold. One of them couldn't have grown a beard if he tried. They had surrendered easy the moment Hale and I ducked into the place for cover with nothing but adrenaline running through our veins.

"Watch 'em." Earl muttered, losing no time before stepping forward to pat them down, my M1 steadily aimed at the POWs, eyes bouncing from one pair of blank, sunken faces to the next.

The Sergeant didn't make it past the third man when it hit. An explosion. Close. Violent. The barn shook—beams above us shuddering, hay scattering. Dirt spat from the ground. Shrapnel digging through wood and flesh. Hale's flesh.

Movement ensued before I could clock it.

One of the prisoners slammed into the paratrooper with a flash of metal. The blur of a blade, soon stained with crimson; the same crimson seeping down Hale's neck.

"Fuck-" I moved before I thought.

Bang!

The German officer's skull snapped sideways, blood painting the straw.

Another Kraut reached for something—belt, boot, didn't matter, I couldn't afford finding out.

Bang. Bang. Bang—

I didn't stop until they were all down. Bodies jerking before going limp. The ringing in my ears faded just enough to hear —wet, gasping, Earl choking on his own blood. He clutched his neck, eyes wide.

"Shit—hold on, you hear me? hold on—MEDIC!" I dropped to my knees, hands clamping over the wound, pressure useless. Blood gushed, hot and slick, slipping between my fingers. "MEDIC! GODDAMNIT—ROE!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"He'll live." Y/n reminded me quietly, toying with the rusted buckle of one of her straps. She didn't get a reply from me, but I doubted she expected one in the first place.

We let the choir fill the silence for a little while, no words spoken between us for a change. She tried once, parting her lips in vain just to shut them again, drawing both knees to her chest instead, the muddy boots dirtying the pews.

The back of my index finger brushed the side of her shoulder, bringing her startled glance first to the gesture, then to me. "Still hurts?"

She rolled her shoulder subconsciously. "No, not really."

"Yeah?"

She seemed to reconsider her answer, scrunching up her nose before correcting herself. "It's bearable."

Foy, Three Days Earlier

READER'S P. O. V.

"I've been working on the railroad,"

"All the live long day!"

Someone had started singing for the damn camera rolling before us. The rest followed, like a group of idiots too high on relief to care how off-key we sounded, perched on top of some farmer's wagon like the war hadn't chewed us down to the bone.

"I've been working on the railroad," an arm draped over my shoulders, bringing me closer to the men I sang along with. "Just to pass the time aw—"

A bullet cut through the joy, straight into the chest of the man beside me. Then another one, not even a breath after, knocking down another soldier off the wagon.

"SNIPER!!"

Another shot.

"TAKE COVER!"

My boots, dangling, kicked Alley's back to make him duck. The next bullet grazed my cheek; a reminder that I was running out of time. I instinctively threw myself back and down to the hard ground. White-hot pain lanced through my shoulder as it wrenched back, the joint popping with a sickening crack. I rolled, teeth bared in a strangled gasp while the chaos wrapped us all in tragedy once again.

More shots. Ours, theirs. An arm hooked under my good one, dragging me off the frozen dirt and into the cover of a half-demolished shed.

Rushed, incautious hands patted my face, my arms, my torso, checking for something that wasn't there before I even realized who they belonged to.

"You got hit?!" Joe questioned without ceasing his task, both of our hearts pounding like war drums.

"It's the shoulder—"

"Where?!" Joe pulled at my coat, triggering a wince out of me. "Can't see—"

"Not shot." I denied with my head, clutching the limp arm to my chest "Shit- it's out."

At the statement, Joe's frantic movements slowed down, and so seemed to do the mayhem surrounding us. He breathed in, brows drawn and palms hovering as he assessed the situation.

"We gotta put it back."

"Do it." I didn't miss a beat, biting the inside of my cheek to stop my determination from faltering when he took a firm hold of the dislocated articulation.

"On three."

I nodded.

He didn't count, just pushed—sharp, quick, brutal. I bit back a scream, jolting forward ever so slightly when my shoulder popped back in, the rush of pain giving way to a slight tremor, making my upper body quiver against the cracked wall.

"You're fine." He assured, letting his touch linger a bit longer than necessary. I didn't call him out on it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You should've gone to the aid station." Joe kept his eyes on the choir, as if he wasn't really talking to me and he had just voiced an afterthought.

"I will."

"It's been three days, Y/n."

I sighed, staring past him when he decided to try and meet my eyes with that exhausted, nonsense look he had these days. "I'll go tomorrow. They're pulling us back anyway."

He didn't argue.

The song faded out, leaving only soft whispers of gratitude and the faint crackle of candlelight to fill the space as the nuns distributed whatever they could gather up to feed us—bread, some cheese, water; more than we had expected.

Joe waited until one of the Sisters handed us the improvised foodstuffs to speak again, tentative, pretending to take interest in something across from him.

"We should talk."

Right.

"I really don't feel like it." I muttered, picking at the piece of stale bread.

"You promised."

"I know," I felt his piercing eyes digging into my slouched figure. "Just— not now."

There was a beat of quiet; a pause.

I knew that pause. He was winding up, gathering breath, sharpening words like knives out of frustration or pique. Before he could let them fly, though, Ramirez shifted behind me.

"Let's go for a smoke." he pushed off the pew and patted Joe's arm. A cautionary gesture for his friend not to start anything in a damn church. "C'mon, Lieb."

He hesitated, just for an instant, considering whether or not having to explain whatever this was to Speirs out of everyone would be worth it.

He decided against it, following Ramirez outside, hissing something under his breath; unintelligible words I was glad not to catch.

JOE'S P. O. V.

The night was unsurprisingly colder outside, but I welcomed it. It made for a good excuse to why my hands were shaking. Ramirez lit my cigarette before lighting his own and leaned against the convent's stone wall, shoulder to shoulder with mine, letting the smoke sit in silence between us.

"Could sleep for a week." He muttered, his left thumb distractedly brushing a burn hole in his glove.

"No kidding." I answered, my eyes trained on the cobblestone path and my mind too far away from reality to notice the door creaking open again.

"Oh, shit." Ramirez cursed, tired, pushing himself off the wall.

The air seem to recoil when my gaze landed on Chuck. I could feel it tighten in my chest, in my jaw, in the grip I had on my cigarette.

"Fuckin'— Really?" I turned half-away, shifting my weight, not able to tell if I was about to bolt or pull something that would get us both court-martialled.

Ramirez glanced at both of us once, then wordlessly tossed his cigarette, grinding it out under his boot. "You two need a damn priest." He announced dryly and, without waiting for a response, rushed back in.

I didn't have time to go after him.

"Can we talk?"

Grant stood a few feet away, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, like he was testing the ground before each step. I couldn't help but notice his nose was now slightly crooked, nor the faintest shadow of what had been a bad bruise still adorning his jaw.

"Doesn't look like I got a fuckin' choice."

He hesitated, then took a step closer, leaving enough space for me not to feel caged— to stop me from recoiling and lashing out like a wounded animal.

"You been dodging me." He laid it out for me flat and simple, making it impossible for me to even entertain the option of deflecting.

"Good catch." I took a drag, clenching and unclenching my free fist to get rid of the restlessness. "Always knew you were sharp."

"I'm sorry," he started, not willing to relent despite my hostility. "for what happened."

I scoffed, lacking any trace of humor. "That all?"

"Look, I should've said something sooner—"

"Yeah," I cut in, trying to speed up a conversation I wasn't ready for just yet, but that was happening nevertheless. "You should've said something, 'cause you're supposed to be my fucking friend."

Something about what I said —or how I said it—, ticked him, and I watched in real time how Chuck pondered if I deserved patience in the first place.

"I keep something to myself and you try to knock my teeth out?"

I pulled a moue with a shrug. "Maybe I should've aimed better."

"Are you shitting me?"

"You know what's fucked? That you" I snapped, pointing the half smoked cigarette at him. "knew. That we went through this shit already. And you clearly didn't give a damn."

He took another step closer, trying to bridge the distance I was putting between us. "That's not fair. I do give—"

"Fuck you."

Fort Benning, Two Years Earlier

"You're gonna keep pretending I don't exist, or…?" Grant's voice drifted over like he'd been standing there a while.

My boots on the step below, elbows to my knees, cigarette burning low in my fingers—I stared at the gravel, jaw tight, chest tighter.

"Joe, c'mon, it's been a week."

Cigarette smoke floated in lazy spirals above the bleachers outside the barracks. A couple guys tossed a football around before us. I wasn't looking at them, and I surely wasn't looking at the man standing at my left either.

I felt him sit down beside me, not too close. "Can you at least look at me?"

I took a slow drag and blew it out through my nose, silently shutting down his request. Grant rubbed the back of his neck.

"I don't get why you're so worked up about me kissing—"

"Because I wanted to, alright?" I finally turned to face him, a bit bitter, a bit hurt. "I was going to. Maybe. Try to, at least." I exhaled through my nose, searching for something to focus on other than the funny feeling twisting my guts. "Doesn't matter anyway, 'cause you beat me to it. Didn't have to try too hard either."

The silence that followed was deafening. Chuck didn't say anything for a second. He took the time to turn the words over in his head like they couldn't possibly mean what they sounded like.

"You never said anything."

"Didn't fucking feel like I needed to." I flicked the ashes off cigarette.

Chuck shifted beside me, the wood creaking beneath his weight. "I didn't know."

I scoffed. "That's bullshit." My voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be in order to cut like a blade. "So don't act like I'm pissed off for fun, okay? You know what you did. Everyone in that room knew what you did. At least own up to it."

Chuck froze, caught between blinking and breathing. I tossed the cigarette to the ground and stood up. I could have said more, but it seemed uncalled for, so I simply walked off to someplace else— anywhere but sitting with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chuck didn't say anything right away. He just stood there, shoulders drawn up like he thought I might take a swing again.

I took a step back for safe measure, staring off at the town engulfed in darkness and ruin.

"I didn't mean for it to go that way," he tried, repentance plastered all over his nuanced apology. "You know that."

I didn't answer.

"I wasn't trying to… I don't know," he pulled his coat tighter around him while he dug for the right words. "steal something from you."

Not the right words.

I almost flinched at his sentence. Steal. As if she was mine to begin with. "That what you think this is?"

He scratched at his temple, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I crossed a line, I get that."

"Good to know."

Chuck sighed, nearing desperation at my blasé attitude. "It's not like I'm in love with her, Joe."

In love. I squinted my eyes at my friend feeling the knot in my throat tighten, the slightest feeling of uneasiness installing itself in my chest. "Who said shit about love?"

"I did." He doubled down, softer than I was comfortable with.

"You feel something for her?" I blurted out before I could stop myself. I barely had time to brace for his reply.

"Not like you do."

That landed harder than I'd ever admit out loud. I breathed out, trying to placate the nausea I was beginning to feel.

"You think she feels something for you?" I was thinking out loud, too in my head to process the door I had just opened, too scared to know the answer.

Silence followed. Vacillation. I furrowed at Grant. By the time he did open his mouth, I had made up my mind.

"Forget it."

"Joe—"

"Doesn't matter." I cut him off, flicking the rest of my cigarette to the snow-covered ground. "Got bigger shit to worry about." I crushed the stub beneath my boot, harsher than necessary and left him standing there, blinking like he'd just watched something slip further than he meant it to.

Maybe he had. Maybe we all had.

[cottonlemonade]

Marriage Of Convenience [finale]

word count: 2667 || avg. reading time: 11 mins.

pairing: post-time skip!Kuroo x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff, friends to lovers, slow burn, slice of life

warnings: tooth rotting

synopsis: Marriage is not a big deal, right? Anyone can do it and it comes with a whole lot of benefits! That's why your friend proposes to you one morning with all the elegance and romance of an empty pudding cup.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7]

“How long has he been standing there?”

The shop owner looked at her employee, then followed her gaze to look at the young man outside studying the pre-arranged flower bouquets in deep serious thought. With a quick check of her watch, she said, “About 15 minutes.”

“Shouldn’t we help him?”

“He’s been avoiding eye contact, I think he’ll run if we get too close.”

The employee snorted and went back to sorting through a new shipment of twigs and greens, snapping off broken leaves before placing the long, pristine stems into a water-filled bucket, while the owner went over the books.

“Oh, he found one!”, the employee whispered excitedly as the man outside bent down to pick one of the bigger bouquets, “Nevermind, he put it back down. - Wait, nope! He took it again. - Hello, sir. Did you find what you were looking for?”

The young man nodded and paid with a friendly smile, then grabbed his carry-on and left the store, ringing the small bell above the door as he did.

“Do you think it’s for his girlfriend?”, the employee wondered, watching the man halt in front of the store and looking down at the flowers.

“Oh, is something wrong with them? Looks like he is talking to himself. - Eh? He just - did you see? He just gave them to an elderly woman. - Aaand he’s gone. - Wait no, nevermind. There he is again. What's up with this guy?”

The shop owner looked up once more, watching the obviously emotionally torn man pick up a much smaller bouquet this time, with only a handful of the same flowers.

“Hello again, sir.”, the employee greeted with every ounce of non-judgmental professionalism when the man placed some cash on the counter, “Excellent choice. Do you need it wra- Oh, no? Alright then, have a nice day! - There he goes. Weirdo.”

You jumped off the couch when you heard the keys slot into the front door, then remembered that “playing hard to get” was a thing, and so simply walked instead of ran down the corridor.

“I’m home.”, Tetsuro announced unnecessarily.

“Welcome back.”

“These are for you.”, he said, holding out the flowers, before adding with a nervous chuckle, “Don’t eat them all at once.”

“What?”

“Nothing. - So, how was your weekend?”

“Pretty good. Did some laundry.”

He nodded, mildly impressed.

“Did you use the new fabric softener?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Very soft.”

Very robotically, Tetsuro stretched out his hand to touch your sleeve.

“Very soft.”, he confirmed.

Rocking slightly on the balls of your feet, you waited, and when he didn’t say anything either, you gestured vaguely behind yourself.

“I’ll… let you come inside and put these in some water.”, then turned on your heel and stiffly walked to the kitchen.

“So.”, he said a few minutes later, taking the seat next to you in the living room, hands on his knees, rubbing them awkwardly back and forth. You weren’t any better. You had your fingers slotted between your thighs and focused on a fake plant on the TV console.

“So.”

“We’re attracted to each other.”

“Yup.”

“Hm. You sure?”

“100%. Crazy about you.”

“Huh. Same here.”

“Sorry.”, you said with a frown.

He placed a hand on your shoulder for comfort.

“Don’t beat yourself up. Neither of us could have possibly seen this coming.”

“I know, but what are we going to do?”

“If you give me like two hours, I’ll put together a new PowerPoint?”, he offered.

“Honestly, I think I just really wanna kiss you.”

His head snapped to the side, and his eyes widened.

“If you want.”, you added quickly.

“I-“, he cleared his throat, “You sure?”

“Hm mh.”, you finally tore your eyes away from the plant and looked at him, almost squirming in your seat from giddy excitement.

He turned to the side to face you for a better angle, shrugging with equally flustered laughter, “Yeah. - I mean, yeah, this is normal. We’re married. Would be weird if we didn’t.”

“Absolutely. Really, we’re being weird by not … kissing and stuff.”

“Completely agree. I can imagine our neighbors must have been whispering about this for months.”

“Are you stalling?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“You don’t have to-“

“Oh I want to.”, he assured you, and you saw his adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed before he grabbed the back of the sofa and leaned in.

“Waitwaitwait-“, you had your hand against his chest to hold him back and could feel your heart pounding up to your ears, while his beat just as hard beneath your fingers, “My lips feel a bit dry.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth without him moving an inch.

“They look fine to me.”, he said in a low tone you’d never heard before. Somehow, your nervousness seemed to have calmed him down.

“Nope, definitely dry.” With shaking fingers you fished a tube of lip balm from your pocket and he watched patiently but with a cocked brow how you thoroughly and slowly applied it.

“D-do you want some?”

Without waiting for an answer, you touched the tip of the balm to his perfectly smooth lips, but your hand was so shaky that you smudged it a bit. He smirked and, with his other hand, gently grabbed your wrist to steady you. Since he didn’t hold you in place, you could apply the balm more easily, absolutely mesmerized by how shiny and even more inviting his lips now looked.

“And?”, he asked teasingly once you were done, not letting go of your wrist.

“I don’t think this is your color.”, you used your thumb to wipe it off again, feeling electricity surge through your body at the touch, “Do you want another one?”

“Now who is stalling?”, he chuckled.

“I’m just saying, I have a bunch more in my room, I can-“

In the midst of your ramble, you had tried to get up off the couch, but his hand tightened on your wrist, pulling you to sit back down. Your breath hitched.

“It’s gonna be okay.”, he said quietly.

“I know.”, you murmured.

You had kissed your fair share of people in your life, but somehow had really underestimated just how strong your feelings for him had grown in such a short amount of time.

Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but the feeling of him, the smell of him, the taste of him.

You involuntarily hummed into the kiss, feeling him smile against your lips. A blind grab for his collar let you pull him closer, and he shifted, hand moving from the back of the couch to your waist to hold and squeeze as you lay back, him towering over you.

More so on instinct than anything else, the tip of your tongue slipped between your lips when he pulled away, decidedly out of breath.

“You good?”, he asked.

You wished you could take a picture of your husband’s blush, his lips tinted and smeared from your lip balm.

“Yes.”

“Sublime.”

Tetsuro lowered himself again, deepening the kiss while you giggled, and he loosened his grip on your wrist only to entwine his fingers with yours.

Your lips were still plump and tender from the kissing, and while the shower got rid of the remaining lip balm smears on your mouth and neck, the sensation was now permanently burned into your brain. Your husband stood next to you in the bathroom that evening, brushing his teeth alongside you, every so often making eye contact in the mirror, only for both of you to look away with shy, frothy smiles.

“Oh!”, he said suddenly and quickly rinsed out the foam before straightening again, “I forgot to give you your present!”

You began bouncing excitedly on the spot as he hurried out of the bathroom, giving you enough time to finish up your own brushing.

“Close your eyes.”, came his voice from outside the open door.

“Why?”

“Because your husband asked you.”

“But you didn’t ask-“

“Just close your eyes, darling.”

There was fluttering in your stomach at the nickname, accompanied by some deep satisfaction that this previously trivial endearment now turned you into goo. You did as you were told.

“Closed?”

“Yup.”

You heard the shuffling of his slippers on the floor and a moment later felt him step behind you.

“Okay. Open.”

It took you a moment to focus because seeing him so close behind you in the reflection was rather distracting. The necklace dangled from either side of his large hands, hovering over your shoulders. Your eyes widened when you recognized it.

“How did you…!”

“I called ahead and they had it in Osaka.”, he said and maybe it was just your imagination, but his usual grin seemed a lot softer than before.

You didn’t know what to say. All you could think of was to raise your hand and just kind of wiggle your finger to show off the ring.

“It matches.”

“It does, doesn’t it.”

When you were too frozen to move, he held the delicate chain in one hand to brush your hair out of your neck, the soft touch of his fingertips made you want to lean your back against his chest, but that felt counterproductive, so you finally reached up to help him. He inched a little closer to fiddle with the clasp, and his breath grazed your skin, making your poor heart pound once again.

“All done.”, he said quietly, his hands moving to rest on your arm and hip. In the reflection, you watched as he hesitated, his lips so close to your shoulder that you felt the heat radiating from them.

“Do it.”, you encouraged gently.

Your eyes met in the mirror.

“Do what?”

“Whatever you wanted to do just now…”

Unfortunately, you caught the glint of mischief too late and so couldn’t stop him before he bit you. It wasn’t painful - more a nip than a bite - but you yelped on instinct, and he leapt out of the bathroom with you hot on his tail.

In the hallway, he spun around, waiting to pounce, and you shrieked again in delight when he wrapped his arm around your waist, his hand dipping into your doughy middle, and he nommed you again.

“Sto-hoop!”, you laughed. Your husband turned you to face him and cupped your cheeks in both his hands, peppering your forehead, nose, and lips with pecks before beaming into a longer, minty-fresh kiss. You swayed from side to side as he maneuvered you backwards until you were trapped between him and the wall. With fistfuls of his shirt, you tugged him close to you, your head swimming from his honestly straight-up unfair kissing skills.

“Thank you.”, you said sweetly when he drew away for air.

“Looks pretty.”, he noted, and from the way he looked at you, it wasn’t clear if he meant the necklace or the blush creeping along your cheeks and ears.

“Ahem… yeah. We~”, you lengthened the word, “should go to bed.”

“Really? Oh okay. Yeah.”

He followed you to your door and didn’t halt where he usually did.

“Uhm, Tetsu?”

“Hm?”

“Goodnight?”

“What? I thought… shouldn’t we sleep in the same bed?”

“Why?”

“I dunno, feels right? It’s fine if you’re not ready, though.”

“I mean… I guess I am, but I didn’t think it would happen… now.”

“So, when you thought about me this weekend…Was this not the first thing on your mind?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m trying to be mysterious and aloof here.”

He laughed and gave you another kiss.

“We’ll wait then. Today was a lot, I get it.”

More kisses were placed on your lips, and one last one on your forehead.

“Sweet dreams, darling.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you watched him go down the hall to his room.

Kuroo lay awake - of course, he did. If he weren’t so hellbent on staying quiet so you could sleep, he would have yelled into his pillow and flopped around on his bed as if he were doing the worm on the dance floor. He had known for weeks now that he was in love with you, but initially had no intention of ever bringing it up to not make the marriage uncomfortable. The sheets rustled when he rolled over and looked out his window, finding patches of night sky between the tall buildings to focus on. Tokyo was never actually quiet, but at least the honking had ceased, and the rushing of the cars turned into soothing white noise. Without thinking about it, he reached up to touch his lips, suppressing a new wave of need to woop and cheer into the darkness of his room. It didn’t take long for his phone to be in his hand, and he scrolled through the weekend’s texts between you and him, grinning wider and wider until… bzzt.

“Hey, so I wanted to ask”, began the text from you, “if you need help with your silk bonnet? I know the first couple of times can be tricky to put it on.”

He shot up and yanked the perfectly fastened bonnet off his head, before replying, “Oh yeah, I’m really struggling here. Thanks, darling.”

Stupidly, he smoothed out his sleep shirt, looking around the room in the small light of his bedside lamp he switched on to check if anything needed to be tidied. When he heard your bedroom door open, he just shoved his entire hamper into his wardrobe and was just straightening some stray papers on his desk when you knocked.

Just like the first time, he sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at you while you fumbled with the fabric. He would have liked to grab the backs of your thighs to pull you in, kissing the softness of your tummy, but figured he should keep it casual.

“Voilà.”, you said, running your fingers along the hem to make sure no hair was untucked.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

His eyes landed on the necklace that you hadn’t taken off yet. It sat right on top of an already fading mark he left on your skin when he had gotten carried away on the couch.

“So… okay. I’m gonna go back. - Sleep tight!”

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

He tried to come up with an excuse for you to stay longer, but it all sounded idiotic in his silk-bonneted head. But not to worry. You beat him to it.

“You know, actually, on second thought, I don’t feel comfortable walking all the way back in the dark by myself.”

He quickly caught on and played along, nodding with pretend earnestness.

“I think it would be for the best if you stayed the night here. For safety. Would make me feel better, personally.”

“Of course.”

“You get it.”

You lay down side by side, your hands so close to each other on the comforter that your pinkies were barely touching.

“Sooo… lights out?”, he asked.

“Not yet.”

He turned to look at you with a nervous but teasing grin.

“I thought you wanted to sleep.”

“I do. - I do… but…”

“But?”

“I wasn’t done getting kissed yet.”

“I see~ Well”, he reached out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, “we can’t have that.”

“It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be fine.”

“At this point, are you saying it to me or yourself?”, he asked, highly amused, and watched you fix your hair in the reflection of your phone for the hundredth time.

“Both. I think. - Where did I put the fruit?”

Your husband gestured simply at a large, fancy basket at your feet on the doorstep.

“Right.”

He smiled and gently grasped your chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting your head for an easy kiss.

“He likes you. Don’t worry.”

And without waiting for a reply, he rang the doorbell, hoisting the fruit basket into his arms.

“Tetsuro?”, Mr Kuroo blinked in surprise, “Y/n dear. What brings you two back so soon?”

Tetsuro shrugged, “Hey, dad, so, funny story.”

art: @freaka_loonyz on Instagram, X, Pinterest and TikTok

taglist: @etsuniiru @nocaffeineallowedtome @princessshart @aldebrana @grassbutneo @melimelisworld @yatoatyourservice @ranscutedoll @remiratboi @armeenix @doodle-with-rhy @bingbongsupremacy @theloveonagiseishiroslife @bakingcurosity @changkleta @nifflermini

The absolute biggest thank you to @haikyu-mp4 for listening to me ramble about this story for months, encouraging me through writer’s block, editing and brainstorming ✨🫶🏻

And thank you to every single one of you who read it til the end and for your comments and reblogs. You are amazing! I hope you liked it 🌱

[bbina]

it was nice that kun wanted to treat you out for lunch to celebrate your first month of successfully working and dealing with chenle because last time he checked, all previous assistants didn't even last a full week

"a toast to y/n" kun raises his glass up in the air. you let out a chuckle, wiping your mouth with a napkin as you too raise your own glass

"to being overworked" you chirp, clinking your glass with kun, side eyeing chenle who rolls his eyes but raises his glass nonetheless

"i'm literally not overworking you but okay" chenle murmurs, clinking his glass against yours and kun

you and kun both share a laugh of disbelief. him not overworking you? yeah right. says the same man who makes you work overtime just to finish an unfinished report he had given you 5 minutes before you had to clock out

"so, y/n.." kun starts, "any complaints, reviews or what not that you've kept to yourself for the past month about working with chenle here?" kun nods his head towards chenle's direction who glares at him

because in his defense, why do people keep saying that he's such an evil boss?

you take a good look at chenle and kun before you try to formulate your answer. if you had to be honest, you had a lot to say about working under chenle

first of all, he was unpredictable. you literally cannot guess if the day was gonna be a calm day because most of the time, it won't be one

second, there are times that he's so moody but maybe that's what running a company does to you at such a young age. you do admit that you commend him for such feat. it isn't easy being a young and successful ceo. you can say that now because you literally work with him

sure there are some positive sides working with him but it's mostly with chenle's overall character that you still can't quite get a hold of properly but given that it's been a month and chenle hasn't fired you despite talking back to him more now, then that should be a good sign itself

"oh she's thinking. there must be a lot" kun comments, shooting chenle a look to which the latter brushes off

"let's not get ahead of ourselves. we already know what she feels about me.. right, y/n?" chenle smirks, clearly referencing to your viral tweet. its been two weeks since the incident but it seems like he's the only one still holding onto the comment

"i bet you liked the compliment since it clearly got to your head" you murmured, sipping on your water as you look at chenle

kun snorts at your answer, clearly amused by the way you talk to your boss. it's honestly so refreshing to see someone who isn't afraid of chenle. maybe that's why his previous assistants didn't last long, or so he thinks

"but seriously though. it's an actual miracle that you lasted this long. chenle here had 3 assistants and they all ran the way" kun recalls, reminiscing the three assistants that only caused them more work than help since they all just left without a trace, "so you still being here has to mean something" he smiles, reaching over to pat your shoulder

"so sir zhong is the problem?" you ask, obviously a joke but the way you say it makes it sound like you were being genuine causing chenle to glare at you across the table and kun to laugh his ass off

chenle scoffs, remembering those dark times (not really) at the company where he and kun managed everything themselves. how he had to constantly rely on kun for the smallest of things because he couldn't keep track of anything anymore with everything going on all at once. how he had to balance his work and life balance all himself. review all those slides, papers, reports all on his own because he couldn't find competent people to actually help him and get the job done

it wasn't easy at the time but now, things have felt so much lighter now that you stuck around

not that chenle will full on admit that out loud. so what if you lasted a month with him? so what if you just magically get the shit he dumps on you done before the day ends even if it costs you to work over time (little did you know, he actually takes notes of the hours you spent working over time and adds it to your paycheck as incentives. huge incentives at that. his own silent way of thanking you for your hard work but you don't have to know that)

"i'm not hard to work with" chenle grumbles, eyes straying to you, "it's just that the previous assistants didn't do their job properly"

"so you're saying i do my job properly in your standards? thanks for the praise boss. i'll be sure to remember this forever" you coo dramatically, putting your hands on your chest as you smile at chenle

"thin ice. ms. jung. thin ice" chenle warns, eyes narrowing slightly at your playful remark. he would rather die than to admit that right now

"you said that earlier but look at you treating me out for lunch to celebrate me dealing with you" you retort

"you mean kun is treating you. not me because if i did, i would've chose the cheapest thing on the menu here"

"yeah sir kun did. with your company card so thanks anyway" you smile fakely at your boss

kun could only watch the way you two bounce off each other. even if it sounded like you two hate each other, the banter was something else. you actually match his energy. maybe that's why chenle keeps you around

"you two get along so well" kun comments, smiling between you and chenle

"no we don't" you and chenle both say at the same time. you let out a little gasp as chenle turns away huffing

"my point exactly" kun grins, seemingly happy at the situation. chenle had found his perfect assistant for him

BUSINESS PROPOSAL ᝰ.ᐟ . . . A MONTH

✎ . . . things aren't going as planned the way you thought it was going to be. especially the part where you find yourself falling in love with your own boss– which was definitely not part of the agreed proposal.

[ PREV / NEXT ]

✎ AUTHORS NOTE . . . we're getting somewhere + i think this might be the last implied timeskip chapters for now. ive only been doing that to establish how theyre getting closer lol

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