#i really think something is wrong with me

[alchemistc]

my heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

Tommy blinks awake and immediately wishes he hadn't. This is his third time waking up, and apparently they listened to him when he asked them to slow down his morphine drip because everything hurts.

The busted leg he remembers - they'd kept him awake long enough to explain that they'd do everything they could to keep it but... Well. No buts, in the end, just titanium and enough pins to make sure he'll never get through TSA quickly ever again. Thank fuck most of his flying he does on his own.

Christ, if he has to get recertified...

Fractured ribs, a punctured lung, three broken fingers but thank god his arms had survived relatively intact.

The bruising on his face screams before the rest of it does, which is just - it's silly, actually, that somewhere in his head he's thinking about how awful he must look. Of course he looks fucking awful, he survived a helicopter crash. Why would he look great? He should look as bad as he feels.

On a scale from 1 to Fuck Off he's very firmly toeing the line into Go Screw Yourself.

The knock startles him.

The startle wrenches something in his neck area, and Tommy groans through the pain. Shit. Screw his dad just that little bit more for providing the perfect genetics for a proclivity for addiction.

Evan.

He's standing at the door, looking apologetic, head ducked a little like he does when he either wants something, or thinks he's done something wrong. Puppy eyes, he'd heard Hen call it once, while she mimed barfing, because Tommy thought it was adorable.

He still thinks it's adorable.

Fuck.

"Hey," he says, in his Hospital Voice. (Tommy is new to this voice, but he's growing more used to it, now: third time awake and it's the third time Evan's been there. In a chair at his side, flirting with a nurse while he wrote on Tommy's chart, now perched in the doorframe looking... a bit grungy if Tommy's being honest. Like he hasn't slept in days. Like those are the same clothes Tommy first saw him in.

Evan dances in the door and it's the first time he's noticed that one of his arms is tucked behind his back. "If that's a bouquet you should know I'm allergic," Tommy says, and doesn't hate the way his voice sounds quite as much as he has in recent memory. He's almost managed to get back the ironic lilt.

Evan's smile widens. "You're lying, and besides, you can't be allergic to every flower. Are you allergic to the corpse flower?" He pauses. Narrows his eyes like he's heading Tommy off at the pass. "You can't say the smell is as bad as the allergies would be."

"I feel like a corpse flower," Tommy intones, and he wonders - is that - is this what - they're just not gonna talk about it? What he'd said, in the air, with half the public servants of the city listening in? Or the fact that Evan hasn't left this hospital in two days? Or whatever he's still hiding behind his back?

Evan steps into the room. Rolls his shoulders with a shit-eating grin. Brandishes the item he's been hiding - a stuffed chicken. There's something sticking to the end of one leg, and Tommy squints to try to make it out. Looks like -

"Bobby got it for you! He said you'd know what the knife was for."

Tommy groans, tips his chin against his pillow, groans again because the pain is radiating throughout his body. Evan steps closer.

"I really wish you'd at least let them give you the muscle relaxants," Evan murmurs, closer, so much closer. Hand on the bed, fingers lifted like he's thinking about squeezing Tommy's thigh, and god - god, he wants that. But they can't just - they're in this whole mess because they talk around shit instead of about it.

Evan sets the chicken on the table next to the bed. His smile is loose and light, but his eyes are worried.

"I'm still pissed they put me on a morphine drip that first day, Evan, it's in my chart not to -." Evan bridges the gap, distracting Tommy thoroughly - fingers soft and light, careful, sliding across his thigh and dangerously close to the crease of his groin. Even if he weren't in a hospital bed he's in way too much pain to even think of getting it up but it's compelling. It's distracting. Tommy never wants him to move his hand.

"Hey," he says, and Tommy blinks. Frowns. Drinks in the sight of Evan's plaintive head tilt and tries to breathe. He hasn't really been this lucid, before. "I have one more thing for you."

Tommy raises a brow. Clenches his jaw. Tries not to freak the fuck out when Evan reaches for the pocket of his likely rank flannel and pulls out a suspiciously small box. No. No, absolutely not, has he learned nothing from Tommy's multiple attempts to get him to slow down.

Evan pops the lid.

Tommy feels the hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest and tries to push it down because laughing right now would jostle so many fucking things and he can't -

"So. Um. I know we - I know we still need to - to sit down and, like. Talk. About things," Evan says, while Tommy stares at the metal-on-velvet. "A-and this isn't me asking for anything. I'm just..." He presses a fist to his eyes, rubs, fingers opening to rub at the scruff on his jaw. "So. I have a spare room. And you won't be able to manage stairs for a minute, and - and I have, like, so much PTO, Tommy, an insane amount of it, and I just thought. While you get your bearings..." Tommy watches him, still quiet. "It really sucked being on my own dealing with a bum leg. And - maybe - maybe we take some time to talk. Crack open that champagne once your doctor clears it."

Tommy stares. Tommy contemplates. Tommy sucks in a deep breath and swallows hard.

"You want me to sleep in the spare room?"

One of Evan's hands is still on his thigh. The other is still palming a house key. His grin is wry. "I would like nothing less, but I thought I'd offer."

Tommy's hand has been creeping steadily towards the one on his leg for a minute now. He makes the final effort, curls fingers around Evans wrist. "Please tell me your mattress is off the floor."

"There's even a top sheet."

Tommy feels his lip quirking. It had been an almost-argument, a generational gap they couldn't bridge, something so small and silly it hadn't seemed worth the time to fight about it when there were better things they could be doing with the bed. He wishes they'd fought about it. He hopes they have a thousand fights ahead of them.

Tommy releases the hand circling Evans wrist, palms the key. Evan beams.

"It's not exactly traditional, but, uh - you have the one watch you refuse to take off for anything, and I wasn't gonna make you like, a paper crane, so..."

"Traditi - Evan, what?"

His smile goes a little coy. "I know there's like, a break in there, or whatever, but - uh - happy anniversary."

Tommy wants to cry. He wants to grin until his lips hurt as much as the rest of him. He wants -

"Come down here and kiss me, you lunatic," Tommy says, and Evan grins as he obliges.

[irandrura]

Guacamole: Avocado is disgusting. There, I said it. I had family stay in America for years and they came back with a newly-acquired taste for avocado and it was horrifying. That said, if you must eat avocado, guacamole is one of the least-bad ways to do it, but the non-avocado ingredients are doing all of the work there.

Olives: I love olives. They are delicious and anything that you can put them on is improved by them. I will never get tired of kalamatas.

Mango: No strong feelings. It's a fruit, it's... fine. I don't go out of my way to get mango but I don't avoid it either.

Hommus: By itself it's a bit on the bland side. Some hommus-based dips and spreads are very nice, though. I'm happy eating just regular hommus, though I don't very often, but it needs a little bit more to really make it sing.

Tomatoes: It feels strange having an opinion on something as ubiquitous as tomato. It's very flexible and usually does its job well. It feels rare to me for tomato to be the star of any dish, but it's a trustworthy staple. I'm fond of mini Roma or cherry tomatoes just for convenience, but really, it's hard to go wrong.

Cannoli: I'm not actually sure what this is asking about. I thought the question was about cannelloni at first (which are incidentally delicious and are basically a strictly better equivalent to lasagna, which is still tasty but overrated), so I had to wiki it. It's a dessert of some kind? I do not think I have ever eaten cannoli. I'm not sure I've ever seen any. Are they more common in America?

FOOD DISCOURSE: reblog with ur opinions on guacamole, olives, mango, hummus, tomatoes, and cannolis

[dior-luxury]

A Love Worth Fighting For

Background Information: You have been the boys' crush ever since middle school. So, when they suddenly hear about you being in a relationship, they feel an urgent need to win you back and save you from your toxic boyfriend.

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/drama - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] ace . deuce . jack . epel . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] jealousy . some talk of physical fighting

Note: This piece has no joke, been sitting in my drafts since 2022 😭. So I thought I would re-vamp it, so it can see the light of day

Ace Trappola

Ace had always been a tease, a troublemaker, the kind of guy who’d steal the last piece of your lunch just to get a reaction out of you. But underneath the jokes and smug grins, there was something real—something unspoken between you two.

Which was why when you introduced your new boyfriend, Ace felt his stomach drop like a rock sinking into an abyss.

This guy? Some pompous, possessive jerk who acted like he owned you? Ace saw it immediately—the way he stood too close, the way his arm never left your waist like a leash, the way his eyes flashed with irritation every time you so much as laughed with another guy. It made Ace’s blood boil.

At first, he tried to play it cool. “Oh, so this is the lucky dude, huh?” he said, smirking, but his voice lacked its usual playfulness. “You sure you’re not just keeping him around ‘cause you lost a bet?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing him off, but Ace knew. He saw the hesitation in your smile.

And then the incidents started piling up.

He caught your boyfriend tightening his grip on your wrist when you tried to pull away. Ace had been ready to deck him right then and there if you hadn’t given him a pleading look. Then there was the time he overheard your boyfriend snapping at you for talking to him—Ace, of all people, who had been your friend since forever.

That was when the urgency hit him like a train. He had to get you out.

The next time he found you alone, he cornered you, grabbing your hand with more gentleness than he knew he was capable of. “Oi,” he murmured, his voice unusually serious. “Tell me the truth. You happy with that guy?”

You hesitated. It was all the answer he needed.

His grip tightened. “I swear, if he’s messing with you—hurting you—I don’t care what it takes, I’ll get you out. Even if I have to be the bad guy in your eyes.”

His heart pounded. He was ready to throw away everything—his pride, his dignity—just to make sure you never had to look that hesitant ever again.

Because Ace Trappola didn’t just lose. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to lose you.

Deuce Spade

Deuce had always been the kind of guy who charged in headfirst, fists clenched, heart blazing with conviction. But when he saw you with him, for the first time, he froze.

He wanted to be happy for you. He really did. But something in his gut twisted when he saw the way your boyfriend spoke to you, belittled you in front of others, grabbed your arm a little too hard.

Deuce wasn’t the sharpest when it came to emotions, but he knew what this was. It was wrong.

He tried to brush it off at first, thinking maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he was just jealous. He had always cared about you—more than he ever admitted out loud. But then he saw the way you flinched at your boyfriend’s harsh words. The way you forced a smile when you said everything was fine.

And Deuce saw red.

The next time he found you alone, his hands clenched at his sides. “Listen,” he said, voice trembling with restrained anger, “I don’t know what’s going on, but… you don’t have to stay with him. You know that, right?”

You looked away, swallowing hard. “Deuce, it’s not that simple—”

“Yes, it is!” His voice came out louder than he meant, but he couldn’t help it. He had been a delinquent once, but he swore to turn over a new leaf—to be someone worthy of standing by your side. And yet, here he was, watching you suffer because he hadn’t stepped up sooner.

He took a deep breath, then softer, more desperate: “I promised myself I’d protect you. Even if you think I’m being stupid, even if you hate me for interfering, I—” His throat tightened. “I can’t just watch this happen.”

He met your gaze, willing you to understand. “If you ever need a way out, I’ll be there. Just say the word, and I’ll take you away from him. I don’t care what it takes.”

Because he wasn’t going to let you disappear into someone else’s shadow. Not when he had finally realized—too late—how much he wanted to be the one standing by your side.

Jack Howl

Jack had always respected your choices. He wasn’t one to interfere in your life, and he certainly wasn’t the type to get jealous.

But something about your new boyfriend didn’t sit right with him.

He didn’t like how the guy talked over you. He didn’t like how he always pulled you away from your friends. And he especially didn’t like the way your scent was constantly laced with stress and fear whenever he was around.

Jack tried to ignore it at first, but when he saw your boyfriend grab you roughly by the arm in the hall one day, a low growl rumbled in his chest before he even realized it.

Before he knew it, he had yanked the guy off you, slamming him against the wall with a snarl.

"You don’t touch her like that." Jack’s voice was cold, deadly serious.

Your boyfriend scoffed, rubbing his shoulder. "The hell’s your problem, mutt?"

Jack didn’t care what he called him. His only concern was you.

He turned to you, his ears twitching as he noted the slight tremble in your stance. His golden eyes softened. "Come on. You’re leaving. With me."

You hesitated, your eyes darting between the two of them. "Jack, I…"

"Don’t." His tail flicked sharply. "Don’t defend him. Don’t make excuses for him." His voice lowered, almost pleading. "I know you. And I know this isn’t what you want."

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Jack took that as confirmation.

Without another glance at your boyfriend, Jack stepped beside you, lowering his head. "Let’s go."

You wavered for only a moment before finally nodding. And that was all Jack needed.

As you walked away with him, Jack made a silent promise to himself.

He should’ve told you how he felt sooner. But it wasn’t too late.

Not yet.

He wouldn’t let you go again. Not now, not ever.

Epel Felmier

Epel never really thought about romance much. He figured if he ever got a girlfriend, it’d be simple—he’d just find someone who liked him for who he was, not some delicate image others forced on him. But you… you were different. You saw him for him, not as some pretty boy, not as someone who needed fixing. You laughed at his stubbornness but never made fun of him for it. You supported him.

And somehow, without him realizing it, you had become important to him.

That’s why it felt like a slap to the face when he found out you were dating someone else.

His first reaction? "Tch. Whatever." He played it cool, pretending it didn’t bother him, even laughing it off when his dormmates teased him about it. "She can date whoever she wants, ain't my business."

But then… he started noticing things.

The way you pulled away from your friends more. The way you barely smiled anymore. The way you flinched at sudden noises.

And the final straw? When he caught a glimpse of your boyfriend grabbing your arm too tightly near the Hall of Mirrors, his voice low and filled with venom as he said something Epel couldn’t hear. But he did see the way your expression went blank, like you were forcing yourself to stay still.

Something in him snapped.

The next time he saw you alone, he stormed up to you, grabbing your hand without thinking. "We need to talk."

"Epel, I—"

"Don’t even try lyin’ to me. I know somethin’ ain't right." His voice was sharp, but there was an undeniable softness underneath. "That guy—he ain’t treatin’ you right, is he?"

You hesitated.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

Epel let out a frustrated huff, running a hand through his hair before stepping closer, his grip tightening slightly. "Listen. I ain’t some prince, and I ain’t got fancy words, but I know one thing—I’d never let you look as miserable as he does."

He exhaled, lowering his voice. "You deserve better. And… I want to be that for you."

His ears burned red, but he didn’t let go of your hand. "So, what do ya say? Wanna ditch that loser and come with me instead?"

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek prided himself on discipline. He was not one to let trivial things distract him, especially emotions. But you? You were one of the rare exceptions.

He respected you. Looked up to you, even. You had earned his admiration, something few humans ever did.

That’s why, when he found out you were in a relationship, it was… frustrating. He couldn’t understand why it bothered him so much, but he convinced himself it was fine. If this was your choice, then he would respect it.

But then… he started seeing him.

Your boyfriend.

Sebek didn’t like him from the start. There was something about him that rubbed him the wrong way—the way he carried himself, the way he talked down to you as if he owned you.

At first, Sebek told himself it wasn’t his business. He had no right to interfere in your personal affairs.

Then, he saw your boyfriend yelling at you one day, gripping your wrist too tightly. And that was it.

He marched over without hesitation, standing tall, his voice booming. "UNHAND HER AT ONCE, YOU INSOLENT WORM!"

The force of his voice startled your boyfriend enough that he let go of your wrist, stumbling back. Sebek placed himself in front of you like a shield, green eyes burning with fury.

"You—who do you think you are—"

"WHO DO I THINK I AM?" Sebek scoffed, stepping forward, towering over the man. "I AM SEBEK ZIGVOLT, LOYAL SERVANT OF MALLEUS DRACONIA, AND I WILL NOT STAND IDLY BY WHILE A COWARD LAYS HIS HANDS ON SOMEONE AS PRECIOUS AS HER!"

Your boyfriend paled. Sebek took another step, his voice low and dangerous. "You are not worthy of even speaking her name, let alone holding any claim over her."

Your boyfriend stuttered, clearly realizing he had no chance of winning this. With one final glare, Sebek turned his back to him, grabbing your hand.

"Come. You are leaving with me."

"Sebek, I—"

He turned to you, his voice softening ever so slightly. "You do not need to endure this any longer. I swore to protect you, and I will keep that promise—whether you ask for it or not."

His grip on your hand tightened just a little. "And if you allow it… I would like to stand by your side, not just as your protector… but as the one who cherishes you as you deserve."

His face was red, his jaw tight, but he didn’t waver. He wouldn’t let you go back to that man.

Not when he was right here, willing to give you the world.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

COMFORT IN YOU

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (ex!reader, i suppose) summary: even though the two of you are no longer together, hotch can't help the fact that he still has the need to comfort you. warnings | an: lil hurt & comfort, two exes making soup together but they're still blatantly in love with one another, also pretty sure this is not the correct way to make soup i was really just saying shi to make them busy, yearning i suppose?? word count: 2k

✧ masterlist

You were having what you could only describe as a series of bad days. There were no particular causes or events for them, just the uncomfortable feeling of a heaviness in your chest. There wasn’t anything glaringly wrong, but there wasn’t much that felt right, either.

For the past week, you’d been snoozing your alarm until the last possible second. Mornings turned into rushed scrambles - brushing your teeth and hair the only boxes you’d managed to check before bolting out the door. You hadn’t bothered with makeup or a decent outfit in days, simply because nothing seemed worth the effort.

You knew the feeling would pass eventually, it wasn’t a constant thing. Every now and then, you just felt…off. Like you were watching yourself from the outside, going through the motions but not really present.

You were sure there was a word for it. Something detached and clinical - Spencer had once mentioned it on a flight home from a case. The memory hovered at the edges of your mind, but you couldn’t find the energy to chase it down just to label what you already knew.

You just didn’t feel like yourself.

“You’re not seriously staying here past five on a Friday night, are you?” Penelope asked, using your desk as a dumping ground to sort through her large purse.

You glanced up with a tried smile. “No, Pen. Just finishing up. I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Okay, sugar,” she said in what was supposed to be her warning voice – though, like everything Penelope said, it came wrapped in warmth and sweetness. “Promise me you’ll go home, take a nice hot bath, light some candles –” she fluttered her fingers animatedly, “–and show yourself some love.”

You arched a brow. “Is this your subtle way of telling me I look like shit?”

She gasped, swatting you lightly with her pink glasses case. “I would never use such language. But also…yes. A little bit.”

You shook your head and rolled your eyes, giving her a full performance of your pretend annoyance.

Penelope just grinned, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Text me when you get home. And take care of that beautiful face, okay?” She reached out, giving your chin a playful squeeze before blowing you an air-kiss. “Self-care, my love. Don’t make me come over there and enforce it.”

“Yes, boss,” you said, standing from your seat. “Have a good night, Penny.”

Once she was gone, you stacked the last forms for your report into a folder, quietly relieved that Hotch wasn't in his office to hand it in to. It had taken you far longer to complete than usual - in fact, you were pretty sure yours was the only report he was waiting on to close out the case.

He wouldn't have given you a hard time about it – he never had – but still, you didn't want him thinking you couldn't handle your workload. Not when you both agreed the job was too important to let anything, especially your relationship, interfere with it.

You made your way into his office, the lights still on despite the fact that he'd stepped out for a meeting hours ago. It should've felt strange being in his space. Working with him. Seeing him every day, even after the two of you had mutually agreed to call it quits. But it didn't feel strange at all.

If anything, your relationship with him had stayed almost exactly the same. The only real difference was that you couldn't crawl into his arms at the end of a long day - and that was okay, or at least you had spent a lot of time trying to convince yourself that it was. You were both adults. Mature. Maybe a little too career-hungry.

You'd given it your best shot for almost a year, and it just didn't work. That was it. There wasn't anything more either of you could've done – or, if you were honest, wanted to do. Maybe if you'd both been accountants, or if one of you had decided to transfer out of the BAU, it might've worked. But neither of you wanted that.

You both loved the job exactly as it was.

So you let go.

And maybe that was love too, in its own way.

You left the report neatly on his desk, then made your way back to your own. After packing up your things, you headed out, the building quiet behind you.

On the way home, you stopped by the grocery store near your place, telling yourself you'd pick up something for a proper dinner. But somewhere between the fluorescent lights and the half-empty shelves, you settled on a frozen meal instead. Very high-nutrient of you, truly.

By the time you got home, you didn't even bother unpacking your haul. You just dropped the bags on the countertop and left them there, your keys landing beside them with a dull clink. You headed straight for the bathroom, aiming for a quick shower and could practically hear Penelope rolling her eyes at your refusal to take a proper bath.

It couldn’t have been later than eight when a knock echoed through your home. Your slippers dragged softly across the wooden floor as you made your way to the door, unsure of who you were about to find on the other side. Perhaps it was Penelope, coming over to check whether the bath salts she had given you for your birthday had finally been put to use.

But when you opened the door, it wasn’t Penelope standing there.

It was Hotch. Still in his work clothes, with a brown bag tucked under his arm.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” you greeted, opening the door wider to let him in.

He stepped inside without a word, moving through the space like he’d never left it. Like it still belonged to him, at least in some small way. And maybe it did. For a while, this had been his second home.

You watched him cross to the kitchen, settling the bag down beside your still-unpacked groceries.

“No Thai?”

“Not tonight,” he replied, slipping off his jacket. “I thought I’d make soup.” His sleeves were rolled up before you could even respond and he was at your sink, using your soap to wash his hands to make you dinner.  

You really couldn’t make this up.

You took a seat on the bench, folding your legs beneath you as you watched him unpack the contents of the bag. “Did you read my report?”

He didn’t look up as he pulled out a bundle of parsley, a container of chicken stock and various vegetables. “I did.”

“Am I going to have to redo it?”

He glanced at you then, the faintest trace of amusement crossing his face. “No,” he said. “It was good. A little rushed, maybe – but not wrong.”

You gave dry laugh. “You can tell me to redo it, I promise I won’t get mad.”

“I know you won’t, but I also know when you’re not at your best. And I’m not going to punish you for having an off week.”

You nodded slowly, watching as he moved to grab a cutting board.

After a moment, you spoke again – softer this time. “You won’t be able to do this forever, you know.”

His eyes met yours again, but he stayed silent.

“I’m serious,” you went on, offering a small smile. “What happens when you start dating again? You’re just going to keep showing up at your ex-girlfriend’s house with soup ingredients?”

“I don’t think dating is in the cards right now.”

You tilted your head, teasing gently. “Why not? Did I leave you that emotionally wrecked?”

He shook his head with a quiet laugh. “No, you didn’t. It’s just…not where my focus is.”

You clicked your tongue, reaching for an orange from the fruit bowl. “Well, that’s a shame. Because dating is in my cards,” you revealed, digging your thumb into the skin and starting to peel.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thinking of going for a broker this time,” you mused, not looking at him as you pulled off a strip of peel. “You know, mix it up. Maybe someone who doesn’t alphabetize their spices.”

“And you’d be happy with a broker?”

You shrugged, glancing up at him as you popped a piece of mandarin into your mouth. “Who knows.” You chewed slowly, then added with a smirk, “I can easily picture you with a nurse. Or maybe a doctor. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could do double dates, your nurse-doctor, my broker. Very grown-up of us.”

“I don’t think I’m built for double dating.”

“No,” you agreed. “You’d probably scare my broker away.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

You paused, taking the time to eat your second piece of mandarin. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much I like the broker."

He didn’t respond right away, turning back toward the stove. “Where’s your big pot?”

“Exactly where you left it,” you replied, watching as he moved toward the lower cabinet, like he still remembered this kitchen better than his own.

And the truth was, this – whatever this was – probably wasn’t the healthiest of situations, and it wasn’t making moving on any easier for either of you.

But it was what you knew. What you remembered.

And if this was the version of him you were allowed to keep, you’d take it. You weren’t ready to go back to a life without him, not yet. Not when he still offered pieces of himself and not when you still kept saying yes.

“Do you need any help?” you asked, rising to your feet, your knees clicking in protest.  

“Always need your help,” he responded – just a little too casually. You knew he hadn’t meant for it to land as heavily as it did.

You gathered the orange peel and turned to toss it in the bin, just as Hotch stepped back from the stove. And suddenly, he was right there – in front of you. His eyes found yours and held them, like he was reading something you hadn’t yet decided to say. He’d always been good at that, seeing things before you did. Predicting thoughts you hadn’t even fully formed.

“Have you been sleeping?”

You nodded, brushing past him to rinse your hands. “Like a baby.”

He turned just slightly, enough to catch your expression. “That’s a no, then.”

“It’s hard to get comfortable on a bed that’s broken,” you said, equal parts explanation and blame. And while you wished it was a great sex story you were referring to…it wasn’t. You’d asked him to hang a frame above your bed. The next thing you heard from the living room was a loud thud – one of the bed legs snapping clean off.

“Hey, I fixed what I broke,” he offered.

Ha.

“Not very well,” you muttered, drying your hands. “Where do you want me?”

Hotch paused mid-motion as he added vegetables to the pot, eyes flicking up to meet yours.  

“In terms of helping,” you added, arching a brow like it was his mind that had wandered.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Right.” He nodded toward the cutting board. “You can shred the chicken.”

You did as you were told, moving to stand next to him. Your elbow brushed his now and then, neither of you bothering to move away.

“You still do this thing,” you said after a moment, not looking up. “Organising everything before you start. Like you’re in a restaurant kitchen.”

“It saves time,” he reasoned, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“It’s kind of endearing.”

“You used to call it controlling.”

You shrugged again. “I don’t recall.”

“Just like you don’t recall watering the basil?” His eyes moved to a pot on the windowsill, it’s leaves wilted, dropping sadly.

“You’re welcome to take it home with you.”

He raised a brow. “And let it die under my care instead?”

“Seems fair. Full-circle moment.”

Your elbow brushed his again and the two of you fell silent.

“...You okay?”

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” he pressed, gentler now.  

You nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I mean… not great, but – functioning.”

“Is there anything that I can do?”

You glanced up, offering a tired but genuine smile. “Just make sure the soup’s good.”

“It will be,” he assured you. “I know how you like it.”

And he did – because he still remembered all of it. Everything you liked, everything you didn’t. What you tolerated with a tight-lipped smile and what you outright hated. He hadn’t forgotten a thing.

And as you stood there, watching him move through your kitchen like he still belonged in your home, in your heart, you couldn’t help but wonder how many more times the two of you would let yourselves end up in moments like this.

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue

(please lmk if you want to be removed from the general tag list & just be kept on the fake finance tag list)

[foxy-eva]

Escort

Summary: Spencer was supposed to meet an escort in a bar. When you start flirting with him, he’s completely unaware that you're not the woman he hired. 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Fluff, Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) misunderstanding, miscommunication, awkwardness, mentions of sex work, heavy make-out, allusions to sex, fade to black sex

Word count: 1.3k

Author’s Note: I wrote this for @imagining-in-the-margins Wrong Recipient challenge (I know I’m super late whoops)

Masterlist

The hotel bar still seemed quiet when you stepped in and took a look around. A lonely feeling had overcome you on this business trip, so you decided you wanted to meet someone new today. 

Lucky for you, the handsome man sitting at the bar looked like he wanted some company, too. With an unusual surge of confidence you approached him, relieved when you found him smiling at you. 

With a saccharine smile painted over your face, you sat down beside him and cooed, “Hi stranger.”

“Hi,” he almost whispered. “I have been expecting you.” 

That certainly was a pick-up line you hadn't heard before. You decided to play along. 

“Yeah? I’m glad we finally met. I was looking forward to spending time with someone so handsome.” 

A wonderful rosy shade spread over his cheeks at your words and it let your heart jump. It was almost unreal how beautiful this man was and he seemed to be completely unaware of that. 

For just a split second your eyes glanced over his hands, expecting to find a wedding ring but there was none. 

“I’m obviously not married,” he said, completely catching you by surprise. You hadn’t expected him to notice. “Or seeing anyone, for that matter,” he added.

“I don't think that was obvious but it’s good to know.”

He raised his eyebrows at your words. “Yeah no, I’m not like that.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I know other men do it but I personally would not talk to uhm… a woman like you if I was in a relationship.”

“A woman like me?” His choice of words was a little odd.

He cleared his voice and shifted in his seat, making his discomfort obvious. “Yeah uhm.. I mean someone…”

“Someone as beautiful and radiant as me?” You laughed as you attempted to save this poor man from embarrassing himself any further. 

“Exactly,” he chuckled as the pink color on his cheeks turned a shade darker. 

Conversation between the two of you flowed easily after that as you began telling him a little bit about yourself and he let you in on some details about his life. 

“So, Spencer, if you live in DC, what brings you all the way here?” 

“My cousin’s wedding tomorrow. That’s actually why I’m here, in this bar I mean. I know it sounds pathetic but when I responded to the invite a few months ago, I checked the box for plus one. I was really optimistic that I would have someone to go to the wedding with by now,” he sighed as his sight dropped down to his glass. 

“That didn’t work out, huh?” 

Spencer shook his head. His whole demeanor gave away a certain feeling of loneliness you were very familiar with. Instinctively you reached for his hand and gently brushed over his skin. 

His eyes found yours once more. Then, after a short moment of silence, he said something you didn’t expect. “I would really like it if you went to the wedding with me.” 

His words were bold, almost contradicting his entire demeanor. You felt surprised yet flattered by his invitation. 

“I love weddings,” you chirped. “And I don’t have any other plans tomorrow.” 

A wonderful smile spread over his face. “Then it’s a date.”

The straightforwardness of his invitation boosted your confidence, too. There was an undeniable connection between you two and the more you talked, the more attracted you became to him. You were sure that this aching inside your chest could only be soothed by his nearness. 

The soft curve of his lips looked so kissable. His smirk gave away that he must have noticed you staring at his mouth. You found his eyes again and almost drowned in the wild honey of his irises. 

“So, profiler,” you playfully purred as you leaned closer. “What does my body language tell you?”

You watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed and his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his lips. “I’m not entirely sure,” he muttered. 

Taking his hand in yours, you got up from your seat and snickered, “Why don’t you follow me and find out?” 

There was no resistance from him when you led him to the elevator. As soon as the door opened, you stepped in, leaned against a wall and pulled him closer. He stared at you with pupils blown wide and his mouth agape. He stood close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his body. 

“I’m not a profiler but I’m pretty sure you’d like to kiss me right now,” you cooed as you pushed your chest against his. 

“You’re right,” he breathed as he leaned down. “Can I?”

Right when you wanted to close the gap, the elevator got to your floor and interrupted you with a loud ding. Spencer almost jumped at the sound. You grabbed his hand once more and dragged him all the way down the hall to your room. 

There was no time to be wasted once you stepped inside your hotel room. His lips were on yours in an instant while he pushed you against the closest wall, making you gasp into the kiss. He deepened the kiss as his tongue met yours, melting into you as if you had done that a million times before. When he pressed his body against yours, you noticed his hardness straining against the confines of his pants. 

“Someone’s excited,” you whispered as you let your hand wander down his body with a clear goal in mind. Once you reached his belt, Spencer suddenly stepped back. 

“No, wait,” he mumbled and looked at you almost in shock.

“I’m very sorry if I overstepped,” you sincerely apologized. 

“No, no, that’s not it. We just uh… should talk about this before,” he said. 

Not entirely sure what he meant, you said, “Okay?”

“You uhm… only agreed to go to the wedding with me. So I’m not sure about the uh.. conditions of this… encounter,” Spencer stuttered. 

His words only confused you more. With raised eyebrows you looked at him. “What conditions?”

“Your uhm… rate and what that includes exactly.”

It took you a few seconds to understand what he was talking about. Suddenly the things he said earlier made a lot more sense. 

Your voice was laced with disbelief when you said, “Wait, you think I’m a hooker?”

This situation was so absurd that you weren’t entirely sure if you should laugh or cry about it. 

“I mean… I think the website used the word ‘escort’?”

It was still hard to believe what was happening. You decided to give him the benefit of the doubt instead of getting angry at him. “Spencer, I’m not an escort. How could you think that?” 

Spencer stepped back until his legs hit the bed. He sat down and shook his head, clearly unable to fully grasp what was happening. “Why else would you want to have sex with me?”

His words made you laugh. “Because you’re cute and sweet and very attractive!”

“And apparently very stupid,” he sighed. Regret was written all over his face when he said, “I’m very sorry I offended you. I really thought you were the woman I hired for the wedding tomorrow. We were supposed to meet in the bar to talk about the details.” 

“That wasn’t me,” you clarified.

“Yeah, clearly.” 

“I’ll still go to the wedding with you, if you want,” you said as you sat down beside him. “And you don’t even have to pay me.” 

Your words made him smile. “Yeah?” 

Nodding your head, you climbed into his lap. He seemed a little caught off guard but welcomed you on top of him nonetheless. Your mouth gently brushed over his neck when you breathed, “And guess what?”

“Hm?” You felt his throat rumble under your lips. 

“You don’t have to pay for this either.” 

Thank you for reading! Please like, reblog and leave a comment to show your support and help me stay motivated to write more stories!

Taglist: @adoredfromafar @grumpyy-bearr @frickin-bats @pleasantwitchgarden @cynbx @xserenax-13 @alexxavicry @samuel-de-champagne-problems @evvy96 @reidsbookclub @lover-of-books-and-tea @sebs-oxygen @nomajdetective @kobaltdragon @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @castiels-majestic-wings @hits-different-cause-its-you @spensreid @silversprings-mp3 @person-005 @kittyisick @siriuslyval03 @sleepysongbirdsings @brownbunnyb

[seasidefallenangel]

now say i'm the only one you need

ranking the bllk men on how good of a boyfriend they are ft. isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu, michael kaiser, alexis ness

song from here listen to it to get a kiss from me

༄ isagi: 10/10

one third of the “perfect boyfriend trio.” he’s incredibly attentive of all your needs and overall is very good at balancing his soccer career with your relationship. dictionary definition of “walk him like a dog.” anything you say goes and he’s more than happy with things being that way. actually has a pretty high tolerance for whatever things you might put him through, he tends to be good at solving problems before they can spiral out of control. the most you’ll have to deal with is the fact he can be kind of on the more awkward and shy side of things, unsure how to really be in a relationship. he wasn’t really popular or well known at all before blue lock, so at most he had crushes that were one-sided. his friends joke and tease about how you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. he doesn’t even care that they’re right.

༄ bachira: 9/10

the thing with bachira is that you’re not gonna date him unless you’re okay with all of his quirks, so there’s really nothing “bad” or unexpected going into the relationship. at his worst he can be clingy and a smidge overbearing, but he’s terrified of you deciding you want something more, better than him. he’s very easy going because of this, and really won’t have any disagreements with whatever ideas strike you. you’re actually a rock in this life, and he feels safe confiding all the thoughts clawing at his mind when he’s being held in your arms. despite what people may think, he does have a calmer temperament to him - generally after practice or late at night. he’s a big cuddle bug and will most likely fall asleep on your stomach, clinging to you so you can’t leave him.

༄ chigiri: 5/10

rose-glasses off, chigiri kinda sucks. he’s very selfish without the whole egoist thing going on, and it’s confirmed in canon that a lot of people get turned off by his personality after being drawn in by his looks. he obviously has some interest in you if you’re dating, but that doesn’t mean his bad traits magically go away. his mindset is very “me before you.” if you’re arguing he’s going to bring up points for the sole purpose of hurting you because he has to be right. he has too much pride to admit when he's wrong but also to apologize for his actions. on the opposite side of that, though, is compliments and the like are easy for him to give you. he’s pretty open with his opinions so if he likes a certain thing about you he has no qualms with telling you as such. he would never deny you're dating and generally likes to show you off, wanting everyone to know he bagged an incredible person. he’s not the worst person to date, but it probably won’t be worth anything as a long term relationship.

༄ nagi: 6/10

nagi is my favorite character and that’s why i need to say this. he does have some merit for what it’s worth. he’s very physically affectionate and is also really easy to be around. i see him as being more open to compromise if you’re stern enough with him. he might complain a bit but he’s not that hard to convince. the biggest issue with him is that he just… doesn’t care. if he goes to a new cafe with you it’s cause you asked him, not because he wanted to. it’s not that he doesn’t love you, he just doesn’t process things like this in his brain. the concept of ‘doing things for your partner before they ask’ doesn’t click. he’s not a mind reader, so isn’t just being vocal about what you want the easiest? he doesn’t really expect much from you as a partner so easily grows confused at why you have these random demands and expectations from him when you know exactly how he is. it might not be a dealbreaker, but it does make you question if he’s ever actually enjoying his time with you.

༄ reo: 8/10

reo’s biggest issues are 1.) he's absurdly jealous and 2.) his money. the thing with his money is the fact he uses it almost as a deflector of sorts. if you have a genuine problem you need to sort out with him, he's giving you new jewelry, designer bags, dinners at michelin star restaurants instead of talking it out. he doesn’t want to give you the chance to bring up your displeasure in regards to something he’s done. it’s his default answer because it’s the only thing people have wanted from him. reo is actually very scared of conflict. he’s worried you’ll leave him at the first sign of him not being the picture perfect boyfriend that’s expected from him, which ties into the jealousy. if someone has a trait you admire, he’ll mold himself to fit that thing you seem to like.  he hates when you even acknowledge other people’s talents or attractive features  (save for nagi.) speaking of nagi, it’s played out but i do believe he’s the only person reo will share you with. if nagi wants to cuddle, kiss, act like your boyfriend, reo has no issue as long as he’s involved too. when you’re someone reo truly loves, he’ll let you do pretty much anything to him with no repercussions. it’s very easy to take advantage of him as long as you promise stay by his side.

༄ rin: 7/10

no matter how much he denies it, rin tries very hard to be sae. he wants to be the nonchalant boyfriend, never losing his cool and making it seem like you’re always running back for more. in truth, he couldn’t be more obvious about how badly he needs you. he has this sort of non-stop identity crisis going so he’s going to have this front of “fine with you, fine without you.” he wants you to think he doesn’t need you that bad because he’s worried you’ll see him as weak. the thing that makes it obvious is that when you’re threatening to leave because he’s just too hot and cold, he caves instantly. teeth gritted, he’ll ask what you want him to change, what kind of person should he be for you? after sae, he became so desperately starved for love that the second you started dating  he felt like he was suffocating, always needing your validation but unable to ask for it. similarly to reo, he’s easy to take advantage of if you insinuate that you’re unhappy with something currently in your relationship. be gentle because you can break him apart and he’ll always think it was his fault.

༄ sae: 9/10

i’m gonna go against the grain and say that sae is actually a great boyfriend because he wouldn’t bother getting into a relationship to begin with if he didnt think it’s worth his time. he’s an incredibly self assured person so he has no reason to be all wishy-washy with who he’s interested. sae’ll make it clear he wants to date you and obviously you’re reciprocating because duh, he’s sae itoshi. from the get go he’ll remind you that soccer is his career, his lifeblood, and while he loves you more, his priorities lay there. the fact he straight up admits it instead of letting it become a festering issue is exactly why he’s so good because neither of you will have wasted time in the relationship. he’s also easier to talk to than one might think. sae generally believes drawn out arguments are pointless  and wasting energy on them doesn’t help anyone, so any that you two have are squashed pretty quickly. affection comes pretty easily to him but he can be a little emotionally absent at his worst. it’s not really something that changes over time, but he has other methods of making sure you know he adores you. it’s very “what you see is what you get.” if you’re acquainted with him at all, there’s really no negative surprises or unexpected twists that put a damper on the romance between you both. if nothing else, he makes sure the whole world know exactly who you belong to, and it leaves you with no room to doubt he plans to keep you by his side forever.

༄ karasu: 10/10

one third of the “perfect boyfriend trio.” this is generally a shock to people who know the kind of company he keeps around but the thing is that karasu doesn’t approve of otoya’s behavior. he goes from insinuating otoya could be doing better things with his time than leading girls on to flat out telling him he’s pathetic for not holding down a relationship. most of the girls who have their hearts broken by otoya fall in love with karasu right after from how kindly he treats them and the way he apologizes for his friends nasty habits. karasu holds a lot of respect for you as a person since he’s attracted to people he can analyze and read into. a common bonding activity is just him asking your opinions on certain topics or how you’d approach a theoretical situation and he’ll sit back and listen, trying to dig into your mind. he’s also very self aware of his flaws and will admit he isn’t perfect but is always working to better himself (“his weakness is that he can't be nice to people he thinks are mediocre and knows he needs to fix that.”) it’s not like you’ll never have issues, but he always resolves them in a way that doesn’t add tension or doubt to your relationship. he’s also good with all 5 love languages and prefers to show them all to you, but if you have ones you prefer or dislike then he can easily adjust. he’s always listening to you, learning about you, wanting to be the best version of himself he can for you.

༄ otoya: 6/10

the glaring bone of contention with otoya is obvious to anyone who knows him - but not in the way you think. otoya can be a good boyfriend if he wants ; he knows what girls like, what makes them happy, how to keep them satisfied. he’s had enough practice for it to be second nature. once you're in a genuine relationship with him, he’s going to treat you pretty well. thing is - that’s exactly his problem. in the back of your head you know why he’s so good at this. you know you’re an idiot for thinking you can change him despite the fact you did. it’s just impossible to believe. every time he tries to reassure you that yes, you’re his only, he doesn’t want to go back to his old ways, you’re just staring at him thinking to yourself, ‘wonder how many times he’s used this line on someone.’ you’re just never going to have a sense of security with him because there’s always this lingering "what if" bouncing around. the worst part is that it’s not an unreasonable line of thought. mindless paranoia is one thing, but there’s so much proof against him that you’d be more humiliated for assuming he isn’t cheating on you - you can’t date a serial cheater and be really that mad or shocked if he does. you know what you signed up for accepting his confession, so your entire viewpoint is that it’s a matter of ‘when’ and not ‘if’. you can never ever say with full confidence he's 100% yours, even when he is.

༄ yukimiya: 10/10

one third of the “perfect boyfriend trio.” i know it’s like beating a dead horse since this is a commonly shared sentiment but he really is incredible. a big part of the reason why is actually the fact he’s emotionally mature. he’s in tune with how he feels and knows how to convey it respectfully but isn’t so set in his ways he can’t see what points you want to make if you were to disagree on something. something else is that he’s very good at reading your micro-behaviors and can fall in line pretty well with how you act without compromising his own personality (in comparison to how someone like bachira or alexis would.) if you tend to be on the shyer side, not really one to defend yourself, he has no issue stepping in and solving whatever problem is going on. on the flip if you are more outgoing and not scared to bite at people then he'll fall back, only intervening when he can sense things’ll get ugly if he doesn’t tug on your leash a little bit. something he particularly enjoys doing is picking up hobbies or skills that you enjoy or would appreciate. he’ll learn how to cook if you hate it or asks you to read your favorite books to him at night, wrapped in his arms while he presses a gentle kiss against your temple. 

༄ kaiser: 4/10 to 8/10 

the thing with kaiser is that he’s a really good boyfriend, but you have to go through hell to get to that point. he has so many walls and has all these little “tests” where he tries to catch you using him for his money, status, looks, etc. kaiser wants to convince himself that love obviously isn’t real ; look at his parents for god’s sake. so he’s always trying to plan some “gotcha” thing and catch you in the act. the issue is, he doesn’t. you’re really like this from the bottom of your heart and he can’t wrap his head around that fact. so he goes to the emotion he knows best - anger. he’s lashing out at you for lying to him, accusing you of all sorts of things because surely there’s no way this is real, that he has something fully his, someone who cherishes him and sees him for his best. this entire process isn’t a few months either - this is a good two or three years. he has a lot of built up trauma to navigate both on his own and with you. if you somehow have the conviction to get through this then he’ll be a really incredible guy to have around. he loves you so fiercely that he’d rather die than let the one good thing he’s been gifted to slip from his fingers, but everyone in your life is going to hate him by then and insist he hasn’t changed, feeling like you’re going to eventually be broken by him.

༄ alexis: ?/10

alexis is actually pretty similar to bachira, just more extreme. in any other context, his obsessions would be viewed as something of concern or distasteful but dating alexis means you already would know about it and in turn only get into a relationship if you were okay with it. it’s not as if his attachment to kaiser is a secret. if you’re going in with the “i can fix him” mentality then you’ve doomed yourself already. you have to already accept his quirks and such to really reach him in a way that matters. a relationship with him is this unending back and forth. you're actually not really going to be viewed as this untouchable deity because he's already yours. he doesn't have to prove his worth like with kaiser. the thing is that kaiser molded who he is now so kaiser is kind of his tie to humanity - without him, alexis doesn’t really have much keeping him tied to earth. don’t think you’re not important to him because and he’s going to insane lengths for you to accept his unhealthy outlets of showing his love and devotion to you. he feels so much more human with you because you’re giving him the attention that he has to beg kaiser for but without the requirements to earn it - you just love him naturally. he’s not trying to prove that he deserves your love, he’s trying to prove that he loves you just as much back but he doesn’t know how to do it normally. he doesn’t know how to offer himself to you in a way that isn’t self destructive. he’s stuck in this non-stop cycle of you trying to convince him he doesn’t need to like earn your love and him thinking that it’s you saying he’s not doing enough to to earn your love and thus he goes to more extremes. if you can handle it then he’s great for you, you’ll never question that he’s madly in love with you. but if you get overwhelmed then he grows more unstable, and you’re stuck trying to make him better while he makes himself worse to hopefully get you to finally praise him for shattering who he is.

[angelltheninth]

Can you write the Arcane women taking care of their girlfriend when she's on her period?

My own period is getting closer so I am feeling this ask right now.

Pairing: Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn Kiramman, Maddie Nolen, Grayson, Sevika, Mel Medarda, Ambessa Medarda, Cassandra Kiramman

Tags: fluff, periods, bleeding, feeling sick, period cramps, comfort food, massages, cuddles, working out, suggestive content

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: If there was a button to opt me out of periods for the rest of my life I would press it so fast. It's not fair.

Jinx would run around frantically, literally burying you in supplies that she doesn't even know if you need. The type to try to distract you by talking your ear off and making you laugh. She feels guilty when she sees you cramping up in pain and briefly considers offering you Shimmer to make you feel better. If she needs to she will break into Piltover medicine shops to get you some better medicine.

Vi hasn't had the best experience with periods herself so she doesn't know how to take care of you properly. She offers you messages that worked with her when her cramps were really bad and makes sure you have enough water to drink since you're bleeding a lot. Kisses your stomach when she feels it flexing from cramps. When she feels you relax under her touch she smiles, knowing she's doing it right.

Caitlyn knows when your period is close so she takes days off work to tend to you. Piltover won't fall to pieces if she's not working for a bit, taking care of her girlfriend is more important. She can get you anything you need, be it medicine, pads, food you're craving, just ask her and she'll take care of it. Doesn't want you walking alone when you're feeling sick so she always follows you to the bathroom.

Maddie always makes sure she has your favorite comfort food ready for when you're on your period. It's a small comfort maybe but it's something she always wanted to have while she was on her periods, someone taking care of her. To make sure you don't get sick again she feeds you the food little by little. When a bit of food stains your lips she leans in to kiss you, distracting you for just a moment longer.

Grayson gets worried when she wakes up and you're not in bed next to her but in the bathroom holding your stomach. She knows what's wrong right away and carries you back to bed, telling you to stay put while she goes out to buy what you need. Helps you change into clean pajamas and kisses your legs, hips and stomach while doing so. Makes sure you get lots of rest, and lots of tea to help with the pain.

Sevika thinks that a good workout is a great way to help with your period pains. Obviously she won't push you past your breaking point or push you if you're feeling sick but a little work out will do you some good. She rewards you with food and drinks she knows you like, and those that keep your energy up so you're not as sluggish. Kisses are on the table too, and more if you're feeling up for it later.

Mel prepares you a big, warm bath and yes she will take the bath with you once you washed up. Pampers and spoils you rotten while you're on your period, she's even more attentive than usual. She makes sure you know that she doesn't think the blood is gross or unsightly, she might look prim and proper but she'd seen her fair share of blood. And she would never be grossed out by you, especially not now.

Ambessa lets you see her secret softer side when you're on your period. Her duties can wait a bit, she wants to spend a good chunk of her day with you instead. Physical activity is a good way to help with period pains and you already know she's not grossed out by blood in any way, so if you want to spend the day in bed with her it's more than welcome. Or you can just cuddle, that's on the table too.

Cassandra didn't have regular periods when she was younger but she knows how painful they can be. The last thing she wants is to see you in pain so she always has tea ready, it's right next to your bed, might not be tasty but it helps. She cuddles up next to you on the bed or on the couch, constantly kissing your cheeks, your forehead, kissing you on the lips, comforting you. Will even take a day off from the Council.

[azzifuddslover]

UNRAVEL - chapter six

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

tw: swearing, light sexual content (not much detail)

themes: angst, jealousy

word count: 6.7k

a/n: um… hey! first of all, i’m so sorry for disappearing for like a month. school has been kickin my ass 🥲 anyway, i have been contemplating continuing this series and was so convinced i’d never write again. obviously i decided against that! this chapter really started pickin up the pace and WHAT ABOUT IT. please go easy on me i understand this is awfully written, but keep in mind i haven’t actually wrote anything since early january. lemme know how y’all feel about this chapter, maybe even share ur live reactions? i would love that! enjoy and happy munch madness pookies

soaking up the high of an absolute blowout of a game, paige and azzi walk giddily to the blonde’s apartment, with paige leading the way. their giggles echo throughout the hallway matched with ear to ear grins. paige casually unlocks her apartment door, glances over her shoulder and pulls azzi into the open space by her jersey.

azzi lets out a louder laugh, her dimples popping out as she stumbles into the room. paige places both hands on either side of the brunette, keeping her stable and balanced.

“you played so good today,” paige tells her, locking eye contact.

azzi smiles, her cheeks flushed from both the game and their proximity. “you think so?” she teases, raising an eyebrow.

paige’s grin grows at her comment, her eyes softening as she leans in, pressing her lips gently to azzi’s cheek. she moves her hand to cup the back of her head, holding her closer. the contact is light but warm, only causing azzi to flush more.

“yeah,” paige whispers, her voice lower, “you were incredible.”

azzi’s grip on paige’s shirt unknowingly tightens, her body mere inches away from the blonde’s. she ducks her head, suddenly shy.

paige steps backward, dragging azzi with her until they’re both seated on her bed— close enough that their thighs are full on touching. paige’s hand never leaves azzi’s frame.

azzi opens her mouth, eyes searching paige’s face. after a moment of hesitation, she closes it, unsure how to approach this topic.

paige notices— of course— and scrunches her eyebrows. “what’s wrong?”

“what, nothing,” azzi shakes her head, “i just need to tell you something.”

trying not to jump to conclusions, although she can feel her heart begin to race, she says, “okay.”

azzi loosens her grip on paige’s shirt, “someone asked me out on a date.”

definitely not what paige expected— worse, even. “a guy?”

azzi waits a moment before nodding, her lips creating a line.

paige feels a knot form in her stomach, the words hitting her harder than they should— as her best friend. she forces herself to remain calm, her eyes flicking to azzi’s face, searching for any sign of how she’s feeling about it. “what’d you say?”

azzi’s expression is unreadable as she glances away, almost ashamed in a way. “i said yes,” she whispers, “his name’s tyler, he’s pretty nice.”

paige nods, plastering a soft smile on her face regardless of her disappointment. “that’s great, azzi. really. i’m happy for you,” she says, though her voice doesn’t quite match the enthusiasm she’s attempting to project.

azzi looks at her, clearly noticing a subtle shift in paige’s tone. she bites her lip, her gaze continuing to flick between her friend’s face and the floor. “thank you, p,” she mumbles.

silent for a minute, paige clears her throat, “‘course, az,” her voice is gentle. she shifts slightly on the bed, creating a small distance between her and the brunette.

“i think you’d like him,” azzi speaks up, “he’s really sweet. good looking, too,” she exhales a weak laugh.

paige only hums in response, looking down. “maybe,” she agrees, “if you’re happy, that’s all i care about. i just want you happy.”

azzi’s heart swells in her chest at the sincerity behind paige’s words. god. she scoots closer, their thighs brushing against each others once again. the brunette leans in, connecting her full lips to the area below paige’s ear, staying there a second longer then she should.

a pleased sigh escapes paige’s lips, her body tensing from the unexpected closeness.

“love you, p,” azzi mutters, quiet enough that paige is unsure if she said it at all.

instead of responding, paige turns toward azzi, offers a kind smile and stands. “alright, come on,” she holds her hands out for the younger girl; when their hands meet, she tugs her up into a standing position. “let’s get showered and then we can grab some food. sound good?”

azzi nods, already thinking of the food she’s been craving. she feels paige squeeze her hands before dropping them, turning away to find some comfortable clothes.

going through the motions, paige cannot help but feel a sense of unease settle in her chest. it’s not a full blown feeling, but more of a quiet, nagging discomfort she can’t quite shake. azzi has a date. azzi. her best friend. her azzi— going on a date with someone that’s not her.

she shallows dryly, making primal effort to shut these feelings down. it fails, to say the least. her mind continues to wonder back to azzi’s words, almost in a haunting manner. someone asked me out on a date. fuck.

after paige and azzi had dinner, enjoying each others company and having unnecessarily long conversations, azzi heads off to her room she shares with caroline.

paige brushes a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear and sighs, her mind racing with the way azzi had smiled at her and her soft giggles that make her stomach flutter for no reason at all. she takes a deep breath, suddenly deciding to pull out her phone and text nika.

p: i’m coming over

the walk is short before paige is standing at nika’s door, knocking lightly— she pushes the door, finding it open, entering without waiting for a response. nika looks up from where she’s sitting on the couch, scrolling on her phone.

“hey,” nika nods once, “what’s up?”

the blonde crosses her arms, trying to appear more casual than she really is. “azzi has a date,” her voice betrays her by cracking on the last word, the sudden tightness in her throat making it sound much weaker than intended.

nika raises her eyebrows, obviously shocked at paige’s statement. “a date? with who?”

paige shrugs, “a guy named tyler. i don’t know, she didn’t go into much detail— just said ‘he’s nice, i think you’d like him,’” she scoffs softly, her voice growing quiet, “like i could ever fucking like someone who’s after azzi.”

nika knowingly smirks, playing with the tips of her brown hair. “why not? i thought you said she’s your best friend— nothing more. what happened to that?” she tilts her head, teasing her friend.

paige’s cheeks flush, her gaze dropping to the floor. “cmon, nik,” she mutters, leaning her head against the wall, “i don’t know— it’s complicated, okay? i mean, she is my best friend. but sometimes, it’s just more than that. i hate it.” (she loves it.)

the croatian’s expression softens, feeling paige’s frustration radiating off her. she sets her phone down, leaning forward slightly. “you know, it’s okay to admit it, p. everyone can see how much you feel for her.”

a shaky breath escapes the blonde’s lips, her eyes shutting for a second. “fuck,” she mumbles, embarrassment washing over her features. “is it really that obvious?”

nika smiles, her voice gentle. “yeah, it is, but that’s not a bad thing, paige. it just means you’re human— you’re allowed to feel this way.” she pauses, letting the words settle for a moment. “you don’t have to figure everything out all at once, take your time. but i’m always here whenever you need me, you know that, right?”

paige walks towards nika, taking a seat next to her on the couch. she squeezes her friend’s hand, conveying her appreciation. “thank you, nik.”

“always,” nika nods, “and if it makes you feel any better about this whole date thing, azzi hasn’t mentioned him to any of us. if she likes him so much, don’t you think she’d at least tell caroline?” she raises an eyebrow, eyes widening slightly.

paige tilts her head in thought, “caroline doesn’t even know?”

“not that i’m aware of,” nika replies, “so i’m sure she doesn’t like him too much. plus, i’ve seen the way she looks at you. you can’t fake that, lemme tell ya.”

paige meets her friend’s eyes. “what way?” she asks, her voice curious.

the corners of nika’s lips curve into a grin, “like you hung the goddamn moon. she loves you, p.”

paige exhales quietly, her gaze dropping. “she wouldn’t go on a date with someone else if she loved me,” she suddenly rises from her seated position, heading for the door. “thanks, nika. i’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

the croatian nods once, understanding that paige needs to be alone right now. “see you, paige.”

with a final glance over her shoulder, paige offers a small, appreciative smile before stepping out and into the hallway.

the walk back to her room is silent, but her mind continues to drift back to azzi— her best friend, the one she trusts and loves most, and now, the one with a date.

why can’t azzi see it? why can’t azzi see her? she’s willing to do anything for her, yet here she is, going out with someone else. a guy, to make matters worse. paige would fucking climb mount everest in the dead of winter, down, and up again, just for azzi. all for her.

flopping onto her messy bed, she stuffs her face into a pillow— she screams.

you could hear the obnoxious chants and cheers of the gampel pavilion all the way in the locker room, where the uconn women’s basketball team prepares for their game. the excitement outside was palpable, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation.

paige leans against her locker, eyes scanning her teammates who were also getting ready until they found a set of very familiar brown eyes. azzi only offers a half smile which paige doesn’t return.

the two haven’t spoken— besides easygoing conversations during practices— in a few days, ever since azzi left paige’s room after mentioning her date. they haven’t even texted, which they’ve done everyday since meeting during USA basketball all those years ago. it’s unusual— azzi hates it.

the brunette breaks eye contact, looking down to tie her shoes. her pulse is steady, yet her thoughts are pure chaos. why wasn’t paige talking to her? did she say something to upset her?

a loud cheer from the stands outside broke her from the over consuming thoughts. azzi glances up only to find paige’s eyes still dead set on her, unwavering. the sophomore didn’t look away. she couldn’t.

without breaking eye contact, paige slowly tugs her shirt off, revealing her toned stomach and her, only in a sports bra. the motion was deliberate, controlled, almost in a teasing manner. azzi’s cheeks flush, her gaze flicking down to her chest, then back up to paige’s face.

paige, making sure to keep her eyes on azzi’s, slips on her jersey, then her warm up shirt over top. she makes it a point to move slow, liking azzi’s gaze on her— liking it even more when that gaze lowers.

paige was enjoying this— enjoying how azzi’s eyes that she loved so much seemed to follow her every movement. even when paige finished dressing, azzi’s eyes momentarily fell again, soaking in the sight of paige.

quickly, however, paige straightens, her focus shifting entirely. she tied her shoelaces and was out of the locker room before anyone else, leaving azzi behind, and speechless.

this is going to be a long game.

driving towards the basket, the sound of the ball bouncing on the floor floods paige’s ears.

she throws it up, getting hit on the arm. the whistle blows instantly as the ball swooshes through the net.

“yeah p!” kk yells, holding her hand out for a high five.

the players on the floor huddle paige, who continues to gather her breath. azzi hesitates to take the place next to paige, but nods in her direction regardless. “nice shot,” she tells her, her voice light.

paige exhales before placing a hand on azzi’s lower back, just above her waistband. it’s a gesture she uses with all their teammates, yet it speeds up the pace of azzi’s heart nonetheless.

paige easily makes the free throw, and the game resumes to their usual quick momentum. azzi makes most of her shots, only missing two off of bad passes while paige collects 23 points off midrange jumpers and driving layups. the two get pulled out during the fourth quarter, both out of breath but satisfied with their game tonight.

“you played well,” paige notes, nodding once at the younger girl.

azzi— still flustered at their little moment in the locker room— glances at paige, cheeks turning a light shade of red at the compliment. “thanks. you did, too,” she responds, choosing her words carefully.

paige’s gaze lingers on azzi for a beat too long, taking in her features that are coated in sweat— yet she manages to still look good.

the two watch the game in silence, not bothering to continue their conversation. they focus on the players that usually don’t play, hyping them up and cheering whenever their shot falls. it isn’t until azzi decides she’s had enough that she speaks up.

“are you mad at me?” she asks, making sure to keep her tone causal and calm. she doesn’t want to upset paige further by raising her voice.

paige scrunches her eyebrows, clearly caught off guard at her sudden question. “what, no? what makes you think that?”

azzi offers her a half shoulder shrug, “i don’t know. we haven’t talked lately; it makes me think i did something to upset you.”

“az,” paige mumbles, feeling guilty over their lack of communication over the course of the last few days. “i promise, i’m not mad. i could never be mad at you.”

with that, she scoots her leg closer, thigh coming in contact with azzi’s. she doesn’t bother meeting her eyes— although she can practically feel her staring, the silence thick between them.

azzi takes it a step further by resting her arm around paige’s chair, her fingers beginning to play with the tips of her blonde hair.

paige’s tenses, but relaxes almost as quickly, unable to ignore the warmth blooming in her chest. she tries to keep her focus on the game, but it’s difficult to ignore the way azzi lightly tugs at her hair, the soft pressure somewhat comforting.

the game winds down with the team leading by double digits. the final buzzer goes off— the team lines up, high fiving the opposing team and offering the usual “good games.”

on their way back to the locker room, after spending a couple minutes with fans and the media, paige finds herself only a couple feet behind azzi. she quickens her pace, jogging up to her best friend and throwing an arm around her shoulders.

azzi stumbles forward a little at the unexpected weight hitting her. she laughs, not hesitating to wrap her own arm loosely around paige’s waist, her fingers gripping the jersey ever so slightly.

“hi,” paige giggles, a smile clouding her serious expression that was once there.

“hey,” azzi says, her eyes immediately finding paige’s.

“wanna go to mine?”

azzi unintentionally bites her lip, nodding rapidly. paige laughs at azzi’s eager reaction and squeezes her shoulder gently.

the two make their way back to the locker room, never breaking contact. they slowly pack their bag, stuffing their shoes in along with other gear they brought.

kk nudges azzi, catching her off guard, “az, you see the coach’s face when you hit that three right in front of him?” she laughs, recalling the memory. “that’s cinematic, if you ask me.”

“i would’ve quit coaching if i were him,” ice points out, joining in on the laughter.

azzi quietly chuckles, although she’s missed the opportunity to look at his face, like they were saying.

paige, looking proud as hell, wraps her arm around her shoulder like she had before, holding her closer this time. “aren’t you guys glad i got her to come here?”

“oh please,” azzi tilts her head towards the sophomore, “i didn’t come here just for you.”

paige quirks an eyebrow, barely holding back a laugh, “okay, az, sure.”

“i didn’t, asshole!” azzi exclaims, half serious, half sarcastic. she shoves paige by the arm.

paige steps back, “mhm,” she hums, continuing to tease her.

but azzi just rolls her eyes, deciding not to entertain paige. she finishes her bag and throws it on her back before walking out and into the hallway, with paige on her trail— like usual.

she cannot help but hear paige’s annoying giggles coming from behind her. she turns her head mid walk, throwing paige a swift glare, only causing more chuckles out of her.

their walk to paige’s dorm isn’t long, but enough to make azzi throw herself on the older girl’s bed, groaning as she lays face first into the soft comforter. after a moment of silence, she turns on her side, letting out a little sigh.

paige watches her, blue eyes roaming the length of azzi’s body all laid out on her bed. she tosses her bag to the corner of the room before walking towards azzi, laying besides her, on her back.

azzi licks her lips. fuck, did she look good.

“i missed this,” paige breaks the comfortable silence while adjusting her position, now facing azzi.

“missed what?”

“us hanging out like this— talking. just me and you,” she explains, quietly. “i missed you.”

azzi, nervous all of a sudden, smirks, “wow, you’re dramatic. it was only a couple of days.”

azzi’s words hang in the air. paige’s expression shifts from soft to irritated at azzi’s response. she pulls herself up into a sitting position on the edge of her bed, her face scrunched in annoyance. “okay, forget it then.” she crosses her arms, her tone sharper than it once was. she adds, “sorry for missing my best friend, i guess.”

azzi follows paige’s movement and sits up as well, scooting a tad closer. although her tiny smirk still remains, she can tell paige is actually a little frustrated. “i was only messing around, p,” she says, “i missed you too. i miss you after not talking for a hour. i always miss you.” she reaches out, squeezing paige’s hand in hers.

azzi rests her other hand against paige’s neck and jaw area, and not giving paige a chance to reply, the younger girl leans in, pressing a featherlike kiss to the side of her head. the another— delicate, slow— on her cheekbone.

azzi leaves a trail of wet kisses down paige’s face, continuing down her neck like she’s done so many times before. she adjusts her hand— that’s still in paige’s— to rest on the blonde’s stomach, feeling her abs under her shirt.

a sigh of pleasure escapes paige, her eyelids fluttering shut. azzi’s fingertips tease the bottom of paige’s shirt, traveling slightly in, grazing her bare stomach.

“azzi,” paige whispers.

azzi hums against her skin, never disconnecting her mouth from paige’s flesh.

without another word, the older girl shifts completely, moving her body to face azzi once again. azzi— not expecting the quick movement— jerks back, but paige is fast to react, grabbing her nape and pulling her in. their lips meet and paige knows. knows this is exactly where she’s supposed to be, forever. with azzi, touching azzi, kissing azzi.

azzi can’t help but kiss her back, desperate and sloppy. they’ve kissed before, but this time around feels different. maybe it’s the intensity, the buildup— or perhaps it’s paige’s murmured words, barely audible for her to hear.

“fuck, az,” paige mumbles between kisses, “you feel so good.”

paige focuses on the sensitive spot on azzi’s jaw, sucking as her hands find themselves underneath her shirt, on her bare hips. azzi groans in pleasure, her head tilting back, granting paige better access.

the minute paige removes her lips from azzi’s jaw, the brunette is quick to remove her own shirt, throwing it off to the side. she’s left in only a sports bra— paige’s eyes widen, her cheeks redden.

paige doesn’t wait any time attacking azzi with another messy kiss, this time incorporating her tongue, swiping it over her bottom lip. her hands explore azzi’s body, fingers tickling her skin.

“you’re so goddamn beautiful,” paige murmurs, “my god.”

azzi falls back on the bed, dragging paige with her. “you’re beautiful,” she whispers against her lips.

the heat between them intensifies. their pace picks up as they begin removing each article of clothing, starting with paige’s shirt, exposing her toned muscles. next comes azzi’s sports bra, leaving her in nothing but her basketball shorts.

paige’s mouth wanders, sucking and kissing her way down azzi’s laid out body— all for her. she doesn’t stop until azzi’s nipple is fully against her lips, dark and peaked.

“jesus, baby,” paige mutters. her hand sneaks down to azzi’s waistband, ready and waiting patiently (impatiently) to yank it down.

the use of the nickname makes azzi shutter undoubtedly. this is everything, she thinks. paige is everything.

encouraged by the little sounds azzi makes, paige gently tugs at her shorts, as if to ask for permission. when she receives a frantic nod in response, she slowly pulls them off her, taking her panties too before tossing both into an unknown corner of her room.

her eyes revert back to azzi’s body, laid out completely bare on her bed. for her. jesus, paige could almost cry from happiness— she’s wanted this for so long, it’s hard to remember a time where she didn’t.

she leans forward yet again, pressing a closed mouth kiss to azzi’s now swollen lips. “i love you,” paige whispers so faintly azzi wonders if she imagined it, “i swear to god, i love you. so much.”

azzi stills. was it just sex talk, or did she actually love her? she genuinely couldn’t tell— but she wasn’t about to question it now.

(paige means it, though. from the depths of her soul— with everything in her, she means it. if this isn’t love, than what is?)

azzi allows paige to continue her trail of wet kisses down the length of her frame, licking and leaving marks that’ll appear tomorrow. when she reaches her glistening clit, paige glances up. “ima make you feel good, okay?”

azzi meets her gaze. “okay.”

and she does.

they don’t talk about it much after it happens. they choose to go back to pretending as if nothing had happened— like they didn’t completely come apart for one another, kiss every inch of each other’s bodies.

the two continue their normal routine, eating breakfast with the team, having the usual conversations. they share minimal words, hardly ever looking one another in the eye.

caroline notices, of course. she pulls azzi aside during practice while the others work on their personal drills. “az, what’s up with you and paige?”

azzi tenses at her name. “huh? nothing— what makes you think that?”

caroline raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “you two have been avoiding each other all day— not even looking when the other passes by. did something… happen?”

azzi holds her breath, knowing she can never lie to caroline. she adverts her gaze to the opposite side of the gym, where paige is practicing with kk and ice. her heartbeat intensifies, recalling the memories from the following night. her delicate tough, her teasing tongue, her soft lips. her everything.

“no need to say anything, i think i already know,” carol smirks, eyeing both paige and azzi.

azzi instantly feels heat rush up her neck, reaching her cheeks. she decides to play it as cool as she can, “nothing happened between me and her,” she replies, hoping and praying her voice remains stable, “in fact, i have a date tonight.”

caroline’s jaw drops the littlest amount, obviously not expecting her to say that. “a date? with who?”

“tyler— he’s in one of my classes. he’s cute. sweet,” she smiles.

“hm,” caroline hums. she doesn’t know what to make of this situation.

“what?” azzi questions her friend.

carol shakes her head, “nothing. i just didn’t know you dated.”

azzi shrugs, “not really— but it’s one date, it won’t hurt. i’m willing to give him a chance.”

“right,” caroline mumbles. “didn’t really expect it to be with him, though,” she adds, her voice quieter than before.

“then with who?” she asks louder, her tone sharp.

caroline curls her lip, looking away as if the answer it obvious. “oh, maybe just with a certain blonde standing a few feet away from us,” she explains, “the one you label as your ‘best friend,’” she quotes with her fingers.

azzi’s jaw practically drops at the insinuation, her heart suddenly racing. she definitely didn’t expect carol to go there— especially with such a pointed, targeted tone. her face flushes with a mix of shock, disbelief, and something she can’t quite place, but it’s enough to make her stiffen.

eventually she sighs, not even going to argue with her friend. “whatever, carol,” she says, giving up. “you might think you have everything figured out, but i can assure you, you don’t.”

caroline holds up her hands in surrender, shrugging her shoulders in the process.

what does she know, azzi thinks. she doesn’t know anything about them— none of them do.

azzi exhales, rubbing her hand on her forehead. she decides to switch the topic away from paige, “anyway, can you please help me pick an outfit for tonight? you know how indecisive i am.”

she laughs, her expression softening a bit. “‘course az, that’s what i’m here for.”

azzi smiles, thankful she dropped the previous subject. her and carol begin discussing potential outfit ideas as they continue practicing. however, her mind can’t help but wonder back to the blonde across the room— the one who’s gaze keeps flicking to her every now and then. how does paige feel about the date? does she care? azzi cuts off those thoughts, trying to focus on wrapping up practice and then when the time comes, tonight.

while applying light makeup to her face, azzi hears a gentle knock on her dorm door. she figures it her roommate, caroline, coming back from grabbing dinner, but when she turns the knob, paige is standing there, dressed in her pajamas.

paige stills at the sight of azzi. she’s in a tighter fitting, black shirt paired with light washed jeans. she has on her go-to heart necklace, along with silver hoops in her ears. the outfit highlights the curves of azzi’s body— paige knows she’s staring, yet she can’t seem to tear her eyes away.

“what’s up, p?” azzi offers a kind, small smile in her direction, moving aside to let paige in her room.

paige strolls in acting like she owns the place. she allows herself to look azzi up and down once more, silently admiring her utter beauty.

“hey,” paige says finally, eyes finding azzi’s as she sits on the edge of her bed.

a moment of awkward silence passes until the brunette speaks up, “did you… need something?”

“nah, just bored,” paige shrugs, “i forget you had a— y’know, date.”

azzi’s eyebrows quirk upwards, not entirely surprised at paige’s forgetfulness. “yeah, i’m leaving in a few minutes, actually.”

“oh,” paige mumbles. she shallows. “okay, well, i should get going then.”

she stands, making an effort to move for the door, but azzi stops her with a hand gripping her arm. she turns, facing the younger girl.

“wait,” azzi breaths. her eyes scan paige’s face, “you sure you’re good?”

paige’s lips curve into a soft smile, making her best effort to mask her disappointment. “yeah, az, i’m good.”

azzi nods, “okay, just making sure.”

before thinking it through, paige steps closer and reaches out, playing with a few curls on her head. azzi freezes and suddenly becomes acutely aware of her grip on paige’s arm, still lingering on her warm skin.

“have fun on your date,” paige smirks, watching her closely— a little too closely. “you look stunning, az.” (if he doesn’t take you home, i will, she wants to add, but doesn’t for obvious reasons.)

azzi’s heart flutters in her chest at her words. paige always knew how to make azzi absolutely crumble. “thank you,” she whispers, her gaze unintentionally flicking to her lips.

with one good last look at azzi, paige turns and exits her dorm without another word passed between them. she said all she should, and that was enough.

tyler was, in fact, pretty sweet— and definitely not unpleasant to look at. azzi rests her face in her hand, eyes solely focused on the man in front of her.

he laughs at something she said, his smile warm and genuine, and for a moment, azzi wonders if she’s actually enjoying herself. maybe this would be good for her, being with someone like him. she wasn’t necessarily disgusted at the idea.

his laughter calms and eventually, he flips the subject, asking her questions about herself. “so, you play for the women’s basketball team, right?”

“yep,” azzi nods, her smile lingering.

“how’s the season going? i haven’t been able to catch a game yet.”

he actually seemed interested. “so far so good. i personally think i could work on some things, but overall, pretty good.”

“that’s good to hear,” he nods as he takes a sip of his drink of choice— a classic coca cola.

“what about you? what types of things are you interested in?” azzi questions, tilting her head in her hands.

“well, i’m really into photography…” he goes on, but azzi’s mind drifts once she feels a faint buzz against her leg. a text message.

she sneakily glances down, noticing it’s from, of course, paige. who else? she takes a better look, finally reading the message itself.

p: u forget ur bra in my room

azzi’s breath hitches in her throat. tyler continues talking, oblivious to azzi’s shift in focus. but azzi can hardly concentrate on his words now. she stares at her phone, the text from paige blinking back at her— almost taunting, in a way.

she immediately feels a flush creeping up her neck she tries, and fails, to compose herself. fuck. now, of all times, paige decides to bring it up?

making the quick decision to ignore paige’s text, azzi clears her throat. “sorry… my mom texted,” she says, offering a tight-lipped smile.

“no worries. everything alright?” he grins back, not aware her unease.

“everything’s perfect,” she replies, leaning in to sip her water.

the two revert their conversation into talking about their hobbies, interests, personal goals for the future. azzi shares how she plans to reach the wnba level, while tyler explains his hopes of becoming a sports journalist, where he can continue his passion for photography there.

mid laugh, azzi feels another buzz coming from her phone. she flips it to see another message from the persistent blonde.

p: u just gonna leave me on read? answer ur damn phone azzi

azzi, growing more and more aggravated, excuses herself from the table and heads in the direction of the bathroom. once she’s in a free stall, her fingers work away at the tiny keyboard.

a: r u serious right now? wtf

p: wdym

a: u know damn well what i mean. why r u texting me that while i’m out with someone else?

azzi lets out a deep breath, trying to keep her anger in check. of course paige would do this to her— it’s paige.

paige takes a little longer to reply than before. but when the message comes, it’s short and sweet, yet still has the ability to make azzi’s heart stop.

p: i miss u

goddammit. paige always does this, azzi really shouldn’t be surprised. she cannot help but feel bad for accepting this date. she shuts that thought down instantly— she deserves a chance at a relationship. she deserves this.

instead of replying with her typical “i miss you too,” azzi shuts off her phone, leaving her on read.

she walks out of the stall, applies a fresh coat of lip gloss in the bathroom mirror and heads back to their booth, more in control than she was when she left. she refuses to acknowledge paige’s snarky text tonight. tonight is about her getting to know tyler, getting a feel for him— giving him the chance he deserves.

by the end of the date, she does just that. she learns tyler is genuine, thoughtful, surprisingly funny as well as an overall good person. they exchange phone numbers and already start talking about a second date in the near future.

azzi even works up the courage to kiss him gently on the cheek when saying their goodbyes— she thanks him for the good night together before flashing him a smile, dimples and everything, and walking away feeling good about the outcome of this date. she really hadn’t expected it to go this well, but is grateful it did. although, paige still lingers in the back of her mind which she tries her best to ignore. this day was about her and tyler. not paige.

the following day, the uconn women’s basketball team had another game in the gampel pavilion. the fans were loud, the atmosphere was intoxicating, the players in blue were absolutely dominating the opposing team— like usual, when it came to the big east.

paige and azzi continued to remain on the outs, barely making any conversation, if any at all. their usual chemistry seemed distant, and the tension was evident whenever they shared the same space. the team noticed but, for the most part, chose to keep their distance, focusing on the game instead.

the game ended as fast as it started, with uconn winning by 46 points. azzi collected 20 of her own, while paige had a solid 24. their automatic passes to one another was off tonight— that is, whenever they’d actually pass the ball to the other. it wasn’t necessarily intentional, paige thought. it seemed to happen naturally.

after the team had showered and changed into comfortable clothes, they found themselves at ted’s, drinks already in hands.

azzi leans against caroline, planted in the corner of the room. she swirls her dirty shirley temple— paige got her hooked— with her straw, looking at the liquid move in the glass. she glances up in attempts to locate the blonde, to which she finds another familiar face: tyler. they lock eyes and smile at the other. when he makes an effort to walk over to where azzi sits, caroline notices and stands.

“you have fun,” carol says, walking away before she finds herself in an awkward position.

azzi laughs. she takes another quick swig of the drink, feeling it go down her throat. she bites her lip, anticipating tyler’s approach.

“hey azzi,” tyler greets her, a kind smile on his face. “long time no see.”

she giggles, “it feels like forever,” she drags out the word, in a sarcastic tone. “how are you?”

“pretty good, yeah,” he nods. “how bout yourself? how’d the game go?”

“i’m good, thanks for asking,” she replies, her voice soft. “wait, you knew we had a game today? i thought you didn’t keep up with basketball.”

tyler exhales a weak breath, feeling almost embarrassed. “i typically don’t… but you’re on the team, so i figured i should probably start.”

azzi raises an eyebrow, a grin playing at the corners of her lips. “that’s sweet of you,” she points out, her voice quieter.

their conversation continues, discussing the game in depth and the little mistakes azzi wished she could’ve perfected. she finds herself laughing more than she expects; tyler’s easygoing nature makes it difficult not to, and suddenly she feels a little more at ease than she had earlier in the night.

“maybe i should go to a game soon,” tyler brings up.

azzi’s face reddens the tiniest amount, “yeah, maybe you should—“

mid sentence, azzi feels a body collide with hers, causing her to stumble to the side a little— basically right into tyler. he holds out his hands, stabling azzi after nearly falling.

“oh my gosh, i’m so sorry,” a voice says, genuine and sincere. azzi knows that voice.

her gaze immediately find paige’s blue ones, who’s already looking her dead in the eye. paige’s line of sight flickers between azzi, to tyler, to his hand on her arm.

“oh, hi paige,” azzi speaks, her voice crackling a bit. she removes her grip from tyler’s touch, not wanting paige to see.

“az,” paige whispers, flustered and wide-eyed.

staring at the blonde in front of her, she finally pulls herself out of her trance and shallows. she looks at tyler, then back to paige. “this is tyler,” she introduces him.

“hi, nice to meet you,” tyler nods in her direction.

“hey.”

azzi clears her throat, “tyler, this is paige,” she begins before adding, “she’s my best friend.”

paige locks gazes with azzi as soon as her words tumble out of her mouth. “is that what we are?”

the words hang in the air, and everything seems to slow for a beat. azzi’s pulse quickens, her cheeks bright red at this point. azzi feels a knot in her stomach as she stares blankly at the sophomore.

azzi opens her mouth, yet nothing comes out. she shakes her head, in absolute disbelief at paige’s comment.

paige’s lips curl into a line. she hums at azzi’s response— her silence speaking for itself. she eyes tyler once more before shifting her gaze back to azzi, raising her eyebrows.

without another word being passed between them, paige turns on her heels and walk away, leaving azzi there, motionless. she takes off straight for the bathroom, setting her drink down on an open table in the process.

azzi watches as paige’s retreating figure vanishes around the corner, the sound of her footsteps fading into the background. she stands there, still frozen, the tension thick in the air. tyler, who’s been silent throughout their interaction, finally speaks.

“that was… intense,” he says, his voice a bit hesitant. “is there something going on between you guys?”

azzi shallows hard, her mind racing. “um,” she murmers, unable to look him in the eye. “maybe— i’m not really sure, to be honest.”

tyler gives her a sympathetic look, “maybe you should go after her. talk it out.”

azzi nods, finally snapping out of her daze. “yeah, probably. thanks, tyler, i’ll see ya.”

without waiting for another word, she walks briskly towards the bathroom, following the blonde’s trail. she pushes out the heavy door and steps inside, adjusting her eyes to the bright light. not immediately spotting paige, she raises her voice.

“paige?”

azzi’s voice echoes off the bathroom walls, but there’s no quick response. she steps further in, her heart pounding harder, nerves tightening in her chest. luckily the bathroom is empty, besides the closed stall at the very end. azzi brings her knuckles to the door, knocking gently.

“paige, please open the door.”

and she does— paige is standing there, shoulders shaking, eyes full of fresh tears. fuck.

“what?” paige asks, barely loud enough to be heard. her voice cracks and azzi swears her heart does too.

azzi doesn’t hesitate to lunge forward, pulling paige into her warm embrace. she wraps her arms around her waist, their bodies fully flush against the others.

paige stiffens but almost automatically relaxes against her body. she rests her head on azzi’s shoulder, with both hands tightly wrapped around her frame.

a few moments pass with nothing but breathes being exchanged. but the next words out of paige’s mouth makes azzi heart swell. “i can’t stand the sight of you with someone else, azzi,” she whispers in azzi’s ear. “i try to be as supportive as possible, for your sake— but i can’t anymore.”

“paige…” azzi pulls back, keeping her hands resting on the blonde’s hips.

paige wears a sad smile. she brushes loose curls out of azzi’s face, her fingers playing with the tips of them. she leans forward, placing a delicate, slow kiss on the side of her face. then another, in the same spot.

azzi’s breath catches in her throat as paige’s lips touch her skin. the contact is gentle, almost hesitant, but also warm and comforting in a way.

paige steps back, out of azzi’s grip. her eyes lower to the floor as she takes a shaky breath. she wipes her eyes quickly, trying to regain composure. “i’m heading back. i’ll see you tomorrow.”

she turns towards the door, her steps slow but purposeful. she hesitates for a second just before she exits, glancing back at azzi one more time. “have a nice night, az,” she says quietly, taking off.

she doesn’t.

[himageko]

this one hit a really really strong chord with me. you have this happen to you as a kid and the moment you realise what was actually happening it recontextualises Absolutely Everything. i’m still trying to work through it, and it’s horrid having grown up and still being horribly insecure after every conversation and every phone call and every message, just thinking ‘do they actually like me. did they leave because i did something wrong. do they want to keep hanging out. was this pity. do they really want to hang out with me.’

it makes absolutely every single social interaction /exhausting/, and no matter how hard i’ve been working to get past it, it lingers.

every piece of ""autistic representation"" in hollywood sucks not just because of the infantalization and inspiration porn but because movie executives always fail to realize the real universal autistic experience: spending your childhood slowly and unfalteringly realizing all of your friends not so secretly hated and/or merely tolerated you at best and you've missed every social signal about it ever

[gf2bellamy]

Hiiii! I love your fics! How does your brain work is one mystery! I have a request - you know how in 1.17 A Real Rain where they had a case in NYC and Reid says his he has never been there and how in the ep he doesn't know how to use chopsticks, I was think a sunshine!bau!reader x spencer!reid where she gives him a tour around the city and teachers him how to use chopsticks. They can have an established relationship or friends in love or anything, up to you! Thank you Anna love you lotsss!!!

tour — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , they eat lots of food , its honestly just pure fluff a/n: i had so much fun writing this but pls keep in mind that i've never been to new york so if i got something wrong i'm vv sorry ! <3

“Okay, time to start the tour!” you announced, clapping your hands together as you and Spencer stepped out of the hotel lobby and into the crisp morning air of New York City.

Spencer adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, his eyes wide as he took in the towering skyline. You couldn’t help but grin at the way his head tilted back slightly.

 God, he’s adorable. 

“You’ve really never been to New York before?” you asked, nudging his shoulder with yours. 

He blinked, shaking his head. “I’ve read about it. Does that count?” 

“Absolutely not,” you declared, grabbing his hand and lacing your fingers through his. “Reading about New York and experiencing New York are two entirely different things. And lucky for you, you’ve got the best tour guide in the city.” 

Spencer smiled down at you, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Where are we starting?” 

You squeezed his hand and tugged him forward, weaving effortlessly through the crowd. “With the classics,” you said, your voice bubbling with excitement. 

Spencer let you lead, his long legs easily keeping pace with your eager strides. He watched the way your eyes lit up as you pointed out little details—the faded graffiti on a brick wall, the smell of fresh pretzels from a street vendor. 

“First stop,” you announced, stopping in front of a small, unassuming bagel shop tucked between a deli and a thrift store. The scent of freshly baked dough and roasted coffee beans spilled out onto the sidewalk, and Spencer inhaled deeply, his stomach giving a quiet growl. 

“We’re starting with a classic New York bagel,” you said, grinning up at him. “And—” you leaned in conspiratorially, “—they have amazing coffee. Trust me.” 

Spencer’s lips quirked. “I do trust you,” he said softly. “But statistically, New Yorkers overestimate the quality of their coffee by at least—” 

You pressed a finger to his lips, cutting him off. “Hush, Dr. Reid. Just let me prove you wrong.” 

He laughed, the sound warm, and you felt your chest swell with affection. 

Inside, the shop was cozy and crowded. You ordered for both of you—an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese for him, a cinnamon raisin with honey walnut for yourself—and two large coffees.

“You remembered how I take my coffee,” he noted, accepting the cup from you. 

You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’ve seen you drink approximately three hundred cups of coffee in the time I’ve known you. It’s not exactly a hard pattern to recognize.” 

He smirked. “Fair point.” 

You found a tiny table by the window, your knees bumping against his under the cramped space. Spencer took a careful bite of his bagel, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. 

“Okay,” he admitted after swallowing. “This is significantly better than airport bagels.” 

You grinned triumphantly. “Told you.” 

He took another bite, humming in approval. “The texture is perfect—chewy but not dense, with just the right amount of—” 

You reached over, swiping a dollop of cream cheese from the corner of his mouth with your thumb before he could finish his analysis. Spencer froze, his cheeks flushing slightly. 

“You had a little something,” you teased. 

He cleared his throat. “Right. Thanks.” 

You sipped your latte, watching him over the rim of your cup. “So,” you said, tapping your fingers against the table. “After this, I thought we would check out a bookstore, its right around the corner and its perfect for you trust me.”

The moment you mentioned a bookstore, Spencer's entire demeanor shifted. His hazel eyes lit up, and he practically inhaled the last bite of his bagel in his haste.You couldn't help but giggle at the way he nearly choked in his enthusiasm, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk as he tried to chew and declare "I'm ready!" simultaneously. 

"Easy there, speed reader," you laughed, standing and offering your hand. He took it eagerly, his long fingers wrapping around yours.

The walk to the bookstore was challenging.

Spencer kept surging ahead like an overeager puppy, his natural long strides carrying him three steps forward before you'd have to gently tug him back toward the correct crosswalk or sidewalk. 

"You're worse than a kid on Christmas morning," you teased as you finally reached the store with its hand-painted sign.

Then Spencer saw the shelves. 

His mouth fell open in pure wonder, his grip slackening in yours as he took in the towering bookcases that seemed to go on forever, the stacks of novels teetering on every available surface.

You didn't need to look at him to know what he was thinking - you could feel the excited energy radiating off him.

"Go on," you murmured, squeezing his hand once before releasing it. 

Spencer didn't need telling twice. He pressed a quick, grateful kiss to your cheek that left your skin tingling, then disappeared into the literary maze.

You wandered through the bookstore, trailing your fingers along spines.

Nearly 30 minutes later, you turned a corner to find Spencer balancing a stack of books in his arms, his hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it in excitement. The sight made your heart squeeze affectionately. 

"They have the most amazing first editions," he breathed, his voice hushed. His hazel eyes practically glowed in the dim light. "This 1937 printing of 'The Hobbit' has the original color plates, and this copy of 'Frankenstein' is from 1823, and-" 

His words tumbled out in an excited rush, hands carefully shifting to show you each treasure. You watched, utterly enchanted, as he explained the significance of each book.

"Should I ask how much all these are going to cost us?" you asked, raising an eyebrow playfully. 

Spencer's excited ramble stuttered to a halt. He blinked down at his armful of books, then back at you, suddenly looking adorably guilty. "...I might have gotten carried away." 

You reached up to smooth a wayward curl behind his ear, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. "Good thing I love seeing you happy," you murmured. 

The soft, grateful smile he gave you was worth every penny those first editions would cost. 

The afternoon sun cast long shadows as you emerged from the bookstore, Spencer practically glowing with happiness, his arms full with three bulging bags.

 "Time for one of NYC's most famous places," you announced, slipping your hand around his bicep since his fingers were too occupied with book bags to hold yours. You'd offered to swing by the hotel first to drop off his purchases, but he'd refused - as if parting with his new books for even a moment might make them disappear. 

 Spencer tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "Yes?" 

You grinned, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "Times Square. The crossroads of the world." 

His face immediately lit up with recognition, and before you could take another step, he launched into an animated explanation: "Did you know Times Square was originally called Longacre Square until 1904 when the New York Times moved their headquarters there? And the first electrified advertisement appeared in—" 

You listened with fond amusement as his words tumbled out in that rapid-fire way they did when he was excited.

As you rounded the corner, Spencer's lecture cut off abruptly. His steps faltered as the full sensory overload of Times Square hit him - the neon lights, the towering digital billboards flashing advertisements and Broadway snippets. His eyes darted from one spectacle to another, his mind clearly working overtime to process it all. 

"Look at that," he murmured, nodding to a massive screen displaying a clip from a Broadway musical. "That staging technique is fascinating." 

"We can go see it if you want," you offered, already mentally calculating how to get tickets. 

But Spencer was already distracted by something new, his head tilting back to take in a skyscraper's animated LED facade. You let him absorb the moment, content to watch his wonderment. 

Then you spotted it - the iconic "I Love New York" store. 

"Oh my god," you gasped, tightening your grip on his arm. "We're buying you a mug." 

Spencer opened his mouth, likely to protest that he didn't need more souvenirs, but you were already steering him through the crowded sidewalk and into the store before he could form a coherent argument. 

The shop was a riot of red and white merchandise - t-shirts, keychains, snow globes, and of course, rows upon rows of mugs. You beelined for the display, immediately grabbing one with the classic logo in bold black letters. 

 "You need this," you declared, holding it up for his inspection. "Every genius needs a good coffee mug for all those late-night reading sessions." 

Spencer's protest died on his lips as he saw your enthusiastic expression. He sighed in mock resignation, but the way his eyes crinkled at the corners betrayed his amusement. "I suppose it would be terrible to visit New York and not get at least one cliché souvenir." 

You stood on your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "That's the spirit. Now help me find the cheesiest one they have - I think I saw a glitter version back there." 

As Spencer laughed and allowed himself to be pulled deeper into the store.

Once you bought multiple mugs , you wandered down quieter streets, your energy finally waning after hours of exploration. You leaned your cheek against Spencer's arm with a dramatic sigh.

"I'm hungry," you admitted, the words muffled slightly against his sleeve. 

Spencer looked down at you. The bags of books swung gently from his other hand as he adjusted his stance to better support your weight. "I'm sure you already have a place in mind," he said.

You pulled back just enough to grin up at him. "You know me so well." 

Without hesitation, you guided him toward a cozy little restaurant tucked between two taller buildings. The delicious aroma of soy sauce and ginger wafted through the open door. 

"We," you announced as you stepped inside, "are teaching you how to use chopsticks." 

Spencer opened his mouth—probably to protest that he could learn just fine from a book—but the hostess was already leading you to a corner table draped in soft yellow light.

Soon enough, you found yourself unable to contain your laughter as Spencer attempted to maneuver the chopsticks. His brow furrowed in intense concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips. The chopsticks slipped again, sending the food tumbling back onto his plate with a quiet plop. 

"You're enjoying this too much," he accused, though there was no real annoyance in his voice as he caught your poorly-hidden grin. "I thought you were going to help me," he added when the chopsticks clattered into the bowl of miso soup for the third time. 

"Sorry, sorry," you giggled, finally pushing back your chair, as you moved to sit beside him on the padded bench, your thigh pressing warmly against his. 

You reached over to rearrange his fingers, your skin brushing against his in a way that made his stomach flutter. "Like this," you murmured, guiding his grip with gentle pressure. "Thumb here, middle finger there... and you have to hold the bottom one completely still." 

Spencer's hands were warm beneath yours, his long fingers trembling slightly as he tried to follow your instructions. You could see the exact moment when it clicked for him—his eyes lighting up.

"Ah," he breathed as he successfully lifted a piece of cucumber roll. The triumph in his voice was utterly endearing. "It's all about the fulcrum point." 

You rested your chin in your hand, unable to wipe the smile from your face as you watched him carefully—proudly—eat his first successful bite.

"See?" you said softly. "I knew you could do it." 

Spencer bumped his knee against yours under the table, a silent thank you that spoke volumes. Then, he used his newly-acquired skill to place a piece of salmon directly onto your plate.

Two hours later, you collapsed onto the hotel bed with a groan as you threw an arm across your face. 

"I can't feel my feet," you mumbled into the crook of your elbow. 

Spencer carefully set down his precious book bags—their contents now safely deposited on the dresser—before joining you on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, causing you to slide toward him until your head naturally found its place in his lap. His fingers immediately carding through your hair.

"Me neither, to be honest," Spencer admitted with a quiet chuckle, his free hand already pulling out the first book from his bag.

You closed your eyes, letting the motion of Spencer's fingers in your hair lull you into relaxation.

"I got us tickets for that Broadway show you saw on the billboard," you murmured into the quiet. 

The pages stopped mid-turn. 

"What? How? When?" Spencer's voice held equal parts surprise and delight, his fingers pausing their movements in your hair. 

You cracked one eye open to see him looking down at you, his hazel eyes wide.

"When you were staring at that one picture in the Met Museum for like fifteen minutes," you said, a smug smile tugging at your lips. "The one with the fruit basket that you insisted had 'hidden symbolism.'" 

Spencer's mouth opened and closed several times before he managed, "That was Caravaggio's 'Basket of Fruit,' and the decaying—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Wait, no, that's not the point. You really got tickets?" 

You reached up to boop his nose, enjoying the way it scrunched in response. "Front row center. Tonight at eight." 

For a moment, Spencer just stared at you, his expression softening into something unbearably fond. Then, without warning, he bent down and kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. 

"You," he murmured against your hairline, "are incredible." 

You hummed contentedly, closing your eyes again as he returned to his book, though you could feel his fingers trembling slightly with excitement in your hair.

The Broadway show had been spectacular—more than you'd dreamed. His hand unconsciously reaching for yours in the dark when the romantic duet began. You'd laced your fingers together without thinking, his palm warm against yours.

Afterwards, you wandered back towards the hotel, ice cream cones dripping down your fingers while swinging bags of freshly baked cookies and still-warm donuts between you. Spencer kept bumping your shoulder every few steps—partly to avoid the jostling crowds, mostly because he wanted to be close to you. 

Back at the hotel room, you changed quickly—you into Spencer's favorite sweater (the one that swallowed you whole, the cuffs falling past your fingertips), him into worn cotton pajama pants that made him look unfairly cozy.

You settled onto the bed, tucking your legs beneath you, while Spencer leaned against the headboard, already halfway through a donut.

"This is perfect," he murmured around a mouthful, his voice thick with sugar and something soft. You nodded, your own cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk's with chocolate chip cookies.

"I hope you liked my tour," you finally managed after swallowing, grinning at him.

Spencer set his donut down —a telltale sign he was about to say something heartfelt. He reached forward, his fingers brushing a crumb from your cheek before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just a second too long. 

"I loved it." His thumb traced the curve of your ear absentmindedly. "Thank you." 

Then, quieter, his gaze dropping to where your fingers twisted in the sheets: "Do you think we can spend another day here?" Before you could answer, he rushed to add, "I'd like to go back to that bookstore," his ears flushing that adorable pink you loved. 

You tilted your head, unable to resist teasing. "Were the thirteen books you bought not enough?" 

Spencer hesitated, his nose scrunching in that way that made your stomach flip. "No?" he said, the word lifting at the end like a question, and you couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up.

"Of course we can stay," you grinned, nudging the cookie box aside before gently bumping your knee against his. His smile was worth every changed travel plan in the world. 

"Besides," you added, peeking up at him through your lashes, "I saw how you looked at that first edition Poe. We're not leaving until it's yours." 

Spencer's smile could have powered Times Square. 

[pretentious-blonde]

realisation

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: it’s a feeling he hasn’t touched in years—something selfish and dangerous and impossible to let go of

warnings: therapy, big big feelings from steve, migraines, anxiety

a/n: soft steve always has my heart <3

series masterlist

Steve never liked the quiet, that’s part of the reason he loved his job. The noise in his classroom was gentle, filled with curiosity—excitement. It was an odd definition of peace, but he never questioned it. Kids brought out something within him he thought was lost, he liked that about them.

That’s also why he never enjoyed going back to his own place. It was the kind of quiet that felt too suffocating. When he first signed the lease after leaving his parents' house, he thought the isolation would be a blessing—a sanctuary where it was just him, no drama, no outsiders.

No threats.

But as time went on and memories resurfaced, that same quiet began to feel heavy.

He found himself remembering what it was like when he first moved here, when progress was just beginning—because in a way, it was again.

Slashed, back to fucking zero.

He could no longer move forward. Couldn’t talk about it anymore—not in the way he needed to.

He couldn’t safely open up in his therapist’s office, couldn’t make you understand now, not really.

All he had left was Robin—the same Robin who had nearly fallen apart trying to hold him together at the start of all this—and he couldn’t do that to her again. Wouldn’t.

That is why he has to do this. 

It’s late afternoon, and he’s got one sock on, one sock half-off, pacing across the tiny stretch of kitchen linoleum with the phone pressed to his ear. His free hand scraped through his hair, again, again—like maybe if he does it hard enough, he’ll comb away all the thoughts circling in his head.

He hasn’t slept. The therapist’s words from yesterday rattle in his mind, reverberating through every breath. 

Intervene. 

He’s replayed the warning all night, half expecting someone to burst through the door and threaten him again. It churns in his stomach. All the guilt and fear—he can’t figure out which is louder. 

He just knows he’s been lying in bed, eyes wide at the ceiling, again. 

The excuse he comes up with is a simple one, not really a lie. Because in a way, his head does ache. It’s not the blinding kind of pain that used to knock him off his feet after a particularly bad episode, but the pressure’s there, right behind his eyes, throbbing in time with his pulse. 

He might as well call it a migraine if it keeps you at arm’s length—keeps you safe from whatever might be going on inside his mind. But that’s not really true anymore.

The threat is, once again, in the real world.

He closes his eyes the moment he hears your voice on the other end of the line. He tries to answer in a steady tone.

“Hey,” he begins. “I—hey. Um. I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

It’s quiet as he waits for your answer, like you're feeling out the tone of his voice. 

“Why?”

Didn't take much to sense something was wrong. You were observant. 

Too observant. 

That’s why he had to create this distance. 

“I’ve got a migraine coming on,” he manages, voice unsteady. “Just… sort of crept up on me. Thought it was gonna pass but… doesn’t feel like it.”

He can picture the worried fold between your eyebrows, the way you’d tilt your head if you were standing in front of him. 

“Is it bad? Y’know… like last time?” 

You ask it so gently, and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

Last time.

The last time—when he nearly lost everything you had built together.

The last time he left you scared.

The last time he really fucked up.

“No,” he speaks quickly. “Not that bad. Just a bit of pressure. Thought I should stay home—sleep it off.”

He hears you exhale, a soft sigh that says you’re not convinced. 

“Steve…”

“Sweetheart,” he counters, trying to keep his voice light, “I’m alright. I just… need a quiet night.” He punctuates it with a half-hearted laugh, like it might sell the story better.

“Okay.” There’s a pause on your side. “Well—I’m coming over.”

His chest constricts. 

Of course you are. 

He knew you would. It’s one of the things that scares him most about letting you in: you show up. 

Always. 

“No—no, you don’t have to,” he blurts. “Really. I’ll just be in bed. It’s not exactly good company.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for thrills,” you tease, voice warmer. “Let me take care of you a little.”

He almost loses it right there. The phone cord wraps around his wrist as he paces in a tight circle, sock skidding on the tile. 

He thinks you’re too good for him. So he says it out loud, in a voice that cracks just a bit. Hopefully he can blame it on the “pain.”

“Maybe,” you answer, and he can practically see your small smile, the tilt of your lips. “But I like you. So that’s kind of your problem now.”

He can’t fight it anymore. He'll say it's his lack of energy.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Door’s unlocked.”

He hangs up too fast, like if he stays on the line a second longer, he’ll give up the entire game. The phone slips from his hand onto the receiver with a dull clack.

He just stands there in the fading sunlight, staring at the pattern of the kitchen countertop. He can’t figure out if he’s more relieved that you’re coming, or more terrified that you’ll see the cracks he knows will soon show. 

He moves into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The cushions sink under his weight like they’re trying to swallow him whole. He feels like an idiot as he scrubs his hand over his face. He should’ve just faked the entire day, come up with an ironclad excuse—maybe said he had to run errands or something. 

But then you’d ask questions, you’d want to help him, and he’d buckle anyway because he can’t say no to you. Not when you sound like that. 

Not when your first instinct is to care.

He glances at the stack of second-grade spelling tests on the table and pushes them aside, annoyed at the very sight of them. He was trying to keep busy, to put a pen in his hand and shut off his brain. But the weight in his chest is too big, too heavy to ignore, and nothing about marking a dozen attempts at the word “elephant” is going to clear the images swirling in his mind.

Last night was bad. 

Worse than usual. 

He’d tossed and turned for hours, drifting into shallow snatches of sleep that delivered him into the Upside Down, or a half-memory of it. The vines. The pulsing lights. And you, off in the distance, looking at him like he was a stranger. 

He’d woken with a jolt, drenched in sweat, heart hammering. Spent the morning sipping lukewarm coffee with no music, no TV, no noise at all—just the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

He knew this would happen, especially after his last appointment, but it still hurt all the same. He hadn’t had a dream like that in weeks, proof that all of his progress feels like it’s been ripped from under him. 

Everything about this is too much and not enough. He’s tiptoeing on a razor’s edge of fear and yearning, wanting to protect you but also wanting to crash into your arms. He doesn’t deserve how you look at him, the way you always ask if he’s okay. 

And now you’re on your way over, and he can’t stop you. 

Doesn’t truly want to stop you.

Because in the back of his mind, he knows this feeling. He knows it all too well.

Knows what it does to a person.

It always starts slow—just a ripple, a toe in the water—until suddenly the tide’s pulling you under and there’s no surface left to reach for.

He knows what it means to drown—in both senses of the word. But this time, it’s worse. This time, it’s not his choice whether he comes back up.

This time, it’s yours.

And all he can do is hope that if it comes down to it, he’ll be the one sinking. 

Not you.

The front door swings open quietly, you don’t bother waiting for an invitation. By the time Steve looks up, you’re already stepping inside with that urgency in your eyes—like you’ve come prepared to handle any crisis he’s trying to hide. 

He hates that he can read your body language. Hates that he can see how cautious you are, bracing yourself for whatever version of him you’ll find.

And he hates even more that you’d still come anyway.

For a moment, he just stands there in the middle of the living room, unsure of what to do with his hands. He was halfway through tidying up, something to move his stiff body. Make you think that your boyfriend can at least seem to hold his life together. 

He’s in his usual knit jumper and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms, hair a little mussed from the nervous nap he never took. The lighting softens him, makes him look more fragile than he feels, it traces the curve of his jaw and the soft downturn of his mouth. 

He’s tired. You can see it instantly—the weighted slump of his shoulders, the slight effort in his exhale. Maybe there’s a pang of guilt in his chest at being so transparent, but he can’t quite fix his expression into something more reassuring. 

Not tonight.

“You look rough,” you say, raising your eyebrows in that gentle, teasing way.

He can tell you’re worried. It’s there in the careful tone of your voice, the way your gaze flicks over him like you’re scanning for damage.

“Yeah…” His lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a smile. “I know.”

Before he can stumble out a courtesy greeting, you close the distance, slipping your arms around him and drawing him into a hug. The warmth of your body presses flush against his chest, and he stiffens for half a heartbeat—like he’s not quite sure he has the right to accept this comfort. Then instinct kicks in, and he melts. The tension drains from his shoulders, and he drops his head to the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent. The one he never knew he would crave so deeply. 

His arms rise to wrap around your waist, palms splayed against your back as if to steady himself.

“Hi,” you murmur into his hair, voice muffled against his temple.

He breathes you in, a tired sigh slipping out. 

“Hey,” he answers, almost inaudible.

The quiet in the room no longer feels suffocating—it feels like a shared breath, something that belongs to both of you. Your fingers slide into his hair, combing it back gently, and his eyes flutter shut. 

He thinks about how a hug like this might’ve been a luxury in another life—before nightmares and secrets twisted everything into shadows. 

But with your arms around him, he lets himself believe it could be simple. 

Just for a moment. 

He’ll give himself a moment. 

When you finally pull back to look at him, there’s a softness in your expression he’s not sure he deserves. Your attention drifts over his shoulder, landing on the small table behind him. Paper after paper is scattered there—spelling tests, wobbly handwriting, even a few crayon doodles. You tilt your head, curiosity nudging your brow. 

“What’s all that?”

He steps out of your hold, just enough to glance at the mess over his shoulder. Reluctance flickers across his face. 

“Just… some papers I needed to get through,” he says, swallowing. “It’s nothing. Spelling stuff.”

“You can’t possibly do that when your head’s hurting.” 

He’s dealt with worse. 

He shrugs one shoulder in a half-hearted gesture. 

“It’s not so bad,” he tries, though the hesitation in his voice betrays him.

You don’t buy it. He can see the resolve in your stance, the way your chin sets. 

“Trying to concentrate on eight-year-old handwriting is not how to cure a migraine,” you say flatly, giving him a look that shows your playful exacerbation.

“Honestly, it’s fine,” he insists. But even as the words leave his mouth, they sound weak. 

He’s still holding onto that white lie, and guilt gnaws at him from the inside. You’ve already started marching past him toward the table, your gaze determined. 

“Why don’t you sit down and relax?” you say, lifting one stack of papers. “I’ll do it.”

He follows, hand raised in a weak protest. 

“No—hey, that’s my job,” he says, trying for a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Like, my real actual job.”

The one he needs to keep. 

Your grin appears, brightening the mood without effort. 

“I think I can handle some spelling tests,” you retort, eyeing the pages in your hands. “Pretty sure the complexities of second-grade grammar won’t defeat me.”

He sighs, a smile finally curving his lips for real. It’s small, but it’s genuine. 

“Am I gonna convince you otherwise?” he asks, half-rhetorical.

“Nope,” you say simply, lips shifting smugly as you slide into one of the dining chairs. It’s a look that tells him you won’t budge on this. 

Stubborn as always. 

He stands there for a second, torn between wanting to help and wanting to give in. There’s this warmth building under his ribs, relief and something else—something so dangerously close that he daren’t name. 

“Okay,” he finally murmurs, stepping back. The tension in his spine eases a fraction, and he can almost feel the exhaustion settling in now that he isn’t forcing himself to keep going.

“You gonna stand there or go lie down properly?” you ask, not looking up from the first spelling sheet you’re scanning.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and drags his feet over to the couch, sinking down into the cushions with an exhale that betrays how tired he truly is. 

“Here’s fine,” he says quietly. 

The idea of vanishing into his bedroom feels unbearable right now. 

Too far. 

Too alone.

It’s selfish—how much he needs to stay near. Near enough to hear your voice, the soft scratch of your pen, proof that you’re there.

He rests his head against the arm of the couch, turning just enough to watch you from across the room. You spare him a glance, understanding flashing in your eyes. 

“Okay,” you accept. .

You stand abruptly and move to the lamp in the corner. A soft click and golden light spills into the room, bathing the scuffed hardwood floors in a gentle sheen. The overhead light blinks off with a flip of the switch, and suddenly everything feels softer, quieter—like you're tucked away in a little sanctuary, a space carved out of the world, just for two.

He shifts, propping one arm under his head, blinking against the change in light. 

“Hey now,” he jokes, words a bit slurred with fatigue, “it’s bad for your eyes.”

“Maybe,” from over by the lamp, you look at him and shrug. “But your head.”

His mouth twitches—he can’t help it. The weight in his chest lifts, just a little. 

“Right,” he mutters in agreement, the fight slipping out of him. 

He’s not sure if he wants to keep up the migraine ruse anymore, but it’s too tangled in everything else. Better to just let you have this small comfort. 

You deserve it.

You’ve been way too good to him—and because of that, he’s dragged you into this mess.

And the worst part? 

He knows he won’t be able to let you go, half-truths are going to have to be enough to compensate for his carelessness. 

You go back to the table, pulling out a chair and settling in with the stack of papers. Your face furrows in concentration as you pick up a pen—his red marking pen, the one he’s been avoiding all day. The faint sound of your writing tip against paper is a soothing background lull.

He watches you, eyelids heavy. He just lets his gaze linger on the shape of your face in the lamplight, the slope of your shoulder as you lean over a misspelled word. He breathes, in and out, feeling a tug in his chest every time you shake your head in mild amusement or scribble a little note in the margin. He closes his eyes, so filled with longing he cannot figure out where to put it all. 

Just let him have tonight.

Let this be all he feels tonight. 

Seconds bleed into minutes, and he’s not sure when his breathing slows, or how his tense muscles start to loosen. Eventually, he feels the calm settle over him, the quiet that used to feel like a noose around his neck. Now it’s more like a blanket—soft, encompassing, safe. He exhales as his eyelids droop.

His mind drifts in a liminal space between wakefulness and the pull of sleep, cocooned by the low lamplight. 

You clear your throat and tap the tip of a red pen against a test paper, amusement lacing your words. 

“One of your kids spelled kitchen like kitchin. I kinda like it,” you say, a small laugh escaping. “It feels… softer.”

He murmurs a response, voice thick from exhaustion. 

“Yeah,” he manages, eyes fluttering open just enough to find your silhouette at the table. “Bet that’s Jackson. He says breakfirst too. I never wanna correct that one.”

His words slur slightly, and he barely registers that he’s smiling. You lift your attention from the paper, your own playing at the corner of your mouth.

“Breakfirst makes sense,” you tease, the pen still in your hand. “It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up.”

He chuckles softly, shifting against the pillow. The motion tugs at his shoulders, reminding him how tight his muscles are. 

“Mhm,” he drawls, eyes sliding shut again. “He told me last week he wakes up thinking about pancakes. Said it just… appears in his brain.”

You snort a laugh, then set the test paper aside, leaning back in your chair. 

“I think I’d like him,” you remark, mock-serious. “He’s got the right idea.”

It’s so easy for him to picture Jackson—a scrawny seven-year-old with an overbite and an endless supply of energy. The image floats into his mind and settles there, a soft spot in the midst of his own troubles. 

He can almost see the bright classroom, the crayons and the whiteboard, the echo of little voices calling him. It feels like a life unshadowed by therapy sessions and the secrets choking him from within.

He lets the moment linger, a comfort in the back of his mind. Then a memory surfaces—one he rarely shares: his mom, the aroma of melted butter, the slowness of an early morning without his dad. It nudges at him, stirs something bittersweet in his chest.

“My mom used to make pancakes when my dad was out of town,” he hears himself say, the words spilling out so softly he almost isn’t sure he’s speaking aloud. He feels you pause. You don’t respond right away, giving him space to unravel the memory if he wants to.

Like you always do.

He swallows, blinking slowly at the ceiling. 

This is a safe one to share.  

“He traveled a lot,” he continues, voice quieter now, each syllable steeped in nostalgia. “Work stuff. Sales, I think—always sounded vague. But when he was gone, it was like… things relaxed a little. She’d let me sleep on the couch, and we’d have pancakes in the morning. Not the box kind, either. She did the whole thing—batter from scratch, butter in the pan, bubbles on top when they were ready to flip. Real old-school.”

Your pen lands gently on the table. He can feel your eyes on him across the distance. He knew you’d appreciate another piece of his past, no matter how small.

What scared him was how much more he wanted to give you.

How easily he’d hand it all over—just from the look on your face.

“That sounds nice,” you say, your voice subdued, maybe to match the mood he’s set. He wonders if you can tell how vulnerable he feels, laying this out for you. 

“She’d put bananas in them sometimes,” he murmurs. “I hated it—but I never told her. Didn’t wanna mess it up. It felt like… I don’t know.” His voice wavers, and he breathes out carefully, as if exhaling might scatter the memory. “A good thing.”

For a moment, all he hears is sound of his own breath. Your voice comes softly across the room. 

“You didn’t want to change it.”

“Yeah.” He nods, eyelids heavy, almost speaking more to himself than to you. “Exactly.”

He slips deeper into the cushions, a sort of melancholy peace settling in his bones. Remembering those mornings—milk and flour and eggs whisked in a bowl, the hiss of the stove, his mom’s rare, relaxed laugh—feels comforting and too big to hold onto. 

It reminds him of being a kid, back before entire worlds twisted into nightmares and scars. Before he had to figure out how to keep people safe by keeping them in the dark.

Outside, the sky is darkening, casting shapeless shadows across the walls. You rustle the papers again, returning to your marking with diligence. That rhythmic scritch, pulls him back from the edges of old memories.

There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, barely conscious, his words filled with drowsiness. A little piece of anxiety wells in him suddenly—intrusive. 

It’s about the kids—about whether they notice the days he can’t quite summon his usual energy. The way he knows he’ll be tomorrow, when the smile won’t come as easily, no matter how hard he tries.

He hates asking you this. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually save for Dr Avery, but that isn’t an option now. It feels cruel—testing the waters just for his own peace of mind, leaning on you to give him the direction he can’t find on his own.

His voice is small when he finally asks. His eyes half-lidded, drifting toward you, too tired to stay open all the way.

“D’you think the kids…"

Fuck, this is hard.

"D'you think... they know when I’m having a bad day?”

You pause for a moment, shaking your head as your eyes meet his, looking at him like he just hung the moon. It undoes him utterly, the way you let out a gentle sigh,

“I think…” you speak slow, perhaps to allow his exhausted mind to keep up, but the words end up hitting him twice as hard. 

“I think they know you’d still show up for them anyway. It’s… just who you are, Steve.”

It's just who he is...

Is that how you see him?

He absorbs the statement slowly, like it needs time to settle in his bones. There’s a kind of weight to it—the raw honesty behind every word you offered, like you handpicked them with care, laid them down gently just for him.

It loosens something deep in his chest. A knot he didn’t even know he was carrying starts to unspool.

He doesn’t feel like he’s a failure.

Maybe he is a mess. Maybe he’s always been a little broken, stitched together with stubbornness and guilt and whatever scraps of hope he can still find—but he’s here. 

He’s trying. 

He’s still showing up.

That has to count for something.

His eyes drift shut at last, sleep too heavy to fight. Maybe he can let himself rest a little. Just for now, with you close by. He breathes out, chin dipping into the pillow, and finally gives himself permission to fall.

As his consciousness fades, he holds onto one stubborn wish: later that evening, when he opens his eyes, you’ll still be there, still close enough to chase the doubt out of his mind—at least for a little while longer.

When Steve’s eyelids flutter open, it takes him a second to remember where he is—or why everything suddenly feels this peaceful. 

The living room is draped in darkness, the overhead lamp turned off in favour of a single warm light coming from the kitchen. For a disoriented moment, he hears nothing. Then a soft clink of metal on ceramic reaches his ears, followed by a faint hiss and the gentle scrape of something in a pan.

He pushes himself upright, blinking the last traces of sleep from his eyes. The couch creaks and the fabric of his jumper feels slightly rumpled from dozing. He rubs the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders, wincing at the dull ache there. 

A quick glance at the window tells him night has fully settled over Hawkins—streetlights glow faintly outside, their beams catching on the air.

The heaviness he’s carried around for days has receded, at least for the moment. His head doesn’t throb. His chest feels looser, the anxiety dulled. 

That sure as hell isn’t just from the nap. 

Slowly, he stands, letting the blanket slide off his hips, and runs a hand down the front of his jumper. His bare feet touch the floor with soft thumps as he pads toward the kitchen, one sleeve pulled over his hand like a restless kid, not even realising he’s doing it.

The closer he gets, the more the smell of butter wraps around him. He’s struck by how surreal it all seems—like stepping into a memory. Except it’s not some dusty recollection from his childhood. 

He stops in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, and sees you standing at the stove. You’ve rolled your sleeves past your elbows. There’s a mixing bowl on the counter, a spatula in your hand, and the sizzle of batter hitting hot butter is the only real noise besides his own breath. 

Plates are stacked on a small portion of the counter you’ve managed to clear. A current of tenderness runs through the space—through him—that has little to do with the heat of the stove.

“Hey,” he says softly, still a little groggy. His voice is low, reverent, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will shatter the spell.

You glance over your shoulder, a quick smile flicking across your face as you meet his eyes. 

“Hey,” you answer, tone hushed not to hurt his head. “How’re you feeling?”

He swallows, stepping into the kitchen a bit more, hand trailing against the wall. 

“Much better,” he admits. 

And he realises, in that moment, it’s true. 

The tension in his spine has eased. When he looks at you, all sweet in his space, the last of his fears feel like they’re retreating into the corners of his mind. 

“What’re you doing?” he adds, voice soft, curious.

“Making dinner,” you reply with a casual shrug, turning back to the stove.

You slide the spatula and lift it, revealing a perfect golden underside. As you flip, the batter sizzles, sending up a little puff of fragrant steam. You nod toward the mixing bowl. 

“Figured something simple might do the trick,” you say quietly. “And, y’know, you mentioned them.”

He lingers a step longer, breath catching in his chest as he’s catapulted back into the memory he shared with you earlier. The smell of a hot pan threads nostalgia through his core, tangling with the gratitude he feels in this moment, watching you do something so unexpectedly thoughtful. It renders him speechless.

“Pancakes,” he manages finally, the word falling from his lips, soaked in wonder.

You glance back, giving him a small smile. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, catching the weight of that memory in his eyes. “You don’t have any bananas.”

You really were something else. 

He exhales a shaky laugh through his nose. It’s almost real—almost. It slips out unsteady, because there’s something about the simplicity of it all. The way you act like the world could be set right with just this—this one small, human thing.

And what floors him, is that for a second—God, maybe longer—he believes you.

Believes it could be that simple. 

You gesture with the spatula toward the small dining table. 

“Go on,” you suggest, “sit.” 

There’s a gentle command in your tone, like you’re used to looking after him—even if, not so long ago, he would’ve insisted he didn’t need it.

He obeys, walking over on slightly unsteady legs. 

Obeys.

The word sounds strange, but it’s accurate: you speak, and he follows. Not because he’s weak, but because you make him feel safe. You make him feel seen. And in that safety, he allows himself to lean on you more than he’d ever planned.

Drawing a chair out, he settles into it with an exhale, placing his elbows on the tabletop. The wood is cool through the knit material, and he can feel the faint vibration of your movements through the floor. Figures form in gentle arcs along the cabinets, as if the night outside has pressed its nose to the windows but hasn’t dared to intrude.

He’s spent a lot of time alone here, pacing the small perimeter while his mind churned with old memories. 

He wonders if this is what normal looks like. If other people get moments like these all the time—moments where the person they trust wanders into their space, rummages in their cupboards, whips up something simple that tastes like childhood. 

If so, he thinks he’s missed out for too long. 

Please let him keep this.

Just for a little while.

He’s not sure how long he watches you. He’s content to let the seconds stretch, your quiet movements hypnotising him. The whisk tapping the side of the bowl, your gentle footstep shifting weight. 

When you finally switch off the burner and turn to face him, plate in hand, he’s still staring. You serve the pancakes on the two most similar plates you can find—he doesn’t exactly have a matching set. You slide one in front of him, the other in front of you, the only sounds are the dull scrape of forks cutting through soft batter, the occasional drip of syrup pooling on porcelain.

He lifts a bite to his mouth, nodding in faint approval as he chews. His jaw still feels tense, like it’s absorbing some leftover stress. Beneath the table, his leg bounces with restless energy, but outwardly, he tries to keep calm. You watch him, noticing the slight furrow in his brow. Neither of you speak until you finish the first few bites; the tension in the air is subtle, but it lingers.

“You going into work tomorrow?” you ask, casual enough that someone who didn’t know him might think it an idle question. But he senses the concern under your tone. 

You’re not prying, exactly—just checking in.

“Yeah.” He nods, quickly swallowing. “I’ll drop you back home after this, don’t worry.” 

The words come out automatically, as if he’s already set a plan for the day: take you home, show up, teach the kids. Everyone safe and accounted for.

You carefully set your fork down, the faint clink slicing through the atmosphere. Your gaze holds him a second longer than normal. 

“I’m not leaving,” you say softly.

“What?”

“What if…” Your voice takes on a cautious edge.  “What happened last time… happens again?”

Last time?

Oh.

Angel, don’t do this to me. 

He goes rigid. The memory knifes through his mind like a jolt of cold water: the flash of your startled eyes when he’d woken gasping, his fingers clamped around your arm before he even registered he was awake. The shame of your worried face as he stammered an apology, trembling with leftover panic from the dark corners of his sleep. A strangled feeling clutches his chest, and he drops his gaze to the plate. 

“It’s not gonna be like that,” he murmurs, his voice guilty.

“I already packed my pyjamas.”

He sits back in the chair. 

The effect you have on his is downright dangerous. 

A part of him wants to argue—he doesn’t deserve this level of care, not when his baggage bleeds into reality and threatens to drag you with them. 

“No, seriously,” he presses, voice quieter now. “I’m gonna be just fine.” 

There’s a self-loathing edge to the words because he knows it’s not true. You sense it in an instant.

“I’ll take the couch, alright?” you say. That softer note creeps into your voice, the one that tells him you’re not afraid of him—you’re just concerned. 

“Won’t be able to sleep if I’m worried about you.”

Something clenches in his throat, and he drops his head into his hands. His fingers thread through his hair, gripping it lightly as if that might keep his thoughts from spiraling. Another ragged breath escapes him. 

“You’re not taking the couch,” he mutters, muffled behind his palms. The image of you spending the night curled in discomfort while he’s holed up in his bed feels all wrong.

“If you’re feeling rough,” you insist, “you need your own bed. Please just… let me stay.”

He can’t look at you right away, eyes still trained on the dark space between his knees. The weight of everything squeezes his stomach. He drags his eyes up. And there you are, watching him with genuine concern—no pity, no judgment. 

He sees it in your eyes—there is no budging on this.

“Okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

A small smile crosses your features, one he has no right to feel pride at. You pick up your fork again, like this decision was the easiest thing in the world. 

He glances at the swirl of syrup pooling around the edges of the plate, but he can’t bring himself to take another bite. 

All along, he thought he was the selfless one.

He lies in bed, sheets tangled around his hips, trying to convince himself that stillness might bring sleep. 

One arm is flung over his eyes, pressing down as if he can block out the cacophony of thoughts that refuse to be quiet. The dark presses in, broken only by the light of the clock—each minute passes in silence, ratcheting up his restlessness. 

He rolls onto his left side, then back onto his right, shutting his eyes as hard as he can. 

Come on, breathe in, breathe out… 

His therapist’s voice echoes in his memory, urging him to focus on his heartbeat, to ground himself. But his brain crackles with tension, refusing to comply.

The advice feels fake now, anyway.

He flips again, this time onto his stomach. It doesn’t help. His jaw is clenched so hard he can practically feel the ache up into his temples.

When the sheets start to feel suffocating, he snaps upright and shoves them away. His legs swing over the edge of the mattress, feet meeting the cool floor. A hiss of breath leaves him—everything feels too loud despite the silence. 

He drags a hand over his face, scrubbing at his chin like he’s trying to scrape away the anxiety. He stands, letting the duvet pool behind him as he pads barefoot out into the hallway.

The living room is dim. He notices the lamp's still on, a small puddle of light that silhouettes your form on the couch. You’re curled up, fast asleep under an old throw blanket, one arm tucked beneath your cheek. Your breathing is gentle, the rise and fall of your shoulders almost imperceptible. 

You looked so soft.

He tells himself he should go back to bed, not disturb you, let you have your rest. But there’s a stronger voice in him—the one that urges his forwards. 

It’s a jarring realisation that knocks something loose in him.

You’re becoming the next point of call when things get rough. The person he turns to now, instinctively, without thinking. And what unsettles him most is knowing you’d be glad to hear that. You’d take it as a sign of closeness, of trust.

But it feels cruel.

Cruel that you’d take pride in being his safe place when you still don’t know the full extent of what you’re stepping into. Cruel that he’s letting you play nurse to wounds he hasn’t even shown you yet.

He shouldn’t need you like this.

But he is going to be cruel, just for tonight. 

He brushes a strand of hair off your forehead. The small touch makes you stir, and your eyelids flutter open. Confusion flickers across your features until you register it’s him crouched there, face etched with concern.

“Steve?” You mumble, voice foggy with sleep. “Are—are you alright? Did something happen?”

You’re panicking because of him, and it makes it ache even worse.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright,” he murmurs, voice soft as he tries to soothe you. “Nothing happened. I promise.”

You start to push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off one shoulder to get a better look at him. The shape of your arm emerges, goosebumps prickling from the cool air. He swallows, feeling another wave of guilt that you even have to sleep out here. 

On the couch for God's sake. 

“I just… can’t sleep,” he admits, voice dropping. The confession tastes vulnerable on his tongue. 

It sounds pathetic—like a kid who never figured out how to function.

“Bad night?” you ask, still blinking sleep from your eyes. Your hand finds his forearm, thumb brushing lightly over his skin. Even that tiny touch feels like a lifeline.

“Yeah. I don’t know.” He nods as he lets out a shuddery breath. “Everything feels… loud.”

His request is simple, but the desperation laced in his voice betrays just how badly he needs the answer.

“Will you… come to bed with me?”

You still. The air between you tightens. He can see the caution in your eyes, the trace of a memory of the time before. He hates that he’s the cause of that worry. 

“Steve, I—I don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your lap as you recall his grip on your wrist, the way he shot out the door without so much as an explanation. “Last time, you were so out of it, and I didn’t know what to do, and you—”

“I know,” he interrupts, leaning in just enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him. “I know. And I’m sorry—I really am.” His voice wavers, and he takes a shaky breath. He wants to reach for your hand but forces himself to keep still, give you space. 

“But—but it’s not gonna be like that tonight. I’m okay, I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.”

You search his face, like you’re checking for any sign of doubt. Your gaze wanders over the weariness lining his eyes, the way his shoulders slump, the vulnerability in his expression. 

“...Are you sure?” You ask softly, a thousand questions and concerns pooling behind the simple words.

He’s sure. 

He wouldn’t put you in that kind of danger. 

“Yeah. I just—please.” 

He doesn’t care that it sounds like begging. Right now, he is begging. 

Your eyes dart between his, and you sigh softly. In the low light, he looks worn down—like that earlier nap had only skimmed the surface of whatever’s been dragging him under. 

It doesn’t take long to decide. The fact that he’s asking at all tells you everything. He wouldn’t, not unless he was sure. This isn’t casual. It’s something close to desperate.

“Okay.” Another short pause, your hand still on his forearm. “Okay. Just give me a sec.”

You shift the blanket aside and stand, the couch springs creaking as you move. He rises too, unfolding himself from his crouch. There’s an awkward silence where neither of you speaks. He feels like he should apologise—but where to start, he isn’t quite sure yet.

He extends his hand, fingers itching to hold your own. He leads you down the hall, every step slow. At the threshold of his bedroom, the air cools, and he can feel your hesitation in the slight drag of your feet. It sparks another pang of guilt. 

He nearly drops your hand, ready to say it’s okay, you don’t have to do this. But you tighten your grip, an assurance that you’re choosing to stay.

The bed is still rumpled, blankets half on the floor from where he stormed out. Silently, you both gather them up. You toss one over the mattress, smoothing it down just enough to make room to lie on.

When you finally slip under the covers, he follows, gingerly settling next to you on the mattress. He keeps to his side at first, giving you space.

The moment stretches—two heartbeats, three. 

The tension is palpable, and he regrets getting up in the first place. You turn onto your side, facing him, catching his eyes with your own. They’re wide, and beautiful. 

So fucking beautiful. 

There you go, looking at him like that again 

You look weary, and he bets he does too, so he can blame the sleep when he reaches out. He slips an arm around your waist and waits—just waits. Allowing you to choose how close to him you will get. 

He doesn’t let out his breath until you nestle closer, allowing him to tuck his chin over your head, the long exhale that seems to pour into the darkness. 

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he answers.

He hopes he will be. 

He senses your small smile, lips curving upward against his jumper, a subtle shift in your posture as you settle down. 

“Get some sleep,” you murmur, reaching curl your arm around his waist, mirroring his position. 

“I will, angel,” he murmurs into your hair. 

He will, but not yet. 

First, he waits for your breathing to slow, for your shoulders to uncoil, for sleep to settle over you. Guilt weighs on him for putting you through this—sleeping beside someone you believe isn’t okay. 

He isn’t, but there’s a sick sixth sense inside him that warns when a night will be rough. Tonight won’t be, though. 

He’s sure of it.

What he’s just done feels like a trial, a test of whether you’d follow him, stay with him. It troubles him the more he thinks about it, but there’s no other way to explain it. 

He needed to know if you would—because if you did, it’d mean you feel for him what he feels for you.

He might be hopeless when it came to saying how he felt—couldn’t talk to his parents, had to be cornered by Robin, nearly let it all slip through his fingers just trying to name what was going on. 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.

Steve felt things—deeply, messily, all at once. Always had. He’d felt this particular emotion before, or thought he had, in flashes: in borrowed bedrooms, first relationships, and soft pink roses. Young and dumb, sticky and sweet, like he saw in the movies. 

But it was never like this. This was bigger than him, something that carried a risk—like most things now did. 

Everything in his life felt more intense now. 

This was no exception. 

He felt it in every part of him. For the first time in years, he was glad he could still feel that much. That he hadn’t gone numb to it.

He held you, a secret he needed to keep. Even if he couldn’t give you every word of it, Steve Harrington knew what this was.

He knew what love felt like.

He’d fallen into it.

He knew better, but he chose to anyway—damned the fallout, and damn the cost.

It meant he could keep you to himself, just a little while longer.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles 

[invincibledc]

₊˚⊹⋆

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄₊˚⊹⋆

────୨ৎ────

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐗 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅!𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Summary: you think you’re heavy? Mark wants all your heavy love onto him.

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Info: inspired by odetari’s music of “heavy love” Hehhe. Werewolf!boyfriend!reader x mark grayson small work here!

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Genre: lime/comfort(?)

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Warning: slight aka suggestive work. Yknow what yeah it’s lime. Reader doubting Mark’s strength and this being mark before season 3

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Word count: 1,008

Lying down on Mark’s bed, you couldn’t help but keep scrolling through pages on Instagram. Littered with tons of fangirls yapping about how invincible could bench press a whole building if he wanted to.

You scoffed at this, sure mark was strong. But he can’t be that strong.

Shit, you’re a big guy. Not chubby, but just big. Mark is shorter than you, but loves to top you.

You cannot fuck that little ass dog, he does the fucking. Either way, you keep scrolling throughout your for you page, looking at some news.

Mark comes into his room, walking over as he held your favorite soda in hand. “Heyyy, guess what I found in the fridge. “No way, [fav.soda]! Give it here.” You say up quick to grab at it.

Mark moves back before you could even really reach the damned beverage.

“Ah ah, what do we say?” Mark teased with a knowing smile.

“I won’t say it.”

“Cmon… it’s in the paper of being boyfriends. You have to say it.”

Grumbling, you looked at him. “Thanks.. daddy.”

Mark chuckles under his breath before giving you the drink. “That’s better, baby.” He hands you the drink. You gave him the middle finger, sick of his shit. Mark lets out another laugh before he rest up against you.

You drank the soda, ignoring his lingering eyes onto your pectorals. He’s always had the weird urge since dating you to just, grab them. And now here he is, staring at them as he looks at your stoic face.

“Can I?” He says softly, he reaches his hand towards it. Just to cup it. But a hand smack leaves him with a pout.

“No. No touching til I say so.”

“Yes sir.” Mark says with a grin. You couldn’t help but laugh, despite his position in this relationship. You walk him like dog, okay not really but he’s such a munch for his boyfriend.

You guys started to relax a bit, day turned into night. You were casually out of the showers, mark had already finished his. He sat at his desk, looking through his computer with a bored look.

Hearing the bathroom door open, he turns his head to see you walk into his room, closing it. His eyes rank over your body. Hunger written onto his expression, but not the “ooh food” hunger.

But hunger for a certain man. And that man is you.

“Hey.” He says softly, leaning back into his chair. He pats his lap, you raised a brow. You oddly felt conscious about your build. You shake your head, moving over to his bed to lay down.

Mark frowns, turning his eyes to see you lay down. You usually sit on his lap, at any chance like any chance he gets to touch you.

He yearns to touch you, to be by you. He can’t live a moment without not being by you or at least having a handful of you.

“What’s wrong?” He says, not even trying to hide his concern. “It’s nothing.” You simple said, going onto your phone.

You were clearly hiding something, he always can tell when something was up with you. He gets from his desk, moving towards you.

“Cmon… something’s bothering you babe.” Sighing, you confessed to him. “Okay so I scrolled onto instagram and seen some of your,” you air quoted mid sentence, “fangirls talking about you can just bench press anything like a building.” “I could.” “Shut up I’m not finished mark.” Mark held up his hands in a surrendering gesture before putting them down and listening.

“You’re still human mark, no way in hell could you just lift up a building. Hell I don’t think you can even lift me.” Mark scrunched his face up.

“Yes I can.”

“No you can’t.”

“Do you even know who my dad is, y/n?” You raised a brow as he sat down, letting the bed sink a bit. “Yeah. He’s Omni man.” Mark nods, “and I’m his son. I know I don’t tell you much. But I’m sure I can show you how I can handle you.”

It all happened so quickly. Mark lifts you onto him, you could feel him squeeze your muscular thighs. His eyes blown out as he stares at you as if you lifted the entire stars and galaxy. “I can’t get how you think I can’t just lift you up and destroy you.” He says lowly. His voice low and deep, dripping with lust.

“Well.. do it.” A dark smirk reaches his face as his hands goes up onto your hips, giving them a quick squeeze.

“As your command.” He starts to kiss your neck, leaving you let out a soft sigh. You can feel him grazing his teeth against your Adam Apple.

His hands pressing against your ass, squeezing it. You yelp a bit, feeling flustered despite the times he’s done this before. He then kissed you, your lips mingling with his.

He bites your bottom lip, looking up at you whilst you had your arms around his neck. His hands leaves your hips to go under your shirt.

Caressing your abs to your chest, god he presses his lips harder against your own. You taste so good to him, his fingers rubbing against the bud of your nipples. Cupping your chest, you moan against his lips, breathing heavy.

As mark goes to take your shirt off, Debbie bursts in. That made you immediately get off mark, leaving mark devastated in his mind but flustered on the outside.

“Mom!”

“What? I just want to say goodnight to you both… but if you guys are doing anything weird in here. Keep it down to a minimum.” Debbie then leaves, leaving you and mark a little embarrassed.

“Uh… wanna just cuddle for the night?” Mark asked as he turned to you. “Yeah.. that’ll be nice.” You said with a slight smile.

You and mark laid down after he turned the lights off and placed the covers over you both.

Guess you forgot how strong he could be….

[girl4music]

Not perfect. Just equal.

And yes, they’re definitely right.

Makes me think about Gabrielle and how her naivety and idealism early on in her character are “negative” traits in her characterization because she has to “grow up” and accept that SHE can’t “change the world”.

Sure. All true.

But it doesn’t mean she isn’t right.

“Well right isn’t the reality!”

Well, what do you want me to do about it?

The world is unfair and it is very wrong for it.

These separate statements are not mutually exclusive.

It’s a dumb argument really. If “growing up” means accepting that the world is an absolute mess then I will happily remain a child regardless of how it looks to you.

You’ve got the “naive” Gen Z making these statements all the time. That the world is an absolute mess and destroying itself and people just stand there and say “You’re a child. What do you know about reality?”

Well, the answer is that they know what you’ve either forgotten or refuse to acknowledge. That it’s wrong.

Kids are kids but they’re a lot smarter than adults for the simple reason that they don’t accept complacency.

They see and feel that something is wrong. It bothers them. They can’t be bought to “ignore” that it does.

There’s a moral center there that goes by instinct and integrity over cognitive biasm and political agendas.

It really affects them in very genuinely heartfelt ways and they’re powerless to do anything other than say and continuously say that it’s always very wrong!

Perhaps in the end intelligence or wisdom is empathy because what they recognize is the destruction of it and nothing distracts them from that observation.

They see it and blind devotion just can’t make a dent.

Children have faith but it’s an entirely different kind.

It’s a lot purer than any religious or spiritual faith is. I am a grown adult. But I’ll always remain a child at heart.

“The eyes of a child are innocent. They can see the world in ways that we have long forgotten.” - Xena.

[cherrylibby]

Jealousy at Mach Speed

Jake Seresin had a reputation.

It wasn’t exactly unearned—the cocky smirk, the smooth Southern drawl, the way he could charm just about anyone within five minutes of meeting them. It was part of who he was.

And usually, you were fine with it. You knew that, despite the way women threw themselves at him, Jake was yours.

But tonight? Tonight, that logic was a little harder to believe.

Because as you stood at The Hard Deck, watching some girl drape herself over him, laughing a little too hard at something he said, you felt a sharp sting of insecurity settle in your chest.

Jake didn’t push her away. He didn’t tell her to back off. He just stood there, smiling, sipping his drink like he didn’t have a care in the world.

And suddenly, all the old doubts—the ones you thought you had buried—came rushing back.

Maybe you weren’t enough for him.

Maybe he’d realize that soon.

Maybe he already had.

You didn’t say anything right away.

You just grabbed your drink and made your way to the other side of the bar, setting up camp next to Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, who immediately raised an eyebrow at your sudden mood shift.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” he asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“Nothing,” you said, too quickly.

Bradley snorted. “Uh-huh. And I’m about to win Pilot of the Year.”

You didn’t respond. Just took a long sip of your drink, staring at the wall.

Rooster followed your gaze across the bar—right to Jake, who was still talking to that girl. Understanding dawned on his face.

“Y/N,” he sighed, “you know Jake isn’t interested in her.”

You shrugged. “I don’t know anything.”

He groaned. “Okay, no. We’re not doing this.” He stood up. “I’m getting him.”

“No—Bradshaw I swear—”

Too late.

Jake turned the second Rooster called his name, eyes instantly locking onto you. His face shifted, brows furrowing as he excused himself from the conversation and made a beeline for you.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low as he reached you. “Everything okay?”

You plastered on your best fake smile. “Peachy.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “Try again.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I don’t know, Jake. Maybe you should go ask her.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, what?”

You gestured toward the blonde at the bar. “She seemed really interested in whatever you were saying.”

Realization hit him like a brick wall. His eyes widened slightly before his expression softened.

“Oh,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Sweetheart…”

You shook your head, looking away. “Forget it. It’s stupid.”

Jake didn’t let that slide. Instead, he gently tilted your chin up, making you look at him. “It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you.”

You sighed. “I just… I don’t know. I saw you with her, and I just started thinking… why me? You could have anyone.”

Jake’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but something deeper.

“Y/N,” he said, voice firm. “I don’t want just anyone. I want you.”

You swallowed, feeling your resolve crack. “Yeah, but for how long?”

Jake exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, forever isn’t long enough when it comes to you.”

Your heart stuttered.

Jake cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “You think I don’t notice every little thing about you? The way you scrunch your nose when you’re trying not to laugh. The way you pretend to be annoyed when I flirt, but I see that little smile.” He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “The way I feel like I’m home whenever I’m with you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Jake…”

“I don’t care about any other girl. Never have. Never will.” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “I’m yours, Y/N. Only yours.”

Tears pricked at your eyes—tears you hated because damn it, you were not a crier.

Jake noticed, of course. He kissed the corner of your eye, then your cheek, then finally—finally—your lips.

It was slow, deep, filled with every unspoken word between you.

When he pulled away, he smiled softly. “You believe me now?”

You let out a watery laugh. “I think so.”

Jake chuckled, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the storm passed—leaving nothing but love in its wake.

[dollbrbie]

♡ ⸝⸝ THE BREAKUP

cw. fratboy isagi, so so so angsty, isagi really gets his feelings hurt :(

“i think we should break up.”

isagi gives a slight huff, “it’s not funny when you say things like that.”

you breath in, “i’m not joking, isagi.”

he turns around to face you, currently sat on his bed with your brows pinched together slightly. it was clear you had been thinking about something.

“what’s going on, baby?”, he asks, his tone more concerned.

you debated telling him the truth, making yourself look like a fool and having isagi so easily convince you that you’re wrong. he’s too reassuring like that.

ever since you heard everyone say you weren’t good enough for him, that you were too mean, too much for someone like isagi, it just kept playing on your mind like an endless loop, causing you to second guess yourself over and over.

because as much as you hate to admit it, they were right. you were mean, way too mean for a guy like isagi. he’s so sweet and genuine with not a nasty bone in his body. he deserves to be treated like a king, to have a girlfriend adore him just as much as he adores you.

but were you really that? are you really giving him everything he truly deserves?

“i just don’t think.. we’re really working out.”, you sigh.

he frowns, “you don’t think that at all. why’re you saying this?”, the hurt evident in his voice.

and that hurts you.

“isagi, stop.”

he doesn’t.

“no. tell me why you’re saying this. you’re not throwing our whole relationship away because in your eyes we’re suddenly ‘not working out’.”, he explains with air quotes, “you don’t get to say that without some explanation, it’s fucked up.”

you wish he just made it easier for you, to just accept this. but now having to rip the bandaid off you say, “fine then. i just don’t want to be with you anymore.”

there’s a long pause where isagi just processes what you say, “you don’t mean that.”, he whimpers, his eyes glossy.

of course you didn’t mean that. god, the look on his face hurt you more than anything, your own heart heavy. that’s when you knew you had really hurt his feelings and that’s the last thing you ever wanted to do. but, this was in isagi’s best interest.. right?

“i do.”, you whisper, you eyes down as you fiddle with your fingers, sat cross cross on his bed.

“why? what did i do? i can fix it, baby. whatever i did, i can fix it.”, isagi pleas frantically, scurrying closer to you by sitting on the edge of his bed, “please, just tell me.”

“you can’t, isagi. just stop it, okay?”, you sigh, getting up from his bed before grabbing your bag and packing up the few essentials you had in his room, “we just aren’t working, that’s it.”

“no- i just, i don’t understand what i did.”, he swallows, “i thought- i thought you loved me. i love you.”

you feel your bottom lip tremble. this felt like kicking a sweet puppy who kept running back to you.

you don’t say anything, in fear of losing composure and crying your heart out. so, you carry on packing your things, muting out isagi’s frantic pleas and breaking voice despite how hard it was, before rushing out of his room to get back to your own dorm, leaving him alone where everything felt too silent besides his thumping heartbeat.

and that’s when he felt the tears fall from his eyes, and down his cheeks. isagi wasn’t a crier, not at all. but, here he was, crying over you as you leave him with no closure, no nothing. without the answers you couldn’t give him, all he could do was wonder what the hell went so wrong. what the hell made you leave him so suddenly?

with all of his thoughts going rampant in his mind, isagi mutters, “fuck, man.”

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (16/???)

I bet you're so anxious, right? Haha we will have more revelations uhhh.

A beloved nonny asked me so politely to back with the warnings before each chapters and I'll do it for sure 💕

Warnings: manipulation, cnc, humiliation and depravation, angst and kidnap (you don't read it wrong) proceed with caution.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Distorted feelings take hold of you as you delve deeper into the mire you've been thrust into.

Selfishness

The sweet scent of Agatha—the one that used to wrap around your senses like a safe embrace—now burned in your nostrils, nauseating.

Your feet were steady on the floor, yet it felt like you were falling.

The grip around your throat wasn’t tight enough to hurt—not yet. But it was a warning. A reminder of who was in control.

Agatha’s gaze held you like an invisible spell—intense, commanding. You recognized that gleam in her eyes. You knew what came after it.

Behind you, Rio slid her cold fingers along your damp nape, a wicked contrast to the heat rising in waves through your body, fueled by adrenaline. She leaned in, so close that you could feel the ghost of her breath against your skin.

“Tell me, honey,” Agatha whispered, her lips nearly brushing yours, a phantom touch lingering between a promise and a threat. “What did Alice say?”

The question coiled around your throat as tightly as her fingers.

Your mind spun.

What to say? How to escape? How to make them believe you were still theirs?

Your throat locked up. Air felt scarce—not because of the grip, but because of their suffocating presence. Rio was behind you now, her cold fingers gliding down your neck, playing with the damp strands of your hair.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, breathless.

“You really think you can hide something from us?” Rio murmured, her voice sweet, dangerous. Her hand trailed down your shoulder, slow, deliberate.

You swallowed hard. Your muscles were tense, your mind a chaotic blur.

“N-nothing. She didn’t say anything.”

Agatha laughed. A low, disbelieving sound. “Oh, really?”

Her fingers traveled up to your face, gripping your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

“You’re not very good at this, sweetheart.” She tilted her head. “You’re so transparent, so easy to read... That’s why we chose you.”

The word felt wrong in her mouth. Like honey-coated poison. Tears welled up in your eyes, your lips trembling, the knot in your throat scratching as you swallowed it down.

“She poisoned your mind, didn’t she?” Agatha leaned in even closer, her dark eyes devouring you. “That little nobody put foolish ideas into your dumb little head.”

Outch.

The insult struck your heart, your ego crushed beneath her words, your brain melting under the weight of them.

“You thought you could trust her more than us?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, confusion spiraling in your mind, driving you insane. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. But you couldn’t. The walls felt like they were closing in around you.

“M-mama…” Your voice came out weak, pleading, powerless.

Rio cradled your face in both hands, her eyes an endless, unreadable ocean. “We won’t ask again, sweetheart…”

The grip on your throat tightened. You gasped, feeling the pulse of your blood beneath Agatha’s fingers, her floral perfume invading your senses, making everything even more suffocating.

“She…” You could barely form words, your breath shallow and erratic. “She said you’re… witches.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then, Agatha laughed. Low, husky, laced with mockery.

“Witches,” she echoed, as if savoring the word. Her thumb traced lazily along your throat, feeling the faint spasms of your struggle to breathe.

Rio exhaled a quiet chuckle, but her expression shifted… Something dark and stormy flickered in her eyes before she yanked at the chain of your collar, forcing you down onto your knees against the plush carpet.

“And you believed her, didn’t you, pet? Every single word she fed you.” Agatha whispered, crouching down to meet your gaze. “I wonder… are you really that innocent, or just stupid?”

Heat rushed to your face. The way she said it made your stomach twist. She knew exactly where to strike. She knew how to dig into your pride, how to make you feel ridiculous.

Rio knelt beside you, her fingers gliding dangerously through your hair. The touch was too gentle to be affectionate—but there was something else hidden in it.

Something sharp. Something that kept you frozen.

“Go on, pet,” Rio murmured, her voice low, controlled, but vibrating with something just beneath the surface. “What else did that little whore say about us?”

You licked your lips, your heartbeat hammering in your chest.

“She said… you only want to use me.” Your voice trembled into a whisper. “That I’m just a source…”

The air in the room shifted.

Subtle. But undeniable.

Rio’s breath paused for a second. Her fingers curled tighter in your hair, almost pulling, almost digging her nails into your scalp.

Agatha’s grip loosened slightly—not out of kindness, but like a predator stepping back to get a better look at its prey.

The silence was different this time. Heavier.

Agatha’s eyes glinted with something unreadable, as if she was carefully considering her next move. As if she was deciding how much fun she wanted to have before breaking you apart.

She tilted her head, lips curving into a slow, cruel smile, studying your expression like a cat toying with a wounded bird. The pressure on your throat wasn’t as tight anymore, but the threat still lingered—thick, charged, like electricity before a storm.

“A source…” Agatha murmured, as if tasting the weight of the word. Her thumb traced the line of your jaw, a touch almost tender—almost deceptive. “How curious.”

Rio didn’t speak. Her fingers were still tangled in your hair, but the way she held you now felt different. More rigid. As if she were holding something back. As if something inside her had stirred.

Your throat went dry.

“That’s what she told you?” Agatha continued, her voice too soft to be soothing. “That we only want to use you?”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Your entire body was stiff, every muscle tensed, instinct screaming that one wrong move could send you plummeting.

Agatha sighed, and then her fingers tightened in your hair. A sharp, sudden yank—pain flaring through your scalp as your head was pulled back, your throat laid bare. You gasped, wide eyes meeting hers, but there was no mercy there.

“And you believed her?”

You had no time to answer.

Suddenly, a rough shove sent you stumbling back, your knees nearly giving out. Your heart pounded, panic tangling with something deeper, something heavier, something you didn’t want to name.

“Hm?”

Agatha’s heel pressed against your chest, digging between your ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. Your body jerked under the weight, a strangled sound escaping your lips as your chest burned from the lack of oxygen.

And then came the fear.

It slithered inside you like a wild thing, whispering that this was a hunt.

That you were nothing but prey.

A prey running through a forest was alive all around you, shadows shifting between the trees, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Wolves.

Encircling, guiding your steps to where they wanted you to go—because they knew this terrain better than anyone.

Then, at some point, you stopped running.

The woods fell behind. Ahead of you, an endless cliff.

The wolves drew closer, pressing your body to the edge of the abyss. Jump, or be devoured.

Fear pulsed in the pit of your stomach, burning like embers.

But it didn’t come alone.

Something else slithered alongside it, seeping into your muscles, your flesh, coiling deep between your thighs.

Adrenaline became something else. Something utterly twisted and dark.

You didn’t know if you wanted to run or sink further into it.

“Yes! I believed it!”

The confession slipped out in a sob, your fingers instinctively grasping at Agatha’s ankle—not to push her away, but silently begging for relief.

Agatha tilted her head to the side, as if watching a small, struggling creature. Her smile was cold, cutting.

Rio let out a low chuckle—but she didn’t seem truly amused. Her eyes remained fixed on you, analyzing every detail of your reaction.

You blinked, trying to clear your thoughts, but it was like trying to escape one nightmare only to fall straight into another.

This was definitely not normal.

The way your skin responded to their touch, the way your mind wavered between fight and surrender—it wasn’t normal. You knew that. But you also knew that normal had ceased to exist for you a long time ago.

How the hell had you not realized it before?

“Then tell me, pet,” her voice was a silky whisper, yet laced with something sharp. “If you think we’re so bad… why are you still here?”

The chain of your collar stretched in a slow tug, forcing you to lean forward, submission growing more and more evident.

Your heart pounded.

“I…” Your voice came out weak, almost unrecognizable to yourself.

Agatha smiled.

“That’s it,” she encouraged, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Speak, my dear.”

But you couldn’t. Because confusion burned inside you, a knot of fear and excitement tightening around your throat just as much as the chain.

“Because you are my mommies who have always protected me.” Your voice was small, hoarse with the struggle for air.

Shit.

That wasn’t what you had planned to say.

The words that left your mouth—you didn’t know if they were truly yours or some fucking of twisted spell they had placed on you, trapping you once more in a golden cage you weren’t sure you wanted to leave.

Agatha takes her foot off your chest, satisfied.

Rio caressed your cheek with the back of her fingers, the touch almost too gentle given how the tension in the room wavered.

Her fingers trailed down your neck, pressing against the skin still marked by the previous grip.

“Protection doesn’t come without discipline, pet,” Rio murmured, the collar’s chain still firm in her grasp.

You swallowed hard, knowing this wasn’t over.

“On your knees,” Agatha commanded—no rush, no raised voice. She didn’t need to.

Rio released the chain, but there was no relief—because the moment you hesitated, even for a second, Agatha’s gaze darkened.

“Now.”

Your body moved before your mind could process it. You get up from the carpet, placing yourself in a kneeling position.

Agatha stepped back slightly, and for a moment, you thought the weight of the situation might ease.

But then she extended a hand to Rio, who removed your choker without asking for permission.

Without it, you felt bare.

Empty.

Agatha brought out the bigger collar—the leather one with a leash. If you had a tail, it would be wagging wildly.

You knew what that collar meant, and you hated yourself for it.

For despite everything, still wanting it.

Still needing it.

The woman wrapped the leather leash around her fingers, testing its resistance before pulling it back slowly, forcing your chin up.

“Look at me,” she demanded.

You obeyed, wide eyes locked onto hers.

“Do you want this?” The question was ridiculous, you knew. Agatha seemed to know it too.

You tried.

Tried to find something within yourself that was only yours—something untouched by them, something that wasn’t a reflection of what they expected you to be.

Somewhere you could see your own reflection, not the perfect doll they had chosen to weave and use for their own gain.

But where was it?

What was left of you before Agatha and Rio? Before the touches that shaped your skin, before the words that slipped into your mind like promises too sweet to refuse? Before you learned to see your own will as something small, insignificant, compared to what they demanded of you?

It was hard to say.

Because, without the choker, you felt exposed. As if something essential had been torn away. The absence of the accessory weighed more than its presence ever should have.

It didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t right.

And yet, when Agatha fastened the new collar around your neck, something in you settled.

The leather was thicker, heavier. Made to hold you better. To keep you contained and obedient.

You should hate this.

You should...

But then, she asked again:

“Do you want this?”

Her voice was pure silk, but her gaze was iron.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Your stomach twisted.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

You should hate this.

Feel disgusted and repulsed.

But you were on your knees, surrendered to something you shouldn’t feel guilty for. And yet, you did.

This was a game.

A game where they knew all the rules.

A game where, every time you tried to resist, they pulled you back so hard that even the mere act of fighting seemed ridiculous.

As if trying to escape was just a performance you staged for yourself—to pretend you still had a choice.

The truth burned on your tongue, but you refused to let it out. Because admitting you wanted it was admitting you needed it.

And admitting you needed it was admitting that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t know who you were without it anymore.

And if you were nothing without it?

The thought sickened you.

And thrilled you.

And consumed you.

Agatha’s gaze never left yours. As if she already knew the answer before you even found it within yourself. As if she was simply waiting for you to accept it.

Because deep down, they had already won.

The leather brushed against your skin, tight enough to remind you it was there.

Rio’s cold fingers slid over your nape, moving slowly up to your jaw, tilting your face as if you were something precious.

As if you belonged to them.

And maybe you did.

Your heart pounded.

Breath short.

The knot in your chest tightened.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run.

But more than anything, you wanted to kneel and never have to think about it again.

The words escaped. Low. Weak. Almost unrecognizable.

“Yes.”

Agatha smiled.

Slow. Triumphant.

Rio sighed, as if she had just heard something inevitable.

“That's a good girl,” she murmured, and the shiver that ran down your spine was uncontrollable.

And there, in that moment, in that silence laden with everything you could no longer deny.

You knew.

You knew that, no matter how much you tried to deceive yourself, no matter how much you fought against it.

You needed this.

"You disrespected us today," Agatha continued, her fingers sliding to the base of the chain, toying with the cold metal. "You let a stranger plant doubts in your little idiot head. Doubts about us."

Rio knelt beside you, her hand resting on your thigh in a way that should have been comforting, but only made your body vibrate with anxiety.

"And that," Rio added, her voice low, "can’t happen again, can it, pet?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but before you could make a sound, Agatha pulled the chain back in a precise, short motion—a sudden reminder of who was in control.

You gasped, your eyes welling with tears.

"It can't," you whispered, your desperate eyes seeking them, seeking their approval. You were already feeling enchanted by their aura.

You saw Rio step closer, standing in front of you while your knees burned, aching from the position.

“That missed you, little thing,” she said, looking down at you.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. But instinctively, your gaze dropped. Her perfect feet.

The scar.

The tattoo.

The damn tattoo.

Faded black roses. Wilted.

They looked… dead.

Your mouth watered at the sight of them in this state. As if, suddenly, your life's mission was to keep them alive and well, blooming as they should.

To keep them alive.

To make them flourish.

"Come on—" She moved her foot, and you followed it with your eyes. "Pet."

That was enough.

Your tongue attacked the woman’s foot, tracing the weak lines, and it was incredible how you could feel it pulse beneath your tongue.

Your tongue glided over her foot without hesitation, following the faded contours of the roses. You felt something pulse under your tongue.

Something alive.

Rio threw her head back, lips parting in a drawn-out sigh.

You were lost in her.

The texture of her skin beneath your tongue, the way Rio’s muscles tensed and relaxed with every glide. The taste, the heat, the weight of her against your absurd devotion.

Rio leaned on Agatha, her delicate fingers digging into the other woman’s forearm as her breath came out in a satisfied sigh.

And then it happened.

The tattoo vibrated.

A shiver ran down your spine, a hot, wet shock between your legs. You felt it. You felt when the roses filled with color again, when the lines became strong, alive, blooming beneath your tongue.

It was insane.

It was magic.

It was them.

And it was you.

Agatha watched everything with sharp eyes, a satisfied smile curling at the corner of her lips. She knew what was happening. She always knew.

Rio sighed, fingers playing with your hair.

"Just like that. Good girl," she murmured, her voice low and indulgent.

And that was enough.

Your chest swelled with warm pleasure, a contentment so deep it was almost ridiculous. You should feel ashamed. Humiliated. Outraged for having been molded to this point.

But you didn’t even get a chance to breathe. Steps behind you, and then—your vision was taken from you.

The black satin blindfold heightened every sound: Agatha’s lazy steps on the wooden floor, the rustle of Rio’s silk nightgown as she knelt, the involuntary whimper that escaped your throat when the leash on your collar was pulled.

"Foolish girl," Agatha whispered, the surface of the riding crop sliding along your collarbone. "Did you really think you could keep secrets from us?"

The first strike came without warning—a sharp snap against your thighs that made your back arch, fingers clenching against the velvet cuffs.

"Fuck!" you cried out before the pain even faded, the protocol ingrained in your body. “I’m sorry.”

Rio laughed, low and husky, her hands firm on your hips. "So quick to humiliate yourself today. Do you really think forgiveness will come that fast?"

You felt something hard and pointed brush against your entrance.

Agatha leaned in, her cold lips ghosting over your ear as the crop teased your stomach. "Repeat after me: Thank you for correcting me, mommies."

"Th-thank you for—" The second strike cut off your words, this time across your back, leaving a trail of fire.

"Louder," Rio commanded, pushing her fingers into your flesh.

Your eyes rolled back as her long fingers hit the softest, most vulnerable spot inside you.

God… You were so fucked.

"THANK YOU FOR CORRECTING ME, MOMMIES!" Your voice rang out, soaked and desperate, mingling with the creak of the chains.

Agatha licked the sweat pooling between your breasts. "Good girl." The reward was brief—the crop hooked under your right thigh, pulling it open. "Now… let’s deal with that traitorous tongue."

Rio didn’t wait. She thrust the strap-on into you in one movement, the cold rubber stretching your already sensitive entrance. You screamed, but the sound was swallowed by Agatha’s ravenous kiss—teeth, tongue, possession.

"Count," she ordered between bites, the crop dancing over your clit. "How many times did you think about her when you should’ve been thinking about us?"

"N-never, I swear—" The lie crumbled as Rio quickened her pace, each thrust hitting the spot that made your vision blur.

Fuck.

How could you make them understand that Alice meant nothing?

"Tsk, tsk." Agatha yanked your hair until your vertebrae protested. "Little lies make the Devil giggle, little one." The crop lashed against your thighs in a waltz rhythm—one for guilt, two for betrayal, three for being such a perfect little slut for them.

"Please!" You no longer knew if you were begging for mercy or for more.

The black rubber invaded you with machine-like precision—unyielding, relentless. Your teeth clenched on nothing, but Agatha captured your chin, forcing your lips to mold around her clit like a sacred relic.

"More," Rio hissed, fingers branding your hips in wine-colored bruises.

You obeyed. Agatha was salty and hot, her juices dripping onto the fabric until they reached your lips. She gripped your nape, guiding your tongue to her swollen clit with a surgeon’s precision.

"There," she purrs, fingers tangling in your hair like a crown of thorns. "Take Mommy."

Agatha’s riding crop finds its mark—your clit—just as Rio thrusts deeper inside you. Pain and pleasure fuse into cruel alchemy. You moan against Agatha, the vibration wrenching a ragged gasp from her.

"So easy," Rio laughs, leaning down to spit on your marked-up back. "Three strokes in and you’re already gaping like a bitch in heat."

Agatha yanks your head back by the blindfold, exposing your trembling throat. "Confess," she orders, the leather of the crop resting against your jugular. "How many nights did you finger this dirty little cunt thinking of her?"

"N-never! I only—"

The strap drives home. Your scream drowns in Rio’s roar: "LIAR!"

Agatha slides off the bed, dragging you up by the hair until you’re forced to face her vanity mirror.

"Look," she commands, wrenching your chin into place.

Your reflection is a grotesque masterpiece—lips swollen from desperate clit-sucking, ass striped red, eyes puffy with shame and ecstasy. "This is what you are. Our desperate little whore."

Rio moves behind you, cold chain links clicking as she curls her fingers further into the leash, pulling against it.

"Repeat," she growls, tightening the leather and snapping her hips forward. "I only live to serve my Mommies."

The words spill out of you, effortless, uncontrollable:

"O-only... live... to—" The first tremors of orgasm hit, forcing Rio to still. "Serve my Mommies."

Agatha kneels, catching your collapse in arms that somehow soothe even as they cage you. "Shhh, our dumb little girl," she murmurs, tongue swiping your tears. "We’ll fix you. Every night. Until there’s nothing left that isn’t ours."

Agatha mounts you again, her tongue ready to receive you in the best way.

Rio resumes pounding into you. "Don’t you dare come yet, slut!" Her fingers pinch your clit, wrenching a scream from you. "We’ve got all night."

Agatha’s thighs clamp around your head, deliberately smothering you, dragging her slick folds over your face.

Marking you.

Owning you.

"That’s it, pet."

She grinds down, turning your mouth into her personal toy. You choke, lips sealing instinctively around her swollen clit, licking in frantic, messy strokes as Rio hammers into you from behind.

"No." Rio grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze back to the mirror. "See what a desperate mess you are? Even after knowing we’re just using you. You love this, don’t you?"

Fuck.

Fat tears roll as you gag on Agatha’s pussy.

You don’t love this.

…Do you?

Rio’s strap rams your G-spot with surgical precision. You shriek, but the sound muffles against Agatha’s wet flesh.

"Wanna come, don’t you?" Rio hisses, twisting your nipple until you arch. "Say it. Say you’re our personal fucktoy."

Fuck.

No!

Your body betrays you, legs shaking violently beneath them.

"I—I’m—" The orgasm builds, but Rio stops abruptly, leaving you dangling on the edge.

Agatha releases your face just long enough to study you—cheeks flushed, mouth drooling, utterly wrecked.

"Open, little one." The command is soft, but you obey instantly, tongue lolling out like a dumb, eager pet.

You’re a fucking mess.

"Look at you…" Agatha sounds almost awed—before spitting directly into your open mouth. "Your whole existence is just a hole for us to use. Isn’t it?"

No!

But your body nods wildly, delirious, as Rio’s fingers circle your throbbing clit. "Yes! I am! I’m just that! Please—!"

"And you don’t even care, do you?" Rio punctuates each word with a brutal thrust. "About any of it."

You know exactly what she means. God. You couldn’t give less of a shit right now.

Fuck your freedom.

Fuck your pride.

You just want—

"Fuck! No! I don’t care if you’re witches or whatever the fuck! Please, Mommies!" You devour Agatha’s pussy like a starved animal.

"Oh. Fuck! Mommy’s coming, honey." Agatha grinds harder, a long, loud moan tearing from her throat.

"Christ. You’re so fucking perfect! Our perfect little hole!" Rio’s hips slam into you, frantic, desperate for her own release.

You hear wet sounds above you—them kissing, filthy and deep—and fuck, you don’t know how long you’ve been trapped here. You’re insane. So insane you might’ve hallucinated their whispered chant:

Quod semel cepimus

Numquam reddetur.

Your mind whites out. Legs twitch uncontrollably.

"Come." Rio orders just as Agatha lifts her hips, letting you gasp for air.

You explode, gushing onto the floor, splattering both women. Your body convulses like a puppet with cut strings.

You tremble.

Muscles scream. Knees ache. Nothing matters but her taste on your tongue, the phantom throb of Rio’s tattoo against your lips.

Rio stares down at you, eyes gleaming with something unreadable—lust, ownership, something darker.

"You’re pathetic." Her voice is rough, savoring each syllable. But there’s pride there. Sick, satisfied pride, curling in your chest like a well-cast spell.

Her fingers slide along your jaw, prying your lips apart. Two fingers, slick with you, push into your mouth without warning.

"But ours," she murmurs, indulgent, cruel. "Only ours."

Your mind spins. You should hate this. Should burn with shame at how easily you break for them. But something stronger than disgust wins.

Need.

The animal, visceral need to belong.

"Understood?"

The question is quiet. Heavy.

You nod. Not because you want to, but because your human shell is too fragile to refuse.

"Yes, Mama." Your voice is a broken whisper.

Then—darkness.

You don’t choose sleep. Your body gives out, exhausted, consumed. Their commands still echo in your skull, tangled with magic and pleasure and worship.

You don’t know if it’s love, spells, or pure conditioning.

But one truth remains:

You need them.

[...]

Your awakening was painful.

Your eyes burned under the sharp rays of light. Your body was exhausted, your mind clouded, as if still trapped in the echoes of the previous night.

Every muscle ached, but you couldn't tell whether it was from physical fatigue or the confusion pulsing inside you.

The silence was thick when you walked into the kitchen.

They were there.

Rio stirred a cup of tea absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on the steaming liquid, while Agatha, leaning against the counter, ran her fingers over her own wrist, as if feeling something beneath her skin.

Neither of them spoke when you sat down. Neither of them looked at you right away.

But your food was already served.

The fruit, cut into small, easy-to-eat pieces. The pancakes, soft and golden, drizzled with syrup. You blinked, taking a second to notice the childish drawing on their surface—a sad face.

Without meaning to, you let out a small laugh.

Rio lifted her gaze. A faint smile threatened to appear at the corner of her lips, but she suppressed it too quickly for you to be sure you had seen it. Agatha, on the other hand, simply tilted her head, watching you as if analyzing something under a microscope.

“Eat,” was all she said.

And you obeyed.

The syrup was too sweet on your tongue, an odd contrast to the tension in the air. As you chewed, your eyes wandered around the room.

That’s when you saw it.

Your clothes, folded to perfection over the couch in the living room. Pressed, neatly arranged, carefully set aside for you to wear. The kind of gesture you should be used to—but one that made your heart slam against your ribs.

If you were nothing more than a meal to them...

Then why all this care?

The question wrapped itself around your mind like a thorn. You knew the logical answer. Manipulation, control, a trap disguised as kindness.

But your chest burned with a truth far more complicated, one you didn’t want to name.

Because part of you liked it.

Liked being taken care of.

Liked the unsettling sense of belonging that came with it.

You lowered your gaze to the pancakes, as if they held the answers. The sad face was still there, staring back at you.

Silence stretched for a few more seconds, until Rio stood up and walked to the sink. She passed behind you, and suddenly, her hand closed around the back of your neck.

A brief squeeze. A touch that was almost casual.

Almost.

Her fingers slid down your nape, light enough to make your skin prickle, firm enough not to be ignored. The gesture carried a strange weight—something between danger and tenderness, something that felt as much like a promise as it did a warning.

You couldn’t tell which scared you more.

A warm touch at the top of your head, gentle but heavy with a meaning that slipped through your fingers like sand.

Her scent followed, and before you could stop yourself, you breathed it in. Earthy, damp, like soil after rain, like something ancient and deeply rooted.

Comforting.

You didn’t want to leave.

"Eat, sweetheart," the whisper came so close it brushed your skin, warm and unsteady. "Aggie wants to leave early."

The words said little. The voice said everything.

You lifted your gaze.

And met hers.

So brown. So deep. Now that you knew Rio wasn’t human—and maybe she never had been. But now, looking into her eyes, something stirred inside you.

There was something there.

They shimmered in a way that felt wrong, moisture gathering at the edges, barely perceptible. A treacherous fragility for someone like her.

As if she were offering you a wordless secret, a part of herself that should never be revealed.

But what?

You swallowed hard, nodding, unsure of what to say.

And breakfast went on.

[...]

The car glided smoothly through the still-sleeping streets of the city. The overcast sky painted everything in shades of gray, as if the day itself hesitated to fully arrive.

Agatha drove unhurriedly.

Unhurriedly, but also without a single word.

Silence wasn’t unusual between you—but today, it felt... heavier.

The low hum of the engine and the distant sound of tires against the asphalt were the only things filling the space between you.

The radio was off, and Agatha made no effort to break the silence—not with idle remarks, nor with one of those sharp observations that always caught you off guard.

She just drove.

And thought.

Her gaze was fixed on the road, but there was something in the way her fingers tensed around the steering wheel, in the deeper-than-usual crease between her brows.

What was she worried about?

You found yourself watching her reflection in the window—the locked jaw, the careful rise and fall of her chest, as if she were controlling each breath.

Agatha rarely let anything show.

But now…

There was something there.

And you decided to test it.

“Why do you want to get there early today?” Your voice was measured, casual enough not to seem intrusive.

You didn’t look at her, keeping your eyes on the scenery passing by the window, as if the answer wasn’t burning beneath your skin.

An invisible knot tightened in the air, thick as the charged stillness before a storm.

Maybe you shouldn’t have broken that silence. Not while Agatha hadn’t yet decided whether she wanted to share it with you.

The car kept moving, tires gliding over the asphalt in steady rhythm. The moment stretched.

And then—

“I need to talk to Wanda.”

Sharp. Unyielding.

The kind of response that cut off any possibility of further questions.

There wasn’t even a glance exchanged.

You simply leaned back against the seat, letting out a slow breath.

But something inside you stirred.

Why?

Why Wanda?

Why now?

You didn’t ask.

But you kept wondering.

The studio felt like a minefield.

Costume designers rushed past, technicians spoke in hushed tones, and the assistant directors seemed to shrink every time Agatha walked by.

She was in a bad mood.

Not the explosive kind, with yelling or slamming doors—no. The worst kind. The silent, razor-sharp kind, like a blade being twirled between fingers.

And everyone knew that when Agatha Harkness was like this, mistakes were not an option.

You watched from the corner, holding your breath every time someone missed a mark or took a second too long to adjust the lighting. Her energy dominated the set—suffocating, unpredictable.

“This is garbage.”

Her voice sliced through the air like a scalpel, making the director of photography flinch. She hadn’t raised her tone, but it was enough to make everyone freeze.

The monitor displayed the last take. Agatha skimmed the scene and let out a low, dangerous laugh.

“You expect me to believe this is cinema?”

Silence.

The producers exchanged glances, dreading the moment her merciless gaze would land on them.

She stepped forward, snatched the assistant director’s clipboard, and held it up, flipping through the notes with open disdain.

“A masterpiece,” she murmured, each syllable dripping with irony. “Truly worthy of the big screen. Maybe even an award.” She turned her eyes to the director. “What’s the new category again? Oh. Best pathetic attempt at capturing the human experience?”

The director opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“No, no,” Agatha continued, turning back to the screen. “Maybe ‘Best Waste of Time and Money.’ What do you think, honey?”

She turned… to you.

You froze.

Her gaze found yours the moment the words left her lips, and you knew there was no way out.

“Do you think I’m overreacting?” she teased, tilting her head. “Tell me—what did you see in that scene?”

Your mouth went dry. Everyone was staring.

You swallowed hard, trying to choose your words.

“Uh… I think it could have more… intensity. The lighting could be a bit darker because—”

Agatha blinked, a lopsided smirk playing on her lips.

“Intensity,” she repeated. “Intensity, of course. But tell me, darling, how do you add intensity to a corpse?”

She turned to the actors on set, who barely dared to breathe.

“Because that’s what I see here,” she went on, her eyes sharp as blades. “Walking corpses. No one believes what they’re doing. And if you don’t believe it, how do you expect the audience to?”

She strolled slowly toward one of the supporting actresses—one of Wanda’s coven witches. She was young but already had a name in Hollywood. And she had never. Never worked with Agatha before. The poor woman? She was already pale.

“I should be feeling something,” Agatha murmured, gaze challenging. “I should be shivering, devastated. But instead, all I can think is…” She paused, pretending to reflect. “I wonder if the coffee’s ready in my dressing room.”

The actress lowered her eyes, mortified.

The silence grew even heavier.

You felt trapped in her line of sight.

As if, at any moment, she might decide the next unforgivable failure would come from you.

Agatha sighed and dropped the clipboard onto the table with a dry thud.

“Reshoot,” she ordered, impatient. “And this time, try to make me feel… anything.”

She turned to leave—but stopped beside you.

Leaning in slightly, just enough for her voice to be a warm whisper against your skin.

“And you,” she drawled, “stop hiding from me.”

She pulled away before you could respond—but left something burning inside you.

"Witch!"

The word sliced through the air like a rusted blade, heavy with hatred and fear.

"Burn her!"

The chorus swelled, deafening, as the villagers raised their torches. Flames danced like hungry serpents, reflected in wide, frenzied eyes, alight with fury and terror. A swarm of shadows thrashed beneath the fire’s flickering glow.

And at the center of it all—

Wanda.

Alone. Her dress tattered, hair wild, skin smeared with ash and dirt. Her gaze fixed ahead, not truly seeing.

Was it fear?

Or something much deeper, something far more dangerous?

Her fingers trembled, hesitant, as if every part of her resisted the inevitability of the moment.

But something was growing there.

Something no one else could see.

The air pulsed around her, as if the earth itself was holding its breath.

She raised her hand.

The villagers screamed.

"Witch!"

A piece of wood was hurled. It struck her leg, and Wanda staggered, gasping, shoulders locked with tension.

You held your breath.

Was it just acting?

Or was it truly happening?

The wind shifted. The torches’ flames wavered, flickering uncertainly. Ash and dust swirled around the village like a storm on the verge of eruption.

Wanda closed her eyes.

The director made a hurried gesture, expecting her to resume.

But she didn’t move.

Above the set, the rigging that held her in place seemed unsteady, groaning against the metal framework. But… what if she didn’t need them?

You could feel Agatha watching.

Her presence burned—piercing, calculating.

Measuring every reaction. Measuring Wanda.

Because Agatha already knew.

Wanda’s eyes snapped open.

And you knew this wasn’t just acting.

The village's screams grew louder, angrier. A man, his face twisted with rage, lifted a torch.

"Burn her alive!"

The air around her twisted, as if reality itself was fracturing. A single second of absolute silence fell over everything.

Chaos.

Wanda.

Bodies were flung back like ragdolls. Bones cracked—a dry, sickening sound swallowed by horrified cries.

Fire spread as if it had a will of its own, climbing walls, devouring thatched rooftops, swallowing the villagers’ screams before they could escape.

Wanda floated in midair. Scarlet energy pulsed around her, forcing everyone to bow before her. The glow of her power was so intense that you squinted, struggling to tell if it was special effects… or real.

Her eyes burned, crimson darkness expanding around her like a bloody eclipse. Her hair lifted, caught in an unseen storm.

What had once been fear had transformed into something else.

Acceptance.

"On your knees." Wanda’s voice reverberated through the air, thick with power, with something primal. "Before your goddess."

She lifted her hands to the sky, and a scarlet bolt tore through the heavens.

The blue was swallowed by red. The world burned at her command.

The villagers screamed. Ran. Fell to their knees, pleading for mercy.

But Wanda didn’t blink.

Hell had been born from her hands.

The scent of charred flesh and smoke thickened the air, suffocating.

And then, silence.

Only the crackling of flames remained.

And Agatha’s gaze, sharp, piercing.

She clapped. Slowly.

"Cut."

Her voice dripped like poisoned silk.

"Wanda Maximoff," she tilted her head, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. "You do know how to put on a show, don’t you, dear?"

Everyone on set seemed frozen.

Except Wanda.

And Agatha.

They stared at each other.

And you realized, a chill running down your spine, that maybe this scene was far more than just a performance.

"Good work, everyone!" Agatha called out, signaling that they were done.

You watched as your colleagues rushed to leave—escaping the oppressive atmosphere, the suffocating aura—and you followed, stealing a glance toward the center of the set—where Wanda and Agatha spoke in hushed tones.

But there was something there.

Something you didn’t want to stay long enough to find out.

Lunch weighed heavily in your stomach, and the heat of the set only made everything more exhausting. You needed a break. A brief moment away from the lights, the cameras, the strange energy that still lingered in the air after the main scene with Wanda.

With a sigh, you stepped out of the studio. You needed air, to feel the afternoon sun on your face and the crisp breeze of late autumn.

Your footsteps echoed against the ground. The noise around you began to fade as you walked away—the murmurs of the crew adjusting cameras, the clinking of equipment being carried.

But the silence that settled around you wasn’t a relief.

It was oppressive.

Your body still carried the aches and marks from yesterday.

You swallowed hard, the memory burning in your mind like a brand. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was the unspoken warning.

Agatha’s gaze, sharp as a razor. Rio’s lazy smile, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking before you even tried to hide it.

You had made a mistake.

Doubting them.

Speaking too much.

Trusting too much.

Now, you knew better.

They were witches. Or at least… something close to it. You didn’t want to think about it any further.

You didn’t want to face the questions gnawing at your mind since it all began. You were part of something, yes.

But what, exactly?

And more importantly… could you get out of it?

Did you want to?

The wind blew, carrying a distant scent of red smoke and something sweet, almost sickening. Your heart pounded inside your chest. You clenched your fists, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.

It was just paranoia, right?

Right?

Then—

Something covered your mouth.

Warm, firm hands.

The scream died in your throat as your eyes were covered. Everything turned to darkness. Your body thrashed instinctively, but it was useless. The grip was unyielding.

And then, red threads emerged in the dark.

Red like blood. Like fire. Like witchcraft.

They danced in your vision, glowing and twisting like living serpents. You tried to scream, but no sound came out. Panic clawed up your throat, your heart hammering in a wild rhythm.

Until the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You felt the world distort around you, a strange numbness pulling your consciousness away. As if you were being ripped out of reality.

Your body grew weightless.

Your mind, hazy.

And before you could understand what was happening—

Everything went black.

The numbness still weighed on your body when your eyes opened.

The first thing you saw was Wanda.

Seated in front of you, legs crossed, an expression of boredom fixed on you.

Confusion took hold before fear even had a chance. You tried to move, to open your eyes fully and figure out where you were.

Your heart pounded.

The room still had the same baby pink paint and the uncomfortable spring mattress of your old bed. It smelled of mold, as if the space had been locked away for a long time.

No. No. No.

This couldn’t be happening.

You were in your old bedroom. In WestView.

Panic twisted into anger.

“What.The.Fuck.Is.This?” you snarled, pushing yourself up, rage flashing in your teeth.

Wanda smirked, watching your despair the way someone watches an animal caught in a trap.

“The little wild puppy is awake, I see…”

Her voice carried something almost amused, but her green eyes—her green eyes were cold, void.

You tried to stand, but your muscles were still weak. The numbness still clung to you like invisible chains, dragging you down.

Your room.

Your goddamn room.

The same suffocating space where you grew up, where you spent sleepless nights dreaming of escaping this town, of never coming back.

And yet—here you were.

“How…?” Your voice faltered. You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “How did I get here?” Your hands ran through your hair, trying to fix your appearance—your ego, in front of Wanda. “We’re thousands of miles away from Los Angeles.”

She sighed dramatically, rising from the chair and pacing the room with her hands behind her back, like she was analyzing the tacky decor she never liked.

“I think the real question is why you’re here.” She turned, crossing her arms. “And I could answer that, but… You already know the answer, don’t you?”

Your stomach turned.

Yes. You knew.

“I know everything.” Your voice came out firm, cutting. “My friends told me.”

Wanda arched a brow, a lazy smirk curling at her lips.

“Of course they did.” She tilted her head, watching your reaction. “Who do you think told them?”

The shock hit like a punch to the gut.

What?

I couldn't help it, yes, I let it get in

The helpless optimism of spring

Worn out and tired, and my heart near retired

And the world bent double from weeping

And yet, the birds begin to sing

She laughed, low, a sound dripping with pure disdain.

“Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you actually think little kids like you could uncover something we’ve kept hidden for centuries.”

The word cut deep.

Centuries.

That was it.

They weren’t just older. They were ancient. Too old for you to even begin to comprehend.

Your body thrummed at the realization, though you knew it shouldn’t.

Daffodil

Daffodil

You cleared your throat, trying to focus on the possible danger you were in.

“This—”

“Did you drink that?” Wanda interrupted abruptly.

What?

Drink?

You blinked, your mind still catching up.

Oh. Right. The dark liquid in the old, elegant flask.

“No,” you admitted, your voice weaker than you would’ve liked. “I… I was scared.”

Her change was instant. The smirk vanished. Her face hardened.

She growled.

“Those little shits… I told them to make sure you drank every last drop.”

Your body tensed.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

What—

Okay. Alright. So you were being played by everyone?

Is that it?

Your lips trembled.

So… Professor Calderu chose Alice as your partner on purpose? Alice knew? Since when?

Thick tears welled at the corners of your eyes.

“Why are you…” Your voice trembled, weak, choked by the threat of tears. You tried to continue, but your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, refusing to form the words. “Doing this?”

You didn’t want to know.

Didn’t want to hear it.

But Wanda smiled.

“Why do you think?” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting with something unreadable.

Then she laughed.

“Beauty. Fame. Success. Youth.”

Each word fell like a sharp blade.

The air grew heavier.

I'm not bad, I'm not good

I drank every sky that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Your chest tightened, and a part of you begged for her to stop. To make this not be real.

But Wanda sighed, running her fingers through her red hair, impatient.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Her voice dropped, but it wasn’t any less cruel. “We’ve spent centuries trapped in the same damn story. Burned. Hanged. Hunted. Killed.”

Your stomach churned.

“Then Rio told us about the sources. We found out there was a way to break the cycle.” Her eyes flickered for a moment, but the hardness returned almost instantly. “And that’s when we realized the truth. No one would ever do anything for us. If we wanted to survive, if we wanted a chance at something better, we had to fend for ourselves.”

She stepped closer.

“Don’t worry.” Her tone was almost… gentle. “You weren’t the first.”

And then her smile widened, cruel.

“And you won’t be the last.”

Her words struck like a blade, knocking the air from your lungs. The silence that followed was deafening.

Daffodil

Daffodil

Daffodil

Daffodil

A knot formed in your throat, heavy, suffocating.

“You used me.” Your voice was quiet.

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Wanda blinked slowly. And then, she laughed. A sharp sound, like shattering glass.

“Used you?”

She tilted her head, studying you like a predator examining trapped prey.

“Oh, sweet child… I wish I had that privilege.”

Your body went still.

“But Agatha and Rio didn’t let that happen, did they?” Her tone was reflective now, almost distracted.

She started pacing the room, as if organizing her own thoughts.

We practice resurrection every night

Raising the dead under the moonlight

And in the gloaming, I start to cry

You're a perfect pearl hung in the sky

“It was supposed to be like it always was,” she murmured. “Like it has been for centuries.”

Wanda stopped.

Turned to you.

And smiled.

“But instead of enchanting you to drain you like they should have, they made you their little personal plaything.”

The floor disappeared beneath you.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your breath erratic. The horror crawled down your spine like ice.

No.

They weren’t just draining you.

They were shaping you.

Like a gem.

Your obedience. Your submission.

With every touch. Every command. Every look.

The air seemed to vibrate around you, an unbearable mix of fear and something else.

Something darker. Something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

The weight of the lock pendant pressed against your chest, a reminder that you were never really free.

You were never just you.

You were always theirs.

There is no bad, there is no good

I drank all the blood that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Your body was trembling—out of hatred, out of confusion, out of something warm growing inside you, seeping through the cracks Agatha and Rio had carved into your soul.

Because they hadn’t split you apart.

They hadn’t let anyone else touch you.

Not Wanda, not Lilia—your partners for centuries.

And what was supposed to be absolute horror, what should have made your stomach turn and your legs buckle in terror...

Fuck.

It turned you on as a fuck.

Her words, sharp as razors, cut into you, but they also held you in place. As if everything was falling into place in some sick, inevitable way.

Daffodil

Daffodil

Daffodil

Daffodil

Your heart pounded against your chest, each beat sending waves of heat down to your trembling legs.

“Oh.” Wanda narrowed her eyes, leaning in slightly. “So now you understand what is the problem here.”

You wanted to deny it.

Wanted to spit in her face, scream that it was a lie, that this had nothing to do with what you felt. With what you were.

But the heat crawling over your skin, pulsing between your legs, said otherwise.

The possession.

The absolute certainty that Agatha and Rio had claimed you as theirs.

English sun, she has come

To kiss my face and tell me I'm that chosen one

A generation soaked in grief

We're drying out and hanging on by the skin of our teeth

Your chest clenched with a twisted pleasure, and before you could stop it, a crooked smile tugged at your lips.

Small.

Unconscious.

Wrong.

I never thought it would get this far

This somewhat drunken joke

Sometimes, I see so much beauty

I don't think that I can cope

Wanda saw it.

And she smiled too, but hers was different. Colder. Crueler.

“They ruined you, didn’t they?” the redhead murmured, stepping closer.

She raised her hand, the light touch of her finger tracing the padlock pendant resting on your chest.

Heavy. Almost suffocating.

“You smell like them.” Her voice dripped over your skin like venom. “Rotten to me.”

Your body was warm.

Warm with shame. Warm with something you didn’t want to name.

Your fingers dug into the old sheets beneath you, as if that could anchor you to reality.

There is no bad, there is no good

I drank every sky that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Wanda grabbed your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

Her green eyes glowed, intense, unrelenting, burning something inside you that you weren’t sure you wanted to put out.

“And that,” she said, “cannot happen.”

Your body stiffened.

What?

“We need to take it out of you.”

The air grew thick.

Your stomach twisted.

Before you could speak, protest, beg, Wanda was already walking away, heading toward the door with the cruel calmness of someone who had always been in control.

Daffodil

Daffodil

Daffodil

Daffodil

She stopped at the doorway, not looking at you.

“Welcome back to WestView, darling.”

Wanda gave you an unreadable look, too mystical for you to interpret.

“Welcome home.”

Then, the door closed, and you were alone.

~*~

Here are the answers. And I don't know what to do with all this informations...

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