#it's been in my notes for a very long time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cressidagrey · 2 days ago

Text

Aquatic Adventures

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar is gone for a Double Header. Felicity builds a sanctuary.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂 I should have been writing something useful, that brings the plot forwards, but instead you get Felicity and one of. her "projects". It was very fun to write though. I am living vicariously through a character that has pretty much unlimited funds and is more productive than I could ever dream to be.

It started with Bee’s tears.

The kind that didn’t come with wailing or tantrums. No, those were easy. Manageable. A juice box, a cuddle, a nap.

But this was different.

This was the quiet, trembling-lip kind. The kind that crept up after hours of pretending she was fine. The kind that meant something had sunk deep — words or looks or loneliness that a three-year-old didn’t quite know how to explain.

Felicity sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, Bee curled into her chest like she was trying to fold herself into her mother’s ribs, breath hitching in little bursts. She smelled like sunscreen and finger paint and exhaustion.

“They didn’t want to play with me,” Bee whispered.

Felicity closed her eyes. “Baby…”

“They said my lunch was weird. And I wasn’t funny. And one boy said I was bossy. But I wasn’t even talking to him.”

Felicity kissed the top of her daughter’s head and didn’t say anything for a long time. Just rocked her, slow and rhythmic, like it would fix the cracks.

She felt that slow, cold fury spread through her chest. The quiet kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that made her want to set fire to the entire concept of “socialization” if it meant protecting her daughter

Oscar was on a double header. Back to Back races. Italy, then Monaco. He’d FaceTime in a few hours, would listen and be gentle and say all the right things.

He always did.

But right now, there was just Felicity. And Bee. And the ache in her ribs where her daughter’s grief lived.

By the time she got Bee to bed — two stories, one lullaby, and a full-body cuddle that ended with Bee curled into the duvet like a sea otter — Felicity was pacing barefoot through the kitchen.

The house was silent. The kind of silence you only got in the countryside, where the world pulled back and left you alone with your thoughts.

That had been part of the appeal.

When she and Oscar first bought the farmhouse, it had been for the space. The privacy. The outbuildings — old structures lined up like forgotten train cars behind the main house, tucked among the trees. Oscar had called them “rustic.” Felicity had called them potential.

One became hers — a workspace-slash-garage-slash-creative bunker where she could weld, sand, build, and paint without anyone breathing down her neck.

The second was the gym-slash-ballet studio-slash-sim room, because apparently their household only functioned on wildly specific, multi-use spaces. Felicity had added the barre herself. A space for her to stretch, to remember what it was like to move for herself.

A third had been left alone. It had once housed horses, long before the property had been theirs. Now it was just empty, echoing structure of exposed beams, weathered wood, and potential.

Felicity already knew what she was going to do.

The pool wasn’t a new idea — just one she’d shelved while life took priority. But now… now it felt like something necessary. Not indulgent, not aesthetic, not Pinterest-fluff luxury. No, it felt like armor. A gift. A promise.

Warm water. Floating. Movement without pressure. Gentle light. No sharp echoes. No mean boys. No group dynamics to navigate.

Just Bee. Just peace.

Felicity would build it herself if she had to.

She’d already started the mosaic months ago, half by accident. Ceramic tiles, soft sea-glass colors, arranged in what would become a leaping dolphin. It was supposed to be for a backsplash or an outdoor table. But now she knew exactly where it belonged.

She padded into the spare room that doubled as storage and gently rolled out the canvas — the dolphin, tail sweeping upward, water droplets in pale aquamarine and cobalt. She touched one of the tiles absently, her fingers steady.

Bee would love this.

She always loved dolphins. Said they were the smartest. The kindest.

That night, Felicity opened the plans she’d drawn up nearly a year ago. A fantasy project. Something she hadn’t told anyone about. Not even Oscar.

It wasn’t going to be a sleek, marble-lined infinity pool. Not some Instagram-glossy wellness sanctuary.

It was going to be Bee’s.

Quiet. Safe. Warm all year round. A sanctuary with soft lighting and temperature-controlled floors. A place where she could float and splash and forget the world existed. A pool built like a hug.

It hadn’t been real until now. But that night, with Bee’s breath soft and even in the room beside her, Felicity started making calls.

Permits. Contractors. Heating systems. A specialist in skylights.

She didn’t tell Oscar.

Not yet.

Because this wasn’t about practicality, or budget, or even architectural ambition.

It was about Bee.

It was about building something so full of love that it drowned out the noise of the world.

***

Felicity Piastri did not throw tantrums.

She’d been raised not to.

She had been born a Leong.

She had been raised to wield silence like a scalpel, money like a weapon, and intellect like a blueprint.

Felicity did not raise her voice. She did not beg. She planned.

She might have stepped away from the world she was born into — from the emerald heirlooms, the art collction, the social calendars managed by secretaries — but that world had trained her.

And when she needed it, she still spoke its language fluently.

The pool was going to be built in ten days.

Not estimated. Not quoted.

Done.

She had the property. She had the design. She had the permits already prepped — half because she liked being prepared, half because, deep down, she’d known something like this might happen.

She started with one contractor.

He told her twelve weeks minimum.

She said, “No,” and called his boss.

The boss said the same thing.

So she called someone else. Then someone else. And then she made a few international calls — to a construction firm her aunt’s interior designer once used back in the day for a rooftop terrace in Dubai.

By 8 a.m. the next morning, there were three project managers in her driveway, holding reusable coffee cups and measuring tapes.

She wielded her iPad like a weapon. Spreadsheets color-coded. Timeline stacked. Materials sourced from three different suppliers. Overnight shipping arranged. When one contractor so much as suggested that “it might be more realistic to give it a few weeks,” Felicity smiled sweetly and said:

“Would you like me to call someone else?”

Felicity didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t threaten. She negotiated.

She offered more money up front.

She offered bonuses for every milestone completed ahead of time. She cross-referenced three local contractors to cover shifts in 24-hour rotations. She arranged permits to be processed at double speed — because it turns out, local councils moved very quickly when the right legal phrasing and legacy donations were involved.

She even hired a private catering service to feed the crew.

By the second day, the old concrete had been ripped up. On day three, the beams were reinforced. On day four, the heating system was being installed and a special-order shipment of light blue tiles had landed from Italy.

Oscar texted once from Monaco asking how things were going at home.

She sent back a photo of Bee asleep in her lap and didn’t mention the fact that there were currently four men digging a trench for the overflow piping system just outside the window.

Her phone never left her side.

She paced the hallways in socks and one of Oscar’s hoodies, laptop under one arm, toddler on her hip, telling one man where to reposition the skylight and another which grout colors were acceptable and which were absolutely not.

She FaceTimed a mosaicist in Vienna to double-check adhesive drying times and personally called a logistics company in Dublin to charter a truck for the filtration system.

On day seven, she brought in fresh pastries for the entire crew and reminded the night shift foreman about the performance bonus.

On day eight, she caught one worker trying to substitute the dolphin mosaic placement.

She handed him a cappuccino and then gently, systematically, explained why that dolphin was going exactly where she wanted it — because her daughter had once drawn a picture where the dolphin was jumping just there.

The man never argued again.

By day ten, the pool was done.

And not just finished. Perfect.

Temperature-controlled. Skylit. Lined with handmade mosaic tiles. Soundproofed. A shelf for toys. A warm rinse-off shower with custom water pressure controls. A soft corner bench where Felicity could read while Bee splashed.

An oasis.

A fortress.

A love letter carved in glass, water, and tile.

***

It was quiet.

Not silent — there was a hum from the heating system, the soft ripple of water against the tile, the occasional creak of timber beams overhead — but the kind of quiet that felt sacred. Like the world had taken a step back to let them breathe.

Bee stood on the edge of the shallow shelf, wrapped in a tiny robe with a dolphin embroidered over the heart. Her hair was pulled into a lopsided ponytail, still sleep-soft, and she was clutching her purple goggles like they were a magic talisman.

She blinked up at her mother.

“This is ours?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Felicity crouched beside her, brushing a curl from her daughter’s cheek. “All ours.”

Bee took another step closer to the pool, bare toes curling against the warm tile. She was still in awe, still trying to process it, eyes wide as saucers as she took in the soft blue tiles, the underwater lights casting golden ripples across the ceiling, the dolphin mosaic swimming in joyful motion across the far wall.

“He’s jumping,” she said, pointing to the dolphin. “Like in my drawing.”

Felicity smiled. “Exactly like your drawing.”

Bee looked down at the water. Then up at Felicity. Then back again.

“Can I go in?”

Felicity didn’t answer. She just held out her arms.

Bee squealed — a real, unburdened sound — and wriggled out of her robe, revealing a bright swimsuit with little yellow fish all over it. She clambered onto the first step, then the second, and then launched herself into her mother’s waiting arms like she’d never had a bad day in her life.

The water welcomed them. Warm, clean, still.

Felicity caught her easily, arms strong, body steady as she sank into the shallow end with Bee held against her chest. Her daughter’s giggles echoed gently off the walls — not loud, not wild, just happy.

The good kind. The healing kind.

“You made this,” Bee whispered after a long moment, eyes full of wonder. “For me.”

Felicity kissed her wet hair. “For us.”

Bee kicked gently, floating with Felicity’s hands under her back. The skylight above filtered in soft afternoon light, catching in the beads of water on her cheeks.

“I don’t think it’ll ever feel bad in here,” Bee said after a while.

Felicity blinked back something sharp behind her eyes. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

Bee didn’t say anything after that. Just floated.

And Felicity, for the first time in days, let herself breathe.

She held her daughter close. She watched the light dance over the water. She ran one hand through the still-warm surface and felt the ripple carry all the way to the walls — like a promise.

They stayed there until the light changed.

Until Bee’s hair was damp and curling and her eyelids fluttered and she murmured “mama, carry” in a drowsy voice that made Felicity’s chest ache with love.

***

Oscar Piastri was used to coming home to chaos.

Not bad chaos — just the kind that came with Felicity and Bee. Small socks everywhere. A kitchen that looked like it had hosted a baking competition. Doodles taped to the fridge. A Sim rig covered in stickers. A house that was clearly lived in — loved in.

It was his favorite thing in the world.

But this time, the house was… quiet.

He rolled his suitcase down the hall and dropped his backpack by the bench in the entryway. “Fliss?”

No answer. Just the soft hum of the air vents and the smell of lavender and something faintly like salt. His brows furrowed.

He checked the kitchen — no one. The living room — empty, except for a plush dolphin wearing sunglasses.

Then he noticed it: the sliding doors at the back of the house, the ones that led toward the old stables.

One of them was slightly ajar.

Oscar stepped outside, following the faint sound of splashing water. The air was warm, windless. The gravel underfoot shifted as he walked across the path between the outbuildings.

He hadn’t been in the third one in months.

Last he checked, it was still full of unused storage crates and the old treadmill Felicity swore she’d list for pickup.

But the door was open.

He stepped inside.

Stopped.

And blinked.

The stable was gone.

In its place was a pool.

A full, glowing, indoor mosaic-lined oasis with warm lighting, soft acoustics, and — holy shit — was that a skylight!? The air was warm and damp in that gentle, spa-like way, and the walls looked like something out of an architecture magazine.

In the water, half-floating and curled together like sea otters, were his wife and daughter.

Felicity looked up first. She was sitting in the shallow end, hair braided over one shoulder, wearing one of his old t-shirts knotted at the waist and a black bikini bottom. Bee was curled into her lap, her damp curls sticking to her forehead.

Oscar blinked again. “I’ve been gone for two weeks.”

Felicity smiled. “Hi, love.”

Bee perked up immediately. “Papa!” she chirped, scrambling up and doggy-paddling to the edge like a very determined duck.

He dropped to his knees as she launched herself into his arms, wet and squealing and happy.

“We have a pool,” he said, slightly stunned.

Bee beamed. “Mama built it!”

Oscar looked past her, over her shoulder, toward Felicity — who had stood up, water lapping at her calves, and was walking over with that serene, slightly guilty expression she always wore when she’d pulled something massive off and hadn’t warned him first.

“You built a pool,” he said again, a little dazed, like repeating it might make it make more sense.

Felicity reached the edge and leaned her arms on the side, the water rippling around her. Her braid dripped onto the tiles. Her expression was unreadable — half sheepish, half composed, like she knew exactly what she’d done and was only 50% sorry.

“I had the plans ready,” she said. “And the permits. And the contractor contacts. It was going to happen eventually.”

“But you did it in… what, ten days?” Oscar looked around again, like the room might vanish. “There’s a skylight, Fliss.”

Bee, still wrapped around him like a koala, nodded helpfully. “And there’s dolphins!”

“There are dolphins,” Oscar repeated, mouth dry.

He caught sight of the mosaic — the dolphin mid-jump across the far wall, surrounded by sea-glass tiles that shimmered like actual sunlight on water.

Oscar blinked again. “Jesus Christ.”

Felicity’s smile curved slightly. “That’s not his name, love.”

Oscar just stared at her. At her damp hair, her flushed cheeks, the tiny tired lines at the corners of her eyes that only ever showed up when she’d done something monumental and wasn’t sure if she’d get away with it.

He looked at Bee, who was now patting his cheeks with both hands and saying, “It’s warm and it smells like clouds,” which made absolutely no scientific sense and somehow still felt like an accurate description.

He swallowed.

“You built a sanctuary,” he said quietly. “While I was gone.”

Felicity didn’t say anything for a moment. Just rested her chin on her arms, her eyes soft.

“She was having a hard week,” she murmured. “And I couldn’t fix the world. But I could do this.”

Oscar pressed his lips to Bee’s hair, held her closer, and closed his eyes for a second.

Then he looked back at his wife.

And said — with all the love and awe and overwhelmed, dizzy affection in the world:

“I love you so much.”

Felicity blinked. Her mouth twitched. “Even though I didn't warn you?”

“Fliss,” he said, laughing, “you built a pool. In secret. With heating and acoustics and mood lighting. For our three-year-old.”

She tilted her head. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s a hell yes,” he said. Then looked around again and added, “I mean, I thought the bathroom reno during a triple header was bold, but this…”

Bee tugged his sleeve. “Daddy? Can you come swim?”

Oscar kissed her forehead. “Absolutely, sweetheart. Just give me one second.”

He set her down gently, watched her paddle happily back to the steps, then turned to Felicity and offered a hand. She took it, confused — and he pulled her up, wet and blinking and surprised, straight into his arms.

He kissed her like they were back at Haileybury. Like she’d just walked into the common room in his hoodie and undone him with one look.

“I can’t believe you,” he said against her lips.

She smiled. “You always say that when I surprise you.”

“This isn’t a surprise. This is a Bond villain level plot twist.”

Felicity shrugged. “You married me.”

He shook his head, completely smitten. “Best decision I ever made.”

Behind them, Bee was making dolphin sounds and trying to do somersaults.

Oscar grinned, forehead resting against Felicity’s. “Next time you secretly build a swimming facility in ten days, just… I don’t know. Text me first?”

She laughed softly. “Deal.”

“Also—” He kissed her again, warm and slow. “I love you. Have I mentioned that?”

Felicity’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Not recently.”

“Right,” Oscar said. “I love you.”

Then he toed off his socks, pulled off his shirt, and cannonballed into the pool like a six-year-old.

Bee screamed with delight.

Felicity covered her face with both hands — but she was laughing.

And Oscar, floating on his back in the water she built with her bare hands and brain and fury-love, thought:

This is what home feels like.

Her. Bee. And everything they build together.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

640 notes · View notes

airybcby · 3 days ago

Note

hi!! for ur event, can i order a latte with chocolate shavings and vanilla syrup, iced, with itoshi sae? <3 (love ur writing btw)

order up!

iced latte add vanilla syrup and chocolate shavings!

જ⁀✦ truly madly deeply

( sae itoshi x reader )

♡ a/n — for my for here or to go event! find the menu here! (masterlist coming soon)

♡ word count — 4.8k

♡ content — sae itoshi x reader, really tried to write it gn! but prob gives more fem! reader, slowburn, secret crush, fluff, lowkey forbidden relationship, gets heated at times, MANY 'will they won't they' moments, maybe ooc sae? , not proofread

♡ synopsis — You had one rule when you started working for this team: No fraternizing with the players. But would you risk it all for Sae Itoshi?

── .✦ so baby say you'll always keep me

The one rule you were given when you started working with ReAL Madrid was simple.

No fraternizing with the players.

Not an official rule — not something printed in the handbook or explained in a staff meeting.

But it was understood.

Unspoken, like most important things.

Whispered during your onboarding by a senior trainer in the rehab room, punctuated with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“You’re young, you’re good at your job, and some of these guys are… well. You’ll see. Just be smart about it.”

You were smart. You were focused. Professional. Careful.

And then there was Sae Itoshi.

He wasn’t the first player you met when you joined — but he was the first to look at you like you were more than just another person in a polo shirt holding ice packs and foam rollers.

Not interested, exactly.

Just… aware. Noticing. Present.

Most of the guys — even the veterans — barely registered the new staff beyond what you could do for them. Sae didn’t say much, but his attention never wandered.

Not when you spoke. Not when you treated him.

And definitely not when you stood on the sideline during training, arms crossed, watching him finish drills with surgical precision.

He never smiled. Not at first. But he always listened.

And then, slowly, something shifted.

You’re just finishing up your notes on post-training evaluations when you feel him behind you.

He doesn’t say anything — he never does — but you’ve gotten used to the way his silence feels different from everyone else’s.

When you look up, he’s standing beside the table, fingers tapping twice on the edge like punctuation. His left shoulder is a little lower than his right. Tense.

“Same side?” you ask, already standing, already reaching for the ice.

He nods once.

You gesture toward the treatment bench. “Sit.”

He does, wordless.

The air between you is warm — the kind of warm that’s only noticeable when it’s wrapped in silence.

You don’t say much as you prep the cold pack and gently place it against the muscle, fingers brushing his skin.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, quiet as ever, those storm-colored eyes flicking once to your mouth, then back down to your hands.

You clear your throat. “You’ve been favoring this side. Want me to check your balance?”

“No,” he says.

But then, after a beat:

“…Later.”

You glance up. “Later?”

He meets your gaze for one second too long.

And then: “If it gets worse.”

Just like that, it’s gone. The moment, the pause — the quiet maybe that hung between you for half a breath.

Vanished. Like it never happened.

You try not to think too much about it. You’ve gotten very good at that lately.

The not-thinking part.

Not thinking about how he always walks straight to you after practice now.

Not thinking about how he says your name more often than he says anyone else’s.

Not thinking about how, last week, you left your jacket on the sidelines and found it later folded neatly in the equipment room — with your name tag pinned to the top, clipped there with surgical precision.

Not thinking about the protein bar.

You hadn’t mentioned you were running low. You’d just been grumbling to yourself in the corner one afternoon about a packed schedule and skipped meals.

And the next day, one sat waiting for you on your desk.

Your favorite kind. No note. No fanfare.

But you knew it was him.

Because later, after he came in for ankle recovery, he caught your eye when he left and said — totally flat, totally casual — “Eat something.”

And then walked out.

Like it didn’t mean anything.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Because nothing’s happened. There’s been no rule broken. No boundary crossed. Nothing except the quiet thrum of something unspoken.

A crush that lives in the stillness.

A feeling that grows slowly, impossibly, like grass through concrete.

You don’t let yourself want more.

You can’t.

But then there’s a match.

A hard one. Away game. Rough field, aggressive opponents, three fouls that should’ve been red cards and a shoulder collision that makes your gut twist the second you see him go down.

You’re not allowed to run onto the field unless signaled, so you don’t — you grip the metal railing and hold your breath while he gets up on his own, jaw tight, shoulder rolled back.

He finishes the game. Of course he does.

He always does.

Afterward, the locker room smells like sweat and adrenaline and faint disinfectant.

You find him sitting on the edge of the bench, jersey peeled halfway off, towel around his neck. His shoulder’s already starting to bruise.

You crouch beside him and press your fingers gently into the muscle.

He doesn’t hiss, but his breath hitches.

“I told you,” you murmur, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “You’re overcompensating. You’re going to hurt something worse if you keep—”

“I only let you treat me,” he says quietly.

Your hand stills.

You blink up at him. “…What?”

“I don’t go to the others.” His voice is low. Careful. “Only you.”

He looks at you like he’s said something important.

And for a moment — just one — you think: maybe.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe he—

“Because you’re the best at your job,” he adds, eyes flicking away.

And just like that — it’s gone again.

You look down, smiling faintly like it didn’t mean anything. Like your heart didn’t almost trip over itself trying to beat out the space between what was said and what wasn’t.

“I’m just doing my job,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

But his hand brushes yours, barely, and he doesn’t pull away.

The shift isn’t loud.

It’s not like Sae stops speaking to you — that would imply he ever spoke much to begin with. But there is something. Something so small, so quiet, it might not have registered at all if you hadn’t already memorized the weight of his presence.

Before, he used to come in twice a week. Sometimes more. It wasn’t always necessary — his reports were clean, and his body was frustratingly disciplined, like he could command it into balance just by thinking.

Still, he’d show up during cooldowns. Even when there was nothing urgent, he’d let you stretch his shoulders or work through soft tissue stiffness along his hip.

Now, it’s only once a week. Standard check-ins. Just enough to tick the box.

You wouldn’t notice the difference, maybe, if it were someone else. But Sae… Sae never did anything without reason.

And this, whatever this is — it feels deliberate.

You don’t ask, of course.

You’re still a professional. You still keep your reports up to date, your voice neutral, your expression unreadable when he walks past you on the training pitch without looking your way.

But it stings. Not like a cut. Not like something sharp and dramatic.

It stings like cold. Like the moment you realize the sun’s gone behind a cloud and you didn’t notice until the warmth left your skin.

The next time he shows up — a Thursday afternoon, damp and hazy — he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He slides onto the table, rolls up his sleeve. You go through the motions.

Ice. Wrap. Recheck. Done.

“Anything else?” you ask, soft but flat.

He shakes his head once.

And then he leaves.

To everyone else, it feels normal.

It’s just Sae. Quiet. Efficient. Detached. His usual self.

But you know better. Not because you have proof — there are no messages left on read, no flirtations ghosted midair — but because for the first time in a long time, he feels like everyone else.

It settles in your stomach like a stone.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That it can’t possibly be the reason you think it is. That you're being ridiculous. Unprofessional.

You never flirted. You never hoped. You were careful.

But that doesn't change the way your chest feels too still whenever his name shows up on the schedule. Like you're holding your breath without realizing.

And it definitely doesn’t explain why you find yourself waiting — not for him, of course not — but for something. A moment. A look. Something you can't name and aren’t allowed to want.

That night, you stay late finishing notes.

The room is quiet. The hum of the fridge. The sharp click of your pen. The occasional thud of a soccer ball being kicked around outside — late stragglers doing drills on their own.

You glance toward the door once. Then again.

But no one comes in.

Especially not him.

And for the first time since you started this job, the silence doesn’t feel like peace.

It feels like missing something.

Something you were never supposed to have in the first place.

Thursday comes again, and so does the quiet.

It’s been three weeks since he started keeping distance. Three weeks of one-a-week sessions. Three weeks of pretending not to notice the absence where once there was almost something.

You see him during practice. Of course you do — his movements are unmistakable, all clean geometry and unshakable focus. You’re good at pretending. You wave when he passes with the others, smile when it’s polite to. He never breaks rhythm.

And you keep telling yourself it’s nothing.

That this is how he is with everyone. That you misread the silence — that it never held anything warm to begin with.

But then he walks in that afternoon.

And you forget how to breathe for just a second.

He’s early.

Not by much, but enough that you notice — just a few minutes before his usual slot, with damp hair and a neutral expression. He closes the door behind him like always. He doesn’t look around, doesn’t shuffle awkwardly. Just walks to the bench and sits, rolling up the left sleeve of his training kit without a word.

You look at him. Then at the clock. Then back at him again.

“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” you say, light. You pick up the cold pack and start to wrap his shoulder. “Missed you in here.”

You mean it as a joke.

But not really.

There’s a pause. A beat.

Sae looks straight ahead and says, completely deadpan, “I’m here.”

It knocks the wind out of you, a little. Not because it’s cruel. But because it’s honest.

You blink. Let out a small laugh, trying to shake it off. “Right. You are.”

You pat his back gently, like it’ll help steer the moment away. “I was joking.”

You weren’t.

But you say it anyway. Because if you don't, something might show.

Sae doesn’t respond. Just shifts slightly beneath your hands as you tighten the wrap. His skin is cool beneath your touch — sweat just barely starting to dry — and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something between you.

Not a look.

Not a word.

Just silence that feels like it means something.

And then it’s gone.

He leaves a few minutes later. No goodbye. No thank you.

Just a glance — barely — over his shoulder as he walks out.

You watch the door close behind him, lips pressed together, hands still cold.

And then, finally, you let the sigh slip through your nose.

This isn’t a crush, you tell yourself.

This is proximity. Familiarity. Routine.

He doesn’t feel the same.

He can’t.

And besides — it’s just a rule. You don’t get to break the one rule.

Not even for someone who never smiles, but somehow makes you feel like you were meant to be seen in silence.

It’s a Monday.

Quiet. Overcast. You’re sitting at your desk behind the glass, scrolling through rehab charts and mid-season recovery plans when the door clicks open.

You don’t look up right away — probably one of the rookies showing up too early or one of the older staff coming in to steal the good foam rollers. You’re halfway through highlighting a note on delayed mobility when a familiar presence slides into the corner of your vision.

You freeze.

Your head lifts.

“Sae?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks in like he belongs here, which — technically — he does. Only not today. Not this hour. You check the calendar. He’s not scheduled.

But he’s here.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Just sits on the edge of the treatment bench and leans back, letting out a long, quiet exhale through his nose.

You’re still staring when he finally mutters, flatly:

“Can’t feel it.”

“…what?”

He closes his eyes. Repeats it like it’s obvious. “My shoulder. Can’t feel it.”

You stand, already reaching for your kit. “That bad?”

Another nod. Not defensive — just tired.

You grab what you need: massage gel, the gun, clean towels. You don’t know why your hands are suddenly colder than they were a minute ago.

“You know I told you icing it would only help for a bit, right?” you say, teasing, as you walk toward him.

All you get is a grunt.

You hum, clicking your tongue. “Even the great Sae Itoshi can’t follow instructions.”

That earns you something that almost passes for a smile — not on his lips, but in the tilt of his head. Like he’s letting you win the moment just a little.

You squeeze gel into your palm and press gently into the curve of his shoulder, thumb gliding over the tightest part. His skin is warm, muscle like steel under your fingers.

“I should write that down,” you murmur. “Put it on a wall. Frame it.”

Another grunt. You’re learning his language. That one meant: not funny.

You grab the massage gun and switch it on, the soft whirr filling the room. You lower it carefully onto his shoulder, letting it ease into the stiff tissue, adjusting the pressure with your free hand.

He shifts slightly under the contact. Not a flinch — just a small breath, like he's finally letting go of something he’s been holding onto too tightly.

You take a half-step around him to reach the far side of the muscle, balancing awkwardly on the edge of your toes — and just as you lean in, your foot catches against the mat.

Your body tilts. The massage gun jerks in your grip.

You suck in a startled breath—

And his hand is instantly at your waist.

Not rough. Not panicked.

Just there. Steady. Sure.

Your other hand lands on his chest to balance yourself — warm through the fabric, rising gently with each breath. His eyes open, meeting yours from only inches away.

Neither of you moves.

It’s not dramatic. Not romantic. Just charged.

His hand stays at your waist for a beat too long. Not because he's holding you — but because he's not letting go.

And when he does, you exhale — flustered but trying to play it off.

“Thanks,” you murmur, adjusting the gun with both hands now. “That would’ve been an embarrassing way to end the day.”

He doesn’t answer.

But you can feel the heat lingering in the space where his fingers were.

You don’t say anything else.

Because suddenly, all the silence between you isn’t empty.

It’s waiting.

When you’re done, you hand him a towel and walk back to the counter without a word.

Behind you, he moves slowly. Like he’s not quite ready to leave.

The air is different now. Charged. But quiet.

You glance at him once, over your shoulder.

He doesn’t look at you. Just wipes the gel off, puts the towel down, and stands.

And then — just before the door — he pauses.

“Thanks.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said that.

And your heart... forgets how to beat for just a second.

You don’t expect to see him outside of the training center.

You’ve gotten used to the rhythm of him — Tuesdays, sometimes Thursdays, that one Monday when he showed up without warning and left your brain short-circuiting for a week. It’s a pattern you’ve learned to survive around. Close enough to notice, far enough to protect your heart.

So when the coaches call for a casual dinner — something light, team-bonding, media-free — you go.

It’s harmless.

You show up in a simple dress and a clean face, hair pinned back because you didn’t want to try too hard. You sit with the staff, laugh at the younger players’ jokes, nurse a lemonade instead of wine. You try not to look for him when he’s late — he’s not yours to wait for.

And then the door opens.

He comes in quietly, as always — a few players behind him, hoodie pulled low, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t nod. He just slips into the crowd and sinks into his usual shadow.

But somehow, you still feel it.

His presence, like a pulse behind your ribs.

The restaurant’s busy — private enough, but small — and the only open spot when they call for a table shift is beside you in the lifted booth at the back.

You scoot in, moving to let someone pass, when a hand gently closes around yours.

It’s not dramatic. Not tight. Just a touch — fingers curling into your palm, guiding you in as you step up and over the ledge of the booth. A brief point of balance.

You freeze.

The touch is gone in a second.

You sit. He settles beside you, expression blank as ever. Picks up a menu. Doesn’t speak.

And still — your hand stays warm where his fingers were.

You don’t say anything. Just stare down at the laminated page in front of you, not reading a single word.

Was that anything?

It shouldn’t be. It was nothing.

But your heart is moving like it was something.

You’re careful not to look at him. You don’t trust your face.

It was nothing.

It was just a hand.

It was just to help.

It meant nothing to him.

But to you?

It meant everything.

You’re already tired when he walks in.

The room’s quiet, the lights dimmed just a little — end of day, end of week. You’ve been cleaning up, reorganizing the cabinets, just about to lock things up when the door opens.

And there he is.

He doesn’t say hello. Just lifts his arm slightly — that same shoulder — and drops his bag by the wall.

“Still bothering you?” “Can’t feel it,” he says, like last time. A ghost of a pattern.

You sigh and motion him toward the bench.

He sits. The silence stretches comfortably between you as you gather your tools — a new cooling gel, the massage gun, towels. It’s all familiar now. This rhythm. These few feet between you.

As you stand in front of him, your hands already moving to apply the gel, he says quietly:

“You were quiet at dinner.”

You blink.

It’s not a question. But it’s close.

Your eyes flick up to his face, surprised. He’s looking straight ahead, like it wasn’t a big deal to say it. Like he didn’t just poke a hole in the distance he's always kept between you.

You let out a small, quiet laugh.

“Didn’t know you noticed things like that.”

“I do,” he says simply.

Your hands slow.

You press your fingers gently into his shoulder, kneading the muscle. It’s tight — same as always — but you swear there’s something else tonight. A tension that doesn’t come from overtraining.

“You should’ve come in sooner,” you murmur. “You wait too long.”

“You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true.”

You catch yourself smiling. He doesn't laugh, but you feel the shift in him — a slight exhale, something lighter under the surface.

You step to the side, turning your face to look at him — and so does he.

Too fast.

Your faces are too close.

Your shoulder brushes his chest, and your lips — just barely — skim his.

It’s not a kiss.

Not really.

But it’s not not a kiss, either.

It’s a breath. A half-second. A mistake.

You freeze.

Your eyes are wide. His are already on you. You don’t know who moved first. Who leaned. Who didn’t pull back in time.

You’re close enough to feel the space between your mouths still tingling.

“I—” you start, voice small, breath hitching.

But he says nothing.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you.

His eyes are calm. Still. unreadable.

Like nothing happened. Like everything did.

You take a step back slowly, fingers cold now where they touched him.

“That was— That didn’t mean anything,” you say, too quickly.

Still nothing from him.

Just that same unreadable stare.

You clear your throat, wiping your hands on a towel.

“You’re done for today,” you mumble. “Come back Monday.”

He nods.

No words.

He grabs his bag. Walks to the door.

Just before he leaves, he pauses — doesn’t turn around, but lingers a beat longer than usual.

And then he’s gone.

You don’t move for a while.

Your mouth still feels warm.

Your chest still feels too full.

And all you can think is: That wasn’t supposed to happen.

But it did.

And now you’re not sure anything will feel the same again.

The almost-kiss lingers.

It doesn’t get talked about. Of course it doesn’t.

Sae doesn't mention it when he stands up that day. He doesn't say anything when he grabs his bag and walks out. He doesn’t even look back.

And you don’t chase it.

You tell yourself it was nothing. A slip. A weird moment. One of those almost-things that happens and then disappears.

Except it doesn’t disappear.

You think about it every time you sit at your desk. Every time the door opens and it’s not him. Every time it is.

He goes back to normal — which for him is once a week, barely speaking, focused. But you can feel it.

Something's different. Beneath his calm, something is coiled.

And then one Thursday — a day he’s not supposed to be here — he walks in again.

Shoulder still stiff. Same bag. Same quiet.

You don’t say anything. Just gesture him toward the bench like usual.

This is fine, you think. You’ve done this a hundred times.

You kneel beside him again. The gel’s cold on your fingers, your heart already too loud. You avoid his eyes.

He hasn’t said a word.

And then — as you shift to reach for the massage gun behind you — his hand shoots out.

Grabs your wrist.

You look up.

He’s staring at you. His jaw is clenched. And in that second, something in his eyes breaks.

“Sae—”

You don’t get to finish.

He pulls you in.

Mouth on yours. Hard. Desperate. Like he’s been dying to do this. Like he doesn’t care that the door’s wide open or that anyone could see or that you might pull away—

You don’t.

You kiss him back.

Without thinking, without hesitating — you melt forward, hands reaching, one curling around the back of his neck, the other burying itself in his hair.

He groans softly against your lips, and you feel it — all the weeks of silence, all the restraint, all the waiting — poured into this one impossibly unprofessional, undeniably real kiss.

Your breath stumbles. Your chest is pressed to his. His hands are on your waist now — not tentative, firm — holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You don’t want to move. You don’t want to stop.

But then—

Footsteps.

Somewhere down the hall. Nearing.

You rip yourself away like you’ve been yanked out of a dream.

Your lips are swollen. Your heart’s in your throat.

You’re standing. He’s still sitting on the bench. The door is still open.

You both just stare at each other. Breathing hard. Nothing spoken. Nothing fixed.

“You kissed me,” you whisper, breathless.

“Yeah,” he says, quiet but steady. “I did.”

The footsteps pass by. Don’t stop. Don’t look in.

But now the moment’s real.

Not a mistake. Not a maybe.

And it can’t be taken back.

You avoid him for a week.

You tell yourself it’s smart. That it’s professional. That it’s the only option — because the one rule they gave you when you started here was clear:

No fraternizing with the players.

And if what happened in your office last week counts as “fraternizing,” then what you want to do — touch him again, kiss him again, be with him — would end everything you’ve worked for.

So you schedule him with another trainer.

You act like it’s just a rotation. Like it’s logistics. Like it’s nothing.

And yet...

Every time his name pops up on your calendar, your chest tightens.

You keep your head down.

You eat lunch later now, wait until he’s already left the training floor.

You smile politely when you pass each other in the halls.

You don’t look up when he doesn’t say a word.

He’s quiet. As always.

He doesn’t corner you. Doesn’t question you. Doesn’t even ask why — which somehow makes it worse.

Because it would’ve been easier if he yelled. Or confronted you.

Or even just acted like it mattered.

But of course he doesn’t.

This is Sae Itoshi. He doesn’t do emotional.

So why, then, does it feel like your stomach drops every time you hear footsteps and it’s not him?

Why does it feel like you’ve taken your own heart out and handed it to no one?

You’re sitting at your desk when it happens.

Late afternoon. Lights low.

You're reworking schedules, trying not to think about the fact that Sae's name still sits untouched in your rotation for next week.

Then the door opens.

You don't look up — not right away — but you know it’s him before he speaks.

Then the door clicks shut.

And you hear the lock turn.

“Sae—”

He’s already walking toward you.

There’s no storm in his face. No visible anger. Just his usual still, unreadable calm — like he hasn’t been sitting with this inside him for days.

Like he didn’t just trap you in the one room you’ve been desperately avoiding.

He stops in front of your desk.

His eyes meet yours.

“Date me.”

Just that.

Two words. Like a challenge. Like a fact.

You blink. The breath catches in your throat.

You wish — for once — he didn’t look so unaffected.

Like this isn’t the moment your world just flipped over.

“I...”

You want to say no.

You should say no.

That’s the rule. That’s your job. That’s your future.

But he just stands there — not pleading, not pushing, just waiting — like he knows.

And you are so, so weak for Sae Itoshi.

Your chair scrapes the floor as you stand — too fast, too shaky — and by the time you reach him, your resolve is already gone.

“Yes,” you whisper between kisses as you throw your arms around his neck, crashing into him.

“Absolutely.”

“A million times yes.”

His arms wrap tight around your waist, grounding you, steadying the way your whole body’s shaking. His mouth finds yours again — slower this time, deliberate — like he’d been waiting to be allowed.

Some people might think you just got proposed to, with how breathless you sound, how tightly you hold him.

But no.

You just finally got what you wanted.

And it was everything.

It starts in pieces.

A quiet knock after hours.

A brush of fingertips behind closed doors.

A kiss — slow, careful — when there’s no one left in the building.

Sae doesn’t say much. You never expected him to. But his silences are different now.

His hands find you faster. His eyes linger longer. Sometimes you swear he almost smiles.

You don’t tell anyone.

Of course you don’t.

It’s the first real thing in your life that feels too delicate to name — like the minute you speak it aloud, it might vanish.

So you let the secret bloom in quiet places.

In early mornings before staff meetings, when he leans on your office wall with his coffee, watching you sort tape and ice packs like he has all the time in the world.

In the staff stairwell where he pulls you in by the waist and kisses you once — only once — before disappearing toward the locker rooms without a word.

In the way your phone buzzes with a single, low-effort message at the end of the day:

you free?

Not a question. Not romantic. Just... him.

And every time? You are.

You start smiling without realizing it.

It’s dumb. It’s unprofessional. But you can’t help it — the way your chest goes warm when you think of him, the way your lips pull up when you remember his hands on your waist.

And people notice.

One of the older staffers teases you about it at lunch.

Another pokes your cheek with a grin.

“Someone’s in a good mood lately.”

You laugh it off, head ducked, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your face from giving you away.

But then — just for a second — it hits you.

They can’t know.

This can’t get out.

Not unless you want to lose everything.

And that’s the moment it sinks in.

You're happy. Maybe the happiest you've ever been.

But it’s happiness with an expiration date if you're not careful.

So when Sae appears in the hallway later that day, when your heart stutters the same way it always does, you force your feet to stay planted. You smile — smaller. Safer.

But then he leans in just slightly. His hand brushes yours.

“Tonight?” he asks, low.

And you say:

“Always.”

Because you mean it.

Even if you’re terrified someone might find out — you mean it.

You’ve already decided:

You’ll choose this.

Over and over again.

idk if i LOVE the ending but yeah!

i hope you liked it!!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

#★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #airy drabbles #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk sae #sae itoshi x reader #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #blue lock x reader #blue lock sae #bllk sae itoshi #sae x reader fluff #itoshi sae x reader #airys event: for here or to go?#airy answers asks :)

264 notes · View notes

dannyriccsystem · 2 days ago

Note

DAD!OSC REQUESTS AT YOUR SERVICE. MAYBE SMTH LIKE MEETING HIS DAUGHTER'S BF FOR THE FIRST TIME AT THE DINNER TABLE OR A NICE FAMILY DAY GOING TO LUNA PARK, THE CITY ETC (IDK IF YOU KNOW WHAT LUNA PARK IS BUT IT'S A POPULAR AUSTRALIAN THEME PARK)

MEET THE PARENTS!

SUMMARY: Your husband is busy with your two daughters. One of them, Harper, is bringing her new boyfriend to dinner, and the other, Isla, needs her hair done… Meanwhile you’re watching the chaos unfold.

WORD COUNT: 1.1K

WARNINGS: Fluff, fluff, fluff, reader is a mother, two daughters, I did not proofread I hate proofreading

FEATURING: Dad!Oscar Piastri x Mom!Reader

NOTE: Sorry if your names. Are any of the daughter’s names. I tried to pick wisely but.. erm. Yeah. Also yes I combined them into one because I thought it would be cute!

KNOCK KNOCK.

“I’LL GET IT, I’LL GET IT-” Harper shouted as she rushed down the stairs, all dressed up for the very important night. You raised your brows as you finished up cooking in the kitchen, lips twisted up into a soft smile at the display of eagerness. It seemed she wanted to ensure she was the first to greet her boyfriend; perhaps the young girl was a little scared of her dad doing it first. You couldn’t blame her, either. Oscar had a heart of gold, but he had been endlessly teasing her for the past week about how strict he would be with this new boy in her life.

Yeah, he made a whole big deal about being scary and intentionally intimidating, but he was currently tucked away in the bathroom trying to style your younger daughter’s hair. You could hear him playfully cooing to the toddler from afar. Just little things like, “Look at how pretty your hair is!” And when she’d complain he’d sigh and mutter a begrudged “anything for my daughters…” He was totally whipped for the three women in his life. Four if you include his own mother.

“Uhm,” You perked up when you heard a new voice from the entrance of the grand kitchen. A boy, just a few inches taller than your eldest, fidgeted with his hands behind his back. “Hello, Mrs. Piastri-!” He fumbled over his words as he brought out a small bouquet of flowers, stretching them out towards you. “I, uh… Got these for you— Well, my mom did, but…”

“Thank you,” You interrupt, saving him from a long explanation neither of you really needed. “They’re lovely…” You trailed off, leaving room for an introduction.

“Luca.”

“Luca. Thank you, Luca.” You scurried off to collect a vase to store your new flowers, passing by the bathroom. On your way back, you poked your head in. Oscar immediately looked over to you with a sheepish expression, which only made you sigh. “Really?”

You daughter, Isla, had her hair pulled into two neat pigtails with ribbons tied around them. She was wearing a pink dress to match— Very cute, but very over the top as well. This wasn’t meant to be that fancy. “Hey, I couldn’t help it! Look at how cute.” The young girl giggled and cooed as her father squished her cheeks in his hands, making weird little noises at her.

“You…” You sighed. “So strange.” But it was cute nonetheless, so you smiled with that fond touch behind it. “Luca’s here. And, hey… Be nice.”

“I’m the dad, I get to scare him a little bit,” He defended himself, picking up Isla and standing. She waved at herself in the mirror, giving a big half-toothless grin. “Your dad did the same to me. And look, we’re married!”

“Yeah, but you kinda needed that talk.”

“What?!”

“You were a preppy rich kid. He took you down a peg. Well deserved. This is a nice kid.”

“We’ll see about that.” You rolled your eyes and carried on back to the kitchen, placing the flowers on the center of the island in their baby blue vase. Oscar was not far behind you, lugging around a very squirmy toddler.

“Can I help with dinner, mom?” Harper questioned from beside you, peeking into the pots and pans on the stove.

“Thank you, sweetheart, but no,” You kissed the top of her head, ruffling her hair affectionately. “Go sit, I’ll bring dinner out in a second. If anything your dad can help.” You whispered the last part like an inside joke, playfully nudging her with your elbow.

She went and sat at the table, right beside her rather nervous boyfriend. Osc offered his help too, but when you declined, he joined everyone else. He set Isla in her high chair right beside him, both opposite of the teenagers in question. Once Isla was situated, slamming her hands against her tray, Oscar’s gaze shifted to the young man, squinting.

“Uhm… Hello, Mr. Piastri,” He greeted with a shaky voice, his hands fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth.

“Dad, this is-”

“Luca. I know.” He smiled, but for some reason it was somewhat scary. You couldn’t fully see the conversation, but you could tell he was already being a little bit of a brat. That’s how dads are, I suppose. “What do you do for work, Luca?”

“Sir, I-… I’m thirteen…” You giggled under your breath. Not long after you came out with a few plates, laying them down in front of everyone. They all seemed to wait until everyone was settled at the table. You sat beside your husband, already digging in to enjoy your meal.

“Hey, I started work young.” Oscar shrugged, taking a bite of his meal and then turning to you. “Delicious as always,” He kissed your cheek, making Harper groan. Oscar was usually the one to cook, but you wanted to tonight. It was a special occasion, which called for one of your special recipes.

“Then can I get a job?” Harper asked, poking at her food with her fork. You gave her the mom look, and she cut up a piece to take a bite. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the food, she just always waited forever to eat and then complained that it was cold.

“No,” He replied firmly as he cut up pieces to put on Isla’s tray, who was squealing and laughing to herself. “Play any sports?”

Luca was trying to eat quietly. You could tell he was intentionally avoiding eye contact, but it was impossible with Oscar boring holes into his skull with his eyes. “Yeah- I’m in karting…”

…

You eyed your husband carefully, watching as his previous judgement turned into a bright grin. Harper perked up, squeezing her boyfriend’s hand under the table.

“That’s great!” He said cheerfully, nodding his head. “I started karting at a young age myself. You know, it’s a great future, but make sure you’re being careful out there. There’s only so much to protect you. Always wear a helmet, and be thankful for-”

“Ahem,” You clear your throat, making him shut up. “What he means to say, is that he wishes you luck in your future.”

“Yeah, that.”

“I’m actually a really big fan of yours, sir!” Luca looked a lot more confident now as he sat up straight and looked directly into Oscar’s eyes. “Harper didn’t tell me you were her dad until a few days ago.”

“That’s why he’s so nervous,” Your daughter teased, elbowing him in the side.

“No I’m not!”

“You so totally are.”

They continued to playfully bicker. You looked over to your husband, who acknowledged your gaze by returning it.

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” He whispered, leaning in to kiss you on the lips.

…

“Ew, gross!”

359 notes · View notes

e1e4n0r5 · 2 days ago

Text

Their Little Plaything: 4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends

Pairing: Bullies Cait & Vi x Loner Nerd Reader

Words: 4500

Synopsis: Cait and Vi try to earn your forgiveness...in their way.

Warnings: Bullying/mocking, power imbalance, FFF threesome, ANGST!!!!, fingering (r! receiving), strap-on, description of masturbation with sex toys, gaslighting/emotional manipulation, dub-con sex (r! is emotionally distressed throughout but never says no), dub-con filming of sex, oral sex (r! receiving, r! giving), mild degradation, dirty talk, praise kink, finger sucking, anal fingering (r! receiving), anal sex (r! receiving), double penetration with straps, that thing where one person uses their mouth to give someone a drink 👀

Notes: Poor Reader really goes through it, folks 😣

You sat at your usual corner table, quietly and miserably reading a textbook, trying to get back into your study habits, when a soft accented voice spoke.

“Sorry to bother you; are you Y/N?”

You looked up, really not wanting to talk to the pretty redhead with freckles. “Can I help you?”

“Sorry, we haven’t met before. I’m Maddie. Can we talk?”

You frowned. “I'm sorry, Maddie, it's not a good time for me. I-I’m just getting over a sickness-”

She ignored you. “Cait and Vi. Caitlyn Kiramman and Violet Lanes. You're with them, right? I was too, last summer. At least until they just stopped texting me.”

Your stomach twisted. Great. An upset ex. Just what you needed in your vulnerable state. “Maddie, I don’t know what happened between the three of you, and I really don't want to talk-”

She regarded you closely. “Have you found the cameras yet?”

Your heart stopped. “Excuse me?”

“In their house; in the backgrounds of some of the photos they send you...?”

In the house?! Where were they hidden? You hadn’t just had sex in the bedroom, they would have footage from all over the house.

Your jaw clenched. “Listen, I don't know what you're talking about-” you tried to deny.

“Do you guys have a group chat?”

“Uh...”

“What's it called?” she asked, tilting her head like a challenge.

“I don't think-”

“Is it called Plaything?”

You felt sick again, like the world was spinning. You had to swallow down bile. “How did you-?”

“Because that's what ours was called too,” she explained as she sat down across from you, holding her phone out to show you. It was a group chat history. At the bottom, it said ‘Unknown and Unknown have left the chat’, and at the top the name was clearly listed as ‘Plaything’.

She scrolled up to the very top of the chat for you. “Go ahead, have a read. See if anything’s familiar.”

You took the phone out of her hands, skimming through it as your own hands shook.

You [Maddie]: have either of you found my underwear? I can't find them

Unknown: those are ours now

You: what?! You can't keep them!

Unknown: And why not? We earned them last night. Several times over

You read further down to a few weeks later.

You: ok this has to stop, I'm running out of underwear! Are you guys going to replace what you've taken? Or at least give it all back?

Unknown: not a chance

Unknown: And don't get greedy, darling

You: I'm not being greedy but you've taken so many! I need them! I only have about ten pairs left!

Unknown: not our problem

You: It’s your fault though!! You take them every time

Unknown: So you think you deserve a treat?

You: I’m not trying to sound greedy or ungrateful but one of our families is super rich and could definitely afford to replace my stolen underwear 👀

Unknown: We’ll see. Maybe if you’re a good girl for long enough, you can have a treat

Your stomach twisted. That was exactly what Cait had said to you.

Still scrolling, you saw thousands of messages spanning a few months. And then, inevitably, you came across pictures. Checking the dates, they had been together for roughly the same amount of time as you had.

Maddie was more confident with the camera than you were, not afraid to get up close to it. One photo was a close up of her smiling, fucked out face, chin glistening with juices. Another video had her fucking herself with a toy whilst Vi stood over her and she ate her pussy, Cait obviously recording. Photos of Cait’s manicured hand squeezing Maddie's cheeks firmly, Maddie sticking her tongue out as her blurry eyes tried to focus on the camera. GIFs of them both fucking her at the same time, in the same position they had with you for the first time.

Disgusted and queasy again, you put her phone down on the table, a little harder than intended.

“What do you want?” you demanded, crossing your arms, trying to keep your coffee in your stomach.

She shrugged. “I'm honestly not sure-”

“Then why did you bother coming up to me? If you don't know what you want, why couldn't you just leave me alone?” you snapped.

She looked you over. “Oh, yeah, you’ve found the cameras. I remember crashing out like this when I found one in the kitchen.”

“Kitchen?!”

“Yeah, it’s hidden in the wall near that bit of island. Did they make you bend over it whilst they fucked you?”

Your heart broke. “They did all this to you too?” you whispered.

Maddie smiled at you in pity. “Oh, my love, I think they've done this to lots of girls. We're just the latest ones.” She raised her coffee cup to yours in a mock toast. “To the victims of Cait and Vi.”

“How many others are there?”

She sipped her iced latte. “Well, there’s you, then me just before summer. Before that was Kylie, in the spring. Andrea was last fall, so this time last year. There were a few others before that but I don’t know much detail. One girl left the university; she was so fucked up.”

“How do you even know all this?” you asked sceptically.

She smiled ruefully. “Exactly like this. Kylie came up to me and told me everything she’d been through, showed me the photos and videos too. The group chat called Plaything. A shocking pattern of behaviour from Cait and Vi, I have to say. Kylie was more investigative though, she was able to use social media a lot more thoroughly than I ever could. She could show you a presentation with a timeline if you wanted.”

You blanched. “What? How?”

“Well, it was quite impressive. Got to say, it did feel a bit stalkerish, but still impressive! If her degree doesn’t work out, she could be a PI. Basically, she compared photos and videos that the previous girls had sent her, to Cait's and Vi's social media. Like I said, a bit stalkerish, but a lovely girl nonetheless.”

Your head hurt and your heart broke. How many girls had they done this to?

Cait opened the door, looking at you in pleased surprise.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she smiled, letting you in. “To what do we owe this pleasure? Are you feeling better?”

You nodded numbly. “A bit.”

“Good, I'm pleased to hear that. Vi will be too; she's a bit of a germaphobe. But we've both missed you terribly.” She smiled down at you, and you struggled to stay angry. “Vi's in the shower at the moment. Shall we entertain ourselves until she's out?” she winked at you, leading you into the sitting room.

“Well, I was looking through some of the photos you sent me,” you said, getting your phone out and tapping through it.

Cait smiled. “Oh, yes? Which one was your favourite? Should we recreate it?”

“This one,” you turned your phone around to show her the image of the two of you kneeling on the bed, the one you’d showed Powder.

She nodded. “That’s a good one; you look quite lovely in that.”

You hardened yourself not to blush at the compliment. “Do you know what my favourite part is?”

“You tell me,” she instructed softly, her pupils dilating.

“This part,” you turned the phone back to you and zoomed in on a section of the photo, turning your phone back to her.

The playfulness left her eyes but she kept the smile plastered on her face, unmoving.

“You know what that is?” you asked.

She hesitated, then shook her head. “No,” she lied. “Enlighten me.”

“It’s a camera. More specifically, a HexTech Pocket Camera 3000. Brand new this year. Very expensive, almost six figures. Your parents’ money bought it though, I suppose. And I’ve already checked the manufacturer’s website: that little red light means it’s recording video.”

Cait said nothing. Her hands trembled slightly, so she crossed her arms.

“Except when you took this photo, you never mentioned another camera.”

“Is this going somewhere, Y/N?” she demanded stonily.

“How long have you been doing this? Recording me, during sex? Without my knowledge? Because I remember the first time you asked to do it. But now, I can’t imagine that being the first time you actually did it.”

She said nothing.

“Cait!”

“Piltover is a one-party consent-”

You laughed coldly in her face. “Don’t even try that. Don’t even fucking try that with me, Kiramman. You knew what you were doing was wrong. That’s why you hid it! That’s why you didn’t tell me you were recording, because you knew I wouldn’t have wanted you to! Who else has seen this?!” you screamed at her, brandishing your phone.

“No-one,” she replied firmly.

You scoffed. “You really expect me to believe that the girls who secretly films people having sex are so above showing it to other people?”

“I mean it: no-one else has, or ever will, see any of the photos or videos we have.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better about you invading my privacy?”

Cait laughed bitterly. “You were very enthusiastic at the time.”

“For the sex! And the one photo that you specifically asked if you could take. Not for the recording you didn’t tell me about!” Your eyes were slowly filling with tears. “Why do you do it? Hmmm? Take sneaky videos of people? Is it some weird kink or something? Some fetish? A control thing?”

Cait rolled her jaw, looking away.

“How many other girls have you done this to?”

That made her head snap back. “What makes you ask that?”

“Who the fuck is Maddie? And Kylie? And Andrea?”

She took a breath, looking physically wounded from a blow. “They were a long time-”

“It was not ‘a long time ago’! You were with Maddie at the end of Sophomore year, that is not ‘a long time ago’, Cait, we’re Juniors! You were both fucking her for months, doing the same thing – taking sneaky photos and videos – but she never confronted you about it. Yes, she found out,” you snapped at Cait’s alarmed face, “She knew you were doing it but she never said anything because she didn’t want you to break up with her.”

“We weren’t in a relationship, there was no ‘breaking up’.”

“You ghosted her over summer break, blocked her number and socials, then came back this year and acted like you didn’t know her. And the reason you acted that way was because you found your new fixation. Me. You didn’t need Maddie anymore, you had me. Your new Plaything. Very unimaginative of you, by the way, using the same group chat name with us all! And yes, I’ve seen the messages!”

Cait staggered back a few steps and began to pace, laughing in discomfort. “You are being so…Dramatic right now, Y/N,” she said tersely.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like your chest was splitting open. “I trusted you both. I actually thought-”

“Oh, please,” she cut in, rolling her eyes. “You like being wanted. You like being fucked by two women who know how to handle you, you like being our good girl. Don’t act like some innocent virgin now just because you found a little camera in the background of �� what was, undoubtedly – one of the best nights of your life.”

You flinched. Your lip trembled.

She saw it. She went too far. And for a moment, something flickered in her eyes. Then she stepped toward you, slower now. Controlled. Calculating.

"You’re angry," she said, voice softening. “I understand.” Her tone dropped as she closed the space between you. “But you still want this.”

“Don’t,” you said hoarsely, taking a small step back.

Her hand came up, barely grazing your hip, testing you. “You came here because you wanted answers,” she murmured. “But I think you also came here because you want us to make it up to you. And we will, in the best way we know how.” Her hands cupped your shaking jaw. “You want us to take away the anger, don’t you, the hurt? You want to feel our hands again? Our mouths on you?”

You were shaking, but you weren’t pulling away. “You can’t seduce your way out of this,” you whimpered as you cried.

She chuckled throatily. “Well, let’s just see if we can.”

And then she kissed you. Hard, possessive, without apology.

And God help you, you kissed her back, even as the tears streamed down your face. How could you be so weak? How pathetic could you be, giving in after a single kiss and some sweet words whispered in your ear.

She pulled your dress up over your hips, squeezing your ass firmly, kneading your flesh. You whined into her mouth. She pushed your bag and jacket off your shoulders, pulling your dress all the way up, breaking apart from your mouth briefly to throw it over your head.

You realised you still held your phone in one hand. You pulled away, sniffing, looking for somewhere to put it down.

“No, baby, come here,” she urged softly, pulling you by the hand to a nearby chaise longue. She sat you down, pushing you back gently. Settling herself between your legs, she kissed your stomach and breasts, squeezing them tenderly.

“Open the camera, sweetheart,” she ordered, looking you in the eye as she sucked one of your nipples through your cream lace bra. A treat from them, they liked you in white underwear.

“What?” you asked shakily, your face still wet with tears.

“Do as I say,” she said firmly, switching to your other nipple.

With a whimper, you obeyed, opening your camera app.

“Put it on me, baby, and take whatever you want. As many photos and videos as you want. We’ve got all night.”

Your lip trembled as you wanted to say no. But she gave you her stern look that melted away all your resistance, and with a sad hiccup, you pressed record.

Looking straight at you through the camera, Cait kissed down your stomach until she got to your covered pussy, never breaking eye contact with the camera lens as she slowly, seductively, eased your panties down your legs, looping them a few times around her wrist.

“Do I look good, baby? Is the lighting okay?”

You nodded weakly, watching her through your screen.

“So does this,” she pressed a kiss to your clit, “look okay?”

You whimpered, “Yes.”

“And this?” She licked up your slit.

You whined. “Yes.”

“What about this?” She wiggled her tongue over your clit from side to side.

“Fuck!” you cried out. “Yes! Yes, that's good!”

She laughed. “Just wanted to check.”

She closed her eyes and started feasting on your pussy. Licking up and down your slit, sucking your clit, sliding her tongue inside you. All the while, you panted and cursed, still pointing your phone at her. Every so often, she would open her eyes to see if you were still recording. When she saw you were, she winked at the camera, emboldened by its presence.

“What’s going on here?” asked a playful voice.

Vi.

You looked up from the camera, seeing Vi leaning against the doorjamb, a pristine white towel around her waist. Just peeking out the top of towel was a black harness, barely visible. She was strapped up.

She approached you both, the outline of the strap becoming visible through the towel. Cait didn't respond or acknowledge her girlfriend, just kept eating your pussy, moaning into your skin. Vi knelt next to the chaise longue, stroking your tear-stained cheek.

“Are you sad, baby?”

You nodded pitifully, your cheeks still wet and puffy from tears.

“But how can you be sad when you're getting your pussy eaten?” she mocked, licking away some tears.

Before you could respond, Vi captured your mouth in a deep kiss, swirling her tongue with yours. Cupping your jaw in her hand, she moaned into your mouth, sucking your tongue. You moaned back, your hips starting to move against Cait’s mouth.

“You gonna cum for her, sweetheart?” Vi asked, running a hand over your breasts.

You nodded breathlessly. “Need to cum.”

“How badly do you need to cum?”

You groaned when Cait slid her fingers inside you. “So bad! Need to cum, Vi.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Well, we could let you. I suppose?” she taunted. She cupped your breasts over your bra, feeling their weight in her hands. Bending down over your chest, she pulled your bra down, kissing and licking your breasts. “Fuck, your tits are perfect,” she breathed, pulling your nipple into her mouth, sucking deeply. The pressure made you gasp, your pussy clenching on Cait’s fingers. Switching nipples, she tugged the one she just released.

“Gods...” You whimpered, moving your hips into Cait’s face. She moved to your clit in response, sucking your button and flicking her tongue over it. “I need to cum, I need to cum!” you gasped.

“Ask nicely,” Vi commanded, taking hold of your throat.

“Please let me cum, Vi! Cait, please!”

“Your decision, Cupcake,” Vi said to Cait.

The blue-haired woman took pity on you, sucking your clit harder and working her fingers faster. With a cry, you orgasmed on the chaise, your hips rocking back and forth as your free hand held Cait’s head to you.

Vi eased the phone out of your hand, moving down to kneel next to Cait. She filmed Cait’s fingers slowing down inside you and spreading your lips to expose your leaking hole. You squirmed uncomfortably under them, watching them watch your pussy. It was hot – seeing them almost obsess over you – but you also felt very exposed. Vulnerable. The rabbit in front of the wolves.

Cait scooped up the last of your juices on her fingers. Vi flipped the camera to use the front lens, recording Cait slide her fingers into her mouth, moaning as she got her first taste of you, your bare pussy and spread legs still visible in the shot. Vi kept eye contact with the camera as Cait thrust her fingers in and out of Vi’s mouth, eventually sliding all the way in and hitting Vi’s gag reflex. After that, Cait withdrew her fingers, and Vi stopped recording.

You made it upstairs, and the hours that followed were delicious yet emotionally draining for you. Vi and Cait seemed to want to overload you with orgasms, but never stopped taking photos and videos. Always in your view, always announcing when they picked up a phone or a camera. ‘Let me take a pic, baby’, ‘You look so perfect, I have to save this’, ‘Let me show you what you look like, sweetheart’.

While Vi lay back on the rug in the middle of their bedroom, you straddled her and slowly slid down the strap. But only after Cait announced the camera she had set up on the floor between Vi’s bent legs, offering up the perfect view of your pussy stretching over and sliding down the silicone.

You suddenly became conscious of the view that would be captured, but Vi’s hands on your face and firm kisses distracted you long enough to get the toy into your pussy. She held your mouth to hers, intertwining your tongues, until she could hear you panting for breath. She released your mouth, but held your head looking at her.

Cait moved behind you – which you couldn't see because of Vi’s grip – and you heard something screwing open, followed by a wet sound.

“What’s happening?” you asked Vi, panicking as she held your head and neck tightly, not letting you look around.

“Don't worry, baby, it's fine,” she said softly, slowly starting to move the toy inside you. But it did nothing to comfort you.

“Vi, please,” you begged, starting to cry again. “Cait, what are you doing?”

“It's alright, sweetheart,” she said, stroking your back hole with her fingertips, rubbing the expensive coconut oil around your ring.

You gasped when she did, jolting against Vi, who had the strength to keep you in place.

“See?” Vi soothed. “Nothing to worry about. We've done this before.”

“Breathe for me,” Cait instructed softly, lining up her fingers to your hole. Vi helped you breathe, then Cait slowly slid two slick fingers inside you. You whined when she did, already feeling full from the toy in your pussy. “Rock for us, sweetheart,” she asked, rubbing her hand over your hips. Vi moved one hand to your hips, helping you grind between her toy and Cait’s fingers.

An involuntary moan escaped your lips, the slight stretching in your pussy and ass making your clit throb as you rocked your hips. They praised you well, possibly hoping to ease your tears. It didn’t work. Your tears kept pouring even as you moaned, your body taking over. Maybe because it felt so good? Maybe to protect your heart from breaking?

Cait settled on her knees behind you, rubbing the tip of her slicked strap against you. “Ready to do this again, sweetheart?” she asked in your ear, already sliding into your ass.

You keened, long and low, as she filled your ass, rubbing up against Vi’s strap in your pussy. You sobbed at how good it felt; hating how good it felt, how good they made you feel. Vi kept kissing you, ignoring your tear-stained cheeks, rocking her hips under yours.

You came three times between them before they did, your traitorous pussy leaking juices over them every time.

When she finished, her own cum coating her thighs, Cait withdrew from your ass, getting up from behind you, knocking the camera over. She headed into the bathroom, sweat coating her brow. She took off her strap, washed her hands and face, and poured a glass of water.

Heading back into the bedroom, she approached you both.

“Sweetheart, you need a drink,” she said softly.

Draped on top of Vi, her strap still inside your pussy, you moaned weakly. You struggled to prop yourself up, but managed eventually. You waited for Cait to hold the glass to your lips, but she didn’t.

She held your jaw, her thumb stroking your cheek. “Do you forgive us, baby?” she asked softly.

Fuck you.

The words burned in your chest, and your eyes burned with tears again.

Seeing your distress, Cait smiled. “It’s alright. It’s okay. Here,” she held up the glass to your lips, letting you drink slowly as you glared at her.

When you swallowed, Vi gently rolled the two of you over, her strap never leaving you. “Give me some,” she asked Cait. She swallowed a few gulps, then propped you up in a half-seated position under her, her muscled arm supporting your torso without issue. She took a mouthful of water, keeping it in her mouth, and pressed her lips to yours. To your surprise, she forced your mouth open and shared the water with you.

You coughed and swallowed, not expecting that. You couldn’t tell if you liked that.

She did it again. Taking another mouthful from the glass, she pressed her mouth to yours again. Knowing what to expect, you opened your mouth, more prepared the second time.

Vi nodded at Cait to finish the glass and go get some more. She looked down at you, nudging her hips into yours. “Ready to go again?”

Hours later, Vi angled the camera on the coffee table at the side of you so you could see.

“What about this, baby?” She straightened up behind you, showing the camera the sight of her behind you, your ass in the air, your back gracefully curved. “Do you like how this looks?” she asked, giving a few small thrusts inside you.

How was she not tired?! You were exhausted and aching, sure your pussy would soon be swollen shut.

You moaned, gasping when Vi slid deeper into you, able to tell the depth from the side-view in the camera.

She chuckled. “I’m so deep, baby. So deep inside you. Put your hand on your tummy, do you feel me?”

You moved your hand to your lower stomach, gasping when you felt movement under your palm.

Vi laughed. “Now, do you want the rest?”

Your head almost shot round.

“Yeah, baby, that's not it,” she slowly moved a little deeper, making you groan as she went deeper than you thought she could.

“Can I hop back in?” Cait teased, rubbing her clit in front of you.

You wanted to say no, that you were still so fucking furious with her, that she didn't deserve to have her pussy eaten. But as she stroked her beautiful wet pussy in front of you, your mouth watered, and you wanted her.

You nodded, lifting your head a little. She sat down in front of you, spreading her pussy open for you. You pulled her hips forward and latched onto her clit, sucking like you hated her. She gasped as you did, unused to the pressure from you. She rocked against your mouth, running her hands through your hair.

“God, baby,” she moaned, “you’re so good at this.”

“We taught her well,” Vi bragged.

You wanted to shout, to scream, to bite. But you didn’t. You rocked back against Vi as she fucked you with her strap, and you fucked Cait with your mouth and tongue. You got her moaning like a whore, then slowed down your attention until she begged for more. You repeated the cycle, tormenting her, and she let you.

When she came, you forced her to do it again. Vi picked up on what you were doing, wrapping her hand in your hair.

“Don’t get cocky, baby,” she scolded. “Don’t make me fuck your ass harder than this.”

They fucked you until the early morning, until all of you had nothing left to give. You’d passed out together on the floor, wrapped up in a pile of limbs.

You eventually woke, propping yourself up on your elbows, looking around the room. Toys discarded, an empty glass of water knocked over, the small camera discarded and out of battery.

Cait roused next to you. “Do you feel better now, sweetheart?” she asked, kissing your shoulder.

You didn't say anything, just sat up. “I want to see all the photos and videos you have of me.”

Cait tensed a little beside you, but recovered. “Absolutely. Why don't we have a little watch party tomorrow-?” she asked, trailing her hand up your back.

You glared at her over your shoulder.

She removed her hand.

You gingerly got to your feet, walking unsteadily off to the bathroom.

Vi and Cait watched you go, the latter tapping her nails on the floor in thought, your panties still looped around her wrist.

“Don't think she's forgiven us yet,” Vi commented quietly, curling up around Cait.

The blue-haired women hummed. “Give it time. She will.”

@sevikas-whore, @djstinkyfartz, @jinririz, @abbyandcaitlover, @ayuxiru, @bebeluvvv, @youdoyou-andiwilldome, @kittymrtnezz69, @wyprettylilone, @jlb20416, @autisticratbagtm, @theoreticalfreak, @riotstemple29, @zaunite-516, @zmbieeee, @godhatesgoodgirls, @yoyo-w, @milanyas, @unknownomgg, @bella-but-not-hadid444, @marvelwomenarehot0, @nenoino, @opalundercover

#arcane #vi arcane #arcane vi x reader #vi x reader #arcane au #arcane league of legends #arcane violet #caitlyn kiramman #their little plaything #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn x vi #vi and caitlyn #caitvi #caitvi x reader #arcane caitvi

326 notes · View notes

nebulousfishgills · 9 hours ago

Text

This works in college, too. I'm a habitual procrastinator, so when I hear the word "extension," that just gives me more time to breathe before I panic write essays three hours before they're due.

This past semester, one of my professors was kind about offering extensions, but put due date times at like... 4 PM? 2 PM? Some bullshit like that rather than the standard 11:59 PM deadline. And whether from undiagnosed ADHD or the state of the world making Political Sociology impossible to listen to, I would go into assignments with two or three sarcastic quotes from my professor I happened to zero in on and his very sparse slideshows (because the content is in the actual lecture, you see).

And for whatever reason, I refuse to take notes during any of my classes. My brain refuses to let me actually sit down, listen, and write notes. I've coasted through three years of college having written a total of maybe 2? Pages of actual notes? And yet I remain in good academic standing with a 3.0 GPA (which might've been higher had I not started out as a chem major and repeatedly slammed my head into walls failing tests, but that's besides the point). I never had gotten a C in my life prior to college, but after twelve years of academic pressure I've had to learn it's okay to fail sometimes (I'm still learning).

Back to my point, this particular paper had to be five pages long about... something, I don't remember. Five pages with absolutely nothing in the tank, a 4 PM deadline that I cut to a noon deadline because I had errands to run with friends I'd set up days prior. And with nothing but hopes and dreams and pure bullshit on my side, I wrote all those five pages in less than two hours.

I got a 78 on it and a note that said it was a brilliantly written essay, it just didn't entirely follow the prompt. The other two essays I wrote in that class (one five page, and an 8 page paper), and my final presentation, I got 89s across the board. With my own two hands and a brain full of bullshit. I didn't know what I was talking about half the time.

Or in another class where we had to write weekly reflections. I got a 22/25 on one of these papers with a note that said my professor could clearly see where I'd brought in knowledge from the textbook and used it well. Points lost for not citing the textbook...

...The textbook that I never bought or read a single page of. College textbooks are expensive and after my first semester of freshman year where I bought all of them and only used maybe one, I refuse to buy textbooks at all. Not second hand, not paying for pdfs. I wait until I'm certain I absolutely need it and then I scour the web for a less than legal upload (if our library doesn't have an online copy I can get easily). Remember, save for that first semester I've made it through classes with mostly As and Bs. Without textbooks.

You could subpoena my search history across all my devices, and not once have I even looked up ChatGPT or any other AI writing or image generating websites. My extremely lazy and heavy procrastination style of schoolwork without notes and playing Star Wars: The Old Republic instead of any actual study (because I find that studying psychs myself out and makes me overthink when my gut instinct is usually right anyways) is 100% authentically man made.

Education is bullshit, so you have to bullshit back. The world is bullshit, so you have to bullshit back. And it has to be your bullshit. You'll have to pry my man made, probably ADHD powered, bullshit out of my cold, dead hands. Put the generator down and use your fucking brain, even if what you produce sucks. It's still yours.

#i hate reblogging long posts but any time I get to shock people by my horrible means of studying that still works #i will take it #i don't write notes or study for tests or read textbooks and yet i'm in fantastic academic standing #no ai needed for that shit

97K notes · View notes

bluukive · 2 days ago

Text

The Moon Above

summary - Both you and Suguru promised each other not to look outside. But something changed his mind. Should you listen to him?

warnings - mention of sụicide, mental health, the moon is evil, really vague descriptions of what's going on, manipulation, even I'm confused

wc - 1366

an - another Local 58 x jjk inspired post because my mind is whizzing. idk how much of this makes sense (plz be nice it's my first attempt writing all cryptid sob)

It felt different tonight. The city was collectively in hiding, eyes and ears glued to the radio, TV, phones— whatever device was available. The streets were silent, and all curtains were drawn tightly shut as the sound of the Emergency Alert System blared loud and disrupted the silence.

"THIS IS A PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT FROM YOUR LOCAL BROADCASTING STATION.

DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR DEVICE

DO NOT LOOK OUTSIDE.

ALL WINDOWS AND CURTAINS MUST REMAIN CLOSED. IF YOU ARE FOUND TO HAVE OPEN YOUR WINDOWS, YOU WILL BE ELIMINATED.

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO GO OUTSIDE. INDIVIDUALS ATTEMPTING TO ENGAGE WITH ANY EXTRATERRESTRIAL PHENOMENA WILL BE ELIMINATED.

IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE BEEN AFFECTED: ISOLATE IMMEDIATELY."

You sat there, bloodshot eyes straining as you took in the message before you. The only thing illuminating your pitch-black room was the TV, and your body was rigid as you held your breath. Tentatively, as if skies above would hear you, you exhaled and let the tightness leave your muscles.

It’s been pure hell for the last few months. Socialisation and communication was at an all time low. Paranoia had struck the nation when outbreaks of psychosis had spread like wildfire. Reports of ritualistic behaviours, mass suicide and missing individuals was growing increasingly common. And there was no one to blame but yourselves.

It was hostile. Everyone knew that. But people were so easily swayed by the illusion of salvation it seemed to give. It appeared to whisper and shone bright in the ever-lasting night sky. Bow to me, the voices said. Give in to your saviour.

But there were no voices. The human mind was terribly weak, making up things that weren’t actually there. Theories began to emerge, causing waves of misinformation to reach even the most isolated corners of the world. No-one knew what was going on— not even the most experienced psychologist or astrophysicist. All everyone knew was that it couldn’t be trusted. People swore that it’d appear to breathe and pulse, but madness would soon follow those who dared to look up.

Whether it was a vessel to harbour some sort of hostile entity, or whether it was the entity itself, no-one had a clue. All you knew was if you kept the curtains shut, you’d be fine. Mostly.

A faint buzz brought you out of your thoughts. Cellular devices weren’t prohibited, per se. But you were rather cautious about using one.

Blinking back the wave of exhaustion, you picked up your phone and saw that it was no other than Suguru, one of the very few you could rely on for support. He was a grounding force in your life, keeping you sane and served as a reminder that no matter how tempting it was outside, it wasn’t worth it.

“Hello? Sugu?” You whispered, longing to hear the voice of your best friend. Your one and only, you’d often kid. You couldn’t hear anything from the other end of the phone except for some light breathing. With your brows knitted in confusion, you called out to him again.

“Ah, yes. Sorry, y/n. Did you see the recent alert?” Suguru sounded breathless. That was the first thing you noted. As if he’d gone for a run. But not in these conditions, right?

You shook your head stupidly, as if he could see you. “Yes, we can’t open our curtains. Nothing new. Why?”

The small huff of laughter you were so used to met your ears. It made you feel good for once, in a time where nothing felt right. But what your dear friend said next had your breath catching.

“My TV was telling me something different. Didn’t you see it? It’s safe again.”

Silence.

That wasn’t right. There had been no other EAS. You sat up straighter on the floor, mouth feeling dry. “No, actually. There haven't been any other messages. I would have texted you if there was,” you responded, forcing your voice to stay casual. But you were far from calm. Your mouth felt as if someone had stuffed cotton into it, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get a good breath of air into your lungs.

“...it’s beautiful tonight, y’know?” Suguru murmurs so softly. You falter, feeling as if you were underwater. His words came out muffled as all the blood in your body rushed to your head. You should have hung up on him.

Save yourself.

But like a fool, your trembling hands kept your phone by your ear. “S-suguru? Did you look…outside?”

Another chuckle, and you felt your heart rate picked up drastically. Surely, he didn’t?

“You sound scared,” he teased, eyes focused on one thing only from his own apartment not too far away from yours. His bedroom felt uncomfortably hostile and cramped. What other choice did he have but to open his curtain? “There’s no need to be scared, Not when it’s so peaceful.”

Your hand was shaking almost violently now, the combination of fatigue and tears prickling at your eyes making it unbearably warm in your room. “Don’t look at it, Suguru. Please don’t look at it.”

A soft exhale. Like he’s getting frustrated at you. But you need to remind yourself that this isn’t the Suguru you grew up with. It can’t be. Not anymore.

He speaks again, but there’s a slight edge to the silk of his voice. “Don’t you trust me, y/n? Don’t you want to see the God hanging down from the sky? It calls to us all.”

Suguru sounds breathless now, as if he’s locked in reverent worship. You’re frozen now, refusing to listen to whatever was at the other end of the phone.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Look out of the window, y/n. Can’t you see me burning under it?” The crackling of the phone grows louder, yet his voice comes through audibly. You swore you could hear your own voice echoing back at you the more you spoke.

Nothing felt real. Your head was swimming.

“Don’t call me by my name. Who are you, and what have you done to Suguru?”

“I crawled into his skin. Now, I burn,” a brief pause, the voice growing more distorted by the second. “But I have an eternity to get to know his flesh, and his body will learn to accept me eventually. Look outside.”

You were so conflicted. Usually, you were so insistent on following the orders of the EAS. But underneath all of the distortion, Suguru sounded so at peace. Didn’t you deserve that too?

“Y/n. Just one look,” he said. It sounded like him again. Not the other Suguru that made the whispers in your room grow more prominent.

Would looking make you stop feeling like you were being watched from the inside of your skull? Would it end the constant urge to look into the mirror to check if the eyes of your reflection were still shut when you looked at it?

And so the last of your resolve cracked after weighing out the pros and cons. Suguru would be proud, right? You finally listened to him for once. You winced as your knees cracked after hours of inactivity. The roar of white noise was dimming the closer you came to the curtain. The whispers seemed to pause. That was the last push you needed. It felt good to be so close to salvation.

You cast your eyes back, glancing at the TV. If you hadn’t blinked, you would have seen the way your reflection was slower than you. One deep breath.

Swoosh.

You blinked hard once the curtain was drawn to the side, shielding your eyes with a pale arm and grimacing at the sensation of light. Suguru was silent now, the phone long forgotten in his hand. You didn’t even notice, not until you gathered your bearings and finally dragged your eyes to the window.

Your stomach lurched.

“I-I don’t like this. Please stop moving like that.”

But you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. Your entire face glowed from the light outside and your feet were planted firmly on the scratchy carpet beneath you. You should turn back now, before you’re caught by the authorities—

“You’ve already looked.”

divider by @/cafekitsune

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #anime #jjk au #geto x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto au #geto x reader #geto x you #jjk fic #geto fic #jjk angst #geto angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #analog horror #jjk x reader #bluukive

214 notes · View notes

cheriedivine · 10 hours ago

Text

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 | Chapter 7

previous | chapter 7 | next

꩜ synopsis: you’re best friends. just best friends. except when she lingers a little too long at your door. except when she calls you her favorite, and it doesn’t feel like a joke. except when her fingers graze yours and neither of you pull away. except when you start to wonder if she’s wondering, too…

꩜ pairing: Ellie Williams x fem reader (No use of y/n)

꩜ content warnings: smoking, weed, smut (finally)

꩜ WC: 11.7k

꩜ Author’s note: THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT AND IM SO TERRIFIED PLZ… also thank u guys for the sweet comments and messages i’m over the moon grateful, this series is so special to me and it’s not even close to be done okay… y’all will get tired of my ass. Anyway enjoy the chapter love u happy pride month<3

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

"Wait, but when did you actually catch feelings for me, though?" you asked for what had to be the millionth time.

Honestly, Ellie didn’t mind repeating herself. If anything, she kind of loved it. The way you always wanted to hear it again, like replaying your favorite song over and over again. Every time she recalled it, she seemed to remember something new. Like the way your eyes lingered just a second too long on hers when you talked, or how your pinkies always seemed to find each other when you sat side by side. Small things. Things she could never forget.

September had slipped by quickly, and in the blink of an eye, October had arrived, trading warm evenings for cooler nights and scattering orange and brown leaves across the sidewalks. It had been a month since your first kiss, (Not like you were counting or whatever). A month of sleepovers, shared sweaters, tangled limbs, nonstop texting, and sneaking into the diner’s back office during your breaks for rushed makeout sessions. Maria had almost banned you from going back there altogether. Ellie had just grinned and said, “Worth the risk.”

“I’ve told you like, a hundred times,” she said now, clearly enjoying the way you whined for her to say it again.

The two of you were tangled up on her couch, limbs lazily thrown over each other. Ellie was supposed to be sorting through prints for her gallery, her best photos from the week. Some from your recent hangouts: walks in the park under trees turned orange, city crosswalks filled with motion blur, candids of you laughing or distracted, the occasional stray cat she couldn’t help but snap. She’d taken the gallery prep seriously. Of course she had to. But lately, it was like you kept happening to her, distracting and consuming in all the best, worst ways.

You sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked under yourself, a book open in your lap, rereading the same paragraph over and over. You weren’t even paying attention to the text. How were you supposed to focus when she looked like that? Her sleeves pushed up, veins visible along her tattooed forearm as she leaned over her table, elbows braced, studying the scattered prints.

“Your death stare is making it very hard for me to analyze these pictures,” she muttered without looking up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm. I can feel it burning a hole through my skull.”

“Can’t help it,” you said, smiling. “You’re too pretty.”

God, the way that made her chest flutter. She shook her head, hiding a tiny smile. Trying to play it cool, but she was already blushing hard. She gathered up the prints and slid them into a folder, then walked over and dropped her full body weight onto you with a dramatic sigh. Her favorite move. Full body crush, almost knocking the air out of your lungs. Face buried in your chest like she could inhale you and forget the gallery pressure altogether.

You didn’t mind. Not even a little. You stroked her hair slowly, gently, like she was fragile, like you knew how much she needed softness. You stayed like that for a while, Ellie breathing you in, inhaling your scent like the oxygen she needed to live, her eyes were closed as you ran your fingers through her hair.

Both of you spent more time together. Even more than before. On the rare day you didn’t hang out because your schedules didn’t align, it felt like a tragedy. Like someone had sent her off to war. It was all so giddy, high school-level giddy. You felt like a teenager again…sneaking out of the group hangs early just to be alone with her. Play-fighting over who had to hang up first. So many dates, even if Ellie still stubbornly insisted on calling them hangouts like it made a difference. You’d been doing the romantic shit before you even kissed.

“C’monnn, just wanna make sure you weren’t secretly foolin’ me or something.” You pouted again, that same little face that made Ellie’s knees weak every time.

Ellie groaned and buried her face deeper into your chest, voice muffled. “I mean, what haven’t I told you?” Then she tilted her face to look up at you, cheeks slightly red from being squished against you.

“When we met I was basically obsessed with you. But I told myself, ‘Don’t be a creep, Ellie. This is why you only have one friend. Stop being delusional.’” She paused, a little smile tugging at her lips. “But with you, everything felt different. Like I didn’t have to hide. Still, I was too stubborn to admit I liked you like that. Lived in constant denial.”

You watched her talk. Taking in every expression, you could study her mouth and eyes for hours and never get bored. The way her brow furrowed when she talked about feelings. The way her voice softened at the edges when she looked at you like this. You’d heard this story before, at least a dozen times. And still, it made something warm unravel in your chest.

“So that explains the flirting with random girls?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in mock interrogation.

She groaned. “I had to cope in some way, plus seeing all those guys hit on you at the diner kinda ripped me apart, but didn’t say anything.”

“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms, “I laugh when I’m nervous. Doesn’t mean I liked it. Plus, I flirted with you all the time. You were just too hard-headed to notice.”

Ellie grabbed the nearest cushion and tossed it at your face.

Which of course triggered a full-blown pillow war.

You wrestled and squealed and laughed until Ellie gave up and surrendered. You were breathless, Ellie’s limbs sprawled on the couch, with you sitting between her legs, flushed and grinning.

And then she grabbed your face, gently leaning in, still catching her breath and kissed you like she’d been waiting all day to do it.

You think about it all the time. How everything but still nothing changed after the kiss, like it was always meant to go this way. There was no big moment or sudden change. Just small things that added up to everything.

Ellie started picking you up after your late shifts, waiting out front in her beat up truck with the heater cranked and a hoodie in the passenger seat for you to throw on. She always claimed you looked better in her clothes, especially that faded blue hoodie, the one she kept pretending she didn’t miss when you “accidentally” took it home.

Your hangouts had shifted into something else. There wasn’t that quiet, aching longing hanging in the air anymore, not in the same way. After that night at your apartment, Ellie promised she’d take you on a date. A real one.

Like the kind you’d gush about in those cheesy movies you love, and what better place to live out a cliché than the fair…where the air was thick with fried grease and too-loud pop music, and where she finally had a decent excuse to hold your hand on the roller coasters.

Neon lights blinked in seizure-inducing patterns while kids screamed on rickety rides in the distance. Ellie had dragged you from booth to booth, fully committed to her vendetta against rigged carnival games.

“I swear this is the one,” she said, squinting at the line of wobbling bottles.

“You said that about the ring toss. And basketball. And the darts.”

Her eyes locked on the duck shooting booth. Yellow plastic ducks glided across a narrow trough, jerking mechanically as bubbles popped around them.

“Oh,” she said, eyes glinting. “This is my game.”

You trailed behind her as she calmly gave the booth guy a crumpled five, taking her jacket off and handing it over to you.

She rolled up the sleeves of her flannel, revealing her forearms, tattoo on full display, veins trailing down to her hands like thunders on a stormy night and took her place at the mounted water gun like it was a sniper rifle.

You blinked. “Oh my god.”

She leaned in. Tongue poking out slightly. Face unreadably focused. Hands gripping the water gun with total control, like she’d done this before, maybe in a past life. The light caught the curve of her jaw just right, and your brain short-circuited.

You started to feel as if you had been lit up in fire, was it hot in here?

Ellie didn’t speak. She just adjusted her stance a little, lips pursed, and let the water stream rip. One by one, the ducks fell, each hit perfectly in the center like she had memorized the timing and rhythm.

By the time the buzzer rang, Ellie had cleared the whole line.

You stared at her, wide eyed. “What the fuck,” you breathed.

Ellie blew imaginary smoke from the tip of the gun. “Told you. My game.”

You gaped. “Are you secretly, like… ex-military?”

“Duck assassin,” she replied coolly, already pointing to a shelf of prizes.

She chose the smallest one, a crooked little stuffed bear with lopsided button eyes and shoved it into your arms in exchange of her jacket, like it wasn’t a big deal, even though she was clearly suppressing a smug smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh.” She bumped her shoulder into yours. “You like the bear though.”

You did. Stupidly so.

You held it to your chest and muttered, “Yeah I do.”

She was grinning like stupid, tossing her jacket over your shoulders like a shield, as she grabbed your hand and dragged you to the next game.

You still sleep with that bear sometimes. Not that you’d ever tell her.

Another time, it was the planetarium. This one had been your idea, half-jokingly, you didn’t expect much when you pitched it, just a casual “we could go to the planetarium or whatever,” but when the words fell out of your lips Ellie’s eyes gleamed like a kid on christmas morning.

“No way,” she’d said, practically bouncing. “I thought you weren’t into that kind of stuff?”

“Wanna go or no?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m in.”

She’d shown up five minutes early, hair still damp from a rushed shower, hoodie zipped up to her chin, smelling faintly like mint and laundry detergent. Her eyes were wide, childlike, curious, like she wasn’t totally sure what she was about to walk into but her pulse rushed from the thrill.

Inside, the lights dimmed. The dome lit up. Stars bloomed across the ceiling like someone had torn open the sky. Ellie tilted her head all the way back, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. “Holy shit,” she whispered. “This is… fucking sick.”

You were already watching her more than the ceiling.

“Knew you’d like it,” you said, voice low.

She didn’t even respond. Just stared upward, entranced, like the stars were spelling out something only she could read.

Halfway through the show, during some slow narration about galaxies forming, you felt her hand brush against yours on the shared armrest. A light graze. Just the backs of your fingers, hesitant at first. Then she slid her pinky over yours, this time more purposeful. Like it was no big gesture, but you felt like the sun was imploding inside of you.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at you, just linked your fingers together, her thumb tracing small circles over yours, soft and delicate.

Her voice stayed low the whole time, whispering random facts on your ear, with the sweetest tone, like she couldn’t help herself.

“Neptune’s winds are faster than the speed of sound,” she muttered. “Like… hypersonic. That’s insane.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, too distracted by the glint in her eye.

“And Jupiter’s Great Red Spot is a storm. Like a storm. It’s been raging for three hundred years and it’s big enough to fit Earth inside it, like—” she made a quiet whooshing sound, “—in one bite.”

Her hand squeezed yours a little. Like she got excited and forgot she was even holding you.

You nodded. “That’s… intense.”

She shot you a glance. “You’re not listening, are you?”

She could’ve told you the sun was made of hot dogs and you wouldn’t have noticed. You were too busy staring at her profile, glowing faintly blue under the artificial sky.

“Yeah, no sorry I got a bit lost, what did you say?”

Ellie smirked, a bit shy now. “Nothing.”

She leaned in slightly, placing a quick peck on the top of your head, breathing in your perfume, then turned away, but she saw the smile tug at your lips.

After the show, you walked out into the cool night air, fingers still brushing like they weren’t quite ready to let go.

“I’m not usually, like… a space person. But that was cool.” You said, as you walked out into the night.

Ellie bumped her shoulder into yours. “You’re a space person now. Deal with it.”

You gave her a look, maybe more earnest than you meant it to be. “Only because of you.”

She paused. Looking at you. Then shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket and looked away, clearly fighting a smile.

“Whatever,” she mumbled, ears a little pink. “You’re welcome.”

You both stood there for a second, silent.

But your favorite one was definitely the arcade date. You hadn’t planned it, it was just one of those random afternoons where Ellie showed up at the diner unannounced, leaning against the doorframe waiting for your shift to be over, with that smug little grin of hers.

“You busy?” she asked, truck keys twirling around her fingers.

You weren’t. Not even a little.

The drive was filled with chatter, windows rolled down, music loud, and Ellie’s hand tapping against the steering wheel, like she was playing the backup drums on whatever song was playing. You were both laughing, until you passed a neon sign that read ARCADE & PIZZA, you practically almost turned the wheel yourself.

“Wait Ellie turn around—pull over.”

Ellie flinched. “Okay okay— Jesus you scared me for a second.” You grinned, already unbuckling your seatbelt as Ellie pulled over the parking lot.

“I haven’t been to an arcade since I was like twelve I think” you said as you threw Ellie’s hoodie over your head.

“Wow. Nerd” she snorted, earning a small kick on her heel.

Inside, it smelled like childhood. Pizza and dusty carpets, it was oddly nostalgic. The place was loud, packed with kids and their parents, and a couple of teenagers. Neon lights were blindingly colorful, you felt like your twelve year old self again.

“Alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles dramatically. “Where the competition at?”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe over there, at Jason’s 9th birthday party.” you joked, pointing at the table surrounded by little kids.

Ellie scoffed, “Pffft, easy wins, where is the real competition at?" she glanced over at you.

Oh, you knew where this was going.

“Just say you want to get your ass kicked by me, Williams, not that hard.”

Her grin widened. “You’re on now. Loser pays for the winner’s pizza.”

“Deal.” Both of you squeezed your hands, like you were making some sort of business deal, but this was way more serious.

You didn’t know Ellie had a competitive streak until she practically shoved a 10-year-old out of the way to get to the skee-ball machine.

“Ellie,” you hissed. “You can’t just—”

“He was taking forever,” she snapped, already rolling the ball with deadly focus. “I got shit to prove.”

She won three games in a row.

“Okay, what the fuck,” you growled, staring at the air hockey scoreboard like it had insulted your ancestors. “You’re cheating. There’s no way.”

“You’re just bad,” she teased, throwing the small ball in the air and catching it with her hand. “Maybe I should give you lessons. Private ones.”

“Wow. Cocky.”

“I mean, I did just wipe the floor with you.”

“Oh yeah?” you leaned forward, tempting her, but then you turned around, spotting the motorcycle racing game. Two bikes. One screen. Destiny.

You dragged her over the machine, both mounted the fake bikes revving them like you’d trained your whole lives. Ellie leaned forward, focused her hands gripping the throttle. Her tongue poked out, focused. You knew that look.

Meanwhile you adjusted yourself on the seat, inserting the quarters on the coin slot, your back was slightly arched, causing your shirt to ride up a little and making the small dimples on your lower back visible. Ellie almost fell from her bike at the sight of that. And you weren’t even aware.

“It’s over for you Williams, prepare to eat dust.” you teased.

“You fucking wish.”

The countdown started and the game launched. You took the lead, she trailed behind you, both leaning into turns like you were actually swerving through a neon-lit city. At one moment, your eyes drifted toward Ellie’s arms, her forearm tattoo flexing, adorned by her pulsing veins from gripping the bike handle. God it was unfair—you almost forgot you were in a competition with her.

“Hey, eyes on the road,” she joked, but she was secretly enjoying your staring.

In the end? You won. Throwing your arms up in celebration. “HA. SUCK IT.”

Ellie blinked at the scoreboard in disbelief, “No. Rematch. Right now. My screen lagged.”

“Boohoo excuses are for losers.” you laughed so hard you almost fell off your bike.

The next stop was the dance machine.

Ellie looked skeptical. “I don’t know, dude…”

You were already dragging her by the hoodie. “Nope. No backing out. It’s fate.”

She rolled her eyes but followed. “If I break my ankle, I’m blaming you.”

The game started. The song was fast, the tiles lit up like a rave, and the both of you? Horrible dancers. Absolutely terrible.

You couldn’t stop laughing. Ellie missed the first five steps, almost fell twice, and kept yelling “this is a fucking death trap!” like the machine was out to get her.

But then, something shifted.

Halfway through, she got weirdly into it. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. She started nailing every step, stomping on the lit tiles like she was born in a dancing tournament. She even grabbed your waist at one point, spinning you into position like it was a choreographed number.

“Are you sabotaging me?” you shrieked.

“This is war,” she said, dead serious.

She won that round. You demanded a rematch. She won again.

“Okay,” you panted, doubled over. “You win this one.”

“Jealous.”

“You literally looked like you were summoning demons with your feet.”

“And?”

You played other games after that. Basketball hoops. Whack-a-mole. She tried to win you a prize at the claw machine and got so mad she almost kicked it.

But then— you saw it. The air hockey table.

You gasped. “Oh no.”

Ellie followed your gaze. “Oh yes.”

You both slammed quarters into the machine. Ellie narrowed her eyes, “I’m going to annihilate you.” she said.

You smirked. “You literally just lost the motorcycle race.”

Ellie sighed like a martyr. “Fine. But I’m not holding back.”

“You’ve never held back in your life.”

You both slid your coins in. The machine lit up with that familiar vvvvvmmm of the puck loading up. Ellie rolled her shoulders, cracked her knuckles, and positioned herself like she was about to defuse a bomb. You grabbed your paddle like it was a mortal weapon.

The puck dropped.

The first point? Yours. Quick and clean.

“Fuck yeah!” you whooped, lifting your arms.

Ellie pointed dramatically. “Beginner’s luck.”

The next round? She scored while you were still dancing from your previous win.

“Rude!” you cried.

“Focus up,” she said, eyes glinting.

You both got so intense. The puck clacked across the table like a bullet. Your knuckles started aching from the collisions. Ellie was muttering things like “calculated trajectory” and “this is physics, baby,” which was ridiculous and also extremely hot.

The score climbed. 4 to 4. 5 to 5. 6 to 6.

Final point.

She squinted at you over the rim of the table. “Winner gets a kiss.”

You blinked. “You just made that up.”

“So?”

“…Fair.”

The puck shot out again, and for a moment, everything slowed. Ellie lunged. You twisted your paddle. The puck bounced off the wall—

—and slid right into her goal.

You blinked. Slowly. Then looked up.

Victory.

Ellie just stood there, stunned. Paddle slack in her hand.

“I think you’re choking,” you said softly. “Want some victory soda?”

She groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “I hate this stupid game. This game is rigged. It’s broken.”

“You’re a bad loser, you know that?” you grinned, crossing your arms.

“Can I at least get a consolation prize?” she pouted, and gave her a small kiss on her cheek.

Those memories blurred together now. Warm and fast, like a highlight reel you couldn’t help but replay in your head. The way Ellie had looked at you in the planetarium, her face glowing with stars. The way her tongue poked out when she focused, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp, and tattoo flexing. The way her hand gripped your waist during that stupid dance game, both of you laughing too hard to breathe.

You hadn’t slept together yet…not all the way, but the tension had started blooming between you in glances and lingering touches and shared hoodies, every moment a little more fragile. All of it, layered like sediment, the slow, quiet shift between friendship and whatever this had become.

Now, Ellie was lying on top of you like a human blanket, gallery prints long forgotten, the curve of her nose pressed into your chest. She was supposedly taking a break,though it had turned into her full-body flopping onto you with all the drama of someone who hadn’t slept in three days. You threaded your fingers through her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp the way you knew she liked. She let out a hum, breath slow and even against your collarbone.

“You’re supposed to be working on your gallery,” you reminded her softly, lips brushing the crown of her head.

“M’working,” she mumbled. “Just horizontally.”

“Ellie.”

She groaned into your chest. “Just five more minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“Well now I mean it.”

You smiled despite yourself, thumb brushing over her temple. Her whole body was warm and heavy and tangled with yours, one of her legs slung over both of yours, her arm wrapped lazily around your waist. She wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Ellie sighed dramatically, face still smushed into your chest. “Mmm. Don’t wanna do the gallery. Hate the gallery. Gallery sucks.”

You laughed. “You’re the one who’s been obsessing over it for weeks.”

“Yeah, but right now I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Laying on top of the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Very important.”

You rolled your eyes, heart doing the embarrassing flutter it always did when she said shit like that. You ran your fingers through her hair again, feeling her melt further into you.

There was a pause. Soft. Heavy.

Then Ellie looked up, that specific gleam in her eye that always meant trouble.

“What if we ditched this gallery prep bullshit for a little while?” she said.

You raised a brow. “And do what, exactly?”

“I dunno. Go for a drive. Kidnap a raccoon. Smoke a joint on the beach. Something not involving fluorescent lights and burn out.”

You bit your lip. Thinking about it. The clock blinked past 10 pm. The apartment was quiet. The weight of October air clung outside the windows, thick and chilly.

You sat up slightly. “Wait. Beach?”

Ellie grinned. “Beach.”

You both got up immediately, snatching your jackets and hoodies, slipping into your shoes in a rush. You grabbed your bag as Ellie tossed a blanket at you and snatched her keys before the two of you hurried out of the studio.

The windows were cracked. Your hair whipped around your face in the night wind. Ellie drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting absentmindedly on your thigh, her thumb tracing light circles over the fabric of your jeans.

She looked free, wind in her hair, face lit up by the passing headlights, radio humming low.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

The beach was mostly deserted, just the soft hum of the tide and the faraway glow of streetlights behind you. You hopped out of the truck, the sand sticking on your shoes damp beneath your feet.

Ellie tossed you her hoodie, hitting you straight to your face.

“Hey!”

“You’ll thank me later,” she grinned.

You pulled it on without protest. It smelled like her cologne, warm and familiar. “Thanks.”

“Race you to the shore!” she shouted, already kicking off her boots.

“Wait!” you laughed, fumbling with your own shoes before taking off after her. Your bag bounced against your side with every step, slipping off your shoulder as you ran, breathless and giggling as the cold air filled your lungs.

At one point, Ellie turned suddenly and knocked you off balance, wrapping her arms around you as she spun you both around. You tumbled to the ground in a heap, landing right on top of her, both of you breathless, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the rush of it all.

You turned onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow as you looked at her.

“It’s… really nice out here.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, brushing the sand from her jeans as she stood. Then she held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”

You slipped your fingers into hers without hesitation, like muscle memory. Like saying yes to her had always been easy.

The two of you wandered toward the water, the waves stretching out endlessly before you.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you walked, a light breeze brushing over your skin, carrying the scent of salt and earth. Ellie’s jeans were cuffed above her ankles, feet bare, toes sinking into the wet sand beside yours.

She was quiet for a while, and you didn’t rush her. The silence was soft between you, not heavy.

Then, almost like she was thinking out loud, she said, “I think I’m burnt out.”

You glanced over, watching her eyes follow the moonlit waves. “From the gallery?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It’s like… the more I try to prepare, the more it feels like I’m running on empty. Like I’m squeezing everything out of myself and there’s nothing left to give.” She gave a small laugh, dry and tired. “Kinda pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic,” you said gently. “You’ve been putting your whole heart into it. That’s a lot.”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. She just kept walking.

“Maybe,” you added after a beat, “you don’t need to squeeze anything out. Maybe you just need to breathe a little. Let yourself recharge.”

She looked at you then. Really looked at you. And something in her expression softened.

“Maybe some fresh air is exactly what you needed,” you said, nudging her shoulder lightly. “Who knows—maybe the ocean brings back your inspiration.”

But her inspiration was standing right in front of her, with wide eyes and a soft smile, that same smile that reassured her from her doubts and fears, that made her believe everything was gonna be alright.

Ellie snorted. “Yeah maybe.”

You kept walking a little farther until the sand grew softer and untouched, the sound of the waves a little gentler here. Ellie paused, scanning the area before she pulled the blanket out from where it had been tucked under her arm.

She laid it down carefully, smoothing it out before sinking onto it with a sigh. You sat beside her, legs crossed, watching as she leaned back on her hands and tilted her head toward the sky.

The stars were scattered and quiet tonight. The kind you could get lost staring at without realizing how much time had passed. A breeze passed over you both, cooler now, but comforting. Ellie’s arm brushed yours as she shifted slightly to get more comfortable.

The sound of the waves filled the silence between you, steady and calming. You both had your jeans cuffed, ankles cold and damp from the water. The blanket was barely big enough for two. Your knees were touching.

Ellie was rummaging through the pocket of her jacket with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Boom.”

She held up a perfectly rolled blunt between two fingers like she was revealing a magic trick.

You blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’re gonna get me fired, you know that?”

“Please,” she scoffed, pulling out a lighter, “you can just live with me and be my muse forever. I’ll make you coffee in the mornings. Feed you clementines while you read on the couch.”

She lit the blunt, taking a painfully slow drag, and passed it to you. The smoke curled around her lips and you wanted nothing else but to press yours against hers.

“Muse salary probably sucks.”

“It does,” she admitted. “But the benefits include me and… me, and cuddling 24/7.”

“Wow. How could I resist.”

You took a hit, coughing just a little on the exhale. The haze settled slowly over your limbs, warmth spreading through your chest and cheeks. Time slipped a little sideways.

The blunt moved back and forth between you in a rhythm as natural as breathing. The stars were pinpricks above the ocean, shimmering, scattered, infinite.

Ellie leaned back on her elbows, gaze fixed on the sky. “You ever think about how the light we’re seeing from some of those stars started traveling toward us before the human brain even existed?”

You tilted your head toward her, confused, blinking slowly. “What?”

“Like… we’re looking at the past. Some of those stars could already be dead. We’re just seeing the ghost of them.”

You stared at her, momentarily forgetting about the blunt burning between your fingers.

“You’re literally the nerdiest person I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks. I try.”

The blunt burned lower in Ellie’s fingers, smoke curling around her jawline, eyes soft and half-lidded as she looked at you.

“You’re staring again.” Her voice was low and teasing but not like before. This wasn’t about calling you out. This was about pulling you in.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t even try.

“You look really pretty right now.”

Her brows raised a little, almost surprised. But she didn’t deflect it, didn’t joke it away this time. Just blinked, slowly, lips parting.

She kept going, voice soft and raspy from smoke and salt air. “And Earth moves through space at like, 67,000 miles per hour. Which means no matter what we do, even if we’re just sitting here, we’re still flying through the void. Isn’t that kind of fucked up?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at her. With her messy hair, jeans cuffed like a little boy, freckled face lit up in moonlight and awe. She looked like she belonged up there, with all the stars and the galaxies, floating above you like in a dream. And she kept gesturing toward the sky, completely unaware of the way her words made your ribs tighten.

You blinked slowly, a breath catching behind your teeth.

God. I’m really falling in love with her. Was all you could think about.

Not in the loud, crashing way. Not like the movies. No. This felt quieter. More dangerous. Like something blooming in the dark. Like the soft ache of knowing, really knowing…that if you let yourself, you’d never stop wanting her. Not just her body, not just her kisses. But her.

The way she got really quiet when she was focused. The way she always turned down the volume on her phone before coming into your apartment. How she knew the difference between your tired silence and your mad silence. How she never let your coffee go cold. The way she let you rest your head on her lap without making a big deal about it. The way she touched you like she didn’t realize she was doing it.

Something that always came back. The way she looked at you like maybe, just maybe, she already knew.

You passed the blunt back to her with a shaky hand, trying not to exhale your whole damn soul.

“You okay?” she asked, catching your eyes for a second too long.

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to ground yourself. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

She smiled at you, all teeth and freckles and affection. And you were doomed.

You wanted to kiss her and tell her how far fucking gone you were, that she has already ruined you and there is no turning back. Instead, you just smiled, barely.

“You ever just… forget how good this feels?” Ellie asked quietly, her voice rough with honesty. “Like the world gets so loud, and you forget how simple it can be to just stop for a second?”

You turned your head, so you could look at her. “Yeah. I think we forget to stop because we’re scared everything will fall apart if we do.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, gentle and tired. “Yeah...”

You smiled faintly, the sound of the tide folding over itself again in the background. “Guess that’s what fresh air’s good for.”

Ellie huffed a small laugh through her nose, and without thinking, she reached for your hand in the space between you. Her fingers grazed yours before curling around them, warm and sure.

Neither of you said anything after that. You didn’t need to.

She took another drag and leaned her head back to stare at the sky. “Fuck man, I should’ve brought my camera, the view is unbelieveable,”

You sighed dramatically, then reached into your bag. “Oh, Ellie…”

She glanced over, puzzled, until you pulled out her camera and held it up triumphantly.

“No fucking way,” she laughed, sitting up straighter, her entire face lighting up. “You’re the best. Are you kidding me?”

“You think I don’t know you by now?” you said, handing it over. “I saw it sitting by your keys and figured you'd regret leaving it behind.”

She shook her head in disbelief, already adjusting the lens. “God, you’re unreal.”

You blushed, trying to play it cool, but it was impossible with the way she was looking at you—like you were some rare artifact she'd just unearthed.

Then she brought the viewfinder to her eye. “Don’t move.”

You froze. “What?”

“Stay like that,” she said, voice softer now, focused. “You look—just stay.”

The shutter clicked once. Twice. She shifted slightly, capturing you from another angle, then tilted the camera up toward the sky, the stars, the waves behind you. The sound of the shutter was rhythmic and careful, like she was trying to memorize every second.

She lowered the camera slowly, then looked at you again, really looked. The way the moonlight enhanced your features and the air blew your hair in all the right directions, like slow motion, she couldn’t hold herself back, she didn’t have to anymore.

Ellie leaned in, cupping your face in both hands, her thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones. Her touch was warm and steady, like she was grounding herself through you.

Then she kissed you. Firm and certain.

It wasn’t soft, not this time. It was hungry. Her lips moved against yours with purpose, urgency threading through every second. You melted into her touch instantly, your hands finding her waist and pulling her closer until there was no space left between you.

Her hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, her blunt abandoned somewhere in the sand beside you. And you kissed her back like you could bury the ache under your tongue and hope she didn’t feel the way you melted against her.

She tasted like weed, salt and chapstick and something inherently her. Your fingers tangled in the fabric of her jacket, clinging to her like she was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

When you shifted, she followed, leaning into you as the kiss deepened, her hand slipping to the back of your neck, thumb still grazing your skin like she couldn’t stop touching you.

You broke apart just long enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, your lips brushing as you smiled against her mouth.

She looked at you through half-lidded eyes, flushed and dazed. “You’re so fucking pretty,” she murmured. “It’s not fair.”

And when you finally pulled back, she didn’t move far, her forehead bumped gently against yours, eyes still closed. Neither of you said anything for a moment. You just breathed together.

“We should probably…” she whispered, voice hoarse, like she wasn’t sure where that sentence was going.

“Go home?” you offered, a little breathless, a little terrified.

Her eyes opened, hazy and low-lidded.

“Yeah. Home.”

But her fingers didn’t leave your cheek right away. And when you finally stood, brushing sand off your jeans, folding the blanket with shaking hands and adjusting your bag, you felt Ellie’s hand on your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turned just in time for her to grab your waist and hoist you up with a laugh, throwing you over her shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“Ellie!” you shrieked, kicking your legs, your fists beating half-heartedly against her back. “You’re gonna make me fall on my ass!”

“Relax,” she snorted. “I’ve got you.”

Your voice was muffled by your own laughter, face buried in the fabric of her jacket.

She finally set you down by the car, both of you breathless with laughter, your heart was still thudding from more than just the chaos. Her hand lingered at the small of your back as you climbed in, and you sat there for a second, staring out at the ocean one last time, still high from the weed and the kiss.

The car ride home was awfully quiet. But not the kind that meant nothing was happening. It was the kind of quiet that pulsed. That built up like crashing waves.

Ellie’s hand had been resting on your thigh the whole way. Her thumb traced slow, lazy circles into your skin over the fabric of your jeans, and the warmth of her touch was burning through you.

You shifted in your seat. Crossed and uncrossed your legs, then stilled, because the pressure of her hand there firm, warm, claiming, was making your brain short circuit.

The music was low. Just a beat, pulsing through the speakers. Her fingers flexed slightly against your thigh every time the bass dropped. You didn’t even know what song was playing. Neither of you said anything. But your skin was on fire, your mouth dry, and the only thing you could focus on was how badly you wanted her. Right here. Right now. And it was obvious, painfully, dangerously obvious…that she felt it too.

All you could think about was her mouth. The way she’d kissed you back on the beach. The way she tasted. The way her hand had cradled your jaw like you were precious and hers and ruinable all at once.

Your breath caught in your throat when her fingers squeezed your thigh a little, just enough. But she didn’t say anything. Just kept driving. Eyes focused on the road. Her lips parted, jaw set tight. Like she was holding herself back from something.

When she parked, neither of you moved.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And then you opened the door, heart hammering.

Ellie was behind you in a second, grabbing the blanket, your bag, the abandoned water bottle in the cupholder. And still, somehow, her hand found the small of your back as she guided you inside.

By the time she pushed open her apartment door, something had already shifted.

Because the second it clicked shut behind you…She dropped everything. Your bag hit the floor. The blanket was halfway off your arm when her hands grabbed your waist and yanked you in like she’d been starving.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud. Her lips found yours instantly. Messy, hot, urgent.

You gasped, one hand flying to her shoulder, the other tugging at her jacket like it offended you that she was still wearing it.

The weed still in your system made everything so much more intense. Her mouth, her scent, the drag of her hands over your waist. It was like every nerve in your body had been rewired just for her.

She kissed you like she was burning up, rushed, teeth knocking, too much tongue, but somehow that just made it better. Sloppier. Desperate.

You smiled against her mouth, and her hand immediately grabbed your jaw, angling your face the way she wanted.

Your fingers dug into her shoulders, dragging her closer. “Ellie—”

“Yeah?” Her voice was ragged. Her lips brushed your jaw. Your throat. Your collarbone.

“Your room—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. Because she kissed you again, like she already knew.

You both stumbled messily toward her room, laughter and breath tangled between kisses. Ellie’s fingers tightened around your hand, grounding herself in the feeling of your skin. Her head was spinning, not just from the weed but from the fact that this was real. You were here, touching her like you needed her.

She silently thanked herself for tidying up earlier, the faint scent of cedarwood and laundry detergent curling around the space like an invitation. There were no distractions. Just you, her, and the electric charge buzzing between every touch. You kicked off your shoes without thinking, and she was already guiding you back, hands firm at your waist as she gently eased you onto the bed. Her body followed, urgent, reverent, starved—lips crashing against yours like waves meeting the shore. You didn’t hesitate. You pulled her closer. She hovered for just a beat, eyes devouring the sight of you, flushed and waiting.

No lens could ever even come close to capturing the way her eyes saw you, the glistening on your face, with your pupils dilated and lips puffy, something holy worth waking up to, like a small prayer whispered before risking everything you got.

She didn’t waste any second, she was all over you, like smoke lingering in the air after you’d shared a cigarette. Intimate. Sharing the object that had been around your lips and hers, she always inhaled a little too hard, like maybe she could taste you through the nicotine filling her lungs.

But now she could have you. In this moment, she laid on top of you, and you were looking at her with those wide, doe eyes. And right now, nothing else in this room, or in this world, mattered. You were waiting for her just as much as she had waited for you.

Your fingers grazed her collarbone, tugging slightly at the fabric of her shirt, pulling her in, as if you’d die if you didn’t taste her in this second, like your life depended on it. She reciprocated, lips hungry—slow, memorizing the crevices of your mouth, giving you entrance to her own, tongues swirling around, slow dancing together.

Ellie cupped your face, her calloused fingertips rough against your tender skin, tickling your flushed cheeks. She trailed kisses from your lips to your jaw, her mouth hot and open tingling on every spot, you sat up slightly, and Ellie took it as her cue to lower her lips to your neck, warm breath hovering the flesh of your neck, as she left open mouth kisses, like she was trying to memorize the rhythm of your pulse with her lips.

Your hands were tangled on her auburn hair, fingers pulling softly with each kiss.

A small moan slipped past your lips, you tried to cover it by snuggling your face into Ellie’s neck, but she noticed.

And oh lord—she wanted to replay that little sound for the rest of her life.

Something shifted in her. Primal. She was starving for you. She needed to cover every inch of your skin with her mouth, trace a map across your body, taking note of every sweet spot that made you squirm under her.

God she was high on you, just by kissing. Pathetic.

You pulled back to look at her again, and the look she gave you?

Fuck. It was unraveling you.

Slowly, you pressed your lips to hers again, the kiss deepened. Messy, sloppy, perfect.

Hands roamed slow and lazy, tangled in fabric and hair, fingers trailing like they had nowhere else to be. Then, suddenly, the weight shifted. You felt an arm slide beneath your back, the other steadying you both. And before you could say something , Ellie pulled you up, lifted like you weighed nothing and settled you gently into her lap. Your thighs bracketed hers now, knees sinking into the bed, your lips still locked together.

Now both of you were chasing dominance with your tongues, breathy moans and low groans spilling between kisses. Ellie's hands rested on each side of your hips, gripping the soft flesh, digging her fingers into your skin.

Meanwhile you lowered your hands down to her stomach, slipping under her shirt. Her skin was warm and soft, so soft. You traced little circles with your fingertips as your hands traveled to her back.

Ellie broke the kiss for a second, catching her breath, and when her eyes met yours, she knew—

You needed her as much as she needed you.

She gave you a small nod— permission, and you took it as a welcome sign.

You lifted her shirt slowly, as if you were giving her the chance to say something, to stop you. But she didn’t. She raised her arms letting you tug it off completely and tossed it aside. Bare freckled skin now only framed by the black sports bra she wore, muscles tensing from the shyness she suddenly felt.

She followed immediately, helping you out of your shirt, leaving you in your bra. Ellie had been waiting for this moment since that night she’d accidentally caught a glimpse through your door. The image of your bare back, the strap of your bra. It had been burned into her memory ever since.

She was so caught up in that thought, she didn’t even realize when you shifted your weight completely and she was now the one lying beneath you, with your knees caging her hips.

Ellie’s breath caught in her throat, her hands instinctively settling on your clothed thighs. You could feel her heartbeat pounding beneath your palms, a steady drum that matched your own. She looked up at you like you were a miracle. Her pupils were blown, partly from you and from the weed, lips parted, and you could see the faintest tremble in her chest as she tried to keep her breathing even.

You dipped your head, brushing your lips over hers, soft and slow. A kiss like a secret. One she’d never tell anyone else but you. You pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes—her lashes fluttered, lips chasing yours, already missing the contact.

Her hands moved, skimming up your thighs, slipping under the hem of your bra strap. Her touch was reverent, like she didn’t quite believe this was real.

“You’re so…” she whispered, voice barely there, but the rest of the sentence vanished in your mouth as you kissed her again. Deeper this time, your tongue sliding past her lips, tasting her like she was something you needed to survive.

Your hips shifted, rocking forward just slightly, and the sound Ellie made.

Fuck.

A soft, breathless whimper was enough to make your head spin.

Her fingers dug into your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring you to her. You could feel her muscles tense beneath you, her body responding to every inch of you.

“Tell me this is real,” she breathed, voice cracking around the edges, raw and so full of need it made your chest ache.

“It’s real,” you whispered against her lips. “I’m here.”

You leaned down again, trailing kisses along her jaw, down her neck, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. Ellie let out a shaky exhale, her hands sliding up your back, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine.

You smiled, teeth grazing her collarbone. Ellie groaned softly, arching into you as your kisses grew messier, more urgent, like you were trying to mark her soul with your mouth. She let you take your time, let you explore her inch by inch like she was sacred territory.

When you sat up again, her hands followed your movement. One trailing along your ribs, the other cradling your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. The way she was looking at you then? Like you were starlight. Like she’d never let anyone else touch you the way she did.

You leaned into her touch and whispered, “You okay?”

Ellie nodded, eyes glassy, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile.

“Better than ever.” She looked completely undone, flushed cheeks, strands of hair sticking to her forehead, eyes drunk on the sight of you.

You leaned in slowly, like you were about to worship her. Your lips ghosted over hers, brushing once, twice, teasing. Cruel. And when you finally kissed her, it was all teeth and tongue, heat and hunger.

She groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up your sides and gripping your waist like she was trying to keep herself grounded to the moment. But she couldn’t, not while you were grinding down on her, slowly, hips rolling just enough to make her curse against your lips.

��Fuck—” she gasped, breaking the kiss as her head fell back into the pillow, exposing the long line of her neck.

You didn’t waste the opportunity.

You pressed your mouth to her throat, biting softly just below her jaw, then trailing your tongue over the spot like an apology. Her fingers slipped under the band of your bra, thumbs brushing over the underside of your breasts, breath coming out in shallow, desperate pants.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” she muttered, voice rough and broken.

You pulled back to look at her, lips wet and a little swollen, eyes hazy.

“Yeah?” you whispered, breath brushing her cheek. “What are you gonna do about it?”

That lit something in her. She sat up just enough to crash your mouths together again, teeth clashing, tongue tangling with yours in a messy, frantic kiss. One of her hands slid down, gripping your ass, pulling your body harder against her lap, hips bucking up with zero shame.

You gasped into her mouth, nails dragging down her back, and Ellie cursed again. Low, and filthy.

“Can I?” she whispered into your mouth, hands moving to unclasp your bra, her voice trembling with restraint.

You let her—let her strip you bare, skin flushed and burning. She stared for a second, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing, then she leaned forward and kissed the top of your breast, slowly, her mouth trailing lower. Her tongue flicked across your nipple and your head fell back with a moan, hips grinding down on instinct, desperate for friction.

Ellie groaned when she felt it, her hands grabbing your waist and helping you move, guiding you to rock against her in slow, aching circles.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice wrecked. “Just like that.”

Your hands tangled in her hair, tugging with each roll of your hips. Every kiss got sloppier, every sound louder, every breath more frantic. Ellie was everywhere—mouth on your chest, hands gripping your ass, hips thrusting up into you like she couldn’t fucking help it.

You felt drunk on her—on the heat, the pressure, the want of it all. And when she looked up at you again, eyes glassy, lips slick, it was over for you.

“I need you,” you said, barely audible, but it was enough.

Her hands stilled, holding you there. “You have me.”

Ellie was already breathless beneath you, her cheeks flushed, lips kissed swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d just run for miles, but it was nothing compared to what you were about to do to her.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against hers again, slower this time. A whisper of a kiss, soft and drawn out, like you were trying to memorize the way her mouth felt…like you had all the time in the world. And you did. This was yours. She was yours.

From her lips, your mouth began its descent, trailing to the edge of her jaw, to the spot just beneath her ear that made her inhale sharply. You kissed down her neck, stopping at the hollow of her throat to leave a lingering, open-mouthed kiss there. Your tongue grazed the skin, slow and warm. She whimpered, her hand instinctively gripping the sheets.

Your kisses continued down, over the curve of her collarbone, across the center of her chest. You mouthed over the black fabric of her sports bra, feeling the way her breath hitched when your teeth grazed her nipple through the fabric.

“Fuck,” she whispered, squirming slightly beneath you. “You’re—teasing.”

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled against her skin and kept going.

You pressed soft kisses down her stomach. Pausing just above her belly button, letting your breath tickle her skin. Every inch you touched left her gasping, her muscles twitching under your mouth. You looked up at her then, eyes locking with hers. She was already gone. Lips parted, gaze completely fixated on you.

Still not breaking eye contact, you reached the waistband of her pants. Your fingers toyed with the button, and you watched her nod without saying a word.

You undid them slowly, dragging them down her legs, eyes never leaving hers. She lifted her hips to help you, the soft hiss that left her lips making your thighs clench. You peeled them off, tossing them aside, leaving her in nothing but her dark boxers. The sight in front of you left you in awe, legs trembling, laid out just for you—was enough to make your core ache.

But you weren’t done yet.

You leaned in again, kissing along the sharp lines of her hips. One side, then the other. Slowly. Warmly. Her hands fisted the sheets, a sharp gasp escaping her lips when you mouthed at the sensitive skin right at the waistband, trailing down to place an open mouth kiss to the wet spot of her boxers. You looked up again—still holding her gaze, and hooked your fingers into the fabric.

“Okay?” you murmured.

She nodded quickly. “Yes. Fuck—please.”

Still keeping your eyes locked with hers, you reached for the waistband of her boxers and pulled them down, slow and careful, exposing her inch by inch. Ellie lifted her hips again, obedient and trembling, and you slid them down until she was bare in front of you.

You could’ve stopped just to stare. Her thighs were slightly parted, her breathing ragged, her tattoo curling along her forearm as she gripped the sheets. She looked like she could cry just from the anticipation.

You settled between her legs and let your fingers slide through her folds, wet, warm, already soaked. She gasped, hips jerking slightly.

“This all for me?” you asked, fingers teasing but not entering.

“Shut up,” she rasped, her voice thin, wrecked. “You know it is.”

You smirked, leaned in, and kissed her hip again, just to be cruel. Then, slowly, you pushed two fingers into her.

The way her mouth dropped open, the way her brows pinched like it physically hurt to feel this good, you never wanted to forget it. You curled your fingers just slightly, hitting the spot that made her whimper.

You kept your eyes on hers, and when her lips parted in another moan, you leaned in close, your voice a whisper. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Ellie looked ruined with her hair spread across the pillow, hand covering her mouth now, trying to quiet the sounds that kept spilling out of her. But she couldn’t stop them. Not when you were fucking her this slow, this deep, your palm pressing against her clit with each thrust.

“Don’t hide,” you murmured. “I wanna hear you.”

You fucked her slow, deliberate, dragging your fingers in and out while your thumb circled her clit. Her hips moved with yours, chasing the friction, her thighs twitching with every movement.

“God—fuck, that’s it—don’t stop,” she breathed. Her voice was high, strained, like she was barely holding it together.

You sped up just slightly, enough to make her cry out. Her hands clutched your forearms now, nails digging leaving half crescent moons in your skin. She moaned again. Loud, desperate, and you knew she was close.

“Come on, Els,” you whispered. And somehow that made her walls clench harder against your fingers, pulsating with every thrust.You started speeding up, hitting just the right angle, her back arched and she choked on your name.

“I’m—fucking—fuck—” Her whole body tensed, then shattered. Back arching off the bed, head thrown back, a moan breaking open in her chest. You leaned in, kissing her as she came, swallowing her moans, keeping your rhythm until she was trembling beneath you. You only pulled out once her body stopped twitching. Then, with your eyes never leaving hers, you slipped your fingers into your mouth and licked them clean, savoring her orgasm

You grinned as you dragged your fingers out with that small “pop”.

Ellie choked on a gasp, eyes wide, pupils blown.

She didn’t waste a second.

After your little display and those fucking eyes locked on hers while you tasted her off your fingers…Ellie snapped. She rolled you onto your back like a rag doll, with a roughness that wasn’t aggressive, just desperate. Her mouth was on yours immediately, hands framing your jaw, tongue sliding in as if she couldn’t get deep enough.

“Mine,” she murmured, almost to herself, between kisses. “You’re fucking mine.”

Ellie hovered over you, flushed and breathing hard, her skin glistening, her eyes blown wide with lust and awe and something deeper—something that cracked you open just by looking at you like that. You were still panting from making her come apart on your fingers, but that didn’t stop her from slipping her hands under your thighs and flipping you onto your back, her mouth crashing against yours in a hungry, lingering kiss that tasted like heat and desperation.

“You think I’m gonna let you get away with that?” she rasped against your lips, her voice low and breathless. “No fucking way–”

Your breath caught. Your legs instinctively parted around her hips, your hands clutching at her arms, the muscles flexing beneath your fingers. Ellie leaned in, pressing kisses to your jaw, then your throat, open-mouthed and wet, letting her tongue drag along the curve of your neck.

You arched into her instinctively when her lips brushed your collarbone, then went lower. She kissed between your breasts, and you felt the cool air and her hot, roaming gaze, addicting.

“So pretty,” she murmured, her voice gone thick. “Fucking perfect.”

She wrapped her lips around one of your nipples, sucking slowly, letting her tongue flick over it before biting down just enough to make you gasp. Her hand came up to play with the other, thumb circling, pinching, teasing, until you were whining, thighs rubbing together beneath her.

And she wasn’t even close to done.

She switched sides, kissing the curve of your breast before giving the same treatment to the other nipple, slower this time, messier. Her teeth grazed your skin, and then she trailed lower…tongue dragging down your ribs, over your stomach, leaving tiny wet patches and hot breath in her wake.

But she didn’t rush. She took her time, leaving small hickeys on your chest, just above your heart, another on the soft swell beneath your breast, and one lower, just to the side of your belly button. She wanted to mark you, and she wanted you to feel it every time your shirt brushed against those spots later.

By the time she reached the waistband of your jeans, you were trembling.

She looked up at you from between your thighs, and fucking hell you could’ve just cummed at the sight of her beautiful green eyes looking at you like that, all desperate and needy, hands sliding to your hips.

“Still ok?” she smirked.

You could barely form words. Just a breathless, desperate nod.

She undid your jeans slowly, dragging the zipper down with purpose, fingers teasing at the waistband as she leaned in to kiss your lower belly, just above the fabric. You lifted your hips so she could tug them down, and she did—carefully, kissing every new inch of exposed skin. Your thighs, your inner knees, the dip just above your underwear. You were soaked already, and Ellie saw it, smelled it, her breath hitching.

“Fuck, look at you.”

She pressed a single kiss to the front of your panties, right over your clit. You whimpered, bucked into her mouth, and she just chuckled low, mouthing at the wet fabric. Her tongue dragged over it once, then again, leaving it wetter with her spit. Then she sucked at it, lightly, then harder right through the cloth, until you were gasping, your hips twitching beneath her grip.

“Tastes so fucking good, even through this.”

She hooked her fingers in the waistband and tugged them off in one smooth motion, tossing them aside without looking. Then she kissed your thigh again, and again, and again, until you were practically begging.

Then finally—finally, she spread you open with both hands and dove in.

Her tongue flattened against your pussy and dragged up in one slow, singular motion, like she wanted to study your body with her mouth. She moaned into you at the taste, low and guttural. Like it relieved something inside her. Her tongue flicked against your clit, soft and rhythmic, then she pulled back just long enough to spit on it, watching the mess drip and smear as she dove back in.

Your head fell back against the pillow.

“Ellie—fuck—”

She hummed again, arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you still, her face buried so deep you could feel her breath inside you. Her tongue teased your entrance, then pressed inside you, slow and firm, while the tip of her nose rubbed against your clit with every movement. Hitting just the right angle.

You gripped her hair hard—really hard. And she just groaned into your pussy like it made her wetter, grinding her own hips into the mattress while she fucked you stupid with her tongue and sucked your clit in between.

The tension coiled fast and hard in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble. Ellie felt it. And added two fingers without warning, curling them up just right, and doubled down with her tongue until you broke, cumming hard with a growly cry, hips jerking on her face, your hands pulling her impossibly closer.

But Ellie didn’t stop.

She didn’t even slow down.

She fucked you through it, licking up every drop, moaning into you like she’d drown there happily.

When she finally pulled back, her chin and lips were shining. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing heavy, pupils dark and starving. Then she crawled up your body and kissed you, deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.

“Didn’t get enough,” she panted against your lips. “Need you again.”

You felt her hips roll down into yours, and then again, more intentional, needy. You looked down.

She was already grinding against you, bare now, both of your slick combining. Your thighs instinctively spread wider, and Ellie settled between them, her cunt sliding against yours, hot and sticky and so fucking wet.

You gasped. “Oh my God—”

The friction was instant. The way your clits brushed together made you both cry out. She grabbed your thigh, threw it over her hip, angling you just right. Then she started to move, grinding slow and deep, her forehead pressed against yours, her breath stuttering every time your bodies slipped perfectly together.

“Feels so fucking good,” she groaned. “Shit—you’re perfect—”

You couldn’t even respond. You were too caught up in it. In the slippery, desperate rub of her cunt on yours, the raw eye contact, the sweat and tension and whimpers she couldn’t hold back.

Your hands clutched her back, your legs wrapped around her waist, and you met every grind with one of your own. You were soaked, overstimulated, and yet completely insatiable.

Ellie’s voice cracked as she picked up the pace, her hips stuttering, her sounds getting louder, higher.

“You gonna come again with me?” she begged, voice strained. “Please—*fuck—*I wanna feel you come on me.”

You nodded frantically. You could already feel it—your second orgasm, rolling in fast. Your muscles tensed, your thighs clenched around her, and then—

You both came.

Harder than before. Together.

Her body collapsed onto yours, her face buried in your neck, both of you shaking and soaked and breathless.

The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the fan in the corner and the echo of your breaths slowly syncing again. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and skin, heat still clinging to both of you, but you’re not in a rush to pull away.

Ellie’s lying on her back, arm stretched out, inviting, and you settle into her side without thinking, thigh slung over her hip, your chest rising and falling against hers. Her skin is still warm. Damp in places. You let your fingers wander on her skin, tracing the soft, faded scars scattered across her stomach.

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, her hand finds your waist, and she’s holding onto you like she needs the reassurance that you’re real. That you’re still here.

Your fingertip drags in slow circles, skimming across her ribs, then trailing down again, stopping to gently trace the outline of a small mark near her navel. You wonder where she got it. If it hurt. If she ever thought to tell you.

Still, neither of you says anything. You shift slightly, arm draped across her middle now, and your other hand finds her forearm, the ink there familiar beneath your touch. You trace the edge of her tattoo, carefully, like you’re memorizing it with your skin.

Ellie’s breathing deepens. You feel it in the way her chest rises under your cheek, the way her thumb starts brushing gentle lines across the bare of your back.

And then, softly, almost like a thought slipping out by accident, she finally speaks.

“You are the most beautiful girl on this planet—” A pause. A breath. “No. This universe.”

You scoff, letting your lips curve into a smirk against her skin.

“Pffft—You say that to every girl you sleep with?” you mumble, teasing, but your voice comes out quieter than you meant. Too full of feeling.

Ellie huffs a laugh, but you feel the shift in her body. She’s still smiling, but there’s something quieter behind it, more serious. Something heavy in her chest that she doesn’t quite let out yet.

“No girl has gotten lucky enough.”

You lift your head, just slightly, eyes meeting hers.

She’s not grinning. Not smirking.

She’s looking at you like she wants to kiss you all over again, but not in a way that’s messy or frantic or lustful.

She’s just there. Staring. Open. Soft.

And you don’t say anything back.

You just curl into her again, one hand resting on her chest where her heart is beating like a marching band, the rhythm of her palpitations calms you down. And she lets you stay there. Quiet. Wrapped in each other like neither of you know how to ask for more. Even though it’s already written all over your skin.

Sunlight slips lazily through the slats in the blinds, casting pale golden stripes across the tangled sheets. Ellie stirs, arm reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed, but it’s empty now. Still warm, just barely. She blinks groggily, eyes adjusting to the morning light, her limbs heavy with sleep and muscle ache.

There’s a second where panic flickers through her.

Did you leave? Was everything just a dream?

But then she smells you on her pillow. Faint traces of your shampoo, your skin, your sweat from the night before, and the corner of her mouth tugs upward, soft and slow.

She turns her head and sees it.

A little piece of paper on her desk, scrawled in your handwriting.

“Headed to work. U looked too cute to wake up. Pass by the diner if ur not busy ;)”

Ellie stares at it for a minute, then flips onto her back, one arm thrown over her eyes as a smile overtakes her entire face. It’s the kind of smile she couldn’t hide even if she tried.

Stupid. Giddy. Lightheaded.

You.

Her mind plays it all back in bits, your mouth, your hands, your body pressed to hers like it had always belonged there. The way you looked at her like you were afraid to blink and miss her. The way you touched her, so safe and sure, like you were tracing art into her skin.

And now you were just… gone.

Gone, but not far.

Her eyes flutter open again. The note’s still there. The sheets are still messy. Her chest still feels full in that unfamiliar, aching way. She sighs, long and dreamy, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

When she finally sat up, her hair was a mess, body sore in the best way. The note is still clutched between her fingers, and she reads it once more for no reason other than the way it makes her stomach flip.

She stretches, smiling like an idiot, already thinking about what she’ll say when she sees you again. Already wondering how she’s supposed to act around you now. Already imagining the way your face lights up when she walks into the diner.

Had she mentioned how irrevocably fucked she was? So completely, irreversibly, stupidly fucked for you.

How she felt like she dug a grave for herself, how this would either be the best thing ever or the worst heartbreak of her entire fucking life. And she didn’t wanna think about it, because she’s scared as shit.

She’s scared of herself more than anyone.

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

taglist ♡‧₊˚₊✧

@liasxeatt @80saturn @eleanorsghost @youusunshineyoutemptress @jazzyxox @lesoulew @fangirlinc @hitmehardmommy @liztreez @chwekriz00 @vahnilla @elliespotion @haithone @stwolfhardimaginez @thxtmarvelchick @purinukie @lavenderseedling @elliesfavwife @mikellie @iadorefineshyt @thebadwritersposts @gayandsuffering26 @flynnph0bias @adoreasellie @wwefan2002 @pinkcloudsmmr @ellliewilliamssgf @hufflepuffin92-blog @madsxh1022 @elliepoems @finnthehumanjakethedog @oneinameliann @sulliefimmie @lunshimmer @theangelwaltz @morticeras @elliessavagestarlight @ssijht @oatmatchalatte @sunflowerwinds

#apple cider!ellie #ellie willams x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams #ellie x reader #ellie tlou 2 #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #tlou2 #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams smut #ellie fanfic #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams fluff

176 notes · View notes

ceramini · 18 hours ago

Text

✦ STRONG ENOUGH TO RUIN YOU

pairing 𐐪𐑂 gym instructor!sunghoon x afab!reader

word count 𐐪𐑂 approximately 1.2k words (dw im working on making my fics longer)

genre 𐐪𐑂 smut, slow burn, instructor/client tension, fluff, dom!sunghoon, MDNI 18+

synopsis ───── you sign up for personal training thinking it’ll be a harmless way to finally stay consistent. you didn’t expect sunghoon, your cocky, too-pretty, too-hands-on gym instructor who makes you forget how to breathe mid-stretch. what starts with harmless corrections and tension-filled check-ins quickly unravels into something you can’t control. or hide.

nini’s note 🗒️ this is like INCREDIBLY over due (in terms of posting for sunghoon despite him being my wrecker..), but I just saw those photos of sunghoon in the gym and my mind is running. im actually foaming at the mouth he is so fine and his arms are like so big I want him to choke me hard im not even lying also i like how all the enha writers are just going feral abt those pics, I’ve seen like 3 of these already 😭😭.. remember 2 enjoy responsibly + comments, likes & reblogs are very much appreciated <33

𓋜 if want to read something else, check out the ꕀ LIBRARY

You weren’t even supposed to pick him.

There were three trainers available when you signed up. All perfectly qualified, all recommended. You picked the one who didn’t have 40k followers on Instagram. The one who wasn’t always in the mirror with his shirt off. The one who didn’t look like a boyband idol who accidentally wandered into a squat rack.

So why the hell were you stuck with Park Sunghoon?

“Looks like you’re with me now,” he’d said that first day, smiling just a little too knowingly. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You knew what that meant.

What you didn’t expect was how good he’d be at his job.

Firm, focused, never distracted, even when your breathing stuttered, even when his palm slid to your lower back and your brain short-circuited. He’d press your shoulders down, tap your thighs, adjust your grip with long, capable fingers. Always murmuring soft corrections like:

“Back straight, baby.”

“Stay with me.”

“Just like that. You’re getting better.”

He always said your name like it tasted sweet.

And now here you were, halfway through week five, sitting on the gym floor with your thighs trembling, heart in your throat, and his hand still on your waist.

“Need help stretching it out?” he says, voice low.

You should say no.

Instead, you nod.

You’re on your back. Hips tilted. One leg bent.

Sunghoon is kneeling beside you, gently moving your leg across your body as he leans over.

“Relax,” he murmurs, fingers firm on your outer thigh. “Let me guide you.”

You swear his voice gets lower every time he touches you. A slow, patient growl. You squeeze your eyes shut as the stretch deepens.

“Good girl,” he says suddenly. “Just breathe.”

Oh fuck.

You don’t know what part of your body clenches first.

“You always tense up when I say that,” he muses, amused.

You peek one eye open. He’s grinning. Smirking.

“I do not.”

“You do,” he says, stroking up your leg with his thumb. “But it’s okay. It’s cute.”

You shove his shoulder weakly. He doesn’t move an inch. You feel his grip tighten, just slightly.

“You know,” he says softly, “you’ve been a real good client. You always listen. Always do what I tell you.”

There’s a pause.

“Would you keep listening if I told you to spread your legs for me?”

Silence. Then—

You do.

Without a word. Breath shaking. Core throbbing.

Sunghoon’s eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I thought so.”

You’re up against the mirror.

His fingers are inside you.

Your cheek is pressed to the glass, the fog of your breath smudging your reflection. His body is flush behind you, strong, firm, solid, guiding your hips back into his hand, where he’s curling his fingers in slow, purposeful strokes.

“See how pretty you look?” he whispers, biting your ear. “Can you see how wet you are?”

You whimper. He speeds up.

You try to close your legs but he clicks his tongue.

“Ah—uh uh. Don’t run. Let me stretch you, baby.”

He spreads his fingers. You gasp.

“Already so tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock. You gonna take me like a good girl?”

You nod frantically.

“You want me that bad?”

“Sunghoon, please—”

He leans forward, lips against your jaw.

“Beg.”

You’re already halfway gone. Voice cracked. Mind empty.

“Please fuck me. Please—need it so bad—I’ll be good—”

You cry out as his palm lands against your ass, sharp and quick.

He groans behind you.

“Then get on the bench.”

The workout bench is cold on your skin.

You’re bent over it now, cheek pressed to the padding, thighs parted the way he told you. Your leggings are halfway down, soaked through, your body still trembling from his fingers.

Sunghoon stands behind you, breathing heavy, a flush spreading down his chest, biceps flexing as he strokes himself, slow and hard.

“God, look at this fucking ass,” he growls, palming the curve of your hip. “You really let me do this here?”

You nod, whimpering. “Wanted you— wanted this—”

He leans over, lips brushing your shoulder. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks. Every time you show up in those tiny shorts, acting shy—”

His cock presses between your folds and you gasp, arching.

He slides it through your slick, groaning.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. All for me?”

You can barely answer. He slaps your ass again— not hard, just enough to make you flinch.

“Answer me, baby.”

“All—fuck—all for you, Hoon.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice. It’s high, messy. You’re already unraveling, and he hasn’t even put it in yet.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now take it.”

He sinks in slowly.

Not teasing, not fast, just… deep.

You both moan when he bottoms out. One hand grips your hip, the other slides under your stomach to press against your clit.

“You’re so tight,” he says against your spine, voice wrecked. “Fucking perfect.”

You cry out as he starts moving, steady thrusts, grinding into that spot that makes your knees buckle. His cock fills you completely, like it was made for you, and his abs brush your back every time he presses forward.

“Shit, you’re taking me so good—” he pants, fucking into you harder. “Let me ruin you, baby. Let me make you forget your own name.”

You do.

You can’t say anything but his name. Over and over again.

“Hoon—Hoon, please—please—”

He grabs your hair, pulling you back so you see your fucked-out reflection in the mirror.

“Look,” he growls. “That’s what I do to you. That’s what you look like when I fuck you dumb.”

You’re already crying a little, not from pain, but from the overwhelm. He notices, slows down just slightly.

“You okay?”

You nod frantically. “More—please don’t stop—need you—”

He wipes your tears with a shaky hand, eyes dark.

“Yeah? You want me to break you, baby?”

You say yes so fast he laughs, but it’s breathless, desperate, like he’s just as gone.

“Say it again.”

“Break me, Sunghoon.”

He grabs your wrists, pins them behind your back, and lets go.

You’re cock drunk by the time he starts whispering praise.

“Taking me so good—god, you were made for this.”

“Such a perfect little body—fuck, I’ve been dreaming of this.”

“Gonna cum for me? Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

You’re gone. You can’t stop shaking.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me. Make a mess.”

You do, hard. Loud. Full-body, leg-shaking, soul-leaving climax. You scream his name, you cry, your body locks up around his cock like it never wants to let go.

Sunghoon loses it.

“Fuck—fuckfuck—gonna fill you up, baby—shit—”

He buries himself to the hilt and cums hard, hips jerking, hands gripping you so tight you’ll probably bruise. You can feel him twitching inside you, groaning against your shoulder, dropping messy kisses onto your back as he rides out the wave.

He pulls out slow, hands still gentle, watching your cunt drip with his cum.

“Shit,” he says softly. “That was—fuck.”

You just lay there, legs spread, brain fried.

Sunghoon grabs a towel, wipes you clean, helps you sit up. He kisses your temple, holds your face in both hands.

“Was that okay?” he asks, genuinely.

You nod, tears still drying on your cheeks.

He kisses you again, soft this time. No smirk. No games.

“I’ll take care of you, okay?” he murmurs. “Even if this doesn’t mean anything. Even if it’s just once.”

You blink. “You think I’d let you hit raw and not mean it?”

He laughs, then kisses you again, and this one feels like a promise.

TAGLIST ───── @gxwesn @gyarumindd @somuchdard @ssanhwatto @jinxedly @seokjinthescientist @hoonprksung @eunvyue <3 you can join my taglist through this doc! —> here

380 notes · View notes

avaantares · 1 day ago

Photo

I did some research on Superior for one of my writing groups a while back, so here are some more TERRIFYING FACTS! (to some people. I find them fascinating, haha)

The Great Lakes are huge -- not only in their vast surface area, but also in depth. They hold around 21% of the world's fresh water. (Let that sink in for a second. Twenty-one percent.) They are so deep, in fact, that the deeper sections maintain a temperature of only a degree or two above freezing. (More on that in a moment.)

Because they are just so freaking enormous, they generate their own weather systems, which can be very volatile and which even causes the portion of the jetstream crossing North America to wrap around them.

One outcome of this weather effect is that the lakes are capable of producing meteotsunamis (a tsunami caused by atmospheric effects rather than earthquakes). Much like earthquake tsunamis, these can arise quickly and be extremely dangerous. Unlike earthquake tsunamis, they happen really frequently. The Great Lakes see over a hundred meteotsunamis per year:

In strong weather conditions, waves can exceed a hundred feet in height:

[photo source]

On a more haunting note (and if you're squeamish about human remains, this is your cue to bail out), there are THE BODIES.

If you've listened to Gordon Lightfoot's "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" linked above -- which, by the way, he wrote not only to memorialize the 29 men who died, but to benefit their families; he donated all proceeds from the song to them -- you may have heard the line, "the lake, it is said/never gives up her dead." This is scientifically true! Superior's depths are so cold and under such pressure that it inhibits bacterial decomposition, which is what produces the gasses that cause corpses to float. If you sink in Superior, you're likely to stay where you went down. Forever.

There have been several submarine expeditions to the wreckage of the Edmund Fitzgerald over the years, for assorted legal and scientific reasons. But the most shocking one took place in 1994, nineteen years after the ship sank. The crew of a submarine exploring the wreckage were shocked when they discovered the partially-preserved body of a crewman, still wearing his wristwatch and life vest, lying on the lake floor near the ship.

There was a huge controversy about publishing photos and video of the body (the families of the EF crew were justifiably outraged by someone capitalizing on their tragedy with a book deal about finding their loved one's body), so nothing was released at the time, but eventually someone leaked the unreleased documentary made about the expedition, which does contain a brief glimpse of it. They talk about finding the body around the 34-minute mark.

Because of the mineral content of the lake, bodies left underwater for a long time can also calcify (tissue is replaced by minerals, similar to the process of fossilization) and essentially turn to statues. Sometimes they can also saponify, a process where the body is essentially mummified by fat permeating the surface. Because of this, there are some well-preserved bodies in the lake that are over a century old. One such corpse dates to 1927, and is familiarly known as "Old Whitey" (his true identity is unknown, though some believe the body belonged to the ship's engineer, Arthur Hawman). Divers' reports of the "ghost" floating around the shipwreck with them are spooky. (Warning: link contains a partial photo of a saponified body.) Imagine working your way into a tiny, dark compartment of a sunken ship, only to turn around and find a crew member who never left floating just behind you.

For the less-realistic ghost story version, there's also this one:

ANYWAY, the Great Lakes are huge and terrifying and awe-inspiring, but they're actually untamed inland seas and they WILL straight up kill you if you don't respect them. Keep that in mind if you visit one on vacation.

The Great Lakes and Saint Lawrence River superimposed on a map of Europe

#the great lakes #history #edmund fitzgerald #shipwrecks #nature

109K notes · View notes

brookghaib-blog · 2 days ago

Text

It's Quiet Between the Stars

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: After surviving a lifetime of pain, addiction, and betrayal, Y/N begins the long road to healing with Bob—her anchor in the dark. Hidden away in the Watchtower, love grows between two broken souls as they learn that peace isn’t found—it’s built, moment by fragile moment.

Warning: Depression, torture, human experiment

Word count: 5,8k

Note: Based on this request!

The Watchtower was unusually quiet, humming low with the sound of the city beneath them and the occasional mechanical click of overhead vents. The team had returned only hours earlier from the mission in Berlin. A supposed underground facility—yet another sadistic attempt to manufacture super soldiers. Only, this one had gone even more wrong than usual. The scientist behind it all had experimented on unwilling civilians, turning them into grotesque hybrids—barely alive, veins blackened, bodies grotesquely enlarged, minds shattered into fragments of who they once were.

They hadn’t spoken much on the flight back. There wasn’t much to say when the smell of rotting flesh still lingered in your nose and your fists ached from mercy killings.

Now, night had blanketed the Watchtower, the skyline outside a sea of blinking lights. In the common room, Alexei flopped onto the couch with a dramatic grunt, groaning like he had been shot.

“I swear, if one more mission smells like a funeral home and makes me punch corpses, I am retiring. Again.”

“Didn’t you already retire four times?” Ava muttered, legs tucked under her on the far corner of the couch, sipping tea that didn’t quite mask the haunted look in her eyes.

“Five. But this one? This is the real one. Official. I will announce it. There will be cake,” he added with a crooked grin, though the shadows under his eyes gave him away.

Walker rolled his eyes as he tossed a can of beer onto the table—non-alcoholic, courtesy of the Watchtower’s very strict policy since Bob moved in. “You’re all talk, Red. Besides, who the hell retires before beating their kill count record? You’re still like... fifteen behind me.”

“You count your kills?” Ava asked flatly.

He smirked. “Only the impressive ones.”

“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, turning her gaze back to the TV she wasn’t watching.

Across the room, Bob listened from the intercom embedded into the wall—a low, grainy speaker buzz he had half-disassembled and reassembled himself just to feel useful. He didn’t go on missions anymore. Not often, at least. Not unless it was desperate. Too much power. Too much risk. Too much Void.

But he listened. Always. Especially when Y/N was out with them.

He sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, hair tousled, hoodie sleeves stretched from restless fingers. He leaned closer to the speaker when Alexei made an offhand joke about one of the hybrids biting at his armor like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

And then Bob’s voice came through, soft, static-washed.

“Where’s Y/N?”

The room quieted a beat too long.

Walker glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway. “She locked herself in her room since we got back. Didn’t say a word.”

Bob’s chest tightened. That cold, dull ache he hated. He hadn't seen her in four days. Her voice hadn’t come through the line even once during the mission. Not after the breach. Not after the clean-up.

Alexei shifted, quieter now. “She... she looked shaken. One of the hybrids was—small. A kid. Maybe thirteen. She was the one who had to finish it.”

Walker looked visibly uncomfortable at the memory, his jaw tightening.

Ava added, “She said she was fine. But... she hasn’t come out. Not even to shower. We tried knocking.”

Bob didn’t answer. The silence on his end said more than anything he could.

Alexei, trying to lighten the room again, muttered, “Maybe she’s binge watching Grey’s Anatomy. That always ruins my mood too.”

Walker groaned. “Please, no more trauma surgeons who cheat on each other and cry. It’s worse than our missions.”

Even Ava cracked a faint smile.

But the joke hung heavy in the air. Because they all knew what it looked like when someone said “I’m fine” too many times in a row. They had all heard that sentence before a collapse. Before a relapse. Before a loss.

And Bob knew, with bone-deep certainty, that something had gone quiet in Y/N. Something inside her had curled up and stopped speaking. And he wasn’t sure how to reach it from the other side of the Watchtower walls.

The room was dark, save for the pale sliver of moonlight creeping in between the gaps in the blackout curtains. The air was heavy with stillness, stale and unmoving, like even time itself was holding its breath. Y/N hadn’t changed out of her combat uniform. The dried blood—some hers, some not—had cracked and flaked across her chest and sleeves, crusting the fabric like a memory she couldn’t wash off.

She lay curled on the edge of the bed, knees to her chest, her forehead pressed into the pillow, damp with sweat and soaked in tears. Her body trembled with each wave of emotion that hit her, like a storm on repeat. She wasn’t sure when she started crying. Or when she had stopped breathing normally. Everything felt tight. Her throat. Her chest. Her skin. As if she was locked in, as if her own body was punishing her for being weak.

The child’s face haunted her.

Not a monster. Not like the others. He had human eyes. Confused. Hurt. Terrified. He hadn’t even screamed when she did it. Just blinked—slow, resigned. And she had to. She had to.

Right?

Her fingers clawed into the mattress as a new sob tore out of her. Her lungs burned from hours of shallow breathing, from muffled crying into her arms, her pillow, her palms. Her face was raw. Her eyes were swollen. Her throat was hoarse. But the crying wouldn’t stop. It couldn’t stop. It was the only thing keeping her from ripping her skin open just to let something out. Just to feel anything that wasn’t shame.

A soft knock rattled the silence.

She froze. She didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe. Her body tensed like a child afraid of being found.

“Y/N?”

His voice.

Bob.

He was on the other side of the door. She hadn’t seen him when they landed. She’d walked past everyone. Didn’t look anyone in the eye. Especially not him.

“Y/N… please.”

Her lip quivered. Her body didn’t move.

“I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Can you—can you just say something?”

No. She couldn’t. Her tongue felt like it was buried in ash. Her mouth dry. Her throat locked.

Bob’s voice cracked a little. “I was listening. To the team. They said what happened. About… about the kid.”

Her hands gripped the blanket until her knuckles burned.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Don’t say that. Don’t lie to me, she wanted to scream. But her voice had died somewhere back in that lab, alongside everything else.

“You did what you had to. That’s what they do, these monsters—these scientists. They put blood on our hands and call it duty.”

Her lip trembled harder now. More tears slid silently down her cheeks.

“But I know that doesn’t matter right now,” he said, voice softer, sadder. “Because when it’s night… and you close your eyes… all you see is their face.”

She gasped softly. A hiccup of grief, of recognition.

“I know what that’s like,” he continued, closer to the door now. She could almost feel his shadow through the wood. “I know how it feels when the guilt eats everything. When you think, ‘If I had just been faster. If I’d aimed different. If I hadn’t hesitated.’”

Her chest caved in with another silent sob. Her nails dug into her own skin now.

“I used to think dying would be easier than living with it,” Bob admitted, and that silence that followed was louder than anything else he said.

She closed her eyes. Tears streamed sideways onto the pillow.

“But I didn’t die,” he said. “I stayed. And I found you.”

More silence.

“I’m still here, Y/N. I’m right here. Just open the door. Please.”

Her hand twitched. It twitched toward the edge of the bed, where the floor and the door were just a few short steps away. But her body wouldn’t move. It wouldn’t listen. She didn’t deserve to open that door. Not now. Not looking like this. Not being like this.

She pressed her face deeper into the bed, trying to smother the sounds of her breaking. Shame had rotted her from the inside. How could she face him? He’d see her and know immediately. Know how much she wanted to disappear.

A moment passed.

And another.

Finally, Bob’s voice fell into a whisper. Like he was leaning against the door now, forehead resting on the cold steel.

“I’ll be here,” he said quietly. “Whenever you can. However long it takes.”

And then she heard it—the slow retreat of his steps. The ache in the air deepened as his presence faded.

Berlin, 2005

The room was white. Sterile. So bright it hurt to open her eyes—but she had to. If she didn’t, they’d do it again. They always did.

Little Y/N was no older than six. Her tiny frame barely filled the metal slab they strapped her to, and yet they treated her like a monster. Like something dangerous. Like something they had to fear.

She screamed. Again. And again.

“Please!” Her voice cracked, tiny lungs heaving as her wrists pulled violently at the restraints. “Please, stop! It hurts!”

But no one stopped.

No one ever stopped.

The needles were thick. Burning. Electric. Sometimes they poked beneath her fingernails. Sometimes her spine. The shock collar around her neck pulsed every time her heartbeat spiked. A mechanical voice from the corner of the room would note her stress levels, her pain threshold, and the surge of neural activity as they injected another serum into her bloodstream.

Experiment 041: Day 136.

Her scream echoed off the walls.

She called for her mom. She always did.

“Mama! Mama—please! Mama!”

But her mother never came. Not anymore.

Instead, her father did.

Clipped heels. Cold eyes. A tablet in his hand. He stood above her, jaw tight, eyes unreadable, watching like she was just another number on a screen. Another line on a chart.

“Dad?” she whimpered, chest heaving. “Please… stop them. It hurts—Daddy, it hurts…”

He didn’t flinch.

He just turned to the scientist beside him and said coldly, “Increase the dosage. Let’s see what triggers the next response.”

Her world exploded in white-hot agony.

There were no toys. No sunlight. No birthdays. The other children, the ones she heard from behind distant doors, all stopped screaming eventually. They stopped crying. One by one, their voices went silent. She never saw them again.

Maybe they got better.

Or maybe they died.

She stopped asking.

Time passed. She wasn’t sure how long. It could’ve been months. Years. The drugs twisted her sense of reality, made her forget her own face. All she knew was pain. That, and the humming sound of the machines that never stopped recording her.

Then… one day, something snapped.

Her head throbbed like it might split open. Her vision blurred. Her pulse roared in her ears—and then it happened.

The straps shattered. The slab split down the middle. The machines blew apart with a deafening clang as an invisible force surged from her chest and tore the room in half.

The walls caved in.

The men screamed.

She could see them—but also couldn’t. It was like she had arms that weren’t hers. Arms that reached where she couldn’t. Arms that crushed steel, that slammed bodies into glass. That killed.

Blood hit the floor. Then the ceiling.

She curled into the corner, hands over her ears, sobbing.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—I didn’t—!”

But they were all dead.

Everyone.

Except him.

Her father stood untouched. His coat torn, blood on his cheek, but alive. He looked at her—not with fear. Not even rage. Just… satisfaction.

“It worked,” he muttered, stepping over corpses. “It finally worked.”

That was the first time she saw red.

She lunged. The invisible arms moved faster than thought, wrapping around his throat.

But he only smiled. “You’re perfect, Y/N. I made you perfect.”

And then she saw it—her mother’s necklace. Hanging from his pocket. Stained with blood.

“No…” Her lip trembled. “No—what did you—what did you do to her?”

Silence.

“What did you do to Mama?!”

A slow, cruel smile twisted across his lips.

“She got in the way.”

And just like that, she understood: she was never his daughter.

She was his creation.

Years later, people would ask her how she got her powers. She’d never answer.

They’d ask why she looked so empty behind her eyes.

Why she flinched when a needle came too close.

Why she hated white walls.

She never told them about the humming machines. The cold table. The fact that the first time she felt love, it came from a dead woman’s memory—and the first time she felt power, it came from death.

They’d never understand.

Because pain wasn’t just a memory.

It was the reason she existed.

And sometimes, when the Watchtower fell silent at night, and no one was around to hear, she’d sit alone in the dark… and whisper her mother’s name like a prayer she knew would never be answered.

She hadn’t told a soul.

Not Valentina. Not Bucky. Not even Bob.

Y/N had known about the mission weeks before they deployed. She read the briefings in silence, her hands trembling as soon as the file landed in her lap. The name of the lead scientist—Dr. Elias Grey—was burned into the top corner like a scar across paper.

Her father.

The monster who made her.

She thought he’d died years ago. After she’d escaped his lab, after the massacre caused by her uncontrollable powers, after she vanished off the grid and forced herself to forget, she assumed that was the end. That his work had crumbled without her. That his madness had been buried along with the blood on his hands.

But he hadn’t stopped.

He’d just waited. Built in the shadows. And now he was back. And she had to kill him.

But no one knew that.

To the team, it was just another mission: infiltrate, extract intelligence, eliminate the source. A nameless scientist who had built monsters in cages and called it "progress."

But for Y/N, it was hell coming full circle.

She didn’t speak much on the ride there. She sat in silence, fingers buried in the sleeves of her jacket, jaw clenched so tightly she could taste blood. Yelena had tried to sit near her, brush his knee against hers for comfort, but she hadn’t even looked at him.

If she did, she might break.

She couldn’t let them see the little girl underneath all the layers of steel she’d built. The girl who still flinched when someone mentioned the word “father.” The girl who still heard the humming of fluorescent lights and the clink of surgical tools when she tried to sleep. The girl who cried silently into her pillow when Bob wasn’t around.

The mission was a blur.

A nightmare on loop.

The halls of the facility looked exactly like the old lab—white, sterile, humming with that same artificial coldness. The same padded floors. The same flicker of a dying fluorescent light down the corridor.

She could still smell the burnt metal, the blood.

Every test subject they passed made her chest seize. Limbs missing. Skin rotting. Bones warped and protruding through flesh. They weren’t people anymore. Just husks of failed experiments—just like she almost was.

And then she saw one of them crying.

“Help… me…” A voice barely above a whisper. She turned. A boy. No older than fourteen. Eyes cloudy with pain, his body bound to a medical rig with tubes down his throat.

She froze.

Bob shouted something ahead, but she didn’t move.

Then she saw him.

Through the glass of a secured operating room—her father.

Older. Greyer. But still the same eyes. The same cold, calculating look she’d seen hovering over her in the lab as a child.

He was alive. He was real. And he was still doing it.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her chest caved inward. Her powers flickered at her back like a warning signal, the invisible arms twitching in her panic. The walls felt closer. The lights felt louder. The boy kept whispering, “Please, help me—” and her vision blurred.

She had to get out. She had to get out.

“I’m hit,” she said flatly into her comm.

She didn’t wait for a reply. She pressed her hand to her ribs, smeared some blood from a fallen soldier onto her shirt, and staggered back toward the exit.

Bucky tried to stop her—radioed in confusion—but she cut the line before she heard his voice.

She locked herself in her room the moment they returned to the Watchtower.

Bob wasn’t allowed to see her like this. No one was.

Her body curled beneath the sheets like a corpse, sweat soaking through the fabric, her skin pale and cold as her mind spiraled into the past. Her eyes were bloodshot, hollow. She hadn’t cried like this in years—but now the sobs wouldn’t stop.

She had lied to them.

She had let them walk into her nightmare without warning. And worse—she’d abandoned them.

Bucky was the one who had to kill her father. Not her. She couldn’t do it.

She pretended to be injured—like a coward.

She let Bob believe she was strong.

But she wasn’t.

The next day bled into grey silence.

No footsteps.

No sound of a shower running.

No sign of life behind her bedroom door.

Y/N hadn't moved. Not once.

Her team tried not to overthink it—at first. Everyone dealt with mission aftermath in their own way. Walker assumed she was just being dramatic. Bucky figured she needed space. Yelena lingered in the hallway a few times, hesitating with her hand raised to knock before deciding against it. None of them had seen her since their return. Not a glimpse.

But Bob… Bob was unraveling by the hour.

He’d left dinner outside her door the night before—still warm, still hopeful. Her favorite: white rice, grilled vegetables, a little piece of chocolate on the tray because she liked something sweet before bed. He checked the hallway two hours later.

Untouched.

He didn’t say anything. Just quietly picked up the tray and brought it back to the kitchen.

That morning, he tried again. Toast. Eggs. Fresh fruit and tea.

She didn’t take that either.

He waited all morning by the door, hoping for the tiniest sound—a breath, a sob, anything. When he found the breakfast still sitting where he left it, the tea cold and untouched, something inside him snapped.

She wasn’t okay.

This wasn’t just recovery exhaustion or a need for solitude. Something had happened. Something inside that lab had shattered her so deeply she couldn’t even pretend anymore. And the thought of her curled on the floor, silent and suffering, made Bob feel like his entire chest was caving in.

By the afternoon, he stopped caring about boundaries.

He sat down on the floor outside her door, legs crossed, hands shaking in his lap. His voice was hoarse from lack of sleep.

"Y/N… please. Just say something. Anything."

Silence.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door.

“You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do anything. I just need to know you’re okay.”

He knocked again, gentler this time, like the door might bruise.

“You’re scaring me.”

No answer.

He ran a hand through his messy blond hair, fingers curling in frustration. A familiar tightness was building behind his eyes, one he hadn’t felt in a long time. He knew what this was. He remembered it all too well. That hopeless, silent spiral—the one you didn’t want anyone to see because you were too ashamed to admit you’d fallen again.

“You don’t do this,” he muttered softly, more to himself than her. “You always answer. You always—fuck, Y/N, you always open the door.”

The hallway was empty. Just the faint buzz of lights overhead. The rest of the team gave him space—gave her space. But the stillness was starting to feel like a coffin.

He pressed his palm flat against the door. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you. I should’ve gone. I should’ve seen it. Whatever happened in that place, whatever it did to you… you don’t have to carry it alone.”

His voice cracked, eyes glassy.

“You carried me through hell when I couldn’t stand. You held me when I couldn’t even look at myself. Don’t do this alone, please…”

He leaned forward until his forehead was resting against the wood, breathing ragged.

“I can’t lose you. Not like this. Not when I finally got you back.”

Still nothing.

He sat there for hours. Talking. Pleading. Whispering apologies. Promising to stay as long as it took. At one point, he heard something inside the room—a soft, choked breath, maybe. A sob. Or maybe just the air creaking through the vents. It was impossible to tell.

By the time night fell, Bob was still outside the door, curled up like a dog in the hallway, eyes bloodshot, throat raw from begging.

The tray of untouched breakfast sat beside him.

Cold.

Unwanted.

Just like every part of him felt.

Y/N's pov

The ceiling above her never changed.

White. Cracked in one corner. A water stain blooming faintly like a bruise.

That’s where her eyes had stayed for the past thirty hours. Her body ached from the stiffness—shoulders locked, jaw clenched, legs curled beneath her like she was still hiding under some table in a war zone. Her back stuck to the floor from sweat-soaked clothes, her mouth dry from dehydration, but none of it hurt as much as the weight pressing down on her chest.

She hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Breathing alone felt like a punishment.

Her hands shook against the floorboards.

She’d buried it. For years, she thought it was gone. That memory. That face. His face.

But when she saw him—when her eyes locked with the ghost of the man who stole her life, the monster who created her and murdered her mother—everything inside her had cracked open like a shattered rib cage. The lab. The screaming. The invisible limbs that tore through people she never meant to hurt. The look on her father’s face when he smiled at the carnage he’d caused.

It had never left her.

And now she’d left people behind. Innocent people. Because she couldn’t move. Because she was terrified.

She didn’t even know how she made it back to the Watchtower. Her legs moved on their own. She went straight to her room, bolted the door, and collapsed on the floor. The same place she still lay. Trapped in her own silence.

And Bob…

She heard every word.

She heard the plate shift when he set it down outside her door the night before. Heard the tea cup clink. Heard him sit down, his back against the other side of the wall she was hiding behind.

He was crying now.

She could hear it in his voice.

“Y/N… please. Just say something. Anything.”

Her lip trembled, teeth sinking in to keep the sob at bay. Her fingers dug into the floor.

“You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do anything. I just need to know you’re okay.”

But she wasn’t.

She wasn’t okay.

She hadn’t been okay since she was a child and her father strapped her to a gurney and injected her with agony. She hadn’t been okay when she escaped his lab covered in blood that wasn’t hers. She hadn’t been okay the night she realized the only person who loved her was buried in a shallow grave her father dug himself.

She wasn’t okay the night Bob left her.

And even now, even with him back—sitting outside her door, begging—she still didn’t know how to let anyone in.

He knocked again. Softer. As if the sound might crack her.

“You’re scaring me.”

She curled tighter into herself. Nails digging into her own palms.

“You always answer. You always—fuck, Y/N, you always open the door.”

She bit down a cry. Hard. Choked on it. Her ribs ached from holding it in.

“I should’ve gone. I should’ve seen it. Whatever happened in that place… you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Her whole body trembled.

He was right there. Inches away. Just outside the wood.

Her heart screamed to reach for him. But the shame clawed louder.

If she opened the door, he’d see what was left of her. The wreckage. The filth. The child still buried inside her who never stopped screaming for a mother who never came.

Her powers had started acting up again. She felt the invisible limbs stretching under her skin like phantom pain—trembling, thrashing, begging to be let out. She hadn’t lost control in years, but now she was slipping. She was afraid she’d hurt someone again. Hurt him.

“You held me when I couldn’t even look at myself,” Bob whispered. “Don’t do this alone, please…”

Her hand moved. Slowly. Against all instinct, against every fear, she reached for the doorknob.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered. “Not like this. Not when I finally got you back.”

She heard it then—his breathing. Shaky. Wet. Like he was trying not to sob but failing.

And she couldn’t do it anymore.

She couldn’t stay silent.

With trembling fingers, she turned the knob.

The door creaked open just a sliver.

And there he was.

Bob Reynolds.

The man she loved. The man who loved her even when she didn’t know how to be loved.

He was sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up, face in his hands, hair a tangled mess. His eyes were rimmed red, his chest still rising and falling like he couldn’t breathe right.

When he heard the door click, his head jerked up.

He looked at her like he was seeing a ghost. Like maybe he’d imagined it.

Y/N stood in the doorway like a broken statue.

She hadn’t showered. Her skin was pale. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. She looked hollowed out—like something had been carved from her soul and never returned.

And still, Bob reached for her.

“Come here,” he whispered, voice cracking.

She collapsed.

Into his arms, into his lap, into his chest—sobbing, shaking, screaming without sound. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his hoodie like she was afraid he’d vanish. Bob didn’t say anything. He just held her, arms wrapped tight around her like he was trying to keep her from falling apart completely.

She buried her face in his neck, her voice barely a whisper.

“I saw him.”

Bob froze. But he didn’t let go.

“My father. He was there.”

Her breath hitched with every word.

“He… he’s the reason I’m like this. He killed her. My mom. He made me into this.”

Bob didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fix it. He just cradled her like something precious.

“I thought I could kill him. I wanted to. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even move. I pretended to be hurt so I wouldn’t have to… I let people die, Bob.”

“No,” he whispered fiercely. “You didn’t let anyone die. He did. He did all of it. Look at me okay? Don’t take your eyes off of me. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.”

She sobbed harder, her body going limp in his arms.

“I’m so tired,” she choked.

“I know,” he said. “I know. But I’ve got you now.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice steady even through the tears.

“You’re not alone anymore.”

They didn’t speak much that night. He ran a bath and helped her into it, gently washing her hair like she was made of smoke and might disappear if he touched too hard. She didn’t say a word, just closed her eyes and let the water soak into her bones, like it could wash out the memory of the blood on her hands, the sterile stink of the lab, the ghost of her father's voice.

Afterward, wrapped in one of his oversized shirts, she lay on the couch while Bob sat beside her on the floor, his back against the sofa, their silence stretching soft and long.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know what that place was to you.”

Her fingers twitched against the blanket. “You weren’t supposed to.”

“But you went anyway,” he murmured. “You walked into the fire knowing it might kill you.”

She didn’t respond.

Over the next few days, Bob took it upon himself to keep her anchored. He rearranged everything in the Watchtower to fit her needs: blackout curtains for the bad mornings, herbal teas to help when the tremors came, soft instrumental music when silence was too loud, white noise machines when it wasn’t loud enough.

He didn’t press her to talk—not at first. He just stayed, made sure she ate, sat with her during the nights when her body jolted from nightmares. He never asked what they were about. He didn’t have to. The look in her eyes afterward was enough.

Eventually, on a rainy Tuesday, she started talking.

“He killed my mother,” she whispered. “Because she tried to stop it. Stop him. He was the only one who called me by my full name before the sessions. Everyone else just used numbers. He didn’t even flinch when I cried.”

Bob didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His silence was a container where her grief could safely land.

“He wanted me to be a weapon,” she continued, eyes red. “And when I finally escaped, I thought he’d stop. I thought he’d take the hint. That killing his wife would be enough.”

She laughed bitterly through her tears, and it twisted something inside Bob.

“I walked into that lab and thought maybe—just maybe—he’d changed. That time broke him like it did me. But he didn’t. He kept going. Using people. Twisting them.”

Her breath shuddered in her chest.

“I should’ve killed him myself.”

“No,” Bob said gently. He looked up at her from where he knelt beside her chair. “You should’ve never been the one to carry any of this. Not as a kid. Not now.”

“But I did,” she said hollowly. “And I still do.”

She expected him to give her a solution. Some vague superhero platitude about strength, redemption, purpose. But he didn’t. Bob just nodded and placed his hand gently on her wrist.

“So let’s carry it together.”

She finally broke then, falling into him, fists gripping his shirt, sobbing as if she were trying to rid herself of every memory at once. And Bob just held her—his strength silent, steady, sacred.

Every night after, they carved a routine from the wreckage. She’d sit on the bed while he read to her—sometimes books, sometimes old scientific journals she didn’t even understand but liked the cadence of his voice. Sometimes, he’d share pieces of his own darkness—his addiction, the voices, the way the Void still tugged at the edges of his sanity like a cruel shadow.

“I’m not whole either,” he told her one night. “But with you… I’m not alone.”

It became their pact. They wouldn’t be alone again.

Not with nightmares. Not with grief. Not with the ghosts of their past.

Together, they started to learn how to breathe again.

It was late—well past midnight—when she crept into the bedroom, barefoot and quiet. Bob was sitting on the edge of the bed in a plain t-shirt and sweats, his long fingers tangled together, his eyes fixed on the floor.

He looked up the moment he felt her presence.

She didn't say anything, just crossed the room slowly and sat beside him, their shoulders barely touching. The silence between them had changed these past few weeks—it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was a warm, living thing. A shared space where words didn’t always need to live.

“I had a good dream,” she whispered suddenly.

Bob blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

She nodded, a soft smile playing at her lips. “We were at a little house… somewhere green. You were trying to cook, but you kept setting off the fire alarm. I think you were making pancakes.”

“I do make terrible pancakes,” he murmured, and she laughed—quiet, small, but real.

She turned to him. “There was no Watchtower. No missions. No past. Just you and me. And it didn’t hurt.”

His hand found hers instinctively, fingers threading together. “Maybe we can have that someday. The quiet.”

“We don’t deserve quiet,” she said. “Not with everything we’ve done. Everything we carry.”

Bob looked at her for a long moment. “No one deserves peace, Y/N. We just decide whether or not to let ourselves have it.”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve to stop running. Even just for tonight.”

She stared at him—his eyes, warm and unwavering, his voice a tether pulling her back from the places her mind still wanted to drown in. She didn’t know when it started, but her heart had begun beating faster. Not from fear this time. From something so much more terrifying: trust.

“I don’t want to be broken anymore,” she said.

“You’re not.”

“I feel like glass.”

“Then I’ll hold you carefully.”

He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. Their lips met, soft and searching, the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand but asks. And she let herself answer. She let herself feel wanted. Safe. Loved.

His hands rested lightly on her waist, not pressing, not taking. She moved closer, curling into his chest, letting his warmth bleed into her bones. It wasn’t about lust. It was about belonging. About showing one another, without words, that they were still human. Still capable of gentleness. Of giving and receiving softness in a world that had taken so much.

“I love you,” she breathed against his neck, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. “Even if I still hate myself sometimes.”

“I love you more on the days you can’t,” he whispered back. “I’ll love you through it.”

She kissed him again—this time with a little more certainty. Her hands ran over the lines of his back, tracing the parts of him that held her together. They undressed slowly, like peeling away armor, like surrendering their pain. When he held her, skin to skin, heart to heart, she didn’t feel like glass anymore. She felt real.

They didn’t speak much that night. But in the stillness, in every kiss, every breath, every whispered promise against her skin, something inside her began to mend.

And for the first time in years, she let it. All this time, what she needed was someone as broken as her.

#robert reynolds x reader #bob thunderbolts #thunderbolts #marvel #robert reynolds #thunderbolts x reader #sentry x reader #bob reynolds #mcu fandom #thunderbolts*#mcu x reader #marvel x you #marvel x reader #lewis pullman x reader #sentry x y/n #sentry x you #sentry thunderbolts #bob reynolds x reader

190 notes · View notes

getouyuri · 1 day ago

Text

one mimir, two mimir

pairing: oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader (fem!reader)

author’s note: got a little carried away with this cos wdym I wrote a 2.2k (unedited) drabble about satoru acting like you killed his grandma because you started napping without him 😭 here’s a little background info on my yakuza jjk au but it’s not necessary to read. masterlist. happy reading mwaaah 🫶🏽🩵

Satoru loves taking naps.

The yakuza boss always looks forward to curling up close to his wife for a quick nap in the middle of the day, stretched out like the most comfortable of cats until he’s forced to pop right back up later and go straight back to work. Bi-weekly snooze sessions are the only thing that keep him powering through each week without collapsing like a house made of popsicle sticks.

(Aside from your very creative ways of motivating him, of course. You, on top of him from dawn to dusk, no breaks, raw, disgustingly sweaty, toes curling, bones cracking, bodies contorting in the most impossible angles that challenge what you both know about physics.)

Especially when he’s as tired as he is right now— he nearly ran into a wall while stumbling his way through the Gojo estate, delirious in his excitement to climb into bed and snuggle you to death.

So when he walks into your shared room and finds you already conked out, curtains drawn and room submerged in shadow, exaggerated betrayal flickers across his face. His left eye twitches like a machine gun. You were napping. Without him.

The deep-set fatigue that dogs him is impossible to miss; it’s in the way his eyelids droop just a fraction too long between blinks, the faint shadows beneath his usually bright ocean-blue eyes, the slight sluggishness to his movements. His temples throb, like a not-so-subtle reminder that his energy is a ticking time bomb.

In truth, Satoru hasn’t slept properly in days, between dealing with the Tora-gumi’s constant petty attacks and the Gojo clan’s elders that have been particularly relentless recently, questioning his leadership decisions, nagging about eventual succession (as if Yuuta’s presence in his life and role as his designated successor didn’t already shut those concerns down), and generally being a pain in his ass.

Nothing he couldn’t handle, of course, but dealing with them always left him drained in a way that no amount of violence or business negotiations ever did. But he refuses to admit it outright— pride and stubbornness are two of his most defining traits, after all.

Satoru crosses his arms, still squinting and pouting at you. This was unacceptable. Inexcusable. Not telling him that you were retiring for a quick nap might as well be considered treason.

Where was his nap invitation? Where were his snuggle rights and little coupon card paired with it? Who gave you permission to get all cozy enough to doze off without him plastered right next to you, drooling all over your shoulder and hogging the blankets?

Satoru’s entire being vibrates with the need to rectify this egregious injustice immediately.

“Oh, you’re in so much trouble, baby,” he breathes, tutting. Instead of deigning him with a proper response— you should be falling to your knees and sobbing your apologies, begging for his forgiveness, even though you’d never in your life do that— you give a soft, muffled smack of your lips that escapes the mountain of blankets on the bed. Clearly, someone’s having a good ass nap.

Your hair pokes out from the top of the covers in an adorable tuft. He’d recognize that messy mop anywhere, even if the rest of his wife was currently snuggled deep beneath a fortress of blankets and pillows, entirely hidden from view.

Satoru’s adorable pout instantly morphs into a shit-eating grin. His heart squeezes in his chest, his earlier excitement bubbling over again as he pads closer, fingers itching to mess with you. Crouching down beside the bed, he rests his chin on the edge of the mattress, palms sinking into the plush duvet to keep himself steady. His blue eyes gleam with a sleepy mischief as he studies the rhythmic rise and fall of the blanket pile— proof that you were very much alive, very much cozy, and (more importantly) very much about to have your nap ruined by your clingy-ass husband.

His long, ring-clad fingers curl into the blanket’s edge and peel it back just enough to reveal your face. For a second, Satoru just stares, mesmerized. His wife is gorgeous. Like, criminally, absolute-obliteration-of-self-and-other type of beautiful. Your hair is a softly frizzy mess, lips puffy with sleep and slightly parted as you breath slow.

"My angel is so pretty," he murmurs, utterly besotted as he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. You look so peaceful.

Normally, he’d feel a little bad waking you up— but no, not today. Today, he’s been deprived of you for three whole hours (the horror), he’s so tired that he’s seeing the hat man in the corners of his vision, and he’s not about to let you sleep without him.

Grinning, he bounces up from his spot crouched on the floor like a frog to instead lean over you, white hair flopping lazily over his forehead. Satoru guides that open jaw of yours shut with his fingertips, then squeezes your nostrils closed— just to be annoying.

"Pssst. Angel." He whispers, grinning when you snort in your sleep as your body starts to register that your airways are sealed off. "Baaaaabycakes. Wakey wakey, I missed you."

Only when you start to stir does he release your nose (he mimes pocketing it in his slacks). Then, for good measure, he blows a playful, obnoxiously loud raspberry right against your neck— because what better way to wake someone up than by being the absolute worst?

“Pooooo—“

“You will die in seven days.” You suddenly grumble in a sleepy rasp, not even opening your eyes. “In three, you’ll begin to cough. In five, you’ll begin to break out into hives.”

“—kie… oh, okay. That’s mean, princess," he huffs with faux hurt— but he’s still grinning like the lovestruck idiot he is. "But not as mean as you napping without me. I was hoping to get some shut-eye with my wife after a whole ass threeee hours of being away like the booked and busy man that I am, only to find that you had the audacity to go ahead and sleep without even considering me. Tch. Real cold, sweets.”

He’s being a petulant menace. Needy. Pathetic. He doesn’t care that he’s not at all the ruthless crime lord that he typically is right now. Satoru’s as heartbroken as the day he found out that that one place in Shinjuku stopped selling their chocolate and caramel stuffed mochi. It was his favorite. He weeped a little outside of the store as you gently tugged him away, fond exasperation glittering in your eyes.

How can he call himself the oyabun that has it all when he can’t even get his favorite fucking sweet treats? And now, apparently, can’t even get sleepy time with his wife?

You shuffle in place with a grumpy furrow between your brows, silently simmering at being shaken out of dreamland, and he snatches at the edge of the blanket again right as you try to tug it right back up over your head. “I didn’t realize I had to fill out a time card recording when I’ll nap or not.”

“Baby,” Satoru gasps. He leans in closer, forehead nearly bumping yours, blue eyes wide and watery with crocodile tears. You crack your own eyes open at that, blinking tiredly at him. Your lashes clump together, sticky with sleep. “Are you kidding me? You should’ve already been marking time cards. Naptime isn’t just sacred— it’s special. And I thought we had something special!”

A staged sob rattles his chest. He presses his free hand against it, clutching at the fabric of his dress shirt as if trying to keep his heart from leaping out and splatting at your feet. “This is why they say the prettiest ones can’t be trusted. I should file for divorce over this heinous act of betrayal, wifey. I don’t know if I can ever recover from this.” His tone drips with the emotional maturity of a golden retriever with separation anxiety.

You thump your head back against the pillow, praying that someone ends your suffering early. “You’re dramatic.”

“No, I’m not. I’m real. I’m authentic. I’m hurt. My feelings are sooo valid, baby, and you’re dismissing them like I’m one of your side hoes!” Satoru wails.

His face scrunches up in exaggerated offense, his pout making a grand reappearance even as he, devastating gentle, wipes a dried line of spit from beneath your lip with his thumb. Quietly, Satoru preens a little at being able to see you at your most unguarded, your most ungraceful.

“Toru?” You call out in a little croak instead of bothering to play into his bullshit.

Oh, he’s already dead. He’s cooked.

Satoru’s big blue eyes round out impossibly further as if he’s been struck by Cupid’s arrow— which, admittedly, he kinda has been every single day for the past few years since he started seeing you.

You sound so fucking adorable when you’re half-asleep. That groggy little mumble of his nickname that you only pull out when you need to tug at his strings, the way you lift a hand to cup his that lingers beneath your mouth and you nuzzle your cheek into his calloused palm... it makes his head spin with an overwhelming wave of affection. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were cartoonish birdies twirling around him. He could just eat you up.

You’re clearly utilizing his weakness for that nickname and your adorable sleepiness to your advantage to sway this in your favor (and he falls for it).

And people say that he’s the conniving menace…

You purse your lips in a little pout, a rare sight outside of your most private moments that you share with him (even though this pout’s awfully calculated), and Satoru’s heart damn near explodes. “Just come cuddle with me, baby. ‘M so tired… and so cold without you,” you complain.

His aloof, sarcastic, prideful wife? Whining for cuddles like a lovesick kitten? You’ve got him hook, line, and sinker. Of course you want him close; who wouldn’t want to bask in his heavenly presence? “Aw, look at you, all clingy and sweet!” Satoru coos, gently stroking your cheek and peering down at you with sparkling eyes. He just barely resists pinching your soft skin, knowing that you’d probably bite his finger off for that. “I could never say no to you, even if you’re trying to pull the wool over my eyes.”

You sleepily smile up at him, smug.

The oyabun of the Gojo-gumi wastes absolutely no time in shoving his pants down his long legs, toeing off his socks with zero grace, and kicking them aside on the floor (he’ll pick them up later… probably). He’s left in just his black button-up and boxers, but even the button-up is quickly unbuttoned and discarded too, because he’s been in business attire for too long today and he wants to be comfortable. It joins the pile on the floor.

Right now, the only thing that matters is snuggling. His. Wife.

With zero hesitation nor warning, Satoru takes a few steps back, rolling his neck and bouncing a little on his heels. “Satoru,” you immediately warn, more lucidity coloring your eyes as you start to tense in on yourself. You quickly grasp at the blankets, starting to bunch them up around you again and burying your head right back beneath them— as if they’ll even do anything to shield you. “Don’t. If you fucking land on me, I’ll—“

You cut yourself off with a disgruntled groan as Satoru takes a running jump and vaults over you to land on the free space next to you, making the mattress bounce and nearly launching you through the high roof. He doesn’t give you time to complain, practically diving into the lump of blankets that house his precious wife with the smoothness of a damn seal sliding into water.

He worms through the blankets until he finds your warm, soft body, his bright blue eyes squinting playfully in the dim warmth of your little hideaway. You meet his gaze with an unimpressed tilt to your lips, jutting your chin out, and immediately, he flips you around, pulling your back flush against his chest until you’re tucked together like two spoons in a drawer. Satoru’s long limbs drape over you in a possessively needy tangle.

“Mmm… this is what I’ve been missing,” Satoru sighs gratefully, finally content. His aching body sinks into the memory foam beneath him, the blankets cushioning you both in their cloud-like embrace and chasing out the air chugging through the Gojo estate’s vents. “It’s nice and cozy in here with my wifey.”

He buries his face into your nape, inhaling your scent deeply. There’s your natural scent paired with something warm and sweet, comfortingly so; cocoa butter and freshly baked shortcake. Satoru makes a mental note to ask if you actually made one or if you’re trying a new body wash after you two wake up in a few hours. He presses a slow, wet kiss right under your ear, smiling into your skin when you shiver a little.

“Are you happy now that you’ve ruined my peace?” You mumble dryly, yet you sink into him all the same. Your tone is sarcastic (as per usual) and tinted with a drowsy sort of warmth that makes him want to kick his feet like a schoolgirl. It’s his fuel. You wiggle back against him to slot yourself against him more comfortably, the backs of your knees pressed against the tops of his and your ass sitting in the cradle of his pelvis.

(Don’t get hard, don’t get hard, don’t get hard, he silently coaches himself. If Satoru kept you awake any longer by whining and begging you to deal with a throbbing boner, you’d mercilessly toss him in a dog cage. And he very much likes sleeping in this expensive ass bed with you, a splurge he justified as necessary, because god forbid his wife doesn’t get to rest in pure luxury.)

“Yup. But it’s okay, princess, I’ll send you right back off to dreamland. It’s my job as your devoted guard dog, your vice president, and your humble servant. And are you ashamed now that you see how much your hubby needed this?” Satoru murmurs, but there’s no real bite to it. If anything, he’s pitched softer now, the playful facade slipping out with the exhale he expels through his nose.

The tiredness in his voice makes you pause. With that, you start to shift in his arms, and thinking you’re trying to escape (when really, you’re just trying to properly assess him despite the fact that you’re already half-asleep again), he latches on tighter. “I thought you wanted me here? C’monnn, gimme all those cuddles you owe me,” he complains, trying to kiss your neck until you give up, which you laugh softly at.

“Satoru. Let go, I’m trying to turn around,” you yawn, and he complies even though he’s content in this position. The second you shift to face him on your side, he’s already adjusting, tucking an arm beneath your head as a makeshift pillow and draping the other over your body to pull you in close. Satoru takes a moment to admire your camisole and satin sleep shorts, but your eyes draw him right back in.

Your half-lidded eyes flit over him with a sharpness befitting of you. You’ve always been too perceptive, always seeing right through him. It’s one of the many things he adores about you, even when it’s inconvenient. Like now, when you take in the way his shoulders sag ever so slightly under the weight of exhaustion he’s been hiding, usual boundless energy dampened, and how the circles under his eyes (usually hidden behind his sunglasses) are strikingly visible this up close.

The Gojo-gumi doesn’t slow down just because Satoru’s tired. Ryomen doesn’t stop plotting against him just because he wants a damn nap. But for this moment, with his wife’s leg hiking up around his waist to keep him trapped (thank god) and your breaths fanning over his neck when you tuck your face there, both of you hidden away beneath the blankets like children at a sleepover, he can pretend the world stops for you both.

“Let’s go to sleep. I still have an alarm running that’ll wake us up,” you yawn again, long and near-silent; cat-like. Satoru hums, a soft rumble that radiates through your squished-together chests, already half-lost to drowsiness. He settles his chin on top of your hair, a few unruly strands of which tickle gently at his lips, and his breathing begins evening out.

“‘Kay… Mmm, you’re so warm. Comfy as hell, too. Love you," he mumbles. His words are slurred with exhaustion, but the devotion behind them is undeniable. He’s already melting into you, body lax against yours that’s already soft with sleep from your interrupted nap, eager to get some z’s.

When you don’t respond, he figures you’re gone with the wind already. Satoru works his jaw a little bit until something clicks and loosens, then closes his eyes. He could stay like this forever, honestly. He presses his fingers just a little heavier against the exposed skin of your lower back, just a subconscious need to touch, to remind himself you’re really here, and passes out just like that.

perma tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @shokogasm @dairyfaerie @pvmpkingod @skz8stay @floriophrastus @originalsaucy @loyalguma @wormplant @amane1271 @oporotheca @teachmehowtodokiaye @dogwhiskey @sunnydayqq