#like /intentionally this chapter is long/ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kingdom-of-peace · 3 months ago

Text

Spotlight. | N.R

Older!News Anchor!Natasha x Younger!Female!Professor Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, one of the most recognized faces in television, finds herself under unexpected scrutiny when a young academic’s lecture on media ethics gains traction online — setting the stage for an unlikely rivalry that blurs the line between enemies and something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha late 30s, reader 27ish), language, mentions of homophobia, mentions of sex, Me not being familiar with the inner workings of network television.

Word Count: 5.6k+

A/N: Hey everyone! Long-time reader, first-time poster here. So I guess you could see this as a little thank-you for getting me through some tough times with your amazing stories. This chapter is a bit of a practice run - if you guys like it, I’ll probably be continuing this as a mini-series. The idea has been lingering in my mind for a while. FYI English isn’t my first language, so feel free to point out any mistakes!

The clock ticked toward the seven-hour mark, numbers climbing up steadily as the seconds bled into each other. The studio hummed, a cacophony of voices layered on top of one another. Producers, directors, and assistants hustling between monitors, whispering instructions and updating cues. But through it all, Natasha Romanoff the pride of the network moved like a conductor of chaos. Every step, measured. Every glance, deliberate.

She made her way to the sleek glass desk, the papers for her notes already laid out in perfect alignment— black letters against white background. The desk, like everything else around her, was immaculate, designed to make the person behind it the centre of attention. As she sat, Betty, a new member of the makeup crew, approached with a kit. The girl was eager, almost too eager, hands slightly shaking as she opened her compact mirror. Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she reached for the earpiece.

“Don’t put too much highlighter on my face,” Natasha said, her voice clipped, without a hint of softness. “Last week, your colleague made me look like a disco ball.” Betty froze eyes wide. Natasha could feel her anxiety before the words even left her mouth. “I-I’m sorry, Ms. Romanoff. I’ll try my best...”. “Don’t try your best. Do as I say,” Natasha interjected sharply, her tone biting. “Y-Yes, Ms. Romanoff,” Betty stammered. “two minutes,” someone called out from the back of the studio.

As Betty moved to step back, she quickly wished Natasha good luck. Natasha didn’t respond, merely rolling her eyes before glancing toward the producers’ booth. She could already feel the inevitable irritation building. The earpiece clicked into place, and the familiar voice of Maria Hill, her producer, filled her ear. “Finally decided to grace us with your attention, huh?”

Natasha’s eyes flicked upward to the glass wall behind which the production room was located, her lips curling into a smirk. “Maybe you shouldn’t let Sharon take a holiday whenever she wants. I know you two had a thing back at university, but those doe-eyed makeup artists turn my pretty face into a caricature. Sharon is the only one, who knows what to do with a pretty face like mine.”

Maria’s laugh crackled through the earpiece, dry and sharp." They don’t stay doe-eyed for long. Give it two weeks, and Betty will be completely head over heels in love with you, especially once you start showing off your... bedroom charm." Natasha’s smirk only deepened. “What can I say? I know what a woman wants.”

“You mean intentionally creating potential workplace conflicts the moment they realize their feelings are not reciprocated. You know Agatha from HR told me, your file is by far the heaviest on her desk.” Maria replied with a slight edge to her voice. Natasha knew Maria was not a big fan of her sexual escapades at the network but once in a while the stress of the job caught up even to her. She opened her mouth to respond, but Maria’s voice came through again, cutting the conversation short: “All channels open. 15 seconds.” Signalling that the conversation was over and no longer private. Time to focus.

The tension in Natasha’s body shifted. Taking a moment to collect herself, every inch of her posture shifting from sharp banter to the cool, controlled persona she had perfected over the years. The camera would be on her in seconds, and there was no room for anything other than perfection. Repositioning herself in her chair—back straight, shoulders squared, the very picture of professionalism. As the last few seconds ticked away, Natasha’s eyes snapped to the teleprompter, locking into the script. It was all business now. Her world contracted into that single, glowing line of text. Her fingers twitched slightly, but otherwise, she remained still.

“We are live in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1,” Maria counted down, the words cutting through her thoughts.

The red recording light snapped on, and everything else—the noise, the chatter, the chaos—ceased to exist. The iconic newsroom music blaring through the speakers. The sound that had become synonymous with what Natasha had achieved. A few quiet clicks echoed in the room as cameras shifted into position. Natasha didn’t blink. Her face settled into its trademark calm, eyes piercing the lens like twin weapons. Showtime.

“Good evening. I’m Natasha Romanoff, and this is The Hour.”

Her voice, cool and steady, carried the weight of authority. As the camera zoomed in, her gaze never wavered, her presence filling every corner of the screen. “Tonight: disinformation, climate crisis, and the story the numbers won’t tell you.”

The graphics behind her came alive in choreographed rhythm—images of protests, wildfires and talking points sliced into headlines. She didn’t look at them. She didn’t need to.

The redhead had already memorized the arc of the story: crisis, confusion, control. Natasha told it backwards, starting from what the public feared and unravelling the mess with her usual signature—calm, vaguely unforgiving clarity. In her earpiece, someone was murmuring time cues. She ignored them. She always did.

“In five minutes, you’ll hear from a senior intelligence analyst. But first—what we aren’t talking about.” That was the trick. Tell them what they didn’t know they wanted to hear. Make it feel like truth. Deliver it with a stillness so complete, it silenced doubt before it could form.

----

The lights above Natasha dimmed for a second—an automatic adjustment to keep the focus on her. From the control room, Maria watched her like a hawk, fingers dancing over her tablet, the constant pulse of the broadcast in her veins.

"She’s on fire tonight," Maria murmured to Pepper the network president’s personal assistant, standing beside her, flipping through notes. Pepper didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Natasha always delivered, always commanded the room. “She always is.” Pepper’s voice was dry, but there was a touch of admiration beneath it. She could feel the heat even through the glass. She paused, the corner of her mouth curling up slightly. “How much do you bet that his career is over after the interview?”

Maria shrugged, her sharp eyes never leaving Natasha, who was now in the midst of her segment. The current topic a prominent politician—someone who had recently come under fire for money fraudulence now being interviewed by her.

“Senator Rumlow, you’ve been under fire recently for a report that surfaced showing you used large portions of your campaign donations for luxury vacations. These funds, which were meant to support your ‘community welfare initiatives,’ were instead spent on lavish trips to the French Riviera and resorts in the Maldives. How do you justify that?”

The senator’s mouth twitched. A quick glance to the side, a nervous swipe of his hand across his brow. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Miss Romanoff, I... there’s been a misunderstanding. These funds were used to secure partnerships and build networks with international leaders. I was meeting with potential investors who could bring millions in funding to my community.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. Her eyes locked on his, a calculated silence hanging between them.

“So,” she leaned forward, voice cutting through the air like a blade, “you used funds intended to alleviate poverty and support struggling families for personal vacations to network? A trip to the Maldives to discuss ‘potential investors’—is that the kind of network we’re talking about?”

The senator's face flushed, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the right words. Natasha’s expression never shifted, while the senator on the other end of the interview appeared slightly uncomfortable. She leaned in just enough to suggest she was giving him a chance to speak, but also to control the pace of the conversation. He was about to make a mistake. Maria could feel it back in the production room.

"Yeah, she’s definitely on fire tonight." Maria allowed herself a slight smile, eyes sharp. “The way she’s making him squirm, you’d think they were old enemies.”

Pepper glanced over at the monitor. Natasha was listening intently, her gaze never leaving the senator, dissecting every word he said, her expression calculated but not unkind. She didn’t need to look at the teleprompter anymore. This was where Natasha was dangerous—the moment she stopped relying on the script and instead started using her own control over the conversation.

“I never—look, these trips were necessary for the larger cause. My team and I were—”

“Your team?” Natasha interrupted, her tone cold, unforgiving. She didn’t give him a second to recover. “You’re telling me that your ‘team’ thought it was acceptable to spend taxpayer and donor money on personal luxuries under the guise of ‘building international relationships’? And those relationships just happened to involve resorts, yachts, and five-star hotels?”

The senator’s face tightened, but Natasha’s sharp, relentless gaze showed no mercy. Her posture was perfect, the epitome of control—one hand lightly resting on the table, the other folded under her chin as she leaned forward, waiting for him to crack.

“Senator,” Natasha continued, her voice low but cutting, “you’ve used the public’s trust to fund personal indulgences. You’ve done nothing to benefit the very communities that donated their hard-earned money in good faith. You’ve used their trust as a shield for your personal gain.”

The senator shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the sweat on his brow was the only sign that he was losing his composure.

“I... I apologize for the perception this has created, but I am still working tirelessly for the people. I don’t expect you to understand the pressure we face in this position.”

Natasha’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that signalled the end of a conversation, not the beginning.

“Understand? You’ve already made it clear, Senator. You’ve made your priorities clear. You’ve misused the public’s trust, and no amount of ‘apology’ will make up for that.” She paused, her gaze narrowing. “You’ll have a lot to explain in front of those who donated their last dollars to your supposed cause. I don’t think a few ‘networking’ excuses will make that any easier.”

The camera panned out slightly, framing the senator on the screen, defeated, under the weight of her words. Natasha sat back in her chair, her expression coldly satisfied, but there was no triumph in her gaze. Just the quiet assurance that she had exposed the truth—and in this game, truth was always her weapon.

Maria looked at Pepper. “This is going to be everywhere by tomorrow morning.” Pepper, watching the screen, nodded but said nothing. She had worked with Natasha long enough to know the pattern. She didn’t miss a single beat, didn’t flinch even when the questions cut close to the bone. She was ruthless—but always just controlled enough to keep the narrative hers.

Maria continued, her tone dropping a bit, a hint of something else in her voice. “Have you seen the video of this upcoming professor from Shield University? What do you think?”. Pepper’s fingers hovered above her phone, pausing as she considered the question. “She’s definitely been keeping an eye on Natasha,” Maria added with a knowing smile. “It’s only a matter of time before Natasha finds out—and it’s probably not going to be pretty. For that woman, or for us... I’m not sure.”

Pepper finally smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Yeah, well, she’s got competition now. She doesn’t seem like the type to just back down. Maria nodded. “Let’s just hope Natasha doesn't end up too intrigued. If she starts getting personal, that’s when it gets... interesting.”

---

Natasha’s expression remained unchanged as she moved on with the interview. The camera panning back to her, flawlessly.

“Thank you for your time, Senator Rumlow,” she said, her voice a calm cadence that barely masked the satisfaction of knowing she’d just made the politician’s situation far worse. Every channel and newspaper would be jumping on this story tomorrow, no doubt splashing it across their front pages.

“Also thank you to our generous audience tonight. It’s always a pleasure to bring you the news about what’s happening in the world. And remember, stay informed, stay sharp, and never let anyone sell you a story that's less than the truth.” she said, a hint of finality in her tone. “Now, I’ll pass it over to Steve Rogers, our weather anchor, who has a much sunnier forecast for you.”

The camera switched to Steve, who was already grinning behind him a large screen displaying shifting regions and temperatures. “That’s right, Natasha. The last few days of sunshine are upon us before we officially roll into the fall season. So, grab your families, go outside and enjoy...”

As soon as the words left Steve’s mouth, Natasha pulled her earpiece out, the familiar click of the disconnect echoing in her ears. The moment she was clear from the screen, she shifted in her seat, the professional mask slipping away, just slightly—only enough for her to exhale, her expression finally softening, if only for a moment. She rose in a single, smooth motion. The producers didn’t approach immediately; they never did unless they had to.

As Natasha turned to leave the desk, a younger intern stepped forward, tablet in hand, speaking quickly, his words tumbling over each other.

“Sorry, Ms. Romanoff, I—I just wanted to say you were amazing up there.” Peter, who had joined the team last year to gain experience after his graduation, was still a bit green, though for some reason, Tony Stark—who owned the network—had taken a particular liking to him. Which is why his golden retriever-like personality felt like a constant presence she couldn’t escape.

Natasha didn’t break stride, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. A few crew members glanced at each other, nervous, hoping Peter wouldn’t get an earful for approaching her without a significant reason. But to their surprise, Natasha offered him a brief, unexpected smile. “Thanks,” she said, her voice calm and unbothered. "Keep up the good work." Though she’d never say it out loud, she’d grown surprisingly fond of him and the unshakable optimism he brought with him. Maybe it was because he reminded her of a time when life had been simpler, before everything became high stakes and expectations or perhaps it was the adrenaline rush from having just put the senator in his place.

With that, she made her way down the hallway toward her dressing room, the echo of her heels fading with each step, leaving Peter standing frozen in place—blinking, stunned. The Natasha Romanoffhad smiled at him. A real, genuine smile. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Then, unable to contain himself, he did a quiet fist pump and half-skipped down the corridor, suddenly determined to be the best intern the station had ever seen.

-----

When Natasha stepped into her dressing room, Betty and Pepper were already there. Pepper, as always, was glued to her phone, typing away with that near-obsessive focus Natasha had come to expect from her. She often wondered if Pepper had put her phone down for more than five minutes in the last few years. Meanwhile, Betty was busy clearing the table, preparing to remove Natasha’s makeup.

“You did a good job out there,” Pepper said, glancing up from her phone just long enough to catch Natasha’s eye before diving back into the glowing screen. “Thanks,” Natasha replied, settling into the makeup chair. “I mean, it’s hardly difficult when the senator does most of the work embarrassing himself.”

Natasha smirked, enjoying the victory of another successful segment. Betty began to work on removing the makeup, her hands steady despite the usual hustle of the room. “Still, it takes talent to make people like him squirm like you did,” Pepper remarked, her eyes still glued to the phone.

“I don’t know if it’s talent or just good instincts,” Natasha replied with another sly grin. “Either way, I’m hoping he’s out of office by the end of the week.”. “Well, Maria bet he won’t last past tomorrow night, thanks to what you pulled off,” Pepper said, her tone light but amused. And just as if on cue, Maria walked in, her presence immediately filling the room. “Great show as always, Natasha,” she said, striding over to the couch and sitting down behind Natasha.

Natasha met her gaze through the reflection in the mirror. “I couldn’t do it without my tirelessly working producer.”. “Damn right you couldn’t,” Maria replied, a satisfied smirk on her lips as she picked up a magazine from the table and started flipping through it. The conversation flowed easily between the three, mostly floating around ideas about upcoming segments and possible interviewees, with Betty shyly asking Natasha to tilt her head for better access occasionally as she worked. About half an hour later, Betty finished packing up her things and, with a quick “Good bye,” exited the room, clearly relieved to have survived in the lion’s den.

“I swear, they’re more scared of you than Tony,” Pepper observed, watching Betty leave with a raised eyebrow. “It’s not my problem if they’re that easy to intimidate,” Natasha replied coolly, giving a slight shrug. “Debatable,” Maria countered, her voice teasing. “You could at least go a little easier on them.” Natasha smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”.

There was a brief pause as Natasha rummaged through her bag, searching for her phone. When she looked up, she caught the silent exchange between Maria and Pepper through the mirror, their eyes communicating something Natasha couldn’t quite place. Turning in her chair, she raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”. Maria and Pepper exchanged one last glance, and Natasha’s patience wore thin. “You’re not going to keep it from me, are you?” she asked, her voice a low murmur. Her eyes didn’t waver from the two women, the challenge clear in her tone. She had worked with them for years and even shared pieces of her college days with them, so she knew, whatever they were about to reveal, she probably wasn’t going to like it.

Reluctantly, Maria handed Natasha the tablet, the screen already pulled up to a paused video. Natasha’s gaze immediately fell on the title: The Sociopolitical Influence of Media in Modern Society. She glanced up at Maria, eyebrow raised. “A lecture? You really think this is important?”. Pepper, not meeting Natasha’s eyes, sighed. “It’s... well, it includes you. Specifically.” Natasha’s lips parted slightly. “About me?” she repeated, voice hardening. “What are you talking about?”. Maria took a breath before responding, her voice cautious. “It’s a lecture. From a professor at Shield university. She’s young, so she wasn’t around when we were there. But she... uses you as an example in her talk.” Natasha’s eyes narrowed, the weight of the words sinking in. “She what?”. Pepper winced. “She talks about how news anchors—people with a platform like yours, aren’t just reporting the news but shaping it. And, uh... she singles you out by name.”. “Great,” Natasha said, her voice sharp. “What exactly does she say about me?”. Reluctantly, Maria tapped the screen and started the video. The camera panned to you, standing at a podium, adjusting your notes before speaking directly to the audience in the lecture hall.

“The media’s role isn’t just to inform—it constructs reality,”you began, your voice clear and confident. “Take someone like Natasha Romanoff, a news anchor with the most-watched primetime segment in the country. She doesn’t just present the facts—she defines how those facts are received. With a single word, a glance, a choice of guest or segment, she can shift the public narrative for millions.” Natasha’s jaw tightened as she listened, her fingers curling around the armrest of her chair. She’d always known she had influence but hearing it described this way, hearing herself used as an example of media manipulation, made her blood boil.

“Figures like Romanoff,” you continued, “can shape heroes or villains with a single broadcast. Their influence is vast and rarely questioned. The issue isn’t just about power, but about how and whether it’s wielded responsibly.” Natasha set the tablet down with a sharp click, her expression hardening. “So, I’m the villain in her story?”. Maria nodded slightly. “It’s more complex than that. You’re the example she’s using to critique a larger issue.”. “She might as well have painted a target on my back,” Natasha muttered, her tone thick with frustration. Pepper shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s not personal, Natasha. But the way she frames it… it feels personal.”

“I don’t manipulate people,” Natasha snapped, her posture rigid. “I don’t twist the truth. I present it—clean, honest, verified. Just because I know how to deliver it doesn’t mean I’m playing puppet master.” She turned toward Maria, frustration boiling over. “Is this seriously the kind of crap I have to put up with now? Academics critiquing my work from their ivory towers?”. Maria raised her hands, trying to calm the storm. “It’s not about you. She’s critiquing the media as a whole. But yeah… you’re the example that serves her point.”

Natasha paced the room, her steps rapid and sharp. Why her? Why not the other anchors who sensationalized or fabricated? Sure, she was the highest-rated, most successful. She’d climbed the ranks quickly, but she never used her position to control the narrative, did she? She prided herself on her professionalism. She worked hard to ensure her biases didn’t creep into her delivery. She turned back to Maria and Pepper, eyes flashing with frustration. “It’s just a professor talking. The students in her class, maybe a few online nerds, will care for a few days, but that’s it.”. Maria and Pepper exchanged another glance. Maria spoke first, her tone firm. “It’s already spreading, Natasha.”. Pepper nodded, setting her phone down. “The video’s gaining traction—blogs, social media, even some paywalled articles. Small waves now, but they’re starting to grow.”

Natasha froze, her gaze shifting between Maria and Pepper. “Viral? It’s just a lecture. Seriously?”. “Not anymore,” Maria said, her arms crossed, her stance serious. “This thing spreads fast. And with the narrative it’s building, it’s only going to pick up steam. And don’t forget people are already out there who’ve held a grudge against you for years because of your success, your gender, your sexuality.”

Pepper leaned forward, her voice quiet but urgent. “You need to prepare. If this keeps going, it’s not just a lecture, it’s a movement. And once the perception shifts, you can’t ignore it.” Natasha’s gaze shifted back to the screen, her arms folding across her chest. The weight of what they were saying hit her. She’d worked hard for her credibility, for the trust of her audience. But if this narrative took root… it could undo everything. It wasn’t just about your opinion anymore, it could become public discourse, with herself at the heart of it.

“I don’t “control” the narrative,” she said firmly, almost like a mantra. “I report it.” Maria’s gaze softened, but she didn’t back down. “We know that. But the issue is how people perceive it. And right now, this perception is being built, whether it’s fair or not.”. Pepper showed her phone to Natasha, scrolling through the notifications. “See this? It’s trending right now. People are questioning your integrity, your influence. It’s not just going away.” Natasha stared at the screen, her heart sinking as the headlines flashed before her eyes of future articles that would cast her as the embodiment of everything wrong with the media landscape.

“So, what should I do?” she asked, her voice quieter now. Maria leaned forward slightly, offering a calm but firm suggestion. “We stay low for now. The wider public hasn’t really caught on yet. You’ve built your career on credibility—don’t let this shake that. But if this picks up more steam…”

“We’ll be ready.” Pepper added, her voice calm but determined. Natasha exhaled, the reality of the situation sinking in. “I don’t want to give this more attention than it deserves. But if she continues to use my name, in her little act it won’t be pretty.” Pepper opened her mouth to protest, but Natasha cut her off. “No. She should know better. Publicly crucifying someone without context? That’s wrong, and she should know that.”

The room fell silent. Natasha stared at the tablet screen, your words echoing in her head, even as she wrestled with the weight of her own thoughts. Maria and Pepper exchanged one last look, both knowing Natasha well enough to understand she would not let go of the topic easily. If there was one thing Natasha excelled at, it was holding onto grudges. She grabbed her bag, offering both women a curt “good night” before making her way out of the room. As she stepped into the cool night air, a black SUV already waiting, ready to take her back to her apartment.

---

After a silent car ride, with a brooding Natasha sitting in the back seat, her gaze fixed out the window, too consumed by what had been said to engage. The driver, initially trying to make polite conversation, quickly fell silent after receiving a few clipped, one-word replies, enough to register that her mood was not to be tested. When they finally reached her apartment building, he offered a quiet nod as she stepped out.

She had moved into the place after the second year of her show’s success, when for the first time, she no longer had to think twice about money. The apartment was more than a living space; it was a quiet reminder of everything she had built, and everything she had once thought would bring her peace.

When Natasha finally stepped into her loft apartment, the door clicked shut behind her with a familiar, hollow finality. The view that greeted her was one she never quite grew tired of—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the river and the city skyline, skyscrapers lit like circuit boards against the night. Somewhere in that sprawl was the studio she had just walked out of, its glass tower faintly visible in the distance.

Before she could set down her keys, a soft, expectant meow echoed through the entrance hall. Liho, her long-time feline companion, padded gracefully into view and rubbed himself against her calves, tail high with dignified affection. “Hey, soldier,” Natasha murmured, crouching to run her fingers through his fur. His purr vibrated warmly beneath her hand.

She hadn’t planned to keep him. Years ago, when she was still a glorified intern running coffee for people whose names she barely remembered, she’d found him one night half-frozen in a cardboard box outside the train station near her old apartment—or rather, a shoebox-sized room. A vet diagnosed hypothermia, said he’d recover with proper care, and gently implied there was nowhere else for the tiny creature to go. Natasha, who had never seen herself as someone who owned a pet—who barely trusted herself to care for plants—had taken him home, wrapped in a soft blanket. Told herself she’d find him a nice family.

She never did. He’d stayed. Through the grind, the promotions, the late nights, and the loneliness. Liho remained the one quiet, dependable thing in her life. She named him after a figure from old Russian folklore—Likho, the spirit of misfortune and chaos. A creature you were warned not to name or challenge, but whose presence was sometimes inescapable. It was meant as a joke at first—dark humor, a habit she never quite grew out of. But over time, the name stuck and softened. Likho became Liho—less an omen and more a constant.

After giving him a generous serving of premium cat food, she microwaved some frozen supermarket pasta-dish and poured herself a glass of red wine. Dinner was quiet, save for the low hum of the television. A dusty old Western was playing, something about cowboys and crooked sheriffs. Natasha wasn’t really watching. She sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, Liho curled beside her like a sentient heating pad.

Her thoughts kept drifting. Back to the studio. Back to the lecture Maria had shown her.

Back to you.

She hadn’t said it out loud, but the words had stung more than she expected. The calm measured critique of how anchors like her “curated truth,” how polished delivery could sometimes mask institutional bias. The examples had been academic, but Natasha had felt it—she had been the example.

And yet… you were compelling. Articulate. Passionate in a way that wasn’t performative. You didn’t grandstand; you just believed in what you were saying.

She pushed the thoughts aside, finished her meal, rinsed her wine glass, and went through the motions of her nightly routine. Brushed teeth. Washed off the last traces of studio makeup Betty hadn’t already removed. Changed into a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized Shield University shirt she’d never admit was from Bucky her old dorm roommate. Then, finally, she slipped into bed, Liho jumping up to settle at her feet.

It should have ended there. Lights off. Day over.

But Natasha lay there in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the echo of your lecture still playing in her mind. She sighed, reaching for her phone on the nightstand, and opened the video again—not to rewatch it this time, but to scroll through the comments. Most were thoughtful. A few were aggressively supportive of her, others staunchly in your corner. Some were messy and contrarian for the sake of it.

Still, the consensus was unsettling: people were listening to you. Her curiosity piqued, she tapped your name into the search bar. Dozens of results popped up.

“Youngest Professor at SHIELD University Breaks Down Media Ethics in Viral Lecture.”

“SHIELD University Appoints Rising Academic to Faculty—Is the Professor the Future of Public Communication?”

“Bridging Theory and Practice: How the Professor Makes Media Research Accessible.”

She clicked on your university profile. A picture of you smiling at the camera greeted her. Natasha couldn’t deny you were attractive, it was a shame you seemed to despise everything she embodied. Below the picture was a brief introductory text.

We are proud to introduce Professor Y/N, who began their academic career here at SHIELD University. After completing their master’s abroad, they returned to complete their PhD and were recently appointed as the youngest faculty member in our Department of Media and Communication. Their research focuses on media literacy, narrative framing, and the role of journalism in democratic decline.

Natasha scrolled further.

Recent Publications:

• “The Myth of Neutrality: Power and Performance in Anchor-Centric News”

• “Narrative Fracture: The Battle for Public Trust in Digital Broadcasting”

• “Face of the News: Gender, Perception, and Charisma in Prime-Time Journalism”

Beneath that your contact email and Office hours.

Natasha sat back against the pillows, resting her phone on the nightstand, the soft glow of the screen now gone. It appeared that very little private information was available about you online to the public. She stared at the ceiling, the weight of your words from the lecture still lingering in her mind.

"Why the hell am I even looking at that?" she muttered under her breath, shaking her head slightly as if to dismiss the whole thing. Liho, curled up at the foot of the bed, paused mid-purr, his amber eyes narrowing as he stared at Natasha. His ears twitched, confused by her sudden outburst, but he didn’t move. Natasha let out a frustrated sigh, rolling onto her side, her fingers lightly brushing her hair away from her face. "This is ridiculous," she murmured, though the words felt hollow even to her. “She’s nothing more than an overachiever, leveraging recognizable names to draw attention to her small research hobby.’’ Liho blinked, then slowly stretched before curling up into a ball again, letting out a soft, contented sigh as he drifted off to sleep beside her, unimpressed with Natasha’s mood swing.

She didn’t like being called out. Didn’t appreciate being used as a case study for all that was wrong with modern journalism. It shouldn’t have gotten under her skin the way it did. And yet…

It wasn’t just criticism. It was smart. It was sharp.

That’s what bothered Natasha. She turned onto her side, her alarm clock faintly glowing in the dark room. She told herself she didn’t care. That it was just another critic, jealous of Natashas success. Just another overconfident academic with a limited view of how things worked in the real world. She had seen it time and again—people criticizing her without reason, trying to dismantle everything she had built from the ground up. You don’t even know me, she thought bitterly. To you, she was manufactured. Superficial. A product, not a person. Power-hungry. Egocentric. It didn’t matter how many stories she had broken, how many sleepless nights she’d spent carving out her place in a world that never welcomed her. You had already made up your mind and in the media world, that was dangerous. A single narrative, repeated with enough conviction, could become truth. The public loved a fall from grace. To you, she was nothing more than a symbol. But to protect herself, Natasha clung to the thought that you were just another fleeting presence in the endless crowd of critics—one more voice hoping to see her fall. No one had ever succeeded in pushing Natasha out and you wouldn’t be the first. But as sleep tugged at her, slow and unrelenting after an eventful workday, the cadence of your voice still echoed in her subconsciousness. And despite herself, she was already wondering what you’d say next.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #marvel #the avengers #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #black widow #natalia romanova

459 notes · View notes

jungkoode · 4 days ago

Text

OUT OF LINE | 01

˗ˏˋ gominola ˎˊ˗

"Some people are immune to charm, allergic to arrogance, and completely uninterested in your particular brand of expensive chaos. Today you meet one of them."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.4k

content: enemies to lovers first meeting, physio's daughter x player dynamics, aggressive indifference, professional boundaries being tested, Madrid vs Barcelona cultural clash, family grief processing, parental guilt, ferret therapy, hookup culture critique, explicit sexual content, Kim Taehyung being insufferable on purpose

—author's note

Okay. Okay. I really went and did it with this one. And I regret absolutely nothing. First of all. Just had to make that clear up front. No apologies will be issued at this time, thank you for your concern.

Second of all—and this one's been cracking me up for days—I've been texting Vani like "I'm so sorry. I fear this is my Wattpad fic." Because... it is. Like, it really is. I've gone full ✨she's unimpressed, he's cocky✨ and I need you all to understand: I am aware. I see the trope. I live the trope. And I embrace the trope. This is not innovative. It's not genre-defying. It is what it is, and I'm standing ten toes down in it. Sometimes life sucks and you deserve to indulge in a fuckboy right-back getting stonewalled by a girl in a hoodie and a death glare. Guilty pleasures are called pleasures for a reason. Let me live.

That said... this is still a Kiki fic. So yeah, it's Wattpad-coded, but it's also packed with trauma, psychological complexity, and enough repressed emotion to make a therapist cry. Because I can't write fluff. I can't write people who fall in love cleanly. I can only write emotional warfare and painfully specific coping mechanisms. So if you're looking at Taehyung like "he's insufferable," just know that's the point. He is! He's also deeply lonely, emotionally stunted, and addicted to being wanted because he thinks admiration equals worth. (Spoiler: it doesn't.)

And her—god. She is not here for the male ego parade. She's grown up in Spain, she's grieving, she's displaced, and she has zero energy for Real Madrid's locker room of dopamine-deficient mascots. That hoodie isn't just a hoodie. It's distance. It's defiance. It's a tether to a home she was pulled from too fast, and a warning sign to anyone trying to get too close. Don't get me started on the symbolism because this will get way too long. Vani knows firsthand.

Now. Leo? Oh, Leo. He's the Real Madrid maknae and a walking cautionary tale. He wants to belong so badly he'll mirror whatever's around him. Which, unfortunately for him, is Taehyung and Marco. He's twenty. Impressionable. Already being warped by the dynamic of party-first, care-later. I love him. I want to save him. I might not.

Also, let's talk about Jesús—because I had to sneak that conversation in. Chapter 1 is heavy on Taehyung's POV, which means you get all his projection and testosterone-induced decisions and derailed internal monologue. But the dad scene was non-negotiable. I needed you to see her from the inside. The quiet way she's holding herself together with routines, ferrets, gominolas, and the desperate need for control. She's not cold. She's scorched. And her dad? He's trying. He's trying so hard. And maybe that's the saddest part of all.

Also—linguistics side note because I'm annoying—I very intentionally wrote her dialogue with Jesús in Spanish (with translations) because I will die on the hill of language realism. It would make zero sense for them to speak English to each other at home. She's grown up in Spain. Her dad's Spanish. That's their intimacy language. Meanwhile, the Real Madrid players default to English—the club is international, and not everyone speaks Spanish fluently (Taehyung included). So yes. In this fic, she's the one speaking a different language. And yes. He's going to learn. Because nobody does language kink intimacy like I do. 🥴

So yes. He's awful. Intentionally. Aggressively. Satirically. This is not a "he's so cool because he's toxic" situation. This is "I am raw-dogging you his character flaws on a silver platter so you can watch him fumble in real time." Let's all unpack that together.

Anyway. Welcome to Out of Line. Vani's Between the Lines sister story. My trauma-coded cliché monster. My ode to messy boys and girls who pretend they're fine until they implode. Please buckle your seatbelts. Hold each other's hands. Consider investing in therapy. I know I am.

— quick links

read author intro + tws (must)

lineverse guide

between the lines (jk’s story by @writesvani)

read on wattpad

read on ao3

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter

The new physio better be hot.

That's the first coherent thought Taehyung has after forty-five minutes of mindless drills. Not that he's complaining about the mindless part—muscle memory's doing all the work while his brain checks out, cataloguing last night's blonde (Marta? Maria? Started with an M, ended with her screaming his name, details irrelevant).

The September sun's brutal on the pitch, turning the grass into a furnace, and Coach keeps barking orders like they haven't run this same formation a thousand times.

"Fucking hell," Marco grunts beside him, bent over with his hands on his knees. "If I have to do one more suicide drill, I'm actually going to commit one."

Leo laughs—that nervous kind of laugh he does when he's not sure if Marco's joking. Kid's still too green, still thinks there's some magic formula to fitting in. Taehyung remembers being twenty and giving a shit about what the older players thought. Now he's twenty-four and the only opinion that matters is his own.

And right now, his opinion is that training's boring as fuck.

"New physio starts today," Leo offers, like that's supposed to make the sweat stop pooling in uncomfortable places. "Jesús something. From Barcelona."

So… A man. Boring.

Marco spits on the grass. "Great. We now got a Barça prick to tell us we're stretching wrong."

Taehyung's about to add his own commentary—something about how Barcelona's medical staff couldn't fix their players' egos, let alone their hamstrings—when movement in the bleachers catches his eye.

Hello.

There's someone up there. Female someone, from the shape. Not unusual—girlfriends, agents, journalists, they all hover around the complex like expensive flies.

But this one's different.

This one's got nose in a book (okay, miss 'not like other girls'), completely ignoring the show on the pitch.

And that's…

Interesting.

He shifts his stance, trying to get a better angle without being obvious about it. Hair pulled back, oversized university hoodie despite the heat, legs crossed at the ankle. Can't see your face from here, but the way you're sitting—spine straight, pen moving across the page in quick, efficient strokes—suggests you're not here for the view.

Which is fucking absurd, honestly.

He's shirtless. Marco's shirtless. Hell, half the team's shirtless, and you're more invested in whatever's on that page than twenty-two professional athletes in peak physical condition.

"Oi." Marco's elbow catches him in the ribs. "You checking out the competition or planning to actually train today?"

"Who's that?"

He doesn't point—he's not twelve—but tilts his head toward the bleachers.

Marco squints, then grins. That specific grin that means he's already mapping out his approach strategy.

"Oh shit. That's the new physio's daughter."

So a man—with a daughter.

The information slots into place like a puzzle piece.

Barcelona physio. Daughter in tow. Probably forced to tag along while daddy gets settled into his new job, bored out of your mind, killing time with—he squints—whatever the fuck that textbook is.

"Dibs," Marco says automatically.

"You can't call dibs on people," Leo protests, still adorably convinced that ethics apply to their world.

"Watch me." Marco's already running a hand through his hair, activating what he calls 'the panty-dropper smile,' which Taehyung's seen work on models, actresses, that prosecutor who definitely should've known better. "I give her two days before she's begging for a private tour of the facilities."

Taehyung watches you turn a page, pen tapping against your bottom lip. The gesture is unconscious, academic, completely unaware of the attention you're drawing.

Something about it makes his mouth quirk up.

"Hundred euros says she doesn't even give you her number."

"You're on." Marco's already moving, that swagger in his step that says he's never met a woman who didn't eventually cave. "Watch and learn, boys."

But Taehyung's not interested in watching Marco crash and burn. He's already moving, cutting his friend off with the kind of casual interception that works just as well off the pitch as on it.

Marco's protests fade into background noise—something about fair play and bro code and other shit that stops mattering the second Taehyung gets a clear view of your face.

You're pretty.

Not Instagram pretty, not 'done up for the cameras' pretty. Just… pretty. The kind of face that probably looks the same at 6 AM as it does at midnight. No makeup that he can see, just skin and eyes and a mouth that's currently frowning at whatever you're reading.

He leans against the barrier separating the pitch from the stands, letting his weight settle into the metal. Close enough now to smell something sweet—not perfume, something else. Candy, maybe. The artificial cherry kind kids eat.

You don't look up.

He's standing three feet away, shirtless and sweaty and radiating that post-workout testosterone that usually has women tripping over themselves, and you don't even glance his way.

What the fuck.

He raises an eyebrow, even though you're not looking to see it.

Clears his throat.

Nada.

You make another note in the margin of your textbook, and he catches a glimpse of the page—medical terminology, diagrams that look like someone exploded a knee joint and tried to map the debris.

A physio's daughter studying what looks like physio stuff. Following in daddy's footsteps. Cute.

He waves a hand in front of your face. Not aggressive, just enough movement to break your concentration.

And finally—finally—you look up.

Your eyes are darker than expected, the kind that turns black when annoyed.

Which, judging by the expression on your face, is exactly what you are right now.

He smirks. Can't help it. It's automatic at this point, the expression that says 'yeah, I'm that guy, you're welcome.'

"Hey."

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then go back to your book.

What.

"Studying?" He tries again, because maybe you're one of those delayed reaction types.

Maybe the neural pathways from eyes to brain to mouth need a second to fire up.

Nothing.

He glances at the textbook again.

The words swim in front of him—Spanish, mostly, medical Spanish at that. His comprehension tops out at ordering beer and asking where the bathroom is. Carmen tried to teach him once, spent hours conjugating verbs while naked in his bed, but all he remembers is that 'cama' means bed and 'más' means more.

"I guess you already know my name."

He leans harder against the barrier, angling his body to block the worst of the sun from your page.

See? Thoughtful.

"But it's Kim. Taehyung. First name Taehyung."

You raise your eyes from the textbook. Slow, like it's costing you effort. The look you give him is so flat it could resurface a parking lot.

"And I should care because…?"

It's not quite a question because you clearly don't expect an answer. Or want one. You're already turning back to your book, dismissing him as efficiently as a referee's whistle.

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

"Tae!" Marco's voice cuts across the pitch. "Coach wants us back!"

But Taehyung's still processing. Still standing there like an idiot while you scribble another note in that incomprehensible textbook.

You've got a red pen now, underlining something like nothing else matters in the world—not even him.

That makes him frown.

The barrier digs into his forearms but he doesn't move. Can't quite figure out why you're not looking.

You're just… sitting there. Ignoring him. Like he's furniture.

Sweaty, expensive furniture that you have zero interest in purchasing.

"Taehyung!" Marco again, louder this time. "Unless you want extra laps—"

Right. Training. The thing he's paid millions to do.

He pushes off the barrier, but not before catching one last detail—a small bag of those candies peeking out from your hoodie pocket.

"Any day now, princess," Marco calls, and that gets a laugh from the others.

Taehyung flips him off, and he knows, technically, the smart thing would be to walk away. Get back to training. Forget about the physio's daughter who clearly has better things to do than stroke his ego.

But Taehyung's never been particularly smart about these things.

"You know," he says, loud enough to make sure you hear him, "most people at least pretend to be interested when someone introduces themselves."

Your pen stops moving. Just for a second. Then continues its path across the page.

"Most people," you say without looking up, "introduce themselves when there's a reason to."

It's so casual, so dismissive, that it takes him a second to realize you've just called him irrelevant to your existence.

Him. Taehyung Kim. Real Madrid's starting right-back. A hundred and thirty-six million Instagram followers. Face of three luxury brands and that unfortunate cologne campaign his agent swears was artistic.

Irrelevant.

"Taehyung, I swear to god—"

"I'm coming!" He shouts back at Marco, then his eyes move back to you.

He glances at your hoodie pocket again, at the candy, sweet-shaped things you're chewing.

"What's that?"

You look up slowly, like you're completely done with this, and he kind of likes the little groove appearing between your eyebrows.

"What's what?"

He nods at the small red jellybean thingy between your fingers.

"That."

"It's called gominola," you say, flat as concrete, like you're explaining colors to a toddler.

Gominola. Spanish word.

He's heard it before, maybe, but Spanish flows past him like water most days.

"Right." He nods like he totally knew that. "Gominola."

You're already deep in your textbook again, like the last two minutes didn't happen. Like he didn't happen.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting salt and something sour. When he finally turns back to the pitch, Marco's wearing that shit-eating grin that means he watched the whole thing.

"So," his friend says as Taehyung jogs back to formation. "How's that hundred euros looking?"

"Shut up."

"No, really. I want to know what kind of flowers to send to your funeral. Roses? Lilies? Something that says 'here lies Taehyung Kim, murdered by a girl who didn't give a fuck'?"

Leo's trying not to laugh and failing. Even Diego looks amused from his spot near the goal, and Diego hasn't been amused by anything since 2018.

"She's playing hard to get," Taehyung says, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long drink.

The sun's turned brutal while he was standing there like an idiot, and his shoulders are probably fried.

"Right." Marco stretches the word into three syllables. "And I'm playing hard to get with Scarlett Johansson."

"Different game entirely."

Taehyung caps the bottle, eyes drifting back to the bleachers. You're highlighting something now, yellow marker moving in precise lines.

"Trust me."

"Oh, this is gonna be good." Marco's practically bouncing on his toes. "Taehyung Kim, rejected by the physio's daughter who'd rather read about—what was that, tendons?—than talk to him."

"I wasn't rejected."

"You literally just stood there while she acted like you didn't exist."

"She was just busy."

"That's what we're calling it?"

Taehyung grins, and it's the one that usually makes Marco nervous. The one that appears right before he does something spectacularly stupid and somehow makes it work.

"I'm calling it round one."

Because here's the thing—he's been bored. Genuinely, mind-numbingly bored.

Same training, same parties, same faces in his bed.

Madrid's full of women who know his name before he opens his mouth, who laugh at jokes that aren't funny and pretend to be fascinated by stories they've already heard from three other players.

But you? You looked at him like he was blocking your light.

So he spends the rest of training with one eye on the bleachers, and you don't look up once, not even when Leo completely botches a penalty kick and Marco screams creative Italian profanity at the sky.

You just keep reading, occasionally popping one of those gominolas into your mouth, completely absorbed in a world that has nothing to do with the spectacle fifty feet away.

By the time Coach calls it, the sun's turned the pitch into a sauna and everyone's dragging.

Taehyung grabs his shirt from the bench, pulling it on while trying to look like he's not watching you pack up your things.

You move like you have all the time in the world—book into bag, pens into case, everything in its place.

Then you're walking down the bleachers, taking the steps two at a time like you've got somewhere better to be.

"So what's the plan?" Marco appears at his shoulder, following his line of sight. "Flowers? Jewelry? Groveling?"

"Don't need a plan."

"Everyone needs a plan."

"No," Taehyung corrects, watching you disappear through the exit without a backward glance. "Everyone else needs a plan."

Marco laughs, but it's the kind that suggests he thinks Taehyung's lost it.

"She didn't even tell you her name."

True.

But he noticed the way your fingers tapped against the book when you were thinking.

Noticed the three different colors of highlighter in your bag, organized by size.

Noticed how you bite your lip on the left side when concentrating, leaving the faintest indent in the pink.

Details.

The kind that matter when you're mapping out a challenge.

"She will," he says, and means it.

Because Taehyung Kim doesn't do rejection.

He does persistence, charm and strategy wrapped in a smile.

And you, with your medical textbooks and gummies and complete inability to give a fuck about his existence?

Oh. You're gonna be fun.

Nube’s stealing your socks again.

You watch her drag the pink cotton across the hardwood floor of your bedroom, tiny paws working overtime to claim her prize.

She’s gotten bold since the move—probably stress-induced kleptomania.

Can’t blame her. You’ve been stress-eating pikotas like they’re a food group.

"That’s my good pair," you tell her, but she’s already disappeared under the bed with her treasure.

Hari’s less ambitious in his criminal endeavors. He’s sprawled across your stomach like a furry hot water bottle, occasionally chittering when you stop petting him. The sound vibrates against your ribs—small, warm, alive.

Better than the silence that fills this house most days.

Your phone’s face-down on the nightstand because checking it leads to Barcelona rabbit holes, and Barcelona rabbit holes lead to wondering what Dani had for breakfast or whether Jungkook’s figured out how to use the coffee machine without flooding the kitchen.

Pointless thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

The knock on your door is soft, tentative. Dad’s signature.

Mom used to say he knocked like he was apologizing for existing.

"¿Sí?" (Yeah?)

"¿Puedo pasar?" (Can I come in?)

Hari perks up at your father’s voice, whiskers twitching. Traitor. You scoop him up anyway, settling him against your shoulder before nodding toward the door.

"Adelante." (Come in)

Dad enters like he’s entering a crime scene—careful, observant, ready to back out if needed. His hair’s still damp from the shower, smelling like that medicinal soap he uses. The scent of competence and sterile environments, you figure.

"¿Cómo van los estudios?" (How’s the studying going?) He settles into the chair by your desk, the one that’s supposed to be for studying but mostly holds laundry you’re too lazy to put away.

"Bien." (Good) You scratch behind Hari’s ears, feel him melt against your palm. "La anatomía es anatomía. Da igual si estás en Barcelona o en Marte." (Anatomy’s anatomy. Doesn’t matter if you’re in Barcelona or Mars)

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Never does anymore.

Not since the move.

Not since Mom.

"Bien. Eso está bien." (Good. That’s good.) His fingers drum against his thigh—nervous habit he developed after Mom died. "Oye, sé que este cambio ha sido… difícil. Para los dos." (Listen, I know this change has been… difficult. For both of us.)

Here we go. The conversation you’ve been avoiding for three weeks. The one where he apologizes for taking the job, for moving you from everything familiar, for choosing survival over sentiment.

"Papá—" (Dad—)

"No, escúchame." (No, listen to me.) He leans forward, elbows on knees. The posture of a man confessing sins. "Sé que no querías irte de Barcelona. Sé que esto te parece una traición." (I know you didn’t want to leave Barcelona. I know this feels like betrayal.)

Betrayal’s too strong a word. Abandonment fits better.

But you don’t say that because he already carries enough guilt for both of you.

"No pasa nada." (It’s fine.)

"Sí que pasa." (It’s not fine.) His voice gains edge, that firmness he uses with players who claim they’re not injured when they’re obviously limping. "Pero era necesario. Y a lo mejor… a lo mejor es bueno. Cambio de aires. Nuevas perspectivas." (But it was necessary. And maybe… maybe it’s good. Change of air. New perspectives.)

New perspectives. Right. Because what you really needed was exposure to Madrid’s particular brand of arrogance and entitlement.

Hari shifts against your shoulder, tiny claws pricking through your shirt.

Even he’s unconvinced.

"¿Y los jugadores?" (And the players?) The question comes out careful, as if he were asking about your opinion on the weather rather than your thoughts on his new colleagues. "¿Qué te parecen?" (What do you think of them?)

You consider lying. Consider diplomacy. Consider all the ways you could soften the truth to make it easier for him to swallow.

Instead, you shrug.

"Pues qué voy a pensar, papá. Son gilipollas." (What would I think, dad? They’re jerks.)

He barks out a laugh—sharp, surprised. The first genuine one you’ve heard from him since you got here.

"Joder, hija." But he’s grinning now, shaking his head. "No te cortes." (Shit, sweetie. Tell me how you really feel.)

"Me has preguntado." (You asked.)

"Es verdad." (That’s true.) He sobers slightly. "¿Todos?" (All of them?)

You think about it. Really think about it.

Xavi seems decent enough—quiet, professional, treats staff like humans rather than furniture. Diego’s got that aggressive competence thing going on, but he’s respectful. Even Marco, for all his obvious fuckboy tendencies, at least has the decency to say please when he wants extra ice.

Then there’s… him.

Taehyung.

With his lazy smirks and designer everything and complete inability to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around his stupid abs.

"La mayoría." (Most of them.) The admission feels like charity. "Algunos son simplemente… más gilipollas que otros." (Some are just… bigger jerks than others.)

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Face still down, but the vibration makes both you and Hari jump slightly.

Ignore it.

It’s probably Instagram telling you Dani posted another story, or your university group chat discussing assignment due dates, or some other notification designed to pull you back into a world you’re trying to navigate without drowning.

It buzzes again.

"¿No vas a mirar?" (Won’t check?)

"No es nada." (It’s nothing.)

But your dad’s looking at you with that expression. The one that says he knows you better than you know yourself, and lying to him is like lying to a mirror.

You flip the phone over.

@𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐨: BOMBAZO: 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚎 𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝, ¿𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚊? 𝙻𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚊́𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 (BOMBSHELL: BarcaBarbie and Blake Scott, new couple? The pictures that confirm the romance)

The thumbnail is grainy, paparazzi-quality garbage, but unmistakably them. Blake’s hand around Barbie’s waist, pulling her close. Her face is hidden by her hair, falling between them and the camera.

They’re close. Too close.

The kind of close that could be a kiss or could be an almost-kiss or could be nothing at all, but the angle makes it impossible to tell and that’s exactly what sells magazines.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary. Feel something twist in your chest that you refuse to name.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not longing. It’s just… surprise.

Because Blake is a Barcelona player, and Barbie is Dani’s sister—and the implications are already enough without you having to explicitly connect the dots.

Your thumb hovers over Dani’s contact. The urge to text him hits like muscle memory—does he know about this? how’s he taking it? is he okay?—but then your heart does that thing. That stupid, treacherous thing where it speeds up just thinking about typing his name.

Because he has a girlfriend now.

Carla. Sweet, pretty Carla who met him with a press badge slung around her neck and a voice recorder in hand. Who writes match reports and profile pieces that are perfect and looks genuinely happy in her soft-filtered couple photos.

Of course he would fall for her.

Of course she’s the kind of girl who gets the story and the guy.

Carla who never had to compete with a dead woman’s memory or a teenage crush that should have died years ago.

You swallow the impulse. Bury it under three layers of rationalization and practical thinking.

Instead, you open Jungkook’s chat.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍? 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙱𝚊𝚛?

You wait 2 seconds max before the response makes its way through the chat. Well, of fucking course. It’s no secret Jungkook's always been surgically attached to his phone.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚊𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚜

Relief floods your system before you can stop it.

Which is stupid.

Why should you care if Barbie and Blake are together? It’s not like their relationship status affects your life in Madrid.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒? 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

The response comes quick. Too quick. Like he’s trying to move past the topic before you can dig deeper.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍?

And there it is. The subject change.

Jungkook’s always been good at reading minefields and stepping around them.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚘𝚏

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, because…

You could tell him about Taehyung. About the smirk and the shameless showing off and the way he looked genuinely confused when you didn’t fall over yourself to talk to him.

But that would require admitting you noticed him at all.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛? 🤔

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚜

Despite everything, you smile.

Because he’s not wrong.

Barcelona players at least have the decency to look good while being insufferable.

"¿Todo bien?" (All good?) Your dad’s voice pulls you back to the room, to Hari’s warm weight against your shoulder, to the conversation you abandoned to spiral over Barcelona gossip.

"Sí. Solo… amigos siendo amigos." (Yeah. Just… Friends being friends.)

"¿Amigos de Barcelona?" (Barcelona friends?)

The question lands heavier than it should.

Because yes, Barcelona friends. The ones you left behind.

The ones who are moving on and coupling up and living their lives while you’re stuck in Madrid petting ferrets and avoiding eye contact with shirtless footballers.

"Sí." (Yes.)

He nods, understanding more than you wish he did.

"Está bien echarlos de menos. Es normal." (It’s okay to miss them. It’s normal.)

"Lo sé." (I know.)

"Y está bien… hacer nuevos amigos aquí. Aunque sean gilipollas." (And it’s okay to… to make new friends here. Even if they’re jerks.)

You look at him then, see the worry lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders carry tension like a physical weight.

He’s trying so hard to make this work. To make this place feel like home instead of just a house where you happen to sleep.

It’s not fair to him, to make it feel like it’s all his fault.

"Tal vez algunos sean menos gilipollas que otros," you concede. (Maybe some are lesser jerks than others.)

He smiles. "Sí, tal vez." (Yeah, maybe.)

Your phone buzzes again.

More Barcelona updates, probably.

More reminders of the life you’re not living anymore.

You let it buzz.

Because right now, in this sterile Madrid bedroom with your stress-thieving ferrets and your guilt-ridden father, you’re exactly where you need to be. Even if it feels like exile.

Even if every instinct tells you that Madrid players are trouble, and certain shirtless right-backs are the worst kind of trouble.

Even if your heart still does stupid things when you think about blue and red jerseys and boys who used to treat you like family.

"¿Cena?" (Dinner?) Your dad stands, stretching joints that probably ache from years of fixing other people’s bodies. "Estaba pensando en pedir de ese sitio argentino de la calle." (I was thinking of ordering from that argentinian place down the street.)

"¿El de las empanadas?" (The one with the empanadas?)

"Ese mismo." (The very one.)

Hari chirps at the mention of food, because ferrets are basically tiny, furry garbage disposals with boundary issues.

"Vale. Pero mañana cocinas tú. Esto de la comida a domicilio se está poniendo caro." (Okay. But you’re cooking tomorrow. This takeout thing is getting expensive.)

"Trato hecho." (Deal.) He pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "Y cielo…" (And sweetheart…)

"¿Qué?" (What?)

"Dale una oportunidad a Madrid. Solo… una pequeñita." (Give Madrid a chance. Just… a small one.)

You scratch Hari’s head, feel him purr against your palm. Outside your window, the sun’s setting over a city that still feels foreign, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility.

"Ya veremos." (We’ll see.)

It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either.

And for now, that’s enough.

Twenty-two minutes and she hasn't cum yet.

Not that he's counting. Except he is, because Marco's got a thousand euros riding on twenty minutes max, and Taehyung doesn't lose bets. Especially not when the evidence is currently wrapped around his cock, lips stretched wide, dark eyes looking up at him through thick lashes like she knows exactly what she's doing to him.

Fuck.

Her tongue does this thing—this swirl around the head that makes his thighs tense—and he threads his fingers through her curls. Not pulling. Guiding. There's a difference, and he's not an amateur. The curls are soft, springy, wrapping around his fingers like they belong there.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. Screen lights up with Marco's name and some emoji combination that probably means he's balls deep in his own conquest downstairs.

Good for him. Great. Love that for him. Now fuck off.

He swipes at the notification with his free hand, types back without looking. Whatever he sends, it's probably not words. Doesn't matter. Marco speaks fluent 'leave me the fuck alone' by now.

She hums around him and his hips jerk. Shit. He tosses the phone somewhere—bed, floor, shadow realm, who gives a fuck—and gets his other hand in her hair. Both hands now, cradling her head like she's precious cargo. Which she is. Absolutely fucking is when she's doing that thing with her tongue again.

"That's it," he breathes, helping her with shallow thrusts.

Nothing too deep. He's not trying to choke her. Not unless she asks, and even then—

The phone buzzes again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He ignores it. Focuses on the wet heat, the way her nails dig into his thighs when he hits the back of her throat.

She's good at this. Really good.

Like, 'might actually get her number after this' good. The kind of good that makes him forget about—

Another buzz. Another. The screen keeps lighting up like a fucking disco.

She pulls off with an obscene pop, lips swollen and shiny.

"Popular tonight?"

"Always am."

He guides her back down before she can respond, and she goes willingly. Eager, even. Takes him deeper this time, nose almost touching his pelvis, and he has to close his eyes.

Close, close, close—

The orgasm hits like a penalty kick to the gut. He spills down her throat with a grunt that's probably too loud for a hotel room with thin walls, but that's what they get for booking cheap venues for these sponsor parties.

He wipes it away with his thumb (gentle, see? he's a gentleman), and she catches his wrist, sucks the digit clean.

Yeah. Definitely round two with this one.

The phone starts actually ringing this time. Marco's ringtone—some reggaeton bullshit that makes him want to throw the device out the window.

"You need to get that?"

She's already climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs like she owns them. Her dress rode up during the festivities, bunched around her waist.

No underwear. Smart girl.

"Nah."

He grabs her hips, pulls her closer. She's warm and soft and smells like coconut oil and that floral perfume every girl in Spain seems to own.

"Got better things to do."

She grins, reaching between them to wrap her fingers around his cock. Still sensitive, but already showing interest again. Twenty-four years old and blessed with the recovery time of a teenager.

Thank fuck for good genetics.

"Another round already?" She strokes him slowly, base to tip, twisting her wrist on the upstroke.

He smirks up at her, lazy and satisfied. She's gorgeous like this—dark skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, curls wild from his hands, lips still swollen.

The belly dancing show earlier didn't do her justice. All that hip movement on stage was just advertising for this, for the way she rolls her body like water.

"Hmm." He nips at her shoulder, tastes salt and coconut. "Think you can handle it?"

She laughs, breathy and confident, already reaching for the condoms on the nightstand. His mouth finds her shoulder, teeth grazing the skin as she rolls the latex down his half-hard cock. Already getting there. Give him two minutes and—

The phone buzzes again. Then again. Then—

"Jesus fucking Christ." He snatches it up, ready to block Marco's number permanently.

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙾𝙳𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙾𝚂 𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

She's positioning herself over him, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other guiding him to her entrance. Wet. Ready.

Twenty-three minutes and counting, but who's keeping track?

"Ignore it," he mutters, tossing the phone aside again.

His hands find her waist, her lower back, steadying her as she sinks down.

Tight. Fuck, she's tight. Or maybe he's just bigger than her usual.

Either way, the way she gasps and digs her nails into his shoulders suggests this is working for both of them.

"Fuck," she breathes, bottoming out. "You're—"

"I know." He rolls his hips up, cutting off whatever compliment she was about to give.

Doesn't need to hear it. Knows exactly what he's working with.

She starts moving, slow at first, finding her rhythm. He lets her set the pace initially, hands roaming her back, her ass, her thighs. Cataloging reactions.

She likes it when he grips her hips. Loves it when he scrapes his teeth across her nipple.

Mental notes. He's nothing if not a student of the game.

The phone won't stop buzzing.

Fuck Marco, fuck Carlos and fuck the universe, honestly.

Change of plans.

"Gotta make it quick."

He grabs her hips, flips them in one smooth motion. Her back hits the mattress with a soft gasp, legs automatically wrapping around his waist. Better angle anyway.

He braces one forearm next to her head, uses the other hand to push her thigh back toward the mattress. Opens her up just right. Deep. The way he likes it.

"Oh fuck—"

She arches under him as he starts moving. None of that gentle buildup shit. They're twenty-four minutes in and he's got places to be, apparently.

He finds his rhythm quick. Hard, deep thrusts that have her gasping with each one. The headboard's probably banging against the wall but that's what happens when you book the cheap rooms for overflow guests.

Should've sprung for the suite.

One of his hands slides between them, finds her clit. Circles it with his thumb in time with his thrusts.

"Come on," he mutters against her neck. "Come on, come on, come on—"

She's close. Can feel it in the way her pussy flutters around him, the way her breathing goes ragged. Her nails rake down his back, probably leaving marks his physio will question tomorrow.

Whatever. Battle scars.

"Tae—" She can't even finish his name, too busy falling apart underneath him. Her whole body goes taut, cunt clenching around him like a vice.

Twenty-five minutes.

He'll tell Marco nineteen.

He fucks her through it, chasing his own release. Three more thrusts and he's done, spilling into the condom with a groan that's mostly relief.

Mission accomplished. Everybody wins.

No time to bask in it. He pulls out, ties off the condom, and makes the perfect throw into the trash can across the room.

Three points. Still got it.

"I gotta—"

"Yeah, I figured," she says, already reaching for her dress.

No hurt feelings, no "will I see you again?" Just a woman who got what she came for and seems pretty satisfied with the transaction.

He loves Madrid.

He's dressed in record time. Shirt half buttoned but who's checking? Shoes untied. Wallet, phone, keycard. The holy trinity of hasty exits.

The elevator ride down is a lesson in personal grooming. He tries to fix his hair in the mirror, gives up. Checks his phone instead.

Fifteen texts from Marco. Three from Carlos. One from his brother asking if he's seen the news.

What news?

The elevator dings at the lobby and Xavi's right there, still in his training kit because he's Xavi and probably sleeps in it.

"Bro." His teammate's eyes go wide. "Carlos is pissed. Like, nuclear pissed."

"Yeah, I got that from the fifty fucking texts." He's already moving toward the conference room Carlos commandeered for these lectures. "What's his problem now?"

"Check your Instagram."

"What?"

"Just check it."

He pulls up the app while walking.

A ferret account pops up on his discovery page first—weird? Then he checks his last IG story—mirror selfie, hair slightly wet at the tips after showering, navy sweater, gold and white make-shift belt around the loops as a wink to his team—has blown up.

Then his notifications, DMs…

@𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞: 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝙸𝚖𝚊𝚘𝚘

Taehyung flicks his eyes upwards, seeing the story attached in the group chat he has with Marco and Leo in their private accounts.

Some girl from the party, video of him in the background. He's clearly drunk, clearly has his hands on C-something's ass, and clearly doesn't give a fuck who sees.

But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is the red lipstick mark on his neck that's visible in HD clarity. The same one he's sporting right now. The same one that makes it very fucking obvious what he's been doing while Carlos texts and calls and slowly loses his mind.

He swipes at his neck, fingers coming away red.

"Fuck's sake."

"Yeah, it's not looking too good, disappearing from your own sponsor event to—" Xavi gestures vaguely at Taehyung's everything. "—whatever this is?"

"It's called having a good time." He spots the hotel bar, makes a beeline. "Maybe you should try it sometime."

"I have a good time. With my fiancée. Singular. Who I've been with for eight years."

"Boring."

"Stable."

"Same thing."

Marco appears from nowhere, blonde still attached to his arm like a designer handbag. His best friend takes one look at him and whistles low.

"You're fucked."

"Thanks for the insight." He nods at Marco's companion. "Mind if I borrow him?"

She pouts but detaches, wobbling away on heels that should require a license to operate. Marco watches her go with the satisfied expression of a man who's had a very good night.

"Isabella know about your extracurriculars?" Taehyung asks, still trying to rub the lipstick off his neck.

"Isabella knows what Isabella needs to know." Marco produces a tissue from somewhere—the man's always prepared. "Here. You look like you got mauled by a Sephora display."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious. Carlos is going to have an aneurysm. Something about brand image and Nike and I stopped listening after he mentioned lawyers."

Great. Fantastic. Another lecture about representing the club and thinking about his future and all that shit that goes in one ear and out the other.

He's twenty-four, not forty. If he can't fuck random chicks at hotel parties, what's the point of being famous?

"How bad?"

"Scale of one to ten?" Marco grins. "Fifteen. He used your full name. Twice."

Shit.

"Did you at least win the bet?"

Taehyung grins. "Nineteen minutes."

"Bullshit."

"You don't know how to count."

"I have a fucking engineering degree."

"From where, clown college?"

The conference room door is closed but he can hear Carlos pacing inside, the aggressive click of designer shoes on marble.

Taehyung takes a breath, straightens his collar, and tries to look less like he just railed someone into a mattress.

"Good luck," Marco says, already backing away.

"Fuck you."

"Love you too, princess."

He pushes open the door to find Carlos mid-rant on his phone. His manager—all 5'9" of stress and designer suits—spins around and actually growls.

"Finally! Do you have any idea—" Carlos stops, takes in his appearance, and closes his eyes like he's praying for patience. "Is that lipstick?"

"No?"

"Kim Taehyung, I swear to God—"

"Okay, yes, but—"

"Sit. Down."

He sits. Carlos continues pacing, phone clutched like a weapon.

"Do you know what I've been doing for the past hour? Damage control. Do you know why? Because my client—my professional footballer client who makes seven figures a month—decided to get filmed grabbing ass at a party where half of Madrid's press was in attendance."

"It's not that bad—"

"Nike called." Carlos cuts him off. "They're concerned about your 'brand alignment.' Do you know what that means?"

"That they're uptight?"

"It means," Carlos says slowly, like he's explaining to a child, "that they pay you three and a half million euros a year to be a role model, not Madrid's most notorious fuckboy."

Fuckboy seems harsh. He prefers 'socially active'.

"I'll do an apology post," he offers. "Something about focusing on football and growth or whatever."

"No, you won't. Because that admits wrongdoing. We're going with 'private moment taken out of context.' Maria is drafting it now."

Of course she is. Carlos has contingencies for his contingencies.

"Fine. Can I go?"

"We're not done." Carlos finally stops pacing, fixing him with that look that means a PowerPoint presentation is coming. "This is the third incident this month. The referee thing, the Instagram live disaster, and now this."

"The referee deserved it."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?" He's getting irritated now, the post-orgasm calm evaporating. "I'm not breaking any laws. I'm not missing training. I'm playing the best football of my career—"

"The point," Carlos interrupts, "is that you're one scandal away from losing everything. Nike, TAG Heuer, the Korean skincare deal—they all have morality clauses. And you keep pushing boundaries like you're trying to find the limit."

He doesn't respond to that. Mainly because it's true.

"I need you to be smarter," Carlos continues, voice softer now. "I know you're young. I know you're having fun. But this isn't sustainable."

"Noted."

"I'm serious, Taehyung."

"So am I." He stands, ready to end this conversation. "I'll be more careful. Scout's honor."

Carlos doesn't look convinced, but he waves him off with a sigh that's more a cry for help than anything.

"Go. And for God's sake, wash your neck. You look like a crime scene."

He escapes before Carlos can launch into lecture phase two.

The hotel bar's still going strong—Madrid doesn't sleep, just shifts into different versions of awake.

He needs something to wash down the taste of Carlos's disappointment. Not whiskey though—that’s what old men drink when their wives leave them.

Vodka and tonic. Clean. Sharp. Doesn't linger.

The bartender's already pouring before he reaches the counter. Benefits of being recognized everywhere—people anticipate your needs, or at least pretend to.

He knocks back half of it in one go, ice cracking against his teeth.

There's a brunette at the end of the bar. Legs for days, red dress that he bets would look amazingly good on the floor of his bedroom.

She's been tracking him since he walked in—he can feel it without looking, the weight of female attention.

He's already mentally prepping—three minutes of conversation, five if she plays hard to get… His place or hers? Hers, probably. Easier to leave when—

"Tae!"

For fuck's sake.

Leo stumbles out of the elevator looking like someone killed his puppy. No, worse—like someone killed his puppy and posted it on TikTok. The kid's got his phone clutched in both hands, that specific brand of panic that only comes from relationship drama.

Why. Why can't the universe let him get his dick wet in peace? Just once. Just one fucking night without—

"Bro, I need your help." Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung's face. "Sofia saw—there was this brunette—someone posted—"

Instagram story. Leo with his tongue down some brunette's throat, hand up her skirt, zero subtlety. 47 views and counting.

He takes another sip of vodka, holds up a finger to the red dress at the bar—one second—and turns to Leo with what he hopes passes for sympathy.

"Breathe."

"I can't breathe! She posted a story. There's a hand. On her thigh. In a car. A man's hand!"

Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung’s face again.

Instagram story. Some girl’s thigh in a car, masculine hand placement that’s definitely not Leo’s. Caption: upgrade season 💋

"Okay."

"It's not okay! And the girl from tonight, she wants breakfast. Breakfast, Tae. Like, together. In public. She's talking about some place that does açaí bowls."

Christ. Açaí bowls. The official food of women who think one hookup equals a relationship contract.

"And Sofia's probably with that guy right now, and if she finds out I'm getting breakfast with—"

"You're not getting breakfast with anyone." He smiles to the brunette with gritted teeth. "Rule one: never do breakfast."

"But I already said—"

"Rule two: your word means nothing after 2 AM."

"That's fucked up."

"That's reality."

The brunette’s definitely listening now.

Great. Nothing kills the mood like babysitting a teammate through his first real fuckboy crisis.

He catches her eye, mouths "work emergency" with an apologetic shrug. She smiles. Understanding. Patient.

Fuck, she’s perfect, and he’s stuck playing guidance counselor to Spain’s most panicked midfielder.

The bartender slides him a fresh drink. Stronger pour this time. Bless.

"Where is she?"

"Room 412. She wants to leave at nine for this place in Malasaña that apparently has the best—"

"Stop." He's getting a headache. Or maybe that's just the vodka hitting an empty stomach. "You're going to go up there—"

"I can't, man. I can't face her. What if she cries?"

Jesus. Was he ever this young? This fucking soft?

"She texts asking where I am every five minutes." Leo shows him the screen—twelve messages, escalating from casual to concerned to the early stages of psycho. "What do I say?"

He looks at Leo—really looks at him. Sees himself at twenty, before he learned that feelings are just chemicals and breakfast is just carbs.

Before he figured out that the only way to win is to always play defense.

"Give me your room key."

"What?"

"Your key. I'll handle it."

"You'll—how?"

"Just trust me." He stands, checks his reflection in the bar mirror. Lipstick's gone but he still looks freshly fucked. Perfect. "What's her name?"

"Natalia."

Of course it is. It's always Natalia or Valentina or some other name that sounds like a telenovela character.

"You owe me." He grabs Leo's shoulders, makes sure the kid's paying attention. "You owe me so fucking big."

"Anything, man. Anything."

"In five minutes, you go wait in the lobby. And try to look heartbroken."

They need Marco. Marco’s good at this shit—turning disasters into comedy, making women laugh when they should be throwing drinks.

So he texts him.

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚊𝚛. 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚕𝚎𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙. 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: …𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜. 𝟸 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜

Marco appears exactly 4 minutes later (see, he can’t count for shit)—shirt half-buttoned, hair suggesting recent activities.

He takes one look at Leo’s face and laughs.

"Breakfast? Really?"

"Her name’s Natalia," Leo defends weakly.

"They’re all named Natalia." Marco claps him on the shoulder. "Alright, wait in the lobby. Look heartbroken."

"That’s exactly what Taehyung said."

Marco lifts his eyebrows and then smiles at him.

"Great minds think alike."

Room 412 is four floors up.

They take the stairs because Marco insists—‘builds character’—but really it’s to workshop the lie.

By the third floor, they’ve got it sorted.

"Family emergency," Marco’s saying, taking the steps two at a time. "Classic. Timeless. Nobody questions sick grandmothers."

"Too heavy." He’s already winded. When was the last time he took stairs? "She’ll want to comfort him. Send flowers or some shit."

"Work emergency?"

"At 5 AM?"

"Good point." Marco pauses at the landing, finger to his lips like he’s contemplating world peace. "Ex-girlfriend."

"That’s what I was thinking."

"Specifically, ex-girlfriend in the lobby with new boyfriend. Leo sees them, gets emotional, can’t possibly do breakfast while having a mental breakdown."

Sometimes he forgets why he keeps Marco around, but then shit like this happens, and it all makes sense.

The knock on 412 is soft, nothing about it screams ‘your hookup sent his boys to break your heart.’

She answers in a hotel robe, hair already curled for this breakfast that’s never happening. Of course she’s exactly what he pictured—pretty in that forgettable way, hopeful in that dangerous way.

"Leo?"

Her face falls when she sees them.

"Where’s Leo?"

"Downstairs." Marco’s got his concerned friend face on. Oscar-worthy. "Having a bit of a moment."

"A moment?"

"His ex." Taehyung leans against the doorframe, lets exhaustion sell the story. "She’s here. With her new guy. Showed up right as we were leaving and just… yeah."

"Oh." Her expression shifts from confusion to sympathy.

Incredible, how women always want to fix broken men.

"Oh god, is he okay?"

"He’s…" Marco glances at him, perfect comedic timing. "Processing."

"He wanted to come up himself," Taehyung adds, "but he’s not really in a state to see anyone. You know how it is. First love and all that."

She nods like this makes perfect sense. Like Leo—sweet, fumbling Leo—is the type to have dramatic ex-girlfriend encounters at 5 AM.

Though, considering the whole Sofia bullshit, that might not be too far-fetched.

"Should I go down? Talk to him?"

"No." Too quick. Marco softens it with a sympathetic head tilt. "He’s embarrassed. Grown man crying in a hotel lobby isn’t exactly his finest moment."

"Tell him…" She’s twisting the belt of her robe, searching for words. "Tell him I understand. And last night was really special."

Special. What a powerful word. One that turns hookups into expectations.

"We’ll make sure he gets the message," Marco promises, already backing away. "So sorry about this."

They maintain the bullshit until the elevator doors close.

Then Marco breaks, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the wall.

"Did you see her face? ‘Last night was special.’" He wipes his eyes. "Fucking hell, Leo really stepped in it."

"He owes us."

"He owes us his firstborn. His kidney. His—" Marco stops. "Is that brunette from the bar still down there?"

"Probably." He checks his phone. 5:23 AM. The night’s officially crossed into morning, that grey area where bad decisions start looking like destiny. "Why?"

"Because you’ve got that look."

"What look?"

"The ‘I’m going to salvage this night if it kills me’ look."

Is he that predictable?

Don’t answer that.

The lobby’s thinned out—just the diehards and the professionals now. Leo’s slumped on a couch, still clutching his phone.

"Natalia?" Leo jumps up when he sees them.

"Sorted," Marco says. "Told her you’re emotionally compromised. She sends her understanding."

"You’re both lifesavers." Leo looks between them like they’ve just cured cancer. "I don’t know how to thank—"

"Learn from this." He claps Leo on the shoulder, harder than necessary. "Next time, no names. No promises. And definitely no fucking breakfast."

"But what if I actually like—"

"Then you’re in the wrong profession."

He can see the exact moment Leo’s moral compass realigns. The kid straightens up, nods like he’s just learned something profound.

Another one corrupted. Madrid’s finest at work.

"Thanks, guys. I mean it."

"Don’t thank us." Marco’s already eyeing the exit. "Thank Sofia for posting that thigh pic. Girl did you a favor."

Leo’s face falls. "Shit. Sofia."

"Tomorrow’s problem," Taehyung says firmly. "Tonight, you go home. Alone. Post nothing. Like nothing. Become invisible."

"But—"

"Go." He sighs. "Now."

Leo goes. Thank fuck. One crisis managed, one brunette to salvage—

She’s gone.

The barstool’s empty except for lipstick traces on her glass. When the fuck did she leave? He was watching her the whole—

No. He was playing mentor to Madrid’s most incompetent Romeo.

"Brutal." Marco murmurs at his shoulder. "She was hot too."

"There’ll be others."

"Always are." Marco stretches, joints popping. "I’m out. Got a hot thing waiting who thinks I’m getting ice."

"It’s been thirty minutes."

"I’m a very thorough ice-getter." He winks and disappears, leaving Taehyung alone with the growing certainty that tonight’s cursed.

But he’s Kim fucking Taehyung. He doesn’t accept defeat.

He spots her immediately—the blonde from earlier? No. Different blonde. Taller. Legs for days in a silver dress that catches light like a disco ball.

She’s typing on her phone, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He doesn’t think. Just moves.

"Lost?"

She looks up. Blue eyes, the kind that photograph well. Her smile’s immediate, recognition flooding her features.

"Just waiting for my Uber." American accent. Of course.

They always love the accent combo—Korean face, Spanish lifestyle, English to make promises he won’t keep.

"Cancel it."

"Bold assumption."

"Safe bet." He leans against the pillar beside her, close enough to smell her perfume. That floral thing again. "Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be?"

She studies him for a long moment. He knows what she sees—designer clothes, professional athlete build, trouble written in every line. Her thumb hovers over her phone screen.

"I don’t even know your name."

Lie. She knows exactly who he is.

But he plays along because that’s part of it. The dance. The pretense that this is spontaneous rather than inevitable.

"Taehyung."

"Sarah." She cancels the Uber. "So what now?"

"Now?" He grins, the one that usually seals deals. "Now we get better drinks than whatever shit they were serving upstairs."

By 7 AM, he’s learned three things: Sarah’s flexible, she’s got a tongue piercing, and she looks fantastic in his sheets.

He’s also confirmed what he already knew—he’s still the best at this. Even when the universe tries to keep him in line, he finds a way.

She’s tracing patterns on his chest, already talking about breakfast, when he deploys the usual.

"Early training. Coach will kill me if I’m late."

"On a Sunday?"

"Every day during season." He kisses her forehead. Gentle. Final. "I’ll call you."

He won’t. They both know it.

But she gets dressed anyway, calls her own Uber, leaves with the kind of dignity that makes him almost respect her.

The sun’s coming up, painting his bedroom gold.

Two hours until he has to be human again. Two hours to sleep off whatever tonight was.

He’s already drifting when his phone buzzes.

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚜?

He doesn’t respond. Leo will figure it out. Or he won’t.

Either way, that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight—this morning—whatever the fuck this is—he’s done.

Won a black girl, played mentor, lost a brunette, found a blonde, maintained his record.

The universe tried to knock him off his game and failed.

Because he’s Kim Taehyung.

And he’s simply the best at everything.

goal: 300 notes

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♥'︶'♥ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

next | index

—taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta @impossiblecopoaffire @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne @haru-jiminn @calmyourtitts7 @sstass

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

314 notes · View notes

starchaser667 · 3 months ago

Text

WHY did Motherspore target Jimmy out of everyone else??

First of all, let me tell you, I had been thinking of making this post for a while, and it was originally going to be me sharing my thoughts and going crazy with theories hehe

But it turns out there's ALREADY an answer to this question, that was hinted at in Maruu and Doody's streams a couple of times, which I found out extremely late because I can never catch those live.

Still, I thought so long and hard on this, that I decided I would share my thought process anyways! Show you how deep I went before ever knowing if I was delusional or not hwjsjwjs

So here goes nothing!

~~~

For starters, I wanna say I was initially under the impression that Jimmy's involvement in the Motherspore incident had been, for the most part, COLLATERAL DAMAGE. Like it was mainly a mix of negative factors, and maybe also Jimmy's infamous bad luck lol, that got him in that situation.

I imagined he'd been one of the many people to have fainted at the start of the whole mess, and having probably done so in his office (a more isolated place than a classroom or a break-room where most people were), he had been the easiest target; secluded enough that Motherspore had managed to capture him without any trouble or interference from anyone.

That sounded like a likely scenario! And considering it probably wasn't very important, I didn't dwell on it too much...

That was, until we got to Chapter 15, and most importantly, HOTGUY'S INTERROGATION.

Because Hotguy brings to attention that Jimmy's position in all this is actually quite suspicious. He remarks that Jimmy had been the only person to remain in the building, when everyone else had been evacuated, which then led him to be the most difficult one to find and rescue. He wonders if there's a possibility that he stayed behind ON PURPOSE.

And while it's important to note that all of this is stated with the ill-intention of triggering Grian and forcing him to talk, it is undeniably TRUE that Jimmy's situation had been unlike anybody else's.

In fact, once I started thinking about it, I realized there's something actually odd that happened, that didn't see anyone mention and was particular to Jimmy's case... and that is that Motherspore actually fought to GET HIM BACK.

Think about the way Motherspore acted when everyone was evacuating the building, or rather, how she DIDN'T ACT. Sure, people were fainting, which I don't know if it was an intentional move on her part or simply a side-effect of the spores in the air, but with some help they were all able to get out safely.

And she let it happen, and not because she lacked the power to stop it. She could've had people trapped in the fungus like Jimmy was, she could've covered the exits in it so people wouldn't be able to escape, she could've attacked Hotguy the second he stepped in to help, yet she didn't.

But when JIMMY was the one being taken away?? She willed the fungus to grab at him and drag him back towards her, proceeded to literally pounce on Hotguy. And judging by the shocked look on his face, we can assume and confirm that was the first time he was met with resistance and hostility on this foe's end.

So after pondering all this I suddenly went HOLD ON. What if Jimmy being captured wasn't just an unfortunate coincidence? Because it's starting to look as if he was intentionally singled out... OMG what if he was actually TARGETED???

And oh boy did that set me off.

I rapidly started coming up with quite a few ideas as to why that could've been the case. Could it have simply been because he's related to Grian?? Or because he's also a witch?? Maybe specifically because of his mind-reading ability?? And so on.

BUT, as I said before, there's already a kinda answer to this question, as to why Motherspore went after Jimmy, that was revealed in one of Maruu and Doody's streams, which might be the reason why lots of people like myself hadn't heard about it.

Doody responded that the one thing she could say about the matter is that it was important to remember that Motherspore is fundamentally STILL GRIAN, just taken to a more primal, slightly fucked up level. They mentioned that this version of Grian is guided primarily by instinct, and I quote, "is protecting the things that are dear to him and attacking what seems like a threat."

And OMG do you know what this MEANS??

It means that yes, Motherspore did target Jimmy, but not exactly for the reasons I first suspected. It wasn't because she had wanted to hurt him or use him in any way, but because she had wanted to PROTECT HIM!! That's why she hid him away from everyone else, and why she went to greater lengths to keep him there!!

And dude I just think that's so sweet 😭 that even in a corrupted state of mind, Grian was able to recognize his cousin and still strived to keep him safe no matter what <3

And I think this is very important information to have, because it makes their interaction in Chapter 14 even MORE heartbreaking than it already was.

Because we know Grian was DEVASTATED to see Jimmy hurt, and even more horrified at the notion that he had likely been the cause of it. And I just know that guilt is part of the reason why he denied his offering to stay, why he decides to push him away. He believes it would be safer for Jimmy to keep his distance, even if it breaks both their hearts.

And this is so incredibly sad because Grian DOESN'T KNOW. He doesn't know that Motherspore never wished Jimmy any harm, that in her own messed-up way, she tried to defend him from everything.

He has no idea that caring for Jimmy is such a core part of him, that any version of himself can't help doing the same...

Anyways they make me sick <3 can't wait to read and find out more!!!

~~~

TLDR: Found out Motherspore didn't capture Jimmy for malicious reasons, but because Grian was unconsciously trying to protect him, and now I'm emotional :'(

#ddvau #desertduo vigilante au #double hearted #grian #jimmy solidarity #motherspore #goodtimeswithscar #mcyt #life series #hermitcraft #the brothers ever #bird duo #birdbrains #star post #can you tell i'm insane

421 notes · View notes

elleaitch22 · 25 days ago

Text

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 16: Someone to be Chosen

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Our girls are back! Please leave comments, reviews, or live reactions! Mostly fluffy family dynamics! I hope y’all love it!! xx Elle

Warnings: Mentions of emotional abuse, PTSD, effects of gaslighting, self-deprecation, elements of dom/sub

Word Count: 6.7k words

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Paige woke up with a smile. She woke up with a smile on her face for the first time in forever, and it was all because of Azzi Fudd.

They had another date. This one planned by Azzi. One she made sure Soleil was included in. “I just want to make sure she’s okay with everything before we get any deeper.”

They had their second date on a Tuesday afternoon, too excited to wait for the weekend.

It started with Paige picking Soleil up from school instead of Azzi.

“Mommy!” She squealed. “What are you doing hewe?”

Paige laughed warmly, “Me and Azzi wanted to surprise you with a family day.” She said, scooping her baby into her arms.

Lei gasped. “Does that mean Azzi is in ouw family?” She beamed when the woman nodded to her. “Like my othew mommy? I get two mommies?!” Her body vibrated with excitement.

Paige knew that her answer would break Soleil’s heart. “Maybe we can talk about it at lunch or dinner.” She paused at her pout. “Don’t make that face, Lei. She’s still in our family.” She pressed a kiss to her nose. “Come on, Azzi’s waiting for us in the car.”

“Azzi! Hi, Azzi!” Soleil shouted, climbing into her car seat. She fastened the top while Paige clicked the bottom straps into place.

Azzi turns to the back seat with a wide grin. “Hi Sunny Girl! Did you have a good day today?” She asked.

“I haved a good day, but it’s gonna me the best day because Mommy said we have family day today!” Soleil bounced in her seat.

“That’s so good, Lei! Do you wanna know what we’re gonna do today?” Azzi started. Soleil’s ponytails bounced as she nodded, “First, we’re going to go to my house to eat lunch, then we’re going to go paint, and then we’re going to go to the aquarium!” She spoke excitedly.

Soleil’s big blue eyes were bright with joy and anticipation. “Auntie Nika took me to the quawum one time! We saw the fishies!”

“You think you’re going to like our family day, Soleil?” Paige asked from the front seat.

The little girl was filled with energy, but that didn’t matter. As soon as Paige pulled onto the highway, Soleil was knocked out.

“It’s good that she’s taking a nap. Even though it’ll only be 45 minutes, it’ll help her be less cranky.” Azzi said, looking at the girl warmly.

A large hand landed on Azzi’s thigh, and while the skin to skin was nowhere near erotic, it still made her warm.

She turned her head back to the woman driving. Her jawline was still as perfect and sharp as the day Azzi met her. She was dressed casually in a pair of black cargos and a 90s style graphic tee. Her hair was down, natural waves flowing gently, and Azzi decided she really liked her hair like this. It made her look younger, softer somehow.

“You’re staring at me, Princess.” The blonde said, with a smirk on her face.

Azzi felt her cheeks darken. “You’re one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen, Paige. Of course I’m staring.” She turned to look at the window instead. If she couldn’t admire her girlfriend’s beauty, she’d admire all the trees blurring as the rode.

Paige didn’t say anything, but at the next stoplight, Azzi could feel like heavy gaze of her eyes. She started at Azzi’s neck before looking at the skin of her bare shoulders. She’d only had on a cropped pink tank top and a pair of short overalls that were intentionally splatter painted. Azzi wanted her outfit to be symbolic of the fun they would have on their date. As Paige’s eyes reached the expanse of Azzi’s thick thighs and long legs, her thumb started to brush light circles into the tanned skin.

“You’re so sweet to me, Azzi.”

The praise hit her right in her chest. She didn’t think anyone had called her sweet since she was in elementary school. It was confusing, rewiring how she thought about herself, but if Paige kept saying things like that, her whole brain was going to end up rewired.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

As they rode the elevator to Azzi’s apartment, she hid a smirk.

Paige wanted to order food for lunch, “If I have the money, it doesn’t make sense to just buy the food, Az.”

“Eating home cooked meals is healthier. There’s less sodium, chemicals, and the food is properly seasoned.” Azzi paused and went in for the winning point. “I just don’t want Soleil to eat all those chemicals in processed food.”

She had already seen Paige hesitating, but the point about Soleil was the nail in the coffin. She almost giggled as how easy it was to make her girlfriend (!!) fold.

The blonde rubbed Soleil on her back, trying to wake her up as they walked down the hallway.

“WAIT!” Azzi exclaimed when they got to her door.

Paige stiffened, “What?” She said calmly, voice tight.

“You can’t come in yet! Give me ten seconds. Literally, just count to ten.” She scrambled inside and shut the door behind her, not even giving Paige a chance to follow her in.

Soleil’s head popped up, “Why is Azzi acting cwazy, Mommy?”

Before Paige could answer her question, the door swung open.

Azzi was holding two bouquets. The bigger one had pink and yellow roses, blue iris, and orchids, and the smaller was just sunflowers.

“Azzi got us flowews, Mommy!” Soleil wiggled until Paige put her down. “Thank you for the flowews Azzi!”

The brunette handed her the bouquet, “I got you sunflowers because you’re my Sunny Girl.” She grinned.

Soleil held her flowers proudly as she marched into the apartment.

“I’ve never been given flowers by a partner before.” Paige said, quietly.

Azzi’s smile softened, “Well, I think you should always get flowers. I’ll get them whenever I can.” She said softly.

“So, what’s my bouquet symbolize?” The older woman smirked, stepping close to her girlfriend.

“Appreciation.” A kiss on the cheek. “Affection.” A kiss on the other. “Trust.” A firm, but short peck on the lips. “Thank you for finding me, Paige.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The lobby of Color Me Mine was filled with the shrieks and giggles of a happy girl as Azzi and Paige swung her in the air.

“Welcome to Color Me Mine, what can I get started for you today?” The young girl at the register smiled.

Before either adult could respond, soleil had gotten on her tippy toes. “I wanna paint some cups fow my mommy and Azzi. And they gonna paint a cup fow me!” Her voice was filled with anticipation.

The girl’s smile faltered, looking at the women. “Um,” She started, eyes panicked.

“That’s fine, Lei. Just remember even though we paint them today, we can’t take them home until next week.” Paige reminded her.

The cashier breathed out a sign of relief. “Okay, so the studio fee will be six dollars for the child and ten dollars for two adults,” She mumbled as she hit a few buttons on the screen. “Once you go to the wall and pick your pieces, I can ring you up and get you guys started,” She smiled at the trio.

Soleil was already off, browsing the rows of mugs like an art critic. She silently pulled a plain unicorn into her hands, inspecting it before handing it to Paige. “For Mommy.” She said seriously, still looking at the other dishes. Her lips twitched at the sight of a mug with little indented hearts covering the outside. “For Azzi.”

Azzi and Paige both chose the mug they wanted Soleil to paint for them before deciding to customize another dish for each other. The brunette chose a big bowl that would be more aesthetically pleasing than the fruit bowl sitting on the counter at the penthouse. Paige decided on one of those big plates. Something that you could put on a coffee table or on display on a kitchen counter.

They carried the plain pieces back to the register. And when the girl said, “That’ll be 176 please,” Azzi had tapped her phone to the tablet before Paige could even pull her phone out.

The woman glared at her girlfriend, “Why would you do that, Azzi. We’re on a date.”

Azzi had never seen someone glare as prettily as Paige Bueckers did. Instead of a snarl or a grimace that made her fearful, Paige’s expression was kind of cute. Her brows pinched together a little, her eyes were laser focused, and her mouth was opened just a little.

“Yeah, but it’s my date. I planned it, so I pay for it.” She smiled; cheeks pink from her thoughts.

She turned away from the counter and gripped Soleil’s hand. “Come on, Lei Lei! Let’s pick a table.”

Five minutes later, Paige was no less upset. “Paige,” Azzi was met with a grunt and no eye contact. “Come on, P. Are you really mad at me?”

Blue eyes met brown before rolling. “We agreed to let me take care of you.” She huffed. “I thought that was the conclusion we arrived at last week.”

“You are taking care of me, Paige,” Azzi smiled softly. “It’s the only reason I could pay for this date.”

Soleil’s head popped up from the abstract painting she was creating, “What’s a date?”

Azzi shook her head. This was all Paige’s domain. “A date is when two people who want to get to know each other better spend time together.” She rose from her seat and nodded to the next table. The two women walked over so Soleil wouldn’t hear the rest of their conversation. “I don’t like you paying for things. If I’m taking care of everything, that includes everything.”

“So, what?” Azzi started, brows furrowed and nose scrunched. “If I want to do something nice for you, I have to ask permission first?” She glared.

“I gave you my black card, Azzi. You’re an authorized user.” Paige answered, bewildered. “I know I initially did it because you had to buy stuff for Soleil, but you’re my girl now.”

Azzi’s head went back like she’d just been slapped. “What does that have to do with anything?” She scoffed.

“I don’t want you to be in the same situation again.” Paige paused. “If you feel like you need to leave, if you want to leave, you should be able to. If you decide you aren’t happy here with us, with me, I need you to be able to leave and be okay financially.” She breathed deeply. “So, I need you to save your money. Keep your checks, just in case.”

Azzi’s whole body drooped like a wilted flower. “You think I’d just leave?”

“No, no, no, Azzi.” Paige said, leaning across the table to grab her hand. “I don’t think you’d ever leave, but I don’t know the future. I might end up doing something or you may just decide that this isn’t the life you want anymore. Which is valid. I just want to make sure you will be fine, even if you leave.”

The brunette nodded, understanding her girlfriend a little more. “But I need to pay for things I planned. It makes me feel…dirty. If I use your movie to buy something for you, it’ll feel make me feel like I’m just using you for money.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Azzi. So, if you pay for the dates you plan, will you let me pay for everything else?”

Azzi knew this was probably the best offer, so she just nodded her head.

“Thank you,” Paige breathed out, relaxing.

The rest of the painting date is filled with soft teasing, messy hands, and never ending giggles.

“Come on, Paige. Everyone knows that unicorns have rainbow hair, not just pink and purple.” Azzi smirked.

“Are you really just doing a plain, boring pattern, Azzi?” Paige questioned after Azzi’s second row of patterned hearts.

Azzi helped Soleil paint little smiley faces all over the mug the girl had created for her mom, while the younger woman begged the older to leave Soleil’s mug for her alone. She didn’t want anything extra added to the vase Soleil had spent so much time crafting.

The bowl Azzi made for Paige was going to be beautiful after it came out of the kiln. The patterns were clean, but the lilac shade added an element of ‘Paige’. Paige’s creation was yellows, golds, and neutrals. The piece would look good wherever Azzi decided to put it.

Most people would have hated a date where they spent two hours painting dishes with their significant other’s child, but to Azzi, there was no other place she’d rather be.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The aquarium went much better than their painting date. Paige watched with a smirk as Azzi paid for the tickets, then they were off.

The moving walkway was in a tunnel showing aquatic life swimming above them.

They let Soleil lead their excursion, and. She wanted to stop at each sign, and she asked one of the women to read each one.

“Azzi, that’s so cool that ottews hold hands so they don’t go away in the night!” Her nose was pressed against the glass. “I want to be with the ottews when I gwowed up!”

Then she paused and looked to the woman. “Can we hold hands when you sleep at Mommy’s house? She questioned.

“Of course, Sunny Girl.” She smiled brightly at the girl.

The next plaque to read for penguins was. Azzi looked at Paige as she read all of the facts about the birds. She was bathed in a blue hue from the water. Soleil was perched on her shoulder, too show to see inside the pod. She was such a good mother. As much as she worked, it was clear the two were obsessed with each other.

They drifted off to the coral reef exhibit where there was a touch pool. Soleil immediately darted over, excited to touch some of the animals she had been learning about.

“Can I touch the stawfish, Azzi?” She questioned nervously.

Azzi held the girls hand in hers, slowly guiding her to brush against the animal lightly. “We just have to be gentle, Sunny. They’re alive, just like us!”

Soleil’s tongue peeked out of her mouth as she focused on using her most gentle hands, not wanting to hurt the animal.

Like Azzi had done in the penguin room, Paige stood back and watched them. She smiled at how natural they looked, with Azzi kneeling next to Soleil, her hand guiding her daughter’s. Their comfort with each other wasn’t forced. It was natural.

They lingered a while, moving slow. Azzi didn’t rush Soleil, and Soleil didn’t seem to feel the need to bounce between tanks like she usually did. Paige wondered if this was how it would always feel. Like a shared rhythm.

In the jellyfish room, they all spoke in whispers, as if they’d entered a cathedral.

The tanks glowed like something from a dream; soft pinks, electric purples, tendrils swayed in time with the current. Soleil pressed her palm flat to the glass and let out a little gasp as Paige read the plaque.

“They don’t even have bones,” she breathed.

Azzi, beside her, murmured, “They don’t have hearts either.”

Soleil turned to her, eyebrows pinched. “Then how do they love?”

Azzi smiled. “Maybe they love with their light.”

That earned a small, reverent silence. Paige let it settle over her like a warm wave.

Then Soleil turned, eyes lighting up. “I wanna hold youw hands now. Both of you.”

Without hesitation, she reached up, sliding her small fingers into both of theirs. Paige looked down and saw Azzi’s thumb brush gently across Soleil’s knuckles. Their eyes met, just for a moment, and Paige couldn’t tell if the flicker in her chest was joy or yearning.

They passed into the oceanarium where the tank stretched stories high. A beluga swam slowly past, its pale body moving like a cloud underwater. Soleil pressed close to the glass, then turned to whisper, “That one’s my favorite.”

“Mine too,” Paige said. “She looks like she’s dancing.”

“Azzi,” Soleil said seriously, tugging at her hand. “You have to pick your favorite too.”

Azzi hummed, thoughtful. “I think I like the sea turtles. They’re slow, but they always get where they’re going.”

Soleil seemed satisfied by that. “You’re like a turtle.”

Azzi blinked. “Oh?”

“Because you’we safe. Like a shell.” Soleil didn’t even look up, just said it and turned back to the tank.

Azzi stared at her a moment longer, then swallowed and blinked fast. Paige reached out and laced their fingers together where Soleil couldn’t see. Just for a second. Just to say, I heard that too.

They wandered through the rest of the galleries slowly, drawn to glowing tanks and colorful fish. Soleil was getting quieter now, all her energy sinking beneath the surface. When they passed a small cart selling stuffed animals, she tugged at Paige’s shirt and pointed at a sea otter plush.

“That one,” she whispered. “So it doesn’t float away.”

Azzi handed over her card before Paige could say anything. “We’ll tie it to your wrist if we have to.”

As they made their way to the exit, Soleil holding her sea otter tight under one arm, Paige glanced sideways at Azzi. Her curls were a little frizzier now from the humidity, and there was a smear of something on her sweater, from Soleil’s snack probably.

She had never looked more beautiful.

“You okay?” Paige asked quietly as they stepped outside into the soft golden light of late afternoon.

Azzi nodded, smiling. “That was perfect. The otters, the jellyfish, the way Soleil called me her shell.”

Paige bumped their shoulders together. “You’re kind of my shell too.”

Azzi flushed, looked away, but her fingers brushed Paige’s again as they walked back toward the car.

And for just a moment, Paige let herself imagine a thousand days like this, soft, slow, full of light, and Azzi beside her for every one.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi chose a cozy restaurant for dinner. Little Wild had mismatched chairs and tables with fairy lights twinkling everywhere.

“Mommy, it’s like the staws!” Soleil turned to Azzi, eyes wide. “Aftew we leawn about the ocean, can we do staws?” She asked entranced.

She beamed when Azzi answered with a small smile and nod.

The dinner was filled with nervous energy that Soleil ignored or didn’t notice. Azzi was deep in her head, overthinking everything, so it wasn’t surprising when she stumbled over ordering her lemon thyme chicken dish.

Once the waiter brought their food out, Paige had pity on her girlfriend.

“Soleil, we wanted to talk to you about something.” She started.

The girl looked up from her bowl of macaroni and cheese, fork frozen in the air. “Am I in twouble?” She asked, eyes squinted.

“What? No,” Paige said, head jerking back. “Azzi and I have been going on dates. Spending time just the two of us because we care about each other a lot.”

Soleil’s brows raised, “Because you want to know Azzi bettew?” She questioned, referencing what Paige had told her earlier.

“Yes, Sunshine.” The blonde paused. “Is that something you would be okay with?”

The girl looked between the two of them, then beamed. “So you dating like on the tv? Like Kwistoff and Anna?”

“Sort of like with Kristoff and Anna, baby.” Azzi said, relaxing.

Soleil’s gasp, smile somehow wider, “So you get to be my other mommy!” She exclaimed.

Azzi’s entire body tightened with tension.

“Well, people date to get married, like how Anna and Kristoff couldn’t get married right when they first met.” Paige started.

At Soleil’s frown, Azzi went to hold her. “I would love that, some day. But for now, me and your mommy are still learning each other. And we’d have to talk about that together.” She paused, looking into the girl’s blue orbs. “But no matter what happens with me and your mom, no matter how we feel about each other, I’ll always be here. I’ll always love you and care about you like family.”

“But you do evewything Mommy does.” She pouted. “You bwing me fwom school. We eat lunch togethew evewy day. We do big naps on the sofa. You came in my fowt. You awe my Mama!” She cried, fat tears falling.

Azzi’s eyes widened. “I do that because I love you, Soleil. And I would love to be your Mama one day. I would love that more than anything.”

“I want you to be Mama, now!” She whined. She wiggled her way out of Azzi’s arms and into her mom’s. “Mommy!” She wailed.

Brown eyes blinked back tears. She didn’t think Soleil had ever scrambled to get away from her.

“I’m gonna take her to the restroom really quick.” Paige said, already moving.

When they got to the back of the restaurant, Paige planted her daughter on her feet and squatted in front of her. “Soleil Katheryn,” She said firmly.

“She doesn’t want to be Mama!” She sobbed.

Paige hugged her tightly. “You need to breathe, baby. Come on, Sunshine. Breathe with Mommy.”

The pair breathed deeply together, arms wound tightly around each other.

“Do you wanna tell me what made you so upset?” She asked her.

Soleil nodded into her mother’s chest before letting it all pour out. “I be a good giwl, Mommy! The goodest giwl, but she doesn’t want me!”

Paige leaned back slightly. “That’s not true, baby. Azzi loves you so much. She thinks you’re the best girl, not just a good one.” She started warmly. “Do you remember the book? Can you tell me what makes a family, Soleil?”

“Love.” She mumbled, face buried in the soft fabric.

Paige chuckled, “Yeah, Lei. Love is what makes a family. Does Azzi still love you?” She questioned.

“She said she would always love me.” She whispered.

“Right, so that means she’s already your family. Does it bother you that you don’t have two mommies?” Paige asked hesitantly.

“Well, my fwiend Jade at school have two mommies. And when we wead ouw books, you do Mommy things, but Azzi does too.” Soleil explained.

Paige nodded. So, it wasn’t anything they had done or hadn’t done. She was just jealous. The blonde breathed out a sigh of relief. That would make Azzi feel much better.

“Do you think there’s anything you should say to Azzi?” Paige questioned.

Instead of answering, Soleil gently pushed away from her mother and walked back to their table.

“I was not being kind, Azzi. I’m sowwy! I just want you to be my Mama, and I was being mean. I was just mad, but I love you.” She said sadly.

Azzi scooped the girls into her arms, lowly saying something in her ear. Whatever it was made Soleil beam with joy.

After the two reconciled, the girl was glued to the woman. She offered spoonfuls of her macaroni and cheese and bites of her chicken tenders. When dessert came out, the three of them shared an ice cream with Soleil still cuddled snuggly in the brunette’s lap.

Azzi even climbed into the back seat with Soleil, the little girl gripping the tanned hand tightly. The drive back to Aurelia was filled with a comfortable silence.

When Paige moved to help Azzi out of the back and to grab Soleil, she was greeted with her daughter asleep in her girlfriend’s arms.

“That went better than I expected,” Azzi whispered as they rode the elevator up to the 57th floor.

Paige’s eyes widened in surprise. “That went well to you? She had a meltdown.”

“Yeah. But she knows things are changing in ways that she wants, but it’s not all the way what she wants.” Azzi explained.

Paige pulled Soleil from her arms once they reached Azzi’s floor. Soleil nuzzled her head into her mom’s neck before stilling.

“I didn’t cry because she hurt my feelings.” Azzi started. “I cried because I didn’t know she felt so strongly – loved me that much. It caught me off guard, but it was a pleasant surprise.”

Paige nodded, just letting her continue as the slowly trekked down the hallway.

“I know it’s too fast. I know I’ve only know you all for a month, but it feels like it’s been a year.” She gulped. “It feels like…it feels like she could be mine. I love her enough to call her mine. I’m just –”

“Scared?” Paige interjected. “I understand. We are moving fast. But I told you I’ve never felt anything like this for anyone before. Especially not this fast.”

The women stopped walking, arriving to Azzi’s apartment. “Do you think I handled it right?” She muttered, afraid of the answer.

“Yeah. It feels right, but you’re trying to protect her heart by pacing it. She knows you love her, and that’s the only thing that matters.”

The blonde leaned down to kiss her forehead. Then her cheeks. Then her nose. Then her lips.

“Thank you for making today perfect.” She said, foreheads touching. “I’ll see you Saturday for the gala, yeah?” Paige finished.

Azzi was in a bit of a daze as she nodded. She could definitely get used to doing this for the rest of her life.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi fussed with her curls once more before going out to look in her full-length mirror.

Her hair was pinned up in a purposefully messy updo with a few pieces left down to frame her face nicely. Her makeup was soft and dewy with slight hints of pink on her cheeks and eyelids. Her dress was something beautiful, a silky dress Paige had sent up that afternoon. It had a high cowl neckline and an open back. There was a slit that went high on her thigh. It showcased her long, strong legs until ending on her gold heels. She wore dainty gold earrings and a gorgeous tennis bracelet.

It was the first gala she’d gotten ready for where she didn’t hear Grant’s voice in her head. She didn’t know if that had to do with the checklists she’d been doing with Paige, the affirmations on her bathroom mirror, or being Paige’s real girlfriend this time, but she wasn’t going to complain.

She smiled at the knock on her door. She was met with a bouquet of light pink peonies bigger than her head.

“Thank you, Paigey.” She smiled, taking the flowers to put them in water.

She looked back absentmindedly and stumbled. Paige looked amazing. She wore pink suede loafers that coordinated with her caramel-colored suit perfectly. There was a silk, ivory shirt that was perfectly tucked into her pants. The twisted gold chain shined in the overhead light, just like the gold huggies and diamond studs in her ears. But the best part was her hair. It was down for once. The gentle waves softened her look. She was perfect.

Azzi didn’t remember putting the flowers in water or getting in the elevator, but before she knew it, she smelled sandalwood and bergamot. Paige was buckling her in. Which was weird, she usually had Morgan drive to galas and events.

“You wanted to drive tonight?” She asked, confusion evident on her face.

Paige smirked, “I only use a driver when I need distance. This is real now; we don’t need any extra eyes.” She finished, placing her hand on her thigh.

Azzi didn’t know if she loved or hated the split on this dress. What she did know was that the warmth that she felt on her thigh was quickly spreading.

“Why you so quiet, Az?” Paige questioned, thumb softly stroking her leg.

“It’s our first event where I’m your actual girlfriend. I’m just a little nervous.” Azzi muttered.

A warm hand gripped her face, making Azzi face her. “There is no one else I would rather have here with me. Fuck anybody else who has shit to say about it.” Azzi’s eyes dropped and Paige’s grip tightened a bit. “You belong here. You belong with me. And if I hear you say something else negative about yourself, you’ll be receiving your first punishment. Understand?”

Azzi just nodded, breath heavy, thighs pressed together. When the grip tightened again, she opened her mouth. “Yes, Paige. I understand.”

“Good,” She said, pulling her in for a steamy kiss. “Let’s go.”

The hand that was previously on her leg now rested on Azzi’s lower back as Paige guided her into the Art Institute of Chicago. She had to remind herself to focus on keeping her jaw off the floor as she looked at the displays.

She led Azzi to their table, pulling the chair out for her. “I gotta go mingle, but I’ll be back in a minute, alright?” Paige asked, planting a quick peck on her lips.

Azzi straightened as she looked at the rest of the women at the table.

“Hi, I’m Charlotte LaSalle.” She smiled brightly. “My husband is the vice chairman at Kairos.”

Azzi returned the expression. “Azzi Fudd. I’m Paige’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, we know!” A new voice interjected. “I’m Francesca Reynolds. My fiancée is Gabriella Barrett; she sits on the board of directors. Gabi said she’s never seen Paige smile that much.”

Azzi blushed, “Thank you for saying that. We weren’t sure about going public, so I really appreciate that.”

“Susan van Ellington-Brooks. What do you, Azzi?” The woman was pretty, but she looked like she had a twenty-foot pole up her ass.

She unconsciously sat ramrod straight. “Oh, I’m Paige’s daughter’s private tutor right now, but I used to teach pre-k.”

“Ah, Paige is so generous, isn’t she? She always makes such unexpected choices. And it’s so important for children to have caretakers who feel passionate, even if those roles are temporary.” Everything the woman just said was supposed to be an insult disguised as a compliment.

Azzi didn’t know what came over her before she opened her mouth. “You’re right. Working for Paige is temporary. I’ll only be tutoring her until we decide to put her in school for the full day. But I should be having a new baby by then, so there would be no point in working.” She smiled.

Charlotte and Francesca stood quickly. “We’re going to the lady’s room. We’ll be right back!” They scurried away quickly.

Susan’s petty smile turned sharper. “I think it’s so lovely when people like Paige give back to those who aren’t normally apart of this world. Those who normally wouldn’t fit in our world.”

Azzi’s brows furrowed, but before she could respond, the older woman continued.

“Paige just has such diverse taste. It’s refreshing to see her bring someone so different into our world – helping us see more than one perspective.” She finished.

Azzi disguised the way her breath caught in her throat with a smile. “Yes, well Paige has been in this world for years, and couldn’t find anyone worthy of her time or attention. So, I’ll take that as a compliment.” She stood, Paige-like smirk on her lips. “It was nice to meet you, Suzanne.”

She walked away from the table, willing her ankles not to shake. She made her way to the restroom, rushing into the handicapped stall. She leaned over the sink and let her tears fall.

A few seconds later, a knock sounded at the door.

Azzi cleared her throat. “Someone’s in here.”

“It’s me.” Paige paused. “Open the door, Princess.”

She used a paper towel to dry the water lining her eyes before opening the door.

“What happened, baby?” Paige asked, stroking her cheeks softly.

Azzi sighed, knowing Paige wasn’t going to let it go. “Somebody said that it didn’t belong – that I was just a charity case for you. And – I don’t know. I’m just putting on a show. Being at these events just shows me that I don’t belong in this world.”

“Don’t say that, Azzi.” Paige said firmly. “You belong wherever I am.”

She yanked away. “I don’t even think you mean that Paige! You bought me all these clothes. You gave me a driver. You made me move houses. You’re trying to force me to fit into your world, but at the end of the day, you know I don’t belong.” She started pacing. “And in a few months, it probably won’t even matter. You’re going to get mad; you’ll see that Grant was right about me. You’re going to see how annoying, and stupid, and worthless. Then you’re going to take Soleil, and I’ll be all alone again.”

“What did I tell you, Azzi?” Paige said, cutting off her steps and gripping her firmly, not hard, just a way to show her she wasn’t going anywhere. “What did I tell you about talking about yourself like that?”

Azzi blinked out of her self-deprecating spiral. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. She just said so many things.”

“It’s okay. I don’t care if I have to do it every day. I will remind you who you are.” She rubbed her hands up and down tanned arms. “You are enough exactly how you are. I gave you those things because you deserve the best, not because I wanted you to look a certain way.” Paige continued. “Now, we are going to go back out there, and you are going to show everyone how worthy you are. Do you understand?”

Even with Paige’s encouragement, Azzi was quiet for the rest of the night. She contributed in conversation when a question or statement was directed to her. She laughed when she heard something that was supposed to be funny.

But for the most part, she clung to Paige’s arm. So, when Azzi’s grip tightened, Paige’s alarm bells went off.

She followed Azzi’s gaze to a woman with too much filler and not enough Botox.

That bitch was the one who had said those things to Azzi.

She racked her brain for the woman’s company, relative, or spouse.

Geoffrey Brooks III. They were supposed to be signing a contract in two Wednesdays.

“I just need to talk to one more person, then we can go home. Is that okay, Azzi?” Paige questioned gently.

Azzi nodded, relief clear in her brown eyes. Until she saw where they were going. Paige’s rage grew as she felt Azzi stiffen the closer they got to the table.

“Geoffrey!” She exclaimed with faux excitement.

The older man looked up at the blonde from his seat. “Oh, honey. This is who I was telling you about! Paige is going to sign on as a backer for the company.” He smiled. “Paige, this is my wife, Susan. And this must be your lovely girlfriend! Geoffrey Brooks the Third.” He thrust his hand out for Azzi to shake.

But the squeeze on Azzi’s hip told her not to take it.

“You didn’t hear the change of plans, Geoff?” Paige asked. Faux concern dripping from her voice. “We were going to sign everything in a couple weeks, but your wife said some truly unkind things to my girlfriend. Really hurt her feelings.”

The man gaped, turning to his wife. “Susan!”

“No worries though. Azzi is so kind, so generous, so forgiving that she didn’t even want me to know that it was your wife who said anything.” Paige smiled at her girlfriend. “But I’m not.” She said, smile vanishing. “I’m pulling out. Tell your wife, thank you.”

Nobody would ever get to talk to Azzi like that and get away with it. Not even Azzi herself.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

When they got back to Aurelia, Azzi was ready to just take a shower and knock out.

But she noticed the elevator going faster than normal. “Why are we going to your place?” She questioned.

“I told you, Azzi,” Paige started, looking at her in the mirrored doors. “If you spoke poorly about yourself, you would be punished. It’s punishment time.”

The elevator doors opened, and Paige guided them both to her bedroom. She walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

“Go clean up. I left some clothes for you in there.” Paige said, leaving her alone in the room.

Azzi washed up quickly, not wanting to make Paige angrier. She didn’t think Paige would ever punish her. She was always so good to her. Maybe it would be a one-time thing. If she didn’t put her hands on her, Azzi could justify staying anyway.

Her mind was racing as she thought about all of the things Paige could do to harm her.

“Let’s go.” Paige called from the bedroom.

She was standing in the bedroom in front of her mirror. She’d showered too. Her damp hair was left out. And droplets of water ran down her neck to the plain black sports bra she wore. Her toned torso was left on display. There was something quietly hot about the band of her boxers left peeking out of her sweatpants.

Paige looked like she belonged in one of those lifestyle magazines.

Azzi felt inferior in the thin, oversized t-shirt and loose boxers Paige had left for her.

“Come here.” The blonde stated. It wasn’t a request.

They stood in front of the mirror. Paige’s arms wrapped loosely around Azzi’s waist.

Paige’s voice was gentle, steady. “Look at yourself.”

Azzi tried to look away. Paige’s hand came up to cradle her jaw, holding her still — not with force, but with care.

“Eyes forward, Princess,” she said softly.

Azzi’s breath caught. Her eyes flicked up to meet Paige’s in the mirror.

Paige leaned down, her mouth brushing the shell of Azzi’s ear. “Repeat after me. Be good for me.”

Azzi nodded once.

Paige’s hand slid up from Azzi’s waist to rest lightly at her throat. Not constricting, just anchoring.

“I am not what they say I am.”

“I am not what they say I am.” Azzi repeated quietly. Paige kissed her temple.

“I am not small. I am not disposable.” The blonde said, firmly.

“I am not small. I am not disposable.” The feeling of lips on her shoulder burned through the fabric.

Paige paused, locking eyes in the mirror. “I deserve love without conditions.”

“I deserve love without conditions.” Azzi repeated shakily. A kiss to the corner of her jaw.

“I am allowed to take up space.”

“I am allowed to take up space.” Her voice was a little firmer than before. A kiss to her collarbone.

“I am not a burden. I am a gift.”

Silence.

“Say it, Azzi.”

“I am not a burden. I am a gift.” She whispered. A kiss to her spine, right between her shoulder blades.

“Again.”

“I am not a burden. I am a gift.” She said louder, like she was starting to believe it. A kiss pressed to her lower back.

“I am someone to be chosen. Over and over again.” She murmured, rising back up.

Azzi’s eyes filled with tears. “I am someone to be chosen. Over and over again.” A kiss to her neck, slow and reverent.

“I am not broken.”

“I am not—” Her voice cracked. “I’m not broken.” A kiss to her bare shoulder, gentle and lingering.

“You’re going so good, Azzi.” Breathed by her ear. “I am safe now.”

“I’m safe now.” She said, barely audible. A kiss to the crown of her head.

Paige guided her to the bed and climbed in after her. The brunette moved closer to her instinctively. Paige got comfortable behind her, one arm tucked under Azzi’s head, the other draped protectively over her waist.

“Say one more,” she whispered, breath warm against Azzi’s cheek.

Azzi blinked up at her. “What?”

Paige kissed the tip of her nose. “Say: I am yours.”

Azzi hesitated, then smiled, faint but real. “I’m yours.”

Paige kissed her slow, like a promise. “And I’m yours.”

Azzi exhaled against her skin and let herself sink fully into Paige’s arms. Wrapped up in love, and light, and finally, finally, safe.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #terms of endearment

242 notes · View notes

guster-animations · 1 month ago

Text

The Japanese Version of Deltarune Chapters 3 & 4

last year i made a post covering aspects of deltarune chapter 2’s japanese localization that i hadn’t seen others talk about. people seemed to like it! and i liked making it as well, so now that chapters 3 and 4 are out, i’ve looked at the japanese text for them to see if i could find anything interesting.

and… yep i did.

since i’m one of the first english fans to look at the new japanese text in this manner, there’s a lot that i skimmed over or just straight up didn’t read, as a decent amount of dialogue is jumbled or shoved under “scr_text”. i mainly focused on the lore-important segments, since there aren’t as many character voices or jokes with interesting translations as there were in chapter 2… with two exceptions.

tenna

tenna is generally pretty well localized. i didn’t translate a lot of his dialogue, but 8-4 has done a pretty outstanding job of making tenna sound like a japanese TV host. for example, the narration to his intro video is translated from this:

It's now time for our feature presentation FEACHER Coming straight from your house Coming straight from YOUR house! He's the One He's GROOVY and NEVER glooby! You can't get this from an EGG! The sensation of your screen The show that makes you scream Say it with him, folks!

to this:

大変オマタセいたしました！ (Thank you for waiting so long!) はぢまるヨ！ (Lettuce begin!) アナタの　おうちから　お届け！ (Delivered from your house!) アナタの！　おうちから！　お届け！(Delivered! From! Your! House!) ピカ“１”の (The number “one”) シケシケしてない　トレンディマン！ (trendy man who never goes out of style!) タマゴには　マネできない！ (He could never be imitated by an egg!) アンビリーバボーな (With an unbelievable,) キセキの　サケビを！ (miraculous scream!) さあ～　みなさん　ごいっしょに！ (Now… everyone, all together!)

they didn’t need to intentionally misspell the line that replaced “FEACHER” but they did and i love that.

a lot of lines like these were translated to be more in the style of japanese television, and that’s awesome. i really admire the effort, and the shift is palpable even to me, who isn’t fluent in japanese at all.

jackenstein

others have already been curious about how “YOUR TAKING TOO LONG” and its variations are translated— in fact, this youtube video that i found beat me to the punch with covering it. (edit: this one provides a comparison between languages, which is very nice)

jack uses a mixture of hiragana and katakana (no kanji), refers to himself in the third person, misspells things (mostly using ワ for the particle “wa” instead of は), and occasionally uses emoticons. all of these give a strange but fairly childish impression.

and here’s how his iconic phrases were translated:

YOUR TAKING TOO LONG -> ナガイ　シすぎ (nagai shisugi / you’re taking too long)

YOUR TOO BRIGHT -> マブシイ　すぎ (mabushii sugi / you’re too bright)

YOUR LONG -> ナガ　イ (nagai / long)

YOUR TAKING TOO LONG IS TAKING TOO LONG -> ナガイ　シすぎ　ニ　ナガイ　シすぎ (nagai shisugi ni nagai shisugi / you’re taking too long with “you’re taking too long”)

YOUR TAKING TOO TOO -> カワイ　すぎ (kawai sugi / you’re too cute)

YOUR TOO TOO -> すきすき (sukisuki / you look cute, I like you)

raise up your bat

i looked at raise up your bat’s lyrics to see if there was any extra lore behind them. there wasn’t, but… ralsei’s replacement lyrics are pretty funny in this version. here are the full lyrics

鮮血流れる悪魔の心 (Senketsu nagareru akuma no kokoro / The devil’s heart flows with fresh blood) -> 先月出会ったあのコと今日も (Sengetsu deatta ano ko to kyou mo / Today, that kid I met last month) バットを振りかざせ (Batto o furikazase / Raise up your bat) -> チャットをするからね (chatto o suru kara ne / will have a chat with me) 希望は　ついえた (Kibou wa tsuieta / Hope has died out) -> 昨日は　ついつい (Kinou wa tsuitsui / Yesterday we ended up) 明日は見えない (ashita wa mienai / and tomorrow’s not in sight) -> 朝まで電話 (asa made denwa / talking on the phone until morning) バットを振りかざせ (Batto o furikazase / Raise up your bat) -> やっぱり楽しいね (Yappari tanoshii ne / It sure is fun) 夜をブチのめせ (Yoru o buchi-nomese / Do it all through the night) -> 今日もウキウキね (Kyou mo ukiuki ne / I’m excited today too) 闇の中へこぎ出そう (Yami no naka e kogidasou / Let’s row into the darkness) 心の箱船で (Kokoro no hakobune de / With the ark of the heart) 闇の中でも　そばにいる (Yami no naka de mo soba ni iru / I’m by your side even in the dark) その心に導かれ (Sono kokoro ni michibikare / Guided by that heart) 鮮血流れる悪魔の心 ( Senketsu nagareru akuma no kokoro / The devil’s heart flows with fresh blood) -> 先月なかよくなった友だち (Sengetsu nakayoku natta tomodachi / The friends I made last month) バットを振りかざせ (Batto o furikazase / Raise up your bat) -> パットと　ブリトニー (Patto to Buritonī / Pat and Britney) 希望は　ついえた明日は見えない (Kibou wa tsuieta ashita wa mienai / Hope has died out and tomorrow’s not in sight) -> 気取った　ポーズでダンスがしたい (Kitotta pōzu de dansu ga shitai / They want to do a silly dance) バットを振りかざせ (Batto o furikazase / Raise up your bat) -> ハットをかぶってね (Hatto o kabutte ne / Put on a hat) 夜をブチのめせ (Yoru o buchi-nomese / Do it all through the night) -> スーツを着こなして (Sūtsu o kikonashite / Wear a suit fashionably)

who are pat and britney? are they the secret key to all the mysteries of the story? who knows!

UNUSED

i didn’t find many changes in the text of the chapter 3 and 4 “unused” text (otherwise known as “the voice in the code”), but i noticed that their dialogue sounds a little less feminine/childish compared to in chapter 1. maybe. it does seem like a lot of time has passed. idk

edit: actually, after looking back at all the unused text, it seems like they’ve been always more gender-neutral than i previously assumed.

prophecy

a few changes to the prophecy lines stood out to me.

THE THIRD HERO. A PRINCE, ALONE IN DEEPEST DARK. (eng) The third hero / A lonely prince living in the depths of darkness (jp)

reference to “depths”. nothing of note besides that

THE FLOWER MAN, TRAPPED IN ASYLUM. (eng) The flower man is captive in a facility (jp)

this is the word used to replace “asylum” here. take it as you will:

and the one i found by far the most interesting…

LOVE WILL FIND THE GIRL. (eng) The girl will learn the true meaning of love. (jp)

huh????? what the fuck does that mean??

also, the word for “love” used in japanese is 愛, which refers to any kind of love. so no double meaning here, but that doesn’t rule out the possibility of an intended double meaning in english, as the japanese translation of undertale has often had to erase intended double meanings that were not translatable, like “determination”.

addendum: As you know,

i’m editing the post to add this in because i forgot that it’s important.

you know the carol line where she says YOU in bright red text and no one knows whether she’s talking to kris or the player? well, luckily, japanese usually omits the word “you” in place of a person’s actual name, so hopefully looking at the japanese version of the line should—

she just uses the word for “you”.

this just makes it more evident that it is meant to be unclear who she’s speaking to.

CONCLUSION

wow that’s it. that’s a lot less than i expected there to be, but again, the game is translated pretty faithfully and there aren’t as many jokes that had to be localized in these two chapters. if you notice anything or want me to translate specific text, don’t be afraid to ask! i’ll be happy to answer any questions and help people out.

#deltarune #susie deltarune #tenna #dess holiday #deltarune chapter 3 #deltarune chapter 4 #asgore dreemurr #jackenstein #op

269 notes · View notes

crazziforazzi · 14 days ago

Text

Fighting for the love (of the game) -Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Nobody gets me like you

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Trope: Second chance

A/N: Okay, I promise it's mostly going to be uphill from now on. At least that is the plan. :)

Word Count: 6.1k words

Masterlist

Paige POV:

Paige hadn’t stopped smirking since she stepped away from Azzi at the facility.

She couldn’t help it, her face just kept slipping back into that same crooked little grin every time her brain reminded her: Azzi’s riding with you tonight.

Azzi had sent her address. Texted it to her. The first message since the one she’d replied to after day one of training camp. It wasn’t much, just a simple address and a “Let me know when you’re here”, but to Paige, it meant everything.

She could’ve cried from happiness. But that wouldn’t exactly be a very nonchalant final boss move. So instead, she called her stylist, Brittany, in full panic mode.

Brittany answered like usual, unbothered, sipping something green from a Mason jar, "What’s up Paigey? You don’t need me until next week," she said, squinting at the screen. "Did you finally agree to the panel fit—"

"I need an outfit now."

There was a pause. A long one. Brittany tilted her head, narrowed her eyes. "Okay… dramatic much. What’s the emergency? What are we doing?"

"I need to look good. Not red carpet good, not photo op good. Good-good."

Brittany blinked, then slowly set her drink down. "...Is this a date?"

"No," Paige said way too fast. Then added, "Kind of. Not really. It’s dinner. With the team. But Azzi’s gonna be there. And I’m picking her up. She agreed to drive with me."

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Brittany leaned closer to the screen and gave her the most painfully smug look Paige had ever seen.

"You should’ve led with that, dumbass."

Ten minutes later, Paige had already rejected three outfit ideas, one too try-hard, one too tight, one that made her look like a teenage boy from 2010.

"No," she groaned, tossing a hoodie aside. "I don’t want her to think I’m trying too hard."

Brittany rolled her eyes dramatically. "You are trying too hard. That’s the whole point. You fumbled. She owes you nothing. And now she’s giving you fifteen uninterrupted minutes of car time to remind her why she liked your dumb face in the first place. So yes, we’re trying."

Paige flopped onto her bed. "Can’t I just be… effortless?"

"You can’t even spell effortless right now."

Paige gave her the finger. Brittany just grinned wider.

Eventually, they landed on the perfect look: a black crop top under a loose white button-down, baggy ripped jeans, crisp white sneakers, and high socks. Casual enough to play it cool, but undeniably hot.

She added a few accessories but kept it simple, and slicked her hair back into a messy bun.

"You know what you look like?" Brittany said, holding her phone up for one final once-over. "You look like someone who is ready to woo her girl all over again. Now spray the perfume. The one she likes."

Paige hesitated. "Isn’t that too much?"

"Spray. The. Perfume. Bueckers."

The scent hit instantly, tugging something in her chest loose. Fresh citrus, warm spice, and that deep, rugged wood that always seemed to sink into her skin and linger long after the night ended. This wasn’t some generic cologne Paige tossed on casually, she used it intentionally every single time. It was the one Azzi went absolutely feral over.

Azzi never responded to anything the way she responded to this scent and that reaction was always immediate, almost instinctual. Paige only wore it when she wanted to see Azzi lose that calm, composed look in less than a minute.

One whiff and her girl was tugging Paige closer by the belt loops, whispering threats and promises against her neck. One night, Paige hadn’t even made it past the hallway in their building before Azzi had her pinned to the wall. "I swear you wear this one on purpose, you want me to go crazy for you," her voice had been wrecked, teasing but already half gone with need, and Paige had just nodded because of course she had. She always knew exactly what she was doing when she put it on.

Paige had other scents, nicer ones maybe, ones she wore to events and media days. But she saved this one for when she wanted Azzi to lose that calm control and feel it all. She pulled out this one whenever she needed to remind Azzi of exactly how far gone they both could get for each other, and how there had never really been anyone else who could pull that reaction from them.

And tonight, that’s exactly what she needed. She needed Azzi to breathe it in and remember, not just how it used to be, but how it still could be.

She capped the bottle slowly, fingers shaking just a little. If Azzi opened that door, Paige was going to walk through it and make sure she never forgot how it felt to want her. How it felt to have her.

She left her apartment in Playa del Rey early, building in enough of a buffer to account for the usual LA chaos. But of course, today of all days, the roads were clear.

The universe was clearly mocking her.

She pulled up in front of Azzi’s building with fifteen minutes to spare. There was no way she was going to knock early. She wasn’t that desperate. So she stayed in the car, shifted in her seat, and tried to pretend she wasn’t overthinking everything. Her hand hovered for a moment, then dropped into her lap with a sigh.

After two minutes of trying to stare out the window like a chill, detached human being, she gave up and unlocked her phone.

The initial wave of reactions had been exactly what she’d expected: chaotic. The usual sports accounts had their think pieces ready within hours. Fans she’d never met acted like they knew her personally, like they knew her motives. Some welcomed her to LA with open arms. Others... not so much. Words like “washed” and “overrated” kept popping up. One too many people accused her of chasing clout, of using LA to stay relevant. She’d seen enough to know the algorithm would eat her alive if she stuck around.

So she deleted the app. That had worked, until tonight.

Because now, sitting outside Azzi’s apartment with time to kill and way too many nerves crawling under her skin, the curiosity won. She unlocked her phone, redownloaded Instagram, and went straight to the Sparks profile. There it was.

Posted 32 minutes ago by @la_sparks:

🎥 PAZZI IS BACK 🔥

From USA U-16 ➡️ to UConn NCAA Champions ➡️ and now ready to build a legacy with us.

This is only the beginning.

#WNBA #TrainingCamp #SparksSeason

She tapped the reel.

The music kicked in first. It was a bit too cinematic, a slow build with sharp beats. It was a clean, rapid-cut montage from training camp earlier that day. Paige feeding Azzi the ball, Azzi catching it in rhythm, rising, releasing and bucket.

A few seconds later, Paige appeared again, driving hard to the rim, kicking it back out, and Azzi drilling another three. There was a shot of them jogging back on defense together, their movements perfectly in sync. Another clip showed them breaking into easy laughter after some drill, Paige bumping her shoulder into Azzi’s, Azzi tossing her a smirk in return.

There was a high five that was followed with a slow motion of eye contact between them. A look that, if you knew what to look for, said more than any caption ever could.

She watched it once. Then again. Then two more times after that. By the fourth watch, she wasn’t really focused on the basketball anymore.

It was the way Azzi looked at her after a made shot. Her smile always stretched just a little wider when Paige was the one passing her the ball.They moved around each other on the court intuitively like it was muscle memory.

They looked like them again.

Relief washed over Paige seeing that. The basketball was always supposed to be the easy part, but even she had been scared that too much had changed, that the distance and the silence and the heartbreak had stretched too far across the court.

But watching that look in Azzi’s eye, Paige knew. The game was still theirs.

Whatever else was broken between them, this part wasn’t and she hoped it could be enough to rebuild the rest.

And then, even though she knew it was a terrible idea, Paige scrolled down. She opened the comments.

@wbbqueens: okay sorry but this energy is not platonic

@underratedrookies: no because look at the LOOKS they give each other like please we’ve been watching this since 2017 😭

@azzipaigesluts: didn’t she not go to ANY UConn games last season? and Azzi didn’t even visit Dallas once… I thought they were done??

@uconns4life: @azzipaigesluts no cause now I’m not sure they did… they weren’t at each other’s games but THIS? nah they’re still in it

@sportswithkay: everyone SHUT UP pazzi are canon again

Paige let the phone fall into her lap and leaned her head back against the seat, eyes closing.

People had always seen it, the way she and Azzi moved together on the court, the way they looked at each other when they thought no one else was paying attention. That unspoken tether between them had always been visible, even when they tried to play it cool. And now, after no appearances at each other’s games, no comments or likes on posts, there they were side by side in a video reel, smiling and syncing up like nothing had ever broken.

Of course the fans would notice and they would start connecting the dots. It was never going to be just their story, it had always belonged, at least in part, to everyone watching. It was another layer they’d have to reckon with, how to be them again in a world that already had a version of their story. A version that didn’t quite match where they were now.

Her phone buzzed softly in her hand, dragging her out of her spiral.

AZZI 06.12 p.m. Ready when you are.

After sending off the I’m here text, Paige stepped out of the car and leaned casually against the hood or at least, that was the goal. She’d spent five minutes before leaving her apartment rehearsing this exact posture in the mirror, trying to nail that effortlessly cool, unbothered look. It felt decent in the bathroom but not so much here in action.

She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. Tapped her fingers against her jeans before catching herself and forcing them still. Took a deep breath that didn’t calm her down at all.

Two full minutes passed before she heard the door open with a soft click.

She immediately looked up and froze.

Azzi stepped onto the curb like something out of a slowed-down highlight reel. She wore baggy, washed-out jeans that sat perfectly on her hips, paired with a cropped black top that Paige immediately, viscerally recognized. It hugged her curves in all the ways Paige remembered without even trying. Her braids weren’t tied back tonight, just loose and soft around her shoulders, catching the last traces of sunlight like it had been planned that way.

Paige could feel her brain short-circuit. Her jaw might’ve dropped a little. Maybe a lot.

It wasn’t fair to look that beautiful.

If they were still together, Paige would’ve already closed the distance. She would’ve reached for her hand, leaned in, whispered something about being late just to see that eye roll she loved so much. And Azzi would have played along, pretending to be annoyed, but smiling against Paige’s lips the second they were out of view.

But that wasn’t where they were anymore.

They weren’t dating. They weren’t even close to being back together. And teammates, no matter how much history they had between them, definitely didn’t get to press each other against apartment walls just because one of them happened to show up looking like that on a regular Thursday night.

Azzi cleared her throat softly.

The subtle little cue she always used when Paige started zoning out in film sessions or team meetings. It was unmistakable, a gentle nudge back to reality, and it worked instantly.

Paige blinked, suddenly aware that Azzi had crossed the distance between them without her even noticing.

"Oh, shit. Sorry," Paige muttered, hand flying up to the back of her neck. Her skin felt hot already, the flush creeping in fast. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Azzi said, her voice quiet but kind. She stood there like she hadn’t just completely short-circuited Paige’s entire nervous system.

The silence that followed was… loaded. Paige’s instinct was to close the space between them, to reach out, to wrap Azzi in her arms and pretend for just a second that nothing had changed. That they were still them.

But Azzi didn’t move and as much as it hurt, Paige knew she couldn’t be the one to reach first. Not this time.

So instead, Paige circled around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Here you go,” she said, keeping it light. No princess or a playful wink this time. She figured she'd earn that back later, maybe if Azzi smiled at her first.

Azzi gave a small nod, eyes unreadable, and slid into the seat without a word.

Paige got in on the driver’s side and pulled up Julie’s address on her phone. Seven minutes away. Seven whole minutes of sitting next to Azzi in a car that suddenly felt way smaller than usual.

She started the engine, adjusted the mirror, then immediately regretted breathing because Azzi’s perfume hit her like a memory she wasn’t ready for. Vanilla and something citrusy, whatever new scent Azzi had switched to recently. Of course it smelled amazing and clearly messed with her brain.

The silence settled in fast. It wasn’t awful, just… noticeable. The kind where both people are thinking too much.

She wanted to say something, anything, to make the air feel normal again. A dumb joke, maybe. A story from practice. Something light and easy. But every sentence that floated to the top of her brain felt off. She didn’t want to fake ease, not with Azzi. And she definitely didn’t want to risk breaking the fragile calm they’d managed to settle into by steering too deep too fast.

Out of the corner of her eye, Paige caught Azzi typing on her phone. Quick, focused. The kind of fast-tapping rhythm that meant it wasn’t just idle scrolling. Paige’s eyes flicked toward it instinctively before she yanked them back to the road. She couldn’t see the screen. She told herself she didn’t want to. But that wasn’t entirely true. Because of course she wanted to know who Azzi was texting. What had her locked in like that. Was it someone else? A group chat? Was it about her?

Stop. You're spiraling again. Chill.

She drummed her fingers against the wheel. Opened her mouth.

“So… did you—” Nope. Not that.

She exhaled through her nose, gave up, and reached for the screen. Paige decided to let the music step in where her words had failed. Soft R&B eased into the car, mellow and slow, the kind of playlist she put on when she didn’t want to think too hard. A little Drake, a little Giveon, the perfect background music for driving.

Then the next song started

SZA. Nobody Gets Me.

The moment the first chords hit, it was like a punch straight to Paige’s chest. Her hand froze mid-motion, suspended above the stereo. She could’ve skipped it. Should’ve. But her fingers just hovered there, unmoving, while the opening notes wrapped around her

Across the car, Azzi didn’t react right away, but Paige saw it. That subtle shift and the way her fingers stopped moving, phone paused mid-text, her whole posture tightening just slightly.

Like the song cracked something wide open inside both of them.

"It's too lateI don't wanna lose what's left of you…"

God, this fucking song.

Paige had gone out of her way to avoid it for months. Blocked it from every playlist, skipped it without thinking whenever it came on shuffle, even unhearted it on Spotify so it wouldn’t show up at all. Pretended it wasn’t their song. Pretended it didn’t still hollow her out every time.

Out of all the songs that had scored their years together, this was the one that never faded. Azzi would play it on quiet Sunday mornings, when they were still curled up in bed, Paige tucked under Azzi’s arm, her cheek resting against the soft rhythm of her chest as sunlight filtered lazily through their bedroom blinds.

Paige used to hum it in the background of everything, brushing her teeth, flipping pancakes, waiting by the door while Azzi tied her shoes for practice. Paige had even once sung, completely off-key, half-laughing, into the collar of Azzi’s hoodie while they slow danced in their cramped college bedroom, bare feet in old boxers.

And now it was playing in this small car, in this tense silence, like a ghost neither of them were ready for. It filled the space between them like it never left.

Paige’s chest tightened, her breath catching somewhere between memory and ache. She didn’t need this right now. Not when she was trying so hard to hold it together.

But suddenly, she was back in that dim dorm room, two years ago, on the night she forgot the SZA ticket drop. Gino had kept her at the gym late, drilling her on footwork and three-dribble pull-ups for what felt like forever. Her phone sat untouched in the locker while the entire arena sold out in minutes.

By the time she saw the notifications, every seat was gone.

She’d tried to brush it off, act like it wasn’t a big deal, but Azzi had known. Paige had sulked the entire night, curled up in an oversized hoodie on the floor, half-heartedly playing Call of Duty with KK online, barely speaking, jaw clenched around disappointment.

And Azzi, of course, had fixed it.

She had walked in with that familiar smirk, like she already had a plan. Without a word, she had taken the controller from Paige’s hand, plucked the headset off her head, and leaned into the mic.

“Hey KK? She’s logging off, because she’s about to fall in love with me all over again.”

Paige had spluttered, ready to throw out a halfhearted protest, but Azzi didn’t give her the chance. She just grinned wider and held out a plain white envelope, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Paige blinked, still recovering from the sudden whiplash of affection. “What is this?”

Azzi gave a small shrug, trying to play it cool, but her smile was already threatening to break into something smug. “Just something to fix your attitude.”

Inside: two front-section tickets to see SZA in Hartford.

Paige stared at them like she didn’t quite trust they were real. “How—how the hell did you pull this off?”

Azzi beamed, full dimple, proud of herself and completely unbothered. “Mack has a friend who owed her a favor. I pulled a few strings. I wasn’t about to let my girl miss her favorite artist. Especially not when she is playing in Connecticut.”

And Paige had launched herself into her arms, almost knocking them both over. She picked Azzi up like she weighed nothing, kissed her like she was something out of a dream, spun her in a circle until they were both laughing too hard to breathe. That night, she laid her down on their bed and spent hours thanking her in every way she knew how. Azzi had murmured against her shoulder, smiling into her skin, “You’re welcome, baby,” and Paige had thought at that moment, This is what your forever person is supposed to feel like.

The concert had been magic. Paige still remembered how the lights bathed the arena in violet and gold during Nobody Gets Me, how the crowd fell quiet in that sacred, aching way fans do when a song hits a little too close to home.

Azzi had stood beside her, arm snug around her waist, the side of her body pressed close. Paige had turned then, gaze locked on Azzi’s profile, and sang the second verse directly into her ear. It was soft, a little shaky, but full of everything she felt. Azzi hadn’t looked away. Her eyes had shimmered, not from the lights, but from tears she didn’t bother to blink back. Her thumb had rubbed slow, steady circles against Paige’s hip. Holding her there, taking everything in.

“Nobody gets me like you…”

Now that same song was playing in Paige’s rental car, and Azzi was sitting right beside her, silent and unreadable. The distance between them was only a few inches but emotionally, it still felt like a crack they hadn’t figured out how to cross yet.

But maybe… maybe this was the start.

Paige tried to keep her eyes on the road, to act like the lyrics weren’t crawling up her spine, but everything around her started to blur. Her chest tightened with each passing verse, ribs pulling taut like she couldn’t quite expand them enough to breathe properly.

“How am I supposed to let you go?Only like myself when I'm with you…”

It hit hard. Too hard.

She hadn't cried since draft night, not even when her trade went through. But this, this stupid, perfect, devastating song, cracked her.

The lyrics hadn’t changed, but they felt different now. What used to be comforting and something wrapped in the warmth of love, now felt raw and weighted down by everything they hadn’t said out loud.

Her jaw clenched. Her grip on the wheel went white-knuckle. She bit down hard, trying to keep the emotions locked somewhere deep, somewhere unreachable. But when the last chorus faded out and that final, echoing line dissolved into silence, the air inside the car collapsed with it.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.

It wasn’t supposed to come out. She hadn’t meant to say anything. But the word cracked the stillness like glass.

Azzi didn’t say anything, but Paige felt the shift beside her again, the barely-there motion of someone who remembered and understood what Paige was feeling. Like she remembered every second the same way as Paige did.

The car slowed to a stop in front of Julie’s building. Paige threw it into park with more force than necessary and let her head fall back against the seat. She tilted her face toward the ceiling like the sky might offer her the answers.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to breathe past the lump clawing at her throat. Hold it together. You’re fine. Just breathe.

But it was too late. The tears were already there. Soft and silent. Barely a handful, but enough to sting her eyes and send a hollow ache through her chest.

Then, without warning, she felt it.

A touch, soft and featherlight, the brush of skin against her cheek. Paige flinched, not out of fear, but recognition.

Azzi.

Her knuckles were gentle as they swept a tear away. Then another. It wasn’t rushed and did not feel pitying. It was gently and caring, the kind of touch that only comes from knowing someone at their most vulnerable.

Paige leaned into it instinctively, her body moving before her mind caught up. Eyes still closed, letting herself feel it. Letting herself remember.

This was how Azzi had always comforted her. Not with speeches or platitudes but with this. A hand on her face, a thumb at the edge of her cheekbone as if Paige’s sadness wasn’t something to fix, it was something to be held. For a moment, Paige let herself be held by Azzi again.

But the second stretched too long and then it broke. Azzi pulled her hand back.

The warmth vanished like it had never been there, and when Paige opened her eyes again, Azzi had turned back toward her window. Her phone was in her hand, thumb moving quickly over the screen. Back to the silence.

But in the reflection of the glass, Paige could still see her face. Her jaw was clenched, her brows drawn together, her lashes blinking faster than normal.

Paige’s breath caught in her throat. She’s not okay either.

This wasn’t just her grief to carry. It wasn’t only Paige sitting there, aching for everything they had been. Azzi was right beside her, lost in the same memories, caught in the same wreckage. She could feel it beneath the silence, Azzi was holding it in, just like she was. And somehow, that made it both harder to bear and strangely easier to breathe. A shared ache.

Paige drew in a breath and then another. Deep and shaky, as if she was bracing for something to hit or maybe just trying to keep her chest from splitting apart.

And before she could second-guess herself, she whispered it.

"Azzi."

Just her name and nothing more, but it landed in the space between them like something sacred. It was half prayer, half apology, and fully everything Paige hadn’t had the courage to say until now.

Azzi turned to her, slow and intentional, and met Paige’s eyes. And in that moment, everything that had been hidden was suddenly visible.

Her eyes were rimmed red. They were glossy and wet. Her face was still composed, but barely, like she was holding herself together with the last bit of thread she had. Paige’s breath caught in her throat.

She almost looked away. Almost shoved it all back down like she always had. But then, out of nowhere, she heard Geno’s voice in her head, clear and unyielding, like it used to be after a tough loss.

She still looks for you in every room. You still know how to fight.

And for once, Paige didn’t flinch from the truth, she didn’t hide. She sat up straighter. Her voice came out rough, raw around the edges, but real.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Azzi didn’t move. Paige pressed on, the words tumbling out, half-confession, half-desperate plea.

"I should have told you I was drowning," she continued, each word heavier than the last. "I should have asked for help. Instead I just… pulled away and shut you out. Like losing you was easier than admitting I was scared and losing myself."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Her pulse pounded in her ears, she could hear herself breathing and feel the sting behind her eyes.

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. But she didn’t look away either.

Her face was still unreadable, that same guarded calm she wore when she didn’t trust the world not to hurt her. But then Paige saw how Azzi’s jaw trembled, her eyes squeezed shut for a beat too long, like it was the only way to keep the tears from falling. Her lips parted with a soft, unsteady breath.

And then, finally, she spoke. Just two words. But they landed like a wave crashing through the silence.

“I know.”

It nearly broke Paige in half.

Because Azzi knew and maybe she always had. Maybe even back then, through all the missteps and silence, she'd seen Paige drowning and didn’t know how to reach her.

They didn’t reach for each other, but the space between them shifted. Something unspoken passed through it. Not forgiveness, not yet, but a shared willingness to try.

They sat like that for a while, side by side, the air still fragile, but no longer suffocating. They weren’t avoiding the silence now, they were breathing through it. Both of them blinking too fast, both of them still shaky.

But neither of them looked away.

And for the first time in nine months, it didn’t feel like they were pretending to be strangers.It felt like a beginning of something new. They were learning how to be brave again.

Azzi POV:

As soon as she stepped out of the building, Azzi’s eyes locked on Paige, leaning against the hood of her rental like she wasn’t obviously waiting. She looked casual, legs crossed, head dipped, pretending to scroll through her phone, but Azzi knew better. Knew every tell in that body.

God, she looked good. Stupidly good.

The white button-down open just enough to tease the crop top beneath, her arms folded in that lazy, confident way that drove Azzi crazy. She hated how her stomach flipped the moment Paige looked up and froze.

Paige definitely noticed her too, Azzi saw the shift in her jaw and the way her eyes darted across Azzi’s body like she was trying to devour her on the spot.

Good, you should suffer a little too.

They didn’t say much at first, just a soft exchange of "hey"s, eyes dodging contact after a few seconds each time. Paige opened the door for her without a teasing nickname or gesture like she used to. Azzi missed it.

They both slid into the car and as soon as the doors closed, Azzi smelled it.

That fucking cologne.

Azzi blinked hard, the scent wrapping around her like always. This was the one that always made her want to crawl into Paige’s lap and forget the rest of the world. Paige had only used it for rare nights, anniversaries, birthdays, that weekend in New Orleans when they didn’t leave the hotel room until Sunday night. Azzi knew that Paige only wore it when she was trying to make Azzi feral.

She barely had her seatbelt on before she was yanking out her phone, thumbs flying:

azzi: Tell me why she had the AUDACITY to wear THE parfume. azzi: You all know which one. dorka: 👀 caroline: 😭Oh she’s playing dirty kayla: Is it working tho azzi: …I’m gonna combust.

She locked her phone and dropped it into her lap, already too warm. Paige didn’t say anything, but Azzi caught the sideways glance, just once, careful and quick. She tapped her foot. Focused on the street signs. Reminded herself: this is just a ride to team dinner. Just teammates doing normal things.

And then the next song started.

Nobody Gets Me by SZA.

Her fingers twitched.

She didn’t look at Paige, didn’t have to. She could feel her reaction like static in the air. Paige had gone completely quiet, her soft humming had stopped and the tapping on the wheel halted. All that was left was her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and the tiniest shudder in her breath.

Azzi turned her face slightly toward the window.This song had so much of their history.

They had memories of it in every room they shared at UConn. Sunday mornings in bed, tangled under flannel sheets with no reason to leave. Paige humming the lyrics into Azzi’s collarbone after games. And that concert.

God.

Paige had sulked for days about missing the ticket sale. Azzi had pretended not to care until she could get her hands on two. When she handed over the envelope, Paige had looked at her like she hung the moon. And during the show Paige had turned to her and sang it, all completely off-key but her eyes were full of love and Azzi still wasn’t sure she’d ever feel so adored again.

But this time it didn’t feel nostalgic, it felt like heartbreak. Azzi blinked fast, staring out the window like it might anchor her. She didn’t trust herself not to say something she would regret later.

"Fuck."

That’s when Azzi looked. Paige’s shoulders had risen, her hands death-gripping the wheel. Here eyes were closed and her lips pressed tight like she was trying to keep it together.

Azzi acted without thinking.

Her hand reached out and, almost of its own accord, her knuckles brushed Paige’s cheek. She gently wiped away the tears that had slipped out. Exactly as she always had, especially during Paige’s darkest moments post-surgery, when the only thing that calmed her was being held without words.

And Paige leaned into it. Just the smallest bit, like her body remembered too.

By the time Azzi pulled her hand back, her own chest was tight. She turned back to the window, phone in her lap, fingers trembling against the screen.

She tried to ground herself by counting the trees outside. And still, her throat burned and her eyes stung. That old ache started to bloom again, curling up from her ribs and into her chest. She blinked hard at her reflection in the passenger side window. Get it together.

She thought Paige would stay silent and let the moment pass. That was always how it went these days, closeness flickering in and out like a glitch in the system. One of them always retreating before it got too real.

Azzi herself asked for it, so she could not blame Paige for not crossing that line, even if she wanted her to. But then she heard it.

"Azzi."

So soft she almost didn’t catch it, but her body definitely did.

She turned, slowly, like if she moved too fast, the moment might vanish. When her eyes met Paige’s, red-rimmed, glassy, wide with everything she wasn’t saying, her own chest stuttered.

Azzi knew that look.

She had seen it in bedrooms and locker rooms and hotel hallways at 2 a.m. She’d seen it after buzzer beaters and injuries and fights and birthdays and reunions. It was the look Paige wore when everything was raw and unguardedl.

It was the look she wore when she couldn’t pretend anymore. Azzi felt her stomach flip. Her grip on the phone tightened.

Azzi held her gaze.

"I’m sorry," Paige said. Her voice cracked like something brittle inside her had finally broken. "I’m so fucking sorry, Azzi."

Azzi didn’t move, didn’t even breath.

Paige was clearly speaking out of her heart, she wasn’t reading a script. She wasn’t trying to make it sound perfect or clean. She was just saying how she felt, messy and raw.

Azzi had to close her eyes.

She didn’t want to cry, not here and now. She had been doing so well holding it together all week. But that confession cracked something in her chest, it was the thing she’d waited to hear. The piece that had been missing this whole time. Not an excuse or a fix, just… the truth.

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t turn away. She stayed facing Paige. And when she opened her eyes again, Paige was still looking at her like she didn’t know what to do with herself. Like she’d just ripped her whole chest open and handed Azzi the pieces.

So Azzi gave her what little she could.

"I know," she whispered.

It came out steadier than she expected. It wasn’t angry or bitter, just honest. Because deep down she did know, even when she didn’t want to.

She had known Paige was struggling. Had tried to help, had offered to carry the weight with her, but Paige had always wanted to be the strong one. And in the end, she’d isolated herself so deeply that Azzi couldn’t reach her anymore, doesn’t matter how hard she tried.

Azzi had spent so long trying to resent her, trying to convince herself that Paige didn’t care anymore, but that had never felt true.

The quiet that followed should’ve been unbearable, but it wasn’t. It was heavy, yes, but not suffocating.

The apology was out now, and somehow, that made breathing easier. Azzi still felt wrecked by it, but less alone in it, Paige was right there with her.

Azzi kept her eyes open now, really looking at her. Paige wasn’t hiding anymore. She was shaking and vulnerable and so much like the girl she had fallen in love with years ago. There was no wall between them at that moment. Just two people trying to breathe through what they broke.

Azzi let her body relax slowly. Her thumb eased off the death grip she had on her phone. She let herself take in Paige without pretending, not the version from UConn, or the Paige from Dallas that gutted her, but the one sitting beside her right now.

The one present and trying.

Because Azzi knew that sometimes, when the wounds are still open, showing up is the bravest thing two people can do.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #azzi fudd fic #paige bueckers fic

252 notes · View notes

honey-milk-depresso · 7 months ago

Text

Heartslabyul: what makes you “the most beautiful being on earth” to him

HAHAH- I HAVE RETURNED (somewhat-) FROM THE DEAD >:DDDD

How long has it been?? Two years maybe?? Idfk, AND IDC IM BACK (for now-)

Ace Trappola

He thinks you’re the most beautiful being your laugh makes him laugh too.

Ace, as well all know, a bit of a clown, really. He likes doing stupid shit and making stupid jokes that really makes people crack up and laugh sometimes, intentionally or unintentionally.

But something about the way you laugh makes him laugh along. Like yeah, it was kinda stupid huh? But now he doesn’t have a reason to be annoyed or mad about it because you made it feel better. All because of the way you sound when you laugh to him (even when it’s a little gremlin laugh).

One time, he tripped over a pebble in the Heartslabyul rose garden, face first as he cursed slightly with a grouchy face. He was upset and annoyed at first, but then you laughed. Somehow… the fall from him tripping wasn’t so bad.

In fact, it made him think it was pretty funny (in a stupid way) as he slowly laugh along as he got up. He gently squished your cheeks in a teasing manner. “Alright, alright. You’re not telling anyone I tripped as stupid like that!” He huffed with smirk as you continued laughing gleefully.

He smiled softly, cheeks slightly warm as he looks at you. You’re everything he could ask for. <3

Deuce Spade

He thinks you’re the most beautiful being because of your patience and dedication to help him.

Deuce is… a bit dumb. Sometimes, not all the time. When he’s really trying his best to do math or stay awake during Trein’s classes and then wakes up to the end of it and realised he’s suddenly three chapters behind.

Coming to Ace or Grim for help is not the best, and Trey, Cater and Riddle make it feel like studying and asking for this kinda help is tiring and a bit demoralising sometimes despite his fierce determination.

But you… it’s a lot different. You’re so patient and dedicated to help him: using your free time to help him catch up when you could’ve just said no and enjoy your break, pulling all-nighters with him with snacks from Trey-senpai to keep awake and study with him, lending him your notes while helping him go through what he’s missed…

Deuce kinda feels bad for asking you for help. You’re always putting him before yourself that at one point of time he tried finding somebody else, only to realise that you genuinely like helping him which never fails to make his cheeks flushed and heart constrict. If you ever need help, you can count on him too, he’ll do his best for you! <3

Cater Diamond

He thinks you’re the most beautiful being because he can be “low energy” with you.

Cater’s always that chatty, social butterfly on Magicam and in real life, mostly when he’s in front of people.

But sometimes, he just wants to just stay low and not be that “hype man” people known him for and without them being disappointed when he’s not that.

When it comes to you, he can just be. It’s like you give of this welcoming and accepting presence and aura, that it makes he can just lie down with you on a beanbag in his room, being lowkey with his hair down, in normal, ugly home wear and he knows, you wouldn’t judge.

Cater likes a change of pace despite usually being so active, it’s just so he can chill and recharge.

He has his arms wrap around you, and for once, his phone is tucked away just for the moment. He rests his chin on your shoulder and sigh, grinning with content as he closes his eyes.

Yes… this is nice… <3

Trey Clover

He thinks you’re the most beautiful being to him is because he can be as playful as he wants.

His reason is practically the same as Cater’s but opposite: is that he always had to be that responsible, reliable, no-nonsense Vice Dorm Leader of Heartslabyul. Even when he’s mastered the arts of it, it can still be tiring.

But you help him get into his own true (somewhat) colours, whenever you’re alone with him in the kitchen, he lets his walls come down.

Trey’s actually a lot more mischievous and cheeky than he lets on: smearing frosting on your nose, pretending he’ll feed you a tart only to put it all in his mouth and watch you get all huffy, and when he’s really loose, has a bit of a flour fight with you.

It’s really a break for him, how you make him feel like he doesn’t need to be guarded, at least with you. He doesn’t need to be that picture perfect reputation he’s built and he could just be.

Although Trey still keeps himself level-headed and what not, he’ll slyly slip in a prank or two and knows you’ll do it back to him behind closed doors.

Trey has never smiled this much in a long while, be this loose in a long while… and it’s solely because of you. <3

Riddle Rosehearts

He thinks you’re the most beautiful being in the world because you make him experience what it’s like to have child-like joy.

For all his life, Riddle’s childhood was… not childhood. Being raised by his strict mother, his days, weeks, his whole life being planned and never allowed what he really wanted to do, Riddle’s life was undoubtedly quite pitiful and dull.

And that being said, him being a dorm leader and all makes him feel that he should live up to a prim and proper role model to his fellow dorm mates, forcing himself to be uptight and obey all the rules and never to play around.

Not to say, he foolishly does so but it’s also not fair for him to deprive himself like this.

And then you came along, and showed him a world where no matter what age you are, you can dream big, with your wildest imagination. He’s really only experienced that when he was a child when he played with Trey and Chenya before his mother found out and made it bitter.

Little by little, he took baby steps with you to slowly explore what was kept away from him: going to festivals with you, trying out food he’s never had before… it’s incredible, really, how much he doesn’t know when he felt like he should’ve much earlier.

It’s pure joy for him, and he has never been this happy before… he’s so glad you came to this world because you were the happiness he was searching for so long. <3

reblogs help! ^^

1K notes · View notes

mommyslittlebird · 5 months ago

Text

A Room of Your Own

Married!WandaNat x Reader

Summary: After getting kicked out of your college dorm, you find yourself living with two older strangers. It was never meant to be anything more than a temporary arrangement born out of necessity, but as the semester continues, something new starts to grow.

CW: Homophobia, Getting Kicked Out, Slow Burn (No sex or romance in this chapter), Age Gap

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: I’m back from the dead, though probably not in the way you wanted or expected. I had to take a (not so) little break from one-shots and smut for the time being for some personal reasons. But I’m still finding ways to write and enjoy myself. Some of you probably have already seen this. It’s been up on AO3 for a while now. But I figured I’d post it here too.

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing any sort of slow burn, so we'll see if I can resist having them all fall into bed together in the first few chapters. I also don't know how to write an introductory chapter without making it boring as shit, so I at least made it short to spare you all. I promise it gets better.

Chapter 1 of A Room of Your Own

You sat, knees curled to your chest, on the curb in front of what used to be your dorm. It was late, a little after midnight, and absolutely pouring rain.

Three days. You had been in the dorms for three days and you had already been kicked out. You’d expect some pushback, going to a religious college and being queer, but nothing like this. Nothing like getting kicked out of your dorm in the middle of the night because you were making your roommates uncomfortable. You’d tried so hard to get them to like you. They seemed sweet. Not your type of people, sure, but you thought the three of you could get along just fine.

As it turns out, they were actually so repulsed by your presence they couldn’t even wait until classes started to kick you to the curb. Literally.

“Hey!” Somebody shouted from the doorway, holding a large umbrella. You turned to see her approaching and shrunk back in on yourself. You didn’t think you could handle anymore ridicule that evening.

When you didn’t respond or turn to face her, she sat down next to you, sure to cover you with the umbrella as well. She spoke softer now. “Hey. I’m sorry for what happened back there.”

You still didn’t speak, but you looked at her now, partially soaked from where she was sitting next to you on the wet concrete. “I’m Yelena.” She reached her hand out for you to shake.

You shook her hand. “Y/N. Nice to meet you.” You recognized her from your dorm floor, though you’d only ever seen her in passing.

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” she smiled softly. “I wish it were under different circumstances.”

You nodded, turning your gaze back to the raining night.

“Do you have anywhere to go? For tonight I mean. I would offer you to stay in my room, but…” she turned back to the door of the building. You both knew you couldn’t go back in there.

You shook your head. You hadn’t even thought where you would stay tonight. You could always stay in your car. It wouldn’t be the first night you’ve slept in the backseat. Still, the sopping wet clothes would surely make for a morning full of rashes and blistered skin.

Yelena sighed, looking at the ground. She was silent for a moment before she came up with an idea. “Let me call my sister. She and her wife have a massive place not so far from here. They’ll have a bedroom or two to spare.”

Before you could form a rebuttal of any sort, Yelena pushed the umbrella into your hands and dashed back inside. You tucked the umbrella between your leg and the crook of your arm, resting your head on your knees.

It wasn’t very long before Yelena was by your side again. “Okay she’s on her way. She’ll be here in about 10 minutes.”

You didn’t look at her, facing intentionally in the other direction. You felt so horrible. You just wanted to curl up and disappear. And now you were going to be picked and taken to the home of some random classmate’s sister? You try to formulate a response, a reason that you will be fine on your own, but there was nothing. It was either this or the back seat of your 1993 Toyota Corolla. Somehow, you bet Yelena wasn’t going to take that as a reasonable explanation as to why she should call off her sister.

“Are you coming with me?” You asked weakly.

She sighed and put her hand on your back. “I wasn’t planning on it, but I will if you really want me to.”

You finally turned to face her. She didn’t look thrilled at the prospect of leaving. She was probably a freshman. It was her first couple days in the dorm too and everything was so new and exciting. The last thing she wanted to do was go back home with her sister.

“No it’s okay,” you responded. The last thing you wanted was to inconvenience someone else tonight, and it’s not like a freshman you hardly knew was going to bring you much solace anyway.

She patted your back. “They’ll take good care of you, I promise.”

Before too much longer, Yelena stood up at the sight of headlights. She waved her arms in an “over here” motion. The car approached Yelena, stopping hard in front of the curb you were sitting on. The tires splashed you in rainwater and mud. Yelena winched, walking back towards you to usher you into the car.

She led you to the passenger door, popping it open and peeking her head in. “This is your girl,” she said, pointing back towards your soaked, mud covered figure. She motioned for you to sit.

You hesitated. The car looked nicer than any you’d ever been in before. The idea of ruining the nice leather seats made you want to shrink further into your ball of shame.

The woman in the driver's seat noticed your hesitation, but didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned with her seat. “Come on in,” she ushered. “Get out of that rain.”

You handed the umbrella back to Yelena, reluctantly taking a seat in the car. Yelena peaked her head back in to say “take care of her,” before closing the door and scurrying back into the dorms.

The woman looked at you, reaching up to pop on the overhead light. The sight of her in the light nearly took your breath away. She looked oddly familiar. Maybe you’d seen her around town. You sharply inhaled as the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen leaned over the console towards you. She frowned. “Oh you poor thing!” She reached out to wipe off your face. You cringed when you saw the mud smear across the sleeve of her jacket. “Let’s go home and get you cleaned up.”

You nodded and she turned the light off before pulling out of the parking lot. You fought the urge to curl up in her passenger seat, fearing further ruining her seats with the dirty bottoms of your shoes. When you didn’t speak, she offered up an introduction of her own. “My name is Natasha. I don’t know what Yelena’s told you, but I’m her sister. My wife and I have a place not so far from here.”

“I’m Y/N” you managed.

“A friend of Yelena’s?” She asked.

You chuckled a little. “I suppose you could say that. We met about 20 minutes ago.”

Natasha chuckled. “Of course. Leave it to Yelena to seek you out after such an injustice.”

You bit the inside of your lip. You wished you had heard the phone conversation so you could gauge just how much she knew.

It was as if Natasha could read your mind when she started next with the details of the phone call. “Yelena told me you got kicked out of the dorm by the other girls. They were uncomfortable because you were gay? I never expected to hear anything like that happening in 2024, but I guess I stand corrected.”

Well, that was one way of telling the story. At least Yelena had left out the peeping Tom allegations that got you chased off the floor by everyone who had to share a bathroom with you. They weren’t true, of course, but the fact that you’d made people so uncomfortable they were willing to name you a pervert without second thought made your skin crawl.

After a short, largely silent car ride, Natasha pulled the car into a garage. You hadn’t gotten a good look at the house, both because of the dark and getting lost in your own thoughts, but even by the state of the garage you could tell it was nice.

Natasha got out of the car, unlocking the door and leading you into the kitchen. You took your shoes off by the door, then decided to take your socks off too to avoid tracking muddy water through the house. The woman took your hand and guided you to the stairwell, then to a bathroom. She turned on the lights and opened up a cabinet, pulling out fresh towels and washcloths.

“I’ll get you some fresh clothes and sheets. The bedroom is through here.” She opened a door that revealed a sizable bedroom connected to the bathroom. You could hardly believe this wasn’t the master suite she’d led you too.

She turned to face you, exhaling as she once again took in your disheveled state. She picked some errant pebbles from your tangled hair and wiped it out of your face. “Now,” she started, “do you need anything else before I let you get cleaned up and off to bed?”

You shook your head. “No. You’ve done enough already. Thank you, Miss Natasha, for letting me stay here. It means a lot. Truly.”

“Of course.” She smiled. You didn’t notice the blush that crept onto her face at the formality. She swiped away the hair that had fallen in front of your eyes again. “We wouldn’t want a sweet girl like you sleeping out in the rain.” She booped the tip of your nose. “Now promise you’ll wake me or Wanda up if you need anything at all. We’re just in the room across the hall. Can’t miss it, it’s the only door on that side.”

You nodded slowly. There was no way in hell you were going to wake her or Wanda, who you assumed was her wife, for any reason. But you nodded anyway.

She smiled and rubbed your chin. “Good girl. Now go get cleaned up and try to get some rest.”

As she set off to her room, you hoped the mud had covered how pink your cheeks had gotten. You headed to the shower, sliding open the glass door and turning on the water. You decided to hop in with your clothes at first, hoping to get enough of the mud off that you could wear them again tomorrow. Then you wrang the clothes out and threw them over the door to dry. You took your time in the shower, letting the hot water warm you up from the cold rain. By the time you were finally clean, you grabbed the fresh towel Natasha had left for you.

Your clothes were, obviously, still soaked save for your underwear. You were thankful for the little time it had taken the thin silky material to dry. You put them back on and wrapped yourself in a towel before entering into the bedroom.

There was a maroon hoodie at the end of the bed. It had been there since Natasha first showed you the room, so it clearly wasn’t laid out for you. However, in lieu of other clothes, you decided the owner probably wouldn’t mind if you borrowed it for the night. You slipped the soft fabric over your head. It was much too big for you, going down to almost your mid thighs while the sleeves dangled over your hands. But it was, quite possibly, the softest material that you’d ever felt. It felt simultaneously brand new and freshly washed.

You crawled up into the queen sized bed, slipping under the covers. You held the fabric of the hoodie close to your face. It smelled nothing like the musky bergamot of Natasha, which had been equally as entrancing in its own way. This was distinctly different. It smelled soft and comforting like lying in a meadow on a spring day. The comforting smell and warmth, along with your own exhaustion, quickly had you asleep.

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wandanat x y/n #wandanat x you #wandanat x reader #wandanat #natasha x you #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #a room of your own

356 notes · View notes

buttercandy16 · 7 months ago

Text

Asylum

Chapter One: The Arrival

PAIRING(s): Psychiatrist!Agatha Harkness x Patient!Reader x Inmate!Rio Vidal

SUMMARY: Wrongfully imprisoned, Reader becomes the obsession of Agatha, a cunning psychiatrist, and Rio, a fiery inmate. Together, they’ll ensure she’s theirs—forever.

WARNING(s): Obsession, Manipulation, Violence, Confinement, Madness, Dubcon, and Betrayal.

A/N: This is a multi chapter fanfiction. Enjoy!

The rain was unrelenting as the van crawled through the craggy terrain. Fat droplets splattered against the steel roof in an angry drumbeat, their rhythm drowning out the hum of the engine. You sat stiffly in the back, the cold bite of leather cuffs rubbing raw circles around your wrists. Every bump in the road seemed to vibrate through your spine, each jolt bringing the reality of your situation closer, sharper.

Ahead, through the rain-streaked window, the asylum loomed like something torn from the pages of a nightmare. The sprawling structure was old, almost medieval, its high towers reaching toward the slate-gray sky as if to mock the heavens. Shadows flickered in the glass-paned windows, though whether they belonged to people or the storm clouds overhead, you couldn’t tell.

You shivered, pulling your thin cardigan tighter around you despite knowing it wouldn’t help. No amount of warmth would banish the chill coiled deep in your chest.

“This is all a mistake,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from repeating the plea over and over during the hours-long journey.

The guard next to you didn’t look up from his phone, swiping casually through videos as if your entire life hadn’t just been stolen away from you.

“I didn’t do it,” you tried again, louder this time. “I didn’t kill him!”

This time, the driver, an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard, snorted. “They all say that.”

You flinched, sinking back into your seat as hopelessness tangled around you. The image of your stepmother’s smug smile was burned into the backs of your eyelids—how she’d wept and lied on the stand, her performance faultless. How every shred of evidence had been twisted against you until even you started to doubt your own innocence.

“No,” you whispered again, shaking your head sharply. “I didn’t do it.”

No one answered.

When the van came to a jerking halt, you almost toppled forward into the guard. He grabbed your arm roughly as if you’d intentionally made a move against him.

“We’re here,” he barked, pulling you from your seat.

As your feet hit the wet concrete, the asylum’s heavy iron gates groaned open in the distance, and the roar of the storm seemed to amplify. A surge of wind lashed at your face, and you staggered, the cuffs restricting your balance. Before you could react, the guards pushed you forward, herding you like cattle toward the yawning mouth of the asylum.

Every detail of the building screamed hopelessness. Water cascaded down the blackened stone, its edges weathered and sharp like the fangs of a hungry beast. Vines crawled up the sides, their lifeless branches clawing at the window frames.

You wanted to dig your heels into the ground, to scream and fight until they believed you, but your body felt leaden. What was the point? No one believed you before—why would they believe you now?

Inside, the walls were as lifeless as the exterior. Pale gray concrete floors stretched endlessly under flickering fluorescent lights, the sound of dripping water echoing somewhere deep within the bowels of the facility. The hallway leading to the intake desk was narrow, oppressive. Every step made your skin crawl with the sense that you were being watched.

“Keep moving,” the guard ordered, his large hand pressing into your back, forcing you forward.

At the far end of the corridor, a woman stood waiting. The nurse at her side seemed diminutive in comparison to her imposing presence, but it was her eyes that truly made you freeze.

Her gaze was sharp, intelligent, and utterly cold.

Dr. Agatha Harkness.

She exuded confidence, her heels clicking against the concrete as she approached. Everything about her, from the sleek black of her suit to the crimson polish on her nails, was immaculate. She wore her authority like a shroud, commanding respect before she even spoke.

“This is her,” the nurse said, stepping aside as Agatha stopped in front of you. “Patient 407.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but no words came out. Agatha’s gaze felt like a scalpel, dissecting you, unraveling you from the inside out without ever touching you.

“You must be [Your Name],” she said, her voice honey-smooth yet laced with steel.

You nodded shakily, your voice lost.

Her lips curved into a faint smile—not warm or reassuring, but calculated. She moved closer, her presence suffocating as her eyes traced over your face, lingering on the trembling of your hands.

“Good,” she said softly, more to herself than to you. “You’ll do nicely.”

Her words chilled you to the bone.

As Agatha motioned for your restraints to be removed, she placed a hand lightly on your arm, her grip deceptively gentle. “Relax,” she said, though her command carried a weight that made your knees feel weak. “You’re safe here.”

The guards grumbled as they unlocked your cuffs, one muttering about the doctor’s “special cases,” but Agatha ignored them. Her attention was entirely on you, her thumb brushing idly against your forearm.

“We’ll talk soon,” she said, her tone quiet but firm.

You stared after her as she strode down the hallway, your unease deepening with every step she took.

“Let’s go,” the guard barked, yanking you forward once again.

In that moment, you couldn’t decide which fate was worse: staying in the asylum or being at the mercy of Dr. Agatha Harkness.

_-_-_

I'll update one chapter a day or maybe two, lol.

Please don't forget to vote, reblog, and comment. Send in requests 😘💜💚

#agatha harkness x reader #rio vidal x reader #agatha x rio #dark fanfiction #agatha all along #agathario #rio vidal #agatha harkness #agatha harkness fanfic #kathryn hahn #marvel #aubrey plaza #wlw

431 notes · View notes

cozycottagetarot · 8 months ago

Text

Your Next Relationship 💖

Reading Contents ✨

Who is this person?

When will this relationship manifest?

Patreon Extended 🧁

What will the early stages be like?

Where will this relationship be in 6 months to a year?

As always this reading is for entertainment purposes only. ✨ Take only what resonates!

Pile 1

Who is this person?

Cards: The Hunter, The Painter rev, The Storyteller rev, King of Summer, Queen of Spring, Strength, The Wheel

For some, getting into a relationship with this person has been a long time coming! They’re someone who exudes a sense of safety and security, making it easy for you to trust them. You can bring anything to them—problems, concerns, or just a need for comfort—and they’ll make time to be there for you. This person seems to have a remarkable ability to juggle multiple responsibilities, and they carry a nurturing, almost parental energy. This quality might even help heal something deeper within you, offering a kind of emotional rejuvenation you didn’t realize you needed. They’re gentle and loving, with a depth shaped by their own resilience. It seems they’ve been through a lot, and those experiences have molded them into someone dependable and compassionate. However, they might occasionally try to shield you from their struggles, either by intentionally hiding things or unintentionally giving the impression that everything is fine. The rest of the reading could shed more light on this dynamic. It’s also possible they deal with self-esteem issues or struggle with self-doubt. Despite this, they have a focused and determined nature. When they set their sights on something, they pursue it wholeheartedly.

When will this relationship manifest?

Cards: Two of Autumn, Seven of Autumn, Nine of Summer, Nine of Winter, Ace of Summer

This relationship feels like something you’re going to manifest.

At first, it might feel like you’re working hard toward something and not seeing results. You could be juggling a lot of things at once, or maybe it happens during a time when you’ve decided to pause and take a break from all the effort you’ve been putting into other areas of your life. This pause might even be related to your career, but it doesn’t have to be about material things. It’s more about stepping back, letting things flow, and giving yourself room to just be. During this waiting period, you might unexpectedly shift your focus back to love. It may not have been something you were prioritizing, but you’ll come back to it and work through any fears or doubts you’ve been carrying. That’s when you’ll consciously decide, You know what? I’ve put in so much work elsewhere; it’s time to open myself up to love. And that’s how this relationship starts—it’s born from you choosing to welcome it (a relationship in general) into your life, even if it feels a little scary or uncertain at first. It’ll happen while you’re in a season of stillness or waiting for something else to unfold.

✨ What will the early stages be like? 👀 Will you still be together in six months—or a year? 😱 Find out in the extended reading and uncover what awaits you in the next chapter of this love story! 💖 Preview the Patreon Masterlist.

Pile 2

Who is this person?

Cards: Princess of Winter, Two of Winter, Ten of Summer, Ace of Spring, The Hunter, The Acolyte, The Sleeper, The Miser

This person seems to struggle with balancing their own needs with their sense of responsibility to others. They deeply value their friends and family and often put their loved ones' needs ahead of their own. While they don’t let people get close to them easily, once you’re in their inner circle, their loyalty is unshakable. They may have perfectionist tendencies or at least prefer having a clear plan to follow. When they decide on a goal, they focus intently and work hard to make it happen. That said, they might find it difficult to strike a balance between being considerate of others and prioritizing themselves. Curiosity is a core part of their personality—they’re always learning, exploring, or diving into something new. However, they might have a habit of repeating the same mistakes, which could be a learning curve they’re working through.

When will this relationship manifest?

Cards: The Star, The Magician, Ten of Summer, Unity, Prince of Autumn

This relationship will come into your life when things start looking up for you—like a shift in your luck or energy. If you’ve been feeling stuck or down, this is when you’ll notice things begin to align. You’ll feel lighter, more optimistic, and like the things you’ve been hoping for are finally falling into place.

It might manifest in a serendipitous way. For example, you could casually wish for something and suddenly find an opportunity or unexpected offer that fulfills it. Similarly, this relationship could come through your social circle—perhaps family, friends, or even a mentor or elder who introduces you to this person. There’s a chance you meet them during a gathering or event involving loved ones. There could also be a contrast between you two: maybe an age difference, or one of you might have more traditional values while the other is more free-spirited.

This person appears as the Prince of Autumn—someone steady, thoughtful, and deliberate. They’re cautious and like to plan things out in advance. While they may take their time opening up or committing to the relationship, it’s not because they’re uninterested. Instead, it reflects their careful and intentional nature. Once they decide they’re ready, they’ll fully invest in making it work.

Pile 3

Who is this person?

Cards: Queen of Wands, Three of Autumn, Five of Autumn, Four of Summer, Balance, Two of Summer, The Priest (Reversed), The Aspirant, The Smith

This person might be naturally solitary or has been single for a while, preferring their own company over relying on others. They’ve been through a lot and carry a diverse set of life experiences, which makes them someone who is both interesting and wise to talk to. While they give off an independent "I don’t need anyone" vibe, they’re also incredibly personable, funny, and talented. They have a lot going for them and are quite the catch, though they might not always see it themselves. When they feel connected to their spirituality or the divine, they thrive, but when that connection wavers, they may feel off balance or even lost in their own thoughts. Overthinking and difficulty accepting setbacks are areas they might struggle with. Despite their occasional self-doubt, they’re someone who complements you well. There’s a strong potential for you two to hit it off right away, feeling like a perfect match. They bring a mix of humor, skill, and depth to the table that makes the connection exciting and meaningful.

When will this relationship manifest?

Cards: The Wheel, Nine of Autumn, The Dreamer, Eight of Autumn, Seven of Summer

It’s giving meet-cute vibes!

This relationship will likely manifest after you make a big choice to move forward with something important in your life. It feels like you’ll be embarking on a new adventure—something you’ve been working toward for a while that finally comes together. This could be related to personal development, career, or even educational pursuits, like learning a new skill or trade. Once you decide to take that leap of faith, it sets things into motion. The actual meeting could happen in a super specific or niche setting. It might be related to work, school, or an event tied to this new adventure you’re embarking on. It’s not so much the meeting itself that’s remarkable but rather the series of events leading up to it that makes it feel almost fated.

When you look back, you might feel like everything—your choices, their choices, and even setbacks—was leading up to this moment. It’ll have that "meant to be" energy, where it feels like all the puzzle pieces fell into place to bring you two together.

#pick a card #pick a pile #pick a card reading #pac reading #pick a picture #pick a pile reading #pac #cozycottagetarot #tarot reading #cozycottagetarot readings #love pac #love pick a card #romance pick a card #relationship pick a card #free tarot reading

509 notes · View notes

orellazalonia · 27 days ago

Text

Unexpected Outlook

Summary: The Avengers launch a mission to raid a known base of the organization you now work with and discuss over what they found.

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: A little shorter since it’s Father’s Day, but I also wanted to add more weight to the previous chapter and progress the story.

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

Preparations moved fast. Too fast, maybe.

Steve didn’t like that they were running with incomplete information, but the longer they waited, the deeper this organization could dig itself into global systems. And the more time you had to assist them, whether willingly or not.

Still, it didn’t sit right. None of it did.

Bruce pulled the files. Natasha studied known locations. Sam monitored chatter. Bucky cleaned his weapons with a look in his eyes like he wanted answers he didn’t have the right to ask.

Yet no one brought up your name again. At least, not directly. But it hovered beneath everything.

The way Bucky checked each plan twice. The way Natasha’s jaw twitched when she reviewed footage. Even the way Steve hesitated before calling it an official mission.

The woman Bucky liked didn’t voice objections anymore. She simply kept a kind, quiet distance, like someone watching friends argue over a lost cause.

And within a week, the op was set.

Steve gave the greenlight with his jaw tight and eyes harder than usual. The mission was clear: infiltrate a suspected communications hub. A nondescript, rural compound masked as a grain storage facility. Satellite data showed encrypted signals routing through it over the last month, signals that matched ones the Avengers used internally.

Which meant either someone was watching. Or someone had been taught how.

They went in with a small team. Just Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Bucky. No need for Hulk or Thor; this wasn’t a battering ram job. It was a retrieval and disrupt operation. Quiet and clean.

Or so they thought.

The quinjet landed half a mile out, under cover of dense fog rolling over the hills. The forest beyond the compound was eerily still like it had been holding its breath since before dawn.

“They want us to find this,” Natasha muttered, brushing a branch aside as they crept through the trees.

Steve didn’t argue. His shield was strapped to his arm, but he hadn’t raised it once.

They reached the clearing. The compound was just as expected. Gray concrete, flat roof, minimal security fencing, and a gravel path leading to two entrances. No guards. No movement. Even the air felt… hollow.

Sam scanned the building with a handheld sensor. “No heat signatures. Not even a rat.”

“Too clean,” Bucky said, voice low.

They breached the back door.

Inside, it was dark but not ruined. Every surface was wiped. Consoles powered down. Not destroyed, removed. Carefully like a move-out rather than an attack. Upon investigating further, files had been cleared, drawers emptied, and chairs pushed in with bland desks.

Whoever had been here knew exactly when to leave.

Steve turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

“This was active,” He said. “Days ago.”

“Hours, maybe,” Natasha said, crouching beside a desk. She tapped the edge, there was a faint spot where something electronic had been sitting. Someone had worked here… and then vanished.

Sam stepped into the central control room. There was only one thing left behind: a monitor left switched on, flickering a soft blue light in the dimness.

A single message scrolled across the screen.

Too late, Captain.

That was it. There wasn’t any long monologues. No other mocking comments. Not even a signature or sign-off present. Just a cold fact. Steve stared at it like he could will it to change. Bucky stood a step behind him, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“I don’t like this,” Sam muttered.

Natasha approached a wall panel and pried it open effortlessly. Inside, wires had been sliced. Intentionally. However, there were no explosives. No traps could be seen anywhere either. It was all just… closure.

“They stripped this place surgically,” She said. “No fingerprints, no traces. It’s like they wanted us to know they were here… but not who they are.”

Steve closed the monitor with a clenched jaw. “This wasn’t a base. It was a decoy.”

“No,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was soft but steady. “It was a base. It just outlived its usefulness.”

They all turned toward him. He looked at the empty room, the missing equipment, and the quiet hallways. Then, to the message. And for a moment, something shifted in his eyes. Guilt, maybe or something deeper.

“They planned for this,” He murmured. “Someone told them exactly how we’d come.”

No one responded, but no one needed to. Because they were all thinking it.

The debrief room was thick with a heavy silence, the kind that pressed down harder than shouting. Ghost-blue blueprints and photos of the abandoned compound still flickered on the monitors, reminders of how quickly their plan had unraveled. Notes about the missing equipment and the chilling message on the screen scrolled slowly, marking everything they should have anticipated.

Steve hadn’t sat once since they returned. He stood rigid at the head of the table, hands braced on his hips, and a deep furrow like it was etched there permanently. Sam had stopped pacing but his leg bounced nervously, jaw clenched tight. Natasha’s fingers tapped against her thigh in a rhythm so steady it barely seemed voluntary.

Only Bucky remained perfectly still, arms crossed, and eyes locked on the screen across the room. He said very little since they’d left the empty compound since that message haunted him.

Too late, Captain.

The words weren’t just text; they carried a weight, a deliberate coldness that dug into Bucky’s mind. Whoever had left it knew him. Not just the soldier, but his moves, his instincts. And worse, their enemy had used the knowledge you once held to outmaneuver them.

The memory played on loop in his mind. Not just the words but the feel of them. The calculation in them. Whoever was behind that terminal… knew him. Not just facts. His patterns.

And maybe worse than that, they’d used your knowledge to do it. They probably used you to do it.

The door hissed open.

She stepped in with her usual soft elegance, cradling a fresh cup of tea between her hands like she had no idea anything had gone wrong. Dressed casual, warm, and comfortable. Like she belonged. Like she didn’t feel the same tension that pulled everyone else taut. The one you used to be jealous of had sat out for the mission after all.

“Oh,” She said lightly. “You’re all back already.”

Her tone wasn’t mocking. If anything, it was gently surprised, as if she’d simply walked into a meeting that ended early. Steve didn’t answer right away. Neither did the others.

She blinked, smile sweet and expectant, like someone unaware they were intruding. “Was it a short mission?”

“We were too late,” Steve said flatly, straightening.

Her brows lifted, and she crossed to the table, setting the tea down. “Really? That’s unfortunate. I thought it was just one of those cleanup things. You all make those look so easy.”

Sam looked over, jaw tight. “They cleaned up, alright. Took every last trace of themselves. Left us a polite message, too.”

“They knew how we’d approach,” Natasha added with her arms crossed now. “Like they knew our pattern. Our flow. They stripped the place within hours of our arrival window.”

“Hmm.” She tapped a fingernail against the ceramic. “That’s strange. Maybe they had inside intel?”

“No,” Steve spoke, narrowing his eyes. “Not unless someone studied us long before they left.”

“Oh.” She blinked, tilting her head. “So… do you think your old administrator friend told them?”

Bucky stiffened.

Natasha’s voice was sharper now, eyes narrowing. “She’s not our anything.”

That seemed to amuse her. She let out a light laugh, the kind meant to dissolve tension, not that anyone was asking for it. “Well, you’re not wrong,” She smiled. “ She didn’t really fit in here anyways, did she?”

Bruce, who had been mostly quiet, looked up sharply. “She worked here for over two years.”

She didn’t seem phased. There was no malice on her face actually. Just soft confidence.

“I guess I didn’t think she’d be important,” She sighed simply. “Kind of kept to herself. I always assumed she’d move on.”

Sam stood, voice tight. “She did. Straight into the hands of the people trying to tear us apart.”

Her smile faltered just a touch. “I didn’t mean—look, I’m sure she was… sweet. I just don’t see how it helps to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be here. Don’t you think she made her choice?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t know that yet.”

“I mean, sure,” She said gently, “But if she’s really that dangerous, wouldn’t you have noticed before she left? You didn’t even realize she was gone until weeks later, right?”

Bucky shifted slightly. The burn in his chest deepened. Not from her words exactly, but from how true they rang.

They hadn’t noticed. They hadn’t looked.

The woman moved closer to Bucky, noticing his subtle distress as she rested her hand lightly on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I just worry about you,” She confessed softly, smiling up at him. “You’re all stretched so thin already. I’d hate to see you waste energy chasing ghosts.”

Her hand lingered. But Bucky’s jaw clenched, and for once, he didn’t lean into her touch.

“She’s not a ghost,” He muttered. “She’s a mirror. Of everything we missed.”

Her expression flickered for barely a moment. Then the sweet smile returned.

“Well, if you have to go after her,” She brushed her hand away, her expression turning more solemn. A hint of pity evident, “I hope you’re prepared for what you find. Sometimes people change… and not always in ways you can fix. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

She reached for her tea again, her fingers wrapping around the cup like it was an anchor.

“And if you do decide to keep going after her, well.” She gave a gentle little laugh, looking around with open, innocent eyes. “I hope it goes well. I really mean that. And if you need my help at all… just let me know. I’m always happy to support the team.”

The door hissed softly behind her as she walked out, quiet heels tapping against the floor in steady, graceful rhythm.

The rest of the team stood in silence for a few long seconds, each lost in their own storm of thoughts.

Steve broke it first.

“We move forward. We stop that organization before it spreads deeper.”

“And if she’s helping them willingly?” Sam asked, his voice low.

Steve hesitated.

So, Bucky answered instead.

“Then we stop her, too.”

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave

#The One You Don’t See #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #marvel fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #avengers fic #chapter 5

243 notes · View notes

gendertrickster · 2 months ago

Text

i realized recently that vriska's left eye looking the way it is was what felt like an intentionally hidden detail throughout act 5 act 1, like it was a secret she kept deliberately. every appearance of her sans two in hivebent has her left eye obscured, by lack or otherwise

aside from times shown after she loses her eye, where she wears an eyepatch lens, she is ALWAYS shown wearing the augmented lens — a tool that specifically grants her more agency through letting her forcibly access information otherwise kept from her — and part of me can't help but wonder if it was an intentional mystery kept on hussie's part as to what vriska's eye actually looked like under there. there was never any indication that her left eye actually looked like the shape shown on the augmented lens, and it could easily be assumed, based on every troll aside from sollux, that her left eye looked the same as her right. this feels like a very, very defining thing for vriska in particular to hide. and it absolutely bears mentioning that the first time we ever see what her left eye looks like (one of TWO times in hivebent) is the same beat where it's revealed she was a PROSPIT dreamer

(the other time is [s] make her pay, which is the same idea)

and i feel like there's a couple different directions that hussie could've been wanting to take with this. one of them would be insane, because while it's basically entirely improbable in practice it would extend its way into fucking beyond canon if it were true:

it could, at one point in development, have been the case that vriska manifested her eye looking like that, given that we only see her dream self with this left eye in hivebent. at this point it was already established that dream selves can shape their forms manually to a degree (a la jade), and otherwise draw from the subconscious ideal one holds themself to (a la terezi). and given vriska's reliance on her vision eightfold (which to this point had been suggested as being solely possible through the vector of technological augment8ion) and everything that reliance represents in terms of her personal agency (and lack thereof), it would make sense if this were the reason her eye looked like that as her dream self but not her real self until later when she ascended to the god tiers and those two selves became one

this whole idea is already kind of dubious though, because we do see how vriska (allegedly) looked as a child, and she does also have the seven pupils, since there's also no reason to assume her eye didn't always look like that

but if that were true, why would it be kept such a secret in hivebent, especially by vriska herself?

(i can think of a couple reasons, actually.)

as i mentioned before, even now this "manifested vision eightfold" direction would still hold narrative weight, considering developments around vriska in beyond canon:

in chapter 2 of homestuck^2, vriska's new design is cemented, adding an eyepatch with an infinity drawn on it in her own cerulean swill blood over the wound she sustained just past the edge of canon

she wears this eyepatch, with its unique iconography, for eight years in the plot point, with one very notable exception:

chapter 4, where she is belittled into an episode of age regression, sporting again her glasses (which she had long stopped needing), her redoubled total lack of mental agency (which she really hoped would have been easier to leave behind than this), and her augmented lens (which, as established, she used as a crutch).

the parallel drawn all across here, then, is that her augmented lens is to her "vision eightfold"/seven-pupiled eye as her infinity eyepatch would be to her left eye once she could leave the point behind. and depending on how you interpret the existence of vriska's left eye — whether it was always there and caused her active dysphoria (as a mark associated with cerulean bloods, a textually-stated male-dominated caste) and dysmorphia (it made her look too alien, unlike almost all of her co-players), or whether she manifested it as something she had to have to maintain personal agency despite further alienating her appearance from that of her peers and of her preferred ideal for herself (thus also causing her the same dysphoria/dysmorphia) — that can mean different things.

the point as to whether vriska manifested it into existence is only sort of moot, though — homestuck is a story completely steeped in retroactive continuity, where once it's made clear that something is true, it was always true, and things like that can be manifested into truth by its own characters (a la jake). the state of vriska's left eye was a mystery until it was shown how it actually looked, and from then on it was always true, and was thus also true for aranea. but whether it was always true for aranea first banked on it being true for vriska, due to the trickle-down characterization homestuck is built on. this choice was made before aranea even existed as a character, after all.

and because of the nature of these manifestations, that truth had to come from various parts of vriska's arc in hivebent, like what the vision eightfold meant to her as the one thing she could use to get an edge in a world completely stacked against her. and who else would ever be able to metanarratively manifest such a relevant and contentious part of her own appearance (let alone that of an eye, the vector by which light is received) than vriska serket?

sure enough, after years of painful, traumatic work, she manifests it a second time.

vision infinityfold. unbounded freedom.

#ado post #homestuck meta #vriskaposting

235 notes · View notes

jungkoode · 4 months ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 16

˗ˏˋ choosing yourselfˎˊ˗

"You deserve better than a quickie in a musty bathroom stall, and Jungkook should know that, even when he sounds earnest and literally kisses your shoulder. But whatever, because it doesn't last long—he's back to being an asshole after Jason takes you both home. And then it's time you make a choice for yourself, because you can't allow to second-guess yourself like you've done multiple times in the past."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9k

content: self-recrimination on a mirror, jungkook being a horny fuck, shoulder kisses, jungkook being irrational and paranoid, jason being a gentleman, coffee date plans, fighting, gyno appointments, yoongi being weirdly supportive and feeling like finally making a choice for yourself.

✧ author's note ✧

HO-HU-HEY.

WELL. Here it is. Chapter 16. The girlies (and the girlies include me) took forever to reach the last goal, so naturally I gave in, lowered the bar, and got my cheeks clapped by the consequences because it took you all of five days. Five. Fucking. Days. I hate you all (affectionately). The bar is going BACK UP and this time I’m standing on business. Don’t test me. (You absolutely can. I’m weak.)

Anyway. Let’s talk about the chapter.

I loved writing this. Like genuinely. As much as I enjoy the pining and the tension and Jungkook being the absolute worst, this one hit different. There are so few stories that actually show characters doing normal life things—especially uterus-having characters dealing with the reality of taking control over their bodies. I wanted to write that. I needed to write that.

But more than the appointment itself, this was about Y/N. About her doing something for herself, on her terms. About taking back agency, making an uncomfortable but important decision because she knows if she walks away from it, she’ll never come back. She’ll spiral, overthink, talk herself out of it. So she does it now. Impulsively, but intentionally. And like... that’s growth, baby. That’s real.

Also?? Yoongi. My beautiful, quiet king. I didn’t know how to write him into this initially but I knew—I knew—he had to be the one who went with her. Because he’s not loud, he’s not overbearing, he doesn’t project his shit onto anyone else. He’s just present. He’s calm. He listens. He helps because he wants to, not because he needs to be thanked or seen for it. I loved deepening their bond this way, giving her a moment of safety that doesn’t come from the people we expect, but from the people who show up. He’s so important in that apartment and I feel like this chapter gave him the spotlight he deserves.

Anyway. I hope you enjoy it. I hope it makes you feel seen. I hope it makes you feel like your choices matter, and your body is yours, and it’s okay to be scared and still do the thing anyway.

Now go comment. I'm watching you. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

The thing about standing on business is that it’s a lot harder when Jungkook texts you like that.

Not that it matters. Because you are standing on business. You’re in the bathroom, alone, which is exactly where you should be after dealing with a full thirty-five minutes of Jason’s smooth eye contact, Jimin’s shit-eating grin, and Jungkook’s insufferable, cocky-ass messages.

And before anybody even thinks it—no, you’re not here because of Jungkook.

You’re here because you’re tired. That’s it. Because this damn building is too hot, and your eyes were practically sliding closed during that last poetry discussion. Because you just needed some cold water on your face, a minute to wake yourself up, to breathe.

Not because of his texts.

Not because the way he talks to you does anything.

And definitely not because your thighs were pressed so tight together under that table that even Jason’s deep, articulate voice wasn’t enough to drown out the low thrum that Jungkook might have been right about something.

You glare at your own reflection. Point a silent, accusing finger at yourself.

“Be so fucking for real right now.”

Your reflection does not respond.

You splash more water on your face. Cold, crisp, refreshing. But also kind of not refreshing, because all it does is make you hyper-aware of how warm your skin feels. How annoyingly wired your body is.

You don’t like his dirty talk. You don’t. It’s embarrassing. It’s cringe. It’s the kind of thing that should have you rolling your eyes and shutting your phone off instead of, you know, letting him keep going. Letting him pull you into it.

It’s not arousal, okay?

It’s secondhand embarrassment.

It’s your brain cringing so hard that it doesn’t know what to do with itself, so it misfires and sends weird signals to the rest of your body.

That’s all.

Because you’re not one of those people who fuck in gross library bathrooms. You’re not desperate. You have standards. You deserve better than some icky stall, no matter how kissable someone’s lips are.

No matter how good their dick game is.

Or their tongue.

Or mouth.

Or hands.

You groan. Plant your hands on the edge of the sink and lean in. Stare at yourself, deadpan, through wet lashes.

“You deserve better,” you say flatly, like the universe needs the reminder as much as you do.

The thing is, you’ve always prided yourself on your self-control. On knowing exactly what you want and how to get it without messy entanglements. Feelings complicate things. Feelings lead to expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to that pathetic, hollow ache you've made an art of sidestepping.

And yet.

And yet, there was something about the way Jungkook looked at you in that goddamn laundry room. Something almost… soft. Curious, even. Like he wasn’t seeing you as a sparring partner or a mild inconvenience but as—what? Someone worth watching? You’d laughed at something dumb, something fleeting, and for once, his response hadn’t been smug amusement or provocation.

It had been real. Bubbly. Almost fond.

Which is, obviously, a problem.

Or at the very least, it’s becoming one.

Because these observations are unwelcome intrusions into what should be a straightforward arrangement. You don’t want to see Jungkook as a person with layers and complexities and actual human qualities. It was much easier when he was just ‘the sexy Pulse stranger with the great arms’ who happened to be excellent in bed. An object of convenient lust and equally convenient disdain.

And now he’s Jungkook. Jungkook, your insufferable roommate. Also Rogue. Also Griffin’s human, also the guy whose vinyl collection is a shrine to John Mayer, for reasons you refuse to unpack.

With each passing day, he trespasses further into familiarity.

And the knowing drapes itself across your sternum like Griffin at dusk—silent, insistent, impossible to ignore.

You exhale. Straighten. Shake it off.

Push the door open.

That’s it.

You’re done. Over it. Whatever.

The door swings open, and you step out, chin high, pulse steady. Or—well. Steady enough.

And then there he is.

Leaning against the wall next to the men’s bathroom like he has all the time in the world. One ankle crossed over the other, hands tucked into the pockets of those stupidly well-fitted jeans. The overhead light casts shadows along his jaw, sharpening the already unfair angles of his face, but the smirk softens them—lazy, knowing.

Roguish.

You almost roll your eyes so hard they might never recover.

“So,” he drawls, tilting his head. “Finally gave in?”

You blink at him. Then, with all the dignity you can muster, you gesture back toward the bathroom door you just exited.

“Yeah, totally. Gave in so hard I went to the women’s restroom instead of the men’s. I really let you have your way, huh?”

Jungkook chuckles, deep and quiet, like he’s indulging a particularly entertaining child.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muses, dark eyes sweeping over you. “Took a while in there. Thought maybe you needed a little extra… motivation.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Heat flares up your spine because you know exactly what he’s talking about—his texts, the ones you definitely didn’t let affect you, no sir.

And Jungkook knows you know. He always does. Which is exactly why his smirk widens when you scoff, brushing past him like he’s the least interesting thing in this godforsaken building.

He follows, of course. Falls into step beside you, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach tighten. “Bet you thought about it, though.”

Your breath stutters. Just barely. And his grin? That infuriating, cocky thing? It widens.

“You’re annoying,” you inform him, as if he doesn’t already know.

As if he isn’t enjoying the way your steps falter for half a second, the way your fingers twitch at your sides like they’re itching to grab something—his wrist, his shirt, the stupid gold chain he’s wearing right now—

“Mm.” He makes a sound of mock consideration, eyes flicking down and up, lingering at the hem of your skirt before dragging back to your face. “And yet, here we are. You in my text messages. Me in your head.”

He doesn’t need to specify what part of your head. He’s an asshole, but not an idiot.

You exhale sharply through your nose. “God, you think you’re so slick.”

“I am so slick.”

“You’re the least slick person I know.”

“So how do you explain,” he hums, leaning in just enough for his breath to graze your cheek, “the fact that you keep coming back?”

A muscle in your jaw ticks. Because—because technically, yes, but also, no, because this thing you have? It’s not about coming back. It’s about convenience. About stress relief. About what you both need, when you need it, nothing more.

So you school your face into something unimpressed, flick him a look, and say, “Your dick isn’t that good, Jungkook.”

And fuck.

He laughs.

He full-on, throaty chuckles, low and pleased and—fuck, the way it rolls through his chest, how it practically purrs out of him, like you just told him the funniest joke in the world.

His hand flexes in his pocket, like he’s restraining himself. His teeth catch his bottom lip for a second, his tongue flicking against it as his gaze devours you, and he exhales a slow, amused…

“God, the things you do to me, woman.”

And you shouldn’t feel that in your knees. You shouldn’t feel it in your stomach, in your throat, pooling low and warm and dangerous.

But you do.

And he knows it.

Which is why he takes another step closer, all effortless heat and bad decisions, and murmurs, “Say the word, Phoenix. I’ll take you right back in there. Won’t even lock the door.”

And goddamn it.

You hate him.

So you move.

Not away from him, exactly, but toward the nearest bookshelf like you suddenly need a distraction.

A book, a title, any excuse to look busy.

To look unbothered.

Jungkook follows. Of course he does. He’s right there at your back, trailing you with a slow, measured step like a fucking german shepherd that already knows the outcome. He doesn’t cage you in with his arms, doesn’t press you into the shelves or block your escape.

Doesn’t need to.

Because he’s close. Just enough that when you reach for a random book, you sense him. The heat of him licks at your skin, his presence a weighted thing against your spine.

You try to ignore it.

The way he leans, just slightly, the way he tilts his head to let his voice skate over the shell of your ear.

“You’re so mean to me, Phoenix,” he murmurs, and it’s not fair how smooth his voice is. How it drops into something lazy and indulgent, like he’s stretching out the syllables just to see how they sound against your skin. “Act all tough, but I know you. Know what you like.”

Your fingers tighten around the spine of the book.

Stupid.

Reckless.

Should’ve grabbed one with a title that could at least pretend to justify this whole act. Not Introduction to Microeconomics.

Jungkook exhales a soft laugh, like he can see your poor choice, like he knows.

“You’re funny,” he muses, and then—because he’s the worst—he dips his head, close enough that his nose nearly brushes the slope of your throat. “But I’m serious. Want you on my lips so bad right now.”

Your pulse slams against your ribs.

“Don’t even need to fuck you,” he goes on, like his own words are making him drunk, like he’s just thinking out loud. “Just wanna drop to my knees, put my mouth on you, make you all messy.”

You swallow. Hard.

“And you’d let me.” He whispers. “Wouldn’t you?”

Your jaw locks. Because fuck him. Because he’s right.

Because you can already feel it, that slow, humiliating heat coiling low in your stomach, the weight of his words settling between your legs.

And Jungkook knows it. Knows your silence isn’t no. Knows the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers tighten around the stupid fucking book, the way you’re not moving away.

He shifts. Subtle, barely there, just enough for his chest to brush your shoulder. Enough to make your breath catch when his lips ghost over your pulse.

“Wouldn’t even rush it,” he continues, and he sounds wrecked by the idea, voice rough with it. “Would take my time. Make you fall apart real slow.”

You should tell him to shut up. You should shove him off, roll your eyes, something.

But you don’t. Because you hate him. And worse—you want him.

You want him.

It’s a humiliating truth, one that settles in the pit of your stomach like something molten, something that licks up your spine with every exhale he spills against your skin.

His breath hovers, a phantom thing, barely-there warmth that seeps through the fabric of your long sleeve. A cruel contrast—how your body ignites under something so light, how your nerves spark like kindling when he isn’t even touching you properly.

Not yet.

Then—his fingers.

Slow, deliberate, reaching. Not for your wrist or your waist, not for your throat or your hip—no, that would be too easy. Too expected.

Instead, they find the fabric at your bicep. A simple touch. A barely-there tug.

And then another.

Torturous. Measured.

The sleeve slides down, inch by aching inch, and you know—you know—this is your moment. This is where you shove him off, where you huff and scoff and tell him to fuck off with his slow-burn seduction act.

Except you don’t.

You just stand there, staring at the shelf in front of you, trying not to melt out of the way the air feels against your bare skin. How exposed it is now, how Jungkook’s gaze lands heavy where the fabric used to be.

��Wanna taste you so bad right now, Nix.”

Your other hand finds the bookshelf. Not to grab a book. Not to turn the page on this whole situation.

For balance.

Because your body betrays you, trembles—just slightly, just enough that you can feel it.

And he sees it.

Feels it.

His breath dips lower. Warmer. Until his lips graze the bare curve of your shoulder.

And then he presses in.

A kiss. Featherlight. Barely there.

But devastating, because it cracks through you, sends goosebumps skittering down your arms, shivering at the nape of your neck..

“Ro—”

“I’d seriously drop to my knees right here,” he interrupts, voice quiet but wrecked. “Wouldn’t even think twice.”

Your fingers tighten against the bookshelf.

And then—

“Y/N?”

Jimin’s voice.

You move first. Swift. Normal. Like nothing just happened, like your knees weren’t about to fucking give out. Jungkook straightens, smooth, unhurried, expression lazy and unreadable.

When you turn, Jimin is there, brows furrowed, completely oblivious.

“Hey.” You clear your throat, tilt your head, something, anything to make yourself feel normal again. “What’s up?”

Jungkook stays quiet. But you can feel him. His warmth still lingers. His gaze still burns.

And it’s only when Jimin starts talking—some filler, something meaningless—that you realize your sleeve is still slipped down, fabric bunched at your elbow.

And Jungkook is still looking.

Jason appears before you fully process it, stepping into your periphery with that calm, inquisitive expression of his, eyes skimming over your face like he’s assessing something.

“You good?” His voice is gentle, curiosity laced in his tone.

You nod. “Yeah. Done for the day.”

His eyebrows quirk. Just a fraction. “Oh.”

Jimin, standing a little to the side, shifts his weight. “Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“Oh, no,” you answer smoothly, already toeing the conversation in a different direction. “I took the bus today.”

Jason hums. “I can take you home if you want.”

And then—movement.

Jungkook.

Shifting. Sliding in, looping an arm over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His body radiates heat, casual in its weight, but you feel the deliberate nature of it. The timing. The message.

“Sure,” he drawls, voice all syrupy amusement. “Taking us home, Teach?”

You barely resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs, but you do shove his arm off with a sharp shrug, angling an elbow against his side—not forceful enough to hurt, but definitely not subtle.

Jason blinks. “You two live together?”

You don’t hesitate. “Roommates.”

Jason smiles, nodding, like the answer pleases him. “Well, in that case, I’d be glad to.”

You hear Jungkook chuckle behind you.

You flip him off.

But you both start walking.

Jason's car smells like expensive cologne and ambition.

You're sitting shotgun whilst Jungkook's sprawled across the back seat of Jason's immaculate SUV, taking up more space than seems physically possible, one arm slung across the headrest as he stares out the window with half-lidded interest.

The leather beneath you is that specific type of luxury that feels both comfortable and like you shouldn't be allowed to touch it at the same time—and Jason's got one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, and he's telling you about his dissertation—something about modernist literature and the fragmentation of self-identity in post-war narratives.

It sounds impressive. It probably is impressive.

You're nodding along, asking questions in the right places, and generally pretending that you're not stupidly aware of Jungkook's reflection in the side mirror, watching.

"What about you, Jungkook?" Jason asks suddenly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "Y/N mentioned you're studying film?"

Jungkook's reflection shifts, his posture straightening just slightly.

“Yeah," he says, voice easy, unbothered. "Film and Media Studies."

"What year?"

"Dunno," he answers, and you can practically hear the shrug in his voice. "Taking classes from different years. Whatever looks interesting."

Of course he is. God forbid he follow any sort of structured plan like a normal student.

"Planning to go into academia too, or straight to industry?" Jason continues, clearly trying to make polite conversation despite Jungkook's lackluster responses.

His response is a mere sound in the back of his throat, something between a chuckle and a scoff. Then: "Industry. Theory's nice and all, but I'd rather be behind a camera than writing about one."

Jason nods thoughtfully. "Smart move. The academic route isn't for everyone. It takes a certain patience. Methodical thinking."

You immediately note how Jungkook's expression shifts—just for a second—into something sharper, more focused.

Then it's gone, replaced by that same lazy half-smile he always wears.

"Yeah," Jungkook drawls, leaning back. "Guess I'm just more of a hands-on learner."

The way he says "hands-on" shouldn't feel loaded.

It doesn't, really.

Except that your mind immediately flashes to those same hands on your skin, and you have to resist the urge to shift in your seat.

Jason seems oblivious, continuing. "What kind of films are you into?"

"The good ones," Jungkook replies, and you can hear the smirk without even looking.

"That's... vague."

"I'm a visual guy. I like things I can see."

Jason laughs, a polite sound. "Fair enough. Any directors you admire?"

"Too many to list," Jungkook answers, and there's something in his voice now—a subtle tightness, like he's getting bored with the interrogation. "But hey, I'll give you one. Wong Kar-wai. His use of color and the way he frames longing? Unmatched."

You blink, a little surprised. Not by the answer itself—you know Jungkook's capable of actual intellectual thought, even if he pretends otherwise half the time—but by the genuine passion that briefly flares in his voice.

Jason nods, seeming genuinely impressed. "Interesting choice. 'In the Mood for Love' is a masterpiece."

"Yeah, it is." There's a beat, and then Jungkook adds, "What about you? You a film guy?"

"I appreciate it as an art form, but literature's my passion." Jason's hand moves from the gearshift to the steering wheel as he navigates a turn. "Though I teach a module on film adaptations of classic literature occasionally."

"Cool," Jungkook says, in a tone that suggests it's anything but. Then, abruptly changing the subject: "How'd you end up TA-ing for Y/N's class?"

You shoot Jungkook a look through the mirror.

What is he doing?

"I'm not actually Y/N's TA," Jason clarifies smoothly. "I just run study groups for students across different modules. Help where I can."

"Just out of the goodness of your heart, huh?"

“Something like that. Plus, it looks good on the CV."

You jump in, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "Jason's been really helpful. I was drowning in all that Sylvia Plath symbolism before today."

"I'm sure he has," Jungkook murmurs, and when you catch his reflection again, his eyes are narrowed slightly, focused on the back of Jason's head.

Then the rest of the ride passes in a…strange, stilted rhythm—Jason asking questions, Jungkook giving just enough of an answer to seem polite before flipping the question back around.

You filling the gaps with comments and questions of your own, trying to figure out why the air suddenly feels too… saturated?

By the time Jason pulls up to your apartment building, you're exhausted from the mental gymnastics of trying to parse what the fuck is happening.

"Here we are," Jason announces unnecessarily, putting the car in park. "Nice place."

Jungkook's door opens before the words are fully out of Jason's mouth.

“Thanks for the ride, man," he says, climbing out with easy grace. But instead of heading straight for the building entrance, he pauses, one arm resting on the car roof, waiting.

For you.

Jason turns to you, one hand still on the wheel, the other now resting on the center console. "Listen, Y/N, I was wondering if you'd like to grab coffee sometime?”

He smiles, and you like the way the corner of his lip tugs upward genuinely, a dimple forming on it.

It’s cute.

It’s attractive.

Then he smiles. Gaze briefly flicks to Jungkook, then back to you, whispery. Adds: “Just the two of us, I mean."

Your stomach does a pleasant little flip because—wow. An attractive, intelligent guy who can discuss poetry without making dick jokes? Asking you for coffee? Like a date?

Is this real life?

"I'd like that," you say, smiling.

"How's Saturday? There's a café near campus that does incredible pour-overs."

Shit. Saturday. Jungkook's stupid surprise birthday dinner.

"I actually can't Saturday," you say, genuinely disappointed. "I have this... thing I can't get out of." No way are you telling him it's for Jungkook's birthday. "But maybe Sunday?"

"Sunday works." His hand moves then, fingers wrapping lightly around your wrist. "It's a date, then."

His touch is warm, brief, and makes your chest flutter.

You nod, gathering your bag. "Thanks again for the ride. And the study help."

"Anytime."

Stepping out of the car, you see Jungkook still standing there, watching. His posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable as he pushes off from where he's been leaning against the car.

You walk over, and together, you head toward the building entrance. Jason's car idles behind you for a moment before pulling away, and only when the sound of his engine fades does Jungkook speak.

"I don't like him."

It's so abrupt, so matter-of-fact, that you almost laugh.

"Okay? Did I ask?"

Jungkook doesn't respond right away. His lips press together, jaw tightening for a split second as you reach the elevator. He hits the up button with more force than necessary.

"He gives off vibes," he finally says, as the elevator doors slide open.

You step inside, hitting the button for your floor.

“Vibes," you repeat flatly. "What are you, suddenly psychic or some shit?"

"Don't need to be psychic to see he's fucking weird."

The elevator begins its ascent, and you lean against the wall, eyeing him.

“English major and almost a professor. Makes sense why you don't fuck with him, don't you think?"

Jungkook's head snaps toward you. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Just saying," you shrug, "you're clearly threatened by anyone with a vocabulary that extends beyond 'fuck' and 'vibes.'"

"Oh fuck off," he scoffs. "He's not that impressive."

"More impressive than you pretending to hate classic films to sound edgy."

His eyes narrow. "I never said I hated—"

"Whatever, Rogue. Keep your weird opinions to yourself. I'm going on a coffee date with him Sunday."

"Great," he says flatly. "Have fun with Professor Stick-Up-His-Ass."

The elevator dings. You push past him, digging in your bag for your keys.

"What is your problem?" you demand as you walk down the hallway. "He was perfectly nice. He gave us a ride home. He actually listens when people talk."

"I'm just saying I don't fuck with him."

"And what's that to me? Why do you think I care who you fuck with?"

"Nothing," Jungkook says, fumbling for his keys—so you stop rummaging through your bag. "I'm just stating my opinion. I'm allowed to not like people."

"Yeah, but you're telling me like I should care?" You follow him through the door. "Like your opinion matters to me somehow?"

"No?" He turns to face you. "I'm just fucking saying. That's it."

"Well, don't."

"Don't what? Talk?"

"Don't act like your shitty opinions on my social life matter."

The apartment feels too small suddenly. Like the walls are closing in.

Why is it so hot in here? Did Yoongi crank the heat again? God, you're going to have another fight about the thermostat after this.

"Look," He sighs exasperatedly, and the sound makes you want to kick him on the shin. "I get it. He's all polished and proper and talks about dead poets with you. Fucking fantastic. I'm just telling you he seems like a fake-ass bitch."

"A fake-ass—what are you even talking about?" Your voice rises because what the actual fuck? "You're literally making shit up. He seems perfectly normal."

"Normal? Did you miss the way he kept cutting me off? Or that weird laugh thing he does?"

"Oh my god." You throw your bag onto the counter. "You're so full of shit. He was trying to keep the conversation going while you gave one-word answers like a sullen teenager."

"Yeah, because he kept asking me the same basic-ass questions like I'm in a job interview or some shit."

"It's called making conversation, dickhead. Something you clearly know nothing about."

Jungkook tosses his keys onto the counter with a clatter. "There's making conversation, and then there's whatever the fuck he was doing. Dude's weird. Period."

"He's weird? That's your whole argument? That's the hill you're choosing to die on?"

"You didn't catch it?" Jungkook looks at you like you're the dense one. "That whole thing about teaching 'occasionally?' The way he kept touching the gearshift? And the fucking wrist grab at the end? So fucking unnecessary.”

"Oh my god." You're actually laughing now, incredulous. "You sound completely unhinged. He barely touched me!"

"It's not about—" Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "It's the pattern, Nix. The whole vibe is off."

"The pattern? The vibe?" You mimic his voice. "Are you listening to yourself? You sound like a conspiracy theorist."

"Fine," he throws his hands up. "You're so fucking right, as always. Go hang out with Captain Control Freak. See if I give a shit."

"Captain Control—what are you even talking about?"

"Nothing. Forget it. Go on your little coffee date with Professor Perfect."

"Why are you being such a dick about this?" Your voice rises, frustration boiling over. "It's just coffee!"

"And I'm just saying he seems like an asshole!" Jungkook's voice matches yours now. "But sure, ignore me. What the fuck do I know, right?"

"Right! What the fuck DO you know? You met him for twenty minutes and suddenly you're an expert?"

"I know enough to spot a fucking red flag when I see one."

"A red flag? Are you kidding me?" You make an incredulous sound. "Because he has a nice car and uses big words? Those aren't red flags, those are called being an adult!"

"No, because he's putting on a whole act!" Jungkook's gesturing wildly now. "The scholarly bullshit, the fake interest, the—"

"Maybe he's actually interested in literature? Have you considered that possibility, genius?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's very interested in 'literature,'" Jungkook makes air quotes. "Along with controlling every fucking conversation and situation."

"You're being ridiculous." You give him a blank stare, accompanied by a chuckle. "Completely ridiculous."

"And you're being naive!"

"No, I'm being NORMAL!" The word echoes off the kitchen walls. "You're the one having some weird meltdown over nothing!"

"It's not nothing! The dude's giving off major control freak energy and you're too busy swooning over his vocabulary to notice!"

"I am not swooning over anything!"

"Whatever. You clearly can't see what's right in front of you."

"And you clearly can't handle not being the center of attention for five fucking minutes!"

Jungkook's eyebrows shoot up. "The center of—what? That's what you think this is about?"

"I don't know what it's about! That's my whole point!" You're making no sense!"

"I'm making perfect sense! You're just not listening!"

"Because you're not saying anything worth listening to!"

“Fine! Go ahead. Do whatever the fuck you want. It's your life."

"Yeah, it is my life. And you know what? I WILL do whatever the fuck I want."

"Great! Awesome! Have fun!"

"I will!"

"Good!"

"GOOD!"

You glare at each other, both breathing hard—and Griffin chooses that moment to saunter in, meowing loudly as if to say ‘what the fuck is all this noise about?’

"Your cat wants food," you snap, needing the last word.

"He's not just my cat, he lives here too," Jungkook fires back, because apparently he also needs the last word.

"Then maybe you should focus on feeding him instead of my social life."

"Maybe you should focus on not getting involved with pretentious assholes!"

"I live with one, so I think I can handle it!"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you too."

You turn away, stomping toward your room. "You're such a jerk."

"And you're a stubborn bitch."

You flip him off without looking back, slamming your door with enough force to rattle the walls. You hear him mutter something through the thin wood—probably another insult—before the sound of cabinets opening and closing tells you he's probably feeding Griffin.

Dropping onto your bed, you stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what just happened.

What the hell was that about? Since when does Jungkook care who you hang out with? And what the fuck was all that ‘vibes’ and ‘energy’ bullshit?

It shouldn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

Except now there's this annoying doubt in the back of your head.

Not because Jungkook's right—he's definitely not—but because he seemed so sure. So genuinely worked up about it.

Not jealous, just... concerned?

Angry?

Something.

God, you need to get a grip. This is exactly what happens when you live with people too long. Their crazy starts to sound almost reasonable.

Jason is fine. He's normal.

Jungkook is the one being insufferable and childish because he can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes.

So honestly?

Fuck him.

You deserve to go on a date with someone who actually listens to what you have to say.

So you will.

And if he wants to whine about it, well. That’s his problem. Not yours.

Staring at the confirmation email on your phone should not be making your stomach turn like this.

It's just an appointment. A totally normal, adult thing to do that people handle every day without breaking a sweat. Just another checkbox on the grand list of things labeled ‘Taking Care of Your Body’ that you've been putting off for... well, forever.

But there it is: Appointment with Dr. Camila Rivera, Wednesday, 4:45 PM.

You'd done it yesterday night, after the fight with Jungkook, after slamming your bedroom door hard enough to rattle the walls.

You'd sat on your bed, fuming, and somehow that anger had propelled you toward something productive for once. A quick Google search for ‘gynecologist near me,’ a few clicks, and suddenly you had an appointment.

Easy-peasy. Totally casual.

Except it wasn't. Not really.

Because the truth is, you've never been to a gynecologist before. Not once in your life.

And it's not like you're some kind of prude. You're not. Just ask Jungkook. Or, you know, don't—his ego is inflated enough as it is. But the point stands: you're sexually active. You know your way around a condom. You're not completely clueless.

You're just... inexperienced in certain areas.

Official areas.

Medical areas.

Because going to a gynecologist meant telling your parents you needed to go to a gynecologist. Which meant admitting you were having sex. Which meant watching your mother's face crumple into that specific blend of disappointment and judgment she'd perfected over the years. The one that said, ‘I raised you better than this’ without her having to speak a word.

It was easier to just... not go. Stick with condoms. Cross your fingers. Hope for the best.

But things are different now. You're living on your own. Making your own decisions. Sleeping with your insufferable roommate whenever the mood strikes. Planning coffee dates with hot TAs who might—if things go well—become another notch on your metaphorical bedpost.

The thought sends a little thrill through you.

Jason. With his deep voice and thoughtful gaze and ability to analyze poetry without sounding like a pretentious asshole. Would he be different in bed than Jungkook? Less demanding, maybe. More measured. Or maybe he'd surprise you.

God, when did your brain become so fixated on sex?

That's what freedom feels like, you tell yourself, stretching your legs out across your bed. It's natural. Healthy, even. You've spent years living under your parents' suffocating expectations—their carefully crafted vision of who you should be, the life you should lead, the choices you should make. Always excelling, always proper, always in control.

Well, fuck that. You're done being controlled.

Hence, the appointment.

Because if you're going to be sexually liberated (the phrase makes you cringe a little, even though it's just in your head), you should probably be responsible about it. Birth control pills, or maybe an IUD—something more reliable than condoms alone.

Something that puts you in control of your body, for once.

That's what this is really about, isn't it? Control. Wresting it back from the people who've held it for too long.

Your parents. Their expectations. Their constant, stifling presence even when they're miles away.

You glance at the time on your phone: 3:32 PM. About an hour before you need to leave.

And suddenly, your chest feels tight. Because while making the appointment had been an act of defiance, of independence—actually going feels different. More real. More intimidating.

You've done your research. Read all the ‘What to expect at your first gynecology appointment’ articles online. You know it will involve questions about your sexual history (complicated), your family medical history (boring), and a physical exam (terrifying).

The problem is, you'd planned to ask Yeji to go with you. She'd been to gynecologists before. She'd know what to expect, how to act, what was normal. But she texted this morning to say she'd caught some stomach bug and could barely make it to the bathroom, let alone across town to a doctor's office.

Which leaves you... alone.

And you shouldn't need someone to hold your hand through this. You're an adult, for fuck's sake. People do this all the time.

But the anxiety bubbling in your stomach doesn't care about logic. It's there, persistent and nagging, making you wonder if you should just cancel and reschedule for when Yeji's feeling better.

No. That's the old you talking. The you that let other people's expectations dictate your life. You need to do this, and you need to do it today.

But maybe you don't have to do it alone.

Jimin is in class right now. Emma's too far away.

And you and Jungkook are still not talking.

You glance at your bedroom wall, the one that separates your room from Yoongi's. He's home today—you heard him shuffling around earlier, the familiar sound of his bedroom door closing, his music faintly filtering through the walls.

Yoongi's different from Jungkook. Quieter. More observant. He doesn't waste words or gestures. He doesn't fill silences just to hear himself talk.

Would it be weird to ask him? Probably. But also... maybe not.

Yoongi has this way of making the strangest things seem normal, simply by refusing to treat them as strange.

Before you can overthink it any further, you're on your feet, moving toward your bedroom door, then to Yoongi's. Your knuckles rap against the wood before your brain can catch up with your body and tell you what a ridiculous idea this is.

There's a pause. Then shuffling. Then Yoongi's voice, slightly muffled: "Yeah?"

You open the door tentatively. Yoongi's seated at his desk, headphones on, one ear now pulled back as he swivels in his chair to face you. His expression is neutral—not annoyed, exactly, but definitely interrupted. Behind him, his computer screen glows with what looks like a complex audio editing program, tracks upon tracks stacked neatly in multicolored rows.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," you start, hovering in the doorway. "I, uh, I was wondering..."

Yoongi blinks at you, his gaze tracking over your face for barely two seconds before his eyes narrow slightly.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and just like that, you hesitate.

Is it that obvious? Do you have ‘first-time gynecologist panic’ stamped on your forehead in neon letters? God, this is embarrassing.

"Nothing's wrong," you say, too quickly. "I just—" You take a breath. "I have a doctor's appointment, and I was supposed to go with Yeji, but she's sick, and—"

"What kind of doctor?" Yoongi's already slipping his headphones off, setting them on his desk.

"Gynecologist," you admit, the word feeling foreign on your tongue.

You brace for awkwardness, for judgment, for that subtle shift in his expression that says this conversation just got weird.

It doesn't come.

"When's the appointment?" he asks instead, like you just told him you're seeing a dentist.

"Four forty-five."

Yoongi glances at his computer screen, then back at you. A slight furrow appears between his brows—not judgmental, more like he's calculating something.

"Is it your first time?"

Your mouth opens, then closes.

Is there a neon sign above your head that says ‘VIRGIN TO WOMEN'S HEALTHCARE’ blinking in hot pink? How does everyone just know these things about you?

"Yeah," you admit, heat creeping up your neck. "First time."

Yoongi nods like this confirms a theory. "I can take you."

You blink at him, confused by the easy offer. "You don't have to—"

"I've done it before," he says with a small shrug. "My sisters. Lost count of how many times I've sat in waiting rooms while they got checked out."

"Your sisters?" This is new information. Yoongi has barely mentioned his family in the few weeks you've lived together.

"Two of them," he says, shrugging. “Older and younger. They'd kill me if they knew I was calling them a pain in my ass, but..." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Pain in my ass."

"I didn't know you had sisters," you say, still hovering in the doorway, surprised by this glimpse into his life.

"East Village, you said?" He inquires, stretching his arms over his head. "On 14th?"

"Yeah, but—seriously, you don't have to. I can go alone. It's fine."

Yoongi looks at you, really looks at you, his gaze direct but not unkind. "But you don't want to. That's why you're here. Give me ten minutes to finish this section, and we'll go."

The simplicity of it knocks the air from your lungs.

No questions about why you need to go, why you can't go alone.

Just acceptance.

Just help.

"Thanks," you manage, your voice smaller than intended.

Yoongi makes a sound—something between a grunt and a hum—that you interpret as 'you're welcome' before focusing back on his work. You linger for a moment, uncertain, before backing out of the room and gently closing the door.

Fifteen minutes later, you're sitting next to Yoongi in an Uber, your knee bouncing nervously as you watch the city blur past the window.

You've barely spoken since leaving the apartment, the silence between you not uncomfortable but definitely... present.

"Have you been to this doctor before?" Yoongi asks suddenly, his voice quiet in the confines of the car.

You shake your head. "First time."

"First time ever?"

There's no judgment in his tone, just curiosity, but you still feel a flush creep up your neck. "Yeah. My parents were... strict."

Yoongi nods like this makes perfect sense. "Mine too. Different things, though."

"Like what?"

He shrugs, his shoulder lifting in a smooth, controlled motion. "Music. They wanted the classical route—Juilliard, orchestra, all that. Not producing. Definitely not hip hop."

"But you did it anyway."

A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "Eventually. Took a while."

There's more to it, you can tell. You recognize it because it mirrors your own experiences—the rebellion, the constant calculation of how much you can take without being taken from.

"Are your sisters musicians too?" you ask, curious about these siblings he's mentioned.

His eyebrows lift slightly, like he's surprised you're interested enough to ask. "Mina and Soonhee? Nah, they got different rules. Mina's older—she got to do dance, no questions asked. Soonhee's the baby—she's in med school now, but she did competitive cheerleading through high school. I was the only one who got the 'practical career' lectures."

"That's fucked up."

He huffs a laugh, soft and low. "Yeah. Parents, man."

"So how'd you end up being the gynecologist escort service?"

This time, the laugh is fuller, unexpected enough that the driver glances in the rearview mirror. "Soonhee. She was seventeen, terrified of going alone, and didn't want our mom knowing yet. So I took her." He shrugs again. "After that, it was just... normal. Picked her up from appointments sometimes when our parents were working. Drove Mina a few times too."

Something about this image—Yoongi, quiet and steady, sitting in a waiting room while his sisters get their reproductive health sorted—makes your chest warm.

"That's... really nice of you."

"It's not a big deal." He says it so simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "That's what family does."

The car slows as you approach your destination, and suddenly the nerves are back, coiling tight in your stomach.

This is happening. You're really doing this.

Yoongi must sense the shift because he looks at you, his gaze direct but gentle. "They'll ask a lot of questions. Some feel invasive, but they're just doing their job. If you don't know an answer, that's okay. If something feels wrong or hurts too much, speak up. Don't just endure it."

"Okay," you whisper, and for a moment, the two of you just look at each other—you, the girl who's spent her life trying to be perfect, and him, the boy who's learned to create his own definition of it.

The car stops. The driver announces your arrival. Yoongi nods once, decisive.

"Let's go."

The waiting room is exactly what you expected: too-bright lighting, uncomfortable chairs, ancient magazines, and the faint smell of disinfectant.

What you didn't expect is how much calmer you feel with Yoongi beside you, his presence steady as you fill out paperwork on a clipboard.

"Family medical history," you mutter, scanning the form. "Like I'm supposed to know if my great-aunt had ovarian cancer."

"Just write what you know," Yoongi says, not looking up from his phone where he's responding to what looks like a work email. "They mostly want the big stuff."

You nod, focusing back on the form.

Name, date of birth, insurance information (thank god your parents still have you on their plan, even if they'd probably have a collective aneurysm if they knew what you were using it for), medications (none), allergies (none), sexual history...

Your pen hovers over the ‘number of sexual partners’ field.

Two, technically.

One in freshman year—David, your boyfriend for all of three months, who'd been sweet but forgettable—and now Jungkook, who is... neither of those things.

Not that anyone needs to know about that particular arrangement.

Especially not Yoongi, who lives with both of you and would make things weird if he knew.

It's bad enough that he might hear things through the walls sometimes—though you've been careful, for the most part. Extra careful.

Because what you and Rogue have isn't something that needs to be analyzed or discussed or turned into some big thing. It's just sex. Convenient, mind-blowing, occasionally wall-banging sex. No strings, no expectations, no complications.

And honestly, there's something almost thrilling about the secrecy of it all. The way you can brush past Jungkook in the kitchen while Yoongi's there, both of you acting like you didn't have your legs wrapped around his waist twelve hours earlier.

The control of it.

The power in knowing something no one else does.

Soon to be three partners, maybe, if things go well with Jason.

The thought sends an unexpected twinge through you. Not guilt, exactly, but something adjacent to it.

"You know," Yoongi says suddenly, his voice low, "I never asked why you wanted to come here today."

You glance up, surprised. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Sure. But there are lots of reasons people go to gynecologists." His eyes remain on his phone, giving you the space to answer without the weight of his gaze. "Regular check-ups. STI testing. Birth control. Problems."

"All of the above?" you say, aiming for a joke but landing somewhere closer to honesty. "Mostly birth control, though. I've been... thinking about it for a while."

And it’s true, because condoms, while effective, aren't foolproof.

Not that you're telling Yoongi that you're sleeping with anyone, let alone Jungkook, let alone possibly Jason soon.

Some things are better kept private. Safer that way. No one's business but your own.

Yoongi nods. "Smart."

That's it. No lecture about being careful, no brotherly concern about who you might be sleeping with, no judgment about your choices. Just: smart.

"Thanks," you say, and you mean it for more than just the compliment.

"Soonhee has an IUD," he offers casually. "Says it's been good for her. Less to remember."

You blink, caught off guard by how easily he's discussing this. "I was thinking about that. Or maybe the pill."

"Makes sense." He mumbles, typing into his phone now. "Mina did the implant thing—the arm one? She had mood swings at first, but they evened out."

You're about to ask another question when a nurse calls your name.

Suddenly, your heart is in your throat again, the clipboard clutched in your sweaty hand.

"You'll be fine," Yoongi says, taking the clipboard from you with gentle fingers. "I'll be right here."

You stand, smoothing down your shirt with shaky hands. "This is weird, right? You barely know me."

Yoongi looks up at you, calm but thoughtful. "Not that weird. We live together. That counts for something."

Something about his words steadies you.

You've lived with your parents for most of your life—but this is the first time it's felt like more than just sharing space.

Like there's something about proximity that builds its own kind of trust, its own kind of care.

"Thanks, Yoongi," you say again, meaning it more with each repetition.

He nods once, then returns to his phone, the conversation complete.

As you follow the nurse down the hallway, you realize something surprising: you're glad it's Yoongi out there waiting. Not Yeji, not Jimin, not anyone else.

Just Yoongi—quiet, steady, unfazed by the messiness of being human.

And for the first time since moving in, you think maybe, just maybe, this apartment isn't just a place you live.

Maybe, in some small way, it's becoming home.

Your entire life, you’ve been told what to do with your body.

Stand up straight. Smile more. Don’t eat that. Wear this. Be modest. Be pretty. Be better. Smaller. Quieter. More.

It’s a strange feeling, sitting on the edge of an exam table in a paper gown that crinkles with every breath, realizing that for perhaps the first time, you’re making a decision entirely for yourself.

About yourself.

By yourself.

Dr. Rivera is nothing like you imagined. You’d pictured someone older, stern, clinical. Someone who would make you feel childish and naive.

Instead, she’s maybe mid-thirties, with a warm smile and dark curls pulled back in a bun. She sits on a rolling stool, reviewing your forms, asking questions in a voice that somehow manages to feel both professional and conspiratorial—like you’re both in on something important together.

“So this is your first time seeing a gynecologist?” she asks, looking up from her tablet.

You nod, resisting the urge to cross your arms over your chest, to make yourself smaller under her gaze. “Yeah.”

“Any particular reason you decided to come in now?”

Do you tell her that you’ve been having casual sex with your roommate? That you’re hoping to add a handsome TA to the rotation? That after years of letting other people—parents, professors, partners—dictate what you should do, you’re finally deciding for yourself?

“I want to start birth control,” you say instead, aiming for casual confidence but hearing the slight waver in your voice. “Something reliable.”

She nods, no judgment in her expression. “Have you been thinking about any particular method?”

“I’ve been researching a few. The pill, IUDs…”

“IUDs are excellent long-term options,” she says, setting her tablet aside. “Both hormonal and non-hormonal varieties have their advantages. The hormonal ones can help with period symptoms—lighter bleeding, less cramping. The copper one doesn’t have hormones, so there are no hormonal side effects, but periods can be heavier, especially at first.”

You’ve read all of this online, but somehow hearing it from an actual doctor makes it feel more real.

More possible.

“How long have you been sexually active?”

“A few years,” you say, the vagueness intentional. “Not consistently.”

“Using condoms?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Remember that birth control protects against pregnancy, but condoms protect against STIs. It’s always good to use both unless you’re in a mutually monogamous relationship and have both been tested.”

You nod, like a good student receiving familiar information. But inside, something tightens. Because you haven’t been tested. Not really. Just the standard blood work at check-ups.

Another thing to add to the list of adult responsibilities you’re finally catching up on.

“I’d like to do a pelvic exam and Pap smear today, if that’s okay with you,” Dr. Rivera continues. “It’s recommended for women your age, and it will help us make sure everything looks healthy before we proceed with birth control.”

The exam succeeds.

And in itself it is… well, not pleasant, exactly, but not as terrible as you’d feared.

Dr. Rivera talks you through each step—the speculum (cold, but not painful), the swabs (quick, a little uncomfortable), the manual exam (weird pressure, but over quickly).

It’s not dignified, but it’s not humiliating either. Just necessary. Clinical. Part of being a woman with a body that needs maintenance and care.

Afterward, as you sit back up, adjusting the paper gown around your knees, she asks, “So, were you thinking you’d like to start birth control today, or did you want some time to think about options?”

“Today,” you say, the word coming out more confident than you feel. Then, because honesty seems important here: “I’m afraid if I wait, I’ll talk myself out of it.”

Dr. Rivera’s smile is understanding. “That happens more often than you’d think. If you’re interested in an IUD, I could insert one today. We have both hormonal and copper options in stock.”

Your heart jumps a little. You hadn’t expected to actually do this today. You’d thought there would be more steps, more time, more chances to second-guess yourself.

“The copper one,” you say, a decision forming as the words leave your mouth. “I’ve been reading about it. I like that there are no hormones, and that it works right away.”

“The ParaGard,” she nods. “It’s effective for up to twelve years, though you can have it removed anytime. The insertion can be uncomfortable—some women experience cramping during and after the procedure. Are you on your period now?”

You shake your head.

“That’s fine. Some doctors prefer to insert during menstruation because the cervix is naturally a bit more open, but it’s not necessary. We can do it today if you’re sure.”

Are you?

Are you sure you want to make this decision, right now, without more time to think?

Are you sure you’re ready for this level of control, this level of commitment to your own autonomy?

The voice in your head that prompts those questions sounds suspiciously like your mother’s—whispers that maybe you should wait. Think more. Ask someone else’s opinion. Perhaps this is too rushed, too impulsive.

But then another voice rises—your own voice, tired of being drowned out—saying that you’ve thought enough.

That waiting is just another form of letting fear make your decisions for you.

That you know what you want.

“I’m sure,” you say, and the words feel like a declaration of independence.

Dr. Rivera walks you through the procedure, what to expect, potential side effects, when to call if something feels wrong. She’s thorough without being patronizing, clear without being alarming. By the time she leaves to gather the necessary materials, your nervousness has dissipated, and all you’re left feeling is an odd sort of calm.

This is happening. You’re choosing this. For yourself. By yourself.

And then, the actual insertion.

Which, just like the exam, isn’t pleasant.

There’s pain—sharp, sudden, deep—as the IUD passes through your cervix. A cramping that radiates outward, making you gasp and grip the edges of the exam table. But it’s over faster than you expected, though the cramping lingers.

“You did great,” Dr. Rivera says, stripping off her gloves. “The cramping should ease up in a day or two. Ibuprofen will help. And remember what we discussed about checking the strings, about when to call if something doesn’t feel right.”

You nod, absorbing the information through the haze of discomfort and, oddly enough, a strange sense of triumph.

Because you did it. You came here, you made a choice, and you followed through. No one told you to. No one had to approve. Just you, deciding what happens to your body.

It’s a small thing, maybe. Basic healthcare that thousands of women access every day. But to you, in this moment, it feels monumental.

“Thank you,” you say, meaning it deeply.

Dr. Rivera smiles, like she understands exactly what you’re thanking her for.

“Take your time getting dressed. The nurse will bring you some information to take home, and I’ll see you for a follow-up in a few weeks to make sure everything’s settling in well.”

When she leaves, you sit there for a moment longer, one hand resting lightly on your lower abdomen.

There’s something in there now, something you chose, something working for you without you having to think about it.

Protection. Freedom. Agency.

It hurts, yes.

But it’s a hurt with purpose.

A discomfort you’re enduring for yourself, not for anyone else.

As you dress slowly, careful of the cramping that makes you wince, you think about all the times you’ve twisted yourself into shapes that pleased others. All the choices you’ve surrendered in the name of being good, being agreeable, being what everyone else wanted.

Not this time.

This time, you chose you.

Yoongi doesn’t ask questions when you emerge, moving slightly slower than before, your face a little paler. He just stands, tucks his phone into his pocket, and falls into step beside you as you make your way out of the clinic.

“Need anything?” he asks simply as you wait for the Uber outside.

You consider for a moment. “Ice cream, maybe.”

He nods, like this is the most reasonable request in the world. “There’s a good place three blocks from here. If you’re up for the walk.”

The cramping is uncomfortable but manageable—and your need for something sweet and creamy is too compelling to deny it.

“Yeah,” you say, adjusting your course to fall in beside him. “I’m up for it.”

You can’t help but think how strange really life is.

How you’re walking through the East Village with Yoongi, a copper IUD safely nestled in your uterus, making decisions that have nothing to do with what anyone else thinks you should do.

It feels like freedom.

It feels like growing up.

It feels, for the first time in a long while, like your life is actually yours.

Maybe that’s worth a little discomfort.

goal: 300 notes and this time I am not lowering the bar

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex

334 notes · View notes