#maybe i should try again. next year. definitely next year - and Late next year too b/c oh my god drawing every day takes energy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thisapplepielife · 3 months ago

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Written for a @astrangersummer.

Tip Your Driver

Of all the shitty service jobs Steve's had, this one is definitely among the worst.

And he's been stuck working some pretty shitty jobs over the years, both before and after they moved out here. If he hadn't hated the one at the shoe store so much, because ew feet, he wouldn't be doing this in the first place. At least that was in one location, a steady paycheck, and not that far from their apartment. But, he didn't know that feet draw in some weirdos, so here he is, lugging other people's shit around, because he needs the money.

He just sighs as he pulls up in front of the address on the app. He double checks the posted numbers over the garage, and it seems to be the right place. Everything matches enough for him to call it good.

The house is really nice.

It's not in The Hills or anything, so he hadn't expected something so nice.

Now, Steve doesn't mind delivering groceries, not really, but this guy, Eddie it says, ordered a bunch of heavy shit, and the tip was only the mediocre bare minimum. Which, he wasn't that mad about, until right now, after he's seen the house this guy lives in.

No, now he's pretty annoyed.

Whatever. Par for the fucking course from Fancy Pants Rich McGee over here. How the hell you spell chauffeur? Chauffeur. Indeed. Maybe he should make tiktoks about situations just like this. Robin keeps hounding him, saying if he'd just do it, that he could rake in a little extra cash.

He's skeptical.

Steve looks back at the house.

Oh well. He left his money behind for a reason, the only thing he kept was his car because his parents were dumb enough to put it in his name. And honestly? It does him no good to be jealous or whatever the fuck he's feeling right now.

At least this guy had been responsive, and pretty nice, when answering Steve's messages about substitutions and out of stock items. Not everybody is, unfortunately, acting as if Steve is the one stocking the store himself.

Steve opens the back hatch of his car, and leans in to grab the first items to be left at the door, as requested. If they don't see you, they feel less bad about the shitty tip, Steve's learned.

But it's fine. Steve doesn't want to deal with anyone face-to-face today, anyway. Because he needs to hurry. He and Robin are already a couple days late on rent, and he's gotta try to make up the difference today. If not, they're gonna be fucking screwed. Why is this city so goddamn expensive to live in? It's bullshit.

"Let me help," comes the voice right next to him, and Steve jumps, hitting his head on the open hatch door.

Now, he's skipped over annoyed and has been vaulted straight into pissed off.

Partly at himself for being so far in his own head that he didn't even hear this guy approaching, but mainly at this asshole for even being in his personal space in the first place. He needs to take about three big steps back.

"Oh, fuck! Sorry! I didn't mean to startle you!" the guy shouts, and Steve hasn't even seen this asshole yet, but he knows he hates him.

"Most people don't help unload the car," Steve snaps, turning to look at him, and the guy is looking back at him with big, big brown eyes. Robin would call them doe eyes, without a doubt. Well, fuck. Fine. Steve softens his tone, "It's okay. I just wasn't expecting you."

"Sorry," Eddie says again, still too close. "I'm Eddie. I ordered the groceries. Can I help? Please?"

Steve nods, and lets him reach in and grab his own case of water, while Steve picks up a few of the sacks. It's the least the guy can do, now that he's given him a headache. Literally.

Steve carries the sacks towards the porch, and leans over to put them down.

"Just come on in," Eddie says, and the door swings open, banging against the rubber doorstop on the wall.

"Don't bang the door!" comes the yell from the other room, and Steve peers into the house and sees an older guy sitting in a lift chair, with a walker in front of him.

"It's my door, old man, I'll bang it if I want to!" Eddie yells back, but there's no heat there. Steve can hear the teasing affection in his voice, and Steve can't help but smile.

"Don't come crying to me when there's a hole in your wall. Can you patch drywall? Because I can't right now," the guy, probably Eddie's dad the way they're bickering, snaps.

Eddie ignores the question from his dad.

"C'mon, this way," Eddie says, looking over his shoulder at Steve, as Steve lingers on the step.

Well, no. That's not. You don't go in stranger's houses. It's, like, rule one. And just good common sense. Which apparently Steve has none of, because he does follow Eddie into the house.

Robin will kill him, if this Eddie dude doesn't kill him first.

Steve puts the bags down on the counter, and heads back out to make another trip, Eddie following, "That's my uncle. He's just crotchety that he had to have his broken hip replaced, and now he's dependent on me for the near future."

Steve laughs, "Well, maybe don't bang the door and he won't be crotchety."

"You heard me. It's my door," Eddie says, smiling wide. He's pretty, very pretty. Long, dark hair tied up on top of his head, and heavy tattoos all along his arms, creeping up onto his neck.

He's honestly gorgeous.

Steve wonders if he's famous. He doesn't look familiar, but he looks like he could be famous. And his house is pretty fucking nice. This is L.A. Everybody is somehow famous in L.A. Except for Steve and Robin. They are definitely not famous.

Unless he's a tech bro? But he doesn't really look the type.

Either way, famous or not, Steve smiles back, can't not, not when he looks like that, then asks, teasing him, "Well do you know how to patch drywall?"

"Fuck no. But I could hire someone to fix it if the door knob somehow gets through the stopper."

"Well, at least you have a plan," Steve says, and Eddie laughs.

"He just hates the city. Hates my house. Hates everything. Except me. He loves me," Eddie says, as he grabs a case of Gatorade in one hand and the case of pork and beans in the other.

That's a lot of beans.

"That's a lot of beans," Steve says aloud, even if he doesn't mean to, even if he knows better than to comment on other people's groceries.

But Eddie laughs. "Tell me about it. Man likes what he likes, though. There's no changing him now."

Steve nods, grabbing another handful himself. It's nice that Eddie is taking care of his uncle.

"I'm not usually home much, hence all the groceries being ordered at once. Sorry about that. The cabinets were pretty bare, and I just didn't want to leave him home alone. He's still a fall risk, even if he keeps insisting he's not."

"That's okay, I understand. Big orders are more common than you'd think," Steve says, stepping back into the house that he's probably not going to get murdered in, thankfully.

Big orders are common, he's not lying about that, and more often than not, the tips offered for shopping hundreds of items, are less than you'd think. So, this order wasn't even out of the ordinary. Not really. That's why Steve took it. Some pay was better than none, especially today, that's for sure.

"Still. I'm grateful. You saved my ass today, man," Eddie answers.

"Well, it's my job," Steve says, and Eddie laughs.

They finish bringing everything in, and Steve nods at Eddie, "Okay. I think that does it."

"Here," Eddie says, and plucks an envelope off the counter, "I always worry that your tips in the app will get eaten up by the corporate assholes taking their cut off the top. So. Cash is king."

Steve takes the envelope. A tip he doesn't have to report? Why thank you, Eddie.

"Thank you. You didn't have to do this, or help bring it in, you know? But I appreciate both."

Eddie smiles, "Thank you for getting all that shit for us. We both appreciate it. Don't we Wayne?"

Wayne grumbles, but Steve's pretty sure he doesn't appreciate anything right now. He knows he wouldn't either, if he had broken his hip.

They say their goodbyes, and that's that. Steve will never see Eddie with the pretty eyes ever again.

At the next red light, Steve opens the envelope, expecting an extra ten or twenty bucks, maybe, but is shocked to see that there are three, insanely crisp one hundred dollar bills inside.

Holy shit.

That's way more than he usually makes in a single day. Two days, even. Just by delivering one order that he didn't think was gonna pay well at all.

And he got to look at a hot dude for a minute or two.

It's enough to cover what they were short on the rent, even. It might not have felt like a lot of money to Eddie, if he handed it over so readily, but it feels life-changing to Steve, right now. He remembers when three hundred bucks wasn't anything to him either, back when he had access to all his parents' money and all their unhappiness.

Now, it's different.

Robin's gonna shit.

Hot damn.

Thank you, Eddie.

"Booyah," Steve says, slapping the envelope on the counter.

Robin picks it up, and thumbs through it. It has Eddie's tip, and the few extra bucks he picked up during the rest of the day.

"Oh my god, no way! Where did you get this much cash, dingus? Are you turning tricks on the side now?" Robin asks, and Steve laughs.

"Yes. I thought I'd see what I could get for this ass," Steve says, turning and pushing his ass outwards in her direction.

She doesn't even look, but says, "Honestly, you might be worth more than this, as much as I hate to admit it," she comments dryly, and he smiles.

"No, some rich dude that ordered a bunch of heavy shit gave me a big tip," Steve explains.

"That's what she said," Robin teases, and her eyes are still wide as she looks at the bills in her hand, "Seriously, though. Thank you, rich, old dude," Robin says.

"Rich, but not old. I think he might have been famous in some way. YouTuber? Musician? I don't know. Nice house."

"Well. Describe him. Let's Google him," Robin says, wiggling her fingers in the air like she's stretching before this big task she's about to undertake.

Steve isn't sure searching for him is gonna work, but he lets her try, "Eddie. Probably a little older than us. Lots of tattoos."

"Was it Eddie Vedder? Please tell me you know who Eddie Vedder is, dingus?"

He knows who Eddie Vedder is, Jesus.

He gives her a look, "Not that old. And he was heavily tattooed. Is Eddie Vedder tattooed? Plus, this guy had dark eyes. Really dark. And no flannel."

She keeps looking on her phone, showing him options, "Him?"

No.

"Him?"

No.

"Him?"

"No. Not him." None of them are. Nobody she shows him is the same guy. So, he thinks of all the famous Eddies he knows of.

"Was it Eddie Van Halen?" Steve asks.

"Since he's dead, probably not," Robin says.

"Oh," Steve says. He didn't remember that. And he'd be too old, anyway. "We're looking for someone that looks kinda like young Eddie Van Halen. But with tattoos."

"You're obsessed with the tattoos. Was it Ed Sheeran? He has lots of tattoos," Robin asks, and he rolls his eyes.

"Robin. I think I know what Ed Sheeran looks like. This man was not ginger. Dark hair, dark eyes. And he was American. Maybe this guy is just rich? Not famous at all. It doesn't matter. I'll never see him again, anyway. We'll just thank him from afar for saving our asses today."

Robin sighs heavily, and puts her phone down, "If you'd got yourself a rich boyfriend we'd have it made all the time."

"Well, I'll work on that," he says sarcastically.

At least for now, they can pay another month's rent. That's a big win. Huge.

Maybe they can keep their heads above water, now.

And they do, by some sort of miracle. It was only three hundred bucks, but that was enough of a windfall to get them back in the black. And somehow they've stayed ahead since, for nearly two whole months. They haven't been this stable financially since they arrived in town.

Today, Steve flips through the different apps he drives for, trying to decide what order to take, when he sees a huge pizza order. The order is absurdly big, but the tip is decent, and picking up a stack of pizzas is infinitely easier than shopping a whole-ass grocery list. Steve's just seriously questioning if it'll all fit in his car.

He's gonna risk it.

Luckily, it does, but there are pizza boxes piled high in every seat and the rear. He definitely doesn't have hot bags for all of them. Hopefully he doesn't get caught in traffic.

The area seems familiar, but when Steve pulls up in front of the house, he knows why. Eddie. Only, the last time it was groceries, not food, that he delivered here.

There are vehicles everywhere. Clearly some sort of party, Steve thinks, to require this amount of pizza. And as soon as Steve steps out of the car, Eddie is out of the house, being trailed by three other, mostly leather-clad, guys. It'd look threatening, if Eddie wasn't smiling so big.

"Steve! When I saw Steve was my driver, I was like, maybe? But Steve's a common name, and there was no picture, so I didn't get my hopes up, but hey! It is you!" Eddie shouts, moving to the back of the car, "Watch your head this time, sweetheart," Eddie adds, and Steve is sure he's blushing.

He just stands there kind of dumbly, watching as Eddie commandeers his order right out of Steve's vehicle. Eddie's definitely unusual.

Eddie hands stack after stack of pizzas to the waiting guys, making them carry the bulk of it. And Steve watches as they ferry them off towards the house, Steve not having to even lift a finger this time.

Now, it's just him and Eddie standing on the curb.

Eddie holds out an envelope, and Steve looks at it.

"Man, thank you, but you tipped so well last time, you really don't have to again."

"I want to. You provide a service, I want to pay for that service," Eddie says, shaking the envelope, and Steve reluctantly takes it. Whatever is inside, will really help him and Robin stay ahead. It did last time. He's not really in a position to say no, even as well as they are doing at the moment.

"Thank you, truly," Steve says, tucking it into his pocket, "How's your Uncle Wayne's hip?"

Eddie smiles, so fucking wide, "You remembered! He's good. Great. Headed home soon, which I'm certain he's thrilled about. He's definitely never coming here again. I'll have to go home when I want to see him."

Steve laughs, "Glad to hear he's better, if annoyed."

"Do you want to stay?" Eddie asks, "We're having a little going away party for him. The more the merrier. Or, is your shift not over? You could come back?"

Steve doesn't have a shift, he can clock in and out to take orders as he pleases, and right now he'd really like to accept Eddie's offer. Even if it's probably just Eddie being polite. A pity ask, if you will.

"You don't have to invite your delivery driver into your house, you know? I could be a murderer."

"Unlikely," Eddie says, "and I'm not inviting my delivery driver. I'm inviting you, Steve."

Steve thinks over the options, and then nods. He can go in for a bit. If he's uncomfortable, he can get right back on the clock, no harm, no foul.

"Okay, let me park," Steve says, and he does just that. Putting the envelope of cash into the glove box without opening it. He doesn't want Eddie to see him scrounging through it. That feels tacky.

The pizza boxes are already open on every available flat surface in the kitchen and living room, and Eddie shoves a paper plate into Steve's hands, "Eat. Drink. Be merry."

Steve nods, and grabs a slice from the nearest box. He's not picky.

The house is full of people, and a lot of them seem vaguely famous. Like this is an industry thing, instead of a going away party for an old man with a newly not-broken hip.

Steve's worked enough of these events. They tried the catering thing for a while, and it was fine, for Steve anyway. Robin was just a little too clumsy to carry trays of dainty hors d'oeuvres around rooms filled with beautiful women in expensive dresses.

This isn't any of that though. This is cases of beer being chilled in kiddie pools, and dozens of pizzas. Fancy house, but not a fancy party. Steve spots Eddie's uncle sitting by himself on a couch, a beer resting on his knee and a paper plate of pizza on the arm rest.

Nobody else is sitting by him, so Steve goes over, "Can I sit?"

Wayne grumbles something that could be yes, could be no, Steve's not wholly sure, but he chooses to go ahead and sit down beside him.

"How's your hip?" Steve asks.

"Who are you?" Wayne asks, looking at him, suspicious.

"Steve. Uh, a delivery driver? I've brought a couple orders to you guys now. And Eddie invited me to stay."

Wayne nods, and goes back to his plate, "Hip's fine. Ready to go home."

"Where's home?" Steve asks, and he's not sure why. Clearly this man has no interest in making small talk with him.

"Indiana," Wayne says.

"Hey! For me, too. Small world."

"What're you doing in California, then?" Wayne asks. "Trying to get into show biz?"

"No. No way," Steve laughs, "Not for me. Uh, my best friend? Robin? She wanted to move out here. Wanted an adventure. And I wanted her to be happy. So. Here we are."

Wayne nods.

"Did you break your hip in Indiana and Eddie dragged you all the way out here?" Steve asks.

"No," Wayne answers, "I came to visit him and broke my hip before I got out of the airport. This is why I don't take vacations."

Steve smiles, "That's bad luck. Sorry."

Wayne nods his head, and Steve assumes that's the end of this conversation, and they sit in silence for a few moments.

"You're Steve? The one that brought the groceries a few weeks ago?" Wayne asks.

"That's me," Steve confirms.

"He's been talking about you non-stop. I was like, just order more groceries. So, he tried. It was never you. Now we have more food than he'll ever eat. Probably need to take it to the food pantry."

Steve grins, looking down at his plate. He isn't sure what Eddie would want to see him for. They definitely aren't on the same level.

Eddie is across the room, talking wildly with his hands.

"He's a good kid," Wayne says, quietly, "All this? Not him. Not all of him, anyway."

Steve looks back at Wayne, "What do you mean?"

"All this fancy shit. I'm proud of him that their music has done so well. But he's a good kid. And he just wants to be happy."

"Don't we all," Steve says.

"People take advantage. If you're here for the money, for the fame. Just. Move on. Eddie would give it to you. But he wants something more. Needs it, I think."

Steve thinks he could be something more. But he doesn't really have anything to offer Eddie in return, and maybe heeding Wayne's warning wouldn't be such a bad idea. What business does he have getting involved with a famous musician? None.

"Got it," Steve says. "Well, I'm glad your hip healed."

Wayne grumbles at that, and it makes Steve smile.

Steve puts his trash in the can, and looks around. The hallways are lined with platinum records, news articles, and he leans close to read the name. Eddie Munson. Corroded Coffin. He's never heard of them. He'll have to look them up on Spotify.

He doesn't belong here.

He takes one last look at Eddie.

Eddie Munson of Corroded Coffin.

He tries to memorize his name, his band, so he can tell Robin later, solving their little mystery.

And then he ducks out of the front door, walking down the long driveway towards his car.

"Hey, Steve! Wait!" Eddie yells from behind him, and Steve slows.

"Hey, man. Thanks for having me," Steve says, turning to look at him.

"You're leaving already?"

Steve nods, "Work, you know."

Eddie nods, "Okay. Well. Come back. Anytime."

"Thanks, Eddie," Steve says, because he's pretty sure Eddie means that, "Enjoy your party. I'm glad Wayne's hip is good as new."

Steve turns to keep walking.

"Steve. Uh," Eddie says, and Steve considers pretending he didn't hear him. It'd be easy. The music is loud, probably pissing off the neighbors, but Eddie keeps talking. "Listen. I like you. Yeah, I know. I barely know you. But. We got good vibes, man. Can you not feel that?" Eddie asks, and when Steve turns to look back at him, he sees that Eddie's hands are shoved deep into his pockets.

He looks nervous.

He's famous, clearly rich, and beautiful. He could have anyone he wants. But he looks nervous talking to Steve. Who delivered the pizza. Make it make sense. Goddamn.

"Eddie," Steve says.

"Do you not feel it? If you don't, I'll leave you alone. I swear. But if you do…"

Steve nods, "I do. But I'm a delivery driver. I live in a tiny apartment that I share with my best friend. We barely make ends meet. You could have anyone. Why would you want me?"

"Because I like you," Eddie says, "and I want to get to know you. I didn't grow up with anything either. I'm not old money. I'm new money. Brand new. So. I'm not that out of touch yet."

Steve smiles. He's old money, he just doesn't have access to it anymore. Eddie's new money, and doesn't know how to handle it. They'd be quite the pair.

Eddie keeps talking, trying to wheedle a date out of him, "Just. Let me take you out. Just us. Let's see if there's anything here," he says, motioning his hand between the two of them.

Steve wants to, he really does.

"Okay," Steve finally says, "nothing fancy. A normal date."

"We can definitely do that," Eddie says, and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. "Let me give you my number."

Steve rattles off his number, Eddie texts him, and it buzzes against Steve's thigh. Already coming through, showing he's serious.

"Dinner? Movie? Bar? You name it," Eddie offers, eyes never leaving Steve's.

"Dinner's good. Nowhere fancy, though," Steve warns.

"Do I look like I like fancy places?" Eddie asks, looking down at his own clothes.

And Steve's eyes cut back to the gorgeous house.

Eddie laughs, "Fair enough. But I don't."

"Can you go out in public? Or are you too famous?" Steve asks. "I'm not familiar with your band, sorry."

Eddie laughs, "I think I like that you aren't, sweetheart. That means that maybe you like me, just for me. And I can go out. Nobody cares about me all that much."

Steve nods. Alright. They can go on one date, and see how it goes.

Well. That's how it goes.

Very, very well.

So well, that Steve's now satisfied and loose in Eddie's bed, when Eddie laughs, rolling into Steve's shoulder, face pressed to his skin. Lips kissing his shoulder, biting at him gently. Playing with him.

"What?" Steve asks, smiling as Eddie slides his hand into his, squeezing. "What's so funny."

"I tipped my driver," Eddie chokes out, laughing around each word, pressing his crotch into Steve's thigh.

Steve laughs, looking down at this ridiculous man clinging to him, "That you did. And damn well."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @astrangersummer and follow along with the fun!

#a stranger summer #week fifteen #prompt: modern au #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #wayne munson #stranger things fic #robin buckley #stranger things 4 #steddie #platonic stobin #steve x eddie #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: a stranger summer

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imaginespazzi · 3 months ago

Text

Part 8: The Toxic In Intoxication

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11

Your mouth is poison (your mouth is wine)

(In which an all over the place writer, writes something that's a little bit all over the place)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Fluff, Jealousy,

Words: 9.0K

TW: Swearing, a little bit of violence, mentions of blood, men being men

A/N: Hi lovelies :) Unfortunately, as I've been warning y'all for a while, the deadline did finally slip through my fingers. However I'm hoping y'all will forgive me for it because I am only one day late and this chapter is quite long. I do wanna warn y'all in advance that there won't be a chapter next week because I am going on vacation and my laptop is staying very, very far away from me. There's a lot going on in this chapter and I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing but I'm hoping y'all will enjoy it anyways. I did actually edit this time but who knows how successful that was, so please let me know about typos/mistakes. As always, feel free to tell me about what you liked, what you disliked and anything you'd like to see going forward. Have a lovely rest of your weeks my loves <3

August 2025

Azzi Fudd is a spectacular liar. She excels at keeping up a façade of yes everything is perfectly fine in front of her friends and family. She’s quite good at tricking people she can barely stand into thinking oh yes i’m totally enjoying this conversation. But the person Azzi lies the most to, is without a doubt herself. As she steps out of the car into the hot Indiana air, bustling with noises from the growing crowd inside, Azzi internally repeats a lie to herself again: she did not show up to all-star weekend for a glimpse of her ex girlfriend. She’s here, as per Colleen’s managerial advice, to build connections, to further her career and to expand on opportunities in the basketball world. The fact that Paige Bueckers, who Azzi hasn’t seen in three months -the longest period of time they’d spent apart since she’d started at UConn- is definitely also going to be attending tonight’s party, is merely a happenstance.

Taking a deep breath, Azzi puts one kitten heeled foot in front of the other, trying to ignore her heightened nerves. This isn’t her preferred scene by any means. She’d much rather be back in her hotel room, curled on her couch with a book and a pint of ice cream. It’s not that Azzi doesn’t like parties; she has her fair share of fun at Ted’s, but it’s the unfamiliarity of the environment and the lack of that once ever present comforting hand that used to tap out i’m here for you against the back of her own at big events like these, that has her yearning to crawl back into the car and hide away.

“Azzi?” a familiar voice calls from behind her and Azzi lets out a sigh of relief as she sees Aaliyah walking towards her with a large welcoming grin, “Azeray!”

“Li-Li. Thank god you’re here,” Azzi reaches up to hug her former teammate, mentally thanking whatever god was looking out for her. She’d dreaded walking in by herself and now she wouldn’t have to. Really she probably should probably send Coach a ‘thank you’ text for having so many alumni in the league that there was bound to be a Husky she could attach herself to for the night.

“I’m glad to see you too Az,” Aaliyah says, pulling away and looking at Azzi with a semi-concerned look, “but you seem a little extra relieved to see me? You good dude?”

“Just- just a little nervous,” Azzi admits, shuffling her feet uneasily.

Realization dawns on Aaliyah’s face, “cause of Paige?”

“No you know I don’t like big unfamiliar places,” Azzi sighs when Aaliayh gives her a pointed look, “but I guess maybe- maybe a little cause of Paige.”

The Mystics forward shakes her head before linking her arms through Azzi’s, “I swear, I leave y’all for one year and everything implodes-," she bites her tongue, "shit was that insensitive?”

“No,” Azzi grimaces, “that’s pretty much exactly what happened.”

Something hard coils in her stomach at Aaliyah’s words. The truth is they’d been fine. Better than fine even. And then suddenly Azzi was lighting a box of matches she hadn’t even known she was holding and her whole world was on fire; an implosion of everything Azzi had once thought inflammable. She’d burned her hands trying to rescue them and all she has to show for it are invisible red hot pustules that refuse to heal. But perhaps, she thinks, that’s what a pyromaniac like her had deserved.

Azzi cowers under the flashing lights of the cameras, clinging tighter to Aaliyah’s arm as the two of them make their way onto the orange carpet, the cameramen immediately swinging their devices to capture the college basketball player more than likely to be the number one pick in next year’s WNBA draft. She feels herself tense under their piercing gaze, anchored only by Aaliyah's strong and steady presence next to her. And as they pose for the cameras, she’s thankful for her former teammate’s company but she can’t shake the feeling that it should have been someone else.

“And look who we have here,” Lexie Brown says excitedly as the two of them approach the interviewer, “y’all Huskies clean up nice.”

“We try, we try,” Aaliyah answers charismatically, doing a little hair flip to match her tone.

“Aaliyah, it's your first all-star nod, how are you feeling?”

“I feel great, you know it’s always good to see yourself being acknowledged and being an all-star has always been a goal of mine. So, I hope it’s the first of many and I’m just hoping my team gets the W tomorrow,” Aaliyah answers diplomatically.

Lexie turns to Azzi, “I bet you’re really proud of her. I mean you’ve got a couple of teammates who are first-time all stars between Aaliyah and Paige. You’ve gotta be feeling pretty proud of them”

“Y-yeah I mean,” Azzi clears her throat, trying not to flinch at the mention of Paige’s name, “It’s been- it’s been really exciting to watch them and I’m extremely proud-”

She’s cut off by the sound of excited chatter filling up the air and Azzi doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s just entered the premises. Not when she has a whole separate sensory system that flares up just for her. Azzi’s skin prickles as she registers the sound of familiar peals of laughter echoing from the orange carpet. She digs her nails into the palm of her hand, forcing herself not to turn around.

“Speak of the devil,” Lexie says goodnaturedly, getting her hand ready to beckon the blonde over and Azzi feels panic suffocate her lungs, not quite ready to face Paige yet.

“Oh I don’t think-” Aaliyah tries to cut in, glancing worriedly at her friend but it’s too late.

“Paige,” Lexie calls out, beaming over Azzi’s head at the Dallas Wings’ newest star point guard.

The world seems to move in slow motion as Azzi feels Paige getting closer and closer to her. She smells the faint scent of fresh mint weaved with a hint of citrus first. Then she hears the sound of Paige’s breathing, perfectly even to anybody else but Azzi can hear the staggered harshness hidden beneath it. And as the blonde passes over her to settle on Lexi’s other side, she feels Paige’s arm brush against her own and it hurts to breathe. The contact lasts for a second but Azzi swears it’ll last forever, tattooing itself on her bicep as a wretched reminder of a touch she’s no longer allowed to crave.

It’s funny, there’s a hurricane swirling between them and Paige can barely look at Azzi, keeping her eyes firmly on Lexie and Aaliyah as she greets the trio. And yet, there’s a sense of calm -of peace- that seems to wash over Azzi just by having Paige near her again. The older woman seems to possess some sort of magical power that weaves itself into Azzi’s nervous system, soothing away her frazzled nerves with an unspoken promise of and if you give me the chance i’ll make it all okay.

Despite the hectic transition from a full college season to a frantic W season, Paige looks ethereal as always. Her two piece cropped vest top and straight fitted pants match the color of her eyes and a silver chain dangles across her chest. Two strands of blonde hair hide her signature diamond studs, the rest of it pulled back into a slightly messy bun. Azzi gulps at the way the vest top parts right above her midriff, Paige’s toned abs playing peek-a-boo behind it. She lets her eyes roam over Paige’s exposed arms, trying to ignore memories of how they used to go taut under her touch, down to the blonde’s bare fingers and she feels her heart constrict. No rings. It feels wrong. But then again, nothing has felt right for three months.

“Azzi,” Aaliyah hisses and Azzi snaps out of her thoughts, realizing she’d been asked a question.

“Sorry,” she laughs nervously, moving a strand of her hair out of her face; Paige’s eyes intently following the movement, “what was the question.”

Lexie smiles, “I was just asking about your thoughts on Paige’s amazing rookie year so far?”

“Oh um-” Azzi hesitates, shivers inching up her spine as she feels Paige drinking in the sight of the her body like she's a woman parched, “I’m just-” their eyes lock with each other’s and everything else seems to vanish until it feels like it’s just the two of them floating in between remnants of what they used to be, “I’m just really proud of her. I always knew she’d be amazing. She’s just doing what she always does. Being the best player she can be. So yeah I’m just- I’m just really proud of her.”

And Azzi doesn’t know how they got to this point where Paige seems almost shocked that Azzi could be proud of her, to this point where there’s droplets threatening to spill over both of their water lines and they no longer have the right to wipe each other’s tears away.

“Aww,” Lexie coos, oblivious to the tension, “well on that sweet note, off y’all go and we’ll see y’all later.”

The walk into the party is kept alive with Aaliyah’s attempt at keeping a conversation going. While Paige tries to at least entertain some of, Azzi finds herself completely zoning out until they finally make their way inside into the cacophony of music and laughter.

“Y’all wanna get-” Aaliyah begins.

“I see Jewell and Téa,” Paige cuts her off immediately, her legs already moving in a rush, “I’ll see y’all later.”

She gives Aaliyah a tentative grin but barely looks at Azzi as she practically trips over her pant-sleeves trying to get away. It feels like something’s biting against her skin, sharp teeth indenting you did this to yourself as Azzi watches Paige walk away. She watches as the tension slowly leaves the blonde’s muscles as she’s pulled into a hug by Jewell and then by Téa. The fake smile that she’d politely kept on her face the last couple of minutes for the sake of the cameras and reporters is replaced by something far more genuine. Azzi watches as Paige is absorbed into the warmth of the growing crowd, embraced by a league that adores her, and she feels the ice cold pinch of she belongs somewhere without you now start to freeze her own heart.

***

Azzi’s doing fine. She’s gotten through the night with Aaliyah by her side, making small talk with a bunch of different players and she’s managed to keep a friendly smile the whole time. She’d even danced for a little bit, letting loose with some of the other college basketball players that had made the trip to Indianapolis. Sure, she’d occasionally been distracted by her eyes flickering over to the bar and finding a new pretty influencer batting their fake eyelashes at Paige but really she’s doing fine. Her head’s a little dizzy and maybe the third shot of tequila, influenced by a one leggy brunette that had gotten a little too handsy, wasn’t her brightest decision of the night but really, Azzi’s doing fine.

Until she’s not.

And it’s Paige's fault. She had to know that it would be Azzi’s last straw. She had to know that Azzi could live with watching a thousand girls flirt with Paige as long as the blonde in question stood rigidly by the bar doing nothing but smiling politely at them. She had to know that Azzi, after having spent most of their college life watching girls fawn over her girlfriend, could deal with the flirty hands that lingered just a little too long on Paige’s bicep. But it’s when Paige leans into this one girl -whose dark curls and tanned caramel skin are just a little too reminiscent of her own- when Paige’s lips graze just a little to close this one girl’s ear, that Azzi realizes she’s decidedly not fine.

“I need some air,” she manages to bite out, ignoring Aaliyah’s concerned look as she marches out the back door, heading towards the deck.

Azzi buries her face in her hands as she leans back against the brick wall. She knows she’s being unfair; knows she has absolutely no right to feel this way but something burns within her anyways and the light breeze does nothing to cool it down.

“I’m not cheating on you,” a harsh voice interrupts her pity party and Azzi sucks in a sharp breath, “We’re not together and I can flirt or kiss or fuck-” she flinches, “anyone if I want to.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Paige’s voice is laced with accusation, “because the way you just stormed out says otherwise.”

Azzi continues to keep her head in her palms, refusing to look at the blonde, “it’s hot and stuffy in there. I just needed some fresh air.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of lying,” Paige spits out.

“Well what do you want me to say instead?” Azzi finally looks up, her even cadence in stark contrast to Paige’s fiery tone, “I know we’re not together-”

“Because that’s what you wanted-”

“I know,” Azzi yells, and then quieter, “I know. I know I- I know I did this. But that- that doesn’t make it any easier to see you with someone else,” she swallows, “doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”

Paige scoffs, rubbing her face as she begins to pace, “you miss me? I was at Mohegan when y’all had summer camp. The whole team showed up to the game except for you and you want me to believe that you miss me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me there,” Azzi confesses in a whisper, “you were so mad at me after-after everything- and I just- I didn’t want to ruin coming back to Connecticut for you.”

“For me,” Paige lets out a laugh devoid of any emotion, “god Azzi there you go again with this fake ‘selfless’ bullshit.”

A thousand and one retorts die on the tip of Azzi’s tongue as she shakes her head and pushes herself off the wall. She can smell the alcohol on Paige, can tell the blonde is itching for an argument but all she feels is pure exhaustion.

“I don’t wanna fight Paige. I’m tired and I just-” she bites her lip, fighting the urge to caress Paige’s cheek, “believe it or don’t but- I really do miss you.”

Sparks of electricity dance their way through Azzi’s veins when Paige curls a hand around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks from going inside. And suddenly she doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

“Dance with me,” Paige whispers.

“What?”

Paige shrugs, tugging on Azzi’s hand to pull her closer, “you said you don’t wanna fight and I- I don’t want you to go,” the confession hangs between them as Paige’s hands fall to Azzi’s waist, “so- let’s just- let’s pretend.”

“What are we pretending?” Azzi asks quietly and despite the warnings ringing in her head, she wraps her arms around Paige’s neck. It feels like coming home.

“We’re pretending that we’re okay,” Paige says softly, holding Azzi’s hips as she begins to sway them gently, “we’re pretending that three months ago you said yes.”

“Paige-”

“Close your eyes Azzi,” the blond waves her hand gently across Azzi’s face, willing both of their eyelids to flutter shut, “we’re pretending that we’re not here- we’re in Minnesota or DC or I don’t know just- anywhere. And our families are here, laughing and talking and some sappy romantic song is playing. It's the best day of our lives and we’re both- we're both dressed in white-”

“Paige,” Azzi lets out a sob, as she begins to understand the picture Paige is painting for them; a picture drawn on a canvas that Azzi had torn up before any color could touch it

“Sshhhh just- let me have this okay,” Paige’s voice trembles as she leans her forehead against Azzi’s, “if I can’t have it for real, please just let me pretend.”

If they were both just a little bit more sober, maybe Azzi would fight Paige’s tightening grip. If they were both just a little bit more sober, maybe Paige would let go. Instead Azzi lets Paige play pretend, lets them keep their bodies pressed against each other, moving from side to side in rhythm with the wind.

It isn’t until she hears footsteps approaching them that Azzi hurriedly moves away first and she can see the betrayal of if only you’d just let me hold you in front of the world written all over Paige’s face. They’re both quick to swap their tears for smiles that don’t reach their eyes as they turn to face the intruders. And Azzi wonders if Paige wishes she’d drank a little bit more too. Because maybe if they were both just a little more drunk, then tomorrow they wouldn’t have to remember just how right it had felt to play pretend tonight.

April 2033

“You look so pretty Mama,” Stephie gushes from where she’s perched on the bed as she watches Azzi put the finishing touches to her makeup

“Thanks baby,” Azzi smiles, blowing a kiss in the mirror.

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie flips the running facetime call, skipping over to her mother with the phone in her hand, “doesn’t Mama look beautiful?”

Sixteen years later, and maybe it’s because of all the time they’d missed in between, but Azzi can’t help the bout of shyness that flushes across her features when Stephie places the phone, Paige’s face illuminated all over it, against the mirror so the blonde can get a proper look at Azzi’s outfit.

“You look-” Paige clears her throat, eyes dilated as they rake over Azzi’s whole body, “you look phenomenal.”

“Big word Bueckers,” Azzi teases, trying to disguise her blush, “did you just learn it?”

Paige rolls her eyes, “can’t even give you a compliment without an insult Fudd.”

“You guys argue too much,” Stephie says exasperatedly, shaking her head at the two adults who laugh. The younger girl sometimes seems far wise beyond her age.

“We’re not arguing Stephie, we’re just-” Azzi struggles to think of a word.

“Foreplaying,” Paige mutters under her breath and Azzi immediately glares at her.

“Paige!”

Stephie scrunches up her nose at the screen, “what does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Azzi says shrilly, “Miss Buecks is just making up words.”

“Why would Miss Buecks do that?” Stephie asks, looking back and forth between her mother and the screen.

“Why does Miss Buecks do anything,” Azzi babbles, as she begins to usher Stephie out of her room, “go grab your things Stephie-bean. Mama’s almost ready to drop you off at Nana and Pop’s house.”

Stephie pouts, “I wanna go to the party with you and Miss Buecks. It’s no fair you both get to go and I don’t,” she picks up the phone, looking at Paige with wide guilt-tripping eyes, “don’t you love me Miss Buecks?”

Azzi has to hand it to her daughter. She’s a smart one to choose Paige as the victim of her emotional blackmail, knowing her wiles had long stopped working on her mother.

“You know I’d take you with me if I could Stephie,” Paige says, “but I’ll make it up to you tomorrow I swear.”

Stephie smiles and Azzi shakes her head at how quickly the five-year old’s plan had worked, “you’ll take me to the park and then we’ll get fries and then get ice cream?”

“That’s a lot of junk food Steph-”

“Ssshh Mama,” Stephie chides, “this is between me and Miss Buecks.”

“The park, then fries, then ice cream it is,” Paige concedes and Azzi rolls her eyes.

Stephie grins brightly, puckering her lips to kiss Paige through the phone and eliciting a laugh from the older woman when she cheers, “you’re the best-est-est Miss Buecks. See you in a little bit. Don’t hang up without saying goodnight.”

“I promise I won’t,” Paige calls out after the little girl as Stepehie hands the phone back to Azzi and starts skipping towards her room.

Azzi gives the blonde a look, “we have got to have a conversation about you learning to say no to her.”

Paige shrugs unhelpfully, “I don’t want to learn how to say no to her.”

“You’re a lost cause,” Azzi remarks, hands on hips, “and foreplay? Seriously? Us bickering is not foreplay.”

“Well it could be if you’d just let me fuck you after,” Paige grumbles and Azzi’s mouth falls open at the bluntness of it.

“You say the most romantic things to me Paige Bueckers.”

They’re both quiet for a second as Azzi moves around her room, collecting her wallet and keys and to put into her purse.

“You know there’s still time for me to come pick you up,” Paige says finally.

“Paige,” Azzi sighs, not wanting a rerun of the same argument they’ve been having for the last week. She knows it’s a touchy subject for Paige; that it veers a little too close to insecurities that stem from their past but she’s not quite ready to take this step yet. There isn’t quite any rhyme or reason to her logic except well, she’s haunted by memories of the last time they’d let the personal mix with the professional. Her phone still holds invitations to countless team reunions that she’d actively avoided and a group chat that she’s long muted. Azzi hasn’t stepped foot in the state of Connecticut since she’d entered the draft; she refuses to lose California too.

“Teammates can carpool,” Paige explains vehemently, “it’s easily explainable.’

“I know-”

“Is this about Clémence?” bitterness tinges the edge of Paige’s voice as she chews her bottom lip. And there it is, the other subject they’d been tip-toeing around since it had been brought up at breakfast a week ago. Paige and Azzi are both excellent at avoiding talking about the harder topics but they’ve never quite managed to let anything go forever.

“Why would this be about Clémence?”

Paige narrows her eyes, sitting up from where she’d previously been lounging against her pillow, “maybe you don’t want her to see us together? Maybe you’re trying to spare her feelings I don’t know.”

“Paige-”

“You know what it’s fine,” Paige huffs, “I’ll see you at the bar Azzi.”

She hangs up before Azzi can say anything and the brunette lets out a litany of curses under her breath, annoyed with Paige’s ability to go from A to Z by skipping everything in between. There’s a part of her that knows Paige deserves an explanation about Clémence, a chance to have her lingering doubts confirmed or denied, but amidst the egoistic thoughts of well she married someone else and the self preservationist urge to prevent a potential fight, she hadn’t been brave enough to approach the topic just quite yet. Azzi’s about to step out of the room, when her phone pings with a facetime call from Paige again.

“Are you calling to apologize for hanging up?” Azzi asks with a frown.

“No,” Paige replies stubbornly, “I called because I hung up without saying goodnight to Stephie and just because I’m mad at you doesn’t mean I’m gonna miss saying goodnight to her.”

Something wonderful and warm blooms in Azzi’s chest as she silently walks over to Stephie’s room. This is a new chapter in Paige’s storybook that she’s slowly beginning to read; one scribbled with the blonde’s devotion to Azzi’s baby girl. Azzi still has every other chapter memorized; had thought nothing could be more beautiful than the words within the one that had been dedicated to her. But she’d been wrong. Because every day that she watches Paige and Stephie fall more and more in love with each other, she finds herself falling in love with how much they love each other.

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie squeals, practically snatching the phone from her mother’s hand as she goofily grins at the screen, “you didn’t hang up.”

“I promised I wouldn’t,” Paige says, the hardness that had existed in her voice while talking to Azzi, dissolving into adulation, “you be good for Nana and Pops okay?”

“I’m always good,” Stephie says matter-of-factly, “can you come over really, really, early tomorrow?”

Paige laughs, “I’ll be there as soon as I wake up.”

“Good,” Stephie claps contentedly as she grabs Azzi’s hand to start walking towards the car, “good night Miss Buecks.”

“Good night Stephie-bean,” Paige echoes, blowing a kiss through the screen.

“Paige,” Azzi says urgently, trying to stop the older woman from hanging up, “can you just hold on a second while I buckle Stephie in.”

“Az-”

“Please.”

“Fine,” Paige says, averting Azzi’s gaze as she sulks.

Azzi lifts Stephie onto the car seat, fastening her seatbelt and pressing a kiss to her daughter’s cheek, before she closes the car door and uses it as a stabilizing structure to lean on as she pulls her phone back in front of her.

“Hey,” she whispers.

“Hi,” Paige says back begrudgingly, “you wanted to say something?”

“I-” Azzi swallows, “don’t go the bar-”

“Oh fantastic,” Paige cuts her off, her voice furious as she glares daggers at Azzi through the phone, “not only do you not want to go to the bar together, you don’t want me to go at all. Fine. Okay. Whatever. I won’t go. You have the time of your life with fucking Clementine or whatever-”

“Yet,” Azzi says loudly, trying to speak over Paige’s angry rant, “don’t go to the bar yet.”

“What?”

Azzi licks her lips, “don’t go yet. I’m gonna drop Stephie off at my parents-”

“What does that have to-”

“Will you just let me fucking finish?” Azzi almost bangs her fist on the car in frustration and she’s glad to see that it makes Paige look just a little bit sheepish, “as I was saying. I’m gonna drop Stephie off at my parents and uh- your house- it’s um- it’s on the way to the bar so I thought,” she shrugs with fake nonchalance, the edge of her mouth turning upwards, “I thought maybe- maybe I could pick you up on the way.”

Paige stares blankly at the screen, eyes blinking as Azzi’s words slowly register, “you- you wanna go to the bar together?”

“I didn’t say that,” Azzi teases, eyes twinkling as she basks in the thrill of eliciting that Azzi smile from Paige’s lips, “teammates carpool right?”

“Teammates definitely carpool.”

April 2029

“You invited Clémence to our movie night?” Jana asks in a whisper, as she walks into the kitchen where Azzi’s making popcorn. Her Saturday nights have gotten rather boring since she’s had Stephie, consisting of alternating between movie nights with Jana and dinner with her parents. It wasn’t the most thrilling of times but she looked forward to them all week, excited to not have to spend a night in solitude.

“She asked what I was doing tonight and I told her we were having a movie night and then she asked if she could join and well I couldn’t just say no,” Azzi explains, sticking the bag into the microwave.

Jana cocks an eyebrow, “do you want me to leave?”

“Why would I want you to leave?” Azzi asks, crinkling her nose as she juts out an ear just in case the baby monitor goes off.

“C’mon Az,” Jana says pointedly, leaning on her elbows against the kitchen counter, “you’re telling me there’s nothing going on between the two of you?”

Azzi grimaces uneasily, not quite wanting to answer the question, “nothing that would require you to leave.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it,” Jana relents, grabbing a soda from the fridge on her way back to the living room, before she pauses in the doorway to look back at Azzi, “but I know what it looks like when somebody’s in love with you. And that girl out there,” she nods her head towards where Clémence is daintily sitting on the couch, “she’s definitely getting there.”

Jana’s a rather observant person but Azzi knows that she’s at least a little bit wrong this time. Because Clémence might be a little bit in love with -even if that’s not a fact Azzi particularly wants to acknowledge- but it's impossible for her to look at Azzi the way Jana remembers someone else looking at her. That had been something completely different; a gaze that saw all the little chinks in her armor, all the imperfections carved against her walls and loved her inspite of them, maybe even because of them. Clémence might love her, but Azzi doesn’t think anyone can be in love with her the way the person she’d been hopelessly in love with, had.

When she walks back into the living room with the popcorn in hand, still plagued by her younger teammate’s words, Azzi’s deliberate to sit on the couch next to Jana instead of the open space next to the francophone. The flash of hurt in Clémence’s eye causes guilt to trickle down her spine but Azzi thinks a flash is better than the tsunami of pain she could cause if she doesn’t start to ease herself out of this right now. There’s a selfish part of her that doesn’t want to, that’s going to miss having somebody who hangs onto her every word. Azzi likes this feeling of being wanted, even if it’s not by the person she wants. But that person isn’t hers to want anymore and she won’t torture Clémence by barricading her in the same jail that has held Azzi’s soul captive for the last four years.

They’re about half way through the movie, awkward tension eased by Jana’s incessant chatter, when Azzi’s phone buzzes. Already confused at the timing of the call, she’s even more perplexed to see Ice’s name flashing on the screen.

“Oooh Iceyyy,” Jana’s eyes light up when she catches a glimpse of the CallerID, “put her on speaker. Ice is one of our UConn teammates,” she explains, turning to Clémence who nods in recognition, “she probably did something dumb as fuck and need Azzi’s advice.”

“Don’t be mean,” Azzi scolds with a grin, knowing that Jana’s probably right as she picks up the call, “hello-”

“I hate you,” Azzi freezes at the sound of the familiar voice, laced with unfamiliar malice. Next to her Jana stiffens immediately while Clémence observes the scene in front of her with a guarded frown.

“Paige who the fuck are you calling?” Ice’s voice is muffled in the background, “oh shit, Paige give me back my phone.”

“No. She needs to hear this,” Paige grits out, her pitch wavering with the effects of alcohol, “she needs to hear how much I fucking hate her. Azzi do you hear me? I can hear you breathing. I know you’re there. Did you hear what I said?”

“Paige,” Ice hisses again.

Azzi swallows the lump in her throat, fingers digging into her bare thighs as she grips her phone so hard, she half-expects it to break into pieces in a reflection of her heart, “I heard you Paige.”

“Good. Because I do. I really fucking hate you,” Paige repeats again and Azzi flinches, “you ruined me Azzi. And now you’re ruining my marriage. My wife is perfect. She loves me. She loves being seen with me. She loves being known as my wife. Everything I ever wanted from you, she’s willing to give me. But she saw that damn hug at the Olympics and she- she’s upset with me. She thinks- she thinks I’m not over you.”

“Az maybe you should-” Jana says softly but Azzi immediately raises a hand to stop her. Maybe she’s a masochist but she can hear the hurt laced underneath the anger in Paige's voice. And if what Paige needs to get rid of her pain is a target to aim all her arrows at, then Azzi’s willing to sacrifice her heart, or at least what little is still left of it.

“And the worst thing about it,” Paige’s voice breaks, “is that she's probably right. I have the perfect fucking woman at home and I can’t seem to get over the one who broke my heart and never looked back. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Paige,” Ice pleads again and Azzi can hear her former teammate trying her best to wrangle the phone out of Paige’s firm grasp.

“I’m not done yet Ice. I need to talk to her and I need to talk to her now because if I don’t, I’ll never get the courage to say any of this again,” Paige is sobbing now, and her broken whimpers pierce Azzi’s heart deeper than any words could, “why couldn’t you just have said yes Az? I know- I know your reasons but why- why couldn’t you have just loved me enough to look past them? How do you do it Azzi? How do you live without me because it’s been four years and I- I still don’t think I know how to live without you and I hate you, I hate you because you do.”

No, Azzi thinks, I really don’t. But she doesn’t say anything, rapidly blinking back tears as she avoids both Jana’s concerned look and Clémence’s more thoughtful gaze.

“I wish I could just feel nothing towards you Azzi,” Paige confesses, heaving as she struggles to breathe through her tears, “I don’t want to hate you. I don’t want to miss you and I really- I really, really don’t want to love you. Please just make it stop. I’m so tired of this Azzi. I’m so tired of hurting. How do I make it go away? Please tell me how I make it go away? How did you make it go away?”

“I didn’t,” Azzi whispers, so soft she’s not sure Paige heard it; she’s not sure if she wants Paige to have heard it. It’s the kind of pain, she thinks, she’s destined to feel forever. It’s weaved itself into every crevice of body and now it exists as just another innate part of her. Paige thinks Azzi’s learned to live without her but really all Azzi’s learned is how to live with these permanent scars of i think i’ll miss you forever.

“That’s enough Paige,” Ice’s voice is clearer now, having finally snatched the phone out of her teammate’s grip, “Azzi-” she begins apologetically, “she’s just drunk. She didn’t mean-”

“She did,” Azzi clears her throat, sinking into the way Jana's arms wrap around her, “she’s um- she’s gonna be really hungover in the morning. Make sure she- make sure you give her water but don’t- don’t give her coffee. She’ll want it but it’ll only make it worse because she uh- she- when she drinks too much, her stomach hurts and the caffeine- it just- it makes it worse so- don’t let her drink coffee tomorrow morning okay? And make sure- make sure she eats something before she takes painkillers. And Ice?’

“Yeah Azzi.”

“If she doesn’t remember any of this tomorrow morning, please don’t remind her.”

***

April 2033

The bar is buzzing with noise by the time Paige and Azzi finally arrive. It’s an exclusive enough place that they won’t be too bothered by fans asking for pictures and autographs but the size of the crowd still puts Azzi a little bit on edge. She can’t help the small smile that flitters across her face when she feels Paige’s hand resting on her lower back as the blonde guides the two of them through the crowd in search of their teammates. For the last eight years, Azzi has been her own protector and she’s learned to guard herself but it’s nice -it feels right- to have someone else ready to be her shield too.

“You know Bueckers,” Joyce says as the two of them finally approach the table that had been reserved for the Valkyries, “some might say that one should be on time when meeting their new teammates. Just a thought.”

“And some might say Edwards that being fashionably late is being on time,” Paige quips back.

Joyce grins, “alright time for introductions.”

“I’m pretty sure I know-”

“Shut up,” Joyce reprimands, throwing an arm around Paige’s shoulders, “let me introduce these brand new people to you.”

“They’re not-”

“Sssshhh. Let me have my fun. We’ll start over here with Westbeld and Booker. You might know them, their teams kicked your ass during the 23-24 season,” Joyce says with a smirk.

“Oh I do remember that,” Paige says thoughtfully, eyes twinkling with mirth, “what happened the season after?”

“Don’t be cocky Bueckers. It’s unbecoming,” Madison chides as she rises from the table to give Paige a hug.

“Yeah I try not to remember that Elite Eight game thanks,” Laila says, making a disgusted face.

Joyce glares at her, “did I introduce you yet Miss Phelia?”

Laila raises her hands in surrender as Joyce continues to give Paige a tour of the Valkyrie team. Azzi had known that Paige would fit in well with her teammate -really the blonde had the uncanny ability to fit in anywhere- but seeing it realized in front of her, it seems even clearer. Paige feels like the last mosaic piece, slotting in right where she belongs.

“Those two over there are our babies,” Joyce points to Haylen and Jayla, “they’re like five years old but we love them anyways.”

“I’m almost 25,” Haylen protests.

“See,” Joyce remarks, “literally children. And that one,” she points to Jana who beams at Paige, “well you already know her even if you sometimes wish you didn’t probably-”

“Hey!”

“Oh shush Jana,” Joyce says airily, “and I supposed there’s no point in introducing Azzi to you since y’all came together,” she pauses to look between them, “y’all don’t live that close to each other. Why didn’t you just carpool with Jana? I’m pretty sure she lives closer to you.”

Paige opens and closes her mouth a couple of times as Azzi feels her own cheeks heat up at the innocent enough question, “we um- well it's just- you see- my house is on the way from her parents and she had to drop off Stephie so it just- it just made sense you know? For efficiency’s sake.”

“Oh yeah for efficiency’s sake. They’re both very efficient,” Jana smirks, “makes a lot of sense.”

Joyce gives all three of them a weird look, “y’all Huskies are strange. It was just a question but anyways,” she grins as she finally steers Paige towards the blonde in the corner and Azzi stiffens at the way Paige’s body immediately tenses, “a couple of our teammates aren’t here but we do have a former teammate. Paige meet Clémence.”

“We’ve met,” Paige says, attempting to school her features to resemble anything but the discomfort she’s feeling within, “during the Olympics that is. We’ve beat France a couple of times.”

It’s a purposeful word choice, beat instead of played and Azzi's fingers fidget with the hem of her top as she tries to avoid looking at either of the two women.

“Yes. It is good to see you again,” Clémence says tersely, her French accent stronger than the last time Azzi had spoken to her. She shakes Paige’s hand rather formally before her eyes focus on Azzi and she determinedly walks towards the brunette, “and it is really good to see you Azzi. I have missed you.”

“I-” Azzi stutters at the French woman pulls her into a hug; over her shoulder she can practically see steam coming out of Paige’s ears as she hyper focuses on how Clémence makes it a point rub her thumb down Azzi’s back, “it’s um- it’s good to see you too.”

She pulls away and she can feel the disappointment reverberating from Clémence’s body as Azzi practically flings herself on the chair next to Jana, wondering what she’d done to deserve this moment as a punishment for her sins.

“Save me,” she pleads as Clémence and Paige sit as far away from each other as possible, occasionally shooting glares when they think the other isn’t looking.

“Save you from having two hot women fighting over you?” the center teases, “you truly have such first world problems Azzi Fudd.”

“They’re not fighting over me-”

“Azzi you will have your usual rum and coke no?” Clémence asks and Azzi looks over to where the francophone is intently staring at her, “I will go-”

“Oh there’s no need,” Paige says immediately, “you sit Clémence. You already have a drink. I was gonna go get one for myself and I’ll get Azzi’s too. Besides, Azzi's more of a fruity drink girl. Az I’ll get you a piña colada-”

Clémence narrows her eyes, “maybe she liked that when she was in college but Azzi likes something different now.”

“She might like something different now,” Paige counters, standing up aggressively so she towers over the table, “but she’s always gonna love a piña colada right Azzi?”

All eyes turn to look at Azzi who wants nothing more than to cower under the table- or hit Jana who seems to find this very unamusinging situation rather entertaining, “I um-” she swallows, “I think tonight calls for something stronger. Round of shots for the table? On me?”

It placates the situation for a while as the rest of the team cheers on the idea, beckoning over one of the bartenders to orders a round of tequila shots for the table. For a moment, Azzi tricks herself into thinking maybe that’ll be the end of ridiculous situations for the night as the team downs shots to Jana yelling “to the Valkyries” but she should have known it was wishful thinking.

Half the team ends up on the dance floor, swaying to the mixed rhythm of the music and the newly minted alcohol coursing through their bloodstreams. Azzi watches with a smile as despite her protests, Joyce manages to drag Paige onto the dance floor with her, engaging her in some eccentric dance moves as they try to outdo each other on who can look the silliest. And as the rest of the girls cheer the blonde on, it feels like Paige is chiseling out a place for herself in another part of Azzi’s world.

“She is easy to love,” Clémence’s hot breath fans Azzi’s ear as the francophone takes Jana’s empty seat next to the brunette.

“Clém-” Azzi sighs.

“She fits in well with the team,” Clémence continues, something wistful in her voice, “I have seen her play. She will fit in well on the court with you guys as well. She will fit in well next to you.”

“That’s the hope,” Azzi says softly as she tilts her head to look at the other woman, “you fit in well too. I mean it Clém. We’ll miss you at GSV.”

Clémence smiles bitterly, “I would have liked to stay but they needed the cap space so they could sign her. She- she’s quite expensive. I mean considering she is casually wearing swarovski crystals on her neck in a bar on a random Saturday night, I am not surprised.”

The two of them laugh despite the gravity that looms heavily over them. Azzi and Clémence haven’t been anything in a long time but she’d never quite shut the possibility of a potential future done. She can hear the lock ready to click now. It’s bittersweet doing the right thing but as Paige glances over from the dancefloor, eyes darting cautiously between the two of them, Azzi knows that she doesn’t want to keep any other doors open. Not when the one with Paige’s name etched on the door handle, leads to home.

“One last dance?” Clémence asks softly, holding out her hand.

Azzi hesitates, knowing that it would irritate Paige but she thinks she probably owes Clémence this and so she smiles and takes the francophone’s outstretched hand as they join their other teammates. It’s nothing beyond friendly and they both keep their hands to themselves as they sway to the music, but Azzi can feel the annoyance radiating off of Paige from across the dancefloor. She would never admit it, perhaps it’s a little toxic of her, but there’s a certain thrill to making Paige jealous. There’s something about the way the blonde’s blue eyes flare with ice cold envy, the way her jaw hardens as she grinds her teeth. The way she looks at Azzi like if she had her way she’d drag the brunette out of the bar and mark her with a possessive you’re mine you’re mine youre mine. It makes Azzi clench her thighs together as she tries to focus on Clémence.

“I understand now,” the francophone says thoughtfully as Azzi’s peers up at her in confusion, “when you told me that you could not be with me. I get it.”

“I don’t-”

“You are here with me but you aren’t actually. You will always be with her,” Clémence tilts her head towards Paige, “you always have been. I understand now,” she says again simply before her face hardens, “even after all those words she said to you on the phone that night.”

Azzi’s stomach curls at the reminder. She knows exactly what night Clémence is referring to. Sometimes when she closes her eyes, it’s those words, coated in anger and malice, that shower around her like acid rain, seeping into her skin and infecting her bloodstream.

“I told you, you deserved better,” Clémence says and Azzi gulps, “but you said- you said you deserved worse. I hope you don’t believe that anymore Azzi. Just because you hurt her doesn’t mean you need to let her hurt you too.”

“I-” Azzi’s cut off by a hard body ramming into her own and she feels herself going stumbling back into the unwanted arms of a random man, “I’m sorry,” she says tersely, struggling to get out his grip.

“No worries pretty girl,” he says toothily, the heavy stench of alcohol in his breath making Azzi feel nauseous, “but now that you’re here, how about I buy you a drink.”

“No thank you,” Azzi says sternly, trying to push the man away but he’s relentless.

“Aw c’mon don’t be like that sweetheart,” the term of endearment sounds like an insult falling from his lips and Azzi loses her patience, stomping her heel into the man’s foot to finally free herself from his grip and he yelps in surprise.

“I said no thank you.”

“What the fuck,” the man spits out, standing up as Azzi takes a step back. He’s got some muscle and although, despite his bravado, she knows she’s strong enough to take him, she’d rather not create a scene. Her plan is to walk away. Paige seems to have other ideas, suddenly materializing in between Azzi and the man, a furious look on her face as she squares him up.

“Do we have a problem?” the blonde asks menacingly.

“Nothing other than your little friend here being a fucking bitch.”

Paige’s eyes darken as she takes a threatening step towards him, prevented from going further only by the way Azzi immediately laces a hand around her wrist, “what the fuck did you call her?”

“I called her a-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Azzi cuts in, stepping in between a glaring Paige and a man who’s clearly underestimating her strength, “let it go Paige.”

“Yeah,” the man mocks, “let it go Paige.”

“You fucking-” Paige tries to lunge at him but Azzi’s quick to shove her back gently.

“Don’t cause a scene,” she warns.

“Azzi-”

“Paige please.”

“Holy shit,” the man wolf-whistles, “y’all play for the Valks. You’re Azzi Fudd. I know you.”

“Good for you,” Azzi spits out at him before turning her attention back to Paige, who looks like she could kill the man if given the chance, “c’mon let's go back to our tab-”

“It’s funny you’re acting like such a fucking prude when you have a bastard chi-”

An unmistakable crunch rings out through the bar as the man goes flying backwards. Azzi’s knuckles are bleeding as her breath comes out in ragged huffs. She hadn’t wanted to cause a scene; could have walked away from a man being a drunken idiot, could have walked away from being called a bitch or hell, even something worse. But the man had attacked the one part of her that she’d always be ready to go to war for. He’d brought up Stephie and she’d seen red. Her fist had moved of it's own accord.

Paige doesn’t say anything and Azzi can feel the anger still vibrating from the older woman’s body as she roughly grabs Azzi’s unhurt hand.

“Let’s go,” the blonde’s voice is eerily low, “we’re going home.”

***

It’s a subconscious choice to let Paige drive Azzi’s car even though they’ve both sobered up considerably, not that one shot had done much in the first place. It’s a subconscious choice that Azzi reaches over to lace her fingers through Paige’s free hand, resting it on her lap, as the blonde use her other hand to grip the steering wheel. It’s a subconscious choice that they end up driving to Azzi’s house in complete silence. She’s not sure who’s mad at who, if they’re even mad at each other or that man or just the world but she can feel the fury suffocating the air.

“Where’s your first-aid kit?” Paige says gruffly as Azzi unlocks the door.

“Bathroom,” Azzi says quietly and Paige is off towards it before the word has even fully left the brunette’s mouth. Azzi scrambles after her, pausing in the doorway as Paige rummages through drawers, knowing better than to interrupt to help when Paige looks livid like this.

“Sit,” Paige points to the sink once she’s finally found the sanitizer and gauze to clean up dried up blood staining Azzi’s knuckles.

“I can do it my-”

Paige glares at her, “just sit on the fucking sink Azzi.”

Putting away her own irritation at being told what to do, Azzi lifts herself onto the flat surface of the sink, opening her legs slightly so that Paige can stand between them. Despite still quivering with barely concealed rage, Paige’s touch is gentle as she dabs at the remnants of red liquid on Azzi’s hand.

“You should’ve just let me punch him when I wanted to,” she says finally.

“So you could be the one bleeding?” Azzi raises an eyebrow.

“No because he would’ve never gotten the courage to say shit about Stephie if you’d just let me kill him when he called you a bitch,” Paige bites out venomously.

“And let you go to jail? I couldn’t do that to Stephie,” Azzi tries to lighten the tension in the room, “she’d miss you too much.

“This isn’t funny, Azzi,” Paige seethes as she begins to wrap the white gauze around the wound.

“I know,” the younger woman says, trailing her other hand down Paige’s arms trying to soothe her anger, “but it’s fine-”

“It’s not fucking fine,” Paige yells.

“Baby-” the word slips out from Azzi’s lips before she can catch it. She hasn’t used it for someone other than Stephie in so long that it feels foreign on her lips and yet, it fits exactly right.

“Did you call Clémence that too?” and there it is, the real reason behind the volcano erupting as Paige decidedly looks away from Azzi.

Azzi narrows her eyes, “I don’t know Paige. Did you call Olivia that?”

“That’s different,” Paige grits out, “Olivia was my wife.”

Azzi flinches at the word; hates that somebody else had ever had the honor of being called that even if she knows it’s unfair of her to feel that way when she’s the one that had turned it down first.

“Exactly,” she says slowly, “you married someone else-” she holds up a hand when Paige protests, “I know. I know I said no but you married someone else Paige. So you don’t get to be mad at me for having something with someone else too.”

Paige is quiet for a moment and Azzi sees the exact moment the fight leaves her body as she lets out a sigh, leaning her head against Azzi’s shoulder.

“You’re right,” Paige whispers into Azzi’s neck, hands moving to rest against the brunette’s thighs.

Azzi runs her hand through Paige’s hair, brushing it in tandem with the harmony of her breathing, “we can’t keep throwing the past in each other’s face, Paige.”

“I know,” Paige breath tickles against Azzi’s skin and she shivers in spite of the tense moment,“I just-” the blonde lifts her head to look at Azzi, “I need to know who Clémence was to you. You- you know what Olivia was to me and I- I just need to know the same about Clémence.”

“She-” Azzi hesitates, “we hooked up a couple of times,” she squeezes Paige’s hand when the blonde flinches, “but then she- she wanted more but I couldn’t- I couldn’t do that. Partly because I didn’t- I didn’t feel the same- don’t look so smug,” Azzi chides when a small grin forms on Paige’s face, “and partly because we were on the same team. I didn’t want to complicate things, not like last time. Feel like I should probably have a rule not to date teammates.”

“Right.”

Azzi watches the cogs turning in Paige’s brain and she reaches out a hand to ease the creases forming on her forehead, “what are you thinking Bueckers?”

“I just-” Paige bites her lip, “what about me?”

“What about you?”

“I mean we’re gonna be- I mean we are- we’re on the same team too,” Paige says and Azzi can hear the insecurity of will you leave me again weaved through her voice.

“You don’t get it yet do you,” Azzi whispers, reaching up to cup Paige’s face, “baby you are the exception to all of my rules.”

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #wcbb

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hotshotsxyz · 3 months ago

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unstick this feeling

(buddie) (840 words)

It’s—they’re okay. That’s the important part. Everybody’s okay. A little banged up, a little bruised, but nobody’s even staying at the hospital overnight for observation. They’re okay.

Except. Except Buck doesn’t feel okay. He feels like his organs have been scooped out, actually, leaving behind the kind of empty space he doesn’t know what to do with, except maybe fill it with anxiety and guilt and fear. And he doesn’t want to do that, he just… wants everything to feel like it’s back in its place.

“You look like you’re spiraling,” Eddie says, interrupting his definitely-not-spiraling-thoughts-thank-you-very-much. “Are you spiraling?”

Buck sighs. Maybe he’s spiraling a little.

Eddie settles on the couch beside him, his non-answer apparently enough. “Alright, lay it on me,” he says.

Buck frowns. “I just—” he cuts himself off.

“Just?” Eddie prompts, bumping his shoulder against Buck’s.

“Did you know, on average, eighty firefighters die on duty every year?” He asks quietly.

Eddie nods.

“It’s not even—” Buck swallows. “There’s over a million of us. Puts us in the top twenty-five safest jobs in America.”

“Doesn’t really feel like it,” Eddie says softly. “Not after calls like that.”

Exactly. Buck leans a little further into Eddie’s side, soaking up the warmth that radiates off him. “I keep trying not to think about it,” he says.

“A famously effective solution,” Eddie says dryly.

Buck lightly kicks his ankle. “Got a better idea?”

Eddie tilts is head back against the couch and looks at Buck for a long moment. “We could talk about it,” he says finally.

The corner of Buck’s lip twitches up. “All that therapy’s really paying off,” he says. It’s kind of a joke, but it mostly isn’t.

“Guess it is,” Eddie says lightly. He looks at Buck, waiting for him to decide which side of the fence he’s going to land on.

“I get stuck,” Buck says, before he’s even decided he wants to. “Even when it turns out fine. Even when I know there wasn’t anything I could’ve done different.”

Eddie hums thoughtfully. “I think it’s easier that way, sometimes.”

Buck feels his brow furrow. Eddie laughs lightly and smooths it with his thumb.

“Easier than thinking about the part that comes next,” he explains.

And that—yeah, that kind of tracks. “The part where you have to process it. Let it go,” Buck says.

Eddie shakes his head. “The part where you feel it,” he says.

Buck groans and scrubs a hand down his face. “When did you get so…” he trails off and flaps his hand in the air.

“Wise?” Eddie suggests, biting down on a teasing grin that Buck could spot a mile away. “Enlightened? Emotionally aware?”

Buck snorts. “Yeah, that one.”

He shrugs. “Ask Frank.”

“Maybe I should,” Buck mutters.

Eddie studies him. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find it, because his expression softens, and he speaks again. “I was scared, when Chimney didn’t radio in.”

“Me too,” Buck says, barely more than a whisper. Chim’s radio had been damaged in the explosion, and for several horrifying moments, they’d all feared the worst.

“I was angry,” he continues, “that Gerrard didn’t call the retreat sooner.”

“Bobby would have,” Buck says.

Eddie nods. “Yeah, he would have.”

“I-um,” Buck starts. He clears his throat and tries again. “I felt helpless,” he says. “By the time I saw what the smoke was doing, it was already too late.”

The comforting weight of Eddie’s hand lands on Buck’s thigh.

“I was frustrated,” he says. “I didn’t see it either.”

Buck’s turn. “I was relieved, when I saw you up.”

Eddie’s expression shifts infinitesimally. He hesitates for a second, like he hasn’t quite decided if he wants to voice whatever thought he’s just had. “I couldn’t breathe,” he says finally, looking Buck in the eye, “until you moved.”

Buck swallows harshly. He knows that feeling, knows it intimately, in fact. He can think of a hundred times his breath has caught, sometimes for a split second, once for days. It catches now, holding Eddie’s gaze.

There’s something in it that Buck doesn’t know how to name. Something he feels, though, deep in his bones where no one but him can touch it. He wonders if Eddie can see it too. Wonders if Eddie knows what to call it.

He tries to dig into it further, unearth it, examine it from all sides. It’s something like terror-joy-heartache-awe-hope-vulnerability. It feels like love.

It shouldn’t surprise him. Buck’s loved Eddie for so long it’s hard to remember what it was like before. But as he probes it, tries to unstick it from trauma and feel it for exactly what it is, he finds something he isn’t expecting. It’s something like desire-lust-attraction-want-need.

It’s suddenly so obvious. A big bright neon sign in his brain screaming, hey, it’s him. And of course it is. It was never going to be anyone else, not like this. It’s Eddie.

It’s Eddie, and Buck is in love with him.

He has no idea what to do with it.

#hey what if i posted another fic even though its only been like two days since the last one #911 #buddie #911fic #911 fic #buddiefic #buddie fic #911 abc #fic #abbie writes

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loserlvrss · 2 months ago

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꒰ 𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ꒱ 박성호

summary : you and your husband were throwing a bbq party, and sungho has somehow convinced you he was going to grill

genre : fluff, husband!sungho x afab!reader, girldad!sungho, non-idol!au, bbqdad!au tws : kisses, language, bad bbq puns, father sungho author notes : this is zanna's fault for indulging my delusions word count : 1.3k

“hey babygrill.”

you turned, “sungho—”

“is it hot grill summer?” he asked, a wood-handled, metal spatula clutched between his fingers. “because you’re smoking hot.” you cringed, holding back a laugh as he leaned sideways, fingers turning the dial on the front of the grill. the vein in his neck strained with the angle, making it prominent against the midday sunlight. the defined muscles of his arms flexed, and you stared like you’d never seen him before—even though you’d been married to him for two years now, dating him for three before that. you reached out, tracing the lines, feeling the heat from the grill and sun combine against his untainted-tan skin.

“i’m going to get our daughter ready,” he ignored your touch, knowing it wasn’t anything new. he liked it though, knowing you weren’t like that before him. “myself, too.”

“sure, babe.” he replied, hovering his palm a few inches over the metal rack he had cleaned just a couple minutes ago. “go ahead. i’ve got this all under control.”

who was he really trying to convince? you thought. your husband wasn’t a master chef by any means, but when you craved late-night snacks, he was definitely the man for the job.

“are you sure,” you quizzed. “maybe don’t start until i get back?”

“my love,” he met your eyes, head still slightly hung as he adjusted the heat. his longer hair fell to the side effortlessly, cascading like a waterfall. “i’ll be fine.”

“oh no,” you laughed. “i’m worried about my house, sungho.”

he faked being offended. “what the hell? i’m a great chef!”

“you’re great at a lot of things, baby, there’s no doubt about it, but cooking just isn’t one of them.” his fake started to become genuine, arms crossing over his broad chest. you tried hard not to stare again. “right now!” you added, “practice makes perfect! but, just wait for me to supervise. i would like for there to be a backyard to have this party in…” you kissed his shoulder. “please?”

ultimately, you always won him over. “fine, i’ll cut up stuff for the sides instead.” you weren't sure about that either, however it’s something you’ve made him do often for you. so, it should go fine, shouldn’t it? “but, hurry, i’d like to get these burgers sizzling. you could say, the steaks are high, right now, y/n. want them to be grate for our family and friends.”

you mentally facepalmed. when did you marry such a cheesy guy? you guess it's for the best that he became a dad after all, with these (terrible) jokes of his.

you left him to attend to the vegetables for the burgers, finding your daughter in front of a fan on the couch, basking in the air that blew directly in her face. bluey was playing on the TV, the accents rubbing off on her slightly.

she lit up, “mommy!”

“hi, baby.” you plopped down next to her, and she instantly nozzled against your side. “do you wanna bet on daddy burning something?”

she eyed you, then nodded, “seven fruit snacks.” you hummed, seemingly thinking it over. but before you had the chance to agree, she added, “and 45 minutes past bedtime.”

you cocked your head, slightly in disbelief, but mostly in amusement.

“deal.” you held your hand for her to take, which she did (hand significantly smaller than yours) closing the bargain. “i have faith in my husband.”

you lied, but regardless, you honestly wanted your miniature version to win.

you silently watched a couple more minutes with her, glancing at the clock on the wall. you threaded your hand through her hair, thinking about the styles you could put it into today; ultimately knowing what your kid would prefer.

“first one ready gets dessert before dinner!”

she jumped off the couch, small legs carrying down the hall and presumably to the bathroom. you followed after a moment, hearing the water start to run.

once finished, you joined sungho outside again, prepared for guests to start showing up. he had to do a double take when you walked out, and if this was a cartoon, you feared his eyes would’ve been popping out of his head.

“woah,” he snaked his hands around your waist, after abandoning the grill carelessly, planting a couple kisses against your lips and surrounding skin. “damn, are you a5 wagyu?” he murmured, eyes roaming over your figure, “‘cause you look expensive.”

you caught the look your (almost) three year old daughter gave him; the same one she gave tomatoes. you stifled a laugh against his lips.

“ew, daddy!” she shrieked at your kiss, wiggling in your arms to push him back. “that’s my mommy!” she argued, throwing her small limbs around your neck and puckering her lips against your cheek.

“i’m sorry, baby.” he put his palm to your daughter's head gently, kissing her temple. “I’m just letting your mom follow my apron’s instructions.” he revealed said tightly-tied clothing: kiss the chef adorned with fake abs (not that he needed them) printed on it. once again, you wondered when you married such an unserious guy.

she began to hysterically laugh, and you guffawed, sungho taking her from you gladly. she hugged around his neck, “damn girly, you got a grip.” she squeezed tighter, kissing his cheek too. “i almost passed out!” that prompted a competition between the two, giggles sounding throughout the backyard as your daughter hugged tighter and tighter.

you were only interrupted when his parents voices cut through the noise, “where’s my pretty princess of a granddaughter?” suddenly said girl was pushing from your husband, trying her hardest to be put down; her grandparents were arguably her second-favorite people. they took care of her during your date-nights and any other time sungho would ask. you’d never had a good relationship with your parents, but you were glad that they took you in for your daughter and husband's sake.

they met your side, gaining a hug from you.

“daddy! put me down!” she whined, causing you to giggle at the sight, “please!”

he shook his head, attacking her with more hugs and kisses.

it was refreshing to see such a man who wasn’t afraid to show his love and adoration for someone–especially his daughter.

finally she broke free, running the short distance to sungho’s dad and jumping into his arms. she resumed the game with him, arms wrapping around his neck.

“i made you something last night!” her attempt to get put down was easier than before, and once she hit the ground she was off, ushering her grandma and grandpa to follow into the house. “c’mon, it’s for your fridge!”

sungho met your side once again, arm around your midsection, your head laid on his shoulder. you were glad you started a family with him of all people, even though when you were younger you weren't sure you would ever have wanted kids; but everything just felt so safe and secure with him. every doubt and uncertainty was put to rest when he was around.

“she converted me into a girl-dad.”

you laughed, “babe, you’ve always been a girl dad. do you remember when we found out, no one cried harder than you did.”

he waved you off with a pfft sound, “she’s just so adorable, you can’t blame me.” he broke away, arms up innocently, standing back. “she’s a miniature version of you.”

you spun to face him, “no, she’s exactly like you, baby. terrible humor, no respect for bedtime, fluffy-ass hair.”

a hum resonated. he was staring again, eyes flicking over you casually. “should we have another, you think? another girl, but i’d love a miniature version of me, too.” your eyebrows rose in amusement, until your attention found itself locked behind him on the copious amount of smoke.

“it’s burning.”

“yeah, i know.” he said in a duh-tone, words adorned with his eyes rolling, “you’re hotter than the grill.”

“no, babe.” you grabbed his bare shoulders, spinning him around. “there’s actually a fire right now.”

“oh my god!” you didn’t need to be facing him to see his eyes go wide, shoulders tensing under your grip. you giggled, sungho moving quickly to grab the tongs from the side table and move the food from the flame that had developed. “why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked, slightly frantic.

“i guess you could say… missteaks were made.”

he turned slowly, a shit-eating grin across his face, “i knew you liked them.”

of course you did. it was sungho.

suddenly a voice called out, “mommy, you owe me my fruit snacks!”

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kiyoomi-levin · 9 months ago

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villain pt.1 (bakugoxf!reader) [NSFW]

a/n this was originally supposed to be a single fic but i wanted to see how ppl liked it lol. pt 2 is already in the making (and i promise it's more spicy than this one)

summary: harley (you) realize that joker (your boyfriend) is in love with batman (bakugo). If only harley also knew batman’s obsessed with her. —> inspired by this short word count: 4.9k warning(s): bakugo’s literally just a horndog

“I swear, Ren, if you pull anything like that again…”

Your boyfriend rolls his eyes as he pulls away from your grip.

“Enough, y/n. I always get you out, don’t I?”

You frown, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself.

“You try getting caught and being put into jail multiple times in a single month. It’s not funny,” you sigh.

You don’t even know what it’s like to be tied up by Bakugo fucking Katsuki, you want to add.

But you keep your mouth shut.

Ren’s already in a bad mood, jaw clenched tight as he walks faster. You’re almost jogging at this point just to keep up with his pace.

“Asshole,” you mutter under your breath.

Ren hardly glances at you as the two of you enter your cheap apartment complex, walking silently up the two flights of stairs to your front door.

You cringe as you round the corner—on your front door is a familiar piece of white paper, the contents of which you already know by heart.

Late rent notice: Dear tenet, your rent was due on the 7th of February. As of the date of this letter, your payment is 4 days past due.

Frustrated, you rip the paper off of the metal door as Ren reaches over and enters the pin.

Your jaw drops as he walks inside carelessly, unbothered with the notice.

The two of you have been dating for almost a year now; you’re long used to his carefree nature.

That’s what first drew you to him.

Now it merely disgusts you.

“Ren,” you cautiously call out as the door shuts behind you, “I think it’s time to give it up.”

Your boyfriend tosses himself onto the wrinkled couch, pointing towards the fridge. Frowning, you head over and grab him a cold beer.

“Thanks babe.”

You collapse next to him, relishing in the fluffy texture. After being in a holding cell for a few days, you’ve definitely missed the warmth of your home.

“I know you’re mad, and I understand. But we learned something new from last time, didn’t we? Dynamight was literally showing off his weaknesses! If we just—”

“Ren, stop it! That was the last time. I’m done. Seriously.”

Your boyfriend is pouting now, reaching over to hold you in his arms. You want to fight back, you should.

He jumps into his usual rant about how much he hates Dynamight; that asshole, always flaunting his wealth and looks. He’s just a shitty hero with a shitty quirk.

Meanwhile, you’re fighting back tears of frustration.

How had you gotten here?

A year ago, you had seemingly met the man of your dreams at the villain rehabilitation center (looking back, maybe that hadn’t been the best idea).

You had been working there as a volunteer and was popular with all of the residents as a bright psychology student and aspiring therapist.

Despite the havoc these wannabe villains had wreaked across Japan, you had treated all of them with kindness and respect, hoping you would be able to make a positive difference in at least a single person’s life.

How naive you had been.

“Hey, y/n,” Ren smirks as you gently open the door to the small office.

You exhale— this one villain has been bothering you more often recently, and he was just too cute for his own good.

“Takanashi Ren. Your counseling appointment isn’t until later this evening.”

“Aw. I can’t give my favorite therapist a visit?”

You grin at him, pushing your dark rimmed glasses up your nose.

“I’m not a therapist yet,” you retort, stepping back as Ren pushes back from his chair, striding over to you. He has you cornered to a wall, and the muscles of his arm flex dangerously, reminding you of his crimes.

Despite this, all you can notice is how bright his eyes are— gosh, you just love the way they twinkle.

“I’m sure a smart girl like you’ll achieve all your academic dreams. I just hope I’m out of here on time to watch you cross that stage.”

And with that, you’d fallen head over heels for a cringy, third-rate villain with no plans for the immediate future. But the more time you spent with him, you truly felt as though you’d met your match.

He was intelligent. Witty. Funny.

Most importantly, he was different. His ideas for a liberated world— where all quirks were considered equal and everyone had the freedom to use their quirks as they wanted— was just unlike what you’d ever considered.

If only you had paused for a moment and asked him just how he would create that world.

It had been too late when you had realized what you had gotten yourself into. Now, you spend your days as a college dropout, supporting your boyfriend in his schemes that always end in failure and with you in handcuffs.

But you had already sworn to devote yourself to him.

Question. Would you die for me?

Yes.

That’s too easy. Would you live for me?

… Yes.

“y/n, are you listening? We’ll stake out at his condo. I’ll do all the work, babe, you just have to stand watch. I’ve already planned it all out. ”

There it is, that strike of pain in your heart.

Dynamight.

That’s all your stupid boyfriend cares about.

You’re already shaking your head, refusing furiously— but he’s begging, begging!

… And you sigh and look away.

“Last. Time.”

You peek out of the corner of your eye to see Ren’s face brighten.

He really is just as pretty as when you first met him a year ago.

“I promise, y/n. Last time.”

Fuck Ren and his promises.

From the moment you had scaled Dynamight’s luxurious condo, you had known your boyfriend had skimped on doing his research again.

There’s no way we’re gonna get away with this.

Stuffed in a large delivery box, you only pray that Ren’s mailman cosplay is good enough to get through the lobby.

Nervously holding your breath, you cringe as your boyfriend flirts with the ladies at the front desk and wheels you into the elevator.

Tap tap tap.

Three gentle knocks on the front of the box and you know it’s your turn.

“I’ve just disabled the hallway cameras,” Ren whispers as he pulls the box open.

You step out eagerly, stretching, before turning towards the door.

The corners of your mouth twitch as you suddenly remember why you hate rich people.

Dynamight’s door just screams narcissism— who really needs a gold plated front door?

Bakugo, the nameplate reads. The dreaded name you hear on a near-daily basis.

You scoff as you reach into your pocket and pull out your decoding tool, placing it on the keypad in a single, practiced motion.

Ren taps his foot impatiently as you work with the machine— you only let out a breath of relief as the door buzzes and swings open what feels like an eternity later.

You’re already sweating as your heart thumps with discomfort and fear at being at the hero’s homebase.

Comically, it feels as though the two of you have just broken into a villain’s lair.

“God, babe. You’re the best,” Ren murmurs, pushing you aside.

He’s a little too eager to ruin his nemesis’ life.

Ren rushes inside of Dynamight’s home, barely holding back his immediate laughter as he spots the marble dining table.

He’s already poking around as you carefully close the door quietly behind you, tiptoeing into the large house.

“Can you believe this man? He’s so fucking full of himself,” Ren spits as he stares at the various newspaper clippings of Dynamight adoring the bookshelves.

Forget that— if you were Dynamight, you’d be living like this too.

This is life you had envisioned for yourself.

Gorgeous white pillars uphold a high ceiling and there’s a leather couch in the center of the room. A giant television sits in front of it, almost mocking you.

One day… When this was all over, would Ren want to live like this with you?

“Come on, babe. We gotta find the data,” Ren says, heading towards the closest door to him.

The initial excitement has worn off and he’s now refueled by hatred.

Right. The data.

If you could just get your hands on the data of all of the current Japanese heroes, that would be the biggest data breach in the history of the World Heroes Association.

You and Ren would go down as super villains— a title you still weren’t sure if you wanted.

You repress these useless thoughts, though, and trail Ren around the large home as he throws open doors.

“Are you sure he’ll even have it?”

“Yeah, there’s no way a top hero wouldn’t have access to this— Damn! A basement. You think he’d keep his PC down here?”

You think back to your encounters with Dynamight, shivering as you remember his piercing red eyes meeting yours.

Your boyfriend heads down without hesitation as you follow him, nearly jumping when he yelps in joy.

“His computer’s right here.”

You swallow as you turn your head around the dark basement, eyes not yet adjusted to the dark.

Ren presses the power button of the computer and the entire room lights up from the bright screen.

Couch, television, gaming consoles, mini fridge— this must be his man cave.

“Alright. Get on it, babe,” Ren says, stepping back as the flickering monitor.

Sighing, you lean down, plug in your trusty usb stick into the PC. This was going to be a long day.

WARNING.

You jump for real this time, letting out a surprised shout as the machine blares a loud alarm.

Holy fuck, what’s going on?

Before you can move, the heavy door to the basement suddenly slams shut— you hear the metallic locks clicking in place.

You glance at Ren in desperation, but he’s not looking at you, only frowning at the computer.

“Get on with it. We have at least 15 minutes, I’ll find a way out by then.”

You don’t bother protesting. Despite his easy going demeanor, you know Ren cares about you.

“Don’t worry, he’s in Korea for a conference,” he reassures you as he steps towards the staircase.

BOOM.

You scream as you’re pushed back by an explosion, groaning in pain as you strike the side of Dynamight’s large desk.

Collapsing on the ground, dust arises on either side of you.

Your ears are ringing and your vision is hopelessly blurry.

When you muster up the strength to touch your stinging face, you wince as your hand comes back bloody.

Ren. He was closer to the door.

Your eyes widen as you roll yourself onto your side, trying to reach up to the chair next to you for help—

“Fucker!”

You gasp as your vision clears and you take in the sight in front of you.

Dynamight has your boyfriend pressed onto the floor and strikes him in the face, once. Twice. Three times.

Ren tries to fight back, but he’s basically hopelessly laying there, taking in the blows.

It’s clear you’ve caught him off duty— Dynamight’s clad in nothing but a tank top and shorts.

Despite that, he dominates your boyfriend easily. He’s kneeling on Ren’s stomach, one hand pinning down your boyfriend’s shoulder and the other punching his face at a sickening rate.

You do nothing but watch as you watch Ren’s eyes flicker, then shut.

Adrenaline courses through your veins, taking away the remaining rationality in you.

Pushing yourself onto your feet, you throw yourself at Dynamight, whose eyebrows merely raise as he registers your face.

You pull out your knife, swinging for his neck— Dynamight throws up his arm, blocking your attempt— before you can react, you’re pinned to the ground next to your boyfriend.

“You… asshole…” you hiss, airflow momentarily cut off.

You struggle against Dynamight's strength, grimacing. You’re on your stomach, hands pinned behind your back. You try to kick him, but the strength in your legs fails you.

Dynamight lets out a small laugh as he sits on your ass and your eyes widen as you feel his dick through his pants grinding on you purposefully.

Fucking pervert.

You turn your head to your side, glaring into Dynamight’s blood-colored eyes. The corners of his eyes are pointed upwards, he’s grinning madly.

Leaning forward, Bakugo rests his right hand next to your face. Your immediate reaction is to lunge at it, trying to bite, but he pulls back quickly, yanking on your wrists. Your body arches upwards and you wince at the slight pull.

“Easy. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Despite your slowly subsiding anger and hatred towards the man on top of you, you feel yourself blushing against your will.

You hate how he talks to you. You silently remind yourself to take a recording of it next time and report him for sexual harassment.

While you’re fuming over your current situation and mumbling profanities at him, Bakugo leans back and admires you.

You look really good like this— actually, you look perfect. Your eyes are slightly moist, cheeks flushed and lips a delectable pink. Bakugo’s mouth is watering at the sight.

He’s already hard. He’s been aching in anticipation since he first got the alert that you broke into his home.

What would happen if he were to just…

You’re staring up at Bakugo again, watery eyes meeting his narrowed ones, and he feels a shiver run down his spine as he admires his reflection in them.

“Can you let me go already? You’ve won, we get it,” you huff, cheeks inflating.

He wants to stuff them full with his cock.

Easy, Dynamight. You’re a hero.

He glances down at you apathetically, although his cock is throbbing.

You ignore it the best you can, although you’re turning pink again.

You shift from side to side, hoping you won’t have to beg him to let you go.

You’d rather die than do that.

Smirking, he clicks his tongue as he reaches forward with his right hand and strokes your face.

“Give me a reason. You’re imposing on my home, doing who knows what?”

Your teeth find his hand this time, sinking into the hardened flesh.

You bite down as hard as you can, wishing he’d just let go of you. Your jaw is just beginning to ache as you muster the courage to look back up at him.

Your blood runs cold as you notice his unchanging expression— he looks almost bored. But something flashes in his eyes.

Fuck, maybe you shouldn’t have done that.

As you pull back, you squeak as he grabs you by your hair, sliding forward to sit on your wrists.

One hand holds your head upwards, while his other holds your face. His hand engulfs your entire jaw as he forces you to look into his eyes.

“I could take you right now, but I’ll save that for later.”

From a distance, you hear the shouts of policemen and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Bakugo lets go and watches as your head falls back onto the floor.

You’re so caught up in the commotion you don’t catch his next words.

“You’ll be begging for it soon, anyway.”

You can do nothing but watch in handcuffs as Ren’s eyes open hazily and focus on you.

“y/n, I’m so sorry,” he starts.

You shake your head, smiling sadly at him. Was it really over?

No, you promised you’d always be with him—

“Dynamight.”

Your boyfriend’s eyes have shifted from you onto Dynamight, the one person that has been on his mind obsessively for the past few years..

Ren’s shouting at Dynamight now, who merely laughs in response.

You don’t even notice that Dynamight’s staring at you.

All you notice is that you’re not in Ren’s line of sight anymore.

The words of policemen and Ren start swirling together as your heartbeat slows.

He’s not in love with you, is he?

You can hear your heart physically shattering.

He’s in love with Dynamight.

Bakugo’s still embarrassingly hard as he readjusts himself, sighing as he looks around his ransacked home.

The police have taken longer than he’d hoped, making sure to photograph everything.

Even more irritatingly, the medics had tried to heal your teeth marks imprinted in his arm, which he had pulled away quickly.

“I’m going to save this as evidence during the trial,” Bakugo had quickly lied.

The young medic had blinked in confusion, but nodded eagerly, not wanting to defy the number one hero’s demand.

When his agency had first received the tip that you and Whiplash would be attempting a data breach, Bakugo had rolled his eyes and hesitated on flying back in early from his vacation.

You and Whiplash were shitty, third-rate villains, if you could be even labeled as such.

You would always be deserted by your boyfriend, who’d dip the moment Bakugo stepped close to the crime scene. You (with your gorgeous, angered face that turns him on so fast) would be left behind for Bakugo to handcuff.

Bakugo still remembers the first time he’d been called to a scene with you and Whiplash.

One year ago, two petty, new criminals had attempted to rob a series of homes in upper Tokyo.

Bakugo had been whisked away from his date with a pretty newscaster and was irritated to hell— he had been working all night sweet talking to the girl and was surely going to get laid— but when he had gotten to the scene, still pulling on his gloves, all thoughts of regret flew out the window.

“Get me the fuck out of here!”

The female villain is shouting as she kicks her legs.

The scene is laughable— her upper half is tapped in the tights washing machine and Bakugo takes his sweet time striding over to you, admiring the curve of your ass and the way you shake as you try to free yourself.

“What happened here?”

Bakugo smirks. He’d heard that the male villain had gotten away but the female was still somewhere on the premises.

He’d been incredibly lucky to find you first. It’s hard to hold back from slapping your ass and ripping those black tights off of you, but Bakugo swallows and moves to touch your hip instead.

You squeak in surprise as you feel two fingers tracing a triangle onto your upper thigh.

“Stop touching me, pervert! You sick freak! I have a boyfriend! I’ll kill you if you try anything!”

Your scream is slightly muffled as you bang your hands on the sides of the circular machine.

Your back is aching from being bent over for the past ten minutes and you arch your back, holding back a pained moan. Whoever this asshole was, you were gonna rip him a new one when he freed you.

Bakugo frowns as ‘boyfriend’ echoes inside his head.

Were you being truthful or were you just trying to scare him off?

It’s taking everything in him to not grind against you and with every passing second Bakugo feels closer to losing the battle with his sex driven core.

After another moment of deliberation, Bakugo reaches out, yanking you effortlessly out of the machine.

God.

You were just as pretty as he’d hoped. Face flushed and sweaty from being inside a confined space for so long, you collapse on your ass and fan yourself dramatically, taking in big gulps of fresh air before looking up to glare at him.

“Fucking freak! What sort of perverted police officer are you?” You demand, frowning as Bakugo silently holds his hand out.

A few seconds of silence pass before you awkwardly take it, allowing him to help you up.

“Thank you,” you mumble as you wipe your hands on your shirt.

Your eyebrows are still furrowed with frustration as you bite the inside of your cheek.

Ugh… you’re so adorable, Bakugo wants to just squeeze you to death.

Now he really wishes he hadn’t helped you out. You were helpless, bent over just perfectly, practically inviting him…. As his imagination runs wild, he feels the blood rushing towards his groin.

Oblivious, you stretch your sore body, letting out a soft moan. You’re strangely relaxed, as if you were simply meeting an old friend.

“I’m going to be arresting you now. Turn around,” Bakugo sighs, shifting his balance from foot to foot. If only he wasn’t an up-and-coming hero.

Your eyebrows raise and the ends of your lips quirk upwards.

“Isn’t there something else I could do to get out of this?” You tease, turning around and holding your wrists behind your back.

Fuck. Is that you wiggling your ass or is he just seeing things?

Bakugo’s breath hitches. The cold cuffs in his hands are only furthering his imagination. He’s about to pounce on you, but as he’s deciding which piece of your clothing he’ll rip away first—

“Don’t get any ideas, perv. That was a joke.”

You giggle at his silence, looking back to glance at his face, which pales in humiliation.

You’re still laughing as Bakugo curses under his breath and shoves you harshly into the police car.

You wouldn’t be laughing when he fucks you silly—which, he swears, he will one day.

Since your destined meeting, you had been on Bakugo’s mind.

Every. Single. Day.

Your pout. Your delicate hands. Your arching back. Your whines and the way you try to fight back every time he walks you to the police van.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just a phase.

To Bakugo’s horror, when he met up with the same newscaster from that night, he found himself unable to get hard, no matter how much she sucked him off.

He could have waved that off as an anomaly, but six girls later, Bakugo finally had to admit he may have a problem on his hands.

Bakugo knew the solution to his ED and meaningless infatuation with you.

He was sure all he had to do was fuck you. Easy enough— he’s confident in his sex appeal.

But you were also an impossible target.

You and your villain boyfriend moved around constantly, living under various aliases.

And when Bakugo could finally meet you (about once a month, when your boyfriend’s plans were foiled once again) you were whisked off into police custody before he could even bring up sex.

How was he even supposed to get to that topic, anyways?

Hey, y/n. I only get hard when I see you cry. Or, actually, when I just think about you at all.

Wanna bang?

Bakugo halfheartedly (almost unconsciously, this is just an immediate reaction to seeing you) discards his shorts and briefs as he leans against the back of the couch.

Staring up at the ceiling, he’s now regretting letting his agency call for backup.

He’d had you under him, in his own home. He even had a condom ready in his shorts— something he’s started carrying around since last year in hopes he’d get ambushed by you randomly.

It’s unfortunate he couldn’t take things further with you, but for tonight, his imagination and thoughts of you would have to suffice.

He almost saw you cry…

Bakugo’s almost drooling at the memory of your teary eyes as you stared at your boyfriend, who was dragged away into the back of a van despite his protests.

Fuck. What does he have to do to make you cry?

He throughout beating up Whiplash would be enough, but maybe you didn’t like your boyfriend as much as he thought— that makes him smile.

“Ugh…”

Bakugo can barely hold back a soft moan as his cock hardens quickly, now standing in his hand.

It’s hot, and typically Bakugo would shed all his clothes, but tiny specks of your blood decorate his white top. It’s like you’re basically touching him.

He admires the bruising teeth prints on his right hand, the one that’s now slowly stroking his dick.

Your mouth was on his hand. His hand. The thought alone makes him want to cum.

Bakugo allows himself a full stroke, groaning as he presses himself deeper into the couch.

It almost feels as if he’s simply overstimulating himself, as if he’d already cum— that’s how strong you were as a stimulus.

With how much you tease, you’d start with the tip, wouldn’t you?

Bakugo gently holds his cock at the base with his left hand and thumbs the tip, rubbing his rough thumb against the wet precum.

He’d manhandle you, he’s imagined it countless times, it’s what a girl like you needs.

In his imagination, you’d be a pillow princess. He’s confident about this.

Your attitude, the way you demand he frees you… it all points towards you being a menace in bed.

You would saunter into the bedroom, wearing nothing but thin lingerie (in his favorite color, dark orange, almost red). You’d smirk as you climb onto his bed, making yourself comfortable.

Your pretty eyes would narrow as he walks in shirtless with a raging boner.

You would be sitting there, legs outstretched for him to grasp.

Bakugo would grab your ankles in each hand, focusing on kissing your precious feet before moving upwards.

He’d press his lips against your shin, your knee, then suck your plush thighs, savoring your taste.

He’d maintain his eyes on you throughout, admiring the way your lips part slightly and your heavy breaths. You’d glare at him when you notice him staring at you— you’re always fighting back, aren’t you?

But in bed he’s the one in control.

He’d get to your panties and give your clothed clit a lick, pinning down your legs that threaten to close.

Bakugo would suck, embracing the taste of lace and your juices leaking from across the other side of clothing.

Contrary to popular belief, Bakugo wasn’t that full of himself.

In bed, he only has one priority— your pleasure.

Bakugo allows himself to slightly loosen his grip and start stroking his entire length slowly, just like how you’d do it.

Just a few singular strokes feel so good, his entire body lights up, electricity running up his spine.

He runs his thumb along the one long vein from the base of his cock, shivering. His cock is getting heavier in his hand and a familiar pressure is slowly building in his stomach.

After a few moments, Bakugo would finally push aside the flimsy fabric, licking your clit directly.

He’d be fisting his cock while doing so, like he’s doing now, stroking to the rhythm of his flattened tongue.

He’d be almost drooling at the taste, sometimes letting himself wander to your hole and slip his tongue in your tightness. He’d continue alternating between sucking and licking, relishing in your increasingly loud moans.

Your legs would begin to tremble beneath him and you’d start begging quietly despite your stubbornness.

Your eyes would start to roll to the back of your head— and that’s when he’d stop, pulling away entirely, still stroking himself, tightening his fist around his heat if necessary to prevent himself from releasing.

You’d whine and maybe kick him, legs weakened from your ruined orgasm.

A little edging never hurt anyone.

It only makes the pleasure of a shared orgasm stronger.

Bakugo would tease your hole, nudging at the entrance with the tip of his leaking cock.

Without warning, he’d thrust— you’d groan from the intrusion, grasping the sheets.

He’d start moving mercilessly, pulling out his length to the tip before slamming it back in, over and over. He would quicken with your moans fueling his pace.

He’d lean over to capture your pretty lips with his, intertwining your tongues.

Fuck, Bakugo really isn’t going to last, especially with his new favorite mental photograph—you lying on your back helplessly. Bakugo’s mind does the photoshop for him, removing the debris from the explosion and placing the two of you on his bed.

He’s stroking himself fervently now, at the same pace he imagines himself fucking you at.

You’d be shaking under him, holding back your tears. And, in typical y/n fashion, your pride would force you to hold your moans back. You’d be pressing your trembling hand against your mouth, wouldn’t you? You would be biting down on it, with the same teeth that were clamped down on his own hand earlier.

You’d cum as he rubs his thumb roughly against your clit, eyes rolling to the back of your head, mouth dropping open.

Bakugo would make sure to ride you out throughout the entirety of your orgasm before allowing himself to fall into how tight and wet you are and reaching his peak himself.

“y/n… I’m cumming…”

Bakugo bites back a groan as his eyes close, lips almost breaking from how hard he’s clenching down.

Continuing to pump, Bakugo’s hips lift as he thrusts into his fist one final time—his orgasm is so strong, it feels as though he’s losing control of his entire body, shaking as he feels his cum squirt and his cock pulsing from the base.

When Bakugo finally gathers his energy, he opens his eyes, blinking uncomfortably at the harsh lights of the living room. There’s warm cum now cooling all over his hands and the coffee table in front of him, only adding to the list of things he has to clean up after your little home invasion.

Sighing, Bakugo stands up, grabbing a tissue and wiping the traces of his release away.

It’s a little humiliating.

Yet another day of having to imagine you writhing under him to get off.

Bakugo won’t admit it— he never will— but honestly, it’s not as bad as he makes it out to be.

But he knows the real thing will be better.

Now, if only he could get his hands on you…

a/n yeah so i rewrote this whole thing on 4 hours of sleep so its prob shit and the formatting is wonky but whatevs.

STAN ENHYPEN STREAM SWEET VENOM (ENG VER)

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #mha x reader #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo smut #mha smut #my hero academia #bnha bakugou #bakugo fic #dynamight #bakugo katsuki #bakugou smut

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cockyroaches · 11 months ago

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Ok so the answer is I wasn't at all. There's days where I'd rush 3 or 4 previous prompts in a row and most of them were inane scribblings you can barely make out bc i rushed all of it. It's a wonder I finished it in time but yeah school was still strangling me and it's plenty clear

So funny to look back at my old neovember art - not because of the quality mind you, but because I have NO idea how I was pulling those off during school days. What in the world.

#its still the only 30 day challenge i ever finished btw. somehow #maybe i should try again. next year. definitely next year - and Late next year too b/c oh my god drawing every day takes energy #like wow you are not going to believe this!

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 10 days ago

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Under the Hood

Pairing: Eddie Munson X reader

AU: Mechanic! Eddie

Warning: fluff, mentions of everyone being jerks to Eddie

Authors note: I hope yall enjoy this fic,i miss Eddie so here he is :)

Word Count: 1.3k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

It was late afternoon, and you were stranded on the outskirts of Hawkins, parked along a dusty road with your car that had, quite inconveniently, decided to give out on you. After a few useless attempts to get it started, you finally accepted you needed help. A friend mentioned “Munson’s Garage”—a small shop you’d vaguely heard about. The name, though, rings a bell. Could it be… Eddie Munson’s garage?

You remember Eddie from high school. Loud, unapologetically different, and definitely the furthest thing from the Hawkins social elite. Back then, you’d watched him from afar. While most people dismissed him as the school’s “freak,” you knew there was more to him. You’d even gone to see him play with his band, Corroded Coffin, a couple of times at the Hideout. You remembered the intensity on his face when he played, his talent radiating off him in waves. He’d never noticed you back then—just a quiet girl in the crowd who stayed out of his way, not one of the jerks who taunted him.

But now, years later, maybe fate has other plans.

After getting the garage’s address, you pull up and park. The building looks a little worse for wear, but it has a certain charm, with an old “Munson’s Garage” sign barely hanging onto the front. Taking a deep breath, you push open the door, stepping inside.

Eddie’s there, of course, leaning over an old car, one hand gripping a wrench, the other holding up the hood. He looks different, in a way, older and more grounded, but still undeniably Eddie. His hair’s pulled back under a bandana, and his faded T-shirt is smeared with grease.

He glances up as you approach, his expression turning from suspicion to surprise, and then to a slow grin. “Well, well. Hawkins royalty, gracing my little shop,” he says, a teasing edge to his voice.

You roll your eyes. “Royalty? Hardly. My car broke down, and I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Lucky for you, I’m a miracle worker with engines.” Eddie leans against your car, his grin widening. “Guess I should properly introduce myself… Eddie Munson, resident mechanic and car wizard.”

“I know who you are,” you say, smiling. “I remember you from high school.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah? That’s not what I usually hear. Most people pretend they don’t.” He chuckles, but there’s something a little vulnerable in his expression.

“No, really,” you continue, feeling a bit braver. “I remember your band, too. Corroded Coffin, right? I actually came to a couple of your shows.”

Eddie freezes, blinking in surprise. “Wait—you actually came to see us?”

You nod. “Yeah, you were amazing. I always thought you had serious talent.”

For a moment, Eddie just stares at you, something softening in his gaze. “Huh. Guess you’re one of the good ones, then.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint blush creeps up his cheeks. “Most of the people from high school didn’t have much good to say about me, you know? Especially the basketball crowd.”

“Well, I’m definitely not one of them,” you reply firmly.

Eddie’s expression changes, his usual cocky demeanor dropping as he looks at you with something more serious in his eyes. “I’m… I’m glad you’re not,” he says softly, his gaze lingering on you. There’s a tension building, and you can feel the air grow thicker. For a moment, it seems like he might lean in.

But then, he clears his throat and glances away. “Anyway, let’s get that car of yours looked at, huh?”

You nod, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.

Over the next few days, Eddie works on your car, keeping you updated with every little detail. He even insists on teaching you a few things—“just in case” you find yourself stranded again. The garage quickly becomes a second home, with the smell of oil and the sound of rock music on the old radio.

One evening, he invites you over to check on the progress, and you find him deep under the hood. He’s humming along to a song, his fingers deftly working over the engine, and he doesn’t notice you until you clear your throat. When he looks up, he gives you a grin that sends a spark straight to your heart.

“You just gonna watch me, or you wanna get your hands dirty?”

You scoff. “I’m not about to ruin my nails.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, laughing. “I’ll teach you the basics. Maybe you’ll be a natural.”

Reluctantly, you agree, and he shows you how to check the oil and recognize a few key parts. The entire time, he stands close, guiding your hands, and you can feel every touch linger just a bit too long. His fingers graze over yours as he explains things, and his voice is softer, almost as if he’s talking to himself.

“So,” he murmurs, breaking the silence as he watches you, “did you really mean what you said about liking my band?”

You nod. “Yeah. You were great. You looked so… free up there.”

Eddie swallows, his gaze dropping to your lips. He leans in, his face close, and for a second, it feels like he might kiss you. But he pauses, pulling back with a slightly flustered smile.

“I, uh… guess we should finish up here,” he says, looking away. There’s a strange tension in the air, and you leave that night feeling both excited and frustrated, wondering what might have happened if you’d been braver.

The next evening, you return to the garage. Eddie’s face lights up when he sees you, and he offers you a playful smile. “Couldn’t stay away?”

“Maybe I wanted to make sure you were doing a decent job on my car,” you tease.

“Oh, please. I’m an artist with engines.” He winks, tossing a rag aside. “Actually, I was thinking maybe we could take her for a spin tonight. You know, just to make sure everything’s in order.”

You nod, and soon enough, you’re in the passenger seat while Eddie drives. The road is quiet, the sky dimming with the last light of the day, casting everything in a warm glow.

“So… if you really liked Corroded Coffin that much, why’d you never come say hi?” he asks, glancing over with a curious smile.

You shrug, feeling shy. “I guess I thought you wouldn’t remember me. I wasn’t exactly memorable back then.”

“Trust me, I would’ve remembered,” he says, his voice soft. “Not a lot of people actually saw me as more than… you know, the ‘freak.’”

You reach over, resting a hand on his arm. “You weren’t a freak, Eddie. You were brave. I always admired that.”

Eddie stares at you for a long moment, his gaze intense. He pulls the car over, turning to face you completely, and there’s something vulnerable in his eyes.

“You’re not like the others, are you?” he whispers. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me the way you do.”

The tension between you feels almost electric. He reaches up, his hand brushing gently against your cheek, and you lean into his touch. He leans in, his lips hovering over yours for a heartbeat before finally pressing them to yours.

The kiss is soft, lingering, and when you pull back, both of you are a little breathless.

“So… you wanna grab a bite to eat or something?” he asks, looking at you with a hopeful grin.

“Yeah,” you say, laughing as you give him another quick kiss. “I think I’d like that.”

He drives you to a small diner, where you laugh and talk for hours, sharing stories and dreams. By the time he drops you off at home, it feels like something new and beautiful has started between you two.

As he leans in for one final kiss, he grins against your lips, whispering, “Guess I’m not so hopeless with love, either, huh?”

You laugh, shaking your head as he pulls you into one last, lingering kiss, and you know this is only the beginning.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

#x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson #eddie the freak munson #stranger things fluff #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction

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softtdaisy · 1 year ago

Note

hey could you please do a one shot for pierre where he won’t admit that he is sick and still does race but is ill during the race and he says on radio that all he wants is you and then you comfort him

DESCRIPTION I Pierre might pretend is not sick, but sometimes you know your boyfriend more than he knows himself

PAIRING I Pierre Gasly × fem!reader

WORDS COUNT I 1,5k

A/N I It felt good to write about Pierre again?? I love that stupid boy with my whole heart. I changed the end a little i think so i hope you’ll love it babe 🤍

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

You knew a lot of things in life. The integrality of your favorite author’s bibliography, almost every line from your favorite sitcom and the entire calendar of the F1 season to follow your boyfriend.

But there was one thing you definitely knew by heart: your boyfriend. You could figure out every one of his little reactions and understand what he was thinking or going through. Whatever Pierre said, he was an open book for you.

Honestly, you didn’t even try to memorize everything, you just did. Or maybe you just had a very demonstrative boyfriend that was terrible at hiding his feelings.

“For the hundredth time, yes, I’m fine.” Pierre answered…coughing. Which made you frown and wondered when he was going to stop lying.

You tried to tell him that no, it might not be a good idea to bathe in the hotel’s pool last week after his podium. Sure he was happy and you wanted to celebrate just as much. But the temperature was low outside and in the pool. It was just a good way to get sick when he had a race this weekend too.

Needless to say Pierre was as stubborn as a mule. So he did go to the pool with his friends while you watched. You even took pictures. To remember that night. And to remind him how stupid it was when he would be sick.

“So we are totally going to ignore the fact you were super warm last night?” you asked, putting a hand on his forehead to check his temperature. He was still warm but this idiot didn’t want to take anything.

“That’s because I was sleeping next to you, chérie.”

You laughed, not even bothering to remind him he didn’t need to flirt with you. After three years, it’s not like he needed to win you again. You were all his. Even when he was annoying like that. You just hit the same forehead you were gently checking a few seconds ago. To which Pierre reacted by grabbing your wrist to make you climb him. When he approached his face, and more precisely his lips from yours, you pushed him away.

“There is no way I’m kissing your sick mouth.”

“I’m not sick!”

“You totally are!”

Pierre rolled his eyes right when his phone rang. It was time to go to the circuit. There was no time for jokes anymore. The reality was there: your boyfriend was going to race because he refused to admit he felt bad. You sighed, letting him get up and take his stuff. There was nothing you could do. And even if you tried, it was too late.

“Let’s pretend that I’m sick. Which I’m not!” Pierre told you when you woke up this morning. “I’m institing on the not.”

“I got it, Gasly. Go On”.

“So let’s pretend I’m sick. The race is today, the team clearly doesn’t have the time to call a reserve driver to take my place. And I can’t let them have only one car today. It would be a mess. So even if I’m sick, which I’m not again, I can’t miss it.”

Sometimes you wondered if you were engaged to Pierre or to F1. Maybe a little bit of both.

Maybe it should have been a sign for Pierre that when the taxi drove you to the circuit, he turned white. You hold his hand, trying to comfort him even if, of course, he was absolutely not sick. He was just a driver with motion sickness. How logical.

As always, the craziness of the event took over everything once you put a foot on the circuit. Pierre got monopolized by the team to get ready, do some interviews and all that stuff. Meaning, you absolutely lost sight of your boyfriend. So you tried to think about anything else to stop worrying about his condition. You saw the other girlfriends and spent some time with them. And it worked for a good moment.

Even when you watched the parade together, you absolutely forgot about Pierre being sick in your hotel room earlier.

No, not sick. He wasn’t, that’s what he said.

So you sat in the Alpine motorhome, putting on your headphones to ear Pierre through the race. And it wasn’t after the first lap that you remember all the mess that had happened before.

When you saw him miss a corner. He managed to go back on the road naturally, so you assumed it was just a mistake.

And when it happened again, on the same lap, you understood it was more than that.

“Everything alright?” his engineer asked on the radio.

But Pierre didn’t answer.

You thought that maybe you had missed his answer in the mess of the race. Or maybe he didn’t take the time to answer because he was focused on the road.

But when it became obvious that something was wrong, you started to worry.

“Pierre, is everything alright?” he got asked once again.

“Sometimes I hate how everyone can hear our radio, you know. Other teams, the public… I wish I could have some private conversation with my team.” he told you one day.

“Why, you want to flirt with them?” you replied, laughing, which led to a night full of flirting and love making.

But now you understand why he wanted to have a private conversation.

“No.” Pierre simply replied and your heart just broke.

“Do you want to stop?” His engineer must have noticed how bad he felt because there was no world in which a team would ask its driver to stop driving.

“Is [y/n] there?”

Everyone looked at you. And oh boy you hated how suddenly the world was on your shoulder. You gave his engineer just one look. A look that held a question. To which he answered with a simple nod.

“Baby”. You couldn’t find any other words. What were you even supposed to say? Reassure him? Seeing him drive like that you were ready to stand in front of the car to stop him. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

“You know what’s wrong.” and this absolutely didn’t sound bad at all.

You knew Pierre by heart. Every little reaction. Every tone in his voice. Every look.

So you knew what he was waiting for.

For your approval.

“Stop, please.” you asked him.

And then nothing. You just waited. Staring at the screen. Hoping he would listen to you. Hoping he won’t make a mistake. Praying for his safety.

“He’s stopping.” you heard his engineer say. For himself, for the team. And maybe to reassure you too.

You watched as he entered the pitlane. You followed the car carefully, waiting until he was parked to be sure he was safe for good. You’ve never been more scared for Pierre than at this precise moment.

Not even when he crashed in previous races. Accidents happened and he always managed to reassure you immediately. This time was different. You had a sick boyfriend stuck in a car and nothing could assure you that he would be fine. What if he gets unconscious before he can get out? What if it’s worse than you imagine?

You closed your eyes, just a few seconds, like you needed to get ready for what you were going to see. And thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as you imagine.

Pierre struggled to get out, like his legs couldn’t support the rest of his body. Some mechanics held him and helped walk inside. That’s when you took over. You immediately ran to him and took him in your arms. It probably didn’t even help him because you hugged him so hard you probably could have made him fall in reverse. But it didn’t matter. He was here.

And you could feel Pierre relief when he started to hug you back. He still had his helmet on so when he put his head on top of yours, it wasn’t comfortable for either of you. But when he grabbed your shirt and how fast his heart was beating was enough. He needed you. You were here.

“Too early to say I tried to warn you?” After all that mess, Pierre asked the team to avoid the media. And even if they technically disagree, they knew they didn’t have the choice. Pierre looked awfully sick. So they let the both of you leave the race before the end and go back to the hotel room so he could rest before you fly back home the following day.

So you were laying in bed, after you helped Pierre take a shower. If he wasn’t sick, you would melt for his soft look: his hair was messy and he was wearing one of his too big sweatshirts, looking like a big baby in your arms. You were massaging his forehead. This was why you laughed when he moved his head to look at you.

“Too early.” he groaned before cuddling against you. You pinched your lips to not laugh again and not insist on all the things he told you to keep racing. That man was stubborn as hell.

But damn, how annoying your life would be without him.

#pierre gasly #pierre gasly x reader #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly x y/n #pierre gasly x you #Pierre Gasly fluff #Pierre Gasly x fem!reader #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #my writing

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animeomegas · 1 year ago

Text

More Baxter thoughts~

Imagine post Step 4, MC telling Baxter that he was their first kiss. They sort of laugh and explain that for some people 18 would be considered a late bloomer, but that was the right time for them. They joke that Baxter was just too irresistible.

MC is trying to keep the mood light, just joking about it, but that doesn't really go to plan.

Because Baxter is shocked for three seconds, pleased and flustered for one second, and then deeply guilty from then on.

He feels guilty for not knowing, for taking MC's first kiss even if they kissed him first, and he feels even worse for ghosting them now, which he didn't think was possible.

He tries to just smile and say he's honoured, but he cannot sleep that night because he feels so guilty. He wants to punch 19 year old him in the face (don't we all).

I think MC'd have to firmly pull him from the guilt and kiss him until he truly understands that they'd forgiven him for the shenanigans he pulled 5 years ago, and that they definitely don't regret him being the first person they kissed.

Actually that would be a good strategy to pull his head out of the guilt cloud: MC should ask him if he regrets being the first person they kissed and then watch this man backtrack at the speed of light and vehemently deny it lol.

...

But also, imagine MC face timing Baxter for the first time after they had to go home.

They'd both do it late at night, I think, maybe they'd both be in bed, and when the call connects, they both just stare at each other for several moments.

Until MC pushes out an 'I miss you' and Baxter melts and says it back.

MC was sort of expecting to be teased about missing him when it's only been a day since they left, but Baxter isn't about to deny that he's already wishing they were with him again.

Just imagine them softly talking about their days to each other, tucked up in their respective beds, wishing the other one was close enough to touch and hold.

Imagine them having to end every face time with a reminder about when they were going to see each other next, just to soften the bitter blow of the end of the call.

Imagine MC taking a screenshot when Baxter looks cute, his hair mussed from his pillow.

Imagine Baxter taking a screenshot when MC starts nodding off, head propped up by one dangerously swaying hand.

Imagine neither of them wanting to bring up staying on the call as they sleep, but both thinking about it every time.

Just... soft Baxter and MC, because they'd be the cutest sappiest couples, especially when they're alone.

...

This third one and final one is not as cute, but imagine an artist MC who is just enamoured by the mole on the upper back of Baxter's thigh.

They really want to not be creepy, but also... they really want to sketch it.

And so they sketch it, but it doesn't capture the beauty properly, so they add colour and edit and keep going until they have a near photo realistic image of the back of Baxter's thigh XD

Baxter finds the drawing one day and basically blue screens for a good 40 seconds before he attempts to compliment their art work and tease them about the subject material at the same time, the words coming out as a jumbled, flustered mess.

That is all XD Thank you for letting me scream my Baxter ideas into the void haha.

#baxter ward #baxter x reader #our life #hcs #headcanons #baxter x mc #our life beginnings & always

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 1 year ago

Note

JJ maybank 14 pls thank youuu ‘‘I love you and no one can change that.’‘ Maybe his dad comes home and shit go down?

Slowly going through all of my old drafts. I don't remember writing some of them...

Warnings: violence, abuse

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

A massive downpour decided to hit the island while you and JJ were out. You took shelter under a bus stop, but the sky was showing no signs of the rain stopping soon, forcing you to brave the rain to find a better shelter for the coming hours.

You suggested going to the chateau, but John B. had made it clear that he was spending the day with Sarah and wanted no interruptions. So, reluctantly, JJ took your hand and showed the way to his house.

He was nervous about inviting you over. For starters, his house was a complete dump. There was trash and empty beer cans everywhere, the carpets had not been vacuumed in years, the things his dad broke during his last drunken brawl were still on the floor and his dirty — and clean — clothes were all over his bedroom.

And secondly, JJ was worried about his dad being there. He didn’t want you to meet him — ever. But according to the time on his phone, Luke should be at work until late, so it should be safe.

By the time you got to JJ's house, your clothes and hair quickly got drenched. JJ quickly unlocked the fetched towels to dry off. While you waited, you took in the living room, a distinct smell of dampness lingering in the air mixed with the faint odor of alcohol. The furniture was old and worn-out, with stains and cigarette burns marking its surface.

‘’Sorry about the mess," he apologized, glancing around the room and rubbing the back of his head. ‘’Ehh, here.’’ JJ handed you the towels. They were mismatched and had stains on them, but you didn't comment on it. ‘’I’ll get you some dry clothes. You can change in the bathroom.’’ He pointed to the bathroom door at the end of the hallway, and disappeared inside the door right next to it — seemingly his bedroom.

You followed him.

The walls were decorated with surf posters and one of a very lightly dressed woman. You turned your head away from her, trying not to think of many times JJ must’ve jerked off to her. On the opposite wall, JJ was searching through a dresser with opened drawers and clothes spilling out, looking for something clean to give you.

He sniffed a brown-ish tee shirt and put it back down, making you bite back a laugh. ‘’Definitely not that one.’’

‘’I can just wear that hoodie,’’ you said, picking the gray Kildare surfboard hoodie rumpled on his bed. You had worn it a few times at cookouts when the evening air would raise chills on your skin. ‘’You don’t have to go through all of your clothes.’’

JJ shook his head. As much as he would love the sight of you walking around his house in only his hoodie, he didn’t trust himself to not pop a boner. He settled on a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt.

You thanked him and took the clothes to the bathroom to change. The herbal smell of weed lingered on them, which was very JJ.

At your return, the sound of rain hitting the windows had intensified, creating a soothing rhythm that filled the room. JJ had changed out of his wet clothes too, now sporting camo shorts and the grey hoodie that was on his bed. His hair was tousled from being roughly towel-dried, and you couldn’t help yourself, reaching to fix some pieces. He smiled at your touch.

‘’Thanks again for the clothes,’’ you said just as the front door opened and slammed shut, causing JJ’s smile to fall abruptly.

‘’Shit. I think that’s my dad.’’

He knew it was his dad. Who else would walk in and slam the door shut? Why was he home so early?

You heard the sound of a beer sex-pack being put down and JJ tensed, panic filling his blue eyes. ‘’JJ? You home, son?’’ the man called through the house, followed by some grumbling as he cracked a beer open.

‘’Stay here,’’ JJ said quietly, not wanting his dad to hear him talk to somebody.

‘’JJ—’’

He took your shoulders and looked you in the eyes, genuine fear and worry in his. ‘’Promise me you’ll stay here.’’

You nodded in response, sensing the urgency in his voice and the seriousness of the situation. It was evident that JJ was trying to protect you from his dad, and you respected his decision to handle the situation on his own.

He moved away from you, making his way towards the door with cautious steps. He didn’t want to go, but he had to. If he didn’t, Luke might come here and see you and JJ didn’t want to think about the inappropriate things that would come out of his filthy mouth.

You sat on JJ’s bed, hands in your lap as you waited for him to return.

In the living room, you could hear the voices of JJ and his dad. You couldn't make out what they were saying because of the shut door, but the latter’s voice quickly went up in volume. Then, the loud sound of glass shattering erupted from the living room, making your head snap in the direction of the door.

By reflex, you stood and went to the door, worry settling in your guts. Your hand was on the doorknob, but you remembered your promise and stepped back. JJ could handle his drunk dad, right?

Luke’s yells echoed in the house again, followed by a loud thud, and that’s when you decided to take a risk and come out.

You were quiet as you peaked down the hallway, not wishing to catch the older man’s attention. A quiet gasp caught in your throat when seeing JJ pinned up against the wall, Luke’s fist gripping the front of JJ’s hoodie as he continued to yell at him with violence in his words. On the floor beside them, one of the old liquor bottles was in pieces, having fallen and shattered in the commotion.

The floor creaked beneath your feet and you quickly ducked back in JJ’s bedroom. The noise had Luke glancing down the hallway, drawing his eyebrows together when seeing no one. Old houses creak for no reason sometimes, right?

When he turned his head back to his son, JJ headbutted him and managed to push his dad off him before running off to his bedroom. He shut the door so fast it echoed through the house and made the wall rattle. You jumped at the sound and stepped back when you heard Luke come after JJ, banging on his door and causing your heart to race behind your chest.

When the banging stopped, JJ released a shaky breath and slid down to his floor with his knees pulled to his chest. He cursed repeatedly, pushing his head into his hands.

‘’I should’ve never brought you here.’’

The guilt in his voice made your heart sink. Carefully, you approached JJ and sat down beside him.

‘’You can leave if you want. There’s a way out through the window. I’m not gonna be mad if you—’’

‘’I’m not leaving,’’ you told him firmly.

JJ slowly lifted his head, a frown appearing on his features. ‘’You should. I would leave my life if I could.’’ He forced a laugh, but all you heard was pain.

You didn't know how long his father's abuse had been going on, but it must've been a while. The thought of someone treating their child so horribly made your heart ache. Now you understand why he was always spending the night at the chateau and why no one ever come to his house.

You shifted and gently reached for JJ's face, making him look at you. ‘’I’m not leaving,’’ you repeated. ‘’Not today, not tomorrow.’’

He turned his head away and pushed your hand off him, hiding his emotions from you. ‘’You say this now, but you'll get tired of me and my shit.’’

‘’I'm not. I meant it, J. I love you and no one can change that. Not even your shitty home-life.’’

—

OBX taglist: @moralina @eudximoniakr @toylewestinnyc @rottenstyx @sweeterheartxamerica @jordierama @viridwityy @izzy-laufeyson @kenzi-woycehoski @lilaconner @Katsukis1Wife @hawkegfs @mommyruuetrue @acornacreacure @snownjune @nmedina8611 @slvtherinseeker @slvtherinseeker @poppet05 @1stevelacyfan @illf4iry @withbeautyandrage @maybankslover @sunflowerziva @laylasbunbunny @Honey-marvel15 @leoluvsur-pappy @slytherhoes @kcskye123 @outerbanksacc @pedrosprincess @mikaelsonsstuff @skyesthebomb @a1mzcruml3y @iluurmom @popeheywardssecretgf @madelynie @loverofdrewstarkey @radiant-whore @outsider-at-hogwarts

All and more taglist: @spiokybirdstarfish @kenqki @liidiaaag @hawkegfs @gillybear17 @areaderinlove @acornacreacure @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @rosie-cameron @Caxddce @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade @hi-bored-as-fcuk-rn @lovelyy-moonlight @mellabella101 @vxnity713 @marzipaanz @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @xyzstar @graceberman3 @Heartsforneteyamsully

#jj maybank #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank outer banks #outer banks #outer banks imagine

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ssahopelessly · 11 months ago

Text

Home for Christmas

Synopsis: Spencer gets called away on a case days before Christmas and while he should be working, his only thoughts are those of returning home to be with his wife and daughter.

Prompt: “After an awful case, the team comes back on Christmas Eve to find that Penelope has gathered their loved ones and quickly decorated the BAU as a surprise.” From the Office Party challenge {but I left out the party and decorating of the BAU office}

Warnings: Married Spencer x WifeReader, Fem!Reader, daughter named Autumn, brief discussions of case [let me know any I missed]

Word Count: 2.6k

Masterist

It was his worst nightmare come true. Well, maybe not his worst, that was one he hoped would stay tucked into the recesses of his mind for all of time. But this definitely made the list, without a doubt. Several years ago, it would’ve been an inconceivable one, but now, knowing what was waiting for him at home, this was the absolute worst.

“Are you going to be home for Christmas?” Her voice rang through the line as clear as a silver bell.

“I don’t know. I hope so. But…” Spencer allowed himself to fall back onto the bed he had been sitting on, trying to imagine he was home for this holiday. In his mind, he could see it as clear as he did when he left their home two days ago, the Christmas tree they had spent an afternoon decorating, the garland lining the stairwell that had been entwined with warm white Christmas lights, how the whole house smelled just like a Christmas tree farm and some cinnamon.

Spencer hoped that if the fates had any sway and any favors they could pull for him, maybe this would be the one. “But?” She had caught onto the sentence he didn’t finish, his mind lost in remembering.

“Well we haven't had any victims in the last three days and what we have isn’t conclusive enough or worse, it’s just not enough.”

“Oh.” He was staring at the hotel ceiling above him, getting visually lost in the scalloped pattern of what was above that he missed the defeated look on her digital face.

“And I don't want to wish for another victim, not a few days out from Christmas, but if we don’t get enough evidence we’ll have to close the case and go home.”

“Would you be here for Christmas?” The voice she used was relatively small, knowing at its core, it was a selfish desire: to have Spencer home for Christmas when people in another town needed him to stop the unsub. But there were only so many childhood Christmases for their daughter, and there was nothing more important in their lives than her.

“I mean maybe, but we would just have to come back out when the next victim shows up and I don’t want to leave if he’s still out there.”

“Is it possible he’s tied up in holiday festivities?” On her end of the call, she was moving about the kitchen, preparing a late night cup of hot cocoa as she listened to him, knowing she was sharing his attention with the details of the case.

“I mean maybe but…” His voice trailed off again as he slowly sat up, his memory deep diving into the facts of the evidence board and how that situation had never been entertained, how they had never considered with the holidays their unsub might be busy with festivities.

“Spencer?” She called to him, making sure he was still there or that the call hadn’t dropped.

“What if he’s tied up in holiday events and- I gotta go.” Pushing himself off the hotel bed, he ran towards his satchel, forgetting his phone on the sheets. With a view of the ceiling, she called for him one more time.

“Spencer?”

“Yes?” Crossing back over, he looked down to his phone so she could see him one more time for the evening, a smile forming on her lips as she knew they might’ve just had the breakthrough he needed. Whether he would get home in time for the holidays was one thing, whether he would save a town from future torment was another matter entirely, something she knew he was perfectly capable of.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Her words had given him the hope he needed, that electric spark of an idea that could carry him through the next few hours of re-evaluating the case enough to feel like he might actually be able to go home. “I’ll be home for Christmas. Promise.” Even through the phone screen, he could see the tears that had built along the bottom of her eyes, the smile she tried to show just for him, and he hoped against everything, that her beautiful and brilliant mind had given him the breakthrough the case so desperately needed.

“What?” Penelope yawned over the speakerphone, stumbling into her office that morning with Spencer five cups of coffee deep into his complete reanalysis of a case everyone was nearly ready to close, unsub known or not.

“We need to look at individuals who would be tied up with holiday festivities right now. Craftsman working on the local parade or theatre performances, someone who would have access to the tools and skillset but have virtually zero free time right now due to holiday obligations.”

“Spencer, it is six in the morning there, did you sleep? At all?”

“I got four hours before midnight and I can sleep on the jet.” He rattled off in a half breath as he added new notes to the map on the evidence board. “Okay, how many of the churches are hosting or have already hosted Christmas events this month through New Years?”

“Uhm…” he waited for her numbers, hearing the incessant typing of her keyboard, “Jesus, you’re definitely in the south. Within the city limits, 43.”

“Out of city limits?”

“52.” His attention focused in on the pins where the latest victims had been found compared to where the churches and local theaters were. “Spencer?”

“What about-”

They carried on like that for another hour until finally, they had narrowed it down to one guy. Their unsub had split time between three churches and a local theater, one victim tied to each community and within a few hours, they had their warrant and had arrested him before he could even wake himself up that morning. He was pulled into questioning which unfortunately did take all day, but by the time paperwork was finalized and evidence collected by evening the next day, they were on their way home to spend Christmas Eve night with their families.

The jet ride back that night was nothing remarkable, everyone choosing to sleep or keep to themselves this trip. And he was right. Spencer Reid did sleep on the jet the whole way back to Quantico. But the warmth he found in his sleep on the jet would soon vanish as the cool Virginia air greeted him with a vengeance that night, just as the team shuffled from the jet to the SUVs. The ride back to the office was quiet, but no one could continue their naps from the jet. All anyone could do was think about the families waiting for them back home, families waiting to start the holiday festivities.

“Look.” JJ had whispered to Reid at one point in the drive, her hand extending her phone to him in the backseat from her spot in the passenger seat. “Will and I agreed the boys should open one present tonight.” The video, once Spencer held the phone in his hands, was of Henry helping baby Michael open a box that sat on the floor between the two. He didn’t quite catch the content of the present with the shaky filming and glitching pixels, but he smiled over his godsons nonetheless.

“Wow.” Spencer let himself marvel aloud as he passed the phone back to JJ, trying to fight the yawn that was lingering at the back of his mouth. “Are they waiting up for you?”

“Henry is but Michael fell asleep early tonight. Will said they’d watch Elf and the Grinch until I get home though.”

“That’s not going to delay Santa Clause?” The look in his eye was one of knowing, a near twinkle of mischief.

“As long as milk and cookies are out, Santa will be fine.” Spencer could see the fond smile on JJ’s face in the light from her phone screen before she put it away in her pocket, looking back to him then. “What about your house? Do you think they’ll be awake when you get home?” Spencer tried not to think too hard on the possibility. He knew the schedules, he knew the odds, but part of him hoped he would get what was left of Christmas Eve with them, even if it just meant a five minute bed time story with Autumn and then one mistletoe kiss with his wife before they both passed out for the night.

“I hope they’re awake. But it’s late anyway so they’re probably asleep.” He felt how the possible reality affected him, but he hoped against everything he would get to see them just once before Christmas morning.

Normally when they got back to the office building, they were dismissed until the next business day. And he thought Hotch would especially excuse them as they both had kids at home. But something wasn’t right. As they piled out of the vehicles, Hotch required everyone to return to the 6th floor. He wouldn’t say why, and if anyone had a chance to ask, all they were told was “some paperwork cant wait for the next day.”

Spencer was the first one off the elevator, noticing how the time clock over the bullpen read the time to him, almost mocking him. 10:43. He did take a moment to glare at the ticking thing, setting his satchel down into his computer chair as he rubbed at his eyes. They opened to notice one thing was different, one thing that didnt sit right in his mind. He couldve sworn the roundtable room blinds were always open, never closed unless there was an important meeting. And he could've also sworn the picture frame on his desk with their family Christmas photo had been on the right of the computer, not centered along the right side. “Hey, H-“ He couldn’t finish calling to his boss, a commotion behind him taking his attention.

“DADDY!” His head spun trying to find her voice, knowing it anywhere. The one voice that could get him to shed his FBI exterior and leave his heart open. Turning around, he saw the blur of her hair and holiday dress as she ran down the steps to him, his body immediately bending down to scoop her up. “Daddy you’re back!” Her voice cheered into his shoulder as he pressed a kiss to the side of her head, spinning them around for effect. She giggled profusely as he looked back to the roundtable room, now seeing (Y/N) waiting just outside the door, hand over her heart as the scene unfolded. He motioned for her to come join them, quick to notice how she wiped away tears as she rushed to be with them by his desk. Holding tighter to Autumn, he pulled his wife in for a hug, also placing a kiss to her hair before deeply inhaling, renewing his memory of her scent.

“You’re here.” He breathed out in a whisper, squeezing her body to his.

“Penelope called. She wanted you to have your family for the holidays.” Looking once more to the roundtable room, he saw Penelope as she stood along the railing, a gentle wave to Spencer as he held his girls in his arms.

He mouthed a thank you to her before pressing another kiss to (Y/N)’s head, Autumn resting her head against his.

“Daddy?”

“Yes sugar plum?”

“Can we go home now? We’re going to miss Santa.” They both laughed as they hugged her closer in their little family huddle, evermore appreciative that they got one more Christmas as a family.

The drive home was exceptionally quiet, Autumn running out of energy before they even left headquarters. Spencer’s hand didn’t let go of (Y/N), thumb rubbing slow circles into the top of her hand as he watched her driving. “I love you.” He mumbled, in such a tired daze from the last few days.

“I know.” Squeezing his hand, she spared a look at him at the red light, no other cars at the intersection. “I love you Spencer.” Just as the light turned green, she noticed how his eyes fluttered to a close, the smile still present on his lips. “Seriously?”

“I’m just so happy.” He hummed, opening his tired eyes to look at her in the passing street light.

“Yeah, and you can’t fall asleep right now because you’re carrying her inside. I can’t carry both of you into the house.”

And he did just that. When she parked their car in the parking lot, Spencer was quick to get out to open (Y/N)’s door and then gently opened the door where Autumn’s seat was, careful not to wake her. While he carried her into the building, (Y/N) made sure to get all the doors in their way, hoping Autumn would stay asleep from the car to her bed. As soon as she hit the matress, her hands did reach up for Spencer as he gently removed himself from her hold, but he quickly reached for the custom teddy bear they had gifted her for when he was away on a case, and she snuggled up to it like it was good enough. Holding (Y/N)’s hand, they both tried to commit to memory the serenity and peace of their daughters room before closing it for the night, quietly walking towards their room now. “What time do you think Santa will come?” She asked as she took off her evening clothes to get into her pajamas, sitting on the bench at the foot of their bed as she waited for Spencer to finish getting ready.

“I was thinking maybe 3:00, maybe 4:00?” She didn’t shy away from letting out a groan as she came up behind him to hug his back, only having successfully put on his pajama pants for the night.

“Maybe 5:00.”

“Do you think she’ll get up and check?” His hands came to rest over hers, holding them close to his stomach.

“No, she didn’t get her afternoon nap so she’s extra tired tonight.” She placed a kiss to the back of his shoulder blade, and he tried his best not to melt into her touch.

“I missed you.”

“Missed you more.” She mumbled out before Spencer turned around in her hold, bringing his arms around her as she settled against his chest.

It was such a simple thing, to be in each other's arms, but it was the one thing they both craved when they were apart. It was the one thing in their relationship that hadn’t changed, the need for physical touch but only from each other. Like many times before, Spencer’s mind seemed to stall with the concept of time, unable to differentiate the seconds from minutes in her arms, resting his cheek against her head. “Let’s go to bed.” One more kiss was pressed to her hair before she let go of him, turning to climb into their bed.

As they made their way under the covers, Spencer moving to lay behind her, his arm slipped over her waist, her back to his chest, and it was then he lost the strength to hold back the lingering thoughts in his mind. “I thought I wouldn’t get tonight with you.”

“You did. It’s our own Christmas miracle.”

“You’re my miracle.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, lips lingering over the surface. “My dream I never have to wake from.”

“You, Dr. Reid, are exceptionally cheesy.” A laugh had burst from her lips but he didn’t even flinch or pull away from her. Her laughter settled back into the quiet of their room, eyelids starting to grow heavy as she felt her heartbeat synchronize to his breathing behind her. “Santa’s at 5:00?” The response he offered was just a small hum of acknowledgment, squeezing her body tighter to his before they both surrendered to the attractive lure, falling into a blissful sleep (if only for a few hours).

Tell me what you think here!

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fandom #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #oneshot #christmas #ssahopelessly #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff

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antebunny · 5 months ago

Text

IRONY

(Or: my take on a post Red Robin Dick & Tim reconciliation. Because they love each other so much, and that's why it hurts).

Tim can admit, once an alert pops up on his computer and he immediately opens up the live feed of Dick’s kitchen, that there’s some cruel, bitter irony in what he’s doing. Also quite a few broken laws, and bent morals, and some icky stuff which he would not like Dick to find out about. Inserting surveillance cameras and trackers all over your loved one’s property, after all, is Bad Sibling Behavior. After so long spent trying to be a good sibling, Tim is hardly going to admit what he’s doing to anyone else.

Because he’s stalking Dick.

Like a creepy little obsessed fan. Or a creepy villain-adjacent stalker. Like a ten-year-old Timmy Drake. He never thought he’d be doing it again as eighteen-year-old Tim Drake. Nonetheless, he stalks and tracks and surveils Dick from afar without ever talking to him. It’s like old times. Jason is even alive again. Except that instead of Tim stalking the Bats because he was a lonely little ten-year-old left to rot in a huge mansion with no concept of privacy or boundaries, he’s a less-lonely eighteen-year-old who knows far too much about Dick Grayson. Too much because far too much has gone down between them for Tim to just…talk to the guy. It’s impossible. Definitely impossible.

Tim misses the days of late night ice creams, arms resting on his head or slung over his back, trading skateboard tricks for tumbling tricks. He aches for those days with a hunger he didn’t know was possible after a childhood spent starving for affection.

But they can never go back.

Which is why Tim learns that Dick isn’t taking his meds because his surveillance equipment detected a change in behavior. Dick usually goes to his kitchen, breaks out orange juice or soda or some energy drink from the fridge, and takes his meds. Tonight he did not. Tim doesn’t know what the meds are for, he’s not that much of an invasive creep. It’s enough to know that Dick is getting treatment. And Tim doesn’t have to talk to Dick to find out how he’s doing. It’s enough to stalk him from afar to check on his well-being.

Now the question is: what can Tim do about it? He can’t ask Dick himself. That’s obviously out of the question. Dick would listen to Damian, but the brat resents Tim’s very existence, so best not try that route. Dick would listen to Jason, but Red Hood barely tolerates Tim nowadays, and Tim isn’t interested in owing him a huge favor for something he really should do himself, so not him either. Dick would maybe, maybe listen to Bruce, but that’s hit-or-miss.

Tim calls Barbara.

“I need a favor,” he says as soon as she picks up. “Are you alone?”

“Yes,” Barbara replies, immediately business-like. “What’s up?”

Tim spins around in his swivel chair. Best purchase for his lair by far. “Not cape stuff, sort of, or imminently pressing, well, it’s pressing, I just needed to make sure no one’s listening in.”

“As sure as I can ever be,” Barbara confirms dryly. Answer: there’s always a chance, in the Bats’ paranoid minds, that someone is eavesdropping. But according to Oracle, she’s in the clear, and it really doesn’t get better than that.

“So, don’t ask me how I know this,” Tim prefaces, knowing she’s about to find out about his surveillance cameras in Dick’s apartment (if she hasn’t already), “but Dick didn’t take his meds last night. I don’t know what they are, so I dunno how bad it is that he skipped, and I don’t wanna pry into your, uh, relationship with him but–”

“Dick and I aren’t talking right now,” Barbara says flatly.

So, they’re in the off-again part of their on-again, off-again relationship. Most of the time Tim is rooting for them. Sometimes he thinks they should do what he and Steph did and settle into a best friends for life relationship.

“Right.” On his next rotation, Tim catches himself on the edge of his table. He taps one hand on the clear surface and thinks of possibilities. “Do you think he would listen to B–”

“No.”

“Right.” Tim tries not to sigh and fails. “Okay, uh. Jason?”

“Jason can’t keep a secret.”

Which is sort of unfair to Jason, but keeping a secret is relative. Compared to Barbara and Tim, Jason can’t keep a secret. And Tim is not one to argue if someone’s making fun of Jason.

“Cass? No. Same problem.”

It’s against her very nature to lie. If Cass does hold a secret, it is by accident. Tim doesn’t want to leave this up to chance. This was easier when they had Alfred to mediate.

Tim starts spinning in his chair again. His room whirls past. “What about his friends? Kori or Wally or…literally any of them?”

“I don’t see,” Barbara says, “why you’re avoiding the obvious solution of asking him yourself. He’d listen to you.”

He’ll listen to you. What a heavy, crushing promise to make. You have the trust of Nightwing. Nightwing, admired by the entire superhero community. It’s true, maybe, probably. That Dick will listen to Tim. He’s mostly sure of that now, after everything. That’s the problem, really. The “after everything” part of Tim’s confidence. Their trust is not from years of steady partnership, or slowly developed siblinghood. The trust Tim has in Dick originates from months of silence, of terribly intimate understanding, of shared grief and one horrible, nausea-inducing day.

Dick hates when people leave him and when people fall and he can’t catch them. People don’t usually leave Dick Grayson, but Tim left and then he fell and Dick caught him. So Dick will listen, probably, maybe, if only because he doesn’t want Tim to leave. And Tim can’t ask, knowing that they don’t have the nice, easy brotherhood they ought to, the companionship siblings should have. Knowing Dick is only listening because he wants to keep Tim around. That’s the sort of fake compassion Tim spent his life running from. It’s not empathy, it’s sympathy.

A vicious little voice that sounds like Janet Drake tells Tim that he should shut up and suck it up and accept whatever Dick gives him, because he’ll never be worthy of anything more. Tim slams his head into walls to shut that voice up. He won’t accept it. He cannot. He must not.

“You’re not talking to him, are you.” Barbara’s voice has a tinge of that shaking-your-head condescension that drives Tim up the walls. The tone that carries that undercurrent of, why are you making this so hard, Tim? As if it’s so easy. As if everything that fractured Tim and Dick’s relationship is so easily repairable.

Of course, Tim can’t explain that to Barbara. It sounds pathetic, even to himself.

“Bold words, coming from you,” Tim retorts.

Barbara sighs. “Look. At this point Damian has the best communication with Dick. And unless you have a way of tricking Damian into–huh.”

Tim, whose manipulative, stalkery little brain went in the exact same direction as hers, echoes her exclamation. “Oh. Yeah. Hm. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Unfortunately,” Barbara says, voice dry as the desert Tim was reborn in, “yes.”

The Belfry, a secret headquarters perfectly unobtrusive in Gotham’s old gothic and industrial skyline, was built by Tim and Barbara shortly after Bruce’s return. Since it’s so much newer than the Clock Tower, its inhabitants are not yet established. Where the Clock Tower houses the Birds of Prey, and Barbara’s friends in general, the Belfry sees a small but wide-ranging group of heroes coming in and out. Dick, Cass and Steph are the only other Bats to be allowed in.

Tonight, a little eleven-year-old boy crouches in the welcome darkness of one of the many nooks and crannies, dagger in his hands, and pretends with all his might that he belongs.

“…at least wrap it,” Barbara is saying as she disengages the many, many security systems and enters the many passwords to get into the Belfry.

“What’s the point?” Tim argues. “It’s not like–”

Both he and Barbara freeze. Tim raises a hand slowly to his belt. Barbara fingers one of the many buttons on her wheelchair. He gestures her to the left. They’re caught in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. With ceilings as high as a warehouse (it’s a bell tower, after all), those windows are high indeed.

And then–

“Oracle. Red.” Damian emerges from the darkness like the little gremlin that he is, chin held high in his Robin uniform while he omits the Robin part of Tim’s new superhero name. “I have been here long enough that I could’ve killed both of you. How careless of you to not notice.”

Translation: Damian had been hoping to go unnoticed for longer.

“Here, where you most definitely do not have access,” Barbara points out. She wheels closer now that they know it’s just Robin.

Tim, while Damian is distracted with Barbara, sidles over to a table as stealthily as he knows how and sets down his package.

“Clearly, your security standards are in need of upgrading,” Damian sniffs. Then his eyes narrow as he notices what Tim is doing. “Drake. What is that package.”

“None of your business,” Tim snaps back immediately. He moves to cover it with his back. “Get out of here. Invites only, you weren’t invited, you know how it is.”

Damian folds his hands behind his back and raises his nose. “It is for Grayson.”

“For Christ’s–how did you know?” Barbara demands.

“You just confirmed it,” Damian replies smugly.

Barbara rolls her eyes. “Okay. Fine. It’s for Dick. Happy now?”

“No.” Damian marches up to Tim, then folds his arms, dagger and all, over his chest when Tim blocks his path to the package. “Tell me what you are giving to Grayson.”

Tim leans back against the table and folds his own arms over his chest, affecting a casual state of relaxation he absolutely does not feel. “I said, none of your business.”

In truth, there’s something so heart-breakingly ten-years-old about Damian’s behavior. His cool older brother is part of a cool group of friends with a secret hideout that Damian is not allowed into. Of course he broke into it. Damian, under all his bluster and bravado, wants to be a part of it all. He’s only human. He’s only eleven years old.

“You may be poisoning him,” Damian insists.

Tim laughs. “That’s more your wheelhouse, isn’t it?”

Seems like Damian hasn’t yet heard the saying your wheelhouse, because he scowls but doesn’t respond. Oddly enough, Tim feels worse about that than he does about the actual insult. Kids are not their parents or the secret assassin society they come from, he knows, he knows this. Yet this intellectual knowledge always flies out the window in favor of emotional responses when it comes to Damian.

“It’s not,” Barbara interrupts, before they can come to blows. “It’s just something to make him feel better, since he stopped taking his meds. Now will you leave?”

Damian scowls again, this time resembling an angry kitten more than a fearsome assassin. Not that he ever has resembled a fearsome assassin, despite all the assassination attempts. For all the pent-up resentment and bitter anger Tim has about Damian, he can’t help but find the kid a little cute.

(The thing is, back before everything, Tim really wanted a little sibling. Back before everything, Tim used to dream about Jason coming back).

(Isn’t it funny how the universe keeps giving Tim what he wants just to spite him?)

“Fine.” Damian glares at both of them in turn. “Since both of you are so incompetent in taking care of Grayson, I will do it.”

And he sweeps out of the Belfry with all the righteous fury that an eleven-year-old can muster.

Tim and Barbara finally make eye contact after Barbara ensures, using the Belfry’s surveillance cameras, that Damian has exited the building for good. Then they both burst into laughter. The rafters ring with the force of it, pealing like the bells on Sunday morning. Barbara slaps her knee. Tim leans back on the table, hands clasped over his stomach, and shakes.

“I can’t believe,” Barbara says, once she’s calmed down enough to get a proper sentence out, “that we just tricked a kid into doing our dirty work for us.”

“Hey, if it works,” Tim says, voice full of mirth.

He easily identifies himself as an adult despite only recently turning eighteen. It is impossible to feel like a child, he reasons, after waking up in the desert. After running Wayne Industries, however briefly. After striking out on his own. After everything.

Perhaps that’s why he gets along so well with Barbara these days. She understands that he is not a kid anymore, even if she wasn’t there for everything. Dick, on the other hand, still sees Tim as the kid he was. (As Robin). As the Before Everything Tim Drake that the real Tim is getting so very tired of thinking about. So what if he misses all of it, the good and the ugly? That’s just the nostalgia speaking. That’s just part of growing up. Tim had to grow up fast, so he did. He did what he had to do and he won’t let himself regret it.

#tim drake #barbara gordon #damian wayne #dick grayson #my fanfiction #my writing #antebuny's ficlets #batfam #batman #red robin #robin #might actually turn this one into a full fic

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 6 months ago

Text

Chatterbox (M, cold, 'drabble')

A little prompt-based fluff for you guys :) Reed and Greyson go out to dinner, but Reed realizes something is up when Greyson won't shut tf up lol. I'm loving writing this relationship, I can't lie, so sorry if it's too much Reed and Greyson lately - I'll get back to my other guys soon!

1.6K words (just a tiny lil blip of a story haha) CW: Male snz, coughing, fever, contagion mention. Hope you like it :)

Chatterbox

Reed looked down at his phone as he waited on Greyson, rereading the stream-of-consciousness texts his boyfriend had sent throughout the day.

Greyson

1:42PM

sooo pumped for tonight bb :)

1:56PM

should I wear a suit…? I know it’s a new spot but the website definitely reads ‘fine dining’, like fine-er than most of my clothes know how to be...

2:24PM

I think I’ll do dark jeans & a black button up. johnny cash style. cant go wrong w that. hahah.

3:17PM

I know ur working still but im just really excited to see you:):)

It was cute – borderline adorable – how nervous Greyson seemed for their dates, even after almost a year of the two of them being together. Reed had, of course, answered Greyson’s plethora texts throughout the day, but had tried to keep himself subdued so he wouldn’t give away his hand; tonight, he was going to ask Greyson to move in with him.

He knew it was a bit of a long time coming, but Reed was really trying to keep from scaring Greyson off by doing anything too quickly. His boyfriend certainly had a bit of past-relationship trauma that Reed tried valiantly to navigate; it was hard to figure out what the right time to do anything was. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure there was ever going to be a right time to push their relationship to the next level. But things had been good lately; like, really good. Tonight felt… right.

Greyson’s presence was palpable before Reed even saw him blow through the door. He looked up from his phone and clocked his boyfriend, standing out side the restaurant with his elbow locked over his face; Reed cocked his head a bit, confused. Was he… coughing?

The chef, clad in the Johnny-Cash-getup he’d promised, shook himself out before pushing the door to the restaurant open. He pawed at his nose with the back of his hand while asking the hostess to point Reed out – she gestured towards their table, and Greyson smiled when the two of them locked eyes. Reed waved, smiling back. Something was certainly… off.

“Sorry I’m late, baby,” Greyson said, kissing the top of Reed’s head before sitting across from him. “The fuckin’ train was running late again.”

“I’ve told you a million times I’ll come pick you up for dates,” Reed said, squeezing Greyson’s hand across the table. “You don’t always have to take the train.”

Greyson shrugged, smiled a little loopily. “I like the train,” he said, picking up his menu and squinting at the small font. “Lots of time to think. I’ve come up with my best dishes on the subway, I’m pretty sure; you remember that tart I made for the writer’s dinner, the one where we saw each other for the second time? Came up with that on the train. I was sitting next to this girl, probably a student, and she was eating one of those little egg tarts, the ones from the Japanese bakeries? I thought, damn I bet a root vegetable in one of those would fuckin’ slay – spoiler alert, it so did. Where would I have come up with that if not for the train? Plus, it’s one of the most sustainable ways to travel. I get my good karma for not actively killing the environment in. Win-win. What’re we eat – HTSHH! NXTSHH!” Greyson’s explosion of word vomit was very suddenly cut off to stifle two painful-sounding sneezes into the back of his hand.

Reed blinked for what was maybe the first time since his boyfriend sat down. “...bless,” he said after a beat. Greyson nodded, sniffled a little, and picked the menu back up.

“What’s this place’s thing anyway?” Greyson continued, flipping the menu over to look at drinks. “I can’t seem to figure it out; are they Italian? Mediterranean? Fine dining? Just high-end? No tasting menu, but prices are high enough to warrant one. Wine list reads very Italian, but there are like three dishes with hummus on them? I’m half-expecting to be served babaganoush bolognese. Which… maybe would work? Actually, eggplant, tomato sauce… I could see it working. You never know. Can’t judge a book by its menu, right? What’re you drinking? Want to get a bot -?”

This second monologue was cut short when Reed reached across the table to place a gentle hand on Greyson’s face. Just as he expected: hot.

“Babe,” Reed said gently, taking his hand back, “you’re burning up.”

The chef cast his glance down, embarrassed. “You weren’t supposed to figure that out till after dinner,” he muttered. Reed laughed.

“Seriously? You had to know I’d figure something was up. You’ve been monologing since the moment you sat down. Have you been sick all day? You should’ve told me, honey. How much cough medicine did you take before you showed up here?”

Greyson looked up at Reed and gave him a little half-smile. “Pretty sure I downed half a bottle of Robutusssin, not gonna liiii – hh! HhNXTSHH-ue! Huh-TSHH-ue!” Once again, Greyson attempted to stifle, to no avail. He allowed himself two painful little coughs before righting himself again.

“Bless you,” Reed said again. “I wish you would just sneeze normal, that always sounds so painful.”

“We’re in a restaurant,” Greyson said, a huskiness beginning to creep in to his voice. “That’s so gross.”

Reed rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Who cares? No one’s looking at us. They’re too busy with their many, many hummuses.”

A laugh bubbled out of Greyson, and with it came a flurry of congested coughs he directed into the sleeve of his shirt. “Don’t mbake me laugh,” he muttered, taking a drink of water. “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

“Good,” Reed said, flagging the waiter. “I’m so sorry,” he said when the young, well-dressed server came to their table, “something’s come up and we’re going to have to go.” He handed the kid a fifty. “Thank you for your help.”

The server nodded, said thank you to Reed, and went to grab the two men’s jackets. Greyson raised an eyebrow, confused. “What’re you doing?”

“Taking you home,” Reed said. “You need tea and soup, not…” he glanced back down at the menu, “fattoush flatbread.” Greyson visibly deflated.

“I wanted to spend the evening with you,” he said, his voice subdued. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called and canceled, I just… I mbiss you when we don’t see each other all week. You’re always busy, I’mb always busy, it just fucking sucks. I don’t even know how I got fucking sick… oh wait, yes I do. Elijah had a cold last week – was that last week? Did I tell you that? I can’t remember. I think the servers gave it to him. Fuckin’ servers, I’ve never met a group of people who get sick mbore than theehh – huh! Fuck – HUHETSHHH-ue! Huh-! HhITSZZZCH-ue!” Greyson folded in half, his torso practically beneath the table in an attempt to keep the entire restaurant from hearing him. It was, of course, at that moment that the server returned with their coats. Reed took them silently, and stood to gather his boyfriend, who slowly unfurled himself from his own lap.

“Bless you,” he said, gently helping Greyson to his feet and slipping his coat over his shoulders. He lead the two of them past the host stand and onto the sidewalk, where he turned Greyson to face him.

“First of all,” he said, sweeping Greyson’s hair out of his eyes and caressing his cheek, “I know a subset of people who get sick more than servers, and it’s chefs. You and all your chef buddies are pestilence incarnate because you work nine hundred hours a week.” This prompted a little laugh from Greyson. Perfect, thought Reed. Break the tension.

“Secondly, yes, you did tell me that Elijah was sick, and I told you, and I quote, ‘Don’t get too close, I know you two love to share a cold’, but I know you don’t like to listen to authority, so not sure what I expected.” Another laugh. Greyson pushed his hair back, rubbed his nose, and pulled Reed in to hug him. Reed continued from this spot, pressed into Greyson’s shoulder.

“And thirdly,” he said, “I miss you too. All the time. Which is why I asked you out tonight.” He pulled away, reached into his pocket, and dropped a key into Greyson’s palm. “I don’t want to miss you anymore. I don’t want you to have to take the train from Brooklyn every single night, I don’t want us to hang out once a week, I don’t want to drop you at your apartment to take care of yourself. I want to see you when I wake up every morning. I want to hear you sneak in at three AM after you and Matt go clubbing. I want to take care of you, at home, when you’re sick.” Reed smiled, a little embarrassed, as Greyson stared at the key. “Move in with me,” Reed said. “Please.”

Greyson’s mouth opened, then shut without words a couple of times before he looked Reed in the eyes. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “Okay. Yes. Yes, please.”

Reed felt a smile bloom on his face, huge, goofy, unashamed. He took Greyson’s face in his hands and planted a kiss on his lips. Greyson held his boyfriend by the waist, then picked him up to spin him around. “I love you,” Greyson muttered into Reed’s mouth.

“I love you more,” Reed said, smiling. Greyson turned away then, suddenly to -

“HRRSHH-ue! HhhITSHZZCH-ue!” he sneezed away from his boyfriend, which prompted a laugh from Reed.

“Probably too late for that nicety,” Reed joked, elbowing Greyson playfully. The chef huffed out a laugh and rolled his eyes.

“I figured sneezing directly into your face would probably kill the moment,” he said, sniffling. “But I’ll go ahead and just do it next time.”

“Oh, shut up,” Reed laughed, kissing Greyson again. “C’mon. Let’s get you home and in bed. Sickie.”

Greyson smiled a little. “Yeah,” he said, looping his arm into Reed’s. “Let’s go home.”

#whiskeyswriting #snz #sickfic #snzfic #snzblr #coldfic #male cold #male snz #idk idk they're just so cute i love a happy greyson #i mean i love an angry greyson too but it's fun to write something happy idk #im thinking my next big fic will be an elijah drama fest tho... i have IDEAS

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imagine-knowing-a-name · 7 months ago

Text

here we are, no one else

Summary: Wanda and R finally get a moment alone

Word Count: 1768 Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader Part 6 of 'Half of My Hometown' series masterlist <- previous part | next part ->

»»————-　★　————-««

“No Vision tonight?”

Your voice breaks Wanda out of her mindless stare at the floor. She looks up, smiling as she meets your eyes, while slightly shaking her head.

“No. He’s not even in the country, Tony needed him for some intelligence mission.”

“Shame,” you mumble. The woman across from you smirks and raises an eyebrow in amusement at your sarcastic tone, and it’s only then that you catch what you said. Even though you’ve clearly been caught, you clear your throat and quickly try to change the subject to distract her. “You know… it’s been years, but I still feel weird calling him ‘Tony’.”

“Do you still remember all the names we used to call him?” Wanda asks and, though it's light-hearted, you pick up on the slight edge to her tone.

You sheepishly nod, floods of former nicknames for your current boss resurfacing in your mind. Across from you, Wanda’s tight posture loosens slightly, and you realise the implicit meaning behind her question – testing where you stood with Stark, and whether you'd judge the decisions she had made in your absence.

“I can’t really mention those to Vision,” she adds shyly. Your gaze snaps back up to hers with wide eyes and an open-mouthed expression at the thought, just to see her grinning widely.

“Definitely not,” you laugh, surprised by how at ease you feel again tonight, “those names should… well… they should not leave Sokovia.”

“Probably where Stark would ship me back to if he found out.”

“You and me both,” you hum, “though it would be nice to go back home.”

“Not much left of it though.” Wanda frowns and drops her eyes to the ground, the mood sobering quickly.

Seeing her this dejected is enough to make you frown too, so you bump her shoulder with your own and shoot her a toothy grin once she meets your eyes, “I’d have you though, wouldn’t I? The two of us back in former Sokovian land? That’s home enough for me anyday.” She smiles at that, and you feel a warm sense of satisfaction in your chest with the knowledge that you caused that.

“What about right here? It’s got us back together again, maybe we could call this New Sokovia.”

“Right here? This little patch of corridor?”

Wanda nods, “Yes, exactly! We meet here often enough, it’s basically our spot, and if home is where the two of us are…”

“I’ll bring a sign next time. ‘Welcome to New Sokovia. Population: 2 (only at 2am)’, sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Wanda laughs again with a wide and carefree smile on her face; a small noise which somehow has the power to warm you so completely from the inside out, as well as draw happiness to your own lips. You've missed this. You've missed her.

But then, quickly, your expression drops – something you only notice you've done when you see it mirrored by Wanda, whose face now shifts to concern over your disheartened look. Before she can ask what's wrong, you blurt out what it is that you've just remembered.

“I won't be here tomorrow.”

Typically, agents only work the night shift a few days a week, at the most. You had volunteered yourself to take the hours permanently – you enjoy the late nights, and it spared a few of your coworkers who prefer to have proper sleep schedules – but even with that, you'd worked every night for over two weeks. A break was long overdue.

Wanda still hasn't answered, and you begin to thrum your fingers against your leg. The ease of your previous conversation is now long gone, replaced by pounding nerves for her reaction. It was only one night, that shouldn't be a big deal, but it hasn't happened yet since your reunion with Wanda, due to the unusual scheduling.

“What?”

Her question gives little away.

“I, uh… I won't be here tomorrow,” you repeat redundantly – clearly she heard you. “I have the day off so… well, you know, if you're waiting here then it'll probably be someone else who comes past at 2am. Not that it will be any problem! Of course you're allowed to be here so they won't have an issue, but… just…”

You trail off, after finally noticing that Wanda hasn't said a word – nor even been able to say a word – amid your rambling. Once you stop talking, the lingering silence is enough to make you squirm, bouncing on the balls of your feet and swinging your arms as you refuse to make eye contact.

“Oh,” is all Wanda finally says.

You force your eyes upwards, daring to read Wanda’s face even while you fear the expression you might see; but hers only matches yours, eyes down towards her hands and lower lip ever so slightly caught between her teeth. She's disappointed, but not with you. There’s a question that’s been dying on your lips nearly every night for two weeks, and a wave of realisation washes over you that this is your opportunity to ask it, the best opportunity you’ll ever have.

“Would you meet during day? With me. During the day. Meet with me during the day. Would you want to meet up during the day instead?” You had to blurt the words out quickly before self-doubts could silence you, but as your cheeks burn, hindsight tells you that waiting a little longer to talk wouldn’t have hurt. At least just long enough to form the sentence. Regardless, your embarrassment from the situation now only served to aid the self-doubt which had finally caught up from your actions, and you quickly stutter over your next words while seeking to give Wanda a get-out clause, if she wanted to take it. “Obviously you don't have to, especially if you've got training or-”

“I'd love to.” Wanda cuts you off with a teasing smirk, well aware of how much you would have continued to talk had she not interrupted. “I finish training at 1.”

“I’ll meet you at 2?” you offer, “2pm. I’ll bring lunch, and you can take some time to wind down and get out of that uncomfortable looking outfit you have to wear.”

“My costume?” Wanda gasps in mock offence, while you struggle to contain your laughter – your teasing comment getting exactly the reaction you knew it would. “It looks very cool! Admit it looks cool!”

You hum, resting a hand on your chin in thought and drawing out the wait for as long as you can. “I did hear the full leather look is the next big trend,” you shrug with a devilish smile that Wanda would have seen had she not started celebrating the admission early. So you continue, “...if you’re in The Matrix.”

Her victory is swiftly ended; her arms drop to her sides and a pout overtakes the prior smugness while a deadpan gaze bores into you.

There’s a familiarity to her expression that sends you hurtling into your memories, stabbing at your heart when you remember the giggles of you and your accomplice, celebrating to yourselves everytime you managed to lure a young Wanda into your verbal (or even sometimes physical) traps. Over a decade later, you catch yourself before you can turn to share your joy with Pietro. He’s just another face you won’t ever see again.

Wanda doesn’t see the way your smile falls, something you're glad for. So when she turns to you with a renewed spark in her eye, even when you know that means she has a retaliation incoming, you coerce the prior amusement back into your expression.

“You’re just jealous,” she says with a light shove to your shoulder, and sticking out her tongue too for good measure, “because you used to wear your homemade costume everywhere, but I’m the one with the real one! Didn’t you wear that thing to bed?”

You gasp now, surprised that she not only remembered it, but also decided to use it against you.

“You're going to bring my costume into this?”

“Mmmmhm.”

“Alright, бубамара (ladybug)…” you trail off, grinning wildly as her face flushes redder than the aforementioned costume. “I should have known that’s where the red theme comes from.”

Scare resources forced you down creative routes to stay entertained in your childhoods – one such time involved cobbling together various clothing scraps and other well-worn items into costumes to imagine yourselves in lives that weren’t your own. You pictured yourself as a hero, strong enough to stop the onslaught of missiles raining down in Sokovia. Wanda, meanwhile, became a ladybug.

“It’s the colour of my powers,” Wanda whines, bashfully defending herself. But you still have thirteen years worth of teasing to unleash.

“Which is coincidentally the same colour? Or were you subconsciously channelling the bug all along?”

“...I don't even know why I missed you.”

Your face softens a little, taking in her words as the confession they are, that she’d missed you. Despite the demons in your brain, you find that you aren’t surprised by it – she’s already shown you that she’s missed you beyond a doubt, and those feelings don’t go unreciprocated. Still, the explicit reassurance of your friendship always manages to bring a warmth to your heart and this time is no different. Wanda clearly takes in your expression because she relaxes too, her shoulders sagging and a slight upwards turn appearing on her lips.

…It’s the perfect time to double down.

“The costume memories were a big gap! It’s understandable to miss them, Wands! But don’t you worry, I’ll just tell your team about it and make sure they give you plenty of reminders.”

“You wouldn't-”

You really wouldn't. Your lack of communication with the Avengers aside, the moments between you and Wanda – the shared memories, experiences, and jokes – they're something you're fiercely protective of. A feeling only comparable to jealousy sets in when you imagine one of Wanda's new friends calling her ‘ladybug’ the way you do. It's your nickname for her, a term for only you to use and nobody else should even get to know it. Not that you'll ever let Wanda know that.

Instead, you look down at the watch on your wrist, flashing the display to her as you grin and begin to walk backwards. Her head tilts in confusion and you almost hesitate to go. Almost. “Oh, would you look at the time? I better get back to my patrol. Got a lot to discuss with any Avengers I run into, afterall.”

Wanda's eyes darken, squinting and daring you to say anything about your childhood nickname for her. You smile innocently in return.

“See you at 2pm, бубамара! Dress comfy!”

»»————-　★　————-««

General Taglist: @canvascoloredin @fxckmiup @wizardofstories

Series Taglist: @holiday-house-of-m @emiliaisdead @wonderingnerd @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @chasethemoon @alexawynters @username23345 @marvelogic

A/N: went home for Easter and lost absolutely all my motivation to write, but it's here now 😭 anyway, comment/reblog with your thoughts on this one and what you want to see in future! :)

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #marvel #mcu #ikan writes #ikan homh

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