#not the kind of thing you can do first try

[3liza]

i said this YEARS ago when the 'vibes based literacy" discussion started because i had been reading about dyslexia to try to help my partner at the time, who was undiagnosed: the book about dyslexia that i was reading described precisely the techniques used in the "contextual guessing" reading education system, but as dysfunctional adaptations by dyslexic children. the contect guessing and memorization thing is a way of teaching entire generations of children to be functionally dyslexic, a profound and devastating disability, when they do not have dyslexia and do not need to have it. it's horrifying. it was how my partner read things, and watching him try to read something out loud was extremely demonstrative of the struggle he was having.

ken goodman probably had dyslexia and didn't know it, it's the most common learning disability in the world, an estimated 20% of all humans on earth have some degree of it.

In the paper, Goodman rejected the idea that reading is a precise process that involves exact or detailed perception of letters or words. Instead, he argued that as people read, they make predictions about the words on the page using these three cues: 1. graphic cues (what do the letters tell you about what the word might be?) 2. syntactic cues (what kind of word could it be, for example, a noun or a verb?) 3. semantic cues (what word would make sense here, based on the context?) Goodman concluded that: Skill in reading involves not greater precision, but more accurate first guesses based on better sampling techniques, greater control over language structure, broadened experiences and increased conceptual development. As the child develops reading skill and speed, he uses increasingly fewer graphic cues.

he's completely wrong, this not how fully literate people read. this is how dyslexic people read. fully literate people are using phonics and the alphabet all the time, that's how we read so fast and so easily, even texts that we're unfamiliar with or that aren't in our native language. i can scan a page of italian, french or norwegian and get the gist of it even though i don't speak the languages. i can sound out those words and pronounce them, even if im pronouncing them incorrectly, just by reading the actual letters and phonemes.

relying on context to predict which word comes next is what leads to the kind of aphasia dyslexics often exhibit not only while reading, but when speaking aloud. my partner would swap words that were contextually correct but not what he actually meant all the time. for example if he wanted me to hand him a blue comb lying nearby on a table, he would say "could you please hand me the green brush?" or if he was describing a cat he saw, he would often swap in another contextually-related word, one that sounded the same, like "bat", or one that was conceptually related but incorrect, like "dog". as a result i had to ask him to clarify or repeat himself many times to figure out what he was trying to say. it created profound problems for him and separated him from me and everyone else. the worst part is that he was barely aware of this. when he was driving it was extremely difficult for him to follow or give directions because he would swap out "left" and 'right" randomly.

you cant actually read like this.

She thinks the students who learned three cueing were actually harmed by the approach. "I did lasting damage to these kids. It was so hard to ever get them to stop looking at a picture to guess what a word would be. It was so hard to ever get them to slow down and sound a word out because they had had this experience of knowing that you predict what you read before you read it."

[ssa-dado]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

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

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[alchemistc]

favors

Tommy's the kind of asshole who checks his phone at the table in the middle of a first date, now.

In his defence, it hasn't been a great first date. And not in any sort of charming way, either.

In his defence, he's been waiting on this text for what feels like longer than it actually has been (four weeks, three days - he feels stupid admitting he's got a rough estimate of the hours too, but the point is he's been waiting. Hoping. Took this invitation to dinner as an attempt to remind himself he was the one who walked out.)

Tommy is absolutely the kind of asshole who glances up from his lap to find his date staring at him with his jaw clenched and doesn't bother to make more of an excuse than "Sorry, family thing, I gotta go."

Tommy's the kind of asshole who drops three twenties on the table and doesn't bother to say goodbye as he winds his way through tables - this place was pretentious as fuck, anyway - and pushes through the rotating door.

He's not even halfway to his truck when his phone displays an incoming call.

The last time he'd seen that name flash across his screen he'd been - well, he'd been a ball of nerves for all of five seconds before a winded voice had asked him to commit some light treason and Tommy had hopped to.

"Evan. Hey."

He remembers Evan had always thought he was so cool, and he sort of wishes Evan could see him now, with sweaty palms and a nervous hitch to his step as he twists around the wire fencing that will lead him to the truck he'd dropped thirty-five bucks to park, in this stupid downtown lot for this stupid date that hadn't distracted him for a minute at the stupid restaurant that only served tapas and hipster whiskey.

His voice is a little tremulous, a little off. "Hi Tommy."

Tommy doesn't waste time. He's done enough of that, and Evan sounds - Jesus he sounds awful. Sad, deep in his bones. Tired. A little out of it. "Everything okay?"

"I did have feelings for you. When I said that. I - It was such a shitty thing to say and I realized I never apologized for it even though I meant to and...and I did. I do, still, really."

It's the kind of opening Tommy couldn't have dreamt up in a million years. It's solid proof that Evan has worked it over in his mind at least half as many times as Tommy, trying to figure out where it all went wrong, how he'd ruined it so quickly when everything he'd been a sad sack about pretending he didn't want had been right there, ready for the taking. When he'd done that devastating bambi-eyed, through the lashes glance up, even though they were the same fucking height, and Tommy had stuck his foot in his mouth so badly he'd knocked out a couple teeth.

"Okay. I -."

Whatever he'd have come up with in that moment escapes his brain a second later when Evan continues.

"Which is why what I wanted to ask you may be, like, super awkward."

Tommy's a little grateful to find his truck is only two spaces from where he is at the moment. Has to bite back the sharp deprecating laugh when he realizes this is another fucking favor, not a goddamn reconciliation. He left a date for this.

A bad one.

But still.

"Okay." Clipped is a good term for the way the word comes out of his mouth. He's already wincing before he's even finished saying it, because if he can tell Evan's hurting from his voice alone, surely Evan can tell from his own tone that he's...annoyed. In pain. Wishing he could rip the memory of Evan Buckley from the spot it's nestled beneath his ribcage, where he can't shake it loose.

Evan's quiet for a long, long moment. They'd been great at getting immediately horny any time there was even a hint of strife. Not so easy to do when they haven't been together now for longer than they ever were. "I was wondering if I could borrow your truck on Tuesday."

And that's - that's a fairly reasonable request, as far as the 118 standard goes. Still makes him want to cry, a little.

"Can I ask why?"

"It's... Uh...?" The pause lasts long enough that Tommy has to check and make sure Evan's still on the line. His next words are quieter, but he can hear the tremble in them. Has to bite down the urge to make himself a shield against whatever it is that has him so emotional. Not his job, anymore. If it ever even had been.

The farther removed he is from all of this, the more he wonders if he really had imagined the connection between them. How the intimate moments felt charged with more than a desire to rip each other's clothes off, how the silly moments had felt like the prologue of a long and happy story.

"It's fine, Evan. I'll, uh - have to check my schedule but I think I can make it work."

He's free Tuesday. He and his truck both are. But maybe... Maybe this has run its course. Maybe Tommy will have to make more of an effort, his next bad first date.

"Eddie's moving back," Evan says, and there's a weird twist to his voice, a quirk around the name Tommy doesn't recognize. He'd always said "Eddie" with the kind of reverence Tommy couldn't fully grasp, a superhero and a confidante all rolled up in the lazy smirk and cow-brown eyes of a man Tommy had no hope of beating out on the Important To Evan Buckley scale. But if Tommy had to put a description to it, Evan kind of spits the name, now. "And until I can figure out a place to stay I need to get a few things in storage quickly. I just thought - it was stupid. Obviously it's short notice, and you shouldn't feel obligated to -."

"My spare room is empty," Tommy says. Tommy lies, more accurately. It's currently storing all the renovation shit he's been accumulating since the breakup turned him into an insane person pretending he knows a damn thing about fixing up a house.

This pause seems to hold a little more weight to it.

"...okay?" And there's - there's something there, in his voice, sun warm and yellow, bacon cooling on a paper towel and eggs still not plated while Evan swallowed and asked the one question Tommy had been hoping he wouldn't ask.

"I just meant - why spend the money on a storage unit, right?"

"Tommy."

"Let me check my schedule. I can get back to you. If Tuesday works, we can just - we can figure it out from there."

"Tommy."

And that's his "you're spiralling" voice. Tommy hadn't heard it often. Too busy trying to be as cool as his shiny new boyfriend thought he was. Too busy choking down the urge to sink a knife into his ribcage and carve out his heart to hand it over.

"I'll let you know by tomorrow morning," Tommy promises, and before he lets his words get away from him he ends the call.

Jesus fuck.

Hell.

What the fuck?

---

Tommy's so frayed with nerves he spends the entire drive slowly wearing a groove into the side of his cheek. By the time he makes it to the quiet street and sees Evan's Jeep parked on the curb, gate open and already stuffed full of boxes Tetris-style, he feels like he might just fucking explode.

It makes the terse, perfunctory head nod from Eddie on his way up the paved path just that much more confusing. That much more frustrating. He's got a set of keys swinging from his fingers, and doesn't even glance behind him as Evan pops the door open with a hip and stacks a box on top of two others already sitting in the porch.

There's clearly more going on here than Tommy is privy to.

"You aren't helping?" It's an innocent question. He doesn't even mean anything by it. Across the yard, Evan goes tense. Halfway down the drive, Eddie goes still, and swivels his gaze to Tommy.

"No one asked me to." By the stoop, Evan tips his gaze down, suddenly incredibly interested in whatever the label on the box he just set down says. He seems small. Not the man who'd guided him backwards up the lawn with so much tongue Tommy hadn't realized where he was until they were already inside. Not the man who'd confidently held a funeral for a long dead cowboy and roped Tommy into it without a care in the world that Tommy didn't believe in ghosts.

"Well, if anyone else was subletting you'd probably have had to give them more than a weeks notice to pack up their shit and leave, so I figured you'd be helping," Tommy says, because whatever the hell is going on with Eddie's face right now has him ready to raise locked wrists to chin height.

Eddie's tongue rolls along the inside of his cheek. "Buck says he's got it."

Knife, meet tension.

Tommy's always been more of a blunt instrument.

"Right."

"Didn't realize 'got it' meant calling in a favor with his ex, but hey, I haven't been around, in a while."

"Do we have a problem, Diaz?"

Eddie levers himself into the driver's seat of a vehicle that very distinctly isn't his truck. "Lot of that going around, at the moment."

That stone-faced look from the funeral is back on Evan's face.

Tommy's fist are clenched. He doesn't have a clue when that happened, or why it takes quite so much effort to shake his fingers loose.

Eddie clocks it. Stares for a long, long moment. Slams the door closed and backs out of the drive a little quicker than advisable, if the glare from the neighbor watering her hydrangeas is anything to go by.

He doesn't quite peel off down the street, but it seems like it takes him some effort to drive like a responsible adult.

Evan doesn't meet his gaze when he lopes across the lawn to meet him at the door.

He's gotta break the silence somehow. "So. Diaz seems pissed at me."

"It's not you."

"Uhuh."

"It's - I said something he -." Evan frowns. Twists a finger up into the slack of the tape along the top of one box. "Same old story. Buck makes it all about himself."

Tommy's missing something.

Tommy absolutely doesn't have the right to pry.

"What the hell does that mean?" Tommy asks, and watches the marble crumble.

---

It takes a day and a half to get everything out of Eddie's. Another half a day to stuff whatever they can into Tommy's bare spare room.

He'd bought a shed and stuffed the contents of his reno-supplies into it indiscriminately two nights earlier, at the ass end of three 24's from hell, and throws up an ironic thanks that Evan hadn't come by nearly often enough to be surprised by the new shed, or the dozen half-finished projects littering the house.

Tommy learns a lot of things that make him want to scream, over the course of the four-day span they squeeze that moving timeframe into.

It takes everything in him not to shoulder-check Eddie on the way out, once the final box is loaded into the bed of Tommy's truck.

He'd given them some privacy, before they left. Hopeful that Eddie would back down from this escalating argument of theirs, hopeful that he'd remember that his best fucking friend had sacrificed a hell of a lot, to allow him to move to El Paso. That he'd lost more since.

Evan hadn't spoken, the entire drive back to Tommy's.

He asks Evan out to coffee a moment before he offers to let him sleep on the couch until he finds something more permanent.

He should be less surprised than he is when they end up naked and sweaty and panting in his bed an hour later.

"We have to stop doing this."

Evan bites a nipple, and Tommy hisses.

"I'm serious, Evan. I can't do casual with you."

That gives him Evan's full attention. "What does that mean?"

"It means when I sleep with you I'm definitely having feelings for you."

He regrets the comment. Evan blows a raspberry into his sternum, and rolls onto his side to take in Tommy's expression. It's gotta be - well, it's gotta be a fucking mess. Just an absolute shit show of terror at having revealed too much. "I deserved that one."

Tommy smooths a hand over his shoulder. "You didn't, actually." After what he's been hearing about his friends and family, lately, Tommy's suddenly very aware of the words coming out of his mouth. "What I was trying to dance around is telling you I want to try again, and I don't want to fuck it up by falling into bed without actually...talking about it."

Evan snorts. Hitches his leg a little higher across Tommy's thigh. Yeah. Too late for that.

"I baked, to stop thinking about you. I baked cookies, and brownies, and three kinds of bread, and a Baked Alaska, and twelve different banana bread recipes, and - and it didn't change the fact that all I wanted to do was talk to you. See your face when you pull that stupidly bitchy look every time I don't know one of your references. Hold your hand and - and just be somewhere with you. Didn't matter where, I just...wanted. And I couldn't have it. So I baked."

"You made a Baked Alaska?"

"Tommy," Evan chides, but there are tears springing to the corner of Tommy's eyes and -

God he'd fucked this up so royally.

"Move in with me," Tommy says, the hysteria bubbling up in his throat, and he swallows it down, and down, and down again, because as the words settle under his skin, he realizes they feel right. What Evan had wanted, all those months ago, he'd wanted it too. He'd just been so fucking sure it would destroy him, in the end.

He's so goddamn tired of denying that what he really wants is for the rest of his life to be storied by memories of the man at his side, right here in this moment.

It's terrible timing. The worst idea. They're both rung out emotionally, grief and anger and insecurities bubbling just under the surface, ready to rise and make their lives miserable the moment they leave this bubble.

They haven't talked about any of it, not really.

"I'm serious. Why be apart, and all that?"

"Tommy."

The way his name curls out of Evan Buckley's mouth is like a favorite song. He never gets tired of hearing it.

Even when it's exasperated and confused. "I'm in love with you," Tommy murmurs, because his streak of insanity clearly hasn't passed. Evan's breath hitches. The worst part is that it's true. In a way he doesn't know how to quantify. He'd do a hell of a lot more than steal government property, for this man. He'd stay, for this man, at the risk of destroying his entire soul.

"Don't ask me because you feel sorry I'm technically homeless." It's an out. Teed up and ready for Tommy to swing. Tommy goes for the bunt.

"Pretty sure that was more of a demand than a question. You can say no."

Evan peeks through his lashes, chin tipped against Tommy's chest. "What if you change your mind?"

Well. That's a sore subject. Should have expected that.

Tommy slips a hand down his side. Gathers up his hand to slide their fingers together. "I won't. Believe me, at this point I've tried."

There's a quirk to Evans smile he hasn't seen in a long time. He's missed it. God, he's missed it.

This doesn't fix anything. Not a damn thing.

But Tommy doesn't want him to spend a single night going forward wondering whether or not he's worth all the trouble the rest of his family seems to have made him feel he is.

They'd been there, before. Right on the edge of something serious. Something permanent.

They can get it back.

"You're being serious," Evan comments, like he needs the confirmation just to make sure he's not hallucinating. Tommy hooks one of his legs, rolls until Evan is half under him.

"Baked Alaska serious," he intones, just to see Evan laugh.

"Where am I gonna put my bike rack?" he asks, after a serious, weighty pause, and Tommy presses in to suck Evans lower lip between his teeth in retaliation.

[imaginespazzi]

Everything Changes (They Stay the Same)

A series of stolen moments of peace in between a chaotic week

(In which an unreliable writer is really trying to beat the retirement allegations)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: 30 google-doc pages of pure fluff with hints of angst and hurt/comfort if you squint really hard

Words: 14.5K (we're soooo back)

TW: Swearing, drinking, alludes to sexual content.

A/N: Hi my lovelies :) Two fics in less than 48 hours? Who woulda ever thunk it? I can't lie this is so all over the place and we are all gonna ignore that I was trying to do a moment a day, and then fully forgot a day and I'm not abouta go back a month (because it's been a month since natty and the draft which is what this fic is technically about) to figure out which two days I accidentally blended into one. But this is fiction! So it doesn't really matter! Anyways, I got bored editing about 80% of the way in but I will eventually go back and fix the typos so feel free to make me aware of them. As always, live reactions are much appreciated so let me know what you liked, what you didn't and what you'd like to see in the future. Have a lovely rest of your week my loves <3

April 6th 11:26 p.m.

Azzi will never admit it out loud -will never let it become the recipient of her teammates’ jovial teasing or something her girlfriend can flash that cocky smirk of hers about- but she’s kind of a little bit obsessed with staring at Paige. 

She always has been. 

Since she was fourteen and she’d spotted this lanky white girl getting up shots before the official tryouts for the U16 USA basketball team started. And Azzi had been mesmerized by the effortless concentration that had been present of Paige’s face, never deterred by when the ball would occasionally rim out. She’d stood by the doorway, watching -staring- much longer than necessary until one of the other girls had rushed past her, accidentally bumping her shoulder and shaking her out of her reverie. That’s the first time Paige had caught her gaze and she hadn’t made much of it then but Azzi’s slowly realized since, that there’s just something about the blond that draws her eyes towards her like a magnet, like everything else surrounding her is just a hazy blur and Paige is the only thing in focus. 

And tonight, it feels almost impossible to tear her eyes away from Paige. 

Because tonight Paige looks radiant, like the reason it’s dark outside is only because the sun itself is in the middle of this room, laughing her heart out with one arm casually slung around KK’s shoulder, bottle of champagne nursed in her left hand and that goddamn net still hung around her neck. She’s basked in the glow that comes from finally being unshackled from the chains of pressure and expectations and that dreaded fear of being the  greatest UConn player without a title that Paige had only ever voiced out loud with her head burrowed in the crevice between Azzi’s neck and shoulder. 

Tonight, all of that -all of the tired dark circles underneath her beautiful blue eyes and the frown lines that had once been present right under where her new national champion hat covers her forehead- is gone. 

Because tonight, Paige Bueckers is finally a national champion. 

And god, does the happiness that comes with that look so fucking great on her. 

“You’re staring,” Kaitlyn whispers from where she’s sitting next to Azzi on the couch, the two of them and Caroline perched on a loveseat that has the perfect view of their other more rambunctious teammates. 

And maybe it’s the alcohol coursing through her veins, or that stupid all-consuming feeling of love for her girlfriend that’s been overwhelming Azzi since the buzzer rang out at the end of the national championship game, but she doesn’t deny it. 

“That damn net looks ridiculous on her,” Azzi quips, trying to maintain some sort of dignity but there’s an underlying fondness to her tone that she can’t quite seem to mask; she isn’t really trying to hide it either.  

“She’s never taking it off,” Caroline says with a slight shake of her head, “she’s gonna wear it forever. It’s gonna be the third wheel in your relationship.”

“She deserves it,” Azzi's eyes soften, her gaze still locked on her girlfriend who’s now posing for the most ridiculous pictures with KK, Aubrey and their practice players, “she’s earned the right to never take it off.”

Kaitlyn lets out a teasing low whistle, nudging Azzi’s shoulder, “can’t believe Paige is the only one who gets the simp allegations when this is how you behave.”

“They’re as bad as each other,” Caroline supplies helpfully, holding up her red solo cup as she winks at Azzi, “I swear it’s gotten worse over time too.”

“It has not,” Azzi protests. 

Caroline snorts, “see Az, that would be more believable if you could at least look at me while saying it instead of being too busy ogling your girlfriend.”

A rose-colored blush begins to spread across Azzi’s cheeks as both Kaitlyn and Caroline cackle with laughter at what the latter had just pointed out. Because it’s true. She still hasn’t looked away. 

She can’t. 

And as if on cue, Paige turns around at that exact moment, just in time to catch the color fully seeping into Azzi’s cheeks. The blonde’s smirk is gradual, first just a quirk at the edge of her lips before stretching across the entirety of her face as she raises her eyebrow in question at Azzi. The younger girl bites her lip, her stomach swooping when she notices the way Paige’s eyes linger on the small action. She watches keenly as the blonde begins to saunter towards her -long, confident strides that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as they are- and her body seems to lean forward in anticipation on its own accord. 

Azzi feels her breath hitch when Paige finally reaches her, one hand clutching the armrest as she towers over Azzi, leaning down just enough so their faces are levelled.

“You staring at me?” she asks with a lazy smile, her speech coming out slightly slurred. 

“You’re imagining things,” Azzi whispers, sporting her own half-grin as she blinks coquettishly up at the older girl. 

“Oh yeah?” Paige drawls out slowly before she’s tugging Azzi off the sofa, a pleased expression on her face when the brunette comes into her arms easily. Her hands settle on either side of Azzi’s hips as the younger girl interlocks her own hand behind Paige’s neck, her fingers playing with the net, “coulda sworn I felt your eyes on me.”

Azzi shrugs impishly, “must’ve been someone else.”

“Nah, can’t have been,” Paige shakes her head, “I know when it’s you looking at me. No one else looks at me like that.”

“And how do I look at you?” Azzi breathes out, stepping closer to her girlfriend so their chests are pressed against each other and they can feel the warmth radiating off of each other's bodies. 

“Like you love me,” Paige says softly, “I look at you the exact same way.”

Azzi’s heart flutters, the sincerity in the blonde’s voice quelling any chance of a smart retort as she reaches up to brush her lips lightly against Paige’s, “I do love you. Like a lot, a lot.’

Paige’s arms tighten around her waist as she presses their foreheads together, “I love you more. Like more than a lot, a lot.”

They stay like that for a moment, cocooned in each other's arms. The constantly moving world seems to still for a second, like it’s pausing just for the two of them to be able to catch their breaths before everything changes. 

But Azzi isn’t quite ready to think about that -about how today is the end of something and next week will be the beginning of something different- not yet. 

She just wants to think about now, about the girl in her arms and the dream that they’d once dreamed of together -laying side by side in a bed that was too small for two people while feeling emotions that were too big for how young they’d been- and how after years and years, plagued by uncertainty and adversity, they’d finally made that dream come true.

“I like your new necklace,” Azzi says finally, her voice low, just for the two of them to hear as she twists her fingers through the net draped around the older girl’s neck. 

Paige grins like a toddler who’s just been given their favorite candy, “yeah well, my favorite person won it for me.”

“It was a team effort,” Azzi says bashfully, quickly catching onto the meaning behind the older girl's words.

“Yeah but you were MOP baby,” Paige nudges their noses together, “my outstanding player.”

Azzi chuckles, “pretty sure the M stands for most actually.”

“Don’t care,” Paige shrugs cavalierly, “you’re still mine. There’s no one else I would’ve rather done this with- no one else I could’ve done this with, you know that right?”

“Yeah baby, yeah I do,” Azzi whispers, looping her arms back around Paige’s neck as it all seems to come rushing back to her, the gravity of what they’d achieved making her feel almost weightless in her girlfriend’s embrace, “we really did it Paige. We won. We fucking won the damn thing.”

Paige laughs breathlessly as she steals a kiss from Azzi’s lips, “yeah we did baby. Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd, national fucking champions. Together. Just like it was always meant to be.” 

April 7th 10:31 a.m.

Everything is too fucking loud. 

Paige clutches her head in her hands as the sound of her teammates screaming reverberates around the plane cabin. Normally, she’d be joining into the cacophony, if not at the forefront of it, but clearly she’s all cacophony-ed out after last night. Honestly, she’d known that the last two shots of vodka were pushing it a little but it had been four in the morning and when Diana Taurasi was encouraging you to throw back a shot, you didn’t really have the option to say no. And so Paige hadn’t said no. 

Now, as the world around her spins and her headache feels like it’s threatening to send her to an early grave, Paige wishes she’d said no, wishes she’d followed her sensible, responsible girlfriend to bed at a much more reasonable time like two a.m. instead of getting carried away in the still ongoing celebration and drinking herself into a killer hangover. 

Speaking of her girlfriend, Paige frowns as she glances at the seats next to her. The middle seat is occupied by the national championship trophy and don’t get her wrong, Paige loves that trophy and everything it stands for very much but it has to be said that it’s neither as soft nor as cuddly as Azzi and it definitely doesn’t smell as nice or feel as warm. 

She pouts harder when Kaitlyn slips into the aisle seat, feeling even more nauseous when she notices the bottle of champagne in the other girl's hand. Normally Paige is a very polite and kind person; normally she doesn’t just let those clingy intrusive thoughts of hers slip through her lips when she’s feeling just a little bit too needy for her girlfriend. But clearly today isn’t normal and before she can stop herself, Paige finds herself practically glaring at her innocent teammate. 

“Why are you sitting there?” she asks grumpily, “where’s Azzi?”

“Sheesh Bueckers, you’re rude when you’re hungover,” Kaitlyn gives her an unamused look. 

“I’m not hungover,” Paige lies adamantly, earning her an expected eyeroll. 

“And I’m not the smartest person on this team,” Kaitlyn says sarcastically, before tilting her head towards the girl walking up the aisle, “and relax Bueckers, I’m not stealing your girlfriend’s seat. Just wanted to have a little fun first.”

She continues to speak, something about taking a swig of champagne on live but Paige isn’t listening anymore, too entranced by the sight of her girlfriend as if it’s been years instead of minutes since she’d last seen Azzi. The younger girl is dressed in her typical UConn tracksuit, still sporting gameday braids that are getting a little loose under the blue cap on her head. Her eyes droop a little with residual tiredness but her smile -god that fucking smile, Paige thinks she’s not much of a writer but she could write sonnets about that smile- more than makes up for it as she flashes it too teammates and staff alike while making her way towards Paige and Kaitlyn. 

“Hi,” Azzi says softly, coming to a halt right in front of their seat, her eyes twinkling at Paige. 

“Hey baby,” Paige replies with a dopey grin, her head already feeling that much lighter at having her girlfriend near her. 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Kaitlyn groans, looking rather disgusted -although there’s that typical underlying fondness to it that all of Paige and Azzi’s teammates seem to have around them- at the heart eyes her two friends are making at each other, “can y’all do that after I’ve gotten my championship video please?”

Azzi tears away her gaze first, holding her palm out for Kaitlyn to place her phone in, “alright, alright, how do you wanna do this Kait?”

Paige zones out for the rest of the conversation, bringing her cup of coffee closer to her face, inhaling the scent of it as she watches Azzi film Kaitlyn. There’s that goofy little smile on her girlfriend’s face as she videos their friend on live, her eyes sparkling with joy. It makes Paige’s heart ache in the best way possible because this -after everything she’s been through, everything they’ve been through- is what Azzi deserves. 

There aren’t enough words on this planet to describe just how incredibly proud of her girlfriend, Paige is. She knows that, last week in Spokane had been hard on Azzi, that she’d retreated too far into her own head after missed shot, after missed shot, even though she’d been impactful in other ways. But Azzi -true to the resilience bracelet dangling on her wrist- had pulled herself out of it. And it had been thrilling for Paige to be on the court with her this weekend as she’d risen like a phoenix from the ashes of her own self-doubt, to win them -to win Paige- the most important game of their season.

“And cut,” Azzi says dramatically as she ends the live and Paige re-focuses to see Kaitlyn’s face all scrunched up from the fact that the rather expensive champagne hadn’t gone down quite as smoothly this morning as it had last night. 

“You good?” Paige snickers snarkily as Kaitlyn glares at her, coughing to regain her composure. 

“Watch it Bueckers or maybe I won’t move for Azzi to sit here,” the transfer student says with a pointed look. 

“You wouldn’t because then I’d just whine your ear off about how much I miss her,” Paige smirks, pleased when it elicits that little laugh out of Azzi that she’s so in love with. 

Kaitlyn shakes her head in mock irritation as she slowly pulls herself out of the seat.

“You’re right, that does sound like torture. Be good kids,” she pats Azzi on the shoulder as she starts to make her way to a different seat, “keep your hands to yourself, don’t forget there’s other people on the plane.”

“No promises,” Paige calls out after her, a triumphant grin on her face as Azzi takes her rightful place in the seat next to the trophy. 

Azzi giggles as she buckles her seatbelt, leaning over the armrest so she can rub her thumb against her girlfriend’s cheek, “how’s your head doing? Better from this morning?”

Paige sighs dramatically, melting into the soft touch, “I still feel like I’m fucking dying,” she admits, “I’m never drinking again.”

“Oh of course not,” Azzi snorts, “not like you’ve ever said that before.”

“Hey you never know, I might actually mean it this time,” Paige defends herself half-heartedly but they both know it’s not true, not when there’s already a plan in motion for the team to party at Teds tonight after the championship rally at Gampel. 

“Whatever you say baby,” Azzi concedes gently, before she reaches down to her bag, unclipping her unicorn neck pillow to hand over to Paige, “here, it’ll make it more comfortable for you to get a nap in.”

The older girl frowns as she takes it, “I wanted to use your shoulder.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed babe, but there’s kinda something in between us,” Azzi says amusedly as she points at the national championship trophy that’s occupying the middle seat in between them. 

“Can’t believe I worked so hard for this, just for it to cockblock me,” Paige grumbles under her breath as she fastens the neck pillows around her shoulder, before holding her hand out to Azzi, “can you at least hold my hand?”

Azzi hesitates, “I was hoping to get some work done.”

“Baby please,” Paige whines, jutting her lower lip out at her girlfriend as she grabs Azzi’s hand and intertwines their fingers together, “just till I fall asleep? You know I can’t fall asleep without holding you.”

A little spark of sadness flashes in Azzi’s eyes -something like you’ll have to learn to fall asleep without me soon that Paige isn’t quite ready to acknowledge yet- but it’s gone as quick as it came and instead the younger girl squeezes her hand. 

“Okay, fine,” she relents, “go to sleep baby. I’m right here.”

And everything is still really fucking loud, but as she drifts off into a much-needed nap, Paige thinks that having Azzi next to her -her presence as steady and solid as it was when they’d first been on a plane together almost eight years ago- feels a lot like a moment of quiet in the chaos. 

April 8th 8:24 p.m.

Azzi isn’t sure if her skin is prickling from the vibration of the music echoing around the area, the tipsiness -elicited from a mix of alcohol and general elation- that hasn’t fully left her body in the last 48 hours, or simply the warmth of Paige’s fingers tapping to the beat against her exposed waist. The heat radiating from her girlfriend’s chest, pressed firmly against her back as they alternate between actually dancing and half-heartedly swaying to the songs, encompasses her entire body in the kind of comfort that Azzi has only ever really felt from being wrapped in Paige’s arms. 

“You having fun baby?” Paige’s breath is hot against her ear and Azzi shivers involuntarily, as she hums contentedly in response. 

“This is nice,” she says after a beat, shrinking further back into the safe haven of her girlfriend’s embrace, “I’ve missed this.”

Paige rests her chin against Azzi’s shoulder, taking advantage of the fact that they’re shrouded in only the dim glow reflecting off of the stage lights, as she nods in agreement, “me too. It’s been a while huh?”

“Yeah, it has,” Azzi concedes, letting her eyes close as she enjoys the serenity of good music and even better company. 

It really has been a rather long time since the two of them had gotten to simply exist like this, carefree and unburdened. The last few weeks -really ever since Christmas- their entire focus had been on basketball and winning the National Championship. And as much as the pressure to do so, had been the kind that had ultimately created a diamond, it had still come with it’s challenges. They’d been so immersed in the game -all of their time spent on the basketball court alone, together or with the team- that it feels like it’s been years since they’ve had a moment like this, a moment where, instead of being Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd, UConn superstars, they could just be Paige and Azzi, two twenty-something year olds who were truly, deeply, madly, irrevocably in love with each other. 

And then the thought hits Azzi. 

That she doesn’t quite know when they’ll get a moment like this again. 

Tomorrow, the championship media tour would start and then the draft and then- 

Well Azzi isn’t quite ready to confront what comes after the draft. Not yet. 

For now all she knows is that their schedules for the next couple of days are both filled to the brim with the expected TV appearances and brand and sponsorship photoshoots woven in between those commitments. She knows that they’ll be in the same city, together for a lot of it and she knows that in all the awaiting chaos, they’ll still find a way to steal a second of peace to be with each other. Just like they always have. But Azzi also knows that it still won’t be quite the same as this moment right here. Because this moment still feels like the before. 

The before, where Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd are still teammates separated by a mere staircase and all they have to do is say the word, for the other to come running. 

Tomorrow, they’ll start the inbetween. 

And then the after-

Azzi shakes her head -not wanting to dwell on that before she absolutely has to- as she shifts in Paige’s arms to turn her body around to face her girlfriend, hands instinctively locking around the older girl’s neck. She lets her gaze trickle down Paige’s face, taking in the way the older girl’s cerulean blue eyes sparkle with a ferocity stronger than the stars as she observes Azzi right back, the way even in the dark she can tell that Paige’s cheeks are flushed with that slight bashful pink color they only ever become when it’s the brunette who’s making her blush, the way the edges of the blonde’s lips are upturned sightly, like they’re just waiting for her to give them a reason to burst into that beautiful, dazzling, larger-than-life just for you smile of Paige’s that Azzi has been in love with longer than she’ll ever admit it. 

“You’re staring,” Paige teases, her voice loud enough only for Azzi to hear as her thumbs rub circles against either side of the brunette’s bare waist. 

“I’m observing,” Azzi corrects, “memorizing.”

Paige curls an eyebrow at that, “you scared you’re gonna forget me?”

It’s a joke, but there’s a hint of insecurity hidden in her tone, in the way her hands instinctively grip Azzi’s waist a little tighter, like she’s trying to anchor them together before the winds of change can blow either of them away.

“I couldn’t forget you if I tried,” Azzi admits, her vulnerability accidentally slipping through the cracks before she can glue them shut, “not when you’re a part of me.”

And there it is. That smile. It blooms like a beautiful flower on Paige’s lips, the vines of it growing through her entire face until you can see them in the crinkles of her eyes. Even in the obsidian of the concert lighting, Paige glows like a shooting star that's headed straight for Azzi’s heart. And Azzi, welcomes the crash, welcomes the way it makes her chest hurt, makes it hard to breath in the best way possible. 

“Damn Fudd,” Paige whistles lowly, “you got lines.”

Azzi laughs, throwing her head back the way she only ever really does when it’s elicited by Paige, “I mean I gotta keep up with the ultimate rizzler somehow don’t I?”

They giggle quietly into each other’s space, the two of them lost in their own world, blissfully unaware of what's happening on stage or the quiet eye-rolls they've definitely been getting from their teammates around them. 

“You’re the biggest part of me,” Paige says after a beat, whispering it like it’s a secret confession only meant for Azzi’s ears, “you always have been, you always will be.”

Azzi doesn't say anything, she doesn’t need to. Instead she takes advantage of the dark and presses her lips against Paige’s. It’s chaste and delicate but it’s everything. 

It always is. It always will be. 

April 9th 1:47 p.m. 

The text lights up her phone screen when Paige needs it the most. 

She’s currently being fitted for her Jimmy Fallon appearance, waves of exhaustion radiating off her body even though it’s barely afternoon as she fights the urge to fall asleep while the makeup artist retouches up her face. Hectic days are no stranger to Paige, and she’s learned the importance of napping in cars between shoots, but that doesn’t mean the tiredness just magically goes away. Especially when she knows the next couple of days ahead of her are going to be filled with the same frantic rush. And it’s not that Paige isn’t thankful for it -not like she doesn’t know that, all of this is a privilege is a reward for all her hard work- but sometimes it all just feels too fast, like the pages are being turned in a frenzy before she can even finish reading them. 

She just wants it all to slow down, just for a second, just so she can catch the raindrops of her life before they fall and fade as they hit the ground. 

And somehow, as Paige unlocks her phone to look at the mirror selfie of Azzi in Cane’s uniform -tongue out, fingers thrown up in a peace sign- it almost -almost- feels like it does. 

They’ve been texting back and forth pretty much all day, and by all day, she really does mean since 4 a.m. which is when -after getting back close to midnight last night- Paige had, had to begrudgingly leave the warmth of her girlfriend snuggled into her chest, to get to New York in time for her way, way, too early morning interview. And of course Azzi, despite being just as tired, had woken up with her, had groggily gone through the checklist of things Paige needed to take with her, had given her a freshly brushed minty kiss right before she’d gotten on the car, and had been on facetime -although she had nearly dozed off a couple of times- almost the entire car ride, just to keep the blonde company until she reached Manhattan when they’d switch back to texting. 

But then there had been a slight lull in conversation, Paige becoming busy in the rush of her day and Azzi slowly beginning her own. And now, as if she’d sensed her girlfriend’s restlessness, could feel her spiraling into that trepid sense of overwhelmedness, Azzi had resumed it, just when Paige needed it the most, needed her anchor, the most. 

A: would you still love me if i said i was deciding to quite basketball to work at cane’s?

P: depends

would you give me free tenders?

Az: wow

so you’re saying your love is conditional?

P: i’m saying i’d love you just a little bit more if you gave me free chicken tenders 

i mean cane’s and my hot ass girlfriend, that’s the dream right?

A: that’s the dream? 

P: that’s the dream!

A: you’re a weirdo bueckers 

P: and yet you love me (don’t say debatable) 

so who’s really the weird one here? 

A: still you babe, still, definitely you 

P: oof definitely

that hurt baby 

A: you’ll survive 

P: only if you kiss it better 

i miss you by the way

if you even care 

A: it’s been like six hours 

P: oh so you don’t miss me?

cool cool cool cool COOL 

A: you’re so dramatic jfc 

P: oh OKAY 

a girl can’t even be sad about the fact that her girlfriend 

THE WOMAN SHE LOVES 

doesn’t even give a fuck that she’s DYING without her 

A: like i said 

so dramatic 

P: right right right so you hate me

got it.

A: oooooh fullstop and everything damn 

P: i’m not talking to you anymore BYE 

A: wait no

P: yes 

A: babyyyyyy

come backkkkk 

PAIGEEEEEEEEEEE

i’m sorryyyyy

you’re not dramatic 

you’re very not dramatic 

you’re very undramatic 

like the least dramatic person ever actually

and i miss you too

AND I LOVE YOU 

P: wow fudd

you’re like desperate for my attention or something huh? 

A: OH FUCK YOU 

P: i know YOU want to baby

Paige is grinning like a fool as she waits for Azzi to reply to that, a smile so bright she thinks there’s probably astronauts in space who are being blinded by it right now. She can’t help it. The knots of tension in her body are beginning to unravel, replaced by threads of a serene calmness that seems to have stitched itself to her skin just by talking to her girlfriend. Her person. Her happy place. 

A: skipping over that…

you doing okay? 

It’s in text form, but there’s still an underlying tone to it -a i know you’re not quite fine- that’s an acknowledgement of Azzi being in tune with Paige’s feelings and both an opening for her to talk about it now or a promise to be there to listen to her later. That’s the thing about having been with someone for years; Azzi knows Paige, she can read her -even from miles and miles away- like she’s the top line of a snellen chart at the optometrist’s office. And even years later, the knowledge of that simple fact makes Paige’s heart flutter with the feeling of being loved. 

P: i will be when you get here tonight 

A: i’ll be there soon baby

gonna set out for nyc as soon as my shift is over lol

can’t wait to see you 

P: work hard baby!

can’t wait for you to bring me tenders!

A: ....oh okay! 

i see what’s really important to you 

P: hey you know i love cane’s 

A: and here i thought you loved ME

P: i do 

just maybe a little less than my chicken tendies

A: fine 

then maybe i love you a little less than crinkle cut fries

P: aww you love me?

A: occasionally…

P: good enough for me! 

Paige catches herself smiling in the mirror, that enamored, goofy, grin that stretches her whole face, wiping away the traces of a frown that had once inhabited the same space. It’s still all a little -maybe even a lot- overwhelming, but she has a lifejacket now. Azzi won’t let her drown. 

P: hey az

A: yeah? 

P: thanks for checking in baby 

A: always baby 

P: i love you 

more than chicken tenders 

A: i love you too 

more than crinkle-cut fries 

April 10th 5:37 p.m.

The door to the hotel room creaks open and that familiar scent of Valentino whafts through the air, settling like the comfort of a worn out binkie against Azzi’s senses. She smushes her dorky grin into the pillow her face is already buried in, suddenly feeling a little more awake than she had just a couple seconds ago. After a multitude of media appearances, Azzi had returned back to their shared hotel room, only about twenty or so minutes ago, with a drained social battery and the cardinal urge to be nestled in her girlfriend’s strong arms. Considering said girlfriend hadn’t been back yet then, she’d settled for a hoodie that smelled like her and pillows that, while not as sturdy as Paige’s biceps, were soft enough to band-aid the ache for a little while. 

But now Paige is back. 

And Azzi doesn’t have to settle. 

She lifts her head to say as much, when -before the words can leave her mouth- the bed dips and suddenly there’s a warm weight being pressed against her back, slightly calloused hands finding their way under her body and then under her hoodie till they’re sprawled against her stomach. 

“Hi,” Paige whispers softly, her breath ticking against Azzi’s skin as she leaves a lingering kiss against the nape of the brunette’s neck, before burying her face in her shoulder as they let out matching contented sighs. 

“Hey,” the brunette whispers back, turning her face slightly just so she can give Paige a quick peck on her cheek. 

Azzi’s eyes close involuntarily as she lets herself be consumed by all things Paige, the essence of her girlfriend’s existence seeping into her veins and being pumped into her heart, like it’s the only thing keeping the most important organ in body alive. It used to terrify Azzi sometimes, this all-consuming love she knows she has only for Paige. She’d been so young when she’d first realized it, realized that missing and wanting and needing her best friend that fucking much couldn’t possibly be platonic. And god had that scared her. 

Because loving someone meant living with the fear of losing them too. 

But that doesn’t scare Azzi anymore. Not when she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that this -the two of them and this little life their slowly beginning to build brick by brick- isn’t something she’ll ever lose.

This, the two of them, it’s a forever kind of thing.

“How was your day?” Paige murmurs against Azzi’s ear, fingers tracing delicate patterns against her taut stomach. 

“Exhausting,” Azzi replies, eyes still closed, “but nice. It’s a victory tour. Can’t really complain. How about you? How was your shoot?”

“Same ol’ same ol’. Nothing new. The camera loved me as always,” Paige’s cocky smirk prickles against Azzi’s skin and the younger girl shakes her head even though she’s just as confident that the pictures would in fact turn out perfect and that, Azzi would likely have to hide them in that secret little folder in her phone that’s filled to the brim with her favorite Paige photoshoot shots (and that she occasionally flicks through when she misses her girlfriend just a tad bit too much). 

“Or maybe it’s the hangover still making you delusional,” Azzi teases. 

Paige groans, pushing herself even further into her girlfriend if that’s even possible, clearly being bombarded with memories of the cruel headache she’d had to endure this morning, “please don’t remind me. Why’d you even let me drink last night?”

Azzi snorts into her pillow, “let you? Babe, since when have I ever been able to stop you from drinking? In fact, I’m pretty sure I did try last night after your third one and what did you do? You said, nah baby it’s just one more drink i’ll be fine,” she mocks, her mind flashing to her tipsy girlfriend last night who’d flashed that dopey grin at her while downing another shot she swore wouldn’t affect her the next morning. Azzi knew better. She always did. 

“What was I supposed to say when Alicia fucking Keys was handing me another drink Az?” Paige defends, “you don’t say no to Alicia fucking Keys.”

“I said no to Alicia fucking Keys just fine,” Azzi points out. 

“Yeah that’s cause you’re Azzi goddamn Fudd,” Paige presses a smile into the brunette’s shoulder, “you’re like the princess. The princess can say no to anyone.”

“Shut up,” Azzi grumbles, but her cheeks are stained red as she bites back her own grin at the pet name. 

They drift into a comfortable silence, their hearts beating in sync as their breathing starts to slow down a little, both of them on the precipice of sleep. It’s been nonstop since the championship -a different grind to what they’d been doing in-season but a grind nonetheless- and exhaustion rolls off of both of their bodies in waves. But right now, wrapped up in each other with every part of their bodies touching, it feels a little bit like they’re recharging, feeding off of each other’s strength before they go back out into the real world. 

“What if I skip this dinner thing and we order takeout and watch Frozen while we cuddle in bed?” Paige says after a beat, her tone wistful as Azzi lets out a soft laugh, her mind fluttering with memories of countless nights spent doing exactly that, 

She twists her body underneath Paige, so that they’re chest to chest and she can finally see her girlfriend’s face. And god, it’s been eight years she’s known Paige, almost eight years she’s been in love with her, but Azzi swears the blonde -with that fully toothed smile she claims as her own and sky blue eyes that look at her like they can see into her soul- still takes her breath away every single time she looks at her. She feels tongue-tied, this syrupy sweet feeling congesting her chest as she loops her arms around Paige’s neck, tugging her girlfriend closer so she can meld their lips together, lazy and slow and perfect. 

“So is that yes?” Paige mumbles against Azzi’s mouth, “I’ll even have room service bring us an ice-cream sundae.”

The brunette chuckles, her thumb caressing the older girl’s cheek as she shakes her head, “the ice-cream almost convinced me but unfortunately not baby. I have plans.”

Paige pouts, raising an eyebrow in mock offense, as she lifts herself off of Azzi just enough to be able to see her properly, “you have plans? With who?”

“Oh you know, just this cute girl who’s really funny,” Azzi teases, her eyes gleaming with mirth as Paige narrows her own. 

“What girl?” she asks, the possessive glint in her irises sparkling like sun rays hitting the surface of a tranquil blue ocean. 

“Just this girl,” Azzi says cavalierly, “but she’s amazing. Think I’m gonna wear that pink tank top-”

“Like hell you are,” Paige cuts her off, her voice gruff as she scowls down at Azzi, “pick something else. That’s my favorite top on you. No one else needs to see you out in it.”

“I know it is,” Azzi smirks, and then, deciding she’s done enough to elicit that jealous side of her girlfriend -who's still glaring at nothing in particular- that she finds rather insanely attractive, she figures she probably should put Paige out of her misery, “but KK said pink looks good on me so…”

Paige stares at her, mouth opening and closing as she processes Azzi’s world before she lets out a loud groan and buries her face in her girlfriend’s chest. 

“Oh fuck you,” she curses as Azzi trembles with laughter, her hands rubbing up and down the blonde’s back. 

“KK’s gonna die when I tell her about this.”

“Azzi no! Don’t you dare,” Paige whines, “don’t you care about your girlfriend’s dignity at all?”

“What dignity- OW did you just fucking bite me?” Azzi’s joking tone turns shrill as she feels her girlfriend nip sharply at her collarbone. 

Paige smirks lazily into her girlfriend’s skin, tongue darting out to soothe the patch of red forming on it like an artist putting on the finishing touches to their craft, “you’ve never seemed to mind that before.”

Azzi’s breath hitches, irritation melting into something completely different as Paige continues to press open-mouthed kisses to her neck. 

“Paige,” she breathes out and it’s meant to be a warning -a plea for her to stop- but it sounds like anything but. 

“My offer still stands baby,” Paige murmurs, “I don’t gotta go and you don’t gotta leave. We can just stay here. Together. Doing this.”

It takes all of Azzi’s willpower to not succumb to the sultry lilt in her girlfriend’s voice, to not let their bodies tangle into the sheets and let the night pass them by. She places her hands firmly on either side of Paige’s head, coaxing the blonde’s face away from her skin -both of them sighing in disappointment at the loss of contact- so they’re face to face agan. 

“You gotta go baby,” she says softly, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Paige’s ear, “it’s part of taking the next step, part of entering your new world.”

“I know,” Paige bites her lip, hesitating as she looks down at Azzi with a newfound vulnerability, a hidden crack in her confident exterior that only the brunette has ever been privy to, “I’m scared,” she confesses, “it’s gonna feel too real once I’m in there with all the vets and draftees.”

“Oh Paige,” Azzi whispers, her touch gentle and soothing as she runs index finger down Paige’s face, “it is real. This is real. Your dreams are coming true baby.”

“I know, I just-” Paige pauses as she leans her face into Azzi’s hand, melting into the familiarity of it, “it’s all gonna be different soon. That’s scary as fuck.”

Azzi nods in understanding, “yeah it is. But you’ve got this Paige. I know you do. And,” she nuzzles her nose against her girlfriends, “you’ve got me. That’s not gonna be different. Not now, not ever.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

April 12th 11:32 p.m.

Horsebarn hill smells like newly mowed grass and fresh spring flowers that have just started to bloom. The  gentle April breeze -like whispers of all the stories that have been told here- curdles around Paige as she sits criss-cross on a checkered pink blanket, one arm wrapped firmly around Azzi’s shoulder, the other nursing a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Her teammates are scattered across the grass on their own blankets, some with matching drinks, others with a late night snack. Their chatter mingles with the distant chirping of cicadas creating a soothing lullaby that almost threatens to put Paige -with the frantic rush of her past few days- to sleep. 

But she doesn’t dare let her eyes close, wanting to savor every single second before nightfall turns into daybreak and a moment turns into a memory. 

This is her team. Her family. 

And tonight is the last night that they will get like this, to be in this place -a familar space they’ve visited countless times, a space where they’ve woven threads of themselves into the grass that grows here- as individual pieces who belong together in the same puzzle before three of them -her, Aubrey and Kaitlyn- scatter to fit into a different jigsaw. 

A new start. 

Instinctively, Paige pulls Azzi closer to her, breathing in that familiar soft scent of the brunette’s lavender deodorant mixed with the coconut-y aroma of her body wash, that settles her nerves like a peace serum. Azzi doesn’t say anything -still laughing at KK and Ice who are doing some sort of dramatic reenactment of Aubrey and her new cheerleader girlfriend’s first date- but she shifts just enough to press her temple against Paige’s chin, a simple reminder that she’s here, ready to be whatever the blonde needs her to be. 

“That is not what happened,” Aubrey’s indignant voice carries out through the hill, much to the amusement of her teammates who all burst out into laughter, the sound like wind chimes ringing throughout a mountain, “y’all weren’t even there.”

“We didn’t have to be,” KK defends, her eyes shining with her patented mirth, “we know you Aubs.”

“It does sound like something you’d do Aubrey,” Carol says contemplatively, barely able to conceal her own smirk as she pats her friend comfortingly on the back

“CAROL,” Aubrey shrieks in betrayal, scooching away with a dramatic hand on her heart, “I cannot believe YOU would do this to me?”

“I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” Caroline says solemnly, inciting another round of giggles from the group of girls as Aubrey shakes her head in exasperation. 

Paige thinks she’s a little bit in love with this moment, in the mundaneness of it that feels like any other night spent with her teammates and yet there’s still something about it -about these people that have loved her just as much through the losses as they have thought the big wins- that feels inexplicably special. Perhaps that’s just the bond forged by working towards and winning a championship together. Because it's certain that all of them will win more than just this -that’s who they are, winners at their core- but not like this, not this group, not all together, not as comets in the same once-in-a-lifetime meteor shower.

“Alright, alright enough bickering,” Paige’s voice sweeps over her team, still as commanding as over, their leader, “even though let’s be real Aubs, that definitely sounds like something you’d do.”

“I hate all of you,” Aubrey grunts. 

“Yeah, yeah we love you too,” Paige sends her oldest teammate a quick wink before turning her focus to the rest of them, “y’all we should do something. Something fun.”

Ice raises a skeptical eyebrow, “we are doing something. We’re eating and drinking and pissing Aubrey off. Sounds like hell of a fun night to me.”

Paige rolls her eyes, “no Isuneh, I mean like something special. We’re fucking National Champions we guys. We should do something to celebrate.”

“We did celebrate. Or were you so drunk that you don’t even remember that?” Sarah deadpans much to the amusement of their teammates and this time Paige finds herself the victim of the group’s shrill laughter as her youngest teammate goes on to mimic her intoxicated antics from the night they’d won the championship. 

“Baby,” the blonde whines like she’s been backstabbed when she feels Azzi’s body -still securely plush against her own- shake with her girlfriend’s own giggles, “you laughing at me too?”

“No, no, of course not. I would never,” Azzi says soothingly, turning her head slightly so she can kiss away the pout on Paige’s lips. 

“Oh my god get a fucking room,” Jana yells when the kiss inevitably goes from chaste to something deeper and the two of them break away reluctantly, still grinning at each other like the cheesy lovesick idiots they’ve never shied away from admitting they are. 

“We have one,” Azzi replies, shrugging as she settles back into Paige’s chest, a coy smirk on her face directed towards Paige’s roomates, “and you should know I plan to use it tonight, so either get headphones or get the fuck out of the apartment. Just saying.”

Paige snorts into her girlfriend’s hair as Jana scrunches her nose in disgust, pretending to puke into the grass and Allie lets out a dramatic sigh, rubbing her temples like a teenager who’s tired of their parent’s high jinks. 

“Why is it always us?” Jana complains, “why don’t you ever traumatize your roommates instead.”

“Absolutely not,” Ice puts her hands up in surrender, “I already lived through that last year,” she shudders at the memory, “they owe me compensation for that shit not a replay.”

“Oh please,” Aubrey says cavalierly, sitting with her hands splayed on the ground behind her back, “y’all think this is bad? Y’all don’t even know what we had to live through when Azzi first got here and these two were still being absolute dumbasses. I don’t remember what was louder. The fighting or the fucking.”

“And the fighting always lead to fucking,” Caroline commiserates before a contemplative expression overtakes her features, “or was it the other way round?”

“Shut up,” Paige grumbles, a red blush forming from the base of her neck to the tip of her ears as she hides her face against Azzi’s curls, “we were not that bad.”

“No we definitely were,” Azzi’s voice is steady, despite her own face being the same embarrassed shade as her girlfriend’s, as she gives Paige’s hand -wrapped around her waist- a gentle squeeze, “but we figured it out,” her eyes are soft as she turns around in the older girl’s arms to look at the blonde, “we always do.”

Paige brushes their lips together before pressing her forehead against the brunette’s, “always.”

And she’s dimly aware of her teammate’s making gagging sounds in the background, can practically feel the eye-rolls and thoughts of the two of you are sickening vibrating off of them but Paige doesn’t care. Because underneath it all is a fondness -perhaps even admiration- that none of the girls can really hide because no one is a bigger supporter of the Paige and Azzi story than the teammates that had lived through every chapter of it with them. 

“Alright enough,” it’s KK who eventually pulls them apart, her hand curling around Paige’s bicep to pull her back, eyes almost rolling to the back of her head when she notices the frown on the blonde’s face, “oh my lord, y’all don’t get tired of each other?”

“Nope,” Paige and Azzi replying in sync, glancing dopily at each other because, it’s been seven years of their lives being intertwined, four years of living in each other’s skin -so interwoven that it was hard to tell where Azzi began and where Paige ended- and yet, Paige thinks if there were more hours in the day, she’d still spend every single extra second as a chance to fall a little bit more in love Azzi. 

“Y’all are hopeless,” KK informs them (they don’t deny it) before she looks expectantly at Paige, “anyways P-boogs, you were saying something about celebrating?”

“Isn’t that what the parade tomorrow is for?” Ashlynn asks quizzically. 

“Yeah but that- that’s for everybody. The fans, the local media, all of them,” Paige replies earnestly, “we should do something for us- something just us. One last time.”

“Do your fangirls know their ultimate rizzler is such a sap P?” Ayanna teases but there’s wistfulness to her tone, one that reflects in the eyes of all of the girls as that last bittersweet phrase settles in the air, “what did you have in mind?”

Paige grins, “y’all see that tree over there,” she points to the large willow tree a couple meters away, one that looks out over the school like a protector; it’s the team somehow always ends up close to whenever they make their way up to Horsebarn hill, “I wanna carve our names into it. Something that’ll last forever.”

Ice lets out an amused snort, “trust you to come up with the most clichéd idea ever Bueckers. What are we in some feel-good 90’s teenage comedy movie?”

“Oooh I’d be the funny one,” KK supplies proudly, “like that one supporting character everyone remembers more than the main ones.”

“I think that’s the annoying one,” Ice mutters under her breath causing KK to glare at her. 

"You’d be a forgettable extra Isuneh,” the shorter girl hisses, “not even one of the ones with lines. Matter of fact, your name wouldn’t even be on the goddamn tree.”

“And someone would scratch your name off. So guess we’d both be off the fucking tree Kamorea,” Ice retorts immediately, crossing her arms over her chest as the two of them revert to their default of being in a state of constant bickering. 

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” Caroline says, her voice as authoritative as ever as she fixes Ice and KK with her best warning motherly gaze before rising to her feet, “okay everyone go find yourself a sharp stick so we can carry out Paige’s clichéd idea.”

“Hey,” Paige pouts, “it’s not that cliché.”

“It definitely is,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes like it pains her to have to go along with this but the way she lights up when she finds a little twig with whetted edges -perfect for etching her mark into a tree- tells a different story. 

“I think it's a sweet baby,” Azzi whispers softly as she gently stands up, reaching out a hand to pull Paige up with her, “very cute, very you.”

“Yeah?” Paige nudges her girlfriend’s shoulder, their intertwined hands swinging between them as the two of them make their way towards the tree, picking up their own sticks along the way, “so sweet that you’ll carve your name next to mine?”

Azzi laughs, the sound of it pure and uninhibited  as it echoes through the night, “where else would my name go?”

Paige practically beams at her girlfriend’s answer as the two of them join the rest of their teammates by the tree, the group of girls gathering under the willows as they each take turns etching their signatures into the bark. They have their phones out as flashlights, illuminating the area just enough for whoever’s turn it is to be able to see what they’re marking out. And Paige thinks that if at this moment, anyone were to look up at the hill from the path at the bottom, it would look a little bit like the stars had fallen from the night sky so that a constellation could congregate on top of the hill. 

She’s the last person to carve her name onto the tree and Paige sucks in a sharp breath, eyes glossing over the names of the rest of her teammates -her found family- before she inches forward, finding Azzi’s name amidst the rest and with a smile -one filled with the memories of everything she’s achieved and the building excitement of everything else she will- Paige signs her name right next to her girlfriend’s, right underneath the National Champions 2025 - we fucking did it!

April 13th 9:47 p.m.

Azzi’s sitting on the bed, head perched against the headboard, legs criss-crossed as she types away at her phone, texting Mackenzie about the photoshoot she has tomorrow morning. Her eyebrows are knitted in concentration, tongue poking out of her lips occasionally as she goes over the details with a friend, meticulous planning how the rest of the day would go. She’s so caught up in her focus that it takes her a while to realize she's being stared at. 

And when she does finally look up, there’s Paige -standing in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail as she leans against the door to their en-suite bathroom- staring at her like Azzi’s the moon and Paige has scoured the entire night sky just to find that luminescence again. It’s how Paige has always looked at her, with an intensity that feels all-consuming -like the blonde is memorizing every single inch of her and hiding the snapshot of it away in a treasure chest, locked by a key that only she has. Azzi feels her breath catch in her throat as Paige’s gaze stays locked on her -unwavering and steady- with that patented just for Azzi smile curling against the corner of her lips. 

“I missed you,” Paige says finally, after a moment of them just staring at each other. 

Azzi lets out a quiet chuckle, “you were in the bathroom for a solid ten minutes. How could you have possibly missed me?”

“I miss you every second you’re not with me,” it’s one of those corny lines Paige has used on her a million times -one she’d normally roll her eyes at and make a quip at about her girlfriend being clingy-  but there’s an underlying tone to it tonight that makes Azzi sit up just a little bit straighter. 

“Paige,” Azzi says softly, shifting her body slightly, ready to reach out for her girlfriend, but the blonde shakes her head 

“I miss you every time you leave, every time we’re apart. Doesn’t matter if it’s for a couple seconds or minutes or hours or days or-” Paige swallows as she cuts herself off, her breathing uneven as she continues as Azzi feels her heart start to ache at where this is going, “it started when you left Minnesota that first summer we met. And I remember- I remember after I’d left you at the airport- it felt- it felt like something was missing. And all I could think about the entire car ride home is when you’d land and when I could facetime you again. Just so I could hear your voice and see your face, even if it was through a screen that time.”

“I didn’t even wait till I got home,” Azzi reminisces, letting out a watery giggle as flashback of a much younger version of her -an antsy fourteen year old who didn’t quite understand why she was already so desperate to call her new friend that she’d just seen a mere few hours ago- invades her mind, “I called you as soon as we got in the taxi. God I almost hung up when you didn’t pick up on the first ring.”

“I thought I was dreaming,” Paige admits, “I’d been staring at my phone the whole time waiting for you to call and then when you did, I fucking dropped it.”

“You were a dork,” Azzi teases, “still are.”

“You love it,” Paige smirks cockily before her expression softens, her throat scratchy as she continues, “I don’t know how we did it sometimes. All that distance. Seeing each other for a couple weeks here and there and then being apart for months. It killed me, you know that? Every single time we had to say goodbye? I fucking hated it.”

“I missed you as soon as you walked away each time,” Azzi confesses in a whisper, looking down at the mattress so Paige won’t see her eyes threatening to overflow with the tears that are brimming at her water line

And she can feel it -all of those emotions she’d kept at bay over the last few weeks, all of those realizations she’d refused to let herself have just yet, all of those fears and worries that she’d pushed away to deal with after- everything rushing up all at once, banging at the barricades of their cages as they yell to be let out, to be dealt with. Because there isn’t much time left. After tomorrow, after the draft, everything would start changing. And Azzi can’t change that. 

The silence around them is thick with tension, Paige’s eyes on Azzi and Azzi still staring down at the linen, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the comforter. She almost feels selfish for feeling this way; for not being stronger for Paige, for her girlfriend whose life would change a lot more than Azzi’s would. It’s Paige who’s going to have to move to a new city and leave this old life of hers behind, Paige who’s going to have to integrate into a different team in a much harder league, Paige who’s going to have all eyes on her as she embarks on a new journey. 

And Azzi knows, despite the façade of complete confidence that Paige puts up, that her girlfriend is still human and that humans get scared. She wants to be Paige’s anchor, her shield and she has been -has let herself burn in her own trepidation so she can protect her girlfriend from the fire of doubt- but tonight, everything feels too fucking hot. Azzi can feel her resolve crumbling and when she finally looks up, when she finally lets Paige catch a glimpse of her face -red with tears free-falling- she knows her girlfriend can feel it too. 

“I’m scared Paige,” Azzi whispers and they both know what she means, “everything’s gonna change.”

“Oh baby,” Paige’s tone is gentle yet wrecked as she almost trips over her own face to get to Azzi, immediately cupping the brunette’s face in between her hands. 

“I’m sorry,” Azzi’s voice comes out trembling -barely above a whisper- as she lets herself melt into her girlfriend’s touch. 

“God baby no,” Paige soothes, her thumbs brushing away the fast-falling drops rolling down the brunette’s cheeks, “why are you apologizing?”

“I didn’t mean- I didn’t want- fuck Paige- baby it’s the night before the best day of your life and I’m ruining it,” Azzi sobs; now that she’s let the tears out, it’s like they refuse to stop. 

“No you’re not,” Paige corrects her immediately, her tone leaving no room for argument, “you could never ruin anything for me baby. Just you being here, it makes it-,” she gives Azzi a wobbly smirk, “it makes tonight un-ruin-able or something.”

And in spite of the heaviness pinching at her ribs, Azzi finds herself letting out a watery chuckle, “I don’t think that’s a word.”

“It so is,” Paige says assertively, pulling Azzi onto her lap so that the younger girl is straddling her hips, her head instinctively burrowing itself into the safe space in the crevice between the blonde’s neck and shoulder as they breathe together in synch with each other’s heartbeat

A beat passes before Azzi speaks again, the vulnerability leaking through her voice despite it being muffled by Paige’s skin, “this is gonna be really fucking hard isn’t it?”

Paige’s arms instinctively tighten around the brunette, her hands that had been playing with her curls stilling as her body goes rigid under Azzi. It’s a thought that both of them have had -their eyes have even said it each other in the moments where the inevitability of their future had been to hard to ignore- but neither of them had, had the courage to actually say it out loud yet, to give that thought the wing to fly into the air and hang between them like a sword of reality waiting to cut through their mirage of wilful ignorance. 

But the sword has been unsheathed now. And the mirage has disappeared. 

“Yeah it is,” Paige says finally, her fingers slipping under Azzi’s shirt to caress her back, like she’s trying to soothe her girlfriend and keep herself sane just by being able to touch her, “it is scary and it is- it’s gonna be really fucking hard.”

Azzi whimpers, trying to push herself further into her girlfriend’s embrace, almost like she’s trying to sew them together by their skin with a thread that no force in the world could unbind. 

“But baby listen,” Paige coaxes Azzi’s face out of her chest, her thumbs resting on the younger girl’s jawling as she looks at her with that gentle gaze she reserves solely for her girlfriend, “no matter what- no matter how scary or hard it is- we’re gonna get through this. I know we are. Because you and me Az? We’re unbreakable- we’re un-ruin-able.”

Azzi lets out a wobbly laugh as she presses her forehead against the blonde’s, eyes closing instinctively as she breathes in the clean, calming, scent of Paige’s lavender body wash, “just cause you keep using it, doesn’t mean it’s suddenly gonna become a word, you know that right?”

“Yeah but it got you to smile twice so I’mma keep using it over and over again,” Paige shrugs, her nose nuzzling against Azzi’s. 

“You’re such a cornball Bueckers,” Azzi announces with a somewhat dramatic eye roll before she’s falling back into the pillows, tugging her girlfriend with her so she’s lying on her back, with Paige hovering right over her, cerulean blue eyes gleaming with love and promise as she smiles down at Azzi. 

“But here you are anyways,” Paige whispers as she presses her lips languidly to Azzi’s forehead, before moving down to her cheeks, then to her lips, “loving me,” she bites the lower one softly before moving onto Azzi’s neck and her collarbone, “wanting me,” her lips drift lower, gently lifting her shirt so she can leave a trail of delicate kisses starting at rib cage and then continuing down, a teasing smirk on her face, “needing me.”

“Paige,” Azzi moans, her fingers curling against the sheet as Paige settles between her legs, hands toying with the waistband of her sleep shorts as she looks expectantly up at the brunette. 

“What do you want, baby?” Paige asks, looking at Azzi like she’s already drunk off of her. 

“I want it slow,” Azzi says quietly, reaching a hand down to brush away a strand of unruly blonde hair, “I want you to make it last.”

“Whatever you want Az,” Paige promises, rising back up so she can pull Azzi into a searing hot kiss, “I’ll give you whatever you want baby.”

And she does. 

It’s slow and steady and perfect. They make love like they could make it last forever, like they have all the time in the world, like tonight won’t change into tomorrow unless they want it to. And when they finally fall apart, wrapped so tightly in each other arms, grounded by the feeling of being each other’s anchor, it feels like a vow; a vow to be un-ruin-able. 

April 14th 3:47 p.m.

Paige’s knee hasn’t stopped bouncing since she’d taken her seat on the hair and make-up chair. She’s acutely away of everything going on around her, of Haley’s curling iron putting the finishing touches on her hair, of Brittany making sure all of the pieces for her outfit change later on in the night are ready to be transported, of teammates -past and present- walking in and out of the room with praises of how good she looks and how proud they are of her. And Paige is thankful for all of them -is almost a little overwhelmed with how her village has come out to support her- but she can’t pretend that she’s not counting down the moments till her hair and make-up are done, till she can jump out of this chair and run down the hallway to her girlfriend. 

Beyond the quiet moment they’d shared when they’d woken up -at a far too early hour- this morning and a quick glimpse of each other before they’d been whisked away to get ready for the night, she hasn’t seen Azzi nearly enough today. They’d texted of course, like they always did when they were apart for longer than a minute. But no amount of messages back and forth could replace the exhilaration that came with actually being together, that came with being able to see her and touch her and feel her. 

God Paige is so fucking gone, has been since she was fifteen and she’d walked into the gym to see the most perfect arc on a three-point shot that she’d ever seen. And then her gaze had landed on the girl who’d taken the jumpshot. 

That was it. 

The moment Paige’s life had been permanently altered. 

And now that girl, the girl with the perfect jump shot but an even more perfect soul, was going to be by her side on the biggest night of her life so far, just like she had been for every milestone -every moment, big or small, happy or sad- since they’d met. 

Paige remembers when they’d first talked about being drafted and playing the W. Back then, it had felt like a dream, attainable but something that was still years and years away. But still, she’d been adamant, if not cocky, that she’d be a high first-round pick and Azzi -even though she’d started with a sarcastic quip and a teasing joke about you? nah Bueckers, you’d be lucky if you go late second round-had said with absolute certainty, her eyes sparkling with an emotion Paige couldn't quite decipher, that she was going to go number one overall.

And it had caught Paige off-guard, that fluttering in her stomach as her chest had expanded with pride. It wasn’t the first time someone had complimented her, wasn’t even the first time someone had said she’d go number one but there was a certain conviction in Azzi's voice that made Paige feel like she really believed it, believed in her. 

That belief was going to pay off tonight.

And Azzi -just like she’d promised, when they were just two girls lying on a blanket under the stars, pinkies brushing together as they’d talked about their future- would be right there to watch it happen. 

“Are we done yet?” Paige asks impatiently, looking imploringly at her entourage through the mirror. 

“Why?” Hayley’s eyes twinkle with mirth as she spritzes copious amounts setting spray against Paige’s hair, making the blond wheeze, “you have somewhere you need to be Bueckers?”

“Me? No. I got nothing to do,” Paige denies, “but Brittany has another client she has to go see I think and like you know, we shouldn’t keep her from doing that right Britt?”

Her stylist raises an amused eyebrow, “no one’s keeping me from seeing my other client Paige. In fact, you’re basically done and I’ve got your second look read to go, so I think I’m gonna go over and see her I think,” Brittany smirks as she walks towards the makeup chair, winking at Hayley, “but since you have nowhere to be yet, how about we do a little-”

“NO,” Paige shrinks back, a crimson blush creeping up her neck and overriding the artificial one at how loud her protest had come out, “I mean um- I already look great I think and you guys uh- you guys have worked so hard. We wouldn’t wanna ruin that by adding more and um- doing too much or something.”

Brittany laughs at her client’s rambling, shaking her head fondly at Paige’s familiar antiques as she comes to stand in front of the girl, “you’re a horrible liar.”

“I know,” Paige admits with a slight pout, “I just- I wanna see her.”

“She wants to see you too,” Brittany whispers like it’s a secret as she hands over her phone and Paige’s eyes light up when she sees her girlfriend’s name above a series of texts. 

Azzi: heyyyyyyy auntie B 

          just wondering how everything’s going over there?

          if you’re almost done?

          are you coming over soon? 

Paige laughs, a warm sensation wrapping itself around her heart at the desperation that mirrors her own, reflected in the texts. She can practically picture her girlfriend, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip as she’d likely overthought what to send to their stylist. 

“Y’all are just as bad as each other,” Brittany says, “but come on lovebird, let’s reunite you with your other half and put us all out of our misery.”

Paige grins like a child who’s just been told they’re being taken to disney world, standing up from her make-up chair so quickly that it makes her stumble a little bit, much to the entertainment of all the people around her. She catches a glance of herself, the finished product, in the mirror and can’t help the slightly arrogant smirk that crosses her face. 

She looks good. 

Fashion hadn’t initially been one of Paige’s passions but perhaps that was more because she wasn’t aware of what fashion could be for her before. She’d never understood the hype of the overly feminine dresses and jewelry her mother seemed to want her to wear but she’d done it with a smile until dressing herself like that had started to feel more like a punishment than an indulgence. And it hadn’t been until she’d started venturing into the more ambiguous style, into something that felt more her, that Paige had really begun to understand just how much she enjoyed dabbling in fashion, just how much she could use it as a venture to express herself, as a way to fall back in love with herself for who she is. 

By the time they make the short walk to Azzi’s dressing room, Paige’s palms are sweating. She feels like a highschooler who’s waiting to see their prom date. Ironic, because Paige hated every second of the day leading up to Azzi’s prom night, annoyed at the idea of someone else taking her girl as their date. Still, she’d played her part as a dutiful best friend, driving Azzi around to get her nails done, laughing with her as she'd gotten her hair and make-up done, taking candid pictures of her when she wasn’t looking and a couple more when she was. But every second had felt like torture, like a ticking timebomb waiting to explode the moment Azzi’d date had shown up at the Fudd’s doorstep. It wasn’t until Azzi had stepped into  his car -turning around to wave up at Paige with an uncertain smile- and the blonde had watched it drive away from the window of the guestroom, that she’d finally broken down. 

But then Azzi had come back early, a thousand and one excuses on her lips of why she’d skipped out on the after party, none of which really made sense but neither of her parents, and definitely not Paige herself, had called her out on it. And she hadn’t said the truth out loud that night -just gotten out of her dress and curled into bed next to Paige, putting on Love and Basketball for the hundredth time- but it had been enough, enough for Paige to know that it wasn’t all in her head, that Azzi felt the electricity that hummed between them too. 

The sweet scent of a citrus-y perfume engulfs her sense as Paige pushes open the door to her girlfriend’s room. She doesn’t quite recognize it, isn’t the one that Azzi normally uses, but something about it matches the brunette’s aura. Paige’s eyes scan the room, throwing the peace sign up at Amari who’s perched lazily on the bed and giving polite nods to the glam squad who are bustling around the space. She scrunches her face at not immediately catching sight of her girlfriend, her impatience catching up to her, until she hears it. 

Azzi’s voice. 

Coming from the direction of the bathroom; her tone carefree and light as she talks to who Paige assumes is Mackenzie. She hears the shutter of a camera, a quick work it girl, followed by her girlfriend’s familiar giggles and Paige feels her heart beat start to slow down, that calm she only feels when Azzi’s near her starting to seep through her skin like a the perfect hit of indica settling her frazzled nerves. 

“Baby,” she calls out, blushing at the fact that she can hear the sappy smile in her own voice, “c’mere. I wanna see you.”

On the bed Amari pretends to gag, “still as gross as ever I see.”

Paige flips her off, shifting her weight from side to side as she waits for Azzi to come out of the bathroom, desperate feeling like too mild a term to describe how badly she wants to see the brunette. 

And when she does- 

Fuck. 

It’s like they forget how to breathe at the same time, the world fading away as the two of them stare at each other, eyes wide, mouth parted, that same how did I get so fucking lucky expression written over both of their faces. And the thing is, Paige swears Azzi is the most gorgeous thing she’s laid her eyes on every day, thinks she’s the prettiest girl in the world even when she’s in nothing but that one old Georgetown shirt and her shorts covered in red hearts, with no makeup on. But tonight? 

God, tonight, Azzi is ethereal. 

Like nothing Paige has ever seen before. 

Like an angel fallen from heaven that was so gorgeous, she’d been banished by Aphrodite herself. 

Paige had seen the black dress on Azzi during her fittings, had already been enamored by the low cut neckline and the way the material went sheer at the bottom. But still, nothing could have prepared her for this final look. For the hair, wavy in a way Paige has never seen it before, the makeup that makes Azzi’s doe eyes pop and enunciates the plumpness of her lips, the minimal jewelry that enhances the entire outfit and makes Azzi look expensive. 

And Paige can’t tell if she’s floating or flying or falling, but she knows the ground has been snatched from underneath her in the best way possible. 

“Paige,” Azzi recovers first and Paige blinks -still dumbfounded- as her girlfriend glides across the room towards her and she’s struck with the fact that Azzi looks just as mesmerized as she does. 

“You look-” the brunette swallows, her hands moving like she doesn’t know where she wants to put them before they finally settle on the lapels of the older girl’s blazer, “fuck baby you look beautiful.”

“Me?” Paige finally finds her voice, her own hand moving to wrap around Azzi’s waist as she pulls her girlfriend closer, eyes still roaming all over her body, “baby have you fucking seen yourself.”

Azzi lowers her eyes bashfully, a soft pink color gracing her cheeks, “you like it?”

“No,” Paige says without hesitation, causing her girlfriend to look back up at her in confusion, “I hate it. I hate that you’re wearing it tonight. I hate that everyone else is gonna get to see you like this,” she continues possessively, eliciting a laugh from Azzi, “you look so fucking perfect baby, everyone’s gonna fall in love with you. I’m gonna end up in jail or something by the end of the night.”

“How do you think I feel,” Azzi bites back, pressing herself closer to Paige, “they’re already in love with you and then you’re gonna show up like that? I’ll be right there in jail with you at that point.”

“So what I’m hearing is that we should just stay here for the rest of the night? Just you and me and nobody else,” Paige smirks crookedly, “I mean I’mma get drafted even if I don't show up right?” 

Azzi shakes her head, tangling her fingers in the black cross chain dangling down the valley of her girlfriend’s chest, “tempting but no,” her eyes shine with pride, “I wanna watch your dreams come true tonight. I wanna hear your name called. I wanna see you walk on that stage and get handed that jersey. And I- I wanna be the one clapping the loudest when it all happens.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be anybody else,” Paige whispers, her voice trembling as she tightens her grip around Azzi’s waist, “you know that right baby? That I wouldn’t wanna live out any of my dreams with anybody else but you?”

“I know, me too,” Azzi nods, gently tapping their foreheads together, “I’m so proud of you P. So proud. And I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you more,” Paige says, somehow managing to press their bodies even closer together, “thank you for being here. Not just tonight. For all of it. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“Always,” Azzi breathes out, “I’m always gonna be here. No matter what.”

It’s a promise Azzi intends to keep and a promise Paige plans on holding her to, forever. 

April 15th 5:35 a.m. 

Their hotel room is quiet now, the last of their friends having drunkenly departed to their respective rooms. The high of the night still lingers in the air, echoes of the cacophony that had surrounded them since they’d woken up this morning still ringing in their ears. The room is a mess to say the least, remnants of drunk shenanigans woven into the couch and carpet. It���s the scene of the after-after party that had only involved the people closest to them, a not-so-quiet affair that had happened rather spontaneously after the Nike event had ended and their little circle -none of them particular sober- had agreed to reconvene in Paige and Azzi’s room instead. Champagne had flowed, the music had been loud and the chatter had been practically incoherent. 

But God, had it been fun. 

The perfect celebration of a monumentally perfect night. 

And now it was just the two of them, tired, aching bodies lying side by side -Paige, with her eyes closed, on her back, one arm wrapped around Azzi’s who’s curled against her chest, the other propped under her head- as they finally get a moment to themselves. Neither of them have changed, but at some point Paige’s white shirt had ended up wrapped around Azzi’s body, leaving the blonde in nothing but her white camisole now. Azzi doesn’t remember how exactly that had happened but she’s not complaining, not when she’s now engulfed by the scent of all things Paige and she has a first-class view of her girlfriend’s toned arms. 

“So,” she begins quietly, her voice scratchy and hoarse from the occurrences of the night, “when are we going shopping for a cowboy hat and cowboy boots?”

Paige laughs, a deep belly rumble that Azzi’s can feel from where her fingers are splayed over the blonde’s stomach, “as soon as we get to Dallas baby.”

We. 

Azzi hides a smile into Paige’s chest at that. She likes when her girlfriend speaks about them like that, like the package deal they have been since they were fifteen years old. Her eyes flicker across the room to the Dallas Wings hat that’s perched on the mirror, a relic of what’s to come and the thrill of what had happened tonight. Everyone had known this was what was going to happen since December, a foregone conclusion but that hadn’t made the moment any less special. Not when Azzi has been waiting for it -praying on it even before she’d truly discovered her faith- since the first time Paige had confided in her -with uncharacteristic quiet vulnerability- that she hoped one day she’d go number one in the draft. 

And tonight, that had finally come to fruition. 

There aren’t enough words in the English dictionary to describe how proud of Paige, Azzi is. She’s never doubted this moment would come, never doubted that this would be another mountain her girlfriend would conquer, but she knows -better than anyone- that the climb to the top had been riddled with obstacles. Hurdle after hurdle, Azzi had watched Paige jump over them all, maintaining a smile for the crowds but letting herself crumble in the brunette’s arms behind the scenes. And Azzi had held her, whispered reassurances into her ears until the blonde was fast asleep with tear-tracked cheeks and her own arms had hurt from holding Paige. But the idea of letting go had never once crossed Azzi’s mind. Instead she’d held her girlfriend a little tighter, had made herself stronger, so that whatever burden Paige was carrying, Azzi would always be there to make it lighter. 

Now here Paige is, a national champion, the #1 draft pick, a person who’d dared to dream despite it all, and the dreams had finally become a reality. 

And as she observes her girlfriend, eyes closed in peace with the smile of someone who’s really and truly happy, Azzi thinks no one deserved this more. 

“You’re staring,” Paige teases, eyelids still pressed shut as she brushes her hand up and down Azzi’s arm. 

The brunette bites her lip, only a little embarrassed at having been caught out, “I’m allowed to. You’re mine.”

“Oh?” Paige cracks open one eye, her lips stretching into that familiar arrogant smirk, “feeling a little possessive are we Az?”

“It’s the alcohol,” Azzi justifies with a grin, reaching up to steal a quick kiss from her girlfriend’s lips, “it makes me say the craziest things.”

Paige hums cavalierly before pulling Azzi fully on top of her, both eyes now open as she grins lazily up at the girl in her arms and it’s uncertain if the intoxication gleaming in them is from the ample amount of liquor coursing through her bloodstream or just the sheer amount of love she feels for her girlfriend.

“I like when you say crazy things,” she says softly, her thumb caressing the brunette’s cheeks, “especially things like that.”

“Like what?” Azzi breathes out. 

Paige’s tongue traces her bottom lip and Azzi finds herself following every movement, “like when you call me yours.”

“You are mine,” Azzi repeats, “and I’m yours.”

“I know,” Paige whispers as she brushes away a loose strand that had slipped out of the dark-haired girl’s bun, “and now the world knows it too.”

“You think so?” Azzi asks softly, a thrill inching up her spine at the idea of them officially being an open secret. 

“They should,” Paige snorts, “at least anybody with brain cells. I bet you, when I scroll through social media tomorrow morning, we’re gonna be all over it.”

Tonight hadn’t been a planned coming-out or anything; it wasn’t like they were trying to announce their relationship to the world. But they’d known what it would look like, what assumptions would be drawn from Azzi sitting pretty at Paige’s table, from her being the first person Paige hugged. They’d been acutely aware that this would firmly cross them over the threshold of being primarily known as best friends to people -as in the general public and not just a certain subsection of the internet who had already caught on long ago- questioning if there was more there. 

But that hadn’t been why they’d done this, albeit Azzi will admit that she likes the idea of being less hidden and the slightly possessive part of her enjoys the idea of people knowing, or at least speculating, that Paige is taken.  They’d done this because they deserved this moment together. They deserved to love each other out loud in the biggest of moment of Paige’s life, without fear, without inhibition, without giving a flying fuck about what anybody else would say. 

“Tonight was pretty amazing huh?” Paige says after a second, awe and tired blending into one smooth, low, cadence. 

Azzi doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches the girl underneath her, memorizing the marvel in her eyes, the joy that outlines every inch of her face. She presses a hand against Paige’s chest, exactly over where she knows her heart is, letting herself feel the rhythmic vibration of her pulse, like it’s the beat to her favorite song that she could listen to over and over again. 

“Was it everything you’d ever hoped for?” she asks finally. 

Paige chortles, “it was better.”

“I’m glad. You deserved it baby,” Azzi smiles, pressing her lips to Paige’s, letting it deepen for a second before she pulls away and rests her head against the older girl’s chest. 

“I can’t wait to do this again next year,” Paige says slowly, her hands rubbing up and down Azzi’s back as her words come out slightly slurred,“my turn to clap the loudest when you get picked number one.”

Azzi lets out a sleepy giggle, “alright hold on babe, we’re not quite there yet.”

“Nah,” Paige shakes her head, arms tightening their hold on the girl in her arms, “I already know.”

“Okay baby,” Azzi whispers, her eyes beginning to droop, powerless to the exhaustion shrouding every inch of her body, “can’t wait,” she yawns, burrowing herself further into her girlfriend’s warm embrace, “I love you. Good night P.”

“Good night Azzi,” Paige echoes back, reaching over the younger girl’s to turn the lights over, "love you more baby."

And as she slowly begins to succumb to the wiles of sleep, Azzi can’t help but think about how everything had changed tonight. They were going to spend a couple more days in New York, then a few more in Connecticut -maximizing their time together- before Paige would head off to Dallas, off to her new life. Azzi would follow her eventually, of course she would. But not forever, not to stay. 

Summers have always belonged to them. Since they’d met that fateful summer, they’d spend every single one together, attached at the hip. In the beginning, when they were still kids and less aware of how they felt, they’d still been apart for a few weeks but the last few summers? They’d barely been apart for a few days. But this summer would be different. Paige will be playing, traveling, learning the ropes of her new life and Azzi knows she needs to use this summer to get her prepared to do the same next year. Everything has changed. 

“Hey Az,” Paige whispers in the dark, her voice hesitant like she’s not sure if she say the next part, “next year when you get drafted, do you think- do you think maybe I could kiss you?”

Azzi hides her smile in the older girl’s chest. And she thinks everything has changed, but perhaps nothing has. 

Because she’s still Azzi, and Paige is still Paige, and the two of them are still the same, still them, still just two girls, desperately in love with each other, dreaming of their future together. 

“Yeah,” she answers finally, pressing a quick kiss against the side of Paige’s neck, “I think I’d like that.”

[mwphisto]

I’m not worth it - Rafayel

Rafayel is genuinely appalled when you tell him that he could find a partner so much more worthy of his love. Not only is he appalled that those words left your lips, he’s utterly appalled that you said them with 100% sincerity.

Better than you? Better than the woman he waited 800 years for? Better than the woman he gave up his entire world for? Better than the woman who owns his heart? Seriously? Do you even hear yourself when you talk?

The anger that flashes across Rafayel’s face has you shrinking back, heart pounding because you realize you are in a world of trouble for saying such a thing. Not just because of the fear, but because he is responding so fiercely to your self deprecating proclamation.

“What?” It’s nothing short of a hiss, a look of genuine disgust on his face. Not at you, but at the heinous idea you dared to utter. “I said I—“ but he cuts you off, a noise of pure anger leaving the artist’s lips.

“I heard you the first time, and I most definitely do not want to hear those words again.”

Then, he’s moving towards you, lithe hands coming up to cup your heated cheeks. The intensity in his gaze urging you to break eye contact but you don’t dare to. “Who do I have to kill?” And you blink, unsure of how to proceed.

“Who do I need to kill?” Again, leaving you lost. “WHO put those god awful thoughts in your pretty little head, cutie? WHO do I need to kill for ever making you doubt your worth of my love and affection.”

And your throat is drying up, because if you give him the honest answer he’d have to kill— “m-me.”

“You?” Rafayel is holding you a little tighter, heart thumping in agony that the creature who could conjure up such evil ideas was none other than yourself.

“What have I done to make you feel like this?” Because clearly he’s done something wrong along the way. Was he too bratty? Too dramatic? Did he make one too many sarcastic comments? Did he act some sort of way that made you question his feelings? He’s spiraling.

“You did nothing! God no, Raf. You’ve done nothing it’s just… me I guess. Self conscious. I-imposter syndrome even! Just… got too lost in my own head and…”

You’re spiraling too, and he can see it just as you picked up on the way he began to lose it. And you still have the audacity to think he wouldn’t burn the world for you? To be able to pick up so easily on his derailing train of thought.

“My love, my entire heart…” he’s coming down, coaching himself mentally to take deep breathes because nothing will get solved if he loses it like he usually does. “… I would destroy the entire world if it meant keeping you happy.”

“I would do whatever you asked me too with no hesitation. You mean everything to me, more than everything. Why would you ever deem yourself unworthy of my love?”

Tears leaked down your cheeks now, not because of your own insecurities but because of how fiercely he was loving you. The way he always had, maybe that was part of the reason you had begun to feel so unsure.

“I think I just…” you sniffle, leaning into Rafayel’s touch as he thumbed away the tears on your cheeks. “…I guess I got so overwhelmed with your love. That… part of me felt undeserving. You’re so handsome, talented, you have a kind soul even though you try to hide it. I’m just… me.”

“Exactly. You’re just you. Perfect in every way. So beautiful, so strong, brave, equally as talented.” His eyes search yours before continuing. “You’re equal amounts of loving and sweet. You put up with my antics like nobody else, you have time for me when nobody ever has.”

“I may not be the easiest lover. I may be dramatic, I may carry my own emotional baggage that I struggle to open up about. But there is one thing I am certain about, one thing I will proudly proclaim with my whole heart. And it’s the fact that I love you more than anything. More than my art, more than my career, more than Lemuira.”

You’re crying hard now, hands holding his wrists. The warmth seeping into his skin as your tears leak down and collect on his palms. He hasn’t let go of your face, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to either. “Please, cutie. My love, my heart, my beautiful girl… the next time you’re feeling like this. Tell me before it becomes unbearable.”

You can only manage a nod, hiccuping as he tugs you close to place kisses all over your face. “I would lay down my life and die for you, so don’t you ever think that you are unworthy of my love. You’re perfect for me, the only woman I could ever want. I waited 800 years for you to return to me, and now that you have, I’m never letting go.”

[gojoest]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

━━━ synopsis: fate has a strange way of birthing love. you married gojo satoru to stay close to his father — an arranged union built to conceal a scandalous affair. but somewhere between the lies and the silence, another secret began to stir quietly in your chest. one that did not belong to his father at all. 

━━━ content warning: MDNI, fem! reader (she/her), arranged marriage, affair, infidelity, love triangle, age gap (late 50s vs late 20s/early 30s), reader’s age isn’t necessarily specified but she’s written with late 20s/early30s in mind, unreliable narrator, original characters (satoru’s parents: gojo akihito & gojo saori), falling in love, sexual themes but no explicit content, alcohol consumption in a few scenes, reader is drunk in one scene, flashbacks, character death, murder, twists, there’s a specific fire scene that is heavily inspired by the manhwa “betrayal of dignity”, pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, ask to tag if something triggering is missing 

━━━ pairing: gojo satoru x fem! reader ; gojo akihito (oc) x fem! reader 

━━━ word count: 20k+ (…idk what happened there tbh) 

━━━ author’s note: hello guys! this is the idea i first mentioned back in october and it’s finally coming to life! it’s the longest thing i’ve ever written so please be gentle and kind — to me, to the story, and to reader. i did my best to proofread while editing but apologies in advance for any typos, inconsistencies or mistakes that might’ve slipped through! i hope you enjoy the read ♡

Love can make you do crazy things.  

Sometimes it’s a silly behavior that you exhibit, one that isn’t akin to your usual self, one that makes you a bit of a fool. 

You find yourself taking detours to “accidentally” bump into someone. Your heart races at the sight of them, and you disguise your longing behind an awkward ‘What a coincidence!’, but what you really mean is ‘I really wanted to see you! I couldn’t stay away.’ It’s harmless — charming, even. 

But what happens when love blooms where it shouldn’t? When it takes root in poisoned soil, nurtured by secrecy and betrayal — can it still be called innocent? When the heart wants what it shouldn’t, when desire threatens to unravel lives and twist fates — is it still harmless? Still endearing? 

No. The fool knows better — but doesn’t care. 

Blinded by love, reason is cast aside. Judgment dulls. Morality slips through desperate fingers. The choices no longer belong to conscience; they belong to longing. 

Science says that falling in love mimics a drug high — dopamine rushes, rational thought hijacked, impulse overrides consequence. You become addicted. You crave. And in that craving, you’d do anything to have it. No matter the cost. 

-- 

The air in the room is thick. With the windows shut, the scent of sex lingers — trapped between the four walls of the hotel room, clinging to your skin and his. Your bodies lie tangled, worn out and still close. 

“Nobody saw you come in, right?” the whitehaired man beside you breaks the silence, voice low but tender. His breathing has steadied, back to its usual calm rhythm. 

You tilt your head, cheek still pressed against his damp chest. His hand, which had been trailing lazily along your bare back, moves up to cradle your neck — gentle, almost instinctive. Like he’s trying to spare you any discomfort, even now. It makes you smile, the way he always trembles for you. 

“No, no one saw me”, you murmur. “It’s not like this is the first time.” 

“It’s the first time since you got married”, he replies, his tone quieter, more guarded. 

“Is this why you’re so tense?” you let out a feeble laugh. “Nothing’s changed, really — except now we’re both married...” the smile on your lips slowly fades. Your lips part, more words caught behind them. 

...not to each other though — you want to say, but you don’t. You don’t want to break the moment. It’s been too long since you last had this. 

“Actually”, he trails off, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. 

At times like this, you’re reminded, again, how large he is. He barely shifts beneath you, just stretches one arm to grab the pack, the other still wrapped around your waist. He lights a cigarette with practiced ease, tucks it between his lips, and inhales deeply.  

“There’s one thing that has changed”, he says, smoke curling from his mouth. 

“Oh?” 

“I see you every day now.” 

A faint smile touches his lips, softening his blue eyes. He kisses the top of your head, gaze lingering on you. 

That’s right. You do see each other every day now. It’s the consequence of living under the same roof. 

“But even so, moments like this... they’ve become rare. That bothers me.” 

The warmth leaves his voice. His eyes grow distant, pale and cold. “Seems like he is keeping you too busy. Maybe he’s starting to like you.” he speaks in a dull voice. 

“You think so?” 

“He’s around the house more, with you. He used to be gone all the time. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” His tone hardens. “He wasn’t supposed to act like this.” 

You let out a dry, uneasy chuckle. “Maybe he’s taking after you. Maybe I bewitched him... just like I bewitched you.” 

You don’t mean it. It’s just a tease, but the words land wrong.  

“Don’t joke about it”, he mutters, exhaling sharply. His brows furrow, tension creeping back into his features. “That’d be... problematic.” 

The man beside you is Gojo Akihito — your lover. The former head of the Gojo Clan. He is also the father of your husband. The current head of the clan — Gojo Satoru. 

...you only meant to lighten the mood. But just like his plan —  

It’s not working. 

-- 

Rumor has it: The clan head, Gojo Satoru, is completely enamored with his wife. 

It has become the talk of the mansion.  

“Did you see”, one maid whispers, nudging her colleague as they set the long dining table. “He brought her flowers, again.” 

“That’s nothing”, another chimes in, lowering her voice. “The other day he asked me how to make omurice. Said he wanted to learn it properly.” 

The first two maids lean in, wide-eyed. “And? What happened?” 

“I went into the kitchen early next morning”, she continues with a conspiratorial grin, “And there he was. Apron and everything. Cooking omurice from scratch. Said it was for his wife. Even served it on a fancy plate — with flowers from the garden. I think he picked them himself.” 

The maids collectively gasp, hands covering mouths, eyes sparkling. 

“He’s completely smitten”, one sighs, nearly swooning. “I heard he turned down every arranged match before her — didn’t even consider them. Then out of nowhere, he agrees to this one without a second thought.” 

“At first, I figured he just caved from the pressure”, another adds. “You know how the elders kept pushing. I thought he married her to shut them up.” 

“But now? Look at him. That’s not obligation. That’s a man in love.” 

A round of dreamy sighs circles the table. 

“Remember how he used to show up maybe once every couple of months? Only if something serious needed his attention?” 

“Now we see him every day”, one nods. “And if he’s not home, it feels... weird.” 

“He always comes back”, says another. “No matter how late. And the first thing he does is go see her.” 

“That’s not all”, the first maid says, lowering her voice even more. “The other day, he came home with a wound.” 

“No way. Him?” one of the others gasps. “He’s untouchable — who even got close enough to land a hit?” 

“Exactly. And do you know what he did? He let her clean him up. She asked for the first aid kit, and he just... smiled. The whole time. Like it didn’t hurt at all.” 

A chorus of quiet squeals follows, full of awe and disbelief. 

“He let himself be struck just so she’d fuss over him?” one whispers, covering her mouth. “God, he’s hopeless.” 

But before the fantasy could grow any richer, a sharp voice cuts through the air. 

“If you’re done gossiping”, Akihito says coolly from the doorway, “Perhaps you could focus on the work you’re actually being paid to do. Call everyone when dinner is ready.” 

The maids freeze, spines straightening, heads bowing in rapid succession. “Y-yes, sir. Our apologies.” 

Akihito didn’t linger. He didn’t need to. 

It wasn’t their chatter that irritated him. It was what they were whispering about. What they were seeing — what he couldn’t ignore. That’s what got under his skin. 

--  

“Good evening, wife.” 

You blink at the mirror just as a bouquet of forget-me-nots is gently laid in front of you on the vanity. Satoru leans in behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder, smiling. “You look beautiful, as always.” he murmurs against your ear. 

You shift slightly in your chair, but his hands land softly on your shoulders, holding you in place — not forcefully, but firmly enough to suggest he’s not letting you leave just yet.  

“Want me to brush your hair?” 

You sigh and meet his eyes in the mirror. “I can do it myself.” 

“I know”, he says smoothly. “But I want to.” 

Persistent. That’s one thing you’ve learned about him in the month you’ve been married — Satoru always gets what he wants. If you said no now, you wouldn’t put it past him to slip gum into your hair just so you’d have to ask for help. 

Just like he did with your slippers. 

He wanted to put them on for you one morning — for no reason other than his own mischief, you’re sure — but you refused. Later, fresh out of the shower, they were gone. All of them. Every pair. Oh no, we’re out of slippers! Guess I’ll just carry you — he said with that shameless grin of his. And he did. Said the floor was too cold. Couldn’t let his wife get sick, after all. He carried you around the house all morning. Then, right before leaving to run some errands together, he knelt, slipped your shoes on like some smug prince, and you let him — half amused, half annoyed. 

The bastard always wins. 

“Fine”, you relent now, sitting back. 

“Don’t worry”, he says, picking up the brush. “I’ll be gentle.” 

So far, nothing about this marriage has matched what Akihito told you. It was supposed to be nothing more than a formality. He reassured you countless times that his son would not even glance at you — let alone lay a hand on you; that you would probably just see him just once, on your wedding day, and that would be the end of it. But so far, Akihito was wrong about everything. 

He’s never home, huh? — You see him every day. 

He won’t touch you, huh? — Then why does he look for every excuse to be close? Going as far as to get himself injured on purpose and come back without healing himself so you’ll tend to him... Why does he always find a reason to touch your arm, your hand, your back? Why... Maybe, he wants to get in your pants? That must be it... right? Why else would he try so hard to make things work? It’s not like you two married out of love. You could’ve just quietly existed as his wife on paper; he certainly doesn’t have to bother making you an actual part of his life. 

Sure, he is a huge tease. But it’s not the annoying kind. It’s... disarming. You hate to admit it, but there’s something about him. A pull. A quiet magnetism that makes you want to lean in instead of pull away. And sometimes, you forget — forget why you came to be his wife in the first place, that this was never meant to be more than convenience serving the purposes of a scandalous affair. 

Until you remember. Until you look at him and see shadows of Akihito — the resemblance too striking to ignore. A younger version of the man who changed everything for you. 

You sigh, unable to keep your thoughts from wandering. 

“Did I hurt you?”, Satoru asks, suddenly pausing mid-stroke. 

You glance at his reflection. For just a second, there’s something soft in his expression. Worry. “No”, you say. “Just thinking.” 

“About?” 

He continues brushing, careful not to let the bristles graze your skin. Instead, his hand absorbs the pressure — the motion surprisingly tender. Then his hand drops. Light fingertips brush your neck. Two fingers lift your chin, tilting your head back until your eyes meet. “Thinking about someone else while I’m this close to you?” he asks, brows furrowed. His tone is calm, but the edge in it isn’t playful. It’s sharp. Serious. 

“Jealous?” you smirk, trying to deflect. 

He places the brush down and leans in. His head hovering over yours. There’s barely any distance left. When you both breathe out a veil of warm air falls and fills the tiny gap left between your faces. “Very”, he says quietly, his face deprived of the usual grin. “Makes me want to do terrible things to the man in your thoughts.” He’s not joking. Not even a little. 

“I was thinking about you, actually”, you reply. It’s not technically a lie.  

Not accustomed to such intimate closeness with him, heat starts to spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat acting peculiarly too. The nearness is too much. You share a bed, yes — but neither of you has ever dared cross the middle. Not yet. Why beat so fast suddenly, heart? Must be the fact he’s looming over you like this that is making you uncomfortable. Trying to break the tension, you joke. “If you’re planning on doing terrible things to yourself, make sure you don’t die. I’d hate to be widowed so young.” 

His expression falters. For a second, you see it — genuine surprise. It’s satisfying. He blinks, once, twice, head pulling back slightly, fingers at your jaw trembling with something unspoken. But it doesn’t last. He recovers quickly. 

A breathy laugh escapes him as he leans in again. “You were thinking about me? What, something dirty?” 

You scoff. “You wish.” 

“I do”, he replies instantly. “And don’t worry — you’ll get there soon enough.” 

The audacity. 

“What makes you so sure I’ll get there”, you shoot back. He grins, guiding your face back toward the mirror. “If you can’t see it up close...” He taps the glass. “Just look there. I’m kind of a masterpiece.” 

“The only piece you are is a piece of work”, you mutter, turning your head with a huff, your hair brushing against his face. You expect a quip in return. But he goes still. Sniffs. 

“Hmm... What’s that smell?” He leans closer, nose buried briefly in your hair. “I didn’t know you smoked.” 

You freeze. Akihito’s cigarettes. You didn’t wash your hair after the hotel. Damn it. 

“I don’t”, you reply, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. 

“You smell like cigarettes.” 

“I was with a friend earlier. She smokes. Maybe that’s why.” you lie. 

Satoru watches you carefully through the mirror. “Good. You shouldn’t smoke”, he says at last, straightening up. “My wife has to live a long life. With me.” A smile tugs at his lips. A playful smirk, back to normal. 

You try to summon a sharp retort. Something clever. But all you manage is a tight, fake smile as your heart thunders in your chest. You were almost caught. 

Then— 

Knock-knock. 

“Dinner is ready, sir. Madam.” one of the maids calls from outside. 

“Hai-hai~”, Satoru casually yells out. “We’ll be down in a minute.” 

-- 

The dining room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace, but tension — stretched thin between the four people who sit on the table. It makes the softest sounds feel sharp. Or maybe it’s just in your head, considering the situation. 

It’s tradition, apparently — whenever everyone is home, meals are eaten together. Your least favorite part of the day. Understandably so, given the circumstances: you willingly put yourself here, fully aware you’d be sitting across from the woman whose husband you’re secretly sleeping with, and beside the son you’re technically cheating on — with his father. 

You sit beside your husband, Satoru. Across from you, Akihito — your lover, your secret. Next to him is Saori, your lover’s wife and husband’s mother — regal and silent, her expression unreadable as always, like she’s wearing a careful mask. 

No one speaks when the food is served. Just the mechanical act of eating, a silence that presses against your ribs like guilt. Your appetite has all but vanished since becoming the bride of the Gojo Clan, your stomach perpetually knotted with remorse. Sometimes even water feels repulsive. You often catch yourself wondering why you’re even doing this. Is it really love? You begin to question the choice you made, weighing it with a heaviness that never seems to lift. 

Then, as always, the silence shatters. Satoru reaches over, casual as anything, and plucks a bite of greens from your plate with his chopsticks. “Yours always taste better”, he grins, dropping them in his mouth. “Must be the way you chew”, he says with a mouthful.  

A small, soft laugh escapes you before you can catch it. There he goes with his silly antics again, you think. He somehow always knows how to tug you out of your head, whether you want him to or not. 

Akihito’s chopsticks pause mid-motion. His eyes narrow, barely, but you feel the weight of it. “Interesting”, he says, voice low and smooth, but with a faint edge. “I thought you never touched your greens.” 

Satoru doesn’t look away from you as he chews, slow and deliberate. “Tastes change.” 

The air thins. You take a sip of wine to steady your hands and avoid meeting Akihito’s eyes. You can feel them — heavy, disapproving, and not very kind. 

“They do”, Akihito replies after a moment, setting his chopsticks down with a soft click. “Although not always for the better.”  

You want to look at him, to read what he’s really thinking — but you don’t dare. Sometimes it feels like even a glance might betray you. Especially now, as Satoru shifts slightly in his seat, angling himself subtly closer to you, as if rising to meet some unspoken challenge. 

“I suppose it depends”, Satoru says lightly, the smile still playing on his lips. “Sometimes, watching someone savor something — it can spark a craving in you too.” He smiles at you then — softly — and something flutters in your chest that has no business being there. Then, he adds, with just enough weight to sharpen the air again. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, old man? How tastes change over time.” 

You freeze, just for a moment. Akihito doesn’t blink. His tone stays dry, his face unreadable. “Was there a point to that?” 

Satoru leans back slightly. “Just that, at your age, I’d expect you to be less surprised when people... shift.” 

Across from you, Saori finally lifts her wine glass. She doesn’t drink — not yet — but she swirls the red liquid slowly, her gaze shifting from father to son like she’s watching something she’s already seen before. They clash often, you’ve noticed. Not loudly, not outright — but it’s always there. A push and pull beneath the surface, a cold war of words and glances. 

Sometimes, you wonder if Satoru knows about the affair. He says things — subtle, but cutting — that make you pause, that make you think he might be more aware than he lets on. Maybe that’s why he’s pursuing you so intently — just to prove a point to his father. But then, there are moments when his gaze softens when he looks at you, when his touch lingers just a second too long. He goes out of his way every day just to be near you. And in those moments, it feels too sincere to be a game. You start to think he might actually mean it. That he’s not just chasing you out of spite — but because he truly wants you. 

You reach for your own glass again, taking another sip of wine, as if it might wash away the tension thickening by the second. But it doesn't. Setting the glass back down, your hand lingers at its base. Your fingers brush against Satoru’s hand that rests on the table between you two. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his pinky curls beneath yours — just enough to be felt, not seen. You don’t pull away. You know Akihito sees it. You feel it. The tick in his jaw is barely visible, but you notice it. 

“I’ve been seeing you around way more frequently, Satoru. I hope marriage hasn’t dulled your focus”, he says, his voice smooth and pointed. “There are more important things than... comfort.” 

The irony, you think. The words sound like a joke to you, coming from the same man who orchestrated your marriage just to keep you closer and see you more freely. You barely manage to swallow a scoff. 

Satoru leans back in his chair, unfazed. “You’d be surprised”, he says lightly. “Sometimes comfort is the only thing keeping people from falling apart.”  

“It’s rare”, Saori speaks at last, “to see affection in this house. Perhaps we shouldn’t discourage it.” Her words are gentle, kind — at least, on the surface. But they carry the weight of something unspoken, a quiet complaint from a woman who has never been loved by her husband — not in the way a lover is. 

The silence that follows is anything but gentle. Her words hang in the air, delicate yet heavy, like the last note of a song no one knows how to follow. No one speaks. Not right away. You watch Akihito, wondering if he’ll respond — if he even knows how. But his expression remains unreadable, carved from habit more than emotion. Then, without looking at anyone in particular, he speaks, as if the comment never touched him at all. “I meant to tell you”, Akihito says, cutting through the quiet like a blade, “The elders requested a meeting with you tomorrow morning.” 

Satoru’s glass of water stills halfway to his lips. “Can’t”, he says casually. “I’m taking my wife out.” 

You blink. That’s the first you’ve heard of it. 

Akihito’s expression doesn’t change, but the muscle in his jaw tightens — just once, sharply — as he exhales through his nose. “You can reschedule”, he says. “The clan elders don’t appreciate being made to wait.” 

Satoru shrugs. “Neither does she.” He doesn’t even look at you when he says it, but the weight of it presses into your ribs like heat. 

The silence that follows is tight, full of things no one says. Saori watches Akihito this time, her gaze sharp as cut glass. Her husband is acting odd. And she notices everything. 

--  

Gojo Akihito was a man carved from discipline. Now in his late fifties, he was a figure both respected and quietly feared. When he entered a room, silence followed. Backs straightened. Conversations halted. People instinctively adjusted their posture — as if simply being in his presence demanded their best. His presence was weighty, not in a menacing way, but with a gravity that commanded reverence. His name alone held power — spoken softly, carefully, like it belonged to someone who mattered more than most. And he did. Shaped by the will of the elders, Akihito had been molded into the ideal head of the Gojo Clan: composed, unwavering, and dutiful. Obedience had been stitched into his bones from childhood. He was taught not to dream, but to serve. To lead with strength and never stray from what was expected. 

His path had been set before he could walk it — become strong, inherit the clan, marry a chosen wife, produce an heir. And he did. His talents bloomed early. Power came easily to him, and with it, authority. He married Saori, a woman selected by the elders, and fulfilled his role without resistance. Love was never part of the arrangement — but respect was. Even in the absence of affection, he treated her with dignity. They never became lovers — much to Saori’s quiet sorrow, for she had loved him from the very beginning. After they conceived Satoru, he never touched her again. As if it had been part of a duty — fulfilled, then forgotten. 

When he stepped down and passed the title of clan head to his son, Akihito did not fade quietly into the background. His voice still carried weight, often more so than of the current leader. To many, he remained the pillar of the clan. The rock. Unmoving. Unshakeable. Dependable. But even stone erodes, given time. Even the strongest man can change. Even a rock, under enough heat — can melt. 

-- 

Akihito wasn’t supposed to be here. The streets were too narrow, too loud, brimming with color and life in a way that felt foreign to him. He was meant to be elsewhere, at a meeting across town — another empty ritual of clan maintenance. But his driver took a wrong turn, and instead of rerouting, Akihito had stepped out, needing a walk. Needing air. Needing space from the weight that always clung to his shoulders. That’s when he saw you. 

At first, it was nothing. You were just a figure in the crowd — young, distracted, smiling faintly at your phone, coffee in hand. But something about you… stopped him. You passed by without noticing him, and the moment stretched too long. Something about you felt familiar, though he couldn’t place why. A detail misplaced in time. A memory from a life he never lived. He turned — just slightly. Just enough to watch you go. You entered a nearby café tucked between cramped buildings. Small. A little worn. Too cozy, too youthful for someone like him. He should have kept walking. But he followed you inside. He told himself it was curiosity. That he needed a moment to sit, make a call, kill time. But deep down, even then, he knew. He picked a seat in the corner. Three tables away from you. 

He returned the next day. And the next. It was irrational. Dangerous. He wasn’t the kind of man who indulged temptations. His life had been a masterclass in restraint — each step measured, each emotion disciplined out of existence. But you… You sat in the same spot each day, sipping a drink, sometimes reading, sometimes just staring out the window with that faraway look that seemed to see something no one else could. He wondered what you saw. He wondered what you wanted. He wondered what it would feel like to be the thing you looked at that way.  And he hated himself for it. 

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know that the man sitting a few tables away had once been the most powerful figure in one of Japan’s oldest sorcerer clans. That he had blood on his hands and responsibilities that still echoed through every inch of his life. You didn’t know that his marriage was nothing more than a political alignment. That he had followed every rule. Sacrificed every selfish urge. That he had never, in over fifty years, been in love. Not until now. 

On the third day, he stopped resisting and made a decision. He stood up, walked to your table, and asked — “May I sit?” 

-- 

Three tables. He was sitting three tables away from you — again. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. Today made the third. 

You’d noticed him immediately. How could you not? Tall, impeccably dressed, white hair, broad shoulders, and unmistakably refined. You guessed he was in his fifties, but he wore it well — almost too well. Dressed in a designer suit, he looked out of place in this cozy, slightly run-down café filled with students and twenty-somethings. Yet, there he was. 

Each time you stole a glance, he was gazing out the window, never once meeting your eyes. But something about him — his presence, the stillness in the way he sat, the ghost of a smile on his lips — kept drawing your attention. Maybe you were imagining things. But, perhaps, was he there… for you? Just as you started telling yourself it was all in your head, he moved. Ah, he’s leaving— 

No — he wasn’t. He was walking toward you. 

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened as he came to a stop at your table. 

“May I sit?” he asked, voice smooth but low, as if careful not to disturb the air between you. You blinked, pulse rising. “Why here?” you asked, managing a dry smile. “There are plenty of other tables, including the one you’ve been using for the past few days.” You motioned toward his old table. “I like the view better from here,” he replied calmly, and took the seat without waiting for permission. 

The view, of course, was you. He had resisted the pull for two days. But today, Gojo Akihito gave in. In his fifties, for the first time in his life — he fell in love. And for the first time… he broke a rule. 

-- 

He didn’t touch you. Not for weeks. Not inappropriately, not even in passing. His interest was always wrapped in respect, laced with a restraint that was somehow more intoxicating than overt desire. He spoke little, but with purpose. He listened like it was sacred. Asked questions no one else had ever bothered to. You told yourself it was harmless. That you liked the attention he was giving you. That you weren’t doing anything wrong… with a married man. It’s just a connection — nothing more. But the way he looked at you… like you were something precious, something rare, he had no right to touch but desperately wanted to — it stirred something in you. 

When he kissed you for the first time, it wasn’t impulse. It was quiet. Measured. Like a man saying a prayer before stepping into hell. And you let him. After that, the pretense faded. You started meeting behind closed doors…  

You were in love, yes. Or maybe, looking back now, you only thought you were. Not the way he was. You were free, while Akihito was chained to a life he could never escape. The deeper Akihito sank into you, the more you floated above him. Untethered. Capable of leaving. And that was what terrified him the most. He needed something stronger — something permanent — to bind you to him. 

One year into your affair, Akihito proposed something unthinkable. 

“An arranged marriage?” you gasped, your voice cracking in disbelief. “To your son?” You tried to push away from him, stepping out of the bathtub, but he caught your wrist and pulled you back in. 

“I miss you too much when you’re away”, he murmured against your shoulder. His breath was hot. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close, anchoring you to him in the steaming water. “Not knowing when I’ll see you again — it’s unbearable. And knowing it won’t be tomorrow? I hate that.” 

You sat between his legs, your bare back pressed to his chest, steam rising around you like a veil. His head dipped to the curve of your neck. You said nothing. Your lips trembled with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, with a sob that didn’t quite leave your throat. 

You spoke every day. But meetings were rare. Always discreet. Always in motion. Hotels changed with every rendezvous. Different rooms, different names, different times of arrival. You booked separate rooms but only ever used one. Because what you shared was a scandal. And the walls, anywhere, could talk. He was the former head of the Gojo Clan. A public man. A married man. And in the Gojo Clan, divorce was taboo. Unspoken but absolute. Marriage ended only with death. 

“It’s madness”, you whispered. “You’d just… hand me over to another man like that?” 

“I’m not handing you over”, he said, voice low and tired. “It’ll be just on paper. You know what Satoru’s like — he’s obsessed with his work. Sorcery is the only thing he’s ever cared about. He won’t touch you.” He paused. He knew how it sounded. But to him, it made sense. He was convinced this was the best way to keep you close. Satoru, as far as Akihito knew, had no interest in romance, no time for love. If you married his son, your place in the clan would be secured — and so would your bond to him. Even if you tried to leave him one day, you’d still be part of his world. Divorce, after all, was never an option. “Think about it”, he continued. “We’d be able to see each other more freely. People wouldn’t question it if we were spotted together — we’d be family. It would raise fewer suspicions than what we’re doing now.” 

You stared into the steam, into nothing. “...fine.” You caved. 

Neither of you knew then just how flawed the plan truly was. The flaw had a name: Gojo Satoru. 

-- 

Back in your shared bedroom, you close the door behind you and turn to face Satoru. He’s already tugging off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair. You squint at him, arms crossed. “What was that earlier?” He pauses, one sock halfway off. “Hm?” He looks up at you, eyebrow arched in that maddeningly innocent way. 

“‘I’m taking my wife out’”, you echo flatly. “We made no such plans.” 

He chuckles — a low, amused sound. “Ah. That.” Straightening up, he begins rolling his sleeves to the elbows, wandering toward the bed. “I was too distracted by your beauty when I got home, I must’ve forgotten to tell you.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me what exactly?” 

“That everyone wants to meet you”, he says, as if it’s obvious. 

“Everyone?” you eye him. 

“My students. My colleagues. Most of them think I made up this whole marriage thing just for attention.” He grins like it’s the most absurd idea in the world. “So tomorrow, you’re coming with me. I need to show them that my wife is, in fact, a very real, very stunning person~” 

You blink. “So you didn’t just blurt it out to get out of meeting the elders?” 

He scoffs and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “Please. I don’t need an excuse to avoid them. I’ll meet them when I feel like it — not when they demand it.” Of course he would say that. “Besides”, he adds lazily, “I figured we could hang out a little after. Grab a bite or go somewhere. A proper date.” 

You stare at him. “A date?” — “Yeah”, he shoots. “You know, two people spending time together on purpose because they want to?” 

“Satoru”, you sigh, “you don’t have to bother with this kind of thing. This is an arranged marriage, let me remind you. We’re not... required to play house.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mock curiosity. “Who said couples in arranged marriages can’t go on dates? That’s a rule now? If it is, I must’ve missed the fine print.” 

He’s relentless — in a strangely charming way. Always pushing, always poking. And the worst part is... he knows you don’t exactly hate it. You glance away, shaking your head. “Alright”, you say finally, “fine” — and he immediately beams like he’s just won something. And maybe he has — in his own strange way. Satoru doesn’t need much to feel victorious. But there’s something you have noticed — how a yes from you is usually worth a trophy in his world, even if you offer it begrudgingly. 

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to make of the warmth blooming quietly in your chest. It's not love. It can’t be. Right? But it’s something. A softening, maybe. A flicker of possibility. Your fingers absently toy with the edge of your sleeve. That strange flutter you’ve been ignoring — the one he keeps coaxing out of you — is getting harder to deny. What exactly are you doing? — you ask yourself. 

And then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out quickly and glance down at the screen. 

Akihito: Come to the guest house. 

Just like that, reality presses its weight back onto your shoulders. It doesn’t look like Satoru noticed anything, but your hands are already closing the message, hiding the screen like a child caught with stolen sweets. “I’m going to the kitchen”, you say, too quickly. “I want something sweet.” 

Satoru sits up a little. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get—” 

“No.” You cut him off, maybe too fast. “I’m not sure what I want yet, so I’ll just look around.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment. Something unreadable flickers there — brief, sharp, gone too fast. Then he leans back on his hands, still smiling. “Alright, my picky little bride. Don’t be long.” 

You force a light laugh and slip out the door. 

-- 

Akihito hears your knock — light, familiar — before the door opens. You’re still in your dinner clothes, but your hair is looser now, lipstick faded. You look comfortable, relaxed — and he does not exactly like that. You step quietly, and he lets you come to him without saying a word. For a moment, neither of you speak. 

He looks somewhat tense, but the air between you is still warm with memory — earlier today, your skin beneath his hands, your lips murmuring his name into a hotel pillow. And yet. “I’m sorry for calling you over like this”, he says finally, his voice low. “I just needed to see you.” 

You smile faintly. “You saw me at dinner.” 

“Not like this.” His eyes search yours. “Not alone. Not without... him.” 

You stiffen slightly — not defensively. Just aware. Akihito gestures to the seat beside him. You sit.

“He’s not the same”, he murmurs after a pause. “Satoru. He’s changing.” 

You don’t respond at first. You fold your hands in your lap. 

“You know what he used to be like? Detached. Cold. Always disappearing on missions. He never gave a damn about what anyone thought of him — never entertained sentiment. And now?” He scoffs softly. “Flowers. Cooking. Holding your hand under the table like some infatuated schoolboy...” 

Your mouth opens — then closes. You can’t find the right words. 

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” he asks quietly. “At dinner. The way he looks at you.” 

Your gaze falters. Not guilty — not quite — but cautious. “He’s just playing the part, Aki”, you say eventually. “He’s always been theatrical.” 

Akihito shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t an act.” There’s no bitterness in his voice. No anger. Just... disbelief. Like he’s watching something slip through his fingers that he didn’t expect to lose. “Before you came into his life, he never stayed home. Never cared about meals or traditions or people. He never had time for anything... personal.” 

You look down. 

Akihito studies your profile, as if memorizing it. The curve of your brow, the slope of your cheek. “I know I’m the one who suggested this arrangement”, he says, and his voice is more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I told myself it was the best way to keep you close. Safe. But now...” He trails off. 

You reach out, take his hand in yours. “I’m still yours, Aki”, you say gently. “You know that.” 

“I want to believe that”, he murmurs. You squeeze his hand. “You can.” 

But your voice falters, just slightly. Just enough for him to notice. His eyes flick up to your face. There’s no accusation in them. Only fear. The quiet, creeping kind that lives under the surface of a man who’s spent a lifetime being in control. 

“I know he’s not you”, you add softly. “I know why I said yes to this. You don’t have to worry.” 

Akihito nods slowly. But his silence stretches too long. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your hair. Grateful. Reassured — or trying to be. But the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. Because for the first time, he isn’t sure if the threat is outside of what you have... or is growing inside it. 

-- 

“Don’t worry, they don’t bite”, Satoru chuckles, watching you fidget with your sleeves like you’re about to walk into a job interview. You shoot him a dry look. “You say that like you’re not the worst of them.” 

“Me? I’m the warm-up act. They are the terrifying ones”, he teases, nodding toward the lounge room door. You roll your eyes but don’t stop playing with your cuffs. 

“You’ll be fine”, he adds, nudging your elbow gently. “Just flash that charming smile and pretend I’m not hovering behind you like a lovesick fool.” 

“You are hovering.” 

“I’m setting the scene”, he grins. “For dramatic effect.” 

You scoff. “I’m not scared, you know.” 

“Of course not”, he nods solemnly. “You’re just fidgeting because you’re excited to meet my fan club.” You shoot him a sideways glare. He leans over, voice lowering just a touch. “They’re going to love you”, he says, softer now. “They’ve never seen me with someone like you.” 

“Someone like me?” 

“Someone who makes me behave.” 

You don’t get the chance to press him on that. He throws the door open before you can respond — and the room instantly freezes. Chairs creak to a halt. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. All heads turn. A spoon hovers midair. A can of soda stops halfway to someone’s lips. Even the air feels like it’s holding its breath. And all of it — every flicker of curiosity, disbelief, and blatant awe — is aimed squarely at you. 

“Guys”, Satoru announces, all flair and no shame, “This is my wife. Try not to scare her off.” You manage a composed smile, offering a polite nod. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

The reactions come in like dominos. 

Yuuji blinks so fast he looks like a malfunctioning cartoon. “She’s real. She’s actually real.”

Nobara lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god, she’s gorgeous. How is he married to her?” 

“There’s definitely something wrong with her”, Megumi mutters, arms crossed.

“Blink twice if you’re being held hostage”, Maki deadpans without missing a beat.

Even stoic Shoko lifts her eyebrows, taking a slow drag of her cigarette. “I genuinely thought he made you up.”

Ijichi bows at the waist, glasses fogged slightly from the tea steam. “Gojo-san speaks of you often. I assumed it was... metaphorical.” Nanami says absolutely nothing. Just closes his eyes and exhales, a slow, pained breath that says this is beneath me, but also of course this is happening. 

Meanwhile, Geto is the picture of calm. Reclined on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, he simply smirks and raises his hand in greeting. “About time you dragged her here, Satoru.” 

“Don’t encourage him”, Nanami mutters without opening his eyes. 

You can’t help it — you laugh. A light, genuine thing that breaks the awkward spell in the room like shattering glass. The tension in your chest uncoils slightly, and Satoru beams beside you. 

“Oh god”, Nobara groans. “Even her laugh is gorgeous. This is unbelievable.” 

“Do you need help?” Megumi asks again, completely serious.

“She’s under some kind of spell, huh?” Yuuji whispers. “Do we do something? Help her?” 

“No need to rescue her”, Satoru says smugly. “She married me willingly” 

“That’s even worse”, Nanami mutters. 

“You guys are insufferable”, you finally say, smiling despite yourself. 

“You’re perfect for him then”, Shoko hums. 

“Alright, alright, don’t scare her off on her first visit”, Geto says, rising from the couch. He strolls over, offering his hand. “I’m Suguru. Satoru’s better half.” 

“Hey!” Satoru protests. 

You shake Geto’s hand. “Pleasure.” 

“It really is”, he replies smoothly. “Though we may have to talk about your taste in men.” 

“I’ve made peace with it”, you reply with a smirk. The room erupts into scattered chuckles. Even Megumi snorts. Satoru clutches his chest. “I feel so betrayed.” 

“Get in line”, Nanami mutters again. 

“Come on”, Geto waves you over. “Sit. Eat something. Let us dissect your personality in peace.” As you move to join them, Satoru’s hand brushes your lower back — a barely-there touch. Protective. Familiar. You glance at him. He’s still smiling like the sun — blinding and hard to read beneath the surface.  

You ease yourself into a spot between Suguru and Satoru on the long couch. Plates and cups shift around. The lounge settles into casual chaos again, but it’s warmer now — less like scrutiny, more like curious acceptance. As conversations spark up around you, you feel it — a brush at your side. Subtle, deliberate. Satoru’s hand slides across the space between you on the couch. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look your way. But under the table, his fingers quietly reach for yours. At first, you don’t respond. The chatter of the room covers the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. It feels like everyone might notice, even though no one’s looking. And still — slowly — your fingers curl around his. 

You glance sideways at him. He’s still grinning and bickering with Geto about who’s ageing better — but there’s a flicker in his eyes when they meet yours. Something warm. Something that longs. And Satoru doesn’t look like he’s letting go of your hand anytime soon. 

-- 

Even after leaving the school and walking toward the car, Satoru hasn’t let go of your hand. Not once. And, truthfully, you haven’t tried to pull away either. His hand is warm and steady, fingers loosely laced with yours like it’s always been this natural. “They’re very chaotic”, you say as you walk side by side, the late afternoon sun painting golden highlights into his white hair. “But adorably so.” 

Satoru gasps. “How come you never say that about me?” 

“I do say you’re chaotic.” 

“Not that part”, he pouts, dragging your hand slightly as he walks. “Say I’m adorable too.”

You glance up at him with a smirk. “Why make me lie now?” 

He clutches his chest like you just wounded him. “Unbelievable. And here I was, thinking we were having a romantic moment.” 

“You pouted like a toddler five seconds ago. That was the opposite of romantic.” 

“That was endearing, thank you very much.” He sighs dramatically, unlocking the car with a flick of his keys. “One day you’ll realize just how lucky you are to have married me.”

You chuckle. “I’m still trying to figure that out.” 

As the engine hums to life and the radio kicks in with something mellow, he steals a glance at you. “You liked them, though?”

You nod. “They’re all... a lot. But in a good way. I liked them. They like you, too — though it’s hilarious how some of them thought I was a figment of your imagination at first.” 

“That’s fair”, he shrugs. “Even I sometimes think you’re too good to be real.” You don’t reply to that — partly because it’s sweet, partly because it makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not ready to admit. 

-- 

Instead of taking you to a fancy restaurant, Satoru pulls the car up near a quiet park tucked into a tree-lined stretch of the city. It’s not crowded, the evening air is crisp, and the swings creak gently in the breeze. 

“A date doesn’t have to be complicated”, he says, hands behind his head, strolling beside you. “This used to be my favorite spot when I ditched meetings.”

You laugh. “What a responsible clan head.” 

“Oh, terribly irresponsible”, he agrees proudly. “Now — race you to the swings!”

You both make a break for it, laughing as your shoes hit gravel. You get there first, narrowly beating him (because he let you), and triumphantly claim the left swing. Satoru sits on the other — except, the chains creak loudly as he settles in, clearly too tall and too big for the tiny seat. 

“God, you look ridiculous”, you say between laughs.

“Hey”, he grins. “Let me have my moment.” He tries to swing but his feet keep dragging on the ground. You get off and try to push him but fail spectacularly. “You’re too heavy!” you exclaim. He snorts. “I’m muscle and grace, I’ll have you know.” 

“Lift your legs then! That’s the only way this will work.” 

“If I lift my legs, the swing will snap and we’ll both die.”  

You dissolve into laughter, arms over your chest as you watch him try — and fail — to get any lift. “Hop off now”, you say. “It’s your turn to push me.”

He gets off, and you take over. He starts pushing you gently, and you find yourself relaxing, head tilted back toward the sky as you glide back and forth. You don’t notice how quiet he’s gone until the swing slows and you look back to find him watching you — softly, openly, with none of his usual teasing in sight. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask. He shrugs. “You look happy. I like seeing you like this.” 

Your heart stumbles. And just like that, the real world catches up — Akihito, the marriage, the plan... Guilt prickles under your skin. You’re not supposed to feel this warm around Satoru. Not this content. He notices the shift in your eyes, tension in your smile. “Hey.” He walks in front of the swing, kneeling slightly to meet your gaze. “Where did you go just now?” 

You open your mouth — but you don’t know what to say. There’s too much. You’re not even sure what you’re feeling anymore. Satoru doesn’t push. He simply lifts a hand to brush your cheek with his knuckles, gentler than anyone would expect from a man like him. “If you’re scared”, he says, “I’ll wait. But I’m not stopping.” 

You should say something — anything — but you don’t. Instead, you lean forward without thinking. Just a little. Just enough. And he meets you halfway. You kiss. It’s soft. Uncomplicated. Barely a breath long — but enough to make your stomach flip and your thoughts scramble. You pull back just as fast, cheeks feeling hot, and suddenly shoot up to your feet. 

“I—uh—I’m going to head to the car”, you stammer, already backing away. “Give me fifteen minutes. Just... wait, okay? Don’t come right now.” Satoru blinks after you as you run off, flustered. A slow smile spreads across his lips. He lifts a hand, touching his fingers to where your lips met his. “Why shy away like this now?” he murmurs to himself, chuckling. “It’s not like this is our first kiss...” 

His smile lingers, a little softer now. Almost nostalgic. He watches the direction you went, lost in thought. Because only he remembers. You’ve kissed before. But back then, you didn’t know who he was. And you still don’t remember. 

-- 

Satoru remembers it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The memory came rushing back the moment he saw your picture — the proposed match for the arranged marriage. The others in the room kept talking, formalities piling up like a tide of obligations, but he barely heard a word.  

It was you — the girl who stole his first kiss. The girl he never managed to find again. 

It happened years ago, sometime past midnight. He had just wrapped up a mission — a dull one, barely worth remembering — and was wandering the streets of Tokyo, eating red bean mochi with one hand and scrolling his phone with the other. Still in uniform, still buzzing from leftover cursed energy, still too wired to sleep. As he strolled past a row of late-night bars and clubs, the music leaked into the street like fog. Somewhere between neon signs and cigarette smoke, he spotted you — a girl slumped on the curb outside a nightclub, arms wrapped around your knees, head lolling sleepily to one side. You looked like you were dozing off. Alone. Vulnerable.  

He kept walking. At first. But something didn’t sit right. There were a few guys loitering nearby — drunk, leering, the kind of men that don’t need a reason to ruin someone’s night. One of them peeled away from the group and started approaching you, calling out something Satoru didn’t care to hear. He stopped at a vending machine, fingers patting his pockets as if he were looking for coins — but really, he was watching. Calculating. When the guy crouched beside you and reached out to brush your hair behind your ear, Satoru moved. Fast. “Sorry I took so long”, he said loudly, slinging his jacket over your shoulders in one smooth motion as he stepped between you and the stranger. 

The man froze. 

Satoru didn’t raise his voice, didn’t flare cursed energy — just looked at him. Cold. Unblinking. Dangerous. The guy got the message. “I was just making sure she was okay”, the creep stammered. 

“Yeah”, Satoru said flatly. “She is. Now leave.” He didn’t have to say it twice. Once the guys scurried off, Satoru crouched beside you, tilting his head. “Hey. Not a great place for a nap, you know?” You stirred, muttering something incoherent. “I’m serious”, he said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s not safe out here.” 

“Can’t walk”, you mumbled. “Not sure if I’m spinning, or everything else is.” 

He blinked. “That bad, huh?”

You squinted at him through half-lidded eyes. “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“A kidnapper?”

“Definitely not.”

“Hmm”, you leaned your cheek against your knee. “Guess you’ll do.” 

Satoru stared. “What does that mean?” You reached and tugged his sleeve, and with surprising strength, pulled him to sit beside you. Then, without warning, you laid your head in his lap. “What are you—?” 

“You’re warm”, you sighed, nestling closer. “And you smell nice. But I kind of feel like throwing up.” 

“Please don’t”, he said instantly, trying not to panic. “This is my favorite outfit.” 

You giggled. “You’re funny.”

He looked down at you, at the way your hair fanned across his thighs, at the curve of your sleepy smile. “What are you even doing out here alone?” he asked. 

“I lost my friends”, you mumbled. “Or maybe they lost me. Who’s to say...” 

“You got a phone?” 

You held it up proudly. It was dead. “Perfect”, he sighed. 

Eventually, when it became clear you weren’t going to get up willingly, he gathered you into his arms and stood. “Alright, mystery girl. I’m getting you somewhere safe — where’s your place?” 

“Wait, wait”, you slurred, squinting suspiciously at him. “I don’t know you. I can’t just tell you where I live!” 

“You’re literally unconscious on the sidewalk and I’m carrying you like a bridal bouquet. I think we’re past that point.” 

You didn’t answer. Your head lolled onto his shoulder. He sighed, glanced around. He didn’t know your name, didn’t know where you lived — but you looked about college-aged, and the university campus wasn’t far. It was the best guess he had. So he started walking.  

Halfway there, a group of girls came jogging down the sidewalk, calling some name (yours). They looked frantic — until they saw you in his arms.  “Oh god”, one of them exhaled. “We’ve been looking for her everywhere!” 

They reached out to take you, but you lifted your head groggily, blinking at him like you’d just remembered he existed. You took off his sunglasses and placed him on his head, then cupped his face in both hands, surprisingly gentle. 

“You’re pretty”, you said. 

He blinked. 

Then you leaned in and kissed him. It was soft and quick. “Thank you”, you whispered. “For keeping me warm.” 

And just like that, your friends pulled you away — you still wearing his jacket, him still too stunned to speak. He stood there long after you were gone, fingers pressed to his lips, dazed. “What a weird girl”, he muttered. 

But he’d already fallen for you. 

He tried to find you after that, of course — visited the area again, lingered by the campus, even asked around in his own way. But your name, your face... all of it had vanished like a dream after waking. Until years later — when he saw your photo again. And this time? He said yes without hesitation. 

-- 

The days begin to blend. Soft, warm mornings. Laughter over late breakfast. The rustle of flower petals against your cheek as you wake — a new habit Satoru’s picked up. You open your eyes to a fresh bouquet on your pillow, tied together with a silk ribbon and a folded note tucked inside. 

Roses are red, violets are blue, don’t open the curtains, I'm watching you ;)  S. 

You roll your eyes but smile. By now, your phone is full of messages from him — some voice notes, some texts. Some completely random, like: 

Voice message — 9:07 AM 

Hey, I found this stray cat that reminds me of you. They ignored me when I tried to pet them and just walked off. Thought that was kinda romantic~  

Text — 10:12 AM 

Do you miss me or are you pretending I don’t exist again? Be honest. I can take it. (Don’t be honest) 

Sometimes he’s halfway through a mission and still finds the time to send you a photo of some stupid little charm at a shrine that “looks cursed like you” — and by the time he returns home, you’ve forgotten how silence used to fill the rooms before he came. 

You start leaving notes back. Hiding snacks in his coat. One time, you sent him flowers — as a joke. A massive, bright pink bouquet delivered right to the faculty lounge at Jujutsu Tech. 

Yuuji nearly dropped his drink when he saw it. “Sensei, I thought you were the man in this relationship... but I guess you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” 

Satoru beamed as he held the bouquet. “Listen, Yuuji, I think she’s got me on a leash. And honestly? I don’t mind it.” 

Geto didn’t even blink. “You’ve always liked being domesticated.” 

Nanami groaned in the distance. “Please take your romance outside school grounds.” 

Your life with him feels like a sitcom at times. Like you’ve somehow fallen into a slice-of-life version of your own story. And strangely, you don’t hate it.

But not all lives move at the same pace. 

Akihito watches it unfold from the shadows of his own silence. This was not part of the plan. You’re playing your role way too well to his liking. Are you humoring Satoru’s peculiar behavior for the sake of keeping the peace... or is there something more to it?

He feels the distance stretching. You reply to his messages slower now. When he calls, you sound distracted — not cold, just... somewhere else. Sometimes when he walks by your and Satoru’s room, he hears his son’s voice talking to you and it cuts deeper than he expects. Laughing. Teasing. Talking to you in a tone Akihito used to think was only his to use. 

He remembers your last few moments together, how they’ve been growing shorter. More careful. Your touches — once confident, rooted in secret familiarity — now come with hesitation. Like you’re aware of something new. Something blooming in the cracks you didn’t plan for. You were slipping. And for the first time in a very long time, Akihito doesn’t know what to do. 

He doesn’t confront you. He won’t. Because even now, he trusts you. Even now, he tells himself you would never betray him like that... But still — he’s left staring at the space beside him that used to be filled by you, fingers curled into fists he won’t raise, breathing through a storm he never thought he’d have to weather. 

--  

Evening settles softly across the room like a warm blanket. The lights are dim, casting a gentle golden hue over the shared bedroom you’ve both slowly grown used to — not just as a space, but as a kind of quiet haven. You sit on the bed with your knees tucked close to your chest, absently flipping through some old magazine you already checked out twice. Satoru is nearby, sprawled across the foot of the bed, fiddling with his phone but mostly stealing glances at you. The silence between you is easy now. Not empty, not awkward — just comfortable. 

Still, something hangs between you, unspoken but undeniably there. It’s been lingering ever since that kiss in the park. You haven’t kissed again since, but your touches linger longer now — a brush of fingers as you pass something to him, the slow curl of his hand around yours when you walk beside each other. Close, but careful. 

Tonight feels different. 

“Do you ever miss the chaos?” you ask, not looking up from the page. “Before we... whatever this is.” 

“Before we became a domestic power couple?” Satoru teases, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “Tragic. I used to be wild. Now I fold your laundry.” You laugh. “You don’t fold my laundry.” 

“I would. For the record. If it meant you’d smile like that.”  

You glance at him now, and his expression softens when your eyes meet. The air changes. It’s in the way he shifts, propping himself up slightly on one elbow. There’s something different in his gaze — not just affection, but hunger veiled by hesitance. You feel it too. That same flutter deep in your belly. The nervous kind. The kind that tastes like anticipation. He moves closer, slowly, watching you for any flicker of hesitation. When he reaches out, his fingers brush lightly along your jaw, his thumb barely skimming your cheek. You don’t move away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that for a while now”, you whisper.

He smiles, a little crooked, a little shy — rare, for him. “Yeah. I’ve been... trying to behave.” 

Your lips part, but you don’t speak. Satoru leans in, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s slower than last time. Less impulsive. More reverent. His hand cups the back of your head gently as he pulls you closer, tasting your breath as if he’s been craving it every day since the last time. And then he pulls back. Breath shaky. Eyes shut. You blink, still dazed from the kiss. “Satoru? What are you doing?” 

He exhales a slow, uneven breath. “Waiting for you to slap me.”

You stare at him. That rare vulnerability in his voice knocks the breath right out of your lungs. “Why would I slap you?” 

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t warn you. I just... kissed you. Again. I told myself I’d wait until you wanted me.” 

You hesitate only for a heartbeat. Then, you lean forward and take his face in your hands, gently pulling him back into you. Your lips find his, and this time there’s no pause. No retreat. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you. Every angle. Every sound you make. Your hands find their way under the hem of is shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin, and he shivers beneath your touch. You break the kiss long enough to whisper, “Come closer.”

His forehead rests against yours. “Only if you want me to.” 

“I do”, you breathe, voice trembling but sure. “I want this. I want you.” His arms tighten around you, and it’s slow, almost reverent, the way he lays you down — like you’re something sacred. Clothes are shed without urgency, and his hands trace the lines of your body like he’s reading scripture. The rest unfolds in quiet gasps and whispered names. It's not just desire — it’s need. Familiar, frightening, warm... 

...when it’s over, the silence that follows is different from all the ones that came before. You lie beside him, heart still racing, his fingers lazily tracing circles along your arm. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, memorizing the curve of your lips, the way your chest raises and falls. And for a moment, you forget every plan. Every lie. Every secret. For a moment, it feels like love. The kind that sneaks up on you — quiet, uninvited, and impossible to ignore. You lie tangled together, your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tenderly caressing your bare skin. Hearts still thudding. 

Satoru is the one to break the silence, his voice light, teasing (as usual). “So... You really don’t remember me, huh?” 

You blink, lifting your head just enough to glance at him. “What?” 

“Brutal...”, he laughs. “And here I was, thinking I made a lasting impression that night.” 

You narrow your eyes, unsure if he’s joking. “What are you talking about?” 

“Nahh, I get it — you were pretty drunk”, he says, dragging the words out like a cat playing with mouse. 

“Oh god—” You sit up suddenly, sheet gathering around your chest. “Don’t tell me we’ve hooked up in the past and I don’t remember it?” Satoru bursts out laughing. “No, not like that.”

You squint at him. “Then stop being so cryptic and tell me!” 

He stretches, hands behind his head, smug and insufferable. “Let’s just say… you were outside a bar. Alone. Slumped on the curb. And I saved your life.”

You blink again. He continues, barely hiding his amusement. “Some creep tried to hit on you. I intervened, obviously. You asked if I was a kidnapper, told me I smelled nice, then fell asleep in my lap.”

Your jaw drops. “No way.” 

“Oh, there’s more,” he says with a mock-serious nod. “You called me pretty. And you kissed me.”

You gape. “You’re lying.” 

“I’m not,” he says, lips twitching. “And you stole my jacket, by the way.”

Your eyes widen. Something flickers at the edge of your memory. “Wait— that was your jacket?”

Satoru raises his brows, clearly enjoying himself. “Yep.” 

“I always wondered where it came from”, you mumble, stunned. “I kept it for years. I thought maybe someone just… gave it to me out of pity.” 

“Well, I did give it to you”, he says, softer now. “But it wasn’t pity.” 

You’re quiet for a moment, absorbing it all. “I can’t believe it. That was you.” 

He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal — but his voice betrays him when he says, “Yeah. I looked for you, you know? Went back to that street, hung around your supposed campus. Thought about that stupid night more times than I’d ever admit.” 

You gasp. 

“When your photo showed up in the marriage proposal packet?” He looks over at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “I said yes before they even finished reading your name.” 

You stare at him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” 

He smiles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you didn’t look at me like this before.” You lean in, heart heavy with something warm and aching. “How do I look at you now?” 

“Like you might not disappear this time.” 

-- 

You slip into your nightgown, your skin still tingling with traces of warmth and tenderness. The sound of water runs in the background — Satoru in the shower, humming something off-key. A lazy smile plays on your lips as you step out of the bedroom, quietly padding down the hallway. You tell yourself it’s just to grab snacks. Maybe a drink. Something to soothe the afterglow that’s left your heart both full and aching. 

But as you reach the kitchen and flick on the soft underlight, your body seizes.

Akihito is there. Standing in the low light like a phantom, glass in one hand, his other curled into a loose fist at his side. The bottle of whiskey beside him is nearly half-empty. He doesn’t speak right away — just stares at you, and it’s a look you’ve never seen on him before. Not like this. There’s pain, yes. But buried under that is something sharper. Something raw. 

“Akihito...” you breathe, barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t answer. Just brings the glass to his lips again, slowly, as if buying time — or trying to keep himself from saying what’s already clawing its way up his throat. Akihito, huh? You used to call him Aki... 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing slightly as he steps forward. You don’t move — not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t quite dare. He stops in front of you, closer than comfort allows. The scent of whiskey and something tired hangs on him — disappointment. His eyes flicker over your face, and you know he sees it. The softness in your cheeks. The haze still lingering in your gaze. The warmth that isn’t his. He knows. Of course he does. But he wants to confirm, one last time. 

His hand reaches toward you, swiftly lifting your nightgown to brush his fingers against your cunt, bare, still wet and sore. You flinch, instinctively stepping back — but his free hand snaps around your wrist. He withdraws his fingers, bringing them close to your face, then slowly rubs them together. Smearing the slick, laced with remnants that don’t belong to him. “You slept with him”, he says, low, flat. No question. Just a quiet accusation. 

Your breath catches. 

He leans in, close enough for his words to brush against your skin. “Do you love him?”

Before your lips can part, before your heart even finds a beat, a new voice breaks the silence. 

“Hey, I was looking for y—” Satoru enters the room, still damp from the shower, water clinging to his chest, a towel slung low around his waist, another in his hands as he rubs it through his hair. The moment he sees his father, he stops mid-step. His eyes lock at his hand around your wrist. His tone drops, his jaw clenches. He immediately yanks his hand away from you, then his eyes dart to the whiskey on the counter. “Old man, did you get drunk enough to mistake my wife for yours?” 

Akihito doesn’t answer right away, but he tenses. For a moment, he seems to fold in on himself — trying, perhaps, to remember who he is, and who he’s supposed to be. “I lost my balance for a second”, he mutters. Then without another glance at either of you, he brushes past and disappears down the hall. 

The silence he leaves behind is deafening. You’re frozen. Like glass on the verge of shattering. Guilt crawls under your skin like a fever. You want to scream. You want to run. You feel like you’ve betrayed them both. 

Satoru looks at you. His expression softens the moment he sees your face. “Hey...” voice gentle now. “You okay? You look a bit... pale.” He tries to joke, but there’s a note of worry breeding into his words. “Did I... maybe go a little too hard on you back there?” A faint smirk, halfhearted. His eyes, though, are searching.  

You force yourself to nod, to smile like you’re fine. “No. I’m okay. I just—” you glance toward the hallway, “I got startled. I didn’t expect to see anyone else awake.”

Satoru doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push either. He just reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch almost reverent. “Next time, tell me”, he says softly. “I’ll walk you around the house like a proper husband.” 

You laugh — weakly, but you manage it. Neither of you says what you’re thinking. Neither of you asks the questions hanging thick in the air. But both of you feel it. Something has shifted. And in the stillness that follows, all you can do is hold your breath and pretend it’s not already slipping out of your control. 

-- 

The soft creak of Akihito’s footsteps disappears into the silence of the hallway as if he is retreating from more than just a room. By the time he reaches the bedroom he shares with Saori, the burn in his chest has settled into something heavier, duller. She is already asleep, curled into herself beneath the silk sheets. He doesn’t even look at her. Akihito pours himself another drink from the decanter near the dresser, the sound of the liquid filling the glass louder than it should. His hand shakes as he brings it to his lips. He has lost count of how many glasses he had tonight. 

He believed he was in control, never imagining, even for a moment, that you might be the one to falter. He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, nursing the bitterness on his tongue, trying to down what feels like the unraveling of everything. His grip tightens around the glass until his knuckles turn white. And eventually, the weight of it — the whiskey, the pain, the loss — pulls him down. He settles in bed, fully clothed, eyes open to the dark. Only when the alcohol dulls the sharpest edges of his thoughts does sleep finally claim him. 

Saori wakes sometime later — hours, maybe. She doesn’t know what stirred her at first. The clock ticks quietly. The room is still. But then she hears it. A soft sound. A broken voice. Akihito. At first, she thinks he is awake, whispering. But when she turns to face him, she sees the tight lines on his brow, his face twisted in restless dreaming. 

...a name falls from his lips like a prayer. Your name.

“Don’t leave me...” He shifts, face turned toward her, eyes shut tight. His voice cracks in a way she has never heard before. “I love you... please... don’t go...” 

Saori doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe. For a long moment, all she can do is stare at the man she spent more than half her life beside. The man who kept so much from her. Until now.

Everything made sense to her now. All of it. The proposal of a random girl — a nobody, by traditional standards — as a bride for the clan head. His obsessive oversight of your marriage. His silence. His sudden, inexplicable shifts in mood. All the times he came home reeking of another woman. And now this. 

She sits up slowly, placing her hand on her lap as the cold realization settles deep into her bones. Her husband has never said her name like that, even in dreams. A sharp, unfamiliar ache blooms in her chest. It isn’t jealousy — though that is part of it. It is grief. For a marriage that never really belonged to her. For a love that was never hers to begin with. She turns to look at Akihito once more. His lips move soundlessly now, breath uneven. Vulnerable in a way he has never let himself be when conscious. Saori whispers, her voice nearly a breath, “You poor, stupid man...” 

And she doesn’t know whether to feel pity, rage, or heartbreak. So she sits there — in the dim quiet, beside the man who is dreaming of someone else — and tries to remember what it feels like to be chosen. 

-- 

The morning sun spills through sheer drapes. Saori sits before her vanity, back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap as the house attendant brushes through her hair. She stares at her reflection — still, expressionless. But her eyes, always sharp, betray thought in motion. There’s no puffiness in them, no redness, no sign of the long night she endured beside her sleeping husband and the dreams he whispered into the dark. Not a trace of it reached the surface. Because Gojo Saori does not falter. 

She was raised for this life. Trained from the moment she could walk and speak — in manners, in posture, in etiquette. In silence. In sacrifice. She was chosen for the Gojo Clan as if born for it, bred for it. A perfect match to elevate status and maintain lineage. An ideal bride, by design. Not merely beautiful, but refined. Not merely obedient, but poised. Regal in her restraint. And still, he never loved her. Gojo Akihito, the man she married at twenty-one, gave her everything a wife could ask for — wealth, status, a name that carried power. But not his heart. Never his heart. She spent years trying to earn it anyway. With devotion. With loyalty so fierce it could have moved mountains if he had only looked her way and seen her properly. 

But last night... Last night, in the hush of the sleeping room they shared for so many years, he spoke someone else’s name. Not once. Not carelessly. Lovingly. 

Saori meets her own gaze in the mirror — unwavering, unflinching. She should’ve wept, perhaps. Cried the way lesser women might. Collapsed into trembling disbelief or broken rage. But she had no time for that. No space, in the skin she wears, for such indulgence. Her family name was teetered on scandal, and she bled too much grace into this place to see it torn down now — not by a girl’s foolishness, not by a man’s longing. Gojo Saori was, above else, a guardian of the image. But the image was beginning to crack. And she was ready to protect what needed protecting.  

--  

You sit at the table, eyes tracing the rim of your teacup, steam curling softly into the morning air. You haven’t taken a sip. You haven’t touched your plate. Your stomach is tight, twisted with guilt... especially after last night. 

Satoru is full of light and ease, as he always is — grinning, teasing, tossing playful remarks into the stillness like stones skipping across a glassy lake. His hand brushes yours casually, fingertips lingering just long enough to warm your skin. It's comforting in a way, how unchanged he is. But his energy doesn’t reach you this morning. You smile when you’re supposed to. You answer when he prompts you. But your mind is far away — caught between the memory of last night’s warmth and the echo of Akihito’s voice, flat and cracked with disappointment. 

Akihito sits quietly, as he always does, but today his silence feels heavier. His fingers press against the bridge of his nose, slow and methodical, as if trying to will away a migraine. He hasn’t touched his food. His presence across the table burns into you like a brand. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you can feel his restraint like a tremor in the room — barely contained, always building. 

Saori is a vision of composure. She lifts her teacup with perfect posture, takes delicate sips, and sets it down with the precision of someone who has performed this same ritual every morning of her life. Her face is unreadable — not blank, but too measured. There's something behind her stillness, something coiled. But you can’t tell what. She gives nothing away. 

Satoru leans in toward you with a lopsided grin, voice dipped in mischief. His hand brushes your arm again, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he senses how fragile you feel. “You’re awfully quiet today”, he points out. You blink, startled — his voice snapping you out of your spiral — and you force a breath, a small smile. He’s trying to bring you back. The way he always does. “I didn’t get much sleep last night”, you manage, voice low and tight. 

“Tired, huh?” he echoes with a soft laugh, leaning in closer. His voice drops to a whisper, just for you. “Guess that’s what happens after a long, productive night... right?” 

Your heart stumbles. The words land like a thunderclap, disguised as a joke, but sharp enough to cut through your skin. His wink is lighthearted — harmless in his mind — but you freeze. You don’t laugh. You can’t. The knot in your stomach coils tighter, shame rising in your chest. You drop your gaze and press your lips together, every nerve on fire. 

Then comes the sound. A sharp, sudden crack. 

Akihito’s hand clenches around his teacup — or what’s left of it. Porcelain shards glint, splintered across the table and floor. His palm is cut, a slow trickle of blood winding through the lines of his hand, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He stares at the broken cup like it’s something far away. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched. A man unraveling slowly — but silently. 

Satoru turns toward him, his gaze casual, almost detached. He says nothing. 

Saori moves immediately, her composure untouched as she rises and then immediately kneels beside him without ceremony, inspecting the wound with clinical care. Her voice is even, steady. “Are you alright?” Akihito doesn’t respond. His eyes are still fixed on the broken shards. His breath is shallow. Hollow. You wonder if he even knows where he is. Saori retrieves the first aid kit from the cabinet, her movements smooth, practiced. She tends to the cut with quiet precision, wrapping the bandage around his hand in silence. She doesn’t look at you, not directly — but her awareness is piercing. You can feel her watching, even when her eyes aren’t on you. 

You try not to flinch under the weight of it. 

Satoru watches you now. Truly watches you, and only you. There’s concern in his eyes, but beneath it, something darker — a flicker of something unreadable, as if he’s seeing straight through you. 

--  

You walk Satoru to the front of the estate, the morning sun slowly warming the stone path. He lingers, reluctant to go. “Are you sure you want me to leave?” he asks, searching your face. “You’ve been... kind of out of it all morning.”

You manage a smile, reaching up to smooth a hand through his hair. “I told you, I’m just tired.”  

He’s clearly unconvinced. “Then let me stay. I’ll take the day off, we’ll snuggle in bed, watch trashy movies, eat junk food — whatever you want.” 

“No”, you cut him off gently. “They’ll chew you out for skipping another day because of me. I’m fine, I promise. I just... need a little time to myself.” 

He watches you for a moment longer, visibly debating. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You better call me if you change your mind. Or even if you don’t. I just want to hear your voice.” 

“I will”, you say, trying to mean it. 

“You won’t”, he mutters. “But I’ll pretend to believe you.” 

You watch him walk away until he’s out of sight. And then the weight returns, heavy and unforgiving. You turn and head back toward your room, your steps slow. You were planning to reach out to Akihito — to talk, to finally be honest. At least with him. You need to say the words out loud. 

Halfway to your door, one of the maids appears at the end of the corridor, bowing her head respectfully as she approaches. “Lady Saori has asked if you would join her for tea in the garden”, she says. 

You blink. “Tea?” 

“She’s waiting for you now”, the maid adds.  

Your stomach twists. This is a first. Saori has never invited you anywhere, never initiated anything outside of polite formality. And now — tea? You murmur your thanks and change direction, heading toward the garden with careful steps. When you arrive, Saori is already seated beneath the wide shade of the cherry blossom tree. Everything is picturesque — the porcelain tea set arranged perfectly, delicate sweets on a lacquer tray. Not a single detail out of place. She looks up as you approach, her posture composed, her expression mild. 

“Hello again”, she says, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Please, sit.”

You lower yourself slowly. “Thank you.” 

She pours the tea herself. No attendants. No distractions. Just you and her. “We’ve never had the chance to talk”, she says, tone pleasant. “Just the two of us.” 

You nod faintly. “I guess not.” 

She picks up her cup, takes a small sip, and sets it down again. “Satoru seems happy.”

You glance at her, cautious. “He is.” 

“I can tell. He’s always been bright, but lately there’s something different. Something new. He’s softer. His laugh is more genuine.” She offers a smile. “He clearly cares for you — deeply.” 

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.” 

She hums softly, and then — without a change in tone — asks, “And how are things between you and my husband?”

The question hits you like a stone dropped into still water. No warning. No shift in expression.  

You stiffen, staring at her.

She doesn’t look away, “Not well, I imagine?” voice still calm. 

“I—” 

“I don’t want to hear it”, she cuts in, quiet but firm. 

Silence settles like a weight. Her voice remains calm, but the steel beneath it is undeniable. “I am not blind.” 

You lower your gaze. 

“I see the way Akihito looks at you. I see what it’s done to him.” Her fingers rest gently on the rim of her teacup. “And I know the kind of woman it takes to twist a man like him into something unrecognizable.” 

You flinch. 

“I won’t let this continue. I won’t let you unravel this family from the inside out. If you stay on this path, you won’t just break Akihito — you’ll destroy Satoru too. He’s already too attached. Too invested. And when this blows apart — because it will, like all secrets do — do you really think he won’t be the one to bleed for it?” 

You look up at her, heart pounding. Her words feel like nails driven into your spine. There’s no venom in her voce. No raised pitch. Just control. Cold and deliberate. “I’m giving you a choice”, she says. “You leave. On your own terms. Or I will make sure you have no terms at all.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. What can you even say? What are you supposed to do? Argue? 

“Think it over”, she says, lifting her teacup again. “Before it becomes something you can’t come back from.” Then her eyes meet yours one last time — still poised, but with a new edge. “And don’t even think about telling Akihito we had this conversation.” she adds softly. “Unless you want Satoru to know about it too.” 

-- 

You barely make it back to your room before your legs give out. The door shuts behind you and you crash onto the bed, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s useless now. The dam is breaking. Your shoulders shake, and the sob that leaves you is hoarse, pulled from a place so deep it feels like you’re splitting open. 

Everything was falling apart — like a chain of dominoes tipping one after another. One thing went wrong, and the rest followed, collapsing in swift, inevitable sequence. The worst part? The love blooming quietly in your chest. There’s no use pretending anymore. You can try to lie to everyone else — maybe even try to lie to yourself. But the truth is carved into your every glance, every touch, every breath, every unspoken word between you and Satoru. You love him. But you’re not allowed to have him. Not after this. Not when the damage has already begun to spill over the edges.  

You sit in the stillness for a while, until your tears run dry and resolve begins to settle in their place. There’s one thing left to do — the thing you intended before everything spiraled. You need to speak with Akihito. You pick up your phone and type out the message. 

Meet me in an hour. I’ll send you the location of the hotel. 

Then you get up, dress in silence, and leave. 

-- 

The room is quiet when he arrives. Akihito steps inside and finds you standing by the window, framed in soft, diffused light. There’s something different in your posture — something heavier. He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you, then takes a step forward. 

He dropped everything and came to you. Still hoping. That small, foolish hope still flickers in him — that maybe, despite everything, you’ve called him here because you’ve come back. He reaches for you, arms out as if to hold you again. But you step back. 

“No”, you say, voice tight. “We can’t do this anymore.” 

His hands drop to his sides. “What?” his voice barely comes out. You swallow the lump rising in your throat. “Aki... we can’t.” He stares at you. Then — a bitter, hollow laugh escapes him. “So that’s it?” His voice cracks. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you? And all this was for nothing?” 

You close your eyes. The silence answers for you. He paces away, running a hand through his hair, then back again. “God”, he mutters. “I thought this was the perfect plan. I thought — if I couldn’t have you publicly, I could at least have you close. Through him. Knowing he wouldn’t want you, wouldn’t touch you. Knowing that you loved me...” He looks at you now, eyes sharp with grief. “But I was wrong about both.” 

You wrap your arms around yourself. “This was a terrible idea from the start, and you know it”, you whisper. “I should’ve never agreed. I should’ve never let it get this far. I wish I’d never—” 

“Don’t”, he snaps, suddenly raw. “Don’t say you wish you never met me. Don’t.” 

Your breath hitches, but you don’t take it back. His voice lowers, thick with disbelief. “You don’t really mean it... right?”

Your silence cuts deeper than any answer.

He lets out a sharp breath, like it hurts, and moves to step toward you again, in utter denial of what’s unfolding before his eyes. 

“No”, you say, firmer this time. “Please. Just let this be the end.” 

You reach for the door. He follows. For the first time, you leave the hotel room together — not like all the other times, not hidden, not careful. You’re walking away, and he’s chasing you, hand reaching desperately for yours. 

“Wait—!” 

Akihito’s hand closes around your wrist just as you step onto the sidewalk, his grip tight, desperate — like holding on could somehow undo everything unraveling between you.

And then you hear it — a familiar voice calls your name. 

“...is that you?” 

You freeze. Shoko stands a few feet away, dressed in her uniform. Her gaze flicks from your face to where Akihito’s hand still clings to yours, and her expression changes in an instant. 

And just like that — in the space of a single day — everything you’ve tried to keep buried begins to rise. Crashing, all at once, to the surface. 

-- 

The sun is long gone by the time Satoru returns, the estate cloaked in stillness. He steps inside, calling your name softly. When you appear at the end of the hall, barefoot in the dim light, something in him settles — and then, just as quickly, something else begins to stir. You look like yourself, and yet... not. Your smile is soft but distant, your eyes shimmering in a way he can’t place. “I’m home”, he says, shrugging off his jacket. “Missed me?” 

You nod, walking up to him. You press a hand to his chest. “Little bit.” He smiles and leans down to kiss you, and when your lips meet, he feels it — the way you cling just a little tighter, hold just a little longer. It’s like you’re trying to memorize the way he tastes.  

Later, in your shared room, the lights are low and the silence is velvet. You’re already in bed when he returns from the shower, his white hair damp and tousled, towel slung loosely around his neck. He slips in beside you, cold fingers brushing your arm. You shiver, not from the chill — from the weight of what’s to come.

“You said you needed some time for yourself this morning, but you’re still like this”, he murmurs, pulling you close. “I don’t like it.”

You nestle against his chest, pressing your cheek to his skin. “I’m okay now.” 

There’s something in your voice that makes him pause. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he wraps his arms around you tighter, grounding himself in the curve of your spine, the warmth of your breath against him. 

“You smell like cotton candy”, you whisper.

He chuckles, nose brushing the crown of your head. “It’s that new shampoo. Smells fancy, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers with his like it’s the last time... “Will you stay with me?” you ask softly.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he breathes.

“Good”, you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Then, come closer.”

Satoru tilts his head down to look at you, a flicker of unease moving behind his gaze. “Of course”, he says. “Where else would I go?” 

You pull him down to kiss you again. Deep. Slow. There’s no teasing. No games. Just something desperate threaded through every movement. Like a goodbye wrapped in silk. When you make love, there’s no rush. No fire. Just the quiet rhythm of two people trying to suspend time — to stretch a moment into forever. You whisper his name like a prayer. He kisses your temple like he’s stealing a promise he doesn’t know he’s about to break. 

Afterward, you lie tangled together, your head on his chest, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles on your bare shoulder. Your breathing evens. Sleep comes to you quickly — a peace you haven’t known in a while.  

But Satoru doesn’t sleep. He watches you in the darkness, his blue eyes searching your face, as if trying to decode something written there. Something unsaid. You’ve never look so peaceful. And, honestly, that’s what scares him. His chest tightens. Something in his gut whispers that he’s missing something. That he’s not seeing the full picture. That maybe... you’re slipping through his fingers.

“Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” he murmurs, barely audible, brushing a thumb along your cheek. You stir, but don’t wake. He leans down and kisses your forehead — gentle, reverent. “I love you”, he whispers into your hair. And for a moment, he lets himself believe it’s enough to keep you. 

-- 

A week passes. The Gojo estate buzzes with preparations for the annual celebration — Saori and Akihito’s wedding anniversary. As always, Saori is at the heart of it all, composed and efficient, orchestrating every detail with practiced grace. Akihito, on the other hand, remains distant. Detached. You barely see him around the mansion. Not a word has passed between you since that day at the hotel. It feels like he’s quietly disappearing — withdrawing, piece by piece — and yet, an uneasy weight sits in your chest. Something feels off. Unfinished. 

One afternoon, as you help Saori sort through invitations, she brings it up — casually. “Have you made up your mind?” she asks, her eyes never lifting from the stack of envelopes. You pause, fingers brushing the edge of an envelope, and answer softly — almost absently. “Who knows.” 

-- 

Morning light filters through the sheer curtains. You’re already awake, lying still in Satoru’s arms. His breath is warm against the nape of your neck, one arm draped lazily around your waist, holding you in place like an anchor. Carefully, you ease out from under his arm. He shifts but doesn’t wake. Bare feet touch the cold floor as you rise and stand in the light, allowing yourself one last look. He’s lying on his back now, hair a tousled against the pillow. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way only sleep allows. Your chest aches. 

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and lift your gaze to the mirror. Your eyes are red. Hollow. The skin beneath them bruised with fatigue. But beneath the weariness, there’s something else — resolve. When you return to the room, Satoru is stirring. He squints at you with a sleepy grin. “Come back”, he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “I sleep better when you’re here.”  

You smile softly. “Can't. You know today’s the big day.” 

He stretches like a cat, arms reaching above his head, the sheet slipping down to his hips. “Ugh. Right. Completely forgot about that”, he groans and then rolls onto his side. You manage a quiet laugh. As he nestles back into the pillow, you linger in the doorway. “I love you.” you whisper — quietly, so quietly he won’t hear. Then you close the door behind you. And with that, the countdown begins. 

--  

The Gojo estate is nothing short of magnificent tonight. The garden glows beneath a canopy of paper lanterns, warm amber light spilling across the sea of guests. Tables are dressed in fresh flowers. Soft music hums in the background, blending into murmured conversations and the gentle clinking of glasses. Tonight is a celebration of image — Akihito and Saori’s wedding anniversary. Saori is elegance incarnate, her smile as polished as the pearls at her neck. Akihito stands beside her, composed, offering polite nods and minimal words. Together, they are the picture of grace. But the image is just that — a facade. There’s nothing worth celebrating. Nothing real about the harmony they pretend to share. 

Across the garden, Satoru floats through the evening like a disruption in the symmetry. Dressed in a loose gray suit, tie nowhere in sight, he laughs too loud, drowns juice from a champagne glass, and teases the elders with casual disrespect. No one bats an eye — it’s just Satoru being Satoru. But those who know him — really know him — can see it. He’s restless. His eyes keep scanning the crowd. At first subtly. Then, with growing urgency. You’re not out here. You slipped away earlier, saying something about fixing your dress. But that was over thirty minutes ago. Long enough for the knot in his stomach to tighten. Long enough for his laugh to start sounding forced. 

He leans toward Shoko, who’s sipping wine with a bored expression. “Have you seen her?” 

“Nope”, Shoko replies, unbothered. “Didn’t she say she was heading to the bathroom?” 

“Yeah”, Satoru’s fingers drum against the table. “But how long does fixing a dress take?” 

Across the garden, Akihito and Saori stand side by side as guests gather for the toast. She leans in, whispers something. He nods — but his gaze flickers, briefly, toward the house. 

An elder raises a glass. “To love. To strength. To bonds that stand the test of time.” 

Glasses rise.

Clink.

Applause follows. The illusion holds.

Until— 

BOOM. 

A thunderous crack splits the air. The ground shakes. Heat pulses across the garden like a wave. Screams erupt. From the left wing of the estate, fire bursts through the windows — a wall of flame swallowing the air. Smoke billows thick and choking. Music cuts out. Plates crash. Glass shatters. 

Satoru’s glass falls from his hand and explodes against the ground. Something sharp drives into his chest. He knows — you’re still inside. But before the thought is fully formed, he’s already running.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” His voice cuts through the chaos as he barrels through the guests. 

Akihito starts to follow, face pale, but Saori grabs his arm. Her gaze then snaps to her son. “Satoru, STOP!” she cries — but he doesn’t hear.

To Satoru, the world is silent now. There is only the roar of the fire and the pounding of his heart. He bursts through the estate doors, sprinting toward the source of the flames. He forgets his technique. Forgets his own safety. Forgets everything — except you.

“Please, baby— please, my love— I’m coming, please— Don’t do this to me, please—”, he keeps chanting.

The deeper he goes, the more warped the hall becomes — blackened, unrecognizable. He reaches the kitchen — but it’s empty. Panic claws up his throat. He turns, runs to the nearby bathroom. Kicks the door open. Heat smacks him like a wall. Smoke clogs his lungs. He pulls his sleeve over his mouth and steps inside.  

Then he sees it — someone collapsed near the sink, limbs sprawled. Still. His heart stops. He nearly slips as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside the figure. Burnt and unrecognizable. But the dress — what’s left of it — is familiar. The color. The delicate trim. There’s a necklace around the neck, half-melted, but unmistakably yours. “No”, he whispers. “No, no, no—” 

His hand hovers over your body. His throat tightens. Everything around him is heat, noise, pressure, but in his ears, there’s only silence. Like the world just folded in on itself. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears hit his lips — salt and ash. “I was just with you...” he whispers, almost childlike, broken. “You were laughing with me a moment ago...” He leans in, presses his forehead to your shoulder, and breathes raggedly. Body shaking.  

Behind him, voices start to echo. Footsteps. Shouting. Geto is coming to pull him out. But Satoru doesn’t hear any of it. He doesn’t move. He can’t. For the first time in his life, it feels like he’s lost. 

-- 

The fire was quickly contained. The Gojo mansion still stands, its structure untouched. Only the left wing of the first floor bears the marks of the fire. The investigation concluded that the fire was caused by an overheating motor in the bathroom’s ventilation system, a tragic accident. Only one life was lost: yours. 

Your funeral was two days ago. A private ceremony. Satoru didn’t speak during it. He barely moved. Just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes hidden behind the blindfold. Quiet. In a way he’s never been. 

Now, days later, the world still spins — people still laugh, they breathe, they live. But he’s still here. In the room that was once your shared bedroom. Alone. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the chaos of your things scattered around the room. Your belongings — still as you left them — seem to scream your absence. He can’t bring himself to touch them. Not yet. Not ever. The book you were reading, the bottle of perfume on the nightstand, your lotion, your earrings, the brush on the vanity, and your nightgown — neatly folded on your side of the bed. It all kills him. The maids are prohibited from entering the room. He’s made sure of it. The silence of the space, with all its untouched remnants of you, is his alone to bear. 

He buries his face in your pillow, hoping to catch even the faintest trace of your scent. But it’s long gone. A strangled breath leaves him. Then another. And then... he breaks. His hands shake as he scrolls through his phone, endlessly flipping through old texts. Rereading them. The messages that still feel so alive — your voice echoing in his mind. One voicemail stands out. The one you left days before the accident. He presses play. 

“Satoru, stop leaving the toilet seat up! I’m too sleepy in the mornings to notice, but my butt definitely doesn't appreciate an unexpected ice bath.” 

He laughs. Just once. And then, he breaks again. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, curls into himself, his body crumpling into fetal position. He cries. Not quietly. No. He cries like he’s been holding it in his entire life, like the ground beneath him finally gave way and left him with nothing to stand on. No air. No reason. 

They say he’s doing fine. Around others, he smiles. He jokes. He walks with that same easy confidence, says the right things, acts like nothing’s changed. But Geto and Shoko know better. They see it in the way he visits your grave every day. The way his shoulders stiffen when someone dares mention your name. The way his hands tremble when they’re not stuffed in his pockets. He’s unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And still, no one knows the truth. Not yet. Not even him. 

Only Shoko does. 

-- 

You follow Shoko into the morgue at Jujutsu Tech, each step slow and soundless. She doesn’t speak. Just moves steadily toward a counter, where she sets a folder down. Her back remains to you. The silence stretches long and taut. Then— 

“I wasn’t sure what to make of what I saw earlier”, she finally says. “But the fact that you followed me here... it confirms my suspicions.” 

You try to speak, but no words come out. Only a shaky breath escapes, heavy with guilt, regret, and everything you’ve been holding in for far too long. Shoko turns to face you. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are sharp.

“You look like you want to say something”, she says. “So say it.” 

The words stumble out at first, fractured and raw. But then they come faster, pouring from you. You tell her everything — the affair, the reason behind the arranged marriage, the lies... everything. And the worst of it — that somehow, in the wreckage of it all, you fell in love with Satoru. You nearly choke saying it aloud, the weight of the truth crushing in your chest.

Shoko listens in silence. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t interrupt. When you finally stop, she speaks with her usual stillness. “Why are you telling me this?” Then, sharper, “Why not tell Gojo?” 

“No”, you say quickly. “I can’t... I won’t do this to him.”

She tilts her head, gaze narrowing. “You already did”, she replies flatly. “Whether you tell him or not doesn’t change that.” 

Your throat tightens. “I know... and I need you to help me.” 

“Help you?” she repeats. “Why would I?” 

“Because I don’t want him to hurt, not like this.” 

There’s a long pause. Shoko just watches you — assessing, weighing. Then she steps closer, her voice low. “But he will hurt. In a way I’m not sure he’ll ever come back from.”

You meet her gaze, desperation burning in yours. “Please.”

She says nothing, but something seems to be shifting in her. 

“There’s something that will hurt him less than the truth”, you say. “I need you to find a body. Someone who resembles me. Imbue it with my residuals — only you can do that. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Her arms cross slowly. “You want me to find a corpse?” she asks. “You want me to help you fake your death? Is that it?” 

You nod, eyes dropping. “He’ll be better off thinking I’m dead than knowing what I’ve done.” 

“You’re underestimating him”, Shoko says, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you mean to him. This isn’t mercy — it’ll destroy him.”

Her words cut like glass, but you close your eyes. “Please”, you whisper. 

“When?”, Shoko asks, and you blink. “When do you need the body?” she repeats, rubbing the bridge of her nose. 

-- 

(One month later) 

You moved away. Far away. To a small village tucked in the mountains, hidden in a forgotten corner of the country. It’s quiet here — the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. No one knows your name here. Not your real one, anyway. You rent a modest cottage, barely furnished, but clean. You wake with the sun, tend to your tiny garden, then walk to the local pub where you started working just enough to get by. It’s simple. Monotonous. A life carved from necessity, not desire. And yet, every night before bed, you check your phone. One conversation always sits at the top of your inbox: Shoko. 

Your last message was three days ago. 

You: How is he? 

Her reply came the next morning. 

Shoko: Still breathing. Don’t ask for more. 

You didn’t. You never do. 

-- 

(Back at Jujutsu Tech) 

Satoru has just returned from a mission, and it’s clear he’s not himself. He’s sharp, but off. The usual cocky confidence has slipped into irritation, and he drifts through the halls with his mind elsewhere. Distracted. A clipboard hangs loosely in his hand, and he’s on the hunt for Shoko — she’s supposed to fill out a report. 

These days, he only drops the act around her. Or Geto. Or, of course, when alone. When he’s not pretending, he’s quiet. Drained. Nothing like the Gojo Satoru everyone knows. 

As he nears the morgue, he slows. A muffled voice cuts through the silence behind the door. It’s Shoko, on the phone. He’s about to knock when he hears it. 

Your name. 

Satoru freezes. Is he finally losing his mind? But then, there’s more— 

“...you need to stop asking.” 

A pause. Then, softer— 

“He... He doesn’t talk about you still. He’s not okay. But you knew he wouldn’t be.” 

The world stills. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. It’s like his mind is short-circuiting. Did he hear that right? His grip tightens on the clipboard until it creaks beneath his fingers. But then, it comes again. 

Your name. 

He stands there, stunned for a moment, before his body moves of its own accord. The door opens with a slow creak.

Shoko looks up, and she sighs. “...I have work to do”, she says quietly, and ends the call.

Satoru steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He throws the clipboard aside. He is not smiling, and he’s no longer wearing his blindfold. And for the first time in a month, his eyes are fully visible — different, bottomless, rimmed in red — and they are fixed on her. “Care to explain?”, he says, voice low, flat. 

Shoko doesn’t play dumb. She doesn’t lie. She leans back against the wall, her posture shifting to something almost resigned. She exhales, a soft sound, like she’s been waiting for this moment. She knew it would come. And for the first time in weeks, Satoru’s eyes — his grief-clouded eyes — are lit by something else. Hope. 

“She’s alive.”, Shoko says. The words hang in the air between them, and Satoru’s world shifts. He doesn’t react at first. Just stands there, trying to process her words. 

Finally, his voice cracks — barely audible, barely more than a whisper, like something fragile. “You let me bury her.” 

Shoko’s gaze softens for a moment, but then she sighs, a sound that’s more exhausted than regretful. “She said it’d hurt you less.” 

“Less?” He laughs once, a shar, disbelieving sound. “Less than what?” 

“The truth.” The words come from Shoko with unflinching clarity. “She had an affair with your father.”

Shoko waits. For a reaction. For anger. For questions. For anything.  

But Satoru doesn’t blink. He only asks one question. “Where is she?” 

-- 

The Gojo estate still stands. The first floor — once scorched by fire — has long since been renovated. But beneath the surface, the scars of the past remain. For those who know, it’s impossible to forget what was lost. Akihito sits in the living room, staring down at the floor, his expression hollow. The once commanding patriarch is now a broken shell. His hands tremble as he takes a sip of his drink, his gaze unfocused, consumed by grief. He hasn’t spoken much in weeks. Every time he tries, his voice cracks. The loss of you has shattered him. Sometimes he tells himself it was better this way — better to lose you to death than to watch you belong to someone else. Even if that someone else was his son. For a moment, that thought would make it easier to breathe. But then again, what did it matter? You were gone. And something in him knew — the fire wasn’t an accident. He suspected Saori. Maybe she found out. Maybe she did this to you. Should he kill her? But that wouldn’t bring you back. And besides... the clan. He still had a duty to do. 

Saori sits nearby, her gaze fixed out the window, her lips curling into a faint, satisfied smile. Her eyes flicker to Akihito for a brief moment, but there’s no sympathy in them — only contentment. After everything, she believes fate has finally righted itself. She watches him fall apart with quiet detachment, a sense of calm in her stillness. At least now, he is more hers than he is yours. “Perhaps it was fate”, she murmurs softly, her words for no one but the walls. Akihito’s eyes remain distant, his thoughts far removed from her voice. He’s too lost to hear anything she says — too far gone to care. 

Then, the door opens. Satoru enters, no grand gesture, no announcement. His presence fills the room immediately, thick and heavy, like an impending storm. Akihito doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows why his son is here — he can feel it in the air before he even steps further in. Saori glances at Satoru, her eyes narrowing slightly, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. She rises without a word, understanding that this conversation isn’t for her. She leaves quietly, walking past her son with only a brief, knowing look.

The door clicks shut behind her. 

Akihito slumps lower in his seat, but he doesn’t look at his son. He doesn’t need to. The way Satoru stands there, rigid, fists clenched, eyes dark and filled with fury. Akihito feels the weight of it, heavy in the room, before he even lifts his head to look at him.

“You know”, Akihito says quietly, his voice hoarse, a statement rather than a question. Satoru stands still, his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning. He doesn’t answer. The air between them crackles with the unsaid. Akihito presses on, his voice low, laced with a tremor. “How did you find out?” 

Still, Satoru remains silent. His fists tremble at his sides, his breathing shallow, ragged. The words catch in his throat, a clash of fury and hurt. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and strained, as though forcing each word past the tightness in his chest.

“You broke her.” he spits, finally. “You broke the one thing most precious to me.” 

Akihito flinches, the weight of the accusation landing heavily on him. His gaze hardens, but he can’t meet Satoru’s eyes. There’s nothing to say. His son is right — he did break her. And by doing so, he broke his son as well. 

Satoru steps forward suddenly, his movements swift and calculated. The space between them closes in an instant, and Satoru’s eyes, wide with intensity, burn through the silence as he towers over his own father. There’s something primal in the air now — a rawness, an energy that could consume the entire room, the entire estate, if left unchecked. Akihito doesn’t react, he just sits there, knowing what’s coming. He accepts it. The man he once was, gone. And this son — this powerful, broken son — is the reckoning he’s been waiting for. 

“Do you have anything to say?” Satoru’s voice is barely containing the storm inside him. His hands shake, still clenched tightly into fists, but there’s a note of something darker in his gaze — an edge that suggests the breaking point is near. Akihito looks at him, pained, defeated, but remains silent. The words don’t come. 

The sound that follows — sharp and violent — could be a fist crashing into flesh or a bone snapping under pressure. It’s unclear, too quick to pinpoint. The air itself seems to shatter with it.

Satoru turns without another word, leaving the mansion. His hands are covered in blood.

Behind him, a scream shatters the silence. Saori’s scream, high and frantic, echoes through the halls. Saori doesn’t know it yet, but her time is coming too. Soon enough. 

-- 

Satoru knew. He had known for a while. It wasn’t a dramatic discovery. It was quiet and accidental, in fact. It happened early into your marriage, when you were still distant with him — polite but clipped. Somehow always guarded. He thought it was the nerves at first. Shyness. The weight of tradition. But then a month passed, and you still wouldn’t meet his eyes unless it was absolutely necessary. Still flinched when he reached for you. He could handle awkward beginnings, of course — especially for you. He wasn’t expecting a fairytale, you didn’t even remember him. But what he couldn’t handle was not knowing you, the way that you never let him in. 

So he did what a curious man with too little patience like himself might do. He followed you. Not out of suspicion of course. He thought if he observed you from a distance, he might’ve learned things you weren’t ready to tell or show him. Your habits. Anything. And then, one afternoon, he watched you enter a hotel. Alone. Odd. 

Ten minutes later, his father arrived. Very odd. 

Satoru waited. Two hours later, you walked out. Head down, hair slightly mussed. You didn’t see him. Shortly after, Akihito exited the building, adjusting his coat, wearing an expression Satoru had rarely seen on him — satisfied, secretive. And that was it. He didn’t even use his Six Eyes at first. Part of him didn’t want confirmation. Part of him hoped it was just a coincidence. But shortly after, he let his technique drift over your form. And there it was. Residuals. His father’s cursed energy. All over you. 

...and everything began to click. Your stiffness. The arranged marriage. His father’s sudden interest in choosing his bride. How Akihito had spoken of you before the engagement with just a touch too much fondness.  It wasn’t an arranged marriage; it was a cover. You weren’t his. You were his father’s. 

Satoru never confronted you, never let on that he knew. He just watched. Watched the way you disappeared for hours and returned with a soft look in your eyes that was never for him. Watched the way Akihito seemed lighter after seeing you. Watched the lie of a marriage unfold, thread by thread, every day. He never blamed you, though. He thought, maybe this was fate’s twisted way of bringing you back together. Yes, he could’ve easily destroyed it, could’ve exposed the affair and made the clan turn against Akihito. But that would’ve meant the clan turning against you as well. And Satoru never wanted to ruin you, he wanted to keep you.  

So he waited. Watched. Loved you in silence. And when he caught glimpses — that maybe you were beginning to see him, not just the son of the man you loved, that you were starting to change — that was all it took. He clung to that.

Because the thing about Gojo Satoru is that, when he wants something — really, truly wants it — he doesn’t stop. Not rules. Not family. Nothing can stop him.

You had been stolen from him once — the night on the curb, when fate gave you to him and then ripped you away before he could even ask your name. Then it happened again. His father got to you first.

Now, he wasn’t going to let you be taken away from him for the third time. No matter what. Even if it meant choosing heart over blood.

If you had faked your death and disappeared because you believed you couldn’t exist in a world with both of them, then all he had to do was remove the one standing in the way. To keep you. 

-- 

You’re wiping down the tables at the pub, preparing for the new day. Half-focused. Letting the repetitive motion ground you, steady your nerves. Trying not to think about the ghost of him that’s never really left you.  

The door creaks open behind you.

“We’re not open yet”, you immediately call out. Politely, without turning around. “Please come back in an hour.” 

Silence. Neither a response, nor footsteps indicating that the person is leaving. You glance over your shoulder, ready to repeat yourself, but the words catch in your throat. 

Satoru is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. “Won’t you make an exception for me?” he says softly. It’s meant to sound like him — teasing, light — but his voice gives him away. It’s quiet, fragile. Like it might crack if he tries any harder to keep it steady. 

The rag slips from your hands. You freeze. Then slowly, you turn. But you don’t meet his eyes. You don’t dare. “Why would you come here?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s not a question of how he found you. The answer was simple. Shoko. 

He steps forward, slowly. “For you.” 

“For me”, you echo under your breath, more to yourself than to him, a bitter laugh escaping you. “For me, huh?” you repeat.

“For you.” — he says again, with no hesitation. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shrink, as if you could fold into nothing. As if it might protect you from the weight of what he’s carrying in his voice. “Did you ever consider that maybe I didn’t want to be found?” 

“I did”, he says. “I considered a lot of things, actually.” He pauses before he takes another step, and then adds, “But the fact you did something so reckless... made me consider that you cared more than I imagined.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You don’t understand—” 

“I do.” He cuts in gently. “You thought if you stayed, you’d destroy us both.” 

You finally look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, and something inside you threatens to cave, the devastation in him nearly buckling your knees. “I did something unforgivable.” 

He exhales, like what he’s about to say is so obvious it needn’t be said out loud. But he does it anyway — “I was ready to do anything for you.” 

“Even if what I did was truly terrible?” 

“Even then.” 

He takes another step, and then another, until the distance between is gone. Until he’s close enough to touch. You want to move. To put space between you, but your feet don’t listen. And his presence — it roots you in place like gravity.

“You could’ve told me everything”, he murmurs. “You should’ve told me.” A pause. “I already knew.” 

“What?”, your breath stutters. 

His eyes darken, and a faint, bitter smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I’ve known for a while.” 

“But... Shoko... didn’t Shoko—” 

“It wasn’t her.” He shakes his head. “I found out myself.” He falls silent for a moment, like the memory stings to recall. 

“And you never said anything?” 

“I had my reasons”, he says softly. “Just like you had yours.” He lifts his hand — the lightest touch — and tilts your chin up. The gentleness nearly undoes you. You try to speak, but the words tangle with the sob building in your chest. It slips out instead — small, broken. His fingers brush beneath your eye, catching the tear before it falls. Even as his own hand trembles. “One word from you would’ve changed everything”, he whispers. “I would’ve burned everything down to keep you safe. Happy.” 

You slowly break under the weight of his words, forehead falling to his chest. You feel the tension in him — not anger, not judgment. Just ache. His arms wrap around you. 

“You were always my girl”, he breathes into your hair. “Even when you didn’t know it. Even when you were his. From the moment you fell asleep on my lap outside that club, you were mine.” 

You tilt your head up, lips trembling. “I’m... I’m really s—” 

“Shh.” 

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. “I know.”

And then, his lips charge closer — you meet him halfway into a soft, slow kiss. One that is both an ache and a release all at once.

It hurts to want him this much. It hurts to know what you did. It hurts to know that he still looks at you with so much love, even when he knows it all. It hurts, that despite everything, it’s still you.  

-- 

You never thought you’d find peace again. Not truly. But now, the mornings are calm. The nights are quiet. The days pass without dread — light, easy, almost gentle. You and Satoru settled into this small life together, tucked away from the rest of the world. 

He left it all behind — the clan, the title, the crushing weight of being the strongest. Here, he isn’t Gojo Satoru, head of the Gojo Clan or the face of sorcerer society. Here, he’s just Satoru. Your Satoru. The one who wakes up beside you each morning, arm draped around your waist, murmuring sleepy nonsense into your ear. The one who insists on cooking breakfast and makes an unspeakable mess in the kitchen. The one who still leaves the toilet seat up just to hear you scold him — and grins when you do. 

Your belly is growing now — small, round, and full of promise. Sometimes he speaks to it like he already knows who your child will be. Sometimes he rests his head there and falls asleep. Other times, he lies awake with his hand on your baby bump, eyes full of wonder and fear, whispering that he hopes he’ll be good enough — for both of you. 

There are things left unspoken between you. You’ve never asked what happened after he left the clan — or more accurately, what happened before he left. You suspect the truth, of course. There’s no way not to. But you don’t press. And he doesn’t offer. 

Still, you think of Akihito sometimes. It’s impossible not to — he was a turning point, a fire you walked through to become who you are now. And sometimes, in the right light, Satoru looks so much like him. The same build, the same jawline, the same eyes.

But you know better. He’s nothing like him. Akihito, for all his love, always chose the clan in the end. His desires may have been selfish, but they were always entwined with duty. He loved you, yes. But he never chose you. Not truly. 

But Satoru did. He always chose you — even when it broke him. Even when it meant walking away from everything he was. Even when it meant taking a life — his own blood — to protect yours.

When he said, “I was ready to do anything for you”,

...he really meant it. 

[enhani-ki]

enhypen as your "stressed" boss

warning(s): very suggestive content, cursing, etc.

when your job is to make your boss' life easier but he gets hard to you instead...

HEESEUNG ─── ★

"do me a favor?" heeseung asked, lifting his necktie between two fingers like it was a dead thing. "fix this again… i swear these things come alive at night."

you exhaled slowly, not even dignifying that with a response. he didn't even bother standing up. he just stayed leaned back in his chair like he was doing you a favor by being seated.

heeseung's legs were spread open just enough for you to stand between them. his shirt sleeves were rolled up, the two buttons were left undone... it's enough to draw eyes, or maybe just to suggest something.

apparently, none of his past secretaries ever lasted more than two months. some said they quit, others claimed they were transferred, and according to office gossip, he couldn't even make it through the first week without anyone crossing a lineーyou could see why.

people believed what they wanted, but you've been working for him over a year now and had never actually fucked your boss like everyone said you had.

though, sometimes… you kind of wish the rumors were true.

your fingers started moving automatically. you looped the fabric, tightened the knot, and smoothed his collar… you could probably do this in your sleep by now.

"don't look so serious," he murmured with a soft chuckle. "pretend you love doing this for me."

you glanced at the guy who was already looking up at you. "love is a strong word, boss," you muttered before resting your hands on his shoulders, "but i ca—"

the door swung open suddenly, making both of you jump in surprise. the intern's eyes went wide, stammering, "i—i—i'll just come back!" like they just walked in on a porn set, before slamming the door shut.

you stepped back instantly, running a hand down your face with a sigh. "great. that's gonna be all over the building before lunch," you said, making him chuckle again.

"heeseung," you said sternly. he actually preferred it when you used his name like that—just casual and familiar, even if you only say it when it was just the two of you. "you really need to learn how to tie your own damn tie."

he whined, "i don't want toooo."

JAY ─── ★

you're sitting on the edge of his bed, legs swinging slightly, doing everything in your power not to look anywhere inappropriate while your boss buckled his belt in front of you.

this was the third time this week that jay had been late to work. he kept oversleeping, ignoring calls, blaming traffic and accidents that never even happened.

you've seen this version of him before, back when he lost all his motivation and nearly quit. this time, you weren't letting it get that far.

you let yourself into his apartment, pushed open the heavy blackout curtains, dragged him half-asleep out of bed, and make sure he gets to office in time.

"thanks for coming to get me," he muttered. his voice was still raspy from sleep, running a hand through his messy hair. "my alarm's been… off lately."

you reached for a pillow without thinking. you hugged it tightly to your chest, burying your face in the soft fabric, trying to hide the heat creeping up your cheeks.

jay smirked, catching the way you refused to look at him before shamelessly staring at your bare legs that's still swinging awkwardly above his floor. "you always get this shy?" he laughed, tugging the tank top down over his torso with a little stretch.

"just fucking hurry!" you muttered angrily into the pillow.

he chuckled again, shaking his head at his cute assistant while grabbing his keys from the nightstand. "you can wait in the living room next time if you don't want to see me naked again."

you peeked, "and let you fall back asleep? no way."

JAKE ─── ★

jake has been side eyeing you. he cleared his throat butー "don't even say it," you muttered before he could even speak.

he crossed his arms, eyebrows raising. "say what?"

"that you need another coffee... i know i'm your assistant but honestly, you look like shit."

"oh, wow..." his mouth fell open, amused. "you always look sexy whenever you scold me, you know that?"

"yes."

he blinked, taken aback by your bluntness—then snorted, shaking his head with a grin as he leaned back in his chair. "...then be careful. i'm ten seconds away from dragging your ass over here."

you rolled your eyes, unfazed. "you say that like it's a threat."

jake spun slowly in his chair, eyeing you with a grin before biting his lip. "come here... let me touch something that doesn't make me want to scream."

SUNGHOON ─── ★

you knocked once before stepping in, sunghoon didn't even look up. he was seating behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie already discarded somewhere across the room. his hair is a mess from running his hands through it too many times.

he looked pissed. "about the meeting..." you started carefully, "i already sent the corrected draft."

"okay..." he replied, eyes still locked on his screen. "i think i'm going to have a fucking aneurysm."

you hesitated. "…are you?"

sunghoon looked at you like, seriously? before smirking, "depends. are you planning on doing that thing again...?"

you smiled a little. "depends. are you going to give me a few vacation leaves after?"

sunghoon leaned back in his chair, finally letting out a breath. "yes. and i'm going with you too."

you raised a brow. "oh? as my boss?"

"no... as someone even worse, baby."

SUNOO ─── ★

sunoo was laying across the couch, resting his head perfectly in your lap while wearing a soft, hydrating face mask on his face.

his hand traced circles on your knees while you ran your fingers through his soft hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. "you're too good at this..." sunoo murmured. "you trying to make me lose my mind?"

“i thought you already lost it?"

he smiled faintly. "which one do you think's doing it? the scalp massage or your attention?"

you chuckled, "which one do you like more?"

"hmm…" he hummed again, giving your knee a playful squeeze. "both. mostly your attention." he was about to close his eye but then he suddenly raised his brow, lips quirking. "why do you always touch your boss like this when you're off the clock though??"

"are you okay? you're the one on my lap."

sunoo smiled, closing his eyes. "sorry but you can't report me at my own house," he teased, then continued, "i can say whatever i want."

your hand slid in his chest. "i might start saying things back." you said, making sunoo sat up without any warning, signature eye started dropping through his ridiculous face mask.

"start talking."

JUNGWON ─── ★

"what are you looking at?" jungwon said without even turning his head as he could feel your eyes on him.

he hasn't spoke much since he walked in. he just buried himself behind his screen. you blinked, looking down at your desk like you hadn't been caught staring. "no—nothing."

he finally stood up, brushing past you slowly to grab a pen. you gulped, his height always did something inside you whenever he got too close.

he sighed through his nose before loosening his tie.

truth was, he hadn't been able to focus for the past hour because of you. and the way you bit your pen while choosing from the series of his pictures, making his brain short-circuit.

he really was trying to be good today.

you stood and walked over, leaning slightly over his desk to drop off a file. jungwon's fist clenched lightly on the desk as his eyes lowered right to the edge of the table, where your hip was angled just slightly in his direction. oh, it'd be so easy if you just drop to your knees now—

you tilted your head. "boss... you okay?"

he nodded eagerly. "yeah. yeah—just stressed." he said before looking up at you again, looking so innocent even though his tongue was pressing into his cheek, legs bouncing uncontrollably under the desk.

"...it's making me think of things i probably shouldn't about my assistant."

you blinked, confused. "whaーwhat?"

jungwon cleared his throat and quickly looked away, cheeks growing faint pink in embarrassment. "ignore that. i didn't say anything."

he avoided your eyes, rubbing the back of his neck... feeling how tight his pants suddenly felt.

NI-KI ─── ★

you tapped your foot impatiently as ni-ki walked past you in nothing but a towel and toothbrush hanging from his lips.

he pointed vaguely toward the bathroom, eyes half-lidded, and mumbling something incoherent before disappearing behind the door.

you checked the time as thirty minutes passed. why the fuck he was moving like a sloth?

"ni-ki?" you called, knocking on the bathroom door but there's no answer. you frowned before pushing it open, and just as you suspected, he's not there. the shower hasn't even been turned on.

"ni-ki!" you stormed into his bedroom—only to find him curled up on his bed, hugging his pillow like a baby. ni-ki groaned, cracking one eye open. "ughh, the fuck you so loud for?"

you marched over and shook his body, "we're gonna be late!"

and instead of getting up, he just reached out and pulled you into the bed like a goddamn trap. he locked you in his arms and buried his face into your neck. "let me borrow you real quick," he mumbled, his breath felt warm against your skin.

"ni-kiー" you struggled, squirming in his hold.

"shhh," he shushed you, tightening his grip with a little smirk, "you keep calling my name like that, i'll make sure you'll moan it out the next."

a/n: random ahh fic. posted this with round with my baby - reader x ni-ki

masterlist: マスターリストm.list

[covenofagatha]

A New Addiction

You've known Agatha for awhile now but when you start working with her, feelings start to develop

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: oral sex, service bottom reader, caffeine addiction, praise kink, bit of an oral fixation, age gap

A/N: This is super specific and entirely self-indulgent lmao

It’s a stupid crush. 

Harmless. Futile. Foolish. 

You’ve known her for years. She’s friends with your mom. And now, she’s your much older co-worker. 

Well, kind of your co-worker. You’re just helping out on the side. It’s the swimming unit for the Physical Education classes at the high school you went to and you’re lifeguarding after graduating college just to make some extra cash. 

Which means getting to hang out on the pool deck with Agatha Harkness for two weeks. 

The crush sort of came out of nowhere. You’d never really thought of her in that way, and you’re not sure when things changed. 

Maybe it was when she asked you deep questions when it was just the two of you sitting there and she actually listened. Maybe it was when she teased you about trying an energy drink for the first time and getting hooked immediately and still encouraging you. Maybe it was when she told you that you were funny a few days ago. 

But you can’t stop thinking about her now and the way she tilts her sunglasses down to look at you with those bright blue eyes and the way she tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder and the way she nudges you when you say something cheeky but then smirks wickedly to dish it right back at you. 

It’s becoming a slight problem, how you always want to be with her. How the class periods that she has free just drag by and you count down the minutes until you might be able to see Agatha again. How you would do anything just to have her attention on you, even though you know logically that she’ll never like you back like that. 

But Agatha brings you an energy drink on Monday, tsking when your eyes light up and you immediately reach for it when she gives it to you in the office. 

“You are so addicted,” she sighs with a chuckle when you hand it back to her because you can’t open the can. Agatha easily pops it open, nails painted a deep red that contrasts nicely with her pale skin, and she holds eye contact as she takes a sip right from the opening of it. She’s wearing shorts that show off her long legs and a light blue shirt and you can’t stop your gaze from wandering down her body.

She gives it back to you and you try to ignore the fact that your lips are touching the spot that hers just did. 

“And yet, you’re just giving me more,” you say, grinning. “You like it.” 

Agatha snorts. “And you’re crazy.” 

You take a long swig and swish the liquid around your mouth. She watches, pupils dilating just slightly. When she looks at you like that, you think she must feel something for you. 

It looks like she’s going to say something else, but she doesn’t—she just smirks knowingly and picks up her clipboard before walking out and to the pool deck. 

This is her easiest class: not a lot of kids and they’re all strong swimmers. Which means you get to just hang out with her. 

You walk with her up and down the deck, mindlessly chatting about your weekends and how the kids are doing while swimming. Agatha’s lips quirk up each time you lift the can to your mouth and you pretend not to notice, but you can’t help laughing. 

She makes you feel so free. 

When the kids are done swimming and they have free time to play around in the pool, you and Agatha sit next to each other in chairs by the diving well. You take off your shirt, revealing your sensible one-piece just to get some sun, and you think you hear her breath hitch. 

It’s hard to ignore the warm feeling spreading through you as you feel her eyes raking over you. 

—

She walks with you up to the cafeteria during lunch and you’re hoping you can snag something to eat. 

You have a second energy drink in your hands and Agatha keeps making fun of you for it. 

“One day, your heart is going to explode,” she says while shaking her head fondly. 

Lifting the can to your lips, you smile into it before taking a short sip. “What can I say? I get addicted to things way too easily. I just can’t stop thinking about them.” 

There’s a look in Agatha’s eyes, like she knows that what you really can’t stop thinking about is her. 

The cafeteria is crowded when you get there. You open the door and hold it open for Agatha, who breezes past you with a quick “Thank you.”

It’s easier to hang back, so you do. But Agatha pushes through the crowd to get food and she comes back a few minutes later to raise an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you getting something?” 

You gesture at the line of kids standing there. 

Agatha huffs. “Go up there and get something. Do you need me to hold your hand?” 

Turning out your bottom lip mockingly into an exaggerated pout, you nod, wondering what she’ll do. 

She grabs your hand from where it was limply resting on your waist and squeezes it. “Be brave and go get some food.” 

But then Agatha drops your hand and you’re almost disappointed. You nod and she claps you on the shoulder before you push through the kids to pick up a paper plate with pasta on it.  

When you come back, she’s still waiting for you and she buys your food for you. You don’t really know why she’s being so nice but you mumble a “thank you” and she smirks before waving you along. 

A few girls from her class catch you both as you’re walking back to the office and you finish your pasta while they talk to her. After you throw your plate away, she hands you the rest of her food without saying a word to you. 

Once again, you have to pretend not to care that your mouth is eating from the same fork that hers was. 

—

You’re back on the deck with Agatha. It’s only her class in the pool—just how you like it. It means it’s just the two of you, no other coaches around. 

One of her students, a girl with light brown hair and black suit, is talking to you about boy drama she’s having, trying to stall having to get in the pool. 

Agatha laughs when you say something snarky and you try to ignore the way your clit pulses. Your hands are slightly trembling, a remnant of all the caffeine you’ve drank today, and you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you again. 

“All right, Jess, you need to go swim,” Agatha says and Jess looks at you pleadingly but you tilt your head toward her coach in agreement. 

She sighs but finally goes to jump in the pool and catches up with her friends. The air is thick with something now that she’s gone and it’s just you and Agatha. 

“How is your love life?” Agatha asks and you stiffen before trying to seem casual. You pick at your nails while she leans over the side of her chair. “Any guys?” 

That makes you snort and you turn to look at her. “I’m not really into guys,” you rasp, voice suddenly deeper. 

She picks up her sunglasses and rests them on top of her head, surveying you. Her blue eyes seem to pierce right through you, and although it’s really hot outside, you shiver. 

What is she going to say? 

All Agatha does is hum and drop her glasses back down onto her nose and you bite your lip at the silence. 

Should you continue that conversation? Tell her about your failed relationships? Ask her about her love life?

“That’s good to know,” she says finally and you stare straight ahead at the pool and hope that she thinks your flush is just from the temperature. 

—

Agatha brings you another energy drink the next morning and you think you get more of a high from her than you do from the caffeine. She’s wearing a green tank top and khaki shorts and you want to get on your knees for her. 

She opens your drink for you again and takes a sip before you can. 

It’s like she wants you to think about kissing her. Like she wants you to imagine it. 

“I hate this type of schedule,” you say. The kids have only their even class periods today, whereas yesterday, they had their odd. 

She smirks and steals the can from you again to take another sip before handing it back. Her fingers brush against yours and there’s droplets on her lip that you want to lick off. “Is it because you don’t get to see me as much?” 

It is. She only has one class out in the pool on days like this. You like the other coaches well enough, but none of them give you the rush that Agatha does. 

“Totally,” you answer sarcastically so she thinks you’re joking. 

Agatha taps your chin with a knowing look and you think she must know a lot more than she lets on. “Don’t get too bored without me.” 

“I could say the same thing to you,” you quip and are delighted when she winks at you. 

She takes a step closer to you and the air gets tighter around you. All you can think about is her leaning in and kissing you slowly. 

But she doesn’t. 

Agatha just gives you a crooked smile and walks out to get her class and you trudge to the pool deck for over an hour of boredom. 

—

“How was it?” Agatha asks when you collapse into a chair in her office after the first period of the day. You’re sweating already, even though it’s still early in the morning, and the sleeves on your shirt are rolled up, baring your shoulders. 

You groan and wipe your forehead. “Those boys are the worst. And you weren't there.” 

She laughs and it’s music to your ears. “I’ll be there next period, don’t worry.” 

It pulls a smile onto your face and she holds your stare for a second. There’s something different about the way she’s looking at you and talking to you. Like there’s a closeness now that wasn’t there before. 

Agatha doesn’t act like this with anyone else, at least not that you’ve noticed. She doesn’t share drinks casually with anyone else like she does with you. 

It has to mean something, right? 

Your hand is trembling again against the desk. No surprise after downing the drink and you can slowly feel yourself start to come down from the high. 

She abruptly slides back in her chair and stands up. You look up in surprise and she puts her hand on top of your shaky one. 

“I need something from the equipment room. Come with me?” she asks, but it’s not really a question. 

And you’d never say no anyway. 

Her office is connected to the gym and she leads you into the storage room on the other side. It’s big and filled with carts of footballs and basketballs and volleyballs and hula hoops hang on the walls and big physio balls are stacked on top of shelves. It smells musty but it doesn’t take long to adjust to it. 

Agatha walks back and forth like she’s looking for something and you don’t get in the way; you stand to the side and run your hands through the line of jump ropes hanging. 

You accidentally catch one of them with your fingertips and end up pulling about six onto the floor. 

Before even thinking about it, you sink to your knees to pick them up. 

Agatha stops in front of you and you just look up at her, dropping the ropes in your hands back onto the floor. It feels like everything goes even quieter than it was before. Can she hear you breathing? You can hear yourself and you don’t know if it’s really as ragged as you think it is. 

Her eyes are dark as she peers down at you and something just feels right about this. 

She must want you too.

She has to like you too. 

Agatha swallows, strangely and uncharacteristically affected, and reaches out to brush a strand of hair back behind your ear. It’s gentle and you almost shiver. Your mouth is watering. 

You could make her feel so good right now. Your clit pulses at the thought. 

Neither of you have moved. 

Will you just stay like this until the bell rings and then pretend that nothing happened?

But then she clears her throat and your eyes dart up to watch her lips move. “You look good like this,” she says, thick and hot and you let out a strangled gasp. 

Your hands are shaking again but it’s not because of the caffeine, it’s because of your desire. Your need. 

She sees it too and smirks. “You are addicted, aren’t you?” 

Addicted to her. 

Is that what she’s asking? 

“Yes,” you admit breathlessly and she grins wolfishly and starts to walk away. You watch her, dumbfounded, until she backs into the wall only a few feet away from where you’re still kneeling and stares expectantly at you. 

And then she hikes up her shirt and unbuttons her shorts and your eyes widen. 

“But—I—you—” you stammer, not sure why you can’t just shut up. This can't be real, this is just some hallucination or something. 

“Are you going to make me feel good?” Agatha asks nonchalantly, like she isn’t about to let you fuck her, and your world tilts on its axis. 

You whimper and nod pathetically and you don’t even care that you’re crawling across a dirty floor on your knees for her because you’d do anything for her at this point. 

How did it get to this point? 

Her thighs are soft under your quivering fingertips and you don’t care if this is a dream or if she calls this a moment of weakness or if you never get to touch her again. 

She tenses as you drag your hands up further to tease the edge of her shorts and you flick your eyes up to watch her through your eyelashes as you pull her zipper down with your teeth. Her chest flares and she reaches up to ruffle her hair with her left hand. 

When her zipper is all the way down, you find a hint of gray cotton underwear peeking through and you quietly groan to yourself. You tug on the waistband and slowly drag them down her pale legs. You can’t resist the urge and you lean in to nip at her thigh and she hisses. 

“We don’t have much time,” Agatha rasps but you move in slow motion anyway, tilting your head back up, eyes travelling up from her shorts pooled at her ankles to the damp fabric between her thighs. She says your name, a testament, maybe, to how much she wants this too. 

You could tease her; it would be payback for all the teasing she’s given you the past few days. 

But you need this as much as she does. 

Agatha lets out a small noise when you lay your hands on her thighs to spread them and you scooch closer to her. You give her one last look, just to make sure, and you only find desire on her face. 

You drag your tongue over her wet gusset and everything is changed between you forever. 

Agatha slumps against the wall and you moan unconsciously at the tangy flavor before sucking on her folds through her underwear. Her hips buck and you’re surprised by how turned on she is already. 

But you can’t talk—you can feel how much of a mess you are. 

You lick at her clit through her underwear which is now a charcoal gray color with your saliva and her wetness staining it. A thrilling high roots itself in your brain at the thought of her walking around in these the rest of the day. You hope she feels how soaked she is with every step she takes.

She gasps and her hand finds your hair. Her fingers tighten and her nails scratch against your scalp, pulling a moan from you. “Hurry up,” she grits out. There’s a longer break on days like these, but you don’t know how much time is left. 

And you’d hate to leave her unsatisfied. 

You pull back and scrape your teeth over her thigh before reaching up to pull her underwear to the side. Her wetness gets on your hand and you suck your fingers into your mouth to clean them. Her top teeth sink into her bottom lip as she stares down at you. 

And then you slowly move back to her cunt, like you’re being pulled magnetically. You breathe heavily, already craving her, and you think you die and go to heaven when you drag your flattened tongue through her folds, able to feel her this time. 

She fills your mouth and your taste buds are flooded with the best thing you’ve ever had and you close your eyes to savor her. Agatha inhales again and slides further down the wall so you’re able to get more between her legs. Your fingers are digging into her thighs and they’re not trembling anymore—you’re getting your fix right now.

Agatha gasps when you lap around her clit, teasing but not giving in just yet. She makes a muffled noise and her fingers warningly tug on your hair and you smirk against her hot center before enclosing your lips around the nub and sucking. Her eyes shoot wide and she clamps her other hand over her mouth. 

Your knees ache from the floor but it hardly even registers because you can feel her clit throbbing in your mouth and her head drops back against the wall and you know you’re doing something right. 

She keens when your tongue slides down to her entrance and then curls up inside her and her hips rock again. Your nose moves over her clit and she does her best to ride your face, as much as her position allows her to. 

Her walls clench around your tongue and more wetness leaks down the side of your face but you can’t get enough. You devour her, frantically mouthing at her pussy, and you still can’t believe this is actually happening. 

“Fuck, your mouth is so good,” she groans and you moan into her. She stiffens over you and you curl your tongue inside her again. She pulses around you. 

You say something into her cunt; it’s muffled and unintelligible and even you don’t know what you’re meaning to say. 

Agatha whimpers and pulls at your hair again when you move back to sucking at her clit. “Right there, fuck, that’s perfect,” she sighs and your tongue lashes against her. 

Her pupils have swallowed up almost all the blue in her eyes and her cheeks are a rosy pink color. The vein in her forehead that you watch throb sometimes is throbbing right now as she looks down at you. 

You’ve never felt like you belonged somewhere as much as you do right now. You could live under her desk with her cunt in your mouth and you don’t think you’d be more content anywhere else. 

Agatha’s fingers are gripping your hair so hard it’s almost painful and you relish in the fact that you’ll feel her phantom touch even after it’s gone. You’ll be sitting on the pool deck next to her, the taste of her still in your mouth, and no one will know. 

It’ll be your little secret. 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to come,” she groans urgently and it’s as close to begging as you’re going to get from her. 

Your teeth scrape against her clit and you dip your tongue back inside her one last time before sucking open-mouthed on her and flicking your tongue over her clit as fast as you can. Agatha throbs and her cunt is getting hotter and your nails dig deeper into her legs. 

“Oh—fuck,” she breathes and you feel her come. Her thighs tighten around your head and shake like your hands were earlier and she yanks on your hair. Her lip has to be stinging from how hard it looks like she’s biting it. 

And you just keep sucking and lapping up her wetness, drunk on her taste and feel and everything. Her noises are delicious and go straight to your own cunt and you want to make her make them over and over again. 

Her clit is still pulsing; you can feel it, and you think she might come again. She has a dazed out look in her eyes as she stares down at you and her breathing is labored. 

But she shakes her head and tugs you away from her and you reluctantly let her. You sit back on your heels, gasping, the entire bottom half of your face and nose slicked with her. 

She chuckles while she takes in the disheveled mess that she’s made you into and wipes her thumb against your chin, collecting her wetness. She holds it out to you and you eagerly suck on her, bobbing up and down to make sure you get all of it. Even after the taste is gone, you don’t stop. 

“Already addicted?” she asks, soft and teasing and this won’t be the last time this happens because you think she might be addicted too. She bends down to pull her pants and underwear back up.

You nod and there’s a smug, triumphant smirk on her face. She’s so proud and there’s a burning sensation that sears through your stomach. 

The bell rings and you’re reminded that you’re on your knees in a storage room in a high school gym and you have to go out and work. 

With Agatha. 

After she just came all over your face. 

You can still taste her and smell her and feel her. 

“Go clean up,” she orders and holds out her hand for you to take. She helps you up and your knees hurt when you bend them and she laughs when you wobble on your feet. 

She looks over your body one last time before nodding assuringly and then walks toward the door. She glances over her shoulder to make sure you’re okay and you follow her out with a foggy mind. 

You already can’t wait for the next time. 

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @500daysofmarissa @tobeawriter98 @hapuchika @r0se16

[physicallyimprobable]

Alright so yes, this does seem like a fake story (unfortunately) but personally I was most interested by comments saying that it was made by AI, since the prose seemed human enough to me. Fortunately, one commenter (@bsidetrack) was kind enough to link this YouTube video which gave some tips, so I decided to try them out on the story above. And of course arrange them in a list, because that's who I am. The numbering is according to the video, with sub-items added whenever I felt like it.

How To Spot LLM Reddit Engagement Bait

None of these points are diagnostic, which makes sense because you, a human, can literally just Write Like This if you want to. These are just all things that add credence to the hypothesis that a post was written with LLM. In particular, multiple people pointed out in the comments of the video that folks with the 'tism tend to do a lot of these, and indeed are more likely to be falsely accused of being LLMs.

(Also I'm using the term LLM because I'm tired of people conflating all AI with this garbage.)

Good grammar and syntax. Even spacing, starting letters of sentences are capitalized, clauses are correctly separated, etc. Not really evidence for an LLM so much as lack of evidence against an LLM. Plenty of humans (including myself) do their best to write with proper grammar. Predictive text models, however, find it difficult to speak with obviously-bad grammar. I like the analogy used in the video: "Averaging the output of the entire internet to generate a Reddit post reduces mistakes, the same way that averaging the faces of a bunch of people returns a face that is more symmetrical than most individual faces." 1a. Inconsistent grammar and syntax. The definitions for "correct" grammar differ with cultures, but a given person will usually use a single convention, while an LLM will flip between correct conventions at random. The most common examples are switching between dash sizes and changing the way quotation marks interact with other punctuation. This post doesn't really do any of that, though; all of the quotation marks are the same and all punctuation is pulled inside.

Neat structure. Each paragraph is about a specific topic, which was introduced by the first sentence. Again this is good practice, so humans can and will do this, which means this point is more about how seeing a poorly structured post gives evidence of it having been made by a human.

Long dashes. In many of these websites, including Reddit in particular, there is no way to get an em-dash or an en-dash beside using a keyboard shortcut, which a strong majority of people don't know about. Now, I personally am very aware of these shortcuts and sometimes use them (well, I use the em-dash sometimes and the en-dash never) but from a probabilistic perspective, if you see text using an em-dash—which, to be clear, looks like this—it's more likely to have come from an LLM than from a person. I suppose I should also give an example of an en dash, but there's only like 2–3 correct uses for them.

Excessive direct quotes. Humans telling a story about themselves will usually not bring in direct quotes, since remembering an actual quote from a casual conversation is something that almost nobody does. Of course, humans can and do remember and quote single words and phrases, but LLMs will quote entire sentence fragments, even if it doesn't really make sense to do so. Honestly most of the quotes in the above passage make sense to me, but "The spirits have chosen you. I can't fight them anymore." seems a bit on the borderline. 4a. There's also a specific structure that LLMs love to use, where someone describes something with "a descriptor in quotations" and "a second descriptor in quotations". That is, when describing what a person is saying they give exactly two quoted examples. This one doesn't appear in the story above, but you can see a lot of examples in the video.

Common words, phrases and tropes. Let's toss these in a sub-list. Keep in mind that none of these are hard evidence since they are, in fact, common. 5a. "I was floored. I was stunned. I was blown away." LLMs love emphasizing that characters are surprised by things. 5b. Smirking, grinning, or a combination of the two. I'm willing to bet this is specific of AITA LLM posts, but they love making their antagonists smirk. 5c. "My friends and family are split on the issue." LLMs love stating that the people around the poster have divided opinions about the issue, on account of that's what the AITA subreddit is focused on. This is especially egregious because a lot of the LLM stories have one perspective that is very clearly in the right, to the extent that anyone taking the other side would need to be downright malicious. We have a very good example here: Her friends are divided; half of them are taking her side while the other half say she should have "just kicked him out the normal way", you know, the thing she'd been trying to do for six months. 5d. Overhearing whispers to a stunning degree of accuracy, especially if it's about a contentious topic. 5e. "So, Reddit, AITA?" Honestly seems pretty weak as evidence to me since like 60% of human posts end this way, but apparently LLMs are more likely to use that specific phrasing, and more likely to provide a little summary of the problem after asking. This ties in to point 2, so the same caveats from there apply. In our case, I'd also like to point out that this summary doesn't really fit the story; nowhere does it seem that Steve is "emotionally clingy". He just seems like a normal loser. Also, from the comments of the video: 5f. "So buckle up, because here's where it gets wild." LLMs enjoy nothing more than a good escalation. We have a "now here's where it gets spicy" in this one as well.

So funny you forget to laugh. LLMs love making the most milquetoast wink-to-the-camera jokes you've ever seen. It's hard to describe the theme of them in words, but honestly for me the hard part is to clock them as attempted jokes in the first place since they're so terribly not funny. I think "which, honestly, was kind of flattering" might have been an attempted joke. I can't tell because I can't see if the author is winking to the camera or not.

Unbelievable details. Your standard "and everyone clapped" fare: strangers being invested in your issues, crazy coincidences, and contrived happenings. The ferret thing is one example, as is the bluetooth speaker in the walls, but neither of those seem too ridiculous on their own to me. The weirdest part for me was the friend using special effects makeup to "pretend to be a Victorian child ghost in the hallway mirror." How would that even work? Surely for him to see her in the hallway mirror, she would have to be behind him in the hallway? Also, what kind of makeup changes your height to be that of a child? 7a. A complete lack of emotional investment in the part of the poster. Real people are usually reluctant to leave long-term relationships, and will basically always have some strong emotions about doing so, but LLMs typically either paper this over with a simple phrase like "I was devastated" or (as we see in this example) fail to mention any emotional reaction at all. 7b. Omitting parts of the story that people usually include, and in particular the breakup process itself. How much of the stuff in her apartment was his? She states that he "packed a bag" and left; were all of his worldly possessions in there? Real breakups have logistics and annoyances, especially between people who had been living together.

Woah that's a wacky premise! LLM stories will generally have more outlandish titles and premises than real ones. (This can unfortunately only really be used as a test if you're on the actual subreddit, since the posts that get screenshot and spread are always such posts anyways.) Faking a haunted house definitely fits the bill. 8a. Another tip for finding them natively on Reddit is to check their comment history. LLM comments will be the most therapy-textbook all-affirming statements, every time. 8b. Everyone sucks! Stories in which every single person is being antagonistic to a cartoonish degree are way better at generating engagement than those in which characters are at all reasonable.

So, of all these red flags, which ones does the story raise? We've got clear violations of 1 and 2 (although not 1a) which could mean nothing. They're safe on point 3, with no long dashes in sight. Point 4 is questionable at best; definitely more quotation than usual, but still not at a level that I find strange. From the canned tropes we have 5c, 5e, and 5f. Jury's out on 6 and honestly I'm not sure if I'd be able to find an example even if it were there. Clear violations of 7, 7a, and 7b; crimes against plausibility that suggest the story is at least made up by a human, if not an LLM. Finally, a violation of point 8, although they're fine on 8b and it's impossible to verify 8a since their account has mysteriously vanished (as far as I could find).

In summary, while we can never be fully sure, the story contains enough of the hallmarks of LLM writing that I'm willing to at least entertain the possibility. I'd say pretty certain fake, and probable LLM story.

[heartyluv]

I love your writings of Zayne and Sylus! Can you do one of Zayne and Sylus (separately) where reader tells them that she thinks they should break up because she feels like she isn’t good enough for him so she needs to focus on herself, plus he’s been so busy, and they haven’t had time to be with each other for a while. Which leads up to this moment. Zayne and Sylus ofc get angry because they love reader so much and deny her request. No matter what they will always chose her and who is she to tell him how to feel. Kind of angsty, passionate, and deep yearning if you get what I’m saying. Thank you.🙇🏻‍♀️

Note: You guys are getting all the angst today LOLL. I had some extra time to actually get this done, especially since it didn’t need to be too long. I hope you enjoy, luvly! Thank you so much for being here.

Warning: You talk badly about yourself in this, but I’m here to tell you that all of you luvlys deserve nothing but the absolute best and nothing less. I luv you. 😚

Zayne

Zayne was worried when he got a text from you while he was at work during another one of his late night shifts. He hasn’t been able to be around you for long for the last couple of weeks because of being on call so often lately, so when you messaged him on your own accord for the first time in a while at almost one in the morning, all his focus was out the window. It was a good thing he was due to go home soon.

“Hey, Z. Sorry if you’re busy. Nothing’s wrong, but if you had time tomorrow, could I come by and we talk for a little bit? Love you.”

He wasn’t waiting until tomorrow. Especially when he tried to text and call you and you didn’t answer any attempt. And not when you texted him like that. No emojis, no babe, no lovebug, not even an I in saying that you love him. So when he finally was able to get out of the hospital, the first thing he did was drive to your home.

He doesn’t know about the mental turmoil you’ve been dealing with. He doesn’t know that it’s been going on long before he started getting really busy.

You’ve been feeling insecure about, well, everything. About you not feeling like you’re good enough for someone as talented, intelligent, and handsome as your boyfriend, feeling like he deserves someone who can match him in ways you believe you’re incapable of doing. The distance hasn’t helped, and all you could think of was all the pretty doctors and nurses that he’s around everyday, all the women he encounters on the daily who are undoubtedly just as enamored by him as you were when you first laid your eyes on him.

You tried to convince yourself that this was just you having a moment of weakness, that you simply missed him so much that your brain couldn’t help but try and pin something on you since you haven’t seen him in what feels like forever. It got so bad that you genuinely wondered if he was working overtime, longer than usual, just to get away from you.

Because you knew Zayne was never that cruel, you came to the conclusion that it was time to talk, to tell him that perhaps breaking up is good for the both of you so he doesn’t have to deal with you.

You were rehearsing all of what you hoped you could properly communicate in your bed, when you got a text.

“I’m outside. Please open the door.”

Your whole body froze. He wasn’t supposed to be here now. But you couldn’t just leave him out there, so you dragged yourself out of bed to get ready to tell him something you’d never be prepared enough to say.

His eyes were full of curiosity, confusion, and concern when you stood face to face. He was so worried that he didn’t even bother removing his coat or making himself comfortable. Instead, he just turned your light on so that he could see you properly.

“I got your text, yet you didn’t respond to me when I tried to message and call you back. You’ve worried me. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

You swallow, feeling the tears in your eyes burn as you tried to get yourself right to say what you needed to. But every time you looked into his worrying eyes, your heart cracked. For yourself and for the fact that even with the love in them, you couldn’t help but feel like you were undeserving of it.

“I think we need to break up, Zayne,” you rush out, shutting your eyes and breathing out as if you were being held underwater. No amount of tugging on your pajama sleeve was going to ease your nerves, so you resorted to your fingers, picking at the skin until it hurt.

Zayne hated that. He placed a large palm on both of your hands, looking down at them before he looked up at you.

“Is it something I’ve done wrong? Because of my recent increase in absence?” he studies you, trying to look for any of your ticks to try and see if you’ll lie.

“I just—” the tears fall loosely, rushing down your cheeks. Instead of piecing your thoughts together, they just start spilling out uncontrollably. “I just believe you deserve so much more than me, than what I offer you. I could never be what you need, what you deserve. You’re one of the youngest and most successful surgeons in the world, Zayne. You are so perfect that it makes me wonder how I was so lucky to be given someone like you. And because of that it’s best for me to just let you go so that you—“

“Stop,” he interrupts you. “You don’t get to tell me what I deserve when everything and all I’ve ever wanted, needed, is standing right in front of me, trying to leave.”

Your heart beats rapidly from the intense emotions and heavy stress you’ve weighed upon yourself.

“I could lose my job, lose everything I’ve ever earned in this life, and the only thing that would keep me going is you, do you understand that?” He reaches his hand up to cup your face. “But because you’ve come to me with this, it’s obvious that I’ve failed in making sure you know and understand how special you are to me. And it is my responsibility to instill that security in you and us, again.”

He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. He shut all of that down before you had the chance to dig an unnecessary hole deeper, even if that uncertainly is still in the back of your mind.

“I will listen to your concerns and I will mend your heart, but I will not let you discredit or talk down on the only person I’ll only and will ever, love. Is that fair?”

You nod, unable to speak due to embarrassment, relief, and even because of that tinge of fear in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you only mumble.

“There’s no need to apologize to me. It’s my fault for letting these thoughts have the chance to stew in your pretty mind when I know that reassurance is one of the things that keeps us strong. We’re okay, my love. We always will be.”

Sylus

When you started ignoring Sylus’ text messages today, he tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. You had times where you forgot to even look at your phone, so he couldn’t fault you. His kitten, funnily enough, was still human. He was bothered that you had only spoken with him once this morning and it was almost five in the evening now.

Even then, he figured that since he’ll see you later, you can tell him what was so much more important than him while he teased you about it. But when you ignored his phone calls, he knew there was a problem.

You never missed a call from him because his ringtone was the song he had playing when he asked to be your boyfriend. It was a beautiful night on a luxurious rooftop restaurant that he rented for the night as a special way to romance you. It was unique and the song always had you smiling, floating to your phone when you went to pick up as that same dreamy memory replayed in your mind. So now that you’re not answering, his anger and concern began to mend together.

“She’s home?” Luke says with confusion when he gives Sylus your location. He had him find you after his first and only attempt to call you went to voicemail.

“Boss, did you do something?” Kieran asks, his tone laced with shock. You never got like this and the only thing he could think was that after almost three years together, you must’ve had your first real big fight that they were unaware of.

Prepared to debunk that theory, he suddenly got the text message that had him in front of your house faster than anything or anyone could comprehend.

“I’m breaking up with you, Sylus. I’m so sorry.”

Sylus angry was scary—because he didn’t look angry. He had the face that you could compare to a sleeping baby; calm, peaceful unbothered. But under the surface, he was one wrong sentence away from losing his shit.

Your door was thrown open, broken off the hinges when you ran into your living room. His head quirked to the side when he saw you. Puffy and eyes, runny nose, oversized clothing in a relatively warm house. He didn’t know what was wrong, but running from him? He wasn’t allowing it.

“It seems you’ve gotten my attention as you anticipated, sweetie.” He steps toward you, feeling his heart twist with concern as you look at everything but his eyes. “You ignore me, and I allow it all day. Yet to repay me for my generosity, my sweet kitten decides to push her luck and sends me nonsense.”

His playful attempt to control himself drops when he thinks of how prepared you were to just send him that message as if he would ever just accept such a thing. “There is nothing above me that I an incapable of fixing when it comes to keeping you happy. Talk to me. Tell me what needs to be done so that we can resolve it together like we’re supposed to.”

You taught Sylus what real communication was. In this moment, he’s thankful for it because he’s determined to use it to get rid of all your worries and concerns. He tilts your chin up when you refuse to look at him and that sends the waterworks rushing again.

Sylus has been so busy that this was the first night you would’ve seen him face to face in over a month. A part of the reason as to why you were driven to send him that message is because you felt like he was only ready to see you since you nagged him so much.

Even if you didn’t seem to understand that, it couldn’t be further away from the truth for the man looking down at you with determination. Being away from you was hard, but your safety meant more to him than anything. Being apart from you was necessary to ensure nothing ever touched a hair on your head while he handled things you didn’t need to concern yourself with.

Between him being gone and the type of charismatic man he is, you firmly believed that Sylus would inevitably find someone better. You became so dependent on him in a way that made you feel desperate. You felt that maybe you were way in over your head, that this separation was needed so that you could accurately reflect.

You believe that he should have someone secure in themselves, someone who could keep up with him. Someone that was better than you, someone more than you’d ever be.

“I’ve been thinking… And I believe that it’s good for the both us to separate. I didn’t intend to drop this on you, not like this. I just feel like I’m not worthy of you—that you’re a man that women would give nothing but the best to. All I want is for you to get the things that make you happy, not have you settling for something like me.”

You’re surprised that he actually let you finish.

He breathes out, shaking his head slightly. “For someone so smart, your mind must’ve worked tirelessly to convince you to believe something so ridiculous.”

His thumb runs along your bottom lip, staring at them before he looks into your eyes. “It insults me that you don’t think that I know what I want, that I know what I deserve. It insults me that you would belittle the only real thing I’ve ever had in my life, so boldly. It angers me, that I’ve not done my part to properly ensure that you know that you are the only person alive that I would destroy this planet and myself for.”

Your breath hitches when he pulls you closer. “If you ever believed for a second, that I’d let you simmer in this darkness, that I’d let you leave me, I need to do a better job in showing you the kind of man whose children you’ll carry.” He kisses your nose. “Whose ring you’ll bear.” Another kiss to your lips. “Whose heart you will always own.” A final one to your forehead.

“Sylus…” you whimper, feeling the emotions bubble inside you again, threatening to spillover. You want to believe that what you sent was a spark of simple insecurity. But you know it’s been inside you long enough for it to erupt the way it did.

It’s the fact that he would never even allow you to deal with any of this on your own that makes your tears spill.

“You don’t need to say anything, pretty.” He rubs the tears away, one by one as they come. “The only thing you need to tell me are ways we can make sure that this belief never plagues your mind again and how I can keep you confident in my love for you.”

He simply takes your hand, walking out of your apartment and makes a phone call to have your door repaired tonight because you’ll be staying with him until further notice.

“You’re stuck with me for life, kitten. Not even death could keep me from you. And I’m going to make sure that you always understand that.”

[sluttapes]

⌞ 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐱⌝

christoper owen & matthew bernard sturniolo

𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦ㆍ𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵ㆍ𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴ㆍ𝘴𝘶𝘣!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳ㆍ𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹ㆍ𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦-𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 ㆍ𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴ㆍ𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘮𝘴ㆍ𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘱𝘪𝘦ㆍ

𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴

▸ tape length — 2.6k

the living room was dim, the kind of lazy, golden light that made everything feel softer than it was. some late-night show murmured in the background, forgotten, the only real sound the occasional click of chris’s lighter and the soft hum of your phone. you were curled into the couch between them—chris sprawled out to your left, his bare knees brushing yours, and matt to your right, leaning back with a can of soda in hand and that usual unreadable look on his face. it’d been quiet for a while, comfortable, familiar. nick was out somewhere, and the night had settled into the kind of calm where conversations twist in ways they’re not supposed to. you didn’t expect the edit on your fyp to be the thing that cracked it open. but there it was. an old video—one of those q&a’s where a fan had asked, “who would win in a threesome?”

you snorted, volume low, thumb pausing on the screen. “do you think there’d be a winner?” you asked it like a joke, letting the phone drop to your thigh.

matt shrugged, noncommittal. “i dunno. weird thing to wanna win.”

but chris? chris just grinned, eyes lighting up with that cocky spark he wore too damn well. “me. easy.”

matt looked over, brows lifting. “what?”

“you heard me,” chris said, stretching, the hem of his shirt lifting just enough to show toned stomach. “you’re too careful. you’d overthink it. i don’t think you know how to really make a woman feel good.”

you laughed, hand over your mouth, but matt straightened up, scoffing.

“what, you sayin’ i can’t make a woman cum or some shit?” he snapped, half-serious now, jaw tightening.

“i’m sayin’ i’d get there first,” chris replied, smirking. “and she’d remember me more.”

they started bickering, voices rising, throwing half-serious jabs, and you leaned your head back on the couch, groaning.

“not like y’all would ever even have a threesome. i’m sure that shit’s weird, no?”

silence. heavy and immediate. you blinked, glancing between them.

matt’s voice broke it, quiet but pointed. “you ever had a threesome?”

you went still. eyes shifted your way—first matt’s, then chris’s. you swallowed, suddenly too aware of the space between your legs, the way the air thickened.

“…no,” you answered, and you hated how soft it came out.

chris tilted his head, his smirk dropping into something slower. heavier. “you want to?”

your mouth parted. nothing came out. and you didn’t know how it escalated from there, not really. it was a blur. touches that lingered too long, glances that grew darker, bolder. and now—now you were perched on chris’s lap, his shirt gone, bare chest warm against your back, and matt was in front of you, kneeling on the floor, steady hands guiding your hips as he lowered you slowly onto his brother’s cock. your breath caught, lips parted, heart pounding so hard it ached.

chris groaned behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you steady. “fuck—shit—so tight,” he breathed into your shoulder.

matt looked up at you, brows drawn, fingers digging into your thighs as you sank deeper. “you okay?” his voice was quieter than before, a little hoarse, like he was trying not to lose it already.

you nodded, shaky, eyes locked on his. your hands found his shoulders, gripping tight.

“yeah,” you whispered. “just… fuck.”

“you sure?” matt asked again, but this time his thumbs smoothed circles into your skin.

you nodded again, this time with more certainty. and when chris rolled his hips up from below, and matt leaned in to kiss you—soft at first, then hungrier—you stopped thinking entirely. your whole body trembled, hands braced weakly against matt’s thighs, face buried there as your chest heaved in time with every slow, deep thrust chris gave you from beneath. he was relentless, cock buried so deep inside you it was like he wanted to live there, dragging whimpers out of you every time his hips snapped up into yours.

“you’re so sensitive, jesus, kid,” chris groaned against your back, voice rough and laced with disbelief. “when’s the last time you got laid?”

“chris.” matt’s tone was sharp, standing now, his hand curling gently at the back of your neck. protective.

but chris only groaned louder, your walls fluttering around him with no warning. “no, m’ serious. she’s fuckin’ clamping down on my dick like crazy—shit—”

you cried out a breath, shaky and broken, forehead pressing tighter against matt’s thigh as your body jolted with the force of chris’s sudden buck up into you. the stretch, the fullness, the heat—it was all too much. had been too much since it started.

“i thought you were messin’ round with that dude you were friends with?” matt asked, his voice gentler than his brother’s, but teasing all the same, eyes focused on the way you squirmed.

you barely managed a reply, voice thin, fucked-out. “o-only sucked him—off.”

chris scoffed behind you, hands digging into your hips. “he didn’t even fuck you or nothin’?”

“chris.” matt again, firmer this time, but it barely registered through the pounding in your head, the building pressure curling deep inside you.

“w-we were—fuck—we were pretty drunk,” you managed, breath hitching when chris angled his hips up again, hitting something that made your vision flash white.

“pretty irresponsible,” matt murmured, his voice dropping lower as he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his sweats. he pulled them down slowly, his cock already half hard, his gaze never leaving your face.

“matt, you gonna keep fuckin’ lecturing her,” chris grunted through his teeth, thrusting into you harder now, “or you gonna fuck her mouth?”

matt let out a breath of a laugh, one hand brushing a thumb along your bottom lip as you looked up at him, pupils blown wide, drool shining at the corner of your mouth.

“m’ gettin’ there.”

and with that, he stepped forward, guiding his cock to your lips, tapping it lightly once—twice—against your tongue. you opened up for him like instinct, like need, moaning as he slid inside, slow and deep. now you were full in every sense of the word—chris fucking up into you from below, matt filling your throat with quiet groans above. you didn’t stand a chance. matt’s hand settled at the back of your head, fingers gentle but firm as he guided you down on his cock, inch by inch, until your lips were flushed against his skin. he let out a low hiss, thumb brushing soothingly along your cheek as you whimpered around him, tears already brimming in your lashes from how deep he was.

“that’s it,” he whispered, soft and full of praise. “doin’ so good for me, baby.”

behind you, chris was the complete opposite—rough hands gripping your hips like he owned them, holding you still just to drive up into you with bruising, punishing thrusts. the stretch burned, your whole body tensing with every slap of skin against skin, but you couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to. not with the way chris groaned every time you fluttered around him. not with the way matt was stroking your cheek so gently like you were fragile, even with his cock shoved down your throat.

“fuck, look at you,” chris grunted, breath hot against your shoulder. “droolin’ all over matt’s cock while i’m fuckin’ that pretty pussy.”

you whined around matt, choking slightly when chris bucked up harder, your throat constricting. matt’s other hand came up immediately, soothing over your jaw, easing you back just an inch so you could breathe.

“slow, chris,” he warned, voice still calm but firmer now. “she’s not a toy.”

“she’s takin’ it,” chris snapped, though his thrusts faltered for just a second. “pussy’s so wet, she’s fuckin’ beggin’ for it.”

he slapped your ass, hard, and you yelped around matt’s cock, choking slightly again. matt cupped your face, shushing you softly, easing you off him just enough so you could breathe again. “you okay, sweetheart?”

your lips were glossy, jaw aching, mascara smudging under your eyes. you nodded quickly, overwhelmed and desperate, your hips still rocking back into chris with every thrust, chasing the high even if it was tearing you apart.

“atta girl,” matt whispered, pushing his cock past your lips again, slower this time. “you tell me if it’s too much.”

“god, she’s fuckin’ squeezing me,” chris groaned, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. he tugged, hard, forcing you back against his chest as he fucked up into you. “so fuckin’ desperate, huh? that mouth, this pussy—fuck—gonna make me lose it.”

you sobbed around matt’s cock, everything tightening inside you, your climax winding up impossibly fast from the overstimulation. between the sweet praise dripping from matt’s lips and the rough grip of chris slamming into your soaked cunt, it was like your body didn’t know how to handle it.

“you gonna cum for us?” matt asked gently, brushing your hair out of your face. “you wanna be good and let go, baby?”

chris leaned in, his voice rough against your ear. “do it. c’mon, mama, make a fuckin’ mess all over my cock.”

and you did. hard. your body seized, trembling so violently chris had to hold you up, your mouth falling open around matt as a broken, choked cry escaped you. everything blurred—pleasure so sharp it hurt, heat crawling up your spine, stars exploding behind your eyes.

“holy shit,” chris groaned, hips stuttering as you clenched around him. “fuck—‘m gonna—”

chris groaned, fucking you through his own release, hips jerking as he spilled inside you, his grip bruising on your hips. you were still shaking when matt eased you back into his hands, lifting your chin to look at him.

“can you take me now, or is that too much?” he asked softly.

your lips trembled, eyes glassy.

“w-want it,” you breathed. “please, matt.”

he smiled—slow and sweet—before guiding you down onto the couch.

“good girl,” he murmured, kissing you softly. “let me take care of you.”

you didn’t even notice chris disappearing to calm himself down with a shower when matt laid you down gently, like you were made of glass, one hand behind your head, the other soothing down your side as chris backed off the couch, chest still heaving, his eyes locked on the mess he made between your thighs. but matt wasn’t looking at that. his focus was all on your face—your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the tremble in your thighs that hadn’t stopped.

“you sure?” he asked again, thumb brushing tender over your jaw.

you nodded, legs already falling open for him, greedy in a way you couldn’t even be ashamed of anymore.

“want you,” you whispered, voice ruined.

matt gave you a soft, crooked smile. “you got me, baby.”

and then he sank down, pressing a kiss just below your ear, another on your neck, trailing lower, worshipping you in a way that made your chest ache. his fingers slid between your legs first—careful, coaxing, easing through the mess chris had left inside you, his brows pulling in as you whimpered.

“you’re still so sensitive,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “so fuckin’ beautiful..”

when he finally pressed inside, it was slow—so fucking slow you felt every inch stretch you out all over again, your back arching instinctively, a soft moan slipping from your lips.

“oh my god—matt,” you gasped, hands flying to his shoulders.

he groaned low, lips brushing your temple. “fuck, you feel so good. you okay, sweetheart?”

you nodded again, nails digging into his skin as he bottomed out. he started to move, hips rolling in that sweet, steady rhythm that left no space between your bodies, his forehead resting against yours.

“you don’t gotta do anything,” he whispered between kisses. “just let me feel you, yeah? just this.”

you whimpered, body already twitching from how deep he was hitting, but it wasn’t like chris—there was no punishing pace, no sharp snap of hips. matt moved like he wanted you to melt under him, like he wanted to erase every rough edge with every soft, slow thrust. you felt yourself build again, overwhelmed but weightless, like your body was floating under him.

“you gonna cum again, baby?” matt breathed, voice warm against your mouth. “c’mon, let me feel it, pretty girl. wanna feel you cum f’me.”

you clung to him like you were drowning, jaw slack, moans high and soft and broken.

“matt, i—fuck, i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he said, kissing you again, deep and slow and dizzying. “you’re already there. i got you, baby.”

and he was right. your whole body seized again, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through you, softer this time—but no less intense. your thighs shook, your head fell back, a sound escaping you that barely sounded human. matt groaned when he felt you tighten, his own pace faltering as he buried himself deep one last time, hips grinding as he came with a low, breathless moan right against your lips. everything went quiet except for your breathing. the sound of your heart racing in your ears. matt stayed there for a while, forehead against yours, his hand stroking your hip gently, grounding you.

finally, matt eased out of you slowly, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw.

“gonna clean you up,” he murmured, already standing.

you reached for him lazily, eyes half-lidded. “stay. i’m fine.”

he gave you a crooked smile, brushing your hair off your damp forehead. “not gonna leave. just gonna get a towel, alright?”

you nodded, letting your eyes fall shut, your body spent and warm and safe on the familiar couch. you were still draped across the couch like your bones had melted, limbs heavy, skin buzzing. matt had tucked a blanket over you before disappearing into the kitchen, muttering something about water. your body ached in the sweetest way possible—thighs sore, lips swollen, your mind floating somewhere far off and soft. the front bathroom door clicked open. chris strolled out in a cloud of steam, hair wet and curling around his ears, shirtless again—of course—and toweling off the back of his neck as he stepped into the room. he paused when he saw you, a low laugh huffing out of his chest as he dropped into the seat beside you.

“you okay?” he asked, quieter this time. his fingers ghosted across your lower back, drawing slow, idle circles. not trying to start something, just… grounding you. like he actually cared how you were doing.

you hummed, too content to even lift your head, cheek smushed into the couch cushion. “m’fine.”

he smirked. “you look fucked out.”

“that’s ‘cause i am.”

he chuckled again, the sound softer this time. “fair.”

you let the silence hang for a second, too cozy to speak, the heat from his hand a steady warmth against your spine. but then—because he couldn’t help himself:

“soo…”

you cracked one eye open.

“who won?”

you let out a sharp breath through your nose, scoffing, head shaking in disbelief. “are you serious right now?”

chris grinned like a bastard. “it’s a valid question.”

“jesus christ,” you muttered, grabbing the nearest pillow and shoving it into his face, not even hard enough to hurt, just enough to wipe the smugness off him.

he laughed behind the fluff. “you didn’t say no to making this a game!”

“i didn’t say yes either.”

he peeked at you from behind the pillow, still smirking. “well. i know it wasn’t matt.”

matt’s voice chimed in from the doorway, smooth and casual as he handed you a water bottle. “yeah? pretty sure she was still shaking when i finished.”

you groaned, burying your face again. “this is insane.”

“so lettin’ your best friends fuck you isnt?” chris replied.

“i’m sorry, he’s got a point..,” matt added with a chuckle.

you rolled your eyes—but you didn’t stop smiling. tonight wasn’t about either of them ‘winning’ or ‘proving’ something. not for them, (at least not for matt,) but it definitely was something.

dividers by @strangergraphics

🎞️ @tits4matt @loser41ifee @sweetshuga @nickysturnss @courta13 @sophsturns @starsforu @h3arts4nat @emely9274 @chestersturn @watercolorskyy @httpssturns @cherryystemm @adoremattsturns @jaybirdie34 @sturnspecial @secretaccountx5 @ivysturnss @fmalewokk @zenithsturniolo @iloveduckssm @facetimemethatpussy3 @iloveduckssm @zenithsturniolo @sturnsrecord

[izzih22]

heyy, first of all thank you for all the fics you’ve been releasing you’ve been doing alot for our entertainment 💕I would like to request a short for you to give you a break lol.

So Azzi’s at a bar with her friends, Paige isn’t there, and the topic of relationships come up and one of Azzi’s friends is talking about how her feet were hurting so her boyfriend helped her walk to the car and azzi’s like “you walk?” (paige literally carries her) i hope you get what i’m saying😭😭 the whole one shot is just her being oblivious to bad relationship things or just things that a normal human can do for themselves because paige treats her like an absolute goddess.

You Walk?

Note: thank you so much!! I kinda made it longer so hope you like it!!

It’s one of those rare weekends with no games and no early practices. Just an off-night, a quiet pocket of time in the chaos of their season. So naturally, KK suggests the local lounge down the road that doesn’t card too hard and plays R&B remixes on Saturdays.

They roll in like they always do—sweatpants and messy buns, still talking about drills that went wrong or teammates who didn’t box out. Azzi’s with them, of course, even if she keeps glancing at her phone every few minutes.

“Paige isn’t coming,” Caroline says as they slide into a corner booth, raising a brow.

Azzi looks up, too fast. “I know.”

“She had film or something, right?” KK asks, already digging into the nachos they ordered before even sitting down.

“Yeah,” Azzi nods, checking her phone again. “Film and then treatment on her ankle.”

“Poor girl’s glued together with KT tape and stubbornness,” Ice mutters, stealing a chip.

“She’s fine,” Azzi says. “She just… doesn’t rest unless someone makes her.”

“Guess that someone is you?” Sarah teases.

Azzi shrugs, biting back a smile. “Sometimes.”

The drinks come—sodas, Shirley Temples, one rogue ginger beer Ice claims “tastes mature.” The music is mellow, the lighting soft. It’s one of those rare moments they all feel twenty-something and not like full-time athletes living on granola bars and ankle braces.

“So,” Jana says, kicking things off as she always does, “relationship question.”

KK groans. “Why do you always do this?”

“Because we’re five girls in a booth on a Saturday night and I’m trying to live a rom-com.”

Caroline snorts. “You need better material.”

Jana ignores her. “What’s the most romantic thing someone’s done for you after a game?”

Ice perks up immediately. “Ooh. Okay, not a boyfriend, but the guy I’ve been seeing lately he picked me up from that away game last weekend, right? I had on these heeled boots…bad decision…and after the game, my feet were screaming. And he walked me all the way back to the car, like arm around me, helping me limp.”

“Aww,” Sarah coos.

Caroline nods. “That’s sweet.”

Azzi, sipping her lemonade, tilts her head. “Wait… you walked?”

The table quiets.

Ice looks over. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t get carried?”

KK snorts. “What?”

Azzi blinks slowly, clearly confused. “If my feet hurt, Paige just carries me to the car.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then…

“I’m sorry,” Caroline says, setting down her drink. “She what?”

Azzi shrugs. “Carries me. Like, arms around my neck, bridal style. She opens the car door with her elbow while holding me.”

Ice stares at her. “You mean like… she’s done this more than once?”

Azzi squints, doing mental math. “It’s kind of our thing. I don’t really walk if I don’t have to after games.”

Jana’s mouth is slightly open. “You… you don’t walk?”

“Not if I’m tired.”

Sarah leans in, looking way too invested. “Does she do this in public?”

“Yeah?”

Caroline is actively holding her head in her hands. “You’re not in a relationship. You’re in a royal court.”

“I thought this was normal,” Azzi mutters, eyes narrowing.

“Azzi,” KK says seriously. “She carried your entire duffel bag and you after the Stanford game.”

“I was sore!”

“She was too!”

Azzi frowns. “She’s stronger than me.”

Everyone knows she lying. Paige is strong but Azzi is a machine. But alas they don’t say anything just smirk.

“You could have walked.”

“Could I have?” Azzi asks genuinely, like she’s never considered the possibility.

Sarah is absolutely losing it. “What else does she do for you that you think is normal?”

Azzi shrugs. “I dunno. She ties my shoes sometimes?”

“Sometimes?” Ice echoes, nearly choking on her drink.

“Well, like, when I’m wearing those shoes with the complicated laces and I don’t feel like doing it. She does them for me.”

KK throws her head back. “I’m actually gonna scream.”

“Oh,” Azzi adds thoughtfully. “She always opens my water bottles too.”

Caroline leans across the table. “Azzi. You are a D1 athlete. You have hands.”

“She gets to them before I do!”

“I’ve watched her unwrap your protein bars.”

“Only the ones with the sticky wrappers.”

“She cuts your grapes.”

“They taste better when they’re in halves!”

“Have you ever carried her to the car?” Sarah asks.

Azzi blinks. “She doesn’t like being carried.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No…”

Jana laughs. “You are a princess and you don’t even know it.”

“She microwaves my hoodie before practice when it’s cold,” Azzi offers softly, almost defensively now.

Caroline groans. “Microwaves?!”

“It’s not weird! She wraps it in a towel and puts it in for like, fifteen seconds. So it’s warm.”

KK turns to the group. “I am dating the wrong people.”

Ice clutches her drink. “I’m not even really dating and I feel wronged.”

Azzi’s phone buzzes. She glances at it and smiles instantly.

“What is it?” Caroline asks.

“She just texted me. ‘Did you eat enough?’”

“Tell her no,” Sarah says. “So she’ll pull up with food in twenty minutes and a blanket and probably a slideshow presentation about nutrients.”

Azzi giggles, typing a reply. The girls all watch her, a mix of affectionate disbelief and exasperated envy.

“You know what’s wild,” KK says, voice a little softer now. “She really doesn’t do that for anyone else.”

“Does what?” Azzi asks, still texting.

“All of it,” Jana says, smiling. “She’s cool with us, yeah. But Paige? She spoils you. Like, in ways she doesn’t even realize.”

“She worships you,” Caroline says, not unkindly. “You’re like her favorite person.”

Azzi blinks, cheeks pinking. “She’s my favorite person too.”

There’s a little silence after that. One of those good, warm ones.

Ice sighs dramatically. “Y’all are disgusting.”

Kk raises her glass. “To not walking.”

Everyone laughs.

Azzi raises her glass too, her phone lighting up again with a message from Paige.

PAIGE:

If you’re still hungry, I can bring you something when I’m done. Or just come pick you up.

She smiles, melts a little, and types back:

AZZI:

I’m good. But you can still come pick me up if you want. I miss you.

PAIGE:

On my way.

Azzi sets her phone down, heart full. Her team is still roasting her, still in disbelief but underneath it, there’s love. So much of it.

⸻

Azzi’s just stepped out of the bar when she sees her.

Paige is parked right out front, leaning casually against the passenger door in a hoodie and joggers, arms crossed, hair pulled back in a low bun like she didn’t spend the last two hours watching film and icing. Her eyes soften the second she sees Azzi.

Azzi doesn’t even try to play it cool. She lights up instantly.

Paige pushes off the car and meets her halfway.

“Hey,” she says, already reaching to adjust Azzi’s oversized sweatshirt like it’s her job.

Azzi smiles up at her. “Hi.”

“You tired?”

Azzi leans into her. “A little.”

And without missing a beat, she lifts Azzi right off the ground, arms around her back and under her knees, bridal style. Azzi doesn’t even flinch—she just folds into it, wraps her arms around Paige’s neck, and rests her head against her shoulder like they’ve done this a thousand times.

Inside the bar, five noses are pressed up against the window.

“NO. WAY,” KK whisper-yells.

“She didn’t even ask, Paige just knew,” Ice says, jaw dropped.

“She looks so happy,” Sarah mutters, a little too emotionally invested.

“I feel like I just watched a scene from a Netflix original,” Caroline says.

“Literally how does someone look hot while carrying another adult?” Jana asks, offended.

“Did you see how she opened the door without putting Azzi down?” Ice adds. “I didn’t even know you could do that.”

KK’s filming through the window. “If my future wife doesn’t treat me like I’m made of moonlight and satin sheets, I don’t want her.”

“You think she warmed up the car too?” Sarah asks.

“She probably pre-set the seat warmer,” Caroline says.

“Y’all,” Ice says, dropping her voice like it’s a national secret, “I used to think Paige was kind of quiet and chill. But she’s not. She’s just so gone for Azzi that none of us even exist when she’s around.”

The group stares out the window as Paige carefully lowers Azzi into the car, buckles her in, then presses a kiss to her forehead like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like muscle memory.

They’re still watching as the car pulls away.

Caroline turns back to the table.

“I think we just witnessed a mythological event.”

“I feel single,” KK says dramatically.

“You are single,” Jana deadpans.

“I feel extra single,” KK corrects.

Sarah’s already texting their group chat:

Sarah: azzi literally gets carried home like a fairy tale

Sarah: if she ever says “paige isn’t that romantic” again we’re playing the window footage

Caroline opens her soda, toasts the air, and says, “To setting the bar unreasonably high.”

They all clink their glasses together.

And somewhere across town, Azzi leans into Paige’s shoulder in the car and says, “They roasted me so bad.”

Paige just smiles. “Good. Let them be jealous.”

Azzi’s grin turns soft. “I’m really lucky.”

Paige glances over at her. “I’m the lucky one.”

⸻

UConn practice, Sunday morning. Coach hasn’t even walked in yet, and the team is already stretching, half-awake, shoes only half-laced. It’s quiet until Paige walks in.

Azzi’s trailing behind her, as always, but today there’s a very specific look in her eyes. It’s the “I told them everything” look.

Paige doesn’t notice. She jogs in with her usual no-sleep-no-problem swagger, hair tied up, hoodie sleeves shoved to her elbows. She barely sets her water bottle down before…

“Oh hey, Paige,” KK calls, loud and obvious. “How are your arms feeling today?”

Paige blinks. “My arms?”

“Yeah, after carrying an entire grown woman across a parking lot last night.”

Azzi breaks immediately, hiding behind a towel.

Paige turns slowly toward her. “You told them?”

“I said one thing,” Azzi mumbles from behind the towel.

“One thing?” Caroline grins. “Girl, you gave us a thesis.”

“We know about the grapes,” Ice adds. “The microwaved hoodie. The shoelace situation.”

Ash fakes a swoon. “She carries you with the door elbow bump. I literally can’t even open my Gatorade without losing a nail.”

Paige stands there, eyes narrowing like she’s deciding who to block in practice first.

“Y’all are being dramatic,” she mutters.

“No we’re not,” Caroline says. “We’re being observant.”

“She doesn’t walk, Paige!” KK shouts, already laughing.

“Okay, but why should she walk?” Paige shoots back, deadpan. “She’s perfect.”

The gym goes silent.

Caroline turns to Ice. “Did she just…?”

“She just dropped that like it was normal,” Ice whispers.

Paige shrugs, tossing a ball lazily between her hands. “If I can carry her, why wouldn’t I? Y’all just jealous.”

“Damn right we are,” Ice says. “I limp and suffer in silence.”

Jana raises an eyebrow. “Would you carry any of us if our feet hurt?”

Paige doesn’t even blink. “No.”

“That was fast,” KK says.

“She wouldn’t even open my water bottle,” Ice adds.

“You shouldn’t need help,” Paige shrugs.

“But Azzi does?” Caroline teases.

Paige tosses the ball at her lightly. “Azzi gets help. Not the same.”

Azzi finally peeks out from behind her towel, smiling helplessly.

Caroline rolls her eyes. “You’re so whipped.”

“I’m not whipped,” Paige says, walking to Azzi like it’s automatic. “I’m just obsessed with her. Totally different.”

Azzi beams. Everyone else groans.

Coach finally walks in, blowing his whistle.

“Save the flirting for after sprints!” He yells.

“Yes, Coach!” they all echo.

But as they start warming up, Azzi’s still grinning, and Paige casually offers her a drink without her even asking. The rest of the team watches it happen like they’re seeing the northern lights.

“Grapes next,” Ice mutters.

“Pretty sure she’s already got them in the locker room,” Caroline says.

And they do. In a little Tupperware, halved.

Because Paige Bueckers may not talk about her feelings much. But everyone on the team knows one thing now: she doesn’t just love Azzi.

She lives to make her life easier.

And apparently, that includes never letting her feet touch the ground.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── EVEN WHEN IT'S HARD... ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka the one where even when it's hard...sim jaeyun will always choose you.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 1.1k ⌗ angst angst ANGST, reader is a lil self-sabotaging, jakey gets v v sad :(, but then comfort, reassurance, & fluff<3

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hello pls don't be mad at me for this one,,,decided to throw another angsty one into the mix because once again─i really wanna make this series realistic and i totally see yn still getting into her own head every now & then. and it's totally normal & realistic for couples to have lil moments of miscommunication and i feel like this is how jake would handle it :') bc at the end of the day, he will always choose yn...

You don’t even know how you got here.

It probably started small.

Something barely noticeable—something as small as a mere thought in the back of your head. A flicker of doubt—the kind that’s been fading, slowly but surely, over time.

But still lingers.

Like a crack in glass you don’t notice until the whole thing shatters.

Maybe it was a comment.

A look.

Maybe the restaurant you recommended but it ended up being mediocre.

The too-long silence during the drive back home from dinner.

And now here you are.

Standing in the middle of your living room, your bag still half-slung off your shoulder, while Jake stands from across the space—watching you with his arms limp at his side, a pout on his lips, confused and concerned, like he doesn’t know what’s happening.

And you don’t even remember what you said.

Only the way Jake’s face fell.

The way his shoulders sank immediately, like something slipped through his fingers and he didn’t even realize he was holding it.

The way he blinked, slow and stunned—like he felt the crack before he could make sense of it.

“I just think—” you sigh, sharper than you mean to be, your arms folding across yourself, “I don’t know—maybe you shouldn’t assume things about how I feel.”

Jake’s brows knit together, his voice low but steady, “I’m not assuming anything, Y/N. I’m asking. You won’t talk to me, and I’m—I just…I’m trying to figure out where your head’s at.”

You turn away.

Try to blink it back—the tightness rising in your chest. The frustration.

You don’t even know why you’re upset.

At him? At yourself?

“Well maybe my head’s a mess right now,” you say, a bubble rising to your throat. “And I don’t need you trying to fix it.”

There’s a pause.

A shift in the air.

Jake lets out a soft breath. Barely audible.

But you hear it.

And you see it, too—the subtle way his expression drops.

And god, it hurts.

“Okay.” He nods slowly, his voice suddenly quieter, barely above a whisper. “So what do you need, then?”

You hesitate.

Because that’s just the thing. You don’t know.

Because it’s not him. Never him.

It’s not the quiet car ride home. Or the under-cooked steak at the restaurant. Or the stupid thing he said about maybe meeting his parents next month.

It’s you.

It’s everything else.

The pressure. The doubt. The sinking feeling in your chest that you don’t deserve something this good. Something as good as him.

“I think…” you start, your eyes meeting his, swallowing hard. “I think I need space.”

And it’s like you ripped the floor out from right under him.

You watch the words hit him.

Watch how he stumbles without even moving.

His eyes flick to yours like he misheard. His breath catches like you knocked the wind out of him.

His fingers tremble at his sides, helpless and twitching, like he doesn’t know what to hold on to anymore.

He exhales a shaky breath and—

“No.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I’m not giving you space.” His voice cracks. Barely holding it together. “Not like this. Not when I don’t even know what I did—”

“You didn’t do anything, Jake—”

“Then I’m staying.”

His voice breaks again. And when you look at him again—his eyes are glassy. His voice trembles in a way that shatters your heart more than you’ve ever known before.

And before you know it—

Jake crosses the living room and closes the distance between you two—like he’s trying to reach the part of you that’s slipping through his fingers.

And when he’s right in front of you, he stops.

Just looks at you.

Like you’re the only thing he sees. Like he’s begging you to see him too.

“Let me stay,” his voice unsteady, more desperate now. “Please.”

Your throat closes.

“You’re shutting me out again and I can feel it and I know I’m not perfect, but—God, Y/N—I love you.”

A breath. A blink. A beat.

“I’m trying. I’m here,” Jake continues, his eyes pleading. Breaking. “Please don’t push me away when I’m trying to stay.”

You stare at him.

And you hate it.

You hate how much he means it.

How sincere he sounds—how shattered he looks.

How his hands are clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you, like he’s not sure he can.

And you hate that you’re the one making him feel that way.

Like love has limits.

Like maybe even he isn’t allowed to cross the invisible line you drew without even realizing it.

Because deep down—

You’re terrified.

Terrified that one day he’ll just say okay and walk out.

That he’ll stop trying. Stop fighting.

That your worst fear will come true: that you are too much. That you’re not worth all this effort.

“Jake…I’m scared,” you whisper—and it breaks.

The dam. The silence. You.

“I’m scared you’ll realize I’m not worth this,” you choke, your own vision blurring. “That I’m just—too much. Or not enough. Or both.”

Jake’s face crumbles.

Completely.

“Y/N.”

You shake your head, blinking fast—it’s all spilling now, messy and unfiltered and real.

“You could have anyone. You could find someone easier. Someone who doesn’t blow up over nothing or pull away every time it gets hard or—”

“Don’t.”

The sudden edge in his voice stops you—not sharp, but urgent.

Urgent, wrecked, and aching.

“Don’t you dare try to write me out of this story when I already know how it ends. Like I haven’t already chosen you.”

He takes a step forward.

“I don’t want easy. I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

Another step.

“Even when it’s messy. Even when you’re mad. Even when it’s hard.”

And before you can stop him, Jake’s hands cup your face—gentle, steady—like you’re something fragile and priceless at the same time.

“This is still you,” he murmurs, leaning down to press his forehead against your own. “And I still love you.”

Your lip quivers.

He brushes his thumb along your cheek—and only then do you realize you’re crying.

A broken breath escapes your lips.

“…I’m sorry,” you choke out, the tears falling out faster now—completely open and raw.

Jake lets out a small, breathy, almost sad laugh.

“Me too.”

And god.

You think that might’ve been the moment you fell completely, absolutely, irreversibly in love with him.

In a way you can’t describe.

In a way that sits in your chest and says this is it—even if you don’t know how to say it out loud yet.

So for now—

“Please stay.”

Jake smiles. It’s small. But so full of relief.

“Always, pretty.”

And he does.

Jake stays through the silence. Through the ache.

Through the heavy nights and the mornings when it’s better.

Because real love doesn’t run.

It reaches. And it stays.

Even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

<< past || no doubt m. list || next >>

tag list! (open ! // bolded couldn't be added!)

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[thebluediner]

a/n: I'm such a liar but what can I say I had time so yeah

PROFFESIONAL AS IT CAN BE

manager!reader x celebrity! billie

billie eilish a hot popstar with an equally hot manager so much so you can't escape dating rumors or being shipped together. you could be talking to billie at event about who she needs to go see regarding interviews and fans near by would be hollering and screaming at the interaction.

billie was not afraid to date in the industry but they never lasted more than a coupe of months. In an interview she admitted to how hard it is to keep one because often times her partners would confuse her busy schedule for her spending time with you.

behind the scenes pictures of you and billie did not help the growing fanbase shipping the two of you. it would be pictures taken by friends and family of you and billie doing the most random things that turned to something big online. a picture of you and billie laying on her hotel bed besides each other your bodies close and yes focused on the big screen in-front of you. pictures of you leaning on the bathroom door looking at billie apply her makeup. pictures of the two of you sleeping while leaning on each other on the tour bus and most of all the silly pictures billie post on her story of you on your birthday.

billie would mention you during her shows when she tells her fans about something funny that happened or when she comments about the amount of water bottles you put out for her during the concert. billie would joke about you selling the bras she received on stage or the fact that they were your problem to deal with after.

the sharing of clothes between the two of you was excessive to everybody but you two. billie would wear your stuff ad people would notice because you had very different taste in clothes and of course they notice when you did the same because the clothes were so much bigger they basically swallowed you whole.

you were mostly the person who took billie's picture that she posted on instagram that's why she got comments like, ''god bless y/n for taking these pictures'' '' how did she take these without fainting cause billie looks so good'' '' thank youuu y/n you deserve to have your cookie ate for these'' .

when billie would get hurt on stage the first person to appear would be you with a first aid kit and a pout at billie's state that gets captured by the fans and obviously posted online. sometimes when fans want to tell billie to take care of herself they say they hope you're taking care of her instead and billie would laugh it off and just nod.

billie who was a little shy at first and would try and do most things herself but you caught her crying in the storeroom saying she was overwhelmed and you chastised her to call you for all kinds of things that was your job anyways. and ,that's how billie had you on speed dial for every single thing. she needs an outfit, she needs food, she needs a snack, she needs someone to babysit shark, her food ran out and she's scared to go to the grocery because of anxiety, managing a bunch of offers through her personal instagram dms. you were there for it all.

once billie commented on how you're always single and most of the crew agreed in laughter leading you to admit that billie was the one cockblocking you. you explained that not literally but most of them assumed you were dating billie already and did not want to compete with her or it's because they just wanted to meet billie through you.

the theory made up by fans that wherever billie is you were also always there. this theory was proved by multiple pictures of billie that either featured you in the background photobombing her or it's your phone , clothes , shoes anything that was related to you always appeared.

the way you were so close with billie you would sometimes spend major holiday events with her family due to being on tour. thanksgiving spent with billie and her family, christmas was also spent with her alone with other things like your birthday.

the way billie would drag you to actually participate in after party's instead of just booking her into them and staying behind in the hotel. she would insist you also dress up and go with her which most likely ends with pictures and videos of you two on the dance floor by the next day.

they way billie would be constantly asked if she was dating you in interviews. she would say no but then side eye you behind the camera with a foolish smile erupting the rumors even more.

billie was physical touch person everybody knew that but somehow people always made it a bigger deal when she initiated it with you. videos of you hugging before and after a show , you on billie's back as she sins you around, the hand holding ,the forehead kisses...

it was always professional even when billie got too flirty which was a dangerous game because you didn't back down from those but engaged in them more. the way her eyes would start to linger in places where they should or the way her touch grew clingy.

the behind the scenes videos for vogue did nothing but dig the grave of rumors a big bigger. billie made a skincare video that featured most of your products because she openly admitted to that and from that fans gathered that you two shared hotels for your stuff to be in her bathroom. the other one with billie getting ready for the met you featured in it as you brought billie breakfast and sat down on her balcony eating yours not aware how you were also being recorded for vogue.

[captainpriceslilwife]

pt. 2 of the well-loved gaz x insecure!reader post!! (This is kind of a bridge to pt. 3, so bear with me PLEASE! I have more ideas for the next part, but I needed to get there first lol...hopefully this is good idk im nervous abt my newfound audience)

The rest of his night passed in a daze. He couldn’t stop stealing glances at the tiny little picture on your license while Johnny and Simon argued with each other about what he should do to try to win you back - but he could barely hear a word they were saying as he wiped away the sticky-sweet drink that was still dripping down his face.

“Ah’d give her a second ta calm down, ya ken? Go in the mornin’ and give her a chance to find her head.” 

“Showin' up at her place unannounced after hanging onto her shit all nigh'? Yeah, that’d leave a good impression, wouldn’ it? No wonder you can’t get a bird, Johnny. Scarin’ ‘em all off.” 

“Ach, ye’d know what tha’s like, wouldn’ ye? Spooky fuckin’ bastard. Ah bet women run the second they see tha' stupid fuckin' mask-” 

"Whatever. Gaz, just give it to the bartender, yeah? Clearly she doesn't like ya'. She'll come back for it."

In the end, he ends up taking Johnny’s advice and decides to return your wallet in the morning – which maybe wasn't his smartest move. Especially since now he doesn’t have a lick of alcohol flowing through his system to calm him down as he walks along the sidewalk towards your place. He’s sure he looks crazy to everyone he passes – muttering to himself to try to coach himself through what he’ll say to you. 

“Hey! Nah, uh…hello, how are you? No, I- fuck…” He shakes his head as he looks down at your wallet, twiddling the zipper between his fingers as he mumbles under his breath. “Hi, I’m Kyle…I’m the one who, um…who made you...cry last night. Ah, shit.” 

He's never felt this way about a girl before - like a nervous, stuttering schoolboy. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, and he can feel the sweat beading on the back of his neck when he suddenly finds himself standing in front of your door.

You've got a sweet little welcome mat - covered in sunflowers and loopy letters - and he notices all the pots filled with plants and flowers that scatter around near your door. God, he's already thinking that you're the most precious thing in the world.

He doesn't know what it is about you that's affecting him so much. Is it because you rejected him? Is it a challenge to him? Does he just feel guilty? Or maybe it's because, for the first time ever, he's gone after a girl that he actually has to figure out. Women have always thrown themselves at him the moment he flashed a smile their way. But you...all you did was throw a drink in his face.

It takes him nearly a full minute before he finally knocks on your door, and he can't seem to figure out what to do with his hands as he waits for the sound of your soft, thudding footsteps to reach the door.

You're still puffy from crying yourself to sleep last night, but you open the door with a polite smile anyway - donned in your oversized cat pajamas without an ounce of makeup on - but your smile quickly falls when you recognize the man standing on your doorstep.

The unfortunately beautiful man who had woken up every insecurity you had in less than a minute of talking to you.

Your expression seems to cycle through a million emotions as you try to comprehend how he could possibly be here, but once you notice the teal wallet clutched in his hand, realization settles on your features as the embarrassment hits you.

He stands silent for a moment as he takes in how gorgeous you are despite your slightly disheveled appearance, and he can barely form a sentence as he lifts up your wallet with a sheepish smile. "You, uh…you left this at the bar, um…last night. Got your address from your, uh...your I.D.” Christ, he's lost all sense of charisma hasn't he? He holds onto the wallet for a horrifyingly awkward amount of time as he stares blankly at you, but he finally comes to his senses when you mumble out a quiet 'oh, thanks' and reach out to take it.

“I’m Kyle, by the way.” 

He's never seen a girl look at him with such guardedness before - with your arms crossed protectively over your chest as you give him a tense smile. He can't tell if it's because of the whole incident from the night before, or if you're just freaked out that a total stranger went through all the effort to bring your wallet directly to where you live.

Probably both.

You clearly return his greeting just to be polite, murmuring your name quietly as you place your wallet off to the side.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He lets out an awkward laugh, but quickly backtracks when you shoot him a funny look. “I mean, from your license! I-It’s got your name on it. I only know it because it's...it's on the license.” He stutters out quickly as he shoves his hands into his pockets. God, he's losing it. His heart feels like it's going to explode. “I, um…it’s a gorgeous name, by the way. Suits you, you know?” 

The compliment slips out naturally, but it only makes you tense up even more, and you suck in a tight breath as you begin to shift on your feet. Your fingers are itching to reach for the door to slam it in his face - arrogant prick thinking he can keep up his act from last night even though he practically sent you into a fit - but he interrupts your spiraling thoughts with a heavy sigh as he drops his charming smile.

“Hey, I...I just really wanted to say that I'm sorry, love. I didn’t mean to upset you like that last night.” His demeanor changes so drastically that you can't help but soften a bit, melting underneath his warm, pleading eyes enough to listen to him. "I think we had a bit of a misunderstanding...I wasn't making fun of you, love. Honest."

He seems so genuine about it that you can't help but feel a bit guilty. You had tossed and turned all night thinking about how shocked he had looked after your little outburst. You tried to stave of your regret by telling yourself that he had come over to you only to make fun of you like everyone else does, so technically he deserved it - but now you weren't so sure.

“Oh, well…I’m sorry for, you know…throwing my drink in your face.” You murmur sheepishly as you look down at your welcome mat - tracing one of the flowers with your fuzzy slipper before tilting your head back up to look at him with burning cheeks. “Wasn’t very mature of me."

“No, no, no...it's fine, really! If anything, I'm sorry you had to waste your drink on me. I mean, I know how pricey that place can get.” He lets out another laugh, but it's a bit less tense this time, especially when he sees the way your lips almost quirk up into a smile. It makes him feel bold enough to try to bring back the charm, and he can't stop himself from asking you, “You know…maybe I could, um…make it up to you sometime? Could buy you another drink?” 

But once again, you pause. His persistence only makes you more suspicious of his motives, and it shows in how you tighten your arms across your chest. He can see your eyes flash with a pang of hurt, and he feels his heart clench as he fumbles over himself, growing less sure by the second. “O-Or just a coffee, maybe?” 

“...Look, Kyle…” His heart leaps in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips, but your guarded tone is enough to smother the warm, fluttery feeling that had been building in his stomach. “Thanks for bringing me my wallet, but you’re wasting your time. I don’t know what kind of bet you have going with your friends, but I’m not going to fall for it, okay? I'm not...I'm not stupid.” 

Stupid? His expression falls once more, and he gives you the most genuine look he can muster as he speaks up quietly. “I...I don't think you're stupid. There’s no bet, love. Honest.”

“A dare, then.” 

“No dare, either.” 

You let out a frustrated sigh and roll your eyes a bit before resting your hand on your hip, but your irritated demeanor doesn't hide the way your eyes are beginning to grow a bit watery and bloodshot as you murmur quietly. “Well, why are you doing this, then?” 

His eyebrows furrow as he looks down on you, and he can't help but shake his head in disbelief as he takes a small step towards you. God, you were absolutely breaking his heart. Did you really think it was that unbelievable that he could like you? “I already told you, love. I think you’re absolutely gorgeous…and I know you don’t seem to like hearing that, but it’s true. And I know you're not just a pretty face, I just...I don't know anything else about you. But I'd like to...I'd like to get to know you.” 

You don't seem moved by his words, but he can't see how your heart begins to pound wildly in your chest, grasping onto the small bit of hope that you had desperately tried to push down. You'd spent so long trying to protect yourself from feeling this way about someone, and he's already managing to sneak past those walls you had built up.

But your mind keeps replaying every moment of disappointment you felt when it came to men 'asking you out' - how people would laugh behind your back when you would get excited for a date with a guy they all knew was just messing with you, or how a boy in your class straight-up laughed in your face when you thought he was being serious about being his date to the prom. 'Shit, she actually fell for it! Damn, I didn't think she'd have the nerve to say yes! Ah, right, well...sorry love...just havin' a bit of a laugh, yeah? All in good fun.'

No, no, no...you couldn't fall for something like this again.

He can see the look in your eyes as you stay silent, and his heart pangs with guilt when he realizes how much he's probably torturing you. He decides to put you out of your misery, so before you can open your mouth to reject him again, he raises his hand to stop you. "Yeah, alright...I understand." A pathetic smile graces his features, and you can't help but feel a bit guilty at the look of disappointment on his handsome face. "Can't blame a guy for trying though, aye?"

You can't even tell if you're disappointed or relieved that he's finally given up, but you give him a grateful smile as you nod your head in understanding. Couldn't expect a guy that looks like that to put in too much effort with someone like you, right? "Right...yeah...thank for um, understanding."

"Of course..."

God, this is awkward.

The both of you stand and stare at each other for another moment longer before he turns to leave. But just as he turns to go, he stops in his tracks and thinks to himself for a second before letting out a puff of air before turning back to you. "Don't happen to have a pen, do you, love?"

You blink in surpise at the randomness of his question, but eventually nod your head and disappear for just a second before returning with one in hand.

If only you could see how nervously he tapped his fingers against the side his leg while he waited for you to come back - a habit he only ever indulged in when he couldn't contain his anxiety on missions. Something his captain always ragged on him for.

Yeah, he was absolutely hung up on you.

He tries to ignore how soft your hand is when he takes the pen from you, but he can't ignore the way your touch zaps up through his arm and straight to his heart. And from the way you tuck your arm back against your chest with hot cheeks, he can't help but wonder if you felt it, too.

He pulls a crinkled receipt from the pocket of his jacket as he gives you a nervous smile, almost like he's waiting for you to scold him for trying again. And if it isn't the most charming thing you've ever seen... “Listen…if you change your mind-“ His hand moves quickly to scribble something on the small piece of paper, and when he hands it to you, you see his number written in handwriting that is frustratingly neat for a man in a rush. “-just let me know. No pressure, of course. I’ll fuck off if you want me to, but…just thought I’d give you the option. Don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t at least offer to make it up to you.” 

And you take that stupid, crinkled piece of paper from his hand against your better judgement, and to your chagrin you can feel your cheeks burning brightly enough for him to see. Luckily for you, he can't see the way your heart is dancing around in your chest at the prospect of actually having a chance with him.

"Right...ok." You mumble quietly as you stare down at his number, toying at the edges of the paper with your thumb before his voice catches your attention once more.

“Well, um…I should get going. I hope you have a good day, darling.” A part of you was horrified to realize that you didn't want him to leave just yet, but you just nod your head stiffly as he backs away from your doorstep. And god he gives you that handsome, charming smile one more time before he turns on his heel and calls over his shoulder. "I hope I get to see you again."

And you wave at him so awkwardly as he walks away, like a deer caught in headlights, but it makes his heart flutter all the same. He hopes that even if he doesn't get a chance with you, someone else will realize what a catch you are. Someone who will treat you the way you deserve. Someone like him.

It's not until much later in the day - when he's stuck in a briefing and trying not to fall asleep with Price's voice droning on johnny's already drooling on the table - that his phone vibrates in his pocket. He sneaks it out underneath the table to take a quick glance to see who could be messaging him, and his heart practically leaps out of his chest when he sees an unfamiliar number.

‘ok...maybe just one coffee.’

He can't help but smile to himself as he reads it, and before he can begin to type out a response, another message pops up on his screen. And another. And another.

'i mean, only if you're still interested, of course.'

'no pressure or anything :)'

'oh, this is y/n by the way!'

Yeah, you might be the sweetest girl he's ever met.

A/N: do I like this that much??? eehhhhhhhhhh idk. but i kept going back and forth and rewriting and deleting and i finally decided to put myself out of my misery. again, i'm so so so grateful to everyone who requested a part two for this and left support on the original post so i hope this meets everyone's standards! pls feel free to leave suggestions in my inbox or in the comments if there's anything specific you want to see (or request something else entirely)! i also wouldn't mind writing any alternate parts of the story if ppl request it so pls dont hold back! pls stay with me for pt. 3!!! also sorry if you requested to be tagged and i missed you!

Tag list: @vixyyvix, @little-mini-me-world, @miyo-0oo, @milanriol, @z-wantstowrite, @nexthyperfix

[fromchaostocosmos]

People are not perfect.

As in people make mistakes.

As in people are still learning.

As in people can sometimes be doing their best and trying their best and yes there is room for improvement and we can recognize both things.

As in people don't speak the same language.

As in people are learning something for the first time.

As in people have disabilities of all kinds which yes can impact in this too.

For example growing up I didn't really know anything cis or trans and sex vs gender. I knew that straight and gay. When I was teenager I eventually learned about bisexuality and something called transgender.

But again didn't really know all that much. But I did my best as best I could.

There was a point when I thought I was I being accepting and I was still new and learning and it was at a time that I still thought I wanted children. So I would say "oh I have nothing against anyone who is transgender and I think they should use whatever bathroom is most comfortable to them, but I wouldn't marry anyone is transgender because I want to have children who biologically mine"

At the time I was still learning and I didn't understand how that was still not just unhelpful, but rather actively unhelpful and in many ways a cruel thing to say.

Thankfully I was able to learn. Some people were kind enough to help me and direct me where I could learn and I was also able to read about people's first hand experiences and that was helpful.

Others were not as kind and in my truly meaningful attempts to learn and understand where in what I thought was I going wrong and how I could I do better and where could I learn more I was greeted with great cruelty and mockery which was hard at that point in my life.

That isn't to say I don't understand why those people did what they did. I get it sometimes that can defense mechanism.

I do like to think or hope that I sounded earnest and sincere in questions, but you never know how tone can come across sometimes.

I will always be thankful to the many people who helped knowingly and unknowingly in my education, an education and learning process that is never over.

We have to understand that not everyone is going to have the same experiences and education. What counts is the intent rather the how well it is communicated I think.

Because sometimes people are trying their best in with what they have.

Again for example I was asked by someone IRL "why the did Hitler hate the Jews?" now most of the time a question like that I would be offended by IRL because that is really stupid question to ask.

But in this case I was not because I knew this person was not asking to be hateful or in that ha ha type of way. Rather they were being sincere. They were an immigrant to the USA and came from a country that has no Jewish people in it and no Holocaust education.

So from them this was question out of sincerity and a desire to understand. They didn't know how to ask it in a different way, better way, or a way that was less offensive.

This was them doing the best with what they had. And I understood that and could work with that.

We have to have room for nuance and understanding and at time even compassion.

This is not me saying take trolls at face value or use up your energy on those who have come clearly in bad faith. No, those don't deserve any time or energy.

It is for all the people who are trying that if you have the energy, ability, and time we should be because that is where the differences are made.

So help if help is needed, answer questions if that is what is asked, provided resources if you can, and listen to experiences and stories even when it might told not in the most perfect of ways or with the most up to date terminology.

Because again people are not perfect, people are trying their best, and there is always room for improvement. And all of these things can be true at the same time.

I was discussing the incident mentioned later in this piece with my wife yesterday and I saw another post by someone earlier doing something mentioned in here and I'm finally going to say something about it.

There is a serious problem in leftist spaces, especially online, especially on Tumblr, when it comes to language.

The way people are expected to speak just to even enter these spaces is incredibly complex, to the point of being outright hostile to those who haven’t already spent time in them. And it’s not just newcomers; people who have important things to say, people speaking from lived experiences, people who don’t have English as a first language but still deserve to be heard, are constantly talked down to or even pushed out entirely for not using the "right" words.

This gets even worse when you factor in how often new terms are coined in English, and then people are shamed for not immediately knowing or using them.

I saw someone reblog their own post saying something like, "I know for a fact more than half of y’all didn’t understand a fucking word I said here."

And honestly? That stuck with me, because yeah, I’ve felt that before. Not because I don’t value critical thinking! because I absolutely do! I just made a post on that too! but because so many of these posts are written in a way that makes them Functionally Inaccessible to anyone who doesn’t already have the right background knowledge. And at a certain point, if you actually want your words to have an impact, if you actually want to create meaningful change, then you’re going to have to accept some things:

People will not always use perfect language.

2. People will not always know the exact terminology you personally prefer they use when engaging in discourse.

3. Dismissing or attacking people for how they say something, instead of engaging with what they’re saying, is actively harmful.

And more than that, if you genuinely want people to understand and engage with the things you’re talking about, especially people who don’t speak English as a first language, especially people without access to higher education, especially people who don’t even know where to begin when it comes to self-education (because yes, that is a skill that has to be taught) then you are going to have to be the one to adjust sometimes. You are going to have to let people say things imperfectly. You are going to have to take a step back and engage with the message rather than just the words being used to express it.

One of the experiences that made me realize that I, as a non-native English speaker, was not welcome in Tumblr leftist spaces was when I spoke about real-life oppression I had experienced. I left one word out of my post, a word which honestly, was not even important when talking about an incident that had Happened To Me, not theory, not hypotheticals or any what-ifs of oppression, a story, a story about something that happened to me.

And because of that, people sat in a Discord server, picking apart my words, accusing me of awful things, and then came into my askbox throwing jargon and buzzwords I’d never even heard before, then got mad at me for being frustrated that this was happening.

Think about that. People who are directly impacted by oppression are being pushed out of spaces meant to discuss it because the way they speak doesn’t conform to certain expectations. That is not justice. That is not solidarity. That is not progress.

There is a fundamental disconnect here between theory and praxis. Ironically so many of you do not know what praxis is, because most of you engage with a lot of theory, and not a lot of praxis, you use the word praxis a lot, but, ironically, you have no idea what it means.

{to put my money where my mouth is, it means Doing Something, in the simplest possible terms}

In theory, leftist spaces should be accessible. They should be places where people can speak openly about their experiences, learn from each other, and work toward meaningful change. But in practice? There’s a gatekeeping of language so intense that many people, particularly those who are marginalized in ways beyond just their political beliefs, are outright excluded.

And this is something I need people to sit with: The assumption that the "right" language is easy to learn, or that anyone who doesn’t use it is being willfully ignorant, is an inherently privileged stance. Knowing where to find information, how to process it, and how to integrate new terminology into your vocabulary is a skill that is largely tied to education. Having the time to engage with leftist literature and theory, to stay up-to-date on every new term that gets introduced, is also a privilege. And the fact that so many people refuse to acknowledge this, that they expect perfect articulation from everyone, regardless of background, and punish those who don’t measure up, is a huge problem.

Worse still, the same people who act as gatekeepers of this language often fail to communicate their ideas in a way that is accessible at all.

This doesn’t mean that complex ideas should never be discussed. It doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t strive for accuracy in their language. But it does mean that if your goal is to educate, if your goal is to spread awareness, if your goal is to help people understand and join the movement, if your goal is to engage with fellow oppressed people, then you have a responsibility to meet people where they are. You have a responsibility to make your language understandable.

Because if people can’t even process what you’re saying, then what’s the fucking point?

And before anyone says, "Well, people should put in the effort to learn!" Let me make something very clear: They do.

People who are new to leftist spaces, or who are coming in from different linguistic and cultural backgrounds, are often trying their best to engage. They are listening, they are learning, they are processing. But if the response to every mistake, every slightly off phrasing, every unfamiliarity with a new term, is immediate hostility,

or even if it's just 'hey I see you're sharing a personal moment, but can you change your language to make me, personally, more comfortable with you discussing your oppression?' then you’re not teaching.

You’re just making sure only the people who already think and speak exactly like you get to stay in the room.

Your language, your terminology, your theory? none of it means anything if you can’t make it accessible to the people who actually need it. And it means nothing if you use it to Exclude rather than Include.