#or even something i wouldn’t even post at all

[fireinmoonshot]

unreal | robert reynolds x reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you. Warnings: General mentions of mental health issues (nothing specific) Word Count: 2.1k A/N: Okay, so it's been over a week since I last wrote for Bob and the response on my last Bob fic is insane. I cannot believe how much love it's gotten 🥹 I have since seen Thunderbolts three more times and I love Bob even more. This was the fic idea that won in the poll I posted earlier today and it was so enjoyable to write. I am really looking forward to writing more for him (including the other ideas that I had in the poll). I hope you all enjoy this one as well. Requests are always open! 💗

“You can share my room” are five words that Bob regrets the second that they’re out of his mouth. Not because he doesn’t want you to share his room, but just because now that it’s out in the open, the prospect of you saying yes is terrifying.

When you’d all moved into the Watch Tower, you hadn’t considered the fact that most of the building was still a work in progress. There were so many rooms that still needed to be built and while there had been bedrooms, there weren’t many and Valentina had insisted on building you all your own. Nothing but the best for my New Avengers, she’d said.

Your bedroom was the last one to be renovated. Every other member of the team had gone through the room-sharing phase while their rooms were completed. Yelena and Ava had always shared, though they’d hated every second of it – both girls loved their personal space. Both Bucky and John refused to share with Alexei. Bob had managed to come out the other end without sharing a room at all. 

Until his offer to you, that is.

“Seriously?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest as you look around at the others. “None of you are offering to share with me so you’re making Bob offer?”

Walker scoffs. “You think we put him up to it? Please.”

“No one put me up to it,” Bob shakes his head. “I just thought I’d ask you since… y’know… none of the others have… and you probably don’t wanna sleep on the couch out here.”

He’s not really sure why he’d offered, actually. The words had been out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to think them over, which was strange for him. He supposes it might have something to do with the fact that he’s been crushing on you for a solid few months. It would be fine, though. He didn’t have a couch in his room, but he’s slept on his fair share of floors before and this one would be no different. Sharing a bedroom with someone he was slowly falling head over heels with was definitely going to end well.

You cross the room and put a hand down on Bob’s shoulder. “Are you really sure you want me to share with you? I know you haven’t had to share before and I really don’t want to intrude on your space.” Your voice is soft, for Bob’s ears only.

He nods once. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

You don’t completely believe him. He’s undoubtedly the most independent out of all of you, but it’s been proven that he really does love being around other people. The last thing you want is to get in his way or make him uncomfortable.

“Bob,” you meet his eyes. 

His lips turn up into a small smile at the tone of your voice. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to share with you.”

That seems to do the trick, because you nod your head and step away from Bob after that before announcing that you’re going to go and start getting all your things together. 

That afternoon, you move your things into his room so that the renovations can start on your own. Bob makes some space for you – not that he has a lot of things himself – but he wants to make you feel comfortable. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re living in his room. He wants it to feel like it’s yours too.

It only starts to feel real once it’s gotten dark outside and everyone has started to retire to bed. Once he’s in his room again, sitting on a bean bag in the corner, a book in his hand and he sees you walk into his room, hair a little bit wet from your shower. 

“I just realised,” you say, stopping in the centre of the room and looking around, “that you don’t have a couch.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bob nods, closing the book and sitting up a little straighter. “I just sit here. I, uh, I changed the sheets on the bed earlier so that you don’t have to sleep in dirty ones.”

You frown and look over at him. “Me? I’m not sleeping in your bed, Bob. I assumed I’d sleep on the couch. But I can just sleep on your beanbag. I’ll go and find some blankets…”

You turn to go and leave the room when you see Bob standing up in the corner of your eye. He stumbles a little, the blanket on the ground in front of him briefly catching his feet, and then rights himself. 

“No, you don’t have to do that,” he says. “You take the bed. I’m fine with sleeping on the floor. I’ve done it more often than you think.”

“Bob… you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s really okay.”

He really doesn’t mind. As long as you’re comfortable, he will be too. He’s slept in worse places. Plus, he doubts he’d even be able to sleep soundly knowing you were uncomfortable on the cold, hard floor. How could he let the person he likes sleep there rather than on his perfectly comfortable bed?

You cross your arms over your chest and shake your head, slowly starting to walk towards him. This is a losing battle, you can see that. There’s no way that Bob is going to relent and let you sleep on the floor or the bean bag, and there’s no way you’re going to let him sleep there either. You couldn’t live with yourself if he did.

“Why don’t we both take the bed?” You suggest.

Bob’s eyes widen a little and he opens his mouth and then closes it again without saying anything. That’s the last thing he’d expected you to say. Sharing a bed? Had any of the others shared beds when they’d shared rooms? He highly doubted that. The members of the New Avengers weren’t particularly comfortable when it came to physical contact. 

“I don’t think we have to do that,” he mutters.

“Why not? I don’t mind it. That way, we both get to sleep on the bed and neither of us have to be uncomfortable on the floor. I promise I’ll stick to my side.”

Bob stares at you for a moment. You’re really suggesting this. You really want to share a bed with him. But how is he supposed to share a bed with you? This is not going to be beneficial towards his crush at all. It’s definitely not going to help him in his mission to get over you… he hadn’t started on that mission yet but he was definitely going to start soon… oh, he really shouldn’t have suggested this…

“All right, then,” he hums, and then squeezes his eyes shut as he winces. What the hell is he doing? Why are the words he’s speaking and the thoughts he’s having so out of sync?

You smile at him – one of the beautiful smiles that always sets his heart alight – and then move towards the bed. “Which side do you usually sleep on?” 

“Closest to the door,” he says, starting to walk towards it.

“A man after my own heart,” you grin, voice teasing as you pull the sheets back to the other side of the bed and slip underneath them. “Can you get the lights?” 

Bob tries his best to ignore your words, thinking about how he is actually after your heart, and slowly walks towards the light switch. He turns them off, then makes his way towards the bed in the dark. His heart is racing in his chest. It’s not until he’s sitting on the bed, hands fisted in the sheets, that he realises he’s sweating bullets.

He’d forgotten. How could he forget something like this? He’s always run hot. He’s been known to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, especially after a nightmare.

Maybe, once you’re asleep, he can slip out of the bed and go back to the bean bag without waking you up… surely that would be okay. He could make up some excuse in the morning about not being able to sleep in the bed…

“Everything all right?” You ask from beside him.

The room is so dark that he can’t see you to tell how far away from him you are, but your voice is close. He trusts that you’ve stuck to your word, though, and that you haven’t crept over to his side of the bed.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea actually.”

He hears the sheets rustling and can somehow tell that you’re sitting up now. 

“Why not?”

Bob sighs and tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed about this. It’s not like you don’t know. You were there in the vault. You heard him admit it to Yelena. You’ve seen so many parts of him that he hates and you’ve never judged him for any of them, so why would you judge him for this now?

“Hey,” your voice is gentle. “You can tell me. If you don’t want me here, I can go.”

“No,” Bob shakes his head, quick to respond. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re not welcome here when truthfully, all he wants is to have you here with him. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward about it. “It’s not that. It’s just…”

“There’s no rush.” 

He turns to look at where you’re sitting, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness so he can see you just barely. “I run hot,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if I sweat a lot during the night. I should just sleep on the floor by myself.”

There’s silence for a moment and Bob takes that as your answer. He swings his legs off the bed and is just about to stand up when he feels the mattress shift underneath him, and then he feels your warmth pressed against his side.

“Hey, no,” you hum, leaning your arm against his. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to worry about things like that with me. If you sleep on the floor, I’m sleeping on the floor too. You’re not giving up your comforts for me.”

Bob turns to look at you through the darkness. “I’d just make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” you reach down and find his hand, entwining your fingers together. It’s true that the members of your team are bad when it comes to physical contact, but you don’t mind it. Bob’s always been a little concerned about touch ever since the incident that had happened a few months back but you can tell by the way he doesn’t tense up at your touch that he doesn’t mind it. You’re surprised to find you can actually feel him relax a little. “You won’t.” 

“I won’t?” 

“No,” you repeat. “I’m really glad you offered for me to share your room, Bob. I don’t care if you run so hot that the whole bed feels like a giant inferno. I’m not going to leave unless you ask me to.”

“I won’t. ” 

You give his hand a squeeze. “Okay, so should we get back into bed and try and get some sleep then?”

Bob nods and then remembers it’s dark and you probably can’t see him. “Yeah, all right.”

He hates the feeling of emptiness when you let go of his hand. He can feel the mattress shifting as you move back to your side of the bed. It takes every part of him to swing his legs back up and to lay down. It’s only once his head hits the pillow that he feels truly relaxed. It’s strange, even just knowing that you’re right beside him puts him a little bit at ease.

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” You say, voice so close to him that he almost jumps.

“Okay,” he murmurs, staring up at the dark ceiling above him. 

He’s so certain he’s going to wake up in the morning and all of this will have just been a dream. Not a good dream, not a bad dream. Just an unreal one. One where you hold his hand and sleep beside him. One where, as he’s drifting off to sleep he can feel the warmth of your body inches away. One where he can remember the feeling of your arm pressed against his with such clarity it almost feels real. 

But when he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he sees is you sleeping soundly beside him and he knows it wasn’t a dream. A small smile makes its way onto his face. He can’t remember the last time he slept through the night without waking up… not until right now. 

[bruisedboys]

bob reynolds x thunderbolt!reader (post thunderbolts, minor spoilers!)

“Are you sure you want me to do this?”

You’re standing over Bob with a pair of scissors in your hand, the other poised on your hip.

He nods. “Yeah. It’s getting too long, isn’t it?”

You frown. Reaching out with your free hand, you run your fingers through his hair like you’re already mourning it. “But … it’s so nice. I don’t want to ruin it.”

Bob shakes his head. He’s feeling rather lovesick, and he’s not sure if he’s asked you to cut his hair because he actually needs it, or because he just wants you touching him. Either way, he’s not backing down.

“You won’t, baby,” he says. “It’s only a trim. An inch or less.”

“I know, but— what if I cut off too much?”

Bob honestly wouldn’t care if you cut it all off. Well, maybe he would, ‘cos then you wouldn’t have anything to tug on when you’re kissing him. What he’s trying to say is he doesn’t care what you do to his hair — you’re perfect and so is anything you do.

“You won’t,” he repeats firmly.

You hesitate, biting your lip. “You sure you don’t want me to just take you to the salon?”

Bob never wants to step foot in a salon ever again. The last time he saw a hairdresser was when Valentina convinced him it was a good idea to go blonde, and he walked away with the dumbest corn-coloured hair he’d ever seen. It was never going to suit him and he knew it sitting in that hairdresser’s chair, but he couldn’t say no. He’s just lucky he didn’t have to dye it all out in the end.

Bob shakes his head. “No, I want you to do it,” he says. Then, because you still don’t look convinced, “Please?”

Something about the way he’s looking at you must unravel you, because you cave.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh. You move around the back of his chair and start running your fingers carefully through his too-long hair. Looking over his head, you meet his eyes in the mirror. “But don’t blame me if it’s awful.”

Bob would roll his eyes if he wasn’t so in love with you. “It won’t be,” he says patiently instead, smiling at you.

You make a face at him but get to work with no further objection. Bob sits contentedly and lets you separate his hair into smaller chunks. He watches you in the mirror and wonders if you know you pretty you look. He feels infinitely lucky to have you, especially when he’s got people like Yelena and Bucky to compete with. But you’ve chosen him.

He doesn’t even flinch when you pull out the scissors and start chopping. The soft shink of the blade cutting through his hair fills the quiet air, chunks of chestnut brown falling around his feet.

“I hope I’m doing this right,” you mumble to yourself.

“You’re doing great, honey,” Bob tells you, though he can’t really tell at all. For all he knows you could be giving him a mullet, but he doesn’t care.

He’s too busy enjoying the feeling of your hands in his hair, and then your hand on his shoulder when you hold it to steady yourself. He especially likes it when it’s time to cut the front of his hair, and you move to stand by his knees.

You nudge his knee with yours. “Spread your legs?” You ask softly.

Bob’s face goes hot but thankfully, you’re too focused on the task at hand to notice. He spreads his knees so there’s space for you in between them. You move forward and Bob can’t resist sliding his hands over your hips under the pretense of holding you steady.

“Thank you,” you say.

After that Bob has a hard time concentrating on anything but you. You’re so close he can smell your perfume, sweet enough to make him lightheaded. You’re achingly careful as you trim the hair at the front of his head, tiptoeing to get a better angle. Bob holds you steady, hands warm on your hips and thighs.

By the time you step back, he doesn’t want to let you go. His hands linger but you don’t seem to mind.

“I think I’m all done,” you say, more to yourself than him.

You lean closer, eyes studying his hair as you run your hand through the locks at the front, and Bob can’t help studying you in turn — your lips, your nose, your pretty eyes. Your closeness leaves him dizzy, worse when, oblivious to Bob’s inability to function, you get your hand under his chin and tilt him up towards you.

“Lemme see, babe,” you turn his head to the left, then to the right, studying your handiwork. You turn him back to face you and hum, satisfied. “It looks good, I think. You wanna see?”

Bob nods, putty in your hands. You move out of the way, taking your warmth and sweet scent with you, and Bob’s able to see his reflection in the mirror. His hair looks, in his opinion, perfectly fine. It’s not terrible, like you thought it would be, and it’s nothing spectacular, but that’s not what he wanted anyway. He looks like himself again.

“It’s perfect,” he tells you. He turns his head this way and that, runs a hand through the shortened ends of it. “I love it, you did so good.”

You smile shyly. It’s a cute look on you. “Really?” You ask, shoulders creeping towards your ears.

Bob nods and gets up, unable to stay away from you much longer. He meets you by the sink, where he gets his hands on your hips again.

“Mm-hm,” he nods earnestly, thumbs now rubbing circles into your waistband.

You beam up at him, warm from his touching. You reach up and stroke a hand through his new hair.

“You look handsome,” you compliment sweetly.

Bob’s heart hammers. He hasn’t gotten used to your compliments and doesn’t think he ever will. Rather than try to say something back and most likely stumble over his words, he shuts his eyes and kisses you.

You kiss him back like you were waiting for it.

[tojisteddy]

getting simon a little plush snoopy that reminds him of you so he has something of yours to take on deployments with him

I Miss You | cw: fluff, fluff and even more fluff.

“You don’t like it?”

“No birdie, ‘s a cute lit’le thing just—” Simon pauses, rubbing his face while he chuckles, eyeing the object that sat in the nailed box.

“What’s the snoopy for?”

You’d read on some blog, while aimlessly adding things to your cart, about this girl posting pictures everywhere she went with this little snoopy. You loved snoopy. Adored the little dog, had plushies around the house, blankets in the closet, mugs that Simon made your tea in, stickers— the whole nine. Simon wouldn’t be surprised if he came home after a mission and you had Snoopy tattooed on your forehead (he wouldn’t love you any less).

You thought, it’d be good to have a little something for each other while he was deployed. Your snoopy, that you sent over to Simon, had your name on its dog black tag, a pair of overalls and a cute little orange bow horribly sewed into it. It was fucking adorable, a mini you in Simons eyes.

“It’s so- want you to think of me Simon. Thought it’d be cute.”

Simon could hear that heart melting pout on your lips. His heart swooned, almost flew out his chest and right back home to you. “I have one too! Made a little mask for it with your name ‘nd everythin. I’m gonna take pictures with it while I’m around, can you maybe- if you want to-“

“ ‘F course I want to baby.” It slipped off his tongue before he could realize what he said. Not that he actually wanted to take pictures, he was horrid at taking pictures. That was something he left in your hands. But if that’s what you wanted, Simon would never say no to you. He’d do the best he could.

“Good. I already made up my mind about it Si, so you have to do it properly. Okay? I wanna see what you see!”

Little minx, you knew exactly how to get what you wanted out of the large man. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He laugh leaves his pink lips, deciding to end the call so you could get your sleep, he glanced at his watch. 0300 hours, he’d need to be up in two, you were five hours behind.

“Hug little S.S for me yeah, hold ‘em while you sleep” he yawned.

“S.S?”

“Snoopy Simon, how are ya gonna tell us apart luvie?” You rolled you eyes, ends of your lips curving up.

“Love you Si.”

“Love you more doll.”

Simon couldnt lie, it was comforting having a little thing to remind him that you were at home. Patiently waiting for him. He couldn’t exactly send you pictures from his phone, but he found a disposable camera. The first picture with your mini Snoopy blurry as ever, he got the hang of it though, making sure to sure you the scenery of his locations. Gaz and Soap, the little devils, stole the precious plush and Simon went on barking at them about not roughing it up. They ended up in the photos too, along with Price while he was asleep.

You thought Simon forgot all about the idea, till you got a stack of printed photos in the mail. And there your mini Snoopy was— at the beach, in the grass, on Simons bed next to some pictures of you, at some bar— there were even some with Simon (mask on of course) his thumb up and having Snoopy put their little paw up. You squealed, rolling around in your shared bed and then your eyes found the ghost faced Snoopy that laid on your bed from the previous night. You smirked. 

“We have to step our game up S.S.”

You sent your pictures with a disposable camera too, following the rising trend, some at the fair, the park, your pet bunny hopping into it and getting hair all over it, you at the beach, some with your friends and your mom. It was too cute for Simons heart, there was one he put in his wallet that he was too proud of.

You in nothing but his shirt that went to your thighs, little S.S laying in your hair— he grew to love you a little more, his heart beating a little fast just at the thought of you, your handwriting on the back of the photos.

Simon came back 3 months later, more excited than usual, your mini snoopy chained to his waist with pride. You were a giggling mess, running and jumping into his muscular arms. He squeezed you tight, kissing your cheeks then your lips.

“Welcome back S.S.”

He playfully squishes your nose, “Good to be home little snoop.”

a/n: Bun and I literally love snoopy and then I started listening to I Love You by Faith Evan’s— perfection. I had fun writing this🥺.

most recent masterlist

[daughterwifed]

ROUTE 69 !

ft. di!leon kennedy x woc!reader

tags. piv, smut, cop!leon, ignorance/racism but not on purpose 😭, leon woc fetishiser, blowjob, public sex, car sex, creampie

notes. im scared 2 post this all I have to say is im a fat brown woman and um my belly fat is going to shield me from any backlash.. this fic was much worse and then I changed it to di leon and made it more of him being ignorant without realising n having a fetish. readers race/ethnicity isn’t specified but since im south asian i did write it w myself in head .. reading this back it’s very south asian actually wow. some bits r taken from my old n deleted fics if they sound familiar 😴 i’ve been writers blocked 4 months so this is clunky n disjointed,, feedback n rbs always appreciated :3 UNEDITED!!!!!!!!

You get pulled over beside a cornfield—Where Leatherface met Sally. 

Okay, sure, you were speeding, like, a little bit, but it’s not like there’s anyone to crash into, there’s no schools around here so no kid is going to wander into the road and splat against your windshield like a bug, and there’s no deers so you really don’t see the problem. This road is long and winding like an unfurled spool of silver ribbon, it’s scary, and the only source of light is the fucking moon, and while there’s probably only a 0.01% chance of something happening to you—This is Midwest America you’re talking about - land of the free, birthplace of literally every serial killer like ever.

They have it all here: killer clowns, rapists, somebody’s coworker, zodiac killers, night stalkers, mommy’s boys and cannibals. 

An entire carousel of freaks.

He’s just a cop, you tell yourself, some overweight, gun-slinging, bible-thumping degenerate that has to pick on generally polite and law-abiding women like me to feel good about himself. 

You press your face against the wheel and try not to think of Jason and Michael Myers and that terribly evil, big-nosed clown with his stupidly small top hat.

Tap, tap, tap. 

You don’t even look when you roll down the window, not until he sighs deeply and gives a pointed, “Ahem.” 

Don’t look at him wrong. Don’t smile at him wrong. Don’t even breathe wrong. Don’t give him a reason.

When you lift your head you're met with his crotch. It’s not exactly a sight for sore eyes, but it’s not exactly unwelcome—You can tell by those hands and those thighs and—well—that dick that you’ve got him all wrong. He’s not fat or ugly. He’s a hot gun-slinging, bible-thumping cop, and somehow that’s even worse. 

“Do you know how fast you were going—“ He adjusts his belt, probably shifts his dick from one side to the other side of his obscenely tight uniform before he bends down to peer into your window. “—ma’am?” 

Oh god. 

He’s like hot hot. 

Somewhere between retired underwear model and vintage pornstar hot. His eyes are the type of blue you'd like to dip your toes into, and his name badge says Kennedy. 

“Fast enough to get your attention?” You smile at him hopefully, sitting up straighter and shifting your body towards the window to show him your perfectly planted cleavage. 

Officer Kennedy seems to take that into consideration, nodding thoughtfully while he looks right down your work blouse and at the scalloped cups of your lucky lace bra. It’s always been there to get you out of a pinch—like that presentation today, if you hadn’t stood directly under that spotlight with that bra and that sheer blouse, you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be getting a promotion and such a glowing recommendation. 

When he’s done checking you out, Officer Kennedy asks for your license and registration, you rifle around in the glove compartment and pretend not to notice a pack of condoms falling to the ground. 

He leans forward, peering through the open window, yoi catch sight of the ID clipped to his shirt. “Think we might have a code M&M on our hands,” Officer Leon Kennedy says. 

“A what?” You dig out your insurance papers and hand them over, fingers trembling when you go to get your license from your card wallet—You haven’t done anything bad, you went over the speed limit, it’s not like you’re lying about your papers, it’s not like you have a body in the trunk—It’s just the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s speaking to you. 

“Y’know, Mexican or Muslim—Aw, don’t look at me like that, it’s just a joke, don’t make me feel bad about a joke.” He clicks his tongue like he’s embarrassed. “I’m not like that,” Leon continues as he squints at your license, “I don’t have a problem with anyone or anything, it’s just how we talk down at the station.”

You just blink at him. What are you even meant to say to that? 

“Tough crowd.” He shrugs and hands everything back to you, for just a moment you think you might be able to get away with a slap on the wrist, but you don’t go to his church, you don’t sound like him, you don’t wave around little flags on the Fourth of July, you’ve never even had a casserole, and you most certainly don’t look like anyone he would call a friend. “Here ya go.” He sticks his hand through the window, waving around a fine.

“I can’t pay that,” you blurt out, and you want to be smart and tell him that you know speeding doesn’t cost that much, he could just give you a point on your license and it would all be fine and dandy, but you’re panicking. 

“Didn’t think so.” Leon gives you a pointed look—Like, like he planned this, like he’s setting you up, and he is, he so is—You’re tired and upset and wary about the gun he’s wielding on that belt. “You know,” he sighs, glances at your strategically unbuttoned shirt, “there’s something else you could do for me.” 

Okay, this is good, it sounds more like the start of a bad porno than a horror movie and you’re alright with that. You can do porn, you can take dicks, but you can’t take chainsaws or hooks or needles or anything of the sort. 

To be coy, you blink at him slowly, tears beading your lashes like morning dew. “I have a boyfriend, Officer.” 

“Ah…” Leon seems to take it seriously, like abusing authority is fine as long as a woman’s single—but the moment she’s taken? He’s got morals. “Arranged marriage, huh?”

You blink at him. Again. And again. And again. 

“No…” You say slowly—Oh, what the hell. “Yeah, forced marriage, it’s a whole thing, if I don’t make it back tonight I'm in for a beating—That’s why I was speeding actually, officer, I just want to get home before it’s too late.”

“Damn shame.” Leon shakes his head, the gravel crunching under his boots as he shifts. “Treating a pretty girl like that…Nice skin, pretty hair, big eyes—That’s just not right.” 

So he’s like that - the type to call you a princess in bed and a terrorist at the airport, the type to fuck you and let you know that his buddies can’t find out about this, he doesn’t change the radio station when a rap song comes on when he drops you two blocks away from your house. 

“Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a good girl, girls like you, they're good in school, study hard, doctors, lawyers, all that stuff—“ He makes a vague hand gesture that is neither here nor there. “—So I don’t wanna give you a ticket or a court date, but, uh, that doesn’t come for free.” 

“I understand, officer.” You bat your lashes at him, biting back a smile. This isn’t so bad, you got a promotion and now you’re getting laid. There’s no axe murderers or rapists in sight, just a cop with his dick in the right place. 

“Good girl.” He nods, pleased, and then he switches off his radio. “So, you do that for that prick at home or me?” Leon’s eyes drift to your cleavage, to your thighs in that short skirt, it keeps riding up the more you squirm in your seat. 

“I like uniforms,” you tell him innocently, “can’t help it.”

Leon laughs, slow and knowing. “I bet you do.” His fingers brush his belt, not to reach for his gun, but to unbutton them. You poke your head a little further out the window, his hand finds the back of your head, guiding you to his dick. His gun-slinging, bible-thumping dick that you fully intend to put in your mouth - you’ve made your bed and now you're kneeling in it. “I don’t have a breathalyser with me, so this’ll do.” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as your warm mouth closes in on the tip, he’s big, but not in the way that makes your jaw ache—If he wanted to do that he’d find better luck shoving a gun in your mouth. 

“Fuck, wait.” He lets out a soft grunt and pulls his cock from your mouth, smudges of red lipstick and strings of spit keeping his tip and your lips together.

“What’s wrong?” You ask him, heart thumping out of your chest—Did he change his mind? Did he have, like, an epiphany? Was it bad? Oh god, what if someone saw you? What if there really is a murderer out here and everybody knows they always go for you when you’re fucking—

Leon opens the back door—You were worried about murderers and hillbillies but your doors weren’t even locked. “Get in the back.” 

“Oh.” You let out a breath of relief, climbing over the handbrake and losing a heel on the way over to meet him. He braces an arm against the roof of your car as you kiss the tip off his cock, letting dribbles of pre wet your lips. 

“Fuck,” Leon groans, one hand rests atop your head, “you’re trouble, I should’ve cuffed you.” 

“I would’ve liked it,” you mumble around a mouthful of fat cock, you should be ashamed of soaking through your poor thong, but you’re not. That ticket would feel a hundred times worse than a sore throat. 

“Speak English.” He gives you this cheeky smile when you let out a noise of surprise, but you’re too concerned with taking him deep in your throat to start an argument—So he gets away with it like he has a million times before. If it were any other day you'd give him a piece of your mind. Really, you would. Honest. Once his tip knocks the back of your throat, you start speaking his language, gagging wetly as you swallow around him, one hand trailing down to grasp his heavy balls. You feel him pulse, and he curses under his breath. “That got you going, huh?” He snorts, amused and all sorts of turned on.

When you pull off with a pop, you go straight to licking up the seam of his balls. “You having fun down there, sweetheart?”

“Mhm.” It’s muffled as you take one into your mouth and then the other, you like to play with your food, and sucking up (read: off) took you so far in school. 

“C’mon, enough of that,” Leon hums, pushing you off gently like you’re a kitten clawing at the hem of his trousers. You go to whine and then wonder what your parents would think of this and zip your mouth shut. Your grandmother came to America for what? For this? For you to let any old pig put his dick in your guts? Whatever. Whatever. He’s a hot pig. He’s like the cutest guy you’ll find for miles, and you’ve already gone to college, you’ve got a good job, why can’t you indulge? “Scooch over.”

You shuffle back, skirt hiking up your thighs until it’s more of a belt, he wedges himself between your thighs—Your legs dangle out the door, and you're still worried something or someone is going to come out of the cornfield waving around a scythe and cut up both your bodies like a canvas, but you’re wet and he’s on top of you and there’s no going back now.

“Wait—Keep it on,” you gasp softly as he lifts the hem of his uniform shirt.

“Why? You like it?” He asks, blinking at you with those big blue eyes, they’re clear like a summer afternoon. 

Obviously. 

“I dunno…I kinda like it, feels wrong.” You take his hand in yours once he drops the bunched up fabric, bringing it to feel how wet you’ve gotten. 

“What? The badge? The uniform?” He looks smug, like you're some kinky act of rebellion for him—Well, you don’t really have the right to speak on things like that. 

“The gun,” you say softly, flashing him your sweetest smile. 

“You're dirty,” he tells you with a groan, lining up his cock with your soft cunt, dragging the fat head up and down your folds, letting it brush over your throbbing clit just to see you writhe. 

“Hurry,” you whine, digging your nails into his biceps, you want him to split you straight down the middle. “Wait—Are you married?” 

“Does it matter?” Leon asks before he pushes in with one single glide, you're so wet there’s no resistance, just the slight stretch of a pleasantly big dick, tip nudging your cervix. 

“Oh my god.” You drag your nails down his back, legs going rigid as pleasure prickles your spine. “I was just—just wondering.” You bet there’s someone. Blonde, short, small, the kind he can bring home with no judgement. 

“Probably should’ve asked before you sucked my dick.” Leon huffs out a breath as he shifts his hips, angling deeper, making you sniffle as he drops his sweaty forehead to press against yours. He’s so deep you feel him everywhere, you can’t escape him and you don’t want to. 

His cock drags in and out of your slick cunt, one of his hands is by your head and the other settles on your tummy, trailing down until he finds your swollen clit. The pad of his thumb rolls over the soft bud as he fucks into you, pussy clicking wetly with each sharp thrust. 

If you had any dignity left, if you weren’t twenty seconds away from gushing all over him, you'd probably be embarrassed by the noise. The wet squelch each time he bottoms out, the smack of his balls on your ass, the way you’re whining like a fucking, boot-licking idiot. 

“Wait—Wait, I can’t—“ You push at his abdomen, wanting him to ease up as you feel the pressure build deep in your gut, there’s no time to feel guilty when it feels so fucking good, when your cunt tightens and he presses down on your clit and your poor Honda Civic—She’s been subjected to a lot tonight. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, sweetheart.” Leon cups your cheek, his hand is softer and smaller than you expected, gentler than the one that’s pinching your clit and making you sob into your fist. “Go on, good girl.” 

You think you black out when it happens, and you don’t know why. It was good, sure, but it wasn’t, like, deserving of a pornstar reaction, and you just gave that—Boosted his already huge ego, made a fool out of yourself, disappointed whoever in your line of ancestors decided the shift to America was a good idea. 

“You do that for your husband?” His voice is strained, his thrusts are sloppy, his mouth is hanging open as he ruts into your messy cunt. 

“I don’t actually have—It’s the uniform.” You think about the box of condoms on the floor and hook your legs around him, digging one kitten heel and one regular human heel into his ass to keep him from running away. 

Leon’s eyes go wide, he opens his mouth to protest, and then you squeeze his dick so tight it empties his brain and his balls. He even looks good when he cums. Adam’s apple bobbing, lips parted, a perfectly timed rivulet of sweat drips down his temple as he fills you up. 

The quiet after all of it is said and done kind of makes you wish you did hear a chainsaw revving somewhere in the distance. He buckles his belt as you pull your thong back into place, dried cum sticking to your thighs, dripping onto your poor old car. You have driven a million relatives back and forth in this little thing, you take your mom to the doctors and your grandma to the grocers and now she’s ruined. 

His radio is switched back on, you find both your shoes and place them on the passenger seat. You can’t drive in this state, not when your legs are wobbling so bad you wouldn’t be able to step on the brakes. Maybe that’s what you need to do. Drive head first into a wall. 

“I can drive you home,” Leon offers after he watches you stare at the windshield blankly, “Can get somebody to bring your car over in the morning.”

You accept and wonder who he voted for as he drives. His pinned radio stations are all some sort of rock, but there’s no country and that makes you feel a little better. 

He grabs your wrist before you get out, all blue-eyed and earnest. “I hope…I hope I didn’t get you into trouble with your folks, I know how they get, your people, I don’t want, uh, anything to happen to you.” 

You look at your house. All the lights are off. There’s not a single car parked in the drive. There’s nothing because you live with no one but yourself. You thought cops were meant to have deductive skills. 

“And if your husband gives you any trouble, you can call me, for real this time—Not, not for that, but for help,” he finishes clumsily, like he didn’t raw you in the middle of an open road while he was on fucking duty.

“I don’t have…” You look at him, like really hard, remnants of red lipstick on the collar of his blue uniform, his seed staining your panties white. “I’ll tell you if he gives me any trouble,” you say, only because you know he needs a reason to come and see you, he couldn't be casual with somebody like you. He’s going to knock on your door with a warrant just so he can fuck you into your mattress. 

“Okay.” He nods, lips twitching into a smile. “I’ll bring the handcuffs next time.”

I’ll bring a fucking veil next time so I can hang you or myself, maybe an anklet or two if you’re into that officer.

You fix a smile onto your face. “Goodnight, Officer.”

[l0singsdogs]

I’ve had this wild headcanon circling in my head for a few days now. Just something quick before I head to bed: civilians working at the Watchtower.

Not just one or two, but a small team—maybe under a hundred people—hired to handle the kinds of jobs superheroes don’t always have the time, training, or bandwidth for. Doctors, nurses, administrative staff, financial analysts, tech support, even custodians and social media managers. And here’s the catch: not a single one of them ever reveals the heroes’ identities.

Why do they stay? Because the job is good. The environment is excellent. The pay? Amazing. Benefits? Better than anything you'd get working a normal nine-to-five on Earth. Sure, the occasional intergalactic invasion or magical mishap might make for a stressful Tuesday, but in general, it’s a surprisingly stable, fulfilling job.

Need help in the medbay? There’s a small, dedicated medical team. Parental leave for anyone? HR’s already got the paperwork ready. A hero injured on a League mission? Don’t worry—the League covers the medical expenses and provides recovery support.

I like to think Batman used to manage all of this himself. For a while, he tried to juggle it—because of course he did—but no matter how much people think he's superhuman, he's still one man with a full-time company to run. Eventually, he started recruiting a reliable team. People handpicked, vetted, and trusted. Civilians who could handle the loose ends most heroes wouldn’t even think about—basic logistics, liability, disaster response, benefits.

And it’s not just medicine. Sure, they’ve got alien tech that can heal broken bones in a flash, but they still need people. Nurses, therapists, surgeons. Heroes with those skill sets exist, but they have lives outside of those roles. They can’t do everything.

And then there’s social media. Bruce Wayne knows better than anyone how important public image is these days. The League needs PR experts—someone to coordinate interviews, run official Instagram accounts, post educational content on what to do if you find a magical artifact on your morning jog, or what civilians should avoid after a city-leveling alien fight. Maybe Superman and Wonder Woman are featured in the press, doing goodwill interviews. Batman? He stays behind the curtain, but someone still needs to manage his presence.

Every four weeks, someone’s getting brainwashed. Someone’s getting cloned. Someone’s going rogue. There needs to be a team that can step in, clean up, and carry on. People who understand that their work matters, even if it’s behind the scenes.

That’s why the Watchtower needs civilians. Trained, committed people doing honest, often thankless work. Heroes are heroes, sure—but they’re also people. They need lives, rest, and support. And sometimes, the best way to keep the world safe is by letting someone else carry part of the weight.

[dontpulloutman]

singer!yn x lewis pullman headcanons

an accompaniment to favorite muse !

like two cosmic entities, you two have been circling each other for years before you properly meet.

gaining fame and your celebrity status before the age of 18 doesn’t change the fact that you are a fangirl at heart. suddenly being invited to afterparties and high-profile events, you took the time to socialize, mingle, and meet the people who you only saw on your screen.

in one of those post-award show parties, you meet eden brolin. you’re both talking about music, how you’re at the height of yours, and how she and her band are in hibernation, when she gestures for someone to join you.

sporting a shy smile, lewis makes his way over to you. your eyes are stuck on his smile, ears tingling with his laughter when eden makes a witty remark you didn’t catch. you’re enchanted, captivated.

this is only the beginning.

songwriting has always been your strongest suit. as you always said, without it, you wouldn’t have it all. for almost a year, your relationship with harry has been on a steady decline. songwriting is how you’ve learned to cope with and understand it.

lewis was the one who helped you heal through it.

back and forth from new york to rhode island; los angeles and oddly enough, a home studio at lew’s montana ranch, your album was crafted. in this, you poured out your feelings and thoughts regarding your relationship with harry.

(if, in a few years, fans realize your entire album photoshoot took place in lewis’s montana ranch, what harm would it do? you can’t blame eagle eyed fans from connecting his recent 2024-2025 interview backgrounds to your album photobook)

after such a publicized relationship, you knew you had to take some time for yourself. never mind the fact that the internet always had something new to say about your breakup, how you’ve basically gone non-existent while harry has been spotted walking around with a new girl every other month.

in those months of hiding, you find your friendship with lewis developing into something more.

knowing looks, longing stares, and the feel of a warm hand against the small of your back. everywhere you went; out with friends, intimate gatherings with industry peers - he became your immediate and automatic plus one. it’s understandable; he’s your best friend.

one night, while sequestered in your new york apartment, deep into your second glass of wine, your eyes meet lew’s from across the sofa. there’s soft jazz playing from the record player, and you can’t stop your eyes from tracing the stubble he’s growing. you want to feel it against your fingertips.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you have a secret you need to tell.”

you bend down, putting your wineglass on the carpeted floor. slowly, eyes never leaving his, you get on your hands and knees, and crawl across the sofa to where he’s seated. back against the corner of the L-shape couch, his hands immediately move to your hips.

“Do I?” there’s a shit-eating grin on your face

you’re not sure who leaned in first, the world is totally blocked out. nothing to feel, nothing to think, nothing to see, except the press of his lips, earthquakes in your core, and fireworks behind your eyes.

like they say, the rest is history.

your relationship settles like puzzle pieces that have always been meant to be. “It makes total sense,” is the general consensus you hear from friends. even lew’s parents have mentioned how they’ve been expecting it.

2018

lewis joins the ensemble cast for Bad Times at the El Royale; it’s been two years since things ended with harry, and 4 months since this new, beautiful, yet still fragile relationship with lew started. you celebrate his new role by cooking dinner together, and watching your favorite films on the couch.

you also begin to write and produce songs for other artists

2022

top gun: maverick and press play.

at this point, you haven’t released any of your own songs. sure, your fans know that you’re making music, and you’ve joined in on a few collaborations with other artists, but people have been dying to hear from you.

it’s not something you’re worrying over. supporting lewis’s career, simply being there when Big Heart Manners and Crab Park were made and recorded; it’s easy to fall into domestic bliss with the love of your life

2023

and still, he never stops encouraging you to release your own songs again. with festering and long-awaited inspiration, you start to work on muses & anecdotes. a 13-part love letter dedicated to the man you know you couldn’t live without.

2024

after an accidental post on instagram, you both decided it was time to let the world know. releasing muses & anecdotes, and the accompanying “hard launch” posted on instagram, you felt a newfound freedom. almost like the weight of the past few years have been lifted, a declaration of starting anew. the whole world learning of your love with lewis was like a new page being turned.

your story has barely begun.

[bucketsorbueckers]

No Hard Feelings - Chapter 2

Paige x Azzi

Warnings: language, alcohol, dumb sapphics not communicating

Dual POV - 7K words

A/N: holyyy ??? thank u sm for reading the first chapter!! legit thought i was gonna post into the void so if you saw this, i’m kissing your forehead through the screen <3 next one’s longer. messier. high in yearning. sorry in advance (but also. not at all.) would love to know what you think!! little comments keep me going fr so just know i appreciate youuu 🫶

Paige POV

Paige sat on the edge of the couch, one sneaker still half-on, fingers tangled in the laces like she’d forgotten what they were for. Her head spun—half from the alcohol, half from everything else.

The room was quiet, save for the dull hum of the fridge and the yellow light over the stove casting long shadows across the floor. Her phone buzzed somewhere across the room. She didn’t check it.

She was still in the same pants Azzi had seen her in. That mattered for no good reason.

She pressed her palms to her eyes until stars bloomed behind her lids. She didn’t cry. Paige never cried. But the ache had settled deep—familiar now—and she wondered if she even remembered how. If it might help. If it might do anything at all.

She groaned and fell back into the couch, the room spinning slightly with the motion. So she closed her eyes. And that was the mistake. Because her mind didn’t go to the party, or the noise, or the laughter she hadn’t really listened to. It went where it always did: straight to Azzi.

Not the Azzi from tonight. But the Azzi who used to sit cross-legged on her bed, eating cereal out of a mug, one sock on, one sock off, looking at Paige like she wasn’t something to admire but something to keep.

If she were here, she’d be telling Paige to get water. To wash her face. To change out of her jeans. She’d braid Paige’s hair so it wouldn’t be a disaster in the morning. Probably force her to eat something.

But Azzi wasn’t here. So Paige did none of that. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for her phone. Doesn’t untie the sneaker still half-dangling from her foot.

Her mouth is dry. Her head hurts. And still, nothing feels as hollow as the space Azzi used to fill without trying.

She can still see her, clear as day: curled up at the end of the bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, twisting the drawstrings into little knots while Paige rambled about something that didn’t matter. A game. A play. A headline she hated. And Azzi would listen, always.

There was one night. Paige doesn’t remember what led to it—what they’d talked about, if anything at all. Just the way Azzi sat behind her on the floor, legs wrapped loosely around her waist, fingers moving slowly through her hair.  No music. No talking. Just touch. And the safety of being known.

And for once, Paige didn’t feel like she had to fill the silence. Azzi never asked her to be anything but there. She hadn’t realized what a luxury that was. Back then, it felt inevitable. Automatic. 

Now, silence feels different. Sharper. Meaner. Azzi would’ve known what to do with it. Would’ve filled it without trying. Would’ve made the air feel less heavy just by being in the room. But Azzi’s not here. So Paige just sinks deeper into the couch, lets the ache stretch wider across her chest, and tries not to wonder what Azzi’s doing.

If she’s curled up in that baseball player’s bed. Wearing his hoodie. Making him mac and cheese like it means nothing. Like she hasn’t done all of that before, for someone else.

And then—like punishment—a memory surfaces. 

Her bedroom. After a loss Paige had claimed like it was hers to carry—because that’s what leaders did, right? They absorbed the blame. They held it so no one else had to.

She’d sat with her knees pulled to her chest, back against the headboard, arms wrapped so tight around her legs it hurt. The room was dark. She hadn’t turned the lights on when she came in, hadn’t taken off her sneakers. Sweat clung to her skin, dried cold and uncomfortable, but she couldn’t make herself move.

The door creaked open. Azzi didn’t say anything.

She stepped in barefoot, silent, already in one of Paige’s sweatshirts—too big, the hem brushing her thighs, sleeves half-swallowed. She didn’t hesitate. Just crossed the room like she knew the floor plan of Paige’s grief.

She climbed onto the bed, moved slowly and knelt beside Paige. For a second, she didn’t touch her. Just looked. And then, gently, she reached out and cupped Paige’s arm.

“Come here,” she murmured.

Paige didn’t resist.

Azzi guided her down like she was something fragile, easing her back against the mattress until Paige was lying flat, stiff at first, eyes wide and blinking toward the ceiling.

Then Azzi lay down beside her. She pressed their bodies together, slid an arm beneath Paige’s head like a pillow, the other curling around her waist. Their legs tangled like instinct.

And she said nothing. 

Not you played fine.  Not you did everything you could. Not I’m proud of you.

She just stayed.

And Paige—who didn’t cry, who never let herself fall apart, who carried the weight of every game like it was stitched into her jersey— let herself lean in. Just a little. Just enough.

She remembered thinking: Azzi loved her even at her worst and never once asked her to be anything else.

She’d been so dumb. So fucking ungrateful for it—whatever “it” had been. She groaned as her phone buzzed again.

Dragging herself upright, she blinked at the screen. Sixty-something texts from Nika, letting her know she’d be staying elsewhere tonight. Paige gave the last one a thumbs up. No words. She didn’t have any left.

She retreated to her room like it might offer some kind of silence that would actually stick. She tried to sleep. Really tried. Stared at the ceiling. Flipped her pillow. Closed her eyes. Counted her breaths. None of it worked.

Eventually, with a sigh sharp enough to count as surrender, she reached for her phone again.

The group chat had finally calmed down. Just a few heart emojis and someone’s blurry selfie from the kitchen. Most of her teammates were probably asleep. She could’ve left it there. Should have. But her thumb kept scrolling. Down past Liv. Past Jana. Past everyone. Until she found Azzi’s name.

Her stomach twisted at the “last sent” date. Had it really been a month? She tapped into the thread. And winced. The screen was all Azzi. A wall of quiet, one-sided effort. 

Azzi: hey. just checking in.

Azzi: you left your sweatshirt in the locker room btw

Azzi: i know you’re busy. just wanted to say good luck on your exam today.

Azzi: saw you in the gym this morning. you looked tired.

Azzi: i miss you

Azzi: forget it. Sorry.

Azzi: i know we’re not really talking right now. but you’re still my best friend. that hasn’t changed.

Azzi: i’ll stop bothering you.

She stared at the final message a beat too long, then tore her eyes away.

It wasn’t like she had intentionally ignored them. She hadn’t meant to shut Azzi out. She just didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to bridge the space between who they used to be and whatever they were now.

Because the thing was, it wasn’t not knowing how she felt. That had never been the issue.

Loving Azzi had never been the problem. That part had always been easy. Natural. A constant in a world that changed too fast and asked too much. And if it had just been them—no cameras, no noise, no one else pulling—maybe things would’ve stayed simple.

Paige would’ve stayed. She knows that much. She would’ve chosen Azzi. She wouldn’t have given up. But somewhere along the way, it all got tangled. Messy. It wasn’t on purpose.

She just kept running out of space. Out of time. Too many people. Too many eyes. Always something to prove, someone to answer to. 

Azzi usually understood. She always had. She knew there was a version of Paige that didn’t belong to herself. The one in postgame interviews, in highlight reels, on social media.  She never seemed to resent it. Never made her feel guilty for the things she couldn’t control. Which is why Paige didn’t understand when it shifted. Didn’t know what changed.

The first crack happened quietly. Azzi had said something once, soft, but sharp in that way she always was when she didn’t want to start a fight but couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Sometimes, I just wish I was your first choice.”

It made her feel like a villain in a story she didn’t know she was in. Like she’d missed a moment where something shifted, and now she was paying for it without ever understanding the rules.

And from there, the fissures in their existence began to splinter. Quiet, invisible hairline fractures but there, cracking outward from the very fault line of who they were. Moments that used to feel easy began to catch. Silences stretched longer than they used to. Texts went unanswered a little too long. Jokes didn’t always land the way they once did.

Nothing big. Nothing loud. Just a slow, soft shift. And then, all at once, the space between them stopped feeling like a pause and started feeling like distance. Like something had shifted beneath them, and neither of them had the words to name it.

And Paige hadn’t asked. Hadn’t said, are we okay? Because she thought they were.

Because Azzi still braided her hair on road trips. Still sat beside her during film. Still laughed at her dumb jokes, even when they barely made sense. But there was something in her eyes that had started to fade. Some warmth that flickered a little too low.

And now Paige couldn’t stop thinking about it, how Azzi had kept showing up, softer and softer, until eventually, she disappeared entirely. 

Her phone buzzed again on the pillow beside her. Not Azzi. It never was anymore. She blinked away the sharp-edged memories and looked back at her phone. Her thumbs hovered over the screen, the thread still open—Azzi’s name at the top.

She typed:

i miss you too.

Stared at it. Deleted it. Typed again:

are you still up?

Backspaced. Studied the rhythm of the blinking cursor. She sat there a moment longer, the silence pressing in from every side, the ache spreading like a bruise she didn’t want to touch.

Then she tried again. Slower this time.

i don’t know how to do this. 

She stared at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something braver. Then she deleted them too and turned off her phone. Because reaching out meant admitting something had broken. And Paige wasn’t ready to know if it couldn’t be fixed.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

The sun filtered through her half-closed blinds too early, nearly cracking her skull in two. Paige groaned, throwing an arm over her eyes like that might block out the damage. Her head pounded. Her mouth tasted like shitty vodka.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. Didn’t remember turning off her phone. But it was there on the nightstand, face-down like she’d been trying to forget something. She stared at it for a long time before reaching.

Just one swipe. Just a glance. Azzi hadn’t texted. Paige let the phone fall back against the sheets and rolled onto her side, eyes squeezed shut.

Last night clawed at the edges of her memory. Blurry, uneven, softened by too much cheap liquor and not enough food. There’d been laughter, music, the low hum of voices bleeding together. But even through the haze, she remembered those moments.

Azzi looking at her. And then not. Azzi’s skin brushing up against hers in the photo—too warm, too familiar. Azzi glancing sideways, just for a second, before pretending she hadn’t. Azzi. Everywhere. All at once. And also not at all.

In the room. In her mind. In the silence of a phone that hadn’t lit up all night. Haunting her in the softest, sharpest ways.

Paige sat up, her joints stiff, mouth still dry, heart beating just a little too loud for how early it was. She didn’t bother with a text. Or a real breakfast. Just pulled on yesterday’s hoodie, tied her sneakers, and grabbed her keys like muscle memory had taken over.

The world outside was too bright, too loud. The sky an offensive kind of blue. But the gym– the gym was still dark when she walked in. Still cold. Still quiet.

Just the echo of her footsteps and the soft hum of overhead lights flickering on.

She liked it better this way. Before the noise. Before the crowds. 

She set a ball down at half court, took a breath, and started to shoot. One after another. Each shot a little too hard. A little too fast. Each one missing just slightly left.

She kept going. Kept moving. Sweat beading at her hairline like she could outrun the night before. Sweat it out, burn it off, leave it behind. As if sheer effort could scrub her thoughts clean of brown eyes and perfect curls. And that damn look in the photo.

“You’re a freak.” Paige stopped the ball with her foot, chest still rising and falling, and turned to find Nika leaning against the wall like she hadn’t just caught her in the middle of a silent spiral.“I fed you enough alcohol to give you a three-day hangover.”

Paige grinned. “Some of us are just built different, I guess.”

Nika rolled her eyes and strolled to the middle of the court. She sat down, legs stretched out in front of her, and watched as Paige kept shooting—thud after thud echoing through the empty gym.

Then came the throat-clearing.

Once. Twice. Three times. Paige exhaled hard, let the ball roll to a stop, and dropped down beside her.

“How nice of you to join me,” Nika said sweetly, not looking at her.

Paige shook her head, eyes drifting toward the championship banners swaying faintly in the rafters. Nika didn’t hesitate.

“You text her?”

“What?” Paige muttered.  “Who?”

Nika scoffed, waving her off. “I’m way too hungover to play this game with you.” She turned to face her now, voice flat. “Last night—when I walked your wobbly ass home—you said, and I quote, ‘I’m gonna text Azzi and fix all of this.’”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She picked at the edge of her sock, eyes still fixed on the rafters like they held better questions.

“I thought about it,” she said finally, quiet.

“Would call that progress for progress’s sake,” Nika muttered, “but I’m not a liar.” She exhaled, slow. “It’s been a month, P.”

Paige shrugged. “I thought we were doing an okay job with it. The team doesn’t seem to notice.”

Nika groaned, but this time it was softer. Less theatrical.

“Paige,” she said, quieter now. “Not everything is about the team.” She paused, studying her. “You’re not doing well. You think we don’t notice, but we do.” Paige didn’t move.“You’re quieter. You’re in the gym at all hours. You barely talk unless it’s about basketball.”

“I’m just… focused,” Paige muttered. “With the season coming up.”

Nika frowned, gentle but sure.

“I know I’m not Azzi,” she said, “but you don’t have to lie to me.”

Paige’s jaw clenched. She didn’t look at her. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the gym lights overhead. Then, so quiet it almost wasn’t there:

“I don’t know what to say, Nika.” She exhaled shakily, like the truth hurt to hold. “I’m scared that if I say it out loud—if I admit she walked away—then that means she’s really gone.” Her throat tightened. “And I don’t know how to live with that. I don’t think I can.”

Beside her, Nika swallowed, then shifted closer—close enough for their knees to touch, for the silence to feel less overwhelming. She wrapped her arms around Paige and tugged her in, firm but gentle. Like she wasn’t going to let her fall apart alone.

“It’s Azzi, P,” she murmured.“You and her—you're not just some on-again, off-again thing. You’re Paige and Azzi. That’s been a fact as long as I can remember. Even now, when everything’s messy and sideways, that doesn’t just disappear. You’re not cut off. Just out of sync. That’s not the same as losing her.”

Paige, in a rare moment of surrender, let herself lean in and buried her face in Nika’s shoulder like she could hide from the truth inside it.

“Then why,” she whispered, voice splintering, “does it fucking feel like I have?”

Nika didn’t answer right away. She just held her tighter, arms secure around her like she wasn’t going to let her fall any further. 

“Because you love her.” She felt Paige stiffen just slightly, like the words landed somewhere too deep. “That’s why it hurts like this,” Nika added, voice gentler now. “Because it’s real. And because it’s her.”

Paige didn’t have the energy to argue. Because Nika was right.

She loved Azzi. Not in the loud, all-consuming way people always talked about. Not fireworks or grand gestures.  It was quieter than that. Slower.

The kind of love that snuck in when she wasn’t looking and made itself at home. The kind that curled up in the passenger seat on long road trips and pressed in close after late-night losses. The kind that didn’t demand attention, didn’t ask to be named because it was already stitched into everything.

She loved her in the way her body remembered, in the pause before a joke, in the instinct to reach for her hand without thinking. In the way she looked for her in every room before realizing she wasn't there.

Azzi was the quiet in the chaos. The place her soul went to rest. The thing that ever felt like hers, even when nothing else did. 

And maybe that was the problem. Because when you love someone like that—so completely, so unconditionally—you start to believe they’re part of you.

You forget they’re allowed to leave. You forget they don’t have to stay. Even if you would’ve. 

Azzi POV

Azzi woke up slow.

The sun filtered through the blinds, soft and gold, warming the edge of her pillow. The weight of the blanket pressed gently over her shoulders, and the mattress dipped slightly behind her. Someone was beside her. Still half-asleep, Azzi smiled.

She didn’t open her eyes. Just breathed in and let herself sink closer—muscle memory guiding her, like it always had. The shape was right. The warmth. The way their knee bumped gently against hers. For half a second, she thought, Paige.

She hummed, content, pressing herself into the comfort like it might last.

“No time for snuggles,” someone muttered. “I’m hungry.”

Azzi’s eyes flew open to find Caroline. Her best friend is lying on her side, scrolling through her phone like she didn’t just shatter a perfectly good morning.

Azzi groans. “Why are you in my bed?”

“You fell asleep on mine. You stole my blanket. I followed my blanket.”

Azzi buries her face in the pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, here I am. A gift.”

Caroline sits up and stretches, already tossing the blankets back with no regard for Azzi’s fragile morning peace.

“You promised me breakfast,” she says. “Don’t think I won’t hold you to it.”

Caroline jumps off the bed, heading towards the door. 

“Five minutes or I’m leaving without you,” she called over her shoulder, already halfway to the kitchen. “And I swear I’ll eat your leftovers out of spite.”

The door clicked shut. And just like that, the space beside Azzi was empty again. She didn’t move. Just stared at the mattress, the faint dent where someone had been.

It wasn’t the same shape. Wasn’t the same warmth. But for a second, she’d believed it.

For a second, her body had reached for something it used to know by heart. She curled her fingers into the sheets, pressed her face into the pillow like it might still smell like her. Like Paige.

It didn’t.

She kicked the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed like she could shake it all loose. Moved too fast for a Sunday morning, pulling on jeans, shoving her arms through an old hoodie, twisting her curls into a bun without so much as a glance in the mirror.

She didn’t check her phone. Didn’t need to. She already knew Paige hadn’t texted.

By the time she stepped outside, Caroline was already on the sidewalk, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, looking annoyingly well-rested for someone who’d hijacked Azzi’s bed.

She held out the cup with a little smile. “You always forget your caffeine when you’re in a mood. You know the student centers is terrible.”

Azzi took it without arguing. They started down the block in silence, the morning quiet except for the soft scuff of their sneakers on the pavement. After a while, Caroline glanced over.

“You okay?”

Azzi shrugged, eyes on the sidewalk. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Caroline didn’t call her out. Didn’t push. She just nodded like she believed her. Or at least understood why she didn’t want to talk about it.

Then, gently: 

“Whenever you’re ready, I’m here.”

Azzi didn’t reply. But her fingers curled tighter around the coffee cup. And Caroline didn’t say anything else.

The student café was warm and buzzing, sunlight pooling across the tiled floors and clattering dishes. The line moved slow, but Azzi didn’t mind. She liked places like this—too loud to think, too small to fall apart in.

Caroline pointed to a table in the back while Azzi ordered for both of them, and by the time she slid into the booth, Caroline already had her phone out and a croissant torn in half between them. Cam arrived a few minutes later, all easy charm and windblown hair. 

“You two look like you’re recovering from something,” Cam said, sliding into the seat across from Azzi.

Caroline didn’t look up from her phone. Just gestured lazily in Azzi’s direction. “She is.”

Cam raised a brow but didn’t push. Just slid a pastry toward her like it might solve something. Azzi offered a grateful smile.

Caroline didn’t dislike Cam. She just didn’t buy the whole “he’s good for me” campaign Azzi had been running lately.

I can tell you’re not happy, she’d said one night. Azzi had shut it down before it could bloom into something messier. Because she needed Cam. Needed the steadiness, the ease, the way he never asked for more than she offered.

He was warm. Present. Simple. A safe place to land after limping her way across the scorched battlefield that was being touched—then abandoned—by Paige Bueckers.

It had been almost two weeks. And Cam really was a good guy. She figured if she told herself that enough, one day, it might matter. 

They made small talk. Caroline filled the silence. Cam laughed at something she said. Azzi tried to stay tethered to the moment, to the clink of forks and the smell of coffee and the way Cam looked at her like she was still whole.

Jana appeared halfway through the conversation, sliding into the booth beside Caroline with a groan and a dramatic yawn.

“I know,” She says. “The coffee is shit but I’m desperate.”

They all laughed. Even Azzi.  She was halfway through a sentence when the bell over the café door chimed again. Caroline stilled across from her. Eyes tracking the door.

“Shit,” she murmured, just loud enough for Azzi to hear.

Azzi didn’t have to look. Not at first. She didn’t need to. Some people enter a room quietly. Some crash. Paige didn’t do either. She just shifted the gravity.

Azzi’s spine straightened. Her breath caught. Something deep in her chest tightened—like muscle memory reawakening after too long asleep.  And when she finally let herself look toward the door, she nearly flinched. There was Paige. Framed in the doorway like the morning light didn’t quite know how to hold her.

Hair still damp, hoodie too big, sleeves shoved past her wrists like she’d gotten dressed without thinking. Like maybe she hadn’t slept. She looked like something Azzi had dreamed about too many times to admit.

Across from her, Cam glanced toward the door.

“Is that Paige?” he asked, voice quiet, almost casual.

Caroline didn’t look up. “Yup.”

Cam nodded, eyes following her for a beat too long. “Weird,” he murmured. “Being that recognizable. Having people clock you everywhere.” He shook his head a little. “I don’t think I’d know how to be normal.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away.

“She doesn’t really get to be,” she said finally. 

Cam didn’t respond, still watching. Just for a second. And that’s when Azzi saw it. Not awe, exactly but something adjacent. That flicker of recognition. That quiet pull. The same look she’d seen a hundred times in other people. On sidewalks. At games. In locker rooms and airports and campus dining halls. The look that said: That’s her.

Azzi had memorized it since they were sixteen. It was always the same…like the air shifted when Paige walked through it. Like something about her demanded to be noticed, even when she wasn’t trying. Especially then. She just had that effect on people. Impossible to ignore. Impossible not to want. 

And Azzi had spent years pretending she was the only person in the world immune to it. But she wasn’t. Not really.

Because she understood the awe. She understood the pull. The quiet hunger to know Paige. To unravel her. To be the exception in a world full of admirers. Azzi had felt it too. Still felt it, low and constant in her stomach. Sharp. Stupid. Unrelenting.

Loving Paige hadn’t protected her from wanting her. It had only taught her how impossible it was to ever truly have her.

And now she was here—walking past them, coffee in hand, eyes fixed on her phone like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Azzi caught her in the blur of her peripheral vision—still didn’t look, not really—until Jana’s voice cut through the quiet:

“Paigey! Don’t be rude. Say hi.”

Azzi stiffened. Caroline froze mid-sip. Paige paused. She didn’t look up right away. Just tapped once more on her screen, like she was taking care of something important. Then, finally, she lifted her gaze.

“Hey,” she said, quiet but pointed. Her gaze swept across the table, barely grazing Azzi, landing instead on the boy beside her.

Cam straightened, offering a hand. “I’m Cam.”

Paige looked at it for a moment too long before shaking it once.

“So I’ve heard,” She said. “Paige. Nice to meet you.”

But it wasn’t. Not really. Not for anyone at the table.

Paige didn’t sit. She didn’t even shift her weight like she might. Just stood there, coffee in hand, gaze flicking back to her phone like she was already halfway out the door.

Cam cleared his throat, trying to recover. “You hit the gym this morning?”

Paige nodded once. “Early workout.”

“Respect,” he said, with a small laugh. “I can barely get myself out of bed before ten.”

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t even pretend to. Azzi hadn’t moved. She was still staring at the spot just past Paige’s shoulder, like if she looked directly at her, she might combust.

“Are you going to sit down?” Jana asked, proving once again her innate ability to never sense the tension.

Paige’s lips twitched, not a smile, but something close to it. Tired.

“I actually can’t stay,” she said, eyes shifting to her phone. “Meetings.”

“Oh yes, our very own superstar,” Jana teased. “What endorsement are we chatting about today? Gatorade? Nike? Can you get me new shoes?”

That actually made Paige laugh. Short and real and gone too fast.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Paige lingered just a second longer, thumb tapping the edge of her coffee cup. Then, like it was nothing, she held out a small brown bag to Azzi.

“They had the cherry thing today,” she said, not quite meeting her eyes. “You always miss it.”

Azzi froze.

Jana blinked. “The cherry tart? I literally just asked and they told me they were out.”

Paige shrugged, “Guess they just think I’m special.”

She set the bag on the table in front of Azzi, casual as anything. Then turned, already stepping back.

“I’ll see you guys at practice.”

The door chimed behind her. And Azzi still hadn’t moved.

Jana sighed dramatically, breaking the silence. “Must be nice being Paige Bueckers. A god among mortals.” 

Cam chuckled, reaching for levity like it could stitch the moment back together. He slid an arm around Azzi’s shoulders.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

Azzi’s throat bobbed. Her eyes drifted from the untouched pastry bag to Caroline, who was already watching her. Not curious. Not surprised. Just steady. Soft in that way Caroline always was when she already knew the answer. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Her gaze said it all: You thought she wasn’t looking. But she was.

Azzi swallowed again, the ache rising higher now. Cam’s arm was still draped over her shoulders, his thumb brushing back and forth—like comfort could be that simple. But it wasn’t.

It was too much. Too close. Too easy. And somehow still not even close to what she needed.

Her skin buzzed with it. This gentle, well-meaning touch that felt like the wrong language spoken fluently. Carefully, she shifted out from under it.

“I need to make a call,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Then she stood, the pastry still untouched on the table, and stepped out into the morning light.

When the fresh air hit her lungs, Azzi sucked in a sharp breath, like she could force the panic back into place. But it didn’t work. Because across the street, Paige was still there. Still lingering.

Hands in her pockets, eyes half-lowered, like she was waiting for someone. Their eyes met. Paige tilted her head. Observant. Measured. Like she was trying to read something in Azzi’s face she no longer had permission to name.

And something hot surged up in Azzi’s chest. Not heartbreak. Not quite. Anger. Sharp and clean and useful. It almost felt good because it had an edge. Because it gave her something to hold. The urge to move buzzed in her limbs. To cross the street. To do something. To shove her hands against Paige’s chest and say you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to show up and act like you still see me. Still know me. Still care.

She imagined saying, I’m not yours to be generous with anymore.

But she didn’t move. Not an inch. She just stood there. And across the street, Paige didn’t either. For a few suspended seconds, they just existed. Two people who used to share a world. Now standing on opposite sides of it.

And despite everything, Azzi let herself think about it. Let herself remember who Paige had been once. Not to the world, not to the cameras or the crowds or the girls who lined up to take pictures after games but her Paige. 

The one who always found her first in a room, no matter how loud it was. Who could spot her from across a court full of chaos and send a look that said, You okay? without ever saying a word.

The one who unraveled quietly in her dorm room. Kicking off her shoes, hoodie tugged over her head, lying backwards across Azzi’s bed with her legs dangling off the side, eyes closed like the silence was the only thing keeping her together.The one who said I’m tired only to Azzi because she didn’t trust the world to know she wasn’t always strong.

The one who touched her like the world wasn’t watching because when it was just them, it never felt like it was. Fingers brushing her wrist under the dinner table. Knees knocking together during film. A hand lingering at the small of her back as they wove through post-game crowds.

Paige had never been soft for many people. She couldn’t be. But with Azzi—god, with Azzi, the edges always fell away. Her voice would go quieter. Her gaze would linger longer. She’d lean her head on Azzi’s shoulder like it was second nature, like she forgot she wasn’t supposed to need anyone.

She’d reserved that softness like it was something sacred. A secret Azzi never had to ask for, because it was just… offered. Freely. Quietly.

And Azzi—foolishly, selfishly, with both hands and her whole heart—had believed it would always be hers.

Because when Paige looked at her like that, all edges gone, all pretense stripped away, it felt like forever. But maybe it never was. Maybe Paige had just been handing her borrowed things. Little pieces of gentleness, of trust, of a love too soft for the world to see and Azzi mistook them for promises. 

Maybe she’d been holding something that was only ever meant to pass through her fingers. And now, standing in the echo of that quiet, Azzi couldn’t stop wondering:

What if the most devastating part of loving Paige Bueckers was never losing her but realizing she was never really hers to begin with?

Paige’s POV

Practice was hell. Sweat-drenched, leg-aching, breath-in-her-throat hell.

Season was approaching and Geno was one bad pass away from a full-scale meltdown. Paige wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and narrowed her focus.

Ball. Feet. Breath. Because basketball—basketball still made sense.

It was the one place she could still breathe without thinking. The one place where everything stayed exactly where it was supposed to be. Even now. Even after.

Across the court, Azzi moved like a second heartbeat. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Azzi cut left, and Paige was already pivoting. A no-look pass, seamless and clean. A catch in stride. A shot. Net. They didn’t miss a beat. Not one.

Their bodies remembered: the rhythm, the weight, the pull of each other’s gravity. It was muscle memory. It was chemistry. It was grief, dressed up in a perfect assist.

Paige wasn’t sure how she felt about it. She was a professional, first and always.The game came first. The team came first. So mostly, she was grateful. Grateful that whatever had splintered between them hadn’t followed them here…that on the court, they still fit. Still moved like they were breathing the same air.

But there was still that ache. A pinprick under her ribs that she couldn’t shake. 

The damning knowledge that she could still find Azzi in motion. Still trust her without hesitation, without a word. But once the buzzer went off, once the world came rushing back in, she didn’t know how to reach her anymore. Didn’t know where to stand. Didn’t know if she was still welcome.

Geno’s whistle cut through the air, sharp and final, knocking her out of the thought. Practice was over. Just like that. And all at once, the noise returned, sneakers squeaking, water bottles snapping open, the hum of voices rising back into the space she’d carved out for silence.

Paige blinked, wiped her face with the hem of her shirt, and told herself to move.

But everything felt off—like the world was half a step ahead of her, and she couldn’t quite catch up. She moved slowly through the locker room. Slow to pack her bag. Slow to drift toward a conversation she would’ve once led without thinking. Like her body remembered how to be there, but not how to belong.

Her eyes flicked around the room, not looking for anything, until they landed on Caroline. Who was already watching her.

Caroline: Azzi’s best friend. Loyal, soft-spoken, sharper than she let on.

Paige had no idea what she knew. If Azzi had ever told her. If she’d shared any of it…them. Or if Paige had just been erased from the story.

She felt the thought creep in, uninvited and sharp: Maybe Azzi was embarrassed. Embarrassed that it had happened. 

They held eye contact for one suspended second. Not hostile.  Not soft. Just long enough for something to pass between them—something Paige couldn’t name. Then Caroline looked away. And so did she.

Eventually, Paige tugged her bag over her shoulder. The locker room had long since emptied out, and for a moment, she let the silence linger like it might settle something inside her. It didn’t. She stepped out into the hallway, footsteps echoing down the linoleum.

Outside, the sun had already dipped past the horizon, leaving campus washed in a dusky, dull glow. She shoved the door open and stepped into the chill, her body flinching instinctively against the wind. Her phone buzzed. She glanced down. Some email from her agent about scheduling. She didn’t read it, not really.

But then she felt it. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just a shift. The air changed. Like something important had entered the space. A whiff of vanilla. Her head snapped up. 

Azzi stood a few feet away, haloed by the dim orange spill of the streetlamp. Hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands. Curls tied up in a way that made Paige’s ribcage feel too tight for her lungs.

She looked like a memory Paige wasn’t allowed to touch anymore.

Azzi’s head turned then, like she’d felt Paige’s stare tugging at her spine. For a second, Paige braced for her to walk away. She looked like someone on the edge of it. But she didn’t.

“You’re leaving late,” Azzi said, voice soft.

Paige shrugged, because that’s what she did when she had too many feelings and no idea where to put them. “Didn’t really have anywhere to be.”

Azzi nodded, gaze drifting to the parking lot behind them like she was trying to pretend this was normal.

“Your shots looked good today.”

Paige rubbed the back of her neck, shifting her weight. Her body couldn’t take stillness in moments like this.

“Thanks,” she said, barely. “Yours too.”

Azzi smiled, if you could call it that. It didn’t reach anything. Polite and close lipped. 

“Thanks.”

And that was it.

But Paige could feel the words rising anyway, pressing against her throat like they might claw their way out if she didn’t let them. The messy ones. The ones she’d swallowed whole every day since Azzi left. Apologies that didn’t have a shape yet. Questions she wasn’t sure she wanted the answers to. Explanations that felt like too much but not enough.  Anything to pull Azzi closer.  Even just an inch.  Even just long enough to believe that gravity hadn’t let go of them completely.

Paige had never been the kind of girl who begged. She worked. She pushed. She earned. But pleading? That was foreign. That was weakness.

And yet—For Azzi, she would.

She would get on her hands and knees. Crawl across the asphalt if that’s what it took. She would press her forehead to the ground like it was holy. Like this was devotion. Like her humiliation could be translated into worth. 

She’d offer it all: every last bit of pride she hadn’t already chipped away. The ache in her chest that hadn’t stopped since Azzi stopped being hers. The soft, aching pieces of her that still pulsed like an old bruise she kept pressing on, just to check if it still hurt.

(It did. It always did.)

She’d lay herself bare in that quiet, ugly way—the kind of vulnerability that doesn’t transform you or teach you a lesson. It just leaves you exposed. Skin peeled back. Chest split wide.

If there was even the faintest chance that Azzi might look at her and think, Maybe she’s worth it. Even if she never said it.  Even if she just stood there in the dark, hoodie sleeves swallowing her hands, eyes flicking somewhere far away like Paige was too much to look at directly.

Paige would still do it.

Because that’s what you do when someone’s name lives in your mouth like a secret. You ruin yourself for the chance that they might whisper it back.

Azzi was still watching her—closely, unbearably—and Paige felt the sting behind her eyes before she could stop it. That helpless, traitorous burn.

“Azzi,” she said. Barely. A whisper shaped like a sob, like a plea she didn’t know how to finish.

And then headlights cut through the quiet.

A car Paige didn’t recognize pulled into the lot behind them, flooding the space with too much light. And without thinking, she stepped closer to Azzi. Instinctive. Stupid. Like her body still hadn’t gotten the memo that they weren’t them anymore. That Azzi didn’t need her like that.

But Azzi didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just turned like she already knew. Like some part of her had been waiting.

“Babe!” The word hit like a slap, soft and smiling. Cam leaned out the window, eyes finding Azzi first. Like she was his to look at. “Sorry I’m late. Practice ran over.”

Then his gaze shifted. Landed on Paige. And lingered. On their closeness. The silence that hadn’t quite scattered yet.

“Oh,” he added, a beat too light. “Hey, Paige. Sorry—did I interrupt something?”

Paige rolled her shoulders back, spine straightening. She inhaled like she could breathe the ache out of her body, make her voice clear again.

“Nothing important,” she said, cool and sharp around the edges. The kind of cool that cost her something.

And she swore, for just a second, something flickered in Azzi’s eyes. But Paige had lost her map to Azzi Fudd, and now every look felt like a dead language. Beautiful. Incomprehensible.

Azzi blinked, gaze steady. “Were you going to say something?”

Paige’s throat burned. She swallowed hard. “Nah. Don’t keep your boyfriend waiting.”

Azzi’s eyes widened, startled. “He’s not—”

“See you later.”

It came out too fast, too final. But she didn’t take it back. Didn’t wait for the explanation. Just turned, walking away before her knees could betray her. Before she did something stupid. Like stay.

[itneverendshere]

Rafes screensaver being a pic of you and baby Autumn when she first comes home from the hospital, she’s just against your chest, and while you don’t think you look good, he looks at you like you’ve hung the moon

lockscreen shenanigans

Rafe never cared much for his phone’s lock screen before. It was usually something default, a picture of the beach, or a grainy photo Kelce sent in a group chat once. 

That changed the minute he started dating you.

The first time he changed it, you’d only been together a few weeks.

He had secretly taken a photo of you sitting cross-legged on his bed in one of his shirts, eating fries from the bag while humming along to the music playing on his speaker. The lighting was shit, and your hair was a mess, but you were laughing at something stupid he said, all sunshine in your eyes.

That’s my girl.

He didn’t say anything and silently made it his lock screen, his little secret.

After that, it was always you. Over the years, he swapped it out for different versions of you—sneaking a sleepy photo of you curled up in his chest, a blurry snap of you dancing in the kitchen, your profile in golden hour while you poured a drink behind the bar. You were always there, greeting him every time he picked up his phone.

Now, the first thing he saw when he picked up his phone was the love of his life and the tiny miracle they created together.

It was a photo he’d taken when you first brought Autumn home from the hospital. She was asleep on your chest, her cheeks pink and warm, her tiny hands curled into fists. You were sitting on the edge of the couch, hair pushed back lazily, bags under your eyes, an exhausted look on your pretty face.

You’d told him to delete it.

“Don’t even save that. I look like shit." You’d muttered, voice soft so you wouldn’t wake her.

He had smiled, kissing your temple. “You look like a fuckin’ angel.”

You had rolled your eyes, retorting something under your breath, but he’d kept the photo anyway, made it his lock screen. And he stared at it constantly.

He subtly started posting it. Rafe, who barely touched social media unless it was to like a meme or accidentally reply to his friend's story with a fire emoji, suddenly turned into a guy who posted. It made his friends roll their eyes, sure. Topper gave him shit.

“You turned into a Facebook mom, bro.”

Rafe didn’t care, this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

You. Autumn. His little family. He couldn’t believe you picked him to build a life with. Now he had something worth showing off.

Sometimes at work, he'd unlock it to look at the two girls who had flipped his whole world upside down, and he’d grin like an idiot. Didn’t care who saw.

Every now and then, you’d catch him doing it—on the couch while Autumn napped on his chest, or at 3 a.m. during a bottle feed, phone propped up on the armrest beside her socks—and he’ shrug, a little sheepish, getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You’re obsessed,” You’d tease, flopping down beside him. “You’re worse than me.”

“Damn right I am.” He’d kiss the top of Autumn’s head and then yours. “I'm always gonna stare at you like you hung the moon.”

He said it so casually, full of sleepy, reverent affection, that it made your heart ache in your chest. Rafe wasn’t just in love—this new chapter had taken all the hard parts of him and melted them. He still had his days, sure—he was Rafe, after all—but when it came to you and Autumn, he was all heart.

Protective and tender in equal measure, he’d rock her for hours just to let you get a nap, talk to her like she understood him, whispering about how strong her mama was and how lucky they both were.

The man who never got tired of holding you close and saying, “Baby, you’re unreal.”

Some weeks, you didn’t feel beautiful. Your body was still healing, the dark circles on your eyes felt permanent. But Rafe made sure you never forgot how loved you were. He worshipped you with every glance, with the brush of his hand against your back, whispering “thank you” into your skin.

Even now—months in—he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. You’d be standing in the kitchen, bouncing Autumn on your hip while you stared into the fridge, saying something about not knowing what to make for dinner. Hair up in a bun, wearing one of his old tees and the softest pajama shorts you owned. And behind you, Rafe would just… stop.

Mid-step, mid-sentence, mid-breath sometimes. The curve of your shoulder, the rhythm of your swaying, and the way Autumn's tiny fist curled into the fabric near your collarbone were all he could think about.

That’s my whole damn life, he’d think. Right there. 

He’d be caught red-handed. You would look over your shoulder and blink at him, half-smiling, unsure.

“What?”

”Nothing,” he would say with a hoarse voice.

You’d scoff or shake your head, but the corners of your mouth would twitch. And that just made it worse—better, somehow. He was constantly in awe, even when you were pissed off at him—when you were snapping for leaving the wet laundry in the machine once or for forgetting to thaw the chicken—you were still beautiful to him.

Still, the woman who changed his life. Still the girl in the blurry photo on his bed, laughing at nothing while eating fries.And some nights, when everything was quiet and the world had finally gone still, he’d lie there with you asleep beside him, the baby monitor low, and he’d whisper to you.

“You saved me,” he’d breathe into your hair.

Rafe didn’t need the lock screen to remember what he had, but he liked the reminder. 

[kingdomvel]

New season boring af pt2

Steddie | modern au | famous actor Steve Harrington | 4.9k | ao3

part one

“Are you talking with that guy again?” The sound of Robin’s voice startles Steve, who can only lock his phone and slip it into his pocket to hide it from her. He wasn’t even talking with Eddie, that’s the embarrassing part. He was looking at the pictures that he had shared with him over the months they have been talking.

“No,” Steve says, but he must not sound very convincing.

“Steve! I’ve told you he could be a weirdo, or a stalker!”

“And I’ve told you he is not a stalker, he was not that interested in me before we started texting. And he works in a record store all the way in Chicago. I’ve seen it.”

“Do you understand the concept of catfishes? He could still be a stalker.”

“Well that stalker has seen my dick, so” Steve shrugs.

“WHAT? You whore!” Robin shouts, Steve is very thankful that they are alone in the makeup trailer now. “When did this happen?”

Steve crosses his arms and grumbles, knowing what is coming. “A month ago?”

“A MONTH?”

“Yeah.” And what a fucking month it has been. Steve can still remember that first time in perfect detail. Steve had not expected Eddie’s picture. At all. He had been hoping for a reaction, that’s why he had chosen that movie, but Eddie had given him something much better. The sight of his tented pyjamas was only surpassed by the sight of his actual dick on the video call later.

Steve will admit – only to himself – that it was reckless and dangerous, but it was also the culmination of weeks of studying Eddie’s picture, of watching time and time again the little videos he posted in his close friends stories (the day Steve had been added to the list was another peak for him, as embarrassing as that is) playing guitar and dicking around with his friends (maybe he was the stalker of the two). It was Steve seeing how he affected the guy he had the hots for after months of being sexually frustrated with barely enough time to jack off between filming. Because of course Eddie wasn’t only funny and nice to talk to, he also had to be the hot friend of his group.

He had not been planning for that reaction, but he was not going to pass up that opportunity. Seeing the hand he had seen wrapped around guitar necks for so long wrapped around Eddie’s cock… Steve was never going to forget that sight.

“This is crazy, like, do you even know his name?” Robin interrupts his thoughts.

“Of course I do, he’s Eddie.” He’s always known his name, it’s in his profile.

“Surname?”

Steve pauses. “You don’t know the surname of all your friends.”

“I think in this case you should have asked, Steve.”

“Why can’t you trust me with this?”

“I just worry about you, and maybe I’m a bit sad that you didn’t tell me sooner.”

“I knew you would just nag me about it.”

“Hah! So you know what you did was wrong!”

“If you didn’t want this to happen then you shouldn’t have made me watch Notting Hill.”

“That’s different!”

“How.”

“Well, for one it’s a movie,” she says, putting up a finger. Steve rolls his eyes and puts his hands on his hips. That’s pretty obvious. “Two!” Robin puts up another finger. “They met in real life, not the internet.”

“It was the 90s, of course they met in person. Are you saying that it would be fine if I went to Chicago and met him casually in his record store?”

“No, maybe, don’t try to distract me.”

“Keep your points coming, come on.”

“Three!” Another finger comes up. “Hugh Grant is... hot?”

Steve snorts. “Eddie is hot too.” They wouldn’t be having this conversation if he wasn’t. “And anyways, you are a lesbian, you have no opinion on this.” He waves it off with a hand.

“I still have eyes, and that’s what everyone says.”

“Not valid. Your arguments are not accepted, I know you don’t think Hugh Grant is hot.”

“But that’s not the point! Ugh, okay.” Robin pauses for a few seconds, but Steve knows she’s not finished talking. “So, he saw your dick, did you see his? Wait, no, don’t tell me details. A month ago? I still can’t believe it. Have you done that again?”

And there she is. Steve laughs. “Yes, we’ve done it again.”

****

Steve.hrrgtn: hey, just a quick question

Steve.hrrgtn: what’s your surname?

Batking: why? trying to steal it for yourself?

Steve’s heart should not skip like that from that line.

Steve.hrrgtn: just so I know who I should address the restraining order to when you finally try to murder me

Batking: fuck youve been talking with robin again?

Batking: its munson

Batking: edward munson

Batking: you need anything else? my social security number or something? Ill send you a picture of my drivers license

Steve.hrrgtn: I think I only need that for now, thank you for your cooperation

Batking: you better not be lying about the reason

Batking: if I catch you writing one mr and mr munson in your diary you will need the restraining order for real

Steve’s heart should NOT skip like that from that line.

****

Steve takes a picture on the mirror of the dressing room, stylists still all around him. Nobody pays attention to him, they are all too busy for that, packing up and chatting. Steve should be taking the graduation gown off so it can be packed up with everything else, just so they can go home earlier, but he had to take the picture first. He had taken pictures with the rest of the cast, sure, but this is different.

He is smiling, cap held in his hand.

Steve.hrrgtn: *picture attached*

Steve.hrrgtn: just graduated

He sends the message and moves to take the costume off and his own clothes back on. When he takes his phone back, there is a message already waiting for him. A smile makes its way to his face in a second.

Batking: at the grown age of 25, took you even longer than me and I did my senior year three times

Batking: congratu fucking lations

Steve.hrrgtn: you are an asshole

Steve.hrrgtn: but do you know what this means??

Steve moves around the room, thanking everyone. It takes him a while, so he is confused when an answer is not waiting for him when he looks back at his phone.

Steve.hrrgtn: Eddie?

Batking: *Screenshot of the I’M FREEEE!!!!!! WORST EXPERIENCE OF MY FUCKING LIFE meme*

Batking: this?

Batking: sorry sweetheart I was looking for the meme

Steve.hrrgtn: EXACTLY THAT

Steve.hrrgtn: not like the WORST because I met Robin here and all but FUCK YEAH it’s over

Batking: these four months of waiting for the torture to finish must have felt so long

Steve smiles, typing as he walks outside. They are having a wrap party later, so he needs to find Robin so they can get ready together.

Steve.hrrgtn: hmm not really

Steve.hrrgtn: I had someone sending me memes to entertain me that made the time fly

Batking: must be one hell of a lucky guy

Steve.hrrgtn: assuming genders now?

Batking: oh sorry, are you cheating on me with another meme provider? Am I not enough for you now? You looked for someone else to keep you company?

Steve knows this is just teasing, that Eddie doesn’t believe that. Still.

Steve.hrrgtn: nah

Steve.hrrgtn: just you

****

Batking: okay were you going to tell me your mother is a fucking coppola

Steve.hrrgtn: she is a very respected lady

Steve.hrrgtn: also barely a coppola

Batking: still a coppola

Batking: you are a nepo baby

Steve.hrrgtn: every day it amazes me how little you know about me

Batking: I like keeping you humble

Batking: my brain doesn’t understand that the steve from my phone is really the Steve Harrington on tv sometimes

Batking: so I try not to see stuff about you on the internet

Batking: feels weird

Batking: MY ROOMMATE ON THE OTHER HAND

Batking: he was reading your wikipedia page and your mothers name was in blue so he started following the lead

Eddie had told him once that he hadn’t told his friends about what they had going on, that they just wouldn’t believe him. That must have changed. It makes Steve feel giddy.

Steve.hrrgtn: aw you finally told your friends about me?

Batking: they said they are happy to feed my delusions

Steve.hrrgtn: lmao

Batking: anyway that’s not the point here

Steve.hrrgtn: whats the point?

Steve.hrrgtn: you already knew I was rich and famous

Batking: yeah but this feels different

Batking: you are a nepo baby its like I should hate you

Batking: but you are such a good guy

Batking: from a rich family, hot, nice, funny…

Batking: you cant have everything its unfair

The rich family part doesn’t really do anything for Steve. It’s just a fact. But Eddie complimenting his personality and appearance? That always works on Steve.

Steve.hrrgtn: is this a way to get me to call you?

Steve.hrrgtn: because in the words of a metalhead I know

Steve.hrrgtn: flattery works on me

Batking: it wasnt at first

Batking: but I wont say no to a call with the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen

Steve lets out a huff. Eddie and him both know what he did there.

He taps the call icon.

****

Steve stands frozen in the middle of his living room, the smile that had been on his face now completely wiped off. For the first time since he started talking to Eddie, his heart has dropped to his gut at one of his messages.

He keeps his gaze on his phone, the screen staring back at him.

There is a screenshot of a picture of him and Nancy coming out of a restaurant at night. He has his arm wrapped around her shoulders. That was just last night, Nancy had been upset and he had been trying to shield her from the flashes. The picture is accompanied by the headline ‘Caught in the act! Steve Harrington back with ex?’. Eddie’s message is under it.

Batking: glad you are having fun now that filming has finished

It’s- not right. Steve knows Eddie’s snarky comments, knows the feel his teasing. This is not it.

Steve.hrrgtn: I thought you didn’t look for stuff about my private life on the internet?

It comes out as defensive, and Steve instantly regrets it, but it had been one of the things he liked about Eddie, how he learned about Steve from him and not from rumours and the internet.

Batking: turns out that talking to you makes it unavoidable

Of fucking course it does. Who was Steve kidding? He knew this was bound to happen, that the media was going to be a problem at some point. He tries not to blame it on Eddie.

Steve.hrrgtn: it’s not like that

Steve.hrrgtn: she’s just a friend

Steve.hrrgtn: she had a fight with her boyfriend and needed a bit of a pick me up

Batking: you don’t need to explain yourself to me

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? At the end of the day, they have not even met each other in person. That doesn’t make this feel right.

Steve tries to imagine how he would feel if he saw Eddie having dinner with an ex. He doesn’t like the feeling at all.

Steve.hrrgtn: I still want you to know

He needs him to know.

Batking: really steve it’s okay

Batking: I shouldnt have sent that

Batking: Im not sure why I did

Steve has an idea why he did, but he is not going to say it, too afraid of fucking everything up if he does.

Steve.hrrgtn: its okay

Steve.hrrgtn: you are giving me an excuse to bitch about the lack of privacy and how much I hate paps

Steve is sure Eddie is going to recognize it as what this is. A weak attempt at diffusing the tension. Steve hopes it works.

Batking: you know im always open to listen to you bitching about your lavish life

It’s still a bitchy comment, but Steve lets out a sigh of relief. He recognizes that heat.

****

Batking: holy shit steve

That’s the only message on Steve’s phone, it’s the only message from Eddie for a couple of hours. Steve very patiently (or not) waits for him to elaborate, growing more and more nervous when he doesn’t.

Steve.hrrgtn: Eddie? Did you get murdered?

Batking: sorry I texted you as soon as I got the call and then the guys came over and I got swept way

Steve.hrrgtn: that’s okay

Steve.hrrgtn: but what happened? Something good?

Steve really hopes it’s something good.

Batking: we got a gig

Batking: like an actual gig

Steve.hrrgtn: holy shit eddie!

Steve.hrrgtn: that’s amazing

Batking: can I call you?

He doesn’t need to ask, he knows that. They are way past the point of internet acquaintances or friends who sometimes jerk off together on the phone.

Steve hits the video call button, and Eddie answers almost immediately. He is walking away from the cacophony of his friends, a blush high on his cheeks and his hair a mess even as he tries to brush it down. He looks stupidly good.

“Jesus, you look great,” are the first words out of Eddie’s mouth.

Steve snorts, he had been lying on the couch thirty seconds ago. His hair is a mess, he hasn’t shaved in two days. He never lets anyone see him like this. Eddie is different.

“Shut up. You got a gig!”

“We got a gig!”

“How did it happen?”

“You know my friend Chrissy?” Eddie asks. He closes a door behind himself and the noise is now gone, they are alone. Steve nods. “She got a job at a venue that doubles as concert hall and club and they are doing a metal week or something like that. They are bringing some very cool groups from all around the country- I’m so excited to see some of them- but that’s not the point. They wanted to give an opportunity to a local band and that’s where we come in!”

“They gave it to you?”

“They said they really like our vibe.”

“Of course they do,” Steve says with a snort. If Steve didn’t know better, he would say that Eddie just came out of a movie set set in the 80s. Perfect vibe for a metal week.

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’m not laughing! You do have the vibe. Tell me more about it, when’s this happening?”

“It’s very short notice but-“

Steve listens as Eddie tells him all about it, with his excited gestures and the wide smile that splits his face. They talk until Eddie’s friends come to get him to go for celebratory drinks.

As soon as the call ends, Steve calls Robin.

“How do you feel about going to Chicago in two weeks?”

****

The venue is loud. It’s already full when Steve and Robin arrive, just a few minutes before the concert starts. It’s not big, Eddie had told Steve so, but it still has a proper stage, and actual, stablished groups have concerts here. It’s a big step from the bar where Eddie and his friends usually play to an audience more interested on their drinks and conversations than in listening to them. People had to pay for this, even if it was a ticket that included a drink or if it was included into the week pass.

Batking: we are about to come out and I’m nervous as fuck

Steve.hrrgtn: I thought everyone already knew you were gay?

Batking: shut up

Steve.hrrgtn: don’t be nervous

Steve.hrrgtn: I know you are going to be amazing

Batking: I wish you were here

Batking: its going to be the gig of the century

Okay so Steve has not told Eddie that he was coming to see him, so what? He really wanted to see him in his natural environment, just him, not influenced by the knowledge that Steve would be in the audience.

Steve.hrrgtn: I’m always with you

Batking: you know what I mean

Steve.hrrgtn: don’t worry about that

Steve.hrrgtn: you go give the best performance all these people have ever seen

They stay out of the dancefloor slash pit, up in the balcony next to the cloakroom. They have a great view of the stage and the only reason Steve can think for them being the only ones here is that it may not be allowed, but an employee starts walking towards them and just turns around when he takes a good look at them.

Batking: okay we are coming out now

Batking: ttyl <3

Steve.hrrgtn: <3

“It’s starting,” Steve tells Robin. Just a couple of seconds later the lights dim and four figures take up their positions at the stage.

When the music starts, it is loud.

Steve feels so fucking proud. He had seen videos of Eddie’s band performing at bars or jamming in the studio they rent, but they are not like this, they are nothing like this. It’s like they had been living in a cage and were now released in the wild. Steve was  fully prepared to lie to Eddie about what he thought of the concert. He has seen a lot of groups more experienced than Eddie’s that were not as good, that didn’t know how to hype up the audience like them, that weren’t so natural with it. Now, seeing Eddie on stage, he knows that he won’t have to lie about them being incredible.

Steve’s eyes can’t stray from Eddie. It’s like a magnet. Better than any video, better than any call. He can see the whole him, the way he moves, the way he smiles and his hair flows. The way his fingers move on the guitar. He can’t wait to be closer to him.

“Try not to ruin your underwear before you even meet him,” Robin yells into his ear. Steve pushes her away from him, but they are both laughing.

Steve has been wondering for days about how will Eddie react when he sees him for the first time. If it will be after the concert, when Steve inevitably makes his way to the green room, or if Eddie will be able to spot him in the audience. If maybe Steve will miss the moment Eddie’s eyes land on him.

The moment ends up being impossible to miss.

“Holy shit,” Eddie says into the microphone.

His eyes are focused on Steve, his mouth gaping. Steve laughs and waves to him and Eddie gives him a small wave in answer from the stage before his eyes jump back down to the audience.

“Holy shit you guys are great,” he tries to brush it off. “Keep the energy up for the next song!”

The concert continues, but now Steve catches Eddie’s eyes every few minutes, a smile coming to both their faces every time.

It’s not long before Eddie is speaking again.

“It is with great sadness that I must inform you that the next song is our last. Yes, yes, I know, very sad,” he says in response to the oohs from the audience. “I just wanted to take a minute to thank the organization for putting their trust on us and giving us this opportunity. Also to all of you good humans that decided to use your money to come see us, I expect your follows by tomorrow.” He starts playing, the others matching the rhythm. A repeating single note. “To all the metalheads and non-metalheads here,” he adds, louder, his gaze fixing on Steve. “I’m taking groupie applications. The requisites are: One! Be a male, sorry ladies. Two! Be 25 years old. Three! Have great hair. And four, have at least one teen choice award for best shirtless scene.” There are confused sounds from the audience, but Eddie is grinning and Steve is laughing. “Very easy to meet, the backstage door is impossible to miss.” He flicks his gaze to the side, and Steve follows it to see a door at the side of the balcony. He sends him a thumbs up. “Okay, lets rock this shit!”

The concert ends with a bang, and Steve and Robin scurry off to the backstage door before people start coming up to go out for a smoke, because not many people seem to be going home yet, the venue staying open as a bar. They don’t run into any problem because again, an employee takes one good look at their face and opens the staff only door for them. Steve has to admit that sometimes being  so famous has its perks.

The sound of the music gets muted the moment the door closes behind them. The corridor is long, but they only have to follow the shouts of exited boys.

Eddie is the first person Steve sees when they get to the green room. He is jumping up and down while hugging his friends and they all scream. Steve crosses his arms and leans on the doorframe with a grin, Robin next to him. Eddie must catch the movement with his side eye because he stops and turns to them with a grin.

“I told you you were going to do great,” Steve says as a greeting.

The other boys finally stop too, and Steve sees the confusion and disbelief down on their faces when they take them in.

“Eddie, tell me I’m not seeing your imaginary boyfriend,” one of them says.

“You are Gareth, aren’t you? The roommate,” Steve says, pointing at him while he walks over. “Eddie has told me about you.”

Gareth takes his hand with his mouth wide open and barely a coherent thought behind his eyes. Steve sees Eddie’s eyes land with a laser focus on their clasped hands.

“Can’t believe I owe Chrissy twenty,” another boy says with a groan. Jeff, Steve is pretty sure.

“You bet I was making it up?” Eddie asks, offended.

“I bet you were too deep into a parasocial relationship.”

“And I bet you were getting scammed by a catfish,” the other boy says.

Robin lets out a cackle.

“I told Steve the same thing!”

They start talking around them, but Steve doesn’t care. He is two steps away from Eddie, he can see the sweat from the concert glistening on his skin, the deep brown of his eyes staring into him. He needs to close that distance. Before he can take a step forward, Eddie speaks.

“Do you want to come out for some fresh air? There’s a fenced back area for deliveries, should be empty.”

Does Steve want to go with Eddie to a spot with just the two of them? Fuck yeah.

“Yes! The air is so stuffy here, I might die if I don’t come out for a few minutes,” Robin says.

Eddie moves his eyes from Steve to her, his smile turning awkward.

“Right, yeah. Guys, we are stepping out for a couple minutes, okay?” Eddie calls out, taking a leather jacket from the back of a chair. “Follow me.”

Steve’s gaze drops to Eddie’s ass when he walks past them and back into the corridor. Fuck. He needs to close that distance.

Eddie holds the door to the outside for them, gesturing for them to come out with his other hand. His fingers are twitching, his whole body is, for that matter. He’s nervous, Steve can tell.

The door closes with bang after them, and they stand in the dimly lit outside. Robin is talking, and Steve feels just a bit bad about how Eddie and him are very obviously not listening to her.

Eddie is fiddling with the zippers of his jacket, his eyes roaming Steve’s body and flicking to Robin for a second from time to time.

They stay like that for a couple of minutes before Eddie takes a pack of cigarettes from a pocket of his jacket.

“You smoke?” he asks Steve.

“I’m an actor,” Steve says as answer.

Eddie smiles and, before Steve can reach out to grab a cigarette, Eddie has grabbed two and put both in his mouth. He moves to put the pack back in his pocket before he seems to remember that they are not alone and offers it to Robin, but she declines and starts talking about how tobacco is bad for your lungs and teeth, actually.

Steve can only look as Eddie lights both of the cigarettes at the same time and offers one to him. He takes it, their fingers brushing and sending electricity all through Steve’s body, their eyes fixed on each other.

“Okay, this is too much, I’m going inside.” Robin says, both boys turn to her. There is a beat of silence, and Steve realises she was waiting for one of them to say something, but they are both too late. “Your friend Chrissy was at the bar, right? I’ll tell her to get me a drink, you boys just… do whatever, no rush. Just- be careful or whatever.”

They stare at the door until it closes, the bang the one thing that makes Steve snap back towards Eddie. The boy is taking a drag of his cigarette and Steve mirrors him.

“Sorry, I just-“ Eddie starts. He is flicking the barely there ash. Steve can guess he needed something to do with his hands more than a real smoke. “Part of my brain is still trying to keep up with the fact that you are actually here and real and not a creation of my imagination.”

“Why? You fantasize about me that much?”

“Oh, you have no idea sweetheart,” Eddie answers with a sly smile.

Fuck. Hearing that directly from Eddie, looking at his face while he says it with no phone screen separating them is making the metre between them feel unbearable.

“You know what they say, sometimes you need to touch to believe.”

Eddie chuckles. “I’m not sure that’s right.”

But he still takes a step forward and the next thing Steve knows is that Eddie has a hand cupping his face and their lips are squeezed together in a messy kiss. Steve barely has time to answer to the kiss, drop the cigarette and grab Eddie back before the guy is pushing away and putting a hand up between them.

“Sorry, I should have- very real by the way.” Eddie says, punctuating the last part with a wave of his hand. “Great advice there, I-“

He can’t say more, because now it’s Steve pulling him closer into a kiss. There is no interruption now so the kiss goes on, and on, and Steve makes Eddie open his mouth to kiss him deeper, pulls him closer to him. This is everything he had hoped for and more. Eddie matches him beat to beat.

They get lost into it, until some voices come from their side, and Eddie pushes him away against Steve’s protests. He doesn’t allow him to go too far, one of his hands holding Eddie’s face and the other his hip close to his.

“You want to wake up to some scandalous headlines?” Eddie asks with a smile.

“Maybe they will get the memo if they find me on my knees for a guy.”

“Getting ahead of ourselves here, Steve,” Eddie says, but Steve sees how his eyes darken.

“Sorry, did you have better plans for tonight?”

Eddie shakes his head, “nothing that could beat corrupting the golden boy.”

“You think our friends will forgive us if we just leave?”

“Jesus, I really hope they do, I’m not stepping back inside and getting distracted.”

Steve laughs and kisses Eddie again, just a short press of lips. “Lead the way then.”

****

Steve.hrrgtn

New instagram story

Image id: a group playing on a stage, the lights surround them, a sea of hands holding drinks and heads below. There is a caption on it

“The gig of the century”

@/corrodedcoffin

ClubHarrington: Steve Harrington just shared an Instagram story from a metal concert in Chicago.

        MrsHarrington: since when does steve like metal??

        Stevenation: omg!!! He’s in my city Whats he doing here!!!

        Stebitch: guys a friend of mine went to the concert and told me that the guitarist said he was taking groupie applications and started describing Steve when he listed the requirements

               + What???? That’s just creepy, I hope Steve gets away from that fast

               + omg!! Did anyone record it?? I need the video! I need to see Steve’s reaction to that!!

Stebitch: they are a very small band so no one was recording but I swear he did

               + do you guys think they are…. You know….

                       - Your mind

****

Steve walks back into the room with two glasses of water and kicks the door closed behind him. Eddie is still naked on the bed -Steve hasn’t put any clothes back on himself- and he is lying on his side, snickering while he looks at his phone. Steve stops, takes a second to admire Eddie’s naked back.

Steve’s phone pings on the nightstand. There’s only one person he has his sound on for.

“Did you seriously just send a meme to me?”

Eddie turns his face to look at him, “sorry, force of habit.”

Steve lets out a sigh and puts the glasses down on the nightstand. He gets on the bed and hugs Eddie from behind, hooking his chin on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Come on, show me what’s so funny you had to send me now.”

Eddie scrolls back up.

tag list (sorry if I missed someone): @steddiefication @tailsfromthecrypt @orionchildofhades @coralineinwonderland @theohohmoment @what-if-a-dragon @juiceicicles @margaglitterdeath @sofadofax @estrellami-1 @dreamercec @bisexual-chaos-demon99 @queenie-ofthe-void @scoops-aboy86 @me-ig7 @efratfangirl @what-if-a-dragon @juiceicicles @margaglitterdeath @sofadofax  @estrellami-1 @dreamercec @bisexual-chaos-demon99  @queenie-ofthe-void @scoops-aboy86 @me-ig7 @efratfangirl @live-laugh-love-dietrich @yesdangerpls @nerdyglassescheeseychick @agree2disagre-kicks @fuzzyduxk @saramelaniemoon @disrespectedgoatman @aol19 @yikes-a-bee @adealwithher @coralineinwonderland @sanctumdemunson @comedictragedy @marklee-blackmore @karakro @yusukesmomjeans @lumoschildextra @pondypip @xtraordinarally @bridget-malfoy-stilinski-hale @child-of-cthulhu @shrimply-a-menace @ravenfrog

[freshllamapeace]

Till the sun burns out

Remmick x reader

I posted the snippet earlier this week this is the finished product!

Warning - Dead dove do not eat, Gore, Noncon/smut, this is a rough read so you have been warned, probably not my best written smut if I'm honest

Stupid, pathetic, maybe even… desperate. The words described you well enough, wouldn’t you say? A lonely girl with nothing better to do than throw her life away. You do this because you think you're special, you think you're destined for greatness, You think one day you're gonna wake up and be the main character but you aren't. I mean how could you when you’re not even the main character of your own story. You aren't special, you aren’t destined for greatness. The only thing you're truly destined for is to die in this forest. Body broken and mangled while he loomed over you. 

It was clear you were going to die here. No way you get out of this, worst yet you could see the white walls of the house where you grew up in, the soft porch light admitting a warm welcoming glow. If you could have run a few more feet you'd be home safe. But you were just shy of that and he revelled in that. Walking circles around you like a wolf who had just cornered his prey. You hadn't even known what you'd done wrong. What made you deserving of this treatment but it didn’t matter, not anymore. 

Your leg was broken, the bone splintered in half, a jagged end poking out through the skin where your knee was meant to be. Blood leaking down the wound onto the forest floor. Your left arm was gone, ripped apart. The only evidence of it ever being there being the blood and tendons that leaked out of your bicep. The pain was unbearable, indescribable it ached everywhere. You could do nothing but cry and scream. Even your stomach suffered some blows, a large laceration planted diagonally through your chest, your internal organs threatening to spill out. The palm of your right hand was degloved, a sea of red covering the skin that was once there, tendons and muscle clearly on display for you to see. If you’d looked long enough you’d even be able to see the muscles moving, slow and concise. 

Grabbing you by your hair you were lifted from the ground and pressed into the cruel bark of a tree. A screech moved past your lips as broken body parts started to move and bend. “I told you, didn't I? That we’d make sweet sweet music together.” He pressed his mouth against your ear, hot breath assaulting your skin. “I ain’t say how but you were so eager… I ain’t wanna spoil the surprise for ya.” Using his body to keep you stationed against the tree Remmick started to fiddle with his belt. Taking his time to remove it, his eyes stayed stationed on you. Red like an amber sea and teeth glistening in the moonlight, it had been ages since Remmick had played with his food to this degree. Kissing your neck, Remmick allowed his pants to fall to his ankles, his cock in hand. 

“Please, you don't have to do this.” You cried, the cherry colored fluids dripping from your lips onto his chest. Remmick smiled, a smile he often did. It was mocking, cruel and yet the smile looked almost kind… almost. “I know little dove. ” Remmick wasted no time lining himself with your cunt. Pressing his body further onto you, you heard the sound of something stabbing into fresh. It was your bone piercing into his stomach. “Fuck.” He moaned. “You get me all hot and bothered looking like this.” Your gored body turning him on. He was disgusting, a freak of nature. Slamming himself inside you, Remmick gave you no time to prepare before setting the tempo, thrusting at a rough and savage pace. Remmick paid no attention to the bone that pierced his flesh with every thrust. Blood leaking down the wound he had created. Moving his hand down your body Remmick started to play with your clit. The rough circular motions pressed into your skin. You were in pain, your body was aching, the wounds burned and yet your body still reacted to the orgasm forced onto you by him. Your nails digging into his shoulder as you held onto him . You were trembling beneath him, breathing heavy, eyes half lidded. The blood loss was going to catch up with you, soon rather than later. “Fuck.” He groaned, his breathing uneven and his thrust getting impossibly quicker. “Don’t die yet darlin’ I'm almost there.” He whispered in your ear. “There ain’t no God above but if there was he made you just for me.” Soon his thrust started to stutter and slow, his nails began to dig into your skin creating new wounds on your broken body. A groan leaves his lips as he releases all his love and affection into you, the white liquid carrying a red tint to it. Not quite ready to pull himself out of you Remmick thrusted a couple more times making sure that you were filled with every last drop of his cum. 

“I'm going to break you over and over again.” Far too tired and dying from the blood loss the words didn’t register in your mind as anything other than gibberish. But what did register was the sharp pain you felt in your neck and the way he licked at the wound lapping up the blood. When he was done he allowed your body to crumple in on itself, you dropped to the floor. The world went black.

[er1nne]

hi! i’m the anon who requested a new part for “the interview with drew goes viral”. you actually posted it on my birthday, so i’m sending you a huge thanks, really.

i absolutely loved it and i also wouldn’t mind if you wanted to turn this into a series too hahah.

the two of them 🥺🥺🥺 i love that drew is going to the coffee shop after her, would love to see how their relationship grows! i’m in love with them and with the you you write. thanks again!!!

hope you’re doing well, have a nice weekend xxx

another run in with drew ♡

part one, part two, part three

author's note: love how this had become a series lol, also series masterlist coming soon. give me ideas on what you want to see, your wishes are my command

(do not copy or plagiarize, original work)

You haven’t seen Drew since the coffee shop. No texts. No calls. No accidental likes on Instagram stories. Just that strange little moment—quiet, simple, unexpected—followed by nothing but silence. A silence you didn’t have time to question, at least not out loud.

Work swept you under fast. One interview turned into five, turned into twelve. There were red eyes and red carpets, layovers that bled into morning glam, emails marked urgent that weren’t, and endless voice notes from your assistant reminding you to drink water or, God forbid, actually sit down and eat. You’ve been floating from event to event, mic in hand, pretending the whirlwind is normal.

And maybe it is. Maybe this is just what success feels like when it comes all at once.

But somewhere in the back of your mind—between camera flashes and client lists—you still think about that coffee. The way his hand brushed yours when he reached for the lid. The way he looked at you like you were someone worth pausing for. Not performing for. Just… seeing.

You never followed up. Neither did he. So maybe that’s where it ends.

Until now.

You’re back on the red carpet, badge clipped, mic wired, heels biting into the carpet just enough to remind you to stand tall. Another night. Another venue. Another lineup of stars and stylists and agents crowding every inch of the step-and-repeat. Ironically enough, for a Drew Starkey interview. Even when you can't make time to see him personally the universe has a funny way of putting you two together. Meant to be? who knows.

You try not to think too hard about it—don’t give it weight. You’re here to work. You’re here to do your job. Not to chase the what-ifs of a man who left your texts untyped and your mind way too occupied on nights when you should’ve been sleeping.

Still, your fingers tighten around the mic just slightly as you read down the list of arrivals. Tom Blyth is slotted ahead of Drew. You know Tom. He’s warm, low-maintenance, the kind of actor who gives thoughtful answers and makes your job easy. You ground yourself in that—small wins. Familiar rhythms.

Your team gives you the signal, and you step forward into the chaos of flashbulbs and pre-show nerves. The cameras sweep toward you and Tom as he arrives, his publicist giving you a nod. You settle into the interview, asking your usual questions—questions you could probably recite in your sleep by now. He smiles, laughs, says something about the director’s process. You nod, respond, push the conversation where it needs to go. It’s smooth. Effortless. Just how it’s supposed to be.

Your heels click into place on the press line, the carpet beneath you plush but just unstable enough to remind you you’re balancing on borrowed time—and four inches of designer expectation. The noise is a hum—paparazzi flashes, producers shouting cues, the murmur of industry air kisses and small talk no one really means.

Then you see him.

Tom Blyth moves through the crowd like it’s parting for him on instinct. All charm and movie-star ease, dressed in something sharp and tailored, the kind of suit that looks effortless but costs more than your entire monthly invoice report. The lapels lie just right, the fabric catching the camera flashes like it knows it’s being watched. He carries himself like someone who’s used to being looked at—and knows exactly what to do with that attention.

When he stops in front of you, the grin he offers is the kind you feel—not just see. It’s practiced, yes, but not fake. It lands with just enough weight to leave a mark.

You hold your mic steady and smile back, but the energy shifts the second he opens his mouth.

“Well, well,” he says as he stops in front of you, eyeing your mic, then your face, “didn’t expect to see the best-dressed person here holding the microphone. Shouldn’t you be on this side with the rest of us?”

You smile, professional but just shy of bashful. “Careful, Tom. Keep sweet-talking me like that and I might start charging for compliments.”

“Go ahead,” he says, laughing. “As long as you let me expense it under ‘networking.’”

He winks, and you try not to let your shoulders tense under the cameras. “Let’s talk about the film, yeah? You’ve worked with some heavy hitters this year. What drew you to this script?”

He leans in slightly, enough for you to catch a trace of his cologne—something warm, amber, expensive. “Besides the fact that it gave me a reason to show up and see you again?” He pauses, grin widening. “I liked how human it felt. Honest. Flawed. I’ve been chasing those kinds of roles lately. But this one hit different.”

You nod, genuinely engaged, your mic lifting instinctively. “Do you think audiences are ready to see you in something that vulnerable? Or do you still like being everyone’s golden boy?”

“Depends,” he says. “Would you still like me if I wasn’t?”

Before you can even come up with a reply—witty or otherwise—a voice cuts through the noise, low and unmistakably familiar.

“Now he’s trying to steal my favorite interviewer.”

You turn.

Drew stands just behind Tom, casual but calculated, hands in his pockets, eyes trained on you like he’s trying to read the punchline before you’ve even delivered it.

Tom steps back half an inch, amusement flashing across his face. “Well, didn’t know I was stepping on any toes.”

“Not toes. Just territory.” Drew’s tone is light, but the message is there, coded in the way his eyes flick to you, then back to Tom like a reflex.

Tom glances between the two of you, catching it. “Didn’t mean to step on anything,” he says, chuckling under his breath. “Or anyone.”

You force a smile—tight, professional—and tilt the mic toward Drew without looking directly at him. “We’re all friends here. Right?”

“Sure we are,” Drew murmurs, eyes still on you. He doesn’t blink when you finally meet his gaze. He just lifts one brow slightly, like he knows something you don’t want to admit out loud.

Tom excuses himself down the line, sensing the shift, and you don’t blame him. The moment he walks away, the noise around you fades into a blur. Your crew’s still watching. Cameras still pointed. But all you feel is him.

Then he leans in closer—like he’s adjusting something on his suit, like he’s letting you fix his mic—but his mouth is right by your ear.

“Long week?” he asks, voice low.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. You don’t turn to face him, just nod slightly, lips pressed together. “Busy.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Too busy for coffee, huh? Maybe dinner works better instead.”

You slightly hold your mouth agape with a surprised smile decorates your face. You swallow hard. He’s not wrong.

“Sure, it that will make it up to you.”

"How about tonight? If you’re not busy after the premiere.”

You pause. Then add— Then: “There's not a such thing as 'too busy'. It’s a date, then.”

The words fall out softer than you expect, almost natural, and the moment they land, both of you flinch—just a little.

“Promise.”

That gets him.

He doesn’t smile—but something in his expression shifts. Softens. You feel the shift in his body before you see it—his shoulders ease, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s forcing stillness. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something in his face unlocks. Like your words knocked the wind out of him for half a second.

And then—

You turn your head. Just slightly. Just enough for your mouth to hover where his had been.

“Tell me something,” you whisper, breath warm against his skin. “Are you the jealous type?”

He goes still. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just still.

One beat. Two.

And suddenly it’s like everyone around you vanishes. The press. The handlers. Even the cameras seem quieter. Because anyone watching now sees it—the way his hand flexes at his side. The way your smile lifts just barely, slow and knowing. The air between you buzzes, hot and thick and impossible to ignore.

Then you smile for the camera—tight, sweet, unreadable. “We’re rolling, Starkey. You ready?”

He pulls back, expression unreadable. “Always.”

You lift the mic, voice smooth. “Drew Starkey, star of tonight’s premiere, joining us now…”

And just like that, you fall back into the rhythm. But your pulse is nowhere near calm. And neither is he.

And just like that, you’re back on script—two professionals, poised and polished.

But your pulse is nowhere near calm.

And his? His jaw ticks once. His eyes don’t leave you.

But this is anything but far from over.

[pazzi5351]

Even if you called 6 months later at 3 am, I’d still answer.

Paige x Azzi

Word count: 1.4k

AN: little one shot I wrote based on this book on tt I saw! Listen to “party 4 you” once Paige gets to the house if you want a slight heartbreak! For the girly who asked for angst, I hope I fulfilled your wishes! Live reacts are greatly wanted!!!!! Hope you like🙂‍↕️

————————————————————————————

6 months.

It had been 6 whole months since their last conversation.

It had been 6 months since Paige’s world was turned upside down when Azzi posted a picture of her and her boyfriend.

It had been 6 months since Paige lost her best friend.

6 months since she lost the love of her life.

6 months and she felt it everyday.

She felt it during practice when she saw Azzi running the floor.

She felt it during classes when she was supposed to be paying attention.

But most of all, she felt it in the quiet moments. The moments where she was by herself, in the quietness of her room, and could hear the hollowed memories of their laughter echoing from the walls

It was one of those quiet sleepless nights when she got the call.

Incoming call: Azzi 💗 [3:02 am]

Paige scrambled to sit up. Flattening her hair down with her palm, trying to look presentable, even though it was just a regular call. She picked up cautiously, but with care.

“Azzi? What’s the matter?”

“Paige,” Azzi whispered through the phone. Paige could tell she was crying, or had been crying. “I fucked up so bad. Please come get me. I need you.”

“I’m on the way.” Paige had barely even hung up the phone before she was sliding into her shoes, grabbing her car keys, and flying out the door.

Checking Azzi’s location once she got to the car, Paige realized that Azzi had talked about going to fucking Jackson’s frat party earlier to Caroline. She didn’t think about the speed limit once as she rushed to the edge of campus.

Towards the frat house.

Towards Azzi.

Once Paige got to the house, she quickly threw the car in park— jumping out, and rushing towards the door.

She banged on the door three times before Jackson, the culprit of the evening, answered.

“Yoo, Paige! What’s up bro? Come in get a—“ Jackson barely got to finish before Paige interrupted him.

“Where’s Azzi?”

“Uh, she was here. Haven’t seen her in a bit.”

Paige, growing irritable by the second snapped. “She’s your fucking girlfriend Jackson. How the fuck do you not know where she is.” Paige pushed past him into the house.

Ignoring whatever else Jackson was saying about Azzi going to the bathroom or something.

Paige checked every room in the house. The basement. All the bedrooms, ignoring the complaints she got as she did. All the bathrooms, until she found one. Tucked all the way into the far corner of the house that was locked.

She knew Azzi was in there. She also knew that Azzi wouldn’t open the door for anyone who knocked regularly. So, she used their secret knock combination they made one night at Azzi’s grandparents cabin.

“Az, since like you know, we’ve been, like, doing stuff, we should make a secret knock that we do on each other's doors so we know it’s just us.” Paige said, as she stood in between the doorframe of the bathroom and Azzi’s room.

Azzi looked up at the blonde. A look on her face paige didn’t recognize. “That sounds like a pretty good idea P. Make it now, well, since you’re standing at the door.”

“Oh, yeah ok.”

Paige knocked once, then paused. Knocked four times, then paused. Then, knocked three times. Her knocks rhythmically spelling out “I love you”.

“Do you think that’s okay? We just have to remember to pause in between the knocks. It’s once, then four times, then three times.” Paige said, nervously, as she picked with her nails, hoping Azzi didn’t catch on to what the knocks spelled out.

Azzi smiled. “Yeah Paige, it’s perfect.”

Paige hesitated as she stood in front of the bathroom door. What if Azzi didn’t remember, she thought.

The thought was short lived as Paige began to knock anyways.

She knocked once. Then four times. Then three times.

The door clicked unlocked.

Paige opened the door as quickly as she could and stepped inside the bathroom. The sight she saw broke her heart.

Azzi was sitting on the bathroom floor. Knees pulled in against her chest. Cheeks flushed— with tear marks sitting on her face. And, a look in her eyes that Paige swore, could make her cry too.

“Azzi, baby. What happened?” Paige asked, as she stepped closer to Azzi, sitting down with her, gently placing a hand on her cheek.

“I fucked up Paige.” Azzi started, as she began to cry again. “I came here, to this stupid fucking party because Jackson was all like ‘Come on Az! It’ll be fun!’ And I just, I don’t know what I was expecting, but Jackson fucking stood in the middle of the fucking house and damn near fucked this random girl infront of everyone. With no shame and I—. I’m not even upset he cheated on me, I’m more upset that I stood there and watched. I couldn’t move Paige. I was stuck. But the only thing I could think about is how, you would never do that to me. You’d never invite me to a party and stand in the middle of it and cheat on me. No, you’d do the opposite. You’d throw the party for me. Let everyone know I’m yours and you wouldn’t think twice about it. And I fucked up not choosing you. For six fucking months I didn’t choose you and I’ve regretted it everyday, Paige. I’m so sorry.”

Paige could only look at Azzi.

Azzi, the girl she loves more than herself.

Azzi, the girl who ghosted her for 6 months.

Azzi, the girl she’d answer the phone for at 3 am.

Azzi, the girl she’d forgive in every lifetime.

Paige pulled Azzi into a kiss. It was slow, familiar—a deep, silent conversation between them. One that said everything Azzi just did, and everything Paige didn’t say for 6 months.

Paige pulled away first and grabbed Azzi’s hand, pulling her up.

“Come on. Let’s go home.” Paige said, keeping her and Azzi’s hands interlocked.

Azzi nodded and let herself be pulled along.

When Jackson noticed Paige and Azzi leaving, he paused his drinking game to catch them before they got to the door. “Hey! Where are you going? Oh Azzi! There you are! I’ve been looking for you for hours babe!”

“She’s leaving. Don’t bother calling her tomorrow either. Not like you would’ve anyways.” Paige answered coldly, pushing her and Azzi’s way past Jackson, shoulder checking him on the way out.

Back in her dorm, Azzi sat on Paige’s bed. Knees in her chest, biting her bottom lip in thought, looking at Paige.

Paige sat in her desk chair, looking right back at Azzi.

“I just want to say thank you, Paige. For, you know, getting me out of there.” Azzi said. “You can just ignore what I said earlier. I was just rambling.”

“I can’t forget it. That’s the thing Azzi. I can’t forget anything you’ve said to me. Especially since I’ve felt the same way about you since I was 16, and that’s something that’s never changing.” Paige admitted.

“Oh.”

“Azzi, you remember our secret knock. I mean you had to have, you opened the door when I did it. But have you ever wondered why I made it a one, four, three knock?” Paige questioned.

“No. Not really anyways. I mean, I just thought you liked the way the knocks sounded.” Azzi admitted to the blonde, who was staring at her with an intensity that held all the years between them.

“It means I love you, Azzi. One is for ‘I’. Four is for ‘love’. Three is for ‘you’. I love you Azzi. I’ve loved you everyday since I was 16 and everytime I knocked on your door I told you I love you.” Paige said. “I still loved you during those six months. I still love you now— sitting on my bed, in my shirt, even after you told me to pick you up from your stupid boyfriend.”

Azzi gasped lightly. “I never realized. Oh my God, I’m so stupid. I freaking called you at 3am and I just feel so fucking stupid. It should’ve always been you Paige, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never saw that. I love you too.”

Paige stood up, walked over to her bed, to Azzi. She gently cupped her face and leaned in to kiss her. When she pulled back she looked Azzi in her eyes, and really looked at her.

“You’re not stupid. I am. I’m so stupidly in love with you, that even 6 months later, I’d answer your 3 am calls with no hesitation.”

————————————————————————————

AN: for the anon that said my work is Ai, would you like to see the timestamps of my writing orrr ??? Anywho! Hope you guys like!

[bleulikedaylight]

I Was Hoping You'd Say That

pairing: basketball captain! natasha romanoff x cheerleader captain! reader

synopsis: it always starts the same way — the squeak of rubber soles, the bounce of a ball, and your hopeless crush on basketball captain natasha romanoff. as AAU’s cheer captain, you swear it’s all “professional observation.” but when natasha starts noticing your disappearing act every time she’s near, she calls you out — and maybe, just maybe, calls you in.

warnings: none !! <3 | wc: 1.4k | genre: fluff >_<

note: this is my first time posting a fic here, so hi !! :) i've literally been simping so hard for basketball player! natasha romanoff — it’s embarrassing. like, i saw her in a loose jersey once (in my mind), and i haven’t known peace since.

It always started the same way — the squeak of rubber soles, the bounce of a ball, the swish of a clean shot.

Y/N L/N sat with her legs crossed on the bleachers, red-and-white pom poms resting beside her. The cheerleaders were taking a quick break from their routine, but Y/N couldn’t tear her eyes away from the court — from her.

Every practice, Y/N swore she wouldn’t look. And yet, there she was again — legs curled up on the bleachers, pom poms forgotten at her side, eyes trained on the girl shooting hoops like the world wasn't watching.

Natasha Romanoff.

AAU's pride. Number 13. Basketball captain. And, unfortunately for Y/N, Yelena's older sister.

"You're drooling," Yelena deadpans beside you, sipping her soda.

You tear your eyes away from the court like you’d been caught committing a crime. "Excuse me? I’m just watching the game.”

“It’s practice.”

“I’m… analyzing her technique.” You sniff. “As a cheer captain.”

Yelena raises a brow. “Her technique?”

"Yes," you say, face heating. “Totally professional. Very strategic. Normal.”

Across the court, Natasha does a clean crossover, spins, and scores. Her ponytail bounces as she jogs backward, laughing with her teammates.

You sigh quietly.

Yelena rolls her eyes. “You always look at her like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re one Taylor Swift song away from writing her name in your wedding journal.”

You open your mouth to deny it. Then close it again. “...Shut up, Yelena.”

It’s been like this for months.

Crushes are supposed to fade — at least, that’s what your mom said when she caught you sighing at your phone for the fifth time during dinner.

But this? This isn’t fading.

This is sitting through every basketball game just to watch her sweat in slow mo level.

This is replaying every time Natasha calls you sweetheart like it didn’t shatter your brain chemistry.

This is slow, unbearable pining — made worse by the fact that Natasha is so effortlessly kind.

“Nice routine today,” Natasha would say, walking past the cheer squad.

Or, “You always do that little hair flip before you jump — it’s cute.”

Or, the worst one — the actual heartbreaker — “Your ribbon matches your eyes.”

Your ribbon matches your eyes.

You had written that down in the notes app under “Things That Made Me Float.”

One afternoon, after a long game and even longer practice, you stayed behind to help clean up the confetti from your halftime routine.

Everyone else had already left. Except—

"Need help?" Natasha’s voice makes you jump. She’s holding a broom and a water bottle, her jersey hanging loosely off one shoulder.

“Oh,” you squeak. “N-no. I’m good. I mean—yes? If you want? You don’t have to, but like—if you want to—”

Natasha laughs. “Breathe, cheerleader.”

You turn pink. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting—um. Thanks.”

You sweep in silence for a bit, just the two of you under the dim gym lights.

Then Natasha asks quietly, “Can I ask you something?”

You look up. “Yeah?”

“Why do you always avoid me?”

You freeze. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Natasha says, still gentle. “You’re always laughing with Yelena, but the second I show up, you go quiet. You stop making eye contact. You run off.”

You bite your lip. “I—I didn’t mean to. It’s not that I don’t like you, I just—”

You stop.

Natasha steps closer. “You just?”

You take a deep breath. “You’re Yelena’s sister. And you’re like, intimidatingly cool. And I didn’t want to make things weird. Or obvious.”

Natasha tilts her head. “Obvious?”

“I’ve kind of… liked you. For a while,” you whisper, cheeks on fire. “But you probably knew that already.”

There’s a pause.

Then Natasha smiles — slow, and soft, and heart-meltingly real.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

You blink. “What?”

“I like you too,” Natasha says simply. “Always have.”

You stare. “You’re joking.”

Natasha grins. “Nope. But I am going to ask if I can take you out. Like, for real.”

You nod too quickly. “Yes. I mean—yes. Like, absolutely. Just let me scream into my pillow first.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head fondly. “You’re adorable.”

And as you stand under the gym lights, brooms forgotten, hearts louder than ever — it’s official.

You are no longer just the cheerleader with a crush.

You are the cheerleader who finally got the girl.

[mulloey]

so like… mtl likely to participate in hardcore cnc kink with the reader?

like, I think jun would be open to it because he’s good at acting and seems really observant but I’d like to see what your thoughts are on it and why ^-^

cnc with seventeen

first of all thanks to my girl @my-favefics for helping me with this!! and for getting me into writing svt in the first place.

this will be posted in three parts, beginning with the most eager and ending with the ones who might need a little convincing for it:)

warnings: cnc, rape roleplay, heavy dom/sub, the word ‘rape’ is used, fear play, manhandling, belting etc. this is intense. you’ve been warned. i’m not your babysitter and hate is blocked.

part one: the freaks

everything about cnc just screams seungcheol. he naturally assumes a dominant role over you, and he gets off on it too. the head rush he gets when you submit, giving yourself to him completely is comparable only to what he gets on stage—except with you, it’s so much more delicious. because you would let him do anything.

but what if he didn’t want you to let him?

what if he wanted you to struggle? what if he wanted to have to hold you down and force you to obey?

at first he’s disgusted with himself for having these thoughts. he feels like a terrible person, sick in the worst sense when he imagines you trying pathetically to fight him off, cowering and terrified when he finally subdues you. tears in your eyes as you beg him not to do this. beg him not to hurt you.

when he finally gathers the courage to bring it up he’s beyond nervous; stammering and shaking and refusing to meet your eyes until you grab his hand and nudge his face up to meet yours. “i wanna try it, cheollie,” you say.

silence, for a moment. “really?”

“yeah.”

you catch the glint in his eyes when he looks up at you; the darkness. the smile that grows on his face is nothing less than a warning.

he wouldn’t really be interested in the role play side of things; he doesn’t want to chase you down or break into the house with a knife. no, it wouldn’t do it for him if he were a stranger to you—it has to be him. you have to reject him. you have to be overpowered by him. you have to fear him—because it’s him. because you know the power he wields and all the things he’s capable of.

maybe he’ll make a move while you’re on the couch or in bed; you’ll make a show of pushing him off, hiding your excitement as you tell him you’re just not in the mood right now. and he’ll just tilt his head, cocking an eyebrow quizzically as he stares at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. offensive, even.

“oh?” he says. “you’re saying no to me now? who taught you that, baby?”

“i have the right to say no, seungcheol.” you try to sound firm but your voice wobbles and his eyes flash with delight. “it’s my body.”

“oh is it?” he chuckles, a deep sound; and nothing about the man in front of you is the loving and considerate person he was seconds ago. “you really don’t know how this works, huh?”

“how what works?”

he moves quickly, pinning you to the couch and hovering over you like prey. “you let me have you,” he breathes. “you let me take you. that means i own you, baby. and you don’t say no to your owner.”

your breath hitches, adrenaline pulsing; despite your knowledge and delight at what’s happening a very real fear begins to pulsate as you kick and squirm under his grip, but he’s so strong he barely seems to notice. “this isn’t fucking funny, seungcheol,” you say. “i don’t like this.”

“poor thing,” he coos. “she doesn’t like this, huh? you know i could make this a lot worse for you, don’t you?”

“stop, cheol. please, i don’t—”

the strength of the slap seems to take you both by surprise; his eyes widen and you cry out, clutching your cheek but it only spurs him on. “you need to learn some respect,” he spits. “need to learn some fucking manners.”

you put up a good fight, of course; you kick and thrash and fight until your body gives out but he’s so much stronger than you—and if he has to physically drag you into position himself, or gag you with your own panties to stop you from screaming for help? then he fucking will.

it’s about time you learned your place.

—

you've always known jeonghan had a bit of a fear kink. and by a bit—well, he goes crazy for it. completely feral at the idea of you cowering beneath him; flinching when he raises his hand; reacting physically to his little displays of power.

it's his favourite game and it's yours too. it came up fairly early in your relationship; when you were just staring to explore more... extreme kinks, and had become aware of just how fucked up you both were. how much you loved it when he hit just a little too hard; used a bit too much pressure: pushed you just a little too far. he felt the way you'd clench around him when you broke down and cried; when he'd whisper threats in your ear and feel the pulse of fear rush through you.

so of course he wants to push it further. so do you.

so you don’t know why you’re so surprised when he comes up to you one day and asks if you want to play this new game he’s been thinking of.

from the look in his eye you have an inkling of what it might be; a hint of something so fucked up and depraved you’re the only person he could ever say it to. and you’re right, of course, as you usually are with him—but even you’re taken aback to hear the words “i want to rape you” come from his mouth.

“oh,” you whisper.

he raises an eyebrow, staring expectantly, if a little nervously at you. “what do you think?”

“it… in what context?” you ask.

“i mean… it wouldn’t be real, baby. you’d have a safeword. i just wanna… fuck.” he shakes his head, cheeks flushed already and it makes you pulse. he really, really wants this.

“wanna what?” you prompt.

“i wanna see you scared, pretty girl. like really, really terrified.”

oh. yes. you want to see that too.

he doesn’t tell you when he’s going to do it; wants it to be a surprise, he says. but you get a bit of a clue a few days later, when he reminds you seven times in the same morning what your safeword is.

still, for his sake you pretend to be surprised when the large presence behind you suddenly clamps a hand over you mouth and drags you over to the wall; slamming you into it with brute strength. there’s danger in his eyes; excitement on a level you’ve never seen and his dick is straining against his pants. “what do we have here?” he smiles. “walking around all pretty like that.” his eyes flicker down to your attire; the loose tshirt and panties clinging to your hips. “you were waiting for me, weren’t you?”

“i don’t know what you’re talking abou—”

he cuts you off with a hand around your throat, holding you in place with enough pressure to set your heart racing. “don’t lie,” he croons. “i know all about you, baby. i know how sluts dress when they’re wanting some attention.”

“i’m not lying.” you spit it through gritted teeth and his lips curl into a smile; somehow sweet and nauseating at the same time.

“well, let’s check, hm?”

you were definitely lying—you wore those pretty little panties you know he loves just to provoke him. unfortunately for you, your pussy does not lie, and when he slips two fingers into your panties his face tells you the jig is up.

“oh dear,” he muses. “i think you were lying, baby. i think you need to learn to tell the truth.”

“learn?” you echo. “how?”

his smile widens. “you ever had your ass fucked, dolly?”

that’s your cue, you decide; you shove him off you with all your strength and make a mad dash for the living room. he just watches you, amused more than irritated—he knows you’ve no chance of overpowering or escaping him. you just need to make a good attempt at it so you can feel like you resisted; can pretend you’re not just as aching for it as he is.

your tears don’t fool him; the sobbed pleas not to hurt you too much, not to do this, i’ll give you whatever you want, just please not this. they only spur him on—make his hips buck and his grip tighten on you. seeing you cry and writhe beneath him only makes him even more determined to destroy you—to ruin you in ways only he knows how. to make it hurt.

and he’d never tell you, but he was always a bit of a masochist too, so the cuts and scratches you leave while he subdues you only makes that first strangling squeeze of your asshole around his dick feel that much better.

—

minghao loves it when you cry. he really, really fucking loves it. to see you break down underneath him, calling his name pathetically between sobs; to see the tears on your face; the red cheeks and helpless eyes—to know that he’s the one who caused it all. there’s nothing like it on earth.

he wants to see you completely fucking broken. you’ve known it for a while now; you were just waiting for him to make the move.

he catches your arm one day as you’re walking past; pulling you towards him with a small smile. “by the way, sweetheart,” he purrs. “your safeword is turkey. don’t forget it.”

“why?” you giggle, sort of half-knowing already.

“because, pet,” he whispers. “from now on, unless you say that word… when you tell me stop, tell me too much, tell me it hurts… i’m gonna keep going. gonna use you til i’m satisfied. now doesn’t that sound fun?”

it really fucking does.

and once this new arrangements of yours is firmly established? he only gets more sadistic. he hits you harder, chokes you harder; drags you into alleyways and public bathrooms with a hand over your mouth just because he can. because you love it.

he’s been fucking you for what feels like hours now. you’re in the bed at least; a small mercy given how fond he’s become lately of forcing you onto all fours on the floor and fucking you until your knees are red and raw. but now your legs are stretched painfully as he holds them firmly on his shoulders and he’s drilling into you so hard it’s painful; saying such horrible things that it all just feels… too much.

and at the same time, it’s nowhere near enough.

but you know exactly what to say to get him to go harder.

“minghao.” you force the word out of your throat, raw and irritated from his earlier abuse. “stop.”

“what did you say?” he asks, not even slowing down for a second. “stop?”

“please, hao.”

he laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. “insolent little brat,” he grunts. “fucking bitch, you think you get to decide that? we’re done when i say we’re done, whore.”

“n-no,” you cry. you try to struggle, writhing under his grip and he slams his hand down on your clit, making you scream.

“yes,” he snarls. “shut up and take it, fuckdoll. this is my fucking pussy and i’ll use it until i’m done.”

you’re sobbing now, hot tears streaming down your face and he leans over you; eyes dark and delighted. “oh, that’s it,” he coos. “let it out, honey. i’ll take care of you. i’m gonna break your pretty brain until there’s nothing left.”

you can’t even talk now, too overwhelmed to think as the pace and force of his thrusts only quickens; you feel like you’re being split open, all your senses in overdrive and your entire body in pain and you’ve never, ever been more turned on.

he can tell.

“good girl,” he mutters. “so fucking wet for me. don’t worry, honey. i’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

he does.

—

if there’s one thing that gets wonwoo off, it’s your size difference. doesn’t matter how big; he just adores it. he adores the way you look so tiny and fragile under him; how small your hand looks in his—how easy it would be to overpower you with his big, strong body.

but how easy would it be, if you actually put up a fight?

you never really have—you love it when he manhandles you; when holds you down, uses his size against you, so you’ve never really resisted it. the only taste he’s ever had of a true fight are those little play fights you have from time to time; stupid, half-heated fighting for stupid reasons. but even that was enough of a taste to drive him absolutely wild. he needs more. he needs to win you.

“sweetheart,” he calls for you as he walks into your apartment after work. you come running immediately as you always do, pulling him into a hug and he laughs. “hi, honey. you—”

you pull away suddenly, just enough to peer up at him with those wide, innocent eyes, and all else is forgotten. you look so small like this. he can’t wait any longer. he won’t.

“fuck,” he curses. you raise an eyebrow, head tilting. “baby. tiny girl.”

“yeah?” fuck, your voice is so soft. so weak.

“sweetheart. i wanna try something new with you.”

“o…okay.” you sound confused; a little nervous—good. you should be. “what is it, woo?”

“i want you to fight me off.”

the silence is thick and painful and never ending as he awaits your response; you blink once, twice, three times as you process what he’s said to you. “fight you off?” you repeat. “like, in sex?”

you don’t sound disgusted, at least—just unsure exactly what he’s asking you. he hums, nodding his head. "i want to overpower you, baby," he says. "i wanna earn that pussy—fight for it, you know? wanna see you struggle."

fuck. you do know, now that you think about it. "yeah," you say. "i think i wanna try it."

"yeah?" he grins, demeanour shifting; it amazes you sometimes, how quickly he can let the nerves fall away and fully envelop himself in what he's doing. "you wanna fight me off, baby?"

“yeah.” you swallow, lightheaded already. “i wanna.”

“good girl.”

you’re half expecting him to pounce on you straight away, but instead he presses a kiss to your forehead and walks off. you decide not to question him; knowing your boyfriend, he’s already got this planned out to the letter, and by the sounds of it, waiting and wandering when he’s going to strike is half the point.

but if he thinks taking you by surprise will make you easy to subdue, he’s dead fucking wrong.

the moment his hand closes over your mouth some days later, you’re ready; adrenaline kicks in instantly and you shove back against him; your hands fly up to claw at his forearm where he’s wrapped it around your neck, pressing against your throat with just enough pressure to make you panic. “come on, easy, easy baby.” his voice is soft, soothing and it fools no one. “don’t struggle, you know i don’t like it when you struggle.”

a lie, of course—his dick is rock hard and pressed against your ass, twitching each time you thrash and struggle against him. he loves his—even loves it when you bite down on his palm hard enough to draw blood.

“fuck,” he curses; he pulls his hand away from your mouth but the arm against your throat is more than enough to keep you still as he yanks your head back to meet his eyes.

the face that stares back at you is unlike you’ve ever seen it; none of the love and tenderness you can usually find even in the most intense of scenes—rather pure, uncompromising darkness. ice.

“you bitch,” he spits. “fuck, i was gonna be nice to you, y’know, was even gonna let you cum a few times but you obviously can’t behave.”

“fuck you,” you grunt. when his grip loosens momentarily you try to make a run for it but he just laughs, pulling you back into him as easily as if you were a tiny puppy who’d wriggled out of its leash.

“i don’t think so, doll,” he says. “you don’t run from me. now be good and i won’t have to hurt you too much, yeah?”

the answer is no, obviously, just as he wanted it to be—it doesn’t stop him from holding you by the hair and belting your ass raw while you cry and squirm on his cock, though.

doesn’t stop you from loving every second of it, either.

—

[pluvioloulou]

I Still Worship The Flame

Summery: After Eddie moves back to LA, Buck moves in with Athena. Still dealing with grief, the world starts to lighten up a bit more when she realises Buck is trying and failing to hide his boyfriend like a secretive teenager, sneaking through the house at night. (Inspired by this post from @tevanbuckley )

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,3k

Tags: Roommates, Buck and Athena are roommates, Implied Sexual Content, getting caught, Sneaking Around, Failing at sneaking around, Fluff and Humour, Loss, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Cooking, Slow Dancing, Mentioned Bobby Nash, Tommy Kinard Loves Evan "Buck" Buckley, No Beta

( Ao3 Link )

~~<3~~

Locking her car, Athena walked up to the front door and slotted her key in. She felt dead on her feet, having just endured a shift from hell, her superiors feeling bad for her let her go early and she couldn’t be happier. All she wanted to do was get a glass of water and head to bed.

As she made her way to the kitchen, she heard rummaging around and a door closing upstairs, but it didn't make her reach for her gun anymore because she knows it’s just Buck.

After Eddie moving back to LA meant Buck had to find a new place to live, Athena offered him her guest room until he could find a place of his own, and admittedly, it was nice. She liked having Buck around, just having someone who reminded her so much of Bobby was something she didn’t know she needed, plus Bobby did a great job at passing his cooking skills onto the kid.

His presence put her at ease when she was having a bad night, even if his info dumping could get a little annoying, she was happy for the distraction when she was missing her husband.

Getting a glass out and filling it with water, she could now hear careful footsteps descending the stairs, not thinking anything of it, she pulled out her phone to read her messages.

A figure stopped right behind her, she could sense them and she knew it wasn’t Buck or an intruder, the security system would have picked up a problem if so. It sounded like said figure was slowly backing away, so she put her glass and phone on the counter and stood up straight.

“You think you could sneak past me and I wouldn’t notice?” And as she turned around, she was met with a wide eyed Tommy in nothing but his boxers.

“Tommy?!” She squawks, not expecting to be faced with Buck’s apparent ex-boyfriend.

“Uh, um, nice to see you again, Sergeant.” He slowly starts to back away again, like he wasn’t just caught in a police sergeant’s how half naked.

“Considering how much I see of you, I think ‘Athena’ will work just fine.” She teased, a hint of amusement in her tone having gotten over her initial shock.

Tommy coughed out an awkward laugh and moved his hands to cover his lower half, out of decency if anything, “I was just getting Evan a glass of water,” he smiled, but as soon as it appeared it was gone in realisation, “if that’s okay with you?”

Athena laughed, “Yes, of course,” she waved to the cupboard, “glasses are in there, help yourself, I’m going to bed.”

Tommy moved quickly, nodding, “Thank you.”

Athena continued laughing to herself as she walked off to her bedroom, and god knows she needed that laugh.

When Tommy made it back to Buck’s room in one piece, he gave Buck a serious look as he passed over his glass of water.

“What’s that face for?” Buck cocked his head, looking confused.

“When you said you had a roommate, you didn’t mention it was Athena!” Tommy did his best to shout in a whisper, not wanting to make a single noise now that he knows Athena is here.

“Well, yeah, this is her house.” Buck said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, causing Tommy to collapse on the bed with his head in his hands.

The next day, when it was just Buck and Athena, she didn’t even mention it.

But that was just the first time it happened.

The second time, she watched as Buck tried to quietly sneak Tommy out the morning after he had spent the night, not that she didn’t know he spent the night, they’re not as quiet as they think.

As they walked past the doorway to the kitchen-living area, whispering to one another, she cleared her throat. They stopped, frozen in place.

“Would you two like to join me for breakfast?” She asks them, she doesn’t want to make them think they have to sneak around when she’s home.

At her request, they shuffle wordlessly into the room and sit down where all the food is laid out ready. Eggs, fruit, toast, amongst some other things sat there waiting to be eaten.

“Well, help yourselves.” She smiles and hands them a coffee each.

They both mumble a thank you and dig in, but the silence and occasional clink of cutlery was slowly killing Athena.

“So,” she began, both of the men whipped their heads up at her assertive voice, “is there a reason you two are at my house and not Tommy’s?”

“It… Well, um, it was closer?” Buck gave her a sheepish smile, cheeks growing rosy.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” She smirked into her coffee mug.

Tommy choked on a bit of food, he brought his fist to cover his mouth as Buck was quick to pat his back.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed, I know the feeling,” she looked away and sighed, “I was like that once.” Buck was only a little horrified to hear that, knowing she was most likely reminiscing about his former captain.

Clearly having composed himself, Tommy sputtered a laugh at the look on Buck’s face and all he got was a frown back.

Buck turned back to Athena, looking as apologetic as ever, “It won’t happen again, we are so sorry.”

She waved her hand and pulled a face, “Nonsense, Buck, you live here, you are allowed to have people over,” she quirked her eyebrow at Tommy, “especially your boyfriend.”

Both boys laughed awkwardly, cheeks growing red, looking everywhere but each other, “We’re not-” Buck stumbled on his words. “Yeah, we haven’t-” Tommy tried to finish for him but couldn’t get his words out either.

Rolling her eyes, she watched the two fail miserably at covering up whatever they were doing together. “Give it up, boys, you two were made for each other, I’d be a little disappointed if you weren’t giving this another shot.”

They looked at her and then each other, a smile breaking out on both of their faces. They were so smitten with one another.

Buck turned back to Athena, smile dropping slightly, “You can’t tell anyone, not yet, we’re taking it slow.”

Her face morphed into a judgy stare and her hand landed on her hip, “Mhmm.” She hummed into her coffee mug at the words, ‘taking it slow’. After taking the last sip she put it down, “Why would I tell anyone, Buck?”

“I don’t know, you talk to Hen a lot.”

After breakfast, Athena got ready to meet up with May for lunch, and if Buck later got a call from May laughing down the phone about how he and Tommy traumatised her mom, well that was between them.

From then on, the sneaking around stopped. They didn’t need to hide in the house anymore and Athena made sure of that.

And just like Buck, Tommy was nice to have around, he was always ready to strike up a conversation with her about how her shift was and if anything needed to be done around the house. He was handy. Just like how Bobby was.

One evening, when Athena got back late, she saw the two men curled up on the couch watching some movie, but as she got closer she realised that Buck was fast asleep. His mouth was slightly open, face pushed up against Tommy’s shoulder as the older man stroked a hand up and down Buck’s side.

She quietly walked around them, grabbing one of her blankets she keeps stored near the couch and handed it to Tommy. He mouthed a “thank you”, draping it over them and the hand that was by his side was in Buck’s curls.

It was such a tender moment.

But, something deep in her heart ached at the sight.

There was another time where she had come back downstairs after a shower, ready for dinner, when she walked in on them being all in love.

A Frank Sinatra song played through Tommy’s phone as they swayed and danced together in the kitchen, Buck still wore his apron covered in the ingredients he put in the meal.

And that ache was right back in her chest in an instant.

However, she could admit it wasn’t always cute. One night after getting home early, she was greeted by Buck in nothing but an apron standing in the middle of her kitchen, his behind fully on display.

His yelp of fear summoned a concerned Tommy, who was yet again in nothing but his boxers. The sight was all too familiar, but she couldn’t remember from where.

“Am I going to have to start charging you rent too?” She sassed Tommy.

With her head in her hands, she made her way up the stairs. She didn’t have the energy to scold Buck for wearing his ‘kiss the cook’ apron for sex, or for seeing Tommy, yet again, in his underwear.

But that night she lay in bed with that damned ache again, and she didn't know why.

A few days after, as Buck was on his latest fun fact deep-dive, Athena walked out into the garden. She took a breath of fresh air and looked around at the empty flower beds, Bobby was supposed to fill those. He just didn’t have time.

Her eyes wandered over to the grill, still new and untouched, she had no clue how to work it well. Bobby knew. He was always so excited to pull out the grill when they hosted the 118 & co. barbeques.

She turned back to the glass doors and stopped.

In the soft evening light, Tommy was leaning over Buck's shoulder, speaking to him so softly and looking at Buck like he hung the moon and stars. Maybe to Tommy it really felt like he did. She knew that feeling once. But it was gone now, she lost it and it was replaced by an awful ache she can’t seem to shift.

That ache she has grown to know so well. The ache of a hole in her heart, a piece missing.

Lost in her own world of grief, she didn’t notice Tommy looking back, his eyebrows pinched together in worry. Giving Buck a kiss on the cheek, he made his way to Athena.

Siding up next to her, he lets his eyes drift over the garden, “It’s a beautiful space out here.”

“It was all Bobby, and the kitchen, these were his areas of expertise.” She pushed down the emotion that was inching its way up her throat, clawing to get out.

They let the silence fall over them, Tommy’s hand gently rubbing at her back, doing his best to give her the comfort she needed. He thinks he understands, when he thinks of Evan, losing him would be the worst thing to ever happen to him. But it hasn’t happened, so all he could do was think.

“Ya’know, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this,” he moved in a bit closer to her, “I really looked up to Bobby, and I just wish I used my time with him to get to know him better, but,” he peered back inside where Buck still had his eyes glued to his laptop screen, “I can see how much he rubbed off on Evan, I’m grateful for that, because it’s like he gave him a piece of himself.”

When he looked back at Athena, her eyes were glossy and there was a faint smile. Sighing, she said, “He would be so proud that you and Buck made your way back to each other, proud that Buck has the love he deserves,” she laughed wetly, “you guys just remind me so much of how Bobby and me were, that’s how I know I’m right before you ask.”

Tommy holds his hands up in humoured defence, “I wasn’t going to,” he puts his hands down and into his pockets, “he would be so proud of Evan, he always was.”

Athena placed her hand on his arm, making him face her, “He would be, but he would also be proud of you,” she turned her face back to the empty flower beds, “you both have grown so much separately, don’t think I don’t remember you from your 118 days, and when you and Buck started dating Bobby would talk about how much you’ve changed, in a good way.”

She pulled away from him and sat in one of the patio chairs, “He always used to say he was a great matchmaker, maybe a little too good,” they both laughed softly, Tommy joining her on the chair next to hers, “and I say this, because, even maybe unknowingly, he shaped you both into the people you are today, my husband, he did that. He left his mark on this world and I couldn’t be more proud of everything he’s done.”

It was in these moments that Athena didn’t mind having Buck and Tommy intruding on her alone time, because in these moments, the joy of what she thought she completely lost comes back in quiet, gentle memories. Even if it’s catching them half naked. She couldn’t remember the last time she and May laughed like that when she told her daughter.

“He’d be proud of all of us.” Tommy simply stated.

“Although, I don't think he'd be very proud of you and Buck having sex in our kitchen, so maybe refrain from that in the future.” Tommy laughed, albeit the red in his cheeks putting his slight embarrassment of display, he genuinely laughed.

Athena just looked proud of herself for that one, “Yeah, maybe do it in your own.” She prodded, laughter bubbling up her throat and replacing the sadness that was there before.

~~<3~~

Tagged: @niraves @fanaticallyfleeky @okyum @tommylovingho @verschlimmbesserung @dana077 @buckleyyevan @hopefulcreatures @ironspiderdad12 @tyrusshipper12 @neotradpsyche @aristocratic-rats @hubcaphalo @ceeceekayblog @pointbreak-down @trustme-imnormal @weewookinard @sherlockismarvelous9-1-1 @theyaylady @peppermintquartz @wiay04 @weballingsad @rainstorms-by-june @cornerofspace @the-sweet-psycho @mars-wants-sleep @grimmsdead @ambee3 @maycontainsimonella @perfectlyscrumptiouswolf @ev-baker @onemorenerdhobbydarnit @notanother911blog @buckevantommy @dairxoxo @awkwardcoffeebean @aotearoagal @northernsnowdogs @houseofevanbuckley @ribbit-ribbit-mfer @itsnourm @lbltpsmspenguin

Man... that was a lot of tags, thank you <3

[littlelovelunette]

Just To Keep You Safe

Psychotic!Jinx x Reader

I posted this by mistake without finishing, so... Here it is:

Murder, guns, blood, violence, homicide, g!p Jinx, breeding, blowjob, no protection, mentions of knocking reader up.

Word count: 2.3k . . .

TAGLIST: @alaraowo @wistfulrainstorm @colettespace @lovelystars-everett @alexismynon-binaryname @amitys-echo-mouse @bluefootedbooby @get62jinxed @jinxsprinc3ss

You and Jinx were very close friends from the start— bonding over both of your love for bombs and similarly. But your parents didn't like that. Given the economy in Zaun, there was no way you could rent a place all on your own, so living with your parents it was. Often whenever you escaped from the attic window and scaled the buildings with Jinx— you told her.

“I really hate how they don't want you to come over like a normal parent would support their child,” you complained in a huff, breath fogging in the air.

“Why don't you just get into a hideout like the rest of us?” Jinx asked with an eyeroll.

“I don't know.”

“Think ‘bout it, ‘s not that hard,” Jinx landed with a thump right beside you, staring at her own hideout. You both walked inside, side by side.

“I have a feeling even if I did wanna move out, my parents would throw a fit and cause a scene,” you sighed, “I just hate them so much.”

“Geez,” Jinx plopped onto the chair in front of her desk, moving a leg up, “They sound like a nightmare.”

“Trust me, they are,” you sat down at the edge of the desk.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” Jinx tried to cheer you up, “Maybe that keeps you safe from whatever horrid men are out there in the Undercity.”

“I'll never learn this way,” you pouted, looking at the ground. “I wish I was free.”

Jinx leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling as if searching for an answer there. “Freedom’s overrated,” she muttered, then glanced at you with a crooked smile. “But it does have its perks.”

You let out a small laugh, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Like what? Eating moldy crackers and nearly getting shot?”

“Exactly!” she snorted. “And you forgot— setting off bombs and scaring the hell outta Pilties enforcers. That’s the best part.”

Your lips tugged into a slight grin. “I do like that part.”

Jinx’s smile softened just a little. “You’d be good out here, y’know. Away from them. You’re waaaaaaay smarter than you think.”

You looked at her, eyes meeting hers, something unspoken lingering there. “You think I could make it?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Jinx didn’t hesitate. “I know you could. And if you ever wanted to try—” she tilted her head, her blue braids falling to one side, “—you wouldn’t be alone.”

Something fluttered in your chest, like hope trying to grow wings.

You nodded slowly. “Then maybe... maybe I’ll think about it.”

Jinx grinned. “Good, it's getting late for you, no?”

“We just got here,” you huffed a sigh again.

“Y'know your parents.”

Days passed in the same fashion. You'd sneak out during the night and spend pretty much hours in Jinx’s hideout— meddling with bombs and creating weapons. One morning when you were out at the market, you saw Jinx's favourite sweet treats and you just had to get them for her. When you returned to your parents’ apartment, you saw that they weren't home so you decided this was a sign you should go and hangout with Jinx until they got back.

“Wassup, toots?” Jinx wheeled around in her chair, grinning at you. Safety goggles on the top of her head.

“Hey,” you smiled back and held up the little package of the treats.

Jinx scrambled out of her chair and snatched it from you, “This is why I love ya’!”

You both settled in at her workbench, cross-legged on the cold metal floor with tools scattered around and the soft flicker of neon light washing everything in a pale blue glow. You unwrapped the package of treats, handing her one and keeping another for yourself.

“These are the best,” Jinx mumbled through a mouthful, crumbs sticking to the corner of her mouth. “You’re gonna spoil me.”

“You deserve it,” you said quietly, watching her enjoy the sugar rush with a grin.

“Damn right I do,” she laughed, tossing a wrench over her shoulder carelessly as she reached for another bite. You both munched in silence for a while, the hum of a nearby power conduit the only sound between you.

Eventually, your body began to relax against the floor, the warmth of Jinx’s hideout and the comfort of her presence lulling you into a daze. You leaned against the leg of the worktable, eyes fluttering shut before you could even think about heading home. Jinx looked over when she noticed your head slumping a little.

“Sleepy already, huh?” she muttered, a soft fondness in her voice.

She didn’t move you, just kept working, letting you rest. But something shifted. A spark in her mind, one of those flickers she couldn’t always control.

It started with a clatter. A tool knocked over too hard. Then another. Her breathing grew uneven, eyes darting from blueprint to blueprint. Mismatched thoughts spiraled in her head—memories, voices, ghosts that weren’t there. She started pacing, muttering to herself.

They’re watching. They’re always watching.

You stirred, a frown tugging at your face, but didn’t wake. Jinx was gone when you opened your eyes. The hideout was eerily quiet. Tools were still warm, but her chair was spinning slowly, empty. A few wrappers from the treats still sat on the desk.

You sat up quickly. “Jinx?”

No response.

Eventually you made your way back to your house, sighing. The door creaked open and you mumbled, “I'm home…” but then the stench of blood hit your nostrils. Your face scrunched in disgust as you made your way inside. “What's the smell?” You asked yourself.

You saw Jinx standing in the living room, her skinny body shaking and trembling. “Jinx, what happened?” You gasped and ran up to her, “Hey… what happened?” You repeated as you cupped her face, eyebrows furrowing as you took in her appearance. She was covered with blood.

Jinx shook her head.

“Nothing.” her voice trembled.

“Tell me, Jinx,” you said in a pleading tone.

“I said, nothing!” Jinx shivered and held her own elbows.

“Jinx.” you grabbed her shoulders, giving her a small shake, “Tell me, what did you do, I promise I won't be mad.”

“N-no,” she trembled.

“Jinx,” you said in a firm tone, “Please.”

“I'm sorry, I just didn't want them to cut your wings, and I know you're mad and please— please, I didn't want this to be like th-this—”

“Shhhhh,” you were shaking, your heart pounding. But you wanted to comfort her so you brought her into your chest. Jinx's thin arms wrapped around you and she allowed her head to rest on your chest, “I'm sorry,” she squeaked in a low voice.

“Shhhh, we'll get through this,” you muttered.

Jinx was conflicted, she hated herself for what she did but a part deep down in her knew she did you a favour. At least, now you wouldn't live in constant fear of your parents’ rules all the time. A huge weight was lifted off your shoulders but just as one problem was resolved— another was created.

The bodies. You and Jinx got rid of the bodies together, thank Janna Jinx always had access to corrosive chemicals so getting rid of the bodies was made easier. Slowly, with time you and Jinx started getting closer and spending more time as you moved into her hideout with her. The chaotic ball of energy was barely ever tired with having you around 24/7 now.

In fact, she loved it.

Although you and Jinx always slept in awkward positions, tired from long hours of terrorising Pilties— one morning, you woke up before her. She was still passed out in her work chair, leaned forward with her head on the desk, cheek sticking to the blueprint.

You giggled and looked down, eyes widening when you saw the outline of her morning wood. The bulge was big, making your mouth suddenly go so dry. You hadn't expected such a turn. You swallowed.

“Jinx…” you mumbled as you turned the chair so she was facing you. Jinx leaned back against the back of her chair, mouth a little open and drooling. She was still deep asleep. Her legs manspread, and her hard member was barely contained by her pants.

Your hands itched to free her length from the restrictions of her clothes but you needed to handle yourself. “Jinx,” you rubbed one of her thin thighs. Jinx's eyes opened a little, groggy gaze falling over your form— knelt on the ground in between her legs and staring at her with puppy eyes, your lips looked so perfect as if waiting to be kissed by hers and fuck, you seemed like you'd give the best head ever.

Jinx groaned, “Yeah, sweets?”

“Do you want me to take care of this?” You asked in a soft tone.

“Mhm…” she hummed groggily.

Your fingers hooked at the waistband of her pants, “Raise,” you whispered gently. Jinx raised her hips just enough so you could pull her pants down to her knees.

“Oh, wow, baby,” you rubbed her length and swiped your tongue over the top of her dick, precum coating your thumb from the action, “You're bigger than I'd imagined.”

“So you've imagined my dick?” Jinx smirked.

“That's not what I—” you sighed and leaned closer, your lips wrapping around the head of her cock before your mouth engulfed the thick shaft. Jinx gasped in a high-pitched voice.

“Jeez, sweets, you have such a warm, wet, perfect mouth,” Jinx teased and her manicured fingers laced through the silky locks of your hair, “Take it down that pretty throat,” she said.

You nodded a little, your hand shifting to hold onto her balls. You almost gagged when the tip of her pretty cock hit the back of your throat.

Your hands tightened your grip on her, “F-fuck,” Jinx grabbed your head harder and started rutting into your mouth.

You gasped and your both hands grabbed her thighs. You whimpered around her length as she bottomed out in your mouth, a thin white ring forming around your lips as you struggled to breath, your nostrils flared and tears built up at the corners of your eyes. You wanted to pleasure her but you also wanted to breathe. Your nails dug into the pale skin of her thighs, her balls grew tighter.

“I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum!” Jinx's head fell back against the back of her chair as she cried out loudly, “Oh Janna!”

You grinned around her cock, as her semen filled up your mouth. You swallowed her release before letting up slowly. You giggled, “You're still hard…”

Jinx's bulbous cock head breached your tiny opening, “Fuck, I haven't had sex in so long,” you whispered.

“Is that so?” Jinx giggled, “This should be fun,” she lowered you.

She was holding your thighs with her arms, easily having you hover over her hard length. You whimpered when the first few inches dipped inside, your walls clamped around her length needily as you grabbed her shoulders to steady yourself. Jinx let out a shuddering breath, mind filled with filthy thoughts of railing you raw.

“Oh, my goodness, Jinx,” you moaned as you rode her dick, feeling her twitch inside your needy, tight passage.

Jinx’s painted nails dug into the skin of your hips as she tried to guide you the best she could. Her mind was a mush, your tight pussy clenching around her fat, seeping cock was way too much for the other girl.

You were completely seated on her cock now, rolling your hips and feeling the tip of her huge length brushing against your cervix. “You're huge,” you said, voice shuddering in your throat.

“And you're tight,” Jinx groaned, running her nails down your thighs.

“This is only my second time getting dick,” you admitted, your hands curling in Jinx’s top.

“Oh? Still fresh meat?” Jinx gave you a crooked grin before she thrusted up almost desperately, chasing her own high, “Take it well then.”

You whimpered.

Jinx's grin twitched as her hips jerked up again, the wet slap of skin meeting skin echoing in the air between you. “You feel made for me,” she growled, eyes locked on the way you clenched around her with every bounce. Her grip on your hips tightened, guiding your movements with a pace that grew rougher, more desperate.

You moaned out loud as her cock rammed into you, filling you so deep it left you dizzy. “Jinx—fuck—feels so full,” you gasped, your voice hitching each time her tip kissed your cervix. Your legs trembled, barely keeping you up, but she held you steady, fucking up into you with reckless hunger.

“Yeah?” she huffed, sweat beading on her brow. “Bet your pussy’s just aching to be bred, huh?” Her words made your body tense and flutter around her, a raw whimper spilling from your lips. She chuckled darkly, sensing your reaction. “Oh, you like that?”

Your walls pulsed tighter in response, your head dropping forward onto her shoulder. “Y-Yeah,” you whispered shakily, “Want it... want you to fill me up...”

“Fuck,” Jinx cursed, her restraint snapping as she slammed up into you with brutal thrusts, using your body to take every inch of her. “You’re gonna make me lose it, baby, gonna fuck it all into you, make sure it takes.”

Your body arched, the pleasure white-hot, overwhelming. “Do it—Jinx, please—fill me—breed me—”

That broke her. She snarled against your skin, her hips jerking wildly as her cock twitched deep inside. With a broken growl, she buried herself to the hilt and came, warmth spilling into you in thick, heavy pulses. You moaned through it, feeling every gush flood your insides as she held you down, shaking beneath you.

Her voice was hoarse as she whispered against your ear, “That’s it... gonna knock you up nice and deep…”

You just shuddered and clung to her, your body boneless and wrecked, still twitching around her as her cock softened slowly, cum already leaking out around her.

Exhaustion took over you but you gave your lasts to melt in and kiss her eitherway.