#or maybe this doesn’t make sense at all

[p0orbaby]

Alexia putellas “Jealousy looks good on you” and “why are you looking at me like you want to kill me?”

-

You’re not normally the jealous type.

You’re confident. Grounded. You have a handle on things—especially when “things” are a six-time Player of the Year with impossibly good cheekbones and a weird obsession with organising the fridge by yoghurt flavour.

You trust Alexia.

You do.

Which is why the sight of her leaning a little too close to some sports journalist—blonde, giggly, armed with an aggressively plunging neckline—shouldn’t make your jaw clench the way it does.

But it does.

It’s the tail-end of a press event, one you weren’t technically invited to but Alexia told you to “just come” with that smug glint in her eye that usually means you’ll end up in her lap by the end of the night.

You’re across the room when it happens. Sipping your drink. Watching her tilt her head and laugh at something the blonde says, that familiar dimple flashing.

Your blood fizzes.

Aitana clocks it immediately. She sidles up next to you, grinning into her glass.

“You’re doing that thing with your eyes.”

“What thing.”

“The ‘I’m pretending I don’t care but I’m seconds away from flipping a table’ thing.”

You glance back toward Alexia. “She’s still talking to her?”

Aitana shrugs. “They’re just talking.”

“She touched her arm.”

“She also touched the complimentary hummus.”

You shoot her a look.

“I’m just saying,” Aitana says, amused. “If you’re going to throw hands, aim high. That dress doesn’t have a lot of structural integrity.”

You snort. Then straighten up as Alexia starts walking toward you, all soft hair and smug expression and maddeningly slow steps.

“Hi,” she says, like she didn’t just flirt in 1080p across a crowded room.

You shoot her a look. Flat. Blinking. Dry.

She slows, just a little, gaze scanning your face like she’s trying to decide if you’re genuinely pissed or just playing.

“You alright?” she asks, voice laced with something too innocent.

You don’t answer immediately. You cross your arms instead, eyes trailing to where the journalist is still lingering by the canapé table, looking around like she’s lost something. Maybe a sense of boundaries.

Alexia follows your gaze. She smiles.

Smiles.

You raise a brow. “She funny, was she?”

Alexia exhales a soft laugh through her nose, head tilting like she’s enjoying this a little too much. “I was being polite.”

“She touched your arm.”

“She also asked if hummus was dairy-free. I’m not sure she’s all there.”

You give her a long, measured look.

And she just looks back at you. Steady. A little smug. That calm arrogance that always drives you mad—in both the best and worst ways.

Then finally, softly, she says:

“Why are you looking at me like you want to kill me?”

You don’t blink. “Who says I don’t?”

She pauses. Watches your jaw work. The slight tension in your shoulders. The way you haven’t let her touch you yet, even though she’s right there.

Then, slowly—deliberately—she steps closer, toe bumping gently against the front of your boot.

Her smirk creeps in, slow and crooked.

“Jealousy looks good on you.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” you lie.

“Oh no?”

“I just don’t like people touching what’s mine.”

That earns you a look. One of those slow, dangerous smiles that makes your spine feel like jelly.

“Yours, huh?”

You nod once.

Alexia leans in, mouth by your ear, voice low enough to make you swallow.

“Say that again later when you’ve got your hands on my hips and your mouth on my neck.”

You blink.

Aitana, still nearby, mutters, “Jesus Christ,” before walking off with a grimace.

Alexia kisses your cheek once, soft, then lets her hand slip around your waist as she murmurs, “Let’s go home. I want to hear more about what’s yours.”

And suddenly, you don’t mind the jealousy at all.

[ofmindandheart]

In online informal spaces with leftist audiences you can *probably* still usually call it moral puritanism even if it’s not referring to a group that’s directly linked to the real historical Puritans. At this point the term has been used enough times to draw parallels between behavior of modern groups and the ideology of historical Puritans that many readers will get that what you’re doing is drawing that kind of parallel. Many of the conservatives and fascists that OP is referring to as puritans are likely not literally associated with or descended from the historical religious movement of the Puritans. For example when anti-fanfiction or anti-shipping groups get called puritans it’s being used to point out that the ideology/reasoning they’re using is rigid and purity-based. It doesn’t mean that the anti-shippers are literally associated with the Puritans religiously, and in fact individual anti-shippers might personally be atheistic/non-religious or subscribe to any number of real religions irl.

The case where it probably *wouldn’t* make sense to call a group that meets the criteria you’ve set “moral puritans” would be if you were specifically talking about a group that *does* have a clear association with a modern religion and it’s a different religion. It *would* be weird to call Catholics “moral puritans”, but like, we can just call them catholics.

If all of the above is too confusing then maybe it’s simpler to just say “adherents of purity culture.” That way you would strip out the parallels to religious groups entirely.

Puritanism is getting worse around the globe and conservatives and fascists will absolutely be first going harder against porn, then use that against queer people. You HAVE to realise this and oppose anti porn measures and laws, be in solidarity with sex workers, and listen to them when they call this shit out. It's going to be vitally important.

[bandgie]

Let Me In

warnings! MDNI18+, fem!reader, vampire!chris, voyeurism, blood drinking, drugging (oopsies), hypnosis mentions, bit of manipulation from Chris, PIV, no protection, cumming inside, fingering, chris has weird pillow talk ngl

notes: I have redone this concept so many times and at this point, i just need to say 'fuck it' and hit post. also! this is supposed to take place from the late 80s to early 90s. not super important to the plot but just an fyi

5.3k words

CONGRATULATIONS! You’ve been picked to attend the Alpha Phi Omega ball this weekend in honor of the blood moon! Wear your best dress, your highest heels, and most importantly of all, keep this invitation a secret. We hope to see you soon!  Call to RSVP at xxx-xxx-xxxx

The paper is thick between your fingers. It’s not the cheap invitation material you used to send as a child for birthday parties. There’s not even a single crease on it despite being wedged between the front door and the frame of your apartment. It’s handwritten as well. Blank ink stains the paper with the message, a phone number at the end. 

No location, though everyone knows where the Alpha Phi Omega frat house is. Everyone also knows about the infamous party that only a select few are chosen to go to. Sure, it’s supposed to be a secret, but you think that’s just a tactic to get people to talk about it on campus.

You never did, however. You focus on your studies, your classes, and you wake up extra early on Sunday mornings to watch the new episode of Dragon Ball. Getting invited to the ball has never even crossed your mind, and in all honesty, you had completely forgotten about it. 

Yet, you can't deny the excitement coursing through your veins. You got invited. You. Someone who hardly has any friends and opts to spend time with your dog rather than party on the weekends. 

Maybe you should figure out how the frat brothers even knew about you, but you’re too giddy to even think about that. You slam your door shut and run to your shelves where your landline is. Your eagerness is easily sensed by your dog who jumps on the couch and hops from one paw to the other, barking and yipping.

“Berry!” You look at her curly fur and floppy ears. “Shut up!”

But she doesn’t. Berry continues to bark even as you pick up the phone and click on the keys corresponding to the number on the invitation. She’s a good dog, sometimes, but it’s like she’s trying to prevent you from reservering. Her little body jumps from the couch to run to your ankles, biting your slippers.

You hit the green button and soon hear ringing. “Berry! What is wrong with you?! Stop it-

“Hello?”

“Hi!” You try to push Berry away, ignoring her growling. “Hey sorry, um, I got an invitation to the ball and - ouch! - uh, shit, sorry my dog is crazy right now.”

The voice on the other end laughs. It’s contagious, and you can’t help but chuckle with him. 

“Ah, that’s cute~,” you notice an accent. There are only two brothers in the fraternities with that Australian tongue. One with a voice so deep it makes your bones shake, and the other with a lighter timbre that makes people trust everything he says. “What was your name?” You tell him and he makes a sound like recognition. “Ahhh, I see your name right here, gorgeous.” A surprised laugh barks out from you. For a brief moment, you’ve forgotten about Berry using your slippers as a chew toy. Now you know which Australian brother this is. His swooning words make your anxious walls slowly break and crumble. 

Like he can see your blushing face, Christopher laughs. “You know, I’m not supposed to say anything, but it was me who invited you.”

That adrenaline fills you again, but this time, you feel your stomach swoop. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. You’re so quiet, so kind, and so so pretty. I didn’t think you’d want to come.” Another laugh. “Our ball has quite the…reputation.”

You know what reputation he’s talking about. Even if you don’t involve yourself with many people, you can hear the girls on campus rave about their time at the party. How they went home so fucked out and marked up they couldn’t move for days. It was even rumored that they could hardly remember how much fun they had. 

“Oh, yeah, yes. I…I know.” You sound like a damn virgin. Truthfully, you feel like one. Remembering what you’ve heard sends butterflies in your stomach that shoot straight to your cunt. You can feel stickiness beginning to form on your underwear and you can’t help but press your thighs together.

He wants you. Christopher Bahng Chan wants you. It shouldn’t boost your ego or make you feel validated, but god dammit, it does. The oldest from the frat with wide shoulders and plush lips picked you. 

“So, that’s okay with you, gorgeous?” His sultry voice brings you back to the phone call. “You wanna keep me company for the night?”

The way he makes it sound almost shameful, but you’ll be damned if you missed this chance in your dull college life. “Yes. I- I want to go.”

You might as well have signed your life away in blood, or at least, that’s how it feels. 

Christopher laughs like he’s enjoying your shy, yet forward self. “That’s a good girl. I can’t wait to see you.”

The line goes dead and you’re frozen in place trying to collect yourself. He called you a good girl. A good girl. You’re going to see Chris, going to…do stuff with him at the ball. It’s been so long since you’ve had a human interaction, especially a naked one. Slick has made its way to your panties that your clit throbs against the material to try and get any ounce of friction. Who cares if you come off as desperate? Who cares if people think you’re whoring yourself out for one night. If everything goes well, you can end up not only with actual friends but maybe even a lover.

-

Standing at the front door of the party feels surreal. You’ve never been inside of a frat house or stood so close to one. Alpha Phi Omega felt like it was appropriate to have the invitees be picked up by a limousine, adding to the effect of an elegant ball. Though, you know that’s the last thing it is.

The chauffeur is already driving off, leaving you and the other girls alone. 

“Oh my God,” one of them can’t stop cheesing. You think her lips must hurt from how much she’s been smiling. “I can’t believe we got invited here. With them. I’m so surprised they even knew who I was!”

You’re in the same boat, but you choose to keep that to yourself. More women began chirping about how they were so surprised to get an invitation and just to be known. The brothers typically go for more popular ones. Girls who have the newest phones and prettiest lip gloss. You can’t help but snort to yourself as you think they must be doing charity work. 

Not that it bothers you - maybe a little - but you should have some college experience even at the expense of wearing the finest dress you managed to pull from your closet. The material tightens at the back, making your breasts spill over the cups. The cinch at the waist accentuates your figure, widening your hips as the dress flows down. There’s a slit that runs from your ankle to your thigh. Elegant, but not prude. Sexy, but not scandalous. The deep red color matches perfectly with you. Its ruby darkness makes you feel like you’re in a different era. 

It only made sense to wear red - it is the blood moon ball. You just hope Christopher doesn’t find it cheesy. 

The eight of you only chit-chat for what feels like seconds before the door opens, a soft yellow light emulating from the opening. You soon see the silhouette of a man, his hair that’s normally curly is straightened. Chris greets everyone with his signature dimple and you can practically hear the girls swooning along with you. 

He’s saying something - how you all look so beautiful tonight and how lucky the brothers are to have such a gorgeous date. But you’re so distracted by him. You’ve seen Chris on campus, seen the cheerleaders that follow him like a lost puppy, but you’ve never been this close. You’ve never gotten the opportunity to see his thick lips and that broad nose sitting on his face perfectly. And his dimples, the ones he’s smiling at you with, are even cuter this close. 

Chris looks flawless under the moonlight. The shine bounces off his pale skin like a doll, almost like something not human. He’s still speaking, still being the perfect host, and you’re drooling over him.

“...and remember the most important rule, everyone.” His accent hangs heavy on each syllable. “What happens here tonight, stays here tonight.”

Then he’s letting the girls in. Everyone’s squealing with excitement and you’re…frozen. No matter how much you will your legs to move, you can’t help but stand still outside, staring at Chris like he’s the only thing you know. 

He cocks his head to the side, an amused smile finding those pretty lips. “Do you need to be invited in?”

Distantly, you shake your head. You step inside, hearing your heels click on the marble floor before Chris puts his hand on your waist and pulls you further in. 

His grip is firm, but not tight. Fingers dig into your waist like he’s feeling you up but in the most gentlemanly way.

“That dress…” he looks at you up and down, swiping his tongue over his mouth like he’s seen something delicious. “That color suits you well.” 

You look at him, this time, focusing on his outfit. Chris wears all-black slacks and a white shirt undone at the top. On the pocket of his dress shirt is a red flower, the color nearly matching your dress. Without thinking, you reach out to touch it, taking the soft petals between your fingers.

“Thank you. I don’t know if it’s… too much.”

“Too much?” Chris sounds baffled. He grabs your hand and presses it against his mouth, planting a gentle kiss to the back of it like he’s done this with you a thousand times.  “This is a ball and you’re my date. I need you pretty by my side. And don’t worry about anything other than having a good time, yeah?” When he pulls back his teeth to smile, you can’t help but notice how sharp his canines are. “I’ll make sure you do.”

With his hand around your waist and on your hip, you two walk into the main room to be with everyone. It seems like all the girls have already found their dates, sitting next to them on the couches or standing. You recognize most of the brothers of the frat, but it’s hard to think such attractive men can be in the same room. 

One of them, who you think is Jisung, walks around with a tray of shots. Red liquid sloshes in the plastic cups that are distributed to all the ladies. Once he’s before you, you hesitate to take it. 

Chris grabs it for you. “A little pre-game. Helps with getting things started.” He’s holding it up for you, but there’s a prickling sensation crawling on your skin that you can’t shake off. You don’t take it from his hands, not before you ask, “What’s in it?”

“Wine.” His answer is immediate. “With a little kick from yours truly.”

The red wine looks at you intimidatingly. As if daring you to sip from it. You take the shot from Chris and look at it again. Should you really trust a drink from a stranger? Even if Chris is well-known among the ladies, and even if everyone always comes home safe after the ball, you can’t drown out your gut feeling. 

But when you look amongst the other women, they’ve already drunk it. Their lips are stained with red, their tongues swiping over the flavor before clinging onto their dates.

You sigh and look at Chris. “Bottoms up.”

When you tilt your head back to gulp, you swear Chris smiles so wide it almost looks malicious. His dark eyes watch your throat bob, watch as you scrunch your nose at the unique taste.

He pulls you closer, kissing you on the cheek and laughing like he’s won a game you didn’t know you were playing. “Now let’s fucking party!”

Whatever ‘kick’ Chris put in the drink works like a charm. You’re not thinking about how out of place you feel when you’re dancing with him. You’re not thinking about how nervous you’re supposed to be. With his hands on your hips, his crotch on your arse, all you can focus on is him him him. 

Chris pulls you by the wrist to the other part of the room, red solo cups laid out in a triangle on each side of the table. Beer pong. You’ve only played at birthday parties, and even then, you would let other people shoot for you. There’s already a couple waiting at the end, watching as Chris drags you along.

“You can go another round, right Hyunjin?” Chris teases.

“Depends.” Hyunjin has the same smirk. “What’s in it for me?”

You don’t know how they’re carrying a conversation right now. Not when Hyunjin’s date is kissing on his neck. She’s leaving lipstick stains on his throat, hands rubbing over his pelvis before swooping down and gripping him through the pants. Maybe this type of thing is normal for them, but for you, it feels as though you’ve accidentally browsed the adult section of the book shop.

“You get a taste of my date,” Chris says. “And if I win, you have to watch.”

They’re talking about you as if you’re not there. Like they couldn’t care less about your opinion. You should feel some way about it, any type of way, but all you feel is your tummy turning warm and the sudden need to mimic what Hyunjin’s date is doing. 

The slender man grins. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Then you’re playing. The white ball feels unsteady in your grip, and when you shoot, your aim is completely off. The other girl isn’t much better, but she manages to score a few cups whereas you’ve made none. 

“Come on, pretty.” Chris’s sultry voice makes you shiver. “At least try.”

You grab the ball again, this time, closing one eye. Chris wants to win and you want to give Chris everything he asks for. But still, your vision is hazy and your feet are unsteady. How can you get so drunk off of one shot?

When you miss again, you pout. You turn to Chris, meaning to apologize, but your eyes lock with the couple on the couch. Jisung’s digging his mouth into his companion's neck, her head thrown back with a blissful look on her face. What looks like blood drips down the side of her throat. Jisung pulls away, and then you see it, sharp teeth coated with red.

Hyunjin shoots, you hear the ball hit the plastic cup and splash in the water. He and his date celebrate, but you’re too busy staring at the way Jisung licks the blood from her neck and sucks on the wound. 

“What…” you shake your head. “What is he…doing?”

Chris doesn’t ask to specify what you’re talking about. His hand encircles around your waist again, and his other hand swipes the hair from your neck. You let him, unconsciously tilting your head to feel him lean down. The softness of his lips trail over the shell of your ear before descending. Each peck feel makes you feel on fire, the coolness of his body soothing your blazing one.

Was he always this cold?

“He’s feeding,” Chris says casually. So matter-of-factly that you nod. Of course, Jisung is feasting on his date’s neck. Why wouldn’t he? Judging by her closed eyes and parted lips, maybe it’s not that bad. 

Although you like Chris’s mouth on you, his attention on you, your common sense is screaming at you to come back to reality. There’s a haze over you, a spell almost, that keeps you pliant in Chris’s hold. You don’t want to fight against this feeling. It’s all too easy to succumb to this fantasy of a regular frat ball with strange fetishes. You can tell yourself that you’re drunk, that it’s not blood dripping from her neck, but simply spilled wine. 

You blink once. Twice. A third time before you realize no, you’re not drunk at all. Not after one shot at least.

“My drink…” It's so hard to form words. “What did you do to my drink?” Chris is still kissing your neck, licking just above your erratic pulse. “Nothing you’re thinking.” He’s speaking quietly, just below your ear. “I told you - a kick from yours truly. Just a little something to get the party going. To loosen your nerves.”

You swallow thickly. “A drug?”

“My blood.” He corrects. “All it does is…make you more cooperative.” Another kiss, another soft bite. Chris never bites hard enough to draw any blood, but enough to feel the abnormal sharpness of his teeth. 

His blood? Why would his blood work like this? As much as you try to fit the puzzle together, you can’t help but feel like you’re missing a crucial piece. Chris pulls you closer until your side is pressed against him. He feels firm against you. Despite the growing bulge on your hip, he doesn’t rock at all. Chris keeps licking your neck as if prepping the skin.

Nothing makes sense, yet, you still try with your limited speech. “Mind control?”

That makes him laugh. “You won’t let it go, huh? Okay. It’s more like…hypnosis. You won’t do anything you won’t really want to do, but it makes you more open to suggestions. I’m sure you felt nervous coming here. A quiet little thing, hardly talks to anyone, yet, invited to the party everyone wants to go to. If you didn’t have that little kick - my blood - I doubt you’d be having as much fun as you are right now.”

That is…true. You wouldn’t have danced on him like you did. You wouldn’t have played beer pong despite knowing how terrible you are if you were, well, you. His words start to make their way into your head. Whether it’s the blood, the openness to suggestions, or just confusion, it feels easier to believe him. 

“Look at everyone here,” Chris grabs a hold of your chin and guides your head to scan the room. Everyone is in their little pairs, hands on their hips, blood seeping from different parts of their body, and they’re not worried in the slightest. You didn’t notice how many girls have replaced their talking with moaning.

“They’re having such a good time. Kissing, biting, drinking,” his voice is like a purr. “Don’t you want that too?”

The answer is on the tip of your tongue. It doesn’t help that you’re starting to grow slick between your legs watching the scene unfold right before your eyes. Tongues clashing, hands roaming, and mouths gasping. You know what you’re going to say, and yet, you can’t help but try to ask one more question.

“Hurts?”

And like a lion that’s caught its lamb, Chris smiles with all his teeth. He shakes his head, “No, baby, not at all. I’ll make sure you feel nothing but pleasure. Sit on the table for me, yeah?”

The cups fall to the ground, water splashing but no one pays it any mind. You’re too distracted wrapping your legs around Chris’s torso and pulling him in to care about the mess. The kiss isn't soft. It isn't tender. It's hungry. You pay no mind to the coolness of his skin. His lips are consuming, tongue running over yours in a matter of seconds. Chris puts his hands on your hips and pulls you close. The action deepens the kiss. You're humming into his mouth every time you lock lips. Moaning at every caress of his tongue. 

His lips work past your mouth. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, then down to your neck. You tilt to one side to let him nip at your skin, trembling and breathing hard. He slows when he finds your pulse. His tongue lavashes over it before sucking. 

You can feel slick seeping through your folds. Chris's mouth is so good, so practiced, that you could think you could let him mark your throat for as long as he wants. You tangle your fingers through his hair and pull. Not hard at all, but it drags a groan from his swollen lips. 

With your legs spread, Chris easily finds your core. His fingers run up your inner thigh before rubbing soft circles over your clit. The sensation makes you gasp and he takes the opportunity to shove his tongue deep in your mouth. There’s people around, perhaps watching, but you can’t find yourself to care. Even as you grind your hips against his palm, it’s only exhilaration that you feel.

Chris finds the side of your underwear and pulls it to the side. Your pussy almost weeps with joy finally being touched, but you jump when his cool fingers come down to rub on it. Thick fingers drag your juices through your slit slowly, making sure to press hard on the bud at the very top. 

You keen, back arching until your chest touches his. Chris makes a sound that seems mixed with a laugh and a groan as you rub your breasts on him. 

He pulls away from your lips to grunt in your ear. “Let me taste you, yeah? It’ll feel so good. I promise.” Chris is already nipping at your skin, eager to drink from you.

If you’re already feeling this good from his fingers, you can’t imagine how his mouth does. You pull back just enough to look into his eyes and nod, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you bat your eyelashes at him. 

Chris bites you at the same time he sinks two fingers in. The sting of his bite is overshadowed by his knuckles spreading you open. The pace he sets is brutal. Quick pumps of his hand that force your cunt to open for him. You lean to one side to let him bite harder, to feel his teeth blemish your smooth skin. It doesn’t feel like you thought, not like a real bite, but more like two needles quickly replaced harsh sucking. The pressure of his mouth makes you clench on his fingers, pussy gushing so loud you know everyone can hear it. 

Footsteps make their way towards you and Chris, and you soon see the familiar buzzcut of a man you had lost to moments ago. 

Hyunjin grins, blood lining his lips like a gloss. “Thought I was supposed to have a taste.”

You feel Chris tense next to you. His mouth pulls away with your blood on it, a snarl on his lips as he looks at the man almost threateningly. Your legs are shaking, still being fucked open by Chris’s fingers as Hyunjin watches amused at Chris’s pissed-off reaction. His eyes are ten shades darker and so possessive that you feel another gush of arousal spread onto Chris’s fingers.

“Not now.” There’s absolute authority in his voice. Even you quiet your moaning at his command. “Later.”

Chris doesn't wait for Hyunjin to leave when he slips his fingers out of you. A whine leaves your lips, but you see him fiddle with the confines of his slacks. Excitement fills your core, stomach flipping as you watch Chris under the zipper and pry his cock from his slit.

He’s heavy. Pink tip flushed from arousal with precum dripping along a thick vein. You let out a moan, widening your legs until your dress is touching the ground.

“Yes.” You don’t mean to say it out loud, but you can’t stop. “Gonna fuck me?”

“Yeah.” Chris fists himself at the base, giving shallow strokes to work up his cock. “You want that?”

The words get caught in your throat watching him play with himself, so you nod instead. Chris inches closer until his tip catches your clit, slapping the fat head on you until your stomach caves.

“Mmm, fuck! Put it in. Pleasepleaseplease.” You’re whining, hips lifting to try and have him slip inside you. It seems like Chris enjoys seeing you desperate. The usual quiet girl begging for his cock pathetically. He runs it up and down your folds, reaching below your belly button before going down to prod your entrance with his tip. The way you squirm, how your heels are digging into his hips to try and push him in, it only makes Chris want to see you cry for it.

So much wetness has accumulated on your clit that every drag of his cock sounds with a loud squelch. You’re clenching on nothing, pussy begging to be filled after so long, but pleasure begins to build in your core anyway. The sudden warmness in your stomach makes your hips twitch uncontrollably, chasing the orgasm that seems to climb higher and higher. 

Chris doesn’t change his pace. He simply uses his hand to press his tip down on you every time he goes over your clit. Your pussy lips surrounding him is enough to be satisfied for now. It’s only when your first orgasm wrecks through you, mouth singing with moans and eyes pinched together, that Chris finally slides in. 

You’re still cumming when he pushes inside. Gummy walls flutter around his size happily, at last having something to ride its orgasm out. A drawled-out moan barely makes it past your mouth before Chris kisses you again, this time, biting hard enough to draw blood from your pretty lips.

His hips are less forgiving than his fingers. You can feel every vein, the curve of his head, and the thickness burying itself deep inside you. It’s hard to catch your breath with Chris’s tongue lavishing on the blood he drew. Moans and whines are eaten up by his greedy, blood-stained mouth. It’s like he can’t get enough - can’t ever be satiated again now knowing your taste. The way your walls open for him, how you scream his name and grip at his hair, Chris thinks he can never get enough. 

Now, you’re barely registering the fact that you’re coming down from your high, though with Chris’s bucking hips, it doesn’t feel like that at all. Hot pleasure doesn’t just build, but it stays, forcing you to never feel like you’ve stopped cumming or even begun. Chan’s cock feels past your cervix, fucking your throat so deep that you can’t even moan anymore. His lips finally stop their assault on your mouth before going to the unbitten part of your neck. You feel the pinch again and the taste of fresh blood makes Chris kick up his speed. 

“Ngh~!” You can feel yourself starting to slip into unconsciousness. You don’t know how much he’s taken, but even without his thirst for blood, Chris would have made you pass out from his cock alone anyway. Your walls clench around him again, gushing with so much slick you think you’ve cum again.

Chris stops for a moment, moaning against your wounds at the feeling of you pulsing around him. He sucks again on his bite, body trembling as though he’s trying to contain himself. 

“So good. Mmm, that’s good pussy. You wanna cum again, huh? I can feel her squeezing me like she loves me.” Then he laughs. “Yeah. Yeah. You love me? Tell me you love me.”

Maybe if you weren’t losing so much blood or being fucking into oblivion, you would think Chris’s idea of pillow talk is strange. Yet, with how you’re clinging onto him with your hands and cunt, you think he’s right. You do love him.

“Love you,” the words come out almost meaningfully. “Love the way you fuck me. Your dick feels so good. More. I wan’ more. I love you. I love you. I love you…” You can’t speak anymore. Not as Chris picks up his pace hearing you. Not when his teeth sink into a new spot and draw red streams from you. It’s a bruising pace, an unforgiving bucking of his hips as he slams into you. You can hear how he slams into you, hitting that sensitive spot just right for another orgasm to build. His slacks manage to rub on your clit with how deep he’s fucking you, and the friction only brings you closer.

“Hnng~! Fuuuck…” Your head lolls back. Chris pulls away from your neck to kiss your jaw, seeming full from his feast. Or, maybe he can feel how much sweeter your pussy has gotten and how your moans have turned into uh-uh-uh’s.

“Yeah. Yeeaahh. Right here, huh? Love it when I fuck you right there? Come on. Cum. You can give me another one, can’t you?” Chris guides your orgasm home with the help of his fingers rubbing at your clit. He pinches it between his fingers and sinks himself as far as you can take it, making you squeal and nearly collapse on the table.

But it’s what you needed to cum, to tip over that edge. Your walls lock Chris into place, violent shudders coursing throughout your orgasm. Warm fluid shoots into your cunt that push past his tip and into the deepest parts of you. Chris cums with a shake, moans going through his swollen lips and bloody teeth. 

Then he’s cooing, barely able to rock his hips to come down from his own high as you’re stuffed with his cum. “Mm, good girl. That was a big one, wasn’t it? You did so well~.”

Chris doesn’t pull out, can’t when your pussy so clearly doesn't want to let him go. You’re trying to catch your breath and keep your eyes open when you hear conversing. Chris must be talking to someone. Something about we had a deal and go play with someone else’s meal. The bickering ends in the other person huffing and stomping away, presumably finding someone to find someone else to sink their teeth into. 

It's then that Chris slides out of you slowly. He slips out with a wet pop! that makes both of you moan. He fixes your dress, tucks himself back inside his slacks, and loops his arms under your shoulders and thighs so he can pick you up. 

Upside down, you can see everyone else in a similar state to you. Some are fully unconscious while others are close to it. 

Then your skin pricks. Could it be that they’re “...dead?”

You hadn’t meant to speak out loud. The cloudiness from Chris’s blood effect and the imprint of his cock inside you leaves everything feeling like a dream. Still, he hears you, and like always, he answers. 

“No baby, of course not. They’re just tired, but I promise everything will go back to normal in the morning.” Chris walks down the hall with you in his arms. You don’t know where you’re going, but when you hear a door kick open and feel the softness of a bed on your back, you know you’re in his room.

“It’ll be like nothing ever happened. You girls will remember you had a fun night, even if you don’t remember why.”

You won't remember? It has to be his blood and cum that makes you so emotional. Or, perhaps, it's the pure desperate need for companionship that makes your eyes water. Even if he is a monster, it's better than forgetting tonight and returning to your solitary life. Sleep has almost claimed you, but you manage to speak with pouting lips, “But, I don’t want to…to…”

A tear slips past your eye. Chris is the one to wipe it with his thumb, cooing even more than before. “Aww. I like you a lot. You know that? I like good girls like you.” He continues to wipe the stray tears that cascade down your beautiful face. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re mine now, even if I have to remind you in the morning.”

tags: @desirehorizon @skzophreniic

[ryusjwks]

Sometimes, I think of such sorrowful scenarios involving Caleb, MC, and non!MC that it truly aches inside. Non!MC holds a very special place in my heart — her finding a good ending, being happy, being seen and valued the way she deserves has always been incredibly important to me. With other love interests, seeing that happen brings a deep sense of satisfaction. But when it comes to Caleb… everything changes. It feels like non!MC could never have a truly happy life with him, as if it just isn’t written in her fate.

Caleb is different from the other characters. In the original timeline, he grows up with MC — they share their childhood, their pain, their fight for survival. His world, without him even realizing, begins to shape around her. There are promises he’s made — to never be with anyone else, to always protect her. He’s not obsessive, maybe, but he has a deeply ingrained sense of possession and protection. And over time, that becomes a habit. And that habit hardens into something like destiny.

Sometimes I picture this one scene in my head: MC, Caleb, and non!MC are children, used as test subjects in a lab. Then one day, Josephine appears and saves them. Everything changes. Time moves forward. Their lives settle into something resembling normalcy — maybe — but Caleb doesn’t change. He never leaves MC’s side. He’s like a shield, a shadow, always there for her. But to non!MC… he’s wary. There’s always a distance between them. As emotionally closed off as he is to Josephine, he remains to her as well.

No matter how much non!MC tries, no matter how much she suffers, she never sees the same softness in Caleb’s eyes. Never the same smile. Because his love for MC isn’t just habit — she is his center. Like when they were kids and he worked part-time so MC could have more toys. Like when he always played the knight who saved her in every make-believe game. Like how every ounce of tenderness he has is reserved only for MC.

Non!MC looks at Caleb the way Caleb looks at MC.

With the same patience, the same depth.

Every time he turns his head, her eyes never leave him, always holding a little more longing.

Not for a smile, maybe — but for a scrap of attention, a drop of affection.

And she never gets it.

Because Caleb is always turned toward someone else.

Non!MC loves him even when she’s not supposed to.

She understands him without even trying.

She’s learned to be content with just being near him.

Because while Caleb is the center of her world,

She is just a shadow living in the outskirts of his.

And perhaps the most painful thing of all is this:

Even though her love is never reflected,

Even though he doesn’t look at her the same way,

Still, she looks at him

Just like he looks at MC.

Quietly. Patiently. Desperately.

Non!MC sees all of this.

And sometimes the thing that hurts most isn’t being unloved — it’s being unconsidered.

It’s not even being compared, because in Caleb’s eyes, there’s no need for a comparison.

And that’s why writing a happy ending for non!MC in a story where Caleb exists becomes so difficult.

Because sometimes, healing begins with accepting the truth — no matter how bitter.

And some people are simply written to be side characters in someone else’s story.

And still… maybe one day.

(I need a fic like that please please please)

[highdramas]

okay hear me out… a jack abbott inspired by imgonnagetyouback… the angst? the lust? i fear you would eat this up

never not mine | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!resident!reader warnings: language, angst with a happy ending, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), reader slaps a man hehe (not jack), power imbalance (reader is a resident and jack is her attending), drug use (weed), sexual content (brief but there), jack absolutely grovels and it's a vibe word count: 3.2k summary: jack attempts to walk away. you attempt to reel him back in. it leaves you both raw and vulnerable. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. imgonnagetyouback, back to me by the marias, and honeymoon by lana all helped inspire this fic! i'm a little worried i wrote jack ooc, but then i remembered that man is a canonized yapper. this exists within the ring of fire universe, but that does not have to be read first. it is linked here if you would like to, though! i took some liberties with this so i apologize if it's not exactly how you imagined it! but i had a great time writing this! i hope you enjoy it <3 not proofread, apologies for errors!

you know exactly what it is that you’re doing. and if jack feels tortured– fine. let him. this is all his fault, anyway.

the whole time you’d been with him, whatever that even meant, you’ve felt this sense of… waiting for the other shoe to drop. you tried to tell yourself that you were crazy, that jack was good and honest and that he wasn’t going to get cold feet. that the fact that you were his resident and he was your attending didn’t bother him. that he wasn’t irrevocably haunted by demons from his past, a dead wife and an endless war that runs on a replay in his head, pain in a limb that he doesn’t even have anymore.

it’s not that you expect him to forget all of that. you just want him to be real with you.

and when he falls right into the trope, the trap that was laid by fate, you decide that you’re not going to be resentful. you’re just going to prove to him– and maybe yourself– that you’re not so easily forgotten. that you can’t be left.

it sounds both arrogant and pathetic when you think about it like that. but you don’t care. you’re going to get him back.

maybe it is cruel that you started flirting with donnie in front of him. maybe it’s evil, the way that when you all gather for your post-shift beer, it’s donnie’s bench that you settle at. when you meet abbot’s gaze from across the walkway, his eyes are always at a level of stony that make you a little bit nervous. but then you remember that he iced you out and you lift your chin up and turn your face back to donnie.

he’ll pick his poison, you decide.

when you enter lefty’s at 11pm after getting wind that the day shift– which was jack, conveniently, since he uttered the words this is a bad idea, kid. god, you want to shake his shoulders, you want to call him a coward and scream from the top of your lungs: do you need see how good it could be if you let it?

a delicate lilac top clings to your skin. you push your hair over your shoulder as santos crosses the bar to greet you with a big hug, laughter on her lips. “jesus christ, who are you trying to give a heart attack?”

your hand splays on her back and you find abbot looking at you from across the bar. you shrug your shoulders and pull back, pushing back pieces of santos’s hair. “i don’t know. maybe someone new?”

trinity’s eyebrows shoot up. “wow. spicy. i like it.”

you don’t know how much time passes. you feel a bit silly: overdressed, a beer in your hand, nothing on your mind except the man that you want to lure back in to you. your outfit is a siren song and all you can wonder is if abbot is a sailor who is as desperate as you’ve pinned him as.

if he’s as desperate as you are.

every time you look at him, he’s either already looking, or feels your gaze on him. there will be a beat of eye contact before you look away and laugh at something garcia said or engage, rapt, in a conversation with samira about the first date that she went on last week. suddenly, it’s been hours, and you’re closing out your tab when you feel a presence beside you.

it’s not the presence that you want. it’s one that’s unknown and makes you feel uncertain. it’s not abbot’s easy, calm, present demeanor beside you. the one that tells you don’t worry, i’m here, i got this. the one that washes over you like a delicious wave. the one that smells woody and warm and delicious. the man next to you is a little too clean cut, a little too polished–  he smells like laundry and looks like he’s never been through a bad thing in his life.

he takes a drink of the last of his beer. “i’ve been watching you all night.”

you didn’t notice. faintly, you think that if you were twenty three, this man next to you would have been the apple of your eye, instantly. you wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off of him. but when you look at him and you see deep dimples and dark hair, all you see are dimples that are a little too deep, and hair that isn’t streaked with silver.

that pick up line strikes you as unimpressive. your finger tip circles your glass. “oh, am i supposed to say thank you?” you ask, but you manage what you try to play off as a coy smirk. absentmindedly, you look around, instinctively looking for jack. and not even because you want to see if he’s jealous. not because you want to see the look on his face, to feel that sick sense of satisfaction at the fact that you’re getting to him.

no. you want your friend. you want to give a bleak eye roll and make him smirk. you want to go back to him and say what a prick and carry on with your life. you want to go back to the normal that you’ve gotten used to– the one that, maybe, you took for granted.

if you can’t have jack as your whatever he was, you’d take him as your friend. any day.

but when your eyes scan the bar… he’s not there. the spot that he occupied next to robby is vacant. and all you’re left with is this sick sense of shame, embarrassment, and something else that you can’t quite articulate. longing, if someone put a gun to your head and forced you to put a name to it.

the man next to you says something. you don’t hear it. static rattles in your ears and suddenly all you want to do is go home, tear those lilac clothes off, wash your face, and cry. in bed.

and maybe smoke a joint on your patio, too.

he says something again. you, once again, don’t respond. you look at the bartender and answer their questions with one word answers. yes, you want to close. no, you don’t want a copy of your receipt.

“are you ignoring me, or are you just a stupid fucking bitch who can’t hear?”

at the level of shut down you’re at already, you don’t even care what he’s said. but he’s gotten the attention of the others. robby is already on his feet.

and abbot is walking down the hall from the restroom.

“i’m ignoring you,” you turn to him, spitting the words out, loud and clear. “but if calling me a stupid fucking bitch makes the rejection hurt less, knock yourself out.”

he screws his entire face up, and abbot is approaching quicker now, with that lethal anger on his face. robby isn’t far behind… or santos, either, for that matter.

“you are a stupid fucking bitch,” he says, taking a step closer to you, shrinking himself in size to be on your level. “and you’re not pretty enough to get away with an attitude like–”

abbot makes a move to lunge, and robby has to physically pull him back. the man lets out an ugly laugh and all you see is red, bright red. “oh, what’s your fuckin’ grandpa going to do?”

the crack that rings out when your palm hits his cheek could be heard around the world. it opens up a cacophony of mayhem– between you and him, the bartenders, abbot, robby, santos getting ready to throw in a punch of her own… but it all culminates with the lot of you being told to get the fuck out, this isn’t philly.

with your jaw set and your head held high, you are the first one to storm out of the bar. and maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the fact that a stranger just called you a bitch, but all you feel is an unsettled sort of anger.

you hear abbot say your name behind you.

you stop. the pittsburgh early spring still has a bite to it, especially when it’s nearing midnight. the wind makes your eyes sting, tears trailing down your cheeks. it’s the wind. it’s just the wind. “no,” you say lowly, pointing a finger in his direction. “fuck you.”

“fuck me?”

“yeah. fuck you.” you tug your jacket closer to yourself and wipe the tears away with the back of your hand. “you ignore me, you tell me this isn’t going to work, and then want to play protective… yeah. fuck you.” you go quiet, go to turn, but you can’t. you’re frozen in place. “no, it’s not even that. not really. i shouldn’t be mad at you. i should be mad at myself. i’ve been doing things, this whole time, trying to earn your affection back. trying to get you to see what you were missing, see why it was so silly to pretend that we’re not good. but… i’ve felt like shit every day, doing that. i’ve felt small.”

jack doesn’t say anything. robby has ushered all of your coworkers down the street and far away, bless him. when you assess jack’s face, there’s a myriad of things you see. you think you see regret. you know you see hurt. you want to believe you see love.

“and i don’t want to feel small,” you sniffle and wipe a fat, real tear away. “i don’t want to wear a cute outfit because you might see it. i don’t want to flirt with donnie to watch your knuckles go white. i want– i want to sit on your fucking couch. i want to watch some stupid show with you. i want to lay in bed and listen to the police scanner after sex. i want you to want me. and if you don’t, if this is all too much for you, then…” you look him up and down. the body you know intimately, the person you’d be with forever if he let you.

“then no hard feelings.”

you don’t give jack the opportunity to respond. maybe that’s its own special brand of self preservation. you turn, and you walk away from him, towards an empty apartment.

–

when you get home, you do exactly as you cited. you rid yourself of your clothes. you furiously wash your face and then go through the rest of your skin care. you roll yourself a joint, and you bring it out to your patio, and the small table, chair, and ashtray that sit out there.

your apartment isn’t as high up as jack’s. you live in an old building on the third floor, one of the world war two types, with the radiators and beautiful hardwood floors and all of the character in the world. in exchange, you get no dishwasher and a patio that probably isn’t up to city code.

lighting the joint with one hand, you take in a long, nice, inhale. you lean your head back against the wall. you grab your phone and put the marias on and let those big tears roll down your cheeks freely.

the low rumble of a truck pulling up gets your attention. you lift your head up and watch as the vehicle that you’d sat in countless times goes into park. you hear the door open. you watch jack round it, and his eyes are instantly drawn to your patio. he holds his hand up in a wave.

you flip him off.

the chuckle that gets out of him should infuriate you. but it doesn’t.

“yeah, i deserve that.”

“you’re a dick,” you reply, marijuana leaving you honest. you stand up and lean on the railing, looking down at him.

“i am.”

his hands are in his pockets and you can see a war going on in his mind, but then he starts talking. “i’m not good at this part. the… communication, part. i’m not good at this part at all.”

you raise your eyebrows. he continues. “when annie died, i was content to not be with anyone. ever again. a random fuck there and again, just to get it out of my system, sure. but i was content with not opening myself up to that. i always just thought… i thought i was already so fucked up, and since annie knew me before i was so fucked up. i told myself that she was the only one that was going to get it. get me.” he stares up at you. “now, i know that i was wrong in that. obviously.”

you give a slow nod of your head. “but i lived in that reality for so long. that i wasn’t going to be open to that again. and then we started hanging out, and at first, i was able to convince myself it was innocent. i’m your mentor. no lines would get blurred. and then, obviously, they did. but i told myself it was all casual. and when i told myself that, i felt like… yeah, i could do that. i could be good to someone in that capacity. but then,i felt greedy with you. i felt like i wasn’t going to be able to let myself walk away if i stayed any longer. so i forced myself. thought i was doing you a favor.” he rubs the back of his neck. “thought i was doing right by myself. like, the safest option. and then i talked to my therapist.”

you smirk. “the age old solution.”

“yeah, right?” he smirks back at you. “and i told him all of this, yesterday. and you know what he said?” he waits a beat. “he told me i’m a fucking idiot. and i responded, and said that i know i was. because deep down… deep down, i knew it was all bullshit. a defense mechanism.”

he walks closer and puts his hands on the railing of the first floor patio, staring right up at you, you staring down at him. “i should never have made you feel small. and all i want is to show you that i mean it.”

nodding your head slowly, you mull over his every word. you open and close your mouth a couple of times. “i want to tell you to fuck off,” you say honestly. “i want to think you’re just bullshitting me. but…” you meet his eyes. “that’s probably my defense mechanism.”

the quiet overtakes the two of you. all there is is the lull of traffic and the faint whistle of the wind. “it wasn’t about you,” you say. “i knew why you were pushing me away. i understood. i just wanted you to see why those things weren’t real. and i thought that i could control that. and then i just left myself feeling disappointed, and desperate, and messy.”

the two of you watch each other like feral cats, unblinking and unwavering. maybe that’s what you are.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice softened. “i was a dick. and you were right.”

you nod your head. “come inside before you catch a cold.”

most of the time, you went over to his place. when he steps over the threshold into your apartment, you think that it feels good to have him in your space. to watch him set his shoes by the door, hang his coat up on the little rack. there’s this awkward sort of tension that simmers between the two of you. he must sense it, because he gives you a sideways look. “that wasn’t all i had to say.”

“yeah?” you ask with a playful smile, filling up a glass of water and taking a big gulp from it.

his hands pin you in at your kitchen counter. all of the air is sucked right out of the room. “you told me that you wanted me to want you. right?” you give a nod of your head. “i wanted to be face to face with you when i said this part.” he ghosts his fingertips over your cheeks. “i want every fucking part of you. your wild, messy parts included. especially, even.” his eyes darken a shade. “do you know how crazy you’ve made me? flirting with donnie, that purple you wore tonight?”

you roll your eyes, mostly at yourself. “that was sort of the plan.”

“it worked.” his thumbs brush your hipbones. “every day, i went home to an apartment that had you all over it. a coffee mug on the counter with a lipgloss mark. the blanket that you love and curl into almost every single night. your book on my coffee table. i felt stupid. i felt small, too. i felt like a coward. i was a coward. and i just–”

you raise up your hand, pressing it against his chest. not pressing him away, just… there. his brows furrow. you say, “you ramble when you’re nervous and when you want someone to feel better.” your hand slides up his chest. “i forgive you.”

the relief that washes over him is a visible, tangible thing. you feel it in the way he grips your hips as a result, the way his face falls into the crook of your neck. you close your eyes and run your hand through the silver streak you love so much. he pulls back and there’s a little tear shining in his eye. and he says three words that are simple but profound, that strike you where you stand. “i love you.” he nods. that steady, stable, self-assured version of himself is there again. “i know that now. i knew it then, too.”

you nod your head slowly. “i know you do,” you say, because you do, you really do. “and i love you too.”

those dimples shine at you. not too deep. just right. he pulls your body in flush with his and it’s like you melt away into nothing but a glowing ball of light. fuzzy and warm.

a switch is flipped. your hands go hungry and your lips find his. jack leads you to your bedroom. he lays you down and he spreads you out. he takes off each article of clothing, slowly. he lowers himself until his head is between your thighs and apologizes with his tongue, until you arch off your bed. he climbs up and he sinks inside of you in one satisfying motion. you’re all nails down his back and relentless eye contact, and you’re the kind of desperate and messy that you want to be. he’s just the same– his pace is consistent, deep, and each thrust tells you just how sorry he really is.

you finish with an explosion behind your eyes, and he tumbles over off that cliff after you. he rolls off of you and you lay on your backs, staring up at the ceiling. your hand goes to rest on his chest. he takes it and presses a kiss to it before he raises, comes back with a damp cloth and cleans you up with care. love. he leans down and presses a kiss to your lips, tender and right.

he starts messing with the covers, brows all screwed up. “what could you possibly be looking for right now?” you ask, chest still heaving.

“this,” he says, locating his phone. he stares down at it until he puts it between you. a faint static emits from it.

“what the hell is–”

“3B60, the subject is fleeing on foot.”

you between him and his phone, police scanner coming from the speaker, incredulously. he just grunts as he settles back into bed, pulling you into him. “i’m just listening to what you want, kid.”

[lunarflare77]

Lately I’ve been watching hbomberguy videos a uh, normal amount, and the one that keeps getting to me is ROBLOX_OOF.mp3.

Part of that is just, the video is hilarious. Little soundbytes and gags from it have stuck with me, and I really love this style of video essay.

But what’s really gotten to me is…how much like my dad Timmy Tallarico feels. Like, I know the work my dad does is and has been legitimate. In actual business, he doesn’t upsell or lie to his customers about the actual product or anything.

Cut because this got longer than I thought it would

But he’s been known to tell the truth in…creative ways. “I actually own a medical practice,” meaning he has partial ownership of a company that partners with doctors and nurses to take advantage of a relatively new code for Medicaid, making it so that doctors can bill extra, which his company then takes a cut of. (I’ll add that I don’t feel bad about billing the federal government extra, and that the ability to bill for it is contingent on nurses meeting with/talking to the patients at home to see how they’re doing, get them interaction they may not have gotten otherwise, etc—it’s actually a good thing!)

But, the *point* is, he doesn’t own a medical practice in the way he’s trying to make it sounds. He wants his customers to think he’s a doctor. And he’ll tell them he’s been a nurse for 20 years, when, no, he was a nurse 30 years ago, for around 5 years, and then again about 10 years ago for another 5 years or so. Less, maybe. So maybe he had the qualifications for that long, but it’s not the same thing.

These sorts of “creative truths.” Every time Tommy says he has 7 Guinness world records, I hear my —sorry I got distracted reading Tommy’s Wikipedia page. Anyways. Every time Tommy says he has 7 world records, when he actually has 3—if that, and they aren’t even real records—I just hear my dad in the back of my mind going “well, he has 7 certificates, he’s not *wrong*.”

Because this kind of bending the truth to sound more impressive is what I grew up with, it’s what I’ve been encouraged to do all my life. It has at times worked for my dad, let him land jobs he wasn’t qualified for, and then he rose to the challenge of them. My dad feels like a superhero to me in a lot of ways, I don’t want to just rag on him with this.

But…I’ve always been afraid this would backfire on him. That someone would call him on his creative truths, or boasting, and then think less of him instead of more. That’s exactly what happened to Tommy—he couldn’t keep it under control, and it finally caught up to him with this video.

I mean, Tommy is also a massive narcissist, which my dad isn’t. I’ll give him…occasionally self-absorbed, but ultimately well-meaning at worst.

But like I said, every time I watch this 2 hour video essay I just have this faint sense of “this is my dad” the whole time. I can’t tell if ai’m watching it because it’s funny to see Tommy get wrecked, for catharsis in seeing this kind of boasting called out, or as kind of a “what not to do” guide for myself.

Seeing my dad do this so often, I’m almost allergic to that kind of self-promotion. Or any self-promotion, almost. I guess I have done it, but I try to be careful about it, to be very aware of where I *actually* stand when making statements about my capabilities. I don’t know if it’s affected how I perceive myself, for better or worse. But there’s something there.

Uh. Anyways. Just wanted to get this off my chest, I’ve been watching these videos on loop for like a week at this point

I figure in all the history of grifters and cons, at least once there must have been a snake oil salesman who advertised their product with such passion that their own children believed it.

This could mean anything, really

[burrowswomen]

❥ HOPELESSLY DEVOTED ━━━━━ JOE BURROW

: ̗̀➛ word count: 7.9k

: ̗̀➛ warnings: angst & fluff

: ̗̀➛ noor speaks: i cried two times while writing this lol

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

new orleans, 2020. after the national championship.

the music is too loud, the air too warm, the lights flashing in shades of purple and yellow that blur together like a dream you know you’ll forget by morning. the house is packed wall to wall with lsu kids celebrating like the world’s ending. maybe for them, it kind of is—this night, this win, this buzz pulsing through their blood like champagne and euphoria—it won’t ever feel like this again.

but not for you.

you’re sitting alone on a velvet couch in the corner of the room, nursing a can of coke because you couldn’t bring yourself to drink tonight. not when your heart is already off balance. not when he’s here. somewhere. in this house.

joe.

you haven’t seen him since the moment the confetti rained down in the stadium and he was lifted onto shoulders like a king. you watched from the stands, cheering like everyone else, smile plastered on your face while your heart quietly broke in your chest.

you should’ve been over this by now. you’ve tried. god knows you’ve tried.

you went out with other guys. you kissed people you didn’t care about just to feel something different. you looked for flaws in joe—any little ick that could snap you out of it. But none of it worked.

because no matter what, you always end up right back here. in the back of some crowded room, thinking about how he never saw you the way you saw him.

“hey,” a voice says, close—too close—and suddenly he’s there.

joe.

you blink, heart catching in your throat. he’s standing right in front of you, wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, curls messy from sweat and celebration. his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are hazy from drinking, but even drunk, he’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“you okay?” he asks, tilting his head. his voice is softer now, lower, like it’s meant just for you. “didn’t see you earlier.”

you force a smile, your hands tightening around the can. “yeah, just needed a break from the chaos.”

he nods, then without asking, sits next to you on the couch, thigh brushing against yours like it’s nothing.

but it is something. every inch of you is on fire.

for a moment, there’s just the beat of the music and the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. you glance over at him, about to make some dumb joke to break the tension—but his eyes are already on you.

and they’re not looking away.

his gaze flicks down to your lips.

then back up to your eyes.

and that’s when you feel it.

that pull.

that impossible, undeniable pull that’s been haunting you since the day you met him in a freshman psych lecture at osu and he asked to borrow a pencil.

“joe…” you whisper, like a warning. or maybe a plea.

but he doesn’t say anything. just leans in, slow and unsure, as if testing the waters.

you don’t move. You can’t.

then suddenly—his lips are on yours.

and it’s everything.

it’s soft and rough and clumsy all at once, tasting like whiskey and desperation. one of his hands finds your waist, the other brushes your cheek. your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie like they’re trying to keep this moment from slipping away.

you kiss him back like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. like every conversation, every almost-touch, every silent ache you’ve carried for years was just leading to this.

and for one beautiful, unbearable second… you let yourself believe he feels it too.

-

you stir your coffee for the fifth time, watching the cream swirl like it might give you an answer. you can’t stop fidgeting—pressing your nails into your palm under the table, tapping your foot, chewing your bottom lip. anything to distract from the fact that he’s sitting across from you.

joe.

he looks like the night hit him hard. hair shoved under a backwards cap, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses even though the sky is barely even bright. he’s got that post-party slump in his shoulders, like he’s trying to hold his head up but gravity’s working overtime.

he hasn’t said anything yet. neither have you.

your stomach twists. god, why does this feel like the end of something you never even got to begin?

you peek up at him over your cup. he’s picking at the edge of a napkin, jaw tight. finally, he clears his throat and says, voice low:

“so…”

you force a smile, hollow and tired. “sooo…”

he laughs once—short, awkward. rubs the back of his neck. you already know where this is going. you can feel it in the way he won’t meet your eyes.

“about last night… do you remember anything?”

you take a long sip, stalling. your pulse stutters. you want to pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about. you want to lie, to say you forgot too. but you remember every second. every inch of space between you that disappeared.

"uhh.. no not really"

he takes off his sunglasses, finally looking at you. and god, he still looks like him. the same guy you’ve been hopelessly in love with since you were nineteen. the same guy who held your hand during finals week and never noticed the way your breath caught when he smiled.

joe shifts, and then he says it.

“i’m sorry. for, uh… kissing you. it was a mistake.”

a mistake.

you feel it like a slap—cold and sharp, right in the center of your chest. but you don’t flinch. you don’t let it show.

instead, you laugh. it sounds too loud, too fake. “well, yeah. you were pretty drunk.”

“yeah,” he nods, wincing. “i’m feeling it right about now.”

you stare at your coffee again. the swirling’s stopped.

“good luck with that,” you murmur.

he nods. “yeah. i just… i wanted to clear it up. so there wasn’t any confusion.”

and you smile. again. you smile through the ache, through the cracks in your ribs where the hope used to live. “of course.”

but inside, it’s screaming.

so glad i never told him how i felt.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

it’s been three years.

three years since the kiss. three years since he said it was a mistake.

you’ve changed. at least, that’s what you tell people.

you’ve got your own apartment now. a job that keeps you busy. you go to pilates on sundays and keep a little basil plant on the windowsill. you smile more easily, flirt with waiters, say yes to blind dates your friends set up.

you’re fine. you’re over it. you’re good.

except you’re not.

because every guy you’ve dated since joe has had to live in his shadow.

you try not to do it, but it’s automatic now. someone laughs and you think, joe’s was deeper. someone texts you good morning and you remember how joe used to call you “sunshine” during finals week. someone brushes your hand across the table and you flinch—not because it’s bad, but because it’s not him.

you hate it. you hate yourself for it.

you’ve tried everything—therapy, journaling, deleting old pictures. you even blocked his instagram for a while, hoping out of sight would mean out of mind.

but all it took was one tagged photo on your explore page—him in a suit at some banquet, holding a glass of champagne and smiling—and suddenly you’re eighteen again. knees weak, heart racing, breath caught in your throat like it still belongs to him.

sometimes you wonder if he ever thinks about that night. if he remembers the kiss. the way his hands slid around your waist. the look in his eyes right before it happened.

but then you remember the way he said it. it was a mistake.

like it didn’t mean anything. like you didn’t mean anything.

and you remind yourself—for the hundredth time—that he never knew.

he never knew how hard you loved him in silence. how many nights you laid awake wondering if he’d ever look at you the way you looked at him. how you were always just the friend. always there. always watching. always waiting.

and now, three years later, you still are.

you’re dating someone new. he’s kind. funny. he texts back fast and brings you coffee before work. but you catch yourself staring at him sometimes, searching his face for something that’s not there.

he does everything right. and still, he’s not joe. so you ended it.

you close your eyes one night, curled up on your couch in an oversized hoodie, and you think:

why him?why can’t i let him go?why am i still hopelessly devoted to someone who never even asked me to be?

and there’s no answer.

just that same ache.

the one that never really left.

-

you’re standing in the frozen food aisle, debating between two brands of dumplings, when you hear someone say your name.

casual. surprised. a little disbelieving.

“hey. y/n is that you?”

your breath catches before you even turn around. something in you already knows.

and then—you see him.

joe.

standing there in a hoodie and joggers, hair longer now, a little messier. a basket in one hand, a carton of eggs inside. he looks like a memory you weren’t ready to see again.

you blink, heart stuttering. “hi.”

he smiles, slow and genuine, like he’s truly happy to see you. and god, it kills you how easy he makes it look. like you didn’t spend the past three years trying to stitch yourself back together.

“wow,” he says, laughing under his breath. “you look… wow.”

you smile politely. the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you too.”

there’s a beat of silence, and for a second, you consider bolting. saying you have plans. pretending your phone is ringing. anything.

but joe, of course, doesn’t give you the chance.

“wanna grab a coffee after this?”

you open your mouth to give a soft no, already piecing together some fake excuse—got work, meeting a friend, feeling sick, anything—but then he tilts his head and says,

“c’mon. like old friends.”

and those three words? they land like a punch to the gut.

like old friends.

you hesitate. then nod, barely. “sure.”

-

the coffee shop hasn’t changed. smells like burnt espresso and vanilla syrup. the same mismatched chairs, the same indie playlist humming through the speakers.

you sit across from joe, clutching a paper cup like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

he’s smiling, talking about something light—his off-season plans, some fishing trip he bailed on, how his mom keeps sending him cooking recipes like he’s 17 instead of 26.

you try to listen. you really do.

but all you can think about is how familiar this feels.

how easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. how good he looks in the afternoon light. how much you wish you were over him.

you smile, but it doesn’t reach your chest. not really.

and then, out of nowhere, he goes:

“why’d you cut me out?”

you blink. “excuse me?”

joe leans back, staring at you with this open, almost hurt expression. “we were best friends. and then after graduation… nothing. no texts. no calls. you blocked me on instagram.”

you look down at your coffee. your throat goes dry.

“joe…”

he waits.

you take a breath. “i just… life got busy.”

he raises an eyebrow.

you try again. “i was trying to figure some things out. i didn’t mean anything by it.”

another lie.

he nods slowly, like he doesn’t believe you but he won’t push. “i missed you,” he says softly.

and that breaks something in you.

but still—you smile. you deflect. you ask about his family, his latest game,his teammates, and somehow, the rest of the afternoon melts into something that almost feels normal. like the old days. laughter, shared memories, stories you’ve both told a thousand times before.

you forget, for a moment, that you ever lost him.

-

but then you’re back in your apartment.

the sun’s long gone by now, and everything is dipped in this soft, tired blue. you don’t bother turning on the lights. don’t take off your jacket. you just step inside, close the door gently behind you, and lean your back against it.

your keys are still in your hand. your heart might still be with him.

the silence is thick. no music. no tv. no distractions. just the hum of the fridge and the echo of his voice still tangled in your head.

like old friends.

you let your head fall back against the wood. eyes closed. chest tight.

you were fine this morning. maybe not fine, but functioning. holding it together. the version of yourself you’ve trained so well—collected, calm, unbothered. and then he showed up. in the middle of the damn frozen food aisle.

and now?

you feel cracked open. like your heart remembered what it was like to be full, just for a second. like you’d been starving for something and didn’t realize it was him.

the coffee shop felt like a portal. like no time had passed. the way he smiled. the way he teased you like nothing had changed. you fell back into it so easily—almost like your body knew how to be around him, even if your mind screamed don’t go there again.

and now you’re here. in the quiet. in the dark.

you drop your keys on the floor. they clatter like they’re trying to make a point.

you slide down the door until you’re sitting on the hardwood, knees pulled to your chest, jacket still zipped.

and you think about everything.

the kiss. the way he looked at you right before it happened. like maybe, for a second, he saw you. the next morning. the word mistake.

you think about how long you spent convincing yourself you were over it. over him. the dates. the distance. the silence.

and now, it all floods back. like a dam broke. like you never really healed—you just put a bandage over something still bleeding.

you press your forehead to your knees. breathe slow.

and then, in the quietest part of you, the truth comes out. the one you don’t say out loud.

you never really left.

because it was always him. even when he didn’t know. even when he called it nothing. even now.

and you whisper it, not to the room, not to the walls—just to yourself.

“god, i’m still so hopelessly devoted to him.”and it hurts. because it’s still true.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

joe's back at his house, but it doesn’t feel like it.

he’s got a game on in the background—something random, something loud. it’s not really about watching. it’s about filling the silence. giving his thoughts something to compete with.

but it’s not working.

he leans back on his couch, phone in hand, your name still sitting at the top of his recent messages. not because you texted—but because he thought about it. thumb hovering. typing, deleting. again. again. again.

you looked different today.

not in a bad way. not like you’d changed into someone else. just… grown. steadier. quieter. a little more careful with your words. and something about that hit him harder than he expected.

you were always open with him. always honest. a little chaotic, a little fire in your laugh. but today you were softer. like you were holding parts of yourself back.

and it messed him up.

he can’t stop thinking about how it used to be. the late nights at OSU, cramming for exams you barely studied for. the way you used to steal bites of his food without asking. how you’d poke fun at him for taking football too seriously and then show up to every single game like it was life or death.

you were his best friend.

and somewhere along the way, he lost you.

he never knew why. never understood it. one day you were inseparable and the next… you were gone. your number still worked, but you stopped replying. you blocked him on instagram. you disappeared without a word.

and now, three years later, you’re sitting across from him at a coffee shop acting like it didn’t break him a little.

he runs a hand over his face, restless.

“why’d you cut me out?” he’d asked you. and the look in your eyes? he hasn’t stopped replaying it since.

you were surprised. defensive. quiet. you gave him an excuse. something soft. something safe.

but joe’s not stupid.

he saw the way your eyes dropped when he said your name. the way your smile faltered when he joked like old times. the way you fidgeted with your sleeve, like your body wanted to say something you wouldn’t let out.

and then he thinks about that night. the kiss. the way he pulled you close without thinking. the way you kissed him back like you meant it. like it wasn’t just a drunken mistake.

but he was scared. or confused. or both. so the next morning, he said what he thought you wanted to hear. he told you it didn’t mean anything.

and god, he regrets that now.

he wonders if that’s why you left. if he was the reason. if he hurt you more than he ever realized.

he looks down at his phone again. no new messages.

and he thinks, maybe for the first time: i miss her. not just the old her. the her i saw today. the her i pushed away.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

it’s been a year.

a year since you and joe reconnected.

a year of quiet text messages and now not awkward conversations. a year of meeting up for coffee, going to his games again, pretending it’s just the same as before. a year of slowly rebuilding what you had—or what you thought you had—before everything changed.

and god, it still hurts.

because you can pretend. you can laugh at his stupid jokes. you can sip your drink like it doesn’t matter when he texts you at 2 a.m. to tell you about his day. but every time you meet up, a small part of you breaks.

you can’t help it. you never stopped loving him. and now you’re trying to be his friend. his best friend. even though the word feels like a weight in your chest.

today, you’re sitting at your usual spot—at the corner of the café, just like old times. joe’s across from you, leaning back in his chair, a frown tugging at his lips. he’s been quiet, almost distant, for the last few minutes, but you’re too used to it by now. he’s always had a way of zoning out, getting lost in his head.

and then, like he’s just made up his mind, he looks at you with a seriousness that almost makes you nervous.

“hey,” he says, voice steady. “i need your help.”

you raise an eyebrow. “with what?”

he shifts, suddenly unsure. “well… there’s this girl…”

and that’s when everything inside you goes still.

you were waiting for this, weren’t you? you knew it would come. you knew that one day, the girl he would talk about wasn’t you. but it still cuts like a knife anyway.

you force a smile. “yeah? what’s up?”

joe talks—his words rushing out like he’s been holding them in for too long. it’s all about her—this girl he’s met recently at an event, someone he’s been thinking of for a while now. how he doesn’t know how to approach her. how he’s been thinking about asking her out, but he’s not sure what to say. how he knows you’re good with words, how you’ve always known what to do when it comes to this.

you nod, pretending your heart isn’t hammering in your chest, pretending you aren’t dying inside. because this is who you are now. this is what you agreed to be. the friend who watches him fall for someone else. the friend who helps him get the girl of his dreams.

“yeah,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “of course. I’ll help.”

and he smiles at you. It’s the same smile he’s always given you, the one that used to make everything feel so easy. but now? now it feels like the weight of the world.

you don’t hear the rest of what he says. it’s all tuned out. you’re smiling, nodding, pretending, but it’s like his voice fades into the background. because in your head, it’s all you can think about.

why her? why not me?

but you don’t ask. you don’t speak up. because you’re his friend. and you’ll always be his friend. no matter how much it hurts.

you swallow the ache in your chest. “so,” you say, forcing a laugh. “what’s the plan?”

joe goes into full detail now, eyes lighting up as he talks about this girl, her laugh, the way she looks at him. and you listen, like you care, like it doesn’t tear you apart to hear him talk about her with such excitement.

and when the conversation shifts to logistics, to how he’s going to ask her out, how he’s nervous and unsure—you help him. you give him advice. you tell him what to say, how to ask her out in a way that’s cute and funny. because that’s what friends do, right?

but inside? you’re dying. you’re crumbling.

and you hate yourself for it.

because if he was asking you out? if he was talking to you the way he’s talking about her? you’d give anything for that.

but you don’t say it. you don’t even let him see the hurt.

and when you leave the café later, after everything’s been decided and joe’s thanking you a million times for helping him, you go home. back to your apartment. back to the same empty space. back to the silence.

and you try to hold it together. you try to smile when you look in the mirror. you tell yourself it’s fine. that you’re fine. but deep down? you know you’re not.because you’re still hopelessly devoted to someone who will never see you the way you see him. and you know you always will be.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

you’re walking around town, running errands, trying not to think about everything. it’s been a weird week, a mess of him and her and pretending like it’s fine. like you’re okay. but you’re not. and you know it.

you pass by a florist shop, the kind with that sweet, earthy smell of fresh flowers and soft green leaves. on impulse, you step inside. maybe it’s because you’ve always liked flowers. maybe it’s because you’ve never really bought any for yourself, always waiting for someone else to do it. but today? today, you don’t care.

you pick up a bouquet of pink tulips, their petals soft and vibrant, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself feel something other than the ache in your chest. they’re pretty. they make you feel like maybe you could be pretty, too.

and then, out of nowhere, you hear it. a voice. low, smooth, almost like it’s been there forever. “they’re pretty, just like you.”

you freeze, and your breath catches. it’s sudden. unfamiliar.but when you turn, you’re met with the last thing you expect:

a guy. tall, with dark hair and striking green eyes that seem to hold something in them—something you can’t quite place. and he’s standing too close, like he’s been watching you for a while.

you raise an eyebrow, trying to push down the flutter in your chest. “oh, really?” you ask, playing it off. your voice is steady, though you feel your heart race a little.

he steps closer, that confident smirk pulling at his lips. “oh, i know so,” he says, eyes glinting with something playful. and you laugh, half out of surprise, half out of… maybe something else. it’s new. it’s different.

he keeps talking, something about tulips, about how they symbolize perfect love, about how he’s always thought they’re the best flowers in the shop. and for a second, it’s like nothing else matters. like there’s no joe, no her, no lingering pain. just you. just this guy. and the sound of his voice.

the conversation flows easily, surprisingly natural. he makes you smile, and for a moment, you forget that you’ve spent years trying to forget. that you’ve spent all this time, devoted to someone else.

you’re actually listening to him. laughing at his jokes. and when he asks, casually, “so… how about dinner? i’d love to take you out sometime,” it’s like your heart stops. it skips a beat. you stare at him for a moment, unsure of what to say, unsure if you should even say anything at all.

but you find yourself smiling. something small. something hopeful. maybe you’re finally moving on.

“yeah,” you say, voice quiet but steady. “i’d like that.”

and as he smiles back at you, it’s the strangest feeling. like maybe, just maybe, you could be more than just hopelessly devoted to someone who will never feel the same. maybe this is the start of something new. maybe it’s time to let go.

but then, in the back of your mind, you feel that familiar ache again. and you can’t help but wonder if you’re doing this for the right reasons. if it’s just about moving on—or if you’re just trying to forget what you’ll never have.

but you push it down. for now, you’re here. with him. with a new start. and maybe that’s enough.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

dinner with louis went way better than you expected.

you weren’t nervous going in, just… guarded. you’ve been on enough half-hearted dates to know how these things go. the polite laughs, the dry silences, the dull ache of disappointment. but this—this was different.

louis was sweet. not in a try-hard kind of way, but genuinely thoughtful. he listened when you talked, laughed at the right moments, and didn’t once make you feel like you had to perform. his green eyes didn’t wander. his attention stayed on you the entire night.

you should be happy. you are happy. because the craziest thing happened during that dinner—you didn’t compare him to joe. not once.

you weren’t looking for the ways they were different. you weren’t searching for some secret trace of the boy you’ve been in love with for years. you were just… there. with louis. and that felt like progress.

you walk into the coffee shop a few days later with a little more ease in your step, not even realizing the shift in you. but joe notices.

he’s already seated at your usual table, hoodie pulled over his head, coffee cup between his palms. he looks up when you walk in, and it hits him like a punch to the chest—you’re glowing.

not just in the i got sleep last night kind of way. but the someone’s been making me feel good about myself kind of way. and it’s not him.

he can feel it before he even knows why.

you sit down across from him, grinning at something you’re remembering. and he’s watching you like he can’t quite figure out what’s changed.

“what’s got you so happy?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light.

you blink, caught off guard, then smile. soft. warm.

“well…” you trail off for a second, your mind flickering to louis’s smile, his hand brushing yours across the table, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

“i… may be seeing someone.”

joe stills. just for a second. you don’t notice, but his fingers tighten slightly around his cup.

oh.

that’s the first thing he thinks. but what he says?

“so y/n finally found herself a boyfriend.” his voice is easy, teasing, but there's something behind it. something tight.

you laugh, shaking your head. “well, he’s not my boyfriend yet. we’re just talking, for now. but… maybe.”

and you say it like you believe it. like you’re hopeful. like you’re open to it becoming something.

and joe doesn’t know why that makes his chest feel like it’s collapsing in on itself. because he’s supposed to be happy. you’re his best friend. and you’re happy. so he should be happy.

but he’s not.

he doesn’t say much for the rest of the coffee hangout. you talk like you always do, but his thoughts are somewhere else. his laughs are slower, quieter. and every time you smile, he feels that same gnawing feeling crawl deeper into his chest.you’re slipping through his fingers, and the worst part is— he never even realized he was holding on.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

joe didn’t sleep that night. he just lays there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional car passing on the street outside.

but it’s not the sounds that keep him up. it’s your face. your voice. the way you said “i may be seeing someone,” like it was just a casual update. like it didn’t send something sharp and unfamiliar right through his chest.

he sits up around 2 a.m., elbows on his knees, running both hands through his hair like that’ll help sort out the mess in his head.

what the hell is wrong with him?

you’re his best friend. you’ve always been his best friend. from college game days and late-night study sessions, to you calling him after every game—even when he didn’t answer right away. especially when he didn’t answer.

you were always there.

but he never thought of it as more. or at least… he told himself he didn’t.

but now, the idea of someone else holding your hand, someone else making you laugh, someone else being the one you text goodnight—

it makes him sick.

and the worst part? he knows he has no one to blame but himself.

so he calls ja’marr the next day. because if there’s one person who won’t bullshit him, it’s him.

“yo,” ja’marr answers on the second ring, voice still scratchy with sleep. “what’s up?”

“you busy?” joe asks.

“no. but if this is about what legos you should buy again, i’m hanging up.”

“it’s not,” joe says. “i just... i need to talk. in person.”

twenty-five minutes later, joe’s sitting on his couch, nervously spinning a coaster between his fingers while ja’marr sips his drink like he’s bracing for a bomb to drop.

“alright,” ja’marr says, setting his cup down. “what’s going on with you?”

joe takes a breath.

“it’s y/n.”

ja’marr doesn’t react. not yet. just nods once, slow. “what about her?”

joe swallows. “she’s... seeing someone. some guy. i don’t know his name, but—he makes her happy.”

he tries to sound okay with it. he fails.

ja’marr raises a brow, leaning back. “so?”

“so, i don’t know,” joe mutters. “i haven’t stopped thinking about it. about her. since she told me. it’s like... i can’t breathe.”

ja’marr stares at him for a moment, then exhales hard through his nose.

“bro. i’ve been telling you since LSU.”

joe frowns. “telling me what?”

“that you’ve been blind,” ja’marr says bluntly. “you never saw it. but i did. everyone did.”

joe blinks. “what are you talking about?”

“i’m talking about her,” ja’marr says, sitting forward now, like he’s been holding this in for years. “the way she looked at you. the way she talked about you. man, she was in love with you. for years.”

joe feels his stomach flip.

“you’re wrong,” he says, but his voice is weak.

“no, i’m not,” ja’marr replies. “she’s like a sister to me, okay? she may not have kept in touch with you after that night, but she did with me. we talked. she visited. i saw it. i saw her. every time she looked at you, it was like the whole damn world stopped.”

joe’s heart stutters. he stays quiet.

“but you?” ja’marr shakes his head. “you never noticed. you always friendzoned her. brushed her off. treated her like she’d always be there. and when she wasn’t anymore, you didn’t even ask why.”

joe looks down at his hands.

“i kissed her,” he says suddenly.

ja’marr pauses. “what?”

“after the national championship. at the afterparty,” joe says quietly. “we were in the corner. i was drunk. and i kissed her. i don’t even know how it happened, but i remember it. every second of it.”

ja’marr just watches him, listening.

“and the next morning, we were at that little café down the street. and i told her it was a mistake.” he closes his eyes, jaw clenched. “i told her i was sorry.”

“and what did she say?”

joe swallows. “she said i was drunk. she laughed it off. said she didn’t remember anything.” his voice cracks. “but she did. i know she did.”

ja’marr lets out a slow breath. “and you’ve been pretending it didn’t happen ever since?”

joe nods.

“no wonder she cut you off,” ja’marr mutters.

joe flinches.

“you broke her heart, man. and she still showed up for you after. still tried to be your friend. and now that she’s finally letting herself be happy with someone else, now you’re realizing how you feel?”

joe sinks back against the couch, completely silent. it’s like everything’s crashing down at once. every moment. every sign. every word you ever said.

he thought you were just being sweet. just being you. but now he sees it. every time you smiled through your disappointment. every time you stayed up waiting for a reply. every time you told him you were fine when you weren’t.

and he missed it. all of it.

he pulls out his phone, stares at a message thread he hasn’t touched in days.

the girl he’s been casually seeing. the one he hasn’t stopped comparing to you.

hey. you’re amazing, but i can’t do this. my heart’s somewhere else. i’m really sorry.

he hits send.

and then, finally, he says it.

“i think i’ve been in love with her this whole time.”

ja’marr doesn’t smile. doesn’t gloat. he just nods. “yeah. i know.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

you really thought you were getting there. for the first time in years, there was someone else.

louis was gentle. he laughed at your jokes. he opened car doors. he remembered how you took your coffee and never made you feel like you were asking for too much.

he made you feel... wanted.

and for a while, that was enough. you liked being around him. you liked the way he looked at you like you were something rare. like you were his.

but then the quiet came.

the moments when your thoughts weren’t being drowned out by noise or newness or the excitement of something beginning. and in those moments— he came back. not louis. joe.

his name would echo in your head in the worst of ways. his laugh would find its way into the back of your mind when louis told a joke. his damn cologne scent would hit you like a truck when a stranger passed you in the grocery store.

and god—you tried.

you tried so hard not to see it. not to feel it.

but love, real love, doesn’t care about logic. or timing. or whether or not it makes sense.

your heart... your heart never left joe.

so on a thursday night, in your tiny apartment, with warm lights and the smell of garlic and basil in the air, it all comes undone.

you’re in the kitchen with louis. you’re both barefoot, chopping vegetables for dinner, laughing about some terrible movie you’d half-watched the night before.

it should be perfect. you should be happy.

but your smile fades as he moves around the kitchen like he belongs there. like this could be his future.

and that ache in your chest twists until it’s unbearable. you can’t keep pretending. not to him. and definitely not to yourself.

“hey,” you say quietly, wiping your hands on a towel. “can we... sit for a second?”

louis looks up, eyebrows pulling together, but he nods. you both take a seat on the couch, the tv humming low in the background.

you look down at your hands, twisting your fingers together.

“louis, i need to tell you something,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “and i need you to know it has nothing to do with you. like—nothing. you’ve been... incredible.”

he’s quiet. listening.

“but,” you continue, “my heart... it’s not in this. not the way it should be.” you blink, your eyes stinging already. “it’s somewhere else.”

and louis—sweet, wonderful louis—doesn’t flinch. he just nods, like a part of him knew.

you cover your face with your hands, voice cracking, “i’m so mad at myself. i’ve been trying to let him go for years. years. and i still can’t. and the worst part is... he was never even mine.”

tears roll freely now, and louis reaches for you, pulling you into a warm, steady hug. you sink into his chest, shaking with the force of it all finally leaving you.

he rubs your back gently, resting his chin on top of your head. “he’ll be stupid not to realize it,” he says quietly.

you let out a watery laugh, breath hitching. “that’s the funniest thing i’ve heard all day.”

you sit like that for a while, just breathing, letting the truth finally settle in the air between you. it hurts. god, it hurts. but somehow it feels lighter now.

you help finish dinner. you eat together. not as a couple, but as two people who gave it an honest try.

and when it’s time for him to go, you wrap your arms around him and hug him tightly. “thank you,” you whisper. for being kind. for seeing me. for letting me go.

he smiles, presses a kiss to the top of your head, and says, “go find him.”

and then he leaves.

and you’re standing in your apartment, barefoot, with the ghost of something good lingering behind— and that old ache in your chest that you finally stop trying to hide.you know who your heart belongs to. now the question is— does he finally know it too?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

you’re just about to call it a night.

your makeup is off, your hoodie’s too big, and your hair’s tied back in the messy way you only do when you’re truly home for the night. the apartment is quiet—soft jazz hums in the background, a candle flickers lazily on your counter, and the world outside your windows has already tucked itself in.

your hands are under warm water, rinsing the last of the day off your face, when the knock comes.

three of them.

firm, steady, not tentative like a neighbor or delivery guy.

your heart skips. your first instinct is denial. no way. it’s too late for company, and definitely too late for him.

but then comes the second wave. the pull. the ache. the ridiculous, impossible hope.

you walk toward the door slowly. each step feels heavier than the last. you press your palm to the door for a second—like you need one last breath of peace—then twist the handle and pull it open.

and there he is.

joe.

he’s standing there in a gray hoodie and joggers, slightly damp hair pushed back, like he ran a hand through it too many times. his eyes flick up to yours, then down again. he looks nervous. not his usual charming kind of nervous. this is something deeper. more fragile.

you don’t say anything. you just take a step back and open the door wider.

he walks in slowly like he’s unsure he has the right to.

“you okay?” you ask softly, shutting the door behind him.

he doesn’t answer right away. just stands there in the middle of your living room, staring at the floor, then at your shelf, then at you.

“i’ve been thinking,” he finally says, voice quiet.

you fold your arms across your chest, more for comfort than anything else.

“about what?”

joe lets out a breath. it’s shaky.

“everything.”

he looks at you again, and this time, the weight behind it nearly crushes you.

“do you remember the night of the national championship?” your stomach drops. your fingers curl tighter around your sleeves.

you nod slowly. “i remember.”

“i can’t stop thinking about that night,” he says. “that night.”

your throat tightens. “joe—”

“just let me talk for a second,” he cuts in gently. “please.”

you nod. he’s still standing, but now he’s pacing a little—like if he stands still too long, the truth might swallow him whole.

“i kissed you that night because i wanted to,” he says. “not because i was drunk. not because of the adrenaline. not because of some random impulse. i kissed you because i’d been wanting to for years.”

your breath catches.

he keeps going, eyes on the ground now. “and when you said you didn’t remember, i panicked. i thought i’d ruined everything. so i told you it was a mistake.” he stops pacing. “but it wasn’t. not even close.”

the silence that follows is thick and loud.

“joe...” you whisper.

“i missed you,” he says, stepping closer. ““i missed you every day,” joe says, voice cracking. “every time i laughed, or saw something you would’ve loved, i thought about calling you. texting you. showing up.”

the silence is thick, heavy, soaked in years of everything unspoken.

“i miss you more than i thought was possible. and when we found each other again, it felt like fate or something stupid like that. but i still didn’t say anything because i figured... you moved on. i figured you were done.”

his voice breaks then. just barely. just enough for you to notice.

“but seeing you with someone else—seeing you happy with him—it messed me up more than i expected. because it finally hit me. what i lost. what i gave up when i told you it meant nothing.”

you’re frozen. your eyes are glassy. your chest is caving in with every word.

“i thought i could be your friend again,” he says, taking another step. “i really thought i could do it. but i can’t. because every time you laugh, i feel it in my bones. and every time you talk about louis, i want to be him. i want to be the one who gets to love you out loud.”

your lip trembles.

he’s in front of you now. just a few inches away. and god, it’s the same smell—clean laundry, a little citrus, a little him.

“i’m sorry it took me this long,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “i’m sorry i didn’t see it back then. or maybe i did and just didn’t let myself believe it. but i love you, y/n. i’m in love with you. and i’ve been carrying it around for so long it hurts.”

you don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches up and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“say something,” he whispers.

and for a second, you can’t.

but then you breathe. and everything that’s been sitting in your chest for years starts to pour out.

“i remembered that night,” you say, voice thick. “i remembered everything. and when you said it was a mistake... i tried so hard to believe you. to convince myself it didn’t matter. but it did. it always did.”

joe blinks, stunned.

“i’ve been in love with you since ohio state,” you admit. “and every time i tried to move on, you were there. in every laugh. every comparison. every almost-love that never measured up.”

his hands find yours, squeezing tightly.

“i hated that i couldn’t let go of someone i never even had. but i did have you, didn’t i? maybe not officially. maybe not in the way i wanted. but you’ve always been mine, joe. even when it wasn’t real.”

he steps forward. so close now. your foreheads almost touching.

“it was always real,” he says. “i just didn’t know how to hold it.”

and this time, when he kisses you—

it’s not rushed. it’s not confused. it’s not goodbye. it’s soft. certain. aching and healing all at once.

his lips on yours say all the things you both left unsaid for years.

when you finally pull away, he presses his forehead to yours and laughs—breathless, relieved, overwhelmed.

“you’re glowing again,” he murmurs.

you smile, tears slipping freely now.

“so are you.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

the sunlight creeps through the window before the alarm does.

but you're already awake.

not in a rushed, anxious way. just… present. the way you get when you’re deeply content without even realizing it. there’s a soft hum of life outside, birds chirping and traffic rolling by in the distance, but inside this room, it’s quiet. warm. still.

and then there’s joe.

his arm is heavy across your waist, his face buried into your shoulder, breathing slow and even. you don’t want to wake him. not yet. not when he looks so peaceful. he always says he’s a morning person, but ever since you started staying over, he sleeps deeper. like he finally knows he’s safe.

your hand gently finds his, fingers brushing over his knuckles.

“you’re staring again,” his voice rasps, groggy and low.

you smile. “you’re imagining things.”

he peeks up at you with that sleepy, half-lidded gaze, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “nah. i know the feeling. i do it too.”

“do what?”

“stare. like i can’t believe it’s real.”

your chest tightens at that. because you get it. how sometimes you’ll be brushing your teeth and he’ll lean in the doorway just to look at you. or how he’ll pull you closer on the couch during movies, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. like he still can’t believe you’re here for good.

he reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “hey.”

“hm?”

“i love you.”

you smile softly. “i know.”

he laughs, shaking his head. “no but seriously. i don’t think i’ll ever stop saying it. not after all the years we wasted.”

you lean down and kiss him, slow and certain.

“we didn’t waste them,” you say quietly. “we just… needed time to get it right.”

“still wish i figured it out sooner.”

“me too,” you admit. “but if we did, we might’ve never ended up here.”

and “here” is perfect.

coffee mugs with lipstick stains and his football hoodie hanging off the back of your chair. saturday farmer’s markets and late-night kitchen dances. shared playlists and inside jokes and sleepy road trips. texting each other from across the room just to be dramatic.

it’s in the quiet touches, the lingering glances, the way you both fold into each other like muscle memory.

you’re home. and so is he.

joe props himself up on his elbow, studying you for a long second.

“you know, i used to think you’d never look at me like this.”

you blink, surprised. “what do you mean?”

“like… like you see me. really see me.”

you reach out and cup his face. “i always saw you, joe. i was just waiting for you to see me back.”

his lips press against your palm. and you swear, in this moment, he’s never looked more sure of anything.

“well,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “i do. i see you now.”

and god, it’s so full circle you could cry. because it was always you. it was always him.

and now, finally— you both know it.

[lunasdream]

baby i'm-a want you / jack abbot

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓈: jack abbot x f! reader

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: literally a story about one pining man who prefers to work the night shift until he doesn’t.

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓈: implied age gap (10-15 years?), slight injuries, being drunk, talks of broken legs but not explicit

𝒜𝓊𝓉𝒽ℴ𝓇’𝓈 𝒩ℴ𝓉ℯ:  i haven’t written anything in years and have not been on this blog for years omg! i am absolutely in love with the pitt and jack abbot, it’s not perfect but i hope you enjoy! <3 title comes from a bread song! okay bye!

𝒲𝒸: 3.4k

You actually loved where you worked–honestly you did. Most of the people were great (a few questionable characters, sure, but that's life), and having your cousin Mateo around the place felt less like a hospital and more like a second home. He thrived in the chaos of the ER, always buzzing with adrenaline, while you preferred the quieter corners as a clinical psychologist–less blood, more brain. It was a good balance. Still, you always told yourself one thing: as much as you cared about the hospital, you never wanted to come back unless it was for work. No visits, no check-ins, no surprise emergencies. Just you, your badge, and maybe—just maybe—a good cup of hospital tea if you got lucky. 

What began as a carefree evening—a glittering blur of laughter, cocktails, and the kind of reckless joy only found on warm nights and crowded sidewalks–quickly devolved into an impromptu trip to the emergency room. You were both kind of inebriated, the haze of alcohol still clinging to your senses, dressed in clothes that belonged to a different kind of night–ones meant for dim lighting and loud music, not the cold scrutiny of a hospital corridor. 

It wasn’t fate that intervened–just a cracked piece of sidewalk and the kind of bad luck that shows up without warning. One wrong step, a shift in balance, and your best friend hit the ground hard, clutching her ankle with the quiet disbelief of someone realizing the night had taken a turn you wouldn’t laugh about just yet. You tried to break her fall, but all you managed to do was cushion it—her weight crashing into you, the impact leaving scratches along your arms and hands as she landed against you with a sharp grunt. 

“Fuck—we have to call an ambulance,” you said, panic and tequila swirling your voice. 

She squinted up at you, mascara slightly smudged, pain masking her indignation. 

“Please just call an Uber. I refuse to make a scene.” 

As much as you wanted to spare her the embarrassment–and the inevitable bill–you knew an Uber wasn’t the answer, not unless you were willing to sit there, waiting for what felt like an eternity. So, with little choice, the ambulance became the only option left. Everything after that blurred into a haze—the blaring sirens of the ambulance echoing in your ears, drowning out everything else. Between the worry for your best friend and the fog of alcohol still lingering in your system, the ride to the hospital became a memory you could hardly grasp. 

That ambulance ride felt like it would never end—comforting your friend, trying to keep it together while drunk, doing your best not to look suspicious. You even had to pretend the scratches on your arm didn’t hurt, like they weren't stinging the whole time. It might've been the hardest thing you’ve ever pulled off. By the time you got to the hospital, all you could do was hope no one made a big deal out of it. 

As if on cue, the ambulance doors swung open, revealing Dr. Elis and Dr. Shen, standing in the cool, sterile light, their faces a study in practiced calm. With the precision of seasoned professionals, they held their ground, eyes scanning for any sign of chaos, ready to face whatever urgent situation was about to unfold. They almost didn't notice you because of how focused they were. 

They faltered for just a moment, their minds clearly racing through the worst-case scenarios, until the paramedics spoke up—’suspected broken leg’ for your friend. That was enough to ground them, the weight of their tension lifting as they recalibrated, ready to handle whatever came next. 

Ellis smirks, glancing over at you. ‘You know, you don’t have to break any legs to come see us,’ she remarks, while Shen immediately goes and helps your friend. He comments, “Hmm no bone sticking out, bummer.” 

You giggle as she helps you down the ambulance, her knowing glance telling you she could tell you were drunk just by the way you stumbled down. You almost forgot about the cuts on your arm until she noticed, her fingers brushing over them gently, a soft reminder of what you’d almost ignored. She gave you a look that said, clear as day, ‘You really thought I wouldn’t notice’—half amused, half concerned, and totally calling you out without a single word. 

A while later, you’re with your best friend—she’s a little out of it from the pain medication and you’re half-laying on the edge of her hospital bed, just grateful it was only a broken leg and nothing more serious. You’d sobered up by now—sleepy, a bit delirious, but still in good spirits. Mostly hungry, and for some reason, all you could think about were those raspberry cookies from the vending machine. 

 On the other side of the emergency room, word about you and your friend has quietly made the rounds—shared in hushed tones behind desks and passed along with knowing glances, as if the entire first floor was on something unspoken. 

Although they’d never admit it, most people in the ED had a quiet appreciation for the drama that occasionally unfolded around them. Silly moments were something to look forward to—brief flashes of levity in a place that demanded strength, focus, and more patience than most people realized. The ED wasn’t for the faint of heart. And while the day shift kept things running like a well-practiced routine, the night shift operated in its own rhythm—slower, weirder, a little rough around the edges, but deeply loyal in their own way. 

So you can imagine the quiet buzz of excitement when they saw you walk in—guided to a room by Dr. Ellis, dressed not in your usual work attire but in a fitted dress and delicate kitten heels that were clearly more designer than practical, looking every bit put-together even if you didn’t quite feel it. Your shifts usually landed in the middle of the day, often stretching a little later than scheduled—which meant you occasionally caught glimpses of both the day and night shift dynamics. 

It was rare to be called down to the ED just for your help—usually they sent patients up to you. 

The main reason you ever made your way down there was to see your cousin, even if it was just for a second.

 You were well-liked around the hospital, having built a solid reputation for yourself. As a young psychologist—something of a prodigy in school—you stood out, not just for your skill but for your warmth. You treated your patients, colleagues, and everyone you meet with genuine kindness. Your smile brought a little light to the hospital's sterile halls, and your laugh had a way of softening even the toughest days. You loved chatting with coworkers, always curious about the little things that went on behind the scenes. 

So of course it wasn’t much of a surprise that you crossed paths with Jack Abbot—the night shift attending—during your occasional visits to the ED. You found him endearing—his dry humor didn’t always land with others, but it never failed to make you smile. You’d given him that familiar look of quiet amusement, the kind that made it clear you were paying attention—and that you appreciated the way his mind worked. 

You weren't naive—you knew you turned heads. You’re gorgeous and people naturally looked when you walked into a room. Over time, you’d gotten pretty good at spotting the signs—who had a crush, who was trying not to stare, who was just a little too obvious. You tried to brush off the lingering looks Abbot gave you—the way he subtly puffs out his chest or always angled his body toward you in conversation. It was obvious, in that quiet kind of way, that his attention was reserved just for you. But you ignored it, pretending not to notice, even when it was a little too obvious to miss. Bets were already placed—how long it would take before he finally worked up the courage to make a move—even if you were still “blissfully” unaware of just how much he was quietly pining. 

He had been working on a patient who came in coughing with blood when you and your friend arrived in the ambulance. He didn’t have any clue that you were there. His attention was fully on the patient, determined to figure out what was causing the bleeding. Jack was always like that, laser-focused when it came to his work. Once he wrapped up, he’d head over to the nurses’ station to update the records. 

As Abbot nears the station, a familiar laugh floats from one of the curtained rooms. He pauses, just for a second. It was probably nothing—his mind playing tricks—but the sound lingered in his mind a little longer than it should have. 

“Seeing her drunk like that is making me feel jealous, like I should be out drinking with my friends,” Ellis says to Shen, who nods in agreement with a chuckle. 

“I can’t drink like that anymore—I’d end up like her friend, but with both legs broken,” Shen says with a smirk. 

“I don’t know what or who you're talking about,” Jack says, deadpan, as he begins typing up his reports. “But just know I could outdrink both of you any day.” Then, without looking up, he adds, “Now go check on the ambulance bay and save the gossip for the break room.” 

Ellis and Shen share a quick look, their eyes filled with mischief , before they both grin and go on their merry way.

“I would love some chips and possibly a Pepsi,” your best friend says, batting her eyes at you. Despite the haziness from the pain meds, she definitely needed something greasy. You nod, slowly getting up from the hospital bed, stretching and lazily slipping your heels back on. 

You clumsily move past the curtain, shuddering as the cold air hits you unexpectedly. The chill cuts through the warmth that's still lingering from the hospital bed, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself—only to hiss softly when your fingers graze the forgotten cuts along your arm. The sound of your heels tapping unevenly against the floor seems to echo in the halls as you try to find your footing, moving as quickly as you can toward the vending machines. 

The sharp click-clack draws Jack’s attention as it echoes through the halls, cutting through the quiet like an unexpected disruption. When he finally looked up to see where the sound was coming from, he stilled. There you were. The familiar laugh he’d caught earlier suddenly made sense, and a quiet kind of relief settled in his chest—like his mind had not betrayed him after all. You were real, and even in this strange, fluorescent-lit setting, you looked like something pulled out of a dream.

He couldn't help the way his chest tightened a little when he saw you—dressed in a tight dress that made it clear you hadn't planned on ending your night here. You looked stunning, like always, but his eyes were quickly drawn to the small cuts on your arm. It didn't sit right with him, seeing something so carefully put together paired with signs of pain. You shouldn't have had to walk into a hospital looking like that—not like this. 

Jack stands up before he even realizes he’s doing it—some mix of instinct and worry pushing him to his feet. He doesn’t call out, does not move toward you, just stays there quietly, hoping you'll look up and see him as you get closer.  

You weren’t paying much attention—too focused on the vending machine and the snacks you and your friend had been daydreaming about. So when your heel caught on the floor, sending you stumbling forward, it felt almost inevitable. You grabbed the nearest thing—thankfully, the nurses’ station—catching yourself just in time. 

Instead of embarrassment, a laugh escaped you. It was just that kind of night. 

Jack had already moved, hands out just enough to steady you if you fell. 

He didn’t find it amusing like you did.

With a glance at your shoes, he muttered dryly, “Are those hospital-approved footwear?”

Your eyes met his, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before you recovered with ease. “They just approved these, " you said with a light chuckle, lifting your foot slightly to show him. “You didn’t hear?”

His eyes traced for a second longer than necessary before the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely. “Must’ve missed the memo.”

All of a sudden, you feel a little exposed—standing in front of him in that dress, the chill setting in, and suddenly wishing you’d brought a jacket instead of relying on alcohol for warmth. 

Jack notices, saying nothing, but stepping away for a moment. He returns with a blanket, handing it to you without a word.

You take it, wrapping it around yourself as you look up at him. “Thank you,” you say softly. And you mean it.

You start explaining what happened—how the night spiraled, how you and your friend ended up in the ambulance. You know he was curious, even if he hadn't asked. He listens closely, his eyes steady on yours, not judging, just quietly taking it all in. He seems to genuinely feel for your friend—broken bones were no easy feat, and he knew recovery would be painful and slow. 

  You make sure to mention that you’re fine—because you know Jack, and he always worries when it comes to his colleagues. You brush it off with a small shrug and a quick, “The cuts only hurt when I touch them,” trying to keep it light. 

Jack immediately gives you a look, slipping into full doctor mode.

“Then maybe don’t touch them.” His tone is gentle, but just serious enough to earn a teasing eye-roll from you.

“Doctors, you’re all the same,” you mutter playfully, earning the smallest smirk. 

“It’s in my blood.” he replies with a shrug, his tone light but somehow sincere. 

You smile quietly, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. “It’s still hard getting used to that,” you say, your voice light, not really expecting a response but content with the easy moment. 

“Anyways, I promised some snacks for my friend, so, I’ll see you around.” You start to turn, already heading towards the front. 

“I’ll go with you,” Jack says, stepping forward without hesitation.

You stop and turn, surprised. “Oh, you don’t have to. Aren’t you working? Don’t you have patients?” you ask, genuinely curious.

He gives a small shrug, unfazed. “I’m taking a break. Besides, I could use a snack too.”

You feel your face go warm at his comment, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Well, if you insist,” you reply.

You both walk side by side in a comfortable silence, the soft sounds of the hospital around you filling the space. You watch as the place moves in its own rhythm—nurses rushing to their station, doctors calling out to each other, and the steady hum of activity filling the air. There’s something oddly calming about it, despite the busy pace, and for a moment, everything feels just a little more relaxed. 

You feel him looking at you, the weight of his gaze lingering, but you don’t bother to meet his eyes. You don’t need to. The warmth in your cheeks says it all, and you’re not sure if you want to acknowledge it just yet. Instead, you focus on the path ahead, the familiar hospital light overhead, letting the quiet comfort of the walk keep things easy.

  You get ready to reach for your phone, pulling it out to get your payment ready for the snacks, when suddenly, a hand goes past you, tapping his card on the device. “Would you look at that, I have tap too,” he says with a grin.

You glance up at him, a bit surprised, the playful glint in his eyes catches you off guard, and the tension between you both suddenly feels palpable, even in the otherwise busy hospital. “You didn’t have to do that,” you manage, your voice a little softer than you intended, trying to hide the slight warmth spreading in your chest. 

“With the night you had, it's the least I can do. Consider it a donation from the hospital,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. There’s a flicker of something in his voice—warmth, intention—like the words meant more than they let on.

You glance at him, just briefly. “Well…in that case,” you say slowly, your voice playful but soft, “I’ll take a Pepsi too. It’s for my friend, obviously.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you crouch down to grab the snacks, his gaze lingering a second too long before he finally moves. Then he leans down beside you, slow and steady, careful to keep just enough distance—like he wasn’t hovering, but you could feel him there all the same. His presence was grounding, warm in a way that contrasted the energy of the hospital. 

“Obviously,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to make your pulse tick up just slightly. 

The moment passes like nothing happened—simple, easy—but the tension hums in the space between you, quiet and charged, like a spark left just barely untouched. 

You’re back with your friend, sharing snacks and sipping on Pepsi like nothing happened—even though everything clearly did. You’re oddly quiet, staring off like you just came back from war…or a very specific kind of dream.

Your friend eyes you, chewing on a chip with the dramatic flair of someone who lives for the drama. 

“What happened out there?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “You look all flushed and disoriented…Did the vending machine give you snacks and an orgasm?”

You shake your head slowly, still trying to process, cheeks warm as you mumble, “Worse…he paid for the snacks and the drink.”

“Oh my God, was it Abbot?!” she whispers like you just admitted to a crime.

“You don’t even work here how the fuck could you guess that?” you blink at her, caught completely off guard. 

She grins, smug as hell. “Mateo tells me everything. I’ve been wondering when y’all were finally gonna do the dirty—honestly, I thought it would’ve happened by Christmas.”

You stare at her, deadpan. “We were at the vending machine for like five minutes.”

“Exactly,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Plenty of time.”

You burst into uncontrollable laughter, doubling over with the bag of chips crinkling in the process. It’s not even what she said—it’s how she said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You don’t even have a comeback, you’re laughing too hard to think straight.

Your laughter echoes just enough to catch the attention of the nurses passing by, a few glancing in with amused smiles. Ellis walks in and says, “Must be a good night in here,” and it only makes you laugh harder. 

After Abbot escorted you back to your friend’s room, despite your attempts to wave him off, he suddenly got the call about an incoming patient in critical condition. With barely a moment to spare, he straightened up, professionalism settling back over him, but his eyes stayed on you just a moment longer than usual.

“I’ll be busy for a while,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of seriousness and something a little more teasing. “Find me if you’re still here. I’m sure I’ll be hard to miss.”

You couldn’t help but smile as he turned, already heading back into the chaos of the ER. There was something about the way he moved, so focused yet so casual around you. You’d still be here, waiting for your friend’s boyfriend to arrive. He was visiting family a couple of cities away, but he was on his way now to pick you both up. 

Jack ended up being busier than expected, cases stacking one on top of the other, and you never got around to finding him—not that you could’ve, with your friend’s boyfriend showing up not long after. Honestly, you were a little grateful. You didn’t even want to unravel whatever “come find me” was supposed to mean. Did he just want to chat a little longer? Say a proper goodbye? 

You weren’t sure, and you didn’t want to be sure. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you slumped into the backseat, craving your bed, your pillow, and the luxury of pretending the night never happened. Meanwhile, Jack couldn’t stop thinking about you—how incredibly good you looked despite the chaos. Some of the nurses’ bets about him finally cracking? Yeah, they were getting real close.

[pazzispizookies]

— — Guarded — —

Hey Guys! I hope you all enjoyed chapter 6! I wouldn’t freaking know because no one gives me feedback expect for my dedicated pookies. Also go check out @izzih22 new series if you haven’t! Along with @hereforuconnwbb new series!! but I would like to hear y’all’s feedback more, post a comment, send inbox or Dm with what u like/dislike abt the chapters so I know what yall want to see better! I’d appreciate it so very much pookies. Have fun reading… ;)

Pairing: Hopkins transfer Azzi x Hopkins Paige

The quiet vibration of the car engine filled the space.

Thoughts swirling in both girls heads about what had happened at the diner.

“So, are you gonna tell me where your driving? or am I just being kidnapped?” Azzi asked, glancing over at Paige.

Paige was resting on hand on the steering wheel, spread out lazily but still maneuvering the car with persision, “I figured you’d want something sweet, you have a disgusting sweet tooth Az,”

Azzi felt her heart tighten a little at Paige knowing what she wanted, then it struck her. How did she know? “How do you know I have a sweet tooth? are you really a stalker P, its getting kinda scary.” She teased, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Something had definitely changed. It was unspoken but still, their flirting had gone from having an underlying sense of rivalry, to now having a heat behind it. Azzi had realized the day she met Paige their relationship was going to be different. Like a cosmic pull was stringing them closer. And now, she thought that it might not have been a ‘cosmic pull’ but just pure attraction. Something that scared her in the best way.

Paige had the same idea, less intense, but she knew she wanted Azzi. She wanted her bad. But she was the reason their relationship started off rocky, but she didn’t regret it. If anything she was glad she could flirt with Azzi and blame it on her hating her. Even though that reason wasn’t the truth. She felt herself looking at Azzi, from in class, to stealing glances of her during practice, to when she was alone in bed at night and found herself on her Instagram page, admiring the small details of her from her modeling posts. It was all something she knew was apart of something larger, something was going to happen between them. She knew Azzi was different already.

Paige looked over at Azzi, the moonlight and streets casting a warm glow into her deep brown eyes, “I’m not a stalker, just observant.”

Just as Paige said that, she started to pull into a Ice cream store parking lot,

“Ice cream?” Azzi asked, trying to hide her pure child-like excitement.

Paige saw the way her eyes lit up, it tugging at her heart a little, “Yes, are you five years old by any chance?”

Azzi scoffed, clicking off her seatbelt and grabbing her phone, “is it a crime to like ice cream as a 16 year old? Last time I checked it wasn’t.”

Paige rolled her eyes, still trying to pretend she wasn’t falling for every little thing Azzi said. She had always been the type to fall quickly, more often then not getting hurt by it. But it was something about herself she couldn’t change. she feared that it would hurt her again, but there’s no stopping whats in motion.

Paige got out of the car, making sure to grab her wallet and phone.

Azzi did the same, already have started to walk towards the building.

Paige caught up with her, hands in pockets and decided to verbalize wat she had been thinking about. “So..we should probably talk about the whole ‘Ash’ thing.”

Paige opened the door for Azzi, letting her in first. To which Azzi returned a small smile, not one of her normal cocky ones toward Paige, but one from her heart.

They walked in and noticed it was pretty packed,

“Yeah we can talk…after ice cream. Also, maybe we should sit outside, it’s pretty busy in here, yknow get some quiet. If it doesn’t make you too nervous.”

Paige leaned her head back a little, narrowing her eyes on Azzi, “I wont be nervous, already have you wrapped around my finger.”

Azzi shook her head foundly, letting out an exhale, “You’ve got that all wrong Bueckers. Cmon, I want ice creammmm!”

Azzi grabbed Paiges forearm and pulled her towards the counter, speaking up to the worker immediately.

She didn’t need to look at the menu, already knowing what to order. “Hi, could I get a medium cup of Rocky road, with sprinkles and hot fudge?”

The worker nodded and looked at Paige,

Paige added in, “Uh yeah can I just get a small cup of vanilla? That’s all.”

Azzi glared at her, “Boring.”

Paige scoffed, “Not boring, just an aware athlete trying not to poison herself.”

The worker who was watching the teasing, amused, spoke up. “It’ll be 7.98, and can I just say you guys are such a cute couple. You can tap on the screen by the way.”

Azzis face felt a rush of heat at the awkward moment, but Paige not wanting to let the moment to be bad for all of them spoke, “Thanks,” While she tapped her phone to the screen to pay.

Azzi was a little taken a back by her answer, making a mental note to ask her about it later. But greatful that it shut down the conversation.

The worker smiled while she handed the ice cream cups to each of them along with spoons. “Have a good night you guys.”

Paige simply nodded at her, and Azzi replied, “You too.”

They started to walk towards the door, the silence between them deafening.

Paige open the door for Azzi once again, to which Azzi didn’t have the same reaction before, a little lost in her thoughts.

They walked in awkward silence to a bench at the back of the building, it was surrounded by green grass and overlooking a quiet park in the still of the night. Only illuminated by a street light and the moon, the warm night air sweeping through.

Azzi sat down on the same side as Paige, positioned foward looking out at the park.

But as it hit Azzi, her brain simply fried from everything, she blurted out, “ugh, why do you always smell like that.”

Paige startled out of her thoughts grew a little concerned at the sudden sentence. “Uh…like what?”

Azzi became aware of what it sounded like she was implying, quickly corrected herself. “No, not like that yknow. like every time we have class or after running miles at practice you still smell really good, it’s annoying.”

Paige felt herself heat up at the silly compliment, “You obsessed with me, huh?”

Azzi rolled her eyes, taking a bite of her ice cream while looking at the park across the field from them. Paige looked over at her profile, noting the soft curves in her nose and the way her eyelashes caught the moonlight.

“I’m not obsessed with you, just… observant as well.”

Paige shook her head, the awkwardness from emailer seemingly dissipating into the night air.

“So, Ash. Whats our plan for that?” Paige redirected.

Azzi crossed her legs and met Paiges eyes, which were strickingy blue still. “You mean my plan to get us out of the issue you created? Haven’t thought much about it yet.”

Paige sighed, taking a bite of her ice cream and thinking.

Azzi spoke first, also running it through her mind, “well, I mean, I guess I’ll text her tonight. Maybe like a few of her highlights, see if she leads.”

Paige nodded, “Yeah, she’ll lead. She always does.”

Azzi was quiet for a beat, but then she cleared her throat and met Paiges gaze again. “How come you didn’t correct the worker in here when she called us a couple.”

The truth was, Paige didn’t hate hearing someone mistake them for a couple. “I just didn’t want it to be awkward, correcting her would just make us all feel a little weird.”

Azzi hummed, taking in what she said, even though not believing it to an extent.

Then just in that moment of silence, her phone buzzed.

Paige grabbed Azzis phone hearing the buzz, like she had the right too.

“Hey!” Azzi protested at the blonde

Paige looked at her phone seeing a notification.

Instagram:

Ash: hey pretty, you invite your team yet? just trying to get a head count lol.

Azzi raised an eyebrow at Paige’s face, it contorting into one of confusion and some relief.

“What is it?” She asked,

Paige turned the phone around to reveal the message, which she quickly scanned.

“Maybe you were right. That’s pretty friendly.” Paige said, fully handing the phone to her. But something in her tone was off….almost upset.

“You good?” Azzi asked having noticed the underlying tone,

Paiges jaw clenched slightly, avoiding eye contact with her, “yeah I’m good. You should respond.”

Azzi took a second to study Paige, wonder what she was thinking before opening the phone.

She went to instagram, reading it through again. Then turned back to Paige, “sooo..what do I say?”

Paige wanted her to say nothing, she was almost blinded by the thought of Azzi flirting with her Ex because of her stupidity. But she had to push those feelings down, knowing that this was the only way to get Ash to not leak anything.

“Well..you flirt.” Paige responded. Also looking at the phone

Azzi let out a huff, “I know that big head, but I mean, like how?”

Paige looked up, “how? You don’t know how to flirt?”

Azzi narrowed her eyes, but then looked away quickly. Because truthfully, she didn’t. Paige was the only one she had ever really flirted with, and that was only because it was a challenge….well at least at first.

“I don’t go around flirting with everyone, unlike you.” She replied,

Paige rolled her eyes, focusing back on her ice cream in hand, taking a slow bite, lingering the plastic spoon in her mouth. “I don’t flirt with everyone, Azzi.” She said, her voice nearing a dangerous level of honesty.

Those words kicked her back into focus, knowing they had a double meaning, and knowing the meaning behind it wasn’t one to explore tonight. “Well, looks like it to me. Yknow you do that thing.” Azzi said, gesturing towards Paige’s face.

Paige looked over amused, dropping her voice to a smooth teasing one. “What thing? Look pretty?”

Azzi scoffed at her, the only worse about Paige being pretty is that she knew it. “Not that.”

“So you admit I’m pretty?” Paige quickly replied, leaning in.

“I never said that”

“But you never denied it.”

Azzi took the challenge,

She leaned in even closer to Paige, inches away, and whispered, “yeah, you’re pretty. Happy?”

Paige felt heat pool at the words, mixed with the limited space between them, she’d do anything to close the gap.

“That. Right there,”

Azzi looked at her confused, “huh?”

Paige leaned back, creating some much needed space, ”that was flirting, even if it wasn’t as good as mine, you do know what to do, Princess.” She said as she took another bite of ice cream.

“Okay 1. Your not much better at flirting them me. 2. I have to do this over text, to a stranger.” Azzi answered, glancing back down at her open phone,

“Psh, we both know I can flirt better, that’s okay to admit. And yknow just like, use what you have to your advantage.”

“What I have? What do you mean?” Azzi said looking into her blue eyes,

Paige let her gaze drift off again, thinking about if she was gonna be honest. But with a breath, she decided it was easier to just suck it up and say it. “Post yourself. A good photo of yourself. She’ll reply to it. I’ll bet on that,”

Azzi looked at her, confused because she thinks Paige may have just given her a compliment, a complicated one nevertheless. “Okay, I will. Is my face just that alluring? She’ll come running at the sight of it.”

“Anyone with a brain would come running to you if they had the chance,” Paige said, leaning in.

Azzi breath caught for a split second, caught off guard by Paige’s words.

Paige caught the reaction. A grin spreading across her face. “See? I’m better at flirting.”

Azzi shoved her. Which drew a dramatic groan from Paige.

“Shut up, I’ll post something tonight. Even if I look like a desperate slut because of it.”

Paige nodded, still slightly smiling. “Lookin foward to it.”

A comfortable silence feel over them for a minute, neither one complaining about it, because there was just something nice about being in each others presence.

“You done?” Azzi asked, looking at Paige’s and her own empty cups.

“Yea,” she said standing up, offering out a hand for Azzi.

Her heart warmed at the small gesture, it just seemed to be something Paige did without thinking, showing that she wasn’t all that bad.

Azzi grabbed her hand, lingering on it for a second before pulling away.

Paige felt the touch stretch, but really she didn’t want it to end. It seemed like their hands fit perfectly together.

“You’re driving.”

Paige caught the keys Azzi just threw at her with a groan,

*****

They walked back to the car,

as both of them sat down in their chairs, Azzi speaks up. “Yknow, we don’t really have anything tomorrow until practice, schools closed for voting or something.”

“Yeah…and?” Paige asked.

Azzi hesitated for a second, “my parents and bothers aren’t home, maybe you wanna come over? If you don’t that’s totally fine too.”

Paige was a little shocked at the invitation, especially since she didn’t know if Azzi felt the same pull to be around her, “Yeah, sure -um yeah.” Paige replied, smile tugging at her mouth.

“Cool,” Azzi replied as nonchalant as she could (which wasn’t very much)

Paige started to drive in the direction of Azzis house, silently freaking out, because hanging out alone with her in an empty house was a little more than she could handle.

After 6 mintues of music filled silence between them, Paige pulled into her driveway.

Azzi got out of the car, waiting for Paige to follow,

They made their way up the stairs and she started fumbling with her key at the door before pausing for a moment and looking at Paige, “Oh - but the way. I have a kid.”

“A what?” Paige said shocked.

Azzi chuckled. “Yeah, she’s only a year old. But don’t be too loud, I think she’s asleep.”

“You have a kid? Since when?” Paige asked, racking her mind.

Azzi played into it more, “yeah, she’s the love of my life. We tried to keep it hidden from the public as much as we could.”

“uhh—Okay?” Paige replied, completely baffled at this new information.

Azzi pushed the door open, making her way inside as Paige followed suit.

“Wait right here, I’ll go get her.” Azzi said looking back, trying to hide her lying.

Paige threw her hands up, with a shrug. “Okay I guess?”

Azzi wandered off into the house, opening her bedroom door to find Stewie, her dog and baby. Asleep on her bed.

“Hey stew, I have someone to meet.” She said carefully picking up the tired dog.

stewie started wagging her tail at the sound of Azzi voice, gleefully letting herself be picked up.

Azzi tried to stay as quiet as she could while walking back to Paige, making her way to the living room.

Paige stood there on her phone, racking socials for information on Azzi apparent pregnancy.

She didn’t even hear Azzi creep up until she spoke, “Paige this is Stewie, my baby. and Stewie this is Paige.”

Stewie started barking in Azzis arms at the sight of the blonde.

“Really?”

“What?” Azzi said placing Stewie down, “She’s my baby.”

“You so annoying Az,” Paige said, putting her phone away, slightly relieved to see Azzi didn’t have a whole child.

She bent down to pet Stewie who was already at her legs, “Hey there Stewie, You have a stupid mom. Sorry about that.”

Azzi crossed her arms and scoffed, taking offense“She does not!”

Paige stood back up and chucked, “Sureeeee”

Azzi rolled her eyes and started walking towards her room, motioning for Paige to follow.

Once they entered her room Azzi plopped down on her bed, As for Paige, she stood awkwardly in the door way.

“Uhhh, what’re you doing?”

Paige shrugged, “standing.”

“Well stop it, it’s weird, sit down.” She said patting a spot next to her on the bed.

Paige pushed off the wall and sat down next to Azzi on her pink bed.

she looked around the room, it was everything Azzi times 100.

Light pink walls, books stacked with vines hanging off of it, Icecream stickers on her laptop with a neatly organized desk. Even to her pink queen sized bed, having being perfectly made and adorned with Unicorn pillows, only the soft glow from fairly lights illuminating the space.

“Wow, your rooms so ‘5 year old girl’ meets ‘clean freak’ “

Azzi scoffed and leaned back on her pillows, “Shut up, it’s probably better then yours.”

Paige looked down at her, slightly taken back by her beauty. Her curls sprawled out over the light pink pillow, she relaxed completely from being in a comfortable area. “It’s not. Mines much more ‘13 year old boy with a Lebron James obsession’ “

“I’d bet.” Azzi responded, looking into Paiges eyes, only now aware of the fact Paige was on her bed. In her house. Looking this good.

“Uh so anyways, you dated Ash, so you know what she likes right?”

Paige nodded, “to an extent”

“so I need you to help me with the post, the one to lure her in.”

Paige shook her head “I told you, I don’t know how to do girl things.”

Azzi sighed then threw a pillow at her, causing her to yelp.

“Well you better learn.”

“Abuse, Azzi. Abuse.” Paige said pretending to be hurt

Azzi stuck her tounge out at her, “Yeah, yeah. Now lay down, your being oddly uncomfortable, I don’t bite.” She said now getting up and moving for her closet.

Paige laid down, feeling a lot less uncomfortable by her words, sighing at the feeling of being relaxed after a long day. “Where’re you going?”

Azzi had disappeared into her closet for a moment, returning holding a few shirts. “Gettting options.”

“Options for what?” Paige asked, fully sprawled out on Azzi bed.

“For my shirt for the photos stupid, I can’t take them in this.”

“You could. You still look good to me.” Paige replied, sweeping her gaze over Azzi’s body

Azzi rolled her eyes even thought the compliment and attention felt nice. “Hush, Now help me pick.” She said thorwing three shirts at Paige.

Page picked the rudely thrown clothes up, the first one being a white cop top, nothing special. “No,”

The second one being a green top, half off the shoulder, “No.”

and the third being a tight black top, the v neck dangerously low with long sleeves. “this.” She said throwing the shirt back at Azzi.

“Really?” She asked, shocked by the choice.

Paige nodded, “Mhm, most slut like, she likes that.”

“Ew, but okay.” Azzi replied, moving towards the closet, shirt in hand.

She took a second to change, having to switch from a sports bra to a normal one, then came out of her closet to show Paige.

“Good?”

“Hot.” Paige replied simply, starring straight at Azzi cleavage.

“pervert.” Azzi said making her way to her desk.

She threw her speaker to the bed, “Play something, its too quiet I can hear you starring at me”

Paige grabbed the speaker, “Okay, no complaining though.”

Azzi nodded.

Paige unlocked her phone, knowing exactly what to play. She went to Bluetooth and connected the speaker, and stared playing “Crybaby” by Sza softly.

The sounds filled the air as Azzi applied some Mascara and highlighter, curling her eyelashes along with it.

after 5 mintues Paige groaned, “what are you doinggggg, I’m bored.”

Azzi didn’t even turn around, not entertaining Paige. “Go on your phone, stupid.”

Paige did just that, looking at her feed for about 2 seconds before turning a pillow into a weapon, launching it at Azzi.

Azzi scoffed and turned around, “what did you just do.”

Paige didn’t respond, instead grabbing another pillow and throwing it at her “Nothin”

Azzi practiacally launched herself out of her chair, immediately grabbing a pillow and smacking Paige.

Paige did the same, grabbing a pillow and smacking her dead in the chest to which Azzi fought back hard, grabbing another and smacking her face,

“Oh your dead” Paige said sitting up and grabbing Azzis waist to pull her foward,

Azzi felt the touch on her, but then felt another blow straight to her face, she stumbled onto her bed, reaching over to hit Paige.

But the way she ended up on Paige, was a little….different than she’d hoped, realizing after a few more hits she was fully straddling Paige.

Paige also stopped fighting feeling the weight of Azzi on top of her.

a silence feel over the room.

Both of them just looking at each other.

Azzi looked more gorgeous then Paige had ever seen, the soft lighting, the flattering color from her shirt, her hair slightly tussled and sprawled out on her shoulders, but her eyes were the best thing. Because they were staring intensely at her.

“Um. Well this is awkward.” Azzi said, stating to get up from her spot.

Paige found herself moving instinctively, wanting Azzi to stay exactly where she was.

Her hand found her waist, firmly holding her down. “Don’t move.”

“What?” Azzi asked, even though she needed to move because an unwelcomed throbbing began in her.

“Don’t move.” Paige repeated now leaning over to grab her phone.

“What’re you doing Paige?” Azzi asked, completely not okay with the amount of turned on she was right now.

Paige felt the same, even if she didn’t know Azzi was relating. But as she turned back to her, phone in hand and one still firmly on her waist. She spoke “This is perfect for the photo, just saying.”

Azzi glanced at her, the realized she was probably right. The light was hitting her softly and she was in a pretty questionable position, one that Ash would surely comment on.

“Uh okay.” She responded.

Paige kept a hand on her waist, pretending like it was the most natural thing in the world, which to some extent, it felt like it was.

She unlocked her phone and got on the camera app, pointing the phone up at Azzi.

On the screen she looked even better, the angle was working for her and her brown eyes seemed to glow brighter than the moon. She looked stunning. Unreal.

“What do I do? Just smile?” Azzi asked, feeling a little awkward.

“You’re literally a model bro, how do you not know how to pose.” Paige replied.

“Because most of the time i’m not straddling someone’s lap.” Azzi said, reminding Paige of the position.

Paige thought for a moment about what she could do, then she dug her fingers deeper into Azzis hips. Earning a slew of laughter to come from her.

“Paige! Stop!!” Azzi said completely losing it while being tickled.

Paige smiled up at her, taking a bunch of pictures of Azzi laughing on top of her, “I’ll stop in a second, pretty girl”

Azzi looked down at her, the nickname sending a shock through her,

Paige glanced up, the name just slipping from her mouth before she could stop it.

“What did you call me?” Azzi asked, her focus now only on Paige.

Paige couldn’t respond, her finger still holding down on the phone taking pictures. What had she just done. It’s like her brain forgot that she wasn’t supposed to feel anything towards Azzi. Sweet, beautiful Azzi. Who was staring down waiting for a response.

“Sorry….Got caught up,” Paige mumbled out. Avoiding eye contact at all costs with her face burning.

Azzi looked down at the blonde, normally the face of confidence. Who was now flustered under her, clearly embarrassed. But the thing was, Azzi would die to hear her say it again, her heart was nearing bursting.

She grabbed Paiges jaw gently, guiding it to look at her, watching the way her breath hitched at the contact.

“I don’t mind. It’s okay,” Azzi said smoothly, reassuring. Because that was the truth. She didn’t mind.

Paiges face only got more red, quickly realizing she wasn’t gonna be able to control her feelings much longer she redirected the heated moment. “Uh—I think I got the photos,”

“Oh yeah, right.” Azzi said getting off her lap, noticing the shift in the air going back to where it was before.

As she laid down next to Paige it got more apparent that she had some….issues happening. Being clearly turned on from her earlier position.

Ignoring this she gabbed the phone, “lets see,”

She opened up the photos app, seeing nearly 100 photos of her. “Paige! Did you just hold down on the button? Now we have to go through all 14 billion of them.”

Paige shrugged, feeling way too comfortable next to Azzi in bed. “I just held it, thought that’s what I supposed to do! I’m no photographer.”

Azzi shoved her shoulder, touch lingering for a second to long and clicked on the first photo.

She looked unreal. The warm glow of the soft yellow-white fairy lights reflecting in her eyes, the dark room, the black shirt a contrast on her paler skin from the fall months, her hair looser from being tussled. Even to her face, the smile whole and bright, all real, thanks to Paige. And the best thing about the photo is that you can see the pale hand on her waist, clear as day. Along with the outline of her sitting on a lap, not to much, but just enough.

“Wow” Paige said, a little breathless at the captured photo.

“Is that one good?” Azzi asked, already knowing the answer.

Paige nodded her head, still a little speechless, “yeah, um- yea.”

Azzi took the phone from the middle of them and opened up instagram.

She selected the photo and put a soft filter over it, it only improving the photo.

She captioned it simply, “Guess who?” And hit post.

She threw her phone down. Turning over and looking at Paige, “now we wait.”

*****

[alicentsgf]

The way no one even wanted the hunt at all really, not even Lottie who suggested it. even Shauna doesn't want it, she just can't let herself be seen as weak or fearful, so she agrees to it. and Lottie... even when she suggests it, she doesn’t want the hunt. she never has. shes adopted it into her understanding of the Wilderness but it only began because of the way her suicidal ideation manifests. she desires death but it has to be the wilderness who comes for her. “life and death has always been for it to decide”. its why she walks across the pit. its why she turns her back on akilah when she knows akilah has the rock in her hand. every time they’ve drawn the cards, teen and adult timelines, Lottie has looked disappointed not to be picked. the first real instance of this instinct is her turning to Shauna and telling her to let her rage out on her and, unlike travis or akilah, shaunas experiences have made her willing to commit acts of direct violence. Lottie intended for that beating to kill her on some level, she was seeking it, and she certainly never wanted Misty to create the hunt as a way to keep her alive. She’s horrified by it in fact, but Misty forces her to accept it and adopt it into their religion to alleviate the guilt of the others (as has always been Lottie’s role). This when the wilderness and violence become explicitly and accidentally entwined in a way Lottie never intended.

So after being beaten, Lottie finds she has to see the wilderness in Shauna because of that instinct for violence Shauna has. its why Lottie switches her vote during Coach Ben’s trial as Shauna becomes more aggressive, hearing “the wilderness” in that moment. It’s why she looks to Shauna for approval after she kills the researcher, saying “it doesn’t want them here”. What she desires is violence against herself, and so the potential for violence that Shauna has is intoxicating to her. Looking into Shauna’s eyes is like “looking into the earth” because that capacity for the dark and brutal is what makes Shauna representative of the Wilderness to Lottie. How cognizant Lottie is of it I’m not sure, but its clear all this time she’s been searching for some kind of conduit for the Wilderness who's willing to take her life. In their prayer, Lottie asks Shauna’s baby to “deliver them”, a plea for absolution. forgiveness. I think ultimately Lottie sees death as her only possible path to absolution. “Of all the ways to lose a person, death is the kindest.” She has already lost herself in so many ways that death would be kind.

So imagine the thrill for her when in the middle of a hunt, Shauna’s second child shoots her in the arm. I think after perhaps years of laying dormant, it reawakens her desire. She literally looks like she's experiencing some kind of enlightenment when she says “Is this your daughter? She’s so powerful.” Finally, Lottie finds what she’s looking for. She feels innately that it’s Callie she’s been waiting for all this time. “It brought you to me.” Shauna losing her first child was supposed to kill Lottie, but it didn’t. Now Lottie gets another chance and this time finally gets what she wants, but the cost is Shauna essentially losing her second child too. All of this is why she turns up on Shauna’s doorstep even though she does have other places she could go. She's seeking out Callie because she immediately senses that under the right circumstances Callie could have an even greater capacity for violence. And it turns out maybe she was right. After all, Shauna had to undergo extreme trauma to be capable of killing someone, and even then her only direct kill that we’ve seen is Adam. Callie pushed Lottie without the threat of violence against her just because she didn’t like what Lottie had to say. Callie even takes a pause, decides, and pushes her. I believe she regrets it, but it most definitely wasn’t an accident. That is the propensity for violence Lottie has been searching for since she was a teenager because she wanted someone to end her life and (possibly because of a survival instinct deep in her subconcious) her fabricated belief system would not let that person be herself. So no, even Lottie never wanted the hunt, we literally see she doesn’t even participate in it, Lottie just wanted to die.

[jesuistrestriste]

death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word. 

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about. 

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate. 

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that. 

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway. 

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier? 

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life? 

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends. 

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford. 

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them. 

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own. 

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is. 

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end. 

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship. 

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” 

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center. 

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he? 

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before they reconnected) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers @fawnnpaws ♡

[nataliescatorccioapologist]

I don’t think I’ve ever had such a love/hate relationship with a character before like I do Shauna. On one hand, I empathize with her because she’s been through so much. But on the other hand, she’s constantly stirring up trouble , and I lowkey need her to die.

Shauna’s character is really challenging (in the best way). She can seem completely unsympathetic/irredeemable and she has hurt so many people, but at the same time I understand her and know why she’s doing what she’s doing. I love her as a character. I wouldn’t call myself a Shauna Defender because her actions aren’t at all justifiable, but I can confidently say I’m a Shauna Enjoyer and a Shauna Understander, if that makes sense.

There’s something almost subversive about the way the show refuses to let Shauna remain traditionally likable just for the sake of audience comfort. It challenges us to contend with a version of survival that doesn’t result in heroism, but rather in stagnation/regression, dysfunction, and harm. The fact that the writers allow her to make selfish, cruel, and at times even violent choices—without softening the blow or offering easy redemption—feels like a deliberate rejection of the trope where trauma automatically yields wisdom or virtue.

I also love that there are brief, fleeting moments where you can see that softness and vulnerability Shauna has buried coming to the surface. I know a lot of people have been pointing this out, but that brief moment where Shauna looks back at Melissa after Lottie suggests doing another card draw hunt is genius. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, but the concern on Shauna’s face as she grapples with the idea that Melissa might draw the Queen— before she quickly replaces it with indifference and agrees to the card draw— is so telling. Shauna does care, but she’s terrified to acknowledge it, even to herself, because everything she’s ever allowed herself to care about has ended in loss or destruction.

The “Be safe” “You too” interaction in the caves with Nat is also great because you can tell some part of Shauna is surprised and maybe even a little touched at that display of concern and care. That’s what’s underneath everything Shauna does, she just wants to be loved! But she’s also terrified of being loved (and loving others). That final breakdown scene in the adult timeline this season, where she’s left to confront the reality that she’s once again driven away everyone who cares about her, broke my heart, even in the midst of all my frustration with her this season.

These moments of nuance, along with how deeply we know Shauna’s trauma history at this point, are what keeps Shauna’s character from tipping into villain caricature territory. It’s a delicate balance, and this season came dangerously close to crossing that line, but ultimately, she remains grounded in something real and human. That said, it’s also important to acknowledge that not everything Shauna does can be chalked up to trauma. There’s a part of her, selfish and unapologetic, that genuinely craves violence, control, and power. She doesn’t just act out—she takes pleasure in the chaos she creates, and that complexity is part of what makes her so fascinating.

[yoshikis-cat-hairclip]

♯┆How Haikyuu characters would react to random kisses from their s/o.ᐟ ༉‧₊˚. ☆

tagsજ⁀➴ᝰ.ᐟ╰┈➤.ᐟ.ᐟ tooth rotting fluff, Gn!reader,a tad bit ooc

warnings .ᐟ : use of y/n once

featuring... Hinata, kageyama, yamaguchi, tsukishima, sugawara

A/N: period cramps are kicking my ass rn so writing this was very therapeutic. Also, because of that, I did not re-read some of these so if these seem like the ramblings of a crazy person, that's why. Anyways enjoy!!!

Hinata

He LOVES kisses

get's stupidly giddy over them

yk that one meme with the girl who bites his fingers "like really??? for me??"

Yeah that's him.

It's so much worse if you just do it casually too

he freezes for a second, his mind in override before he just..

his hands twitched for a moment, eyeing y/n hard. He couldn't control himself, he really couldn't. In a flash, your face is craddled in his freakishly warm palms. Tilting your face to the side and planted a kiss on your lips.

Afterwards, when he lets go, he is mortified.

"was that okay? I took it too far, didn't I? I definitely took it too far. They're gonna hate me--"

just like his mouth his mind runs like a damn mother. Endless drabble at 1000 mpr.

It's not until you smile back at him that he's stopped in his tracks and realizes "oh..this is okay"

then it's kisses all around

I also have a sneaking almost absolutely certain suspicion he gets cuteness aggression

long and short of it? you're getting tackled and pecked and smothered.

and hey, can't be too mad right?

Kageyama

Has zero idea has to react. completely freezes up.

he's not the most...affectionate person ever as you and everyone else on the face of the planet knows and he’s also extremely touched stareved

You watch as his face blooms into a deep mauve red

But you didn’t think a kiss would be this catastrophic for him damn.

“Kageyama….?” You call with a bit of strain, waving a hand in front of him “earth to kageyama”

You might have just actually killed him ( your worry only worsened by the fact that the blush that bloomed onto his face was a pretty deep mauve red which nearly looked like he was suffocating )

But it’s in a good way, trust! Though he’d never admit that to you

After a few seconds he returns back to normal but is acting like you’re repulsive in a sense of he refuses to get closer than 6ft (maybe 4 and a half if he’s feeling generous)

Gradually, though, he’ll calm down and his hand will gently take yours, and the two of you will sit on the bench as he is having a visceral internal reaction

As your relationship progresses, he’ll get more comfortable and maybe steal a few pecks for himself

Yamaguchi

Might get a little embarrassed but wouldn’t mind too much

Admittedly, he’s not too big on pda but I mean if you really want to he’ll have no choice to accept (he want that cookie bad)

The smile that breaks through his face the moment your lips land on his cheek or forehead or..really even anywhere is absolutely beautiful

Hell he himself is perfect but hey that’s just me

He freezes up a bit and he doesn’t really have a clue what to do expect just sit there and enjoy it

It gives him just a tad bit of condifidance as its reassurance you do really like him and want him around

Later he makes the mistake of mentioning it to tsukishima offhandedly

Gets teased relentlessly, tsuki holds it over his head for at least a week. Even if he doesn’t find it funny himself he’ll do it just annoy Yamaguchi

That does get into his head though and he spends the next few days definitely thinking over on weather or not he handled that well enough

Definitely looked up some of those how to kiss and what to do when a you’re getting kissed videos. and he feels like hot shit afterwards

However everytime you do it he’s completely powerless and melts like butter. All that training goes right out the window.

he swears you do it to punish him

he'll just roll over and die if you ever stop though

Tsukishima

He knows what you're planning before you even do it.

listen, he's known you long enough to know that little shit eating grin on your face you're biting back to save face, the way your lip twitches in sheer amusement at even the notion of catching him off gaurd.

and you know what? he doesn't do anything. He just sits back and lets it happen and a soon as your lips hit him a small smirk blooms on his face

"you know if you wanted to kiss me you could just said that" he said with his head tilted up and to the side. He's damn near gloating.

not to say it didn't stir something in him. it definitely, definitely did

however...if you were to hypothetically very quickly grab him by the chin and pull him in...

The adrenaline of love in your veins and annoyance bubbling and swirling wildly in your gut combined possessed you and all caution is thrown to the wind. Your hands, moving as swift as winds in a more grab kei's jaw. your finger tips pressing into the soft skin of his jaw, your thumb on his bottom lip, sucking him down into your center of gravity and his lips landing right on yours. In a mere blink of an eye. For how cold he is, his lips are surprisingly warm. Never before have he felt more alive and real than now.

And the best part? completely caught off guard. A faint pinkish hue infecting his cheeks and nose, looking like a Renaissance woman and a pouting child all at once.

his lips plump and a scoff on his face. worsened by look of satisfaction on your face.

best believe he's not big on pda but you will be paying for this one way or another

Sugawara

Like Tsukishima, he knows that you're planning something. He has no clue what, but he knows that there's something going on in that head of yours.

He just didn't expect..that.

a shy smile creeps on his face slowly

"Now what's this about? did I do something to get this lucky"

"I'm sorry you just looked too good not to."

he's grinning like a mad man, a hand reaches towards neck and scratches his nape

from that day on he pays extra close to his appearance. I mean he always does his best to make sure he looks presentable but now? he's putting the two on the ten.

absolutely takes notes from Kyoya on what would make him look better, just in case you decide to kiss him by surprise again

and every so often you'll get a little kiss of your own.

⋆˙⟡ — Requests are always open and reblogs are always welcome!⋆˙⟡ —

[kingdontruther]

listen. i LOVE the idea of Langdon pining after Mel for the longest time, thinking he doesn’t deserve. HOWEVER. i personally feel like that wouldn’t happen until much, much later. I think he would be in denial until the very last moment. lemme tell you, that man is an expert at repressing his feelings. he’s actually the final boss of repressed feelings.

his marriage failing? nah, he just needs to get the kids a puppy (he really deserves the death penalty for that one).

his pill addiction for which he’s jeopardizing his patient’s medical care and his career and relationships? nah, he’s just treating his back pain! he’s a doctor, knows what he’s doing & all that.

I honestly feel like he would repress his feelings for mel sooooo hard he convinces himself of like the wildest fucking stuff.

like yeah sure driving your mentee to & from work everyday is normal. (it’s a massive detour from his apartment. wtf)

being disappointed when you’re not working the same shift? it’s just bc mel is competent and that makes his job easier.

missing her when he’s at home, after a 12h shift from hell where they worked together attached by the hip all day? yeah, he’s just a little lonely after his divorce and she’s his friend. nothing to worry about.

langdon examining himself thinking he’s having a heart attack when he sees her with her hair down for the first time.

she tells him she’s going on a date on her day off and he can admit: he’s jealous. the same way single ppl are jealous of their married friends.

so what if he dreams of her? they spent a lot of time together. that makes sense his brain would do that. or something.

MEANWHILE Mel knows.

like she knows as clear as day that he has a crush on her. and at first she doesn’t mind it. it’s not like anything would happen. They don’t cross boundaries.

he has a lot to deal with and so does she. it’s nice to know that this attractive ass doctor likes her like that. until she gets to know him and they become friends.

she thinks this thing they have will fizzle out after a few months, or a few years but it doesn’t.

and now they’re in a place where it’s better. they’re both more settled and he’s been in recovery for a while and has a good co-parenting relationship with abby and everything is going well for their career.

except she’s getting frustrated now. this whole will they won’t they thing was cute the first year or two but now she’s getting impatient.

She makes it her goal to flirt with him and she loves seeing him flustered. But he just WON’T TAKE A FUCKING HINT. So maybe she just has to take matters into her own hands

[casssmalefantasy]

team usa: the series — paige bueckers x oc!

ii. looks that linger— when late nights turn into something more. something quieter. charged. the lines between teammates blur, and maybe it’s not just friendship anymore.

s: ivy’s watching more closely now. she doesn’t mean to, but paige laughs a little too hard at someone else’s joke and it stings. across the space between them, paige leans on azzi for clarity, for cover, for a way to make sense of the feelings she’s not ready to name. they’re both waiting—both wondering if the other feels it too.

w: slow burn tension, jealousy, emotional confusion, language, soft flirtation, late night thoughts, and avoidance.

word count: 2.8K

last part | part two of “looks that linger”

part one of: “looks that linger”

ivy’s pov

the weeks between training and then actual practices blurred together—long days, late nights, and everything in between.

me and paige? we found a rhythm.

sometimes i’d wake up and she’d already be up, stretching by the window in a hoodie and shorts, headphones in, mouthing the lyrics to a drake song.

i pretended not to watch her some mornings. but i did.

other times, she'd toss me a protein bar before practice without saying a word. like she already knew i skipped breakfast.

i started noticing things.

how she tugged on the drawstrings of her hoodie when she was nervous.

how her eyes flicked down to my mouth when i spoke too long.

how she'd choose the seat next to me even when there were others open.

nothing major.

just enough to drive me insane.

and for some reason, we found comfort within each other too.

there were little things that made me realize i liked being around her more than anyone else here.

sharing headphones on the bus.

ordering late night meals and snacks after practice.

laying in the dark and hearing her voice, sleepy and raw, telling me about pressure and expectations and how badly she wants to be great.

flashback. a week ago. after lights out.

we were laid out on top of the covers, legs stretched across the hotel bed, half-whispering like we were scared someone would hear us through the walls.

paige stared at the ceiling. "sometimes it feels like everyone’s already decided what i’m supposed to be.”

i turned toward her. “what do you mean?”

"like... uconn. wnba. gold medals. it’s like there’s already a plan for me that i didn’t even get to write,” she said, voice low. “don’t get me wrong—i want it. all of it. i just wish people knew how heavy it is sometimes.”

i didn’t say anything for a second.

“so uconn’s the move?” i asked softly.

she nodded. “yeah. i already committed. it’s been the goal forever.”

"that’s big.”

she glanced at me. “what about you?”

i sighed, tucking a hand under my head. “i’ve gotten offers, but… i don’t know. i wanna go somewhere that fits me. somewhere i can actually grow. i’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

she nodded. “makes sense.”

“your pressure comes from everyone else,” i said. “mine’s more... internal. i didn’t grow up with a highlight reel. i only started getting noticed this year.”

"yeah, but you belong here. you’re good. really good.”

i smiled a little at the ceiling. “thanks.”

she rolled her head toward me. “i mean it. and wherever you end up—they’re lucky to have you.”

we were quiet for a beat. just the hum of the ac and our breathing.

“i just wanna make the right choice,” i said finally.

“me too.”

and maybe we weren’t just talking about schools anymore.

end of flashback.

—

“you talk more than i thought you would,” she said one night after practice, propped up on her elbow, watching me like i was a secret she wanted to figure out.

i hesitated, eyes on the ceiling.

"i don't usually. not like this."

"why now?" she asked, voice low.

i turned toward her, only seeing her silhouette in the dark.

"maybe it's 'cause you listen like it matters."

“maybe you’re easy to talk to,” i answered, not even thinking.

she was quiet for a second before whispering, “i feel the same way..”

it was like that. easy. natural.

but too natural for me to figure out what it meant.

we kept winning scrimmages. coaches kept praising both of us. we we already 3-0 in tournament so far.

but then things started to change.

the bus rides got quieter. not in a bad way. just... different.

paige stopped sitting next to me one morning. sat with azzi instead.

it wasn't on purpose, but it happened again the next ride. and the one after.

i told myself not to care. but part of me kept waiting for her to slide into the seat next to mine again.

she never did.

and then slowly, but shortly she started spending more and more time with azzi too.

i didn’t think anything of it at first. they were both funny. been friends for years. two peas in a pod. i got it. but it started to feel like they were sharing something i wasn’t part of.

and the more i noticed, the more it started to get under my skin.

paige’s pov

i stopped sitting next to ivy one morning.

no real reason. just… got on the bus and slid into the seat beside azzi instead. thought maybe she wouldn’t notice. or maybe she would. part of me hoped she wouldn’t.

i told myself it wasn’t a big deal. but then i did it again the next ride. and the one after that. and the one after that.

not because i didn’t want to sit with her.

but because i did.

and that was the problem.

ivy was getting noticed—not just by the coaches, but by everyone. teammates, media, the girls we played against. she was locked in. sharp. funny, too. and confident in this quiet way that made me forget what to say sometimes.

and when you start forgetting what to say around someone?

yeah.

that’s when you know.

so i avoided it. leaned on azzi instead. sat with her. kept my eyes ahead. tried not to look back when i heard ivy laugh from a few seats behind.

and it worked for like… five seconds.

—

we were in the hotel lobby waiting on extra room keys when azzi leaned over. “so. we’re doing the ‘avoid the girl i like’ routine now, huh?”

i blinked. “what are you talking about?”

she raised an eyebrow. “paige.”

“what?”

“you haven’t sat next to ivy in days and don’t act like you haven’t been glancing back every time she gets on the bus.”

i stayed quiet.

“just admit it,” she grinned.

i sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “i don’t know what’s happening. i just… i like her, okay? i didn’t mean to, but it’s like—suddenly, everything she does is in slow motion and now i don’t know how to act.”

“aw,” azzi smirked. “little paige bueckers caught feelings.”

“shut the fuck up.” i say jokingly

“i told you this would happen,” she said, way too proud of herself. “she’s cool. talented. cute. literally perfect banter material for you. i called it day one.”

i rolled my eyes, but i couldn’t fight the smile pulling at my mouth.

“it’s not that simple.”

“it is, actually,” she said. “you like her. she likes you. you’re both dumb about it. classic.”

i laughed a little. “thanks for the support.”

“and we don’t know if she likes me az.” i said seriously.

“anytime. also, she definitely noticed you’ve been sitting with me instead.”

“great.”

“so… what are you gonna do about it?” azzi asks.

i looked across the lobby, just in time to see ivy glance my way and then quickly look back down at her phone.

my stomach flipped.

“…figure it out,” i mumbled.

azzi just grinned. “good plan.”

✦ ✦ ✦

a few few days later

ivy’s pov

we were all crammed into the back room of a steakhouse the coaches picked for team dinner. i picked at my fries while the rest of the team buzzed around me. paige slid into the seat across the table—next to azzi. of course. i didn’t look over, but i could hear them laughing about something. the sound hit me like a brick.

“you and paige good?” someone asked beside me.

i blinked and turned to see jordan, the freshman guard, watching me like she knew something. “what?”

“i dunno.” jordan shrugged, chewing her straw. “you guys seemed tight for a minute. now you barely talk during practice. or like, at all.”

i forced a laugh. “maybe we just spend too much time together at the hotel. got sick of each other.”

“honestly,” jordan grinned, “that tracks. paige is paige. i don’t know how anyone can be around her that long without losing it.”

i laughed again, but it was thin. i looked down at my plate, my voice quiet. “yeah.”

my stomach twisted again, same way it had in the lobby earlier that week when paige looked at me like she didn’t know me anymore.

across the table, paige leaned into azzi’s shoulder, cracking up at something, and my chest tightened. i knew it wasn’t fair—i knew that—but it still felt like something was slipping out of my hands.

maybe i should talk to paige. ask what changed. or maybe… maybe i should just wait and see if she ever came to me. either way, it sucked.

paige’s pov

i was mid-story about our coach’s tragic karaoke performance when azzi elbowed me. “you still haven’t talked to her, huh?”

i blinked. “what?”

“ivy,” azzi said. “your roommate. your crush. the girl you have been actively pining for since this team started. ring any bells?”

“you’re so dramatic.”

“i’m so correct.”

i sighed and shoved a fry in my mouth. “i don’t even know if it’s a thing. it’s probably just like… a dumb crush. it’ll pass.”

azzi looked at me like i had two heads. “right. and i’m going to the wnba next week as a center.”

i snorted. “you’d foul out in the first quarter.”

“don’t change the subject.”

i glanced across the table. ivy was laughing at something jordan said, but it didn’t reach her eyes. i’d been trying to give her space—trying to cool down whatever mess was happening inside my chest—but it only made everything worse.

“i don’t know what to say,” i muttered.

azzi raised an eyebrow. “try: ‘hey ivy, i like you and it’s driving me insane.’ see how that goes.”

“yeah, let me not do that.”

but my gaze drifted back to ivy anyway. maybe i was being stupid. maybe this whole cold-shoulder thing was more obvious than i thought. i didn’t mean to make her feel like she did something wrong—i was just scared if i let myself get closer, i’d fall too hard to get back up.

and based on how much it hurt to sit across from her like this, maybe i already had.

author’s note: so i decided to split this into two parts so it wouldn’t be super long. don’t worry tho cause both parts are out right now. but feelings are sparking???

[julietcpulet]

Jinmao: Not a shojo romance

I feel people who come to Apothecary Diaries have a shojo expectation of the romance. Given that’s what the anime is labeled as, makes sense. Guy and girl are gonna meet, maybe misunderstandings and some bullying and awkwardness, a kiss and then bam, romance. Nope that’s not how this one works. If you read the light novels, you know. It’s twisty and complicated and not at all quick to work out. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth sticking around for. The anime has actually done incredibly well fleshing out that dynamic within a shojo / seinen context and even adding other aspects to it that I really appreciate (the moment in the gif is one of them, her checking for fever isn’t in the LN). That being said, there is more to it and in a time where we’re used to instant reward Jinamo isn’t a payoff you’re going to get right away, or close to soon at all but if you’re someone who can appreciate growth and crumbs then maybe their journey might be for you.

So let’s lay out some perspective (spoilers below):

Jinshi went into the rear palace at around age 14, had to suppress his manhood with drugs and has been leered at by older creepy women and men his whole life while having to deal with the sex lives of others, including his own father. Maomao was mutilated by her mother, abandoned by her father and even when he came back it had less to do with her and more to do with his obsession over her mom. Her sisters pushed sexual acts on her to make her understand being a courtesan, they left her alone until she learned to be emotionless (she wasn’t born autistic, it’s learned behavior and coping mechanisms from no one caring how she felt) and her adopted father took her in but even he can look at her in a disturbed way due to her intellectual curiosity. Her intensity with medicine and bent towards self-harm are due to a lack of self-protective mechanisms because no one was there to protect her in childhood. There’s evidence even to suggest that she only experiments with poison in an effort to feel something and as she beings to feel more emotions in a normal way, she experiments on herself less and leans more towards medicine in its simple form for healing and not in poison. Luomen may have taken her in, her “sisters” kept her around, fed and did what was necessary for her but no one gave her the love and care she needed. It’s why she views love in a cynical, dismissive way and very much thinks she cannot or almost should not experience it.

With Jinshi, he has had no healthy relationship with a woman since he was young. Older women are predatory towards him due to his looks, he’s watched both his “mothers” be consorts their entire lives and waste away due to jealousy, political issues and lack of affection and Suiren, while affectionate can treat him too much like the palace prince, alternately spoiling and disciplining in a way that’s dehumanizing. He didn’t have a father figure, we can argue about Gaoshun but he frequently mentions wanting to return to his own family and end his assignment with Jinshi, not to mention his exasperation, so to me the implication is while there’s a mild affection for having seen the young boy grow up, he doesn’t consider him family. So overall Jinshi has spent his whole life being watched over by strangers who feel no particular attachment to him while simultaneously getting leered at by inappropriate court women and men.

With all of these factors between the two combined, expecting these two to have a fluffy relationship is unrealistic. They were stunted emotionally, forced to grow up too soon, abused verbally and physically in different forms and traumatized. Left without real parental or friendly support, given no emotional tools to navigate the world and told to figure it out themselves. It’s a miracle they’re not weirder than they are or more horrible to each other. They’re two people who’ve spent their whole lives having no one give two cares about them as people suddenly have one person who’s very intent on knowing them for them and that is not something either is used to. Maomao’s seeming disinterest in Jinshi isn’t about him, it’s about his position. Everything else that has to do with him personally she takes note of, his habits, his moods, how he responds to her, even the smell of his incense, those minute observations tell us she cares enough to consider him. With Jinshi, he is like the young boy who teases the girl at first because he likes her. He wants to get a rise out of her because she’s so disinterested. But that doesn’t stay forever. He’s a boy who’s had to act like a twisted version of a man his whole life but finally been presented with the opportunity to actually be a man for once in pursuing a woman he likes. When Jinshi decides to actually go after Maomao in earnest, his maturity grows too.

Maomao’s telling herself that things don’t affect her isn’t “truth”, it’s her way of deflecting, if she says it then that makes something true that likely isn’t. Examples being, acting as if she didn’t know Jinshi’s identity for the longest time, same with Loulan and how at one point she says she barely feels pain then almost cuts off her own finger before Jinshi stops her in the epilogue of LN 4. The whole moment is brought up to correlate her crying over the loss of her friends, being out of the palace and away from Jinshi but acting like she doesn’t care to her then over-experimenting and almost harming herself. This mimics her mother and Lakan’s twisted beginning but the sense is the same, Maomao doesn’t know how to deal with emotion so she pushes it away and excuses it as something else. The point being that she’s a hurt young woman dealing with a lot in not the best way and Jinshi has his own way of dealing with things too, usually by being a bit childish. When they manage to make breakthroughs they’re small but meaningful.

Their interactions can be uncomfortable at times because these are two characters who aren’t comfortable in their own skin. One had to fake being 5 years older than he was and the other had to be a parent to the only ones she’s had and those around her so acts like she’s 10 years older than her own age. Ironically as they’re interacting with each other they’re finally getting to be the young adults they never had the room to be. So yes that petulant, sometimes aggressive and childish back and forth they get into can be uncomfortable because it’s just two young adults trying to figure out what love, friendship and partnership actually might look like as they never saw it modeled properly or have experienced it. It’s awkward, slow going and imperfect but interesting if you’re willing to stick around for it.

Like Maomao running her hand through Jinshi’s hair or him kissing her on the forehead while she’s sleeping and having Suiren prepare her a bath after exhausting herself. It’s moments that show a mature, measured kind of affection they’re growing into together. It also exemplifies the different kinds of affection they show. Jinshi is more the outwardly affectionate type, expressing a want to marry her, giving her the hair stick, even the brand to prove he’ll allay her fears, while Maomao’s affection is expressed in how she cares for Jinshi, worries about his health and is thinking about him when she doesn’t need to. Different but equally complementary and necessary.

Remember too this is set during an imperial dynasty, there are going to be weird complicated roles and things we don’t see play out in the modern world now. And yes while the author could just have said throw that out and had them have an unrealistic romance across societal lines, I’m glad she’s made it realistic in how they’re struggling to make it happen across the boundary of the imperial society they live in.

Lastly, it’s fantasy. If some of the things these characters did happened in real life would they be “toxic”, maybe, although we could argue about that too but it’s not real. This is a fictional couple so sometimes I think people just want to stamp their modern view on it and say it’s a certain way when they can’t or don’t want to see the larger narrative at play. Believe me, if he really did assault her, or was a pedo or doing something completely gross I wouldn’t be writing these long monologues about them being even an interesting fictional couple. Because I do think there’s a line to be drawn in books, I don’t even like most romantasy today because the MCs are too disgusting and the FMCs unrealistic for me if that says anything. But this isn’t real life where a lot of us wouldn’t even talk to someone like Maomao who’s burning her arm on a regular basis for experiments, we’d be telling her to get help. It’s a fictional couple in a fictional world where there can be more twisty plots and that’s ok because we don’t need to take it so seriously. Watch the anime, read the light novels and enjoy it for the mental break it’s all supposed to be. Let those who enjoy the romance enjoy it and if that’s not for you then hit fast forward and there’s plenty of mystery to be had. That’s the good thing about Apothecary Diaries is it kind of has a sprinkling of genres for everyone. As for me, I’ll be excited for every Jinmao crumb along the way and writing these I’m sure annoyingly long rants I’m glad if anyone reads 😂