#shit it's late but I needed to write this down

[dakusan]

How he fucks after a long day | Bang Chan Edition

Bang Chan x Reader | post-schedule, possession-heavy, overstimmed, voice-ruined, filled to the brim, worshipped after

🔞synopsis: Bang Chan comes home at 12:47AM—jaw tight, eyes dark, body stretched thin from hours of forced smiles and endless demands. He doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t have to. You open your arms. He falls into them. And then he takes you—slow at first, then all at once. He fucks like he’s trying to empty himself inside you. Like you’re the only thing keeping him from shattering. Like he’s owed this. You let him use you, fill you, break you. And afterward? He holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world, which you are. Because when Chan’s had a long day, he doesn’t need rest—he needs you.

💌a/n: WOW OKAY HI UM. I'M SO SORRY THIS WAS POSTED LATE WTFFFF 😭😭😭 This was originally gonna be like... an OT8 blurby mini thing??? But then I sat down to write Chan’s part and my brain was like “haha what if he broke your back and your brain and then bathed you tenderly after” and I blacked out. So yeah. This is now a per-boy thing. Because apparently I want to be spiritually rearranged 8 different ways. If you made it to the end... I love you. And I hope you’re hydrated. And sitting down. Or not. Maybe you need to pace the hallway like a Victorian widow. Same tbh. p.s. Reblogs > love & forehead kisses, always. Pls feed the beast. p.p.s. I will be posting more of this series every week, my new filthy friday shit p.p.p.s. If you’re hoarse and can’t say his name anymore… good. That’s canon.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | Dom!Chan | Sub!Reader | PIV sex (unprotected, wrap it up whores) | overstimulation | multiple orgasms + squirting | creampie | manhandling | spanking | hair pulling | choking (light) | dirty talk | possession kink | cock-drunkenness | drool | tears | aftercare | bath scene | Chan is feral then soft

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Let Chan carry you to the bath when you're done sobbing.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » I Need a Girl — Taeyang ft. G-Dragon « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:40 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The door clicks open at 12:47AM.

No keys jangling. No voice calling out your name. Just the low creak of the door and the soft thud of sneakers being toed off in the dark.

You don’t move from the couch, blanket pulled tight around your legs, phone abandoned on the side table. You heard the schedule ran long. Knew the photoshoot got pushed back, the meeting extended, the practice ran into overtime. Knew it from the unread texts he didn’t send. Knew it from the heaviness in the air before he even walked through the door.

Chan appears in the hallway light like something out of a warzone. Hoodie half-zipped, beanie pulled low, jaw tight, and eyes so dark you almost flinch.

He doesn’t look at you right away. He leans forward, hands braced on the entryway wall, head bowed like he's holding himself together through sheer will. A few seconds pass. He breathes in deep—slow, through his nose—and finally lifts his head.

“Hey,” he says, low and raw. “You’re still up.”

You nod. “Was waiting for you.”

And that’s when it breaks.

Not loudly—not with shouting or slammed fists or messy tears. No, Bang Chan unravels quietly, with purpose. He kicks off his shoes, shrugs off his hoodie, and moves toward you without hesitation.

The blanket slips from your legs as he sinks to his knees between them, dragging your body forward by the hips until you’re teetering on the edge of the couch, his face pressed into your stomach, breathing you in.

His voice is muffled. “I needed you tonight.”

Your hands find his hair, carding through the sweat-damp roots at the nape of his neck. “You have me,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

He exhales, shaky and long, and it ghosts against your skin like he’s been holding his breath all day. One arm wraps fully around your waist, anchoring himself. The other slides up your back beneath your shirt, palm searing hot and slightly trembling from exhaustion.

You feel it in the way his body leans into yours, not just wanting contact—needing it, like he’ll collapse if he doesn’t touch every inch of you.

“I was so close to losing it today,” he murmurs, voice gravel-low. “Everyone pulling at me, asking for more, expecting me to smile, to lead, to fix everything like I’m not already falling apart.”

He tilts his head up slowly, eyes locking with yours. And that’s when you see it. Not anger. Not frustration. But that quiet, dangerous edge that only surfaces when he’s past the point of tired—when he’s empty, spent, and still expected to give.

“I didn’t even text,” he says. “Didn’t have the energy. Just kept thinking about you. About this. About your mouth. Your skin. The sound you make when I get deep and slow, when I don’t let you cum until I’ve had my fill.”

Your breath catches. Heat coils low in your stomach. But you don’t speak. You just nod.

And that’s all he needs.

Chan rises without a word, scoops you into his arms effortlessly, and carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. He sets you down on the mattress gently, but there’s nothing soft in the way he pulls his shirt off—like he’s peeling off the day. The tension in his shoulders, the bite in his jaw—it’s all still there, carved deep.

You reach for him and he’s on you in seconds, slotting his body over yours, mouth finding your collarbone, your neck, your pulse point—sucking, not kissing. Leaving evidence.

“You’re gonna let me fuck the stress out, right?” he murmurs. “No teasing. No bratting. Just you, taking everything I give you.”

You nod, gasping when his hand slips under your shirt and cups your breast. He hums, pleased, and rolls your nipple between his fingers until your back arches.

“Say it,” he growls into your skin. “Say it’s mine tonight.”

“It’s yours,” you whisper, voice already breathy.

“No,” he says, pushing your shirt up and tugging your shorts and panties down in one fluid motion. “I want to hear it begged.”

His palm slides between your legs, fingers barely brushing your folds—and even that light touch has you twitching. You’re already wet. He smiles against your stomach.

“Oh baby,” he whispers, kissing down the inside of your thigh. “You missed me that much?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. He drags a single finger up your slit, slow and precise, watching the way your thighs jerk.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you pant. “I’m yours, Chan—please, please just touch me—”

“Oh, I’ll touch you,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up your inner thigh, so close it hurts. “I’m gonna ruin you first.”

His mouth replaces his hand without warning, tongue sliding over your clit with practiced pressure. He holds your thighs down with iron grip, not letting you move, not letting you close your legs. It’s brutal. Precise. Ruthless.

And you’re already shaking.

Chan doesn’t moan when he eats you out. He growls. Low, animalistic sounds that rumble against your soaked cunt, the kind that make your head fall back and your fingers claw into the sheets.

He drags the flat of his tongue up and down your folds, slow and fucking thorough, before circling your clit and sucking it into his mouth. His lips seal around it, pressure perfect, tongue flicking rapid-fire. It’s overwhelming.

“C-Chan—fuck—” You arch off the bed and he slams your hips back down, forearm pressing you into the mattress.

“No running,” he mutters against you, lips wet, beard-stubbled chin glistening. “You said you were mine—prove it. Take it.”

He flattens his tongue and licks you open, slow and wide, groaning like he’s addicted to the taste. Then—without warning—his fingers replace his mouth.

Two.

Thick.

They sink in easily, your walls fluttering around the sudden stretch, and he doesn’t ease you into it. He fucks them in deep and curls them instantly, grinding them right against your front wall with unholy precision.

“God—Chan, wait, I’m—!”

“I know you’re close,” he snaps, thrusting his fingers harder. “You think I can’t feel you squeezing me like that? Go ahead, cum. Right on my fingers.”

And you do. With a sharp cry, your back bows off the bed, legs shaking violently as you cum around his hand, his name torn from your throat like a confession.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow.

Your vision’s still going white when he dives back in, mouth and fingers working in tandem now—tongue flicking your overstimulated clit while his fingers piston into your cunt with vicious rhythm, fucking you through the high and straight into another.

You sob, eyes fluttering, chest heaving. “Too much—wait—Chan, I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can,” he says darkly, gaze burning as he lifts his head just enough to speak. “You will. Gonna make this whole bed smell like you. Gonna make sure your body doesn’t forget me tomorrow when you can’t sit right.”

He spits on your cunt, spreads it with his thumb, and licks it all back up again. You're wrecked. Legs trembling, thighs twitching, jaw slack.

Then—a third finger.

You gasp, back arching off the bed as he eases it in with a filthy moan.

“Ohh, baby,” he breathes, curling all three. “Look how good you take me. So fucking tight still. This pussy was made for me.”

His tongue returns to your clit, relentless. His hand thrusts harder now, fingers scissoring, finding every nerve-ending inside you and setting it on fire.

Your second orgasm crashes into you with no warning—louder, messier. You cry out, legs jerking, and this time you try to pull away—

But Chan’s not done.

“Don’t you dare run,” he snarls, gripping your thighs and forcing you open again. “You’re gonna give me one more. Be good and give me one more, and then I’ll fuck you full, yeah? That’s what you want, right?”

You sob, nodding frantically. “Yes—yes, Daddy, please—”

He grins, fucking his fingers in deeper, curling right into that spot that makes your vision split.

“There she is,” he whispers. “There’s my good girl. Ruin for me, baby. Just once more.”

And you do. You break for him. Again. Completely.

Your thighs squeeze around his shoulders, your voice shatters, and your cunt gushes around his hand as he fucks you through your third orgasm, slower now, working you through the comedown.

And only then—only then—does he finally pull back.

He drags his soaked fingers from your body, glancing down at the mess with unfiltered hunger, and then sucks them clean, tongue slow, eyes locked on yours.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You taste like you missed me.”

You try to answer—try to speak—but it’s just a moan. Your hips roll, desperate and aching for him, and he smiles. That slow, smug curl of his lips that only appears when he knows he’s got you undone.

He stands.

Fists the waistband of his sweats. And pulls them down.

His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. Heavy and hard, it slaps up against his lower stomach, veined and angry with need. He fists it immediately, pumping once, twice, with a groan that sounds like he’s been holding back for hours.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls. “All open and messy for me. You want it?”

You nod frantically. “Want it, want you, need you inside—”

“You’re gonna take it,” he says through clenched teeth, lining himself up. “And you’re gonna keep still while I fuck you like I’ve been dying to.”

He doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t drag it out.

He presses the blunt, swollen head to your soaked entrance and sinks in slow, forcing your walls to stretch wide around the thick, burning push of him. Inch by inch, and every second of it feels like you’re being split open in the best possible way.

You moan, legs trembling, eyes fluttering. “So big—fuck, Chan—”

He grits his teeth. “Yeah? Feel me now, baby?”

He bottoms out in one final thrust, hips flush to yours, the base of his cock grinding against your sensitive folds. You gasp at the fullness, at the pressure, at how deep he is—like he’s in your fucking stomach.

And then he starts moving.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

He pulls out halfway and slams back in with a sharp growl, setting a rhythm that’s punishing, relentless, animalistic. His hands lock around your hips, dragging you into every thrust as his cock splits you open again and again.

“S’fucking tight,” he hisses. “Even after all that—you’re still choking me.”

You cry out, your hands scrabbling for purchase, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets as he pounds into you.

“Chan, I’m gonna—can’t—too much—”

“No,” he snarls, eyes wild. “You can take it. You will take it. You’re mine, remember?”

His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to ground you, to own you—and he leans down, fucking you even deeper.

“You think I don’t dream about this?” he growls against your mouth. “You think I don’t fucking ache to come home and bury myself in you? To hear you moan my name while this pussy milks me dry?”

You sob his name. Broken. Desperate.

And he loses it.

Chan switches, pulls out of you and flips you over in one motion, dragging your hips up and plunging back into you from behind. One hand fists in your hair, the other comes down hard on your ass.

“Arch that back. Just like that. Fucking perfect—”

You’re a mess. Drool on the sheets. Tears streaking your cheeks. Your body trembling, slick gushing with every thrust as he ruins you from behind, his cock hitting deeper, harder, brutal in its precision. Chan grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you back into his chest, forcing your spine into a perfect arch. The shift in angle punches a moan from your lungs so loud it startles even him.

“There it is,” he growls, voice vibrating against your neck. “That’s the spot, yeah? Right fucking there—where I split you open just right?”

You sob. There are no words left. Just sounds—guttural, broken, high-pitched gasps every time his cock slams into your sweet spot. You try to speak. Try to say “yes,” try to say “more,” but it comes out slurred, useless. Just wet, incoherent babbling as spit leaks from the corner of your mouth and stains the sheets.

“Can’t even talk,” he chuckles darkly. “Already cock drunk? But I’m not done yet, baby.”

He slams in once, hard, deep—and then smacks your ass again, harder this time, the sound ricocheting off the walls. You jerk forward, whimpering, and he doesn’t let you run.

Another slap. And another. Your ass stings, heat blooming where his palm leaves its mark. Your legs quake.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls, yanking your head back by your hair. “Waiting for me, dripping and desperate, just begging to be fucked stupid?”

You moan something—nonsense, vowels, his name maybe—and he grins against your shoulder.

“That’s right. All you can do is moan and take it. My perfect little fucktoy.”

He shoves your head back into the mattress and folds over your back, hips still pistoning in relentless rhythm. You’re choking on the air now, gasping, broken, tears wetting the sheets below you.

“Feel that?” he hisses. “That’s me, right here.” He presses a hand to your stomach, feeling the outline of his cock pushing up through your guts.

You moan so loud and that only spurs him on more. Those pretty sobby moans of yours. He slides his hand back down between your legs, fingers rubbing your swollen clit in cruel, fast circles as he pounds into you harder—so hard you feel the bedframe shake.

“Cum again,” he pants. “Soak my cock, baby. Let go for me.”

You sob, body convulsing, legs giving out as another orgasm crashes into you full-force—violent, pure nerves. You squirt, slick gushing out around his cock, and he groans, hand tightening on your hip.

“Fucking hell—yes, just like that. You’re so messy for me—so good—fuck—”

You collapse face-first into the mattress, body twitching from overstimulation, and Chan finally slows.

But doesn’t stop.

He grinds now, deep and slow, still buried inside your fluttering cunt, letting you feel every thick inch drag against hypersensitive walls.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Cock-drunk little mess. Can’t even lift your head.”

He pulls out slowly, and you whimper at the loss—but then he spreads you with both hands, watches your hole pulse and clench on nothing, leaking everywhere.

“Oh, baby,” he groans. “You can take more. I’ll make it so good—fill you up till you’re leaking for hours, promise.”

Your throat works around a whimper, drool still pooling on the sheets, legs useless, mind white-noise and static. You try to lift your head, try to respond—you can't.

And Chan fucking loves that.

“God, you’re so far gone,” he breathes. “You don’t even know your own name right now, do you?”

You manage a broken, garbled sound—it might be “no,” might be “Chan,” might be nothing at all.

He fists his cock at your entrance, rubbing the head through the slick dripping down your thighs. You jolt. Twitch. Cry out. He shushes you with a gentleness that doesn’t match the way he ruts forward again, cock forcing its way back into your swollen cunt with a slick, filthy sound.

“Shhh, I know,” he coos. “You’re sore, baby, I know. Just let me in. I’ll take care of it.”

You’re shaking. You feel everything. Every vein, every pulse, every drag of his thick length through oversensitive, spasming walls.

“You’re taking me so well,” he groans. “Still so tight. So good. Gonna make me fucking cum—fuck, you feel too good—”

He folds over you again, chest to your back, lips right at your ear. One arm wraps under your body, hand sliding up to cup your throat, the other pulling your hips back into him like he’s anchoring himself inside you.

“You’re mine, yeah?” he whispers, voice cracking. “Say it.”

“I’m—yours,” you sob, voice barely there. “Always—always yours—”

That’s all it takes.

His rhythm breaks. Hips stutter. A strangled noise rips from his chest as his cock jerks deep inside you—and then he’s cumming, hard, deep, spilling hot inside your pulsing cunt as his breath shudders against your neck.

“F-fuck—yes—yes, take it, baby, take all of it—mine—”

You feel it fill you.

Hot. Heavy. Endless.

And he doesn’t pull out.

He stays buried deep, hands trembling now, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides the aftershocks in low, shallow thrusts, grinding his release deeper, forcing it to stay, until he stills. Stills for a second to catch his breath and then finally, slowly—slowly—coming back to himself.

His trembling exhales even out. His lips brush your shoulder once, then twice, softer every time. He presses a kiss to your spine. Then one behind your ear. Then to the crown of your head, murmuring into your hair:

“Breathe with me, baby. Just like that. That’s it.”

You’re limp beneath him. Boneless. A little teary. You feel sticky and sore and full—but also safe. Because Chan never lets go.

He finally pulls out, and you both whimper at the same time—you from the emptiness, him from the sensitivity. He cups between your thighs, tries to catch the cum that’s already starting to drip out.

“Fuck,” he whispers, in awe. “I really stuffed you, didn’t I? It’s still warm inside.”

You make a small, broken noise that could be a laugh—or just the air leaving your lungs. He leans down and kisses your temple again.

“Don’t move, angel. I’ve got you.”

He disappears for only a second, then returns with a clean towel and warm water from the ensuite. You blink blearily as he lifts one of your thighs, murmuring apologies as he wipes between your legs with the gentlest touch, catching every drop of the mess he made with soft, rhythmic circles.

“So good for me,” he says, more to himself than to you. “So, so good.”

He helps you sit up slowly, presses a bottle of water to your lips, and watches as you drink—holding the back of your head like you might fall apart again. When you're done, he slips his hoodie over your head, and it swallows you whole.

You feel tiny inside it. But so warm.

He kisses your nose. “Gonna run a bath, alright? I want you warm and floating. You’ll feel better in the water.”

The lights in the bathroom are dimmed. Steam rises off the tub. He sinks in first, and then pulls you in with him—your back to his chest, thighs folded over his, your head tucked beneath his chin.

There are no words for a long while.

Just his fingertips gliding over your arms, your legs, tracing circles over your hips beneath the water. His lips press to the back of your shoulder, then to your cheek.

Then softly—brokenly—he whispers: “I didn’t mean to go that hard.”

You turn your head slightly, looking up at him. His eyes are filled with something too deep to name—something that looks like guilt and devotion tangled together.

“You needed it,” you rasp. “I wanted it.”

“I was rough,” he says, kissing your wet lashes. “You cried.”

You smile—barely. “You always make me cry.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, nose brushing your hair. “But not like that.”

You twist slightly in his arms, enough to face him now. Your hand cups his cheek. “I felt loved. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.”

His eyes flutter shut, and he nods once—like it cracks something open in him. “You’re my safe place,” he murmurs. “The only thing I want to come home to.”

You nuzzle into his chest. “You can fuck me into the mattress whenever you need to. Just don’t forget to kiss me after.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half laugh, half relief—and kisses you now, long and slow and soft.

“I’ll never forget to kiss you.”

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy , @rainyjeno , @fawnoverdawn , @pixie-felix , @anniestay , @notmeneo , @lovslixx , @themoonlightfae , @heartwithoutaname , @yourghostneighbor , @princesskrystix , @drilles , @y2kur0mi , @mochi-space , @ivaviavi , @phelans-thoughts , @the-anon-reader , @beans4beans56 , @joyfulchaoslover , @channieismylove , @cherryoatchai , @unimportantweirdo , @seagulljk , @freckles-and-rage , @lonelydarknessblog , @girlsymptoms , @bookswillfindyouaway , @jasperlvskz , @geekymommakerry , @dazzlingjade , @alisonyus , @pluto-rose , @crazy4books1 , @b3autyist3rror

[irlyluvosamu]

hiiii,

Can I request Dazai, Ranpo, kunidika and whoever else you wanna write being an older brother? just like random HC’s!

thank youuu

synopsis: reader is their younger sibling

featuring: o. dazai, d. kunikida, e. ranpo, n. atsushi, and n. chuuya

a/n: ada!osamu because im making it more easier for myself. i might do port mafia!osamu hcs for this as well!

ADA!OSAMU DAZAI — MEANCE, BUT YOU LOVE HIM

★ uses the "because im older, that's why!" and "im your older brother, so i know everything!" card any time the two of you have a disagreement—or when you want to be annoying with him.

★ does everything in his power to annoy the heck out of you at work—being siblings mean you both, unfortunately, work in the same organization. pokes you all the time, forces you to do his work, and kicks his feet purposefully up on your desk—even though he 100% knows your trying to do your work.

★ one time he added salt instead of sugar in your tea—a few minutes before a work meeting—watching you from across the table with a sly smirk on his face as you drink AND SPIT out the tea. embarrassing the hell out of you.

★ speaking of, the two of you would pull pranks on each other in the office 24/7—kunikida's nerves cracking each time he accidentally gets caught in the pranks.

★ overprotective, but in the sneakiest ways. if anyone would do every threaten you, make you cry, scare you, or hurt you? dazai is already 10 steps ahead of you—making sure they never mess around with you if they know what's good for them.

★ he steals your food, just to spite. he never eats it—unless it's something he knows he won't eat—but have you go slowly crazy looking around the agency for your lunch. always putting it back where he had snatch it in the end.

EDOGAWA RANPO — OVERCONFIDENT AND LOVABLE

★ barges into your personal space just annoy the shit out of you—you could be on break, sitting peacefully on the couch watching you favorite show on your laptop until all of sudden your older brothers figure jumps directly beside you and is scooching closer to you. eventually, til' your squished in the corner of the cushions. despite your complains and whines—he acts as if he doesn't hear and ask questions

★ "what show is that? isn't that one with that actor your obsessed with?"

★ "move! you're taking over the whole couch!"—"YOU WEREN'T INVITED TO JOIN ME!"

★ "quit complaining, i just want a hug from my favorite younger sibling ever!!"

★ "ranpo, im your only sibling.."

★ will NOT—under any circumstances—share his snacks with you. beg, bargen, annoy him; you aren't getting his snacks. and if he catches you trying to steal them? your getting tickle attacked for as long as it took him to realize you were plotting to steal them

★ brags about how smarter he is than you; which of course you don't deny because he IS SMART!! you just hate how it boosts his ego.

★ sticks up for you if anyone gives you shit. he's not gonna take people, random—uneducated people—being rude towards you. not on his watch.

★ plays video games with you—AND GETS COMPETITIVE AS HELL. pushes you, nudges you over, kicking your controller out of your hand—any chance of him winning, he'll take it.

DOPPO KUNIKIDA — RESPONSIBLE, YET SOFT

★ keeps you in check 24/7—forgot your lunch? gets you some himself before scolding you to find a way to remind yourself. late for work? puts 20+ alarms on your phone the next day; oh look at that—10 minutes early today!!

★ makes you a daily schedule—breaks down to his knees and sobs when you never follow it. begs you, bribes you, ANYTHING!!!

★ he wants nothing more in life than for you to have a bright future—will guide you in the right direction as much as possible. he sees you as the best person you can be, because to him you're such a smart individual.

★ as much as he is hard on you from time to time—just remember it's all because he loves you. he pushes you because he knows you have potential, just need the right push in the direction.

★ gets SUPER overprotective—if anyone hurts you, threatens you, or worse..lays a finger on you? well, everyone knows NEVER to mess with the armed detective agency—and he lives up to that threat.

NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI — GENTLE AND ANXIOUS

★ just wants to be the best big brother to you—always being there for you when you call for him. even if you don't.

★ he worries about you a lot. did you eat? did you drink enough water? are you over-working yourself? he's just worried, he loves you a bunch.

★ you two never leave each other's side—he makes sure your always on your feet and you always make sure he's happy!

★ he treats your happiness like a personal mission—if you're sad he will try everything he can to make you smile again.

★ he loves how you get along with his co-workers; dazai takes you under his wing half the time than atsushi does—kunikida's gotta drag you back to atsushi because he doesn't trust dazai. atsushi still doesn't mind you being around osamu however.

★ his advice is always empathy. even though he may not always have the right words, he will always be there to listen to you with any problems you have.

NAKAHARA CHUUYA — PROTECTIVE AND SOFTIE

★ could and would kill anyone for you, or kill anyone who says something rude to you. his over protection goes up 10x when it comes to you and your safety.

★ strict but not unkind. he tries his best each day to defend for yourself when he would be around because let's be real, as a mafia executive—he's not always going to be around you. however he just ends up having to save you half the time.

★ calls you "brat" or "pipsqueak" affectionately—however he also calls you that when he's mad at your, or scolding you. so most of the time you never know if he's scolding you or giving you affection.

★ buys you way too much shit, sometimes he doesn't even realize. if there's something you really, really want? in the next few hours it's yours. doesn't realize he goes overboard til' he takes a peek at his shopping bills.

★ you look up to him, he'll be all flustered and say something like, "c—c'mon, don't patronize me! i ain't no idol for people!" he's right. he's an idol for you, and only you.

★ he hates seeing you cry, hates it even more when he's the reason your crying. he tries so hard to be there for you, holding you or using his words—he wants to prove he loves you and your big brother is always there for you.

@ ɪʀʟʏʟᴜᴠᴏꜱᴀᴍᴜ — 2 0 2 5

[bucketbueckers]

RECKLESS DRIVING

CHAPTER SIX

content: the rare dallas wings w (i was supposed to write the game in this but this chapter was already long as shit), in which there is only one bed and cam and paige get parent trapped in a hotel room in uncasville, ct., the inherent homoeroticism of sharing a bed with someone you want but won't let yourself have and talking to her for hours about what makes you you and then waking up with your hand under her shirt, kk arnold (affectionate), azzi fudd went to the dijonai carrington school of standing on business, ending is rushed af 💔

wc: 10.1k

notes: me 🤝 long as fuck chapter 6's but uh... yeah! trying out alternating povs after a few anon requests so let me know if you guys like it 😛 this chapter was so challenging to write and had me in hell for a good few hours tbh. don't have too much to say besides i hate the fuck ass wings but as always i hope y'all enjoy and lmk what you think 🫶

tags: @cowboybueckers @indigo491 @wnba-scotland @volleyballgirlsblog @sillystarv @middyprincess @intoblonde6ftwbbplayers @user1269 @fivest4rbuecks @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @lilpaigeyherbo @simp4panos @perksofbeingatrex

CAM

The Lynx game should have been an indicator for how their next few games were going to go.

After a second half collapse that led to the Lynx taking an almost 15 point win, the Wings were hosting the Storm at home three days later. They were neck and neck in the first quarter, even with Arike picking up a technical foul about six minutes into the game. The Wings collapsed late in the second quarter, heading into halftime down by 15 despite Paige and Cam’s greater efforts to keep them in the game.

They made a push in the third quarter to come back and cut the lead down to 5, but they just couldn’t close the game out. They got sloppy in the fourth, taking terrible shots, forcing bad passes, and overall just playing too frantically. There was plenty of time to slow it down, make better reads, but too many people were playing hero ball, and Chris just wasn’t doing anything about it in the huddle. He’d stand on the sidelines with his arms crossed and face pinched, as if he was waiting for someone to step in and coach this team to a victory.

The Storm game was hard fought and incredibly frustrating. Paige, like the freak she is, had 19 points, 8 assists, 5 rebounds, and 3 stocks, and Cam nearly matched that with 15 points, 7 rebounds, 2 assists, and 2 blocks. Despite the both of them having great games, they were unable to stop the bleeding.

The Lynx were their first road game that season, two days after their loss to the Storm. They lost 85-81 and win differentials like that are so frustrating because it’s so easy to get caught up in the constant thoughts of, “If I’d made that shot,” or “If I didn’t foul them here.”

They’d played a decent first half, keeping the score within a few possessions. Paige’s shot wasn’t falling, but she was affecting the game in other ways. She notched her first career double double that night with 12 points and 10 assists. Cam was consistent with another 15 point game, 5 rebounds, and a few notable blocks.

The collapse was inevitable. They sent the Lynx to the line during the fourth quarter too many times. Whether or not it was sloppy playmaking, an unfair whistle, or the fact that the Wings just got out coached at every turn, they needed to be better. Between the Storm game and the road game against the Lynx, Cam and Paige had spent a few hours in the weight room together or on the court.

Paige’s name is first in every team’s scouting report. Cam knows that much for sure. If she’s not scoring effectively, then she’s going to find a teammate who can score or she’s going to find a way to get herself to the free throw line. At risk of sounding like a broken record, that’s probably one of Cam’s favorite things about Paige as a teammate. It doesn’t matter how down they are or how tense a game is, Paige doesn’t give up until the final buzzer rings.

But because Paige tends to be the central focus of the report, she gets doubled or tripled constantly. The pressure in the league is different than it is in college. Defenders are stronger, faster, smarter, so Cam and Paige tend to find themselves in the gym long after the end of practices with Cam simulating the best defense of her life and Paige either trying to make a shot for herself or get away from the pressure.

It’s helping – Cam can see the improvements in Paige’s confidence and the swiftness in her decision making. She would say it as often as she needed to: once Paige gets comfortable, like really comfortable, she would be one of the league’s biggest problems.

Three days after their second loss to the Lynx, they were hosting the Dream at home. Paige had another off shooting night, but Cam, selfishly, is incredibly proud of the fact that the idea of Paige’s “off nights” are anyone else’s “good nights.” She had 11 points with 5 assists and 4 boards, with Cam securing 14 points, 6 rebounds and a handful of stocks.

After the loss to Atlanta, they spent a little more time in the gym together. Paige was frustrated – she felt that her numbers should have been better, that she needed to do more and work harder. It took a miracle from God and for Cam to remind Paige that she doesn’t have to keep up appearances with her for Paige to even admit that she wasn’t happy with their recent showings.

Losing was hard. It’s hard when you’re a national champion, the first pick, when losing is the last thing you should be doing. It’s hard because even though Paige has had a rough few games, she’s leading both the Wings and the rookies in several main statistical categories as well as ranking in the top 5 of many league categories. It’s frustrating because Paige is doing everything on the court just short of sitting on the sidelines with a clipboard and the playbook.

And Cam gets it – she really, really does. She’s frustrated, too. The Wings don’t have a roster full of Olympians by any means, but they had so much talent that was being wasted. They’re only four games in and Cam is trying her best to be kind – to herself, to the coaching staff, to her teammates. There’s only so much she can handle when several of their teammates shoot up prayers in close games with a century left on the shot clock, when their coach keeps trying to force out-of-position changes that make no sense, when she’s having her best season yet and she’s in conversations for DPOY but all of that will be for nothing because, at this point, they couldn’t beat an elementary school rec league if they tried.

Either way, they were playing the Sun in Connecticut three days after the Atlanta loss, so Cam didn’t really have a whole lot of time to lose her mind over shit that already happened. She needed to focus her energy on losing her mind over much more important things, such as the fact that no matter how hard she beats her feelings down with a broom, they always spring right back up like a very determined fungus.

Any other day she would allow herself enough time to spiral over that, but this week is already shaping up to be the most emotionally challenging week of her life, and it’s only Monday. On Sunday, her usual cat sitter and elderly neighbor Mrs. Patrice informed her that she would be out of town with her husband for the week, which meant Cam had to scramble to find an alternative, trustworthy person to watch her sons while she was in Connecticut.

Fortunately, Coley’s volleyball season finished on May 11th (after claiming the Pro Volleyball Federation title, which Cam flew out to watch after their last preseason game), so she was kind enough to fly out to Dallas to watch her nephews.

Things didn’t get better after that slight crashout. She started her period on Monday morning, which was just fucking peachy, especially considering that Cam had enough personal awareness to know that her period made her moody and irritable but not enough personal awareness to not accidentally be a jerk about it. She tried her best not to, she really did; she just didn’t have any patience, and that was a recipe for disaster.

Between waking up entirely too early, saying goodbye to Bobby and Gatsby like she was heading off to war, and having to drive to the Wings facility to take the team bus to the airport, she was already having a terrible morning. It only worsened because her teammates seemed to have endless energy and laughed right up until they had to go through TSA. It took everything in her to choose peace and ignore them.

As if her morning couldn’t get any worse, all Cam wanted to do when she got on the plane was fall into the seat next to Paige, knowing that she was usually low energy on their early morning flights and would be quiet enough to let Cam nap on her shoulder. But when she boarded, Paige was already sitting next to Nola, their iPads open with film and notes. Cam briefly considered getting off the plane and letting it run her over before takeoff, but she reminded herself that she was 26 and this kind of behavior just wasn’t cute after elementary school.

Cam took the loss in stride, but dragged herself to the back of the plane where she promptly plugged her airpods into her ears, tugged her hoodie over her head, and sent out a prayer that no one would bother her for the entire flight.

Said prayer was answered, and she’s left in peace for the entire flight. She’s sure that her being unable to nap (Paige’s fault, she’s also sure) will lead to her being irritable once they land, but she was going to do her best to be kind.

They touch down in Connecticut with little issue and make their way through security once more. There’s a charter bus waiting for them outside, where Cam, again, drags herself to the back and settles in with her hoodie up. Her cramps had mostly calmed during the flight, but her body seems to recognize that they’re back on solid ground and is deciding to punish her – for what reason, she doesn’t know. Cam plans to get her moping in now while she can, not really wanting to deal with the media freaking out because she frowned on court or something.

She feels someone settle into the seat next to her. She bites back a sigh at first, but when a familiar cologne draws her attention, she lifts her head off the bus window to make eye contact with Paige, who smiles softly at her, seeming to pick up on her mood. “Hey,” she murmurs. “You good?”

Cam hums, nodding her head. She tries really hard to not feel betrayed by her body and how it relaxes just from Paige sitting next to her. “Just bleeding and moody,” she says.

“So…the world’s ending?” Paige jokes tentatively.

Cam is unable to hold back her laugh. “Just about,” she agrees, a smile quirking on her lips for the first time that morning. The bus starts moving, and Cam isn’t really thinking about much besides the way her body aches when she leans her head on Paige’s shoulder. Paige doesn’t say anything – she doesn’t need to, but she presses her cheek to the top of Cam’s head. “What about you? You excited to be back in Connecticut?”

“Yeah,” Paige agrees, her tone a little breathless. Cam can almost imagine the smile on her face. “It’s always gonna be home, you know? My UConn teammates are gonna be there, too. Gotta give them something good to watch.”

“You miss them?” Cam asks.

Paige is a little quieter when she responds. “Everyday,” she admits. “They’re my sisters.” She doesn’t say anything for a couple of heartbeats before shifting slightly. “We’re going to dinner after the game. You should come with us.”

Cam’s brows furrow at that, her pulse thrumming at the implication. “You’d want me there?” she asks, genuinely touched by the request. In a way, it feels like Paige letting her into a different part of her life. One that’s evidently incredibly important to her. That means more to Cam than she thinks Paige is even aware of.

Paige clears her throat, trying for a casual tone. “I mean, like, if you’re not too tired,” she clarifies quickly. Her sudden chalant-ness makes Cam smile. “It ain’t gonna be nothin’ crazy, but you don’t gotta go if you don’t–”

“Paige,” she laughs, which makes the blonde laugh too, her nerves fizzling out. “I’d love to meet your team.”

“Yeah?” she murmurs, a little bashfully.

Cam pokes her thigh, making Paige twitch and move away, evidently ticklish. The force of her smile almost makes her face hurt. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Hopefully they’ll have some funny, college P stories for me. Of the embarrassing kind, I mean.”

Paige sighs. “So, you’re not invited anymore,” she declares.

“Too late,” Cam chirps. “You’re stuck with me. You’re just gonna have to eat your chicken tenders and accept it.”

Paige’s tone is incredulous as she echoes, “Chicken tenders? Why do you assume I’m gonna order chicken tenders?” Cam can almost see the indignant wrinkle in her nose.

She giggles, suppressing an eyeroll. “Well, for starters, you don’t eat vegetables,” she states. “Or seafood. That’s like, picky eater 101.”

Paige huffs. “Potatoes are vegetables,” she says.

“Yeah, in the same way tomatoes are fruits.”

“Tomato, potato.”

“That’s not–”

Paige presses a finger to Cam’s lips, shushing her, and neither of them can suppress their giggles. A beat passes, then: “I’d probably get a burger,” Paige admits, and Cam beams with pride because that’s essentially the same thing. “Better macros.”

“I’m sure,” she says, amused. Cam can feel the smile Paige presses to the crown of her head.

“You feelin’ better?” she asks softly.

Cam nods, smiling gently, because she really does. Paige just has the innate ability to calm her down when everything’s too loud or distracting her with the dumb things she says. She’s appreciative of it, of how Paige just…completes her. She challenges her, annoys the ever loving shit out of her most of the time, but it all balances out when she does thoughtful things like letting Cam rest her head on her shoulder and invite her out for dinner with her family.

Her nod is enough for Paige. The both of them settle in for the remainder of the bus ride to the hotel, not needing to say anything else to each other.

Except Cam’s okay-ness only lasts a short amount of time. They make it to the hotel, where Kiara, their operations coordinator (a fancy way of saying “the really qualified woman who keeps their team running by booking hotel rooms, flights, and everything in between”) passes out keycards.

Everyone loads into the elevators in groups, squeezing in with their suitcases and carry-ons, going up to the fourth floor in batches. They split off. Cam slides her card against the sensor on her door and pushes it open, more than ready for a hot shower and a quick nap before someone inevitably texts the team group chat with requests of a team dinner.

But when she steps inside her hotel room, her slide squishes uncomfortably against the carpet. Already preparing for the worst, she flicks on the light by the door, and then she thinks about why she hadn’t let the plane run her over before takeoff.

The carpet is soaked. Like, rip it out of the floor, replace it, and try again soaked. She glances to her right, where the bathroom door is ajar, and the light in the main hallway is just enough to illuminate the water covering the bathroom floor and the way the toilet is overflowing.

Cam just sighs. She cuts off the light, closes the door, and presses her forehead against the cool wood to emotionally regulate herself before she does something embarrassing like cry in the middle of the hallway. Then, she pulls out her phone and dials Kiara’s number. She picks up almost immediately, and all Cam can muster is a, “Please come to my room.”

Kiara is there in record time. Cam hands her the keycard and the advice to turn on the light and not go inside. Kiara does just that, flicking on the light with hesitation, and taking in the soaked carpet and the evident pipe explosion in the bathroom with disbelief. At this point, a few of her nosy ass teammates have surrounded her – Paige, Maddy, Arike, and DiJonai, and they all peer over Kiara’s shoulder to get a closer look, too.

“This hotel sucks,” Arike says plainly, breaking everyone’s stupefied silence. “They ain’t even got a waffle maker.”

“Or a plumber,” Cam says flatly.

“We’ll just get a different room,” Kiara says placatingly. She turns the light off and closes the door, but she looks disgusted. “I swear they better discount me or God help them.”

With nothing better to do, Cam follows Kiara down to the main lobby, and clearly Paige, Arike, Maddy, and DiJonai have nothing better to do either, as they fall in line behind them. Cam feels strangely like a child at a restaurant whose mother is telling the waitstaff that “My daughter asked for no pickles” as Kiara kindly and politely informs the receptionist that Cam’s room is beyond saving and that they need a replacement.

And, well.

“Everything is booked for the entire night,” the receptionist tells Kiara. She looks genuinely remorseful, which is nice and all, but Cam still wants to walk into oncoming traffic. She just wants a shower. Who did she wrong in a past life to make her not deserve one? She’s sure that she sounds a little pathetic right now, but catastrophizing is the only thing keeping her from losing her mind completely. “I can process a refund for you immediately.”

Kiara sighs, but nods at the receptionist, who gets to work and prints a refund receipt for her. She apologizes again. “Maybe you could room with someone?” Kiara suggests. “Or I could get you a room at the Hyatt down the road?”

“I’d offer to share, but I snore really bad,” Maddy says quickly. Like, concerningly quickly. Everyone turns their eyes on her and she nods. “My fiance had to buy earplugs. I couldn’t do that to Cam.”

Maddy looks at Arike meaningfully, who blinks once at her before getting the memo. “I, uh, sorry, Cam. Lala says I move around too much in my sleep. I kicked her once. Not tryna break your knee before the game.” She frowns apologetically, but Cam rolls her eyes, knowing it’s complete bullshit.

They turn their gaze on DiJonai and Paige, and DiJonai looks at Paige. With the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, DiJonai aggressively elbows Paige, who yelps and clutches her side. “You can room with me if you want,” Paige says sheepishly. “No kicking or snoring here. I think.”

“You most definitely snore,” Cam gripes. Kiara’s look of pure confusion and Paige’s blush makes her backtrack immediately. “I mean, like – loud people always snore.”

Kiara doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t look like she cares, either. She just turns with a sigh and requests another room key for Cam, and the receptionist hands it over without issue. Kiara passes it off to Cam. “Y’all know the drill. Don’t lose these. Team breakfast at 8, then film.”

“Thanks, Kiara,” Cam says. Kiara squeezes her shoulder and walks away with Maddy, Arike, and DiJonai in tow – although DiJonai winks at the both of them from over her shoulder. Cam just sighs.

She would be fine.

PAIGE

Paige is not fine at all.

Yes, she tore her ACL and came back from it. She broke her foot and jammed her thumb and got surgery on it. She won a national championship after five years and got drafted and is currently living out her professional dreams.

All of that is to say that having to share a bed with the woman she’s hopelessly into is probably one of the hardest things she’s done in recent history.

Not hard in that predator way where she won’t be able to keep her hands to herself. Hard as in she wants Camille Roman so bad that it makes her feel stupid sometimes, and sharing a bed with her means that she’s going to by lying inches away from the very person she’s been thinking about nonstop since draft night.

It wasn’t necessarily infatuation at first sight. Paige knew of Cam the same way Cam knew of Paige. They’d crossed paths during the 2021 Final Four, where UConn unfortunately lost to Arizona. They were there until Sunday, though, so the Huskies watched as Stanford just barely edged out a win over Arizona.

Paige remembers Cam going to the locker room just before halftime and returning in the middle of the third. She had played like she had something to prove or like the national championship was her last opportunity at ever playing basketball. Knowing what she knows now about her injury makes Paige ache a little.

She remembers her getting drafted first overall, even if she didn’t really pay much attention to the WNBA season that year, although it didn’t shock her when Cam was named Rookie of the Year. Now, it’s still a little surreal to be on the same team as her.

It’s even more surreal when she thinks about the fact that she’s on the same team as someone she slept with the first night they’d been officially introduced to each other as teammates. The same team as someone who’d gone to the draft with the intention of meeting her and welcoming her to the Wings. The same team as someone who’d gone far and beyond to make sure that Paige was happy in Dallas, that she was adjusting, that she was taking care of her mind and body because Cam knew first hand what not doing that meant.

Paige didn’t mean for it to go this far. When she hugged Cam backstage at the draft, the last thing on her mind was getting drunk and taking her back to her hotel room, but she truthfully doesn’t regret it, either. She thought that any lingering feelings would remain physical – she and Cam were both responsible, mature players, so she was certain that it wouldn’t be awkward at all.

Except the fact that Paige did have lingering feelings and they most definitely weren’t only physical. She drove her to and from practices and team dinners despite Cam having a functioning car and the independence – Paige just really liked spending time with Cam and the way she looked in her passenger seat. She liked how easy it was to annoy her and how Cam would argue right back, anyways. She liked how Cam genuinely cared and how she protected her, which was a new feeling – being taken care of. Paige had only been on the receiving end of that a handful of times.

Cam made things quieter, manageable. She made it feel like the world wasn’t so overwhelming. She made Paige feel as though she didn’t need to keep everything to herself and that she could let people in. It wasn’t instant – Cam, honestly, still has to force her to open up, but Paige is making progress. Being vulnerable is terrifying. It’s not as daunting when it’s Cam on the other side asking how she’s doing.

Paige wasn’t the kind of person who was good at turning off how she felt, which is why this whole “keeping things clean” agreement was probably her personal hell. She knew that it was for the best, she’s been in the public eye for long enough. If any news outlet got ahold of the story that she, a Dallas Wings rookie, slept with Cam, her Dallas Wings veteran, on draft night, she’d never hear the end of it. People would smear both of their names. The media she could handle keeping things clean with.

But with Cam? She couldn’t do clean. Not a fucking chance in the world.

She couldn’t do clean when Cam was baking her congratulatory desserts to celebrate her first game in the W. She couldn’t do clean when Cam was wrapping her knee with compression tape and kissing her skin like it didn’t make her want to trash their entire agreement. She couldn’t do clean when all she wanted was to be needed by Cam.

Paige knows what she agreed to. She knows that Cam has agreed to it, too. But recently it feels more like the both of them are gradually pushing the line further and further back and claiming that they haven’t crossed it. She wants Cam, and maybe she’s hopeful or delusional or foolish enough to think that Cam wants her just as badly. 

They’re both just stuck. They have responsibilities. They’re celebrities who know well enough by now that they will never be afforded any sort of peace or privacy to try to figure out who they are without a microphone in their face asking how is this going to affect the team?

Cam has been through more with the media than she has. Cam has dealt with the league journalists and the press for a lot longer than she has. She is more aware of the stakes and the ramifications, so maybe it’s Paige’s own ignorance at play when she thinks about how little she cares about what anyone has to say about her and Cam. She just wants her, maybe desperately so, but Paige just doesn’t know how anyone can be near Cam Roman and not need her.

The need is beyond physical at this point. Paige wants to keep driving her around, making jokes about her playlist even though she gets home and adds Cam’s songs to a private one in hopes that she can get to know her a little better through the music she loves. Paige wants to keep surprising her with iced chais before shootaround, even if it becomes routine enough that it’s not a surprise because she really likes the way Cam smiles at her. Paige wants to keep showing up for her, wants to be someone that Cam can let her guard down with.

And maybe this is one of the reasons why they can’t let their relationship burn out of control. Cam is careful in many aspects of her life. Her career has made her that way. Usually Paige is, too, but there’s something about Cam that makes her a little reckless. Something about her that makes Paige want more. Never more than Cam can give, but enough to prove that whatever’s going on between the two of them isn’t a figment of her imagination.

Paige has always been good about keeping the main thing the main thing – basketball. That’s been her goal ever since she signed the offer papers to UConn. But with Cam? Her sole focus isn’t only on basketball, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

It’s just dangerous. She and Cam are moving at incredible speeds and Paige isn’t always thinking about what’s in front of her when she knows who’s beside her. The thing about Paige is that she’s prideful enough to think that she can balance both.

Maybe she could. Cam would have to give her the chance to prove that, but at the rate she’s genuinely trying to keep their relationship friendly and professional, any hopes of them being anything more are dwindling fast.

Paige is stubborn to a fault. Loyal. And, foolishly, she’d wait around for Cam as long as she needed her to.

So, no. She’s not fine. Not when the only thing between her and the one thing she wants the most but can’t have is a cheap hotel blanket and five inches of restraint.

In the room, Cam didn’t bother unpacking, leaving her suitcase and duffle bag by the desk in the room. She’d asked if Paige needed to use the bathroom before she went for a shower. Paige had declined. She listened to the sound of water hitting tile, the hum of the AC, and briefly considered what happened the last time she and Cam were left alone in a hotel room that belonged to Paige.

That thought had made her swallow, mostly because it had flustered her. She determinedly kept the rest of her thoughts PG while Cam showered.

When she emerged wearing sweatpants and a Wings hoodie, her hair loose and damp, Paige tried really hard not to stare. She’s not sure how effective she was, but she gathered her clothes and made her way into the shower, too.

The hot water helped her gather her thoughts. Clean was the one word that was running through her mind on repeat. No matter how badly she wanted Cam, or how badly she wanted Cam to admit that she wanted Paige, too, she would have to keep things cordial. She was always respectful, but she was going to have to lie inches away from her and try her best to not think about how close she actually wanted to be with her.

Paige got out of the shower. Dried off. Dressed in a pair of low-hanging sweatpants that shamelessly showed off the waistband of her boxers and a loose college t-shirt. She stepped back into her – or rather, their shared room to find that the team group chat was already alive with various requests and restaurant ideas for dinner because there wasn’t a day that went by without her teammates thinking about food.

They went to dinner – a place that Paige has been to more times than she could count. Cam smiled at her over the menu as she listened to Paige order a burger, just as they’d talked about on the bus. Cam ordered some salmon dish that Paige wasn’t fully listening to because she was more invested in the way Cam’s necklace sparkled in the restaurant’s lighting and how bright her laughter was when DiJonai made a joke that wasn’t funny at all. Or maybe it was – Paige hadn’t heard it.

Here it’s like she’s seeing Cam in a different light. She’s always like this with the team. Comfortable, open, always smiling, even though she’d been moody and irritable earlier in the morning. Paige is pretty sure that it was just hanger mixing with the hormones since Cam tends to skip breakfast like the freak she is, but that’s neither here nor there. Listening to Cam retell a story from camp and how Coach literally made them circle up and say one nice thing about each other makes her feel like she’s in high school staring at her crush. Half of that is true and it’s pretty obvious that she’s not in high school.

She likes Cam. She really, really does. And maybe in the middle of a restaurant surrounded by her teammates is a terrible venue to think about that fact, but she can’t help it. She’d acknowledged that she wanted Cam bad enough that it made her stupid. As long as Cam stuck around, she’d probably be content with being stupid for the rest of her life.

They split the bill three ways to make it easier on the waitress and they take separate Ubers back to the hotel. Paige ends up in the backseat of one with Cam and neither of them say anything. Cam’s leaning against the window, staring out at the streetlights as they pass by, the stars in the sky, and Paige thinks that Cam Roman might be the prettiest woman she’s ever laid eyes on. Scratch that – Cam definitely is the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen in her life.

Cam reminds her of nighttime. Of that brief period of time before the sun has fully set and the moon has risen where the last bits of pink and orange have bled from the sky. It’s when the sky has turned a muted blue, almost grey if not slightly dark lavender in color, where the earth is still, as though it’s accepting nature’s surrender – the sun giving up its throne for the moon to rule, if only for a few short hours. Cam reminds her of summertime, where the breeze is cool and the air is warm and the crickets sing a symphony that she doesn’t ever get tired of.

Cam reminds her of a lot of her favorite things. Peace. Basketball. Of never giving up, even when it feels easier to do so. She exists in that kind of way where not falling for her feels more impossible than never getting to have her at all.

And, well, after thinking that…Paige isn’t sure if she’s ever supposed to move on from Cam Roman. She doesn’t know if she even wants to.

They make it back to their hotel room, where they take turns brushing their teeth in the small bathroom. For the sake of being polite, Paige asks if Cam wants her to take the floor and Cam shoots her a look so dirty that she doesn’t even have to verbally reply. The bed itself is centered in the room, with two nightstands on either side, and Paige plugs in her phone charger on the side closest to the door. The other side is closer to the AC – Cam once complained that being hot was literally the worst thing in the world because it was easier to get warm than it was to be cool, so Paige figures she’d accept overheating for the night if it meant Cam would be more comfortable.

She slides onto the bed, not pulling the duvet over as she’s still a little warm from her sweatpants. She scrolls mindlessly through TikTok for a few minutes while Cam crawls in next to her, having changed into a loose pair of shorts and a tank top for bed. The dim light of her phone illuminates her face and Paige tries really hard to not let her gaze linger, but Cam is just one of those people that you can’t look away from.

Having grown tired of scrolling but not really watching any of the videos, Paige clicks the button on the side of her phone to turn it off. She presses the screen to her stomach, staring up at the ceiling, and before she can lose her nerve, she whispers, “Cam?”

The girl in question hums, turning off her phone, too. She places it on the nightstand and Paige watches her move from the corner of her eye. There’s the barest sliver of moonlight peeking in through the blinds, one that ghosts across Cam’s skin in a way that makes Paige’s throat dry. “What’s up?”

Paige swallows. She drops her phone carelessly onto the nightstand before shifting onto her side, coming eye to eye with Cam. “I know we said we were keeping things clean,” she begins, studying Cam’s features for any signs of discomfort. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Cam’s lips part ever so slightly, and whether it’s in disbelief or relief, Paige doesn’t know. But she continues anyway. “I think about how you looked at me on draft night, like I wasn’t Paige Bueckers and you weren’t Cam Roman, and we were free to do something that the media wouldn’t crucify us for. I think about how you put my tape on during camp, told me I was your priority, and kissed my knee.” Her throat bobs again, but she can’t look away. “I thought about kissing you then. I thought about kissing you when I drove you home, after you told me I’d be okay. Thought about kissin’ you after the Minnesota game, but I could tell you weren’t ready.”

“I thought about it,” Cam confesses, her brows furrowing like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She closes her eyes, sighs, and then tries again. “I wanted to. But I…”

Paige is moving before her brain can catch up with her. She’s shifting towards her, almost as though it’s instinct, and her knees brush against Cam’s over the comforter. Cam blinks like she hadn’t expected Paige to come so close, she unconsciously leans into the contact like she’d been restraining herself from wanting to be next to her.

They’re inches apart. Paige can smell the mint of Cam’s toothpaste, a scent that shouldn’t be heady or addicting but is because it’s Cam. “You what?” Paige asks, a little breathlessly, hating how weak her voice sounds. She hates the way it sounds like a plea and a question all at once. 

“I can’t,” Cam says. Paige exhales raggedly, something like dejection marring her features, and one of Cam’s hands rises to twist itself in the fabric of her UConn tee. “I can’t. But I want to. So fucking bad, Paige, you have no idea.”

“Why?” she murmurs, her eyes searching Cam’s. Her heart is all but pounding out of her chest. She swallows again, trying to keep her voice even. “Why don’t you want me, Camille?”

A laugh rips out of Cam’s throat at that question, disbelieving and wounded all at once. Her eyes dart across Paige’s features as if she’s scanning for truth, but Paige is being dead serious.

Maybe they’d miscommunicated. Maybe Paige truly got her hopes up too much and Cam’s feelings were purely physical. Maybe she’d read too far into how different Cam was when she was with her. Maybe Cam only kept her close because she truly felt as though she was responsible for Paige – for her rookie – and that was all they’d ever be.

Then Cam is speaking, and Paige feels her brain go quiet. “How can you ask me that?” she whimpers, her voice breaking, and the amount of pain in her voice makes Paige feel like such an asshole. “I want you, Paige. Probably more than I should. More than I’m allowed to. And that scares me because this –” Cam gestures to the space between the two of them, “is the only thing in my life that’s ever been mine. Not my name or my family’s stupid fucking legacy. Not even myself. And I know that as soon as we make this real, I’ll lose the one thing that makes me feel like me. That’s how it always works.”

Paige just shakes her head, feeling something like desperation bubble in her chest. She presses her forehead against Cam’s, listening to her sharp gasp as though the touch is electrifying, and she cups her face with her left hand, her thumb brushing across her cheekbone. “Cam,” she murmurs, “this is already real. We both know that.”

Cam doesn’t respond to that, her eyes slipping shut, so Paige tries again, not even ashamed of how it feels like she’s begging. “I’on care how hard we gotta fight. This is always going to be ours, Cam, you know that? You’re not gonna lose me. We can protect this – we can protect us. Lemme prove that to you. Please.”

The brunette is quiet for an agonizing few moments, and her voice is pained as she whispers, “We can’t.” Paige heaves a shuddering sigh, but she doesn’t pull away from Cam, and Cam doesn’t exactly push her away either. The hand bunched in Paige’s shirt rises to tangle in the loose hair at the back of her head, holding her firm against her.

It feels like an apology and an explanation all at once. Cam wants her – God, that had been so relieving to hear, but she was just scared. Paige is beginning to understand why. No matter how badly she wanted to, she couldn’t magically take that fear away from Cam. She’d just have to prove to her that it would be worth it, or that they could make it work, because fuck, Paige knows that they could, she just needs Cam to give her that chance.

Paige doesn’t care if it makes her look like a fool. She would wait for as long as Cam needed her to.

“Okay,” she says softly, relenting. Cam’s eyes blink open and she looks at her with something like disbelief, like Paige’s patience isn’t something that she thinks she deserves or has even earned. Paige shifts again, her nose brushing against Cam’s, and she can feel her shaky exhale. “I’ll be here. However long it takes, Cam, I swear I will be.”

“Paige,” Cam whispers, but she shakes her head again.

“I mean it,” Paige vows. “We ain’t gotta overcomplicate this. You want me. I want you. And we…” she swallows, trailing off a bit. “We just need time. I know it ain’t easy for you and I’m not gonna make this harder on you.”

Cam manages a wet laugh, an amused sound despite how her voice cracks. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna make it easy for me,” she teases.

Paige can’t help but smile. “I wanna annoy you,” she corrects softly. “Not ask for more than you’re willing to give me right now. But…knowing that you want me just as bad as I want you…that’s enough for me. Until you’re ready for anything else, I’ll be here. I’ll show you that I got us.” Paige runs the pad of her thumb across Cam’s tanned cheek, meeting her eyes, and the sheer amount of trust reflected in her brown eyes makes Paige ache. “That I got you.”

Cam presses her forehead firmer against Paige’s. It makes Paige tremble with want, but she doesn’t dare move. Not until Cam says gently, “Tell me about UConn.”

That gives her pause. Paige swallows. “What?” she croaks.

Cam huffs a little, amused. “Tell me about UConn,” she repeats. “Or your family. Or literally anything else so I don’t have to lay next to you and think about kissing you.”

Paige manages a wry smile. “I mean,” she begins, her tone a little too flippant given their prior conversation, “I think I’ve made it very clear that you don’t gotta think about it.”

Cam rolls her eyes, but a grin tugs at the edges of her lips. “Stop,” she deadpans. It lacks any sort of conviction.

Paige shrugs a shoulder, adding nonchalantly, “My chapstick is cherry flavored. Or if you’re not into that I’ve got a green apple one in my bag.” Cam gives her a look, her brow raising, and Paige sighs.

With great difficulty, she extracts herself from Cam, sprawling out on her side of the bed and leaving an inch of space in between them. If Cam is thinking about kissing her, and Paige is already fighting demons just by sharing a bed with her, then they’re both screwed. “What do you wanna know?” she asks, the heat of the moment prior long gone.

Cam shifts, getting comfortable, and she’s quiet long enough to decide her question. “Why UConn?” she asks simply. “You had to have gotten offers from literally everywhere else.”

Paige sighs, but the sound is more contemplative than anything else. “Why not UConn?” she says. “I loved the culture. I wanted the pressure of protecting a legacy. And…” Paige shrugs a little. “It was my dream school. I wanted to be great. I wanted to do great things.” She has a wistful smile on her face. “What about you? Why Stanford?”

Cam is quiet for a long moment, and Paige tilts her head to look at her. Her expression is pensive, something unreadable in her gaze, but Paige gives her the space to think. “It was home,” she says eventually. “I grew up in the Bay and Stanford was less than an hour away. My parents – well, my dad wanted me to go somewhere that would get me drafted.” She turns to Paige with a hint of a smile on her face. “He actually wanted me to go to UConn, but Phee was the last person I wanted to fight for minutes with.” Paige laughs a little at that.

“We settled on Stanford,” Cam continues, picking at her cuticles absentmindedly. “I think I would have liked to have gone to UCLA or Tennessee, but I wanted to make my dad proud of me more than anything else.” She clears her throat, her gaze landing on the ceiling. “I don’t regret Stanford, though. It’s where I met Nai, Cameron, and Haley.”

“Are your parents… hard on you?” Paige asks tentatively. “It sounds like your dad made your commitment decision for you.”

Cam doesn’t immediately respond to that, and Paige worries if she’d accidentally crossed a boundary. “My dad expects a lot from me,” she says eventually, but it feels like she’s still trying to convince herself of that. “Coley, too. Our mom is more lenient and chiller than he is, but she still, you know…wants what’s best for us. She wants us to succeed.”

Cam laughs a little, but it lacks any real humor. “You know they’d actually met at the 1984 Olympics? My dad was a fencer for France and my mom did a bunch of track events for the US. I think it’s funny ‘cause my dad always says shit like ‘Romans display their gold, anything else is as good as a coaster’ but I’m pretty sure my mom has more medals than he does.”

It’s in that moment that Paige is acutely aware of what Cam meant by her name not being her own – about her legacy. She’d always been in her parents’ shadow, maybe her father’s more than her mother’s, but it was a shadow nonetheless, the exacting pressure to be great. She understands why Cam is so media adverse. She’d grown up with the spotlight on her and the unfair expectations to be the same athlete that her parents were, if not better.

She understands why one of Cam’s biggest worries was how this would affect the team, because if the team did poorly, then that translated into Cam doing poorly. She wanted to keep it clean not only because she was worried about doing wrong by Paige, because she was worried about losing something that she wanted to keep close to her, but also because keeping it anything but clean probably went against some decades long, unspoken condition between her and her father and her family’s drive to be nothing less than great.

Letting herself be herself probably meant letting herself fail. It meant throwing away years of work – not just the work to get to where she is, but the years of work it took to make someone – her father – see who she was when he should have understood her from the beginning. Cam has been fighting for so long to be loved and accepted that losing that feels like losing everything.

The sudden realization makes Paige ache. It makes bile pool at the back of her throat, makes guilt wrap around the beating organ in her chest because she’d been so concerned with why Cam didn’t want her that she never considered what could make Cam so fearful of letting go.

Paige softens. Cam seems to pick up on her silence. She shifts to look at Paige, something gentle and loose in her gaze. “Where’d you go?” she asks, poking Paige’s temple. Paige swats her hand away with a tender smile. “You’re never this quiet. It’s kinda scary.”

“Just thinkin’,” she says.

Cam huffs. “That never ends well,” she teases, and Paige hates how warm that makes her chest feel.

Paige tilts her head until she’s face to face with Cam, whose brows raise at the change. “Do you remember when you were telling me about your rookie year and you said something about feeling like no matter what you were doing, it wasn’t enough?” Cam’s expression relaxes, although she’s still a little confused when she nods. Despite the blush undoubtedly creeping up her neck, the sudden vulnerability she feels, Paige says softly, “For what it’s worth, I think you are. Enough, I mean.”

Neither of them say anything for an agonizing few moments. Then, Cam shifts, ignoring every effort Paige had made to maintain the distance between them, and she rests her head on Paige’s chest. Paige freezes under her, her breath catching, but she melts into it almost instantly as Cam cautiously wraps an arm around her waist.

Paige’s right arm wraps around Cam’s shoulders, pulling her closer while Cam pulls the comforter over their bodies. “You saying things like that makes it really hard to keep things clean,” Cam admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

That makes Paige laugh a little, her heart all but beating out of her chest. “You laying on me like this makes it hard to keep things clean,” she retorts.

“Do you want me to stop?” Cam murmurs.

Paige doesn’t hesitate. “No.” Cam’s fingers brush against Paige’s skin where her shirt has ridden up, causing her to shiver. “Do you want me to?”

Cam shakes her head. “Please don’t.”

Paige just nods, something like a tentative peace blooming in her chest, and she sinks a little further into the bed – into the woman laying half on top of her, their legs intertwining under the blanket, and she lets herself drift off.

CAM

Cam wakes up on gameday with her hand under Paige’s shirt and the unwelcome feeling of deja vu permeating her entire being. Streaks of the early morning sun peek through the hotel curtains, highlighting each and every contour of Paige’s face, the peace she feels even in sleep. The blonde is snoring quietly – as loud people do, Cam is sure – and she still has her arm wrapped around Cam’s shoulders.

Cam remembers their conversation from last night. It almost makes her want to throw herself from their hotel room window. Paige had been so patient, so understanding of the fact that no matter how badly Cam wanted her, she couldn’t give into it. The fear of losing her had been greater than the desire to have her, but Paige vowed to give her time.

She didn’t deserve her. That much she knew to be true. But she’d work to be the version of herself that did deserve her.

Tentatively, Cam slides her hand out from under Paige’s shirt, using it to gently slide Paige’s arm off of her back. With all of the grace she could muster, she crawls out of bed and makes her way into the bathroom where she quickly goes through her morning routine. The cool water she splashes against her face makes her feel more awake, and when she returns to their room to grab her phone, she finds Paige wide awake and sitting against the headboard.

Paige doesn’t offer a smile. Or a good morning like a normal person. Instead, with faux-indignance, she says, “What’s up with you sneaking out of bed at ungodly hours? I’m startin’ to take it a little personally.”

“Paige,” Cam deadpans. “It is 7:30 in the morning. Do you not have a snooze button or something?”

“I mean,” she says, shrugging. “You’re welcome to come find it.”

If Cam throws her slide at her, then that’s no one’s business but her own.

They eventually make it downstairs for team breakfast, where DiJonai, with no subtlety at all, points to the two chairs she’d seemingly saved for her and Paige. Maddy, Arike, and NaLyssa are sat around the table with her, looking way too pleased with themselves, and Cam has to hold back an eye roll as she slides into the chair next to DiJonai with her plate modestly piled with toaster waffles (because, as Arike said, the hotel did not have a waffle maker), sausage patties, and a few pieces of fruit.

Paige joins them, her plate consisting of waffles, a questionable heap of scrambled eggs, and a few pieces of bacon. Cam bites back a sigh as she deposits a handful of grapes on Paige’s plate. The blonde huffs but doesn’t argue, much to the clear amusement of the four instigators at the table.

“So,” Maddy chirps, pushing her plastic spoon through her bowl of soggy cereal. “How’d you guys sleep last night?” Arike snickers and DiJonai and NaLyssa share a knowing look.

“Like a baby,” Cam retorts. “I’m just so incredibly fortunate that I roomed with someone who doesn’t snore like a steam engine. Or someone who quote-unquote ‘kicks the shit out of people in her sleep.’”

“Sorry for tryna look out for you, Camille,” Arike says indignantly, spearing a lumpy piece of egg that immediately falls off her fork. Arike glances down. “I hate this fuckin’ hotel.”

The table dissolves into lighthearted laughter, and thankfully, they don’t press Cam and Paige for any more details.

Breakfast goes by quickly. Film does too. Paige, ever the stickler for tradition, brings Cam an iced chai before shootaround. The energy leading up to the Sun game is amazing. Everyone hits their passes in stride, they’re making the right reads during scrimmages, and their shots are falling. Paige is a vocal leader on the court, which makes Cam incredibly hopeful for the game tonight.

They needed this win badly. But more than anything else, Paige needed this win badly. She was playing in an arena she was undefeated in. She was playing in front of her teammates from college – her family. Cam knew that she would do anything in her power to make sure that she and the Wings came home with the win tonight.

And if anything meant 23 points, 11 rebounds, and 4 blocks, then she likes to think she did a pretty good job of contributing to the win. The game was all but a blur – Cam doesn’t think she’s ever been more locked in before, but the beaming smile on Paige’s face is what makes it so worth it.

She showers and redresses quickly. Amicably sits through the press conference, where she calls their win a team effort and jokes that “Well, Paige is undefeated in Mohegan. We wouldn’t be very good teammates if we didn’t help her keep that streak.” Then, she finds herself in the backseat of an Uber with Paige, who’s leg is bouncing in excitement as the driver takes them to the restaurant that her UConn teammates had settled on.

Introductions are swift, if a little unneeded – Cam had watched the national championship just like any other basketball fan worth their salt. She gives all of Paige’s teammates friendly hugs and watches with a fond smile as KK Arnold latches onto Paige with a cry of, “P Boogers!” as they make their way into the restaurant.

Cam can tell how badly Paige has needed this. Her smile is wide, relaxed, and the way her eyes shine as Jana makes a joke about something or the other makes Cam feel just a little more unhinged. She doesn’t mean to stare – she really doesn’t, but she can’t help herself. Not when Paige looks the happiest she’s been in a while and her laughter is impossibly bright.

Paige reminds her of a lot of her favorite things, like early mornings where the world is still, the air is heavy with something like peace and the promise of beginning, and birds are beginning to announce the dawn. Paige reminds her of an unconditional affection, where people love you just because they can and they don’t need anything else in return for it. Paige reminds her of the kind of acceptance that comes with knowing you’re scared but the determination to chase after what you want, anyways.

That makes her think about their conversation from last night. How Paige was so open, so vulnerable, so trusting when she’d whispered that she couldn’t stop thinking about Cam. When she said that they both knew this was real. When she vowed to wait, even though she didn’t know how long Cam would keep her waiting for.

It makes her think that, with just a little more time, she would be there. She would be able to give herself to Paige fully, in the way she deserved without Cam constantly being worried about when the other shoe would drop. They just needed to do this the right way.

But then KK is leaning across the table, making mischievous eye contact with Cam, and it pulls her out of her thoughts immediately. Paige, who’s sitting next to her, rolls her eyes and mutters here we go under her breath like she already knows what kind of bullshit that KK���s on. “So, Camille,” she begins ominously. “What are your intentions with P Boogs?”

Cam bursts out into laughter while Paige buries her head in her hands, embarrassment clear in her actions. “My intentions?” she repeats, trying to bite back her smile. Paige has a flush from her neck to the tips of her ears, which makes it more difficult for Cam to keep a straight face.

KK nods solemnly. Ice takes a sip from her water and looks at Caroline through her lashes like she knows something the rest of them don’t. “We just wanna make sure you’re good for her,” KK states, steepling her fingers seriously. “We can’t keep her in check no more, so that means it’s your job.”

“My job,” Cam echoes, amused. She glances over at Paige, who’s still extremely red.

“As her vet, yes,” KK continues. Paige avoids eye contact this time, and Cam gets the impression that Paige had talked about her to her friends, and she allows herself to smile. “So. Intentions?”

“Well,” Cam says plainly, straightening her posture and playing into the bit. “We’re working very hard on that Rookie of the Year agenda.” KK nods, satisfied. “I’m also trying to get her to eat more vegetables, but that one’s taking some time.”

“Bless you,” Azzi says. “If it’s green, she won’t touch it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s nasty!” Paige cries in defense. She turns to Cam, vehemently announcing, “She puts nasty stuff in her omelets.” Paige emphasizes it in a way that makes Cam think they’ve had this conversation a few times.

“Yeah, peppers and onions and spinach!” Azzi retorts.

“Nasty stuff!”

Cam and KK exchange a long look, one of fond exasperation. “It’s a work in progress,” she amends, which makes KK laugh.

The conversation gets back on track as they begin discussing the season, how practices are, and the very important question of whether or not Paige misses them – the blonde’s response is a very deadpan no that nobody believes at all.

At the end of dinner, Cam picks up the check for everyone after an unnecessary argument about it. Half of their group splits to use the bathroom while the other half goes outside to their cars. Paige, who’d already called their Uber, leaves with Azzi while Cam quickly uses the restroom, not wanting to keep Paige waiting.

But maybe she should have.

When she steps back outside, scanning the street for Paige, she sees her locked in a conversation with Azzi. She doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, she really doesn’t, but she hears her name and she can’t help it.

“–and Cam thinks you’re going to wait around for her?” Azzi asks, which makes Cam’s blood run cold.

“Az, it’s not like that,” Paige says defensively, her tone a little desperate. “She’s been through a lot, okay? She just needs some time.”

“And that’s fine!” Azzi responds. “She deserves the chance to figure out her mental or work on herself or whatever she needs to do. But it can’t be at your expense, you know? That’s not healthy.”

“I know,” Paige says quietly. “I just…I’m choosing that. I know where we stand. She just needs time.”

“How much?” Azzi asks softly. Paige doesn’t have a response to that, and Azzi sighs. “Look, I don’t know it all. I know that you’re protecting her privacy – and yours – by not telling me certain things. I get that. I really do. And I also know that you’re loyal to a fault and you’d wait around forever regardless of if she asked because you like her that much. But this whole ‘keeping it clean but flirting with and wanting each other’ thing without commitment is gonna kill the both of you if you don’t let go or get it under control.”

Cam swallows thickly, guilt hitting her like a sack of bricks. Paige doesn’t say anything, but she’s saved by Caroline calling Azzi’s name. Azzi’s features soften, wrapping up their conversation. “I just want you to be careful, Paige. But right now? This is reckless. If the both of you are stringing each other along and continuing to be close and push those boundaries despite agreeing on clean, then the both of you are just going to get hurt. You both deserve better than that.”

Caroline calls for her again. Azzi looks at Paige, who relents, wrapping her in a brief hug. “I’ll be okay,” she says, pulling away, and Azzi looks like she’s hoping that much is true. Then, Azzi is gone, and Paige buries her hands in her pockets, sighing so heavily that Cam can see the sag in her shoulders.

Cam exhales, too, mostly to calm herself, and she figures now is a good time as any to walk over. Paige glances up when she comes into view, offering a meager smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “How much longer on the Uber?” Cam asks, hoping her voice doesn’t betray her.

Paige pulls her phone out of her pocket, checking the app. “About five minutes,” she responds, her voice a little tight. Cam just nods, standing silently next to Paige and really wishing that she spent just a minute more in the bathroom.

She doesn’t feel like she’d just got run over by a truck because she overheard Paige and Azzi talking about her – it feels that way because she knows Azzi is right. Their entire situation was reckless. Cam knew that much from the beginning, but she just couldn’t stay away, and now?

This mess feels like it’s entirely her fault.

[orellazalonia]

Hi! You're writing is great! I keep coming across it in the tags and reading some. What really has caught my eye is “Worth Fighting For”. And you're under no pressure for this, but I am wondering if you plan on making a part 2 for it

Again, no pressure or anything. Its your decision. I don't wanna impose. I'm a writer so I understand shit takes time or having writers block, or simply that it doesn't need anything more. Whatever you decide will be perfect. It is truly a good as a one-shot.

I just really enjoyed it and am wondering

Hello there! I’m glad you’ve been enjoying some of my work, that makes me so happy to hear! Most of the time, I’m usually able to create additional parts to my work but only do so if someone requests it. If not, it’s something I only do if I really loved it or it was too long and I had to break it into smaller parts lol. So, don’t worry! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy. Happy reading!!!

All of the Time

Summary: You start to build a quiet friendship with Steve, finding comfort in someone who understands your struggles, but when you fall and face cruel laughter, your confidence shatters and you pull away. Meanwhile, Bucky’s fierce protectiveness boils over, leading to a vulnerable moment where he promises to stand by you, as someone who loves every part of you. (Possessive!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.4k+

Main Masterlist | Worth Fighting For (Original Fic)

It started with small things, simple moments that stitched themselves into the quiet rhythm of your days.

Bucky still walked you everywhere. Always showed up early and stayed later than he needed to. But lately, Steve Rogers had started appearing too.

At first, it was by coincidence. A passing nod on the street. A shy smile when you visited the corner store. But Steve was thoughtful in ways that surprised you, gentler than most and always listening. You found yourself drawn to him in a different way than Bucky: calm, understanding, like he recognized something in you without asking questions.

One afternoon, when Bucky got pulled into something across town, Steve offered to walk you home. You were hesitant at first, but he didn’t press, just waited while you adjusted your grip on the crutch and fell into pace beside you.

You both talked about things you usually didn’t discuss with Bucky, like your legs and his lungs. Like the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t watching, the unsolicited advice, or the way strangers treated you like a sad story instead of a person.

“I get it,” He said, voice low and dry. “They all think I’m fragile, too. Like if I breathe too hard, I’ll fall over.”

You laughed, and he smiled. “They don’t know the half of it.”

It was easy, talking to Steve. And you knew it the second you saw Bucky waiting outside your building, arms crossed and jaw tight, watching the two of you approach like he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or furious.

Steve caught it too. “He’s gonna scowl me to death, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” You muttered, amused. “You’re the one who stole his job.”

“I didn’t know I was being recruited.”

“You weren’t,” Bucky said before either of you could reach the door.

You raised a brow. “Bucky.”

He looked at you, then at Steve. “Appreciate you stepping in,” He said flatly. “Won’t be necessary again.”

Steve just gave you a little shrug, like well, you warned me, and offered a quick goodbye before turning down the street.

You turned back to Bucky. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“He doesn’t know how to pace with you.”

“Neither did you once.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just held the door open with a tight jaw and followed you up the steps, his hand hovering behind your back like it might catch you if you slipped even though you didn’t.

You thought the tension would fade over time, but it didn’t.

It built slowly, like steam behind a radiator. Bucky brought you more things now: fresh rolls, a knit scarf he swore he didn’t buy but you knew he did, and little things that made you feel warm and heavy with affection.

But something in him had twisted tighter since that day. He stood closer, watched more, and didn’t laugh as easily when you talked about walking alone.

So, one morning, you did.

You hadn’t meant to leave without him. You just needed to prove it to yourself, that you could still do this. That your legs might tremble, but they still moved. That you didn’t need anyone.

The air was brisk as you stepped out, crutch steady under one arm, purse swung across your chest. You took the quieter route, the one that curved behind the main square.

You didn’t even hear them at first, the boys your age loitering by the steps of the butcher’s shop. Laughing and smoking. One of them was the same kid Bucky shoved into a lamppost last month. Of course.

“Hey, it’s the hobble girl!” Someone barked as you passed.

You kept going.

“Where’s your guard dog, sweetheart? Don’t think you’ll make it far without him.”

You didn’t look back. You didn’t give them a reaction, but your foot caught the edge of a broken curb. Just slightly. The crutch hit an uneven crack in the concrete and your knee twisted, causing you to fall.

You didn’t cry out, didn’t scream. But the shock knocked the air out of you and scraped your palms bloody against the sidewalk. You lay there for a breathless moment, too stunned to move.

And then came the sound.

Laughter.

From behind you, from above.

You tried to get up. The brace dug into your shin as you twisted, slipping against your own balance. You were halfway to your knees when someone appeared beside you, not Bucky.

“Easy,” Steve said gently, already crouched. “I got you.”

His hands were steady, warm under your arms, and he didn’t pull you up right away. He just helped you sit, giving you space to let you breathe.

“I’m fine,” You muttered, heart pounding in your ears.

“I know,” He said. “You just don’t have to be alone while you are.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, and your eyes burned.

Then–

“WHAT THE HELL IS SO FUNNY?”

The voice tore through the square like a lightning crack.

You whipped around just in time to see Bucky storming across the sidewalk, eyes blazing, and fists already clenched. The group scattered in a heartbeat, but Bucky was faster. He caught the mouthy one by the collar and slammed him against the wall hard enough that a window rattled.

“I told you once,” He growled. “Now I’m telling you twice, if I so much as hear her name in your mouth again, you’ll be drinking through a straw for a month.”

“Buck–“ Steve called out.

“I mean it,” Bucky snarled, shaking the kid like a ragdoll before dropping him onto the concrete.

By the time he turned back, his hands were shaking. But his voice, when he knelt beside you, was quiet.

“Hey,” He said, brushing your hair out of your face. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer.

He touched your scraped palm gently. “You’re bleeding.”

You looked at him finally. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m broken.”

“I don’t,” He stated, voice hoarse. “I look at you like someone I’d kill for. That’s different.”

You blinked, stunned.

Steve stood nearby, silent but present. He didn’t say a word, just nodded once and stepped away, letting you and Bucky have a moment.

Bucky helped you to your feet with slow, careful hands as he tucked your crutch into place like it was something sacred. When you leaned into him subconsciously, his arms went around you in a way that made all the tension in your body fade.

He spoke softly, “You don’t have to be strong all the time, sweetheart. You’re allowed to fall, just let me be the one who helps you up.”

But no matter how sweet words Bucky tried to tell you or how he and Steve both tried to lighten the mood on the way back home, you didn’t sleep that night.

The fall kept looping in your mind over and over. The sound of laughter, the stares, the sting of your knees hitting concrete. You could still feel the scrape on your palms, raw under the bandages. Still feel Steve’s arms helping you sit up, still hear Bucky’s voice when he screamed.

But worse than all of it, worse than the pain or the crowd, was the way they looked at you.

Both of them. Steve, with concern. Bucky, with fury. Both looking at you like you were fragile.

And you hated it.

So, you canceled plans the next morning, told Bucky you weren’t feeling well when he knocked, and left the curtain drawn even when you heard him waiting outside longer than usual.

You knew he meant well, but you couldn’t take the weight in his voice. Couldn’t stand how fast he moved when he thought you needed help. How many people he was willing to fight just because they looked at you wrong.

You didn’t want to be something he protected. You wanted to be something he wanted.

And by the second day, you stopped answering the door entirely.

Across town, Bucky was cracking.

He paced the alley behind the corner bar like a caged dog, jaw clenched, knuckles already bruised from the wall he’d punched earlier.

“You’re gonna get yourself arrested,” Steve muttered from the edge of a crate, arms crossed as he watched Bucky burn through another lap.

“She won’t even look at me, Steve.”

“She’s embarrassed.”

“She shouldn’t be.”

“She’s scared.”

Bucky stopped. “Of me?”

Steve met his eyes. “Of what you’ll do or of how angry you get.”

Bucky’s fists curled. “What am I supposed to do? Let them laugh? Let her think falling makes her less than–”

“No. You’re supposed to show her that she’s still her. Still the same girl you wanted to walk home three weeks ago. Still the one who doesn’t need to be hidden behind your fists.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a rough whisper. “She thinks she’s a burden.”

“She isn’t.”

“I know that,” Bucky snapped. “But if she won’t let me show her, if she keeps pulling away… I don’t know how to make her believe it.”

Steve stepped forward, quieter now. “Then stop yelling it with your fists, Buck. And start whispering it where it matters.”

That night, you found him sitting on the fire escape outside your bedroom window.

He wasn’t moving. Just leaning back on the cold metal, head tilted toward the sky like it could give him an answer. His hands were scraped, bruised, wrapped in a torn bandage that looked like he’d done it in a rush.

He didn’t look at you right away.

You opened the window quietly. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” He said simply.

You swallowed.

He still didn’t look over. “Steve says I’m doing too much… that I’m pushing you away.”

You sat on the windowsill carefully, still quiet.

He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know how to do this, sweetheart. I see you hurt, and I lose it. I see you scared or embarrassed, and something in me just–snaps. I know it’s too much sometimes. I just…”

He finally turned, eyes tired.

“I don’t want you to ever think I’m here because I feel sorry for you.”

You looked down. “I don’t… think that.”

“I want you to know that when I look at you, I don’t see weakness. I don’t see your crutch. I see you. All of you. And I–” He broke off, jaw tight. “I like you so much it’s ruining me.”

You blinked, chest twisting.

“I don’t care that you fall or that you limp. Or that some days you don’t want to talk. I care that you think those things make you hard to love.”

A silence stretched between you.

Finally, you reached out, gently tracing the fresh bruise on his hand.

“Who was it this time?” You asked.

His smile was small. “Doesn’t matter. He won’t say another word.”

“Bucky–”

He caught your hand in his, kissing your knuckles softly.

“I’m trying,” He whispered. “I’ll stop throwing punches if it helps, but I won’t stop showing up. I won’t stop being yours.”

You pressed your forehead to his, heart thudding.

“I don’t want you to stop showing up,” You said. “I just want to believe that I’m not dragging you down.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” He murmured, brushing your hair back with fingers too gentle for someone who fought like he did. “You’re the only reason I’m still standing some days.”

Then, with a small smile: “Besides, you don’t even weigh enough to drag me down, doll.”

You laughed, and the tension finally broke.

He pulled you into his lap right there on the fire escape, blanket wrapped around both of you, his arms warm and firm around your waist.

And for the first time since the fall, you didn’t feel like a burden. You just felt like his.

You didn’t fall again that week.

Bucky never said it out loud, but you knew he noticed. He started walking half a step ahead of you instead of beside you, close enough to catch you if needed, but far enough to let you breathe.

He didn’t ask if you were alright anymore. He just knew you were. And maybe more importantly, you knew you were too.

One quiet afternoon, he showed up at your door holding something behind his back.

You squinted. “What is it?”

“No peeking.” He grinned, backing up as you stepped out. “I have a surprise.”

“Bucky.”

“Trust me.”

You did. So you let him inside and waited with your back turned, listening to him set up something. When he finally gave the okay, you turned to find the surprise was music.

More specifically, his old record player set up in the tiny living room of your apartment, now spinning. The radio crackled softly as a slow jazz melody filled the air, warm and golden like molasses.

You stared at him, blinking. “Is this a setup?”

He didn’t deny it.

“I thought maybe you’d let me have one dance,” He said, offering his hand, eyes teasing. “I mean, I did get beat up for you. It’s the least you could do.”

You snorted. “You didn’t get beat up. You beat them up.”

“Still counts.”

You glanced down at your brace, hesitant. “I’m not exactly graceful, Bucky.”

His voice lowered. “Doesn’t matter, you’re mine and I’m yours. That’s all I need.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer. “Let me show you.”

And he did.

You didn’t dance, not really. It was more like swaying in slow circles, his arms firm around your waist, one hand curled gently around yours. He moved slow and patient, guiding you like he could feel every bit of hesitation in your body and answered each one with a touch, a smile, or a whisper in your ear: “You’re doing perfect, doll.”

You were laughing by the second song. Spinning awkwardly as he dipped you in the most dramatic fashion, nearly knocking over a chair in the process.

“Okay, that one was your fault,” You huffed, holding onto him as you regained your balance.

He didn’t let go. Just leaned his forehead against yours and whispered, “I like you like this.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

“Laughing, moving, being… you.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You never needed to walk perfectly. You just needed someone to see you.”

You leaned into his chest. “You’re really good at that, you know.”

“Good,” He said, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Later into the night when you were wrapped in his arms, half-asleep in the hush of your room, he whispered, “I used to think I needed someone perfect, flashy and put together; but I was wrong.”

You stirred, smiling sleepily. “Oh yeah? What do you need now?”

He kissed the side of your neck and said simply, “You.”

And you knew then, without a single doubt, you had never once been a burden to him.

You’d been the center of his world all along.

[fallingforfred]

Dallas x reader where Dallas is patching her up after a fight with Sylvia (Sylvia hit first). Something sweet and they're both commenting on how normally it's the reader patching up Dallas.

Thank you in advance 💕

patching you up ⸝⸝ 𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏

a/n: OMG i am super duper sorry for being so late in writing this AND disappearing for a couple of days! I've been sick and I do terribly apologize, but I hope you enjoy this at least. also this isn’t proofread sorry

warnings: swearing, mentions of a fight, mentions of injuries but doesn't go into explicit detail.

word count: 502

“Ah.. ah, Dal a little softer, it’s still hurtin’ y’know?” You whinced, feeling the aching outcome of Sylvia’s hit on your cheek as Dallas tried to ice it up in unintentional harsh jabs.

It was clear he was out of it, he was practically seething with anger and you could already tell his mind was filled with a whirlwind of thoughts about everything that happened.

He knew he couldn’t do anything about it because it had already happened, but he just wished he could get his hands on Sylvia and–

“Dally… seriously, it’s starting to hurt.” 

“Huh? Oh.. oh, shit, sorry sweetheart.” Dallas whispered as he lowered his hand, his attention falling back to you as he took a moment to actually pay attention to his surroundings.

You simply smiled in response, though it stung trying to move any inch of your face.

Your lip was bruised and cut up from one of Sylvia’s rings–you were just lucky enough it wasn’t as pointy like Bob’s, poor Johnny.

“If only I didn’t leave ya alone that one second to talk to Two-Bit, damn Two-bit, man… I ain’t even know Sylvia was there at the party, if I did you best believe I would’ve taken you far away from that bitch–”

“Don’t call her that..”

“It’s true, look at what she did to your pretty face. Shit.. I swear, if I ever see her again I’ll…” but he stopped, swallowing the lump in his throat as he cupped your cheek with his rough hand.

“Dally..” you whispered softly, snapping him out of that thought as he let out a soft sigh before picking up the moist cloth.

“S.. sorry.” he murmured, it was uncharacteristic of him to apologize but you knew he meant it.

You didn’t relish in hearing degrading words towards other girls, even if it was Sylvia. It just made you feel sick, and Dallas noticed that.

He continued his ministrations from earlier as the room fell into a silence of him caring for you and you obliging to ease him up, even if you were the one who needed the most consulting.

“It sorta feels like the roles reversed, I’m usually the one takin’ care of ya.” You mumbled, cutting the previous silence as a quiet chuckle escaped Dallas’ lips.

“Yeah, ain’t that right?” He smirked and continued tending to you before he pushed everything aside, wrapping an arm around your waist as he slipped down beside you on the couch and lifted you onto his lap.

“Pretty girl.. such a pretty girl.. can’t believe that crazy broad ever touched ya. I’m makin’ sure she ain’t ever do that again though.. damn it.” Dallas muttered while brushing a strand of hair out of your face, being extra delicate as he could with his touch.

“Okay, Dally..” you giggled softly, leaning your face towards his as you captured his lips into a gentle kiss in which he reciprocated.

It seemed like the two of you just needed a kiss to calm yourselves down that night.

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

M4 is cute

now we need angst because suffering builds character

she has to mercy kill her s/o

(GFL Short Fic) M4A1 mercy killing her S/O

Alternate Title: Cinnamon Roll M4A1 becomes Punished Venom M4A1 (faster than she already did anyway)

M4's already gone through unfathomable amounts of suffering in the first game. In fact, I'm like 60% sure she's actually dead as of writing.

==

It has been 2 weeks since M4A1 had seen you captured by Sangvis forces. Anti-Rain is called off from a search and rescue operation in order to defend a Griffin Base under attack.

Word Count: 1.6k

Content Warning: You (Reader) finna die, cuz. Die, real good.

M4A1 sighed as she shifted her rifle sling while she knelt, trying to scan the Sangvis Outpost for any trace of S/O. Scanning the area came back with a negative, your signature was still nowhere to be found. Even though it had gone offline two weeks ago when one of the Ringleaders kidnapped you, she hadn't lost hope.

Or rather, she refused to. Not until she at least found a body. Under orders from the Commander, she and the rest of Anti-Rain were sent to find you, alive or otherwise.

Something M4A1 kept silently thanking the Commander for, seeing as he didn't want to lose you either. Though for her, it was more personal, something the rest of the team at knew.

(M16A1) "M4."

Her squadmate's stern voice snapped her out of her reverie. M16A1 had her arms crossed, though her eye had a sympathetic look to it, putting a hand on her shoulder.

(M16A1) "Let's report back. I think we've searched all we can today."

(M4A1) "Right. I didn't see their signature here either..."

M4 SOPMOD II hummed to herself, though not out of boredom, it sounded more like she was thinking. To that, ST AR-15 raised an eyebrow and turned to her.

(ST AR-15) "What?"

(SOPMOD) "I was just thinking...Don't the patrols here seem really light to you lately?"

(M4A1) "We're still near Griffin territory, it makes sense why they'd be smaller."

SOPMOD shook her head.

(SOPMOD) "Yeah, but they know we've been poking around! Shouldn't they increase security or else we'd find S/O?"

The group remained silent at that, not entirely sure how to answer. Instead of one of them speaking up however, Kalina did instead.

[Kalina's Voice] "Anti-Rain, do you copy?!"

Hearing the panicked voice of their Commander's right hand man, M4A1 immediately responded, her eyes flashing momentarily.

(M4A1) "Affirmative, what's happening?"

[Kalina's Voice] "Sangvis has launched a massive assault on the base closest to you and the Commander! We're sending the Black Hawk for you to intercept!"

(M4A1) "Understood, send us the coordinates!"

(M16A1) "Tch, guess we found out where they were going!"

(ST AR-15) "Why now of all times-?!"

Suddenly, all their scanners began beeping rapidly, the four in unison finding the source.

...It was S/O's signature in front of the area where Sangvis was sending its forces.

...

(Commander) "Shore up the defenses! Don't let them get too close!"

The Commander directed the T-Dolls in front of the base as he reached for the pistol in his holster. Bullets whizzed by his head and into the concrete of the base, gritting his teeth as a nearby explosion sent dirt flying onto him.

(MP7) "W-Where did they even come from?!"

(OTs-14) "Incoming wave to our left! They're sending in heavy armor!"

(Commander) "Shit! Prepare to retreat, we don't have the ordinance to-"

A wave of bullets struck down the advancing Sangvis Dolls from above, hearing the roaring blades of the Black Hawk soar in overhead.

[M4A1's Voice] "Anti-Rain, deploying onto the field!"

The Commander saw his team drop in dangerously close to the frontline, making him reach for his headset.

(Commander) "Pull back, it's too dangerous for you to get that close!-"

[M16A1's Voice] "Sir, it's S/O!"

What? Did they find them?

(Commander) "...Clarify?!"

The heavy armor stomped over the hill, resembling some kind of spider tank with a strange cylindrical tube on its hull, the main cannon protruding from the bottom of the machine and powering up to fire on the base.

Before the Commander could shout to take cover, Anti-Rain leapt out of the Black Hawk and came crashing down onto the tank, staggering it backwards as the shot went wild, firing into the air and momentarily scrambling communications to static.

[M16A1's Voice] zzrrt!- "-m the tank!"

(Commander) "Repeat, I'm losing you!-"

[M4A1's Voice] "S/O's signature is coming from the tank!"

The Commander and the other T-Dolls froze when they heard M4A1'S voice clearly, looking back to the machine that retreated back from AR Team's efforts.

(Commander) "Oh no..."

...

M16 and SOPMOD struggled to stay on as they shot at weak points in the hull, their eyes still on the metallic cylinder. M4A1 and ST AR-15 were thrown off, avoiding its stomping legs as the dirt caved under its force.

(ST AR-15) "Is the cylinder the power source?!"

(M4A1) "It must be, I'm going in!-"

(ST AR-15) "WAIT!-"

M4A1 leapt onto one of the legs and kept her grip on the metal frames, even as it kept crashing into the ground making her entire body reverberate. M16A1 and SOPMOD managed to damage the turrets on its main body guarding the cylinder, but were forced to jump off, leaving M4A1 alone.

The Anti-Rain leader rushed open to the Cylinder, looking for some kind of hatch to open what she assumed was the door. Barely keeping her balance, she grit her teeth as her hands found an opening in the cracks, tearing it open-

Her eyes going wide when she saw S/O facing her, skin completely pale with wires and machinery hooked up into them.

(S/O) "M....4...?"

Their voice barely came out as a whisper, the sound of the tank and hum of machinery nearly drowning them out.

(M4A1) "S/O...?!"

The Spider Tank momentarily halted, almost powering down, confusing the team.

(M4A1) "What...did they do to you?!"

(S/O) "R-...Run...!"

And the tank sprung back to life, flailing more violently as the whining metal made it seem like it was howling in pain, M4A1 holding onto the cylinder for dear life as she lost her footing.

Hanging on with her fingers, she gripped the metal so hard that it completely bent, yanking herself back down to solid footing, looking to see where she could disconnect S/O.

(M4A1) "I'm not leaving you behind!"

(S/O) cough "M...M4...L-Listen to me!"

S/O coughed out blood as they struggled to yell, the machine in a perpetual state of losing and gaining control of itself.

(S/O) "You...need to destroy this thing...! With...me in it!"

(M4A1) "Shut up! I'm not doing that!-"

(S/O) "I...can't hold back much longer! If it takes over again, I'm not gonna be able to stop the cannon!-"

M4A1 grit her teeth, frantically looking for some way to power the machine down.

(S/O) "Look at me...I'm barely human anymore...I can't disconnect from this, otherwise I'll-"

(M4A1) "JUST SHUT UP! I'M GETTING YOU OUT, S/O!"

S/O's arms managed to lift, one final time to put their palm on the bottom of her neck. Despite how much pain it caused them to move, how much blood was coming from their mouth, they still struggled out a smile.

(S/O) "...Thank you for not giving up on me, M4."

With the last of their strength, S/O managed to shove M4 backwards, causing her to stagger and fall off the Tank as it abruptly halted, its legs twitching, though for how long the squad didn't know.

(M16A1) "M4! Use my case!-"

M16A1 tossed the massive weapon case she had been carrying towards M4 as she fell, managing to grab it as she landed perfectly.

(M4A1) "S/O is inside, I think the Sangvis programming has control of them! We need to-"

M16A1 clutched onto M4's shoulders, her voice yelling but her eye held as much sadness as her little sister's.

(M16A1) "I know! We heard it...we all did! But once Sangvis programming takes hold, there's no going back! We have to take them out!-"

M4 remained quiet, and yanked the case to climb back up the leg, joined by ST AR-15.

(M16A1) "SOPMOD, help me disable the gun!"

With gunfire echoing below her, M4A1 climbed back up to the top, roaring as the case unfolded itself into a cannon, aiming it right at the cylinder where S/O was resting.

(ST AR-15) "Fire, quickly! The tanks coming back online!"

M4A1 yelled out, as if it would give her the resolve to fire upon the human she loved faster, holding the trigger but stopping when S/O's head lifted. They gave her a gentle smile, speaking quietly, though M4A1 knew exactly what they said reading their lips.

(S/O) "M4...It's sad, isn't it?"

(M4A1) "...I-I CAN'T!-"

ST AR-15 rushed over to M4, grabbing ahold of her arms and forcing her hand to squeeze the trigger, firing the cannon with such a violent burst that it sent the two of them flying back, vaporizing the cylinder in a clean blast that scorched the entire top of the tank, and annihilated the power core.

The tank roared to a stop, collapsing onto the ground while M16A1 and SOPMOD caught their squadmates.

The case folded back into itself, laying on the dirt next to M4 as she silently stared into the sky, eyes half open as sound slowly came back to her.

(ST AR-15) "Commander...Threat has been neutralized."

The tone of her voice indicated no joy in reporting it, shutting her eyes along with SOPMOD.

[Commander's Voice] "...U-Understood. Sangvis Forces are in retreat. OTs-14 is sending a squad to retrieve you all."

(ST AR-15) "Copy. Awaiting arrival, STAR out."

M4A1 remained on the ground staring at the clouds that drifted by, almost in a daze.

(SOPMOD) "I'm...not getting S/O's signature anymore."

M16A1 moved to pick her case back up, before kneeling down to her little sister, and hugging her tight as she leaned her to sit upright.

(M16A1) "I'm so sorry, M4..."

Hearing her words broke something in M4A1, as she immediately punched her shoulders before sobbing into them, with M16A1 holding her head closer as her one eye shut.

ST AR-15's grimace grew before feeling SOPMOD squeeze her wrist, making her look over. SOPMOD opened her mouth and gestured silently at M4A1, but she shook her head no.

She couldn't comfort her squad mate after essentially forcing her to kill the human she loved. That was something she couldn't forgive herself for, even if it had to be done.

Anti-Rain remained quiet, except M4A1's sobs who continued, even when evac arrived with the Commander, the members silently looking at the remains of the tank, and where S/O used to be...

[lea-sbian]

Currently no context but I have a vision and I must create

[stirdrawsandreblaws]

hate hitting the point in doing a thing where you're 90% done but the last 10% is a wall because it's about refining everything you've done prior

tedious!!! don't want to!!!! someone take the last bit and make it pretty!!!!! and finished!!!!!!!! please!!!!!!!!!!!

[bijoumikhawal]

Tagged by @idonotbitemythumbatyou !

Rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. People send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

I dont have my ask open rn so i supoose just comment on this post/reblog

Gatak Nila (trans: may indigo find you, an Egyptian idiom/swear meaning something like "go to hell")

Raska and Kel

Oral lessons

Julian contraption

Julian gets ASIT bc garak is hanging onto life by a thread

Julian and Sisko co-domming

Garak tries to get Julian to Dom him post Empok Nor

Weeds and Panache

I tag @dreamerdrop @tokidokifish @wanderingwriter87 @oddeyelesbian and anyone else who wants in!

[the-meme-monarch]

ooouuuuu friend.ship test. hi friendship test. I’ve had a break from commissions bc I’m waiting for an answer back before I can proceed so I’ve been able to just watch friendship test hi friendship test hi. hi. just finished act 7. act 7 has hands

[randomwriteronline]

Bionicle and Plato's Cave: Mata Nui help us Random has been thinking again

HI. MY BRAIN HAS ONCE AGAIN BEEN SCRAMBLED. WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING.

A thing about stories is that there aren't really fully, one-hundred percent original ones. This is not a bad thing, it just happens.

Stories keep repeating one another whether we like it or not, maintaining their own identities through a variety of changes, and Bionicle repeats many, many stories within itself: you've got Polynesian mythos, fantasy epics, dystopian fiction, cosmic horrors, torahic and/or biblical episodes, a subversion of Pinocchio, an Odissey cut short... The works. I'm half certain one would manage to fit some parts of the Divine Comedy in there, probably.

But speaking of deeply allegorical works, the Organic Annal is that too - specifically bearing a resemblance to one of Greek philosopher Plato's most famous allegorical myths, that of the cave.

For those who do not know it, please have a simplistic bastardized version of its first half, which is the most relevant in this case:

A group of men have been, since birth, shackled within the deepest recesses of a cave. They are sat facing a wall upon which a fire casts the shadows of figurines (a tree, a donkey, a vase, etc) placed before it: this is all they've ever known, what they perceive to be reality. Imagine, then, that one of these prisoners manages to free themself from their restraints, and for the first time looks back. Thus they discover the figurines, the fire, and the lie they thought was truth; and though it would be easy to consider these new idols the "true" reality, the prisoner looks past them and sees that the cave stretches forward. As such they crawl through it until they reach the outside world: the sunlight forces their eyes down as they are not used to it yet, and their first taste of this new environment is a reflection in a puddle, or maybe a lake, wobbly and not quite clear. Only when they've accustomed to the Sun they can raise their head and properly discover the real world.

The myth of the cave is an allegory for the philosopher's quest in search of true knowledge, which resides not in the imperfect physical world, but in the perfect metaphysical realm of ideas.

This is not, necessarily, the allegory I believe the Innard Scoresheet represents.

The Biological Chronicle is, to me, a story about stories. About making stories, about being swept in the flow of a story, about recreating ourselves in stories over and over and over again.

I promise it will probably make more sense later.

But back to the point: the myth and the Flesh Record follow a similar structure and have a similar message. That is the thesis of this post until I inevitably get derailed again. Let's look at that.

In applying the steps (shadow, copy, reflection, reality) of the philosopher's journey towards enlightenment to the Meat Diaries, I'll do what Plato would bludgeon my head with a stick for and take them much more literally: the places described are physical ones, and the characters actively move between them. This is not because of any personal wish to specifically spite some dead Athenian fuck, but because that is literally what happens in the Entrail Annotations, whether through actual movement or changes of perspective.

The island of Mata Nui is of course the first step: shadows cast upon a cave wall.

There is a certain irony in this. Mata Nui shares the same allegorical location as the cave, yet physically is its complete opposite - an open space signaling the end of an enormous interconnected system of caves. The journey starts from the end. Great job everybody, we've found reality! This philosophy shit is easy.

But the island is still very much the cave. It looks prettier and livelier than the cave, but it's still a prison in which the Matoran have been confined with no chance of escaping; it's still cut off from the world at large, be it beneath it ir around it; it's still a place where beings who do not know any better blindly believe what is told to them. Only seven people know the truth (or what they believe to be the truth) and spin it in tales of shadow puppets: simplistic retellings full of gaps to fill with magic and terror and prophecies. The Turaga mean no harm - they had no way to know when or if they would have ever returned to Metru Nui, and it made no sense reminding the Matoran of a place they may end up agonizing to see without being able to - but it remains that Mata Nui is a cave, a prison of ignorance.

Things change after Mask of Light: shackles broken and door opened, the silver sea stretches before the Matoran and offers them a sight familiar yet different, more defined.

Metru Nui is the figurine, the copy held in front of the fire. It's the first introduction to the Matoran Universe proper, the first step towards the cave's exit. Here we see how the Matoran are supposed to work, how this sort of society is meant to function, and it... well, it sort of sucks the joy out of it, doesn't it? The soft edges of the figurine's shadow have been replaced by hard protodermis sides that leave no room to the imagination, letting us see the craftmanship clearly. And it's... it's kind of unpleasant. Kind of dull and mean and so... unmagical. I'd like the shadows again please. Those were nicer.

(Plato describes this exact happenstance in the philosopher's journey - upon seeing something closer to the truth one might feel repelled and want to return to simpler times. But we persevere. We must.)

Or perhaps this step is not Metru Nui itself, but the Turaga's recollection of it. The city they knew is now gone, abandoned to itself and rotting miserably alone for a thousand years, and yet they still cling to that pristine image their minds have sculpted for it, forgetting details, crafting imperfect copies of its reality: their own stories place it in a time before time, turn it as they say in a "city of legends", of great minds and a great hero and a strange tension pervading it that they might not consciously recognize. This is their basis for the stories they told, and they believe it to be the truth. It is not. The truth is deeper behind them.

The Matoran Universe as a whole is a reflection in the water. We've gotten out of that cave, but it's still too bright and our eyes can't adapt quickly enough: this will have to do for now.

But what is it a reflection of? A body? That's a given, since the whole thing is housed inside one. Yet this body does not behave like a body, its organs don't act like organs. They are landmarks and settlements, and there are species and parties involved in their own more or less treacherous businesses, and death is everywhere and seldom spares anybody, and evil isn't a singular incomprehensible thing but many perfectly identical pieces, and everything is happening all the time and I would like a break. Please. I can't handle all of this. It's too close to how everything already is. Let's go back to the figurines. They were worse than the shadows, but not to this extent. Please. I just don't want to see the bad guys win. I just don't want to see my friends die.

(Upon seeing something closer to the truth one might feel repelled and want to return to simpler times. But we persevere. We must.)

The Matoran Universe is a terrible place, but it's still far away. The edges are wobbly when the surface shifts: the stakes are universal in size, the rivalries are exaggerated, the situations are fantastical, the evil so terrible and terribly simple. It does what it does because it simply does it, and after all why else should it do it? In its increasing complexity it's still simple and sometimes a bit silly. It's still dolls that you can hold in your hand to make fly around.

As @sepublic mentions briefly here, Bara Magna is by contrast just so human. Before the big bombastic Rock-Em-Sock-Em Jumbo Edition ending and peeling away the sci-fi elements, these are stories of people trying to live. This is reality.

People are sleazy. People have priorities that not always include the well-being of other being put first. People are evil for reasons beyond just "power" or "money" or "why not". Strakk is a massive selfish bastard and also he is the one motherfucker who gets me because to be very honest I too would not want to wade through a desert crawling with quicksand and huge bat winged serpents and raptor riding marauders and spartans so bloodthirsty they don't even name their children until they make a new body count record without being paid well enough. Mata Nui's idealized honor makes him a complete anomaly because nobody is a prince in shining armor here. They're all covered in bones and doing their best not to start a war again.

Even his quest, despite what it entails and how solemnly he presents it and the information we as readers have (his identity as a usurped god exiled from his own body), is surprisingly real - in fact, his struggle is actually the same as Kiina's: both of them are strangers to the region suddenly separated from their people during a time of great strife and desperately wanting to reunite with them. The difference being that while Kiina had no chance to do such a thing, Mata Nui was built to fix both of their problems.

This is what the Matoran Universe is made in the image of. And while it very much deviated across time, the core of it remained the same: elemental tribes and variegated species caught in a dance of death, biting each other's tails endlessly.

This is the world the MU beings find once fully free. It's rough, but they've been through something like this before.

They'll handle it.

They always have.

That is the will of the Non-Mineral Journal.

Of Bionicle, the story-that-ended.

BUT.

Not necessarily of Bionicle, the story-that-does-not-end.

Now we are getting into "Random Experiences Getting The Brain Scrubbed By The Hard Back Of A Sponge And Makes It The Problem Of Everybody Listening To The Inane Yelling" territory. I'm talking walking into headcanon if not straight up just fanfiction territory. Possibly also sensible speculation but I don't know how to tell. Please do come smack me if you feel it is needed.

It's wild that Bionicle has managed to endure for what now (2024) are 23 years. The endless rebuildable possibilities intrinsic to being a LEGO product have certainly helped, but at the same time I really do feel like it wouldn't have held this strongly without its story.

I will admit I'm not a building kind of person. I had some ancient LEGO bricks when I was little and what I usually did with them was stacking them in a really tall line and try to keep it upright until they fell and scattered like lemmings booking it for a cliff. Getting into Bionicle would have never been possible for me had my dear beautiful friend @cantankerouscanuck not innocently dropped me links to Legends of Metru Nui, Web of Shadows, and the Crosswired Geeks website asking if I could have please considered skimming through it. This was back in september 2023. These pieces of plastic have been irreversibly fucking up my brain for nine months, and it was only possible because the plot and characters were written in a way that actively sunk its teeth into my skull and did an alligator death spin so potent that I'm still reeling from it, thinking about it.

I do think that's one of the main reasons why it's still going, why people still talk about it. It lives on through fans who still look at all the enormous potential left by the gaps and holes in the story and work on them, analyze them, make their own versions of them. So this second section is about that part of Bionicle, the story that just does not end, carried on by others.

So back to the point, what actually kickstarted this entire line of thought (the Squishy Note and the allegory of the cave are sort of the same lol) was a headcanon I have about the characters that have been actually missing from this analysis: the Great Beings.

You Know.

The Guys Who Kickstarted Every Single Thing, And Notably Continuously Did All Of It Wrong.

From my own prior knowledge I had understood that they are all Glatorian, and I just learned that they also were, apparently, given their incredible weird fucked up mental powers that made them into godly creatures by a space octopus.

I am going to take both pieces of information and discard them.

There is nothing necessarily wrong with them, except maybe coming from the leftest field available like a sack of granite to the face, but I feel like this kind of explanation for who and what they are isn't really satisfactory to me specifically. It does fit with the allegory of the cave still, technically - they are part of the real world, the ones who created every layer of detachment from it on purpose (somebody must have shackled those prisoners at the bottom of the cave, after all) and have managed to get to a higher level of reality still, following the platonic quest for knowledge into something that resembles the iperuranium, the perfect metaphysical world in which ideas reside.

But also... I'd like for there to be a limit to how higher we can go, you know? Into the cosmic horror? Because everything is cosmic horror in the Doctor's Report already. We live on a god's face. We live in a god's body. We are a god's cells. Our universe is a tiny manmade action figure in a larger universe. Our god is just a synthetic soul. The real older gods made it and sent it around to do their bidding. Also they're all gonna kill us when we figure out our universe is fake. Cosmic horror. Cosmic horror for miles. These are fucking LEGOs. Why is there so much existentialism in them.

So yeah, at the cost of sounding boring the psychic octopus from outer space might be a little bit too far for my personal tastes.

This does not mean I am immune to adding onto the cosmic horror.

Because my personal interpretation of who/what they are still adds onto the cosmic horror.

It just doesn't also include "giant aquatic fauna with psychic powers" in the already very large salad of sentient sapient species who have stakes in this universe, because I think we have enough of those.

So what is my platonic ideal form for them?

The Great Beings are human beings. Straight up just people. They're the readers, the players, the writers, the designers, the creators and tellers of the chronicle itself - they have this immense dominion over everything around them because they are the origin of everything around them in a sense, but their constant failings make sense because for all the influence and power they are still human, and that makes them very, very fallible. I mean, mr Greg "I will rewire your brain chemistry forever with some of the best stuff you'll read as a kid, and also for undiscernible reasons doors aren't canon" Farshtey would be one of them. Things make a lot of sense.

(this is impossible in Stone Cold Canon by the way and I am aware, because if we got to properly see the Great Beings they would have needed to be products to sell, but this is not a matter of probability it's a matter of Vision. like can you imagine how fucking cool would have been a Bonkle movie where the characters finally meet the Great Beings face to face and when it happens the style just completely shifts from 3D animation to a stop-motion and live-action combo with the Great Beings played by people and the characters portrayed by their actual sets with all of the lack of expression and stiff hands and all. do you see it. im about to blow up)

And so, we return to the allegory.

What are the shadows on the wall? Are they still the Turaga's tales? Then shouldn't they be their memories, as well? Everything that comes out of their mouth is hazy either with nostalgia or simplification, and none of it can be real. Yet they present it as such, because to them it is. Their ignorance is the same as the Matoran's, but they do not grasp it because they can't. Mata Nui to them is not the cave, it's the reflection in a lake: an imperfect mirror of reality. They cannot see the fire nor the figurines.

They are the figurines. Man-made creations confined under artificial light in a vast underground system, as large as a whole galaxy and yet so small, so isolated, so far back into the cave they are never meant to know anything other than. The shadows were their own but they can't realize that, and they can't realize they themselves are copies. The Matoran Universe is a puppet show that Teridax shuts down as he takes its reigns: he banishes its fire, Mata Nui (who is a gnostic Demiurge, a god made by gods demanding worship despite its falsehood - another copy not fully aware of being a copy) and shuts the entrance, plunging it all into darkness. No more knowledge. It is not something dolls need, after all.

Bara Magna is not the last step. It is not yet reality, not yet the truth. It's closer, much closer, but it's not: it's the lake, the puddle, the reflection that distorts when something is thrown into it. The stakes are more realistic, the characters and motivations, but not yet real. There is still a layer of separation: the elemental powers, the alien setting, the strange beasts, the supernatural history, the secrets pointing to things much bigger and more fantastical than anything reality could be, the way it is cut short by no fault of its own. What does it reflect? It's not the Matoran Universe, since that is a model based on Bara/Spherus Magna. It's not Mata Nui, because that is an attempt at recreating what the Matoran Universe was, at least in part. So... Is it the real world? Our, world?

It must be.

The Great Beings (us, the players and readers and writers and artists) shaped all of this. This universe is their creation, their work, and it is based on what they know, on their reality, because all stories are.

Maybe it was a story as close to real as possible that turned fantastic and wild until it became mythical, or maybe it was a simple story that grew so complex and grounded that it became life-like. It doesn't matter. It's a long story, a really, really long one, and maybe they're tired of it, or maybe they don't know what to do with it, or maybe they just think it has run its course, or maybe... Maybe they don't know how to tell it again. Tell it like this again.

So... I guess the thing to do is clean up.

Full tabula rasa.

And once we're done we can take these figurines we still have left, the last proof of all this immense work, this spiraling dive into who and what we are, how we function, how we create, how we imitate and recreate ourselves in fictional worlds that are our own and yet completely alien over and over, and make new ones. Distorted reflections that become imperfect copies to place before a fire so that their shadows can play out a new story upon a cave wall, for those same dolls to believe they are real.

God I got sidetracked severely

[spikek1tty]

i wanna chew on him so bad

[coconi]

A-Z Drabble Practice #17

"Quadrant D clear."

Omega's ocular receptors dim, finishing their nightly perimeter scan. Team Dark's quarters return to darkness.

Voice modulator: off. Proceed with final step.

Moving as quietly as his metallic body will allow, Omega trudges towards the two closed doors on the other side of the apartment. He lingers by each in turn, allowing his sensors to delve and scan past them. Two sets of vitals. Stable. Within normal sleep parameters.

Satisfied, Omega enters his room and slumps against the wall amidst his few possessions: spare ammunition, polish, crane game plushes, a singed photograph…

Mission complete. Initiating scheduled stasis.

(Previous)

[burningcheese-merchant]

Ok fuck it. Fuck it I need to rant. I'm disappointed to the high heavens. This just looks like X and Y again. It just looks like they finally bothered to get off their asses and make Pokémon Z like everyone begged for 10+ years ago and they're trying to relabel it as a Legends game. You know what the word "legend" means? It means OLD!!! It's a fantastical tale of days long past! PAST! NOT FUTURE! Why are we in the future!!! There are no legends about the damn future, only the past!!!

How cool would it have been if we were in the Pokémon equivalent of Napoleonic France? If the protagonist was from a lower-middle-class family (maybe even lower, a genuinely struggling protagonist would be interesting, especially within this time period), who set out with their Pokémon to earn money to help out, only to end up caught in the middle of a nationwide shitstorm? What if you ventured throughout the region, through the beaches and mountains and beautiful French/Kalosian countryside, all the way to Paris/Lumiose, where the societal rot is at its most obvious and damning? What if the "evil team" wasn't evil at first, just a band of revolutionaries with their hearts in the right place, seeking change and justice for the broke and starving public against the laziness and corruption of the self-absorbed elite? What if the villain was the king at first, because he and the other royals really are as awful as they're stated to be? What if there were (optional, because not everyone was against the French monarchy) side quests to help spread revolutionary propaganda or help the rebels earn money, gather resources, toughen up their Pokémon in preparation for future battles against the royals? Hell, what if there was a rival group of royalists who acted as the rebels' foil, whom you can also help and hinder as much or as little as you liked?

What if there was an honest-to-God violent coup where people and Pokémon stormed the royal palace and destroy everything in sight (and you could be there, battling guards or something)? What if the king was challenged to a battle and lost miserably, proving once and for all how weak and pathetic he is, and thus overthrown and exiled (can't execute him, this franchise is too cowardly to evolve past being milquetoast kiddie shit)? What if the rebel leader, with his dear Empoleon beside him, took his place and crowned himself emperor right then and there, to the overwhelming joy of his followers and sympathizers, dismay of his opponents, and whatever it is the player chooses to feel, because there should be a genuine undercurrent of historical, political and philosophical discussion about all of this throughout the story that encourages us to form our own thoughts and opinions about the situation?

Only for the rebel leader, the Napoleon figure, to turn out worse than the king ever was, and his close subordinates immediately going mad with their newfound power and practically destroying the country. Then they really ARE the evil team for real this time, because they became the tyrants they sought to destroy, and depending on the player's past actions, it might partially be their fault that they succeeded. Imagine the Pokémon equivalent of the fucking Reign of Terror. People and Pokémon being attacked, imprisoned, exiled (again, they're too chickenshit to kill people. Tens of thousands died during the REAL Reign of Terror). Imagine your new mission going from trying to flee Lumiose and go home (only to fail, because they won't let anyone leave outside of being formally exiled out of fear/paranoia about uncontrolled dissidents) to taking an active role against the new regime, battling police to bust innocents out of jail, reuniting families and friends torn apart by fear and force? Imagine a heated battle against the stand-in for Maximilien Robespierre to help put an end to the madness!!! What if you went to libraries and picked up newspapers and listened to the telegraph and discovered everything has been censored in some way? What if you went into houses and found depressed wives and mothers and sisters and daughters, and opened letters from the men in their families (and their Pokémon, too) who were conscripted into the Kalosian army because the Emperor is trying to wage wars against neighboring regions to fulfill territorial ambitions (which actually did happen, Napoleon's France was constantly at war, which majorly tanked the economy because all the men were sent off to die or be horrifically injured. Remember when they tried to invade Russia? Over half a million troops went, barely 1/6 of them came back)? The climax of the story + defeat of the Emperor in battle can be a nod to the Battle of Waterloo!!! The post-game can have the player looking for runaway rebels like how you hunted for the Sages in post-game Black and White! What if there was a limited time mystery gift event where you could win a ferry ticket to the island the former Emperor is imprisoned on, JUST LIKE THE ACTUAL NAPOLEON, and there was a final cutscene between you and him where you discuss everything that happened and he asserts that he did what he had to and he still believes that he was acting in Kalos's best interest!!! Because many of the revolutionaries really did think that way, they believed they were doing right by France!!! Even when they jailed and murdered thousands of innocent people!!!

But no, we don't get cool shit like that, we get AZ running a fucking inn for whatever reason and an "urban redevelopment plan" that's literally just "let the Pokémon trash half the city with zero repercussions or any consideration for the homes and businesses in the areas they overrun". What the fuck man

[lordsardine]

.

[becauseplot]

Touching Base

Just a little Roommates/Cellmates AU oneshot because they live in my head like how Cell lives in Felps' apartment: rent-free. (Also because I am procrastinating on bigger projects rn.) (What who said that.)

Takes place a couple years after the events of Miss Me? and Shared Living Space. Cell has officially started going by Cellbit, a relatively recent development. He still sleeps on the couch, but that's mainly because the second "bedroom" in the apartment is used for Felps' storage and both of them dread having to clear it out. He has a job and puts most of that money towards groceries, new clothes, and therapy. Felps---finally working at a station where his superiors don't hate his guts---covers pretty much everything else.

(TWs: discussions of killing/murder, light allusions to suicide in a joking manner (they're fine, someone's just being dramatic). they are having a conversation that is oh so very normal for two friends to have yesyes. tbh this was supposed to be way more light hearted but then the angst. the angst...)

Key ring dangling from his finger, Cellbit shoulders his way through the apartment door, juggling a box of redstone bulbs, a stack of spam mail, and the library book that doesn’t quite fit in his over-full messenger bag. “Felps?”

There's no verbal answer, but over the back of the couch, Cellbit sees a tired hand rise and wave. There’s a dull whump when it drops back down.

Cellbit, taking this and the fact that the TV isn't even on, raises an eyebrow. "Long day?" There's a muffled groan in response, and that's all Cellbit needs to hear to get the gist of it. He wiggles his keychain off his finger and into the dish before shutting the door behind him with his foot and heading to the table, where he dumps off his things. Hands free, he slips his bag off his shoulder and sits down to take off his work boots. Once he's got them off, he takes a moment to slump back in the chair, relief washing over his aching back and shoulder, before he picks himself up and heads over to see what the situation is.

The situation, it seems, is as follows: Felps is lying on his back on the couch, still wearing his uniform, with a pillow pressed into his face like he's trying very, very hard to smother himself with it.

Cellbit sits himself down on the floor with his side against the foot of the couch, right by Felps. He plants an elbow on the cushions and drops his chin into the heel of his hand. "So. Who do I need to kill?"

Felps groans again and shifts the pillow off his face just enough to free his mouth. "Me. Kill me, please. Kill me. Literally just kill me."

"Ehhh," Cellbit says. "You know, I did that once, and you didn't like me very much after that."

"Cellbit I am begging you. You'd be doing me a favor."

"Mm, no. I don't think so." He pokes one of the fingers Felps has dug into the cushion. "Now come on—a name, an address. Give me something to work with here, Felps."

Felps sighs and finally yanks the pillow off his face, flipping his hands around and throwing it into his lap. His hair is a complete, frazzled mess, though Cellbit supposes that's the least of his worries. "No one's getting killed. This isn't a problem you can fix by killing someone."

"Except for you?"

"Except for me."

"Okay. So what happened?"

Felps makes a pained noise and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. At least he's not suffocating this time. "Davi," he mumbles.

Cellbit blinks. Usually, he has a hard time keeping all of the names of Felps' coworkers, friends, and acquaintances straight in his head since there's so many of them, but this one registers immediately. He takes this in, looks at Felps agonizing on the couch, thinks back onto what Felps told him the other day, does some rapid mental math, and comes to the conclusion that maybe the situation actually could be fixed by killing someone. Potentially.

But before that thought can properly start, Felps flicks him against the temple. "Hey, no plotting. I'm serious."

"Plotting?" Cellbit echoes, oh-so-perplexed. "I wasn't plotting. Who said anything about plotting?"

"Cellbit."

"Who said anything about plotting the murder of the hot guy at the train station who rejected your friend after he spent two weeks working up the courage to ask him out? I sure didn't."

"Cellbit," Felps says, insistent. Cellbit stops, but only because Felps wants him to, and only because he’s joking. Really. "It's fine. It's my fault anyway. I totally fucked it up. I got the timing all wrong, and—" Felps breaks off into another horrified sound, dragging his hands down his face. "God, it was so bad. I don't want to talk about it."

"Alright. Anything I can do? That doesn't involve killing you?"

Felps pauses. He peeks at Cellbit from behind his hands. "...Grab the remote for me?"

Cellbit snorts. "Sure." He gets up (swallows a grunt; fuck, his shoulder's being funny) and grabs the remote off the TV stand. When he comes back, Felps has managed to get his-wallowing-self into an upright position so Cellbit can collapse back into the sofa beside him.

Cellbit clicks on the TV. "What're we feeling?"

"Pain."

"I mean what do you feel like watching, dumbass."

"Literally anything," Felps says with a wave of his hand.

"Right… So if I put on Blood on the Taiga—"

"Parkour tag."

"Okay, parkour tag it is."

They start to chat a little as Cellbit flicks through the minigame channels, looking for one that's broadcasting parkour tag: ("How was work at the station?" "Were the docks busy today?" "Did that warrant finally get processed?" "Is your shoulder still bothering you?" "You should probably change out of your uniform." "You should probably take a shower." "In a bit, my back has to unbreak itself first.")

It doesn't take him long to find a channel, so they end up talking through part of the first round, swapping the work updates they usually provide each other. After that, they settle in, feet up on the coffee table, shoulders pressed together. Cellbit watches the teams trade off "runners" and "hunters." Felps usually roots for the team in the blue and green jerseys, but it doesn't seem like they're playing today. Still, these teams aren't half-bad. The tall one on the red-orange team is a good hunter, Cellbit idly notes. She's light on her feet.

It's at the start of the third round that Felps speaks up again.

"So. Hypothetical question for you."

Cellbit watches the good-hunter spring off a piston-platform. "Alright."

"And this is completely hypothetical. One hundred percent, utterly hypothetical."

"Okay."

"I'd never genuinely ask this of you."

"Sure."

The good-hunter drops down a ladder, missing a tag on a runner by a hair's breadth. The squeak of her sneakers echoes through the arena.

"...If I told you I needed you to kill someone for me, would you actually do it?"

Cellbit tilts his head. The good-hunter whirls around a corner and swings herself up onto another platform. "Yeah."

He feels more than sees Felps startle beside him. "...R...Really?"

"Yeah."

"Just like that?"

"Well, like I said earlier, I'd need, like, a name. An address if you can get it. At least a general location—"

"No, no, I mean..."

Felps falters, and Cellbit takes his eyes away from the game to look up at him. Felps is staring right back, a furrow in his brow.

"...You wouldn't even question it? Or hesitate?"

Ohhh. Cellbit understands now. The morals. He was asking about the morals. "Well," starts Cellbit. He pauses. Then, he drags his feet over to the edge of the couch, legs curled up, in front of his chest. The position makes his back ache, but the rest of him feels better this way. He hangs his arms over his knees. He stares at the TV, but he's not really sure who's hunting and who's running anymore.

He sighs. "...The way I see it—you would never ask me to kill someone unless they actually deserved it. I think it would take a lot for you to decide someone needs to die, then a lot more to tell me to kill them because...you know me. I'll get it done. And I won't half-ass it either."

And if they hurt you, Cellbit thinks, with a sudden, rising fury, I'll kill them dead. I'll make it hurt. Carve their throat out with my teeth. They'll be begging for the Void long before I'm through with them.

But he lets that one go on an exhale, lets it pass wordlessly between his lips, before it can get too far. He flexes his hands, loosening them. "But..." he continues, scraping together the courage to say the rest. "You also know I'm trying not to— You know I'm better about that now. Past it. Moving past it. And you're—" He falters. His tongue darts over his lip. He bites it. "You're generally helpful in that regard, so..."

"...You don't think I'd ask you to do something that would ruin your progress unless it was serious," Felps finishes.

"Yeah." Cellbit tilts his head to either side, cracking his neck, and flexes his hands again. God, his therapist would be so fucking proud of him.

"Okay." Felps clears his throat. "Sorry if that made you uncomfortable, I just—the thought wouldn't leave me alone, and..."

"No, no, it's—it's fine. It's a good question to ask. Making sure we're on the same page, and all that. Touching base. Getting caught up. Just like we always do."

"Right," Felps says. "Just like we always do."

A beat.

"But I wouldn't. Ask that of you, I mean. I'd never ask you to kill someone for me."

"I know," Cellbit replies easily. "I heard you the first time."

(And Cellbit trusts Felps to stick to his word. Honestly, he does. But the issue—or perhaps the best part, depending on how much he wants to disappoint his therapist—is that Felps wouldn't even have to ask. In no universe would Felps ever have to ask.)

"...Oh. Okay."

"Okay."

The conversation hangs in the air, gradually dissipating. Slowly, Cellbit manages to recenter his attention on the game of parkour tag. Round four. She's hunting again, though this is her last hunting round. After that, she'll be stuck as a runner for the rest of the tournament. Felps rests his head on Cellbit's shoulder as the alarm blares and the competitors are released from their chambers. Cellbit nestles his cheek in Felps' curls. The final hunt has begun.