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majorblinks · 16 days ago

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triple dog dare (ive wonyoung)

(male reader, prompt for & much love to suchsweetstories, 6k words)

A year to the day since the last time you saw her face:

You run into Jang Wonyoung in the alley behind a seedy bar.

“Hey,” you say, and stop short.

“Hey,” Wonyoung says. She’s wearing a black dress, thin straps, hem falling past her knees. She doesn’t even look surprised to see you. Only coughs around the cigarette she’s smoking.

“I was actually just about to call you.”

“Were you?” Her voice, when unforced, is always different than you expect. Low and rich and full.

“Yeah,” you say. It’s ludicrous, running into her tonight. Like something more divine than coincidence. “I was. Happy birthday.”

Wonyoung stares at you.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t say that to me.”

It doesn’t matter that it’s been a year. Jang Wonyoung is the same as she always is. Ice-cold. No dimples. No smile. All that glossy excessive hair. Those unseeing, unblinking large round doll eyes, reflective sheen like they’re encased in plastic. She looks beautiful. She looks like a ghost. She looks like she hasn’t eaten in weeks, sickly and skeletal in the moonlight. She looks like no one you could ever love.

“Wonyoung,” you say. “Come home with me.”

She takes another drag. You shouldn’t smoke, you think of telling her; come on, you’re killing yourself. But you’d never say that. You’re not in the business of hurting her and you never have been. Plus it’s her twenty-fifth birthday and there’s only so much cruelty a girl can take, even a girl like her.

It doesn’t matter that it’s been a year. Everything between you two is still as spectacularly fucked up as it’s always been.

“Fuck you,” Wonyoung says. And then she takes your hand.

You and Wonyoung have no reason to know each other. But:

“This is my table.”

It’s seven years ago and the first time you meet is in college, when you’re waiting in an on-campus coffee shop and look up from your laptop and there’s this girl standing above you with her arms crossed, looking somewhat mutinous. “I’m sorry?” you say.

“This is my table.” No pleasantries. Actually tapping her foot at you in her prissy little ballet flat. “I sit here every time I come here.”

“Uh,” you say.

“So move,” says the girl, flatly.

“Um-”

“My God, Wonyoung, are you already torturing him?”

The switch in mood is immediate, an impossible glimpse of summer sun in mid-winter blizzard. An Yujin walks up with her dimples and tight jeans and dazzling smile and throws an arm around the girl’s stiff, slender shoulders. The effect she has on you just by walking into a room is physical. You relax the second she throws that smile your way.

“Oh,” says the girl. Looks from Yujin to you. Her expression shifts even colder, as if to compensate. But just like you, her posture relaxes too. “So he’s one of yours?”

You splutter. “One of-”

“Shush.” Yujin smacks a kiss to the girl’s cheek. “Ignore her,” she says to you. “This is Wonyoung, my best friend. And - yes, she’s always this much of a sweetheart.” Then she grins, throws a hand out to you in a flourish. “Wonyoung, this is the guy I’m going to marry when I turn thirty.”

“I’m her boyfriend,” you supply. “Nice to meet you.”

Wonyoung’s face contorts like she’s just eaten something very sour. She gives you a rather unimpressed once-over, from your hair to your shoes. You’re halfway convinced that she’s about to chew you out like a mean girl from a movie. But all she says is: “Thirty? Like, exactly? You don’t want to get married earlier?”

“I’m not going to get married in my twenties like a fucking child bride,” says Yujin, appalled. “I’m way too pretty to squander my youth like that.”

Horrifically this makes both you and Wonyoung laugh. You glance her way; she wrinkles her pert, perfect nose, disgruntled to have something in common with you.

“Thanks for saving me a seat,” Yujin says, cheerfully oblivious or very good at faking it, and plops herself down right next to you.

Somehow you all end up sharing the table for the next two hours. Obviously Wonyoung doesn’t say another word to you that isn’t snide and you roll your eyes every time she tosses that long glossy curtain of hair. But you keep having these moments where you glance up and your gazes connect, where you catch each other with mirroring grins, where she goes to kick Yujin under the table at the same time you reach for her hand. It’s uncanny and horrible. She looks at Yujin the exact same way you do; quickly it becomes clear that this is kind of the root of the problem. But it’s just kid stuff, this instant rivalry. It’s college and you’re a stupid teenager and she’s a heinous bitch. You don’t look at Jang Wonyoung and think: We’re going to know each other forever.

But that’s exactly what you do.

About how you met An Yujin:

You were taking the same two PM lecture. You both sat in the back of the class. You turned to the side on the very first day and saw bangs and bright eyes and dimples and a low-cut top and a thousand-watt smile. Hi, the girl said. Her hair was up. You couldn’t stop staring at the column of her throat. Hi, you said, dumbly. The smile got wider. Then she said: You’re really cute. Why don’t I know you? Ten minutes later you were skipping class to make out in the bathroom. A week later you were dating. I don’t believe in taking things slow, Yujin said that Saturday, following you into your shitty dorm room wearing shorts so tiny it should qualify as public indecency. She’d made you laugh and then sucked your soul out through your dick and then made you laugh again. Naturally you have come to the conclusion that you have miraculously stumbled across the love of your life. But she holds your hand and kisses your mouth and steals all your clothes and fucks you half to death and tells everyone who’ll listen that she’s marrying you so at least you’re pretty sure it’s mutual.

“Oh, wow,” says Wonyoung, when she hears you tell this story. “Been there.”

You gape at her for a second. Then say: “Which part?”

“Definitely the part where she fell in love with me after I gave her the best head of her life,” says Yujin.

“No,” says Wonyoung, frostily, color rising in her cheeks. “Shut up. Obviously not that. We’ve never - whatever. I meant the…” Here she mimics you: “Why don’t I know you?”

“Right.” You say. You shoot a sidelong glance at Yujin, who looks very pleased with herself. Flash of both dimples and most of her teeth. “That how she got you, too?”

“Pretty much,” agrees Wonyoung. “Seventh grade. She sat right next to me in class and said: You’re too pretty for me to not know you.” Wonyoung makes her voice nasal and smarmy with the impression, gives an exasperated little eye-roll after. But there’s a tilt to her mouth that makes you think that line worked exactly the way it was supposed to. “Best friends ever since.”

“Is this what you do?” you say to Yujin, whose smile has gone so wide her eyes are nearly shut. “You just walk up to people and decide they belong to you?”

Except these days you’ve learned to know her, so you already know the answer. Oddly enough you’ve sort of learned to know Wonyoung, too. It’s weird but the months pass and the three of you hang out every week, almost every day. You skip more classes than you attend and pretend you’re studying together just to end up talking for hours and go to terrible frat parties and spend your weekends getting high in their dorm room until Yujin’s half in your lap and Wonyoung’s ice-princess face has split open in real unguarded laughter. When she looks at you in those moments it’s almost like you’re friends. But then she sees you looking and her expression goes cold and you’re certain you never will be.

“Yep,” chirps Yujin, leans in, kisses you. Pulls back with victory in her eyes. “Now you’re mine forever.”

“Alright,” you say, smiling. “I think I can be okay with that.”

She breaks up with you that spring.

She was really very nice about it in the moment, too. Said all the right things like she was reading from a playbook, held your hand to soften the blow. Her bangs were falling into her eyes and you went to brush them away before you remembered you were no longer allowed to. She sighed and said: It’s not you, it’s me. But coming out of her mouth it sounded like brave and earnest honesty instead of the world’s worst cliché. What happened to being yours forever? you wanted to say, and didn’t. Like she’d heard it anyway, Yujin smiled sadly. So sympathetic and sorry. I’m sorry things have to be like this, she told you. I never meant to break your heart. But you stared at those dimples and you knew better. Does it really matter if I left you? that smile said. You still belong to me.

Is there any way we can still be friends? Yujin asked, blinking up at you hopefully.

Of course, you said, sick with love for her. Always.

“Damn,” says Wonyoung, when she hears the news. She’s doing that thing where she makes her voice higher than it actually is, as if the princess-like benevolence will cover all the sarcasm. “Tough break. I really thought you guys were in it for the long haul.”

“We’re better off as friends,” you say. “Just like you and her, right? Friends.”

Wonyoung’s doll eyes narrow to slits. You watch her fingers twitch, each nail painted pink like viscera. But all she says is, “Right,” voice still sugar-sweet, and somehow turns away without strangling you.

And, well. Probably you’ll hate each other's guts forever. Probably she’ll murder you some other time. But you’re Yujin’s two favorite people in the world - that’s a tie that won’t break easily. Like being handcuffed to Wonyoung’s bony little wrist, thrashing so hard against the link between you that it leaves you both with bruises.

Or scars, one day, if you keep this up. But you’ll just have to wait and see.

A comprehensive list of your most significant memories involving An Yujin and Jang Wonyoung:

1. Freshman year finals week, the three of you holed up in the twenty-four-hour study room in the library until you accidentally fell asleep. Somehow you had all melted together on the floor like some misshapen, multi-headed body; Wonyoung was leaning against your shoulder; Yujin was kind of sprawled across both of your laps. Guys, you said, which startled Wonyoung awake. What are you… she began, peeved to be touching you, obviously about to throw some sort of fit. But then she saw that Yujin was still knocked out cold and paused. Wonyoung’s face was still puffy with sleep, mascara flaking off beneath her eyes. It was the first time you had ever seen her look less than perfect. Eventually Wonyoung said: Don’t wake her up. Then she spent the better part of an hour pressed against your side, sifting a hand through Yujin’s hair. Thing is, you probably knew Wonyoung was in love with Yujin before then. But that was the moment you were finally sure.

2. Sophomore year Yujin dated some guy who thought she hung the moon, which was the kind of worship that can really only end one way: him storming out of Yujin’s dorm and running straight into you and Wonyoung and snapping: I don’t know how you put up with her - that girl is seriously fucked up. Then he started talking shit about her to anyone who would listen. So one night you and Wonyoung and Yujin went out to the parking lot and destroyed her ex’s car. More accurately: you and Wonyoung destroyed his car while Yujin sat on the curb and cheered you on. Whatever. You were all pretty drunk. Here’s what you remember: Yujin’s wicked grin, moonlight pooling in the cup of her collarbone. Wonyoung, wearing a miniskirt and hair tied up in some complicated updo. She was so ridiculous and girlish and vain, even then: leather gloves and lip gloss as she dug a knife into some asshole’s tires. She caught you staring and scowled at you, like she was waiting for you to finish the job. So you glared back and you did. Spectating from her spot on the curb, Yujin laughed and laughed. I fucking love you guys, she hollered, and you believed her. You had never seen her happier and maybe never would.

3. Junior year Yujin started drinking a lot, and often, and destructively, to the point that you and Wonyoung began staying sober at parties just to look after her. But there was this one night where you were so tired of playing babysitter to the girl who broke your heart that you got drunk yourself and started flirting with some girl who was not nearly as gorgeous or complex or exhilarating or infuriating as An Yujin. Which was okay. Preferable, actually. But then just as you started kissing her Wonyoung stomped up to you and bodily ripped you off this girl with strength she summoned from God-knows-where and demanded to know where Yujin was. I don’t know, you said. You don’t know? she repeated, the high panicked pitch of her voice unfeigned for once. And that’s how you knew it was bad. So you two tore the place apart looking for her and eventually found Yujin locked in the upstairs bathroom. She was crying hysterically, blubbering nonsense. You were willing to step out, let her cool off. But Wonyoung knelt by the door. Please, she said. Her face was pale and tight with fear. Please open the door. I just need to know you’re okay. Tell me you’re okay. She stayed like that for twenty minutes until Yujin flung open the door and threw her body into Wonyoung’s arms, tears apparently forgotten. Wonyoung shut her eyes. As she hugged Yujin back you could see that she was trembling all over. After you’d both gotten her home and into bed Wonyoung yelled at you for a long time, for being a fucking idiot, for letting Yujin get so drunk, for leaving her alone, God, fuck, don’t you know you can’t leave her alone like that? Then she’d sunk to her knees outside of Yujin’s bedroom door and put her face in her hands and took in a deep, long breath. It’s just, she said, very quietly. There was this one night. In high school. She got so drunk, and I found her on the roof, and she was saying all these things - and then Wonyoung cut herself off. Shook her head very quickly. It doesn’t matter, she said. I worry because I have a good reason to. I’ve seen what she’s capable of.

4. Senior year you discovered Wonyoung was kind of weird about sex. You shouldn’t have ever known this. You wouldn’t have ever known this except that Wonyoung started hooking up with one of her TAs and subsequently began showing up with bruises everywhere: wrists and neck, inner thighs in her frilly skirts, ankles and thin forearms and knees. So one day you pulled her aside and said: Look, if anyone’s hurting you… But Wonyoung only stared at you blankly. Then nearly smiled. Oh, she said. No one’s doing anything to me that I didn’t beg for. Which was - fine. It was fine. Actually the thing that bothered you most about this was that Yujin was the same way. When you were dating her it had always kind of freaked you out, how hard she wanted to be hit. So one day you were talking with Yujin and Yujin made some crass joke about Wonyoung and her bruises and you just went: Why does she do it? Almost immediately Yujin replied: Because she hates herself. Obviously this shocked you. What? you said. Wonyoung? No. Why would you think that? And Yujin grinned at you with all her teeth and said: Take a wild guess.

5. Graduation, when Yujin wrapped her arms around you and Wonyoung and gave you both sloppy gross kisses on your cheeks and said: Not to be fucking disgusting right now, but you guys are going to be my best friends forever and ever and ever. You and Wonyoung groaned and complained: Yujin, ugh, that is fucking disgusting. Yeah, well, said Yujin, carefree and lovely, so high she’d never come down: Aren’t we all? And right then you met Wonyoung’s eyes and secretly thought the two of you would love An Yujin for the rest of your lives.

6. Three years ago, on Wonyoung’s twenty-second birthday, when you got the call.

There’s this one conversation the three of you have, drunk at the top level of a parking garage:

“How do you wanna go?”

Yujin’s leaning over the railing, wind in her hair. You and Wonyoung are on either side of her and trying very hard not to stare. But it’s a beautiful night and she’s got her head tipped back to the night sky and she’s smiling, dimples and all. You and Wonyoung look for so long at her that you accidentally make eye contact, just past the slope of Yujin’s nose. Probably Wonyoung’s wasted, or you are, and you’re seeing things. Because for a second you swear she almost smiles at you.

“Something painless,” Wonyoung says. It’s funny because she has a constellation of bruises on her collarbone right now, courtesy of her regular TA hook-up. You’ve never known her as a girl to shy away from pain. “Like - I just go to sleep and I never wake up. I don’t want to be afraid. That’d be the worst part.”

You look back at the moon, full and high in the sky. Say: “I agree, actually.”

“Ew,” says Wonyoung. She’s definitely smiling now; you can hear it in her voice. “Get your own way to die.”

“I think,” Yujin says. She’s speaking very softly. When you turn to her you see her eyes are closed, like she’s somewhere else entirely. “I’d want it to be exciting. Theatrical.” You watch the swanlike line of that beautiful throat bare itself to the stars. “A blaze of glory. You know me.”

“You have major issues,” says Wonyoung. But she’s laughing, and you’re so close to graduation and the endless golden possibility of the rest of your lives, and that one horrible night from junior year feels very far away. “Good luck with that blaze of glory.”

“Baby, I’m not blazing alone,” says Yujin, seriously, which sends you and Wonyoung into hysterics. “You guys know I’m taking you two down with me, right? If I’m going, you’re going.”

You and Wonyoung switch from giggling to protesting heavily about this - come on, you two say, talking over each other, except Wonyoung’s too drunk to fake her little princess voice so she’s sort of steamrolling you entirely and you’re reaching around Yujin to shove her in the shoulder, unfortunately totally in sync, variations on the same playful complaint: Yujin, God, leave us out of your fucking drama. We love you, you know we do. But let us live.

But then Yujin turns and breaks into a smile so stunning it brings both you and Wonyoung into complete silence.

“Please,” says Yujin, airily. “Like you could ever live without me.”

Three years ago, on Wonyoung’s twenty-second birthday, when you get the call:

“Hey,” you say. “What’s up? You never call me.”

But there’s a sudden and terrible unease creeping up your spine; a feeling like someone is breathing down the back of your neck. Because it’s true. Wonyoung never calls you. Unless it’s about-

“Yujin,” chokes out Wonyoung, in this horrible, sobbing gasp. “Yujin, she - she-“

She never gets the words out. But somehow you just know.

The day of the funeral-

You don’t want to talk about the funeral.

Somehow the world doesn’t stop turning. Months pass, then years. You try to move on and be normal. You get a job. You make new friends. You try to date people. You want to be as honest as you can. But there’s not really a delicate way to say that the girl you loved hung herself from her ceiling fan when you were twenty-two. So mostly you just don’t talk about it at all.

But it’s like an inevitability. Like they can all smell something tragic and wrong on you, taste the thick weight of grief in your mouth. Eventually all your girlfriends get skittish, suspicious. They don’t leave you. They want to figure you out. Going through your drawers, guessing at your passcode, scrolling through your texts. Confronting you at the end of the line: Who’s that girl in your camera roll, smiling at the lens? Who’s that girl you keep calling who never picks up the phone?

The truth always comes out, in the end. She was my favorite person in the world. She died. She’s gone.

Even the aftermath is the same. The big shocked eyes. The: Oh, I’m so sorry. The polite, perfunctory condolences, drawing you into their arms. And then, later, to all their friends: Well, I think he might be too sad, too damaged; I catch him wandering in circles around the apartment like he’s looking for something he’s lost. He says her name in his sleep. He wakes up crying. He’s too much; he’s in no place to love or be loved, and might not be for a long, long time. Yeah, I guess he’s a good guy, real nice, real sweet, but I’m leaving him - some things are just too heavy for anyone to handle.

“I don’t know why you bother trying,” Wonyoung says. “No one will ever understand you anymore.”

It’s her twenty-fourth birthday. You’re sitting on the hood of your car, sharing a cigarette. You’re not holding hands so much as you’re holding her wrist in your lap, tracing the clasp of the charm bracelet Yujin gave her when they were fifteen. Yujin had a matching one, too. They’d buried her in it. At her funeral you’d stared transfixed at that glint of gold and remembered how it used to warm with the heat of her skin and how strange it was that if you touched it in that moment it would be just as cold as she was now, would be forever. You never once looked at her face.

You thumb the twinkling charms of Wonyoung’s bracelet. You’ve seen other guys tug her around by this wrist hard enough to bruise. But you only lift her hand to your mouth and press a kiss to the soft pale center of her palm.

“You will,” you say. “You do.”

A comprehensive list of people you have spoken to about the day An Yujin died:

1. The guy who lived next door to Yujin. He’d been the one to call the cops first, actually. All the noise had woken him up. The screaming, he said. Her friend, the one who found her - she just wouldn’t stop screaming.

2. Yujin’s parents. But only very briefly. They always liked Wonyoung more than you.

3. The old lady who saw you standing on the curb, staring up at Yujin’s bedroom window. She lived across the street. Apparently she’d lived there Yujin’s whole life. Well, she told you, sighing with a shake of her head. It’s a tragedy, certainly. But we knew that one wasn’t long for this world. She wasn’t all there. She was always very fragile. Very reckless. All those hospital stays. You know she tried to kill herself before? Parents called the police and everything; terrible racket at two AM. You know she got drunk and crashed her car into that tree in our front yard? We didn’t blame her. We thought: Oh, poor girl. Everyone knew she was troubled. Plus, our lawn looks much nicer without the tree. God, sweetheart, I’m sorry for bringing up the tree. You lost much more than a silly tree. That’s horrible. That’s heartbreaking. You loved her, didn’t you? You loved her?*

4. Wonyoung. For a long time you kept having this same conversation about that night. Just tell me, you were always saying, I don’t understand, you just saw her, you were just with her, how could this have happened? Wonyoung must have heard an accusation in there somewhere because one day she turned to you and said: I don’t know what you want me to say. She was already dead when I found her. I tried. I did everything I could. I had her skin underneath my fingernails. I begged to fucking God. I couldn’t save her.**

(*Right, you said, staring up at that dark window, that childhood bedroom, the last place to feel her breathe. Yujin’s whole life. Beginning to end. She’d never even make it to twenty-two. I loved her.)

(**Don’t look at me like that, Wonyoung said. You couldn’t have saved her either.)

The day of the funeral-

You and Wonyoung decide that you’re going to go together. So in the morning you show up at her place.

Even now she’s inhumanly beautiful. Exquisite, really. Without makeup her doll eyes look wider than ever, underlined by bruiselike marks of exhaustion. She’s wearing this dress. Black, thin straps, clinging to her tiny waist, hanging past her knees. Her hair shines and cascades and never ends. For some reason you can’t stop looking at the sharp point of her left shoulder. Once someone had grown a bad habit of sinking their teeth into that shoulder, back in college. You never truly knew who. Only had a suspicion. Only saw the marks that lingered for days afterwards. The same little cuts reopened, over and over. You can’t believe she was left unscarred. You stare at her for a long while.

When you look up to her face, she’s staring back at you.

“Hey,” Wonyoung says, doll eyes gleaming with tears.

For a moment it’s as though you share a brain, and maybe a body too, fitting yourselves into the same coffin, dirt in your eyes and mouths and noses and lungs, suffocating as one. Involuntarily in sync in your train of thought, the way you always have been. This is it. Things will never be okay ever again. It’s the end of the world and the only thing we ever loved on this whole miserable planet put a noose around her neck and abandoned us. It’s just you and me, now. You and me.

“Hey,” you say. The link between you two as binding as it ever was. Or stronger, now that it’s the only thing that’s left.

Maybe that’s why you end up in her bed.

It’s terrible and torturous and hot and wet and messy and nowhere near as gentle as it should be. You fuck her like you’re trying to forget the ghost in the room, or maybe like you’re trying to summon her back to life, start the seance, make a spirit board out of her body. Hands sliding over her sharp ribs, concave stomach, pulling someone else’s postmortem from the sharp protrusion of bone. You sink your teeth into that perfect shoulder like you can taste whoever did it before you. Blood and sweat and soil over a grave. Indents of a phantom’s incisors. Wonyoung makes a horrible choked sound in the back of her throat. She pulls you off her shoulder, takes your hand, brings it up past her tummy and little tits and unbruised neck. Drags your palm over her face. Presses your thumb into her cheekbone. You dwarf her, you do. You could smother her. You could do something you can never take back.

“Hit me,” Wonyoung rasps out.

“No.” She’s dripping around your cock. “No.”

“You want to. You - you blame me.” The words come out in fitful little gasps. Halting like the stutter of your hips and the wet pulse of her cunt, like she’s trying to push you out, like she’s trying to keep you inside her forever, to replace whatever’s gone missing, to fill an impossible void. “For not saving her.” She won’t break eye contact. She won’t blink. “You think - you - you think it was my fault.”

“I don’t. I don’t.”

“You’re right, you know. It was my fault.”

“Wonyoung, shut up, stop talking-”

“Just hit me. I deserve it.” You can’t stand it. You can’t stand her. Big doll eyes and little doll mouth open and red and wet like a wound. “Hit me. Hit me, hit me, hit me-”

You’re shaking when you wrench yourself out and away from her, lurching back, leaving her body there on the bed, teeth marks in her shoulder, slick down her thighs, heaving for air. You clutch your arms to your chest like a frightened child. You put your hands somewhere they could never hurt her.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say. Your voice sounds strange. You don’t know when you started crying. “And I’d never hurt you.”

She stares up at you with true and desperate hate in her expression, unmoving, dark hair spread out beneath her like a burial ground. So pale and brittle and cold and cadaverous. She could be the dead girl in the room, the eternal haunting. She could be the beautiful thing they’re about to bury in the dirt.

“You’re a fucking coward,” Wonyoung says. And then she begins to sob.

She puts her black dress back on and you get in the driver’s seat of your car. You go to the funeral together. You don’t speak. You stand all the way in the back and see Yujin in her casket and watch her parents fall apart.

Wonyoung reaches out and takes your hand, and doesn’t let it go for a very long time.

A comprehensive list of everything that happened on the day An Yujin died:

1. Wonyoung and Yujin got into a fight.

2. It was the summer after graduation and you had driven down to their hometown to go to their birthday party. It was just Wonyoung’s birthday, technically, but they always celebrated their birthdays together - they’d done it since they turned thirteen and fourteen, one right after the other. They used to show you pictures, their two little faces and one birthday cake, Yujin’s dimples and Wonyoung’s doll eyes all lit up by candles. Except this year, just before the party, they’d apparently gotten into this huge fight. No one knew what it was about, just that it was bad enough to make them spend their entire birthday party on opposite sides of the room, staunchly ignoring each other. A big deal. But you knew they’d be okay, obviously. You were their best friend and had seen more of them together than anyone at this party so you were confident being the voice of reason. They’ll be fine, you kept telling everyone. They’ll make up. They can’t stay mad at each other forever. You were certain of this because at some point during college you’d once caught Wonyoung stumbling out of her dorm on the verge of tears, wearing Yujin’s shirt with bite marks on her shoulder, Yujin shouting something taunting and catty and cruel after her, and you realized in that moment that Yujin had probably broken Wonyoung’s heart a million times over, much worse than she’d ever broken yours. Even then they were always okay. Always. Give it an hour. Give it a day. Look, come on, guys, you said, tomorrow is Yujin’s birthday. They’re always together. They’ll always be together. They’ll be alright.

3. That night, as you were leaving the party, Wonyoung pulled you aside and said to you, quietly: We’ll fix it in the morning.

4. That night, as you were leaving the party, Yujin wrapped you in a hug and kissed your cheek sloppily and said: Ugh, get off of me, loser. Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t miss me too much. Well, maybe miss me a little. Oh, shut up. You love me. Bye.

Now, three years to the day since the girl you both loved died:

It’s her twenty-fifth birthday, so Wonyoung smokes her cigarettes out the passenger side window of your car and lets you take her home. You talk about the messes you’ve made of your lives. You slip off her black dress and kiss her sharp shoulder. You’re real sweet to her, when you fuck her. So sweet that after you make her cum Wonyoung looks up at you with tears in her eyes and says: “I wish that you’d just hurt me.”

“I know,” you say, quietly. “But I won’t.”

And when she kisses you, you think she knows you meant it when you said you never will.

In the morning, you pick up a cake and flowers and drive out to the cemetery.

Wonyoung leans down and kisses the headstone. “Happy birthday,” she whispers.

You sit in the grass by the grave and share thick slices of cake. Wonyoung takes large, gluttonous bites and spits each of them out into a napkin instead of swallowing. Your stomach curdles in revolt. You think of her cigarettes. You think that Jang Wonyoung is always kind of killing herself, a slow and excruciating descent into being the girl in the open casket with a golden bracelet that you’ll never be able to forget. You could say something poetic and poignant about this cemetery, about the agony of burying her body beside the girl you both loved, about not being able to lose her, too. You can’t leave me, you could tell her. You can’t go where she went. You’re my best friend. You’re my last safe place. I need you here with me.

“That’s fucking disgusting,” you say, instead.

Wonyoung smiles, shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah, well,” she says, playing along. She remembers. She always remembers. There’s frosting on her chin. “Aren’t we all?”

You think of wiping the frosting off with your thumb. You think of doing a lot of things. You smile back at her and hope it’s enough.

(One last significant memory, just for the road:

It’s your sophomore year of college. You and Wonyoung are together at a party. You’re both mad at Yujin; you can’t remember why. But she’s in some guy’s lap on the couch and you and Wonyoung are both drunk and miserable in the corner and pretending not to stare at her. You’re ignoring each other, mostly. Except then there’s this moment where Wonyoung takes a step and stumbles in her stupid prim Mary Jane heels and you reach out and place a hand on her back to steady her. It’d be totally fine except for the fact that her shirt’s cropped and her hair’s up and your fingers graze bare skin, the notches in her spine. Electric and instantaneous. Wonyoung’s posture snaps impossibly straighter.

“Sorry,” you say. But Wonyoung puts a dainty finger to your elbow and keeps you there.

“You and me,” she says.

“What?”

Wonyoung turns to you. In her heels she almost matches you in height. She’s not looking at your face so much as your throat, studying the work of muscle as you swallow. You’re not looking at anything but the lip gloss on her mouth.

“You and me,” she says, except this time you understand her entirely. “She’d lose it. Because she thinks we belong to her.”

“Right,” you say. The obvious goes unsaid: We do belong to her. “Okay. So-”

You don’t pull her close so much as you fall together, a clumsy chain reaction of movements. Your hands and that tiny waist. Her wrists draped around your neck. Bracelet pressed against your skin, an exact match to the one on the girl across the room, watching you.

Wonyoung whispers, “Kiss me.”

So you do.

It’s a curious, tentative thing. Like it’s the first time either of you two have ever kissed anyone. Shy, awkward, careful, exploratory. Sweet. You never thought she’d be so sweet. Probably because you’ve spent the last year and a half with you two at each other’s throats half the time, you facing down her ice-princess voice and pout and perpetually rolling eyes. Near six feet tall and bulletproof, this one. Except now you’re cupping her little face in your hands and feeling her tremble against your mouth and she’s nothing like you thought she was. She’s just a girl. She’s just so small. Everyone who’d ever touched her has probably hurt her in one way or another, on purpose or by accident. Even - well. You won’t know this until later but Yujin will be furious about this, in that manic, vicious, smiling way of hers; she’ll take shots at you for weeks before she cools off. Say a lot of things about being left behind, used and disposed of. Oh, she’ll say, grinning and dimpled, voice serrated, I get it; you’re tired of me, bored of me. I’ll leave you two alone, then. Have fun. No, I understand: you guys don’t need me anymore. And you and Wonyoung will know she’s being unfair and immature and manipulative and reassure her anyway - that’s just what you do when you love somebody. An Yujin, you’ll tell her, over and over. You know we’ll always need you.

But for now, there’s only this. Her lip gloss and your mouth. Perfume sweet like summer fruit. Fragile cheekbones beneath your thumbs that could shatter as easy as glass.

Wonyoung pulls back, and says: “That was weird.”

You don’t say a word. You stare at those big doll eyes. The breathless rise and fall of her chest. For the first and last time in your life, you think: I could love you, if you’d let me.

“Extremely weird,” you say, after a long moment.

She nods once, licks her lips, leaves your arms. And then you never talk about it again.)

Sprawled on the grass in the afternoon light, Wonyoung tells you she doesn’t need you to drive her back from the cemetery. “I’ll walk,” she says. “My place is close enough. And it’s a nice day.”

You stand. Across Yujin’s grave sits a vase of sunflowers, their faces all turned towards the sky. “You’ll be okay?”

The sun shines so brightly that you have to shield your eyes as you look down at her. It’s the first day of September. Soon the turning leaves and the wind and the fog and the rain will creep in and steal what’s left of the summer. Everything changes, eventually; everyone leaves and dies and moves on. But for now the girl you thought you could never love sits in the sunlight with the ghost you thought you always would, just like they did when they were kids, twelve and thirteen, eighteen and nineteen, twenty-five and twenty-one forever. It’s sort of funny. Sometimes the link between you and Wonyoung feels less like handcuffs and more like a lifeline. Sometimes you can still hear Yujin’s voice saying: If I’m going, you’re going. But against all odds you’re still here. For however long it lasts. You’re here.

Wonyoung smiles. “Probably not,” she says. “But I’ll live.”

#idol x male reader #kpop x male reader #wonyoung x male reader #ive wonyoung x male reader

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womenlovee · 2 months ago

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Under Your Skin

pairing: ava starr x fem!reader

summary: your roommate, yelena, can’t stand the love bubble that has become of both you and ava

warnings: implied sex, mention of dead natasha, yes that’s a warning, nothing but fluff and teasing

word count: 1.1k

author’s note: i’ve honestly been obsessed with ava since ant man and the wasp and this new movie brought it back smashing

“Well, hello there.” Your girlfriend husks, suddenly phasing into view right in front of you.

You nearly jump out of your skin, the spoon in your hand clattering into the sink as the taller figure disrupts your focus.

“Jesus, Ava!” You gasp. “You know I hate when you do that!”

You swat at her instinctively, only for your hand to pass through air. Again.

Ava chuckles, solidifying just in time to place her hands on your hips. Her touch now warm and firm. “Yes, but what fun would it be if I didn’t push your buttons once in a while?”

“It would be wonderful for me.” You mutter, narrowing your eyes at the smug smile curling across her lips.

She just hums, then pulls you closer until there’s no space left between you. Her fingers trail gently up your side, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re too easy to tease.” She murmurs, and before you can argue, she leans in to kiss you.

It starts soft, slow—just the press of her lips against yours. But as soon as you make a small, contented noise, everything shifts. Her hand slips down to the curve of your ass, and her mouth moves with more intent. Her tongue swipes across your lips before sliding past them, deepening the kiss.

You’re too lost in the warmth of her touch and the way she melts against you to hear the front door open and the telltale stomp of boots that follows.

“Oh, come on! Not in front of the food.” Yelena groans from across the room, her bag hitting the couch as she flops down dramatically like a rag doll.

Ava groans into your mouth. “Why is she here?”

You play with the baby hairs at the back of her neck, smirking. “You do remember this apartment is hers as much as mine, right? That’s what roommates mean, baby.”

You press a kiss to her cheek and turn back toward the cutting board, smothering a laugh as Ava grumbles under her breath.

You’re barely three seconds into chopping the bell pepper when you feel it again. Her warm hands slipping around your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach like she owns you.

“Ava.” You warn, not even turning around, your knife pausing mid-cut.

“Yes, darling?” She purrs in that raspy accent you love so much, her lips brushing your ear.

With a sigh, you set the knife down on the cutting board and turn to face her.

You walk your fingers up her chest, stopping just below her collarbone—her eyes following the motion like you’ve put her in a trance.

“You need to go sit down before you phase through me and make me cut myself.” You say, raising an eyebrow.

“I won’t. I’m completely solid.” She replies, giving your waist a gentle squeeze, completely ignoring the doubt written all over your face.

“You said that last night when we were…” You trail off, eyes flicking to the blonde hair barely visible above the back of the couch. “Talking.”

“Nice save. Ten out of ten believable.” Yelena snarks, not even bothering to look at you. “If I hadn’t heard you last night through the walls, by the way. Some of us aren’t deaf.”

Your cheeks flush at the admission, and Ava, who’s failing spectacularly at hiding her smug grin, barely manages to suppress it before you shoot her a look that screams I will take sex off the table.

Which, to be fair, has happened many times before.

No one would ever believe that your now overly confident and snarky girlfriend used to be so shy. You technically first met while helping Scott and Hope bring back Janet. That was before Ava had any real control over her powers.

Although she was perceived as a villain to the group, you saw through her. The pain she had to constantly fight, the machines she had to be connected to. You saw her.

You remember when she had shyly asked you out after running into you, ironically while on the run. You were quick to say yes, having already developed feelings for her, even though it would’ve been considered extremely frowned upon considering you were labeled a “hero” and her a “villain.”

That same night, you both ended up outside your small apartment building. You went to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear, only for your hand to suddenly phase through her, causing her to flush even more. She’d started to explain she still couldn’t fully control it, especially in stressful situations.

To this day, you tease her by saying she was flustered, which caused the phase. She, of course, insists she just didn’t have control.

“I hate it here. Do you know how traumatizing it is to live with sex in surround sound?” Yelena groans, grabbing a throw pillow and smashing it over her face.

Ava doesn’t miss a beat and snarks back. “Then maybe invest in better headphones instead of blaming my talents.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Yelena says in her thick accent, peeking out from under the pillow. “Let me just upgrade to noise-canceling every time you two get handsy near a vent.”

You sigh dramatically, pulling Ava’s arms tighter around your waist anyway.

“I’m never going to finish dinner at this rate.”

“Then let’s order takeout.” Ava mumbles into your neck, her lips brushing your skin between words. “I’ll tip extra if it gets here fast.”

“Ava.”

“Yes, love?”

“Let me cook.”

“No.”

You huff, twisting in her arms and gently pushing her back toward the stool behind the counter. “Sit. Stay.”

Yelena immediately groans. “Oh my God, I’m going to drown myself in the sink. Do you hear yourselves?”

Ava sits, but not before shooting a smirk over her shoulder. “Jealous?”

“Of what? The gross domesticity or the weird ghost hands? Either way, I think I’ll pass.”

You laugh under your breath, turning back to the cutting board. Ava props her chin in her hand, watching you with blatant affection, like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Do you ever blink?” You ask, glancing over at her.

“Not when you’re standing there looking like that.”

Another groan from the couch. “I’m serious. Next time I walk in and you two are kissing near the stove, I’m calling Natasha from the grave.”

You glance back at Yelena. “You’d have to get in line behind the landlord, the neighbors, and probably the building inspector.”

Ava leans forward on her stool. “Totally worth the noise complaints.”

You shake your head with a smile, trying to focus on your cooking despite the way Ava’s presence still lingers like static electricity on your skin.

She may phase in and out of sight, but somehow, she always knows exactly how to stay under your skin in the best way.

#ava starr x reader #yelena belova x reader #ava starr #yelena belova #marvel x reader #marvel x you #mcu x reader #mcu x you #marvel #mcu #thunderbolts

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edenspoem · 5 months ago

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𝐧𝐨 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧.

summary. ★ ┆ in this numbing winter wood guarded by her hunting-adroit family, ellie believes she is safe. but her tracking methods are not so familiar with the intelligence and vigilance of sadistic creatures—of invisible kinds. reader discretion heavily advised. ★ ┆ dark content (not dubcon/noncon, think of murder, manipulation and abuse), smut, angst, horror, major character death, prey!hunter!ellie x predator!vampire!reader (prey and predator dynamic, the kink is sort of involved), enemies to lovers to enemies again, apocalypse au, lore-centered, flashbacks from centuries ago, ellie is almost a dead-ringer lover, religious references, biting, blood sucking, reader is a bit of a stalker (vampire behavior), reader is an undeniable evil, gunshot wounds (she thought guns would work), bites don't turn people here, forbidden romance with a touch of corruption; starts out sweet, ends up ugly, one instance of physical abuse (that is not endorsed. it is shamed), arguments occur, relationships with wayward and delusional vampires are not for those who fall easy—and deeply. ellie for sure isn't thinking when it comes to you; reader is the first to touch her (she has freaked other girls but never received freak reciprocation, if you catch my drift), sub!leaning!ellie, fingering (e!r!receiving), oral(e!receiving), tribbing, masturbation, subtle overtones of masochism, drugging (with herbal tea, and for reasons that aren't violation), neck and hand fixations, slashing, victim blaming, ellie tends to sub here but energies do match. memo. ★ ┆ here comes a very long-awaited fic (circa five months ago). tried to make this one as long as i could to percolate the tension. expect bittersweetness. actual blood sweat and tears went into this thing i think. info. ★ ┆ wc: 10.9k proofreaders: @baptismbaby, @elstattoo, @meganegatari, @vifilms (thanks to each one of you for ur commentary!) masterlist. discord. palestine masterpost.

𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓

Guns will not save you, sweetheart.

There she is. Sweet opalescent girl, woolen in gear from head to toe, scrunching her nose and squinting her eyes out in the winter clearing, the girl you have long pursued. You are watching her. Chasing her, silently.

The grove is dense where snow slipped down to die.

She sticks close to her mechanical savior: a coal black rifle up in her arms like a swaddled babe. It befits her act tremendously. She, a human solely, would not want to penetrate this forest every sacred Sunday without her guns. They have provided her plenty. Pelts, savory meats, skulls above the fireplace, fabricated potential. Some guns even go as far as scoring her family the thinning rations of a sorry trespasser.

But they will not save her.

She knows somebody—or something, is out there. Lurking in alder, hounding in spectacularly painted shade. You can tell her treading is expectant, and alert. Even the way in which she points her gun is inviting. But, on the other side, a paradox invites you.

She is paranoid. Paranoid people are alert, but easy targets. Vampires feed on easy. She hears everything in paranoia; she hears her muscles shift. Bones scrape. Eyes wake. Heart race.

But, of course, never you.

Lastingly, a forever has passed; the Millers have bid no farewell to their scriptural, woodland acreage, and never plan to. So, graciously, your recent years have been ones of watching. After all, you do have all the time in the world, so you spent some learning about this girl in the blind spots she's oblivious to. The romanticism of her not knowing you, or your presence, is that you know nearly everything about her. Much about that is to be smiled over. Even the memorable, quaint little name she has.

Ellie.

And, for a lasting time, she has been your unrequited wife of obsession.

Gorgeous girl. Thin, smart, a labyrinth of limbs and sunspots and reclused words. Hibernates in her room, as far as you can tell. She always has these interludes of solitude, cried on by sunlight, and you linger by the window whenever so. Invisible, of course, but there. Observing how long it takes a human of artistic design to perfect a mere stroke. Once on the canvas, twice, and thrice over. And sure, she ceases seclusion some days to help in pastoral tendings, hunting and patrol; but she always crawls back inside her little paintings, and shuts the hinges on relatives. She is a protagonist of silence.

No lovers, little friendships, a small existence in a small room. Alone, as of late. Never too fond of wayfaring strangers that trickle in like maple seeds. And yet today you have herded her, silenceless, to the throat of this thick forest. Confused by the sounds it produces.

“Where the fuck am I?” she grumbles to herself, voice husky under her snared lip. The intricacies of her gun creak as she points in restless circles, aiming the long spire everywhere. She is inclined to kill the next noise. “Swear to god, if that bunny ran off already..” For a second, she looked like she wanted to bail and forget about it. But a heavy sigh falls, and the reluctance in her body goes cold. “Too deep now, Ellie. Gotta come back with somethin'.”

She is desirably late; the bunny in question is already disposed in a berry bush off the white avenue. You had to be quick, as she is too. It's almost impressive. Rather than her invigilance in sleep, or solstices of the day, you prefer her now.

Running.

Yes, a strange fixation—you are wary. However, where is the thrill in feeding if not in the chase? This is tradition.

Wonder how sweet she is.

“Shit.” Her startled whisper blurts at a spitting distance, not that far. Careful footsteps crunch in your ear. “Who got you?” You left a ribbon of blood on the ground for her to find, which she did, and now she is investigating it. This opens her up.

From your place, you could lunge and snare her now. Bite her, even. Nothing inhibits you, and her flesh is singing to you, but you want to wait. My, that invigorating sound of her blood rushing and her heart thumping. You often listened in by her windows, speculating what occurred based upon the volume; a healthy and vicious rhythm was rage, and you fucking loved the sound of her rage. It gulps the mind. Pounds the somnolent heart.

Even inches away, you can hear it.

Scent is markedly a distant world, though. All these hardships at home; you can smell the regret outside her window sill. Alcohol, sweat, wounds. Those are the main ones you use to track her, and heed the elusive, perfect moments to leave trinkets for her.

Flora, odd bones and bits—guns off the usual unsuspecting victim. You often killed things with your own two hands, and dragged them over for her, too. Makes her the lesser hunter, huh?

There is a revolver stashed in her waistband, one you left for her.

“Not seein' anything out here,” she rasps.

Pocket knife, too. She came prepared, just not for you. With her focus swallowed, and mind inside of her gun, you stroll up from behind. Your hand plants on her shoulder before she can brace herself.

“Looking for something?” The question makes her snap around, but you behave like light.

Shoving her into the crisp ground goes smoothly, but not without a first impression. A gunshot is cracked from her rifle before you can disarm her of it. When you manage to, she flits into flight mode. Violent protests writhe under you.

Her pale face is screaming red. “Fuck! Get the hell off me!” Milk and roses, like the rest of her. She pounds her fists into your chest.

She is not easy. She is a rainstorm under your control. You have to put the weight of the world on her to chastise and limit the struggle, pinning her wrists into the snow and straddling. This subdues her, given your vampiric stamina, and your nose has never been closer. Her neck—a secodont temptation in human flesh. The scent filling you makes you laugh delightedly.

Her soft pink mouth is slightly agape, and filtering cold breath in your face. It envelops your eyes, fogs up her features, yet watching it enter, and leave her lips, fascinates you. Love is a rooting thing; you look once, and you never want to stop looking.

“Hey pretty eyes,” you allure, honey escaping your throat instead of venom. You never sound this sweet. “What are you doing so far from home?”

Ellie appears clueless to your nature. Rather, what things lie inside your mouth—sharp, and starving things. She flickers her eyes like a violent womb over your face, your blinkless eyes, and mentions nothing of it. Therefore, besides this being an obvious first encounter with a vampire, she won't expect it. Not like she can combat it, really; your strength precedes you.

Her chords tremble quietly, angrily, brows anchored low. “Fuck are you doing?”

Experiencing her voice so close and so personal makes you visceral. Lust enshrouds. “Hunting.. gathering..” you fade into a seductive coo, lips rolling over her neck. “Same as you.” Muscles in it flinch when you steal a short stroke with your tongue. Every part of her flinches.

Disgust then crosses her expression, and she blurts, “Are you a fucking cannibal?” Turning her head away. This only exposes her ripe neck more.

Either your tone, or the fact that you might be a flesh-eating killer, lifts her heart into her throat; pulses thump against your lips, so intoxicatingly. You want them in your mouth, in your memory. Somewhere they can exist and nurture you forever. “Mhh, so close.” You try to give her a hint by scraping your fangs along her sensitive carotid.

It seems to work.

She whimpers.

This was it, in her shallow mind. Eternal rest is calling, and she has nothing but her paintings and thoughts alone to rot without her. Ellie would die and have to bear the winter sun as her witness—her only witness. God, her heart breaks just thinking: Joel will be confused. Tess will send a rescue team for a corpse, and Joel will be lost when he has nobody to give the ol' regulation lecture to. Nobody to be a worried, old man for. Simply because of something she thought only existed in fiction and fairytales. How fucking rich!

“Fuck you!”

The night has a thousand eyes, and the day has but one.

You comb three attentive fingers into her hairline, and tip her head back. The gesture is too gentle for how ugly, mangled and sanguinolent the bole of her breaths is to be made. You are too gentle doing this. Scraping your teeth, wetting her skin; you have the social grace of a sycophant, and the conduct of a lover. Eat her whole, why don't you? She is your apple to keep. Eat, eat, eat.

You crumple the sage collar of her jacket, whispering, “Hold still for me, huh?” Quiet, and cold as the forest she relies on. As your opening lips.

And that is just what she does. Tighten as your teeth sink, motionless as these very trees. When you take her blood inside, you find her absolutely celestial. And you carve your teeth into her like she is a pietistical mural to make impure. Dying as a falling angel, she squirms. The penetralia of her throat is the main thing moving: tensing muscles, swallows pushing out a river of subtle, pained sounds. Crimson breaks, and draws in lithe lines down the base. Stains the crossroads of your sucking lips.

You make a soft-spoken voice crawl out of her. “Fuck,” she curses. Her teeth leap from her plush lip, and stay open. You imagine the pain is a gentle torture for your inexperienced victim. You are feeding on a sensitive silhouette, and she is staring up, quietly at the thistle drapings above. Misty-eyed, probably. Fingers tugging on your clothes just the way you need them to.

Blood thickens as your composure thins. She tastes sickeningly sweet. There is a pure hideosity reaching under your chin and down to your collarbones, because your hunger is beginning to precede you. Some ancient, voracious and cacodaemoniacal thing is wanting, and wanting hard. From your throat, from the cavity of your torso; somewhere desperate. Wherever it is, it wants a deep mouthful of Ellie, and you aren’t morally-deposed to take her to that dark there quite yet.

Your hungry grunt stifles. She has gone soft and pliant now and is holding your arm. As a grounding measure, you think, but it sends a pricking through your spine.

“Mhh,” you hum, slowly extricating from the side of her neck. Stronger gushing flows from the holes left behind as if the wound was crying in ease. Heaven, crying.

The cracked partings of her mouth shudder around a soundless gasp, and she reaches for the intrusion you left. Something was given and something was lost; she feels the raised punctures. Gets blood on the precious tips of her fingers. Lets her still-alive pulse hit against her palm. You took from her lifeline, and left a cruel epilogue.

Are you truly this savoring with it?

Maria said that something was out there—something uglier than infected. Creatures lie dead rampantly, and in cryptic, clean ways that denote sentient procedure. Nothing a brainless, living dead would have the capacity to do. So now that she has drawn you, a secret world exposed, snapped like bone, she has to say something. Do something. Joel drilled that incentive.

It knocks her into fleeing like fucking hell.

As in any exciting, horrific prologue, it begins in a scatter. Ellie clambers with milk knuckles in the self-same snow, grappling to slide out from under you, and manages a slim much. Her countenance is kneeled eyes and a gaping mouth, puffing clouds every which way. The face of escape; as if she had woken in a surrounding of her own blood, which is an embroidered, but hovering truth.

You watch with an empty one. She stands up and wrestles the approaching mist for her disposed handgun, flecking up snow with her footsteps as she dashes.

Adrenaline flees with her. If she is wise, a search team will be enlisted after your whereabouts. Carnage will break in these white woods an evening hence, under vacant cover of night, and she will no doubt be a curious murderer; searching for you under a false sense of safety, in the grove here.

But if you are wise, you will be there. Waiting for her.

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋

Evening begins in a whimper.

Or in sequences of them.

Troops shall not be drawn out, she decided. It grates her to sift this weight of knowing, this imperative information. But she is a waking potential, who has slipped her head under a crossroad and found a world of gnashing. She does not want to be the girl who cried vampire.

Well, winter is tired now. Snowfall has whirled, died, and crepuscule has crept in through the window sill. Everyone succumbed to it, except for her; still awake, still remembering. Hunched on her bed, she wads an alcohol-dredged cotton ball to the sickly white punctures on her neck, sipping harshly through her teeth. Stings like a fucking bitch. “Shit.”

But why is she still alive?

Ellie still feels the shape of your teeth in her neck. Skin flushing and pumping around them, or engraving some sort of scriptural curse. It was not painful, so much as it pained like death to think she would die. But she is here, and she feels misplaced. Watched, her faith in safety loosening.

The cotton ball is agitatedly discarded into a drawn-out trash bin, littered by all the cotton fumbled before. She pushes up at the knees and drags her ankles into the bathroom, fingers already reaching for the sink.

“Just gotta sleep this off, Ellie.” The faucet cries, its gentle stream pouring right into her asking palms. She uses it to splash her eyes, fingers rubbing around them to wipe the water away. Rinse, and unlearn the memory.

Try, at least.

She needs solacing rest. Forest duties will call her name in the youngest morning, and without a shroud of doubt, will be the warm, shepherding drawl of her father. She is fortunate enough to hang from him, his good name, who is the least bit hard on her. But others—such as her in-a-sense, patrolaholic aunt—would reproach him for his tender loving.

So, to cut the bullshit, she tries to lead a responsible life. Before, it was imprudence plentiful. But taking the inebriation, the heartbreakers, and the snuck-in cannabis out of her grasp has led her somewhere good. Somewhere she can feel like a worthwhile girl in one fucked up socket of the world. It seems to be valuable; she holds the highest count of infected shot in a single patrol.

Her concentration is immeasurable.

But she begins to doubt her resilience as she stares into the center of her sullen eyes.

She snags her lip to the left, contemplating. Ellie is alive for a reason. She fucked up; forgone each principle of the forest, of the hunt, omitting the signs and senses that beheld her in the stout snow. Yet, here she is, flesh in the mirror. And something else clicks: the inescapable leaving of unusual objects on her window sill face trial too. All that clattering and scratching at walls she thought was a rodent seems to align with it pretty well. Not to mention the disembodied touchings of her head and hair in deep-sleep dreamings, and awoken to in chapel-cold sweats to find nothing there.

It distressed her mind: how long should a human wonder, until it is lethal?

She concludes with the idea of a stalker.

Fucking vampire stalker.

It introduces a shiver. “Okay.” One she has to pursue genuine warmth for; she crosses her arms and kills the bathroom light, the ends of her fingers lingering up her sleeves as she crosses the threshold. Between a introspective bathroom, and an infiltrated bedroom.

Neither are soft with the home; its safe wood walls, weeping willow scents, and inborn temperatures. She is open to the outside. She is the centerpiece for the thousand eyes of night. Cold, bare. The bed welcomes her weight in a billowing hollow for her body—yet, is the most unsettling thing she has slipped against her skin. The question of whether you manifest on this meaningful night, or let your eluding presence delude her into searching for it, begs for sleep before it can transfigure into an answer.

Her quiet, petal-soft lids droop closed. Trying to sleep conceives like death; it’s as if the air seeping her bedroom is a miasma, each breath in getting her drowsier and drowsier. Soon, all sound fades, and the inhibition whether or not hunger will find you at this crescent of night, and on her pale neck, is forgotten.

Time is forgotten.

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

This is where she nestles—dreams. Pretty, isn’t she?

She is water and the way it settles. She is poetry scribed in the summer month of June, feeding on its younger, more innocent, springtime chassis in which it longs to return to. Gentle petrichor, plush skin, and lashes of an auburn fire. She is beautiful; but much harrowing is to be combed inside, underneath.

Dreams and pain lulled you. But after you first sought her, watching over her in the deepest sleep on the most painful of nights, it became ritual for a farther reason:

You fell in love. Again; love is a rooting thing; you look once, and you never want to stop looking.

Never.

Seams adore and finish the girl with eliciting interest. Low-cuts under the arms, in between the legs; it leaves less frou-frou and forest to the imagination than raised with. She really is auburn all over. She really, really is. You could not desire it any different. Peek-ins to temporal changes—when she strips plaid from pale and peels rough, woven blue and button from her muscled hips—excited you before, and they excite you now. Flesh has never been dangled in front of you as it’s in this time.

An arm is slackly risen above her pillow, and she clads a sleeveless. You can see it; the autumn forest.

But the instinct to protect, and nurture from her is worse now. And with the precedes of last afternoon—yesterday, the first of her blood taken into your vitals—you feel evermore lustful for it, leading you here at the foot of her bed. She looks peaceful now: unlatched lips, ribs that swell and wane, moon-shine on her neck. Your eyes land, in particular, on the sleeping shape of her fingers, curling slightly into her palm, which is against lilac-colored sheets.

Gods, she has the sweetest, speechless gesture of telling you where to bite.

You sidle upon the edge, tucking both legs and straightening both arms into a slow crawl until you reach that hand. It, limp at the wrist, delicately fits in yours, and you take it to your teeth.

Before you intruded her somnolent skin and trickling veins with your lust, you admired the feel of her freckled flesh against your lips. The hairs there tickled. The scent made you feen; a heavenly sigh stretching through your throat. And that sigh led your mouth open.

You bite the apple.

She slowly creaks awake—the hinges of her eyes fluttering with a slow, white surprise. “Uhn—what the?” And when she notices, they blow wide with an olive ring. “Fuck!”

She stumbles up on her bottom. The wrist in your mouth supplied you a sip of blood before it was ripped from you and fled in excretions of that crimson nectar—wasted. It stains her sheets. Writes the event in blood. Crucifies the affrighted face of the auburn girl who grips her leaking wrist with a pressure you can hear tighten.

And she bleeds, and she bleeds—and you watch.

Like a lover.

You fawn, pouting all sick-and-sweet. “You know you could injure yourself more. Doing that.” It contorted a sicker-looking sharpness in her glare; staring from under her pricked brows. You unwind, and reach for her, “Here, let me.” But she flinches, a fitting punishment for a monster.

“Who are you?” She sounds instinctive, grit in her tone. “And what the fuck do you want with me?” The old, frightened-lamb act of her afternoon self seems to have diminished, painting her a volatile violence. She weaponizes her eyes; lacerates your red ribbon secrets into a bleed. Tries to, at least.

You never made it simple.

Well then, resilience it is. Quite stunning when she stomachs it up from her throat—a pretense swollen from hiding. Perhaps, this relenting will entertain you more. “Mmm, a secret admirer,” you intone, limning circles on the bed with your pointer. Then, you remember the situation, and chuckle. “Not so secret anymore though, I suppose.”

She looks the least bit impressed.

You still your finger, sighing. “Right.” And you plummet sights upon the silent, clothing-riddled carpet in spontaneous thought.

Her stare wanted to carve an entire confession out of you, and unfortunately—your truth is ancient, and incomprehensible. Not the safest knowledge for humans. But seeing as she said a precise ‘who’ are you, and not a ‘what’ are you, implies she knows enough not to require too much more. Eager to soften her, though, the portion she carves is a thimbleful of sugar; a sweet, harmless idea.

It starts with breath filling your windpipes. “Infected make life impossible, but you already understand that perfectly fine. At least on your end of things.” You squint, contorting the somethings of a musing expression.

She gulps, and it pulls her lids with it into a pensive blink.

“We vampires, on the other hand, have it so desolate.” Your voice is softly crawling inside of her. “It makes us desperate.”

Her brows narrow. “So, you still feed on unsuspecting victims?”

“Well, is that not just the naturalistic nature of vampires?”

“Tch,” she scoffs, kneeling up from the bed. “Fucking pathetic.” Her footpath to the window is sharp. The latch clangs under her finger, and the panes are palmed open, swallowing inside the cold airs of the forest. “Now, if you don't mind—could you get the fuck out?”

You cock your head and immerse. To her, you are a thorn in the flesh; some creature she did not invite into the home of her body, and certainly not her life. You staring at her makes her want to rip out of her skin.

“What, am I supposed to empathize with you or some shit?” Her hand casts out, shrugging at you with a disinclination she conjectures as obvious. “No fuckin’ way.” It drops to her thigh.

Thus, you relapse. The mind bends into itself and what it sees is springtime—her most earning months, and you, victorious to have earned her heart that is caged. Being aware of her nature made it easier done than said, but you have your secret stash of lilies; your thornless guise. You want it to be real. You would utter anything for it to be real.

“You're lonely,” you blurt, smooth and seductive, evocative of the moonlit shadow you sit sedentary in. Tension is born in a confounded gulp from her you hear so clearly. “You starve for some sort of company, right?”

She tuts, stares off. “Not with you.”

“Who else?”

You prick a nerve.

And her countenance seems eager to linger: lips tugging over her teeth in such a simmering fashion—so you begin again.“See—Ellie, I myself am quite alone too—”

“‘Course you know my fuckin’ name.”

“I know you watch the stars every night. For a reason, too.”

She softens at the mouth. What you said gets her skin raised; it has nothing to do with the original conversation, yet makes an eerie sense. Of course you know.

Bring up space, and she is all ears.

“Did you ever wonder how alone they are, too? Big, blindingly bright things in the sky that yet have an eternal cling to the empty, cold nothingness?” Your voice reflects the poignant contents. And in that poignant, in-between silence, your stares are battling each other. “I know it well. It drives you to rather deplorable things.”

She still says nothing. Her eyes are shifting with a million things she could, but she casts them aside and settles her lids.

“You know too.”

The sound creases her brows.

Hopeful creatures prance in the night. It is night; you are a creature. The bed rustles with your hopeful movement—legs pouring from the edge to the floor, and drifting your way over with so much as a quiet prance. You intend not to scare her, or harm her, but to persuade her of your good—in other words, ambivalent—will and soul. “Think of my feedings as a special little hello. I don't regularly interact with the human world as much as I fend from it.”

Ellie repositions herself along the sill when you join her, a chastened flinch.“Huh.” She crosses her arms. “Okay. But, like—what do you want outta’ this?” she questions, and her brows have a stronger downpour when she espies you; clenched, cautious things.

“Sanctuary.”

Her breath groans. “English, please?”

“I speak as you do.”

“Wh—okay well,” Her tongue stumbles. Articulation is never her strong suit, unless it is an articulation of rage. She pinches the bridge of her nose, crumpling her inner-eyes and pitches herself to the window, leaning on it. “Forgot you're like fuckin’ ancient, probably.”

You thought you forgot how to laugh—but there it springs, the age-old sound. And you expect her to be offended because of it, but she eyes you in her hung position without a crack in her expression. Nothing-faced. Throat cold and tongue soft; this must be what compliance looks like. If it is, then it’s all you need.

Self-indulgence steals you. You enclose the warmth of her hand in your palm, and shape it like an alcove. Her rough skin made for a captivating texture.“Smart girl.”

You expected her to scoff—least of all, to blush, and conceal it by turning to the paned, outside world—scoffing.

Tingles run down your spine.

“So, am I granted?”

Ellie blankly snaps her head from the window. She blinks for a couple beats. “Huh?”

“To stay here—it’s what I was asking of you before.” You take a step forward, prudent and slow. Her soundless mind made you preclude; you cannot read it, but you understand where her heart is and its sensibilities. She is logical, she wants reasons. Chances are, her response will be apprehensive, and you intend to reel it out without it snagging on the gentle inside. You need to be on her level. “Housing is scarce and less sustainable than it ever has been. Surprise, surprise.”

She also loves sarcasm.

“Tch—” She straightens her spine, slipping in a fleeting smile. “What’s wrong with where you live now?”

“The others are all heartsores,” you deplore, tone elongating. “Groaning on and on about tradition and ethics.”

“By others, I’m going to assume you mean.. other vampires?”

“Indeed.”

The conversation interludes with a sigh, deep in her chest. She covers it with her arms crossed. The question then seems to fester; her lips rub together without an answer—but more thinking, and then her eyes thread up through another inhale. “Fine,” she says. With a heart softened. “Guess an invisible roommate wouldn’t be so bad.” Loneliness has convinced her. The window locks shut with a clack, a flick of her fingers. “My blood is one-hundred percent off-limits, though.” She shoots you a half-serious, half-sarcastic face—intending one over the other.

“Ah,” you wince, bending at the knees to accentuate your comment. “But it’s so sweet.”

And she cringes at it, but with faux mirth; a guarded, disgusted chuckle. “Don’t say that, either.”

You heed her wish with a small sound, “Hm.” and a mirrored smile. The sentence itself feels as though it will become repertoire. Several things do. The events here today are a stain, a crimson, violent-smelling one that cannot be washed out.

You hear the sound of fabric shifting. “Take the couch.” An indigo, plaid wool blanket is stripped from her bed, and chucked onto the quaint window-seat across, which is satin-like with moonlight; an edgeless, dull gleam reaching for it. It drapes with erratic procedure. “Don’t leave my room, don’t leave the house during the day, and don’t drag in any dead animals..”

“Do you think me uncouth?”

“Well—ugh.” She pinches her eyes together. Then, she rolls her head around.“You know what I mean. Just act like a human and don’t get fucking caught.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

She huffs. “Good.”

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐓

She promised you it was off-limits.

But still it persisted. The ancient hunger, the memories of her inside.

Humanity can be a limiting thing.

There, a conflict was born. You could eat from any tree you wanted. Tear it apart, watch it foam at the mouth for mercifulness. Nothing—not a thing that is tangible—is stopping you, or stopped you in the past. So, what meaning does that conviction hold when you spot the most beautiful, available, and abundant tree; beautiful with her freckles, available in her sleep, and abundant with the thing she lives on to survive and you drink to survive?

The indolent sound would not leave. It would not soften, it would not climb.

It would flow, and flow mercilessly.

It was upon her bed the night she resigned. “Fine,” she sighed, and it was said so softly in spite of the original promise. Time around you had softened her. “Just a little, right?”

But even as it left her lips, her fingers were reluctant in folding up the hem of her sleeve. You noticed the careful pace. The second thoughts in her eyes, whispering to her fingers that this would be a potential regret, and soon a routine. The implications in her features scrunched as she watched you come closer.

“Just a little,” you reaffirmed. You kissed that node in her wrist with it, too. “Nothing more.”

The moon hung a little past three in the morning when she was up, and you were hungry. Slightly hungry. Soft urges are enough a reason.

Sensations were high that night. Teeth buried into her leather-cushion skin and it felt like a velvet drug; Ellie loathed and loved, whined and writhed for you. It fed you and silenced her. That is a sanctioned schedule. You would drink it in a this-or-nothing, soft-fondling manner and she would give it past midnight—all nights. Most times, sleep would befall, and she would need your voice to guide her awake before you decided to feed. As long as you are in accordance with time, place, health and spectation—she never minds.

Weeks flowed, and it persisted.

“You have a strange-ass routine. ‘M still not used to this,” she laughed, bolstering fatigue in her tired eyes that fluttered. Down, and down.

Perhaps you loved opportunities.

Her skin fits tight and warm in your mouth; alive and pulsing and ever so whistling blood. It was no longer massacres under your lip, it was clean, and she made little sound—besides when she had something dull to weigh in.

Your lips sutured together, imbibing that last stria of delicate red. “Me?” you pitched, and secondly smiled as her laugh riled it in you. “You wake at this hour regardless for inessential nothings. You are strange.”

She scoffed with character. “What?” And had it in her to laugh a little louder—praying it didn’t bleed outside the room: that and the beheaded nonsense. “The only reason I get up this early is because I have.. shit to do, people to feed..” She crinkled her nostrils and sniffled.

“Taking care of yourself for me?”

“Uh, what makes you think that?”

“Your skin tastes of honey,” you declared this alongside your caressing fingers, rolling over the fresh wound, the honey skin in question. It met like silk. “Do you want to impress the impressed?”

Either it was your question muddling her—or your statement and its ring of truth, that made her features crinkle up.“No?” Such a failured liar. She conserved not a clue about the accumulating chaos in her bathroom, whom she had no mind other than hers to blame: herbs all around, sweet liquids, ingredients you find in self-made soaps but nonetheless in heaps and scattered. She thought you were clueless to it. She tip-toed around it. “Fuck, is this just you wracking my brain again with your weird phrases and your.. old—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, darling.”

Her cheeks seemed to redden on the spot.

This unadulterated sweetening to her flesh was a decision. Raw, home-harvested honey that she lathers to sanctity herself—or satisfy you. It added up to this this little, unspoken—but traceable—secret she had slipped into, though exposed; she hadn’t treaded the feeling in years. You saw her, heard it beat in attempts to catch up with her running thoughts.

She likes you.

Her behavior reminded you of your darling years abounding the Enlightened Age: in love with a pair of frilly, fern eyes that often wandered, and robin-bellied hair: a girl who roamed the court with gut and courage, but could not pave it through the same.

You loved her.

But she was taken from you.

Ellie mumbled,“Not dumb,” with her mouth under her fingers and pupils disengaged. She wiped at the corner with the crook of her thumb until she thought of something else. The tone was written on her face beforehand. “Just being.. considerate?” She knew it wasn’t the right one. So, she laughed and spared you her timid stare, shrugging. “Dunno’. You tell me.”

You laughed too, scornful. But not harsh. “Bit of a brat today, huh?”

Staying acclimated this other hunger. This pure, gentle, moan of a hunger. It is simple to say you believed in love; wished it upon others, witnessed it, longed a little for it. But it isn’t your function. Isn’t your toy to play with. You denied it.

There reached a strange night: your spine was against the black-wood headboard and sacrum further down, blooming with an old sensation, and your hands were on her. Groping, guiding. Admiring the naked skin of her hips, which twitched, and writhed with sounds and sights you prefer to have faith in no one else seeing. Not in a while, at least. These lines of midnight-light wavered over her movement, her teardrop breasts, even catching the mess in between her thighs she tried to hide rubbing in between the spreading of yours. Wet and wanting and abandoned and—you remember all too much.

She is beautiful down there.

Tears form in your heart.

Ellie was close to the edge. You could hear it in her voice. “Fuck—if you'd just stop playing hard to get, coulda’—uhn, had this way sooner.”

The phrase confounded you. “Hard to get?” Lots of her speech confounds you; there was a love-hate relationship to be had with that. On her side, though. You found it cute.

“Just—shut up, please.” She climbed a partial note, turning grunts into whines. As soon as she said that, her fists crumpled and her tension released. You, in your long life, have never seen such an overwhelmed girl. Her cheeks were smitten-red. Cum was trickling down the stretch of her shaking, muscled thighs, and she could not help it; she was lead with it. Ellie was wobbling once you were finished.

But she loved it.

Then, there it was in the derelict chapel. The strangeness again. Down her panties was your hand, training back the seam, and in the air her cries. Angelic ones. Pushing you into substantiation; you did love her.

And you felt selfish.

“You are too paced for yourself. Go slow, like this.”

You had pushed her own hand out prior. She was palming herself in a book-sprinkled office a short couple minutes after initial arrival. You aren’t even supposed to be here with her, in this house of God, scavenging for supplies—let alone outside. She should be paired with someone Joel trusts, someone Maria has seen kill. Human, good-hearted.

The quick, and snagging circles she performed with her fingers never compared to the attention and care you made with her. Like she was in a rush, and you had a blade to stab into the axis of the world. It did constitute sense: she was blushing with shame when you walked in on her—jeans almost off her hips—giving you the idea that she meant to finish in a dreamlike minute. But she didn’t slap her own hand for its perversion. She wore the helpless look.

“How long before you decided to tell me?”

“When we left.” The heart of her thighs compressed your hand. She was getting restless under your touch, twitching into your hand to earn more friction, biting down on her lip. Ellie can only do so much as huff when you rearrange the twining of her legs again. “It was aching s’fuckin’ bad, babe.”

You are certain that she lied. She had the velvetiness, drip and need of someone who hasn’t handled their problem since morning; it was pooling in her underwear. “Before a house of God?” you whispered, your voice a small softness in the mush of her mind. “You really are a strange one, my girl.” She couldn’t care less. You were tugging her just right and that was all she attended to. Numb-locked.

She mouthed a curse. Breath hitched in her throat. “Bite me,” she breathed out.

“Oh, you want it?”

Her face was pinching with pleasure. “Mhm.” Lips rolling over each other.

The once isolated and responsible Ellie you coerced for blood, was now tilting her chin up like a sunflower in bloom. Sometimes, she rolled her shirt up or pulled her pants down, letting you feed in clandestine places; her open thighs became a fast favorite, and dipping in between to that slickened parting made you want to write a poem with your teeth. An introduction to the core. For the thrill, for the devotion—it set the belting green in her eyes thin no matter the bite.

It made her feel loved.

But should it; being a strange thing to love?

Cracked moans curled out her neck. You noticed their swell, their added breath when your tongue caught her clit and wrote with it in circles, pulling her wound-ridden thigh over your shoulder. Lips, pinker than her vestal love, dropped open. You trained her voice to not be so swallowed, hidden, and conscious of being heard. You would not stop without hearing it. “Come on, Ellie,” you would coax. “Let me hear you.” And she would use it. Splutter it. Choke it.

“Fuck!”

“There, there..”

She is no virgin. She was no virgin. But, her mind made by the girls of Jackson she poured eyes—or poured lips—over, most in for casuals, or nighttime flings, neglected itself. She gave, and never seemed to receive. Ellie didn’t know if she was ever going to; then, there you were. Her heartbeat was running centuries ahead, and it gave you life.

You assumed, with an assuming inherence, to protect her from that loneliness. The loneliness you get from other people—not from the lack of them. You have her in that sort of catching grasp that feels suffocating, but ends up a pleasant surprise.

She thought you must be magic for that reason.

And the Devil for another.

“Jesus—are you listening to me?” Her voice wanted to break. It wanted to flood, it wanted to sting, it was a rough invocation that you never heard before, and her hands pranced the air. In anger. “You dragged a dead animal in here. You did exactly what I fucking told you not to!” Then, they crossed into her warmth, and the thrash song of her heart went muffled. “You fuckin’ kidding me?.”

Everything in the world went silent to listen in. The birds, the trees, the surrounding matter. But your guilt was just as quiet when, for a change, it should have been sobbing loud.

You caressed the words strolling from your mouth, a complacent gesture. “I was careful,” you tempted, tracing circles around that facetious hole in your face. “So careful.”

Her fingers turned to fists. “You..” Her mouth, in contrast, was a pert snag. But it soon had to face a laugh for coping. “You don’t get it, do you?.”

“I do.”

“Right.” She flinched into the light. Moved into the cold.

You get it when blood in droves leaves distasteful secrets, clinging to hardwood floors. You get it when others are involved and get dragged into it. What you do not get is the desire to see it happen. The stomachs that turn at you for not fitting into their forgivable frame. What should one expect?

Is she really this soft?

Oh, how your poor heart aches watching her not watching you.

Ellie continues at the mouth. Irritated fingers drag her under-eyes from their sockets. “Shoulda’ known this was a fucking mistake, Ellie.” Though your oral worship was stunted; you couldn’t see her whisper these things, you knew they were real. You knew she meant them.

You knew it would ring in her head.

That night, an attempt to instill a different idea ends in a laceration, and a throb in your nail beds. Because you thought she had done the one thing you would bleed her for:

Stopped loving you.

You rhymed her with reasons. You extorted your very own, amended morals for relief, with palms cupping her cheeks—and she cut a statement too deep: “Huh. Doesn’t fuckin’ seem like you’re any different than those bastards you ran with until—”

Her hair was the last thing you felt before the tear.

No, no, no. You are different.

Crouching, you clutched her chin with sharpened, hidden fingers, and a controlling thumb. You stole her tears from the wardrobe panel they wept to. “My darling,” you coaxed—as sickening as the dull blade. She twisted you inside herself; staring up at you through her soaking, shining lashes, made for internal conflict she could not put a finger on. “Does it hurt?” She is right, under the condition that you are gospel. What was she thinking?

She wiped her fingers in the openings of her blood, and examined them. A sniffle cut between looking at them, and looking toward you. “Y-Yeah.” It was a painfully awkward, and docile croak. Her irises were thin with shock, breathing laboured.

Ellie was bleeding from her cheek, to the tip of her philtrum, and to the edge of her apologies. Yet, you only cared how it..

Tasted.

“Shh, shh..” You swept her stained fingers from her face. “Let me take care of it,” whispers scattered. In her head, she was packed in litanies of heavy cotton; woolgathering. Paid the littlest bit of attention to your tongue, it lapping up her septum, furling back with blood, and how it should feel strange. But, it did not. She felt nothing. She felt the same. She still wore that lost, dreaming-eyed stare.

Why?

It is vile.

All is forgotten in time.

𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄

“Ah, shit! Fuckin’ knife.”

Ellie hasn’t been her usual.

And neither have you.

You have been feeding less this cycle, and it’s put her into this stir. Divine, enigmatic stir. Questions upon worries upon interventions—headstrong hands and kitchen knives—curdle up in her gut. Are you bored of her? Has her nectar gone sour? Have you found another source? The silence in the room is louder than usual. Whether it was your intention, or its own result, Ellie has gotten used to this agriculture of give and pleasure; she inclines her wrist without your word. She opens her neck without your teeth.

The cabin, for once, is empty this day. So is her head.

You’re stood off to the side.

Ellie—who loves getting called stupid by her girl—pricked her finger for you. She was handling delicate produce on the counter, and her far more delicate fingers stood stockstill in their position, meeting the sharp tip of that knife in that headstrong hand. Her brows rucked, or already were; she had something on her mind. Some enchanting idea.

She sidles up against you. “Hey, babe.. mind cleanin’ this up?” Ellie wiggles her finger in an awkward and sultry manner, signature to she and she alone. There is a small, shining, seed of blood forming on the wound.

You consider it. For a second, or more, you consider feeding into her sweet little game. And she continues to pitch that finger east and west like a last chance, but it comes into question first. “Should you be handling that knife?” you answer—and she lets a disgruntled sound slip.

Also, you have seen your guaranteed share of slit fingers. That girl in the court had a graceless aptitude.

Ellie finds a smile to laugh at you with: insulted, asymmetrically dotted, with all the crinkles of someone who thinks so different of themselves—but it’s pretend. A softened wire in her brain molds into the warmth of your perception. She did it for Joel, once. “Guess not,” Ellie mumbles, bringing her finger down to stare at it. It almost bugged her that it wasn’t immediately in your mouth. The blood long-reaching.

Instead, you enamored yourself with the syrup-orange tea in front of you. Stirring, stirring.

Her throat clears. “What’s that?”

You turn, at last, with knuckles bending around the base of the porcelain cup seeping with heat. It feels cold in your hands. “For you.” You press it to the middle of her chest.

Her fingers come up to palm it, glancing at your face for a sign that another word would leave your throat. Eyeing up, and then down; she hopes you will make sense. You just hand it off to her. “Well, that answers my question halfway,” she sighs, cocking her hip against the counter. “Thanks.”

You lop a smile as nothing else seems to spring to mind. Turn away, turn away.

How should you begin—to a girl you met at the pulse of a throat—explaining that the contents in that cup can and will send her to sleep? Should you distress concern and mention how she has been missing it? Should the room go silent, and she as well?

A confession has been smothering your thirst for weeks.

You are bored.

Vampirical instincts have sat restless and upset in the sockets of your fangs. You feel tired, you get cravings that seem to climb and climb each hour, and at the crest of night, you prowl the short corridors in this house with suffocated footsteps, listening to the heartbeats of others with a small, specking guilt. You can quench it however you please, but the one thing that will not change is that you are a winter-blooded predator. You should be hunting; you are not. It nags at you. Months with her in your hands, in your mouth—and it isn’t enough. It was never going to be.

Last night went as usual. You rush to fill the bed before she finds it empty. Then, as you are shifting the sheets, her sleeping tosses and turns find you, and on your waist, her slender hand finds a spot made for her to fill. Her lips find something in her dream to grin about.

You brushed it under your thumb. “My sweet dove.”

Beside her, she assumes you sleep well. Then, in the morning, she mistakenly traces her mind for a memory recording her forgetfulness, tapping the unshut window, contemplating. The animal blood isn’t in her palms— you somnambulist.

Tomorrow, you would let instinct feel hunger again. Hunting is a desideratum. A deep-in, desired ultimatum.

Then, tomorrow came.

On the couch, you give in and draw her cut fingertip into your mouth. Sucking, silent and sensual. Ellie had the tea swirling around her limbs: weighing down her arms, slumping her legs, and her nose twitched with each escape from nodding off—and yet, she was still stubborn to lie down. Though you, twirling and twirling two fingers on her arm, inspired no help for her either. Perhaps, the swirling affect is a dreaming cling to you; your touch is a sleeping reverie.

Ellie jabs, with her free thumb, into her waterlines and digs around the stiffness. She can hardly lift them. Then, a low grunt follows. “Ugh, so tired.” She is the softest thing in this room. Nothing could compare, not you—not ever. “How did I get this tired?”

Your stained lips peel from her finger. “Abandon at night?” Clasping the tip as you talk. “You avoid sleeping.” Sucking blood from its tip feels more pretentious than it used to. Your tongue is climbing out, wasting time to be sure she watches you do it with your eyes shut in concentration, and she does.

Her eyelids droop imperceptibly watching you; a gait that out-performs centuries; your cold-fleshed lips wrapping around her warm finger, hands cupping hers, and suctioned as if it were your mortal first. The careless sanction is gone. The inaction to eating her whole—is gone. You deepen the length her finger reaches, and it hits near the back of your throat, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Licking each ridge of it, quietly cannibalistic.

Loving left and swept with you, greed.

“Babe..”

Ellie has moonshine eyes when you open yours. Green irises that no longer hold their color. Eyelids that are dog-eared, deepened and—brown-lashed, saddening. Not the eternal same. Spring is coming; why is there nothing?

After a silent pause, she answers. “I can’t sleep.” Rasp in her chords.

You dislodge her finger from your mouth once more. Sigh in the warmth fleeing you.

She ruffles her hair. “But it’s never this bad. Jesus, I just can’t fight this.”

The innocence, and lack of detection present in her springtime-longing attitude feels wrong—and is perfectly your fault. So, that conflict scars. You tighten your throat. Cause a hesitant strangle. Forever has passed; you believe you are tasting your own blood.

You flinch into partial shadows. Drop her arm. “Just—get some rest.”

Ellie frowns at your abrupt resistance. You can hear it when she tries to plead you backwards. “Hey,” her voice cracks in that special, air-pitched tune that stops your feet against hardwood: a tired Ellie, and the couch shifts with the sounds of her sitting up. “What are you doing? Don’t go.”

You imagine that arm is reaching out to you now.

“Cleaning up.” Stifled breath leaves you with a drop of your shoulders. “You will see me, first thing when you wake.”

She giggles. “Hm, okay.” So willing to trust.

For the first time, it sickens you. And for the last time, it make sense in your head full of heart what you can be. In her world—painted and threaded and canvas-white underneath—you can be her secret. But in yours, you are her open wound; latching condition. With no color but red. Everyplace, in every opening, red. She sees so much more than that. But she, afraid to blotch outside the lines, and you, bleeding throughout and into others, made for a conflicting pact. Messes, everywhere. And then, you understand it seems right that you feel sick.

She just assumed you were faithful to take care of them. “Love you, babe.” Even if you never pled for her faith, and her warm voice doesn’t stop you now.

You need to eat.

𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

The mourning sun wept, for what you hoped, was the first and final time.

In your Georgian years, you were introduced with transubstantiation; you often tripped on your own flounces as a little girl, but carried into bridalhood with the pearl-blue poise a faith-wielding-mother-to-be should have. No longer did you intimidate crowds with ill etiquette, but rather, with what you became—and who you turned to in fawning innocence.

Wise men. Innovators, practitioners, maestros of trade. All of them had futures under their belt, and you had a single, untouched one. God, did men feed on that.

It was temporal. Men later found your intelligence to be intimidating, and in personal accords, offensive—for a woman. Your heart was a church on fire; knowledge crept in and you crawled out of your own mouth, spreading those words. Disgusting, secular truths. The court censured you for it. Kept you from attending banquets, beat you with threats of asylum, and rose torches to your beloved solace for it. It was a quiet hatred hailed, and yet performed so loud: your ears throbbed in pain each night.

But it never stopped you.

“Why do they cast you out here?” A voice—curious and delicate—whipped your intrigue out of your head, for a change. You peeked, with wide eyes, from under your brow and quivered over the silhouette leaning against the quaint terrace opening. It nudged off, and only then did its fern and fox-orange features become apparent, small pockets of light raining across. “With the dogs?”

Then, you knew it; it was her. Smiles creased in your throat. “And why do you wear pants?” But you showed just one, a subtle one. “And come to banquets smothered in coal?”

Albeit, she was clean; the wares of her straining day in the mines clung to noses. She pinched her coat open, and sniffed out either a truth, or a lie. The flinching of her nostrils proved one. “Ah—damn, guess I made a pitiful attempt at washing my own coat, huh?”

Her self-blaming quip pushed those smiles right up. Even, in your eyes. “Mhm,” you hummed, and it seemed to peel her lips back even more, off-centered teeth shining.

You tried to get her to simper, always. Seeing the slight gap in her teeth, all while inappreciable, pounded your unsettled heart.

Spring came in droves. It came with the bushels, it tore with the rain, and it ended with lips against your ear that promised you the period inbound was helpless. The summer was going to be helpless to your happiness.

“You don’t care for their thoughts,” she told you. “You grant yourself everything. It’s beautiful.”

Her white-hot breath burned through skin. Where did your sense of abandon go—you wonder? She was telling you to be free, but with lissome arms around you, you wanted a limit. You would rage without a hand to settle you where it wanted. And when you got too quiet, it moved; your invisibleness to being a lover menaced her to bits, but it was just that—invisible. There, buried. Low in the meadow.

Your arm leapt from rest. It wrapped with care. “No,” you whispered, a scared tremor in her hold. “Don’t go.”

Refusing her romances for little whiles, she never expected it—but expected you.

She laughed. “See?” Because you do get what you want.

You do lose your freedom.

Rain clung to blades of grass. Your phrase was foreseeable, but you had your ears folded and feet bare in the garden. The meadow before, beheld by two, and now yourself alone. At least, you assumed you were alone. If loneliness—and happiness, medlied together—felt as pasture and moisture did free under the pallets of your toes, the wet blades between, then it was fine. You would be fine with it, with this. The latchet heels you refused to wear, as a girl and then, hung from your fingertips.

But staring at that puncture of light high up made your concepts swell. Fine is not fine enough, if her being there made your days even finer. Love couldn’t abide longer; you tossed your heels in the vendure, lifted your drapings, searched for her through the atrium openings and contended with a stride that made it to the exits.

And out of them again.

Sharp fingers clutched you from behind, and it sent you a shrill. Your throat grated with it. “Let me go!” But as soon as the world rolled upside and around your throat, it collapsed being pounded into the ground tandem with insertion of pain. You constricted with prayers left inside.

Strange, pitched siphons of a dead kiss; a pair of coldnesses attached there—faceless as it lies too close—and drained the blood. You went silent. You were terrified feeling drips of blood escape your carotid and the mouth of the thing, ending up in that green grass. Pitiful, the tears. Vision gone wet and dull, this was it. In your mind, gentle for some end: this was it.

And then, you became again.

The creature replaced loss with a new fiber. While you were drifting into numbness at a glacial pace, no longer staring beyond your eyes, sudden flows of cold liquid were pushed and bursted. The pain waned, then it abated. Warping into a strange, something-else phenomenon. For a second, all the sound in the world emptied and nothing replaced it. Even in the hollows, where air is invited and dismissed, it was hauntingly quiet; you weren’t sure if you were breathing at all. Then, as a whip is lashed, it pops.

The first sound of this life, was a gasp. “Oh, god!” you choked from the air present inside you. It almost hurt to breathe, and your windpipes suffered a severe whiplash, strangling you to cough, cough, and cough until whatever pearl-shaped bane that was in there—was out. But as you clutch the flesh upon your chest, your heart drops. You are sitting up—free, without a thing to hold you in place.

Was it a dream?

For mornings you relapsed to the same conjecture; waking up felt no different than falling asleep. Cotton breathed, winter continued, and sunshine eclipsed in real life as it does in a dream. In the prologue of summer, you could never fall asleep. You were never tired enough. Wanted less of light and more of night, and you could not put a finger on it.

It became an ode to transient living—which you could sing no more.

But, something ached. From your throat, to the seedless pit of your stomach, something was wanting for you—wanting hard.

Conniption. That was all you needed. Tangled ligatures of conniption, a communion, and the weapons to do it. You went prepared: a knife was laced tight into your undergarment, accessible from the breach of your pressed breasts, but not once did you evince it. You did not need it.

You figured that out with your first victim. The blood—oh, it poured from the base of his voice into his shirt and it wrote your name in the stone tiling. In red, it whispered to you. Luring, convincing. You imagined claiming the possessions on his person, and returning your stolen virtue to its place in-heart was his result, but then you began to precede yourself.

Thoughts from another age trickled in. His skin, pulsing inside your teeth before you made the bite. It was meant to be.

Inside chapel doors, it was quiet and cold. To you, it was; the temperature perceived has a scattered origin. Summer heat coagulates against the windows, pulses inside the stone and almost boils the pool of blood under his head, but you are what you have changed into. Sucking, with hunger and without a stomach, it warms your lips before it chills and dissipates. Weird—love often operates as so.

Those doors groaned open. Behind your attention.

A relieved sigh starts. “God, I was searching all about for you,” that familiar voice said. Her knowledge was perfect, but on a peripheral edge; she had figured you were inside because your equine presence was outside, but she did not see you as soon as she entered. Blood left a curious trail. “What in.. God..” Into a forest of devotional pews.

God abandoned centuries ago.

“Joel!” Ellie reaches for him with a scream. “Get the fuck off him!”

With a mouthful of blood, her pale lips are focused on. You rise, teeth crimson, and she is standing there in the melting numb with nothing to protect her but flannel, wide-eyed with this waking world. Had the tea not kept her? “Ellie,” you rasp. The hole in your throat left with the fear of your failure—factured to her being here, and not on that couch. She hates. She hates your guts. She is staring at you, watching, and it is a shifted stare you hope upon none. Your throat goes swollen: understanding it.

You wanted to protect her.

Her fingers writhe in careful spasms. Lips fold in. “Joel?” She wants to be confused. But her guts sinks considering if she were to have slept, she would have missed this. Missed Joel, in confusion.

The swollen sounds that so much as struggle, and die in the windpipe. “I couldn’t do it, Ellie.” You draw the last breath you feen to kiss her with. You scrape toward that chance; step in a careful line.

Ellie regresses—she denies your approach. Her flinch is all too familiar. “You..” she trembles, and deprives you of beholding the one thing that fascinates you from reason: her unprecedented eyes, a green gift from the mother underneath. Tears dilate in the corners. Lumps in the throat toughen her swallows. “Couldn’t do it?” Her mind is hers, again. “You fucking killed him!”

Him?

When she wails, is when she trades you her look again. Brighter, sharper, raging and horrible. Space between your bodies diminishes as she closes it, but it is a meant punishment; to reach the man behind you. She comes near, and not near enough. “Joel..” Sobs will her mouth unhinged. “Joel, please..” Heaven cries.

Is he more special than you?

Both knees thud into the ground. She bare-hands the blooded snow, clenching it into a fist. Screaming, mouth wanting to curl into itself—louder, louder. “You killed him.. You killed him!” Ellie chants, and snow crumbles from her grip as she replaces it with the fabric over her blue heart, hysterical. Her own throat chokes her. “He’s fucking dead.. Look, he’s fucking d—d..” Icicles could form on her philtrum if it were a month earlier. Hunger admits; it could have been.

Really, you never learned who he was to her. Father, saviour, a nevermind-stranger. To you, or for you, everything about this home was a secret. The doors, not to touch. The floorboards, given to screeching. Other humans—she made sure your eyes kept her way. His firewood scent lit the halls at night, pulse calm; your judgement relied on the stories you felt throughout the house.

The smell of estrangement.

God, it reeked. Alcohol settled on his windowsill for nights along months. It seemed foreign. Not meant to be. Misplaced, you attempt to recall. You wipe at the blood that won’t go away.

Curious thing: you don’t recall his name being a craving.

Winter fills you again, and when you decide to sidle up against her in the snow waning to spring, she does nothing. For a moment, she is still curled—deadened—to his chest. That stubborn auburn strand has shifted from its tuck, adhering to the snot on her lip. You touch her to return her some life.

It works, to your disbelief.

She sniffles.

You breathe out, “Ellie?” close to her nape exposed, gentle enough not to shatter silence. “My girl?” But it gets fabric to shift under you. Attention to be given.

She turns slowly, and without a word. Stares without a drought in her waterlines. Your reflection consumes you in them, as both hands consume her at the sides, cupping her delicate, mourning-blue face. You could eat her. Sweet as an apple: round, shining, blooding whooshing to the surface. But you would begin with her lips. From her lips, to her love, as you did your girl before.

Yes, see? You are different.

You are different, and she loves you. “I love you.” You kiss her. Unrequited and soft. Though, the gesture snags curls into her lips. Yes, yes—please keep smiling.

Her lips part to utter something. Throat moves with the shape of a word. But, it does not dislodge. She swallows it, her lips snaring with it, pushing into this frown of undelight you could never have foreseen; doll-wide eyes and knife-point brows cutting into her own flesh. And then, puncture.

Your chest opens up.

It burns. It slides in. What is this sensation?

Out of that sudden choke-up, you drop your interests to the foreign parting. Seeing it, you stop living; silver protrudes from your chest, ribs holding it in place, and her hands are the guide. Fingers wrapped with love and promise, whitened from the pressure, around this blade and its hilt. No, not the blade you left for her; this one is a stranger, intrusion. The sacred invitation.

Its embrace is warm, not cold.

The dense snow is not when you plummet spine-first into it. It is warmest thing soothing your body ever since her last touch. You’re staring up at your freckled angel, high up—hopeless, but not confused. She has nothing more on her mind that you need to hear.

Revenge is her concept.

You cannot intimidate her to return. There is none. There is no return. This is not a punishment.

Your happiness is helpless; it is spring.

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23victoria · 5 months ago

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snowboarding

ꨄ༊*·˚ pairings: f1 drivers x reader

₊✩°｡⋆ authors note: i think this is considered gender neutral but idk it’s a draft and it’s a drabble but lmk if i’m wrong! i hope you guys enjoy!!

ꨄ༊*·˚ synopsis: snowboarding with the f1 drivers and you have a little accident

₊✩°｡⋆ wanna be tagged in my works?! CLICK HERE!

ꨄ༊*·˚ F1 MASTERLIST

Lewis Hamilton

Lewis glides effortlessly down the slope while you, in contrast, move like a malfunctioning robot.

“Just relax,” he calls back. “You’re doing great!”

He shouldn’t have said that— because seconds later, you hit an uneven patch and face-plant.

Lewis stops so fast he sprays snow everywhere. “Babe? Babe?! Oh no— are you hurt?”

You roll onto your back, snow-covered but grinning. “I have become one with the mountain.”

Lewis lets out a relieved chuckle, covering his face. “Don’t do that to me, Y/N!” He flops into the snow next to you, laughing. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.”

He shakes his head with a grin. “Next time, let’s stick to sledding.”

Charles Leclerc

Charles is all confidence as he helps you strap in. “Just follow my lead, bebé. Nice and easy.”

Nice and easy, my ass.

The moment you push off, you gain too much speed and, before you can stop, go flying straight into a snowbank.

Charles nearly trips over himself rushing to you. “Babe! Are you hurt? Talk to me!”

But instead of replying, you burst into laughter, struggling to pull yourself out of the snow.

Charles blinks. “You— you’re laughing?”

You nod, still giggling uncontrollably. He sighs, relief washing over his face before he starts laughing too, shaking his head. “You scared me, you idiot.”

“But did I look cool before I crashed?” you ask.

He snorts. “No. You looked like Bambi on ice.”

Carlos Sainz

Carlos is patient, guiding you through the basics. “It’s all about balance, cariño.”

Balance, you repeat in your head. Balance.

Then the snowboard betrays you. One sharp turn and suddenly you’re tumbling, rolling down the slope like a snow-covered burrito.

Carlos skids to a stop beside you, wide-eyed. “Y/N?! Are you okay? Speak to me!”

You peek up at him, grinning through your snow-covered face. “I think I invented a new trick.”

Carlos sighs in relief, then throws his head back laughing. “Dios mío, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” He shakes his head. “But I will admit— that was quite a spectacular crash.”

“Thank you, I do my own stunts.”

Lando Norris

Lando is already filming, grinning. “Alright, first time on a snowboard. What could go wrong?”

Everything. Everything could go wrong.

You barely make it five feet before catching an edge and wiping out spectacularly, your legs flinging over your head before you land in a heap.

Lando stops recording. “Oh my god.” He rushes over, panic setting in. “Y/N? Are you alive?”

Your laughter bubbles up from the snow, and Lando groans in relief. “You scared the crap out of me!”

You wiggle your arms dramatically. “Still alive, unfortunately.”

Lando bursts into laughter, dropping beside you. “That was the funniest fall I’ve ever seen.”

“Did you get it on camera?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Post it.”

Oscar Piastri

Oscar stands at the top, eyeing you cautiously. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes! I’m a natural athlete.”

You immediately fall.

Oscar’s soul leaves his body as he rushes to you, sliding to a stop. “Y/N? Please tell me you’re okay.”

You open your eyes and just start laughing.

Oscar blinks. “You’re— you’re laughing?”

You nod, wiping snow from your face. “That was fun.”

He sighs, shaking his head before chuckling. “I thought you died for a second.”

“Not yet, but the day is young.”

Oscar groans, but he’s still smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”

Max Verstappen

Max watches you from the top of the slope, arms crossed, smirking. “You sure you don’t want a few practice runs first?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “How hard can it be?”

Famous last words.

One second, you’re upright; the next, you’re airborne, limbs flailing like a ragdoll before face-planting into the snow.

Max sprints down, panic in his eyes. “Y/N?! Are you okay?” He drops to his knees beside you, but instead of groaning in pain, you’re wheezing with laughter, unable to breathe.

Max stares for a moment before shaking his head, chuckling. “You absolute idiot,” he mutters, flopping onto the snow next to you, laughing. “You looked like a falling pancake.”

“A pancake?” you gasp between laughs.

“Yeah, a very uncoordinated one.”

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yandere-daze · 6 months ago

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I promised I would do it and now that I've finished reading Death Note, here are some of my thought on Yandere Light ^^

While writing this, it moreso turned into a scenario told in bulletpoints rather than headcanons. I hope you have fun reading! I'm more than happy to talk about it or answer any questions you might have after reading!

gn reader

2.6k words

cw yandere, manipulation, isolation, stalking but not exactly by Light himself?, kidnapping (mentioned)

Yandere! Light Yagami Headcanons / Scenario

I believe Light would be a very fascinating case of a yandere as he would both be very intense and controlling while still keeping that side of himself very well hidden from you and the general public. You wouldn't notice anything off about him until it is already too late (if you would ever notice it at all)

When Light first fell in love with you it came as a complete surprise to him. Never in his life has he ever loved anyone before so these strange warm feelings he got whenever he looked at you caught him off-guard and made him feel a bit uneasy.

He was obviously intelligent enough to quickly figure out just what exactly these feelings meant and at first, he wasn't very pleased with these new circumstances. To him, romance was simply a distraction from his greater goals for the world, an unnecessary nuisance, and something that was quite frankly beneath him.

He convinced himself that he had no time or real desire for a relationship so for the next few days and even weeks, he tried his best to suppress these pesky feelings he has developed for you. He tried to keep his distance from you and if you were somehow forced to interact he would do the bare minimum of keeping up appearances. Polite smiles and meaningless small talk were all you were getting from him. Everything was perfectly normal.

At first, Light had thought that staying away from you like this was a smart idea. Feelings were supposed to fade away into nothingness if you never interacted with your object of affection and he was counting on that. If he only let go of this silly delusion of a loving relationship with you, everything would go back to normal soon enough.

But quickly Light found that his approach was starting to backfire pretty spectacularly. The more he forced himself to stay away from you, the more he found himself lying awake at night, his thoughts drifting off to images of you smiling at him or laying down right beside him as he wrapped his arms around you. Instead of regaining focus, he was getting even more easily distracted than before, his mind constantly wandering.

Staying away, watching you talk to and laugh with other people was slowly starting to drive him insane and so he decided that he would need to change tactics. If his love for you wasn't dwindling then he must do everything in his power to grow closer to you and finally satisfy his longing for you.

After his initial denial phase, Light would slowly worm his way into your daily life without you even noticing. Every time you saw each other somewhere, he would greet you with a charming smile and start a short conversation with you, hoping to build some rapport between the two of you. He would offer to carry your bags for you, insisting it wasn't a big deal, or invite you for a tutoring session if you were both still students. Light was at the top of his class, the brightest boy in the entire school. What reason could you possibly have to refuse?

At first, you would meet at a public place like a library or a cafe to meet up. Spending one-on-one time with you like this, even if you were only studying was strangely exhilarating for Light. Sitting across from you and watching your face scrunch up in confusion whenever you got stuck on a subject or the way your expression would brighten up with understanding after he explained a particularly difficult problem to you... These were moments he would find himself looking forward to every single time.

Slowly over time, the frequency of these study sessions would increase under the guise of needing to properly prepare for upcoming tests or exams. The location, too, would change once Light suggests studying at his home where you wouldn't be disturbed by anyone else.

Sometimes he would even pick you up at home and smirk internally whenever he heard your parents comment about what a nice, handsome young man he was. He didn't miss the way they would nudge you toward him while shooting you a knowing look and waving you off.

Of course, to grow even closer to you, he would integrate himself into your friend group. Though he didn't care for any of your friends in the slightest, it was very easy for him to connect with them due to his popularity and good looks. He was good at pretending to care for these fools if it meant he could spend even more time with you.

Naturally, he would also use his connections with your friends to learn more things about you that he could then purposefully include in a conversation during your study sessions. Light made sure to study up on any of your interests whether it was a certain band, movie, book, or anything else, just to be able to impress you with his knowledge on the matter. It was truly remarkable how many things you had in common, wasn't it?

Slowly but surely, Light became a constant presence in your life when you had been mere acquaintances a few months ago. Light picks you up in the morning, he's a permanent member of your friend group, he sits beside you in class, he invites you over to his house three times a week now to study ( though your study sessions have evolved into regular hangouts now instead of really getting any coursework done) and he's a constant conversation topic at home. ("And you two really aren't dating? What a shame, Light is such a sweet boy. I'm sure he would treat you right.")

In such a short amount of time, Light has clawed his way into your life and yet he's still not satisfied. He won't be content until he finally has you all for himself, until you're finally in his arms. And once he has you, he won't ever let go.

After growing closer to you as a friend, Light would quickly work on isolating you and becoming the sole person you rely on. These so-called friends of yours are all imbeciles, people unworthy of being in your presence.

At this point, I might as well mention that I think Yandere Light would rever and idolize you to a point but he would still want to be the one in control ultimately. You are pure of heart, someone who should be protected, and are so far above the ignorant masses. They don't deserve you. Only a god like him is worthy of owning you and he really wishes you would realize this soon. He knows what is best for you.

I actually think he wouldn't use the Death Note to isolate you and get rid of any obstacles in his path to claiming you as his, at least not yet. Early on in the story of Death Note, while the world is still largely against Kira and he is actively being investigated by the police and L, Light can't risk getting his hands dirty for something trivial like this, no matter how much he would love an efficient way to rid himself of these friends of yours, let alone the people he deems an active threat to your future relationship.

No matter how much he might yearn for you, he can't risk his greater mission of ridding the world of all criminals.

So, Light will take the subtle manipulation route. Manipulation is something he is very good at and he will not hesitate to guide your thoughts and feelings in a direction that benefits him.

He acts as a concerned friend when he tells you about the things he heard about fellow classmates. Did you know that one of your friends used to be a member of a gang? He heard that they were slipping into old habits and getting in trouble again and so he couldn't help but feel worried about you. He doesn't like you associating with someone so dangerous. He's just looking out for you, okay?

He's even worse when it comes to people he deems a romantic rival. He never runs out of negative things to say about people you show an interest in. It angers him greatly whenever he has to listen to you swoon over someone else but he knows you're just too blind to see that he's the one for you at the moment.

But no matter, Light will make sure you don't do anything stupid like going on a date with someone else. Oh, he heard that one was a total player, they would only break your heart. Your date didn't show up at all? Oh, he's so sorry to hear that. Look why don't you make the most of this evening and spend it together instead then? They were a fool to stand you up and he's going to make sure you'll forget all about them soon enough.

Never mind the fact that he had sent your date an anonymous letter threatening them to not show up or the dark secret he had found out about them would soon be exposed to everyone.

You're none the wiser about Light's secret manipulations, simply grateful for what a nice and supportive friend you have.

But being friends with you isn't enough for Light anymore. He needs to be more than that. He's already managed to isolate you from all your other friends but you just aren't falling for him fast enough. So he hatches a plan to force you to seek him out, to make you come running into his arms.

Having waited for such a long time, Light is nearing his wit's end at the fact that you aren't his yet. So just this once, he is willing to use the Death Note to get you to fully rely on him.

Quickly, he finds the name of a petty criminal who has already been released from prison and writes an entry in his notebook.

Suddenly, you start receiving strange letters at home. Twisted declarations of love sent by an unknown sender. They claimed to have been watching you for a while, waiting for you to truly notice them and fall for them as well. They describe your daily routine in great detail, indicating that they must have been following you. They promise that you won't have to wait long, that you will soon finally be together without any obstacles in the way.

The contents of the letter make a chill go down your spine and soon enough, you don't feel safe in your own home anymore. You feel watched, as if someone was just around the corner, staring at you. It was highly unnerving and soon, you would tell your best (and at this point only) friend Light about the creepy letters you've been receiving and that you had the sinking feeling that you were being watched.

Light of course showed great concern and offered to stay at your side for the entire day. He would make sure no creep would get to you as long as he was around. And sure enough, with Light around you felt safer, as if nothing could harm you anymore. You could spend the rest of your day at ease, knowing that your friend would protect you if anything were to happen.

But as soon as Light would bid you farewell after escorting you back to your home, you would feel an unsettling chill going down your spine once more as the feeling of being watched returned. You were scared again, fearing that your stalker might climb through your window and kidnap you at any moment. You barely got any sleep in the night, practically jumping out of your skin anytime you heard a loud noise outside.

Morning couldn't come soon enough, when you would see Light again and this nightmare would stop, at least until you would once more return home.

Soon enough, your mind would start associating Light's presence with the feeling of being safe and his absence with intense fear and discomfort. Parting from him would grow more difficult every single day and he was counting on that.

The same routine would continue for a few days until one day, you couldn't take it anymore. As Light moves to say goodbye to you once more in front of your house you yell in protest and hold on to his arm, making him stop in his tracks.

You explain to him that you just don't feel safe anymore at home and that his presence is the only thing that can put you at ease. You tell him that only he makes you feel safe anymore and by the end of it, you're practically pleading with him to not go, to not leave you alone. You can't handle another night being alone, without him. You needed him by his side.

It was everything Light could have hoped for and the knowledge that this was his doing fills him with smug satisfaction that he masks with a genuine smile. He's quick to agree to your request and offers you to spend the night at his home instead. You could stay in his room even and maybe you would feel more at ease, knowing that he is there with you.

Of course, you agree and true enough, sleeping in his room was the most peaceful night you had in a while. With him next to you, you could feel like you could finally relax.

"I'm here for you. Don't worry, nothing will happen to you as long as I'm here."

From then on, your life became even more impossibly intertwined with Light's. Instead of just spending the entire day with him, you would now wake up next to him, eat breakfast in his home, walk to and from school alongside him, and fall asleep curled up next to him. And you felt happy like this.

The next time your parents would ask you about your relationship with Light, you would answer that he made you feel like no one else ever has and they would congratulate you, all while saying that they always knew you two would start dating one day.

And Light? He couldn't be happier that his plan worked out. They say distance makes the heart grow fonder but forced proximity under the stress of possible death works just as fine in his opinion.

A few days later, a petty criminal would be found dead outside your old home, in their hand another twisted love letter addressed to you, clear evidence of their crime.

" My love, the wait is finally over. Finally, I get to hold you in my arms as I have always longed to. Finally, you're all mine, forever and always."

It was quickly deduced that this person must have been the one stalking you for the past few days. You were relieved that it was finally all over, that you no longer had to fear for your life. But at the same time, you were glad that it had happened for otherwise, you might have never come to realize just how much you loved Light, the person who had been your best friend for the longest time and always stood by your side when things got difficult. When others would leave you, you knew that Light would always stay.

Being led away from the crime scene by your boyfriend, walking hand-in-hand, you can't help but wonder if maybe someone else had been watching over you all this time as well. You take a last glance at the motionless body lying in front of your door, then turn back around to whisper a silent thank you towards the heavens.

Your stalker's cause of death? Why, a heart attack of course.

#death note #light yagami #light yagami x reader #death note x reader #light x reader #yandere death note #yandere light yagami #male yandere #yandere light yagami x reader #x reader #yandere #gn reader #cw yandere #cw isolation #cw manipulation #yandere x reader

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thesunloveschips · 8 months ago

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Obsessed - Part 5 (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: We continue the sex from where we left off previously.

A/n: Apologies for the delay. I was genuinely worried about whether this chapter was going to be good enough. Thankfully, @findingstephanie and @div94 were a huge help. ✨✨ Everybody clap for them because the smut is now smuttier. (I'll be crying in the corner for the contribution of the Internet in uniting smut lovers)

Warnings: smut, full-blown smut, like Azriel throwing reader around kinda smut, oral sex (male & female receiving), Azriel's tattooed chest, minors please stay away.

Click here for Obsessed (Masterlist)

****

“Wrap your legs around me.” Azriel ordered, unyielding and firm.

He didn’t look like the composed man whom she’d dined with or went grocery shopping. He was unhinged, deranged even.

Y/n complied as she brought her hands behind his neck.

He lifted Y/n, his hands under her thighs, and walked towards his bedroom.

The feel of his hands on her skin made her bury her face in his neck because how large were those hands?

She imagined how well those hands would grab her breasts and ass. How spectacularly he’d spank her.

And that hand and those tattooed fingers wrapped around her throat while he fucked her stupid was. . . An aroused Azriel looked like he’d do all that and much more.

And she wanted all that and much more.

It was dizzying to be held tightly as he lifted her, when her breasts were against him. And from the way he glanced at her upon that contact, he was also affected by it.

This man was large. Intimidatingly so.

So what about his cock?

That painful bulge on his pants was enough to make her nervous.

But gods, she wanted it. She’d cry and beg for it.

She wanted to be railed till she couldn’t understand anything other than him.

She could see the startings of his tattoos which eventually descended and spread across his chest. The nape was inked here and there but his neck in general was clean, displaying his clear skin.

At this point, everything seemed to be a prelude to how frenziedly he’d fuck her and how willingly she’d submit.

The golden lighting was dim, perfectly complementing Azriel. The sheets were cold. Y/n was wearing only her panties when Azriel made her sit on the bed.

He now towered over her, putting all her fantasies to shame with his ravenous gaze.

That inked chest was a vision. An inspiration for images, each more provocative than the previous.

“Y/n?” She felt hot and light. So sensitive and drunk on his touch. Y/n really did but she really needed to be thoroughly fucked right now.

She was consumed by her lust enough that it was becoming difficult to concentrate on anything other than his touch.

“Stand up, sweetheart.” He kissed her deeply when she obeyed, maybe as a reward.

“Do you trust me?” He rasped like a cunning predator ready to ruin her to the ground.

“Yes.” She received a soft kiss in return for her compliance.

“Take off my belt.” Y/n blinked. She’d definitely read that line in a dark romance novel. When he pinched her nipple, she let out a surprised squeal.

What washed over her was so hot it was electric. It was so sudden and too powerful. She nodded and her hands rose, heading towards his belt.

Oh. Was he going to actually. . .

Was he going to be rough?

Would she get to taste his cock?

The idea of it excited her. She was now impatient.

This man, so perfectly crafted and intimidatingly large, desired her. And as she unbuckled his belt, Y/n felt confident. He was attracted to her.

She felt glorious as she eagerly unfastened his pants and pulled it down and his undershorts just enough. The raw desire between them, now a palpable thing.

The sight of his cock made her want to cry in gratitude because thank fuck for this unholy monument.

Her hand extended to touch it when Azriel caught her wrist. “No touching.” She looked back at him, offended by that. What was the point of getting here if they weren’t touching?

But then he leaned in and growled. “Kneel.”

****

Azriel had to remain in control. He knew that much. Y/n hadn’t had sex in a while so it would be inevitably painful for her in the beginning and he was determined to make her comfortable before he indulged.

But all that determination went out of the window when he saw her breasts against him as he took her to bed. And when he’d glanced at her and saw her peering up with eyes filled with confusion and trust, he faltered.

He was depraved and deprived and only determined only to fuck her like a primeval creature. But he couldn’t deny how much he adored this woman.

And while his desire battled with his worry for her, Y/n gave him no room to think any further when she obeyed him and kneeled. She was so good for him.

Azriel brought a hand to her cheek, his thumb tracing her lips before she opened it enough for it to slip in.

He felt the tip of her tongue against his thumb while his woman sat there innocently as if she wasn’t the reason his cock was raging and aching.

“Open.” Her lips parted and he saw that tongue. His hand impulsively went to the back of her head and brought her head closer to his cock.

He saw how her eyes widened, eager and afraid. And without any further instruction, her tongue darted out to lick him like an ice cream. From the bottom to the top. And she began teasing him around the tip.

Her hand gently took hold of his cock. She took her time to gather her saliva, spat on his cock, and used her hand to gently spread it.

Now, Y/n was a decently tall woman. There were few who were taller than her but she was so small compared to him. Small hands, small mouth, completely small.

She was too soft.

Too gentle.

He felt it acutely when her fingers teased over the veins of his cock, his grip on her hair tightening. Her tongue continued to lick him.

Y/n. . . his beautiful Y/n pushed her stray curls behind, as if preparing for something.

Azriel craned his neck when she sucked the tip with a wonderful amount of force. She was. . . heavenly. And such a dirty little girl.

He was this close to taking advantage of her hair in his hand. Of pushing his cock in. His knuckles were pale, veins pulsating as he tried to restrain himself from doing just that.

Her hand fisted the rest of his cock gently.

Too gently.

Oh.

His Y/n was a confident, cunning seductress out to hunt him and he was already bleeding on the ground for her.

“More, Y/n.”

He barely got the words out but the little minx looked up at him, removed his cock from her mouth, and looked at him all pretty with a coy smirk. “What?”

“Suck harder, sweetheart.” He repeated and brought his cock to her lips. And as soon as she opened her mouth, Azriel grabbed the back of her head and slammed in.

Y/n was so fucking pretty as those teary eyes looked up at him.

So fucking gorgeous.

Nearly naked and on her knees. At his mercy. He hadn’t planned on a blowjob right now but whatever they were headed for better than anything he’d planned.

All her whimpers and cries and her tears. And Azriel barely remembered that he wanted to come inside that sweet pussy first.

He remembered how tightly she’d clenched around his fingers. Gods, he was going to enjoy claiming her.

This beautiful woman, such a delicacy, he’d feast on her again and again.

He’d ruin her so well. So thoroughly she’d never even look at another man..

Or maybe he’d crawl to her since his desperation was already established.

But her mouth felt too good right now. Her face was so pretty as she struggled with his size, tears streaming down her cheeks. The look in her eyes made determined to unleash himself inside her pretty mouth.

And he gave and gave and wanted to give more and more and but not now.

He took out his cock, finally giving her enough time for breathing, and pulled her to her feet.

Fuck.

His Y/n. His woman. So fucking beautiful licking her lips. He had no other thought as he pulled her into a kiss.

He wanted to breathe this woman into him. All of her essence, his and his only.

With one hand grabbing her ass and the other buried in her thick hair supporting her head, Azriel asked. “That greedy for my cock, pretty girl?”

“Why didn’t you come in my mouth?” She was gasping for air.

“I plan to come in your pussy first. And when I want to, I’ll use your mouth. Is that clear?” But he kept looking at his lips, letting a thumb brush over them.

He’d take that mouth. Azriel would fuck her in the shower like that. And then he’d beg on his knees for Y/n to one day wake him up with a blowjob.

Y/n gave him a secret smile. He pulled her hair at the lack of an answer, baring her neck for his mouth. “Words, Y/n.”

“Yes, sir.” And any semblance of control he had was out of the window.

****

Azriel threw her on the bed and wasted no time in hovering over her. Y/n knew calling him sir had done it. She’d seen his eyes darken and her pussy ached.

Calling him sir seemed like the best idea she’d had recently. How much longer could she poke him before he fucked his life into her?

Azriel now kneeled at the side of the bed and she whined. His hands spread her for his convenience, threw her legs over his shoulders and he began feasting on her for the second time.

Her panties were ripped to shreds and discarded somewhere she couldn’t care about.

“Hanhhh.” And if there’s anything Y/n could say confidently right now, it was that Azriel had a very wicked mouth and an even wicked tongue.

His tongue moved over the slit, parted her, and easily found her clit as if he’d known her body for ages. He flicked her, teased her, again and again while her hands were clutching the sheets.

Her impatience rose and so did her excitement. She was so close and it was so easy. She’d been sensitised after the first time he ate her out at the table. “Az!”

Her head turned to the side every now and then, eyes shut, and she was begging for relief. To be finished and Azriel was determinedly pursuing her.

“Please, please, please, please, please.” Y/n cried loudly as she found her pleasure and shattered.

She was numb from it all. And just when she thought she couldn’t feel anything more, Azriel hovered over her, parted her legs and settled between them.

Y/n knew he was feral for her as he brought that delicious cock to her. She was aching, and absolutely ready to cry and scream if he began teasing instead of fucking her properly.

He closed in, bringing all of that heat with him to her breasts and abdomen. And he entered her surprisingly slowly. Azriel’s face displayed his pleasure—eyes shut tight, mouth open, quick breaths.

Y/n was, in simple terms, being split apart.

She took quick breaths, trying to cope with the pain and adjust to him. He was slowly sliding inside her, easing in.

Gods, Azriel was actually keeping his promise of fucking all the air out of her.

And fuck her all the way to her ass but Azriel looked way too alluring, lost out of his mind as pleasure enveloped in the form of her very own pussy.

A sense of pride bloomed in her for being the cause of his pleasure. But the pain kept returning and kept melting away the more he pushed in.

She didn’t realise that sex after a few months would hurt her. It didn’t matter how many fantasies she had of fictional characters or of random hot strangers.

She felt herself become sensitive. Y/n could feel her nipples against his sweaty chest, the press of his hard muscle against her soft curves.

And Azriel’s fingers began playing with a nipple while he sucked the other softly to ease her through it.

When he was completely nestled inside her, the best of sensations overwhelmed her.

For all his dominance, Azriel continued to be considerate and greatly restrained as he entered her slowly.

“Fuck.” The word sounded foreign to her due to its tone. He was now ready to let go. Y/n could feel it in his gaze, his warmth, and his touch.

And once she’d relaxed and found her pleasure, Y/n called him. “More, please.”

“All okay?” He stopped his ministrations on her breasts and rose to meet her.

This man now cradled her. And she loved it. And all her affections and desires for him became overwhelming and she was close to crying with how insanely good she felt.

“Yes. Move, Az.”

“Still greedy, I see.” He grinned wickedly, as if he was not sweating and desperate for her. Azriel pulled himself partially out of her cunt and she whined in complaint, not enjoying that.

Now, Y/n was not a virgin. Neither in body nor in spirit. She’d read more than enough and explored less than enough and was curious to explore.

And Azriel had a habit of empowering her in ways unknown.

Her legs were spread apart to accommodate him and now, she wrapped them around his hips.

A lustful groan escaped him when Y/n used her conjoined legs around his hips and pulled his cock further inside, moaning in satisfaction at the impact.

“You little demon.” His eyes blazed, acknowledging her lust for him and he thrusted in harshly, finding satisfaction in her moans.

“Fill me up.” They were three words. Three mere words. And he’d unleashed himself on her.

“I want you.” Another thrust. “Every.” Thrust. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Time.”

“And yet hhhanggh-” Her nails were now digging into his back. “You tease aahngh too much.”

“If you can speak, then I’m not doing my job so well.” Azriel removed himself from her. Y/n whined as he rose like a death god, dark and cruel, and removed his body and his heat away from her.

His hands settled on her hips and he flipped her so her ass was in the air now.

What was that?

What the fuck was that?

Why was that so hot?

Why was he- Y/n moaned when Azriel fucked into her in one smooth movement.

She was clenching his cock tightly. He pushed her head into the pillows and leaned, warming her body with his own. “Hold the pillows tight.”

And as he began to lose his control, his manners, and any sense of consideration, Y/n moaned and cried at his frenzied thrusts.

She knew nothing else but his cock as he slammed into her repeatedly, fucking her like nothing less than an insatiable beast.

Was she grabbing the sheets or the pillows? Y/n couldn’t comprehend or care for it.

All she cared for was this man on his knees behind her, so thoroughly claiming his ownership of her, making every inch of her his.

He was ensuring her body knew his grip on her hips, his cock in her pussy, his mouth on her neck, his breath against hers.

And for all that he had teased her for this long. . . well, there was no teasing in what he was doing at the moment as he thrusted ferociously.

She was crying again. Her eyes were hot and wet and the tears were already on the sheets. “Please.”

It was there. That spot he’d been wildly ramming into. Oh god, she was going to break. To crash into some place.

It was dizzying as she neared it.

“You like that?” She felt a harsh sting on her ass. He’d smacked her. She was probably reddening by now.

And when she didn’t answer, she felt his hand on her hair, wrapping it around his fist. Azriel pulled her hair, bringing Y/n easily up and his other hand wrapped around her throat to further support her against his chest. “Answer me.”

From this angle, she could see their conjoined shadow. Could see him pumping into her like a beast. Could see her breasts bounce wildly. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Oh fuck, yes!”

Azriel leaned towards her, the familiar feeling and warmth of his chest against her back so perfectly arched for him.

“Such.” Thrust. “A.” Thrust. “Dirty.” Thrust. “Girl.” Thrust. “For me.”

He was so close to her and even then she wasn’t satisfied. She wanted him ingrained in her being. His touch and warmth.

The scent of sweat and sex was all around them. Azriel was still furiously thrusting his cock inside her and Y/n was blissfully moaning and falling and finally, she was shattering.

Even then, Azriel refused to let her go. Refused to let her breathe as he continued fucking her into her orgasm and beyond.

“No more.” Y/n wanted to breathe. At least for a while. But Azriel showed no signs of stopping. He continued to slam into her as if he hadn’t heard her at all.

And she was just his to fuck and use as he pleased. She could only moan and cry. Tears flowed freely as she was brought to another orgasm made her tremble.

Azriel made an lustful, inhumane sound like a roar or a growl as he came. She could feel him inside her, cock softening and their fluids running down her thighs.

This was it. She’d never felt this perfect. This desirable. This sexy. And Azriel was there, making her feel all of it, prompting her to believe it.

But when he removed himself from her, she cried. She was now frustratingly empty.

Y/n only felt his hands gently embrace her as he settled her down. He wrapped the blanket over her and moved around a bit.

She felt his hands on her inner thighs with something cool. “Sweetheart, let me clean you up.”

And she felt the cool and tender graze of intimate wipes in her inner thighs.

Y/n watched him and brought a hand to his cheek. He looked at her and she felt so comfortable. And so loved and cherished. This was surely a dream, wasn’t it?

She smiled and Azriel kissed her lips. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Forty seconds.”

“Thirty.” Azriel pulled back and did something and something. Y/n had closed her eyes, drifting away to blissful sleep.

Footsteps sounded and he’d probably left the room. She didn’t keep count of the seconds but he was back by her side soon. She looked at him with a tired smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Azriel adjusted all the blankets and tucked them both in cosily.

“Did you lock your door?”

“Yeah. I just checked.” So that’s why he’d left the room.

“And the lights?” He joined her in bed, entering the blanket and kissing her forehead.

“All switched off.” Y/n felt his hand on her cheek and his body come closer to her.

“Good.” She closed her eyes and snuggled closer, relishing in his warmth. “How are you?”

“I’m great. How are you?” Gods, he was so perfect. Was there any need for this much perfection in one person?

He switched off the bedroom lights and laid down properly on the bed, her body finding comfort in his steady warmth.

“I’m great.” She couldn’t stop smiling. Was that bad? She liked him, didn’t she? And maybe, he liked her too.

“Come closer, Az.” She invited, extending a hand that found his chest. Azriel took it immediately and moved closer.

And yet, she felt that he was definitely not close enough. Y/n caressed his hand with her fingers.

“Close enough?” He asked so softly, she could’ve fallen asleep. This man exuded warmth and something so powerful yet gentle.

“Not nearly.” She whispered, arching her back so her breasts would be pressed even more against his chest. Y/n draped an arm around his midsection and brought herself closer.

She craned her neck and moved forward to kiss whatever part of him that her lips would touch. It was probably his jaw from the bone structure she felt.

Azriel leaned forward, his hands wrapping around her waist and he gently kissed her forehead. “You’re so beautiful.”

“It’s dark in here.” Y/n felt something wrap drop over her body like a veil. And it was easy to find peace in his arms and drift away to sleep.

“Doesn’t make you any less beautiful.”

****

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wingedhallows · 3 months ago

Text

— THE PAST SHOULD STAY THE PAST —

CHAPTER FOUR

— ₊˚⊹♡ PAIRING vi!basketball jockey x reader!ballerina ; 3.3k words — ₊˚⊹♡ SYNOPSIS There was something there—something unspoken, something undeniable. But in one careless moment, it all fell apart. Words were said, pride got in the way, and now she’s left with nothing but regret. She wants to fix it. She has to. Now, Vi is determined to fix what she broke. She’ll do anything—everything—to prove she didn’t mean it. But pride is a stubborn thing, and second chances don’t come easy. Can she turn the tide before it’s too late? Or has she already lost what she never had the courage to claim? — ₊˚⊹♡ AUTHORS NOTE hey babes! i totally forgot to post this so here you go, love u

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The door creaks open, breaking the cozy silence of your dorm. Margot’s voice follows a second later, lazy and curious. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

She strolls in, clearly way later than she promised—probably off with Ellie again, but you don’t even care.

You’re perched on your bed, legs curled up beneath you, cheeks flushed pink and practically glowing under the warm lamplight. Phone clutched to your chest like a secret.

Margot pauses mid-step, her brows lifting as she takes you in. “Why do you look like you just got proposed to?”

You don’t answer right away, just let out a little breathless giggle as your heart does another wild somersault.

She tosses her bag onto her desk chair, clearly sensing something's up. But before she can press, you burst—literally squeak, “She kissed me!”

Margot yelps at the sudden outburst, hands flying up like you just threw something at her. “Jesus! Warn me next time!”

You’re already off the bed, springing forward to grab her arms with both hands, practically bouncing.

“Who kissed you?” she demands, eyes wide, head tilted, trying not to smile too hard.

“Vi! Violet Lane fucking kissed me!” you squeal, and it’s like the words are helium—they lift you right off your feet.

Margot just stares for a second, blinking. Then she lets out a breathy laugh of disbelief. “Vi kissed you?”

You nod so hard your hair bounces, a dreamy sigh escaping your lips as you fall back onto the bed like a heroine in a romance movie. “She was so gentle... and her hands were like—ugh—and Christ, the way she kissed me…” You trail off, absolutely dazed.

Margot presses a hand to her mouth, doing her best not to laugh, but failing spectacularly. It’s not mockery—it’s fond, the kind of amusement only best friends get away with.

“I cannot believe Violet Lane kissed you,” she says, voice full of wonder and something teasing beneath it. “You’ve been mooning over her for months. And now look at you. Tragic no more.”

You just grin, wide and blissful. “I think I’m in actual love.”

And for once, Margot doesn’t make a joke. She just smiles. Because maybe—you are.

Vi is losing her damn mind.

Out on the porch, hunched over on the top step, a cigarette burns between her fingers—half smoked, forgotten.

She doesn't even like cigarettes. Hates the taste, hates the smell. But right now, it’s the only thing that makes any sense.

Her knee bounces restlessly. Her fingers twitch.

The night air is cool against her overheated skin, but it’s not enough to ground her. Her mind is a relentless reel of you—your voice in her ears, the look in your eyes, the way your lips felt on hers.

God.

She swears her boxers are still soaked just from that kiss. It wasn’t even dirty—it was barely anything—and yet it hit her like a punch to the chest. Like a car crash in slow motion.

The screen door creaks open behind her, and then Abby drops down onto the step beside her with all the grace of a bowling ball.

She’s got a beer in one hand and, without even asking, plucks a cigarette from Vi’s pack with the other.

“Damn. You sick or something?” she mutters around the filter as she lights it, one brow arched as she eyes Vi sideways.

Vi doesn’t look at her. Her gaze is fixed out at the street, on nothing in particular—just trying to get her head to stop spinning.

“I kissed her,” she says, quiet.

Abby pauses mid-light. She stares at Vi, then lets out a long, low whistle as the lighter flicks out.

“No fucking way,” she says, loud enough Vi’s sure the whole neighborhood just heard.

“You kissed her? Vi, holy shit! Finally!”

Vi flinches like the words physically hit her, dragging a hand down her face with a groan. “Jesus, keep your voice down.”

Abby ignores that completely, her grin stretching wide across her face like a damn cartoon villain.

“How was it? How’s she taste?” she says, nudging Vi’s arm like they're in a locker room talking stats.

Vi shoots her a look like she’s just chugged bong water.

“You dog,” she mutters, face twisted in mock disgust.

Abby just howls with laughter, clapping her on the back like she just won the championship. “Nah, don’t give me that. You’ve been walking around all broody and lovesick for months. I’m just proud of you, dude.”

Vi shakes her head, finally letting a laugh slip through. It’s hoarse, like it caught in her throat on the way out.

“I don’t even know what happened,” she admits, staring at the glowing end of her cigarette. “One second we were just talking, and then... I kissed her. And she kissed me back.”

There’s a beat of quiet. The kind of quiet that feels heavy with something unsaid.

“You’re fucked,” Abby says, but there’s no judgment in it—just honesty, plain and simple.

Vi exhales smoke like a confession. “Yeah,” she says. “I really am.”

“This is the first time you’ve actually been excited for a party,” Margot teases, laughter in her voice as she tugs you up the long driveway.

Her grip is tight on your wrist, boots crunching over gravel, while Flint strolls just a few steps behind—hands in his pockets, looking like nothing ever rattles him.

You flash Margot a grin so wide it almost hurts. “Because Vi’ll be here,” you say, practically glowing at just the thought.

The house is already pulsing with bass and bodies by the time you step onto the porch.

The scent of beer, sweat, cheap cologne, and something undeniably close to weed hits your nose all at once, thick and dizzying in the warm night air.

Margot elbows her way through the crowd like a seasoned pro, dragging you along behind her while Flint follows, grinning at the chaos.

But your eyes are already scanning the crush of people inside—past the tangled limbs, solo cups, and multicolored lights. Searching. Hoping. And then—

You see her.

Vi.

Pink hair half-up, cheeks flushed, smile wide and reckless as she pushes through the crowd like she owns the place.

And maybe she does—the way people part for her, the way her gaze lands right on you like it’s the only thing she’s been looking for all night.

Your heart goes off, a deep, pounding thunder that rattles your ribs.

And then she’s in front of you, grabbing your hand without a word, tugging you gently—no, claiming you right out of Margot’s grasp.

“Hey, pretty,” she murmurs, voice low and warm as she leans in close. Her breath ghosts over your ear, and then—quick as a heartbeat—she presses a kiss to your cheek.

She’s definitely drunk. You can taste it on the air between you—beer and something sweet, maybe cinnamon gum—but she’s steady enough, her grip sure as she leads you through the crowd like she’s bringing you home.

You follow without hesitation, cheeks hot and grinning so hard your face might crack.

Vi sinks into the couch with a sigh, all loose limbs and tipsy confidence, dragging you down beside her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her arm drapes lazily behind you—not quite around you, but close enough that her fingers brush your shoulder, testing the waters.

You’re hyper-aware of her warmth, the way her thigh presses against yours, the soft scent of sweat and beer and something undeniably Vi clinging to her skin.

“You look really...” she trails off, eyes squinting like she’s trying to land the right word. “Like... woah.”

You laugh, tipping your head toward her. “That’s not a word.”

“It is now,” she insists, grinning crookedly. “You’re... woah.”

Before you can say anything back, Abby throws herself down onto the couch next to Flint, legs sprawled, drink sloshing slightly in her cup.

“Ohhh no,” she says, eyes locked on Vi with a devilish smirk. “She’s officially in the heart-eyes stage.”

“Hey, shut up,” Vi mutters, though she doesn’t exactly deny it.

Ellie plops dramatically into Margot’s lap on the armchair across from you, sing-songing, “Vi’s got a crush, Vi’s got a crush—”

“I will tackle you,” Vi warns, but she’s still smiling, cheeks a little pink as she turns her attention back to you. “Don’t listen to them.”

“Oh, I’m listening,” you say, smiling into your cup.

Margot shakes her head fondly, fingers playing with Ellie’s hoodie strings. “I’ve never seen her this soft. It’s almost scary.”

“You shut up too,” Vi says, nudging your knee with hers. “Y’all act like I’m proposing or something.”

Ellie gasps with mock excitement. “Is this a public confession? Should we clear the room?”

“Ellie.” Vi gives her the most tired look she can manage, though her mouth is twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. She leans in a little closer to you, quieter now.

“You wanna get outta here for a sec? Just—air. Less noise. Fewer idiots.”

“Rude,” Abby says, raising her cup in mock offense.

But you’re already nodding, heart thudding as Vi stands and offers you her hand.

You take it.

The couch groans as you rise, the laughter fading behind you, and Vi tugs you gently toward the sliding door—just the two of you again, leaving the teasing and chaos behind.

The sliding door clicks shut behind you, muffling the party into a low, distant hum.

Out here, the air is cooler—crisp against your skin, thick with the scent of night and grass and cheap beer spilled on the porch.

Vi doesn’t say anything at first. She just walks a few steps into the yard, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket, head tilted up like she’s looking for answers in the sky. Her breath fogs faintly in the air.

You follow, arms crossed for warmth, heart drumming way too fast for how slow everything feels.

Finally, Vi turns, and there’s something different in her eyes now. Not the usual confidence. Not even her drunk, cocky grin. Just this soft, raw honesty that makes your chest go tight.

“I, uh...” she starts, rubbing the back of her neck. “I don’t usually do this. Like, the whole... feelings thing.”

You smile gently. “Yeah, I got that vibe.”

She huffs out a laugh, ducking her head, her cheeks flushed and not just from the beer.

“But I kissed you. And I keep thinking about it, and now you’re here and I’m just—fuck, I’m nervous.”

You blink. “You’re nervous?”

Vi nods, biting her bottom lip. “I know I’m not... the best at showing stuff. Or saying the right thing. But when I’m around you, I—I feel like maybe I don’t have to fake it, y’know?”

You step closer, heart fluttering. “I like you, Vi.”

The words come out small but clear. You’re not even sure when you decided to say them. Maybe the moment she looked at you like you hung the stars. Maybe long before that.

Vi looks at you like she’s waiting for the ground to open up and swallow her. But then she smiles—slow and crooked and so her. “I like you too. A lot. And it’s kinda terrifying.”

You both laugh, a little breathless.

There's a pause, charged and uncertain. Then Vi steps forward, close enough that her jacket brushes your arm. Her hand hovers near yours, fingers twitching—like she wants to touch you but doesn’t want to scare you off.

“Can I—?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod. “Please.”

And then she kisses you.

It’s hesitant, soft at first—like she’s scared of getting it wrong. Her lips are warm and slightly chapped, and her hand comes up to cradle your jaw, just barely trembling. You lean into it, into her, the rest of the world fading away with the thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

It’s not perfect. Your noses bump, and you both giggle mid-kiss, but it just makes it better—realer. Her forehead rests against yours when you break apart, both of you slightly dazed and smiling like idiots.

“Okay,” she murmurs, breathless. “So... that was really nice.”

“Yeah,” you whisper back, your fingers still laced with hers. “It was.”

Neither of you say anything for a while. Just standing there in the quiet, swaying slightly, like the world slowed down just for this.

“Should we go back in?” you ask, finally.

Vi shrugs. “Eventually.”

You rest your head on her shoulder, and she wraps an arm around your waist without hesitation.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” she says softly, and this time, there’s no teasing in it. Just truth.

“So am I.”

Eventually, you murmur something about needing the bathroom and give Vi’s hand a quick squeeze before slipping back inside the house. She watches you go with this dazed little smile, like she still can’t believe you’re real.

The sliding door clicks shut again, and the quiet wraps around Vi like a blanket. For a moment, she just stands there—head tipped back, grinning like a complete fool.

That is, until she hears the sharp clack of heels behind her.

“Cute,” a voice cuts in, sugar-laced with venom. “Didn’t know you had a thing for ballet slippers now.”

Vi tenses before she turns. Caitlyn.

Hair glossy, ponytail too perfect to be real, wearing that smug little smirk like it’s part of her uniform. Cheer captain to a fault—and her ex, whether she liked it or not.

Vi’s jaw tightens. “What do you want, Cait?”

Caitlyn crosses her arms, manicured nails tapping against her elbow. “Just came to see if the rumors were true. You and her?”

Vi shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah. Me and her.”

Caitlyn raises a brow. “You seriously downgraded.”

Vi’s laugh is dry, humorless. “Nah. I upgraded. You just never liked the idea of not being the center of everything.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flash. “You didn’t mind when you were wrapped around my finger.”

Vi steps forward, close enough that her shadow cuts across Caitlyn’s flawless makeup. “You’re confusing me with someone who still gives a damn.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. The tension between them crackles like static.

Then Caitlyn’s voice softens, low and too sweet. “We could try again. You and me. It doesn’t have to be like before.”

Vi snorts. “Yeah, it doesn’t. Because I’ve moved on.”

“With her? Come on, Vi. She’s a dancer. What’s she gonna do, pirouette her way through life? She doesn’t get your world.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Vi snaps. “She doesn’t try to change me. Doesn’t act like loving me’s a project.”

Caitlyn flinches—just barely. Then she scoffs, turning on her heel. “You’ll come crawling back. You always do.”

You’re just about to step back outside when you pause by the glass door, hand brushing the handle.

Out on the porch, Vi is still standing where you left her—shoulders tense, jaw set. And across from her, like some ghost dragged out of the past, stands Caitlyn Kiramman.

Of course it’s her.

That smug little tilt to her chin, the flawless ponytail, the cheer captain uniform like armor—perfect as always, cruel as ever. You’ve seen her before. Around school. On Vi’s arm, once upon a time. You know exactly who she is. And what she used to be to Vi.

You shouldn’t eavesdrop.

But you can’t move.

You watch as Caitlyn leans in, way too close. Her voice is low and smug, like she knows she's winning some twisted game. And then—she turns her head just slightly and looks directly at you.

Dead in the eyes. As if she knew you were there the whole time.

And she kisses Vi.

Your breath catches—sharp and sudden. Like someone just slammed a door in your chest.

The world goes quiet. Not soft, gentle quiet—hollow quiet. Like all the sound was sucked out of the room. Like you’re watching a movie underwater, slow and detached and unreal.

You want to look away. You should look away.

But you’re frozen. Nails digging into your palms, stomach dropping like you just missed a step on a staircase. And your heart—it doesn’t just break. It fractures. Splinters. Like pointe shoes shattering on concrete.

Because you know Caitlyn. You know exactly what she’s doing.

And worst of all—you know Vi used to let her.

You don’t wait to see what happens next. Can’t.

You turn away, walking fast, barely able to breathe. Your vision blurs around the edges, but you don’t stop, not even when your chest starts to ache or your legs feel like they’re made of smoke. You just keep going.

Behind you, through the glass, Vi jolts back like she’s been slapped.

“Caitlyn, what the hell?!” she barks, shoving her away hard enough that Caitlyn stumbles.

Cait just smirks, brushing invisible lint off her sleeve. “Oh, calm down. It’s not like she didn’t already know.”

Vi’s eyes flick toward the door—just in time to catch the flutter of your dress, the faint blur of you vanishing into the house. Her stomach sinks so fast it makes her dizzy.

“Shit,” she breathes, too late.

Caitlyn’s smirk widens. “Told you,” she says, sing-song. “You’ll never outrun what we had.”

But Vi’s not listening anymore.

She’s already moving—ripping open the door, storming back into the house.

Looking for you.

Praying she didn’t just lose you before anything even had the chance to begin.

The music inside hits like a wave the second you slip through the sliding door—a bass-thumping, light-blurring wall of noise. But you don’t stop.

You push through the crowd, blinking hard, breath caught in your throat like a sob that doesn’t know where to go.

You barely register the tangled mess of bodies around you—people laughing, dancing, red Solo cups in the air. It all feels distant, muted. Like you’re not really in your body. Like you’re performing a role: heartbroken girl storms through party, exits stage left.

“Hey—whoa, whoa—” a voice cuts through the haze as someone catches your wrist.

It’s Margot, eyes wide, wearing a glittery crop top and concern.

Flint’s right behind her, already stepping between you and a guy holding a beer like he might’ve bumped into you. “Back off, man.”

“Jesus,” Margot says, tugging you gently aside, “what happened? You look like you just saw someone die.”

You try to speak but your throat is tight, jaw clenched. Your hands are shaking.

“Was it her?” Flint asks, already scowling.

You just nod.

Margot’s expression shifts instantly—fierce. Protective. “Where is she?”

You shake your head. “Don’t. I don’t wanna—just... I need to get out of here.”

Flint glances toward the door. “She’s gonna come after you.”

Margot looks at you like she’s ready to throw hands. “Let her try.”

Outside, Vi’s halfway through the door when she sees you disappear into the crowd—your back turned, the pale pink ribbon in your hair fluttering like a trail she can’t quite catch.

“Wait!” she calls out, voice breaking across the music.

She doesn’t care about the people she shoves past, doesn’t care about the way her name gets called out, confused and curious—“Vi? Yo, Vi, what’s going on?”

She doesn’t even notice Abby and Ellie until they grab her arm.

“Vi, what the hell?” Abby says, trying to hold her back. “What’s going on with you?”

“Cait kissed me.” Vi chokes out, eyes frantically searching the crowd.

“You kissed Caitlyn?” Ellie adds, somewhere between judgmental and genuinely baffled. “Why would you—?”

“I didn’t kiss her!” Vi snaps, practically shaking them off. “She kissed me, okay? And she did it on purpose. She knew she was watching—”

She’s breathing hard now, chest heaving, eyes wild.

Abby tries to calm her. “Vi, seriously, slow down. You’re scaring people.”

“I don’t care!” Vi shouts, already pulling away. “I have to find her. I have to fix this.”

And then she’s gone—shouldering her way through the crowd again, scanning every face like she’s trying to spot a dream that’s slipping too fast between her fingers.

Vi bursts through the front door, out into the chill of the night.

The porch lights burn bright behind her, casting long, lonely shadows across the lawn. The party is still thumping behind closed doors, the muffled bass a cruel reminder that the world keeps spinning even when yours just cracked open.

Her boots thud against the grass as she jogs forward, eyes scanning, heart thrashing.

“Where is she—” she whispers to herself, frantic. “Come on... please, please be out here...”

But the yard is empty.

The street’s quiet. Just a few parked cars, the soft hum of a distant engine. No fluttering ribbon. No soft footsteps. No you.

Vi stops in the middle of the lawn, turning in a slow circle, like maybe she missed something. Like maybe you’re just behind a bush, or sitting on the curb, or—

But you're not.

You're gone.

Her knees give out before she can even think about it, sinking into the damp grass with a dull thud. She drops her head into her hands, breathing hard like she just ran a marathon, like the air isn’t enough.

“Shit,” she whispers, voice cracking.

Then again, louder. More broken.

“Shit—”

Because she saw it. That split second through the glass—your silhouette at the door, your face right before you turned away. The way you froze, and then left without a word.

And she knows what it looked like.

She can feel what it must have felt like—for you.

The way Caitlyn turned and saw you before leaning in. That calculated move. That kiss meant to destroy.

And maybe she didn’t kiss Caitlyn back. Maybe she stood there stunned and horrified, shoved her away the second it happened—but you don’t know that. You didn’t see that part.

You saw her lips on Vi’s.

And that was enough to shatter everything.

Vi grips her jacket tight, knuckles white, like holding herself together physically might stop the emotional freefall. Her chest aches in this raw, pulsing way—because you’re soft and careful and brave in this quiet, delicate way. And you trusted her. You kissed her like you meant it. You chose her.

And now?

Now you probably think she chose Caitlyn.

You probably think she let it happen.

You probably think she’s just like before—the Vi who didn’t know how to be good for someone. The Vi who always ruined the things that mattered.

“I messed it up,” she says to no one. “I fucking messed it up.”

The night doesn’t answer.

Only the wind, brushing past the trees. Carrying your absence like it’s a weight Vi will never stop feeling.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ TAGLIST *ੈ✩‧₊˚

( @foralltheprettygirls ; @sawaagyapong ; @jivimatcha ; @majuia ; @uhmidkmuch ; @savedforlaterr ; @baylegend6 ; @elle-girlylesbian @dazevi @paymeinkash , @jupitism , @lostsouls-mxli ; @xseraphine ; @tdawg2012 ; @norwayromanoff ; @caffeine-pup ; @tuliptu ; @killuomi ; @lin-elizabeth ; @sillyloafff ; @hitmehardmommy ; @cloudy-fay ; @powpowjinxlife ; @antobooh ; @horde9 ; @mikellie @caitvisthird44 ; @halle5s ; @strawb4kdior ; @daughterofthemoons-stuff ; @paankhaleyaaar )

#vi arcane #vi x reader #vi fanfic #vi league of legends #vi x you #arcane #violet arcane #vi fluff #vi angst #arcane vi x reader #vi au #vi lol #arcane vi #arcane au

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broodybuck · 10 months ago

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Title: The Boy Next Door

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Rating: E

Tags: 18+ explicit smut, childhood friends, neighbors, pining, confessions, friends to lovers, first crush

Summary: Growing up, you always had a crush on the boy next door. Now, twelve years later, you might unexpectedly get your chance with Bucky Barnes.

[ao3 link]

Your parents just handed over the house you grew up in. It was that easy, now it's yours.

They want to be those typical, retired parents and move to Florida — boring! And since you've been renting a studio in Brooklyn for the past four years, you jumped at the chance to have a three-bedroom house in upstate New York. It's already paid off and your parents are wealthy enough, they don't need the earnings for their Florida condo.

You've only been back to your childhood home for holidays in the past few years. Everything has stayed the same, your parents were actually one of the few who didn't turn their daughter's bedroom into a home office or gym. They left the pink wallpaper, the twin bed with the floral comforter, and the tower of stuffed animals on the dresser.

When you arrive with your two suitcases and some extra cash in your pocket since you sold all your studio furniture, you stare up at the house. You smile from the warm memories before you glance over at the house next door.

An older boy named James lived there, but he always went by Bucky. Bucky Barnes is the name that lived in your diary for most of your adolescence. He was four years older than you which meant you had an embarrassing crush on him since you were twelve. He was nice, he always teased you when you saw each other, he even acknowledged your existence for the one year you were both in high school together — you as a freshman and him a senior.

That did wonders for your reputation, you became pretty popular even after he graduated. Still, you would've thrown away all the friends and parties for just one night with Bucky if that was a possibility.

You're not sure you ever got over your crush, more just accepted that it was never going to happen and moved on with your life. It was easy once he went away from college and three years later so did you. You never ran into him again even when you were visiting home for the holidays. It seems the Barnes' residence spent their holidays elsewhere as the house was always dark on those occasions.

Currently, it's two in the afternoon and the sun is beating down so strongly, you start to take off your jean jacket. You're sliding your arms out of the sleeves when a familiar voice makes you jump.

"Hey, y/n."

Your arms flap uncoordinatedly, still half in the jacket, pausing in an awkward position as you turn to see your childhood crush standing a few feet away from you. Bucky Barnes, looking sexier than ever.

"Oh, hi,” you splutter.

This man still has the ability to make you blush like a schoolgirl. You do some quick mental math and realize if you’re 27 now then he must be 31. And why do men age so spectacularly? He has somehow managed to become even more attractive in the last twelve years.

"What're you doing here?" you ask as you finally free your arms from the jacket.

"I'm house-sitting," Bucky explains. "What're you doing here?"

"Um, well, the house is sorta mine now."

"Parents gave you the whole thing?"

"Yep, the whole thing," you nod.

"Wow, congrats on the house," Bucky says.

"Thank you," you reply and you both stare at each other in a beat of silence.

"Um actually, since you're around, do you think I could pay you for some manual labor?" you ask suddenly.

"What kind?" Bucky grins fast. It truly takes your breath away, jesus this man should not be allowed to smile.

"I have a dumpster coming tomorrow morning," you explain. "I'm getting rid of my childhood bedroom furniture."

"Yeah, I can help."

"That would be so great, I'll pay you—"

"Don't sweat it. Just treat me to dinner sometime," Bucky shrugs, and your stomach drops. What in the world does he mean by that... like a dinner date?

"Oh, dinner... yeah, okay. You got it," you play it cool and awkward.

He smiles at you, amused.

"Anyway..." you mumble unsure how to retract yourself from this conversation, unsure if you even want to.

"You really grew up, huh?" Bucky says, and he scans you up and down.

"I guess so," you shrug, your face burning. "You too."

"Yeah, guess we haven't seen each other in..."

He appears to be trying to calculate the years but you unabashedly jump in with an exact answer.

"Twelve years."

"Has it been that long?" he asks.

"I... think so," you feign uncertainty.

"So, what time do you need me tomorrow?" he asks.

"Oh, anytime that works for you."

"How about noon?"

"Perfect."

Asking for Bucky's help might've been the worst idea you ever had. When he comes over, he's wearing a cotton-white t-shirt and jeans. His hair is damp and slicked back from a shower. He looks so comfy, it makes you imagine waking up with him. You yearn to know how warm his skin feels fresh from the steam.

You ignore your inappropriate desires and lead him up the stairs to your old room. It's then you realize how many years of your life you desperately wanted to show him your room. Have your crush see these walls, sit on your bed, and make out with you next to your teddy bear.

It's embarrassing but probably every teenage girl wanted the same thing. Unfortunately, the thought slips out of you with a laugh.

"I always wanted to show you my room."

You freeze in the doorway, realizing what you've just said out loud.

"What?" Bucky asks from behind you.

"When I was younger, I meant. I didn't mean... I don't know why I said that, actually."

You turn around and see the look of amused confusion on his face, a small smirk inching from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, fuck it. I had a major crush on you," you confess.

Bucky's eyebrows lift high.

"Yeah?"

"You couldn't tell?"

"I thought you were just awkward with everyone," he shrugs.

"Great, so you thought I was a total loser," you sigh.

"No..." he says quickly but takes a second to elaborate. "If it helps, I didn't think about you that way 'cause you were too young for me."

"Of course, you never thought about me," you brush off, trying not to let your younger self die too much inside.

You step into the room to create any amount of space from this conversation. But you instantly remember the countless hours you spent in here thinking about him. Staring out the window at his family's house hoping the catch a glimpse of him.

"Hey," Bucky says. His hand gently touches your shoulder.

You turn around to meet his eyes which oddly look darker, more intense now.

"I could see myself thinking about you now," he admits low.

You blink, your mouth is suddenly too dry to respond.

"I mean... look at you," he says so fondly that your heart could burst. And he looks you over again, his pupils dilating even more.

Is this really happening, you think.

His right hand hasn't moved from your shoulder. Boldly, you place a hand on his left forearm and you're right, his skin is still warm from the shower.

You breathe in sharply because just touching him, just standing this close for this long is something you were never lucky enough to get back then.

His eyes are still locked with yours and it's honestly so intense you can't look away even as you see him dip his head, lowering slowly to your lips. He waits, an inch from them, to see if this is okay. Of course, it's fucking okay.

You surge the last inch forward and kiss him harder than you anticipate. He stumbles a step back, in consequence grabbing onto your waist, and pushing forward. He walks you back toward the twin bed up against the wall.

When you fall back onto the mattress, it creaks from old age, but you couldn't care less. Because Bucky Barnes, your childhood crush, the extremely attractive neighbor next door, is crawling over you. And it's glorious, it's enough to make you arch up into him and moan.

He lets out a breathy laugh and then kisses you, his knee slides between your legs and presses down. You moan even louder. You're completely shameless, you are, but this is Bucky Barnes. You're not staying quiet for a second of this.

His mouth moves to your ear and he's kissing down your neck while his fingers slip under your shirt, rolling it up.

Your shirt is off and then you're pants are coming off too. You want to get him out of his clothes but his mouth finds the front of your panties and he's teasing you, mouthing at the fabric.

"Please," you whine.

He grins against your underwear and then slides the thin fabric off and sucks his thumb into his mouth.

When he touches you, he's not gentle. He goes right in and rubs your clit roughly but you're so turned on that it's like a jolt of electricity to your body, you leap up from the mattress.

He licks two fingers then and sinks them right inside you. Oh god, it's so easy because you're so wet.

"Fuck," he mutters, realizing this. He stares down, watching his fingers work inside you. Your skin boils endlessly.

He doesn't need to spend much time working you open and he must know that because it's not long before he pulls his fingers out and hurriedly works the button of his jeans open. He pulls open the fly and pushes them down when you sit up to get his shirt. You're not letting this happen without seeing that gorgeous chest again.

You remember so many summer nights when you got a glimpse of Bucky shirtless. Running through the sprinkles or coming home from a neighbor's pool. He was stunning, even back then, but now... oh lord, now he's filled out. He has a firm, thick chest and a set of perfect abs lining his torso. Because of course, he has a six-pack, you always fall for the most unattainable guys.

But somehow you have him, right here, in your very old, tiny twin bed.

You want to lick a long strip from his navel up to his neck but he doesn't give you the chance. Once his clothes are off, he pulls your legs over his waist and pushes inside you so fast you barely have time to prepare. You cling to him with your whole body, legs and arms. And you moan low.

"Oh god, you're so tight," he husks.

You tighten your hold around his neck, he looks up at you and kisses you. You're basically on his lap so start rolling your hips slowly, getting used to how big he feels inside you.

You push him back until he lies down. And then you're riding him. You're riding Bucky Barnes in your childhood bedroom on top of your pink comforter with yellow flowers.

This is your teenage dream come true and that realization plows through you, making you ride him even harder, snapping your hips as fast as you can over his cock. And it's enough that you get a moan out of him, a low gravelly groan that you immediately fawn over.

His fingertips dig into your skin as you keep riding him fast and hard. You know you're nearing the edge, your head falls with a whimper, you grip his shoulders tighter.

"Fuck, y/n. Come for me," he breathes.

And you lose all control the moment you hear that. Fuck, you come so hard.

"Oohhh, fuckkk," you wail and stop moving to let the orgasm crash through you.

Then his hands lift your ass, just enough so he can raise his hips and start fucking into you.

"Jesus," you hiss and scramble to hold onto him again.

He keeps fucking you, gaining speed and making your eyes roll back from the fact that your orgasm can't wane with his cock repeatedly slamming right into you.

He groans, squeezing the flesh on your ass now and you can tell he's close.

He curses under his breath and then he's coming and still fucking you so hard your vision's blurring.

When he finally slows down, he blows out a long breath. He releases his grip on your ass and closes his eyes, basking in the aftermath of his orgasm.

You can feel his cock twitch one last time inside you. You carefully try to pull off him. He winces as you do, still sensitive. You lean down and kiss him, you can't help yourself.

He smiles when you break to let him catch his breath. Okay, he's totally allowed to smile when he's naked in your bed, you decide. You admire the sight for as long as he lets you.

"Well, fuck," he laughs.

"Yeah, fuck," you agree, smiling. "Not sure if I should thank you for your help yet."

He laughs. "I haven't done anything yet."

"Oh, you've done plenty," you tease and plant another kiss on his lips.

He smirks at you and runs his hands up your sides, gentle and light.

"I'll help you move the furniture," he says. "Just give me a few minutes."

"Yeah, I need a few too," you say. "At least this bed is going out with a bang."

And you both laugh. Then you look at him and already remember what he said to you yesterday. You remember almost every word he's ever uttered to you.

"So, about that dinner," you say.

He smiles wide and just kisses you.

#bucky x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you

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roxoxoxoxy · 4 months ago

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NSFW Headcanons For ZeroBaseOne Maknae Line

Includes:- Taerae, Ricky, Gyuvin, Gunwook

Shimkongz section is kinda long, mb guys, they're my biases 😞🔫

Many typos, not much grammar.

Hyung line, Maknae line

✿ ✿ Taerae ✿ ✿

Every group has a bitchless virgin and I fear Taerae is it HEAR ME OUT✋🏼✋🏼

Just never really bad the opportunity, I also kinda get the vibe he was less interested in romance than other people.

Or maybe that's just me leaning into the fact that he's the only T in the group.

He's awkward as hell I'm the beginning, stops you before something can really happen because he's kind of shy.

You definitely have to take a more forward role in the beginning but I don't see him as someone who's really into Dom/sub dynamics.

Pretty vanilla, at least for now.

REALLY likes getting head, seeing you on your knees trying to please him really gets him going.

Prettiest moans, his voice is so beautiful like 🤭

Cums ALOT, his thighs shake from how much he cums sometimes.

Speaking of which, he gets really tired after sex, like fall asleep any minute type of tired, just wants to cuddle and go to sleep.

Gets kind of annoyed when you insists on cleaning up but will do it if you make enough of a stink about it.

✿ ✿ Ricky ✿ ✿

lol. Lmao even.

I'm sorry everyone but in my heart this man is a loser.

Wdym you played daddy's home on your live stream and posed? YOU WANNA BE COOL SO BAD🫵🏼 (I say this with affection)

Talks a big game but at the end of the day he's only like 20 years old and doesn't have much experience.

Tries to do the daddy Dom stuff, fails spectacularly.

Really ties to be a hard dom but he's too much of a softy for that, he isn't a virgin but still needs to figure out what works for him.

Definitely does like being dominant just not as hard as he thought he did, think of him as a soft dom that's into some hard kinks.

Praise kink. Both giving and recieving, he isn't insecure in anyway but it really turns him on when you talk about how food he's making you feel.

Vice versa he also loves praising you, most of its unconscious though, it kinda spills out when he's inside you.

More switchy than he initially thought he would be, the first time you pushed him onto the bed to ride him, it unlocked something within him.

Lazy as hell during aftercare, usually you have to pester him to come shower with you.

Will order you food though, anything you want, Mr tall rich and handsome over here

✿ ✿ Gyuvin ✿ ✿

Service Top. Argue with the wall because I'm right!!

Into minor pet play, being called puppy and such. Might even let you put a collar on him of you really want.

Also doesn't have much experience but I don't think he's a virgin either, maybe slept with one more person before you.

HAVE YOU SEEN HIS HANDS.

Has you lean your back against his chest and spread your legs so he can finger you easier, won't let you get up until he's made you cum at least twice.

Also a switch, he's so much of a service top that he'll sub if that's what you want.

Huge praise kink, on the receiving end. I remember he mentioned once that he didn't get a lot of compliments growing up so when you praise him, especially when he's fucking you, it really gets to him.

Also feel like he cries after sometimes, I feel like he's just a emotional person in general.

Speaking of being a service top, another munch 🙏🏼, laps you up like a dog (istg I can't go more than two posts without writing something with pet play, that's mb)

Prefers missionary, really likes seeing your face and the way it contorts when he's hitting it right.

Really cuddly during aftercare, wants to talk to you and just hold you for a while, pulls up and covers and brushes your hair out of your face, smiling as he talks about anything and everything with you.

You eventually start feeling gross though and make him clean you up.

Small spoon.

Sigh, I want him do bad it's not even funny.

✿ ✿ Gunwook ✿ ✿

He's such a tease, type of guy to hold something over his head so he can watch you try to reach for it, that translates into bed too.

Makes you say what you want, even when it's clear as day, will literally have you half naked I his bed and still insist you tell him exactly what you want.

Consent king?? I guess???

Also loves getting head, like so much that he'll go out of his way to ask for it, not that you mind though, he's got a pretty dick and even prettier moans.

He's into mild bondage too, both being tied up and tying you up, something about him being at your mercy turns him on immensely, and vice versa.

Into body worship, giggles and blushes whoever you point out how good his muscles look in his tank top, shaking his head and denying your compliment, all the while your words went straight to his dick.

Has a pretty high libido, you've done it in less than private places more than once, he just can't help himself.

Kinda shit at aftercare at first, just kinda goes to sleep, maybe draping a arm around you.

He learns overtime though, he still does the bare minimum but he genuinely does care.

Big spoon.

Don't really like this but I still wanted to post </3

#zerobaseone hard hours #zerobaseone x reader #zerobaseone smut #Taerae smut #taerae x reader #taerae hard thoughts #taerae hard hours #ricky x reader #ricky smut #ricky hard thoughts #ricky hard hours #Gyuvin x reader #Gyuvin smut #gyuvin hard hours #gyuvin hard thoughts #Gunwook x reader #gunwook smut #gunwook hard hours #gunwook hard thoughts

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lupinqs · 6 months ago

Text

CHAPTER EIGHT ━━ Be You, Be Great

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 6.2K

❀ ━ warnings: angst, mentions of a panic attack/anxiety, underage drinking

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: this one is kinda all over the place i was gonna split it in two but i tried and i didn’t like that either so here this is anyways. also not proofread at all soooo

THE END of October brings a drought. Not the kind that wilts leaves or cracks the ground, but one that seeps into Jo’s chest and leaves her feeling parched in a way she can’t quite explain. It’s been weeks now since things between her and Paige started drying up, and, no matter how much Jo tries to ignore it, to act like everything’s fine, the ache of it gnaws at her.

It started just before Paige went back to LA and only worsened when she was there. All Jo got from her was clipped texts and dodged FaceTimes scattered with weak excuses about being busy with rehab. Jo had tried not to overthink it, convincing herself Paige was genuinely overwhelmed and that things would go back to normal when she came home.

They didn’t.

Paige still avoids her—not entirely, of course, because they live together, and avoiding her completely would be impossible. But she’s rarely in the apartment anymore, and when she is, it’s brief and transactional. She’s quiet during their rare interactions, offering half-hearted “hey”s and “what’s up”s before disappearing into her room or heading out the door again.

It’s just so different to how things used to be. Before, Jo could count on Paige to be there—physically, emotionally, all of it. They’d talk about anything and everything, share late-night snacks on the couch, or marathon stupid shows just because they could. Paige was Jo’s favorite person to spend time with. But now, it’s like there’s been a complete flip of a switch.

What makes it worse is the not-knowing. Jo has no idea why Paige is pulling back, why she’s suddenly so distant. She’s racked her brain trying to figure it out, wondering if she said or did something wrong. The thought of it eats at her, but she’s too afraid to bring it up. She’s terrified of making it worse or of Paige telling her something she doesn’t want to hear.

So, she says nothing.

Instead, she busies herself with other people. Ice, for one, has been in a bad place ever since dislocating her knee a few weeks ago. She’s out for the season, and Jo knows all too well how isolating that kind of injury can be. She’s been spending a lot of time with her, trying to cheer her up, keep her distracted. It’s been good for both of them, but not the same.

Nothing is the same without Paige.

And Jo knows that Paige is probably out hooking up with other girls most nights—she’s not stupid. Paige never brings anyone back to their apartment, which Jo is grateful for, but the idea of it still stings in a way she can’t explain. It’s probably just the principle of it, that Paige can go out and entertain these other girls every night while simultaneously acting like Jo doesn’t exist.

And this stupid drought lingers even under the bright lights of Gampel.

It’s First Night, the annual event kicking off the basketball season, and the whole arena is packed. The men’s and women’s teams have been split into two groups for the evening’s competitions, with Andre Jackson and Paige as the respective captains. Jo is on Andre’s team.

The evening kicks off with a dizzying mix of games, dances, and contests, the crowd roaring with every half-court shot and mascot stunt. Jo participates in a few challenges with her team, laughing when Andre attempts to dunk it over one of their managers and fails spectacularly.

It’s fun. It should be fun. But Jo can’t help but feel the weight of Paige’s attention—or lack thereof—throughout the night.

When the three-point contest rolls around, Jo is the last to go. Her name gets called, and the crowd cheers for their new freshman. She steps into her corner, shaking her limbs out. She doesn’t look at Paige—can’t, really—but, somehow, she still feels her gaze from where she stands at half-court. Jo doesn’t know how or why she always seems to register it, but the feeling is continuously at the edge of her awareness.

The contest is a blur. Jo doesn’t miss much, her muscle memory doing most of the work, and when the buzzer sounds, Andre and her teammates swarm her, lifting her arms in victory. She grins, basking in the win of it, but her eyes inevitably find Paige.

The blonde is clapping along with the rest of her team, grinning wide and hyping up the crowd, but when her gaze flicks to Jo, something shutters behind her eyes. She doesn’t approach, doesn’t tease her about beating her team. Doesn’t say a single word.

It hurts more than it should.

Jo retreats back to the sidelines, the cheers still echoing in her ears, though her head has started to hurt a little. Since the day she got here, Paige was always the first to hype her up—always the loudest voice in the room for her. Clearly not anymore.

The rest of the event passes in a haze. Jo keeps up with the energy of her team, but her chest feels heavy, weighed down by everything unsaid and unknown. By the time the night ends, she’s exhausted—not from the competition, but from the effort of pretending that everything’s normal and fine.

As the crowd filters out and the teams gather for a final photo, Jo finds herself standing a few feet from Paige. The photographers are shouting directions, rearranging players into rows, but Jo hardly listens. She risks a glance at Paige, who’s laughing at something Alex Karaban just said, her smile radiant and gummy and perfect under the bright arena lights.

But when Paige’s eyes meet Jo’s, probably having sensed her creepy staring, the smile falters. It’s brief—barely noticeable—but Jo sees it. She feels it. And it twists something deep in her chest.

Jo doesn’t know what she did to deserve this distance, but it’s killing her. Whatever is going on with Paige, clearly it might be bigger than anything Jo can fix.

And as much as she hates to admit it, Jo’s starting to wonder if Paige even wants her to try.

IT’S THE first game of the season—a guaranteed blowout against Northeastern—and the energy around campus is full of excitement. Paige should be, too. The start of a new season is always her favorite time of year, a chance to do what she loves most and remind herself why she worked so hard to get here. But this year, it feels more like a countdown to a role she doesn’t want to play.

Paige knows she should be grateful. Grateful that her recovery has gone smoothly so far. Grateful that she’s still part of the team she’s always dreamed of playing for, even if it’s from the sidelines. But sitting out isn’t what she was built for. She misses the adrenaline of the game, the weight of the ball in her hands, the feeling of sneakers skidding across the court as she runs a fast break. She misses the pressure—real pressure—and the way it forces her into focus like nothing else. Without it, she feels… aimless.

So, she’s determined to channel her energy elsewhere. If she can’t play, she’ll hype. She’ll coach. She’ll be Coach P, the way everyone loves her to be. It’s easier that way. Easier to focus on everyone else than to deal with the mess she’s made for herself.

Jo is a big part of that mess.

Paige hasn’t spent a single night in their apartment since she got back to LA—not one. It’s not like she doesn’t want to. She misses the way things were before, how easy and natural it was to be around Jo before everything got so damn complicated. But the thought of sitting in bed with Jo beside her, watching a movie or eating takeout like they always did, feels like far too much.

So, she stays away. She’s made a habit of bouncing between other people’s beds—random girls whose names she barely remembers by the morning. Paige has always been a little reckless when it comes to that stuff, but lately, it’s spiraled into something worse. A distraction. A way to drown out the feelings she doesn’t want to deal with.

But even in that, she’s careful. She doesn’t bring anyone back to her and Jo’s apartment—not after Jo saw Celeste sneaking out during the summer. Paige doesn’t want to do that—doesn’t want Jo to be dragged into her mess.

Paige tells herself she’s protecting both of them by keeping her distance. If she gives herself a little more time, maybe the feelings will face. Maybe they’ll go back to being normal, just friends, the way they’re supposed to be.

But the truth is, Paige doesn’t think it’s working.

She still catches herself watching Jo during practice, noting things she shouldn’t. The way her hair falls into her face when she’s running drills. The soft laugh she lets out whenever Nika says something characteristically stupid. The way she moves on the court—so quick and sharp, like she’s always a step ahead of everyone else. It makes Paige’s stomach flip in a way she hates.

And the more time that’s passed, the more Paige has wondered if she’s just fooling herself. That maybe these feelings aren’t going anywhere at all. That maybe this is just who she is now—stuck and restless, with a hopelessly crush on her roommate, teammate, someone who’s supposed to be her best friend.

She shakes the thought off as she walks into Gampel for shoot-around. Her teammates laugh and joke as they warm up, excited. Paige pulls on her best version of normal, slinging her arm around Azzi and teasing Nika about her taped-up finger.

It works for a while. Her voice rings out as she cheers for Lou’s perfect three-pointer, then for Aaliyah’s easy layup. She’s Paige—bright and loud and focused on everyone but herself.

Afterward, the team files back into the locker room, their chatter bouncing off the walls. Paige trails behind, mentally cataloging what she’ll say during the pregame huddle. But when she glances around the room, she realizes something’s missing.

Someone’s missing.

Jo isn’t there.

It’s not entirely unusual for Jo to slip away for a few minutes—she’s probably grabbing water or something. But Paige’s chest tightens anyway. She leans toward Ice, who’s scrolling through her phone on the bench.

“Hey, you seen Jo?” Paige asks, trying to sound casual.

Ice shrugs without looking up. “She couldn’t have gone far.” Then she glances at Paige, and gives her a look. Her eyebrows lift just enough to make the blonde feel like she’s been caught in a lie she hasn’t even told yet.

Paige’s jaw clenches. She straightens and brushes it off with a quick, “Thanks,” ignoring the unspoken why do you care now? hanging in Ice’s expression.

She slips out of the locker room before anyone else can ask questions, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor. The back hallways of Gampel are quiet except for the muffled sound of the crowd filtering in through the concrete walls. Paige assumes Jo’s probably just off clearing her head.

But then she hears it.

It’s faint at first, just a sharp, broken sound that makes her pause mid-step. She tilts her head, frowning as she listens harder. For a moment, there’s nothing, just the distant murmur of the arena. Then it comes again—a soft, muffled sob.

Paige stills.

Her chest tightens as she slowly scans the hallway, her eyes narrowing. She knows that sound. It’s raw, unfiltered, the kind of cry that comes from deep inside. Her feet move before she can think, her pulse quickening as she rounds another corner.

And there, huddled in a little alcove off to the side, is Jo.

Her head is buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling violently as her chest heaves with shallow, rapid breaths. Even from a few feet away, Paige can see how hard she’s struggling, her whole body curling in on itself as if trying to disappear.

Paige stops dead in her tracks.

She doesn’t know what to do. Jo isn’t supposed to look like this—broken and vulnerable and so completely unlike herself. Jo’s the happiest, brightest, smiliest person she’s ever met. But here she is, falling apart right in front of Paige, and it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the hallway.

“Jo?” Paige asks softly, hesitantly. “What’s wrong?”

Jo’s head snaps up, her tear-streaked face whipping toward Paige in a startled panic. Her wide, glassy eyes lock on hers for a split second before she looks away, hurriedly wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her warm-ups.

“It’s fine,” Jo blurts, her voice cracking as she waves Paige off. “’M fine. Nothing’s wrong. Just—it’s okay. You can go.”

But Paige isn’t going anywhere.

She steps closer slowly, cautiously, her heart pounding as she watches Jo’s chest rise and fall too quickly, her breathe shallow and uneven. Jo’s hands tremble where they’re clenched in her lap, her knuckles white, and Paige begins to recognize the signs.

“Jo,” Paige says again, firmer this time. She crouches slightly, trying to meet Jo’s gaze. “Hey, it’s okay. You can talk to me. I’m here.”

Jo shakes her head violently, her lips trembling as she stares down at her hands. “I don’t—I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she stammers, her voice shaking. “I just—I can’t—” She breaks off, gasping for air as another sob wracks her body.

Paige’s stomach twists. She drops to one knee, her hand hovering awkwardly near Jo’s arm before she finally touches her, rubbing gentle circles on Jo’s sleeve. “Hey, hey, just breathe,” she says softly, trying to keep her voice steady even though she feels like she’s about to unravel herself. “Slow and deep, yeah? Just breathe with me.”

But Jo can’t. Her breaths are too fast, too shallow, and the tears keep coming, spilling down her flushed cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Jo chokes out. “I’m so sorry, I don’t even know why—I don’t know why I’m like this. Maybe it’s because I forgot to take my anxiety meds today, or—or maybe it’s just everything. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Paige says gently, nodding even though she feels completely out of her depth. “Okay. That’s okay. Just take your time.”

Jo sniffles, and Paige watches as the younger girl’s nails dig into the fabric of her warm-up pants. “I’m just so nervous,” she admits, her words coming out in a frantic, breathless rush. “Even though I know—it’s so stupid, I know—we’re gonna win by, like, forty points. But I can’t stop thinking about. I don’t wanna mess up. I don’t wanna disappoint anyone.”

Paige’s heart cracks a little more with every word, though she knows it’s not entirely abnormal for a freshman to feel this way. That doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want Jo to feel this way.

The brunette’s breathing stilts again, her voice rising a little as she continues. “Especially not you,” she says. The words come out so soft, so sad, that Paige almost doesn’t hear them. “I don’t wanna disappoint you.”

Paige opens her mouth to say something, but Jo keeps going, her voice trembling as fresh tears begin to fill her eyes. “I—I know I’ve disappointed you—or—or made you mad,” she stumbles, her breath hitting on a quiet sob. “I had to have, right? Because, I mean—why—why else would you be ignoring me?”

Paige’s heart stutters at the words.

Jo’s tear-filled eyes finally meet hers, and Paige is struck by how wide and vulnerable, like every signal wall Jo has ever built is crumbling down. Her lip trembles as she whispers, “What did I do to make you hate me, Paige?”

The question lingers in the air, hanging heavy between them, suffocating Paige with its weight. The words pulse in her chest, beating against her rib cage, and suddenly, she feels like she can’t breathe either. The guilt crashes into her like a tidal wave, a suffocating, all-consuming force.

She should’ve been more considerate. She should’ve seen this coming—Jo’s feelings. She should’ve taken the time to explain, to talk it out. But instead, she had pulled away, had put this distance between them, thinking about all of her own feelings without even giving a thought to Jo’s. And now Jo thinks she hates her. Hates her. The thought slices through Paige, a sharp pain that she can’t shake. It feels like a punch to the gut. The fact that Jo—perfect, pretty, happy, sweet, smart, everything that’s good in the world Jo—could ever believe that makes Paige realize just how much she’s fucked this all up.

I’ve never hated you, Paige thinks desperately, but the words feel so empty, so hollow. They’re not enough. They’ll never be enough.

The irony of it hits her like a ton of bricks—Jo thinks she hates her, but the truth is far more complicated. Because it’s the exact opposite. I like you too much. The thought pops into Paige’s head unbidden, and her heart skips a beat.

She takes a shaky breath, her hand instinctively reaching up toward Jo’s face. The movement feels foreign, almost bold, but her fingers are gentle as they sweep under Jo’s eyes, wiping away some of the tears that still stain her cheeks. For a moment, Jo doesn’t react, her eyes still unfocused, the remnants of panic still visible in her expression. But then, slowly, her gaze meets Paige’s. Brown on blue, the contact feels like a jolt, like electricity running through her veins.

Paige’s heart stumbles, and she can’t stop herself from cupping Jo’s cheeks in her hands, cradling her face softly. She needs Jo to understand, needs her to hear this. She needs to make it clear—I don’t hate you. The words are stuck in her throat, tangled up with everything else she’s been feeling, but they finally tumble out, heavy and full of suppressed emotion.

“God, Joey,” she whispers thickly, “I could never hate you.”

Jo’s eyes are wide, filled with confusion and hurt, and she opens her mouth as if to protest, but then she asks, her voice barely a whisper, “Then—then why have you been ignoring me?”

Paige feels the weight of that question settle into her bones. She wants to tell Jo everything, to be honest, but the words fall down her windpipe as soon as they’re formed. You’re the reason I’ve been pushing you away, she wants to say. It’s you, Jo. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you. But she’d never admit that. It’s not fair—not when Jo’s happy with Asher. There’s no need to complicate things further for something that will never happen.

So, instead, Paige forces herself to breathe, to steady herself before speaking again. She looks at Jo, trying to read the sadness in her eyes, the confusion, the vulnerability that still lingers despite the panic subsiding. Paige feels another hot sting of guilt—how could she have let Jo feel this way? How could she have been so careless?

“I’ve just been in a bad place in my head recently,” Paige says, her voice quieter now, more measured. It’s not exactly a lie. It’s just that the full truth is too messy, too tangled. She needs a reason that makes sense, something Jo can understand, something that doesn’t risk breaking everything between them. “I’ve been frustrated with my knee, and… I guess it’s just all piled up.”

Jo listens, nodding slowly, her expression still tight with uncertainty. Paige adds, carefully, feeling the weight of the words press down on her, “And—and I really like this girl who doesn’t like me back.” She pauses, her stomach twisting with the admission, even though it’s only half of the truth. “And all of it together—it’s just… it’s made me pull away from almost everyone. I don’t really know how to deal.”

Jo takes in the words, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment, her fingers twitching nervously against her thighs. Paige watches her closely, hoping that Jo can make sense of everything she’s said, that she can understand why Paige has acted the way she has in some capacity.

“But,” the blonde adds, knowing it’s necessary, “it’s not excuse. None of it is. I shouldn’t of pulled away. I shoulda talked to you, told you what was goin’ on. And I’m really fucking sorry I didn’t.”

For a long moment, there’s silence, and all Paige can do is wait, her heart hammering in her chest. Jo’s breathing has finally evened out, the tension in her shoulders beginning to ease, but there’s still an underlying fragility in the air.

Finally, Jo says quietly, “Okay.”

Without thinking, Paige reaches out, pulling Jo into a tight hug. Her arms wrap around Jo instinctively, holding her close, and for a moment, Paige can’t help but think about how perfect Jo feels in her arms like this. How soft and warm and real she is. The weight of Jo’s body against hers, the way Jo fits into her arms, feels so right that it almost takes Paige’s breath away. She buries her face in Jo’s hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo, the feeling of Jo finally grounding Paige in way that she hasn’t felt in far too long.

“’M sorry,” Paige murmurs into Jo’s hair. “’M so sorry for making you feel like that.”

Paige isn’t sure how long they stay like that, locked together, before she feels Jo’s hands move, shifting just slightly, gently beginning to pull away. The movement feels like a cold wind cutting through the warmth of the hug, and Paige immediately feels the absence, the space between them growing far too wide. She wants to reach out and pull Jo back into her, to hold her tighter and never let go, but—obviously—she doesn’t.

Jo’s eyes are still slightly red, but as she pulls back, her lips curve into the softest, most forgiving smile, a smile that feels so Jo—genuine and kind, even when everything else is unraveling. It’s almost unbearable to see, because Paige knows that Jo doesn’t deserve to be this forgiving. She doesn’t deserve to feel like this was all just something to brush off.

“It’s okay,” Jo says, her words wrapped in warmth, in that same kindness that makes her who she is. But Paige knows that it’s not okay. She knows that, even if Jo’s forgiven her, Paige is not so quick to forgive herself, because what she’s done is not okay.

It goes silent between them again for a long moment. Paige can’t think of what to say. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She wants to apologize again, over and over, to make sure Jo really knows. But the clock is ticking. The game is still ahead of them. The pressure of it presses in on her chest, and she knows that they can’t have this conversation now. Not before the game. Not when the adrenaline needs to take over and the court demands focus.

Paige takes a steadying breath, feeling the air fill her lungs, forcing her thoughts to calm down. She needs to help Jo. She needs to get her head in the right space before the game. Jo is here, with her, needing her. And as much as the emotional weight of everything is damn near overwhelming her, Paige pushes it aside.

She reaches forward, gently but firmly placing her hands on Jo’s shoulders, giving her a soft but decisive push to meet her eyes. Jo’s gaze lifts to meet Paige’s with a quiet, uncertain trust, and Paige feels the familiar surge of responsibility that always floods her when her teammates need her. She’s a leader. She has to lead. And right now, Jo needs her to.

“My dad texts me before every game I play in,” Paige says steadily. “‘Be you, be great.’ That’s all you gotta do today, Joey. Just be you, and it’ll come to you.”

It’s simple, but true. Jo doesn’t need anything more than to be herself. She doesn’t need to try to be perfect or live up to expectations that aren’t hers. She just needs to trust herself, trust her game.

Jo’s eyes shift slightly, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. It’s there, but it’s still guarded. The smile that Paige so desperately wants to see doesn’t fully reach Jo’s eyes yet, but it’s a start. She nods slowly, a small motion, but enough to let Paige know she’s listening.

“Josephine fuckin’ Jacobson,” Paige continues, saying her full name for emphasis, “you are such a good basketball player. And you’re gonna do great. Okay? Be you, be great.”

Jo takes a deep breath, and Paige watches as the tension seems to slowly ease off of her. She nods, more definitively this time, the hint of a real smile tugging at her lips. It’s small, but it’s there.

“Okay,” Jo says quietly, before repeating the word more firmly. “Okay.”

PAIGE’S MIND is fuzzy, her limbs heavy with the after effects of one too many dirty shirley’s. Despite the November chill, she feels hot, and her feet shuffle unevenly as she and Jo stumble back toward their apartment. They’re both absolutely hammered—there’s no other way to describe it. The world feels a little hazy, like everything around her is softly swaying. Her head spins, and it’s all a bit much, but it’s also freeing in a way. She hasn’t felt this loose, this light, in a long time.

Their win against Northeastern and the start of the season fills the air, hanging around them like a celebratory cloud. Jo played like Jo—21 points, 5 assists, 4 boards, 4 steals—just as Paige knew she would. A great collegiate debut, and Paige had watched every second of it from the bench, locked in. She’d felt so proud—and even a little awestruck—that Jo went out there and did that, after having such an emotionally charged pre-game.

Now, as they weave their way back to their apartment, arms brushing, legs tangling as they trip over their own feet, that sense of pride is still lodged in Paige’s chest, warm and comforting, like a glow that won’t fade. She can’t stop giggling, low and breathy, as Jo laughs along beside her. Their words are slurred, but that doesn’t stop them. Everything is funny—every little thing. Every misstep, every giggle, every second of pure chaos that they’re living in right now is a spark of joy after having been without it for too long.

Paige’s thoughts drift lazily, floating between the haze of the alcohol and the warmth of the night. She’s not sure when they’d started leaning into each other—just that they are now, and it feels comfortable. Familiar. Nice. Perfect. Great.

“You good?” Jo asks in a voice that’s too loud as she unlocks the front door to their apartment, then bursts into giggles again.

Paige snorts, stumbling a bit more dramatically than necessary. “I’m so good,” she says, her voice sounding more slurred than she means it to be. She throws an arm around Jo’s shoulder to steady herself, but the weight of her makes Jo stumble, and they both neatly collapse into the wall. They’re laughing too hard to care.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Jo gasps suddenly and jerks her arm away, running ahead, the sound of her feet echoing down the hallway. Paige, still a bit off balance, blinks in confusion for a moment, then laughs drunkenly. “Bro—where you goin’?” she asks, her voice trailing off into giggles as she watches Jo hurry toward her bedroom.

Paige follows slowly. It’s odd, in a way—this whole night, this whole feeling. This morning when she woke up, she never expected to be here with Jo, giggling and laughing and things feeling normal again. She probably assumed she’d just be in someone else’s bed. But she’s not, she’s here—with Jo.

Jo. Jo, Jo, Jo, Jo, Jo. She’s so good at basketball, and she’s so good at being there for Paige, even when Paige fucks up. She’s still here, still making everything feel lighter than air.

Paige leans against the doorframe of Jo’s bedroom, watching the younger girl move around her room, back and forth, rifling through her closet with purpose. Clearly, she’s looking for something.

“Joey, what’re you doin’?” Paige asks. Her question hangs in the air, teasing, but it’s laced with affection—Paige can’t hide that part. Especially in her tipsy state, Paige can’t help but stare at Jo with a smile that feels like it’s stretching her face.

Jo doesn’t answer. She’s clearly very focused on something, her movements a little clumsy but endearing. Paige watches her closely, and she lets out another small laugh without meaning to. Her eyes stay glued to Jo, to how everything she does seems to command Paige’s attention. It shouldn’t be a surprise though—even without alcohol in her system, Jo is always there, always occupying every inch of Paige’s thoughts. Maybe it’s starting to get a little pathetic, actually.

Then, Jo suddenly straightens up, a gleam in her eyes. She pulls something out of the depths of her closet—a gift-wrapped box. She bounds over to Paige with her infectious energy, and before Paige can fully process what’s happening, Jo grabs her hand and tugs her into the room, practically pulling her off her feet in her enthusiasm. The force of it makes Paige stumble a little, but it doesn’t matter—Jo’s laughter fills the room, a sound so bright that it makes Paige’s chest swell.

The door slams shut behind them. Paige watches as Jo shoves the gift into her hands, still grinning, still beaming like she’s giving Paige the greatest gift in the world.

“Happy late birthday!” Jo’s words are slurred but joyful.

It is late. Very late, in fact. But Paige had been in LA during her actual birthday, and when she got back, Jo didn’t really have time to give her her gift for… obvious reasons.

But she’s here, giving her one now, and Paige feels so cared for and seen that she can barely even focus on what’s in her hands. The wrapping paper crinkles under her fingers as she tears it open, the motion slow and clumsy, but she feels her heart beat a little faster as Jo watches her do it with those wide eyes full or excitement.

The gift is a Lego set.

It’s one Paige has wanted for months, one that she’d seen in the store and practically drooled over, but she’d never let herself buy it. Jo and Aaliyah and Ines had been with her there, watching her ponder over whether or not to buy it. She decided not to, deeming it too expensive even if she certainly could afford it. But she already had, like, five sets in her hands—so, it was definitely a no-go that day.

But now she’s holding that set, because of Jo. Jo spent money on it, just for Paige. Just because she knew how much it would mean to her.

“Joey!” she exclaims, her voice full of awe and genuine surprise. She turns to Jo, blue eyes wide.

“Do you like?” Jo asks, voice soft but still excited.

“I love!” Paige responds with a wide, goofy smile. It’s true. She loves the thought behind it, the gesture, the fact that Jo cares enough to get her this, let alone anything.

It’s not long before Paige flops onto her back on Jo’s bed, the Lego set abandoned to the side, her arms stretched out like a starfish. Jo plops down next to her, the mattress dipping under her weight, and Paige has to fight the instinct—drunk and probably sober, too—to pull her closer. It would be so easy. One hand on Jo’s waist, the other around her shoulder, tucking her against her chest. It’s a dangerous thought, one Paige shouldn’t even entertain, but the drunkenness isn’t helping her self-control. Instead, she keeps her hands firmly to herself, pressing them into the comforter. She stares up at the ceiling for a moment before her gaze inevitably shifts to Jo.

Jo is staring at the ceiling, too, wide-eyed, like she’s marveling at the sheer existence of it. Her mouth falls open in an exaggerated “wow,” and Paige bites her lip to stifle yet another laugh.

“The world is spinning,” Jo announces, her voice filled with awe and disbelief, like she’s just uncovered some profound universal truth.

Paige can’t hold back her laughter this time. It bubbles out of her, loud and unabashed. “Bro, you’re so drunk,” she says, turning her head to look at her more directly.

Jo grins and shifts her gaze, meeting Paige’s eyes. “No, you’re so drunk!” she fired back, her words slurring slightly as she pokes Paige in the shoulder for emphasis.

They’re both laughing now, the kind of laughter that comes from being young and carefree and absolutely wasted. It’s the kind of moment Paige wants to capture and keep forever, this version of Jo so happy and light and hers, if only for now.

But then, the sharp trill of a phone cuts through the moment, jolting them both from their drunken bubble. Jo groans, her head tipping back against the mattress as if the mere thought of moving is too much effort. “Ugh, noooo,” she whines, squirming around to try and reach into her back pocket where her phone is ringing insistently.

Paige sits up slightly, propping herself on one elbow, laughing at Jo’s struggles. “C’mon, champ,” she teases, watching the younger girl twist and wriggle until she finally manages to pull her phone free. Jo squints at the screen, her tongue sticking out a little in concentration, before she lets out a soft, “Oh. It’s Asher.”

The name hits Paige like a splash of cold water, instantly sobering her. She forces her face to stay neutral, her heart sinking just slightly as Jo answers the call. She tries to brush it off, but it feels like someone just yanked her back to reality.

Jo’s voice brightens as she presses the phone to her ear. “Hiiii, what do you want?” she greets, the words teasing but affectionate. Paige watches her closely, her eyes scanning Jo’s face, cataloging every expression as Asher’s voice hums faintly on the other side of the line. She can’t make out the words, but she doesn’t really need to. Jo’s smile tells her everything she doesn’t want to know.

“Yes, I’m drunk,” Jo says with a laugh, rolling her eyes playfully. Another pause, another response Paige doesn’t hear. “Okay, yes, I will.” Jo giggles, the sound light and airy, and Paige’s chest aches. “Yes, I love you, too. Byeeee!” Jo hangs up with a flourish, tossing the phone toward the foot of the bed. It bounces off and clatters to the floor, but Jo just laughs. “Oops.”

Paige tries to laugh with her, but it doesn’t come as easily as before. She’s too caught up in the sting of hearing Jo say those words so effortlessly. I love you too. It’s not like Paige hasn’t heard it before, but tonight, when they’ve spent the whole evening laughing and leaning into each other’s space, it feels sharper, harder to ignore.

Before she can think too much, Jo scoots closer, collapsing onto Paige with a happy sigh. Her head rests on Paige’s chest, and Paige freezes, her heart slamming against her robe as a Jo mumbles, “Boys,” in an exasperated tone, as if that single word explains everything.

Paige forces a chuckle, but it’s quieter now, more subdued. Her mind races, but she doesn’t move. She can’t. She doesn’t trust herself to touch Jo, even though she wants to, desperately. She wants to wrap her arms around her, hold her tight, tell her that boys are stupid and unnecessary and that Paige could love her better, so much better. But she doesn’t.

Jo’s breathing slows and it seems within moments, she’s out cold, the alcohol taking everything out of her, her body heavy and warm against Paige’s. Paige shifts slightly, careful not to disturb her, and lets out a shaky breath. She hesitates, then lifts a hand, brushing it gently through Jo’s hair. The soft strands glide through her fingers, and it’s soothing in a way she can’t explain, even if it makes her chest hurt.

She stares at Jo, at the peaceful expression on her face. She shouldn’t feel this way. She knows that. But knowing—or the stupid space shit she tried that was clearly bad for both of them—doesn’t stop the feelings. It doesn’t stop the yearning or the way her stomach flips every time Jo looks at her. It doesn’t stop the way she knows Jo is happy with Asher, that Jo loves him, that Paige will never be anything more than her best friend.

But she decides that it’s enough. That it has to be. If this is the only way she can have Jo, then she’ll take it. She’ll take the laughter, the late nights, the moments like these where Jo trusts her enough to fall asleep on her. She’ll take Jo in any way she’ll give her, even if it breaks her heart a little more every day.

Because loving Jo, even from a distance, even like this, feels like the most natural thing in the world.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wcbb #wbb #uconn #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #wcbb x reader #ncaa wbb #nobody gets me #wlw #lgbtq

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mariasont · 5 months ago

Text

House Rules - A.H

summary: bimbo!asssitant!reader hasn't been answering her phone all day, hotch needs her to clarify something about a case report, or at least that's what he tells himself when he shows up at her house

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: reader wearing some skimpy pjs, pre-relationship pining, hotch trying to act like he's not madly in love with reader

wc: 3.3k

Hotch wasn't sure why he'd expected your house to be normal. He chalked up his misjudgment on the haze of old injuries, the kind of logic that gets muddled when you've bled out on too many occasions. Because standing on your porch, staring at the pale pink door with a glittering Home Sweet Home sign dangling from the handle, he realized how spectacularly wrong he'd been.

It suited you, he realized. He could almost picture you hanging it there, humming to yourself and adjusting it three times before deciding it was just right.

It wasn't a social call. At least, that's what Hotch told himself repeatedly, as though the words might drown out the irrational knot of worry in his stomach. You hadn't answered your phone all day, and that was strange for you.

It was your day off, yes, but normally you were over-communicative to a fault, texting emojis when a simple yes would have sufficed, or leaving voicemail messages that somehow turned into tangents about your neighbor's cat, your favorite polish color, or the iced coffee you'd spilled that morning.

But today there was Nothing. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

His rational mind told him you were fine. Phones die, phones get left behind, people turn them off to take a break. But when it came to you, the rational part of him always seemed to lose ground to the side of him he didn't care to admit existed — the side that careful just a little bit more than he should have.

He knocked.

After a second, he heard the unmistakable sound of your voice yelling a muffled coming!

The door opened, and there you stood, wearing something that could only be called pajamas by the loosest of definitions, shorts that left far too much skin exposed and a matching top that hugged your chest like it was afraid to let go. Your hair was loose and slightly messy, framing your face, and your bare feet peeked out from under the door.

"Oh!" You froze and looked at him like he had fallen from the sky. "Hotch! What are you doing here?"

Hotch cleared his throat and he tried, tried, to keep his eyes glued to your face. It was harder than it should have been — his brain wasn't helping, already memorizing every detail of your appearance that he knew he shouldn't have noticed.

"Do you always answer the door like this?"

"Like what?"

"Dressed like..." He hesitated, jaw clenching as he searched his vocabulary for a word that wouldn't sound entirely inappropriate. "Dressing like that. Without knowing who is on the other side."

"Hotch," you said, smiling slightly. "I could tell it wasn't a stranger."

"How?" he asked flatly, raising a brow. "Because if you tell me it was a feeling, I'm going to be very disappointed in you."

"So what are you doing here?"

You ignored him, smiling innocently as though he hadn't spoken at all.

He almost started to lecture you — about answering doors, about caution, about everything — but the words died before they reached his tongue. You were fine. Perfectly fine. Not injured, not in danger, not lying in a hospital bed or worse. Just standing there, unharmed, while he tried to shake off the residual tension of imaging all of the worst-case scenarios he'd been wrestling with the past hour.

"You weren't answering your phone." His voice came out sharper than he meant, but he didn't correct it.

You stared at him before letting out an incredulous laugh. "Okay, but like... that's usually not cause for a wellness check."

"It's unusual for you."

His own voice sounded defensive in his ears, and he winced inwardly.

"Aw, were you worried about me, bossman?"

His response didn't come as quickly as it usually did, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something.

"I needed to confirm something about the case report."

"Sure, you did." You tilted your head, smile widening as you let the words linger. "Well, since you're already here, might as well come in. I'd hate for you to leave empty-handed."

Hotch hesitated. The professional part of him, the one that lived and breathed protocol, told him to stay outside, finish his excuse, and leave. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about saying yes to an invitation like this. He'd done it for Morgan, for Emily, even Spencer without a second thought. But this wasn't them. This was you. But then you gave him that look — raised eyebrows, half a grin, daring him to prove you wrong — and against better judgment, he stepped inside.

The inside of your house was... well, it was you.

It wasn't messy, but it wasn't neat either. It was softer than he expected. Fluffy throw blankets over the couch with heart shaped pillows. On the coffee table, a collection of framed photos — pictures of you with friends, family, and even what looked to be an embarrassing prom photo.

"So?" You moved across the room, draping yourself onto the arm of the couch like a cat in the sun, one leg swinging lazily. "What's the big emergency, Hotchner?"

"I told you," he replied, squinting his eyes at you as if that would somehow change your attitude. It wouldn't. He knew from experience. "The case report. You stapled the wrong attachment to it. I need to know where the correct file is."

"Uh-huh," you said, squinting your own eyes back as if to mock him. "And this couldn't just wait until the morning? You sure you didn't just miss me?"

His brow furrowed. "Why would I —"

You were on your feet in an instant, wagging a finger at him like he'd crossed a sacred line.

"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Hotchner!"

He blinked, staring at you like you'd just started reciting Shakespeare for no reason.

"You'll hurt my feelings," you said matter-of-factly. "And then I'll have no choice to pout. You'll feel guilty, you always do. And to make it up to me, you'll bring coffee tomorrow. So honestly, let's just skip all that and pretend you never wanted to finish that sentence."

He exhaled through his nose. "I was going to say, why would I miss you when I see you nearly every day?"

"Good." The smile was back on your face in a way that, annoyingly, made him feel better. "Because it's my day off, and you're forbidden from being mean to me on my day off."

"Are you implying I'm mean to you on your regular days?"

You tapped your chin as if seriously considering it. "Not mean, exactly... maybe a little grumpy sometimes."

Hotch huffed. "I'm grumpy with you?"

"Sometimes," you said with a shrug. "But it's okay. I like all your sides, even the grumpy one."

"I'm not grumpy with you," he replied, shaking his head. "If anything, I'm nicer to you than I should be."

"You big softie."

Hotch felt his lips twitch, and he hated how much effort it took to keep from smiling. He was not a soft person. He wasn't the type to let people get under his skin, and yet here you were managing to do it with a single sentence.

Worse, he didn't exactly dislike it. In fact, it felt... oddly welcome.

It was different from how you were at work, though, in fairness, you weren't exactly buttoned-up in the office, either.

"Did you make those?" He glanced briefly at the tray of cookies in the kitchen.

Your face lit up and you practically bounded over to the counter, grabbing the tray and holding it up like a trophy.

"Yep! Chocolate chip. Want one?"

Hotch hesitated for a second, then followed you into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the space despite himself. He didn't mean to do it, it wasn't intentional, but the part of him trained to notice every detail, every inconsistency, was already at work. Old habits die hard, or something like that.

The kitchen suited you. Soft pastel hues and floral details everywhere. Pink pots and pans hung along the wall, a lace-trimmed over mitt dangling from a hook shaped like a star. Fresh flowers, peonies or roses, he wasn't sure, sat in a vase on the counter.

He shook his head, trying to shut off that instinct to analyze. But it was almost automatic, his mind piecing things together, like the organization of the baking tools and the open cookbook, pages slightly smudged.

"Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna grab one?"

He looked at you, then at the cookies, and finally took one with a small nod of thanks. "You bake often?"

He didn't really need to ask, you felt far too comfortable in this space for the answer to be anything but yes.

"Oh, all the time," you said, turning to put the tray back down. "It's, like, my stress reliever. Plus, it makes the house smell amazing. Not that I'm, like, stressed or anything, just saying. It's a hobby. A cute hobby."

He bit into the cookie, ignoring the sweetness for a second as he glanced around again. The pink gingham tablecloth on the island, the mugs arranged by color.

"Anything else you need? Or can I get back to my cookies and reality TV?"

He glanced toward the TV, where some kind of dramatic argument was unfolding on screen, and then back to you. "You should charge your phone."

"Yes, Daddy," you said, before going stiff. "No! I didn’t mean, like, not that Daddy. Just… regular Dad."

His body went rigid, his jaw tightening as he forced himself not to react, shoving the thought out of his mind before it could take hold.

"Right," he said finally, voice rougher than usual. "Charge your phone."

Hotch stepped toward the door, his hand already reaching for the handle when your voice stopped him.

"No, Hotch's don't leave!" you said, your voice dipping into a whine that should've been annoying. "I'm bored!"

Key word, should.

He turned back, brows lifted. "Bored?"

"Yes, bored," you said, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "I've already watched two hours of reality TV, ate like, five cookies, and had an entire conversation with myself while I folded laundry. And now you're here, and I haven't had company in forever, and you're just gonna leave me all alone?"

“Forever,” he repeated dryly. “So the 24 hours since I saw you at work?”

"That doesn't count. Work doesn't count as, like, real social interaction. It's work."

He gave you a look, one of those deadpan, unreadable stares that was meant to shut down further argument. That obviously didn't work.

"You're really going to leave me all alone? In my time of need? I thought you cared about me, Hotch."

"You're not in your time of need."

"Emotionally, I am," you said, crossing your arms and leaning back like you’d just made the world’s most convincing argument. "Please, Aaron? Just hang out with me for a little bit. One show. It'll make my whole day."

The way you said his name, Aaron, hit him in a way that felt decidedly too intimate, too casual, too... something. He clenched his jaw briefly, trying to shake off the sensation as he shot you another look.

"Since when do you call me that?"

"Since now," you replied with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It suits you."

His brows furrowed. "It's my name."

"Exactly," you said, leaning forward. "We're not at work. You came into my house. It's all casual here. You're Aaron now. Just go with it."

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

"It does now," you said, patting the couch beside you. "So, Aaron, are you gonna sit down? Just ten minutes."

With a reluctant sigh, he lowered himself onto the couch, his posture still stiff.

"Wow," you said, scooting so close that your thigh pressed against his. "I didn't think that was actually going to work."

You leaned across the coffee table to grab a blanket, shorts riding up with the motion. Hotch's eyes darted away immediately, landing on the far corner of the room as though it held something deeply fascinating.

His hand clenched into a fist on his thigh, nails pressing into his palm. His knuckles whitened slightly as he tried to force his thoughts back into neutral territory, focusing on his breathing instead of the shape of your ass.

By the time you turned back, oblivious, and tossed the blanket over both of you, he'd managed to school his face into its usual unreadable expression, though he couldn't quite fix the pressure building in his chest.

"So," you began, holding up the remote, "what's it gonna be? Reality TV? A baking show? Or, oh, those ones where they renovate houses, but everything goes horribly wrong."

"You pick." He shifted, trying to put even an inch more space between you, but you didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with tucking the blanket around you both.

"Okay, but don't blame me if you get hooked. I'm just saying, this stuff is addictive."

He leaned back shaking his, but his focus never really landed on the TV. Instead, it stayed on you, laughing at the wrong moments, gasping dramatically at plot twists, and making snarky commentary under your breath.

"You know," you said suddenly, glancing over at him with a sly smile, "you're kind of cute when you're pretending to relax."

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asked, though the lack of bite in his tone made it sound almost too fond.

"Nope," you said cheerfully, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Consider it part of the package.”

Hotch didn't respond, his attention shifting back to the screen, or at least, that's what he told himself. But as the minutes stretched into fifteen, then twenty, he realized he wasn't in any hurry to leave.

You fell asleep thirty minutes later.

Hotch wasn't surprised. Between the pile of blankets, you'd wrapped yourself in and the way you'd curled up on the couch like it was your safe haven, it was a miracle you'd lasted that long. He'd noticed your eyelids drooping about five minutes earlier, your commentary fading into soft hums of acknowledgment as you sank deeper into the cushions.

The room was quiet now except for the sound of the TV. He shifted in his seat, glancing over at you. You were entirely still, your breathing slow. Your hair had fallen across your face, and the blanket had slipped off your shoulder, leaving your tank top askew.

It was weird, seeing you like this. You, who were always moving and talking and saying things he never really knew how to respond to. Now you looked so soft, completely oblivious to how much space you were taking up in his head.

He told himself to leave. Just slip out, lock the door, and let you sleep. That would’ve been the smart thing. The right thing. But he didn’t. Maybe it was the thought of you waking up, groggy and alone, wondering where he’d gone. Or maybe it was the realization that you were still his responsibility, even outside of work.

He leaned forward reluctantly, one hand brushing the blanket back over your shoulder. He told himself it was just a gentlemanly gesture, the kind anyone would do, but the second his fingers grazed you, he froze.

You murmured something under your breath, unintelligible really, your head shifting as you face turned toward him. He snatched his hand back like he'd touched something scalding.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you easily.

Your head fell against his shoulder the second he straightened. He swallowed. Your bedroom. Where was it? He glanced down the hall. Left or right? The door slightly ajar felt like the most obvious choice, and sure enough, when he nudged it open with his foot, he found himself standing right where he anticipated.

Pinks, florals, lace-trimmed, well, everything. The bed was covered in more pillows than he could count in every possible shade of pastel. It smelled like you, roses and vanilla, with something sweeter lingering underneath, like sugar from a bakery.

But then his eyes snagged on the rack of nightgowns against the far wall, like it wasn't about to cause an existential crisis.

Lace. Sheer. Satin.

He shouldn't be looking at them. He knew he shouldn't be looking at them, and yet... he couldn't stop. The imagine of you wearing one slipped into his mind before he could stop it. That was a problem—he could see you in them, and now he had to wrestle with that mental image while pretending to be a gentleman.

He bit down on the inside of his check, hard enough to sting, and forced himself to look back at the bed. This wasn’t the time, or the place, for thoughts like that. Hell, there wasn’t ever a time for them.

He eased you onto the mattress, his hands far softer than he thought himself capable of. He straightened, watching as you instinctively curled into the covers, your hair fanning across the pillow like some picture-perfect cliché.

Then you stirred, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his.

"Hotch?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

"It's okay," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."

You blinked slowly, gaze still hazy. "You're still here?"

"I didn't want to leave you on the couch. You looked too uncomfortable."

Your lips curved into a small, sleepy smile as you sank back into the pillows. "That's... sweet. I didn't think you did stuff like that."

He huffed softly, shaking his head. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me."

Your smile widened lazily, your half-lidded eyes sparkling with amusement. "Mysterious and chivalrous. You’re gonna ruin my whole perception of you.”

"Sleep," he said firmly, though there was no real heat behind the command.

Your gaze shifted past him, landing on the rack against the wall.

"Did you see those?" you asked. He hesitated, too long for it to go unnoticed, and your grin turned sly. "You did see them, didn't you?"

"They're hard to miss," he admitted, his voice carefully neutral.

"Bet you weren't expecting that, huh?" you teased, leaning your head against the pillow. “So? Thoughts?”

"I think," he said evenly, "you ask too many questions when you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

You laughed softly, the sound trailing off like a dream. “You’re dodging, Aaron. I didn’t know you could dodge.”

He sighed, stepping back as though the distance might save him. "You're good at this."

"Good at what?"

"Pushing buttons," he replied. “You’re a natural.”

"And yet, you're still here."

He didn't have the words for that. Because you were right, and he didn't know what to do about that.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your body slackening into the bed, and he thought you were asleep.

Then you spoke again, quieter this time, as if testing the words before committing to them. “Why’d you really come here?”

He stilled. "I told you. You weren't answering your phone. The case report."

The explanation felt flimsy, even to him, and he hated how obvious it sounded.

"That's not it," you whispered, your eyes still closed. "You could've just waited until tomorrow. You didn't have to check on me. But you did."

Hotch didn’t move, his breath catching as he studied you. Your face, relaxed and peaceful, gave no indication whether you knew what kind of mess you were making of him in that moment.

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, the faintest hint of a smile brushing your lips. "I think I like it when you worry about me. Feels nice."

You didn’t say anything else, your breathing softening as sleep took over again.

Hotch stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. Your words replayed like a deadly loop in his head.

He finally tore his gaze away, stepping back and slipping out of the room with careful movements. He closed the door behind him as softly as he could, but even then, the sound felt too loud.

For a second, he lingered in the hallway, staring at door like it might offer him some form of an answer. He'd drawn a line with you a thousand times in his head, a boundary he vowed not to cross. And yet, like you said, he was still here, standing in your home.

He shook his head and turned toward the front door. He wouldn't cross the line, but gods help him, staying on the right side of it felt harder every time.

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