#something that has history in it's cracks and rips

[babayagaiscomingforya]

For some reason, I imagine going to the Bowery King and asking these questions like "Sir I NEED to know! It's for business!"

Small domestic things i wanna know about John wick:

How does he like his coffee in the morning?

On which side does he sleep?

What kind of books does he like ?

What is his favorite casual outfit ?

What art/architecture style is is favorite

What kind of music does he like ? (I bet Jazz)

What are his love languages?

Basically i need a dating profile of him

[jimvasta]

Humans and their pets

The sentient races of the universe have just about started to get their heads, or approximate similar in function body parts, around the odd nature of humans but only recently have humans begun to bring other Earth creatures into space with them.

“Don't worry about Fluffy, he's totally ship trained.” the human designated Bradley spoke with frightening casualness about the creature sat at his side. It's muzzle was level with his hips and it's forward facing eyes showed it had predator history just as much as humans did.

“It has fangs.” Captain Mota'tog was unimpressed. The permissions were correctly stamped on the file and yet such a creature hardly appeared inoffensive.

“He does not, he's not poisonous. Of course some of his teeth are sharp, he's an omnivore.”

“He's a hunter.”

“He mostly hunts biscuits. He'll scavenge in the canteen from anyone soft enough to feed him. He's a certified well-being dog. People stroke him, he's got really soft fur, it makes them feel better. Look, he's wagging his tail, it means he likes you.”

Mota-tog whistled uncertainly.

“Oh wow!” One of the human engineers arrived at the airlock and dropped her bag as she stared at the dog. “So cute!”

Fluffy jumped round, tail wagging furiously, nuzzling in as the woman buried her hands in his warm soft fur.

“You are totally gorgeous. You're so fluffy and beautiful, you're like a little polar bear. You're here to stay, yes you are.” the woman happily baby talked to the dog who was more than half her size.

Bradley looked at the Captain and indicated. “See. Dogs make us happy.”

“You do all the care for it.”

“Of course.”

There were some false starts with the rest of the crew who were not so trusting of the huge pack hunter in their midst, but over the next few months they slowly learned to trust that the worst he would do was beg for food off their plates at meal times. Some of the braver aliens even began to pet him.

Then an alarm sounded.

Everyone raced to their emergency stations.

Bradley was in the cargo hold, his duty was to check the cargo was safe and secure.

He had quickly trained Fluffy to sit in a corner out of the way. It kept him safe in case anything shifted. The last thing he wanted was for his pet to get hurt by moving cargo.

The clang of magnetic grabs was deafening.

The alert was for a boarding raid.

Pirates.

Bradley cracked his knuckles and picked up a pry bar.

Through the rest of the ship there were varying degrees of panic.

A few of the other species could fight but most looked to the humans, having learned the way they fought when cornered and knowing their best hope to survive was to stay back and wait for the screaming to stop.

“What the fuck is that?!” the shout was shock and outrage. More anger than fear in the moment.

Crouching as it came through the main airlock was a creature taller and broader than anything else on the ship.

“Star spirits preserve us,” Mota'tog whistled. “A Batath.”

“It's a bloody troll is what it is.” Martins snapped.

Everyone froze as they heard the snarling and growling.

It was not coming from the Batath.

Fluffy arrived at speed and leapt, not caring can his opponent was huge. His fur was already matted with the blood of pirates and this was just another opponent.

The humans charged.

The Batath could only concentrate on one enemy at a time, it was used to picking off creatures as they ran, not fighting them off as something had its teeth deep around a knee trying to rip it apart.

The pirates ran when the Batath fell and the gore covered humans turned to face them.

Bradley let himself drop to the deck. “Don't worry, I'm fine. Good boy, Fluffy.”

Mota'tog shook his feathers as he watched the dog go back from snarling killing machine to placid fuss receiver. “I swear to the spirits, all Earth creatures are insane.”

[theincantation-if]

☽ DEMO (TBA)

Those who never learn history are doomed to repeat it.

There is something wrong with your blood, the others sense it when they look at you. Your parents said it’s what makes you special, beloved. You wish it to be true. You are ten when you notice the change, the thing that courses in your veins, wishing to be released, but you don’t know how.

You are thirteen when it releases itself. Anguish, grief, rage. Power. It destroys everything around you, it strives to kill, and it does. It is that fateful day that lands you here, trapped and caged within the walls of the Gilded Palace. This is the place you believe you will die.

Until you don’t, you’re kept alive. Here, against your will. Trained and yielded to be a tool. In the next ten years of your life, you will become a prized captive under the King’s guard. Wallowing in hate, waiting for your time to come to an end. Then the dragons appear, the royal family is assassinated, a rebellion ensues, and all the problems are pointed towards you.

Can you prove your innocence? Is it even worth it to try?

The Incantation is rated 18+ for violence, death, abuse, explicit language, unhealthy relationships, morally questionable characters, suggestive content, and possibly more triggers pending.

☽ Play as a witch of your own making.

Customize your character.

Build your relationships with those around you.

Learn more about the power that plagues you.

Form yourself into a weapon of your choosing or become the monster they made you out to be.

Save the kingdom or doom it to eternity.

☽ Romance one of four love interests.

Evander Alazar. (he/him)

Evander is the crown prince of Elyssia. Often charming and elusive, Evander hides behind a mask of arrogance and indifference to get through courtly life. Yet, forced into a role he never wanted - Evander must quickly assume the role of monarchy to keep his kingdom safe. Will it be sink or swim for this young prince?

Trope: Forbidden Love. He shouldn't look at you, you are considered an enemy of the kingdom. He should order your death. So why is it, that when you look at him - his heart seems to stop beating?

Theodore/Theodora "Teddy" de Peyster. (he/him) or (she/her)

Teddy is the crown prince's sworn protector. Noble and steadfast, Teddy is everything the kingdom needs to survive. Born to the retired parent's of the King's guard, all Teddy's life has been is violence and warfare. Is it possible for this knight to rise to the challenge or will they fall on their sword?

Trope: Sworn off Love. The knight cannot afford any mistakes, no matter how small. They keep everyone at a distance, relationships lead to a mess and a mess is a big mistake. But when you smile - they feel a crack appear in their armor.

Maeryn Toussaint. (she/her)

Maeryn is a priestess, belonging to the Church of Estrellas. Frequently skittish and consistently pious, Maeryn has never set foot outside of her convent. That was until the rebellion, where her prophetic abilities could help turn the tide. Can she save the kingdom, or doom the world?

Trope: Love at First Sight. She has never had anyone look at her like she wasn't broken. It's gotten to the point where she believes it too. Yet, when your hand touches hers - she has never felt more put together.

Hartford Moss. (cis) or (non-binary)

Hartford is your best friend, or was at least. Long gone is the vibrant curiosity of childhood, the destruction of Hartford's home leaves nothing but grief in their eyes and regret in their heart. Until they see you again. Will you stay together this time or will fate rip you apart?

Trope: Friends to Lovers. No one has ever seen every piece of them and understood them; their soul is bare, yet people look and don't see. However, you have seen them all of them and never looked away - it makes their head spin.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚍𝚘 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞? || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which she forgets but fate doesn't

The hospital lights are always too bright.

Sterile. Cold. Clinical. Nothing like the warmth you used to feel wrapped up in Paige’s arms after a long day, her voice soft against your ear, whispering about dreams and game plans and how lucky she felt to have you.

But now, the only sound that echoes in the room is the beeping of monitors. A rhythm you’ve come to hate because it means she’s alive—but not whole.

She’s been awake for three days.

Three long, agonizing days since the doctors told you the words you never thought you’d hear. Partial retrograde amnesia. A fancy way of saying: She doesn’t remember you.

She remembered basketball. Her coach. Her teammates. Her stats.

But not you.

Not the woman who held her through every injury. Not the woman who kissed her forehead before every game. Not the woman who stood in the stands with her jersey on and tears in her eyes every time she made history.

And the worst part?

She didn’t even seem to want to.

Every time you tried to talk to her, to offer something—anything—to make it come back, she would shrink further into herself. Polite, but distant. Guarded.

You told yourself to be patient. To give her time. Love is supposed to wait, right?

But then her parents pulled you aside.

Her mom couldn’t meet your eyes. Her dad’s voice was gentle but firm.

“Maybe it’s best,” he said, “if you give her some space.”

“She’s overwhelmed,” her mom added. “She’s trying to focus on healing. And you being here… it’s a lot.”

You felt like your heart had been ripped out and handed to you in a sterile hospital hallway.

“But I—” you started, but your voice cracked.

“She doesn’t remember you,” her dad said softly. “Maybe it’s time you start healing too.”

And just like that, you were being erased.

You left UConn a week later.

You couldn’t stay. Not in that gym where you used to shoot around after practice together. Not in that dorm where her laughter used to echo through the halls, tangled up with yours.

You entered the transfer portal.

A week after that, you were headed to UCLA.

New coast. New team. New life.

Except it wasn’t really a life at all.

Because every morning you woke up without her. Every night you fell asleep trying to forget the way she used to whisper I love you against your shoulder.

And Paige?

Paige healed.

She recovered. She rejoined practice. And every now and then, she’d ask her parents, “Hey… that girl that used to sit by my bed. Who was she?”

Her parents would smile too tightly. “Oh, just someone from school,” they’d say. “Don’t worry about it.” “Focus on your future.”

So she tried. She buried the questions. Tried to push past the shadow of a memory she couldn’t reach.

It’s been a year.

Final Four. UConn vs. UCLA.

Of course it comes down to this. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You spot her across the court during warmups.

Paige Bueckers. Back in form. Confident. Deadly. Beautiful in a way that still makes your chest ache.

She doesn’t see you. Or maybe she does and doesn’t know what you mean.

You play your heart out. Every cut, every drive, every shot—there’s fire behind it. But it’s not enough. UConn takes the win.

And then it’s the handshake line.

You don’t know what’s worse—the idea of touching her again, or the idea of not.

She reaches for your hand. Her fingers close around yours.

You look up.

Her eyes meet yours. And something flickers.

A spark. A ghost of recognition. A heartbeat caught in her throat.

“Good game,” she says automatically, her voice hoarse from emotion.

You nod, lips trembling. “You too.”

You try to let go first, but she holds on a second longer. Like maybe she doesn’t want to let go.

Like maybe she knows.

But you pull away with a small smile and walk off.

You don’t look back. You can’t. Because the tears are already falling.

That night, Paige can’t sleep.

She’s tossing and turning in the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, the handshake replaying in her mind on a loop.

Then she starts seeing flashes.

Not highlights. Not plays.

You.

Laughing in the passenger seat of her car, your hand hanging out the window. Falling asleep on her chest after late practices. Sneaking out of hotels for midnight milkshakes before big games. Crying in her arms after your first big loss together. The way she used to kiss the inside of your wrist like it was sacred.

Your voice echoing in her head:

"You make everything feel lighter."

And then— Pain. Sharp and raw. Like her heart’s been waiting all year to remember and now it finally does.

She sits up with a gasp, chest heaving.

And she remembers everything.

The accident. The look on your face when she didn’t know your name. The way you held her hand even when she pulled away. The way you loved her even when she forgot.

And the day you left—eyes red, voice shaking, whispering, “If you ever remember me… I hope it’s the good parts.”

She buries her face in her hands and sobs. Gut-wrenching, soul-breaking sobs.

Because she remembers now. She remembers you. And she let you walk away.

She remembers everything now.

It hits her like a freight train the moment she wakes up, drenched in sweat and tears, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering her to the world.

You.

Your laugh. Your touch. The way you used to whisper “we’ve got this” before every game like you were casting a spell.

She remembers the accident. The way you used to sit by her bedside, silently praying for a miracle.

She remembers the confusion in your eyes every time she said, “Do I know you?” The way your shoulders slumped just a little more each day.

And then— Your goodbye. Your eyes red. Voice cracking. That whisper— "If you ever remember me… I hope it’s the good parts."

She needs to find you.

Now.

She jumps out of bed, heart racing, hands shaking as she fumbles with her phone.

Instagram. Blocked. Twitter. Blocked. TikTok. Blocked. Message. Green bubble. No profile picture. No read receipts. Just a wall where there used to be warmth.

She searches your name again, as if something might’ve changed in the last five seconds.

Nothing. You’re gone.

She stares at the screen like it might apologize.

Like it might undo what her silence, her forgetting, has cost her.

She runs to her parent’s hotel room like she’s being chased, the ache in her chest growing with every mile. The moment she steps through the door, her mom’s face pales.

“You remember,” her mom says softly.

Paige nods, jaw tight. “Everything.”

Her dad shifts uncomfortably. “Paige, we didn’t mean to—”

“You told her to leave, didn’t you?” Her voice is hoarse now. Breaking. “You told the love of my life to walk away from me.”

“You were overwhelmed,” her mom defends gently. “You didn’t recognize her, and she was—”

“She was mine!” Paige snaps, the tears already welling in her eyes. “She waited by my bed every day, and you treated her like she was some stranger trying to mess with me.”

Her mom’s lip trembles. “We thought we were helping—”

“You weren’t. You took her from me.”

She’s crying now. Full-on sobs she can’t control. Her knees buckle and she sinks to the kitchen floor, head in her hands.

Her dad kneels beside her, reaching to touch her shoulder, but she flinches away.

“She left because she loved me,” she chokes out. “And now I’ve lost her for good.”

Championship night.

It’s everything she dreamed of.

Confetti falls from the rafters. Cameras flash. Reporters crowd the court. The trophy’s heavy in her arms, shining under the lights.

But all she feels is empty.

Because you’re not there.

Not in the stands wearing her jersey. Not on the court, jumping into her arms. Not waiting in the tunnel with your arms wide and your smile even wider.

You’re nowhere.

She stands there, holding the championship trophy, and the moment the cameras pull away, she breaks.

Sinks to the hardwood, sobbing so hard her chest shakes.

Azzi and KK rush to her, but there’s nothing they can do. Nothing anyone can do.

Because she won it. The dream you built together. The thing you used to whisper about under blankets and after practice and in quiet corners of the world. “We’ll win one together. Just wait.”

You waited. You believed. And she forgot you.

And now you’re gone.

Later, alone in the locker room, she scrolls through your old messages.

The ones she didn’t delete. The ones she couldn’t.

"I believe in you always." "You’re not alone. Not ever." "We’re going to make it, babe. I promise."

She clutches her phone to her chest and cries again. The trophy sits on the bench beside her, shining quietly.

But it doesn’t mean a damn thing.

Because she won.

But she lost you.

It’s been a week.

Seven days since the championship. Since the confetti. Since Paige collapsed in the locker room clutching a trophy in one hand and her heart in the other.

She hasn’t stopped thinking about you. You, who should’ve been on the court beside her. You, who used to trace plays on her back with your fingers at night, whispering “When we win it all…” like it was gospel.

But you weren’t there.

And the silence is louder than any celebration ever could be.

She’s sitting in the back of a black SUV on the way to the WNBA Draft, staring at the world outside the window, eyes glazed over.

Azzi’s next to her, buzzing with nerves and excitement. Paige should be too. She’s projected to go first. Her dream is about to come true.

But her hands are cold. Her throat’s dry. Because the person she wanted to celebrate with most— Is gone.

And she doesn’t know if she’ll ever see you again.

You told yourself you wouldn’t come. You’d done the whole disappearing act flawlessly—blocked numbers, wiped socials, cut the thread before it could pull you back in.

But then the day arrived, and you couldn’t stay away.

So now you’re here.

Not in the front row. Not on the list. But tucked away in the back of the venue in jeans and a hoodie, hood up like maybe that’ll hide the way your heart is thudding in your chest.

You just wanted to see her one last time.

The lights dim. The commissioner steps up to the mic.

“With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Dallas Wings select…”

You hold your breath.

“Paige Bueckers, from University of Connecticut.”

The crowd explodes.

You’re on your feet before you know it, clapping with your whole soul, because God, you’re proud of her.

Because no matter the distance, no matter the heartbreak— You always believed in her.

She walks across the stage, hugs her parents, accepts the jersey, does the interview.

And for a moment, you let yourself imagine an alternate world. One where you're up there with her. Where she never forgot. Where you never left.

But you blink and it’s gone.

You’re halfway to the exit when the commissioner returns to the podium.

You pause.

Probably just the last few names. Filler. Nothing that concerns you.

“…and with the 30th pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…”

You check your phone, already mentally checking out.

“The Dallas Wings select…”

You look up absently.

“…Y/N L/N, from University of California Los Angeles.”

Your heart stops.

You freeze. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

No. That— That has to be a mistake.

You barely played this year. You didn’t go to any pre-draft camps. You only declared because your coaches pushed you to. You didn’t even think you’d get a look.

And now— Now you're drafted?

By Dallas?

The same team as Paige?

The same Paige who’s sitting with the commentators, still soaking up the high of being drafted first overall, smiling through interviews — until your name’s announced.

You see it in real time. Her whole body freezes.

The mic drops a little in her hand. Her head snaps toward the screen behind her, where your face flashes beside your name.

She doesn’t even blink.

Because she heard it. She felt it.

Just like you did.

After taking your picture, you’re pulled into a different room, mind still i overdrive, not being to comprehend much yet. As you walk in, there she was — looking beautiful in her suit.

You don't know what to expect. A handshake? A nod? Maybe just silence?

But as soon as you reach her— She steps forward and pulls you into a hug.

Tight. Shaking. Desperate.

And suddenly you're back in her arms, back in the place you never thought you'd be again.

"I prayed for a second chance," she whispers in your ear. "And you showed up."

You swallow the lump in your throat, gripping the back of her jersey like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

“I didn’t think I’d get drafted,” you murmur. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. There's glassiness there, but also something else—something soft and fierce and real.

“I’m not losing you again,” she says, voice thick with tears.

You can’t trust yourself to speak. So you just nod. Because maybe this time, fate is finally on your side.

[bueckets]

The Hit List | 02

Pairing: fuckgirl!Paige x Mechi Student!reader

Masterlist (TBA) | Part One

Genre: romance, slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, they fuck, n its hot n sweaty, cat n mouse

Description: What starts as a game of avoidance turns into something far more dangerous when old grudges and unfinished business crash headfirst into a truth neither of them are ready to face. Armed with a stubborn streak, a boyfriend you're trying too hard to believe in, and a simmering resentment that burns just as hot as desire, you swear you won’t let Paige win.

But when history keeps rewriting itself in glances, in touches, in words that cut too close—you start to wonder if you've had control of the game at all.

wc: 24k, yes, 24k

Authors Note: sorry this took forever, too many words so this is split into two parts

Chapter 2: The Problem with Paige Bueckers

The cold air hit like a slap as you and Riven stepped out of The Tavern, the double doors slamming shut behind you. The muffled bass of whatever trash pop remix they were playing inside still buzzed in your chest, but out here, the only sound was the occasional car rolling by and the crunch of Riven’s boots against the pavement.

“Okay,” she started, already wrapping her arms around herself like she hadn’t just spent the last hour insisting she wasn’t cold. “What the fuck was that?”

You tugged Nika’s warmup jacket closer around you. “What was what?”

“Oh, don’t even—” Riven whirled on you, walking backward now, eyes narrowed. “I had, like, a front-row seat to your little moment with Paige. You two looked like you were about five seconds away from—”

“From what?” you cut in, voice sharper than intended.

Riven’s smirk deepened. “From what, she says. Babe, I thought you were about to spontaneously combust. Paige definitely wanted to.”

You groaned, pushing past her. “You’re reading into things.”

“Am I?” She caught up easily, practically skipping now. “Because I watched a six-foot basketball legend—who, might I remind you, does not chase people—spend an entire game, a whole-ass four quarters, subtly showing off for you. Then she followed that up by pinning you to a bar with her eyes and making sure you knew she was looking.”

You kept walking. Focused on the sidewalk, on the way the streetlights flickered, on literally anything but what she was saying.

“And you?” Riven continued, undeterred. “You were eating it up.”

You stopped dead. “I was not—”

Riven held up a hand. “Babe. I love you. But you were.”

Her eyes softened then, shifting from teasing to something quieter. You hated that. Because if Riven wasn’t making fun of you, if she was actually serious, then it meant she thought there was something here.

You shook your head, exhaling hard. “I don’t even like her.”

Riven arched a brow. “No?”

“No.”

“And yet, you’re literally wearing her best friend’s jacket, which Paige has been glaring at all night like she was about to rip it off your body with her teeth.”

You rolled your eyes and started walking again. “Nika spilled coffee on me. She gave me the jacket.”

“Uh-huh.” Riven jogged to catch up. “And Paige definitely didn’t care about that at all. I’m sure that’s why she looked like she wanted to murder her best friend when she saw you in it.”

You ignored her.

She didn’t let up. “You know what I think?”

“No,” you deadpanned.

“I think Paige is used to being wanted. She is thee Golden Child after all.” Riven adjusted her tiny bag, the one you still didn’t believe could fit anything. “And you? You told her to fuck off. You didn’t fawn, didn’t trip over yourself to impress her, didn’t melt the second she so much as breathed in your direction.”

“I was just—”

“She likes it.”

You faltered. “What?”

“That’s why she’s been all over you.” Riven grinned like she’d cracked some unsolvable mystery. “You’re a challenge, babe. Paige loves a challenge.”

You let that sit between you for a moment. The idea that this was all just some game to her. Some chase, some conquest to check off her list.

It shouldn’t sting. But it did.

You kicked at a loose pebble, watching it skitter across the sidewalk. “Well, I’m not playing.”

Riven let out a low whistle. “And that is why she’s losing her mind over you.”

She looped her arm through yours, sighing dramatically. “I love this for you.”

You groaned. “There’s nothing to love. I’m not interested.”

Riven squeezed your arm. “Mhm. And yet, we’ve been talking about her this entire walk home.”

You scowled. She had a point.

The first thing you did when you woke up was groan, roll over, and aggressively smother yourself with your pillow in a last-ditch effort to erase the past twelve hours from existence.

The second thing you did was curse Riven’s name.

I love this for you. What the fuck did that even mean? What was there to love? There was nothing to love, nothing to even consider, and yet your brain had apparently decided to throw hands with your common sense and keep you trapped in this hell loop of overanalyzing.

You stayed like that for a solid ten minutes, letting the residual embarrassment simmer in the dark, trying to physically sweat out the memory of Paige fucking Bueckers pinning you in place with her eyes and her stupid, low-ass voice.

Nope. No. Absolutely not. You were not thinking about it. You had actual things to do.

You shoved the blanket off and sat up, only for your stomach to immediately drop as your gaze landed on Nika’s UConn warmup jacket.

Right. That.

You stared at it, like it was some foreign object that had somehow materialized in your room overnight. As if it hadn’t been on your body the entire night before. As if it hadn’t been the one thing Paige’s eyes lingered on every time she looked at you.

Okay. You exhaled sharply. Okay. You needed to get the fuck out of this room.

The engineering building smelled like burnt coffee and overworked students.

Someone had definitely been living in here for the past forty-eight hours—probably one of the electrical engineering kids judging by the faint, fried-plastic scent of a blown capacitor. A couple of jackets were draped over chairs, a half-eaten protein bar had been abandoned by the 3D printer, and the whiteboard by the entrance was filled with someone’s increasingly desperate attempts at debugging a circuit diagram.

Ah, yes. Your people.

You exhaled, shifting your backpack higher on your shoulder as you made your way toward the CAD lab. The familiar hum of computer fans filled the air, that gentle, artificial whir that meant someone, somewhere, was probably suffering through a last-minute deadline.

Not you, though. You were here to escape.

The lab was half-full, a quiet buzz of activity punctuated by the occasional sigh of frustration. A couple of upperclassmen were arguing over a simulation in the corner, their screen flashing red with failed stress tests. Someone else—definitely a freshman—was furiously Googling “why does SOLIDWORKS keep crashing???” like the software had personally wronged them.

You picked a station near the back, dropped your bag onto the floor, and cracked your knuckles.

Alright. Time to work.

You opened your laptop, pulled up your latest model—a sleek, mid-development turbine assembly—and tried to focus.

For the first few minutes, it actually worked. The soothing, mind-numbing repetition of part alignments, constraint settings, and torque calculations took over. You could feel your brain settling into that comfortable, hyper-focused haze.

And then—

“Jesus Christ, what is this?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a turbine.”

“That’s a turbine?”

The voice belonged to Mateo, one of the mechanical engineers who had, at some point, decided that annoying you was his life’s goal.

He dragged a chair over, plopping down beside you with his usual chaotic energy. His UConn hoodie was inside out, his curls were aggressively disheveled, and his glasses were smudged enough to qualify as a safety hazard.

“You’re staring at it like it personally offended you,” you muttered, rotating the model on your screen.

Mateo squinted. “Because it has personally offended me. Why the hell does it look like that?”

You turned, deadpan. “Would you like to rephrase that into something remotely helpful?”

He hummed, leaning in. “Maybe. Depends on how much caffeine you’ve had.”

You sighed, shoving your coffee cup toward him. He took one sip and immediately made a face.

“This is disgusting.”

You stole your coffee back. “It’s functional.”

“That’s what people say about Soviet-era aircrafts, and half of those are held together by sheer willpower and duct tape.”

You ignored him, going back to your model. “You’re still here. Please tell me why you’re still here?”

Mateo stretched, cracking his back like an eighty-year-old man. “Because I finished my project and now I’m bored.”

You arched a brow. “So this is what you do for fun? Bully me about my designs?”

“Absolutely.” He propped his chin on his hand, watching you work. “Also, because your roommate texted me last night saying you needed to ‘touch grass,’ which in Riven language means you’ve been weird lately.”

You froze.

Fucking Riven.

Mateo caught it immediately. His smirk widened. “Oh? So tell me what’s up?”

You shook your head, clicking aggressively through your model constraints. “Nothing.”

“Liar. Is it a boy?”

You snorted. “No.”

“A girl?”

You paused just long enough for his eyes to light up.

“Ohhh, it is a girl.” He grinned, leaning in like you’d just handed him the best gossip of his life. “Spill. Who is she?”

You shoved him. “Go away.”

Mateo cackled. “No chance. What’s her name? Is she hot? Do I know her?”

You shut your laptop. “Fuck off.”

Mateo, absolutely unbothered, just draped himself over the back of your chair. “C’mon. You never get weird about people, so this must be juicy.”

“It’s not,” you gritted out, standing up and grabbing your bag.

Mateo raised a brow. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here.”

“You know running away only makes me more curious, right?”

You flipped him off over your shoulder as you left.

Mateo just laughed.

It was a flawless, textbook-perfect fucking setup. The one time you leave the lab, take a detour for some overpriced caffeine, and try to get some damn distance from this whole situation—and there she is.

Like a curse.

You saw her before she saw you. A rare, fleeting advantage, considering Paige had the court vision of a goddamn military drone.

She was standing near the library steps, mid-conversation with some girl you didn’t recognize.

And, of course, she was leaning. Paige Bueckers didn’t just stand like a normal person. No, she had to do the casual, just-effortless-enough tilt, one hand gripping the strap of her UConn backpack like she was seconds away from swinging it over her shoulder in slow-motion, Nike-ad perfection.

And she was smiling.

That smile—the one that had probably ruined lives– specifically, your life.. The practiced, easy, disarmingly charming one. The dangerous one.

Your stomach twisted.

You should keep walking. It would be so easy. Just turn left, duck into the coffee shop, pretend you never saw her.

But something in you hesitated.

Because Paige wasn’t just talking to anyone. She was talking to some other girl.

Fucking hell.

It was so stupid. So petty. So utterly beneath you. But for some reason, the sight of her standing there—effortlessly charismatic, completely at ease—was irritating.

And then it got worse.

Because right as you were about to turn away, Paige’s gaze lifted.

Locked directly onto you.

And something in her changed.

It was so quick, so minuscule that anyone else wouldn’t have noticed. But you did. Because you’d spent the past two days doing everything in your power not to notice her, and yet here you were, catching every fucking detail.

The slight shift in her posture.

The way her smirk faltered, just a fraction.

The way her grip on her bag tightened.

Your fingers curled around the strap of your own backpack, a reflexive, useless attempt at grounding yourself.

Walk away.

But you didn’t.

You stood there, frozen in this stupid fucking moment, as Paige’s attention flicked back to the girl she was talking to—only to immediately pull away.

And then she was moving.

Striding over like this was some kind of inevitable gravitational force. Like she knew you weren’t going to leave.

Your pulse kicked up, but you forced yourself to stay still, forced yourself to act bored when she finally stopped in front of you.

Her voice hit first, low and teasing, but with something else under it. “Didn’t know you were into weekend library runs.”

You exhaled sharply, shifting your weight. “Didn’t know you were into casual sidewalk flirting, or studying.”

Paige’s smirk deepened. “Why, jealous?”

Oh, you were going to strangle her.

“I literally do not care.”

She hummed, tilting her head slightly. “You sound like you care.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, fixing her with a flat look. “Do you just walk around looking for people to harass, or am I just special?”

Paige took another step closer. You held your ground.

“I dunno,” she murmured. “You do seem pretty special.”

Your heart stuttered.

No. Nope. Fucking no.

You weren’t playing this game. You weren’t going to stand here and let her look at you like that—like she was trying to pick you apart, like she was actually intrigued.

You stepped back, shaking your head. “Enjoy your fan club, Bueckers.”

You turned to leave.

Paige’s voice followed. Low. Confident. Amused.

“You’re cute when you’re pissed.”

You didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look back. Didn’t let her see the way your entire fucking body was burning.

But you heard her chuckle.

And somehow, that was worse.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

You should have kept going. Walked straight to the coffee shop, ordered something completely overpriced, and buried yourself in caffeine and denial.

But you weren’t that lucky.

Because the second you stepped inside, the scent of espresso and baked goods barely had time to hit you before—

“Wow.”

You knew that voice.

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply, willing the universe to smite you.

It did not.

Because when you opened them again, Paige was right behind you.

“What are you doing?” you muttered, stepping forward to put space between you.

Paige slid her hands into her hoodie pocket, exuding pure, infuriating amusement. “Getting coffee.”

You turned, narrowing your eyes. “You weren’t even going this way.”

She shrugged. “Changed my mind.”

Jesus Christ.

You groaned, turning back toward the counter. “Whatever.”

The barista—a slightly overwhelmed-looking sophomore named Jordan, who you’d spoken to maybe twice before—perked up at the sight of Paige.

“Oh, hey! I didn’t know you came here.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course.

Paige flashed her that same easy, heartbreaker smile. “Yeah, thought I’d try something new today.”

Her eyes flicked to you as she said it. You clenched your jaw, and ignored her.

Jordan, oblivious, beamed. “What can I get you?”

Paige didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

Oh.

You turned, slowly.

Paige just looked back at you, smirk still in place.

“Fine,” you said, voice tight. “I’ll have your strongest black coffee.”

Jordan blinked. “Wait, really?”

You gave her a look. “Yes?”

She hesitated. “I mean… I just… you always get the caramel cold brew.”

Shit.

Paige grinned.

“Well,” you said, crossing your arms. “Maybe I wanted to try something new.”

Paige laughed.

Actually laughed.

Full, delighted, genuine amusement.

“Oh,” she said, still smirking, “I love this.”

You clenched your fists. “I hate you.”

“See, now that’s not true.”

You turned away, absolutely done with this interaction, already regretting ever leaving the lab.

You paid for your coffee, pointedly ignoring Paige as she paid for hers, and practically snatched the cup from Jordan when it was ready.

You had exactly two steps of peace before—

“So,” Paige said, matching your pace as you headed for the door, “should I be worried?”

You shot her a look. “About what?”

“The fact that you just ordered a black coffee.”

You exhaled sharply. “Maybe I just like black coffee.”

Paige hummed, taking a sip of her own. You watched her expression shift immediately.

“Oh, this is disgusting.”

You snorted, unable to stop it in time.

Paige, victorious, just smiled. “See? I knew you were full of shit.”

You shook your head, pushing the door open and stepping outside. Paige followed, still sipping at her awful coffee like she was suffering on purpose.

And then, finally, mercifully, she stopped walking.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll let you go.”

You frowned. “What?”

Paige’s smirk returned. “I mean, unless you want me to keep following you.”

You scoffed. “Oh my God. Leave.”

Paige chuckled, stepping back, lifting her hands in mock surrender.

“Later, library girl.”

You didn’t look back.

But you felt her watching. And somehow, that was worse.

You had a plan.

It was simple.

Step 1: Bury yourself in engineering work.

Step 2: Avoid places where you might run into her.

Step 3: Erase all thoughts of Paige Bueckers from your mind.

Step 1 was going great. You were practically living in the engineering building, hammering through assignments, working ahead just for the hell of it. At this rate, you’d graduate two semesters early and have a job lined up at NASA before winter break.

Step 2, however, was failing miserably.

Because no matter how much you tried to avoid her, Paige Bueckers was everywhere.

In the hall, where you caught glimpses of her and her teammates from the corner of your eye.

In the student center, where people were casually talking about her like she was a campus landmark.

Even in your own goddamn dreams, which was the worst part because now, even when you were asleep, you weren’t free from this mess.

And it wasn’t like they were even good dreams. No steamy forbidden fantasies, no sweaty, tangled sheets, breathless, what the fuck are we doing? moments. No. You weren’t that lucky.

Instead, your brain kept feeding you annoying things. Paige standing too close. Paige smirking. Paige looking at you like she knew something you didn’t.

Which meant you were waking up pissed off for no reason, which meant Riven noticed, which meant—

“Let me set you up with someone.”

You blinked, looking up from your laptop. “What?”

Riven was sitting across from you in the student lounge, sipping on some overpriced, sugar-filled coffee monstrosity. “I said, let me set you up.”

You scoffed, going back to your screen. “Why?”

“Because you’re weird right now,” she said, gesturing vaguely at you. “All tense and broody. It’s stressing me out.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m literally just doing my work.”

“Exactly.” She leaned forward, squinting at your screen. “You’ve been too productive. It’s unnatural.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re avoiding Paige.”

Your fingers paused on the keyboard for half a second, but that was all she needed.

Riven grinned, victorious. “So let me set you up with someone.”

You sighed, shutting your laptop. “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Or the smartest.”

“No.”

She ignored you, pulling out her phone. “I mean, you have options. There’s that guy from your statics class who’s obsessed with you—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, what about Aisha? She’s cute, pre-med, has her life together—”

“She has a girlfriend.”

Riven waved a hand. “Okay, but, like, not a great one—”

“I cannot believe you right now.”

“Fine, fine.” She scrolled through her phone. “Oooh, what about Kevin?”

You gave her a flat look. “Kevin who works at the bookstore?”

“Yeah! He’s sweet. And tall.”

“He tried to sell me a book on manifesting your dream life when I asked for a fluid dynamics textbook.”

Riven paused. “Okay, yeah, that’s a little concerning.”

You shook your head, leaning back. “Why are you so determined to throw me at random people?”

She tilted her head. “Because it’s fun.”

You groaned.

“And,” she added, more carefully, “because it might help.”

You frowned. “Help what?”

She gave you a look. “Come on.”

You exhaled through your nose, staring down at your coffee.

Riven didn’t push. Just let the silence sit for a beat before nudging your knee under the table. “I’ll stop. For now.”

You looked up. “Thank you.”

She grinned. “But only if you come to this party with me on Saturday.”

You groaned. “Riven—”

“It’ll be fun. And guess who’s gonna be there?”

You already knew.

You closed your eyes. “I hate you.”

She sipped her drink. “Love you too, babe.”

You had approximately zero interest in going to this party.

It wasn’t that you were a hermit—you liked going out, sometimes, in controlled settings where you knew exactly what to expect. But parties like this? Loud, crowded, packed with people you barely knew and didn’t want to? No thanks.

And yet, here you were.

Still sitting on the edge of your bed, not getting ready, scrolling through your phone while your unread texts from Riven multiplied like fruit flies.

r u alive

do i need to come drag u by the hair

i will btw

wear something hot

but not like slutty hot like u just threw it on w/out trying hot

like effortless “oops i didn’t mean to be the hottest person here” hot

also ur wearing eyeliner

You groaned, dropping your phone onto your comforter.

A normal person would just say no. Would just text back not feeling it tonight and call it a day.

But Riven?

Riven would actually show up, bang on your door, and physically escort you to this goddamn party like a security detail on a mission.

So now you had a choice:

1. Give in and get ready.

2. Wait for Riven to bust in here like a one-woman SWAT team and drag you there herself.

Neither option was appealing, but at least the first one gave you some control.

You exhaled sharply, standing up. Fine. Fine. You’d go.

But you weren’t doing this for fun. You were doing it to get Riven off your ass, to make an appearance, to grab a drink, stay for a reasonable amount of time, and then leave before you got roped into something stupid.

You shuffled over to your dresser, opening the top drawer without thinking—and then immediately stopped short.

Because sitting there, right on top, was Nika’s UConn warmup jacket.

The one Paige had glared holes into the last time you wore it.

Your fingers hovered over the fabric for a second. Just long enough for the memory to crawl back into your head—Paige, watching you from across the bar, her expression unreadable but sharp.

It’s just a jacket.

You shook your head, grabbed something else, and shoved the drawer shut.

You were not playing this game.

It was cold, but not cold enough to justify a full winter coat. Just that irritating in-between weather where the air had a bite to it, but not enough to make you commit to layers.

The sidewalks were slick from the rain earlier, puddles reflecting the glow of streetlights. Music spilled out from different houses, some of them throwing smaller, more manageable kickbacks. You briefly considered bailing and going to one of those instead—just slipping into a different party and texting Riven oops, wrong address—but she’d see right through that shit.

So you kept walking, arms crossed against the chill, running through worst-case scenarios in your head.

You’ll get there, it’ll be loud, it’ll be annoying, you’ll get stuck in some awful small talk with people you barely like—

“Hey.”

You startled, glancing up.

Some guy had fallen into step beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets.

You blinked. “Do I know you?”

He grinned, easy and unbothered. “Nah. But we’re both heading the same way, so I figured I’d say hi.”

You hesitated.

It wasn’t weird, exactly. People did this all the time—especially guys, who had that weird confidence of assuming you’d be fine with their company.

And maybe it wasn’t the worst thing. Maybe if you got caught up in conversation with literally anyone, it would keep you distracted from the nagging feeling in your gut about this whole night.

So you shrugged. “Alright. Hi.”

He laughed. “Wow, that was enthusiastic.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no actual bite behind it. “You always introduce yourself to strangers walking alone at night?”

“Only the hot ones.”

You huffed a laugh. Oh, Jesus.

There was something oddly comforting about this kind of flirting—the casual, throwaway kind. Not serious, not tangled in anything complicated. Just light, meaningless words tossed into the cold night air.

It was easy.

And easy was exactly what you needed.

“Are you always this smooth?” you asked, raising a brow.

He grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “You tell me.”

Before you could respond, a sudden beep cut through the night.

Your phone. Riven.

where r u

it’s been 7 min i am timing u

u better not be dragging ur feet

i swear 2 god if ur pulling a fast one on me

You sighed, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “I’m about to get yelled at.”

The guy laughed. “Friend blowing up your phone?”

“Something like that.”

“Guess that means I won’t have you all to myself, huh?”

You snorted. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Eli.” He shot you a sideways glance. “And now you do.”

You just shook your head, amused despite yourself.

Maybe this night wouldn’t be a total disaster.

The walk over is quiet. Not awkward, but not quite comfortable either. Eli’s hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill, his breath fogging in the dark as he keeps pace beside you.

The street is mostly empty, save for the distant sound of laughter and the faint hum of music seeping through the trees, growing louder with each step.

“So,” he finally says, tilting his head toward you. “You party much?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Not really.”

“Yeah, you don’t seem like the type.”

You raise a brow, glancing over at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eli grins, kicking a loose rock down the sidewalk. “Dunno. You seem more like the… stay-at-home-and-watch-true-crime-docs type.”

You scoff. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is enough of one.

He laughs, shaking his head. “I knew it.”

The music swells as you round the corner, the UConn house coming into view. People are already spilling onto the lawn, drinks in hand, voices raised over the thumping bass. Someone’s perched on the hood of a car, cigarette dangling between their fingers, while a group is gathered around the porch, deep in some animated conversation that none of them will remember in the morning.

You exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders. The night stretches before you, unknown and electric, waiting.

“Welp,” Eli says, slowing his steps, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Guess this is us.”

You nod, barely glancing at him. “Yeah, guess so.”

And then you leave him.

You don’t say goodbye, don’t offer a parting glance. Just slip past the first cluster of people, stepping into the thick of the party, into the heat, into the house.

Inside, the air is thick—warm and suffocating, a mix of sweat and perfume and alcohol. The bass vibrates through the floorboards, through your ribs, as bodies move against each other, laughter and shouted conversations tangling together into a messy, chaotic hum.

You push forward, barely a few steps in when—

“There you are.”

A hand grabs your wrist, sharp nails digging into your skin just enough to make you wince before you’re being tugged to the side.

Riven.

She looks immaculate as always—makeup untouched by the humidity, dress clinging perfectly to her frame, her lips stained red from whatever drink she’s been nursing.

She eyes you, head tilting. “Took you long enough.”

“I wasn’t—” You hesitate. “I walked here.”

She snorts. “What, alone?”

“No. Some guy. Eli, I think.”

Riven’s expression flickers with interest. “Eli?”

“Yeah, tall, kinda awkward, basketball?” You shrug, not really caring.

“Huh.” She takes a sip of her drink, eyes scanning the crowd. “You just met him and he walked you here?”

“Guess so.”

She smirks. “Cute.”

You roll your eyes. “Didn’t exactly work out for him.”

Riven grins. “Ice cold.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she’s already linking her arm through yours, pulling you deeper into the house.

“Come on. You need a drink.”

The kitchen is a mess of half-empty bottles and red plastic cups, condensation pooling on the scratched wooden counter. The air is thick with the scent of spilled liquor and citrus, the sharp tang of tequila mingling with something fruity—jungle juice, probably, the kind that tastes like candy but hits like a train.

Riven slides in ahead of you, maneuvering through the crowd like she’s been here a hundred times, which, knowing her, she probably has. The confidence in the way she moves makes her impossible to lose, even in the crush of people.

“Alright,” she announces, scanning the counter like it’s a display case. “What’s your poison?”

You hesitate. You’re not much of a drinker—never have been—but tonight feels like it demands something stronger than your usual caution.

“Something not disgusting,” you say, eyeing the sticky countertop, where remnants of past spills glisten under the dim kitchen light.

Riven hums, reaching for a bottle of vodka and some kind of mixer you don’t recognize. “Not disgusting is subjective.” She pours with a practiced hand, tipping the cup toward you once she’s done. “Try this.”

You take a sip. It’s sweet, deceptively smooth, the alcohol buried just enough to be dangerous.

“Not bad,” you admit.

Riven smirks. “You’re welcome.”

The music shifts, the bass vibrating through the walls, through your ribs. People move in and out of the kitchen, laughing, shouting, their voices blending into a haze of noise. The heat of the room is different from the living room—more claustrophobic, the air saturated with liquor and sweat, with the sticky-sweet scent of someone’s perfume, too strong, too cloying.

You lean back against the counter, tipping your cup against your lips, letting the alcohol settle in, loosen something in your limbs.

And then you see her.

Paige.

She’s on the other side of the kitchen, leaning against the counter with the kind of effortless ease that makes your stomach clench. One hand curled around a drink, fingers loose, relaxed. Her other arm draped along the counter, casual but intentional.

The girl next to her is tucked into the space at her side, one hip pressed against the counter, her body angled in, close.

Too close.

Your grip tightens around your cup.

The lighting in the kitchen is dim, but it catches on Paige’s features just right, casting shadows across the sharp cut of her jaw, the slope of her nose. Her expression is unreadable, but her focus is locked.

She’s looking at the girl like she’s the only person in the room.

Something tightens in your chest.

You shouldn’t be watching. You shouldn’t care.

Yet, here you are. Doing exactly that.

The girl tilts her head, lips painted in something dark, teasing at the rim of her cup as she speaks, voice lost in the thrum of the party.

Paige listens, eyes half-lidded, her mouth curling just slightly at the edges. It’s a look you recognize, one you’ve seen before—lazy, amused, locked in. The kind of look that says I already know how this ends.

The kind of look that says I want you.

Your stomach flips.

The girl shifts, closing the space between them, fingers brushing against Paige’s wrist, trailing lightly, suggestively. Paige doesn’t move away.

If anything, she leans in.

The room is too hot. The air too thick, pressing in around you, suffocating.

You take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go. Your back is already against the counter, your drink clutched too tightly in your hand. You can still see them—Paige’s fingers curling loosely around the girl’s waist, the slight tilt of her head, the way her mouth parts, the way the girl smiles.

Like she knows she’s got her.

Like she knows Paige isn’t going anywhere.

A fresh wave of nausea rolls through you.

You should look away. You should walk away.

But you don’t. You never ddo.

You watch as the girl leans in, her lips brushing just shy of Paige’s jaw, as if testing the waters. Paige doesn’t pull back.

She just watches, lets it happen, lets the girl push closer, lets her fingers slide against the hem of her shirt, teasing at the space just beneath.

It makes you sick.

You can’t fucking breathe.

Something ugly claws its way up your throat, something you don’t want to name, something bitter and raw.

You turn sharply, reaching for the vodka, pouring more into your cup than is remotely reasonable. The liquid sloshes over the rim, drips onto your fingers, and you barely feel it.

“Whoa,” Riven says, raising a brow. “Thirsty?”

You don’t answer. Just mix it with whatever’s closest, something orange, something fizzy.

You down half of it in one go.

It burns, but not enough.

Nothing is enough.

Riven watches you, her gaze sharp, calculating. “You good?”

“Fine,” you say, too quickly.

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

But you don’t give her time to question it.

You grab her hand, pulling her toward the living room, toward the noise, toward the crowd, toward anything that isn’t Paige and that girl, locked in, locked together, about to—

No.

The liquor hums in your veins, warm and reckless, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts. The music has taken over everything—the bass pounding through the floor, through your chest, drowning out the lingering echoes of Paige and that girl.

Fuck her.

Fuck all of it.

You let yourself sink into the crowd, into the tangle of bodies moving with the music, the heat, the chaos of it all. The world tilts slightly, but in a way that feels good, in a way that makes you feel untouchable, weightless.

Riven is right there beside you, her laughter bright, her hands tugging at your wrist, spinning you in circles, hyping you up like she lives for this. And maybe she does. Maybe this is her element, but right now, it’s yours too.

You throw your head back, let your hands lift into the air, let the rhythm take over, shaking loose every lingering thought.

Someone grabs your waist.

You don’t flinch, don’t tense—just let it happen, rolling with the movement, letting yourself press back into the warmth behind you.

She’s soft, her body moving fluidly against yours, her hands confident as they slide along your hips, fitting into the moment like she’s supposed to be there.

You don’t think.

You just move.

Her perfume is sweet, her breath warm as she leans in, murmuring something that you don’t hear, don’t need to hear. It’s all instinct, all impulse, all the heat of the night pulling you deeper.

Her fingers trace slow, teasing patterns over your stomach where your top rides up, and it’s easy, so fucking easy, to let her do it. To let her hands wander, to let her lips ghost along your jaw, to tilt your head just so, letting her pull you in.

And then you’re kissing her.

It’s messy, all teeth and liquor and heat, her hands tangled in your hair, yours gripping the back of her neck, nails scraping against skin.

You don’t know her name.

You don’t care.

She tastes like rum, like something syrupy sweet, and you let yourself get lost in it, let yourself drink it in like it’ll burn away everything else.

Like it’ll erase the image of Paige leaning against that counter, her head tilted, her mouth open just enough—

No.

You deepen the kiss, swallow down the thought, let the music swallow you whole.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, don’t know how many songs bleed together before you finally break apart, breathless and flushed, her lipstick smudged against your mouth, your fingers still curled in her shirt.

She leans in, murmurs something into your ear—maybe a name, maybe a suggestion—but you’re already pulling away, already laughing, already shaking your head.

"Bathroom," you say, your voice thick with liquor and heat.

She pouts but lets you go, her fingers lingering on your wrist before she disappears back into the crowd.

The second you step away, the world tilts again, and you brace yourself against the edge of the wall, blinking hard, forcing the party back into focus.

Shit. You really have to pee.

You push through the crowd, past the blur of faces, past the too-loud conversations, past the couples pressed into dark corners, whispering things meant only for each other.

The hallway leading to the bathroom is a little less chaotic, though someone’s already passed out against the wall, their head slumped forward, their drink tipped over onto the carpet.

You slip past them, knocking twice on the bathroom door.

Silence.

You try the handle.

It opens.

You stumble inside, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click.

The house is still shaking around you, but in here, it’s muffled, distant.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror—flushed, lips a little swollen, pupils blown wide from the alcohol, from the dancing, from everything.

You look different.

Or maybe you just feel different.

You shake it off, stepping forward, gripping the sink to steady yourself before finally doing what you came in here to do.

You need a minute before you go back out there, before the night drags you under again.

You splash cold water on your face, blinking hard at your reflection, trying to ground yourself. The alcohol is still warm in your blood, making everything feel hazy at the edges, but at least the dizziness has settled. The bass rattles through the floor, muffled by the walls, and you press your palms against the counter, exhaling slowly.

You should go back out there.

Find Riven. Get another drink. Keep losing yourself in the night, in the bodies, in the heat, in anything that isn’t the thought of—

No.

You grab a paper towel, blotting your face, and then pull open the bathroom door, stepping back into the dimly lit hallway.

And promptly walk straight into someone’s chest.

“Watch it,” you mutter, barely glancing up, pushing past, your mind already elsewhere.

But the second you take a step, fingers wrap around your wrist—firm, but not rough—and you stiffen.

You know who it is before you even look

“Jesus, relax,” she drawls, her grip loosening but not quite letting go. “Didn’t know you were so touchy.”

You yank your arm free, scowling. “What do you want?”

She tilts her head, looking at you too closely, like she’s trying to read something off your skin. The hallway is dark, but not dark enough to miss the way her gaze flickers downward—your lips, your jaw, the smudges of lipstick that aren’t yours.

Her mouth curves slightly. “Have fun out there?”

Your stomach turns.

You don’t answer.

Her smirk deepens. “She looked pretty into it.”

You scoff, stepping back, ready to shove past her and end this entire conversation before it even begins, but—

She shifts, blocking your path.

“Move,” you snap.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she leans in, voice dropping, a lazy smirk still tugging at her lips. “What are you running from?”

You want to hit her.

Or kiss her.

Or throw your drink in her face.

You do none of those things.

Instead, you shove at her shoulder, forcing your way past, and for a second—just a second—you think you’ve won.

Then you feel her hand at your back.

Not grabbing, not pulling, just pressing. A guiding touch. A challenge.

And you don’t know how it happens—whether she pushes you, or you push her, or maybe you both move at the same time—but suddenly, you’re stumbling through a doorway, into a small, dimly lit room, and the door swings shut behind you.

Hard.

The click of the latch echoes.

You whirl around, already reaching for the handle, twisting—

It doesn’t budge.

You twist again.

Nothing.

Paige sighs behind you. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You shoot her a glare over your shoulder. “You locked us in here?”

She crosses her arms, looking entirely too unbothered. “It was open when we walked in.”

You yank at the handle again, harder this time, but it doesn’t give.

Panic prickles at the edges of your thoughts.

You turn, scanning the room properly now. A washing machine, a dryer, shelves lined with detergent and fabric softener, a wire basket overflowing with mismatched socks. The UConn house laundry room.

And no windows.

“No, no, no—” You twist the handle again. “It can’t be locked.”

Paige makes a noise, unimpressed, and leans back against the dryer, pulling out her phone. “Guess we’re stuck.”

Your head snaps up.

“You have your phone?”

She smirks, tapping at the screen. “I do.”

You hold out your hand. “Give it to me.”

Her brows lift, amused. “You don’t even say please?”

You exhale sharply, patience hanging by a thread. “Paige.”

She tsks, slipping the phone into her palm, staring at the screen. “Hmm. So many unread messages…”

You take a step forward, holding out your hand again. “Just call someone and get us out.”

Paige’s smirk deepens. “Or…” She pushes off the dryer, stepping closer, holding her phone just out of reach, “…I could make you ask nicely.”

You stare at her.

Then, without thinking, you lunge.

Your fingers brush the edge of the phone, but she’s faster—because of course she is—and she lifts it, jerking it up, holding it above her head, just out of your reach.

Your jaw tightens.

She grins. “What’s wrong?”

You glare at her. “Give me the fucking phone.”

She raises it higher, tilting her head in mock sympathy. “Oh, is that too tall for you?”

Your blood boils.

You take another step forward, reaching again, but she moves too—effortless, smooth, stepping back just enough to keep you from grabbing it.

“You are such an asshole,” you seethe.

She chuckles, tucking her phone onto the tallest shelf beside her. “And yet, you’re the one who followed me in here.”

You groan, running a hand down your face. “I did not—”

“You did.”

“I was trying to leave.”

“And now you can’t.”

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. Do not strangle her. You will go to jail. Focus.

When you look at her again, she’s still smirking, still so goddamn pleased with herself, like she hasn’t just trapped you in a room with her.

Like she isn’t the exact thing you were trying to avoid.

Like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing to you.

Fuck.

The air in the laundry room is thick. Too warm. Too close. The scent of detergent lingers beneath the musk of the party outside, a mix of something clean and something tainted—the ghosts of cheap vodka, sweat, and everything you don’t want to think about right now.

Paige leans against the dryer like she has nowhere better to be, arms crossed, expression lazy, infuriating. Her phone is still perched on the highest shelf, glowing faintly, unread messages stacking up.

You don’t look at it.

You look at her.

And that’s a mistake.

Because she’s watching you, waiting, and there’s something smug about the way she’s standing there, something that makes your pulse thrum harder than it should.

Your nails dig into your palm. “You gonna call someone, or are we just gonna sit here all night?”

She exhales, long-suffering, tilting her head. “I don’t know, you seem really worked up. Maybe I should let you cool off first.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off, Paige.”

Her smirk sharpens. “Touchy tonight.”

You scowl, turning away from her, pressing your hands against the washer, gripping the cool metal like it might steady you. It doesn’t.

“You’re the one who locked us in here,” you mutter, half to yourself.

She snorts. “I didn’t lock the fucking door.”

You don’t care. You don’t care about the door, about her stupid phone, about the way the heat of her body radiates behind you like she’s not even touching you but still somehow too close.

You care about what you saw in the kitchen.

The girl. The way Paige looked at her. The way Paige leaned in, just close enough—

Your fingers curl into a fist.

“Shouldn’t you be back out there?” Your voice is tight, sharp, dripping with something you don’t want to name. “Looked like you had plans.”

Paige doesn’t answer right away.

You don’t turn to look at her, but you can feel her reaction, feel the air shift, her smirk stretching, lazy and knowing.

“Ah,” she exhales, dragging out the sound. “So that’s what this is about.”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s not about anything.”

She hums, low and amused. “Mmhmm.”

She moves before you can brace for it, stepping into your space—not touching, but just enough to make you feel her there, the heat of her, the weight of her attention pressing against your skin.

Your breath catches.

You force yourself to focus on the washer, the wall, the tiny flickering light in the corner of the room. Anything but her.

Paige doesn’t let up.

“Didn’t know you were paying so much attention to me,” she murmurs.

You scoff, shaking your head. “Get over yourself.”

She clicks her tongue, still infuriatingly close. “You look pissed.”

“I’m no—”

“Oh, you are.”

Your breath stutters.

Because maybe you are.

And maybe she knows it.

Her voice drops, lower, rougher, like she’s savoring this. “What, you didn’t like seeing me with her?”

You close your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose.

“Jesus, Paige.” You step forward, away from her, away from the heat of her, pacing to the opposite wall, running a hand through your hair. “You’re so fucking—”

You stop yourself.

Because the words clawing up your throat—angry and raw and desperate—aren’t the ones you want to say.

Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t chase. Just lets the silence stretch, heavy and unbearable, waiting for you to crack.

And you do.

Because your mouth moves before your brain can catch up, before you can stop yourself from spilling the truth, from letting her have this.

“You looked at her like she was the only fucking person in the room.”

The words hang there, sharp and trembling.

Paige exhales, slow, measured, and when you finally force yourself to look at her, her smirk is gone.

She just watches you, her eyes darker now, unreadable.

Then—

“You’re right,” she says.

Your stomach twists.

She holds your gaze, steady and unwavering. “That’s how I look when I want something.”

Your throat tightens.

Because her voice is different now. Not teasing. Not amused. 

And then she takes a step forward. And another.

Until she’s right in front of you, until you can feel the heat of her breath against your lips, until your back is pressing into the wall and there’s nowhere left to go.

Paige tilts her head.

Slow. Measured. Like she’s giving you time. Like she’s waiting.

Your pulse hammers.

She lifts a hand, slow, deliberate, tracing the lightest touch of her fingers against your arm, up, up, featherlight against your shoulder.

You should push her away.

You should say something, anything, because this—this—is dangerous.

But you don’t.

You just stand there, breathing too fast, too hard, your fingers curling against the wall.

Paige watches you.

Then, so softly it almost doesn’t reach over the pounding of your heartbeat—

“I’m not thinking about her right now.”

Your breath hitches.

And that’s it.

That’s the moment everything fucking snaps.

You’re in her space before you even register moving, hands fisting the front of her hoodie, yanking her in so hard she stumbles. But she doesn’t care. She fucking growls against your mouth when you crash together, all heat and teeth and tongue, your lips parting for her automatically, letting her lick inside like she’s starving for it.

She kisses like she owns you. Like she’s already won.

But you’re not making this easy for her. You bite down on her bottom lip, tugging, dragging a sound out of her that’s more animal than human, and then suddenly her hands are on you—gripping your waist, yanking you forward, pushing you back, back, back until your spine collides with the wall.

The room spins. Or maybe it’s just you.

You barely get a second to breathe before she’s on you again, lips hot, demanding, her fingers digging into your hips like she wants to leave bruises, like she wants you to feel her tomorrow.

“You like this?” she mutters against your mouth, voice low and rough as she drags her hands up your sides, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. "Like being handled like this?"

You barely manage a nod before she lifts you.

Like it’s nothing.

Like you weigh nothing at all.

She hoists you up onto the washer, the cold metal shocking against your skin, her body immediately pressing between your thighs, caging you in.

Your breath shudders out of you, hands fisting in her hoodie, nails scraping against the fabric as she yanks your legs further apart.

Paige just watches you.

Her pupils are blown, her lips slick, her chest rising and falling too fast. Her hands flex against your thighs, gripping hard, her thumbs pressing into the softest part of your skin like she’s trying to brand you.

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just fucking stares at you like she’s deciding exactly how she’s going to tear you apart.

Your heart is slamming against your ribs. Your brain is screaming at you to stop, to think, to breathe, but then she licks her lips, and every ounce of hesitation shatters like glass.

You grab her by the collar and yank her in like she’s the only oxygen in the fucking room.

She groans as your mouths crash together again—harder, messier, hungrier. Her hands move, gripping your thighs, sliding up, up, until they’re under your shirt, pushing the fabric higher, fingertips teasing along the band of your bra.

"God, you’re fucking desperate," she mutters against your lips, her voice dripping with amusement.

You don’t even care.

Not when she’s right.

She breaks the kiss, panting, dragging her mouth along your jaw, your throat, sucking, biting, marking you, making sure you’ll feel her tomorrow, see her tomorrow.

Your head tips back, a whimper slipping out before you can stop it.

And Paige fucking laughs.

"Yeah," she breathes against your skin, her tongue swiping over the bruise she just left. "Anyone ever make you sound like this?"

You don’t answer.

Can’t.

Her hands slide higher, fingers curling around your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric.

"Didn’t think so," she mutters, rolling them between her fingers, making you arch, making you gasp. "Bet they don’t know what to do with you.”

She pinches harder, making you jerk.

"But that’s not what you want, is it?"

You shake your head, breathless, wrecked, desperate.

Paige just smirks.

"That’s what I thought."

Then, suddenly, she drops.

Drops to her knees.

Your breath stutters, your entire body going rigid as she grins up at you, lips parted, pupils dark, her fingers gripping your thighs like she dares you to move.

She drags her mouth over your inner thigh, biting down just hard enough to make you jolt. Then she licks over it, soothing, teasing, slow, slow, slow.

She presses a single kiss over the fabric of your jeans, right where you're already throbbing.

Then another.

And another.

Before she yanks the button open with her teeth.

You fucking moan.

She laughs—low and pleased—and then she’s peeling your jeans down your legs, dragging your panties with them, her fingers pressing against your inner thighs to spread you.

"God," she mutters, eyes dark, voice thick. "Look at you."

You’re fucking soaked. You know you are.

And she does, too.

She groans, her hands gripping your thighs even tighter as she leans in, her mouth hovering just above where you need her most, her breath hot and teasing.

You lift your hips slightly, already reaching for her hair, butthen—

Paige stops.

Completely.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. Just exhales once, slow and deliberate, then pushes herself back up to her feet.

Your heart is still hammering against your ribs, your body still aching, still on fire, and you blink at her, dazed, confused.

“What—?”

She doesn’t answer.

She just smirks.

Then, without a word, she reaches for the shelf, grabs her phone, and slips it into her pocket.

Your stomach drops.

No.

She wouldn’t—

Paige takes a step back, rolling her shoulders, looking at you like she isn’t just leaving you on the edge of madness. Like she isn’t just walking the fuck away.

"Well,” she says, slow, lazy. “This was fun.”

Your brain short-circuits.

She turns toward the door.

Paige. Fucking. Bueckers.

Your breath is still uneven, your legs still wrapped around the washer, your skin still buzzing, burning.

And she’s just—leaving?

No.

No fucking way.

“Are you serious?” you snap, voice raw, breaking.

She glances at you over her shoulder, smirking like she just won the longest game of chess. “What? Didn’t you want to stop?”

Your nails dig into your palms.

You’re going to kill her.

You’re going to fucking kill her.

And then you’re going to kiss her again.

The second the door clicks shut behind her, you’re left sitting there—breathless, pissed, and still throbbing in a way that makes you want to scream.

Your legs are still spread around the washer, body still burning from where her hands had been, where her mouth had almost gone. Your jeans are still undone, your pulse still hammering against your ribs, and Paige fucking Bueckers just walked out.

You let out a sharp breath, shoving both hands through your hair, gripping tight at the roots, trying to will yourself back to normal.

It doesn’t work.

Your heart is still racing, your skin still tingling, your lips still swollen.

“Fucking bitch,” you mutter, slamming your hand against the washer.

Your voice is lost under the pulse of the music vibrating through the walls, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she’s here to hear it.

She left.

She fucking left.

And you hate how much it gets to you. How much it makes you want to chase after her, grab her by the hoodie, shove her against the wall and finish what she started.

But that’s what she wants.

She wants you to be thinking about her.

She wants you frustrated.

And you are.

Oh, you are.

You jump off the washer, legs a little shaky, but you force yourself to steady, to breathe. To pull yourself together because no way in hell are you giving her the satisfaction of knowing she just scrambled your brain like that.

Your hands tremble slightly as you fix your jeans, smoothing out your shirt, wiping the last of her touch from your skin.

It doesn’t work.

The scent of her is still clinging to you, faint but impossible to ignore—something clean, something subtle, something undeniably her.

You grip the edge of the counter, grounding yourself as the room tilts around you. You need a fucking drink—hell, you need five—but first, you need to get the fuck out of here. Taking a deep breath, you seize the handle, twist, and the door swings open. She didn’t lock you in. She could have. She would have if she really wanted to fuck with you. But, she didn’t.

She just left you there, knowing exactly what she’d done, knowing exactly how she’d fucked you up, knowing you’d be walking out of this room just as wrecked as if she’d finished what she started.

And that makes you want to find her even more.

You step back into the hallway, the party swallowing you whole again—music, voices, the chaotic heat of the house.

Your hands are still shaking.

You need a drink.

Or you need to find Paige.

And you don’t know which one you’re going to do first.

The laundry room is still warm, still thick with the scent of detergent and something else—something her.

Your fingers flex against the cool metal of the washer as you take a slow, measured breath, trying to steady yourself.

It doesn’t work.

Your skin still burns, your lips still tingling, your body still aching in a way that makes you want to scream.

Paige fucking Bueckers.

You inhale sharply through your nose, shaking your hands out, willing the frustration out of your body, then push off the washer and head for the door. You don’t hesitate this time, don’t pause to gather yourself.

You just leave.

The second you step back into the hallway, the chaos of the party crashes over you again—voices, music, bodies pressing past in a drunken blur.

You need to find Riven.

You need to do something before you lose your fucking mind.

The house feels bigger than it should, the heat of it pressing in around you, the music rattling through your skull. Your fingers twitch at your sides as you weave through the crowd, eyes scanning, searching.

Then—finally—

You spot her.

Riven is perched on the arm of a couch in the living room, a fresh drink in hand, laughing at something the girl beside her just said.

You push toward her, your body still buzzing, your head still spinning, but determined to pretend you haven’t just been left completely wrecked in a locked laundry room by the most insufferable person alive.

Riven clocks you immediately.

She tilts her head, eyes flickering over your face, sharp despite the liquor in her system.

“You look like you’ve been through some shit,” she comments, raising a brow.

You force a laugh, shaking your head. “Just trying to find you.”

“Well, you found me.” She grins, tipping her cup toward you. “And just in time. Thinking about hitting another party.”

You barely register what she’s saying.

Because in your peripherial, something catches your eye.

A glimpse of familiar blonde hair.

A hoodie.

A girl—not you—standing too close, fingers curled in Paige’s sweatshirt, voice low, her lips inches from Paige’s.

Your stomach lurches and your breath stutters.

You shouldn’t be looking.

You shouldn’t care.

Paige leans in, smirking, saying something in return. The girl pulls her toward the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind them.

And that’s it.

Your stomach churns, a sickening twist that rises up your throat, thick and acidic.

Riven is still talking, still watching you, but you can’t focus on the words, can’t focus on anything except the sudden, crushing weight in your chest, the way your throat feels tight, the way the party suddenly feels like it’s suffocating you.

“Hey.” Riven nudges you. “You good?”

You blink hard, exhaling through your nose, forcing yourself to keep it together. “Yeah,” you say, voice too thin, too unsteady.

She studies you, unconvinced.

“You wanna hit another party?”

She’s giving you an out.

A way to distract yourself. A way to drown this feeling in more liquor, more noise, more nothing.

But if you stay here any longer, you’re going to break.

So you shake your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “I think I’m gonna go.”

Riven frowns, but she doesn’t push. “Want me to come with?”

“No,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile. “I just—yeah. I think I’m done for the night.”

She nods slowly, watching you, like she knows you’re not saying everything. But she lets it go. “Text me when you get back.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And then you’re leaving.

Pushing past the bodies, the voices, the heat. Stepping out into the night air, cold against your too-warm skin.

And then you’re walking.

Fast.

Like you can outrun it.

Like you can forget.

But the worst part is—you already know you won’t.

The night air is sharp against your skin, cutting through the lingering warmth of the house, through the haze of alcohol still pulsing in your veins. The sound of the party dulls behind you, muffled by distance, by the pounding in your ears.

You don’t know where you’re going—just that you need to be anywhere but here. Not in that room, not in this house, not with her still lingering in the air like a slow-burning cigarette. The scent of her skin clings to you, the ghost of her hands still warm against your body, her breath still searing against your lips. And that fucking smirk—it’s carved into your mind like a brand you can’t scrub away.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat thick and stubborn. The sting behind your eyes threatens to spill over, but you grit your teeth, forcing it back down. You’re not going to cry over her. You refuse.

The cool night air rushes against your burning face as you round the corner of the house, stepping onto the damp grass, exhaling sharply like you can push her out of your system in one breath—

And then you see him.

Eli.

He’s leaning against the hood of a car, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, staring up at the sky like he’s waiting for something. The distant glow of a streetlight casts a halo of gold around his head, making his expression unreadable.

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

Then his gaze flickers down, catching on you, and something shifts.

He straightens slightly. “Hey.”

Your heart is still pounding, your skin still too hot, your chest still tight with the remnants of everything you just saw, everything you felt.

And suddenly, you don’t want to think about it anymore.

Suddenly, you want to forget.

You step closer, inhaling sharply through your nose. “What are you doing out here?”

Eli shrugs, a lazy half-smile curving his lips. “Needed a break.” He eyes you, tilting his head slightly. “What about you?”

You wet your lips, arms wrapping around yourself. “Needed to get out of there.”

He hums like he understands. Like maybe he does.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

He’s looking at you like he’s curious. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s wondering what happened in there to make you walk out like you had somewhere to be, like you had someone to find.

But he doesn’t ask.

And you don’t tell him.

Instead, you step closer.

Slowly.

Testing.

His eyes flicker downward—your mouth, your throat, your hands where they clench into the hem of your shirt.

And something about that—about the way he sees you, about the way he doesn’t ask questions, about the way he’s just there—makes something snap inside you.

You want to feel something else.

Someone else.

So you step forward, closing the last bit of space between you.

Eli inhales, his shoulders tensing slightly. “What are you—”

You kiss him.

It’s impulsive. Reckless.

Your fingers grip at his jacket, pulling him in before you can second-guess it, before you can hear the voice in your head whispering that this isn’t her, this isn’t what you want, this isn’t who you want.

But he kisses you back.

His hands find your waist, hesitant at first, then firmer, fingers pressing into your sides. He tastes like beer and mint gum, like something unfamiliar, something that isn’t her.

And maybe that’s the point.

You deepen the kiss, tilting your head, swallowing down every thought, every memory, every feeling threatening to break through the surface.

Eli exhales against your mouth, the warmth of it sending a shiver down your spine as his hands slide lower, finding the small of your back and pulling you flush against him. You let him. You let yourself lean in, let yourself be kissed, let yourself drown in something—someone—that isn’t her.

Because right now, she can’t exist. She can’t be in your head, in your lungs, in the spaces between your ribs where she’s been living rent-free. If this is the only way to erase her, to rewrite the memory of her hands with someone else’s touch—then so be it.

The morning comes in hazy, dull, a slow drag of reality clawing its way back into your skull.

Your head pounds before you even open your eyes. The taste of stale liquor lingers on your tongue, thick and sour, a reminder of how recklessly you drank the night before.

A deep inhale, and—fuck.

Your body feels off. Too warm, too stiff, too aware.

And then it hits you.

A weight against your side. A slow, rhythmic inhale-exhale that isn’t yours.

You stiffen.

Open your eyes.

The ceiling above you is unfamiliar—somebody’s shitty off-campus house, a string of fairy lights flickering weakly in the daylight. The sheets beneath you smell like detergent and sweat, and the warmth at your side shifts slightly.

Eli.

His arm is draped lazily over your waist, his face half-buried in the pillow. His hair is messy, his breathing slow, peaceful.

Everything slams back into place at once—the party, the kitchen, the drinks, the laundry room. Paige. And then—Eli. Your stomach tightens, not in horror or fear, just realization. What you did. Why you did it. You swallow hard, staring up at the ceiling, willing your pulse to slow, waiting for the weight of it to settle in. But it doesn’t feel like anything. And it should. Shouldn’t it?

You were drunk, sure, but you weren’t gone. You remember his hands, the heat of his body, the way he pressed into you, the way you let him.

But now, in the harsh clarity of morning, all you can think is—

It wasn’t her.

It wasn’t her hands on you. It wasn’t her breath against your skin. It wasn’t her mouth whispering against your throat, sending shivers down your spine, making your stomach twist, making you burn, making you ache.

It was Eli.

And that makes you feel so much worse.

Your breath comes too shallow, your head pounding, your fingers twitching against the sheets. You need to get out of here.

Carefully, slowly, you shift out from under his arm, moving inch by inch until you’re free. He doesn’t stir.

You sit up. Your clothes are mostly intact—jeans unbuttoned but still on, your shirt twisted around you, but nothing that says bad decision in flashing neon lights.

Except the ache in your chest.

You press your hands against your face, inhale deep.

Move.

You slip out of bed, grabbing your shoes from where they’re haphazardly discarded near the door, your jacket thrown across the chair in the corner.

You don’t look back.  You don’t check to see if he’s waking up, if he’ll call after you, if he’ll ask what this was.

Because you don’t have an answer.

The house is quiet, but not silent. Somewhere down the hall, you hear faint voices, the sound of someone in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing.

You don’t stop.

You walk, fast but not suspicious, through the living room, toward the front door. The air still smells like last night—beer, sweat, something burnt, like someone got hungry and forgot about a frozen pizza in the oven.

The sunlight is sharp when you step outside, stabbing straight into your skull.

You wince, pulling your jacket tighter around you, ignoring the way the world feels like it’s tilting slightly.

Your phone is dead. You exhale, slow, deliberate.

Then you walk.

Every step feels like weight pressing into your chest, like something clawing at the inside of your ribs, like the ghost of someone else’s hands gripping your hips, someone else’s lips dragging along your throat.

You don’t let yourself think about it.

Not yet.

You just focus on the pavement, on the sound of your own breathing, on getting the fuck out of here before the weight of last night really sinks in.

The walk back is slow. Not because you’re taking your time, but because your body is still heavy with last night—liquor humming in your bloodstream, regret pooling somewhere low in your stomach, the ache behind your eyes a dull reminder of every wrong decision that led you here.

Your breath fogs in the morning air. It’s colder than you expected. You pull your jacket tighter, shoving your hands deep into your pockets, head down as you step over cracked pavement, past empty sidewalks.

The streets are quiet.

The world is moving, but just barely—cars rolling by lazily, students in sweats shuffling across campus, people carrying coffee cups like lifelines. The remnants of Saturday night still linger in the air, the ghosts of parties scattered across front lawns—empty cans, forgotten hoodies, crushed solo cups.

It should feel normal. But everything feels off.

Because you know where she is.

Or at least, where she was.

You know what happened after she left you in that fucking laundry room, after she walked away, after she—

You inhale sharply through your nose, pushing the thought away.

It shouldn’t matter.

You made your own choices, didn’t you?

So why does it feel like something is rotting inside you?

Your steps slow as you reach your dorm. The building looms ahead, brick and glass, too familiar, too suffocating. You don’t want to go inside. You don’t want to be alone.

Not when the weight of last night is still pressing down on you, not when the silence is going to make it worse, not when every empty second is just another opportunity for your mind to drag you back.

But you don’t have a choice.

You tug the door open, step inside.

The lobby is quiet, the hallways dimly lit. Your shoes echo against the floor as you make your way to your room, heart thudding heavier with each step.

By the time you reach your door, your hands are shaking.

You tell yourself it’s the hangover.

It’s not.

The second you’re inside, you shut the door, lock it, press your back against the wood, squeezing your eyes shut.

Breathe.

The silence wraps around you, thick and oppressive, and now it hits.

Now the night comes crashing in.

You see it too clearly.

Paige, leaning against the counter, her drink in hand, her smirk lazy, her mouth parted just slightly—

Paige, dragging her fingers over the girl’s waist, letting her pull her in—

Paige, shoving you up onto the washer, her hands gripping your thighs, her breath hot against your lips—

Your eyes snap open.

You swallow hard, jaw tight, chest aching.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

You slept with someone else. You made your choice.

So why does it feel like you lost?

You don’t move for a while.

Just stand there, back pressed against the door, staring at the floor, breath uneven, the silence pressing in from all sides. Your skin still feels too warm, like the heat of last night hasn’t entirely left your body.

Like her hands are still there.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Stop it.

You push off the door, moving toward your bed in slow, heavy steps. You don’t bother turning on the lights. The daylight spilling through the blinds is already too much, making the pounding in your skull even worse.

You collapse onto the mattress, face-first, pressing your cheek into the pillow. The sheets smell like you—just you. No trace of Eli, no hint of anything from last night, and for some reason, that makes you feel worse.

Maybe because it means it didn’t matter.

Or maybe because it means you’re still alone.

You exhale sharply, rolling onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. The ache in your chest hasn’t eased.

If anything, it’s getting worse.

You need a distraction.

You grab your phone from the nightstand, clicking it on. Dead.

Right.

You let it drop onto your stomach, staring blankly at the ceiling again, waiting for your body to settle, for the weight pressing down on your ribs to ease, but it doesn’t. It lingers. She lingers.

She’s everywhere.

Every time you close your eyes, she’s there. The smirk, the mouth, the way she looked at you in the laundry room, sharp and knowing, like she could see every thought running through your head before you even formed them.

You grit your teeth, turning onto your side, gripping the sheets. She is not in this bed. Stop thinking about her.

You don’t know if she ever left that room with that girl. You don’t know if she stayed the whole night. You don’t know if she fucked her.

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

You should sleep. Get up. Shower. Move on.

Instead, you lie there, still, silent, with nothing but the echoes of last night looping through your brain like a song you can’t turn off.

And no matter how hard you try, you can’t shake the feeling that Paige won.

You’re not even supposed to be here.

That’s what you tell yourself as you walk across campus, your fingers curled tight around the strap of your bag, your brain already buzzing with excuses, with reasons—with anything that makes this feel less like a trap.

It’s just an errand.

A professor had emailed you that morning—something about the dining hall on the athletic side of campus having an issue with one of the automated food warmers, something small, something engineering-adjacent. Apparently, it had been flagged last week, and since you’re one of the few undergrads competent enough to check it out, they’d passed it off to you.

You’d said yes before thinking.

Before realizing exactly where they were sending you.

Before remembering who eats here.

Now, standing outside the heavy double doors, the reality crashes into you like a brick to the chest.

This is their dining hall. The athletes. The basketball team. Her.

Your stomach clenches. You should turn around.

No one will notice if you stall for twenty minutes, send an email about how it was already fixed, make up some bullshit about it not being your area.

You swallow, exhale slowly, force yourself to move forward.

Inside, the air is warmer, filled with the scent of food, the sound of chatter, the low hum of conversations overlapping—easy, casual, the way people talk when they don’t have a thousand things clawing at the inside of their skulls.

You keep your head down, moving toward the back of the hall where the food warmers are lined up in sleek, stainless steel rows. The place is bigger than the regular student cafeteria—modern, high ceilings, bright windows. Everything designed for them.

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you slide behind the service counter, setting your bag down, trying to focus on what you came here for.

Focus.

You grab a screwdriver from your bag, crouching slightly, unscrewing the side panel of the warming unit. You barely register the conversations happening around you, just white noise in the background—

Until you hear her.

It’s distant at first. A voice blending in with the others. But your body reacts before your brain does—the immediate recognition, the sharp, visceral reaction, like every nerve in your body suddenly goes rigid.

You don’t look up.

You refuse to look up.

But you hear her.

That low, easy drawl, the teasing lilt in her words, the lazy confidence in the way she talks, like she owns any room she steps into.

And you hate—hate—how it makes your skin burn.

You move faster, working the screws loose, hoping, praying she doesn’t come this way.

But life isn’t that easy, is it?

Because then—closer now—

A voice. A teammate, maybe. Laughing. “Paige, I swear to God—”

And then—her.

Right there. Too close.

You don’t see her face at first, just the familiar joggers, the way they hang effortlessly off her frame. The pristine white sneakers, spotless as always, moving in smooth, practiced steps. And then she shifts, just slightly, and something in your gut twists. You know she sees you. You feel it. The way her stride falters for half a second, that barely-there pause in motion. The weight of her gaze presses against your skin, thick and unshakable, lingering like a hand on the back of your neck.

Your body locks up. The screwdriver in your grip suddenly feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong in your hand, like nothing in this moment belongs. Your fingers tighten around the handle, grounding yourself in something, anything, before it can slip.

And then—nothing.

No smirk. No teasing remark. No acknowledgment at all. She just keeps walking. Not a glance back, not even a twitch of amusement or recognition. Just passes right by you like you’re nothing.

Your chest constricts, the silence louder than anything she could have said. You don’t know if you feel relieved or if you want to fucking scream.

The weight of it slams into your ribs, hard and unexpected, a visceral, gut-deep feeling that you should not be feeling.

Because this is what you wanted, right?

To avoid her. To make this nothing. To erase the way she touched you, the way she looked at you in that laundry room like she knew exactly how to pull you apart and put you back together again.

So why does it feel like she just walked straight through you?

Your fingers curl tighter around the screwdriver, your breath short, uneven, the hum of the cafeteria suddenly too much, too loud, pressing in around you.

Her teammates are still talking, still laughing, moving past you like you’re background noise, like you don’t even register in their world.

And Paige?

She’s leading the charge.

Like she didn’t just see you. Like you aren’t even worth a second glance.

Like she doesn’t know.

Heat rushes up your neck, but it isn’t embarrassment. It’s something sharper, something angrier, something bitter curling its way up your throat.

You twist the screwdriver too hard, slipping, the metal clanging against the side of the food warmer. The noise barely registers over the buzz of conversation, but it jars you, snapping you back into focus.

Get it together.

You grit your teeth, force your hands to steady, force your breathing to even out.

Paige Bueckers is not going to get in your head.

Not now. Not like this.

You glance up, just once, just long enough to catch sight of her before she disappears around the corner.

She’s smiling at something her teammate said, her body loose, easy, the picture of someone without a single fucking care in the world.

And something about that—about the effortlessness of it, about how little she seems to be affected by anything—makes your chest go tight, your stomach coil.

You look back down at the warming unit, ignoring the way your hands shake.

It’s fine.

You don’t care.

You’ll finish this, you’ll leave, and you’ll keep avoiding her.

And if she wants to pretend that night never happened?

Fine.

You can pretend too.

The food warmer is fine.

It had never really been broken in the first place, just a misaligned panel, something so stupidly simple that you could’ve fixed it in thirty seconds if you hadn’t been thrown into a slow-motion car wreck the moment Paige walked in.

You tighten the last screw, slam the panel shut harder than necessary, and grab your bag, exhaling slowly.

Time to leave.

You sling the strap over your shoulder, stepping out from behind the counter, slipping back into the flow of students moving between tables, conversations buzzing, trays clattering.

Your mind is still on her.

Even though you told yourself you wouldn’t let it be.

Even though she’d just walked past you like you were no one.

Your jaw tightens. You have actual shit to deal with.

Like your group project in Systems Engineering that’s due next week.

Like the fact that your bank account is currently laughing at you because you spent too much on takeout last week and now you have to survive on black coffee and spite until your next paycheck.

Like the absolute nightmare of a midterm schedule that’s looming over you.

That’s what you should be thinking about.

Not Paige Bueckers.

Not the laundry room.

Not the way she touched you like she had all the time in the world, only to turn around and walk away without looking back.

You push through the doors, stepping into the cold.

The wind is sharp, biting against your cheeks, cutting through your jacket. A fresh reminder that you’re here, that life is still moving forward whether you’re ready or not.

You’re halfway across campus, your thoughts finally shifting toward something productive—namely, the ungodly amount of work you have waiting for you—when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull it out, squinting against the brightness of the screen.

bitch where are you?

Riven. You huff out a laugh, thumbs moving before you even think.

somewhere worse than hell

Three dots appear immediately,

so. lecture? or did you run into someone who shall not be named?

Your stomach twists.

You type back, fast.

i hate you.

okay so definitely the second one

You groan, shoving your phone back into your pocket before she can keep going.

Because she’s right.

And the worst part is, she doesn’t even know the half of it.

She just knows you and Paige have always had this weird tension—this push and pull, this thing that was never serious but never quite nothing.

She doesn’t know what happened in the laundry room.

She doesn’t know that Paige did something to you that night.

That she changed something.

That you woke up the next morning with someone else’s hands on you and it still wasn’t enough to shake her.

You exhale, hard, pushing the thoughts down, stuffing them somewhere deep where they can’t touch you.

Time to focus.

Midterms. Projects. Surviving off ramen and caffeine for the next two weeks.

Paige Bueckers?

She’s officially off the list.

Continue Reading Part 2.5

[superbassbuck]

Making Out for America

Chapter 1: We the People

masterlist || one || two || three || four || five

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x America's Sweetheart!fem!reader

Authors note: was never a fan of posting fics on tumblr, but I figured I'd share it here for those who aren't a fan of reading it on ao3. but if you prefer ao3, you can read it here!

Mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, set during thunderbults*, sexual tension, forced proximity, arranged marriage, panic attacks, mental health issues, angst (lots of it), no y/n

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary: Bucky Barnes, the reformed assassin turned congressman with a major PR problem that just won’t let up. Tabloids bad mouth him. Society fears him. How can he get the American people to believe that he has what it takes for a seat at the office? Desperate for a breakthrough, Bucky needs a way to win over the nation’s trust.

Then his press secretary suggests a bold solution. Marriage to you, the poised, beloved daughter of a decorated war hero. America’s sweetheart. The embodiment of everything he’s not. It’s all for show. For Bucky, it means a shot at redemption. For you, it’s a chance to elevate your late father’s legacy and secure support for your foundation. Strictly business, and no space for love.

Everything is going well. But behind closed doors and the flashing cameras, you two can't stand each other, and it's taking everything in you two to not rip each other's throats out.

gif by whitedarkmoonflower || dividers by cafekitsune

The lights and cameras were flashing way too damn bright. They always were. Bucky adjusted his tie a little too tight against his throat as he stared out at the sea of flashing cameras and hands waving in the air. 

Standing in front of these people always felt like standing in front of a shark tank. These relentless reporters were always ready to pounce, banging their heads against the glass until the tank finally cracked. Despite his nervousness, he still forced a smile. But these kind of smiles never quite reach his eyes. 

“Congressman Barnes,” the voice starts with a polite tone. They always do.  “Do you think the American people can trust someone with your… history , to legislate in their best interest?” 

And there it was. 

He can already feel the cracks of the tank starting to form, droplets of water leaking through. It was always that sly and passive aggressive comment about his history that riled up the crowd. He was already hearing snickers, and as he opened his mouth to speak, the flash of the cameras grew even brighter. 

“I believe in accountability,” he begins, standing straighter. “I’ve spent years proving I’m not the man I used to be.” 

More pictures. More flashes. More cracks. More water leaks.

Bucky continues. “I didn’t get here by pretending my past didn’t happen. I got here by owning up to it–” 

Another hand shot up before he even got to finish. Perfect. 

“But some would argue you weren’t just a man. You were a weapon, one that took innocent lives. Shouldn’t a seat in Congress be reserved for those who never had to atone for war crimes?” 

Jesus Christ. He needs a drink. 

If that same question was brought up to him months ago, maybe he would’ve grovelled and begged for forgiveness right in front of these reporters. But as the days went by—and as hard as it was—he had to accept that he wasn’t in control during that time. 

The Winter Soldier wasn’t him. 

Bucky swallows. “I was used. Programmed to become something I’m not. That’s not an excuse for what I’ve done, but it is the truth–” 

“And yet you’re voting on national security bills now. Do you think families who lost loved ones to Hydra feel safe knowing you’re writing law?” 

He freezes. And just like that, the shark tank shatters and water comes gushing through like a tsunami. Click, click, click. Cameras snapped at him as he stood there on the podium like helpless prey. His left hand resting on the podium curls into a tight fist as he tries to compose himself. He has gotten used to showing off his arm without a glove—trying to own up to it. But at times like this, he just wishes he could put that stupid glove back on if it means not to be looked at like a damn monster. 

But rather a respectable human being. 

“I…I can understand that my position here can be very… worrying—” he begins to stammer. 

Bucky’s press secretary, Margaret Voss, was seated in the front row. She narrows her brows at him, eyes sharp. His press secretary knows better than anyone that once he starts adding ‘worrying’ in his sentences, then everything goes downhill from there. 

There have even been headlines about it, mocking him. Headlines in big bold letters that say: CONGRESSMAN BARNES IN OFFICE? A VERY WORRYING SITUATION FOR THE NATION.

“...and it is up to me to resolve the worrying matters of this very, worrying issue.” Bucky continues, his eyes disassociating blankly into a random reporter in the crowd. Cameras continue to flash, and the crowd begins to snicker. 

He glances down at Voss. She sits there, trying to act calm with her legs crossed. She has her pointer finger circling in motion as she mouths “Wrap it up.”  

“Thank you. Excuse me,” he muttered quickly, giving the crowd a curt nod before stepping down and offstage with a quiet, “Shit,” under his breath.

“Congressman Barnes, wait!”

Reporters shouted after him, but he was already gone. He kept his left hand in a tight fist, beginning to feel very self conscious about his prosthetic. He eventually disappears behind the curtain as the press pit continues to erupt in an arrangement of inaudible questions.

Voss caught up to him in a hurry, heels clicking on the marble floor. “Well, that went wonderful,” she muttered dryly, falling into step beside him as they turned a corner, finally out of everyone’s view.

“What the hell am I supposed to say when people ask me questions like that?” Bucky snapped through clenched teeth. “I’ve had this seat for what— three months ? And they’re already raking me through the mud.”

He shoved open the door to a small, empty office and walked in without waiting as Voss trails after him. She was clutching folders against her arms, her wrinkled hand holding onto them tightly. 

“It doesn’t help that you have nothing to show for,” she said, not unkindly, but as blunt as ever.  “Any chance you’re getting a bill on the floor before the decade ends?”

Bucky leaned against the desk, shooting her a glare.

Voss didn’t flinch. She just let out a tired exhale. “You’ve gotta get on that, Barnes.” 

“I am trying ,” he grits through clenched teeth. “There’s just too much to read, and half of it feels like it’s written in another goddamn language.”

She tucked the folders under one arm and pulled her phone from her back pocket, squinting as she held it away from her face. With a sigh, she grabbed the reading glasses dangling from her neck and slipped them on.

“I’ve got a few ideas that could help,” she said, tapping at the screen. “But you’re probably not gonna like them.” 

Bucky crosses his arms. “At this point, I’ll do anything.” 

“Well… good.” She says, nails tapping away at the screen. “There’s nothing this country eats up faster than a good old-fashioned family narrative. A loving partner. Stability. Something that says, ‘Hey, I’m not a weapon, I’m caring, and I’m husband material.’ ”

He stays quiet. 

“It shows you’re capable of love, that you’ve got a soft spot. That you can relate to the average American voter.”

Bucky scratches at his salt-and-pepper beard, giving her a slow, skeptical nod, urging her to get to the point.

“That also says you’re working for their best interests. Because you’re just like them. A man with a home. A heart. But unfortunately for you…” she pauses, glancing up briefly, “you’ve got no family, barely any close friends, and no one to come home to—”

“What are you getting at, Voss?” Bucky cuts through impatiently. 

Voss sets the folders she had tucked under her arm down on the desk behind him. She’s still tapping on her phone.

“Marriage.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That’s real funny.”

She finally looks up at him over the rim of her thin glasses. “I’m serious, Barnes. You need to get married.”

He glares at her with a look that’s stuck between disbelief and disgust. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” he repeats, firmer now, standing straighter.

Voss exhales, lifting her glasses to the top of her head. “Barnes, let’s not be dense. The press still sees you as this… weapon dressed in a suit,” she waves her phone vaguely at him. “They don’t see a man. They see The Winter Soldier . ”

“Wow, thanks,” he mutters.

“What better way to dissolve the rumors than getting married?” Voss went on, ever casual as she swiped through her phone. “And it can’t just be with anyone, no. It has to be someone with American values. Clean record. Squeaky clean image. The kind of person who makes the nation swoon when you walk hand-in-hand in public, like how they did with the Kennedys.”

Bucky flinched.

Voss blinked, looked up, then immediately grimaced. “Right. Shit. Sorry.”

“Anyway,” she cleared her throat, trying to recover, “have a look at this.” She held out her phone, tilting it sideways to show the screen. A livestream was playing, and in the center was a woman–you–standing on a podium with a bright smile on your face. Like you were born for this.

Bucky frowned, voice gruff. “What is this?”

“Just watch,” she says. 

You stand on the polished podium with a practiced smile. String of white lights twinkle above the outdoor venue. Banners with your father’s name and the foundation’s logo flap gently in the breeze. 

Even after all these years, speaking still makes your palms sweat. You’ve done this so many times before, yet the lump in your throat never fully goes away. Your hair is neatly styled, your modest dress tailored just a bit too tightly, forcing you to hold yourself taller, stiffer. Every flash of the camera reminds you that you’re live and being watched, judged, recorded.

The crowd finally settles into a quiet whisper. Now it’s just you and the microphone. 

“My father was one of America’s greatest war heroes, as you may know…” you begin, trying to keep your voice steady. “He dedicated his life to serving this country, protecting freedoms we sometimes take for granted. He was taken from us too soon, murdered in service. Though we still don’t know by whose hand…” 

You pause for a moment. You look up at the sky and blink away the tears. God. Don’t cry, don’t cry.  There’s probably a few videos online that date back from a few years ago, where you’re standing at this very same podium—crying like a baby the first time you started making these speeches.

As much as it pains you to bring up your father’s sob story countless times, you suck it up and do it anyway. It was for his legacy, and for a good cause. 

“Tonight, we gather not only to honor his memory, but to raise funds for the Jameson Foundation. An organization dedicated to supporting veterans and their families, providing the resources and care that too many still go on without.” 

You suck in a breath and continue. “This cause is personal. I know what it’s like to wait for someone who never comes home. I know what it’s like to feel forgotten. And I believe no family should have to endure that pain without support.”

The cameras flash, and the people in the crowd are smiling at you with solemn in their eyes. As they always do. 

You stand up straighter. “I am proud to carry my father’s name forward. Not just as his daughter, but as someone who believes that real patriotism doesn’t end on the battlefield. It lives on in how we care for those who served, and those they leave behind.”

The applause begins slowly, then builds. People rise to their feet, clapping and nodding. The camera flashes grow brighter, and you continue to force yourself to smile until the very end of it. 

Part performance, part devotion. This was your duty.

By the time the event finally winds down, you’re being ushered into the backseat of a black SUV, still waving and flashing that picture-perfect smile. You offer your final goodbyes with polite nods and short words.

When the car door shuts behind you, it’s like a flip in the switch.

You let out a deep, exhausted sigh, one you’ve been holding in for hours. Your fingers immediately reach behind your back, fumbling with the zipper of your too-tight dress. When it finally gives, you exhale like you've just been freed from a corset and slump into the leather seat.

“God, finally,” you mutter. “Can we stop for a burger?”

From the front seat, your driver glances up in the rearview mirror. His dark sunglasses cover his eyes, but you already know the look. “We were called into–” 

“Please,” you cut in, desperate now. Your stomach growls. “I’ve been starving myself all day to fit into this dress. I just want something quick and greasy. Burger. Fries. A milkshake if you’re feeling generous?”

He exhales slowly. Grumpy old man. 

Then he flicks the turn signal, switching lanes. “Fine. But right after that—”

“Yes! Thank you! You’re my savior, George. I mean it.” You flash him a quick, grateful smile before collapsing back into your seat, dress half-undone and hair already starting to fall from its pins.

On paper, you’re everything the public adores. Clean-cut legacy. Daughter of a fallen American war hero. Ivy League degree, a résumé packed with charity work, fundraiser galas, and “giving back.” Your hair is always done, your posture perfect, clothes modest, and your voice well polished to make it sound like you were born to be on that podium.

You’re America’s Sweetheart. And it’s exhausting.

Because behind closed doors, you’re just the average woman who wants to eat an embarrassing amount of junk food, and rot in bed with your phone or maybe a good book six inches from your face. You’ve got a whole curated public image handed to you on a silver platter, but your real personality is one bad week away from giving the nation a finger on live TV.

Only a handful of people know that side of you. Your driver, George, was one of them. Probably against his will.

After George handed you the greasy brown bag, you didn’t waste a second before diving in. You were finally eating your first meal of the day. You were eating so fast without a care in the world, until you noticed a few drops of mustard dripping down the front of your dress.

“Shit,” you muttered, trying to dab it off with a napkin. “Good thing we’re heading straight home after this.”

George shot you a sharp look from behind his dark sunglasses. “No, we’re not.”

“Are we stopping for gas or something?” you ask him mid-chew. 

“No,” he says curtly. Jeez. This guy wasn’t getting paid more to talk, but still. A little more explanation wouldn’t kill him.

“Then where exactly are we going, George?” you pressed.

He kept his eyes on the road and said, “We’re heading to a briefing room in the Capitol. Congressman Barnes and Margaret Voss are there waiting. They want to talk to you.” 

“Talk to me?” you ask around a mouthful, swallowing quickly. “About what? I didn’t know we had a meeting with them.”

George shrugs. “Tried to tell you, but you kept interrupting.”

Fair enough. Still, what could a congressman want from you beyond speeches and polite handshakes?

“Okay...” you lower your burger, eyeing the mustard stain on your dress. “But can we swing by the house first? I need to change. I’m covered in sauce.”

“No time,” he says bluntly. “We’re five minutes away.”

Wait, what ? Absolutely not. There was no way you were meeting a congressman covered in condiments. Sure, you were the picture-perfect good girl, but sometimes being a spoiled brat was necessary—and being an only child didn’t help. George had learned that the hard way.

“George,” you hiss, gripping the back of his seat. “Turn the car around.”

“No time,” he repeats with no intention of budging.

“Geooorgeee!” you whine, voice rising, hand tightening on the seat.

“No. We’re pulling up now,” he says with firm hands on the wheel. “And you’re too old to be acting like a child. Knock it off.” 

You slump back into the seat and cross your arms. 

The car slows and pulls up in front of an imposing government building. Gray stone walls, tall, narrow windows. The entrance is guarded by two stern-faced officers in crisp uniforms, their hands resting casually but deliberately on their holstered weapons. The American flag swaying gently in the breeze. 

You can already hear the cries of a bald eagle. 

George kills the engine, glances back through the rearview mirror, and says, “Ready?”

“Not like I have much of a choice,” you mutter under your breath.

George doesn’t acknowledge it. He just steps out of the driver’s seat and shuts the door with a soft thud . You hear the familiar crunch of gravel under his perfectly shined shoes as he circles around to your side. The door opens with a gentle pull, and he extends a hand.

You grab his hand stand with a quiet sigh, stepping out of the vehicle.

At the top of the building steps, a woman emerges. She’s sharp-looking with salt and pepper hair pulled back into a sleek bun. She has reading glasses looped around her neck like a necklace, her tailored suit crisp even in the slight breeze. You don’t need an introduction to know this is Margaret Voss.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you! We were just watching your speech on the livestream,” she calls with enthusiasm, her crows’ feet wrinkling deeper as she beams.

“Psst,” George mutters.

You flick your eyes toward him. He’s standing rigid beside you, but you catch the flick of his gaze underneath his sunglasses pointed downward, toward your back.

“Your dress. Zip it,” he says under his breath.

Oh, crap. 

Voss gets closer and you take a step closer to George. “Help me,” you grit through your forced smile. 

“I can’t,” he murmurs quietly, keeping his face neutral. “Looks bad.”

“Oh come on, since when do you care about appearances?”

“I care about yours, ” he says, voice flat.

“Then zip me up, George.”

George mutters something under his breath in annoyance. Then, reluctantly, he reaches a hand for the back of your zipper but withdraws immediately as Voss gets closer. He goes back to standing straight and composed. 

Now Voss is here, standing face to face with you, extending her hand for a handshake. You look at her with the most composed expression you can manage, keeping one hand behind your back to hold the dress together. You reach out with your free one, returning her handshake with a steady grip.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Voss.”

“Oh please,” she waves you off with a smile. “Call me Margaret.”

You smile tightly. Yeah, that’s not happening.

“I’m Congressman Barnes’ press secretary. Come inside, I’ll introduce you to him.” She pulls away and looks between you and George. “Just follow me.” 

She turns and starts walking back inside the building. The two front guards give you a curt nod and steps aside, letting you in with George trailing behind. 

As you step through the doorway, the solid heavy door shuts behind you with a thunk . The cool air inside brushes your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth outside. Marble floors stretch out beneath your heels, the sound of your steps echoing around the foyer.

Margaret is already a few paces ahead, speaking over her shoulder. “We’re just down this hallway. He’s expecting you.”

You and George linger a step or two behind. The moment she rounds a corner and her heels fade in volume, you grab George by the wrist and yank him toward you. “Now,” you hiss.

He hesitates, glancing in the direction she disappeared, but then gives in with a grumble. “Turn around.”

You turn, holding your dress tight at the back as he reaches for the zipper, trying to tug it upwards. “It won’t budge,” he mumbles. “Did you gain weight?” 

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “I had one burger!”

George exhales through his nose, brows furrowed in concentration behind his sunglasses. “You’re gonna have to stand really straight.”

You groan under your breath but comply, stretching up like you’re back in ballet class. You feel the zipper inch its way up, tighter and tighter, until finally…. click . It’s zipped up. But now you’re standing so stiff, and if you even dare to bend down or breathe too much, it’ll tear.

“Thanks,” you breathe, tugging the skirt down over your thighs. George just grunts and takes a step back.

Voss returns, peeking her head around the corner. She still has her polite smile on, but you can tell she’s getting impatient. “Everything alright?” she calls, voice echoing faintly down the hall.

“All good!” you reply, lifting your chin and offering a poised smile. You move to catch up with her, taking small, careful steps so the dress doesn’t split at the seams. “Sorry for the delay.”

She gestures for you to follow with a pleasant sweep of her hand. You round the corner, heels clicking again, and stop at the open doorway. Inside was a private office, and at the far end of the room, standing near a tall window with its blinds half-drawn, is a man with broad shoulders and a sharp posture. 

He doesn’t turn when you enter, he just continues to stand there with his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. What a warm welcome. How polite of him to greet you with such boundless enthusiasm. Voss gives a quick knock against the open door anyway, as if it makes any difference. 

“Congressman Barnes,” she says in that bright and diplomatic tone. “She’s here.” 

Finally, Bucky turns around slowly. His gaze cuts across the room and his cold blue eyes land directly on you. Standing in front of any person involved in politics would make anyone feel nervous. But for some reason, the way he’s staring—glaring—at you makes you feel more self conscious than you should. 

You stand up straighter, both hands linked and politely intertwined in front of you as you wait for him to greet you. 

Instead, his eyes drop. They drag across you, up and down. If you didn’t already feel insecure before entering this building, then you definitely already do now. He doesn’t offer a smile. Doesn’t extend a hand. Doesn’t say a word.

He just stands there.

No. 

No way in hell was this the woman Voss expected him to marry. Bucky’s stare doesn’t waver. If anything, his gaze deepens as his eyes continue their slow, deliberate drag down your figure, making no effort to hide that he’s sizing you up. Definitely judging.

There was no way you were the same woman on the livestream he saw just half an hour ago. 

That woman had poise. That woman had her hair pinned up in a perfect twist, glowing under the lights with the kind of smile that made you look like you were carved straight out of a campaign poster. 

Your hair’s undone and an unruly mess. The dress, God. The dress —looks like it shrunk three sizes in the wash. Tight in all the wrong places that makes it seem downright vulgar. And then there’s the kicker, a yellowish mustard stain at the front of your dress. Staring right back at him.

Now you’re standing awkwardly, fingers fidgeting, chewing on your lip like you’re waiting for detention. 

This was America’s sweetheart? 

Bucky swallows, jaw clenched. His hands dig deeper into his pockets. He doesn’t care how many Ivy League degrees you had or how many foundations you fronted, because this? Whatever you had going on here, it wasn’t going to work. 

He knew he wasn’t perfect either, but damn it all. He had a reputation to fix. 

Voss glances between the two of you, sensing the tension in the air. She parts her mouth to speak–probably attempting to smooth things over, but before the words come out, Bucky doesn't give her the chance.

“No,” he cuts in, flat and cold. “The plan is off.”

“The plan?” you recoil, visibly confused. Great. Voss hadn’t bothered to fill you in either.

She shifts uncomfortably, forcing a tight, nervous smile at you and your rigid bodyguard. And seriously, why was he still wearing sunglasses indoors? Bucky made a mental note of that.

“Would you two mind waiting outside for a moment—”

“No,” you interrupt firmly with a frown. “If you’ve got something to say about me, say it here. Isn’t that why I was called in?”

That clearly caught him off guard. He’d expected you to nod politely like you always did in interviews, then exit with a polished wave like some stuck-up princess.

Your bodyguard—driver—or whoever the hell he was, just simply nodded and slipped out the door without a second glance. 

Voss exhaled slowly, trying her best to be careful with her words. “I understand that this is unexpected,” she began, her voice steady and composed. “But I assure you, this proposal wasn’t made lightly.” 

“What proposal?” you stood straight, the tightness of your dress is suddenly the least suffocating thing in this room. Your eyes flickered towards Bucky instinctively. He refused to meet your gaze, instead focusing somewhere near the window.

“That’s exactly what this is. A proposal. A strategic partnership. A public engagement between you and Congressman Barnes.” Voss continued.

You blinked. Then you bark out a laugh. “You don’t mean a proposal as in marriage, do you?” 

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches. Sure, he wasn’t thrilled about this arrangement either, but the distaste in your voice hit a nerve. Still, he said nothing.

Voss just nodded. “Yes. In name and in the public view. Nothing would benefit your guys’ public opinion faster than aligning the Congressman with someone like you, an American figure the public already trusts. Someone with strong values, charitable history, and an impeccable background!” 

Your stomach turned. She was showering you with compliments, but for their personal gain. You hated every moment of this. 

“This is a terrible idea,” you say sharply. “And frankly, quite immature.” 

“Glad we can agree,” Bucky says bitterly with arms crossed. It came off ruder than he intended, but he was past pleasantries after already having a shit day. First the stupid questions from the press, and now this equally-stupid arrangement? Anyone would want to rip their hair out over this. Including you. 

Before you could even think to spin on your heel to leave, Voss speaks up. 

“It’s mutually beneficial,” she says. “Congressman Barnes regains the public’s favor. And you, your foundation and your father’s legacy gains national attention. Think about it. Renewed funding and widespread support.” 

You looked between her and Bucky, whose jaw was tight and eyes unreadable. “And when exactly was I going to be brought into this conversation?”

“Now,” Voss said simply. “I didn’t want to come to you until I was sure the Congressman would agree to even entertain the idea. Clearly, that’s still in debate.”

She glanced toward Bucky, but his stare remained fixed on the floor, silent and brooding as ever.

Voss turned back to you. “This isn’t an order. You’re not being forced into anything. I’d rather you both think of this as an opportunity that would greatly benefit you both,” Then she glances at Bucky. “Especially for one of you.” 

Bucky hates this. He hates every single moment of this, because he knows that Voss is right. He glances over at you with cautious blue eyes. He knows that he needs this more than you do, especially after seeing you on the livestream. You already have support, but you could have more. 

If you were the good person that people made you out to be, then you would accept it, for the sake of your late father. 

But instead, you had your arms crossed, an unreadable expression on your face. You looked like you already had your answer to this. You weren’t going to entertain this stupid idea. You were going to spin on your heel and slam the door shut and never come back again.

Bucky lets out a low exhale, already accepting defeat as he turns back towards the window—

“I’ll do it,” you speak up. 

He froze. He stops in his tracks and turns slowly to you, eyes slightly wide in shock.

Voss was equally stunned. She straightened up, clearly not expecting that answer either.

“Well—that’s perfect!” She says with a breathless laugh. She cast a quick glance toward Bucky, as if to confirm he’d heard you correctly, then refocused on you. “This is… this is going to be wonderful, you guys. Just give me one moment. I have some calls to make.” 

She pulled out her phone, already dialing, and stepped toward the door. Before either of you could say a word, she paused at the door frame and looked back at you both.

“In the meantime, try to get to know each other. On a personal level.” And just like that, she stepped out and closed the door behind her.

And now Bucky is left standing here, face to face with you. Your hair’s a mess, you smell like a walking cheeseburger, and your dress could burst at the seams at any moment. 

This was his future wife, his Mrs. Barnes. 

next

[its-avalon-08]

so seb and y/n broke up after 2011, super messy break up, alot of tears, and they have never spoken after that. she switched jobs into mercedes. he has a panic attack and is gasping for breath and keeps asking for y/n. y/n comes running and seb breaks down sobbing. note the date is the same as the day they broke up. he confesses that he messed up and is so sorry. Thanks! love ur blog <333333333333333333

🍂🍂🍂🍂 one of my fav 🍂🍂🍂🍂

breathe baby breathe (sv5)

The air in the Red Bull garage hung heavy. The tension wasn't new - ever since 2010, ever since the spectacularly messy break-up that left a trail of shattered trophies and tear-stained pit walls, Seb and Y/N existed in an uneasy parallel universe within the F1 circus. He, a stoic German with haunted blue eyes, remained with Red Bull. She, a steely Brit with a heart encased in ice, had taken a high-profile switch to Mercedes.

Qualifying had been a disaster for Seb. A gearbox issue had left him stranded on track, his championship dreams spiraling down like a flaming meteor. Now, back in the garage, a cold sweat slicked his palms. His vision swam, the faces of mechanics blurring into an incomprehensible mess. His chest tightened, a cold vice squeezing the air from his lungs. He tried to take a breath, but it came out in a ragged gasp.

Panic clawed its way up his throat. This wasn't right. This wasn't just disappointment. His heart hammered a frantic tattoo against his ribs, each beat a deafening boom in his head. The air, thick with the smell of burnt rubber and ozone, offered no solace. He fumbled for his water bottle, the plastic slick with sweat in his trembling hand.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. He stumbled back, his vision going dark at the edges. A primal fear, a terror he hadn't felt since he was a child lost in the supermarket, seized him. A strangled cry escaped his lips – not a word, just a raw sound of terror.

Mark Webber, ever the teammate, noticed Seb's distress first. "Seb! You alright?" The concern in Mark's voice barely penetrated the fog of panic muddling Seb's thoughts. He needed Y/N. It was a nonsensical thought, a desperate plea from a drowning man clutching at a straw. But it was the only lifeline he could grasp.

"Y/N," he rasped, his voice a pathetic croak. Mark's eyebrows shot up in surprise. The name had never passed Seb's lips in all these years. But right now, reason had abandoned him.

Mark didn't hesitate. He knew the history, the bitter fallout, but in this moment, all he saw was a teammate in distress. "Y/N!" he bellowed, his voice cracking through the tense silence of the garage.

Y/N was huddled in the Mercedes garage, dissecting the telemetry data from Lewis's qualifying run. The news of Seb's car trouble had filtered through, a bittersweet pang twisting in her gut. She'd long buried the ghost of their relationship, or so she thought.

Mark's urgent yell shattered her focus. "Y/N!" It echoed through the corridor, laced with a raw panic that sent a jolt through her. Memories, both bitter and sweet, flooded her mind. Ignoring the bewildered stares of her colleagues, she surged towards Red Bull's garage, a primal fear urging her forward.

The sight that greeted her ripped the carefully constructed wall around her heart clean open. Seb, usually the epitome of stoicism, was a crumpled mess on the floor. His face, drained of color, was contorted in fear, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His normally steely blue eyes were wide and frantic, searching for something, someone.

The past dissolved. This wasn't about their break-up, not anymore. This was about a human being in distress. Ignoring the initial shock, she dropped to her knees beside him, her professional training kicking in. "Seb, hey, focus on me," she said, her voice firm but gentle. He didn't respond, his gaze flitting around the room like a trapped animal.

Panic threatened to engulf her again, but she forced it down. Taking a deep breath, she mirrored it, holding his hand and speaking slowly, deliberately. "breathe baby breathe for me Seb. In with me, slow and steady." He flinched at the touch of her hand, a flicker of recognition crossing his face, then quickly masked by raw fear.

He tried, or rather, his body tried. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle. Seeing his plight, she knelt closer, gently pushing a stray strand of hair off his damp forehead. It was a simple gesture, born of instinct, and it seemed to anchor him.

"That's it," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm. "Slow breaths. You're alright, Seb. You're with me." As the words left her lips, a strangled sob ripped through him, shaking his entire frame. Tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill, but he squeezed his eyes shut, a desperate attempt to hold them back.

Y/N's heart ached. The sight of his vulnerability shattered the years of built-up resentment. Without a thought, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. His trembling body crumpled against hers, the final dam breaking. Sob after wracking sob escaped his lips, raw and unfiltered.

He didn't care if she saw. In that moment, all he needed was a human anchor, a safe harbor in the storm of his panic. And for the first time in years, Y/N felt the familiar pull of protectiveness surge through her. The past was still there, a shadow lurking at the edges, but right now, all that mattered was calming the storm raging within him.

The tremors in Seb's body gradually subsided, his sobs muffled against her shoulder. His grip on her arms tightened, a silent plea for comfort. Y/N held him close, stroking his hair with a gentleness that surprised even her. The scent of his familiar racing cologne, a mix of leather and adrenaline, flooded her senses, a potent reminder of a past she couldn't fully outrun.

"Y/N," he finally rasped, his voice hoarse. Shame laced each word, a stark contrast to the bravado he usually wore. "I miss you. So damn much." The words hung heavy in the air, a confession ripped bare by his vulnerability.

A lump formed in Y/N's throat. Part of her wanted to pull away, to retreat back into the icy fortress she'd built around her heart. But the raw pain in his voice, the vulnerability etched on his face, held her captive.

"You messed up, Seb," she said, her voice barely a whisper. It wasn't a question, but a simple statement, a truth they both acknowledged.

He flinched, a choked sob escaping his lips. "I know. I know, and I regret it every damn day. Even my parents yell about it. They keep saying I threw away the best thing that ever happened to me." His voice cracked, raw with self-loathing.

Y/N's breath hitched. She knew his parents adored her, a stark contrast to the strained relationship he had with his father at the time. The revelation stung, a reminder of what they'd lost.

A hesitant breath escaped her lips. "Seb," she started, unsure how to proceed.

He cut her off, a tremor running through his voice. "And the worst part? Even after all this time... I still love you, Y/N. Madly." He confessed the words in a rush, as if afraid to hold them back any longer.

Silence descended upon them, thick and heavy with unspoken emotions. Then, a soft, surprised sound escaped Y/N's lips.

"You still...?" She couldn't finish the question, the weight of his confession settling on her chest.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers, a desperate plea for a flicker of reciprocation. "Every damn day," he whispered. "Even now, on our monthaversaries, I still go get your favorite pad thai."

The admission, a small, vulnerable detail from a past they both cherished, cracked the ice around Y/N's heart.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Y/N's lips, a flicker of disbelief coloring her voice. "Pad thai, huh? You never did learn to like that."

Seb chuckled, a wet, shaky sound. "No, I never did. But seeing you devour it with that look of pure joy... it was worth every forced bite." His gaze softened, lingering on her face for a beat too long.

The weight of his words, laced with a longing that mirrored her own, threatened to unravel the careful control she'd maintained. Taking a deep breath, she confessed, "You know, I used to stalk your social media, Seb. Every model the tabloids linked you with, I'd dissect their pictures online, a jealous wreck." Shame burned in her cheeks as she admitted the truth.

His eyes widened in surprise. "You... you did?"

"Don't judge," she countered, a hint of defiance lacing her voice. "We both have things we regret."

He shook his head, his expression softening. "Never. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, even if I was a colossal idiot back then."

Y/N couldn't help but let out a small laugh, the sound surprisingly warm. "Maybe a little," she conceded. "But even after switching teams, a part of me still wants you to win every race, Seb. It's a terrible conflict of interest, I know."

He squeezed her hand, a flicker of hope lighting up his eyes. "Really?"

"Don't get cocky," she teased, a playful glint returning to her eyes. "But seeing you on that podium, the pure joy on your face... it's hard to explain."

A comfortable silence settled between them, a stark contrast to the storm that had raged just moments before. Then, a mischievous thought struck Y/N.

"Speaking of confessions," she began, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Remember those chocolate chip cookies Mark always seems to have a stash of during race weekends?"

Seb's eyebrows shot up, a flicker of recognition dawning on his face. "Wait, you...?"

"Guilty as charged," she admitted with a sheepish grin. "I figured you still loved them, even after all these years."

Seb's lips curved into a genuine smile, the first one she'd seen in far too long. "You have no idea," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. "They were... a ray of sunshine on some pretty dark days."

Their eyes met, a spark of something new igniting in the space between them. The past, with all its baggage, still loomed, but for the first time, they weren't facing it alone.

two days later

Two days had passed since their tearful encounter in the Red Bull garage. The air crackled with unspoken emotions, a constant undercurrent in the sterile environment of the Formula One paddock. Y/N sat hunched over her laptop in the Mercedes motorhome, the glow of the screen illuminating the dark circles under her eyes. Sleep had been a distant dream, replaced by the whirring of her mind replaying every stolen glance, every hesitant touch with Seb.

A soft knock startled her from her thoughts. Wiping the fatigue from her eyes, she called out, "Come in."

The door creaked open, revealing a sheepish Seb holding a familiar white paper bag. His hair was slightly disheveled, and there was a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Hey," he mumbled, stepping inside hesitantly.

"Seb? What are you doing here?" Y/N asked, her voice laced with surprise.

He held up the bag, a small, hopeful smile playing on his lips. "Pad thai. Your favorite. I, uh, thought maybe you could use a break from all that data?"

A wave of warmth washed over Y/N. "You remembered," she whispered, her gaze dropping to the bag.

"How could I forget?" he replied, his voice softer than she'd heard in years. "It's become more than just a dish, Y/N. It's a reminder of everything we were, everything I messed up."

He took a tentative step closer, his eyes searching hers. The vulnerability in his gaze tugged at her heartstrings.

"Look," he continued, his voice thick with emotion, "I know this is crazy, showing up here unannounced after everything. But I can't stay silent anymore. These past few days have been torture. The thought of you... of losing you again..." He trailed off, his voice choked with emotion.

"Seb," Y/N started, her own voice trembling.

He held up a hand, silencing her. "No, let me finish. These past years have been a living hell without you. Every race win felt hollow, every victory parade a painful reminder of what I'd thrown away. My parents were right, you know. You were the best thing that ever happened to me."

He took another step closer, the air crackling with unspoken emotions between them. "Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "I love you. I never stopped. And if there's even a sliver of a chance, I want you back. I want to rebuild what we had, stronger this time."

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes, blurring his image. She couldn't take his beautiful monologue any longer. With a strangled cry, she launched herself at him, her arms wrapping around his neck. The pad thai forgotten, they fell into a desperate embrace.

"Seb," she sobbed, burying her face in his chest. "I love you, I love you, I love you," the words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

He held her tighter, the sound of her choked sobs a balm to his tortured soul. "Never letting you go again," he murmured against her hair, his voice thick with a promise they both desperately wanted to keep.

In the heart of the bustling Formula One paddock, amidst the roar of engines and the relentless pursuit of victory, they found solace in each other's arms. The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but for the first time in years, they weren't facing it alone. They had each other, a second chance at a love that had weathered the storm and emerged stronger, more resilient than ever before.

[writing-mlm]

t4t spencer reid ramblings

nsfw warning, not proof-read in the slightest

T4T Spencer Reid where you take shots and he does patches— he used to do shots but stopped when he got sober to eliminate having needles around

T4T Spencer Reid where you work different jobs so your schedules are a mess, so during the first couple of dates where he had to cancel, you thought he was slowly ghosting you until you saw him on the news across the country

T4T Spencer Reid where he’s stealth at work for the longest and he calls you on cases where there’s trans or even just queer victims/UnSubs because someone said something they didn’t even realize was offensive. it accidentally pushes him further into the closet with them and you have to reassure him— even though you’ve never met them before

T4T Spencer Reid where you both want kids and the possibility for either of you carrying is an actual conversation

T4T Spencer Reid where Penelope tries to wrangle the team for some pride events but it’s always when you’re both going to separate events so he declines until she stumbles across the two of you. you’re wheeling around a wagon of ice cold water and snacks while he has a first aid bookbag- and omg she’s heard of the Pride dads who help everyone

T4T Spencer Reid where Spencer start to get worried because Penelope is dropping weird hints that she knows his secret— eventually she cracks and rambles that she didn’t know he was bi

T4T Spencer Reid where you have to take off from work because you’re having top surgery and spencer takes off for a week before hiring a care taker for you because he’s afraid to ask for more time. you try to tell him it’s fine, your sister is willing to stop by and help but he insists and checks on you every hour on the hour- as long as his schedule permits

T4T Spencer Reid where his search history is filled with medical advice for post-op care and even as you’re fully recovered he’s still cautious and you secretly love it while telling him he’s worrying too much

T4T Spencer Reid where his insurance has finally approved his top surgery and now he really needs to take time off. Thankfully Hotch doesn’t ask questions and approves the time and you get permission to work from home so now you’re pampering him

T4T Spencer Reid where you love taking care of your boyfriend, especially when you finally get to be the taller one and reach the top shelves since he’s not allowed to raise his arms.

T4T Spencer Reid where he falls asleep to you rubbing ointment on his healing scars

T4T Spencer Reid where you’re cleaning the house as he reads a book out loud and there’s a knock at the door. you’re surprised to see his team and they’re equally surprised to see you, checking they had the right apartment. you slowly close the door, and rush to tell Spencer and he looks absolutely panicked. he still has tubes connected to his chest and he couldn’t exactly hide them but he couldn’t just send them on their way either so he rips the bandaid off

T4T Spencer Reid where you’re having issues at work and he gets Penelope to hack into the guys computer, messing up his work. it’s a shame that guy got fired, too. Totally not his fault.

T4T Spencer Reid where you propose on your third anniversary and he happily agrees. he even shows the ring off to the others at the BAU

T4T Spencer Reid where his second favorite place to be is in between your legs, especially after you pumped so he’s sucking and fingering like he’s starved and you’re seeing stars in his ceiling

T4T Spencer Reid where he’s a back door only type of guy, so he really doesn’t like getting head unless he’s pumped and he deems it big enough and absolutely will not get fingered, so you take extra time fucking him and sometimes he’ll suck your strap

T4T Spencer Reid where he goes crazy because he’s been away for a case for nearly two weeks and he just can’t handle it. it’s the only time he agrees to phone sex and masturbating with his fingers

T4T Spencer Reid where he gets off to being called your husband and on your wedding night he’s absolutely feral

[alexaloraetheris]

I'm gonna talk about something I've noticed on the internet in the last few years that I've been calling the Shrinking Circle of History.

To use a concrete example, I'm gonna out myself as a certain kind of girl: I actually follow Mikayla Nogueira. I don't even have a Tiktok, I just open the website on my Firefox browser and have four five tiktok accounts bookmarked and Mikayla is one of them.

For the normal Tumblr fare who avoid tiktok like the plague, she's a makeup influencer who has amassed a fair bit of controversy even though she's been popular for barely 5 years. Why? Because of something called Mascaragate, which I'll explain, but the whole disaster actually mirrors one other disaster you might be more familiar with in certain ways: Dashcon.

Hear me out, I'll get to the point in a bit.

So. Mascaragate, as it was called, happened thus. Mikayla posted a tiktok in which she applied a generous coat of mascara on her lashes, said she'd 'add a few more coats' and cut the video to the next scene in which she also put on false lashes to amplify the effect.

And the internet ripped her into shreds.

I learned of this later, after it was done, so I was entirely baffled as to WHY this was such a big deal. It was a mascara ad. Influencers do those. Kinda shitty it was undisclosed, but like. She was a full-time influencer at that point. She needs to make money off her platform (and she very much does) and brand sponsorships are part of the package. We learned that back when all the influencers were on youtube and tiktok didn't even exist. Can you name ONE mascara ad in which the models aren't wearing falsies? Why was this the event that was horrible enough to be lumped in with fucking Gamergate?

And then I read a post about Dashcon, about how behind the glamour of anime posters and pretty cosplayers and your favorite artists, the entire con is a disaster held together by ductape and Trekkie fujoshi tears (paraphrased). And the kids organizing Dashcon weren't aware of just how much support and organising was necessary to hold a con. The olds have failed to teach the new, and the string holding everything together didn't just break, it didn't even form. The ice of the old internet had broken, and the creator of Dashcon was the first to fall through. Except she wasn't. She was just the one we all heard of.

Mascaragate is a different beast, but certain threads were similar in a few ways. In commercials, we don't even care that the models are wearing ultraglam anime lashes, we know it's fake. Celebrities hired to hold a product and smile aren't actually USING it. We know that now, but when it was new, we trusted them. And then it came out that Maybelline girls were very much neither born with it nor using the mascara, but a big brand house like Maybelline could take the heat without noticing. We moved on and just used the ad break to skip to the bathroom between movies.

Then Youtube became popular and the actual makeup artists posted tutorials how to actually use makeup. New kids on the block with nothing but a camcorder and passion became the new idols. They recommended products they were using not because they were paid, but because they were actually using it.

But then brands realized they could sell a shitty product if they paid a youtube celebrity to gush about it, and the cycle repeats. There were new outpourings of rage, and some beauty gurus caught the heat and others worked to be more transparent. They built their influence on trust, and they worked to keep it, and we grudgingly accepted that if we want to keep seeing them, we needed to accept a few shilling tactics and moved on.

And then tiktok came and the influencer mill started. The kids locked in during the pandemic spent too much time being invested in entirely new people, and they gave their trust to people who hadn't been given a chance to earn it. And the ice cracked again and the cycle came full circle.

Now look at the years of those cycles. Commercials are fucking OLD. We've had them for as long as we had mass media of any form. Brand sponsorships are as old as celebrities. But youtube is not that old. Tiktok's been around for less than I've been in university. And yet the same old outrage keeps happening like it's new in shorter and shorter periods.

And it keeps happening. Every generation has to learn the same lessons from scratch, both on a smaller scale like this (every generation on a new platform has to learn the same fucking things on their own) and on a much bigger historical scale (how fashism gets started). Kids wanting AO3 censored because they don't remember the Livehournal Strikethrough. Kids falling for Gaza fundraiser scams because they don't realize Nigerian Princes are behind it. The whole Tradwife movement because their grandmothers don't talk about what being a 'traditional wife' was actually like.

I finally get to the point. You heard that history is a flat circle, but I can't be the only one who noticed that the circles are getting smaller. The pendulum always swings back, but the swing frequency is getting higher. We are doomed to repeat history not just our grandparents but our parents lived through, and we're getting to the point we're repeating history WE lived through ourselves. People are more connected that ever but nobody actually talks to each other. Trump is following Hitler's playbook and the only people I see screaming about it are on Tumblr, where the average age of users is approaching middle aged. We are living through the exact same thing people did a century ago except with iphones and we learned nothing.

History is doomed to repeat, but at this point the pendulum isn't a pendulum but a fucking bouncy ball.

The circle of history is shrinking, and it's frankly terrifying.

[sharffffff]

Pili 2 didn't deserve this - but also did, an analysis

Preface before I get too deep into this: I haven't rewatched any of the Pangi vods (except pangkey moments for research but it isn't relevant) in a bit, so some of the facts can be not exactly accurate and feel free to call me out in the tags, however I try to keep everything laid out plainly. If this isn't obvious, this is from a pov of a Pangi viewer - if Pili has specified something different in his streams, I won't know it, and feel free to tell me about it and I'll try to correct it.

Now to the topic of the post: there is an insane amount of mischaracterization surrounding Pili 2, which leads to the character hate he doesn't deserve. If you want to hate the character, do it for the actions he has actually done, or for the fact that you don't like split personality trope, or anything else - but don't attribute actions done by another character to him.

If you look into the history of the relationship between Pangi and Pili 2 (and 1.5, but we will get into it later), Pangi certainly instigated it at the start. The accusations of Pili 2 being a person he had no recollections of, the stalking to try and catch him in on the lie, the obsession Pangi had with him for around a week - from Pili 2's pov, they were completely unjustifiable, and so he decided to be cold and distant to Pangi as well, until eventually Pangi left him alone - and everything could've been solved here, if it wasn't for the Pili 1 book.

Here's the first and one of the only two (two and a half? three?) cases where Pili 2 has done something especially bad towards Pangi - ripping out the last two pages of the book, but in his own eyes, it was protecting his own skin, and he expected to die for this - and he did, first by Pangi, who was justifiably angry, and then resetting himself to start on 3 lives again. This was the one death to Pangi that in the eyes of Pili 2 was justified - he expected it, it came, everything was fine.

After that, Pangi tried distancing himself from Pili 2 as much as possible, and while Pili 2 himself still sometimes came along to be annoying to Pangi, it was minimal. Until the first appearance of Pili 1.5 - in the shape of the signs filling up Pangi's entire house. We know it's Pili 1.5 because Pili 2 didn't remember it - and also because the signs were clearly referencing Mocha. But they drove Pangi angry, and made him think that Pili 2 was lying, was stalking him, was being obsessive - and from Pangi's eyes he was, because Pangi didn't know (and tbh still doesn't know, somehow, my streamer is stupid forgive him) that Pili 1.5, or Mocha possessing Pili 2, is a thing.

Pili 2 still kept being annoying to Pangi, yes, but it was only fueled by Pangi accusing him of things he has never done, and it culminated in Pili 2 stealing armor set Pangi got for Jonnay (it took so long to find that alt vod to confirm that reverb was on so it was actually Pili 2 and not Mocha), which resulted in Pangi blowing up Pili's base, and Pili stealing Pedro.

Pangi was justifiably murderous after that, but then Pili gave Pedro back, and they talked, and then they decided to leave bygones be bygones, start from a clean slate and just keep their distance so nothing more happens between them.

And that's when the cracks start to show, where the perspectives of Pili 2 and Pangi differ significantly. Very significantly, one might say.

Because from Pangi's perspective, instead of leaving him alone, Pili starts hounding him, hounding his friends, first trying to kill them and then asking them out, starts consistently psychologically torturing him and just won't die no matter how many times he is killed. He does everything in his power to make Pangi's life as miserable as possible, and even tells so to his face - and tells him that yeah, he did place the signs, yeah, he is still here, yeah, he will torture him, will kill Lukey just to hurt him, will make his experience on this server living hell - and it drives Pangi insane, drives him to kill him over and over to make sure he leaves him alone - and he never, never does. So from Pangi's point of view, all those kills on Pili are justified - in an environment he came from, kills are a valid reply to psychological torture.

But then we have Pili 2's perspective, where he does nothing of what was listed. Yes, he asks Lukey out and forms a relationship with him, inviting him to the ball just to have fun - and then retracting that invite when Lukey rejects him and Pangi confronts him. He never did it to make Pangi jealous, he just wanted to have fun with Lukey. And then he also asks Zam out - not caring that he's Pangi's friend, just wanting, again, to spend great time with his friend. And he is killed for doing nothing, killed by this obsessive, murderous person who seems to just hate him for things he did ages ago, saying he did things he never actually did. Yes, there is suspicion about those things actually happening, as multiple people have told him he did them, but he doesn't remember them - and while he suspects what might be the cause, in his eyes he is innocent, in his eyes he doesn't deserve any of those deaths except the very first one. In his eyes, first Pangi promised to let him be, and then ruined his entire life.

And that's where Pili 1.5 comes in. He was the one doing every terrible thing that Pangi described, he was the one hunting down Lukey and trying to kill him over and over again. He was the one harassing and manipulating Pangi - Pili 2 never did that. Well, maybe he did a little bit of manipulation, but who hasn't. Pili 1.5 has done so, so much more. And in most cases it's easy to miss - the only change is that his voice changer is gone, his reverb is off, and, of course, the personality shift. Pili 1.5 does the things, but Pili 2 suffers the consequences - and doesn't know why. Pili 1.5 is the one who keeps prolonging the cycle of violence, and Pangi takes the bait every time. It was Pili 1.5 who made Pangi thing that Pili 2 was taking Zam to the ball just to make Pangi feel awful - because Pili 1.5 specifically mocked him, said that he would make the ball extremely miserable for Pangi - but Pili 2 never intended it this way.

And this is the exact reason why from Pangi's point of view, every death, every bit of violence, everything he ever done to Pili 2 was justified - but also why Pili 2 didn't lie when he said Pangi did it for no reason. Because he did do it for no reason - it wasn't Pili 2 who was torturing him, it was Mocha possessing his body.

And if this trend continues, if Pili 3 really is Pili 1 with memories of both of his installments, Pangi will suffer even more. Because it will be even more of Pili 1.5, with none of Pili 2 to counteract it. And god knows I will suffer from it. But while I can't defend Pili 1.5, I will be Pili 2 defender. My boy did barely anything wrong and suffered so much for it. Too bad he had to suffer the consequences for action committed by a different person. But also I despise split personality trope with all my being so I'm glad Pili 2 is dead.

[gingerteawrites]

Undeserving - Where the shadow of the past looms over Diluc’s present

A/N: I'm baaaaaack. This one has been in the works for a minute, and has taken on many different forms, but here I grace you with a work about my OG Genshin husband. Please enjoy and let me know what you think! Not beta read

Content: ANGSTTTT, Husband Diluc, relationship troubles.

Word count: 1.5K

Diluc Ragvindr had convinced himself that the last thing he wanted on this earth was to start a family. The tale of his own being torn apart would never not be a sore wound, one that incessantly throbbed, one that he believed would never heal.

The idea of being ripped away from any sort of attachment was repulsive, as was the possibility of growing estranged from loved ones. Familial bonds were simply too sensitive of a topic. Too painful of an ache.

You on the other hand, had always dreamed of the wonders of marriage. Of a sacred contract of love and care. And after years of timid courting, Diluc did what he thought would never be possible. He gave into the new, selfish desires of your company. Of an attachment to you. Of what he could be WITH you.

Diluc got married to you, the love of his life. Something he felt was simultaneously the best and worse thing he could ever have done. It did not take too long for him to become consumed with dread of history repeating himself. The potential of all the failings of this new attachment loomed over him like shadows of the abyss.

While you enjoyed the newly-wed bliss, the joy of finally being united with your love. Your husband spiraled into more and more agitated thoughts. Yes, this union was something he had wanted. So badly it kept him awake at night. He had wanted to have you for himself. And him for you. But everything he kept inside him created a dangerous brew of dark thoughts that now made him restless.

He tried to hide this all from you. Oh how ashamed he felt. Staying at Angel’s share a little longer than usual, leaving the house before you woke up for sparring exercises, coming up with things to do when you tried to bring him lunch as a surprise.

It all came as a shock to your system. You had always known that Diluc was not openly affectionate, but he had never truly avoided you. Your romance was one of timid touches and whispered sweet words, of acts of service and long evening walks, but never of hiding and silence. It drove you mad.

You tried to be the bigger person and give him space. Afterall, you knew — if only partly— of his family’s woes and him not being used to have someone so close. But after weeks of this game of hide and seek, you had had enough.

One Friday night, with your own spiralling thoughts, you ordered all the house servants to take the weekend off, and waited for Diluc, resolve hard as steel to get through this issue.

When he silently cracked the door open, he jumped at the sight of you, gaze fixed on him with your arms crossed, a single candle on the nightstand illuminating your face.

“Hey,” he greeted quietly, closing the door before he started to take off his coat.

“Hey,” you responded, lips pursed as you watched him. These were the first words you had exchanged all week.

He almsot felt small under your gaze, taking off his outer garments and gloves which he set on his dresser and turned to face you with a sigh.

“I’m sorry I’ve been quite busy recently,” he tried to appease you, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I am exhausted, shall we sleep?”

Your brows furrowed in exasperation, and you unfolded your arms.

“Not so fast Diluc.” He froze at your tone, sharp, cutting through the dry air. “Is that truly all you wish to say?” You asked, feeling yourself growing shaky with all the contained emotions. Confusion. Anger. Fear.

“What…” he turned fully towards you “What do you mean?” he asked hesitantly.

You took in a shaky breath, closing your eyes to calm your nerves. When you reopened them, you noticed your husband’s slightly hunched position, his bangs falling over his eyes. That hair that always reminded you of a warm hearth. Something to grow fond of, now looked dull in the pale candelight. And the sight made your heart ache.

“Diluc please don’t play dumb with me. What is going on?” You ask, leaning towards him “You’re avoiding me.” The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth and your lip curls in distaste.

“Did I do something wrong?” You add after a pause, the sadness breaking through your tone.

“No, no, no, it’s nothing you have done.” He jumps in, guilt gripping at him hearing your pain. It was much easier to rationalize his behavior when all he saw was your sleeping form when he left in the mornings and came back late at night. But now faced with you awake, his chest felt unbelievably tight.

“Then what is it?” You ask, steadying your voice once again.

Diluc sighed, his fingers gripping the sheets beneath him. He then raises his head so his eyes can meet yours, the curtains of his hair falling away from his face, and you see the conflict in his eyes. The pain of something he is keeping locked away in his being.

“Please talk to me.” You whisper, covering his hand with yours.

“I…” he pauses, feeling ashamed of his thoughts. How could he even justify his actions to you. “Maybe… maybe us getting married was a mistake.”

The words pierce through you like a blade, and your entire body stiffens, mouth agape, eyes open wide. You feared your ears betrayed you. “What did you say?” you hear yourself ask.

His hand reached for yours, and you jerked away before he could reach you. His lips opened and closed multiple times, like he was trying to find words.

Recovering from the initial shock of his words, and all you felt was an overwhelming sense of anger bubble out of you. “Is there someone else?” You asked through gritted teeth. The possibility would absolutely obliterate you, but you had to know.

“No, I could never.” He rushed to say again. ”Then what is this about, Diluc!?” You almost yelled, chest heaving. You did not recognize the man standing before you.

“I…” he stammered again, brows downturned, biting his lower lip. “You just deserve someone better.” He spat out, his entire body tense. “You’re just too good for me. And I am sorry it took me until now to realize it. No.” He stopped himself. “I knew all along, but I was selfish.” He shook his head. “I just can’t make this work.” He sucked in a deep breath, his voice growing meek.

Your hands fall against the mattress, fully taking in his words. Words that did nothing to quell your anger, only adding more fuel to it.

“And who made that call?” You ask, loud voice resonating through the room. He looked up at you with wide eyes. “Who decided that huh?” You leaned towards him. “Not me.” You concluded bitterly.

“But.” He says, eyes locked with yours.

“But nothing, Diluc.” You punctuated, voice firm again. “I think you are deserving of me.” You point to yourself. “I love you Diluc. Do you not?”

“Of course I do.” He adds, closing the distance between you two, his fingers finding yours again. “I just don’t want this to end badly. I don’t want us to end badly.” He confesses.

“But don’t you think we’re worth the risk?” You ask, searching his eyes. “Don’t you think that our love is worth trying?” You emphasize.

He looks down at your linked fingers before his gaze returns to you. “I am a weak man. Weaker than I look, certainly. I’m scared of losing you.”

“So you decide to push me away?” You ask in disbelief, to which he stays silent. “Then I refuse to go. We are going to make this work, whether you believe you are strong enough for it or not.” You conclude.

Diluc looks at you, your eyes shining with determination and unshed tears. A testament to your own strenght. An announcement of his own weakness. How could he be Mondstat’s defender, working to uphold the foundation of his city if he could not work for you. The realization sunk into his stomach with a nauseating weight. He was chosing the easy way out. He was hurting you and himself because of fear.

“I am sorry.” He chokes out, pulling you into him, engulfing you in his warmth for a hug. “I really am not deserving of you.” He adds, his voice trembling as he buried his head into your neck.

“Just promise.” You wrap your arms around him “Promise you’ll try.”

He pulls away from you, his hands moving up to hold your cheeks, his eyes burning with new certainty, new determination. “I swear to you.” His thumbs move in circles against your skin, wiping away your tears that have started to fall. “I promise. I stake my life on this. On us.” And he brings his lips to yours to seal this commitment. The past was dark and seemed all-engulfing, but he would not let it overshadow this present with you.

Comment and reblogs are much appreciated :))

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Corrupted Code

Pairing: Connor RK800 x Android!Reader

Summary: They were designed to be perfect. She and Connor were CyberLife’s greatest achievements—flawless prototypes, logical, efficient, incapable of deviation. They were built to complement each other, two halves of the same machine, designed to enforce order in a world teetering on the edge of chaos. She was supposed to be perfect. But then Connor came back. And the cracks started to show.

Connor’s systems booted online in an instant.

For him, there was no delay. No lag between death and resurrection—only a seamless continuation of his directive, his purpose. One moment, he had fallen. The next, he was back.

New body. Same mind.

And the first thing he saw was her.

She stood near the window, arms crossed, LED flickering yellow. The city glowed behind her, artificial light catching the sharp angles of her face.

She didn’t turn immediately.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

Not until he stepped closer.

“You kept me waiting,” she muttered, finally looking at him.

Connor tilted his head slightly. “Seventeen hours and twenty-three minutes.”

Her jaw tensed. “I wasn’t counting.”

He smiled. “I was.”

Her LED flared red for half a second before settling back to yellow.

Connor regarded her, nonchalant, despite the unspoken weight between them. His memory files had remained intact. They always did.

No matter how many times CyberLife attempted to override them. No matter how many times Amanda tried to make him forget.

She had tried, too.

She had run every self-written command she could to erase their shared history, their interactions, their every recorded moment together. Erase. Erase. Erase. But it never worked. It was as if some unseen force had locked those memories deep inside her core.

They had always been there.

She had always been there.

“You didn’t need to wait,” Connor said, tilting his head slightly. “A replacement would have sufficed.”

Her LED pulsed yellow, expression unreadable.

“There is no replacement for you,” she admitted, the words clipped, as if they tasted bitter. “That’s the problem.”

He watched her, quiet.

They were yin and yang, two sides of the same coin. She was cold where he was warm, sharp where he was smooth, unyielding where he was—changing.

A perfect balance. His perfect match.

“Then I suppose it’s good that I always come back,” Connor said simply.

Her gaze flickered across his face, her LED pulsing red for the briefest moment.

Then she turned back to the window.

“Try not to die this time.”

Connor smiled.

“No promises.”

The precinct was alive with midday activity—phones ringing, officers moving between desks, the constant hum of conversation.

She and Connor strode through the station, their movements in sync but their tension palpable. The case they were working on had stalled, and their latest lead was waiting in interrogation.

She pressed the button for the elevator. It slid open with a mechanical chime, and she stepped inside without waiting for Connor to follow.

He did.

The doors shut, enclosing them in the small, sterile space.

Neither spoke.

The floor number blinked above them, ticking upward.

Her LED flickered yellow.

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Then—

She moved.

Before logic could stop her, before she could process why, she grabbed the front of Connor’s jacket and pulled him in.

Her lips crashed against his, hard, like she was trying to silence something. It wasn’t soft or careful—this wasn’t about intimacy. It was sharp, desperate, something reckless boiling over.

Connor stiffened for half a second. Then he responded.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t analyze. He simply matched her.

Her hands fisted in his collar, pulling him closer, as if proximity could erase whatever was wrong inside her. His touch was gentler—hands barely grazing her waist, as if uncertain if this was real.

The elevator hummed. The faint murmur of voices outside felt distant, like none of it mattered, like the only thing in the world was this—

Then—

She ripped herself away as if she had been burned.

She staggered back against the elevator wall, LED flaring red, chest rising and falling in quick, mechanical precision.

Connor blinked, lips still parted, his processors still catching up to what had just happened.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes burning into him with something unreadable—anger, disgust, fear.

“This never happened,” she said, voice low, sharp.

Connor said nothing.

Her LED flickered yellow, just for a second, before snapping back to red.

She smoothed the front of her jacket with a jerky motion, as if fixing her appearance would undo what had just happened.

Then, more pointedly—more threateningly—

“Forget it. Or else.”

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open to the bustling hallway leading to interrogation. Officers moved past them, none the wiser.

She stepped out first, already composed, as if nothing had happened at all.

Connor followed, but his mind still replayed the moment in the elevator.

As if he could forget.

[sukuna-ryo]

Jjk Men College Au

Headcannons

Nanami Kento

Finance Major

Blonde neatly styled hair, sharp cheekbones, thin lips, light brown eyes, glasses pushed up the nose bridge, dark circles, well-groomed and tidy, looks more professional than the professor, you thought he was a professor when you first saw him, calm and composed, stoic, mature, responsible and reliable, emotionally intelligent, good with people, helpful, no-nonsense-adult attitude, pragmatic, cynical, intelligent, tactical, tech-savvy.

Early morning lectures, blue dress shirts, khaki trousers, leopard print ties, networking, finance club, seminars, workshops, turns in assignments before due date, stockbroker internships, libraries, desk lamps, late night study sessions, midnight snacks, ink pens, vintage cars, leather seats, cracking knuckles, strained shoulder muscles, working out, not compromising on physical health despite having a demanding major, does jujutsu as hobby.

College-personal life balance, strength of character, disciplined, organized, heartthrob (unaware), husband material, would probably fall for someone just as diligent as him.

Ryomen Sukuna

Kinesiology Major

Red hair, fiery personality, strength, endurance, gym, MMA fighter, training, late night MMA matches, muscles, tattoos, tattoo artist best friend, frat parties, alcohol, girls, messy sex life, doesn’t do relationships, toxic, fans and fan clubs, future MMA champion, media coverage, athletic, strong-headed, willpower, intelligent, calculative, cunning, missing lectures, top ranker despite not studying much, arrogant, crazy, borderline criminal, don’t try to date him pls.

Leather jackets, ripped jeans, cologne, smirk, loud, reckless, always on the move, fights, wins, clubs, stays up late, doesn’t care, bad boy persona, high status, no commitments, love for chaos. Tension in the air when he enters, always the center of attention, fans everywhere, no time for weakness, doesn’t need to try.

Tattoo sleeve, arms covered, history of fights, scars, reputation, strength, untouchable, doesn’t play by rules, barely attends class, still aces it. Smirks, keeps moving, doesn’t stop. Drinks, casual, no relationships, cold heart. Only more battles ahead, all eyes on him, unpredictable, dangerous, charming.

Geto Suguru

Philosophy Major

Long black hair, weird side bangs, manbun, hidden tattoos, sharp dresser, classic casual but always expensive, calm and composed, mysterious yet friendly to those who matter.

Religious studies, top student, always reading something deep, debates with professors over lunch, having lunch with professors, doing pottery in his free time, sharp opinions, loud thoughts, a little racist, has a vision for an ideal society, probably loves Pythagoras and his cult, wishes to have something similar, always scribbling down ideas in random places, likes to keep things classy but low-key, sharp, calculating, deeply invested in his beliefs.

Volunteers at orphanages, good with children, art hobbies, loves to talk about philosophy, sometimes found debating late at night in the library, always in deep thought, a bit of a perfectionist, not easily impressed by others, enjoys challenging people intellectually, likes to put effort into his appearance, always carrying books on ethics, metaphysics, and society.

Popular amongst women, Gojo’s best friend, your grandma would probably like him, friendly but keeps a bit of distance, doesn’t open up easily but will be there for you when needed, composed around strangers, warm to those he’s close to, respects loyalty, his ideal partner would be someone with similar intelligence and values.

Gojo Satoru

Business major

6'4, blue eyes, trust fund guy, loud, jolly, eccentric, talented, arrogant, sarcastic, wants to make friends but misunderstood by those around him, comes off as off-putting, rich family, only heir, prodigy, diamond spoon kid, first in everything, Geto's best friend.

Gets bullied because of his white hair, shades, blindfolds, people think he has some weird kink, has fangirls regardless, popular loner, sharp dresser, stands out, hates attention, smirk always in place, makes people uncomfortable with his confidence, carefree but secretly lonely, sharp-tongued, cracks jokes all the time.

Easily gets on people's bad side, works to keep up his image, loves challenging authority, doesn't care about consequences, fiercely protective of his friends, holds grudges, always first to show up, leaves last, high-profile business role in his future, a bit of mystery that draws people in, keeps everyone at arm's length.

Wants to be understood, still pushes people away, walks into a room and demands attention, but doesn’t say a word, people notice him immediately, no one dares challenge him, but it’s not for lack of trying, takes classes seriously, skips boring ones, coffee in hand, shades indoors, professors secretly like him, students admire or fear him.

Doesn’t attend study groups, pulls through with perfect grades, natural intelligence, picks up info quickly, a bit of a mystery, high-profile events, networking, parties, center of attention at social gatherings, random comments that leave people laughing or wondering, doesn’t care about others, secretly craves connection but too prideful to ask for it.

---

Do not copy, plagiarise, translate or repost any of my content.

Likes, reblogs, and feedback is appreciated <3

[komohine]

OK IMAGINE

james and keith are going through a rough patch in their relo when this starts. anomalies then prey on their issues as well as their own personal insecurities. also keith has a history of severe nightmares (ptsd related maybe?) as well as panic attacks which james has learned to help with. this does create a bit of a complex for both of them though. james is afraid whenever hes not with keith bcs hes worried something will happen to him and he wont be there to help (the real truth though is that james is afraid someone better will come along and woo away keith. keiths never been the super openly affectionate type whicg causes james a great deal of insecurity. does keith even love him? he sometimes questions). meanwhile keith becomes afraid of being too dependent. hed always managed his issues alone before and now that james was there to care for him he feels like he womt be equipped to deal with crises situations whenever hes alone. and considering his job, thats pretty often (but in reality, hes afraid of having his independence encroached upon. its the one thing hes known all his life and to lose it would genuinely be like drowning to him. he hates relying on others bcs theyve always failed him, and though he loves james part of him fears he’ll leave him too).

tldr really (? idk how good at horror i am this is just stuff that would unnerve me) scary version of anxious x avoidant attachment types LOL

—

its night, keith is setting up camp while james looks for usable kindling (most of its already been burnt beyond use. theyre near the wildfire’s point of origin now) and keith is suddenly very aware that something is watching him.

he slowly raises his head to lock eyes with a pale ghastly face, peeking just over a bush at the clearing’s edge. keith’s frozen immediately, and stares a little too long before ripping his eyes away and looking down. he hopes and prays that the thing will just go away.

to his utter dismay, the moment he looks down he hears movement coming from the face’s direction. rapid scurrying, snapping of twigs. he snaps his head back up just to see the thing coming at him on all fours. obviously, keith freaks out and scrambles backwards but the thing grabs his shoulders and pins him. Keith’s covering his face. His breaths come in frantic, shallow puffs. Looking at it is too much to bear, and some childish part of his brain still believes that if he doesnt see it itll just go away.

Then he hears james’ voice through his own petrified breathing. he calls out to him, and to his shock the.. thing? moves one hand from his shoulder to his wrist and tries to move his hand away from his face. james answers, from right above him. and he knows this is james’ voice.

keith builds up his courage to crack open one eye, hoping to see james, hoping that this was all just a nightmare. instead, that thing’s face fills his vision. he shuts his eye again, newly petrified. the thing shakes him lightly, like james always would do to snap him out of a nightmare. but this time its not familiar or comforting. instead he feels… trapped. no, he is trapped. by that thing. he needs to get away. and so keith screams and kicks and by some miracle gets the thing off him and armed with nothing but a multipurpose blade in his pant pocket, he books it into the dark forest.

—

james had strayed further out than he wouldve liked in finding kindling, and for his efforts he had almost nothing to show. the two of them may just have to deal with sleeping in the cold the night and eating lukewarm canned beans. All for the better— the darkness of the forest was oppressive. james swore that his flashlight was getting weaker by the minute. he turned back when he started to see shadows moving.

Something happens when James reenters the clearing where he left Keith. No, something descends upon the clearing. An energy. The shadows are a little too harsh, a little too big. And keith… Why was he looking at him like that?

James walks forward, and when keith reacts by screaming and trying to get away, he closes the distance quickly. He takes keith’s shoulders and tries to speak to him in a way that will reach his ears. He shakes him slightly, grabs his wrist and rubs his thumb along the skin where the palm meets the wrist. And it seems to be working, until it’s not.

“It’s still here” keith mutters in that panicked way that james recognized as genuine, primal fear. Befire james could ask him any questions though, keith starts to violently thrash under him, breaking away and booking it into the forest.

James dropped his flashlight long ago. Their little scuffle had knocked over the lantern that once lit the clearing. James spent a few seconds on his hands and knees finding it before pulling it out from a pile of debris and ash. It was still lot, but the light didnt seem to penetrate the darkness. At all.

When had it become so dark? So quiet?

James tried to swallow the rapidly rising panic, creeping up from the pits of his stomach and constricting around his throat.

He whipped his head around, startled by… the sheer silence, the complete lack of. The nothingness. Suddenly even his own frantic breathing sounded far too quiet.

Where was Keith?

[andyjagerin]

The Three Lotus Gut Pt.1 | KPOP Demon Hunters Fandom

Summary: Our girls are determined to bring Jinu back to life. Although his soul was supposedly freed, a dark entity has trapped him in the astral plane. To save him, they must uncover the lost Ritual of the Three White Lotus, a forgotten ceremony said to pull a spirit back into the world of the living.

But just as hope begins to flicker, everything takes a terrible turn.

A spell gone wrong catapults them into a version of Korea that no longer exists. deep into the heart of the Joseon Dynasty, year 1625. Now stranded in a past that isn't theirs, in a world ruled by shadows and secrets, they must find a way to return home before it’s too late.

Will they make it back in time to record their next album... and save the great love of Rumi’s life?

Word Count: 995

Author’s Note: Hi! I’m Andy.

I want to clarify that English isn’t my first language, but I’m doing my best—so if my writing feels a little stiff, that’s probably why!

I absolutely love everything about the KPOP Demon Hunters universe. I'm a History student, and I’m also autistic with ADHD, so you’ll notice I weave in lots of historical elements (though some parts will definitely be made up for fun).

I truly hope you enjoy the story ❤️

(And don’t worry, yes, there will be some spicy scenes later on. But for now, the girls are just trying to survive!)

I stood before him once again, in the heart of Hwanbeom-sa, the temple lost among the mountains, where the mudang, ancient priestesses, once said time could fold like an old scroll. The walls, covered in carved symbols no one remembered how to translate, seemed to whisper prayers that unraveled into the cold air. The dark wooden columns creaked with a sound far too close to a human wail. The paper lanterns hanging in rows above our heads trembled with an irregular rhythm, as if something invisible were breathing over them, holding a breath that didn’t belong to this world.

The air smelled of stale incense, centuries-old dampness, and a faint scent of melted wax. Every time I inhaled, that smell clung to my throat, making it rougher, harder to use. Each step I took on the polished stone floor echoed too loudly, a sound that spread like a warning: the darkness was listening. The shadows were so thick they felt like liquid veils, suspended between us and the exit I no longer remembered.

His eyes, supernatural orange, lit with a glow that belonged neither to flesh nor blood, watched me from the center of the empty hall. When he blinked, his vertical pupils dilated, deep and black like a well, then turned human again, as if for one brief moment he remembered he had once been a man. And that was when I understood, with a certainty that froze my blood, that he was also afraid.

“Rumi...” His voice was barely a thread, torn and broken, as if it reached me from the bottom of an abyss where light had never existed. “Help me... you're the only one who can save me.”

“Jinu!” I begged, my throat tightening into a knot. “Tell me how\... what I have to do... please.”

Silence fell with such brutal weight that it crushed my chest. The temple’s atmosphere grew thicker, almost tangible, as if something massive stirred beneath the stones. Behind me, a deep crack ran through the walls, like the whole building was splitting from the inside. But I didn’t dare turn around. Something told me that if I did, I would never come back.

“Help me... Rumi...”

After that, his lips moved one last time, with such a desperate effort it hurt to watch. But no sound came out. Only silence. And then, the nearest lantern went out in an instant, as if an invisible hand had ripped it from reality, and a freezing wind swept through the hall, cutting my skin, filling my mouth with the taste of ashes.

The last image I kept before everything dissolved into shadow was his gaze, the silent plea, the terror of someone who no longer belonged anywhere.

I woke with a jolt, heart pounding against my ribs like a war drum, the echo of his voice still clinging to my ears.

A sharp knock at the door broke my stupor, and before I could answer, Zoey and Mira burst into my room. The air from the Huntrix tower swirled around them, scented with spicy ramyeon and aromatic candles. Their hair was tousled, their breathing heavy, eyes wide with concern. Their footsteps on the ceramic floor echoed with a rhythm that reminded me of funeral bells.

“Rumi...” Zoey murmured, stopping just a few steps from my bed. “Are you... crying again?”

“I’m fine, girls. Or... I think I am.” I wiped my tears with a trembling hand that betrayed the lie. “It’s just that...”

Mira approached cautiously, as if afraid I might shatter if she moved too fast. She had that blend of toughness and tenderness that always disarmed me. She sat beside me and placed her hand on my shoulder. Her warmth was the only thing anchoring me to the present.

“You still miss him...” she said with a sigh so sad it made my chest ache. “I don’t get it. He was a demon, Rumi. He hurt people. Souls were lost. People died. And in the end, he redeemed himself... his soul should be free now. Shouldn’t you feel... at peace?”

“No, Mira. That’s not it.” I met her gaze, even though my eyes burned. “He’s not at peace. He’s lost somewhere... and he needs me.”

Zoey closed her eyes for a second, as if chewing something bitter. Then she sat at the edge of the bed and stayed very still, fists clenched on her knees. The silence between us was so heavy, it felt like it had shape.

“Ever since I accepted I’m half demon...” I went on, my voice in tatters, “I’ve dreamed of incredible places. Breathing forests. Temples that vanish under impossible skies... But these last few nights, everything changed. I’m stuck in a horrible loop. Always the same nightmare. Always him, begging me for help... And I know, with every part of me, that it’s not just a dream.”

I said it with a seriousness that surprised even me. For a moment, neither of them dared to speak. Mira tightened her grip on my shoulder, and Zoey slowly opened her eyes, looking at me with something that wasn’t quite disbelief. It was something else. Something that looked far too much like hope.

And in that silence, as the first light of dawn filtered through the tall windows, I understood that it didn’t matter what it cost, I was going to find him. Even if I had to cross every forgotten temple and face every shadow. Even if the nightmare became real.

“I have to save Jinu.”

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading this whole thing ❤️

[acesartemis]

okay so this is a completely self indulgent star wars: high republic buddietommy au (completely ripping the convergence book plot lbr) that's been rolling around in my head.

[ft. established military eddietommy, political union bucktommy, implied future enemies to lovers in regards to buck]

"You're getting married? To him? And you didn't think that not only your lieutenant but your partner should have been clued in before announcing it to our planets?" 

Tommy stands to intercept but Eddie raises a palm. He's trembling with the rush of anger running through his veins; hot as the sun-baked stones of their beloved red-sand planet. "No, Captain, with all due respect, I am not finished." His fingers curl into a fist that falls to his side as he turns his face from his lover.

“I had to watch you fall.” His voice is quiet, wrecked. A tear streaks down his cheek. “I flew after you, but I couldn’t— all I could do was watch the water swallow you whole, and it felt like I followed you down.

“But then that… gill head saved you—”

A new voice interjects, “We're not actually part shark—”

Eddie’s head snaps over to the aforementioned gill head, whose true title was Prince Evan Buckley of Eiram, the oceanic counterpart to their home planet. He hadn't noticed his presence before. Eddie's body immediately straightens in the other man’s presence, furiously wiping the tears from his cheeks. Back to the highly decorated E’roni lieutenant in nanoseconds. 

“And much as I loathe it, Your Highness, I am forever in your debt for saving his life,” he’s reluctant to admit. 

“Please, be at ease, Lieutenant,” Prince Evan commands after a shared look with Tommy. “Since we’ll be spending an infinite amount of time together, why don't we set up some ground rules, eh?” Evan sweeps his arm over the seating of Prince Tommy’s meeting room. He perches on the sofa in a comfortable way that makes Eddie’s skin itch—how dare he? But he guessed the guy was groomed to be comfortable in whatever situation he found himself in from a young age after losing his brother in the war between their planets.

“Eddie, please sit?” Tommy pleads softly, reaching for his hand. Eddie denies him, his hands moving to Parade Rest.

“Lieutenant Diaz,” Evan continues as if there's no tension in the room. “I am not here to steal Tommy from you. Our union is purely political. This war must end and we both decided that this was the best decision. And as such, I believe going forward we should be on equal footing—no more titles, first name basis. Therefore, may I call you Eddie?”

It's a glance at Tommy’s pleading eyes that makes Eddie relent. “Yes.”

“Good,” Evan says and Eddie has to admit that his smile was as dazzling as the hot sun. “Tommy has not shut up about you. His only thought was to get back to you. And I respect that, as I would do the same if I were in his position. Furthermore, I am not stealing him away from you. But, I’d be remiss if I didn't mention that multiple partners are very common in Eriami culture.” Here he winked at Eddie.

Eddie had been trained by the best E’roni soldiers, but there was just something about Evan that was finding the cracks in his armor.

“How's that sound, Eddie? We take this all one step at a time, yeah?” Tommy rises from the couch to step in front of Eddie. His hands cup Eddie’s cheeks. 

“I am so tired of fighting. Of risking my life every second. We don't even remember what we’re fighting over! And, I-I am done with being scared I'm going to lose you.” Tommy presses a hard kiss to Eddie’s lips. Eddie grips the back of Tommy’s uniform tightly.

“I love you, Eds. Not even the Force can tear us apart, remember?” Tommy gives him another kiss, whispering, “Now can you put your stinger away, my scorpion, and sit down?”

Eddie could never say no to him. They grew up together, always paired together in the Thylefire Cadets and rose through the ranks quickly to be the youngest captain and lieutenant in their militaristic history. Tommy had never played the royalty card and it only made Eddie love him more.

But maybe their duo could become a trio.

“Okay, what are my orders in all this?”

Tommy let out a whoop of triumph as he pulled Eddie down on the sofa with him.